recent disturbing events in wyndham seemed to be a good sign to start writing again, especially considering the rumours flying around the town at the moment.
Just a week or so ago, there was a serious crime committed at the wyndham docks. A young man, gentle and friendly, or so say his colleagues, was mercilessly beaten over the head with a tool for the apparent crime of stumbling onto a crime in progress. Im not sure which tool was used, or whether its even relevant, but we all like gory details. Now this fella's only apparent crime, although nobody will ever know for sure, was to stumble across a colleague of his who was attempting to steal fuel from the worksite. A pair of sandblasters, they work down at the docks in a little industrial area that has a few sea containers stocked with tools and equipment, some machinery and other bits and bobs, which i passed about 8 times in a night whilst working as a line walker (checking the fuel lines for leaks as they pump it from the ship). Apparently they are the only two who work this job, or at least the only two who were working on the day in question.
Steve Forrest, the port manager, got a call at about 7:30 in the morning, when some of the workers had stumbled across this man, lying on the floor of a container, arms broken and head caved in, bleeding like a fish. He had been there for a while (an hour it turned out) as there was pools of blood that had begun to congeal. His forearms had been smashed to shit, in an apparent attempt to ward off the blows from his attacker. His brains were apparently exposed, but who knows the validity of these stories, especially as they zoom around all full of steam and gossip when the crime is fresh. People love drama. That being said, however, i did get most of this from reliable sources.
So anyway, steve got a call, some workers who didnt know what to do, so steve tells them "CALL THE FUCKING AMBULANCE YOU NITWITS!". Most people wouldnt want to go near a body in that state, and wouldnt know what to do even if they did happen to brave the bloody mess, and these fellas were no different. So steve has to race down, sees the problem, but is no better equipped than the rest of them to deal with the situation, except for a first aid course that was taught him by Dr Ted Venebles a good 20 years previous, but at least he went close enough to try something. Not wanting to press on his heart for fear of fucking up his ribs or lungs, they got the oxy machine from the first aid office. But when they opened it, it was in pieces and hadnt been used for years. So they tried to piece it back together, with this bleeding mess lying there helpess as the ambulance made its way down.
By this time my dear mother had also been alerted to the situaiton, and was waiting at the hopsital for old mates arrival.
Anyway after a few attempts they got the poor bugger breathing oxygen at least, and just had to wait for the ambo. Steve said it seemed like they waited for hours, but by the time he checked his watch it had only been about 20 minutes, which is reasonable time i guess.
Mum worked on a while, cleaning up and stopping bleeding etc, but it didnt look good, so he got airlifted down to perth for some serious medical attention.
Apparently, so the story goes, this friendly, well liked young fella had stumbled across his coworker, a dodgy bugger who had done some time in the slammer and who all the other fellas said "always seemed a little bit strange", stealing fuel from the work supply. Out of all the options available to him, this lunatic decided that whipping out a tool,(wrench?) and beating his colleague within an inch of his life seemed to be the best course of action. He then took off, leaving this guy for dead.
By the time an alert had been sent out, the coppers were apparently looking for a landcruiser 4WD ute, light tan, with a big fuel tank on the back, same kind of body as a troopy. We were talking about whether they should have road blocks on all the roads out of town, to halls creek, to darwin, to broome etc, and presumed that they surely would after a serious crime like this. But as it turns out, the nutter never even left town! To top it off, after they caught him, the cops had to let him go! No idea why, but im working on finding this out.
the stoy of his capture is strange as well. Apprently after discovering his identity, and his address, the cops raided the house, bashing down the door, only to realise they were at the wrong house, with some poor bugger sitting there scared out of his wits. As they processed there mistake, obviously hearing the commotion a bloke poked his head over the fence and said "you guys looking for me?". So they took him in, did their police shit, and then let him go straight away. Some legal loophole im presuming but who fucking knows. Lovely to think that a guy with a fuse that short is still wandering around town doing his thing.
