MARRIAGE

Lorraine was 'er name. It all started off well. Nothin' went wrong at the weddin'. I think it was the honeymoon that started the rot.

I booked into a swanky hotel for the weddin’ night, like. Bloke at the reception desk asks if I would be happy with the bridal chamber. I says that me lovely wife will be but I’d just piss out the window, as usual. ‘E seemed a bit taken aback for some reason.

Then we ‘ired a caravan and took it up to Binangon’s surf coast. On the way Lorraine hops into the van for a bit of a sleep. It was hot in there, so she strips off pretty well to the nuddy. But then I get a flat and pull over in the middle of nowhere to fix it. I don’t want to wake Lorraine, so I change the roadside tire, climb back in and take off.

‘Course, what I didn't know was that Lorraine ‘ad woken up while I was changin' the tire  and hopped out the door on the other side of the caravan to have a leak in the bush. She was left there in her knickers when I drove off.

But I got ‘er back again. 

While I was drivin' along, a bloke on a motorbike overtook me. On the back of the motorbike was Lorraine in nothin' but her briefs yellin' and wavin' at me to pull over. I was so surprised I nearly ran the lot off the bloody road! 

Lorraine wasn't real pleased. Lucky this motorcyclist had come along and given her a lift, otherwise she might have been there still. I don't think she ever really forgave me. Thought I did it on purpose. I was as popular as a turd in the fruit salad after that. 

But then things went from bad to worse. For a Chrissy present I thought it'd be a good idea to send her a traditional gift. So I come up with a brilliant idea - the twelve days of Christmas - a new gift every day, startin' with the partridge in a pear tree. I was away workin' in the lead-up to Christmas that year, but I organised with the gift shop ter deliver the stuff right to the door every day. Lorraine wrote me back every day, too...

December 14 - My Dearest Bob,Thank you, darling, for the wonderful partridge in a pear tree. It is a delightful Christmas gift. With deep love and affection always, your loving Lorraine. 

December 15 - Dearest Bob,What a sweet gift the courier brought today. Two adorable turtle doves. I am so delighted. Your Lorraine. 

December 16 - Dear Bob,You are much too extravagant. Thank you for your kind gift of three French hens. Love Agnes. 

December 17 - Dear Bob,Another present! Four calling birds. You are spoiling me. Love Lorraine. 

December 18 - Dear Bob,Today your gift of five gold rings arrived. You are impossible - but I love you. Thank you. Frankly though, all the birds you have given me are beginning to get on my nerves with all their squawking. Your ever loving Lorraine. 

December 19 - Dear Bob,I opened the door this morning to find six bloody great geese laying eggs on the doorstep. Where do you think I will be able to keep all these birds? The neighbours are complaining and I can't sleep for the noise. Please stop. Cordially, Lorraine. 

December 20 - Bob,What is it with these sodding birds? Now I have swans-a-swimming. Is this your idea of a joke? The house is full of bird droppings and the racket is making me a nervous wreck. It's not funny. Stop sending bloody birds. Lorraine. 

December 21 - OK Buster,What the hell am I going to do with eight maids a-milking? Now I've got eight cows crapping all over the house and mooing all night. Lay off, smartarse. Agnes. 

December 22 - You rotten bastard,What are you - some kind of crazy? Now I've got nine pipers playing. And do they play. When they're not playing their bloody pips they're chasing the milkmaids through the cow shit. The cows are mooing and treading on the birds and the neighbours are threatening to have me evicted. You'll get yours. Lorraine. 

December 23 - Shithead,Now there are ten ladies dancing. How anyone could call these whores ladies is beyond me. They're screwing the pipers all night long. The cows have diarrhoea, the living room is a river of shit and the council has declared the building a health hazard. Piss off. Lorraine. 

December 24 - Listen dickhead,Eleven lords are now leaping all over the maids. The pipers are fighting the lords for the crumpet. The cows are still shitting and the birds are all dead and rotting. I hope you're satisfied, you swine. Lorraine. 

December 25 - That's it!,The twelve drummers drumming have joined the pipers in making one hell of a bloody din. Christ knows what happened to the milkmaids. They've probably drowned in the cowshit by now. The only way I saved myself was by climbing the sodding pear tree which is so well fertilised it's grown through the roof. Bollocks, Lorraine.

Lorraine wouldn't have a bar of me after that. Reckon she caught that disease - what's it called... feminism?  I'm buggered if I can understand women. Can you?

Well, I give the city away and went back up the back a Binangon. No traffic, no noise, no bloody wives! 

PUBLIC SERVICE

Couldn't see much of a future on the wharves. Blokes bein' made redundant and retrenched all the time. Bloody machines takin' over ev’ryone's work. So I decides to get another job. Nothin' too demandin' this time. I applied to join the Binangon Public Service.

