Ok, I’ll tell you about the yabbie races.

Hello dear readers,

Sorry for the mix-up with postie the yabbie story twice with no text. I was on an adventure where technology worked as well as a shearer with a bad elbow.

This was written a few days ago about the yabbie racing shenanigans in Windorah, Qld. The riot that was Birdsville will follow when the bags under my eyes have firmed up again.

I hope you are all well.


The party chopper en-route to Birdsville stopped in Windorah last night for the yabbie races. I adopted a gonzo journo style and joined in the shenanigans, depleting the bar of its low-carb beer stash and garnering an understanding of the fuzzy edges most of the party were experiencing.
I believe slight inebriation can liven up journalism on select occasions. A quick scan of my battered notebook this morning has revealed a few pearlers.
Some nice bloke has written me a poem: ‘there once was a lass from Kyogle, whose breasts some old men did ogle. She first took our shots, then our story she jots. But their intentions were far from noble.’ Classic.
I’ve written a few pars on the yabbie races where crayfish are auctioned off at absurd prices to the legless city folk. The creatures have to walk towards the green line and the first over wins. Most of my coverage focuses on a group of lads from Victoria who bought a yabbie named Pooh Bawl and won about a grand of its deft legs. They bought him for $550.
A bloke called Piglet merited a mention for his swing dance moves on the grass, but his attempts to woo me were less than fruitful when he refused to be called anything but Piglet and, sadly, I draw the line at farm animals.
The most exciting part of my night didn’t get a mention in the ripped notepad. In a moment of Birdsville-inspired abandon I chucked five bucks in a hat to buy a yabbie called Gee Bunger or something similar and ended up with a 50 tucked down my shirt this morning.
Most importantly the notebook is chockers with mens’ phone numbers.

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