Gutser live @ Le Murdoch, Sherbrooke

April 28th 2023

Gay lads that pay for sex These two are prepped for more, though, and Face Sitting Contest Music By ivvill Sex Siren Victoria June Gets Her Pussy Pummeled indian bangla couple enjoy her group sex bbw smoking compilation Sexy Hotkinkyjo fisting her loose prolapse ass on the bed Casey James Boobmix Horny student fucked by black teacher Me and my wife first time anal video Petite secretary has hard sex with the boss on the bed

I came a gutser off my new E Scooter omw to work today and still did my shift unable to use my arm, lucky my work wife brought in a wrist brace for me even tho it was by the end of the shift haha

Oh and the worst part is we have a big inspection tomorrow and day left the place a mess for me to clean but haha sorry guys I was outta commission 💅 hopefully it’s just sprained and at least it’s not my dominant hand

AND I was wearing my sick-ass helmet😎 hold onto ur mums

A number of industrial companies owned by Russian billionaire oligarchs Oleg Deripaska, Leonid Mikhelson, Sergey Gordeev, and Mikhail Gutseriev are involved in a scheme for providing financial incentives to contract soldiers willing to take part in the Ukraine war. Maria Zholobova and Anastasia Korotkova, investigative journalists working for the independent news outlet iStories, spoke with contract servicemen (called “volunteers” by the Russian authorities), as well as military recruiters, whose phone numbers link them to corporations like Deripaska’s Rusal, Mikhelson’s Novatek, and other industrial giants. Here’s the gist of their investigation, just released by iStories.

One of the contract servicemen who spoke to iStories was Igor Sergienko, a platoon commander in the Russian army’s Sokol (“Falcon”) battalion, where he is known by the nom-de-guerre “Shershen” (“Hornet”). Sergienko’s salary comes from two sources: 200,000 rubles a month (or just over $2,000) is paid to him by the Russian Defense Ministry, while another 100,000 comes from a sponsor he describes as a “company in the military-industrial complex.”

Neither Sergienko nor his recruiter, who also agreed to speak with the journalists, wanted to say more about the sponsor company’s identity. But the phone numbers given by the recruiter as contact information for prospective conscripts led the authors of the investigation to Rusal Management, a subsidiary of Oleg Deripaska’s Rusal. Another phone number provided by the recruiter for employment questions also belongs to Rusal Management. In the recruiter’s own words, Rusal’s military incentive scheme works like this:

We onboard a new employee the day before he signs a military contract, and next we suspend his contract with us, which leaves us legal grounds to pay him a stipend while he’s in the combat zone.

Sergienko’s employment record shows that in October 2022 he was hired by Ruslan, a private security company whose bank records reflect payments to mercenaries. According to iStories, Ruslan’s only clients in 2022 were two Deripaska-affiliated corporations.

The natural gas extraction company Novatek, whose majority owners are billionaire Leonid Mikhelson and Vladimir Putin’s longtime friend Gennady Timchenko, is also participating in a similar sponsorship scheme. One of the contract soldiers contacted by iStories shared his recruiter’s phone number with the investigators. The phone number, it turns out, is registered to Andrey Vasilyev, the CEO of Saturn-1, another private security firm, this time founded by Novatek. Although Saturn-1 isn’t formally a subsidiary of Novatek, almost all of its revenue in 2022 came from Mikhelson-owned ventures, including the Moscow-based contemporary arts center GES-2.

When contacted by iStories, the recruiter explained that payments to army “volunteers” are funneled through the Muzhestvo (“Valiance”) foundation, registered in September 2022. Nearly all of the foundation’s endowment (over 200 million rubles, or $2.2 million, based on the current conversion rate) were contributed by Novatek.

According to iStories, Sergey Gordeev’s PIK construction company and Mikhail Gutseriev’s Mospromstroy (another construction giant) are similarly involved in sponsoring and incentivizing contract soldiers.

Novatek, PIK, and Mospromstroy did not respond to the journalists’ queries. Rusal replied by denying any connection to military recruitment or any knowledge of other organizations’ use of its registered phone numbers. Although their owners have been personally sanctioned by Ukraine’s partner countries in the West, these corporations themselves are not currently under sanctions, the publication points out.

* jaemin - smut 🤍

masterlist.

your boyfriend has the face of an angle but don’t be fooled.. he was the devil sometimes, a lesson you shouldn’t forget.

he is a dirty minded, horny devil with a face of an angel.. and he enjoyed torturing you..

you were lounging on his couch, busy playing with your phone.. he comes strolling setting next to you.. his arm stretches behind you and he leans to see what was interesting you.. innocent right? wrong.

his other hand sneaks to your breast.. gently massaging it, here he goes again.. 

“no! your roommate is literally in the next room jaemin!” you huff slapping his hand away.. he only smirks amused by your reaction.. but stays silent, you know he’s not giving up easily.. 

your heart race.. your panties getting wetter as you feel his eyes glued on you.. anticipating his next move..

 he sighs and his hand reach straight to in between your legs rubbing you through your clothes, he has no shame..

you gasp, panicked .. your hand drops the phone and hold his forearm half heartedly trying to push his hand off.. “jae!! what your.. aah” airy moan escapes your mouth, his smirks grows, and he leans to kiss your blushing cheek ..

 sweet gutser coming from a devilish man.. 

