Let me start with one of my, by now world famous, cock-ups, I know how much you enjoy them.
Our car, (nick-named “Old Gregg, “cos he’s green and has a mangina”,) was getting a bit long in the tooth. It’s had a hard life, and was covered in dents, scratches, the driver’s side door was hanging off, and the drivers window couldn’t be opened. It had a crack from one side of the windscreen to the other. The windscreen wipers didn’t. But it still run. Well, most of the time. It was slow and creaky, and sounded like it was at death’s door.
We decided to give it one last service, just in the hope of keeping it on the road until November. As we’re coming back to Blighty in November, we need all the cash we can scrape together, so keeping it on the road until then would give us a bit more spending power, and we could lash out on a new one when we got back. This would probably involve a loan from the bank, but so be it. I took it into the usual garage we use, and they said they’d give it a service and a “once over”. Got a phone call later; “It’s not looking good Taff.”
I got the mother in law to drive me over me down to see them, which is an adventure all in itself. Dave the mechanic gave me the itemised report, which run to two pages of A4, all of which was a listing the various faults. I was going to ask Dave to get it towed, but being a twat, I asked, “How much for the bare minimum work to keep it on the road?” Dave sucked his teeth; “The brakes will have to be done, I can probably do you a cheap tyre, that radiator leak may stop with some rad-weld, the headlamp bulbs need replacing, the fog lights you can do without, you’ll have to keep topping the oil up daily, and the battery may just hang on for a month or two. Pray it doesn’t rain and you can go without windscreen wipers. Call it $500.”
I coughed up. Actually I coughed up $700, as Dave forgot to include the cost of the service in his estimates. So that was the plan, run the car on a wing and a prayer, and hope it made it through to November.
Two days later, just two fucking days after shelling out $700 on the heap of shite, while reversing out of the garage, I caught the front wing on the garage door, and ripped the front bumper off.
It ended up looking like this.
Change of plan. We’ll drive it until we find a cheap runner, shell out a couple of grand on a car that will last a year, and scrap that one when we can afford to pay out for a good’n.
I found a good looking car on “Gumtree” we went and had a look. The guy selling it at the used car dealers, Ian, was the least “Swiss Tony” like guy I have ever met in my life. He was shy, and just gave us the keys and told us to “Have a good drive and see what you think.”
Which was a brilliant sales technique. We felt so unthreatened by him we signed up to buy it on the spot.
Two days later, after all the paperwork had been done and dusted, by Ian at his expense (!), I took Old Gregg to the scrapper, which was conveniently located just around the corner from Ian’s sales lot. I got $100 scrap fees for him. I then picked up “New Gregg”.
“Oh come on Taff, you could at least be more creative with a name for it!” I hear. But no, there is a reason for the name.
Old Gregg; bottle green 1999 Subaru Liberty Station wagon.
New Gregg; bottle green, 1998 Subaru Outback Station wagon.
Yes, we bought an older car. It was cheap. Fuck off.
They could be twins. Well twins apart from the fact that new Gregg isn’t covered in dents, scratches, has working doors, windows, lights, windscreen wipers, battery, tyres etc. And has a complete windscreen sans crack. Oh and it has a 2.5 litre engine, (OG was 2 litre.)
They are so alike that I had Bethany (briefly) fooled that we’d had Old Gregg refurbished.
New Gregg is a pleasure to drive, apart from the fact that the handing is a bit boat like. Fair bit of poke for an old motor too. We gave $2250 for it, so if it lasts us a year, without too much servicing/repair cost, it’ll do us a treat.
We went to see Le Noir, and it was wonderful.
Yes, yes, yes, it was horny as all hell. But the quality, excitement, and danger of the acts was the highlight, honest! There were balancing acts, of which two male performers were the most gobsmacking. This guy did a one handed press-up, inverted, while balancing on the other lad’s head, they also did some cantilever stuff which beggars description. Then this tiny lass did an aerial routine, while hanging one handed from a hoop 40 foot off the deck. Anyone who can hang one handed, let alone throw themselves about in the air and catch the hoop again single handed, for the length of time she did, cannot be human. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to describe any more, as it needs to be seen to be believed, or understood even.)
