From Annandale and Avalon to Anarchy

BOZ....ONE IN A BILLION

2011-08-03T09:19:00.048+10:00

Boris Fuller (Boz) 2004 - 1/08/2011

Cats are spoilt self centred egotists who only do what they do whenever they feel like doing it. All the love and affection that emanates from them is wholly for their own gratification. A canine bends over backwards to please his or her male and female companions and after only basic training will obey requests and commands from them, where as a feline will either completely ignore you, or say,
"E-Mail me, I'm busy."

Back in the 1950's and into the 60's I was blessed to be the master of what was the smartest dog I have ever known, the legendary Tojo. During the 70's there was the devoted labrador Casey. For most of my life I have always been a lover of animals and since marrying my good wife Gabi during 1972 pussy cats have taken over as the favoured pet. Throughout the years there have been more than several furry felines who were part of our family and were loved, despite their tendency to be quite self centred most of the time.

However, during January 2008 we saved from certain death a black and white bitza tom cat and adopted him as a member of the family. It did not take Gabi and I long to realise he was unlike any other cat and behaved in a manner that would or could not be regarded as typical or normal for an average feline.

Flea ridden, undernourished with cat flu and a broken leg.

He would have been born towards the end of 2004 and Gabi and I assumed he must have been a kiddies Xmas present. Cats are only cute kittens for a relatively short period of time and even before he reached his first birthday he was cast out onto the streets to fend for himself.
When he was around 10 months old he was confronted by our fluffy golden boy Fritz who objected to him eying off our tan and white neutered female Jink. It was a standoff that ended with no fisticuffs, but lots of name calling. When Fritz, who was always a troublemaker, was given to a couple several houses away and we purchased Dinah to keep Jink company, our street urchin began regular visits to keep in touch with both girls. It became obvious that all he desired was company and the girls appeared to more than just tolerate him.

For almost three years his visits became quite regular and any other tom that made an appearance had the living tripe belted out of him. Most of his days were spent hanging out with and sleeping with the girls and during the evenings he was out and about defending his territory. In the latter half of 2007 Gabi began feeding him and named him Boris. She set up a soft bed for him in my workshop and he began to sleep there more often than not. He still would not allow Gabi or me to approach him as he simply did not trust anyone, God only knows what he had been subjected to during those three lonely years.

His one true love. The beautiful goddess Jink.

Still are little unsure, but adapting to the domestic life.

The summer of 07-08 was a stinker. During January 2008 the temperature was in the 40's and Boris the tom had been snoozing under the shadeclothed arbour in our backyard. The heat had got to him, he left his chair and flopped onto the concrete that was so hot you could fry an egg on it. He was panting and crying for relief and for the first time he approached Gabi and I wanting to be picked up. I still believe he was only minutes away from certain death. Gabi picked him up and carried him into the house where the Air-Con and some water and milk revived him within a very short time. We began feeding him on the back landing with the door open and after only two days he entered the house to check everything out. Although this was his first excursion inside, he found the two kitty litter trays in the laundry and made a deposit in one of them without spilling one grain of litter onto the floor. He decided everything was to his liking and fell asleep at Gabi's feet before moving in permanently. He awoke right on teatime and joined the girls in the laundry for dinner. Our two females outwardly appeared to accept him as a family member.

As for Boris, he fell head over heels in love with his goddess Jink.
The only hiccup in our relationship with him was when we took him to the Vet for a complete checkup and had him nicked and popped, so to speak. When we picked him up after the dirty deed had been done, the look on his face said it all,
"What the f... have you done to me?"
After two days of non stop sleeping, all was forgiven and he was ready and rearing to commence his new found life of luxury.

All those years of hard knocks had hardened him, he stank to high heaven, his cheeks were ticket punched with bite and scratch marks, his fur felt like steel wool, his breath was horrendous and he had no idea what playing was. Every now and then Jink would give his face a few love taps then run sideways away from him, hoping he would chase her, but at first he did not understand, but after noticing our young Dinah behaving like a demented whirling dervish while playing with Jink and/or her toys, memories of his childhood must have been recalled. Within two months of being spoilt rotten, he had regained his self respect and he transformed himself into a spotlessly clean, sweet smelling and extremely well groomed gentleman. For the first time since infancy he remembered that there was more to life than fighting and he began to behave almost like a kitten........Ah! at last, Nirvana.

At times one could be forgiven for thinking he was a dog, as quite often when told to do something, he obviously understood and would do it immediately.......very un-catlike. I am convinced he realised how fortunate he was to be rescued from his hard and lonely former life and how much he was loved by Gabi and I and in appreciation at every opportunity, he returned that love with no strings attached while at the same time never failing to make us laugh out loud at his antics.

Boris attached himself to Gabi and followed her everywhere like a drover's dog, as for me, he still was not convinced. As you can see this did not last for too long and for the first time in my life I had a cat who had grown to adore me and who I was able to bond with. He was the first cat to love me as much as he loved Gabi.

Boris could not believe his luck when his goddess would snuggle up with him for a nap.

Like most cats he quickly learnt how to pose, so as to look his cutest.

"Mum's up, quick, all spread out before she gets back."

It's all go.
"We're busy doing nothing, working the whole day through,
Trying to find lots of things not to do."

The end result. Complete and utter contentment.
"I'm busy going nowhere, isn't it just a crime,
I'd like to be unhappy but,
I never do have the time."

For just under 4 years we were overjoyed with his presence. Never in our wildest dreams did we ever imagine a common moggie could affect us the way he did. Maybe it was because of the hard life during those early years, maybe it was the way he appeared to be all the time grateful for everything, or it could have been the way he adapted to the comforts of domestic life when adopted. Whatever it was, Gabi and I saw to it that,what turned out to be his last 4 years, were all he ever could have imagined. All he ever wanted was to be part of a family and to be loved.

His wish came true, he found his loving family, complete with two spoilt females and for the first time in his life, a place of safety, where he ended up being spoilt rotten. Despite this, not once did he ever take a single solitary thing for granted, he was grateful for every little thing that came his way and we loved him for it and he returned that love with compound interest. There was nothing insincere or patronising about his affection for Gabi and I, or his two girlfriends, he idolised us all. He would hardly ever cease talking to the two of us in squeaks and chirrups and quite often would sing love songs to Jinkie. The average cat simply does not behave in this manner and this is what made him so unique, loving and special.

Sunday evening he was playing with his toys and swinging on his cat scratcher, showing off as usual, life was pretty good. At bedtime Gabi was joined by all three moggies and when I arose at 5:30 am there they were all snuggled up together....what a life. Along with the two girls he was fed his breakfast by Gabi at 5:45 am Monday 1st. August. He entered the living room at 6:00am, gave me a rub and meowed a greeting, commenced to take up his position in front of the gas heater, then suddenly collapsed onto the rug and died instantly. He was only 2 months or so short of his 7th birthday.

What caused this to happen? Who knows, at least he went quickly in an instant,with no trauma preceding the tragedy, or knowledge of what was about to transpire.

He's gone and as I type the tears are streaming down my cheeks and although they will eventually cease, the memories of him will never be forgotten.

Thank you Boz, it was a delight and indeed an honour to have known you for the all too short period of your life and to be held in such high esteem by you.

God bless you little mate, you were truly one in a billion.

Pogo's World Tour of Avalon

2011-01-12T23:28:00.051+11:00

Throughout the years Scottish comedian Billy Connolly has appeared in many first class and top rating travelogues and documentaries. He has taken his viewers around the globe and has shown what a wonderful and sometimes wacky world we live in.

In his World Tour of Scotland he included what he regarded as a highlight and important part of his colorful and busy life, that involved visiting many of the worlds nations as a comedian and travel guide. This highlight, that he was able to recall with remarkable clarity, involved horizontal folk dancing, or putting it simply, was when he lost his innocence with a local lassie.

If my memory is correct, I think it took at least 3 one hour programs before he finally reached the exact spot where he hit the jackpot and when doing so, although extremely excited, he was also disappointed that the original landmarks were no longer present. However it seemed to him that the actual site should be declared heritage listed.

Whilst not contributing as much to my fellow man as the highly talented Mr. Connolly has done and although not leading such an eventful life as he has been blessed with leading, nevertheless I had my moments when life became more than just something special. Please, do not for a moment think that what follows, involves gratuitous sex and the like, because it simply doesn't, but back in late 1960 or possibly early 1961, a fairly shy and highly inexperienced 17 year old male virgin who had been rejected, suddenly and unexpectedly experienced the highlight of his life.

I may not have the ability to entertain large or small audiences, but I have been able to retain a strong and accurate memory of what took place all those years ago and I can assure you that I regard the significance and importance of what transpired just as highly as Billy Connolly did with his teenage experience.

Surveying the beach and surf from the club's upper deck, I noticed a blonde girl who I had never seen before with some of the local girls. After making inquiries I was told she was out of my class and to simply avoid her as she would eat me for breakfast. I was later informed by one of the younger members that she was the daughter of a local millionaire and wouldn't have anything to do with the likes of me.
Around 11 am. I returned to shore on my surf ski and was informed by young Denise that there was someone who was dying to meet me. Much to my surprise it was my mystery girl, whose name I am ashamed to admit I forgot over 45 years ago. She was sun baking with several of the local fillies clad in what I recall to be a Mitchell blue colored one piece cozzie. Introductions were forthcoming and for the next 30 minutes or so this gorgeous creature and my good self rabbited on and on. It was obvious she had a low regard of the beach at Avalon and more so in regard to the surf club members. I had never met a girl like her, she frightened me as she was extremely street wise and appeared to be much, much more sophisticated and experienced than I was ever going to be. Eventually I said my goodbyes and left, visibly shakened.

Around 2pm. that afternoon I was chatting with a surf club mate in front of the clubhouse. Jim was still training for his bronze medallion and as I was passing on to him what I believed to be useful information, Denise and one of her attractive female companions arrived and struck up a conversation. It appears I had made a huge impression on my mystery girl and was invited by her to attend a party she was throwing at her house that evening. As her parents were overseas in New York, this party was expected to be something out of the ordinary. Jim showed an interest in attending, so the two of us spruced up and later on that day, we arrived at the venue around 7:30pm.

Upon arrival, our hostess greeted me with a big hug and sloppy kiss on the lips and when introduced to Jim, she shook his hand. After being introduced to many of those present and conveniently forgetting their names within seconds of the introduction, I became fascinated with the house and those within it. I had never been inside such a state of the art dwelling and the 50 or so people there were a complete cross section of society and were definitely not the class of people I felt at ease mixing with. Despite being much more sophisticated than my feral self, some of these well to do and highly educated folk saw to it that a strip poker game got underway in one of the sitting rooms. This enabled me, from time to time, to keep abreast (what a suitable and appropriate word) of the latest fashions in female underwear and lingerie........Phew!!

Jim and our hostess disappeared early in the evening and when I found them outside on the patio, it was obvious they did not want to be disturbed. I was given the brush off on at least two more occasions and soon after wards Jim insisted he had not asked for what had happened and offered to back off if I wanted him too. Even though I was more than mildly cheesed off with the situation, I outwardly put on a brave front and told Jim to go for it. I did not want to be any ones second choice. I decided to drink up all her liquor, or at least put a huge dent in her supply, whilst paying close attention to the poker game that was now in full swing......Triple Phew!!!

When the mystery girl's cat entered the room, Jim reacted by uncontrollably coughing and violently sneezing.......he was allergic to cats and their fur. Puss was thrown outside and the party goers were advised under penalty of death not to let it in again. There was however one despicable creature who, on at least 4 occasions insisted on letting it in unobserved. Poor Jimbo was forced to leave the party before 11pm. with me openly attempting to ease his sorrow......talk about hypocritical. No sooner had he departed, I started making not so subtle moves on our shattered hostess, but my presence was not appreciated and it was made clear to me that any interest in me had completely evaporated. For the following 45 minutes or so, she vanished and no one had the foggiest idea what had become of her. Some however, including myself, believed she may have been visiting Jim down at the surf club.

Strolling down a corridor chatting to two young couples, I noticed a door that was ajar off to my left. There was a light on in the room, so I pushed open the door and entered. It was a large bedroom with a huge king sized bed flanked by bedside tables with both lamps alight. Sitting upright in the middle of the bed wearing an absolutely beautiful and extremely sexy white negligee was our missing goddess reading a paperback novel. The five of us sat around the edge of the bed and began inquiring why was she in bed etc.

She made it quite clear that our presence was not appreciated and there was an immediate rush for the door, but she asked me to wait a moment. When the others had left, she told me to close the door and insisted that none of what she had said was directed at me. She apologized for her outburst and informed me that she had lost interest in the party and wanted me to hustle everyone out of the house as soon as possible. She wanted me to inform the party goers that she was ill and forced to go to bed and suggested some of her close friends should be able to assist me in emptying out the house. By 12:45am. the ragers had all gone. I re entered the bedroom to inform her of such and was congratulated and thanked by her for my efforts.

She then wanted me to be, in her words, a real darling and turn off all the house lights and make us both a mug of hot chocolate and bring them into the bedroom.
After this was accomplished, I sat on the end of the large bed and the two of us began chatting away about God only knows what, with her sitting upright in the middle of the bed. Never at any time was there the slightest hint that an invitation to stay the night was going to be forthcoming. My heart and another important part of my body sank when, around 2am. she suggested I head for the surf club for a good nights sleep. Once again I was forced to put on a brave front and attempted to make light of the situation by stating that she had used me to do her dirty work and now she was turfing me out. Her reply was that no one was being turfed out and if I was to get a good nights sleep, the surf club would be by far the best place for that. She then added that if I stayed the night, I would not be getting a single solitary wink of sleep.
Dear, sweet and innocent little thing that I was, I asked her, "What did you have in mind?" She pushed down the sheets, moved to the side of the bed, sat with her feet on the floor and patted the bottom sheet next to her side, making it crystal clear where she wanted me to be.
That aforementioned important part of me suddenly rose to the occasion almost immediately in anticipation of what was hopefully about to transpire. At the same time, I must admit I was also terrified.

From this point on, many authors would describe in vivid detail what transpired, but for me to do so could and would be perceived to be simply vain bragging and boasting. It was midnight on Sydney Harbor New Years Eve for the next few hours, with more than just fireworks exploding. I merely did what I was told and at times was inspired to be almost as creative as she was. Suffice to say I was taken to heights never before attained and the only thing that was not a part of this trip to Nirvana was sleep, who needed it?
I was on patrol that Sunday morning and I was forced to tear myself away, after she told me she would meet me on the beach between 12 noon and 1pm. Although physically exhausted, life never seemed so worth while and never had any morning felt anywhere near as exhilarating or satisfying as the one I was now experiencing as I jogged towards the beach.

On patrol that morning, Jim noticed me and inquired where had I slept that evening. I asked him,"Why do you want to know?"
He answered,"You never slept in the club or on the beach,did you?"
"No," I answered,"I spent the night somewhere else." The broad smile on my face had to be the giveaway.
"Tell me you didn't Pogo," he almost sobbed. "Tell me you didn't."
"I'm afraid I did," I truthfully informed him.
"That should have been me you know," he said.
I agreed with him by saying,"I know, but you had to leave early and someone had to fill in for you." What a loyal and unselfish human being I was.
When I was asked what was she like, I could not think of adequate words to describe the effect she had on me, the only word that came to mind was, "Sensational."
As he began to wander off to commence his Bronze training he frowned and said,"You bastard Pogo, you bastard,"
I've often wondered how he would have reacted if ever he discovered who the despicable creature was who kept on letting the cat in ..........All's fair in love and war and my lips are sealed.

My dream girl and/or personal trainer never turned up that day, nor on the following weekend, but during the Sunday of the next weekend she appeared on the beach with all the local girls and we had what was a rather uneasy conversation as I was with another of the local females who that day ended up becoming my partner for the following 18 months. My girlfriend to be seemed almost shocked to learn that this exceptional stunner from the well to do side of town and I knew each other. The two of them were evidently great mates, something that I was not aware of up until this point in time. Michelle never reacted or inquired when my dream girl asked of me,"Have you fully recovered from your workout yet?" Some of the other girls present did however, with knowing looks and the odd giggle aimed in my direction. I do believe the penny may have finally dropped when she found out I had attended that party two weeks previous.

Michelle and I left the beach to begin what evolved into a relationship and as for my gorgeous dream girl in Mitchell blue, she eventually disappeared from my sight and sadly was never ever seen again, but the memories of her have remained clear and constant and even though many decades have literally flown by, I am completely and utterly convinced these exceptional memories will never fade.

If only I could remember her bloody name.

PAINTINGS BY GABI FULLER

2011-01-09T21:30:00.071+11:00

Circe the Sorceress who made captive the Greek hero Odysseus on his voyage home from the sacking of Ilion (Troy), is a work currently underway for one of Gabi's clients.

Artist at work in her studio.

The Red Cap. After Frederick Sandys. Highly Commended.

Not that many years ago I eventually got around to asking Gabi what she wanted to be in regard to her painting. She simply replied that she would like to become a good artist. What follows is a small selection of her work, that I believe confirms she has indeed achieved that goal.

Since moving to our present location in Blackalls Park, she has had at her disposal a first rate studio, complete with Aircon and this has been responsible for what was once only a hobby, to become an extremely important part of her life. In actual fact it has become a way of life.

She has been successful at many of the local and regional art exhibitions and generally finishes consistently in the top 5 to 10 percent place getters.

Her favorite paintings and exhibitions are those which promote the work of many of the past masters and other gifted artists from here and overseas. Although she would more than likely not admit to it, she is a romantic when it comes to painting and derives great pleasure and satisfaction reproducing the works of her favorite Pre-Raphaelite artists. One of the better run exhibitions is the Fabulous Fakes held each year at the Diggers Club at the Entrance and Gabi has more than made a name for herself at this Competition.

Peoples Prize at the Fab Fakes, The Entrance.

Throughout the previous several years Gabi has been extremely consistent producing top quality efforts that have gained the plaudits of the competition judges, staff and the viewing public.
She has deservedly earned 2 Highly Commendeds, 1 Commended, The Hangers Prize, The Peoples Prize and an Encouragement Award from one of the local Galleries. On one of the opening nights when leaving, we forgot to cast our vote for the Peoples Prize and discovered later on that Gabi was pipped by one vote.

