28 July 2010 Greg W. ©
Task: You are called from a party and someone hands you an unlabeled CD
The noise from the party muted as soon as the front door closed behind me. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness but I was quick to recognise the side-lights of the old Jag parked up in the drive. Matt was leaning nervously on the driver’s door, usual cigarette in hand and with the stupid scarf and flat cap he wore whenever he drove the old girl.
‘Why didn’t you come in, why call me out here ?’ I went to the front of the car, ‘Its freezing out here.’
“Nobody inside I want to spend my time with”. Matt replied. I resisted the urge to dispute, Matt’s attitude to the company had not been great recently, he didn’t do recession very well.
‘Yeah, okay. So what do you want with me then?’
‘You and me, we have a problem, a big one.' He was talking rapidly, like a panic. 'I’ve brought you all the month-end spreadsheets. One or two of your party mates in there have been sucking cash from our sales and our inventory accounts’
‘Bullshit!’ I sputtered. I didn't believe it, I might not be that good with admin but Matt is married to our accounting, so much so that I mostly leave him to it. ‘Who it is?’ I asked ‘And how much?’
‘No way that I can figure out who it is but it’s been happening for a long time and we are about 2 million down this year alone.' he raced on 'I've got no idea how many of the staff are involved but it’s not a one man act I can tell you that.’ Matt was really seething. He pleaded to me ‘You need to look at all these end-of-year summaries and let me know which items you approved and which ones you didn't. Even then, we’ll still have a huge job to figure it all out,,, took a long drag and continued ‘I’m going to call in the law and get the bastards, who ever they are.’ He smashed his hardly smoked cigarette out with his foot.
‘Whoa, hold on Matt. Couldn't it be a mistake or something?’ My mind was racing, I had personally recruited every one of our team and I couldn't believe any one of them would be ripping us off. ‘I mean, the guys are all on profit share, have been for years, we've been reporting accruals monthly, how could everyone have missed this?’
“It’s a systematic, bloody clever, well hidden rip-off. Matt spat out ‘While you have been schmoozing, and splashing payouts to all and sundry I have been slugging away trying to figure out why the end of year was out of whack’
His hands were shaking as he struggled to light another smoke. He was wearing his stupid driving gloves which made his whole smoking exercise clumsy as he fumbled with the pocket, smokes and lighter. He took a suck and went on, ‘I stumbled on it while I was matching receipts from our Munich exhibition last May. Its good, real good, You need to go through everything you approved back at least a couple of years to see how long this has been going on.”
With that he fumbled again in his jacket and handed me a flash drive. ‘Here take this, have a look at the things I've highlighted. Call me if you agreed to any of those draw-downs, I didn't, and I'm betting you haven’t.’
I looked at the drive. One bit of plastic, 8 gig of memory, untold agony. I turned the drive over and over in my fingers, I hate detail at the best of times and this was going to be hell. Worse, I knew Matt would be right and the fallout was going to be devastating.
I looked up to see Matt was getting back into his car.
‘Hey, where the fuck are you going? Come in and go through it with me, we need to sort this together!’
‘No way. I’m not walking through that bunch of bastards knowing any one of them is ripping me off. Call me when you've gone through it’. The big old engine roared into life and the tyres chirped as he shot backwards and took off up the street.
Shit! was all I could think as I watched his tail lights disappear.
I went back in, headed past the noise and into my study, shut the door and slipped the flash drive into my laptop.
The drive opened but there were no files. Shit! I re-booted and the drive opened again but no folders, no files, it was clean. I didn't understand. Matt was too sharp to have handed me a blank drive. I speed dialed Matt off my mobile and got a number unavailable message. For the next hour I tried every way I knew to reach him, he hadn't returned to the office, he wasn't at home, not at the gym, nowhere.
From then my actions are a blur, I closed down the party to huge protests. Said I had super urgent business to attend to, locked up the house and went out to see if I couldn't find Matt at any of his mates, I even scoured the local pubs. Not having any luck I went to our office, I turned the place over looking to see if he had left a copy of his files out. There was nothing. His desk was bare, he’d obviously taken his laptop with him, but he usually did that. I pulled open some client files but they were all in order and hadn't been recently searched through. There was no evidence anyone had been checking any hard copy records. Most strange, how could Matt be so sure of his facts if he hadn't cross-checked the files? It was making no sense. I kept trying to call Matt with no luck and eventually I drove back home.
Then things got even weirder, my front door was unlocked, I tentatively called out and walked into my foyer, all quiet, no one here, turning on lights room by room, nothing had been disturbed until I looked in my office. My laptop was on but the flash drive wasn't in the USB port. My brain went into overdrive, what is going on? Who would break in and only steal a blank flash drive? I dropped into my chair and sat, numb, trying to think.
I don’t know how long I had been sitting there when there was a thumping on the front door and a voice yelled out ‘Open up, police!’ I hadn't even reported the break in yet. That’s not what they wanted.
Detective Inspector Fielding presented me with a warrant for my arrest, cautioned me, and a uniformed sergeant bundled me into the back seat of a blacked out Volvo estate.
I didn't understand anything, I was sat in a bare room behind a table. I was accused of fraud, theft and a list of corporate violations longer than a phone book.
What I was slowly able to piece together during my interrogation is that the cops got a tip-off that I had been siphoning off shareholder profits and was about to leave the country. They slapped down on the table a first class ticket to Geneva made out in my name dated tomorrow morning. I was told a flash drive had been found with only my fingerprints on it which contained complete and damning records of bogus transactions going back three years, cash deposits made into a numbered off-shore bank account, falsified sales records and phony inventory orders.
I still didn't understand.
Then, suddenly it all clicked. 2007, the partnership had nearly collapsed. Matt and I were in fundamental disagreement on offering our employees profit share. There was nothing ever formally documented on Matt’s defeat, just the reduction in our joint share and despite our company thriving, I knew he had always sort of begrudged my victory over him. The bastard had copies of my house keys.
Shit. You think you know someone.
Well, he’d taken his time but he’s done one hell of a stitch up job on me.
I'm thinking he is on a flight to Geneva. First Class. How the hell am I going to get out of this?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Something about heat
A glow. That is what they call it, in polite society. That moist sheen on a woman warmed by the day or the day’s event.
Now she just lay there, ankles crossed and resting in the dappled shade pretending to be absorbed in what looked like some intellectual autobiography or a reference book, her open weave straw hat and sunglasses offering more fashion than function but I had to admit, all to great effect.
Arriving about an hour ago with a flourish of beach-towel and with an elegant removal of her flowing sundress she had, as intended, attracted the attention of every man and the envy of most women. I had seen this act played out at least once a day by pretentious ladies looking for more than a tan, but this one had a style, a worldliness, an aura if you would, that changed the focal point of the scenery around the pool. Perhaps it is just me, but dark red hair is always an attraction, her tresses waved thickly around lightly tanned shoulders and complimented what could be referred to as a coy sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks.