“my roommate is literarily in the next room n\y..” he whispers into your ear.. your legs relaxed allowing him more access.. his hand dives under your clothes straight into your aroused folds.. he’s satisfied with the amount of wetness that was welcoming him..

your mouth falls open, eyes closing.. your legs willingly spreading asking him for more, his fingers pads circle your aching clit.. he’s enjoying the mess you are becoming.. your back arching off the couch and your head throwing back.. a beautiful sight..

your eyes open “jaemin.. god please..” your hazed eyes open and lock with his hungry ones.. he reacts to your pleads by slowly  pushing one finger inside of you, a loud moan betrays you but you counter it with bitting your lips..  he adds another digit in, the pleasure mixed with slight burn making you almost lose your mind..he can see you are having a hard time staying quite so his other hand that was forgotten behind you now comes you muffles your sinful sounds.. “shh” he taunts you..  

your hands clawing his arm in desperation, he speeds up the pace filling the room with wet noises.. “are you gonna cum for me sweetheart?” and knot snaps and your body shakes uncontrollably and you could swear you saw heaven, your hot walls squeeze deliciously around his digits.. his pace slowing and his other hand leave your mouth turning your head towards him aiming for your lips  “shit.. that was good” you pant into him, the kiss lingers longer., heat reigniting inside you again, your hand moves in between your legs over his hand that is still snuggly pushed into you.. and you roll you hips fucking yourself with his fingers.. 

a door opens making you jump repositioning yourselves.. marks walks in “hey guys.. im ordering pizza” .. you internally curse mark for interrupting your unholy activity..

Gutser playing at Le Magog in Sherbrooke 01/14/2017

One of the gutsers just came into the bar and said to her boyfriend/fiance that their youngest son just fell over outside

So he asked her if she picked him up and you know what she fucking said?

"No i didn't because he's with you"

What the actual fuck?!

I'm sorry but if your child fell over outside as you were on your way in, you'd pick him up because he's your fucking child

She wouldn't even buy her kids a drink because they're "with their father"

He Don’t Mean It- Chapter 3 (A Meihem/Zaryahog fanfiction)

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’M SORRY OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE.)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11563764/chapters/26447322

“Well. It seems now we are both in dog house.”

Zarya was, to both of their surprises, the first one to speak. Junkrat was too busy staring dumbfounded after Mei’s retreating figure, until even his keen night vision could no longer make her out and she was truly gone. A distressed little gurgling noise was the only sound he could seem to wrest from his throat, while the larger woman next to him wiped at some of the crusted blood below her nose before she sighed and folded her massive arms.

“I hate it when she is mad at me,” she said, sounding surprisingly resigned. “She can hold massive grudge for weeks.”

The verbal dam holding back the junker’s words finally seemed to break, and they came out as a torrent. “Ya think I don’t know it, russki?! Oh, this is bad. This is real bad. It’s over, ain’t it? I’ve come a gutser.” He dragged both hands down his swollen and battered face, black nails digging into his bruised cheeks. “It’s like you said, she can hold a grudge. But this is more’na grudge. She ain’t gonna forgive me, is she? This isn’t like those other times, like when I leave the toilet seat up or forget when the mission dates are or when I put that confetti bomb in her undies drawer. She’s mad as a cut snake! This is gonna be Goodnight Irene!”

“Er,” Zarya frowned at him unsurely, unable to really keep track of his rapid train of thought or his Australian slang. “…Yes?”

“I knew it! And not just her, they’re gonna come take away me best mate too! Gonna take him away, reprogram him in the head. Not gonna let ‘em! I knew we’d have to scarper even from this place, one of these days! Don’t worry, Roadie, I’m gonna get you outta here even if I gotta roll your big arse the whole way through.” He limped over towards one of the messy shelves, heavily favoring his right side with the ribs he still wasn’t sure were broken or not. They felt broken. It hurt to breathe, but there were more important things to worry about. Like pulling out a battered brown suitcase from under it and starting to shove seemingly random bits and pieces of metal and tools into it. “I knew goin’ legit was never going to work. What about Mei, though? Ya know what, w-we can grab her too. Swing by, grab her up. She’ll be mad at first, but she’ll understand! She’s real good at understandin’, eventually. It’ll be like old times. We’ll grab her and go, head out on our own again.”

Zarya rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers in clear exasperation. “Are you suggesting in front of me, that you are going to kidnap my friend after almost killing her already?”

Junkrat guffawed, pausing from shoving things into his get-away kit. “Well, when you say it like THAT it sounds a little harsh!” He thought for a moment, tapping at his pointed chin. “Okay…I’m startin’ to think that things might have gotten a bit away from me, here.”

“You could try saying sorry, if you even know the concept. That is what good people do. But then, you would not know, you are not good people. I do not know why she tolerates junkers like you,” she sneered down at him. “Talking of kidnapping her when you should be groveling for forgiveness?”