There these fine acrobats of both sexes, of course, all had perfect bodies. The guys were muscular and supple, such Adonis’ they had me seriously wondering if I could “catch the other bus”. (No I can’t!) The female contortionists left me in no doubt there are several shagging positions I’ve not yet tried. They were all physically perfect, I felt VERY old, weak and fat just watching them. There was also a very funny clown.
To add to my torment, just when I was feeling at my fattest and oldest, each of the acts were accompanied by anything up to half a dozen female dancers. Dancers who were very tasty, dancers who were very, very, athletically built and supple. Dancers wearing nowt but Basques, stockings , suspenders and six inch stilettos, they looked like a high class porn act. Their main role was to writhe about at the edge of the stage, looking as if they had slipped in their randy rabbit vibrators before coming out to dance, and things were just about to reach boiling point. Boy, was that distracting? I still managed to watch, (most,) of the acts though.
Eurovision was great this year, we think. We don’t actually know though. See we had this plan. We’d tape it, (it was on at 5.00 am over here,) and watch it during Sunday afternoon, (my day off. ) We’d cook some grub, have a glass of wine. “Just for shits and giggles,” as they say over here.
So our day was to be;
Get up early, go to the markets, get veg for the week.
Walk the mutts for a good long walk, to knacker them out for the day.
Go to Woollies, get the rest of our weekly shop.
Do some cooking, mainly finger food for watching Eurovision.
Watch Eurovision, have a jolly laugh at the naff acts.
Cook tea.
Watch Masterchef, retire to bed.
It started off well.
While at the markets we saw this amazing Campervan there, it was for sale, but Lee-Anne had a tight hold on my wallet, (and my bollocks.)
We got in the grub, and Lee-Anne got a fine batch of aubergines to make “baba ganoush”. Following that, just as we’d just finished walking the mutts down by the lakes, and were just putting them in the car, Bethy rang; “Can you bail us out? I left the car lights on and the battery is flat. We’re going to a party tonight and I need to drive!”
We dove home and looked for the jump leads. We musty have left them at the old gaff when we moved. Drove to “Supercheapautocarbitsshop” bought new jump leads. Drove to Bethy’s and got their car started. To be fair they were very grateful.
So we were a bit behind schedule.
Back home Lee-Anne made up the baba ganoush, and I cracked open the wine. We sat down to watch Eurovision. Did you watch it? These were some of our our comments, though they got less and less coherent as the day wore on.
Germany: “Nul Points” “Bleached turd”
Poland: “Kid in a wheel chair? Fucking going for the sympathy vote or what?!?!”
Spain: “Barbarella?” “Bucks Fizz”
Hungary: “This song is totally vegan” “Kill me, Bah!”
Georgia: “Dreadful, Goth lite”
Azerbaijan: “Holy fuck this is scary, I HATE interpretive dance.’
Aussie: “ Whoh! Chair dancing!” “Twat”
Belgium: “Is that Father Dougal rapping?”
Greece: “Dire cack.”
UK: “Awful, AWFUL!!” “Bring back Fucks Bizz!”
Armenia: “Utter shite”
Serbia: ” 9″ “9 Wow fucking powerful”
I really REALLY wanted Serbia to win.
When she kicks off into the Happyhouse/ Trance section (at 1 min 56 seconds) and gives it full welly with her beautiful powerful voice, it had me in tears. (Just did again in fact!)
Unfortunately, half way through the scores being announced we decided we had to go to bed, as we were; “too tired to stay up”. Or to put it another way, having rushed about since 7.30 am, and having not eaten much, we were by now absolutely shitfaced. It was six o’clock.
Bethy party’s party that night was also a Eurovision one, they got dressed up for it. I was jealous, the party looked like a big hoot, and I love fancy dress.
