We have always thought that somewhere along our travels it must be possible to intersect our journeys and in Port Lincoln we have made it so!
We enjoyed Claire's company for a week, sharing meals and wine and stories of what we'd all seen. Did I mention wine? Yes, lots of wine! So far, we've covered a section of the country Claire has not yet visited; the SA west coast and south west WA coast. We shared heaps of hints and tips for our future destinations - and some more wine!
In the very first week of arriving in Port Lincoln, we'd been invited out to dinner and met a man who likes reciting poetry and bush ballads on a scale that far and away outstrips the Blokes capacity with The Man from Snowy a River and The Man from Ironbark. Mike recited ballads and sang some tunes at the host's request and then revealed his membership of The Cellar Folk Club -(Port Lincoln). See below for the lyrics of the hilarious Man From Kaomagma. The club meets on the 2nd Saturday of each month in the cellar of Boston House. The fact was noted for the future. Three months later, Claire and the cat crews came with us for a rare Saturday night out.
Mike on the 'mike'
Claire getting a farewell hug from the Bloke in front of 'Winnie'.
Claire, always glamorous, dropping around for a cuppa
Thanks for visiting us Claire, we'll be in touch as soon as we get our livers out of rehab!
The Man from Kaomagma
There was motions on the station, for a wog had passed around.
Salmonella, I regret, had got away;
Makes you run like wild bush horses. Sorbent made a thousand pound,
And everybody's crack began to fray.
Salmonella, I regret, had got away;
Makes you run like wild bush horses. Sorbent made a thousand pound,
And everybody's crack began to fray.
All the tried and noted bush quacks from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
But their cures proved ineffectual, from cement to Stockholm tar.
'Twasn't even plugged by trusty Araldite.
There was Harrison, who got his piles when a hard 'un got caught up,
The exertion turned his hair as white as snow,
So he took to liquid paraffin and drank it by the cup,
But now he don't need that to make him go.
And Clancy with his overflow came down to get a hand;
His guts so sore it crippled him with pain.
There was not a shouse could hold him, not a pedestal could stand
With a hundred cu. secs. rushing down the drain.
And one was there, a stripling with his arsehole tightly shut
'Gainst wogs what cut a mountain man to size,
But he wouldn't go outside to that single lonely hut -
From him no diarrhoea could be prized,
For he hailed from Kaomagma, down by Sulfanilomide,
Where the wogs are twice as big and twice as tough;
Where their guts are lined with leather. They're impregnable at times,
And the man who holds his own is good enough.
Where their guts are lined with leather. They're impregnable at times,
And the man who holds his own is good enough.
When the wog was at its zenith, even he was seen to weak,
But surrender, no! He'd not sit on the can,
Till intestinal agony made him shriek with pain :
'Look out! I'm going!' And off he ran.
Till intestinal agony made him shriek with pain :
'Look out! I'm going!' And off he ran.
He sent the flintstones flying with the patter of his feet;
He cleared his fallen comrades in his stride,
Till the man from Kaomagma was safely on the seat -
It was grand to find the loo unoccupied!
He stayed there single-handed till his sides were white with foam,
Ne'er allowing his sphincter to go slack,
But it was a false alarm, and so he turned his head for home,
And alone and unassisted staggered back.
For this hardy little mountain man would ne'er give in to trots
While Kaomagma settled his insides.
It's an intestinal panacea. You may believe it or not,
But without it he'd have surely filled his strides.
But without it he'd have surely filled his strides.
Copied from OBSCENE SONGS AND BALLADS OF AUSTRALIAN ORIGIN by BRAD TATE
Part 1 of the Brad Tate collection AUSTRALIAN FOLKLORE - OCCASIONAL PAPER No 11, RAMS SKULL PRESS 1982
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