Studio and Workshop at Blackalls

Gabi's Studio.

The big board.

This will be required for two of Gabi's commissions that will be over 130 cm long.

'Lamia.' After John Watehouse. Highly Commended.

'Lady Agnew of Locknaw.' After John Singer Sargent. Peoples prize.

'La Petite Fille.' After Bouguereau.

Sarah Jane Fuller.

Tart Fairy No. 1

Tart Fairy No. 2. Move over Tinker Bell

Goth Fairy.

Renae Lea Fuller meets Elmo.

'Candytuft Fairy.' After Cicely M. Barker. Gabi's first commission

'Madonna and Child.' After Marianne P. Stokes. Hangers prize & Encouragement Award.

'Soul of a Rose.' After John Waterhouse. Commended.

Gabi loves Pussy Cats.

I told you........She loves Pussies.

Well, there you go. When she sets her mind to it Gabi is capable of anything. These are only a small selection of her work, but are typical of what she loves to do. Quite a few of her paintings are now taking pride of place in various homes and the odd one has been presented as a gift to some of our relloes who have nothing but admiration for the talent that Gabi possesses.

It is pleasing to note that some of our cousins and nieces etc. have demonstrated that they too have been gifted and blessed with talent, at not just painting, but sculpting as well. Caitlin has produced beautiful pieces of work that demonstrate her undoubted talent, while the twins Zoe and Jessica are leaning towards painting and their overworked mum Shauna was considering a return to art school. Some of the photographs taken by Sarah more than indicate an artistic gift, while Margo works full time at home creating advertising and ticket writing masterpieces professionally. It's good to know that long after Gabi and I have gone toes up, that other members of our family will carry on the tradition of creating something skillful and full of beauty for others to admire.

VIEWS FROM A WINDOW

2011-01-08T20:02:00.035+11:00

Obviously my highly talented better half Gabi had very little to do one day and decided to take a handful of shots through our casement windows. One can only assume the caffeine in the coffee she's been consuming lately was responsible for this unexpected flowing of her creative juices..............Any wonder, take a butchers at her coffee mug.

View from the computer room

The back gate through the main bedroom window.

Not so much through the window, but from it.

Laundry door.

Third bedroom window, looking north west.

Pam's front steps and Col's rumpus room.

Kitchen window, looking north east.

Living room window, looking due north.

Not exactly magnificent vistas and panoramas on offer, but at least it's home sweet home. My younger memories are of inner city smog with views of factories belching smoke and the sounds of both heavy and light industry all around. Being under the Mascot fly path didn't help much either and even though back then it was never a major problem at the time, I know where I would prefer to be today.

NOW THAT'S A FLATHEAD!!

2010-01-10T12:49:00.011+11:00

This is what I have been spending a considerable amount of time chasing all over Lake Macquarie. Haven't caught one this big yet, but I can be be a pretty stubborn bastard. In all honesty though, if ever I did land one like this beauty, I would more than likely release it as it would be a female capable of producing thousands of more little lizards throughout the lake during its remaining lifetime.

As mentioned below, I have just sold the boat to someone who I feel sure will put it to better use than me. As soon as my legs improve I am certain that something a wee bit smaller will be purchased and the never ending search for a decent feed will continue.

The Tinnie (I've just flogged it......Jan. 13th.)

The Merewether Baths

As close to the surf as I dare to go

Gone are the days when one could scream across the face of a Dee Why Point barrel on ones malibu, or a left hander at North Avalon. Even my body surfing days appear to be behind me as the blood has way too many obstacles in my tired and aching legs to find its way through. At least twice a week Gabi and I drive to the Merewether Baths, which takes around 25 minutes and spend around an hour or so swimming and wading in the brisk ocean water, then leave for home at 7pm or close to it and arrive home before 7:30 pm. We both prefer the salt water than the chlorinated pools that are much nearer to home.

What is comforting however is the fact that the missus and I are indeed living in Paradise and I suppose more importantly simply living. Not having to contend with the horrendous Sydney traffic is most certainly a bonus and blessing. Everything we required and desired in Sydney is available where we are now and our standard of living has vastly improved. I am so pleased that my late parents made the right decision to sell up and move to Wangi as their last several years were in many ways, the best in their lives, as they both kept on saying, almost ad nauseum. They too were convinced that they were indeed living in Paradise.

You only live once and I most certainly have done that. The brakes are now on and speeding through life has turned into a slow crawl. The good and the bad years are all in the past, thankfully most of them were good. Regrets remain to haunt ones conscience regarding some of the stupid,almost insane acts committed all those years ago, but thankfully memories of the odd worthwhile contribution to my fellow man enables one to achieve peace and satisfaction with what is left of ones life.

Just found out that a former surf club captain is still riding a malibu at age 70+, bloody hell it makes me feel old and decrepit.....Come to think of it, I AM old and decrepit. Both my parents have passed on leaving a large gap in both my life and Gabi's, but life must go on and watching the twinnies Sarah and Renae growing up makes that life worthwhile.

It did not seem the same celebrating the Festive season without the folks and immediate family this year, but, at least it was quiet and uneventful. The best part was stumbling across several of my former friends from the Avalon club who are still SLSA proficient and who are showing me up by still being able to be embraced by the sacred surf......bloody show offs. Queensland's gain and I suppose Avalon's loss.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. My only contribution is at the occasional special event frying the onions on the boat shed barbie and pointing out to surf club management that tea cakes and coffee after the AGM are a bit rich. As I made known at the last meeting I attended,

"What no beer? Oh my God! Things have really changed since I was here last." Sigh!!!

2009-07-29T10:30:00.064+10:00

DOUGLAS GORDON WELLS

A tribute to an absent friend

He was born and christened Douglas Gordon Wells, but to all of us he was simply known as Kegs......or sometimes Guts......occasionally Doberman and quite often as The Fat Man. He was a wharf labourer, but preferred to be called a Cargo'ologist.

Kegs was not your typical iconic bronzed Aussie surf lifesaver, six foot two inches tall, tanned nut brown complexion and a taut well defined body that bullets would bounce off. On the contrary, some unkind people were known to say that if you shoved a greased stick up his bum and spun him around, he would resemble a large oversize globe of the world.

If anyone in the club had a secret they were too embarrassed to reveal openly, all they had to do was tell Kegs and it would no longer be a secret, the whole club would know. He was known to enjoy the odd ice cold beer on the odd occasion, usually 17 schooners every third day at one sitting. He also had a nasty habit of becoming quite aggressive after downing quantities of amber liquid capable of sinking the QE2 in under an hour. Whenever Kegs began laughing and snorting in a manner that only he could, it was a wise move to give him a wide berth. His snorting laughter sounded like a cud chewing Bactrian camel attempting to clear the phlegm from its throat by blowing it out its arsehole. Whenever he started using his weather balloon sized stomach to bump people backwards, it was time to make oneself scarce......and fast.

One of Kegs fingers had been amputated just below the joint and this became the terror of the women and girls who attended club functions and the Sunday arvo drink sessions known as QY's. Many a female after giving out a loud squeak, was seen to rise and pop up suddenly like a jack in a box, then direct a torrent of abuse at you know who. Kegs never seemed to be offended and simply went into his camel phlegm clearing impersonation. The girls refused to have anything whatsoever to do with him and regarded him as a disgusting predator. He seemed to regard this as understandable and totally acceptable and once again never seemed to take offence.

I recall quite vividly the first time I took my more than attractive fiance Gabi to the beach and club house. She never packed a change of clothing other than a micro mini length beach skirt and a pair of briefs. After the days surfing and sunbaking we adjourned to the QY's to get wet on the inside as well. Gabi had showered and slipped on the extremely short skirt over the tight fitting pair of paisley patterned polyester briefs.......Ah! Memories. She was seated on on a small round stool at the bar chatting with the staff, when eagle eyed Kegs zeroed in on her multi coloured posterior.

"Well I'll be f....d, look at that," he cried, through a mouth almost dribbling with saliva and immediately launched himself towards the bar, his evil eyes glinting whilst sucking his probing stubby.

"Oh shit," I exclaimed and flew over to warn Gabi of the impending assault about to be launched upon her smooth, tight and well rounded polyestered butt. Too late. I arrived behind the bar just in time to hear her give out a loud squeak and to see her height momentarily increase several inches. Kegs waited for the abuse he was certain would follow, but became puzzled by Gabi's attitude and demeaner. "Oh you must be Kegs," she said ever so sweetly, "Trevor's told me all about you and your little pinkie winkie." She then added, "Come on big boy, buy me a beer and let's go have a chat."

To this day I have no idea what they were rabbiting on about, but Kegs couldn't believe his luck. For at least the next hour or so the two of them were constantly laughing and joking, whilst ensuring that more space was becoming available in the beer fridge.

Around two hours after Gabi's surprised squeak, Kegs pulled me aside and asked me where in Heaven's name had I met her. I informed him that Gabi and I had met at work and after only a few short months made the commitment to get knotted, or should I say tie the knot. He was then forthcoming with some advice, "Whatever you do Pogo, don't lose her, she's one in a million, fantastic personality and a f....ng good sort to boot." Seeing how that was over 37 years ago and I am still using her to correct my many spelling mistakes, I suppose I must have deemed that advice to be worthwhile.

For the oversize lump that he was, Kegs had what could be referred to as a rather weak stomach. Whenever there was a barbecue at the rear of the clubhouse, he would always attempt to barge his way to the front of the queue and grab the first steak, chop or sausage. He got his comeuppance when a strategically placed dog turd sandwich was pilfered, bitten into, then regurgitated all over the barbecue hot plate.

A similar event took place one evening when at least two kilos of witchetty grubs were on the menu. The bulk of these creatures were thrown onto the hot plate while some of the live ones were placed on a sandwich uncooked. You guessed it, after trampling everyone down in the queue, Kegs arrived at the prime position up front and grabbed the first sandwich.....Guess which one?

Once again the hose was required to remove the multi coloured liquid laugh from the food preparation area.

When one of the surf clubs senior members sadly passed away, his remains were to be taken out to sea in the Avalon surf boat and deposited in the surf directly off the clubhouse. Kegs was invited to be one of the crew members and was honoured to be selected. The urn containing the ashes was held aloft by Brian Sproule the sweep, whilst the rowers held the oars upright. As the ashes were being committed to the sea, a sudden gust of wind blew them in the direction of crew member Kegs. It would be fair to say that not one grain of ash missed him. One of the boat crew comedians commented that Kegs resembled a fat Al Jolson and insisted he sing 'Mammy.' When Kegs realised what had enveloped him a massive technicolour yawn was forthcoming. When the boat returned to shore the crew were ankle deep in what resembled a mixed vegie pack floating in snot. One of the shore based Honour Guard noticed the foul smelling green, yellow and orange coloured lumpy slush and threw up immediately. Kegs witnessed this and could not prevent himself from having another one in sympathy. The breeze happened to be blowing on shore, so there were not too many who hung around any longer than they had to.

On a more than disgusting note, one of our well known senior mischief makers would entertain those present at many of the club's bucks nights by demonstrating how more than two dozen copper pennies could fit inside his foreskin. At the end of the performance, the pennies would spray all over the floor and on one occasion when a witness to this unique occurence picked up a coin off the floor and dropped it in Keg's beer.......' Kerplonk!' Those present were forced to promptly scatter in all directions to avoid being covered from head to toe with the colorful contents of his well rounded stomach. Ahh! what a refined, cultured lot we all were in those days.

Many of Kegs close personal friends would be able to tell many tall tales about their dubious adventures with him. The end result would be a novel greater than 'War and Peace.' However there was another side to Dougie Wells.

Kegs loved body surfing and every Sunday morning he would join the hung over clubbies off the rocks at the southern end of the beach. The rock bottom underneath ensured that the waves kept breaking consistently in the same area. Every now and then a loud shout would be given as a warning and everyone would start swimming frantically out the back to avoid the big sets that Huey would send in unexpectedly to keep us on our toes.

Kegs could body surf with the best of them and would be seen screaming down the front of many waves in excess of 8 feet. He took me under his wing and was responsible for me learning the ropes so to speak. Up until this period in time, body surfing to me was standing in waist deep water and pushing forward on a broken wave no more than 3 feet high. Everything I learned about body surfing I owe to him. He suggested I try using a hand board and after doing so I've never been without one. While on patrol with him, he saw to it that the first aid knowledge obtained during Bronze Medallion training remained fresh and not forgotten.

When it came to competition, Kegs was almost unbeatable at Pillow Fighting. He took over from Allan Granquist (Pogo Senior) and became a living legend. He even featured in the classic Bruce Brown surfing movie 'The Endless Summer.' Keg's secret at Pillow Fighting was to wind the pillow into a tight ball and strike his opponent with the ball of the hand. Some competitors would spin around the pole twice before landing unconscious onto the sand.

During the 1960's whenever there was any work needed to be done in or around the clubhouse, many members would suddenly go missing in action and reappear after the work was completed. It always appeared to be left to the same dozen or so members to get the work done. Kegs was always one of them. He would pitch in and take on just about anything that required attention. Please note that I said just about anything.

On one clean up day he entered the mens toilet and saw me on my hands and knees cleaning the urinal. He cried out, "Jesus Pogo, how the f'..k can you do that?" He burped then retched and proceeded to cover my spotlessly clean floor with snotty mixed vegies. On the many other clean up days he attended, he was only permitted to enter the toilet during a call of nature and even then only under strict supervision.

Back then the most difficult of all trophies to win was the Patrol Proficiency Pennant. It was later renamed the Patrol Efficiency Pennant. To be awarded this prize required a member to complete all his rostered patrols throughout the season. One was also required not to be even one minute late when signing on. On one occasion I became one of two members to win this award. The other member was Douglas Gordon Wells, but for him it was not a one off occurrence as it was for yours truly. Kegs never had a season go by without winning this award. The year I won mine turned out to be the pennants final year, but this did not mean Keg's perfect run would end. His patrol attendance remained at 100% up until he opted for Active Reserve membership many years later.

Doug's serious side never arose in general conversation, nor did he brag about his many achievements. Most of the time he would be the butt of many over the top practical jokes, but I can assure you he gave as good as he got.

I believe it was in 1990 Doug suffered a massive stroke that was responsible for him being confined in a wheel chair for the following 3 years. He sadly passed away during 1993 aged 64 and was sorely missed by his many mates in and out of the surf club.

Throughout his life he was a hard worker, but oh boy, he made up for that by playing just as hard.

If ever he runs into those cheeky Philadelphia Cream Cheese eating angels, they better be sitting down with their backs firmly pressed up against the wall.

Hmmm! .............I wonder if angels squeak?

A Way of Life.

2008-11-30T13:00:00.023+11:00

Groundswell.

A series of photos, all taken from the Web, that fully explain the infatuation one has for the sun, the sand and the surf. Sadly the years have taken their toll on my ageing rotund body, leaving only memories and wishful thinking. The one and only ability that remains is to sink the odd ice cold ale or lager after a hard day, that today means simply getting out of bed and typing tripe on this stupid computer.

Undoubtably the greatest beverage ever invented and/or created by man or beast. A considerable quantity was consumed throughout the 1960's and 70's. Beer was an essential ingredient that played an important role throughout the whole of the Surf Lifesaving movement. It was consumed in large quantities by all and sundry as it was a dinkum Aussie's drink of choice, unlike the various rocket fuels and effeminate un Australian alcopops the young and dumb are destroying themselves on today, along with their completely unnecessary foul and disgusting drugs. Even the missus was partial to the odd schooner or three, or five etc., when my raging days drew to an end. I got the impression the raging was not restricted to only me, as she quite often matched me drink for drink.

Surfing in it's purest form..... Body Surfing. Every Sunday morning from 7 am. onwards, at least 30% of the club would be seen treading water off the rock pool at the southern end of the beach at Avalon waiting for Huey to send in another big one. Doug, or should I say Kegs taught me what to do and how to do it. Even today,when I have the odd body wave, I'm never without my handboard and flippers, the latter being essential for my survival in the surf. Yonks ago, one avoided getting caught in a rip, however today, one requires a rip to make it out the back without drowning.

These blokes did not duck when the large rocks were thrown at them. Typical Boaties. These are the Burnie boys, who I am sure would have undergone the same selection process as most other crews in Tassie and on the mainland.

For me, this was the most exhilarating form of surfing.....Riding the 0ld Malibu. Only someone who has surfed would fully comprehend and be able to describe the feeling.

The modern short board. Sorry, I'm way too old....Pity!

The Boogie Board. Not as easy as it looks.

The Double Surf Ski. Not too many of them left today.

The Wave Ski, or Goat Boat......Great fun.

Aah! Memories....and that's all that's left, Memories, Sigh!! In actual fact, even back in those days of raging, this was all a figment of ones imagination most of the time........ but every once in a while.......Nah! You can read about it elsewhere.

More memories. This time of young Paula/Polly. A highly skilled and extremely pretty Wahine. I have not seen her for 45 years....Long gone, but not forgotten. I miss her sister Lesley/Lulu just as much. Two exceptional girls. Great times.

The view from in front of the clubhouse. Three reasons why I hardly missed a weekend. There was very rarely a time when we did not have something worthwhile to feast our lustful eyes upon. This was what the schoolgirls looked like before they matured......WOW! Two years later......Triple WOW!!! Cheeky things.

Another common scene frequently seen on the beach. One of the duties required of us guys was the application of coconut oil on the backs of the local Wahines. The girls would hand you the oil, roll over onto their stomachs, undo the bra top and then tell you to do your worst. After the stimulating and exciting service was provided and accomplished, one would then be forced to wait 10 to 15 minutes for an important part of ones anatomy to return to normal before wandering off to pursue other activities......It was indeed a busy time in ones life for a young red blooded teenage lad.

I suppose I should not complain about my current physical disabilities. At least in the past I got to do things with people I loved and was blessed to have done so. Good mates, good sorts, good surf, good weather, brilliant way of life, along with providing a worthwhile public service free of charge. You only live once and I've had my turn. I have never been overseas as there was no need or reason to do so, more than everything I required was here and still is...... Australia! You bloody beauty!