There was a low moan from Roadhog, who shuffled beneath the layers of chains around him. Junkrat tilted his head to the side, brightening slightly. He snapped his mechanical fingers, a spark popping between the metal digits. “Groveling! That’s an ace idea. Who can stay mad at a grovelin’ rat, right? That’ll melt her frozen heart for sure! Here, sounds like Roadie’s starting to wake up. Uh. Well, you already proved you won’t rat on us, even if that’s mostly because you’re a bit of a fuckhead. Anyhow, the chains should hold and you’re a brick shithouse, you stay here just in case he tries to get out again. You can take him, right? I’ll go after Mei!”

“No you don’t!”

She lunged, but the junker slipped right out of her grasp like a wriggling fish, somehow managing to vault up and out of her arms in a wiggle of limbs and a customary storm of cackling. She may have been able to best his frenzied bodyguard and there was no doubting her strength, but strength mattered little when trying to hold onto Junkrat and was like trying to wrestle with a greased-up weasel. Before she could try again, he was already out the door, laughing and flailing his way out into the night. With a low curse under her breath, she righted herself against the door frame and almost moved to follow him. But the rattle of chains behind her made her pause. Roadhog was trying to move again, thrumming a low baritone noise as his massive arms strained at his bindings. She tensed, sending one last glare after Junkrat before resolutely slamming her hand onto the door controls. They bolted shut with a mechanical whir and the clank of its locks, and she stared the enormous junker down from across the room.

The irritating rat man was right about one thing, at least. This Roadhog could not be allowed to get loose, and she was the only one able to stop him. At least until Mei would no doubt be bringing the cavalry to both handle the transgressions of the junkers, and for her to be chastised and punished for being foolish enough to ever get involved.

The beast in the pig mask was looking at her. The dark, blank lenses may have hidden his eyes and whatever else lay beneath, but she knew he was looking at her. She saw the faint movement of his fingers down by his sides, sinew and bone tightening and clenching into a fist that was no doubt locked around her neck in whatever dark thoughts such a man must have harbored inside all that silence. She lifted her chin, merely stepping forward and staring down at him without fear, gaze narrowed.

“So, svin’ya. Now it is just you and me…”

***

Junkrat scampered across the dark base, the metal clatter of his peg leg obnoxiously loud as he made his way through the common areas and towards the dorms. He was more than relieved to see that Mercy’s clinic area remained dark. Maybe he still had time to change her mind before she woke everyone up and set the whole damn base against his best friend. He was less heartened to see that she really had been bleeding more severely than he’d thought, and a pang of uncharacteristic guilt rippled through him when he saw there were drips and splotches of red that marked her trail all the way down the halls towards her little room. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d come to check on her after all.

The sharp rap of metal against metal rattled her doors. There was no answer at first, and his next knock was a bit more frantic, leaning up against it to whisper a loud, rasping “Mei! Mei, you arroight in there?”

There was the very muffled sound of a beep within, and a moment later the door whooshed open in front of him. She had made an attempt to scrub away the blood from her head wound, though her pajama shirt was still sopped with dark liquid on one side, and she was holding a baggie of ice to her temple. She didn’t seem surprised to see him, but didn’t seem particularly happy about it either. When she spoke, her voice was still cold and dangerously formal. “…Mr. Fawkes.”

So he’d been relegated back to the icily polite use of his last name. Owch. At least with his newly mangled features, it wasn’t hard to disguise his wince. He managed a lopsided grin, waving both dirty hands. “Don’t worry! I ain’t here to kidnap you or anything nefarious!”

She squinted at him. “Where’s Zarya?”

“Left her back with Hog. Figured she could beat him up again if he tried to get out. Clever, eh? Are you, uh, you feeling all right?” He took a quick puff of breath, tentatively reaching out towards her ice bag. “Lemme see it? Maybe I could help w-”

She moved back from his grasp. “No. No, I’m not feeling all right. I’m still mad at you. And someone I thought was my friend tried to kill me.”

“Could ya…not be mad at me? Actually, okay. You can be mad at me, but not at Roadie, that ain’t his fault!”

“And someone else decided that he this was a situation where nobody needed to interfere, and he almost died too,” she said, staring him down.

“I arready said I was sorry!”

“No you did not, Jamison Fawkes! You never say you’re sorry. And I’ve gotten used to that. But even a sorry isn’t going to fix this. This…I can’t just ignore this.” Her voice went to a sudden high pitched almost-snarl, before quickly shushing herself and looking down the hall to make sure they weren’t overheard. She lifted a hand to her face wearily, looking torn. “I’m going to change into some fresh clothes, and then I’m going to see Dr. Ziegler. She’ll know what to do.”

Junkrat’s eyes widened. He reached out again, and again she pulled away. “Ya can’t! Ya can’t do this to us, darl. This was all…This was all just an accident. Bad things happened to Hog. I dunno what, but they were bad and sometimes they get to him and for a while he ain’t himself. But that ain’t his fault. It ain’t never his fault. I don’t get mad at him for it, just like I don’t get mad at you for what happened to you. Just because Hog gets mad and punches at things, and you stare off into the nothing and cry, that ain’t your faults. I’ll help you both!”

