So What Do You Reckon?

by Robert G. Barrett

  Always dobbing. Always going: ‘Oowhah! I saw that and I’m telling.’

  You couldn’t belt him, because every time you did he’d run crying to the teacher and you’d get caned.

  But we sorted out the one in our class — every sports afternoon, we’d pick the locks of his school case and shit in it. It was beautiful to watch when he’d open his case, go ‘oowhah!’, then cry when he’d find a big, steaming mockingbird in amongst his schoolbooks.

  Something resembling that kid at school is hosting a show on the ABC called Media Watch — Stuart Littlemore.

  I’ve watched about as much of this show as I can stomach — and only that much because it comes on straight after Four Corners, and the Monday night movies on the other channels are usually stuffed.

  It’s 15 minutes of carping, insipid negativism from what would have to be the most droning, somniferous voice on TV. Vocal Serapax.

  It’s hard to imagine anybody could bore the tits off you in such a short space of time, but Littlemore does it with ease. This moralising, holier-than-thou’s idea of entertainment is to go through the papers and TV news shows nit-picking for any puerile solecism or anything he deems remotely sexist, racist or humorous.

  You’d only get a show like this amongst the flat-earthers on the ABC — the network that brought you Trish Goddard, Racket, Jane Singleton, etc. Out in the real world I reckon Littlemore would find the going a lot tougher.

  He’s always putting the boot into the Packer and Murdoch press and just about everybody else, but the bottom line is that Littlemore’s like the parrot on the biscuit tin — not quite in it.

  I don’t reckon the private sector media would wear him if he was a mink coat, so he knocks it, constantly targeting Derryn Hinch and Jana Wendt for his fatuous, prosaic criticism.

  Okay, I wouldn’t fancy living next door to Hinch. But you never see a word on Littlemore’s show about Hinch going into bat for abused kids or Greenpeace. Or about when Jana’s A Current Affair exposes crooked cops, bastards ripping off pensioners, or the plight of farmers getting thrown off their land. They get no credit for this — just a constant barrage of pedantry from Stu-baby.

  Okay, an example: Hinch showed a couple of Parks and Wildlife officers trying to arrest this Asian caught with buckets of undersize shellfish.

  This little ingrate had just stripped a reef of everything growing on it, completely stuffing the ecology of the area, and then he puts on the old ‘solly no spik English’ dodge, to the complete frustration of the two Wildlife officers.

  ‘Pity they couldn’t catch some big fish,’ sniggered sanctimonious Littlemore. It’s a wonder he didn’t accuse them of racism.

  And the week before when ACA tracked Christopher Skase to his villa in Spain, sprung him in a restaurant living it up and buttonholed the so-called bankrupt for an interview, even following him to his taxi as he tried to scuttle away, Littlemore jumped on them.

  ‘Oowhah!’ he cried. ‘Look at that. TV journalism almost to the point of assault. Tch-tch-tch.’ Don’t worry about all the poor punters Skase has dudded, Stu. Worry about his right to privacy.

  And if any cartoonist makes the slightest gag about women, Littlemore howls sexism. Yet in August he ran a clip from a W.C. Fields movie in which W.C. and a barman are talking about a woman they beat up.

  The barman says: ‘I knocked her down.’ And W.C. says: ‘But I was the first one to kick her.’

  Littlemore must have thought this hilarious. His face actually moved and he arched an eyebrow. If Littlemore thinks jokes about women getting beaten up are funny, he should visit a casualty ward after some drunken husband’s gone to town on his wife.

  But Littlemore wants to be very careful with his 15 minutes on Aunty. If a zealot from the Anti-Discrimination Thought Police took a good look at Media Watch they could possibly construe it as being racist, sexist, fascist and offensive.

  The ADTP could say it’s racist because it’s spoken in English and the media under scrutiny uses mainly English.

  What about some Media Watch from Il Globo, Kosmos, The Maltese Herald or Al Fatah?

  Aren’t we a multicultural society? Isn’t this discrimination against the ethnic media — in other words, racism?

  You could say Media Watch is sexist because a man hosts it. And aren’t all men potential rapists? I’ve seen women marching under banners saying so.

