Monday - wow! No Itis

Came home from a weekend of work and relaxation in Sydney town. Oh Joy! an e-mail telling me a crossword puzzle I had compiled is going to be published by Australian Puzzler. For that effort, I get $50 and the hope that its readers would have a crack at my work. Still no news on my little Feelgood: "He Said She Said.

Okay! here's today's effort.; A ghost story. Allaine, make sure your huster, kids, cyber and bricks 'n mortar doggies are safe - this is sc........ary. I think :)

WALTZING MATILDA - THE TRUTH

JOLLY SWAGMAN EXPOSED

Having sang my heart out with Waltzing Matilda over the past week or so I got to thinking about the origin of the song – purists say Banjo Paterson wrote the song in 1895 and was put to music with an old Scottish air Craigielea.

Banjo just might of got it wrong – then it is a fair distance from Bathurst to Orange by foot, via Lucknow and messages have a way of getting garbled.

Here's a bedtime story for you, Oh yes. Later I'll reveal Australia's best kept secret.

It was a dark and stormy night (Dammit, I will use that sentence). The rain hammered down and the window wipers of my Toyota Camry Station Wagon worked overtime to keep the windscreen free.

I had just finished the late night radio shift and was heading home. An earlier traffic accident had closed the main highway and I was forced to drive home along Durham Creek Road.

As the wipers beat out their "tackata tackata", I was reminded of Walter Mitty and in my mind I pictured himself as a hero, saving our mayor, Councillor Ian Mann (I'd have rather it was Kathy Knowles) from the ravages of drunken, marauding Koalas, which infested Machattie Park.

But being a romantic my mind wandered and I found myself as a Confederate Captain. Holding back a battalion of Yankee infantry to save the plantation and house of Miz Honeydoll Beauregarde. (If you're from North of the MD Line - then the alternative is yours)

Cut to an Anzac Private saving his CO from a blistering Turkish attack and winning a VC, and a kiss from the Resident Redhead.

It was the figure standing by the bridge at Durham Creek, all luminous and shimmery, which brought me back to reality.

"Sensible bloke" said I to himself -" using reflectors as a traffic warning, I'll ask him if he wants a lift - anyone would on a night like this."

I pulled the vehicle over, wound down the window. "Hey mate, too bloody wet to go walking, want a lift?

"Yair mate" he replied. I opened the car door and the man got in.
I looked him up and down.

The man was dressed like what could only be described as a swagman: floppy hat, moleskins, bowyangs, and a tattered weskit. A rolled blanket was strapped to his back and hanging from it a billy can.

"Where are you off too"? I asked.

"Anywhere mate - not too many people stop for me. I've been humpin' me bluey here for nigh on a 'undred years. Anyone who meets me gets scared shitless. Ya see - I'm a ghost."

I smiled. "Eccentric old fella" I thought, "Harmless enough though."

"Ya 'ear me mate, I'm a ghost, ya s'posed ter stop this 'ere 'orseless carriage an run screamin' down the road. Aren't ya scared mate? Want me to do a couple of moans ter convince yer."

"Not necessary", I said. "Look, there's an all night servo and café a couple of klicks down the road, let's go in for a coffee, I'll shout (treat) you to a meal.


"Cawfee! That bloody foreign muck. No mate a good cuppa tea and an ' some syrup on a damper's good enough for me.

Can't take this new-fangled stuff, I've 'eard talk of 'amburgers 'an fried chicking - only 'appened since the govmint let in the bloody foreigners."

I pulled the car into the service station parking lot.

"Now mate, I'll get you a cuppa and some cake. Let's go."

"Not going' in there mate." Said the swaggie. "Jeez mate aren't ya even a bit scared?"

"Sorry mate" I replied. "I don't believe in ghosts for one thing and two I'm hungry and I'm looking forward to a good burger with the lot. So let's go."

"'Ang on a minute ya disbelievin' wacka. I am a ghost. I'm the ghost of the jolly swagman who was s'posed to 'ave dived into the billabong."