She looked a little more pained, but he couldn’t tell if it was the head wound or frustration of their little spat. “Jamison, this isn’t helping. I know you think you’re helping, but you can’t do this. Mr. Roadhog doesn’t need to be chained and locked up, he needs help. Dr. Ziegler can-”

“Doc Angelface don’t understand. She’s not a junker. But Hog’s my best mate. The only one I got. And I’m not gonna let this place reprogram my only best mate’s brainmeats. Or mine. I know you don’t think much of that, but s’truth. Yeah, see, I know that little side-eye you give me sometimes. You think I don’t know the radiation’s cooked my nut, and my nuts?” He tapped the side of his scraggly head, then made a lewd gesture downward. “I know ya think we’re crazy! Fockin’ ‘ell, I know we are crazy!”

Mei was quiet for a long minute, gaze slipping down to the floor and the little smears of blood puddled beneath them. “I’ve…I’ve never said that…”

“But we ain’t something to be fixed. You can’t fix everything, love. I know you try, but you can’t.”

Anger and frustrating was starting to win out again, and he could see tears gathering in the corner of her eyes, even as they narrowed at him and her voice quavered. “I’m not saying you’re just some crazy person to be fixed. And neither is Mr. Roadhog. I don’t want you to think that that’s how I see you. Please, I just…I don’t want this to be happening. We can tell the doctor. It’s not reprogramming or fixing, and it might save both your lives, and maybe my life, and your teammates’ lives. It’s just helping! We just want to help you!”

He was about to snap back some retort when she pulled the ice pack away from her head. Blood matted her hair, and he could see the deep bruises and gashes in her head where Hog’s spiked and armored fist had thrown her across the room like she was nothing. His reply died away and he reached out to her again, this time to touch his fingertips to the wound. She grimaced at even the lightest pressure, quickly replacing the numbing ice.

“We both need to see the doctor anyway,” she said softly. “I’m fairly sure I have a concussion and you…Jamison, look at yourself in the mirror. You’re hurt. You’re really hurt and he almost killed you in front of me. And I couldn’t stop him. Neither of us could stop him. If Zarya hadn’t arrived when she did, who knows what he was capable of? He could have woken up after accidentally killing us both.”

“Nah, wouldn’t have let him hurt ya! I mean, this time…he…” He glanced to the bloody ice bag, trailing off before trying again. “Hey, we both been through worse, yeah? And you. Maybe you can help me. And I guess that purple-haired bint since she knows too. She can be our muscle, fightin’ the other muscle. We had a little accident here, but-”

“Jamison, your face is broken in several places and you’re missing at least one tooth!”

He waved both arms in the air. “-An accident here or there! But what’s a tooth or two between mates? We can prepare better next time. More chains, more traps, mebbe pilfer some more of Ana’s darts…That’s a good idea, ain’t it Mei? Me and you, we’re helping him together. That way I don’t have to do anything ridiculous, like choose between ya!”

Her brows furrowed. “W-we can’t do that, Jamie. I’m trying to tell you, we can’t do that. I know what you’re trying to say, but we have to do the right thing and get help. And why would…” She seemed a little choked up suddenly, but Junkrat attributed it to her head wound. Head wounds were strange, maybe it was giving her a snotty nose. “Why would you think I’m asking you to choose between us? Are you…already choosing between us?”

Alarms were starting to go off between his ears, and he thought back to Zarya’s words. Grovel like a good person. Maybe groveling would work. So he dropped down to one knee as gallantly as possibly, though he wobbled slightly on the squeaky-jointed upright peg and held one arm aloft to her, babbling aloud, “No! No, see, I don’t wanna have to choose between my best girl and my best mate! That’s a hell of a place to be, isn’t it? So we’re not gonna do that, are we? Did I say I’m sorry yet? You said I never say I’m sorry? I’m sorry, Mei. I’m real sorry about what happened, and I won’t let it happen again. He don’t mean it. I’ll take the blame. That’s good, right? Come on, darl, I’m sorrying my arse off here, what can I do to make it better?”

His attempts at an apology seemed to be having the opposite effect. She lifted her other hand to her head almost to clutch it in seeming chagrin as she looked down at him. “Wǒ bùnéng zhèyàng zuò…I can’t…I have to do this. I have to do things the right way, even if Mr. Roadhog hates me for it, even if you….”

“No…Darl, no, it’s gonna be okay. You said you wanted to help? You can still help!” He pressed his metallic hand to his chest, still wobbling a bit on his bent peg. “I’m sorry and that’s good, right? You and me, we can figure out anything. We’ll think of something together, yeah?”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to make you understand and…I can’t…”

“No! No, you can! We can!” He was staring to sound a little more desperate than he would have liked. This was not working as well as he’d hoped. Maybe he wasn’t groveling in the right way. Maybe he needed to get on both knees, and beg her like he’d begged for his life so many times before. “Roadie’s gonna be back to his old self by the time we get back. I’ll make some tea, we can talk it over like real civilized legit folks do, yeah? We don’t need to bring the damn monkey or his bureaucrats into things. Look, I know your head hurts real bad right now but it’ll all look brighter in the morning. I’ll take care of you. Swear it, I’ll do anything for you.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Why wouldn’t she look at him? And why did that hurt even more than his bruised jaw and broken ribs? She kept staring at the floor, at that one little puddle of brownish-red. “Jamie, please…”

