Fight to the Death

Somehow… how’s not important right now, in fact it’s much better if we just forget you asked, ‘kay?… in the last thread,  we got around to how much fun it would be to watch Lizard Man and Catty’s mum go head-to-head in a croc infected swamp. Or, alternatively, for him to battle the biotoxins to be found at her dinner table.  Which got me thinking: who would I like to see slug it out, death before dishonour style, and in what arena?

I reckon Jennifer Aniston versus Angelina Jolie, in a blow-up pool full of passionfruit jelly, would be entertaining. Hell, you could charge top dollar for tickets. Elin and Sandra, fighting as “The Wronged Wives”, versus “The Scarlet Women” (Bombshell and any of a dozen cocktail waitresses) in a Mexican wrestling format –  cheesy lycra superhero outfits in a seedy ring. A genuine unemployed person –  facing an uphill battle to find work, hindered by social and educational disadvantage and the economic downturn –  versus Tony Abbott, bare knuckled in a cage in a busy Centrelink office. Obviously, Speedos would be de rigeur for that one.

Let’s stop short before any blood gets spilled. I’m just in it for the sledging. What match-up would have you slavering ringside?


130 Responses

  1. Pell and Jennings. It would be a fight to the death over who is the best dead person to pray to. Jesus or his mother! Weapons? Sharp biblical quotes in a tit for tat, the one with the silliest hat going first! Any contestant who laughs forfeits.

  2. Fatty Vaughton and Matthew Johns.

    The venue hasn’t changed, has it?
    Crocodile infested swamp in the wilds of PNG?

    I don’t need to watch.
    Just dump them there a carton of beer and their trainers and then tell Lobes its his mission to go in and rescue them.

    Now that’s what I call a Win/Win/Win situation.

  3. Deliverance meets Crocodile Dundee. It’s got cinematic potential… no, perhaps a Foxtel pay-per-view spectacular.

    They could merchandise, too. A talking croc figurine to sit up on the telly and provide commentary, stubbie coolers, of course… Quokka, I really think you’re on to something!

  4. Well, yes.
    Deliverance from television football shows, once their hosts end up at the bottom of the great, green, greasy, slimy Limpopo River.

  5. Footy show hosts are the cane toads of telecommunications. No scandal is sufficiently appalling, no idiocy too inane to get them booted out.

    If you catch one, folks, don’t bother spraying ’em with Dettol. Pop them straight into the chest freezer. They just curl up and drift off to the great big clubhouse in the sky.

    It’s the kindest way… for all of us.

  6. And yet, far less satisfying than sending them flying over the back fence with the aid of a 9 iron.

  7. I’m pretty sure a rain of footy show hosts was one of the plagues that a wrathful God visited on the Pharoah.

    Speaking of the Old Testament, how’s the assignment going?

  8. Getting there, bit by awful bit.

  9. Not long to go now… hang in there!

  10. Whatever “hang in there” means.

    My intention was to be up-beat and encouraging.

  11. You could freeze Sam Newman. But thaw him out, and he will groggily hop away.

    How about a death match between Jamie Durie and Don Burke? I’m sure they could transform the jungle into a divine outdoor setting with comfy pergola, water feature, and low maintenance perennials – right before Don extracts poison from some exotic plant (to dip his darts into), and Jamie whacks Don over the head with a lump of fourbytwo.

    The upside of this is that we can use the battle as a warning for Scott Camm, Shelley Croft and all those other Backyard Makeover monsters. “One more season, you bastards, and YOU’RE next!”.

    Actually, let’s toss them in anyway. I like my weeds. I DON’T like wall art made out of scraps of fabric and sponged-on gold leaf paint.

    Why stop at gardening makeover shows? The judges of Australia’s Got Talent would make interesting viewing (for once). The winner gets a statue as big as their unjustified egos. That’s a biiiiiiiiiiig statue.

    All the cast of every Big Brother that ever screened.

    Robin Williams and Dame Edna Everidge. I’d be sending some of Australia’s most toxic wildlife in with that pair. They are just NOT funny. Watching them battle to the death might be the only time they get me to laugh.

    It’s just occurred to me that this idea might help the biggest Kidlet with his homework. He has to give a talk on what one thing he would change to make the world a better place. He’s chosen war. He thinks the leaders of the battling countries should challenge each other to a basketball match, or a game of chess. That way nobody gets shot at, and countries like India and America that spend half their budget on guns/anthrax will now have money to feed their millions of starving homeless. I’m thinking, send the towel heads and the suits into the jungle to smack it out. Lizard Man could be moderator, Mother could be caterer.

    And just for fun, let’s send KRudd and Abbot in to sort out the winner of the next election.

    And all taxi drivers who can’t read a map or speak english.

    And playgroup committees.

    And whoever invented those voice activated telephone systems at the Tax Office. Or smart cards. Arguably the same person.

    This is just off the top of my head, of course. There are so many more who deserve to be crocodile food. Not our prisoners, though. Because once all the politicians are eaten, we’ll need people with better morals and ethics to replace them – prisoners will do nicely.

  12. Hehehe. I’ve been wondering where you were, Catty – off in a corner building up a nice head of rant, obviously. And what fabulous suggestions with which you’ve returned!

    So many targets, but I think my money’s on the Renovation Rumble. Feature walls suck – my walls feature authentic smeared handprints by my urchin children – and water features are nothing but breeding grounds for disease-bearing mosquitos. Shelley Croft is a deeply disturbing woman; she sports the manic fixed grin of a kindergarten teacher who’s seen far too much and is one verse of “twinkle twinkle” away from snapping like recycled elastic. I’d love to see her versus Tonia Todman – hot glue guns at six paces.

    I reckon the Kidlet’s on to something… and how refreshing that he’s undertaking his own homework, not sloughing it onto you (Lest we forget the ill-fated Pythagoras assignment). Tell him Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Two Tribes” clip’s probably on Utube somewhere, they ran with a similar theme. Gotta love Ronald Regan duking it out to a driving disco beat.

  13. NOOOOOOO! The poor boy is only nine! Can you imagine what would happen if I let him watch Frankie? The nightmares! The horror!

    He has tried repeatedly to trick me into doing his assignment for him. I have held firm. And will do so until the night before the unfinished homework is due to hand in.

    I think the only reason he hasn’t thrown a major tantie about my lack of help* (*not doing it for him) is that the middle kidlet wouldn’t let me check her maths homework. It’s grade 3 geometry – apparently last week the only answers she got wrong were the ones I told her to redo.

    Between geometry and Pythagoras, I’m beginning to think I’m spatially inept. This could explain why my cupboards are all crammed to overflowing, and the bumper on my old car has gutter scrapes.

  14. Daryl Somers and a rabit pitbull.

    ‘Nuff said.

    • Hehehe. Poor doggie… would Darryl give him indigestion, diabetes or food poisoning, d’ya reckon?

      Possibly all three.

  15. Maybe “Dead or Alive” then? Not sure if it’s a Mondegreen but I’m pretty sure they sing “I want someone’s son” at one point during that “You spin me right round” song.

