Red Poppies

I'm not sure what I'm going to write tonight so I'm just going to let my mind wander and my fingers do the typing.

Today is Remembrance Day and to make it more symbolic, it's the 11th day of the 11th month of the year 2011.

And at 11 seconds and 11 minutes past 11am today it was 11.11.11.11.11.11.  Quite a special occasion.

I had a great, great, great uncle Sid who was killed at Gallipoli.  Poor old Sid.  He was the scoutmaster in Penrith and he seemed to have been quite a strong, dedicated bloke from what I can fathom.  He volunteered for WWI, as did so many others of that time, and he went off for training in Egypt before being sent on to Anzac Cove as part of the Light Horse Brigade.  Back at home he'd been a great horseman and an excellent shot of the rifle as was evidenced by his weekly Gun Club competition scores.    

He stepped onto the gangplank to land at Gallipoli and was shot.  He survived and was taken back to Egypt and recuperated in a hospital there.  The legend is that he said "just take the bullet out of me and let me get back to it" when he was on the boat.  After a few months they said he was ready and they put him on another boat to land at the cove.  Walking down the gangplank this time, he was shot in the neck and died.  He never made it onto the shore either time.

I've thought long and hard about Sid and his family, my ancestors.  I have his war records and the letters the family sent to the War Office trying to get anything they could of Sid's to bring back home.  They just wanted something physical of his to hold. I know where they lived, I have photos of it all.  I have photos of Sid.  I have millions of newspaper articles about him and yet, I can't know him.

I can stare at his photo and look into his eyes and I can imagine his voice and his walk and the feel of his uniform, but, I can't know him.

I wish I could talk to him.  I wish I could ask him why he went and how he felt.

I wish I could ask him if he was scared or angry or excited or oblivious to what was going on.

I wish I could ask him if he missed his family or if he felt he was being a hero.

I wish I could touch his medals or his uniform or his moustache and feel who he was.

Mostly, I wish I could stop him from from going.

His mum,  my great great grandmother, died just after the news came through of his death.

I can understand that.  I can understand just giving up and not wanting to live anymore when your child is murdered on a foreign shore.  I can imagine the anguish and despair and never ending sorrow.

I can understand wanting to die.

So here we are, almost 100 years after Sid was murdered as he tried to ensure our country was kept free of terror, and there are still young men being slaughtered for the same reason.  Today more of our young men were buried after being shot on hostile land, in a war that isn't ours.

There are still mothers grieving for their lost sons.  There are still people who are thinking like I am and saying to themselves, "I wish I could have stopped him from going."''

When I was pregnant with all my girls, I wished fervently that I wouldn't have a son because I never wanted a time to come when he might say "Mum, I'm going to join the Army".  I couldn't have handled that.

We, as a country, need to butt out of everyone else's wars and stay put on our own land and keep our own families solid and complete.

I don't believe we are there to fight for anyone's freedoms.  I do believe we are there to fight for America's oil wealth.  I don't believe we will ever be told the truth.

What I do believe is .... they shall grow not old , as we that are left grow old, age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn, at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them..... Lest We Forget.

So today... Lest We Forget.

Music and Me

I've got a lot to say tonight.  I need to sit here and type it out and get it right out of my skin.

I'm writing this blog, I suppose, because deep down inside I want my grandchildren to know who and what I am... or was... when they are old enough to read it.  I also want to make myself feel guilty if I don't try and get myself in shape, but I honestly think that 's a bit of a by-product of the whole blogging business. It's more important that I establish my identity and trim out the misconceptions.

I adore those grandkids, they are THE most precious things in my life, besides my own daughters.  I'm going to live to be 150 just so I don't miss a minute of their lives.

And tonight, I want them to know something very important about me.

I adored Michael Jackson.  Adored him.  If I had a religion, it was Michael.  

Tonight, Conrad Murray, his sham of a doctor, was found guilty of his death and I sat in front of the TV watching the verdict read by the jury and I just felt seething anger and a deep sense of loss and ... I don't know how to explain it... maybe the word "blood lust" is right.  I want him to pay for what he has taken from the world.... deeply, painfully and in public view.