Double Trouble

2008-11-29T11:57:00.021+11:00

It was around 1962 - 63 that the old hollow 16 foot plywood long boards had reached their used by date. The balsa and fibreglass Ockanuis had replaced them and the foam and fibreglass Malibus were now all the go. Today the Malibus are simply known as Mals or long boards, but back then they were short boards. The single surf ski remained as a rescue board and even today the highly evolved variations of those ancient plywood skis are still being used, but mainly for competition. Despite becoming a completely hooked Mal rider, I nonetheless kept on surfing on my racing surf ski with fellow troublemaker Tom. Did we stir and upset those Malibu riders at North Avalon? You bet we did. My main reason for purchasing a Mal was so I could spend many a surfing session with the beautiful bikini clad surfer girl Paula and this I was able to do on a regular basis, lucky me. We never became an item but, we were kissin' cousins, so to speak, who enjoyed a frequent snuggle at various Drive Ins etc., to keep warm on a cold winters evening, double lucky me.

More on Paula (Polly) at Friends and Partners.

The Malibus were nowhere near as manoeuverable as the modern thrusters and could be up to 20 kilos in weight. The sight of two surf club ratbags on 18 foot long planks of plywood bearing down upon you was more than enough to bring on an unexpected bowel movement from many a shortboard rider. Shouted comments made Gordon Ramsey sound as though he was reciting Shakespeare or quoting verses from the Bible. The beautiful Paula used her noggin and would surf with Tom and I and would wait for the two of us to crack a wave then follow behind us......Smart girl. It was amazing how over tanned surfers faces changed colour to a flat white as either Tom or I and sometimes both of us were about to pass over the top of them. Despite this, no one was ever hurt, how I'll never know.

During the years surf board design has evolved to the point where even the present day Mals weigh in around 3 to 5 kilos maximum. In 1962 my Mal weighed in at 19 kilo and was over 8 foot in length.

Although a better than average surf ski rider, I had never competed in an Open or Restricted Surf Carnival. One reason for this was the fact that I happened to be a member of the brain dead Surf Boat Crew. One day however, Tom and I began to pay closer attention to a huge plywood double surf ski that belonged to the clubs two senior paddlers, Max and Jackie Watt. We were given permission to use it, but were warned that it had a few leaks..... What an understatement. Tom and I would paddle out the back, swing the ski around hoping that a wave appeared within the next 60 seconds, otherwise it was shades of the Titanic all over again. On some occasions when full of water, the bow would submerge and with the added weight of all the Tasman Sea within, we would literally transform into a wooden submarine. The boardriders at North Avalon were safe from harrasment as our craft was incapable of reaching that part of the beach without sinking like a blacksmiths anvil. The ones who ventured south for a less crowded wave only did it once as the possibility of being crushed to death by a water filled uncontrollable missile made the northern end of the beach a much safer place to surf.

I think it was in 1962 or 63, Max Watt was laid low by a stomach virus. His younger brother Jackie was disappointed as it meant they would be unable to compete in the Metropolitan Championships being held at Palm Beach over the weekend. Seeing me on the beach, Jack grabbed hold of me and literally kidnapped me and threw me into his car, that I noticed had the SS Titanic tied on the roof. Jackie was aware that I was a fair to middling ski rider and as far as he was concerned, I was now his brother's replacement on the Double Ski. I informed him that I had never raced my single ski, let alone the leaky double, but all I was told was to simply do whatever he did.....So much for extensive training.

Arriving at Palmy, we deposited the monster in the marshalling area and I set about checking some of our competitors skis. It was possible for a single guy to lift and carry the other skis, whereas our one weighed a ton and was an effort for two people even to simply lift it off the ground. Eventually we were called to our starting position and Jackie wanted me to be up front, but I argued that it would be better for me to be at the back so I could do everything that he did during the course of the race. We were both hoping to reach the turning buoys before descending to Davy Jones Locker and meeting Huey.

Thank God it was a small surf. The Starter's pistol fired and at least 12 two man crews took off like a rocket. We were all packed in fairly tight and I am certain that at times we were on top of some of the others and it was this that kept us floating when we rounded the can in second place a mere half length behind the leader. The ski became hard to keep ones balance on as we commenced heading for the shore. At one stage we actually hit the lead, then it was the Dambusters all over again. Several of those WW2 bouncing bombs must have exploded next to us, because we were becoming uncontrollable as the Tasman Sea poured in through gaps you could row a boat through.

We headed north, we headed south, we even did a full 360 degree turn and just as we were being overtaken by several vessels, I fell off. What a disaster....Not really, as I landed on top of one of the overtaking skis, causing it to slew north and completely destroy most of the other overtaking competitors. Using language unheard of even today, Jack requested that I resume my position on our submarine so we could continue on.

Luck was on our side, we had reached the shallow sand bank that was only inches deep and disembarking we commenced to drag the ski towards the shore. It weighed a ton as it was now full to the brim with ocean. Jack and I dived for cover when the waterlogged craft swung around at right angles and was responsible for a massive pile up of timber that had been following us. Can anyone remember the police car pile up towards the end of the Blues Brothers movie? We reached the shore, but needed four other guys to drag the ski up the beach. It was all too much, there was a creak, followed by a groan, then the side panel fell off that released a sudden rush of water that swept away two young toddlers, who happened to be standing nearby.

Jack and I were more than pleased to have survived, but when we discovered we had finished in third place we were gobsmacked and elated. Not only had we performed admirably, we had also entertained the public with skills and a unique demonstration very rarely seen at such events. By gee, didn't we get some evil looks from many of the failed competitors when we were presented with our Bronze medals. I am certain that at some time in the not too distant future the infamous Double Ski simply self destructed on it's rack in the club's boatshed and came in very handy when the clubs barbecue was fired up. Another era in Avalon's Surf Lifesaving history came to an end during a sausage sizzle at the rear of the clubhouse.

Animal House

2008-11-03T15:39:00.042+11:00

Boris the newly acquired Tom

Throughout the years of married bliss there have been numerous spoilt pets that have taken up residence with the Fullers. In most cases it was soft hearted me bringing home some unfortunate and in some cases unwanted feline to the family home. Gabi has always been a sucker for self centred and egotistical pussies, who tend to set themselves up as domestic dictators and in no time are running the whole show. At one point in time we had 4 cats and 1 labrador, who certainly came in handy in bed on a cold winters night. However at present we are down to 2 typical female felines, self centred and extremely bossy with a tendency to reduce the population of garden lizards ASAP. Jink, the fat one, was adopted from the former next door neighbours and little Dinah was a stray purchased from the local Vet. I must concede that our latest addition Dinah is the first cat that genuinely loves us, but being a girl she loves to hunt anything that moves and is extremely self centred and stubborn.

For three years a moth eaten tomcat kept on turning up hoping to have his way with our beautiful bombshell Jink, completely unaware she had been neutered....talk about living in hope. February 2009 was one big heatwave and one Saturday our tom was so distressed he allowed Gabi and I to pick him up and take him inside the house where he quickly recovered. Being complete suckers we took him to the vet who examined him and did the dirty deed by zotting him. The end result, we now have a new member of the family who appears to have been accepted by the girls, although occasionaly the ugly green monster briefly raises its head. It could be said the 4 year old Boris has settled in quite comfortably.

Jink, hard at work.

Dinah, on guard.

I'ts amazing when wandering through ones own backyard, what one comes across cuddling pussy cats. The piece of cheesecake is none other than my newly acquired missus Gabi and the puss is next doors Siamese cat, Nasser. Puss didn't seem to mind too much, but the neighbours scattered in all directions and immediately locked up their ankle biters after noticing Gabi's state of undress. Nasser features later on in this post.

Oh my God! don't I get frustrated when I compare some of my current snapshots with all the rubbish photographed in the past. Admittedly the technology was not available all those years ago for quality to be on a par with what is regarded as the norm today. Even so, I doubt whether it would have made a lot of difference as I was never interested in photography and my playing up schedule was such that there would not have been time for snapshots. Some of the old colour snaps below date back to the days of Koda- Color and the years have caused the dyes to fade and in some cases completely change the appearance of the original print.

All that being said, there are heaps of memories for both me and the missus and I hope the extended family derives some amusement and pleasure from the small collection posted below........

Tojo the wonder dog

Dogs cannot talk, but this fellow came so close to doing so. The whole family was blessed because of his presence in our lives. He literally became a local legend throughout Leichhardt, Glebe and Annandale. He even had his own drinking bowl in the Saloon bar of the North Annandale Hotel and looked forward to his middy of Tooths New each and every evening between 7 and 7:30 pm. He always knew when it was Saturday morning, so off he would go down Nelson, then across Booth St. to receive his weekly dinosaur bone from the local butcher, Jack Buff. All the locals loved him and he returned that love as only he could. Toj, you were one in a million.

Judy. Proud Mum

Lesley and Doug phoned and told Gabi and I to come over immediately. When we arrived not that long afterwards Judy demonstrated what a clever Lab she was. She also became an excellent mother looking after her litter of eight, one of which was to be our pride and joy, the inimitable Jagdale Silver Casey, known simply as Casey.

Baby Casey

A few years later

When my late parents, Molly and Jim purchased their first home at Blakehurst during 1972 their newly acquired cat Buffy of course went with them. Molly absolutely adored Buff and would not hear a bad word said about her. The reality was Buffy was a little bitch.... Sorry Mum.

Nasser

Aahh! Married life. A warm and soft wife to snuggle up to on a cold winter's night to keep one snug and warm.......Along with next doors Siamese cat Nasser, that is. "I'm here," he would squeak and then wander through the house until he found you. If you happened to be on the telephone at this time, you would be scolded and then given a nip on the knee pad for not paying attention quickly enough. Nasser absolutely idolised Gabi and in no time at all I was included in his close circle of friends as he realised I was an easy mark as well. Just prior to one of Gabi's Chinese nosh ups who should turn up just as the prawns were being peeled by yours truly, you guessed it. It was a case of one for the guests, one for Nasser, whose bloated stomach came close to bursting. Gabi insists that he ended up with more than we did. The little female seal point from across the road was madly in love with him and he with her, but as he had been zotted he didn't know why, so all that eventuated was lots of fun and games with no hanky panky.........Purrrr!!!

Sammy And Snoopy (Snoopy in box)

Sammy belonged to the Greigs living in the flat above us. Snoopy was a feral who over a period of a few weeks realised living with the Fullers was much better than bush ranging, so he moved in. Sammy and Snoop hit it off OK, so Sammy decided to move in with us as well. I don't know whether Patty and Jim developed an inferiority complex however, as Snoopy once belonged to them as well before going feral.

The black Dr. Watson & Moriaty

After a hard days play....Doc & Maurie

Baby Chuckie

Chuckie was purchased at a pet shop in the Roselands Shopping Mall in Sydney. Nearly every evening Security would rush into the Grace Bros. Haberdashery department with guns drawn, expecting to find armed burglars going about their business. All they ever found was a tiny grey kitten with Dumbo sized ears swinging on the drapes. It took the pet shop people a while before they realised Chuck was able to force his way through the wires of the bird cage they had him in and did so on a regular basis.

Middle aged Chuck

Muggsie

Spatz

Boss cocky Fritz

Fritz was 10 months old when we offered to mind him for a few days back in January 1997. Eleven years later he's still here, although he now lives three houses up from us with a German couple who absolutely idolise him. Fritz loves people, but sees other cats as competitors and caused havoc with our other lot. We could not believe our luck when this lovely couple nearby were only too happy to adopt him. As for the blonde terrorist, he thinks all his Christmas's have come at once and has settled in very nicely.

Nudge

Casey with his pet boy Patrick

Claude & his pet dog Casey

Throughout most of the year, this was a common sight at night. On those freezing cold winter evenings, Claude would lick Casey's chops over and over again. Casey would shut his eyes and wait for the certainty that he knew would follow. Eventually Claude would bite him on his chops, Casey would move away and Claude would then take over lying on the warm spot. Despite this Casey loved Claude.....He was his cat.

Maurie and Dr. Watson regarded Casey as Mum and never gave up attempting to milk him.

Gabi with spoilt son

Gabi, Patrick, Casey and Claude. Check out the marvelous wallpaper in the background......Ah yes, the 1970's.

Gabi always has taken pride in herself. That's probably why she has popped out her chest. Come to think of it, there was no need for her to do that, as it was a natural phenomonen.

Two honeymooners on Dunk Isle. Good God! It was 1972

Deep in thought

"I do need some decent footwear."

Gabi stopped to feed her mouth

When heading north to Rochedale South

Greasy ribs were very nice

At downtown Surfers Paradise

Porky bits, all over tits

Gabi did not worry

Later on at dinnertime

She knocked off Cathy's curry

A windy night I spent in bed

Hoping for some lovin'

But Gaye instead had made the bed

A whiffy, hot Dutch Oven

'The Germ' as the nurses called him.

AKA Patrick Michael Fuller

Madonna & Child in St. George

Trev......"He slept like a log last night, I never heard a peep out of him."

Gabi......"F.....g Bullshit, you deaf p...k."

"That was a good one Mum."

Oops! "Now where's the spoon & candle?"

First it was the Jacaranda, then the Crepe Myrtle. One thing we both miss about Peakhurst was the back yard and beautiful garden. After 10 years of planning and landscaping we finally got it right. The buffalo lawn never looked better, the paved arbour at the south west corner of the back yard was completed, the perimeter gardens had their watering systems installed, the new deck was constructed and all the new plants recently purchased were thriving.....then we sold up and moved to Lake Macquarie, typical.

A truly desperate housewife

Sue, Gabi, Gail....Exhibitionists......Good pins though.

"Why can't we come inside, it's raining?"

Where have the years gone? It does not seem that long ago when Patrick and I would be at Leichhardt Oval watching the Tigers play while scoffing a cold meat pie washed down with a warm soft drink. I remember vividly the foodie soirees with Lesley and Doug, Bruce and Robyn, John and Maria, Peter and Flo and Gabi and I. The two most popular were Chinese and Italian, with dinner commencing at 7;00 pm and ending around 11:00 pm. The party would end around 1:30 to 2:00 am. I can also remember travelling all the way to the wilds of Blacktown to visit Gabi's sister Margaret and her pod of anklebiters as they were then. Now they're all paired off with rug rats of their own and it won't be long before they become grandparents......and so it goes.

Life has been and still is pretty good.

Down Memory Lane

2008-11-01T13:43:00.041+11:00

From 1960 'til now or therabouts

Unfortunately, I was never the one to worry about photography during the 1960's. I suppose there were too many other distractions that kept me active and there simply was not time to be taking snapshots. This is something that I regret to this very day. So many attractive girls and so many good mates whose images are simply just that......images.

Surprisingly, after going through boxes of unfiled prints and slides, I discovered there were many more shots taken over the years than I would have ever imagined. Here are just a few.

Michelle & Pogo, January 1961

Michelle was my first steady and didn't we have some fun. Note the 1927 Chevvy in the background. It belonged to Jim, AKA ' The Rodent.' People walking on the footpath would stop and applaud as we drove through Newport. The Chevvy had a highly sophisticated security system when parked in a shonky area. Jim would simply remove the rotor button and stick it in his pocket.

Michelle, Pogo, Carol, Jim, Jocelyn

The two Kiwi girls Jocelyn and Carol eventually took off in a Kombi van on an around Australia trip and were not sighted for at least 18 to 20 months. When they finally returned we were invited to visit them in their flat at Crows Nest, I think. Jocelyn had not changed, she was just as pretty as before, but Wow! hadn't Carol got streetwise. Gone were the glasses, replaced with contact lenses, her hair was now short and styled, her slacks were sprayed on revealing a gorgeous figure no one knew she had and she was being squired by an extremely good looking boyfriend built like a brick shipyard. They were both lovely girls.

Two young Lannens

Schoolgirls....Cathy 14 and sister Gabi 12

The long gone 1970's ( Thank God )

During the 1980's Gabi and I spent several days up the mountains. We stayed at the Leura Motel and did the usual tourist tour around the region. A highlight was our trip to Jenolan Caves, but one of the lowlights was this bloody bed we're lying on. It was like sleeping on a giant condom stuffed with marbles.

Feathered freeloaders

During the early 2000's Gabi and I had a timber floor laid in our Arcadia Vale residence and as it was going to take 4 to 5 days we moved out and booked into the Wangi Point Camping Park. It turned into a 2 week stay as the humid weather would not allow the floor varnish to dry properly. One thing we discovered whilst staying in our cabin was the brush tailed possums were partial to the odd bit of horizontal folk dancing and decided the dance floor should be underneath the cabin. Once again I missed out on many an interesting photo, but at least I was able to snap the two above.

Gabi with Spatz at Peakhurst

Scrip Clerk extraordinare

Pre Xmas drinks and nosh up

Xmas party costumes ( we won best dressed )

Bain Securities. Good firm, great people. My Heavens didn't we play up at many of the organised outings and functions. This was Xmas at the old Maritime Services Building at Circular Quay. The Addams Family killed them. We ended up winning the best dressed and if my memory is correct, it was worthwhile as there was a sizable cash prize that enabled us to purchase a bucketload of Lotto tickets. Suffice to say, none of us ended up retiring from the workforce. The Xmas party two years earlier at the Opera House was such a blast, I ended up in hospital for two weeks recovering from my first and thankfully only heart attack. Sharon and Hayley from Melbourne along with the two top sorts from Newcastle made that a night to remember.

Some Wedding Snaps

Patrick & Kylie

Georges River Sunset

We were fortunate that our photographer was on the ball. He was all over the place snapping this and snapping that, when he noticed what may have been a half decent sunset on the make. the happy couple were hustled onto the top deck of the ferry and several beautiful shots were taken. From start to finish, it only lasted no more than 3 to 4 minutes.

The Fullers

Anyone see Underbelly?

Helen and Phil must have been so proud to have produced two such lovely young ladies as Bride Kylie and Bridesmaid Nicole. I have never seen the girls looking as lovely as they did at the wedding and reception.

