Too busy laughing. I'll get back to my keyboard tomorrow!

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Some weeks ago I posted a taste of two of my favourite Australian poets, A.B 'Banjo' Patterson and Henry Lawson. So, as I did it once, I thought I would do it again, with one of my all time favourites.

The Geebung Polo Club
A. B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson
It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash —
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished,
and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvelous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken — just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie.

Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died.

* * * *

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."

And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting on that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub –
He’s been haunted by the specters of the Geebung Polo Club.


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Although it was a very tough decision to make, I have finally decided to put down my pen and retire from all forms of writing. This will also unfortunately mean closing the lid of my Macbook for the last time and walking away from my keyboard.

So along with an end to novels, essays, poetry and blogs, Facebook, Twitter and email will also need to be walked away from. The pressure of maintaining enough words each day has finally taken its toll and I now only seek the pleasure of simply absorbing words.

The unending pain of error correction, proof reading, editing and spell checking has sapped me of my creative spirit along with the stress and worry of multiple back ups and data security. The gratuitous killing of innocent characters, and the necessity to find ever more creative ways for them to meet their fate has created a built up guilt inside me that I cannot tolerate anymore.

The match making of unlikely characters in love affairs that will naturally go wrong is something for which I hang my head in shame along with my lasting habit of cruelly giving these poor souls names that they should be ashamed (of). I am also so tired of fighting to stop prepositions landing at the end of my sentences.

So there you have it. My monumental announcement.

Derek Haines. Retired author. 1st April 2010.



Happy April Fool’s Day! See you tomorrow!

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It is coming towards that time of the year when an annual scientific mystery leaves me puzzled as to what can happen inside a wardrobe over the cold winter months. In recent years this puzzling mystery had increased in ferocity and is starting to give me strange phobias about leaving the bitterness of winter and wanting to enjoy the pleasures of spring.

There is just no rational explanation as to why all my precious Levi’s reduce in waist line capacity over winter and induce an extremely uncomfortable standing start to the warmer temperatures. Sitting during the first weeks of spring is next to impossible. The same affliction affects my wardrobe of trendy short sleeved shirts which all suffer from a mystery winter induced movement of buttons. Particularly in the midriff area. Belts are even affected, which is a surprise, as they are made of leather and I thought they would survive this malady.

The strange part about this mystery is that socks and shoes seem to be immune as are hats and sloppy old cardigans.

Oh well, what is life without a few little mysteries? I am sure my Levi’s (with the unbuttoned top button) won’t be noticed if I keep wearing my sloppy old cardigan buttoned up tight!

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Normally I can find something to laugh about. Or more correctly, laugh at. But this last week has been a real drag. Everything has been so boringly serious. Even me, which is the worst of it. If my memory serves me correctly, I don’t think I have even done anything stupid. You know, like finding my keys in the freezer type of stupid.

It has been so depressingly serious, that I have been considering washing coloured with whites just to see what happens. Yep, that bad.

Maybe it’s Obama’s fault. I mean, he is not a funny guy. Not like George Bush. He was a scream a minute. Just had to look at him and I fell on the floor. But it can’t be that. I don’t live in the US, so I can’t blame Obama for being decidedly unfunny.

Logically it is my state of mind. Or lack of it maybe. Or I am just looking at things the wrong way. Front on. Perhaps I have to reposition myself and look at things from different angles.

I just stood on my head for twenty seconds, and no change. Still serious. Oh this makes me angry. There must be something I can do that will rekindle my satire, sarcasm and black humour glands back into action.

Serious contemplation happening during this phrase.

Still happening.

Still two hours to beer time. Drats!

Still one hour to beer time. Darn!

Still contemplating.

I’ve got it! The English cricket team. Oh dear why didn’t I think about this sooner. Just thinking about them brings tears to my eyes. They really are a fantastic unit. A team that has the uncanny ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory with monotonous regularity. And why is it that the English invented so many sports that they are useless at? Think tennis, cricket, rugby, football (soccer). When did an English man or woman win a tennis tournament? A football World Cup? A game of Tiddley Winks? Ah yes. I feel much better now.

I’ll drink to that!