    Magic Man is nine, too. If it makes you feel better, you get much more exciting homework than us. We’re… yes, the pronoun is plural… building a biplane out of a plastic coke bottle and drinking straws at present.

    It’s not your fault, it’s the pantry’s. People think that the stove, and at times the dishwasher, are the most aggressive and untrustworthy items in the kitchen, so the pantry just lurks there, pretending innocence, while all the time it’s: swallowing Belgian chocolate, never to be retrived again; hiding the cereal until it’s stale and soggy and infected with pantry moth; letting syrups and honey leak out of their tightly sealed jars until they’re glued to the shelves; fermenting forgotten potatoes at the back of the bottom shelf until the entire kitchen smells like a long-dead man’s feet.

    Show the pantry who’s boss, Catty. Start storing your food in a wardrobe… or stop buying food altogether and live on takeaways and what you can scrounge from friends and family. Except your Mum – we don’t want the dear children envenomed.

  16. There’s nothing interesting left in my pantry. The Boss has come home for the long weekend – back to Bendigo tomorrow – and has dug out all the good stuff. Last night before bed, I walked around the house, picking up tubs of cashews, half empty boxes of Shapes, jars of jubes, empty chip/twistie/burger ring packets, macadamia cheesecake cookie and tim tam packets, chocolate wrappers, milky cereal bowls, pez dispensers, and at least 17 half full coffee cups.

    I left it all on the kitchen bench, in the deluded belief that the Boss would deal with it. Instead, he started redistributing the stuff back around the house – except the chip packets (he left those and started emptying more) and the coffee cups, which he demanded the teen wash up and put away. So far he’s managed three more half cups of coffee, which he has strategically positioned around the lounge room for me to pick up later.

    Strangely enough, a quick peek into the pantry convinces me that it is a portal to another dimension. It still appears chokkers to me, despite having been denuded of anything worth eating. But two of the kidlets just advised me that they’re hungry, and there’s nothing in the pantry. It’s like the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, where one person sees a world of magic and possibility, but another person just sees coats. “What’s that there?” I ask, pointing. “Invisible fruit?”

    “But I don’t want an apple!!! I want chips!!! Why does daddy get chips?”

    “Because mummy can’t slap daddy upside the head if he’s cheeky.”

    “Why not?”

    Why indeed.

    Hey, there’s a possible death match. Maccas versus Hungry Jacks. The winner gets a round with the Heart Foundation. Michael Moore can adjudicate. And anyone who can stop the children from strangling Michael Moore during the match will be given a smack up the head for interfering with the process of natural selection.

  17. I feel your pain, Catty. I suppose it would be contrary to the spirit of marriage to get the crock pot out… after all, he’ll be gone again in less than 24 hours.

    On the subject of Bendigo, has mystery man reappeared with the work van? If so, I’m hanging out to know where he disappeared to and why… I believe the leading hypotheses were near fatal vampire goth lesbian tattoo removal sequelae, and moonlighting as an undertaker. If it’s something dull like swine flu or a dicky prostate I’ll be hideously disappointed.

    And, while we’re playing 20 questions, I suppose it’s too early for the verdict on the “What not to say to chicks” assignment? Or aren’t we talking about that….

    I’ve done the morning whip around and am yet to be deluged with the lunch dishes, but I have had enough of ‘tween hormones. 4 years to go until he’s even 13, and Magic Man is raging like the Incredible Hulk lashed to a fireants’ nest and dripped with golden syrup. If I convert him to a vegan diet and perhaps tether him to a hot walker for several hours a day do you think I can curb his testosterone production? I’m hoping it’s only testosterone…

  18. Probably tartrazine.
    Check the labels.
    And then threaten to restrict all foodstuffs containing it if he doesn’t Zen Out, pronto.

    I’m thinking of getting a drum kit.

  19. I’m sure your theory is sound, but I’m big on home cooking and restricting numbers… I don’t think he’d eaten anything processed prior to the recent outbreaks of vileness. However, there’s nothing like a good solid Mum threat. I’m going to run with it – thanks, Quokka!

    The drum kit is an AWESOME idea… can you get it before our post-Babes jam session? Everything sounds better with a backbeat.

    I had an ex who bought Lindy Morrison’s (Go Betweens) drum kit. It was awesome, too… had those pearly shards buried in plastic as a decorative trim around the edge. You know, like 50s laminex? Get a cool retro one.

  20. Having many friends with sons, I’m thinking it’s a bit early for your lad to become WildThing. Might be external influences? It could be worth checking who his friends are now, while you still have some say in who he hangs out with.

    Food is sometimes to blame, too. The teen cannot – repeat, CANNOT – tolerate Nutri Grain or Nutella. Unbearable wall climbing, and she tries desperately to drive us up there with her. But she’s fine on any of the home brand cereals that look like Nutri Grain, or any other choc hazelnut spread. I also know a teen who can only eat Bakers Delight/Brumbys bread, (no preservatives). Give him supermarket bread, and it’s like he’s got Tourettes. Have you changed any of your brands lately?

    Of course, Quokka may be onto something with that drum kit idea. Maybe it’s an emotional development thing, and all he needs is an outlet for creative passion. Motor mechanics often start by ripping their bikes apart at this age. Do you think maybe a chemistry set? Or give him some frogs to dissect? How about a tattooist’s pen? (I know some lesbians he could practice on). If you do get him drums, start collecting egg cartons now, to line his bedroom walls with. Because although you’d enjoy the drumming (and so would I, being a bass player and all), your neighbours may just show up at sunset with flaming torches and pitchforks. Ditto bagpipes.

    The Boss’s employer has managed to raise Tattoo Man on his mobile. He swears he has been in hospital, then was discharged and has been in bed ever since. The employer doesn’t believe him. This may have something to do with the numerous toll fees and daily speeding fines that have started to arrive in the mail. But like a stubborn 3 year old, Tattoo Man is sticking to his story about the work van having been parked at the hospital for a week, and not having been driven since he got back to the caravan park.

    He is supposed to be joining the Boss and the employer in Bendigo tomorrow. Perhaps he will find it harder to lie with the employer standing in front of him with a ream of fees/fines. And the recounted testimony of the drunk goth lesbian, who says Tattoo Man leaves at dawn every day and doesn’t get home till well after dark, looking rather the worse for wear. (Even she is intrigued!). I’ll pass on any updates as they arrive.

    I think I must be overtired. When I read 50’s laminex, my brain registered 50’s spandex. I was thinking, that’s a good threat for Magic Man – threaten to dress him in Nanna’s retro aerobics gear. It was such a letdown when I realised my error.

  21. In that case, MM, its time to blame genetics, wave your hands wildly in the air and shout ‘You’re just like your father/grandfather/the milkman who delivered to my great, great, great grandmother two centuries ago.’

