The Story of Me and Rory

The Story of Me and Rory!

This is the story of one of the most remarkable little coincidences of my life. It might not sound so extremely amazing in the retelling, but it still blows me out when I think about it, now, years later. And I now have the photograph to go with it. Courtesy Kira Tombs. All the names, places and events are true.

Right, I’ve driven up-country, north, about fifty miles, to a tiny hamlet of eight, yes eight houses, called Julia, yes Julia, near Eudunda in the Barossa Valley. (Colin Thiele, South Australia’s best-beloved author, and my one-time English tutor, was raised in tiny Julia.) I’ve gone to see an old friend Erick, but he’s not home as I get there. So I’m waiting only a few minutes, and a green Datsun station wagon drives up and a little bloke I’ve never seen before gets out. I take one look at him and the first thing I say is, “You look like me!”

The bloke is a little taken aback, “Do I?”

We look in the car mirror, Yep! We sure do look alike!

Similar glasses, gingery hair (what’s left of it), beard, expression, everything. He’s just a bit taller, and a bit younger, but I’m a bit better looking, naturally.

The bloke’s name is Rory Tombs. We get along so well that later that day he invites me to his house, at Australia Plains, another tiny settlement of just a few dwellings on the very edge of absolute dry sandy desert.
[This is desert with no knobs on, flat sand, the desertiest edge-of-desert I’ve ever been at, and it starts at the other side of the road. I’m impressed. The world of men, and every visible living thing, ends here. It is pure.]

Rory shows me his work: he’s a silversmith, he makes trinkets, some of them very pretty. He calls his little operation Treasures from the Tombs. Nice. We have a pleasant parting.


One week later, to the very day, I’ve gone South this time about 50 miles, to the seaside township of Aldinga, where the local pub is holding a music and poetry festival. There’d be, say, 200 people there. I’m now 100 miles from where I met Rory, with the whole length of the long fair city of Adelaide fair in the middle between us.

I’m there doin’ my thing, I’ve read my poetry, now I’m flying a SKYTE, my little flying wondercraft, for the delight of the kids who infest the area. One particularly graceful girl of about 11 (graceful in the way she herself flew the Skyte, as kids love to do, and graceful in her manner too) has meanwhile been looking at me hard, with a really puzzled, perplexed look on her pretty face. After a while she says to me, “Do you drive a green Datsun?”
“No,” I tell her, “I drive a silver Mitsubishi station wagon.”
“Oh . . .” she says . . .
but her puzzled expression deepens . . .
She hesitates, but she’s too puzzled to let it go -
Then she asks,
“Are you a silversmith?”

HOHH!

(It just takes my breath away!)

“RORY TOMBS!” I almost shout at her.

“I met him last week! At Julia!”

“He’s my grandfather!” says the little lass simply. “You look like him!”

“I KNOW!” I say.

Her name is Ebony Tombs.

********************************************************************************************

Her aunt is Kira Tombs. I think I must have met her there too. My memory of some of the events since then are a bit hazy. I’m not quite sure how or when we actually did meet but I went to visit her once and she had a little red-headed boy child, Jordan. A dawning Tombs head!
What I had not remembered is that Kira took a photo of the two of us, Rory and me, together. Anyway, having found me on Facebook, she some months ago sent me this astonishing photograph, and you can see what I mean. Doppelgangers!

As I say, I’m the good-looking-er one. Naturally. I won’t say which one that is. It’s obvious!

An old friend took one look and reckoned there was some skulduggery about it all . . .
Something about my Dad . . . who had red hair too.

Since writing the above I’ve contacted Kira who now has 3 kinder, Jordan 7, Gabriel 4, and Aurora who’s a baby girl. Turns out we have long-term close friends in common, Erick Monier’s family, the people who live at Julia that I went to visit. We have plans to go and visit Rory, whom I haven’t seen in quite a few years, and I would love too to catch up with the graceful 11-year-old Ebony, who is now 17! Her mother, Kira’s sister Mischkha (sp?) I think I might’ve met too but my mind is holey. (Greetings to both of you.) (Oh and I had a Samoyed named Mischkha, Russian for bruin, a nice term for bear.)

Notice, this story would have been just as amazing to me if it hadn’t been for Kira having taken that photograph, after all I knew how amazing it was, but it wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic to everybody else without it, Kira proved our uncanny similarity for posterity! Thanks Kira.

Flamingocky

Flamingocky

'Twas swillig: and four heroes young
Did gulp and guzzle West End Draught
Of Heroes deeds their Daddies sung
And drunk until they barfed.