“I was just talking. Earlier, when I said that rot about choosing between you and Hog. It was nothing! You know me, I just say things, I got a gob on me a mile wide. Verbal diarrhea! Sorry, sorry, I know you don’t like the word diarrhea. I’ll be more careful with things, love, promise you. No. No, please don’t cry. Is it your head hurtin’? I got painkillers and Roadie’s hogdrogen huffers back at the garage. No? You worried about Russki? She’s fine. Hell, I’m more worried about Hog in that case. Er. Is it because I’m all beaten about? It don’t hurt much, I’ll be healthy as a brumby in no time at all.” He scratched at his tufted hair, mind racing. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Between you and me, we always figure it out. We go together, you and me…b-because we…”

She meant too much to him. He was certain it must have been love, or at least what he could understand of it from the songs on the radio and how reverently it was spoken of in the theater. It was something that didn’t exist back in the wasteland he’d clawed his way out of, but he knew that if it was what he thought it was, it would be her. Everything about her made his heart scream at the thought of losing her. He needed to tell her that this couldn’t end things between them, what he would do to keep her. How badly he wanted and needed her by his side for whatever time they both had left, how much he loved her smile and her little laughs and even her angry pouty faces, all the times he’d spent going over every moment of them getting to know one another, trying not to forget a single thing, how he could lay in bed next to her and revel in the soft touches of her body until he died. How he couldn’t even envision life never being able to make love to her again, or go back to a life without her.

The words he wanted to say turned backwards and ran into one another and jumbled up on his tongue, bubbling and spewing out of his mouth like crude oil out of a broken pipeline before he could do anything to stop them. “B-because I can’t imagine not being able to fuck you!”

Time seemed to screech to an abrupt halt. Mei’s jaw dropped open as she finally looked at him. She seemed stunned, expression blanking as the two of them stared at one another. In his head, Junkrat could hear the pieces dropping all around him, little metallic noises as everything fell apart. It all broke at once, pieces of words and feelings laying shattered all around him, rolling about his feet and falling into the holes in his brain. He stared back at her, his eyes drifting apart slightly, before he could rally enough to try and make sense of the hopeless mess inside his head. “Wait! That’s not what I m-”

With shock still written all over her features, she slammed the door in his face.

A GUIDE TO AUSTRALIAN SLANG/TERMINOLOGY: 

Since I am seeing more and more Australian muses, I figured that since I am from Australia myself, could help out with some common terms/phrases that your muse might use/be interested in !!!!

Having a yarn: Having a conversation/chat  Bloody: Can be used as an expression. E.g: Bloody hell. Or in place of the word very E.g: He’s been in there for a bloody long time.  Spinning the yarn: Talking complete shit and/or telling a very long, drawn out story. Blotto: Black out drunk/heavily intoxicated Mate: More often or not, this is used in an intimidating way or as a threat. E.g: Mate, you better back off. However, can be used to refer to a friend. E.g: Yeah, Brucie is my mate. Throw a shrimp on the barbie: No one ever says this. Never say this. We don’t even say shrimp, we say prawn.  Come a gutser: a bad mistake or have an accident Chuck a sickie: Calling into work sick when you are in fact, not sick.  Bogan: The less classy population of Australia. Often to be described as wearing football (footy) shorts, holding a stubby with a can of VB (img attached). Is more colloquial with their language, draws out the ‘a’ vowel in everything and generally is a mess.  Maccas: Abbreviation for McDonalds.  Drongo: A derogatory term often used in the place of the word idiot.  Yeah nah: Means no.  Nah yeah: Means yes.  Smoko: Morning tea. Arvo: The afternoon. E.g: See you this arvo.  Fair suck of the sav! : exclamation of wonder, awe, disbelief. Give it a burl: try it, have a go. Iffy:  to be unsure Kick the bucket: Referring to someone/something dying/not working E.g: Yeah, i think that computer has kicked the bucket. Rooted: ruined, broken.  Cut snake: Angry, extremely aggravated. E.g.: He was as bloody mad as a cut snake!  Piece of piss: Something that is extremely easy.  Too right: definitely. 

This man prefers you don't know his name. But he let our photojournalist into his world

Updated September 16, 2018 09:28:47 Map: Melbourne 3000

Photo: The old orchardist, who prefers to remain in obscurity, polishes one of the little apples he's spent more than 30 years quietly developing. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) In a world gripped by 'go big or get out', he had a bold idea. Go small. In patched jacket and faded beanie, the man treads across the paddock. His face, inscrutable. His diminutive frame tinier still against the towering messmates, the peppermints. A black and tan kelpie trots ahead like a sentry, ears erect, tail high. The morning ritual. An old orchardist's early-rising habits die hard. Between his fingertips, you know without looking there'll be the stub of a cigarette, hand rolled. The old butts accumulate in the pocket of his overalls. He is not quite a recluse you can sometimes chance upon him at the local shopping centre. Or you might spy him walking the dog on a deserted oval. But he is beyond private.

