Site Matters: Tales of Ordinary Madness from an Installation Site Down Under

By Daniel D. Davidson

'Don, would you happen to know the difference between a snob and a knob?'

'F****d if I know, mate ... You're the only Pom around, Ken. You're the bloody expert ...'

Ken is a poised, polite, globetrotting British engineer and acute observer of human behaviour. He is the site manager for the Italian company Ital Pai(n) at a huge installation site named Garn-o, close to Brisbane, Down Under.

On site, along with his right-hand man Don (a foul-mouthed, blunt, and fair dinkum Aussie-to-the-core), his left-hand man Razza-The-Nutter (a beyond bizarre and seemingly nuts-to-the-cube lunatic), and a host of other unconventional and memorable characters, Ken guides us with fast-paced, sparkling wit and engaging contemplation through the maddest, oddest, and greatest working site he has ever been to around the world.

Filled with all types of humour, Site Matters is a knockabout tale revolving around the improbable, tease-driven friendship between Ken, Don and Razza and the peculiar acts and manners of Australia's working class - providing an insightful cross section of it whilst also bringing to light a particular form of Aussie identity.

And while Site Matters keeps going, it also gives a good idea on how a young "son-of-the-boss" gets to learn what real life is all about when faced with "living on site".

Throughout its chronicles, Site Matters will often leave you in stitches. It will also leave you to reflect about the many struggles, hopes, and convictions experienced and held by a part of our society not that much talked about in literature.

All along the way, Site Matters will keep a nice smile on your face.

And that alone is worth the whole journey ...

"Thoroughly enjoyed it ... Laughed out loud ... Eminently talented author ..."
Manuscript Appraisal Agency (MAA) - Australia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922542939

Daniel D. Davidson

So, it looks as if I have to write a ‘bio’ here ...As I understood such thing, like all normal people I said to myself, “Oh ... b*gger!”All right, let’s get down to it.A couple of decades ago, I had a good idea (which in my case is quite a rarity). I took it to my mind to go and live in another continent. On top of that, my job takes me all around the world. As a result, there is one question I must’ve heard a good ten billion times, 'Where do you come from?'My answer: “I come from where we all come from; planet Earth. Towns, counties, regions, nations ... they don’t matter.”Then, I am also usually asked, 'What do you do for a living?' I am tempted to tell them, “I am not quite sure.”And, thinking about it once again, that would probably be the best answer.OK, OK ... here’s the serious version of this "biography".Born (by mistake, I think): in England, in '71. (Which means I’m 40 at present, in case some may have a problem with maths ...)Current occupation (by mistake, too): go around the world (well, pre-Covid, that is) to tell some fantastic people how to screw, clockwise, a bolt into a nut.Hobbies: love my family, discover things, and travel as much as possibleFlaws: everything the “Encyclopedia of Flaws” lists, plus another two or three millionQualities: I mind my own business and, luckily, I have many flaws(one of) My biggest hopes: for mankind to finally realise that we have been gifted with one heck of a tool to make our lives better. It’s a tool called “Helping Each Other”.

Book preview

SITE MATTERS

Tales of ordinary madness

from an installation site

Down Under

DANIEL D. DAVIDSON

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO Box 4363

Penrith NSW 2750

https://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2021 © Daniel D. Davidson

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.

Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

Site Matters is a novel.

Or is it?

Well, it is, sort of.

There was a certain place,

with certain people,

doing certain mind-boggling things …

As always, the real world is the Master Inspirer.

In loving memory of my great friend

Lando Dewst

Heartfelt thanks to:

My everything: S & K

My Oz bro Darren

Kit and ‘Good Chap Pete’ at MAA

Craig C. in PG

John B. in Eire

Gary M. at All Star

KV’s Granny

Tracey at GOasis

Jenny and Ally at IndieMosh

Rick MOJO (The Legend)

Introduction

They say destiny’s one hell of a powerful force. Well, I have no doubt at all. Just as I have no doubt at all that it’s often mulish, quite nuts, and bloody lazy as well. For instance, how impossibly hard could it be to label an idiot like me with an exotic name? What about the Welsh Gwydion, or the Japanese Takayuki, or the Samoan Laiafi, or the somewhat mystical Horion – with a foolish but vaguely intriguing H stuck at the front of it? Anyway, nope. Zero. Destiny just wouldn’t be that kind – the bastard. Instead, it went for the bland-ish and inoffensive name of Kenneth.

