Baby Bianca's Baptism

Little Bianca’s baptism day was filled with joy, laughter and alcohol fuelled merriment.


I spotted the proud parents Gordon and Anna and baby Bianca make their entrance just before I spotted Moree and his good wife turn the corner from their house into Cramwell Street and walk hundred metres to St Gerald’s church.


I was surprised to see Moree as he was well under way the previous evening and his wife informed me he would still be in bed had he had his way.


The sun shone on the cross on top of St Gerald’s producing a sparkling effect.

I became all emotional and thought about the Immaculate Conception.

I thought about the three lost men on donkeys trying to find Mary only to find the pub had the No Vacancy sign out when they did.

I followed Moree in and the priest greeted him with “Good morning sir, and where do you know Gordon from?” “I drink with him at the pub.” Moree replied.

That was the end of that conversation.

We settled into the stall like seating arrangement.

I believe they are called pews.

There was a hymn book and some other literature.

Moree involuntarily shouted out something inaudible and then followed that up with “Praise the Lord.”

He was shaking and shivering one minute and sweating the next.

Clearly he was in the dry horrors.

He turned to me and said “I have to give up the piss.”

What has brought this on I enquired.

You’re current surroundings or your current physical condition.

No reply – both I imagined.

I looked around the church.

Sinners galore.

Just thinking of the sins that I know of was horrifying let alone the ones that I don’t.

The church is obviously structurally sound.

I must have been the only person in the building who has not sinned.

By now we are singing hymns or psalms or whatever they are called.

Moree can belt out a tune but in his condition and given this is not really his genre it sounds bloody awful.

He points to where we are up to in the Hymn book.

I remain silent.

I spent the whole time biting the insides of my cheeks.

Moree is now mumbling about hypocrites and he is criticising the theme of the service.

I can’t help but agree.

“If someone offers you food for no reason refuse it “says the priest.

It is time to take the children out the back for what now appears to be known as Kids Church.

It was Sunday school in my day.

The world has gone soft.

They go out the back where there is a mini playground.

In my day you had to recite the part of the bible you were taught the week before.

If you couldn’t you would get a belting.

No wonder there is so much crime these days.

I ask Moree jokingly if the psalm numbers on the wooden board are the Tattslotto numbers.

No you dickhead he replies. “That is the amount of days the church has gone without a workplace accident.”
Now it is time for the baptism.

Moree hip and shoulders me out of the stall – he needs a cigarette.

As they begin the baptism Moree questions what the priests get up to during the week.

“What do you mean” I ask.

You know what I fucking mean he says.

I would put money on it he is right.

We are back inside the church just as the baptism is finishing.

Everyone else return to their seats.

I stay put.

I decide I will watch the rest of the proceedings from the back of the church.

I am concerned about the structural integrity of the church.

The congregation is singing.

Standing up or sitting down as orchestrated by the priest.

Moree, in his confused state, is the only one standing and singing.

It is a hilarious sight.

Finally the service is over and everyone gathers outside smoking cigarettes as they do at funerals.
The plan is to move on to the Community Hall for refreshments.
Moree tells his wife that I will escort her back to their place to collect the wine and the present.

This is news to me.

Discussion ensues and Moree runs off after the wife.

Eventually we all gather at the Community Hall and pizzas arrive from across the road.

By now Moree has consumed two bottles of red and the colour is returning to his cheeks.

Jacko decides to make a speech. “I grew up around here .....” Moree heckles Jacko.

Jacko heckles Moree back.

Moree’s wife tells Moree to keep quiet during the speeches.

A tree planting ceremony then takes place in the park next to the Community Hall.

Gordon and Anna’s house is next to the park.

The tree planted hard up against the wall of the house which prompts Moree to note that the tree will lift the house up.

I go home to potter in the garden.

A quick reconnoitre of the manor about 5.30 pm reveals that the police could have helped their ‘benchmarks’ by loading drunks into those enclosed vans with the locks on the back.

I enter the Shipmakers Arms to find Moree delivering the same sermon delivered earlier in the day in the style of Garner Ted Armstrong.

Moree would make a very good evangelist.

Letters to Morey 6 - Pete

How are you going Morey?

