NEW BOOK #2 STUFF, #4 BORN IN THE CITY#3 Bloody hard leaving the WOOLLOOMOOLOO, but it’s still there, with exceptions’. My schooling was completed at Darlinghurst Junior Technical School, the year of 1954; I was fortunate because the traveling days were mostly over and managed to have an uninterrupted year. Quite some distance from 112, transport generally was to catch the tram to KINGS X or the Darlinghurst tram up Bourke Street and walk the remaining journey. During these last days of school I boarded at Uncle Bruce and Auntie Kinas’ place for some time. I have made mention of the introduction to "Darlo" AND THOSE MEMORIES REMAIN, the principal reason for this schools existence were centered around excellence in schooling and introducing the pupils to essential skills in the trades arena. We learnt skills in metal work, wood working, and plumbing? And my favorite things; School Prefect in the 9th grade, sports days and also science and psychics’. "Darlo" was similar to "Black Board Jungle" genre, but only in the sense of streetwise boys, lets say a few of the mates strayed of the path a little. ME MATES ARE SMMOOKIN’. The position of one of the Prefects could be described as School Mentor, you help to regulate the schools code of conduct and attempted to a lead your fellow school friends down the correct path, you became the "Team Leader" and would lead by example while still attempting to remain friends, and John Farley became adept at these skills. I cannot remember having a bad school friend except on the football field but you were friends afterwards. Let me tell you my secret. OUT OF LEFT FIELD, the Principle requested me to cooperate in a plan to bring some of our pupils back to the flock, you remember my "wagging" days, tell me you have never felt the superb feeling of not going to school and coming up with fibs to cover your indiscretion. Me? I got sick of new schools, but never wagged because school shat me!. "Your job will involve going into the field? And tracking down our missing pupils, you would do this during the lunch break". (Bugger me then what?), and "telling them the fault of their ways and asking them to return to school", A PLAN SOON EVOLVED as we spoke, I can tell you the conversation is probably not accurate but the results are true. Before I destroy all the faith and trust you have empowered me with, can we change track a little? John Pollock was the greatest Teacher and was instrumental in leading me down the path of learning. Scripture was a burden, it gave me no satisfaction, I have a God and God is good, I have no time for religious fairy tales, I believe in the principles of the "COMMANDMENTS", tolerance and understanding. This outlook may turn you off, so will be the following. Very early, I sought permission to be placed in Mr. Pollock’s Science Class during the Scripture lessons, the Principle relented. The prefect, me, knew of many derelict houses around the "Darlo" precinct, these places were investigated during the lunch break resulting in confrontation with my school "wagger" friends, my powers of logic sometimes led to their return, although a cigarette and several minutes of discussion resulted. When I needed a smoke the place to find one was; that’s enough! THOSE BLOODY "JAW BREAKERS". Of course there were those dreadful toffees’, some of the boys married some of the girls, despite. While on school matters, swimming days were described earlier, and mention was made of our bathing facilities, Red Leaf Harbor Pool was one of our venues. The pool was frequented by European people who were quite liberated in their choice of bathing apparel, or sometimes lack of, in particular the ladies. Going to work soon and you will be proud of my achievements, not. I have made mention of the football and my ethnic mates, the South Sydney area had heaps of junior and school Rugby League teams. Why have I broached this subject? Well you might ask. BAREFOOT THROUGH THE BINDIES. At school we had our soccer and rugby league teams, we had badminton teams, athletics’ teams, cricket teams and participants in other sports, at a higher level we had the pupils who competed against other schools, notable here was the Combined Public Schools competitions generally conducted at the Sydney Sports Stadium? Yes I was a team player, not good just average. My swimming skills were above average at school, that is until I got into the real world, however, several events were won by yours truly and proudly represented "Darlo". Limited success in the open division but we all had fun. Now athletics was a different situation, our school, as mentioned, was being wound down and we had limited numbers to choose from. I found myself running the 110 and 220-yard races in open company. Remember the no football boots problem? Well I could not afford running spikes either, any money from selling papers went to my mother, (less a couple of bob), or for board money at my Uncle and Aunties. SPORT AND HOW I NEARLY MADE IT. So on the big day Farls runs bare footed against the "professionals" from the bigger schools, Paddington High and Fort Street High were our antagonists among others. In the 110 yards I never made the Dais but only just, in the longer 220 yard the blisters won. Similar results occurred in football, although a pair of boots was obtained later. My attack on the game of football had commenced at bush schools, and bindies and stones hurt more than a hard tackle, we survived and at last a pair of boots materialized. These boots were to play a significant role in football things, always polished and with gleaming white hand washed laces; they helped in ways not immediately obvious to the reader. Together with my mates, many with strange sounding surnames, we played footie for clubs in the Paddington / South Sydney district also had a few junior games in the Fernleighs side. A FREE TICKET INTO THE 'FOOTIE'.  