Friday Fuckwit

The final US presidential debate has produced a new celebrity, Joe the Plumber.

His real name is Sam J Wurzelbacher and he was mentioned by the candidates more than two dozen times during the recent debate, after questioning Democratic candidate Barack Obama about his tax policy at a rally last week.

"I'm getting ready to buy a company that makes $US250,000 a year. Your new tax plan is going to tax me more, isn't it?" he asked Senator Obama at the time.

Republicans rejoiced, and John McCain made Joe the Plumber a theme of the third and final debate, in an attempt to woo blue collar voters.

Senator Obama has denied that his tax plan would lead to the average tradesman paying more tax. "How many plumbers do you know earning a quarter of a million dollars a year?" he said. (Well I don't know about the US but there would be a few here that earn, or at least 'turn over' that much.) Also, in Australia, self employed people have the opportunity to claim more against their income and thereby reducing their tax way below the PAYG population. Among the items that can be claimed by plumbers are: tools, cars, equipment, guard dogs, home office and contents, electricity, fuel . . .take all that off your tax bill and you're sitting pretty! Me . . I'm on the marginal 45cents in the dollar tax rate! *sob*

Mr Wurzelbacher actually does not earn that much at the moment, which means he could pay lower taxes under an Obama administration

Well actually, whilst both candidates seem completely unembarrassed by 'Joe's' intervention, it turns out that with celebrity comes scrutiny - Mr Wurzelbacher owes back taxes and is not even a licensed plumber.

He has only been in the spotlight for a few hours but already he has held more press conferences than Sarah Palin.

People have started selling Joe t-shirts and web users are flocking to his Facebook page. Google's search engine was clogged with requests Thursday for information about "Joe the Plumber", who is an obscure handyman from Ohio.

Yep, Joe is the, unlicensed, tax avoiding, loud mouthed Friday Fuckwit who 'duped' two presidential candidates and has become an instant celebrity . . I just hope the IRS is paying attention!

Now he can pootle around my pipes anyday!

No 'O' No Go

Do you remember when birthday's meant party hats and fondant icing, blanc mange in the shape of a pink rabbit and that frilly pink organza dress and patent shoes. And pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey, egg and spoon races and someone always threw up or had a tanty before going home with their little bag of cake and lollies?

Things have changed as I age. Birthday's are just reminders of how things used to be. Unless there's a '0' at the end. The big 3 '0', the big 4 '0', the big 5 'OMG', . . but 52 . . it's neither here nor there. I guess the 'right' side of 50 but not really worthy of celebration. But today, I was so surprised. I had more calls, more emails, more SMS's, more IM's than ever before. This rather ordinary and unremarkable birthday was made very special.

The girls at work, tampered with my computer whilst I was attending a meeting in the city yesterday so this morning I had a lovely little message on my desktop complete with rather quirky stick figures representing the girls in the quad. I had messages from Thommo in Sicely and Amy at sparrows fart, Ryan on MSN and The Merry Widow (who's birthday I always forget) found time whilst on playground duty, Biker Girl and Avril who never forget also wished me well. Grannymar and Steph both chimed in as did Gaye and a host of others. Babysis sent an artistic email - she never forgets unlike me who can't remember a birthday unless it pops up on Facebook! Thank you everyone! May I take this opportunity to wish you all many happy returns in advance and restrospect because I WILL forget.

The piece de resistance, a little package from ClareBear with Christmas Decorations, Swiss chocolate and 'pine' incense to remind me of the Black Forest and a lovely hand written note that Adam has kept from me for over 2 months. Then a call from my Surf God, Stan in New Zealand, soon to be a Dishy Daddy and of course and email from the Rev who shares my birthday but started his birthday officiating at a funeral poor sod. Even Gerard at work wished me happy birthday in French bless his Mauritian sox.

And finally, minutes before I choose to publish, the kid dials in from Galicia in Spain with what looks for all the world like a gremlin on her lap . . she's mucking out and mucking in and learning how to train young horses in the fine art of showjumping and realising that we down under are a little 'reckless' in our horsemastery! She's homesick and ready to return which warms the cockles I must tell you.

Thank you Adam darling for your lovely voucher for a Swedish massage and pedicure . . .much needed and of course our Whale Watch on Sunday . . .

Ah, another year, another number . . .I'm not celebrating any more until there's the big 6 'OH'. But frankly . . it was quiet with a few lubly surprises . . just how I like it!

toothpastefordinner.com

Blog Action Day - Australia's Shame

Blog Action day today and the theme is poverty. Whilst it’s tempting to move into the realm of the third world. I have chosen to look closer to home, to a people that few see or care about, a people who have been invaded, subjugated, stolen. To a people who’s cultural heritage, despite being environmentally and culturally rich was squashed within 200 short years of European occupation. To a people who now need to reconnect with their land, their culture and their social networks as well as assimilate into a very different Australia to the one they discovered 30,000 years ago by our now indigenous population the Coori People.

When Europeans arrived, there were over 250 Aboriginal languages within hundreds of groups. The term 'tribe' does not fit the aboriginal experience, over 400 of these groups populated Australia prior to European settlement. They were people of 'country' and the countries overlapped with multiple clan groups. It was far from the Terra Nullis declared by Captain James Cook when he first set foot on Terra Australis.

For some reason, King George accepted Cpt. James Cook’s declaration of Terra Nullis when he f and unlike other indigenous populations in the Pacific and the Americas – no treaty was formed with the aborigines who were deemed stupid, ugly and savage. After years of attempted genocide (success in the case of Tasmania), marginalisation, failed attempts at assimilation with white society including stealing their children we are left with a marginalised indigenous population beleagued by alcohol abuse, poverty, poor health, geographical isolation, cultural disconnection,sexual and physical abuse, poor education, the list goes on.

• 2.4% of the Australian population are indigenous

• On average, Indigenous Australians will die 20 years earlier than non-Indigenous Australians. Indigenous women live 65 years on average, while men’s life expectancy is only 59 years.

• Indigenous babies are nearly three times as likely to die before their first birthday. They are twice as likely to die at birth or during the early postnatal phase.

• Rates of infectious diseases are 12 times higher among Indigenous people than the Australian average. Many curable.
  