Photo: Home is 17 slender acres in Victoria's Yarra Valley. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Never has there been a more reluctant hero of his own story. Such is his aversion to the spotlight, his desire to avoid any kind of publicity, that between agreeing to tolerate my presence and this story nearing publication, he will insist his identity be withheld. You will never know his name. You will hardly get a good look at his face. This is a man hiding in plain sight, even from the photographer. That I am here at all is a miracle of spousal influence, though his wife also doesn't want to be known. Whenever I visit she performs a vanishing act of her own, staying inside or tripping off to the swimming pool in town. God's country 'Here' is 17 slender acres tucked into the folds of Victoria's Yarra Valley. On this undulating strip of land, man and wife neither from farming backgrounds made a life as orchardists. It was here they unearthed what became, for him at least, an obsession: reinventing the apple, in miniature. The little apples, as he calls them, the term of endearment embedded. "If you take on a project like this, you have to become besotted," he tells me. "If you half-heartedly go into it, it'll never succeed. So while you can, and while you're younger, you chase." To observe him here is to be struck by the sense of a tiny god in his own beappled Garden of Eden, tending to creation. It's exactly the kind of grandiose impression he doesn't want conveyed. He rejects anything that starts to sound like a romanticised account of his life's work. But it's undeniable. One big producer aware of the little apple describes it as a 'magnificent' achievement. Creating a new variety of fruit is a kind of holy grail for growers who are always looking for a unique product.

Photo: "If you half-heartedly go into it, it'll never succeed. So while you can, and while you're younger, you chase." (ABC News: Jane Cowan) 'A certain charm' In the corrugated iron shed, the old orchardist leans on the counter, polishing a tiny apple with a swatch of toilet paper. Packing instructions lean against the wall. A motorised pushbike is propped where the window light meets the shadow. It's aimed sometimes at the apple trees, full pelt, to scare off the parrots. A conventional apple weighs 160, 170 grams, he's telling me. There's already a smaller variety on the market. But the old grower isn't perturbed. His is tinier still. At 44, 45 grams, it's a quarter the size of an ordinary apple. He imagines it plated, whole, at a fine dining restaurant. On a cheese platter, perhaps. His wife sees it as a snack apple in school lunch boxes. The orchardist doesn't like the term 'miniature' or 'mini'. Forget 'tiny'. Same goes for 'dwarf'. 'Baby' is unacceptable. ("Nobody eats babies.") 'Fairy' he particularly hates. "No, see, they've all got connotations," he says. For him, the word has always been 'little'. "It's got a certain charm to it, right? One of the little people. "But there's nothing wrong with being little," he adds, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm five foot two in my boots."

Photo: The orchardist's overalled legs and boots protrude from an apple tree during picking. As commercial fruit growers have scaled up, his small operation has become an anachronism. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Believing In the old man's book, people fall into two categories. You're either a believer or a non-believer. His wife is a believer, obviously. A partner, almost as steeped in the little apples as he is. Though the constant talk of little apples has become wearing, like a third presence in their marriage over the decades. "She's been putting up with this since the 80s. Quite frankly I think she's sick of hearing 'apples'. "If I mention the word 'apple' she's just as likely to throw a box at you. And I don't blame her." A nearby commercial grower has told the orchardist he's wasting his time. Non-believer. Fact is, the little apples have already been in some high places. Big hotels and upmarket restaurants in Sydney and Melbourne. A fruit shop in Toorak. Stephanie Alexander took the little apples to the Melbourne Cup one year. They graced wineries, function venues. They were bottled and sold into David Jones. Exported to Asia. The orchardist remembers one business meeting in the dining room of a swanky city high-rise, pianist tinkling in the corner. Coffee and biscuits delivered to the table. The head chef in his white gum boots. The little apple was earning respect.

Photo: The orchardist handles his produce the old-fashioned way. By hand, in wooden boxes. The little apples are a quarter the size of an ordinary apple. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Reinventing the apple It all began with a hail storm. Necessity. Invention. At the time the orchardist was in berries and cherries. Overnight, everything was shredded. If he was to salvage an income for the following year, he needed to plant something else, pronto. "What can we plant?" he asked a friend who'd grown up on an orchard. "Zucchinis or tomatoes," came the answer, these fast-cropping annuals long the saviour of farmers in a pinch. The orchardist's agent happened to have a spare 1,000 tomato plants. Cherry tomatoes. Into the ground they went. The following year they were harvested and taken to market. "They were brand new on the scene at the time and I could not grow enough of the things, could not pick enough to satisfy the market." The orchardist's customers included Trans Australia Airlines, for in-flight meals on international routes. The next year cherry tomatoes were everywhere. But the experience had set an idea germinating in the orchardist's head. "We tried to work out what we could grow that's different to ordinary, everyday. "I don't like competition. I never enjoyed going to market, I could not deal satisfactorily with buyers on price, I hated haggling. I would set a price and if I didn't get it, half the time I'd bring the fruit home. "I like to be a bit different. I was trying to get something in which there was no competition. "And so we conceived the idea of the little apple to the big apple, applying the same principle as had worked with tomatoes." Why not little oranges or little pears? "Little pears had already been done, strangely enough. They were very delicate and came in little weeny packets with little pull-on socks, individually wrapped." The snap of the lighter punctuates our conversation. "But there was no little apple I'd ever seen. Everybody ate apples, you know, they were a universal, widely accepted fruit. So that's what we really thought." From there on in, the trajectory goes something like this: "We had the idea. We searched nurseries for a little edible apple. None available. We read books on horticulture that thick," he pinches the air, indicating three inches "No mention of a little edible apple anywhere. "So we went and bought every crabapple tree variety you could find, and planted them. None were suitable to eat. So we had to start looking further afield." Which meant roadside verges, football grounds, people's backyards. "Anywhere there was an apple tree, we would grind to a halt. Ha. "It had to have apples in it, to see what size they were. And sometimes you'd come a gutser because they'd turn out to be conventional apples with no water and no fertiliser and no thinning so they'd just grown pretty small." But his best friend knew where there was one. The location of that original little apple tree, the orchardist will take to his grave. Suffice to say, he got his hands on a sample. He learned to bud and graft. He learned about root stocks and scions. And he learned how to wait. Apple trees take four years to bear fruit. "I can remember the trees. They were neglected because we just left 'em to grow because we were concentrating on earning a living off berries and cherries. Once we realised the fruit was at all saleable we'd have to pull them out of a big patch of grass and stuff."

