NEW BOOK#2 STUFF, #6 THE PEOPLE I'VE KNOWN. AND the reason that blogging sucks, AND YET!! So I'm older than most, yet younger than some, I should live longer, maybe. Just an ordinary bloke really, no great pretensions, no wealth, relative health, UPPER LOWER CLASS, and look up to people who are down. My colour, (Aussie), my color, (spell checker) will vary with the amount of sun I ingest. Your colour I respect. I have learnt that the color wont rub of on to me, only what's underneath. Would dearly love to and greet you and meet you. That's my crappy slant on life. THE PEOPLE I WOULD LIKE TO MEET Many people I have met, many blokes and girls who I respect. This was not supposed to be a poem, but life is startin’ fleetin’. Got a ‘bee in me bonnet', somewhat maudlin', its face-to-face your author's seekin'. What about the folks you're met, what about the folks you want too. Shake their hand, a peck on the cheek, a little bit of banter, that's what I allude to. You seem not to get this on the World Wide Web, the personal touch I means. I want to meet and greet, exchange a thought. Can't seem to get this on the web it seems. And yet if you stumble upon johnfarls.com, or johnfarlsbrunz, my enigma will appear to falter. You will meet some decent folk, you just read ‘twixt the lines, but is the name really Walter. I wrote a poem, the ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH, go on, GOOGLE it now. You see where I'm coming from, why the frown upon my brow. I have written many words to many cyber people, people who I have never met. AND that's the reason why Bloggin' sucks a bit, AND YET. © john d Farley 2008. LONELY? I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT LONELY. Comes from years of body surfing, the feeling of utter loneliness and misery of being POSTED and thoughts of sweet revenge. If I live. I could AND DID spend several hours body surfing, it was my one and only ‘drug’, possibly with the exception of a little Chardonnay and A wee glass of Resches from NEWPORT ARMS. OH, and A nice girl quite night. Some facts; Avalon Surf Club is real; it was a monumental moment in my life. This organization molded my life; I have never met so many great blokes and good Sheila’s ever. My dear wife Shirley and me commenced our lives from this bastion of camaraderie; it is a world of special people, all with a common goal. We had two great children, we had good times, and then she was gone. My life is dedicated to Volunteering, OH, and my kids. I assist people by mentoring; I assist people in their personal development. My thought process is sometimes erratic, please understand. If I wander, if you see me wander, bear with me. I began serious writing recently, my fashion is 2nd, 3rd and back to 1st party, my grammar is crap, I search for words. Again I have digressed, however all of what I write is in my vernacular, help me not to change. I’M POSTED OUT THE BACK, YOU mongrels. John d farley © Avalon Beach, Northern Beaches, Aussie, just one more place that I have been. Not been there? What a shame, you’ve missed out so let me set the scene. Just finished patrol washed and packed up all the gear Must go and join me mates, me dearest mates, the mates I feel so near. The blokes have been out the back, Maxie, Kegs, Bombhead, Shanks, just to name a few. Michael, Sprouley, Pogo, and Big Brian would make up the motley crew.   OK, you ALL were all there you mongrels, catchin’ waves and frolicking. Farls wants a go at them waves and give you guys a bollickin’. Overcast late afternoon we’re way way out the back, got me flippers, got me hand board and ‘Budgies’ too. How’s that for an ‘intro folks, and maybe now you will understand what I’m eluding too.   So the ‘keywords’, are overcast and mongrels, and I must have lost me track. It all comes down to being ‘posted’ way way out the back. G’day blokes, howsitgoin’ I’ve come to catch a few. And that was my big mistake. ‘Cause at this point I am a marked man, ‘cause self indulgence and my ego, that’s what they will take.   Maxie Watt with no apparent effort takes of on a right hand curling wave. His crappy old ply wood hand board takes him in the cave. Boofhead tries to emulate with his yellow plastic artifac, Down the mine arse over head. And that is life for me, way way out the back.   Some time comes to pass and QY’s beckons all the willing surfers, I don’t notice numbers fleetin’. I’m out here for a good time not a long time, and the fact not yet known. Because it won’t be long before "posted out the back" Farls will be a greetin’.   Odd stuff… I finally catch a wave, but, somewhere in the distance I here this strange commotion. Swimmin’ out I see all the mates on one wave looking up and smiling, Farls, the BELL HAS RUNG. Sorry mate you’re all alone, you’re POSTED in this big ocean.   