• Diabetes is two to four times more common among indigenous Australians, and they are more likely to die from it than non-indigenous diabetics due to poor diagnosis and lack of access to quality health care
  

• In some areas, as many as one in five Indigenous children under seven have serious ear infections, such as chronic suppurative otitis media (CSOM), and many are left with permanent hearing loss.

• 39.5 percent of Indigenous students completed Year 12

The division between the city aboriginal and the rural aboriginal has widened although poverty is an issue for both.

Disagreement continues on how some degree of cultural self determination and the restoration of self esteem can be restored for this culturally rich race. It is shameful that in the 21^st Century, and in a land living high on pilfering natural resources, destroying old growth forest, farming hooved animals, retaining 2% economic growth and 4% unemployment DESPITE the current world economic crisis, we can have among our population a third world minority.

Aboriginal Australia suffers a number of levels of poverty thanks to poor government policy over the prevailing years:

Material poverty – removal of traditional land ownership, income poverty, poor housing and health provision, lack of food, shelter, water, medicine. Alcoholism, STD’s, incarceration

Non Material poverty – disenfranchisement, disconnection from land and language, breakdown of traditional values and customs, forced assimilation and removal of children, high levels of incarceration. dispossession; cultural annihilation; lack of recognition of our prior stewardship of Australia – there is no word in the aboriginal languages for ‘ownership’.

In the past, we’ve focused on ‘income’ poverty but there is so much more that needs to be addressed. Aboriginal agencies also ask whether an income poverty focus is likely to lead to an inappropriate 'welfare' type response. It certainly has so far! A new solution to bringing these communities back from the brink of destitution is required.

Many communities have thrived by being given back their traditional lands and management of traditional and sacred sites, Uluru is just one example of successful community stewardship and a thriving community.

As the Centre for Aboriginal Policy Research claims: The possibility of engaging Indigenous people in the wholesale provision of environmental services on the massive Indigenous estate is likely to generate local, regional and national benefits.

Indeed, Noel Pearson himself advocates for the development of greater community self sufficiency and of internal subsistence economies, but these views receive limited attention in contrast to his view that welfare dependency must cease and engagement with the ‘real’ economy or free market must be given priority.

It would take an essay and more research than this humble blogger can enter into here to explain all the reasons for the aboriginal plight. Whilst I do not accept historical guilt for what my forbears may have done - which was clearly wrong, but typical of the time - we have made a pigs ear out of fixing the problem. We now have a minority marginalised, brutalised, impoverished and uneducated indigenous population with whom few middle class Australians engage. I for example do not have contact with any person of aboriginal heritage. I have just never met one in my social circle, my educational institutions or my workplace and I've lived here for 41 years and I live on Dharuk land!

Middle class Australia has little connection with the original stewards of the land other than suburb and street names or tourist landmarks and destinations. We warble off Woolloomaloo and Turramurra, Parramatta and Warawee with little or no understanding of the names or their meanings. We love Kathy Freeman. We watch Message Stick and Living Black which largely discuss success stories and cultural facets of aboriginal life, not sexual abuse and petrol sniffing.

When there is a success story involving a person of aboriginal descent, we laud them, mount them on a pedestal and sing their praises because ‘what a good job they’ve done to get this far’, so surprising is it to see aboriginal representation in politics, science, education or areas outside the cultural arts and performance.

We need to establish a policy that neither trivialises nor hides the aboriginal plight, which is in accord with the Aboriginal experience, which highlights inequalities between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal Australians, and which leads to action to alleviate the devastating situation of so many Aboriginal people.

We came a long way and even managed to say ‘sorry’ late last year. Now it’s time for affirmative action. It’s a long road, there are wounds to heal, trust to be engendered, wrongs to right and services and infrastructure to be put into place. Some initiatives are working wonders such as handing back land to traditional owners for them to manage, employment initiatives, even the ‘intervention’ has at least brought attention to the plight of particularly the rural indigenous population.

Traditional solutions to poverty, particularly in remote Australia will not work.Mainstream solutions will not work on this very non-mainstream cultural group. Things are getting better but not quickly enough. The bottom line is not about litigation, it's not about subjugation it's about reconciliation so let us not drop the ball on this one. Make 'indigenous' poverty history.

The High Price of Being A Reubens Model

I think my family forget how old, fat and unfit I am. I'm no spring chicken and built like a Reubens model (or some would say like Mrs Tiggywinkle) so whilst I'm happy to belt around the house in a cleaning frenzy, tidy out the fridge, take copious loads of washing too and from the line which is about 25 metres away, change beds, lift furniture, grovel under computer desks and walk fast to Prodigy's Smack My Bitch up on the treadmill. Even kneeling down to clean the pool cleaner (it's one of those Jet Vac catch leaves in a little net things) sees me teetering on the brink and I'm damn sure that one day I'll just fall in!

Actually, that reminds me of a day much like Sunday when my father was pootling around the pool doing much the same thing. I was about 200 metres away up at the back fence filling the horse trough. He was a big man, tall and pretty solid and I guess in his early 70's when I heard an almighty splash. Turned around and realised that he'd fallen in the pool that he didn't ever do more than dangle his legs in on a hot summers night. Of course, thinking the poor sod had had a stroke or a heart attack or something, I belted down the paddock. Man you should have seen that fat woman run! Only to find him dragging his sorry khaki clad ass out of the pool (Steve Irwin style gardening gear). He was laughing his head off . .a little embarrassed but had simply bent over to adjust the pool cleaner and toppled in! I was grateful that my CPR skills weren't needed but gave him a good slap for causing me grief! (He then pushed me in the pool to cool down - bastard!). I never really understood the joy of elderly aches and pains . . .poor thing, he hid them well!

So, I'm feeling very achey and fragile this week after the past week's exploits. And here's a hot tip, don't get on your treadmill with bare feet. They go black and you get blisters! So to add to my creaky woes, I have a nice blister on the ball of my blackened right foot.

