An Ode to Skyrim

Dorothea Mackellar (OBE) will be remembered for “My Country”, as most Australian school kids have trudged their way through those lines that start with, “I love a sunburnt country”. 

But, she was also interested in art, politics and in later life, she really got into computer gaming.

She was particularly fond of The Elder Scrolls trilogy. So much so, that with a very small amount of imagination, she wrote an ode to Skyrim; the third of the games.

I love Bethesda’s construct

A land of stabbing pains

Of see-through mountain ranges

Of shouts and levels gained

I love her many dungeons

Her empty, shallow sea,

Her mutants and programming errors

This RPG for me

Both Kinds of Music

Country and Western - the worst music in the world. Unyet... there are some C&W songs rattling around in me just dyin' to get out. Here's a little number I wrote about online dating.

Not burdened by education

Not sporting my own hair

Free from the ravages of intelligence

And lacking any flair

Chorus:

I aint got much to offer

But I offer it a lot

I aint got much to give

But I’ll give it all I got

I’ve got hidden shallows

But my ugly is bone deep

I can clear a room in seconds

Or put them all to sleep

I’m better in small doses

I like to make them beg for less

In little dribs and drabs they say

And it’s not just the way I dress

Chorus:

They say I’m a room divider

And that’s good to store some books

But they weren’t talkin’ about furniture

But more about my looks

Not overstocked in talent

Not understocked in weight

I could try harder at everything

But it’s easier to blame fate

Chorus:

The singles market is murder baby

I’m what you call a sleeper

But don’t be too put out because

My mum says I’m a keeper

So stop your complaining and whining

And start to appreciate your lot

‘Cause whether it’s cat ladies or hobos

I’m worse than what you got

A Short Poem On The Nature Of Ceilings

NSW Governor - Woman
NSW Premier - Woman
Governor General - Woman
Prime Minister - Woman
Anakin Skywalker (AKA Darth Vader) - Big Girl

Wombat Combat

There was a terrible (amusing and terrible) story out yesterday, about a wombat that attacked a man who was still getting over his injuries from the terrible bush-fires. The wombat took it too far (after being accidentally stood on) and there were terrible consequences. The full story is here. Terrible.


You've been through burns and mayhem
Your stump is kind of black
You've opened up the flywire door
To quietly step out the back

And there upon the threshold
Covering your mat
Is something unexpected
A killer, hairy wombat

But your mind has gone and wondered
You're not looking down
And stepping out to take the air
You stand on the hairy clown

The wombat doesn't like this
He takes exception to the move
Then takes a nice big chunk from your stump
And leaves a shocking groove

You go down like so much sacksa
Howling and in fright
The grey aggressive bastard
Moves in for another bite

It's not often that you say this
“Lucky the neighbourhood maniac was about”
The axe wielding one, (with problems)
He comes and sorts it out

It'll never be an Easter Show Attraction
The competitive wombat chop
But when they've got the mange and the taste for blood
It's so hard to make them stop

Weather Widget Gets Into The Christmas Spirit

I have a little gadget
It is up there on my screen
Designed to tell me what sort of

Weather I’ll be seein’
But it's shuffled north for holidays
Its weather eye is blind

It's bunked right off for santa
It has lost its freakin’ mind

Despite the coming weather patterns

The rest of us expectin'

The little weather gadget

Is in need of some correctin'
Copenhagen couldn’t work this fast
Pacific islands will all still drown
The only way those temps are possible

Was if the world was upside-down

Advertising Looks Up

Farve, Ten, Fifteen, Twenny

Twennyfarve, Thirdy

Thirdyfarve, Fordy

Fordyfarve, Fiddy

All that munny

Still lechin' the puss

Cocky Bastard

“You’ve been hanging around cars for too long.”

That was Emergency Contact’s response when I straightened up from the kitchen sink and said, “I think someone just ripped my rear vision mirror off!”

What made her say that was the length of the house, the one storey, and the several closed windows between the car in question and me. She was sort of right. I had hung around cars for long enough (and done enough damage to them) to know exactly what a Ford rear vision mirror hitting the cement sounded like; and I had just heard it.

Racing down to the end of the house and peering out the back window, I could see my mirror lying on the ground. Perched on it, admiring himself as he set about removing the plastic lip and backing on the thing, was a rather magnificent and self-satisfied cockatoo.

