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DAY 211: Get knotted

30 Mar

I’M in a shithouse mood today, so it’s a fitting time to learn now to tie murderous knots; like, not the kind of knots you learn in Brownies – unless Brown Owl’s got some explaining to do.

1. Slip knot
For: A gallows
Also: Knitting

Slip knot. I don’t have any actual rope – what kind of a freak do you think I am?


2. Honda knot
For: Lassoing
Also: That’s it, really

Honda knot.


3. Double constrictor knot
For: Tying hogs
Also: Improvised cable tie

Double constrictor. That remote's not going anywhere.

 

Keeper? I dunno. Found lots of ‘knot games’ websites for Scouts. Might leave them to it.

DAY 208: Dancing like Jackie Wilson

27 Mar

OLD Dog has thrown a For No Good Reason party (guests: two), complete with streamers, lights and grub. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to learn to dance like Jackie Wilson; and it would definitely be churlish not to.

Mr Excitement, as Jackie was known, was roundly pilfered by James Brown, Michael Jackson and Prince, thanks to his portfolio of smooth moves. We study intently his firecracking performance on the never-aired Jerry Lee Lewis Show. Although by now deep into middle age, he whups the arse of ‘Higher and Higher’ in a red leather jumpsuit. Ow!

Jackie’s signature moves.

* The glide. Skating backwards across the floor, this preceded Jacko’s moonwalking.

* Tight spins. Led by a pointing finger, this was later picked up by James Brown and the Jackson Five.

* Feinting and jabbing. A former street thug, Jackie became a keen boxer while in juvie.

* Weaving. By all accounts, Jackie was often bladdered on stage.

* Double thigh tremble. Delivered while holding out arms in supplication.

* Dropping to knees. Like James Brown without the theatrics.

* Splits. Jackie could somersault backwards and land in the splits. While attempting the same in 1975 on stage, he cracked his head and fell into a nine-year coma. That’s an advanced move, though.

Rolling back the rug, we slide around in our socks, attempting all the above. One move in particular confounds us: Jackie drops to his knees, then slides back up, perfectly symmetrically, using his feet – bloody impossible unless you’re a short, stocky fella with powerful thighs.

Keeper? Yes. Aired the moves again in the bush the next night, to a bit of Bo Diddley. If in doubt, just resort to some hand claps.

DAY 206: Driving with my knees

25 Mar

IT’S common country practice to drive with your knees, thus freeing up your hands for beverages and trying to something young and modern on the FM dial, so today I give it a go.

It’s not as easy as it looks. My right foot’s working the pedals while my left knee is steering, but I frequently end up veering towards one verge or ’nother – I can’t quite believe passenger Old Dog once pulled off an entire trip, knees-only. (A trip made out of principal, not necessity.)

“Driving with one wheel on the verge is good practice,” Old Dog soothes. “You need to know that you can carve down the verge if you have to, so that you don’t panic when another car approaches. ‘Carve, not scoop’ is my saying. It hasn’t caught on, though.”

Keeper? I’ll keep the carving, but knees are for bending, I reckon. I don’t plan on holding a can of Cougar anytime soon anyway.

DAY 205: Trying two new watery things

24 Mar

Next time I'll wear clothes. Sorry.

“YOU swim like you’re trying to fight your way out of a paper bag,” observes Old Dog critically. After some coaching and a few fluffed attempts, I body surf my first wave. Yeah, I know – but as I’ve said before (and heaven forbid I slap on the Slough-wegian stuff too thick), I’m from England, and we don’t do that. We ‘paddle’ (that’s wading), and even then only when drunk or delirious and in long johns.

As I towel off, I notice Old Dog casually skimming flat stones across the surf, each skipping around six times. I’ve no excuses for not having done that – English beaches are generally great piles of shingles, after all. I give it a go and manage to bounce a couple once. GROUSE. As you say.

Watery things still to do: Water ski, jet ski, scuba dive, be a decky on a crayfish boat, lounge around on a nudist beach, swim to an island.

Strange Tasmanian marine life.

Keeper? Yes.

DAY 196: Learning how to reduce a traffic fine

15 Mar


I TAKE notes as the bush bandit sweet-talks and shimmies his way down from a $290, three-point fine to a $110, token one-point tiddler.

This’ll come in handy when VicRoads pulls its finger out and gives me my licence.

How to do it.