"Oh yes. C'mon mate. Banjo Patterson wrote that poem. It's now a national song- we call it Waltzing Matilda.

The swaggie groaned. "Bloody 'ell, 'e picked that up story when 'e was on the wallaby, 'e sold it to a bloody newspaper. Ya wanna 'ear the truth mate? Eighteen bloody ninety five was a mongrel of a year – I'll drum yer, mate."

"If you must," I replied now resigned to my fate.

"It ain't like the song says. Yairs I was jolly, an yairs I did camp be a billabong, an' yairs there were a coolibah tree.

But me pinchin' the jolly jumbuck, no ways mate. The jumbuck, great woolly idiot came down orright. 'E did drink at the billabong, but I did not stuff 'im inter me tucker bag. 'Ow the bloody 'ell can I stuff a full grown sheep inter a flamin bag big enough fer a hunk o' damper an' some small cuts o' mutton.

"It was the bloody squatter an' them coppers. The flamin' squatter an' them troopers came down orright, 1-2-3 in a bloody great cart. They knocked orf the jumbuck put it inter the cart an' then saw me.

"It was a no show mate, they 'ad guns an' I 'ad nuthin'. Bang an' it was curtains fer me. The mongrels tossed me in the billabong - I didn't dive in as Patterson reckons, I'm not stupid mate, nor can I swim.

So I gotta stay 'ere until I fix them bloody troopers or someone tells the real story an' mate, bein' a ghost I can't drink yer tea. Thanks fer offerin' an' mate, go and tell the real story eh?"

Then he was gone. Later I relayed the story to my own true love.

The Resident Redhead, half awoken from her sleep, murmured "Yes darling, whatever you say."

Aaah, but she wasn't there. But I still can't explain the rolled up blanket or black billy can she found in the car.

Now the secret. For years we've been wondering what was the name of the jolly swagman – well:

The name of the swagman...it was Andy.

Andy sang as he watched
Andy waited till the billy boiled..

Now some Aussiespeak:
Anzac - Australian and/or NZ soldier, derived from the WW1 acronym Australian and New Zealand Army Corps
Billabong - a creeek
Jumbuck - a sheep
Bluey - swag or backpack of blanket, change of socks etc.
On The Wallaby. Humping (as in carrying - okay:) ones Bluey - going on the lam.
Squatter - a land owner.

POV CAVEPEOPLE

Ellinora the Editor had called me into the office to chat about an assignment that she wanted me to carry out. I had hoped that it was to cover the Wimbledon Finals, but it wasn't to be.

Ellinora had received words from above – the bean counters - who thought they ran the radio station – that we needed to improve our ratings and that the magazine section of the little media empire had to increase its circulation or "heads would roll".

"I want you to take the sound crew and go and interview some troglodyte men and women, latter day Flintstone's"…a bonus dear one, you're to go to England. If you have time, yes, you may do the sightseeing bit.

She laughed at my quizzical expression.

"No dear boy, these are real people, a family from a working class environment and a family from the upper class have opted out of modern civilization, sold everything and moved into caves, to dwell as our so-called ancestors did. They live off the land, no tools, no appliances, just these folk and the land. Remember that TV series about the families that lived like pioneers in Wyoming. Well very much the same deal. Hop to it."

We cut to a cave complex, somewhere in (censored)

AL: I am some fifty miles from the nearest town in the heart of some pretty wild country, hilly, rocky and the site of what is now a dormant volcano, the ground is strewn with *pumice. Near the caves are some men and women; dressed in furs attempting to light a fire, using what I can see is flint. Children are playing leapfrog and others, hide and go-seek near a large fissure in the rocks. We'll be approaching the family now and I'm hoping that the albino dog gambolling at the caves' entrance is neither rabid nor looking for a man-sized feed. I am about to approach one of the cave dwellers now.

SOUNDS – MV: "ere wotchitt wiv that flint, yer almost 'ad me eye aht dint ya."

