Gathered throng I address thee! You have been summoned to this place. And you have come from the darkest hiding places of your lives, flying forth like great-bellied pelicans, flappeting your wings over byways, highways and foothills. Although some of you just waddled in from the back paddocks by the looks.
But none the less you have come! And well you did! For that cunning pair of linguists, those al dente linguini’s, the dreamers of dreams, the mustard seeds of thinkers, the Monochino minxes, those close relatives of Aphrodite, Hells Bells and Terris Magoo are in our midst!
Fear Not! Be merry and set your nervous bowels and trembling souls at ease.
Tonight we shall recall the warblings of this pair of wonderfully demented birds of paradise and fantasy, resplendid in their spotted decorative tails. Tonight for the sake of the confused, we shall finally revoke the poetic license that Helen and Clare have hidden behind for far too long.
Helena Margarita Cahir was born to undeserving unappreciative parents.
Helen’s childhood was a typical one. About as typical as having 9 siblings piled into a Holden station-wagon, complete with the colourful politics that go with Big Families sharing seatbelts, and other amenities.
Helen demands uniqueness in her life. Helen’s drive for uniqueness can take form in her irreverence to authority or a refusal to conform to societal norms. This refusal to ‘play the game’ takes its toll on her creative energy and lends itself when not constructively employed to harsh self-criticism with pleasant little nihilistic sideshow. Helen’s adolescence was largely a product of this driving mental state.
In her mental state, one to which she returns regularly, sometimes with pride, Helen was born a rebel. A James Dean tragedy of a child. Teenage hood saw a black “woe is me” tattooed on her lips in black lipstick or rusty nails whichever came to hand. That is when those same hands and lips were not combining to suck down her Beach 1’s or getting up close and personal with the shaggy headed boyfriend of the day…or hour. Helen Cahir was here for a good time not a long one. She subscribes to the Marlon Brando line “What am I rebelling against? What have you got?”
Her refusal to play by ‘the rules’ has at times greatly offended her children. I recall Huw’s mortification when Mum went to the basketball stadium to pick him up in her socks. This meant, of course, that she had left her cow pat spattered gumboots sitting by the front door of the stadium. Those gumboots were seen by countless teams of players all of whom possessed parent who worried incessantly about the embarrassments that they inflicted upon their children. Not so Helen. As Helen drove away from dropping her children off at school, late but still in time for assembly, she would arrange for the van to back fire in a hilarious chitty-chitty-bang-bang manner continuing until the van had left ear shot.
Her work in the Shuttle van is well known. Helen is a bogger. She routinely bogs the van, generally up to the axles in the soft ground in the front and backyards of the family home. She then attempts to hide from Danny a) the fact that the car has mud up to the windows, and b) the fact that there are now deep trench-like tracks with imprints of the shuttles tyres in the back and or front yards.
Her attitude gets worse when it comes to stock transportation. Helen does not think twice about using the shuttle’s boot with its faulty catch mechanism to go to market to pick up some calves. Through practise, she now knows that she can fit 3 calves in the boot. If they have scours though, one of them is not going to like the entire trip home!
On one noteworthy market day, Helen had yours truly as a helper/witness. We chased the calves around their pens holding on to their ears, tails, back legs or as Helen prefers their testicles. They are less likely to make sudden movements she reckons. Anyway we had ‘loaded’ them into the boot and had asked them to breath in as we jammed the door shut behind them for the trip home. We just had one stop to make. Might have been Huw’s basketball. Driving through the streets of Shepparton at 60 clicks the boot door flies open and the calves tumble out onto the open road and freedom. They are a little shocked and check themselves for broken legs and internal injuries which allows us to catch two of them quite easily. The third calf gives us the run around before mum can put hand to testicles. Unsurprisingly they are more reluctant to get in the boot the second time.
She married young, had kids young and has been heard telling anyone within earshot that she regretted both. Helen was once a young mother who was struggling to raise her multitude of children whilst Danny worked like a beaver on the CBD dam for a basic wage.
She is filled with culture and other developmental bacteria. She is an avid, frothing at the mouth, student of all languages. She now has a smattering of Pigeon Italian/Albanian/Turkish crossed with German and essence of cow. Please do not be fooled by her professions of school learning and or fluency. Do not use her translating skills for court appearances or anything more serious than a laugh.
As her nest has emptied of those unfeeling ungrateful chicks, Helen’s rebelliousness has made a reappearance manifesting itself in social justice campaigns and side saddle riding of the fag bandwagon.
This is the flippant anarchistic self destructive Helen. She loves to show this side of her personality to people to show that she is down with the scene and worthy and demanding of your respect.
To be totally truthful to Hel here, there’s that balancing urge to spend her Friday evenings in front of the box, chocky bowl at arms reach having her crusty soles massaged with moisturising ointment by her man servant. Those are good nights aren’t they hel? Ok to keep up the street rep she does dent the bottle of whisky in the pantry or drink herself to G’n’T couch snooze oblivion.