This article by Noel Kelly appeared in the CCRMIT Blower in 1974. Thank you to Noel for his permission to reproduce it here.
One pleasant Sunday evening, whilst enjoying a most convivial imbibing and supping under the auspicious guidance of mine host and hostess, Garry and Carol Spence (rost Biff and veg./67 Seppelts Moyston if you are interested), there was a knock at the door. Opening the door to let the knock in revealed a wizened up old man wearing faded blue jeans and a jumper and a “This is Mrs. Richards’ little boy, Ian”, Mine host announced. Me (asides to Garry): “I didn’t know you had such old friends, G.S.” “He’s not really old,” replied G.S.“He just directs rallies.”
The Little Faded Blue Figure crawled across the floor, climbed up a chair leg and sat, and for the next thirty- seven hours we heard: “mumble, mumble shire councils mumble money mumble mud mumble money mumble print instructions mumble money mumble farmer with shotgun mumble money mumble mumble. . ..” I wish the gods had made him more articulate.
“How would mmpff you like to be cough a control official wheeezze for the mmpff splut Autumn Midnight on whooop May 18th?” I realised the L.F.B.F. was vaguely peering in my direction. “Oh....yes.... of course”, I replied, not wanting to give him a coronary. Later, after pointing L.F.B.F. in the right direction and starting him rolling, Garry explained what I had volunteered for, to which my profound reply was “Heavens to mint gravy”.
On the said 18th on the way to Maryborough I called in at Ballarat to see my old friend and compatriot from the days of Ballarat S.C.C. (Nostalgia) Garry Harrowfield, for I understand he knew something about rallies and I wanted him to allay my fears. He assured us we would have gangs of fun ....whoopee... We arrived at Maryborough and were met by a smiling gentleman in a faded blue Colt — faded blue!! It’s a plot!! This gentleman who shall remain nameless called Geoff Doyle then led myself and other officials out into the deep woods. After we had gone about 487 miles along an infinitesimal groove in the undergrowth, he stopped, got out, hauled a board out of his boot (the car’s) with a large “C” painted on it (the board) handed it to me with a large sealed envelope and, with the parting words, “THEY will come from the south. DO NOT leave until the sweep car OKs you!!" Vanished into the darkness, never to be seen again.
Sweep car? And THEY - who are THEY? - What the hell am I doing here? Anyway, myself and bird and other officials lit a fire to keep the diddley-dums away and things seemed a little better. Then I noticed co-official gazing fixedly to the south. I turned — and saw - and heard. “It’s the moon coming up” said co-official shakily, “...isn’t it...?" “No you great steaming twit,” I said, “the moon doesn’t make that noise, it must be the sun.” (clever deduction, as I have never seen the sun come up). “No, it’s too early, it’s the gremlins....it’s Beelzebub ....it’s THEM!”.
THEY stopped, THEY wound down THEIR window. I peered in, and there, leering at me from under a mountain of maps, papers and equipment was...L.F.B.F.! “What time have you got?” asked L.F.B.F. “7:35” I quacked. “I’ve got 7:36 — you’re slow!” (Thinks) “Up your kilt, L.F.B.F., I couldn’t give a sick monkey’s leftie if your watch is a minute different from mine..” “They’re about ten minutes behind” interrupted L.F.B.F. and with a “Hi- ho Kilf” he too vanished into the shrubbery.
“What the hell am I doing here?” I asked myself - in a voice so high I had to check I had lost nothing. Well, the sun came up about forty times that night. As far as I could make out, THEY were some kind of masochistic human robots which L.F.B.F. had lured into a cage, built a self-propelled vehicle around it, mounted a couple of war surplus aircraft spotter searchlights on the front, and then said “kill!” I don’t think the robots quite knew what to kill — themselves, the vehicles, the officials or the scenery. Eventually we were sent to central control, where we found most of the robots still alive, sucking on cans, coffee and soup and quaffing down snags and chops.
Seems they do this quite often, and what’s more they seem to enjoy it! And you know, thinking about it, if I had a spare cage and a couple of searchlights lying about the place, and one night when I was home I was told there was a rally on, I would say, “Well, what the hell am I doing HERE?”
