Sitting with the Gargoyles

The Train Traveller’s Guide to the Pufferazzi

Posted on April 24, 2016 by sittingwiththegargoyles

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We’d waltzed our way along the winding road through the Pichi Richi Pass in the Flinders Ranges, stopping to take photos of the mountains and bluebush. Soon we crossed the railway line and searched for a park near the station. The iconic outback town of Quorn seemed to double in population whenever the restored steam trains were running. We parked our car between the spotless four wheel drives and caravans and walked to the ticket office. We secured our seats, bought a few postcards, and took a wander around town for the hour before the train was due to depart. The historic Pichi Richi railway is run by volunteers who seem far more interested and organised than most public transport authorities in cities.

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A loud clattering and snorting announced the arrival of our beautifully restored steam engine. While the driver backed it up to the assortment of restored carriages, train wonks from all over the country descended on it like flies on a fresh turd. Every vantage point held a gaggle of camera toting train buffs. They were almost exclusively male, but there seemed to be no age requirements, only an expensive camera or two, and a burning desire to look at trains.

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We climbed aboard the middle carriage of seven, and took a seat facing the opposite windows and seats. The timber lined interior and green vinyl seats of carriage 74 were all in a condition belying its age of 130 years. A family sat opposite us, a chilled mum with dark hair tied back and hipster glasses. Her sporty husband was all hairy legs and beady necklace, he had a shaved head, maybe for aerodynamics or more likely because it was pretty obvious there wasn’t much left to comb. Little Jules and Helena made up the rest of the tribe. Almost immediately the kids decided they needed to toilet, so Sporty Dad took charge and asked Chilled Mum to guard their seats. She nodded but once they had left the train she grinned and told her fellow passengers she could probably do better, so she was keeping her options open. Helena and Jules arrived back and sat peering out the window.
“Is dad coming or is he just sauntering around as usual?”, Chilled Mum asked.
“He’s coming, like usual”, Helena replied, and did the finest impersonation of sauntering I’ve ever seen.

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Helena left again, presumably to find Sporty Dad. Chilled Mum sat beside her son, smiling a genuine smile her with perfect teeth, and as an afterthought asked “Can you see Jules … Oh, wait, you’re Jules aren’t you, can you see the other one?”
Sporty Dad and Helena arrived just in time before a party of twelve started complaining because there were no longer twelve seats in the same carriage available for them. They had arrived at least two minutes before we were due to leave and it was clearly a violation of their human rights to have to work around a timetable and the hundred or so other passengers who had arrived earlier. After much grumbling, they separated into two groups and shared themselves between a couple of carriages. The other occupants of our half carriage were an impeccably dressed, smiley mum, a dad in a ridiculous grey/brown bucket hat, and their two year old son. The boy had one arm in his green shirt sleeve, the other wasn’t readily visible. Our carriage captain seemed concerned and asked if the little guy had lost and arm, Bucket Hat Dad told her it was worse than that, it was broken. Our carriage captain told us we were about to leave and gave a quick safety briefing (hanging out of windows was OK, but since there were little kids on board we should probably leave the door shut).

The train whistled and jerked and we were moving. There were more people outside of the train taking photos than there were on it. Chilled Mum seemed particularly amused at all of the attention, I wanted to suggest she start giving them a royal wave, but I don’t think she could be bothered. As we clattered our way out of the rail yard, men with big cameras ran ahead to take just one more dozen photos. Others ran to their spotless four wheel drives. We were about to discover they were a whole other class of train wonk; we were about to be pursued by The Pufferazzi.

Our carriage captain was a woman in her 50s; she spoke with a slight outback drawl and looked like she could have been a surfie in her younger years. Nothing seemed to bother her. Her face was slightly lined and as brown as the soil around us. Her shoulder length black hair was allowed to age gracefully with lines of grey amid the black. There was nothing fake about her, she was the outback on two legs, she was cool, and she didn’t seem to know or care. She told us a little of the history of the railway and pointed out a few landmarks.

Every few minutes we would see more of the Pufferazzi entourage out one window or the other, usually in packs of about four, but sometimes up to ten. They would wave and capture photos and video of every chug, clunk or snort. Chilled Mum seemed particularly fascinated by one group she named The Hipster Trainspotters. They seemed to be the most ardent in their hunt and appeared at almost every vantage point. Chilled Mum seemed genuinely disappointed when the Hipsters missed one crossing but guessed they had probably gone for a latte. Sporty Dad saw a sign with the word Summit on it and proceeded to expertly explain to his kids that we were at the top of the hill. We kept climbing for another three or four hundred feet before Cool Carriage Captain announced that we were indeed now at the summit and were 1332 feet above sea level (the earlier sign was to signify the beginning of the climb to the summit).