First, but, they make me sit for an exam. It was a bit of a tough one, too. Specially for a bloke like me 'oo 'asn't 'ad a lot of schoolin'. These are some of the questions they asked me. You had two hours to answer ten questions. What do you reckon of these?

Question one: describe the history of the Papacy from its origins to the present day, concentrating especially upon its social, political, economic religious and philosophical impact on Europe, Asia, America, Africa and Binangon.

That wasn't too bad, but the next one was a real doozy:

Question two: Biology - create life

I passed straight over that one to question three:

Sociology - Discuss the sociological problems that might accompany the end of the world. Construct an experiment to test your theory.

Question four was on Politics: 

On the desk you will find a red telephone. Start World War 3. Report the political and social consequences.

Question five was Medicine: 

You are provided with a razor blade, a piece of gauze and a bottle of scotch. Remove your appendix. Do not suture the wound until it has been inspected. You have 15 minutes.

And question seven was just a bit of General Knowledge - 

Define the universe. describe in detail and give three examples...

And after that they got really hard. 

Anyway, I passed alright. Then I went to work. The first thing they gave me was the rules of the job:

Rule one: Sickness - Personnel will no longer accept a doctor's certificate as proof of illness. If you are able to attend the doctor's you are able to come to work.

A bit tough, I thought, but fair enough ...

Rule two was: Death (other than your own) - As there is nothing you can do for the dead, this will not be accepted as a reason for absence from work. Henceforth, no time off will be allowed for funerals. However, in cases of excessive hardship, we have a special scheme with the local council for lunchtime burials, thus ensuring no time is lost from work.

That was alright. But number three was likely to be a bit awkward:

3. Death (your own) - This will be accepted as a reason for non-attendance. However, we require  two week's notice as it is your duty under the award to train someone else to do your job.

Rule 4 covered Operations - No leave will be granted for hospitalisation involving surgery. As long as you are employed here you will need all of whatever you have and should not have it removed. You were employed with all your parts and removal would mean that we were receiving less than we contracted for. In exceptional circumstances, where removal by surgery is unavoidable, we will consider renegotiating your salary in accordance with the value of those body parts that have been removed.

And the last one was about Visits to the Toilet - To avoid undue time wasting, all personnel will visit the toilet in alphabetical order. Employees whose surnames begin with 'A' will go from 9.30 to 9.45; those beginning with 'B' from 9.45 to ten, and so on. Those unable to go to the toilet at the allotted time will be required to wait until their turn comes again on the following day.  Signed: The Management

That was me first taste of red tape. But it wasn't the last by a long shot, I can tell yer. There was forms for this, forms fer that. Everythin' in duplicate, triplicate and worse. Copy to head office, copy to the departmental head, copy for the file, copy for the wastepaper bin - more bloody copies than you could poke a stick at, I'll give yer the mail.

Sometimes we got a laugh, though... I worked in the motor vehicle insurance claims office for a while. Some of the stories put in from blokes and sheilas about their claims were enough to split yer sides. They must a bin a slice or two short of a loaf, judgin' by some of the yarns they told:

'I thought my window was down, but I found it was up when I put my head through it. A pedestrian hit me and went under the car. The guy was all over the road. I had to swerve a few times before I hit him. An invisible car came out of nowhere, struck my car and vanished. The telephone pole was approaching. I was trying to swerve out of its way when it struck my front end. I'd been driving for forty years when I fell asleep at the wheel and had the accident. I blew my horn. But it did not work as it was stolen.

The city’s a funny sort of place, ain't it? Full of strange characters. You'll never guess ‘oo I met up with again. He was married then. Coupla kids, nice car, good job. 'How would you be, mate?' I asked when I bumped him in a pub one day, bagy suit, crumbled ‘at.

'Ow would I be? 'Ow would I bloody-well be? I've got the taxman, the missus and the kids linin' up to empty me wallet every week. Got a teenage son who wouldn't work in an iron lung and a teenage daughter who'se phone bill's bigger than the national bloody debt.’

‘An that wasn’t all, neither!  ‘E’d ‘ad a few and was in a talkative frame a mind.

'Ow'd I be? The wife wants me ter mow the lawn and paint the 'ouse, the boss wants me to work overtime, the telly's on the blink and the bloody cat's knocked the plug outa the fridge. All me bloody beer's warm. 'Ow would I be? 'Ow do yer bloody well think I’d be?

I shoulda taken his point, I s’pose. But instead I made a blue and went an’ got married meself.

THE BIG SMOKE

As you'll recall if ya were payin' attention, I give the land away and tried me luck in Binangon’s biggest city. Bein' a bit of a big bastard, I soon got a job on the wharves. 

There was some characters workin' there then. One bloke they called 'The Judge', coz 'e was always sittin' on a case. Another bloke was called that too - but that was because 'e was always at the bar.

It was durin' one of those royal tours. Liz come over wth Phil the Greek. They were brought down to the wharves to see what a good job was bein' done (ha ha). Anyway, one wharfie was chosen to be presented to ‘Er Majesty.