Overcast late afternoon and now your on your own, posted out the back, not a soul out there, the seeds me mates have sown. I have related OLD WALL EYE, other sharkey bits from my page home, right now they all come back to haunt me, now bugger me I’m all alone.   Picture this my dilemma, swimmin’ backwards slowly, gotta’ give the impression of countenance. But all the time my bladder’s crying, recon it’s called incontinence. On the shore they will consider, ah, he’s setting up for a wave. Wrong… you mongrels just getting further from my grave.   You catch a crappy thing, one you would ignore, and an ordinary wave and really out of hand. Head down arse up and your face buried in the sand.   You look up at the Club, there were people watching you, but now their gone.   I’m on the beach, I’m safe, sound, I’m back in town big-time. Next time I’ll be waiting the call to bail out will be mine. Wait you bastards because revenge is sweet, next time the bells get rung, I’ll quietly slip away, and next you see me will be yon Surf Club verandah, and now my song is sung. Dedicated to all AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB members, past and past. John d Farley 2008, © I WAS A FENCER BEFORE YOU RING ASIO, THE POLICE OR WHATEVER, I learnt the noble art of SABRE FENCHING at St Mary’s Fencing School in Sydney, NSW, Sabre was my weapon of choice. A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE PRELIMINARIES FOLLOWS; Standing with one’s leading foot pointing at the opponent and your other foot at right angles, one addressed the assembled group. At about ten paces stood the antagonist with his seconds on either side, your seconds stood beside one. NOW are you ready for what follows? You acknowledge and salute the fencing party thus; One held the saber in an upright position close to your face. Pointing your saber downwards you addressed the opponents second on your left, he is the second on the right of the opponent, secondly you acknowledge the opponents second on your right, he is the second on the left of your opponent, right? Thirdly you address your own second on your left first and your second, you are on his left, next, right? Fourthly, one addresses the only person left, he is the one directly ahead, the one in the middle of his left and right seconds, you know that he is the one because he has a sword, you raise your saber to an upright position in front of your face then point the sharp end at his face and gallantly sweep it away making a "Zorro" sound. And finally if he is still awake the unfortunate does likewise, now if you are left handed? Will I start again? I continued with this sport for some time and just like most things found other interests. ALARMINGLY, I HAVE AN IDEA I MAY HAVE PLAGIARIZED, THESE CAN’T BE MY THOUGHTS! Full story; (www.johnfarls.com), BORN IN THE CITY 1. I AM A NOBODY. I am a no body. You want proof? Hold your tongue in your cheek the following is in jest. (You be the judge). This is my life history: 7 score years, live singular, reasonable health. I ride my bike when ever, (almost every day). Frequently I push my bike home, (punchers from broken beer bottles). I am not a moron, like the glass breakers. Poetry flows from my paltry brain, therefore; My poetry is brain dead and paltry. I have been married, two little boys, and total age: (85). No degrees, medals or acclimations, actually; I have had the DCM, like; "don’t come Monday", a VD and Scar, a BSA and sidecar. I am a volunteer; therefore I must be brain dead. Actually, The SES has endured my presence for (11) years. I have never been in the Military, well once, lasted 2 days. They sent me home because I was an apprentice. I have many pennies and half pennies. I live on a paltry "Aged pension"; a "t" bone steak is a luxury. I loved and love me Mum. Went to school with spicks and wogs, lebos, slopes, chinks, ethnics, dago’s, abo’s. Strangely, I never knew them names then, that is until people went balls up. I played football with them blokes, Parents, (and Sisters) cheered us on. Woolloomooloo Plunket Street Primary, Darlinghurst Junior Tech. School, we were brothers and sisters. I love Brunswick heads, go on, GOOGLE: johnfarlsbrunz. YOU A NOBODY?   BET YOU ARE SOME OF THE ABOVE, BLOKE OR SHEILA. OZ RULES. COME ON AUSSIE. And; Hispanic, Slav, Asian, Kiwi, Germanic, Frogs, Yanks, Arabs, Africans, Pommies, Jews, them Muslims, those cold people, Nordics, those hot people, even "highland people"; Tibetans and Scotch people, Black, white, white and black, yellow and white, all your babies belong to the world, AND THEN?     AND THAT INCLUDES ALL YOU "ETHNICS" SO WHEN DID WE BECOME ‘NO BODIES"? Regards, john f. THE AVALON MILKMAN I had bought a milk run 1962, location; AVALON BEACH, Northern Beaches, Sydney, this story commences in the first weeks; ME DOG PANCHO, PANCHO ME DOG. ©John d farley 2008 What possessed me, this is midnight and blowin’, I’m all-alone in me old ‘J’ van so let the repartee start flowin’. Yes, I am all alone, but not for long, because a ‘creature’ slides out from the gloom, its tail is wagging big time. He’s brown and black, his nose is wet, "Pancho is me name", he says, "and you and me will have a goodtime". For two years me dog and me, our clients we would call on. All over Avalon we wandered, "cats", said Pancho. "From now on there’s a war on".   