Every once in a while we would lean out of the window to take a photo, other than that we watched our fellow passengers, or turned around to look at kangaroos bounding up the hills like Pufferazzi. It soon became obvious that the real fun on this excellent day out was watching the watchers. We had become train spotter, spotters. Cool Carriage Captain seemed amused by the game and told us they see them in the most unlikely places, and almost on cue she pointed one out on a mountainside and asked no one in particular “How the Hell did he get up there?”

The Shove

Posted on April 22, 2016 by sittingwiththegargoyles

I could smell her before I could see her. The smell of her perfume irritated the inside of my nose. It was the same fragrance my mum used to wear, and that made me sneeze too. I don’t think she heard me, or didn’t care. She kept talking on her phone without missing a beat.
“I’m at the fountain Mark, just as I said I would be, where are you?”
She listened and paced around impatiently, nodding her head as though waiting to speak.
“Eight o’clock you said, now I’m going to be late … you know what, don’t bother, I’ll get a taxi.”
She stabbed at the phone with her long thin finger, looked to the heavens and then pressed at it again.

The bus shelter beside the fountain was a pretty good hunting ground. People were usually distracted and didn’t notice a set of quick fingers taking a wallet or purse. Occasionally I would take a whole handbag, but that was risky, they usually noticed that and that’s when I had to run, rather than just blend in. Just another homeless kid sleeping rough. Pickings had been slim lately, the wet weather meant the tourists were more likely to hang around in the hotels and museums. I hadn’t eaten in two days, not unless you count half a Big Mac left in the bus shelter. They aren’t food when they are hot, let alone when they are cold. After tonight I should be able to eat for days.

I waited until she finished talking on the phone again, I needed her to put it inside her handbag as well. By the look of the bling around her neck, and the expensive little black dress she was poured into, I could tell that handbag was going to be my jackpot. I waited until a car drove past and walked up behind her.
“Excuse me lady.”
She turned and looked at me, after the shock had subsided, her dark eyes looked soft and kind.
“What is it?”
I could have asked her for ten bucks, I think she would have given it to me, but my stomach was growling and I was cold. I used my favourite routine for rich people.
“It looks like you’ve stepped in some dog crap lady.”
Her face screwed up and she lifted her foot, balancing awkwardly on one black stiletto. Now was the time, it had worked every time in the past. She thought I was offering to help her balance, she reached out for my arm and I gave her a little shove. As she fell I grabbed for her handbag and ran. I thought she would just stagger and recover, but something went wrong, she kept falling. She turned as she fell and her head made the sound of a watermelon falling on cement. I couldn’t look, but I had to. Her beautiful kind eyes only showed fear now, fear and confusion. I froze a few steps away, then I heard a man’s voice shouting.
“What did you do … Jen are you alright?”
The man in the black suit was built like a gorilla. I think the suit was made for a human, but he somehow managed to run in it. He ran toward the lady, and pointed at me, shouting.
“You, stay there, what do think you’re doing?”
He knelt down beside her and held her gently. He reached into his pocket and made a breathless phone call.
She was going to be OK, she had to be. I did what I always did, I ran.

I ran down the alley beside the hotel and hid behind the bins. I sat there breathless and not knowing what to do. I missed my mum, she always knew what to do, no matter how much of a mess I had made of things she could make them better. I put my head in my hands and cried. I hadn’t cried since mum died. I heard the siren getting closer. It was heading for the fountain. I crawled through the rubbish around the bins, it stank like rotten food but I had to see if the lady was alright. The ambulance stopped, the misty rain was getting heavier and the gorilla had taken his coat off and placed it over the lady’s shoulders. He stood up and waved to the ambulance officers. They grabbed a bag and ran to him. They knelt beside the lady, then one of them went and drove the ambulance closer. They pulled out a bed on wheels, I could hear the clank as the bed hit the ground. They wheeled it closer to the lady.

Then I heard another siren and a police car arrived. They police stood beside the gorilla and listened as he spoke. He waved his arms around and pointed in my direction. Then I heard it, inside the handbag the phone was playing Bohemian Rhapsody. I fumbled around in the bag, I threw out the keys and tissues. The screen lit up the interior of the black leather bag and I declined the call. My throat was dry, I could barely swallow. I dared to take another peek past the bins, they hadn’t heard. When I looked at the screen a message had come in, there were three women in evening dresses holding champagne glasses and the words “Jen where RU, missing all the dancing”. I threw the phone and keys back in the bag. I looked at the bin, I thought about just throwing the whole thing in there, but then all of this would have been for nothing.

