Friday, October 31, 2008


If a bloke had six wives, or vice versa, (you know wot I mean, politically correct), and they separated is this the 6 DEGREES OF SEPERATION? Or is that peace on earth?

How many people would say, “boy is he / she happy now”, no, they would say; “he / she is separated by the power of six”.

With these edifying humongous thoughts forefront in my mind, I have devised a plan, and I am going to let you into a secret, a secret that only you will know and not disclose, OK?

If you all send me $10, I will dispatch this said $10 to SIX PEOPLE. Seeing I get on average 2,300 “hits” a month on BIGBLOG ©, THAT GIVES ME 2,296 TIMES $10, ($22,960), to continue my quest to prove this theory of “6 DEGREES OF SEPERATION”.

You will notice that dividing ($22960) by the number (6), that the result is a whole bunch of six’s on the end, theory proven!!! I have called my system; “THE 6 DEGREES SEPERATION OF YOUR MONEY©”, or the “SIX SIDED PYRIMIDAL SEPERATION CHAIN MAIL SYSTEM THERORY©.

And you guys thought I was a dumb ‘BUSHY’ bastard, come on send them $10, regards john f.

PS; wouldn’t have a light for me fag, would yah?

Thursday, October 30, 2008



Ah well, back in action.

We have had a rugged coupla' weeks here on the northern NSW coast. Hail stones as big as your head, well, golf ball size and bigger, caused vast damage to property and Rural crops. Fortuneately no serious injuries to the citizens. They, that is, the weather people, (remember them?, they forecast fine weather then take their umbrellas to work), have warned of another bad storm season, gives my mob, (the S.E.S) SOMETHING TO DO! Regards john f.

Thursday, September 25, 2008


HOW'S IT GO? "I complained when my new shoes were too tight, then I meet a man, ETC, ETC".

Just returned from the Central Coast NSW, OZ. Seen my little family, good things, best times.

Flu Injections, Bugger.

Caught up with my old mates and their partners from Avalon Surf Club, met the 'charming' Lady President, she is the first we have had, (another hurdle Girls).

Every body has had the dreaded flu, not me, but then!!!

Sick as a dog, whinge, whinge, then I met a man with no feet, stay well folks, john f.

Thursday, September 11, 2008


A COUPLA’ DAYS, in the life of an old fart.
Not much happened really, took a video of a Whale just off “THE WALLS” at Brunswick Heads, ‘Mummy Dolphin and the Baby’ paid their daily visit, booked a ticket on the XPT to visit my little family at TUGGARAWONG, had a Chards or two.

Bought some lamb chops for tea, (mint sauce, mash potato’s, peas, another Chard), not bad for an old bloke on a pension.

Went to assist with me mates from the NSWFB, (burnt out Hitler’s revenge), attended a training night with my SES. Made a couple of ‘crappy movies’ and posted them to ‘Net, changed me sheets, made me bed. I really do make me bed on a regular basis.

Updated my web site, fixed the CPU blower fan, rolled a smoke, (silly old bastard), had a Cabernet Sauvignon Blanc.

OH, what else, “GOOGLE”---- (johnfarlsbrunz), that’s what I did last week.

If that takes your mind of crappy things, I’m a pleased, john f.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Had the best day, "Hump Back Harry", (or Harriet) made a visit to Brunswick Heads. Crappy movie, but you had to be there. see yah john f.

Thursday, September 4, 2008


The video was a "payoff", Mummy only wanted a walk on part, her poem?; (GOOGLE). MUMMY DOLPHIN AND THE BABY. The area where she lives; (GOOGLE); THE ROCKY BOARDWALK, SOUTH. If all else fails;

Friday, August 29, 2008


Your old fart is a bit of a romantic. TED'S GANG was the reason for many memories. Not just for me you understand. If the link is crap, try this;
So what; simple lyrics, simple melody, simple people getting off, AUSSIE BLOKES AND SHEILAS loved him. Regards john f.
PS; If all else fails, GOOGLE; (julia ted mulry), play the song, then download from BIGPOND MUSIC.

Sunday, August 17, 2008



Just about every day, rain hail or sunshine, I go to see some old friends of mine.
Down along the rocky boardwalk, the place to meet and greet.
Take my camera and me thoughts, pull up a rock and make a seat.

Just of late, guess a couple of months or so.
I made some new friends, will never know their names but for me that will be no woe.
A mother and her baby, they have come to join the Village, always with a happy smile.
Please forgive indulgence; I am besotted by their presence, so come with me awhile.

Sometimes she brings her family, daddy of the tacker, brothers and sister’s aunties in attention.
All along the boardwalk they will swim and frolic, little one centre of their affection.
But mostly it’s just the mummy present; the baby will swim up the Brunswick reach.
Jump and surf the little waves just off the Torakina Beach.

Upon reflection, there’s one imperfection with our lovely mummy dear.
Her dorsal fin, will give her in, but it lends to mummies beauty, so let me make this clear.
I will make this point beholden it’s the way to give some acceptance here.
When you visit the little Village, you see our latest visitors, the ones I hold so near.

Watching the ladies marathon, Olympics Beijing, not far from the great birds nest arena.
Seeking for inspiration, my mind is with this awesome lady, mother of baby will be Constantina.
Our little baby Dolphin will be Raphael.
Hope it’s not a girl, OK call it Rachael.

Sorry Grant, buddy what can I say, want to be the daddy of our little baby dolphin.
Come to Brunswick Heads, see your baby, if you want go frolickin’.
I started with Dolphins, Mummy and her Bub, ending now with their progeny, we humans lower class.
The most gorgeous of people, Mummy Dolphin and her Baby, from them we get our past.

Come down to the rocky boardwalk, see mummy and her bub, you will have a mind release.
Come by yourself, slid into mystic thoughts, be supernatural, and let your mind be in peace.
Dolphins, baby, life, from the sea deep within, wipe the inner strife.
We are them, they are us, think you mongrels’, do not take there precious life.

© john d Farley, 2008, and you lovely Dolphins.

Flipper Note; me mate loves Dolphins, I love Dolphins, they are the inspiration of transcendental thought.

Friday, August 15, 2008


The pic is regretably poor quality. However, this little family will venture inside the river mouth at BRUNSWICK HEADS almost daily. The 'little tacker' will go upstream and frolic near TORAKINA BEACH, Mum will keep a close view from down stream.

They are part of the; ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH POEM, go on GOOGLE it. Regards john f. and his "Bushy" poems.

Thursday, August 7, 2008



I have mentioned the ‘night carter’s hat syndrome’, the downing of tools, the “fair weather sailors”, that was our principles. So why had we decided to venture out fishing on a crappy late afternoon?

The weather was coming away, rain was forecast, and however, no strong wind warning had been issued. The Prawn Trawlers were making their departure for a night of “reaping the bounty”, we decided to go fishing. We anchored in 13 fathoms on the NEW BRIGHTON REEF, a few showers passed, but we had our trusty rain coats, more importantly the fish were biting.

WE listened to the banter on the CB radio led by “HAVE A CHAT”, none other than PATIE WALSH. We heard some good jokes that night, mainly from Pattie. We heard the worst news possible, courtesy of Pattie Walsh, you bastard. the saga go's on.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008



About the time of RONNIE AND ME AND THE BIG SHARKCAT, some friends of mine had “their” encounter with old WALLEYE.
Johnnie Seimar, and the Highland man from the local Betting Shop, was out off Brunswick Heads doing a spot of fishing. John’s boat was a Jet powered 16 / 17 foot boat, originally owned, if my memory serves correct by “Sonny” Coles.

I must describe our old mate Sonny before I progress; He was well known and respected in the Brunswick Valley was Sonny. He was a builder of note and a very keen fisherman; I met him and his family in the early days of arriving in Brunswick Heads.

Jenny, Claudette and ‘Stewie’ were his children; Jeannie was the Mum, the second best “Fowler Vacola” country women I have met. Sadly Sonny passed away a couple of years ago. He was honored by the construction of a picnic shelter down by the Boat Ramp. If you’re in town have a BBQ lunch at his water frontage new house, maybe throw a line in. Great bloke Sonny Coles, I still see Jeannie and the Kids from time to time, good people.

Well I don’t know if the man from the TAB had ventured too sea very much, and after this “encounter” may have not ventured again. Just to describe the boat a little: the motor was inboard; the pump was direct coupled to the motor. The nozzle and directional gear were out board. The nozzle was protected by a heavy gauge sheet aluminum guard.

The way that the story unfolds will be traumatic for the Jet Boat crew, although for some a certain amount of humor will be distinguished by your writer.

“We were just drifting, had the rods out, and waiting for a ‘bite”, as John describes. “And then this bloody great brown bastard with a head as wide as the boat swims up from the depths. The bastard swims around the boat; he comes up to the back of the boat and latches on to bloody guard covering the jet nozzle”.


Sunday, July 27, 2008



AND the reason that blogging sucks, AND YET!!
So I’m older than most, yet younger than some, I should live longer, maybe. Just an ordinary bloke really, no great pretensions, no wealth, relative health, UPPER LOWER CLASS, and look up to people who are down.
My colour, (Aussie), my color, (spell checker) will vary with the amount of sun I ingest. Your colour I respect. I have learnt that the color wont rub of on to me, only what’s underneath. Would dearly love to and greet you and meet you.
That’s my crappy slant on life.


Many people I have met, many blokes and girls who I respect.
This was not supposed to be a poem, but now I’m oh so winsome.
Got a ‘bee in me bonnet’, somewhat maudlin’, its face to face your author’s seekin’.
What about the folks you’re met, what about the folks you want too.

