At least none were stuck together

You know those delightful little urban myths that occasionally happen in real life? The hope for little miracles upon which Antiques Roadshow is based, where some innocent is happily browsing a bookstore or Seconde Hande Shoppe and comes across a quaint little trinket which just happens to be worth millions.

[Actually, I take that back about Antiques Roadshow. Its success is based on the audience's hope that Old Lord and Lady Picklenose will present their supposedly priceless Faberge eggs only to be told that these particular examples were a popular prize at fairgrounds during the 1970s. "Probably worth between 5 and 10 pound - to a collector" the expert will explain cheerfully while Sir Chumpbottom's greasy smile droops down around his tweed lapels.
Don't even try to deny that you've secretly shouted 'Sucked in, you greedy twerp!' when that happens. But I digress.]

My thing is old books. I love the way they smell, the cool old tooling covers, the quaint little drawings and poems inside along with the copperplate inscriptions and the exciting dates - if they have any. I know nothing about it, but I still love the feeling of treasure hunting when I go into second hand book stores, looking for either comics or a bargain.

So there I am, in Port Elliot, about twenty minutes away from raiding the famous bakery and scouring the shelves for something cool.

I come across this:


It really is a beautiful little item, about 8 by 10 inches. 1865. Unfortunately, it appears that most of the pages have long ago fallen out - it's just cover boards and title pages. Fortunately, it's full of old drawings and lithographs. Like this one:


And this one:


Nice, eh? Then there's a few different ones like this:


and, erm, this:


Now I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking "What marvellous drawings! What fine detail! I must see more!"
You're thinking that because that's what I was thinking too. Then I turned that drawing over and found, well, this:


No problem. Very artistic, right? Right. Artistic. Great composition, a wonderful example of early photography in the naturalistic form which ....



... ah, yes, see, this is also a fine example of, um, what's obviously a collection of artistic interpretations of the early twentieth century appreciation of femininity as exemplified by the emphasis on .....

R ... right.
Hrmm ... well that still doesn't mean that I haven't stumbled upon a grouping of art works which can be recognised as representative of an era famous for its lithography and the skill of its craftsmen and artists, many of whom were ...

Okay then. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Maybe the collector just happened to have put all the racy ones at the front and kept the real groundbreaking artistic work at the ...


Nope. More naughties.
Okay, if the next one isn't sexy, then I definitely haven't stumbled upon some stone-aged secret spank book from a deceased estate.
Closing eyes, crossing fingers, turning page ... and it's ....

Oh.
Fucking great. Here I was, hoping to find a bargain first edition and here am, potentially handling the dried remains of millions of little 'first editions'. Gross.
Surely that's it.

Oh man. What is this stuff?
It looks like nuns were really the thing back then. I suppose they had to work out some way to spice things up - what with everything being taboo'n'shit. It's not like today with the internet and everything imaginable at the touch of a button. They probably didn't have a whole lot of weird fetishes or anything because it's not like ...



Does this book come with hand sanitiser?

When the naughties have died and been reborn in a premature haze of nostalgia marketing and retro-dollar love-ins, I will feed my progeny for generations to come with my one-hit-wonder super group: 'Youtube Sensation'.

Do you really think I would have asked for a 12-inch pianist?

Team Franzy: Another cry for help. I am compiling a joke book for children 12 and under. I require 300 (yes, three HUNDRED) suitable jokes. Having looked through much of the literature surrounding the topic (ie. my old joke books) I have discovered that 12-year-olds don't really have a lot of jokes published in them with swearing, sexual references or whimsy based around various moral and ethical crimes. These are the only jokes that my brain seems to retain. Observe:

What's Salmon Rushdie's next book going to be called?
Buddha, You Fat Fuck!

The others I can't even bear to type out (however, meet me in person and I will regale you with them all! The 28-year-old joke, the sushi joke, the baby jokes and the famous Feminist Light Bulb zinger!)

So, I call to you, dearest readers, friends and weirdos coming across this page by entering "what is anchovies fishthesis proposal" and "marbles tombolla" into various search engines, tell me your jokes. Tell me them all. Dredge your memories and drill your dads. The best joke will win a copy of the joke book when/if it gets published (looking good at this stage).

***

GTH - River steals the point from Jono with the beautiful (and well-guessed) metaphor for my painful yoking to the desk of research. Neil gets a raised eyebrow for the hairy nipple/lumpy breast.
The photo is of me (of course) on holiday in Cairns. It was taken about an hour or so after a long Blue Bottle jellyfish tentacle wrapped itself around my neck while I was snorkelling. THE single most painful experience of my life. Flaming razor-blades across the throat most accurately describes the sensation. But I would still take that over a year of stressing out about my proposal. There's no steroid cream for the research heeby-jeebies.

/Know when to roll 'em!/

I had the greatest memory-trigger the other day. I've been temping at the Don Dunstan Foundation and a woman there had a little bowl marbles on her desk - for decorative purposes I assume. Suddenly I was nine years old, inspecting her impressive collection of Speckledies and sizing up values ...

