That big grey flowing beard, those deep dark knowing eyes, and many a Friday football night, we debated on them tries…

Then when the game was over, we struck up with a jam,

The Boss was there with brushes, Prez with mouth harp in his hand…

The Prez would throw his head back, and draw a soulful wail, while we would stay there with the groove, and I would tell my tale…

We would loose the blues, blowing madly through the night, the Prez is with the southern cross, sailing with that kite…

There’s more to it than they would know, the man we call the Prez, on a long board sliding down a slope, big breaker so he sez…

Once he was in Tassie, in that horizontal sleet, a diamond drill was in his hand, the weekend was his treat…

Then pushing books at libraries, driving here and there, also had a Teeshirt shop, on Griffith street somewhere…

Use to be a hippie and became a family man, the other side of Nimbin, living in a Kombi van…

Bilambil in the valley, where he did hold his chair, and the blues club just ain’t swinging, now that he’s not there.

That big grey beard, those deep dark eyes, they will linger long…

And we’ll just keep on moving, as the palm tree drops a frond…

BILAMBIL CALLING

A Good Friday Picnic…

At that particular Easter time, it was a good Friday, the sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky, Asha laid the blanket out, in the shade of a big gum tree, on the grassy bank, by the Cobaki creek, little Belle sat there with her eyes wide open, as Asha produced a colorful salad, and set the plastic plates, me, Jesse and the Jettman, crossed the road and ordered up, at our local G ‘n’ G fish an chip shop.

Ok…So let me try and create a mind picture for the reader.

Were all sitting at the edge of the blanket, surrounding a mound of crumbed flathead fillets, chips, and calamari rings, a big bowl of a lively looking salad, and a plate of seeded cut slabs of that lovely watermelon…

Little Belle is wide eyed looking around, Asha an Jesse is laughing an talking, digging the now, Jettman is, as always, raving on about something or other…

As we all tucked in and enjoyed the picnic scoff, them birds nearby were chirping loudly, Asha says, ‘what are them birds on about’…

Then Jesse says, ‘QUICK everyone on there feet’…

Asha let off with a scream, and grabbed little wide eyed Belle, and threw her head first into the pram…Jettman jumped, Jesse, with a watchful eye, took a step backwards and surveyed the scene, me, I moved faster than I have for twenty years, landed on my feet and loudly clapped my hands, cause there, just a few paces away, was a mean an deadly, two meter, king brown snake, swirling across the grass toward us, I grabbed me croks and made a louder slapping, clapping sound, that big brown raised its ugly head, and with its beady eyes it looked straight through me, right then I realized, it was my time to sort this venomous creature out…One false move and that king brown would have fanged us all and helped itself to our fish an chips…

I conjured up one of my meanest, ugliest looks, then with a long and meaningful hiss…I shouts, ‘FUCK OFF ASP’…

That snake waved its forked tong at me and slithered off toward river bank…An Ibis poked around, Asha settled down, Belle was still wide eyed, Jesse was looking about, my heart settled down to an even thump, as Jettman blurted out, ‘Blokie, your better then Battman’…

As we motored up the hill, I was thinking yea, good call…

A. H. Font… Once again to attempt an interview, with that unpredictable, and internationally infamous Bloke…

‘ Ok…So…There’s lots to talk about…Lets take this rave and put it on another field’… ‘What are your thoughts on all sorts of football from a TV couch type of view’???…

‘Ah…Ok…So here’s my call…There’s too much shirt pulling, and faking a dive in the round ball game, and I don’t like 3 points for a field goal in rah rah…Leauge is moving so fast now that it needs 2 linesmen, each with there half, on both sides of the field, to call forward passes, especially from the dummy half, and offside play as well;

And that AFL…Well…That’s such an Aussie game, it moves from one side of the screen to the other, we inherited a resemblance of that game from Ireland’…

‘Well now…Do you have a football team in any code you support and want to win’???…

‘Oh yea…Titans ‘n’ Knights, in the NRL…Swans ‘n’ Lions, in the AFL…Ncl’e Jets in the round ball game, and the Wallaby’s in the world cup Rah Rah’…

‘Yes, well… What about that other couch potato sporting stuff you get yourself heavily involved in’???…

‘Ah yes…I like to hit the couch for a 5 day cricket test match, and if there’s an Ausie in the mix, on the last day of one of them masters golf tournaments, I like to watch them shoot for the greens’… ‘And make the put’…

‘Ah…Yes…So much for them ball games, lets bring it up to where you’re at musically, maybe my intuitive readers can glean some enlightenment from your comments and further themselves’… ‘What are your musical objectives’??