Shake their hand, a peck on the cheek, a little bit of banter, that’s what I allude to.
You seem not to get this on the World Wide Web, the personal touch I means.
I want to meet and greet, exchange a thought. Can’t seem to get this on the web it seems.
And yet if you stumble upon, or johnfarlsbrunz, my enigma will appear to falter.

You will meet some decent folk, you just read ‘twixt the lines, but is the name really Walter.
I wrote a poem, the ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH, go on, GOOGLE it now.
You see where I’m coming from, why the frown upon my brow.
I have written many words to many cyber people, people who I have never met.

AND that’s the reason why Bloggin’ sucks a bit, AND YET.

© john d Farley 2008,, I can’t live without BLOGGIN’

Monday, July 21, 2008



Tale tales and true. Many stories have been recounted about “OLD WALL EYE”, he lived in real memory, and he was not a figment of too much ‘rum and coffee’. Our ‘friend’ lives out from Brunswick Heads, he has one good eye.

This “Bushy”, read ‘watery’ yarn comes from a personal experience. This must make me 121 years old. Also read; he for she, she for he?

OLD WALL EYE, he was big and brown, he had a huge set of teeth and he terrified us. A dog? A bull? no a bloody great shark that’s what old wall eye was. He lived near Brunswick Heads N.S.W.; He lived in deep water and was notorious amongst the trawler men and the boaties. He wrecked so many prawn nets and ‘took’ so many fish, always distinguished by his one white eye, can’t remember which was the good eye, it may have been his starboard one.

He was a legend, he was not a figment of some bodies imagination. Ask any fisherman from up here and they will relate a story of this huge BRONZE WHALER. My mate John and myself can tell you first hand of our encounter with the toothy creature from the deep.

John owned a fiberglass bond wood boat, it was distinguished by the name ‘GOTCHA’. When the Bar Mouth was flat as a ‘night carters hat’, we would down tools and head out for few hours of fishing. Mostly we fish the local reef and if conditions allowed head for the 38’s. So here we are; anchored and down goes the 70lb lines with ‘pillies’ for bait, got some bites and landed some nice Schnapper, John suggests he has caught Australia, you fisher persons will relate to hooking the bottom.

The only option is to keep hauling in until the hook lets go or the line breaks. For some time John hauls away but still the weight remains on the line. We both know something big has been hooked up, sharks mostly take a run and break you off, this was to be an exception. SO, what was this dead weight, it was not long before the question was answered.

Out of the murky deep an apparition of huge proportions becomes very evident, John has hauled to the surface “The Legend”, the, “walled eyed monster”. Two blokes with normally complacent personalities are incredulous at the size of this fish, GOTCHA is 18 feet long, the monster is nearly as long, it quietly surveys us, we survey it and a stand off is happening. The rest of the narrative will be a blur; a knife is produced, the line is cut, the motor started, the anchor is retrieved and we get to buggery out of there.

WE have had our encounter with ‘OLD WALL EYE’ AND SURVIVED!
This chronicle is mentioned else where on the WWW, more ‘at length’ narratives? (, described as JOHN D. FARLEY, SUPERBLOG.

He was big and mean he was brown, teeth resplendent white, some will imagine an animal that barks.
Well I can tell that, he was all that but not the Junkyard Dog, he’s marine, and from the 38’s this bugger harks and rules the ocean oh supreme.

Brunswick Heads, the “Rocky Boardwalk South” will be where this recount emanates.
It’s about me mate Johnnie Mckeag and me, oh and ‘GOTCHA’, you guys, the story will desalinates?
John and me check the bar this day, it’s like a Night Carters Hat, and that’s flat.
So down go’s tools, paint brushes and stuff, the 38’s is where were at.
The faithful ‘GOTCHA’, she’s bond wood, 18 foot, fiberglass clad and pride of all the fleet.

She’s pullin’ at the bridle as the dreaded break walls we meet and breach.
With rods and lines and smelly bait, me mate and our trusty steed.
Head E NOR EAST to the ‘horror zone’, just to have a good day out, brings home to the folks a wholesome feed, yeah fish for tea, grilled for me, and, it must be your next shout.

30 minutes and we are there dropping down the anchor to our fishing spot of choice.
The mighty ocean, she’s quite, she’s tranquil and a wonderful place to be ‘hooked up’.
Bait up, drop down, get set, get bites land some fish, now get ready for a story that johnfarls hasn’t cooked up.
Mckeag sais “ hey farls I think I’ve the bottom, bugger, have to break of the line”.

So he hauls and hauls on the 70 pound fishing twine, it comes up ever so slow, and then it dawns, something big is coming up from way way down the mine.
The line, she won’t break, 15 minutes pass and then some more I feel sure.
What is this thing me mates hooked up, “keep pullin’ mate”, got to see this thing, curiosity found, that will be the cure.

“Remora, sucker fish”, we both exclaims in time, up they come, the penny drops lets cut of the bloody line.
But now the reason for our wonder majestically appears, brown and huge it enters our line of sight.

It surfaces on the starboard side then slowly moves to port, it’s the legend
Just a bronze whaler, 16 foot long, it has a head like a Mini-Minor, bloody hell lets get out here, lets take flight.

Frantic action, panic, traumatic reaction, over reaction, crap has hit the fan, cut the line, start the motor, get up the anchor, don’t wait for this buggers might.
All these actions take place in a blur, back to the depths this apparition descends.
WE have had our encounter with OLD WALL EYE, we lived, but this not where the story ends.

WE clean the boat from you know what, and what do you think we find?
Bloody ‘dry rot’, that’s wot, see the dilemma? Old WALL EYE almost had our be-hind.
© john d Farley 2008,

Friday, July 18, 2008


Night time sometimes there is a wonderful ‘light show’, imagine being miles from shore, looking up at the heavens and seeing the thin streams’ of light, a meteor, a satellite? An alien spacecraft? Fishermen have seen these spectacles for eons. But enough of the romance lets catch some fish.
But hang on!! I haven’t’ described the spectacle of the “GLORIOUS MOON”. Oh my God what a wonderful spectacle, possibly the most beautiful vision of nature you will ever see. Slowly out of the darkness rises our nearest terrestrial neighbor, this huge orb of light, you can feel the unleashing of all life coming to greet you. You can sense the arising power of creation.
You would have to be brain dead not to love life when beholden this spectacle, even the unfortunate blind can sense its presence. All creation is bound to its existence. OH, and sorry SUN.
HEY SUN, you’re the Father, but without doubt our Moon is our Mother, she encourages life, she fosters all things living, she nurtures and gives being to all living things. Mother Moon my religion. The glorious Moon is the placenta of life, you are the Egg that is fertilized by God, I can feel life, and everything around us on the 38’s is being born.
Bugger me I have digressed.
A little excerpt from (

Wednesday, July 9, 2008


Would you like some stories from a wonderfull bloke, some wonderfull poems, some wonderfull photos, your there, (I wish).

(, (, (

All's well, just promoting myself, might take your mind off crappy stuff, regards john f.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008


Your up there old son, have a drink? My shout, see you at the Brunz Pub, look for a bloke on an old black bike.
Bit of a "cringe" early, who cares, you have more rockers than shockers.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Sunday, June 22, 2008


To all you blokes and sheila's, every loss is somebody's loss. Glenn and his kids and family, God what have you done.
Sorry old son, regards john f.

Friday, June 20, 2008


Rate my blog, like my blog, hate my blog. Tell you this; is full of it, Oz silly old bugger, dito. Working on my photo collection, it will tell more about me than words will ever do, OH, EVERY SINGLE PERSON HAS A STORY. Exist the best way you can, fond regards john f.
PS: check out my poems, sad bloke A.

Monday, June 9, 2008


I have been working on my new website, albeit crappy.

Some of you guys and girls may have an affinity, and that's it primary aim, me and you, and my boys, and the grand kids, my many friends.

Fisher persons; FISHEN' FOR LIVEN may interest you, the Bushy Poems may give a Cultural "cringe".

"BRUNSWICK HEADS, THE ROCKY BOARDWALK, SOUTH", tell me that anywhere is not a special place, love ya, john f.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

VOLLEY(c), me volleys

VOLLEYS AND ME; for that matter any self respecting ‘Aussie’. Many people have tried to describe the all encompassing status symbol; I make reference to this “life style” in my web page. No intention was envisaged to make light of the hours of fun derived from wearing my VOLLEYS, in fact you will understand, you don’t wear them they wear you, you become part of their world and abide by their social ramifications.
The Volley has been an AVALON MILKMAN, a FENCING CHAMPION, (I wish), a member of an EMERGENCY ORGANISATION, they have caught many fish; they relish fish guts and scales.
A Volley I know suggested an incredible addition to their tribe; “Cover ME in fish scales, attach bottle tops to my ‘souls’ and I will carry you over rocks to your favorite fishing spot”. They can play squash, and I understand have ventured on to a tennis court and won many titles. They will have notable success in the building industry; they have led our country to great heights in combating the housing shortage.
The Volley is a living thing, and deserves to be treated so, it has a heart and lung of its own. It has its own particular endorphin glands; you will feel yourself being dragged to places against your wish. When the seemingly magnetic attraction abides you become aware of something very strange; if you look down there is all these Volleys with people standing in them.
A Volley is a proud personage. When they are born they arrive into the world in many colors, now isn’t that strange, no it’s not!
Think about it, underneath they are just like you and me, they live and draw breath and deserve to place in society, just like all colored people. They have this need to return to a basic color, washing machines and scrubbing brushes they will not tolerate, they recon we all should be color liberal, and remember Volleys will revolt when any mention of an ‘odor’ is made in their presence. A Volley once told me; “He who complains of a smell ‘down under’ has two options, vote Labor or wash your feet”.
Volleys are a copyright issue, they are intellectual(s) property of Australia, Mr. Dunlop has the father rights, Mrs. Dunlop is the Mother of all Volleys. © john Farley, AKA;,
© john d Farley. 2008
There’s a whimper on me front porch, it’s being goin’ for a while.
Guess it’s time to talk the walk and take in a country mile.
Me dog your wondering? I would do to if I was you, and probably surmise.
But give a minute, three at best and you’ll have a pleasant surr prise.
Yep, I have had me share of man’s best friend, had the pleasure of many a faithful canine.
But the whimper’s not coming from the pooch on the porch; it’s from another stench? (Read staunch), real good friend of mine.
My best friends are made of rubber, the heading gives a clue.
It’s name is real Australiana, ©VOLLEYS is it’s name ©, and no other name will do.
And so I pulls them on and off we goes, we are chatting all the while.
“Remember when we owned the Milk Run, good old Pancho, Avalon Parade.
We braved all weather you and I, had good times us three, no time for life’s charade”.
“Clareville Beach, bloody Torpedoes, spiders and other stuff we went through”.
Can I have the stage, cogitate and disseminate, give a thought or two.
We can’t separate our existence our experiences, and recollections we have been through
Me Volleys and I must offer some info’, in regards to family history, and well this may be.

