Well, it's that time of year again when us public servants all wind down & take a little time off. I can't wait for the knock off bell actually!
In the spirit of the season I would like to leave you all with the following message (an oldy but a goody):
Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, non-addictive, gender-neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice( with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others or their choice not to practice such traditions at all).
* Furthermore, I offer my (non-binding) best wishes for the onset of the generally accepted calendar year of 2006, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions have helped make Australia great. (Which is not to imply that Australia is greater than any other country.) These wishes are offered without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, choice of computer platform or sexual preference of the wishee.
* This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It implies no others, is void where prohibited by law and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish expires within one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first.
Have a great Christmas folks and we will see you all here bright and early in 2006.
Love and kisses, Gibbo.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Repost: Racism for dummies.
I wrote this last year around this time but it seems as relevant as ever these days. here it is again for your singing and dancing pleasure...
There has been great discussion recently regarding the topic of racism and, as Australians, our supposed predisposition toward it. It is a topic that is simply too complex to discuss back and forth in the comments section of someone’s blog, so I thought I would take a few moments to put my thoughts down in some sort of order.
To give you some context, I would like to explain a little about myself and my background. I am a fifth generation Australian (as far as I have traced so far), of basically British origins. I was born in 1962 and raised in Sydney’s Western Suburbs. Cabramatta, to be precise. That makes me a white male, 42years old and a westie. Prime racist material eh?
Cabramatta was then, and is now, a melting pot of many different races. We had wads of post-war immigrants of many different nationalities. I lived in a short cul-de-sac that had the migrant hostel at the bottom. The makeup of our street was roughly this: On our side it went Scottish, Russian, Italian, Aussies, Latvians, Serbs, Italians, Italians and Croatians. The other side went Italians, Italians, Italians, Serbs, Italians, Various, Aussies, Aussies, Ukrainians, Scots, Macedonians, and this was just my street. As you know, we then had a large influx of Asian refugees starting in the 70’s. In short, if you were racist, you didn’t have any friends. This community was remarkably harmonious. People just plain got along. Sure, there were people you didn’t like but it was usually something more substantial than their racial background. I will have more to say in a future post about why I think that this community was as successful as it was, but it serves to show you some of my background and why I get so upset when people say I am a racist because I am a white male or because I vote for John Howard. It is simply not true. It is a concept that I reject out of hand. This is not to say that Australians are not racist or that I have never been a racist. I am simply stating that we are no more racist than anyone else. I believe that all races use this “evil power” whenever it suits them.
It is not something that white people do to brown people. It is not something Aussies do to wogs. It is something people do to each other.
Let me explain it like this:
I support Parramatta in the football. I go along to games or watch ‘em on the TV and I get all worked up. When my team plays your team, I don’t like your team. Say we are playing against Newcastle, then that Andrew Johns is a mongrel bastard who must be stopped at all costs. Phoooey on him. Kick him in the nuts, pull his hair, whatever. Just beat them. But… when State of Origin time comes around, Andrew Johns no longer is a mongrel bastard who plays for Newcastle. He’s the bloody captain of NSW and a top bloke. Skillful, wiley, just a brilliant player. Great to see my man Nathan Hindmarsh in the same team as the great Andrew Johns. On the other hand, that Shane Webke is a prick eh? Bloody fridge on legs. I don’t like him at all! Smash him boys!!! Bloody Queenslander.
But… when the Aussie team gets picked to go and wallop the Poms, that bloody Webke. Top bloke! Never stops trying. Proud to have him in the side. Go Shane, smash those Poms.
That, my friends is exactly how racism works. It is all about the current perspective and what suits you at the time.
When it suits we are citizens of the world.
When it suits we are Aussies.
When it suits we are part of Asia.
When it suits we are of British descent.
When it suits we are ANZACS
When it suits we are a multicultural paradise.
I have never met a specific race or culture who is not capable of pulling out the race card whenever it suits. The problem is that it stifles genuine debate and the possibility of actually fixing some of our countries serious problems. If you shout down every argument that is not yours as racist, then you are not helping. Some examples of “Aussies inherent racism” were given to me at Darps’ blog today. One fellow said that he had never seen an Aboriginal married to a white person in Australia so therefore we must all be racist. Mate, I lived next door to an Aboriginal chap and his white wife for many years. It is not as uncommon as you think. Another person said that by my treating all races as equal, I was being ethnocentric and therefore was a racist. What the fuck? One person even said that I must be a racist because voted for “the right”. Just what we need mate, sensible debate.
I know it has become fashionable in some circles to be a self flagellator but don’t include me in your guilt trip. The we had the call for an "indigenous" blogger to come in and tell us once more how racist we are because only black people know. IE Black person says white person is racist. Ipso facto... white peole are racist. QED.
While we are talking about Aboriginals. Don’t think that they aren’t as bad as anyone else at this stuff. Many of the tribes are openly hostile to each other for no more reason than their “race” IE My tribe is better than yours. I have personally witnessed the unbelievable amount of diplomacy it takes to get some of these people to just be in the same room as each other, let along carry out a meaningful dialog. This is not a put-down. This just proves they are human like the rest of us. By segregating them into a sub-group of our society that is treated inherently different is racist beyond belief as just does not help. If every problem is looked at through the lens of “it must be whitey’s fault”, then you are missing many opportunities to fix things.
If someone in this country is living in sub-human conditions due to genuine neglect then that is a tragedy and should be fixed. The problem is not a worse one because the victim is black. When you are constantly told that your circumstances are not your fault, then life becomes easy. Any problem you have must be caused by someone else’s actions. Therefore, it is not your responsibility to fix. It might even surprise you to learn that not Aboriginals live under a piece of corrugated tin in Bumfuqnowhere. Not all of them are drug addled fuckwits from Redfern. The vast majority of them lead happy, fulfilled, quiet lives in suburbia, far from the hue and cry of the racist politics of the left. They even marry white folks sometimes Davo! By categorizing them as all being disadvantaged because they are black is racist in the extreme.
I’ll say it one more time for the dummies. It is not something that white people do to brown people. It is not something Aussies do to wogs. It is something people do to each other. If you think that it is an Aussie thing then you simply don’t mix with a wide enough group of people. Go out and make friends with some wogs. Most of them are nice people, just like everyone else. Most of them are capable of being racist pigs when it suits, just like everyone else. You might even enjoy the food. Better than chops, peas and potatoes anyday.
There has been great discussion recently regarding the topic of racism and, as Australians, our supposed predisposition toward it. It is a topic that is simply too complex to discuss back and forth in the comments section of someone’s blog, so I thought I would take a few moments to put my thoughts down in some sort of order.
To give you some context, I would like to explain a little about myself and my background. I am a fifth generation Australian (as far as I have traced so far), of basically British origins. I was born in 1962 and raised in Sydney’s Western Suburbs. Cabramatta, to be precise. That makes me a white male, 42years old and a westie. Prime racist material eh?
Cabramatta was then, and is now, a melting pot of many different races. We had wads of post-war immigrants of many different nationalities. I lived in a short cul-de-sac that had the migrant hostel at the bottom. The makeup of our street was roughly this: On our side it went Scottish, Russian, Italian, Aussies, Latvians, Serbs, Italians, Italians and Croatians. The other side went Italians, Italians, Italians, Serbs, Italians, Various, Aussies, Aussies, Ukrainians, Scots, Macedonians, and this was just my street. As you know, we then had a large influx of Asian refugees starting in the 70’s. In short, if you were racist, you didn’t have any friends. This community was remarkably harmonious. People just plain got along. Sure, there were people you didn’t like but it was usually something more substantial than their racial background. I will have more to say in a future post about why I think that this community was as successful as it was, but it serves to show you some of my background and why I get so upset when people say I am a racist because I am a white male or because I vote for John Howard. It is simply not true. It is a concept that I reject out of hand. This is not to say that Australians are not racist or that I have never been a racist. I am simply stating that we are no more racist than anyone else. I believe that all races use this “evil power” whenever it suits them.
It is not something that white people do to brown people. It is not something Aussies do to wogs. It is something people do to each other.
Let me explain it like this:
I support Parramatta in the football. I go along to games or watch ‘em on the TV and I get all worked up. When my team plays your team, I don’t like your team. Say we are playing against Newcastle, then that Andrew Johns is a mongrel bastard who must be stopped at all costs. Phoooey on him. Kick him in the nuts, pull his hair, whatever. Just beat them. But… when State of Origin time comes around, Andrew Johns no longer is a mongrel bastard who plays for Newcastle. He’s the bloody captain of NSW and a top bloke. Skillful, wiley, just a brilliant player. Great to see my man Nathan Hindmarsh in the same team as the great Andrew Johns. On the other hand, that Shane Webke is a prick eh? Bloody fridge on legs. I don’t like him at all! Smash him boys!!! Bloody Queenslander.
But… when the Aussie team gets picked to go and wallop the Poms, that bloody Webke. Top bloke! Never stops trying. Proud to have him in the side. Go Shane, smash those Poms.
That, my friends is exactly how racism works. It is all about the current perspective and what suits you at the time.
When it suits we are citizens of the world.
When it suits we are Aussies.
When it suits we are part of Asia.
When it suits we are of British descent.
When it suits we are ANZACS
When it suits we are a multicultural paradise.
I have never met a specific race or culture who is not capable of pulling out the race card whenever it suits. The problem is that it stifles genuine debate and the possibility of actually fixing some of our countries serious problems. If you shout down every argument that is not yours as racist, then you are not helping. Some examples of “Aussies inherent racism” were given to me at Darps’ blog today. One fellow said that he had never seen an Aboriginal married to a white person in Australia so therefore we must all be racist. Mate, I lived next door to an Aboriginal chap and his white wife for many years. It is not as uncommon as you think. Another person said that by my treating all races as equal, I was being ethnocentric and therefore was a racist. What the fuck? One person even said that I must be a racist because voted for “the right”. Just what we need mate, sensible debate.
I know it has become fashionable in some circles to be a self flagellator but don’t include me in your guilt trip. The we had the call for an "indigenous" blogger to come in and tell us once more how racist we are because only black people know. IE Black person says white person is racist. Ipso facto... white peole are racist. QED.
While we are talking about Aboriginals. Don’t think that they aren’t as bad as anyone else at this stuff. Many of the tribes are openly hostile to each other for no more reason than their “race” IE My tribe is better than yours. I have personally witnessed the unbelievable amount of diplomacy it takes to get some of these people to just be in the same room as each other, let along carry out a meaningful dialog. This is not a put-down. This just proves they are human like the rest of us. By segregating them into a sub-group of our society that is treated inherently different is racist beyond belief as just does not help. If every problem is looked at through the lens of “it must be whitey’s fault”, then you are missing many opportunities to fix things.
If someone in this country is living in sub-human conditions due to genuine neglect then that is a tragedy and should be fixed. The problem is not a worse one because the victim is black. When you are constantly told that your circumstances are not your fault, then life becomes easy. Any problem you have must be caused by someone else’s actions. Therefore, it is not your responsibility to fix. It might even surprise you to learn that not Aboriginals live under a piece of corrugated tin in Bumfuqnowhere. Not all of them are drug addled fuckwits from Redfern. The vast majority of them lead happy, fulfilled, quiet lives in suburbia, far from the hue and cry of the racist politics of the left. They even marry white folks sometimes Davo! By categorizing them as all being disadvantaged because they are black is racist in the extreme.
I’ll say it one more time for the dummies. It is not something that white people do to brown people. It is not something Aussies do to wogs. It is something people do to each other. If you think that it is an Aussie thing then you simply don’t mix with a wide enough group of people. Go out and make friends with some wogs. Most of them are nice people, just like everyone else. Most of them are capable of being racist pigs when it suits, just like everyone else. You might even enjoy the food. Better than chops, peas and potatoes anyday.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Jeff Lang
I had the pleasure on Saturday night of going to see the amazing Jeff Lang at the Brass Monkey in Cronulla. What a great show. In my experience it's not often that a single person with an acoustic guitar can be entertaining for more than about 10 minutes but Jeff is one of the exceptions.
Read the rest at GibbosWarStories.com
Read the rest at GibbosWarStories.com
Engrish
Hi folks, I'm back from holidays and feelin' fine.
Don't tell anyone, but I was reading the instructions of a network cable tester this morning when I found the following:
"ATTENTION.
Please be sure battery enough, battery voltage lower, indicator lamp will not clear, flash or doesn't bright and influence test result."
and
"WARNING.
Prohibit will tester connect to with electron wire on.otherwise when high voltage will damage tester."
and finishing with...
"Any renew or improve of the products will not be adviced."
I didn't know Margo worked in translating instructions.
Don't tell anyone, but I was reading the instructions of a network cable tester this morning when I found the following:
"ATTENTION.
Please be sure battery enough, battery voltage lower, indicator lamp will not clear, flash or doesn't bright and influence test result."
and
"WARNING.
Prohibit will tester connect to with electron wire on.otherwise when high voltage will damage tester."
and finishing with...
"Any renew or improve of the products will not be adviced."
I didn't know Margo worked in translating instructions.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
All aboard the band wagon. First stop Peanutville.
There was a great comment the other day on Andrew Bartletts blog that, for me, sums up the stupidity and the hatred of todays lefties. Andrew has been on a trip overseas which included Turkey. He wrote a nice little story about Gallipoli in which he included the famous words of Ataturk regarding Australian soldiers still lying, buried, at Gallipoli:
"you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well."
Nice words eh? I've got to admit they are quite moving really. Then in the comments we get quickly slapped back to the reality of a leftist blog. Some barking moonbat says:
"Can't help but think of the difference in attitude between Ataturk and our PM: Ataturk welcomed into the 'bosom' of Turkey the thousands of men who arrived in boats to kill his countrymen and capture their land ..."
I nearly snorted coffee out my nose.
I can see the scene now. ANZACS arriving in their boats with Ataturk standing at the top of the cove with a beer in one hand and the BBQ tongs in the other calling "Welcome mates, grab a coldie on your way up the hill". NOT.
No matter what the story, somehow to the leftist peanut brains, it is always a demonstration of the inherrent evil of Little Johnny Ratus hoWARd.
I'll explain it for you. The people he welcomed into the bosom of Turkey were THE DEAD ONES HE HAD SHOT THE SHIT OUT OF.
Fucking idiots!
"you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well."
Nice words eh? I've got to admit they are quite moving really. Then in the comments we get quickly slapped back to the reality of a leftist blog. Some barking moonbat says:
"Can't help but think of the difference in attitude between Ataturk and our PM: Ataturk welcomed into the 'bosom' of Turkey the thousands of men who arrived in boats to kill his countrymen and capture their land ..."
I nearly snorted coffee out my nose.
I can see the scene now. ANZACS arriving in their boats with Ataturk standing at the top of the cove with a beer in one hand and the BBQ tongs in the other calling "Welcome mates, grab a coldie on your way up the hill". NOT.
No matter what the story, somehow to the leftist peanut brains, it is always a demonstration of the inherrent evil of Little Johnny Ratus hoWARd.
I'll explain it for you. The people he welcomed into the bosom of Turkey were THE DEAD ONES HE HAD SHOT THE SHIT OUT OF.
Fucking idiots!
Friday, October 21, 2005
Where do I collect my Ten Grand?
Have a go at this.
Some plonker gets turpsed at work to the point of pissing in his bin, and somehow his employer has to cough up $10,000 for sacking him? What the?
I've never admitted this before folks, but, once I did the same thing. Now I want my money.
It was 1993 and I was touring with blues legend Albert Collins.
The master of the telecaster, Albert Collins.
