Valley of the Shadowy Pee

Steampunk Urinal: somebody is taking the piss

It seems that Brisbane’s favourite nightclub and random glassing by inebriated strangers precinct has a wee problem:

People are going out, going hard and then… well, just going wherever they feel like it. A Mr Mergard said the problem was so bad that “There is a toilet in which people urinate outside and people inside get urinated on.” Don’t worry too much about that one, Mr Mergard –  I think it’s in The Beat, and the patrons actually like it that way.

Other instances of public tinkling are non-consensual, however, and it’s a bigger problem than you might think. Up to 30 people a day are being fined under a Police public nuisance blitz. 30 a day? Makes you wonder how many caught-short scoff-laws are whizzing undetected.

Not to worry, though, I’ve come up with some workable solutions:

The Garden Bed 

Just pop bunches of these little beauties, in a circular formation, at regular intervals down the Brunswick street mall.  No need to weed!
Heritage Pissing
These are a personal favourite. Shame that ‘Monastery’ is now closed, but there are still a number of operational and converted churches in the Valley that would be enhanced by an open-air installation of gargoyle pissoirs. I’d also like to see several rows of them against the flats they built on the old Cathedral site, in memory of the Vatican pinching all the money raised for building on that block.
Go-Go Glowsticks
An idea derived by this charming invention for those caught short on the golf course. Just increase the volume and, erm, calibre of the average glowstick, include a screw-on lid, and voila! Rave on, hipsters.

208 Responses

  1. Does the golf club shaft come in extra large?

  2. Once, my brother went into the public toilet block on top of Castle Hill (in Townsville). He came out giggling because there was an ants nest in one of the urinals, and announced that he was puissant. I have a very odd family.

  3. Stafford, for you I’d recommend the cricket bat version.

    Catty, it’s not just your family. What would possess ants to nest in a urinal? Unless Townsville has an inordinate incidence of diabetes, I suppose. Still, my mother has ants in her car, so who am I to judge?

  4. Oh Stafford, how could you?

    Catty – he may be odd (duh, your brother?) but he has a way with words.

    This is perhaps nature’s small compensation for the untidiness & general inconvenience of male bits. At least we can do stupidly competitive things (highest up the wall, writing the name, knocking down flies, peeing on electric fences) with them. And we do like being stupidly competitive. Not me of course! (Although I did fit a whole hamburger in my mouth at once and can juggle snakes and . . . )

  5. My brother may have a way with words, but that didn’t stop us pelting him with chicken sandwiches until he stopped giggling.

    Wait, back up.

    Juggling snakes? Is that some sort of weird euphemism that I shouldn’t enquire into?

    • No! I’m a good man I am. And not into weird euphemisms except between consenting perverts.

  6. That’s the valley for you.
    Piss in, piss out, piss off.

  7. Don’t forget piss up.

  8. Ah yes, the Irish, with Step 2 of the bog hollow jig. how could I forget?

  9. What surprises me is that Madam has crafted an entire blog post on urine, and there’s not one mention of Bear Grylls.

    • Oh great. Now there’ll be none left for the rest of us.

  10. Hehehe.

    You people crack me up.

    GB, if it was a junior-sized McDeath burger – phht. EB could do that. Come to the cricket club one Friday night and see if you can get one of my Steak Works Burgers in your mouth all at once. Just make sure you’ve got dislocated jaw cover, first.

    Quokka, is everything okay? You seem pissed off.

    Catty, Bear is off-topic. He neatly and tidily drinks his own urine, rather than spray it around the Valley, annoying cops, chaplins, and the community in general. Actually, though, that’s another solution, isn’t it? An advertising campaign, encouraging revellers to “Bear Grills It!” You could have Bear himself in the TV ads, raising a foaming yellow tankard to his lips and knocking back a mouthful. Then, with a cheesy grin, he looks into the camera and says, “After a hard night out, nothing helps me recover faster than a tall, warm glass of my own effluent. Don’t waste it in alleys and shop doorways – Bear Grills it!”

  11. Hey, yeah! BCC could follow South Australia’s lead, and offer 5 cents for every empty bottle or can handed in, and 50 cents for every one that’s filled with urine. Win/win! Council cleans up for a few dollars, and punters who piss in a bottle get a bit of cash to buy more piss. Picture it: groups of goth girls whacking empties up their skirts to raise money for their taxi ride home…. Tribes of backpackers topping up their empties in alleys so they can afford 3:00am hotdogs…. Homeless people asking strangers if they can spare some urine for an ecc.. uh, ‘phone call’. I think BCC would be mad NOT to do it. Quokka, you have contacts at the council – why don’t you give them a ring? (If you need some cash to make the call, I’ll happy take a tinkle in any empties you have lying around.)

  12. Catty, I love you. You’re a genius! Maybe urine could just become a new currency:
    “How much for a kebab with the lot?”
    “That’ll be 1.2 litres, mate.”

    Actually, there would be demonstrable benefits for ravers recycling their piss. Some psychoactive drugs have active urinary metabolites. About 1% of cocaine is excreted unchanged – you could get a motza for some high-grade Columbian whizz.

  13. Good thinking. It would be particularly effective in the US, too – instead of spending a penny, visitors to public toilets would earn a penny. And if they also include turds as a form of currency, their whole $14 trillion debt would be wiped out in no time, what with American tourists giving everyone the shits, and all.

  14. Seppos certainly give me the shits. I feel like a millionaire already!

    Meanwhile, a cautionary tale from the world of ten-year-olds trying to act cool. They’ve all been greeting everyone – including parents and teachers – with ‘Whassup, dude?’, often abbreviated to ‘Sup?’.

    So one lad in the playground – we’ll call him Bodhi – idly waved a hand at a younger boy and, even more idly, hailed him with ‘Soup?’.

    I’m told the younger boy, so addressed, took one amazed, goggling look and then bolted as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. Bodhi chased after him, trying to explain that he’d made a mistake, which only made him run faster.

    I wish I could have been there to watch.

  15. God I don’t miss being among ten year olds who were trying to act cool.
    When really they were just boring and evil.
    As ten year olds still are.
    Did anyone listen to Richard Fidler’s conversation with Fiona O’Laughlan or whoever that comedian is? The one who fell down drunk on stage not so long ago and I think she got in trouble for a few drunken tweets, maybe she was the one who made the Bindi Irwin comments. Dunno.
    Anyway, when she got married one of her mother’s friends advised her, ‘Have at least four kids, Fiona, preferably five. It’s a mistake to have only one or two. At least two of them are bound to screw up and if you’ve got five, once they’ve all left home and people ask you how your kids are doing, you can talk about the one who’s at uni, studying medicine, and there’s no need to mention the ones who are in jail, or on heroin.’

    The Bloke and I went off to the Jetty for breakfast early this morning – early enough to be seated next to a table load of baby boomers. As they were chowing down the bacon, one BB said to the other BB ‘So, how’s your kids?’
    There was a meaningful glance between the husband and wife team and the male began cautiously with ‘Well, Bill’s at university, of course, studying medicine, and Cheryl’s working with that law firm, blah blah blah..’
    ‘And the others?’
    ‘Oh, well, you know, they’re still finding their way.’
    At which point I snorted carrot juice out of my nose as I thought ‘yes, finding their way out of Jail/Rehab.’

    Proof that we do attain some sort of wisdom by middle age, I would say.

    Ok, the conga line forms behind me.
    ‘Flood cats leave today-ay…’
    I’m packing them up and taking them off to Vanessa’s care, at the newly completed cattery, as soon as the Bloke returns home with the grocery shopping.
    Summer (being the big sister of Flotsam and Jetsam) is a sweetheart and she’s welcome to stay till Xmas, but my God will I be glad to never hear Ninja’s whiny little voice again. Nag, nag, nag, nag nag nag nag.
    I’m just worried they’ll crack under the pressure and throw him out in less than three days.

    Aside from that, we are off sailing with friends, tomorrow.
    Unless I throw up in the first 20 minutes on the water in which case I’ve instructed them to pitch me overboard and leave me for the tiger sharks.
    The bloke is off stocking up on ginger gummi bears as we speak.
    Fingers crossed.

  16. I think it’s ten-year-olds en masse who are ghastly, much like any other age. On their own or in very small numbers, they can make a surprisingly good job of being human & thoughtful. With adults most kids try to be as adult as possible to fit in but in packs they sink to the lowest common denominator level. Teaching out west years ago, I had classes of 3 or 4, even a class named Ian, and it was great. Year 9s acted like year 11 or 12 and you could zoom through twice the work while fooling them into thinking they enjoyed it.

    Kids will sometimes screw up no matter what. Chatted to the organist at The Wedding the other day – an ex-student. Grave and serious, so precisely spoken even as a student that he was widely supposed to be gay. Fooled ’em all by marrying a classmate. Between them they have about six degrees and four kids. His brother however was a thug. Done for drugs & theft while still at school and though I’ve known some very nice kids who’ve done that, he was NOT one of them. Didn’t ask what had become of him. But it’s always puzzled me. Same parents, same upbringing, similar genes but as different as me and Nowhere Bob. (Bob’s the evil one btw)

  17. Yeah, the whole ‘nature versus nurture’ debate interests me no end. I’m also interested, Greybeard, in your (possibly unintended) implication that you and Nowhere Bob are brothers. That would explain a lot!

    • Nonononononononononono! But despite the fact that we’re unrelated, he is the Danny De Vito to my Arnie, the Venom to my Spiderman, the Moriarty to my Holmes. The evil nemesis, that no self-respecting hero can be without.

  18. Where’s my evil nemesis?

    Probably on a Stairmaster machine somewhere, planning her next carb-free, ultra-low fun meal. She will have very short spiked black hair with red tips, and never read anything except the liposuctions for her latest flame-thrower.

    10 year olds have their merits, though. When I tripped over the dog in the dark and hurt my knee, Magic Man kissed it better. He also spent much of yesterday putting up with Elf Boy clinging to him like one of those experimental monkeys on a ‘mother’ made out of chook wire and synthetic fur.