I must tell you that I never knew Pancho’s parents or from whence he came, he really was not Pancho, it’s the term we agreed on, early in the game. God we did some good stuff, it whiled away the time and more, we shared my sangers, drank ‘our’ ice cream mix, told stories by the score. We can relate the bloody black ghosts down in Avalon Parade, and out of the windy night they came. Can you forget how calamitous you were, barkin’, fretful was your go, Pancho what’s your game.   These six young blokes are on a mission, "you guys are sworn by word, you and Pancho will say naught, or you will get the sword". We sit in the gutter and have to settle down, share some milk, you, and me, and the six young blokes discuss the plan before Torpedo Base their bound. Never saw those boys again, but they carried out the task, did they end up in a war torn place, if they did their safety, that’s all we ever ask.   Pancho wore out his pads, me, well I wore out me VOLLEYS. And they served me well, Pancho used to greet me nightly his tail wagged, we would have yarn, he cleared his head… me volleys he would smell. Many nights in Avalon Beach, the peace was rent and bent you see he chased the cats all over, "did you see that dog last night", well I did, I said, but; "wasn’t it your dog Rover?" Old buddy you remember when dawn lit up, you became my savior, you became the milkman’s dog, you were always on your best behavior.   We battled gales and rain, fallen trees, and the bloody Orb Weaving Spider, and this story I must impart. It didn’t kill me, but it slowed me down, you were concerned, "did it hurt", well "no old mate, but your concern I know, comes from your doggie heart". How about our brand new truck, "we" bought a Ming blue ‘Dattie’, she was all the go. But "does this mean I can’t ride in front or is she just for show?"   Don’t tell a soul, ‘cause proud as punch we were, promise me will you please, you did ride in front, only problem Pancho I had to put with yer bloody fleas. Old dog I thanks you for your company, and except for my dear wife Shirley you were my dearest friend, the times we had, the stuff we did, why God did it have to end? Got crook, good things have to end, had to sell the "run", you went home, I loves you still, Pancho me mate, thanks, you were this milkman’s God send.   Oh, one last section to this yarn, and good things come from bad, you adopted the young ‘new man’ but I could tell, it was me and you, and, was I the best milkman that you ever had? THIS IS THE SHORT STORY, PANCHO AND ME RELATES MORE STORIES, © john d farley 　 THE AVALON BEACH SAND HILL OLYMPICS, viz a viz (and) al la, "SHAGGIN’ IN THE SAND". I ‘spose this is not a poem, but I might write one. THE AVALON SAND HILLS ARE RE-NOWNED FOR THEIR PRESENCE. Why? The Avalon Beach sand dunes are renowned as a bastion, a bulwark for protection of the very cosmopolitan village of Avalon. Conservation groups have worked tirelessly to stabilise this barrier to the mighty ocean. Mining of the dunal sand was stopped many years ago thank God. Many lovers, just good friends, and cavorting, horizontal folk dancers are known to have　frequented this area, and possibly still do. I did. Years ago it was mooted that a new variation to the　"long jump" be introduced to the OLYMPICS; Called the "AVALON BEACH HORIZONTAL JUMP". Simply put; a person lay on top of another person on a 45-degree loose Avalon Beach　sandy slope, and tried to do "IT". Do I need to elaborate? Many "sand rules" were put forward, there were no impositions placed upon the contestants, read lovers. To entice the other person to this sandy area, suggestions of there being a "Crashed Helicopter", "help me search for the Golden Rivet", or "would you like to look through the Port Hole" were common SUGGESTEO FALSI. "Do you want a shag" is not acceptable, and; nor is any interrelated comment that denigrates the innocence of my ‘new friend’. Suggestions for a sojourn were; "I will love you enduringly", and "I will take you to the Avalon Stomp". Shagger to Shaggee: ("this venture into the Avalon Sand Hills is one of difficulty, it is a ‘sporting event’, you and I will be making history").   The degree of difficulty was suggested as 105.5, (by people who tried "IT"). Regrettably, this new 'sport' would not be accepted by the IOC, it did not mean the 'sport' would be doomed to be forgotten, I didn't. The following may further indicate why the attempt at recognition failed;   Green groups successfully argued that valuable resource was being depleted.     They maintained that contestants would remove and average of 4 kilos of sand each in their 'undies'.     