The last night of the tour was at Balmain RSL and was huge. We couldn't load out that night & that usually means hitting the turps in a big way. Well, I must admit to having one or two refreshing ales that night and ended up back at the hotel quite maggoted. In a startling replay of that famous "one day you're gunna get caught with your pants down" advertisement, I got up in the middle of the night for a slash. To say I was still under the influence and slightly dissoriented would be an understatment. I managed to open the wrong door and locked myself out of the room, drunk as a skunk, busting for a piss and only dressed in my undies. I tried banging on the door to wake up my youngest brother who I was sharing the room with, but to no avail so off I staggered along the hall looking for a toilet. No toilets anywhere but what about this convenient bin? It was probably the longest piss of my life. I think I went close to filling it.
Now I had to try and get back into my room as being found asleep in the hallway next to a bin full of piss would not be good. I knocked and banged continuously for about 5 minutes when I managed to wake my other brother in the next room. "What the fuck are you doing?" he yelled.
"7$!@$&nhq8&%@)!!" I replied as I collapsed onto the spare bed.
The loadout the next morning was a very slow one indeed.
Cross posted at Gibbos War Stories
Some plonker gets turpsed at work to the point of pissing in his bin, and somehow his employer has to cough up $10,000 for sacking him? What the?
I've never admitted this before folks, but, once I did the same thing. Now I want my money.
It was 1993 and I was touring with blues legend Albert Collins.
The master of the telecaster, Albert Collins.
The last night of the tour was at Balmain RSL and was huge. We couldn't load out that night & that usually means hitting the turps in a big way. Well, I must admit to having one or two refreshing ales that night and ended up back at the hotel quite maggoted. In a startling replay of that famous "one day you're gunna get caught with your pants down" advertisement, I got up in the middle of the night for a slash. To say I was still under the influence and slightly dissoriented would be an understatment. I managed to open the wrong door and locked myself out of the room, drunk as a skunk, busting for a piss and only dressed in my undies. I tried banging on the door to wake up my youngest brother who I was sharing the room with, but to no avail so off I staggered along the hall looking for a toilet. No toilets anywhere but what about this convenient bin? It was probably the longest piss of my life. I think I went close to filling it.
Now I had to try and get back into my room as being found asleep in the hallway next to a bin full of piss would not be good. I knocked and banged continuously for about 5 minutes when I managed to wake my other brother in the next room. "What the fuck are you doing?" he yelled.
"7$!@$&nhq8&%@)!!" I replied as I collapsed onto the spare bed.
The loadout the next morning was a very slow one indeed.
Cross posted at Gibbos War Stories
Monday, October 17, 2005
Shove your oil up your bum Mr OPEC
Ever the greenie(practical greenie not political greenie that is), Gibbo has just invested in a new mode of transport destined to leave Mr Opec and his highly priced consumables behind.
Behold...the electric pushbike!
Yes I've strapped a motor onto the old pushy to help drag my fat guts up some of the bigger hills between work & my place and it's tops. The only oil it uses is a few drops on the chain too. She's a beauty eh?
I built a vegie garden on the weekend too. Shit, next I'll be wearing Che T-Shirts!
Behold...the electric pushbike!
Yes I've strapped a motor onto the old pushy to help drag my fat guts up some of the bigger hills between work & my place and it's tops. The only oil it uses is a few drops on the chain too. She's a beauty eh?
I built a vegie garden on the weekend too. Shit, next I'll be wearing Che T-Shirts!
Monday, October 10, 2005
Roadtrip whoohooo!
I went to Bathurst races on the weekend for the first time ever. I tell you what, I'll be back. We had a ball.
We left after work on Friday night & had a nice, uneventful trip up the mountains. A couple of hours later we were in the Knickerbocker Hotel, Bathurst drinking beer and bopping to the band. For some bizzare reason they shut far too early and kicked us all out. No worries, we just headed to the track. First stop was the main straight for a couple of piccies.
Pete & Brian at the finish line.
The next problem was finding somewhere dry to sleep. A tarp, two fold up chairs and three golf umbrellas later, viola! Lets drink bourbon.
The Bathurst Hilton.
After a very brief pause for sleep we headed off to claim a spot.
Brian & Pete trying to look sober.
We ended up with a top spot right at the first corner so we could see most of the main straight and up mountain straight. Lucky we got there early though, the joint packs out that's for sure.
Brian & Pete not bothering to try and look sober.
The crowd has apparently become much more "family friendly" in recent years which was easy to see by the many kids running around. Some of the old die-hards still persist in upholding certain cultural traditions such as drinking until you fall over.
These guys were classics. I don't know if they saw much of the official proceedings but they seemed to be having fun. They lost numerous beers by falling asleep & letting them roll down the hill to the awaiting piss-tanks at the bottom of the hill.
At various stages of the day we even saw racing cars!
The eventual winner. Yeehah!
There were also plenty of other things to look at during the slow bits(of which there were plenty - damn rain!)
The blonde chick was an intruder in Big Brother this year. She has obviously done very well for herself since - not!
The afternoon was spent wandering around the various merchandise stands in a drunken blur which was punctuated by the awesome sound of Victor Bray and some other dude in a ute doing the most amazing burn-outs. Tops!
God-damn this thing was loud.
Almost enough cubic inches to fill Bob Browns cavity.
Mate...what a day. Next year I'm staying for the races.
We left after work on Friday night & had a nice, uneventful trip up the mountains. A couple of hours later we were in the Knickerbocker Hotel, Bathurst drinking beer and bopping to the band. For some bizzare reason they shut far too early and kicked us all out. No worries, we just headed to the track. First stop was the main straight for a couple of piccies.
Pete & Brian at the finish line.
The next problem was finding somewhere dry to sleep. A tarp, two fold up chairs and three golf umbrellas later, viola! Lets drink bourbon.
The Bathurst Hilton.
After a very brief pause for sleep we headed off to claim a spot.
Brian & Pete trying to look sober.
We ended up with a top spot right at the first corner so we could see most of the main straight and up mountain straight. Lucky we got there early though, the joint packs out that's for sure.
Brian & Pete not bothering to try and look sober.
The crowd has apparently become much more "family friendly" in recent years which was easy to see by the many kids running around. Some of the old die-hards still persist in upholding certain cultural traditions such as drinking until you fall over.
These guys were classics. I don't know if they saw much of the official proceedings but they seemed to be having fun. They lost numerous beers by falling asleep & letting them roll down the hill to the awaiting piss-tanks at the bottom of the hill.
At various stages of the day we even saw racing cars!
The eventual winner. Yeehah!
There were also plenty of other things to look at during the slow bits(of which there were plenty - damn rain!)
The blonde chick was an intruder in Big Brother this year. She has obviously done very well for herself since - not!
The afternoon was spent wandering around the various merchandise stands in a drunken blur which was punctuated by the awesome sound of Victor Bray and some other dude in a ute doing the most amazing burn-outs. Tops!
God-damn this thing was loud.
Almost enough cubic inches to fill Bob Browns cavity.
Mate...what a day. Next year I'm staying for the races.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Grand Final Predictions
Continuing along on my amazingly accurate footy predictions this year I would like to announce my tip for this weekends Grand Final(using the Sheil each way bet method).
My Heart says Cowboys...
My Head says Tigers.
There you go folks. Using the Sheil method means that you can't lose, or win, or something. Tops!
Remember you heard it here first.
My Heart says Cowboys...
My Head says Tigers.
There you go folks. Using the Sheil method means that you can't lose, or win, or something. Tops!
Remember you heard it here first.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Hey Brogden, pass me the stapler.
I stand before you today as a mere shell of the man I was yesterday morning. Life seems pointless. Everything is black and murky.
Oh the humanity!!!!
Parramatta choked again. Aaaaaaggggggghhhhhhh!
Pass me the stapler John, I'm in self harming mode. I may even eat paste and run with scissors!
Oh the humanity!!!!
Parramatta choked again. Aaaaaaggggggghhhhhhh!
Pass me the stapler John, I'm in self harming mode. I may even eat paste and run with scissors!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Latham, you are an inspiration!
My 16 year old son, Gibbo Jnr, came home with an interesting story the other day. Him and his mates were down at the Group 6 League grand finals last weekend when they ran into... well, I'll let Gibbo Jnr tell you in his own inimitable style.
Twas an early Sunday afternoon, there was much excitment at the football game that myself and many of my associates were attending. In our excitment three of my associates and myself decided it would be a great idea to take the medium sized walk to the nearest Subway complex. Upon arrival no one had noticed a certain man and his son using one of the designated sitting and eating areas "tables and seats" if you will. So my friend and I ordered our desired food and beverages and sat down in one of the corners with my other two associates. So as I was enjoying my Cookie and beverage of the soda variety, one of my associates noticed the man sitting at the table. He appeared to resemble Mark Latham, our ex leader of the opposition, but no one could be sure, and no one was game enough to ask. He must have heard our murmurs because as he left, he approached me with his child, and proclaimed "If i'm Mark Latham, you're Freddy Fuckwit!"
Dumbfounded through my disbelief of what I had just heard, partly because it was who I believed was the ex leader of the opposition, and partly because he had his toddler with him, that all I could think to say was "O.k, see ya Mark."
Our group proceeded to laugh our heads off for about 20 minutes, the shock was unbelievable and we continued to relive the moment over and over.
Now we weren't sure if it was really Mark Latham, but I did some research, and have come to the conclusion that it was. Who would have thought that the one thing that I had a problem with would provide me with the evidence I sorely needed. His child. He had fiery Red hair, so naturally I looked on the internet for pictures of him and his family. It took less than 2 minutes, and I had the evidence I needed. A picture was found, with him and his two red headed children, COMPELLING EVIDENCE???, I think so!
So really all I have to say is thankyou. Thankyou Mr Latham, these wise, encouraging, reassuring words have givin me a new lease on life. It is clear to me now that if an absolute idiot such as yourself can become leader of the opposition, then I can become successful in anything I strive to achieve. Nothing can stop me now that I have the encouragement of possibly one of the biggest bogans driving me. I say bogan, because Mr Latham was dressed in the most profound manner. A daggy, 10 odd year old shirt, a pair of stubbie shorts and a pair of colarado shoes, with no socks. I would have thought that being in one of the most influencial positions would have provided him with some funds. But this brings me to my next point. This boganism leads me to believe that you probably spend all of your money fixing the vandalism attacks that occur on your house and possesions. You know why that is Mr Latham? Because no one likes you, and most of us, well the ones that don't see you in Subway, have forgotten about you. I believe this is probably why you were so angry and harsh that Sunday afternoon. Hey I don't blame you, I'd be a bit sour too, if the whole nation hated me.
So in conclusion, thankyou Mr Latham, you are an inspiration to all of us, who are even slightly better than you(everyone). In the end, you were Mark Latham, so I guess I am Freddy Fuckwit!
Peace Out, Gibbo(FF)
Twas an early Sunday afternoon, there was much excitment at the football game that myself and many of my associates were attending. In our excitment three of my associates and myself decided it would be a great idea to take the medium sized walk to the nearest Subway complex. Upon arrival no one had noticed a certain man and his son using one of the designated sitting and eating areas "tables and seats" if you will. So my friend and I ordered our desired food and beverages and sat down in one of the corners with my other two associates. So as I was enjoying my Cookie and beverage of the soda variety, one of my associates noticed the man sitting at the table. He appeared to resemble Mark Latham, our ex leader of the opposition, but no one could be sure, and no one was game enough to ask. He must have heard our murmurs because as he left, he approached me with his child, and proclaimed "If i'm Mark Latham, you're Freddy Fuckwit!"
Dumbfounded through my disbelief of what I had just heard, partly because it was who I believed was the ex leader of the opposition, and partly because he had his toddler with him, that all I could think to say was "O.k, see ya Mark."
Our group proceeded to laugh our heads off for about 20 minutes, the shock was unbelievable and we continued to relive the moment over and over.
Now we weren't sure if it was really Mark Latham, but I did some research, and have come to the conclusion that it was. Who would have thought that the one thing that I had a problem with would provide me with the evidence I sorely needed. His child. He had fiery Red hair, so naturally I looked on the internet for pictures of him and his family. It took less than 2 minutes, and I had the evidence I needed. A picture was found, with him and his two red headed children, COMPELLING EVIDENCE???, I think so!
So really all I have to say is thankyou. Thankyou Mr Latham, these wise, encouraging, reassuring words have givin me a new lease on life. It is clear to me now that if an absolute idiot such as yourself can become leader of the opposition, then I can become successful in anything I strive to achieve. Nothing can stop me now that I have the encouragement of possibly one of the biggest bogans driving me. I say bogan, because Mr Latham was dressed in the most profound manner. A daggy, 10 odd year old shirt, a pair of stubbie shorts and a pair of colarado shoes, with no socks. I would have thought that being in one of the most influencial positions would have provided him with some funds. But this brings me to my next point. This boganism leads me to believe that you probably spend all of your money fixing the vandalism attacks that occur on your house and possesions. You know why that is Mr Latham? Because no one likes you, and most of us, well the ones that don't see you in Subway, have forgotten about you. I believe this is probably why you were so angry and harsh that Sunday afternoon. Hey I don't blame you, I'd be a bit sour too, if the whole nation hated me.
So in conclusion, thankyou Mr Latham, you are an inspiration to all of us, who are even slightly better than you(everyone). In the end, you were Mark Latham, so I guess I am Freddy Fuckwit!
Peace Out, Gibbo(FF)
Monday, September 05, 2005
Compared to women, blokes are lazy no-good layabouts.
From the keyboard of guest writer, Sticko
WE'VE opened a stall at Balmain Markets on Saturdays and, I hafta tell ya, it's fun. Fun, that is, if your definition of a good time is ooh-aahing out of a warm bed at half-past-five in the freezing cold, and filling your frost-dusted car with stock, stand, signage and sustenance.
We've been getting on really well with our market "neighbours", Antony and Rachel, who sell Aloe Mist, aloe vera products which are great for the skin. Their moisturiser, for example, can turn warthog into wonderful in a matter of days. Or a few short decades, in my case.
Antony's something of a gentle new-age guy, a fella who genuinely tries to see things
from perspectives other than his own. That's probably why he showed me the results of a recent study which show that, compared to women, blokes are lazy no-good layabouts. At first glance that might not seem too complimentary, and it was obviously troubling
Antony. But on closer inspection, it's clear that the study is skewed to favour the fairer sex.
How come nobody runs surveys asking the kind of questions in which men are able to show their stronger traits? Queries like:
1. In an emergency, could you open a stubbie with your teeth?
2. On average, how long do you spend each week craning your neck to see how much cellulite there is on your thighs?
3. Are you emotionally mature enough to make a meaningful, life-long commitment to a favourite pair of reggies? or
4. If someone is concentrating intently on, say, the football on the telly, and you're wondering if his lack of chit-chat is because he is cranky about something so you ask what's wrong, and he fails to answer because he is wondering why the Tigers kicked on the second tackle, do you accept this perfectly reasonable silence or do you blow a fuse and start to HENPECK HIM UNTIL HE HAS TO HIDE IN THE BACK SHED?
But do we ever see these types of questions on surveys? No. Just questions like the ones asked in the survey Antony showed me, from the Department of Labor and Industry. It petitioned 13,000 Aussies to find out how they spend their time when they're not working. It revealed that womenfolk spend twice as much time as menfolk on looking after the kids and doing household chores, while men dedicate more time to sport and leisure. This is clearly quite misleading.
Take the concept of "housework". Sure, women spend more TIME on it. But hey, what are they really accomplishing when you break it all down? Spending hours scooping up a three-year-old's toys and putting them back into the toy box is clearly WORKING, but not what we blokes describe as "working smart".
We are savvy enough to realise that all these toys will soon be back scattered all over the place again, and we wisely leave the toy-picking-up until a more sensible time, say when the child has left home to study at university. But does the Department of Labor and Industry give us credit for this? No bloody way.
