As Hunter. S. lawyer says: Hoony, I advise you to get your arse thru the gates by 10 a.m. Friday ...
... and soak IT ALL IN.
Speeches start at 6 pm, but won't be as funny and witty as being beside a drunken Andy outside
Ken's tumbledown 60s caravan at 3.40 pm after "someone" accidentally opened a bottle of
whisky and Mark Christopher tripped and his lips fell onto it ... and then Dave Alsop walks past and
starts bucketmouthing; with no apparent flinches from the return verbal missiles ... and you
look up to see Herb Conlon driving thru the gate with two yellow XS-650 flat-trackers and you think:
"Who the freak can ride them?!"
That's nothing! says the next bloke, pointing to a Vincent slider. Just then, Mike Landman drives in. "Bullshit" they roar.
He bypasses Hoony, heading for the fat, short bald bloke (Gary Flood). Who is still crying; cos he got abducted and transported in a carboot.
Barf wheels out the ultra-trick CR125 (probably oversize, as usual), while Ivan Mauger wonders "What the fork is it
with all these Victorians?"
Drakey runs past; panicking as usual. Where's me money, ya bastard, thinks Rosco.
Dawn Baker shows up - just in time - as usual. (To restore order.)
Pity Anton's not here, says one fan. (There is ONLY ONE ANTON in Australia)
Crowds slide from the MX pits, and drift on down to the fresh, breezy arena of speedway track. A semi pulls up; it carries Stan's
weekend supply of beer. A flash mob appears around Hoony's CR770. One stubby-holding punter is that fatter, former Mr MX R VDB.
"How could ANY BASTARD ride those monsters," he wonders aloud. A balding Hilly idles up on his (banned) mini-bike; only to concur.
Meanwhile, up on the hill the ugly Greeves and Cottons had gathered around cussin' Rod MacDonald's yearly caravanserai just below the 1977 toilet block,
where all blokes over 50 go and hide. It cosy as all get-out, and yes - his minions need that comfort; for they will volunteer
all weekend long.
What; no Firko? Someone realises. Alas - disabled at the ankle hinge - but standing by and targeting CD9.
Suddenly: "Dinsdale's here!" People duck; best not to get decked by the skinhead. Ronnie chuckles, and puts a cuddly arm around
Jack Pengelly. Jack can't believe that Jack is here - he hates this shit.
The Ballarat boys start their first fire - even though it's not cold.
The Barrabool camp snaffle their usual possie; the central fireplace smack bang next to the speedway track. Gary Adams squarely in King
Tarax chair. Nothing will wipe the smile off his face this year.
Confused strangers wander about - misfits from interstate. Goldilocks; aldo; Grunt; GB; the Kiwi veterans from several Classic Dirts.
On the speedway embankment, one mans screams in anguish:" WHAAAAT?! No Alison!?!" He sobs into his stubbie.
Dave Russell keeps apologising, and signing autographs (No repeat this year)
People wish that Bert Flood could see all this. Others thank god for name tags; lest they miss out on meeting people they
think they may have known.
The Cramers roll in, not having to duck any low branches. Cheer!!
Talk turns to 1970s fathers; the older men that ran clubs; drove boys to meets; scrutineered and ran meetings;
tuned bikes; watched from the fences. Without them; nothing.
An ugly mob forms - it's the minibikers. Tough little shits, from the burbs. honed their butts on Wallan's whoops,
while the rest of us were still on mother's milk.
Roadracers start to infiltrate; not really knowing where to stand ... we turn a blind eye; but leave them be.
Elsinore are everywhere. Blood red on the tracks. How can the Armstrong Bros build new bikes in seven weeks, we wonder?
(Writer needs toilet - Answer: Lunchtime for you, Hoony)
