We had to have a pissup. Financial pressures, and the long procrastinated AGM, demanded it. So we did.
      Let me explain. Unlike the Holy Roman Mick Church, we have vows of poverty we actually believe in, and the LAW says we gotta have a Meeting, which we don't believe in, so why not kill two little birdies with the same yonnie. The accepted rule within the club is that after all expenses, and keeping $10 in the bank, we drink the rest, and, because there is an oversupply of eccentrics in the neighbourhood, we'd amassed more than the quota of shekels, and so, want to or not, we just had to spend it on a pissup. This was also good in providing an anaesthetic for the (60 second) AGM, as required by LAW.
     Plan A, to hold it in a brick drain was abandonned by unseasonably wet weather, so we opted for Plan B, at Robbo's Ruin on the windswept Moolort Plain, and a great success it proved to be.
     In an uncharacteristically rush of blood we actually had VOLUNTEERS to cater for the whole shebang, to whit: Yandoits Andy and Katie, Ms Fizz, and Izzy with food, furniture and flowers (read colourful weeds); with extra set up provided by Robbo and Cazza. Rusty Roger and Kiwi Leyah provided two lambs, despatched by Cowboy Kenny and the Brickie, and prepared on a spit by the Cowboy with all chipping in to mind it. To top it off, miracles of miracles, the entire membership was going to front, plus a couple of prospective members, and a couple of favourite ring-ins. A recipe for a successful pissup if ever I did see one, and so it proved.
    With 3 latecomers, who did not make it into the pic above, we had 15 cars, with an extra 4 missing due to the vicissitudes of outraged fortune, not a bad roll-call.
    The tables were set in this superb Heathcliffian Pile, unrestored to perfection, with no power, just candles, and despite it being summer, a cold enough breeze blowing to justify open fires in all of the 3 lower floor fireplaces, just to give the right atmosphere.
     We sat down about 30 for the lunch, but others came later, and feasted on quail eggs, venison terrine, spitroasted lamb (killed and hung 4 days earlier) and home-made Xmas pud with cream. Plus, off course, all of the extras: entrees, vegies,cheeses, cherries etc. On top, Deaf John brought a couple of kilos of fresh prawns which we had mid afternoon, lightly fried in chillies and garlic. Superb.
     The excess funds provided 3 slabs of beer, plus several bottles of Champers and sundry bottles of plonk, this, on top of what the punters brought along meant we did not go thirsty, even at 4.30 the next morning.
     Those who have visited these pages in the past may have come to the conclusion that we are a tad blokey. Well... we probably are a bit, but the shielas are every bit a part of the club, but seem to seek safety in numbers, and only go on Frolics where other shielas go. Bit like sheep really, I suppose. But they shone here, and, drank their full measure..fuck em.
    It was especially good to see a few partners who don't get along to many frolics turn up, and this is probably a good enough reason, if any be needed, to keep the event going. I hope the success of this one encourages them to do so.
     But, the Ferals are the ferals, and we had an astonishing number of doggies turn up as well. We weap for the loss of The Brick, Robbos's trusty dog, arthritic, deaf, blind and decrepid, who was Border Security Operative, and still is, as his recent demise has not really resulted in a deterioration of his performance.
    Frazzle the Whippet was there, Cultural Attache, because of his tireless search for culture in the crotches of, especially, women.
    Cooper, of the underbite was there, the Dorian Gray homunculous of the ever younger looking and benign Simon TASL.
    Country was there; the Red Healer, who is obsessed by the fibreglass Shaun The Sheep Esky, and wants to either move it to another paddock, or dispatch it.
    But a stirling performance this year was put in by Lenny the Whippet, whose handlers are Izzy and the Brickie.
    Everyone was just hanging out at the front, in between courses, chilling out, drinking and chatting. Lenny, in either an inspired moment of social criticism, which, in certain quarters would be considered art, or just, doggie geriatrics, or both, did a performance.
     Yandoit Andy, who has been known to frequent the Arty set, was just standing there, banging on about something, when Lenny pissed on his leg. Legitimate criticism, or bad manners?  The jury is really out on this one.
    It certainly had its effect. Action ensued: wailing, rending of sundry breasts, hopping up and down, and the flagrant waste of perfectly good beer to wash the supposed stain away. Over-reaction? Yep. I did feel, that, without forming a focus group, the consensus was that Lenny had justice on his side insomuch as Yandoit was doing an impersonation of a fence post, albeit badly, but this nonetheless constituted provocation.........and bad art.
     Lenny The Leg Pisser has since been appointed Art Critic for the Ferals.
     While we were waiting for the late arrivals, one of them arrived: it was The Feral Bard, Big Trav in the most ramshackle Chev Ute that man could ever make, and made entirely by his own hand, cause Cowboy Kenny refuses to take any blame for it.
