track & field- a showcase of a sports carnival-the mullers and packers union of australia style- with all the grace of pageantry and very much in honour of an athletic home-made pride and a well stocked tuck-shop...on ya marks get set !go

Track  and field- a showcase of a sports carnival- the mullers and packers union of australia style- with all the grace and faded glories, the fanfare and pageantry, and very much in honour of an athletic home-made pride and a well stocked tuck-shop...

on ya marks     get set

   !go

A big stopwatch of a mullers and packers union of australia welcome back to youse sports lovers, aficionados, officials and time keepers all.

Pitch that tent, set up that trestle table and fold out those chairs, mark out that 400metre track and rake that sandpit.

                     
                    Homage to a sports mad childhood.

When we were kids we played across the backyards of the 'hood a little known game-we called it 'olympic games'. We set up obstacle courses and events and played for the ribbons medals and trophies we had garnered across our sweet suburban sports ovals and clubs.

When I was a kid we did little A’s.

Little athletics.

At school as well as for the Nepean and later the South Sydney district clubs as under 12’s.

Back when South Sydney fielded a junior club that fed into the Randwick Botany Harriers senior athletics club -12 years and over.

Winter was cross country running out along the Castlereagh road, the Fisher's ghost** run in Campbelltown and later Parramatta and Centennial Parks, with training held in the old Cumberland hospital site.

In summer we ran the city to surf.

And ah the walk. We did the walk. Race walking. Heel and bloody toe man.

Arms loose bent elbows kept close to your sides, pushing and propelling like pistons-forcing the legs to keep pace.

Torso extended shoulders down and wide, and the knee straightens as it passes under your pelvis.

Feet barely touching, scraping through the surface of the turf. Heel and bloody toe.

Stay on the ground at all times- just scraping through the turf as you straighten and flick forward your knee.

Four cautions and you get a report. Three reports and you're disqualified. They hold up cards, call out your number, issue a caution and make a report.

Even if you cross the finish line first you don’t quite believe the victory until the officials’ have tallied up the caution and report slips.

Thrilling.

Cautions and reports are given for bad technique and violations of the rules that govern the sport.

Four cautions and you get a report. Three reports-you’re disqualified.

Flagged off the track by an official.

Try that at speed over 800 or 1500 metres or more at the oval and the sports ground.

Laps and circuits of Centennial and Parra Park in autumn winter early mornings and dusky twilight meetings.

Staggered and handicapped starts over the season depending on age and race event clocked times.

Selling homemade cakes and toffees and raffles to keep the club going.

Loving every breath taking moment of hijinks and sports.

Winter track and field at its finest.

Ice cream sandwiches, the occasional devonshire tea in the rotunda, playing chasings and exploring swampy duck ponds and riverbank full of fiercesome looking eels.

I loved the field in track and field. Threw a javelin, a discus and a small cannon ball of a shot !put with some medals and distinction.

I love the long jump and long distance running.

I was a frustrated but valiant hurdler.

The weaponry of the jav and the discus and the shot sees me keen the first time I ever remember seeing the older kids compete.

Like archery.

To throw and hurl and let fly an arrow, a spear, a disc of some weight, and a small cannon ball.

To reach your target. To hit your mark. To find and keep your measure.

Sports mad me.

There’s ceremony ritual and pageantry in the athletics we did as kids.

We are out there to win-make no mistake there and none of us make any bad bones about it.

We are all out there to win.

Tempered by the underlying ethos of personal best the pursuit of excellence and the spirit of fair play.

And the repetitions of training-you know the drill.

Then by god! It was every fella for themselves!

Running and jostling a crowded start and pacing the herd. Jumping a crouch start sprint, the thwack as a baton is passed palm to palm and on the run, and who would dare ever to forget the leaping backwards over a high jump bar and landing a loosely backward somersault in a squishy fosby flop.

Taking your place on the dais with a well earned first second or third.

Across all obstacle. Faster higher stronger.



** see the legendary fable of Fisher's ghost here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fisher's_ghost

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-7Vu7cqB20

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEy5OOS1eAI

                        A humorous cartoon from the 1936    
                                         Berlin Olympics       
            suggests the use of propaganda techniques
                 and blanket coverage in years to come.

