KerrieJean.com

Emergency update: Friday 11:33

Urgent statement from Kerrie Jean:

‘I wish to assure you that Fetish Week will continue as planned despite very troubling reports flooding in from the hub of the weeks’ activities: The Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area of  New South Wales.

‘Please be assured that the water crisis and threats of civil unrest will not be affecting what has been – and will continue to be - the fabulous outpouring of joy and humanity that is Fetish Week.

‘So far, (against all expectations) Fetish Week activities have used very little water so, as organiser, I am distancing myself from the controversy currently enveloping the region which has – and will always be – my home.

‘Do enjoy the rest of  your Fetish Week activities.’

****** Background to statement: Murray-Darling Cuts Could Spark Riots (ABC News)

There are warnings today’s long-awaited Murray-Darling plan could spark riots in the streets of regional towns which could be hard-hit by expected cuts to irrigation entitlements.

The draft plan, which will be released this afternoon, is expected to recommend overall cuts to irrigation allocations of between 27 and 37 per cent.

Irrigators in the New South Wales town of Griffith say significant irrigation cuts could lead to civil unrest, wreaking havoc across regional Australia and sending food prices soaring.

FETISH WEEK ANNOUNCEMENT (Monday October 4th, 2010)

Is it wrong for me to tell you this?

…….Even grossly inappropriate?

If so, you’ll just have to forgive (or reject) me.

For the past three hours I’ve been wandering aimlessly around my modest digs with only one thought:

Will I tell them, will I tell them?

Then somewhere between the fridge and the low boy, IT hit me like a black St Joey’s nun armed with a 1960’s regulation-issue three metre leather strap. 

…..In the interests of respect and diversity, I must tell, I must act…….

Which brings me to this.

I am declaring this to be KJ’s Fetish Week.

And I am declaring it ‘open’ with this:

My Fetish is…….men with ONE old scar on their left cheeks.

[KJ: 'Fetish Week will bring people together like never before.' cr: Joe Shlabotnik: flickr]

I can’t help it. 

In my bedroom, that aforementioned low boy is both a receptacle for pride - and repulsion.

It’s where I keep my Fetish records.

…..An extensive photographic archive of  the 666 men I’ve tried to date,  live with, buttock pinch or furtively snap from a distance………

The common denominator? [Apart from a pathological fear of washing up or paying for king prawn cutlet suppers]

OLD SCARS ON THEIR LEFT CHEEKS.

Only once, did I seek professional guidance.

….When I found myself attracted to a man who did not have an old scar on his left cheek.

I was in a state, particularly when he declared his Fetishes were washing up and funding lavish king prawn cutlet suppers.

I told the professional (who incidentally had one old scar on his left cheek) that my Fetish had emerged as a teenager in regional Australia.

There, all young men presented with single scars on their left cheeks… the results of traditional farm machinery accidents, pub brawls, footy maulings, love bites gone wrong……

The professional (stroking the old scar on his left cheek) said I could never be cured.

But I had – unlike the majority of Festishists – demonstrated some insight.

And with insight, a modicum of control could be achieved.

I said:

Fat chance!

****************************

So, there you have it.

And if you feel even slightly uncomfortable about my revelations, this is probably not the site for you.

On the other hand, if you’re okay with it but fear being left out during ‘Fetish Week’ because you’re a Fetish-Free Zone do NOT be concerned.

As usual, just report in on what’s happening at your place.

Perhaps even tell us what it’s like trying to enjoy yourself without  a Fetish.

Everybody else, hang loose and make sure Australia has the chance to celebrate your Fetish.

Tell all. Tell loudly. Tell proudly.

In any case, please join the hot conversation by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Huge news today vis a vis my advocacy work which, as my supporters will tell you, is all done in my private time….

For free, gratis…..diddly squat. 