Beware the FlamingO, fair Youths!
The Eye that's blind! The Plume that plucks!
That swansome Neck! Those trampling Hoofs!
The Beak that flips and sucks!

They took their cudgels stout in hand:
Eftsoons the pinksome Foe they found;
Then two on two, there at the Zoo,
They circled round and round.

And whilst in circles round they pranced,
The FlamingO, with blinded Eye,
And swansome Neck outstretched, advanced,
And honked a Goossome cry!

One! Two! Three! Four! Twelve times! A score!
Their cudgels stout went Whack! Whack! Whack!
They knocked it flat, and, feather in hat,
They clapped each other’s back.

Hast thou laid low the FlamingO?
Oh come to us, thou bold brave lads!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Rejoiced them thus their Dads.

‘Twas swilling, and four Heroes proven
Gulp and guzzle Tooheys New:
On their brave deeds their Dads a-groovin’
Drink until they spew.

Royalty Eh . . . The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said

Royalty eh.

There's some great articles this morning on Lyn's Links about Royalty, and now I'll tell you my Royal Story:

The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said

When I was in Grade Four, Australia was abuzz with the news:
The Queen is coming to Adelaide!
Every day we had to go out onto our all-bitumen schoolyard to practise a sort of square-dance jig thing - with the GIRLS, even! - to the tune of The Cuckoo Waltz. It is branded into my memory. Da DA Dah! Da DA dah! Da DA-da da-dudda Dahhh!

We did it day in day out for MONTHS, true.

"Now when you do this in front of the Queen (et cetera, blah blah). . . " Mr Frick kept telling us, for we knew that schools from all over Adelaide would be there with us in one huge demonstration of our adoration and our splendid physiques.

It never happened. It all got cancelled for us plebs. Zip. We got given a little New Testament. O joy.

Oh no, I just remembered, that was when She was coronated. It was all a long time ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was in Grade SEVEN, Her Majesty was due to come again!

I was at a school where more than half the kids were the spawn of Ten Pound Poms, living in a nissen-hut migrant hostel just down the road, (and many of these people had really improved the society of Merrie England by the leaving of it.) They were really rough and tough, poor and mean, but they were oh-so-loyal to the country which had offered them nothing and been only too pleased to lose them, and they loved the Queen like she was their own Nanny.

Anyway the day came around, it was high summer and hot. All the kids from Reception up were loaded into buses - this is a school of about eight hundred kids, two-and-a-half Grade Sevens, classes each of FIFTY kids, (as I myself had occasion to teach later!) and the youngest of course being five-year-olds. It took a long time to load the buses, then the ride to Wayville Showgrounds was about eight slow miles through the middle of the hot city, and at last we pulled up at the jumping-off place, outside the oval where She was due to give us the honour of her presence. It was alongside the Animal Barns where the prize pigs and cows and other critters got judged, and it was on dry dusty dirt, with a North-facing iron wall behind us, in the sun, hundreds of kids standing and waiting.

Of all the schools we were the first there, so they put us on the very far end so other later schools could be marshalled conveniently in front of us.

We waited.

Schools kept arriving and getting slotted in front of us,
we all waited.

More and more schools, thousands and thousands of kids.

It was very hot, dust puffed up if you shuffled your feet, and all the kids were getting thirsty.

Some of the little kids started to cry. We big kids, I must say, did very well trying to comfort them, but there wasn't much we could do.

Our teachers, Mr Hall and Mrs Wallwork, tried to fetch us drinks but there were only a couple of glasses that could be found and the taps were fifty yards away and utterly crowded with uncontrolled other schools' kids who really did need a drink too but my school needed it most because we'd been there longest. No good.

Several kids including in my own class fainted. There was no help for them except to get us bigger kids to carry them into the bit of hot shade some distance away.

One little tiny boy came up to Mrs Wallwork, the other Gr7 teacher, and said in a tiny little shy voice, pointing gravely to another tiny kid who was in tears, "Please Miss Wallwork,
'e done a wee!" (it was EXACTLY those words, I will never forget!) and there was this poor little boy who would have to have wet pants for hours standing there crying his eyes out, my heart went out to him. Our poor teachers were beside themselves with trying to do something for the most distressed kids, but we were hemmed in and helpless.

We were there for probably an hour and a half, standing in close concentration.

At last the crowd started to move at the far-distant end of the assembled school groups - the last were first, and the first were last, just like in the Bible, and it took quite a while even for our school to start shuffling off to the oval entry gate, and at a snail-pace even then. We had the dust of tens of thousands of kids before us, it was hot, we were thirsty, kids in tears, shuffle shuffle shuffle, dust clouds, shuffle shuffle . . .

