So I have this strange mate who doesn’t quite get that God made tents so that refugees have somewhere to sleep on Manus Island, and deludes himself that the good Lord in fact made them so that he could channel the Bedouins and go sleeping on a dingo and shark infested sand island named Straddie separated from the stars and the storms and sheets of lightning bolts by just a thin strip of canvas and a few aluminium poles.

There’s no accounting for insanity is there?

There’s also nothing to bloody do at night, so for a fortnight each year he and his 50 week a year sober and upright pillar of society spouse unleash the beast and get stuck into gallons of red goon, and if you hear the werewolves howling at the moon across the Moreton Bay waters then go back to bed and start snoring soundly, ‘cos it’s only the sauce belters on Cylinder Beach singing in completely sozzled joy.

Four-fifths into the last gallon of a Brown Brothers 10 litre box of fun tonight I get a phone call, and being in the middle of a mad bonk with Maggie I intend to ignore it, but the blushing bride flips me over as the dog and bone’s blaring and as she hops aboard the good ship SS Mr Strong I accidentally plant my elbow on the Samsung and the next thing you know I’m hearing the worst version of UB40’s Red Red Wine down the line and across the speaker, and its enough to make any hard man limp.

Suitable chastened and doing my best impression of Impotent Ivan from Isisford I pick up the phone and hiss “Yeah Good! F*ck off I’m in the middle of a ride!” into the receiver, but the voice I hear slurring back at me isn’t the sleek as a seal former fat man’s, but that of his bloody multi-degreed and highly respected psychologist missus, and it’s clear that he’s been geeing her up during the previous four litres of Cab Sav in a Cardboard Box for the first thing she says is:

“Be Nice. I think you should go and smoke some more pot”.

WTF is this drunken bird on about I think to myself, and I think fast too because I reply sharply “I’ll put each of your dozen words into a dozen verse poem describing in rhyme the good time you’re missing out on by camping in the wrong bunk baby!” and hang up and turn off the dog and bone and pick up a pen, cos its mightier than a sword.

Well sort of anyway Mr Strong.

Here’s the twelve simple verses cobbled together in 12 sexy minutes poem Sportsfans. Don’t read it out aloud unless the tin lids are asleep.

Well I met this sexy psycho,

who didn’t much like pot;

‘I’d rather get pissed on red wine” she slurred,

and I confess I found it pretty hot.

 

Tricia was the name of the sizzling sex bomb

who declared that she hated smoke;

And if you call me sexist for saying she has sexy bits,

then hey give us a break I’m just a bloke!

 

‘Be Nice Archie’ the psycho purred in my ear, 

covering her late mail tips with her hand so Yeah Good couldn’t see her tongue;

“Ooh la la my red hot lady” I whispered in reply,

“Santa’s brought you a big, hard present from the Bung!”

 

The next bit’s not fit for publication, 

not without a Triple X rating anyway and then some;

But let me assure you on the total QT, 

that Archie’s not waiting for New Year’s to come.

 

The suddenly a chain saw like snoring stops and a camper cries,

“Archie you can’t sleep starkers! Whack on your PJ’s and cover that uncut hood!”;

“For fuck sake old mate Yeah Good!” I cry back,

“If Mr Strong would bloody go down I would!”

 

Yeah Good came to and looked around, and then he reached over, grabbed a bottle of iced water, and tipping it upside down directly above the eye of Mr Strong’s needle he hissed,

“There you you go you Bunger bonker, have a bloody drink!”;

In the next three seconds Archie flew to the North Pole and back, 

and sportsfans you’ve never seen 11 1/3 inches so quickly shrink.

 

“You bloody deflating jealous bastard” I screamed, and ripped off a right hook

that sent Yeah Good straight to see Santa in Wonderland;

Then I turned and winked at the psycho and said in my best Julio Iglaesias voice,

“It’s time we went skinny dipping my tasty Tricia Therese, here luv give us your hand”

 

Well blow me like a …… before I could say Koala King the psycho’s fingers were 

straight down and onto my fly;

And in just five more seconds we were starkers nude, 

Mr Strong, the psycho, the twins and I.

 

Well sportfans the Arch did howl

and the Arch did blow;

The psycho did too, 

we had a red hot go.

 

I’d love to talk you through the race,

and it’s cracker of a Red Tube tale for sure;

But gentleman never tell my friends,

and even if I did, you’d just want more!

 

So nudge nudge and wink wink baby,

Tricia Therese and Archie soared and roared and flew;

If smoke spliffs and sip single malt and swallow a little blue Pfizer pill, 

then trust me sportsfans, so might you!

 

So au revoir Tricia Therese, 

Thank Kevin we didn’t get sprung;

Be nice I thing you should go and smoke some more pot, 

this poem’s bloody done.