And all things considered, that worked out just fine.

Another example of destiny’s debatable wisdom happened in 2010, when an Italian company lumbered me with a monster job close to Brisbane. I was given the Garnalex Project, which was later on nicknamed Garn-o. (Man, didn’t that turn out be something …)

And once in the upside-down, Down-Undered, and often back-to-front part of our peculiar world, at Garn-o’s site destiny had me acquainted with a pretty curious mob made of truly odd, if not deranged, Aussies.

One Ozzer – a raving lunatic named Razz – tried to tag me with rubbish nicknames like EuroTrash or Kenny-The-C***. But he failed. In fact, at Garn-o’s installation site I was only known by the unfussy name of Ken.

And I, Ken, a globetrotting, self-employed mechanical engineer, moulded, hardened, and blessed by decades of life on site, was so lucky to do the Garn-o Project with the best bloke I ever could have had the honour and good fortune to work with. His name being almost as innocuous and reassuring as mine: Don. (His name may sound quite safe, mild, and inoffensive, but – my, oh my – his temper, his inexistent affability and his blunt Aussie tongue certainly aren’t.)

Also, an all-round sense of innocuousness could never be conferred to that character called Razz, who, with spot-on accuracy, was nicknamed Razza-The-Nutter. (Oh Lord, where do I start with him? In a nutshell, he’s one of those lads whose quirky demeanour – or downright madness, as most people put it – suffers from acute insomnia. It’s always well awake and constantly, constantly active.)

For the Garn-o job I was in for a good year. I’d already set foot in Oz twice and, in fact, it was at a plant in Geelong where I first met Don and Razz. They surely struck me (and how) for their distinctiveness, but another thing, too, struck me for its uniqueness. It was the Aussie culture. Its mix of relaxed rigour, contained lunacy, and deep-seeded rascalness – all spiced with the irrepressible need to mock anything and anybody.

After a good year, under what kind of light is this world-travelling Pom going to see the Aussies? I asked myself as I landed in Brisbane.

Many months later, I did find the answer – in a taxi, of all places. That same day, I also fully realised how the power of a working site bonded three very atypical and unalike men: Don, Razz and me.

So, will Don’s rawness and his site-banter, Razza’s bizarreness, and the behaviour of all the site inhabitants – the very hard workers almost no one hears about – get Ken sucked into the Aussie way? What will I find out and learn from the bunch of unconventional human variety that I’ll meet at Garn-o? And will the experience of living on a working site with the working class change a young, arrogant son-of-a-boss? And, last but not least, what’s the unique and mad world of an installation site all about?

Well, there’s only one way to know: let’s go on site.

Oh, just so you know. Garn-o’s episodes will be the frank chronicles of a straight-in-the-face, unaccommodating installation site in Queensland – therefore, not exactly those of a pious Mormon seminary in Salt Lake City …

For you lucky sods who can’t be labelled as Aussie, Kiwi, Irish, or British, here’s what will hopefully be a handy

SITE-DICTIONARY

(The definitions of the listed words and expressions are only related to their meaning in Site Matters)