The victim, mother told me the day after the event, was going to be fine, after initial fears he wouldnt make it. But now there are rumours that he eventually died in hopsital in perth, making this a murder in wyndham. But until thats confirmed, he wil only be getting charged with attmepted murder. Or apprently nothing at all.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Monday, 2 May 2011
MISSION STATEMENT
This is the grandiose mission statement as quoted on the freshcorp website. The fourth point is by far the most important.
| Our Mission | |
|
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Honest John
The first weekend of trading began with the long awaited introduction of Honest John, mysterious and legendary larrikin figure of wyndham, kimberley and northern territory folk lore. We were cleaning up out the front, tony was up on the ladder doing something useful while i was aimlessly wandering around, feigning diligence. Out in the street, a car was hovering, an old white ute with a shadowy figure at the wheel, tattooed arm hanging out the window, just looking at us. The car and its driver sat there in silence for a while, then a voice called out, "you'll kill the pig here...". We both looked up at the car.
"Yeah well, thats the plan i guess" replied tony.
The car sat there, no response.
"Should really kill the pig...those other bogans fucked off yet?"
Presuming the stranger to mean gavin and mouse, we told him of their half-arse attempts to move on and the situation's incertitude.
"Yeah, they had no class, made a meal of this joint..."
Still the car idling in the street, no sign of the man's face, just the hairy arms.
"Who are you?" tony asked.
"whats that mate?"
"whats your name"
"Honest John".
aaahhhhh. Out clambered john from the ute, not bothering to park, just switched off the engine in the middle of the road. A huge man, weighed down a little by his years but it was obvious that in his prime the man was a giant. A few rough tats on his arms, and a gnarly old handlebar moustache underlined his fiery and inquiring eyes. A staffi with a gloriously shiny coat jumped out of the car with him, unfortunately the dog's name eludes me, and ran around into the shop to investigate. John himself walked straight up to the fence and started telling us about the old days when he used to run the shop, and all sbout it's potential to "kill the pig". With a sly grin he told us that he used to be a real wyndham business man, with scams running all over the show, to which dad laughed and said "yeah we've already heard about a few". John stopped and look at us with a wry grin and slowly, like an old motor car, broke out into a knowing guttural laugh.
It became apparent that "honest"was a nickname bestowed to john by a man or woman with their tongue firmly in their cheek, as he began to share his tricks of the trade with us.
"No beetroot. Never put beetroot in the salad, because it stains the leaves ya see? and they never eat all the salad, so you can take back the lettuce, wash it off an serve it to the next punter, they wouldnt have a fuck'n clue. But if ya got beetroot, it stains the lettuce, so ya gotta chuck it out"
"Dont even think about doing it by the books, all cash, straight into the sky rocket mate, dont give the government nothing."
"If your bread goes stale, dont chuck it out. Just get a bit of water on the bread, then sit it on the grill so it steams a bit, then cooks. It'll fall apart in 5 minutes, but by that time you've got the prick's bugs bunny and they've fucked off"
"Don't fuck'n worry about trying to serve em the good fish, the barramundi and what not, too bloody expensive. Just get the nile perch, the punter doesn't know the bloody difference"
This man needs to be interviewed or recorded in some way, a truly legendary australian character.
"Yeah well, thats the plan i guess" replied tony.
The car sat there, no response.
"Should really kill the pig...those other bogans fucked off yet?"
Presuming the stranger to mean gavin and mouse, we told him of their half-arse attempts to move on and the situation's incertitude.
"Yeah, they had no class, made a meal of this joint..."
Still the car idling in the street, no sign of the man's face, just the hairy arms.
"Who are you?" tony asked.
"whats that mate?"
"whats your name"
"Honest John".
aaahhhhh. Out clambered john from the ute, not bothering to park, just switched off the engine in the middle of the road. A huge man, weighed down a little by his years but it was obvious that in his prime the man was a giant. A few rough tats on his arms, and a gnarly old handlebar moustache underlined his fiery and inquiring eyes. A staffi with a gloriously shiny coat jumped out of the car with him, unfortunately the dog's name eludes me, and ran around into the shop to investigate. John himself walked straight up to the fence and started telling us about the old days when he used to run the shop, and all sbout it's potential to "kill the pig". With a sly grin he told us that he used to be a real wyndham business man, with scams running all over the show, to which dad laughed and said "yeah we've already heard about a few". John stopped and look at us with a wry grin and slowly, like an old motor car, broke out into a knowing guttural laugh.