My back is good after the bark shovelling marathon thanks to Voltarin tabs and emulgel but after hours of mulching the crap that falls of gum trees into neat little piles then shovelling it on the garden, sweating like a pig, filling in a rabbit hole that's been dug right outside my kitchen door the cheeky bastards, feeding the horses their special Rice Bubbles uber weight gaining diet (for which I have to do a 50 minute round trip to Glenorie) and picking up the shrapnel that fell off trees in a 20 minute Westerly Buster that hit like a tornado the other afternoon and lobbing them on the bonfire, I'm sore, my hands look like a labourers! I'm serious!

Now before you go all 'oh she's just making a big deal of it'. This is a woman who came home 3 days after having a total hysterectomy with no pain relief! Ready to hit the floor running but not allowed to do jack shit! This is the woman that nearly cut off her index finger with a newly sharpened knife and asked Adam for a Band Aid - QUICKLY. This is a woman who almost had a baby in a lift! So I'm no sook but man I'm sore!

Its as if my impending 52nd birthday has put up all the warning signs and is saying " right cheese, you're an overweight old fart with creaky knees, time to get serious! My knees hurt, my fingers hurt, my shoulder hurts . . I need a SPA! I need a big strong handsome man to give me a massage, Hell, the next house I buy am so getting a hot tub! I need a personal trainer to drag me away from the computer at 6am and do a few rounds with a few pounds if you know what I mean.

I need a little man . . .or a big man . . just a strong man . . . someone who will help me with the heavy stuff. Jesus, the bloody mulcher is a giant, not your little back yard chipper chopper but a massive thing that will take branches up to 4cm across but requires a helluva pull start to crank it up. The blower weighs about 10 kilos, the wheelbarrow is as big as a concreter's which means it takes a lot of stuff and is really heavy . . .*sob*

So I went back to work this week for a rest. I kid you not. Crawling under desks, chastising stupid (and I mean stick short of a bundle, tinny short of a six pack, sandwich short of a picnic stupid) receptionist, flirting with the Helldesk but still not solving my batch merge problems and dealing with a bunch of clients who either want to invest NOW because they believe the market's bottomed or pull out all their savings and hide them under the mattress . . . is nothing compared to heavy duty gardening and painting. I'm a little disappointed, I only managed three rooms but they are oh so white and gleaming.

Right, got that off my chest. I'm fasting until Saturday . . then the diet begins and the treadmill won't know what hit it! Six weeks until sugar plum comes home, 10 weeks until my little Irish Cream arrives so it's serious folks. (Oh how I'll miss my Chardy!)

Work's a doddle!

Phoctober Day 1

Last year Maht at Moon Topples invited bloggers to participate in Phoctober by posting photos and linking back to his site. It was fun. I didn't post every day but really enjoyed the links to other people's sites and the amazing photographs, some totally professional, some obscure, some tampered with yet creative but all wonderfully entertaining. So this October (I'm late as usual) and for the next three Sunday's, I'll post something of my Aussie surroundings and lifestyle as a Phoctober tribute. Sunday seems to be a photo post most times anyway.

This is where it all began. November last year, the girls, Thommo, Struth Ruth, Hendo and I wondered down to the Airley Peninsula, stayed in a fabulous little cottage and 'did' the Great Ocean Road. Four menopausal old bags in an SUV we had great fun doing it and Hendo very kindly let me play with her Sony Digital Camera. I loved the 'clunk' of taking real photos so these were my first digital effort. Three weeks later, I bought the Canon EOS 400D and have never looked back. I just wish I knew how to use it properly.

Generally I like people and action or colour in my shots or animals or birds but this scenery was so beautiful, so spectacular, that even the windy haze does it justice. If you ever visit Australia, this is a must! You can click to enlarge.

Airley Lighthouse - famous for it's role in the children's TV series "Around the Twist"

Airley's Inlet - Gateway to the Great Ocean Road which was built by returned servicemen during the Depression to keep them 'occupied'. And a fine job they did too!

The 12 Apostles - Well I counted 11 but there are more in the making!
The haze was testament to the howling wind!

This one should be ready in about a million years . . .
a couple of year's ago a similar formation called London Bridge
collapsed with people walking above it . . all were safely rescued!

A hole in the wall, once drilled by the sea, now sits atop a mighty cliff!

These majestic cliff faces and solitary beaches stretch for 100's of kms

My coup de gras . . beautiful isn't it!
So much better in 'real life' than any photograph can portray!

Don't Mention the War

Today like most other Saturdays I went to Babysis' place to have coffee. I've actually been turning up there once a day to feed skinny min who has lost a lot of condition despite being on a special diet, over the winter and is now on a Horse Rescue diet to restore his former glory.

My skinny boy . . pretty in purple and on a special geriatric diet

He's 28 years old so hard to keep condition on an old fella is tricky but I fancy he's improving. As for paddock mate Chippy .

Chippy thriving fine on Laurie's leftovers

. . no problem, he steals Laurie's breakfast lunch and dinner and lately the old boy hasn't been arsed to shoo him away so they're coming home soon as I can demolish a horse unfriendly rabbit warren in the back paddock and I will also be able to separate them since my neighbour has an adjoining paddock where they'll be able to 'see' each other and hunker down at night on each side of the fence but it means Chippy won't steal Laurie's dinner and maybe, just maybe lose weight in the process before he founders. (Erm that green stuff they're eating is $25 a bale! They cost more to feed than Adam and Amy combined!)

So . . Babysis is babysitting a friend's German short haired pointer while they're gallivanting up the north coast in a Winnebago.

She's a sweet dog. Very pretty, friendly. Dumb. I mean totally dense. Doesn't know her name, doesn't sit, doesn't drop. Isn't happy about being outdoorsy although generally get's on with Babysis' two Labradors and is cranky at dinner time. Damn good mouser but also fancies Laurie's geriatric dinner so has been barred from the feed shed. She fights over dinner and is particularly good at targetting ears. Poppy the matriarchal Labrador bears the wounds of a dinner time skirmish. Shelby on the other hand is a true blonde and quite frankly is Marilyn Monroe, and bimboish to the n'th.

"Now Shelbs whatch how Renaldo would do it . .
hehe might be a handball rule, but theres no rule about mouths."

