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.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
