I'm not much of a country music fan, but afficianados tell me that one of the attractions is the inherent honesty in the lyrics. Listening to Radio B&S today (aka 2WEB), I found that this is true in at least one case. Played on high rotation is a song called 'The Truth About Men' (I think), as I loathe and despise all the announcers on Radio B&S I haven't heard the name of the performer (I hate it when popular musicians are called Artists). I think his name is A Bloke. Actually the singer is a sepp, so he's probably called Yo Dude. Whatever, the lyrics are thought-provokingly honest and sincere;
Following on from my earlier story on The Great Crash , I thought that I would tell you about some of the more stupid accidents and near misses I've had on motorcycles.
When I was a young tacker, my father and I used to go to Bathurst each year for the bike races. Dad would ride until we hit the Olympic Way just outside Albury, then we would swap spots. (I was too young for a licence, but the points system didn't cross state boundaries in those days, so little harm would befall Dad if we got caught. We never did.) On this trip, we were a little way after Wagga when we came upon the Quarter Litre Club, who had all pulled over for a rest. Or something. They chose to wait until I was right on them before deciding to pull out at a leisurely pace, creating something of a moving chicane. Interesting at the time, but not the incident in question. Just after this there was a long, sweeping 's' bend. Going around the initial right hander, the rear end seemed to squirm a little bit. I was entering the left hander, thinking about stopping to see what the trouble was, when the rear tyre blew out, coming off the bead entirely.
For those of you not familiar with the way that tyres are mounted onto wheels, this meant that the tyre was no longer compelled to point in the same direction as the wheel. Applying the brakes was not an option, as the back end would have overtaken the front and road rash would have resulted. It was a case of hang on, slow down gently and try to keep in front of the rear wheel. It was at this point that I noticed the first Commodore that I had ever seen as it hurtled through the table drain in a gracious attempt to avoid having a Yamaha bonnet emblem.
I finally managed to get it pulled up in one piece, a riding effort I am still inordinately proud of, twenty six years later. The Quarter Litre Club, which would have been close enough behind to have seen the whole thing, trundled past, no offer to help. Arseholes. Dad and I had stopped shaking and were starting to get down to the business of tyre repair when the Commodore returned, front stone tray hanging off and grille broken. The driver, who was bigger than Texas got out and I thought that I was going to die. Dad's only five foot six and has to wear heavy boots on windy days so that he doesn't blow away. "Flat tyre, eh?" he rumbled, brushing Dad and I aside as he spoke.
"O.K., 4.50 by 16, I'll just duck into Wagga and get a tube."
Which he did, wouldn't take any money for it, either.
Another two-up incident occurred with a mate, Rod Rocket, who could ride like the wind, but broke bikes with monotonous regularity. At the time, he had a V-four 750 Honda, which went like stink, but had a fragile valve train. Every time he broke it, I would put it back together, like the six-million dollar man, faster and stronger. I never charged him for my efforts, so he used to let me ride it whenever I wanted. On this particular occasion (a Sunday night in 1987) we were riding from Dandenong to some suburb I don't remember. We pulled off the freeway at Warragul Road and stopped at the lights. Nothing happened. Waiting, waiting. Did I mention that we were drunk? Anyway, realising that the lights were operated by a pressure switch, and that the bike wasn't heavy enough to trigger the switch did we a) turn left and then do a u-bolt on Warragul Road, b) just run the lights or c) do something really stupid.
Big elephant stamp on your report card if you picked c). Leaving Rocketman to wait at the lights I rode the wrong way down the off-ramp, turned around and did a monstrous wheelstand right up the ramp and locked the rear brake in time to thump the front wheel down on the switch. Hey, it worked. But that isn't the incident, oh no, you don't get off that easy. (I knew a girl who did, but that's another double entendre.) After we negotiated the lights, we trundled through the suburbs to Mitcham, or Malvern. Or somewhere else, I don't really remember. We pulled up in the driveway of Rocket's mate's house, which was full of fairly competitive road racers. Rocket thought I put my feet down. I thought Rocket put his feet down. Ker-plunk, accompanied by much laughter from inside the house.
The most recent one occurred on my recent trip to Cunnamulla. I won't go into detail, suffice to say that when you put a lock through the brake disc to slow down thieves, it is best removed before riding away.