Kylie's sister Nicole looking great

Fullers & the Stokes

Gabi's Mob

A Pod of Holmes'

You should see the progeny this mob has produced. Good looking guys and absolutely sensational looking gals. Thankfully Kylie and Patrick were able to follow in their footsteps.

This brought back memories of my surf club days, but I must admit that even I never had that many cuties at the one time.....come to think of it this lot would have probably been much more than my ration for the whole of the 1960's and early 70's. If this was the Last Supper, what a way to go. "Show us your tongue please... oh I see it's already out."

Gabi's Mum Holly's 80 th. ( Afro Gabi at rear )

Kylie and Patrick saw to it that smiles lit up the faces of not only Gabi and I and Helen and Phil but also the Great Grandparents, Molly and Jim. Sadly Holly did not live long enough to see her youngest daughter's grandchildren, but her grand daughter Margo and her hubby Alan ensured that she was rewarded with Carly and Paul. Holly sadly passed away 8 months after her 80th. birthday. Rest in Peace Nana.

Molly with Sarah Jane

Jim with Renae Lea

Both Molly and Jim lived long enough to see Jim's two great grand children Jayden and Taylah and Molly's little twinnies Renae Lea and Sarah Jane. Molly was 88 when she passed on and Jim was 92 when he left us 10 months later. God bless them both.

Two desperates

Gabi and Jim having a quick puff during a visit to see Kylie and Pats twinnies. Jim smoked up until he died at 92 years of age. He would have been regarded as a victim of the dreaded nicotine.

Margaret, Kevin & Gabi

Father Kev, or Batesy as he is known to us all has married and buried many of the family. He has an enviable reputation within and without the Catholic Church because of his hands on approach with everything he is asked or expected to do. For the time being his interstate travelling appears to be over and he currently has his own parish, which I am certain will more than prosper under his guidance. During one of the activities taking place on Catholic Youth Day, more than several pilgrims were heard to ask, " Who's that German priest on the stage with Batesy?" I am also sure that the Creator will forgive him for following that useless Cross Country Basketball as he is an old Geelong boy.

Camera hog Gabi & sister Cathy

Long before I had even met Gabi she was associated with the Rockdale CYO and had many close friends with whom she hung out with. After meeting Gabi, my surf club activities ceased and I was introduced to some of these close friends. Sadly some of them have passed on and when Gabi and I moved to greener pastures north of Sydney, it seemed as though contact would be lost with the remainder. Early this year some of us had an enjoyable reunion that brought back memories of some of the huge Chinese and Italian nosh ups that were common in the City. We ate, we talked, we ate, we talked and so on. Our charming hostess was Sue Hinwood who Gabi and I had not seen for yonks. Sue is one who used her noggin and now resides in our little patch of Paradise on the shores of Lake Macquarie. It was good to see some of the mob again and what a relief that, although a little more mature, everyone appeared to be in good health.

Sue, Robyn, Gabi, Bruce, Maria, John

Family Picnic at Myuna Bay

This was a regular Easter Sunday event up until a couple of years ago. I reckon it's about time we kicked it off again. Good food, good company with me taking the kids for a bouncy ride around the lake in the tinnie.

Typical Xmas fare

At present the Annual Xmas feast is taking place within the walls of 'Le Club Holmes' at the Kings Langley Estate, with our friendly hosts Maurs and Steve. This nosh up generally takes place on the Saturday before Xmas day. Chris Cringle is none other than Batesy who needs no cotton wool for his moosh.

Son & heir Patrick as a Hebrew shepherd ( back row, purple head dress )

Retirement has advantages

Below are the two main reasons for me wanting to hang around a while longer. They started out as Search and Destroy, are currently Thelma and Louise, but it won't be too long before father Patrick requires a whip and chair to fend off the many young lads who most certainly will be lining up to attract their attention.

Sarah Jane

Renae Lea

I have mentioned many times before that I've had a wonderful life. This is not a lie, I may not have accomplished what many others, more talented and committed than I, have done, but I have made a contribution and was blessed to have had loads of fun at the same time.

Warren Mitchell, Young Mulga.

2008-10-30T15:36:00.084+11:00

Newspaper clippings featuring Warren Mitchell and John Fuller testing the first 'Giddy Boat' at Avalon during '69-'70.

This is a view of Perranporth Beach in Cornwall, looking to the north west towards Holywell at the far end. It is arguably the Brits finest beach and attracts huge crowds on most fine weekends. Professional lifeguards patrol the beach during the surfing season and many rescues are carried out on a regular basis. The above pic shows the beach at low tide, but when the tide is in, or the Atlantic produces huge seas, nearly all the sand is covered by the boiling surf. It was on Perranporth and other Cornish beaches that the inspired vision for surf life saving in Oz first took root and several years later eventually became a reality, thanks to the persistence and ingenuity of Warren Mitchell.

Cornish Butt

Gee! No wonder Warren was not in a hurry to return home in the 1960's and possibly why he returned with his family to the UK. Problem is, not too much surf in Leeds though. Hmmh! I wonder if Jilly was ever in Cornwall? Nah! Jilly was a non smoker, come to think of it.

Cornish surfer

Perranporth Beach, Cornwall

For all the Poldark fans out there, Perranporth is the fictional Hendrawna Beach where Ross and Demelza Poldark lived in their modest home that was named Nampara. Novelist Winston Graham positioned Nampara just off to the left of the beach at the top of the picture and one of the Poldarks mines, namely Wheal Leisure was just to the left of the picture's left side. The beach is just over 3 miles long.

Newquay Beaches

When one takes in the preceding images, it is hard to believe that the photos were not taken here in Oz. If this is typical of the geography of Cornwall, any wonder our pioneering adventurers stayed as long as they did. I believe the county of Devon is also blessed with many beautiful beaches, although if the water temperature is on a par with Tasmania, one could very easily find himself singing soprano.

Home away from Home

It looks as though the team from Towradgi has met with some success going on all the smiles. It is interesting to note that the guys appear to have left all the heavy lifting to the young ladies. Something else worth noting are the wet suits that all and sundry are wearing mainly to keep out the chill and to protect the body from friction burns and abrasions that are part of IRB racing. They also ensure that the girls cozzies remain intact, something that did not always happen during those early days of development and testing at Avalon during the late 1960's and early 70's......Refer Abalone Balony.

IRB No. 1 Retired

The end result

No! Not Alf Garnett

Warren Mitchell is a living legend to all who knew him. Throughout Surf Life Saving circles he is known as the Father of the IRB. He has been presented with an Innovation Award from the Surf Life Saving Association for his efforts to adapt and perfect an inflatable boat for use in the Australian surf and has been honored by his country of birth with an Order of Australia. Many overseas nations have also adopted the IRB as their main means of rescuing swimmers from the surf and are aware of who was responsible for the development of this invaluable piece of equipment. At first the duck was painted yellow for improved visibility, but it was not that long until the current colour of red was adopted, why that was I know not. The first official ‘ Rubber Duck ’ is currently on display in the National Maritime Museum at Sydney’s Darling Harbour. After much time and effort the end result was what now takes pride of place in the national museum. I am truly proud to have known Warren as a fellow Avalon member as well as a mate. Many laughed at his vision of the future, some did not, I am also proud to state that I was among the latter.

During 2005 the first IRB's appeared along the German coastline. The world's largest lifesaving organisation, namely DLRG German Lifesaving realised the potential of the rubber ducks and in no time they became the primary means of rescuing swimmers from the Baltic and North Seas. For three days in May 2009 at Scharbeutz on the Baltic Sea, an IRB Carnival and Training Event was organised, the main purpose to provide training for the many lifesavers in the region who have taken to the IRB like ducks to water. The guest of honour at the carnival that will be held from May 15th to the 17th, will be Avalon's pioneering IRB developer Warren Mitchell OAM. Fresh from his participation in November 2008 at Abveron in Wales, Warren will be addressing the oganizers of and participants in the German event to pass on his knowledge and some of his experience to the right people, who are aware of the role he played in transforming the way surf and ocean rescues are performed. Back in Avalon during 1969-70, none of us could have imagined that all the fun mixed in with some hard work occasionaly would be responsible for such a change in attitude and procedures involving water rescues........Onya Mulga!

GIDDY BOAT NUMBER ONE, LOTS OF WORK YET LOTS OF FUN

SEASON 69--70

During the early 1960’s, Avalon active member Warren Mitchell was holidaying in Britain and became one of the first professional lifeguards to patrol beaches in Cornwall. Some of the Cornish beaches were extremely long and four wheel drive vehicles were used to get from here to there. Zodiac rubber boats were used for offshore work. I believe they were driven by 30hp. outboard motors. It was during the last quarter of 1969 that Warren, now happily married and back home in Avalon, decided it was about time to improve local surf rescue techniques and equipment. Even though unsure that what he had in mind would actually work, he started working on a plan to adapt rubber boats to suit Australian conditions. Generally speaking, surf conditions in Cornwall were not too different from Oz and he believed that what had worked over there should work here. Dunlop supplied a six year old rubber duck and an old second hand 20 hp. Mercury was borrowed through OMC and work began on the necessary modifications. Warren was more than ably assisted by former club captain John Fuller, who used his entrepreneurial skills to obtain fuel and equipment as well as helping with the creation of designs and was also involved in some of the construction work. During the November committee meeting Warren revealed his ambitious vision of the future, along with the rubber boat. After a few chuckles and the odd sideways glance he was eventually given moral support and permission to continue, but unfortunately no money was available.

In November, Warren and his older brother Don gave the boat its first trial in the surf. Don was known as Mulga by his mates and Warren was quite often referred to as Young Mulga. It worked, despite the aluminium keel being bent in more than one place and the 8 foot wave that Warren surfed to the beach was only a fluke. Notes left by Warren state that Don was concerned by a wave rapidly catching them up and called on Warren to gun the boat. Warren informed his brother that the boat was travelling at maximum speed owing to the bent keel and when the wave picked them up they were simply lucky to ride it all the way to the beach. Poor Don had to have his chin stitched as it struck the steel fuel tank on the way out inflicting a nasty wound. Members of the 1969 Tasmanian trip were also among the true believers and spent considerable time surf testing the boat and experimenting with various propellers and prop guards. Three of the local females gave us all support and were rewarded by many mind blowing trips around the bay at Avalon. Us guys too were rewarded when the girls would occasionaly lose the odd cozzie or bra top during the run around. The girls referred to the rubber craft as the Giddy Boat. The three of them were also genuine true believers and later on one married Roscoe, another married John and the third ended up drawing the short straw and for a while ended up with, guess who?

Although at first there were some reservations, the people who mattered, slowly but surely started to become more positive and were warming to this innovative rescue craft. During December a mass rescue at Avalon saw the boat and crew save eight people. This was the first rubber boat rescue and many knockers were silenced by the speed and efficiency of it all. A few weeks later at the Dee Why surf carnival during January 1970 many SLSA officials and others sat up and took notice. The demonstration had to be done a second time as it was so quick it was all over almost before it began. The patient was 50 to 60 metres out to sea yet from the moment he raised his hand through to when resuscitation commenced back on the beach, only 52 seconds had elapsed. Warren Mitchell and John Fuller were the crew members and Surf Club Captain John Towner was the patient. The other crew members that day were Ross Lumsden, David Plunkett, Rick Millar and some no hoper named Trevor Fuller [Pogo].

Throughout the many months that followed, Warren and John travelled all over the state demonstrating the ability of the 'Duck' to many Surf Clubs, some of which began experimenting with their own versions of rubber boats. The two pioneers would use the cars exhaust to pump up the boat and on cold winter days Warren would attach a tube to the outboard motor and inside his wet suit so the hot water would help keep him warm and cosy, talk about innovative.

Warren received an Innovation Award from the SLSA for his persistent efforts and exceptional ground breaking achievements, that helped make the IRB what it has become today. As far as I know he is currently living in Leeds along with his wife Carol and family and although content to be there, the last time I spoke to him on one of his visits home to Avalon, he was looking extremely thoughtful. The beach and surf were clean, the sky, blue and cloudless, a small surf was running, a gentle nor east breeze wafting in and the usual gathering of bikini clad beach girls along with the odd pair of white pointers on display, were present. We were standing together on the beach and I asked him, “Be honest mate, do you miss any of this?” He never turned around to face me, but after a few seconds his head suddenly bowed, then nodded and I distinctly heard him give out a big sigh and answer ever so softly.............." Yes."

Friends and Partners

2008-10-23T11:11:00.073+11:00

Breakfast then.

Breakfast now......Sheesh!!

The infamous 190

Tom's snog machine

The Italian Rocket

Windows before.......

.......and afterwards.

Snog House

Strike me lucky

"Right behind ya Polly"

Heady Days and Nights

Content though I am with my current existence, my thoughts constantly return to the times when breakfast was food and did not have to be preceded by a bucket full of tablets. There was no defibrillator to set off the alarm when leaving the library or supermarket. Petrol was around 25 cents per gallon and beer cost 18 cents a schooner. Drive in movies and Ten Pin bowling were the popular ways to entertain oneself, in our case it was almost always with the girls, God bless ‘em. We all certainly must have had many adventures and covered a massive amount of territory, as during the years that followed, it seemed that our times together lasted several years and not a mere 2 to 3 years at best.

Our friendships were strong, our interests the same and we were determined to make each and every weekend an absolute blast......and did.

GIRLS WHO SIMPLY WANTED TO HAVE FUN……AND USUALLY DID

SEASONS 1961--63

What made the 1960’s special for me, was being parentally unsupervised, which meant playing up something terrible every weekend on or around the beach and the northern beaches peninsula. The late American crooner Dean Martin and I had one thing in common; my mother and his wife never knew we drank until we came home sober one evening. All I can say is thank God for the girls, who saw to it that our every waking moment was not spent drinking ourselves to a state of inebriated oblivion at either the Arms, Mona Vale, or at the local RSL. During those heady days and nights, there were three extremely top sorts, all blondes, who attempted to keep us on the straight and narrow with varying success. To protect the innocent, I shall refer to them as Michelle, Lulu and Polly. Michelle became my steady at the time, but my feelings for the other two, who happened to be sisters, at times reached astronomical heights. In retrospect I’ve never ceased regretting failing to keep in touch, when fate decreed we travel through life along different paths, but during those fantastic times, we were just kids who were enjoying each other’s company and sharing the many good times together, with lots of laughter thrown in for good measure.

The three girls, although not permanent Avalon residents, were regarded as locals by all and sundry, as every weekend they would be seen attempting to keep us guys out of mischief. Their extremely long suffering yet tolerant parents had well appointed holiday homes at Avalon and many unforgettable times were spent within their walls. The female trio were like chalk and cheese. Lulu cut a mean figure in her one piece, but was never really a beach babe as her primary interest was automobiles and boy oh boy, how she loved driving her little grey Fiat 600 fast.....and I mean extremely fast. I think it would be truthful to say that she was a bit of a tomboy and I loved her for it. Her sister Polly was your typical stereotyped surfer girl, close to two inches taller than her older sister, with long, thick blonde hair falling several inches below her shoulders and having a body most girls would die for, particularly when partially clad in her light blue bikini, with or without the white board shorts. Polly was an excellent surfer and many of my own Malibu board riding skills, be they as they were, were sharpened by the many surfing sessions we shared, mostly at North Avalon. Michelle was always outwardly tolerant and on occasions extremely forgiving, despite how frustrating my outrageous behaviour was on a regular basis. I was always suspicious at the time, that she had a hidden desire to become a high flying social celebrity and eventually marry a movie star such as Rock Hudson. [Oh boy, if only she had known the truth way back then].

YOU LEAD, I’LL FOLLOW

I know I should not admit to this, but I am truly ashamed that back then I had no idea what the girls did for a living. I obviously was so caught up in all the great times we were having that I didn’t think it mattered. All I know for certain is that Polly went on to become a Physiotherapist after we all lost touch with one another. One vivid memory keeps on re-occurring over and over again. There was fast-running surf at North Avalon, Polly and yours truly were both becoming frustrated at not being able to get beyond the break. My arms felt like spaghetti, but the two of us refused to stop paddling. After resurfacing from a duck dive I noticed that the broken wave had pushed Polly’s bikini bottom and board shorts well below her well rounded buttocks, but she kept on going like the proverbial threshing machine. All I could do was to follow behind her and hope that another wave didn’t push her backwards and on top of me, possibly causing our friendship to be taken one step beyond the platonic relationship that it was at the time. Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that provide one with inspiration. Only when we finally made it safely out the back did she appear to notice her state of undress. Being a gentleman I turned away my gaze [I could still see out of the corner of my eye however] while she desperately attempted to return things to their proper place. After successfully accomplishing this she then actually apologised to me for making me feel uncomfortable. What I was actually feeling at the time made her apology totally unnecessary, but I dared not utter a single word.

I WISH I WAS AS YOUNG NOW AS MR. SHEEHAN WAS THEN

Denise and Lenya were two local beauties who were the best of friends and quite often would be seen surfing together. They were both better than average board riders, who like Polly, had earned the respect of the male surfers. Denise had all of her lumps and bumps in precisely the right places and Lenya was simply a young teenage version of Elle Macpherson. During a conversation with Brian Sheehan on the surf club’s front verandah one sunny day, he suddenly made the comment, “Now there’s something you don’t get to see every day.” Standing upright on their Malibu’s, approximately 2 feet apart and merrily chatting away to each other while a small broken wave was slowly taking them to the beach, were Denise and Lenya , each of them wearing not much more than two thimbles and a cork. After giving a huge sigh, Brian said wistfully, “There are times like this Pogo, when I wish I was as young as you.” I made no comment of my own, as I was still gazing at the two beautiful reasons responsible for his. God I’m easily side tracked...........Now where was I?

HE TOOK HER INTO THE FOG AND MIST

Some of the senior clubbies were quite confused trying to work out who in our elite little group was actually going out with whom. This was because we would all be sighted on various occasions hanging out with different partners. Now, listen very carefully, as I will say this only once [Oops, sorry Rene]. Jim and Lu were an item, as were Michelle and I and Polly had made it clear she was not interested in forming a permanent relationship with anyone, but she was just as partial to a decent snog as we all were at the time. When Jim had to work on the odd Saturday, Lu would pair off with either Tom or sometimes another Jim who I shall call JR and Polly was able to choose whoever she happened to fancy at the time. When Michelle was unable to be present, Polly would nearly always pair off with lucky me. When both Michelle and Jim were absent at the same time, Tom and I would toss a coin to determine who was having who or quite often we would let the two sisters decide for themselves. Generally speaking they tended to take turns swapping Tom and I around. My God, life was tough back then.