. . . It was then I thought of The Cleverest Thing I Ever Said:

I pointed my head downwards so I was fairly hidden, and yelled,

MOOOOOOO!!!

INSTANTLY other kids took it up!

Maa-aa! MOOOOOO! BAA-AA-AA!
THOUSANDS of kids! It went viral within seconds!

Kids started scuffing their feet surreptitiously deliberately, dust rose like in a big cattle drive, just about everyone was doing it.

A few kids started barking like dogs, there was neighing of horses and grunting lke pigs, chooks cackling, and many many sheep and cattle!

The teachers were in a panic, running around trying to shut us all up. But it was like punching holes in water, as quick as we were silenced in one part other kids started up again elsewhere, we were suddenly all laughing and loving it, the discomfort notwithstanding, and the insurrection lasted ten or so minutes, nearly all the way to the main gate. Every kid knew just what we were saying, and every kid was a revolutionary! I know Mr Hall was secretly delighted too, he earnt a lot of kudos with me that day.

So I knew now that the other kids like me were Republicans after all, and that forever they would feel as I have forever myself ever since then, that the Royals were privileged parasites and horrible hypocrites and I want an end to them and I want their symbol erased from the flag of my country.

When we finally got into the showgrounds we were the last and we were also the last this time, at the back in the bleachers and still standing in the sun. All the shaded stands were empty, but then got occupied by kids in private school uniforms, who were sneaked in late by a different gate, with the bluest nearest the front, but I didn't really mind - MUCH! - knowing as I did that She was going to get a stony reception from all my staunch kid compatriots when She came at last to grace us with her radiance.

In She came at last, in her black Roller, open top, ZOOM! around the oval at about 30 MPH, not even looking our way as they sped past, and my staunch troops, what did they do, they bloody-well CHEERED Her like you never heard kids cheer before in allyour life!

I knew then that the Republic was never going to be easy . . . I really did . . . from age 12.

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nodding-Head Abbortt

Tune: How much is that Doggie in the window?

How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!

When he took a trip to play some war-games
And fire a machine-gun at whim
He noticed that excrement eventuates
And it's true it has happened to him!

How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!

In Afghanistan there was a camera (OOH! ME!)
And a microphone heard what he said
And now Riley's showin' him the footage (OOH! ME!)
He stands there just noddin' his head!

I'd rather have a kitty or a bunny
Or one of those parrots that squawk:
At least they are pretty and they're funny,
And a parrot can learn how to talk!

How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap)
The one with the dumb nodding head?
How weird is that Tony on my TV? (Crap! Crap!)
I do think that Tony's brain-dead!

Paul the Psychic Octopus

Paul the Psychic Octopus

(Tune: Puff the Magic Dragon)

Paul the Psychic Octopus lived in a jar,
He would have liked a life at sea, but he never got that far;
He tried to join a football team, but they wouldn’t let him play:
They said he had too many legs, and made him go away.

He would have loved a little Octopussy friend, you bet,
Or a dog shark or a catfish – but he had no pet to pet.
He dreamed he’d do Le Tour de France, and lead the peloton,
But he didn’t have octobike, nor an endoskeleton.

So Paul was left belonely, he had nothing much to do:
He beat the best computer chess, got bored with sudoku;
With no navel there to contemplate, he sucked his sucker-toes:
With eight legs each with twenty-nine, he had a lot of those.

Now Humans have two arms, ten fingers, two legs and ten toes,
So we’re digital and base-ten-based, as everybody knows;
But there was Paul left all alone – alone, to meditate
29 toes on 8 legs, (so, 29 X 8.)

Like Stephen Hawking in his chair, so Paul was in his jar:
A Mollusc like a garden snail, but cleverer by far;
Like many a brilliant genius with time to think to thank,
Paul had lots of thinking time to think in his think-tank.

Folk called Paul’s arm-legs ten-tacles, though Paul had only 8:
To digitals and decimals poor Paul could not relate;
He had to rethink Mathematics, that alone he knew,
With 8 times 29 as base, comes to two-thirty-two.

His ink filled many pages, he was thinking all the time,
It took him simply ages, cost him blood and sweat and slime;
He solved Octocalculus and Octorelativity,
But failed to find his Holy Grail, infallibility!

His sucker-toes grew flaccid; his slime in gollops oozed;
He skin like calamari, ’cos he’d turned to dope and booze:
But things just went from bad to worse, his eyes grew dry and dull;
He looked around his universe, and saw that it was null.

