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!

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.

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!

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 8pm to 10:30 show which is much earlier than a rock gig.

A day usually went something like this.

• Wake up in a hotel/motel room somewhere at around 8am
• 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 1pm.
• 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 4:30pm for a sound check. This usually took an hour.
  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 7pm.
• Support act on at 8pm for 30 minutes.
• Main Act at 8:30pm for nearly 2 hours.
• 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 midnight.
  
  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 Brisbane who have been doing record company promo shit.

Leaving NSW. Note the rainbow.

Arrive in Brisbane to find that the record company is still paying for room service. Yeehah!
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 Gladstone, Rockhampton, Emerald, Dysart, Mackay, Townsville and Ayr. I get to catch up with my Auntie Margie and a few of the cousins in Townsville. We even get devon sango's with Uncle Ray the next day on our way out of town. Bleedin' luxury.
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 Cairns and for some forgotten reason, we need to go there first. We then turn around and drive a couple of hours back to the gig at Innisfail. On the way back to Cairns after the gig that night, I fell asleep driving the truck. Luckily, the guy in the passenger seat was awake and managed to wake me up. He only realised I was asleep when we crossed the road rounding a bend and ended up sideways. Something that is not recommended in a truck! I was wide awake for the rest of the trip.
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.

Nearing the end of the first day driving home, we came across the famous Blue Heeler Hotel at Kynuna which was the subject of James' first(I think) Golden Guitar winning song. We decided it would be a great idea to stop for a pie and a few beers. The publican was really friendly regailed us with stories of when the film clip was being shot. It was a real big deal for them and they treated us well.

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!"

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.

• 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.

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."

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.

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:

"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.

Mullet Junky

Go here and be prepared to kack!

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.