It's all goin' along well, with cupsa tea and cucumber sandwiches. There's a bit of a lull in the conversation, so one of the big nobs from the head office says to the wharfie: 'Tell Her Majesty how much you can lift'.

A bit modest, like, 'e says 'Oh, about a bloody ton'.

The big nob is shocked at this language being used in front of the Queen: 'Oh no, break it down', 'e 'isses at the wharfie.

'Oh, alright', sez the wharfie, turrnin’ back to ‘Er Maj, 'about half a bloody ton then'.

There was one bloke there who was on the take - only one. Every day ‘e went through the gates pushin' a wheelbarrow stuffed with bits of old packing crates and cartons. The security guard searched the wheelbarrow every day, real careful. 'E was sure this bloke was knockin' stuff off. But there was never anythin' there. Just old bits of rubbish this bloke said 'e used for firewood.

Eventually, the wharfie was retrenched ‘n’ a couple a months later the security guard is made redundant. One day the ex- security guard bumps into the retrenched wharfie in the pub. Still curious, he asks the wharfie how he was getting the stolen stuff past him. 'Tell us how you done it, mate. It don't matter to anyone now.’

The wharfie agreed that it was all water under the bridge now, so he might as well let on to the security guard and put the poor bastard out of his misery. 'I was knockin' off wheelbarrows'.

One day there was a few unionists havin' a drink with their dogs. They got to skitin' about whose dog was the smartest. The Vehicle Workers Union bloke said his dog was named 'T-square' because he could do geometry. No-one believed 'im, of course, until he gave the dog a stick of chalk and it drew a square, a circle and a triangle on the ground.

The Metalworker's Union bloke wasn't impressed. His dog was called 'Sliderule'. He gave him a box of biscuits and told him to divide them into four piles. He did. The bloke from the Liquor Trades admitted that these two dogs were pretty smart but reckoned his was better. He told his dog to go and get a stubby and pour seven ounces of beer into a ten-ounce glass. The dog did it!

Then they asked the Waterside Worker what his mong could do. 'Is name's 'Tea Break', said the wharfie. 'Show 'em what you can do, mate'.

'Tea Break' ate the biscuits, drank the beer, pissed on the geometry, savaged the other three dogs, and claimed he injured his back. Then he filled out a Worker's Comp form and shot through on sick leave.

Smart dog, eh?

GOIN’ ON THE LAND

Well, I knocked around Binangon for a good few years. Tried me 'and at just about everythin' at one time or another. Even went on the land for a while out round old Yoosterbee. (Know it, do yer? It ain’t there no more).

First I had a walkin' stick farm. But the summer was a cold one that year and it wasn't hot enough to bend the handles over. Then the grasshoppers came. It took me two days to dig myself out. Lucky I was workin' on the roof at the time else it would have taken me a week. Anyway, I thought I'd better come up with somethin' new. So I started a cat farm. What do you think of me prospectus...?

I am looking for interested parties to invest in a large 'Cat Farm'. 

It is my intention to start small, with approximately one million cats. Each cat averages twelve kittens a year, and skins can be sold for 20 pence for black ones and up to 40 pence for white ones. This will give approximately 12 million cat skins a year to sell at an average price of around 30 cents, making projected revenues of 3, 600, 000 pounds per year. 

A qualified cat man can skin up to 1,000 cats per day at a wage of 73.00 pounds per day. It will take only 40 men to operate the ranch, so the nett profit would be over 9,400.00 pounds per day. 

The cats would be fed on rats. Rats multiply four times as fast as cats. I then envisage starting a rat ranch adjacent to the cat farm. If we start with one million rats, we would have four rats per cat each day. The rats will be fed on the carcasses of the cats that we skin. This will give each rat a quarter of a cat. 

This business is a very clean operation - self-supporting and automatic throughout. The cats will eat the rats, and the rats will eat the cats, and we will get the skins. 

Eventually, it is my intention to secure permits to import snakes from South America to cross with the cats, so they they will skin themselves twice a year. This will save the labour costs of skinning, as well as giving two skins for each cat. 

Offers to participate in this investment opportunity of a lifetime have only been made to a limited number of individuals - so send your cheque now!!

An’ they did! The cat farm went well for a while, but it all started to go wrong soon after they changed to dollars. Overnight me overdraft doubled.

I was just gettin' used to that when they brought in kilograms and the catskin cheque dropped by half. Then they began playin' 'round with the bloody weather and brought in Celsius and millimetres. We haven't had a decent fall of rain since. Then they changed to hectares and the size of the farm was halved. 

When daylight saving come in I reckoned I was workin' eight days a week, so I decided to sell out. I put the place in the agent's hands and then they changed over to kilometres - now the place is too flamin' far out of town to sell.