The first time I took Lily up with the Gabster on site, was three weeks ago, she growled at Gabby before she even got out of the car. Now we're talking Bert level couch potato here. A dog who's been walked on and off the leash without so much as a grizzle or a whimper. The only growling noises generated by upturned back rubbing on the lawn . .the 'omg that feels awesome back scratching kind of growl' I have NEVER in six years heard her growl in anger. The usual encounters involve but sniffing, weeing on top of where you wee'd and that's about it.

No aggression, zero. Bear in mind these are four bitches, Lily (mine) Shelby and Poppy (Babysis'; dogs) and Gabby, the n00b. So to hear my dog in the back seat palpably growling at a dog she's never met was a tad odd. The first and second encounters were trouble free with Lily giving the pointer a few pointers - sniff my butt and I'll kill you - seemed to work. But not today.Butter will not melt in my dumb as dogshit mouth! I point, I shoot . .
but I'm too stupid to do anything else . .Gabby? Who's Gabby?

While we were sitting beneath the newly sprouting pecan tree in lovely spring sunshine drinking Mr Lavazza's finest, all of a sudden it was on. A gnashing of teeth, growling, grizzling and the pointer had Lily in a clinch. I don't know what she said but Gabby took offense to which only a swift kick and a bucket of cold water quickly procured by Babysis saw an end to the shenanigans. A quick check of ears - which bleed profusely if nipped and often are - proved that the battle was even and nobody physically damaged.

Poor Lily . now call me a sap and I'm pretty sure she called Gabby a slag bag whore interloper . . but she's never been in a fight in her life! She survived without incident (not so Poppy who's ear bleeding of last week has left a nice manky mark).

Wouldn't I give a million to know why the most spoiled Labrador in the world took such umbrage at a German short haired pointer . . ah . . she forgot the absolute . . as John Cleese would say "Whatever you do, don't mention the war . . ."

Wot youz talking about mum. . .I can be right vishus wid a schtick!

Now is that the face of a warrior? I ask you? (Bet she told Gabby her bum looked big . .)

Friday Fuckwit

Clearly this week, and probably for the past three weeks, we have to point the finger at BANKS for poor lending practices, offering credit to those who can't afford it and granting mortgages that cannot be sustained in a credit crisis. Forget the AIG incentive, soft dollar party after the bail out. Yep, reps were rewarded with a little holiday despite the insurer nearly going under.

But this week's Friday Fuckwit goes to the Australian Government!

Currently Australian banks 'guarantee' bank deposits to the value of $20,000. This means that if you've been sensible and plonked your hard earned millions into a term deposit, only $20,000 of it is guaranteed safe, refundable . . . There has been a push given the current financial crisis to lift this guarantee to $100,000 however, the Rudd Government has decided in it's completely out of touch wisdom that to guarantee $20,000 more than meets the needs of Australian savers. (Tell that to all the clients we have who have pulled out of the equities market into Term Deposits).

At this point, I feel like singing Somewhere over the Rainbow or Bring in the clowns or Ego is Not a Dirty Word . . .

French banks have more than doubled the guarantee to 50,000 Euros, the equivalent of $68,000, Spain to 100,000 Euros but nope - good ol' Kev thinks that $20,000 is reasonable for bank secure deposits! How are banks to guarantee liquidity and avoid punters putting their hard earned readies under the bed in a biscuit tin?

Hell why do I care, I haven't got any savings over $20,000 and my cashcard was declined today!




Look out Thrifty . . Koala Knickers are on their way!

Lullaby

I've been painting today. Slow progress thanks to my decision to prepare properly and sugar soap walls, and spakfilla the cracks in the cornices, dust away the cobwebs and realise that I haven't actually cleaned right behind the toilet for a long time! This time I was careful and newspapered the windows and mirrors because I'm the next Pro Hart or Jackson Pollack. For some reason, whilst rhythmically sloshing the roller up and down (yes I put too much paint on it and ended up spattering my glasses), I began singing a lullaby that was sung to me as a child by my Grandma and my mother and father, and one I've sung to both my children at bed time:

Go to sleep my little picanny
Brer fox gonna catch you if ya don't
Slumber on the bosom of your mammy
Mama goin to swap yo if you don't

Ah-loo-ah-loo-ah-looah-loo-ah-loo-ah
Underneath the silver southern moon
Lullabye, Rockabye Mama's li'l baby
Mama's li'l Alabama Coon

Then there was:

Go to sleep my baby
Close your pretty eyes
Angels are above you
Peeping at you from the starry skies
Great big moon is shining
Stars begin to peep
Its time for little picaninnies to go to sleep

I wish I could find the tune's to show you that despite the rather odd lyric, they were sweet and gentle and melodic.

Now before you get on your politically correct soapboxes and complain about me using the word coon or picaninny - these were the days of the gollywog and nothing racist or offensive was meant. In fact I always assumed they were old slave songs but it seems the latter at least was written more recently and is known as the Wyoming Lullaby. They had sweet little tunes and were clearly written to aid in putting little ones to sleep.

Let me explain. My family has four regularly sung lullabies. They have been handed down through four generations. The first is the Alabama Coon one. . another "Go to Sleep My Baby" (more references to coons and moons) an old music hall classic, Lily of Laguna and another is an old wartime song "Who's Your Lady Friend" a slightly risque soldier's song about infidelity (She's not the girl I saw you with at Brighton, so who, who who's your lady friend?). Not your usual nursery rhymes or traditional lullabies but they were sung soporifically and had us in a comfortable sleepy stupor often before the last was finished.

Whilst these might be rather odd songs to sing to a baby - my family did. Routinely. Every night. All the kids know the words and the tunes and they are likely to be passed on to the next generation although I suspect the words have become shadows of their former selves in a perverse Chinese Whispery kind of way. I just wonder how on earth a lullaby about an Alabama piccaninny being threatened with the whip unless she went to sleep became family tradition! I and about 50 distant Welsh relatives, do own land in Louisiana, maybe there's a connection there?

Doesn't seem so obtuse to sing a lullaby about giant spiders then does it?

Okay I just wanted an excuse to play the Cure . . .

And a new Link Switch seems to have fixed my computer problems in the short term. Either that or it's just decided it prefers night shift!

