Strike me frigging dead, some bugger's walked over me grave.

That new Brian bloke what you lot have press ganged onto this Blog has history. If you had paid me the common courtesy of consulting your olders and frigging betters (O.K. you can be forgiven for ignoring that geriatric pile of suppurating ringworms, the striptease artist formerly known as Great Grandma Hughes) I could have told you a thing or two about this right little viper you're now nestling in your bosom.

Weaver?, Weaver? ... that name rings a bell I says to myself. Ring a frigging bell?! Pack of tone deaf campanologists flogging their dongers more's like!

Back in 1935 I used to step out with a young blade called Hugo Weaver, who lived in Kalgoorlie's finest mansion, "Tara". Hugo's parents thought their evacuations didn't stink and that young Peggy Farcus lived light years away from the right side of the tracks.

Hugo paid them no mind and we made a dashing couple at the shearing shed dances.

It was at one of these dances that fate was to deal me a terrible blow. I had had just one too many "Sheep Dip Wallbangers". I led Hugo around the back of the crutching pens where, to put it delicately, I shagged him within an inch of his life.

Back in those days we knew nowt about "protection". There was none of those AIDS that you could catch from toilet seats. The worst you could expect was a touch of pizzle rot or a little dose of flesh eating gonhorrea, which cleared up in a few days if you gave the infected area a good rubbing with a camphor block.

Anyway to cut a long appendage short, I got Hugo pregnant. Holy shit! Didn't all Hell broke loose?! You'd have thought I'd left open the main paddock gate open and let that Chamberlain kiddie in to kill the baby dingoes!

My parents were angry and unforgiving. I was cast out into the driving snow with only what I stood up in. (Actually, come to think of it I think it was a frigging 120 mile an hour dust storm and bushfire. I still have the scar on the back of my neck where I got clobbered by a bit of rusty corrugated iron from the Wilson's cow shed.)

Of course the toffee bloody nosed Weavers weren't going to have their name dragged down into the dust, so they spirited my Hugo away to America where he could secretly have the baby.

I heard later that it was a boy. A boy called Brian. (Johnny Cash hadn't yet written that transgendery preverted song thank God.)

So there it is, I believe my long lost, wrong side of the crutching pen, son has been found. Do I want him back? Do I want to go on Oprah for a tearful reunion and a $10,000 appearance fee? Would you welcome a full blown American back into your bosom after all these years? (Even if there's enough room in there to fit the entire Mormon Tabernackered Choir.)

I don't frigging think so, and I would appreciate it if this Banquo's ghost of a son would afford me the courtesy of keeping his posts at an appropriate distance from mine or I'll have him up for frigging cybuggery stalking.

Let me tell you one more thing young Weaver, Hugo wasn't much of a root!