It became apparent that "honest"was a nickname bestowed to john by a man or woman with their tongue firmly in their cheek, as he began to share his tricks of the trade with us.
"No beetroot. Never put beetroot in the salad, because it stains the leaves ya see? and they never eat all the salad, so you can take back the lettuce, wash it off an serve it to the next punter, they wouldnt have a fuck'n clue. But if ya got beetroot, it stains the lettuce, so ya gotta chuck it out"
"Dont even think about doing it by the books, all cash, straight into the sky rocket mate, dont give the government nothing."
"If your bread goes stale, dont chuck it out. Just get a bit of water on the bread, then sit it on the grill so it steams a bit, then cooks. It'll fall apart in 5 minutes, but by that time you've got the prick's bugs bunny and they've fucked off"
"Don't fuck'n worry about trying to serve em the good fish, the barramundi and what not, too bloody expensive. Just get the nile perch, the punter doesn't know the bloody difference"
This man needs to be interviewed or recorded in some way, a truly legendary australian character.
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
monday night basketball
I am surprised to find myself busier with social activity, albeit of a more community minded ilk, than i did in either of the cities i have lived in of late. No doubt becuase of the lack of social familiarity, the lack of like minded individuals, or at least a lack so far, that the social drinking aspect has vanished from my life. A couple of beers with the folks or a bottle of wine at dinner, but refreshingly drinking has been pushed to the back of the social agenda. Not for the town of course; it remains a high priority for most of wyndhams residents. The fact that i am working for myself and on my own means that my way of finding social interaction is not to simply head to the pub after work with colleagues, which is in a way a huge relief.
Instead I find myself wanting to get involved in various community clubs and events, such as the basketball/ping pong night on monday.
Both sports are held simultaneously at the recreation centre. The basketball basically consists of a bunch of dudes from the port and from town gathering together and creating a few teams in a first to twenty/winner stays on scenario. Full court, local old white-beard referee and even an old school steel scoreboard where you flip the numbers over.
Down the road from wyndham there is a prison farm, where jailbirds from the kimberley (kununurra and wyndham mainly) go to chop trees and shit like that. They used to come up to town on a monday and use the outdoor court, a gravelly mess adjacent to the new (semi) indoor court where the locals play, but the sport and rec officer decided to let the prison boys join in the monday night games, as long as things went smooth.
I went down for ping pong originally, but got interested in the basketball and started to watch. There were 3 teams plus the prison boys, who were sitting in the stands in a group looking surly. There was one good team, with some athletic skillfull players, who had employed the services of one of the prison boys, a 6 ft 6 monster who was built like and played like shaq, and they were undefeated so far. Not a one man team by any stretch, they had some killer guards as well, but this big fella stood out due to his size and standard issue prison garb, which consisted of a baggy dark green t shirt, jeans and sneakers.
I watched a few games and the other two teams rotated, but the prison boys were yet to put their hand up. The rec officer, todd, told me to hang around and just ask if i wanted a game, and theyd probably let me play. So i waited until the end of the game and went and asked the team who wer warming up if they need anyone else. "Nah not right now eh but if dis bloke fuck around or start shit we'll kick 'im out and then you can play". Not sure who he was referring to i sat back and waited for the game to start and hopefully for old mate to loose his cool and give mitchy an opening.
As i was watching, i saw a dark green shirt out the corner of my eye, and sort f ignored it at first, hoping he wasnt talking to me. Then he tapped me on the arm.
"eh bro...you wanna play?" came the shy, almost apologetic question.
shit.
"uh...yeah... sure, have you got room? i dont want to kick anyone off or nothing" came the stuttering response. Shit maybe he's in for murder.
No response, just a little thumbs up to me and one to the other prison boys, sitting together all surly in the grandstand, whom he rejoined while i sat there looking at my new teammates form afar.
Kept watching the game from behind the backboard, then decided i should get over and sit with my new team, or at least get a little closer. So i idled up to them, trying to look casual, maybe make ey contact and get a nod or a wink, but they all looked back at me pretty deadpan or not at all, except this one bloke with a big grin on his face.