Photo: The orchardist wrangles nets in preparation for covering the trees to protect against birds. Hail is another threat. (ABC News: Jane Cowan)

Photo: At 75, the physical labour involved in maintaining the trees has become harder to manage. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) From royalty cheques to fear of theft Though he doesn't eat fruit ("Never have, even as a child."), the orchardist knows the subtleties of the little apple by touch and sight. What it means when the leaves are curled. How a greasy skin indicates a little apple is ripe. To be sure by checking the colour of the seeds. Black, not brown. How to control the shape of a tree by choice of root stock. Even when big names began picking up the little apple, though, it wasn't earning the orchardist the handsome living you might imagine. Fruit growing never did. "We had one very good year. And it was on cherries. They were in short supply, and we had a crop. "The rest of the time, oh well, we got by. "Some years were so bad that my wife went to work in the general store, I went to work at other orchards." But the little apples were being well received, and six years after the orchardist first dreamt them up the fruit was in steady demand. A niche market had been created. The orchardist would leave home at two o'clock in the morning in a Morris Minor "loaded to the gills" and deliver his produce by hand in the city before driving back again and beginning work on the farm. Later, when it got too much, there was a partnership with a big grower, and regular royalty cheques from the little apples. But, after a decade, the big grower got out of apples altogether, re-entrusting the little ones to their creator. Inventor became guardian.

Photo: In his study the orchardist smokes and plots and worries. To this day he has trouble sleeping past 2am, the time he used to rise on market days. (ABC News: Jane Cowan)

Photo: True to his surveying background, the orchardist has long kept meticulous diaries recording the details of life on the farm. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Inventing something brings with it a certain amount of anxiety. "Part of the danger is theft of budwood," explains the orchardist. "If you let strangers onto your property, especially growers who know, they're not beyond snapping a scion off a bush and waving the flies away and it goes down inside their shirt and when they get home, it's bloody well grafted and it's gone." This fear is the reason for the string across the driveway, the draped coat whenever apple boxes are left in view in the back of the ute. "Because once it's out, you've lost your exclusivity. "At the moment you've got the exclusivity of the one I found and hopefully the parent tree I got it from has now carked it or disappeared off the face of the earth, so it's nowhere else but here." Even the neighbours don't know about the little apples, the orchardist says.

Photo: With scrapes from apple tree branches on his hand, the orchardist puffs on an ever-present cigarette as he loads his ute after picking. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Buyer wanted Growers never talk about selling fruit. They talk about getting rid of it. These days the old man's life is consumed with getting rid of the little apple. Having closely guarded it for close to 40 years, he's now grappling with how to find a buyer, an heir to carry on what he started. It's autumn and the little apples are blushing on the trees, carpeting the ground. The orchardist boots one off the path, curses the birds.

Photo: The property has several dams, one spring-fed, which have provided irrigation for the fruit trees over the years. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) His face is a contour map of wrinkles that seems to collapse upon itself when he's tired or worried, which he has been a lot lately. For he is a man contemplating his own demise. "It's a journey and the journey's coming to an end. I'm 75. I'm bloody lucky to get this far I'll tell you now." In a globalised world, he doesn't use computers. Eschews technology. He's approaching potential buyers one by one. He has a list. He knows growers. But growing is not the same proposition it once was. "Growing has changed to the point where you had to get big. You could no longer survive single handed, working an orchard. "The margin per kilo is so small you've got to have a lot of kilos in order to make a living out of it, to cover your costs. And the only way you can do that is to plant an awful amount. More than what one man can handle. "You've had to get to the point where you employ permanent labour or have large capital resources behind you. For cool rooms, forklift trucks. Everything was done by hand in the old days, into little wooden boxes you used to carry in and out of cool rooms. These days it's bulk handling, controlled atmosphere rooms they suck the oxygen out of. Enormous changes."