Pete Comaine here.

Long time no see.

You would not believe it.

There I was last week in a pub in Alice Springs and in walks Wazza.

I said “Fuck me dead! It’s Wazza!

He was reeking of cheap rum and was banging on about how you gave some politician $35 and he accidently won the election so you rocked up to his election night piss up at midnight pissed out of your fucking mind and told him that all you ask for your $35 is not to get in bed with the Julia.

This bloke is apparently a simpleton and thought you meant (get in bed with Julia).

Next thing you know is you have politicians, rock musicians and terrorists seeking your advice.

Thing is Morey, I am in a bit of a bind myself.

I am fast running out of places to hide otherwise I wouldn’t be in Alice fucking Springs!

Wazza says he called into Osama Bin Laden’s cave for a chat.

Wazza reckons Osama is not a bad sort of bloke really.

He told me of this plan you and Osama have of using Nugent as a fucking training camp.

I could join you cunts in blowing things up – I like blowing things up.

Also no cunt will know where I am.

By the way is it alright if we have a photo of you, me and Osama on this fucking tractor of yours.

I will give it to Fran – she will love it!

I heard how the Americans installed a tracking device on top of the Marine Board Building and Osama had to send one of the brothers in dressed up as a plumber to fuck with it.

Wazza reckons they still can’t fix it but they might so you blokes are going to blow the fucker up along with every cunt in it.

Can we blow up Empress Towers as well?

What about that shithole Magnet Court?

And the Silos too?

I’ll be back in Tassie soon and I’ll meet you in the Pembroke for a swift one on the way to Nugent.

Pete

Letters to Morey 5 -Wazza

Hello there morey, Osama here!

This little fellow named Wazza came waltzing into the cave reeking of cheap rum and smoking the cave out with fucking cigarettes claiming he knows you and telling me a whole heap of long involved stories.

He told me how he ate the barman at the Stevedore’s Arms dinner, poured a bucket of water over the bar manager at the Doctor Syntax, would light up cigarettes in pubs to piss the management off and was liable to get naked in drinking establishments.

He reckons he wants to be a fucking martyr and blow himself up and take the Stevedore's fucking Arms up to heaven with him.

I told him of our plan to set up Nugent as a training camp, gave him the airfare and sent him on his way down there as my ear holes were fucking hurting as he didn’t shut his trap.

See you soon morey!

Lay off the piss a bit!!

Osama

Letters to Moree 4 - Osama

Hello there Brother Brian,

Osama here.

My old Nazi friend Erica tells me you are changing the political landscape over there in Australia.

I am in a bit of a bind here I tell you.

A man can’t even step outside the cave to take a piss without his dick being showered with fucking shrapnel from these fucking American infidel cunts.

The brothers need a new hiding place and somewhere to train.

Your huge grazing property at Nugent looks ideal.

We could use some cattle for target practise and then have a BBQ afterwards eh?

Old Erica tells me you have a tractor.

Could we make a video with you and me sitting on the tractor so we can taunt these infidel cunts in the fucking Pentagon and the White House?

Just imagine “Hello you cunts – Osama here with Moree” [film cuts to you waving an AK47 and yelling “Fuck you infidel cunts, me and Osama here are going to have a violent Jihad against you fucking American cunts and the Jews as well.
The Jews are fucking masters of money lending at exorbitant rates and leaders in fucking treachery and the American administration protect the fucking arseholes.”

Film cuts back to me.

“So as you can see Moree and I are not fucking about!

We will be fucking you cunts up the arse and raping your missus.

I personally will fuck that ‘Tiger Wood’s’’ missus and Moree here will fuck anything that is alive – that is why the sheep here are looking so worried”.

Camera pans across the paddock to worried sheep.

So Brian, I think with our combined talents we will be a very successful unit.

Go down in history so to speak!

I already have our first target picked out.

The fucking American cunts erected a tracking device on top of the Marine Board Building disguised as a wind turbine.

So I had to get one of the brothers to disguise himself as a plumber and throw a spanner into the works.

Young Omar here has a heavy vehicle license and is desperate to be a martyr.