Security organizations argued that contestants would practice deceit and would "roll over".   The IOC has completely forgotten that the original Olympic contestants were naked.   The IOC successfully argued that world wide "training" would level huge expanses of places like that of the Sahara desert.     The IOC believed the "long jump" was as close an ANALOLOGY WILL LET IT GET, (TO ’IT’)     The Avalon Beach Progress Association were successful; "this venue will be flattened by ‘sliders".     While the exotic Bittou bush may help to be eradicated, it was felt that;     Dune　stabilising vegetation would be "up rooted" as the 'contestants' slid down the very steep sand dunes.     Unacceptable comments from the competitors; "I like it rough, dig it in the sand again", or "make me feel like a cement mixer".     The heel and toe markings created deep　furrows causing erosion.     "Goody Goodies" indicated that this　sport should not be seen as　fun.     　And that; "if it is fun, why aren’t they laughing?"     Medical groups argued that abrasive trauma, "silly cozzies of the productive areas will be evident".     Also, this abrasive action denies Surgeons income from "Circumsectomy procedure".     People from West Aussie believed that "Sand Groping", a State identity, was a copyright issue.     Concrete Companies believed that making small concrete batch plants was affecting their business.     The Rural sector understood that ploughing the land was their domain.     Conservationists were quoted; "the sand crabs are being displaced by an exotic species".     Queenslanders argued that Fraser Island was a better venue to ‘come’.   There were many more arguments against, want to add some? Email me @ johnfarls@bigpond.com There are many arguments for this "SPORT", this is my contribution to real life, look for; GET OUT OF HERE, then have a laugh. FOOTNOTE: YES I have been there, as I struggled to do it with my "new friend", I found myself slowly working my way down the steep sandy slope. The ocean stopped my progression, albeit with a billowing cloud of steam. Way above me came this call: "YOUR REALLY SMALL, BUDDY", regards john f. GIVE OR TAKE A METER. HAD A BIT OF FLACK LATELY, WELL, some constructive criticism, it’s all to do with me poetic writing standards, and lack thereof. It seems that I am lacking in the art of writing science, in particular, the ‘crappy’ Bush poetry that flows from my brain and thence from my keyboard, Now, this will not faze me, nor the years condemn, at the going down of my life nothing will change. My stuff is exotically me; it is ever bodies right to be unique and say it like it is. So therefore and thus, a little explanation to the pundits; Grammar and English is not my forte, year (9) was my limit, and poetry came before sport. However I must stress that I am constantly revising my Bush Poetry, new words here, and the flow will be altered to ‘read right’. Clumsy lines edited and corrected. It must be mentioned that "me and I and self indulgence" will appear on the same line, I understand the ramifications. Further to these comments, my life as a poet commenced 12 months ago, my narrative attempts at rhyming are loosely a chronology of my paltry life; bear with me folks, ‘cause there is a poem ‘acumen’. I MENTION METRE, (METER), not the distance I hesitate to say, or should that be stressed, maybe acoustic properties. GIVE OR TAKE A METRE, John D. Farley© 2009 Me hat’s off, me sleeves are rolled up, and I’m ready for the fray, this poem’s about correctness, you critic’s will take bay. You see, I never wrote a poem, including the Aussie Bushy ones, ones that I cant match. Until a tragic incident occurred, in my locale, in my backyard, described as bein’ on my patch. This will be time well spent, so of I went, to write a rhyming Bushy poem. Heart full of sorrow. Who’s words can I borrow, bugger it, the words will be my own.   All about a flooded creek, my first attempt was written. Much more crappy rhyming verse then followed, Farley’s brain was smitten. Then based with prior learning, living life if you will. I’ll base me poems on a life of yore, my memories I will fill. Well you can’t believe how vernacular weaved, in and out this Bushy narrative. I soon found out, with out a doubt, bends some words use some slang, from Aussie stuff the decretive.   And now down the track, from way outback, from left field the bitter truth rose up and bit me lame. I read some stuff by a bloke named Ellis… Campbell is his last name. Beloved Bush poems is his game, my work he puts to shame, shameful, followed by the then some. It’s the reason why I’m trying hard to do good things, so why am I so bloody winsome. What an Aussie champ, his writing tips I follow with enjambment, onomatopoeia and metaphors in quick succession. Problem is, old Aussie mate, my minds to thick to comprehend the science of the mission.   