The Strine Why Atorkin: Natchrule Strine
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- Chrissie
It was getting close to Chrissie, which prompted me to chuck a sickie. I was still in the nuddy, so I slipped on some grundies. I went to light up a durry, but I’d run out and had to have a rollie. It was perfect weather and I wondered if the blokes from out Woop-Woop would be into having a barbie and lairing it up with me in Brizzie, the Big Smoke.
Got on the blower to call the blokes I’m matey with. Let’s see…I rang Richo, Stevo, Patto, Robbo, Johnno, Davo, Dicko, Watto, Jacko, Kaz, Shaz, Gaz, Lindy, Mindy, Bindie, Macca and Bluey, a ranga, which is where the name comes from, of course.
My mates are a weird mob. All we’ve got in common is that we’re fair dinkum banana benders and surfies, but in real life there’s a cabbie, a polly, a sparky, a schoolie, a truckie, a wharfie, a chippie, a brickie, a greenie and even a prozzy. Oh, but she’s a sandgroper. And today I also buzzed a reffo – as dinki-di as you can get but who can barely speak Strine — an ambo, a gyno, a dermo, a garbo, a journo and a Salvo.
“G’day. Watcha ya doin’ this arvo?” I asked them all. “Wanna come to a Barbie? I’ve got chook, snags, rissoles and pie with dead horse. And some sangers. Then there’s a massive Pav for seconds.”
“Bloody oath,” was the general reply and they decided to come around willy nilly. I soon realized it was gunna be a biggy when people started asking if they could bring their oldies, their rellies or the ankle biters.
“
Apple’s mate,” I told anyone who wanted to bring someone else. “Don’t forget to bring a plate, though.”
I filled the esky with tinnies and stubbies of XXXX.
“Wouldn’t mind a coldie now,” I thought to myself.
I was gunna go to the deli, but my rego was buggered after I was in a bingle in the ute. I ended up going down the servo on my deadly treadly. I had to get some prezzies, so bought sunnies for the blokes and lippy for the sheilas. Also got some chewies, chokkies and lollies for the littlies. The servo can be exy, and I needed a bit of lolly, which wasn’t good because I don’t make big bikkies. I was skint when I left. A scratchy and a punt on the neddies were in order to rectify the situation.
Got home and it was smoko. I got a good pozzy in front of the telly to veg out and watch some footy. Then it was time for everyone to arrive, so I went into the dunny to change into my boardies, but they were a shonky make and the fly was bung, so I had to wear a cozzie. I walked out and right away bumped into Shaz, the spunk who works at a kindie with Lindy. I dunno how she got into uni, because I remember her struggling at veggie maths.
“Nice budgie smugglers,” she said and took a sip of her Bundy and began sussing me out.
“Shut yer gob, Shaz,” I told her with a smile.
As more people arrived, I got out of my bathers, slapped on some strides and slipped into my thongs. Put on some sounds and we were soon raging. It was packed out and really going off, apart from the blowies and the mozzies flying around everywhere.
But, wouldn’t you know it, right about tea time and just as it looked like turning into a real rip-snorter, in lobbed some bikies, all done up in their leather clobber. They skulled through a slab in minutes and were yahooing around and skiting, stirring us up about being in our togs, fossicking through the esky and turning the mood a bit bluey. As they got pissed, they perved at the shielas and it was the final straw when I sprung one of them trying to pash Bindie, who’s five months’ preggers. I was spewin’.
“Righto. Belt up, you bastards,” I yelled at the whackers. “Time for you lot to shoot through.”
Well, that made one of them go berko. And it was the start of a huge barney.
“Carn mate,” Bluey shouted and conked one of the drongos over the nut. Now, I don’t want to knock Bluey, especially as he’s built like a brick shithouse and got a bit of mongrel in him, but he’s not the kind you want to be around when he’s narked and he can be a real dill. He had Buckley’s of beating them, but Bluey will give anything a burl, especially if he’s had a gutful of piss. Today, though, he he’d hit the turps too hard and was already rotten. One hoon gave him a coathanger and it turned into an all-in shellacking. Crikey, they sure creamed him. Poor Bluey looked like a stunned mullet. He was rooted. I thought for a second he was gunna cark it.
By this time, the tackers were getting sooky and it looked like becoming a dead-set disaster. I nicked out and called the boys in blue.
That made the yobbos real shirty.
“Fair suck of the sav, mate. Why’d you dob us in?” one of the no-hopers said as he saw the flashing lights pull up the drive. “We were only mucking around.”
Coppers can be a bit Mickey Mouse at times, but tonight they were ridgy-didge saviors, getting to my place in no time at all. A big detective got up the bikies, giving them a real ear-bashing and chucking them in the back of the divvy.
Bluey was a bit crook and had a chunder on the back lawn. I thought he’d be ropeable, but the twit had a big smile on his face, which shouldn’t have surprised me as he’s not the kind to whinge and he’s certainly not up himself.
“Thanks heaps, mate,” he said. “It was a bloody beauty. Most fun I’ve had at Chrissie in yonks.”
“Strewth, Blue. You’re a bloody galah,” I told him, realizing he’s not the type to be mollycoddled.
Bluey ignored me. He stood up and watched with a rapt look on his face as the divvy van drove off with the ferals in the back. He waved at them, blew a kiss and shouted, like the true-blue stirrer he is:
“Hooroo!”