He will drive a semi-trailer load of Hexamethylenetriperroxiamina and Triacetenetryperoxide straight down Argyle Street and flatten the accelerator.

No more Omar, no more Marine Board Building. no more fucking waterfront!

I will be in touch Brian

Osama

Letters to Moree 3 - Erica

Dear Brian,

Canberra is humming with talk of your political nous.

How cunning of you to persuade poor silly Willie to stay away from Mad Bob and those other morons and jump into bed with Joolea.

Then Pieter Harriet sidles up to me in the parliamentary dining room and tells me you are a smart operator [he is still bitter he was fucked him up the arse and hung him out to dry] and him and Willie are both having their photos taken with you on your tractor.

Would I be able to do the same?
I could use it for my website.

That soft cock Young Bill reckons he is going to fuck me up the arse and take over.

I run the Conservative Party in Tasmania.

Not that limp wristed commie pinko.

He would have picked up the phone and jumped into bed with the filthy fucking greenies had I not intervened.

He reckons he wants to reach out to the Tasmanian people.

What sort of homosexual is he?

What would Enoch Powell, Hitler, Margaret Thatcher or Genghis Khan think of this sort of soft cock approach?

I also have some idiot trying to get me to leave parliament just because I have 2 passports.

I need him to be taken out of the equation [so to speak].

Now Brian, I can tell you are a man who could take care of this.

I will drop into the POW and the Shippies Brian as they reckon you can handle an ale or two.
Erica

Letters to Moree 2 - Pieter Harriet

Dear Mr Morey,
I have recently spoken to Mr Allan Willie who spoke of you in such high regard I felt compelled to contact you.

Mr Willie told me of how you went to his election night function and persuaded him to back the Labor Party in the likelihood of a hung parliament.

Allan tells me that you are highly regarded in civil engineering, earthmoving and as a grazier.

I would love to come down to your farm with you and hear your opinions on a variety of issues.

You see Brian; I do not trust public servants and bureaucrats after the mess they put me in and then hung me out to dry.

Comrade Willie says you have a tractor we can sit on and have our photo taken together.

This would be much treasured by me and I could present a copy to the Prime Minister.

Please take this letter in good faith and I will be in touch next time I am in Tassie.

Andrew tells me you are a very private man but you like a drink or five and the best way to contact you is at the Ship Builders Arms or the Princess of Wales.

I will call in to these establishments.

Kind Regards

Pieter

Pieter Harriett

Letters to Moree 1 - Allan Willie

Dear Mr Moree,

It was such a pleasure having a chat with you on election night.

I only wish we could have talked more but I felt I needed to circulate amongst my supporters.

I am sure you are pleased with my recent decision to back the Labor Party in the current political situation.

I well remember you telling me to ‘Get into bed with Joolea’. Ha Ha – I think you had consumed a few ‘drinkies’.

In all seriousness though, I would be most humbled if you would allow me to seek your counsel from time to time.

You mentioned that not only are you big time in the earthmoving business but a big time grazier as well.

I would like to take you up on your offer of spending a day with you at Nugent.

I have a picture of myself as a child sitting on a tractor on top of my piano.

It would be lovely to have a picture of your good self and me on your tractor to go with it.
Hoping to see you soon Brian!

PS: I am sure your donation of $35 got us over the line what?

Kind Regards

Allan Willie.

Ada Point Railway

It was decided to go on an excursion to The Ada Point Railway.

I think it was Laura and Simon's idea.

Anyway as ideas go it was a doozy and that is for sure.

We were to gather outside The Young Pretender Hotel at 7am on Sunday morning and board a small bus to take us on the 113 km journey south to the Loon River where the railway is situated.

As I walked from my joint to the pub I passed The Magical Mystery Curry House [where the Indian cricketers eat when in Hobart] and recalled staggering out of there the previous evening.

I also recalled it was my birthday.

I couldn't care less.

I was as sick as a parrott and was in dire need of beer.

I was greeted with howls of derisive abuse.

We told you last night to get a carton.

"Fucked if I remember" I said "Can't we get beer at the railway?"

"It is out in the middle of fucking nowhere" says Susan, hands on hips.

It was decided to try and find some place open on the way.