Does that make me sick?  Does that make me a freak?  Does that make me stupid?

You know what?  I don't care what I'm labelled, at this age, and with this mindset, I just want that man to suffer intolerably.

How did I get to this point?  What brought me to say that out aloud?  Well, I'll tell you.

Michael Jackson was only a week older than me.  He was born on 29th August 1958, I was born on 4th September 1958.   As a little girl in Australia, the big world of America and Hollywood and all that jazz was a giant beacon and fantasy.  By the time I reached about 10 years of age, playing chasings in the back playground of Penrith Public School or playing this weird game we had where we lined up at the top of the back grassed area and ran with a football in our hands to the other end of the paddock being chased by everyone who tried to tackle you while you outran them, I knew of Michael and the Jackson 5ive and I wanted to have Michael as my best friend.

He was black and he was very cute.  He had these great 'groovy' clothes and he could dance.  Wow, could he dance.  I only ever saw him in black and white on the TV on shows like the Ed Sullivan Show but the radio played songs like ABC and I Want You Back all the time.

Next to him, Donny and the Osmonds were just boring old nerdy white boys.  I wanted to have a black friend who was Michael.  Yes, it was a marketing ploy, similar to Sherbet versus Skyhooks wars in Australia as we got older, (by the way, I was a Skyhooks girl but thought Tony Mitchell from Sherbet was a bit of alright) but I didn't know that then.  As far as I was concerned, Michael was the greatest boy on earth.

So I wrote him long letters and I asked my mum to send them off to him.  I don't know if she ever did, but I thought she had and I waited for him to answer me and tell me that he wanted to be my friend too.  I remember very clearly one very long letter I wrote to him where I used all the titles of all the songs they had and weaved them into a story.  I wrote it on a lined notepad with a very cheesy mint green background and when I sent it, I remember kissing the seal so he might 'feel' that when he opened it.

Of course, I never got a reply, but that didn't deter me. As I got a bit older I spent all my pocket money on buying Teen magazines so I could get his photos and I lined my bedroom walls with them.  Dad used to come into my bedroom and do his famous "Black Power" arm signal or tell me to turn the light on because it was so dark in there - it was the 70's, we'd never heard the term "political correctness" at that time.

I remember entering a competition in Dolly magazine once to win a copy of the album "Going Back to Indiana" and I won it.  I can't begin to describe how my heart leapt when it arrived at home.  I had no idea I had won the competition , and because it was signed, I thought it came straight from him to me.  Heaven hit me with a lazer bolt that day.  Yes, I still have it.  I will never give it up.  It brings back a happy time when I touch it.

Time moved on and teenage years hit and Michael got a bit gawky, as we all do in those years, but his voice kept getting stronger and stronger.  He put out some solo albums and I just "knew" that every song on them was meant for me.  I can still sing every word of every song and I still cry when I hear some of them.  As a child prodigy, he outshone them all with his talent.

Then came the 80's and I had married and was breeding.  The marriage partner didn't like Michael at all.  In fact, my life was made a misery every time I tried to play an album.  So, I did it in secret with my kids.  Before school, after school, whenever I could, I played them Michael music and got them singing and dancing and learning the words.

As he got older, his songs became more meaningful and songs like Man in the Mirror and Heal the World were what I wanted my kids to learn and to have ingrained deep into their minds so that they would one day remember them and think "yes, that is meaningful and it's true and I want my own children to learn this".  

Just after Kristy was born, he came to Australia.  God knows how, but I managed to talk the girls father into taking us to see him at Parramatta Stadium.  You can't begin to imagine how I felt that night.  My little girls dressed in Bad tee shirts and skirts coming with me to see Michael.  I'm actually crying as I type this.  I was so on edge, so excited, so breathless, so overwhelmed that I was in the same air space as him, and with my children.  I will never forget that night.  Louise and Lisa loved every minute of it and by the end of the show, Lisa, all 4 years of age, was crying out "Come back Michael, I love you".   

What was it he had that did that to people?  To children?

