Filed under: the wagga blagga
Thursday November 02nd
Couple days back Bingley (his real name is nothing like this) thought it would be a triffic idea for him and me to bag a roo. He had only one more week (5 days now) in Crowsville before going back to what he deprecatingly and accurately called his European executive lifestyle.
He wanted the whole hog: ute, spotlight and appropriate centrefire rifle as specified by the Federal Department of the Environment and Heritage. Given his European sticklerism, he was not impressed when I stated my view that we should comply with condition (i) “Kangaroos must not be shot from a moving vehicle or other moving platform.”
In fact his response was, “I had no idea my friend would still be driving when I started shooting, Constable Hockington.”
Of course, this evening with a few spots of rain about were not ideal for sliding about the back of the muddy ute we’d picked up earlier today, so I volunteered to drive.
We went off onto an obscure little track near Bullenbung, and a small mob were out amongst the trees. Bingley rapped on the roof which I took to mean “approach slowly” but he later said meant, “Stop, I’ve got an ideal head shot.”
I approached slowly, but hit the pothole at the same time as I heard the shot.
The roos scattered, as did seven of eight grazing cows about 30 metres further back.
“Oh shit!” exclaimed Bingley. “No trophy for me!”
This time I knew the triple-rap on the roof for what it was: “Bolt, mate.”
I file this from The King’s Own, where Bingley’s thirst got the better of him.