  So why doesn’t Littlemore co-host his show with a lesbian? I wouldn’t mind my eight cents a day going to see some ugly dyke alongside him.

  She couldn’t look any more repulsive than his tie collection does.

  Then the ADTP could say Media Watch is fascist because it’s possible there are more right-handed people than left-handed people in Littlemore’s production crew. The left is being discriminated against by the right — underhanded fascism.

  The ADTP might say Media Watch is offensive because Littlemore never wears a jacket. Other gentlemen on the ABC wear jackets. Even Johnny Peard and Arthur Beetson — the Laurel and Hardy of football commentators — wear jackets.

  But not Littlemore. He just sits there in his shirtsleeves looking like a bongo drum wearing glasses.

  It’s possible conservative ABC viewers would find this grossly offensive.

  So that’s Media Watch — I’m not saying it’s racist, fascist, offensive or sexist — just that it’s a boring, pedantic, non-event and another waste of taxpayers’ money.

  And I’m happier than ever that me and George Gukatis shit in that kid’s school case back at Randwick Boys’ High.

  Loath as I am to admit it, I once got sprang having a bludge and watching the Ray Martin Show.

  The Inbred Construction Co. of Terrigal was laying a concrete drive out the front of my house. Anyone who thinks two heads are better than one has never seen the ICC in action.

  I could take no more so I went inside to watch Ray Martin.

  Actually, the other reason I was watching the Ray Martin Show was because earlier I just happened to be tuned into Doug Mulray on 2MMM. I’m not a Doug Mulray fan — I detest him and I’m sick of mentioning the odious little toad’s name.

  But I wanted to catch the Rev. Dr Doug’s version of Fractured Fairy Tales. He mentioned he was compering for Ray Martin that day and his special guest was Leslie Nielsen, star of the two Naked Gun movies.

  I’ve seen some funny things on the box over the past few weeks but this was the funniest, most uplifting 90 minutes of TV I’ve seen in 10 years. Not so much because of Doug Mulray’s brilliant wit and rapier-like riposte, but to see the reprehensible little monster get completely done at his own game. He died by his own sword.

  Doug Mulray, king of the fart jokes, lord of the noisy rings, got skewered — and then turned into cat meat. Made to look like a fool. And worse, by a Seppo.

  No matter what I see again, it was worth heaps to see Leslie Nielsen vaporise Mulray to dust on prime-time TV. And I’m a patriot who hates to see good Aussie boys get done by Yanks.

  The show started with the usual razzmatazz and Mullos brushed up okay in a nice shirt and jeans and, with his well-spoken, mellow tones, he soon had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand.

  It was pleasant banter for a while. Then, naturally enough, the Rev. Dr Doug slipped out a fart. A reasonable fart which went over well in the studio.

  There was a ripple of polite applause from the audience and guffaws, I imagine, in millions of loungerooms across Australia. As an off-the-cuff horse-and-cart, I’d give it a six.

  There was more banter, then Mullos introduced his first guest — Leslie Nielsen, who came on with about five metres of toilet paper hanging out of his trousers. This went over enormously because he was so sincerely apologetic about it.

  They proceeded to chat away, showed some clips from Nielsen’s latest movie and discussed their prostate and stomach problems.

  It was nice and cosy, almost tea-with-the-vicar stuff. Then Mulray squeezed out another fart. Not as good as the first one but a reasonab
le enough effort.

  The American took it in his stride like an old pro and they proceeded with the chat. Then Nielsen farted, apologised and kept talking.

  Cool as a cucumber.

  It was totally unexpected, a complete bolt out of the blue — though you must remember he’s 60-odd and you’d expect a bit of flatulence.

  As far as I was concerned, and the rest of Australia, he had fluffed on prime-time TV.

  Mulray was gone to Gowings. He did his best to regain his composure and there was more tea with the vicar, but the Rev. Dr Doug was staggering.

  Then, just as Mullos looked like coming good, Nielsen farted again. A definite nine this time. It blew Mulray completely out of the water. It was cruel in a way, because he was now up against a master.

  Nielsen apologised again and took over the show. Doug was gone.