    Happy sails, Quokka. If it’s as hot as yesterday, the water will be the place to be.

  19. Hehehe… autocorrect turned ‘instructions’ into ‘liposuctions’. I kind of like it there, so I’m not going to edit.

  20. That’s a sick autocorrect you’ve got there, MM, perhaps your evil nemesis is also a plastic surgeon who specializes in breast augmentations and penile implants, and autocorrect is her subconscious way of oozing into your psyche.
    In which case spare a moment to pity her for what her autocorrect must dish up when your subconscious tries to invade hers.
    i.e. every time she tries to type ‘small breasts’ it’ll come up as ‘smurf bread’ thanks to our many references to loathing the former and craving the latter. Well, so long as it’s sourdough or some kind of salty carb and there’s dips involved.

    Its meant to be even hotter today than it was yesterday, by about 4C, so I’ve opted to ditch the boat and stay where I am – 6 metres walk from the coldest pool in Brisbane. I cleaned it yesterday and it’s an enticing 18C. Brr! Still, given they’re predicting 33C today and I can barely see the horizon for the smoke haze that’s out today, I suspect it’s going to be nasty hot out there. I hate the thought of being on the water in this heat and not being able to get in it. Susie said they no longer swim off the side of the boat since they spotted a 4m tiger shark eating a 1.5m turtle just off the beach at Green Island. The Bloke is the sailing enthusiast, so they will all have fun without me whining about the heat, the jellyfish, and the way my skin would start to wither like a boiling hen in the roasting pan.

    So I’m going to potter about here and do some drawing.
    Yesterday we read the real estate guide and went out to view a few open houses – purely with the idea of stealing some nice landscaping ideas.
    So I’m off to do some sketches of the yuppy courtyard at Paddington, conveniently located just a skip and a hop from the Waxing Salon, before I forget what it was so charmed me while I was in there pretending to be interested in purchasing the sucker. Fark real estate’s expensive on that side of town. As the bloke said, they can’t seriously think you’d pay 1.1million to live in Axe Chopper County.
    Still, I guess you pay for location and the Waxing Salon was very convenient.

  21. It’s all very charming around there, though. You know, the narrow, winding streets where it’s impossible to get a park, and the over-priced cafes where the staff all ignore you because they know that they’re better than you and the last time you were hip was when you threw one out doing aqua aerobics.

    Just kidding, Paddo. I was born and raised round those parts, and headed back with Magic Men when he was an infant, staying round long enough to have Elf Boy before we moved again. I do have a soft spot for the inner west, but the real estate prices are stupid. And surely this new legislation about energy rating houses prior to sale will be the death knell for the Queenslander.

    Sadly, because there’s a lot that’s sensible about Queenslanders: stilts for floods; underneath for hanging the washing and to allow cooling air currents to circulate, wide verandahs for more cooling/kids to play on/adults to get drunk in squatter’s chairs on; huge windows…

    I feel guilty, now. I’d better go and do something nice for my dear little beach shack, in case it noticed me raving about other structures and gets jealous.

  22. Stilts, air circulating underneath, wide verandahs… that sounds dreadfully uncomfortable. I’m glad I’m not a Queenslander.

  23. Hehehe.

    The wider the verandah the…

    No, it’s the Sabbath. I shall refrain.

  24. I’ve never caught anyone pissing in the Valley, and I’ve never been pissed on. Having beer spilled on me… yeah that’s a normal occurrence, but whatever… Seriously people how hard is it to not piss in public? Maybe they should hand out those adult diapers to the offenders… who knows maybe someone would rock it good.

  25. …the more room for dehydrated bull sharks?
    Speaking of dwellings on the flood plains, did Janet ever manage to sell hers?
    I drove by yesterday and noticed the sign was gone.
    And I’ve completely given up on getting any useful information out of twitter.
    Sometime between now and Xmas I’ll find a McCrap Repair shop and send it in for the once over, but I’ll need more motivation than the SMH website and twitter crashing to get me in there.

  26. I have a 50% success rate with Next Byte. If I get the right geek on their hotline, he tells me what to do. Of course, if I get the wrong geek, it’s the same crap: “bring it in and we’ll have a look at it for you. Oh, and bring the paperwork to apply for a second mortgage so you can afford whatever five-second fix we run”.

    You also need to remember that Macs are to computers what Harleys are to motorcycles: Even when you do get the stupid thing running, it takes about two days before something else goes wrong.

  27. How hard can it be? I have a 16 oz ball-peen hammer and a packet of gum. You can fix anything with that. And some baling wire.

  28. Oh, sure. If you’re McGyver.

  29. Welcome, Indie. As for adult nappies, I know Catty and I – but not Quokka, she had more sense – wore harem pants in the 80s. Yeah, like McHammer in the “Can’t Touch This” clip. So we’re fashion forward in rocking a diaper. Hell, I bet we could rock a diaper and colour block at the same time. We’ll be Australia’s Next Top Geriatrics.

    I have no knowledge of Janet’s real estate sitch, Q, but my gut tells me she wouldn’t have sold. I heard you couldn’t give away river-front real estate, so soon after the floods. Maybe after a few dryish summers… or if she threw in an ark, and pairs of useful animals.

    Catty, I got all excited. I thought Next Byte was a new vampire TV show.

    Greybeard, you’re almost right. You omitted duct tape aka 100 mile an hour tape. THAT stuff can fix almost anything. Hell, they it used to say Nascar all over the roll. Now it doesn’t. You don’t think they taped up a Nascar and then it exploded in a dazzling fireball, do you?

  30. Geriatric? But Madam, we’re only 29… ish…

  31. Not sure about the Nascar repairs but it may explain what they do these days to fix WW2 fighter planes.
    If anyone wants me, I’m in the garden, creating filth and throwing old shoes at my enemies.

  32. Oh, yes – silly me. 29. Yes, of course. I can’t think why I keep forgetting. And does anyone else have problems with the ridiculously small print they’re using on signs these days – you know, like the green ones on highways and such?

    Q, have you got a new nude pottery hobby that you haven’t told us about?


    Now I can’t get ‘Unchained Melody’ and Demi Moore out of my head. Looks like it’ll be aspirin for morning tea again.

  33. Arrrgh, me hearty, and what a fine way to spend International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Shiver me timbers, it be a fine day for it.

    But if, like me, ye’d rather be keelhauled than do gardenin’, ye can sail with me to the Carribean – I be off there for some Arrrgh and Arrrgh….

  34. Yaar! Tis the one day o’ the yaar when ye lubbers talk sensible-like. As for Janet, Twitter tells me she’s still there, has changed her agent – and had to tidy up for new photos – and just this morning made a mysterious remark about ‘backpackers’ and ‘conversion’. Could she be planning to unleash hell upon her neighbours?

    Madam you are so right! How did I forget the duct tape. Please don’t tell anyone or they might take away my bloke license. Hairy Greybeardson called in the other day with a smashed headlight cluster and wonky bumper. (On the old Merc, not himself.) Out came the duct tape and we had the remains stuck together, covered up and working. I have taught him well – he commented that one strip was now ‘structural duct tape’. Makes yer proud.

    The ding came via a car that reversed into him, fast, in a shopping centre car park. Luckily he’s sure it was on camera. The driver got out, looked at it and burst into tears. Pete said gently “it’s all right mate” (he’s a softie) but the fellow started picking up the pieces and sobbing “it’s NOT all right”. Lucky his carer was there to calm him down and take charge. Of course we did wonder what he was doing driving a car if he needed a carer but there you go . . .

  35. Oops. HTML fail.

  36. Ah. Twitter is working, and she says it’s the property in New Farm that she’s threatening to convert to a backpackers establishment. Revenge on the neighbours, I think, for complaining about her development application over there. She is getting a new agent for the west end house, GB is quite right.
    Yes, I walk the hound down around yeronga corso and there’s a bit for sale down there that hasn’t budged for months, they can’t even sell the houses on the hill where it didn’t get flooded. All of which became islands and were cut off, of course – which is the only thing I can think of that’s putting the punters off.
    Meh, I’m too hot and muddy to talk like a pirate.
    Unless one of you can produce Johnny Depp, I’m just going to whine like a tired chinese market gardener. I’ve been transplanting bulbs and repotting plants, and contemplating what to try to save in the garden before the bobcat rolls through next winter.
    Somehow I’ve managed to break a few garden tools – ergo, I can see a trip to Bunnings in my future. Please tell me that’s the one safe haven of consumerism where I won’t trip over any festive holidaying children

  37. Our local Bunnings has a dedicated children’s section, and they run activities and events during school holidays. As Bunnings is wider than the seven seas, ye will only have to put up with their whinin’ if ye go to the Davey Jones’s Locker end of the store. Or if one of the little blighters escapes. Arrrgh!

  38. Arrrgh, ye scurvy sea dogs. I’d say ‘avast’ as well, but that seems to be an expression reserved for landlubbers, and that wouldn’t be any of us. Not even Quokka, who prefered Paddo over sailing as recently as yesterday.

    Good job, GB, but I’m sorry to hear that Hairy’s wheels were bingled by a drongo. Carer? If he’d really cared, he would have made sure Weepy Bad-Reverser wasn’t behind the GD wheel!

    Q, I hate to burst your bubble but Catty’s right. They’ll probably be sizzling low-end sausages as well. And have set up a jumping castle in the carpark. Borrow something from Greybeard, instead – what he doesn’t have, he can craft for you out of chopsticks, alfoil and superglue.

  39. Tis true, tis true. I mind the time I steered a Citroen CX down Mt Cootha wi’ a hand-throttle. The lubberly accelerator pedal had snapped off clean and twas nowt I could do wi’ me right foot. So I whipped a length o’ electrical cable from the boot, tied one end to the stump o’ the pedal and fashioned t’other into a loop for me right hand. A pull on the line did accelerate right handily, and thus did we drive home to the great admiration o’ the fair Fifi. I fear that be one o’ the few times the Wench has genuinely admired me McGyverin’ skills – wenches bein’ terrible hard to please wi’ lash-ups & cobble-jobs.