For me, it was his pure belief that if you were a good person, if you showed your love to everyone, you were doing the right thing.... plus, he was damn cute.

But of course, THEY didn't want to believe that.  THEY wanted to sully every thing he did and THEY wanted to crucify him.  Show your love of children and you are a pedophile.  That's what THEY say.

Did THEY ever have children?  Did THEY ever take a child's hand in their own and look that child in the eye and feel that purity and love?  Did THEY ever want to ensure that their children never had to see the bad in the world, never had to feel fear, never had to grow up?  Did THEY ever have the love of a child as their responsibility?  Did THEY ever want to give what they had to make sure that some child was given more of a chance at life?  Did THEY ever stop to think about someone other than themselves?

They crucified Michael Jackson for doing that.  For showing us that you don't have to be a sexual predator to hold a child as a grown man and share the magic of childhood.  THEY didn't understand that.  They only saw their own base desires and they projected them onto someone who wanted to only give charity and hope out, and they made him out to be a monster.  Bastards.

In the 90's I got internet savvy and I can tell you for a fact, I spent so many hours defending Michael Jackson's reputation that I lost count.  Every stupid man and his dog wanted to bag him out because that's what the media portrayed and THEY were too stupid to stop and look at it logically.  

Well bugger me but I did.  I looked at my own children and I wanted for them what Michael was able to give to so many kids around the globe..... hope, and faith that there is good in the world.  I wanted my own kids to prolong their childhood as long as possible and not have to become one of THEY.  I wanted them to remember the magic in the world, but I also wanted them to know that the magic isn't available to everyone and that if they are lucky enough, they need to share that.

I did that, and as far as I'm concerned, I did it with Michael Jackson's help because without his song lyrics backing up my work, I had nothing to reinforce my thoughts.  My girls now are the embodiment of that work. Louise, Lisa, and Kristy are all loving, happy, caring, thoughtful and dedicated women and they all have those songs in the back of their minds.

Two years ago Michael died.   The morning of his death I was at home and didn't know of it.  My best friend in mind, spirit and body, Lindy, phoned me early which was unusual and she said "Kim............"  There was silence on the other end of the phone.  I thought she was sick or her partner had been hurt and I asked what was wrong.  She said "Have you heard the news?"  No, I hadn't.... " Michael has died"  .  I remember wondering who she could mean and then thinking that I didn't know what she was on about.  "Turn on your TV" she said.  I did, and I saw, and I told her it was bullshit.  Bullshit.  He's not dead.  It's bullshit, don't believe it.  She was crying and she said it was true.  I hung up and I watched the TV and I walked around my house and I didn't believe it.  Bullshit.  Can't be true.

That night, I stood outside in my garden and looked at the sky and felt so much anger and despair.  I was sending messages to Lindy and she to me and we were both so upset because something had died in the world.  Not just a man, but a goodness and a spirit that could never come back.  It wasn't just death, it was murder.  I remember Lindy saying "I feel something has gone that should make us all afraid now".  

I don't care who of you is sitting there now shaking your head and thinking that I'm a fruitcake.  I really don't care.  You have your religions or your beliefs and you think they are the be all and end all of what constitutes our makeup.

But in my books, what makes us real, what makes our time on earth important, what makes us memorable, is our ability to pass on love, faith, magic and delight to those young enough to absorb it.  

He did that for me and he taught me, through his strength of character and his determination not to let what THEY said get to him, that that's how I should live my life too.

Strong, determined, caring, and with as much magic as can be mustered thrown in to the mix.

Tonight, the moron who killed him is behind bars.  With the stupidity of the justice system, he could end up on house arrest or in some well catered prison where he's protected for a couple of years, then he'll no doubt be given a new identity and drift off to live his life peacefully.

Well, I'm quite happy to say that I hope he rots in hell because by killing Michael Jackson, he's killed magic, and as far as I'm concerned, that's tantamount to killing the world.

Venting

I know I wrote a lovely little piece this morning but it's about 10 hours later now, and also 6 phone calls later to the fireplace company and they still haven't delivered the new fireplace.