Your faithful dooorg, your frivolous Pussy, have a life expectancy and that will be.

Me Volleys are one, contectual, they are all encompassing, from one special place they come.
One Mum, one Dad, one son gender changing, like a Seahorse progeny, like, life is goin’ on.

And now I’m in the SES the VOLLEY© legend will live on and please forget the folly.
A ‘deckies’ out of PPE without their precious VOLLEY©.

All that went before concerns close relations, pre-dispatched they are, but in fact there’re free. Me sand shoes are part of me, like Vegemite, Victa and Aborigine.
Losing time and space, your author, an explanation for the comments past.
Mister and Missus Dunlop had a kid, however he came from a bootmakers last.
I will conclude this narration; some will say prose and “Bushy” theme.
If you detect an odor from Downunder, and Gusunder, wash your feet you bastard, VOLLEY© reigns surpreme.
© anybody Australian, john d Farley.

Friday, May 23, 2008



Who doesn’t like to have a fish, the smelly bait, the slimy fish, and the thrill of the “chase”. The wonderful sight of little kids just relaxing, the innocence, boys and girls. The Dad’s and Mum’s explaining the fundamentals’ of patience and persevering, OH, and how to bait and cast.
Fishing is an elemental lesson in life stuff. It brings families together in a common goal, fishing is a learning curve, the end result; “A BLOODY GOOD FEED”.
But hang on!! Have I digressed, we are only going fishing, how can philosophy be a consequence of scaling a fish. If I really put my mind to the subject, and I have, look at the progression.
Seaside, inland waterways, doesn’t matter. WHY?
“let’s go fishing, come on kids, fish for tea”. WHY?
Did you know that the spontaneous purchase of fisnen’ stuff makes up 35% of sales?
When did you have your first fish, maybe a bent pin and some cotton?
Remember sitting and watching, thinking a little?
Is it the only sport that provides; recreation, family bonding, “A BLOODY GOOD FEED”. Endurance, skill, determination, resolve, imagination and perseverance?
Fishing provides the basis to “untwine”.
Hands and fingers provide and ideal place to store hooks.
Some times you can earn a living from the activity, but it’s a hard life.
So therefore that’s what ‘FISHEN FOR A LIVEN’, for me was / is all about.

All of the senior men in my life, OH, and me MUM, showed me a thing or two about catching a fish.
GOD knows when I caught my first fish, but it started a progression, a development that has not finished to this day. When we moved to BRUNSWICK HEADS, the boys would awake at “sparrow fart” and head for the Boat Harbour. Sometimes, maybe a fish would result, mostly they would return without the knife, several yards of fishing line and minus many sinkers and hooks.
Sometimes they returned with a bucket of fresh bait, they called them BUGS, BALMAIN BUGS. They soon learnt that this BAIT!! Was more suited to breakfast. At 50 cents a kilo the splendiferous Bug was a non event for the trawler men.

In ( I describe my Uncle Chris and me fishing for Luderick, had the best times. But this is BRUNZ, this is about FISNEN’ FOR A LIVEN’, fishing the; 45’s, the 38’s, Norries, The Local, The Nursery, the Cod Ground, also known as THE WINDARRA BANKS. To a lesser extent the Brunswick River. DROP LINEING, LONG LINES, FISH TRAPS, ROD AND REEL.


Thursday, May 22, 2008


Photo taken today, 45 foot Ketch in big problems.
VRA rescue boat deciced to abort crossing the BRUNSWICK RIVER BAR ENTRANCE, they choose to tow the stricken vessel to Byron Bay.

Monday, May 19, 2008


BRUNSWICK HEADS NSW, a fishy story.

(photo captured to-day, before ‘Whitey’ got smacked)

Can you see me? I’m a little tiny whitebait, just had learnt to swim.
Who’s that bugger underneath, he’s silver, slimy, with a great big toothy grin.

It’s all gone dark, I don’t care, ‘cause it’s my claim to fame.
Without me folks the world is stuffed, me? I’m important now.

I’m feelin’ good, I’m in LIFES mighty food chain.

© John Farley, 2008.

Monday, May 12, 2008



Oh how do you make a blues song, come out with Brunswick Valley?
Can you listen to the mournful sounds of ANZAC and the sounds of old reveille?

Well I’ve listened to the white folk, the black folk and the just no hope.
I just don’t need any misery, but I guess we all go down that awful slope.

And I don’t need someone to love me just follow my big mistake.
Had a good time doin’ it, thanks to all the girls, give yourselves a break.

Been living in the Valley, bangin’ at recallin’ what the hell I’ve done.
Tried to bring me boys up in a way that folks expect, had me problems, and more then some.

Well I got a bagful of worries but go from woe to go, give your head a bloody fist.
Dream, it ai’nt really funny folks, how you do’in? you guys followin’ this round of tryst

If you can learn how love go’s you’re a winner baby, live it with respect put a good feeling every day.
Don’t let good things bring up much, a sad time is commin’, the love of life so precious will bring dismay.

Every time the sun go’s down think of family, have a cry then think of the really good times, think of the good shoes.
Dwell on faces, have a look at a flower, then picture the happy days, my face is worn out, this is my idea of the blues.

Mother’s day at Brunswick Heads, me Mum resides with me her ashes, her presence will never leave my span.
I’ll go with her, I’ll be happy, but I’ll swear we had happy days, wish I knew her dreams before this life, I recon half her ashes were the cigarette ash in the omelets pan.

SMELL THE FLOWERS. You could be my everything.

No copyright here, you know what? I know we stand by as a man and a woman, stand by.

Words slip away, all these words were written using JERRY REEDS ANTHOLOGY. The best bloke who could pick’n and sing. © jerry bloody reed.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008


How kids pick up language, sorry, words.

Heard a joke years ago. Little Tommy is five, mom and dad are building an extension to their house.

© john d Farley, 2008.

The look of excitement and wonder was written on his little face.
“Mummy, what are all them men doing digging up our place”.

Well darling, those men are called brickies, and their going to do some layin’.
Build a little place for Grandma, ‘cos with us she’ll soon be stayin’.

The little bloke observes the action from a vantage on the drive.
There’s things a’churnin’ things a’whirren, so much good stuff, his place has come alive.

“Mummy can I play with them”, in his mind’s eye stuff’s revolvin’.
His little mind was all aglow and new things were evolvin’.

Mummy sees a plan unfolden’, it’s like and educational obsession.
Let him learn some things, he’ll be safe, ‘cos this will be his little life’s big session.

Mister foreman, “Can Tommy join you for lunch, I’ll pack his little crib”.
“No probs missus sends him down and we’ll keep our language glib”

Now not every day can little Tommy go and join his brickie mates.
His little school takes precedence, one last look the little fella’ takes.

Many days he makes his little journey, he sits on an upturned brick.
Eats his crib and he chats a lot, many questions asked, they come out fast and thick.

Well little fella what did you do today, and what did you all talk about.
“We mixed some mud, laid them bricks, and then we raked them out”.

Got a tip for the horses races, what’s number 6 in race 10, and mummy what’s the nags.
We talked about how Manly won, Silver tails they called ‘em, and a bunch of dags.

And then one day little Tommy storms home and pelts his crib down on the table
Only been gone awhile, I’ll ask the little bloke what’s the matter when I can see he’s able.

Tommy darling your home early, there’s a tear in his little eyes.
“We got knocked off, ‘cos we got no bloody work”, his little voice replies.

The boss bloke recons, that bloody truckie is up to his bloody tricks.
“Yez can all go home youse bloody blokes, see yez all tamorra, bloody sorry Tommy.

“We got no bloody bricks”.

© john d farley, 2008.