['Do we really want the war to continue?' cr: Peter Hindmarsh: flickr]

With sleepy rural constituencies being propelled into the national spotlight, I have embarked on an urgent lecture tour at (as my supporters will reaffirm) great personal expense.

While it is true that country towns are hell bent on snatching every last cent from our collective nation-building coffers, I am not only appealing for calm but viewing our new paradigm (sigh, sigh, sigh…) through the prism of peacemaking and understanding – a rare opportunity to achieve rural-city detente.

My lecture series is titled: My Cow, Your Cow, Our Cow .

Whether you are reading this in Bondi or Barmedman, please take a couple of minutes out of (let’s face it) your pretty ordinary life - and hear me through.

*Opening ‘My Cow, Your Cow, Our Cow’ comments – busting unhelpful myths.

[1] Country people are geniuses because they know where food comes from.

While city folk devour beef medallions strategically poised on juniper jus, followed by something sweet floating in quadruple curd, they have not a clue about the source of their bacchanalian tastes.  

The truth:

Both country and city folk know the souce of the aforementioned repast: COW.

[2] Country people are superior lovemakers because they’ve seen lots of cows being born. Seeing cows being born makes people ‘more at one with life forces’ .

The truth. 

Man or woman – city or country – who’s observed vets armed with tractor chains pull calves from wombs and thinks this has equipped them with ‘higher authority’ bedroom skills needs professional help NOW.

[3] Country people fight like bulls on heat but when someone needs a finger sown back on after giving their all during a particularly gruelling calf birth, they’ll quickly forget their differences and form emergency fundraising raffle committees.

The truth.

Country and city folk have the same propensity to hate. Taking away a person’s right to hate is akin to castrating cattle without adminstering panadeine. 

[4]  Country people are too busy monitoring cow prices to care about what’s happening in Myanmar.

The truth:

Country folk have been trying to get a live cow trade going with Myanmar for decades. They know everything about it.

[5] Country people are ’less Australian’ because they know not the pleasures of the surf. Nor have they faced - and conquered - its dangers. 

The truth.

They’ve done far more than that. 

Time for the hidden stories of dam and river derring do to be put before the Australian public. 

And time for me to declare I’m midway though a cultural history of just that.  Tales so far….

*Brave (stripped bare) country men winning three-day fights with 567 kilo dam carp.

* Modest country women having cossies ripped clean off their pert bodies by lethal Murrumbidgee River undertows.

And most intriguing of all, the three men in a tinnie who disappeared without a trace nearly one hundred years ago. 

Locals still talk about ‘The Tinnie Heaven’ case.

Wazza, Jezza and Tezza were last seeing loading a tinnie with 10,045 tinnies at the Tinne Hell Ramp at 06:37 on the 13th day of the 13th month in the year 1913.

I am currently investigating how 10,245 tinnies can disappear without a trace.

In the meantime, I declare the next seven days: ‘For Town And Country Week’. Patrons: Messrs Oakeshott and Windsor.

Please join us.

***************************************************

So busy, busy busy……..

And a big welcome if you’ve discovered us via the extraordinary buzz around our new comedy series, ‘Something In The Hair’.

Do let us all know what’s happening in your patch – perhaps you even enjoy the City-Country Culture Wars and would be mightily disappointed if peace came in your lifetime.

Perhaps you like ‘Something In The Hair’ – or perhaps you find it nauseating. Trust me, I’m not the type to lose sleep over such a slight but I’d like to know exactly why and how you formed your opinion - I really would. I really…..really…..REALLY……would.

So, looking forward to meeting you. If not during the ‘My Cow, Your Cow, Our Cow’ lecture tour then right here and now.

You can do that by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Never before have I seen things in kerriejean.com so emotional, so revved up, even fraught.

But, God help us, this week we’re up a notch!

I’m a country girl. I’m used to being at the mercy of nature  - and rugged, individualistic men.

But something unprecedented is happening.