Google Is a Slob

My internet has a personality. I'm using my 6 year old Dell which is finally crumbling with the electronic version of Dementia and arthritic slowness. It's one of those lazy get up at 12, stretch and have a coffee, scratch the scrotum, pinch the bum, rearrange the underwear kind of connections. One that asks the little woman what's for breakfast and opens a beer before midday. One that refuses to be rushed and takes it's own jolly time. One that balks at asking for directions and would rather freeze than admit defeat. It's like a rabbit in headlights. It's definitely on a go slow, don't rush me - nag me and I'll just sit on the couch and pick my nose before I'll cooperate with you, pushy biatch!

Until about 4 in the afternoon, it doesn't want to cooperate. Which is very frustrating because I'm on leave and like to log in around lunchtime and catch up but it freezes, hangs as the geeks would say. Firefox sits down and has a nap and I get those "Not Responding" messages.

I've reinstalled Firefox, I've defragged and CC cleaned, Optimised and done all the things I'm supposed to do. Oddly enough I can browse all sites with no problem but it just hates Google. I try to open Reader . . nothink, I try to open Gmail, nothink . . I open Skype and a serious tiff ensues! I really need a new computer because this one has simply got too big for it's hard drive. "Open the pod doors Hal . . ." See, for some reason, it's behaving perfectly at 9:30 at night. Please Father Christmas, if you love me at all, forget the Red India rubber ball and buy me a new 'puter!

Clearly no news tonight . .

Good Respects

Trivial I know but I received a spam email with the usual crazy Japanese translations on it, "Yah-hah, evil spider woman! I have captured you by the short rabbits and can now deliver you violently to your gynecologist for a thorough examination" - God knows what they were 'trying' to say but I think it might have been an urgent plea to attend a PAP smear consultation or something about pregnancy testing, didn't they used to use rabbit hormones? Anyway because rabbits are large on my mind today having bunged up at least 5 holes in the border around the house and pulled out two perfectly good Grevilleas which had been killed by said burrowing bandits . . .read on . . .or the bunny gets it!

As I've dabbled in weird translations on a number of occasions and also love the idea of the new Electronic Portable Translator this reminded me of the time I used an online translator to sort out one of Clare's travel dilemmas.

When ClareBear travelled to Italy and Greece in July 2007, I had to write to confirm some accommodation for her in Santorini as they'd lost their pre-purchased accommodation vouchers. I had the brainwave of using an online translator and sending the email in perfect Greek. I used this and typed my message in English (because I'm so pathetic I only speak one language unless it involves reading a menu then I'm pretty good at Thai, Vietnamese and French - love that Pad Thai, Goong and Buerre Blanc), translated it into Greek then duly sent the email. Being the anal being I am, I translated the Greek back into English using the same tool to make sure that it read OK. What a tool . . . me that is, I should have done it before I sent the thing - my original message read:

This email is to confirm that accommodation vouchers for Cimenti, Bainbridge and Mitchell have been accidentally left at a hotel in Rome so I attach copies of the vouchers to confirm their arrival on Saturday. Kind regards

When translated back from Greek to English:

This electronic post is to confirm that you will prove accommodation for Cimenti, Bainbridge and Mitchell have been left accidentally in a hotel in Rome thus connect the copies of proofs in order to I confirm the arrival of girl Saturday. Good respects

There's a sentence to make Borat proud! The truly amazing thing is that somehow we English speakers can make some sort of sense of it . . the Greeks of course had no bloody idea!

Then today, a friend sent me this in an email: http://tashian.com/multibabel/

It explores what happens when an English phrase is translated (by computer) back and forth between 5 different languages. Since September 2007, translators such as Babel Fish are almost good enough to translate grammatically correct sentences into a range of languages. But no software is equipped for 10 consecutive translations of the same piece of text. The resulting half-English, half-foreign, and totally non sequitur response can be hilarious. Or maybe I'm so exhausted I'm finding watching the Test Pattern humerous. Remember the old game of "Chinese Whispers"? Something is lost, and sometimes something is gained. Have some fun with it!

Original English Text:
Today I have worked very hard in the garden by mulching some tree bark and many twigs blown by yesterday's wind, filling in a rabbit hole and tidying two garden beds. Now my left knee hurts like a rude word.

(And it really does hurt like fuck, someone get me an arthroscope!)

Translated to French:
Aujourd'hui j'ai fonctionné très dur dans le jardin à côté de pailler une certaine écorce d'arbre et beaucoup de brindilles soufflées par le vent d'hier, complétant un trou de lapin et rangeant deux lits de jardin. Maintenant mon genou gauche blesse comme un mot grossier.

Translated back to English:
Today I functioned very hard in the garden beside mulching a certain bark of tree and much of brushwood puffed up by the wind of yesterday, supplementing a rabbit hole and arranging two beds of garden.Maintaining my knee left wounds like a coarse word.

OK that's not too bad. I know what it means but it was bark and twigs not brushwood - left wounds like a coarse word? Boy I'm not going there!

Translated to German:
Heute arbeitete ich sehr stark im Garten neben dem Mit Laub bedecken einer bestimmten Barke des Baums und viel von Reisig stieß oben durch den Wind des Gesterns luft, ergänzte eine Kaninchenbohrung und ordnet zwei Betten Garten. Das Beibehalten meines Knies ließ Wunden wie ein grobes Wort.

Translated back to English:
Today I operated very strongly in the garden beside the with leaves cover a certain Barke of the tree and much of brushwood pushed above by the wind of the Gesterns air, completed a rabbit drilling and arrange two beds garden. Maintaining my knee left wounds like a rough word.

Sweet Jesus! I've never drilled a rabbit in my life! Literally or otherwise -what's the Gesterns air?

Translated to Italian:
Oggi ho funzionato molto fortemente nel giardino al lato del con i fogli copro un determinato Barke dell'albero e di molto di sottobosco spinto sopra dal vento dell'aria di Gesterns, ho completato un coniglio che perfora ed organizzo un giardino delle due basi. Effettuare il mio ginocchio ha lasciato le ferite come una parola
approssimativa.

Translated back to English:
Today I have worked much strongly in the garden to the side of with the sheets I cover a determined Barke of the tree and a lot of underbrush pushed over from the wind of the air of Gesterns, I have completed a rabbit that it perforates and I organize a garden of the two bases. To carry out mine ginocchio has left the wounds like one approximate word.