    Alternatively, try getting him to stand on his head and tell him you’re gonna time him to see how long he can stay upright.
    Be sneaky and teach him to do the yoga breathing (slow inhalation/hold/slow exhalation/hold) and tell him it will help him to stay upright longer.

    I used to do this with Wild Boys Under 6 as a Time Out.
    It usually worked. They’d float away, dizzy and unfocused, wondering vaguely who they should bite/throw rocks at next, but lacking the wherewithal to follow it through.

  22. Quokka, you are an evil genius. We are not worthy.

  23. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that it’s far too early, but the thought of Magic Man, upside down in a pair of nice thick 50s togs… maybe those Esther Williams ones, with a floral applique on the shoulder… doing some yoga breathing before he goes to eat an organic sandwich and then fire up his tattoo gun makes me feel a lot better.

    Catty, no one with a colon should eat NutriGrain. Did you know it’s so lacking in fibre that it’s one of the cereals patients preparing for ‘scopes are allowed to eat?

    Hehehe. Speeding fines and tolls. You’ve got to admire Tattoo Man, in a way. He’s concocted a flagrant untruth and he’s sticking to it, beyond the bitter end. That’s the spirit.

    Quokka, I do blame genetics. I’m hopeful that one day, advances in gene therapy will make peeling off the male biological parent’s contribution to the genome a simple outpatient procedure. Until then, at least I’ve got some good suggestions to try. Thanks, ladies!

  24. Glad to be of Evil Genius type service.

    I will be back in the realms of cyberspace late Wednesday.
    Until then, I have lots of footnotes to write and the Harvard Referencing system to wrangle with.

    For some reason the bloody computer keeps insisting on shifting fonts. Bill Gates is to blame, of course.

    Catty, I’m too delirious with assignmentitis to make head nor tail of your tale. I’ll have to re-read it all tomorrow.
    I hope the vampire goth lesbians come out on top, though.

    Not of your spouse, of course.


    I’m meant to be studying, of course, but I just noticed that General Havock is looking for suggestions for places to eat out.

    There’s a place called Stones on The Point, which features slabs of fresh meat served up on a hot stone, which cooks in front of you, and served with a side order of chips and sauces.

    Haven’t eaten there but have been overcome by the fumes when we’ve been at the deli/gelateria next door.

    The entry to this establishment is graced by a large and realistic statue of Urg the Caveman, who I feel sure is a close cousin of the General’s.

    I tried to find a place that served stuffed Betel leaf, but you know, constraints and such on my time.

    Any ideas for where to take Havock for lunch?
    It should of course serve hot chips, so we can pinch all of his.

  26. Duh, its in Oxley Avenue at Woody Point, looking out over the bay and the jetty.

    BYO but the Belvedere hotel across the road has plenty of B and Y and O – not necessarily in that order – from what I’ve seen out there.

  27. The Brekkie Creek? Terrible cliche, some may say, but lashings of crispy hot chips and fabulous slabs of dead animal. And in terms of ambience – since it’s difficult to digest lunch in the midst of an active combat zone – then surely a beer garden comes close to Havsy’s native habitat?

    I believe Citron in Wilston serves a mean betel leaf entree, but I don’t think the chi-chi inner urban vibe and the General would be a great match.

    “Urg Burn Meat on Rock – Good!” sounds terrific. What man wouldn’t love to whack a slab of flesh on a hot stone? And you know where to go afterwards for dessert!

  28. Apparently they serve ice cream and lollies on a Chilly Stone for dessert.

    Now, if only I can convince the boys to wear leopard print and take their clubs, they’ll be impossible to distinguish from Urg’s statue out the front.

    Actually that reminds me, we’re not far from The Norman.
    Although it did burn down last year while we were doing renos, I must check if they’ve got the steak bar up and going again.

  29. Mmm… steak. And lollies. Not on the same plate, for preference.

    I believe the Norman “We love cows – they’re delicious!” is back in business after the beer garden conflagration of ’09. It might be advantageous to choose a venue within rolling distance – although there’s probably a case to be made for dining in a suburb remote from the one you have to live in.

    Nah, bugger it. Get Havsy tanked up and then bring him home. He’ll sort out the Irish before you’ve brewed the post-prandial coffee.

  30. I found a very sneaky way of making the landlords deal with the Weekend Festivities next door.

    I got council to come around on Bin Day and inspect the overflowing wheelie bins. Council arrived to find a quantity of crows and ibis picking through the overflow on the kerb, hunting out select delicacies (maggots and slime) hidden within the bin bags.

    Council in turn told the owners that they will have to pay for more wheelie bins to cater for their excesses of pizza boxes and beer bottles, (which house the maggots and slime) which invariably result from weekend parties at the Shamrock Village.

    Much shouting and displeasure erupted from the less civilized of the owners, and as it was directed at Council Bin Inspectors, I don’t believe that worked out terribly well for Team Slumlord.

    Since The Great Bin Altercation I have noticed that there’s a dramatic decline in weekend visitors to the Shamrock Village. So I suspect they told the Irish they’d be taking the cost of the extra bins out of their Beer and Pizza Allowance.

    Heh heh.

  31. What an elegant scheme, so beautifully executed.

    Truly, Quokka, the mantle of Evil Genius sits well upon your hallowed shoulders.

    You really need some sort of badge of office… perhaps an inscribed taser, just in case the Irish still have some spirirt left despite the dearth of beer and pizza.

  32. I hope you remembered to hide your crows when you were done, Quokka.

    My bin almost didn’t get emptied. The employer told the Boss that he can’t be arsed getting into an argument about the AWOL Tattoo Man’s fines, because he has too much other stuff to worry about (he’s buying his kids a dog, and doesn’t know whether to go with the shitzu or the terrier).

    The Boss has to share a motel room with his employer, and knows there will be much whining and gnashing of teeth, with veiled hints about the Boss taking a pay cut because the fines are bankrupting the business. So the Boss left a message with the lesbians – I think the girlfriend tattooed it on her arm so she wouldn’t forget – for Tattoo Man to meet him at our house this morning so they could travel together in the Bossmobile. He actually showed up, and parked the no-longer-AWOL van directly in front of our bin. What a nice man. It’s a good thing the bin truck was running late.

    I did notice that my crows were far more interested in the work van than they were in the contents of my bin. They’re still sitting, vulturesque, on the van roof. I’m wondering if Tattoo Man has left a body in there by accident – I guess time will tell. And so will the smell. It will be nice and ripe by the time they get back from Bendigo.

  33. Check the back of the van for blood encrusted eskies.
    If he says he’s been at the hospital but others say he’s been at the caravan park, then odds are good he’s running a courier service between the two in black market kidneys.

  34. I looked. There are two eskies visible. Both are extremely encrusted with something that may or may not involve blood. Considering Tattoo Man’s neighbours, I’m guessing some of it may be vomit – there are carrot chunks.

    That’s as much guessing as I’m game to do.

    I checked the letterbox while I was out there. Another rejection letter (but why? My tutor liked it!), a pamphlet advertising laxatives (didn’t need it – the rejection letter was laxative enough), a flyer from my local MP with a list of Anzac Day activities (um, a bit late, maybe?), and another damned bill for yet another damned school excursion. (How can a day trip to the city cost $135?). Oh, and a snail.