         Cartoonist for the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung.

                      http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEI_Cd8azBY

                                

                                     
                                        fini

from all of us @ the mullers and packers union of australia-us lot here- victoriously raising a cheer up and over our heads  from us up high on the dais to youse there at home-how good's that my little betty cuthberts' and ron clarkes' all? a medal tally we do well to remember on and off the paddock swathed in a crown of olive bay wreathes of leaves we step back shake hands swap jerseys singlets and trakkies and retire to the mpua dressing sheds and clubhouse
                                       
                                          and

ah as we are wont to say at the mpua hq as we rejoice in victory and consider our losses:
                                     
                                  Up ya Bums!

    *** the mullers and packers union of australia retains any and all intellectual and creative copyright in this and all or any subsequent and previous posts..the mullers and packers union of australia also respects acknowledges and sources to the best of it's ability all and any other copyrights in play that are used in the commission of the creative goals of the author and the mullers and packers union of australia and all who sail with her. ***

!show us ya tits a tale of the fabled urban mythology writ large and lively a veritable feast of a story brought to youse to sup upon forever and a day-cheerfully brung your way by us clever wastrels at the mullers and packers union of australia

!Show us ya tits a tale of the fabled urban mythology writ large and lively a veritable feast of a story brought to youse to sup upon forever and a day-cheerfully brung your way this happy day by us clever wastrels here at the mullers and packers union of australia.

                              

Hail fellows well met less met and as yet unmet. 

A big fat welcome back and the heartiest of good health and a rude cheer to ye all.

For all youse fellas, youse clever dextrous workers and scandalous scoundrels from all walks of life and from all over the years of life and the times yet to come.

                        here’s a ripping good yarn for all.

Amen for youse all.

Ah men.

Engineering-it’s like maths but louder.

Lounge supine in that banana chair. Kick back in your Jason recliner. Sprawl artlessly in that there bean bag. Rip the tab offa your tinnie, pop open those crisps packets and spliff the fuk up kiddies. Let’s  get this story goin'

            !show us ya tits. A salaciously short story. 

Once upon a time in the all too recent past

I met this fella across a rowdy dancin’ rockin dj and a great rugby game on all the screens the liquor license would allow for.

Spilling out across tables the footpath up onto the verge all toe tappin’ wisecrackin’ bonhomie.

Heaps a kids. Lovely.

Rock and rollicking.

I meet a man all craggy devil handsomely cheeky. Far and away more cheekier and smart arsey-er stronger than me.

Sparkly fun.

At one point, across a bunch of us, across tables of goodtimers he says leaning into me

 -show us your tits

our eyes and grins flashing across the sparkle

 -show us your dick I lean back at him.

Arc that.

We stare pointed looks at each others’ tits and nether regions and back up at each other.

Lascivious. Licentious even.

Big bad wolf smiles pass between us.

-Show us ya tits

-Show us ya cock.

He pulls forward his work pants leans in and scoops up and under his testes in a half mime as he shows off for me and for my eyes only.

I lift up my top and lean across and into him not touching each other no

my hands cupping under my bra cupped titties.

Arc the fuck that up.

Offer it up.

This mime and dance of  dirty sexuality happens more than once across the darkening skies of early autumn daylight saving time.

He is fatal.

Across the din and cheeky frustrations and flirtations of the late afternoon I see him and his mate leave.

I make my excuses and head off after them.

He is in his car, key in the ignition by the time I catch him up.

I make the rolldownyawindow motion as I walk up to the driver’s door.

He does.

We smile big.

He says

-show us your tits.

This time I do.

I lift my top up leaning forward a little, as I free my boobs from my bra.

I stand up shoulders back, proud as he motions for me to lift my top higher

and so I do.

I hold soft fold my hands under my breasts, and we look at each other and at him watchin’ me watching him look at my tits.

No one says anything. Not me not him not his mate.

-they’re beautiful he says.

-thankyou.

We stay in a tableau of gaze and electricity.