“What do you mean by ‘animal rights’?”People who support animal rights
believe that animals are not ours to use for food, clothing, entertainment,
experimentation, or any other purpose and that animals deserve consideration of
their best interests regardless of whether they are cute, useful to humans, or
endangered and regardless of whether any human cares about them at all (just as
a mentally challenged human has rights even if he or she is not cute or useful
and even if everyone dislikes him or her).
That's right you bastards, stop sadistically throwing Fido that tennis ball, or fiendishly changing Tiddles's litter tray, you better stop right now, or PTEA's gunna get ya!
Since Jonas asked so nicely, I'll give you a brief summation of my heroic exploits - very brief.
In the hills behind Many Peaks in Queensland, I was camping with a couple of mates. Due to a desperate shortage of beer mate no. 1 was sent into Many Peaks for a reload. While he was gone, mate no. 2 was bitten by a western brown snake. Basic first aid - pressure bandage, immobilise the leg, keep him calm and wait for mate no. 1, who, for a change, didn't get stuck in the pub. When he returned we loaded mate no. 2 in the car and took off for Gladstone, stopping at Many Peaks to arrange for an ambulance to meet us on the way in.
I worked at a swimming pool for a few years and surprisingly enough, only had to resuscitate four people in that time (I knew a bloke who worked at a suburban Brissie pool and the rate there was one rescue per shift). One of those I saved was a two year old girl whose mother had left her on the wheelchair ramp of the heated pool while she (the mother) swam laps. She saw me handling her kid and went crook at me. I went crook at her. She filed a formal complaint with the council (owners of the pool). A lot of bullshit later she withdrew the complaint and I got a community service award. Or something, I never went to the ceremony or picked it up.
The one that got away was over twenty years ago - a car caught fire and the driver was badly burned. It took him three days to die and I had bits of him stuck to me. Only little bits, but still...
Especially if (like our Fearless Leader) you believe in greatness by association. What follows is a few things I've done that you probably haven't, starting with the fact that I've met nineteen different world champions in various sports, ranging from Jack Brabham and Lionel Rose to Marcus Ringuet (see if it Googles; it's pretty obscure and I'm too lazy). My favourite was Sue Stanley - anybody who swims laps in an aerobic suit of the 'g' sting variety is ok by me. Between them they won about forty-five titles; good, aren't I?
Something else I've done you probably haven't: a 'vertical up' weld whilst suspended by my ankles from an excavator boom about eighteen feet down a twenty six inch diameter pipe.
I've also been struck by lightning. Well, o.k., I wasn't actually struck by lightning, but when you're seven years old and the brick letterbox you're running past on your way to shelter explodes and you are knocked out, it's close enough.
What else? Let's see, I've had sex in the front seat of a Volkswagen - and didn't break anything.
I've been struck by a red-bellied black snake. Not bit; struck. Apparently they sometimes give you a warning shot across the bows before they sink the fangs in.
I've tied to save the life of seven different people and succeeded six times. (And was abused for my efforts by the mother of one of the survivors).
I've hit a hole-in-one. Pure arse. I've only ever played golf about twenty times over a twenty-five year period.
And I once kicked our entire score in a winning football team (2.1, a low scoring affair in the bush in the under 15's in a gale, but still...)
Okay, so Yobbo beat me to the punch on this one but I'm going to have my rant anyway. As the title may suggest, I'm not a massive fan of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). This bunch of lentil munchers think that meat is murder and leather is an abomination. No position on the subject is possible except theirs, compromise- or reason- is not something that bothers them unduly. They are like the Mormons or Seventh Day Adventurers who knock on your door at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning: they are right, God made them right and any argument, abuse or counter-positioning you may choose to unleash on them only convinces them even more. They are God's chosen ones, except they probably don't have a normal god, they'd have one that requires them to be a bit more diligent, like Zoroaster or Mani or something. These arseholes have managed to put the frighteners on Abercrombie and Fitch, a Seppolian fashion chain, making them put a ban on Aussie wool, because of the live export trade (which is meat sheep and not wool - related) and the practice of mulesing, where skin is cut away from around the sheep's arse to prevent flystrike. I don't think they sold any, anyway, but that isn't the point, now they've got their tales up they're going to be near unstoppable.These are the same people who put the arm on Nike, etc., for using 'roo leather in their boots. Not leather, per se, but 'roo leather. Fuckwits. Probably not a lot of you have been out with a 'roo shooter. I have. I've also worked in a slaughter-yard. I'd rather be a 'roo than a cow, pig or sheep. A 'roo lives its life happily destroying crops and drinking bore water with not a care in the world. One night it is surprised by a bright light, then dies. Instantly. I haven't been out with a pro shooter all that often, probably six or seven times. In that time about two hundred 'roos died - from the same number of shots. A swift, painless death with no stress beforehand, but the Saint Petas consider it inhumane.