There was one white boy, a short little stocky dude with jailhouse tats, a bald head, wild goatee and a few teeth missing, wearing a faded blue wife beater, light denim jeans and some trainers. He did not look at all like a basketballer and my immediate impression was that he was only there to stretch his legs and maybe his fists if someone gave him a reason. The guard who accompanied them wouldn't have reassured any participants with misgivings about taking on some convicts on a concrete basketball court, being about 5 ft 5, 60 yrs old and unarmed, looking more like a gardener than a prison guard. (if i had stopped being judgemental and thought about it rationally i would have realised that nobody would let properly dangerous criminals to serve their sentences on a prison farm in wyndham, let alone play basketball with the locals and kids on a monday night accompanied bynobody else except Don Burke, but i was a bit excited and caught up in the moment, and they did looked pretty bad ass).
As the game finished up, with the star team remaining undefeated, both us and one of the other teams stood up to challenge them. They thought they were next and so did we, but it didnt take many words from one of our lot for the other blokes to sit back down.
As we walked on court, however, we realised that we only had four players. We turned around to the bench and there were 4 other prison boys just sitting there, deadpan, grimacing back at us, no reaction to the call my team mates. "eh wally, (invented name) cmon, come play". "cmon tony, cmon, need five people or what". Nothing, just folded arms and staring straight back. I was starting to feel a bit awkward, standing in the middle of the court, looking at them, feeling pretty white. One of these guys, a lighter skinned aboriginal bloke also with the faded blue singlet (the only other seemingly priveledged one), stared back at his inmates with such ferocity i thought he was going to get up and smack someone out, and even the boys who were trying to get him to play only passed over him briefly, knowing that if he wanted to play he would, and that he didnt take kindly to pressure.
Finally a smilee broke out from the back of the stand from one of the guys, who had been the most heavily targeted of the indifferent. But he seemed keen in the end, maybe he was just shy.
So finally we had a team and were ready to take on the champions.
As the game progressed, Shaquille Oneal started to dominate, and i thought id try and defend him, because defence was definately the main thing lacking in all the local boys game. So next time the ball was in their court, i got into the key and tried to defend him, getting goal-side and putting my forearm up against his huge frame, looking up at him with a kind of stupid grin on my face. He just looked straight down at me, then cracked slowly into a huge grin and a slow ogre like chuckle puttered from his lips "uh huh huh huh heh heh". A good natured laugh and smile, i knew i could try and get physical with him nd he wouldt get pissed off and swat me ( not that he would probably notice my most robust and physical defensive display anyway). But alas, he got the ball and turned me inside out with his agility, not even using his strength, and scored over me a few times, laughing to himself the whole time.
each time i went to try and pick him up he laughed a bit harder and more enthusiastically, until i gave up and tried to defend someone else.
The white guy, little chevup bikie man, was a hilarous teammate. Every time he would get the ball anywhere near the vicinity of goal (anywhere in our half) he would take a few bounces and charge forward, before leaping and hurling the ball at the ring, where he would be lucky to even hit the backboard, reminding me of Murray's michael jorda-like lay up technique demonstrated in yrs 8 and 9 basketball. Each attempt was accompanied by some loud profanity and a punch into his palm, followed by some hard yards defensively, as though he was really annoyed at himself for missing such an easy basket, when he clearly had never played the game before in his life.
We lost, but at least i know if i need any standover men or if anybody tries to fuck with me down at the shop, i have a 3 hour window on monday nights to employ my new teammates.
Instead I find myself wanting to get involved in various community clubs and events, such as the basketball/ping pong night on monday.
Both sports are held simultaneously at the recreation centre. The basketball basically consists of a bunch of dudes from the port and from town gathering together and creating a few teams in a first to twenty/winner stays on scenario. Full court, local old white-beard referee and even an old school steel scoreboard where you flip the numbers over.
Down the road from wyndham there is a prison farm, where jailbirds from the kimberley (kununurra and wyndham mainly) go to chop trees and shit like that. They used to come up to town on a monday and use the outdoor court, a gravelly mess adjacent to the new (semi) indoor court where the locals play, but the sport and rec officer decided to let the prison boys join in the monday night games, as long as things went smooth.
