Still Riding on the Storm

by Robert G. Barrett

  Magnum’s float went past with three of the best sorts I’ve ever seen with their boobs painted over. If that was the standard of tonight’s contest, I was in heaven.

  I wandered back down to meet Captain Crabpot to give him the good news. This didn’t go over too well and the skipper said he knew I was a landlubber and a slimy bilge rat the minute he laid eyes on me.

  But he needed help with the slipguerneys or whatever it was we had to take back to the yacht.

  Then he couldn’t get rid of me quick enough and dropped me at low tide on the nearest mangrove swamp. There I was, slipping and sliding across the ooze with my bags like a 90kg mud crab.

  I hitched a ride to my motel, cleaned up, had a feed, watched the football with a bottle for the pain and before I knew it, it was time to go boob judging.

  Magnum’s was packed; mainly blokes — but there were also quite a number of attractive young girls.

  Again, the booze and jokes flowed. Only this time I didn’t have to sail around The Horn with Captain Crabpot afterwards; just stagger to my motel. Then it was showtime. The mob surged towards the stage and us three wise and supposedly sober judges took our positions.

  The mob howled and out came the contestants in their T-shirts. And not a bad line-up.

  The DJ introduced them but I was too drunk to remember names. Then he poured jugs of cold water over their T-shirts; I don’t know what this did for the mob, but it sure made it better for the judges.

  The girls paraded, the mob howled, the judges pontificated and up went that legendary battle cry ‘SHOWUSYATITS!’

  The contestants were only too willing to oblige and after that it was thanks for the mammaries, girls. The mob bayed again, the DJ poured more water and us judges went into a huddle.

  It was a tough one. But rather than get lynched, we gave it to the one in red; which seemed a pretty fair verdict no matter how you looked at it. Or them.

  All up, I reckon it wasn’t a bad night. There was no trouble and everybody seemed to have a good time, including the lovely contestants and the judges — despite risking castration by the WECAAMHAGT (Women’s Electoral Cadre Against Australian Men Having A Good Time and other postgraduate dykes).

  I don’t see why wet T-shirt contests shouldn’t be in the 2000 Aussie Olympics!

  I’ll be back at Airlie Beach next year for the wet T-shirt contest and the parade.

  But next year, I’m going to get there Airlie. And the Airlier the better, I reckon. But one thing’s for sure — I won’t be sailing with Captain Crabpot.

  WHINING AND DINING

  A short while back the cover of one of my books, And De Fun Don’t Done, appeared on the cover of Nine to Five. It was to do with a book signing through Angus and Robertson, which I might add went over delightfuIly. I got to meet my lovely readers and they got to meet ‘the fat one’.

  Somehow or other, possibly a kickback for the advertising, I don’t know, but Nine to Five offered me a job. Their cleaning lady was going in for a hip replacement and I used to clean toilets during the early part of my illustrious career. Was I interested in a bit of extra work? Well, normally I would be, but I’ve just had an operation on my knee and I wouldn’t be able to bend down and get my scrubbing brush up the S-bend properly. Was there something else for me to do? Luckily the answer was yes, a kind of boy-takes-girl-to-dinner-and-as-how kind of thing. I know I’m an author and all, but was I suave and sophisticated enough to write a dinner and theatre column in Sydney? I’d have to think about this one.

  Let me set the picture for you; I’m a bachelor living on the Central Coast — Dogpatch with seagulls. Up there they think paté de fois is a French singer. Some places even make Caesar salads with tinned beetroot and frozen peas. I asked a local clicker what he thought of Grange Hermitage and he said, ‘Yeah, it went okay in the Doomben Ten Thousand but it wouldn’t win the Melbourne Cup.’ As for myself, I nuke McCain’s in a microwave unless some feral aunty comes over and does it for me. All I know about restaurants is what I learnt when I used to be a smelly, greasy kitchen hand during another part of my long and illustrious career. Choice food for me is what I used to grab off the plates that came back. Yet this could be okay. I’d get to see another side of the restaurant scene, plate wise. Instead of scrubbing dried sauce and coffee off them, I’d be dining off them, something I used to dream of when I wore rubber pockets to steal soup. I rang back and I said I’d give it a go, so off I went to be a gourmet theatre critic.