I haven't worked sheep in many years, but I can remember flyblown sheep dead or dying, slowly and painfully. Mulesing is painful and probably repulsive to watch, but it saves sheeps' lives: PETA wants to stop it. And think this gives them moral superiority. PETA will not be satisfied until every animal product is banned. And then they'll find something else to be dissatisfied about. You see, they don't actually care about animals, they are just the vehicles they use to carry themselves to The High Moral Ground.
I see my future wife set a new record medal tally at the world short course championships, six gold, including five individual. Go Brooke baby, I love you. Now if I could just get this meeting each other thing out of the way...
In not so happy news, Keith Miller died. The greatest of a great generation, Miller was the embodiment of everything Australian men think/wish they were. Thanks to Tony I read a story in the Telegraph (U.K.) by Micheal Parkinson which includes a couple of memorable quotes:
Keith Miller's attitude to life and to the game he played was profoundly influenced by the war. He flew Mosquitos over Germany and survived with a perspective and a set of values that shaped the rest of his life.
The way he played cricket in the post-War years was as much a celebration of surviving as it was the reaction of a man whose lifelong ambition was never to be bored.
As he once memorably said: "When athletes nowadays talk of pressure they only reveal what they don't know of life. They've never had a Messerschmitt up their arse. That's pressure."
[...]
His favourite cricket photo - the only one on display at his home - showed the Australian Services team taking the field at Bramall Lane, Sheffield, just after the War.
He kept it for when people asked him about the greatest moments in his career. During a subsequent match at Lord's, he would point out from that picture Graham Williams, a tall, skinny man whose first appearance at the venue had come only two weeks after he had been in a prisoner of war camp for four years. As he walked out to bat, the crowd rose to him.
Keith Miller said: "That is my abiding memory. I think of it often. We were the lucky ones.
I truly believe that people of my generation and younger do not appreciate the heroism of the average person during these years. At the risk of sounding corny... Lest We Forget.
In the tradition of cerebral comedian extraordinaire Jeff Foxworthy's You might be a redneck if... routine, here is my You might be getting tired if... O.K., here goes *adjusts mike and shuffles awkwardly in the silence that follows "...and how is everybody doin' tonight?" *
You might be getting tired if...
You don't know what day it is, literally.
You catch yourself arguing with a talkback host. The radio is not turned on,
You blink while watching First Edtion on Sky News. At the end of the blink, Five Live is on
You spend ten minutes watching a Japanese Manga cartoon on TV. Then you realise that the 'TV' is, in fact, the touchscreen for the GPS guidance system, which is a static display.
You don't recognise blatant sarcasm in a comments thread. (private joke, I made a dill of myself)
I did all of these things this week, no illicit substances were involved.
That's all your getting today kiddies, should be last nightshift tomorrow night, the Good Lord willin' and the creeks don't rise, then it'll be back to normal.
'Aven't seen yer all week, where ya bin? Nevermind, ya can tell me later, it's your shout... Gold thanks, love.
Remember last week I said we might be gunna get a bit 'o rain? Whaddya mean, no...? We was sittin' right here. I was on this side an' you was on that side an' ol' Toby was yarnin' to Ol' Mate from out west who always smells like he don't wipe 'is bum properly. "Member? An' Jacko was in the corner tryin' to crack on to that Chinese sheila with all the zits an' the harelip. You know the one... got a head on 'er like forty mile 'o bad road... yeah, that's her. 'E musta put the hard word on 'er or gone the grope or somethin' 'coz she hauled off an' clocked 'im one. Then she starts jibber jawin' at 'im in Christ knows what language, wavin' 'er arms around an' carryin' on, 'course, 'coz she's got that harelip she's sprayin' froth an' spit all over 'im like she was a horse that's bin worked too 'ard. Geez it was funny, we was cackin' ourselves. 'Course then she notices us laughin', see, so she turns on us an' starts jibberin' away at us, too, which made us laugh even more. She saw the funny side after a while an' just give us all a little smile an' went back to talkin' to Jacko.
What? 'Ow would I know if it goes sideways, ask Jacko, 'e ended up crackin' on to 'er eventually.Anyhow, it was just after that I sez to you, I sez "Reckon we might be gunna get a little bit 'o rain" I sez, an' you sez to me, you sez "Ooh...reckon?" you sez, an' I sez to you, I sez "Yeah...reckon." I sez an' then we talked about the footy, 'member?
