Which I actually got to have. Impressed? I was. I had from Wednesday to Monday off. Which isn't so good when you think about the three or four weeks of nightshift without a day off that preceded it. Ah well. Feel sorry for me? Callous bastards. Anyhoo, on the first of thge days off I did quite a lot of sleeping, serviced the ute, fitted a set of UN approved blue light driving lights which are OK, but I don't really think they are that much of an improvement over the old style ones. Maybe I'm just old skool. So old skool, in fact, that I spell old school 'old skool', all NWA stylee. Oh yeah, I also got really drunk with the Irishmen (we've got a set now). Thursday I headed for Gladstone. No particular reason, I just wanted to get away from the farm. The farm is on the west side of the highway. I have a time honoured technique for deciding where to go when I have time off - on the way up to the bitumen I let go of the wheel. If the old girl pulls to the right I go down into the sin and iniquity of NSW, if she pulls to the left it's sunshine, lollipops and Qld. I left my run a bit late so didn't stop and take piccies on the way up. I should have, the area between Roma and Tarroom is pretty good looking. So I get to Gladdie (unannounced, as usual) and stay at a friend's place. Only to find that it is their daughter's sixteenth birthday on Saturday night. So I'm already down the price of an ipod and didn't even get a hangover yet. My little mate Dan's worth it, though. Sometimes I wish I had kids. She had a party at some sort of teen hangout thingy that had teen stuff in it. Rumour was that there was going to be a bunch of gatecrashers so I got elected bouncer. Pfft, what a gyp. Only about half a dozen gatecrashers and only a couple of those even put up a fight. Ripped off. although why you'd put up a fight to get in is beyond me. Anyway, photo time.
Every time I go to Gladdie I go to the marina to check out the boats and dream. Not so much about these sort of boats, though.
On the way home I took the scenic route through Many Peaks to Monto, including this killer climb. Through Monto and Eidsvold Cracor, then to Theodore and the quick way home.
Bloody Hell, I nearly forgot! If you click on the link for this photo, have a look for the large building near the top of the hill with the blue fascia around the top. It's the Reef Hotel. I worked there for about eighteen months when I first went to Gladdie. It's a dive, but we had a good time.
I've got a report that access to this page is being blocked by a MSN popup demanding a MSN passport log-in before you can go any further. I'm confused, I didn't think Blogger had anything to do with MSN. Anybody else having problems? Dumb place to ask, I guess. In the meantime, here's some pictures:
OK, so yesterday they packed old JP2 in a box and sent him off to heaven. Next up is the Conclave of Cardinals, where they pick the next guy. Conclave is actually a corrupted amalgamation of the two words 'cone' and 'cleave'. See, what happens is all the candidates names are written on the back of old TAB tickets and put into one of those pointy hats that Cardinals dig. The cardinals then cleave to cones. That is to say, they all get together in the sacred pope-picking palace and attach themselves to their billies and pull cones like madmen until the pope-picking palace is so full of smoke that it starts to seep through the colourbond over the rumpus room. Outside, the huddled masses see this as a sign from above and do the harry inside to see who got the nod. When the assembled cardies hear the doorbell, they stash the billies and pull a name out of the hat. Whoever is on the ticket is officially a demigod until he dies. Or bans bingo. So, in order to commemorate the passing of JP2 and celebrate the picking of JP3 (or Sextus or something), I thought that I would relate to you a long-winded, rather pointless story with no plot, purpose or ending; but which does involve the only Catholic service I ever attended.