Friday, April 25, 2008



Sunday, April 20, 2008


Life recollections are private? Secret things 'ARE' PRIVATE AND PERSONAL.
I cannot reason.
No porn, no pixtures, no smut. Bit of "spoken word", I am hard on myself.
But I bet my left one you can relate, I bet you have a story, (
Regards John F. from down under.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008



Several years ago a little boy got lost, after a protracted search the little tacker was found safe and well. What an incredible story, Steven Walls, Guyra NSW, 5000 SEARCHERS, 4 nights. “Where’s my daddy, where’s my daddy”. REMEMBER?
Kids, we love them and they are so resilient when faced with adversity. Steven is 50ish now, he has a little sister. Only Steven won’t know LITTLE BABY CHERRY, but I’ll bet my left one he gave her some advice in how to survive. But only in a way we have forgot, and kids only know.
Steven, your little baby sister went and got lost too, Cherry she was 6 years old, she was older than you.
May I relate the ‘other’, and one of many, true story of little people who go for a walk, in my case, Cherry from Broken Head NSW.
Oh boy what a gut wrench, time; 1630 hours, year; forgot. Situation; missing person. Mission; find missing person. Execution; mobilize search teams from the SES, VRA, RFS, POLICE, POLICE HELICOPTER, ‘SNIFFER DOGS’, ANYBODY and search. Administration; Police Search Control Base, Control; Police, Command; respective agencies, Comms; Bloody radios on 4 different frequencies.
Description of missing person; Little girl, 6 years old, shorts and a top, will answer to the name of Cherry.
Bugger this, dispense with the Combat Agencies speak.
Cherry goes for a little walk this particular afternoon with her pet dog, well, her mum thought she was just outside the back door of their home. Her mum said there was nothing unusual in the situation. Cherry and the faithful mutt played within the confines of the back yard, the ‘mutt’ was particularly protective and would never leave her side.
Her mum hears the frequent sounds of Cherry and her companion, a period of quietness of maybe several minutes elapses and she goes to check, no Cherry no dog.
Her mum and dad begin a search of the adjoining bush land, they call, they call. No response. And then the companion comes bounding through the bush, Cherry will be close behind. That was to be her parent’s best hope, Cherry didn’t materialize. The Police were contacted, the search for our little girl commenced soon after.
A little cryptic is the word to describe the sequence of events, but how else can it be explained. The little baby is lost for Gods sake.
Let me tell you that dozens of people were mobilized to search for little Cherry in minutes, we were all concerned for her well being in the dense forest behind her place, where are you Cherry?. A squad of ‘sniffer’ dogs and handlers, helicopter and lights made a preliminary search. Steven, was this scenario your dilemma?
We commenced a parallel search, it’s dark now, torches are glowing in the blackness. Blokes are calling her name, I say blokes there were some girls, but you know what I mean. Torches are running out of life. We stumbled through heavy forest and thick underbrush. Several of the search team walked right into a creek and became water logged, but they couldn’t give a rats arse. The memories of the monumental trek will come back for some, what about the dead cow in the creek, the bounding wallabies, the sounds of the ‘Horney frog mouth’, the brush turkeys. The people pushed on, we searched under logs, we looked in the bushes, men were frantic and had panic in their words, until.
There comes a time when logic and expediency must overtake stupidity, the area was so extensive, we were so few the search was abandoned until first light.
Now, remember the conditions, its darkest of night, wildlife, dead cow in the creek, forest and thickets, dogs barking, bright lights in the sky, people frantically calling her name, torches slicing into the darkness, there’s a baby out there.
At 0500 hours, and after 8 klms and 12 hours, a little tiny girl emerges from the forest, she knocks on the door of a caravan at Broken Head Caravan Park. The old couple are greeted by a tiny person completely naked, “hello I’m Cherry, I’m lost”.
Her mum tells us that Cherry recounts all of the above, how far behind were we, was our little heroine evading us, Steven, Cherry is your soul mate.
Johnfarls and dozens of people can attest, we cry. All stood down.


Thursday, April 10, 2008



This rhyming BUSHY poem is full of Australiana, it has certain lingua franca that may offend, DO NOT TURN YOUR TV OFF.

Many years ago, we were competing in a Surf Carnival at Nth. Palm Beach, SYDNEY NSW. The surf turned ordinary, in fact it turned out s—h—1—t house, people and water craft were getting trashed at an alarming rate. I think the word was;

“The incredible attrition dynamic undergoing competitors’ and their life saving accouterments necessitated cancellation of the said contest”.

Quote: The Gallagambone Chronicle.

That’s right; it was shithouse.

My hero and older mentor, in fact, the “the hairy bugger” has suggested; “Well, since we’re up here we should give the general population a bit of a thrill, I’ve got a plan”. The plan included a Surf Boat.

“How about a wave at Palm Beach”?

Any body familiar with PALM BEACH, Northern Beaches NSW? You will know that a very pleasant ‘Rip’ runs out on the southern end of the beach. It will take you past the rock pool and beyond. Broadly speaking this is the essence of ; “I’ve got a plan”.

So. What are we on about here? OK, a 25 foot bondwood ply Surf Boat, 4 horesmen, (there are girls now, any suggestions?). The sweep / tiller man was the inimitable Brian Sheen, soon to become our enigma, and a friggen’ continuous set of waves coming in from the south east.


From the outset the task was fraught with extraordinary contrition.
There was ‘Bombhead’, Michael, Jackie, Me, and Big Brian the leader of the mission.

The world at large was watching us, mongrel Brian, YOU made this unprejudiced decision.
The boat was launched, we seemed prepared but with trepidation and derision.

At this point the intention must be clear and object made dispassionate.
“One wave is all we’ll catch, you blokes row I will steer, nature will help us fashin’ it”.

You will not believe how fast we traversed, 20 strokes took us from the beach way way to out the rear.
The Palm Beach Pool was just a blur, we’re out there folks, but why this impenden’ fear?

We settle and collect our senses, we are in the big wave zone.
Just get me home to QY’s, a beer and; why am I writing this watery tome.

Twenty foot, I recon was what we ups and flows.
We’re way way out the back, and we settle for Big Brian’s courteous request, “when I say youse rows, well you pricks youse rows”.

There green and vast, unrelenting fast and have tons and tons of clout.
Supremacy is their potential, and I ask myself, God how can I get out?

The beach is oh so distant, about a thousand yards, give a little take a mile.
I’m rowin’ bow and all I see is faceless hoary backs, the big man has this wry, this oh so complacent smile.

And then the command to “stroke boys” is heard by all so clearly.
“We get this one, home and hosed on the beach we’ll be, the place you want so dearly”.

Mongrel dogs we rowed, piss poor really, we mistrusted Big Brian’s brawn.
Backed off just in time, rowed backwards, and this was where the big blokes scorn was born.

“You gutless, mango dispossessed, bunch of pricks. You heartless mongrels, bananas are proud of their yellow skins compared to you. That’s an oar in your hands, not your prick, it won’t grow any bigger. Your hearts are like peas, you couldn’t run a shit fight.

You with me or agin’ me?, your not a crew, your a poor excuse for cowards. You couldin’ pull a skin of a custard, you are piss poor, weak as piss. If you had half a brain it would be friggen’ lonely, you have let me down, you’r as useless as Papier Mache pricks, the next wave is for us you dogs, or you will be here all night.

Possibly the longest display of analogy and adjectives in a poem this may be so.
But when ‘Big Brian’ gave the order row, you better bend your weakened backs, “row you bastards row”.

Every word the big bloke uttered rang in our piss poor brains, and might I say to this day still.
One more go Oh fearless one, one more chance you hairy bastard, we’ll show the world we’re got the will.

So like a new page openin’ the crew is ready for the grind.
Forget about impending gloom, new courage is what we’ll find.

He sets us up on a mountain way way out the back, and oh my God it’s monumental and it’s also bloody huge.
No more backin’ off, no more gutless piss poor wonders, this is time to end the subterfuge.

It’s two miles high and it’s three miles thick, it’s green and full of massiveness.
Colossal, vast, gigantic, well 18 foot we guess surmise, but now it’s time give this one our very best.

“Gentlemen prepare to stroke, give me what you’ve got.
Show the people on the beach a thrill or too, now you sheila’s it’s time give me your best shot.

“Row you bastards, row like men possessed, and then some if you will”.
We did just that, we bent them oars, and watch the mammoth begin’s to fill.

We’re on this colossus at a blinding pace and down the face we rushes.
Brian yells “trail them oars, come back boys, Jackie lend a hand don’t let the mongrel crush us”.

Fifteen foot of boat protrudes from our watery feat of nature, and we can feel the awesome hum of dominance.
“Stay in the middle, get right back, sit on the friggen’ floor, right now we are on our way to International prominence”.

I’m looking ‘round, the pace in frantic and in my memories eye.
Lookin’ back I see that bloody great sweep oar embedded in Big Brian’s thigh.

It seems just like eternity, well at least for some long time and then some more.
This bloody great wave is runnin’ green and then comes that awesome roar.

Way above our heads the monster’s cresting starts, cascading tumbling and spewing spume and foam.
But Big Brian knows the trial, the ultimate test is nigh, “hang on you scungie lot, I’ll get you bastards home”.

“Trust me boys, we’re not beat yet but this bastards got a punch, Jackie, push with me and soon we’ll all be high and dry.
The amount of energy this mammoth is expending has instilled us with a classic high.

With gargantuan proportions the wall of water on our stern has turned mortal men to awe, and more.
I will wager this all you ‘Boatie’ folk, you’ll have a fear or two ‘cause now you’ll be unsure.


But you have never heard a sound so beloved, precious, and filled with dear relief.
Of that of plywood plowing beach sand, now your back on deck your home is underneath.

Recollections of this trauma have been stretched and somewhat graphic.
You don’t believe me? well guess I’ll have to tell yer, on the beach was a camera crew from National Geographic.

Dedicated to; AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB, copyright John D. Farley 2008.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008



Comes from years of body surfing, the feeling of utter loneliness and misery of being POSTED and thoughts of sweet revenge.
If I live.
I could AND DID spend several hours body surfing, it was my one and only ‘drug’, possibly with the exception of a little Chardonnay and A wee glass of Resches from NEWPORT ARMS. OH, and nice girl quite night.