I feel I should make it perfectly clear that my relationship with the two sisters remained strictly platonic, but we still had the ability to completely fog up a Holden station wagon in quick time and invariably did so on numerous occasions. One senior member named John was completely and utterly bamboozled by, what he perceived to be, our kinky behaviour. John was known as Feltex, because of all the time he spent on the mat as an amateur boxer. His so called mates used to say he took out advertising on the soles of his shoes, mean bastards. One day when all six of us arrived in the car park, we saw him entering the clubhouse and conspired to confuse him even further. We all paired off with different partners and entered the building holding hands and commenced cuddling and kissing each other, making sure that John was watching. Later on that day John approached me and with an enigmatic look on his face he enquired as to who was going out with whom. Although the meaning was the same, he phrased his question quite differently. It would not be polite to put in writing the exact words he used when making his enquiry.

Returning home late one freezing cold winter’s morning from what may have been a midnight Drive In, Polly and I were snuggled together using each other’s body heat to de frost ourselves. After a while we both fell sound asleep long before arriving back at the club.

Upon reaching the clubs car park, Jim took Lu home and after throwing a blanket over Polly and me, all the others adjourned to the club and headed for the bunkhouse. When I opened my eyes I noticed the sun had risen, it obviously was morning. Polly was cradled in my arms, her head resting on my chest, still sound asleep. Attempting to look at my wrist watch I caused her to stir and it wasn’t too long before she opened her eyes. She placed her arms around my neck and reached up and kissed me ever so tenderly on the lips, then after a moment snapped to attention and asked almost frantically “Oh my God, What time is it?” I told her it was eight thirty and she panicked, “Mum and Dad are going to kill me,” she stated and commenced to leave the car to begin the 500 metre walk home north along the beach. I insisted on going with her and received another kiss on the cheek for my gallantry.

We entered the rear of the house via the kitchen door and lo and behold Mum and Dad were sitting at the breakfast table waiting for us. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I noticed Mum turn her head away to hide what I thought was a silly smile on her face. Dad, dropping his voice at least two octaves, enquired of his young and exceptionally pretty daughter, “And what have you been up to until this totally unacceptable hour young lady?” Polly’s reply was truthful yet extremely incriminating, “Nothing Dad, I only spent the night sleeping with Pogo.” Bloody hell! Thanks a lot Pol; just what your Dad wanted to hear. Expecting Polly’s poorly phrased excuse to go down like a lead balloon, I immediately started looking for a large hole to jump into when her Mum gave a little squeak and started to shake uncontrollably and Dad began laughing so loud I thought he was going to wet himself. It turned out that Lu had informed her parents of our situation and everything was cool. I even scored a free breakfast.

There were of course other young and virile members of the opposite sex who were part of our exclusive little clique. The two Kiwis, Jocelyn and Carol, Patti and Carolyn, who became our partners eventually, sandgropers Lynn and Julie, my matchmaking local cutie Denise and various others whose names now escape me, much to my shame and sorrow. Was life tough? Whaddya reckon?

MIDSUMMER FOGS

One thing I loathed and detested was returning home on a Sunday evening to face another 5 days at work away from the beach. This became much more bearable when Lulu offered to drive me home in the little grey Italian rocket. This was to become a regular occurrence and became even more exciting when Polly obtained her driving licence and when Jim drove Lu home in his car, she would drive me home in Lulu’s. We always left Avalon at 8pm sharp and would arrive outside my Annandale home around 9pm. It did not matter who drove me home, saying goodnight to one another became almost an erotic art form. At any time from 9:30 pm to 11:00pm I would finally enter the house, leaving the Fiat with enough moisture on its windows to indefinitely support a small human colony on the planet Mars. A mate of mine who lived several houses up the street used to quite often pass by at around 9:15pm on his way home from a milk bar in Stanmore where he worked. On two consecutive Sunday evenings he recognised me saying goodnight to Lu and Polly respectively and assumed we were engaged in doing a whole lot more than we actually were.

The following Wednesday evening while we were all walking to the local cinema, he told some of the Annandale mob what he thought he had seen. Ashamedly, I did not contradict his version of the perceived back seat activities and for quite some time I became a local legend inundated with enquiries about what does one do to join a surf lifesaving club.

Approximately 12 months later when competing at the Manly surf carnival, I was more than just mildly surprised to meet several of the old Annandale gang, happy and content with their new adopted lifestyle within the beach and surf lifesaving culture. Although not as surprised to learn that I was a clubbie, some of them had serious and genuine concerns about my sanity when they discovered I was a member of the boat crew.

The following is something that my old mate Schooners at Brunswick knows all about. He too in his early clubbing years travelled on the legendary 190 from Wynyard to Avalon. I’ve often wondered if Fibbers* did.... Hmmh! an interesting thought, if not frightening.

THE NORTHERN BUS PRIAPUS………OR HOW TO GET A HEAD IN LIFE

Although described accurately at another web site by a former clubbie, I nevertheless feel compelled to inform anyone interested, of a physical condition known as either Travellers Cock, or Convoy Cock. I preferred to call it, Pilgrims Prick. Due to the fact, that my insatiable appetite for ice cold amber fluid kept me both broke and carless for the first five years, my only means of transportation was the public kind. It mattered not what time of day or evening one boarded the 190, somewhere before reaching Avalon, the dreaded PP would strike without warning. Alighting from a double decker was not a major problem as all one had to do was to gallop down the stairs at the rear of the bus, then out the doorless opening. Leaving one of the more modern single deckers was a different kettle of fish, as one generally was seated at the back of the bus. All one could do was to look straight ahead, weave or barge one’s way towards the front of the bus, hoping not to impale any fellow commuters along the way, or causing elderly female passengers to either faint or possibly recall erotic memories of their youth.

While enjoying a cappuccino at, what was then the La Fiesta coffee lounge, much to my surprise, I was approached by one of the extremely good looking local sorts, who had what could be called a dubious reputation. We had coffee and I was invited to escort her home to North Avalon. She didn’t seem concerned that we would have to take the 190 bus and appeared not to be put off by the fact that I was only wearing a pair of Speedo budgie smugglers at the time. She too was only wearing a one piece, but she looked a lot better in hers than I did in mine. The bus journey was only three or four stops and lasted approximately three to four minutes, yet, you guessed it, the dreaded PP began to raise its ugly head. [What an unfortunate but extremely descriptive choice of words]. I have no idea whether it was simply the curse of the dreaded 190, or the fact that her smooth, warm outer thigh was touching mine, but Mother Nature sent the blood flowing to where it believed it would do the most good. Not having my overnight bag, or even my hat or cap, all I could do was keep my knees together and my hands crossed you know where. We left the bus after the cheeky conductress, sporting a Cheshire cat like grin, informed me that I was taking up too much room on the seat, but then insisted that I accept a free ride. " You deserve it," she said.........Bitch! My female companion never made any comment until we arrived at her place, where we discovered her mum was still at home, so putting to an end any hanky panky that may, or may not have happened. She thanked me for seeing her home and told me she had truly enjoyed my company and when I told her that I too had enjoyed hers, her response was, with a saucy wink of the eye, “So I noticed.” I pole vaulted all the way back to the beach for a long overdue soaking in the cold surf.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Hardly any clubbie was called by his given name, but by a nickname determined by some real or imaginary personal trait......................Check out some of the following.

Fibbers, Pedro, Beast, Swizzle, Rodent, Pogo, Smiley, Doc, Roscoe, JD, Dirty Pierre, Kegs, Guts, Doberman, Fat Man, Feltex, Drovers Dog, Mulga, Mumbles, Bombhead, Nikko, Slippery, Abo, The Face, Wal the Plumber, Schnoz, Farls, Schooners, Nipper, Boots & younger brother Thongs, Scotty, Mort the Sport, Sam, Burgho, Ding King, Splasher, Snap, Friendly, Lump, Bazza, The Mouth, Bull, Wocker, The Bear, Robbo, Wop, Davo, Clem, Mongrel, Churchy, Macca and finally, The Little King. There were many others I feel sure, but these are a few that readily came to mind.

Fibbers*...... What is extremely long, round, black and full of seamen? The answer is a submarine. Remove the word black and replace it with tanned and the answer becomes Fibbers, or at least one important part of his anatomy.

Alive and kicking.

2008-10-19T15:30:00.031+11:00

GIMME, GIMME, GIMME

The late and lamented master of jazz, Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong made famous the classic song, ‘What a wonderful world.’ Material possessions help to ease the daily burden for some, but what provides contentment and satisfaction are Mother Nature and people.

Nature when left to its own devices takes care of itself, people on the other hand at times find this extremely difficult. Over the years fads come and go and society as a whole quite often tends to paint itself into a corner. Not that long ago life was nowhere near as confusing and complicated as it is today. Men went to work to support the family and the wife saw to the kids, did the housework and provided the meals.

Today this is an impossibility as day to day expenses make it a necessity for both parties to have full time employment. When I married back in 1972, it became essential for Gabi and I to both seek work so ends could be met. The question I have heard asked on more than one occasion is how come years ago people survived on one wage and maintained a standard of living considered comfortable at the time. The answer is that today, technology has created numerous labour saving devices that formerly were unheard of. Consider the following...........

Mobile phones, Plasma & LCD Televisions, DVD players & recorders, Ipods, Home theatre sound equipment, Computers & the trappings that go with them, Home Air Conditioning ( Reverse cycle & Ducted ), Digital this and Automatic that. These are not seen as luxuries but as necessities and what is used to pay for them all, the dreaded, but widely used credit card. Only buy something when you can afford it......don’t be silly, how quaint and old fashioned.

Our TV screens, our books and magazines promote pure unadulterated mediocrity. Our politicians deal out spin and ignore the well being of their constituents and continue to sing their own praises while everything goes to Hell. Promiscuous and at times criminal behavior by prominent people does not prevent them from being treated as normal folk and more than often they actually profit from their clandestine activities. It must be said that society has indeed been brainwashed into accepting crap as quality and in many cases has embraced and fondled it. Examples are tastes in music and many of the mini talented artists regarded as superstars, reality television, overseas but mostly local poorly scripted and acted TV dramas, meaningless Logie awards and Gay Mardi Gras parades with the same old tired sagging tits and bums mincing their way along Oxford St. using the same old boring choreography from years gone by.

Anyway enough is enough, despite all this, there thankfully are still some out there who refuse to adhere to political correctness and its intrusion into basic civil liberties. These people are the silent majority, whose silence encourages the dumb and misguided buffoons into believing their beliefs are those of the majority. Not rocking the boat will never stop the minority from having its deluded way. Tell the fools what you truly believe and not what you think they want to hear. Do not remain silent as it allows the noisy minority to set and introduce their misguided agendas and criticise those who oppose them. Even though I'll be toes up at Ryhope before it happens, the day will come when the silent majority will eventually see to it that true and proper values will return and the obsession with and encouragement of promiscuity along with the promotion of garbage as quality will be confined to where the Creator of the Universe intended it all to be in the first place........Channel Ten.

The bulk of my life may be over, but a percentage of it will still have to be lived and boy, am I going to live it. It truly is a wonderful world, it’s merely some of the idiots living in it that are the problem. All that's required is to live life to the full, follow your conscience, keep the boat rocking and don’t give those PC bastards an even break.

The tales that follow may indicate to some that I was no different than many modern day brain dead hoons, but the only people who were harmed were those who deserved it........mostly it was me.

(# 2) Onya Bike! (Part 2)

2008-10-17T18:28:00.029+11:00

The Track

Lateral Hazard

Owzat? Ya mug!!!

(From Tiger Territory, Pre Teen Years Part 1)

This is only a continuation of Tiger Territory, the Pre Teen Years, which happens to be way down the bottom, quite near Jilly, whose bottom I became completely infatuated with all those misspent decades ago.

This, along with all other essays, recalls with dubious accuracy the times and events of the 1940’s, 50’s and 60,s. A great time to live? Probably not, but back then it was the now and many of us took full advantage of it and enjoyed every second.

At the northern end of Nelson St. and across the road there was a circular beaten dirt track where horse owners would exercise their nags. The local push bike riding fraternity put this track to good use. Mounds of dirt and rubbish would be piled high to resemble a crude but effective obstacle course, not too unlike a modern day BMX track. Bikes could be seen flying through the air almost in orbit with the occasional bingle leaving the odd rider motionless in a pile of dirt and horse manure that was in abundance. I happened to be one of the premium riders and won more than my share of races, why oh why did some one with my ability and experience use the front brake at the top of the steepest mound? Twelve started the race and none finished. I went to an early lead and maintained it for at least three laps. Up the highest and steepest mound I sailed, but for some inexplicable reason I touched the front brake. The bike suddenly stopped dead and did a complete 180 degree flip and for several seconds I became Rocket man, hurtling through the atmosphere to land ungracefully with a dull Squelch in a steaming great pile of horse shit. Shortly afterwards I was joined by my bike, followed by 11 other competitors and their equipment and when the dust and dried out manure settled what remained resembled the New York Trade Centre after 911. Apart from the odd graze and missing pieces of flesh, there were no serious injuries, although it took me three to four weeks to bash my front forks back into almost their proper position.

When I arrived home later on, Uncle Jack asked me if I had been rolling around in horse shit. I answered, “I certainly have, you should have been there to see it?” He gave me a puzzled look but said nothing.

I am sure it was on a Saturday, Owen, Jim and I decided to go on a long bike riding trip. We rode non stop for what seemed like an eternity and eventually ended up at Riverstone. We had lunch at Jim’s Auntie’s house and then proceeded to ride the long distance home. When I look at the street directory today, I am still amazed at the distance we covered during that odyssey, my God we must have been fit. I kept this trip a secret from the family as I was convinced my Mum would have freaked out.

On some summer weekends we would head for the Flats to boot the football around, but were disappointed to find the cricket pitch in use. Some of the fairly well to do bods were members of the local cricket team and played in a well organized competition. They were all resplendent in their creams and every team member appeared to own at least three bats and had their own pads and protectors. I can’t recall where it originated, but a challenge was issued and a fair dinkum cricket match was to be held at the Flats one Saturday….The Cricket Club versus the Ferals. My memory, unfortunately is too vague to recall any details of this match, but it was a complete and well attended success.

Us ferals were given pads and protectors to wear and what a sight we were, not one of us dressed the same, whilst the opposition looked sartorially elegant in their spotless creams. All I can state truthfully is the greasy unwashed Ferals belted the crap out of the so called specialists. We defeated them by almost a complete innings. The parents sat there looking like stunned mullets, unable to comprehend what had just transpired. I seem to recall some of them were not too gracious in defeat, but a return match was never arranged as the writing was now on the wall and further humiliation was not going to be tolerated.

(Part 3... Nelson St. Blues)

Listen very carefully

2008-10-17T17:28:00.060+11:00

The Wireless

The King of Sydney radio was undoubtably New Zealand born Jack Davey. He went on to become a living legend with his Quiz shows that more than matched Bob Dyer's and his hilarious comedy shows that guaranteed many a belly laugh. His schedule was a fairly hectic one, as his shows were on 5 nights a week and he used to narrate the Movietone News every weekend at the Theatrettes that were common then, back in the 40's and 50's. The photo above shows how keen he was when recovering from an operation. He thought it would be a great idea to broadcast from his hospital bed and he did just that. He was truly one in a million.

Superman ( 1940's style ) Kirk Alyn

Lois Lane & Clark Kent ( Noel Neill & Kirk Alyn )

When Davey and Dyer were the KIngs

Television seemed to divide its viewers and still does, whereas radio or the wireless as it was mainly called, somehow managed to unite its listeners. Today, one would roll around the floor in fits of laughter if it were possible to listen to what was regarded years ago as top quality programs.

Not that long from now the same thing is certain to occur if the next generation is given the opportunity to watch the current tripe that is being presented and accepted as top quality entertainment and gets to listen to the talentless groups and individuals being passed off as singers and entertainers. Reality television along with just about all locally produced TV dramas will have heads shaking in disbelief when the absence of realistic plots and the atrocious acting is noted.

For some reason radio programs all sounded as though they were all made in the same studio, regardless of where they were produced, either in Oz or overseas.

Davy Crockett

Me Tarzan, you are Jane,my goodness Maureen dear,

The breeze blows strong, it won't be long, we'll see Tasmania clear

Who said the thirties films and pics, were extremely bland and duller

This ones clear that Tarzan here, was lucky Johnny Weismuller

Jane's ensemble makes it certain, the ape man would not leave her

With jungle lust, he couldn't just, leave it to the beaver

She's sitting down, on God knows what and both his arms are free

Maybe Johnny's just excited and her he's glad to see

Now don't be dense, it all makes sense, that not just any chap

Nor any bloke, except Greystoke, that Jane lets near her flap

Her loin skin doesn't cover much, just like a modern cozzie

Like something you'd expect to see on Mambo's Cheyenne Tozzi

If Maureen was alive today, she'd set mens hearts on fire

A juicy peach on Wanda beach, sex symbol of the Shire

The Goons. Sellars, Secombe, Milligan.

Smoky Dawson

Bob and Dolly

Race Day

When people dined at Tables

Long before the appearance of Television, VCR’s, DVD’s and Ipods etc. the main source of entertainment was the good old radio. Daytime radio was mostly songs from the Hit Parades that every station would broadcast at least once a week. Rock’n’Roll was just beginning to take off and a whole new culture began to raise its head. Every Friday evening the top ten records would be played on several stations and would attract a large audience. Back then it was retail sales over the counter that determined what, or what was not popular, unlike today when a so called artist can be awarded gold and platinum records before their record is even released. The two main personalities on radio were Jack Davey on 2GB and Bob Dyer on 2UE. They controlled the airwaves. Monday to Friday the masses would be huddled around the wireless as it was called, listening to the madcap quiz programmes that Bob Dyer excelled at and the comedy shows that were Jack Davey’s speciality. These shows began around 7 pm. through until 9pm. and would be responsible for many a hearty belly laugh. Arriving home from school around 4pm. it was my job to light the stove and get the vegies under way, then at 5:30pm. I would settle down to listen to the radio serials that almost every station broadcast.