They thought poor Paul was finished: that he’d never find his Grail;
It seemed a sorry ending to a sad and lonely tale -
But! – Some dopey bimbo rinsed her [electric whatsit] in his jar! -
240 volts! Poor Paul convulsed! - Then squirted out, AHHH-HAAAAA!

240 volts was perfect! (See, Eight plus Two-Thirty-Two!)
It booted up his circuitry, and suddenly he KNEW!
He shrieked aloud, EUREKA! (but in Octopussinese),
Displaying symbols on his skin, which glowed like L.E.D’s!

In seconds he solved mysteries of space and life and time,
Of gravity and energy, wrote poetry and rhyme;
He had no need of keyboards, he made printouts with his toes,
Remember, he had two hundred and thirty-two of those!

Paul yearned to save the Earth, and end the miseries of Man;
Working for all he was worth to plan the perfect plan;
As Guest Speaker at the UN, he had only just begun
To tell them how to do it all when - it all came undone! -

The humans who controlled him made him turn his mighty brain
To forecast soccer, like who’d win ’tween Netherlands and Spain:
For Paul was omniprescient, his estimates exact,
So any team he picked would be the team those *’s backed!

Of course he never failed them, ’cos he was always right,
And no-one thought at all of Paul the Octopus’s plight:
Like making Einstein do your tax, or Phar Lap pull a cart,
Making Paul predict the soccer broke his octoheart.

Now Paul has gone forever – He could have saved the world!
They’re tanning him like leather, eight ten-tacles cutely curled;
But next time you have calamari, just remember, Friend,
The Ectoplasmic Octopus will get you in the end!

kangaroo tessellanimation

The Maid Of Yarralumla

[A Parody on A.B. (Banjo) Paterson’s “The Man From Snowy River”]

There was panic in the parties as the poll results came down:
For Left and Right dead-heated on that day;
The Government’s survival stood on very slippery ground
And the hacks and experts all had heaps to say.
All the journalists and politicians came from near and far
To add their sound and fury to the fight,
And all you heard on ABC was Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah
While the Murdoch Press screamed Right is Right is Right!

There were Liberals like Joe Hockey, a fat and lazy blob,
Who had fallen at the first jump when he’d tried,
Malcolm Turnbull, once-and-wanna-be, and poor old Andrew Robb
While Phony Tony Abbott ran and lied.
There was an effete puffed-up pansy, known as Whining Chrissie Pyne,
Creepy Kevin Andrews, washed-out Warren Entsch;
Token female Julie Bishop, who thinks plagiarism fine;
That about exhausts the Liberals’ front bench.

They were confident of victory, and hubris they suffused,
And they claimed that they’d won power by a nose;
They squealed that they weren’t guilty of what Treasury accused:
Multi-Billion Dollar Holes, and things like those.
They claimed they had the better of the pan-Australian vote;
They called themselves the Government-in-Waiting;
They said they’d stop invasion of Australia by boat,
While the Media pitched in with Labor-baiting.

And on the Left was Kevin Rudd, who’d won the last time ’round,
But fallen at a hurdle months before,
With Wayne Swan on Economy, a stayer well-renowned,
And of Labor fancied runners, many more.
Stephen Smith, Nicola Roxon, Combet, Albanese, Crean,
The list was long of talents deep and broad:
They were clever and committed, and experienced and keen:
A well-matched team compared to Abbott’s horde.

And one was there, Our Ranga Lass, of feisty fighting breed,
Like a Queen Boadicea, well-advised,
Flashing Gaelic wit and glamour, with Crow-Eater in her creed,
And Makybe Diva fire in her eyes.
She had led the charge for Labor, but she’d very nearly failed,
(Though equally, she’d very nearly won),
But Julia Gillard held her nerve while lesser beings quailed,
And stayed the course while Abbott made his run.

There was one Sandgroper National, a new bloke, Tony Crook,
And no-one really knew which way he’d vote,
But he seems so undetermined, even bookies won’t make book,
Though he’s paraded in the Coalition’s float.

Andrew Wilkie, (Independent), and young Adam Bandt, (a Green)
Pledged on certain terms to join with Gillard’s crew,
And not bring down the Government, for both of them were keen
Not to support a Coalition coup.
And the way that Gillard wooed them was a credit to them both,
From decent forthright dealings to a mutual binding oath;
So though Abbott now claimed 73, Gillard had 74 -
But she really needed 76 – She had to score two more!

There were three more Independents, no-one knew how they might jump;
Robert Oakeshott, Tony Windsor, and Bob Katter:
And the way the hurdles tumbled, all the Force was with that rump,
And the Fourth Estate was full of Twitter twatter.
Those three were ex-Nat mavericks, from effin’ FNQ,
Where brumbies weird as unicorns abound:
Would they jump together? - Left or Right? - Split 2-1? Or, 1-2?
This whole race was on entirely unknown ground!