I’m waking in fright  – bolt upright in my ‘Sex In The City’ promotional jammies at 3am – going over and over the infinite configurations about what must happen (and what must NOT) to have the Socceroos ‘progress’. So they can get knocked out in the next round after SBS get its money back. 

‘Germany WILL progress to the next round.’ Cr: Zhang Erning: flickr

The underlying trauma?  

It’s taking me right back to a stinking hot HSC examination cell at Leeton High School, 1974. I’m the Riverina’s nerviest candidate for Level 3 Mathematics.

I’m in Group D, running on Hec’s traditional maths test fortifier, (a) one egg flip with (b) two eggs. And throwing everything I’ve got at the (c) multiple choice questions. A lot (a,b,c & d) has to happen if I’m to get ONE right.

BUT, it ain’t and I won’t.

My Beautiful Mind is a rice medley with pineapple and corn.

Eight minutes in, my dream of being the first in the Ross family to count to 10 without hesitating, has come to down to this: 

Nowt x Nowt x Nowt = Bugger All.

So, to what has to happen for the Socceroos to keep their traditional slot on SBS - smiling on the team bus before matches.

Quite a bit…….

**Yugoslavia has to be re-united so Serbia no longer exists.

**There has to be a military coup in Ghana and the freedom loving Black Stars have to be imprisoned in South Africa and unable to play.

**The Euro Zone has to finally collapse in spectacular fashion, leaving the German players without legal tender to get into stadia.

**The Rev Kev has to urgently bring forward talks to unite New Zealand and Australia – with a resulting new Pacific powerhouse World Cup team, The Allrightwhiteeroos.

So, that’s what has to happen…..

And because I’m (sigh) a country girl who NEVER gives up hope – for soaking rains, for a date, for the Coleambally Rice Mill to re-open, for gay rice farmers to be given the right to marry and share water rights – I’m hanging in for an Allrightwhiteroos triumphant debut.

And I know, I just know I’ll get a date – centred on a Lazy Susan with a glorious plate of  72 golden king prawn cutlets whizzing around. BEFORE World Cup Brazilia, 2014.

Ed’s note: A lot had to happen for the Leeton-Whitton Crows to beat the visiting Coolamon Grasshoppers at the magnificent Irrigation Specialists Oval, yesterday. Unfortunately, nothing much happened at all. Grasshoppers (14:14:98), Crows (4:8:32).

Hec’s summing up – in line with his Golden Rule:  ’NEVER put s**** on your own team…….

 ’A terrific exhibition of exacting discipline under great pressure - four quarters, exactly one goal per quarter. You don’t often see that!’

********************************************

So….it’s all optimism in here…..’would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon…..?’

A big Thank You to the new posters who’ve come into kerriejean.com recently. Hec’s also suitably impressed. ‘You’re on a roll, KJ, ya really are…’

Love to hear about your latest World Cup preps/strategies…..and anything else that – for you – is passing for a life…….*Oh yes, and reports of PTSD-driven HSC attempts would be wonderful.

Just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

To live a double life is to be propelled into dark places way out of your usual personal TomTom range…….

(cr: Gabby DC: flickr)

How do I know?

Because I did.

I’d like to say it all started innocently, but that would be a lie.

On a day even more appalling than others, Sister Mary McKillya – of St Joseph’s Convent and Prison Farm, Leeton – made terrible accusations about my relationship with The Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Specifically, that I had weak ties with the best trio that (sort of) ever lived.

Sister Mary McKillya informed me that I was now on a Holy Trinity Disciplinary Programme. 

Daily - at 4pm - I was to collect eggs from Leeton’s most productive chookyard which was in the grounds of the nearby Presbytery. 

After collecting the eggs in a big enamel bucket (provided as part of my programme) I was to cross the road, knock on the convent kitchen door and hand over the eggs to Sister Egg Contact.

*Suspecting there were adult concepts involved I dared not ask why nuns could not – in pairs, if need be - harvest their own eggs.

