If you want gold, you have to pay for gold

Wednesday 19 August 2009

A man walks into a doctor’s studio. “Doctor, doctor,” the man says, “I can’t work out if I’m a singlet or a T-shirt.”

“Aah, don’t worry about it mate,” says the doctor, “you’re just too tops!”

(Thank you! Thank you!)


Wednesday 4 February 2009

I was talking to this guy at the pub the other night – just casual stuff, you know, chewing the fat, shooting the breeze, waiting for the badge draw to be called (I didn’t win) – when he said, “I left my wife last weekend.”

“Oh,” I said, glass halted mid way, “That’s… that’s pretty big, a… ummm… big thing to happen.”

“Yeah,” he said and took a sip of his beer. He stood staring out in front at nothing in particular; perhaps the wall, maybe a space somewhere in between. 

I just stood next to him, leaning against the bar, not sure what to say or do. It didn’t seem polite to keep drinking away as if nothing peculiar had happened, yet his statement demanded a response, however trite. I pretended to study the bubbles in the  beery froth to bide myself some time.

“How do you feel about that?” I asked eventually, looking up at the man. He was very tall and, while not muscly, large enough in frame to warn not to annoy. 

He finished his mouthful and looked down at me. “Fine,” he said bluntly.

“Well, that’s good then,” I said, and went back to my beer. 

He paused for a moment and then said, “Actually, it all worked out for the best. By the time I’d reparked the car and got back into Woolworths she was still at the deli counter waiting to be served.”

He swigged the last of his beer. “Same again?” he said.

Clyde pitches a joke

Saturday 10 January 2009

Ok, there’s this pub, right, but it’s one of those “local” pubs where only “locals” go, it’s got that particular look. There’s some guys sitting over at a table and a couple of resident barflies at the bar sipping their beers, and the barman behind the counter doing whatever it is barmen do. You got it? But then the door flies open and in the door way is this huge black frame silhouetted in the light from the street and everyone turns to face the door, but then the door closes and we see it’s actually a weedy young feller with one of those huge backpacks. 

So the feller heads to the bar, plomps his pack at his feet and takes up a seat next to the barflies. He smiles at them but they just stare back, so he looks waiting for the barman.

You with me so far?

So the barman comes over and says, “What can I get you?”; and the feller says, “A beer.”; and the barman says, “What kind of beer?”; and the feller says, “What kind of beer you got?”

“Well,” says the barman, “We got lots of different beers, but people ’round here drink Carradine.”

“Then I’ll have a Carradine, please,” says the feller. So the barman pours him a Carradine.

The feller takes his beer, raises the glass, turns to the ‘flies next to him, and says, “Cheers!”; and the ‘flies are still just staring at him, they haven’t moved a muscle; so the feller turns back front-wards and takes a big gulp of his beer.

“Ah!” he says with a big satisfied expression.

But then, and this is the important bit, the feller starts to look uncomfortable, right; and his faces turns, like, a bright red; and then he starts to tremble on his seat; and, and smoke starts to come out of from under his collar and his shirt sleeves; and everyone else is just watching him all casual-like, as if nothing weird’s happening; but all the time the feller is shaking more and more; and there’s this noise of steam escaping; and all this smoke. And then the guy suddenly spontaneously combusts in this huge ball of flames; and the beer coasters catch on fire; and the liquid in the bottles behind the bar bubbles; and everyone’s not doing anything, you see; and then the flames stop and the bar is all singed and the roof blackened and the seat melted; and as the smoke clears all that’s left is this pile of smoking ashes and a pair of shoes.

After a moment the barfly closest to the ashes takes a long slow pull of his beer, then turns and gives a small kick to the ashes.

“You’re not from ’round here, then?” says the ‘fly.

The Cleansing Ceremony of the Burning Sock

Friday 17 October 2008

As I walked home from the pub tonight I passed a pair of blackened socks lying by the side of the road. Ahh, I surmised, I am obviously the witness of the aftermath of the Cleansing Ceremony of the Burning Sock…

The Cleansing Ceremony of the Burning Sock, a once annual event but becoming more popular due to tourist interest and the ever increasing number of young men who think anything sounds like a good idea when drunk enough, is an event of great spectacle and reverence. Many Disciples of the Burning Sock speak of, during the ceremony, a feeling an immense pain that is somehow “washed away” upon completion. Disciples talk of a common journey of curiosity, audacity, agony, and stupidity, and while many followers believe that one cleansing is more than enough, there is always the fool-hardy few that are more than willing to, next time, still give it a go. Many of these repeat “Cleansers” not so much receive public accolade, but wary notoriety of being someone with a very short memory.

Many cultures see the Burning Sock as a mark of the beginning of Manhood, and, as such, Ceremonies habitually take place at such established gatherings as Buck’s Nights, 21st, the End of Footy Season Piss Ups. While the Ceremony is open to much personal interpretation, it usually begins with the gathering of the Disciples, traditionally in a public area within easy staggering distance of a nearby pub. Here, while their partners look on, the Disciples remove their left shoes then toss into a central pile. Around this pile the Disciples circle and, with arms linked on each others shoulders, proceed to fill the air with chants of football team songs, Queen ballads and early Cold Chisel.

Now, the Grand Chief Sockette, a great and industrious man (it is always a man) who has experienced the wonders of the Cleansing Sock many times before, hobbles into the ring, in his right hand a broom handle on which hangs the remnants of a previous burnt sock, now doused in kerosene. It is seen as a momentous honour to be awarded the role of the Grand Chief Sockette, and is a symbol of stature in many lower income families.

After a short speech the Grand Chief Sockette produces the Sacred Zippo from his back hip pocket, and, under the hushed gaze of the Disciples – many of whom would now be experiencing the nagging realisation that this might not have been such a good idea after all – lights the doused sock and proceeds to limp clockwise around the circle, setting alight each Disciple’s exposed left sock in turn. The Disciples – now “Cleansed” – jump and dance around raucously howling the mantra:

“Ahhh! My foot’s on fire! Put it out! Put it out! Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow!”

Later, while sitting in the Emergency Ward, many of those who have undertaken the Cleansing Ceremony of the Burning Sock contemplate if such a lengthy build-up was worthy of such an obvious punch line.