As with armageddon,
I fail to understand the significance of New Year’s Day. At best, it means I
will spend January, February and March writing the wrong date on everything.
At it’s
worst, it means being kept awake til 4 a.m. or thereabouts by neighbours
playing what they think is music at increasingly competitive volumes. At
midnight there is also a brief increase in noise while some shout in the
street, demonstrating that despite living in Frankston they are able to count backwards
from ten.
This is
actually a welcome respite from the usual street brawls occurring when one of
the occupants of a nearby house [choose any house at random] seeks to evict
another. Reasons for attempted evictions range from “You *****ing *****ed ****
you ***”, to “*****
you, you *****ing ****”.
The
bright people two blocks away do not join in the pyrotechnic activity on New
Year’s Eve, preferring to keep their marine flares for the other 51 weekends of
the year.
-------------------------------
You say
you’ve made a resolution
Well, you
know
We all
want to change ourselves
You tell
me that it’s self improvement
Well, you
know
We all
want to be our best
But when
you talk about giving up [insert vice
here]
Don’t you
know that you can count me out…
---------------------------------
Yet
another YouTube video mentioning Frankston has gone viral. Last time the press
insisted the racist abuse was ‘on the Frankston line’. It was, in fact,
perpetrated by some creep from a more eastern suburb who was travelling on the
Frankston line but neither to nor from Frankston itself.
The
latest shows an incident of gross violence [a tautology, surely] also occurring
on the Frankston line. Please note the creep charged was from Chelsea
The
Frankston foreshore, statistically, was the most popular family beach in Victoria
--------------------------------
Oh, I
know I scoff and denigrate Frankston but I am comforted by the knowledge this
could not possibly lower house values here. I’m just making cheap use of a
stereotype. If I replaced the location names Frankston, Franger or Frankghanistan
with placenames like Upotipotpon or Tittybong [real place names, BTW] you would
think I was talking about Dad and Dave, wouldn’t you?
--------------------------------
On our
way home from Corowa yesterday, we dropped one of TO’s relos in Coburg after which I crossed the Sydney Road Brunswick
Many
times I was awakened at night, not by the sounds of the police choppers
swooping rooftops like grumpy magpies, but the bloody bright beams of chopper-lights
illuminating the hairs up my nose.
One
particularly memorable night I was awakened before
the choppers and lights arrived by a very loud explosion 3 houses away over the
back fence.
“Oh ****",
said a woman, in tones not unlike those one often hears in Frankston. “Oh, now
you’ve done it you ****, you’re in real ****ing trouble now. You’ve really
****ing done it this time!”
Some
bloke’s only but repeated response was a great deal of loud groaning.
The sounds
of ambulance and police sirens added to the yelling and chopping.
Dressed
in appropriate evening wear [jimjams and slippers] we went out to watch the
entertainment from a distance safe enough to avoid annoying our fearless peacekeepers.
The
groaning moaning bloke, it transpired, had tried to rig a bomb to the car of
his ex-Mrs but stupidly touched the car himself before leaving the scene of
intended crime. One can only hope he was not left handed.
There was
no report in the next day’s paper, nor was there any such thing as YouTube nor
even, apparently, a Frankston Line involved.
As we wended
our way through these inner suburbs yesterday it occurred to me that if
Frankstonians migrated to Coburg
Oh well.
I miss the inner suburbs, but miss the peace and quiet of a country town more.
---------------------------
WARNING – A RUDE BIT
Mary had
a little skirt
With a
slit along each side
And
everywhere that Mary went
The boys
could see her thighs
Mary had
another skirt
With a
slit right in the front
But she
doesn’t wear it very often
