Television

Television

When I was a kid we didn’t have one. The kid next door did and although he was a right little prick, he was everybody’s friend when ‘Popeye’ and ‘The Road Runner’ were on.

One day, I came home from school and we had one sitting in a corner of the living room, it had a 14 inch screen and was black and white. We had a choice of two channels and it had a round knobby thing that you used to swap between them. I wasn’t allowed to touch it and decided there and then that I didn’t like the bastards anyway.

When I was at Uni, I don’t recall if we had one in the share house, if we did, I very rarely watched it. We did have one in the Students Union, it was in a smallish room, that was usually deserted, apart from a few sad sacks.

However, once a week it was heaving with bodies, crammed in watching ‘Top of the Pops’. With Flick Colby’s scantily clad dancers leaping around, to the weeks hits, when the artists weren’t around to lip-sync. It’s amazing that I can remember her name, forty years later, but I can scarcely remember my own. TotP was followed by Monty Python, need I say more?

When I was in South Africa 1971-1973, they were amazingly civilised and didn’t have TV, which was a blessing. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things they didn’t have, Playboy was banned, along with nudity in general. In case the Boer’s lust was inflamed by the sight of naked tits. They might have forgotten to go to the NGK and learned the Old Testament by heart, in the original Afrikaaner Tongue. Didn’t know that God was an Afrikaaner, I bet! Did you eh?

After that I went to Australia where they did have TV, it might even have been in colour and they certainly had nudity. Not that it induced me to watch it, I belong to the school of thought that ‘If you’ve seen one tit, you’ve seen ‘em both’ and what’s the point of looking at them anyway?

As a family, at the last count (yesterday), we had six of them, TV’s that is. (It could be more now, the suckers breed like cane toads). They all have different remote controls and what makes it worse they are con-joined with other things like VCR’s, CD players, surround-sound speakers, toasters, karaokes, souffle-makers, games players etc. and each of them has a remote control.

If you look at the back of a typical TV, you’ll see more cabling than Mission Control in Houston. So things have turned full circle, instead of my parents banning me from touching the damn things. As a parent I’ve banned myself from touching them, in case I blow the souffle-maker to smithereeens.

So that’s it as far as I’m concerned. There are some good shows on, but they are so riddled with adverts, or on the stations where ads are banned, promo’s for upcoming shite, repeated ad nauseam, that they become unwatchable.

Cheers,

SkyBlueSkull

Moving Furniture

Moving Furniture

I am not talking here about furniture moving around of, or should that be on, it’s own volition a la supernatural, involving poltergeists and their ilk. No! what this ramble is about is far more prosaic, what I’m on about here is Furniture Removalists.

There are not too many people around who actually like uprooting themselves (which is a bit different from rooting themselves up, or up rooting other people, both of which can be highly enjoyable!) and moving from one location to another.

Some people try to do it themselves with varying degrees of success. Get the boys around and pile all the furniture into utes/trailers/boots etc. and make numerous trips across the City and back while the Missus packs all her valuables and breakables into a variety of cardboard boxes that she purloined from the local supermarket.

After a couple of trips, the boys get a bit thirsty and break open one of the slabs of beer, bought as payment for their endeavours and then things start getting interesting. The end result is usually a complete shambles and cries of “Never again”.

One of the other cheap alternatives is to hire a couple of blokes with a truck, they don’t actually call themselves ‘Dodgy Brothers’ but they really should. This happened to us last time we moved, we called in the Bros. and they turned up. One of them had his right arm in plaster, which should have set off the alarm bells.

As an ex-Removalist myself (which I will go into in some detail later) I had already packed everything away properly, in the recommended boxes and my wife had suitably marked them. It was just a question of loading the boxes and larger pieces of furniture into the van and taking off across town.

Easier said than done, after the guy with the broken arm had managed to scratch my Wife’s precious dining table on the way down the steps, (I forgot to mention that it was a flat on the first floor). The driver jumped into the cab of the truck and tried to start the engine. No go! the silly bastard had left his lights on and the battery was as flat as a cow pat.