'Course you do... anyhow, we did get a bit 'o rain... 85 points in ten minutes, geez it pissed down. I was just doin' the last change on the irrigation on the old development when she 'it. Almost dropped the ute into the supply channel, it was that slippery, bloody near loaded me strides too, I did. So we managed to get 'er all shutdown an' caught all the runoff, we 'ad two pump goin' for near two days just on ten minutes rain!
Trouble is but, she came down too 'ard, see, an' she's sealed the top 'o the beds over an' the cotton's 'avin' trouble pushin' through it, see. She's all shot, but she's all dyin' alone in the dark, like when Willow bought Buffy back from 'eaven.
What? Yeah, I wouldn't mind a turn, either, Willow too, if I had a few beers in me. Anyhow, looks like we might 'ave to replant a few paddocks in the old development, course, I'll have to run the show again, 'coz I'm the only decent operator out there,...don't pull faces like that at me. Whaddya mean shut the fuck up? Eh?... whereyagoin'? Eh, comeback....
Arsehole.
'Owyergoin' mate 'orright? Where ya bin? 'Aven't seen you 'ere in a while, nevermind, you can tell me later, it's your shou....
Elections shit me. I mean, they're good and that, shit, they're worth invading other countries in order to make them have them (especially when the weapons turn out to be cheese factories) but you can pretty much write the script three years in advance:
Opposition: We will instigate new programs in blah, blah, blah costing xxxxbillion dollars. We will do this by targeting waste and inefficiencies, we will not raise taxes.
Government (after studying opposition policy for about, ooh, twenty eight seconds: There is an obvious xxxbillion dollar BLACK HOLE in the funding arrangements for this policy.
Opposition: Our policies have been fully costed.
Government: BLACK HOLE!!! Trust us, we are experienced, they have no track record.
Repeat ad nauseum until the government of the day releases its counter-bid in the vote buying auction, then repeat again with roles reversed.
In Australia you can add in comments from the Libs about interest rates (Overlooking Howard's record as Treasurer in the late seventies/early eighties), unions and if things get desperate, look out for the red card. This will be countered from Labor by comments about being in the pocket of 'big business' and the 'big end of town' and more recently 'Howard lies'.
Now for a couple of specifics:
Medicare Gold; stupid name, seems like a good idea. Access Economics have released a 'study' that shows it is unsustainable. I have my doubts about this study, I couldn't get my homework done in that sort of time when I was going to school (actually, I didn't do any homework, but you get my drift). I have always had the feeling that Access Economics was a conservative sort of an organization, don't know why. And the AMA doesn't seem to be all that much in accord with any doctors that I've spoken to (not a vast number, admittedly). Personally, I don't mind waiting a bit longer for a bit of elective if it means that my 77 year old father is getting tip-top care.
ALP policy on Tasmanian old growth policy: We're going to give some fucking committee another year to make a policy for us. Get Access Economics to do it. They'll have the results back Tuesday lunchtime. And it's going to cost $800,000,000. If you don't know what you're going to do, how do you know what it's going to cost? Talk about a free kick for the Labor= bad economics crowd.
Speaking about the Labor= bad economics crowd, the other day on the steam powered wireless I heard a twenty second grab from a debate between Peter Costello and Simon (The Anti-Hawke) Crean. Crean challenged Costello to give the name of one independent analyst (or was it economist?) who is on record as saying he/ she believed that a Labor government would have a negative impact on interest rates. Several times. Costello just kept ducking and weaving like a tired bantam-weight in the eighth round. It's the only time I can remember Crean getting the better of anybody in a debate about anything.
Who am I Going to vote for?
Dunno. If Costello was leading the Libs, he'd be a shoe-in. He is by far the best candidate for the job in either major party. I had high hopes for Boganboy when he first turned up, but as time goes by I am finding more negatives than positives. Howard holds the public in contempt. There are no viable alternative parties, the Greens have too many dingbats and the Dems were founded on a negative principle - sort of the anti-party. There are no independents in my electorate that I know of. If there are, they haven't let me know about it, which doesn't say much for their ability to do the job. Then again, neither of the majors here (Nats and Labor) have sent me anything either.
Read this for a young wman's perspective on the difference between Labor and Liberal. Pure gold. She grew up in the same area I did, too. I didn't know there was another genius there.