Ankle-biter: child

Arse: the backside

Arse bandits: male homosexuals

Arsey: lucky

Arsy-versy: all wrong. Confused and disordered

’Av’-a-go: have a go

Ballsed-up: completely unsuccessful attempt at something

Bangs like a dunny door in a stiff southerly: a rather promiscuous woman

Barbed wire: XXXX Castlemaine Gold beer

Barbie: barbecue

Bastardry: cruel, despicable, unpleasant behaviour

Bevan: uncultured young male

Bingle: minor car accident

Blind Freddy: imaginary person who’s very incompetent or incapacitated

Bloke: man

Blood oath: the Queenslanders’ way of saying Bloody oath

Bloody: mild swearword, not always offensive. Often used to add emphasis

Bloody oath: that’s certainly true

Bludger: lazy person who always relies on others and contributes to nothing

Blow some wind up your arse: to compliment oneself

Boffin: scientific expert, especially involved in research

Bog: toilet

Bogan: lazy, unsophisticated person

Bonce: head

Bonnet: the hood over the engine of a car

Boofhead: fool

Bourke (out the back of): any place which is remote or inconvenient

Botfly: scrounger

Buckley’s (he’s got): absolutely no chance

Bugger: primarily, used to express annoyance or anger

Bugger all: absolutely nothing at all

Bugger off: to go away or get out, usually inopportunely

Bugle (on the): on the nose, smelly

Built like a brick shit house: someone who is big framed and muscular

Bundy: Bundaberg rum

Bunnings: major Australian hardware store

Bunyip: mythical Outback creature

Carpet muncher: lesbian

Cark it (to): to die

Castlemaine: Queensland’s own brewery

Chap: man

Cherry picker: aerial work platform

Choked up [to meet you]: hit by strong, overwhelming emotion

Chook: chicken

Chuffed: very pleased or very satisfied

Chundered: to vomit

Cobber: friend

Coldie: a cold beer

Compo: workers’ compensation pay

Crack a fat: to get an erection

Crock of shit: load of nonsense

Croweaters: people from Adelaide

Daft: irrational, silly or foolish

Dag (a bit of a): entertainingly eccentric person. A character

Deadhead: idiot

Dill: idiot

Dinkum: see Fair dinkum

Dinky-di: true

Dipstick: idiotic loser

Dog and bone: phone

Dog-end: the discarded end of a smoked cigarette

Dog’s breakfast: make a complete, huge mess of something

Doggie: on-site helper/assistant

Donger: penis

Dosh: money

Doss(ed) down: to sleep, or settle down to sleep, on an improvised bed

Doughnut: idiot

Down-Undered: Ken’s way of saying that someone/something is in Australia

Drip: stupid person

Drongo: idiot

Dropkick: dimwit loser

Dry as a dead dingo’s donger: to be extremely thirsty

Dry as a Pommy’s bath towel: to be extremely thirsty

Duck’s guts/Duck’s nuts: to be the best at something

Dumpy level: surveying instrument for taking levels

Dunny: outside lavatory

Dustcart: large vehicle driven from house to house to take litter from dustbins

Eau de cologne: phone

Earbashing: non-stop chattering

Faff about: to waste time by being indecisive or fussing unnecessarily

Fair dinkum: real, unquestionably true

Festy: unclean and smelly person

Fetch: to go and get something or someone

Figjam: Fuck I’m Good, Just Ask Me

Flat: apartment

Flogged: disposed of and handed over to someone else

Fossick around: to rummage for something

Footy: Rugby league (NRL) or Aussie football league (AFL)

Franna: brand name for a moveable crane swivelled in the middle

Freckle: anus

G’day: good day

Gaff: house

Gaffer tape: strong adhesive tape used for general repairs or handy work

Galah: silly person

Garn: contraction of go and

Gen: information

Git: idiot

Give it a burl: to give it a go

Gnashers: teeth

Gobful (give a): to abuse someone justifiably

Gobsmacked: extremely surprised

Goon: cheap wine

Grass (to): somebody who informs on somebody else

Grotty: unpleasant and of poor quality

Halfback flanker: wanker

Hankies: handkerchiefs

Hoovered: vacuum cleaned (from the brand name Hoover)

Jawing: talk at length nonsensically

Jock/Jockey: boxer brief underwear

Joe Blake: a snake

John Dory: a story

Knackered: totally exhausted

Knickers in a knot (don’t get your): relax, calm down and don’t worry

Knob/Knobhead: a penis, an idiot

Knocking shop: a brothel

Lend (to take a): to take advantage of somebody's gullibility

Limp-wristed: homosexual

Lob in: to drop in to see someone

Loo: toilet

Lorry: large vehicle for transporting goods by road

Love and kisses: missus/wife

Lumbered: burden somebody with something

Mappa Tassie: a lady’s private area

Mate’s rate: cheaper than usual, price for a friend

Mexican: someone who is south of the border

Mincer: male homosexual

Mollydooker: left-handed

Mozzie: mosquito

Mug: idiot

Mull: marijuana

Nadgers: testicles

Nappy: absorbent baby clothing. (Diapers, in North America)

Nick (to): to steal

Nipper: child

Noah: shark

Nong: stupid person

Nuddy (in the): naked

Nuggety: having a broad and strong-looking physique and short in stature

Nutting out: working out an agreement

Op shop: an opportunity shop where used goods are donated for sale at a low price and are usually operated by a charity. (In Razza’s case, his fence’s shop)