If you’ve read any of A Grey Area before, you will know that I have a very special relationship with birds. I like them, on the whole I admire them, I find them interesting and they in turn treat me with disregard and contempt. (Documented under the Natural World.) 

I can take this. Not because I have a rugged ego and an unerring sense of universal justice, but because I know that they are usually pea-brains and they are just doin’ what they is born to be doin’.

Not so the cockatoo. Cockatoos are smarter than your average four-year-old child and somehow manage to mix that with the personality of an irascible old man. They are airborne bastards. I love them. But knowing how smart they are meant that I had no hesitation in launching into a stream of choice invective at the white wanker on my mirror, and he knew exactly what I was on about too, because he stopped and gave me one of those looks. Right - gloves off.

I race out of the front and around the side to really give this guy a fright. I’m pretty sure that I can get the mirror back on without the need for adhesives (and therefore retaining its remote-control feature) but if he really takes a shine to the practice, that car is toast.

A cocky with a will can reduce vegetable or mineral to its composite atoms in very short order. They keep themselves in shape by destroying things and this guy was in tip-top nick.

Screaming around the corner to insert the fear of a feathered god into him, cocky takes a leisurely look at me, takes a lazy hop into the air and with two flaps is on a neighbour’s shed, about four centimetres out of my reach but completely within view so that he can really giggle at me. A good squawk, flip of the head and one insulting raise of the crest and he settles in to preen himself with the inherent underlying message - You gotta go inside for lunch sometime buddy. Just leave the mirror somewhere nice, ok?

No. I go inside with the mirror, find a pair of socks I don’t care about, go back out and reattach the mirror. Then I pull the socks over both the rear vision mirrors. Cocky looks at me, impressed; one squawk and he’s gone. 

Nick - 1. Cocky - I’ll give him a half. (It’s only fair. There’s a good chance this animal’s nearly a hundred years old and cunning as a cunning bandicoot who’s just been made Dean of Cunning at Macquarie University. [Apologies Ben Elton])

Pulling the socks on and off the rear vision mirrors before and after driving grows old faster than you can say “You don’t even wash the car, how long is that chore likely to last?” and within the week the socks are back inside and within six hours of them being off I hear a squawk and my mirror hitting the cement. I’m impressed this time. Patience and daring. Such a rare combination.

I’m out round the back yelling and he’s squawking and nodding from the safety of the shed and I realise that it is now Nick - 1. Cocky - 1 ½ .

Seeing that the bird always goes to this one shed, and that he’s been keeping an eye on my car, I wonder if he’s not actually a resident of the house that owns the shed. 

Walking around to the front of the house, I see a nice, old, miniature Italian couple sitting on their front steps, holding hands. I say miniature because they are of that generation where Europeans of five foot height would not be so extraordinary, and with a little Australian weathering and desiccation, you’ve arrived at this compact appearance.

“Hi, uhm, I’m your neighbour out the back and I was just wondering if you own that big cocky who’s sitting on the shed over there?”

The man answers in a booming, accented voice driven by deafness and small contact with Anglos.

“No. Why? … do ya wan’ ‘im!?”

That wasn‘t where I’d predicted the conversation would go, but no matter. “No, I really don’t, thanks. It’s just that he keeps pulling my car apart.”

Tiny old wife joins in, “Ahhhhhhhh, he’s not a bed bird!” After a second, I realise that she quite likes his rascally tendencies. Not bed at all. Bad.

She grabs me by the hand, he leads the way and they give me a noisy and confusing tour of the destruction that the cocky has wreaked. He’s pulled their car apart: both bumpers, the mirrors, the windscreen wipers… to name some of the choicer parts. He’s removed all the window frames from the house, the screens, and countless other weatherboard pieces. They’d ended up putting in double screens fronted by metal bars to hold everything together. 

As I’m gazing in wonder at the wreckage, she yells me a question that sounds like, “Waddya gonna do towim? Just mebee kitchen?”

“Kitchen?” I don’t want to be rude. I hate it when I don’t instantly catch on, but there’s been a lot going on and I’ve been making polite nodding and uh-huh noises through most of it.

“Yeah, maybe kitchen and taik ’im somewhere and led ’im gow. You know. Don killim. His nod a bed bird.”

I promise the old couple that I would never kill him and that if I did get my hands on him, would think about relocating him. I would never bother with that either. Relocating an animal that can fly is daft. If he wants my mirrors, this is going to be a battle of wits (with an unarmed man, sure, but It'll be good for his self esteem).

