Great Australian Outback Yarns, page 20
So there I was, as naked as the day I was born, a bloody bucket of hot water in one hand, banging on the door with the other, and calling out at the top of my voice, ‘Let me back inside yer packa bastards.’
And I was just halfway through taking a deep breath so that I could let forth with another spray of profanities when this woman’s voice come from just behind me. It was Mrs Allen.
‘Are you alright, Terry?’ she asked. Boy, did I shrink.
But, while we’re on about shrinking, this one’s definitely the opposite. Now, being locked out in the nick may have been one of my life’s most embarrassing moments. But I can bloody well tell you there was an even worse one awaiting me. When I was in the same shed, this old guy set up a kind of shower affair. Now, why I say ‘kind of shower’ was because it was made up from, basically, one of those bloody old petrol driven pumps with a hand pump on it, which was fitted into a 44-gallon drum.
So if you wanted a shower, what you did, in effect, was that you stood in some water in the bath and cranked up the bloody hand pump until the petrol pump got going. And when she did, away she went, sucking the water through an inch and a quarter diameter hose, up out of the bath, and forcing it out of the shower head. Now it may sound complicated but it was quite effective because, once the petrol pump got going, by jeez, there was a hell of a strong pressure-flow coming out of the shower head.
Anyhow, one day I’m having a shower so I pumped the bloody hell out of this thing and I’d just got the petrol pump up to a full head of steam.
‘Jeez,’ I called out to Sandy, one of my shearing mates, ‘you should came and have a look at this thing. It’s a bloody powerful shower.’
Now, I must’ve been washing my hair or something because when Sandy came in I had my eyes closed. And this bastard, this Sandy, well, he pulled the suction end of the hose out of the bath. Now, he later swore black and blue that he didn’t mean it and, if so, it was just a fluke shot but the next thing, ‘Slap!’ My donger gets sucked right up inside this bloody hose. Hell it was painful.
‘Christ almighty,’ Sandy said. ‘Yer right. She’s a powerful pump alright.’
And it was. I could vouch for that because there was my penis, stuck up the hose, good and proper. And what’s more, the bloody thing wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard I tried.
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ I threatened, ‘bloody well do something.’
‘What?’ Sandy asked, scratching his head.
So he wandered off to get the other fellers to come in and see if they could sort the problem out. I tell you, there’s not much bloody privacy in these shearing sheds, that’s for sure. So there I was, stuck in the shower with my donger stuck up this length of hose and all these blokes gathered around, all smirking and shaking their heads from side to side and making all the wisecracks under the sun.
Anyway, after a lot of toing-and-froing one of the blokes said, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the only thing I can think of doing is to chop the bloody hose off to release the vacuum.’
So off he went in search of something to cut the hose. Now you might be able to imagine my reaction when this bloke returned, carrying a butcher’s cleaver. Then to make me more nervous, the big discussion then began as to where they should sever the bloody hose, giving due consideration as to the amount of suck the pump had at the time of contact and the stretchability of the penis.
‘And we don’t wanta waste any of that hose neither,’ some smart alec said. ‘It’s precious stuff, that plastic.’
Now, I’m not that well endowed but when they agreed to cut the hose just a few inches from the butt of my donger, my instant reaction was, ‘Bullshit, yer will.’ There was no way I was going to take any chances so I made bloody sure that the bastards cut the hose a good foot and a half from where it was stuck. And even then I was quaking at the knees as the cleaver came down.
Launceston, Tas
(Outback Towns and Pubs)
Now this story isn’t about a little outback town or nothing but it’s a little ripper about a pub in Launceston, Tasmania. The Apple Isle. Nice place, Launceston, lots of gardens and stuff. Pretty old. Don’t know its history. Wouldn’t have a clue. It’s in the Tamar Valley, that’s all I know, and I even stand corrected on that. I’m no historian. I’m a worker. An ex-shearer.