And let's talk about child care vs leisure. For women, these are two separate activities, but men have perfected a productivity-enhancing technique called "multi-tasking."
Say a man is supposed to watch a child, but he also wants to watch the footy. Thanks to "multi-tasking", this man can keep one eye on the football game, while at the same time keeping the other eye also on the football game. But in some remote lobe of his brain there's a vague awareness that there is a child around somewhere, and if he hears anything suspicious - a siren, say, or an explosion - he will respond immediately, unless of course it is the last tackle and Benji Marshall has broken into the clear.
Speaking of which: I was once at an Easter gathering where there was a backyard touch football game involving all the guys except one - I will call him "Fred" - who was watching us while holding his little daughter. My team was short one player, so we looked over at "Fred" (who has a superb sidestep) and, after making us swear we would never tell his wife, he very carefully set his daughter down on the lawn and joined the game. Seconds later Nick - whoops, I mean "Fred" - scored a try in the corner to win the game.
This never would have happened if we had allowed ourselves to be shackled by the rigid, inflexible definitions of "leisure" and "child care" which have for so long enslaved women and the blinkered "Department of Labor and Industry."
Now this is not to say I believe all men are perfect. Not at all. To be honest, some areas of domestic life have scope for blokes to show more sensitivity toward, and recognition of, the imbalance between them and women, and I intend to take steps to close that gap. However, before we embark on that journey, I have an urgent question for Antony:
"Why did they kick on the second tackle?"
WE'VE opened a stall at Balmain Markets on Saturdays and, I hafta tell ya, it's fun. Fun, that is, if your definition of a good time is ooh-aahing out of a warm bed at half-past-five in the freezing cold, and filling your frost-dusted car with stock, stand, signage and sustenance.
We've been getting on really well with our market "neighbours", Antony and Rachel, who sell Aloe Mist, aloe vera products which are great for the skin. Their moisturiser, for example, can turn warthog into wonderful in a matter of days. Or a few short decades, in my case.
Antony's something of a gentle new-age guy, a fella who genuinely tries to see things
from perspectives other than his own. That's probably why he showed me the results of a recent study which show that, compared to women, blokes are lazy no-good layabouts. At first glance that might not seem too complimentary, and it was obviously troubling
Antony. But on closer inspection, it's clear that the study is skewed to favour the fairer sex.
How come nobody runs surveys asking the kind of questions in which men are able to show their stronger traits? Queries like:
1. In an emergency, could you open a stubbie with your teeth?
2. On average, how long do you spend each week craning your neck to see how much cellulite there is on your thighs?
3. Are you emotionally mature enough to make a meaningful, life-long commitment to a favourite pair of reggies? or
4. If someone is concentrating intently on, say, the football on the telly, and you're wondering if his lack of chit-chat is because he is cranky about something so you ask what's wrong, and he fails to answer because he is wondering why the Tigers kicked on the second tackle, do you accept this perfectly reasonable silence or do you blow a fuse and start to HENPECK HIM UNTIL HE HAS TO HIDE IN THE BACK SHED?
But do we ever see these types of questions on surveys? No. Just questions like the ones asked in the survey Antony showed me, from the Department of Labor and Industry. It petitioned 13,000 Aussies to find out how they spend their time when they're not working. It revealed that womenfolk spend twice as much time as menfolk on looking after the kids and doing household chores, while men dedicate more time to sport and leisure. This is clearly quite misleading.
Take the concept of "housework". Sure, women spend more TIME on it. But hey, what are they really accomplishing when you break it all down? Spending hours scooping up a three-year-old's toys and putting them back into the toy box is clearly WORKING, but not what we blokes describe as "working smart".
We are savvy enough to realise that all these toys will soon be back scattered all over the place again, and we wisely leave the toy-picking-up until a more sensible time, say when the child has left home to study at university. But does the Department of Labor and Industry give us credit for this? No bloody way.
And let's talk about child care vs leisure. For women, these are two separate activities, but men have perfected a productivity-enhancing technique called "multi-tasking."
Say a man is supposed to watch a child, but he also wants to watch the footy. Thanks to "multi-tasking", this man can keep one eye on the football game, while at the same time keeping the other eye also on the football game. But in some remote lobe of his brain there's a vague awareness that there is a child around somewhere, and if he hears anything suspicious - a siren, say, or an explosion - he will respond immediately, unless of course it is the last tackle and Benji Marshall has broken into the clear.
Speaking of which: I was once at an Easter gathering where there was a backyard touch football game involving all the guys except one - I will call him "Fred" - who was watching us while holding his little daughter. My team was short one player, so we looked over at "Fred" (who has a superb sidestep) and, after making us swear we would never tell his wife, he very carefully set his daughter down on the lawn and joined the game. Seconds later Nick - whoops, I mean "Fred" - scored a try in the corner to win the game.
This never would have happened if we had allowed ourselves to be shackled by the rigid, inflexible definitions of "leisure" and "child care" which have for so long enslaved women and the blinkered "Department of Labor and Industry."
Now this is not to say I believe all men are perfect. Not at all. To be honest, some areas of domestic life have scope for blokes to show more sensitivity toward, and recognition of, the imbalance between them and women, and I intend to take steps to close that gap. However, before we embark on that journey, I have an urgent question for Antony:
"Why did they kick on the second tackle?"
Minor Premiers.
How good are those Eels going? We have slipped in under the radar to clain the Minor Premiership.
I thought this might be an opportune moment to reflect of my "predictions" from the beginning of the year. I used a new system this year. One shown to me by the amazing Chris Sheil who, using this system, is never wrong.
There is still the finals series to go but so far I am doing well. Lets check the top eight alongside my earlier predictions:
1. Parramatta. "I am going to endorse them for the 2005 premiership"
2. Dragons. "I subscribe that St George will come out on top."
3. Broncos. "I envision that Brisbane have a good chance of winning."
4. Tigers. "I prescribe that the Tigers can't lose."
5. Cowboys. "I presume that The Cowboys could win."
6. Storm. "I advocate that Melbourne are unbeatable."
7. Sharks. "I acknowledge that Cronulla may well win."
8. Manly. "I recommend Manly as a shoe in for the title."
Not a bad result eh? Using Chris' patented method of betting on every horse in the field then dismissing the losers as only "endorsements" or "recommendations" when you really "predicted" something else means you really can't lose.
Thanks Chris.
I thought this might be an opportune moment to reflect of my "predictions" from the beginning of the year. I used a new system this year. One shown to me by the amazing Chris Sheil who, using this system, is never wrong.
There is still the finals series to go but so far I am doing well. Lets check the top eight alongside my earlier predictions:
1. Parramatta. "I am going to endorse them for the 2005 premiership"
2. Dragons. "I subscribe that St George will come out on top."
3. Broncos. "I envision that Brisbane have a good chance of winning."
4. Tigers. "I prescribe that the Tigers can't lose."
5. Cowboys. "I presume that The Cowboys could win."
6. Storm. "I advocate that Melbourne are unbeatable."
7. Sharks. "I acknowledge that Cronulla may well win."
8. Manly. "I recommend Manly as a shoe in for the title."
Not a bad result eh? Using Chris' patented method of betting on every horse in the field then dismissing the losers as only "endorsements" or "recommendations" when you really "predicted" something else means you really can't lose.
Thanks Chris.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
John Mayall and The Bluesbreakers.
Saturday 25th October 1986. Do you remember where you were that day? I can tell you where I was. Selina's at the Coogee Bay Hotel. What a night!
I was working for Bandanna and we had gotten a gig that we were all rapt about. Supporting John Mayall & The Bluesbreakers as well as Aussie blues legends, Chain. This was a big gig for us, band and crew alike. John Mayall is such an influential person in the music industry that it was like doing a gig with some sort of minor God.
Continued at Gibbo's War Stories...
I was working for Bandanna and we had gotten a gig that we were all rapt about. Supporting John Mayall & The Bluesbreakers as well as Aussie blues legends, Chain. This was a big gig for us, band and crew alike. John Mayall is such an influential person in the music industry that it was like doing a gig with some sort of minor God.
Continued at Gibbo's War Stories...
Monday, August 29, 2005
The NSW Liberal party is a joke!
Where do I start?
First of all I find out last week that they are standing Nola Fraser as our local candidate then I awake to the news this morning that the alternative Premier of NSW has been taking drinking lessons lessons from Andrew Bartlett. Fuck me dead folks! Do you get Fly Buys for being an idiot these days or something?
We have just withstood 10 years of Bob Carr whose greatest achievement was to make it to retirement before being sacked, and what do we step up to the plate with? Nola bloody Fraser and John "Mail Order Bride" Brogden. In the words of Howard Dean... "Aaaarrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyeeeeooooowwwwaaaarrrgggghhhh"
I was going to ask what John was thinking but obviously he wasn't. Sorry John, but you are going to have to show enough balls to step down now. You have, in one fell swoop, become nothing but a liability. Day after day we see the left side of politics in this country hoping like hell for the Liberals to self destruct. They know that this is their only hope of ever being elected as they are far too hopeless to ever be elected on merit.
Well..you've handed it to them on a plate.
First of all I find out last week that they are standing Nola Fraser as our local candidate then I awake to the news this morning that the alternative Premier of NSW has been taking drinking lessons lessons from Andrew Bartlett. Fuck me dead folks! Do you get Fly Buys for being an idiot these days or something?
We have just withstood 10 years of Bob Carr whose greatest achievement was to make it to retirement before being sacked, and what do we step up to the plate with? Nola bloody Fraser and John "Mail Order Bride" Brogden. In the words of Howard Dean... "Aaaarrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyeeeeooooowwwwaaaarrrgggghhhh"
I was going to ask what John was thinking but obviously he wasn't. Sorry John, but you are going to have to show enough balls to step down now. You have, in one fell swoop, become nothing but a liability. Day after day we see the left side of politics in this country hoping like hell for the Liberals to self destruct. They know that this is their only hope of ever being elected as they are far too hopeless to ever be elected on merit.
Well..you've handed it to them on a plate.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
GetOverYourself.Com
Australia's latest political force, GetUp!, has only taken weeks to become a political farce. Liberal party reject John Hewson has reportedly resigned leaving the website as yet another Left Wing spam factory. From todays SMH:
"The group was designed to be a non-partisan political organisation focusing on issues such as industrial relations, media ownership and immigration detention centres. It was set up to appeal to people disaffected with the traditional party system.
But Liberal backbenchers, including the Sydney MP Malcolm Turnbull and the Melbourne MP Andrew Robb, denounced the group and its initial email campaign as little more than spam.
A Victorian MP and member of the parliamentary committee on electoral matters, Tony Smith, labelled it a "scam" that was "an old Labor front dressed up as a genuine movement".
What is it with these idiots and their never ending mission to re-educate the stupid people of Australia to their "approved" version of democracy? I'll give you a tip folks, we already have a democratic process. It's called an election. You lost hahahahaha!
I love the last bit though:
"Dr Hewson's resignation places the organisation in a difficult position.
The search is now on to find someone who is not aligned with either the Labor Party or the Greens to gain wider community appeal."
The key is right there folks. If you are aligned with the Labor Party or The Greens, you do NOT have "wider community appeal".
GetAHaircutAndARealJob.Com, now there's an idea for a political movement.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
I've got a new blog
Hi folks, here is a shameless plug for my new blog, Gibbo's War Stories.
It is a collection of the "roadie" stories that first appeared here without any of my political opinions! Plenty of people have asked for more of them & I'll do my best to post regularly.
Check it out & tell all your friends.
It is a collection of the "roadie" stories that first appeared here without any of my political opinions! Plenty of people have asked for more of them & I'll do my best to post regularly.
Check it out & tell all your friends.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Stevie
I was blown away last night to see Stevie Wright on This Is Your Life. During the late Eighties I worked for a while as Stevies live sound engineer, alongside brother of Gibbo on monitors and My Pal Brian(TM) on lights, and I have wonderful memories of some great gigs as well as some downright strange ones.
He was (I think) still on the needle in those days and was very definitley on the turps in a big way and was quite a handful. Even so, he was still very much a household name and drew decent crowds. The band, Hard Road, consisted of Peter Northcote (sax, keys, guitar), Bruno Renzella (guitar), Vic Young (bass) and Paul DeMarco (drums) and one or two others who slip my mind.
They were outstanding in both musical ability and counselling skills. It was a major effort sometimes just to get Stevie onto the stage in a reasonable condition to perform and the guys showed endless patience(usually!).
The guys started picking him up quite early in the day to get him to the gig before he got too blind. They would then keep him occupied and soberish backstage until show time. This worked for a while until the cunning bugger figured that he could just get the crowd to buy his drinks. "Who's gunna buy Stevie a Southern Comfort then?" would be the cry. Half a dozen punters would then head to the bar and buy him drinks. The look on the faces of the band was simply priceless. What can you do to help someone who is determined to trash themselves?
Poor old Stevie didn't have much of a voice left by this stage and it became increasingly difficult to get his voice to sit in the mix at a decent level. Brother of Gibbo had the worst of it as he looked after on-stage sound which was...loud! One night Stevie was having particular trouble hearing himself in the monitors so he decided he would kick them off the front of the stage, as you do. Classic rock 'n roll tantrum! Anyway, being the professional he is, brother of Gibbo wanders out from side stage nonchalantly and puts the speakers back on stage. Well, Stevie manages to kick them off again at which point brother of Gibbo decides to unplug them & remove them. Picture the scene... Band wailing, punters dancing, singer fuming and brother of Gibbo standing at the front of the stage giving Stevie a right bollocking. Common sense eventually prevailed and the rest of the show went well. During the packup I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one of the band members had brother of Gibbo bailed up side stage and seemed to be giving him a gobfull. Thinking there could be ill feeling about the incident, I wandered a bit closer just in case and managed to hear words to the effect of: "Why didn't you hit the bastard? I that had been my gear he kicked, I'd have floored him!" Brother of Gibbo explained that it wouldn't look good on his resume that he had knocked out Stevie Wright.
One day I'll tell you about the Stevie gig where I had to leave the mixing desk to punch on with some of the crowd! I've still got the scar where my tooth went through my mouth just below my bottom lip. I'll bet the other prick's still pissing blood though!
Thanks for the fun times and classic memories Stevie. Stay straight. I hope you find the peace you are looking for.
He was (I think) still on the needle in those days and was very definitley on the turps in a big way and was quite a handful. Even so, he was still very much a household name and drew decent crowds. The band, Hard Road, consisted of Peter Northcote (sax, keys, guitar), Bruno Renzella (guitar), Vic Young (bass) and Paul DeMarco (drums) and one or two others who slip my mind.
They were outstanding in both musical ability and counselling skills. It was a major effort sometimes just to get Stevie onto the stage in a reasonable condition to perform and the guys showed endless patience(usually!).
The guys started picking him up quite early in the day to get him to the gig before he got too blind. They would then keep him occupied and soberish backstage until show time. This worked for a while until the cunning bugger figured that he could just get the crowd to buy his drinks. "Who's gunna buy Stevie a Southern Comfort then?" would be the cry. Half a dozen punters would then head to the bar and buy him drinks. The look on the faces of the band was simply priceless. What can you do to help someone who is determined to trash themselves?
Poor old Stevie didn't have much of a voice left by this stage and it became increasingly difficult to get his voice to sit in the mix at a decent level. Brother of Gibbo had the worst of it as he looked after on-stage sound which was...loud! One night Stevie was having particular trouble hearing himself in the monitors so he decided he would kick them off the front of the stage, as you do. Classic rock 'n roll tantrum! Anyway, being the professional he is, brother of Gibbo wanders out from side stage nonchalantly and puts the speakers back on stage. Well, Stevie manages to kick them off again at which point brother of Gibbo decides to unplug them & remove them. Picture the scene... Band wailing, punters dancing, singer fuming and brother of Gibbo standing at the front of the stage giving Stevie a right bollocking. Common sense eventually prevailed and the rest of the show went well. During the packup I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one of the band members had brother of Gibbo bailed up side stage and seemed to be giving him a gobfull. Thinking there could be ill feeling about the incident, I wandered a bit closer just in case and managed to hear words to the effect of: "Why didn't you hit the bastard? I that had been my gear he kicked, I'd have floored him!" Brother of Gibbo explained that it wouldn't look good on his resume that he had knocked out Stevie Wright.