When ordering her soda and bitters from me as I did my rounds she had removed her glasses, flashed impossibly white teeth between glossed lips and glanced enticingly at me with smoke-blue eyes. I'd responded with “Room number?” for the charge. A witty, urbane and worldly bit of repartee if ever there was one. “P, 3” she pouted in reply. That gave me pause for thought, hmm, a penthouse suite...nice. As I returned to the bar and started to mix her drink I watched as one of the hopeful responded to the bait. Tanned, toned and in well-cut shorts he saunter-strutted directly to his target and crouched smoothly, near but not too close. Class act I thought. Self-confidently he removed his sunglasses, gave a sexy smirk and mouthed a practiced phrase. A flash scan from her, a couple of deprecating words and a dismissive tone any of which alone would have made a polar bear shiver, were effective in convincing this tiddler that his embarrassing retreat was preferable to any continued attempt.
I placed her drink on the table with a vibration and she signed for it with ring-free fingers, long unpainted nails and one of those smiles that could feed a man for a week.
Four summers I have been doing this job, it does have it’s perks, but this one, this one for some reason I’d rather watch than win, she had raised the temptress role to an art form. Back behind the safety of my bar I noticed Sir Rodderick had taken up his usual place next to the taps.
‘Good Morning Rod’, I welcomed him, ‘your usual coffee and chaser this morning Sir?’ His affable nod and easy grin had become a familiar start to a very pleasant daily ritual between us.
As I prepared the coffee and measured the rum over ice he bought me up to date on the wreck dive he led yesterday. I did like Sir Rodderick, “call me Rod”. From the first year I met him, he had exemplified all that 'taking a few weeks off ' meant. He'd inherited a failing metals business when he was a lad of 19 and spent the next twenty five years or so working it into a global colossus which now employed thousands directly and indirectly around the world. His high public profile made escape from prying eyes almost impossible, but here, as Rod the scuba guy, he blended in and could relax.
In the small pause it took me to serve him his coffee and chaser, his attention had been grabbed by the shaking of a bright auburn mane as its owner discarded her hat, rose sinuously, stretched and strode to the pool, graciously sitting and floating her rather pleasant legs in the water. The recently acquired tan on Rod’s face did not disguise an increased flush of colour.
Glancing briefly back to me he said, “What do think of that then?”
‘Honestly? I think she’s a stunner. I wonder though…’ But before I could say anything more there was a devastating smile and a small wave directed like a missile towards Rod. The bloke visibly melted a little as he grinned stupidly and nodded in reply.
‘What do you wonder?’ he asked absently.
‘Um’ I said, suddenly protective of my favourite customer, ‘What I wonder is if she isn’t just a high society wannabe type looking for a rich target’.
This rather blunt inference got Rod to turn and face me ‘Oh really?’ what makes you say that?’
‘Well, a couple of things, look at her. Holiday makers don’t present themselves like that if they are just looking to relax by the pool’
‘And?’
‘And, she turned down the advances of at least one strong candidate already this morning so I'd say she’s looking for a big fish .’
Rod considered this for a second and settled back onto his seat. ‘Could be.' he mused and after a while of staring added dreamily, 'You know, to me, she could be a professor of Geology, relaxing after a couple of weeks working a dig in 100 degree temperatures, sweat pouring down her as she collects, records and processes ore samples. She's here with her boss who after many long months has finally won her as his lover…’
‘Gawd, you have theme fantasies don’t you Rod.!' ‘Spending too much time working on the mines huh?’
Rod looked wistful ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ another long stare and then, "What do you think if I went over just as a local dive bloke and tried my chances?'
‘Mate, no offence intended, but I have seen the ones she has thrown away, and , with the best will in the world I have to tell you, you don’t measure up well to the discards. I'm sure she’s after higher game than dive instructors’
It was hopeless suppose, I should have known better. The temptress timed it perfectly, a glance, the raised knee, a sashay back to her beach towel, raising the empty glass.
Rod's question was obvious, I had the lime slice ready and was almost pouring the soda by the time he asked me ‘What’s her drink today?’
With a pang in my heart I handed him the drink and watched as he headed off to his humiliation. I continued watching as she smiled at his approach, giggled as he gestured towards the bar and made diving actions, but then she reached up to embrace him with a familiarity born of a deeper understanding.
As if my embarrassment wasn’t sufficient, Rod’s return to pay for the drink by flashing his Penthouse 3 room key made my face so red I wanted to bury it in the ice trough.
Now she just lay there, ankles crossed and resting in the dappled shade pretending to be absorbed in what looked like some intellectual autobiography or a reference book, her open weave straw hat and sunglasses offering more fashion than function but I had to admit, all to great effect.
Arriving about an hour ago with a flourish of beach-towel and with an elegant removal of her flowing sundress she had, as intended, attracted the attention of every man and the envy of most women. I had seen this act played out at least once a day by pretentious ladies looking for more than a tan, but this one had a style, a worldliness, an aura if you would, that changed the focal point of the scenery around the pool. Perhaps it is just me, but dark red hair is always an attraction, her tresses waved thickly around lightly tanned shoulders and complimented what could be referred to as a coy sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks.
When ordering her soda and bitters from me as I did my rounds she had removed her glasses, flashed impossibly white teeth between glossed lips and glanced enticingly at me with smoke-blue eyes. I'd responded with “Room number?” for the charge. A witty, urbane and worldly bit of repartee if ever there was one. “P, 3” she pouted in reply. That gave me pause for thought, hmm, a penthouse suite...nice. As I returned to the bar and started to mix her drink I watched as one of the hopeful responded to the bait. Tanned, toned and in well-cut shorts he saunter-strutted directly to his target and crouched smoothly, near but not too close. Class act I thought. Self-confidently he removed his sunglasses, gave a sexy smirk and mouthed a practiced phrase. A flash scan from her, a couple of deprecating words and a dismissive tone any of which alone would have made a polar bear shiver, were effective in convincing this tiddler that his embarrassing retreat was preferable to any continued attempt.
I placed her drink on the table with a vibration and she signed for it with ring-free fingers, long unpainted nails and one of those smiles that could feed a man for a week.
Four summers I have been doing this job, it does have it’s perks, but this one, this one for some reason I’d rather watch than win, she had raised the temptress role to an art form. Back behind the safety of my bar I noticed Sir Rodderick had taken up his usual place next to the taps.
‘Good Morning Rod’, I welcomed him, ‘your usual coffee and chaser this morning Sir?’ His affable nod and easy grin had become a familiar start to a very pleasant daily ritual between us.
As I prepared the coffee and measured the rum over ice he bought me up to date on the wreck dive he led yesterday. I did like Sir Rodderick, “call me Rod”. From the first year I met him, he had exemplified all that 'taking a few weeks off ' meant. He'd inherited a failing metals business when he was a lad of 19 and spent the next twenty five years or so working it into a global colossus which now employed thousands directly and indirectly around the world. His high public profile made escape from prying eyes almost impossible, but here, as Rod the scuba guy, he blended in and could relax.
In the small pause it took me to serve him his coffee and chaser, his attention had been grabbed by the shaking of a bright auburn mane as its owner discarded her hat, rose sinuously, stretched and strode to the pool, graciously sitting and floating her rather pleasant legs in the water. The recently acquired tan on Rod’s face did not disguise an increased flush of colour.
Glancing briefly back to me he said, “What do think of that then?”
‘Honestly? I think she’s a stunner. I wonder though…’ But before I could say anything more there was a devastating smile and a small wave directed like a missile towards Rod. The bloke visibly melted a little as he grinned stupidly and nodded in reply.
‘What do you wonder?’ he asked absently.
