Easy Does It

By Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Every pub in the world is a repository for a rich tapestry of yarns, some true, others fictitious. "Easy Does It" is the second collection of quirky tales from the King's Head in Newtown, narrated by the pub's resident bookie, Egils, who doubles up as a chook-raffler to deflect police attention. Egils, who is known in the Aussie vernacular as "Eggo", is an engaging and rambunctious character — a WW2 German army deserter turned Polish partisan, and now an Australian citizen acting out his colourful past to create a questionable future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Kepitis-Andrews
• Release date: Sep 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370508266

Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Following a lifetime of adventure, travel and intrigue, Andrew Kepitis-Andrews finally settled on the north coast of New South Wales, Australia, and opened a gourmet smokehouse. Always possessing the urge to write but lacking the time that serious writing demands, he retired from commercial food smoking at the age of seventy-four, and had his first book published the same year, 2014. The writing bug is now fully incubated, and Andrew says his writing has two simple, sincere and earnest goals: your pleasure in the reading of it and his pleasure in the writing of it.

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Easy Does It

Easy Does It

By Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

© Copyright 2016 Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Smashwords Edition

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Kepitis-Andrews, Andrew, 1940 –

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Table Of Contents

INTRODUCTION

1. It’s A Ball

2. Real Estate

3. Osgood

4. Jenny

5. Love Thy Health Inspector

6. It's Only A Game

7. The Doc

8. Partisan Politics

9. The Fixer

10. SP R.I.P.

About The Author

Introduction

I don’t know why I should be telling you this as you must know it already and you have to agree, Australia must be the best country in the world. Not only is the weather the best money can buy, there are also many agreeable benefits open to all citizens. Starving to death is not permitted by law and when they get wind of anyone engaged in this activity, they dispatch parties armed with hot soup and other food items to prevent this sort of thing from happening. They are also there to boost the morale of these poor unfortunates by telling them not to worry as 'she'll be right.'

Parties working for a boss are paid for being sick, even if they are not sick but say they are. They even pay you not to come to work for a few weeks each year and spend some time down at the beach or race track or wherever else you wish to spend your time, just as long as you are having a holiday, although this means little to me as I don’t quite know what that is or what I should do, when forced to take a holiday. Personally I am not much into working for a boss as this takes up too much of my time and interferes with my other activities, but like I say, it’s there for those who want it.

Here I must explain that I am a bloody New Australian or a bloody Balt, whichever you prefer although I seldom display any sign of blood on my person, preferring to keep it in my veins where it is necessary, but it seems to many other parties that I am covered in it, blood that is. In all fairness I must add that I am never called a Wog as this title is strictly reserved for Greeks and Italians who are in no mood to share it with anyone else.

But I digress. What I really want to tell you is that I am not born in Australia but in a port city called Liepaja in Latvia which is a country not too far from the North Pole.

My father, Peteris, is a Lithuanian and works on the docks in Liepaja and my mother Emma is Latvian and does a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

I am just ten years old when my father has a political difference of opinion with some of his co-workers on the docks and during their discussions one of them pulls out a piece from his pants pocket and pumps three very large 38 slugs into Father’s chest causing him to become very dead, almost instantly. When Mother hears of this, she is greatly disturbed and works up a heart attack big enough to join Father in being dead.

All this, of course, becomes very inconvenient for me as now I become an orphan and have big problems with grub and accommodation, just to mention a few.

Because the authorities in Liepaja dislike seeing young boys rifle through the city’s garbage bins searching for left over morsels of unfinished dinners, deeming this unsightly, so they grab me by the scruff of the neck and escort me to what they call an orphanage, or something like that.

Not having any prepared plans for the future, I stay there for a few years doing some farm work in exchange for my supper and a bit of schooling.

Then one day a car and a truck arrive at the orphanage and we are told that those of us who are now eighteen will undergo a medical check, which is something I know nothing about but have to along with anyhow.

A splendidly uniformed man gets out of the car and we are told he is a German officer who has with him a doctor and six soldiers to keep him company. The doctor orders us eighteen year olds to strip down to the waist, actually even further down than that and starts prodding us and making us say ah and cough. Some boys are sent back to the dorm and those left are brought before the officer, who with a big smile on his face, informs us that we are all medically fit and are invited to join the victorious German Waffen SS Army where an exciting future is waiting for us, shooting and killing the enemies of the great German Reich. Being raised a peace loving, polite person, I thank the officer for the invitation but have to explain that I have no great wish to be running round the countryside killing anyone, especially as I don’t know them or even know if they deserve killing.

The officer is very sympathetic to my feelings and begins to explain my options. Either I take up his offer or I proceed to a wall he points at and stand in front of it and then he directs my attention to the back of the truck which now has the back flaps open and I see three soldiers sitting round a machine gun pointed at the wall.