Brycey hands me a long neck which was very compassionate of him.

Laura asks me do I remember knocking on her door at 11.30 to tell her what a good curry it was.
I decided to change the subject.

"Did the Saints get up?" I said.

Every one seems to think so.

We board the bus.

I rememer thinking "This is going to be a long day - how right I was.

I do not recall much about the journey except stopping at Eastport and asking the owner of the local store/servo/pub if I could get a carton of beer.

He shouldn't really as it is out of hours but "I will anyway".

I tell him he is one of god's little angels.

I reboard the bus with a carton of Fosters' cans.

Lesley says she would like one as she is a bit thirsty.

I pass her one and position the carton so it is not disturbed too much.

Lesley spits out the first mouthful.

"Fuck" she says - several times.

She looks at the label.

It is 4 years out of date.

Cowboy laughs uncontrollably.

Cowboy still likes to laugh about it 5 years later.

I open a can.

It tasted foul.

"It's crook alright" I said.

But it is my birthday and it is beer so I will fucking drink it anyway.

We arrive at our destination.

We board the train, or to be more correct we board the passenger carriages which are built on bogie flat wagons built in the 1890's, being some of the earliest bogie wagons in Australia.

We are all looking pensively at each other.

Something does not feel right - but what?

Also on the train [a 1940's war time Malcolm Moore Loco] are a middle age couple from Sydney.

The plan is we travel the 7km journey to pictureque Bottomless Hole and Edgar's Beach where we alight and have a BBQ.

The couple from Sydney will return along the 7km track to the station and head straight for the airport.

The locomotive will then return to Bottomless Hole, collect us and take us back to our bus.

As the locomotive pulls out of the station somewhat abrubtly we nearly all fall over.

The driver is a lovely bloke who the lady that owns the place employed because he helped her clean the place up a bit.

Whether he is an actual train driver is another matter.

The weather is good considering it is July and we get chatting with the couple from Sydney.

It turns out he worked on NSW Railways all his life and in his retirement travels around the country trying out train lines like this one.

The track is a 2 foot gauge line which was constructed in 1922 and has the distinction of being the most southerly railway in Australia.

Dense bushland is hard up aginst the track either side.

Today is the first day of operation since it was done up after closing many years before.

The government had put money into it as it was heritage listed and men in suits from the government had come down from the city and ticked the Ada Point Railway off as being railworthy.

We had travelled about 5km along the winding track when ther was a loud banging noise coming from the locomotive.

Steam was pouring from it as well and it gradually came to a halt.

The driver was reassuring.

'There can't be much wrong" he said.

"Men in suits from the city said it is AOK on Friday."

"I think we are fucked and I am hungry" remarks Big Matt.

All the men gather around the loco like they know about this sort of thing.

Cowboy puts his 2 bobs worth in.

The women are complaining.

This surprises no one.

Then the driver starts belting the loco with the handle of a screwdriver like a maniac.

The man from NSW Railways explains this is pointless.

"This Loco has had the dick" he tells the driver.

"It should never have left the station". "It is ROOT-ED, ROOT-ED!"

"And just look at these sleepers, they are not fit for use"

"I can't wait to tell the boys back home about this one.

Me, Young Mat, Brycey and Big Matt discuss the possibility the men in suits drove down here, had a cigarette signed the paperwork and and returned to the smoke.

It was decided the driver and the NSW couple would walk the 5km back to the station so they could make their flight and the driver would return with a 'rescue loco'.

We would walk the 2km to Bottomless Hole carrying Esky's of meat, Esky's of Beer, Esky's of ice. cartons of beer and casks of cardboard chardy along the 2 foot guage track.

Eventually we get there.

Everone is buggered.

The jeans I had bought for my birthday are rooted from the grease on the tracks.

We decide we have no control over the situation so might as well go and have a BBQ and get pissed.

It was one of those 'If you don't laugh you will cry' scenarios and everone was laughing.

Al decides to get his clobber off and go for a swim.

It is July.

The water was freezing.

"Well that was refreshing" says Al.

Everybody shakes their heads.

[I saw Al just a few weeks ago - he seemed to think he was Dame Edna Everidge].