  40. I be not fond of lash-ups, but would gi’ me wooden leg for a good cobble-job. If that be what I think it be….

  41. Hehehe.

    I mean, Aaargh, that be a wunnerfully powerful tale, ye old sea-dog. And Fifi is truly a wench among wenches, to allow ye to drive her down Mt Cootha in a vehicle so gerry-rigged.

    I would have called a taxi from the Summit cafe, myself.

    Catty, I’m not sure if you’re hoping for kinky sex or a lavish helping of a fruity dessert with a patchy, pastry topping. Knowing you, though, I’m backing the fruit cobbler.

  42. Actually, either would be good – so long as there’s whipped cream.

  43. I googled cobble job and it threw up this:
    So I’m guessing this is pirate talk for knitting an aquaman costume while you’re on lookout for the British navy, and other rapscallionly types.
    That would be holidaying children, and you, GB.
    Where is Nbob? If only he would visit us here he’d point out that the last time you came down Mt. Cootha it was with a mule and a dray.

  44. Seems like your google searches are as relevant as mine, Quokka. So, out of curiosity, I also googled Cobble-Job. This is the very first link in the search results:

    Although I am surprised (and relieved) that dwarf porn did not top the list, I can’t help but wonder why on earth Greybeard would attempt to woo Fifi with prosthetics.

  45. I am just going outside. I may be some time.

  46. Since when have you been an Arctic explorer, Greybeard?

  47. I was in fact a member of the last expedition to find the East Pole. And the beard is as much to keep my face warm as it is to hide my identity.

  48. Just don’t eat any polar bear liver pate, GB:

    (1) The poor buggers are endangered.

    (2) The astronomical amounts of Vitamin A they accumulate therein, being apex predators, will cause the skin on your palms and feet to slough off before you die in agony.

    As for prosthetic limbs and the British Navy… thanks. Now I have no difficulty repressing any wayward urges while Mr Underbelly is recuperating.

  49. My father once told me how to catch a polar bear. He says you need to dig a big hole in the ice. Next, you open a bag of frozen peas, and sprinkle them around the edge of the hole. Then when the polar bear comes up for a pea, you kick him in the ice hole.

  50. Catty, I look forward to your collected family memoirs.

    They’d make a great set of commemorative tea-towels.

  51. Oh, don’t get me started. My father is one of those people who think outside the box. Actually, I don’t believe he even realises there is a box.

  52. My father told the same joke, and many more of the same standard. We should swap some. I’m sure Morgana would love it.

    How do you make a Maltese Cross?

    Stick a pin in him.

  53. Bless him. Nor did Oppenheimer.

  54. And Huskies are almost as bad as polar bears for dodgy livers. Makes me wonder about Hannibal Lecter having that fellow’s liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. We are pretty much top predators, even if we are omnivores and some of us do like our supplements. I wonder if anyone has researched the nutritive value of the human liver? Must look into that . . .

  55. How do you make a Venetian Blind?

    Poke him in the eyes.

    Thanks, Greybeard. I needed a laugh. That F… (no, Catty, refrain!) ignoramus Lobes is giving me the SH… pips. I think I’d better stay away from the Burger for a while.

  56. I wouldn’t touch the average human liver with a barge pole.

    Heavy drinkers either have bloated, yellow, greasy fatty livers or hideously scarred, hobnailed cirrhotic remnants. Junkie have switched-on enzymes, and Chthulu only know what nasty blood-bourne infections. And don’t get me started on the flukes and such that a tropical liver can harbour.

    Hmm. I think I’ll have salad for dinner.

    Catty, love, you’re safe here. Try this – I’ve made a new cocktail with ABC chili sauce, a squeeze of lime juice and bacon-flavoured vodka. I call it the “Afterburner”.

  57. Ooooh, that sounds nice. But I might wait a day or two. Last night’s peppercorn chicken was pretty heavy on the peppercorns, and I confess I loaded the lion’s share of them onto my plate. Now I’m burping like a brewery horse, and it’s scaring the kidlets.

  58. Catty you could try Fifi’s excuse. When the ol’ tummy rumbles, she claims to be a Gastromancer – producing the voices of the dead from the belly. That will reassure the kidlets?

  59. Wow! Just visited CBG and read Lobes’ comments. I almost hope he’s a lying troll because if he really thinks that way . . . ! Sociopath perhaps?

  60. Heh heh.
    You’re balm to my overburdened little green fingers.
    I have spent another day in the garden – being that queensland has about 4 weeks of each year where it’s actually pleasant most of the day out of doors and you aren’t likely to keel over with sunstroke, I’m making the most of it.
    What’s lobes done now?
    Catty, I just bought 20 sharp wooden stakes from bunnings. I planned to use them & some Bat Be Gone Mesh to turkey proof my garden but it won’t take much persuading to convince me there’s a much more satisfying use for them.
    Just say the word & I’ll bring the mallet.

  61. Ah yes.
    You have my sympathies, Catty.
    I’d chime in and offer support over there but I’ve long held the view that the only support worth having is that of our host.
    And I doubt JB will bother doing anything about it until the states legislate jail time for the riff raff that shelter attack dogs.

  62. Oh, FFS.

    Well, I went over there for the first time this year, I think, and gave it my best shot, Catty. I’m not even going back to see what Lizardboy makes of my two cents worth, but at least I tried.

    And I agree with you, of course. When you think about it, Lobes’ mother is the most heroic of all of us. Imagine her tucking in his scaly little face every night, making sure his tail was cozy, and suppressing the urge to smother him until he stopped hissing.

  63. I’m off into my garden again and then off for a mammogram so I don’t think I want to ruin the zen of the morning by seeing what latest bit of trollery that oaf has come up with. For myself, I don’t think it’s worth taking him on – he treats JB’s blog page as if it’s his own personal shitting ground and as there’s never any negative consequences for it, these days I assume that he’s simply got JB’s unspoken approval to be as nasty as he chooses.
    Since blunty etc moved to the national times, the only way to keep the comment count up seems to be to engage the trolls, and as JB gets paid when the comment count is up, and Lobes is the commander of his mighty Orc army, I suspect that’s the payoff for JB to having that **** around.
    Which, unfortunately, has driven off most of the people who I originally liked to read & engage with over there.

  64. Thanks for the support. I think you’ve nailed it, Greybeard. Lizard man sure does sound like a sociopath. Or an idiot. At least this time I know better than to give him a piece of my mind – he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Had to laugh at Adam’s comment, though. Clueless, cowardly, narcissistic troll? Hilarious!

    How’s your garden coming along, Quokka? I’m surprised you have any garden at all, what with the scrub turkeys and Irish urine. But it is lovely weather for it. We had a corker on Monday. 29ºC, and the kidlets were whining to get in the pool. “No way, the water’s about 14ºC”, I told them. But they kept nagging until I caved in. They were in their togs and outside in about 30 seconds. It was hilarious! The littlest kidlet shot across the surface of the water on his boogie board – straight to the other side, out of the pool, and into his fluffy warm towel. The middle kidlet jumped straight in and shot up in the air shrieking. I’ve got to hand it to her, she lasted a full two minutes in the water before her chattering teeth made it too hard for her to breathe. The oldest kidlet dipped one foot in, then backed away from the pool and stood there laughing at his siblings. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t far enough away to avoid being splashed by his annoyed sister.

    Somehow I don’t think they’ll be nagging me for a swim for a while. Heh heh heh heh heh!

    Our school holidays start next week. Two glorious weeks of sleeping in and NOT doing home readers. Yay! Are you enjoying your holiday, Madam?

  65. Our pool has crept up from 16C a few weeks ago to 19 today. Much more civilized. But still not enticing enough to jump in when I’m done with the gardening. Too many muscle aches today to get back in the weeding mode and my plans to go forth and poison anything that annoyed me was thwarted by the wind picking up early today. Other than that, when I woke up and looked out over my bird-proofing at dawn, I was pleased to see Garden Enemy Number 1 stroll down the path towards it, eye the bird-net and stakes over my garden with a ‘WTF?’ look, at which point she turned and made for the stairs, in order to attack my pot plants. So I got up and threw both my crocs at her, and she scarpered.
    Note to self: check house plans and add Gun Turret and arsenal holding bay to potting shed.
    I’ll have to check in at CBG and look at the comments, but I think you could write a long list of explanations for Lobes’ behaviour and a team of psychiatrists would tick every box. When he lets rip I’ve noticed that he seems to make lots of mistakes with spelling and punctuation & such, so I suspect whatever is wrong with him, booze, and lots of it, is probably aggravating it. A shame his mother didn’t drown him in the bath, really. Still, it’s never too late for that.

    Isn’t MM a prisoner of the Borg Queen and her spreadsheet terror regime today? Hope she took both kids to punish her.

  66. Does Lobes have a second persona who’s usually more polite? I thought I could remember someone ‘outing’ him in a particularly nasty argument. Can’t be bothered searching. MM could always drop the lads here. Oh the things I could teach them . . .

  67. Isn’t one of him enough to bear?
    I think that was Orin/Blarkon that got outed and ripped into, but I haven’t been at CBG much for a while so I may have missed a lot.
    Can you see me on twitter? It doesn’t seem happy today.

  68. Orin does come to mind. Must be why I’m a bit cautious of him too. And yes, I can see you on Twitter.

  69. Ah.

    Attending business college is great, in that there’s an almost orgasmic feeling of release when I walk down the corridor at the end of another soul-sapping session. And when I wake tomorrow, I can open my eyes and know that I don’t have to go back for another week.

    As for swimming… brrrrr. I plan to go in around – by sheer coincidence – Halloween. Born and bred Queenslanders have thin blood compared to you hardy Southern types.

    Now, hands up who’s looking forward to our upcoming bacon extravaganza? I swear, some of these recent days it’s the only thing that’s keeping me upright and moving vaguely forward.

