Wednesday, September 29, 2010

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.


Monday, September 27, 2010

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!!


Thursday, September 23, 2010

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


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.

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 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.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

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.