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Ronan's report


Friday September 11th, 2009

On the hot, spot lit, sweat drenched stage of Peelers in the High Road,the old ZA Tunny Rods were deep loaded under the weight of the swinging performers. With Big Bill Bandurias Big Gahooners blowing back boogie against the pounding déjà voodoo beats of “Moo Moo” Mulligans Middle Aged Dollis Vale Bongo Babes, the final Wednesday lunchtime set of Hauled Strike and the Hysterical Spasms approached its explosive climax.

As Bogs Briggs tripped, hip grinding, into his caiparinha fuelled finale, he felt his age weakened butt give in the gimbals and, somewhat surprised at the steel cored power of the cracked bamboo and old agate, he was launched out towards the squealing ladies of the audience in a flailing limbed sparkling cartwheel of crimson faux leather lederhosen and ZA Theatrical non slip Punt Frunts.

For Briggs, too long sleepless, fishless and cortex cooked on dregs dredged from the back bar glasses in the Peelers Cocktail Chasm, his time rotating in mid air passed strangely slow. For so many cachaça drenched months he had been tormented by the phantoms of his pastoral past, of the great lake and its rivers, of clear streams and subtle fins and of the wild, fish wish witch women of the high white mountains who came to him absinthe green and sour as wormwood, whispering love and poison in the cold, dark, insomniac nights. Now, he was faintly aware that at last, blessed oblivion may be at hand and he allowed himself a brief smile of relief at the prospect.

As he spun hopefully at ceiling height above the upturned pale powder puff faces, the broad rack of his diamante nymphing antlers caught in the suspension chains of the ornate chandeliers that dim lit the seething tweedy matrons on the damp dance floor. Briggs was left suspended, disappointingly conscious, above his lust frenzied fans thus offering the pulsing ladies beneath a free and uninterrupted view up the leg of his ZA “Fruitarian Rambler” rapid release shorts… ...many simply fainted.

Dangling temporarily above the crowd, held up only by his antler ear hoops and crowned by dusty crystal, he mused momentarily on his misfortune, smiled benignly at the now silent Banduria Gahooners and Moo Moo Bongo Babes and allowed himself a slightly concerned “OH SH*T“, before plummeting down towards what he anticipated would be a fairly soft landing in the sickeningly undulating blue rinse sea of hot hands and heaving décolletage below.

Sadly, Briggs last sip at the waters of Lethe was not to be, for, some hours later, he awoke kiss sore in a small dark room randomly patched with Pink ZA Pinkney Patent Pimple Pattern Back Pads for Leaning against Smooth Barked Trees...there was a faint lysergic hum. He became aware of a pair of off yellow, seal pup eyes staring deeply into his...

"Hello Bogs"” said a husky voice drenched with acid passion..."I’m Bunty..." she pointed vaguely at the pink pads...

"I made these..." she paused, weird eyes flashback spiralling. "...Can I have your autograph...??"

"OH SH*T..." said Briggs for the second time that day, falling back on the rumpled bed..."Fkn Witches again..."


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