  70. That would be two virtual hands up. And of course Fifi will want some too. Just back from gathering provisions and have made a great sacrifice. Decided not to convert the tablet to Win 8 till we come back from Melbourne, just in case something goes badly wrong and it’s our only PC! (Fights back feelings of panic at the thought of PClessness).

  71. Ah, Melbourne, jewel of the south.

    You’ll be spending some time in the cosmopolitan chocolate shops, GB, a little bird told me. Just make sure to post plenty of action shots, please.

    Speaking of things overheard on Twitter, when is Chaz day? I was summonsed to attend, but that’s as much as I know.

  72. It must just be a slow day on twitter.
    And yes, I am in for bacon and shop trawling on Monday.
    What time? did someone say 10 or 10.30 am?

    Chaz day is Friday November 11th, Clarence House, I think.
    I think he’s coming over for Bede’s latest production.
    And he wanted to see Humpy out at Redcliffe on the Saturday for lunch.
    I’m keen for pizza on the beach at Redcliffe, lukewarm about dinner at Claret House and I’ll pass on the theatre experience. The last three times I’ve tried to sit through an evening show I’ve dozed off. I’ve given up even pretending to be a night owl, and I’m hoping to persuade Chaz for a morning of bacony goodness while he’s here. Best to be alert around these pommy westie types, you never know what they’ll get up to when they know you’re napping.

  73. Chaz Day appears to be on Nov 11th at The Claret House, time unknown. We went there a little while back by driving to Bulimba & taking the ferry across. It’s just a shortish walk around the corner amongst what Damian called “The Yuppie Storage Facilities”. He and KatKohl were at the last one, with Janet, Beeso, Havock & Mrs H and many more. Not a Chaz Day, just a Burger thing. The 12th is the opening night of “How to be a Man” at the Arts theatre. The Havocks & I think Mayhem, Therbs, Moko and Chaz are going to that, plus others. Can Brisbane survive such a gathering of egos? At least there’s no indication of Lobes attending. Or, sadly, Nowhere Bob. Some day we must meet.

  74. I’m not sure that you and Nbob can co-exist in the same time stream, GB. You know, matter and antimatter…

    Is 10:30 okay with all for brunch on Monday? Since I’m coming down that morning, I want to leave plenty of time for the Bruce Highway to go to hell in a hand-basket and for school holidays and the ever-present roadworks in the Smoke to munt up my timetable.

    Having made such generous allowances, I’ll probably be there, tapping my fingers, at 9:20 – but I’d rather keep myself waiting than you people.

  75. 10.30 sounds fine, assuming that the bushfires aren’t still trying to gas us all to death, I may even be able to squeeze in a swim beforehand.

  76. 10:30? Just in time for breakfast. For those of us of a more lethargic disposition.

  77. The smoke has been amazing, hasn’t it?

    I took advantage of Mum being up to walk the dog at dawn yesterday – leaving the offspring slumbering in their lairs – and the sun was a fluorescent blood-orange disc, hanging ominously in the sky. It was the kind of weather that has you checking over your shoulder for shuffling hordes of the undead, or horsemen in sets of four.

  78. I was up at dawn yesterday and I too looked around to see if the four horseman of the apocalypse were on the march.
    A bit better around here today, if only we’d get some rain.
    Got more tedious homework MM?
    There’s an article in the paper saying homework is a futile exercise for children (well duh, we all know homework gets done by parents, not the small fry) so I think you’ve got a shot at telling your teacher it’s pointless giving it to you.
    Unless of course she just wants you to suffer and that’s the sole point of those courses, isn’t it?

  79. Indeed.

    However, owing to my extraordinary time wastage application last week, I’ve already done this week’s lot and will mail it off later today with a song in my heart.

    Producing the test documents is sometimes interesting – I’ve learnt some good tips and short-cuts. But reading through a workbook and regurgitating answers eg. on OH&S or Business Equipment is eerily reminiscent of the worst aspects of school.

    Oh well – at least I’ve got bacon to look forward to. And I missed ‘The Smurfs’!

    La la lalalala, la la la la la…

  80. We’re on to you, Morgana. Your homework is finished, and your mum is visiting…

  81. I missed the smurfs too.
    Next time I’ll wear my glasses and throw bigger rocks.
    That’ll fix the little rodents.

  82. Awwww, but I like Smurfs!

  83. Don’t they give you indigestion?

  84. Yikes Catty, I missed that.
    One of my sisters was still doing all her children’s assignments all the way through their tertiary education. She was a uni lecturer herself and one day had a big spray session about how lazy her class was and didn’t the stupid little brats realize how obvious it was that their mothers had written their assignments?
    To which the obvious reply was ‘But you write all your kids assignments.’
    Things have never been truly civil between us since I let that one out.

  85. If your sister has a homework skeleton in her closet, she could always say it was him doing the kids’ assignments. “Yep, that’s skeletal research – no bones about it”.

  86. Hehehe.

    Mum do my word processing homework? It’d be like having a child ‘help’ you cook. I’d spend so much time in instruction and cleaning up accidents it would take twice as long.

    She did get the kids breakfast while I slaved, though – thanks, Mum.

    As for Smurfs, they’re cheery little buggers, aren’t they – so what colour do you think they associate with being depressed?

  87. A mopey little shade of dulux called ‘beyond blue’.

  88. Well, my accelerator pedal is depressed frequently, and it’s silver. But I’ve never stepped on a Smurf, so I don’t know what colour it would be if it was depressed.

    Now you’ve got me wondering how you’d tell if a Smurf was holding its breath. Also, if Azrael ate a Smurf, would his urine turn blue?

  89. Probably yes.
    Not that I know who or what Azrael is, but then again I didn’t know who Craig McLachlan is. Meaning I got very confused in the three minutes I watched of ‘In Bed With Julia’ last night when he was wandering around in the garden looking hairy and chesty. I demanded of the Bloke why it was funny and WTF the goose was thinking standing around in the garden without the protection of long sleeves, a sun bonnet, a union, a workplace health and safety lawyer and a fluorescent yellow vest.
    The Bloke didn’t know why it was meant to be funny either so I had to go to google, which told me that if only I’d spent my youth watching Neighbours I’d get the joke (I still don’t get it, maybe I needed to watch the next 27 minutes…yarrrrhh) and now I’m trying to understand why the writers of Under the Flag with Julia would think that the demographic that watched neighbours 20 years ago would now be watching Aunty.
    Wrong, silly writers. Wrong.
    I’m telling you right now that they are all down the muddy farmer, throwing beer cans at each other and threatening random strangers with the pointy end of smashed 4X bottles.
    Much like JB’s blog, this week.
    Hey, maybe I should ask Lobes why Craig McLachlan is funny.
    He knows everything, after all.

  90. And what he doesn’t know, he can look up in the Curious Snail.

  91. Dammit I knew his typos and grammatical errors looked familiar. It’s obvious how he knows so much – He writes for them.

  92. Writes for them? Hell, I heard he’s a sub-editor.

    I haven’t tried to watch The PM Project. First of all, it’s on too late at night… but mostly because reviewers are – unlike Caucus – in complete agreement. With or without What’s-his-chest from Neighbours, it sucks rocks.

    Most importantly, though, I don’t believe it addresses the real question about Ms Gillard – if her main squeeze is a hairdresser, why on earth does he let her leave the house looking like that?

  93. Meanwhile, some bloke has invented a machine that turns any word into a cocktail:

    I have a burning desire to fill it with assorted poisons and make Lobes drink his words. Skol!

  94. Watching Lobes drink his words sounds fine, but watching him choke on them would be better.

  95. I like to imagine him swimming in a vat of hydrochloric acid. But I try not to think about it when the kidlets are home, as my manic laughter worries them.

  96. I think you’d find even Lizard Man would find a bleach and drain cleaner mojito a little jagged on the palate.

  97. You think?
    Given the venom that drips from his tongue you’d think pool acid more than likely ran through his veins.
    When are you coming down, MM?
    Early Monday am, and Jetty Cafe at 10.30am, followed by carousing Oxford Street.
    Best of British dealing with the gits on the highway.

  98. Mmmmm… road kill…

  99. Good point. It would be great if someone could make sure dental science gets his fangs postmortem, don’t you think? Excellent acid wear resistance… unless they’re fake, of course.

    You have my proposed agenda in a nutshell, Q.

    I rarely have trouble on the highway… although I always anticipate it. People leaving here one day got stuck when a tanker carrying sugar somersaulted and then burst into flames! The traffic fun starts as soon as you hit Brisbane. Oh well, I’ll have the children fighting to the death in the back-seat, and the dog trying to take on all comers from the cargo area to distract me.


    Just think of the bacon…

  100. If it all gets too much, I can highly recommend scooping your brains out and replacing them with custard. Or you could play Hot Potato over and over on the car stereo, which would have pretty much the same effect.

  101. No.

    I have something much better to flog on my car CD. Masters of Chant!

    Thanks, Catty. Now I can become Comfortably Numb on the highway.

  102. I’ve been nagging the Boss to get me some Devo, so I can turn the kidlets’ brains into custard on our next day trip. Heh heh heh heh heh.

  103. Whip it
    Into shape
    Shape up
    Get straight…

    Fabulous idea! The young uns wouldn’t know what hit whipped ’em.

    What a shame I don’t still have “I Was A Male Stripper in a Go-Go Bar”. Perhaps Quokka still has the 12 inch. That’d larn ’em to shuffle all over the place.

  104. Dear Dog, I’d forgotten that one.
    Can’t help you with that one, all I have to offer from my days of living with gay boys is my Patsy Cline Collection.
    So you can toss the wiggles out the window and torture the kids by singing along to ‘Crazy’ and ‘I go to pieces’ – every time their car behaviour invokes these sorts of sentiments.

  105. Oh, yes.

    ‘Crazy’! That will drive them… well, crazy. Or if they groove to Patsy, perhaps a little Tammy Wynette:
    My d-i-v-o-r-c-e becomes final todayee…


    See you tomorrow!

