How much Justice can YOU afford?

FIRING SQUADS BACK IN FASHION

2 AUSSIE BOYS DEAD IN INDONESIA

DRUG TRAFFICKERS CAUGHT RED HANDED

DEATH PENALTY SENTENCES UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

CORRUPTION IN JUSTICE SYSTEM IN INDONESIA

AUSTRALIAN ACTORS CAST BLAME

FAMILIES DISTRAUGHT AS BULLETS FIRED

 

 

 

There are more than enough headlines possible  today after these men were executed.

I can only imagine - no in fact I don't even want to imagine, standing hog tied to a post while a bunch of savages do the bidding of a corrupt government and shoot me dead.

Countries are entitled to their own laws and those laws were broken even though the consequences were known.

But I have long believed that unless justice is absolute, then there should be no death penalty. Unless there can be 100% surety then there should be no death penalty.

And unfortunately it is universal, You get the justice you can afford.

There is no such thing as absolute justice. Not here in Australia, not in the USA and certainly fucking not in Indonesia.

I hope that there can be enough noise made to ensure that pending Death Penalty verdicts  can be overturned and that this appalling option is removed from the judicial systems world wide.

 

 

 

PS.



I am not sure what sort of weak minded barbaric people took hold of the guns that killed 7 people at close range last night. In a perfect world, in my utopia, if someone was ordered to be a part of a firing squad, they would tell the person delivering the order to go fuck themselves. Perhaps if Widodo was in charge of the trigger then he would have been less hasty. Although he seems like a nut case, so maybe I could be wrong.



What to do with leftovers?

The Mystery Dinner - no comments on the state of the oven please.

Sunday's roast was fucking huge! And now the Monday night meal made of leftovers is quite the job. I usually make up some sort of a stir fry thing with meat and veg and some sort of sauce which runs between Chinese and 'I haven't got a clue'. I just keep chucking stuff in until I reckon it might be right. No 2 meals are ever the same although they don't vary enough to be considered different. This is usually served with rice from the cooker and the leftovers from the leftovers are greedily guts by Dog over a couple of days. Such is the bonus of Sunday Roast.

But it is tedious. Every Monday for years and years so I sometimes have a little go at changing things up. Oh I might make a pie or an extravagant sanga, but that's not Steve's fav. He likes the usual stuff.

So I googled 'recipes for left over pork roast' and bugger all came up. So then I looked up the pork slow cooked in milk recipe from the Pommie blokes on 'My Kitchen Rules' and I wasn't sure that was gonna work with already cooked meat, so I threw caution to the wind and chucked stuff into a pot and put it into a slow oven and am now enjoying the aromas and hoping for the best. If it fails we can have shit with sugar on it and Dog will think all her Christmases have come at once.

There were 5 of us to feed when I was a kid so I guess there wasn't too much in the way of leftovers. I don't recall left over dinners anyway. And my darling Nanna, who was good at many things but dinner was not always among 'em, well when I lived with her if we ate leftovers then I am probably lucky that I have long forgotten it. Bell's and my leftovers were just reheating the night before's dinner, so no imagination was required, just the trusty old oven or Nuker.

Well that might be the answer. Maybe Steve and I should have roast 2 nights in a row and save all this messing around. I reckon I might put it to him next week and tell him to just double up on the roasties. Cover it all with foil and chuck it back in on Monday night. Shit, I could also recycle the gravy. What a bonus!!

I'd make a shithouse ANZAC

It's definitely been a day of reflection. I have had my nose stick in Ancestry.com and google and the tellie's been on so I have seen all the services. It might have been guilt that sent me here, cos I wanted to get up for the dawn service, I even set the alarm for 4.18am, but as it happened I wanted sleep more. What a lazy cow I am.

So I have had plenty of time to think about those brave souls who went forth in our name to ensure we can live the slothful carefree lives we do.

My Pop was not fully grown and needed a letter from his Mum to enlist in the First War, and then fronted up again as a fully fledged adult with a wife and kids for the second one.

