Big Bangs Are Us

Big Bangs R Us – (ARMY) – Joined the reserves while at Secondary Colleage. You see we were given a choice of doing sports, (Fencing, La Cross, Basketball) and being the late 70’s teenage skips (Aussies) thought all these sports were for “Pussies or Poofs”. The other option for us was to join the reserves, so me & my 4 mad mates wandered around to the local regiment & joined.

Now, we were the first in the school to take this path. So, no one knew exactly what was expected. Every time there were parent/teacher interviews, school concerts, productions we were “busy” doing ARMY stuff. We got away with murder, citing that if we didn’t go, we’d be court marshalled.

AS IF!

We then left school before the final exams, signed on fulltime in the AIF, and with our previous experience, accelerated through a variety of course. We eventually went into the RAR. 3’s in NSW where I got my “jump wings” & snipper training and later into the 2’s in Townsville in Queensland.

Clocked up a total of 6 years with the AIF, 2’s & 3’s before I left altogether. One of my mates passed away in the service, two went on into the SAS, (one later discharged after assaulting two Police Officers), and one off into the fairly newly created counter terrorism unit. The one who was originally in the SAS went to the Queensland Special Operations Group, the one in Counter Terrorism went to the SAS. The one that did time for assault, later got charged & jailed for growing dope hydroponiclly in the back of his workshop.

I haven’t spoken to my remaining mates for some 20 years. The one dealing drugs was cut very early in the piece, the others, we just drifted away.

Me Bruffa's

My Brothers – As mentioned earlier, there were 4 boys in the family. I was the eldest, and then came Kevin, (who was born deaf), Garry & Geoff, (a 5, 7 & 7 year gap respectively). As the eldest, when ever they fucked up, it was my fault. That’s the down side of being the eldest I suppose.

We were a typical bunch of boys, hated each other at times, fought like cat & dog, but if someone else took on a brother, then they took on us all.

We did some horrific things to each other, run over one or another with bikes, cars, whatever. Shot at each other with air rifles, tried to blow each other up, threw the youngest off the garage roof, (to see if he could fly), and all sorts of horrid things.

The youngest, Geoff, was always used to solve arguments. Things like, “see, I told you. Even though he’s light, he can’t fly!” As he lay bloody & crumpled on the concrete below.

Wonder why he’s still in therapy?

The Parents.

My Parents – Probably the best way to describe them was “different” to the norm. They owned a Motorcycle shop, and instead of a teething ring, I’d gnaw on a front knobbie tyre. Both Mum & Dad raced bikes, and in the early 70’s Mum piloted one of the most “nastiest” pieces of motorcycle ever made. The much feared 750cc Kawasaki Mach III.

They raced 250’s, 500’s, 750’s and later 900’s. It wasn’t unusual for the family to turn up at a race meeting with anything up to 10 bikes on a tandem trailer. My brothers & I would have a selection of TM’s (Suzuki motor cross/ mini bikes) that we’d ride around the pits & surrounding area.

Here’s a classic example of my parents “slightly different” parenting style. One year, for Christmas all four boys were given air rifles. The ages were 5, 7, 9 & 14 years old. So, you don’t think that was not a recipe for disaster?

Another example of a wonderful parenting decision. We had land up at Dargo. My father decided that my youngest brother, at 6, was too young to have a .22 Rifle, (it was OK for the 8 & 10 yo, and a .22 magnum for a 15 yo), so restricted him to a compound crossbow.

So yeah, they were a little left of centre, and not exactly what you’d call “normal”. In their defense, with 4 boys, who would be “normal”?

They did their best, with the skill sets and past experiences they’d acquired along the way. I need to remind myself, every child reckons their parents did a shit job.

Nanny L

Nanna L – was of course Poppa L’s wife. She was a bit of a snob, always immaculately presented, always proper. She was a very intolerant person, and we (Lainie & I) never really got to warm to her. We always felt an arms distance away.

Every time we went on an adventure with Poppy, she had a migraine. I thought for years & years she was just playing on a sickness, but when she died of a brain tumour, I wonder.

