WELL, the annual New Year picnic has come and gone with the usual catalogue of cumbersome fist fights, non-fatal accidents, feared pregnancies, bawling kids, over-eating and lost pets, lost money and lost reputations. As well as a lot of fun.
Some may consider it eccentric to hold a New Year picnic in September but it has been a great success since we had the first one five years ago. For a start, its lovely light-jumper or unbuttoned-cardy weather which means that the younger people — under, say, fifty or so — aren’t inclined to drink too much, strip down to their undies or bathers and puke on old Mrs. Rosignelli’s tartan rug.
It’s happened before and led to some awful scenes, I can tell you. And what with Mrs. Rosignelli having been on her own for a couple of years now — since dear old Sergio ran into the Council grader on Lipton’s Corner — and some of the kiddies being very impressionable, we try to make it a genuine family affair. The disaster wouldn’t have happened if Sergio had been in the new red family Fiat, instead of on his old Malvern Star.
Another reason for having the New Year festivities in early September is that, as far as our research tells us, there is only one other place in the world that has adopted this way of celebrating the New Year. That is a remote village somewhere in the far north western corner of Mongolia. We thought we would establish a twin village thing with them, so we rang the Chinese embassy but they said they were busy and recommended that we check with the nearest Chinese restaurant. The restaurant answered the phone but hung up on me before I could finish the question. Then I realised that Mongolia is an independent country and not part of China at all — well, not officially — so I forgot about the whole thing. As you can see, I don’t muck about on this administrative stuff — go straight to the top and sort it. That’s my approach.
A large part of the problem
Unfortunately, this year’s festivities did not proceed in an entirely sedate and harmonious christian spirit. Frankly, I blame Plunger — who is not inappropriately named — for a large part of the problem. As you know, Plunger is the full-time odd jobs person at the local school which is where Goalpost and his partner Throbbah are employed as teachers. (She insists on the aitch at the end of Throbbah, presumably to give an overly suggestive nickname some aura of respectability. Really, the preciousness of some people!) Anyway, things were moving along smoothly for the first hour or so although I did note that Throbbah was attacking the chateau cardboard with considerable zeal but, knowing teachers to be very responsible citizens, I minded my own business.
After some time, however, I noted that Goalpost kept glancing over my shoulder, his face showing a mixture of surprise, concern and wonderment. I had to wait until someone had engaged Goalpost in conversation before I could turn and take in whatever had attracted his attention. When I did so I saw in the distance, on the edge of the clearing, a Grevillea bush partly covered by items of under-clothing and shaking as if in a light wind — which wasn’t blowing anywhere else in the area. A tangle of legs also made recurrent appearances through, over, under or beside the bush. Given that there were over fifty citizens at the picnic I could not quickly determine who was doing what to whom.
My many questions were soon to be answered because Goalpost suddenly jumped to his feet and raced in the direction of the pulsating plant screaming “Get off her you dirty bastard.” Close on this heels was The Rat yelling “You touch my cobber and you’re a goner — ya useless turd.” This last description being yelled with particular venom.
The rest of us felt obliged to follow Goalpost and The Rat in the interest of seeking to ensure that a peace appropriate to the Yuletime should prevail, even in September. The prospects of such an outcome were not enhanced when The Rat was chided by the Rev. Grummett for bumping into him when he raced to defend his mate. The Rat’s response — two words totalling seven letters, the second word being “off” — brought a pained look to the cleric’s face, together with a brief glance skywards. Today was clearly not the day upon which the meek would inherit the earth.
In the event and more by accident than design, peace did prevail or at least there was some kind of un-negotiated, unstated armed truce while Goalpost hustled Throbbah to their car and The Rat told Plunger to “ … get your stuff on and we’ll have a drink.” Plunger just nodded, vacantly, as if he was pondering on that line from Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”: “John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.” Plunger may not be a poet but there is poetry in his soul. Or somewhere.