     But it made it to the pissup, on its own steam, and oneday... when certain changes have been made, like putting some sides on it, and actually bolting the seat down to the floor, and other superficial bits like having a steering wheel that is actually a circle... it may get a red plate. In the meantime he'll just drive it around on the backroads, and take his chances with the rozzers.
    After this Fowl Andrew,and barb arrived in the B Ford, and soon after The Mauler and Nursie Lee in the ex-Brickie Plymouth Lurcher (renowned for breaking down 19 times on one day, and apparently not much reformed).
     May it be said here that sartorial elegence has not been a major feature of the Ferals to date, but this may change.
     I do not, off course, refer to the desperate cases on the right, who, having bunged on old hats, seem positively vainglorious in their conceit. No, we shall have none of them.
    The real fashionistas were in the wings, and when the cameras were out, they appeared like the true butterfies they are.
     I present them below:
     Standing alone, surrounded by their admirers, were Cowboy Kenny, and the Dashing Simon TASL.
     Kenny had chosen R.M.Williams hat and jeans, and topped this off with a provocative retro fox fur, worn decollete, off the shoulder to suggest a  devil-may-care, fuck-you, casual attitude, redolent of maggots , making a very powerful statement about the hardships of life on the land. The fact that the hat was clean, shows that in the face of hardship, personal hygiene still has a place, albeit only above the eyes.
     And, standing apart in virginal white, was the old denonaire roue Simon TASL. Simon had chosen to celebrate the galah occasion by pinning two cockatoos on his shoulders. What wit!
They did oddly sit very comfortably there, and, one wondered what he actually wanted to say by this statement.         
Our Simon is not simple. He may not be tall, but he's deep.
    After a few more sherbets, we had the AGM, which lasted less than 60 seconds, which is as it should be, then decided to go for a bit of a drive to visit Kenny's shed, which was only a couple of miles around the corner.
     On the way we visited another farm owned by Robbo's old man, with a superb farm house which stands empty, for reasons known to none, but with a garage that is full of Robbo's 50's cars.
     Fowl Andrew took advantage of an unattended bowser to re-charge the B Model.
     We trundled around the back roads stopping along the way to drove some of Kenny's sheep, who had decided that the grass was indeed greener on the other side of the fence, and bung them back to their own paddocks.
     Kenny's shed is a bit like Kenny...massive. It's more like the size of a factory on an industrial estate, and contains, apart from half a dozen cars and a truck or two, comprehensive welding and engineering equipment, plus a hydraulic hoist.
    On this occassion it also contained the Brickie's latest car: a 1927 Hupmobile Roadster.   The Brickie had replaced the rotten wood, (and a stirling job he had done of it too) but otherwise had left it alone. He had only had it out of the shed once before, when, unfortunately a headlight lens popped out unnoticed, and was
promptly run over.
     This was, however to be its true maiden run: the 5 or so k's to Robbo's, and then in the morning the 10k's to home. With the Brickie's experience with the Plymouth, expectations were not high.
    The Wolf decided to provide backup in the Huddo, and film the journey.
     With Young Tom and The Hobbit in the back, and Deaf John and The Brickie in the front, they set off.
    Now let it be said that The Brickie has a reputation as a Freshairian, that is, he is purported to believe that all energy, including energy for cars, is contained in the air we breathe. If it works for people, why not for cars? It's only a matter of adjusting the mixture.
    The number of times the Brickie has broken down, and been asked: "Did you put fuel into it?" when someone picked him up, is countless. The answer is invariably the same, "I thought I had plenty. It must be the mixture."
    Off we went, and soon he had stopped, loose connection. Off again, this time a klic or two, then stop. This time the loose connection had transmogrified into a fucked battery. No worries, the Huddo has a spare to power the on-board fridge. Off again, this time it boiled. Forgot the water.
    This time there was a change of driver. The Brickie gave way to The Sage Of The Gearbox, Deaf John.
    Off we went. As is the case with John, who can't hear all that well hence his monika, rev up to a goodly amount in first, and.......slip it into.......reverse!  The poor old Hup gave a shudder, stopped,..... and went backwards!
    Nothing broke! Just as well a gearbox expert was driving. Who coulda known what woulda happened if a non-expert woulda been driving?
    We got the whole shebang on video.
Click  on the pic on the right to get the YouTube link.
     Everyone made it back to Robbo's Ruin, and there we settled down to a night of drinking and dancing and bullshitting, which is what we excel at.
    Because so many punters sent me so many pics, which I have not been able to include in this report, I have decided to put up a pic gallery of the event.
Click on the picture below, to access this.
   All in all it was a pisser event, and again we wish all punters who follow the feral doings, the best of the festive season, and seeya next year.
                                 Cheers The Wolf