Davy Crockett, Tarzan of the apes, Rocky Jones Space Ranger, Tom Corbett Space Cadet, Superman, Gunsmoke, Tim Barr and Smoky Dawson with his sidekick Jingles were just some of the shows that come to mind. Uncle Dave would leave the Angel hotel in the city 30 minutes early on the night that Gunsmoke was on and would eat his dinner while kneeling on the floor with his ear pressed hard up against the speaker. Uncle Jack’s favourite was Leonard Teale as Superman whilst mine were Tarzan and Disney’s Davy Crockett. Each and every weekend all of NSW would tune into Frank Hydes call of the match of the day at the SCG. In the summer months it was Alan McGilvray calling the cricket. Listening to a Kangaroo’s match live from the north of England was a noisy, hissy affair as it was a short wave broadcast and relied on perfect weather conditions to be heard. There was something special about spending a freezing cold winters evening gathered around the radio, listening to the Friday night Hit Parade, the room being warmed by the coke fired Kosi stove with either Paddy the Border Collie or Jock the Sealyham snoring on the floor in front of it.

Some of the local radio stars apart from Bob and Jack were Keith Walshe, Howard Craven, Willie Fennell, Terry Dear and the comedy team of Ada and Elsie. The most popular singer at the time was the inimitable Gladys Moncrieff, affectionately known as ‘Our Glad.’ Madcap overseas programs such as The Goons attracted huge audiences. A similar show to the Goons was produced in South Australia and was a big hit with both young and old, it was called, ‘Yes What.’ Ken Howard was the premier race caller and a popular racing programme every Saturday morning was Clarence the Clocker. There were many more, but it was so long ago that one’s memory lets one down. With the advent of television, some of the radio stars successfully made the changeover, but many did not. A prime example was the legendary Jack Davey who was at best mediocre. What was not widely known at the time was Jack had cancer and it was only a matter of time before he would no longer be with us. Jack Davey’s closest friend was his No.1 rival Bob Dyer and although they were all the time taking the mickey out of one another, it was a friendship that lasted up until Jack’s passing. For at least two hours every Saturday morning, the whole of Sydney would be watching the Nock and Kirby sponsored ‘Joe the Gadget Man.’ Towards the end of the 1950’s the transistor radio exploded onto the scene and changed everything. Radio became almost the way it is today and all those serials along with the hilarious comedy shows simply faded away and were sadly consigned to the scrapheap of broadcasting history. Television at first did not do radio any favours and was eventually responsible for the closure of many suburban cinemas and Drive Ins. The old hilarious radio programs may be gone, but the immediacy of radio news reporting saw to a revival in its popularity that remains today.

Tasmania 1969. Part 1

2008-10-14T11:55:00.042+11:00

The Empress of Australia ( Long since sunk )

"Oh no, not the gravy"

Launceston

Boutique coffee break at Roscoes Cuz's

A day at the races

Boags best

"I'll never drink again"

Chug a lug.....Down the hatch

"You want me to walk on what?"

The Southern Odyssey begins.....

THE SOUTHERN ODYSSEY

It was late February 1969, my stepfather Jim had just dropped me off at the Balmain wharf, where the Empress of Australia should have been preparing to depart for the island state of Tasmania. There was some kind of industrial dispute taking place and the ship’s departure was going to be delayed indefinitely. I informed my step dad of the problem and recommended he head back home, which he eventually did. I then joined forces with my eleven other travelling companions and we all proceeded to wait impatiently for the crew to sort out their differences with management. There were ten of us Avalon guys and two from the Mona Vale club. We had agreed we would be competing as Avalon Beach after arriving in Tassie. We had three cars with us and these were driven on board by their owners. None of us thought to keep a jacket and tie handy as we were unaware at the time that it was going to be minimum attire during dinner on the ship.

Just as we were on the verge of locating a local watering hole to quench our rapidly increasing thirst, an announcement was forthcoming requesting that all passengers board the ship as it would be leaving shortly. We boarded and were shown to our cabins that each contained two double bunks. Shortly afterwards we were informed by the ships Purser that we would have to venture down into the bowels of the ship to obtain our jackets and ties. What a nuisance, bloody protocol. We were all on the passengers deck at the pointy end of the ship as it left its berth. I kid you not, by the time we were about to pass under the coat hanger, I was as crook as Rookwood and me a boatie. I hasten to add that I was not on my Pat Malone. There were at least four of us whose complexions resembled Kermit the frog or the ogre Shrek. Sydney Harbour, what a beautiful part of the planet. Trouble was I was feeling so seedy that I was unable to appreciate one of the worlds most beautiful sights.

The gravy made me do it

We passed through The Heads and headed south hugging the NSW coastline along the way. Thank God the bar and restaurant were situated in the middle of the ship where the dipping and rocking were not as noticeable. I could not believe it, here I was on board a large vessel, being waited on, along with my surf club mates, yet every sip of beer nearly was regurgitated. Bloody Hell, I felt like crap. I discovered the stern of the boat was the best place to relax in a comfortable deck chair and most of the afternoon was spent snoozing. By dinner time I was feeling much, much better. I had been informed that club captain Peter Coleman and I would be dining with the ships officers at their table. I was waiting for the Maitre D’ to escort me to my table and began waving to Pete who was already seated with the officers. Whilst waiting, a nearby table was being served and two of the passengers had ordered the roast pork. After their plates were placed before them, the waiter began to ladle copious quantities of steaming gravy over the meat. I quickly caught Pete’s attention, shook my head, then sprinted to the nearest ships rail and left a trail of my stomach contents from Bega to Bass Strait.

The chunder must have done the trick. I slept like a log that evening and when the next day dawned, I never felt better and ate a large breakfast of sausages, bacon and eggs with baked beans on toast. The remainder of the voyage was extremely windy in more ways than one. Later that morning we were all participating in the shipboard activities. Shuttlecock was quite good until we ran out of cocks, all of which eventually ended up in the Tasman Sea. Similarly, Deck Quoit tennis came to an end when all of the little brown rope circles were last noticed disappearing over the top of the meshed netting erected to prevent the little brown rope circles from disappearing over the said same meshed netting. The popular game of Deck Quoits was the most successful as no quoits were lost, but several passengers were sent base over apex by having their feet taken from underneath them by speeding quoits and others would see their gin and tonic suddenly vanish after a circular missile that had inadvertently strayed off course flew by. Some of our more refined team members would be seen taking beef tea during mid morning and mid afternoon……..Ah! Nothing like a cup of Bonox....Bleah! At approximately 4 pm. the northern coastline of the Apple Isle appeared over the distant horizon and before we knew it our vessel was preparing to dock at Bells Bay. The welcoming committee consisted of one solitary fur seal bobbing up and down in the ocean approximately 25 miles off shore. He or she simply trod water no more than 10 metres out from the ship's starboard side and honked out a greeting to us all as we sailed past.

Launceston

Tassie had daylight saving. What the hell’s that we asked. After setting our watches one hour forward we drove the twenty odd miles into the city of Launceston. A suitable camping area was located and our twelve foot square tent was erected. Each of the tourists were allocated twelve square feet of the tent. No one had bunks, merely sleeping bags, which were laid out on top of a canvas ground sheet. We all set out to sample some of the local brew known as Boags. Entering our first pub a round was ordered and we discovered the only beer on tap was VB, so after downing this more than acceptable refreshment, we departed to locate a pub that sold the local brew, namely Boags. The hotel we entered was the St. George. What a well appointed friendly pub it was too. We and the hotel management, at this stage of our odyssey, had no idea what was going to happen almost two weeks later in this very same hotel. I cannot recall what dinner was that evening, although I’m fairly certain it would have been fast food purchased at some greasy spoon establishment. Suffice to say it was well and truly washed down with copious quantities of Boags lager……..Good drop.

Waking up the following Saturday morning with a tomahawk between one’s eyes was not a good way to start the day. Merely the thought of breakfast was enough to make one dry retch. Our beloved club captain and team leader Peter announced that we were to attend a party in our honour that evening. Our host was a former member of the Avalon club whose name I’ve never been able to recall.

Ross Lumsden had a cousin who owned a boutique in the heart of town, we were all invited to visit her and have a friendly cup of coffee in the shop. Three cars set out to locate her boutique and to purchase three eskys along the way. The locals had no idea what an esky was. You know, you put grog in it and fill it full of ice. Oh! You must mean a portable fridge. OK, have it your way, where can we buy one? I was in the third car piloted by the inimitable James Demos. We were lost. Oh look two coppers, let’s ask them if they know where the boutique is. We pulled up in the Saturday morning peak hour shopping traffic and made our enquiry. “What the bloody hell’s going on at this place?” asked one of the wallopers, “You’re the third carload of guys to ask that question.” Arriving at the shop that was in an arcade near the city’s centre, our hostess did not appear to be too overwhelmed with the presence of such a magnificent gathering of Australia’s finest, who had commenced putting a large hole in her stock of coffee and ate all her cakes and biscuits that I assume were there for the benefit of her clients. We were not alarmed or surprised when our two young policemen pounding the beat were sighted outside the shop squinting through the window. They were invited to join us and our invitation was gratefully accepted. Twenty minutes later they departed full of cream cakes and Monte Carlo’s washed down with the odd cup of coffee. When our hostess’s kitchen resembled a wheat field after a plague of locusts had swept through it, we said our farewells and returned to our tent to ascertain what was next on our busy itinerary.

A day at the races

It was agreed that we attend the Launceston races that afternoon and at the appropriate time we drove to the track clad in clothing that would make a Big Brother housemate look almost well dressed. Our three vehicles entered the race track through a gate that was signed, ‘Owners and Trainers Entrance.’ There did not appear to be anyone in authority attending, so we simply drove through waving like British royalty to the crowds of horse racing enthusiasts going about their business. Arriving on the course proper we split into two groups of six. One of these groups went missing and whilst in the throes of finding them the second group heard a series of loud shouts originating from a section of the main grandstand. There they were, God bless their little cotton socks, all comfortably seated behind a large sign on the front of the stand that read, ‘Reserved for Members, Owners and Trainers.’ A great day was had by all. My day ended on a high note. I was down the gurgler with only one race to go, so I backed a long shot that managed to shove its nose in front during the last two strides….Protest! Oh, piss off…..Protest dismissed, You little bottler. I broke even….Phew! We did achieve some notoriety as the Sunday papers reported that a scruffy bunch of loud hooligans had put a damper on a successful days racing carnival by refusing to stand for the national anthem. What national anthem we asked? It was God save the Queen……We’re not Poms, we’re Aussies. If they had played ‘Tie me kangaroo down sport,’ or something similar, we would have proudly rose to our feet and more than likely sung a chorus or two. I have no idea why, but one particular tune became our theme song throughout our two week adventure. It was, ‘Lily the Pink.’

All around the four corners of the Apple Isle, the strains of this inspirational ditty would be heard emanating from the Avalon Beach Travelling Music and Amber Fluid Imbibing Society as they left their trail of destruction behind them.

The party, allegedly held in our honour that evening, took place in a large extremely well appointed two storey house. What a thrill it must have been for the visiting Surfers Paradise Water Skiing Team to be invited to this party and to be introduced to famous celebrities such as, Denis Casali, Ross Lumsden, Jim Demos, John Doring etc. Our host, silly, misguided fool that he was, told us to help ourselves to a fridge choc a bloc with 750 ml. cans of Carlton Draft. This fridge was discovered in an upstairs kitchen around midnight. It contained 20 dozen cans of Victoria’s finest brew. Fifty percent of this liquid gold was sent hurtling through one of the second floor windows and came to rest neatly packed in the boot of one of the cars. Weren’t we lucky to have bought those three eskys earlier that morning.

The Low Head surf carnival

What happened after that, I don’t know. All I can remember was waking up the next day vowing never to drink ever again. One could not be this crook and still be alive. Pete announces that we are to compete in a surf carnival at Low Head Beach that afternoon. Low Head is Launceston’s main beach and surf club. Oh, come on Pete, we can hardly stand, let alone compete in a carnival. It’ll be good publicity said Pete. Yeah sure, just read the obituaries in the following mornings newspapers, we’ll all get a mention. The surf carnival was the grand final for the five Northern Tasmanian clubs that were competing. Only two points separated all five teams in the annual points score competition, any club could win it. The five clubs were Low Head. Burnie, Penguin. Devonport and Ulverstone. The beach was completely covered in spectators. It seemed the whole of Launceston had turned out to witness the days competition. Well I’ll be buggered, the PA announcer used to be a member of the Avalon surf club, or so he said. He announced the following, “We are thrilled and honoured to have competing at today’s carnival members from the well known and extremely competitive Avalon Beach Surf Life Saving club from the Northern Beaches of Sydney.” The whole beach stood as one and we were given a standing ovation. Despite the massive amounts of local brew that was hindering our ability to remain vertical, let alone compete in a satisfactory manner, we were able to be quite competitive. We entered in 13 events and were only out of a place in one of them. Guess whose event?

The belt race. Avalon’s representative, Trevor ( Pogo ) Fuller. Me a belt swimmer, Get your hand off it Darryl……I should have called tails. There we were all seven of us lined up on the beach opposite our respective buoys. I was on the left looking at a tiny red and yellow dot floating on the horizon. On my right attempting to locate his black buoy was another invitee. He was a member of the Tasmanian Olympic swimming squad and he looked raring to go. The other lot were from the five local surf clubs. The gun went off and we all sprinted into the completely flat ocean, water temperature 13 degrees Celsius. This wasn’t a surf race it was more like a beach sprint. Fifty metres out and it was still only shin deep. Finally, freestyle at last. The Olympic swimmer on my right took off like a rubber duckie and reached his buoy in no time. I was breathing on my right side and could see the five Tassie guys and me were all in a straight line. I was doing OK. Fifteen metres to go and I was in the lead. Five metres later I hit the wall. My arms suddenly became spaghetti, my horizontal body was now two thirds underwater at a 45 degree angle and I could feel the contents of my stomach beginning to rise from within. One by one I was aware of the other competitors reaching their buoys and raising their hands. At last I made it……dead last. “Onya Avalon,” said the duty boat sweep, just as the whole of my mornings breakfast and a considerable quantity of lasts nights Carlton Draught spewed forth all over the red and yellow buoy. “Well I’ll be stuffed, look at that,” commented one of the duty boat guys pointing to a piece of toast that still had butter on it. It was floating amongst the multi coloured cloud of organic matter that was beginning to spread and surround me and the Olympic swimmer, who decided to add his contribution by having one in sympathy.

The beach sprint. No such thing as heats, quarters, semis and finals down south. One hundred and fifty odd budgie smuggler clad individuals lined up at one end of the beach jostling, shoving and elbowing each other and when the starters pistol fired, it was the Zulus’ attacking Rorkes Drift all over again. Avalon’s former Balmain winger Denis Casali won the event. Thank God he didn’t fall over during the race. It would have taken Tony Robinson and his Time Team more than their usually allotted three days to dig him out. Using Low Heads work boat our scratch senior crew finished second in the boat race and the junior crew won their race…..so they should, none of them were under 19. The results did not count as we were competing strictly under invitation. If my memory is correct, we were third in the Tug a War, second in the board paddle race, second in the beach flags and Johnnie Towner and I gave the ski race a nudge by finishing second and third. Not a bad effort for twelve hung over inebriates. At day’s end the PA announcer thanked us for our attendance and participation and for the second time that day we were given a standing ovation by the huge crowd who had stayed until the final event.

Drinking and Fire walking

None of us returned home to our tent that evening. The Low Head blokes put on a barbecue in our honour alongside the ruins of the old surf club building on the beach. We were joined by a couple of Dee Why guys and several fantastic miscreants from the Burning Palms club south of Sydney. Along with many Tasmanian guys from the northern beaches clubs we began to give the Boags quite a nudge and by the time the sun had set we were all steamed up. A massive great bonfire was lit, the glow of which would have been seen from southern Victoria, if not the actual flames. The Tasmanian Beer drinking competition was about to begin. One ten ounce glass of Boags held aloft then downed in one mouthful and the glass placed upside down on one’s head. A highly qualified judge would then check to see if ones crown was still dry and if so a green flag would be raised to signify a legal attempt. There were heats, followed by even more heats, quarterfinals followed by semi finals and finally only two left standing. The only major event I have ever won turned out to be the Tasmanian Drinking competition. What a marvellous item to appear on ones CV.

A ten inch diameter hardwood tree had been placed on top of our bonfire and the flames were licking their way around it. Some fool suggested we begin fire walking. Sure, why not? Yeah, let’s do it. Where’s the fire? Oh I see, OK I’ll be in it. The idea was to mount the log and shuffle ones way to its end. Ones foot would then be placed in the middle of the flames licking around the log whilst precariously balancing oneself above the white hot embers and the odd flame below. The longer one remained balanced surrounded by the flames the more points one earned. Were we completely off our faces? Of course we were. Surprisingly everything went off semi smoothly until one of the Burning Palms guys slipped and fell into the middle of the fire. He was dragged out as quickly as possible and was seen to have serious burns around and underneath his left armpit. He simply said “She’ll be right” and poured two 10 ounce glasses of beer over the bare burnt flesh. A week later he was seen competing at the Aussie championships without a worry in the world. The bonfire was kept ablaze all night as it was needed. No one had sleeping bags and it was real brass monkey weather that evening. We all fell asleep around the fire and remained comfortable, warm and cosy. I awakened with a loud shout when a red hot ember spat from the fire and landed on my bugle…..I still have the scar to this very day.