Some facts; Avalon Surf Club is real; it was a monumental moment in my life. This organization molded my life, I have never met so many great blokes and good Sheila’s ever. My dear wife Shirley and me commenced our lives from this bastion of camaraderie, it is a world of special people, all with a common goal.

We had two great children, we had good times, then she was gone.

My life is dedicated to Volunteering, OH, and my kids. I assist people by mentoring, I assist people in their personal development. My thought process is sometimes erratic, understand.

If I wander, if you see me wander, bear with me. I began serious writing recently, my fashion is 2nd, 3rd and back to 1st party, my grammar is crap, I search for words.

Again I have digressed, however all of what I write is in my vernacular, help me not to change.


Avalon Beach, Northern Beaches, Aussie, just one more place that I have been.
Not been there? What a shame, you’ve missed out so let me set the scene.
Just finished patrol washed and packed up all the gear
Must go and join me mates, me dearest mates, the mates I feel so near.
The blokes have been out the back, Maxie, Kegs, Bombhead, Shanks, just to name a few.
Michael, Sprouley and Big Brian would make up the motley crew.

OK, you ALL were all there you mongrels, catchin’ waves and frolicking.
Farls wants a go at them waves and give you guys a bollickin’.

Overcast late afternoon we’re way way out the back, got me flippers, got me hand board and ‘Budgies’ to.
How’s that for an ‘intro folks, and maybe now you will understand what I’m eluding too.

So the ‘keywords’, are overcast and mongrels, and I must have lost me track.
It all comes down to being ‘posted’ way way out the back.

G’day blokes, howsitgoin’ I’ve come to catch a few. And that was my big mistake.
‘Cause at this point I am a marked man, ‘cause self indulgence and my ego, that’s what they will take.

Maxie Watt with no apparent effort, takes of on a right hand curling wave.
His crappy old ply wood hand board takes him in the cave.

Boofhead tries to emulate with his yellow plastic artifac, down the mine arse over head.
And that is life for me, way way out the back.

Some time comes to pass and QY’s beckons all the willing surfers, I don’t notice numbers fleetin’.
I’m out here for a good time not a long time, and the fact not yet known.
Because it won’t be long before “posted out the back” Farls will be a greetin’.

Odd stuff, I finally catch a wave, but, somewhere in the distance I here this strange commotion.
Swimmin’ out I see all the mates on one wave looking up and smiling, farls, the BELL HAS RUNG.
Sorry mate your all alone, your POSTED in this big ocean.

Overcast late afternoon and now your on your own, posted out the back, not a soul out there, the seeds me mates have sown.

I have related OLD WALL EYE, other sharkey bits from my page home, right now they all come back to haunt me, bugger me I’m all alone.

Picture this my dilemma, swimmin’ backwards slowly, gotta’ give the impression of countenance.
But all the time my bladder’s crying, recon it’s called incontinence.

On the shore they will consider, ah, he’s setting up for a wave.
Wrong, you mongrels just getting further from my grave.

You catch a crappy thing, one you would ignore, an ordinary wave and really out of hand.
Head down arse up and your face buried in the sand.

You look up at the Club, there were people watching you, but now their gone.

I’m on the beach, I’m safe, sound, I’m back in town big-time.
Next time I’ll be waiting the call to bail out will be mine.

Wait you bastards because revenge is sweet, next time the bells get rung, I’ll quietly slip away, and next you see me will be yon Surf Club verandah, and now my song is sung.

Dedicated to all AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB members, past and past.

John Farley 2008

Monday, March 17, 2008


I had a great day, how was yours.
We sang Irish songs for the ‘older’ boys and girls at the Orthodox home down at Byron Bay. The wonderful ‘girls’ from the Mullumbimby C.W.A. Choir drowned out my voice, that’s good.
Some of the oldies dozed of but you could see their feet tapping. Got a lift home with my ‘EX’, she has decided to join the ladies singing group, that’s good.
Norma the lighthouse keepers wife sang a beautiful rendition of GLOCCA MORA, that’s was real good. I am having a little Chardonnay to celebrate The Irish, ‘spose it should have been a Guinness, that’s bloody good.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008



Remember me; I was riding my old black bike. I had a backpack and my camera ‘round my neck. You bloke had your sandals off, tip toeing along The ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH, Brunswick Heads that is.
I envy you, you had a partner, your wife? Your lover? Was it your sister?
Paid the bills and me rent, booked me ticket on the XPT, remember KAI? Now I go to where everybody goes, some place to reflect, to get some respite, to cogitate. The sea and the rocks give inspiration, but don’t worry not for devious things.
Bugger me, you guys nodded first, you smiled and acknowledged me, that’s the philosophy of the “BOARDWALK”
OH, the vista.
Tide is on the ‘make’, lovely greeny blue ocean water rushing upstream, do you see what I see, the rejuvenation and replenishment, or do you see the “Village” as a place for peace and tranquility and somewhere just to go and observe. A thousands words will be your legacy of this wondrous place. You will return.
What do we observe? Lets get the scene in perspective.
A jutting promontory allows us to venture into the realms of our existence, this simple bloke reckons it’s the closest place we get to / from where we evolved. I love the board walk, I love the people.
But I love God, “your God Is my Gods brother”, “my God is my God”, “if my God is my God and your God is your God, and l love both Gods, how does that work?
The all encompassing analogy of the ‘Boardwalk’ is not fiction, it exists, Brunswick Heads is a real place, my spiritual place and you have your place of worship.
My God has many brothers and sisters, a loose comment? We acknowledge there must have been a mother, right? The context of God is life driven, I am a simple person, my God is what we are given and not a person. Respect your God, the philosophy of the Disciples, my God is Mother Nature, man has overlooked the primary drive of creation.

johnfarlsbrunz, john d farley, johnfarls, john farley.

Monday, March 3, 2008


Written in Aussie “Bushy” vernacular, some more poems? (, BOOFHEADS PROSE.


My Story.
A blinding flash, I’ve been taken, I’ve met a man with a camera my inner self is shakin’.
Who is my new love, he said “he’s quite unobtrusive”, he wanted to see me at my best.
I’m only a flower but he said, your beauty is heavenly but elusive.
He captured me at my finest time, I was putting on quite a show, my purple dress took his breath away and his face was all a glow.
I let out all my esters, my fragrance flowed and my scent turned his face crimson.
I’m just a flower when’s all is said but I could see he was so winsome
And then he put me in my place, never forget this my dearest love, you are God given and you’re special you’re my purple dove.
He swore he would never take my early morning bloom; he wants me for my inner self and now I feel no gloom.
He is going to make me famous, put me somewhere nice.
But I’ll bet he’s taken many flowers and will I pay the price.
Even so my petals glow and I really turned petite, you’re the one he said and you’ll join my club elite.
He has some friends in a far away place with whom he’d like to share, but I will never forget his blinding flash it’s him my life will share.
He’s placed me in his life’ I’ll be with him forever, I blush deep purple just to think oh he’s so very clever.
He wants to place me in an album and I will be at the centre, that’s the reason I’m blushing now, I’m going to let him enter.

His story;
My gorgeous little petal with purple blush you’ve smitten, an ordinary bloke before you smiled at me my love, is this how love it is written’.
Nothing in my world can compare with your early morning bloom; peace has entered my ordinary life and lifted off the gloom.
I had to capture your wondrous face please forgive my rude intrusion, your stood out like a beacon light my feelings are confusin’.
You tantalized my senses your perfume was matchless so supreme, I love you my Petal dear you have shattered my very bein’.
Sadness strikes now, but I will always see your face, your beauty may fade and die.
I have a special picture all my days will have, we had a lovely interlude, a love story you and I.
With your permission can I introduce you too some very special friends, GO smelltheflowers wants to meet you, they live in a far away place.
Petal, they want to meet you, greet you. Will you share with them your face?
Remember this my little bloom they offer you no harm, ‘cause they love flowers without equal, so unique.
I adore you now beyond compare, see you soon little purple bloom until next time that we speak.
John Farley, AKA johnfarlsbrunz 2008.

Sunday, March 2, 2008


Bega, Bega Valley, Tathra. We took, we plundered. And yet a simple bloke believes the visions of a Special Place mean many things to many people. He believes he saw.


What’s that bloke about this time, he must be very odd.

He ain’t done anything important, and does he have a god?

Well let’s humor him a little ‘cause we got some time to spare.

Tells me he’s got a secret place, a place he want’s to share.

The ordinary bloke, forgive him Bruce, but that’s how he comes out.

You won’t know his name today and he says that’s no great loss, he is the bloke, he is your Aussie lout.

He wants you to accept some things, like, girls and boys are real and liven.

The Aussie bloke, he reckons, can be both, just the name you’re given.

What’s that? I hear him say, “prose and poetry, rhymes and stuff, wish I could say it’s gay”.

“Tried to write my story but the truth got in the way”.

He wants to mention, Woolloomooloo, Palmer Street, Bundamar and Boonoke. Brunswick Heads and Avalon, but the brain has given no joy.

How many words rhyme with Woolloomooloo, except, the paper boy?.

But before you fall of you twig and head of for a bite, come and meet him down at MOON BAY, YOU WILL SEE HE’S RIGHT.

Give a little, OK, come on back, there’s room for all of us.

Remember, you were young and vital, johnfarls you can trust.

So, for a short time down tools, and dream, join his special club.

Why not come and join this simple man we’ll meet you at the TATHRA PUB.

We’ll wander down to MOON BAY, swim, close your eyes and see.

Nobody will see the visions, only you and me.

There will be other people there; a young boy will point them out.

Look and listen, wave and smile, please don’t yell, you will understand.

Those black people are misty visions, we are standing on their land.