I begin to shimmy and let my top fall as our eyes lock all large pupils dilating shiny darkness

the big bad wolf grin is back between us.

We say goodnight as he starts his vehicle.

I step back and outta his path as he indicates, pulls out into the traffic and drives off.

                                   Offer it up.

                                

                                

                                   fini

                                 How sweet is that
       my little crème catalanas and hazelnut gateaux

          a lusty slice of the finest that life has on offer

                a flirt of epic proportions to reignite
                                 and recalibrate 
                     our sometimes somnolent palette...

                from all us stumblers jugglers’ minstrels 
               tumblers and carnies here at the mpua hq

                                      it’s time for us to

                     make like the bananas and split

                              !hasta la vista bebeeese

    *** the mullers and packers union of australia retains any and all intellectual and creative copyright in this and all or any subsequent and previous posts..the mullers and packers union of australia also respects acknowledges and sources to the best of it's ability all and any other copyrights in play that are used in the commission of the creative goals of the author and the mullers and packers union of australia and all who sail with her. ***

the mullers and packers union of australia... an unholy shimmering aromatic and spice addled oasis of funlovin’ freethinkin’ rest and recreation far from the lands of the persecuted amigo hombre and yanqui all.

Welcome back to the mullers and packers union of australia... an unholy shimmering aromatic and spice addled oasis of funlovin’ freethinkin’ rest and recreation far from the lands of the persecuted amigo hombre and yanqui all.  

Across allah and all the very blessed compass points in between.

Where we if we are worth our salt we are honour and duty bound to be like nwa.

Full fucken stop.

Testify and bear witness....we are each others’ keeper.

Always and forever.

Since the beginnings of forever. Amen.

For real and for true.

No shit Sherlock and Shirley.

Absolute. far  far beyond relatives and pseudo theories of relativity.

Uhuhha.

True story.

Hallelujah and amen-can you sing it?

Honest gospel.

Truth crosses my heart and hope to die for.

Ask yourselves and riddle me this youse rollickers and riggin’ friggers all -  

-who is friend and ah foe is whom? why and how and ah what done or not done or even harder to make undone- who did what with whom and why was them doin’ that what with them that day, what made them do this and why? who or what or how or why or to whom did we do what we did when we did what we did with whoever- and which of us and those of them has also brought about and introduced this lot into the state of play on this that ever’ other day.

Where were you?

Who is foe? Where is friend?

I reckon, that in all probability all of us are in real life in real time ‘Where’s Wally?’ kind of wallies.

Always hostage and accountable to where we wallies are in any given moment, unguarded or otherwise with no-one really wanting to enquire of us ‘how are ya wallies how youse going you good things youse!’

buya a beer sis? bro?

Ask yourselves, if you would indulge me, but a moment of your time gentlemen, who this foe/this friend is.

Who is staunch with context nuance jest and chivalry and ah which one is bluster callow and a chance best left untaken.

Who among us talks shite and a premium shite at that and ah yesthanks bro I’ll have another reschs.

Hail all fellows well met until met otherwise. Yep.

The merely curious and ah somewhat adventurous we are so welcome.

Put up or shhuuushhh up.

Like fish in a barrel us lot.

Or not.

Today mums and dads boys and girls old fullahs and youse young ‘uns we’re gonna talk the turkey.

Leave your attitude at the door and try and surf this walk or throw that shoe so to speak.

yes. 

Shooting straight from my hip to yours. one barrel to another.

As jack sparrow and the jolly rogers’d say ‘parley any of ye?’

Game of pool the pinnies hopscotch or handball?

Spin the bottle?

Chasings. chess. rugby. !uno. the tail and the donkey.

Chinese burn?

Elastix!

Fun and jest.

Sport and fair play.

Truth or Dare.

Pistols at dawn.

Queensberry de marquis rules ok.

Fair weather or foul.

Boom and bust.

!shape up or ship the fuk out

Life’s great curtain call of conviviality and carnivale.

A slow game’s as grand if not a mostly better game than the fastest of games despite the hype.

Stop    revive   survive   engage    adapt   !evolve

youse’d already know that from old.

I would ask of no man that which I would not do myself.