So it’s the Commercial Hotel, Launceston. Early 60s. And this story’s as true as I stand here, holding up the bar. See, the Commercial was one of the most popular pubs in Tassie because it was totally a union pub. Totally. If you were in the AWU, you were in. Not a worry. Even if you hadn’t booked a room, it didn’t matter. They got you in somehow. Then in the morning, if you could manage it, you fronted up to this huge kitchen-hall for breakfast and, boy, didn’t you get a real good feed: bacon, eggs, sausages, chops, the lot. Whatever you wanted. But what the pub was really known for was their beautiful Sunday lunch. Just about everyone who had a union ticket would turn up for this feed, this Sunday lunch. Oh, they’d come for miles.
Okay, so we go into Launceston, a few workmates and me, and we go down to the Commercial. It’s a huge, big, rambling hotel. Typically old style. Two-storey. We gets there on the dot of ten o’clock and the place’s already packed. Absolutely packed. Lunch’s about one. But, it doesn’t matter, we show our ticket and we’re in. Any rate, we have a few beers then we get stuck into this lunch. Absolutely beautiful. Everything you’d ever want and more. Then after lunch a mate and me decide to go for a bit of a poke around. Me mate’s name’s Ted. So we wander up to one of the rooms and, lo and behold, there’s about twenty blokes playing poker, which, mind you, was a highly illegal activity. Any rate, I’m a bit buggered, right. A bit wobbly on the perch. So I just finds myself a spare bed and hits the sack. When I wake up I need some fresh air. ‘I’m goin’ fer a walk,’ I say.
‘I’ll come with yer,’ says Ted.
So that’s what we do and somehow we end up down near Victoria Bridge. I don’t know how we got there but we did. We hung around there for a while then we start thinking that we’d better go back to the Commercial and see what our workmates are up to. Now, by the letter of the law, pubs had to close up pretty early in Tassie, especially on a Sunday. So, by the time we get back, everything’s sort of dead. The blinds are drawn and the place looks like it’s closed down.
‘Shit, what are we gonna do?’
Then we hears this racket coming from inside the pub.
‘There’s somethin’ goin’ on in there,’ Ted says. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘Okay.’ So we find the fire escape and we’re up that. At the top of the fire escape there’s this open window. In we go, straight into someone’s room. ‘Sorry, mate,’ we say to the feller who’s trying to get some kip. Through his room we go and down the old winding staircase, into the bar. And that’s where everyone is. They’re still drinking and carrying on.
So we settle back into the swing of things. After a while we see that the barman’s falling off his perch. The barman’s the owner. He’s the publican. We give him a bit of a shake. ‘How’s about another beer?’
‘Go fer it,’ he says. ‘I’ve had it.’ Then he locked the till up, stuck the takings in the safe, and called out, ‘Go fer yer lives, fellers. It’s now an honour system.’ Then off to bed he staggered.
Any rate, someone took over the bar and everybody just put their money down and that was that, we kicked on. Now, buggered if I know what time it was but, see, there’s this bloke there with a big, red, woollen, fluffy sort of jumper on and he was starting to make a bit of a stir of things. A big, loud sort of feller he was. A real performer.
‘Who’s that?’ I said to someone.
‘Oh,’ the feller said, ‘he’s the Birdman.’
And by geez he was a strange character. No exaggeration, this feller, the Birdman, he was at least twenty-four stone. Fair dinkum. Any rate, I just thought they called him the Birdman because of his fluffy jumper. But no, the feller next to me reckoned they called him the Birdman because, when he got good and pissed, he somehow got it into his head that he could fly.
‘Pull the other one,’ I said.
‘Just you wait,’ the feller said.
Any rate, just inside the entrance of the Commercial, there was this big, ornate staircase that winded up two tiers, to the residential part of the pub. So, Ted and me mate, we order a couple of jugs and we go and sit over with the rest of our mob. I’d say there would’ve been about a dozen of us at this wooden table. And it just happened that this table was right near the entrance, which also just happened to be under the landing of this staircase. So we’re at this table and suddenly the Birdman calls out for everyone to shut up. Then, when all’s quiet, he announces, ‘I’m goin’ fer a fly.’