He was wandering around in Lauderdale with a dress, wig, glass of champers the works.

I was just coming to the realisation we would be spending the night there when Ange bowls up to me and says "If they think I am walking all the way back they have got another fucking thing coming.

They will have to send a fucking bus out to get us".

"How will they get a fucking bus along a fucking 2 foot train track I ask her".

The good humour was beginning to wear off.

Just then Bec spotted the rescue loco shunting the broken one heading towards the turning circle.

There was much merriment, cheering, relief.

The driver lifted his cap to us as he went into the turning circle [too fast] and derailed the rescue loco.

Me and Brycey could not stand up from the drink and from laughing.

An hour later we had somehow manged to get the rescue loco back on the track and the driver reversed it the 7km back to the station with all of us in the carriage.

That is all of us except cowboy who had decided to lay on top of the carriage like he was in some sort of western.

The woman who owned the place was terribly upset and apologetic.

She tried to give us our money back but we refused.

None of us had ever had a better day.

The Battle for 21 Wellington Crescent Tannery Point

The time had arrived.

5.30pm at the community Hall.

Public meeting to discuss the merits of a building that has already been approved by the council 8-3.

This means little to the Tannery Point Cove Community Assocation Inc [TPCCAI].

The TPCCAI have a history of halting any development in the area.

A Coffee Bean maker fled the district because of them.

Discuusion around a proposed walkway along the area's shoreline will probably still be going on next century.

The convenor of the meeting Ken Toskings says he has invited the developer.

The developer has not been invited [an old trick but a good one].

The developer Mr Rightbody, a colurful character and well known on the manor, gets wind of this and turns up anyway.

It is 5.40pm and people are still filing in.

There are more people than chairs.

The TPCCAI clearly thought the meeting was to rubber stamp their views and misread the mood of the manor this time.

Whitehead the heart surgeon tells me he won't be here long as he has to get around to the trumpeters to put his footy tipping in.

Barry Brunton, an old womaniser is busy going in and out of the store-room to get more chairs for 'the ladies'.

Then there is a shock announcement.

The convenor is an apology!

No reason given.

He has appointed Paddy Snowball as chair.

Paddy is furious and says so.

He kicks off the show by introducing one of the appellants, a limp wristed chap with a beard and glasses.

Clearly from the mainland.

He has diagrams [if you have no ability to argue you use diagrams] which show the architect put a spin on the proposal.

He goes on about views of the church steeple being impeded?, the streetscape being ruined? [A builder there agrees about the streetscape - first builder I have heard that cares abut streetscape].

He says the building will block the view down Kelly St.

"Bullshit" shouts Peatlow from the crowd.

The bearded chap doesn't miss a beat and swaps Kelly St for Jackman & MacToss the bakery.

Whitehead the heart surgeon decides to leave [to put his tips in] but does not go quietly.

"Bugger this for a joke.

I have better things to do" he bellows and storms out.

Seconds later he sneaks back in and retrieves his groceries from under his seat.

The developer states his case.

The council have approved it so what is all the fuss about.

The room is stacked with the anti development brigade by about 85% to 10% with 5% there for the entertainment.

A woman who has lived on the manor for only 3 years but 'knows about these things' talks for 5 minutes mostly about herself but also states she is against the development.

She is treated to great cheering and applause.

Peatlow raises to his feet and requests to address the meeting.

The chair grudgingly obliges. [He looks like he wants to go to bed].

Peatlow has written several books on the district and has been out to lunch.

He talks mostly about himself but mounts a good pro developer argument as well.

He is not allowed to finish a sentence however.

He is howled down to the point where he starts to head back to his seat.

I surprise myself by standing up and shouting "Point of order Chair.

The speaker has not been shown the decency of being heard properly and you have made no attempt to correct that.

You allowed the previous speaker to waffle for 5 minutes about nothing".

I am supported by a few of the developers friends and Peatlow returns to further his argument.

The chair points his finger at me and says "and you have anything more to say you can come up here and say it".

"Fuck off" I mutter under my breath.

After he is howled downed once again he leaves the stage saying "My book is on sale in the foyer." he declares.

The chair decides to close the meeting - might as well, nothing has been achieved.

