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Monday, August 25, 2008

Where have you been Uncle Furry?

Hi all, it’s been a while. The last post was on the 14th November and it was the day after it all went a little haywire. This post is more of a reflection on the last 8 months since that post, an in sight into a journey of recovery, (if you like).

On the 15th November I was told that my father had cancer of the pancreas, liver, lungs. The diagnosis wasn’t all that flash. I went through a monster of emotions; initially I wished him an awful, painful death.

Then I rode the roller coaster, I questioned why he “hated” me. Questioned why the childhood I had with him was the way it was. The situation required me to re-contact my family. I decided that my 3 kids were not going to become involved again in the circus that is my family.

I re-lived the fact that my brother’s felt that I was “antagonistic” & deliberately upset my father & I “deserved” the beating I got. I make no bones about that, I freely admit I did things to anger my father & get him to re-act; I deliberately took the brunt of his anger, because I felt I could handle it. If he tried the same on my younger brothers, he’d have killed them.

I remembered, relived, the many, many fights we’d had. I remembered the night when I was on leave from Big Bangs R us & for whatever reason decided to go “home” as opposed to living at my mates flat like normal. How deathly quiet it was while I stood at the back door, the explosion of noise the second the door was opened.

The screaming & shouting was overpowering. As I rounded the corner, seeing my younger brother on the ground, pinned against the kitchen cupboards, being kicked furiously by my father.

I remember my peripheral vision blurring & he, my father, becoming the whole center of my attention. The grabbing him by the hair, slamming his face into the over head cupboards, spinning him around, a couple of well aimed knees into the stomach/chest area.

Shoving him back into the wall, pinning him against the wall & whipping out the stiletto (the double edge Commando dagger we used) and thrusting it up into his neck. It broke the surface & I held it there for what felt like eternity. To this day I still wonder why I never sliced him right to left.

Then, amongst all this anger & bitterness, there was a potential road rage incident. This scared me. I was moments away from basically stopping my car, hauling a driver out of the car & unloading on them. Knowing what I’m capable of, what I’ve been taught, and the fact I came from a violent background, I really frightened myself.

Sought help from a therapist, and it helped a little. Getting to talk to Aunty Jean & Uncle Des, helped heaps. Uncle Des was very much the “suck it down, move on” style, not surprising he’s lived it hard, especially as a Merchant Sea man in WWII. Aunty Jean hit the nail on the head when she said, “some people are just wired wrong”.

I saw him three times before he passed. The first was the only time we spoke. I noticed I was all on my own with him & 15 minutes in he got a call from my mother to make sure everything was OK. This disgusted me, with all those years, all that history that’s gone under the bridge; you’d think if my mother or brothers were in fear of his safety, they’d be there to protect him.

We spoke of politics, environment, just crap in general. I left after 45 minutes & it would be the last time he saw me. The next two times I saw him he was in a comma. My father passed on Boxing Day & I went to the service.

People spoke of this wonderful warm, sharing, loving person. Who was an honor to know. As the curtain closed, I flashed the coffin the bird & thought to myself, you can take your shit with you, it goes with you. Seems to me you can be a prick all your life & people are compelled to bullshit about the person you really were at your service.

Uncle Des came that day. Just to make sure I’d be OK. In other words, he came to make sure I was safe. And I was, with PG, Uncle Des, Joe & Bart all present; I don’t think anyone was game to interfere with me.

And I was sure PG was amazed with some of the comments, like, “Oh we’ve been dear friends of the L’s for 20 years, never met you before, how do you know Eddie”?

When they were informed that I was the eldest, it was like “Oh” & they’d simply walk away.

I came clean to my kids, the eldest two were gutted that I didn’t tell them about my father’s illness, Spud especially since he always said he make contact when he turned 18 & was robbed by only 2 months. In saying this, he still hasn’t gone out to make contact with any other family member since.

Then there was the passing of my ex father in law. He was actually closer to me than my own father. I saw him a couple of times in hospital, went tot his service, and wake. Re-met ex family members, had a few beers, left.

Throw into the mix of just the average day to day life pressures & issues; I’ve been pretty busy achieving fuck all other than surviving. PG, again, has been my rock & all the kids seem to have come to terms with the deaths of both Grandfathers.

So yeah, next week I’ll search the old grey matter for some silly story or antics from an era gone by. Today I just thought I’d give you a heads up on where I’ve been.



Wednesday, November 14, 2007

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The Killer Tree-stump

Hi everyone

Kick back & relax with another chapter from the "Furry Chronicles" as Uncle Furry tries to impart some well learned parenting pit falls.

As you know, Uncle furry is the eldest of 4 Furrys. Was automatically designated as the "leading" role model
in the development of the younger 3 furry's. My parents had a slightly "alternative" style of parenting, as well as, what could only be called, a slightly unorthodox view on what was "normal & acceptable".

