Back in the 70s – the 19’ not 18’!
Sent to the Bush as a new school teacher,
I stood out in the local everyday scene
Like a newcomer to Earth, an alien creature.
There’s not much to tell of that tin pot town,
Nothing too memorable, nothing to excite,
My time in the place brought me to a frown,
It was a scene from that film ‘Wake in Fright’!
The town was such a long way from the coast,
No waves around there to wash over my feet,
The long, hot sun made me feel like burnt toast,
The only waves near were those from the heat.
Now when I reached town I went to the local,
Thought that the pub was the best place to mix,
And I found the locals there extremely vocal,
When telling me how to give my love life a fix.
“Go to the dance – it is on Saturday night,
Down at the club, the place for you to be,
You’re sure to meet there the one that is right
And for all this fun, it is totally free”.
These were the days of disco and strobe light,
Floral shirts, chains and plenty of long hairs,
So I practised my moves till I got them right
Before donning my trusty Travolta flares.
At the club front were pics of the ‘famous’,
No one that I knew - felt I was from Mars,
But I’m sure these acts were better than dross,
You could say I was ‘Dancing with the Stars’.
And as I went in the band sounded so tame,
No disco beat, the songs filtered from afar,
In front was where all the pretty tunes came:
‘Frank Bourke and the White Rose Orchestra’.
And then I had a flashback to my youth,
The sounds lulled me into a déjà vu trance,
Mum thought that I was becoming uncouth
So she sent me to learn to ballroom dance.
I told my mates “this’s where to snare a chick”,
But when we arrived it was not so very hip,
So we decided to extend the slide and kick
To see what unfortunate girl we could trip.
I then told Mum dance was not for me -
“As a footballer it‘s hard for me to turn”,
I made up this lie to be wholly dance free,
In fact, we‘d been told “Don’t ever return”.
Now awake from my dream I glanced around,
To my shock I thought I was in outer space,
Purple hair, false teeth and specs abound,
Had I walked into a retirement place?
As I retreated a slap came on my shoulder,
Like a cougar her pounce couldn’t be neater,
The invite to dance from one so much older -
A purple-headed young male people-eater!
She guided me quickly into the dance fray,
Stumbling, bumbling – what were those steps?
For this nightmare to be over I could only pray
Like a tired lifter asking “how many more reps?”
Just then I looked up and admired the Queen,
Her portrait was on the wall for all to view,
Young Liz was surely not the worst I‘d seen,
I joined Prince Phil on the interested queue.
But as I was perving I forgot to do swerving,
Tripped over feet and sailed through the air,
As I flailed, wailed, readied for a bruising
To my chagrin, I heard my tight flares tear.
Down went dancers all across the dance floor,
My face landed on what felt like floppy foam,
But the pain in my foot was so hard to endure,
I immediately let out an almighty groan.
My nose was wedged in her luxurious bust,
And after I struggled to pull all my snout out,
I peered down to see what was the foot pain fuss,
And saw that some guy had my foot in his mouth.
‘Foot-in-mouth’, you say, why would this be sore?
But what you’ll hear next is definitely grubby,
My shoe had dropped off to show me the gore,
Digging his dentures in was the old duck’s hubby!
Torn pants, red face, the savaged foot and more,
If this was a dream, I‘d awoken in fright,
Retreating quickly I fumbled for the door,
As they say in the theatre: “Exit stage right”.
Back to the pub I slunk feeling like a joke,
This was a set up – I‘d been taken for a ride,
News was out ‘bout the bloke from the big smoke,
Beers all round helped my embarrassment hide.
Now I sit back, old, living in the Sticks,
I recall the night of my dance initiation,
If I’d paid more attention to ballroom tricks
I would have avoided the painful foot situation.
From this there’s something for all to live by,
The wisest of sayings, so hard to refute:
“Be careful when telling a little white lie
It’ll always come back and bite you on the foot!”
Way out West where the droughts are always a menace,
People escape with a yarn and by playing some tennis,
The court is usually found next to the local small hall,
That is also used by some for the annual B & S Ball.
Who wins at our tennis it is extremely plain to see,
But the biggest contest happens prior to afternoon tea,
It’s in the kitchen where the battle will still be raging,
To cook the best offering, there’s plenty of upstaging.
Now Phoebe over there is the grazier’s wife,
She’s a true blue blood, if you’re to believe all the hype,
Her specialty is a sponge that tickles your fancy,
Although news is it’s cooked by a local lass named Nancy.
Poor Mona lives up to her name and no one does fear her,
She hangs with Old Bill, the shearer, struggling to hear her,
Her offering is some hot chips and those packet savoury dishes,
She’s even been known to bring a Cod, when Old Bill fishes.
The other ladies are married to men known as the ‘cockie’,
And their sweet servings never get a modicum of mockery,
As these wives conjure up plenty of the culinary delight,
All could win ‘the competition’ in their very own right.
But here’s the new teacher’s girl, her name is Roxy,
The gents are most interested and think she is foxy,
Whatever the dish she’s contrived it is very exotic,
Like Nigela, watching her cook would be highly erotic.
And now its afternoon tea, it will be hard for a fake,
Proof will be in the pudding, oops sorry, in the cake,
The winner will be gauged by the amount of left-overs,
It looks like Roxy’s dish is where all the interest hovers.
And when it is over, judging by the many female looks,
They’re ready to question Roxy and get in their hooks,
Instead of trying to rally and smash down some aces,
We may be watching pavs fly at about twenty paces!
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