Everyone gives him a bit of a cheer. ‘Go fer it Birdman!’ they started shouting. Apparently he was well known in Tassie and so they start a slow hand-clap to egg him on. So the Birdman got off his bar stool and he wobbled over to the staircase and proceeded to stagger up the two flights of stairs, right up to the top. Then, when the Birdman attempted to climb up on to the balustrade, high up, right up above our table, our boss grabs the remaining couple of jugs of beer from off our table and he calls out, ‘Stand back, fellers!’ Which we did, and pretty quick, too. So there’s the Birdman, away up on this balustrade, two floors up. Everyone’s slow-clapping him.
‘I’m gonna fly,’ he calls out. The clapping stops. There’s dead silence. Everyone’s eyes are on him. The Birdman balances himself on the balustrade. He fluffs up his big red jumper, gives a bit of a squawk, then he dives out into the air, arms spread wide like they’re supposed to be wings. He manages a flap or two but it doesn’t work. Down he comes, belly first, right smack-bang through the centre of our table. Splintered it.
Christ almighty, he didn’t move a muscle. ‘He’s dead,’ someone called out.
Then comes a ruffle of his woollen jumper. A shake of his head. He staggers to his feet. He’s got this funny sort of grin on his dial. He looks straight at our boss, who’s standing there, still hanging onto the two jugs of beer.
‘What do yer reckon about that, then?’ the Birdman slurred.
‘Well, mate,’ our boss replied, ‘I must say that I was very impressed with the take-off but I reckon yer’d better brush up a bit on yer landings.’
Stiff
(Bush Funeral Stories)
Frank Partington here again. As you’d know I’ve been a contributor to a number of your books. Now, with regard to bush funerals and things, I did hear a story one time about a funeral director and his new female assistant. This reportedly happened in a town in the southern Riverina region of New South Wales, down near the Victorian border. Whether it’s true or not is up for conjecture, so I’ll tell it to you as it was more or less told to me.
The story goes that a funeral director was getting on a bit and he was looking forward to retiring from the industry within the next two or three years. The thing was, none of his family were keen on taking over the business. Now, as it happened, the best mate of the funeral director had a young daughter who was at a bit of a loss as to what to do with her life. I’d say she would’ve been just out of high school, so I’m guessing she might’ve been around sixteen, or eighteen at the most. So she was still quite young and quite naïve to adult life. Anyhow, the two fellers were having a chat about it in the pub one night and the funeral director offered to take on this young woman to see how she’d go. You know, as a sort of try-out apprenticeship type thing.
In due course the young female assistant arrived at the funeral director’s for her first day’s work. To make an impression upon her, the funeral director had gone the whole hog. This was back in the days when they wore top hats and tails and so forth, and he’d even gone to great lengths to sort out a complete set of funeral garb for her. So on her first morning, there they were, both of them dressed to the nines and the funeral director’s taking the young woman through the basic procedure of what to do at a funeral service. As he was doing so, he noted how the young assistant seemed more intent on admiring herself in the mirror, dressed as she was in her new set of clothing, than she was on listening to him. Anyhow, the telephone rang.
‘Could you please answer that?’ asked the funeral director. ‘I’m afraid that that’s also going to be part of your duties.’
‘Okay,’ she said, and off she went. After she’d taken the call, the young woman came back to the funeral director. ‘We’ve been asked to pick up a male stiff.’
The funeral director was then quick to explain that, within the industry, the newly departed were never to be called a ‘stiff’, but a ‘cadaver’ or ‘deceased person’.
‘Oh, okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll try and remember.’ Then she went back to admiring herself in the mirror.
‘So,’ the funeral director interrupted, ‘did you take down the address?’
‘Yes,’ she said and she told him that it was 123 Whatever-the-name-of-the-street-was.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, let’s go.’ Then to impress the young woman even further, the funeral director decided to bend the rules a bit and, instead of taking his usual ‘body removal vehicle’ — an old Holden station wagon — he said, ‘Let’s take the hearse.’