FV:" Cor pardon me for breevin' why doncha go get a rabbit or sumfink, I'll light the bleedin' fire orright?

MV: "'ere 'ang on a mo' 'ere comes that bloke from the radio, come to do a story.

FV " Sssh! Doncha dare menshun the "R" word. We've left orl that be'ind int we? "Allo sir, come an' join us – I'm Gallina – Gal to you an' this 'ere lump of uselessness is me 'usband,
Big Tim….we've got two kids, Flibby and Darffy…'ere Flibby, 'ow many times 'ave I told ya to stop messin' abaht wiv that bloomin'' dog. Darffy, can yer get me some more flints, there's a luv.

AL: Hello, Big Tim is it?

BIG TIM: Yerse , Use's ter be Tim the Coolman, I delivered ice for parties an' fings. A right little earner it was too. Tim the Coolman, always gits a righjt giggle from the punters' know wot I mean

AL: Indeed and what prompted you to take on this challenge and live as a caveman?

BT: Well it's like this see, a bloke from a noospaper offered me five fahsand nicker – that's quid - to do it. Wiv that money, me an the missus an' the kids can go an' see me bruvver – he's got a sheep farm in New Zealand – might stay there too. Sheep aint as wiolent as them there Drop Bears they 'ave in Orstralya, uvverwise we'd go there, know wot I mean?

AL: I do, now tell me, how do find living in an environment where there's no, no – ice, no tools, no stoves. No McDonald's or Hungry Jack's..

GAL: (interrupting): cor that nuffink, we've got furs ter keep us warm, we make 'em ourselves from the rabbits an' foxes we catch. Our Darffy's good wiv traps an' Flibby's a dab 'and and stichin' 'em togevver, not like that toffee-nosed mob up the road, couldn't catch a fly to cure a cold. Big Tim, useless as 'e is can cut a bloody good flint sharp as a bleedin' razor, can cut the 'ead orf a gnat an' not leave a scar. Cor 'ere comes trouble.

AL: The cave lady is pointing to another family walking down the path towards me.

GAL: "Wotcha yer washups, come ter borrer a leg o' rabbit? Got some fresh field mouse if yer lydyship wants a snack…an' you keep them snobby little brats o' yours outa my kid's way.

I like ter 'ave a go at 'em bloody useless the lot of 'em, they've got lots of money, why did they 'ave ter come on this caper I'd like ter know.

AL: Excuse me Gal, I'll go and talk to these people, and I'll call back again, when the fire's lit. OK.

GAL: Orright then suit yerself….'ere Tim ain't ya got that fire lit yet.

I walk over to the other family, they are dressed in furs as well, although I suspect a better cut. The family consists of an adult male and female and a young boy and girl.

AL: Good morning madam, sir, I'm covering your experiment for Australian radio and I'd like to find out how it's panning out from your side. You are:

MALE: I'm Lord Robert De Troit, my wife, the Lady Vangelina and the children, the honorable Katherine and Pichel.

KATHERINE: You may call me Kate and this monster is known as Pickles – claims to be a poet doncha know. Writes all his doggerel on the walls, would never do at home, doncha know.

PICHEL: Sister mine if you do not wish for me to have one of those fish 'n chip bounders across the way bonk you on the beanie, leave you in a permanent state of concussion, pray silence.

KATE: Mummy, daddy, tell him to stop it.

ROBERT: Children, behave, we have a guest. Now sir about why we're here. We have decided to eschew modern day life for this experiment and have the children learn to appreciate all the good things they've left behind. Dammit all I do miss a bowl of bouillabaisse a night at the theatre, a jolly rollicking ride in the motor…

VANGELINA: …and I do miss my nightly bubble bath, and having my Robert rub me down with my cream and make me so sexily[I] unguent[/I] before we don our silk pyjamas, a good nightcap and bed.

KATE: Oh mother, stop it you're embarrassing me.

PICKLES: Hush you excrescence on society, come over here and let me show you the correctway to trap a rabbit, and sister dear, how to thread a worm on a sinew so we may fish in the water lake yonder.