Can you see him waving smiling, that’s him, but he’s just a kid and now I understand.

I think he’s troubled by constant visions of standing on sacred sand.

Don’t wave back and make a fuss just ponder what should be?

Ngarigo blokes and babies still live here, close your eyes selected people, close your eyes and see.

You’ll never forget that black bloke, a spear with deadly aim that fish he’ll show no quarter.

On one leg he’ll be there for ever more aiming at the water.

OH, he almost forgot, the place is not for us to touch, because you’ll be in real time.

You must understand, you were there, MOON BAY IS IN DREAMTIME.

What’s that? white blokes can’t see the misty visions, well maybe I agree.

But he was young, yet he reckons, for a moment, those black blokes let him see.

Thank you NGARIGO BLOKES, South Coast NSW. Did you give me a Special Dreamtime Place?

Sunday, February 24, 2008

BRUNSWICK HEADS, the rocky boardwalk, south.

Collect my thoughts, block out stigma, block out all we give to this very odd enigma.
Only a bastion, rocks and dirt it’s built, protects us from encroaching ocean.
But if you need some inner peace, solicitude, just a talk, the wall, well it’s got the potion.
The talk, that’s the thing we need, mostly need in daily life.
Brunz wall is the place for peace and peace of mind, it helps you with your inner strife.
The talk, all inner emotions, troubled head will be explained. Go there stay a while; shed a tear I do often go.
For many reasons, for many people the break wall.
Watch the ocean ebb and flow.
On any day I ride my bike, camera is my extension, mostly calm but when I’m not it’s the place to off load all your tension
This rocky promontory extension of our being will suddenly evolve into a village, puzzled, I will wager this.
Then take a stroll meet some folk, nod your head, and a smile wont go amiss.
Many days I’ve spent along this rocky boardwalk Brunz, people visit from all over to join the little village.
Village?, how is this so, must explain my wisdom, give a reason well.
There’s no village square, no church, no shops and there is no wishing well.
Well, do we need the accouterments’, only people fill the need, any day there are these people, any race or creed.
How about Mohammed, not the real bloke I hesitate to say, no it’s our little Malaysian fisherman, he’ll be there on any day.
Now he loves a chat Mohammed does, and he has some words of sense.
He don’t cares who he addresses, everyone, and he don’t sit on the fence.
His god will be your god, because nature is his yearning.
Take what you need, feed your kin and friends, his wisdom will get your mind aware, your intellect will start churning.
This wise man on the wall is one of daily folk, just like me he’s not important, he’s an ordinary bloke.
This rocky village square will have its share of sorrow, it’s based on life will be.
Village people live and die here, sorrow and pain of departed loved ones given to the sea.
So when you visit our rocky village some won’t know it exists in time, spare a thought that ere you be, this place is yours and mine.
Come and enjoy the solicitude, look for the villagers, please take time to think.
You the rocky villagers will be new friends in a blink.
Nod your head and raise your hand, and if your eyes can shimmer, smile a bit start up a chat and you’ll be on a winner.
Look for a bloke on an old black bike, he’s got a huge compulsion, you smile at me, give a nod I’m all over you like emulsion.
Brunswick Heads, the rocky boardwalk, south, there is a village square.
Only friendly people are welcome to come to visit here, but that’s not really fair.
We respect your station and we’ll do our best try us out, we will brighten right you up.
And that’s our rocky dare.

Saturday, February 23, 2008


I have nodded, winked, acknowledged, spoken and had many experiences on BRUNSWICK HEADS, South Wall. I have witnessed many tragic events, I know of many many others.
And yet it is a meeting place, a village square, a place where people from all corners of the earth come to envisage it's serenity, some times peace, some times upheaval.
A lovely couple from CRABBES CREEK were my latest Boardwalk friends. I have many more, they have many more.
Youknowwhatscominganothercrappypoem, thisonewillexlimplify, howweneedtogreetstrangers, your god is my god, regards john f.

Friday, February 22, 2008

BRUNSWICK HEADS, the Breakwalls.

THE WEATHER HAS BROKEN, no. The first 2 days in a row without rain in 7 weeks, check out: (, BRUNSWICK HEADS Breakwalls. Now that's surfing my 'Geek' friends.

JOHN FARLEY, prose and poetry

I going to throw my hand in and have a go at prose.
The puritans will throw their hands up, I guess he is permitted, make a stand.
He has been an honest person all over he has traveled, far and wide, well in Australia.
What’s the criteria here, tell a story, make a rhyme, is that where what it resides.
OH, bugger, first mistake, will have another go at something peaceful; my brain wants an art form.
Where can this come from, all I have ever known is lower class, my family, we are people, world is big now.
What a comment, forgive me kin, the very best poets have lived a life, have a world within.

So here’s my prose.

Waves, bred by hidden force ocean waves, ground swell waves, heaving falling will we understand the magnitude, the power is magnetic in its wisdom, contemption and relentless.
We watch with envy, crashing bashing, sometimes grinding, our precious earth.
Watch that beautiful flowing motion, powerful, intrinsic, our earth.
Did we come from here, where we born from, can we make some sense, it has mystic presence, a wild dark presence.
Watch the power, the sound, spectacular, eruption, the vented spume, it sprays and surges.
Feel eons of life, life back, is it saying we are, we were, God has been here, legacy, my God your God.
Waves, beautiful motions in time, watch in awe the blessings, we live here, we love here, this place, the ocean.
Waves, endless, preoccupation. Our world has known this image, this vista beauteous face, waves were born well before the human race.

Couldn’t help myself, I’m gonna take lessons.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

THEY CALLED HER MOOSEFACE, AKA; johnfarlsbrunz, AKA; john d Farley. Many schools, many places. Ordinary bloke.

THEY called her Mooseface.

A little place called Coolah, not far from Ulladullah is where this Rhyme took place, went to school but they had the gall to give this gal, the awful name of Mooseface.
To this day, I will tell you now, never will they be forgivn’, she was so pretty, a small boys friend, could she beat them swimmen’?
I’ll leave this for a moment ‘cause the thoughts are coming back, school days, yeah, where the rhyme took place and how we got the sack.
Holidays are fast approaching a farmer makes a show, boys, you want some pocket money, well picken’ beans will be your go.
Well what a rotten job this is, pick beans by the bushel bag, I’ll tell you now this jobs’, and I’ve had some, will be the worst I’ve ever had.
Oh yeah got the sack not the ‘bullet’ as implied it seems, from early morn to late of day we’d fill the sack with beans.
I’ve told a fib, forgive my glib may I give honest foray straight, ‘cause next paddock was filled with melons the plan was to make up weight.
Do I Need to tell you, melon skins, and your right. At the bottom of sack they go, that gave the weight a freight.
The plan was good and full of thought, but folks, them and me we got the call back. The boys from Coolah School, bean pickers we’re no more, them and me, we got that bullet, it’s called, ‘don’t come Monday’ sack.
My mind is jolted, school friends and swimming pals, Mooseface gave me charm, school friends and swimming pals, why did they wish her harm.
Been to many many schools, Coolah wouldn’t be the last, we moved from here Mooseface cried, and so it came to pass.
My rhymes will not contain many elements of fiction, sometime later all those boys came down with a mysterious affliction.
Mooseface she was so cute, your taunts will grow to rue, never put down people who are not as perfect as you.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

500,000 dollars, want 25%?

My popularity may have dropped off recently, “GRUMPY OLD BLOGGER” etc.
My last post was to take the heat of your guys, INTENTIONAL BRAGGING, SUPPLY OF PERSONAL INFORMATION, drawing the attention away from you. But it has brought results, they respect me out there. You know why? Personal details that’s why.
YES I HAVE RAPED THE FRUITS OF MY LABOURS’ You can thank me by giving me, in return, your personal BANKING DETAILS YOU WILL BE ON 25% OF MY WINNINGS. YAHOO, that’s right, Y H BLOODY H O O is my benefactor. All because I was honest.
If you have reached the heights of personal interference, you will go blind. I am an intentional stirrer, but an old bugger just the same. DON’T IT MAKE YOU FEEEEEL GOOD la la la.
PS: When I was a young bloke I would have welcomed a POPUP BLOCKER on the 190 Bus to AVALON, now I turn it down to -15%, I think it’s broke.
PPS: ANYBODY ELSE GET THESE EMAILS, http://www.johnfarls,com

Friday, February 15, 2008


I’m trying my poems out on your guys first. No comments from previous must mean; no news is good news.
Some where in johnfarls BLOGS is some rhyming prose, there is a reference to PANCHO ME DOG, anybody’s dog actually.
I had bought a milk run at AVALON BEACH, this story commences in the first weeks;
What possessed me, this is midnight and blowin’, I’m all alone in me old ‘J’ van so let the repartee start flowin’.
I am all alone, but not for long, because a ‘creature’ comes from the gloom, it’s tail is wagging bigtime
He’s brown and black, his nose is wet, me names Pancho he says, you and me will have a goodtime.
For two years me dog and me our clients we would call on, all over Avalon we wandered, “cats”, said Pancho.
From now on there’s a war on.
I must tell you that I never knew Pancho’s parent’s or from whence he came, he really was not Pancho, it’s the term we agreed on, early in the game.
God we did some good stuff, it whiled away the time and more, we shared my sangers, drank ‘our’ milk, told stories by the score.
We can relate those bloody black ghosts down in Avalon Parade, and out of the windy night they came.
Can you forget how calamitous you were, barkin’, fretful was your go, Pancho what’s your game.
These six young blokes are on a mission, you guys are sworn by word, you and Pancho will say naught, our you will get the sword.
We sit in the gutter and have to settle down, our Commandos me and Pancho, share some milk, discuss the plan before Torpedo Base their bound.