We would play on weekends at various playing fields in the district, Centennial Park, and Moore Park comes to mind. The benefit of my boots were twofold, they protected my feet and allowed me to run on muddy playing fields and as a strange spin-off were a entry ticket into the "Big" games at the Sydney Sports Stadium, and the Football Stadium. When we had completed our game, we would frequently make our way to the big stadiums to seek admission to see the Great Rabbitos do battle or for that matter any game going. South Sydney were our hero’s’, so rock up to the turnstiles with your footie boots around your neck and the officials let us in at half time FOR FREE. And that RUSSELL CROWE, MATE is my association with the mighty South’s, not spectacular; do you still offer that privilege to young footie kids? If so, I might contact my ethnic mates, form a team and make a comeback, regards and best wishes JF.     10/15/2007 7:37:44 AM, Sad to say my other team lost, Manly lost to the Melbourne Storm, the Eagle got blown away, me and the boys were shattered. THE CORNER OF BOURKE AND BURTON, TAYLORS SQUARE. Do you know the area?, hello, hope I have still got your attention. Don’t be so patronizing Farley and get on with it. My Uncle Bruce was a rover and a returned soldier, I would not know a great deal of his history and still don’t, although at the above address we became Uncle and Nephew. Kina Wharepapa became my Aunty. For some reason Mum and Clive went off working and had me board at Bruce and Kinas’ in early ’54, the premises were similar to 112, two story, old and housed a laundry run by the above. The building was located 100 meters from Taylors Square and Oxford Street, The Darlinghurst Police Station the East Sydney Technical College, the Court House, Sergeants Pies and Don Athaldo. And 163 Riley Street and Repetition Manufacturing Company P / L. And so a short walk to "Darlo" and school, and incidentally not far from a district known as "The Red Light Area". MY KIWI CONNECTION, HIRE MI TANAQUERE EHORE. Bruce and Kina ran this laundry and it was a true humid, steamy concern. They had many clients from many organizations. Many business men would leave their laundry for service; I never have seen so many white shirts owned by one person, a dozen or more shirts, I only owned one white shirt at a time, a shark’s skin shirt very expensive and worn on very special occasions. They worked long hours laundering sheets and other stuff to make a pound; the back yard was the drying area, in wet weather several bar heaters worked overtime, may have been kero heaters. Around the corner in Burton Street lived George Hajanakitus, sorry George, Nickey and Ricky Dunas and their Parents and Grand Parents, Greek and bloody proud. We were compatriots and friends and did stuff together, we may have played football or just hung out. Next store was a man described as Australia’s strongest man, Don Athaldo. This man could lift heavy weights and pull heavy things. Like trains, he was enormously broad shouldered and a moral person, he would have us lift weights with suitable technique. Google: Don Athaldo. Sunday, October 14, 2007, Mr. Howard declares an election will be held, I am as described as a Democratic Socialist, and may the best party win. Mostly I am inclined to say if it’s not broken don’t fix it. MY ROYAL MAORI SPECIAL LADY. Aunty Kina was my other favorite person, she was Maori and ranked highly in their hierarchy, she had a Philosophy Degree and practiced Hatha Yoga, and I learnt so many social skills and life skills from this lovely woman. Kinas’ friends and relations would frequent the laundry on regular occasions including the New Zealand Army Entertainment Group, they were on their way to Korea to entertain the "Occupation" forces, and they were incredibly gifted vocalists and musicians’. I can always remember a song they would sing, well, part of it, (tune; MOVING ON). Well you ask me why I’m runnin’, am I afraid to die. The reason why I’m runnin’ is that a Kiwi cannot fly. And were fighting for that bar------ed Sygn MAN Ree.   They landed us in Pusan, it wasn’t very nice. We didn’t come to Korea to eat their friggen’ rice. And were fighting for that ------ Sygn Min Re. Movin’ on. Movin’ on and were etc. There is always a girl, OK, Hinemoa Tutarnaki, forgive the spelling it’s phonetic, she was gorgeous, her combination of Indian and Maori genes gave her a special attractiveness’, she could sing and was a lovely person as well, this young boy was besotted. MATARIKI SOUTHERN CROSS SOCIETY. I am not certain, however, Kina may have been instrumental in forming the Matariki Southern Cross Society, if not, she was a wheel in the organization. We quite frequently visited their club rooms and it was here I learnt some of the beautiful island songs, like, help, Po Kare Kare Ana, I stopped here! (Sounds like; Enga Hoia, Po Aatarau, Esa Lei, Beyond the Reef is right, Haere Ra, and the traditional Haka. I met a famous Maori "Muso", his name was / is Tu Teka. Aunty Kina’s nephew, Rudy Wharepapa and I became friends when his RNZN ship came to town and he would visit us, his sister and I would correspond for a while, she sent scented? Letters written in green ink, I had her letters in large tobacco tin, Hi ya. MAORI TUCKER. Many traditional Maori foods hit our dinning table, like Pawa, (mutton fish, abalone) tenderized in Paw Paw juice, Kina sucked from the egg and we did too, Poohaa and bacon bones, (pork? long white pig?), or anything from the sea. We would gather milk thistles from anywhere, mainly Botany together with a special flax plant. This plant has very long fibers’ and when dried forms long cylindrical tubes which have to be burnt in a special way, a great many of these tubes go towards making the traditional grass skirt. Kina would make the whirling Poi, Uncle Bruce and I made the Putu from soft wood timber, painted green to look like green jade, we would carve little Tikis’ likewise with all the secret carvings. Kina had some tattoos under her lips. This extraordinary woman introduced Bruce and I to the secrets of Hatha Yoga, we could eventually contort into weird positions, use controlled breathing and meditate for long periods, that is, when we got through the blackout stage of hyper ventilation. She introduce me to things on philosophy and understanding of life I still use, my eyesight was not good, a diet of carrots and Poohaa and green vegetables staved off having to wear glasses for some time, she was responsible. And no, the eyesight problem was not the result of interference to one’s body. If you could see me now, and you will, my hairline has receded under the normal rules of ageing. For some reason known only to teenage boys, my hair at one stage was allowed to grow quite long, and although washed and combed it / I copped a ribbing from my year 9 friends. One rebellious day