Your Tyres Are Flat
(Plonko)
In the callow bloom of youth I applauded myself as a lover of unquestionable accomplishment.
Training at the Royal Aero Club I met a beautiful blonde goddess. My affected hangdog appearance gained me sympathy and I made another conquest. Her family lived in a large house that fronted rolling sand dunes and embraced the surf at Cronulla. One glorious evening we lay on the warm sand wondering how we should occupy our time. A full moon bathed the dunes in a soft romantic glow, with the splendid voice of John Boles (The Desert Song) carried by the gentle balmy breeze. Suddenly there was a screech and atop a dune stood a harridan of retribution with the moon etching wasted arms flung wide to the heavens. She screamed - You filthy beasts! I have called the police! Your tyres are flat!
Then I pondered – why should the cops interfere? Surely they could get their own girls! Suddenly my musing changed to joy as I didn’t run a car. I found myself hoping she had flattened the tyres of an unmarked police car – her retribution had endless possibilities!
That altercation with the harpy changed my sexual life style and I migrated into the safety of beds. I clicked with another flying mate who operated a small hotel in Lower Castlereagh Street. He seemed a good guy and unlike most pilots, able to keep his mouth shut. Of greater value he asked no questions and even gave me a cut-rate. In a moment of weakness I would long regret I let my closest pals into my secret. One evening I made my way there, my lewd chops drooling with unbridled lust causing the gorgeous Plonko to nervously clutch my arm. Who should we be tonight? Mr and Mrs Bob Buckby would make a pleasant change. I lifted the pen to sign the register and hesitated. Imagine my consternation when the name Mr and Mrs Charles E. Eather glared at me from the line above. What unethical creeps I had for pals. It mattered not that I had fewer scruples than the scurvy scum humping in my name - double standards applied only to others!
It seemed logical that Bob Buckby was the culprit and it was only years later in Burma that I found out the real perpetrator was the innocent baby faced Ken Lockyer!
