Peniche

[Nick Carroll]

Yeah right, we couldn't collaborate over breakfast.

[rmb]

Yeah right, we couldn't collaborate over breakfast.

Lucky Al and yourself just did i cant wait for the next instalment.

[Clif]

Al couldn't remember if his name was "Al" or not. He knew that's what people kept referring to him as, especially the French girl. What was her name? Emile? Memory is fickle for a dreamer, a tide with many moons. Why didn't she make contact anymore? Where had she gone? Al decided to find a place in Santa Cruz to lie low. He chose a ramshackle house on Hickory Street. Dogshit on the porch. Cobwebs and dust in the corners of the rooms. No furniture except for a mattress and blanket laced with dog mange to become comfort. The landlord shuffled in and out at times but paid Al no mind. Squatters and meth-heads had been making her property a layover for many years now. Another made no difference. The ASP would be coming to town soon. Al covered the walls with planned scenarios. Gum and paper and and cockroaches and pencil marks covered the failed plaster. Broken pencils lay discarded on the floor. That is, until in the middlle of the night when Al's hand would reach out into the darkness to clasp one and make notes of fleeting ideas that now mocked him in his sleep. His mind was failing to embrace anything for some reason. How could he not know more? The wine on that first night of embrace with Emile has blurred his memory, but why had his memory remained stained with forgetfulness. A plan began to take shape in the shadows of that house. Al would wear a hooded jumper he'd found discarded in a charity bin, walk with a hunch and take his pencils of memory to the point when the ASP rolled into town. Hopefully, he would merely look like a non-descript meth-addict of the parts. Names of those present in 'wrist-bracelet areas' would be noted. Movements mapped. Emile may turn up and whomever the company she is with will be worth investigating.

[steve shearer]

I'd love to see Lucky Al playing banjo or maybe a stradivarius he swapped for a tenner with a meth head sweating on junk.

Lucky Al in the golden fall light streaming in through the cockroach infested flop-house playing something, a new composition maybe, dedicated to the fallen and the dispossessed, playing to life all the misery and broken dreams, when Old Baldy the slumlord knocks on the door to collect the rent.

"sorry mister, I spent the rent on this violin, would you like to pull up a pew, grab a beer and listen?"

Lucky Al makes music which brings Old Baldy to tears, makes him realise his whole life has been nothing but an empty charade.

In tears the two men embrace.......Emile walks in silently....."oh excuse me": she says....." I, ah"

she wipes the single tear rolling down Lucky Al's cheek and puts it on Old Baldys mouth and the beginnings of a faint leer play across her lips.

[Nick Carroll]

Emile's a bloke's name for chrissake.

I knew this would never work.

[petulance]

Emile's a bloke's name for chrissake.

I knew this would never work.

Bloke's name alright. And he's living in Newcastle at the moment.

[Clif]

Emile's a bloke's name for chrissake

A sexuality/gender twist never hurt any story

[Clif]

Baldy's dead already, Steve.

[steve shearer]

zombie

[Lucky Al]

and then there were... 31!

[Lucky Al]

better limit the murders to the top 10 for simplicity's sake. the attention span of today's audiences is short! they don't get complicated stuff! they're stupid, restless, forgetful! so:

ten little surfer boys put on their leashes and looked fine; one choked his little self, and then there were nine.

nine little surfer boys stayed out surfing until very late; one went and drowned himself and then there were eight.

eight little surfer boys traveling in heaven (the dream tour); one said he'd stay there (taylor knox i suppose, or kelly) and then there were seven...

[steve shearer]

ten little surfer boys put on their leashes and looked fine; one choked his little self, and then there were nine.

Since when was masturbation fatal?

[godsavetheking]

Emile's a bloke's name for chrissake.

I knew this would never work.

Bloke's name alright. And he's living in Newcastle at the moment.

Looks like he's in the time honoured Heskey pose of murdering a gilt edged chance as well. I predict a low single figure return for the season, assuming no injuries

[offshore1]

Gripping, you guys could write a novel. It could be a collaboration by realsurf.com contributors.

a collaborative realsurf novel? we can't even organise a barbecue.


anyway, Emile, Al and Kelly the zombie all stumbled out from the putrid pigsty into the misty night, making their way, through tears of ineffable yearning, to the thrilling new transgender scene in downtown Santa Monica.

[godsavetheking]

Lucky Al's comfortable old life in Vietnam seemed three lifetimes or more away. As the fogs in his mind fleetingly rolled back, he was struck by a rare moment of clarity. With deep sadness he now saw his quest for what it truly was; a crazed roll of the dice, the rank outsider's shot at the big time. Adjusting his satin hotpants and unconsciously scratching the still livid scar of his recently excised manhood, he performed a quick mental inventory. Had it all been worth it? Was it too late to turn back the clock?

His reverie was shattered by Emile's impatient hammering on the dunny door. Glancing down at the dog eared manuscript, he knew his race was run. Having exhausted hundreds upon hundreds of unlikely permutations, he'd finally scripted the impossible; a credible title for Flores delivered in a way that would have no irate Brazilians storming the Bastille. Reading through the final chapter his breath caught again at the elegant purity of the resolution. "Ah Jeremy, enfin c'est fini", he muttered as he wearily rose to his feet and unlocked the door. Wordlessly handing the script to Emile, he walked on down the dark, dank corridor, back tense, expecting the worst.

[petulance]

Looks like he's in the time honoured Heskey pose of murdering a gilt edged chance as well. I predict a low single figure return for the season, assuming no injuries

He's got 2 goals from 3 games so far. He's never fulfilled the potential he showed at Leicester, going on to break the 20 goals per season mark only once. I'm sure the term "defensive striker" was invented for him.

[purple pyramids]

Emile's a bloke's name for chrissake

A sexuality/gender twist never hurt any story

"the wasp factory" is one of the more outrageous books i've read.

[bindy123]

Both Jdubs waves were massively over-scored......by any stretch of the imagination.

This is a colossal case of human error.

It's time the judging had an oversight panel like Rugby League.

When refs, linesmen and video refs fcuk it up they get sacked.

Surfing needs the same process.......those judges and the head judge need some time on the sideline in the bush leagues carrying the oranges.

sorry to go so far back in this discussion that has clearly moved on from the issue of the final in Peniche...but I just needed to have my rant.

Totally agree with the above comments

Have now watched the highlights package on fuel three times...I am a huge fan of Julian Wilson, and of his surfing...but the scoring IMHO was disgraceful in this contest...and the final, while clearly being the worst, was not the only heat where serious questions need to be asked

CJ Hobgood losing to Adrian Buchan and JW's win in the semi were other examples.

The final wave of JW should have been a mid six at best...a smaller wave...very short barrel...not a clean exit...very very safe turns with nothing critical at all...what am I missing?

Anyway carry on...I feel a bit better now...oh and please note this is my first post, so go easy on me!