That afternoon, I told Gwennie her daughter was an Egg Runner. 

Without hestitation, in a threatening tone which I had never heard before, or since, she said:

I WANT SOME AND I’LL PAY.

And so it was that Egg Pimp Gwennie put a false bottom in the enamel bucket.  

For a while, I was happy. I collected the eggs. I hid four and I handed over the rest to Sister Egg Contact. Sometimes, Sister Egg Contact would give me rainbow cake and lemonade. And talk about how Sister Mary McKillya was pleased with my progress on the Trinity Discipline Programme:

She is turning into a fine Egg Collector and is earning trust…..

Thank you Sister Egg Contact……

…..All the while thinking: 

You dare come near that bucket, and I swear to God I won’t be able to guarantee your personal safety…..swear to God I WON’T!!!

Every Friday, Gwennie paid up.

But she was changing. And not in a nice way. She was high, drowning in the compliments she got about cakes made with the contraband Super Eggs.

I’d take a vow of celibacy if it meant all my eggs could be like that……..

And then one day:

I want more KJ, I WANT MORE!

Soon, I was reporting to Sister Egg Contact that I wasn’t masquerading as a vet BUT the chooks didn’t look at all well – in fact, half dead -  AND hardly any were laying.

By then, I had so much cash I was laundering it in Griffith - buying dozens and dozens of boob tubes which I knew I’d never get to wear.

Gwennie, who had been so loved for her modest nature, turned obnoxious. She spent her days pushing sponges:

Look at this,  will you please just take a look at THIS!!!

So, how did it all end?

If I don’t say so myself, very well thank you.

One day, Sister Egg Contact announced that the St Vincent de Paul society wanted to resume the chookyard site for charitable purposes. I was to be re-assigned to altar cleaning duties.

And Gwennie?

She went back to being nice.

But not before she’d made it very clear around town that she thought the nuns use of child labour, disgraceful.

***********************************

*So, there you have it – I’m out, out, OUT and proud of it. I hope Gwennie feels the same way – I really, really do…..

Have you ever lived (or ARE living ) a double life? Would love to know all about it. Anyone who tells you it can’t  sometimes be fun is really having themselves on, don’t you think?

Perhaps you have just have fond memories of a chookyard from long ago…..

And, as usual, the poetry, the prose and the peccadillos that ARE  the stanzas of your life (did I really write that?) are eagerly awaited…….

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

*This is my Anzac Day Story, 2009. Circumstances haven’t changed for Hec so I’ve put it up for another viewing….with some  of the comments.

*As usual, a new story up tomorrow.

May I introduce you to handsome RAAF Navigator (Serviceman no 412859) Hec Ross of Leeton? (on right).

I carry this pic on my person and turn it over when I get nervy. You see on the back of the photo Navigator Hec is doing his coordinates, working out where the bloody hell he and his bomber mates are. So, when I get frazzled I think:

If Hec could keep his mind on the job in woeful circumstances I surely can work my piddly problems out.

So here’s to Hec who could NEVER guts the thought of marching on April 25th.

I’ve got a little box with a few Hec ‘war things’ in it.

A letter from the Air Department (Jan 21st, 1949) tells Hec that his service medals have arrived.  One, for just being there (War Medal) and the other, for just being in the Pacific (The Pacific Star). I’ve also got bits and pieces off his uniform: beautiful studs, nifty stripes (not too many mind!) and a mother-of-pearl heart with a bird on it.

I know next to nought about Hec’s War.

He didn’t talk about it but occasionally, after drinks had been taken, he’d have a little sing about it.

Now, the starting of the *Vultee is a most peculiar art…….off you go Hec….finally working up to a big finish….

Early in the morning when the dew is on the grass, you will see the Vultee men all sitting on their arse……

(*Vultee Vengeance dive bomber)

Other snippets:

**** Hec ran a war time book on the Melbourne Cup. In a gesture of unbridled patriotism, he and his pilot took a dive bomber up to get good radio reception for the race. It is acknowledged that his promotional opportunities were strictly limited after this episode.

