It used to be our local corner store back in the day when supermarkets didn’t exist.
Old Jock Stockwell owned the place then and I went to school with his daughter.
In fact, little Jeanette was my very first girl-friend.
In those days many corner stores were located near schools and thus provided a vital service to the community and pupils, both.
Jock was quite innovative and provided, in microcosm, all those years ago, what supermarkets are busting their guts to do these days.
Jock networked with local suppliers and was brilliant at offering a range of seasonal local delicacies fruit veggies, smallgoods – as well as keeping his stocks of staples and supplies – fresh and within their use-by-date.
Then an elderly lady neighbour of his had to move on.
Jock acquired her residence and built a new shop front on that residence, directly next-door to his original corner store.
It may not have been the best commercial decision he made since he was fairly close to retirement age and having to sell off his original corner store to people who converted it into a ‘fish and chip shop’ - on top of building new premises - must have eaten into some of his turnover from the local schoolkids.
Yet he soldiered on in his new shop for a few years and if anything his turnout just kept improving while the brats attending the new fast food joint just kept getting fatter, pimplier and uglier.
Back to Jock -
Somehow he seemed to know beforehand, when my old man had become bored smoking ‘Rothmans’ and wanted to change to ‘Camels’, or something, for a few weeks.
Or if it was paper clips, a mapping pen, exercise book, or a bottle of red ink – he had it in stock too.
Likewise for the regular tin of ham, loaf of fresh bread, or occasional tin of special jam for poor old Eddie Walsh down the corner.
If some snotty nosed kid walked in and muttered – “givusaslicerwatermelun, mister” –
Jock would have this green, cylindrical, object lying on the bench and a wickedly sharp knife in his hand.
Before you could blink Jock would have extorted threepence for a paper thin slice of tissue wrapped water melon, tapped the snotty brat on the top of his head and sent him on his happy way.
Jock wasn’t just smart – he was, in his quiet way, a showman who, were he a samurai in another lifetime, would have wielded his tool of trade with equal precision.
The same with his doling out ice cream cones or anything else in his inventory.
No archbishop could have done more of a show-man-like job with the Host.
He knew each and all of his customers intimately – knew their foibles and ways, and bloody well knew how to keep them happy despite wrenching every penny he could out of their pockets.
But Jock, for his own reasons, decided to retire and move away.
He didn’t go broke – he packed up with his family, moved out of town, and as far as I know has never come back.
I believe he decided to take his nest-egg away to Brizzo where his youngest, the ‘Dux of the school’, my first girlfriend, might acquire some semblance of education.
Meanwhile, afterwards, over the road, a succession of ill-financed punters did their best to exploit Jock’s legacy.
The times have changed and schoolkids have progressively, increasingly, been actively discouraged from attending those traditional corner stores which served the generations so well.
Oh, it takes quite a while for our political masters to screw everything up for everyone.
As I mentioned, Jock, the canny old bastard, saw the writing on the wall and took steps – bloody long steps away from the futility of trying to make an honest buck in this locality.
Jock may have only been a shopkeeper – but his apparent rule, like Wellington, was ‘never reinforce failure’.
But he didn’t mind selling off his assets to gamblers more stupid than him.
And so the times change.
Since his time, living over the road, we’ve seen a dozen or more punters moving in and attempting to make a go of a lost cause in that superannuated dump over the road.
We’ve known all of those decent people doing their damnedest, these last few decades, to make a go of what Wellie would call a ‘forlorn hope’.
We’ve known them because they were mostly damned good neighbours – and even if we disagreed – or they didn’t agree with whatever was happening here – we were still neighbours able to meet and talk things through.
All of which was fairly ‘neighbourly’ until the present set of un-neighbourly prize arseholes turned up there a few years ago.
They moved in, set up shop and a few days after I went over to order a snack.
Most long term residents tend to be put off by new owners treating, us, their neighbour customers, like a smear of shit they’d found under their shoes.
I’m stupid. I placed my order, paid up front (BIG mistake), said I’d be back in 20 minutes to pick up my spring roll (or whatever it was).
Then when I returned for my portion of offal – I literally had to reapply for its provision.
Then, after much argument, when I returned home with the object - it had apparently been thrown into the fryer in its plastic™ bag.
It appears that our new ‘resterauntuers’ were an uppity, meretricious, careless cooking mob of losers who obviously didn’t want our custom. (Okay, fuckem, ‘once burnt, twice shy’, we can immediately deal with that by sacking ‘em without asking for a refund).
That was the early days.
Since then it has become infinitely worse.
HOW BAD CAN IT GET?
I don’t particularly give a fuck at a flying doughnut about what the neighbours are up to – unless they are directly messing about with our ‘quality of life’.