  Naturally being a bald, fat miserable bachelor set in his ways, I couldn’t get a girl so I rang the editor and said my fiancee caught her foot in a rabbit trap and couldn’t make it. I’d have to do the first gourmet column on my own. The head druid said okay, but remember the deal; don’t go in too heavy, send the bill and they might pay it, and if the column was any good they might use it. Forget any advanced royalties, and no trying to plug my books. Oh, and make sure my fiancee had her foot stitched ready to go for the next column, or I’d be getting downsized quicker than the Gay Mardi Gras could go through Hobart.

  Sad, lonely and dejected, a chill in the air and the rain pattering down, I drove along in the darkness to Gosford station and caught the train to Central to see what I could find.

  The loop got me to Town Hall, and having a crook knee I thought I’d stroll back down George Street and dine Asian at one of my discerning author favourites. I turned right near a restaurant window full of giant crabs suffocating to death, left at the cake shop, across the road and up the escalator at the Sussex Centre. The place I usually head for is Fung Shing Gourmet in the right corner.

  The woman who serves me always looks like she’s going to bite my head off. Maybe she’s an ex-Red Guard, and with my fat face I remind her of Chairman Mao. I don’t know. The other one always smiles though. Whatever, the food’s good and only five bucks a dish. I generally opt for the soy chicken with rice, or noodles with Chinese cabbage and spoon a big scoop of chopped garlic or chilli into the bowl of boiling hot soup they give you. It’s delicious.

  Is it al fresco dining? It’s anything you want. Grab your chopsticks or fork or whatever, you’ll find a seat somewhere. Smoke free zone? Smoke two at a time if you want. Smoke an old army blanket. Stick a cigarette in your ear. Who gives a stuff? What do you want for five bucks, Dover sole on the balcony of a Swiss chalet?

  There’s a bar with wine, beer, cola, etc., but I usually get a chilled ’94 Hong Kong mango pulp à la white can from the supermarket downstairs. It travels up the escalator splendidly and accompanies the chilli and garlic in the boiling hot soup without being the least bit ostentatious. After my sumptuous repast it was time to take in the theatre.

  That book that was on the cover of Nine to Five, And De Fun Don’t Done, the one I’m not supposed to plug — that’s a Jamaican expression. Also in the book, as Les Norton flies into Montego Bay he uses the expression ‘cool running’ which always makes me laugh because when I was in Jamaica it weren’t no cool running, mon. It was hotter than a furnace, the humidity almost drowned me, and I missed a cyclone by a week. I got ripped off everywhere I went and every time I put my head out the front door some Jamaican would try and sell me something I didn’t want. That’s not counting getting trapped in a ghetto and driving through a riot. Ya I nung mon. Apart from that it was all right though. So still lonely and broken-hearted, filthy on myself and filthy on Jamaicans, I decided to rub it right in and trudge up the main street in the rain to see a movie about Jamaica — Cool Runnings.

  Naturally the film opens up on those smiling, happy Jamaicans, either taking part in a billy cart race or sprinting to qualify for the Olympic Games. Somewhere in the scrum, John Candy runs a bar. The next thing you know, Walt Disney Productions have waved their magic wand and John Candy has four Jamaicans in Canada competing in the Winter Olympics. After that it would be nice to say that the movie goes downhill all the way, but it doesn’t. It howls along. I liked it. I checked out the punters around me and they were all laughing like drains, so
I know it wasn’t just me.

  John Candy plays a great straight man as a coach. There’s a scene where he takes a photo of himself off the wall of his bar which adds a nice touch of pathos among the laughs. It’s a shame Candy’s not around anymore.

  There’s baddies amongst the European bobsled teams, line dancing, a bar room brawl, plenty of action and some snappy dialogue. There’s not a swear word in sight so it’s environmentally friendly and safe for kids. Like the punters around me I finished up cheering for the Jamaicans. It’s a feelgood movie, so make sure you see it. Happy up, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

  It’s got a tops soundtrack too. I bought the CD the next day. It belts along like the movie. I like a track called ‘Cool Me Down’. One thing I will say about Jamaica, you can’t help but pick up a taste for some of the dance hall reggae. Also a hiry music deh pon i radio. Respec, mon.

