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.
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