Don’t you think Brandon looks like a young Gary Numan? They seem a bit confused over what their band style was though
Brandon: We are Romanian math-pop group ‘Left’. We do Baroque music in the style of agoraphobic post-house-grunge.
Bethany: We are the Romanian algebraic calisthenics group “Par diagonal”. We are a grey romantic cis trans polka trance group.
Sasha:We’re a post-modern alphabetic trio “JKs”. Our style is transatlantic funk-folk grunge.
Bethany: Don’t forget we are organic.
Bethy also went to a fancy dress 21 st. Birthday party, she went as Belle from the Disney “Beauty and the Beast” movie.
Stunning isn’t she?
I went to my GP the other day, just to get a script for my anti-cholesterol meds. Getting an appointment is difficult enough in itself, so I’ve just taken to asking to see anyone they have available. I’ve only ever been seen by the same GP there twice on one occasion. High turn over. Anyway, this time I get an appointment with Dr Dr Jayasekera, somone who I’ve not seen before. I get called in and the Dr is a bubbly young lass in her 30’s. We sit down and start talking, she’s got a lovely sing-song Asian accent, but with an odd twist to it. Being deaf, and a twat, I thought nothing of it. “Oh you’re Welsh,” says she. I was a bit stunned, and impressed, so I replied; “Oh, that’s great, most people call me Irish or Scottish, do you know Wales at all?” She grinned, “Not very well, but I was born and grew up in Glasgow, and I trained in Edinburgh I’ve just moved out here.” Ah ha, got me! Ok, the good doctor is not Malaysian or Thai as I had originally thought, but Scottish. We got on great after that.
Nice little earner if you can do it, being a GP here. I have to see the GP to get a script, no repeats issued without the doctor seeing you. “That’s $70.00 please.” Then of course; “Oh, you haven’t had a bloods done for a while, here’s a path form.” Bloods $50.00 a pop. Get a phone call today, “Can you come in to see the GP next Friday, your bloods results are in.” Yet another $70.00
You may have heard me begging for certain foodstuffs to be posted over from Blighty, stuff like marmite Easter Eggs, and Stilton beer. Well the other day I came across this;
“Vegemite Dairy Milk”, Nomsy! I bought a load. But just to show that we’ve raised Bethy as a proper foodie, I’ll leave her review it for us;
“I found it inconsistent. I had 4 squares (I know right, who am I? And what did I do with the chocolate – fiend known as Bethany? I’m dieting :p). But of the squares I had, one was brilliant, not too sweet from the caramel, the umami and salt of the vegemite balancing the abysmal plainness of Cadbury chocolate; in other words, perfect for what it was. Two of them were almost entirely caramel, barely salty enough the be called salted caramel. And the third was way too vegemitey. I bit that one in half to see what the inside looked like, there was just a chunk of vegemite. If they were all like the first it would be amazing. But, I fear, most are like everything faddish, the Goldilocks principle applies and baby bear’s bowl is a rarity.”
Nuff said?
Time for the monthly mother-in-law rant!
The other day Mary informs us; “My sister knows a place where seniors get a good discount on hearing aids, so I’m getting one.” Do you remember that character on “Little Britain” “Andy”? Mary’s like that. When she gets the idea she “needs” something, she fixates about the first bloody one she sees, cars, laptops, ipads etc, it’s always; “I wunt that one!”
We didn’t have the heart to say; “But you’re not deaf!” Why not? Try this for size.
Mary is driving Lee-Anne to an appointment.
Lee-Anne; “Look at all these daft bastards driving without lights on in this fog!”
Mary; “I know, madness!”
Mary pulls a pair of sunglasses out from the glove box, and puts them on, continues driving.
Lee-Anne; (Slightly shitting herself) “Why did you just put sunglasses on in thick fog mother?”
Mary; “I get too much glare in fog because I’ve got cataracts.”
Lee-Anne; “Who diagnosed those?”
Mary;”I don’t need anyone to tell me I have cataracts, I just know.”
So the idea of asking her who says, or why she thinks, she needs hearing aids is a null and void point. We know, actually, why she thinks she has cataracts and needs hearing aids, other people in her family have them, and it’s a big contest who can be the most ill with them lot.
