A Tattler’s Tale…The Extraordinary Happenings In A Place Near You.


Image of Geoffrey Chaucer from Speght's editio...

Image of Geoffrey Chaucer from Speght's edition of 1602. This is out of copyright, and all rights of the illustrator extinguished in the United Kingdom, since it is more than 70 -- more like 370 -- years after the death of the artist. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Queensland’s dissenters, critics and chronic haters been in a void since Bligh’s Looter’s club closed for business should get some solace from the new regime’s decision to drop the Premier’s Literature Bull-shit Prize. Its disappearance sent only the chardonnay set into a tizzy fit, real plebs couldn’t give a rats. The displaced pseudo-intellectuals who put much effort into this annual altruistic event could be appeased by computer diplomas or a martyr award downloaded by their Federal Arts cousins.

I am like any atheist and will cherry-pick bible quotes if the cliché fits, or the sages or whatever philosopher suits the occasion. Decades ago I thought using, “He who sups with the Devil, should use a long spoon,” was clever, an indicator of inner wisdom, perhaps. Asked of its origin, I took a shot at it and was way off target when I wrongly guessed it came from the book of Revelations. Establishing facts sometimes got in the way, but fooling the wrong people can be detrimental to integrity. Was annoyed that word-smiths Chaucer or Shakespeare got the kudos, attribution to Moses would have been OK by me. But that’s the fish course, I’ve a few things about the nasty Tim that should be made known.

Tim’s well rehearsed gentility belies a malevolent old brain which I believe is hate stimulated and nurtured, and notwithstanding the ravages of time that erodes most minds, his oft-practiced vindictiveness would have been innate to his nature. He is ‘cat-lover.’ I know this is so because he told me, but even without his confidence I, and all unfortunates within range would have found the affectation hard to ignore. Prolonged cat cootchy cootchy coos are pure bunkum that both intrigues and annoys me. His aging comfort woman, Woo-woo, carries on in precisely the same inelegant way sustaining the theory that participants in a lengthy association emulate the others oddities.

Woo-woo doesn’t have a car but her friend who assists in the running of their fledging Beaudesert prostitution business picked her up every few days, leaving her unkempt old car idling while awaiting her friend. A few weeks passed and her CO gasses were knocking me out. Explaining my breathing predicament to her brought the response,” Well, you’ll just have to shut everything when I turn up, won’t you?” To the mild-mannered and tolerant chap that I am, it seemed most appropriate to retort with, “And you’d be a right royal first class cunt.”

The descriptive word had a worthy place in the vernacular in my youth and its restoration, or at least, its recognition should be acknowledged. Admittedly, I ended up on the ground once or twice, but among its nuances are sentiments like, “Yair, I knew him well, he was a really beaut cunt.” To be so admired was an endorsement that isn’t easily won.

Looking outside to the parking lot, to the source of this much overdone and over loud display of pet-talk recently, I couldn’t immediately see him, but there was Tim on the ground, on his side talking theatrically loud to and stroking the precinct’s homeless cat. Coming from a kindly person, this would have been cute, but I had been on the snotty end of his hate stick and while I foretold and understand his coming betrayal of me, that he went ahead and did it is unforgivable. Undue lavishing of praise might be welcomed by the dunce but to pull that stunt on me earned my scathing contempt.

The euphemistic open-plan is architect talk for cheap and rough which Harry Seidler artfully enacted with this difficult unit development on the side of a hill. Needing four road entrances, the fifty-unit precinct was planned in the offices of Harry Seidler, and meant to attract the Jap market. A financial bomb, it is saved from extinction by cheap blue-collar owners and welfare rentals. The crude, open-plan flats in a failed resort are hard to unload at a rumored $110,000 and a similar unit in a nearby precinct favoured by the drug community had a tag of $70,000, well within the budget of any aged pensioner, but relocation to a de facto housing commission estate is fraught with frustration when the new renter or buyer realises the enormity of his error.

Sounding-out the views of the “corporate,” I sought the opinion of one of the few members of this venerable body, a common old sow, Sharlene, asking if the kinder qualities of tenants and owners could be appealed to via ‘newsletter’ to go easy on unnecessary car-door slams and prolonged working on idling cars. Her advice to shut openings was not unexpected. Pru, the precinct bike on the verge of matron-hood is fixated on getting as many men as possible before the curtain falls, used her second abode for trysts, found my mature age unpalatable. She slips unsigned notices into letter boxes.

Am adding to this… Les Johns.

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