The Australian Diversity Sausage

 

Kate’s right eye stung from the mixture of sweat and expensive make-up that was seeping into it as she worked. She no longer cared, and brushed perspiration, Lancôme foundation and mascara away with the back of her hand as she arranged the seemingly never-ending components of the grazing table.

When did it all get so hard? she wondered. It used to be the traditional family Easter barbecue.  She recalled her teenage years when her dad would just throw a few sausages on the barbie. They were always those cheap orange ones – a colour you’d only see now if Donald Trump was turned into a processed meat product and encased in intestines. Not a bad idea really, she mused. No-one knew what was in those things and no-one ever asked. Our parents’ generation just trusted that food companies wouldn’t sell us anything that could be bad for us. When did we start cottoning on? Were Chiko Rolls the first clue?

 Kate’s towering thirteen-year-old son, Jake, who was assisting in the set-up task by shuffling along listlessly behind her, occasionally retrieving and eating a breadstick, spoke up.

“I know we have to have all this cheese and stuff for the vegos, mum, but why can’t we have a barbecue as well? I’m still growing– I need meat.” His mother sighed, well aware of the cost of nourishing his nascent rugby body.

“Remember last year? The radical vegans were so outraged at the smoke from burned steak wafting towards them from the ‘grill of death’, that they insisted on showering and washing all their clothes before they went home.”

“Oh yeah,” Jake sniggered.

“I’ve had to install special software on my computer to manage the different demands anyway,” Kate continued. “Lactose free, nut-free, only free-range chicken, low FODMAP, keto, no soft cheese or cooked chicken, organic, seafood allergies and gluten-free. Trust me, you don’t want to be in the vicinity of a gluten intolerant who’s gone off-road in the dietary department. Oh, and cruelty-free carrots, although how you oppress a root vegetable is beyond me.

“It’s not that I mind. Really. We all have a right to eat food that we can digest physically and ethically. Even the cat has grain-free biscuits. If we all ate tofu instead of Maccas there’s be a lot more rainforest left in South America and a lot less cow fart in the air. It’s just that it makes catering so much more complex. I’ve had to buy in two EpiPens just in case I accidentally poison someone with an ill-considered quiche.”

Jake was flipping through the cards to go in front of each plate on the table. “I see what you mean. Heaven forbid anyone swaps the labels around for a joke.” Kate snatched the cards away from him.

“Don’t even think about it. You can keep your scaly mates away from it as well. I’ll order in some KFC for your lot.” Motherly nutritional concerns were suspended for a higher cause.

Jake brightened up - a rare sight in an adolescent boy. “Thanks Mum – and good luck with the Beansprout Munchers.”

“Trust me, the vegos and vegans are the least of my worries.” Kate returned to her task of cross-referencing her lengthy list with the wad of cards in her hand and the plates arranged on multiple, carefully segregated tables around the garden.

Thirty minutes later the first guests startled Kate by sneaking up behind her in the kitchen, having slipped in the back door.

“Hello gorgeous,” said Alan, the smaller of the two men, putting his arms around her waist from behind and resting his head on her shoulder. “How’s my favourite cousin this fine Easter Sunday? Such beautiful weather for a resurrection, don’t you think?”

“Alan, you’re not going to make any tasteless ‘rising from the dead’ jokes, are you?” admonished his partner, Will. “It’s just tacky and you know how it upsets some people.”

“Oh, they need to get a sense of humour,” countered Alan. “All this religious sensitivity is just so dull. I’m pretty sure a bloke who turns water into wine at parties would be up for a laugh. And seriously popular too.”

Kate turned around and kissed her cousin on the cheek.

“Will may have a point, Alan. I can deal with your abattoir-esque approach to sacred cows, but it’s an important time of the year for some, so I suggest you pull your head in and avoid starting a riot. I’ll never get the bloodstains out of the curtains.”

Will leaned his long slim frame over Kate’s 158cm of womanly curves and gave her a hug.

“Don’t worry Kitten, I know he has the sensitivity of a Sherman tank with a stuck accelerator. I’ll make sure he plays nicely with the other life-forms.”

Kate mused on what an apt term that was for her family – they were such a diverse bunch it was hard to imagine they shared so much as a single strand of DNA. It seemed entirely possible that something otherworldly had been slipped in there on the quiet.

“Alan, Will – good to see you both.” Kate’s husband Kevin walked into the kitchen. “Why don’t you two grab some drinks from one of the eskies out there and start to graze while we wait for the udder folk to arrive.”

“Hi Kevin -I see Dad jokes are still alive and well here, at least,” Alan responded with mock huffiness.

A short while later the Featherstone family Equinox Gathering was in full swing, the title changed to be inclusive of those of other beliefs, with hot cross buns in plentiful supply for traditionalists. Easter eggs were deemed acceptable because chocolate miraculously crosses all social divides.

Kevin sidled up to his wife while she was restocking a plate of spinach and ricotta sausage-less rolls, and nodded towards a group of three thirty-somethings who had the fresh-faced look of people yet to explore parenthood.

“Who’s that with Gavin and Anisha? I don’t think I’ve seen her before.”

“Oh, that’s Kristen. She lives with them now, in a thruple. Gavin was telling me all about their conversion to polyamory. Fascinating, but quite complex. Anisha has started seeing someone else as well, with everyone’s blessing of course.” Kevin’s mental gears were grinding so slowly, they were almost audible.