  106. And Loretta Lynn, with ‘Don’t come home a-drinkin with lovin on yer mind’.
    Good luck, and see you tomorrow at the jetty.
    Catty, we’ll order an extra plate of bacon for you and we’ll each eat a piece in your honor.

  107. We had the Degenerate Diners here last night. Ooohhhh. Rice paper rolls with curried chicken or tofu, Differently curried drumsticks, beef, noodles and fish. Evil desserts, chocolates, lotsa wines. Bunch of competitive cooks and only three blokes to do the heavy lifting! No breakfast today & spartan lunch. Still have fish with limes & unidentified spices and chook in the fridge. NO tofu though. Next one will be challenging as it’s an American theme and anything fast-foodish or greasy is banned. I think by 10:30 we’ll be able to face breakfast with extra Catty bacon. Actually that didn’t sound terribly appetising did it?

  108. No. No it didn’t.

    But because no breakfast should be Catless, I shall indulge in a smurf load of waffles at 10:30. So enjoy the bacon – I will be nomming with you all in spirit.

  109. That’s awesome… simultaneous gluttony. We should have thought of this before!

    Q, also ‘Wichita Lineman’. For no reason except for the way he breaks into a falsetto so elevated only dogs and children can hear it, in the last syllable of ‘And the Witchita lineman, is still on the lyiiiiiiiine!’

    Catty, speaking of both types of music, why have we not heard any of your APRA cheque-clearing compositions? Kindly post an MP3 ASAP – maybe you could serenade us at brunch!

    GB, the only Seppo dishes I know that aren’t deep fried are gumbo and chowder. I’d do chowder if I was you – there’s something, erhm, very intimate about okra that I find disturbing, in the context of a bowl of stew.

  110. Catty, forget waffles – I just read this:

    Make French toast out of donuts! Yes, glazed ones.

    Brisvegas chapter, do you think we could persuade Lock ‘n Load to make these for our Christmas party? I noticed to my mild amazement that they’re following me on Twitter, so I can always send them a tweet of enquiry.

  111. Heheh. WTF is that? I saw the Help at the cinemas last week and it looks like a mold of frozen pink Crisco. What do you propose we do with it, take it to CBG, leave it sit till things heat up again & film them doing pink crisco oil wrestling?

    I’ve forgotten all about that ghastly falsetto & become a fan of the wichita linesman thanks to the awesome bluesy vocals of Cassandra Wilson:

    I’m off into the garden to water my netted plants and throw sneakers at brush turkeys. I will see you all at Bacon O’Clock. Catty, we’ll have a moment’s silence as we wash down our bacon & think of you suffering home alone on school holidays. Then again, at least there’s no packed lunches.

  112. Most school days I am screaming uselessly at sleeping kidlets until 8:30. Today, the first day of the holidays, they’re all up before 7. Children are perverse creatures. Well, I can do perverse, too. The waffles shall be mine. All mine!

    Sadly, the donut french toast will have to wait until I actually have donuts. That isn’t going to be today – it would take a team of rabid elephants to drag me to the shops on the first day of school holidays.

    Happy nomming, y’all.

  113. My but that was nice and so was the shop-walk afterwards. Thank you Q for suggesting & organising. I’ve been filling in the tiger-tra, um doing some book-sorting but I do look forward to Madam’s dear boys coming to visit. I’ll try to make sure the experience is unforgettable . . .

    The book places were for the new stuff and for 2nd hand/out of print.

    The software for iView recording is at
    and he also has sbsnapper and P7napper for their respective catch-up sites. Windows only (take that beeso & birmo!)

  114. Mmm… what a fabulous day! Thank you all. By the time I wandered back to Grandma’s, racked with pangs of maternal guilt, the offspring were happily up a mulberry tree. I should have made it an entire weekend!

    Thanks to for the geekery, Sir GB. As soon as I get home I’ll start nicking stuff from Auntie.

    As for Cassandra WIlson… smooth. Any relation to Brian Wilson, AKA the crazy Beach Boy?

    Off for an infusion of Torres Strait art. Brace yourselves for more raving about the joys of our State galleries and museum. Perhaps Qld Health should second some South Bank functionaries? I’ve never been ramped at GOMA, even for big ticket shows like the Surrealists.

  115. Yes it was a lovely day. Perhaps we could entice PNB out that way for waffles & bacon when he’s here (dis)gracing our fair state.
    Greybeard, I put you in charge of spying on his schedule so that we can see if it’s possible to take him off on an adventure to meet some Mullumbimbos (that is still funny because Catty hasn’t heard it).
    the 23rd October, wasn’t it?
    I’ll go check & see what markets are on around then in NNSW.

  116. There’s the market info:
    Looks like Bangalow markets are on the 4th sunday (23/10) and there’s 5 sundays in that month, so no markets on the 5th Sunday.
    Bangalow is always a fun trip. Wish we could take him to the Channon, the Mullumbimbo Madness is a permanent fixture there.

  117. Here I sit, scratching my head at ‘in’ jokes I don’t understand. Either that or I have nits.

    • Thanks Catty! You said the “n” word (skritchskritchskitch). Check out Mullumbimby, one of the rural hippie havens of NNSW and shrieking with Mullumbimbos.

  118. Yes, do tell PNB he hasn’t lived until he’s mingled with the Mumble Bimbos.

  119. Crap. Why am I scratching?
    Catty I’m going to start dosing you with Frontline every time you say the N word.
    Thanks for the link Evil One. I’ve found Trixie Beldens for $4 each (paperback I assume) plus postage from the US which is fine for my Back To Childhood Aunt Irma time therapy. Much better than the $85 they tried to charge me at Amazon. There are a whole stack of things that I remember fondly from childhood that are out of print (Wish for a Pony & Norah of Billabong)and I’d be more than happy to reread them on kindle – but am scared to ask JB’s Geeks lest I be laughed out of the room. It’s my secret shame – rereading all those British/American stories of childhood that were passed down from older sisters and cousins and even aunts.
    Are any of you old enough to remember Campfire Girls?

    I tell you, if I still had all the collectable readables my evil stepmother chucked out I’d be worth a fortune.

  121. I love AbeBooks. They have some marvellous stuff. I’ve begun collecting some of the old paperbacks that I loved in my younger years. It’s much quicker and infinitely more productive than hunting through op shop book racks.

    Can I borrow your Frontline, Quokka? I need it to douse the Boss, who has announced that he isn’t working tomorrow, so ‘we’ are taking the kidlets to the show. Madness. Madness, I tell you! I’ve tried to explain that losing a day’s pay is bad enough, but it will cost us $80 just to get in the gate, plus the train ride into the city, plus $12.50 per Show Me The Money Bag, plus rides, plus Dagwood Dogs, plus a small fortune in sideshow alley for the laughing clowns and claw machines…. claw machines…. claw….

    Excuse me. I’m off to the bank to take out next month’s mortgage payment.

  122. I’ve got some Billabong books somewhere Q (I think) but can’t find them. Found some old Anne of Green Whatsits though, which look quite old. If you have a look there, I think there are three.

  123. Mullumbimbos is still funny, I don’t care how often you say it.

    And thinking about a blood-gorged wombat stuck to a hapless person’s arse had me chuckling aloud at the dinner table last night for no immediately apparent reason. So I got to go to bed early without having to wash up. Nothing but win!

    Catty, have a fabulous time at the Show. Every time you start to think that if you wanted to waste money, make kids hurl and get everyone overtired you could have just stayed home and run laps of the house, and then had a little barbie of out-of-date seafood that you started with fifty dollar notes, just squinch your eyes tight shut, squeal ‘whee!’ and have some more fairy floss. Think on it as research – I’d like it if you could report back and the number and variety of deep-fried foodstuffs available. With pix and tasting notes.

  124. Yes, do be on the lookout for those slabs of deep fried battered butter.
    If you find them, we’ll know that America’s colonization of our wide brown land is at last complete.

  125. MM, Duh, I’m an idiot.
    You know how we hunted all over for fruit flans for Elf Boy?
    They sell them at the bakery next to Coles at the Gabba. And they look fabulous – something to remember next time you’re down my way and the boys are feeling fruity.

  126. Hehehe. Deep fried battered butter. Try saying that three times fast after you’ve drunk a bottle of vodka. No, really – I dare you!

    Q, not at all. Because then I never would have got to Avid Reader, to purchase “Madonna of the Toast” from the sale table. I thought it would be a gag book about silly people and their misshapen tortillas, but it’s actually quite an erudite essay about perception and the nature of human existence. With colour pictures of crazy people and their chip collections. My only regret is that I passed on the Sex encyclopaedia, and couldn’t decide about typewriter necklaces… Lock N Load in a few months time, anyone?

  127. True, true, and I would never have seen that encyclopedia of hypochondria.
    Avid is one of those things about living here that I treasure.

    Yep, I’m keen to sus out the new garden renovations at Lock n Load and find out just how effective those polycarb roofs are at blocking the heat of the summer sun. Probably depends on the green star rating of the product, I guess.

    GB, thanks for the tip about those book sellers.
    I meant to point you in the direction of kotobuki sushi – it seems a bit mean to wait till our next gathering to take you there, thus depriving you of at least 6-10 weeks of fishy goodness.
    It’s at 3/53 Latrobe street, on the corner of that and Lytton Road opposite Mowbray Park. You just have to sidle down the alley between subway and the Fish shop – might be worth a stopover next time you and Fifi are on the way home from one of your Oxford Street jaunts. Just don’t stop there at normal feeding times as JB’s tweets about it have made it so popular that there’s a queue out of the alley. Best time to stop is 2-4 pm.

    Why am I having so much trouble waking up today? Is venus in orbit around a cosmic fly trap or something? And is that dark cloud on the horizon really rain, or is it just the cloud of gloom that Aunt Irma kicks up as she rides in from the West, where all wicked witch type aunts naturally reside.

  128. The Sun is squaring Pluto today, so try not to do anything. Or if that proves impractical, just do it very, very carefully.