Wednesday, February 13, 2008


Share with me the flowers, my patch, the surf, signs? What's he on about?
Has he got a life, you bettcha, (
Self promotion, you bet. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008



(For now).

Where do you live? I’m in northern NSW AUSTRALIA, very wet northern NSW. We no complain, other places are worse off, and we wish you well. Have I any complaints at all? Well only one; it’s that song, it hums in my head. The worst thing, I can’t remember all the words, the tune keeps on coming back minus the connecting words.

“The sky is blue…………………….but it’s raining here in my heart”.

Every time it rains, and that’s been for the last 7 weeks, one day let up. That’s my complaint. Any body tell me another song about rain? I think I’ve got water logged.

Monday, February 11, 2008



Must relate the story of one Peter Fraser, he has risen to high places, however he will always be THE Piano PLAYER TO THIS WRITER, lower case. A very entertaining fellow, quite bright, in fact he was the person who showed us, no taught us how to fit the FLIP FLOP, AKA, THONGS TO OUR FEET. I mean how academic is that.

Peter is the born entertainer and party animal, I can remember many entertaining chronicles’, he taught me tautology as well.

PETER FRASER, piano player, #1.

I first met Peter when he resided at CENTRAL ROAD AVALON, (this will be basis for #2). Aside from other places. Peter moved house out to CAREEL BAY, a property with very sloping properties, another grammar error. The moving of his goods and chattels was a logistic nightmare and required much manpower, who else, HIS MATES from the Surf Club.

As has been intimated a piano enters the equation, this bulky and very heavy piece of his ego has to go where he Goth. Several “MATES” WERE SEQUESTED, and so the epic story begins.

It came on a truck, did ‘it’, complete with several lifesavers, ‘it’ had to negotiate many meters of steep pathways leading up to the house, albeit with several platforms as the path meandered. With the exception of AMOS REMOVELISTS, HAS ANYBODY MOVED A PIANA up a hazardous pathway, OH about 5000 meters.

Peter had a plan, a devious plan, it involved motivation and team participation, it incorporated an entertainment factor. Our man is a born leader. We assemble around, no, surround the steel framed ‘it’, and away we go.

The first section was negotiated to the first platform and a rest was in order. At this point PIANOMAN FRASER produces his PLAN; UP GOES THE LID AND STRAINS OF JAZZ AND OTHER PLACES rent the tranquil surroundings of Careel Bay, the neighbors’ and the AVALON PENSINULA will never relax again.

There were 300 more platforms to go, I must stress this fact, because on every stop the piano lid would be risen and another barrage of songs would erupt from the assembled choir, accompanied by Pete and ‘it’. Historians are noted as saying that not one song was repeated, this is confirmed by the ROOTN BOYS CHOIR, the artists on the day.

It was also reputed that the PITTWATER COAST GUARD received many requests to keep the sound down, although some inquired where could they buy the CD.

Many requests for the "T" shirt were received by Mr. Rudd.

At this point analogy has entered my intellect; Did Peter devise his plan from the exploits of MR. HILLARY, that increditably gifted KIWI Mountaineer, a man whose exploits will never be equaled, Peter did you plagiarize that great mans plan?.
Base camps come to mind, stuff, grammar stuff like final assaults’, is that an adverb?, motivational briefing, provisioning, what a man.

If this is the case, the final assault took place at the base of the stairs of BASE CAMP “one to go”, we thought we had broken the back of the climb. The bloody stairs, bugger me what a final assault. Oxygen, several songs and VB WERE SUPPLIED, we strained every tissue of our being, in one supreme effort we got that barsted to the verandah, CAREEL BAY was at peace, they welcomed the piana MAN. Now can you piss off and, give our little hamlet some peace.

Friday, February 8, 2008



We were working out BROKEN HILL way, BIT OF S.E.S. stuff. Put in some long days and had a few hours on the Monday before flying home.

We managed to have a look at SILVERTON and ventured out to the ‘DAY DREAM SILVER MINE’. Took a heap of snaps, (, try the SILVER CITY ALBUM.

The snap, if it works, is of the DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. You see a prominent shadow with the plant just to the top of the shadow. The apparition is the problem; nobody was within 10 meters of me, the rest of the crew had moved on. Nobody had what appears to be a long object hanging from their person, as the shadow suggests.

The shadow is not mine, the sun was coming over my right shoulder. Had it have been my shadow it would have led to my feet. We looked at the photos probably 2 hours later, then conjecture started. “Nobody was near you”, and “we had to call you to catch up”. We can’t explain the mystic shadow, can you, please.

Monday, February 4, 2008



You get a spontaneous eruption in the brain, people with something useful to say, (they think, I think), will deliberate and manufacture a storyline.

This will take 5mins.

In my case, um, 20mins.

Depending on key board skills, a draft will be about 10mins.

In my case, well, 40mins.

Compilation, grammar, re-thoughts, embellishment, “put the baby to bed’. 20mins.

In my case, OK, 50mins.

Satisfied? “Select all”. Copy to OFFICE CLIPBOARD, select BLOG SITE and post your precious comments and interpretation of what you think is monumental BLOG SPEAK. 5mins.

In my case, generally speakin’. 50mins, (red wine slows down reaction time).

All right, lets compare yours with mine, under the shower if you wishes. It can be boy girl, boy boy, girl girl. I don’t give a rats.

Let me compare; yours took 40mins, mine took 160mins, these numbers are arbitrary and non-conclusive.

UNTILL, we look at how long it took for A VIEWER to read all of the input from the author. ABOUT 40 BLOODY SECONDS, THAT’S HOW LONG.


Saturday, February 2, 2008



Santa Rudd, oh Santa Rudd you promised me a bike.
All your sent me was baby so Tuggarawong I must hike.

You had the gall to tell us you will keep your wishes true. All I got was this little thing all in baby blue.

I haven’t seen me present yet you couldn’t manage that, you delivered him to Gosford miles from where I’m at.

One thing that I can tell you, oh Santa Rudd Mister Sir, I guess that’s your idea of politics, it’s on the positive that you err.

But I’ve heard him on the telephone his MUM’s been put to test, BELINDA YOU’RE A CHAMP, his present is you breast.

Little ZACK, HIS BROTHER, Michael and Oh, his daddy DAVID too, THANK you MR. RUDD and I almost forgot BELINDA, THE LITTLE MOTHER, She’s the one, wishes do come true.


Friday, February 1, 2008


HE WAS BORN YESTERDAY, he wants to recite this poem.


Inseperable I feels, an enigma if you will, Woolloomooloo the locale half way up the hill.
112 Palmer Street to be correct, Grand Ma’s place of liven’.

Down the back the dunny graced by choko vine, it was our place of respite, some say by God was given’.

Complete with daily news, albeit torn asunder, one went to meditate and move the world and empty old Gusunder.

Toilet humour is not my scene, but this is true grit my friends, the place to go was down the back, the Dunny relieved the bends.

All up and down the back lane the dunney stood at guard, chokos hid these pill boxes, this was their camouflage

Amazing how cool it was, great place to lose some time, I recon that it all comes down to the lush green choko vine.

I do a lot of movement, the XPT from Cas-sino to Wyong I am bound. You’ll find dunnys by the dozen, along the track there found.

OH how I wish sometimes to go back and use my Grand Ma’s dunny. The pain I feels on this train, at this time, is not so really funny.

Well this concludes my little yarn about the national source of humour, if people think the dunney’s over then folks that’s just a rumour

I’ve been to Boonoke, Bundamar and Woolloomooloo travllin’ all the time, and rymin’ gives me joy, but what goes with Woolloomooloo, except dunney and the choko vine, and the paper boy.

I’ve tried to keep you occupied it’s really time to go, I hope you enjoyed the time. But folks don’t be mislead, history lives in all of us there will always be a DUNNY AND A LUSH GREEN CHOKO VINE.

John Farley 2008.

Thursday, January 31, 2008


Some where from the esters, just like I said it will, a little thing comes cryin, suckin, it wants to have it's turn.
God, special force, let it have some strength before this earth we burn.



This piece of Australiana has been flogged to death, (SEE A PREVIOUS POST), so handle it folks.

112 Palmer Street, WOOLLOOMOOLOO, AINT THERE NOW. About 1945 / 59, we lived on and off, it was Grand Ma’s house, a Tenement actually. And you guessed it, it had the ‘classic little room’ right down the back yard, complete with the daily newspaper, end of story. It was resplendently covered with a shroud of CHOKO VINE, laden with fruit, the clean skin variety. I have often cogitated why they grow so profuse in the vicinity of the DUNNEY, PERHAPS IT IS THE ESTERS OF OZONE, MIXED WITH OTHER GROWTH ODORS.
CHOKOS’ are described as being a vine vegetable, I will dispute this assumption, I WILL SUGGEST THAT this plant is AC / DC, it can be ambidextrous, alternative, it can be a fruit or a vegetable, I describe it as a VEGAPPLE. AND, I will prove my theory by handing down Grannies’ secret recipes’, you mustn’t tell a soul now, OK.

