Life's highs and lows have given me a lot of stories over the years. It's Gary's Blouse pays homage to the one that started it all, so this is where you'll find them.
 THE CROSS DRESSING AUSSIES
At the risk of starting a nasty rumour…it appears that Mark Moncrieff has developed a cross dressing problem. This was discovered, not once, but twice while he was travelling to the IEC Spring Meeting first with one lot of women’s clothing in his bag and then on his return, with different women’s clothing. He tried to explain that he was returning some of Nicky Madelly’s clothing, which she had left behind while staying with Mark and his family during a recent trip down under. He then claimed that on his return trip he took Elena Dussin’s formal clothing back from the IEC as she was staying on a few extra days to sight see. When stopped at customs and questioned Mark honestly replied that he was travelling alone and had indeed been on farmland. As is their way, the customs officials asked to inspect his footwear…and got a nasty surprised when instead of manly gumboots they discovered several pairs of fabulous high heels and a matching evening gown!
It’s funny how this type of story encourages others to share…
After telling this hilarious story, Mark’s mate Nevin Holland confessed to having pantyhose found in his bag. In Nevin’s defence the incident happened when horse back riding up the Snowy after he had been told that wearing pantyhose prevented soreness.
There goes any image of rugged Aussie horsemen I’ve ever seen! Apparently this is not the first time these lads have got themselves in strife. Last year, when Mark and Nevin went on a rugged mates adventure to Lapland to go Dogsled Riding (an obvious choice of holiday activity if you are into ‘Lapland Dancing’!) they ended up creating mayhem with not only their pack, but just about everyone’s else’s dogs as well. Sliding along the snow and ice he was shouting encouragement to his dogs, reflecting how the years of working on the land with his own dogs had made him so intuitively linked to man’s best friend that even though he was speaking English the dogs were beside themselves with excitement as they kept looking back at him. The real reason for the dogs’ excitement was discovered in the pile up that followed – there in the back of his team, a bitch in heat, now tangled in not only his pack but the sleds, dogs and reins of several others as well.
But the trip wasn’t a total disaster – at least he was warm. Nevin had taken with him a legendary piece of equipment knitted by Elizabeth Starick. To ensure the icy coldness was kept at bay Elizabeth had come up with a half metre long, open-ended ‘Willie Warmer’. We’re assuming here that Elizabeth guessed the measurements, or else fell for one of Nevin’s extremely tall tales… Equipped with the necessary protection our likely lads prepared to stay in an Ice Hotel, where everything – even the beds – are carved out of ice. Because of the cold it was encouraged to share a bed, and even when approached by a young Swedish lady who had not yet found a sleeping buddy Nevin stood by his mate. Yes, that’s right folks – a young Swedish woman wanting to share his bed, and he chose instead to sleep with Mark. Maybe they had a system where they slept facing one another sharing the double-ended ‘Willie Warmer’?
Now I’m the first to admit that I’ve given Neil Craddock a bit of stick over the years on the longevity of his wardrobe. It’s not uncommon for Neil to be spotted on the farm in a shirt held together by three pieces of thread and dogged determination to depriving the Pukekohe Craft Mothers Assn of stuffing for their pillows. But come race day Neil was dressed to the nines, outshining even the jockeys’ bright and shiny outfits. Until…
An amusing incident happened as Neil and I were walking to the birdcage to view the horses. Neil was complaining about the grief Joyce gives him every time he gets dressed up in his glad rags. Apparently Neil has tie issues and rarely escapes an outing without spilling something on his tie. Now call it divine intervention, or Joyce with ESP, but at that very moment a gust of wind swept by lifting his tie up and wrapping it around the tomato sauce on the top of some guy’s chips. The look of horror and disbelief on Neil’s face will stay with me for a very long time (about as long as it takes to tomato sauce stains off a tie I would guess). Neil couldn’t believe his misfortune and begged me to tell Joyce that I had seen everything, and that this time it wasn’t his fault.
“Saw what?” I asked, and wandered off. As I reached the stand I could still hear Neil shouting “That’s the last bloody carton order you get off me!”
If you think about it, it’s a double blow to poor old Neil; if he’d spilt tomato sauce on a shirt, he could at least have got a good fifty years out of wearing it on the farm – but a tie?!
THE HAIR CUT
You might have noticed my dashing new short hairstyle. You’ll be pleasantly surprised to know there is a story behind it…
A few weeks ago the guys and the girls in the salon talked me into putting a rinse through my hair. I initially tried the “been there, done that” line – to no avail - but they assured me the new generation rinses were completely different to anything I may have dallied with before (and that’s only a rumour too, by the way). They slapped black on my head and 30 minutes later all the grey had gone!
Unfortunately it was now blue. While I acknowledge blue hair is still relatively popular in some sections of society, it wasn’t exactly the look I was after. The blue rinse was counter-acted by a good dose of dark brown rinse, and I headed off.
By the time I got home the “Warm Chestnut Brown” had become “It’s Really Obvious You’ve Done Something To Your Hair Black”, and son Tony tactfully pointed out to his old man that it was “a bit” noticeable. So noticeable in fact, that it looked as if someone had painted my head.