‘Um’ I said, suddenly protective of my favourite customer, ‘What I wonder is if she isn’t just a high society wannabe type looking for a rich target’.
This rather blunt inference got Rod to turn and face me ‘Oh really?’ what makes you say that?’
‘Well, a couple of things, look at her. Holiday makers don’t present themselves like that if they are just looking to relax by the pool’
‘And?’
‘And, she turned down the advances of at least one strong candidate already this morning so I'd say she’s looking for a big fish .’
Rod considered this for a second and settled back onto his seat. ‘Could be.' he mused and after a while of staring added dreamily, 'You know, to me, she could be a professor of Geology, relaxing after a couple of weeks working a dig in 100 degree temperatures, sweat pouring down her as she collects, records and processes ore samples. She's here with her boss who after many long months has finally won her as his lover…’
‘Gawd, you have theme fantasies don’t you Rod.!' ‘Spending too much time working on the mines huh?’
Rod looked wistful ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ another long stare and then, "What do you think if I went over just as a local dive bloke and tried my chances?'
‘Mate, no offence intended, but I have seen the ones she has thrown away, and , with the best will in the world I have to tell you, you don’t measure up well to the discards. I'm sure she’s after higher game than dive instructors’
It was hopeless suppose, I should have known better. The temptress timed it perfectly, a glance, the raised knee, a sashay back to her beach towel, raising the empty glass.
Rod's question was obvious, I had the lime slice ready and was almost pouring the soda by the time he asked me ‘What’s her drink today?’
With a pang in my heart I handed him the drink and watched as he headed off to his humiliation. I continued watching as she smiled at his approach, giggled as he gestured towards the bar and made diving actions, but then she reached up to embrace him with a familiarity born of a deeper understanding.
As if my embarrassment wasn’t sufficient, Rod’s return to pay for the drink by flashing his Penthouse 3 room key made my face so red I wanted to bury it in the ice trough.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Anything about victory/winning.
June 20something 2010.
Winning Wednesdays.
Earnest lads bawl words, a bombast of alpha impression.
Intense girls tease with their décolletage of images.
Some practiced minds haunt those inspired.
The shy few now amazing the bold as
logic surrenders to dreams.
Pathos shields gravitas in
a meeting contrived
a room confined
a group unique,
they all blend.
Ideas unify.
fresh art
now
is.
fresh art
now
is.
Every 2nd Wednesday the group known as Leeds Savages meet to read works to a theme pre-arranged or special poems or 1000 word tales. the above describes the sense of the meet. It is not meant to look like a twat.
It may not be art but is it poetry?
Anything about Elvis or related
Greg W. 22/6/10
REMEMBERING ELVIS THROUGH THE FIRE.
The place; Faulconbridge, Latitude 33.61South, Longitude 149.8East. high in the mountain ranges 50 miles west of Sydney, Australia.
The year is 2001, the time a hot mid-afternoon at the end of December.
The scene is a heavily wooded ridge running away to the south and overlooking a network of densely forested valleys which drop sharply away hundreds of feet below. A typical summer day, clear blue sky, dry and hot, but this year, the fifth in a series of droughts, it was blistering. Midday temperature over 40 degrees, that’s 108 in old speak. Worse still, there had been short rains through Spring that year. These had done nothing to put water into the reservoirs but they had allowed the undergrowth to grow very thick, to dry off in the subsequent summer and to leave a huge bank of tinder-dry leaves and twigs spread thick over millions of acres.
The left-wing government had taken on the greenie lobby policy years ago to stop the back-burning of our land. Fire bans had been institutionalised, barbecues banned and jail terms issued to offenders. The world had got insane.
We were just four blokes, volunteer firefighters, trained locally in bushfire control and in recent times we had seen a lot of bad summer action.
For the last five hours Ian, Ross and I had been slashing, burning and felling our way along this forgotten fire track, with Steve trailing us in the tanker appliance mopping up any breakaways or spot fires. There was another team we could hear off in the distance, chain sawing and sweating through their own fire break with the calm panic that is the default when you work against a deadly and capricious foe like this.
We had all been trying for days to create a controlled fire break to slow the raging front. We want to protect the bush and its wildlife, but today, more critically perhaps, to save the homes, farms and towns in the fire's immediate path. Every time we had laid in a break but were forced to retreat, we had watched as the inferno again and again engulfed our mortal attempts to slow it.
The blast furnace that had begun as spotfire #39 was relentlessly decimating our horizon and its smoke and fly-ash was stinging our eyes. Ian turned his black-smeared face to me and shouted, pink lipped and bearded, that he was going to report in and get a status. I acknowledged him with a wave, turned and motioned for Steve to drive up. We could all do with a break.. I watched as Ross, within earshot of Ian’s conversation on the radio, started to pick up the tools and I guessed we were being closed down. Checking my surroundings, all was well and I gathered up my gear while I waited for them to walk back to me.
It turned out, Control had told Ian the wind was forecast to change and we were to back out asap and return to base. It had taken a couple of minutes for Ian and Ross to reach me and I wondered why Steve had not bought the truck up yet. The three of us set off carrying our gear back down the track only to hear Steve slowly grinding the starter in an attempt to get the truck to kick. I looked past him to see how our back-burn was going behind the truck. If Steve hadn’t been able to kill the breakouts because of the truck stalling… But the burn looked safe for now. I saw Ross glancing at the sky, he knew it would be anything but safe if the wind did turn on us. It was clear from our faces the same thought was with us all.
Time was now a most precious element to us. Ian radioed in the situation, Ross dived into the back of the truck to switch to the spare battery and I lifted the engine hatch. Steve told me there was loads of diesel and the gauges were all okay, the engine just wouldn’t kick. The calm panic rose a notch as we all worked flat out to solve the problem. It was Ian who made the call to Control with the news our tender was dead. We had half a tanker of water and one working auxiliary pump. Ross tested it was okay and the decision was made to stay with the tender and wait help. Silence fell uncomfortably between us as we looked at each other. I was thinking of a million different things and wondered how these three blokes would handle what could be either of two options; a full-on disaster, or a few days stressful wait for rescue. We each drank a bellyful of water, soaked the blankets and sorted through the gear we would need if we were still here when the fire front hit. The sounds from the other team had stopped and we figured they would have been recalled too, or they were driving the rough trails to come to our aid. Control had requested our radio silence while they coordinated our recovery and the equally urgent relocating of over 30 other teams.
It wasn’t long before our ‘stressful wait’ option became redundant, the air around us stopped moving, the leaves high in the trees hung limp and a few glowing ashes previously held aloft and harmless now started to fall from the sky into the valleys below. When you are in the middle of a horror of nature it all happens in slow motion. We watched the glowing embers fall into the dry undergrowth. Almost on cue the breeze began to rise from the valleys providing air for the embers. Wisps of smoke began to rise from a little smolderings here and there in the valley below. We waited to see if they would catch, hoping they would not. The fire front is still some ten miles away but these bloody embers have bought the enemy in full threat right to our feet. Ian calls in our s.o.s. and Ross and I set about rigging the tanker to shower itself with our remaining water. Jobs done we grab the blankets and head into the truck’s cab to await the inevitable. Sometimes this works, the fire rushes over the truck, the pump sprays and keeps the heat down and the truck wet, the blankets protect you from radiant heat, the front passes and the team gets out. Mostly though, everyone dies together in a burning metal box. We are not under any illusions or false hope here. On the good side, the truck was stopped in a cleared area so there wasn’t much fuel nearby, on the bad side, all the tracks would be closed by the ember fires within minutes. Rescue or escape was not going to happen.