Could be just me though. Mebbe mebbe not.

At your pace gentlemen.

To each their own.

I call and offer a !toast good scoundrel noble gentlemen and gentlewomen.

I give hard to us all a toast! a worn sword oath that forever we will fly the colours and hold aloft the standards of:

Our right to silence. To the secrets and histories and confidantes the wise counsel the near misses and the bullshit.

The right to total and absolute dishevelment on the wayward paths of damascus and redemption.

godbless god speed and may we forever and ever deliver from our own evil temptations.

Amen and !hallelujah.

All aboard who’s gettin’ aboard the resurrection express. first stop redemption. all aboard to petticoat junction via Timbuktu.

All aboard the train.



                  as we are want to say here @ mpua hq
                                                                       
                                  ! youch one touch all

    *** the mullers and packers union of australia retains any and all intellectual and creative copyright in this and all or any subsequent and previous posts..the mullers and packers union of australia also respects acknowledges and sources to the best of it's ability all and any other copyrights in play that are used in the commission of the creative goals of the author and the mullers and packers union of australia and all who sail with her. ***

I take my chances on a person of interest a bawdy tale of the finer things in life proudly brought to you this day by the artful dodgers at the mullers and packers union of australia

                                                           

                                           I buy a beer

I buy a beer find a table and settle in on the verandah unpacking my book and ciggies  fishing up a menu and the ashtray. All props of sorts. I’m new here. I’ve come looking for fresh people and broader social horizons.

I’ve heard that he comes here sometimes. So I’m on a mission of sorts to seek him out in a recreational setting. It’s been awhile.

One time I told him he was a person of interest to me. Snakes alive! like you would not believe.

He’s a player.

He’s cheeky and charming, handsome well mannered and kinda shy, with a hefty curiosity for life. He’s a prize smart arse to boot with that steely irreverence and bastardry of the clever thinking working man.

You get a sense of my feelings and for my crush. These are substantial praises I sing, he shines brighter to me than all of you lot put together, and that’s all I'll say on the subject.

I quite like this place. Too noisy and it can hurt my brain…this has a muted vibe and hum that makes for good wall paper.

The book I’m reading is small-town Americana from Stephen King’s formidable imagination. The beer drinks itself another takes its place, and I order with the kitchen staff.

He is here. I know this before I know how I know this. He calls out to me in greeting and here he is before me.

We shake hands. It is our custom and a pleasant way to make a greeting. I find it courteous, old fashioned and a little bit three musketeers which I admit to finding attractive.

Like this man whose hand I always hold for longer than we should.

My friend the self-confessed rake. Who told me candidly that he won’t have sex with the women he likes because it’s simply too bloody complicated.

The grey haired green eyed handsome one who’s gone now to organise beers and his dinner.

The silly grin of wonderment is happiness writ large upside my face.

Because I know he likes me too and I’m sure and hopeful for a kiss and the invitation to fool around a little at the end of the night.

He of the genius crooked charm and brain. He feels like home to me. Sappy but true.

We share country as the Indigenies might say.

This is our town.

No matter what the banks and speculators do to gentrify we will always belong here to this place.

It’s us that tends and loves this patch of land, us lot who’ve worked it coaxed it built it and fought very bloody hard for every square inch we still claim as our own.

It is our place our home our day dreaming and very much our town.

He tells me he has had them spike our meal tickets together we raise a glass to good health and vitality and we’re away. He has a lighthearted touch with his stories and asks lots of pointed and telling questions.

Our chatter flows as freely as the beers and our laughter... I think the food is good?

It is late before we know it. Still giggling I roll a ciggie as he offers to see me home.

-Yeah thanks that's lovely.

We hold hands, and I nearly can’t breathe as the world falls away deep into probability and lust.

I wonder to him does this mean that he likes me or that he likes me not?

He turns into me and reckons he is one big like of me and how lovely I am or it’d be real friggin’ scary.

I believe him.

I know vulnerable when I see it staring soft fierce faced at me. I keep hold his hand and kiss it with a flourish like a prince might. Both sides which is unique to me I should think.

We walk on cuddling a bit about each other.