Not only that, but he had parked between the flats and a a fence, so it was impossible to ‘jump-start’ the engine. Nice situation!!!. I ended up calling my office mates, luckily we were only a three minute drive away, so they came down in their coffee break.

The truck was, of course, parked in a big rut and half full, thus making it harder to push. Me, the guy with the broken arm, four office mates and even the missus, started pushing. The idiot whose fault it was, sat comfortably in the cab, giving commands.

This could have been a very silly thing to do, as at least two of my mates were on the verge of dragging him from his cab and beating seven colours of shit out of him. Luckily for him, just before this occurred, the truck finally lurched out of the rut. Once we had a bit of momentum, it was a piece of the proverbial to push it into the street.

After that it was fairly uneventful, we arrived at our destination, got the truck unloaded and everything stacked inside. The missus being a good hearted soul asked me if we should give them a tip for a job well done. I won’t give you my reply, I’ll leave it to your own imagination.

Cheers,

SkyBlueSkull

Ologists

OLOGISTS

This year I’ve been to see so many ‘Ologists’ that I’m thinking of becoming one, I think I’ve got the experience, if not the qualifications.

So far I’ve seen a Gastroenterologist (liver), various Pathologists (blood), I’ve given so much that they’ve attached a faucet to my little finger, to save time. A heap of Radiologists for scans, Ultra (knee, calf, liver, eye and carotid) X-Ray (wrist, knee and ankle) CAT (liver) and MRI (knee).

I’ve seen an Opthalmologist (eyes) a Rheumatologist (Fair dinkum! knee). Dentologists (aka Dentists, on several occasions) and a General Practitionologist, so many times we’re thinking of getting engaged.

I’m getting a trifle pissed off by now, so I could become a Urologist. It really is starting to give me the shits, so maybe a Proctologist. There again, it’s really making me barking mad, so I may become a Psychologist before I turn into a Psychopathologist.

See you at the Gerontologist,

Cheers,

SkyBlueSkull

A Melbourne Fable

A Fable :- The Great Melbourne Race

Once upon a time down in Dingley Dell, the Melbourne racing fraternity organised a race between a young Wombat, a middle-aged Leopard and a famous 3 y/o Stallion (who shall remain nameless, as the race was strictly not exactly legal). The race was to be run over half a mile and the winner was to get a first class, all expenses paid trip for two, flying by Qantas to Kentucky to race in the famous Derby.

A large crowd assembled and the SP bookies (the only ones there) had the Stallion at 2 to 1, the Leopard (which, to be honest, was a bit past his best) at 3 to 1 and the Wombat at 100 to 1. The competitors lined up in the ‘barriers’. The starter fired his gun to signal the start and the three competitors competed. The horse was used to this sort of thing and leapt out of the starting gate and galloped away.

The firing of the starters gun, confused the Leopard somewhat, but finding himself unwounded, he leapt after the horse in a determined manner. The Wombat was also a tad confused, due to myopia, but regardless of popular conceptions, they are rather nippy critters (to quote popular literature, “for a fat man, he was remarkably light on his feet”) and he galloped down the straight, following the dim shapes of the other two.

The Leopard caught up with the Stallion at the quarter mile post, but then things went astray, forgetting about the race, his natural instincts took over. He leapt onto the horse raking it’s flanks with his claws and severed the Stallion’s jugular vein with his incisors and then proceeded to devour the carcass.

A few minutes later the Wombat jogged past and although they are omnivores, the Wombat decided to stick to his normal routine (eats, roots, shoots and leaves, much like most young Aussie males really!) and decided to forgo the roadkill and carry on with the race. Of course, as in all good fables, he crossed the finish line first and was greeted with adulation.

As a result of this, the Wombat was granted the Keys of the City of Melbourne and because it was a ‘Slow News Day’ (10,000 people were drowned in floods in Bangladesh, 140 innocents were slaughtered in riots in Teheran and Sarah Palin had been critically injured by a wounded moose whilst skinning it in Skagway, Ala). The Wombat appeared on the first page of the Herald Sun, with a photo of Eddie Maguire and detailed coverage on pages 2-7.