The next morning I went back and my caring team of hair professionals said “no worries!” and stripped out the colour and died my hair grey. Which, despite sounding slightly odd in a roundabout way seemed to remedy the situation.
Until, of course, I got home only to discover the grey had managed to turn itself into strawberry blond. And that, for those of you who have noticed and commented, is why I have not “just gone back and told them to cover it”! Instead, I decided to shave the whole lot off. Which, and you may have tried this yourself, is really not that easy to do. After a gallant effort, resulting in me looking more like Golem than a hobbit, I resolved to call a mate and ask for help. So there we were, standing in the shower in boxer briefs as he shaved it all off. After a few moments he said, “You’re going to write about this aren’t you?”
Don’t worry Darren, I won’t mention names.
MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH TECHNOLOGY
Driving around an unknown foreign city is a daunting experience for most, but especially so for those of us endowed with very little directional sense.
I remember once spending a wonderful week in Tuscany, where I would often drive to an idyllic little town called Colle val de Elsa to use the money machine and shop at the local supermarket. The other village I visited often was about 20k’s in the other direction, where I had discovered a similar town with similar facilities. It took me three days to notice that the towns I had been “alternating” between were the same town approached from different ends! (You’ve got to agree with me here that once you’ve seen one supermarket…).
So this sets the scene for my recent experience in Sydney earlier this month. Now, I’ve driven in Sydney many times over the last few years making my way out to Pace Farms, albeit a different route every time, but hey, I always made it (I admit to having Ros on Pace reception guiding me a few times).
But this trip was going to be different. I had hired a car fitted with GPS. The Avis guy showed me how to program it, complete with the choice of shortest route, fastest route, main roads etc etc.
As I drove out of the Avis car- park a soft female voice said, “Left turn ahead”, then, in that calm un-rattled voice so uncommon in my travelling companions, “Turn left 50 metres”. With this, the name of the street appeared on the screen along with directional arrows. This is amazing, I thought, a lady that can read maps and not get frustrated when I miss a turn! Even when I missed the simplest direction she would just recalculate my incorrect manoeuvre and get me back on track again! Not only this, but when I really mucked it up in the heart of Sydney she said calmly - not rattled, not screaming, but in a nice way - “If possible make a U-turn”. I decided that I loved her, and I pledged to give her a house!
But like all the ladies in my life things always start out fine, and I just know it won’t be long before I will get into the car and hear:
“Oh, I thought you’d be taller”.
“You’d better move the seat forward so you can reach the pedals”.
“Can you see over the steering wheel”?
“I said turn left idiot”.
“Silent treatment now activated”.
Oh well, that’s life I guess.
COCKING HER GUN
This Gary’s Blouse award goes to a recently divorced colleague of mine who has brought a new meaning to the phrase "cocking her gun". For obvious reasons she wishes to remain anonymous, so respecting her wishes we will just refer to her as FS.
After her marriage split FS wanted to get rid of her Ex's rifle which she didn't have a licence for. She went to the gun shop in her local town which just happened to be full of macho guys choosing fishing and hunting gear. She asked the guy at the counter if he would take it off her hands, as it was dangerous to have around kids. He said to leave it with him and he'd take care of it legally. "Look," she said, "it's even got a telescopic site which is still in the box." She opened the box and tipped out the contents unwittingly onto the counter...
Go back a couple of years when they were a happier and more "experimental" couple. The obvious place to hide their favourite 8 inch toy from the children was in the scope box locked safely in the gun cupboard....
Our highly embarrassed colleague looked around quickly, and as expected, the eyes of every one of those macho guys were firmly fixed on the "scope"....
She hurriedly left the shop with the scope box and it’s contents and sent her brother in to collect the proceeds from the gun sale.
Last December, as happens regularly, Megan Rose and I attended various functions where I would greet people I knew and introduce Megan. After a while Megan began to get frustrated that people were thinking that maybe we were a couple and felt compelled to explain our relationship as professional, and that quite frankly she could do better than a short 53 year old balding fat man 21 years her senior. She complained to me that I wasn’t helping by continually not qualifying our relationship and that she felt it made her look like a young gold digger. I explained that I was entirely happy with the fact that it made me look good and afterall, wasn’t that was what PR people were supposed to do?
The next day, in an attempt to further improve my/her image she dragged me out on a brisk early morning walk around the Auckland Domain.
Those of you familiar with the tracks will remember the crossroads between Centennial Walk and Lovers Walk. Despite Centennial Walk heading in the opposite direction to where we needed to be, Megan said there was no way she was going to risk being spotted on a track called Lovers Walk with me, and if it hadn’t meant missing her flight home would probably have quite happily walked the extra 20 km’s. No-one was more surprised than me as we headed up Lovers Walk when our speed decreased dramatically and Megan began encouraging me to slow down and enjoy the scenery at a more relaxed pace. I assured her that I quite often sweated and clutched my chest like this and not to be alarmed.
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said lightly. “It’s just the further we get up this track the further I have to drag your lifeless body back to Centennial Walk if you have a heart attack.”
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