Anyway, so here’s where Marylogic (tm) kicks in. She’ll fly down to Melbourne ($$$) to get tested and buy hearing aids at a “discount,” (ho ho.) She’ll stay with her sister there for a week, and probably pick up a new disease or disability. Sounds reasonable?
But what she’s forgetting is that, once ordered they’ll take a few weeks to be made up, and she’ll have to fly back to Melbourne get them fitted and adjusted ($$$) Not only that, but each and every year she’ll have to fly back to get them adjusted and her retested. ($$$) So her saving $50.00 on a pair is not going to be such a great saving, not with flights at $170.00. Each way.
Another cracking one came of this Melbourne jaunt. Lee-Anne was around at Mary’s the other day.
Mary; “I’m dreading this trip to Melbourne. I don’t know how Wilma will cope with me being there, she’s not a well person you know. I’m not telling your cousin Judy I’m coming up, I don’t want her making a fuss, that’s just too much trouble. I don’t know how I’m going to manage on the flight and when I get there. Oh, and you have to promise me you’ll look after my dog properly, she’s got a swollen paw, it may be a broken bone or something even worse. I’ll be worried sick about her all the time I’m away. I’ve just got so many things to do and plan I’m just getting worn down.”
Lee-Anne; “Don’t be so negative about it mum!”
Mary; “I’m not being negative, I’m a very positive person”
Ok, this one isn’t her fault, much. When she pegs it, she wants us to spread her ashes at Shepherd’s lookout, (an event which may come quicker than she would like if she keeps on pissing me about.) As Shep’s is a regular haunt of mine, and a great place for taking sunset shots, I made a couple of trips there to get a good photo.
This one.
We liked it so much that I decided to have it blown up to 20×16 inches, and printed on canvas, as a Birthday gift for her. This was duly done, at a price of $80.00, and after a week’s wait it arrived. And it was shite.
Printing on canvas had muted all the lovely greens and golds into a brown sludge. Bollocks. We gave it to her in any case. The day after her birthday, I nipped into a local Office Works, and for $20.00 had it printed, even larger, on photo paper, and it looks fucking fab.
Lee-Anne turns up to work the other day; waking into the office she notices a strong smell. Other co-workers notice bits of change and items are missing off their desks. Lee-Anne spots a yellow puddle in the corner of the room. “Fuck we’ve been burgled!” This is odd, as;
The office is on the 9th. floor.
There’s not really much worth nicking in there.
Lee-Anne’s ministry is the justice ministry, (people you seriously don’t want to piss off.)
So people were grumbling and making itemised lists for the cops, but it was all rather funny. Funny that is until Tom opened the paper recycling bin, and found the “present” the thief had left them in there. “So that’s what the smell was!”
One of my kids had to be admitted (banged up in the psych ward,) the other day. A shame, I hate having to do that, but she had stopped taking her meds, and had lied to me about it. As a consequence she went off the rails, ended up paranoid and with “the voices”, and thus back in hospital for safety. Her parents have a great private insurance policy, so she gets to be transferred to a private psych hospital in Sydney. No drama.
I visit her on the ward on the day before she’s due to leave, and she says to me; “I’ve found the perfect therapist for me, and I’m going to link in with her when I‘m in Sydney!”
Fair play kid, if you think she’s good, go for it. She gives me this woman’s details, I check them up online. FUCK!!!!
Shamanic counselling is a blend of personal exploration and ancient shamanic techniques and using tools that have been used over centuries in traditional cultures. We enter sacred space and open up to the landscape of your being to decode and recode existing behaviours, patterns and coping mechanism. It accesses all levels of your being, mental, emotional and spiritual and allows you to look beyond the obvious physical or emotional challenges. It is an invitation to go deeper into the underlying belief systems and energetic structures that can rule your life. We recognise internal dynamics and working towards restoring balance, which can lead you to greater self-awareness and understanding. Shamanic Counselling is a unique process of you actively being part of your healing journey and to receive shamanic healing using ancient tools to accelerate your healing process. It is a wonderful gift to have someone journeying on your behalf and clear energy, remove obstacles and reconnect you with your soul in times when you might feel stuck or depleted.