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My wife paid me the ultimate compliment the other evening. After my whispered tirade to her about the nationalistic failings of the English (read Poms here if you are Australian) who were also eating in our restaurant, she told me to shut up, and accused me of being a rough uncouth Australian bastard. What I found complimentary was that she didn’t preface the phrase with the word old. Now that wouldn’t have been nice.

Although my wife is Swiss, she does have a profound sense of my Australian genetic code, and as such tends to be rather lenient on me when I am on one of my pedantic crusades. Some might call it racist, but as it is white on white, that would hardly be accurate. Others may call it prejudice, but that would only be simplifying and demeaning a deep held, spiritual belief.

And that is that in general and on the whole, when I am confronted by more than one Pom (read any English person here) in any social setting, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, my blood pressure rises and I wait in physical preparedness for the oncoming and inevitable first salvo. “Ahh, you’re a colonial then?”

My blood runs cold as I return the impolite salvo with, “Better than being a bloody Pom!”

To understand this fully, one needs to be aware that my predecessors were transported to Australia in the late 18th and early 19th century as punishment for crimes. Crimes such as stealing bread to feed their children as a result of the unemployment created by the Industrial Revolution. At the time, the English aristocracy had believed there was a criminal gene residing in these petty thieves. They had other excuses for the Irish, Scots and Welsh. In the end it was the same result. Transportation to the world’s most remote and harsh prison colony. Australia.

Luckily some would say, Australians have not resorted to violent protest, insurrection, civil war or terrorist attacks. When given the opportunity to become a republic, Australians for some reason stayed affixed to the monarchy. Why?

Very simple. It leaves us Australians free to take our battle to the cricket ground and rugby pitches where real wars can be fought. It also leaves us free to remain rough uncouth Australian bastards. For if we didn’t have Pom bashing as a national sport, what the hell else would we do?

At least Poms understand. No one else would.

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The city of Copenhagen 'is a crime scene tonight, with the guilty men and women fleeing to the airport'. So said John Sauven of Greenpeace UK after the climate summit broke up.
Read more here.

With the recent completion of the hypocritical farce that was the Copenhagen Conference on Climate Change, I think it is time for a political climate change. It seems that anytime we look to our politicians for pressing, if not urgent action on critical issues, they manage to leave us all breathlessly in awe at their incompetence.

Could you imagine if our world was being imminently threatened by asteroid strike, meteor collisions or alien invasion? What would our world leaders be able to cobble together in reaction to such an urgent threat? Probably some sort of phoney fund of billions of dollars to help developing countries fund education programs in alien languages and customs. Or the creation of meteor resistant UN monitored meteor free zones protected by a covering of chicken wire.

Instead of complaining and wringing my hands in sheer frustration, I have decided on a plan to rid ourselves of these elected and non-elected truth challenged and business lobby group handcuffed buffoons we currently call world leaders. Why waste all this time, effort and money on a collection of 192 buffoons, when really one would the job just as badly, or perhaps even a little bit better some might think? At the very least we could arrive at a silly decision much faster.

So in my humble way, I would like to nominate myself unselfishly for a new leadership role in our global society. My new post will be called:

Derek the 1st. The Singular and Only World President, Ruler and Benefactorial Dictator of Planet Earth and King of All Orbiting Heavenly Bodies.

Instead of an expensive election, I’ll just organise a cheap Survey Monkey poll giving all humans the opportunity to have a voice before taking over the world.

Option 1: Yes, this is a good idea.
Option 2: Yes, this is a brilliant idea.
Option 3: Yes, WE WANT DEREK NOW.
Option 4: There is no option 4.

I promise not to take over the planet before this poll is completed and all opinions are expressed. Hopefully this should be by next week as I have to brush up on how to use Survey Monkey and collect a few more email addresses.

What will you get from my dictatorship? Oh, so many great things it is hard to list them all here. I could start with free electricity from the sun, wind and tides. Free education supplied by untrained and awfully exploited teachers. Commence immediate peace talks with all aliens. Use the world’s nuclear arsenals to destroy all asteroids, meters and comets within a 10 light year radius of Earth. Ban things that I don’t like. Increase the world’s beer production by 100,000,000% in my first three years in power. Parting the seas and a little miracle work as well if I have time.

