A dark and stormy night

You could have cut the atmosphere in the bar with a blunt knife. Outside, the weather had clamped down with a vengeance in the way it sometimes can on the west coast of Scotland, and the fishing boats had taken shelter: the result being that fifty boisterous, raucous and slightly fuddled fishermen were crammed into a room meant for twenty at a pinch. The bar was on the other side of the hotel, away from the guest quarters where I was supposed to be. It was my own fault: I should have known better.
I was perched in a corner holding a whisky the size of which you'd never get served anywhere else in the bar without seriously endangering your credit limit, watching the barman dispense whisky and witticisms with equal rapidity. There were more genuine characters per square foot in that small room than you'd find anywhere outside its counterpart in some port like Halifax or Honolulu. Seamen all over have a way of enjoying themselves that’s unique, usually involving trying to drink a bar dry and find a face to smash in. I was content to make myself very small and just watch and listen.
The evening wore on, the noising level increasing in logarithmic proportion to the volume of whisky consumed, and inevitably I found myself watching a particular couple of fellows hunched over a table looking as if they were solving the riddles of the Universe. Maybe they were at that, but the puzzled frowns and expressions of intense and pained concentration indicated I.Q.s about one level up from the average house plant.

The smaller one, only about six foot two and two-twenty pounds felt my gaze in the end. You do that, don’t you: feel someone looking at you. It’s something to do with E.S.P. I imagine, or a guilty conscience. Anyway, he swung round slowly, baby blue eyes traversing the length of the bar like twin hawks looking for a juicy mouse, until they settled on me. I looked away sharply, but not sharply enough. Talk about across a crowded room! I wish he’d been called Sheila, or Morag, but I had a feeling it was just Jock because he couldn’t spell anything as complicated as Hamish.
Funny how simple actions can bring instant attention, like pushing back a chair and standing up. He stood up, the chair scraped back, and there was instant hush. Just like that, magic!
Jock came through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea: it sort of parted as he moved, another bit of magic that made me wish I could do the same with the wall at my back. He stopped a yard away, swaying a bit and surrounded by a miasma of whisky fumes that must have really kept the flies away as I had a feeling it was semi permanent. But perhaps I was being unjust: maybe working on a fishing boat made you want that kind of personal deodorant.
“Who are ye starin’ at?” The tone did not make it a polite enquiry.
I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner. “Certainly not you.”
“Ye damned well were. An’ ye were listenin’ tay a private conversation, Mr Nosey Parker.”
My smile evolved from disarming to placating. “How could I possibly hear anything in this noise?” There was no noise. Sprint would have loved it.

“How could I possibly hear?” The man mimicked my English accent and moved closer. I tensed and put my glass on the bar. What had been totally innocent looked like turning ugly if I didn’t do something to create an atmosphere of calm and brotherly love and all eyes were turned in our direction in delighted expectation. Jock finally realized we were the focus of attention and decided to push it.
“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” I said. “And I'm sorry you think the way you do. Let me buy you a drink to show there’s no harm meant.”
I might have been talking to the wall as things suddenly came to head when he grabbed a fistful of my sweater, thrusting his reddened face in mine. I reckoned I had a couple of seconds before the inevitable happened.
Then the barman came to my rescue. He placed a full glass on the counter and leant across.
“Whoa there,” he said.”`What d’ye want to be fightin’ this fella for, Jock? He ‘s never done ye no harm Leave it be an’ take a drink: that way ye’ll no be sorry.”
“It’ll nay be me that’s sorry,” Jock replied. By God, I was right. “I’ll smash his face in.”
The logic of the thought process escaped me, but the barman just shrugged and beckoned with a conspiratorial air.
“Jock,” he whispered loudly. “D’ye ken James Bond?”
“Aye,” said Jock, with a puzzled frown.
The barman jerked his head at me and hissed urgently. “Yer man there. Yon’s James Bond.”
The effect was little short of miraculous. Jock’s baby blues widened as he went full astern, and there were a couple of snickers from the audience. Then someone at the back of the room struck up a tune on a battered accordion and moments later the bedlam was again at force ten, the incident forgotten.