There must be a lot of truth to the theory that there is a strong sense in invincibility in young men. How else can you explain that so many of 'em fronted up without coercion to put their lives on the line. They must have bought into the romance and the patriotism in a way that completely eludes me.

So why would I have made a shithouse ANZAC? Well let's see:

I am bone lazy.
I almost never do as I am told.
On receipt of 'Orders' my first reaction is to always ask WHY?
I don't like mud even as a part of a luxury facial.
Dehydrated and canned food do not sound appealing, although the weight loss spin offs would be welcome.
Uniforms are just an excuse to wear something additional and odd to piss people off.

But perhaps most importantly I AM A FUCKING COWARD.

I have long had dreams about house invasions or robberies where I lie perfectly still pretending to be dead so the bad guys leave me alone. Not once have I imagined myself fighting back.

It's taken Steve more than a decade to teach me how to make a fist to punch someone without doing any damage to myself, and still I have to think about where I should put my thumb long enough to give the prospective punchee  more than enough time to flatten me. And I've never actually hit anyone. Oh I elbowed a girl in the guts once in Netball, but I felt so bad about it that for the rest of the game she really just had free run of the circle.

I know I would not be able to be noble and sacrifice myself for a mate. I know if an order came through to 'Go over the top', I be doing a Blackadder and find a reason not to. I don't like doing as I am told, but mostly I AM A FUCKING COWARD.

I have disagreed with our troops being deployed to fight wars that I believe we should stay well out off, but that is politics and has no bearing on my admiration and awe of the brave souls who pull on those mostly unattractive uniforms and boots that weigh more than their legs and who stand shoulder to shoulder with their mates all too often to the death.

It's hard to be Australian and not be proud of our soldiers and the roles they have played in forging our world wide reputation, of 'don't fuck with me and my mates.'

LEST WE FORGET

Integrity and Reality TV

If I was playing a round of Canasta where the stakes were high and the winning worthwhile and someone suggested that I cheat my way to the podium, I'd  like to think that I would tell 'em to shove it where sun don't shine. Lying and cheating just doesn't sit well under any circumstances.

So when there is lying and cheating going on in a reality TV show I am left wondering why. Oh sure it might make for interest in otherwise rather banal viewing, and I can easily see how it might be scripted and orchestrated but the punters or performing seals have got to stick their necks out and actually agree to do the lying or cheating - Clever editing not withstanding.  Slagging off other contestants in a game show or smacking someone in the head or flicking paint of different colours all over the walls just to get noticed, yeh I understand that. That's 'Look at Me!' But the cheating and outright lying I don't get.

Years on there will still be people on the street who perhaps out of boredom with their own silly little lives, will remember and they might yell, ' Hey have you spray painted anything lately?' or 'How'd it feel to bully that bird?' or 'You cheating lying scumbag!'

I know if I had cheated and lied, I would have to move to a place where the tellie programming is still full or re-runs of MASH and The Brady Bunch, so that Joe Ordinary in the street wouldn't know that
I had so little integrity that I sank to the 'cheater cheater, where's the beater?' level.

In this day of social media and instant access to bloody everything, this shit is gonna be out there forever, for their kids and grandies to see. The shame would be stifling for me, but then again I choose not to parade like a puppet on the tellie.

Celebrities who should definitely know better, get caught out in drunken nasty raves, and they apologize and bank on a hefty portfolio of hopefully better stuff to drown out the oopsy, but what have these 15 minuters got?

Bachelors who string women along with lies and deceit and people who lie about paying their contractors, well these are the ones, if any at all, who are remembered, all for the wrong reasons. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as a I can spit and that's not far.

If this is in deed all a matter of direction and editing then perhaps the producers need to revisit the original premise, it means that the idea is not sufficient in itself to attract viewers and advertisers.

I watch more than my share of 'Reality TV'. There, my dirty little secret is out!  I just wish it was more of an insight into honesty and integrity along with that aggressive will to win.

Paywave - Why is it compulsory?