  Eventually Mulray had to piss the American off — he was just too good. Mulray was so humbled he even had to produce an old, perished fart cushion from his pants that looked like someone had brought it back from the battle of the Somme. What a cop-out.

  Nielsen had Mulray on toast and could have completely vanquished the evil one for all time. But top bloke that he is, he produced what looked like a long, skinny squash ball he had hidden in his hand.

  The man is a genius. The Rev. Dr Doug had to sit there like a Lowes dummy as it was exit stage right for the Swamp Fox. What a guy.

  But I’m not a complete nark, I’ll give credit where it’s due. The kid recovered. Mulray’s a pro and he got his shit together. The show proceeded with a band called the ‘Fargone Beauties’ who play trash bluegrass music. They certainly trashed ‘Wild Thing’. They left it looking like rats had chewed it.

  I don’t know much about trash bluegrass but if it means goodtime music by complete hounds of musicians, it’s okay by me.

  Next was the rugby league player Fatty Vautin and Aussie Rules man Dermo Brereton to discuss the upcoming grand finals and that. Dermo was supposed to be in the studio but they were forced to do a hook-up because the Melbourne genius had missed his plane.

  ‘Couldn’t you find your earring?’ asked Fatty.

  Not a bad bit of repartee for a Queenslander. They chatted for a while but I think neither wished to overtax his mental capacity.

  Then Mulray introduced a panel of four delightful women from Melbourne and Sydney. Well-groomed, intelligent, quite attractive, if that’s not a sexist remark.

  There were two brunettes and two blondes — with the Rev. Dr Doug in the middle — and the subject was, loosely, blonde jokes.

  Being the challengers, the brunettes led with a quote from the Oxford dictionary: ‘Blonde means light-headed and big boobs,’ meowed one brunette. But this, along with everything else, went over okay.

  There was no hissing or scratching. No drinks were thrown. No-one copped an Oroton handbag across the jaw. It was all good fun and great verbal riposte.

  I’d give the debate to the blondes. They were cool under fire, especially one who was a new mother.

  In fact, I’d give the day to the wholesome blonde on the end. And naturally, being a woman, she got the last word in.

  She just laughed and said: ‘Hey, I got flown up from Melbourne to do this.’ And have a good time, too, I imagine.

  Which seems to suggest the women in Melbourne are a lot smarter than the men. Even the blondes. At least they can catch a plane.

  It was a top ending to a top show and great TV all round. Even if poor Doug got beaten at his own game.

  Still, if you live by the fart joke, you die by the fart joke.

  One of the journos at People, Dan Lane, is compiling a book on the experiences of old Aussie diggers, mainly during World War II.

  He’s been interviewing diggers all over Australia and collecting research on never-before-told stories and, from what Dan tells me, the book should be a ripper.

  Oddly enough, I got onto a great story from WWII two doors up the road. From my old mate and neighbour, Norman Taylor.

  I like Norm and his wife Dorothy — they were probably the only people in the street who didn’t want to have me tarred and feathered when I first moved in. And I know Norm didn’t sign the petition ‘Ratboy’ took to Gosford council over me playing a portable radio on my sundeck.

  He and his wife are always laughing and smiling as they work on their substantial block of land which they’ve almost turned into a nature reserve. And I have to laugh when he tells me about the family of bush turkeys he feeds and the dragon lizards and magpies that follow him around like pets.

  I found out Norm is an ex-seaman who’d also moved up from Sydney — same as wharfies and P and Ds, they’re down-to-earth, knockabout blokes.

  Then one day he told me how he was the only survivor out of 1200 seamen — including the 47 men on his ship — when the Germans bombed Bari Harbour in Italy in 1943, in what was one of the best-kept secrets of WWII.

  It was a disaster second only to Pearl Harbor and it was 30 years before the story came out in a book, by US Air Force officer Glenn B. Infield, called just that — Disaster at Bari.

  Norm was 24 at the time and 3rd engineer on the ‘Test Bank’ out of England. They’d just been running supplies in and out of Malta, losing eight ships from their last convoy to U-boats.

  On December 2 they were in Bari Harbour, empty and waiting to take on supplies. Early that day a lone ME210 reconnaissance plane buzzed the harbour, but no-one took a great deal of notice.