I visited Eric Wolfe, the local hairdresser, and asked for complete "Crew Cut", imagine the boy’s reaction when Farley came to school with the only hairstyle of its type in the school, the revving started again. "Darlo" was a short walk from my lodgings, up Burton St. over the hill and there you were. Generally, I pack my own lunch and indulge the horrible milk school kids were supplied with. The milk was delivered at some obscure time to the various schools and left sitting around until the pupils got to school. I could tell you that on the Snowdons Dairy farm we would drink warm milk from the teat and love it, somehow milk left in crates was not exactly my idea of a nourishing drink, and we drank it because we were told to. LADIES OF THE NIGHT. Well now, some stories of possible censor attention. They call it the Oldest Profession and there is no point denying its existence, down the hill in Palmer St, (not the Woolloomooloo side)! And a laneway known as Chapel Lane, a contradiction in terms, is an area I have described as "the red-light area", many ladies of the night were present in some of the dwellings. I have an affinity, very moral if course, with some of the women. Returning from school was a bit of a ritual, throw my port on the bed, dress in "civvies" and get ready to run some errands for the girls, notably the "Black Panther". Milk and bread and other requirements’ as needed would be purchased at the local corner store, a small tip was the payment, and they gave me respect. THE MORAL; YOU DO WHAT YOU DO FOR WHAT SEEMS RIGHT AT THE TIME. Most days it was down to the W’LOO to sell papers, this job was by now a little spasmodic and I would go only 2 to 3 sometimes 4 days a week. I had homework; Kina was a hard taskmaster. Us boys, me and the Greek kids, knew an old Greek lady called, as close as I can get, Asimina. She claimed to have sat on God’s lap and we sort of believed her because of her adamant attitude, she lived somewhere close and it is to no body’s benefit to doubt old wise people. For the class of ’54 possibly the high light was seeing the Queen of England, well only from a distance. We had to walk from school to Centennial Park and line up for hours until a motorcade containing her Eminence arrived, we waved and yelled and yes she saw me, another fib. The highlight really was to have the major portion of the school day off. Now having said all of this was I wrong?, was it "53. Well guys I really don’t care, nearly everything else is correct. Anyhoo, for us boys and girls the year was essentially winter and summer, winter for football and girls, summer for girls and the beach and Coogee Beach was the place to be, oh, and a little bit of cricket. If you have persevered thus far JohnFarls was not a good cricketer, for me it was woozy game and required far too much concentration to hit that red ball, not only that the bloody ball was a missile and really smarted when, an attempt to catch the bastard was miss-timed. I found my position in life was to be a scorekeeper. Now surfing was my go, and as well as Coogee we would frequent, Bronte, Maroubra and sometimes Bondi. I will concentrate on surfing and Surf Club Stuff soon. We traveled by tram and bus and had good times; it was a good year and culminated in a "Post" in the Intermediate Certificate.     THE NULLI SECUNDA, NE PLUS ULTRA SAGA OF THE "FLYING PORCELAIN GUSUNDER". It has always intrigued me how humor and the unexpected co-habit, how something quite serious can have a funny side; across the road from the laundry and behind the Darlinghurst Police Station was a place where mentally disturbed people resided. One day a rather loud disturbance was heard emanating from the confines of this building, now the windows were secured, although not protected by a grill or heavy gauge steel mesh. Loud voices and banging could be discerned by us boys as we stood on the corner near the laundry, followed by an even louder crash, followed by a very large painted pisspot smashing through one of the windows, followed by its disintegration on the footpath, and finally, followed by a very naked young man. He clambered from the window and dropped some three yards to the footpath, he sprinted for a passing tram just turning into Burton Street amongst loud exclamations of surprise from the passengers, men yelled, ladies screamed, babies cried. He bordered the tram as people attempted to disembark and flee for safety, by this stage the tram driver has became aware of the unfolding drama and had stopped the tram, so in the front door of the tram and out the back goes the naked man defiantly on a mission. He is last seen disappearing over for hill in his pursuit for freedom, followed by now by men in white coats. We waited for his return, instead, the men in white coats returned. Some police cars from the adjoining police station took of in the general direction we never saw our new hero again. This incredible story was over in a flash, when ever I have a vision of the painted piddle pot, and I swear I can still the colored flowers, hurtling through the window, well, it brightens up my day. Gusunder; def: Goes under the bed. LIKE PISSPOT, CHAMBER POT, PIDDLE POT.  As an aside, there were two Nuns on the tram, one had a stroke and the other, bless her, wasn’t quick enough. GOING NORTH AGAIN. Mom and Clive returned towards the end ’54 and you guessed it, off again to place called Ballina, North Coast NSW. We weren’t long here and school had finished. Clive worked for a building company called Thatchers at Bega; they mainly built extensions for Catholic Churches, Rectories and things. About the only story was about fishing and whaling. And yes the bloody Harley and Uncle Chris. I don’t think mum was working because we spent a lot of time fishing, and one particular place was called Shaws Bay a peculiar place. When the Break Walls were constructed a large lagoon was enclosed on the northern side, (Ballina side), of the Richmond River. Tidal flow and small fish could enter this enclosed marine area and it also trapped marine life at the stage of construction. This is the enigma, back then the sand dunes between the lagoon and the beach were un-developed, Ballina was AND still a growing place and not many people fished in Shaws Bay. Fish that had been trapped grew to become, shall we say, quite large; there was a huge greenback Turtle residing