One day I'll tell you about the Stevie gig where I had to leave the mixing desk to punch on with some of the crowd! I've still got the scar where my tooth went through my mouth just below my bottom lip. I'll bet the other prick's still pissing blood though!
Thanks for the fun times and classic memories Stevie. Stay straight. I hope you find the peace you are looking for.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Gibbos new toys.
Gibbo shouted himself a new kit a couple of weeks ago and I've finally got around to taking a few pics.
I was in good old Sydney Town a few weeks back and, as you do, I popped in to Billy Hydes. As soon as I layed eyes on it, it was sold! It was exactly what I had been after and the colour(Ruby Fade) blew me away. I whacked a deposit on it and organised to come back on the weekend to pick it up.
Saturday morning rolls around and there is much excitement. Gibbo Jnr has even gotten out of bed early to throw his L plates on the car. He's driving on his first trip to the big smoke. After an uneventful trip in we decided to do a quick lap around Hydes to see if we could fluke a parking spot out the front. We were greeted with the site of a mob of folks standing on the corner outside the shop, which was closed! We parked around the corner and walked back to find out that there has been a fire in the building overnight and the shop was shut. Ahhhhhhhhh!
"Which kit was yours? We suffered no fire damage but a lot of kits got wet" says the guy.
"The Ruby Fade 6 piece Pearl."
"Cool. Your kits not wet. We can pass it out the window."
"Hang on," I says "I was going to pay with EFTPOS"
"Sorry mate, no power"
This is when I realised that you can only get $1000 a day out of an ATM. Damn, today aint goin' good!
Anyways, between myself, the ATM & Mrs Gibbo we scraped up most of it and the very generous, folks at Hydes let us pay the difference with a cheque.
Yeehah!!!
I have to say a very special thanks to Fab and his guys at Billy Hydes. They had many more important things to worry about that morning but they went out of their way to help me out. Well done guys. Top service!
I was in good old Sydney Town a few weeks back and, as you do, I popped in to Billy Hydes. As soon as I layed eyes on it, it was sold! It was exactly what I had been after and the colour(Ruby Fade) blew me away. I whacked a deposit on it and organised to come back on the weekend to pick it up.
Saturday morning rolls around and there is much excitement. Gibbo Jnr has even gotten out of bed early to throw his L plates on the car. He's driving on his first trip to the big smoke. After an uneventful trip in we decided to do a quick lap around Hydes to see if we could fluke a parking spot out the front. We were greeted with the site of a mob of folks standing on the corner outside the shop, which was closed! We parked around the corner and walked back to find out that there has been a fire in the building overnight and the shop was shut. Ahhhhhhhhh!
"Which kit was yours? We suffered no fire damage but a lot of kits got wet" says the guy.
"The Ruby Fade 6 piece Pearl."
"Cool. Your kits not wet. We can pass it out the window."
"Hang on," I says "I was going to pay with EFTPOS"
"Sorry mate, no power"
This is when I realised that you can only get $1000 a day out of an ATM. Damn, today aint goin' good!
Anyways, between myself, the ATM & Mrs Gibbo we scraped up most of it and the very generous, folks at Hydes let us pay the difference with a cheque.
Yeehah!!!
I have to say a very special thanks to Fab and his guys at Billy Hydes. They had many more important things to worry about that morning but they went out of their way to help me out. Well done guys. Top service!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Gotta love a fishing story.
Sorry for the lack of posts lately folks. I've been as busy as a one armed wallpaper hanger.
Here is a nice little story from my buddy Sticko for your enjoyment.
This one's about the kinda fishing trip we have ALL experienced at some time or other...
IT was to be the kind of fishing trip you hear the old salts bragging about when they turn to reminiscing.
We were looking forward to perfect weather, convivial company and plenty of bigg'uns in the cooler when we got back ... proof of our prowess in that age-old battle of man against the best nature has to offer (ie man's own innate stupidity).
We got off to a crook start. On Thursday night we gathered at Gibbo's to plan the grand weekend.
Apart from your correspondent, there was Gibbo, Killer, Whoppa, Chook and Howie, all old school buddies, apart from Howie, a gently-spoken physicist who immigrated from Romania 12 years ago.
Howie was decidedly nervous about the whole concept - firstly because we had decided to be "spontaneous''. You know, not plan ahead too much.
He had vivid memories of our past disasters, especially that camping trip to Oberon and the Jenolan Caves when he wandered off in search of bush orchids and a feral pig trapped him up a tree for four freezing hours.
The only thing which eventually discouraged the cranky sow was that it began to snow.
The other thing worrying Howie was that his ample Aussie wife Janine had reminded him several times that they had long ago locked in a promise to have dinner with her elderly widowed father on Monday of the Australia Day long weekend. More specifically,
what had really put the wind up him was that Janine had bought a new wooden rolling pin, just in case he somehow overlooked the appointment.
Anyway, Thursday's plan was flawless, except that nobody woke up at the appointed time of 4am on Saturday morning and we didn't actually get on the road until 9-ish. Just past Waterfall, Gibbo twigged that the fishing gear so carefully inspected and spiffed up on Friday night ready for battle was still neatly stacked in his suburban laundry.
We finally got the show on the road after lunch. Dusk was hovering on the horizon by the time we reached Kiama and every motel was booked solid. (We hadn't brought any blankets with us. That wouldn't have been spontaneous, would it?)
Every van and mucked-out stable in Berry, Nowra, Sussex Inlet and Bendalong was chockers as well. We kept driving south.
By the time we found a pub with six vacant beds, it was almost 10pm and all the jokes and camaraderie had withered with the increasing likeliehood of half a dozen slumbering old fools crammed uncomfortably into a Commodore sedan, just centimetres away from three kilograms of defrosting prawns and mullet gut.
After a hearty country breakfast the next day, we continued south to a picturesque spot just out of Batemans Bay. It was paradise. Crystal clear aquamarine and turquoise shallows, with dark basalt headlands spiking out into the sea on both sides of the inlet.
Whoppa pulled in a whopper - a 40cm spotted cod with gigantic mouth on 'im - before Gibbo and I each hauled in pan-sized bream and Killer came good with a decent leatherjacket. Chook was still empty-handed but full of confidence at this expectant stage of proceedings.
Howie was so excited that his thick accent made him nearly impossible to understand. He wasn't much at fishing, but he offered to help by carrying our catch (the first of many many more, we figured) to the safety and coolness of a rockpool, well clear of the surge and suck of the ocean waves.
"Hey mets,'' he called out to us, with the dumbest grin you ever saw. "Look thees bee-oo-ti-fel fish.''
Howie was squeezing a blue-ringed octopus in his powerful Baltic fist. The staff at Milton Hospital were fantastic ... professional, sympathetic and kind.
Janine wasn't quite so understanding.
Here is a nice little story from my buddy Sticko for your enjoyment.
This one's about the kinda fishing trip we have ALL experienced at some time or other...
IT was to be the kind of fishing trip you hear the old salts bragging about when they turn to reminiscing.
We were looking forward to perfect weather, convivial company and plenty of bigg'uns in the cooler when we got back ... proof of our prowess in that age-old battle of man against the best nature has to offer (ie man's own innate stupidity).
We got off to a crook start. On Thursday night we gathered at Gibbo's to plan the grand weekend.
Apart from your correspondent, there was Gibbo, Killer, Whoppa, Chook and Howie, all old school buddies, apart from Howie, a gently-spoken physicist who immigrated from Romania 12 years ago.
Howie was decidedly nervous about the whole concept - firstly because we had decided to be "spontaneous''. You know, not plan ahead too much.
He had vivid memories of our past disasters, especially that camping trip to Oberon and the Jenolan Caves when he wandered off in search of bush orchids and a feral pig trapped him up a tree for four freezing hours.
The only thing which eventually discouraged the cranky sow was that it began to snow.
The other thing worrying Howie was that his ample Aussie wife Janine had reminded him several times that they had long ago locked in a promise to have dinner with her elderly widowed father on Monday of the Australia Day long weekend. More specifically,
what had really put the wind up him was that Janine had bought a new wooden rolling pin, just in case he somehow overlooked the appointment.
Anyway, Thursday's plan was flawless, except that nobody woke up at the appointed time of 4am on Saturday morning and we didn't actually get on the road until 9-ish. Just past Waterfall, Gibbo twigged that the fishing gear so carefully inspected and spiffed up on Friday night ready for battle was still neatly stacked in his suburban laundry.
We finally got the show on the road after lunch. Dusk was hovering on the horizon by the time we reached Kiama and every motel was booked solid. (We hadn't brought any blankets with us. That wouldn't have been spontaneous, would it?)
Every van and mucked-out stable in Berry, Nowra, Sussex Inlet and Bendalong was chockers as well. We kept driving south.
By the time we found a pub with six vacant beds, it was almost 10pm and all the jokes and camaraderie had withered with the increasing likeliehood of half a dozen slumbering old fools crammed uncomfortably into a Commodore sedan, just centimetres away from three kilograms of defrosting prawns and mullet gut.
After a hearty country breakfast the next day, we continued south to a picturesque spot just out of Batemans Bay. It was paradise. Crystal clear aquamarine and turquoise shallows, with dark basalt headlands spiking out into the sea on both sides of the inlet.
Whoppa pulled in a whopper - a 40cm spotted cod with gigantic mouth on 'im - before Gibbo and I each hauled in pan-sized bream and Killer came good with a decent leatherjacket. Chook was still empty-handed but full of confidence at this expectant stage of proceedings.
Howie was so excited that his thick accent made him nearly impossible to understand. He wasn't much at fishing, but he offered to help by carrying our catch (the first of many many more, we figured) to the safety and coolness of a rockpool, well clear of the surge and suck of the ocean waves.
"Hey mets,'' he called out to us, with the dumbest grin you ever saw. "Look thees bee-oo-ti-fel fish.''
Howie was squeezing a blue-ringed octopus in his powerful Baltic fist. The staff at Milton Hospital were fantastic ... professional, sympathetic and kind.
Janine wasn't quite so understanding.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Whats the go Blogger?
Whats the go with all the whitespace at the top of my blog?
Sorry folks. Hopefully it will be fixed soon.
Sorry folks. Hopefully it will be fixed soon.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
How long before this gets pulled?
Stand proud citizens of Australia. Bob & Kezza thank you for your opinion and choose to ignore it. That is all!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Those fascist greens are at it again
In the tradition of great left wing fascists, the mighty greens are trying the old poll stacking routine again. Not content with just having biased polls such as "The Federal Budget is appalling because..." and "Our PM is a lying rodent because...", we now get the situation where they are banning dissenting voters outright!
Check this out.
Check this out.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Dubbo
We spent last weekend in the beautiful city of Dubbo for the Under 15 & 16 Country Rugby League Championships. The drive up was a real eye-opener. Man it's dry out there! At least it was until we arrived. We had only got as far as Lithgow before the rain started and it stayed with us all the way to Dubbo. Top stuff!! Mrs Gibbo & I were a bit concerned that we were going to spend the weekend huddled, shivering, under an umbrella. We needn't have worried though as the facilities at the ground were first class. They had a covered grandstand that would be the envy of many City fields.
The Group 6 U16's campaign started very well on the Saturday, winning the first game.
The Group 6 Under 16 team after their win on Saturday. This was Gibbo Jnr's first ever game in the rain!
Sunday didn't quite go so well with the boys being solidly outplayed by Group11 who went on to win the comp. Just an hour after the first game, tired and injured, they backed up for another game and were unfortunately beaten again. Oh well!
The boys played quite well all weekend and showed great spirit to keep trying until the full time whistle.
A special mention must go out to the coach Bob and his intrepid staff of trainers/managers/sports med people. These guys give a huge amount of time and effort in organising a competition like this. Thanks guys.
Another special mention must go to the parents of the lads who have also given much time and effort getting the boys to training etc. We spent a couple of VERY social evenings in Dubbo RSL Club with some of the other parents who proved to be great company.
Three of the four Camden players who represented Group 6. Gibbo Jnr, Alex and Tom. (Karl missing.)
Thanks lads for a great weekend. Better luck next year.
And now.... back to club footy!
The Group 6 U16's campaign started very well on the Saturday, winning the first game.
The Group 6 Under 16 team after their win on Saturday. This was Gibbo Jnr's first ever game in the rain!
Sunday didn't quite go so well with the boys being solidly outplayed by Group11 who went on to win the comp. Just an hour after the first game, tired and injured, they backed up for another game and were unfortunately beaten again. Oh well!
The boys played quite well all weekend and showed great spirit to keep trying until the full time whistle.
A special mention must go out to the coach Bob and his intrepid staff of trainers/managers/sports med people. These guys give a huge amount of time and effort in organising a competition like this. Thanks guys.
Another special mention must go to the parents of the lads who have also given much time and effort getting the boys to training etc. We spent a couple of VERY social evenings in Dubbo RSL Club with some of the other parents who proved to be great company.
Three of the four Camden players who represented Group 6. Gibbo Jnr, Alex and Tom. (Karl missing.)
Thanks lads for a great weekend. Better luck next year.
And now.... back to club footy!
Thursday, June 09, 2005
You can't polish a turd, right?
We've all heard that old saying about not being able to polish turds, right? Well...apparently you can. The problem is that all you end up with is a shiny turd.
This thought occured to me originally during Mark Lathams reign as leader of theuseless whinging bastards opposition. It all came flooding back last night as I watched poor old Kim Beazley struggling hard on the 7:30 Report. You know you are going bad as an ALP leader if even Red Kerry thinks you are shit. It was like watching someone stab themselves to death. The poor bastard's has got nothing! Sad really.
I recently read Kerry O'Keeffe's book "According to Skull" which contained an interesting insight into the man. At the end of his career one of his team mates jokingly said that Kerry had done well to play for Australia because he really only a State class player. Kerry was miffed for a minute then realised the guy was probably right. He had done very well to reach those heights when he probably didn't have the level of talent necessary. It takes a big person to honestly admit their limits.
This was the problem with Crean, then Latham, and now Beazley. They have(had) risen to a position which was well and truly above their skill level and it eventually showed through.
Polished turd is still turd.
This thought occured to me originally during Mark Lathams reign as leader of the
I recently read Kerry O'Keeffe's book "According to Skull" which contained an interesting insight into the man. At the end of his career one of his team mates jokingly said that Kerry had done well to play for Australia because he really only a State class player. Kerry was miffed for a minute then realised the guy was probably right. He had done very well to reach those heights when he probably didn't have the level of talent necessary. It takes a big person to honestly admit their limits.
This was the problem with Crean, then Latham, and now Beazley. They have(had) risen to a position which was well and truly above their skill level and it eventually showed through.
Polished turd is still turd.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Cashing In
Hi folks, I'm back. Sorry about the lack of posts lately. I've been doing evil capitalist shit that has been quite time consuming. Anyways..................
I really haven't got much to say about the whole Corby thing that hasn't been already said. Frankly, I don't know if she's guilty or not...but, neither does any of the loudmouths who have been treating the Indonesians with downright disdain because, surprise surprise, they choose to do things a bit different over there. Gee, I thought that it was their choice to have a shit system of justice or not. Oh well!