As if that wasn't bad enough, then the taxman caught up with me. Why hadn't I filed a tax return for - ever? How much had I earned? When? How? On and on it went. Bugger this for a game of toy soldiers, I thought. So I give the cat-farmin' business away and ‘ad a go at the tourism. Used to take busloads of Japanese tourists round the bush, show 'em the sights, you know.

One day we're harin' through the scrub with a load of ‘em when the bus knocks down this old man ‘roo. Big bastard he was, too. We all got out to have a look at the corpse and take photos - of course. Pretty soon one of the Japs gets an idea and jabbers at me to take ‘is flashy jacket and put it on the roo, so's he can take a photo. 

So we stand the ‘roo up and put this bloke's jacket on ‘im (it fitted, too). Just as the Jap's about to snap his camera, the ‘roo comes back to life - 'e was only stunned - and hops off into the bush, still wearin' the jacket. What a sight! The real laugh was that the Jap's wallet, money and credit cards we're all in the jacket. He wasn't too pleased, either, I can tell you.

Anyway, the tourist business ain't what it used t' be. Neither's much else in the place, as far as I can see. I been doin' a bit of 'rithmetic lately - see if yer can follow me in this...

 If the population of the country is about 22 million and there's about 4 million retired, that leaves 18 million to do the work. 

There's about 11 million under 18, leavin' 7 million to do the work. 

There's 3 million employed by governments. They won't work. That leaves 4 million. 

Another couple of million in banks and insurance companies. That leaves 2 million. 

Half a million in asylums and hospitals. That leaves 1.5 million. 

There's 1.5 million university students and others who won't work. That leaves 1 million. 

There's 999, 998 people in prison, leaving a balance of just 2 people to do all the work.  

That's you and me. And you'd better pull your socks up, mate, 'cause I'm sick of runnin' all of bloody Binangon on me own.

As you can see, I’m so busy that I've decided to give up the land, for a while at least. It's too flamin' hard to get a livin' these days. Just in case, I've made me will. I've left me soul to me banker - he's got the mortgage on it anyway. I've left me carbon tax calculator to the Energy Authority. Maybe they'll be able to make sense of it. And I'll 'ave a couple of last requests. 

The first one is to the weatherman: I want rain, hail and sleet for the funeral. No sense in finally givin' me good weather just because I'm dead.

And last, but not least, don't bother to bury me - the hole I'm in now is big enough. Just cremate me and send me ashes to the Taxation Office with this note: 'Here you are, you bastards, now you've got the lot'.

REBUILDIN’ THE COUNTRY

I was glad to get back to work when that bloody war was over. They asked me to stay on and help 'em put the pieces back together again. But I didn't fancy it. All that salutin' and givin' orders. I wanted to get away for a while and do some honest yakka. 

Got meself a job on the Snowy Scheme. They needed a bit of a hand with the tunnellin'. Engineers or someone had buggered it up - as usual. So I gave 'em a few pointers. But I got jack of that pretty quick. Not much of a challenge.

So then I found myself out west again, workin' on the rabbit-proof fence. Never seen so many rabbit holes. Hard country that was. Nothin’ much to eat and what there was wasn't good eatin'. Used to cook galah. You know how to cook a galah, don't ya? Boil a large billy of water. Put in two or three rocks and then add the galah. Boil it hard until the water evaporates. Then throw the galah away and eat the rocks.

There was a bloke out there who reckoned he was a rabbit hunter. Silly bugger couldn't catch a rabbit to save 'is life. An old bloke give him the drum one night at the pub. 'Look mate', he tells the hopeless one, 'first yer catch a rabbit, tie a lighted stick of gelignite to him and let him run back into the burrow. You'll kill more rabbits than the mixxy in no time flat'.

So this bloke thought ‘e'd give it a try. But he couldn't catch even one rabbit to start off with. So he buys one from the pet shop. He ties the stick of geli to it, lights it and send it towards the nearest rabbit hole. But it's been born in captivity, this rabbit, and don't know nuthin' about what wild rabbits do. It runs round in a circle and then runs straight under this bloke's brand new ute and blows it to bits.

I was on the border fruit-fly control squad for a while. We used to search people's cars for fruit that might be contaminated. The fruit flies used to fly across the border over our heads in droves. I ask yer, what do they use for brains, these booro-crats and the like!

I had a little roo dog then. Good little dog. One day I shot a roo and ‘e ran after it. But the dog caught itself on a barbed wire fence and sliced itself fair in half. Lucky I had me weldin' gear with me. I welded him together again before it was too late. But I was in such a hurry, I welded the two halves the wrong way round. The dog had two legs on the ground and two stickin' up into the air. Didn't bother the little bugger though. He took off after the roo again. First he ran with two legs in the air until he got tired. Then he turned over and ran with the other two. Fair dinkum! That's as true as I'm standin' 'ere. And when he finally caught that roo 'e bit both ends at the same time.