    Tomorrow, I think I’ll leave my letters in the box for the snail to eat. That way at least somebody will get some pleasure out of them.

  35. The van is parked outside Catty’s place, adorned with carrion-eating crows and containing two encrusted eskies.

    Hmm. I’m right into Quokka’s Transplants-R-Us theory, but let’s explore the other possibilities. For example, perhaps he’s been running a booze cruise of strip joints and brothels for buck’s parties – that would account for the smell, the eskies and the frequent hospital detours (alcohol poisoning and acute gonorrhoea). Or an unlicensed pie van (the carrots would be by the way of returns, then).

    I didn’t even have so much as a slug in my letter-box. Sigh. At least there’s always the spiders in the pantry to keep me company.

  36. If there were any spiders in my pantry, they would most likely be skewered and eaten.
    Unlike the rats.
    Although I am occasionally tempted to feed the kidlets ‘rat-on-a-stick’ when they whine about the dinner menu…..

    My computer’s at the front window. I can see the work van from here. A few minutes ago, a rat ran across the lawn, and climbed up into the van’s wheel well.

    Oh, dear. If there’s a body in there now, there won’t be by the time the boys get back.

  37. Mmm… satay spiders. Try redbacks – small but spicy! I’ve got a theory that kids will eat anything if you wrap it in pastry… how about Rat Bags for tea?

    Have you got a webcam, Catty? I’d love to organise a live feed from the van… I think it would be bigger on Utube than that Justin boy.

    There certainly seems to be a greater than usual incidence of predation and scavenging around the van, but you mustn’t fret. I think they can still extract valuable DNA and toxin evidence from rat droppings.

  38. DNA from rat droppings? Oh damn, I’d better go vacuum the pantry floor. Thanks for the heads up.

    Are you referring to that little Justin Beaver boy I’ve been hearing about all weekend? How old is he, nine? And we thought we had problems with Magic Man and the Oldest Kidlet! Still, at nine, Justin’s parents have at least a year before their baby boy strips off for a naked photo shoot.

  39. I dearly want to ask Lobes if he caught anything on the weekend, but it does sound just a tad indelicate.

  40. Indelicate?

    I don’t believe concerns about delicacy have ever stopped any of us before, Quokka.

    It must be the Harvard system talking…

    Yes, Catty, dear little Justin Beaver. He has the clear-eyed insolence of a Vienna Boys’ Choir Boy – so somewhere between 5 and 15, age-wise, I’d reckon.

  41. The teen has just sneeringly informed me that Justin’s last name is Beber, not Beaver. And that he is 16 now. And that I don’t know anything, do I? And that it is soooooo annoying when I slap her upside the head.

    After that conversation, and Quokka’s reminder about the hunting expedition, I’ve suddenly realised what is so annoying about Lizard Man. He has the sneering, self important, unjustified arrogance of a new adult. I’m thinking he’s probably about 20? I should set the teen on him. She’d bring him down a peg or two, faster than Mother’s gravy through a greyhound. Although knowing my luck, they’d fall in love and I’d end up with him as a son in law. Ewwww! Maybe I’ll stick to the original plan – the thought of Lobes eating my mother’s cooking never fails to raise a smirk.

    On the home front, the Boss came home from Bendigo, mid afternoon. Tattoo Man jumped out of the Bossmobile, straight into the work van, and tore off at an alarming speed. It was apparently a “family emergency”. He swore he’d be back in the morning so they can return to Bendigo.

    Gee, I hope his “family” likes rats.

  42. Catty dear, when I was doing the hunt for my lost/extended family (Who do you think you are? AKA the Quokka Chronicles) on Dad’s side, I came across a bunch of relatives by that name and they told me it was from some sort of Prussian/Germanic origin and it meant ‘Beaver’.
    I shit you not. Slight variation on the spelling as the generations passed, but that’s the story I was told by my second cousins.

    So you can tell your teen she can pronounce it whatever way she wants, but the boy is a Beaver by Birth and that’s all there is too it.

    If you really want to annoy her, start calling him Bucky.
    I’ve seen those teeth. Somewhere in the world sits an orthodontist who made serious money out of that boy.

    As someone who spent 7 years of her childhood in an orthodontist’s chair, TRUST ME, I know an artificially created smile when I see one.

  43. Thank YOU, Quokka. (says I, snickering evilly!!!). I owe you one (actually, for what this is worth, I owe you at least three). And now that I am suitably armed with information, I shall gird my loins for teen battle.

    Shall I wear the black velvet hooded cape, and do the slow, throaty laugh, or is that taking “smug” a step too far?

    I might do it anyway. It could be weeks before I get the chance again.

  44. It’s always the right occasion for a black velvet cape and slow, throaty laugh, Catty. Make sure you’ve got the lighting right, too… you should be backlit – a crimson gel would be great, here – and then a spotlight a.k.a. the harsh rays of truth should shine right in her eyes. Have you got some theme music. Perhaps ‘Danse Macabre’? Nah, too sprightly and insufficiently menacing.

    How about they fire Tattoo Kidney Courier Van Man and take the teen on as an apprentice? Two birds with one stone and no more worries about the work van since she’s not old enough to drive it!

  45. Actually I think a white cape with sequins, and a falsetto whine are what’s called for here.

    If you really want to torture her, turn up Donny Osmond (link above) and then, if you’re really feeling spiteful, introduce her to little brother Jimmy. And coo ‘Doesn’t he look like that Beaver Boy!’

    They’ve got ‘Long Haired Lover From Liverpool’ on youtube.
    That should send her running, terrified, into the arms of grunge rock. That’s your goal, yes?

  46. I like the idea of dancing around the house singing “I’m a little bit country, I’m a little bit rock and roll”. The teen will hate it! If her MP3 is anything to go by, she seems to favour music that sounds like bumblebees on acid. I received a sneering dissertation this morning on the superiority of techno over that boring crap we old people listen to.

    I tell you, techno puts my teeth on edge faster than fingernails down a blackboard.

    It was tempting to remind her that, back when she was 14 (like, two whole weeks ago), she used to raid my cd collection for David Bowie, Duran Duran, Evanescence, Hopney Moffett, Ultravox, Pearl Jam, Bon Jovi, Tchaikovsky, Alice in Chains, Steeley Span, Vivaldi, Faith No More and Fallout Boy. (But surprisingly, none of the Tom Jones, Tony Bennett or Merle Haggard. Has the child no taste?). Unfortunately, we were running late for school so I had to let it slide.

    I blame Kevin Rudd. Hey, if Tony Abbot can blame him for everything, so can I.

    And I’ve had a bit of trouble locating my cape. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s hidden in the filth pit under the teen’s bed. With my Bon Jovi CD.

  47. Donny DOES look a lot like dear little Jussy Beaver… if the Osmonds had been able to afford a tour of duty in the orthodontist’s chair, that is.