“So, if he, assuming it’s a he, eventually moves in with them, what does the thruple become? A herd?”

“I’m sure we’ll be informed on a ‘need to know’ basis. How’s Uncle, sorry Aunty Regina going? Are you keeping her glass topped up?”

“No need. For a former mechanical engineer, she’s quite the life and soul of the party. Everyone else is feeding her drinks to lubricate the storytelling. Obviously, her transition from Reg startled Aunty Belinda a couple of years ago, but she seems to have adjusted to it. The turning point was apparently the bonding experience of online shopping together. Regina certainly looks quite something in that sparkly, floaty number.”

“Yes –Camilla suits her. Funnily enough, Belinda told me that she’d always felt she was asexual anyway and just married because that was what you did, back in the day. All she really craved was connection and a more spiritual love without all the hoo-ha and wet patches. She’s perfectly content now.”

“So, Belinda’s on the rainbow alphabetic spectrum too then? You know, I’m incredibly impressed with this family,” Kevin mused. “Everyone just rolls with whoever anyone is and whatever it is that floats their boat. We’ve got an entire marina here now, right in our very own backyard.”

Kate issued her husband with a good-natured punch on the shoulder.

“Hey Kevin, if you want to charge my sister with domestic violence, I’ll stand witness for you,”

“Well, if it’s not Maximus Dickheadus,” laughed Kate, giving the new arrival, a man of around forty with a formidable girth, most of a hug, at least as far as she could reach. “We were just talking about how well our family adapts to changes in the social fabric of society.”

Max nodded. “Yes, Dad struggled a bit with it in the years before he passed away. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I walked in with Nkandu and said we were getting married. I only just stopped him from asking her if he’d get a herd of goats for a dowry.”

“Unlikely in Surry Hills,” Kate giggled. “Remember a couple of years ago when Cousin Georgia said that they would no longer be pigeon-holed as female and wanted to be addressed in gender-neutral terms?” giggled Kate. “Poor Dad had to write down everything he wanted to say to them before speaking, to make sure he didn’t stuff up. It certainly slowed down conversations.”

“Mum seemed to find it much easier. Is she here yet? I haven’t seen her for a while,” said Max.

“No, neither have I, although she seems to be the busy one since she retired last year. I’m looking forward to catching up with her. She said she’d be a bit late and was bringing a friend.”

“Probably one of her Bridge Club cronies who don’t have any family,” Max surmised.

At that moment, a statuesque woman with a startling crown of spiky silver hair dramatically razored at the back and sides, walked into the garden. Her short dress was the sort of yellow–green that cyclists would be well advised to wear on foggy mornings, it’s dropped short sleeves revealing a tanned and toned décolleté. As she hugged and chatted to a small knot of guests, she introduced the man at her side. By contrast, he wore his hair long, the dark brown curls brushing his shoulders and accessorised with a beard that was contrastingly precision-cut. He was stocky, fit-looking, and seemingly built mainly of muscle, to judge from shirt sleeves that were straining to contain a set of biceps like The Great Dividing Range.

The woman glanced at the startled group in the kitchen and strode inside, her companion following behind her.

“It looks like Country Road’s designers have been hitting the magic mushrooms,” muttered Will to Alan as she went past.

“Mum,” said Kate, looking stunned. “Your hair, it looks…well…radical! It’s certainly very different from your usual pageboy. And your dress…”

“Yes indeed, it’s wonderful to have the freedom to embrace my own style now I’ve retired.

 “Now, let me introduce you all. Étienne, this is my daughter Kate, her husband Kevin, and my son Maximillian. Étienne has recently arrived in Australia from Canada, and we hope to keep him here.” She laughed, put her arm around the man’s waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We bonded over ice hockey and have been together nearly three months now.

 “Oh – I nearly forgot – can we put these somewhere?” She proffered two white helmets. “It was such a beautiful day, we decided to give our e-scooters a run. They are so much fun!”

The expressions on her family’s faces suggested that she might as well have asked for a place to park her flying saucer. After a silence so uncomfortable that it was almost itchy, Kevin took his chance to flee, grabbing the helmets with a “No problem, Soph,” and disappeared into a bedroom.

Max cast his mother a look of disapproval. “You do know, Mum, if you come off one of things at speed, you could well break a hip.”

Sophia smiled coquettishly. “E-scooters or ice hockey players?” Étienne stifled a snort of laughter.

Sophia read the room and instantly got the plot. “Et, I think I’m about to get a talk on the facts of life, it may be a good time for you to go and get a plate of food.” She watched his departing form with appreciation.

“Mum,” said Kate, grabbing her by the forearm. “What are you doing? He can’t be more than thirty-five. It looks so wrong. He’s probably just after your money. You’re sixty-eight and out riding an e-scooter in a short dress. It’s not age-appropriate! You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

 “Oh dear,” she replied with a dangerous smile. “I think I’ve just been age-shamed. Funny how that term hasn’t entered the vernacular yet, even though it’s no different to fat-shaming or slut-shaming.

“You do realise, don’t you, that ageing isn’t a choice, in just the same way that sexual orientation, gender or the ability to digest Tip Top sliced white isn’t a choice? Luckily though, by living this long, I’ve no won an All-Experiences Pass to the rest of my life. And guess what? There are no exclusion clauses.”