I don't know about you, but marbles were big in Gilles Street Primary. The craze ran in cycles (like all school crazes) and when marbles were in, the grassed-area (irregular hexagon, left) became the first casino we ever experienced. There were the high rollers, the pigeons, the wheelers, the dealers and the stealers.
We didn't have a large circle from which we would try to knock each others marbles. Instead two players started side-by-side and took it in turns to hit the other's marble, keeping the marbles on the grass. You could throw yours to the other side of the grass if you wanted a long match (or if you were a chicken), or you could drop it close by for a genuine battle of skills and wills (or if you were stupid).
The match was only a part of the battle. First you had to negotiate terms and values. One marble was not worth another. If fact, I would venture that this is still the case. Along with the patrons of the marble field (as it was known), there were officials. Marble experts who could be relied upon to correctly judge the value of one marble for another or go through your collection to decide what was worth playing for and who was trying it on. Of course this system was entirely corrupt. The marble expert was often chosen purely because they were bigger and/or bossier than the opponent. Having a grade seven with a large Spiderman t-shirt and real acne tell you that your Big Bluies would have to be included as a prize along with the lowly Cats-Eye for it to be worth a Tri-Colour BirdShit was often authority enough for anybody who didn't want to be seen as a wuss.
The experts would also hold the winner's prize in escrow on particularly big matches, but, since The Sopranos hadn't been thought of yet, they never took a cut.

Every Marble Craze Phase was divided into roughly three eras that would last anything from a few days to a few weeks.

1. Innocent Fun
A few kids bring their marbles to school in their pockets and play a few rounds on the grass. At the beginning of this sweet and simple time kids would even take back the marbles they played with. No one lost their possessions; it was all for the love of the game. After a while a few more kids would remember that they too liked playing marbles, and had them at home. They would bring their own and the more competitive types would begin challenging one another. Bitty Bins would appear, making the beginning of ...

2. The Rush
The grassed area would be crowded. All shapes and sizes. Every second player would have a Bitty Bin tucked under their arm. Gazes were intense. Skills were building with daily play and those with classrooms nearer the grass would always snag the best first few rounds just after the bell before the masses began arriving. Long bombs would pay off and the distinctive, grinding click of hardened glass balls knocking together sounded like the faint rustle of poker chips in a late-night gambling den. The big marbles would appear. The Tombolla sizes and the Giants above them. Rich kids began high-stakes games from which the casualties would begin to mount. Bigger Bitty Bins would appear and the pros even had flunkies to carry them while they played. Then, it would happen. Someone would challenge someone who wasn't ready for it, but didn't want to back down. Their favourite marble would be played and lost and the first tear to fall on the well-trodden grass would signal ...

3. The Ban.
The ban wouldn't happen at first, but it was in the air. Once that first tear rolled off that first quivering cheek. Once that first pout followed the prized Reddy as it floated away from its family (often having been there for generations) and into the 4-litre Bitty Bin of a dead-eye pro. That's when a teacher on yard duty would have to spend most of their time hovering, trying to make sure that the kids in the cubby house weren't about to jump off the roof while simultaneously keeping an adult eye on nineteen separate marble matches to ensure that no one was violating the School Rule about personal possessions. Too much. At around this time the grassed area became known as The Marble Yard or The Arena and it was patrolled by either dead-set, sharp-shooting pros or the angry, confident, future-poker-machine addicts, certain that they could take their last few Galaxies, challenge for that Swamp Tombolla and really turn the tables. Stakes were ionospheric. For a time, the eye of the storm would descend and many gathered to watch the big dogs take one another on for marbles that most would never see up close, let alone touch, let alone own. Then came that sound, and that cry.
'Marble scatter!'
No sound is so electrifyingly, terrifyingly sweet. Sometimes you would hear it during The Rush. Some kid would actually just drop their Bitty Bin and we would all swarm like coked-up seagulls, digging in the dirt and shovelling handfuls of marbles into our pockets while the poor, clumsy owner attempted to both scoop as many marbles back into the container as possible through tears of desperation, and dispense a few elbows about the place to curtail the massive losses they were about to sustain. If a teacher were around, it was simple to claim an insatiable altruistic urge:
'I was just helping him pick them up!'
If no teacher was around, then old Slippery Fingers had better have some persuasive friends or they would be left with a runny nose and a rattly Bitty Bin at the end of the day to help explain to Mum and Dad why taking toys to school was a safe idea.
However, during the time of The Ban, marble scatters were less ... accidental. If you were to unlock the lid of your Bin, then you had better check around first, because all it takes is one burnt, vindictive eight-year-old to believe that you didn't win his Jelly fair and square to walk by, grab the edge of your Bin and yank downwards.
'Marble scatter!'
The marble scatter from a high-roller was doubly delicious. Especially if it happened on bricks, cement or, best of all, inside on a hardwood floor. The same aural rush can only be had by a embezzling slot-jockey when the royal flush turns up. Ch-Ching! Whoosh!! Endorphins and joy!
That's when it starts getting dirty. That's when it's the beginning of the end. It can only be a matter of hours before all marbles are banned from school property. One ban happened after someone pulled a marble scatter next to a major road. Lucky no valuable ones rolled out under the taxis on their speedy way towards the South Terrace Hotels or there would have been a flew still-confident pigeons who ended their rolling days the way they lived them: chasing the beautiful glass balls.

Then all would be quiet, until the next craze hit the school. Snap-bracelets, basketballs, Tazos, skateboards and eventually, like a really hot summer or Australia winning a big soccer match ... marbles would once again come around, and the gentle click of fun and nostalgia could be heard, waiting for the Bitty Bins to arrive.

***
GTH
River once again takes the honours. It is indeed an old chain covered in guano and all the symbolism about the links that the internet forges and the conditions under which it forges them that goes along with that kind of thing.
Better luck this week gang!