‘Amm…Ah…Well you see, I’m in semi retirement at the moment, I’m only committed to Jamieson’s restaurant most every Sat night, the Blues Club every 2^nd Thursday, the Bob Dylan song book band on the 1^st Sunday in the month, the Bulla’s when ever they appear, the odd primary school appearance, sessions at home… Sometimes a wedding gig, thrown in with a bush ballad or Bob Dylan sing along’…

‘Yes…It seems you’re telling my observant readers that you’re very busy doing nothing’… ‘With all your experience, would you, or could you enlighten us to the tricks of the trade’???…

‘Ah…Well…It really is quite simple…There is always on beat and off beat…Always know where one is, that’s important, and know the three chords in any key, with the relative minor and your more than halfway there’…

‘ Ok…So it seems that’s all there is to know about you muso’s…What about the vocalist, and where should they be coming from’… ‘And with some words of wisdom, would you enlighten those would be if they could be singers of songs’???…

‘Well now let me try an get this right’… ‘Ok, so here it is, live the song when your singing, know the lyric and feel the phrase, know always where one is, and concentrate on diction’… ‘Yea, Bob Dylan said to me, always pronounce the last letter of every word you sing, he got it from Woody

I think’… ‘Oh yea, an if you’re an Aussie, for fuck sake sing like one’…

‘W’hoo…Lets lighten up with the lectures, and give my astute readers a little slack’… ‘ You’ve mentioned it before…What’s with this thing called Paspalum’?.. ‘Are they going to seed or is there going to be a CD’???…

‘Well, yes, lets see, there’s a bag of original songs that we’re about to mix, and when we’re ready we will spred the sound seed’… ‘ I reckon about this time next year it’s gunna happen’…

‘Well, time will tell, and I’m sure my My Space readers and U Tube viewers will patiently wait to except and digest the sounds of this intriguing and visually dynamic new band’… ‘Where might we see this Paspalum band’???…

‘Well…After enduring a ground breaking southern Q L D tour, we’re about to go into a three way mix mode, and sort this music out…Ah…Like there’s three song writers with four songs each, three strands to weave into a solid sounding piece of rope, with a little help from our friends…

So, just before the CD hits the streets, you can catch the Paspalum band performing at Jamisons on some Saturday nights, or every second Thursday night at the Bilambil Blues Club…So, when the CD sounds are out, we’re gunna aim at the festivals…We wanna be a festival band’…

PASPALUM ON MYSPACEPASPALUM ON MYSPACE

‘Oh…Ok, then, my intrepid readers and viewers will just have to wait and see on that one’… ‘This is Alfred H Font, signing off again, from yet another boring and time consuming rave from the incorrigible Mr Bloke’…

Mt Warning at the dawning, red sun climbing from the sea.

The Kooka birds are calling, from high in lofty tree.

That river it is winding, by Mur-Bah on its banks.

Where they use to ship them Cedar logs, then saw them into planks.

Tumbulgum is waking, as the river meets the Rouse.

And high upon the hilltop, there’s a little timber house.

That river keeps on flowing, through the cane fields on the plains.

And Chinderah town is happy, though it floods there when it rains.

The sun is shining high now, the golden sand it bakes.

Before the river hits the sea, it fills the Teranora lakes.

The water way is moving fast, past the rocky bah.

And mingles with ocean, with waves rolling from afar…

Oh the scene was set that Sunday, it was crowded on the hill…you could hear the chant around the field…

…B I L A M B I L…

The sun was beamin’ on down, as the players ran onto the field, this was the final, the one to win and take the group 18 shield…

It was Old boys from Mur-bah, white and blue, and Bilambil red white and green, the whistle blown the game underway, the best I’ve ever seen…

A field goal crossed for Bilambil, there was one point on the board, then Old boys put on a move, and a try out wide they scored, well they missed the shot for conversion, but were looking good with the ball, then Bilambil got some possession, and the Jets were standing tall…

The half time hooter heard through the roar, Bilambil ahead but they needed more, with the wind in there face in the second half, and four in front, it didn’t seen enough…

As the players run on there’s a jet in the sky, the crowd an encouraging roar, two tries each up on the board and the mob was hot for some more…

Then Garret split’em clean through the middle, put the hooker in under the posts, the crowd gave such a mighty roar, they heard it way up the coast…

Someone in the stand got exited, and chucked a stubbie through the air, it bounced off Magoolie’s head, knocked him arse-over out of his chair, then Damro the coach, a bustling run, he’s made it, he’s over, he’s scored…

And a kick to come you beauty, two more points to put on the board, then Old boys started to run it, out from their quarter line, they took it up scored and converted, they were closer but still behind…

From a scrum Garret broke through the line, and crossed for a beautiful try, the Bilambil fans were shouting, the Jets were flying high…

The full time siren sounded, just as fourty four years before

Bilambil had won the comp, twenty-three, eleven the score.