I crept past the back of the hotel and along the alley. Headlights tore through the darkness, then flashing blue and red lights. A siren barked and I ran. The car snarled and accelerated toward me. I bolted out of the alley and onto the main road. More headlights, only bigger and closer this time. Then I heard that sound again. Everything went dark, but I could smell something. It was the perfume, but I didn’t sneeze this time. Someone was walking in the darkness.
“Mum is that you?”

All the Prince’s Men

Posted on November 16, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

A Prince’s man shows respect, collaboration, leadership, and altruism; he also wears a suit and tie according to the massive maroon infographic in the hallway at Prince Alfred College. The multi storey bluestone campus oozed old money and privilege. It was easy to see why for over 150 years; the cream of Adelaide society had been sending their boys, silver spoon in mouth, to learn how to become Prince’s men. Today though, the pristine sporting grounds with grass clipped to the exact millimetre lay empty, the focal point was the main auditorium where the state Lego robotics championships were being held, this was the Nerd Olympics, so naturally it was all held indoors.
For months prior to the event, an IT teacher, a science teacher and a group of boys toiled for hours every week to program a mini robot to perform recycling related tasks on a printed mat. The team also had to create displays, and innovative rubbish reduction strategies. The Lego Harvesters planned ways of reducing harm to bird and sea life from discarded fishing line, and created a bin that made recycling fun. An impressive website was designed, and domain names secured. The biggest challenge was training the robot to navigate the mat and perform the tasks at the right time and place.
An hour before sunrise we drove to pick up our travelling companions for the drive to the city. Within minutes of collecting Joan, the science teacher with the infectious Afrikaans accent, I made a discovery that would improve the trip no end; through a series of verbal, secret handshakes I discovered that she was a morning person too. Among some people, morning people are as popular as flatulence in a lift, but today we had found instant kinship. When talk drifted to the topic of bacon and all things carnivorous, I knew we would have a good day.
After ill fated detours through motel car parks, and mercifully light traffic, we arrived at Prince Alfred College and wandered through the maze of buildings in search of the venue. After what seemed like hours of trekking, we met up with other parties of lost explorers and found the magnificent ANZAC hall and signed in. A tour guide showed us to our pit room where we could store our supplies and do minor adjustments, to the rooms where the interviews and presentations would be heard, and to the practice room which held a long row of tables with identical robot courses. All of this was spread over three levels, linked with somewhat confusing staircases, and an upmarket lift for the society gentlemen of the future.
Our robot, nicknamed The Millennium Falcon, with a Lego R2 D2 piloting it performed remarkably well in all of the practices, things were looking good. While only the most optimistic team members expected to be in the top four South Australian teams, and progress to the finals in Sydney, we all thought we would finish well. Unfortunately R2 D2 developed stage fright every time he had to perform in the main auditorium under the scrutiny of judges and the other teams. Our boys handled every defeat with grace, and were always polite and courteous toward the other teams and officials. They had made up cards publicising the group’s website and had taped a chocolate to the back of each. These were handed out liberally to judges, officials, commentators, opponents, and security personnel.
In the periods between matches, Martin the IT teacher extraordinaire helped the older boys work on trying to solve the problems with the robot. Joan and I found the canteen and lightened their burden of chocolate, and kept an eye on the boys who weren’t working on the robot. For a school with fees ten times those of our own, I was surprised at the meagre offerings at the canteen, there was no caviar, no venison, no Evian water, and the toilets didn’t even flush properly, but there was a lift.
My loyalty to the Lego Harvesters was temporarily tested when I saw one of the other 32 teams was named ‘Team BaCoN’, but as soon as I discovered they didn’t actually have any bacon, I was back on board with Team Harvest. Next year Joan and I plan to solve the problem of the scarcity of bacon at the event by taking our own. By eleven o’clock things began to improve when the barbecue was in full swing and we could eat our first red meat of the day.
The day progressed with the team giving presentations about their website, their planning, and how the robot was programmed. While the boys weren’t as well prepared as some of the more experienced teams, they did have a secret weapon, eleven year old Toby, who could be called upon to bring out the cuteness factor when the tech talk had run out of steam. His unique presentation of the facts brought wide grins to the most jaded of judges. Things for The Millennium Falcon weren’t flying so well, there might have been a problem with the sensors reading the light in the hall compared to the practice rooms, they guys weren’t sure, and the solution was frustratingly elusive. During the afternoon while trying to iron out some of the bugs, the team shared a practice table with the second placed team, Trash Talk. From that brief encounter on, our boys were the most vocal supporters of Trash Talk. The country boys seemed to be the only team in the competition to offer encouragement to their competitors. Even teams sharing our pit room refused to allow us to take some measurements from their school’s course mat.
The boys who weren’t involved in problem solving found the future leaders’ lift to be a source of great inspiration, and began to look upon it as an amusement park ride. It was all fun and games until one of the security guards banned them from using it; obviously they hadn’t given her enough chocolate. Later they found a larger robot being demonstrated outside, it could pick up and throw a large ball (or small child) and they took turns putting it through its paces.
By the time the third official match had been played, and The Millennium Falcon had failed yet again to do in public what it had done with flawlessly in private, we all knew that the Lego Harvesters weren’t going to Sydney. Our score was hovering around nineteenth place, which wasn’t disappointing for a first time team. Everyone knew we wouldn’t need to be near the main stage for any of the glittering plastic trophies made of Lego, so we retired upstairs to the balcony where the view was best, to cheer on our fellow competitors.
As Trash Talk climbed the stage to collect second prize, our team cheered them almost as loudly as their own supporters. The boys had all enjoyed themselves and were already planning for next year, when the completely unexpected happened. Lego Harvesters had won the Gracious Professionalism Award. There were more open mouths among the team than in a sideshow clown game. Once the realisation dawned on them, they made the long run down the stairs, and to the front to collect their trophy and certificate. Their hard work, generosity, and good sportsmanship had all been noticed and rewarded, the entire team was in shock for a while as the trophy and certificate were shared around and admired. While they might not be Prince’s men, the country boys had exhibited all of the traits their city cousins were being trained in at a tenth of the cost to their parents, while wearing three dollar Target T shirts.
On the way home we stopped at Hungry Jacks to refill our stomachs, to talk about next year’s challenge, and get involved in an in depth discussion about what race Yoda belonged to. Our car travelled back into the setting sun, the boys were drawing pictures on the laptop in the back, and I was getting Afrikaans lessons in the front. The morning people were ready to stop as we said totsiens to the daylight, but our efforts were a success in more ways than one.