I give away the fruit-fly policin' after a while and took up train-drivin'. The 'Last of the Fast-Times' they used to call me and I shifted some pretty fast freights, I can tell you. Leastways, I did at the end of me time. When I started the trains were so slow we used to throw tomato seeds out of the engine and the guard would pick the tomatoes as he went by. They was only in their first bloom, mind you.

Another time we were on the old Binangon Mail bringin' down a body to be buried. It was a scorcher. The guards-van was like an oven an the ice was melting as soon as it hit the water - or whatever they were drinkin. After a few hours the conductor came back empty-handed. Where's the ice?, gasped the hot and thirsty guards? 'I don't think we'd better use any more', said the Conductor, 'the corpse is showing'.

I worked for some mean cockies on me travels, but there was a bloke over the back of Buggerup who really took the cake. He give me a job alright. 'Sunup to sunset - Sunday off - take it or leave it'. Well, I was broke at the time so I had to take it. The first day we started at sunup and worked straight through the day. Flamin' 'ot it was, too. Finally, the sun started to dip down behind the hills. I straightened up and took me hat off. 'That's it - sundown - I said to the cocky. But he kept right on workin'. 'Not yet, mate. Climb up on the fence, you can still see the sun from there'.

Hard bastard he was. Used ter feed yer breakfast before sunup and yer never got yer supper 'till all the stars were out. That cocky was so mean 'e wouldn't give you a drink from a mirage on 'is own block.

It was this same cocky I worked for when the Great Binangon Drought broke. The rain pissed down after months without a drop. We all ran outside and danced around in the wet. Except the cocky. 'Come in out of that rain, you stupid buggers', he yells at us. 'Don't worry, we don't mind gettin wet'. 'I don't care about you gettin' wet - you're keepin' the rain off me ground.'

Speakin' of cooks - which I wasn't: I was shearin' once for some cockie who hired on the worst cook that ever fed me. This bloke's puddin' was like glue, his pies were like chunks of jarrah and his custard must have been made with rancid butter. After a couple of weeks of this the blokes were gettin' pretty ugly. Words were said - not nice ones - and the cook complained to the boss about being insulted by the men. The boss came down straightaway and wanted to know who called the cook a bastard. I stepped right up to him and said 'who called the bastard a cook?'

It was out there where I met him again. Yer know ‘oo I mean. ‘E was knockin' the fleece of a four-year old and, casual-like, I asked him 'how 'e'd be?'

'How'd I be? How'd I be!? How'd you bloody-well think I'd be? Dags all over me, sweatin' blood shearin' sheep that shoulda been dogs' meat years ago and workin' for the meanest bastard God ever put breath into. There's no pub for a hundred clicks and the one that's there serves warm beer. 'Ow'd you think I'd bloody well be?'

I left ‘im to it an’ went quietly on me way.

MORE WAR

Wouldn’t it bloody root ya, the way they wanna shoot yer!?

They called me in when things got a bit rough after Singapore fell. I didn't mind helpin' 'em out. Poor buggers, the Yanks and the brass were a bit bamboozled by evrythin' goin' on at once. 

Spent some time in Darwin, too, durin' the war. Not too bloody much time, mind you. The Japs was getting a bit close for comfort. Bloody awful place, Darwin. When the Japs bombed it I jumped on the first pushbike I saw and pedalled south like buggery. I got three hundred miles away before I realised that the bike didn't have a chain on it.

Then there was the Yanks. Millions of the bastards. Everywhere you went. Chewin' gum, buyin' up everythin' in sight, includin' the shielas. Wisecrackin' smartarses some of 'em were, too.

I was drinkin' with one of these Yanks one day in Sydney. He asked how long it took to build the Harbour Bridge. 'A few years', I said. 'Huh', scorned the Yank, 'back home we'd knock something like that up in a coupla weeks'.

So we went down the road to the next pub and had the one or two more. When we came out he pointed at Circular Quay and said 'that's a purty little buildin'. How long did that take to build?'

I just laughed and told him that it wasn't even there when we went inside the pub. 

Bloody smartarse! We all know what they did to Les Darcy and Phar Lap. No wonder we call em 'Septic Tanks'. 

An' it wasn't just sightseein' an' bignotin' they were up to durin' the war, either. We useter sing this to the tune of 'Count Yer Blessin's':

Count your children, count them one by one 

Count your children, count them one by one 

Count your children, count them one by one 

You will be surprised at what the Yanks have done.

A few were surprised too, I can tell you.

I did some fightin' in New Guinea.They offered us a bob a Jap and said there's over two thousand quids-worth comin' over the Owen Stanleys. We soon sorted out that Kokoda business.

An’ ‘e was there again as well. The greatest whinger in the whole bloody world. He was sittin' in the bottom of a shell-hole in a raggy old uniform cleanin' his nails with the tip of his bayonet.

"How'd you be, dig?', I asts.

