I am the Nemesis of the Vole.
What am I?
Probably Mr Toad 
I think it might be an owl, but I can’t remember which breed of owl,
as I haven’t studied owl-lore for some time. Could it be the one that rhymes with mulagutawny soup? Or is it not the owl, but the mink?
Short-Eared Owl?
I am aching to see a new Australian film production, but am concerned that I might become a little confused by some of the dialogue. I was hoping someone might help me out by translating a couple of the opening lines of dialogue into Oz for me?
“…In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” (not a TV weathergirl)
“…Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog and filthy air.” (A Shara trip to Blackpool?).
You must be the only person on the planet aching to see a new Australian film.
People usually ache only after seeing them. 
I’ll have a go at translating for you.
“…In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” (not a TV weathergirl)
Oz
There’s these three town bikes*
Chunder** Ning*** and Train****
Get into a hurlyburly
And don’t know if they’ll meet again.
*Town bike = Sheila everyone rides.
** Chunder = spew. Metaphor for Australian life.
*** Ning = Ning Nong. Dummy. Not smart. Close to ideal sheila if she’s a nympho and her dad owns a pub. Also close to ideal even if frigid but owns a pub herself.
****Train= Like a town bike, but carries a lot more passengers. More like a regional interchange hub.++
++ Not to be confused with the magnificent radio broadcast about a horse racing meeting where two racecourse clubs had combined to run a meeting at one course. It was famously introduced by the radio announcer as “The intercourse championship.”
“…Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog and filthy air.” (A Shara trip to Blackpool?).[/QUOTE]
There’s two translations possible.
One
One of the sheilas farts
The other two reckon that’s fair
But the stench lifts them off their feet
And hangs them in the filthy air.
Then a fog comes in
And they lose sight of each other.
Battle or something causes it.
Two
It’s a Sharia trip to Blackpool.
The correct version was “Hover through hog and filthy air.
Need I say more?
There’s going to be a battle at the end of that.
Glad I’m not the bus driver.
Just as a curious aside, WTF does this have to do with voles?
Whatever they are?
We have Poles down here, but they’re not Nemesissy people. I think.
Thank you for that wonderfully, colourful translation. I now feel confident that, armed as I am with a whole new index to my dictionary, I’ll be able to follow the dialogue. 
Either that, or take the book in brail form and follow it as the film progresses.
I think 1000YDS has been watching ‘Tales (Tails?) of the the Riverbank’ with Rattie, Hammie and friends - Either that, or he’s due some R&R?
We also serve who only sit and type. In Orstaylan.
I think 1000YDS has been watching ‘Tales (Tails?) of the the Riverbank’ with Rattie, Hammie and friends - Either that, or he’s due some R&R?
Nah.
It’s the owl that can’t vote from Bill Bailey’s ‘Bewilerderness’
The Disenfranchised Owl
I am Death
A Winged Beast
I am borne on the velvet wings of night
And I’m hungry for a feast
I am the nemesis of the vole
My heart is black as coal
You can kill me with a trowel
I am an owl
Very nice, but short of finding its daytime hidey hole you’d be doing well to kill an owl with a shotgun, never mind a trowel.
Perhaps the vole has the trowel?
Perhaps the troll has the vowel?
Time for a beer, methinks!
Not here.
I started about six hours ago.
I recognised the signs Just thought I’d join you - now, to remove the bottle-top.
You drink from a bottle?
How quaint.
And civilised.
I just shove my head into the keg.
Used to be a trough, but the brewery wouldn’t send the tanker around any more.
You’re a hoot and a howl, sir - I drink from a glass.
(note: I pay respect to your new rank - no more troughs for you, sir!:))
A glass, Sirrah!
What contrivance is this that comes between us and the amber ambrosia of heaven?
The Devil’s work, I say.
What next?
Abandoning wooden platters and fingers for some other means of eating?
How absurd!
As if there was another way of eating the roast beef, peas and potatoes of old England!
A glass!
As if we should drink from windows, with their heavy tax!
I am embarrassed beyond belief by my, for want of a better term, elevation to a commissioned rank.
As for troughs, when I were a young lad in the service I did me time as a steward in the officers’ mess.
The officers get pissed but with less grog and quicker than in the ORs’ mess. As for the Sergeants’ Mess, the officers visit it when they’re pissed while the sergeants’ have barely blown the froth off a few dozen beers just to warm them up for the officers’ visit.
But, unlike the ORs’ and Sergeants’ messes where the bookkeeping is scrupulous, in the Officers’ Mess a dragooned steward can get thoroughly pissed without buying even one drink (‘Have one for yourself, steward’ = pour as much beer into yourself as you can manage while remaining more or less upright and still serving the slow-drinking officers) and steal enough money to get a taxi home.
So I’m told.
Sounds as if you and Skippy have been down Walkabout Creek, again.
Let’s make no bones about it, old chum, good officers are worth their weight in gold. Fortunately, they’re not as rare as gold-dust, anymore. There is truth and there is perception.
If you were to see Woodiwiss (mentioned in the above tale), you would probably think of some old, Colonel-Blimp-type, ‘Raj’ officer, but he was far from being that (Even De La beliere was no chiselled oil painting).
Here is an interesting interview with De La Billiere:
http://www.saga.co.uk/magazine/people/publicfigures/PeterdelaBillire.asp
These days, the British Army recruit men of calibre to become officers, and if they don’t make the grade within five years, they’re on their way.
As far as drinking is concerned, I used to share your opinion, but after being drunk-under- the-table on several ocassions in the past few years, I’ve modified that one. Having said that, I’m way past my peak. :mrgreen:
Question: What is Green-spot?