I went down for ping pong originally, but got interested in the basketball and started to watch. There were 3 teams plus the prison boys, who were sitting in the stands in a group looking surly. There was one good team, with some athletic skillfull players, who had employed the services of one of the prison boys, a 6 ft 6 monster who was built like and played like shaq, and they were undefeated so far. Not a one man team by any stretch, they had some killer guards as well, but this big fella stood out due to his size and standard issue prison garb, which consisted of a baggy dark green t shirt, jeans and sneakers.
I watched a few games and the other two teams rotated, but the prison boys were yet to put their hand up. The rec officer, todd, told me to hang around and just ask if i wanted a game, and theyd probably let me play. So i waited until the end of the game and went and asked the team who wer warming up if they need anyone else. "Nah not right now eh but if dis bloke fuck around or start shit we'll kick 'im out and then you can play". Not sure who he was referring to i sat back and waited for the game to start and hopefully for old mate to loose his cool and give mitchy an opening.
As i was watching, i saw a dark green shirt out the corner of my eye, and sort f ignored it at first, hoping he wasnt talking to me. Then he tapped me on the arm.
"eh bro...you wanna play?" came the shy, almost apologetic question.
shit.
"uh...yeah... sure, have you got room? i dont want to kick anyone off or nothing" came the stuttering response. Shit maybe he's in for murder.
No response, just a little thumbs up to me and one to the other prison boys, sitting together all surly in the grandstand, whom he rejoined while i sat there looking at my new teammates form afar.
Kept watching the game from behind the backboard, then decided i should get over and sit with my new team, or at least get a little closer. So i idled up to them, trying to look casual, maybe make ey contact and get a nod or a wink, but they all looked back at me pretty deadpan or not at all, except this one bloke with a big grin on his face.
There was one white boy, a short little stocky dude with jailhouse tats, a bald head, wild goatee and a few teeth missing, wearing a faded blue wife beater, light denim jeans and some trainers. He did not look at all like a basketballer and my immediate impression was that he was only there to stretch his legs and maybe his fists if someone gave him a reason. The guard who accompanied them wouldn't have reassured any participants with misgivings about taking on some convicts on a concrete basketball court, being about 5 ft 5, 60 yrs old and unarmed, looking more like a gardener than a prison guard. (if i had stopped being judgemental and thought about it rationally i would have realised that nobody would let properly dangerous criminals to serve their sentences on a prison farm in wyndham, let alone play basketball with the locals and kids on a monday night accompanied bynobody else except Don Burke, but i was a bit excited and caught up in the moment, and they did looked pretty bad ass).
As the game finished up, with the star team remaining undefeated, both us and one of the other teams stood up to challenge them. They thought they were next and so did we, but it didnt take many words from one of our lot for the other blokes to sit back down.
As we walked on court, however, we realised that we only had four players. We turned around to the bench and there were 4 other prison boys just sitting there, deadpan, grimacing back at us, no reaction to the call my team mates. "eh wally, (invented name) cmon, come play". "cmon tony, cmon, need five people or what". Nothing, just folded arms and staring straight back. I was starting to feel a bit awkward, standing in the middle of the court, looking at them, feeling pretty white. One of these guys, a lighter skinned aboriginal bloke also with the faded blue singlet (the only other seemingly priveledged one), stared back at his inmates with such ferocity i thought he was going to get up and smack someone out, and even the boys who were trying to get him to play only passed over him briefly, knowing that if he wanted to play he would, and that he didnt take kindly to pressure.
Finally a smilee broke out from the back of the stand from one of the guys, who had been the most heavily targeted of the indifferent. But he seemed keen in the end, maybe he was just shy.
So finally we had a team and were ready to take on the champions.
As the game progressed, Shaquille Oneal started to dominate, and i thought id try and defend him, because defence was definately the main thing lacking in all the local boys game. So next time the ball was in their court, i got into the key and tried to defend him, getting goal-side and putting my forearm up against his huge frame, looking up at him with a kind of stupid grin on my face. He just looked straight down at me, then cracked slowly into a huge grin and a slow ogre like chuckle puttered from his lips "uh huh huh huh heh heh". A good natured laugh and smile, i knew i could try and get physical with him nd he wouldt get pissed off and swat me ( not that he would probably notice my most robust and physical defensive display anyway). But alas, he got the ball and turned me inside out with his agility, not even using his strength, and scored over me a few times, laughing to himself the whole time.
each time i went to try and pick him up he laughed a bit harder and more enthusiastically, until i gave up and tried to defend someone else.