there, some of the mullet were like 18 inches long, the bream and whiting were larger than usual and groper and cod could be seen in the water where the tide filtered through the break wall. A swimming area of concrete steps was built and many people enjoyed the safe enclosure. Here is a story in real life, come with mum and I to Shaws Bay tomorrow ok, say yes. YES ANOTHER GIRL. You and I and mum are walking across the Missingham Bridge carrying our fishing bags and our rods and we quickly arrive at the start of the North Wall, we proceed about 200 yards. You hear me say, "Careful of the rocks, we need to get down to back of the lagoon, what was your name again? Oh what a lovely name", mum, "just concentrate you flirty little shit and help her down to the beach". We are down on the beach behind the lagoon and proceed about 100 yards through some small mangroves, mum says " what about here, this seems a good spot", we agree. And so the narrative really begins. MUM'S HUMUNGOUS FISH. We set up our fishing site, you and mum and I bait up with prawns and cast our lines into the eerie lagoon, and the rods ends are driven into the sand, a waiting game begins. Do you notice the sound of the surf behind us? Not many people around? It’s a great fishing spot. We have set our drag and the ratchet and then nature gives me a call. As I head off into the bush the sound of the whirring ratchet indicates a fish has taken the bait, mum was prone to play games "mum leave my rod alone" her reply was "I’m on Johnnie, it has to be a flathead", you and me race to see mum struggling and winding a very bent rod, she plays at what is a very big fish. Her and fish move up and down the small beach, she wins some, she loses some, she is a fighter my mum and slowly the battle turns in her favor, you get the net and I will give the fisher person a hand, "keep back and get THE NET READY", at last a very exhausted fish, of absolutely preposterous proportions, is landed. This will be the last of my embellishments, only you and me and mum know the, and its is flathead, truth, a monster of 15 lbs was weighted at the Fish Co-op. Remember how we carried it home, with me as a gauge, the head to the tail almost measured one yard. Bet you had a great time, Clive will fillet the flathead so you can have fish for tea. Times and priorities have changed, a fish this size would be released, even by Big David’s Fishing adventures, ( he is my oldest), non the less we have been responsible for indiscriminate depletion of our marine life, not less the wonderful whales that reside in our oceans. THAT HORRIBLE TIME OF KILLING WHALES. Moored at Ballina during our stay were two whale harpooning boats, the Ballina 1 and the Ballina 2, converted "Fairmiles" of about 60 feet. Based at Byron Bay was a whaling station where harpooned whales were towed, hauled on to a flensing deck and butchered for meat and oil and by products. We traveled to Byron Bay and witnessed some of this travesty; I did have other stories concerning this "Industry", I'm to to bitter to relate.    Here comes "The Bike". Chris arrived for a holiday and fishen’ was back on. We traveled the then very rough Lennox Head Road to "Flat Rock" and beyond, several fish were landed. Returning to Sydney and 112 Palmer Street was a culture shock, I fully accounted in my mind that 1955 was to be the start of my adult life, paid work was the only option. But don’t worry; the boy never left the man.   DANGER, DANGER, THIS IS SPAM STUFF, TRASH THIS EMAIL. BUT……. IT IS FROM ME, JOHNFARLSBRUNZ, LIKE, JOHNFARLS, LIKE THE ‘PORKY’ BASTARD FROM BRUNSWICK HEADS 6 DEGREES OF SEPARATION. (OR THE HUMAN WEB). If a bloke had six wives, or vice versa, (you know wot I mean, politically correct), and they separated… is this the 6 DEGREES OF SEPARATION? Or is that peace on earth? How many people would say, "boy is he / she happy now", no, they would say; "he / she is separated by the power of six". With these edifying humongous thoughts forefront in my mind, I have devised a plan, and I am going to let you into a secret, a secret that only you will know and not disclose, OK? If you all send me $10, I will dispatch this said $10 to SIX PEOPLE. Seeing I get on average 2,300 "hits" a month on BIGBLOG ©, THAT GIVES ME 2,296 TIMES $10, ($22,960), to continue my quest to prove this theory of "6 DEGREES OF SEPaRATION". You will notice that dividing ($22,960) by the number (6), that the result is a whole bunch of six’s on the end, theory proven!!! I have called my system; "THE 6 DEGREES SEPARATION OF YOUR MONEY©", or the "SIX SIDED PYRIMIDAL SEPARATION CHAIN MAIL SYSTEM theory©. And you guys thought I was a dumb ‘BUSHY’ bastard, come on send them $10,AND I WILL SEND BACK $4, "THAT IS THE 6 DEGREES OF SEPARATION, (AL LA… YOU HAVE BEEN SEPARATED FROM (6) DOLLARS), Now I have the power of (6). MANY PEOPLE WILL FIND FAULT WITH my hypothesis albeit, theory, therefore I will introduce you to (6) people who have subscribed (10) dollars for the magical return of (4) dollars. WINESTINE ONCE SAID; "YOU WHO EXPECT NOTHIN’ IN LIFE WILL NOT BE disappointed". BUT WAIT!!!!!, THERE ARE (6) DICKHEADS OUT THERE WHO WILL SUSCRIBE TO MY OFFER, WARNEY, LES, RAY, ME MATES, ARE YOU THE POWER OF SIX? Regards john f. PS; wouldn’t have a light for me fag, would yah? OK, I PROMISED SOME POEMS. LARGELY FROM HERE ON WILL BE A POEM SOMETIMES PRE-SEEDED BY A LITTLE STORY. ARAGUNNU BLOKES　HAVE　I STUFFED UP? HAVE I BROKEN THE SPELL?　 