**** Because of something which happened in The War, Hec was deaf in one ear. But Gwennie, always a great supporter of equal opportunities, made sure he NEVER felt disabled:

YOU CAN HEAR ME WHEN YOU WANT TO. YES YOU CAN HEC, YES YOU CAN!!!

**** Hec drank a fair bit of beer before The War – and he quickly resumed his normal routine after it.

**** Did the War make Hec nervy? I think so. He got himself SO worked up – particularly during the footy season, Lent and whenever anyone dared mention Billy or Sonia McMahon.

Forgot to tell you. While Hec didn’t march, he did take it upon himself to run the best Anzac Day two-up school in the Riverina…..

Always a pleasure to hear from you….

*This is Leeton’s War Monument (cr: Mattinbgn) which has been noted by contributors to this post.

Just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!

People enjoy – are even naturally drawn to – Open Spaces.

Even taking, taking, TAKING their pleasures as if a constitutional right – sweating themselves stupid in the never-ending battle for just above average body weights, walking designer huskies fouling inner city courtyards, pushing their mental and physical limits via extreme Tai-Chi……

BUT DOES ANYONE STOP TO THINK WHERE NATURE’S LEISURE CENTRES COME FROM?

This is the story of the lush sports fields of St Francis De Sale College, corner of Pine and Maiden Avenues, Leeton (motto ‘Virtue et Constantia’/ ‘Courage and Perseverance’).

In the late 1960’s, these showpieces were a pathetic sun baked paddock. And, for The Sports Field Dreamers, it came with a huge logistical problem: ROCKS. From pebble to boulder proportions. Igneous. Sedimentary. Metamorphic…..

(Leeton’s Sports Fields Of Dreams: circa 1969 cr: cenz: flickr)

But that didn’t stop Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Art Thou?

Quite the opposite.

The removal of 809,876,590 tonnes of rock, to be known thereafter as ‘Emu Parade’, would be the centrepiece of  all curricula and disciplinary protocols.

From 1969-1972, like hundreds of other Muscular Young  Riverina Christians, I toiled in the Paddock Of Boulders.

In 108-degree heat, Children Of The Boulders, with hunched backs and gnarled hands, battled with rocks more than twice their bodyweights.  Colossal rockpiles sprung up only to disappear overnight.  What happened to them no-one knew.  

Across the Paddock Of Boulders, there could be heard massed singing:

Consider yourself, well cooked,

Consider yourself,  part of The Family……

…..Plaintive young voices always ignored by passing motorists who desperately wanted sports fields but – God forgive them - didn’t give a damn about who got maimed and ‘melanomaed’ in pursuit of them.

The ghastliest of The Ghastly Years for The Children Of The Boulders was 1972.

Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Are Ya? were nearing death and feared they’d never see the (and may I say, very handsome) Bishop of  the Wagga Wagga Archdiocese, Francis Carroll, bless their Sports Fields Of Dreams.

History records that in 1972, there were 789  disciplinary ‘Emu Parade’ actions following well-targeted surveillance campaigns ending in dawn raids. These included:

* Detection and seizure of tampons – banned because of their penetrative nature.

* Detection of kohl on eyelids – banned because Cleopatra was a tart.

*Detection and seizure of personal diaries -  banned because ‘ If you want to write to someone, write to God…..’

And so it was that St Francis de Sale College got its Sports Fields Of Dreams.

I gaze upon them when I’m home – enroute to the famed Golden Apple Supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of local Spumante.

Cheers…….

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So, here’s to you…….how ya doin’?  At season’s change….

Can’t tell you how much this Melanoma Kid loves the first whiff of something – anything – other than summer. Feel better. Less loopy.

As usual, I await news from your patch…….perhaps you’ve even got a favourite Open Space which Australia should know about.

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it