In late 1984 I was living in sin in the Latrobe Valley with a girl of catholic upbringing. I was working as chemical plant operator in a small factory in Morwell.There were only four of us there; the manager, who looked like the wrinkled retainer who works in the accounts department in one of those British dramas of the forties or fifties. Then there was the maintenance bloke, a middle-aged pommy ex-bovver boy. As well as them, there was the truck driver, who looked like Warwick Capper, but was a bit sharper than Wozzer. Shortly before christmas, the boss turned on the grog and tucker first up in the morning. Before noon, only the truck driver and I were left standing. He rang his girlfriend to come get us and we adjourned to his place. I don't remember why, but I do remember that his girlfriend bred cats. They were fairly small with short, jet black fur, acid-green eyes and pointy little ears. The really noticeable thing about there appearance, however, was their fangs, which came down the side of the mouth like a sabre-tooth cat. They looked like the sort of cat Satan would have. Playful little buggers, though. A few more beers, then his girlfriend dropped me at my place, where I collected mygirlfriend and proceeded to the pub across the road from the railway station. We were going to stay with her mother for christmas and driving at that time of year was not an option, so we were taking the train. We had already missed the one we intended catching, so more beer while waiting for the next one seemed a reasonable idea. I was somewhat slightly inebriated by the time we boarded, so barely touched the bottle of scotch I took with me. We got off at Flinders Street and Y&J's is just across the road... There was a stereotypical depression-era old digger at the other end of the bar - Second-hand suit jacket, knitted vest, rollies on the bar, the whole works and jerks. Full I of maudlin patriotism and respect for this grand old Aussie battler, I got the barman to get him a drink. When the oldster received his drink, he raised it to me and said in a surprisingly powerful voice "Och aye the noo. Dinnae gimme nae borrer, less I put ma' napper into yer heid. It's a broa' brick moonlick nick. Dinnae ye ken tha' ah woor thorsty? Jimmy." Disillusioned we staggered outside to catch a tram to Elsternwick. We, I staggered, GF was only just starting to get wobbly. On the tram, I managed to get every single passenger - as well as the conductor - to sing at least one line of a christmas carol. This meant that I had won a bet with GF which was paid in carnal activities. I miss that woman, she had the morals of an alleycat. The personality of one too, sometimes, but nobodies perfect. Except me. Anyway, we get to GF's Mum's place where we stayed for about a week. Several odd things happened over this time. We were installed in a room with only a single bed in it - one of those beds with the bookcase style bedhead. Now these beds ore only held together by gravity - the bed frame has a short vertical rod welded on each side of the bed head end, these rods sit in sockets screwed to the bedhead. One afternoon GF and I were bored, so we retired to our room to do what married people do - argue about the position of the toilet seat. Actually, I meant we were having sex, but I'm shy. Things were getting a bit willing when the rods on the bed frame bounced out of the sockets on the bedhead. Much loudness, followed by a tap at the door; Mum, "Are you all right in there?" Now I was at the stage where I wouldn't have stopped if I was made the replacement halfback instead of Jesus Christ for the Jerusalem Saints, so it was left to the GF to answer, "Ye-ess." "Are you sure?" Doubtful. "Oh God, yes!" "OK...?" Sound of slippered feet shuffling off. Also, at the Elsternwick pub (don't remember what it's called. On the corner of Glenhuntly Rd. and the Nepean Highway, anyway.) I met someone who proved that sometimes urban myths aren't really myths but facts; there was a woman there called the Breathalyser. She obviously didn't know the significance of the name or she was too port-addled to care, because she answered to it. Finally, on Christmas Eve, we went to midnight mass. Funnily enough the church is just around the corner from the railway station, which is in Horne Street. I say funnily enough because right across the road from the railway station is The Daily Planet which the time was Australia's largest brothel. It probably still is. In fact, during the eighties or nineties the Planet* received the ultimate in business respectability - naming rights sponsor of a V8 Supercar team. Any hoo, off we go to church. First thing I notice is some hippy wandering up and down waving an incense burner about the place. Next thing I notice is the priest, because he was wearing an outfit that would have made every drag queen who's ever been to The Albury green with envy. So we all pull up a pew and the priest starts spruiking. Fuck defy know what he was on about, it was in Latin or Swahili or something. He is interrupted mid-drone by about half a dozen skinheads who burst in the main door and start yahooing up and down at the back of the room. Some people turn and look - a couple checking their watches as if to check that the skins were on time - then turn their attention back to the drag - queen priest. The skins seem to lose momentum and after some perfunctory cursing, they shuffle off. The priest stops droning and some dude wanders down the aisle with a collection plate. Only it wasn't a plate, it was a deep, but narrow velvet bag on the end of a rod, so that collection guy was the only one who could access the money. And they reckon the Scots are canny... In every pew there were a couple of people asleep. When collection guy came around, the number of sleepers increased dramatically, including GF and her mother. Collection Guy held the bag under my nose for a while, but I just looked at it, looked at him, then looked at the front again. I mean, the costumes were nice, but the singing was awful, the dancing non-existent and I didn't follow the storyline at all; no way was I going to pay for that show. At one stage they were handing out bikkies and plonk down the front. Now I was dry as a Budget speech and hungry enough to chew the crotch out of a low-flying fruit-bat and I wanted to hook in, but GF wouldn't let me. You had to be in their gang or something. That's it, I told you this story was pointless. * I was going to use the abbreviation DP but... No.
So it seems that Dr. Who is coming back.Aunty's grabbed it again, which is only right. I was only really a fan of the Tom Baker years. The guy before him was boring and the feller with the cricket bat who came next was a poonce. As for the movie they made in the nineties (with US funding, I believe) well, the Doctor kissed a girl. That's just Not On. Sure, the Doctor may have hung around babes like Romana (pictured) and Sarah-Jane Smith, but he didn't kiss'em.It was a bit of a ritual among the kids in the town where I grew up to stop playing cricket/ torturing smaller kids/ having sex with sheep (which was a bit of a rarity, it must be said. I grew up in a dairying district) and go to somebodies house and watch The Goodies, then the Doctor. Now he's back and I'm excited. So, it seems, are both Aunty and the beeb:
THE ABC has snapped up rights to the new series of the hit British sci-fi show Dr Who.