MOON BAY IS STUCK IN MY MIND, you know this place by a different name, everybody has been there, that's our special place, remember? Come on boys and girls, drop off the crappy life, go back a step and enjoy some times so good. May I take you to my place of reflection? I sense yours. Please? Yes? Just like yours my Moon Bay exists, I was maybe 9 when I first witnessed this mystic place. Let's go there it is a special place, I have to include you because you are my special friends, so lets go and have the DREAMTIME, al la ‘Whitebloke’. TATHRA PUB, TO MOON BAY, YOU WILL NEVER RETURN. That path is dusty and full of potholes. OH yeah here's the turn off, preety isn’t it, won't take long now and your patience will be rewarded, but wait, I must explain some ground rules; please don't speak, don't act like tourists and respect the locals. We are now walking through coastal forests, WHITE FOLK CALL IT LITTEROL? (SHOULD BE BLACK MANS FOREST), you may know the names of the plants and trees, you may know the animals, like, what's that black and brown bounding thing. What a great sight of birds, all black with red under their wings, huge beaks. As we descend down the trail somebody wants a pee, all off us give reflection. I ask you to leave the crappy real time, let our minds wander. The journey is wonderful. And what a place of reflection, so quite, so tranquil, a movement in the bush! You saw the dark people, you did didn't you, I know you did, I know I did, thanks NGARIGO BLOKES, you have given a small part of the DREAMTIME, the special time, maybe we will see a little more. We feel and sense the ocean; the sound of small waves breaking close by, the opening to a small beach appears. The apparition, my God, it's serene, it’s placid. All the rugged colors, reds and browns clash with the blue of the sea. Birds hover and wheel. I can sense your presence ARAGUNNU, NGARIGO, The Bogan Family. We are in a place, my special place, and your special place, ARAGUNNU place. IS IT LIKE YOU SPECIAL PLACE? The beach is golden sand, and the ancient rock headlands encompass and protect us. Have a look at the black man fishing to our right; he is standing on one leg aiming his spear at the water. He is sealed in time. Down on the beach are some other black people, some women and blokes and some babies. They see us and seem to welcome our presence, but strangely there is a misty boundary that separates us. Just like the smoke from their fire. See the black girl, she’s pointing at the water, I recon we’re being invited to enjoy the crystal clear sea. I know her, I was her age when I first discovered Moon Bay, and she comes here every year. The water,OH, is that so good, so cold. Please be quite and respectful, the black man turns and acknowledges our presence by a nod, don't wave, have a special moment, you have been in the Dreamtime. What are you seeing, let the moment last. Long after we part, hold onto the moment, it will not harm you. Moon bay exists for everybody, it lives, we have been there, one day we will return, you will never forget. Did you let me see my Dreamtime, Aragunnu? If I have trespassed strike the memories from my mind, I was only young, but the memories linger. MOON BAY, MY SPECIAL PLACE, (but there are others). Bega, Bega Valley, Tathra. We took we plundered. And yet a simple bloke believes the visions of a Special Place mean many things to many people. He believes he saw ‘WHITE MAN’S DREAMTIME’. MINE, ANYBODY’S REALLY. MOON BAY LIVES. 　 MOON BAY, MY SPECIAL PLACE. © john d farley 2008. What’s that bloke on about this time, he must be very odd. He hasn’t done anything important, and does he have a god? Well, let’s humor him a little ‘cause we got some time to spare. Tells me he’s got a secret place, a place he want’s to share.   The sentimental bloke, forgive him C.J. Dennis but that’s how he comes out. You won’t know his name today and he says that’s no great loss, he is the bloke, he is your Aussie lout. He wants you to accept some things, like; girls and boys are real and liven. The Aussie bloke, he reckons, can be both, just the name you’re given.   What’s that? I hear him say, "Prose and poetry, rhymes and stuff, wish I could say it’s gay". "Tried to write my story but the truth got in the way". He wants to mention, Woolloomooloo, Palmer Street, Bundemar and Boonoke. Brunswick Heads and Avalon, but the brain has given no joy. Like, how many words rhyme with Woolloomooloo, except, the paperboy?   Before you falls of your twig, have a swig, and thinks this poem’s trite. Come and meet him down at MOON BAY, YOU WILL SEE HE’S RIGHT. Give a little, OK, come on back, there’s room for all of us. Remember, you were young and vital, this young bloke you can trust. 　 So, for a short time down the tools, and dream, join his special club. Why not come and join this simple man we’ll meet you at the TATHRA PUB. We’ll wander down to MOON BAY, swim, close your eyes and see. Nobody else will see the visions, only you and me.   There will be other people there, a young boy will point them out, look and listen, wave and smile, please don’t yell, you will understand. Those black people are misty visions; we are standing on their land. Can you see him waving, smiling, that’s him, but he’s just a kid and now I understand. I think he’s troubled by constant visions of standing on sacred sand.   Don’t wave back and make a fuss just ponder what should be? Ngarigo blokes and babies still live here; close your eyes selected people, close your eyes and see. You’ll never forget that black bloke, a spear with deadly aim, that fish he’ll show no quarter. On one leg, he’ll be there forever more, just aiming at the water.   OH, he almost forgot, this place is not for us to touch, because you will be in real time. Understand, you were there, MOON BAY IS IN DREAMTIME. What’s that? White blokes can’t see the misty visions, well maybe I agree. But he was young, yet he reckons, for a moment, those black blokes let him see. 　 Thank you ARAGUNNU, NGARIGO BLOKES, South Coast NSW. Did you give me a Special Dreamtime Place? © john d farley, 2008.   AUSTRALIA DAY, THE DUNNY AND THE CHOKO VINE. A LITTLE LATE for AUSTRALIA DAY, BLAMES THE CRICKET, THE NEW GRAND SON, THE FLOODS, OLDTIMERS SYNDROME OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT MOVES.   This piece of Australiana has been flogged to death, so handle it folks.   112 Palmer Street, WOOLLOOMOOLOO, AINT THERE NOW. About 1945 / 59, we lived on and off, it was Grand Ma’s house, a Residential, a Terrace House, a Tenement actually. And you guessed it; it had the ‘classic little room’ right down the back yard, complete with the daily newspaper, end of story.   It was resplendently covered with a shroud of CHOKO VINE, laden with fruit, the clean skin variety. I have often cogitated why they Grow so profuse in the vicinity of the DUNNY, PERHAPS IT IS THE ESTERS OF OZONE, and MIXED WITH OTHER GROWTH ODORS.  