'Ow'd I be? ‘Ow'd I be? ‘Ow do yer you bloody-well think I'd be? See this hat - it's big enough to take a bath in. There's enough leather in these boots to make a full set of harness and have enough left over for a wallet and a belt. I been shot at by every Jap in the place; me name's at the top of Tojo's hit-list and every mouthful of food's covered in flies. Bombs droppin' on me all bloody day and mossies strafin' me ev’ry night. How'd you bloody-well think I'd be?'

This was the same the same bloke who went sick one morning with two other diggers. 'What's the problem?', the MO asked the first digger. 

'It's me guts, Doc. They're crook'.

'Alright, stand over there'. 

And what's you're problem?', he asks the second bloke. 

'I'm sick in me head'. 

Alright, wait there'.

And why are you here?', the MO asks me mate, the whinger.

'To tell yer the truth, Doc, I'm sick of the whole flamin' business'.

I got out of the army, too. Medical discharge. After winnin' the first one and then settin' 'em up to win the second one, I reckoned I'd done more than me bit. So I decides to get out. But I needed to be a bit cunnin’.

So I start goin' round the camp, pickin' up bits of paper. I look at 'em all very carefully, then shake me head and chuck 'em away. I keep on doin' this for a couple of weeks until they decide I must be goin' troppo. Then they take me to the MO for an examination. Soon as I'm in there I pick up the bits of paper on 'is desk and look at them very carefully, like. Then I throws them away.

'You seem to be suffering from some sort of acute combat psychosis', 'e says and recommends me for a medical discharge.

When I get to the final procedure for discharge, the smartarse officer hands me the discharge and says 'You'd better hang on to that piece of paper, digger.

I put it in me pocket, laughin'. Too right, mate, that's the piece of paper I've been lookin' for all along'.

DOIN’ IT TOUGH

And then the war was over but times was really tough back in Binangon. The depression came and there was no work for any bastard and less for the rest of us. 

Place was full of foreign bankers (foreign wankers, I call 'em). All they wanted to do was cut government spendin'. They said somethin' called the 'economic cycle' would come round again. Well, it was gettin' to be a bloody long wait for it to cycle back our way. Sir Otto Niemeyer. There's a mouthful for ya. The bank of England sent 'im out 'ere to tell us what to do. Pay back all your debts to the British investors was 'is advice to us. This was our advice to 'im:

What rot- o

Sir Otto

Niemeyer

I went up north to find a job. Ev’ryone else had the same idea. There was an Aboriginal rouseabout in those parts went by the name of Jacki Bindi. Times were hard for everyone and there was an awful lot of thievin' goin' on. Jackie used ter cop the blame for most of it, whetehr 'e done it or not. Always in trouble with the law was Jackie. But 'e usually managed to get 'is own back in 'is own way.

One day he's up before the beak for somethin' or other. The beak was worried if Jackie knew what he was supposed to do in the whitfella's court. 'Jacky', ask the beak 'do you know what will happen to you if you tell lies?'

'Oh yes, boss', Jacky sez. 'I go to hell.'

'That's right, jacky, sez the beak, noddin' 'is 'ead. 'And do you know what will happen if you tell the truth?'

'Sure do, boss - I go to gaol'.

Another time they 'ad Jacky up for stealin' a crowbar. There wasn't much evidence as usual, just hearsay, and the local magistrate dismissed the case. Jackie leans over to his solicitor to check what it all meant. 'It means you've been acquitted, Jackie'. 'Shit', says Jackie, does that mean I 'ave to give the crowbar back?'

Once Jackie was sentenced to three years hard for knockin' off a horse. After the judge passed sentence, 'e asked Jackie if he 'ad anythin' to say. 'Yes, I 'ave', says Jackie. 'You're bloody free with other people's time'. 

I've 'eard other say that wasn't what Jackie said to the judge at all. Instead, 'e offered to toss 'im for it - 'six years or nothin', boss, whaddya say?'.  Never did 'ear what the judge said back ter Jackie.

Last time I 'eard of Jackie 'e was up fer manslaughter. The jury took a day or two to reach a verdict. When they finally came back and the judge asked them what it was, the foreman gets up and says they find Jackie not guilty by reason of insanity. 'Jesus', sez Jackie, the whole twelve of you can't be mad'.

Yeah, times were 'ard and tucker was short in those years. The greatest whinger in the world was ‘avin a field day when I seen ‘im agen. Another big ‘at and wearin’ a pair of greasy old overalls. We was on the Sandy Hollow Line, all slavin’ for a pittance. ‘Owd yer be?’, I sez.

He straightens up, takes off the ‘at, wipes his face and lets me ‘ave it:

‘Owd I be? ‘Ow d’ya bloody well think I’d be?! I’m on the bones of me arse, buildin’ a railway line to nowhere for a livin’, if you can call it that. Me pick’s just broke for the third time and the ganger’s about to give me the sack. And there’s not a bloody pub for miles. ‘’Ow’d I be? ‘ow do yer bloody well think I’d be?!’