As it turned out there was not much time for us to discuss the options, within a minute there was thick smoke all around us, Steve closed the vents in the cab and wound up his window, we each covered ourselves with our blanket, stage one. We looked out waiting for stage two when the air would gust in to feed the fire front as it shot up from the valley to take us. It’s a blur after that. I remember the truck being buffeted by rushing air, Ross starting the pump, Ian yelling to us to cover up, the sound of lightly falling water, the sudden darkness from black dense smoke all around, then an exploding orange world and all the air being sucked out of my lungs as the searing heat hit. I managed a gasp of oven-hot air and above the roar and the coughing of my mates I heard the thwop thwoping of a helicopter, the sound of a rain heavier than anything on earth but overriding all of that was the unimaginable, the wonderful, the beauty of light and coolness. I must have passed out of the world. Then, someone calling my name. I am rising into the sky, I see vaguely falling away below there is a clearing, in the middle a small truck surrounded by blackness and white clouds. I fade away.
It’s nearly ten years now. Helitankers are still being flown into Australia every summer to fight the bushfires.. The fires inevitably destroy hundreds of thousands of acres of pristine bushland and kill millions of animals and a few equally innocent people. My burns are healed but my scars remain. I am bitter the bush is not being better managed, I am bitter successive governments fail to act intelligently, but I am eternally grateful to the crew of Elvis, the Erickson S64 Helitanker #N179AC, which dumped 2000 gallons of water on me and my mates, and to the support chopper that winched us up and back into the safety of our families.
REMEMBERING ELVIS THROUGH THE FIRE.
The place; Faulconbridge, Latitude 33.61South, Longitude 149.8East. high in the mountain ranges 50 miles west of Sydney, Australia.
The year is 2001, the time a hot mid-afternoon at the end of December.
The scene is a heavily wooded ridge running away to the south and overlooking a network of densely forested valleys which drop sharply away hundreds of feet below. A typical summer day, clear blue sky, dry and hot, but this year, the fifth in a series of droughts, it was blistering. Midday temperature over 40 degrees, that’s 108 in old speak. Worse still, there had been short rains through Spring that year. These had done nothing to put water into the reservoirs but they had allowed the undergrowth to grow very thick, to dry off in the subsequent summer and to leave a huge bank of tinder-dry leaves and twigs spread thick over millions of acres.
The left-wing government had taken on the greenie lobby policy years ago to stop the back-burning of our land. Fire bans had been institutionalised, barbecues banned and jail terms issued to offenders. The world had got insane.
We were just four blokes, volunteer firefighters, trained locally in bushfire control and in recent times we had seen a lot of bad summer action.
For the last five hours Ian, Ross and I had been slashing, burning and felling our way along this forgotten fire track, with Steve trailing us in the tanker appliance mopping up any breakaways or spot fires. There was another team we could hear off in the distance, chain sawing and sweating through their own fire break with the calm panic that is the default when you work against a deadly and capricious foe like this.
We had all been trying for days to create a controlled fire break to slow the raging front. We want to protect the bush and its wildlife, but today, more critically perhaps, to save the homes, farms and towns in the fire's immediate path. Every time we had laid in a break but were forced to retreat, we had watched as the inferno again and again engulfed our mortal attempts to slow it.
The blast furnace that had begun as spotfire #39 was relentlessly decimating our horizon and its smoke and fly-ash was stinging our eyes. Ian turned his black-smeared face to me and shouted, pink lipped and bearded, that he was going to report in and get a status. I acknowledged him with a wave, turned and motioned for Steve to drive up. We could all do with a break.. I watched as Ross, within earshot of Ian’s conversation on the radio, started to pick up the tools and I guessed we were being closed down. Checking my surroundings, all was well and I gathered up my gear while I waited for them to walk back to me.
It turned out, Control had told Ian the wind was forecast to change and we were to back out asap and return to base. It had taken a couple of minutes for Ian and Ross to reach me and I wondered why Steve had not bought the truck up yet. The three of us set off carrying our gear back down the track only to hear Steve slowly grinding the starter in an attempt to get the truck to kick. I looked past him to see how our back-burn was going behind the truck. If Steve hadn’t been able to kill the breakouts because of the truck stalling… But the burn looked safe for now. I saw Ross glancing at the sky, he knew it would be anything but safe if the wind did turn on us. It was clear from our faces the same thought was with us all.
Time was now a most precious element to us. Ian radioed in the situation, Ross dived into the back of the truck to switch to the spare battery and I lifted the engine hatch. Steve told me there was loads of diesel and the gauges were all okay, the engine just wouldn’t kick. The calm panic rose a notch as we all worked flat out to solve the problem. It was Ian who made the call to Control with the news our tender was dead. We had half a tanker of water and one working auxiliary pump. Ross tested it was okay and the decision was made to stay with the tender and wait help. Silence fell uncomfortably between us as we looked at each other. I was thinking of a million different things and wondered how these three blokes would handle what could be either of two options; a full-on disaster, or a few days stressful wait for rescue. We each drank a bellyful of water, soaked the blankets and sorted through the gear we would need if we were still here when the fire front hit. The sounds from the other team had stopped and we figured they would have been recalled too, or they were driving the rough trails to come to our aid. Control had requested our radio silence while they coordinated our recovery and the equally urgent relocating of over 30 other teams.
It wasn’t long before our ‘stressful wait’ option became redundant, the air around us stopped moving, the leaves high in the trees hung limp and a few glowing ashes previously held aloft and harmless now started to fall from the sky into the valleys below. When you are in the middle of a horror of nature it all happens in slow motion. We watched the glowing embers fall into the dry undergrowth. Almost on cue the breeze began to rise from the valleys providing air for the embers. Wisps of smoke began to rise from a little smolderings here and there in the valley below. We waited to see if they would catch, hoping they would not. The fire front is still some ten miles away but these bloody embers have bought the enemy in full threat right to our feet. Ian calls in our s.o.s. and Ross and I set about rigging the tanker to shower itself with our remaining water. Jobs done we grab the blankets and head into the truck’s cab to await the inevitable. Sometimes this works, the fire rushes over the truck, the pump sprays and keeps the heat down and the truck wet, the blankets protect you from radiant heat, the front passes and the team gets out. Mostly though, everyone dies together in a burning metal box. We are not under any illusions or false hope here. On the good side, the truck was stopped in a cleared area so there wasn’t much fuel nearby, on the bad side, all the tracks would be closed by the ember fires within minutes. Rescue or escape was not going to happen.
As it turned out there was not much time for us to discuss the options, within a minute there was thick smoke all around us, Steve closed the vents in the cab and wound up his window, we each covered ourselves with our blanket, stage one. We looked out waiting for stage two when the air would gust in to feed the fire front as it shot up from the valley to take us. It’s a blur after that. I remember the truck being buffeted by rushing air, Ross starting the pump, Ian yelling to us to cover up, the sound of lightly falling water, the sudden darkness from black dense smoke all around, then an exploding orange world and all the air being sucked out of my lungs as the searing heat hit. I managed a gasp of oven-hot air and above the roar and the coughing of my mates I heard the thwop thwoping of a helicopter, the sound of a rain heavier than anything on earth but overriding all of that was the unimaginable, the wonderful, the beauty of light and coolness. I must have passed out of the world. Then, someone calling my name. I am rising into the sky, I see vaguely falling away below there is a clearing, in the middle a small truck surrounded by blackness and white clouds. I fade away.