-Let’s go onto the oval. It’s hallowed at night yeah.

Sacred ground.

So we do. It’s old early last century old, and I love it. We traipse up to the top of the grandstand and watch the shadows play across the paddock and the sky.

We slowly inch into each other sneaking out new places bold full of shy caress and heated breath. I moan, and he laughs as kisses firm between us.

I know I know I can hear you thinking that this is another good girl falls for bad boy story-like on the cover of a Cosmo magazine, and you’d be well mistaken.

He’s no saint me neither, and we are strong friends. He’s been scared off by a litany of bad experiences gun shy like lots of us at this stage of our lives.

A little battle weary a little shell shocked, and a little aghast at the toll the battle of the sexes is taking on us all.

He is my most favorite of people. Self aware and kinda worldly worn.

He’s humble as a holy roller of the highest order all brave and quietly full of bullshit and fancy on a daily basis. He has the best sense of fun you’re ever likely to meet.

We make out in the grandstand under a slice of lemon moon overlooking the holy hallowed ground. Dry rooting we called it back in the day.

He is melt crazy kissable.

Fit and strong and sweet like you cannot begin to know. I keep leaning into him tightly embraced and it is the most soulful sexy and sensible thing I can ever think to do.

I make a ciggie as we cuddle and sit wrapped in each other arching and nestling across the skin of snuggle and making promises on the frisson of our affection.

Eventually we get around to gathering ourselves together for the walk to mine.

We stop a couple of times to try on more steamy kisses and pause to hold tight this fat amazement of sex and sensibility. We grin to echo all the goose bumps we have raised as we slowly wend the half mile home.

Outside on the footpath I ask him in.

Inside we fall back into the front door breathing each other mad and making kisses so dirty your hair might stand on end. We push and tease and rub at each other swaying a little and shooting from the hip in a groove that’s as old as time.

I want him weak kneed raggedy breathing want him. If it’s all I ever do I want to lie down with this one. Now and forever and at the hour of my death. Forever and ever amen. Oh sweet Jesus! to never ever really ever get up from this one. Never ever again.

Then Sister Mary Pius starts up in my head. I like him and at the same time I don’t think we should have sex. I’m no wowzer, but I’m no libertine either. I want a slow-paced-fast-hands kind of thang.

In that instant I do the only thing I can. I punt that Sister Mary Pius right out of the frame.

He pulls away a little sensing my drift and we make smiles of kisses and still pasted to each other head to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on rattles about for cups and pats the bench for me to hop up. We set upon each other as seagulls are to chip.

My breath hitches high in my throat and I ache to have him in me.

His hands are up and under my shirt grazing stroking and teasing at my skin brushing against my nipples with a pinch that sees a moan escape me. Chuckling softly he pushes up my top and takes me into his mouth. Wet hot me as I cradle him surfing his deft touch.

Can I say how much I like him? his flatteries and clever attentions are how he caught my eye that somber public holiday. See now as we lick kisses and prowl about each other all smooches and biting pash as our hands roam and tease taking sweet blessed liberties.

See the flirting and the fumbling arc of the ever curvaceous filthy minded touch.

We sigh and shiver kiss hard and groan a slow fierce close burn a moan of need so deep and us both a bit mean and nasty across the bump and grind of it all.

We die hard and fast small deaths. Stuck on each others’ greedy fingertips mouthfuls of dirty sweet kisses it is the cannibalised promises of filthy mutterings that see us take it upstairs to my bed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUAjmuYmF_0


fini

And there we leave you  my little street urchins and turtle doves all dozy cozy in a mellow sleepy daze as we digest the loving spoonful of righteous crafted fiction

 play nice among yourselves soul fellows and try to be alert

your country needs lerts

Ciao bella

&

from all of us at the mpua hq

a big fat

la dolce vita to youse all

    *** the mullers and packers union of australia retains any and all intellectual and creative copyright in this and all or any subsequent and previous posts..the mullers and packers union of australia also respects acknowledges and sources to the best of it's ability all and any other copyrights in play that are used in the commission of the creative goals of the author and the mullers and packers union of australia and all who sail with her. ***