The implications of her words were sinking in, but the knee-jerk reaction to justify ageism, perhaps the final frontier of society’s ‘isms’, remained.

“We just worry about you and want you to be safe.”

“Thanks for your concern love, but I’m not yet a relic that needs to be wrapped in tissue and popped in a drawer in the National Museum. In fact, I’ve started a group of age-activists, and next week we’re marching on Canberra. Well, not marching per se, because that’s a bit hard on the knees. In fact, we’re e-scootering there.

“We demand new terminology. ‘The elderly’ is de-humanising and diminishing. No-one would say ‘the blacks’ or ‘the gays’ without getting enough backlash to take their head off. We’re POSSOMs; People Of Sixty, Seventy Or More. We’re putting the boom in Boomer and demand that the word ‘old’ is banned from being used as an insulting adjective. Calling someone an ‘old tart’ or ‘old fart’ will be deemed possomphobic hate speech!”

Max and Kate stared at their radicalised mother, uncertain of what to say next, when the sound of a heated exchange drifted in from the garden.

Sophia was first on the scene, belying any apparent knee issues. A slim man in his twenties was sitting on the ground by the vegan table, looking stunned and stemming a small flow of blood from his nose, while Étienne stood over him, rubbing the knuckles of his clenched right fist.

“For God’s sake, Et,” cried Sophia. “What’s going on?”

“This guy threatened me with a gun and then lunged in attack – I ‘ad to retaliate, Sophia.” Étienne glared at his floored opponent.

“The bloke’s a psychopath,” offered the victim. “I saw him strutting his biceps, and commented “sun’s out, guns out,” and then went to dip a celery stick in the houmous.” Glowering at Étienne, he added, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

The Canadian turned in confusion to Sophia. “In North America, if anyone talks about getting a gun out, you don’t hang around in the hope they’re just wielding a green vegetable.”

Kevin walked up. “Oh no – we’ve just had a case of linguistic diversity! Can someone please call a support group?”

 

 

Ryan Ryan Go Away, Fly Again Another Day

A breakaway faction of the Human Resources Revolutionary Army (HRRA) has claimed responsibility for the recent cancellation of 2000 flights by a UK budget airline. In a bid to create national terror, HRRA operatives conspired to approve the holiday leave applications of scores of pilots, playing havoc with the nation’s travel plans and creating a sangria glut in Benidorm that could spell economic doom.

“I knew it wasn’t right” said Mavis Butterworth of Grimsby “when the stewardess asked if there was a pilot on board, even before we’d taken off.” The public has been asked to be on the lookout for men wearing suspiciously large amounts of gold braid and duty-free aftershave.

Reports are coming in from across Europe of carefree Germans not even bothering to leave their towels on the sunbeds at 6am and tons of unwanted battered cod being thrown back into the Mediterranean. Locals in resorts from the Algarve to Zakynthos have been in confusion about the weather, having no-one available to complain about it, and the bottom has fallen out of the European pharmaceutical market, with huge stockpiles of hangover cures and sunburn remedies.

The news isn’t all bad though, with many Brits deciding to take their holidays at home instead, boosting the umbrella industry and causing a rush on generators by Publicans keen to ensure the beer stays suitably warm. Elderly holidaymakers have been warned to turn their hearing aids down, to avoid damage from high concentrations of tourists all talking to each other in English very loudly and slowly.

Authorities however are worried that this new force for evil will attack again and warns big businesses to be wary, in extreme cases, even planning ahead if absolutely necessary, to avoid problems. There are concerns that the HRRA has been actively recruiting complete fuckwits into companies and promoting them through the ranks to positions such as airline CEOs. Worse still, it’s feared that they have been active within the major political parties for many years, and that there may be even more Nigel Farages and Boris Johnsons ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting Britain at any time.

GCHQ has been able to intercept some of HRRA’s communication, heavily encrypted in doctor’s handwriting, that suggests another attack is imminent, this time targeting queues in canteens with combatants trained to create chaos by pushing in.  They are also investigating the possibility that HRRA has already infiltrated British Rail where it will deliver an ideological blow by stealthily introducing real food to be consumed by unwary members of the public.

The Government (or at least this week’s Government) is calling on the British people to stand firm in the face of the current adversity and to be alert to the possibility that there may be fuckwits living apparently normal lives amongst them. All with know with certainty is that any who booked with a certain airline haven’t fled overseas.

Reasons to Celebrate a Valentine-less Day

You get to the office and there’s not so much as an aphid on your desk, let alone a bunch of roses from a smitten co-worker. By the time you’ve struggled home on the bus, the only intimate encounter you’ve had has been with a violin case, when the kid carrying it grudgingly gets up to offer you their seat as the bags you are carrying under your eyes look so heavy. As you open the front door, the last optimistic brain cell you have winks out of existence as the door slides over the top of the day’s post without getting wedged on the way. Despite the tone of longing in the correspondence, neither the phone bill nor the credit card statement are written in the sort of red ink you had hoped for.

Yep – it’s Valentine’s Day, and the like the majority of single people over the age of 32 your romantic prospects are looking rather poorer than Kim Jong Un’s chances of winning the Liberal Free Thinker of the Year contest.