Oh yes, I completed that Rabbit "You compleeeet meee" and I have one sore ginocchio!

Translated to Portuguese:
Hoje eu trabalhei muito fortemente no jardim ao lado com das folhas que eu cubro um Barke determinado da árvore e dos muitos do underbrush empurrados sobre do vento do ar de Gesterns, eu terminei um coelho que perfurasse e eu organizo um jardim das duas bases. Realizar o ginocchio da mina saiu das feridas como uma palavra aproximada.

Translated back to English:
Today I worked very strong in the garden to the side with of the leves that I cover a definitive Barke of the tree and many of underbrush pushed on of the wind of the air of Gesterns, I I finished a rabbit that punched and I organize a garden of the two bases. To carry through the ginocchio of the mine left the wounds as an approach word.

I finished that punching rabbit aight!

Translated to Spanish:
Trabajé hoy muy fuerte en el jardín a la cara con de los leves que cubro un Barke definitivo del árbol y de muchos de underbrush empujado encendido del viento del aire de Gesterns, yo que acabé un conejo que perforó y ordeno un jardín de las dos bases. Llevar con el ginocchio de la mina salió de las heridas como una palabra del acercamiento.

Translated back to English:
I worked today very hard in the garden to the face with of slight that I cover a definitive Barke with the tree and many of underbrush pushed ignition of the wind of the air of Gesterns, I that I finished a rabbit that it perforated and I order a garden of the two bases. To take with ginocchio of the mine left the wounds like a word of the approach.

Point made . . gibberish . . I just hope I 'finished' that bloody rabbit!

Next time I want something translated, I'll go to Gaudium de Lingua . . she does it properly!

Patagonian Compromise

My villa, my view!

I had an email today from Patagonia - a place I once thought fabricated until a friend assured me that it really did exist. I'd commented on Quickroute's blog about my best friend Thommo wanting to go there and her husband's reluctance to do so because he likes a warm bed, hot shower and a flushing toilet and the little luxuries of life. Thommo on the other hand is happy not showering for a week and pooing in a hole! She is the complete opposite to me. Light drinker, fit, fabulously beautiful, thin, stressy and adventurous. Me, I'm chumpy, calm, easy going (apart from the flying there bit) practical, lazy and definitely not the 'adventure tourist'. I don't mind watching you white water rafting but I'm not keen to be in the frey!

Now Thommo (who is currently hiking the Cinque Terra - with TheBoss - then touring Sicily) loves wild adventures, she's up for a dose of guardia, a dab of dysentery . . . She's trekked in Nepal, she's trekked New Zealand, she's toured Vietnam without an itinerary, she skis in Japan and has done the Cradle Mountain walk in Tasmania (one of the best but not easy) and has a long burn to go to Patagonia. I must admit that South America was never one of my holiday destinations but since Clare's been on the Gringo Trail, I have a yearn.

Now the problem. Thommo's husband would rather play golf in Ireland. Thommo wants to 'do' Patagonia and would like company. I'm not that fit for long hikes and high climbs thanks to increasingly arthritic knees, and too much weight . . one of the lesser valuable legacies bestowed upon us by our paternal grandparents, but Thommo and I travel, work and live well together.

So . . after the comment on Quickie's site, along comes www.BarilocheVacationRental.com from Jaimie saying that they have accommodation somewhere between five star and a poo hole! And indeed they do. Whether a luxury villa by a lake or a studio apartment in the hills they're in the thick of it. Ello! Sounding better already. How nice is it that someone from a blog in South America, reads a comment and sends a link on the off chance that some random Australians might venture there one day. Basically she said, 'hey, you can have the best of both worlds and for a price that might surprise you'. Plus they're doggie lovers and that gets me in straight away.

So, when her poo-in-a-hole Majesty returns from her much less than poo-in-a-hole lovely Italian and third overseas visit this year (she's a little more liquid than I) Maybe we can come to a Patagonian compromise. I like the views and a cocktail on the lake. She likes to hike and ski. I like a leisurely walk around town, food and learning how the other half lives, she likes adventure sports. We both however love long lunches, views, foreign climes and culture we're like two peas in a pod on a leisurely holiday, only a bit like Laurel and Hardy. We're happy reading our books and occasionally cooing at the amazing surroundings and contemplating the universe . . and both can sit quietly by serene lakes, saying little -for silences between us are not uncomfortable. Give us a mountain view and clean air and we can wonder at the grandeur of nature and the simplicity of life.

Even if I don't get there and if perchance you would like to visit Patagonia (which incidentally is truly beautiful) go take a look at Jaimie's offering. Erm nope not being paid and I've never stayed and I don't know them.

And I leave you with another view, one I have NEVER seen or heard of before although those better travelled than I may recognise it . . please say if you do . . . there has been no colour tampering with this shot, no adjustment, no photoshop and there's no prize, jut kudos for those who guess where it might be:



Thommo I won't ski but if I'm liquid, I'll bring Clare along and meet you for the Apres if you know what I mean?

Hard Yakka and New Skins

Babybro is a piece of work! He and Stressany do nothing during the winter but work and sport. He coaches a premier league soccer team and plays, she umpires netball and until recently was the Secretary of the Baulkham Hills Netball Association (pretty huge). So from April to October they are non compus mentus, in absentia. I potter about blowing leaves, watering hanging baskets, shooing ducks and maintaining things as best I can and Adam mows.

On the odd days that they had free, they took short breaks, completed their Sudoku or watched sport on telly. So now, because it's a long weekend, sport has finished, Pete has decided that he'll order two tip trucks full of pine bark to dress the garden borders which of course have to be weeded first, have a massive rubbish throw out, pick up all the bits that have fallen off the trees in the past 2 weeks and get everyone moving. Well he didn't insist but I felt guilty watching him labour so the three of us dug in while Adam tidied the shed and moved his new tools from cluttering the verandah. Really, this is tidy for our shed!

Steph put in the hard yards actually but boy she has more smokos than a brickies labourer

Pete was a trojan and with two of us shovelling and barrowing it really only took a couple of hours.