New credit cards arrived in the post yesterday and that was a bit of a surprise, cos they are not due for renewal until next year and even though I do give 'em a caning from time to time, I certainly haven't worn mine out...(reduced wear and tear on the cards from internet shopping is a just another of it's bonuses)

Unusually, I read the blurby bullshit and discovered that the banks have done me a great big bloody favour and compulsorily made them PAYWAVE cards. Well thanks very much I DON'T THINK.

I popped into the branch to see about getting it taken off, but progress has marched right across the credit counter and now if you want the cards, you have to wave 'em. Well that's just shitful!

Years ago I lost and lost and lost my wallets. Sometimes it happened cos I was a hapless fool and walked away from it leaving it to it's own devices and some fraudster's sticky fingers. Sometimes some scumbag grabbed it out of my bag and on one occasion the bag and all was snatched. The point is that I have lost many wallets, and have run the gamut of police and calling to cancel EVERYTHING, hopefully before some turd has rung up a few cartons of grog and an overseas holiday. With internet shopping all this became very much easier for the thieves.

Losing your wallet is a pain in the arse and it's expensive just replacing all the stuff, yeh I know, what a First World Problem.

But now if I drop my card or lose sight of my purse, or even if some smart dick walks passed with a magic card cloning thing,  some scurrilous shitbag can simply wave my card or it's clone, around and spend $99.99 as many times as they can without suffering RSI and have a gay old time. In the old days to buy a carton of grog a signature or pin was needed. Now it's just a little tralala wavey-poo and the money is spent.

I suppose in a time when people are too busy ( RUDE ) to get off their phones while they order coffee, if all they have to do to pay, is wave a card at a machine, the need for an pleasantries in the commercial exchange are completely moot. I wonder just how rude we can expect people to become.

I don't understand just how lazy we need to be. I don't understand why some IT geek would have dreamt this up. I don't see how it adds to my security. And mostly I don't see why just because someone made it possible that the technology needs now to be compulsory.

When I went into the branch, the woman who was lovely and as helpful as she could be while delivering that which I did not want to hear, there was an immediate assumption that I don't like 'technology' which could not be further from the truth. I left knowing that if I want the card I have to have it under their terms and that some smart fucker is now making and selling little folders for your credit cards which may or may not prevent some other smart fucker from cloning them as they walk passed you in the street.

She also told me that my other card was already a WAVING FOOL and had been for sometime. I just didn't know it.

I really should read that shit form the banks more often, or maybe ignorance is bliss.

Ahh a little bit of Autumn, that means new shoes.

Bloody wonderful to feel a bit of a chill.. well not during the day obviously, but at night watching the tellie, and climbing into bed with a bit of a coverlet thing on instead of the fucking fan or the air-con. Ah yes my favourite time of the year!

Except that I am off to Sydney in a few weeks and that means some planning is in order.

For a start, spending a week in the big smoke instead of the sleepy old Goldie, means that I might just have to wear something other than my thongs. They are getting a bit grubby cos I do wear 'em everywhere, everyday. Just an aside, these new ones have been extraordinarily successful in stopping heel pain so worth the expense and the 2 weeks of agony to 'wear 'em in'. But I haven't worn proper big people shoes, well since last year when I went to Sydney.

So I must have a little look at what might still be wearable. Someone told me once that the old idea of keeping things for good, was pretty useless cos the glue in shoes gets brittle if left unworn and the elastic in bras goes the same way. That must be why so many women are trotting around on their 6 inch heels, with their boobs tucked into all manner of lacey pretty bits while matching up the crotchless fare, as they head off to the IGA for a spot of grocery shopping. Yeh Right!

So I reckon whilst I have the same shoes I took last year, it might be necessary to hunt out something NEW ....Yippee! Well not really.

I used to love shoe shopping. The more outrageous and unusual the better. But then I used to be mad enough to squeeze into too small shoes and suffer and suffer and suffer, just for, well I don't know what for. But now I have reached an age where I am going to be comfortable. No I don't want to wear those chemist shoes, but if I can find something a little more stylish than them but equally comfortable then that will be a win.