I think I’ve got a handle on rhythm, on caesurae, similes and clichés, and maybe a stanza dream. Constantly revise me poems, cant get monometer right and have to re-write the rotten theme. Bugger me, almost got the imagery right, can you see wot I see Ellis, I have been on the track that yourv’ been down. There’s a bloke called Bernard, der Silver throated is he known, knock about man, you Poets will look at this and moan.   Don’t let the hangman’s noose slip loose; you blokes keep knocking out the good stuff. Me, I’ll just plod along, singing my song, poems in my vernacular, sometimes honest. Always very rough.   My poems are full of self-procrastination, self-indulgence, me, I, and a little more of self. But, then 60 years plus, arse out of me duds, so I can’t sit on the shelf. Our poetry, my regret, is miles and miles apart, you hark from Coolah, so I must give some thoughts impart. My Pommie ancestors settled in the upper Hunter, we might be cousins, now there’s a merry start.   Well sorry Ellis Campbell, if in the cupboard the skeleton resides, and writes. Maybe you will disown this poet, but I look for your clergy often, my pledge will be to put it right.   And, so with this tongue in cheek analogy, respect to you not with-holden’. Best wishes from all Bushy Aussies, you bloody beauty, keep those words unfolden’. John D. Farley© 2009, PS: This will be re-written’, edited, and then some. LITTLE AVALON. Or should that be "LITTLE ABALONE". Just south of the Avalon rock pool is a well known little surfing spot known as ‘Little Avalon’. A substantial little reef sticks up about 60m or so from shore, just inside the reef is a rocky gutter, foliaged by weed, then the shoreline. In my early days at Avalon, the intrepid would "attempt to body surf " a frantic left and right reef break, break is the operative word here. The break worked well / better at mid tide, waves would stand up over the small reef. You had to be quick and stupid or many abrasions were the result. It later became reasonably well known to the BOOGIE BOARD SET.   As an aside, an old mate, Adrian Partridge was dabbling in molded fiberglass, he made for me what was arguably the first "Belly Board" made from polyester foam and woven glass mat, red in color, and boy did I have some great waves on this rather abrasive surfing device. About 1957 / 8 I recon. "Bragging rights" will allow me to tell you that I caught several waves from the north point to right in front of the Surf Club. Right… that’s out of the road, back to Little Avalon. LITTLE ABULON, AKA; LITTLE AVALON Very early my inquisitiveness led me to snorkel the gutter inside the reef, low and behold it was crawling with single shelled molluscs’ or uni-shelled slug things, AKA; ABULON, Marine Snails, Mutton Fish, Pawa, Abalone, family HALIOTIDEA, genus HALIOTIS, bloody yum bloody yum. My Aunty Kina Wharepapa had introduced this exquisite marine edible to me during my school days. Traditionally you clean and wash the ‘muscle’ then beat the crapp out of them to tenderize the very tough flesh, WRONG you dickheads. Aunty Kina, (Kina, Sea Urchins, good stuff also), had the secret ingredient, Paw Paw juice. Soak the cleaned and sliced Pawa in Paw Paw juice or the crushed fruit. An hour or two tender and flavored. OK, what next, eat the bastards that’s wot’s next. It was a closely guarded secret, the Abalone gold mine. Rule #1; only take what you need, rule #2; keep it a secret. And for me that worked, however a good old mate tells me the "plantation has been wiped out", oh well the bounty of the sea is our right to plunder, like buggery. Now just down the road was a Café, (?) Jack and June Cooper, and Later Jimmy and Margaret Robinson Milk bar. I would take the cleaned Molluscs’ to the milk bar, now here’s the go. Through the mincer, some chopped onion, salt and pepper, some bread crumbs, some flour. Make some patties and cook on the hot plate, make a coupla Abalone Hamburgers, procure a milkshake with 3 eggs and ice cream, go back to the Surf Club and fill yer guts. Cholesterol these days is down to 6.5, from 9.5. I was a young "man" of 17 / 18, I had the "drive" of fully loaded lead "H" for hard pencil, but regrettably I had no ‘body to write to’, correspond with, exchange notes with, or even shag. I MUST SAY FROM THE OUTSET; I am a fringe dweller, although, I have an association with the wonderful retches, (operative word), of the PITTWATER. DEF: RETCHES; to spew, vomit, and bring up yer guts. Up and under, call for ernie, bring up your guts, "THERE GOES BREAKFAST, WHAT’S FOR TEA". I HAVE FISHED, SAILED, ENJOYED THE EXPANSES OF THE PITTWATER. I have had c$lients, friends, high society, low society, basic associations with the PITTWATER reaches… That is not bad for a bloke from WOOLLOOMOOLOO, THEREFOR, H.MA.S. PENGUIN… Any body remembers the NAVEL TORPEDO BASE at TAYLORS POINT, via CLAREVILLE BEACH?   