    Techno doof-doofs on every last one of my nerves. It seems to resonate at exactly the same frequency as psychosis… nothing is guaranteed to drive one more crazy, more rapidly. Didn’t they play techno in a cruel and unusual manner (i.e. with the speakers plugged in) at Guananamo Bay, before the UN stepped in?

    Try to get her into madrigals, perhaps a little lute. Those medieval recreationists can get a bit silly on the mead from time to time, but at least their horse-drawn wagons are quieter and more road safe than a lowered Monaro with a boot full of sub-woofer.

  48. I have a mandolin – close enough to a lute. Or there’s my ocarina. Very medieval. Although I keep it in my hanky drawer, so the faeries may have peed in it.

    On second thought, the teen is far too lazy to practice any instrument. I paid a motza for one of those teach-yourself-guitar books when she insisted it was her calling in life. She has yet to pick up a guitar, let alone the book. If I lend her my mandolin, it will probably end up in the filth pit. Not a good plan. Slime does little for acoustic resonance.

    Wasn’t there a Bucky Beaver toothbrushing song? I wish I could remember how it goes; that would be even worse than Donny!

  49. Voila.

  50. It’s strangely hypnotic. I’ve watched three times already.

  51. Watch it five times in a row and your teeth will start to protrude.

  52. Brusha brusha brusha,
    How I love you Quokka,
    Now I can start singing,
    And drive the teen insa-a-a-a-ne!

    That’s improved my day no end.

    It needed improving. The Boss left before sunup to go back to Bendigo. When I got up, the work van was parked on the lawn. Not such a big issue, except that when I went to bed, that’s where my old Ford was parked.

    There is no sign of the old Ford.

    As the Boss did not run in at 5am, screaming that the car had been stolen, I’m assuming he sold it. To Tattoo Man.

    Again, not such a big issue, except that it is registered in my name, which means any speed camera fines will be sent to me. And there will be fines. Then there will be a reckoning. I think the Boss is well aware of this – his mobile phone has been switched off all day.

    Which reminds me. I had a quick look in the work van. No eskies, no big blue tarp, no rats. Just a shovel and a Hilti drill. I take it Tattoo Man spent the night with the goth lesbians next door again.

  53. Not the Ford! He hasn’t taken the Ford!! Catty just gladwrapped the license plates!!!

    Was it a station wagon? Actually, you don’t need much cargo space for black market organ couriering, do you? It’s not really a bulk business. Might be a bit of a squash for the hypothetical buck’s party attendees, though…

  54. Yeah, it was a station wagon. I’m wondering if it’s new incarnation will be as a hearse, or a mobile tattoo service.

    If Tattoo Man comes back for the shovel, my money’s on the hearse. If he takes the Hilti drill, however, it could be either.

  55. Sandman, by the sounds of his habits.

    Which gives us something else to annoy your children with.

  56. I have the Trio version of Mr Sandman. My Trio CD was gouged from the filth pit and returned to the CD cabinet oh, say, about exactly two weeks ago. It’s unpleasantly coated in something similar to Tattoo Man’s eskies, but who’s complaining? I got my CD back! Still waiting on the Seal CD’s, though. I hope they’re returned soon – I think this stuff is corrosive.

    I rang the Boss on his mobile a little while ago. His employer answered it. Considering there are three of them in the motel room in Bendigo, I was unsurprised to find the employer was, well, totally sloshed is a fair description.

    The Boss wasn’t there. From the drunken slur on the other end, I gather the Boss has come into a large wad of cash, and has gone to the nearest pub. Without his phone. Isn’t it nice that he was able to pre-empt my reaction so accurately?

    If Tattoo Man wants that shovel, he may need to wait a while. I think I’m going to be using it first.

    Seriously, though, I would never do that. What I have planned is far worse. I’m going to find every Justin Beaver song I can, and upload them all onto the Boss’s iPod. Then I’ll set it to shuffle. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa!!!!

    Damn. It doesn’t work without the cape.

  57. Quokka! I’ve just been to HQ… You’ve been prodding the troll again, haven’t you? Naughty! Funny, but naughty!

    Can I have a turn with those batteries? I want to see how many I can jam into a Lizard.

  58. Damn! It’s one to Lizard man, nil to the crocs. There are obviously things so noxious not even an indiscriminate munch-first-ask-questions-later predator will have a go. Fingers crossed for next time.

    Classic, Quokka. I don’t know if it’s the trills of bop-bop-bop or the cheesy lyrics, but that track seems to last for a lot longer than two and a bit minutes. I’m going to try substituting it for time-out… that’ll larn ’em!

    Catty, I get the feeling the crock pot’ll be getting a work out. Have you tried a Massaman curry in it?

  59. Threaten them with church choir.
    That always worked on me.

  60. I have the crock pot on right now. It’s got a giant chicken in it, so it will be going all afternoon.

    The Boss wouldn’t dare come home, anyway. He knows this. His phone is switched off.

    I tried the Trio CD, so I could play Mr Sandman. Sadly, it is too far gone – the slime from the filth pit has corroded the songs right off it. So I started singing “Stand by Your Man” (complete with nasal whine) over and over again. I made sure to go sharp on the high notes. Sharp, loud, and squeaky. The teen has responded by teaching the kidlets a cute little ditty:

    I know a song that gets on your nerves,
    gets on your nerves,
    gets on your nerves.
    I know a song that gets on your nerves,
    and it goes just like this….

    (repeat constantly until somebody throws a shoe at you.)

    Teen 1, Catty nil.

  61. HA!

    Korean Crap Inc have finally sent out their tecchie and after two attempts today – the first being a dismal failure – he’s finally got the bloody washing machine working.

    He replaced three broken parts, including the motherboard this morning, and then shook his head saying he wasn’t sure what was wrong with it. It was coming up with various unintelligible codes i.e UE, IE, SE…what could they possibly mean? I peered over his shoulder and suggested the code writer was faulty and it should read ‘POS’ for Piece of Shit or ‘GUAGAN1’ for ‘give up and get a new one.’

    The techie was inclined to agree on both counts.
    He wandered off to Consult A Higher Power.
    I wandered off to gnash my teeth and sniff the dirty sock pile.

    Feeling suitably remotivated, I sharpened my teeth and claws, rang Samsung Service, and fifteen minutes after our little ‘discussion’ the Samsung lady phoned back and said they’d be sending the tecchie out to have another go at it this afternoon.

    As it turns out, the missing component was FEAR.

    Something I learned from various Evil Family Members – the client who complains the most gets the best service.

    I wish it wasn’t so, but such is life.

    On the plus side, Catty, this means that I have at least $10 in gold coins to contribute to a worthy cause.

    • Must have crossed you in cyber space, Quokka.

      Congratulations! I hope it stays fixed.

      Was he pale and sweating when he came back… maybe swallowing constantly like lunch had gotten stuck?

      Only two sleeps ’till the theatre… does it kick off at 8?