You could turn around, head down to the pub and let four pints of Wibbly’s Old Peculiar simultaneously lower the romantic bar and your standards or just appreciate that you’re on the pointy end of societal chance.

In 2017, around one third of people in the UK are living on their own. In 2013 this amounted to 7.7 million people and was growing rapidly. This signposts a huge change in our social fabric towards the comfortable fleecy end. What’s more, they aren’t all dating site die-hards with a face only an adventurous plastic surgeon could love or people who are one tin of Whiskas away from being a cat-snack.

The fact is that living on your own – or at least without another grown-up biped – is actually pretty cool.  Here are some reasons why you, as a solo inhabitant of your space should take pity on those romantic fools that embrace the schmaltz of Valentines Day.

Self-indulgence

Living alone gives you complete freedom to be you – free-spirited and self-indulgent.  Your bad habits are not something that you have to try and curb – you can simply get better at them. Take an existential approach. If you give free rein to flatulence in your lounge and no-one is there to experience it, is it really bad? Only if it causes the paint to peel off the walls, in my book.

Housework

This becomes purely optional. Dust bunnies can make surprisingly good pets that thrive on a lack of attention and provide energy-efficient insulation. They make no demands of their owner in terms of exercise and will breed prolifically in the right environment as long as they are not startled by loud noises such as vacuum cleaners.

Food

Eat what you want, when you want. The concept of a balanced diet takes on a whole new meaning when the fridge light reveals a scene from a science fiction movie. An isolated wasteland punctuated by the occasional menacing alien life form blinking in the unaccustomed light. Or your fridge might be so full of superfoods that it has to be restrained from sprinting around your kitchen. The point is, it’s up to you.

Mornings

In the first flush of a new relationship, it may be quite charming to roll over in the morning and see the object of your affections lying there in peaceful slumber. (Unless the relationship is less than 12 hours old, in which case you might be a bit startled and hard-pushed to remember their name.)

But you know that as time goes on, this charming vision will lose its appeal, like a bag of prawns left on a sunny window ledge. The cute snuffling will turn into a snore that can be measured on the Richter Scale. The alluringly ruffled hair will, day by day, start to look more like an over-used toilet brush. And that’s just the girls.

No compromise

A partner can be a hand brake who stops you attempting things that are ambitious, ill-advised or just illegal, for their own selfish reasons. But for the solo traveller through life, the only limitations are self-imposed (if you don’t count imprisonment or possible death) so once you ram raid your way through those, you’re free to find out what you’re really capable of.

This is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the upside of being alone. It’s a movement that’s growing in size and we need to give it a voice. Remember, you’re never alone when you’re alone! OK – the slogan may need a little work, but you know what I mean.

The Madness Reaches Australia

An open report to HM Queen Elizabeth on what’s gone down in her farthest flung colonial outpost in the last week.

Dear Ma’am

Australia may be a long way away, but clearly Boris, Nigel and Donald aren’t the only crazy-eyed politicians licking the world’s parliamentary windows.

Australia’s Prime Minister Turnbull and whatshisname, the opposition chap, breathed sighs of relief that their collective doormats never plopped with the sound of an invitation to the inauguration of troll-doll Trump. Somehow though, one got into the hands of this colony’s home-grown barmy political right and was passed around like a ticket to a Justin Bieber concert. They longed to be there to watch the horror unfold, but knew the cool kids in Parliament would beat them up if they did. 

The invitation was initially given to Australia’s own flame-haired harpy of the far right, Pauline Hanson, a woman who has all the charm and appeal of Nigel Farage, but without the eloquence. 

Pauline’s past judgement has been a bit dodgy, at one time leading her to spend some time ‘at your pleasure’ Ma’am, (whilst enjoying very little of her own) in The Big House, until matters got sorted out. But even she deemed this invitation too hot to handle.  It was finally passed on to one of her minions, a man who has made less impact in Australian politics than Peppa Pig. He duly packed his bags for Washington and probably got a whole row of seats to himself on the plane.

Another Australian of note who received an invitation was the Reverend Fred Nile. He’s this country’s version of Mary Whitehouse (Google her or ask Philip) except he’s still alive and ranting. Rev Fred believes homosexuality to be a mental illness, and annually prays for a downpour to douse the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras in Sydney. Nevertheless, every year the event basks in typical Aussie dryness, other than amongst those marchers who are especially excited to be participating. 

Anyway, old Rev Fred had struck up an email friendship with troll-doll Trump over some months.  Rev Fred dispensed his seasoned political advice, born of running the Australian Christian Democratic Party, regardless of the fact that, electorally speaking, if it were a racehorse, his party would long ago have been inside a tube of Uhu. Naturally, he received a golden ticket to Trumpapolooza. Imagine Rev Fred’s surprise then, when US Immigration informed him his visa application had been denied, on the grounds that a spittle-flecked octogenarian Christian minister presented a threat to national security! It can only be that the troll-doll didn’t appreciate the advice quite so much after all; and certainly not from someone whose political party name contains the word ‘democrat.’

Ma’am may already be aware that this week also marked Australia Day, a celebration of Captain Cook’s landing at Botany Bay and claiming this big brown country for your forebears’ empire. It’s a day for wild celebration here, which traditionally starts with marinating your internal organs in beer whilst having a beach breakfast in 95-degree heat, and finishes with fireworks and fisticuffs, a good time having been enjoyed by all in the interim. Increasingly though, there is some discomfort at celebrating the day of national pride on the anniversary of the kick-off of genocide against the people who might have been under the impression that they owned the place, having got here first by some thousands of years. 