The Brotherhood of the Beard

Posted on October 17, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

My new friend stood with his arm around my shoulders stroking my beard. His tall, red bearded mate came to intervene, telling me apologetically that “He’s terrible, he doesn’t even ask first”. My new friend, in his late 20s, dressed in a fashionable black patterned shirt gushed “I can’t help it, I’m so jealous, I just can’t grow one”. He stood looking at me, arm still around my shoulder, waiting for me to dispense some sage beard growing advice. All I could tell him was to keep trying, Red Beard nodded. I’m always amused that my chest length beard seems to imply to others that I must know a profound secret about facial hair growth. All it takes is patience and the ability to resist pressure to shave. This wasn’t to be the first or last invasion of my closely guarded personal space that evening, at a Beards concert, normal etiquette clearly doesn’t apply.

While I’m usually notoriously antisocial, lately I have been even more reluctant to spend time with ‘people’, so for the entire day I fought the urge to just stay home like every other night. Tonight was different, tonight The Beards were in my town, less than a kilometre from my house, and more importantly, I had already bought the ticket. The Beards had returned to their home state after another world tour to sell their latest album, and to celebrate ten years of singing nothing but songs about beards.

I walked in to the most upmarket bar in the area and was almost immediately confronted by a lithe, glassy eyed blonde staring at me and saying, “Man, look at your @#*&% beard”, she reached out and gave it a gentle stroke before being dragged away by her companions. I could see that this was going to be an interesting night; I was already looking for excuses to leave. I bought a glass of Coke and found the table as far away from the stage as was possible and assumed an air of “Leave me alone, I’m waiting for someone”. I spent the next hour complaining to my wife and sister via phone messages.

Eventually the support act started up, and the wall that I had previously been leaning on started pulsating annoyingly. While I am sure they were good at what they did, the warm up act failed to enthuse me, finding temporary refuge in the toilets at the far end of the building I noted that with several walls and closed doors between us, they were just about bearable. The lead singer’s attempts to “Get this party started” were mainly falling on newly deaf ears. Even her comment about travelling 3000 km to be there and asking the crowd to make the effort to move ten metres closer to the stage, bore little fruit. Before the end of her set, she had managed to get some of the more easily motivated to dance, but clearly most of us were there to see The Beards, and she didn’t have one.

When it became clear that The Beards were about to arrive, I made my way forward around the curved bar, through the expectant crowd all cradling glasses or bottles of something. The audience seemed to consist mainly of women in their 20s and 30s, eager young men of a similar age, and bearded blokes of all ages, it could have been a Hell’s Angels Family Fun Day. While making my way forward on my “I have paid my money so I might as well try to enjoy it” mission, one of the middle aged bearded men grinned warmly at me, put his hand on my shoulder and said “Love you brother”. So began the transformation of a group of partly drunk strangers into a family, at least for the next 90 minutes.