  62. Okay, plan B. Catty, you become EmoMum. Go heavy on the eyeliner, and mope around the place. Your signature colours are now black, black, black and sometimes a touch of red. Sigh heaps. Your only allowable facial expression is a kind of bitter ennui, expressed with a slight downward droop of the lips.

    If the kids ask you anything, from “Why did you fall in love with Dad?”, through “Where do babies come from?” and up to “What’s for dinner?” you just shrug and… without making any eye contact, mutter “Whatever.”

    Doodle nooses and little guillotines with bleeding stick figures on the edge of your shopping lists, and try to slip cheery phrases like “What does it matter, anyway. We’re, like, all gonna die” into everyday conversation. Feel free to smoke noxious foreign cigarettes.

    Good luck!

  63. Good plan, except for the smokes – I’ve just been told KRuddy has upped the excise by $6 a packet.

    I hate that little turd. With those shopping list stick men, can they all be short, blonde and wear glasses?

    • Go for it, Catty. Just as long as you make them suffer.

      Sorry, I should have written “Whatever” *sigh*

  64. Take up fire twirling.
    Under the clothesline, when her Justin Bieber shirts are hanging up. Those things do need to be washed in metho to get the saliva out, surely?

  65. Either my brain is as fried as the Samsung’s old mother board or else things are appearing and disappearing here.

    Maybe I just need to find my glasses.

    Yes, MM, 8pm at BAT on SAT.
    Unless you plan to be at Mirasoul in Caxton Street on Friday at 6pm, too.

  66. Hehehe. I think it’s ferals more than emos that do the fire-twirling, but by all means give it a go.

    Fire-twirling has got a lot going for it that attenuated lethargy and posing can’t touch… for example, you can work up a fire-twirling act and then embarass her in public with it – why not offer to enliven school assembly, for example?

    I thought it was just me, and that time of the month, or senility, or something, but I agree… posts come and go here in Wonderland. Catty, have we got Blog Faeries now?

  67. Absolutely we have blog faeries. They are proficient at holding back your posts, so that the thread is disrupted by someone else’s posts jumping in front of your replies.

    Still can’t find the black cape. I tried the Greenday mascara, but when I looked at the mirror, there was a bandicoot staring back at me. AAARGH!

  68. Drunken thieving leprechauns, ach begorrah.

  69. Thanks, Quokka! I’ve just updated the Teen’s wallpaper.

    Snh, snh, snh, snh, snh.

  70. Tell her its the prototype for a new range of textured toilet paper. Those bristles are real.

  71. He really has the sort of smug little face you’d like to smack if (a) you weren’t a pacifist; (b) hitting the underage is morally and indeed legally wrong; and (c) violence doesn’t solve anything.

    And what’s with those strange swathes of scraped forward hair? I think he’s hiding a parasitic twin stuck to his left temple.

    I’ve spent far too much time thinking about Jussy Beaver, this week…

  72. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have eyebrows.

  73. Damn, I knew I came here for a reason.
    I wanted to alert Mayhem to the fact that there’s a Broncos game on at Suncorp tonight – or so the bloke tells me – which means that there’s a 15 minute parking zone everywhere in a 3km radius of the stadium.

    I posted a parking alert at Chaz’s blog.
    If you gals are on twitter or have her email or such, reckon you could pass on the alert?

  74. No worries, I’ll Twitter her.

    I’m dubious that I’ll make it, what with the voyage south and offspring and such, but hope you all have a blast and I’ll see you tomorrow.

  75. Thanks for the headsup ladies.

    Sadly it is unlikely I will make it, had hoped the antibiotics would have me further along the road to recovery by now. You guys seriously don’t need these germs. Still Havock is only a fortnight away, and chaos will surely ensue. Best to restore my strength in time for that one I think.

  76. Thanks MM.

    Oh Mayhem, poor you, that’s a seriously nasty bug you’ve got there. Hit the echinacea and the garlic and the chicken soup and take care of yourself.

    I don’t think I’ll go to the closing night of Babes but if Havock and co are up for a feed or such sometime that weekend, count me in.

  77. Oh and Catty…I’ve found a fridge magnet for you that may be useful in a variety of social settings where One must deal with obnoxious human beings. Oh, why be subtle. I’ll just pin it onto Loathes and call it a community service.

  78. Love it, Quokka! The teen has a series of t-shirts with similar messages, like “I’m busy right now. Can I ignore you later?” and “You keep talking, I keep not listening. How weird is that?”. She thinks it’s funny. I think she’s weird.

    Too good for Lizard Man, though. But I should lay off a bit, I’m enjoying myself far too much prodding him – that can’t be healthy.

    Madam, if you think you’ve thought too much about the Beaver Boy this week, spare a thought for the teen’s classmates. She took my mobile phone to school, and Bieberfied everybody. First, she downloaded three of Jussy’s songs onto my phone, then typed a random message over the titles. Then she invented a random bluetooth name. Then she sent the message to every mobile phone within bluetooth range. About 100 kids got the songs, didn’t know what they were, and opened them. There was Bieber EVERYWHERE! And because she also bluetoothed to her own mobile phone too, nobody suspects it was her.

    She plans to do it all again on Monday, once the furore has died down.

    How evilly brilliant is that? And it only cost me $50 in prepaid credit, that mysteriously disappeared from my phone while she had it at school. Still, she didn’t sneer at me for at least half an hour – well worth the lost credit.

    Mayhem, rub some Vics onto the soles of your feet before you go to sleep. I have no idea why, but it helps. Oh, and I saw your mum’s comment at the Bounders’ Club. Either Greybeard has been lax with the security, or she’s now got internet access in the Oubliette.

    • Hehehe. I know the teen is a rampant pustulating boil on your metaphorical backside, Catty – but I like her style.

      It’s just a matter of harnessing her powers for good, rather than evil. She might find lucrative part-time employment as a viral marketer, for example. Or perhaps the Presidency of the Jussy Beaver fan-club is up for grabs?

      You know, the sole of the feet thing is weird. I’ve heard peppermint balm on the soles cures snoring. There must be some pedal application that can sure rampant hormonal mood swings and sullen teen-agedness… you could sneak it on under her striped stockings in the middle of the night. What do you reckon, Quokka? Maybe Hops and Passionflower with a smidge of Valerian?

  79. I was more disturbed by orthodriver’s comment.
    I suspect Mayhem’s mum may have escaped and slipped some rohypnol into his metamucil mix.

    Tried to say as much but you know, it hates me.
    I give up.

    I’m trying my damnednest to resist poking vipers today.
    I do think you’ve come out second best, though, Catty.
    I mean, he went to the trouble of penning rhyming couplets to karaoke for Abi.

  80. MM – I would suggest acupressure for teenage mood swings.
    Superglue a pair of massage sandals to their feet the night before they’re due to go off to a dance party.

    It takes about 10 minutes in those things to acupressure the angst out of an ordinary human being.

    In fact, I think its on that list of war crimes the seppos are up for in Iraq.