Now might be a good time to give a brief rundown on what's happening with the cotton here this year. We're growing about six varieties this year - I'm so serious about not researching that I forgot to bring the list home.
On the older development we are growing only Roundup-Ready varieties. This means that they have been genetically modified to allow them to tolerate being sprayed with glyphosate (only Monsanto's 'special' glyphosate', funnily enough). The varieties are Sicot 289BR, Sicot 71BR and DP560BG(R?). The Sicot are CSD varieties bred by the CSIRO, which I think retains ownership of the intellectual property, providing yet another example of cotton growers easing the load on the average taxpayer. (What colour is sarcasm?) The DP stands for Delta Pine, the Australian subsidiary of the American company Delta and Pinelands. They must have had a change of heart in the last few years. I haven't used Delta Pine seed for four years, back then all the varieties had names like Nu Pearl and Nu Opal. Guess they ran out of rocks.
On the new development we are growing 289B, 560BG and 570BG. The moderately well informed among you will know that all of the varieties mentioned, on both developments, are Bollgard (should be a trademark thingy there, fucked if I know how you get one of them, though) varieties. I can hear the greenies rumbling already. Yes, earth-children, WE ARE GROWING NOTHING BUT GENETICALLY MODIFIED COTTON THIS YEAR!!!!
That's right folks, at an average plant population of 14 plants per metre, over 1,000 hectares at a row spacing of one metre that means there will be (help me here, Tony) 140,000,000 mutated little money trees!
And you know what else? If you're in the states, or Oz or Central Asia and you've eaten lot-fed beef recently, or had fried takeaway food, or had some eggs or chicken there's a fair chance that you have eaten some genetically modified material, or eaten something that has. You see, first of all, cottonseed is very high in protein and has long been used as a component in stock- and poultry feed. Also, most commercial deep-frying oil has a large percentage of cottonseed oil in it. To the best of my knowledge, after asking a few people who are fairly well informed on these things, the gins don't make any sort of effort to separate the seed from GM- and non GM- cotton. Follow the chain, people.
Are you scared yet?
Maybe that will explain why little Billy was born with gills and why that third eye is forming on your forehead.
This bit should have a post of it's own but I am world-class lazy.
*Update: Tuesday, 10.00a.m.
I forgot to tell you yesterday what sort of sinister, planet raping chemicals we're using to plant with. First, the Roundup Ready; Nothing, that's the whole point.
Next, the sort-of conventional, we're using a mixture of two chemicals; Stomp Plus, which is Promethalin; and Bandit XG, which is a mixture of Prometryn and Fluometrin. All of these are pre-emergent herbicides. See, every day you can learn something new.
Yesterday a sporting moment of great significance to me took place, a moment which literally brought a tear to my eye. For the first time in fifty two years Australia has a World Speedway Champion. Jason Crump, the son of one of my childhood heroes and the grand-son of one of my fathers contemporaries,(and still Australian team-manager and damned fine fellow) needed only to reach the semi-finals of the last SGP of the year to win the championship. In heat 19, all he needed was first or second to make the semi's.
Attempt one: first corner, Niki Pedersen, last year's champion, got the strap for the slider plate on his left boot hooked around Crumps foot peg. All fall down - restart, nobody excluded. The nerves would have been twitchy by now, after all, it was at this stage last year in the same stadium (The Viking Ship Stadium in Hamar, Norway, winter-sports fans will know it as an ice-skating venue in the winter Olympics) that Crump blew his shot at the crown when he took out Rune Holta, funnily enough.
Attempt two: Just as they were ready to go for the second time, local hero Rune Holta pulled back from the tape and was excluded for not making the two-minute time limit between restarts.
Attempt three, first corner, fellow Aussie, Flyin' Ryan Sullivan falls again and is excluded, which leaves two. Crump needs to finish first or second to make the semi's. Crump needs to make the semi's to clinch the title. Can you work it out yet? Don't worry, it took Our Jason a while, too. Half-way around the track on the way back to the starting tape his head was hanging down as he tried to focus, then he realised... his head came up, he punched the air, he raised his arms in triumph... and fell off.
He was on autopilot after that, I reckon I could have beaten him. In my dreams.
So fifty two years after Jack Young last won the title, the championship is back home where it belongs, adding to the World Supersport Championship won by Karl Muggeridge this year (on the same bike for the same team as Chris Vermuelen when he won the title last year) As we all know, the worth of a nation is measured by its sporting prowess.
