Gosh, we miss out on all the fun! Seems like the Royal Mail is the place to go on a Thursday night if you're in the mood for bustin' up some furniture and "punching on" as they call it out here. I don't have the latest gossip on last week's brawl, but it must have been a doozy because all the police were at the hospital on Friday afternoon.
The way it works is, you have a good ol' melee at the pub with your mates, then get taken to the hospital either by (a) crawling bleeding across the creek (b) thrown bleeding in the back of your mate's ute or (c) escorted bleeding in the back of the divvy van if it's not busy arresting everyone in Consul's Road. Liz, Mark and Doctor Nick patch you up and then the nice young police officers come by to charge you and get any juicy details you might be able to recall if you still have any functioning brain cells. Then the town gets put on alcohol restrictions (meaning you can't buy any full-strength takeaway alcohol) for the next two or three days, just in case anyone involved in the brawl has survived the cranium-crippling hangover or has destroyed so many brain cells that drinking even more alcohol and going home to get out the pig-hunting guns seems like a good idea.
Two weeks later everyone meets up again at the court house to be punished, a cheery social affair with many locals queued up outside on the court house lawn, wearing their one good shirt and various bandages, waving as we drive by with a friendly toot-toot on the horn.
Earlier this month, the weekly pub fight featured "Fingers Flanagan", so-named for his penchant for inappropriate touching (how this is possible in Meeka defies explanation). Seems that Tony took exception to ol' Fingers having a bit of a friendly feel of Tony's ex-wife's (try to keep up here) sister's enticingly large juicy buttocks at the pool table, and soon everyone was slinging it out in the cause of Git Yer Hands Off My Woman, including the women.
So there you go - who said there's nothing to do in Meeka at night?
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