Oh the scene was set that Sunday, it was crowded on the hill…you could hear the chant around the field…

…B I L A M B I L…

The sun was beamin’ on down, as the players ran onto the field, this was the final, the one to win and take the group 18 shield…

It was Old boys from Mur-bah, white and blue, and Bilambil red white and green, the whistle blown the game underway, the best I’ve ever seen…

A field goal crossed for Bilambil, there was one point on the board, then Old boys put on a move, and a try out wide they scored, well they missed the shot for conversion, but were looking good with the ball, then Bilambil got some possession, and the Jets were standing tall…

The half time hooter heard through the roar, Bilambil ahead but they needed more, with the wind in there face in the second half, and four in front, it didn’t seen enough…

As the players run on there’s a jet in the sky, the crowd an encouraging roar, two tries each up on the board and the mob was hot for some more…

Then Garret split’em clean through the middle, put the hooker in under the posts, the crowd gave such a mighty roar, they heard it way up the coast…

Someone in the stand got exited, and chucked a stubbie through the air, it bounced off Magoolie’s head, knocked him arse-over out of his chair, then Damro the coach, a bustling run, he’s made it, he’s over, he’s scored…

And a kick to come you beauty, two more points to put on the board, then Old boys started to run it, out from their quarter line, they took it up scored and converted, they were closer but still behind…

From a scrum Garret broke through the line, and crossed for a beautiful try, the Bilambil fans were shouting, the Jets were flying high…

The full time siren sounded, just as fourty four years before

Bilambil had won the comp, twenty-three, eleven the score.

Merryweather where, the ships are out at sea,

You can count them every day, always one more there to see.

The summer sun beats down, on the people there around,

At the baths or on the beach, you’ll hear the seagulls sound…

The kites are there a flyin’; the breeze blows up the ridge,

As little boats are sallin’, beneath the Stockton bridge.

That big ole smokestack B H P, was on the harbor shore,

And as you sip your latté, you don’t see it any more…

Then when your at the ocean pool, I really think you should,

Try a Pluto pup, just like before they taste so good.

As you stroll down Hunter Street, why not go a Darby’s pie,

At tasty little morsel, the cheapest you can bye…

Now when you’re at the stadium, watchin’ Joey work the Knights,

He kicks conversions from the side, neath brightly shining lights.

And you can watch the A league Jets, kick that soccer ball,

Novocastrians, here and there, were all standing tall…

As I pass through Waratah, and drive by Jesmond high,

I wonder where the now time went, as it slowly slid on by.

Cause I am on the borderline, of Queensland, New South Wales,

I’ll trek again to Newcastle, and travel there by rail…

Thoughts while on a bus

From the city to Rathgar, on the bus it’s not too far,

And the drivers they’re a frowning, as I fumble for my fare.

He sits there looking crappy,

And I know that he’s not happy,

So I gives to him some coins and with my ticket catch his glare…

That bus begins to lurch, as I stumble to my perch,

On the top deck, for a rockin’ reeling ride.

I’m looking for that steeple,

As I gaze down on the people,

Walking up and down the windy street outside…

I sway upon that hard seat,

As I rest my weary sore feet,

It feels good to let my buttocks take the load.

Down there the traffic screaming,

Up here the bus is leaning,

As we move along that narrow winding road…

I alight, this is my stop,

Then hit the bottle shop,

Walk by the grey stone church, with steeple standing tall.

At home I have a drink,

Roll a smoke sit back and think,

While the driver weaves that bus through peak time crawl…

[pronounced Inish Man]

The boat that leaves the mainland, at the mouth of Galway Bay…

There’s a wake that sprays behind, as you sway along the way…

To arrive at Inis Meain, one of the stony Aran isles…

Then when you climb that craggy ridge, you can see for many a mile…

And down there on the lowland, lines of fences made of rock…

Where the wind that sweeps the Rye grass, has surely stopped the clock…

It’s far off in the distance, across rollin’ sea caps there,

The highland of the Burren in the misty county Clare…

Cast your gaze around a bit, waves roll on a steep stoned shore,

The rain clouds ever shifting, sweep across the cliffs of Moer…

Those dry stone fences like a maze, criss cross this wind swept land,

Ten thousand million rocks they used, and each one laid by hand…

Those flowers on the windowsill, the pub that’s painted white,

As the fiddle sounds and Guinness flows, it’s a clear and starry night…

Then we three walk in the moonlight, along a winding ribbon like path,

And when were not laughin’ were talkin’, we don’t think of the aftermath…

The time has come the walrus said; the time here ticks by slow,

The ferry’s waiting at the pier, and now it’s time to go…

As we roll, over the waves, Inis Meain in the distance now,

I think of them who stacked those stones, and I’ll always wonder how…