What really shits me is the bastards trying to cash in on the whole affair, from various bloggers to the main stream media(yes channel 9, I'm looking at you). The worst of the lot though is the lawnmower company that My Pal Brian(TM) told me about. They are now selling the Schapelle model lawnmower. Apparently it can hold up to 4 kilos of grass and comes with a 20 year guarantee!
In fact, My Pal Brian(TM) went past Schapelle's work place the other day.
There was a sign on the door saying "Back In 20"
I really haven't got much to say about the whole Corby thing that hasn't been already said. Frankly, I don't know if she's guilty or not...but, neither does any of the loudmouths who have been treating the Indonesians with downright disdain because, surprise surprise, they choose to do things a bit different over there. Gee, I thought that it was their choice to have a shit system of justice or not. Oh well!
What really shits me is the bastards trying to cash in on the whole affair, from various bloggers to the main stream media(yes channel 9, I'm looking at you). The worst of the lot though is the lawnmower company that My Pal Brian(TM) told me about. They are now selling the Schapelle model lawnmower. Apparently it can hold up to 4 kilos of grass and comes with a 20 year guarantee!
In fact, My Pal Brian(TM) went past Schapelle's work place the other day.
There was a sign on the door saying "Back In 20"
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
I went to a funeral yesterday.
The first funeral I ever went to was for a guy I went to school with. It was 1978, the year after we left school. I was down the back yard with a bike frame tied to the swings, spray painting it from a can. My Mum burst out the back door in tears. “Randall’s been killed” was about all she could get out. I was numb and to be honest, I didn’t really know how to react. He was only 17 years old and his life was over. Man, 17 years old, that’s just getting started. He was out driving on his brand new P plates when they ran out of petrol. While walking to get fuel he was run over and killed by an idiot who was running from the cops.
His life was taken away through no fault of his own by a man with a Tic-Tac sized cock who tried to make up for his lack of penis by hooning around the streets in a hot car pretending to be Peter Brock.
I remember going to the funeral with a couple of mates. None of us had dealt with this before. It really cut me up to see his Mum and Dad trying to be brave. This is just a parent’s worst nightmare. Having to bury one of your kids.
The one I went to yesterday was the same. A young man, just 25 years old, with the whole world at his feet. It was probably the saddest funeral I’ve been to and I’ve been to a few. It was sadder than burying my Dad. As young as Dad was, at least Dad got a decent turn. This one had the same feeling as the first one. It is just horrible to watch a Mum and Dad bury their child.
The respect this young man and his family have in their community was shown by the absolutely enormous crowd that turned up. Half the crowd had to stand outside. Speaker after speaker talked of this lads’ genuine love of life, friends, music, sport and his studies. This kid packed more into his short time here than most people do in 60 years. It was a moving experience. Sad because of a life cut short and joyous because of a life spent well.
They told of a boy who was passionate about sport and music, both as a participant and a spectator. They told of a boy who went from being an average student to doing a double degree in Law and Commerce. All the while keeping up his relationships with his friends and his passion for sport and music. They told of a boy who had a genuine passion for life. They told of a boy smart enough to pay his board in alcohol so he could get frequent flyer points on it!
His life was taken away through no fault of his own by a man with a Tic-Tac sized cock who tried to make up for his lack of penis by hooning around the streets in a hot car pretending to be Peter Brock.
Rest in peace Tim.
I don’t ever want to go to one of those again.
His life was taken away through no fault of his own by a man with a Tic-Tac sized cock who tried to make up for his lack of penis by hooning around the streets in a hot car pretending to be Peter Brock.
I remember going to the funeral with a couple of mates. None of us had dealt with this before. It really cut me up to see his Mum and Dad trying to be brave. This is just a parent’s worst nightmare. Having to bury one of your kids.
The one I went to yesterday was the same. A young man, just 25 years old, with the whole world at his feet. It was probably the saddest funeral I’ve been to and I’ve been to a few. It was sadder than burying my Dad. As young as Dad was, at least Dad got a decent turn. This one had the same feeling as the first one. It is just horrible to watch a Mum and Dad bury their child.
The respect this young man and his family have in their community was shown by the absolutely enormous crowd that turned up. Half the crowd had to stand outside. Speaker after speaker talked of this lads’ genuine love of life, friends, music, sport and his studies. This kid packed more into his short time here than most people do in 60 years. It was a moving experience. Sad because of a life cut short and joyous because of a life spent well.
They told of a boy who was passionate about sport and music, both as a participant and a spectator. They told of a boy who went from being an average student to doing a double degree in Law and Commerce. All the while keeping up his relationships with his friends and his passion for sport and music. They told of a boy who had a genuine passion for life. They told of a boy smart enough to pay his board in alcohol so he could get frequent flyer points on it!
His life was taken away through no fault of his own by a man with a Tic-Tac sized cock who tried to make up for his lack of penis by hooning around the streets in a hot car pretending to be Peter Brock.
Rest in peace Tim.
I don’t ever want to go to one of those again.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Nashional Yoonion of Shtoodents
Check this out.
The whole thing contains only three lines of text. In those three lines are:
The whole thing contains only three lines of text. In those three lines are:
- Two spelling mistakes. "loose" instead of lose and "downloadble" instead of downloadable
- A redundant capital letter in "Services"
- The link isn't working.
You don't need a long neck to be a goose!
Maybe a better use of ones' time might be studying instead of politics or basket weaving?
I can't wait for July.Rams by a thousand.
Camden Rams 16a's had a brilliant start to the season beating Mt Anan convincingly on Saturday.
It started out as the Gibbo Jnr show as he scored 3 tries in the first 15 minutes and another one in the second half. At one stage he had more steps that the Opera House.
The game was really won on the back of a brutal and enthusiastic display by our whole forward pack. Their defense was great and they were spirited in attack, even managing some great offloads. This is a great lesson to my mighty Eels. When the forwards go forward... well you know the rest.
Well done to the whole team. It looks like a great year ahead.
It started out as the Gibbo Jnr show as he scored 3 tries in the first 15 minutes and another one in the second half. At one stage he had more steps that the Opera House.
The game was really won on the back of a brutal and enthusiastic display by our whole forward pack. Their defense was great and they were spirited in attack, even managing some great offloads. This is a great lesson to my mighty Eels. When the forwards go forward... well you know the rest.
Well done to the whole team. It looks like a great year ahead.
Go Parra!
Finally we remembered how to tackle.
Finally we remembered how to run.
Finally we remembered how to pass the ball.
And guess what? We won!
One in a row! we are on a roll.
Finally we remembered how to run.
Finally we remembered how to pass the ball.
And guess what? We won!
One in a row! we are on a roll.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
This actually happened!
Over the weekend we had a small barby for my Mum who had a birthday last week. At the barby was a very close relative of mine whom I love dearly even though she is a very active member of my sworn enemy...the greens. We get on very well due to the fact that we very rarely talk politics. After a couple of quiet refreshing ales, I asked her to tell Bob Brown that he needs to starting answering his emails as I had sent him some and had received no reply.
She said "who did you send them to?"
"Bob Brown and that sheila with the penis" was my reply.
Quick as a flash she responds with "Kerry Nettle?"
Bingo!!!!
I nearly pissed my pants.
She said "who did you send them to?"
"Bob Brown and that sheila with the penis" was my reply.
Quick as a flash she responds with "Kerry Nettle?"
Bingo!!!!
I nearly pissed my pants.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
An Easter Message from Sticko
I got this lovely easter message today from my old pal and guest contributor Sticko.
Easter has arrived again and, far from being all pious and egg-cited, I'm just hoping to come through unscathed. The annual egg-fest was never the same for me after Rosie bit into my cheek when I was a wide-eyed four-year-old, drawing blood and sending me screaming into my mother's apron. Rosie was a fluffy white rabbit, given to me by Grandma Bourke in the vain hope it would make me sit still long enough for her to tell me the REAL story of Easter.
Grandma was a pious woman with a passionate belief in the Good Book. She has a penchant for delivering sermons in a voice hushed with holiness, reminding us that we were put here for a reason - and we must never, ever reject God's plan for us.
Her zeal for spreading the word made me believe God's task for Grandma involved her personally saving at least 3000 heathens from the smouldering maw of Hell and, at the age of 78, she was acutely aware she was still well short of her target. Surely that was the only reason she'd bother spending an hour or more every weekend chiding our shapely baby-sitter, Miss Beryl, for reading trashy Barbara Cartland novels and not wearing gloves on Sundays as she filed into St Stephens at Newtown.
I discovered a bit later, after Miss Beryl met our paperboy Jimmy, that our buxom baby-sitter was never even the remotest chance of becoming one of those blessed 3000.
But back to Rosie. Far from being a compliant, child-loving bundle of soft fur, Rosie turned out to be a neurotic beast whose beady red eyes used to gleam with malice whenever a child wandered within striking distance. Any effort to pat her or, Heaven forbid, to pick her up for a cuddle, was greeted with the same kind of welcome a mailman gets from a mastiff. Rosie mysteriously disappeared from her hutch shortly after the biting incident and, I must confess, my grieving period was almost indecently brief.
A few years later, the Easter spirit took another pasting at our place. Grandma Bourke was feeding me chunks of chocolate Easter egg, sandwiched between parables from God's Word and admonishments for squishing wads of Juicy Fruit into my sister's long, golden hair. All the while, grandma held the partly-dispensed Easter egg in her uplifted left hand, out of my reach and my line of sight. I guess she sensed I'd make a lunge for it before Nicodemus had finished helping Joseph of Arimathea to bury the crucified Son of God if she didn't keep that egg at arm's length. That's probably why I didn't notice the skerrick of metallic foil stuck to the wedge of chocolate grandma thrust at her captive potential convert.
My first realisation of this oversight was a searing, scarlet-coloured pain which circumnavigated my skull when that tiny piece of silver wrapper touched a filling. I thought grandma had stabbed me in the chops with a chocolate-covered knitting needle; grandma thought I was possessed and started furiously with her grey head tilted back and her eyes half-closed. That scared me even more than the pain in my tooth so I again took off for the safety of mum's apron.
Trouble was, mum was in the middle of making a batch of hot-crossed buns and those clumps of spotty dough went flying. Mum began yelling and that interrupted my father's sacred hour of The Goon Show on the wireless. When he came to investigate, my old man's face was the colour of tomato sauce. So, grandma was wailing for God's forgiveness, mum was glaring at me, dad was ready to wring my neck and my tooth felt like a lava flow.
I was grounded, there were no hot-crossed buns, and Miss Beryl and Jimmy were the only one who got to go to the Royal Easter Show that year. It was their first date and they became "an item". Grandma offered frosty congratulations but, deep inside, was scandalised by Beryl's betrayal.
Nevertheless, the old dear bought them a gift: a fluffy little white rabbit- which she named Rosie.
Note from Gibbo: This contribution reminded me of a character that needs to be explored further during some of my "roadie stories". The one and only Jimmy, cousin of Sticko, our gracious author. I'm not sure that he is the same one mentioned in the story above but... in all the years I spent roadying, I only ever met a couple of characters like Jimmy. How many people do you know that can drink a bottle of bourbon... during the load in and then another one during the show! I'll put my mind to it and tell a Jimmy story or two real soon.
Easter has arrived again and, far from being all pious and egg-cited, I'm just hoping to come through unscathed. The annual egg-fest was never the same for me after Rosie bit into my cheek when I was a wide-eyed four-year-old, drawing blood and sending me screaming into my mother's apron. Rosie was a fluffy white rabbit, given to me by Grandma Bourke in the vain hope it would make me sit still long enough for her to tell me the REAL story of Easter.
Grandma was a pious woman with a passionate belief in the Good Book. She has a penchant for delivering sermons in a voice hushed with holiness, reminding us that we were put here for a reason - and we must never, ever reject God's plan for us.
Her zeal for spreading the word made me believe God's task for Grandma involved her personally saving at least 3000 heathens from the smouldering maw of Hell and, at the age of 78, she was acutely aware she was still well short of her target. Surely that was the only reason she'd bother spending an hour or more every weekend chiding our shapely baby-sitter, Miss Beryl, for reading trashy Barbara Cartland novels and not wearing gloves on Sundays as she filed into St Stephens at Newtown.
I discovered a bit later, after Miss Beryl met our paperboy Jimmy, that our buxom baby-sitter was never even the remotest chance of becoming one of those blessed 3000.
But back to Rosie. Far from being a compliant, child-loving bundle of soft fur, Rosie turned out to be a neurotic beast whose beady red eyes used to gleam with malice whenever a child wandered within striking distance. Any effort to pat her or, Heaven forbid, to pick her up for a cuddle, was greeted with the same kind of welcome a mailman gets from a mastiff. Rosie mysteriously disappeared from her hutch shortly after the biting incident and, I must confess, my grieving period was almost indecently brief.
A few years later, the Easter spirit took another pasting at our place. Grandma Bourke was feeding me chunks of chocolate Easter egg, sandwiched between parables from God's Word and admonishments for squishing wads of Juicy Fruit into my sister's long, golden hair. All the while, grandma held the partly-dispensed Easter egg in her uplifted left hand, out of my reach and my line of sight. I guess she sensed I'd make a lunge for it before Nicodemus had finished helping Joseph of Arimathea to bury the crucified Son of God if she didn't keep that egg at arm's length. That's probably why I didn't notice the skerrick of metallic foil stuck to the wedge of chocolate grandma thrust at her captive potential convert.
My first realisation of this oversight was a searing, scarlet-coloured pain which circumnavigated my skull when that tiny piece of silver wrapper touched a filling. I thought grandma had stabbed me in the chops with a chocolate-covered knitting needle; grandma thought I was possessed and started furiously with her grey head tilted back and her eyes half-closed. That scared me even more than the pain in my tooth so I again took off for the safety of mum's apron.
Trouble was, mum was in the middle of making a batch of hot-crossed buns and those clumps of spotty dough went flying. Mum began yelling and that interrupted my father's sacred hour of The Goon Show on the wireless. When he came to investigate, my old man's face was the colour of tomato sauce. So, grandma was wailing for God's forgiveness, mum was glaring at me, dad was ready to wring my neck and my tooth felt like a lava flow.
I was grounded, there were no hot-crossed buns, and Miss Beryl and Jimmy were the only one who got to go to the Royal Easter Show that year. It was their first date and they became "an item". Grandma offered frosty congratulations but, deep inside, was scandalised by Beryl's betrayal.
Nevertheless, the old dear bought them a gift: a fluffy little white rabbit- which she named Rosie.
Note from Gibbo: This contribution reminded me of a character that needs to be explored further during some of my "roadie stories". The one and only Jimmy, cousin of Sticko, our gracious author. I'm not sure that he is the same one mentioned in the story above but... in all the years I spent roadying, I only ever met a couple of characters like Jimmy. How many people do you know that can drink a bottle of bourbon... during the load in and then another one during the show! I'll put my mind to it and tell a Jimmy story or two real soon.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Medic!
Oh well, the euphoria lasted a week. As predicted by the Funelweb in last weeks comments, the wheels fell off Parra in a spectacular fashion yesterday. What the hell do we have to do to maintain some sort of consistency? They remind me of someone learning to knit. Knit 1, Pearl 1, Drop 1.
Have some pride in your jerseys boys!
I am going to get my arse kicked at the pub this week. Far too many bunnies boys there.
On a brighter note:
Camden Rams 16a's had their first trial match yesterday against Shellharbour and the boys looked great. It was a very convincing win although I lost count of the score at about 40-6. Gibbo Jnr scored one and almost had another couple but was cut down on both occasions by some great tackling. I can't wait for the season proper.
On a sour note:
John Hopoate is a fucking coward and needs to be run out of our game. If the Judiciary don't do it then Manly should.
Have some pride in your jerseys boys!
I am going to get my arse kicked at the pub this week. Far too many bunnies boys there.