Piker: someone who doesn’t want to fit in socially

Pillock: a rather unintelligent person

Pillow biter: homosexual

Pincher: someone who steals or takes something without permission

Piss: beer

Pissroom: toilet

Plonk: to heavily place something on either a surface, someone, or something

Plonko: someone addicted to cheap wine

Plonker: a person regarded as stupid or foolish

Pokie: gambling slot machines

Pom/Pommie/Pommy: an Englishman

Pommie shower: using deodorant instead of taking a shower with soap

Pong: stink

Poof/poofter: male homosexual

Poofed up: said of a male dressed as a female

Pox doctor’s clerk: someone who is too flashily dressed

Quid (not the full): said of a dimwit

Rack off: go away, get lost

Ralph on it (having a): throwing up on something

Ranga: red-haired person (from Orangutan)

Ratbag: stupid, weird, and obnoxious person

Redback: redback spider

Ripper: really great

Roadie: bottle of beer you take away for the road trip

Rollie: rolled cigarette

Root: sexual intercourse

Roo: kangaroo

Rotter: mean, cruel person

Sarnie: sandwich

Scarper: to run away quickly

Schooner: 425ml beer glass in Queensland

Scissor lift: aerial work platform

Scoff: eat hungrily

Sculling: to drink a beer in a single draught without taking a breath

Seen better heads on …: the person addressed is quite ugly-looking

Shagging: having sexual intercourse

She’ll be right, mate: meaning that he will be OK

Sheila: girl or girlfriend or a woman in general

Shit bricks: to be rather scared

Sickie: day taken as sick leave when one is not actually ill

Skinnymalink: said of a very thin person

Slab: carton of 12 or 24 bottles or 24 cans of beer

Slab short of a few stubbies: said about a dimwit

Slosher: someone who has a habit of getting seriously drunk

Sluggard: someone lazy who always tries to avoid work

Snag: sausage

Sod: short for sodomite. Used in a humorous way

Sod off: an exhortation to go away or the act of going away

Spanner: wrench, or a stupid, incompetent person

Sparky: electrician

Spas: spastic

Spit the dummy: an adult losing his or her temper

Spunk: good looking, sexy young lady

Stinger: stinging jellyfish

Stonker: something which is very large or impressive of its kind

Stoush: fight

Stubby: 375ml beer bottle

Tall poppy: successful person

Tap: faucet

Tea leaf: thief

Technicolour yawn: vomit

Thongs: flip-flops

Thunderbox: toilet

Tosh: nonsense

Tosser: person regarded as unintelligent or contemptible

Trough lolly: the solid piece of perfumed disinfectant in a men’s urinal

Tucker: food

Twat: somebody regarded as unintelligent, worthless or detestable

Twig (to): to understand or realise something

Twit: idiotic and foolish person

Twonk: idiot

U-ey (chuck a): to do a U-Turn

Up shit creek without a paddle: to be in deep trouble with no hope at hand

Ute: utility vehicle. Pick-up truck

Whizzer: a lady’s private area

Wiper: the hand used to wipe one’s bottom

Wog: foreigner or immigrant from southern Europe

Yakka: work

1

Clearly, someone told destiny it could have done what it wanted. And that’s just what it did …

With a light cloud of never-settling dust enveloping my Pommy head and the rest of my body surrounded by dozens of maniac-driven forklifts – not to mention all the other madness offered by our installation site – I posed a question to my dear friend and site-right-hand man, Don. I asked it while Don was engaged in the art of professionally rolling a site-banned rollie while smoking an equally banned one at the same time. (The pounding decibels attacking us from all sides, along with all the bawls and swearing supplied by some rather disturbed workers, were of no nuisance at all.)

‘By the way, Don, would you happen to know the difference between a snob and a knob?’

I expected my Oz brother’s answer to come out with a twangy QLD-Aussie sound and to be particularly concise. What I hadn’t foreseen, though, was its remarkable politeness (well, for Don’s standards at least).

‘Fucked if I know, mate,’ Don replied – his weathered and tanned face displaying an uncompromising stare and a detached expression.

From under his far-from-unscathed hard hat – which had ME written on the front – and behind the expanding screen of whitish smoke between us, Don added, ‘Snobs? Knobs? You’re the only Pom around, Ken. You’re the bloody expert. It’s you who’s gotta fucken tell me.’

Had the six-generation Oz (as he often liked to put it) answered any differently, I would’ve seriously worried about his sanity.

All of Don’s 6’ 1" – clad in a pair of dilapidated, beige Hard Yakka gusset boots, a pair of rolled down grey socks, a pair of navy blue shorts over his rugby-strong legs, and a short-sleeved, navy blue work shirt – stood still, as if waiting for me to either say something or bugger off.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘as it always is when it comes to a snob/knob case, there is no difference at all.’

