Quote:“Well come on, then, and meet the boys,” replied the Australian, as he-- from Muggle Summer, chapter 67
headed towards a booth filled with similarly-dressed wizards. Harry
ended his call to Wally with a quick request for Steve to call back once
he’d arrived at the Rookery, then followed along with Roger.
“Took you long enough, Bruce!” whined one of the men sitting within the
booth.
“Sod off, Bruce.” The wizard replied, as he slipped the tray filled with
beer cans onto the table, pointed towards Roger, and added, “Gentlemen,
I'd like to introduce you to a man from Pommeyland named Bruce.”
“G’day Bruce,” the wizards all replied.
The wizard then turned towards the Boy-Who-Lived and said, “And this
here, mates, is none other than Harry Potter.”
“Go on! Give us the good oil!”
“Yes, yes, it’s true, or else he wouldn’t be rooting New-Bruce’s shiralee.”
“Hey! Who said that I’m…rooting?”
“Harry Potter, Bruce. Harry Potter, Bruce. Harry Potter, Bruce…that
fella’s my best mate Bruce, and that daggy bastard over there…his name
is Bruce.”
“G’day.”
“Is your name not Bruce, then?” one of them asked Harry.
The Queen’s Wizard shook his head as Roger broke out into a wide grin.
“Yes, yes…I know, that's going to cause a little confusion.”
“Good that you see it…mind if we call you Bruce to keep it clear?”
Harry smiled and nodded his head. “No worries.”
“Right then,” stated one of the boothed Bruces. “Have a seat and we’ll
start the faculty meeting.”
Roger smiled. “Of the philosophy department at the University of Walamaloo?”
“How’d you guess, New-Bruce?” the Aussie asked. “But first I'd like to
ask the padre for a prayer.”
A different Bruce held a hand over the tray of beer cans and said, “Oh
Lord, we beseech Thee, Amen!!”
“Amen!”
Somebody named Bruce called out, “Crack tubes!” and everyone opened a can.
Harry was in the middle of a long draw on his beer when his Art Club
badge vibrated. He quickly pulled his lips away from the can when he
glanced down…then relaxed a bit when he realized that it was Steve who
was calling, rather than the Queen (whose “ray” was right next door).
“Alright, there, New-Bruce-too?” asked one of the Australians.
“No worries,” Harry replied. “Just a bit of business to attend to. So
are you lot really are heading towards Britain?”
“That’s the plan, New-Bruce-too,” replied Head-Bruce. “Her Majesty the
Queen asked the Prime Minister for some assistance…we hear are going to
be ‘Advisors,’ while you sort out your squabbles.”
“She asked your Muggle Prime Minister to send Magical Advisors?”
Bruce shrugged. “A bit more casual about secrecy issues Down Under.”
All of the Bruces nodded, and intoned, “Australia, Australia, Australia,
we love you, Amen!”
“Crack tubes!”
“But they’re already cracked, Bruce.”
“Oh, bugger, so they are. Drink up then, and Bruce…your shout, mate.”
“Is not…I bought the round before you…it’s Bruce’s shout.”
“I’ll buy,” Roger offered.
“Oh, no, New-Bruce, can’t have that…not allowed in the Rules.”
“What Rules?”
“Rule Six.”
“But Bruce, there is no rule six!”
Roger snorted. “Rule seven then?”
One of the Bruces automatically called back, “No Poofters!…Oh, blast!”
All of the other Aussie Aurors laughed, and pulled the Bruce who had
responded to his feet.
“Cultural sensitivity training,” Head-Bruce explained, as the respondent
headed towards the bar. “Not allowed to call the natives and homosexuals
like we used to.”
“So how is that training?” Roger asked.
“Well, it’s positive reinforcement, you see,” Head-Bruce replied. “Every
time one of the boys calls a homosexual a ‘hoofter-with-a-p’, he has to
buy the next round.”
Roger laughed. “Wouldn’t that be negative reinforcement?”
New-Bruce shook his head. “Nothing negative about getting a beer out of
it, is there?”
Harry smiled and added, “Sounds like a good excuse to drink.”
“Now, New-Bruce-too…are you implying that we need a good excuse to drink?”
Harry snorted. “No, never…especially since it’s…what time is it back in
Australia right now?”
Head-Bruce shrugged and smiled. “It’s always tinny time, mate.”
Something then caught his eye and he looked passed Roger’s shoulder.
“Aw, Cris’sake…there goes the bloody neighborhood.”
Harry turned his head, and spied six bare-chested warrior-sorcerers
enter the bar.
“You got a problem with Maori, Bruce?”
“No, no…just a bit of friendly rivalry with our Kiwi colleagues.”
“Hey Bruce,” one of the others called out. “Isn’t it time for something
completely different?”
“Why so it is,” Head-Bruce stated.
“So what’s something completely different?” Roger asked with a grin of
anticipation.
“A man with a tape recorder up his nose,” replied Head-Bruce.
The Aussie proceeded to tilt his head to one side and stick an index
finger up his left nostril. Whatever magic that was hidden within his
nose started to broadcast a recording of a brass band playing the
Australian national anthem, and all of the Bruces began to sing
along…with gusto and raised tins.
But as Harry didn’t know the words to “Waltzing Matilda”, he used this
distraction to pop back to London.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.