Here is the first chapter of my forthcoming third book, Welcome To Charmsville - the sequel to Borrowed Time. Enjoy.
A BATHROOM INCIDENT
“Don’t shuffle the tits off the Queen!”
Occupying the backseat of the bus, Alan Sutton was
shuffling his trusty deck of cards while reflecting on the weekend he had just
had with his bowling crowd. Alan, or ‘Al’ to his bowling mates, had spent
months organising the weekend bowls trip to Port Macquarie. By and large it had
been a thankless task. The first challenge had been to get a sufficient number
of bowlers to commit. Then there were the rigours of organising motels and
transportation, not to mention collecting money from each person to cover all
the costs.
But Al had figured it would be worth the trouble to experience
a weekend away with a few blokes, and take on a rival club, in this case the
Port Macquarie Bowling Club, and have a few laughs over a couple of beers. Well,
more than a couple of beers, pretty much a weekend piss-up for all involved.
It wasn’t
competition bowls by any stretch, merely a social event. And Al harboured
aspirations that the members of the Port Macquarie Bowling Club would
reciprocate and visit his local club in the not too distant future. He had hoped
to turn it into an annual event and be something to look forward to for all
involved.
Due to an air-conditioning malfunction, the bus was as
stifling as an industrial oven. Al looked towards the front of the bus and in
his line of vision was one Frank Patterson. Frank was suffering from the after-effects
of too much Bundaberg Rum the night before and his head bobbed and jolted as
the bus negotiated around the numerous potholes which graced the asphalt.
Al shook his head as he dealt the cards. “I’ll shuffle as
long as I bloody well want. These bloody cards are starting to stick!”
“Excuses, excuses,” said Slimy Steve, glancing at the
Euchre scorecard. He and Jimmy Fishwick were up, eight to four.
Al had suffered some unrest over the last two-and-half
years. Or more specifically, his beloved bowling club had. A reduction in
membership and revenue had left the bowling club pursuing other avenues or as
some may call it, diversification.
That was followed by Big Davo’s death, which had hit Al
hard. It was an unfortunate incident at Christmas dinner, where Davo had choked
on some pork crackling. It led to poor Davo slipping from the mortal coil far
too soon. Then just after they had all said a final goodbye to Davo, the
Siamese twins, Kenny King and Dudley Walters, revoked their memberships, only
to join the scum across the river. The “other” bowling club in town, the North
Lions Bowling Club, were Al and Frank’s most fierce rivals.
Davo would be
turning in his grave!
The kicker was the club’s name change. Formerly known as the Bowling Club, due to changes within
the town council regime, Al’s beloved bowling club had suffered the same fate
as many other establishments and business houses in town. It was now known as
the Charmsville Bowling Club.
“Did you hear those pricks on the third rink yesterday,
Al?” asked Jimmy Fishwick. “Taking the piss out of the town’s new name?”
“Yes, Jimmy, I did,” said Al.
“Charmsville. I kind of agree. It is a fookin’ cheesy
name,” said Jimmy.
“Well, Jimmy, if ya don’t like it ya can always go back
to Pommy land,” suggested Slimy Steve.
“Fook that, S.S. As long as that cunt Cameron is runnin’
the show I won’t be back there any time soon.”
“We’ve got Abbott, though, Jimmy,” said Al.
“Bit different here, Al. No fooker cares about the
regional areas in Oz, do they? Every man for himself in Charmsville, innit,”
said Jimmy.
“Whatever you say, Jimmy,” said Al.
“Should’ve protested this name change business,” said
Jimmy.
“Whaddaya mean?” asked Slimy Steve.
“Picket fences and street marches. Protests, S.S. We used
to do ’em all the time during the Thatcher era. The fookin’ old cunt tried to
shut down our steel mill. In the end she did and in the process broke the unions’
backs with all her austerity shite. We had some right rucks with the police.
Fookin’ good fun ’n’ all!”
“Picket fence?” squawked Al. “We don’t have enough
members to form a fence for a fucking backyard, mate!”
“Got to ask the question, Al. That’s the ticket, my mate.
Anyway, although the name sounds fookin’ cheesy it’s a better name than “The
Town”, innit?” said Jimmy.
“T-H-E T-O-W-N, Jimmy,” said Al. “Isn’t there originality
to that? I bloody well thought so, anyway.”
“Obviously not to the powers that be,”
said Jimmy.
Al liked Jimmy Fishwick, who was the newest member to
grace the club. He had migrated to Australia to avoid David Cameron and anything
relating to the British Tory government. With his strong northern accent, Jimmy
added some vigour to the bowling ranks. His arms were covered with dubious
tattoos that looked like they had been etched onto his limbs in someone’s
backyard or in the corner of a shoddy Sheffield alehouse after the tattooist
had downed his fair share of pints. Jimmy was proud of his native Yorkshire and
had a penchant for Sheffield Wednesday Football Club, the union and obscure
music. His hero was The Fall’s Mark E. Smith.
At the front of the bus, Frank Patterson remained
comatose. Once again, Charmsville’s star bowler was heralded as the weekend’s liability.
There’s always one.
The night before, Frank had stumbled into the toilets in
the Port Macquarie Bowling Club and, near paralytic, had projected vomit into the
nearest unlocked cubicle. Unfortunately, the Port Macquarie Bowling Club President,
Cyril Baxter, was on the toilet taking a shit at the time. Cyril was covered in
a deluge of liquid gore, which consisted of beer, rum and chunks of fish thanks
to the bowling club’s ten-dollar dinner special.
The incident culminated in the Charmsville boys being
kicked out of the club and told in no uncertain terms that they were not
welcome there again; a patent red card moment. It also meant that any chance of
a reciprocal visit from their trans-coastal rivals was well and truly off the
table.
Al
shook his head in frustration and then took a look at his cards. He had both
bowers, and the ace, king and the queen of diamonds. Al looked over to his
partner, Gary James, who had barely mumbled a word the whole trip. It was very
unlike Gary. His alleged run in with the Gold Coast faction of the Mafia must
have really put the shits up him, thought Al.
“Take a break, Gary. I’m going alone on diamonds,” said
Al.
The score was about to be eight apiece.