CLAREVILLE BEACH and the "Bloody Torpedo". © john d farley 2008 Out back of Avalon NSW lives a pretty Pittwater Beach, Clareville, that’s her name. One a peaceful day the beach was pillaged, for some time, lovely Clareville Beach, would to never be the same. Our Navy boys were our friends, and they protected us down under, but this day an untervasser machinen’ thing went mad, well folks they made a blunder.   Must stop, re-late, go back to get attention, Milk run and Pancho, Mrs. Selley, Mrs.Taubman and Mr. Fox, well, they must rate a mention. Adrian me mate, he fits in with the go, he had a "Cat" moored in Clareville Bay. No surf on Avalon, not a problem, rig the cat and sailen’ down the Pittwater, gees, what more is there to say. The ‘Targets", was there three of them? Like bastions, that’s my story. ‘Borrow’ a rowboat of the beach, ‘cause there was a fish that lingered underneath, a name, something just like Dory.   For many years the base existed nestling in foreshores oh so pretty, to denigrate such a place was, well, was a bureaucratic pity. Just before the air was blown, sending "Big Fish" down the bay. Crash boats raced, hither and yon, we’re Navy blokes, and we jest you not, ‘cause we have the final say. I think the story ‘bout the base is fundamentally, just a small diversion, you see this yarn, its JohnFarls story, of mine it’s just a version.   Mores’ the pity, this navel base, became the place of dread, adjacent to the place Mrs. Selley races; "John, JFK is dead". Hang on, we digress, the "bloody torpedo", what went asunder, oh I remember, off she goes on a nor’ be nor’ the targets she go’s under. Some chaotic trivial malfunction hits the fan, "the fish" has a minor glitch and its ‘bloody’ rudder bumbles. Now it heads east be east, boats and Clareville Beach, watch out blokes the things gone mad, up the beach she rumbles.   Now, damage, there was none, all the floating stuff was spared but what a bloody show, only damage; Aussie Navy, "the bloody torpedo" and their Navy ego. You live at Clareville Beach in liven’ times, you think this yarn’s a scam, trust me people you heard it first, it came from me and Pancho, I was your Avalon Milkman. John d Farley 2008, © BOTTLIN’ PLONK, AVALON SURF CLUB STYLE. You the reader must understand that I am sometimes flippant and Aussie vernaclurised with my narrative, if it grates please accept and have some fun with me. It will be worthy of note that I spent many years in the Hospitality Industry; I trained and mentored many students in Food and Beverage. One of my many teaching accreditations was; ‘Advanced Wine Making and Wine Appreciation’, yep, I trained Wine Waiters. I used the "Learn from the Label" technique. TEN GALLONS EQUALS 66 ‘LEGLESS’ BOTTLES. Several of my Surf Club mates had been bottling wine for a few months; I was invited to join their little tipple. Snap and Jan, Ross and Joy, John and Sandra? Then me and a friend, (female).  My first friend was a Jewish girl, the second was a Yugoslav girl, and the third girl was Australian. You can see from the outset that I am quality conscious. The procedure of the bottling process followed a set format, it took place on or about a monthly basis, we would purchase a 10 gallon container of not so bad wine and have a serious go at attempting to fill 66 bottles with that magic elixir. WE had no special preference, "red or white, she’ll be right". Before I proceed let me tell of the "Farley wine principle" thus; PPPWP, (an acronym).,der.   Plank is prepared by using a timber…     Plink is cheap Plonk, commonly described as; around the world on 2 bob, completely stuffed, so it follows; Plonk is cheap Wine, the embodiment of eons of experiments in wine making stuffed up. Wine is the embodiment of eons of experimentation not stuffed up.     Plank is a board that they carry you out on.     (Bet you thought I was referring to the ‘staves’; that is the bendy timber used to make Firkins and Puntions).     (WE were too pissed to "punch on")   Did you know that PISSED is also an acronym?     (P)leasure (I)s (S)equentially (S)equ(E)sted from getting piss(D)ed.   THE AVALON WAY. A typical day commenced thus, IE; the PLAN. At the outset we had purchased the 10 gallon wine container, and depending on the type of wine to be bottled on the day we would:     Have been to the Mona Vale Tip previous and asked the tip manager to "put aside" 66 bottles, either red or white wine bottles.     The females of the opposite sex would be preparing a BBQ lunch.     The men of the opposite sex will have retrieved the bottles and returned to give them a good clean, (not the females you idiot, the bottles).     WE have purchased cork seals, set up the corking plant; the corks will be soaking in the sink.     The bottles are thoroughly cleansed with a solution of sodium meta-bi-sulphate and hot water. A long brush is used.     We are now in a time frame, say mid morning and 3 beers each.     And so just prior to lunch the process of bottling commences, a very large wine de-canter will be produced.     