As soon as the four members of The Beards arrived on the stage, there was no problem getting people to move forward. They removed the tape barricade between them and the audience, announcing that there were no barriers here tonight, the only barrier was between the bearded, and the non bearded. The front of the stage was deemed as the VIB area, and anyone with a beard was welcome there. Several women with fake beards had taken up residence there and were praised for their efforts. For the next hour and a half, we were treated to a hit parade of songs about beards, dubious facts about beards, beard admiration, and a lot of beard stroking. The band stroked their own, and audience members’ beards. The audience stroked The Beards’ beards, and particularly during the song titled “Stroking My Beard” it became a love fest for facial follicles. A woman who had been dancing and singing along enthusiastically decided that it was the right time to make herself known to my beard, and enthusiastically stroked it while grinning widely. My beard had made another friend.

During the show there were numerous good natured taunts for the bare faced among us. The stage hand who had long hair that hung most of the way down his back, but no beard copped the most teasing. Lead singer Johann Beardraven exhorted all the beardless men and women in the crowd to “Just try harder” and they too could have beards. As the night wore on, it was clear that everyone there was already a fan; the longer the night went, the more audience participation there was. Various well bearded men were pointed out for particular attention, and several had their beards stroked by the band.

Nearing the end of the show, the glassy eyed blonde girl decided to invade the stage from the side entrance. She was quickly picked up and turned around 180 degrees by the bearded security guard and she left the stage as quickly as she had arrived. As the songs about beards continued, something unusual had happened. The whole place had become one large family, we were all bearded brothers, some of us were beardless brothers, some of us were female brothers with a beard on the inside, some were drunk and dancing with their glass companions, others, like me, were sober and just standing still, but for 90 magical minutes, we all had beards, and all loved them. As the sound of beardy music made the floor vibrate, and my loose black shirt pulsate in time with the beat, the band pulled out the two biggest crowd pleasers. After a brief introduction, they blasted out “You Should Consider Having Sex with a Bearded Man”, to great audience enthusiasm. At this point I took a few steps away from the enthusiastic beard stroker in case she decided to take these lyrics literally as well.

The final song was the one that first introduced me to the band years ago. “If Your Dad Doesn’t Have a Beard, You’ve Got Two Mums”, was cheered wildly, and everyone, even the most curmudgeonly of us joined in with singing (or mumbling) the chorus. As the music died, I felt a hand go around my shoulder, assuming it was another brother wanting to make their way past me, I turned, only to find I had been ambushed by Beard Stroker, before I knew what hit me, her friend had taken a photo of the two of us together. I’m sure in the morning she will wonder who the random bloke in her photo is.

Then it was all over. At half an hour before midnight I did my Cinderella trick, and was the first to leave. I wanted to go before the magic faded away, before my new found brothers turned back into drunk strangers, and before I turned back into the grumpy hermit I had been until 2 hours ago.

A History of Mischief

Posted on October 15, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

“If a couple of guys are suitably motivated, they can get that pole to start swaying and set the train warning bell ringing when there isn’t a train coming”.
I had taken my fourteen year old son James on a trip back to the tiny town where I lived for the first fourteen years of my life, and was regaling him with stories of my youth. The most striking thing I had noticed was that almost all of the small businesses that had been open when I was James’ age had closed, and that many of them were now “dumpified” to use his term. The little town of not more than 200 residents once boasted a bank, bakery, post office, general store, take away, car a farm machinery dealership and two pubs. Now there was only a pub, a grain business and the 145 year old primary school that I attended.

We did some reading of the local history book after our visit, and learned some interesting facts. In its heyday, the now disused rail line once carried 60 trains per week, and in the very early days, a woman named Ann Burgess was employed to wave a red flag or lantern to warn of trains at the crossing. I showed James the huge water towers built to supply steam trains, but left to grow algae by the time I was a boy. I told him of the satisfying, wet plop a clump of algae would make as it was thrown from the top of the tank to land beside an unsuspecting friend.

The thing that struck me most in the local history book was that Manoora seemed to have a history of young lads getting involved in harmless pranks. My old home town was 110 km north of Adelaide and on the main road and rail route to the rich copper mining town of Burra, and much further on, Broken Hill. It was in a reliable and prosperous farming district, and served as a hub to the many cropping and grazing properties surrounding it.

We discovered that the abundant crops led to one particularly notorious prank, in which a group of lads spied a piece of farm machinery beside a large hay stack. The next morning, the farmer, unable to find his machine reported it stolen. After several days, the lads confessed to moving the hay to cover and hide the farm equipment overnight. In another story, a valuable black horse seemed to have gone missing, it was only after several days that it was discovered that the horse had been painted white and moved to a nearby paddock.