    We haven’t heard from Catty today. I’m a bit concerned that she’s:
    (a) Trapped at the top of the Ferris Wheel, with only a Bertie Beetle bag for sustenance;
    (b) Trapped inside a claw machine, having tried to crawl up the shute to get straight to the goodies;
    (c) Lying somewhere in a puddle of grease, in a saturated fat coma;
    (d) In jail, following all of the above.

  129. Gee, that’s a worry, can you get bail to release you from debtor’s prison?
    I think she’s home in bed with a killer migraine, show remorse, and a near empty bottle of vodka hanging from her limp claw-worn hands.
    Thanks for the astral tips, you must be psychic – I think you’ve summed up my plan for today.
    I went out to get myself a faloumi (falafel + haloumi wrap) from West End, and now I’m settling onto the couch to watch ‘Paul’ – being that I fell asleep 5 minutes into the film last night. It’s hilarious.
    The Bloke requires fetching around 3pm as he has to take himself off to the Dentist. Fun.
    Other than that the high point of my day has been seeing that Andrew Bolt & the Herald Sun lost their case for free speech v. racist eugenic slander.
    I hope he slips and lands in a dog smurf on his way home from the courts.

  130. Yes, sucks to be Bolt. My fave part of the verdict was that he was to apologise, or the judge would force his paper to print an apology. I bet that will sting Ol’ Bolty worse than the inevitable civil damages claims.

    Paul is awesome, we loved it. Sure, the children’s language was a nightmare for a week or so afterwards, but those comic book nerds were fabulous characters. Still, they’ve forgotten all about alien potty mouth, now they’re cursing a blue streak. Literally.

    Wish the Bloke well at the dentist. I don’t suppose it would help if you sung him ‘Be a Dentist’ from ‘Little Shops of Horrors’ all the way there?

  131. He just had a scale and polish. No need for sympathy today.
    Besides, I’m busy helping the twitterverse think up accessories for the John Birmingham Action doll.
    Trolls and sock puppets sold separately and shipped from the US.

  132. Unlike Lobes who goes in to have his scales polished?

    Maybe you could include these (link sent by one of my stinkin’ daughters).

    And no, before anyone asks. Just, no.

  133. Well, he’d need a grappling hook to skim unconscious bunnies out of the hot tub. And – since he’s such a geek he’s got a whole blog about it – a t-shirt that reads “My other car is a DeLorean”.

    Love the emergency underpants. Wouldn’t it be great if you could have them printed with a personal message. You know, “Thinking of You” or “Happy Anniversary”.

    And did you see these?

  134. hehee. Yep, I saw those & thought of JB & his radio show.
    Not that I’ve heard much of it.
    Still enjoying Bolt’s displeasure at the verdict and the SMH’s gloating that he should count himself lucky it was one class action and not 9 individual defamation cases. Which, if he pushes his luck, it may yet turn into.
    Funny how there’s so many idiots out there who cannot tell the difference between free speech and defamation and Abbott of course is up on his high horse at the front of that charge.
    I wonder if Catty’s still stranded at the top of the Ferris Wheel at the Melbourne Show? Apparently they had their wettest ever day in September yesterday – flash floods, power outages – wet wet wet. It is starting to look suspiciously like she is responsible for some of these gushing downpours. Perhaps it would be wise, in the event that we get down there for a tete a tete at some chocolate conference, to pack thigh high galoshes and some industrial strength floaties.
    Supposedly we’re in for it today.
    I am off visiting a girlfriend, unless of course it looks like turning into Melbourne Weather, in which case there’s always the couch and my books.
    MM, can’t remember where we were discussing it but the park at 17 mile rocks I meant was The Rocks at the site of the old cement factory. I still don’t know if it’s all back in action after the floods, I imagine they would have made quite a mess of it.

  135. Free speech, my arse. They just want the freedom to slag off anyone who isn’t an over-privileged, right-wing, upper middle-class white man. Suck it up, Bolty.

    I think it’s the same place, Q… not far from where Amazons water park used to be, way back in the last century. I agree, you’d think it would have been devastated by the flooding. Then again, as a water park, perhaps an industrial strength hosing and some new sand in the playgrounds fixed it up.

    Still, all of this costs man-hours and money… I was just thinking when we were down, the floods really must have been a nasty shock for the BCC’s budget figures. It’s a wonder things are as back to normal as they are.

    Happy visiting. I will ignore the children while I plow through my latest crop of new-release pulp. Have I mentioned how much I love our regional libraries?

  136. Yes, I’m alive. Please excuse the nervous tic. A full… well, slightly abridged… o.k – heavily edited version of events will be posted at the Corner just as soon as I work out how to download the photos from my iPhone.

    I’m also trying to work out those instant underpants. If you add water, they’ll be wet. That doesn’t make sense – the big selling point is having a spare pair in case you wet your pants, right? So why would you want to take off your wet pants to put on another pair of wet pants? You might as well forget the instant pants and keep wearing your original wet pants. That way there’ll be more room in your pocket for keys, butterscotch and lint, AND you won’t have to find a change room.

    Does the JB action figure have bandaids for the sunspot removal scars? A disco ball? A small piece of Lego with “Writer” written on it? (Come on, you MUST have heard of Writer’s Block…)

  137. Hehehe… writer’s block.

    Thank Gaia you’re back, Catty. I was beginning to think the malevolent faeries had finally overcome you.

    Here in commando world, I don’t understand any of the emergency undies. Why not just discard the offending undergarments and proceed au naturel? In case you have a second accident, I suppose… Ladies, we have all of this to look forward to. * Shudder* Shall we do a communal round of Kegel exercises? And squeeze, two, three, four. Relax.

  138. Squeeze, two, three, four…

    This is the most bizarre conga line I’ve ever been in.

  139. What, you’ve given birth to four children and you’ve never been in an incontinence conga line before?
    We’re awaiting the story of the horrors of your day, Catty.
    have just spent the last hour attempting to bird proof a bit more of the garden.
    Thought I’d have to call the tree loppers yesterday but I’m not sure it’ll do much good, we’ve just got a stupid bird who can’t figure out where to build a mound – basically because there’s no place suitable for one, despite the rich array of crap available in the flats behind & bog hollow next door.
    So far this weeks he’s changed his mind three times about where to cart his pile of shit.
    Tomorrow we are off to bunnings to get some turf to roll out over the last few remaining flower beds. He doesn’t seem to like turf & I figure if I can protect it for long enough to get it established, once there’s no dirt or fallen leaves to get at he may FK off and go bother someone else.
    FK I hate brush turkeys, with a passion that has nothing to do with the pinched nerve in my sacrum or Aunt Irma’s imminent arrival.
    Pass the chocolate.
    And if you have any empty vodka bottles, feel free to throw them at the bird and shriek hysterically. If we’re all doing it, perhaps I’ll look a little less certifiable & almost normal.

  140. Oh, is that the time of the month?

    That explains my lousy mood and lower back pain. Fine, I’ll empty a vodka bottle for you. Although I may leave a nip or so in the bottom, insert a strip torn off a tea-towel, ignite it and then fling it at the fools across the road from me. The ones who start playing stupid doof-doof before 9 a.m.

    WTF are they doing at that time in the morning that needs a driving bass beat and >100 bpm? Surely you can take a crap, shower and eat Weetbix without DJ Smurfhead and his party popping crew?

    Yes, I am officially an old fogey.

  141. Welcome to the club. And now you’re here, tell those damn kids to get off my lawn.

  142. What kids?

    I thought they were some of those new-fangled, solar-powered gnomes. Where did I put my glasses?

  143. Put one of these on your lawn. Should attract even more of them? Or Q could just paste a few non-structural brownies on the outside.

  144. Eh? Did someone mention All Bran?

  145. Oh no, I can’t be eating All Bran. Those little flakes get stuck under my dentures.

    Try some Metamucil. It’s nice and smooth.

  146. Can’t you tell time, girlie? It’s 6:00pm. Dearie me, it’s past my bed time. Oh, wait, that’s the clock that stopped in 1971. Ah, 1971. I remember it well. Back in those days, television was in black and white. Froot Loops weren’t. They were pink, yellow and orange. None of this green, purple and blue nonsense. Food has no business being blue. Not even blueberries are blue. They’re purple. Like this bruise on my shin. See that bruise? I got that kicking some young punk’s car. I’ll give HIM doof-doof! Oh, hello nurse. Is it time for my meds already?

  147. Mmm… meds.

    Well, the 2011 cricket season is off to a flying start. We’ve just spent an hour hanging around an empty oval. Got home, checked the draw and it was the right empty oval… but we were the only ones that showed up. Does that mean Coolum wins by a forfeit, do you think? Sure, we only fielded one player but surely that beats none at all.


  148. Sporty Spice I’m not. Watching cricket bores me to tears, and I only watch football occasionally for the perv value. Every year, the onset of various sport seasons means nothing to me but one less TV channel to surf. And every year, the football and cricket seasons start earlier and earlier. I’ve always said that eventually the twain shall meet, and I was right. Who in their right mind would schedule the first day of cricket season on footy grand final day?

    I declare you the winner, Madam. Here, have a trophy.

    Now we can go back to watching Get Smart reruns. Ah, quality television….

  149. Meh.
    Give me your empty cricket field, that I will know peace.
    The AFL parties are about to start here, all over the neighbourhood I can smell BBQs firing up.
    The bloke has just trundled off 2 blocks with about 6kg of German sausages and will not return until he’s capable of remembering who he is and where he lives….I’m considering leaving and watching a disney movie and pretending it’s not happening.
    Except Aunt Irma has arrived, and we have all spent the morning at 1. Bunnings and 2. in the back yard, turfing over the last of my remaining flower beds.
    So I really should stay home for the rest of the day and shift the sprinkler every fifteen minutes so that the turf survives. Wonder if the stupid bird will attempt to steal turf?
    Caught him in my pot plants trying to make off with my last remaining zygo cactus this morning.It’s about 2 inches long and I repotted it in memory of the fallen. I’m telling you, if that’s the best he can do, you’d think he’d know he’s in trouble. At least the females have stopped coming in here, they flee from him every morning hissing ‘Noooooooooooo’ and head off to look for smarter breeding material.
    Unless they decide to branch out into other species and have drunken sex with some of the inmates next door, I think the girly birds are shit out of luck.