A classic example was, while it was acceptable for the older 3 furry's (15,11,9) to walk around the farm with rifles, it was not acceptable for the youngest, but, Father furry was willing to allow the 7 yo Furry to have a cross bow, which performed far better than our .22 cal rifles!

Slug guns (air rifles) were fine though. To the point where all of us had them at our suburban home. We would "skeet shoot"
for example.

How it was done was to run as fast as possible past the bedroom door, and the one inside the bedroom would try & "nail" the fast paced furry running past the door way.

The record was 8 passes untouched, set by the youngest furry, he was bloody fast! Must have been his training in out running the zombie chicken. He was also the best shot! Second place record was 4 passes untouched!

Furrys being Furrys, we often played war, but really got over the youngest furry arguing about when he was actually "shot".
So, being the resourceful Furrys we were, we decided that we'd use the slug guns (firing chicken feed pallets), (because air rifle slugs got really expensive with the amount we'd go through), and the problem was solved. When he, or you got shot, you knew it & couldn't really "hide" the fact.

We were slightly "different" from the average family. For Example all the family was involved in motorcycle racing, even mum. In the early 70's she would "woman handle" a 750cc Kawasaki H2 Mach 3 around a race track in A grade races.

If this doesn’t seem too impressive, the old Mach 3 was an animal in its day, and was only ridden at full bore by the most fearless pilots.

The family property was in Dargo, (for those not familiar with Aust., its up near the area they filmed "The man from Snowy River") and was 400 acres of pure bliss.

Rolling hills, beautiful ranges, and tree covered hilltops, and was the most peaceful place on earth. The Furrys did their best to destroy this peace. It was also the first place where PG & Furry’s crossed paths. She would come up with friends to go horse riding next door with girl friends from school.

"WE" were the "noisy boys next door, who rode loud motorbikes & scared the horses". And when I was 16, the 3 younger furries were racing bikes nationally & I'd just finished my first season on the 750cc Grand Prix & Super bike circuit in Europe & the States. So I suppose, sometimes we might have been perceived as going a little quick.

I'll not bore you with how many visits the parent Furrys undertook (it was 4 hour return trip) to the nearest hospital to repair a crumpled furry, but there was a few.

The bush would also occasionally "reclaim" a vehicle. And the number of times father furry would yell, (once it was decided we weren't "too" crumpled) "I fucken know you can jump the creek (or fence, or road, or embankment) on ya bike, but what made you think you could do it in the ute (car)!"

Given half a chance, we’d have done a reverse Evil Knievel, in as much as we’d try & jump 17 motorbikes in a double decker bus.

Tonight’s funny story was the removal of "The Killer Stump". What happened, the previous owners removed all the trees in this particular area by the old "terfor method".

Imagine a huge manual winch, you hook up both ends to separate stumps & crank away, eventually the stump is pulled up. You repeat this as many times as required & eventually you're left with one stump only. Which is removed manually, which is a bitch because it's normally the biggest one in the area.

Well this stump was a "Killer Stump". It was right in the way when you drove the Ute down to the creek to fill the water tank. No matter what angle you took, you hit the bloody thing. Well, father furry got sick of the panel damage to the Ute & decided the stump "had to go". Well I'm big on energy conservation, so I thought, "fuck that" when he suggested we dig it out.

Being a highly mentally evolved furry
that I am, suggested that we wait 'til winter. Every weekend we'd pour flammable liquid over it & light it up. After all, it's dead & full of large borer holes (termite like insect) & should be gone in no time!

Well picture painting time, its winter in the high plains, it's cold, nearly snowing. We prepare some coffee (father furry & your's truly). Start the Ute & off we go. As sure as a politician is crooked, we bounced off the killer stump. Pulled the Ute to a halt down near the creek & I lugged 2 x 20ltr Jerry cans back to the stump.

After emptying the contents all over the stump, I lit it up. Burning furiously in front of me the killer stump was consumed by fire. It was beautiful; the warmth of the fire warmed me.

I decided, "A smoke & a coffee would be nice" and wander back to the Ute with the two empty cans. Tossing then into the back of the ute, father furry muttered, "what, not done enough fucken damage to me Ute today, gotta do some more do ya?""

He was precious about his fifth Ute he'd bought for the farm (fifth in the last 2 1/2 years, others still on the property but "planted" in various areas & at differing angles).

The normal greeting was returned, "Get stuffed & pour me a coffee".

As I walked around to the driver’s side to get my smokes off the dashboard it was as if I was scooped up by a giant hand and thrown through the air. A massive boom followed.

As I sailed through the air I thought, "WHAT THE! " Landing flat on my face, I rolled over to see the Ute had also moves 90 degrees to the way it was originally parked.

There was all sorts of crap falling from the sky & smoke everywhere, I looked over to the front of the ute to see father furry furiously fanning his crouch, (later turned out he slipped my coffee in his lap) and thought "That's a little strange, even for us". Finally I got up and wandered groggily over to the car, as the smoke cleared the "Killer Stump" was no more.