Just by way of example, I invite your Majesty to consider how miffed her subjects get when the Germans nab all the sunbeds around the hotel pool in Majorca. Imagine then how cross they’d be if Gunter and Helga took to them with bazookas, and ultimately expected them to join in an annual celebration of the fatherland’s victory at Hotel Sol. 

Luckily, we have Deputy PM Barnaby Joyce here, to bring reason to the debate with a few well-chosen words. You remember Barnaby – he was the one who didn’t realise you can never win a PR battle against two cute puppy dogs, especially when you need the squillions of dollars their owner’s movies bring into the country. Whoops Barnaby!

When talking about protesters who want Australia Day marked on a different day, Barnaby said he was tired of people "weeping" about the issue and suggested they should “crawl under a rock.” If only the Indigenous chappies had been given such sage advice in 1788 they might at least have found a decent hiding place and avoided getting shot.

Your obedient servant,
The Stunned Mullet

Forget 'fairy tale' - aim to make your wedding imperfect

Why do brides say “I just want everything to be perfect”?  Perfection should be the last thing they want. Possibly apart from a yeast infection on their honeymoon.

To achieve perfection, you would invite no-one to your wedding, because people will stuff up ‘perfect’ every time. This doesn’t apply just to the weird cousin you’ve got to invite who thinks that wearing odd socks makes him look interesting and diverts attention from his poor personal hygiene. Every one of your guests, your bridal party, your family and even your partner are human with a whole range of flaws that are absolutely incompatible with perfect. You’ve got kids coming too? Kids – especially your own - are professional perfection-wreckers. It’s in their kiddie DNA.

Wedding speeches, family politics, bad hats. Need I say more? All utterly imperfect.

Let’s take a reality check. Disney princesses have fairy-tale weddings. You, I suspect are not the product of multi-billion-dollar animation empire, but a real live person who has some good things going for them and a few traits that both your parents are convinced came from the other side of the family. Try this quick quiz:

•  Do woodland animals flock to hear you sing and lend a helping hoof/paw with the hoovering?
• Is your father a mythical Greek sea God and your best friend a lobster with a Jamaican accent? Even when you’re sober?
• Do you have to wear gloves to prevent you from icing everyone you shake hands with?
• Do either your mother or father appear on the postage stamps where you live?

If you were unable to answer yes to any of the above, then take it from me, you are not a princess of the Disney or any other variety. Tilting at a perfect fairy-tale wedding will therefore lead only to crushing disappointment, and that’s before twenty years of marriage to someone whose ‘handsome prince’ status is already questionable, even with youth on his side. Once the evil elves of middle age have bequeathed him a beer gut and ear hair he’ll be less Hercules and more Shrek anyway.

Neither am I suggesting you have a cheap wedding. If you want all the trimmings and you’ve been careless enough to amass a lot of friends you want to show off to, then buckle up honey, it’s going to cost more money than a fairy-tale dragon can get his scaly little T-Rex arms around. Sure, you can hire a few hay bales and rent a paddock somewhere for a big picnic with home brewed Brussels sprout beer, wear a dress you’ve knitted out of tofu and arrive in a Kombi van that still smells of backpacker farts, but do you really want to be remembered for your hipster wedding?

Embrace imperfection, which will happen anyway, regardless of how much you stress about it, and your day will be so much more memorable and fun. I’m not advocating that it should be encouraged to fall into complete chaos or that anyone gets injured, but make wriggle room for the day to be warm and human. Some of the most fun and memorable weddings I’ve attended have seen the Best Man leap over flowerbeds to retrieve the rings from his bag mid-ceremony, a groom dip his bride for the kiss, trip and both fall into a well-cushioned heap and a toddler flower girl stuff rose petals into the bride’s cleavage. All simply little quirks which made the day enjoyable.

Once your guests see or hear something to make them smile, they’ll relax, talk to one another and stop trying to chew their own legs off to escape another dull and dreary wedding. They may even drink less of the booze you’re paying for too. Or not, but that’s people for you – human and imperfect.

Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, anything.....

Australia is in the middle of a new resources boom; only it's a rather sticky resource that we don't know what to do with.

We appear to have accidentally stockpiled way too many former Prime Ministers.

While we used to get through them at a normal rate of one every few years, those that have come off the shelf recently just seem to have worn out - or perhaps more accurately, worn thin - much more rapidly.

Europe has had its wine lakes and butter mountains. Unfortunately, Amnesty International would probably get all whiney if Australia started storing its past political leaders within geographical features, even though we've got an awful lot of desert that's not currently being used, even for nuclear testing.

We've learned from bitter experience though, that ex-PMs have a half-life greater than plutonium with much more serious toxic effects, capable of inflicting collateral damage on a Government from a distance of well over 20 years. The concern is that if they're all left roaming around in Canberra there will be fallout on a scale that makes Chernobyl look like a dental x-ray.

In these days of environmental responsibility, it seems like a wicked waste not to find some way of recycling them, especially as most of the recent ones were hardly used.  Australia tried powering up the Rudd unit a second time but it didn't work for long as someone had stuck a screwdriver in its rear casing. At least we don't need to worry about a retinue of loyal supporters that would take up even more space!