Whenever we were over she spent a lot of her time locked away in a dark, almost blackened, bedroom. She passed away before Poppa L, and he faded quickly after.

Poppy L

Poppa L – Poppa L was a/the major influence in my early life. He was a nuggetty little bastard, only about 5’5” or 5”6” tall, wiry, but strong as a bull. Prior to the Second World War, during the Depression he made money (got by) by competing in wood chopping comps, fighting in the tents & baking.

The fighting tents had a prize (purse) that increased in value as new fighters entered the ring. A pound was put into a hat, and the last fighter standing at the nights end, got the purse. 20 to 30 pounds could be up for grabs in a night, so it was a much sort after prize during the tight times.

Poppa L, being a shortish bloke, he was always introduced as an “easy beat”, early into the night’s proceedings. He was used by the promoters to lure much large opponents into the ring. It wasn’t unusual for Poppa L to be involved in 20 odd fights in a night, and still walk away with the purse. (He was also paid a shilling a fight by the organisers).

Maybe they didn’t mention the fact he was a Victorian Junior Golden Gloves 3 years in a row during his younger years.

He further supplemented his income shooting bunnies (rabbits) & selling them cleaned & gutted to people around his neighbour hood.

During the Second World War he was a soldier, and was highly decorated. I’d wear his medals to Kindergarten or Primary School on Remembrance Day. I told him when I got older; I would join the ARMY & get lots of medals too.

He told me that medals were to remind people how silly they’d been.

He served almost the entire war, firstly in New Guinea, then with the “Rats of Tubruk”. He spoke very little of the war, of his experiences, even of his feelings. He didn’t attend the RSL (Returned Serviceman’s League), because he felt it glorified the war too much. I think that personally, there were too many reminders for him on the walls.

He also never attended a Dawn Service, an ANZAC march, or the after celebrations. If I recall correctly, he was always quite sombre on those days.

After he returned from the War, he was one of the founding members who got ASIO up & running. He received his Commission when I was about 3 years old & eventually left the Armed Services/Government sector. His final job was with “The Age” newspaper in some sort of Maintenance position, (I think).

He was, the best Poppa anyone could want. He looked after (adored) both my cousin (Lainie) & I when we were children. He was always taking us on picnics, adventures, outings. Everyday with Poppa L was a learning experience, but better than that, every day was fun.

He taught me how to shoot. He was very much of the old school. No pray & spray, but one timely shot. Quick, clean, fast. He used to say, “Shoot only what you need for today, and make every shot “clean”. You owe it to the animal”.

We’d go out shooting together, regularly. Poppa taught me how to track, what signs to look for, where animals gather, why they gathered, and, how to shoot. First with the old open sights, then with telescopic sights. What he taught me put me in good steed for when I joined “Big Bangs R Us”, (the ARMY)

I was the black sheep of the family, and in late childhood/early teens he was about the only person who looked out for me. When my Poppa L passed, my life & interaction within the family unit altered dramatically. With my support base gone, I was a lamb to the slaughter. That’s all I want to say about that.

He also made the best cream sponges & lemon meringue pies EVER!

Ta Poppa.

What to do if you think you've got/are a Furry??

Post you Furry stories here in our guest book, and if we think you or your Furry make the grade, we'll post them here!!!

Fairy... or P.G

PG (aka Fairy) – she’s my life partner. She is a professional nurse, who is also a practice manager. Being a nurse, when the kids fuck up, she spoils them rotten. When a Furry fucks up it’s “well you’d be a fuckwit then”. Don’t even start me on the two week lead up to a double heart attack, there’s a story that needs to be told! For my 40^th birthday, she loving gave me a vasectomy, and assisted the doctor ….. ouch. Actually Vas’s don’t hurt at all, as long as the Doc doesn’t smash his fingers between the two bricks, HE’S fine!

