the radio competition

Pulled this from the waybackmachine’s 1998 real surf files.

‘ So I thought I’d give it a whirl.’
‘ Jokin’! ‘
‘ No fear, she can’t write for quids so I thought I’d get up her for a joke. ‘ 

The two men were sat side by side on the grassy sideline watching their eight year-old grandsons playing Rugby League. The conversation was desultory and muted. Anybody standing five feet away would not have heard them. Neither did they gesticulate nor frame their words with their hands.
Laconians.

The grey-haired man was describing his participation in a radio competition where listeners were asked to write a fifty-word paragraph in the style of Ms. Jackie Collins and read to her it on air. His friend was recounting a recent incident where his wife’s skirt fell to the floor of a cake-shop as she took delivery of a large Bombe-Alaska.

‘ She was the judge as well, her and this disc-jockey bloke whose show she was on. Fifty bucks on offer for the winner.’

A small commotion on the field arrested their attention.
‘ Jeez, that little sheila hasn’t got a bad fend.’ rumbled the other man.’ They don’t bloody need teachin’ do they?’
He pulled a small tin out from his shirt pocket and withdrew papers and tobacco.
‘ You wouldn’t wanter know what happened to mum the other day, would ya?’ He said as he pinched a nub of tobacco from the tin.
‘ What?’
‘ Bloody dropped her clobber in the cake shop.’
‘ Deadset? ‘
‘ Bloody right! ‘

‘ Hang on. ‘
A fair-haired boy with wide eyes and a panicked expression had caught the ball and was running towards them, in pursuit was a large Polynesian boy and the little girl with the big fend.
‘ Where’s he off to? ‘ asked the grey-haired man as the boy got closer.
‘ I reckon he thinks we’re the bloody goal posts.’
‘ Shit! Look out! ‘
The wide-eyed boy fled between the men and ran unchecked onto a neighboring field and amongst another game.

‘ So what didjya write? ‘
‘ Oh, just a piece of bullshit. I don’t like the sheila so I got stuck into her.’
‘ Bit of a Wordsworth are ya? ‘
‘ Pissorf, we’re not all idiots.’
‘ So what didya write then? ‘

‘ Well, I kind of started it like this: 
Veronica stirred languorously beneath the crimson satin sheets as the Mediterranean sun cast its golden glow into the bedroom of her sumptuous Greek Villa.
‘ You’re bloody kiddin! ‘
‘ No. Deadset. I toldya I was right into it. ‘

The grey-haired man’s grandson was standing motionless above the ball in the middle of the field.
‘ Pick it up mate, It’s not a bloody tea-towel,’ he called out. A couple of younger women watching nearby glanced over and smiled. 

‘ What happened with your Missus?’

‘I’m in the car waitin’ while she’s standin’ in the shop with her hands full of shopping bags handbags and a cake in a box when her skirt gives up the ghost and hits the deck. Poor little bugger.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Don’t ask me, something must have gave way, half our stuff is made in hippyville so who knows?’

The referee blew half time.

‘ Yeah, go on.’

Her black hair billowed upon the lace-covered pillows as she turned to look at Dane, her new man. He slept on after their rambunctious lovemaking with his tousled head resting on a heavily tattooed arm. The sheets barely covered his corrugated torso.
‘ What bullshit! ‘
Discarded clothing littered the Persian throwdowns that surrounded the canopied bed. A holstered revolver lay draped over the teak bed-head.

‘ Her tongue must of been hangin’ out listenin’ to you read this.’
‘ My oath, you could hear the heavy breathing. ‘

A little boy walked over to them. He came up to his grandfather and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
‘ Granddad,’
‘ Yes mate.’
‘ Can I go home now.’
‘ It’s only half-time little feller.’
‘ Yeah. But I don’t want to play any more.’
‘ Why’s that mate? ‘
The boy stabbed his foot into the ground and ducked his head.
‘ I don’t like being tackled, ‘ he said very softly.
The coach was looking over at them a little anxiously, the game was about to resume.
‘ Yeah well, there you go mate. Can’t be helped. Go on. You’re a good little runner and they’ll never catch you if you go hard enough. ‘
The little boy walked back to the mid-field with his head down.

‘ So what happened.’
‘ She got her togs back up ok but the cake was buggered. I couldn’t figure out why she was laughin’ so hard when she got back into the car.’

‘ Keep goin’. ‘
Dane slowly woke as Veronica traced a long bloodred nail down his furred chest. Suddenly his eyes opened and with a supple rush he leant over Veronica and pressed his be-whiskered face into her naked and soft stomach.
‘ Mate, that’s bloody hot stuff.’
‘ Good ain’t it? I reckoned by now I had ’em eatin’ out of me hand. ‘ 
‘ Why don’t you like her?’ 
‘ Buggered if I know. What’s to like? ‘
‘ Plenty I reckon.’
‘ Mate, I wouldn’t crawl over her to get to Elle bloody Macpherson.’

‘ Bullshit! ‘
‘ Hang on, Look at the little bloke! ‘

One of their boys was rabbiting towards the line with both teams in close attention. 
‘ GO SON!’ They roared in unison.
The boy scored and the teams were even. Kick to come. Two minutes of play remaining.
Both men slowly rose and made their way along the sideline to the kiosk.
‘ Go a pie? ‘
‘ Yeah. So how did it finish up? ‘
‘ Bloody funny I thought, but that sheila won’t own up to a sense of humour. Didn’t fancy it at all. ‘ 
‘ How did it finish? ‘

Veronica sat up startled and just as she then bent to clasp Dane’s head,

‘ Yeah, right, I’m listenin’ ‘

‘ Somebody farted.’
‘ You read that out? ‘
‘ Yeah. ‘
‘ On the bloody radio? ‘
‘ Yeah. ‘
‘ Then what happened? ‘
‘ Jackie Collins yells out – No bodily functions! – and the bastards hung up on me.’

I reckoned I had it won. ‘