Absolutely marvellous she was
One of the success stories of the day was the Widow Headlights. Absolutely marvellous she was. Helped the older people out of their cars and carried their rugs and hampers for them and assisted them to their feet when they needed to go to the dunny; organised the kids’ games; introduced the newcomers to the old timers; tidied up the dunnies after some of the drinkers and big eaters had been through; nursed the babies; and was generally the occasion’s Florence Nightingale. What was especially interesting was how she coped with the Fingers connection. Very charming, very much the lady. However, the big revelation was that she called Fingers “Francois” and, much to Fingers embarrassment, he had to concede it was indeed his name. Well, that really brought the house down. All the ladies thought it was a lovely name for a man, half the blokes thought it was OK and the drinkers under the big gum tree said it was “ … spot on for the little poof”. This latter riposte was accepted in good humour by Fingers and all concerned but educed a somewhat pained expression from the Rev. Grummett. Well he would, wouldn’t he, notwithstanding what a few of the assembled company recalled from Sunday School frolics of finding the hanky. He found the bloody hanky alright — and much else as well. That all stopped when Teddy Cuzzins kneed him in the wotnots. Ooooh, that brought a high-pitched squeak I can tell you.
A mean, miserable, misanthropic little megaslime
Before we got into the afternoon games and related activity, we had the obligatory speech from the Mayor of the municipality, Horace Dent, well and widely known as “Bent” Dent and as Horrie to his friends, both of them. Most residents believe Horrie came out in the First Fleet, or thereabouts, and has been mayor for most of the time since. He made his money from a small hardware business, punting and a number of strategically accidental fires on various properties that he owns. He is a short, squat chap of seventy five or so with a bald head, bulbous nose, equally bulbous belly and he pongs, like badly enough that you wouldn’t want to dance the slow foxtrot with him. In short, Horrie is a shocker. A mean, miserable, misanthropic little megaslime.
So why, I hear you ask, does he keep getting re-elected? Simple really. He’s very smart, very diligent and as cunning as a toilet rodent. He crawls to all the oldies, both at home and in the nursing home, by turning on functions every now and then at our expense — the rate payers, that is — and telling the guests how wonderful he is.
As for his speech it started off with the usual drivel, especially the bit about the Council being the prudent and creative custodian of the people’s assets. It was all a bit of a yawn but at least he didn’t drop any aitches or miss a beat when Plunger yelled out “Ya fly’s undone Horrie”. Quick as a flash, Horrie responded “Don’t worry son — a dead bird can’t fall out of a nest.” I’m not quite sure what he meant but the crowd seemed to enjoy it. He was really winding up, especially on the creative custodian bit, when he seemed to falter, gazing towards the back of the crowd with a look on his face that was part dismay, part distaste.
Clammy little paws
I was standing to the side of the crowd and, looking around in the same direction, I saw the cause of his concern. Cool Hand, casually dressed and with Suds draped across his arm, was standing at the back of the crowd. Cool Hand and Horrie have a history in which Cool Hand emerged well in front. Put simply, many years ago Cool Hand — with his senior bureaucratic hat on — caught Horrie with his hand in the till. He sorted Horrie out with some vigour and has never had any time for him since. And Horrie knows it, right down to his clammy little paws and clammy little everything else when Cool Hand is in the vicinity.
Horrie brought his speech to an early conclusion, dropping the usual smarm about serving the people and bringing peace and prosperity to all mankind. Or some equally pious tripe. He then excused himself due to pressing municipal commitments. His departure did not cause melancholy to descend upon the gathering. On the contrary, the dancing and the drinking picked up some speed and a few of the younger couples wandered off to collect wild flowers. Or grass stains.
By the time twilight was descending on the scene most of the people had drifted off home. Cool Hand got a poker school together and they went off to Sud’s place; a few of the young blokes went floundering in the shallows at the town beach; a council team took the microphone and stuff back; and the rest just drifted off. As I did just that myself I wondered why Gravel Rash hadn’t come down from town for the picnic. She’s been down most other years. I’ll check that out and let you know in the next report. Funny that. And she’s such a goer too, especially when there’s a bit of a party on. I fancy she’ll be down for the Town V Country cricket match. She’s never missed one of those.