CHOKOS’ are described as being a vine vegetable, I will dispute this assumption, I WILL SUGGEST THAT this plant is AC / DC, it can be ambidextrous, alternative, it can be a fruit or a vegetable, I describe it as a VEGAPPLE. AND, I will prove my theory by handing down Grannies’ secret recipes’, you mustn’t tell a soul now, OK. THE VEGETABLE ASSUMPTION; WOOLLOOMOOLOO CHOKO KILPATRICK "MORNAY", Grand Ma Isabella Lovegrove, nee Menzies. You will need several smaller chokos’, sliced into halves seed removed. Bacon, BEGA CHEESE, (Matured), ‘Woster Sauce, garlic, red CHILLI, (mild) and pepper and salt make up the other ingredients. For Italian people; substitute the bacon with thicker slices of PANCETTA / PROSUITTO, use mozzarella cheese, sliced or grated. Large pot, parboil the halved "vegetables" till tender, not too soft, drain. Bacon sliced into portions so as to cover the choko, cheese grated, garlic and chili finely sliced. At this stage you put another Penny in the coal gas meter, (I got plenty if you need some). Fry the bacon until not quit crisp, place on absorbent paper, place the halved chokos in a baking tray, maybe a cup cake baking tray. A tea spoon of ‘Woster in the cavity, and some garlic and chili, pepper and salt. Bacon to cover the chokos, grated cheese, BEGA please, place in slow oven and bake until cheese is just runny. Remove and serve with a lamb chop, hogget of course, sprinkle with more ‘Woster, YUM BLOODY YUM, to me ethnic mates, multi beano. THE FRUIT THEORY; GRAND MA’S PEARS IN SYRUP, A LA WOOLLOOMOOLOO. The chokos are peeled, halved and the seed removed, parboil until they are just tender, remove and drain and place in the frig. We make syrup with sugar and water to a runny texture, use warm water. Add some Treacle. (Grand Ma’s secret). Grand Ma would have made a plum pudding, she would pour the syrup over the chilled "CHOKO FRUIT’ and return to the ice box until cold. Some pudd, some now called PEARS AND SYRUP, some vanilla custard and BLOODY YUM YUM again. THE DUNNY AND THE CHOKO VINE REIGN, THEY LIVE ON. THE DUNNY AND THE CHOKO VINE. ©John d farley 2008 Inseparable I feels, an enigma if you will. Woolloomooloo is the locale half way up the hill. 112 Palmer Street to be correct, Grand Ma’s place of liven’. Down the back the dunny graced by choko vine, it was our place of respite, some say by God was given’.   Complete with daily news, albeit torn asunder. One went to meditate and move the world and empty old Gusunder. Toilet humor is not my scene, but this is true grit my friends The place to go was down the back, ‘caus the Dunny relieved the bends.   All up and down the back lane the dunny stood at guard. Chokos concealed these pillboxes; this was to be their camouflage Amazing how cool it was, great place to lose some time. I recon that it all comes down to Grand Ma’s lush green choko vine.   Now I do a lot of movement, XPT from Cas-sino to Wyong bound. You’ll find dunnys by the dozen, along the track there found. OH how I wish that sometimes to go back and use my Grand Ma’s dunny. On this train, and at this time, OH… the pain is not so really funny.   I’ve done a lot of research; my yarn is one of many you’ll find reference by the score. But what about the nighttime visit when the rain came down and a cyclone wind did roar. The chokos bang on the dunny roof the candle takes a fit. And your sitting there in cogitation, well hell is not like it.   Redbacks make a home in this remarkable of places. My good mate Johnnie Arthur can attest to this; he got bitten once, where? Can’t go there I’ll save you all red faces. Well this concludes my little yarn about the national source of humor. If people think the dunny’s over, then folks that’s just a rumor   I’ve been to Boonoke; Bundemar and Woolloomooloo travllin’ all the time, and rhyming’ gives me joy. But what goes with Woolloomooloo, except dunny and the choko vine, and the paperboy. So folks, I’ve tried to keep you occupied it’s really time to go. really I hope you enjoyed the time. But don’t be misled; history lives in all of us… THERE WILL ALWAYS BE A DUNNY AND A LUSH GREEN CHOKO VINE. John Farley 2008. REMEMBER MILTON, SOUTH COAST NSW, (BORN IN THE COUNTRY)? THEY CALLED HER MOOSEFACE. © john d farley 2008 A little place called Milton, not far from Ulladullah is where this Rhyme took place. Went to school but they had the gall to give this gal, the appalling name of Mooseface. She was this small boys friend, and she could beat them all at swimmen’. To this day, I will tell you now, they will never be forgivn’,   I’ll leave this for a moment ‘cause the thoughts are coming back. School days, yeah, where the rhyme took place and how we got the sack. Holidays are fast approaching a farmer makes a show, Boys… "You want some pocket money, well picken’ beans will be your go".   Well what a rotten job this is, pick beans by the bushel bag, I’ll tell you now this job will be the worst this bloke will ever have. Oh yeah, got the sack not the ‘bullet’, as implied it seems From early morn to late of day we’d fill them sacks with beans.   I’ve told a fib, forgive my glib may I give honest foray straight. ‘cause’ next paddock was filled with melons the plan was to make up weight. Do I need to tell you, melon skins, and your right? At the bottom of sack they go, that gave the weight a fright.   The plan was good and full of thought, but folks, them and me we got the call back. The boys from Milton School, bean pickers we’re no more, them and me, we got that bullet, it’s called, "don’t come Monday" sack. My mind is jolted, school friends and swimming pals, Mooseface gave me charm. School friends and swimming pals, why did they wish her harm.   I’ve been to many schools, and Milton wouldn’t be the last. We moved from here and Mooseface cried, and so it came to pass. And if you can follow this schoolboys strange transcription. You will see my rhymes will not contain many elements of fiction, Sometime later all those boys came down with a strange mysterious affliction.   