Transport all parliament buildings of the world to the moon where they will be used as sheltered workshops in low gravity for all ex-politicians of extremely low gravitas.

I also promise to nominate a fully qualified successor to my throne and will undertake an immediate survey of the remaining gorilla population of the world to find a suitable heir to my throne.

Well, that’s about it then. I look forward to your full support and groveling at my feet in the very near future.

â™› Derek
The 1st. The Singular and Only World President, Ruler and Benefactorial Dictator of Planet Earth and King of All Orbiting Heavenly Bodies.


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Before you read any further, be warned that this is about a once in a life time, or two event. I know that sounds dramatic, but it is dramatic, traumatic and involves antiseptic.
Scene set.

I had a long arranged appointment today with my dermatologist today. On my last visit in October, he had noticed three suspicious looking little brown spots that he insisted needed surgically removing. Not that it matters to you, but they were on my inner forearm, thigh and neck. Yes, nice tender zones for his scalpel. However this is not the topic of this tale. During my visit in October, I had pleaded with him on my wife’s behalf for an appointment for her. His receptionist had told me he was totally booked out and was not taking any new patients.

When I discussed this with him, he confirmed that indeed he was not taking any new patients. Full stop. Sorry, but no. Until we drifted onto the topic of music as one does in a doctor’s surgery. To cut this story short, he agreed to take my wife for an appointment in January 2010, if I supplied him with one of my CDs. Well, deal done!

So today was the day for my dreaded surgery. As promised, I arrived with a copy of one of my CDs. It was acoustic blues by the way. His nurse escorted me into his surgery and duly asked me to undress and prepare to be cut wide open. As I took off my coat, I took out the CD and left it on a bench close to my doctor’s surgical instruments of impending pain and suffering. A lot like my music in fact.

So there I am, lying in a very close to naked state on his operating table. He walks in, smiles, says hello, and I pointed to my CD that I had delivered as promised in exchange for my wife’s impossible to get appointment. He immediately grabbed the CD, checked the liner notes and track listing and promptly replaced the classical CD that was playing with my own CD. “Oh great, I love blues.” he said.

Now I ask you to imagine being cut open to the sound of your own voice that is destroying the pentatonic scale. My doctor had administered the local anesthetic to three separate areas of my body, but unfortunately he didn’t include my ears. After cutting, removing and stitching the first two suspicious looking brown nodes, it was time for a pause while I was turned over and prepared for a little cutting on the back of my neck.

Ten minutes later, the doctor returned after his nurse had prepared me for the last slice of the day. He passed me and went straight to the CD player and checked the track listing again. You know, I have never operated on a patient while listening to his music. Now, the challenge is to see if I can finish with you before your CD finishes. I’m sure I will.?” he said with great confidence.

I was just hoping there were a few songs left so he didn’t have to rush.

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I am not sure that I speak for all, but I really have trouble with the concept of veneration. Remembered fondly, missed a little or appearing in very old photographs will do me just fine when I have passed my use by date. Much else would not only be overkill, but would also be entering the realms of fantasy, wishful thinking and turning the corner towards sour grapes territory so I won’t venture there.

Where I would like to venture is into the realm of bronze busts. Those wonderfully green bullet eyed, head and shoulders only type statues that adorn our cities of the world bearing constant reminders of people who had the good fortune to be somewhat famous and therefore deserve our veneration. Well, possibly well connected, well meaning, well corrupted and well anyway, I think I have used too much colour here for now so I’ll just get on with the tale.

Today, I witnessed a pigeon landing on the bald head of a venerable green bronze bust of a clearly famous gentleman who had passed his use by date some three hundred or so years ago. He was stereotypically bullet-eyed and wore a remarkably fashionable full Stalin like green bronzed moustache. The pigeon landed gracefully on his bald green head and proceeded to ruffle its feathers for a few seconds, nod its head once or twice, before proceeding to produce a profound and exceedingly liberal whitish-grey semi-liquid of such remarkable proportions that it completely ruined any chance of me venerating in any form through my fits of laughter.