I say to the officer that this is not a very nice proposition to make to a peace loving, innocent, young lad but he explains further that his bosses are of the opinion that anyone not on their side is the enemy and that if I wish for peace, by standing in front of the wall I would attain that very soon and forever.

This indeed is a proposition I have never had to consider before and very quickly I come to the conclusion that killing a few parties here and there may not be so bad after all, especially as I don’t know them personally.

Actually I never get to kill anybody, spending most of my time with the SS guarding one concentration camp or another where I pick up some bad habits, like smoking cigarettes and drinking schnapps. I never really get very fond of the SS, finding them a bit too rough on the prisoners and squabbling amongst themselves. As a matter of fact I find them unworthy of my company and therefore, at the appropriate moment, whilst on leave, I go AWOL and keep on walking into a forest where I’m soon surrounded by a group of scruffy men carrying enough hardware to start their own war.

They soon let me know that they are Polish partisans operating their own little war with anyone looking for a shoot out and they are very glad to hear that I have resigned from the SS Army in order to join them as it is the SS Army they enjoy killing the most. This actually was not my plan, but now that I am here?

Life amongst the partisans did not in many ways agree with me. I had better bedding at the orphanage and that goes for the food as well. Therefore I am happy one day to hear that the war is over and I can go home, except that I can’t. The Russkies now occupy my home and on the grapevine we hear that comrade Stalin wholeheartedly welcomes any ex SS soldier to come home and then visit his rest camps in Siberia and help out with the mining.

Somewhat at a loss considering my future, an American patrol picks me up and I am made a POW, then sent to England and after a lot of questioning, I am released and allowed to stay in England as nobody seems to know where else to send me.

Learning the English language is something else again and the English citizens have little time to mix with a reffo who can’t speak their language, besides that, whilst being with the Americans, I learn a bit of American which is much like English but requires a lot of breath to speak, whilst chewing gum.

I do the best I can to learn and even try hard to read English newspapers and even more diligently, to understand them but with slow progress. Then I spot an article in the paper which says that Austria is looking for able bodied men to come and make their fortune. At first I am very puzzled by this as I fail to understand how one can make any fortune in Austria which is even in worse shape than Germany. Then someone corrects my ignorance by saying the Austria doesn’t want me and probably never will but Australia does. This was even more puzzling as I had only heard of Australia but had no idea where it was. When told that it was on the other side of the world, I had a little think and came to the conclusion that the other side of the world would suit me just fine.

In order to go to Australia I had to sign a contract with the government that they would find paid work for me, anywhere in the country they liked and I would have to work there for two years after which I could do as I liked.

At first I thought the Australians were a bit soft in the head. They would find paid work for me for two years and thus guarantee three meals a day for two years. They must be either very rich or very stupid, I would have gladly signed up for twenty years.

For two years I worked in a steel pipe making firm in Newcastle, mostly pushing a broom and eating like never before. Then word filtered through that a fortune could be made by cutting sugar cane in Queensland.

Cutting sugar cane is very hard on my back but very pleasing for my pocket and I keep at it until the cane fields are overrun by Italian and Greek workers. The trouble is that these parties worked like driven slaves and pretty soon take over, making it hard for a party like me to get a start on a new field because they work too hard and therefore get the first pick. Not that this offends me and I am always very polite when dealing with these persons but I can't match their working tempo as mainly I’m not too fond of lifting heavy cane bundles and I’m equally not fond of sweating, this being very damaging to my complexion as I am a Nordic type of person.

Working in the cane fields had one advantage, that being, there are not too many opportunities to waste money on. One can only drink so much beer before one has to take a little rest and sometimes a long sleep as there is little else to spend money on. This makes the bankbook swell with large numbers of pounds and shillings, to the point where it is almost embarrassing.

The word is that Sydney is the best place to unburden oneself of all this currency and Kings Cross is guaranteed to achieve this the quickest. However I also hear that The Cross is the home of many disreputable parties, lacking in good manners and inclined to welcoming cashed up cane cutters and very expert in separating the cane cutter from his stash.

This is why I discover some lodgings in Newtown as it offers all that a party needs as well as a pub called the King's Head which is the social hub for many Newtown citizens and I soon work out it is the hub of many other enterprises such as chook raffles. Percy or Chook as he is known to all local customers, is in charge of this activity. I get to know Chook pretty well and after a while I put to him a polite proposition that he could maybe use an assistant, mainly me. Chook already has two assistants who are not very reliable, so he looks me up and down and sizes me up as a person of good moral substance and notes that I am always very polite to all the customers at the King's Head and I become assistant No3.

Pretty soon I am No1 assistant because I am reliable and good mannered and on every occasion which presents itself, I remind the other two assistants that it may be time for them to choose alternative employment.