We visited the 135 year old Manoora Institute, the site of various forms of entertainment over the years including, roller skating, dances, badminton, numerous concerts, and the bizarre sounding ‘Queen, and Ugly Man competitions’. An upstairs room housed a large Billiard table purchased in 1907, but for much of my youth, it was inaccessible because the wooden stairs had long since collapsed. Eventually the stairs were replaced, but by then other forms of entertainment had eclipsed the fun that the Billiard room had once provided. Outside the Institute were the public toilets, which were paid for by a special council rate levy for three years from 1954. I told James about the time my friend and I had switched the Male and Female signs on the toilets at the football oval. We thought switching the signs at the oval would cause maximum fun because the locals would know which was which, and not read the signs, but visitors would rely on them, leading to embarrassing moments.

As we made our way out of town we passed the drains that crossed below the main road, channelling the flow from the reservoir either to the rail yards or back into the River Gilbert. Here my friend and I had hidden with one of Nan’s handbags tied to a fishing line. We would leave the bag on the side of the road, and as cars stopped to investigate, we would pull it under the road with us.

Rail closure, better cars and roads, and centralisation of services to larger towns all seem to have conspired in sounding the death knell for little towns like Manoora.

For now though it was time to go and get lunch from Clare, half an hour’s drive away and with about ten times the population.

Now where did I park my car ? ….

Reference source
Palmer, Alison. Head Of The Rivers. Adelaide, Lutheran Publishing House, 1992.

Daleks Don’t Like Stairs

Posted on July 19, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

“Asgard … I went there once … there wasn’t disabled access … it was awful”, the shrill metallic voice of the Dalek ripped through the gentle murmur of the exhibition space as he stopped to interact with one of the statuesque, female Thors.

James and I had made it to AVCon after several attempts to find a car park that wasn’t full. We had seen the lines of people outside the convention centre and eventually found ourselves descending into the seemingly bottomless pit of a concrete car tomb in Adelaide’s infamous Hindley Street. We clanked and screeched around the maze of concrete, looking for a park that was genuinely not reserved, and hadn’t just had the sign torn down.

We took the short walk to the long queues where we found Sophie and Michaela waiting at the top of the staircase for us. The visitors were separated into two lines, those who had prepaid online, and those who hadn’t. We surveyed the wide variety of costumes our fellow travellers were wearing. The whole gamut of Anime, Manga, Sci-Fi and video game characters seemed to be spread before us, and a guy with a green paper crown. The crowds seemed friendly and happy; there was an air of anticipation as we once again reached the top of the stairs. The only visible security presence was a guard in a wheelchair, and his position between two long staircases didn’t really seem fair.

I left the teenagers to explore and enjoy while I took in the sights by myself. There were hundreds of Anime cosplaying girls, many of whom were barely abiding by the rule stating which body parts were to be kept covered. I saw squads of Call of Duty Special Forces, all with balaclavas and plastic machine guns. There was the occasional hairy cross dressing guy, and more frequent cross dressing girl. Some participants were happily posing for photographs; others were just minding their own business. I made way for a couple of Star Wars storm troopers and both Princess Leia and Padme at various times. A couple of zombie German soldiers made quite an impact, as did scores of Asunas from Sword Art Online. James had dressed as Professor Layton, a character from a game, Michaela as a Marceline, the teenage vampire with a combination battle axe / guitar from the Adventure Time series. Sophie wore an Adventure Time cap, and I went as a middle aged bloke in blue jeans and a black jacket. Read More

A Pit for Laszlo

Posted on July 13, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

“We’re digging a pit for Laszlo”, the tall one said.

“It’s gunna be the duck’s guts”, his more gravity bound friend joined in.

I had heard the scratching and thud of spade in soil for the last few hours and stuck my head over the fence to investigate. Usually the two bogans over the back were pulling a $500 car apart, while listening to music that would make a nun implode. This time, there was a little less swearing, and there seemed to have been pretty constant work for hours, something I am sure neither of them had ever experienced before.

“No rush fellas” came a heavily accented voice from the back verandah. I had never seen him before, but his cropped, greying black hair, army surplus clothing, and eastern European accent made it obvious that he wasn’t one of the boys’ loser school mates. Laszlo had to be about twenty years older than them, and sat nervously cradling a beer as he leaned forward on a plastic garden chair.

“Can’t talk now bloke”, the short one said. After wiping the shower of sweat from his shiny face, he was back into the task with the energy of a man who actually cared about something. His mate nodded in agreement and swung back into it too.