It’s nearly ten years now. Helitankers are still being flown into Australia every summer to fight the bushfires.. The fires inevitably destroy hundreds of thousands of acres of pristine bushland and kill millions of animals and a few equally innocent people. My burns are healed but my scars remain. I am bitter the bush is not being better managed, I am bitter successive governments fail to act intelligently, but I am eternally grateful to the crew of Elvis, the Erickson S64 Helitanker #N179AC, which dumped 2000 gallons of water on me and my mates, and to the support chopper that winched us up and back into the safety of our families.
The screeching noise seemed to fit perfectly with my mood.
May 27, 2010, GregW.
Two perspectives of a forest in 1st person monologue
First
I launched it over the crest , landed crossed up, too hard, into the gravel,
Shit! corner on me too soon, cross cambered.
Wrong Nav!, …”NEXT!”
40, right, wide of apex, flat.
Nav? Nooooo.. got my hands full now.
Got to catch it, trees, close, both sides, the bounce will chuck me at the gully.
Shiiiit. too aggressive. Sliding now. Gravel pounding. Can’t hear
“REPEAT”
Bugger, late in. have to take it. full over-steer.
God no.
Side in, where’s me traction.
Caught it. Full opp lock. floor it.
I see rock. Missed it.
Straighten. Second, flat third.
“What?”
yeah left 60 hard . alright got that.
Tyres? left soft?, all we need….. No feels okay.
fourth 95. back to second
crest then 20 right, cut apex.
Road’s terrible. Rocks throwing me off line
Dip. Straight. Deep water, second, “wipe screen”, third.
“WIPE SCREEN!” , second into left, flat third.
NOOO!
“You Prick !” its never flat out of that. Shit.
Caught it.
“where are you Nav?” “get on track”
God. Gate posts. Through ‘em.
Yeah Ok. Straight, third, 110, fourth 140
Okay two-up left right apex and wide.
Shit. this surface. Looooosing iiit . close.
First tight to apex, second wide, third flat to crest. Fourth. Launch……….. straighten it.
Landed.
Third, hard brake, second to long right, into gully, hold apex.
Out flat 500 to right then dip to left 80 rise,
“60 rise? Which? sure?”
GET IT RIGHT nav! Dip left 60 rise ok?......
Whoa!!, YELLOW!! car off . who?. Damn. on the line too. Soft break, right, Missed ‘em.
Yellows, damn…. Back off … flag down,
OK! Greens, second 80, third 110 long left….. holding it,
out straight, fourth 130 140….. 160 Rise, into sun , CAN’T see!!!
What?
Ok left 120 sweep to right, dip, Whoa!
Grounded, lost the back box?, bloody racket.
“CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!! “
Got it
left 80 slow dip and crest left 90…..no!
Get It right!
Left 60?!
“Shit Nav, you’ll kill us,”
got it, straight, flat third 120 fourth 130 hard brake down, third, second, first, 30
and into left hairpin up and into long rise on left
long slide right 100, line up for sealed road.
400 long left 500 to finish...
Power drifting
the tyres ripping at solid tarmac and the screeching noise seems to fit my mood perfectly as we cross the line.
30 seconds down on third place.
“Ordinary job Nav.”
Second
I don’t get the chance all that often to come here now.
It felt like a real tonic for me to drive into this forest and again get to such a peaceful space. Strange to see other cars in the car park though, mustn’t grumble, it’s a nice day I suppose, can’t expect to always have the place to myself.
I don’t know, I must have been here a hundred times, but I still love the feel of it up here. And even today despite that the clouds keep blocking the sun, the clearing looks bright with its new summer grass. I see the track worn through the clearing is all dry, well trodden and it’s tempting me to go down to the stream too, I’m guessing that’s where everyone else have gone, they have been bought out by the warm day and have taken that lovely snaking route down through the bracken and that glorious smell of native garlic. Not that for me today then.
I’ll hike up the rise to the rocks overlooking the valley, I can do without the people.
The clearing is just off behind me and the trees are closer together here. It’s been ages since I have been to the outcrop and I’d forgotten how steep the way is. Well, probably long more than steep. As I look ahead I see the winter rains have washed out some of the roots, small branches have fallen down and the trees here have kept their green moss trunks. In the distance I hear some idiot thrashing his engine but it pulses in the distance, fades off and I return to my pleasant plodding climb. I disturb some animal in the undergrowth and hear it scuttle away to my left, I wonder for the next few strides what it is. The birdsong is sporadic today and I keep guessing what the songs I hear belong to. Never been much of a nature studier, perhaps my ignorance of such things makes my time out here more peaceful. The track has begun to flatten out a bit and as I glance up I can see where the rocks are starting to jut out of the hillside. I lengthen my stride over what is now an easier path and I’m beginning to get glimpses of the view out to the right. I can see the sun laying over the fields in the distance and feel the warm air breezing through the trees here. All along the way though I am getting hints of that prat racing his engine off in the distance. Bloody annoying. Bad enough the flights from Menwith Hill which often plague the peace without some boy racers thrashing about.
It’s been quite a climb, but the ridge is just ahead and the afternoon sun looks from here like it is warming my big stone sofa quite nicely. The face of the ridge is steeper than I recall it but I spot the route I took last time and it looks okay. Some of the hand holds, crevasses and ledges are tighter and slipperier that I remembered them and this rock face is proving more of an effort that I would like. The top edge is within a reach though and the toddy in my hip flask is not to be denied much longer. Damn it if those idiots in their cars don’t seem to have been getting closer. But here I am, gawd that view is spectacular. I ‘ll plant my arse and have a breather. The ledge here is almost level and juts out over the trees below to give me a full vista over the Wharfe and the fields with their stone walls and barns gleaming grey and yellow in the slanting sun…
I have had a good long swig and am laying back with my head propped up on my pack.
I have been hearing the rip and clash of those engine revving bastards flailing around all bloody afternoon. Now the buggers have just blasted up and shot past below me. They slid maniacally onto the tarmac screaming their tyres with a screeching noise that seemed to fit perfectly with my now totally disturbed mood.
Two perspectives of a forest in 1st person monologue
First
I launched it over the crest , landed crossed up, too hard, into the gravel,
Shit! corner on me too soon, cross cambered.
Wrong Nav!, …”NEXT!”
40, right, wide of apex, flat.
Nav? Nooooo.. got my hands full now.
Got to catch it, trees, close, both sides, the bounce will chuck me at the gully.
Shiiiit. too aggressive. Sliding now. Gravel pounding. Can’t hear
“REPEAT”
Bugger, late in. have to take it. full over-steer.
God no.
Side in, where’s me traction.
Caught it. Full opp lock. floor it.
I see rock. Missed it.
Straighten. Second, flat third.
“What?”
yeah left 60 hard . alright got that.
Tyres? left soft?, all we need….. No feels okay.
fourth 95. back to second
crest then 20 right, cut apex.