I used to have literally hundreds of pair of shoes, all different, but now if I find a pair that I can walk all day in without being medicated or needing to pause for a little cry, then I want to have 'em in every colour.

I'll be able to make good use of 'proper' shoes as we are off to London in September, and even though it's possible that summer might linger long enough for me to get around in my trusty thongs, I have to be realistic and go prepared for chilly feet in November.

So shoe shopping and then I'll need to dig out a coat or a jumper and check 'em for moth holes.

This change of season ritual is far more interesting than working into summer, which runs like this. Airing out the doona and taking off as many clothes as is possible in polite company, yeh ok sometimes just a bit less than would be appropriate, all in the one day, cos god knows there is no Spring here on the Goldie.

It's not cool for long but I plan to enjoy every moment of it.

If Dreams have meaning I reckon I must be certifiable.

Almost a year ago a girlfriend gave me a Dream Journal, cos I was not sleeping and weird stories were weaving through that twilight of wishful sleeping, Ta very much Carol. There was some control over 'em but not much. I didn't write many down, ok I didn't write any of 'em down - sorry Carol. But I have since become more aware of what strangeness is going on in there.

As luck would have it, or NOT, sleep has been hard to come by again this week, until last night when I died a quick slide into the unconscious. Yummo! No getting up 4 or 5 times to pee or close the windows or check the temperature or get the cotton blanket or kick said blanket off. Nope, I slept all the way through until THIS woke.

Suddenly as I sat in a more than a little rustic cabin - yeh read shit house, the door was flung open and a bunch of soldiers threw somebody onto the dirt floor. The door slammed closed and I wasn't afraid cos it wasn't a jail or anything like that. It was just where I was staying.

He turned over and I recognised him. Bugger me, it was Michael Jackson!! Now this was getting peculiar, especially as even though I have long recognised the talent behind his music, it has never been my favourite. I don't own and have never bought any of his records.

Before we exchanged pleasantries and I got to ask him how it happened that he had been flung onto the floor I was paying rent on, the door opened and the soldiers all got their big guns, might have been riffles or machine guns as not even in a dream do I notice that stuff, and they all shot MICHEAL JACKSON!!

They shot again and again and his body plumped up and down like in the movies. I guess when the ammo ran out, the soldiers left without a word and closed the door.

Fucking hell!!

I didn't move to see if he was OK. He had to be dead he'd been shot so many times and I was pretty sure I could see blood. And I didn't run out of the cabin. I just sat there and after what seemed like a really long time, Michael Jackson rolled over and winked at me.

Then I woke up. The details were right there in the front of my brain.

How weird is that?

If anyone wants to venture a guess about the meaning then I'd be very pleased to hear it.

Money makes the world go around la la la

It's no secret! Yep it's true, I haven't got a penny and it's just lucky for me that Steve is happy, well happy-ish, to support me in style in exchange for house keeping flair extraordinaire.

Perhaps this lack of anything of my own leads me to be aware of other peoples' situations. There can be no doubt that people living on 'the social' have got very little so it would just be shitful to ask them to dress up flash and pay for an expensive meal or outing. Shit mostly they wouldn't be able to afford the petrol on the povo week so a new flash outfit is just dreaming.

Or maybe I have always been aware. I have had a very middle class existence, not wanting for too much ever, but working in some very povo schools leaves me knowing intimately families who have fuck all. So I would never have expected kids to automatically pop into school the next day with a wedge of cash for something far less trivial than a weeks' groceries. Care had to be taken.

Anyway all this is prompted by my trip to the hairdresser today. Roots needed a seeing to! I have been going here for years and years and I know she works hard and is pleased and proud of the life she has forged, but she is not 'rolling in it'.

Today she was telling me that she and her partner had managed to stack away $1000 for emergencies and how that made her feel secure. Yep she was happy.

