I am seated at an outside
table at Starbucks in Novena. It is one of my weekend haunts and I am eating
some very soft and delicious cheesecake whilst sipping on my second double shot
vanilla latte. It is late on a Saturday afternoon and I am nursing a sore mouth
after yet another bout in the dental chair where Derek – my dentist - has once again subjected me to great pain.
Derek has been undertaking a
series of root canal treatments on two of my rear upper molars for many months
and he has commenced the construction of a crown. I became convinced this
morning that the college fund for one of his many children must require
replenishment for I have surely paid a fortune to the man. In a moment that with the great benefit of hindsight I
now consider somewhat rash - I instructed Derek to simply rip the fucker of a
tooth out.
Rip he did.
The fragile tooth shattered into six pieces and my jaw and gums were cut asunder.
Rip he did.
The fragile tooth shattered into six pieces and my jaw and gums were cut asunder.
I am feeling some pain.
Hence the soft cheesecake.
Whilst I was on my first
luke-warm cup of coffee and awaiting the arrival of my cheesecake my mother
rang me on my mobile phone. I knew it was my mum before I answered as I have assigned
her a special ring tone that sounds like an air raid siren.
Blessed be the smart phone.
I was expecting this phone
call as my mum is an avid reader of everything that I write and despite my
written pleas for her not to panic – she panics. She was aware that I have just
returned from Tokyo where I had some interesting moments with the godfather of
a Japanese crime family. The Oyabun was a very nice and hospitable man and I
was in no danger at anytime. I went to some lengths to explain this in my
writing – knowing that my mother would be reading.
“Hello Mum”
“Is that you dear?” she said.
I could hear the anxiety in
her voice.
“Yes it is me Mum”
“You haven’t been tattooed or had any of your fingers cut off have you
dear”
“No mum I have not”
“You are not working as a drug mule either are you?”
“No mum I am not”
“Are you sure Peter?”
“I think I would know Mum and even if I were it would be unlikely that I
would tell you would I?”
“Your father wouldn’t be very happy if you ended up in a Japanese jail
cell Peter”
“I wouldn’t be very happy either mum”
“I don’t think that you should be writing all this stuff down for the
whole world to read Peter I mean Daphne and the girls at the golf club all know
that your brother has got a very big penis thanks to you”
“I don’t know who Daphne is Mum and the fact remains that Richard has
got a very big penis”
I have been through all of
this before with my mum and she seems very caught up on the fact that I once
mentioned in an article that my brother is very well endowed. I did not write
about it per se – it was just a by-the-by comment. I since discussed it with my
brother and he was not the slightest bit concerned about me mentioning it.
He rather liked it in fact.
My mum also keeps mentioning
the name Julian Assange and she tells me repeatedly that she does not want to
see me seeking asylum in an obscure African Embassy for the rest of my life. I have
told her that this is simply bizarre and I am not disclosing any state or
national secrets to anyone and I have no association with Wikileaks.
None whatsoever.
I told my mum that I simply
observe stuff and I write it down.
I have also told my mum on
many occasions that I did not think that either the Swedish government or the
CIA would try and track me down on the basis that I revealed that my brother
has a very big dick.
It is to no avail.
For still she carries on.
I accept it as I mother’s
prerogative.
"What about that ghastly Russian man that kills people with an axe?"
"He uses an ice-pick Mum. What about him?"
"You shouldn't be associating with people like that - your father wouldn't like it"
"I think Dad would like him Mum and he only kills Danish dudes"
My mother was referring to a man I met named Vlad. He is now a Russian Oil and Gas Executive but he was once a KGB assassin. He is quite a nice guy but he drinks a lot of vodka.
"You still swear too much in your writing Peter it is unnecessary"
"What the fuck mum?"
"That's not funny Peter"
"Sorry Mum - you need to chill out though"
"Don't speak your hippy talk to me Peter"
"Yes Mum"
There was a bit of a pause then before my Mum asked:
"You are not going to write about this are you Peter?"
She asks this of me fairly often now.
"I might actually"
"But why dear?"
"Why not Mum?
