Sunday, November 17, 2002

This is going to be a bit short, to quote my late hubby Bruce. I'm stuck here in the Kalgoorlie General Hospital and I've just nicked down to Reception and slipped the Lawson girlie a couple of bottles of my homemade eucalyptus wine so as I can use the pedal computer. I'm in here for a frigging double hip replacement. Have been on the waiting list for 5 frigging years, but luckily Smoothie Jackson's tractor eventually gave up the ghost down in the far paddock. Kevin Rudd the local mechanic was able to salvage a couple of pistons which he popped onto the lathe and turned into shiny ball and socket joints for my op.

Can't say enough for the Kalgoorlie Farm Machinery Parts Donation Programme. All the farmers around here are right behind it, bless their sunburnt, melanoma riddled hearts. They all have little medallions fixed to each bit of their machinery that says "In the event of this piece of equipment going to met its maker (the prick whose warranty isn't worth the dunny paper it's written on), I wish to donate all usable parts to the Kalgoorlie General Hospital for life saving, restorative and enhancement purposes."

Old Aggie Jackson was the very first recipient. Her "water works" were on the blink something shocking until Dr. Mengele and Kevin fixed her up with the water pump from Jack Henderson's combine harvester. She's as good as new now, though I shouldn't go into details about her pretty strange method of picking beans and peas from her vegie patch nowadays. Let's just say my old mum used to tell us kiddies, "Don't touch that, you don't know where its been"

There are a lot of people who wouldn't walking the High street of Kalgoorlie if it weren't for this programme. Old Jack Shevlin who had his head half blown off by the frigging Hun during WW1 has a Massey-Ferguson tractor clutch plate in his skull and he hasn't looked back. Des Fothergill has a couple of prosthestical knackers courtesy of a donation of stainless steel ball bearings from Jack Griffin's seized up front end loader. Won't go into really personal details, but Michelle Clancy is known around these parts as "Metal Mickey".

(Ah, ripper! Nurse Lawson has already downed my couple of bottles and has just dragged one of the interns into the broom cupboard, so I've got a bit more time on the hospital's computer. Not sure how much longer, I just looked at the fuel gauge and it's getting a bit low on kero. That's another spin off of the Kalgoorlie Farm Machinery Parts Donation Programme. The chip gadget they have in these computer things went all doolally and they just replaced it with the fuel tank from Alf Sanderson's rotary hoe. Frigging wonders of modern science!)

Anyhow what I wanted to say was, I've too have noticed what Great Grandma Hughes is rabbiting on about. Our firemen also came over all bolshie like a few years back. Lucky the founders of Kalgoorlie were people of great foresight. People laughed at them at the time. "Why the living Harry do we need that bloody white elephant?!" "It's a bloody foreigner's game, we're never gonna play it!" Anyhow our forefathers were frigging vindicated in spades. As soon as those firemen were frogmarched down the race of the Kalgoorlie Soccer Stadium they knew the game was up.

Show your red ragging firemen ('spose they're firepersons these days ... frigging feminists have a lot to answer for!) the inside of Wembley at the pointy end of a 303 and they'll be sliding down poles quicker than you can say "Business men's lunchtime entertainment".

"Pakis in the fire brigade"!! Bloody hell how desperate can you get?! And I reckon the rot set in back a ways. I used to watch that pommy documentary series that is on the ABC over here. All about the Sun Hill police station. I've stopped watching it nowadays. Once it was full of young white kiddies in helmets strolling about the street, sometimes on wheels depending on whose turn it was to have the station's bike and there was hardly any serious crime. Mrs. Jamieson sometimes had her false teeth nicked, but it was usually just a prank by the lads from the Jasmine Allen estate or occasionally it got a bit grittier and some drug dealers blew in from London with the express purpose of knocking Reg Hollis' cap off. But it used to be nice.

Today?! Sun Hill is up to its law enforcement eyeballs in frigging Paki coppers! Yeah, and guess what, the crime rate went up something chronic. Murders, rape, drugs and even frigging terrorism. Don't tell me it isn't related. In the olden days Reg would simply take aside one of those would be axe murdering teddy boys, make him a cup of tea, tell him go home and read a "Why Crime is Really Naughty" pamphlet, cool off, get his hair cut and go out and join a youth group or Blue Peter.

How can you expect the average racist soccer hooligan (who we all know really has a heart of gold underneath those swastika tats on his chest, but his Mum is doing it tough on her own since his dad got framed by Sergeant Ewen Naidu and Constable Doubledeck Abbas) to respect what these colored people have to say to them. Frigging people who couldn't in a month of Sundays or rostered days off, trace their roots right back to Edward the Serial Confessor like real Brits can. (Well apart from the Windsors whose mob made for old Jack Shevlin needing the clutch plate in his head.)

And they're not going pinch their own lot for crimes are they. Thick as bloody thieves those nig-nogs (as you would say Great Grandma Hughes, "pardon my Swahili") and they're, so far as I can see on the documentary which I am not watching anymore, responsible for all for the crime over there. Line ups are a bloody joke. I couldn't tell one of them from the other or a frigging lamp post, except a lamp post is one hell of lot frigging brighter! So do DNA tests the smarties say. Crap I say. I'm no forensic scientologist but I can tell you if they did, then every frigging innocent monkey from here to Whipsnade would be banged up for the rest of their naturals.

Frig it, I've got to go, Nurse Lawson (and hasn't she got a smile all over her half mast knickers?!) needs the computer back. Another donor has just logged in. Bruce Carter's bulldozer has turned up its toes and they reckon they can salvage a few gallons of sump oil for Chenille Lasserter's boob job.

See you all after the op.