The challenge never eventuated. I think he saw me doing the un-Australian dobbing thing (in his cocky mind was probably some monologue that went like, “Well, now you’ve gone and involved Mr and Mrs Pushover, pal. That’s taken all the fun out of it“) and he never did it again.

Not long after, I saw him up the road with parts of shiny Beemer in his beak. I nodded to him. He nodded and squawked back, and I politely steered around the bolshy bastard and let him get back to work, smack bang in the middle of the road.

When I told my Dad the story, he relayed it to my half-brother Josef who was 12 or 13 at the time. It inspired this poem from him, and I’m proud to include it in A Grey Area.

The Air Lout

By Josef  

As he spreads his white wings and gives chortling squawk,

With pale yellow armpits and feathers like chalk,

But most impressive of all is his great golden crest,

Which stands erect above all the rest

With gnarly grey fingers he grips onto the frame,

His hooded beak striking again and again,

His beady eyes become really quite savage,

As the car’s side mirror becomes more and more damaged

Can any phrase describe this odd bird?

Whose daily antics are rather absurd?

“Love Him or Hate Him” I think would suffice,

No other saying could be as precise

Can one ever know what goes on in his mind? 

Of the one which many a once quiet street may be lined

Who can say that we may have a lead,

Into the brain of the eater of seed?

Mysterious, Majestic, some say aloof,

But I don’t think anyone will ever have proof,

And many a man still gives a great shout,

At the presence of the beautifully annoying Air Lout.

Ode To The Roiling Subcutaneous Disaster Brewing on My Face

The skin
On my chin
Is not so thin
It'll need a pin
Before the flow
Can begin



Enjoy breakfast.

You Called Your TV Show WHAT?

There are certain words and phrases that will amuse me for a while

Like little bits fashion, that always bring a smile

It was "nifty" in 80s and "Weapon Head" of late

But there's a current winning term that I picked up from a mate

If someone is a loon, and it's obvious to tell

That there are bats nesting in the belfry

And there's only one brain cell

The word that's in use now, and I'm sure you'll get the gist

If you're ticking all those boxes

You are called a mentalist

The Ballad of Ham

I became fascinated with the story of Ham and Enos when my dear mate Gooby told me about them. They were two chimps involved in the Mercury space program. I don't think they volunteered, I think they kind of got roped in, but they were troopers both of them.

The point of the program was to find out how humans would cope with doing things in space, particularly if there was any decrease in acuity. So Ham and Enos were trained to do simple tasks, blasted into orbit and asked to do them again.

It is rumoured that Enos had a particularly tough time in space, because they accidentally wired his probe up in reverse and he was punished with an electrical zap, every time he did something right. He kept on truckin' though.

If you look at the black and white photos from the Mercury project, there is humour, along with a certain heartbreaking naiveté. I find them deeply moving.

Ham's story is cuter than Enos's, and is the one in the doggerel below. It should be noted that when the capsule returned, he had worked himself free of his harness, so when they cracked the door, he shot past the handlers and fucked off into the rafters of NASA's hangars. When they got him down to take him out to meet the press, the handlers had to walk him past the capsule. Ham thought they were going to stuff him back into 'the bad place', so he tore the ass off one of the handlers and fucked off back into the rafters. I love his style.

In the cutest but un-verified part of the story, both Enos and Ham are buried at the Arlington Cemetery. That's the impressive military one with all of the identical, white headstones.

As a side note, when the film Alien was released, it's promotional line was "In space, no-one can hear you scream."

I wrote this actually as a gift to Gooby on his birthday because we had both giggled so much about it at the time of his telling - I reproduce it here without his permission.

Oh, and Washo and Coco really did learn American Sign Language and are reputedly never offered after dinner speaking engagements..

The Ballad of Ham

A monkey called Ham, a young chimpanzee,
Got sent into space with one arm free.
His masters weren’t happy, when home he returned
As every good photo had to burned.

Humans were going to the moon it seemed
When Democrat Presidents, had money and dreams.
White Man would stand on the moon and say,
Those dirty pinko Russkies aren’t coming this way.

But testing space ships on whities aint done.
Pesky new laws said the blacks were no fun
So down the chain to some fuzzies from trees
The scientists thought they could test them with ease.

So Washo and Coco were interviewed twice
They said flying in space sounded quite nice
But school was too hectic, there was no time to burn,
With new sign language signals that they had to learn.