WOOLLOOMOOLOO CHOKO KILPATRICK “MORNAY”, Grand Ma Isabella Lovegrove, nee Menzies.
You will need several smaller chokos’, sliced into halves seed removed. Bacon, BEGA CHEESE, (Matured), ‘Woster Sauce, garlic, red CHILLI, (mild) and pepper and salt make up the other ingredients. For Italian people; substitute the bacon with thicker slices of PANCETTA / PROSUITTO, use mozzarella cheese, sliced or grated.
Large pot, parboil the halved “vegetables” till tender, not too soft, drain. Bacon sliced into portions so as to cover the choko, cheese grated, garlic and chili finely sliced.
At this stage you put another Penny in the coal gas meter, (I got plenty if you need some). Fry the bacon until not quit crisp, place on absorbent paper, place the halved chokos in a baking tray, maybe a cup cake baking tray. A tea spoon of ‘Woster in the cavity, and some garlic and chili, pepper and salt. Bacon to cover the chokos, grated cheese, BEGA please, place in slow oven and bake until cheese is just runny.
Remove and serve with a lamb chop, hogget of course, sprinkle with more ‘Woster, YUM BLOODY YUM, to me ethnic mates, multi beano.

The chokos are peeled and the seed removed, parboil until they are just tender, remove and drain and place in the frig. We make a syrup with sugar and water to a runny texture, use warm water. Add some treacle. (Grand Ma’s secret).
Grand Ma would have made a plum pudding, she would pour the syrup over the chilled “CHOKO FRUIT’ and return to the ice box until cold. Some pudd, some now called PEARS AND SYRUP, some vanilla custard and BLOODY YUM YUM again.
Want more crappy yarns, (, email me some back, (

Tuesday, January 29, 2008




You won’t know this fella, till I get on with me prose.
But I’ll tell ya this my friends, I think he’s one of those.

Now before you howl me down and question my social status.
My job here blokes is to tell a story, not just how johnfarls rates us.

They stuck him in the navy, he used to box for sport.
Adds were placed upon his soles you would see these adds quite often, with the gloves my friends he wasn’t good, he should have stuck to golfin.

Milkin cows he tried, roamin from wide and far, his hands will bear the evidence, 5 thirty shows the scar.
He has a friend, and, boy is she a cutie, beats me folks how a bloke like him ends with such a beauty.

So that’s a little yarn about this bloke, and not much have you gleans. His place in life aren’t nothing much, that’s as a bloke I means.

But let me tell just how much he makes the AUSSIE bloke, yeah golf’s the go, he didn’t have a clue, played off 87, his goals were for the dough.

Well Bruce and me were average, Ross was good at golf, THE BLOKE had a problem though, his putting, well, was off.

His wallet bulged with ego and one day he laid the claim, you and Bruce and Ross and me will play the noble game.

Let me dwell upon the rules, sheep stations were the scene. A beer a beer a beer and two bob, you lose, Ok vent your spleen.

The game was in the best of jest, we practiced the art of discourse. But if you lose old friend, two bob thanks and that has got no recourse.

The BLOKE my friends would not lay down his courage was divine, we lived of his wagers, all night we wined and dined.

Somehow Bruce and me felt time was grown’ thin’, lets have a triathlon we suggested, best of three to win.

Really not the Olympics but a contest just the same, the aim was winnen’, two out three the aim.

Darts, Euchre, Golf were the games we competed, glory for the victor let the loser please stay seated.

One last thing about our bloke, it concerns that Euchre game, with one spade he goes alone his partner Ross is shamed.

The BLOKE was hopeless in all these sports but never would he yield, then my friends the town soon found out he had a special field.

One day we all run last you see, and thinking with a smile, the BLOKE writes some prose, recites some stuff and leaves us for a mile.

You see my friends, please forgive my comments oh so rude, RAY you beaut, we re-vere you in gratitude.

We enjoy your yarns, we’re infected, you’re the peoples choice, an Aussie yarn has impetus simply by your voice.

Mullumbimby bred a BLOKE, BUT Bruce Ross ME we bred HIM too, THE MULLUMBIMBY BLOKE is out there folks he belongs to me and you.

Copyright John Farley 2008, but Ray old friend it’s yours.

Monday, January 28, 2008



Gave my name TO a very obsure word; PROPINQUITY.

I also subscribe to the OZZIE version of BLOGSPOT, I feel the pain in my palms as I speak. It all came from the pen of JOHN MACGREGOR, a bit of SCI-FI, a bit of a fairy tale, a bit of me and you........

At some stage in your life you will have a mystic experience, no not god, it comes from the owners of the land we live on. Some people will relate to this comment.



You will find more @....................................

Saturday, January 26, 2008



OK AND G'DAY, just listened to the stirring anthems, CHANNEL NBN 9. GUESS WHAT? Dont call me the Crickets' on.

SWAMINATHAN and ANKITSHUKLA and all you other folk from INDIA, DONT offer advice, we will talk when the game in ADELAIDE is over. We love ya, right now we are adverseries, may the best team win.

Been invited to drinks and an AUSSIE BBQ this 'arvo, you swarthy curry eaters blokes and sheilas are invited, meet me at BRUNSWICK HEADS NSW, WE'LL TALK THE TALK, AVAGOODAY, regards John F.

Friday, January 25, 2008




My repartee can not be completed without reference to this meeting place. Many social occasions will be held here, it was the place to meet after Carnivals. Many tales of bold achievements’ will be related at the side bar, the public bar, the garden bar and where ever you could collar somebody.

The hotel has a long and equitable history, you social historians can research this, my story will
be centered on it just being there.

My first recollections are scenery oriented, like garden stuff. The building was mainly timber and impressive, the expansive beer garden was a place where couples could have a tete de tete, (ozzie French). The Garden Bar was enshrouded by a wonderful grape vine emanating from A trunk of a substantial proportions. Many flowers and small scrubs were the frontdrop to a view of the upper reaches of Pittwater, and across to your left was---- and straight ahead was Bayview and Scotland Island. In the early days ‘Rum Runners’ plied this area, another story.

Many girls would frequent ‘The Arms’, that’s good and many boys, that’s bad. They were the opposition. They were also the Scenery and some were a sight to behold. Many many stories have come from the famous place, I imagine we did have an input into its history, AVALON SURF CLUB members that is.

But there were two famous people who made a mark on the NEWPORT ARMS. One man cooked and packed peanuts, he would purveyors, more French, his wares in a large ‘Grannies Basket’ calling out, famously, “BACK A TAIL”. HIS NAME WAS RICHARD, WE KNEW HIM AS ‘DICK THE PEANUT MAN’.

You want to sample his wares toss a coin, remember he backs a tail!, comes down a tail you pay double, comes down a head you get a free packet of nuts. God and Dick know the mathematical results. They were the best those nuts, more importantly was the friendly banter emanating from this friendly man. Some smarty’s would have a go at Dick and suggest he was a wrought, enter the other famous person.

Tim was a big bloke with a colorful history, he would not tolerate fools, dickheads or trouble makers. He had ‘Radar hearing’ for the sound of a glass breaking and would appear in an instant if an indiscretion occurred. Wait, who is this masked man.10/27/2007 1:50:25 PM, sorry time travelers, just preparing some ‘Rogan Josh’ and Farley’s fried rice. It’s a while before tea wanna join me? We will talk about Tim. More yarns to come.


G'DAY FOLKS, BIT OF SELF PROMOTION, is free stuff self promotion?

Heaps of crappy snaps on (, you''ll find them. The crappy dog is being updated, well, now and again. You may see where I'am coming from if the yarns appeal.

Somewhere I mention my agenda is to share and compare, this is the primary reason I started BLOGGIN'. I see all you wonderfull guys and girls with comments that this young 'old' fart is trying to take in, no matter. You words are my words, only in a different speak.

Bettcha' don't know about the AVALON STOMP, herd about the GUSUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER? Know what a 286 is (was), have you ever heard of a 250 mb hard drive? Got yer there, A. HAVAGOOGDAY, regards johnfarls.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008


PANCHO me DOG, an overview.

Pancho adopted me in early ’62. Bought a milk run in AVALON, northern beaches, Sydney.
Probably in the first week this black and brown cattle dog appeared out of the night, I didn’t pay to much attention to his frantically wagging tail and friendly manner. He paid particular attention to my VOLLEYS, he seemed over whelmed by the powerful pheromones’ which seemed to make his nose run. Pancho followed me through rain and wind for 2 years, he was not a fair weather sailor.

We had many memorable times together, (, AVALON JOBS, him and me.


One miserable, rainy and windy night me dog and me are up the end of Avalon Parade. Pancho used to bark a bit, he was not a cat lover, unlike his adopted companion.
Turning to THAT dog, doesn't belong to me. Out of the crappy night quickly I can see a group of 6 people dressed in absolute black striding up the Parade, they are in line abreast, they appear to have bulky objects hanging of their person and Pancho is going berseque. My first reaction is where can I run, my second reaction is to race and grab his collar and await the stand off. These Ghosts approached, Pancho and me are in a state of panic, they are all young blokes and, now is this "The Russians Are coming?" Will Pancho and me be the first defenders of Australia. Things happened quickly, mainly because I have run out of anecdotes and verbs and stuff, "how ya going bloke we are on way to blow up the BLOODY TORPEDO BASE", and "we landed onto Avalon Beach from a Submarine, our mission is to subdue the base with no hostages". (“Can I keep a secret?” Of course, Pancho and me were soldiers of the night).

They did too, but not before a little chat on the gutter and a couple of bottles of cold milk.
Their plan was to plant ‘dummy’ explosives on the launching platform and gain entry to the Navy Torpedo Base. Pancho gave his best wishes, Pancho commented that the Alsatian guard dogs liked a lamb chop, the Commando's had some better stuff. We never saw the black ghosts again, but I can relate that a great deal of Commonwealth ‘traffic’ was observed at CLAREVILLE BEACH on this night.

This little epic can be corroborated, but it came from me first. I have waited many years under the secrecy act to relate me and Pancho's story.


Please forgive any indications of glibness, however, you will need to read; FROM THE CITY TO THE BUSH, PARTS ONE TWO AND THREE to get the g...