Sultanas in the Stew

This true event happened fifty years ago, and shows that camp cooking is not all it is cracked up to be.

Me, and three other blokes decided to go pig shooting up around Moree in NSW west, we camped in a good spot not far from water hole that held some yabbies, which we caught, laid on the hot coals and ravished when they turned red.

The night saw me cooking up a stew for us all, a rabbit, some yabbie meat, a lump of beef, that was given to us and spuds, pumpkin, onions, tin peas carrots and whatever I could put my hand on.

It stewed for most of the day on a very slow heat, in a two gallon camp oven, and when we got back to camp after a bit of pig hunting, I mixed up the gravy.  Curry, plain flour and water with a goodly dash of hot sauce.

It was too early to serve it up so I lifted the camp oven and put it in the meat safe, and closed the door...I reckon that a stew heated up the second time has better flavour.

The bloke on the property came down in the evening to ask us to have a shoot on his lucerne patch, as the 'roos were eating it out, and what they were not eating they were jumping all over.

It was dark when we got back, and I got the camp oven out of the meat safe, noting that the lid was ajar, but not worrying about it, and put it on the hot coals to heat up for a feed.

I could hear the fellas belly's rumbling from a yard away, and mine was too...Not from a yard away, it was a bit closer. So, I stirred the pot a few times until the bubbles came and then said "Come and get it."

After being knocked aside a couple of times, I sat back and waited from my turn.  The others were slurping away by this time and making comments on how good it was.

"Mate, that is the best stew I've ever tasted, but I don’t go much on the sultanas." Jimmy said.

"Sultanas, I didn't put any sultanas in it...Dunno what  you are talking about."

Jimmy had piled up his 'sultanas on a log in front of the fire, and I leaned over to peer at them close up.  The other blokes had just about finished their feed, 'sultanas' and all.

"I see what they are, bloody blow flies...Did someone open the meat safe?"

Young Paul owned up, "I just had a couple of spoon fulls when you put it in the safe, that's all."

"And left the bloody lid off and the door open."  I complained.

"Don't worry, Old Pete," Bill offered, "I've eaten worse, and they are good protein anyway.

The next time I coked a stew, the blokes went through it like they were looking for gold.

"Darn!" Said Bill, "No protein this time."

The Adventures

The Adventures are not real you know! they are a fragment of my imagination, and were concocted in moments of aberration and unsteadiness of mind.

I never got to finish the yarn, but they did get to where they were going, so that's summit I 'spose.

There are more issues of the Adventures in this blog, and I must admit that it amazes me to see Adventures #8 getting so much attention????


The Adventures, IN FULL, are now under Adventures part 8, and as you will notice I have used my simple wonderful and brilliant o powers of information provisos by putting them on the page in the opposite order to that of what a sensible person would do.

Building Excitement

I  have completed the second book on the Tiger Williams series (There will be one more after this) and I am excited now that it is in the hands of my long suffering Publisher and Editor, Fiona Gatt.

I  have about 14 characters in the second book (No title yet) and they all link up to Rosemore, the property of the first novel. So it is suggested that if you wish to keep up with the three novels, you should buy the first one "The Life and Loves of Tiger Williams".

I am a 100 pages into the third novel, and then I will have to think of something else to write about, that is where you lot come in: Give comments on the Book if you want to, and suggest a theme for future use.

Goanna

There are twenty of the worlds monitor lizards in Australia.  They range, in  size, from about 150mm  in  length to the large 180mm Outback Lizard.  I took the average, as different sites give different numbers.

The habitat of the goanna is all over this continent, and are timid animals that will run up a tree, hollow log, or just away as fast as it can on the sight of a human or other predator.

The goanna will usually run on all fours, but if in a big hurry will get up on its hind legs and sprint off much faster than any human can run.

If you  happen to encounter a goanna in country that is devoid of trees or hollows the goanna is not beyond picking the highest point to scale, which of course, is the person that scares them.  Considering that the outback goanna will grow to more than two meters, has long sharp climbing claws, and a shockingly bad breath, it becomes more  than an experience to remove the beast.  The best way is to lie down on the ground, but you have probably accomplished this well before you think about it.

Monitors are also the Komodo Dragon, but it is only our crocodiles that grow to that size and larger.

I should mention we do not have Komodo Dragons here.  They are large, ugly, hungry, useless beings...Hang on, we do, but we call them politicians.

The colour and the sizes of the Goanna is varied, and apart from raiding the hen house for eggs, they do not pose much of a treat to humans.


http://www.questacon.edu.au/burarra-gathering/extra-information/goanna


Try this site.

There is something else I would like to share with you: Goannas are friendly creatures, especially if they think they are getting a free feed.  Many camp sites have the local goanna that allows the camper to set up, open food supplies, check out those food supplies and then invites itself to dinner.

The average camper, average, I say, should think that  the goanna's first approach is 'cute', they will then learn that cute has a different definition.

I used to go camping on the Nymboydia River, up near a place called Buccarumbie, with a few mates and a few slabs, and a tent and stuff.

The resident goanna came down shortly after we snapped the pull top out of the first tinnie, and hung around waiting for the campfire to be lit up.

We devised a game, which included our resident camp mate, which consisted of  holding a stick of celery in your mouth and get down on all fours, holding the celery stick towards to said Goanna.

The one that came out with the shortest bit of celery in their mouth, amongst the humans, was declared the winner Dan was given another tinnie.

I got down to two inches of celery left, but I didn't win.  Joe was declared the winner as he had no celery left, but he did have a rather ugly looking bite on his lip.

Bugga Me, A bit more would ya' believe

“I got a staff problem, “The Mayor told Bugga Me Bronson, in the strictest of confidence, and true to his honesty and integrity, Bronson never disclosed the content of the Mayor's problem for five minuets after the Mayor left the pub.