  1. Slide out of car and amiably walk towards police officer, so that he is not looking down at you in your seat.
  2. Position yourself between police officer and flapping side mirror, and greet him with a cordial g’day. Throw in as quickly as is casually possible that you are a local, even if you have interstate plates and a Frenchman’s moustache.
  3. Throw hands up (whether literally or figuratively – both work) and admit to the crime/s. Do not offer an excuse if there is not one.
  4. Never admit unroadworthiness, even when both staring at a large crack in the windshield where the rego sticker should be.
  5. Scratch head.
  6. Spin incidental yarn about this being your hometown, and that you’re returning here to look for work – a little bit Steinbeck, a little bit Hemingway, a little bit Twain.
  7. Agree contritely to whatever is being said – it’s a fair cop, etc. Let him have his pound of flesh.

Bingo. From being done for speeding, running a stop sign and being unroadworthy, we’ve haggled the cop down to just having no rego sticker – and it’s all down to body language and that curious bush protocol.

Keeper? Not sure I can pull this off. Talking of which… anyone seen The Bad Lieutenant?

DAY 191: Learning poetry for those after dinner gatherings

10 Mar

The fact that Philip Larkin looks like Eric Morecambe is a bonus in my book.

BACK in the olden days, everyone could recite poetry after the dessert course, but now it’s a lost art.

A quick poll of Facebook associates reveals one person can recite Wilf Owen’s ‘Dulce Et Decorum Est’ while the rest are caught embarrassingly short at soirees that call for poetic expression.

Personally, I know half a ‘Jabberwocky’ and that’s about it.

I like poems written in layman’s language with a grudging sentimental humour, like those of Philip Larkin and self-proclaimed hack John Betjeman; no metaphysical meanderings or frothy layers of meaning here.

I won’t lie, though – I’ve only heard of Betjeman because he wrote a slightly self-righteous ode to my hometown, which is the one I’m going to memorise, while Larkin’s ‘This Be The Verse’ (“They fuck you up, your mum and dad / They may not mean to but they do…”) people don’t so much recite as hold up as evidence.

Doesn’t matter. It’s made me go out and read more by them.

Oh no. Pixie Geldof has a Larkin tattoo.

Betjeman’s ‘Slough’ (pronounced “ow!”) was written back in 1937, when I would have thought the town was comparatively lovely. Having said I like layman’s language, I’m particularly fond of the Biblical-style line “Swarm over, Death!”. NB: Funnily enough, bombs did fall on Slough a couple of years later, during World War II. Not enough, though.

Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn’t fit for humans now,
There isn’t grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It’s not their fault that they are mad,
They’ve tasted Hell.

It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren’t look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Keeper? You know it now, but you can still test me – I did learn it.

DAY 189: How to wave on country roads

8 Mar

SEEING as I’m about to get my licence, I need to learn the etiquette of country roads. According to the bush pirate, there are three forms of steering wheel wave that are loaded with meaning.

 1. G’day. Slight raise of two fingers. Done with right hand, as left hand is changing gears.

 2. G’day! Lifting of hand, two fingers together. Usually with left hand, as right hand is holding the wheel.

3. G’DAY! Hand raised towards other driver, all fingers splayed as if trying to make self as large as possible.

NB: These are understood in Victoria and Tasmania; let me know if there are regional variants.

Keeper? Yes. Will practise down the shops till I get my wheels.

DAY 187: She’s a beauty

6 Mar

Class.

TODAY I went around Emmo’s to work on getting my ute roadworthy – the handsome beast’s been parked in his drive since the previous owner wheezed it around. It’s the first time I’ve ever worked on a vehicle – hell, I only put petrol in one for the first time six months ago.

The ‘To Replace’ list ends up being quite large, which is what you get if you consult a whizbang mechanic I suppose. I’m sure we can narrow it down to one or two items.

TO REPLACE

Mirrors

Door trim clips

Driver’s window regulator

Door hinges

Driver’s door cup

Fuck, let’s just replace the whole door

Glove box liner (really?) and lid latch receiver

Festoon bulb

Cigarette lighter

Ashtray

Bench seat cover

Mud flaps x 2

Tyres x 2 (tread is “in line with the tread wear indicator”)

Driver’s side quarter window moulding

Tonneau hooks

Shock absorbers x 4

Left quarter front side mould under fuel filter

Snib button LHS

Inhibitor switch

Foam mattress

Left hand bench seat side something or other

Water squirter motor

Air filter

Radiator cap

So you see, a lot of these are aesthetic issues which we might just brush under the carpet. Which no doubt needs replacing too. All we get to do today is swap the indicator and reverse lights around – some genius stuck the wrong bulbs in the wrong holes – and bicker about whether the cabin looks “gay” or not. I’ve high hopes we’ll get the old girl roadworthy next time though – and I’ve put the nitrous oxide manual at the top of the stack on Emmo’s bookshelf for inspiration.