Road’s terrible. Rocks throwing me off line
Dip. Straight. Deep water, second, “wipe screen”, third.
“WIPE SCREEN!” , second into left, flat third.
NOOO!
“You Prick !” its never flat out of that. Shit.
Caught it.
“where are you Nav?” “get on track”
God. Gate posts. Through ‘em.
Yeah Ok. Straight, third, 110, fourth 140
Okay two-up left right apex and wide.
Shit. this surface. Looooosing iiit . close.
First tight to apex, second wide, third flat to crest. Fourth. Launch……….. straighten it.
Landed.
Third, hard brake, second to long right, into gully, hold apex.
Out flat 500 to right then dip to left 80 rise,
“60 rise? Which? sure?”
GET IT RIGHT nav! Dip left 60 rise ok?......
Whoa!!, YELLOW!! car off . who?. Damn. on the line too. Soft break, right, Missed ‘em.
Yellows, damn…. Back off … flag down,
OK! Greens, second 80, third 110 long left….. holding it,
out straight, fourth 130 140….. 160 Rise, into sun , CAN’T see!!!
What?
Ok left 120 sweep to right, dip, Whoa!
Grounded, lost the back box?, bloody racket.
“CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!! “
Got it
left 80 slow dip and crest left 90…..no!
Get It right!
Left 60?!
“Shit Nav, you’ll kill us,”
got it, straight, flat third 120 fourth 130 hard brake down, third, second, first, 30
and into left hairpin up and into long rise on left
long slide right 100, line up for sealed road.
400 long left 500 to finish...
Power drifting
the tyres ripping at solid tarmac and the screeching noise seems to fit my mood perfectly as we cross the line.
30 seconds down on third place.
“Ordinary job Nav.”
Second
I don’t get the chance all that often to come here now.
It felt like a real tonic for me to drive into this forest and again get to such a peaceful space. Strange to see other cars in the car park though, mustn’t grumble, it’s a nice day I suppose, can’t expect to always have the place to myself.
I don’t know, I must have been here a hundred times, but I still love the feel of it up here. And even today despite that the clouds keep blocking the sun, the clearing looks bright with its new summer grass. I see the track worn through the clearing is all dry, well trodden and it’s tempting me to go down to the stream too, I’m guessing that’s where everyone else have gone, they have been bought out by the warm day and have taken that lovely snaking route down through the bracken and that glorious smell of native garlic. Not that for me today then.
I’ll hike up the rise to the rocks overlooking the valley, I can do without the people.
The clearing is just off behind me and the trees are closer together here. It’s been ages since I have been to the outcrop and I’d forgotten how steep the way is. Well, probably long more than steep. As I look ahead I see the winter rains have washed out some of the roots, small branches have fallen down and the trees here have kept their green moss trunks. In the distance I hear some idiot thrashing his engine but it pulses in the distance, fades off and I return to my pleasant plodding climb. I disturb some animal in the undergrowth and hear it scuttle away to my left, I wonder for the next few strides what it is. The birdsong is sporadic today and I keep guessing what the songs I hear belong to. Never been much of a nature studier, perhaps my ignorance of such things makes my time out here more peaceful. The track has begun to flatten out a bit and as I glance up I can see where the rocks are starting to jut out of the hillside. I lengthen my stride over what is now an easier path and I’m beginning to get glimpses of the view out to the right. I can see the sun laying over the fields in the distance and feel the warm air breezing through the trees here. All along the way though I am getting hints of that prat racing his engine off in the distance. Bloody annoying. Bad enough the flights from Menwith Hill which often plague the peace without some boy racers thrashing about.
It’s been quite a climb, but the ridge is just ahead and the afternoon sun looks from here like it is warming my big stone sofa quite nicely. The face of the ridge is steeper than I recall it but I spot the route I took last time and it looks okay. Some of the hand holds, crevasses and ledges are tighter and slipperier that I remembered them and this rock face is proving more of an effort that I would like. The top edge is within a reach though and the toddy in my hip flask is not to be denied much longer. Damn it if those idiots in their cars don’t seem to have been getting closer. But here I am, gawd that view is spectacular. I ‘ll plant my arse and have a breather. The ledge here is almost level and juts out over the trees below to give me a full vista over the Wharfe and the fields with their stone walls and barns gleaming grey and yellow in the slanting sun…
I have had a good long swig and am laying back with my head propped up on my pack.
I have been hearing the rip and clash of those engine revving bastards flailing around all bloody afternoon. Now the buggers have just blasted up and shot past below me. They slid maniacally onto the tarmac screaming their tyres with a screeching noise that seemed to fit perfectly with my now totally disturbed mood.
The wind mixes the grime of the earth into a wandering soul.
11/5/10 G Webster @ Wetherby
The two shabby photographs lay in a small space amidst the rubbish on the table. They were laying square to each other amidst the ash and crushed butt ends scattered around them. Carl winced at the piles of trash and food scraps trodden into the floor of the greasy room. He bent over and touched the photos, they were grimy old, dog-eared, black&white prints stained to sepia by too much time and handling. The oldest image was of a half naked youth, seated and taken from the waist up, leaning against a bare wall. He’d sat side on, back to camera looking over his shoulder towards the lens with the angled light striking his every line, muscle and feature. A handsome face, broad nose and the full lips of his race all elegantly captured, and the eyes, his eyes showed defeat and submission but with a lingering spark of defiance. Carl didn’t know which upset him the most, the resigned sadness etched in the face or the welts torn across the shoulders, arms and back. Flayed whip scars had formed over grime from the fields where the slave had been sent to work, still bleeding and in agony. Carl felt the pain and resignation at such a core level he retched and had to look away. The small ugly room provided no comfort and he turned his attention to the adjoining, more recent and familiar photo. He had a photocopy of this one in the papers he got from the lawyer. From this dull image another face glanced out, there was a similar look in the eyes but here they peered out of a smiling face above an unbuttoned collar and crooked tie. There was a saxophone angled across his chest and the lapels of a creased white 1930’s dinner jacket. The image was a bit out of focus, patchy grey and was cut from a larger shot of a band, lost in context now to anyone other than Carl. Sadly, he reflected the two photos were the sum lot that made up his legal inheritance.
Two old photos, he thought bitterly, the only evidence here of the lives of slaveboy Bobby Brown, old time jazz singer and his musical son Jackie, or JB as Jackie called himself. Carl had learned that, to his credit JB had become widely travelled and in demand. While for Bobby, jazz had been an escape, a release and a survival, Jackie had used his own music and words to move in on the Motown years. Otis, Marvin, Aretha, they’d all called him Jackie Blues. He could catch a mood and weave it like honey through thorns while writing a sob into the backbeat. But he had never seen any of the fame, never got the buzz from playing his music to the audience, never got his applause, nor his ovations. That all went, with the money, to agents middlemen and thugs and to the performers who had the limelight and who got to use his music on stage. It was Carl’s only thought now as he looked at the photo and around this sad room that Jackie had given his heart while others took the joy.