At least the police were not called this time.

I left the hall and retreated to the pub across the road.

The Bishop, Moree, Bryan and his dog, Merv and Bazza are all keen to know what happened.

I tell them the hall is 20 metres away and there was nothing stopping them attending.

They say there is no beer available at the hall and they were relying on me to find out what happened and any the meeting time clashed with the happy hour.

Moree has a band-aid on his head.

No need to ask why - he has hit his head on the steering wheel driving home drunk from work again.

About 4 days later the local rag 'The Voice' runs a story saying the meeting was well attended and was 'very positive'.

They did not attend the meeting.

Instead they rang Paddy Snowball and asked him what happened [par for the course for this publication].

"Bullshit" I said to myself as I read the story.

The Little Tramp

There seems to be a lot of Asians in here ...

The day started out as normal. The venue was The Young Pretender hotel.

Publican Irish Tom was pensive.

He was hoping we would decide to eat elsewhere as "they are more trouble than they are worth".

Bryan was there, quiet Phil had put in one of his occasional appearances.

Moree was 'down the farm' still trying to come to terms with being knocked back for the $5,000 drought relief package he had fraudulently applied for.

The Bishop strolled in looking dishevelled and longing to be back in 1970 when all football was played on Saturdays, there were no tape recorders in police interviews and pubs were pubs where you stood at the bar and drank, not laying about on a sofa.

Primrose the ex bank manager arrived looking concerned as usual.

He spent so many years perfecting that "ooh i don't know about this" look on his face when customers asked for a loan it is permanently stuck on.

Irish Tom announced that if we entertaining any notions of eating here we could forget it.

Bryan suggests he has heard good reports about a Vietnamese cafeteria off the Sandy Bay Road. I could eat the crutch out of a rag doll and suggest that will do.

Bryan orders a traveller.

We head off.

Bryan's dog comes along with us.

The dog has his head out the sunroof as we pass the old Syntax.

He is a smart dog and is always on the lookout for danger so he can alert Bryan.

He is also good for spotting car park spaces and barks loudly at Bryan his head pointing to the Coles car park indicating that is the only place to park.

We all alight and head to the restaurant while Bryan tells the dog that he has been looking at a place called Wynyard on the Internet and "we might move there'.

Bryan would bring the dog in but the Health laws won't allow it and as Primrose points out it might not be a good idea to take a dog into an Asian restaurant.

Then the trouble starts.

There is a pretty little thing taking orders but her command of English is not the best.

She seems to think we are after take aways.

Primrose mutters something about 'illegal immigrants'.

I hold up 5 fingers and point toward the tables.

The penny drops.

The food arrives quickly which is good but before I know it I am being showered with rice.

The others are shaking so violently from alcohol withdrawal they could light up the National Electricity Grid.

They are missing their mouth's altogether on occasions.

Primrose observes that 'there seems to be a lot of Asians in here".

The Bishop points out that is not surprising.

Quiet Phil remarks that 'Hop Sing' has done a good job.

I have finished and head outside to shake off all the rice.

I pay the young lass and she appears to ask me a question.

I have no idea what she says so i just say "Yes, Yes put your money on the Saints - they will win tonight.

We head back and Bryan drops us off at The Young Pretender while he and the dog adjourn to the dog beach.

Bryan has purchased some Apr es Ski boots from Kathmandu for the dog beach.

My shoes are inappropriate for the dog beach.

Moree is perched up at the bar.

He has hit his head on the steering wheel again driving home drunk from the farm and is looking the worse for wear but is smiling.

He has malt whiskey in front of him.

The Bishop reminds every one of the time Moree cut his head by falling over drunk in the church taking a short cut to his place from The Trumpeters Arms.

Moree claims there are Chinese spys dropping information into Labor Party electorate offices to be collated and sent back to Peking.

The ALP is in cahoots with the Chinese Government he says.

He asks me can I get him some Viagra.

I tell him no.

I tell him I would worry he would have a heart attack anyway.

He says he just wants it so he doesn't piss on his boots.

Someone says they have heard that Wazza is back in town.

Everyone looks concerned.

Irish Tom pours himself a Guinness and puts his head in his hands.

