Random bollocks.....

Ah yes, sometimes the hobby is just like the picture left....think you have a right hornbag session, then out comes the surprise!

After all, who has not been left in a state of morbidity, and despair when one's chosen photographic filth session has not emerged on time, as ordered?

Or that evil little cloud has drifted over, where at once your carefully chosen vantage point has as much appeal of a meat and two veg package, at a rather disreputable backpackers in SE Asia?

Tough times, people, tough times.....

And sometimes, well it is just hard to cope.

So, as we create a wellspring of gunzel awareness and their special needs, let us hope that the general populace understands the odd meltdown, at the end of station platforms.

And contributes accordingly of course.

A few rounds at the local pub allways works wonders.

Thankyou.

Another day, another waste....

Yes, the joys of the railway lifestyle.
Its now Thursday, and after some rather long and obnoixious shifts, one is pushing about 7 hours sleep since Monday morning.
Is this normal? It is good? If not for the wonderfully soothing effects of strong alochol then one would not even be able to type this....
No no no....
In the early hours of this morning, I informed one of those security guards at a certain Sydney port what I thought of his ethnic background and suspicions thereoff.
How dare these sub colonials come here, and carry on like they own the place,and then, myself, an Australian,standing accused for being in breach of anti- terror regulations by walking out the wrong gate, and then report me thereoff.
Go back to your mad mulluh land you heathen scum.
At the early hours of the morning, after endless delays, one is not in the most forgiving of moods you could say.
Especially, after being stooged by the original dodgy brothers, with their clapped out 44s and 47s for around 3 hours.
Later triple NOHABS were purveyed, looking all the world like big, silver, battery powered items that frustrated women carry in their handbags.
Anyway, since I'm going to back to Indonesia shortly for a gunzel filth session, one better tame the rhetoric slightly.
Happens on those big jobs.....

Brewongle station NSW....

Ah yes..now who can remember when every town and village had a proper railway station?

Once, life used to revolve around such places.

As time went on, and people were able to get their grubby little paws on filthy automobiles, the use and need of such places vanished into the mists of time.

So, we scuttle about in the rat race of life, in our cars, and bring about the total destruction of all we know through global warming, because of the use of such infernal machines.

At the same time many magnificent old buildings continued rotting in the countryside in remote locations.

Of course rotten, mongrel, scheming beaurocrats see no need for such remnants, like oil is never going to run out for our four wheeled, road rage inducing monsters, and so these survivors of a more relaxed and slower pace age, are ruthlessly ground into the dirt from whence they came.

Brewongle was a lovely old station located not far from the east of Bathurst, on the main double track to Sydney.

And naturally is totally flattened.

Nights were spent camping out in the old waiting room, while gunzelling about in the day, and quietly dribbling in the evening over passing trains.

So for your excitement and stimulation, here is a photo, lah, as seen above.

Today, nothing remains...nothing, you got that?????

You pox ridden office johnies, with no sense of history, you.......