The woman after me who had sat through all this conversation then stuck her head up to be slathered with gloop and I listened to her going on and on and bloody on about her property woes: selling this one, renting this one, renovating another one. The more she carried on about all this shit, the more I could see my woman deflate. Seriously I just wanted to get up and slap her hard with a wand full of bleach.

I don't kid myself. I know that all too often I don't live in the real world. I am not sure how much a carton of milk costs or a loaf of bread, or where to go for the cheapest petrol, but I don't want to rub other peoples' noses in my ignorance.

The flash cow was too busy to sit and let the bleach eat away at the pigment in her hair. She must be a very important person in deed cos she had to run off with all this shit in her hair. She was supposed to be back in an hour for a rinse off. She hadn't made it back by the time I left and the bitch in me hoped that her hair breaks off from over processing. Yeh she will be able to afford a flash all human hair wig, but I bet she wont be happy. Shit eh?

Sometimes Fathers and absent parenting.

A bird's nest, a wayward kid, an occasional father and a great big dog....what could possibly go wrong?

Playing with Dog in the park this morning and I watched a kid chucking shit up into a tree, pegging all sorts of shit at something. His interest in the good looking dog that I thought was with him, had long since waned.

I was pretty sure he was trying to kill some little birdies or upset a nest, and whilst I am terrified of birds - yeh I know pathetic! I don't reckon it's ok for a kid to kill 'em.Teacher training surfaced and rather than get up him and tell him off, and have him give me the finger or just tell me to fuck off and mind my own business,  I asked if he had something caught up there and if I could help him get it down. Well in typical kid fashion, he ignored me and ignored me and I kept saying that shit on a loop, as I walked closer. He stopped pegging sticks and stones - yeh! and then bugger me his, I presume, father appeared and posed the question of whether it's harder to raise a four or two legged child.

I didn't venture an opinion.

This fella showed more interest in me and Dog than he did his, I presume, own kid. No surprise that the kid was in destructo mode: Some attention please, any kind of attention please.

It's not hard to give a kid the impression that you are interested, occasional grunts and timely lowering of the newspaper or smart phone, is a good place to start. And shit if you really get into it, cos after all you have a responsibility cos you did breed, then maybe some honest attention is possible.

This all on the heels of the paid for Attention Party on the weekend, well it makes me sad and a little fearful of what is gonna become of these kids. Ignore them at your peril I reckon. Today a bird's nest, tomorrow your windows and god knows what happens when they get hold of a knife or a gun.

Kids' birthday parties - how much is too much?

On a quick tote up I reckon I have hosted at least 18 parties for Bell and have given a hand at 6 or 7 for Zig so that's a lot of kids and cakes and sweat and sugar and games. It's a lot of stuffing of Loot Bags and doling out of silly prizes and planning and playing old fashioned games and enjoying watching the kids get well and truly dirty. As growing up happened there was a shift in the 'entertainment' but the effort remained the same.

There was a kid's party in the park today. Zig's parties are always outdoors cos their house is a bit small for hordes of kids, so maybe the birthday girl's place is the same.

1

Dog and I were out there, it's a dog park after all, and suddenly 2 trucks arrived and out popped 'Staff'. They set up a large pergola and a long table with about 20 shortie chairs for the wee ones. The tables were dressed and decorations were donned. A pretty pink piñata was hung and then other tables were arranged for food and parcels and 'stuff'. The second truck housed a walloping jumping castle and generator. It was fucking enormous and very LOUD!

A friend arrived with her dog and it promptly went and peed on one of the supports of the pergola. Just marking it's territory as dogs do. The Staff member was not happy and threatened the dog and was most unpleasant to my friend. I suppose he was unaware that the park is a public place and a dog park to boot. He must have thought he was in his boss' private back yard and we were intruders. All very fucking ho hum.

Steve and I decided that a dash out was necessary to avoid the shitful drone of the generator on a SUNDAY morning. As we were leaving we saw that Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse had also been invited  or more than likely they had been employed to entertain the wee ones.