Oh, it rained . . .but that nice summery drizzle that kept us cool. And I hurt my back because I worked like a bloke while Stressany pootled around with a rake and had a beer and was bitten by a bull ant (ok that's a good excuse to shy off) Me, I had the biggest wheelbarrow and the heaviest shovel and have discovered that I do still have muscles in my bum!

Anyway, most of it is done. Except the bit where the bull ants' nest is which Adam has just bombed with diesel and some toxic insecticide. The only problem, their little love next happens to be on my side of the ranch! Make these boys angry and they're a formidable force! If any come in the house there will be hell to pay! They're aggressive and very tough so a thong won't cut it, you need a steel capped boot to smash these big boys, they're about 2-3 centimetres long, they bite and they sting!


So there's this little pile for me to contend with tomorrow (or maybe Monday given that I'm walking around like a cripple). Depends when the Voltarin kicks in, my back is killing me . . might be a good excuse for a Sunday massage.


There's always some beer drinking 'here's Wally in my shot!


Amazing what a difference it made. The only problem with living on a big block in a big commune is that the borders are huge! This is just a fraction of the border at the back.


At least the pool is clean, even Lily is happy to dangle her toes with Adam!


And on another note . . we have a saying here when we receive something novel or kitch "That's going straight to the pool room!" These things can be tacky bar toys, ugly statues, novelty drink bottles - the sort of 'I wonder who gives these for Christmas' things that you find in Tobacconist shops. You know, the lava lamps and semi-pornographic mobile phone holders. The metre high beer tin money boxes, and giant bottles of Galliano with the little tap on them, the glass yard that's broken out for 21st birthdays . . catch my drift?

Well not in our house. Besides a half size pool table, wet bar, three bar stools, computer station, numerous signed photographs of sports celebrities, the mandatory Manchester United strips, dart board and a signed cricket bat. There is also an entertainment system and a massive TV (largely for XBox nights and Grand Finals).

. . .then last night, these came home to roost. Adam's is normally at the band rehearsal studio and Babybro just ordered his in! I wonder which one decided they were going 'straight to the pool room'?


Two kits seem a little excessive to me! Pete's a bit rusty but it won't be long before there's a 'drum off!' Earplugs please! That'll show the new neighbour!

Friday Fuckwit

So many fuckwits, so little time to research! I could have banged on about the 'Debate' in the US but that was entirely predictable and totally polite I have to say. I could have had a go at Australian banks who are refusing to pass down the expected interest rate cut when the Reserve meets on Tuesday but I'm used to being fleeced by financial institutions. I could have had a go at the NT Minister who plagiarised a speech from The West Wing but . . . let's have some fun.

It's well known that I am adverse to little children . . . I'm toddler phobic and not much keener on those under 10, well except for Joel my 8 year old nephew. I certainly hope I warm to them as I creep towards a grandmotherly age. Frankly I prefer lolcats and tooth extraction . . but brats . . undisciplined . . . rude, cruel and especially poorly supervised children . . I'd give 'em a belt around the ear 'ole and three hours in the naughty corner. So this week's Friday Fuckwit goes to a 7 year old . . .

CANBERRA (Reuters) - The parents of a 7-year-old boy who broke into an Australian outback wildlife park and fed a string of small animals to its resident crocodile are likely to be sued after police said the boy was too young to be held responsible.

A turtle, four western blue tongue lizards, two bearded dragons, two thorny devil lizards and a 1.8 metre (5.9ft) adult female Spencer's goanna were fed or led into the jaws of a 3 metre, 200kg (440lb) saltwater crocodile named "Terry." (Man he must have been a strong little tyke - them goannas are big suckers!)

Security camera footage at the Alice Springs Reptile Centre showed the smiling youngster also bludgeoning to death a small blue tongue lizard and two more thorny devils during a half-hour of breakfast-time havoc last Wednesday. One CCTV image shows him smiling as he watches the saltie splash around its pool as it attacks a northern blue tongue lizard.

"The fact a 7-year-old can wreak so much havoc in such a short time, it's unbelievable. In my day he'd get a big boot up the arse," centre director Rex Neindorf told Reuters by phone.

"Police found him, but in the Northern Territory here he can't be accountable if he's under 10 years of age." Neindorf said many of the animals fed to the croc were rare or mature and would be difficult to replace.

The boy was unknown at the centre and had "clammed up" when questioned by police on what sparked the rampage (perhaps mummy wouldn't buy him an ice cream).

Neindorf said he was now looking at suing the parents of the pint-sized terror, who could easily have been taken by Terry himself as he fed the croc from a small landing at his enclosure. (Lucky for Terry - imagine his fate if he'd eaten a 7 year old!)

"We'll be looking at suing the parents, who were supposedly in control of him at the time," he said.

Clearly Terry is not the brightest tool in the shed, much easier to chomp on a, soft, warm, fleshy seven year old than a crusty turtle or a thorny devil! But seriously, the cruelty was astounding from one so young.

Nah don't freak, this salty just thought his zookeeper's forearm looked appetising!

The Nicest People I've Never Met

My internet is stuffed. I mean it's so slow for some reason. I 'borrow' it from Babybro who actually pays the bills but he's a dolt when it comes to technology and only uses the net for his business. I suspect he's on one of these plans that 'goes slow' once you reach your download limit! I'd be lost without it. I've managed to keep in touch with Clare only because of it. I've met friends and acquaintances through it and my life has been enlightened by the blogs I visit. I'd get ADSL2 but I keep thinking it's hardly worth it and we're not in range for Wireless. Tonight for some reason . . it's freezing (not outside it's actually been 31 today), my blog comments are disappearing and I can't post any pics (oops it just made a liar out of me). I spoke with Clare last night and apparently we were 'breaking up' yet she's managed to speak to others in Aus who are crystal clear. So frustrating. It's broadband so it should be good and fast but it's slower than cold treacle so I'm off to persevere with my oh-so-boring book. But before I do . . .

. . . what I meant to say was. I've lost a few bloggers over past months. One because he's just lost the urge, Jack McMad but fortunately, he pops in now and then so I know he's alive and well. Dario Sanchez stopped for personal reasons but we stay in touch. Thrifty is busy at work and has a young family so hanging about in the blogosphere has become difficult and no longer fun but I still hear from him via email and Skype. Poor Olive passed away but at 108, I can't blame her for no longer blogging!

