Bland On Bland – The BookThe theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Southern Journey“.

I had to phone this week’s poem though, funnily enough, I had a gig playing in StKilda, south of the Yarra
Jon didn’t really get the irony.


To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Southern Journey

“Who’s on” asked Dan “On what?” snapped Mick
“I mean who’s playing where, you silly prick”

“Calm down” said Lyn “I saved the page
You know, The Gig Guide in Friday’s Age

Chisel’s on at Bombay Rock”
“Stuff that” snarled Mick “be chock a block”

“How ‘bout Rose Tattoo at the Croxton Park?”
“The Tatts? It’ll be a blood bath” Mick barked

“Well the Models are over at the Village Green
And The Ferrets are on at the Aberdeen”

Mick ummed and ahhed but wouldn’t commit
Every place they mentioned he said the beer was shit

“Drink Bundy” scowled Lyn “it’s ‘bout music not beer
Last try, Mi-Sex down at The Pier”

A few seconds silence, Lyn snapped “I’ll drive
The Pier in Frankston, leaving in five”

Headed south stopping at Mentone for juice
Briefly in Bonbeach to grab Mandy and Bruce

When they got to The Pier Mick gave a shriek
The queue snaked down to Kananook Creek

“Bugger me” he whined, but what could they do?
Except stand in the cold at the end of the queue

Took forty five minutes to get to the door
Climbing the stairs, ten minutes more

The bouncer eyes Mick and looks down his nose
“Sorry mate, no thongs, can’t come in in those”

“I told you” growled Lyn “you never listen to others
Go and look in the car, you’ll find some of my brothers”

The rest decide to have a drink at the bar
While Mick heads back to search in the car

Eureka, sand shoes; thanks to Lyn’s brother Wayne
They join the rear of the queue once again

Twenty minutes this time, they weave through the crowd
“Sorry mate, see the sign, no runners allowed”

“Ahh bullshit” sulked Mick “what does it hurt?”
“Plus” smiled the bouncer “no collar on your shirt”

The others were fed up and freezing beside
Told Mick to sort it and they’d meet him inside

Tried searching the car, all he found was a frock
Black vinyl hot pants and one purple sock

Then a drunk staggered past, god he was stinking
He was roughly Mick’s size; Mick began thinking

He offered to trade for his shirt and his shoes
Even threw in the hot pants, what could he lose?

Mick offered five dollars, tried pulling a swifty
The drunk was no fool; finally settled for fifty

Mick returned to the pub to again try his luck
He smelled like a brewery and an abattoir truck

Walked up to the bouncer and gave him a glare
“I suppose now it’s me jeans or you don’t like me hair?”

“Your jeans are alright” he replied with a grin
“But I’m afraid we’re full, can’t let you in”

Mick went to the bar and that didn’t go well
They asked him to leave on account of the smell

Freezing and wet he just wandered about
Filled in the time till his friends came out

“Great show” smiled Lyn: Mick was not amused
Both his ego and wallet were bruised

When they reached the car, Lyn screamed “You twat
You left the light on, the battery’s flat”

Ran to the station, missed the last train
Queued an hour for a cab, bucketing rain

Driver wouldn’t take Mick; the stench made him reach
Forced to seek shelter on Seaford Beach

Some thugs beat him up; threw him into the bay
Tried to swim off, stood on a ray

Barb through his toe; sand up his arse
Ran down the beach, cut his foot on some glass

Curled up on a bench at Carrum Shops
The Milkman saw him and called the cops

He at least scored a ride in the back of their van
To the lock up in Frankston where his troubles began

Shared his cell with a drunk who moaned “Something pongs”
Tried to sell Mick his hotpants and thongs

Staggered home the next morning, totally rooted
The front door was kicked in his flat had been looted

He lay on the floor too buggered to shower
Couldn’t have anyway; they’d cut off the power

They say we’re born equal, though life isn’t fair
Once you head south it’s all downhill from there

© Copyright 2018 Ian Bland


Also have a listen to “Everything or Nothing

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