“So what's the problem...Can't get any, or got to many?”

“Well its about Old 'Hang-about Harrison” Mayor Sam confided, “He should be retired but he hasn't got much to do at home, so it is a bit hard to put him off.”

“Well Bugga Me,” sez Bugga Me Bronson, “Old Hang-about still hanging about, hey? How old is he now?”

“Turned eighty-seven last week.”

“What's the normal retiring age on this council?”Bugga Me asks.

“Sixty-five.”

“So, he is a bit over his time then, “ Bugga Me makes the wonderful deduction, which surprises the mayor at the man's mathematical capabilities.

“You could say that.” Sam rejoined.

“I just did, “ Sez Bugga me Bronson, adding, “Does it cause any problems? ...I mean the potholes are still as many as usual, the gutter we have in the main street is always full of rubbish, and all the local signs are still full of bullet holes, so everything seems normal.”

“It is, nothing has changed, other than Gerry Atrick, the second in charge, is wanting to get Hang-about's job.”

“So what is Gerry offering you in cash for the position?” Bugga Me asks the obvious question.

“Shhh! Bugga Me! do you want everyone to know that jobs can be bought on this Shire Council?”

“Everyone knows anyhow, so what's the matter?” Bugga Me Bronson thinks that Sam is a little touchy about the due course of council business.

“Who's been spreading that about?” Sam pleaded.

“Me, “ Sed Bugga Me proudly, “The citizens have a right to know, and some of them even want to work.”

'Tanyrate!” Bugga Me sez,” I can see ya' problem; Hang-about is ya' big brother and Gerry is ya' brother-in-law, an' ifn' I remember rightly the other two blokes on the team are related somewhere...Funny thing how it is only your family that have the qualifications to stand around a pothole, hey!”

“Are ya' suggesting that there is something underhanded going on within council?” Sam reiterated, having many times iterated the same reply previously.

“Never!, not I...I know that the hand is well in view when there is some important business to conduct...But isn't the General Manager supposed to do the hiring and firing?”

“He hasn't got any relations here abouts.”

“Right!” Bugga Me expostulated, appreciating the reasoning, adding, “So ya' want a solution...simple, tell them you are looking into it, they will appreciate the political sound of that, and forget the whole thing for a while.”

“Bugga me,!” the Mayor said, “Why didn't I think of that?”

Bugga Me answered simply, “ 'cause you ain't me,”

It was several days later, could have been more, that Bugga Me was travelling along the corrugated road to see a widow in the next village that had a problem she wanted attended to, when there was the shire truck with four blokes standing around on the side of the road. They had seen Bugga Me's dust about half an hour ago, and as safety of the staff was most important tghe gang had stood aside awaiting the arrival of the said vehicle.

“G'day. Hang-about.”

“Yeah, G'day”

“G'day, Gerry”

“Yeah, G'day”

“G'day, Donkey.”

“Yeah, G'day.

“G'day Quartpot.”

“Bugga Me, ifn it ain't Bugga Me Bronson...G' day”

“Talkative bloke, ain'tcha?”

“So, what's happenin'?” Bugga Me asks, knowing full well that very little ever happens with this lot.

“Just about to put the billy on.” Sez Hang-about, who has that particular phrase as the particular answer to that very question.

“Truth is, “ Opined Gerry, the ambitious one, “We forget to bring the shovels.”

“Yeah! Bugga me, “ the master of quick thinking replied, adding “ Well, I'm goin' inta' town, so, I'll get someone to bring you some out to ya',”

“What'll we do in the meantime?” the quick answer seems to perplex Hang-about.

“Simple, mate, Just lean on each other until the shovels come.”

Bugga Me went into the shire depot, disturbing a good game of cards, but he only had to wait for twenty minutes until the game finished, which is pretty good for a Friday lunch time, a lunch time that started an hour ago and wont finish for at least another hour.

“Yeah! Joe” Bugga Me sed to the storeman, “Hang-about forget to tell the blokes to take shovels, and they are stuck for something to do, any chance of getting' some out to 'im?”

“Geeze, mate, It's only an hour and a half before they knock off...seems a bit of a waste of time, I reckon...an' ya' know what the GM is like about wastin' time?”

“I do, I certainly do..on his qualifications it stated that he was a time and motion man, he has all the time in the world, but very little motion...He fits in perfectly here, Hey?”

“Mate, Me old mate, seein' as ya' did the right thing tellin' me about the shovels, and ya' drove all that way in to tell me, I reckon the least we can do is let ya' fill the ute up, waddyareckon?”

“Goodonya',” Sed the Bugga me man.

“We'll book it out to Missus Lanious...She is always getting stuff of us.”

One day a Union bloke arrived in town. His union was falling short on funds, and it is well known that running Union can be very, I mean very, expensive.

Black Jack was well known out in the back country, his exploits in obtaining Union members was a notorious as another blokes efforts at gaining attention...Ned, Something, Ned Kelly, year, That's it.

Not that Black Jack used a gun in his pursuits, but he used the winner of all con tricks in an Outback pub...Yep! Old Black Jack used money to shout the locals a few beers. That will do it every time.

Bugga Me! Some more, even

“I got a staff problem, “The Mayor told Bugga Me Bronson, in the strictest of confidence, and true to his honesty and integrity, Bronson never disclosed the content of the Mayor's problem for five minuets after the Mayor left the pub.

“So what's the problem...Can't get any, or got to many?”

“Well its about Old 'Hang-about Harrison” Mayor Sam confided, “He should be retired but he hasn't got much to do at home, so it is a bit hard to put him off.”

“Well Bugga Me,” sez Bugga Me Bronson, “Old Hang-about still hanging about, hey? How old is he now?”