Dolphins were seen as the next on the list,
But you can’t hold a joystick when you can’t make a fist.
Dogs had been, and said it was cool
But the capsules had to be emptied from all of the drool.

Up the back of the class a furry hand hits the air,
But the scientists know that it wouldn’t be fair
On the public or program to give this one form
As his principle hobby is burping the worm.

He’s a nice little fellow they all heartily agree
A bit of a booboo taking him out of his tree
We’d all cop it rough, we’d all get no thanks
If he makes it to space and then sits there and wanks.

But Ham’s a changed chimp, his trainer insists
He can do a lot more than just shaking his fists
He’s not too hairy as far as chimps go
So attaching the sensors won’t be too slow

So against better judgment, against all in the know
Ham gets the green light, he’s going to go
Into black space to see what can be found
Just as long as his arms are properly bound.

The day of the launch finally arrives
With leaders and astronauts and some of their wives
All gathered around straining to see
The hero of the hour, the young chimpanzee.

Ham’s in good form, he likes a good crowd
The cheering and clapping cannot be too loud
He waves and smiles his best toothy grin
His trainer reminds him not to commit sin.

Ham nods and promises, with a cross of his heart
He’s a proper team player and he knows his part
He’ll pilot his spaceship and try not to crash
And resist the urge to have a quick thrash.

But launches and space flight are not like they look
You can’t watch TV or read a good book
You sit and you sit, and your mind can go a bit blank
It’s not too long before you may think of a wank.

The launch boys on the pad had all been told
That the furry little arms could grab a firm hold
Of passing bits and pieces that took Ham’s fancy
And his overwhelming desire to act a bit pantsy.

But Ham had practiced his winning ways
He’d perfected his act over hours and days
To look sweet and innocent, to do no harm
And maybe they’ll overlook one furry arm.

Ham makes it to space and starts having a wank
The public wonders why their screens have gone blank
Mission Control walks around with straws in his hands
Choosing who’ll do the cleaning when the capsule lands.

And as Mission Control starts to plan his attack
A question arrives in his mind, at the back
It starts to fester and really to niggle
In space is it possible to hear a chimp giggle?

Last Wednesday

“I'm feeling off balance” he said out loud
As he hops his way to the loo
"But I'm getting things done, I'm making my way,
I'm really doing the do".

But clenching his head and buttocks so tight
The throbbing starting to rise
There’s no way today he’s taking the cake
He’s not winning the prize

Last night was a good idea at the time
It seemed the right thing to do
She was cute, he seems to remember, and thinks
Was it one bottle or was it two?

There was giggling and pinching and winking and such
A flirt, a burp, a gasp
Sandals were slipped, more wine was drunk
A little pinch on the arse

Home time rolls round and the world intrudes,
The rain comes down anew
Cabs are scarce, his shirt is wet
What the hell is he supposed to do

“I’ll just wait it out in this little pub.”
What harm can come from that?
It’s warm and dry and smells alright
Actually, better than his flat

The barman appears at his own sweet pace
Pushing his eye patch in place
A brassy old blond follows him out
Wiping something off her face

“What’ll ya have mate, what’s your main treat?”
He grumbles through his beard
“I can give you a pint of plasma that’s chilled”
You’d think he’d find that weird

But the denizens at the pub of the damned
Don’t turn or care for his fate
It’s usual, it’s normal, for the business type
To drink before they donate

Having hopped his way to the bathroom again
A memory is slowly forming
That he’s arrived home with less in his pants,
He’s got less limbs this morning

Looking down at his flannys and slowly realising
It’s hard to balance whilst pissing
The leg of his PJs is swinging free
It appears one of his legs is missing

“Those bastards, those swine, those feckless thugs
They’ve taken what’s not rightly theirs
I’d go round there right now and beat them all up
If I could only get down the stairs"

Sitting on the couch and mulling over his fate
Decides to get the drop on the day
His PC fires up, and goes to his faves
The first thing he sees is ebay

And there it is, in the second hand listing
Too disgusting to be faced
“Used Left Leg, One Male Owner,
Good Condition, Never been raced”

“I can’t believe it what rotten luck,
Oh god, don’t make me beg
That the only limb for sale that day
Was an unwanted and hairy left leg”

“I’ve got one of those you thieving scum
If you had a right leg I’d be made
I should ring the owner at least and see
If they’re willing to make a trade.”