The white guy, little chevup bikie man, was a hilarous teammate. Every time he would get the ball anywhere near the vicinity of goal (anywhere in our half) he would take a few bounces and charge forward, before leaping and hurling the ball at the ring, where he would be lucky to even hit the backboard, reminding me of Murray's michael jorda-like lay up technique demonstrated in yrs 8 and 9 basketball. Each attempt was accompanied by some loud profanity and a punch into his palm, followed by some hard yards defensively, as though he was really annoyed at himself for missing such an easy basket, when he clearly had never played the game before in his life.
We lost, but at least i know if i need any standover men or if anybody tries to fuck with me down at the shop, i have a 3 hour window on monday nights to employ my new teammates.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
Honest John's Takeaway.
Steve Forrest, the Port Manager, came to visit today. Steve was the man that built the trailers for tom and i for the bike journey, and he has some cracking stories to tell. One of them he told me this afternoon, regarding the origins of mitchys barra bar.
Apparently the place was started by a local dude called Honest John (the coiner of the nickname apparently had his tongue firmly in his cheek when this name was conceived), who still resides in wyndham and can be heard, along with steve forrest, in an interview for abc regional radio right here.
Now honest john used to own the whole joint, which included pixies shop next door, where he used to try and sell clothes. He also spent the majority of his time stoned and pissed, so trying to run two business' would have been difficult, let alone a third illegal one of trying to flog dope from out the back of his shack. He'd grow and sell weed out the back and thus had a steady stream of oddballs coming and staying with him at various stages.
One of these apparent blow ins was a woman who was staying with him, getting on the piss and blazing away and having a good old time, when the local police raided the joint, looking for dope. But as luck would have it for john, the woman who was there with him was a federal polic officer, who flipped out her badge, overruled the local boys, and got them to bugger off back to the station so that she and john could keep raging. As told by steve forrest, more investigation pending, hopeful expansion forthcoming.
Apparently the place was started by a local dude called Honest John (the coiner of the nickname apparently had his tongue firmly in his cheek when this name was conceived), who still resides in wyndham and can be heard, along with steve forrest, in an interview for abc regional radio right here.
Now honest john used to own the whole joint, which included pixies shop next door, where he used to try and sell clothes. He also spent the majority of his time stoned and pissed, so trying to run two business' would have been difficult, let alone a third illegal one of trying to flog dope from out the back of his shack. He'd grow and sell weed out the back and thus had a steady stream of oddballs coming and staying with him at various stages.
One of these apparent blow ins was a woman who was staying with him, getting on the piss and blazing away and having a good old time, when the local police raided the joint, looking for dope. But as luck would have it for john, the woman who was there with him was a federal polic officer, who flipped out her badge, overruled the local boys, and got them to bugger off back to the station so that she and john could keep raging. As told by steve forrest, more investigation pending, hopeful expansion forthcoming.
Welcome to the croc farm
Started footy training with the local team this week, the wyndham crocs. Timmsy at the local supermarket, the only white boy in the team, told me training was tonight, a wednesday, at about 5 and i should get down and have a go. So i went home and put on my joggers, not having a boots, and headed down to train. As i drove in i noticed on the change rooms a giant painted crocodile, roaring angrily with a football tucked under its claw and the words "welcome to the croc farm" curling around it.
Only a few boys there so far. Introduced myself, some were friendly others a bit shy or stand-offish. Went for a kick as we were waiting for the coach and the ground was absolutely soaked from the recent rains. Puddles in some areas over your ankle, and not a single dry patch anywhere, even considering the fact that it had stopped raining two days ago.
As the boys trickled in and did their warm up laps, a bit of contingent was gathering down one end and having the customary pre training goal kicking. Being new, i decided i wouldnt just take pot shots but would take one for the team and get to the square and kick the ball out. There was about 6 of us in the square, trying to mark the ball without landing in the giant goalsquare mud puddle, and trying to avoid the flying mud when a ball splattered into the water.