“Turned eighty-seven last week.”

“What's the normal retiring age on this council?”Bugga Me asks.

“Sixty-five.”

“So, he is a bit over his time then, “ Bugga Me makes the wonderful deduction, which surprises the mayor at the man's mathematical capabilities.

“You could say that.” Sam rejoined.

“I just did, “ Sez Bugga me Bronson, adding, “Does it cause any problems? ...I mean the potholes are still as many as usual, the gutter we have in the main street is always full of rubbish, and all the local signs are still full of bullet holes, so everything seems normal.”

“It is, nothing has changed, other than Gerry Atrick, the second in charge, is wanting to get Hang-about's job.”

“So what is Gerry offering you in cash for the position?” Bugga Me asks the obvious question.

“Shhh! Bugga Me! do you want everyone to know that jobs can be bought on this Shire Council?”

“Everyone knows anyhow, so what's the matter?” Bugga Me Bronson thinks that Sam is a little touchy about the due course of council business.

“Who's been spreading that about?” Sam pleaded.

“Me, “ Sed Bugga me proudly, “The citizens have a right to know, and some of them even want to work.”

'Tanyrate!” Bugga Me sez,” I can see ya' problem; Hang-about is ya' big brother and Gerry is ya' brother-in-law, an' ifn' I remember rightly the other two blokes on the team are related somewhere...Funny thing how it is only your family that have the qualifications to stand around a pothole, hey!”

“Are ya' suggesting that there is something underhanded going on within council?” Sam reiterated, having many times iterated the same reply previously.

“Never!, not I...I know that the hand is well in view when there is some important business to conduct...But isn't the General Manager supposed to do the hiring and firing?”

“He hasn't got any relations here abouts.”

“Right!” Bugga Me expostulated, appreciating the reasoning, adding, “So ya' want a solution...simple, tell them you are looking into it, they will appreciate the political sound of that, and forget the whole thing for a while.”

“Bugga Me,!” the Mayor said, “Why didn't I think of that?”

Bugga Me answered simply, “ 'cause you ain't me,”  

More from Bugga Me Bronson

All these local councils cover various villages and suburbs, all of whom are claiming that they are not looked after, and that the councils favour one part against another. Surely that couldn't be true, I mean the men and women on these councils, after trying to secure the position, notifying the major political parties that they are on the way up and making sure that the council job had plenty of expenses for various important council business, like study tours to the summer resorts to see how to put up beach umbrellas. Even if the Shire they represent is three or four hundred miles from any ocean. Once these important matters are attended to, they will look, at length, to spending ratepayers monies on a few lucky ratepayers.

Bugga Me Bronson reiterated in the pub, of course, that if he was on the council, he would be as concerned about these above matters as much as anyone.

“Ya' mean lookin' after the ratepayers?”

“Na' the other stuff. Ya' gotta have graft and corruption on these jobs so that y' will be well trained for when ya' enter politics.”

No one seemed to argue with that concept, and just accepted Bugga Me Bronson's superior intellect on things in the 'Them' department, because it has always been Them and Us and that isn't going to change.

“The best and only way to stop the suburbs and villages complaining about not getting' nuffin'” Sed Bugga Me Bronson, “Is don't give anyone anything, then they can't complain about someone else is getting' more than them, Hey?”

“So what do ya' do with the money ya' save?”

“Build a bigger, better Shire Office to make it look like the council is doing good, money wise...Simple.” Advised the great adviser, Bugga me Bronson.

One of the biggest arguments in the Shire meetings is the one about who is going to be the mayor. This job, especially in the Outback is not like that of those on the coastal strips, where it is a matter of prestige to be the leader of the pack. The Outback Mayor is most often barred from most pubs because of the fights between him and someone that disagrees with him, which is almost everyone, as far as the average pub patron is concerned.

At the particular council meeting where the election for the mayor is likely to come up, the absenteeism is at a peak, with the fellow councillors being left to decide amongst two or three who had forgotten what that nights agenda was to be.

“I nominate Norm,” Sez one.

“I second that” sez another

“I decline.” Sez Norm, “But I nominate Bluey Jagger.”

“Blue's not here tonight, he is playing darts in the finals at the pub.”

“Looks like your it, Sam.” Sez Bill Bottemly.

“But I wuz mayor last year.” Sez Sam.

“So you are again this year....All in favour say aye, passed, Sam is the mayor.”

“We will meet again in a couple of months to consider our agenda for the meeting after that.” Sez Sam.

“That's it, meeting over...See ya' at the Pub to discuss business, I want an opinion on sumthin' from Bugga Me Bronson.” The mayor knows the ropes and usually wont do anything, if anything should be done, unless he consults with Bugga Me Bronson.

Introducing 'Bugga Me Bronson'

All the problems of the world, and all the problems of this country are fully solved in the many bars, between many drinking men who know about the problems of the world and the country, but never really had anything other than opinions on how to solve such problems adn woes.

This is a fact, it is not the aberration of the mind of someone that has spent many hours solving the woes of the world, not only solving the problems and woes, but trying to get those that are paid copious amounts of money provided by those that think that the problem solvers are there to do just that, solve the problems of the world, that is, to think about what they are there for.

Bugga Me Bronson, a very genuine, yet not terribly educated bloke, could solve any problem, be it world wide, or on the local scene. He proved that many times with local council elections when he expressed his brilliance on why someone should be, or not be elected to the local council, and if those that he thought shouldn't be elected, got elected, he would praise their efforts until such times that they opened their mouths on any subject at a council meeting...Such was the brilliance of Bugga Me Bronson, who had the ability to say what people wanted to hear, be it, right or wrong in amongst the actual facts of the time.