In its place was a crater, about 10 feet deep & 20 feet wide. It turns out that the pervious occupants of the land had drilled holes into the stump, placed dynamite into the holes & forgot about it for the next 3 years or so.

The Ute was also a little worse for wear; the complete left hand side was punctured with bits of the deceased "Killer Stump". The Ute was then known as #6, and still is probably down by the creek.

So, how does a furry get to my age? Beats me.

Next weeks episode will be titled, "How to confuse father furry, and why is the creek dam getting so large? Eldest Furry, detention cord from the Army & a fishing we will go!"

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Why Furry's don't do the "C" word...

Hi everyone, its Wednesday afternoon, and its time to invoke the SOP’s & for any newbies reading this for the first time, I’ll explain ‘em to you. Those who want a drink, glasses in the cupboard, coffee mugs next to ‘em, kettle on the bench, white wine & the milk are in the fridge, red in the pantry, bourbon in the cupboard, ice in the freezer.

While you’re up, some one grab Uncle Furry a big glass, chuck in ½ a dozen ice cubes, fill it up with bourbon. Pull up a bit of floor & relax for another installment of the Furry Chronicles. Those who smoke, outside & well away from me.

Today for some reason I’ve got a huge “Jones” on for a smoke, even though what happened recently is still very fresh in my mind, today I feel like I really could go one.

Relax all; the stats are enough to keep the urge in check though. Lets see if I got this right, 25% of the people who have had this sort of heart attack have a second (which is normally fatal) with in the next 5 years. Those who return to smoking, 50% will have another heart attack & of them, 50% will be fatal. So yeah, the urge is kept at bay.

Anywho, today’s story is why Furry’s don’t knit, sew or do that other “C” word, (crocheting). It dates back to when I was younger, (Year 9), back when it was a High School, not a College as they are called today). And the school I went to is today, still a shithole in the middle of a shitheap suburb. It’s nice to know that some things will never EVER change.

Now, it was decided that boys needed to learn “new” skills. Things like typing were offered to the lads, (please note I took up typing, it was a great way of chatting up girls with little or no “competition”). And may I say, to this day I’m not an exceptionally quick typer, but it was a “target rich” environment, that’s for sure.

Other skills that were foolishly made “compulsory” were things like wood & metal work for the girls, home economics (cooking), needle craft (sewing, knitting & crocheting) for the boys.

Well, “Blind Freddie” could have seen this had disaster written all over it. There was the normal cuts from sheet metal, that was a given, and the occasional chisel wound, that was going to happen regardless. It was cooking where we young lads excelled.

I think the very first sign that there was a flaw in this wonderful idea was the knife fight in class between two young rivals. Who knew that celery was such an important commodity? I suppose it is when you’re making vegetable soup.

The second sign that unfortunately went under the radar was one of the boys was carrying a huge pot full of (thankfully cold) vegetable soup, slipped on something on the floor & went “arse over head”.

Now we have a couple of kids, completely covered in, (or wearing, a very stylish, off the shoulder) soup. Well, we were all in teams of three, so an argument is raging between teammates as to “who the fuckwit was who” spilled whatever that caused this disaster to occur.

Well, one of the team cracks the shits, slams the griller closed on the oven/stove combination. Normally all good, but did I mention we were making cheese on toast to accompany our soup?

Well, a tea towel is thrown in disgust on top of the stove, also during a very “firey” debate. At about this point, the teacher has now disbanded the three-man team. About 5 minutes later, no sooner has someone said, “Do you smell something burning?”

When all of a sudden we have a gas stove fully engulfed in flames. The teacher fainted & it was left to about 8 kids to carry her out, (she was a good teacher, this is obvious, if she’d been crap, we would’ve left her behind). Some one raised the alarm & soon there were about 10 fire engines all for us.

Yep, there was an investigation & it all seemed to be a case of shit happens. Well home economics for the whole school was put on hold until the damage to the classroom could be repaired. (My mates & I were yet to take out the record for the most amount of damage done in the shortest amount of time).

So, now all our attention was focused squarely on our newest love, Needlework. Yeah you’re right, I’m bull shitting. Needlework was nowhere near a much fun as pottery.

Why was pottery fun? We would deliberately make air pockets in our pottery so as they would explode in the kiln. Throw lumps of clay at each other’s head, or put the clay off centre on the wheel, dial it up to full bore & see if you could “nail your mate in the nuts” as he was walking past. The last one really was Russian roulette.

Sometimes the clay found its desired target, others it got you.

Anyway, back to needle work, in the first couple of days we hand stitched bits of cloth together. There were the normal injuries, and we discovered if you got an injury, you were sent to the sick bay for a band-aid. This was great, it gave you a chance to nick off & grab a mid class smoke, and that my friend, made you uber cool.

Crocheting was quite dangerous. No really it was. No I agree, the “normal way” is quite safe, but our method, left a little to be desired. You know the hook thingy, well we’d sharpen them up on the concrete, and during class, fire them from rubber bands into the roof. The person who got it to stick in the roof, the highest, was the winner.