On a brighter note:
Camden Rams 16a's had their first trial match yesterday against Shellharbour and the boys looked great. It was a very convincing win although I lost count of the score at about 40-6. Gibbo Jnr scored one and almost had another couple but was cut down on both occasions by some great tackling. I can't wait for the season proper.
On a sour note:
John Hopoate is a fucking coward and needs to be run out of our game. If the Judiciary don't do it then Manly should.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Too much footy is hardly enough.
Well folks, the footy is back and Gibbo is in pig skin heaven. Not only did the mighty Eels win but Gibbo Junior also scored a try in his first ever rep game for Group 6.
The Eels beat the Tigers 28-12 in a scrappy game but a win is a win eh? The new half seemd to go well but there is still a long way to go. I notice that some of the tipsters have us as a real chance of making the top eight this year. I bloody hope so.
The Group 6 game was a beauty too. We played against Group 16 at Robertson Showground. It is a classic footy ground about as flat as Gibbo's stomach. Not too bad if your running down hill but a bugger if you are running up it. A well placed kick will run for half the length of the field, a tactic that our boys used to their advantage a couple of times.
We led at half time 16-10 but the Group 16 boys fought back to get to 16 all. Gibbo Junior then pounced on a loose ball and sprinted 50m to put one in under the posts. To my (very biased) eyes this was the turning point. The boys put another one in shortly after to seal it at 26-16.
Even though these guys are only 16, the skill level shown is very high and it was a quality game.
Those of you moan about the modern game of Rugby League and its' commercialism should get off your clackers and watch a local game.
The Eels beat the Tigers 28-12 in a scrappy game but a win is a win eh? The new half seemd to go well but there is still a long way to go. I notice that some of the tipsters have us as a real chance of making the top eight this year. I bloody hope so.
The Group 6 game was a beauty too. We played against Group 16 at Robertson Showground. It is a classic footy ground about as flat as Gibbo's stomach. Not too bad if your running down hill but a bugger if you are running up it. A well placed kick will run for half the length of the field, a tactic that our boys used to their advantage a couple of times.
We led at half time 16-10 but the Group 16 boys fought back to get to 16 all. Gibbo Junior then pounced on a loose ball and sprinted 50m to put one in under the posts. To my (very biased) eyes this was the turning point. The boys put another one in shortly after to seal it at 26-16.
Even though these guys are only 16, the skill level shown is very high and it was a quality game.
Those of you moan about the modern game of Rugby League and its' commercialism should get off your clackers and watch a local game.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Gibbo goes Brazilian
Shave for a Cure time is upon us once more and Gibbo has again left all common sense at home to go Brazilian.
One of these bloke is an world renowned, jet-setting, playboy movie star. The other one is Jackie Coogan.
It's all for the sick kiddies folks. Get ya wallets out and dig deep.
One of these bloke is an world renowned, jet-setting, playboy movie star. The other one is Jackie Coogan.
It's all for the sick kiddies folks. Get ya wallets out and dig deep.
Mac...quarie Fi...elds For...ever
This is a letter from our local paper this week. I wish I had written it.
"I feel sad for the decent residents of Macquarie Fields, shamed and terrorised by the violence in their streets.
I am also sickened by the 'poor disadvantaged people' philosophy. Thay have disadvantaged themselves: they're uneducated because they wouldn't go to school, they're poor because they're too lazy to work and too dirty to clean themselves up for job interviews.
They're not outcasts but place themselves outside laws, our morality, our humanity.
If anyone deserves their hate it is the parents who were too selfish to make them get an education, too uncaring to teach them right from wrong or to respect others, and too irresponsible to raise useful members of society.
Sadly, it is glaringly obvious that this rabid mob don't care about their own dead, they're thoroughly enjoying theexcitement and destruction, and gloating over the publicity.
I have good friends who grew up in housing commision areas. They cared enough for their kids to lead them in to good and fulfilling lives.
Name supplied but withheld.
St Andrews."
Image via "My Pal Brian"tm
"I feel sad for the decent residents of Macquarie Fields, shamed and terrorised by the violence in their streets.
I am also sickened by the 'poor disadvantaged people' philosophy. Thay have disadvantaged themselves: they're uneducated because they wouldn't go to school, they're poor because they're too lazy to work and too dirty to clean themselves up for job interviews.
They're not outcasts but place themselves outside laws, our morality, our humanity.
If anyone deserves their hate it is the parents who were too selfish to make them get an education, too uncaring to teach them right from wrong or to respect others, and too irresponsible to raise useful members of society.
Sadly, it is glaringly obvious that this rabid mob don't care about their own dead, they're thoroughly enjoying theexcitement and destruction, and gloating over the publicity.
I have good friends who grew up in housing commision areas. They cared enough for their kids to lead them in to good and fulfilling lives.
Name supplied but withheld.
St Andrews."
Image via "My Pal Brian"tm
Thursday, February 24, 2005
I don't know if Tim Smith is the answer.
I know things have been a bit grim for my beloved Eels of late but I'm not sure that I entirely agree with one of their new signings.
Apparently Tim Smith is jumping into the halfback role.
Look...he was funny in the Comedy Company but I'm not sure about halfback. Looks like he might need to take a bit of beef off first.
Whaddya reckon?
Apparently Tim Smith is jumping into the halfback role.
Look...he was funny in the Comedy Company but I'm not sure about halfback. Looks like he might need to take a bit of beef off first.
Whaddya reckon?
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
You can't always get what you want...but sometimes you do!
The Gibbo's are moving this week so posting will be light.
Mrs Gibbo's parents have become rather frail over the last few years and the job of fetching after them has largely fallen on Mrs Gibbo. We made the decision a while ago to look for a house with a Granny flat so we could move them in with us. The search was long but we ended up having to look for a house that didn't have a flat, but had the space to put one. This, of course, involves dealing with f***wit councils and jumping through many hoops. Finally an appropriate house was found in an area that wasn't too far from where we wanted and that had a large garage that could be converted. Then the real games began. The gooses we were buying the house from decided to play games. Basically they were broke and wanted all sorts of payments in advance to help them move. Well, we played that game for a couple of weeks before I got the shits and pulled the plug. The small loss of our initial deposit was dissapointing but the games were getting worse.
This left us in a great position. The In-laws place had already been sold so now they were moving in with us... Granny flat or not!
Mrs Gibbo, to her ever lasting credit, remembered a house that we had looked at 18 months ago but couldn't afford at the time. It was perfect for us. It was a really nice house that already had a brilliant two bedroom granny flat, was walking distance to the school that the kids already attend, was close to the shops, staggering distance from 4 pubs, close to footy and cricket training... the bloody lot mate! She had been told that the house didn't sell so she decided to write the owners a nice note asking whether they were still interested in selling. We got a call the following day in the affirmative. Yeehah.
To cut a very long story short we went around and met with the owners who turned out to be absolute Angels. A deal was struck that was beneficial to both parties without the aid of a real estate agent and it has been go-go-go ever since.
Anyways... I'll be furiously packing boxes and lugging stuff for the next few days, and I bloody love it. This really couldn't have worked out better for us.
"You can't always get what you want." Bullshit!!!!
Mrs Gibbo's parents have become rather frail over the last few years and the job of fetching after them has largely fallen on Mrs Gibbo. We made the decision a while ago to look for a house with a Granny flat so we could move them in with us. The search was long but we ended up having to look for a house that didn't have a flat, but had the space to put one. This, of course, involves dealing with f***wit councils and jumping through many hoops. Finally an appropriate house was found in an area that wasn't too far from where we wanted and that had a large garage that could be converted. Then the real games began. The gooses we were buying the house from decided to play games. Basically they were broke and wanted all sorts of payments in advance to help them move. Well, we played that game for a couple of weeks before I got the shits and pulled the plug. The small loss of our initial deposit was dissapointing but the games were getting worse.
This left us in a great position. The In-laws place had already been sold so now they were moving in with us... Granny flat or not!
Mrs Gibbo, to her ever lasting credit, remembered a house that we had looked at 18 months ago but couldn't afford at the time. It was perfect for us. It was a really nice house that already had a brilliant two bedroom granny flat, was walking distance to the school that the kids already attend, was close to the shops, staggering distance from 4 pubs, close to footy and cricket training... the bloody lot mate! She had been told that the house didn't sell so she decided to write the owners a nice note asking whether they were still interested in selling. We got a call the following day in the affirmative. Yeehah.
To cut a very long story short we went around and met with the owners who turned out to be absolute Angels. A deal was struck that was beneficial to both parties without the aid of a real estate agent and it has been go-go-go ever since.
Anyways... I'll be furiously packing boxes and lugging stuff for the next few days, and I bloody love it. This really couldn't have worked out better for us.
"You can't always get what you want." Bullshit!!!!
Monday, January 31, 2005
There may have been an election at the weekend.
I went for a quick search this morning around some of the loony left blogs to get their reaction to the elections in Iraq.
Election? What election?
Chris (of death) Sheil has nothing to say.
Apart from the usual, shameless self promotion, Darp has nothing to say.
Apart from shamelessly promoting Darp (love is in the air I think!), Weezil has nothing to say.
She Sells Sanctuary has nothing to say.
Anonymous Lefty has nothing to say. Update: Comment has now been made, but guess what? It was a whinge!
Troppo Armadillo has nothing to say. Update: My mistake. The Armadillies have made comment. Thanks TimT for the heads up.
Psephological Catechism has nothing to say.
Piss n Vinegar has nothing to say. Update: Comment has now reluctantly been made. Mainly it was a whinge about me though. But, nevertheless, it was a whinge.
Robert Corr has nothing to say.
Richard Neville has nothing (coherent) to say.
The Line of Contempt has nothing to say.
Finally... over at John Quiggins place, we get the only comment... and it's bad. He, apparently, is concerned that "there’s always the risk that the Americans will make a unilateral decision to cut and run at the worst possible moment."
Gutless, whinging, fuckwits who make no positive contribution... the lot of 'em!
Election? What election?
Chris (of death) Sheil has nothing to say.
Apart from the usual, shameless self promotion, Darp has nothing to say.
Apart from shamelessly promoting Darp (love is in the air I think!), Weezil has nothing to say.
She Sells Sanctuary has nothing to say.
Psephological Catechism has nothing to say.
Robert Corr has nothing to say.
Richard Neville has nothing (coherent) to say.
The Line of Contempt has nothing to say.
Finally... over at John Quiggins place, we get the only comment... and it's bad. He, apparently, is concerned that "there’s always the risk that the Americans will make a unilateral decision to cut and run at the worst possible moment."
Gutless, whinging, fuckwits who make no positive contribution... the lot of 'em!
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Off Your Face!
UGLY people all over Australia have started furiously saving their money. Their partners, particularly those who read today's newspaper report about the latest medical breakthrough - human face transplants - are diligently helping them squirrel away enough for a deposit. They dream of one day waking up next to Redford instead of Redneck, Britney instead of Bushpig.
Yep, it's true. Two British surgeons have outlined their face transplanting technique in the distinguished medical mag The Lancet, and barely is the ink dry on the story than the queues have started forming.
Incisions would be made around the back of the head and the scalp of the dead donor, and the face would be effectively `de-gloved' off the skelton, declared surgeons Peter Butler, of the Royal Free Hospital in London, and Shehan Hettiaratchy, from Harvard Medical School's Transplantation Biology Research Centre. The implications of their nightmarish discovery are horrendous.
Their work raises serious ethical and moral questions, such as `What if Cher hears about this?' She'll be Turning Back Time and annoying music lovers for centuries. Shane Warne will never retire from the Australian Cricket side and poor ol' Plugger will kick more behinds than anybody should ever be entitled to.
But seriously, people will abuse this discovery. No mistake about it. It might be funny to watch an ad where a guy hallucinates that Merv Hughes haunts him everywhere he looks and everywhere he goes, but now it could actually happen. Now I've got nothing against big Merv. He did heroic things in the name of terrorising English top-order batsmen, and perhaps it would entirely inexcusable to see him behind the wheel of a cab or serving schooners, but I draw the line at him turning up behind the checkout counter in Coles, particularly wearing a name-badge with the word Sharon typed on it.
Other things could go wrong too. Terrible coincidences could occur. Imagine walking into MacDonalds and seeing your loathsome and recently-departed Aunty Beryl - the one who always forced you to eat mounds of boiled spinach when she babysat you as a child - smirking, alive-and-kicking, at the table next to you. That masochistic teacher who used to wield the cane with such relish at high school could turn up at the office after just a few hours under local anaesthetic at Dr Hettiaratchy's exclusive surgery, sit down in your boss's chair and reach for the rattan. And what about the consequences if they link this latest breakthrough with existing scientific techniques in the controversial field of cloning. An unsuspecting movie buff - one with taste and discretion - could stroll into a post office and be confronted by a queue of stammering Schwartzeneggers or swaggering Stallones.
A dozen Stan Zemaneks could join your beloved golf club. Just think about that! Or a flock of Bronwyn Bishops could over-run your favourite cafe without so much as a warning hiss of hair spray. Disaster!
There are cultural ramifications to be considered in proceeding with face transplants as well. For example, the concept of ``losing face'' will be changed forever.
What if rich people started hoarding faces, a sort of personal library to suit every mood. The point of calling someone ``two-faced'' would be lost, for example. It would merely mean that they couldn't afford to have a whole wardrobe. The wealthy would quickly amass a comprehensive range in the same way Imelda Marcos collected shoes.
Just picture the with-it social butterfly: "Now, let's see, a political dinner ... ah, of course, I'll pop on my Amanda Vanstone". Then off to a dance party ... hmm, time to clip on the Kylie.
"Facelift" would be the new term for shop-lifting, a "face-off would be a simple change-room, and asking somebody "why the long face?" would force them to pop on their Bert Newton to avoid further scrutiny.
On the positive side, though, face transplants could offer some interesting options in conflict resolution.Imagine the next time that bastard neighbour started harping on about the noise from your party, threatening to come over and punch your lights out. You could try a whole new approach:
"Sorry, pal ... yeah I know I'm an ignorant, dopey dickhead who doesn't deserve to breath ... look, just hang on a sec, will ya".
You duck indoors to your study, and quickly flick through your face-a-fax.
Hmmm, nothing much under the A index ... how about the Bs, then ...
Let's see, Barrymore, Belafonte ... yes, here we are, this one
should do the trick .... the Bin Laden ...
From the keyboard of guest contributor Sticko.
Yep, it's true. Two British surgeons have outlined their face transplanting technique in the distinguished medical mag The Lancet, and barely is the ink dry on the story than the queues have started forming.
Incisions would be made around the back of the head and the scalp of the dead donor, and the face would be effectively `de-gloved' off the skelton, declared surgeons Peter Butler, of the Royal Free Hospital in London, and Shehan Hettiaratchy, from Harvard Medical School's Transplantation Biology Research Centre. The implications of their nightmarish discovery are horrendous.
Their work raises serious ethical and moral questions, such as `What if Cher hears about this?' She'll be Turning Back Time and annoying music lovers for centuries. Shane Warne will never retire from the Australian Cricket side and poor ol' Plugger will kick more behinds than anybody should ever be entitled to.
But seriously, people will abuse this discovery. No mistake about it. It might be funny to watch an ad where a guy hallucinates that Merv Hughes haunts him everywhere he looks and everywhere he goes, but now it could actually happen. Now I've got nothing against big Merv. He did heroic things in the name of terrorising English top-order batsmen, and perhaps it would entirely inexcusable to see him behind the wheel of a cab or serving schooners, but I draw the line at him turning up behind the checkout counter in Coles, particularly wearing a name-badge with the word Sharon typed on it.