“Bugga Me, Bronson!! why don't ya' put ya' hand up for council yersef'?” many would say.

“Ya' gotta be jokin', me amongst all them deadheads would only confuse 'em more than they are already.”

There was one time, at least, that Bugga Me Bronson hit the nail on the head, or hit in the general direction of the nails head, which most would agree is far from the point that most councils hit, if they are having a hit or not.

The question arose in council chambers as to where they could put the local brothel, which for years had been operating out the back of the town pub, but only on Saturday nights, and never on Sundays, unless the Bishop was drunk and had cancelled church, on which days he would probably be the first Sunday morning customer anyway.

The question was bandied about, and nothing was decided; however, Bugga Me Bronson had no problem with the location, if it had to be changed.

“Bugga Me,” Bugga Me Bronson burst forth in the bar on the night after the council meeting, where no matters, which had been considered in council meetings, were to be discussed in the local public arena, had been released to all and sundry immediately after the said meeting.

“Bugga Me, “ He said, The only place for the brothel is in the industrial area, after all it is a wholesale business, ain't it?”

Of course, the local publican was a bit miffed with Bugga Me Bronson's simple solution when he said, “What am I gunna' do with the rooms out the back...I jist had 'em all painted.”

Bugga Me Bronson was never stuck for an answer and came up with the advice, “Mate, put in for 'condensation' from the council on the grounds of loss of income relating to the income that you are related to and about to lose out on.”

“Yeah! I could do that.” the publican said.

“Didn't he mean compensation?” one of the drinkers asked.

“He could have, but it has been hot and steamy out there lately.” Councillor Norm Cleverly advised.

A really Nice Bloke

Because of the floods, just after the bush fires, and the shearers strike, and me' old truck breaking down, I was holed up in a little town on the outskirts of the Barcoo River.

The fires were put out by the floods and the floods had gone down ,the sandflies had all gone somewhere else and a bloke fixed me' truck, but I rather liked the place, so I stayed for a bit.

There wern't much to do during the day, and less during the night, but ifn ya' want a quiet holiday, this place is the place to place yer sef.

One thing that did keep the local population a bit on their toes, was the mass of killings. They called them serial killings, which I think this was because every time a serial come on the radio, there would be more killings.

In a small place like this, there weren't much selection in who was doing the doings. I was a suspect, but I  didn't think they had enough evidence. I would'a owned up just to break the monotony, but they wouldn't let me. The local Butcher, an expert in dealing with dead flesh, was a dead cert, until the police finally arrived in the place from down in the city somewhere. The word wuz that they couldn't find the place for some time, as the place had not been placed on any map any place.

Well they searched high and low, which is hard to do on the flat black soil plains, but they did search. Eventually they put Old Bill Williams in custody which stuck to his feet until he could hose it orf'.

No one could believe that Old Bill could ever possibly hurt anyone. I won't go so far as to say he wouldn't hurt a fly, 'casue we wuz all guilty of Blowie Homicide in some form or other.

We wuz all sitting on the verandah of the Pub, come Post office, come general sore, come Chinese laundry, come Black Smith, come Baker, come Pool Room Dance hall and Recreation centre and of course the prime suspect the Butcher, who used to sell heaps of his snags until the killings started.

The cops come up and interrupted our general conversations, without so much as one iota of concern for the intellectual discussions wot where taking place, in the place.

"Do any of youse  sheilas and blokes know Bill Williams or his AKA name Old Bill Williams?"

"Jist as well you cleared that up, or none of us would have known who you waz talkin' about."

"Well do ya?"

Mary McGillacudy, the owner of the haberdashery store, wot I forgot to mention, spoke up.

"Old Bill Williams could not have anything to do with these dastardly deeds, and anyway, the deaduns' were only tourists so what's all the fuss about...But not Old Bill, he was a kind hearted bloke, he worked hard, helped people, was always ready to tell a story and help an old lady across the street even tho' there ain't nothing on the 'tuther side of the street, in this place, So I reckon ya' got the wrong bloke, and, as most of the single women in this here place know, was a good bed warmer in the colder moment of winter, but don't say nuffin' about that or every one will want to get some...warmth, that is."

"Anyone else got an opinion?"

"Yeah! Me" I sez. "Ifn' we dont' get rid of this government we will all be broke before too long."

"About the killings..." and the copper mumbled summit that I missed hearing.

"Look," sed the publican, who wuz owed a fair bit of cash at the pub by Old Bill Williams the bloke in question, who wuz being questioned, "Ya' got the wrong bloke, I can tell ya' Old bill was as gentle as a lamb in a good stew...I must admit  that his visitors used to scream and carry on a bit, but apart from that, nuthin', he never disturbed no one."

More from the Haughty Kulturist

I was working on a place that was just above the Black Soil Plains. Well actually, most places out there are ABOVE, the plains, but this place had very fertile soil. However, as the case usually is, it lacked water.

We had a big wet season soon after I arrived there and we couldn't do much stock work as the black soil plains is very friendly and sticks to you like that stuff that sticks to blankets. If you should walk a few hundred yards, the mud, mixed with dry grass, would end up making you several inches taller before the weight became too heavy to drag along.

Yanyrate, the water was available in copious amounts, and in tanks as well so, I being an enterprising sort of bloke, I suggested that maybe I could grow a crop of watermelons on the slope below the dam. No not under the dam, below it on the slope.

There were a few bags of Q5 fertiliser in the shed which, when mixed with Diesel and plugged with half a stick of geli', could lift almost anything out of the ground, after you lit the wick, ifn' ya' know what I mean. It's also good bait for Yellow Belly.

I went into the 'Reach (Longreach) and bought a couple of packets of Queensland melons and headed back to the patch.