The Great Idea that wasn't

It seems this young couple from the States were on vacation in Oz, that is according to Truthful Magee who swore on his Granny’s ashes which he keeps in a jug behind the bar, and is therefore according to Hoyle: and, on the last week they decided to rent a car and trip around the Outback so they could tell the folks back home they’d been in Crocodile Dundee country, though that's about two thousand miles from where they were.
Anyway, they’re out there in the boonies, barrelling along somewhere north of Kalgoorlie and south of Meekatharra, which as anybody knows isn’t exactly a freeway at rush hour even on a busy day, when this dirty great big red roo steps across the road in front of them, calm as you please. How the hell they didn’t see a six foot marsupial sticking out in that nothingness boggles the mind, and Truthful didn’t say, but wham! they smack straight into the thing, knock it for a loop and come to screeching stop feeling shaken, but not nearly as shaken as the poor bloody roo.
Outside the air-conditioned comfort of the car - they were touring the Outback the hard way, you see - the heat hits them like a fist and the flies descend out of nowhere as if they were lumps of bad meat. But, being made of stern stuff having grown up in New York where survival tactics are learned in preschool, they took it well and decided to move the poor animal off the road. Not that it would have minded much, but they were public spirited and some other poor joker could have whacked into it in the dark and taken a mean tumble, not to mention bent his motor, though, mark you, any car without a couple of dings in that part of the world looks kind of out of place and probably belongs to some city bloke.

So they’re out of the motor, you see, lugging this dirty great roo off the road, and those things weigh a couple of pounds I can tell you, when the young bloke has a bright idea, the kind you always wish later had died still born. Now this may be where Truthful departs a wee bit from the straight and narrow, but these two decide to dress the animal up in some duds and take a couple of pictures to put in their album to show the folks back home. After all, there’s so many tall stories come out the Oz that people will believe almost anything, even civilized kangaroos.
So they get a Levi jacket and slip it over the roo’s arms. It's a bit of a snug fit but they manage, and then they reef the guy’s backpack on it and for a finishing touch stick a pair of sunshades on its nose. Very artistic really I should think, specially as they’d got it propped up against a fence post.
First, the girl stands by the thing, hand on hip and one on the roo’s shoulder, and gets her picture taken. It took a while as she had a fit of the giggles half way through and wasn’t at all sure about whether the thing had fleas. But that was one for the family archives, and they had to wait while a road train ripped past and the dust settled as it will eventually do even if there’s no wind.
And then the young fella steps forward, hands over the camera and strikes a pose. His lady takes aim, gets the two of them in the view finder and presses the button. She’s no expert, but the camera’s one of those idiot proof jobs so she gets the picture, and what a picture.

At that moment the roo wakes up - seems it wasn’t dead - shakes it’s head, takes one look at the scenario, decides there’s definitely something wrong with this picture, and with one damned great bound takes off in the general direction of Sydney. The snap the lady gets is one for the memory book ‘cos her fella has a look on his face that would beat all for sheer unqualified surprise. I mean to say, if you had your arm round a dead roo and it suddenly took off I reckon your mouth would drop open a bit too.
Truthful said the young fella gave a shout they could have heard a couple of miles away. His missus drops the camera as she needs two hands to cover her mouth, and they both swivel to watch in disbelief as the roo disappears over the horizon with no intention of ever having anything to do with cars or cameras ever again.
But there’s a problem, you see. The Levi jacket they can do without, and the sunshades were only a pair of cheapies, but it’s the backpack, still firmly across the animal’s shoulders that stirs up their anxiety.
Why? Well, according to Truthful it contained all any tourist holds most dear, especially when they’re in foreign parts and far from home: little things like passports, traveller’s cheques, air tickets and the like. Just paper, you say. Not worth worrying about, you say again. But have you ever tried to get out of, or into a country without them? And one thing was certain, the roo wasn’t about to snap its fingers, say "silly me" and turn round to give them back.
Of course, it all turned out right in the end, but they had a hell of time convincing the U.S. Consul in Perth that a roo had stolen their passports, and American Express weren’t all that sympathetic either, that is until they’d seen the photo, and somewhere out there in the GABA, the Great Australian Bugger All, is a roo wearing levis and cool sunshades.