By evening there were other voices, but the digging didn’t seem to have let up. Once again curiosity took hold and I peered over again. The boys had set up a portable floodlight and were eating pizza from a cardboard box as two other unlikely diggers were passing soil up in a bucket on a rope. I couldn’t see the bottom of the pit, but it had to be two metres deep. The tall one waved a floppy slice of Supreme pizza in my direction, and nodded happily, chewing like a man who had never done a day’s work in his life. Laszlo still appeared nervous as he reached for a slice of pizza, his eyes barely leaving the work site in front of him.

Cheese and Xenophobia in New Silesia

Posted on July 3, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

DO …YOU…LIKE…CHEESE ?, obviously Otto had come top of his cultural awareness class before starting work at the tourist office. It is well known that, by speaking loudly and slowly enough, any slow witted foreigner can be made to understand your question. His best hair days were clearly behind him, with his bald head surrounded by a ring of wild and wiry grey hair, his head looked like a sea anemone trying to eat an egg. Otto persisted with extolling the magnificent cheese emporium that awaited the tourist and her companion if they could only be made to understand that IT… IS… A…SHORT…DISTANCE …YES. Otto seemed more reluctant to make a recommendation about the best winery, because YOU…MIGHT…NOT…AGREE… ONCE…YOU… TRY… IT… AND…WILL…THINK…THAT…MAN…AT…THE…..TOURIST…OFFICE…DOESN’T…KNOW…WHAT…HE’S….TALKING…ABOUT… Eventually he relented and told her instead where the most famous wineries were. We chose our meagre postcards and left as he asked the tourist where she was from. “Melbourne,” she replied.

We had taken an overnight trip away to explore the delights of the Barossa Valley and already wound our way through several of the quirky and interesting shops in the area. One purveyor of overpriced furniture seemed to be somewhat obsessed with judge’s gavels. The high class smell of the leather and wax seemed to be secondary to an excuse to display one of the dozens of gavels, which no room display seemed to be complete without. Hordes of well dressed sales staff seemed to have nothing more to do than sit at desks and ask if we needed any help every five seconds, or laugh maniacally about phoning a customer and getting the wrong number. No wonder the prices were high.

The little museum hidden behind a bicycle shop was a surprise. After paying a very reasonable admission fee we were ushered through a domestic looking door into a dark hallway. Once we were all safely hidden from the view of the watching bikes, and the door shut, the manager clicked an industrial sized switch with a metallic clank. All of the lights on the two floors came on at once. We made our way through the various rooms and learned about the local history through displays, as stern looking pioneers looked back at us from old photographs. Photos of school children in roughly synchronised exercise poses and fierce looking teachers adorned one room. In another it appeared as though several church altars and pulpits had materialised from a different dimension, some without quite clearing the walls of the tiny room. They were like holy German elephants in a phone box. After taking what seemed to us to be a respectful amount of time studying the contents of the hidden museum we emerged back through the door into the shop where the bikes were clearly playing sardines. A grey haired gent with a well trimmed beard was excitedly asking his wife to guess what he had bought for his bike. We stood quietly behind him, unable to pass back to the modern world. Eventually his wife hinted that he might move to allow our exit. Without looking or acknowledging our presence, he said that yes, he should move and let the “sight seers” past. The words were spat out with utter disdain, clearly this was his town, and if anyone was going to see it, it was him.

One of the highlights of the trip was a visit to the farm and shop belonging to a well known TV cook. We sampled and bought all manner of interesting combinations in sauces, jams and chutneys. We peered through the glass doors to the studio kitchen where all the TV kitchen magic was made. The staff members were just the right combination of friendly and reserved, so as not to be annoying and make the experience pleasant. We took a tour of the slightly green farm dam, complete with signs reminding all and sundry that whatever they did, they shouldn’t swim in the farm dam; I guess drinking it was ok though… The resident teenager was slightly baffled that there seemed to be sturdy seats every 100m or so, until I told him that well known TV cooks can attract a lot of old and unfit people as well, who might just need to sit down every hundred metres between heart attacks. After touring the dam and orchard, we made our way to the poultry enclosures to have a look at the birds the well known TV cook was so well known for. There was a tinge of disappointment when it became clear that the well known TV cook wasn’t going to appear from the undergrowth somewhere and with a smile, and interesting anecdote, wring the neck of one of the spritely birds before our eyes. As we drove out we made sure to observe the signs reminding us (or maybe foreign tourists) that Australians drive on the left. It’s little reminders like that that keep us all alive.

After a pleasant night, consisting of take away Chinese food, eaten in the motel room with the finest plastic cutlery 49 cents can buy, and a toasty warm sleep in a comfy room, the resident teenager and I went off to enjoy breakfast. The titanic dining room was almost empty at the hour our stomachs called us to attention. While I happily munched on bacon and eggs, the resident teenager read out the text on muted TV screens displaying the news of a gruesome, suspicious death. I’m sure the gory details added enjoyment to the dining experience of the couple at the table near ours.