ROBERT: I'm actually down here to ask Timothy if he'd be kind enough to have young Darthy help me light a fire. I'm the first to admit. I'm an awful duffer. Thank heaven for young Pichel he'll help us through this all. ( Off mike) I say, Timothy old boy, d'you have a sharp flint.

I presented the story and it received good reviews. Ellinora is still fuming over my expense account. Dinner at Maxim's in Paris and the use of the London bureau's car to drive through the "Chunnel" to France. Dinner at the De Troits' was an affair to remember, so was Lady Veronica, Angelina's younger sister.

I love you dearly Madam Editor but C'est la Vie.







,

Words - How I learned. The Hard Way

Long before I fell victim to the little invisible ions which pervaded my body and turned me into a radio person, I imagined myself as an ace reporter for a big city newspaper, scooping stories and with much charisma crack news-breaking articles and deciding that my talent was too good to be wasted upon my demise – and thus I'd opt to be a cryogen. Frozen and to come back in 2157 with all my faculties.

Being a reporter, well a cadet, was not what it was cracked up to be. My boyhood dreams was to be an ace and rescue such dinkum lovelies like Brenda Starr (frilly lingerie and all) from an evil moonshine- making freebooter or any other evil being who was out to destroy the idol (perhaps idolette) of my callow years.
Not to be.

It would take years of hard grind; including tackling the dreaded shorthand before the chief of staff, fair man that he was, would even let me near a subject for an interview. The Editor was a godlike person who would condescend to come down from his ivory tower office and even a glance and a nod from him would make my day. Even when his lovely PA entered the office, I'd still tremble.

In my lunchtime reverie I would sit in the park outside the newspaper office, munching my standard fare of vegemite and cheese Invariably the noonday sun would have me nodding off and dream some more.

Luckily I had a built-in bodily clock and as the hour ended I would spring into action and hightail it back to work to cut and paste again.

Well, one particular afternoon, the editor, who was younger than I thought , and his PA – every minute of 23 years of age, came into the newsroom to talk to the senior reporters and the Chief of Staff. It was at that time, I was arranging an appointment for a senior journo.

Having said yes to the appointment. I finished the call with: "That'll be fantastic thank you for your time," and hung up.

An hour later, the editor summoned me to his office: "Go with alacrity lad," intoned the COS.


A lovely smile from the PA and I was ushered into the great man's presence.

He graciously acknowledged my presence and then asked me if I would be so kind as to reach the dictionary on the top shelf of his bookcase. Being eager, as ever, to please I did so.

"Now please find me the word, fabulous, and be as good as to read it for me.
I read the dictionary version, which explained that fabulous, was something relating to fable and legend even to absurd and exaggerated.

Next he asked me to find the word, fantastic. I gulped as I read that it was 'extravagantly fanciful, capricious, grotesque or quaint - and not wonderful.

"I know that it is inherent in you young people to often misuse words. I do not want to hear you plead 'it's common usage as an excuse'. We spend lots of money in teaching you to write well. I expect my staff to speak equally as well. Please try not to use those words again unless you really mean them, okay? You can only enhance your career that way.

Oh by the way, congratulations, your cadetship is over and we're grading you as a class D. One step up the ladder eh! Incidentally, the Chief sub sent me the last piece of copy you wrote. Not half bad. But you've overused the semi colons and thus exceeded your allowable ration. You're banned from using semi colons for a year" he said with the hint of a grin."

"That's fab, sir," I answered. The dictionary missed me by an inch.

To this day, I've only used those words in the way they were intended. The 'boss', who has since left us, did not listen to any of my radio shows - then again, Canberra and Bathurst are miles apart

I'm so glad the boss didn't get me to read Antidisestablishmentarianist. I don't have a cotton pickin' idea of what it means.