The broadcaster today announced it would screen the latest series of the popular program from mid May. Dr Who first aired on the BBC in 1963 with the last episode screening in 1989.
The latest series made a triumphant return to British screens last week, attracting a television audience of more than 10.5 million fans.
Previous series aired on the ABC but the new series was yet to be acquired by an Australian broadcaster until now.
"This is Dr Who, 21st century-style, and it most definitely will appeal to people who are new to the Dr Who phenomenon, as well as long-term fans," said ABC's Head of Programming Marena Manzoufas.
"I am in no doubt that a whole new Australian audience will be attracted to the series."
"Dr Who is one of the most significant BBC dramas of the year," said BBC Worldwide's Head of Sales for Australasia Julie Dowding.
"It's the ultimate adventure series with the ultimate cast. We're very happy that it's come to earth in Australia."
The new series stars Christopher Eccleston as Doctor Who while singer Billie Piper plays his young assistant, Rose Tyler.
I'm not too sure about the casting, though. Billie Piper (who apparently sang some stuff once) looks like an extra from an eighties soap opera and Christopher Ecclestone looks like Kyle whatsisname off the wireless. To further add to the confusion, several news stories dated from last week have Ecclestone quitting the show after the first episode, plus, all the reviews say that the show sucked anyway. Then again, nobody gave the original good reviews, either.
And if all you knew of world events was learnt from Sky News, you could be forgiven for thinking that nothing else happened. At all. Seriously, I've been flicking over every now and then for the last five hours or so, while doing housework and shit and at no stage has there been anything on but news of a dead pope. I. Don't. Care. JP2 was a good publicist who did pretty much nothing else of significance. And before any of his fan club start dribbling about how he 'destabilised' the communist regime in Poland, let me just say "Bullshit!" If you were going to bang on about JP2's opposition to modern materialism, go and have a look around the Vatican, local cathedral or even Popey's wardrobe, then look up the word "hypocrite". You'll find a photo of an old hunchback Pole there.
OK, so apparently this is like some sort of cyber chain letter thingy. Adrian has handpassed this questionnaire doodah on to me. I assume that I'm supposed to fill it out and post it. Here goes:
You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be? I assume we're talking about the Robert Bloch(?) book here, in which case (from memory) it doesn't really matter, they all get burnt anyway. I'll be the one on the asbestos paper.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? We're talking books here? No. Otherwise scroll down a couple of posts.
The last book you bought is: A History of Speedway in East Anglia, by Norman Jacobs, Haven't read it yet, but Dad raced for a couple of clubs in that area.
The last book you read:
Chifley, by David Day.
What are you currently reading? My War Gone By, I Miss It So, by Anthony Lloyd. A 'war tourist's' eye view of the Balkans War. A bit theatrical sometimes, but still worth reading.
Five books you would take to a deserted island. 1. War and Peace. I might die a lonely death, but at least I could be happy about the fact that I was the only person on earth who had actually read it. 2. One Day In The Life of Ivan Denisovich, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. No matter how bad it is now, it can always get worse. 3. In Search of Schrodinger's Cat, John Gribbin. I like knowing stuff. 4. The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck. For the quality of the writing, not for the inaccurate portrayal of okies as fuckwits. 5. The Redneck Manifesto, Jim Goad. Gotta stay true.
Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why? Anybody who wants the bloody thing. I guess this means that there is going to be famine in Egypt, or all my kids are going to be born with three breasts and will have to make a living as sideshow freaks but I'm breaking the chain.
More like this one, or this one.
Of course the marina's real pretty, but 'sep for the coal loading facility in the background.
The harbour is very pretty, even though it is also Queenslands busiest port.
On the way home I took the scenic route through Many Peaks to Monto, including this killer climb. Through Monto and Eidsvold Cracor, then to Theodore and the quick way home.
Bloody Hell, I nearly forgot! If you click on the link for this photo, have a look for the large building near the top of the hill with the blue fascia around the top. It's the Reef Hotel. I worked there for about eighteen months when I first went to Gladdie. It's a dive, but we had a good time.
Sure, the Doctor may have hung around babes like Romana (pictured) and Sarah-Jane Smith, but he didn't kiss'em.It was a bit of a ritual among the kids in the town where I grew up to stop playing cricket/ torturing smaller kids/ having sex with sheep (which was a bit of a rarity, it must be said. I grew up in a dairying district) and go to somebodies house and watch The Goodies, then the Doctor.
Billie Piper (who apparently sang some stuff once) looks like an extra from an eighties soap opera and Christopher Ecclestone looks like Kyle whatsisname off the wireless. To further add to the confusion, several news stories dated from last week have Ecclestone quitting the show after the first episode, plus, all the reviews say that the show sucked anyway.