Keeper? I’d better get at least 10 years out of her after all this.

I unscrewed all sorts of things in here, Emmo had a sigh, and I screwed them back in again. Bonza!

DAY 185: My first bogging

4 Mar

AS a wet-behind-the-ears motorist, I’m not overly keen on driving in the country, what with everyone else expertly hugging curves at gravel-spitting speeds, turning possums into roadkill, tickling sheer drops with one wheel and blowing the hats off posts – all with a dog balancing on the back.

On country roads I find I’m always wrestling Old Dog’s ute, which seems to want to drift sideways when I want to stay straight. It zigs left when other utes approach, then zags right as the hedgerows loom alarmingly. I’m not a mechanic, but he might want to get it looked at.

So off-road’s the ticket. I take us down a few tree-lined ravines to a rattling Billy Childish soundtrack. When we get down to the beach, Old Dog observes that there are other four-wheel drives around that could pull us out if we get stuck, and I chuckle to myself, knowing him to be hamming it up for my benefit. Bravo!

A tree-lined ravine.

Heading down to the surf, I skirt the waves, spraying Old Dog’s ute with refreshing salt water, and then back on to softer sand, where we grind to a halt and stall. My first bogging – ripper. I’m not quite adept enough a driver yet to unbog us, so Old Dog takes over.

How to unbog a ute:

1. Drop the clutch to almost stall the engine.

2. Try and get some traction by rocking the ute between first and reverse.

3. Curse.

4. Bounce in low gear by tapping the accelerator.

4. As soon as the wheels get some grip, fishtail your way out of the rut.

And we’re free!

Minutes later, though, we discover that the modest stream we’d crossed earlier has become a river, into which the sea is gushing resolutely. I assume we’ll just set up camp on the beach for the night and that this adventure has been ‘allowed’ for my benefit… but one look at Old Dog’s furrowed brow reminds me what happens to beaches when the tide comes in.

He goes off a-wading into the river, stamping down to see where the bed is most sturdy. It’s balls-deep, for want of a more technical term, but having selected the most likely crossing point, he jumps back in and hoons us across, with Bucket the dog hanging grimly on to the back.

Balls-deep, as it were.

Triumph. Wahoo! Etc.

Keeper? Once my ute’s roadworthy I’ll load it up with peanuts, a sleeping bag, matches and water-wings… because if I get bogged alone, today’s A-Team moment is unlikely to happen.

Bucket.

DAY 184: Pulling off a numpty

3 Mar

This isn’t me, but the level of finesse is there.

THE pheromones of fear are permeating my lycra. I’ve almost conquered my vertigo with this trapeze course, but the idea of pulling a new move gets everyone here a bit pungent.

A ‘numpty’ is a somersault dismount. I know. We’re attached to ropes so we can’t catapult off very far (I’ve already checked the instructor-bicep-width to flying-numpty ratio), but even so, I’ve never been fond of rotating in mid-air.

As I hang onto the bar atop the platform and lean into the abyss (plenty of practice at that), the instructor rattles off a string of unfathomable instructions from below. I give him a blank look and jump off. What the hell, eh?

At the moment I reach the ‘dead point’, he yells at me to tuck up my knees and let go of the bar. I really need to practise saying things like “damn” and “blast”, because I let out a loud profanity as I land on my feet. Which is great, but I didn’t somersault first because I let go of the bar too late.

“Why is it called a ‘numpty’?” Angie calls down to the instructor as I climb up the ladder again.

“Because any numpty can do it,” comes the reply.

This time when I reach the dead point, I let go on time. The instructor yanks on the ropes and I somersault with legs akimbo, letting loose a shrill “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” (hereby known as a JFC so as not to offend). I land spreadeagled on my back on the crash pad.

“Did I let go?” I ask the upside down instructor, in a moment of quaint confusion. Apparently so.

Keeper: Yeah. This will look really good if I can keep my legs together and maintain a stoic silence.

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