On top of that, the IDIOTS WHO ARE TAKING 6 MONTHS TO MAKE THE NEW CAMPERVAN AND HAVE DONE A SHYTE JOB OF IT decided they didn't get the last email of demand about what they have to do and so that's been back and forth all day too.

I'm feeling quite ill about all of this.  Why the hell can't anyone do their job's properly in this day and age?

What happened to pride in workmanship?

What happened to the customer needing to be satisfied?

What happened to punctuality?

What happened to quality?

What happened to telephone skills?

What happened to spelling in emails?

What happened to grammar?

WHEN DID THE WHOLE BLOODY RETAIL INDUSTRY SUDDENLY GO DOWN THE BLOODY SHITPIPE???

I'm seriously feeling sick in the stomach because of all the crap I've had to deal with today.  I've outlaid money, lots of it, and I've got nothing but knots in the belly for it.

I need more wine.

I'm venting so don't expect me to be coherent in this blog entry.  I just want to say what I think.

I think the whole bloody country has gone arse up and the Australians who have worked all of their lives and kept our identity true are the ones who are suffering.

Suddenly the old adages of mateship, fair go cobber, honest days pay for an honest days work, pride in work, gutslugging to make it right and just plain decency are things of the past.

No one seems to give a flying fig anymore about the customer.  No one.  Except maybe the little hairdresser I went to the other afternoon but she's Australian and has parents my age, and they've disciplined her all her life.

No bloody discipline so everyone thinks they are bloody King Kong of the Retail World and can do whatever THEY like and bugger everyone else, even if they do have your money, because THEY, and only THEY, are important.

It's starts in kindergarten with the stupidity of the education system these days and the DILLS who write it into syllabuses that no kid can be told they are any more or less intelligent than another.  What stupid stupid idiocy is this.  When I went to school everyone knew where you stood, A, B, C or D, and you strived to either keep that level or better it.  Nowadays it's all airyfairybloodyartyfartywhitesandshoebrigade stupid ideas that knowing your limitations might damage your psyche.  Bullshit.  It's more damaging to think you are Superman and fly off a frigging building in your underpants because "you can do anything you want to if only you try" mentality has been drummed into your head since you were old enough to string two words together.

YOU CAN"T.  And that's the truth.

And it doesn't stop there.  Mongrel bloody teenagers talk back to parents, go out having sex when they aren't old enough to know better, drink like lunatics without thinking of the consequences, dope themselves up on those energy drinks, think they are King Shit and no-one can tell them what to do, .... and that's exactly what is true.  No one CAN tell them what to do because the stupid stupid lawmakers pussy foot around every single thing and usually the criminals come out with compensation.

How bloody stupid is that?  Gone are the days when you could take an intruder out with a well aimed left hook and kick his arse from here to breakfast because HE broke into YOUR house and stole or hurt your possessions or family.  NOW the bastard sues YOU for hurting HIM! and he bloody WINS!

christ....

And then we move on to industry and what do we find?  OFF SHORE CUSTOMER SERVICE SETTING THE STANDARD.

Christ...the stories I could tell about the arguments I have had with off shore telephone service.  Bastards.

"Hello goodness graciously, I'm Brooce from Melborn, how about those Magpies, eh bro? I'm ringing de madam today to make your enquiry about more money in your pocket to buy more curry paste..."

christ....

and don't get me started on immigration..... just don't.....

Tomorrow I will ring the fireplace company again and if you hear anything down your telephone line like a very high pitched scream, it's just me reaching down and throttling the bastards on the other end.

Don't hang up, come on in and join the fight. .... just like we did in the old days.

Cleaning out my cupboards

Sorry Eminem, but we say cupboards down here, not closets.

I know this diary is about trimming what's not needed from my body, and my life, but since I started it, I don't think I've actually got rid of anything.  In fact, I keep adding to it in various ways.  

Take this morning as a for instance ...

It's MeDay again and so I wanted to sit down and do some family history research.  I love doing that.  I spent yesterday with the Anti-Christ (Kristy, the third born) and we worked our little bums off going through some of our current research and reformatting it and finding out what's missing.  It's a complete delight for me to have a child want to share one of my hobbies.  Wonderful.  I can't begin to explain how happy it makes me when the Anti-Christ and I do this together and I hope all my girls get to experience that pleasure with their own children when they grow up.