Amongst other most regulars at the pub I get to know a party who goes under the name of Flash Harry. He is an elderly gentleman, always neatly and properly attired and he provides a service to many King's Head customers who are fond of horses but are too busy and can not get to the racetrack themselves. He sort of does this for them by taking their money and laying it on the nags of their choice, paying out the winners when the starting price is announced and therefore is known to one and all as a SP Bookie. This practice is considered very illegal by the wallopers who uphold the law but it seems there are many times when they are chasing villains they cannot get to the track themselves and so they avail themselves of Flash Harry’s services as long as he remains fair-dinkum and upright and most of all, quiet.

I give a polite ‘hello’ to Flash Harry many times and even invest a little of my funds with him and then I notice that he is looking a little strained and burdened by his occupation. It’s clear he is in need of help and so I suggest to him that he could do with an assistant and give him more time to relax. Flash Harry finds this a great idea and because he knows me to be always polite and reliable, so he suggests that perhaps I could be the one to fill this position.

It was as easy as that. Where else in the world could I be virtually self-employed and working in such desirable surroundings?

It gets even better. Chook is suffering from a liver ailment and has to be housed in the place for sick people and therefore hands me over the raffle business.

Not long after that, Flash Harry stops appearances at the King's Head. Word has it that he is looking after his sick mother in Broken Hill or maybe Brazil, but other word has it that there are three parties who desperately wish to interview him and ask for an explanation why he doesn’t pay out on a couple of big winners who romp in at 110 to 1.

I get to take over Harry’s SP Book and the players trust me as I have learned that greed is not good in the SP business so any large or dodgy bets, I lay off with another bookie by telephone. This is also frowned upon by the law but it makes me appear to be fair-dinkum in the eyes of the punters.

This now puts me in an ideal situation. As far as the taxman is concerned I am making a living in the chook business, albeit a very poor one and my hobby is horse racing, where I am a very poor gambler. However, the time I pass in this situation gets to be quite fascinating at as I get to observe many other parties get into all sorts of curious pastimes which would turn the ordinary citizen’s hair, white, if not fall out altogether. As for myself, I prefer to take an, easy does it, approach.

Oh! I forgot to mention a small item, my name. I am Egils Viskauskis but most citizens round Newtown prefer to call me Eggo as they find it confusing to get round Viskauskis, ending up with Visco or Viscocky , then Eggbill or Igloo so Eggo it is and that is all right with me.

1. It's A Ball

Joseph Finch is the proprietor of the King's Head hotel in Newtown and has been ever since his father, Augustus Finch takes the ferry and crosses the river Styx. To one and all he is not known at the pub as Mr Finch or Mr Joseph Finch but rather as 'Jolly Joe'. This is not because Jolly Joe is known for always cracking jokes and laughing a lot, as a matter of fact, Joe cracks more heads than jokes when parties drinking in his pub get a tad emotional, courtesy of the beer. As for laughing a lot, he has been known to crack a smile every now and again and when this occurs, the date and time is duly recorded.

As far as Joes go, he's not that bad of a Joe and one and all know, running a pub is no laughing matter. I am told he just turns forty but I always pick him for fifty plus which confirms what they say about running a pub.

Right now, Joe is not a happy publican by no means. The government is tinkering round the number of hours Joe's allowed to sell beer and how he must sell it. It seems to Joe that he probably knows more about running the government than the government knows about running a pub and there are many parties in the pub who agree with Joe 100%.

For a long time now, the government seems to think that all beer sales have to stop at 6p.m. to allow the patrons plenty of time to get back to their ever loving-families to enjoy a family meal. The patrons get the idea that by 6p.m. means that they must tank up their bodies with as much beer as possible before the clock strikes six. For many this means that by the time they get home, (if they get home) the only enjoyment they receive is a tongue-lashing from their ever loving spouse and very little dinner as the stomach can accommodate only so much of whatever substance.

With this state of affairs prevailing there is much unhappiness in the community and pressure is put upon the lawmakers to change the rules, if only to get in step with the rest of the world. On the other hand, there are the 'holy Joes' who consider pubs to be pure evil and campaign to abolish them altogether.

The lawmakers sense a few votes coming their way if they can please the drinking parties in the land and come up with what they think is a 'Solomon solution'. All public houses will still close at 6p.m. but can reopen at 7p.m. and stay open until 10p.m., thus giving interested parties time to rush home to their ever-loving families and gulp down their dinner and then rush back to the pub in time for the 7p.m. reopening, resuming socialising from where they left off an hour ago. 'This is truly a master-stroke,' the lawmakers inform the media at every opportunity they get.

As things turn out, it is more of a disaster-stroke. Whilst there are parties who do hurry home and return at 7p.m., they remain in the pub until closing time, thus depriving their ever- loving families of the care and attention due to them. Then there are parties who reckon one hour is too short a time to get home, have a meal and then return, so they don't bother going home at all and spend the hour outside the pub's front door until reopening time. At closing time some stagger home but many others don't, due mainly