Anyways, after a few years of doin' it tough I reckoned that was more than enough for all of us, even the whinger. I talked the pollies into spendin' some money so that they could give people jobs. Blind Freddie could see that. Then people would have money to spend and the shops and the factories could start up again. Only common sense, really. If people ain't got no money they can't spend it. All you gotta do is make sure they can get a job somewhere, doin' somethin'. So, the pollies spent the dough and Binangon went back to work again. 

Everythin' was just startin’ to go well when the bastards overseas decided to stack on another blue. Bugger me! First it's Adolph bloody Hitler in Germany. Then it's Tojo and the Japs. Well, someone 'ad to go, didn't they? So I'm back in uniform again. 

WAR

So, that's a brief account of the first few years or so of me life. As you can hear, I should be cut in two halves, 'cause I'm far too bloody good to be in one. And that's why they wanted me to go and win the war for them. I ain't too sure which war, though, I been in so many. It was probably the 'Great War', as they called it. A Great bloody cock-up we called it.

You probably won't be surprised to hear this, but I was the first bloke ashore at Gallipoli. I was the last man off, too, eight months later. In between there were a few queer stunts, I can tell you. One day we were sitting down to a game of cards when this corporal comes running up in a right state. 'Quick', he yells, there's a company of Turks chargin' up the other side of this hill.' No-one moved. No-one said a word. In the end I threw me hand down and said 'Alright, I'll go - I'm out anyway'.

We did enjoy a game of two-up. We used to stand around in a school, chuckin' coins up under shellfire and shrapnel. No-one cared. After the war I met a German bloke who'd been an observer pilot. He said they used to fly over our positions and see us all standin' round in a circle, lookin' up in the air. The Germans thought we musta been a religious lot cause we was always prayin'!

That’s when we were standin’ still, anyways. Most of the time we could hear the bullets whizzin' round our heads. Not once, but twice. First when they whizzed past us and the second time as we whizzed past them. 

They were all there - Ginger Mick; Simpson with his donkey. More ‘eroes than you could poke a stick at. 'E was there, too. The whinger. 

I bumped him in a dugout at Quinn's Post. 'E was makin' jamtin bombs and swearin' like a bullocky. 'Ow'd ya be, cobber?' I sez.

'Ow'd I be? Ow'd I be? 'Ow'd ya bloody well think I'd be. There's a batallion of Turks about twenty-five yards away all tryin' to kill me. The last bomb they chucked over blew all me smokes to buggery. The tucker's crook - when ya get any. And I 'aven't 'ad a beer since we landed on that bloody beach. 'Ow'd ya think I'd bloody well be?'

‘No worries, cob’, I sez, and left ‘im to it.

General Birdwood was in charge. I could tell you a few yarns about Birdie. He'd never wear his rank badges, you know. First time I met him I thought he was just another digger. The officer with him told me 'this is General Birdwood'. 'Struth', I says, snappin' to attention. 'Why don't you wear your feathers, same as any other bird would?'

He didn't take offence though. We reckoned ‘e was just a digger with stripes on ‘is arm. Once he was comin’ to a dangerous gap in a trench when the sentry called out: "Duck, Birdie; you'd better bloody-well duck." When Birdie used to tell this story after the war the  brass who heard it were  outraged "What did you do?" they'd ask, thinkin' Birdie had the sentry shot at dawn.  "What did I do?", Birdie'd say,  'Why, I  bloody-well ducked!'

Course, later, in France, I won the odd VC as well. Nothin' special. All in the line of duty. They made so much fuss about presentin' it to me you'da thought I'd won the Stawell Gift.

We were on blighty leave in London once. This pommy officer walked past us, turned round and asked us why we didn't salute 'im. 

'I say, you men, don't you know who I am?' 'e sez. 

Me mate turned round and said 'Struth, Bob, this poor bugger don't even know who 'e is'.

Another time we were in the Strand and another pommy officer ‘as a go at us fer not salutin'. Me mate calls this pommy a bastard, and one or two other things as well. The pommy spots a Binangonian officer comin' down the street and complains that me mate's called him a bastard. 

'You're not a bastard, are you?', the Binangonian officer asked the officer. 

'Of course not', the pommy replies, most indignant. 

'Well, you just trot over and tell him he's a bloody liar.'

One night we're all in quarters tryin' to get a bit of shuteye. The bloke on guard duty had only just arrrived. Some bloody Captain staggers back late and can't remember the password. They was out there arguin' away about it. In the end someone yells out 'Don't  stand there arguin' all bloody night, mate, just shoot the bastard'. The young bloke nearly did, too.