The soil was kind to me and it was just at the right moisture content to plant, so being a fairly clever sort of bloke, I planted.

A few months later I could look out from the verandah of the Ringer's quarters and see this lush green growth, with large round things scattered amongst it all, up on the slope. The melons were big, huge is more the description, and I was in the process of  hiring a back-hoe and a semi-trailer to get them to town, when the boss came over with a serious look on his face.

"Pete," he said, Pete was me name ya' see, that's why he said Pete.

"Wot's the problem?" sez I.

"Look, mate, I know ya' spent a lot of time on them melons, but I have to tell ya' that they have to be gotten rid of, soon."

"Gotten rid off?" sez I  incredulously, "Soon?" sez I, not giving any credit on this either.

"Yeah! It's like this ... Yesterdy' arvo' just on sunset, the cook was going over to get a bucket of milk from the cowboy, well, from the cows that the cowboy milked, when one of your  bloody melons broke away from the vine and rolled down the slope. It flattened the dairy, the cook and the bucket, and the cowboy as it went on to flatten the wife's Mercedies in the shed. So, I reckon that we better get the rest of them out of the place, hey?"

I could understand why the  boss had a serious look on his face. Seriously, I mean I was no dummie in the costs involved in running a property, and a good stainless steel milk bucket is not cheap.

Well, I sold one melon to a bloke down the road at a garage, who put it out the back, put in a few cots and a window or two and rented it out to the Truckies!

A few were scooped out and used in Longreach for in-ground swimming pools and the rest we rounded up and pushed out to the back paddock. As it turned out this was a good idea as tourists thought they were looking at the Olgas in the Territory and paid money to see the melon coloured rocks and wrote their graffitti all over 'em.

Fair Dinkum!  We got pictures ...  I think.

Peter Rake's 'Fair Dinkum Yarns From The Australian View' is available in print and eBook formats on Amazon.com

Really Fair Dinkum Stuff ... a bit more of a bit more

I 'spose that you are the type of personage that wants me to spell everything real proper. Okay, I'm sorry about the last attempt at 'Fiar'...Ya' didn't notice, Well! That'll do me.

Anyrate, I'm here to pass on some more about little Brucie Clermont Forterskew. There is nothing wrong in a little bit of littleness in someone that is not very towards the largish size, is there?

Brucie, has an uncle that was very fond of his little nephew. Flash Fred Forterskew the ferret f...f...fancier of the far western table lands in the downs country often took young Buricie out with him when he was rabbit hunting, when the rabbits were bad. Big bad ugly and very angry rabbits can play hell and heaps of havoc on ferrets, I am told.

So, when the ferrets balked at going down the hole, Flash Fred would call Brucie over and send him down to fetch the ferrets and to move the buck rabbits out of the hole, where flash Fred had Rodger a rough looking hound dawg that would put his front paw on a rabbit and hold it down until Flash Fred clouted it with a hard wood club. Well the dawg wouldn't let go the rabbit if he didn't give it a decent clout.

All right, I asked the same question me'sef', why didn't Flash Fred Forterskew the ferret f...f...fella' send little Brucie down the hole in the first place and save all this story tellin'?

Think about it; you know what kids are like with little furry bunnies. Brucie, like any kid, would stay down the hole for hours playing with the litters of kittens, which suprised me 'cause I thought they were after rabbits, not cats.

Really Fiar Dinkum Stuff...a bit more

Eventually, so I am told by my very reliable bloke, wot tells me things that I rely on to be fair dinkum, but not eventually does  he tell me but apparently, eventually young Forterskew finds a horse that he can actually  sit on, and wot's more, he can get onto by his'sef.

However, just as he was ready to gallop off to go mustering the ckooks in the chook pen,  the station carpenter comes up and takes the horse out from under the jackaroo, as it appears that he needs it to saw some timber on.  Usually the chippie is a chipper chappie, except when some sprout comes and leads  his saw horses off to chase chickens with.

Looks like another day in the saddle, for Forterskew...Sorry, saddle bag, I meant!

Really Fair Dinkum Stuff

Brucie Clermont Forterkew was a very spoilt and protected young bloke before he came to Boney Downs which was out from Aramac, which was out from Longreach as was the norm as most of these places in the Outback were out from somewhere or other.

Even the dunnies were outback in the Outback, thankfully, as it is not a real welcome to arrive at a place out from Winton, say, to find an outback dunny out front.

But I digress, which is rather a unusual matter in so far as story telling on my behalf, and as this story is not on my behalf, but on behalf of the story teller that told me the story - he often digresses.

Fer' instance, this bloke told me that Brucie was that spoilt his mother had a window put in her stomach so that Brucie could have a womb with a view. Of course, I thought that could very well be, as the advances in medical science had gone ahead in leaps and bounds, well, ever since they had been using kangaroos for guinea pigs to experiment with.

And talking about kangaroos, who can hold a new joey in the womb for a few months if a drought was on, or the brother or sister of the new little mite were still in occupation, this bloke told me that Brucie's mum was so frightened to let her babe out into the world, she held him up for several years, and only let him out when he was ready for high school. It was a bit tight, but Brucie wasn't any more than about five stone at that age, or seventy pound ifn' ya' still in the boonies.

When the doctor told her husband that he had to put in twenty-four stitches, he groaned, “Ya' gotta be joking, it only takes nine stitches to sew up a wheat bag.”

T'anyrate, Brucie ended up on Boney Downs, ready to become a big time manager or an overseer or summit. We reckoned that it would be summit that would win the day, as the overseer had to tie Brucie's shoes laces every morning, but, ya' know, I don't really believe that, I know for certain that the overseer couldn't even tie his own shoelaces and wore only riding boots that had no such things, and this was a good reason for thinking that Brucie would only learn summit, but not much, ifn' ya' know wot I mean.

