24 June 2011 / leggypeggy

How John got Poor

I get a lot of requests for more information on how John came by the Poor tag.
Of course it’s because he’s neglected, hen-pecked, down-trodden, misunderstood, never fed, chained to the ironing board and has to take out the rubbish.

Yeah right!
Actually it’s because he’s none of those things—oh, wait he does have to take out the rubbish and the recycling too.

But the Poor surfaced in early 2009 when we breezed by Texas to visit Gary AKA Pot Scrubber AKA Potsie. Potsie figured I’d coerced Poor John into going on an overland camping trip through Africa on the back of a truck. He imagined John was pining for five-star accommodation and lurid cocktails by a shimmering Olympic pool. As our trip through Africa progressed, Potsie would cautiously inquire ‘And how is Poor John doing?’ Oh for heaven’s sake. Poor John did his original African overland in 1973. I did one in 1977. We decided to do it again together when we could.

Poor John is the biggest dag in Australia—surely some online Australian slang dictionary will define dag for you. If his trouser hem comes undone, he staples it. A shirt’s not worth buying unless it has a collar and a breast pocket (zippered ones are preferable) for his wallet. Keys should be made of aluminium so they are light—can’t go weighing down your pockets. Try not to carry change—it’s too heavy too. Good haircuts should cost $2 or less (he’s hanging out for his next cut in Turkey).

Poor John wondering how to get a paper shredder home

So that sort of sums up my Poor John. But I will admit that he does suffer a bit on these overland trips. For starters, there’s no reliable daily newspaper and the coffee can be pretty grim. Sometimes he has to help cook, or clean the kettle or lug jerry cans of water. And there’s a great shot of him hauling water in Mauritania. I’ll post it when I find it.

In the meantime, here’s a pic of him trying to figure out how he could possibly get this gigantic paper shredder home to Australia, so he can dispose of my personal Mt Everest of paper including my stamp collection, the ancient contents of the filing cabinet, university notes, old newspapers and magazines, recipes on bits of napkin and way too many cookbooks.

P.S. For my sister Susan. Don’t go thinking you are entirely without blame on the issue of naming Poor John. I can’t find the email now, but I definitely recall a message from you asking how Poor John was after he and I had gone sky-diving in Namibia. I will remind you that I did NOT make him do it.