[lfjokes] Tong master.

[Craig Wright]

This is ODD!

Tong master.........

Macca was at the barbecue and Jonesy was at the barbecue and I was at
the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer,
staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never
leaving them alone. We didn't know why we were at the barbecue, we
were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a
powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet.

Jonesy said the thin ones could use a turn, I said yeah I reckon the
thin ones could use a turn, Macca said yeah they really need a turn
-it was a unanimous turning decision. Macca was the Tong- master, a
true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver
tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an
elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A
lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone
full circle, back to where they started. Nice, I said. The others
went yeah.

Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren-song- sizzle of the snags,
the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Kevinnnnn ...come. He stuck his
head in and said any room? We said yeah and began the barbecue
shuffle; Macca shuffled to the left, Jonesy shuffled to the left, I
shuffled to the left, Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer.

Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Macca gave me the
nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw
sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too
close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies
like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The
chipolatas were tiny; they could easily slip down between the grill,
falling into the molten hot- bead-netherworld below. Carefully I laid
them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Macca snapped his
tongs with approval, there was no greater barbecue honour.

P.J. came along, he said looking good, looking good - the
irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said yeah
and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside
Kevin, we sipped our beer.

Five men, lots of sausages. Jonesy was the Fork-pronger; he had the
fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he
showed lots of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little
vampire holes up and down the casing. P.J. was shaking his head, he
said I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them. There was a
long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop; this new- comer
was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He
didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the
sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger - and everyone below was just a
watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now -
don't rock the Weber.

Dianne popped her head in; hmmm, smells good, she said. She was
trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads
down and our shoulders in, mumbling yeah yeah yeah, but making no
room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the
barbecue, heading for the only available space. . . . the gap in the
circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the
gap; Dianne was going to try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke
blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering
all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't take it anymore, she
gave up, backed off. Kevin waited till she was gone and sipped his
beer. We sipped our beer; yeah.

Macca handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what
was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the
abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip -
was I ready for the responsibility? Yes, I was. I held them up high
and they glinted in the sun. Don't forget to turn the thin ones Macca
said as he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the
house. Yeah I called back, I will, I will. I snapped them twice, SNAP
SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick
of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a
natural, I was the TONG- MASTER.

Until Macca got back from the toilet....