We tried to get Brucie up onto a horse, but the ladder kept falling over, and it was only a Shetland pony anyway, finally, as it was up to the overseer to see that Brucie was properly trained,  he grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck and flung him into his saddle bag, doing up the flap so the kid wouldn't fall out, and Brucie could tell his mummy, that night, that he had been out mustering with the men, all day. Stupid really, as you couldn't even put the kid down and get him to bark at the sheep.

I've got no reason to think that any of this is not Fair Dinkum, as I have told some stories that were like this, but in my case a lot more Fair Dinkum, that's why they all call me Truthful Pete, amongst other things.

I'm still in touch with this bloke, so if there are any more Fair Dinkum stories, I'll let ya' know, orrite?

[Want more Australian humor? Try Pete's short story, Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero]

Old and Getting There

I reckon that when you get old, as old is determined, like if you wuz the oldest bloke on the earth then you would be old, right? So let's just take a few categories down from the oldest bloke, who probably couldn't type, or use a computer as good as me who is only just down the page from the number one old bloke and towards the first few thousand, or so.

We could take that category as working out what happens when you get “old”,  ifn' ya' know wot I mean.

My number one usage of words at my old age, which is not yet from the dotage of my life, as I have no one that dotes on me, any rate my number one is “That never happened in my day.” My other number two is “We never had things so good in my day.” Actually, I can concoct many “In my day comparisons, cause that is wot ya' do when you get old. It is called the wisdom of age, so I am told by those older than me; and there are a few about, so I am told by those that are still about.

Any rate, I will borrow a few things that are attributed to old age, to the age of knowing what senility looks like, which is how me' mate looks when he can't understand wot I am telling him, especially when I tell him it is his shout. I know this, as he always comes up with the senile comment, “Wot again?”

And I know this, I know that there are two things that happen as you grow older, one is that you start to lose your memory, you know that don't ya', all us oldies experience that problem. The other one is...Geez! I can't remember wot the other one is.

There was a time when, with a bit of prompting from those I owed money to, that I went to try to have a memory rescheduling program (If you think I remembered all that, you are as bad as me). It lasted seven or ten weeks or so, and at the end of the twelve weeks, Doctor whats-is-name said “Give it a try for awhile and see how you go.” Bloody idiot, 'give wot a go'. Here I am spending a long time, and that is something I am running out of, and the doctor doesn't even tell me wot it is I should give a go to.

Me' mate did the same course, and he reckoned it was marvellous, his memory had improved 'out of sight'. Of course, I asked him if he went to my doctor or an eye doctor, but only because I am very clever and witty. But which went clean over the head of me' mate, 'cause he sees other things all right, well that's wot I think any rate.

Our other mate, thingo, wanted to give the memory thing a go too, so he said to the first mate, mate what is the name of this memory doctor you go to? Well mate, wot is the mate of both of us mates, just out of the blue said, “What's that flower that has the perfumed smell and prickles on the stem?”

Mate the mate of us both said, “Rose.”

“Yeah that's it,” and then he yelled to his wife in the kitchen, “Hey, Rose, wot's the name of that memory doctor I go to?”

There is a little test you can do to see if you are getting senile or summit, are ya' ready? It amounts to reading this bit of a yarn, but it is not in the reading, it is ifn' ya' understand it you are definitely about to go around the bend!

Ordinary Country Folk

Trying to tell stories that suit all English speaking folk around the world is difficult in the fact that we have different terms for the one thing.

For instance, in Australia we say timber, in the US they say lumber, I believe that the Kanuks are also so inclined.

Also talking of timber, we say 4 by 2 and the others say 2 by 4's. So if you can get around the Aussie terminology for whatever, you may get a bit of a giggle outta 'me yarns.

I know a few country folk, folk that spent a lot of time working, and little time at schooling, but that is the way it is sometime in poorer rural families where Dad reckons that if you have one son in school, why bother sending the rest, as the frist bloke can tell the others what he learnt.

However, some of the rural folk have that loveable slowness in speech and in thought. These ones are the purely lateral thinkers. These folk are the ones that I love to hang around as it makes me look almost intellectual.

My best mate, Slow Joe Rolly and his dad, Joe Slower Rolly, had come into town, with the old Bedford truck to get some timber at the local timber place, wot sell timber and stuff.

Old Slower didn't like town much, and was not really eager to leave the truck, but this was for several reasons, one being that if it cut out he wouldn't be able to get it started again without a lot of swearing and bush type mechanisation applications, known only to the two Rollys. Another reason was that dad Rolly couldn't open the driver's side door and the third was he had trousers on that had suffered from a severe bout of ….Well you know what.

Young Slow Joe went into talk to the timber bloke. “Do ya' have any hardwood timber, mate?”

“Yeah, plenty of hardwood timber. What size do ya' want?”

“I'll go an ask Dad.”

“Dad said we need some 4 x 2.”

“Yeah! Mate, we got plenty of 4 x 2 hardwood, how long do ya' want 'em.”

“I'll go an' ask Dad,” said Slow Joe.

“Dad reckons we'll want 'em for awhile, 'cause we is building a shed.”

Now don't be unkind, it seems reasonable that 'how long” should indicate time. I mean if you are going out and your wife asks, “How long will you be?” do you tell her that you will be the same length when you come back as you are when you went out, right? Okay, so you will from now on, I see.

Eventually, young Slow Joe Rolly got a job in a saw mill out near the back of the place that they lived in front of, ifn 'ya' know what I mean. See, I told ya' it made me look intellectual.

At anyrate, not long after young Slow Joe started work he was in a hardware store in town and up on a shelf he saw a row of vacuum flasks, or as we call them Thermos flasks, Thermos being a trade name.

