There aren’t too many people as brave as JT Python, whoever he is.

I get onto this website chat room thing where various people with varying levels of intelligence talk about fishing. Mainly about fishing. Sometimes they talk about cars, Julia Gillard, Bob Brown or whatever else happens to have grabbed their attention that second. Shiny things in the corner.

This particular time I put a message out saying I didn’t have a boat anymore, and was there anyone willing to take us out onto the reef.

Manboobs and I like to go out on to the reef. Skipper does too, but unless we have three weeks notice, he’s not ready in time. None of us can catch anything in the river, so we want to try somewhere else where our luck might be better. Anywhere else really. Could it be worse?

Now there are some low things that I will do without worrying too much; I’m that sort of low-life b#$*%d. But going out in a bloke’s boat without giving him all the facts about who I am and what group I belong to isn’t one of them. Not even I would stoop to something so low. So I decided that if someone was generous enough to take us out in their boat, it was only fair that they knew the full truth. That is: that the people wanting to go out in their boat were fully paid up members of the Dudds, and anyone who let us onto their boat should assume full responsibility for subsequent issues relating to workplace health and safety on their craft. We certainly wouldn’t be.

So half a dozen boaties sent friendly replies saying they would be more than willing to have another two or three deckies on board. That is until I told them who we were. Then they suddenly developed plans for doing other things. One remembered he had to wash his hair; one was suddenly needed at work. I got suspicious when the next bloke was called in to be an altar server at church… But I really knew what was going on when number five said he had to go to a LNP meeting. I mean, how gullible do they think I am?

Anyway, just when I was about to lose hope, JT Python sends me a cheerio. Not a cheerio like a little red sausage; that would be weird. No, I mean a message. So I messaged him back. “Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But do you know who I am?”

“Are you the bloke that writes in the QFM?” he asks me.

I could’ve tried to bluff him, but I couldn’t go through with it. Fair’s fair. “That’d be me,” I replied. “You know who we are do you? The Dudds?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know who you are. Manboobs, Stuffer, Skipper, Pommers, Doughers. The Dudds right?”

I knew the game was up. No one in their right mind would be willing to take not one, but maybe two or three Dudds out in their pride and joy. It was obvious he was setting me up for a fall. Plan a trip and then at the last moment come up with a completely unbelievable excuse, like piloting a space shuttle or taking his wife out to a restaurant.

I wasn’t in the mood for games though. “Yeah, that’s us. You reckon you can take us out in your boat after some reddies?”

“Mate, anytime.” JT said. You get up here, I’ll take you out no worries.”

I waited. Where was the excuse? Did this crazy fool know what he was dealing with? What risks he assumed by merely having ONE Dudd on board, let alone three. “You sure you know who we are?”

“Yeah mate. Can’t wait.”

Something didn’t add up. “Can you actually read,” I asked him.

“Oh yeah,” JT Python replied. “It’s all good. I’m ready to head out anytime you get up here mate, providing the weather’s alright. Looking forward to it. You blokes will love it up here at Yeppoon.”

And that’s where we’re at. We’re heading up in just a few days. I’m almost expecting some lame excuse to come floating through the website, but so far it’s all systems go.

So that’s why I reckon he’s a brave man, this JT Python. Whoever he is.