Then from the Murdoch stables all the hustlers made their run:
They were breathing fire and brimstone every breath:
That Labor’s illegitimate, that Abbott’s mob had won,
And that any tryst with Brown and Greens was Death.

Bloated with his self-importance was conniving Laurie Oakes,
And Piers Ackermann, most bigoted of all,
And the first one to throw stones, that loathsome, hateful Alan Jones:
They’re three key bricks in the Murdochratic Wall.
There was Andrew “Anal” Bolt , and that Glenn Milne, the drunken thug,
Grabbing sleazily at any sleazy grab,
And that ABC lickspittle, Chris Uhlmann, smooth and smug,
And Annabel, the slyly-sidling Crabb.

There was sour Red Kez O’Brien, seemingly forever trying
To skewer Julia with some cunning stab;
And Tony “Look-Me” Jones, interrupting her in tones
That show he thinks he holds sole Royal Right of Gab.
There was Fran ‘’Ms Jelly” Kelly, Michelle Grattan lacking teeth,
And Miss Trivia, Virginia Trioli;
And that smartarse Barrie Cassidy, with his snide asides and acidy,
In ABC alliances unholy.

So Our Ranga Lass was targeted by jibes and sexist jokes:
Her Titian locks were tweaked, her finely-chiselled nose took pokes
From those of the moral wee-ness of a teensy flaccid penis –
And unkindest cut of all came from that wimp-out by Megalogenis!
Thus was Julia besieged: just Laura Tingle stood her friend,
And challenged Abbott on her comments page;
In chivalry and courage she was loyal to the end:
The one fair Australian journo of The Age.

But still the Fascist minions, led by Phony Tony Abbott,
Went a-raging and a-fulminating on:
How they’d really won the Government, and they were gonna grab it,
Until many in the Left feared we were gone.

But while Abbott fumed and fretted, bumbling bully through and through,
Trying bribery and histrionic threats,
In attempts to win the Indies (and he needed at least two),
Julia Gillard was as subtle as it gets.
She was thoughtful, diplomatic, in conciliatory tone,
And the Indies saw that what she says she means,
Until even weird Bob Katter, mad as Alice’s mad Hatter,
Said he’d found some common values with the Greens!

So we waited, hopeful, fearful, as the weights were counted in:
Were we losers, were we winners? Would we wince, or would we grin?
We were hanging on the numbers, on the comments, on the hints -
If not a gleeful grin, then an excruciating wince!
But throughout 16 long days, while all us Aussies held our breath,
Our Ranga Lass ne’er wilted from the hate:
She fought to win the issue as if it were life or death:
It was grand to see that Lass negotiate!

But still, no-one knew the outcome, until on Day Seventeen,
When Bob Katter called a conference at one:
And when he did, he voted (as some said they had foreseen),
With Abbott – Just one more seat, we’d be done!
For the parties now were neck-and-neck, three-score-and-14 all:
The margin would be minimally thin;
If those last two Independents split, the Government must fall,
For Labor needed both of them to win.

Now all the weight of government was held in two men’s hands:
And never had the balance been so fine;
Would they take a national view, or yield to parish-pump demands?
We held our breath, and waited for a sign.
And at last just two hours later, those two last men made their move:
Our hearts in trepidation wildly throbbed:
One party would be jubilant as winners they would prove,
While the losers all would scream that they was robbed!

First to speak was Tony Windsor, and he gave his solemn word
He’d faithfully support the Labor side;
Effectively he said that Tony Abbott was absurd -
The Coalition cause was now denied!
But that still left Robert Oakeshott: if he went the other way,
The parties would be deadlocked, which would mean
There would have to be a new election, and without delay,
The likes of which this land had never seen.

So still we waited, heart in mouth, while Oakeshott took his time
To explain in full his reasons for his vote;
Though the media was furious, as if it were a crime
They had to listen first before they wrote.
And seventeen minutes later, as the almanac will show
He gave Julia the seat she sorely craved;
And after all the arguments, at long last now we know: -
HOORAY! The Labor Government is SAVED!

Now up at Yarralumla, where the diplomats may raise
Their glasses of Chateau Lafitte on high,
Where the chandeliers of crystal through the frosty evenings blaze,
And the VIP jets streak the azure sky,
And where around the Parliament the votes of aye or nay
Decide the laws by which we must abide,
The Maid of Yarralumla holds the Vandal hordes at bay,
And we Lefties hail Our Ranga Lass with pride.