So off they went. During the short drive to pick up this deceased male person, the funeral director explained to the young woman how the most important thing in situations like this is to maintain the utmost respectful silence for all those concerned. ‘Oh, okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll try and remember.’
When they arrived at the address, it was one of those duplex places which meant that there was a 123A and a 123B. The funeral director then asked the young woman, ‘Do you remember if they said 123A or 123B?’
‘It reckon it might’ve been 123A, I think, maybe,’ she replied, not sounding too confident.
So the funeral director backed the hearse up into the drive of 123A ready for an efficient transfer of the deceased male person. When they got to the door, the funeral director gave a gentle knock. ‘Is anybody home?’ he announced himself in a soft tone.
At hearing no answer, he pushed the door slightly and, quite to his surprise he found that it was unlocked. ‘Yes,’ he said, now assured, ‘this must be the right address.’ Then he added, with a nod to his assistant, ‘Remember to maintain a respectful silence at all times.’
‘Okay,’ whispered the young woman, ‘I’ll try and remember.’
So in they went. ‘Hello? Hello? Is anyone at home?’ the funeral director called in hushed ones. But no answer. Down the hallway, into the kitchen, a quick look out into the backyard but no; no one could be seen. So back into the house they came, with the young assistant following behind the funeral director. ‘You check in the second bedroom. I’ll check in the main one,’ said the funeral director.
So they did. The funeral director went into the main bedroom while the young woman went into the second bedroom. And that’s when the funeral director heard an audible muffled gasp. When he ran into the second bedroom, there was his new assistant, standing goggle-eyed, looking at the white sheet that was neatly covering the deceased male person. But it wasn’t so much the discovery of the body that had shocked the young woman — bulging up from under the sheet was a huge erection. The funeral director was quick to put his finger to his lips as a sign for her to remain silent. Then he quietly explained that, if a man died while he had an erection, as the blood congealed, the erection would be held in its stiff position.
‘I’ll show you what we do,’ whispered the funeral director, and he had a quick look around. At seeing the man’s slippers beside the bed, he picked one of them up, cocked his arm back, and, to disperse the blood, he gave the undercover stiffened penis an almighty slap.
THWACK!
Like lightning a stark naked man leapt out from under the sheet. ‘What the fucking hell are you two doing here?’
As the funeral director backpedalled into his ashen-faced female assistant, she whispered to him, ‘Oops, perhaps I got my 123A’s mixed up with my 123B’s.’
Stan the Shearer
(Outback Police Stories)
I got this story from a bloke who knew a bloke who knew a bloke’s missus who was the sister-in-law of the copper in question; a certain Sergeant Ignatius Kelly. It’s a good old-fashioned Aussie yarn, told in the true tradition. So do you want to hear it?
Okay then, here goes. Back a good while ago now, Sergeant Kelly did a stint out at Broken Hill, in the far west of New South Wales. Anyhow, this Sergeant Kelly had apparently once told the story of Stan the shearer.
Stan the shearer apparently spent a lot of time working around the West Darling area. And after he got his pay cheque at the completion of each round of sheds, Stan would call his motley pack of dogs into the back of his old Chevy buckboard and he’d head for Broken Hill and, in particular, to his favourite pub, Brady’s Southern. Now, as it happened, Brady’s Southern was located in Patton Street, right across the road from the police station.
Just about everyone knew when Stan was arriving in town because, as soon as he turned off Bonanza Street and into Patton, they’d hear his old Chevy spluttering, muttering and clanging down the road with this pack of mangy mutts in the back, barking and yapping at everything that moved and most things that didn’t.
‘Shard-up, yer bloody mongrels,’ Stan would be yelling. But the dogs never took any notice.
‘Stan’s back in town,’ would be the common remark around the neighbourhood.
Then once Stan had come to a grinding halt at the pub, he’d step out of the buckboard, hunt the dogs into a wire compound at the back of the Southern, grab his bags, then walk through the back of the pub where he’d toss them into his usual room, the drunks’ tank . . . then he’d stride into the front bar.