( Continued.....Tasmania 1969. Part 2 )

Tasmania 1969. Part 2

2008-10-14T10:20:00.027+11:00

Bicheno

Port Arthur

Breakfast

Dinner

Clifton Beach

Hobart

Naughty Nurses

Naughty Nurse Penitentiary

The Odyssey continues.....from Part 1

The next morning we struck the tent and filled the eskys with ice and Carlton Draught and set off for a journey down the east coast towards Port Arthur. We stopped for lunch at a pie shop in Avoca. We were going to visit St. Helens, but a last minute decision to turn right instead of left was made and we found ourselves heading for the fishing village of Bicheno. What a pretty place was Bicheno. We pitched our tent in a camping area almost opposite the pub and attempted to find someone to pay the one dollar camping fee to. No one put their hand up so we saved ourselves a dollar. On holidays in Bicheno and having the odd one at the pub was the Mayor of Devonport, who struck up a conversation with some of the lads. Before the night had ended we were all promised a civic reception if or when we visited Devonport. Also enjoying the odd lager were some Lobster fishermen……oops pardon me, what I should have said was Cray fishermen. After ascertaining that there were twelve NSW tourists, they told us to have two to three blokes on the wharf at 5 am. the following morning, to assist them with raising the traps. They would then give us two dozen Cray fish as a thank you. The following morning three of the guys waited until 7:30 am. but no fishermen made an appearance. Sludge and I saw to it that everyone had a substantial breakfast and after a long walk around the area taking in the scenery, we all adjourned to the boozer for a few cold ones. Shortly before noon the Cray fishermen reappeared and apologised for sleeping in and presented us with the promised two dozen Cray’s. Our friendly publican was more than willing to throw them in the cooking pot for us. How long does it take to cook a Cray fish? Three and a half hours and many, many rounds later, the Cray’s were ready. We bid farewell to the locals and thanked the publican for the seafood and the many shouts that he paid for during the afternoon.

Swansea

Our three vehicle procession came to a halt at a neat little village called Swansea. Bladders were beginning to burst so a rest stop was in order. Sludge and I were talking with one of the locals at the bar of a nearby pub. Funny how we always seemed to gravitate towards these establishments on a regular basis. Sludge shouted this rather colourful character a beer and asked him what the fishing was like around nearby parts.

“Come outside and I’ll show you,” he replied and led us to the boot of his vehicle. Upon opening the boot we could see it was choc a bloc with a variety of freshly caught fish. He then insisted we take as much as was required to feed our touring party. We settled for two dozen. There were flathead, red bream , snapper, silver bream, john dory and flounder. We made room in one of our esky’s and after a few more beers we offered our thanks and said our goodbyes then headed off south to find a suitable place to clean the fish. We cleaned the fish on flat rocks near the ocean’s edge and were intrigued by the many sheep grazing in the surrounding fields. Some of these sheep were actually standing in the salt water as they were grazing nearby. The emerald green grass was growing strong and thick right up to the water’s edge.

Port Arthur

Shortly before sunset our three vehicles pulled into historical Port Arthur. As there was no one around to point us in the correct direction, we pitched our tent alongside what was once the inside of the main prison quarters. There was also a barbecue in close proximity, so out came our large hot plate and on went the billy along with the Cray fish. What a feast, it was almost as good as a nooky……mind you I said almost. After dinner it was off to the pub, merely a stone’s throw away. How strange of us to do such a thing. For the very first time the publican did not seem to show any interest in our little gaggle. We discovered he was losing heavily at blackjack. The local fishermen had just received their annual payment and it was evidently common for some of them to lose it all in one evening, playing cards. We all carried on drinking while the publican and two of the fisherman stood at the bar playing blackjack. Everyone slept like a log that evening and when dawn broke Towner and me went for an early morning ski paddle in the bay. The two of us were not that far off shore when the water between our two skis began to swirl. I can’t speak for John, but I can for myself. Three words came to mind, ‘White Pointer…..Shit,’ Before we could react, an enormous right whale broke the water, surfaced, blew its top and then disappeared into the watery depths. Our whole trip had been all worthwhile, what an experience.

Returning to shore Mother Sludge and I lit up the barbecue and on went the fish. What a breakfast. Later on that morning, six of us visited the local museum and were fascinated by the islands history. The other six were seen attempting to play that ridiculous southern football game that was pinched from the Irish during the mid 1800’s. How can anyone take seriously a game where you can actually score a point by missing. Our whole crew wandered through the many ruins and many of the sights were filmed on 8mm. Many will find the following hard to believe, we then all adjourned to the pub for the afternoon. Dinner that evening was a cold lobster salad with chips….only in Australia. It was agreed to head for Hobart the next morning, so off to the pub for a few farewell drinks before beddy byes. The publican would not stop apologising to us for his bad manners and sat with us and shouted on several occasions. We got the impression he may have either broken even or possibly have won at cards.

Hobart

The following morning, down came the tent and we were off to Hobart. We arrived late morning and had a few heart starters at one of the small pubs. I seem to recall having lunch at a café and the rest of the day was spent sightseeing. What a beautiful little city. We entered a caravan park and camping area at Sandy Bay. Up went the tent at the bottom of the hill and we took off looking for wreck to wreak. We arrived at what was Hobart’s equivalent of a top night spot and were permitted to enter despite not being properly attired. We were told that the big night was Friday and if we were interested in attending, collars and ties would have to be worn. The local girls never refused an invitation to dance, but restricted us to only one. We discovered that the Tassie girls insisted their guys dress up when on a night out. It turned out to be a fairly quiet night, but no one complained as bodies were slowly beginning to weaken.

The next morning the camping area manager informed us our tent should not be where it was. We were told to move it to the top of the hill where all the other tents were. No way were we going to pull the whole shebang down only to re erect it a few minutes later. One of the guys acted as a guide while all the others entered inside the tent and took hold of a pole. One, Two, Three, all lift. Up the hill we marched singing our favourite folk song, until we reached our designated spot. One caravan owner, recovering from a bender and obviously very much worse for wear, was heard to remark, “I’ve gotta give up the grog” and when asked why, he added, “I’ve seen many strange things in my life, but never have I ever seen a bloody great green and white tent moving up a hill singing 'Lily the fucking Pink.'

It was around this time that Sludge and I believed we needed to vary the menu. The two of us started doing deals with butchers and deli owners. Steak, chops and snags were fine, but we were able to add ham steaks with pineapple, beef and pork rissoles, bacon and eggs and on one occasion we even boiled some corned silverside. A typical twilight meal was pork patties, mashed potato, pumpkin or carrots with beans or peas, washed down with gum leaf tea and milk if required, followed by at least 15 eight ounce glasses of beer at the nearest pub. Friday morning we journeyed to Clifton Beach situated south east of Hobart. The Australian Titles had begun and when we arrived we were in time to watch the Taplin relay. Leading at the end of each discipline was the renowned Barry Rodgers from the Maroubra club. He had led all the way and was well in front in the final event, the surf race. A large wave started to develop out the back and enabled several surfers well behind Rodgers to catch a free ride home. We all felt sorry for the Maroubra legend as the broken wave along with the seven or so other competitors were about to swamp him. The broken wave completely enveloped him and proceeded on its way towards the beach. All of a sudden a head was seen emerging from within the wave and managed to ride it all the way to the shore. None of the other wave riders were able to stay with this dark form. It was Barry Rodgers. The whole beach rose as one to cheer him onward to victory. Along with the Port Arthur whale, this made our trip to Tassie more than worthwhile.

Naughty nurses

That evening six of our group were pictures of sartorial elegance as we set out for our night out at the Hobart night spot. The other six resembled something the cat had dragged in and refused to dress up at all. Arriving at the night club the six well attired ones were admitted, while the feral six were sent packing. We were seated with a handful of local guys and dolls and became one of the mob. Seated at a table adjacent to us was a rowdy bunch of trainee nurses from the Hobart hospital, who were obtaining great pleasure out of stirring our little well behaved collection of extremely well dressed individuals. Sludge and I invited them all to join us at our table and were instantly overrun by a mixture of perfumed flesh, skirts, petticoats, stockings, suspender belts and straps, with the odd pair of knickers making the occasional appearance. Picking ourselves up off the floor, Sludge and I wiped the footprints off our clothing and bodies and settled down to enjoy what now had the potential to be the third reason for making our trip more than worthwhile.

Shortly after the invasion of the Florence Nightingales there was a loud commotion coming from the clubs entrance. All of our ferals had returned and were creating quite a stir. It appears they stumbled onto a St Vincent De Paul op shop that happened to be open and purchased clothing thought to be suitable for the night club. They were all wearing schoolgirl blazers with contrasting piping around the lapels and edges. Two of these blazers had the word PREFECT sewn on above the school badge and all six were wearing school ties. The only exception was John Doring who was wearing black track suit trousers, green tee shirt and black French beret. He was passed off as a French lion tamer named Claude De Ball, but became known to all of us as Dirty Pierre. They were all allowed to enter and they soon joined our noisy misbehaving group. There were many patrons in the club who believed that this was all part of the floor show. Boy oh boy, these angels of mercy knew how to party and when it was time to leave at midnight they all insisted on returning to our tent at Sandy Bay. By rights they should have been back in their dormitory by pumpkin time, but were not overly concerned if they failed to meet this deadline.

Dead centre of Hobart

I cannot recall whether some of the other campers joined us or many others from the nightclub found their way into our tent that early morning, but the world and its dog seemed to be there. By 3 am. all but three of the nurses had made their way back to the hospital one way or the other. We offered to drive them home and they accepted. I think it was Jim Demos, Graeme Atkins and me who became their escorts. After pulling up near an annex to the main hospital building, Jim and Graeme were bid a fond good morning by their two partners, who then climbed into the annex through a sash cord window that had been closed but not locked. They waved goodbye and disappeared into the darkness. My gorgeous little brunette invited me to join her inside the building. I told Jim and Graeme I would make my own way back and they immediately drove off. In the window she went, followed by yours truly. We tip toed along short darkened corridors and entered a weird smelling room that was pitch black. My petite brown haired beauty went through a door into what I think was a corridor and returned shortly with a mattress she said she borrowed from the operating theatre. This mattress was put to extremely good use…..no more details will be forthcoming. As dawn approached certain features of the room began to take shape. I discovered we were in the Morgue, and we were not alone. I was shown two pairs of feet protruding from under a white sheet, both of which had a cardboard tag on the big toe. A sudden chill ran up my spine and after one last passionate goodbye smooch I headed for the window, hoping not to get lost on the way. I climbed out and roughly one hour later, just as the sun was rising, I snuck into the tent and crashed. Two hours later it was breakfast. After telling the guys where I had spent the night, I was asked were there any stiffs in the room. I answered that question quite truthfully when I said there were three. What I didn’t tell them was that only two of them were in the fridge.

One could be forgiven for thinking that touring Tasmania was simply a case of all beer and skittles and while this was true to a certain extent, there was a serious reason for the trip, competition. Despite the self inflicted pain, every one of our mischievous mob performed way above their potential at the Launceston surf carnival. Earning the plaudits of the large crowd and the local newspapers was not just good publicity for the Avalon club, but for the SLSA as well. Four of the tourists were members of my beach patrol at Avalon and at the end of the following season we became successful in winning the inter patrol competition after being runners up during the year of the trip. Every bloke had taken part in many life threatening situations involving the surf and were responsible for the saving of numerous lives at various times. Towards the end of 1969 some of these blokes were instrumental in assisting Avalon active members Warren Mitchell and former club captain John Fuller during the development of the first IRB (Inshore Rescue Boat). It was possible to perform an essential public service and still have the time and opportunity to have a lot of fun whilst doing so. Throughout the whole of the trip, the beach event competitors trained for at least two hours each and every day and sometimes at night. The slowest runner in the history of Australian surf lifesaving became the coach of the beach relay team. They never reached the quarters, but I’m certain they won a heat. To be honest, we were a little out of our depth during the national championships. We had some frightening draws and were behind the eight ball from day one.

The main entrance to Clifton Beach was at the end of a bitumen road. One then walked along a sandy right of way then onto the beach proper. The Tasmanian people were the most likable bunch one could ever wish to meet, but one image remains clear as crystal in my mind. The sandy right of way passed between two rural properties, both of which had barbed wire fences along their borders. The property on the left hand side had a large sign erected just inside the fence that read, ‘Trespassers will be shot.’ Welcome to Clifton Beach Tasmania folks.

( Continued.....Tasmania 1969. Part 3 )

Tasmania 1969. Part 3

2008-10-14T07:37:00.020+11:00

Aurora Australis over Hobart

Mount Wellington

Snowy Summit

Queenstown

Strahan

Zeehan

Burnie

Devonport

The Odyssey concludes.....from Part 2

At the end of the second days competition, our constitutions were beginning to slow down and Saturday night was a time for recovery. If my memory is correct we all had an early, sober night and at least 10 hours sleep. The competition ended Sunday afternoon and one of the local land owners allowed the SLSA to hold a massive farewell bash that evening on his property…..brave man. There was a rather steep admission fee to enter and be a part of this bash, but I assumed all of us would attend. I was wrong. Most of the mob wanted to revisit the popular night spot in Hobart where we entertained our wicked little trainee nurses and in return were suitably entertained by them. I had met this absolutely stunning long haired blonde who seemed to fancy me and who was looking forward to attending the rage that evening. I had a decision to make….The night club with the guys, or the farmers field with the blonde. I chose the latter. Just before dusk, Johnnie Towner dropped the two of us off at the huge gathering of Australia’s finest. As I watched John’s car disappear, I began to wonder how the hell was I to get home without transport, but, first things first. My blonde goddess didn’t hang around for too long. It turned out all she wanted was admission to the bash so she could locate her boyfriend and make up after a disagreement. I didn’t have time to grieve as a loud shout was heard, “Good day Avalon.” The shout came from several members of the South Narrabeen club who appeared to be well and truly in overdrive. “Where’s all your pissy mates? I was asked and after informing them I was invited to spend an evening of self destruction with them. The northern beaches flag had to be kept flying……and it was.

The Australian Drinking Championships

All through the night the sounds of raised voices blurting out profanities along with the pop and hiss of newly tapped kegs became music to my ears. The area around the bar was surrounded by towers of nine gallon aluminium kegs and when night fell it began to resemble the skyline of New York City. Some bloke from Penguin surf club shouts at the top of his voice, “Hey, there’s the piss pot that won the drinking championship at Low Head.” What drinking championship? The what? Whereabouts? What’s are fucking Low Head? Tasmanian championship, bollicks, let’s have a national…….Oh Shit, here we go again. Urged on by my south Narra mates, I breezed through the qualifying rounds, then the quarters and semis and for the second time that week, it became a one on one drink off. My opponent was a nine foot six tall Maori built like the proverbial brick shit house. Bloody hell, who sent you I thought, the Phillistines? What happened to the little Jewish kid with the slingshot, he must have been trampled underfoot? Fourteen times we downed our 10 ounce glasses without a result. On the fifteenth attempt, three of the five judges believed my crown was slightly damper than his and Goliath was declared Australian Beer Drinking Champion. It was traditional for the winner to then down a two litre jug of beer, but because I had made it such a close competition, I too was expected to do likewise. Down the hatch it went, not a struck match between us. The massive Kiwi placed his empty jug on the table, raised his arms above his head in triumph, burped, then fell to the ground and remained completely motionless for the next hour, despite several buckets of water being thrown on his prone, unconscious body. I was spirited away by my newly discovered companions, who knew what had to be done. They made me watch as one of them shoved two of his fingers up his backside, then down my throat. Revenge was swift and sweet, not a single solitary lumpy bit within the liquid laugh that followed missed him. Several others scattered in all directions to avoid the overspray.

A missing keg

I was carried to a parked car and unceremoniously deposited in the back seat and a blanket was thrown over me. Shortly after the vehicle quickly filled with rowdy drunks and we proceeded to leave. Just short of the main exit we found ourselves at the rear of stationary vehicles. We enquired what the problem was and were told that some of the nine gallon kegs had gone missing and spot checks were the order of the evening as vehicles were leaving. We were absolutely shocked and opened our car’s boot to await inspection. Eventually the rear door of the car opened and a friendly face bid me G’day, then after a quick look, shut the door. The boot was closed and we proceeded on our way. We arrived at our destination, the summit of Mount Wellington. It was absolutely freezing. The blanket covering me was removed and another blanket underneath my feet was dragged from the vehicle to reveal a nine gallon aluminium keg on the floor. Ah! Breakfast. Within an hour the keg was drained of its contents and rolled over the edge of the mountain. I was returned to the Sandy Bay camping area, but what followed I simply cannot recall. I remember waking up all warm and cosy in my sleeping bag. I could hear what sounded like young voices talking. “What is it?” “What, it’s a bloke is it?” “Shit he’s not dead is he?” “Should we call an ambulance?” I removed my head from the sleeping bag when someone began to kick me. Forming a circle around me were several Catholic school kids in uniform wondering what they had stumbled across. I was in the street, or should I say I was in the streets gutter. The grass footpath was at least 3 metres wide, then a barbed wire fence, then another 4 metres to the back of our tent in the camping area. For me to have rolled out here meant passing under the tents bottom flap, underneath the fence and eventually into the gutter and it was uphill all the way. How very strange. None of my travelling companions would admit to anything, only that I was a heavy snorer…….Hmmm!

Roscoes shout!

On the Monday morning it was recommended we have a day of rest, the almost constant raging was beginning to have an effect on us all. We arrived outside a pub, hoping to sip on the odd beer and lemon squash, but it had not yet opened. We decided to have a slow wander around the area and return when the hotel was open. Roscoe was buggered. He was not going to walk another inch. He sat on the footpath, his back up against the wall of the hotel and in no time he fell sound asleep. We left him there, but only after placing a hand written sign alongside him and an old empty jam tin between his legs. The sign read, ‘I am a lost and lonely lifesaver from Sydney, please help me to return home.’ When we returned 30 minutes later, he was still there snoring his head off with at least $10 in his jam tin. $10 then would be worth at least $100 today. We insisted he have a shout.

The carnival was well and truly over, it was time to strike the tent and continue our trek, this time in a westerly direction. Our up to date map of Tassie did not show any roads in the vicinity of the south west corner of the island, merely a notation that read, ‘This area as yet still unexplored.’ We decided that discretion would be the better part of valour and we agreed to head for the western town of Strahan. The mountain scenery was breathtaking and one was very easily distracted. This, at times became a bit of a worry, particularly after rounding a sharp bend and discovering half the road was missing. Whoa! When I says Whoa, I means Whoa!!! The three cars squeezed through, the right hand bumpers scraping on the almost vertical cliff face with the tyres on the left a good 4 inches in from a 1000 metre drop. We all were stunned the following day when one of the Narrabeen clubs arrived pulling the surf boat and trailer. They told us they simply carried it all across……..Dickheads.

