BACK in the day, Dudley's local service station proprietor decided his business needed a boost, so he offered free sex for everyone who bought fifty dollars worth of petrol.

The catch was that when you went in to pay the bill, you had to first guess a lucky number between one and 10. If you got the correct number you won the prize of free sex.

Clyde was in town visiting Dudley, so he thought he'd give it a go.

"Six," he said as he paid his $50.

"Sorry mate," said the proprietor, "four was the lucky number."

Clyde went off to Sydney and when he came back to town, needed another tank full of petrol, so thought he'd try his luck again.

This time he guessed nine.

"Sorry mate," said the proprietor, "one off. Eight was the lucky number this week."

That night Clyde was having a beer with Dudley at the pub.

"I reckon that contest about getting free sex down at the service station is rigged, Dudley," said Clyde. "Just a cheap stunt to suck in the punters to buy his petrol."

"Dunno about that Clyde old mate," said Dudley laconically. "Young Georgina won twice last week."

THEY don't seem to offer incentives like that at service stations any more, do they?

Instead of free sex, the big players try to tempt you with silly things like loyalty cards, or 4c off a litre of petrol if you spend $50 in their lolly shop.

THE rot set in when the big supermarket chains started to take control of our petrol stations.

Back in 1970 Australia had about 20,000 service stations, many of which would have been family run businesses.

Now the number is down to around 6000 and falling, as big profit driven corporations move in to monopolise business in our towns and villages.

These multi-national money-making factories are now just a bunch of self-serve pumps with some poor blighter paid to collect the cash in a creepy cramped caged corner of a shop full of lollies, cigarettes, chocolates, ice-cream, junk food, tacky magazines, cheap toys and crappy caps.

Strong on sugar, salt and sunglasses, but lacking in substance.

Moss Vale's only service station doesn't even have a toilet as a courtesy for travellers.

Maybe these modern fuel sellers should be changing the name back to Golden Fleece rather than calling themselves service stations.

NOT so long ago we pulled in for petrol in country Victoria, where small towns still seem to be thriving and not a big supermarket giant was in sight.

A lady in the car beside us popped her bonnet to check the oil.

Quick as a flash, a young mechanic appeared with a rag hanging out of his back pocket and did the job for her.

At the same time he asked us, "how much do you want, sir?" as he undid our petrol cap.

"Fill 'er up thanks mate," I said instinctively, even though I hadn't uttered those words since bygone days when a garage attendant would always check the oil, tyres and water, then clean your windscreen while filling up your petrol tank.

AND speaking of petrol, I should tell you about Georgina and her dog.

This was not the stunning 19-year-old Georgina, who won the service station promotion of free sex with the young mechanic twice in one week, but an innocent Georgina when she was in cute pigtails at primary school.

"Mum, can I take the dog for a walk around the block?" asked Georgina.

"No you'd better not, she's on heat."

"What's that mean, mum?" asked Georgina inquisitively.

"Go ask your father. I think he's in the shed."

So Georgina wandered off to find Dudley.

"Dad, can I take Belle for a walk around the block? I asked Mum, but she said the dog was on heat and to come and see you.

"Dudley grabbed an old rag and soaked it with some petrol, then rubbed it all over the dog's back end to disguise the scent.

"OK, you can go now, but keep Belle on the leash and only go one time round the block." Georgina left and returned only a few minutes later with no dog on the leash. "Where's Belle?" asked Dudley.

"She ran out of petrol about halfway down the block, but don't worry Dad, another dog is pushing her home."