In the US, former leaders get sent off on the speaking circuit, but the oratorical skills of our own recent batch weren’t that flash. One had all the easy-listening appeal of a cat descending a blackboard, another could patronise an unsuspecting audience into a coma, while the last would just shut down and play possum if it sensed danger. If the current leader of the Opposition joins their ranks, inflicting after-dinner speeches on innocent people will be declared a breach of human rights.

It would be great if we could use Canberra's cast-offs to promote Australian industry and culture but finding the right causes is problematic. The wine industry has backed right away, understandably concerned to distance itself from sour grapes, while discussions with the organic fertiliser industry are looking promising. Export would be the favoured solution, but there is a world glut of disenfranchised Australians. Ecuador wouldn't even return our calls. 

Luckily, Mattel has shown an interest in doing something with the Abbott as it'll give them a way of using up all the Lycra left over from 1980's Barbie. Then we'll just need to find a use for the 1950's policies.  The entertainment industry is the only one that's reluctant to see such a rich vein of comedic material leave, but as long as we leave them Clive Palmer and Christopher Pine they'll settle down.

There are fears however, that it may be the wrong time to launch our local talent on the world stage.  Even Australia's formidable force of farcical former leaders would struggle to compete with such natural comedy gold as Donald Trump and a population likely to be dumb enough to elect him.

Fear of not-quite-flying

 

 

“Good morning. I'd like to thank you for choosing to fly with Ascheapaschips Air, the new sub-budget Australian airline. Please pay attention to the safety announcement. Unlike certain national carriers we don’t spend money recruiting ‘resting’ actors and celebrities to make amusing parodies, just to win kudos on YouTube. In fact, we care as little for your safety as we do your dignity, but the Civil Aviation Authority makes us do this, so listen up and let’s get it over with.

 

Your captain today is Mr Bobo, who is with us as part of an exchange program with the Primate Department at Taronga Zoo, to which we provide uneaten airline meals for the monkeys to fling at the tourists. Apparently, intelligent apes are unable to distinguish between this and their usual readily available projectile matter, but airline food has been deemed safer for both the flinger and the flingee, as long as the monkeys don't eat it.

 

Mr Bobo has undergone a full day of intensive training in the flight simulator, where he graduated dux of his class, largely because he chewed off fewer knobs than his peers.

However, please don't be alarmed if you hear terrified screeching from the cockpit. Mr Bobo's pretty cool with flying, but the Flight Engineer is only human.

 

You will have noted, on being herded aboard, that we have embraced new technology to eradicate the need to print boarding passes and merely swiped your credit card instead. Luckily, your credit card is included in your free cabin baggage allowance, along with a small tissue with which you may care to mop your brow in the event of an in-flight emergency. Should this fairly unlikely event occur, you can access the lifejacket stowed under your seat. Your credit card will automatically be debited with a sum that will be determined by the rate of descent of the aircraft and the likelihood that Ascheapaschips Air will be required to pay damages once the wreckage has been recovered.

 

Cabin crew will now indicate the location of the emergency exits, fitted with token- operated turnstiles to facilitate the smooth exit of those passengers who opted for the Survivor Fare upgrade.

 

Should the plane ditch in the sea, we advise you to wave frantically to any passing plane as soon as you have placed the lifejacket over your head, as the cardboard from which it's constructed isn't suitable for immersion in water. The lifejacket is also equipped with a whistle, as a nice little tune may help distract you from your imminent demise.

 

Planes in the Ascheapaschips fleet are subjected to rigorous pre-flight testing on the first Thursday of most months, as long as our maintenance facility in Bangladesh isn't under water at the time. Kind of ironic really, given the contribution we're making to global warming.

 

Thank you for flying Ascheapaschips Air. We hope that you enjoy your flight today, and, in the absence of a long hard look at your standards, book your next journey with us.”

 

 

Making a song and dance about Eurovision

Australia was both excited and confused this week having unexpectedly found itself dining at the cool kids table - the Eurovision Song Contest. Sure – the Aussies could get their heads around the idea of competition, but were completely flummoxed by the absence of a ball. Cynics of course suggested that the work experience kid in the Eurovision office had just put the invite intended for Austria in the wrong bag. That sort of error might be expected of Americans, who tend to classify anywhere foreign as either 'dangerous' or 'Canada' and regard it all with deep suspicion. England, on the other hand, is pretty good at knowing its countries, having been something of a collector in years gone by.

 I strongly suspect therefore, that Australia's 'wild card 'invitation to participate in Eurovision was Pommie-inspired. A return joke for the one Prime Minister Tony Abbott played on England when he offered the Duke of Edinburgh a demotion to being a mere knight.  It's the sort of mutual pranking that seems really funny at a particular point in the evening, but is inevitably going to end up with someone waking up and wondering where all the traffic cones came from.

There were fears that our initiation rites into Eurovision would involve becoming part of the single currency and handing over our lunch money, dinner money and the contents of our national bank to Greece, the equivalent of having the Euro-gang flush our Aussie heads down the financial toilet. Luckily the threat of a retaliatory repatriation of Leo Sayer brought a rapid back-down.
 