The problem is, they ricochet, like a bastard, off just about anything. As such, they quite often had a bit of a mind of their own.

Anyway, this particular day we graduated to sewing machines. I was a bit pissy because I wanted to piss off for a mid class smoke & that wasn’t going to happen now.

Before it was easy to accidentally, (on purpose), prick you finger on a needle, but now, for fuck sake, these things meant business. So I argued with my mate to go first so I could “nick out” of class when I’d finished.

Well he was also a bit pissy with me because he wanted to do similar. I was still arguing with him, looking backwards over my shoulder, when all of a sudden his face dropped. I looked around & I’d inadvertently sewn ½ way down my pointer finger to the webbing at the base of my thumb on my right hand.

Now I was really fucked, he was laughing, (read pissing himself laughing), and my right hand was pinched under the foot thing near the needle, the needle was down through the skin & the scissors were about a foot away, also on my right hand side.

So, I manually wound the needle up, released the foot thing, got the scissors & cut the thread. Wandering up to the teacher I’ve said, “Um excuse me miss, we have a bit of an issue”.

“Oh, what is it now” she snapped back before she’s actually turned around. There was me with my hand outstretched & a bit of fabric looking like it was sitting happily on my palm. “Well what is it?” she snapped again, this time I turned my hand over, gave it a shake or two & looked back at her.

It was sensational! Her eyes rolled back, her knees came together & she went down like a bag of spuds, (potatoes). Well, we dragged her to the sick bay as well. It was all-good. I got the fabric removed, didn’t need stitched, already had ‘em, HA HA HA HA. The teacher, she did however. In her haste to meet Mr Floor she hit her head on the desk & needed about 15 just above her eye.

Well there was one more incident that saw boys being sent back to metal & woodwork & girls returning to home economics & needlework. Unfortunately it really wasn’t funny at all. A young lass was using a lathe to buff, (polish) a piece of metal, (as done a thousand times before & since).

It got progressively hotter & she decided to hold it with her metal work apron. One of the ties on the apron wrapped around the spindle of the lathe, the other was around her thumb and WHOOMP, no more skin left on her thumb. It was re-attached but was never quiet the same.

Please don’t think I’m saying boys can do this & girls can't do that or that there are clear lines of demarcation. There isn’t. What the story is about is that it was just a series of unfortunate events, most could have been avoided if there was better supervision, and others if I’d been a little more focused.

Anyway, that’s it for today. Have a great weekend

Heaps of love & cuddles

Uncle Furry.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Bob's yer Uncle!!!

G’day all, Uncle Furry here.

It's Friday afternoon in Melbourne so it's time to assume the SOP, (standard operating procedures). Those who have weak pelvic floors, off you go to the potty, we don’t want puddles should you laugh.

Those who want a drink, glasses in the cupboard, coffee mugs next to ‘em, kettle on the bench, white wine & the milk are in the fridge, red in the pantry, bourbon in the cupboard, ice in the freezer. While you’re up, some one grab Uncle Furry a big glass, chuck in ½ a dozen ice cubes, fill it up with bourbon, grab me an ashtray & my smokes. Pull up a bit of floor & relax.

Listen, important announcement before we start, any pissing & griping about passive smoking, I’m there with you, these fuckers cost me a fortune, so if you’re passively smoking, stop winging & chuck some money on the table, it’s about time you paid your way.

I was going to write a whole story about how PG & I met, our first coffee, first date, and when I crashed, (not fell) in love with her. I’d better get that flight plan approved before I try & float that one.

Today’s story is about when I was the tender age of 16. Some one at work today said, “Bob’s your uncle”. It’s an Aussie saying, it means everything is OK or going according to plan. Well, that invoked some memories.

Furry had an Uncle Bob & he live in Darwin. Uncle Bob was a plumber, had a couple of blokes working for him. He always complained about the indigenous people being lazy, yet, in the 6 weeks I was up there, I never saw him open the tool box, let alone use a spanner, not once.

I remember the first couple of days there, we’d go around checking his blokes were working & giving them new jobs to go on to. People would yell, “Bob, when are ya gunna fix me dunny, fuck ya, there’s shit everywhere!”
(translation “Excuse me Bob old chap, when do you think you’d be available for repair my toilet? It is in quiet a state of disrepair”).

Well Bob really didn’t have the right to speak ill of the activities (or lack there off) of our indigenous people, because his answer was always, “Aw for fucks sake Bill, I’m under the pump, I’m as busy as a one legged man in an arse kicking competition. Even flown me apprentice nephew up from Melbourne, I’ll fucken get there when I get there, alright?” (Translation. “Terribly sorry old boy, currently we are experiencing a workload far in excess of our resources, I’ve even had to source semi-skilled labour from interstate to cover off the minor issues & assist in the short term. We have identified your situation as a high priority & we will be there in the very near future to rectify the situation, Cheers”).