  150. I often look at scrub turkeys and think that Charles Darwin probably failed to make their acquaintance before writing ‘The Origin of the Species’. Surely they represent sheer blind luck of the draw, rather than the triumph of superior genetic material?

    Or, if scrub turkeys are indeed the pinnacle of their kind, I’d hate to see the earlier models. Probably so stupid they hatched out and then ran around until they knocked themselves unconscious on any handy hard vertical surface, the better to be consumed by ravenous predators. Meat ants, for example.

    Catty, good luck for grand final weekend. I think original Charlie’s Angels is on when Get Smart’s over. That, or Dukes of Hazzard.

  151. I do sympathize, honest. They can be trying with potted plants. The only thing that worries me (but it’s a BIG worry) is the possibility of the offspring of an exceptionally stupid turkey (she’d have to be) and an Irish backpacker. Some kind of large, noisy, foul-mouthed, drunken, claw-footed, clumsy garden-wrecker? Perhaps it (or they) would rake up piles of busted furniture and empty bottles into some kind of shelter or nest in your back yard? Then breed in it. While drunk and singing. I think “abomination” is the word I’m looking for.

  152. Ghastly.

    I lived next to chimeric abhorrences exactly as you describe, GB, in North Ipswich. Their primitive shelter was largely constructed from rusted white goods and 44 gallon drums, and their effluent certainly put paid to much of my garden. I always attributed their subhuman intelligence and odd habits to a combination of cheap alcohol and expensive drugs of the stimulant class, but they could have been an outrageous turkey-human hybrid.

    Actually, know I remember them, I can’t be sure about the human part of the equation.

  153. Oh to have the know-how to post twitpix.
    There’s half a broken chair on the bird’s mound AND a collection of empty bottles and cans – logical as the place he’s gathering his mess is right behind where the Irish nest at Bog Hollow.
    Greybeard, you only know this because the evil being is fitted with Turkey Cam.

  154. You have to open an account with one of the photo hosts, Q, flickr (no e) or tumblr (also no e, what’s with that?) for example.

    Post the pix there, then you tweet the link to your pix. If the link’s too long, go to and they’ll shrink it for you.

    And there you are. Or will be.

    Poor turkey, though. All that broken glass will muck up his nest temperature. Has he – fingers crossed – left your new turf alone so far, Quokka?

  155. I haven’t yet made it as far as finding the cords from the camera and learning how to transfer it to the computer. The bloke does that, about every three years.
    I don’t think the bird likes me being out in the yard so he’s unlikely to bother me given that I’m shifting the sprinkler on the turf every 15 minutes.
    He’s not mounding properly, being young and stupider than most, so has a pile going in the flats and another pile going in Bog Hollow. Which is why I decided against getting the tree loppers. There’s really not enough shade for a functioning mound & I’m hoping he’ll figure this out & sod off once things heat up a bit.
    We’re heading off for breakfast at the Jetty so now’s his chance to destroy the yard. I’ll report in when I get back and let you know if the turf and my 3 inch stub of zygocactus are still where I left them. So, did you get an apology from the cricket coach/high king sports master of Coolum or was he too busy throwing stubbies at the television as Collingwood went down?

  156. Turkey problems? Two words: Spit Roast.

  157. Mmm… spit roast. Make mine jerk beef, please. I don’t really know what ‘jerk’ is… some spicy Jamaican marinade, I think… but I just like saying it.

    No word yet from the rest of the cricket team. I suppose all will be made clear on Tuesday at training. Or not. I’ll say this for Sensei Michael – karate is ALWAYS where and when he says it will be. I do appreciate a ruthlessly organised dojo.

    Give my love to the French toast, Q. Aunt Irma and I will be on the couch with chips, snarling our way through the last day of the school holidays.

    What are your plans for next week, Catty?

  158. A male explain himself when he’s inconvenienced you? This should make interesting reading.
    Move over on the couch and pass the chips, please.
    The jetty was packed out so we came home for baked beans on Sols bread.
    Not a Plan B, but now I’m in a very dirty house that requires cleaning. And I crave fudge and am accompanied by a strange being who has never craved fudge in his life.
    Cats refusing to settle down and to go to sleep as the winter sun has left the house and they can’t find a bright patch anywhere. They seem almightily pissed off that the apparent temperature on the porch, when you factor in the wind chill, (moving at 20+km/h) is 13.5C.
    How do you explain climate change to cats?

  159. This coming week will be a flurry of playdates, birthday parties, doctors’ appointments and car repairs. And here I was hoping to clean out the kidlets’ bedroom closets these holidays. Huh. Like that’s going to happen – every spare minute this week will be spent making fudge. Then eating fudge. Then whining about how someone ate all the fudge. Then making more fudge.

    Re: explaining climate change to cats.

    You don’t.

    You merely make offerings of the finest Atlantic salmon, light fires for them on cold days, fan them with palm fronds on hot days, ensure that the comfiest spot on your bed is permanently vacated just for them, and always have a bare limb available for them to scratch when it all gets too frustrating.

    You know, like every day.

  160. With fish, Q. Anything involving cats goes better with fish.

    Have a happy fudging holiday, Catty. I’ve got a bit of terror building about this last term. What with the usual mess, there’s also two lots of cricket, the damn cricket canteen, zombie college and the school carnival to factor in. I’m starting to wish I could be run over a bit – just enough to fracture my pelvis so I can have a restful month or so in traction.


    It’s not going to happen, is it? Still, at least I’ve got chips.

  161. I don’t have chips. Aunt Irma ate them. Bitch.

  162. Whoops, wrong thread. Nothing to see here. Don’t mind me, I’ll just let myself out.
    (Funny story though. Some friends dropped in yesterday to return a borrowed kb & mouse – sad tale involving wine in a laptop. Anyway there was a turkey on the footpath and they asked if he was the famous Colin. So I said “let’s see” and snapped my fingers. Colin (for it was he) came running through the bushes and straight up to my feet. You should have seen their faces. Mingled disbelief and horror. How I did laugh.)

  163. I’d be horrified if a Colinator with sophisticated weaponry and webcam hat ran at me, too. And I’m not even the type who keeps wine in their laptop.

  164. You know, you must be the only bloke in Australia with a tame scrub turkey, GB. Is there video up on YouTube? You could be the Turkey Whisperer. In fact, why not claim to be able to commune psychically with the little bastards… you could then charge a motza touring from mound to mound, advising them where not to scrape.

    As your agent, I’ll only need 20% plus residuals.

  165. Careful with the fine print on that MM, otherwise you’re 20% will end up being a selection of failed GM rat experiments and the residuals will be a can of rusted fish hooks.

  166. And a possum skull.

  167. I wouldn’t mind a possum skull.

    With a bit of tulle and some rhinestones, it would make a fabulous fascinator for Melbourne Cup Day.

  168. Shh. Not so loud, we don’t want to give Princess Bea any bright ideas.

  169. Hehehe.

    Speaking of royal weddings, who would have thought a footballer would cheat on his wife? Poor Zara Phillips.

  170. From what I saw of Hoppy’s carwash trash magazine collection this morning, Who would indeed think of such a thing and then they’d make a fortune publishing the sordid details.
    Not that I read the Who weekly today, thanks to the competition from all the footballer’s wives who beat me to the mag rack, I had to make do with last week’s Woman’s Day & today’s Courier mail.
    Argh. I think I’ve blanked it all out, at least, I hope so – trauma therapy doesn’t come cheap. And I’m hoping that’s the last I’ve seen of a gossip magazine for some time to come – my yearly mammogram came back normal.They found a lump last time and I feel very blessed to know that little FKR has FKD off, which means no follow up trip to QE2 to spend hours catching up on celebrity gossip & awaiting the words ‘Thin needle biopsy’.
    Double yay, my back has been restored to order by the one man on earth I couldn’t possibly live without – my osteopath.
    Hallelujah, give me a hot bath and a cup of tea (I’ve already had the brownie) & I will be back at the front line, fighting evil in all it’s forms, and most particularly in the shape of Greybeard’s Satanic Flock of garden wreckers.

  171. My latest find was an Echidna skull (well a whole skeleton really).!365&authkey=yAtnvKvELi8%24

    If my new Skydrive works, you should see the skull, plus the old 70’s clothes I found in the attic. Just the thing for a cup day outfit? Good luck.

    I’ve also set up my, erm, totally legal downloading computer so I can remote in and set up new downloads, copy files etc whilst we’re away. Also activate the self-destruct mechanism.

  172. Oops. The foot-like object in some of those photos is there for scale. Deliberately.

  173. I bet you looked divine in the pants suit, Greybeard. So, what accessories did you wear with it? It’s a pity you didn’t know Madam in those days – she could have fashioned you a darling headpiece out of that skull.

    It’s also a pity Quokka didn’t memorise the contents of this morning’s Curious Snail. Then she and Lobes would have had plenty to chat about.

    Only kidding, Quokka. We all know it would take multiple heavy blows to the head for your IQ to drop that low.

  174. If I was forced to have a conversation with Lobes trust me, the blows to the head would be self induced, because other than high doses of pethidene there’d be no other way to cope with it.
    Speaking of newsworthy items did you see that Nbob was in the boat that rescued that baby whale off Rainbow Beach on the weekend? photos at his blog, and I posted a video on twitter.
    I was much taken with the long handled knife they used to cut the calf free. Now we know who to call next time there’s a big stinky troll clogging up the sewers over at CBG, and we want it dispatched ASAP.

  175. We also know who to call when Magic Man is running low on Lego.

  176. Congratulations on your lump-free tits. Q! And a golf clap for the osteopath. I assume you’re steering clear of the Pilates Lair of the Rampaging Snot Goblin from now on, in the interests of sacral health?

    GB, it wasn’t a tragic flood death, I hope? Poor little Spike. As for vintage garb, what you really need this season is a safari suit. Or dress shorts worn with long socks. It’s been too many decades since I saw a grown man wearing shorts with long socks. What was the idea with that look, anyone know?