JABBERWOCKY - THE REAL STORY

Rumours abound in the Queen Of Hearts’ Palace, here in Wonderland, that the arch-foe of the citizens, The Jabberwocky, has been slain by one, a citizen of Beamish, named The Beamish Boy.
Heralds are proclaiming Calooh Callay and the happy crowds in the are shouting “ Oh Frabjous Day!
”This is all well and good. But no one seems to know or at least understand the Jabberwocky.

Jabberwocky, or Jabberwock, as his friends called him, was a simple soul. He liked nothing better than to devour maidens and callow youth and often joked about the contracts offered to him by frustrated parents, who were sick of the kids belting out Eminem or Britney Spears on their ghetto blasters. “They paid me well, for shutting up the awful noise,” Jabberwock told me in an exclusive interview, Brillig Eve, 2002.

Jabberwock’s best friend, Frumious Bandersnatch, tearfully told me that Jabberwock liked nothing better than going to Brillig with his friend, the Jujub Bird, gyre and gimble in the wabe and listen to pop band, Mimsy Borogrove or watching his favorite NBL team, the Mome Raths, outgrabe all others.

“They paid me well, for shutting up the awful noise,” Jabberwock told me in an exclusive interview, Jabberwocky once had a tryout for the Mome Raths, but just missed the cut.

This did not deter him. He continued his career as Callow Youth devourer and made enough money to buy a Tumtum tree plantation and it was here, Jabber met his untimely end.

As a young Jabberwock, the late, anti-hero was considered to be very ugly and although this did not faze him overmuch, it was being called a nerd that unbalanced his mind. This was brought out in a report from the phychology Practice of Jung Freud and McCartney.

Part of this report claimed that if he, Jabberwock, was manxome enough to whiffle through impenetrable objects, such as the Tulgey Woods to get his taunter.

It started off as any normal Brillig holiday. Jabberwocky, Bandersnatch and Jujub planned a day of gyring and gimbling in the wabe.
Jabbers’ mom had packed a panic basket of broiled blonde and cold quarterback cuts and a big flask of orange juice.
Miz Bandersnatch, the town’s dessert queen had given Bandersnatch junior, a dozen tarts, which her supplier, K. Naveov Hertz, claimed they came from an unattended windowsill at the palace.
The Jujub family had given their offspring, a generous portion of their Barry Manilow CDs and a player, for their musical enjoyment. As well as that, Mimsy Borogrove would be performing that afternoon.

In a report to police officers Tweedle-Dee and Dumm, a tearful Jujub said all was well until a voice from behind a Tumtum tree kept calling Jabber’s a nerd and wuss. “Bander and I tried to restrain him,” Jujub sobbed. “He went whiffling through the Tulgey Woods. We then saw the Beamish boy.
He was standing near the Tumtum Tree. He had a vorpal sword in hand - anyone knows that the Jabberwockies are no match for the vorpal sword. It was one, two, snicker snee and our friend was gone.” The last we saw of Jabbers was him galumphing through the Tulgey Wood, head in hand.

A Senate enquiiry is not on any agenda - yet.

In tribute, Wonderland Poet Laureate, Lew Carroll, penned this verse.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.

All mimsy were the borogroves.

And the mome rath outgrabe

©al mccartan, 2003

HI FROM ME

Hello there. Well, this is my first blog and in keeping with my sense of humor - it's time to share my scribblings with you. I'll share my romance short stories, a chapter or two of a couple of ideas for a novel, some gawsh almighty crook (that means lousy poetry). I do hope you take the time to read and comment freely.

Now! when registering my blog site, I was asked for a photo. Well guys, don't push it, let's leave it to the imagination eh! Well I do have green eyes and I'm of Anglo-Celtic (Irish) origin.

I have a lot of people to thank for helping me with my writing - too many to name here. Well, may be Maria and Linda, Pam and Joseph from WVU (The Village). They've got eyes likes hawks and can spot a missing period, comma or inactive voice from a great distance. Australia to the US is more than a day's drive.

Their help is priceless and anything I publish which they've read, is due to their editing. Thanks in advance guys. I'll be back. With a parody on Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky.

Bye for now.