This de-canter is glass; it holds (4) bottles of liquid.     I must describe this container in its entirety, it’s a very special part of the wine bottling, perhaps… not so wine bottling process.   It’s made of glass, it’s bulbous with a very large neck. It has a large cork as a stopper; a glass compartment enters the container. This is for ice. It is sealed by another large flat cork, it has a pouring lip. All up this wine decanter will contain (4) bottles of embrocating ‘Vino’. It is unknown how many gallons of exquisite liquid this wonderful container has contained. Certain interesting facts will emanate from our incursion into wine making; the process will turn into a party.     Why? Because it can.     The social side effects drag into the late evening, why?     Because it did.     66, 750ml bottles are contained in 10gal wine barrel.     THE BEST WE BOTTLED WERE 48 BOTTLES.     The worst / best we bottled were 36 bottles. Why?     Can’t remember.     Other mates and their girls were invited, why?     It makes the bottling statistics look better.     In reference to "Firkins", we were too pissed to do that.     The evening would conclude with a BBQ WASHED DOWN BY.     WINE, what else? You been following this saga?   The remaining sealed bottles will be divided by the now "legless" assembled wine patrons, it was labeled SNABEAR, got no idea what this means. This wine making venture came at great cost; liver, friends, neighbors, RBT, AND ON AVERAGE THE PRINCELY SUM OF 70 / 90 CENTS A BOTTLE. The corks were the dearest item. At around 10 cents a cork, we discussed re-cycling, big problem; Araldite is not a great substance to reseal the corkscrew hole. As a footnote, I moved into a house in Avalon around the time of the ‘Sommelier’ endorsed occasion, I had many valuable possessions. That night I was invited to have Tea with some friends, in my ‘fridge, were several bottles of our bottled wine. I arrived home to find heinous people had broken into my residence, all they took was the wine and 2 cut glasses; this demonstrates they were after quality, end of story. I may have mentioned somewhere, actually I know I have. I was a very proud member of AVALON BEACH S.L.S.C. for many tears The true saga of a bunch of AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB "BOATIES". My rhyming BUSHY poem is full of Australiana, it has certain lingua franca that may offend, DO NOT TURN YOUR TV OFF.   QY’S, def; loosely a bar, a meeting place, Sunday place to tell tall tales. Girls and their personalities were compulsory, THE QUEENS YEOMANS?, (don’t think so). Many years ago, we were competing in a Surf Carnival at Nth. Palm Beach, SYDNEY NSW. The surf turned ordinary, in fact it turned out shit house, people and watercraft were getting trashed at an alarming rate. I think the word was; "The incredible attrition dynamic undergoing competitors’ and their life saving accouterments necessitated cancellation of the said contest". Quote: The Gallagombonne Chronicle, (not true). That’s right; it was outhouse. Try shithouse. My hero and older mentor, in fact, the "the hairy bugger" has suggested; "Well, since we’re up here we should give the general population a bit of a thrill, I’ve got a plan". The plan included a Surf Boat. "How about a wave at Palm Beach"? Any body familiar with PALM BEACH, Northern Beaches NSW? You will know that a very pleasant ‘Rip’ runs out on the southern end of the beach. It will take you past the rock pool and beyond. Broadly speaking this is the essence of; "I’ve got a plan". So. What are we on about here? OK, a 25 foot bondwood ply Surf Boat, 4 oarsmen, The sweep / tiller man was the inimitable Brian Sheehan, soon to become our enigma, and a bloody’ continuous set of waves coming in from the south east. ROW YA’ BASTARDS ROW. © john d farley 2008. Right from the very outset the task was fraught with extraordinary contrition. There was ‘Bombhead’, Michael, Jackie, Me, and Big Brian the leader of the mission. The world at large was watching us, mongrel Brian, YOU made this unprejudiced decision. The boat was launched, we seemed prepared but with trepidation and derision.   At this point the intention must be clear and object made dispassionate. "One wave is all we’ll catch, you blokes row I will steer, nature will help us fashin’ it". You will not believe how fast we traversed, 20 strokes took us from the beach to way way out the rear. The Palm Beach Pool was just a blur, we’re out there folks, but why this impenden’ fear?   We settle and collect our senses; we are in the big wave zone. Just get me home to QY’s, a beer and; why am I writing this watery tome. Twenty foot, I recon was what we ups and flows. We’re way way out the back, and we settle for Big Brian’s courteous request, "when I say youse rows, well you pricks youse rows".   