“What are those things?” he asked.

“Thermos flasks, mate, stainless steel Thermos flasks.”

“Gee! What are they for?”

“They keep hot things hot and cold things cold, and a lot of workers have them.”

“Fair-bloody-Dinkum, I'll get one then.”

The next day, Slow Joe was busting a gut for Smoko to come, and when it did he sat down with the rest of the blokes and casually opened his tucker box and pulled the Stainless Steel Theroms flask out and put it in full view of the other blokes.

They looked, they looked but didn't say anything, so Joe moved it around and about until one bloke couldn't hold his curiosity.

“What's that thing, Slowee?” he asked.

Joe was so proud, so happy that he had something that no one else had that he almost cried, but instead he said. “It's a Thermos flask.”

“Wot's a Thermos flask for, Joe?”

“Well,” the beaming Joe said, “It keeps cold things cold and hot things hot.”

“Fair-bloody-Dinkum,” chorused several of the other blokes.

“Wot ya' got in it, Joe?” they asked.

“An ice-cream and a cuppa' tea, that's wot.”

So there you go again, running poor young Slow Joe down for a bit of lateral thinking.

Battlers Meat Market

'Orrite, you lot, I reckon that it is about time that I take a serious look at the things that trouble us, or you, or will trouble you if you keep reading this.

I am a meat eater, I am on about the second or third level of the food chain, but I do like to eat meat. It is my preference to have this meat cooked, and cooked to almost perfection, as was possible in time long gone when perfect was attainable and I was lucky enough to become saturated in that commodity.

I also like vegies, all sorts of vegetation has passed my lips, and been ingested into my lungs, some for the food value, others for some stupid reason or other, but I only put this information out to you so that you can see that I am anti-ambidextrous as far as eating is concerned, meaning that I can eat what is right, but often do not appreciate what is left, or summit, ifn' ya know what I mean.

My latest vendetta is against the large display of blood soaked flesh, the twisted and turned conglomerate of animal tissue, either in the whole, or bagged in the intestines of other beasts, and called sausages, that one will encounter in the suburban Supermarkets of the Wealthy Moguls that say, as did Josephine, “Let them eat cake”. Of course, Jo wasn't offering a nice strawberry sponge, as her interpretation of 'cake' was worse than stale bread, as is the interpretation of meat in the supermarket-mogul-dictionary of “cake eating for the battlers”.

But, us battlers, or as I should say, we battlers, which puts us into a brotherhood of some sort, are in a situation where you have to make the best of what your massive pension will allow you to buy, after the money for the Lotto, the pokies and the Bingo nights are taken out as essential living costs, Right? With any luck at the pokies, you may even have some left over for a beer.

So, Come shopping day, food shopping that is, after filling the trolleys with Crisp chips, big bottles of the essential coke, and then the mundane things like breakfast cereal, Cocoa Pops, or Yum Yum Yummy crackled in ya' ear, stuff, which I believe can be washed down by the Coke instead of milk, as the kids suffer from that thing that kids get from milk, like calcium and other scrungy stuff, and as Coke does not have any side effects, that is noticed in the family, as all the family are on the same diet, it is only reasonable to go that road.

Don't be offended, I am amongst the battlers as far as the Supermarket trade is concerned. I push and shove, bang my trolley up the heels of the slow movers, complain about the kids that scream and place themselves in a position of peril should an intolerant old bloke should appear around the aisles.

Once I get out from amongst the slow and undecided battlers, the ones that just don't know what will go with their fillet' stake bathed in Diane sauce from the shelves of the French cuisine, that night, or should they buy pink or orange candles to decorate the table, I can make a few selections from the shelves in the cheap and nasty section, and thus saving myself, almost nothing, I have never sat down and compared the savings, but that is my problem as I am sure the battlers consider every cent they have saved against the price of a packet of fags. I do not enjoy that situation of being able to complain about the costs of fags.

Arriving at the meat selection's array of dead animals that would have broken all age records if left in the paddock for another week or so, I ponder the meanings of Export quality, man if it was export quality they would have bloody well exported it to get the big money.

We also have Market Quality. Now do they tell you which market? No, of course not, as most battlers would bypass this one if they knew that the Market that accepts this quality are companies like Pal, or the Victorian meat pie market in the footy season. I kid you not.

I had a very, hard pressed manager say to me one day, “There is nothing wrong with our meat, it is the best, I eat it all the time.” Curious comment you would agree. If he ate it all the time, what did he compare it to to state it was the best.

One should not complain, as every cloud has a silver lining, just as Supermarket meat has a blood soaker attached.

Some Rump Steak that I purchased some months ago is still wearing well. I could not eat it so I made a pair of thongs from the stuff, and, mate, talk about hard wearing, they are going to outlast the rubber/vinyl ones I used to wear to the beach, but, of course, I have to keep an eye on the dogs.

Bye the way, Thongs in Aussie land are what you wear on your feet, not what the girls get stuck up their what's -ya' -call it after a hard day horse riding, ifn' ya' know what I mean.

So, the upshot of all this is, we battlers must revolt, it is our right to be revolting, what right do the ferals and the rent a mob cult have at being the only ones that reek revulsion.

We must join forces, lets not buy meat from the Supermarkets, let's patronise the local butcher, and then when you pay more money than you can afford, only to find out he gets his meat is from the same slaughter yard as the Supermarkets, go back and get some mince from the Supermarket.

Before I leave you to start your financial contributions to my cause, if you do get a really tough bit of meat, and you will, rest assured you will, this is the recipe:

Place meat in pot with water covering the lump, add a smooth stone about half the size of the meat. Boil vigorously until the stone is soft, toss meat to the dogs, if they have jaws like hyenas, and then add veggies to the broth and eat the stone.