She is, as Furry as any chick can be. She’s not above giving a gummy shark a fair smack to the head with fluffy (aluminium baseball bat) which resides in “the Butt” (our boat). She’s not worried about breaking a nail, she loves getting dirty in the garden. She is a Furry chick.

Educated, you better believe it. Smart as they come. She can do the “Grand Dinning Room at the Windsor …. Darling”. The very next ½ hour she’s calling the ump (Umpire at a footy game) “You blind white maggot”. She rocks, she’s my world, the axle it turns on, the air I breathe.

What’s worse, we’ve missed each other by seconds all our lives. I’ve known her Ex hubby, her dad, even worked with her uncle. My parents owned land up at Dargo, she’d go up there with her private school friends & we (my brothers & I), were the “naughty boys next door with the loud motorbikes that scared the horses”.

We met when I took a co-worker to her practice to get patched up, and, well, that’s a whole other story. We got married about 2 1/2 years ago & there’s stories a plenty. We have a fantastic life together, we just fuck the rest of the world as we travel along.

Why are the stories written the way they are??

My wife (PG) was part of a Woman’s Forum, sort of a chat room. Becasue of a previous bad experience this concerned me. She spent quite some time chatting on the net, and this sent pangs of concerns off within me, and when I approached PG she said, “Join up, have a chat, there’s other hubbies on too”.

I got slightly involved. Replied to a few posts, but nothing exciting. Then one day we finally met Prax & Elke. The three of them are like sisters, and what’s more, not physco Internet freaks, (well not to a "certain" degree).

One evening spent drinking & laughing with Prax I told the story of “The Zombie Chicken”.

She near pissed herself & instructed me that it needed to be posted on the Board. I didn’t think so, but when I went to the board on Friday afternoon there was about 3 pages of requests, all begging to hear this story. Well it was here that my first post was released. It was titled “The Furry Chronicles - Friday Afternoon with Uncle Furry”.

So, from there it grew. These are true stories, well as true as an Aussie bloke will tell them.

While there is some degree of embellishment, they actually happened, & pretty close to what is reported. They were knocked up on a Friday afternoon, in whatever mood I was in, and about an experience I just remembered.

While they are in loose order as to how the events unravelled in my life, it isn’t in the order in which they were written originally.

The forum has since altered. These stories now appear on a closed forum my wife, (PG), Silvergirl & Lili moderate. There was dust up on the original board & my wife, (PG), Prax & Funmom set up their own, closed site. It’s here I’d to thank all my E-wives, those who said I should make these stories into a book.

For those who were my proofreaders, for the likes of Prax & Elke who worked tirelessly on my project, and of course, my real wife & life partner, PG. She is rock solid through thick & thin. This is for her. She needs your sympathy; it’s not easy living with a Furry.

So, have fun. I suggest you read them one at a time, every Friday night for example. Follow the SOP’s, in as much, grab a drink, and sit back & laugh at the stupid activities of what I think is pretty much a “normal” Aussie male.

Laugh. It'll change the way you look at life.

Example, is the glass 1/2 full or 1/2 empty ........... what a quandary!

GLUG ............ GLUG .............GLUG

now that my glass IS empty, can I have another Bourbon?

Cheers

Furry.

Furry!!

I can hear you asking already, “What the fuck is a Furry?”

OK, I freely admit that the reader is going to need a bit of an introduction to the concept of “What is a Furry?”. There is also the need to understand how these stories came about, and why they are written the way they are.

Me? Yeah, I’m a Furry

I’m a Furry. Even my nickname is “Furry”. What am I? I’d like to think that I’m a “normal” bloke (Aussie male at least). You know the type, and I refuse to believe that we (Furrys) only live in Australia.

I believe we can be found worldwide. You know the type of bloke I’m talking about. You see us around BBQ’s in summer. T-shirts, shorts, thongs, a stubby, (small bottle) of beer. We love cooking dead meat over a fire; we love poking it with a stick while it cooks.

Furrys? Come on, you know us! We’re the ones laughing loudly, telling a yarn (story), hands in the air, exaggerated movements, laughing & joking. We hang shit on (tease) our mates (friends).