    Catty,only six sleeps to go. Hang in there, luvvie.

    Well done, Nbob! Now if he could do something about the plague of yuppies up there, our waters would be safe. Good to know he’s got a big knife.

  177. I’m not getting anything productive done these holidays. The house should be spotless, what with all this slave labour being home from school, but it’s just not happening. Do you reckon if I taped a PSP to the Hoover, the carpets would finally get vacuumed?

    I’m dreaming, aren’t I? And no, I’m not going to do it myself. Perish the thought!

    Maybe I should bake a cake instead? Yes, that sounds like a plan.

  178. If I wasn’t afraid that my electronic transmissions being intercepted by Child Services, I’d post photos of the state of my living room, two days after the children have been back at school. Half the linen cupboard is still all over the floor from fort and nest building, there’s more Lego on the floors than there are tiles, I keep finding soiled plates and cups in odd places…

    I’d go on, but I’ve started to upset myself.

    I COULD have cleaned today, but a girlfriend came round and we ate chips… has anyone tried the new Cheezels bacon rashers?… and sushi and chatted for hours instead. And now I’m blogging. I’d clean up tomorrow, but there’s college.

    Hehehe. Thursday I’ve got a meeting. Can anyone think of a good excuse for Friday?

  179. Yes, the cats will need to do at least 6 hours straight on your lap to reassure them that all is as it should be in their world.

  180. You must also do some grocery shopping on Friday. It would be a dreadful calamity if you ran out of Lindt on a Saturday night. It has to be done on Friday, as you will be too busy to go shopping this weekend – there’s a certain cricket coach that needs skinning and gutting.

  181. And flaying, don’t forget the flaying.

  182. Speaking of flaying, the story’s been partially fleshed out.

    According to the coach’s son, the match was called off due to forfeit at the last moment. Which goes a long way to explaining why we were the only ones on the oval on Saturday morning, but still begs the question of why we weren’t notified.

    Off to training soon, where all should be revealed.

    Who wants a coach-skin cap?

  183. Only if it puts the lotion on its skin.

  184. Better make the lotion dettol, given which piece you’re likely to take out of him.

  185. Oh, I think the flaying might remove the worst of the grot.

  186. Back at hotel after 2 pints Guinness with Evil Spawn & fiends & lovely pasta & wine in laneway joint with fifi. Trip going well except Fifi found shoes. Campers? never mind. wheeee! xx

  187. For a man so fiercely proud of his rugged Northern ancestry, our dear GB is a two pot screamer. Lovely to hear that he’s enjoying fair Melbourne, though. I eagerly await a review… should that be an unwrapping?… of the Mummy Exhibition.

    Okay, for those of you who are on the edges of their ergonomic chairs with anticipation waiting to hear the outcome of the Great Cricket Debacle, wait no longer (Warning: the following contains no lotion or scenes of ultraviolence).

    The opposition, who were allegedly at home, didn’t have the pitch ready. They said they could have it ready for a match from 12 to 3 pm, but most of our parents had prior commitments to getting pissed and watching the footy at that time. So the match was a forfeit, but now the cricket association must determine who forfeited. Technically, we believe it was the opposition, because they should have been ready to roll at 8 am. This drama played out in a series of emails during the week, of which I was blissfully unaware, because the coach was sending them to a Morgana McLeod (missing the a in ‘mac’). He apologised so profusely that I couldn’t even bring myself to scathe him verbally, let alone take it out of his hide.

    And somewhere out there in cyberspace, Morgana McLeod is wondering why she’s being kept up to date with the movements of the Coolum U11s-playing-as-U12s-for-the-2011-season.


  188. Disappointing indeed. There has been a decided lack of bloodshed this week. Strange how that coincides with Greybeard’s trip south – which isn’t on my calendar, by the way. If I’d known, I could have been in that dark alley with Greybeard and Fifi….

    This may actually be a good thing. But I’m still disappointed.

  189. And here I was looking forward to my new coach skin cap.
    Just goes to show you how bloodthirsty we all become when Aunt Irma comes to visit.
    I’ve promised a friend (moved here from Perth to a unit down the road) a trip to a nursery for lunch and to hunt for a pot plant to liven up her unit. Are there still such things as nurseries after ten years of drought or would I be better off telling her we’re off to chase unicorns, do you think?

    • I am not either a two pint screamer, After those and some red, I sprang lightly from our virtuous bed bright and early at 9:30. I blame DST. We quickly headed to a shoe shop(wha? $300!!!!) where we bought nothing. Yet. Now waiting – patiently, as is the way of men – for Fifi to have ‘er ‘air done. Thanks to magical interweb technology, I’m logged on to one of the home PCs for mail porpoises and seeing what’s planned for Boylan. Ouzeri sounds great, we’ll be there. Fifi has decided she wants to make a fascinator with turkey feathers and the echidna skull for MCD party. Sorry Madam but she’s a bully.

  190. There are definitely some nurseries still extant… maybe if you look to the ‘burbs? I know there’s one in Bardon, for example, but surely there are others. As for the unicorns, you can get unicorn in a tin from ThinkGeek, but that’s not much of an excursion.

    Take her to GOMA – tell her I said it’s a garden of the imagination.

    Enjoy your southern climes, GB. Fifi’s welcome to the skull fascinator. My plans for MCD are the same as any given Tuesday – ignore the housework, stroke the cats, read as much as possible. For that, I don’t need headgear.

  191. Oh, and Catty. I would never come to Melbourne without telling you. In fact, I’m planning to come and STAY with you.

    Won’t that be marvellous?

    Sorry, did the Boss just yelp so loudly I could hear it from up here?

  192. Sorry Catty, I’ve been burbling about the trip over on twitter & forgot to mention it. Looks like we might be having a small gathering next Tuesday, if we survive.

    A solid day of shopping & getting the hair done makes a girl peckish it would seem. There are two photos below, one illustrating a “Chocolate Tapas plate” with churros & brownies & stuff. The other of Fifi I call “I don’t share!”

    I must remember not to touch her choccies, even after the fork-holes in my hand have healed.!392&authkey=VRCMTmQPSQI%24

  193. We are still talking of going down to Melbourne to see the Tutankhamen exhibition but due to the pain and suffering involved in getting the zoo creatures to an alternative zoo location, we’re thinking of doing a day trip. (5am till late) Which won’t leave much time for socializing, as part B of that plan involves going to someplace (probably in whoop whoop) where I can see a display of the terrazzo tiles I want to use in our sunroom.
    Every time we think we’ll do it, some other massive bill hits us and we think better of the idea, though.
    And considering how close I live to GOMA and I only get down there once every five years – usually by some horrified tourist friend who’s shocked at my lack of interest in kulcha – well…you can see where I’m going with this, surely?
    Possibly not very far at all.
    I think it’s jinxed.
    The Bloke just told me that the one Friday he can play hookey from work for such a day trap is November 11 – which of course is Chaz Day, and I’ve promised Chaz a tour of Casa Quokka and photo opportunities with that black feathered Cthulu of the Gardens.
    Still, I’m keen to here Khan Greybeard’s feedback on the exhibition.

  194. Oh. Now I see why I wasn’t welcome at the Greybeard/Fifi expedition. I would have had to wrestle Fifi for those churros.

    Madam, of course you’ll be welcome. Just give me some advance notice so I can get out the crockpot. You do like swarms of things, don’t you?

    Quokka, if you have a tour of Turkey Heaven with photo opportunities planned for Chaz, you could probably give your Perth friend the same tour. Fill her up with brownies, then send her home with a box of cuttings (and maybe a turkey). Everybody wins!

    • Geeze Catty, we’d have loved to have you there. I could have distracted her while you dived for the churros. Don’t know where or exactly when, but Mayhem, Melbo & possibly Bangarr are meeting after work on Tues. I hope to have a ceremonial cursing of Nowhere Bob.

  195. Mmm… chocolate fork-to-hand combat.

    Q, not that I want to dissuade you from visiting the hometown of our dear Catty, but the good old Queensland Museum is staging a special mummy exhibition early next year. Sure, it’s not Tut, but there’ll be plenty of canopic goodies on display – and you can fit in a day trip around your animal wrangling obligations with little effort or expense.

    Catty, when you say swarms, are you talking biblical, plagues of locusts style – or have the kidlets got nits again?

  196. Thanks MM, this is good to know.
    The sad truth is, I still have some niggling doubts about my choice of tile, though, and I know that there are some restaurants and cafes around Melbourne where they’ve used them. So while I can’t entirely justify a trip to Melbourne to visit the groove train and see how well the tile has withstood the scuffs and gorings of the drunken blithering public, (not that I’d be allowing entry to such here at Casa Quokka…well, unless you count Chaz) King Tut adds a bit of extra credibility to my case for a day trip.
    I was flicking through the biography section of the bookstore yesterday & as you do, randomly opened to a page where the protagonist said that he knew he was in love with his wife after she punched him in the face & knocked him flat on the ground.
    My head still needs clearing from the ‘WTF?’ moment that ensued so I’m off to the pool, more convinced than ever that there’s money to be made from embarking on a career as a relationship counsellor.
    And then I’m off to Garden Way at Darra, which, I recall was high on the hill and hopefully well above the high tide mark last January.
    Save me a brownie and hold the vodka in readiness for my return, for after venturing into the Western Surburbs, I will need it.

  197. Heard this on the radio coming home, check out the film clip.

  198. Awesome clip.

    And other than the cost in artist-hours and body paint, it would have been low budget, too. A lot of Gotye’s stuff is a bit hip and dancey for me, but I love this one… all menacing percussion and spiky riffs. He sounds a bit like a young Sting, which is fabulous to an old Police tragic such as myself. Lyrically very interesting, too – you don’t usually get a verse from the exe’s point of view, in these modern ballads of love gone wrong.

    As for flattening men, it’s a great strategy. As soon as I can persuade one to stand still long enough, I plan to give it a go.

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