England clearly felt safe from any sort of musical competition from Australia as Kylie wouldn't lower herself to those sorts of shenanigans and Rolf's diary was a bit full for the next six years, which pretty much left just Peter Andre. This is much like realising that you've only got Francesco Schettino available to cox your rowing eight. However, England didn't bargain on Australia's famed resourcefulness, finding as we did  someone who had won a singing competition only a dozen years before and who wasn't doing anything in May.

Guy Sebastian was an obvious choice, with the dual qualities of having a voice that didn't make your ears bleed and a crazy afro hair-do, which is pretty much as wild and gender-bending as Australian entertainers get. At least those that want to eat regularly and not get a good kicking when they tour regional towns.  The 'Go Guy' campaign hit a hurdle though, with the discovery that the man known and loved across this wide brown land as ‘The 'Fro’, had had a haircut and looked worryingly normal. Unfortunately, singer Redfoo had come up trumps in the ballot to wear the nation's token mad hair style, and clearly we weren't desperate enough to ask him to represent us. Guy was duly despatched with a ''good luck mate'' and an emergency bag of sequins in his back pocket.

 

Of course, now we were playing with the big kids, Australia had to familiarise itself with the delicate Eurovision politics if it wasn't to end up with 'nul points' and turn instantly into Norway. In a set-up that relies on more mutual back-scratching with close friends than a humid night in a psoriasis clinic, Australia was feeling a bit lonely without even its tormented kid brother, New Zealand there. It had been very carefully explained too, that any ‘sledging’ or boisterous badinage with competitors about the sexual proclivities of their family members vis a vis close relatives or domestic animals would not only be frowned upon but likely result in armed warfare. As would suggesting that the leaders of any Eastern European countries looked ‘a bit gay.’

Tough though the competition was, Australia would not adopt any dodgy palm-greasing tactics- it wasn't after all, the Football World Cup. Any brown bags in Guy Sebastian's vicinity contained only vegemite sandwiches and it was a safe bet that no non-Australian was going to touch those.

With no gimmicks or political alliances, Australia was going to have to fall back on its vocal talents alone, historically, a pretty insubstantial safety net at Eurovision. That said, in achieving fifth place, Guy Sebastian scrubbed up pretty well. There have been some lessons learned and next year’s contestant will no doubt apply for funding to upgrade the bag of sequins to magic glitter and develop a killer six pack, as this can only be what got that funny little Swedish song over the line.

 

© Wendy Wardell

WA Inc-arnated again

Suddenly every minister in the WA cabinet wants to pop a little extra onto car registration fees as a way of topping up their budget in the absence of regular funding from the State’s coffers. I think this means my little Peugeot will be sponsoring its own Government department. I'll put my hand up for Culture and the Arts – at least ballet dancers don’t eat much.

 I recall that there was a surcharge added to the car rego fees in the 1990's to pay for the indiscretions of WA Inc, for which we, as drivers were held responsible. I never quite figured that one out. I had assumed that rego fees would be reduced again once it was paid off, but after only twenty odd years my optimism has faded. Maybe the government took out a mortgage to pay it off, at 'private bank' interest rates, and they will start to pay off the capital any day now. That Laurie Connell was a lad and no mistake!

Now it looks likely that we'll have to pay a bit more each year by way of a Congestion Fee, because the current pittance hasn't been steep enough to keep us off the road. Sadly it seems that even making people unemployed doesn't stop them driving to Centrelink rather than hitchhiking, crawling or begging for the bus fare. Assuming there are buses to take them there.

 It's reassuring though that no-one has tried to pass the buck on the congestion problem by suggesting that the Government should take some responsibility for poor road planning. It's not like they could have guessed that if you design freeways that have wide bits and then skinny bits it's going to slow things down.

 

The only hope is if the Government makes a firm commitment to not spending money on road improvement. For start, they will be able to save a fortune on witches hats and those encouraging signs so appreciated by drivers crawling past in a ten km long tail back, as they issue a hearty electronic back slap of '6km/hour -well done!’ Furthermore, retaining our potholed and patched roads, (some of which could legitimately be granted 'heritage' status) will result in more careful driving, at least by those not in Government cars. Where road topography causes your major organs to undulate like a sackful of nervous jellyfish on a roller coaster, there is an incentive to slow down. While the Government may find that this has a negative impact on speed camera revenue,( d'oh, Dean Nalder) at least the Toorak Tractors will be able to get in a bit of 'off road' simulation without having to leave the Stirling Highway.

 So- it looks like the registration fees for my little car will be creeping up towards the $1,000 a year level and some economies will have to be made. Perhaps Mr Barnett would consider some sort of lease-back scheme on first borns? Now she's finished school, she certainly won't be able to afford to maintain a car and will sink under the weight of debt from a university education quicker than you can say ‘WA’s credit rating has been downgraded again'.

I've just heard though that the Government is planning on spending $280,000 on a urinal that rises from below ground in Northbridge at night to collect the waste of the wasted. So here's an idea to save some public money. Stop taking the piss.

Postcards From The (comet's) Edge

Hi to everyone back home - wish you were here! To be honest - I wish anyone was here. This place seems as popular on the tourist trail as a wet Tuesday on the Gaza Strip. There isn't even very much traffic, although what there is seems to rush by really fast and burn up in a fireball. It's a bit like a Saturday night in Rockingham.