I hate these sorts of parties. Bad enough when they are at someone's house where at least the owners of said house and kid have to sort the clean up and fallout of injuries or damage. But worse still in a public place disturbing the serenity of a sunday morning.

What must these kids end up like? Surely this all leads to a sense of entitlement that just beggars belief. They must at some point also wonder why their parents couldn't be bothered playing with them or their friends. They must figure that the rearing of children is something that can be farmed out and I can only wonder what will happen if they are not similarly able to pay up when their offspring arrive.

I'm happy for people to spend their money anyway they choose. I'm also be happy when breeders' primary motivation at party giving time is what is good for the kids, not what is going to be impressive or a talking point at Kindy, or what trumps little Annabella's 'do'.

Stacking away the cash to buy a car or pay HECs in advance seems much wiser. Or maybe the cash doesn't have to be spent on the kids at all. They haven't earned it.

Even if money is no biggie and is never going to be then perhaps all this excess could be carried out in their own yards so as not to piss of the locals.

Golf Clubs - 2 ways

Steve went off for a golf lesson today and I had lunch with some girls at Royal Pines Golf Club. Is that the same thing?

The lesson was with the golf pro at his club and there was a small gaggle of blokes booked in. I imagine they all expected to have their go, share the attention and gain some insight into something golfy.

We were a small gaggle of girls taking advantage of the cooking expertise of the resident chief, and we all took turns and shared the attention and caught up on local insights (gossip) and current affairs ( news worthy and just bonking ) We watched a bloke in a conspicuous Orange and stripey shirt hit putty balls for the 3 hours we were there. We marvelled at his dedication and I hoped he was happy with his progress. Either that or he really should just give it away cos bugger me after all that time if he was still a shit putter then he should give Backgammon or Bridge a try.

It was very pretty looking out onto the course. Bright yellow buggies came and went and there was some Segway tour with kids going on. Now that looked very fun. The afternoon was perfect, autumn balm and blue skies. I could understand why people choose to build their homes overlooking a golf course. Ah, very lovely to look at and you never have to mow a blade of it.

Yomping along the greens also seems like a nice way to spend time, though we decided that perhaps that would not be as pleasant as kicking back with a glass of something cold, watching someone else do the yomping.

2 ways to enjoy a Golf Club and I am pretty sure that neither of us want to swap experiences, afterall Steve doesn't eat lunch and I wouldn't look good in the yellow cart.

FOOD: Afternoon snacks - Bring it on!

Decades of teaching leave me on the tooth about 3.30 every afternoon. I am not sure if it's because there was almost never time for any lunch or the need to stuff something into your mouth so there would be no way to chat politely to kids popping by the staff room, or to make sure that no sounds could fall out at staff meetings cos that always got me into trouble. But after all those years, 3.30 - 4pm still heralds FOOD.

It's no secret that cooking is not on my 'to-do' list so the afternoon munchies always needs to be quick and easy and cooking free.

Usually there are some biscuits about and often there is some cheese and crackers, but that is almost cooking effort - yeh that's how lazy I am! But today there was leftover French Stick from last night's pasta dinner. I gave it the stick the finger in fresh test and it was GOOD. Bit of Balsamic and olive oil in the fab little bowl courtesy of Carol and Richard and voila a healthy little snack. Yummo!

Filled to pussy's bow now. What a shame that dinner still needs to be sorted. Ho hum.

Ms Elliott's Theatre Etiquette 101

 

It's always a little daunting organising a birthday and Easter treats on the same weekend. I like it better when the moon is in the seventh house or whatever and there is a bit of time between the 2, but that's not the case this year.

So in a daring move I organised tickets to Ross Noble 'Tangentlemen' last night in lieu of the perennial Sunday roast dinner. It was a risk, but it really paid off.

We had dinner at the Art's Centre cafe and it was pretty good. Steve got all healthy with some Quinoa and pork belly and I had pea risotto which was all very yummy.

Then in we trooped.