There was another bit of a pause before I heard something that resembled a sigh.
"What about that ghastly Russian man that kills people with an axe?"
"He uses an ice-pick Mum. What about him?"
"You shouldn't be associating with people like that - your father wouldn't like it"
"I think Dad would like him Mum and he only kills Danish dudes"
My mother was referring to a man I met named Vlad. He is now a Russian Oil and Gas Executive but he was once a KGB assassin. He is quite a nice guy but he drinks a lot of vodka.
"You still swear too much in your writing Peter it is unnecessary"
"What the fuck mum?"
"That's not funny Peter"
"Sorry Mum - you need to chill out though"
"Don't speak your hippy talk to me Peter"
"Yes Mum"
There was a bit of a pause then before my Mum asked:
"You are not going to write about this are you Peter?"
She asks this of me fairly often now.
"I might actually"
"But why dear?"
"Why not Mum?
There was another bit of a pause before I heard something that resembled a sigh.
I chatted with my Mum for another quarter of an hour or so - where she didn't reveal too much. I eventually reassured her though that I was healthy,
happy and I was not yet a member of any Yakuza gang nor was I likely to become a drug mule anytime soon.
When I hung up the phone and
commenced the eating of my cheesecake - I noticed that there were two young
Singaporean guys who were seated at the table adjacent to mine staring rather
intently at me. Their table was overloaded with three laptop computers and a
very large folder of what looked like technical notes.
The guys were dweebs.
A dweeb is a studious and
nerdy type of person. There are many in Singapore and I like them a lot. These
dweebs were fairly typical in that they had bad haircuts, wore thick spectacles
and they looked as if their mothers had dressed them. They were likely very
smart - as dweebs often are.
“What’s up guys?”
“You are Australian?” one of
them asked.
“I am” I replied.
“We are looking at starting up a start up’ the other one said.
“We are thinking about using an Australian name” he added.
“Starting up a start up?” I
asked.
“Yes” they said in sync.
“What sort of business?” I
enquired.
“Data mining using cloud technology” the closest dweeb responded.
‘Fuck’ I thought – but I did
not say this. This was super dweeb stuff that I had no idea at all about.
None whatsoever.
“What is the Australian name that you are thinking of?” I asked
“Blue sky mining” a dweeb
responded.
“The song by Midnight Oil?”
“Yes”
Midnight Oil were an iconic
Australian band of the 1990’s. Their lead singer was a giant bald man named
Peter Garrett who left the band to become a politician. Many of the band’s
songs were about important social issues in my country including the plea for
native title to be given to the aboriginal people, environmental causes and the
atrocities of politicians. Many people think that Peter Garrett sold out the
band when he became a politician.
I am one such person.
“Not a good idea boys. Do you know what the Blue sky mine is all about”
I received a blank stare from
both the dweebs - which in Singaporean can mean any number of things.
In this instance I assumed
that it meant ‘no’.
I then explained to the
dweebs that to many Australians the name Blue Sky Mine is synonymous with death
because the song was about miners in a small town in western Australia called
Wittenoom. Many of these miners and the residents of this town died because they were mining a deadly substance
called blue asbestos. I told the dweebs that the ‘Blue’ referred to the type of asbestos
that was mined and the ‘Sugar Refining Company” was the owner of the mine – the
Colonial Sugar Refining Company.
This company is better known by its acronym – CSR.
This company is better known by its acronym – CSR.
I told the dweebs that many
thousands of miners had contracted and died from horrific diseases from digging
up blue asbestos in the 1960’s and a generation of families were affected. I
also informed them that both the state and federal governments tried to cover
up the environmental catastrophe that was Wittenoom and they had even removed
the town from maps. There is a much-photographed signpost where the name was
first scrubbed out – and then replaced. Wittenoom no longer exists as far as
cartographers are concerned.
I let the dweebs know that in
no uncertain terms that the Blue Sky mine was an abomination.
“So you think it is a good name for a data mining start up then?” one of the dweebs asked
“My brother has a very big dick”
I replied.
Sorry Mum - but he does.
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