  They did at eight o’clock that night, though, when the Luftwaffe arrived with 105 Junker bombers.

  From the photos Norm showed me, Bari’s like a big version of Coffs Harbour with a long breakwater running right around it. There were 30 ships crammed in there, some of them side by side and the German bombers couldn’t miss.

  Ship after ship disintegrated, illuminated by the parachute flares dropped by the Germans. Other fires leapt across ships loaded with octane fuel bombs and ammunition.

  One ship, the John B. Motley — a fuel carrier, took a bomb down the smokestack which, according to Infield’s book, ‘sent a cloud of exploding fuel 1000 feet into the sky. The entire harbour seemed to empty as the tidal wave caused by the explosion washed over the breakwater’.

  Norm’s ship took a direct hit in the forward hold, killing nearly every man on board. Norm and three others somehow managed to get a raft into the water and paddled like mad towards the harbour wall.

  According to Norm, the noise and the huge waves from the bombs made them feel as if they were in some vicious storm. As they got to the wall, a bomb landed in the water next to them, blowing them eight metres into the air and up onto the dock.

  They tumbled out of the raft as another bomb hit, blowing Norm and his mate 20m along the wharf and underneath a truck. The other two got blown back into the water.

  Despite the terrific blast from the Motley, there were still hundreds of men swimming around in the harbour, including Norm’s two mates, and they still had a chance of making it.

  But what the allies didn’t tell anyone was that another ship, the John Harvey, was carrying 100 tonnes of mustard gas bombs. It took two direct hits and thousands of litres of liquid poured into the harbour where the survivors were trying to make shore.

  Now they weren’t only getting pounded by the Germans, they were choking to death from their own gas. If the John Harvey’s load had been known, the ship would have been kept outside the breakwater.

  After that it was just carnage, according to Norm. He grabbed his mate’s leg to pull him further under the truck, but all he got was a boot with a foot in it. Where the rest of him was, he didn’t know.

  The bombing lasted an hour. When it stopped, Norm crawled out from beneath the truck and there was nothing but bodies, flames and this eerie, black silence. Shocked and chilled to the bone, he staggered up to a picture theatre, smashed his way in, rolled himself up in one of the stage curtains and collapsed.

  The next day, still covered in oil, his clothes in ta
tters, he joined what land-based survivors there were and headed for first aid.

  A group of airmen from 23 RAF squadron gave him a lift and at first thought he was an Italian.

  Despite what had happened, Norm scarcely had a scratch, but all around him were people with their skin hanging off, eyes watering, coughing and the doctors and nurses didn’t know how to treat them because they didn’t know the symptoms of mustard gas poisoning. They put it down as NYD (not yet diagnosed) dermatitis cases.

  General Alexander sent a report to Churchill, who refused to believe there were gas casualties.

  ‘The symptoms do not sound like mustard gas,’ he said.

  But Axis Sally, the Nazi radio propagandist, knew the story. ‘I see you boys are getting killed by your own gas,’ she sneered in one of her nightly broadcasts.

  The whole thing was covered up for years. Even today, the full details of what actually happened aren’t known.

  So this is why I guess Norm is always smiling or joking when I see him. ‘Every day’s a bonus,’ he reckons.

  He should have been killed four times — on the ‘Test Bank’, on the raft, while on the dock he should have been blown back into the harbour amongst the mustard gas.

  But fourthly, all along the breakwater hundreds, possibly thousands, of 380mm shells were stacked — waiting to go onto the destroyers and battleships.

  When the John L. Motley went up, the tidal wave washed them all into the sea. If one bomb had landed amongst them it would have almost blown away the entire heel of Italy.

  And to quote Norm again: ‘I’d still be on my way to Mars.’

  Instead, he landed two doors up from me. It’s not a bad yarn, and you can get the entire version in Dan Lane’s book.

  Writing a column where you sometimes try to see the humorous side of things, it’s only appropriate certain lines must be drawn.

  One thing I don’t believe is funny, is the break-up of families. Battered women going through divorces. Husbands sent to the wall. Children torn apart in bitter custody battles. The acrimony of alimony settlements.