The legal letter had arrived a week ago. The envelope was quality stationery and the note inside typed on good thick watermarked stock. The lawyer’s name and address made a scripted banner across the top of the page and beneath them Carl’s name and address was followed by a heading in bold uppercase print, RE: ESTATE OF JACKSON BROWN. The words in the body of the letter were abrupt, businesslike and asked Carl to urgently contact the offices of the above named solicitor. The resultant conversation was surreal. In it Carl learned who his real father was, that this father’s funeral was arranged for the following Friday and that Carl was required to claim the remains of this JB’s estate forthwith. There was no succor, no compassion, just the facts and the detail and instructions. At the solicitors office Carl had received the papers which showed him the drafts and original scores of well known songs, and the contracts releasing their rights. These he was coolly advised were just historic not valuable documents, but the title deeds for an address downtown were part of the estate and could be used as collateral to settle legal and duty fees.
The funeral had attracted no one who knew JB, just his one new 35 year old son, some people who had turned up to take photos of Carl and one scruffy music journalist . Only Carl stayed on to listen to the words of the preacher as the casket slid behind the curtain. He endured the sermon not knowing if Jackie would have sought or rejected a Christian exit. There was much Carl would never know of his family and its past.
His inheritance from Bobby and Jackie was in reality no small thing. It was his history, a recorded, documented, experienced and inherited family story of escape through music. Carl now had a family history. It mattered not to him if it was the whip or the debt that drove his forebears to sing the jazz and the blues, what mattered was that for them, as for Carl, it was always the music which brought release. He now knew it was music that these two men had given by blood to him, and that answered a bigger question. The ache that leaked from his pen to page and into tune and words now had a source, a link, a genetic trail. The warmth and the belonging he felt to R&B, to smoky jazz and to soul music, the sense of home he got from singing with his band, he now had a link that explained the depth of his passion.
Carl’s “best of” album released the following year included covers of one of Bobby’s and one of and Jackie’s old numbers and one new song slipped quietly among the compilation of Carl’s greatest hits. He called it Found and the refrain went,
From a first known father to the last birth
We play for the unknown goal
And the wind it mixes the grime of the earth
Into a wandering soul.
The two shabby photographs lay in a small space amidst the rubbish on the table. They were laying square to each other amidst the ash and crushed butt ends scattered around them. Carl winced at the piles of trash and food scraps trodden into the floor of the greasy room. He bent over and touched the photos, they were grimy old, dog-eared, black&white prints stained to sepia by too much time and handling. The oldest image was of a half naked youth, seated and taken from the waist up, leaning against a bare wall. He’d sat side on, back to camera looking over his shoulder towards the lens with the angled light striking his every line, muscle and feature. A handsome face, broad nose and the full lips of his race all elegantly captured, and the eyes, his eyes showed defeat and submission but with a lingering spark of defiance. Carl didn’t know which upset him the most, the resigned sadness etched in the face or the welts torn across the shoulders, arms and back. Flayed whip scars had formed over grime from the fields where the slave had been sent to work, still bleeding and in agony. Carl felt the pain and resignation at such a core level he retched and had to look away. The small ugly room provided no comfort and he turned his attention to the adjoining, more recent and familiar photo. He had a photocopy of this one in the papers he got from the lawyer. From this dull image another face glanced out, there was a similar look in the eyes but here they peered out of a smiling face above an unbuttoned collar and crooked tie. There was a saxophone angled across his chest and the lapels of a creased white 1930’s dinner jacket. The image was a bit out of focus, patchy grey and was cut from a larger shot of a band, lost in context now to anyone other than Carl. Sadly, he reflected the two photos were the sum lot that made up his legal inheritance.
Two old photos, he thought bitterly, the only evidence here of the lives of slaveboy Bobby Brown, old time jazz singer and his musical son Jackie, or JB as Jackie called himself. Carl had learned that, to his credit JB had become widely travelled and in demand. While for Bobby, jazz had been an escape, a release and a survival, Jackie had used his own music and words to move in on the Motown years. Otis, Marvin, Aretha, they’d all called him Jackie Blues. He could catch a mood and weave it like honey through thorns while writing a sob into the backbeat. But he had never seen any of the fame, never got the buzz from playing his music to the audience, never got his applause, nor his ovations. That all went, with the money, to agents middlemen and thugs and to the performers who had the limelight and who got to use his music on stage. It was Carl’s only thought now as he looked at the photo and around this sad room that Jackie had given his heart while others took the joy.
The legal letter had arrived a week ago. The envelope was quality stationery and the note inside typed on good thick watermarked stock. The lawyer’s name and address made a scripted banner across the top of the page and beneath them Carl’s name and address was followed by a heading in bold uppercase print, RE: ESTATE OF JACKSON BROWN. The words in the body of the letter were abrupt, businesslike and asked Carl to urgently contact the offices of the above named solicitor. The resultant conversation was surreal. In it Carl learned who his real father was, that this father’s funeral was arranged for the following Friday and that Carl was required to claim the remains of this JB’s estate forthwith. There was no succor, no compassion, just the facts and the detail and instructions. At the solicitors office Carl had received the papers which showed him the drafts and original scores of well known songs, and the contracts releasing their rights. These he was coolly advised were just historic not valuable documents, but the title deeds for an address downtown were part of the estate and could be used as collateral to settle legal and duty fees.
The funeral had attracted no one who knew JB, just his one new 35 year old son, some people who had turned up to take photos of Carl and one scruffy music journalist . Only Carl stayed on to listen to the words of the preacher as the casket slid behind the curtain. He endured the sermon not knowing if Jackie would have sought or rejected a Christian exit. There was much Carl would never know of his family and its past.
His inheritance from Bobby and Jackie was in reality no small thing. It was his history, a recorded, documented, experienced and inherited family story of escape through music. Carl now had a family history. It mattered not to him if it was the whip or the debt that drove his forebears to sing the jazz and the blues, what mattered was that for them, as for Carl, it was always the music which brought release. He now knew it was music that these two men had given by blood to him, and that answered a bigger question. The ache that leaked from his pen to page and into tune and words now had a source, a link, a genetic trail. The warmth and the belonging he felt to R&B, to smoky jazz and to soul music, the sense of home he got from singing with his band, he now had a link that explained the depth of his passion.
Carl’s “best of” album released the following year included covers of one of Bobby’s and one of and Jackie’s old numbers and one new song slipped quietly among the compilation of Carl’s greatest hits. He called it Found and the refrain went,
From a first known father to the last birth
We play for the unknown goal
And the wind it mixes the grime of the earth
Into a wandering soul.
Stuff about ‘Compo’ from notes found among the effects of James (Jimi) Reynolds upon his passing in 1978.
Jimi was my granddad on my mum’s side and a bit of a knockabout bloke in his younger days by all accounts.
I have been able to get a pretty good insight into Compo’s story, albeit with some large gaps, from my memories of the stories Jimi told us after he’d had too many sherries at Christmas.. I also got some details I've gathered off notes Jimi had made at the time.
The bits about Compo I could find were really just side-bars to hundreds of yarns Jimi had about “Friedy” Friedenson.
Friedy was one of the original Leeds Savages and one of the attic aboders. While Friedy wasn’t famous, he was pretty notorious for his exporting of 'live statutory' shows to the USA. You may or may not know this but at that time, laws on pornography and public nudity were extreme.
There was a loophole Friedy discovered ,,, if a nude model on stage represented a classic story and didn’t move, she or he could be described as holding an artistic pose and that was quite alright.
