Why should we know about snow? For goodness sake we live in Australia, land of sun, beaches and gorgeous blond surfers in skimpy bathers.
So when this snow stuff hit us, we were literally caught with our pants down. Around our ankles.
Where on earth did this silly stuff come from? Oh, we knew about the Australian Alps, Blue Cow and all those other resorts that the rich go to, to get get laid and drink in front of a big fire. But this is snow on Manly Beach, for God’s sake. We’re in our bathers, slapping on sunscreen, esky by our side, pulling out the beers, popping the crowns and downing them like a thirsty fish. Then it bloody snows!
Then the party starts,Sheilas screaming, running around, towels over their heads, protecting their coiffures. Blokes, hands cupped over the family jewels, running for the surf-life-saving club up the sand. The Surf life saving club panicking, blowing the whistles to get everyone out of the water. People panicking further, thinking there were sharks close to the beach.
Mayhem. Until one old guy comes out of the Surf Life Saving Club with an old bullhorn in his hand. He bangs it on the rail, tests the switch:
“Ahem, One, Two, Three, Ahem.” A sonic whine from the device, stuns the beach population momentarily.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we didn’t know that the Pacific Ocean, the Pond, would freeze, and didn’t freeze evenly. There was no forecast for snow, so for the next hour, please refrain from entering the water. In the meantime, Snowman competitions will be run on the beach for the children. Adults are welcome to assist their children. Have fun. Don’t forget to apply your sun block.
Another sonic whine completed the message.
The kids had a good time playing with the snow, but the first aid station was overrun with anxious mothers, kids in tow, complaining about how cold their little darlings were. The first aid blokes spent most of their time sticking lolly pops in the kids jaws to shut them up.
The Surf Life Saving Club, never a bunch to miss a trick, hauled out the Barbecue plates,connected the gas bottles, gave them a quick clean to get rid of the cobwebs and set them up for a sausage sizzle. $1 a head was hastily chalked on the ‘shark board’ and they were away doing a roaring trade.
Another whining announcement from the bloke with the bullhorn bellowed out that the standard beach gourmet delight was now being served.
While the hungry hordes were clamouring for snags in bread and tomato sauce by the gallon was sloshed around, the enterprising club set up the beach volleyball nets, the beach cricket area and the sand castle competition.
At the end of the day, as the happy tired visitors left and the tired surfing club members cleared away the barbecue carnage, they pondered the strange appearance of snow on the beach.
The old guy with the bullhorn grinned, raised it to his lips again, again it whined, startling the members.
“Send ‘er down again, Huey!” he said.
It began to snow.
James, or Jimmy to those who irritate him, asked for a short Biography. He allowed us to know that he fished, didn’t do well at school and was an elephant circumciser. I knew he was an expatriate Scot, due to his late night emails reeking of single malt whisky.Jimmy, your fifteen minutes of fame is upon you.