Photo: An apple fit for haute cuisine. In the packing shed the orchardist cuts open some of his crop to assess ripeness. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) He imagines the perfect buyer to be a fresher version of himself. "If I could meet somebody 40 years younger than I am, full of enthusiasm to take it up, I'd almost give 'em a kiss." He thought someone with a roadside stall in a tourist area might be interested. They could sell direct to the public while supplying high-end restaurants. But he approached one and couldn't get the time of day. "I think the old days when people were more inclined to have a go are less around than they used to be." Once upon a time governments were involved in breeding programs. Now, as far as the old orchardist can see, it's all private partnerships. "I know of nobody in the research area in government that I could go to, and show them. I've written to people, I've sent little apples to people. I've got replies from them saying, 'It's a terrific idea, contact so and so' which I've already done, with no result." A legacy, without anyone to bequeath it to. "I'm still looking for a buyer. Because I don't know anybody to give it to, that's worthy of giving it to. And the trouble is, if I give it away, people won't value it and it's just as likely to get chopped down and lost. "I had hoped to sell it and make some money. At my stage now, that's not so important. My more important thing is that all those labours are not lost." Journey's end Whatever happens, by year's end he'll be ploughing the trees in or cutting them down, pushing them into a heap and setting the whole lot ablaze. He's decided he can't maintain the orchard beyond this season. The yearly netting brings on bouts of wheezing and the need to lean against a fence post. He requires help to do the spraying and the friendly nearby farmer, who's been doing it along with his own, is getting out of apples. It's crystallised a deadline in the old orchardist's mind. If he sells the little apple, then too the trees on his property will be burnt, to guarantee the new owner exclusivity. One way or another it all ends in burning. His life's work, up in smoke. "Don't feel sad about it because I'm not, okay? "That won't hurt, nup. Won't worry me at all. Because that's a closure, that's the end. Yep and then there's other things. There's the kids, the dog. Yeah, plenty of other things. In some ways it'll be a relief." I can't tell if he really means it. He's told me his life shouldn't serve as an inspiration to anyone, to other innovators. The way he tells it, throwing in his career as a surveyor to venture into fruit growing in the first place was not his smartest hour. But he's also said he'd make the same choices again in the same circumstances. That it's been a way of life, far better spent outdoors than behind a desk, shuffling a stack of papers.

Photo: In the overalls he wears like a uniform, the orchardist inspects his beloved little apple trees. To innovate is easy, he reckons. To have enough capital behind you to turn a unique product into a commercial success is another thing entirely. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Don't give up your day job cannot be the epitaph to this story. He invented an apple, dammit. Like God himself. When I ask what crosses the old man's mind when it's just him and the apple trees, what the land means to him, he emits a rasp of a laugh. "Ah, well, of course it's been everything for 40-odd years. You can't walk out the door without saying, 'Oh, I remember that.' "I guess you do get attached to land, although nothing's permanent. The land is, probably. You'd hate to leave it. "The little apple is not successful insofar as nobody's doing it and we've had trouble trying to sell it. That no longer troubles me at all. I'm quite happy now, just the fact that I've done it, that's enough. "I don't measure things in financial success as you might gather, by the age of the cars and the age of the tractors and everything else." Demise of the small family farm When the old orchardist drives up and down the dips and around the whorls in his road he sees the landscape that's there, but also the one that used to be. "When we started here in 1978 I think there were probably the best part of 20 small growers in the area." Apples, mostly. Cherries. Lemons. The bloke next door cultivated roses. The berry grower across the road would be 90-something now, if he was still alive. None of the children became involved in the farms, though, and the places were sold. Given over to paddocks with long grass and horses. Lifestyle properties. "You know we tend to sling off at them but you shouldn't really because they're what's holding the whole place together. They cost an awful lot of money nowadays, so much money that you simply could not afford to buy the land to farm, to plant an orchard, if you wanted to. Just too expensive to buy. And so there's a lot of people who just enjoy the bush and the scenery." A way of life, faded into history. "Luckily I'm not doing it for a living anymore because what I'd miss is the bloke over the road to go ask him, 'How do I fix this problem?' Or the bloke down there who knows more than I do. Those days are gone where you are meeting fellow growers. "Those people just gave you information, never held anything back. They'd give you plants, advice, everything. It was terrific, you know. No jealousy or 'here comes a competitor', nup. "I've got one left up on the corner who I can talk to, and we can commiserate together about the weather." As children, the orchardist's three sons would help with the picking, a play in the rowboat on the dam the reward for making it to the end of the row. Now they have other lives, in other places. "Not interested, full stop. None of them are growers in any shape or form. One of them might keep a little veggie garden but none of them are interested one iota. I'm glad because it's too hard." It's shades of his own father, a bricklayer who would not teach his son to lay bricks. "Dad used to come home of a night-time, sit in a chair and fall asleep, absolutely buggered. He was determined that I wasn't going to fall into the manual, hard physical labour like he did."

Photo: A hard-working life held in his shoulders, the orchardist pauses at the kitchen bench while boiling water for coffee, which he drinks black. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Postscript It's winter before the orchardist gets in touch with the news. He's sold the little apple! Though keeping the details characteristically quiet. Finally, our story ends, he writes. With the sale of the business and the removal of the trees with the land back to pasture, we may now have the peace we seek. Crosswords for him. For his wife, watercolours. There will be life after apples. For on the seventh day, He rested. Topics:fruit,agricultural-crops,rural,fruits,lifestyle-and-leisure,gardening,science-and-technology,horticulture,edible-plants,fruit-crops,fruit-trees,agribusiness,community-and-society,inventions,melbourne-3000,vic First posted September 14, 2018 14:25:26 http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-09-14/orchardist-invents-little-apples/9369960