As usual, I – being I a relatively kind bloke with an accidentally imposing 6’ 4, infinite Nobel Prize patience, a knack for song writing, a penchant for 20-kilo sledgehammers, dictatorial ruling, irrational charity bouts, and wearing a pair of filthy, black site-trousers, a pair of black Dr Martens safety boots, a black Polo shirt, a pretty battered whitish hard hat with the words SOMEONE ELSE written on the front, and also wearing something described to me as a constant, neutral scowl – had just spoken in Received Pronuncia­tion; an accent that a certain Aussie (Don) once described as a bloody Pommy noise mixed with what I think they fucken call ‘international English’. Or shit like that".

All the while, Don and I kept closing in on the snob/knob target we had in mind. We were advancing through a maze of blue and yellow pieces of Italian machinery that for some extraordinary reason had been installed in a fairly decent way. (Man, wasn’t that an unbelievable achievement considering we’d been provided with throngs of much-more-than-questionable workers. Some – and I’m not joking – couldn’t even distinguish a drill from a hairdryer.)

Heads up, stone-faced, and jackal-eyed – like a two-man commando on a take-no-prisoners operation – we were heading down to where the newly arrived Italian son-of-a-boss was blabbering away with the Italian Electrical Supervisor – aka the I.E.S. (The I.E.S. was a cheerful, fairly built, ordinary lad in his late twenties. But he had one problem: he always wore a red ITAL PAI(N) T-shirt. [Ital Pai(n) is a story I’ll explain soon]. Anyway, he never showed signs of relentless grouchiness – unlike the weirdest sparky on earth: Jonah-The-Crow – or astonishing brain absence – unlike a lecherous pillock named Sandy-The-Brothel.)

The son-of-a-boss was something I’d already met earlier that morning. (The language you’ll hear Don and I use next may sound too derogatory, almost bullying, and seemingly unjustified. Instead, there was a pretty good reason for it. It was due to when I came face-to-face with the son-of-a-boss for the first time – during a drive to work – and the subsequent discovery of what he was all about.)

As we charged through the many pieces of equipment that one day would’ve been part of an extrusion line, Don and I ignored all the questions fired at us by an assortment of puzzled pseudo-fitters stuck in a spot of trouble. For the time being, we had to leave those self-proclaimed fitters to their own misery – all caused by their pitch-black ignorance on how to handle either a dumpy level, a cherry picker, or a brutally abused 20-tonne hydraulic jack.

From some ninety yards, the I.E.S. saw the most feared couple on site coming in his direction.

He was quick to twig whom Don and I were after. With a smooth and swift move, he detached himself from our target.

A target which had made the dreadful, stomach-churning decision to take off the completely oil-stained, third-hand, yellowish high-visibility vest I’d given him about half an hour earlier, showing in full the psychedelic abhorrence of what he’d put on for his first day on site: a pink-purple-orange-turquoise-yellow, long sleeve satin shirt.

Despite the considerable distance, I caught the I.E.S.’s eye. The smart lad already knew he had to come over to me immediately and give me his account before Don and I actually reached the son-of-a-boss. With remarkable promptness, he began running. Seventeen seconds later, he was in front of me.

‘What did he say?’ I asked the sparky while taking my SOMEONE ELSE hard hat off, allowing my ¼-inch-short dark hair to breathe.

I wanted to hear if the son-of-a-boss had made any comments about his first encounter with me when, with quite a lot of unwillingness from my side, I had to pick him up for the first time and then go to work.

It was a car drive during which I discovered he suffered from a severe form of superiority complex with astounding arrogance and general disdain for anybody who is not a son-of-a-boss.

An illness in need of some site-medication, was my first diagnosis.

The I.E.S. had the gen and gave it to me.

He reported comments made by the son-of-a-boss that were so predictable I could’ve written them down before even hearing them.

According to the I.E.S., the son-of-a-boss said in Italian, Shit! That Ken scares me! Two metres tall! All dressed in black! And with those ice-blue, sharp eyes on that shaved head! He looks like a killer ready to kill! Has he ever beaten someone down here? No one said anything about him being so intimidating! What an arsehole! But I think someone told me he’s the one in charge here. Is that right?.

