My forthcoming trip to Melbourne and Sydney will be enlivened this year -and I hope in every subsequent year – by the opportunity to conduct the Backstabbers Guild Of Australia Annual General Meetings in each city. I am preparing my address for each location.
The Guild was founded in Melbourne several decades ago and has flourished – so much so that backstabbers can be found in every state of Australia. The Perth AGM has languished for several years but this will also be re-instituted. Given the boredom and despair – not to mention the red-hot anger and viciousness – that an AGM can generate for any society, the BGA ones are memorable.
I am planning, as Right Evil Bastard, to award medals of dishonour to several people. My chemist has assured me that the pins on the medals are tipped with curare. He was unable to obtain suitable amounts of ricin or polonium but fortunately he has a cousin from Brazil. I always think the organic poisons are the best for the environment, in any case.
In both Sydney and Melbourne I have authorised agents to book tables – a pizza restaurant is the traditional venue – and allowed them the freedom to round up the usual suspects. I am happy to say I expect the worst. If it is to be a German restaurant that would be wurst.
Will there be sadness? Will there be fear and horror? Will there be treachery and madness? Look at our name – it says it all.
Care for an invitation?
You can collect up the tiny pencils, Beauregard, and count the votes. The cardboard polling booths can be stacked away and do remember to pick up the coffee cups before you lock up.
Oh, and the How-To-Vote cards, too. I know they are officially the responsibility of the parties that gave them out, but some of those parties have clapped their carpet bags shut and jumped aboard the steamboat. They are not coming back to help with the clean-up.
Yes, I have a headache too. I put it down to the coffee…not the cask of cheap red wine I drank after the polls shut. It’s part of the risk you run being a Electoral Returns Officer in an ethnic neighbourhood. If I never see another Rananjstasavaramaputirian family with 56 cousins who live in the same street in my life it will be too soon. I heard a rumour that one of them wants to marry into the eastern European Czchxüczbratoviltistianiççu family and hyphenate their name but if they do I am going to run over them with a lawn mower.
It’s been a good election. No tank fire for several kilometres and this year the Cossacks were riding Shetlands. Bit sad about the UN observer being boiled alive and eaten in Mirrabooka, but at least they have grasped the idea of the food stall at election time. And you have to love the losing candidate conceding defeat gracefully, though I think he might have briefed his staffers not to throw flaming bags of dog poo at the winner – or at least not on national television. That stuff sticks.
Anyone want the last sausage? Anyone? Didn’t think so….
Well, whatever you do, Beauregard, do not lose that cardboard ballot box. It’s not the sacred flame of democracy I am concerned with – I saw the flames on those paper bags they were throwing – it’s the thought of it unraveling and having to do a by-election all over again in a month.
I don’t think my tiny pencil is up to it.
I reviewed my car pictures shared in this weblog column for the last few years and discovered that I had never shown you Brighton Towing. I can’t say whether this is because it is new or I am just unobservant. Thank goodness it was sunny at Hyde Park and the truck was parked in a good spot.
It is a hot rod, as evinced by the GMC blower on top of the large engine. But I should say that the power it develops is not wasted on a race track – this is a period hauler supreme.
It can, and undoubtably has, hauled many a motorist out of trouble over the years. The winch and crane may not be the modern electronic marvels that the towies deploy at the side of the freeway or in your driveway, but they have enough leverage to raise a car on a cradle and away you go.
I suspect the red esky is a recent addition but we’re not going to be super fussy.
It is wonderful to see a hot rod that is not too much nor too flashy. Let’s hope others go down the same route. Note: Here is a COE seen a few years back at a Rust And Shine that also fits the working rod bill.
There’s Slim Pickens but he was in another class altogether. I loved him as a film actor. No, today was the annual visit to the Hyde Park Holiday old car show – but it was a visit made with trepidation. I suspected that there might be few new old cars shown. But not-so-trepid me wanted to see whatever might be presented.
I was right about the paucity of exhibits. There were plenty of cars on show and quite a spread in their variety, but most of them had been seen on previous years. I picked out the fresh ones and walked through the field in an hour.
1938 Morris 8 in the process of reconstruction. I feel sure that when the owner can locate a period steering wheel in good order he will substitutue it for the modern one. And tuck in the wiring…
Dear old DeSoto in excellent form. If not exactly exciting in the day, it at least showed a sense of respectability in style. A manager of a successful hardware store or an accountant could drive this car with confidence.