From the moment gravity took its hold on proceedings, and sucked down a dribble of this copious whitish-grey semi-liquid into the venerable gentleman's eye and tugged even harder to ensure his moustache was not spared, I started to have problems with my self control. Out of nothing more that morbid curiosity, I ventured, well staggered in laughter actually, about one hundred and eighty degrees south of my previous vantage point, and now had a clear and uninterrupted view of the rear of the venerable gentleman’s green bald head. Hardly surprisingly, there was gravity again working its butt off to produce an equally generous dribble of the whitish-grey semi-liquid that ran down the back of his head and seemingly into his green bronze starched collar.

Unsatisfied with this achievement, the pigeon ruffled its feathers once more, nodded its head once or twice again but this time with a bawbling pigeon cooing sound to accompany proceedings, and repeated the dose for the benefit of the venerable gentleman’s right ear.

My giggling, chortling and teary eyes attracted the attention of bystanders and I took this as my cue to leave the scene. Needless to say, when I die, I do not wish to spend the next three hundred years of more being venerated in the form of a green bronze bust that is shat on every twenty minutes by incontinent pigeons. Dead and forgotten sounds much more appealing.

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I have this terrific marketing concept for supermarkets. One I have worked over in my head for months, and can now say assuredly that it is a guaranteed winner and sure to increase both turnover and profit.

The first notion of this idea came to me as I was in a supermarket going about my normal routine. That is, have a list, go directly to the items, gather them as quickly as possible and go directly to the checkout, pay and then leave. Other men were also shopping in this supermarket, with similar methods of attacking this dreaded chore. It was noticeable however, and I had made this observation many times, that women have a totally different approach to the same task.

They begin with selecting just the right trolley. Not just any one. But the one that will give them the ride, suspension and forward momentum they desire. They begin methodically at the first aisle, which is never the freezer or refrigerated aisle as they leave these until last so as to minimise thawing. They have a list but only refer to this for inspiration. Every item on the shelves comes under consideration. Picked up, labels read, compared, thought about and in most cases replaced on the shelf unpurchased. For a woman it is also mandatory, and I am sure great fun indeed to leave their trolley in a position to create maximum aisle blockage, and wander off in search of the perfect bottle of hair conditioner. If a man, on his direct and fast as possible approach is caught touching her trolley in an attempt to progress, she scowls at him and will ensure she does it again to him in the next aisle out of sheer spite.

After a few hours of ‘feeling, touching, reading and comparing’ ladies make their way to the checkout. Always, with split second timing, just ahead of a man in a hurry. She will unload her trolley with the utmost care and planning in precisely the right order as to ensure her precious goods end up in the opposite order in her shopping bags. After unloading her trolley completely and checking every price as it is scanned, she will then look at her list and excuse herself while she ‘pops’ off to collect a couple of items she missed. There are some that now announce that they have bought more than they had budgeted for and start a process of deciding which items can be un-scanned and removed from the total.

The man behind her stands patiently with a forced smile, and wishes someone had a better idea. Well, I have it.

All, and I make no exceptions here, all checkout operators should be young, intelligent and attractive women aged between seventeen and twenty five. And be suitably equipped to conduct their scanning and packing duties completely and utterly topless. Cashiers for express lanes for 8 items or less should be similarly qualified but work entirely nude.

You may laugh now, but as my rationale behind this marketing plan unfolds I am sure you will see the commercial advantages.

Firstly men will want to go shopping. Men will desperately want to go shopping. Women will be less enthusiastic, and eventually be so outnumbered they will start to believe it a male domain and desist. The saleable goods of the supermarket will of course move from shelf to sale much quicker under this scheme. Men will quickly select their goods and proceed to the checkouts as quickly as possible. Although each individual sale will be smaller in volume, sales will actually increase as men will make their purchase, drop it in his car and then return for the second bagful.

Less checkout staff will be required because now their will be no complaint about waiting in a long line to be served. As long as each male shopper can see a nubile pair of breasts he will happily wait all day to be served. As an added benefit, a great saving will be made on the very expensive capital outlay and maintenance costs of shopping trolleys as they will be little used and eventually could be phased out of operation, as men will be very happy to shop just for the few things needed, and return the next day for what they couldn’t carry in a hand held basket. The attraction of all nude express lanes will add to the incentive not to use shopping trolleys with a potential saving of thousands upon thousands of dollars.