But when these sad sacks of shit try to poison us when we innocently walk in to their ‘new enterprise’ – not only poison us but charge more than twice the going rate for a fucking spring roll – then something has to go on notice.
Especially when you consider that a commercially packaged spring roll IS NOT contained in its little slip prior to cooking.
So to be handed a blackened cylindrical object smelling of burnt plastic would definitely have to be a feat beyond the scope of the average friendly corner hash-slinger.
In fact, the provision of such a disgusting item would definitely have to be a case of malice aforethought.
If you’d been living these past few years opposite this vomitorium pretending to be a fast food palace – then you’d have to be, not only amazed, but completely mindfucked, as to how these stinkers could ever possibly stay in business.
Like us, you’d be over the road from them wondering why it is that their manners match those of the craziest of the muja hadeen.--------------------------
I don’t believe it too much to ask as to where the hell this new proprietor, ‘G W’, came from.
The real question is why this prize psycho arsehole had to arrive across the road from us.
I’ve only lived here for sixty years and have never had to engage in fisticuffs with anyone except little timmy white whose parents took over that corner store from Jock about fifty years ago.
But even little timmie finally managed to control his anger in his adolescence –
Whereas this present arsehole, ‘G W’, screams death threats at us through our windows in the dead of night.
The same crock of shit raises his fists at me first thing in the morning – tells me that the polis wants him to smack me down.
Nice fellow that ‘G W’; prominent local businessman. A bloke you could trust.
As one of my lifelong friends said the other day when I finally conned him into listening to the recording of this cunt – “Jeesus, he needs some help now, right away!”
But ‘G’ can shout death threats through our windows then have the police pounding on our door next day.
I answered their pounding with the recording of ‘G’ in my hand, ready to replay, for their advice.
They flat refused to listen to it.
Since then it has been provided to the CMC, the office of newman, our fuhrer. And various other agencies allegedly poised waiting and supposedly ‘of jurisdiction’ in order to immediately pounce on perpetrators of chemically and alcohol fuelled violence.
In fact they have the recording in attachment to submissions lodged in writing to these agencies.
But guess what.
It appears that this ‘G W’ is exempt from the law.
This shiteheel and his companion, ‘H W’, have been operating a business or two over the road for years now.
Recently they’ve dealt with council with his missus acting as ‘principle’ –
(See P 188 of 245)
“Council has received a request from Helen Wittleton, the proprietor of a business known as the Fishin Chicken at 53 Walla Street, Bundaberg South. There are two other businesses in the complex, a Hairdresser (Snipitz) and a Massage Centre (Bundaberg Remedial Massage). The complex is situated in Walla Street immediately opposite Bundaberg South State School.” – continues in the public record.
So his missus does his dirty work for him– yet, he, himself is ‘invisible’ on the face of the public record.
So what IS this bastard?
Some defrocked cop – some arch crim on some witness protection programme – or just some piece of filth related to enough contacts in this corrupt state permitting him to behave like the arch-cunt he’s adequately demonstrated – that he is?
Anyway, the ‘G and H, W’ team turn up and take over a completely collapsed fast food dive then start to take over the neighbourhood.
They don’t do that by improving the air (oh goddamn it, the place stinks to high heaven).
They don’t do it by being good neighbours.
Instead, they do it by letting their closest neighbours know that they want them to move out – to encourage us to fuck off under a hail of threats.
When their neighbours refused to move – they bellowed actual death threats through their victim’s windows.
Oh fucking yawn, gav – get real! (Whoops, I slipped and mentioned the slimer’s name).
Then next day the local pigs arrived supporting his pitch (which made things Bizarro world – but serious).
According to gav’s mate, dempsey – only ‘bikies’ are supposed to behave this way in boganvillian society.
But stop there –
We’re talking about Bundaberg – ‘fun’daberg – the most boring yet corrupt town anywhere in Australia.
Could any of this mafia mis-behaviour have something to do with drug production?
PS – We have letters here from the CMC and the premier’s office about this smarmy cunt and the industrial scale meth production over the road.
We also have a threatening letter from the police farce.
The letter from the premier concludes with – “I can understand that this situation is making you, your wife and your son very anxious.
Similarly, if you have any concerns about you or your family’s safety then you should also report this to crimestoppers, or telephone 000 in case of emergency.”
BRILLIANT! – this, from the office of the present fuhrer – the sad-sack who now wants bikies locked up for allegedly similar behaviour as mentioned above.
I began to see the score some time ago. After all, Joh’s regime DID offer a few pointers.
It required the services of FitzGerald to topple Joh.
What form or style of exorcist has the strength to break this present regime?