‘Fine. Jolly fine,’ I began remarking in English to the I.E.S. as he finished his report – my face showing no emotion. ‘It sounds as if he might have understood the Site-Lesson One I gave him half an hour ago. And, perhaps, he’s also realising that both him and his rubbish surname mean nothing here at Garnalex. I mean Garn-o, of course.’

I then translated to Don what the I.E.S. had just told me in Italian and put my hard hat back on my pate.

Don and I waved goodbye to the trustworthy I.E.S. and went back to our mission, marching in the son-of-a-boss’s direction.

From about sixty-five yards, Don was having a first, clear-ish view of what had just arrived on site. Inevitably, what Don was viewing included the Saturday Night Fever attire worn by the youngster. (I could swear I saw Don’s no-frills, navy blue work shirt quiver.)

Betraying delight, Don’s hard face wore a trace of a smile. That was an historic moment, because smiling and being satisfied were extreme rarities in his case.

After a long drag from his rollie, Don asked, ‘I guess the clown from Italy’s that arsehole down there with that fucken rainbow shit on, right?’

Then, through the ear-splitting melody of all the percussion drills and grinders, he added, ‘Fucken ’ell! Where the fuck did he get that fucken shirt? I’ll tell ya, that’s exactly what a Technicolour yawn is all about!’

Don’s emerald green eyes were popped.

He turned round and looked at me with what I knew was a feigned disparaging look, saying, ‘It seems as if your boss unloaded his Chinese on a stack of trough lollies, and then put the whole fucken thing on.’ – here Don put on a fake smirk – ‘Shit, you’re a mean Pommy bastard all right. You should of told him, you know. I mean, he’s the big fella, after all …’

I didn’t take the bait and laughed instead.

As we were getting closer to the son-of-a-boss, Don became more inquisitive and asked, ‘Did you fix the hard hat on that frog-head of his?’

After pausing in deep thought for a second or two, he went on to say, ‘Yeeeh, you were right, Ken. He looks like Kermet-The-Frog. But with a fucken toilet bowl on his head. What’s his fucken name again?’

A few minutes earlier, I’d made Don aware that the kid had a highly over-inflated opinion of himself which was in urgent need of a good site-recalibration.

I went to give Don the answer he’d asked for and also explain another couple of details.

‘I never gave you his name because it just keeps escaping me. I do remember, though, that it’s made by the blend of a couple of Apostles’ names of some sort. But that’s pretty much it.’

Don looked at me with suspicion, as if not believing me.

‘What can I say, Don. I guess that before being baked his parents thought a Jesus-replica was about to join our sad and lost planet. So that’s why he got his biblical name. Eff-ed if I know, as you’d say.’

Don was now staring at me with a sceptical question mark on his face.

‘By the way,’ I kept on saying while the corner of my eye saw a green forklift slam into the corner of a blameless 12-foot-wide wooden crate parked on the floor some twenty yards away, ‘I am pretty sure he’s also under the persuasion that he’s some sort of demigod on a mission to get us all straightened out and back onto a path of diligence and rectitude.’

Here I was struck by an Italian reminiscence and made Don part of it.

‘Oh, speaking of straightening out things, Italy told me that coming to Australia would’ve been good for him. Because it would’ve straightened out his bones.’

Don frowned. I tried my best to get him to lighten up.

‘I must admit, I had no idea the land of the Ozzers held such an extraordinary ability as well. Of course, Oz’s talent is boundless. A land that does wonders even for someone’s anatomical condition. Lucky you, Don, for you can enjoy all the privileges that come by living here.’

In response to my mild poking at Don’s aussiness, I was expecting one of his usual, snappy retorts. Sadly, and unbelievably, nothing came.

Don sucked out the last bit of life from his rollie, spat away its dog-end in an empty site-made steel bin and put his pre-rolled rollie between his rugged lips. He then stared at me with a pair of assassin’s eyes.

‘Don’t look at me that way!’ I warned him. ‘That’s what they literally said the last time I was in Italy. Australia will straighten out his bones were the words. I guess it was a word-for-word translation from an Italian expression of some sort. Anyway, that’s what they happened to say.’

Don pulled out from his pocket his beloved Ned Kelly Zippo – which came complete with Ned Kelly’s face, a hanging noose, and the words Such Is Life – and lit his next fag.

We were between two red rollways, closing in on the Italian Apostle. He was six feet away from a yellow/blue, box-shaped thing big enough to house two of Australia’s many water buffalo and called finishing saw.