Other things could go wrong too. Terrible coincidences could occur. Imagine walking into MacDonalds and seeing your loathsome and recently-departed Aunty Beryl - the one who always forced you to eat mounds of boiled spinach when she babysat you as a child - smirking, alive-and-kicking, at the table next to you. That masochistic teacher who used to wield the cane with such relish at high school could turn up at the office after just a few hours under local anaesthetic at Dr Hettiaratchy's exclusive surgery, sit down in your boss's chair and reach for the rattan. And what about the consequences if they link this latest breakthrough with existing scientific techniques in the controversial field of cloning. An unsuspecting movie buff - one with taste and discretion - could stroll into a post office and be confronted by a queue of stammering Schwartzeneggers or swaggering Stallones.
A dozen Stan Zemaneks could join your beloved golf club. Just think about that! Or a flock of Bronwyn Bishops could over-run your favourite cafe without so much as a warning hiss of hair spray. Disaster!
There are cultural ramifications to be considered in proceeding with face transplants as well. For example, the concept of ``losing face'' will be changed forever.
What if rich people started hoarding faces, a sort of personal library to suit every mood. The point of calling someone ``two-faced'' would be lost, for example. It would merely mean that they couldn't afford to have a whole wardrobe. The wealthy would quickly amass a comprehensive range in the same way Imelda Marcos collected shoes.
Just picture the with-it social butterfly: "Now, let's see, a political dinner ... ah, of course, I'll pop on my Amanda Vanstone". Then off to a dance party ... hmm, time to clip on the Kylie.
"Facelift" would be the new term for shop-lifting, a "face-off would be a simple change-room, and asking somebody "why the long face?" would force them to pop on their Bert Newton to avoid further scrutiny.
On the positive side, though, face transplants could offer some interesting options in conflict resolution.Imagine the next time that bastard neighbour started harping on about the noise from your party, threatening to come over and punch your lights out. You could try a whole new approach:
"Sorry, pal ... yeah I know I'm an ignorant, dopey dickhead who doesn't deserve to breath ... look, just hang on a sec, will ya".
You duck indoors to your study, and quickly flick through your face-a-fax.
Hmmm, nothing much under the A index ... how about the Bs, then ...
Let's see, Barrymore, Belafonte ... yes, here we are, this one
should do the trick .... the Bin Laden ...
From the keyboard of guest contributor Sticko.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Doin' a Sheilsy
Perenial loser, Chris Sheil, has stuck his head up again and is in classic form. The bloke has more positions than the Kama Sutra. Basically, he is the king of the each way bet. If you bet on enough horses, one might win. Unfortunately a lot will lose. That doesn't deter Chris at all. In his latest effort, he "endorses" Kevin Rudd but "predicts" Kim Beazley. Can't be wrong then eh?
I think that this tactic has some merit so I've decided to apply it to the Rugby League this year.
As most of you know, I am a Parramatta supporter so I am going to "endorse" them for the 2005 premiership. Because I don't think really that they will win, I've decided to "predict" that The Roosters will win.
I "suspect" that The Bulldogs could win.
I "presume" that The Cowboys could win.
I "envision" that Brisbane have a good chance of winning.
I "expect" that Canberra may win.
I "foresee" that The Rabbitohs will win this year.
I "acknowledge" that Cronulla may well win.
I "encourage" The Panthers may in fact win.
I "subscribe" that St George will come out on top.
I "stand behind" The Warriors as clear favourites.
I "advocate" that Melbourne are unbeatable.
I "contend" that the Knights are certainties.
I "recommend" Manly as a shoe in for the title.
I "prescribe" that the Tigers can't lose.
Thanks for the technique Chris. I can't lose!
I think that this tactic has some merit so I've decided to apply it to the Rugby League this year.
As most of you know, I am a Parramatta supporter so I am going to "endorse" them for the 2005 premiership. Because I don't think really that they will win, I've decided to "predict" that The Roosters will win.
I "suspect" that The Bulldogs could win.
I "presume" that The Cowboys could win.
I "envision" that Brisbane have a good chance of winning.
I "expect" that Canberra may win.
I "foresee" that The Rabbitohs will win this year.
I "acknowledge" that Cronulla may well win.
I "encourage" The Panthers may in fact win.
I "subscribe" that St George will come out on top.
I "stand behind" The Warriors as clear favourites.
I "advocate" that Melbourne are unbeatable.
I "contend" that the Knights are certainties.
I "recommend" Manly as a shoe in for the title.
I "prescribe" that the Tigers can't lose.
Thanks for the technique Chris. I can't lose!
Monday, January 24, 2005
Going on a real tour.
The “tour” story about Bandanna apparently gave some people, including my beloved Mrs Gibbo, the idea that touring was some sort of wonderful, bohemian lifestyle chock full of naked women, intoxicating substances and midnight law breaking!. In an effort to correct this very misguided idea, I would like to present a tale from the other end of the scale. A real tour!
Update. After a phone call from brother of Gibbo ,who dug up the original tour schedule, I have slightly ammended the list of gigs. Thanks mate.
It was 1992 and we were working for a great bloke by the name of James Blundell.
He was red hot property at the time and we worked hard. 6 shows per week, every week for 6-10 weeks at a time. If we could fit a matinee show in we would as well. Monday was classed as a “day off”. It’s funny how driving up to 12 hours can be considered a day off. We literally were on the job 7 days a week for weeks on end but it was great. I can honestly say that some of the best times I ever had professionally were with this band. There were a lot of factors that contributed. James himself was a thorough professional and a real gentleman. The band were absolutely red hot, all top class musicians and all top blokes. They were an absolute joy to watch. The crew all got on well and all did a great job. The standard of venues was usually good. Clubs, theatres etc and the hours were very civilized for people in our line of work. It was usually an
A day usually went something like this.
- Wake up in a hotel/motel room somewhere at around
- Have coffee, shower, get dressed all while watching the tele.
- Drive to the next town on the list. Stop for breakfast/lunch on the way.
- Arrive for load in at venue at
- The first road case off the truck was known as VIC. Very Important Case. In it was an urn, tea, coffee, biscuits etc. This got set up first so the water was boiled for a hot cuppa after the load in.
- Load in and setup 8 tonnes of PA, lights, staging, instruments etc. It usually took 3 hours as long as the room had easy access. Sometimes you carry that gear up as many as 4 floors, up the back fire escape quite often.
- Be ready for the band to arrive about
Brother of Gibbo at his post side stage during a soundcheck. His job was to keep the whole band happy on stage by providing 8 seperate monitor mixes to an array of speakers on stage. Do you know what the difference between a Monitor Guy and a Toilet is? The toilet only has to deal with one arsehole at a time. - You do a quick tidy up of any last minute crap like setting up the merchandise stand or such, followed by a search for something good for dinner. You try to have one “decent” meal a day if you can swing it.
- Get ready for “Doors open” at about
- Support act on at
- Main Act at
- Pack up. With six crew we could pack up and load 8 tonne of gear into the truck in 1½ to 2 hours which usually got you back to you room not too far past
The never ending stream of black boxes. Note the downing of a well earned, refreshing ale. - A few late night beers and a little tele and off to sleep.
- Do it all over again, and again, and again…
As I said, they were pretty good hours really but shit we did some driving.
This is, to the best of my recollection, just one leg of a tour that we did, covering about 4 weeks.
Day 1, drive for about 1000k’s to meet up with the band and half the crew in 
Leaving NSW. Note the rainbow.
The next day we are on in earnest. It starts with a drive to Gold Coast to pick up extra lights then off to Toowoomba for the first gig. Up 1 flight of steps!
then(roughly) Kingaroy, Caloundra, Gympie, and Bundaberg.
Some of the boys doing common after gig activities. One is passed out drunk. The other is dribbling shit to his Mrs on the phone just before passing out drunk.
We get a day off at some resort at Bundaberg before the show. The weather is shit so we just bum around all day but appreciate the rest already. We actually sit down to a real meal in a good restaurant. Wow.
Update. I was reminded that I had my first Cane Toad kicking experience in Bundaberg. Happy days indeed!
Then
Enough of the socialising though, it's off to Cairns.
Even though the gig is at Innisfail, we drive a couple of hours past it as we are staying in
We got back to our room in the early hours of the morning to find that two of our rooms, mine included, had been robbed. In all the years I travelled, this was the only time it ever happened. They got away with mostly clothes and a bit of cash. I think a few other things went missing that weren't reported to the Police! Bastards.
We had the next day off in Cairns which was spent mostly sleeping. That night we walked into town to find a Blues Festival going on. It turns out that one of the acts are friends of mine and I am drafted into doing sound for them. So much for the day off. We end the night at Johnos Blues Bar, pissed as nits, watching Phil Emanuel go off. What a great night.
The next day we do our gig and as soon as the truck is loaded, we start the trek to Mt Isa. The first stop is Townsville for a few hours sleep in a bed. Then head about 1500k's inland. Fuck it's a long way. This is the last gig of the run and after this we are heading back to Sydney for a few days off before doing Southern NSW, Victoria and South Australia.
Shutting the truck in Mt Isa, ready for the 3 day drive home. That pan is 26foot long and is chockablock full. Top to bottom, front to back. My Uncle Ray who is a "real truckie" said it was a "poofy town truck that had no right to be driven so far."
The truck becomes a central part of life on the road. You drive it, sleep in it, eat in it and it carries your entire life for months at a time.
Leaving The Blue Heeler.
Crossing the desert that night we were treated to the beautiful sight of a desert sunset.
"Only two more days of driving boys, and we're home!"
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Linux is like communism.
I saw this great comment today on Tim Blairs' site:
"I run Linux, which was built by a world-wide group of individuals in their spare time for the good of humanity. "
Classic stuff eh?
I was only thinking about Linux myself the other day, and how much it was like communism.
Before one of you says "Hey Gibbo, most of the internet runs on Linux", the Linux they use certainly isn't free and neither are the armies of highly paid techs who keep it all running. Not free mate! Not even cheap... in reality!!!
The real cost of free systems is very often far too high.
"I run Linux, which was built by a world-wide group of individuals in their spare time for the good of humanity. "
Classic stuff eh?
I was only thinking about Linux myself the other day, and how much it was like communism.
- Most of the people who recommend it don't actually use it, but they think that you should be.
- It seems to work much better in theory than reality.
- If it doesn't work, it's because you weren't using it properly.
- It is advertised as free but it takes twice as much of your time to accomplish half the result. Apparently your time isn't counted as a cost.
- It is for "the good of humanity".
- It is another example of the "educated 2%" knowing what is best for the rest of us.
- It is all about reducing the needs of the user to the level the system can deliver as opposed to providing a system which the user can expand and customise to its' own needs.
Before one of you says "Hey Gibbo, most of the internet runs on Linux", the Linux they use certainly isn't free and neither are the armies of highly paid techs who keep it all running. Not free mate! Not even cheap... in reality!!!
The real cost of free systems is very often far too high.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
And now for something completely different.
I've never had a guest contributor before... but all that has changed! I sent an old mate the link for this site the other week and he actually took the time to read it.
Sticko is an old rock 'n roll mate and a long time newspaper man (don't read the post below this one about Journo's mate) and sent me a reply which I think was meant to scare me off his turf. Writing! Anyway, the reply was so good I asked could I publish it. So with Stickos' kind permission...
"What a buzz to read your words of wiz, mate.
All the very best for an awesome 2005.
Don't have a blog meself, but offer these words of warning to anyone
foolish enough to spend their hollies trying to be "a handyman''.
My advice is fairly succinct: DON'T!
(Or this could happen to you too...)
I BLAME those television shows. They made it all look so easy.
But the fact is, handyman renovations should never be attempted by ``ordinary'' people except under strict supervision, preferably by Scott Cam, Jamie Durie or someone with a degree in astro-architectural engineering.
You're wondering how I know this, right? It's because I have now almost fully recovered from the injuries (but not the embarrassment) sustained while trying to rob accredited, professional tilers of what is rightly theirs: namely, the contract to perform a ceramic refurbishment of my dead cat-sized bathroom.
What could I have been thinking? Well, I figured it can't be too difficult to whack down a few tiles on the bathroom floor. (Everything else I'd attempted in that room had worked out OK). All you need is a sketch of your dream, the right materials and a phone within easy reach in case you need an ambulance.
So away I went, tingling with the knowledge that I would surprise my house-proud partner Siri and save at least $800 with my do-it-yourselfmanship.
First off, select your colour scheme and use your fingers and toes to figure out exactly how many tiles are needed to complete the assignment. No probs. So far, so good.
Then we rip up the old linoleum (pausing only to swat the fleeing cockroaches with a rolled-up copy of your local newspaper).
Next you smear the floor with the most powerful adhesive known to humankind, so that the tiles will stay securely glued in place until the year Cabramatta hosts the Olympics. The exertion of this bit will have you panting and sweating in the humid confines of your bathroom, so you might consider stripping down to your underwear or, if you are the only person in the house as I was, right down to your birthday suit. Now, lean forward, feet wedged in the doorway and one hand clinging to the side of the bath while you prod the adhesive into that far corner, aaaand ... fall flat on your face on the sticky surface, barely (and I mean BARE-ly) able to move a muscle.
At this point the surviving cockroaches, acquainted with the consequences of being lured onto those sticky cardboard mats which sneaky humans nudge behind cupboard and cistern ie being stuck fast and slowly starving to death over the next few days settle in to enjoy my demise, antennae twitching in anticipation.
Luckily I wasn't completely alone in the house. Help was at hand in the form of our pet kelpie Kylie, who did exactly what she had been trained to do: she rang an ambulance! No, no, I'm joking. Kylie's natural instincts kicked in and she did what millions of years of evolution had trained her to do: she jumped onto my back and started licking my ears.
She was still wagging her tail in delight and licking away playfully when Siri arrived home moments before I sank permanently into the Selleys Aquabond Adhesive like an exhausted stegosaurus into some steamy primeval swamp.
Siri did what any caring pal would do - jumped on my back and started licking my ears. I'm joking, of course. He just burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
But at the same time, he managed to yank me out of the glue and push me into the shower recess, where the glue on my toes and my right hand hardened like concrete. This meant I was - until Siri dashed down to Bunnings and bought a tube of Selley's Instant Gum Release - permanently attached to the floor of our bathtub and the adjustable shower rose.
Anyway, it all turned out for the best in the end. We found a reasonably-priced tiler in the classifieds section of our local paper and he laid our new tiles (although he had to apply a fresh adhesive layer, because my one had ``gone off' and, in any case, was marred by unsightly toe, knee and elbow prints).
We also learned that it pays to take a few precautions before attempting home handyman jobs of this kind:
* always have a tube of Selley's Instant Gum Release handy,
* get your bum waxed, and
* teach your kelpie how to call an ambulance."
Sticko is an old rock 'n roll mate and a long time newspaper man (don't read the post below this one about Journo's mate) and sent me a reply which I think was meant to scare me off his turf. Writing! Anyway, the reply was so good I asked could I publish it. So with Stickos' kind permission...
"What a buzz to read your words of wiz, mate.
All the very best for an awesome 2005.
Don't have a blog meself, but offer these words of warning to anyone
foolish enough to spend their hollies trying to be "a handyman''.
My advice is fairly succinct: DON'T!
(Or this could happen to you too...)
I BLAME those television shows. They made it all look so easy.
But the fact is, handyman renovations should never be attempted by ``ordinary'' people except under strict supervision, preferably by Scott Cam, Jamie Durie or someone with a degree in astro-architectural engineering.
You're wondering how I know this, right? It's because I have now almost fully recovered from the injuries (but not the embarrassment) sustained while trying to rob accredited, professional tilers of what is rightly theirs: namely, the contract to perform a ceramic refurbishment of my dead cat-sized bathroom.
What could I have been thinking? Well, I figured it can't be too difficult to whack down a few tiles on the bathroom floor. (Everything else I'd attempted in that room had worked out OK). All you need is a sketch of your dream, the right materials and a phone within easy reach in case you need an ambulance.