It became obvious to me that the audience was vastly different from the audience for 'Boston Marriage' which we saw a couple of weeks ago. I reckon we might have been the only overlap.

Last time some of the folk were so old I bet there were Ambos aplenty outside with their little 'charge to 2000...Clear!' machines. They sat mostly comatose and were not the most receptive of groups, bless 'em.

Last night people meandered in, quite a few late comers, slurping down beers and wine from plastic cups that were provided at the door. Yeh there was a bit of slippity sloppity as they poured their drinks from glass to plastic. Maybe the organisers mistook this crowd for the unruly lot at the Bulldogs footy game and preferred the idea of plastic being thrown to glass.

Anyway there was an amusing little cartoon prepared by Mr Noble making it clear that all phones etc should be turned off and that if people were discovered recording the show, they would be unceremoniously turfed out. Quite right too. People all over the theatre turned off their phones. Yippee!

30 years of teaching has seen me give countless lessons on theatre etiquette, most of which ended with if you do....I will come over and throw you out, regardless of how embarrassing it might be for all of us, and in 30 years happily I can only remember frog marching out 2 kids. They were probably stoned or pissed and more than likely don't remember it, but the other kids sure as shit would. It became the stuff of legend and no one wanted to test the waters after that.

So here are the rules I drummed into the kids.

No Eating
No Drinking
No Talking
No Moving about the place.

( I know they should have been more gently put in this PC age, but there had to be no doubt in the blighters minds)

They were of course encouraged to laugh and cry and be astounded.

The rules were explained by way of respecting the performers and the other audience members who had forked out good money to be there.

Well I reckon Mr Noble needs to make another little cartoon vid to include all this, cos unless they have been told, it seems people think theatres are just a different type of footy field or in deed their own lounge room. And maybe he could employ bouncers to remove shitheads who just cant manage their own behaviour.

There was an engaged couple in front of us. I know she was engaged, probably for about 2 minutes cos she kept, running her fingers through her very ordinary long long fucking hair and when she got to the ratty ends and it all fell away, there was her shitty little ring and she would hold it at arm's length and have a really good look, perhaps willing it to grow. The 2 of 'em bobbed and bounced around. He lent forward and she would stroke his back. They kissed and cuddled. Seriously I think they thought they were in the back of a Sandman at the drive-in.

There is no doubt under Elliott regulations, they would have been marched on outta there and the truth is I doubt very much if they would have noticed. They were really fucking annoying.

However the show was excellent. He is a very funny clever man. There were fine threads of prepared stuff but mostly he improvised his was through more than 2 hours. He chattered and rambled and segued and then drew everything back together. We laughed out loud along with the crowd. And apart from the loved up losers in front, really enjoyed ourselves.

Birthday Bonanza

Cake and card selection. Guess where the Fart one came from- he's 10 what do you expect?

Birthday Week is all about the food! and of course a few beers!

As we get older it gets harder and harder to dream up really cool birthday pressies, although it wouldn't be the same if there were no parcels to unwrap as tea is slurped and sleep is rubbed from eye balls.

The birthday Week started on Tuesday with a Brisvegas visit and much hilarity at Belly's and then dinner at a prospective new golf club in case we actually ever do sell the Big House and move on up. The course looked pretty and the food was tastey and He won a game of Monopoly cards so all was well with the world. The beer in the bin behind the bar was a hit.

Cuddles....Ah.

Wednesday no golf cos the sky gods were pissy and pissing so the cake surprise was no surprise but He did enjoy the day long smell of the cooking. Yummo! BBQ steaks were very fine.

Thursday was the Big Day. Pressies were ripped and then off to the village for a group serenade of 'Happy Birthday' - 'how embarrassment!'

Dibley getting used to the Birthday Monkeys from Bell and Zig

Still fucking raining so no chance of an afternoon hit out. But off to dinner at the new Italian restaurant at the Casino. Well that was damn fine. Perhaps the best meatballs we have ever eaten, and then a surprise Birthday cloud making pudding of chocolate and more chocolate. It reminded me of the frozen Tartufos my darling Dad always ordered when we went off for a seafood dinner. These things were so bloody frozen that we'd play chasey around the plate. We could have left 'em sit and defrost a little but where would the fun have been in that?  Anyway it was very generous. We both dug in and I was sorry later. Ho Hum.