  So that’s my first attempt as a gourmet theatre critic. I think I got in under budget so they might invite me back. I don’t think I’ll get my money back from the CD though. The tricky part though is finding a KFC — kind female companion — to do the column with. However, I got in touch with a woman I know who runs a discreet dating service out near Bankstown. She said she might be able to help me. So you never know, I could be back, suaver and even more sophisticated than ever.

  Evidently my first column for Nine to Five slid in all right. So the hierarchy said they would give me another chance, provided I took my girlfriend. I still haven’t got a girlfriend and don’t look like getting one. It’s sad and I did want to write this column. So I got in touch with this Romanian heroin dealer I know who tipped me into a woman running a singles club out near Punchbowl, Zelda Shrdlu. It’s unlisted and exclusive and called Madam Zelda’s Zanzibar Dating Service. As it happened I knew Zelda when her name was Tui, she lived in Marrickville and used to do armed robberies with her Maori boyfriend. I told her I needed to meet some KFCs, I had a chance to write a column for a magazine. Forget the view to marriage thing. Don’t blow my cover and I won’t blow yours. Zelda said okay. But no taking photos of the girls or anything like that. It was a bit short notice but was there anything in particular I fancied? Did she have Brigitte Nielsen on her books? Sorry. Instead I got Golda Slobbowitz. Golda lived in Kensington, had black hair, dark eyes, wore black, and just my luck, she was Jewish. Anybody that reads those books of mine I’m not allowed to plug knows they’re anti-Semitic. I mean, I’m not crooked on Jews because I’m a Nazi or I’ve got a Jewish dentist. During another part of my illustrious career when I was a butcher sometimes I used to work in these Kosher butcher shops around Bondi. All those weird cuts, everyone talking Yiddish, something about Kushruth. And before you could get anything done you had to hang around and wait until some swami from the Synagogue who looked like a cross between Boy George and Ned Kelly came and blessed it. The pay was always good and you didn’t have to work on Saturdays, but not for this goyen. They helped to drive me round the bend. Still, even though I didn’t want to talk to Golda, she hadn’t scrubbed up too bad, squeezed into her black stockings and such.

  I told her I was a retired detective. I’d quit the force through stress and didn’t want to talk about it. Golda was a doctor’s receptionist. Whatever, like a good Jewish mamma Golda organised the night and we finished up on Oxford Street. The night just got better. Not only am I stuck with a front wheeler, now I’m surrounded by poofs. Then as I got out of the car I dropped my wallet. Undaunted, I kicked it all the way to the front door of the Malibu Restaurant and Grill.

  The night started to look up. The Malibu was roomy and bright without being glary, lots of cream and white walls and comfy enough wooden seats and nice enough music in the background. We plonked our rumps down. There was a table menu and a short blackboard menu which was a greenboard. The waiter put some cornbread on the table that he said was made on the premises then pointed out the specials. But Golda was flashing a bit of cleavage from across the table and I missed most of what he was saying. Somehow I finished up ordering a bit of chicken and lime with toasted tortillas soup and cajun style blackened fish with lemon butter sauce. Golda went for the cheese, black bean and corn quesadilla wedges for starters and abode chicken breast, chargrilled with corn and black bean salsa with honey mustard mayo, plus a salad and two mineral waters.

  There’s a wine list, but I was driving. So while we were waiting, Golda and I toasted each other’s health in iced spa de maison.

  The soup was okay, clear, sliced pieces of chicken and vegetables. It went well with the cornbread, which I might add was delightful. I could have eaten a loaf. Golda said her quesadilla wedges were delish. I took a taste and had to agree. My cajun fish was tops, spicy enough and crispy black. I soaked up the sauce with more cornbread and salad. I’m used to salads made with one lettuce, but this one was different and the dressing was good.

  Golda said her abode chicken was delicious so I had another taste and she got no argument from me there. But I did want to tell her that all the black beans amongst the corn on her plate reminded me of possum turds I see on my verandah now and again. I didn’t have the heart. All up the bill came to around $60 with a tip, which isn’t an arm and a leg. How would I describe the food? Nouvelle Californian? Tex Mex? I don’t know, but Golda and I agreed it tasted good. The service was friendly and I didn’t have to wash the dishes. What more can you want? I didn’t split any infinitives at the dinner table, the KFC didn’t offer to split the bill, so we split for the movies.