Well that’s the end of the fable really, but before we get to the moral, we should really learn the consequences of this ill-fated story.

The Leopard was banned from all further sporting events in Australia for ‘Unsportsmanlike Behaviour’ and was deported back to Africa via Christmas Island, where incidentally, he devoured a substantial number of illegal reffo’s. When he eventually arrived back in Kenya, he expired from diseases related to extreme obesity and swine flu, very shortly afterwards.

The Stallion’s remains were taken to a local knackers yard and the blood and bones were used to fertilize the roses at the Flemington Racecourse for the Spring Carnival. It was later reported that the roses were the best in living memory!

In the meantime, the Wombat and his wife went to the Airport and upon seeing that they were about to embark on a plane with a ‘Flying Kangaroo’ on it’s tail. Well! what could they do? They both knew that while Roos seem to fly over the ground, they actually bound, hop and leap. Neither of them particularly fancied bounding, hopping and leaping all the way to Kentucky.

Whatever! They declined the flight offer and went back to the Dandenong Ranges and brought up several broods of little wombatties and lived happily ever after.

The Morals of this little fable? Well! there are so many, you can take your pick. How about ‘There is no such thing as a certainty in gambling’, or ‘You can’t teach a spotty thing new tricks’, or ‘If you want news, don’t read the Herald Sun’ or perhaps ‘You can take a wombat to Qantas, but you can’t make either of them fly’.

Cheers for now,

SkyBlueSkull.

Even more about dogs

More about dogs

I’ve just been to the pet shop attached to my Vet’s place. I went there because I’m getting a tad pissed off with my 6 month old Border Collie dragging me around the streets and parks of Sunshine. It hasn’t really been the arm wrenching tugs, where the little bastard has either taken off at high speed, or dug his heels in to smell something interesting, when I am still being propelled forward.

Nah! What has really been giving me the screaming irrits, is his habit of running between my legs and then ‘playfully’ grabbing the leash (not my personal dangly ‘leash’, I hasten to add.) with his teeth and then performing gym-nasties, leaping hither and yon, with tail and legs akimbo, whilst running back and fro between my own unsteady pins.

The guy at the pet shop was aghast, when I suggested getting a metal leash. No! he said “What you need is a leather leash, and to discourage the little bastard from biting it, rub in ‘Deep Heat’ (which is an ointment used to relieve rheumatic pains and stinks worse than a strapping Jock’s, jockstrap). No self-respecting dog will bite on that, he said.

Whilst I was there with the dog and my son, he also showed us a ‘Clicker”, the idea behind this little doodad, is that you ‘Click’ and give the canine a treat, like half a sheep. The mutt will then associate ‘Clicking’ with large portions of cooked ovines.

He also showed us a ‘Treat-Ball’, this is a rather nifty idea, where you stick dry dog food (It wouldn’t work with corn flakes, so don’t buy one for your kid’s, although it could work with ‘Rice Krispies’, don’t tell anybody I told you!).

With this little sod, you poke ‘kibble’ in through a hole in the ball and then make the hole smaller and give it to the pooch. The hound then chases it around for hours on end, snaffling up dry crap, as it dribbles out.

Here’s a little ditty that I came across on the LiveIreland website, which is well worth a visit.

THE DOG’S ARSEHOLES

The dogs they had a party
they came from near and far
and some dogs came by aeroplane
and some by motorcar

They went into the lobby
and signed the visitors book
and each dog hung his arsehole
upon a separate hook

One dog was not invited
and this aroused his ire
he went into the lobby and loudly shouted “FIRE!!!”

The dogs got so excited,
they had no time to look
and each one took an arsehole
from the nearest hook

Now, its a sad, sad story
for it is very sore
to wear another ones arsehole
that you’ve never worn before

So this is why when dogs meet
by land or sea or foam
each sniffs the other ones arsehole,
in hope it is his own...

written by Matt McGinn of Glasgow.