“You won't believe this, but it's true”

The in-flight meal was good. Portioned, packaged, exact in its dimensions, and indistinguishable from that of the man in the next seat - but it was too much. It seemed like the fourth meal in as many hours, and the banana lay on the white plastic plate accusingly, daring me to leave it. I gave in and slipped it into the bag under my seat, to be immediately forgotten, until the Customs Officer, resplendent in a uniform that wouldn't have disgraced a Ruritanian Admiral, extracted it, holding it out between finger and thumb as if it was contagious.
“It is forbidden to bring fresh fruit into this country,” he said, firmly.
“It was part of my lunch - on the plane you know.”
“You have an import permit?” he asked.
“Well, no, of course not. I didn't think ...”
He lifted his chin and dropped the offending fruit onto the counter.
“It will be impounded.”
“What ?”
“The banana. It will be impounded for examination by the Department of Agriculture.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, exasperated. “Do what you like. I didn’t want it anyway.”
“Then why try to smuggle it into this country?”
“I did no such thing.”
The Admiral smiled knowingly, reached into a drawer under the counter, and took out a buff coloured form. He handed it across.

“Fill this out - Sir.”
“But ... Oh, all right, but ...”
He was already moving away to the next victim, satisfied that the day had begun well.
I filled in the form, sweating in the close-aired confines of the long shed, and marvelled at the stupidity of petty officialdom. Name - address - date of birth - reason for entering - port of departure - and so on. Why didn’t they want to know the colour of my grandmother’s eyes as well?
The form stuck to my damp hand, and the ink blurred on the cheap paper. This was a fine start to a new country. Finally I gave it back. The Admiral examined it, nodded, and chalked a squiggle on my case.
“You will be notified, Sir.”
“Of what?” I asked, anxiously, with visions of a cockroach infested jail. Missing, presumed stupid.
“Whether the banana is safe to import. Have a nice stay, Sir.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
I didn’t see at all, and left the shed, hot and confused, and feeling the pitying looks of more seasoned travelers follow me into the harsh, bright sunlight.
A month later, the incident, if not forgotten, at best no more than a vaguely irritating memory, I received a windowed envelope. Puzzled, I opened it with my butter knife, read it, and burst out laughing. It was from the Department of Agriculture, informing me that my banana had been cleared for importation. The final paragraph was the rib tickler.

“ Please remit your money order for the sum of $5.00 if you wish the said fruit forwarded, or $10.00 if you wish it destroyed. The enclosed form should be completed and returned, indicating your preference.”
The signature was indecipherable.
I tossed the letter to my wife, who read it and also laughed.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“With that? Nothing, of course.”
“Why?”
I looked at her, mystified.
“Why? Because it’s nonsense, that’s why.”
“Oh, come on. We could have endless fun.”
I was still mystified. She tapped the letter and said, through a mouthful of toast and marmalade.
“This is bureaucracy at its most idiotic. Let’s send for it, and then disclaim it as being the wrong one.”
Understanding dawned. I’m not usually so thick, but it was early. I took the letter, and a few minutes later the form was completed. Later that day I mailed it, feeling slightly foolish.
Two weeks later a puzzled mailman delivered a small package that oozed stickily. We unpacked it in the kitchen sink, and transferred the barely recognizable contents to a polythene bag.
“Is that your banana?” my wife asked, suspiciously.
I peered at the rotten mess.

“Definitely not.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, seriously.
“Of course. Mine was a yellow-green colour, and that thing is ...” I poked it doubtfully.
“ Hm. I see what you mean. Very black and squishy.” She sighed. “Oh well. I suppose we’ll have to send it back.”
I grinned. “I suppose we will.”
And we did.