Anyway, after a couple of days Uncle Bob said, “Look fuck ‘em, I’m sick of being busy, I’m always fucken busy, run off me legs all the time, let’s relax & go camping”. This scared me, any more relaxed & Bob would need a respirator!

Anyway we (read ME),
load up the Ute with swags , food, fishing rods & dog. Uncle Bob then recommends I choose a gun from the “storage room”, (which was basically a complete room converted into a gun safe. There were more weapons than the Australian Army has access to!)

Anyway I chose a .375 H&H magnum (something not to dissimilar to a howitzer in calibre) because it was basically the biggest gun I could carry.

Off we go to Kakadu, & I’m assuming just about everyone knows where I’m talking. We set up camp on the first night there, on the fork where two rivers converge.

I’m a little concerned because on the other bank is a “large” croc, (read about 24 foot long & he’d lost about the last 3 feet of tail in a blue) so yes, he’s a little large!

Uncle Bob is quiet cool about it all, “They’re territorial, and so if he’s there, there’s no more about to worry us”.

Well we’d wade down to the water, slop through nearly waist deep in mud, throw in the prawn net, catch the prawns & use them as bait for Barramundi (a great eating & fighting fish), all the time making sure the croc was in eyeshot.

On the third day, the dog “disappeared”, and I can only assume he became a “munchies” for the croc.

On about the fifth night, we are sleeping under the stars, as per normal, and about 4 – 5 foot apart, when suddenly; Uncle Bob smacks me in the ear.
I’m assuming its because I’m snoring, I sit up, ready to return the “favour” when I notice something moving between the two of us.

Frozen by absolute fear I realise it’s the croc, he’d come into the campsite to eat our food scraps.

I spent the rest of the night sitting bolt upright in my swag, flinching at every single noise. Come daylight I drag out the gun/howitzer & put a round into the head of the croc on the opposite bank.

Uncle Bob runs up, “What the fuck are ya doin’, their protected!’ “Nowhere as much a me” is my reply. So we decide its time to pack up & skip off before a ranger turns up & charges us with shooting a protected animal.

On the way home, Uncle Bob declares, “I know this place where we can go Buff hunting”, now I was a little skeptical because in Aussie slang Buff means naked! A
s fond of Uncle Bob as I was, hunting naked was a “getting a little to close for my liking”

It turned out he meant Buffalo hunting (Asian variety which are a feral animals in Australia). So off we go looking for a buff buff, (a naked buffalo? Or hunting a buff in the buff? I’m still a little concerned).

We are hiding along the back of a billabong when this old male buff comes down the bank for a drink. He is many, many years old & had a great rack, (again according to Uncle Bob, which confused me further because in Aussie slang I knew that rack meant tits, and wasn’t he a bull?) In this case, it turned out, Uncle Bob meant horns.

So, there is the poor creature. Bent down having a drink, me sighting him up through the scope on the rifle, the cross hairs resting just below the ear, slowly increasing the pressure on the trigger, expecting any second the gun to explode & the recoil of this cannon to land me back in Melbourne.

All of a sudden the water “boils” around his head, and scares the shit out of me.
A croc had leapt out of the water & had grabbed him around the head. Now normally the croc would roll, twisting the animal off balance, causing him to fall, then drag the poor creature into the water & drown him.

Well the poor croc confused ambition with ability on that fateful day;
instead, the Buff dropped his head down & charged, trampling the croc on the bottom of the riverbed. The buff continued to trample the croc until it either died or got the fuck outta there.

Either way, the Buff walked out of the Billabong, looking back over his shoulder as much to say, “You, me, carpark, NOW”, (Aussie slang for “let’s fight”).

Uncle Bob was nudging me going “go on, go on take a shot”.
All I could see in my minds eye was, me, after all the excitement, misplacing the shot, the Buffalo looking down where the bullet had struck him, dusting the area off with his hoof, looking back up to me with absolute hatred in his eyes & saying, “Right! Fuck it! That’s it! This was me good suit & you’ve put a fucken great big bloody hole in it! I’m gonna cane your arse ‘til your nose bleeds!”

So I did what any self respecting, unafraid, virile, strapping young Furry would do when faced with what was probably the equivalent of a runaway, totally out of control, pissed off Mack truck with PMS.

I hid! I made me really, REALLY small. Furry might be smart like rock, strong like tractor, (really big tractor but), and Furry might be able to lift heavy rocks over his head & chuck ‘em really far, but he’s not fucken stupid!

Sometimes it’s smarter to get real small & keep real quiet.

The drive home was pleasantly uneventful, well apart from the 3 ‘roos we hit, and crashing the Ute into a lamppost, (after only being on the sealed road for 50 yards).

See what happens is ‘roos move around at night & are hard to see as the come in from the side as you drive along.

The lamppost situation is common because you’d drive some 700 miles on dirt & dust roads, where there is no speed limit. You turn well before the corner & drift through the corners like a Rally driver.