Mooseface, she was so cute, and your taunts you will grow to rue. Never put down people who are not as perfect as you. © john d farley 2008 THE GUSUNDER FROM DOWNUNDER. The nulli secunda ne plus ultra saga of the "Flying Porcelain Gusunder". Circa 1953 It has always intrigued me how humor and the unexpected co-habit, how sometimes quite serious things　can have a funny side; across the road from my Auntie and Uncles laundry and behind the Darlinghurst Police Station was a place where mentally disturbed people resided. One day a rather loud disturbance was heard emanating from the confines of this building, now, the windows were secured, although not protected by a grill or heavy gauge steel mesh. Loud voices and banging could be discerned by us boys as we stood on the corner near the laundry, followed by an even louder crash, followed by a very large painted pisspot smashing through one of the windows, followed by its disintegration on the footpath, and finally, followed by a very naked young man. He clambered from the window and dropped some three yards to the footpath, he sprinted for a passing tram just turning into Burton Street amongst loud exclamations of surprise and panic from the passengers, men yelled, ladies screamed, babies cried. He bordered the tram as people attempted to disembark and flee for safety, by this stage the tram driver has became aware of the unfolding trauma and had stopped the tram, so in the front door of the tram and out the back goes the naked man defiantly on a mission. He is last seen disappearing over for hill and in the direction of ST VINCENTS HOSPITAL in his pursuit for freedom, followed by men in white coats. We waited for his return, instead, the men in white coats returned. Some police cars from the adjoining police station took of in the general direction we never saw our new hero again. This incredible story was over in a flash, when ever I have a vision of the painted piss pot, and I swear I can still the colored flowers adorning it’s surface, hurtling through the window, well, it brightens up my day. Gusunder; def: Goes under the bed. You know, the "potty, pottie", "Chamberpot", pisspot, that’s me; John d farley© LOCATION; DARLINGHURST POLICE STATION, (DARLO’), SYDNEY. One of the EDIFYING places I have resided was at my Uncle and Aunties place. The location was on the corner of Bourke and Burton Street, Oxford Square, Sydney Town. Well Darlinghurst maybe. A two story Terrace with a steamy laundry on the basement floor. My school mates/football mates lived locally; Georgiou Haginakitus, Nickilos and Ricardo Dunis, Sergio Hajanakitus, Antonio Petta Oh and their sisters, Oh, and a bloke called DON ATHOLDO. It’s also where dear Aunty Kina, (Sea Urchin) taught me Yoga and Maori stuff. Hinemoa Tutarniki, where are you? THE GUSUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER. (Or the painted porcelain pisspot) © john d farley 2008.   On the corner of Bourke and Burton, just down from Darlo’ Police Station. A steamy laundry plied its trade, the best one in the nation. I’ve never seen so many sheets, and shirts and all the rest. All those office men would tell us; "our laundry was the best".   I boarded there for quite some time, and I went to Darlo’ School to learn. Come home and change and meet me mates, errands, selling papers, ‘cause I had time to burn. Then one day something happened that amuses me all me days. And I’ve made the point that humor happens several different ways.   You see across the road was a big white place, right behind the cells. The residents were distracted people, and all with special hells. On the day the big commotion happened we were standing on the corner, you know… just talking stuff. Football, school and the like, new bikes, second hand really ‘cause times were really tough.   And then, from inside the house a fracas has erupted, men are yelling, things are crashing. The neighborhoods been disrupted. Banging, crashing raised a frown, voices raised; peace was shattered in old Sydney town. It was then the object of this yarn appeared… together to the sounds of a broken pane.   Glass is broken, look we said, it’s white and painted, things will never be the same. It was then the sight of painted porcelain Gusunder was impressed upon my brain. It sailed majestic to its end and crashes on the path, My friends and me said are that it? No there’s more to come, it’s simply called the aftermath.   From the winda’ jumps a man, he’s young; he’s the reason for our mirth. You see my friends he’s quite unclad, he’s as naked as his birth. He leaps and jumps and heads himself for a tram just turning into Burton. He’s on a mission our new hero, "I am out of here, escaping is for certain".   Aboard the tram and heading east, in the front and out the back he tried. Grown men yelled, women screamed, and little babies cried. Up the road he runs, heading for St Vincent’s with men in white coats close behind. They return in minutes empty handed, our new hero they were not to find.   Let me tell you, let me set again the scene. A broken winda, a crashing pisspot, a naked bloke… and the people scream. I will always remember that day, the merry chase the young bloke led. The GUSUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER, it’s adorned with blue flowers; and GUSUNDERS every BED. © John d Farley 2008.   THE GRAND MAN OF THE BUSH, (AND THE GRAND RAM). BUSH TUCKER.　 I can remember diving for fresh water Mussels, catching fish in the river and Yabbie hunting in the dams. A piece of meat on a string and wire landing net was what you needed for the Yabbies; the bounty would be served up to the Jackaroos and guests　on the occasion of a　'Bush Bash'. COURSE THE BEST MUTTON AND BEEF were on the table as well, my Mum played a great part in the preparation. 　I used to walk or peddle my old bike for miles just exploring the vast area of Boonoke North, saw many snakes and heaps of native animals. Life can be good in the bush, but not all that often, for a young boy or girl the experience should not be missed. THE GRAND MAN OF THE BUSH, OTWAY FALKINER.　 There are many other　notable experiences emanating from this wonderful place, not the least being the day mum copped a rev, "not the custard it tastes like wallpaper paste", the Master was quite a　personage and was prone to exhibit his unique humour,　he meant no offence and no offence was taken, I bet mum got a laugh and gave some back. OTWAY Falkiner and his family　would be our Patrons for the concerts and entertainment provided by the station population. I can clearly recollect the kids and me singing songs to the assembled audience　from the front porch of the great homestead, our instruments were banjos fashioned from cake tins, a stick and some twine. The little girl I mentioned recited a poem　entitled "Cobbler, Cobbler mend my shoe, have it done by half past two" etc., we would lift her onto a table for this recital I can remember her distinct lisp to this day. The master was　the backbone of the Bush, he was a very famous man, I would not know this then, he appeared to be just a kind and sensitive　man yet was a　solid 'Bushman', this was his property, he ruled with a strong but fair personality.　　