We took a stroll down the main street and enjoyed the sights, other than the pastoral scene painted on a saw. I have never worked out why people find it appealing to paint rural scenes on old wood saws. Possibly it’s in memory of the trees that the aforementioned saws have cut down or maybe it just takes less skill than painting a parrot on a claw hammer. As we turned and made our way back to the car we passed two middle aged gents in Homburg hats practising their dance moves on the footpath. With their esoteric discussion about how to fit in an extra step still dancing between our ears, we climbed back into the car and made our way home, still driving on the left and seeing the sights, with our supply of fresh cheese on board, because, everybody likes cheese.

All the fun of the fair

Posted on May 15, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

We parked the car in front of someone’s yard, all native plants and pine log fences. This was a town for retired farmers, hippies gone straight, and lovers of hand crafted kitsch. Even the name of the town, Laura, added a slightly off beat tone, as though every second place was named by a narcissistic 3 year old girl. We crunched our way along paper white, crunchy gravel paths toward the pop up Mecca of the annual folk fair. The local craftspeople didn’t believe in hiding their talents, the obviously hand painted ‘Keep Clear’ sign that adorned the rusty iron fence showed true mastery of pink, and green paint. As we arrived at the festival we dodged the hemp ropes and tent pegs, designed to stop the bouncy castle from becoming airborne and sprinkling its squealing inhabitants all over the street like chocolate powder on a cappuccino. Every ride and carnival game sounded like an 80’s pub rock band had taken up residency and was trying to outdo the other on $20 speakers. The game attendants bawled out alluring enticements to extract your money for a few moments of fun. The repetitive cries had probably long since lost all meaning to the craggy faces spurting them out, they might as well have been reading the stock market report. “Come and Rio Tinto, every Westpac wins a Brambles”. This was the corner favoured by the teenagers, the bogans, and the ankle bitten parents looking for a way to soothe the nagging pain in their wallets. Making our way through the badlands, spending money still miraculously intact, we passed by the carnival food, flashing lights, blaring speakers, and the smell of grease strong enough to cause a heart attack in a Mallee Bull. There were hotdogs, fairy floss, and buckets of chips only 250% more expensive than you would find them anywhere in the real world. But there was light at the end of the tunnel, the overdriven speakers, carnies, and squealing gradually made way for a tunnel of delicate jute covered market stalls. This is where the folk fair experience really began, the eager stall holders had everything a fair goer could desire, tie died scarves, pieces of wood with shaky images burned into them, and clanky Chinese made toys of the finest quality. You could buy every type of jam and preserve under the sun, a few that defy all description and logic. With eager enough investigation I’m sure jars of locally sourced Blue Whale bile and parsnip chutney could be found. Read More

1984 – Are we there yet ?

Posted on April 22, 2015 by sittingwiththegargoyles

I walked amid the lichen covered memorials to the past, the history of life and death in stone. I had my Kindle with me, containing the book I had started reading that morning, George Orwell’s 1984. It was a modern classic that until recently I had avoided. It seemed so popular that I probably wouldn’t like it. A recent reading of a couple of other works by Orwell had convinced me to give it a try, and I was hooked.

I enjoy the peace and solitude of cemeteries; it was going to be a great place to spend an hour or so reading and taking notes. I was the only living soul there. Occasionally I would hear the swishing of tyres on a distant road, but mostly all I could hear were the native pines whispering the names of the dead, and the crows calling out to them. I took a seat on the bench, notebook beside me and entered the world of 1984 as Orwell imagined it.

I’d been to the local newsagent on the way to Moonta cemetery to buy a new notebook. I liked the symbolism of writing my notes in a new book in the same way that Winston did in the story, except I didn’t need to hide mine and kick it along the floor below the telescreen. If I was observed with my fresh new notebook there was no consequence. In 1984 it would have meant a visit from the thought police, and eventual slow and painful death. But I had been observed when buying my book; security cameras watch every move in almost all shops in 2015, always on the lookout for theft or other shady activity. I began to wonder how far we are from Orwell’s world. Was Big Brother really watching me ?

In imagining a world 35 years into his future, George Orwell foresaw a time where London and another third of the world were under the control of The Party, Ingsoc, led by the omniscient Big Brother. Every movement and sound was being observed by hidden microphones and the ever- present telescreen, which not only gushed constant propaganda, but watched every movement for signs of disloyalty or independent thought. History was rewritten at a whim, and entire lives just vanished.

If Orwell were to cast his mind another 30 years forward, he would find that much of London is under constant surveillance by closed circuit television cameras. The British Security Industry Association estimates that there are up to 5.9 million security cameras in Britain, one for every eleven citizens Read More