Special promotions could be planned but I will leave this part of my plan under wraps, as I believe I could be doing myself out of a handsome consultancy fee if I freely part will all the information necessary to implementing this brilliant retail strategy.

An excerpt from An Uneducated View of Sex, Food and Politics.
by Derek Haines
ISBN-10: 1449509347

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My upbringing was very normal for the nineteen fifties and sixties in Australia. Boys were meant to be tough creatures who showed no signs of pain, suffering, confusion or emotion. One emotion was permitted however. That was, being happy and contented with life’s lot. The standard was set primarily of course by my father, who was a perfect role model, and by my male relatives, friends and peers. Being tough, hard, unemotional and without fear were the attributes of a real man.

I remember stubbing my big toe on a rock when I was about five or six. My toe nail was pointing north, and there was blood gushing in abundance. There was pain in abundance as well. But before my first tears of pain had completed their gravitational journey down my cheeks, my father’s voice reminded me of my obligations. “Boys, don’t cry!” he said as he doused my bleeding foot with cold water from the garden hose. This was accompanied by the sound advice to have our dog lick my toe as it would help stop the bleeding.

On another occasion, I managed to gash my leg on a rusty nail while climbing a picket fence at the back of our house on my way to my friend who lived behind us. Once again, blood was everywhere and the screams of my friends, and myself of course, attracted my mother’s attention. Naturally she came running, saw the gaping wound in my calf, exposing my shin bone and proceeded to belt me vigorously on the backside while saying, “You father told you never to climb the fence!”

I am sure these two examples highlight the social conditioning I was accustomed to as a youngster. So, what was the result? Humour. It was, and still is the best protection I have from crying my eyes out when pain, suffering, sadness, anxiety or grief threaten to overcome me. In memory of my parents I can give you prime examples of how I habitually manage adversity with humour.

I was unfortunate enough to lose both my parents in the same year. They died within a few months of one another. My dad went first in May. Very suddenly. However, the poor bastard only had a measly five months peace and quiet before my mother got fed up with no one around to nag, and decided to up and die, just so she could get things back to what had been normality for fifty-five years. My poor father. He deserved a little longer.

Then, as Christmas approached for the first time without my parents, I suddenly realised the economy of losing them both. It was a much cheaper Christmas with two fewer gifts to buy and post. The silver lining of the black cloud of death. But then my daughter went and ruined it all by replacing my parents with grand kids, so the economy didn’t last very long.

Humour has always been my protection. It saves me from dwelling on negative thoughts for too long so I can get on with drinking beer and telling jokes. It saves me on washing snotty handkerchiefs and finding machine washed tissue pulp in my Levi’s. It saves me from crying.

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Picture courtesy of smh.com.au

It really was quite unsociable of Douglas Adams to leave planet Earth in 2001. And without as much as a goodbye either. It was a real pity. There were still so many unanswered question left for him to ponder, dissect, analyze and debunk. He also left without giving me his insights into these unfathomable questions.

The reason I bring up Douglas now, is that I have noticed in the years since his departure, a slow and systematic demise of one of my favorite forms of literature. Vogon poetry. There seems to be fewer, and fewer poets brave enough to attempt this unique form of poetry. Is it the fear of failure, ridicule, or of being charged with manslaughter? Well, I am not afraid. Really!

This was going to be quite a long poem, but after the second stanza, I started to feel very nauseous and spent the next eight days in bed in a coma. So I gave up on finishing the poem. But I am sure you want to suffer through what I managed.


Picture courtesy of bbc.co.uk

Oh Smurtleclop

Oh smurtleclop of perlup be
And thy humpling doth unto
Hath no gurdling o’er the dunken splik
Or zipling nath in flikkwip from afar
Neither trop nor trup will slace
So there

Into falling fuddling doth a smurtleclop descend
And thy great vurdle comlain
To have no humpling is clop
To end To end To end

Written by Vogon Derek 1998 (pre-coma)



Please stop reading IMMEDIATELY if you start to feel a little faint and seek urgent medical attention.

If you are still breathing, here is more info about Vogons. And if you feel well enough, why not send in your Vogon poems! Wrapped in lead and labeled with danger stickers please!

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