Years later the stage beckoned me again but I will spare you that vision.　But I am going to return to　Bundemar Station via Trangie. BUNDEMAR　MERINO STUD, via TRANGIE N.S.W.　 Many kilometers’ north, Bundemar via Trangie N.S.W. has given me many special memories, circa 1949　(?), we moved there from I know not where,　as with Boonoke via Widgewa M.I.A. we lived on the homestead, had similar times to the above, I am enclosing B&W's later. Memories include being supplied with a　length of　8 gauge wire, folded and twisted to form　a formidable snake breaker, this piece of hardware was ever present during evening walks, I remember the raft built for me　from an old wooden gate with kerosene drums lashed to provide flotation, the　shipwright was a black American Jackaroo, my flotation was a "May West",　more comments about racial things later. I was the only kid for miles around but would meet other 'Bush' kids when　we visited The Gin Gin Weir for picnics and a swim. People came from miles around to this wonderful place. On our shopping　visits to Trangie a stop was always in order at the "local", the entertainment was provided by a "Bullen Bullen" parrot, He / She could sing "Little Old Lady　Passing By" in 5 languages and in 4 part harmony, serious, the bird could whistle the whole　tune and say a verse or two, you had to be there, (circa 1950?). THE MAIN MAN, STUD MERINO RAM, (he was a baby then).　 We all come into contact with notable people from time to time, (remember the power of six), how is this. Remember the comments about lambs, well, mum and dad and I adopted a little ram lamb, he would follow us everywhere ever　we went, (I should have been named Mary),　down to the billabong, along the roads around the property, and, although he lived in a special place we would see him daily.　 Regrettably, as he grew he became a little naughty and would fall behind, (operative word),　as we walked the sound of quickening　little hoofs would be warning of an impending shunt. It became impossible to enjoy our walks with this rat bag, although I still kept in contact with him. He sold at auction for a world　record 4500 guineas, that’s $9000　Aus +. Living in the bush is a hard slog now as was then, we lived well and survived, and as a child I can't remember missing out on a feed.　Most　fruit and veggies products were obtained from the land, while essential items, tea sugar flour 'bacca　came from　regular trips to town and beyond, (The Myers people had all the good stuff). We had our pets, although the sheep dogs were treated a bit rough on occasion, except when I was around and I would sneak some "sweets' to them. One of my　pets was a baby Galah, he came to me literally out of the sky, he fell out of his nest and was rescued by a station worker, (Bundemar Merino Stud), the poor little　fella had hardly any clothes on, god knows what I fed him on, the important fact was he survived and became completely domesticated, a photo will be forthcoming. This story has a happy ending for everybody, including myself in regards to caged animals, we moved back to the city eventually and the "squawker" came with us,　my Grandma owned a tenement house / residential at 112 Palmer Street (wait!) Woolloomooloo in Sydney where we would stay. This story will be included in I WAS BORN IN THE CITY.　More later......　　　　 LIKE ME, MY PALTRY POEMS ARE BASED ON MY PALTRY LIFE. BUNDEMAR and the Body’s. BOONOKE AND OTWAY FALKINER. AS a young bloke I lived in many places in N.S.W. I attended no less than 14 Schools, or had Correspondence School in some cases. WE lived along the east coast, the central and far west of our great state. We lived at / on sheep stations, dairy farms, villages and cities. Some schools were re-visited, like Plunkett Street Woolloomooloo, and Darlinghurst Jnr. Technical School, and while many of my school friends were ethnics, immigrants and ‘refos, lebo’s, wogs, itie’s, four be two’s, slope’s. Did I know, or cared back then, these awful derogatory terms? The answer is a resounding NO! They were all my school mates. 15 nationalities went to "Plunko" and "Darlo", some of their parents could not speak ‘proper English’. My attitude today has not changed, well, except for KIWI’S. They can’t play Cricket, and their dog’s cant fight. My Auntie Kina Wharepapa would kill for me saying this, but her Maori wisdom and humor have rubbed off, I loved my Kina, Kia Ora lovely lady. So anyway this poem, this "crappy bushy poem", is about another friend I met. THE BUNDEMAR STUD, aka, MY MAN THE RAM. John d farley ©2008 City folk, well what a joke… wouldn’t know your up ‘em ‘till you coughed. Who am I, can’t tell a lie, quarter city three-thirds country, and the bush I dream of oft. (piss poor effort that). Bugger me what an intro, but put your smirks aside and come outback with me. Let me tell you of the real men of the bush, wooly blokes they are, horny and roamin’ free.   Classic lines escape me now, some more chardonnay; my grammar may sound new. Eagles in my background, THEIR music, not the one’s that soar, and that will please a wooly ewe. So see me when I was a little tacker, baggy draws and Blackfriars Correspondence schooled. Lovin’ bush stuff, havin’ good times, believe me folks; the Merino, well he was the one, he ruled.   We moved from place to place, on my way to the esters I am bound. I had a galah for a pet, had a shangai and stones, the vast BUNDEMAR property I roamed around. Then this little wooly lanolin enriched, testosterone bewitched, cloven hoofed bloke entered my very bein’ I can see him getting the dock, retaining his precious cluster, so his pride will still be seein’.   He was a little wooly bundle, like a puppy really, followed us all around the place. Me Mum and Dad and I on afternoons, down the creek, along the tracks, I swear I can see his innocent little face. The little bugger grew, we knew a time would come for us to feel some harrow, give way to his place on earth. The clue became evident; fall behind, quickening hoofs sounds, shunt, on your bum, on his face the look of mirth. He had a name, God knows what, Dad called him "ratbag", and he grew and grew, and covered many a Ewe He became an Aussie wooly bush hero, THE BUNDEMAR STUD, he sold at auction, and he was a record, 4500 guineas, gives or takes a few. Circa? 1950? © john d Farley, Boonoke and Bundemar. 2008.