It was the great Samuel Langhorne Clemens, a.k.a. Mark Twain, who, replying to a paper that had printed his obituary, said: "The report of my death was an exaggeration."
Much the same with Chadwick William Morgan, a.k.a. Chad Morgan, The Sheik from Scrubby Creek, legendary country balladier, whom we had heard had carked it. But no, he was to appear at the Logan, and we just had to go.
We were to meet up with the boys from The Central Unrestored National Treasure Society along the way, which we did at the Bealiba Pub (renowned internationally as having the most polished urinal in the known universe). As we arrived in dribs and drabs, over a fair distance of time, the publican was much pleased.
Gathered there from the C.U.N.T.S were: Smack in the J Van, and Bull and Macca in the Chev Fleetmaster. Ferals were: Robbo in the Ply Mouth Pig, the Brickie in the Dodge, Cowboy Kenny in the Buick, and the Wolf in the Hudson Ladies Lounge. Along for the ride with us were Les and Matty, plus the usual complement of dogs.
It may have come to the notice of the less chemically challenged readers of this drivel, that here at the Ferals we do enjoy a good fuck-up. If things go bang as well, it's an added bonus. We are rarely disappointed.
After leaving the Bealiba refreshed, and indeed very soon after the pic above right was taken, in fact at the top of that very hill, an "incident" occurred.
Robbo was leading the way in the Ply Mouth, which many of us think should have been fitted with a spiral hardtop onaccount of its snail-like habits (either that, or Robbo be fitted with an orthopaedic platform right boot). Anyhow, Cowboy Kenny was fed up with eating dust and made a passing manoevre. Just as he came alongside and was flipping the bird.......nothing happened. Time appeared to stand still, a break in the space-time continuum? Then it was observed that the Ply Mouth had inched ahead, and the Buick gracefully slid to a halt.
"It's stopped!" said Kenny as the Dodge and the Huddo pulled up. "Would you like a tow?" smirked the Brickie.
Before being a Buick owner, Kenny had owned a Dodge, and declared that they were "Peasant's cars" and he was now more interested in "quality". Being towed by the Dodge achieved nothing except humiliation, and it was soon discovered that the problem was that a timing gear was stripped.
There appears to be a problem obtaining another, so if any of you punters have a spare, give us an e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org, Kenny will be very grateful, and will no doubt repay you in cash or services. A strapping farm lad, he's very good at sheep crutching, chicken sexing, dog training, or wife/daughter shagging, or any combination of the aforementioned.
Anyhow, the Buick was fucked (to use the technical), and so, we being desperate to get to the pub, decided that it may be quicker to hitch the thing behind the Huddo.
Just before we did however, Les had unhitched the "lifeboat" from the Ply Mouth, and pedalled down to see what the fuck was happening. It was not the last time that day that the bicycle was to be used.
Off we went. Power was not a problem, in fact we even got into overdrive on a couple of occasions, but there was a little overheating. So we stopped to have a few ales while the Ply Mouth and the Dodge caught up. It was later discovered that the Huddo was retarded in its timing. There are those unkind souls who would at this point draw unkind comparisons between the car and its owner, and though there is a certain rude justice in this assessment, it is nonetheless unkind...but deserved considering what the bastard serves up to all around him.
Arrived at the pub to wild acclaim from Mine Host Keithy who could see his mortgage shrinking as we walked through his doors.
Ah Logan! A pub that really makes Ferals, and C.U.N.T.S. feel at home (though it must be said that this time the envelope became a little stretched).
Keithy was raucous, Mother Helen was raucous, Pop Geoff was raucous (raucous is the default setting at Logan) which we all appreciated cause we reckon there's just not enough of that in our quiet, uptight, anal, buttock-clenched, middle-class, mean spirited, asinine world
No sooner could you say "Total Care", than the tow truck arrived at the pub, and carted Kenny's Buick off to his joint where it would be on his arrival the next day. Great service, as usual, by the R.A.C.V.
We receive no shekels for saying this, (or for saying anything for that matter, though we would be open to offers) but they do provide a superb service. We have often availed ourselves of this service, worth umpteen times the premiums we pay, and thank all of you in modern cars, crawling along in poxy city peak-hour traffic, who never break down, and who essentially pay for us. We doffs our hats to youse all for your unwitting generousity.
When Kenny's Buick left, Chad arrived we were introduced to the great man.
The Wolf had been at the last concert, and thought Chad had looked old and drawn, which had led him to believe the rumours of his demise. But this Chad was a different kettle of mullet. He was spritely, interested in the cars, and willing to take the piss with us. He posed with the cars, as can be seen at the start of this piece, and with us under the verandah, where, as can be seen, we had taken our respect for the man to the ultimate level by visiting his personal orthodontist, in Queensland, and ordering some Chad-chops. Expensive, but worth it.
He even posed with Smack's van. The man's a fucking saint!
The concert was great. Chad did all of the old favourites with great verve and vigour: The Sheik of Scrubby Creek, The Fatal Wedding, The Bobba Wobba Wedding, and our personal favourite The Thrashing Machine.
It was a full moon that night, nay, it was a Super Moon, when for the first time in yonks the full moon was very close to the earth. This may explain some of the things that happened that night.
First to fall under the spell of Lunar was the Brickie, who felt that the heavenly body was over-rated, and proceeded to give us a demo of what a real moon should look like. The audience seemed underwhelmed immediately after his performance. Can't imagine why.
After that Chad did the first part of his thang, and mighty good it was too. Then a couple did some country songs, while Chad had a rest.
It was the Brickie, again, who felt that the performance needed a little spicing up, and decided to do a little act of his own. He retrieved the "lifeboat" bicycle from Robbo's car at the front of the pub, got his gear off, and road, buck naked, through the pub, down the passage, down some stairs at the back of the pub, across the front of the stage, around the crowd, and out the back, where he had forgotten the gate was closed, but crashed through it anyway.
Unlike the mooning this was greeted with wild applause. The funny thing was that he was wearing a hat similar to one worn by Macca, but came back in wearing a different hat. Many people that night asked Macca if he might not consider doing it again, and were not convinced by his denials. Makes you wonder what people focus on in these situations..spooky.
By the end of Chad's second set, things were really humming, and the boys were really just getting into party mode, when, at 11.00pm, Keithy called "Last Drinks!"
Shock! We'd all been there at 3.00am some nights kicking on, but apparently this was some aspect of new liquor laws, and there was really nothing for us to do , but buy some supplies, and kick on outside. Which we did in the balmy early autumnal night.
The Brickie's ride had amused us mightily, and we thought we might like another memento of the event featuring the Lifeboat, so Matty climbed the roof of the pub, with the bike, and was innocently posing, with his clothes on (though there was a Plan B), when all hell broke loose.
Typhoon Helen came barging through the doors, scattering drunks left and right, and in stentorian tones informed us that this must stop, and besides the local coppers were on the way.
We all looked forward to the flashing lights, but they never came. Another of life's little disappointments.