A car to be. One of the few that were presented in building form, this Triumph will undoubtedly be as cute as a bug when it is done. I was particularly intrigued by the wheels, having never seen anything of this sort before. Also noted the extremely small size of the engine and its low placement on the chassis compared to the body mounting. I am in two minds about the practicality of the leather body covering. Flash, but one scuff…
Today is St. Valentine’s Day. A commercial celebration of a person who apparently was murdered under Roman governmental decree. Also a person who is said to have cured blindness and deafness by the laying on of hands. His murder is reportedly to have been because he advocated one religion when the government of the time wished the population to participate in a different one.
I have very sensibly purchased a card full of saccharine and a gift full of sugar. I shall give it to someone, who will not, I presume, murder me. It was not a cheap card but you have to be sure with these things. I am still allowed to treat with deity on my own terms, but dealing with the loved one requires a little more circumspection. Heaven can only throw thunderbolts during storms but the wife can do it no matter what the weather.
If this sounds cynical, it is. But it does lead to a number of questions for the student of superstitions. Is St. Valentine’s Day valid for people who are not of his religion? There are lots of us in lots of different divisions of faith…but we all have sweethearts – if we’re lucky – and the commercial pressure is on to promote romance, flowers, jewellery, and confectionery. I don’t think the sellers of canned lovey dovey will check to see if you are the right sort to follow a saint.
I don’t mind romance, love, sex, or anything else that fills up the hours between breakfast and late-night cocoa. I’m up for anything as long as it doesn’t involve teenage music or strobe lights in the eyes. A quiet exchange of expensive cards is fine.
Is this one the Ukrainians? Or the Doukhobors? Or the Irish?
No, wait – this one’s the Chinese. Apparently we are about to hit the Year Of The Pig.
Ah, good old Chinese. They have the right idea. Declare a new year that is named after something you can eat. Pig, rabbit, rooster, snake, etc. Not so sure I fancy rat or dragon, but someone somewhere is tossing them in flour and heating a wok. In any case it makes a very practical way to characterise a celebration.
Not so the various UN and other intellectual organisations who declare Years Of The Fashionably Oppressed or Years Of The Ousted Government. If they were to declare the Year Of Paying Their Rent or Year Of Removing Tribal Leaders As Presidents For Life it might lead to more celebrations. If they could persuade the Chinese to declare a Year Of Eating The Presidents For Life they might get somewhere…but you’d need an awful lot of hoi sin sauce…
I shall avoid the dragons and the drums this year, but not the buffet. I may not be a good chopstick eater but I can manage some dishes without flinging chunks past the other diners or stabbing myself in the eye. I shall throw salad at the ceiling, however…
Ladies and Gentlemen,
The Court of Christmas Justice would like to welcome you to this afternoon’s execution. We have prepared a criminal for you and will be dispatching him shortly in a spectacular manner.. But let us give you some of he details of his crime before the headsman takes over.
As you know, today is Christmas Day – a festival day dedicated to kindness and good will towards all. It is also a time when good things are eaten and drunk, often to excess. Boxing day sees many a floor being vigorously scrubbed. There are traditional foods and drinks that bring happiness to all – and one of them is plum pudding with brandy sauce.
Now no-one would accuse the well-known hotel of being stingy with their celebration – they put on a magnificent buffet within their main ballroom and made sure that there was enough wine, beer, soft drink, and other goodies to fill all. There was music, Santa, attentive staff, and an atmosphere of jollity. Indeed, their dessert line was as long and as replete as anyone could ask for. And they essayed plum pudding with sauce.
I suppose we should have taken warning from the sign that referred to the beige liquid next to the pudding as ” Sauce Anaglise “… It may well have been. I have never visited Anaglise but they may slurp this stuff from tureens. The awkward part is that someone may have thought it to be brandy sauce as the English like it.
The English are a sturdy race. I admire them for this. They can stand a great deal of fire. And they like brandy sauce for their plum pudding that needs to be served with care. They are wise people.
The beige liquid, on the other hand, resembled something that you would normally consult a colour chart for. Come to think of it, a good semi-matte indoor emulsion would probably have tasted better. One would have been prepared to put on two coats.
As it is, we have determined which chef made the sauce and he is waiting in the tumbril for his march up the stairs. Those of you in the front rows may wish to cover your plates when the time comes in case he splashes. It is not so much the fear of blood as the horror of beige liquid.