• Opening sacred space, entering the medicine wheel and mapping your current experience • Personal exploration • Energy clearing and energy restoring • Shamanic journey into your landscape and remove obstacles, realign you to your souls purpose and reconnection to the stream of life. • Creating ceremonies and rituals to cut ties or tie knots • Connecting to your medicine • Connecting to your medicine totem and spirit guides
Or in other words, a load of utter bollocks. Her webpage is complete with loads of American Indian imagery and totems etc.
Now you may find it odd that I was horrified by this, you’d think me, being a bastard, would relish the thought of someone, anyone, ripping off a hippy. And you’d be right. You can flog a hippy any old bollocks, reiki, homeopathy, acupuncture, trepanation, blood-letting, “Hopi” ear candles, and I’ll cheer you on, laughing like a drain. They fucking deserve it.
BUT! Through long experience, we know that when vulnerable kids with psychosis, bi-polar or schizophrenia get involved in this sort of crap, it can lead to reams of bloody paper work.
One of our favourite clients who we’ve had through our service, I’ll call her Holly, fell for this. She started seeing someone who wanted to treat her with “alternative”(woo) therapies. She had some massage, and was gradually drawn in. Eventually that mad bat who was selling her this shit, told her she no longer needed to take the 4 mg Risperdal our shrink had prescribed, as it would interfere with the “body’s natural healing processes”, and that these homeopathic remedies she would gift (sell) her would take care of her. Holly believed her.
One night we got a call from a hysterical Holly’s mother. We rushed around to find Holly stark bollocks naked in the garden, having scrawled all over herself “meaningful” (gibberish) sayings with a permanent marker pen. Earlier that day she had emptied her bank account of some thousands of dollars, and she had given her savings away to charities. She was in the midst of one of the most profound psychotic states I have ever seen with auditory, visual and tactile hallucinations, ideas of reference, paranoia, depersonalisation, capgrass, all firing away at once.
We had to get the police to take her in as she was biting and spitting. She had a six week stay on the psych wards, and was put on clozapine following this. We subsequently found out she had contracted a STD when “sexually purging herself” with some bloke she met who had taken full advantage of her. It took some time before she could re-enage with me as she was so ashamed and horrified as to what she had done and said when unwell.
When she told me why she had gone off meds, I had to be restrained from going around and burning the “therapists” house down. We did report the cow to every relevant agency and board we could find.
I don’t mind anyone ripping off hippies, but don’t try it on with MY hippies if you know what’s good for you.
Got into work today, tried to log into the computer
“Your password has expired please enter a new one.”
Entered my normal variation on a theme
“Your new password does not meet the requirements for length, complexity, or history, of the log in site, please try another.”
I expand my usual theme to about 15 letters, numbers, special characters.
“Your new password does not meet the requirements for length, complexity, or history, of the log in site, please try another.”
I try a dozen other “old favourites”…
“Your new password does not meet the requirements for length, complexity, or history, of the log in site, please try another.”
I try some fucking ridiculous ones, as in; “qwertyuioplkjhgfdsazxcvbbnm1234567890)(*&^%$#@!”
“Your new password does not meet the requirements for length, complexity, or history, of the log in site, please try another.”
Ok, guess what word does meet the requirements for length, complexity, or history, of the log in site? What word are we always told NOT to use? Yes that one works.
Oh, we’ve had the first snows of the season, it’s bloody parky here at the moment.
My office is just to the left of that tall white building..
So that’s about it for this month. Do check out this month’s gallery, there’s a wealth of lovely images in there.
Just a couple of warnings to give;
A) We’ve booked all our digs for the next (Nov/Dec 2015) UK jaunt, details coming up over the next couple of months.
B) My next CD of bloody awful music is nearing completion, will be launched here soon.
c) Fuck you.
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