Inevitably, i gathered the heavy sodden ball and lined up to launch one out to the fifty when i slipped on my stud-less shoes and went straight up and landed on my back in the puddle. Lying there in the mud i looked up at this grinning black face which chuckles and says "Welcome to the Croc Farm".
Only a few boys there so far. Introduced myself, some were friendly others a bit shy or stand-offish. Went for a kick as we were waiting for the coach and the ground was absolutely soaked from the recent rains. Puddles in some areas over your ankle, and not a single dry patch anywhere, even considering the fact that it had stopped raining two days ago.
As the boys trickled in and did their warm up laps, a bit of contingent was gathering down one end and having the customary pre training goal kicking. Being new, i decided i wouldnt just take pot shots but would take one for the team and get to the square and kick the ball out. There was about 6 of us in the square, trying to mark the ball without landing in the giant goalsquare mud puddle, and trying to avoid the flying mud when a ball splattered into the water.
Inevitably, i gathered the heavy sodden ball and lined up to launch one out to the fifty when i slipped on my stud-less shoes and went straight up and landed on my back in the puddle. Lying there in the mud i looked up at this grinning black face which chuckles and says "Welcome to the Croc Farm".
The emergence of mouse
The elusive mouse finally managed to emerge from the rubble in recent days. After speaking to captain rob, he told us that Gavin had passed word onto mouse that we were moving in and hence that he had to move out. This meant Gavin as well, who was also living there but had been away for months, but mouse would be a start especially considering he wasn't meant to be there at all. So the next day we headed down to the port to do some work, hoping maybe we'd be seeing some action at last, from either mouse or gavin. As we pulled in we could hear pixie muttering angrily about a padlock, the recipient of her grumbling being of course mouse. When we were close enough to decipher pixie, it became apparent that mouse had taken the liberty of using the bolt cutters that were lying just on the inside of the chain-locked gate (strange place for a set of bolt-cutters) to enter the premises. Mouse must have returned one night from a few after work beers at the club, to find, as was standard procedure, the front gate chain padlocked shut. If mouse had thought about his predicament any longer than the few seconds it took him to notice the bolt cutters, he would have remembered that there was a back entrance, a huge gate as wide as two cars that is always open and a far more direct route to the house anyway, except that it required him walking the whole 65 metre journey from the front of the shop to the back. The chain still reached with one link less so no drama really, but I moved the bolt cutters so they were no longer within reaching distance.
Once inside, still no mouse, just a couple of empty beers on the table. We then found out he was at work down at the community club, doing what i do not know, and that he wouldn't be home till later.
Next day we came down again , about 11 oclock in the morning, hoping that we'd maybe see some action finally, from gavin or mouse. As we approached we saw two figures sitting in the yard. We hoped it was maybe Gav and mouse having morning smoko after a good morning slog fixing and cleaning, but we knew better.
"gday boys" said mouse, lifting his cold beer to his lips, looking fresh with a new close cropped hair cut and a beard trim. A few emptys sitting in front of him and his mate, some scaly looking parrot with a half closed eye and a greasy grin oogling back up at us. We were introduced, but i forget his name.
No change to the environment however. Still filthy, no sign of mouse or gav having yet lifted a finger to clean the shop or the house. But he did have a haricut, which i took as a good sign.
Once inside, still no mouse, just a couple of empty beers on the table. We then found out he was at work down at the community club, doing what i do not know, and that he wouldn't be home till later.
Next day we came down again , about 11 oclock in the morning, hoping that we'd maybe see some action finally, from gavin or mouse. As we approached we saw two figures sitting in the yard. We hoped it was maybe Gav and mouse having morning smoko after a good morning slog fixing and cleaning, but we knew better.
"gday boys" said mouse, lifting his cold beer to his lips, looking fresh with a new close cropped hair cut and a beard trim. A few emptys sitting in front of him and his mate, some scaly looking parrot with a half closed eye and a greasy grin oogling back up at us. We were introduced, but i forget his name.
No change to the environment however. Still filthy, no sign of mouse or gav having yet lifted a finger to clean the shop or the house. But he did have a haricut, which i took as a good sign.
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