We are the type of blokes that when you pull their finger, we fart, and we always find this hysterical. We’re the sorts of blokes’ kids flock to, they listen eagerly to our stories. They embrace our humour.

We’re the keepers of “history” and the storytellers of the tribe. We’re the blokes you find kicking a footy (football) or throwing a ball, out in the front yard with the kids. We are the ones who fake a huge tackle on a little “bloke” (kid/child), and when he evades us, goals, scores or touches down, we "play it up" & cry out in mock shock or horror.

We, Furry’s, are the sorts of blokes that the upper crust looks down on. We hear them saying, “They’re rough & crass, they’re loud and uncouth, they’re not well spoken or educated, they’re “beneath us”.”

We really don’t give a fuck, we’re the ones they call so they don’t dirty their hands, or break a nail, or when the shit hits the fan. We don’t really care what they think, we have a “warrior mentality” and we see them as below us. Actually, there isn’t many people who’s view really means much to us.

What do Furry’s do for a job? All sorts of things really. We are Tradies, (Plumbers, Builders, Electricians). We are Coppers, Ambos, Fireys (Police, Ambulance or Fire Fighters). We are Grunts, (in the Armed Forces, Army, Navy, Air force). We are Miners.

We can also be graceful enough to hold down “a Highly Professional” career. We may act dumb, be warned, it’s a cover. We hide lots of things behind our big, simple, even gruff exteriors.

Furry’s like all forms of racing, “The Nags” or “Hayburners” (horses), “The Dogs” (Greyhounds), Cars (Formula Ones, V8’s, Rally, whatever), “Bikes” (Motorbikes, Formula One, Super bikes, Motocross, again whatever). We love cricket or football, or soccer, or gridiron, or baseball. We love contact sports. We like hockey, we like almost any sport imaginable.

The only two sports thing we want to change is Synchronised Swimming & Skeet Shooting.

We’d like shark fishing introduced to the sporting arena, run in conjunction with Synchronised Swimming.

Even better, Skeet shooting & Wavewasting (Jet Skiing).

If I close my eyes, I can imagine it now, the “WHA WHA WHA” of the Wavewaster bouncing over waves & “PULL” BOOM!!! of the shooter.

Ahhhhh to dream, one less fuckwit I’ve gotta share the bay with.

Anyway back to it, my wife tells me that being a Furry isn’t just about wearing a mohair singlet, (ample body hair), it’s a complete package. She reckons Furry’s have a touch of the “ever so’s” about them. You know, “ever so naughty, or dangerous, or even, ever so dirty”.

She reckons that we walk with confidence & ease. That our presence can be intimidating, (due to body shape, confidence, stance, posture). She reckons that you can see a Furry is confident in his skin. That they have accepted who they are, where they’ve been and their lot in life.

I don’t see it myself. I think we are just “Blokes”. I see us as what a bloke is meant to be. We are the hunter/gatherers of a tribe. We wouldn't think anything about grabbing a club, racing up behind a Dinosaur, and giving the bastard a fair smack to the back of the head, repeatedly if need be.

Again, we aren’t stupid, after a couple of decent smacks to the head, if Dino the Dinosaur hasn’t fallen down pissing blood from his ears, we are smart enough to know he’s about to turn around and get really pissy at us.

We then evoke option two, run, & run fast.

We love a joke, a laugh, time spent with our loved ones. We are passionate with what we do, who we are & who we can be. We Furry’s are re-known for leaving our mark. We’ve left them on the world (in the form of craters, or huge impact scrapes).

Our interaction to people is about as “poles apart “ as you can get. Those we love, we are full on & protective. Hugs, huge hugs are given out. What my kids used to call “pop ya head off cuddles”. You know the ones, huge squeezy cuddles full of love.

With those we aren’t so fond of, grazes & bruises are often the marks we leave behind. We don’t suffer fools well, and we certainly don’t stand idlely by if one of our loved ones is in strife.

But for the most of it, I like to think, we leave marks on people or the world that are unique, and positive.