Anyway... because I wanted to do that, I had to get my  'chores' out of the way.  We are having renovations done to the house and it's one of the most frustrating experiences a middle aged woman can ever go through, even more frustrating than trying to explain menopause symptoms to a male doctor.  Total fools all of them.  Wouldn't know a homicidal tendency if it hit them in the groin.  God knows why we bother even trying to explain anything to them, they should just shut up and hand over the drugs and iron their bloody shirts while they are at it.  Bastards.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the renovations.  Today is Episode 49 in the current round of tradesmen arriving, or not arriving, or arriving late, or arriving and finding a pickaxe waiting to chop through their skulls because they didn't call or bring the right tools, or they are dirty, or disgusting, or can't string two words together or, the worst of them all, they arrive in ironed black jeans with a crease in them.  I ask you... ironed black jeans with a crease in them and you want them to lay a concrete slab?  yeah right.... piss off back to the supermarket to buy more Fabulon because you sure as hell aren't getting this job.

It's meant to look like this

So I had to get the house ready which meant moving around the lounge room furniture to clear out the place to fit the new fireplace  in.  It's supposed to have already left the warehouse and be on it's way here.  So that exercise involved not only being a weighlifter, but also a cleaner to clean the hidden treasures that were under the lounges.... I found little reminders of life ..... stale CocoPops from one of Milly's spilt bowls, a couple of cryogenically frozen blowflies from last winter, a rolled up piece of alfoil from one of The Hindenburg's (Cassie the Wonder Cat) playful moments when she was doing her David Beckham impersonations, a kids book that I remember Cora I'm Not Tiger I'm CoraCurvyfromFaulconbwidge telling me she would hide so Yanya (her imaginary friend) would have to hunt for it, and a million dust bunnies.   It's a shame David Attenborough is busy doing whatever he's doing because I think he could make a show out of the underside of my lounges.

Dave the Plumber, is going to arrive this afternoon and maybe (I'm not really clear on this bit) he's going to install it.  Dave is also going to check on my digging and pipe exposing abilities which was my next task this morning.  You see, Dave has to replace some old galvanised pipe with copper pipe which will go under the new concrete slab before the slab is laid.  But, Dave didn't know which direction the old pipe went out into the yard so I had to dig it up to find out.  Something got lost in translation between me saying "I want you to do this job" and him saying "You'll dig up the pavers to find the pipe before I get here".  It was one of those moments that I just can't quite remember how I got here and because I feel rather foolish for allowing it to happen, I won't dwell on it.

So I had to dig up pavers, dig through sand under them, find the pipe, trace it's path and break nails doing it.

Not 4 inch roofing nails.  No.  My finger nails.

I did the digging job and finished the furniture removal tasks, hung out the washing, vacuumed the house, tidied up and then went into the bathroom to clean my hands and repair the nails.  Chipped nail polish is an awful look so I bent down to look in the bottom of the bathroom cupboard to find the nail polish remover and then I saw it.  An unused tube of a very nice hand cream.  I pulled it out and sat it on the basin while I fixed up the workman's hands dangling off the end of my middle aged woman's arms.  I kept looking at it and wondering why it was unused.  Once the repair work was over, I opened the hand cream and slathered it in.  It felt lovely and smelt divine.

I hauled my lard arse down onto the floor and went through the cupboard in earnest.  The pot of gold kept on spilling out potions and lotions and perfumes and creams and makeups; and most of them were unused.

I was surrounded by real tools, not the shovel, giant screwdriver and hammer I had been using earlier.  These were the real tools of middle age femininity. 

Memories kept coming back of Xmas and birthday gifts of these which prompted me to look in other cupboards and to find other exotic tools.

The Toolbox

I've never been one to go for a skincare routine other than the morning undercoat and decoration of makeup and then washing it off in the evening, but now, I'm so well armed with equipment that I have to use it. I've got a cure for everything from cracked heels to cuticle repair to hair treatments here and I've cleaned them all up and have dedicated a shelf in my study to all of them.