  81. Catty – I think The Boring is on Loop.
    Of the Fruit variety.

  82. Mmm… acupressure sandals. Do you think you can get similar results by supergluing macadamia nut shells to a pair of double pluggers? I’ve just bought him new shoes…

  83. The teen doesn’t believe in socks. Or shoelaces. She wonders why her shoes keep falling off.

  84. So I’m on track with the liquid nails suggestion, then.

  85. Sorry MM, what are double pluggers?
    Sounds like something you’d stuff in a badly leaking drain.

    • Common or garden thongs, Quokka. You sophisticated urbanites with your Birkenstocks and chai lattes….

  86. Oh, why didn’t I think of that? I was thinking of feminine hygiene products.

  87. I just got my assessment for the “what men should never say to women” assignment.

    My tutor thinks it’s saleable. Now I just have to find an editor who agrees.

    Sometimes, as I pelt articles at editors, I picture the scene in my mind’s eye. I am a monkey, in a room with a million other monkeys. We are typing on a million typewriters. Shakespeare eludes me. Instead, I am pelting articles that look suspiciously like marshmallows – and have about the same affect on editors.

    It’s tempting to pin a bag of Pascall’s finest vanilla and raspberry to my next submission, to find out for sure.

    I’ll be mailing off the final assignment on Monday. Then it will be all over bar the shouting. No more studenting. I’ll have to start writing for real.

    * shudder *

    • As long as you’re flinging marshmallows, not the organic substance monkeys usually fling, you’re in with a chance, Catty. Congratulations!

  88. Mirasould mekes cocktails called Weet Cougars.
    I had two and now I feel sick.
    nibhty nigy.

  89. Weet Cougars or Wet Cougars?

    Either way it reminds me of that disturbing Charmaine Pavlova woman. It only takes ONE of them to make me feel sick.

  90. Oh dear. I think I need to blame fatigue over alcohol for that stack of typos.

    The cocktail list is two pages long. All of it in fine print.
    Meaning that I got very lazy and picked the first one that didn’t have anything with 220 in it. It was a ‘Sweet Cougar’ and we both got the giggles at the whole Sex and the City flavour of it. I can’t remember what it had in it, apart from ginger and passionfruit, but I suspect there were other pavlova ingredients, maybe strawberries. I had about three sips and it nearly knocked me over, and then Jen rang and Medway pushed the phone at me, despite me protesting I was barely coherent, so poor Jen, that’s been her introduction to Quokka.

    Medway is SOOO excited about Jen’s visit, he was talking about it when she rang. She’ll be over here in the summer. We might need to follow her around with an ice bucket and a fan. I think she’s in for a shock, from Kalamazoo Michigan to Brisvegas in all its gory humidity.

    Had a lovely evening. Will report back properly when my brain isn’t quite so fuddled with cocktail residue.
    We’re taking Chaz and Marcella out to Redcliffe today to visit Big Bad Al, and I need to get a swim in before we pick them up at 10am.

    So…MM, we shall see you tonight?
    We’re planning to get there and meet Chaz and Marcella at 7.30 at the bar at BAT. I’ll have the tickets. GC will be in Sydney so she said to say hello to everyone and thanks for coming.

    Now..I’m going back to bed with a cup of tea and the cat, before I have to get up and be productive.

    Wish you gals could’ve been there, it really was fun.

  91. Sounds like a blast. I wouldn’t worry, though, I feel Jen’s no stranger to the vagaries of alcohol intoxication. I’ve seen some of her late night twitters!

    Have a lovely day and we’ll see you at the BAT bar at seven thirty. Regards to Al and all the denizens of Redcliffistan.

  92. I wish I’d been more awake and livelier to chat to you, MM.
    Lovely to see you.
    Too strange to discovered we’ve both been processed by the same institution in our formative years.

    I think this needs to be discussed in greater detail over pancakes at some point in the future.

  93. Pancakes? Where?

  94. Catty! I thought we’d lost you at the OK Corral.

    Pancake Manor, Charlotte Street, Brisvegas.
    I have a 30 year old addiction to the Macadamia pancakes in there thanks to it being our refuge from boarding school, back then.

    Now if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered I need to pay out on Chaz.

  95. I have a little dilemma, and could use some advice.

    A website is my next project. But I discovered yesterday that the name Catty was copywritten two years ago.

    What to do now? Do I change my name entirely? Mabel, perhaps? Then I could call the website, the Tower of Mabel. (How sad is that?) Or do I stick with Catty, but with a different spelling, like Kattey, or Catti? Because I really liked that whole conspiracy corner idea. I have lots and LOTS of lovely conspiracies!

    Suggestions, anyone? I eagerly await your collective cleverness! And pancakes.

  96. I vote you Take Care of the Copyrighters.
    You’re in Melbourne, you have ready access to socially disordered psychopathic riff raff. How hard can it be?

  97. Mother assures that I AM socially disordered psychopathic riff raff.

    And that was one of her ‘supportive’ comments!

    How about iCat as a screen name? Or would Mr Jobs send someone around to break my kneecaps. Of course not, I’m thinking of that Billy Windows fellow, aren’t I?

    Macadamia pancakes sound amazing. Says I, stuffing my face with the last of the macadamia encrusted anzac bikkies I made last weekend. Mmmmm…. Chewy macadamia anzacs…..

  98. Those biscuits sound good.

    They sprinkle toasted macadamias over the pancakes.
    I always get frozen whipped butter on the side, as well as ice cream and maple syrup. Mmmm. Good thing JB doesn’t have diet lite up yet.

    We’re stumped on your copyright escape tactics, here.

    I’ll think about it while I’m having a nap.

  99. Unless you go for something of a meld like
    ‘The Catspiracy Corner’ – and then when the blog opens up you can have an intro as ‘Catty’s Conspiracy Corner and Pirate Repatriation Clinic.’ or some such thing.

    You could always find a pirate patch, hat and cutlass for your avatar.
    And its a good excuse to post pictures of Johnny Depp, and other motivational pirate images.

  100. …..’and shelter for abandoned pirates’.

    Dammit there must be a good line, for this.
    I can feel it brewing, its out there, we just have to put our heads together.

    I think I’ll go with the Quokka Chronicles, or maybe ‘The Chronicles of Sarah Quokka’…

  101. I’m baaack!

    Tassie Babes rocked, but since I didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight I’ve been completely zombified until… well, fairly recently.

    Pancakes it shall be, Quokka – but I suspect the depth of repressed terror we are capable of uncovering will then require alcohol. Still, we know where to get a Wet Cougar that’ll knock your socks off.

    Catty, the copyright thing need not be an issue… For example, if you wanted a free blog here on WordPress, you’d probably find “catty” or some variant is free. Then your address would be something like and you won’t have to worry about what’s going on in .com or world. The other fabulous thing about a WordPress blog is it’s completely free – stand-alone domain names cost money upfront, then you have to pay some ISP to host you as well.

