drinking; not drinking

Through this last ‘winter,’ certain state government bods deemed it a good idea to try to encourage the citizenry to holiday in their own backyard. The Central Wheatbelt, a vast area of undulating, dry, salt-affected wheat-and-sheep farmland, was one of the fine destinations posited. Then just last week, as Skinny City celebrated some milestone or other, one of the main city streets, St. Georges Terrace, was festooned with banners also exhorting the proud regions of rural W.A. And which one did I espy first: you guessed it, that for the Central Wheatbelt. The banner itself seemed to be made of a hessian bag and featured a picture of… wheat sheafs and sheep.

Now, no one loves the Central Wheatbelt more than I do, but surely the state government needs to exercise a duty of care here. What none of this promotional material mentions is the evil that lurks ’neath these images of lusty wheat and wholesome sheep. You see, the good people of the Central Wheatbelt hide a dark secret: they don’t want you to drink.

Like so many of the stories that provide structure in this part of the world, it all started about a hundred years ago. And, again like so many stories in this part of the world, it’s mostly your fault. No doubt you’ve been told many times how your great-grandfather Bert was sent packing to the Wheatbelt in the early 1920s, where he met your soon-to-be great-grandmother Lillian.

Lillian was a god-fearing Methodist. She was all astir back then on two issues: first, the church being proposed for a site on the river next to the new bridge – one of the congregation had heard of a new building material called asbestos that would not burn and would keep out the heat and the cold (Praise be to the Lord for his bounty); second, the increased incidence of drinking and dancing. Great-grandmother Lillian didn’t brook either.

Now, it’s hard to police dancing – just ask the British troops in Ireland – but drinking, well, that’s first and foremost an economic transaction and Lillian knew this well. She and her cohorts fought the good fight for years, and in 1926 they succeeded in getting a temperance vote placed on the ballot in Western Australia.

It was, in hindsight (ah, hindsight), ludicrous, quixotic, dumb-arsed: there was never any chance it would succeed. As expected, the heavily populated areas of Fremantle and the Goldfields – rows of terraced-housed, blue-collar, beer-lovers through and through – voted by wide margins against the drink ban. The attempt to introduce prohibition was resoundingly defeated.

Yet, one region of Western Australia was strongly in favour. Uh huh: the Central Wheatbelt. Nearly six in ten adults there affirmed their opinion that neither they nor anyone else should partake of the demon drink.

Thanks goodness, in those days rural, unrepresentative minorities did not have the power to hold the whole country to ransom.

Could the fifty million of you please, please be quiet

The Town of Vincent – almost certainly the 14th finest local government jurisdiction I’ve ever lived in – recently sent us our rates assessment. I note that our reference number is something like 000000203857.

From this, I deduce a couple of things. Firstly, it suggests there are a little over two hundred thousand residential and business units in this fine part of Skinny City. I haven’t counted every office, shop, house and flat, you understand, but this tallies with my estimation. If one then deducts the commercial properties, but allows for more than one occupant per residential unit, it is clear that the reference number equates to the number of residents (for the mathematically inclined, the formula I’ve used is {∂⅞ x 4.86Ω + √ 6∑ ≠ ∞↓ less a derivative of 7Δ/13 x 0.0056θβ}).

So, there are about 204 000 people residing in the Town of Vincent. 'bout what I would have said.

The second point is that, ever the forward thinking local government (did I mention it is nearly the 14th finest local government jurisdiction I’ve ever lived in?), the Town has allowed for future population growth. The twelve digit reference number shows that the Town of Vincent expects that at some point in the future it will be home to a thousand billion people.

Cool.

This works out as approximately 4.8 million people per building (commercial and residential – and don’t you worry about the maths I’ve used here; it’s impeccable). Again, I’m down with that, though I expect that for my part I may have to remove an internal wall or two. I shall be applying for planning permission rather soon.

Hubris

War, huh, yeah. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Uh-huh.

Hindsight, on the other hand, can be fucked with, and how.

In May 1914, J.C. McKay’s, Drapers, of Kalgoorlie, declared by way of advertisement, their forthcoming sale was to be ‘The Greatest Event of 1914’. Well, you know, you can’t help it if you fail to predict the odd international conflagration. But to follow up two months later with yet another sale, this time trumpeted, ‘What a slaughter;’ that’s just plain carelessness.



Some seven months later, with Jerry now causing a fearful hullabaloo across Belgium, Sir Oliver Lodge, that well-known Edwardian boffin, stood before an expectant crowd to inaugurate science week in good old Blighty. Though such a doughty personage would never refer to the awful carnage on the Western Front – for security reasons, you understand – he did betray the emotional turmoil in which the nation was mired, a result of the horrendous casualty rates being chalked up in Flanders. Ollie claimed to have scientific evidence that life continued after death. Oh, sure, he never deigned to reveal that evidence, but imagine the reassurance given to the thousands who had just lost loved ones. Ollie, you see, had communicated with the dead. And, poor man, he had just lost his son on the Western Front. Spiritualism would, as a direct result of those many, many similar untimely deaths, become very popular in England during and after the Great War. But it took a Knight of the Realm to lend it a pseudo scientific basis. L. Ron Hubbard could have done well to have checked out the gravitas lent by hereditary qualifications.

Goats are the new black

Well, here’s a thing: It’s 1899, London is swinging on account of the millions of pounds of Coolgardie gold flowing through the Bank of England, mining speculation is rife, while in Australia the political and social elite is abuzz with the impending federation of the disparate colonies. In many a busy antipodean market town, men parade down newly macadamised, bustling streets, money in their pockets and grand schemes in their minds. They check their fob watches against town hall clocks, adjust their pince-nez, and slap their right thighs with no little hubris. Their women companions wear the latest English fashions, twirl parasols resting on left shoulders, and meet everyone’s gaze in a manner that would have been deemed unseemly in the mother country.

In the Western Australian Legislative Assembly, it is waistcoats at twelve paces: Across the floor, Members A.P. Matheson and J.W. Hackett get into an argument. Matheson brandishes a recent government report: Acclimatisation Committee Paper №. 50.2 of 1899. Said paper, avers Matheson, discusses the establishment of a fertile race of hybrid animals: to wit, crossing sheep with goats. Is the Hon. Mr Hackett aware, in his official capacity, that the average period of gestation for sheep is 150 days, and that for goats it is 112 days and that for this, and no other reason, the idea is bunkum?

Now, Hackett is no fool: he runs the fine newspaper that today enjoys a monopoly in Skinny City, The West Australian. He will go on to champion the establishment of Western Australia’s first university, and have that university’s grand hall named in his honour. And he is not amused at Matheson’s malarkey. Or maybe he is. “I invite the House,” he thunders, “to bear witness that I have given every opportunity to the hon. gentleman to escape playing the fool. This branch of the business, however lucrative, the Committee do not propose to cultivate.”

And so this fine colony, this El Dorado, this haven for hole-diggers of every race and creed, escaped the ignominy of forever being branded a damn-fool place, in much the same way jurisdictions like Sudan are now deemed ‘failed states.’

Later, thanks to the Hon. A.G. Jenkins, the comments (both “undesirable and regrettable”) were officially expunged from Hansard, the record of the Assembly’s proceedings. And yet, of course, they weren’t.

Politicians are a funny lot, when you think about it.

(If’n y’all don’t believe me, and if you are lucky enough to have access, the source is, Hansard of the Western Australian Parliament, Vol XIV, 21st June to 28th September 1899 Perth, Australia, Government Printer, 1900, pp2977 and 2888)

LX an' Ron: Ron an' LX

2010

Sometimes, years just plain suck. An' twenty-ten is shaping up as such a year. First, Ron Asheton and now LX Chilton.

For me, these are the guys, and always have been. The guys who did the coolest shit: the makers of the best music what affected me most.

I'm serious.

And i'm saddened.

Vale, you cool fuckers.

brothels and historians

Long-time readers have urged me: 'VCH, you write so often about gold-town, why do you never mention its fourth most famous feature?'

Waaaallllll. It's tricky; but it is also an excellent lesson in the vagaries of language vis a vis its historical context: people, stuff is subjective.











Gold-town's fourth most famous feature is its sex workers' residences: its hos [hoes?] homes. Now, were i a not a very competent historian i might call them 'houses of ill-repute' and be done with it. But, as a VCH, it is essential to my professional being that i know stuff is relative. And who am i to say what is their repute? Some might argue said houses have the finest repute available.

Of course, i will never be able to test this modest theory, because, while some of my Gen X colleagues tackle exciting subjects under the rubric of the history of sexuality, i am a prudish historian; best suited to drawing up tables of economic transactions and quoting Toynbee.

And these things are excitement enough.

Swamp

Sacred Cowboys.

Remember them?

’80s band!

Rock writers getting all nostalgic for the late ’70s punk era like to relate some lead-singer usually named Joe Damage saying he was invited to become a member of the Sucky Toedogs even though he ‘couldn’t play his instrument.’ What is unmentioned is that all the other members of said band were former Prog musos, virtuosos who could play in 13/17 time but who were now hiding their abilities for the sake of appearing ‘orffentic.’

Bollocks to that (hey, situationist joke)!

If you want lack-of-musical-chops, go ’80s. There were fabulous bands then, none of whose members could play a lick.

The result? Massive reliance on the lumbering, dinosaur-slow thumps of the bass player (usually) or drummer (occasionally).

Cf. Scientists, Gun Club, (The Cure??? aw, crap), Tarantulas (Perth band fer yer interstate and foreign brains). Who else?














Dum dah, dum dah, dum dah…

They called it swamp music.

An’ it was good.

Cemeteries!

Regular readers will know how very fond i am of cemeteries (and that i'm not a goth) and of glorious Kal-town. A coming together of these favourites provided me with a moment worthy of sharing (i think); a moment when the joi i derive from both was heightened. I was jogging, as is my wont when i need an alcohol substitute, on a Kal-town evening last week when the weather turned, frankly, nasty. Though six thirty p.m., it was still about 33C (about 8 million Farenhiet for yer foreign readers) and as humid as fuck, and there was lightening, and thunder, and big fat fuckin raindrops, and - as only the desert can provide - a massive dust storm comin' up with the rain.

My eyes were filling with grit (grit! it's been soooo long) and i couldnt see more than five metres and i was hot, and cranky as a result. And it just so happened i was at that time running along one side of Kal-town's fine cemetery. In this state i was overjoied to have a crimson (maybe maroon - as i said, visibility was poor) huge four-wheel-drive pull up on the road next to the footpath and the female driver sing out 'do you need a lift home?'

Kindness to strangers. I felt quite humbled. This is the sort of thing i mean: why Kal-town isn't like yer nasty ol' cities with their i'm-just-out-for-me-Jack attitudes. Why the very air exudes hospitality and neighbourliness.

Naturally, i requested the lady Samaritan to leave at once. Without question a serial killer.

It was a lucky escape. Within seconds, as i continued along the leeward side of the cemetery in this howling gale, i saw one of the freakingest sights i've seen in many a long &c.

The metal fence was stacked up with artifical flower arrangements; tumble wreaths.

I returned the next day to take these photos, but they fall miserably short of doing justice to the sight in the storm and the gloaming light (i am not a goth).





















Now, i've done my best to paint an Apocalyptic picture. The question is: could the Apocalypse be decorated with artificial flowers? What about the other signs? Artificial locusts? Fake toads? Rat figurines?

I want catering rights to the End-of-days. But where do you get millions upon millions of plastic rats? I'm not talking about joke shop quantities. Not pink flamingo numbers. I mean as many plastic rats as balloons at a rich kid's party; as many as WA has big holes in the ground; as many as red rose petals on a metrosexual's bed when he thinks he might get lucky.

That many.

gonzo ergo sum

Time for a little old-fashioned phrase-coining.

No doubt, you’re all familiar with the term ‘gonzo journalism.’ The idea that the writer inserts his- or herself into the mix. HST started it; Tom Wolfe championed it (was he afraid of an ass-whuppin’? Izzat the real reason?).

Latterly, I’m readin’ a lot of history where the writer follows in the footsteps of some historical figure, or figures, of greater or lesser fame, and writes not only about said figure/s but relates, too, the writer’s own feelings.

Ladies and gennelmens, this is BULLSHIT.

Invariably, when one has finished reading this sensitive ‘discovery of self’ (one author – my personal vote for most fucking annoying – put it thus: “I wanted to travel across the land that the people had walked over, measuring its distance with my eyes and soul”) one is massively under-whelmed. Who cares? The fact is that Thompson worked - was so very popular - mainly because he told a good, good story. All we get from being subjected to this latter-day hubris, these ‘journeys of discovery,’ is the discovery that the writer is, in fact, a boring twat.

I give you “non-gonzo journalism” and I consign it to the rubbish bin.

TV vs Shakespeare: who will win?

Oh, oh, Oh. Speaking of television: I think my recall is right - Shakespeare stated there were only seven basic possible plots in story-telling, but he knew not of the stuck-in-a-lift episode.

Eight, Bill, eight.

Dead meat

So I’m just quietly watching television when an ad comes on for a cooker – a griller, if you will – that sizzles meat while a series of ridges in the pan below allow the fat to run off.

It's a generic brand product.

This makes me so very, very angry.

HOW DARE YOU! YOU CHEAP-SKATE COPYCATS! YOU CHEATING, LYING, RIP-OFF MERCHANTS! YOU MENDACIOUS CONNIVING TRADEMARK-DODGING TAIWANESE PLAGIARIST WANKERS!

GEORGE FOREMAN INVENTED THAT.

After a while the rage subsides, and I get thinking: What a fabulous career George is having. For thirty years he spent his days punching blokes in the head. Then he decided to take up inventing cookware. And I start to wonder. Surely footage of every World Heavyweight Championship boxing match survives: both those sanctioned by the Nevada Gaming Commission and the Don King dodgy ones.

So could one go back and watch these tapes very closely, until one catches the exact moment when the light comes on in George’s eyes, when he is busy teaching some hapless young pup how to box, when he is throwing yet another bone-crunching blow into the face of a callow, incapable, bloodied semi-combatant, causing great joy to baying crowds and local capillary surgeons. There: we can actually see the moment. One second George is thinking about how to tease out his easy win: “Boy, you’re too dumb and too weak to fight an old pro like me. And dammit boy, you’re too fat. Way too fat.”

And then: “OHMYGOD!!!”

And as the crowd is left hooting and hollering and demanding more blood, as ring-side confusion reigns, at the end of the seventh round, when later analysis would reveal George held a 42-0 lead, he turns to his seconds and says, “take my gloves off, boys. And get me a sketch pad.”

An update

People, it appears that Skinny City's economic boom may rest on shifting sands. Now, bearing in mind (extremely competent) historians make for much better readers of all things economic than, well, economists, my pronouncements on this can be taken as certain. For the evidence i note that one of our most enduring and endearing department stores has taken to displaying bottles of Britney Spears's very own perfume at a greatly reduced price.

I must confess that despite recent attempts to 'bring myself up to speed' - as hip folk are wont to say - on matters Britney i was unaware she had - personally - alchemised four perfums.

Here is some information from her website:

Britney Spears is back. She's got a new fragrance on the shelves, a limited-edition perfume called Believe. It is the 4th fragrant release from the mega-star, following stratospheric sales of her 2004 Curious, 2005 Fantasy, and 2006 In Control. Believe is a sensual and warm blend of exotic florals and seductive amber. It is also available in a beautiful Spray gift set and Body Soufflé.

Phew: there's a lot there to digest.

I for one am delighted that Ms Spears is so sure in how she thinks people should smell that she has spent years refining whale intestines and rose dew in just such a way for our benefit, but something is missing in all of this.

A more important question needs to be asked: What perfumes does Decoy Britney want us to wear?