I had suspected that booking a budget airline to get me here might be asking for trouble and I was right. They called it the mothership, but I reckon she should up on child-abuse charges. The inflight service was completely non-existent and the landing was really turbulent. They say that any landing you can walk away from is a good landing, so I suppose it must qualify, assuming you're cool about walking with your left kneecap embedded in your right ear. It'd take the smirk off that beardy berk Richard Branson, I can tell you.

 

I'm staying in a different neighborhood from the one I expected as well and there doesn't appear to be a sea view. Either that or the tide is out - by around 500 million kilometres. Still - I'm here for an archeological dig, not for a paddle, so I'm looking forward to that once I get the feeling back in all my legs again. Economy class travel is no laughing matter when you’re more supermarket trolley than biped.

The weather's not exactly what the brochure promised either - bloody dark and cold. If that was what I wanted for a holiday I could just have gone to Glasgow where I could at least get a beer and a deep fried Mars bar. They tell me the weather will be getting warmer, but they always say that, don't they? ''It's not usually like this at this time of the year'' or ''Don't worry, we're hurtling towards the sun at 18kms per second, so it'll stop drizzling soon.''.

 I read that this place hasn't changed in 4.5 billion years, which I suppose explains the discarded Chico Roll wrappers and uncanny similarity to Adelaide. Quite honestly, it's so depressing I think I'm just going to go to bed and set the alarm for August.

 Firstly though I've got to pop out and pick up some souvenir confectionery for everyone at the office. Honestly, they're obsessed - all they kept saying as I was leaving was ‘bring back some rock, bring back some rock.'

 

Can’t wait to show off the sun tan when I get back

Love

 Philae

Projectile Travelling

I've been forced to the conclusion that there are those of us who travel with ease and others who are physiologically unsuited to leaving the sofa.

Holidays with my daughter are a rare treat, but without exception they are always punctuated by physical manifestations of travel-induced distress that result in jackpots for local pharmacists and lingering odours on unfortunate upholstery.

There are no countries we've visited that haven't seen the local cuisine returned with

emphasis to its pavements. No hire cars delivered back to their point of origin without a distinctive piquancy to their atmosphere that even a forest of pine tree - shaped air fresheners had been able to impact.

Before reaching the age of 16, Siana was taken from one aircraft by wheelchair, having swooned on top of a passing flight attendant. She has barfed into bags in the airspace above most countries you can name, and below the river Thames in the Blackwall tunnel. The majestic beauty of the NZ countryside has echoed to sounds that would make Orcs retreat in fear and revulsion. There may be a call-up coming from Peter Jackson.

Ever the optimist, I've been certain that she would grow out of it and that the latest holiday would see a cease-fire between her semi-circular canals and her digestive system. How wrong is it possible to be?

Thirty-six hours before our latest trip the first signs of a cold appeared; not something that would usually cause much problem in and of itself - in most people. In Siana's case however, I'm certain that colds are a suitcase-borne virus as they are an inevitable part of travel preparations. They bode bad shit.

The morning of our flight dawned and Siana was roused from bed as the sun's first rays filtered through the windows. In the usual groggy fashion of a teenager for whom a good night's sleep would, in other species be considered hibernation, she headed to the kitchen, filled a bowl with cereal and stuck her face in it.

 Things went downhill quickly when I decided to medicate her in preparation for flight. The effect of trying to add cold and flu tablets to juice and sugar was a bit like adding baking soda to vinegar. Siana went pale and ventured outside to get fresh air. I hope that the petunias thrive on the second hand orange juice and crunchy nut cornflakes with which they were liberally crop-dusted.

With the reassurance that it was at least 'out of her system', we set off for the airport, having very kindly been offered a lift there by an elderly neighbour. While I was sat in the front making polite conversation with the gentleman, murmurings from the back seat informed me that all was not well. I subtly retrieved a small plastic bag from my handbag and emptied it of its contents, quickly passing it back. The bag was rapidly refilled accompanied by a full symphony of guttural sound effects as peristaltic waves slammed into reverse gear. However, it seems that our neighbour was deaf to Siana's Vomitorium in C minor, as our conversation continued on its chipper little path without deviation or interruption. This created a somewhat surreal state of affairs, as to me it

sounded like Alien vs Predator was being re-enacted in the back seat.

I was loathe to draw our elderly driver's attention to events unfolding behind us, as he had already nearly driven straight through a red light even when his full attention was on the road. I feared that his concern for the rear upholstery in his new car could quickly become terminal for all three of us.

The back seat chorus abated but relief was short-lived as I was quietly informed that the bag was leaking. Further paperwork in my hand luggage was quickly stripped of it's file protector sleeve to serve as a barf bag reinforcement and handed back, just as the airport hove into view. I thanked our kindly neighbour profusely, praying that the  small souvenir of the experience that remained on the back seat would also escape his attention, but we fled into the terminal too quickly to find out.

A couple of hours later we boarded the flight, Siana resplendent in a newly-purchased pair of shiny jeans. The old ones had been forcefully confined to the case lest they tried to make an unaccompanied break through Immigration.

By the time we boarded the plane Siana's condition had stabilised. At least until the engines were switched on. Barely had we achieved cruising altitude when the flight attendants experienced a sudden flurry of demand from people in the seats adjacent to ours to please be moved to the rows behind the screaming babies.

Apparently in space no-one can hear you scream, but at 30,000 feet they can definitely hear you chunder.