Rogue's Yarn with 'Arry Driftwood'Arry Driftwood

For I’m going back to Oggy land

I am sitting in my dingy little cabin, where a stingy ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city, Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.
A slight paraphrase from Banjo Patterson, now late. Very LATE. Yes, you have to wonder at the intellect of the hairy-backs that deny the human input and effect of this foulness. Yair we know that there are huge astronomical changes over aeons and aeons, but forget not the catalyst of killions of organisms in those changes from a methane atmosphere to our precious mixture we call AIR and we in our overbred jillions are mucking up that precious balance. Nay?
I am surprised at some of the Nunks that are advocating more and more … people and ‘development’ especially for poor fella my country, not to mention mother Gaia herself. People who are otherwise wise. Nunks, let me say one word … WATER! Wake up Nunks! Desalination?
Motors, pumps, heating, vaporisation, distillation … it takes massive energy inputs yer whackers! So when you have burnt up all the coal, gas and oil then you will start on the trees and plants. Do you think any of us will still be onboard this lovely green planet, then an arid husk?
Call me Cassandra if you like but I side with the observations of Marx and Malthas and tiz but the time scale that is out.
A sunbeam in the morning across the cabin reveals a miasma of writhing, greasy, fluffy muck that seems almost live and my typewriter case lovingly cleaned is filthy with said muck again in two days. My unimaginably beautiful missuz the Queen o’ the North curses the winds, but I explain that the precious winds drive the muck to some other poor bugger and mix the gases that make up our air so we dinna cark from some of the poisonous bits.
Have a look at your decks after a shower of rain and see the black shite deposited thereon and know that it takes several days of serious rain to wash our air, and ask the Mad Monk is it Gillard’s fault or her ominiscient GOD what done it. Or ask Cassandra. The daughter of Priam.
The really funny thing is the Nunks and Naysayers and Suits seem to think they don’t live here and it don’t effect them.
So a couple of days up at Leura in the Blue Mountains eases my clogged sinuses and lungs. I deserve a wee cottage there with fruit trees and a kitchen garden. I do. For when I sink back to water level I clog up immediately.
“Well why doncha bloody go up there and stay … ’stead of whinging all the time!” Cheeky bloody alter ego. Hmm, I suppose if I could get Driftwood up the mountain and put her on blocks I could see out my days still onboard like that family from one of Dickens’ tales. Driftwood was born in Venice you know. Californ-I-A, that is. And crossed the Pacific Pond sans motor.
Yesterday was black and rain predicted so I boarded the 09.05 ferry to the Quay for the pictures at the Dendy and bus home. A beaker of goodish coffee at the wee Russki kiosk and a Cornish pastie. I dinna drink coffee in cardboard beakers but Mikhal’s Java ain’t bad … but that Cornish pastie was revolting and had never seen Cornwall.
Why do Aussies have such trouble with Cornish pasties and the ingredients thereof. That is, Cornish pasties rarely have meat which was a luxury for many 19th century Cornish miners, so traditional pasties usually include many more vegetables than meat. Perhaps a couple of teaspoons of ground pork me great grandma used to include but traditionally NO meat. Lumps of spud, onion, turnip, swede perhaps carrot. However, carrot is spurned by some purists. Plenty of coarse black cracked pepper and a thickish pastry and accompanied perhaps by a billy of tea or beer, made a repast worthy of the hard tin miners of Cornwall. I had a couple of mouthfuls of Mikhal’s pastie and binned it. Not Mikhal’s fault as he gets ’em in.
Mikhal and I reminisced for a while about our exploits for the Motherland in The Great Patriotic War. Although only 15, I was a colonel in the Red Air Army and downed, oh, hmm, must have been 300 Messerschmitts and as many Stukas; and Mikhal was a tank Commander and wore out at least 50 T34s and wiped out a whole generation of Nazi beasts. Hmm, he and I heroically removed the Nazi symbol from the top of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. Yes, that was us. We smiled in mutual bullshit and I wandered back to the Dendy and saw an inconsequential thing called Please Give, but well done.
It was pouring and cold when I came out and I revelled in the gloomy change; for eternal sunshine is so boring and debilitating don’t you think. The aromas from the tea shops and coffee houses and the coats and scarves of the pretty office girls warmed my heart and several school groups of little kids each with their school Gauleiter. What a delight nippers of that pre-high school age are and one feels so protective of them.
Keep smiling shipmates and remember sex is not that important … unless you ain’t getting any!