VERY SERIOUS NOTE:

Although I wrote this piece in satiric humour there is a serious side that I have just been informed of, and that I have had first hand experience with, not knowing what I was seeing, but taking the precaution of not eating.  Some meat is appearing on the Supermarket shelves that have cycts or tumors  in the flesh.  Should you encounter such meat you should take that meat to your local Health Department, and under no circumstances should you eat any part of this contamination, or any of the surrounding meat.

I can only  assume that meat is not being inspected under stringent health rules or requirements.

Downhill Dashing

Looking back, those many years ago, when my youth was upon me and I revelled in living in the Eastern Sydney suburb of Bondi Beach, I now reflect on my attempts to try 'dead' as a way of life, ifn' ya' know what I mean. Although I was not attempting suicide, I was extending my lust for excitement, danger, life threatening experiences, and down right stupidity.

Anyone that has been to Bondi Beach will know of the very steep Bondi Road, where, I believe buses still make the decent and climb at a very steady speed. Not so I and mates, as we only knew Bondi Road as a road with one speed, and in the Australian vernacular, is 'Flat Out' or even faster if possible, and I really think that we broke the Flat Out record by several MPH.

The moment of launch of your latest billy-cart, with the traditional ball bearing wheels, wheels that would send showers of sparks as they attempted to gain traction of the road surface on the big curve at the bottom of Bondi Road, which, in my time no one ever negotiated to enter Campbell Parade, and that was only a good thing, as the trams used to rattle out of the cutting with little concern for billy-carts with dare-devil kids aboard.

The best we could do, at high speed, was to pull down on the wooden, skid on the billy-cart's breaking system, so called because it always used to break a the most inconvenient moment, like when you wished to slow down or stop, even.

The eventual trajectory would be to cross to the wrong side of the road at the bottom of the steepest part of Bondi Road, take evasive action as we went under the white fence rail on McKenzie's Park and fall onto the grass before the billy-cart went over the edge on to the rocks below, splashed by the blue Pacific Ocean.

Let me tell you, that was exciting, and it didn't matter too much about the Billy-cart, as it was time to go home for dinner by then.

I think the motorists of the time really enjoyed our boyhood race meets, as one could hear the vehicle horns hooting in encouragement as we often sped past them, and in front of them in their downward path.

However, before I left Bondi for the great Outback of Queensland, I did give up the reckless down hill suicide run on a billy-card with ball bearing wheels, and took on the more exciting race downhill on my precious Malvern Starr Bike trying to beat a tram before it came out of the cutting near Francis Street.

Oh! what fun, Oh! What a stupid thing to do, but if you are indestructible you can do anything, however I proved that I was not indestructible, or at least my right leg wasn't, as it snapped as the front wheel of the bike got 'rutted' in the tram track, and I did a ten-point swan dive onto the pavement, far enough ahead of the tram for it to do an emergency stop.

I settled down a lot from those days when I went West and only rode a couple of bulls in a country rodeo, easy stuff, as you would appreciate.

Now, of course, after youth has gone, along with the spirit of adventure, and the ability to remember what adventure really is, I have tried to test what ever adrenalin reserves that may be left in my body. Only last week I asked a lady to go out with me, now that was exciting, it caused vast memory searching as to what you do when you take a lady out. Luckily, she refused, but it left me the excitement of what I, and she may have gotten up to, and I had a little bet with myself it would not be a billy-cart ride down Bondi Road.

Pete's Publishing News - Grab yourself a bargain

To celebrate the immenant launch of Peter Rake's debut novel, 'The Outback Story - The Adventures and Loves of 'Tiger' Williams', the price of Peter Rake's five short stories have been reduced to $0.99 apiece and the collection of six short stories and two poems to $2.99.

This is the perfect opportunity to sample Peter's work for less than the cost of a cup of coffee.

Choose from 'The Pup' - a comical tale set in droving country; 'Notty' - a suspense comedy full of wit and Aussie slang; 'On Swallow's Wings' - an urban tale of love and loss; 'The Awakening' - a coming of age story; and 'The Coachman' - to get swept into the past. All these fabulous short stories are now $0.99 each.

'Fair Dinkum Yarns From the Australian View' on the other hand is the complete collection, plus the comical but moving yarn about 'Arthur', the drunk sheep station hand who finds that it's harder to end it all than he first thought. The collection is now available for $2.99.

Find them all here.

New Anthology

I am excited, well as excited as a bloke my age and condition can get, that is.
Fiona Gatt of MetaPlume, my publisher, has worked the skin to the bone, the brain to the last squishy bit of grey matter, to the utmost ability in her work in this line, and I am awed ... no, I am overawed at the result of the compilation of a few short stories, and a coupla' poems.

Do yourself a favour, do me a favour and lash out and buy this latest set of yarns.  It costs less than a cup of coffee, and will give you more of a lift.

Anyone can write stories, only the readers will make that person an author, and only a great publishing group make the stories so very presentable.

Great Aussie Reads For Australia Day

From the desk of Pete's publisher ...

There are so many different Australian stories. One of the "classic" angles of Australian life, that carries with it themes of endurance, mateship and respect for the land - themes that break down barriers between the vast Australian experience - is that of the Outback tale. This Australia Day, 26th January, treat yourself to an afternoon reading of a story by Peter Rake.

My personal recommendation would be to inject a bit of humor into your afternoon with 'Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero'. This is a cheeky tale about a town's no-hoper turning good just when it counts - or as good as he can manage anyway. Although there's nothing terribly outlandish in it, it's not one for kids, so if you want an Australian story that the whole family can enjoy, try 'The Coachman' which is the perfect length to read out loud to a small crowd as your Australia Day BBQ feast settles in ... or as you nod to the occasion from across the seas.