  If Golda wanted to get even with me for ogling her boobs during the entrees, she did it with the film: Leon the Pig Farmer. I should have known and I’d heard something about this. A Jewish family running a pig farm in Yorkshire. Sounded like a good plot. I bought two tickets and a chocolate ice-cream for Golda, picked up a brochure and in we went.

  ‘A wry comedy’, ‘fresh original entertainment’ it said in the brochure. ‘Hilarious’ it said on the brochure. ‘The British hit comedy of the year!’, I’m reading in the brochure. Comedy? Funny? As what? An asthma attack? The Japanese Whaling Commission? And wailing is what I felt like doing at $11.50 a seat. It wasn’t about some Jewish family running a pig farm, it was about some estate agent who finds out he was born via IVF and they mixed up the test tubes. So he traces the original donor, his so-called true father, to a piggery in Yorkshire. This takes up about half the movie as it meanders between Jewish wedding parties and just about anything.

  In fact they could have cut the first third of the movie and the characters out and saved the rolls of film. I think what threw me off straight away was the lead, Mark Frankel. He’s a swap for Diego Maradona, right to the scar on his top lip. You can’t miss it, there’s plenty of close ups. Golda reckoned they shot it like those oddball series on the ABC, The Singing Detective, etc. Or Brazil, plenty of weird dark colours and all over the top bordering on the ridiculous. Even Golda wasn’t all that rapt. The movie doesn’t quite transmogrify its way along, but parts were going by me. They mutate a pig with a sheep, some big Rabbi beams in from somewhere, complete strangers walk up to Diego and discuss his innermost thoughts with him, and every now and again this ‘whoosh’ goes through the soundtrack to emphasise what? Parts of the dialogue are completely unintelligible and I was wearing my new solar-powered hearing aid. I recognised Connie Booth from Fawlty Towers, as the wife of the pig farmer, who I recognised from parts in Minder and Alien 3. I laughed at a couple of things and the punters around me laughed on occasions. No one was rolling in the aisles. Then it finished. The lights came on and we walked out. I asked Golda what she thought and we both came to the same conclusions: Leon the Pig Farmer might have been Kosher but it was still a swine of a movie.

  All up it wasn’t too bad a night. I didn’t get robbed and I got Golda home safe and sound without any sexual harassment or lewd behaviour charges being laid on me. I said I’d give her a ring, somehow, though, I don’t think it would have worked out between me and Golda. It’s sad, and I’ve got another col
umn to try and get together. I suppose I’ll just have to give Madam Zelda another ring, see what she’s got on the books at the Zanzibar Dating Service that isn’t too fussy.

  Life’s certainly full of surprises, isn’t it? I rang the Zanzibar Dating Service and said that things weren’t quite right with Golda. So Zelda sent me to Bondi Junction to meet Edna Bagge. Edna smoked, had bleached blonde hair, 30cms of make-up on, talked through her nose and had a scar on her chin. She also wore cord jeans, ugh boots, a flannelette shirt and several rings and studs in each ear. There was something familiar about her though. Then I saw it, underneath the flannelette shirt as she got out of the car. The other scar between her neck and her shoulder where another head had started to grow that she’d had cauterised off. Edna was from the Central Coast. Worse. The Entrance. I couldn’t believe it. I came down to Sydney to get away from these mules. What was going on? If this was Florida in the God fearing USA I would have gone down to the nearest Kmart, bought an M-16, a grenade launcher and 50,000 rounds of ammunition, gone out to Punchbowl and shot up the Zanzibar Dating Service. Especially that frump Zelda. Then I remembered, I wasn’t paying Zelda, I was blackmailing her. So it was hello Edna. How’s things? Edna had lived in Sydney three years, worked at a fertiliser factory in Rosebery and was saving to go to Bali. I told her I lived in Stanmore and worked at the local council as a ratcatcher. I liked my job and the conditions — $500 a week and all the rats me and my dog could eat. Edna agreed I was on a good thing. She got freebies in her job too, so if I wanted some fertiliser she had a few spare bags in her bedroom. I said thanks but I had no room in the boot. Edna said that was okay, I could put it in the back seat. Yeah. Righto. How can you argue with logic like that? So where do you take a peroxided scrubber from The Entrance who works in a fertiliser factory for dinner? Kirribilli House? I took her to No Names in Darlinghurst.