"Jeez I hope not!" he says.

The Trumpeters Arms

It was a Monday night at Trumpies and the usual suspects were in attendance.
They had all consumed a fair bit at the weekend and just surviving the day coupled with several ales had put them all in a jovial state of mind.
Lindsay had just been informed he would not get anymore to drink and he then loaded the fireplace and placed a round log on top.

Being an architect Lindsay had joined several straws together to form one straw a metre and a half in length.

John had slipped behind the bar and removed the top off a bottle of red and Lindsay was consuming it through his makeshift straw.

The Round log had slipped off the top of the fireplace and was happily burning away on the carpet.

Everyone was so interested in Lindsay's little trick with the straws nobody noticed until they couldn't see the bloke next to them for smoke.

Moree was quick to react however and picked up the lit log at either end while The Bishop held open the front door.

Moree raced out through the door and rolled it down Trumpeter Street.

By the time it careered into Merv's fence it was doing approximately 60KM an hour.

The man from the insurance company says he thought he had seen everything until this.

Moree is telling everyone he has saved the pub from burning down.

Moree is a known pryromaniac and often stares at the fire burning for 4 hours without blinking.

All this on the same day The Bishop had discovered a female ancestor had been transported from Limerick - 15 years for arson.

It is all too much for The Bishop.

He orders the house red.

Lindsay has set up a police cordon like a crime scene with toilet paper.

He has all the paper in the Gents and has cleaned the Ladies out as well.

He has a notebook and is interviewing suspects as he calls them.

Given he started the fire in the first place he is clearly in a state of confusion.

It is a good thing the Landlord, Gordo is still recovering in hospital from a heart attack.

Gordo had in the state election given free beer to both major political parties to try and get them to abolish Land Tax.

He had also played the violin on the radio, television and even the local rag that nobody reads claiming he will have to lay off staff.

They rattled a tin but that got pinched by some greenies to buy patchouli oil.

All this to no avail

I was there the day Gordo had his heart attack.

I remember it well.

The postie burst in the door and threw down the mail.

Gordo slowly opened the electricity bill.

He went a funny colour, poured himself a beer and came and sat next to me.

The extra floor on the pub looks good but Gordo had not counted on the electricity it uses, especially, the lift that tourists keep getting stuck in.

Gordo started shaking, beer went all over the place and Gordo hit the floor, hard. He is a big man and it made a lot of noise.

I yelled out to Stephanie behind the jump "Look out there are Llamas!"

She said "what".

I said "I mean ring the ambulance - Gordo is croaking it over here".

As the ambulance drove off I went round and poured myself a jug.

The Little Tramp.

Gordo

The Point 1

Saturday Lunch at the Cascades.

It is like walking into 1976.

Nobody has any shopper dockets - Oh well!

Morey didn't stop complaining all the way there as he had a hangover.

Travelled up in Bryan's car [well his dog's car].

Bryan just drives it as the dog has not got a drivers license which is a wonder as he is a 'very smart dog'.

The Bishop just arrives at 1.55 and is not sure what he wants.

'Real Estate' Joe has just rang his order through.

The staff are irritated as the cook wants to knock off.

No pub in Hobart wants to put up with this shit.

Morey backs a horse at 66/1 by accident and claims he has a system.

The food arrives and the bullshit starts. 'Real Estate' Joe has just a 'proper little dive' in West Hobart for 340K.

He wonders if people have rocks in their head.

Morey claims Rudd is nationalising the mining industry.

'Real Estate Joe' agrees and says that Rudd is a proper so and so as is Obama for that matter.

He says Bartlett as not as bad as he once thought except those glasses are a proper mistake.

The Bishop makes bad jokes about Peter Garrett [how can we sleep when our batts are burning?] etc.

Morey claims he is going to the State Cinema to watch a film with Michael Caine in it as he is not politically correct [Morey that is].

No one else wants to go.

Morey tries to sell his idea saying "you can drink wine there".

Still no one buys into it.

Morey has now changed his mind about going to the cinema and claims he will get blind drunk instead.

Me and The Bishop head back to the Point.

We go via the dog beach.

Sure enough Bryan's dog's car is parked there.