No longer will they hide their little squirty things in cupboards; now they will share the light of day with me and cure every single skin issue I have ever had.  Goodbye wrinkles! Goodbye age spots! Goodbye hard skin! Goodbye blemishes! Goodbye smelly feet!  Hello Extremely Moisturised and Gorgeousnessed Goddess.

And if they don't work, I'll hide them under the new lounge when ... sorry, IF.... it ever arrives.

A Cup of Mutton and Feathers

Yesterday was Melbourne Cup Day.  The Race That Stops A Nation.  Well, it certainly stopped me dead in my tracks as I looked around at what it means to be a middle aged Australian woman on Cup Day.

Don't get me wrong, I love Melbourne Cup Day.  I don't have a bet because I can't work out how to do it.  If I have to go into a TAB and ask someone you can guarantee the only one to help me will be Willy Welfare Payments Buy Me Fags But I Can't Afford Soap Racelover.  But I always like to watch or hear the race and choose a horse by name alone.  I think I am probably the only person in Australia never to have backed a winner of the Cup.  Yesterday I chose Drunken Sailor and I believe he's still staggering over the finish line...back and forth, back and forth... some 30 hours later.  I also pick Australian horses.  One day I will learn that our horses are only there for the Cup Party, the same as the rest of the humans.  It's the Horses from Overseas that do the winning because they think it's all about actually racing.  Best not to tell them any differently at this point.

So, at my place of work, and in the streets surrounding that hallowed ground, middle aged women came out dressed to the nines because it was "Cup Day".   Usually you are hard pressed to get anyone in a pair of heels higher than a squashed gecko which has dried out in the sun, and the clothes are usually either riding up their arse or just that tad too short above the fat wrinkly knees or the bra straps are constantly slipping and glinting in the hot Australian sun.  But not yesterday.  Oh no.  Everyone was in super high heels, pretending not to notice the ache in the calf muscles or the fact that their toes were dangling over the front of the shoes because their ankles were no longer at a 90 degree angle to their knees but instead had blended into their achilles tendon and were causing them to Rudolph Nureyev with every step.  I trod on lots of toenails today, the day after "Cup Day"; there was a crunch on the footpaths underfoot.

And the dresses!!! Oh Lord... how many black and white belted dresses teamed with long black or white gloves and a perfectly accessorised clutch purse are there in town?!  The smell of mothballs permeated the air like a mid summers nightmare.  Whoever makes red beads had better put on extra staff too because there can't be anymore left to buy in the entire Western Suburbs of Sydney.

But the thing that got to me most, the thing I just can't fathom, is the headgear.

Since when did a middle aged woman think it was right to put a feather and flower in her hair and call it a Fascinator?  And since when did it become law to do it on "Cup Day"?

Fascinator?? What's fascinating about impersonating a chook?  Everywhere I looked I saw Old Ducks, Turkey Gobblers and Meat Chooks all sticking their beaks in to every nook and cranny like a Royal Easter Show Parade of Fowls.

Fascinator??  Well, now I think about it, yes, maybe it is fascinating in a perverted sort of way.

It's fascinating that these women were just 24 hours prior drudging around town in rejected 1980's aerobic tights with "I'm with Stupid" t-shirts hanging over them, fag in mouth, the obligatory tattoo on their ankle of their child Angelina Brittney Shaylene Kardashian's name so they don't forget it when they cash their Centrelink payment, and were screaming foul mouthed abuse at their partners as they pushed a 3 wheeled stroller up the street.

But on "Cup Day" they dress up and stick a feather in their hair and act all posh.  Hmmmm.  Fascinating.  Yankee Doodle Dandy did that, didn't he?

The Tribesmen of New Guinea stick feathers in their hair and put on their best shrunken skull jewelry when they are about to eat someone... or so my grandmother used to tell me.  Are these women out for a good feed on "Cup Day" or are they in some way symbolising the giant feed that awaits the Cup Winner?

Does impersonating a fowl actually personify their character?