When you hit the sealed road, you use the same technique, and unfortunately the sealed road offer a far greater degree of grip &, well, the car turns where you point it, not where you wanted it. Resulting in BANG, you win! You just bagged yourself a lamppost!

Yep, Uncle Bob definitely supplied me with a “quiet” time camping & for this I was very thankful. Who knows, if it was “eventful” the excitement might have killed me!

Have a fun weekend all; I’m off to protect PG’s roses from the marauding possum

Thursday, October 18, 2007

When do Furries get interested in blowin' shit up??

Hi all, It’s Friday afternoon in good ol’ Melbourne town. I’m feeling really fucked today, so, to entertain my small brain, there is going to be an imaginary change to the SOP’s this week. Instead of being on the floor at “The house of Fur & Purple love” (suburb residence), I’m imagining it at “Chez Fur” (beach house).

I’m also imagining it finished (like that’s ever gonna happen), so ….. It’s time to assume the SOP, (standard operating procedures but different location). The SOP’s are,

Those who have weak pelvic floors, off you go to the potty; we don’t want puddles should you laugh. Those who want a drink, glasses in the cupboard, coffee mugs next to ‘em, kettle on the bench, white wine & the milk are in the fridge, red in the pantry, bourbon in the cupboard, ice in the freezer.

While you’re up, some one grab Uncle Furry a big glass, chuck in ½ a dozen ice cubes, fill it up with bourbon Pull up a bit of floor & relax.

Grab my smokes, & smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, yeah, yeah, Uncle Furry is lacking self control & discipline, yeah, yeah, keep whingeing, I’m listening, yeah, yeah, take a sip from the cup of “shut the fuck up” and let me get back to my story.

People, especially here, wonder, “when do Furry’s become interested in things that go BOOM?” Honestly, there isn’t a point where one goes, “Hey wait a minute, I’m interested”

It’s more like experiences like the one below that join with other experiences, that eventually become part of a stock pile, that eventually become an interest.

I mean, Sir Hilary, a great man, very intelligent, climbed Everest because it was “there”. (He’s not a Furry though, actually he’s a bit of a pussy. He wore all that winter gear. Ask PG what I wear in winter, I mean, it would have been far easier to fly over Everest.

So, based on that rationale, Furry’s blow shit up, because, well it’s there. Sure it’s easier to walk around it, but, NOWHERE near as noisy!)

Now, when Furry was a young lad, (Furry under development), he went to a not so classy secondary school. Today it’s called, “Noble Park Secondary College”, in my day, it was Noble Park High.

It’s in a Southern suburb of Melbourne, and was in those days, a shit hole, and probably still is today. I was at school when we called it Forms, not Years, and, as my 16 yo loves to tell me, that was in the period after Margaret Thatcher, but prior to Jurassic Dinosaurs.

Well I was in form 3D in the last year there. (That was prior to me being asked to leave, because I was such a good student). Form 3D was the dumping ground for a variety of “naughty” lads (all 32 of us), and 4 unfortunate lassies, (this was a real shock, and these girls were really well behaved before they got into Form 3D).

To give you an indication of how bad this place was, the Police turned up to school in a Ford XB interceptor (THE ultimate in pursuit cars at the time) because one of our classmates got busted shoplifting & wagging class.

Well my best mate Paul had dented his mother’s XB boot lid when he closed it with the lawn mower not properly stowed. He was threatened with the cost of repairing “such damage”. Well, the Police car exactly the same colour, and therefore, the boot lid was quickly relocated to Paul’s mum’s car, at no cost to Paul.

The Headmaster (called Principle now days) was quite animated about the attack on “socially acceptable moral standards” at next Monday’s assembly. Demands were made that the culprits come forward, or, their identities be disclosed to a teaching staff member.

Well that never happened, and we just saw it as Paul saving some cash. And Paul’s mum stopped nagging about the damage, so where was the problem? Hey, we even got a special treat for fixing the car, so again, where’s the issue?

Further, we’ve all had partners in crime. Well Paul was mine. A classic example was Paul’s dad used to get really pissy about next-door's homing pigeons shitting on the garage roof. The guttering would block when it rained. So we took it upon ourselves to “assist” in the issue.

We got seed, mixed it with some of Paul’s dad’s Vodka, (his nightly drink), and feed it to the birds. We’d do this on a Saturday, sell the birds on a Sunday at Dandenong market, the birds would sober up & all be back home by Wednesday night. At $5 a pop, almost every weekend, for about 20 birds at a time, we cleaned up big time.

Oh yeah, we convinced Paul’s dad that Vodka can & does evaporate when the seal is broken.

Now, Furry was then, and previously, and still is, the class clown. It was the first week of the very new school year; we were in Science for the first time. We had a teacher called Mr W. Mr W was a huge (exceptionally tall & broad). Now Mr W had a speech impediment, and Furry was copying him.