So Friedy gathered a bunch of male and female models in New York to pose still and totally nude behind some rather naff but clothed actors performing on stage. The huge audiences couldn’t give a toss about the acting but they were stunned and enthralled by the erotic and pornographic exhibition of flesh in near-still life framed behind the on-stage action. Great titillation for the men and women of the constrained 1800's.
That in a round about way leads me to Compo who, as Jimi wrote it, could “stay” in place for great “lengths” of time. (the emphasis is mine)…….
New York was not where Jimi said he first bumped into Compo though. The first time he met Friedy with Compo was in the Victorian gold fields in South Eastern Australia. Gold Rush frenzy. Every man and his son went down to Victoria to pan and dig their fortunes in what was one of the world’s biggest millionaire making opportunities.
My granddad Jimi went down and was working a stinking hot claim right next to Friedy and Compo’s claim, out Ballarat way. Bloody backbreaking work it turns out and you were always in danger of having your head blown off or your swag pinched. It was handy to have some one looking out for your security. Compo was a muscle bound piece of work with a nasty attitude who looked out for Friedy. Jimi took daily pains to make friends with Friedy hoping to share in Compo’s protection.
One of Jimi’s notes we found tells how Compo got that name. Jimi wrote, “He might have been as hard as nails and built like a brick but the bugger wouldn’t work in an iron lung. He groaned every time he straightened up and was ill disposed to any digging or panning, always whimpering about a cut or some other ailment and looking to get sympathy from Friedy”. The other blokes around started to joke that he should claim workers compensation off Friedy for all his injuries, The name Compo sort of stuck with him from then on.
There are some broad hints in Jimi’s scribblings that Compo and Friedy had a very close relationship but I can’t infer anything further than that, as, well I just can’t. But I can tell you Jimi made frequent notes of Friedy and Compo’s overly friendly touching and public embracing that re-alligned Jimi’s sensitivities.
However Friedy was a soft spoken, posh English school lad and, well, while Jimi talked about others he had met, he says no more about that side of these two.
Next point where I can get any purchase on Compo’s history is years later when both Compo and Friedy were back in Leeds with the other Savages. Evidence exists of Compo being at least one meeting in Barwick-on-Elmet and the meeting where there was a huge kerfuffle around the resignation of Eddie Bogg. In a letter Jimi got from Friedy it seems Compo was the target, if not the cause of the trouble. Friedy lamented the demise of the rule of the Savages. He wrote saying “after some discussion and drinks over cigars, the group then in attendance started to ask what could be done to improve the reach and range of the Savages. Every time the masterful Bogg offered his view on the world, a by now much frailer Compo was noticed, non too surreptitiously, to cast disapproving looks and occasionally offer a pffft in retort to one or another overly emotive point Bogg had made”.
“Finally Bogg could take no more wanton disrespect and yelled at me, pointing at Compo…. Friedy, if you don’t take your farting, flea bitten mutt out of here I’m resigning!!”
Jimi concludes all the other Savages must have quite liked the old dog Compo, and subsequent letters from Friedy indicate that Compo endured as an honorary Savage long after Bogg’s departure.
Post script.
This is all a lie of course. Compo probably got his name from composite, the stuff artists used to make shapes with, rough models of future works, it was often formed over wire to support it. In all honesty, all memories of who Compo was are lost, he/she could have been a mongrel dog, a cat or a hanger-on around the more accomplished Savage artists.
I have been able to get a pretty good insight into Compo’s story, albeit with some large gaps, from my memories of the stories Jimi told us after he’d had too many sherries at Christmas.. I also got some details I've gathered off notes Jimi had made at the time.
The bits about Compo I could find were really just side-bars to hundreds of yarns Jimi had about “Friedy” Friedenson.
Friedy was one of the original Leeds Savages and one of the attic aboders. While Friedy wasn’t famous, he was pretty notorious for his exporting of 'live statutory' shows to the USA. You may or may not know this but at that time, laws on pornography and public nudity were extreme.
There was a loophole Friedy discovered ,,, if a nude model on stage represented a classic story and didn’t move, she or he could be described as holding an artistic pose and that was quite alright.
So Friedy gathered a bunch of male and female models in New York to pose still and totally nude behind some rather naff but clothed actors performing on stage. The huge audiences couldn’t give a toss about the acting but they were stunned and enthralled by the erotic and pornographic exhibition of flesh in near-still life framed behind the on-stage action. Great titillation for the men and women of the constrained 1800's.
That in a round about way leads me to Compo who, as Jimi wrote it, could “stay” in place for great “lengths” of time. (the emphasis is mine)…….
New York was not where Jimi said he first bumped into Compo though. The first time he met Friedy with Compo was in the Victorian gold fields in South Eastern Australia. Gold Rush frenzy. Every man and his son went down to Victoria to pan and dig their fortunes in what was one of the world’s biggest millionaire making opportunities.
My granddad Jimi went down and was working a stinking hot claim right next to Friedy and Compo’s claim, out Ballarat way. Bloody backbreaking work it turns out and you were always in danger of having your head blown off or your swag pinched. It was handy to have some one looking out for your security. Compo was a muscle bound piece of work with a nasty attitude who looked out for Friedy. Jimi took daily pains to make friends with Friedy hoping to share in Compo’s protection.
One of Jimi’s notes we found tells how Compo got that name. Jimi wrote, “He might have been as hard as nails and built like a brick but the bugger wouldn’t work in an iron lung. He groaned every time he straightened up and was ill disposed to any digging or panning, always whimpering about a cut or some other ailment and looking to get sympathy from Friedy”. The other blokes around started to joke that he should claim workers compensation off Friedy for all his injuries, The name Compo sort of stuck with him from then on.
There are some broad hints in Jimi’s scribblings that Compo and Friedy had a very close relationship but I can’t infer anything further than that, as, well I just can’t. But I can tell you Jimi made frequent notes of Friedy and Compo’s overly friendly touching and public embracing that re-alligned Jimi’s sensitivities.
However Friedy was a soft spoken, posh English school lad and, well, while Jimi talked about others he had met, he says no more about that side of these two.
Next point where I can get any purchase on Compo’s history is years later when both Compo and Friedy were back in Leeds with the other Savages. Evidence exists of Compo being at least one meeting in Barwick-on-Elmet and the meeting where there was a huge kerfuffle around the resignation of Eddie Bogg. In a letter Jimi got from Friedy it seems Compo was the target, if not the cause of the trouble. Friedy lamented the demise of the rule of the Savages. He wrote saying “after some discussion and drinks over cigars, the group then in attendance started to ask what could be done to improve the reach and range of the Savages. Every time the masterful Bogg offered his view on the world, a by now much frailer Compo was noticed, non too surreptitiously, to cast disapproving looks and occasionally offer a pffft in retort to one or another overly emotive point Bogg had made”.
“Finally Bogg could take no more wanton disrespect and yelled at me, pointing at Compo…. Friedy, if you don’t take your farting, flea bitten mutt out of here I’m resigning!!”
Jimi concludes all the other Savages must have quite liked the old dog Compo, and subsequent letters from Friedy indicate that Compo endured as an honorary Savage long after Bogg’s departure.
Post script.
This is all a lie of course. Compo probably got his name from composite, the stuff artists used to make shapes with, rough models of future works, it was often formed over wire to support it. In all honesty, all memories of who Compo was are lost, he/she could have been a mongrel dog, a cat or a hanger-on around the more accomplished Savage artists.
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