Stories That May Not Be True - Volume 1

The Place? Burwood, Victoria.

The Time? The Seventies.

The setting for our story is the hub of local culture and activity in Burwood - McDonald's.

There's a certain, palpable something in the air, other than the smell of over-cooked grease. It's a feeling, a strange vibe, a sense that today is the day when it might all change. Day 1 of the Brave New World.

Big Ronnie is coming to town...

Yea and yea verily, deck the halls with boughs of french fries, for the Great Day hath come. Patron saint of McDonalds, the man who gave of his own name that the organisation might flourish and spread - Ronald McDonald is appearing this day, in person, at McDonalds Burwood.

Approacheth the appointed time, and all the cracks have gathered unto the fray - mums, dads, kids, McDonalds crew members - and a group of local "sharpies". All are gathered within, united by one common purpose: to bask within the refected warmth of He From Whom All Good Things Flow, Ronnie McChuck.

Hark! Oh, frabjous joy! The Ronnie-mobile is pulling up on the opposite side of the road! All are beside themselves with anticipation as the yellow-and-red Bedford van lurches to a halt. The door opens, and yes, by God, the Great Man is here!

Youthful faces are alight with joy and glee, as Ronald disembarks the Bedford, ventures out into the roadway with cheesy grin and cheesier wave - and directly into the path of a speeding Holden, travelling north-bound along Burwood Highway...

The score - Holden: 1, World Famous Magical Clown: Nil

As Ronald slides from the bonnet of the now-motionless vehicle some fifty metres away, there are screams of terror from the shattered little children, murmurs of shock from the stunned parents - and hysterical howls of mirth from the "sharpies".

(The car driver was inconsolable - it was one step removed from having killed Santa, or infected the Easter Bunny with myxomatosis.The psychological ramifications for the man proved dire - he became phobic about the prefix "Mc", and was duly institutionalised after having been found cringing in terror beneath a ten-foot sign advertising McIlwraith's Plumbing Supplies. He fled the "retirement home" one rainy winter night, never to be seen again, fleeing into the night from his newly-appointed Occupational Therapist; the unfortunately named Dr. Michael McDonald...).

The McDonalds crew valiantly attempt to draw attention from the Dead Clown In The Middle Of The Road, Stinkin' To High Heaven by distributing free samples of raw cholesterol cunningly disguised as food, as parents hustle traumitised tots from the battle-ground, directing sharp and disillusioned glares at the still-convulsed "sharpies'.

The police arrive rapidly, aided to no small extent by the fortunate coincidence of Burwood police station being next door to Maccas. An ambulance arrives, measurements are taken, and the paramedics perform the famous "Parrot Sketch" from "Monty Python", pausing only to substitute the word "clown" for "Parrot", viz: "It is an ex-Clown, it has Ceased To Be!".

Yet there is one final task which must be performed, one last sop to the gods. And thus the Blanket Of Death is ceremoniously draped over the newly-created World-Famous Magical Road Statistic, as is customary upon the sudden and public extinction of Being. However, as if by decree from the God Of Comedy - from underneath the shroud protrude the huge Size 17 red-with-yellow-lace McBoots... one twitching ever-so-slightly, the final nail in the laugh-induced hernias now being sufferred by the sobbing, please-God-I'm-going-to-pee-my-pants-and-look-like-a-dick "sharpies".

This story may have happened - but I remember seeing Ronald some years after this. Could the paramedics have somehow erred? Is Ronald immortal?

Next time you see him, ask...

Jess versus The Tabby Patrol: Round 1!

For keen studiers of Group Dynamics, I offer the following:

Young Jess, a Maltese / Shitzu amalgamation, is the most recent addition to the burgeoning Keats household. The better-established pet-like household members are Feisty Mae and Psycho, two feline entities known collectively as The Tabby Patrol, as depicted below.

Feisty (female) is 15, Psych (male) is about 6. They usually agree to disagree, but have recently become united by the presence of a common irritant.

Jess is facinated by the cats, who are correspondingly less than enamoured of her attentions. In the fashion of the smaller, woofier types of dog, Jess approaches the cats enthusiastically and in a bouncy manner. The cats seek less active contact, and usually move in the general direction of away as Jess approaches.

East is East and West is West, however, occasionally the twain doth meet, and on such occasions Jess has duly found herself upon the receiving end of feline paws judiciously applied to the canine head.

To today's bout...

As I write, Jess is beside me, on the floor. Seeking shelter from the winter rain, The Tabby Patrol have entered the building, and assumed positions on the family room couches - which are located on either side of me. Jess is beside herself with joy at the appearance of her new friends (although she still hasn't worked out exactly what sort of dogs they are..), and is duly bouncing between them. And therein lies the problem...

To reach the rest of the house, Jess must pass through the narrow space between the two couches. Psych is lying on one couch. As Jess approaches, a paw raises, and she withdraws. She moves closer to the other couch, and The Feisty One, perched on an armrest, extends a similarly not-so-friendly paw in her direction.

Jessica finds herself torn by the fundemental dilemmna - she seeks the companionship of her humans, the sustenance offered by the food bowl, and the relief of the litter tray; but realises that - should she choose to traverse the path between the couches, frenzied blows from feline paws shall rain down upon her as The Tabby Patrol tag-team upon her canine butt.

What to do? AHHHH... Inspiration strikes! Jess goes under the couch. Peace and contentment are hers as the frustrated Tabby Patrol glance at each other questioningly, and drift off into the Sleep Of Those Who Don't Really Care...