His issue was “S”; he pronounced it as “SH”. So “sit down” was hysterical. So, here was young Furry, being a smart arse, mimicking poor Mr W, when all of a sudden Mr W roared “Are you taking the pish out of me shun?” (Translation are you taking the piss out of me son?) The class fell completely quiet, sure that the young Furry’s life was about to be terminated.

Well fearing for my life, (did I mention he was a big son of a bitch?) with MR W glaring at me, I answered the only way any self-respecting, close to imminent death, Furry could.

“Shit no shir, itsh an shpeach inpediment & actually I’m quite embarreshed about it”, and with fluttering doe eyes Mr W melted. “Well shit down shun & shtop shtuffing around”.

Now, I’ve matured a lot since then, and don’t EVER make light of someone else’s plight. But now, I had now created a rod for my own back, for every time I spoke to Mr W, I had to have a speech impediment.

So, to make matters worse, I had to interact with Mr W on his own, because I didn’t have this impediment anywhere else. So in his class, I HAD to behave myself, because the “Bertrum Cruiser” & “The Hunter” (nicks for the Assistant & Headmaster at the time) knew exactly how I spoke, so the gig would be up.

Anyway, this particular day we were, (Paul, myself & two other unfortunate souls), had a series of practical experiments to do. Very strict guidelines needed to be adhered to ensure that there was no contamination of results.

Well, and this was when I was a little disrespectful of the fairer sex, took this opportunity to, well, ummm, try (unsuccessfully) to get into the pants of one of the 4 young ladies in my class.

Well, there we all were, typical little males, sniffing around when Mr W announced, “You boysh, have you finished your exshperimentsh yet?”, “No shir” I replied, “”How many have you done?” asked the increasingly annoyed Mr W. “We’re closh to finishing our firsht one shir” was my answer. “Well you’d all better shtop shtuffing around or you’ll go fucken hungry at luncsh time, caush thatsh when you’ll finish them!” was his agitated reply. “FUCK, we got ten minutsh,” said I and we launched into action.

The required “strict guidelines” were slightly adjusted. Instead of scraping the plate clean, washing it thoroughly, using ethanol to dry it & then doing the next experiment, with very carefully measured quantities, we just kept piling chemicals on top of each other & heating the shit out it as quickly as possible.

Now the normal method of heating was a Bunsen burner under the plate, because we had so much shit piled on the plate, we heated it with flame, from above.

At, or about experiment # 7 out of 12, there were 4 Furrys crowded around the prac, scribbling furiously, with one of us with the Bunsen burner in hand heating, when we heard, “Cool, look at the purple & green fluoro smoke”. Three heads lifted at exactly the same time & BOOM!

There was a huge scorch on the roof, 13 lower level windows were blown out, 7 upper level windows blown out, and 7 special glass display windows were shattered.

Across the classroom were 4 Furrys, school jumpers smoldering, no eyelashes, hair smoldering, and faces black as the “ace of Spades”. Deathly quiet descended, “Cough, cough” was heard from one of the Furry’s & then, these words of wisdom from me …………

“Fuck me, that wash great, did anyone get the reshipe”, Mr W’s reply was sensational. “You’ve fucked it now boysh, itsh off to “The Hunter” you go”. Well, if I remember correctly that was 2 weeks suspension, and $3,000 damage to the Science wing.

That’s when I realised; I could blow shit up, without even trying.

Have a great weekend, it’s 3.30pm in Melbourne & at 4.00pm I’m outta here.

Big, BIG kisses

Uncle Furry.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Is that Thunder?? and DON'T WHIZZ ON AN ELECTRIC FENCE!!!

As in previous posts we’ve chatted about my father’s land up at Dargo. We’ll we’d met our neighbour, Mr T who was “just next door”, (read a 5 mile walk along the road or 3 miles through the paddocks)

Now we came to a barter agreement very quickly, we had a natural spring on our property, which became a lovely little creek that never dried up. We also had access to the State Forrest, because there was no need to run a fence along that part of the property.

Well Mr T had horses, and it was ideal for them, heaps of land for them to run around on, a fresh continuous water supply & lots & lots of grass.

My gain for the deal was, Mr T would find me a “good” horse, negotiate a “brilliant” price. He’d look after it, shoe it, medication & teach me “horsemanship.

In return, his horses would be have free run on our property, at no cost. We, (the junior Furrys & I), would keep a watchful eye on the horses & if we saw anything out of the ordinary, we’d tell Mr T & he’d come out & check it out.

Explain to us what it was, whether it was a concern or not, and if it was what needed to be done to remedy the situation and the ill effects if it went untreated.

It should be noted, at the time Mr T was about 70, chain-smoked hand rolled cigarettes, had been on the land all his life. He was as fit as a mountain goat and would consistently walk up hills leaving 4 struggling Furryies, who were at least 50 plus years his junior, in his wake gasping for air.

He taught us all sorts of horsemanship over the years with him. He was the first to spend time with furry teaching him how to read animal tracks & what signs to look for when tracking. He was of the old school & not very different to Poppa L.