  102. Blog Faeries again… I missed that Quokka had emerged from her nap.

    Forget what I said, go with the pirate theme. Your avatar would be adorable with an itty-bitty eye patch and a cutlass.

  103. Just checked, Catty… the address I postulated is available. If you click on the link it’ll take you to the sign in screen and you can grab it.

  104. Yes, damn those blog faeries, clearly they’ve been into the cocktail cabinet. I was still struggling today after Friday night’s efforts.

    Catty’s Conspiracy Corner does have a marvelous ring to it.
    Nice cyberdetective work, MM.

    I think perhaps the cat avatar needs a parrot to go with the eyepatch and the cutlass. Or perhaps a budgie.

    • And instead of something about cheezeburgers it’s gotta say “Argh, me hearties!” or “Ahoy ye scurvy rascals” or some such.

      Poor Quokka – I’m not 100 percent and I stayed at home in my ugg boots on Friday night! We’ve got to start having dawn meetings… is the Pancake Manor still open all hours?

  105. Glad I dropped in. I am so totally stealing that pirate idea – I’ve already marked September 19th on the calendar. That’s international talk like a pirate day.

    There’s a song about it. I heard it once on triple R.

    Really. On triple Arrrrgh! I kid you not.

    Meanwhile, my homemade cannelloni is bubbling away in the oven, but the strawberry cupcakes aren’t quite cool enough to smear icing on. So I might just have time to pop over to wordpress.

    I might include faeries in the tagline. Or would that be tempting the little buggers to drop in and run amok? It would be, wouldn’t it?

    Oops. Cannelloni calling. Back later.

  106. Well, I nabbed the site. It looks mighty complicated! It could be some time before I do anything useful with it.

    Any tips?

    But I’m not doing it tonight. I’m stuffed full of divine cannelloni, and I have to go sit quietly until it settles, so I can cram in a cupcake or three.

  107. Hehehe. Shiver me timbers, you found a pirate cat!

    It’s pretty easy to use once you set it up. My tip would be choose a straightforward theme – some of them have multiple columns and all sorts of palaver. Just throw up a few posts and you’ll get the hang of it. Here’s a tip PNB gave me when I was starting out… steal pictures from Google images and insert them to make your blog more lively.

  108. Heh heh heh.
    AWESOME, Catty.
    I think I may have just woken the Irish with my cackling, when I saw your pirate cat.
    Who looks very much like my 13yro rescue, which reminds me, I must wake the bloke up to feed him and release him from catptivity in the cat enclosure below stairs.
    (I’ve never been able to house train him to stop spraying so he is a garden cat by day and a prisoner by night.)

    Havock is organizing Havock Time over at his blog, BTW.

    MM – I think I’ve caught up on my sleep, now. Late nights absolutely slay me. The Bloke told me I nodded off for the last 20 minutes of the play (don’t tell GC) which is typical – and I’m ever so cross with myself because I think I dozed through the scene where JB and Stacey had The Moment, which he was speaking of the other day.

    I do believe the Pancake Manor is still open all hours.

    Catty – what’s in this canneloni of yours? I do a roast pumpkin/cottage cheese/fetta one, with the obligatory tomato/basil sauce. And less often I do a spinach and fetta one. I tend to do them once it gets a bit cooler, here.

  109. Actually… don’t tell GC… the second half wasn’t quite as lively and involving as the first half. Either the cast didn’t quite maintain the momentum, there were script problems, or my brain was desperately trying to switch off and I wouldn’t let it.

    Mmm, canneloni. How about chicken and pine nuts? Damn, I’ve run out of pine nuts and the shops are shut. Now I’m going to have pesto cravings all day…

  110. I spent a pleasant half hour rolling little meatballs for my cannelloni. I know, I know, but it was really cute, the way the spinach draped itself strategically around the meatmalls. It put me in mind of a motheaten fox wrap draped around a 50 year old hooker.

    And out of kindness to my incredibly picky children, I used cheddar. Crass. But yummy.

    My sauce, however, is a work of art. An authentic Italian sauce, made from an authentic Italian recipe (you know I lived in Ingham – Little Italy – for a while?), and tomatoes from my own garden. It’s a secret family recipe, so I can’t share; Besides, my sister might be reading this, and no way am I telling her how it’s made.

    I have quite a collection of secret family recipes. Most of them have been shamelessly stolen from other people’s families, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

  111. Thank you, Catty, for “motheaten fox wrap draped around a 50 year old hooker”. I needed a good laugh.

    Do you use pig’s trotters? I have it on good authority that they are key.

    I, too, have a secret Italian family sauce recipe that I’m more than happy to share. This was handed to me by a charming Sicilian lady. Fry garlic in olive oil. Add 1 jar of Woolworth’s Home Brand Chunky Pasta Sauce. Stir in some balsamic vinegar and extra oregano, and Mario’s your uncle.

    (Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ll lash out on a labelled bottle of pasta sauce, either. None of the expensive ones are as good.)

  112. No, I don’t use trotters. I use pork and veal schnitzel steaks in equal quantity, and spend ages cutting them up into minescule little tiny bitsy cubes. Unless I’m making meatballs, in which case I stick the pork and veal steaks through the mincer.

    Isn’t that odd about the expensive stuff? I have a recipe for Irish Cream that only works if you use rotgut scotch.

    And my sauce tastes better with the cheap and nasty port. Every time I try to use 10 year old Hanwood, it tastes weird. Not the port – that tastes good. Really good. But the sauce doesn’t.

    You’re right. Skip the sauce and just drink the port.

  113. Mmm… Irish Cream.

    Expensive doesn’t always suck. At the eco-urging of Magic Man I bought tree-free toilet paper. It’s mostly bamboo, apparently. Well, now I know why pandas have those soulful, somewhat tormented expressions. Kill a tree and save your arse, I reckon.

  114. Well, that explains my cranky nephews. They’re in bamboo nappies.

  115. That’s got to be child abuse. Let’s start a collection to buy the poor little bastards some Huggies. Who’s in?

  116. Waste of money. I sent my sister a box of those bright bots cotton nappies. She uses them as cleaning rags.

  117. Your sister is an idiot. I love Bright Bots! Magic Man used to get around in the cutest little purple and green onesie from them.

    Although, shes got twin baby boys, right? That’s gotta be a tough gig. Perhaps we should cut her some slack.

  118. No, not twins, just very close together. The older one is only in nappies at night.

    Nor will I cut her any slack. Not only is she beautiful, incredibly intelligent, serene, creative, personable, and a fabulous singer, she is also 10 years younger than I am.

    Now you know why I won’t share my recipes with her. Cooking is MY THING! She got EVERYTHING ELSE, dammit!

  119. How does she smell?

    If it helps, Catty (a.k.a piratepet… I kinda like piratepet), she’s not getting any of my recipes, either. I’ll take Grandma’s Scottish Shortbread to the grave!

  120. Shortbread….. Mmmmmm…..

  121. It’s very good. I’ll post it as soon as I can find it. Usually I get my Mum to make it – saves time and mess (Thanks, Mum)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: