Neck Roberts

I could probably explain how the whole Neck Roberts thing began, but it still most likely wouldn't make a lick of sense*. However, I can have a go at telling an abridged history of the Neck Roberts phenomenon. Because it is a phenomenon, let me assure you.

I was in a local pub when I came up with the idea, as I was examining the display of free postcards. You know the ones, little rectangles of advertising, usually with no room to actually write a message. I honestly think that I might be the only one who has ever actually bothered attaching a stamp to these and sending them on.  But I hadn't, before Neck Roberts.

There I was, examining the postcard collection for any winners. As I often do, I ended up going away with a handful of them. They were doomed for the recycling bin, like so many of their free postcard counterparts, until I absent-mindedly started writing on them. 

See, Neck Roberts was a name Vegatrain and I had come up with a few days before. I think I briefly made it my display name on facebook, for no real reason. If anybody called me on it, I planned to just pretend it had always been my name and I didn't know what they were talking about. Luckily, my friends know me well enough at this point to not even bother attempting to call me out on being an absurd human being. At first I would just label whatever I was doing as 'modern art', and see what I could get any with. Now, I don't even need to. Most people in my life have made their peace with the fact that I don't make much sense a good majority of the time.

Anyway, somehow in the course of that night, I started writing on those postcards. I took a common expression/advertising slogan, replaced one word with the word 'neck', signed it as Neck Roberts and sent them to a guy I went to high school with. Whom I haven't seen in a year.

Later, I asked him if he'd received them. He admitted that he had, but hastily tried to change the subject and pretend it had never happened. Not so fast, pal.

The next incident occurred few months later when I was in Melbourne visiting a friend. We were out and about when I came across a veritable treasure trove of free postcards. Again, I wrote on them, signed them as Neck Roberts and sent them. If you're wondering just what exactly I have been writing on these cards, here are a few examples:

Top of the neck to you!

A neck is for life, not just for Christmas

Have a nice neck!

Necks - it's what's for dinner.

And so on. There have been a few separate batches now, and every now and then that friend from Melbourne texts me new neck-related phrases, which I store away for future reference. The recipient (always the same guy) is still trying as hard as he can to pretend this is not happening which, if I'm being quite honest, just encourages me to do it even more.

Neckfully yours,

Smackie Onassis

*Come to think of it, the saying "lick of sense" doesn't make a lot of sense itself. Licks are for delicious ice-creams, not abstract concepts.

Mysterious Free Drinks Night At The Pub

Back in my hometown, there wasn't a great deal of unique and interesting entertainment options. There were, however, an absurd amount of pubs. Australians always talk about how there is a pub on every corner, most places you go. In my hometown, there was a pub on every corner, then another one next door and a few more along the street.

One of my favourite places to go of an evening was the local "bohemian" joint, the Lass O'Gowrie, universally referred to as The Lass. It looked like your regular dive bar, falling on the literal "wrong side of the tracks". It was situated right next to the train line that neatly separated the cosmopolitan, upper-middle class suburb on one side from the favourite hang outs of the local junkie and prostitute population on the other. One of my favourite pieces of graffiti was near there, a road sign where someone had painted over the word 'cameras' so it read "Speed used in this area". I giggled every time I drove past it.

But the Lass, the Lass was wonderful. There was live music most nights, usually played by friends of mine (the local muso scene tended to be fairly close-knit), and also usually free. The food was unexpectedly brilliant, with more vegetarian cuisine than a dirty hippie such as myself could poke a carbon-neutral stick at. It was the only pub I've ever been to that had a cat living on it's premises. I can't imagine how much that cat has had to deal with over the years.

One of the best nights out I ever had in that town was when my friend Guitarstrings Wilson and I headed to the Lass for a few quiet beers. When we arrived, the place was fuller than I'd ever seen it, and most of the people there were friends of mine. Curiously, there was free food circulating, and no-one seemed to be charging me for drinks. I chose not to question this for fear that saying it out loud might somehow make it go away.

Apparently, the venue was technically closed that night for a private function. It was the birthday party of the owner's daughter, a girl I had never actually met. However, because I apparently knew every single one of her close friends, everyone sort of assumed that I had been invited, and that Guitarstrings Wilson was my +1 for the night. 

I don't think I even met the host at her own birthday party, but my presence was just sort of accepted, even embraced. I wasn't exactly going to say no to free food and drinks, either.

It is safe to say that I came out that night well under budget.

-Smackie Onassis