Their green and vast, unrelenting fast and have tons and tons of clout. Supremacy is their potential, and I ask myself, God how can I get out? The beach is oh so distant, about a thousand yards, give a little take a mile. I’m rowin’ bow and all I see is faceless hoary backs, the big man has this wry, this oh so complacent smile.   And then the command to "stroke boys" is heard by all so clearly. "We get this one, home and hosed on the beach we’ll be, the place you want so dearly". Mongrel dogs we rowed, piss poor really, we mistrusted Big Brian’s brawn. Backed off just in time, rowed backwards, and this was where the big blokes scorn was born.   "You gutless, mango dispossessed, bunch of useless pricks. You heartless mongrels, bananas are proud of their yellow skins compared to you. That’s an oar in your hands, not your priapus, it won’t grow any bigger. Your hearts are like peas, you couldn’t run a dog fight.   You with me or agin’ me? Your not a crew, your a poor excuse for cowards. You couldin’ pull a skin of a custard, weak as piss. If you had half a brain it would be lonely, you have let me down, you’re as useless as Papier Mashe cocks, the next wave is for us you dogs, or you will be here all night.   Possibly the longest display of relationship and adjectives in a poem this may be so. But when ‘Big Brian’ gave the order row, you better bend your weakened backs, "row ya bastards row". Every word the big bloke uttered rang in our mongrel piss poor brains, and might I say to this day still. One more goes Oh fearless one, one more chance you hairy bastard, and we’ll show the world we’re got the will.   So like a new page openin’ the crew is ready for the grind. Forget about impending gloom, new courage is what we’ll find. He sets us up on a mountain way way out the back, and oh my God it’s monumental and it’s also bloody huge. No more backin’ off, no more gutless piss poor wonders, this is our time, yes, to end the subterfuge.   It’s two miles high and it’s three miles thick, it’s green and full of massiveness. Colossal, vast, gigantic, well 18 foot we guess, and we surmise, now its time give this one our very best. "Gentlemen prepare to stroke, give me what you’ve got. Show the people on the beach a thrill or too, now you sheila’s it’s time give me your best shot.   "Row ya bastards, sorry gentlemen, row like men possessed, and then some if you will". We did just that, we bent them oars, and watched the mammoth start to fill. We’re on this colossus at a blinding pace and down the face we rushes. Brian yells "trail them oars, come back boys, Jackie lend a hand don’t let the mongrel crush us".   Fifteen foot of boat protrudes from our watery feat of nature, and we can feel the awesome hum of dominance. "Stay in the middle, get right back, sit on the bloody’ floor, right now we are on our way to International prominence". I’m looking ‘round, the pace in frantic and in my memories eye. Lookin’ back I see that bloody great sweep oar embedded in Big Brian’s thigh.   It seems just like eternity, well at least for some long time and then some more. This bloody great wave is runnin’ green and then comes that awesome roar. Way above our heads the monsters cresting starts, cascading tumbling and spewing spume and foam. But Big Brian knows the trial, the ultimate test is nigh, "hang on you scungie lot, I’ll get you bastards home".   "Trust me boys, we’re not beat yet but this bastards got a punch, Jackie, push with me and soon we’ll all be high and dry. The amount of energy this mammoth is expending has instilled us with a classic high. With gargantuan proportions the wall of water on our stern will turn mortal men to awe, and more. And I will wager this, all you ‘Boatie’ folk, you’ll have a fear or two ‘cause now you’ll be unsure.   Now it’s time to include and assimilate the thoughts of fellow poets, wager this, never ventured. Have you been there, will you relate a concluding thought into places never censored? Four gutless blokes, a mighty boat, with Brian Sheehan at the blunt end. He has swept us from obscurity, learn you pricks, and bend you backs, the old hairy bastard was a God send.   When Big Brian sais "row ya bastards Row", do it bloke, you not here for a good time, and just don’t row for show. You might be big and brawny, with yer "budgies up yer arse, the secret is; rrroow—rrroow—rrroow, "row ya bastards row. We are near the beach and we’ve beaten that crushing ocean. Our blue duds are brown, but without a frown, so what’s the bloody commotion.   But you have never heard a sound so beloved, precious, and filled with dear relief. Of that of plywood plowing beach sand, now your back on decks your home is underneath. Recollections of this trauma have been stretched and friggen’ graphic. You don’t believe me… Well guess I’ll have to tell yer, on the beach was a camera crew from the National Geographic. Dedicated to; BRIAN SHEEHAN, AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB, copyright © John D. Farley 2008.