Do horses run faster when surrounded by feathers?  If a chook loses it's feathers in the forest, does anyone hear?

Are the males of the species attracted by ""feathers blowing in the breeze on the top of staggering red lipped black gloved taller than they were yesterday and laughing fakely" females?

Hmmm.  Fascinating.

And then there were the males.  I saw one bloke dressed up in a suit and bowler hat.  This is Mental Man.  He frequents the TAB (which is just below us at work) every day and usually chucks a spaz attack at least once a week which causes someone to call the police and they drag him off, sober him up, call his mother and it's all over until the next time.  Yesterday he was dressed up for "Cup Day".

Mental Man was the only one I saw in the male parade of madness to don a suit.  All the other males were in tribal gear.

I took a walk at lunch time to the local shopping paradise to buy Milly Blue Eyes Forget Me Not a Build a Bear (but that's another story for another time) and as I walked back to work, carrying my bear, the mothball fumes from the ladies attire filled the air and everything went hazy for a moment.  It was very surreal for me.  I felt like I was in a modern day television advertisement where everything is soft focused with increased red and black highlights, decreased yellow skin tones, coupled with a black vignette and extra layer for more dimension on the objects in focus who are walking in slow motion, casually, carefree and not knowing I'm watching them.

I saw the Tribal Men walking towards the gathering place, known as the TAB.  It was there they were to meet the feathered fowls.  It all became very clear to me.

There were the Grog Tribe.  The blokes who are a bit shorter than most, with a very flat back of the head, no neck, protruding forehead, scowl on the face, chest that sticks out, arms that stick out and swing only from about the elbow region, pot belly, and skinny legs.  They dress in t shirts that are too tight, cargo pants, thongs and have tattoo sleeves. This apparently signifies toughness.

Behind them were the Dog Tribe.   Taller than Grogs, straight backed, shaven head, silver hoop earring, tattoos on the neck, white t shirts, black jeans, boots,  black sunglasses, face with absolutely no expression and long leads holding very big dogs.  This apparently shows they are tough.

Across the road was the I"m A Skinny Runt With Tattoos Tribe.  Underfed, under-endowed, under educated, under-intelligent, underpants hanging out of their holey jeans, fag behind the ear and doing a sort of lope along the street with their one leg that is always stiff from some terrible injury they've endured because they are, obviously, tough guys.

Then there was the Davo Tribe.  Davo is your middle aged Australian male who is weather beaten, rough hands, couldn't give a damn what he's dressed in, jusgowyndownthatabtohavabetyabastard, who has been there and done it all as you can tell from his sneer around his unshaven salt and peppered paunchy face and he's tough... because if you tell him he's not, he'll bloody show you ya bastard.

Last but by no means least is the Justin Tribe.  So named because they are just in the throws of puberty, just in the latest fashions by the skin of their underpants, just in with the in-crowd and just in your face because they have absolutely no respect for anyone's rights other than their own so they make a big noise and scream out for attention because they are tough... just.

All these tribes were converging on the "Cup Day" meeting place to feast their eyes on the befeathered fowl impersonators who were cackling and crowing along the laneways leading to the meeting place.

Fascinating, isn't it?  Once they all go there, they stood, silently, for the race start, feathers unruffled, B.O. permeating the room until the gates opened and the caller yelled, "They're off".   The tribal calls started "Go ya bastard, run ya bastard, gooooooo, goooooooooooo..... jesuschrist what a bastard race...who'd have picked that.... christ, the bloody missus is gonna be spewin I lost it all.....bastards" .

I wonder what happens to all the feathers after the race?  Does Sharon Smith, middle aged Western Suburb mother of 4, go home and look in the mirror at her worn off make up, faded lipstick and droopy feather and put on the Chicken Dance Song for her husband that night?  Is her husband one of the tough guy tribes?  Do they procreate, or do they just get out a carving knife and battle it out to the death with the victor eating the leftover Thai takeaway as his  or her just reward?

I don't know, but I do find it fascinating that not only can mutton dress up as lamb but old ducks can turn into chooks at the drop of a race card.