Anyway, the boys had implemented the SOP’s for the first full day up at Dargo. That was, to check the water in the tanks, pump up water from the creek if required, ensure there was sufficient wood, and then check on the horses. We normally just jumped on the bikes & rode up into the State Forrest.

This particular day, we found a horse blanket, so it was decided that we needed to return it to Mr T ASAP, as winter was fast approaching, and we didn’t want any horses to catch a cold.

So back down to the cabin we go, tell the furry parents where we’re going & ride our bikes down to the front gate with our dog ,Patchette in hot pursuit.

See we found Patchette wandering the streets near home, and the youngest “dragged” her home & with the dog standing there with bleeding paws announced, “Can we keep her, she followed me home!”

Mum said ok & what should we call her, we all said patch, because she had patches & mum decided it wasn’t lady enough for a female, hence the French slant of Patchette.

I think my mum might have got one too many hits to the head with the race track while racing 750cc Mach III Kawasaki’s in the 70’s.

So anywho, we parked our bikes, crossed the road & looked around the paddock for Tiny. We were always a little concerned when Tiny was “in town”.

Tiny was just your average Brahma Bull, tipping the scales at some 20 tonnes, (you think I’m exaggerating don’t ya? Aussie humour requires something called Tiny to be FUCKEN HUGE!). He was so large he had his own postcode.

So, Tiny was nowhere to be seen so off through the paddocks we go. We’re all wandering, chatting, laughing. The dog found a fresh cowpat & rolled around in it.

There was heaps of hoo-har about it all. In the lapse in the conversation & all the laughter a faint rumbling sound was heard. All the boys looked skyward, as it was quite a regular occurrence to get high altitude military aircraft flying over our property.

Even the dog was looking skywards, (stuffed if I know why) as we scanned the heavens looking for the plane & its telltale vapour trails.

Nothing, strange, & the sky was clear, so could it be thunder? Steadily the “thunder” got loader, & quizzically all looked at each other when Furry #3 eyes suddenly looked like something from a Ren & Stimpy cartoon, in as much, they almost leapt out of his head.

Next, he clearly pronounced “FUCK” at the top of his voice & turning we saw Tiny now cresting the top of a small rise, in top gear, bearing down on us.

It resembled something similar to a cartoon, all of a sudden, ZAP, all five of us were gone, in different direction, and heading for the safety of the nearest fence line, and all that remained was our outlines in dust.

There was no strategy to my decision, just to run. I also had the horse blanket under my arm, which I held firmly, (probably in sheer terror), now felt like it had the aerodynamics of a parachute on a drag car.

Well all the Furryies made it to the safety of a) an electric fence & b) an actual fence line with barbed wire, all except me. I’d inadvertently chosen the longest path to run, about 2 miles.

I could hear Tiny getting closer, I could FEEL Tiny getting closer, (I reckon I could feel his hot breath on my arse), and I could hear my little brothers screaming he was getting closer, even the dog was barking! (I think it may have been her method of giving me the last rites).

All I could hear was the thunderous sound of Tiny getting so loud I thought I’d explode, and the fence line seemed frozen in the distance. Running my absolute guts out I cleared the electric fence and one desperate leap, landing one foot on a fence corner straining post and leaping ½ way up the embankment before hearing the WHOOOMP of Tiny hitting the huge post I’d just cleared.

Tiny quickly retreated, after some huffing & hoofing the ground & glaring at me, because he was getting zapped by the electric fence.

I laid there, heart almost leaping out of my chest, and the first of the furry brothers started to arrive. One said, “I thought you were fucked!” all I could do was nod in agreement.

The other, “Shit you can jump”, again, just a nod. Furry #2, (the deaf one) signed, “That was cool” & got the middle finger extended in reply.

After gathering myself & the remnants of my dignity we tramped off to Mr T’s house & returned via the road. It was decided a 5 mile walk required less energy that a 3-mile run of fear.

I also had a very strong respect & like of electric fences, in fact at that point, I liked electric fences very much.

The love for electric fences changed about 2 weeks later. I’ve mentioned that Father Furry wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed (not exceptionally clever) and sometimes thought Manual Labour was a Mexican Tennis star (was a bit lazy).

We were out spotlight & shooting a variety of feral animals (pigs) on our property one Saturday night when Furry needed to “take a leak”.

So off the back of the Ute, and facing a tree, furry lets rip. Well father furry had ran out of insulated, glow in the dark stakes that are normally used when operating a electric fence & simply nailed the insulators for the electric fence onto the tree.

Well furry whizzed on the electric fence & that was it. Unable to stop the flow, received a 12 volt kick, kick, kick to the “boy bits” until I collapsed on the ground, sure that every drop of liquid had been completely drained from my body, (that included blood, brain fluid, tears, everything).

No real damage other than passing blood for the next week. So, you see why my father & I had issues, many, many issues.

Anyway, I’m off, have a great weekend & DON’T PISS ON AN ELECTRIC FENCE! IT’S NO FUN, TRUST ME!


Uncle Furry.