But one, I'm really worried about. Bird Anonymous was prolific and frequent. Her main blog featured the photography of birds and her beloved rescued lorikeet, Jack, who turned out to be a Jackie. Through her blog I've also met some wonderful commenters such as kj and Ces and Bimbimbie, Mildaysa and Melissa at Forge Light, but Birdy left. Unceremoniously, suddenly and without a whimper. She fiercely protected her anonymity, as is her right, but I know she only lived a few Kms from me on the beach side of the city. We never met, we never emailed but we bantered to and fro, she was a regular and I a daily visitor to her blog. I loved both her bird and photography blogs as did many others. I just hope she's well and happy. If anyone knows, please reassure those of us who really enjoyed her posts and are concerned about her welfare.

It's strange, and maybe you don't feel this way, but I like my commenters. I've been incredibly privileged to meet such creative, funny, sharing and wonderful people. All of them. You know that it's my dream to meet many of you and hopefully I will. I love receiving emails from you, hearing your trials and tribulations, sharing your homespun disasters and family feuds, marvelling at your writing and artwork and hearing about your lives. It's strange how you can become so attached to many people you have never met.

And now, make me a promise. If you decide its all too much, fall ill or cannot blog anymore or simply don't want to, just email or get someone to do it for you so that I understand why you've left. I don't know how long I'll keep this shenanigans up but my kids are under strict instructions that should I fall off the tree or be unable to type, they will at least let you know what's what.

Birdy, if you're out there, just let your loyal fans know that life is good. We miss you.

A Hostelling We Will Go

The Mill Hostel - Winchester

I spoke to Clare again tonight, she's in Barcelona you know! I love the internet. Spain is her last stop and she's about to head out and buy soccer shirts before attending a match on Sunday. She is washing her clothes for the first time since leaving London! Now that's one way to keep customs out of your luggage.

I have to say, that hostel life isn't what it used to be. She's stayed in really nice places and whilst they're still expensive in Europe in comparison to America, they're in wonderful spots, clean and have good facilities.

I remember travelling when I was 21. There was no such thing as "Backpackers" you had to be a member of the YHA to get cheap backpacker accommodation. You had to be under 25, they were 'youth' hostels after all, and hostels were dorm rooms with up to 12 beds, shared bathrooms and you were expected to donate your time for chores and help around the place before you moved on. These days, you can rent family rooms, private rooms with en-suites and there's no age limit. Most importantly, there's free or very cheap internet so many of our conversations have been in hostel common rooms via the MacBook.

Way back in the day, my travelling companion and I had the best of intentions and our first Youth Hostel experience was at the Old Mill in Winchester, England. We had the badge, the membership, the backpack and the bovver boots. We'd walked miles and miles and finally ended up in the old Kingdom town, it was beautiful. Aged and historical with it's town square dominated by a fantastic bronze of King Alfred.

We found the hostel and fell in love with it's ancient cuteness. It was an ancient building with, blackened beams and 5 foot ceilings, those tiny square glass window panes with the swirls in the middle that had actually thickened at the bottom because glass is fluid even in its solid form. It was very quaint and old-world and smelled comfortable and of centuries of smoke. We imagined those who had worked and played in the building during it's original use - but it was January and cold. We were looking forward to our first 'hostelling' experience, a warm, cosy place with comfortable beds and hot food.

We lobbed up, paid our five pounds and checked out the dorm. It was damp. Very damp, a vague mist was oozing through the floorboards from beneath. There were about six bunk beds with the old grey flannel army surplus style wool blankets neatly folded at the end of each. The sheets were grey flannellette (I suspect once white) and it looked like a prison cell. There were two hefty German lads having an afternoon nap and being less than communicative so we chained our rucksacks to the bunkposts, grabbed our valuables and towels and headed for a shower.

Underneath the dorm ran a stream which fed the still functional mill wheel although it no longer drove a millstone and was largely decorative and very picturesque and the 'shared' bathroom comprised a small toilet, obviously modern and flushable but the shower was a bucket with a few holes punched in it that we were expected to fill from the raging torrent, strip naked and shower underneath.

Now in Australia, the prospect of a bush shower is not at all daunting, it's hot and the cool water refreshing and cleansing or if you're camping by the beach, a quick swish and schloosh in the ocean is enough to ensure personal hygeine but in the middle of an English winter the cold water was icy and gave us an ice cream headache. The best we could manage was a quick hair wash before changing, spraying copious amounts of deodorant and heading out to explore.

After cramming into a tiny tea house, also Elizabethan with low-slung architecture that made us duck through doorways and enjoying a 'high tea' we wondered down to the Great Hall where one of the hoaxes of the century had been discovered. King Arthur's round table was mounted proudly at the end of the hall, segmented like some enormous birthday cake with colored panels and the names of each of the knights of the round table clearly emblazoned on each segment. We found out later that it was an Henrician Hoax. Good ol' Henry VIII had 'discovered' it in an attempt to revive the lore of Camelot. But knowing it was even a 500 year old hoax made it rather special.

That evening, we hunkered down to bed with the two German boys returning from obviously a big night out. They crashed through the place, stank of beer and cigarettes, greeted is with "Gdoi Assies" and crashed unceremoniously on their bunks and proceeded to snore all night.

The sheets were damp, the blankets were damp and not enough of them and we could hear the rushing of the stream below. Needless to say, the experience was less than pleasant and frankly it was the only and last hostel we stayed in. After that, we sought out cheap pubs and paid a little extra for a comfy room, darkened bars (closing hours in England are ridiculous) and a decent English breakfast. My how things have changed . . these are a couple of the hostels that she's stayed at and whilst I wasn't sure which pics she meant she said tonight that the views from hostels were amazing and much better than those enjoyed by more lucrative travellers.

Erm have to go now because Adam's having a cow 'cos he's trying to upload photos of his latest paving exploits on Facebook and our internet sux when three computers are streaming at the same time so he's gone to PS3 and hammering people on Motocross bikes or searching for the pink spray-on CoD . . .he should know better, this is MY time on the net.

Rothenburg Backpackers

Somewhere in Croatia

Somewhere else . . .