‘Well, there he is. You may ask him his holy name on your own.’ And after an exaggerated inhaling sound, I added, ‘Dear Don, he’s all yours!’

As we reached the unwelcome tenderfoot, Don and I came to a halt.

We were now at the finishing saw of Line 1. It was a place where one day extruded metal would’ve got its final precision cut and where at present no one risked being flattened by a Franna crane, or burnt alive by the oxy-cutter of some acutely incompetent boilermaker, or being interrupted by six hundred thousand idiotic questions from people like Yabby-The-Grass or Paul-The-Dole-Mole – just to mention two out of sixty.

There in that spot, it was only the three of us, with the background melody played by the Installation Site Symphony Orchestra.

Don sucked on his rollie and idly exhaled all the resulting smoke.

Don then scrutinized the son-of-a-boss’s ridiculous outfit, from the tip of the fake crocodile shoes up to the neckline.

It was all done in a silent, smoky, and tense three-second lump.

As Don was done with the examination, he began rolling another one of his cigs – or durries, as he often calls them.

Having pulled on his rollie, Don’s left cheek began to wear an eye-to-chin, canyon-deep wrinkle. It had a familiar meaning to me. It meant dangerous thoughts were rushing at full speed across his extremely sharp mind. And it also meant that those thoughts were about to be converted into action. I knew serious trouble for the kid was fast approaching.

Kermet-The-Apostle-Frog gave Don a cursory inspection with what looked like haughty indifference. Also, he didn’t say a thing.

I stepped slightly forward and to the left to form a human triangle, with the three of us about five feet from each other.

With a sneer upon his face, the Kermet-kid gave Don another quick and almost disdainful look. Then he turned to me and whispered in Italian a question sprinkled with what was unmistakable repugnance.

‘Ma chi cazzo e’ ’sto tipo?’ [Who the fuck’s this guy?]

I took off my shattered, whitish hard had with SOMEONE ELSE written in black on the front and put it between my trunk and left arm.

I stared into Kermet’s young, brown, and arrogant eyes and spelt my next English words very slowly and very clearly.

‘Philip-Andrew-Thomas-Simon-Matthew or whatever saintly Apostle-thing you may be all about, listen. From now on any conversation will have to be in English. This man’s name is Don. He’s the leader of all the mechanical guys around here. He’s an outstandingly skilled fitter, a downright professional, and, of course, a unique gentleman as well.’

‘Blood oath, mate! Me blood’s worth fucken bottling, aye!’ Don stated in pure, QLD-Aussie after having drawn heavily on his rollie.

I turned over to Don, bowed respectfully, and remarked, ‘Nothing could be closer to the truth, sir.’

Struggling like a toad in a vat of tar, Kermet-The-Son-Of-A-Boss then muttered something in a language I knew from our previous drive to work he reckoned to be abstruse and useless: English.

‘I-A am-A Seemon-A Filly-p-A,’ he said. (I’m not tremendously happy in having to write the accent with which he spoke, since there’s the risk it could sound as crass mockery, or much worse. But I’m forced to, because I have to report that suffix of sorts that he used – and kept on using for quite some time.)

Of course, it was only natural that his English had an accent, but that -A ending was neither natural nor normal; at all.

Anyhow, once Kermet’s -A ending is deleted, a translation pretty close to dead on accurate would be: I am Simon Filly-p.

Kermet’s words jogged my memory and I began suspecting his Italian name was – once anglicised – Simon-Philip.

Don lifted his sharp green eyes, crooked his head to the right and blew a thick, idle puff of whitish smoke – which once above his head hit a shaft of sunlight and could be seen mixed with all the black grinding disks particles and all the iridescent welding fumes floating in the air. It looked like a tiny, multicolour constellation sailing away into oblivion.

Don moved closer to the new kid on site, whose blobfish-looking face was wearing the most befuddled expression ever seen on this planet. As Don was almost two feet from Kermet, he stopped.

Don took his ME hard hat off, putting it between his rugby-strong legs. He then ran his left hand over his curly fair hair and took a long draw from the rollie dangling from the left side of his lips. Once he’d dealt with the nicotine top-up, he lowered his left hand to collect his durry, blew on Kermet’s face all the smoke his lungs carried, and with his right hand smacked Kermet’s flaccid left shoulder in an act comparable to a 30-kilo sledgehammer slamming on a