So away I went, tingling with the knowledge that I would surprise my house-proud partner Siri and save at least $800 with my do-it-yourselfmanship.
First off, select your colour scheme and use your fingers and toes to figure out exactly how many tiles are needed to complete the assignment. No probs. So far, so good.
Then we rip up the old linoleum (pausing only to swat the fleeing cockroaches with a rolled-up copy of your local newspaper).
Next you smear the floor with the most powerful adhesive known to humankind, so that the tiles will stay securely glued in place until the year Cabramatta hosts the Olympics. The exertion of this bit will have you panting and sweating in the humid confines of your bathroom, so you might consider stripping down to your underwear or, if you are the only person in the house as I was, right down to your birthday suit. Now, lean forward, feet wedged in the doorway and one hand clinging to the side of the bath while you prod the adhesive into that far corner, aaaand ... fall flat on your face on the sticky surface, barely (and I mean BARE-ly) able to move a muscle.
At this point the surviving cockroaches, acquainted with the consequences of being lured onto those sticky cardboard mats which sneaky humans nudge behind cupboard and cistern ie being stuck fast and slowly starving to death over the next few days settle in to enjoy my demise, antennae twitching in anticipation.
Luckily I wasn't completely alone in the house. Help was at hand in the form of our pet kelpie Kylie, who did exactly what she had been trained to do: she rang an ambulance! No, no, I'm joking. Kylie's natural instincts kicked in and she did what millions of years of evolution had trained her to do: she jumped onto my back and started licking my ears.
She was still wagging her tail in delight and licking away playfully when Siri arrived home moments before I sank permanently into the Selleys Aquabond Adhesive like an exhausted stegosaurus into some steamy primeval swamp.
Siri did what any caring pal would do - jumped on my back and started licking my ears. I'm joking, of course. He just burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
But at the same time, he managed to yank me out of the glue and push me into the shower recess, where the glue on my toes and my right hand hardened like concrete. This meant I was - until Siri dashed down to Bunnings and bought a tube of Selley's Instant Gum Release - permanently attached to the floor of our bathtub and the adjustable shower rose.
Anyway, it all turned out for the best in the end. We found a reasonably-priced tiler in the classifieds section of our local paper and he laid our new tiles (although he had to apply a fresh adhesive layer, because my one had ``gone off' and, in any case, was marred by unsightly toe, knee and elbow prints).
We also learned that it pays to take a few precautions before attempting home handyman jobs of this kind:
* always have a tube of Selley's Instant Gum Release handy,
* get your bum waxed, and
* teach your kelpie how to call an ambulance."
He finally had the ball(s)
The One Pod Sod, The Mono Manberry, The Knacker Lacker has finally found the ball(s) to quit.
Listen good ALP. Australia didn't like the original Gough Whitlam and we didn't like the new Gough Whitlam. Don't get any ideas about the female Gough Whitlam(you know who you are Julia).
We are sick to death of career politicians who have never had a job outside the union movement or the Labor party. Don't try another one or you won't see office in this century, which would be just fine in my book.
Listen good ALP. Australia didn't like the original Gough Whitlam and we didn't like the new Gough Whitlam. Don't get any ideas about the female Gough Whitlam(you know who you are Julia).
We are sick to death of career politicians who have never had a job outside the union movement or the Labor party. Don't try another one or you won't see office in this century, which would be just fine in my book.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
The Sydney Morning Herald Is Fucked.
Both Sydney papers (The Sydney Moaning Herald and The Daily Telegraph) carry stories today of exclusive polls which show Kim Beazley as preferred Opposition Leader. The Moaner doesn't publish its' figures but the Tele tells us it was a survey of only 417 people. WTF? These pollsters are nothing more than shysters. I'm no satistician but, I'm sorry folks, 417 is too small a sample. Not one of the pollsters predicted the outcome of the last election. Not even close. Yet their words of wisdom still mean headline stories.
The prize, however, goes to the Herald which still managed to turn the ALP's troubles into bad news about John Howard. Dig this shit:
Give me a break!
I would rather my kids came home & said they wanted to be lap dancers than journalists!
I normally supply links to quoted sources but the Herald can get fucked. I'm not encouraging anyone to read that shite.
The prize, however, goes to the Herald which still managed to turn the ALP's troubles into bad news about John Howard. Dig this shit:
"There is genuine sympathy for the ailing leader, with opinion evenly split on whether he should or should not have made a statement on the tsunami disaster while on sick leave.
But with the party suffering its worst figures in decades - primary support at a dismal 34 per cent - only half of all voters want him to remain leader.
Even more embarrassingly, the poll shows that the support of the popular Prime Minister would plummet if his opponent were anyone other than Mr Latham. Currently 62 per cent of voters choose Mr Howard over Mr Latham (34 per cent).
But asked whether to choose between the Prime Minister and "any other Labor MP other than Mr Latham", the poll shows a huge drop in support for Mr Howard to 49 per cent, with anyone other than Mr Latham only 8 per cent behind."
Give me a break!
I would rather my kids came home & said they wanted to be lap dancers than journalists!
I normally supply links to quoted sources but the Herald can get fucked. I'm not encouraging anyone to read that shite.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Goin' on tour.
I had a conversation with Gibbo Junior the other day that brought back a few memories. He is "getting a band together" with a few mates as teenagers do and we were talking about things rock & roll. The word "tour" came up as it does. It is a funny word in the rock & roll world and can mean all sorts of things to all sorts of people. When I was first kicking off, the definition of "On Tour" was driving more than 3 hours from home and not sleeping in your own bed! Later on it came to mean months away from home and many thousands of kilometers travelled, literally! It brought to mind though, my first "interstate tour". It was a trip to Queensland consisting of a gig in a wonderful place called Strathpine, Qld, followed by a midnight trip to a national park in S.E. Qld for a biker’s party. The band was called Bandanna.
They were the first band that employed me as a sound engineer. It was 1985 from memory. I had played in another band with the guitarist Larry. This guy could play really well as well as being a more than capable singer. The other guitarist was a Kiwi guy called Graeme who immigrated to Holland, which was sort of appropriate... if you knew Graeme! The drummer was the amazing Rick Doolan who you will eventually hear much about. The bass player was Terry who was known as "Dr Gofast". Another legend whom you will hear more about in future.
Basically they were a "bikers band". They played blues, boogie, rock etc. and were really, really good. As a lot of bands were then, we were working about 3-5 gigs per week and all had "day jobs". I had taken a few rostered days off to go on this jaunt.
This is us leaving the Strathpine Hotel. This photo includes myself, my pal Brian ™ , my brother, the band and a couple of extra crew known as "The Muckhole Brothers" who were "chemically enhanced" most of the time though they worked very well.
After an event free trip to Qld. and a great gig, we packed up and headed out the door.
Here are my pal Brian ™ and my brother Brett in their devastating youth.
Off to Aratula we go. The fun started early. We hadn't got 10 minutes out of Strathpine when we realised we were heading the wrong way which called for a quick U-turn across the median strip. This was something which seemed to annoy the local Police. I was driving my Lite-Ace "party bus" with the band, a couple of crew, a stray girl that the bass player had found, lots of grog, and a few other things that I won't admit to here. Constable Plod was thrown by a NSW license and a van full of rough heads so he let us continue on our merry way with a stern talking to about "the way we do things up here".
The rest of the trip was uneventful until the stray girl decided she needed to vomit. Now!
We pulled over to let her chuck. Awesome. The bass player was still interested at this point.
Off we go a few miles down the road when the stray girl decided she needed to pee. Now!
We pulled over but she was concerned that we might "perve on her" so she went around to the other side of the van. The side where the road was. The side where the traffic was. She quite happily piddled while cars drove past watching. I think we still perved.
Arriving at the party was an eye opener for me. If you have never been to a serious bikers party, then you have missed out on one of lifes great adventures. It was quite late(or early),in the middle of the bush and there were people everywhere drinking, smoking and... well, bloody everything. Come sun up, we were treated to the site of our stage.
What a beauty eh? That’s our truck at the back acting as a dressing room.
After setting up for most of the morning, there wasn't much to do so we went and watched a "bash the Japanese bike competition. You paid a few dollars to have a couple of swings with a sledge hammer and the first one to get the crankshaft out, won. Classic stuff.
The afternoon rolled around finally to everyone’s favourite event. The tit show.
This is where female members of the audience are asked to remove some of their clothing on stage for all to enjoy and a winner is democratically selected.
All was going well until some girl grabbed the mic and started rabbiting on about how sexist the whole thing was and that she "wanted to see some dicks".
Well, she didn't have to ask twice.
The stage and was swamped by blokes with their slugs out.
This bloke was the obvious winner.
Fairly soon it all settled back down to the girls and a winner was duly selected.
Her prize seemed to involve going back stage with a couple of the bikers! I wonder what second prize was. Later on we had to let the strippers use the back of our truck for a dressing room. While we were in there "getting stuff ready". It is quite bizarre watching a strip show in reverse. They would appear from the stage nude and get dressed again for their next bit. Wow.
Anyways, time was approaching when the band would actually have to take the stage and play. Trouble was that the singer was suffering from a bad cold and no sleep and 57 beers and......and was rapidly losing his voice. Finally the band started. The music was pumping and the crowd was going off. Until Larry tried to sing. Absolutely nothing came out. The band struggled on for a few songs doing "instrumental versions". This was not going down as well as we would have liked. Let me put it this way. Bikers are not the best people to disappoint.
It was decided that one of the support acts would loan us their singer. Great... he knew two of the songs. It was then decided to let this bloke have a go who could "blow the harp(harmonica) like a bastard!" He knew two songs as well. He played them twice I think. It was then decided to give it away and beat a hasty retreat before anyone got more angry at us. We packed up in record time and scurried back to Sydney. At this point, we hadn't been to bed for a while and some of us were a little bit "emotional". A small altercation was had between myself and my pal Brian ™ over who should get the sleeping spot in the van. Although this involved pulling over, much swearing, some pushing, much more swearing and a little bit more pushing, it was sorted and we had an uneventful and quiet trip home.
I crawled into bed at home finally, after three days with basically no sleep. Around two hours later the phone rings and wakes me. It is Rick, the drummer. He owned the truck with the bands gear in it. He says words to the effect of "If the cops call you, tell them you were driving the truck".
Half asleep to fully awake in .5 of a second!
"What the..." I say.
“Well, you’ve got a class 3 (truck) license haven’t you?” He says.
“Why?” I ask.
Rick says sheepishly: "I sort of overtook these Army blokes going along Putty road. Across double yellow lines, on the wrong side of the road, around a series of blind corners, going down the mountain, in the truck, and, my license isn’t sort of valid at this point. Can you cover it when they ring? Apparently some fuckwit officer has taken the number of the truck and has made a complaint.”
Oh how I miss those days.
They were the first band that employed me as a sound engineer. It was 1985 from memory. I had played in another band with the guitarist Larry. This guy could play really well as well as being a more than capable singer. The other guitarist was a Kiwi guy called Graeme who immigrated to Holland, which was sort of appropriate... if you knew Graeme! The drummer was the amazing Rick Doolan who you will eventually hear much about. The bass player was Terry who was known as "Dr Gofast". Another legend whom you will hear more about in future.
Basically they were a "bikers band". They played blues, boogie, rock etc. and were really, really good. As a lot of bands were then, we were working about 3-5 gigs per week and all had "day jobs". I had taken a few rostered days off to go on this jaunt.
This is us leaving the Strathpine Hotel. This photo includes myself, my pal Brian ™ , my brother, the band and a couple of extra crew known as "The Muckhole Brothers" who were "chemically enhanced" most of the time though they worked very well.
After an event free trip to Qld. and a great gig, we packed up and headed out the door.
Here are my pal Brian ™ and my brother Brett in their devastating youth.
Off to Aratula we go. The fun started early. We hadn't got 10 minutes out of Strathpine when we realised we were heading the wrong way which called for a quick U-turn across the median strip. This was something which seemed to annoy the local Police. I was driving my Lite-Ace "party bus" with the band, a couple of crew, a stray girl that the bass player had found, lots of grog, and a few other things that I won't admit to here. Constable Plod was thrown by a NSW license and a van full of rough heads so he let us continue on our merry way with a stern talking to about "the way we do things up here".
The rest of the trip was uneventful until the stray girl decided she needed to vomit. Now!
We pulled over to let her chuck. Awesome. The bass player was still interested at this point.
Off we go a few miles down the road when the stray girl decided she needed to pee. Now!
We pulled over but she was concerned that we might "perve on her" so she went around to the other side of the van. The side where the road was. The side where the traffic was. She quite happily piddled while cars drove past watching. I think we still perved.
Arriving at the party was an eye opener for me. If you have never been to a serious bikers party, then you have missed out on one of lifes great adventures. It was quite late(or early),in the middle of the bush and there were people everywhere drinking, smoking and... well, bloody everything. Come sun up, we were treated to the site of our stage.
What a beauty eh? That’s our truck at the back acting as a dressing room.
After setting up for most of the morning, there wasn't much to do so we went and watched a "bash the Japanese bike competition. You paid a few dollars to have a couple of swings with a sledge hammer and the first one to get the crankshaft out, won. Classic stuff.
The afternoon rolled around finally to everyone’s favourite event. The tit show.
This is where female members of the audience are asked to remove some of their clothing on stage for all to enjoy and a winner is democratically selected.
All was going well until some girl grabbed the mic and started rabbiting on about how sexist the whole thing was and that she "wanted to see some dicks".
Well, she didn't have to ask twice.
The stage and was swamped by blokes with their slugs out.
This bloke was the obvious winner.
Fairly soon it all settled back down to the girls and a winner was duly selected.
Her prize seemed to involve going back stage with a couple of the bikers! I wonder what second prize was. Later on we had to let the strippers use the back of our truck for a dressing room. While we were in there "getting stuff ready". It is quite bizarre watching a strip show in reverse. They would appear from the stage nude and get dressed again for their next bit. Wow.
Anyways, time was approaching when the band would actually have to take the stage and play. Trouble was that the singer was suffering from a bad cold and no sleep and 57 beers and......and was rapidly losing his voice. Finally the band started. The music was pumping and the crowd was going off. Until Larry tried to sing. Absolutely nothing came out. The band struggled on for a few songs doing "instrumental versions". This was not going down as well as we would have liked. Let me put it this way. Bikers are not the best people to disappoint.
It was decided that one of the support acts would loan us their singer. Great... he knew two of the songs. It was then decided to let this bloke have a go who could "blow the harp(harmonica) like a bastard!" He knew two songs as well. He played them twice I think. It was then decided to give it away and beat a hasty retreat before anyone got more angry at us. We packed up in record time and scurried back to Sydney. At this point, we hadn't been to bed for a while and some of us were a little bit "emotional". A small altercation was had between myself and my pal Brian ™ over who should get the sleeping spot in the van. Although this involved pulling over, much swearing, some pushing, much more swearing and a little bit more pushing, it was sorted and we had an uneventful and quiet trip home.
I crawled into bed at home finally, after three days with basically no sleep. Around two hours later the phone rings and wakes me. It is Rick, the drummer. He owned the truck with the bands gear in it. He says words to the effect of "If the cops call you, tell them you were driving the truck".
Half asleep to fully awake in .5 of a second!
"What the..." I say.
“Well, you’ve got a class 3 (truck) license haven’t you?” He says.
“Why?” I ask.
Rick says sheepishly: "I sort of overtook these Army blokes going along Putty road. Across double yellow lines, on the wrong side of the road, around a series of blind corners, going down the mountain, in the truck, and, my license isn’t sort of valid at this point. Can you cover it when they ring? Apparently some fuckwit officer has taken the number of the truck and has made a complaint.”
Oh how I miss those days.
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