Got a bit of a graze at Pozieres. Nothin' serious, just a couple of amputations. Anyway, the MO makes a fuss and sends me back to blighty for a spell in hospital. One bloke there was always tellin' the nurses about 'is flea farm back 'ome in Binangon. There was always a yarn to spin about jackaroo farms, wombat farms and the rest of it. But this bloke, 'e just kept on and on about his bloody flea farm. 

In the end the nurses thought 'e must have gone mad and reported him to the head doctor. Next day the head doctor comes round to see for 'imself. The bloke tells 'im all about 'is flea farm at length and in detail. In the end, the doctor asks 'im - a bit sharpish - 'well, what do you do with this flea farm then?'

The bloke goes silent for a second, looks the doc straight in the eye and sez: 'we make beer out of the hops'.

There were a few yanks in the hospital then, too. They'd come across to win the war - at last. One of 'em was skitin' about how terrible fearsome his native wildlife was. Coyotes and wolves were savager 'n dingoes or any other Binangon wildlife.

'Take our rattle-snake', boasts the yank. 'If it bites you, you'll be dead in less than two minutes'.

'That's nothin', I sez, 'our tiger snake comes at yer so fast you're dead two minutes before it bites yer'.

Couldn't let the bastards get away with that, could I?

We 'ad this pommy officer for a while. Real toff 'e was, posh accent and monocle. One mornin' we line up for inspection all wearin' our identity discs in our left eye, just to try it on and let this pommy officer know what we think about 'is airs and graces. 

'E comes out and looks at us, long and slow. 'E takes 'is monocle out and throws it up in the air. Then 'e catches it in 'is eye as it comes down! 'Try that, you bastards', e sez. We all broke up laughin'. All the diggers wanted to buy 'im a beer. Not a bad bloke - for a pommy.

SHEARIN’

After the gold diggin’ I did a lot of shearin'. Binangon sheep are so tall you need a ladder to shear 'em. And the mossies -  spare me days! The mossies are so big they eat the bullocks and pick their teeth with the horns. Hoop snakes are everywhere. Rollin' themselves into circles and bowlin' along the roads, racin' the cars. 

I was up in the bush at Binangon one day. Bit of a hill and hard slog. Just as I get to the top I almost fall over this bloody great snake layin’ in the sun. (The trees had been hinged down for the day). The thing rears up at me and I jump back and started runnin’ down the hill as fast as I could go. But this bloody snake just sticks its tail inside its mouth and comes rolling down the hill after me! Lucky I managed to grab an overhanging branch on the way down and haul meself up into the tree, But that hoop snake was goin’ so fast by then, he couldn’t stop. Just kept on rolling down the hill into the creek and drowned.

What do you mean ‘is it true’? Course it’s true. If that hoop snake hadda got me I wouldn’t be here tellin’ youse about it, would I now?’ Cripes!

When I was shearin’ I met a bloke called himself 'Crooked Mick'. Big bastard 'e was. They used ter kill two steers to get enough leather to make him a pair of shoes. And strong. He swung an axe in each hand when 'e was cuttin' fence posts. 

Course, I was just that bit stronger and faster than ol' Mick. Oh, 'e was flashy all right - shearin' so fast that his blades had to be cooled in water. That kind of cheap trick. But I had it all over him with the shovel and the crowbar when we was fencin' - one in each hand. Saved a lot of time that did.

And the tales 'e used ter tell! Once 'e reckoned 'e 'ad a job stonin' the crows. Binangon was chocka with the bloody things. So Mick works away at this job for weeks, pickin' up rocks and 'urlin''em at every crow in sight. In the end there was only one crow left and Mick 'ad bin tryin' to kill 'im fer some time, but 'e just couldn't hit the bastard, 'e was too quick and smart. Eventually, in a fit of rage, Mick picked up the biggest rock he could find and chucked it at the last crow. The rock just missed the crow and landed over in the territory. They call it Ayer's Rock now – or Uluru.

That was the sort of yarn you 'ad to put up with from Mick. 'E wasn't a bad sort of a bloke, but ' e did go on - and on. There was another one 'e used to tell about ‘ow 'e captured a willy-willy and  made it run some bloke's windmill faster. And once 'e chopped a whole limestone mountain into building blocks in one week flat. Then there was the time 'e shot a dingo, a roo and a wild pig with the one bullet - 'ad a little bit of trouble linin' the three of 'em up, though', 'e used ter skite.

Once Mick reckoned ‘ewas out huntin' pigs. Suddenly one came straight at him out of the scrub. 'I didn't have time to fire', Mick says,  'I just jumped for the first branch of a tree. It must have been forty feet up - 'but I missed it. Luckily, though I caught it on the way down'.

I had to leave after a while though. I couldn't stand any more of Mick's skitin'. Anyway, I was shearin' so many a day that they were all complainin' there was no work for anyone else. 

Not sure what happened to old Crooked Mick after that. I seem to remember 'earin' somewhere that he died - swallowed one of his own bloody yarns, I shouldn't wonder.