Those squiggles on the plate that look like turds or sperm were really balloons.

Then off to the Casino with a little 'Pin Money' cos I know He likes a bit of Roulette. People shoving and spending huge hands full of cash and it wasn't even the Boxing Day sales. We had a look around and it seems to me that the tables are slowly being replaced by those bloody machines which just sit and slurp up your money. We found a table that was almost accessible even if it meant sliding your bets on through the faintly sweaty sides of driven blokes who never once cracked a smile, and then standing on tippy toes to see the table spin. We laughed as we pissed away the pin. I am always surprised that there is so little joy at Casinos. We took ours home with us.

It's still raining here today, so no golf again. Yummy meals are sorted for the holiday / birthday
weekend and then off to enjoy Ross Noble on Sunday.

So not a week yet, but it's all going well. I reckon He might be happy enough to look forward to another one next year, after all a birthday celebration has gotta be better than the alternative.

Home brands taking over.

It's Steve's birthday tomorrow and as it's hardly biscuit baking weather, I thought I'd spoil him with a Christmas cake for his celebration cake cos the one I made for Christmas was a really big hit. Yeh I think it was his all time favourite.

The list of ingredients is pretty long, but as I have never been known to follow a recipe, I totalled up the weight of 'stuff' and made it up. I know he likes lots of glace cherries so they were big on my shopping.

All the bits I needed were laid out and I set to making a drunken mess of the fruit, after I had weighed it up. I tipped in one bag of cherries and then another. I am not sure what made me look at 'em. Perhaps shit cherry identification is my super power, but look I did and ooooh YUKKY. I picked 'em out, and opened the next bag and just went the plop. Oooh Yuk, shithouse as well!! I opened the third lot and had a little look in - yep it was shit too.

About 10 bucks worth!! All Woolies home brand. Whatever happened to Big Sister Glace Cherries?
Priced out of the market I reckon.

So in the very ordinary rather ugly bag you can find some cherries - 60% ONLY and 40% of other crap, processed somewhere in Thailand using 'imported products' It's getting to a point where you have to schedule label reading time into the already shitful job of trawling the aisles. Woe be tide those doing it all online cos there is no label dissection possible.

So because his golf was well and truly rained out, Steve took 'em all back. He'd done a reccie and found that the crap ones were all from the same batch, and did Woolies a favour by taking all the other shit ones off the shelves.

They gave a refund and would have given 3 new packets as a bonus except that there was only 1 which was not rooted.

The trouble is that I reckon most people would not bother taking their solo purchase back. Returning stuff is rarely cost effective if you have to make a special trip, as it was for a tenner it took Steve about 3/4 of an hour and a good slurp of petrol.

Those loons who only eat already dead fruit and veg might actually be onto something after all. At least they know where stuff has come from and if it's a bit mouldy they can cut off the bad bit without having to wonder if the whole thing is contaminated by some hands dipped in shit and bum squirt.

The Nanna's frozen fruit gave me the shits literally, the worst case in my life! Thank god for hepatitis immunisation in the 90's.

I like food. I like to eat. I don't like to cook, but I will cos I like to eat. But what I really don't like is to have to stand in the supermarket aisles doing a forensic investigation before tossing stuff into the wonky trolley.

Surely before the superMs force brands off the shelves to replace them with Homebrands, they aught to ensure that there manufacturing process is clean and safe and follows some stringent fail safe procedures.

Or perhaps we the consumers should start questioning just always going for the cheap grab. Maybe it's time to recognise that you get what you pay for. For just a little more we can get a better product with a known pedigree.

And wouldn't it be cool not to have to wear your granny specs, cos the labels are clear and big enough cos the manufacturers are proud of their product.

Yeh I'm Dreaming!