Nice girl, Quiet night.

Guilty until proven innocent.

When it came to dealings with the gentler sex, any lies told were generally believed to be factual.

If one told the truth, no one believed you. I was guilty of stretching the truth on the odd occasion and received many knowing looks, but in this instance, to protect the reputation of an extremely nice young lady, I told it exactly as it happened........Not one mongrel believed me.

What has steam engines to do with all this? In reality, not much, in fact nothing, but as you read on it will make sense.

NICE GIRL, QUIET NIGHT

I could not think of a more appropriate title for what follows. I’m certain Alan Eagles would agree along with that ageing poet Schooners. Accurate bodily features and certain logistics will remain cryptic and at times hidden to protect the pure at heart and the dickheads in the white FJ Holden. No problems with withholding names, as I haven’t the foggiest what her’s was.

Was she a goddess, or was she an angel? An angel is a heavenly creature, radiantly beautiful beyond description. A goddess is merely an angel with bigger boobs. I suppose that means she was a goddess. She was a blonde, then again she may have been a brunette or redhead, regardless her hair was long and designer curly, similar to Sarah Brightman in ‘Phantom.’ She made her first appearance at the club during QY’s one Sunday evening. She had been invited by one of the local girls and seemed to have blended in nicely. After making several enquiries I ascertained she had a fairly well known reputation. Not as a Paris Hilton type, but completely the opposite, she was an extremely ultra conservative young lady with very high morals. Although content to be dated from time to time, she would never allow her partner to even get to first base. Arriving home after a night out, it was common for a male date to be given a quick goodnight peck on the cheek outside the front gate and then to be left standing alone on the pavement while she disappeared through the front door. 

She obviously was interested in one particular subject and she began to rabbit on almost ad-nauseum about it. I won’t mention the subject as it may be a giveaway as to her identity. Oh stop with the bullshit Trev, in actual fact there is no way I can recall what the rotten subject was anyway, so let's just imagine for the sake of this tale that it was steam engines. Coincidently, I happened to be more than just mildly interested in steam engines myself and when she made an incorrect statement, I had the audacity to correct that statement. “How did you know that?” she asked. I told her of my interest in the subject and threw in a few extras to convince her that I was genuine. She left her seat opposite and walked around the table and sat next to me and for the following sixty minutes the pros and cons of steam engines were given quite a bash. She asked me would I be interested in looking at the many magazines and newspaper clippings etc. that she had at home and when I answered most certainly, she was keen for the two of us to head off home to her place immediately. I happened to be in charge of QY’s that evening and told her I couldn’t just up and leave so she suggested we leave it until the following Saturday evening.

The Gods were certainly against me. I pointed out that there was a theme night on in the clubhouse and it was my responsibility as Social Secretary to be there. In only a half serious way I asked her would she consider being my partner for the evening and nearly choked when she told me she would love too. I was told we could return to her place after the function for a nightcap and coffee and then browse through her mags and clippings. 

Throughout the following Saturday, word had spread who my partner was and certain members began warning me that I would definitely not get to within cooee of first base with her. I kept on insisting that I would be spending the bulk, if not all of the night and morning inside her house. The theme night was a Roman gathering and the thought of what my surprise partner would be wearing had my adrenalin pumping, she did not disappoint me .... ( Pic at start is pretty close ). During the function, one of the guys, who I think may have been the phantom beer jug pisser, milkman Kemp, started a book. Bets were placed, considerable amounts of money changed hands, the most popular bet being that Pogo would not even make it through the front gate, let alone reach the front porch. There were times during the evening when I imagined my angel goddess smelt a rat, but nothing was said and we literally danced the night away. Around 11:30 pm the two of us bid everyone good evening and set out to walk home. Our attire attracted the attention of the odd smart arse passer by and we copped a few ' Hail Caesars' during the stroll up Avalon Parade. My response was the traditional ancient Roman reply, "Up Yours!" To make sure everything was above board, seeing how there was money riding on the outcome, some of the guys piled into a white FJ Holden and decided to follow us home to her house. 

She was oblivious to what was happening whereas I wasn’t and I can only assume my conscience began to get the better of me. Arriving at her front gate I put it to her that maybe it would be better if I did not enter the house with her. I told her I did not want to give her an undeserved reputation. She stated that there was not going to be any nonsense and was puzzled by my attitude. I then pointed out that we were being followed and when she casually glanced over my shoulder she remarked, “ I take it you mean that white Holden?” I answered in the affirmative and could not in my wildest dreams have imagined what happened next. “Lets give them something to talk about,” she said and commenced to kiss me full on the lips. Not only do goddesses have big boobs, they also have tongues as big as camels as I was discovering out there on the pavement. We entered through the front gate and stopped on the front porch where another passionate smooch was forthcoming. She opened the front door and entered the house her arms still around my neck. I had no choice but to follow.

Once inside we each had two glasses of Port and in the course of the three and a half hours that followed several cups of strong coffee. Shortly after all the mags and clippings began being perused, all the living room lights were turned off leaving a coffee table lamp on so as to look at all the pretty pictures.

 
Every so often we would take a peek out of the window to see if the white car was still there…… it was. Around 3:15 am it was time for me to depart. We both had a marvellous time, the night had been all I imagined it was going to be, with the fun and games before entering an added bonus. There was more yet to come. As I went to let myself out she told me to wait and had a quick peek through the window. Noticing the FJ still parked opposite she disappeared for several minutes and returned in a semi see through pink baby doll nighty set.

We stopped on the porch in full view of the car’s occupants and commenced to passionately kiss one another.

 
It may have been a sham, but there was one thing that was genuine, the dreaded PP had reared its ugly head and there I was with what must have resembled a large oversize knob of salami in my pocket. The mob in the car must have seen it, I’ve often wondered whether she did. She walked me to the front gate and once again planted another juicy wet one complete with camels tongue full on the lips. She waited until I was roughly 25 metres down the street before waving goodbye and disappearing.

I arrived at the club and crawled into my sleeping bag, I was buggered. Thank God I did not die that evening, they never would have got the coffin lid to shut. 

The next day the bookie made a fortune. Not one of the punters backed yours truly. Never at anytime did I depart from Gods own truth. I insisted over and over again that all we did was look at magazine and newspaper cuttings. No one believed me. 

Several weeks later people who I simply did not know were still hailing me as a local legend and many a time a complete stranger would front me in the La Fiesta or on the street and shake my hand saying, “Good on ya Poge,” when in reality it was merely a case of what Farls and Eagles would refer to as ‘Nice girl, Quiet night.”