Queenstown and Strahan

Queenstown, what a barren, yet unique place. Not a blade of any type of vegetation to be seen within miles of the town. The copper mining had denuded everything. Pete commented that the approaches reminded him of Spain. Before entering the town itself, we drove past the Aussie Rules field and one of our party noted that the softest part of the playing field was the moss growing on the rocks. The hotel we entered had all the lights dimmed, to the extent where it was difficult to see what was what. This was for the benefit of the miners who spent most of their working days underground in pitch black surroundings. We also noticed the miners who were downing a few were drinking 15 ounce schooners. This was a first as most Tazwegians tended to drink 6 and 8 ounce glasses. Later on that day we arrived in the extremely pretty fishing village of Strahan. We drove west of Strahan to where the road ended and for most of us it was our first look at the Indian Ocean. A feeling of complete and utter isolation gripped us all. It seemed as though we were standing at the literal end of the Earth. The beach we were standing on disappeared over the horizon where every now and then the light of a distant light house could be seen flashing. What a lonely windswept place. Returning to Strahan we pitched the tent, had a barbecue dinner then adjourned to the pub……Surprised? I didn’t think so.

Our publican was a female and appeared to be a little cool towards us, without being rude. This did not prevent the consumption of several ice cold ales although it was obvious we were definitely beginning to slow down. At 11pm. everyone was being hustled out by her and when we began to rise she told us to wait a minute. When the last patron had left, she entered our little lounge area carrying a tray full of beer and sat down in our midst and became our second best friend. At 1am. the local police arrived to enquire why there was liquor still being served two hours after closing time. Our friendly publican stated that she was merely entertaining visiting lifesavers from Sydney and asked them to join us. “I think it would be extremely rude of us not to have a drink with you all,” said the Sarge. We all decided to call it quits after our law enforcement officers left at 3:30am. After sausages, bacon and eggs with tea and coffee for brekky, we continued our journey north, next stop Burnie.

Zeehan then Burnie......Thanks Alison

We stopped briefly to look at some of the mining ruins and equipment at Zeehan, then arrived in Burnie. Sludge and I introduced ourselves to one of the local butchers and left his shop with a bucket load of meat purchased at a heavily discounted price. The Burnie club allowed us to use the surf club that evening, but many discovered that sleeping on a wooden dance floor was nowhere near as comfortable as sleeping on soft grass. I slept outside on an open balcony, a trestle table for a bed and woke up soaking wet with dew. The next day we fronted up uninvited at the Burnie Board factory and were given a gorgeous blonde sweetie named Alison as our guide. She changed from a pretty floral patterned dress into a skivvy top and what closely resembled a tight fitting pair of leggings. She was very professional and extremely informative and certainly up to date with all the equipment and manufacturing procedures. The guided tour lasted approximately ninety minutes and at the end, one of the senior staff asked us if Alison had looked after us and what it was that we regarded as the most interesting part of the tour. We all looked for holes to hide in when one of our thickheads who shall remain anonymous, answered, “Alison’s arse.”

The bay to the right of the Burnie surf club was a disaster as the pulp mill dumped all of its filthy crap into it. The surf was a reddish orange colour and did not smell that great also. All this smack bang alongside the main surfing beach. Thank God it has finally been shut down. As I write, there are some brain dead cretins who are determined to build a similar one along the beautiful Tamar River. My only comment is ………..Screw the lot of you!!

Devonport

Next stop was the garden town of Devonport. What a beautiful part of the world. We had permission to sleep overnight in the surf club and once again the advantages of sleeping on grass came to the fore. Towner and I went for a paddle in Bass Strait, the water was absolutely freezing. One of the local men approached us and pointed to a house across the park and down the street. He invited all of us to attend a soiree at this house starting at 7pm. When we arrived, there were only a dozen or so people in attendance, but there was food and drink aplenty. We all sat down to a full on three course home cooked dinner followed by beer and spirits. It was exactly what we all needed that evening. A quiet night, good food, good liquor and stimulating company. We walked across the reserve back to the surf club and by 11:30pm. were sleeping like babes, despite the hard wooden floor, that was responsible for a few stiff and sore backs the next morning. We met our old mate from Bicheno, the Mayor of Devonport. We all piled into four white Fairlanes and were taken to a deep valley, where at least 500 metres below a dam wall was beginning to rise. The cars and trucks below resembled ants as they crawled backwards and forwards. We were told that where we were standing would be 30 feet underwater when the dam was completed. We returned to the Council Chambers for nibblies and cocktails and could do no more than sing the praises of this incredible island. One more night was spent on the rock hard dance floor. Once more Sludge and I prepared breakfast and before we knew it we were off to Launceston. What eventuated later that evening had to be experienced to be believed.

Back to Launceston......The St. George Hotel

It was around 1pm. when we entered the St. George hotel and ordered our first round of drinks. We were all seated side by side along the bar and began drinking steadily, rather than quickly. The staff informed us of a nice pie and sandwich shop nearby and a late lunch was purchased and consumed while at the bar. By 4pm. some office people had popped in for a couple before heading home. Our little group was getting rowdy and some of the locals joined us and began to become a little rowdy themselves. Peter Coleman picked up an empty pint mug and announced the introduction of a swear mug. It was to be 5 cents a profanity. It began to fill quickly. By 5:30pm. two of our blokes started charging patrons 50 cents to enter the pub and $1 to leave. By now there would have been at least 60 patrons having the time of their lives. Every 15 minutes or so, Pete would jump onto the bar and would announce it was the swear box’s shout. Men and women left the ladies lounge to join us all in the public bar, further adding to our now rapidly increasing numbers. At 6pm. a bridal party arrived at the reception house next door. The groom and groomsmen were kidnapped and force fed large quantities of liquid amber. When it was discovered that the bride was in tears, not knowing where her just hooked hubby had gone, we dragged her in as well. By 6:45pm. people were leaving the wedding reception to even further swell our numbers. When 7 pm. arrived there were at least 150 people jammed into the public bar. Some patrons went home for dinner then returned with other members of their immediate and/or extended families. It was now a dollar to enter and a dollar to leave. No one left. Beer was flowing over the steps and onto the footpath at both entrances. Two policeman on the beat stuck their heads in the door and asked what the hell was happening. They were sent on their merry way after downing two beers each. The swear jug was shouting the bar every 10 to 15 minutes. The only way to get to the other end of the pub was along the top of the bar. Several firemen arrived and joined in the merriment, we even had a Catholic priest and a Rabbi participate. I’m certain it was the Rabbi who suggested we have a Talent Quest. The band next door in the ladies lounge agreed. A large box appeared from God only knows where and became the stage. At least three dozen people performed and at long last it was down to the final two. What a marvellous singer I must have been. I was one of the finalists and was up against a member of the Tasmanian Opera Society. He sang ‘The Holy City’ and lost. I sang ‘Ob La De Ob La Da’ and won. Fair Dinkum, can you believe it? The Pub should have ceased trading at 11pm. but was still going strong at pumpkin time. The streets were full of extremely happy people attempting to remember where they lived and they began disappearing around corners and up streets and lanes. By 12:30am. all was quiet. We slept on the cold hard floor of the Launceston surf club, that happened to be in the heart of the city over 25 miles from the beach. Just after dawn we were all aboard the car ferry awaiting to be taken to Devonport and from there back home to the Harbour City. One of the Low Head guys came to say goodbye and informed us that the St. George hotel had only two breakages, one glass and one ashtray. During the wild evening they took a fortnights takings and said the Avalon club was welcome back anytime. A month later a letter was received by the Avalon committee from the St. George hotel confirming all this.

Back to Devonport then Bon Voyage

The ship set sail for Devonport and all of our mob were very subdued. We all nodded off in our deck chairs, but made sure we were present when the old Bonox was offered. Once again I’m hoping my memory is correct, as no images come to mind about what took place after we disembarked at Devonport. I am partly certain that we half slept the afternoon away while hanging out in the wharf’s lounge drinking coffee and soft drinks. Around nightfall the ship departed and we all said goodbye to the Apple Isle and its wonderful people by doing our rendition of the Maoris’ Farewell from the top deck, John Towner on ukulele.

The bulk of the trip home was reasonably calm. It was spent sleeping in the deck chairs at the blunt end of the ship, sipping on coffee and the rare beer.

One day during lunch, JD was dining in his Dirty Pierre outfit. One of the senior waiters was heard to remark, “I’ve seen some disgusting people in my life, but that filthy little French bloke, I wouldn’t let him take my garbage out.”

On another occasion a smart arse waiter was hung over the ships rail to teach him a lesson. He was a pillar of society for the remainder of the trip.

Finally, when being shown around the bridge by the First Mate, one of the guys asked, “What does this do?” and then inadvertently deactivated the ships auto pilot. The ship suddenly did a sharp turn to starboard and everyone on board who happened to be standing at the time had no choice but to do the Star Trek Shuffle. ( i.e. Running sideways uphill )

The ship kept zig zagging for another three miles before settling down.

We all surfed throughout most of the winter at Avalon and when the development of the first rubber duck began towards the year’s end, many of the guys took an interest and pitched in to help.

At time of writing, the preceding events all took place 39 years ago. When it comes my turn to leave this mortal coil, if only some of the memories recorded here come to mind, I will depart completely content and with a whopping great smile on my face. Would I do it all again...........Every single bit of it.

PHOTO GALLERY

2008-10-10T10:10:00.025+11:00

Merewether & Bar Beach

The Lake

Picnic Spot

Summertime

Raffertys

A windy day

Heritage Afloat

Lucky Bloke

Wangi Bay

The Channel

Days end

The Valley's finest

Dobell House

The Tinnie

The Torture Chamber

Breakfast

Secret Bay

Thelma And Louise

Renae & Sarah Fuller

Gabi and I thought we would live out our days in the St. George district at Peakhurst. On impulse we both retired, sold the Peakhurst palace and moved north to the shores of beautiful Lake Macquarie.

We both have an association with Dobell house in Wangi Wangi and Gabi has evolved into an artist of some renown in the district and beyond.

One only has to glance at the above pics to become aware of where our last days will now be spent.

As I keep on repeating almost ad nauseum, it’s an extremely hard life but someone has to do it.

Birds, not sheilas.

2008-10-09T16:56:00.054+11:00

Not just birds...... Blisters. Margaret, Gabi, Cathy.

Pelican

Kookaburras

Rosella

Rainbow Lorikeet

Plover

Noisy miner

Magpie

Ducks

Crested Cockatoo

Butcher Bird

Crested Pigeon

A seldom seen flock of the extremely rare Cosmopolitan Bondi Birds.

What do you think of some of our better looking residents?

Living in the provincial regions as we do, makes it possible for Gabi and I to get acquainted with most of our feathered friends. Growing up in the city saw to it that apart from pigeons, doves and sparrows, there were not too many other birds around, apart from the wingless variety.....come to think of it, they were fairly scarce as well.

As we are only a short walk from the shores of Lake Macquarie, we get to see quite a few seagulls hanging around for a free feed. Two of these appear to be mostly land based and spend their days and early evenings pecking out the garden worms. When we were living in Arcadia Vale, the rear deck that was 18 feet above the ground, became at times a crowded landing field for over a dozen or so varieties of native birds, many of whom we named and would recognise during their many visits to the deck railing. The crested pigeons Walter and Greer, the butcher bird Butch and her annual new offspring, the Rosellas Ross and Julie and Brad and Janet, the scaly crested lorikeets Jamie and Jodie along with the rainbows whose numbers increased rapidly making it impossible to know who was who and there were kookaburras Chips and Beryl, all of whom were regular visitors to our rear verandah. Our cats were horrified, but realised they were outnumbered and any attempts to catch supper were at best half hearted.

However after moving to Blackalls, our reasonably flat block of land and the geographic layout of the house makes extended stopovers by any birds a bit risky to say the least, although the plovers seem to have our two female felines completely bluffed.

What!! Where's my beer?

I was excavating on the western side of the house and was placing the soil on the front lawn. This great pile of earth remained there up until I was inspired to take it to the council tip. Whilst digging and shovelling something caught my eye. It was Wally, one of our regular magpie visitors observing my every movement as I shovelled away. Several times I dug up an earth worm and offered it to my feathered mate, but he did not seem too interested, but when a fat juicy lawn grub was dug up and offered, it disappeared down the hatch quick smart. After an hour or so, his belly full, he waddled off to join his wife Maggie and the rest of the Wallington family who had arrived.

The following day when preparing the front garden to install treated pine boundaries, who should turn up, none other than my black and white supervisor. He watched me for about 10 minutes then wandered off and roughly 3 minutes later returned with a large, long earth worm dangling from his beak. He walked right up to me and dropped the worm onto my left foot, squawked, then flew off to rejoin his wife and progeny feeding across the road. What I really felt like was an icy cold beer, but I said nothing as I didn't want to offend him....I'm sure he meant well.

Apart from the fact we are in a bushy environment, the local flora is of the indigenous type that attracts and retains the native birds and it does not take one too long to take for granted what is on the move all around the street and district. But every now and then around sunset one can and quite often does flop down into the comfortable outside furniture and fully appreciate the beauty of Mother Nature at its best whilst sipping on a coldie.

I cannot imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

Legends

2008-10-09T12:44:00.067+11:00

Ken Davidson, Doug Crane, Max Watt, Don Imison

The old fashioned way, but it worked.

On Patrol, the modern way. This works better, Onya, Mulga!

Roger Sayers & Warren Young

Volunteers, one and all

All volunteer organisations need special people to survive and to support their local communities. Generally speaking it is left up to the younger members to perform the hands on, day to day services that the club or organisation provides. However the days of raising funds by means of chocolate wheels, chook raffles and similar attractions are things of the past unfortunately. Today large donations, gifts, grants and willing sponsors are required to keep open the doors of many of our nation’s major voluntary organisations, a large percentage of which have become icons.

What also is necessary are highly skilled personnel to ensure the club’s name remains prominent and whose skills and abilities are responsible for inspiring the up and comers. When many of these specialists reach the end of their active, grass roots participation, then go on to become an active member of the management team, devoting many more years of their time, they transform themselves into legends. Nearly all of them would consider themselves nothing out of the ordinary, “What me, a legend, bullshit.” would be a common retort, but then, that’s the kind of guys they are.

I joined the Avalon SLSC during September 1959 and for me to list all of the legends I’ve known and associated with would be literally impossible, but the tribute that follows is about the few who had an effect on me in ways that they would not be aware of. It would be extremely unfair not to mention that today there are more than just male legends but female ones as well. When I rejoined the club back in 1990 the first female club captain held the reins and this year, namely 2008, when I attended the AGM, the first Female Club President had been appointed. Many of the girls, both young and not so young will go on and in time will be remembered for their contribution long after many of us ageing troublemakers have gone to shake hands with Huey. They too will become legends.

Throughout the years this small surf club hosted the first international malibu demonstration during 1956 and was responsible for taking an American surfers dance, namely the Stomp and inflicting it upon the Australian population, designed and introduced the IRB to local, interstate and beaches overseas, pioneered the use of leg ropes on surf rescue boards and was responsible for the introduction of surf life saving as we know it, to the Brits.

SIMPLY LEGENDS

A former sparring partner of mine, namely John Farley, stated in one of his letters to me that one does not always get the opportunity to serve an organisation that one truly loves. It’s frightening how many years have elapsed since I was given that opportunity.

I was a cheeky, self centred little bugger from the inner western suburbs of Sydney, when Reg Wood and George Shuttleworth plucked me off the streets of Annandale and were responsible for the gritty sands of Avalon becoming my new and vastly improved stomping grounds.

On Sunday 20^th December 1959 I obtained my Bronze Medallion in what was the last squad before the introduction of the oral resuscitation methods. Back then it was the Holger Neilson, Silvester Brosch, the Eves Rocker, the Fireman’s carry, the one man drag and the Reel, Line and Belt that ruled. The nine surf clubs from Warriewood to North Palm Beach were competing in Restricted carnivals, with the host club able to invite an outsider. Avalon’s invitee was always Manly. The red, white and green nearly always won the carnivals’ point score. It was extremely rare for Avalon to finish out of the top two placegetters.

I would train for hours at a time in the old rock pool, I surfed on my Malibu, I body surfed and paddled for miles on my plywood racing surf ski, mostly with my good mate Tom Schweitzer. All of a sudden I was super fit. For a small and some may say a fairly insignificant club, Avalon was blessed with a variety of multi talented personnel. These were people I certainly could not match, or even hope to emulate. The speed and skill of Bob Head and Aub Shanks in the open surf and belt races. The strength and ability of Max and Jackie Watt at surf ski racing….I should also mention Peter Kelly and Wal the Plumber. The supreme all round fitness of the late Bobby Nicholl who dominated the beach events and was not that slack in the surf to boot. Active members John Greaves, Bull Campbell, Bob Head, Ian Tilley, Don Mitchell and his baby brother Warren pioneered the introduction of local surf lifesaving techniques and equipment in the UK. Warren , of course, went on to introduce the IRB to Australian surf lifesaving. The SLSA administration benefited through the efforts of Michael Byrnes OAM, Allan Slevin, Ray Cosgrove, Ken Davidson, Harry Ragan and the like. Even as I write, some of these local legends that include the Branch honoured Life Members Doug Crane and Don Imison, are still actively involved in the day to day running of the Avalon club.

The aforementioned, along with others too numerous to mention, were more than likely never outwardly given the respect they deserved by the young and foolish all those decades ago. Today, however, one can more than just appreciate the inspiration and leadership provided by these very special people. The Avalon club would not be where it is today if it were not for their unselfish dedication and specialist skills. Although not reaching their high standards, I am nevertheless proud to have been given the opportunity to follow in their shadows and to contribute in my own small way and didn’t I have fun and create some mischief whilst making that contribution………You bet I did.

Trevor ( Pogo ) Fuller