I shall leave you with that thought.

Cheers for now,

SkyBlueSkull

My time in Taiwan (continued)

The next morning I set out to explore a bit more and feeling a little peckish again, I looked for a cafe or restaurant. I saw a few places but because of the lack of English signs, decided against them until I came across a place with little plaster-cast models of different dishes in the window. Steak, Crab, Noodles and Rice and suchlike.

My first thought was that this could not possibly be a Ladies Hairdressing Salon and so I entered the establishment and attempted to converse with the very attractive young waitress in English. To no avail, I took her to the window display and pointed out something that looked like bacon and eggs. She smiled and we went back to the menu and she pointed at something, I smiled and nodded agreement.

When it arrived on my table, it was not remotely bacon and eggs but some sort of a beef noodly dish, which was very tasty, so I made a mental note to remember where I had pointed on the menu and paid and left, giving the waitress what I thought was a reasonable tip.

I returned to the same restaurant the next day and pointed at the menu at the same place and a different waitress looked at me quizzically and brought me a sort of omelette dish, this was still quite tasty, so I paid up with a reasonable tip and left.

The third day I went back and did the same thing and ended up with a fish soup. To this day I have no idea what I was pointing at on that menu. It could have been “A service charge of 10% applies in this restaurant” or “ No shoes, No shirt, No service” or “Please do not bring pets in here as they may be served up to the next customer”. After that I stayed with the “Golden Arches”. It may be plastic on plastic with a serve of plastic fries, but at least you know what plastic you’re ordering.

I decided to go down the coastal road on the east side of the island by bus and ended up at a resort near the start of the ‘East-West Highway’. I was sitting in a cafe enjoying a beer, when I was approached by a middle-aged guy who asked me in English if he could join me.

By this stage I was delighted to even hear English, so of course I said yes. He also had a younger friend who joined us, they were both trying out their conversational English. The elder of the two was a bio-ceramacist (don’t ask me what they do, something about artificial bones) who had studied and taught in the US and the younger one (who didn’t speak very much) was one of his students.

This guy was incredible, his English was a tad rusty, but almost perfect (as was probably, his Japanese and no doubt his Mandarin and Cantonese) and he was extremely well read. I asked him why Taiwan, which is such a beautiful country didn’t try to attract more Western tourists and he said that it was far better to get the Japanese tourists. The Japanese were widely understood, spent more money and were far more generous than the Westerners, so what was the point.

I also asked him why there was not far more animosity against the Japanese for them invading Taiwan, he just shrugged and said why don’t the majority of Japanese hate the Americans? Good point! I also asked him if there were any physical differences between the two races and he said not really, some Chinese can pass for Japanese and vice versa, although he may have been polite and tactful in saying that.

I spent a great couple of hours with them and learned more about Taiwan in that time than the rest of my time over there. I should have stayed in touch, but unfortunately I lost his card. From there I took a coach over the East-West Highway and it is a very impressive piece of civil engineering, with some incredible tunnels through mountains and bridges over valleys.

It was originally built for the military to get men and materiel from one side of the island to the other, in case of an attack by the sneaky Red Devils from the mainland. I would also imagine that the mountains are riddled with tunnels and caves concealing all sorts of delightful weaponry, but this is pure conjecture. From a tourist point of view Taiwan is worth visiting for that journey alone.

Cheers for now,

SkyBlueSkull

My own recollections of Taiwan in the '80's

To get back to Taiwan in the mid 80’s. I can’t quite remember why I decided to go there, it definitely wasn’t (and probably still isn’t) a popular tourist destination for Australians, Americans or Europeans. I think I was looking for a place a bit off the beaten track and I must have read something about it in the ‘Travel Section’ of one of the newspapers.

Whatever, I decided to go over there and have a quick shufty for myself, so I took off on an airline (I can’t remember which one, probably Cathay Pacific). After an uneventful flight, which was probably punctuated with a fair few alcoholic beverages, as was normal in those halcyon days of yore, I landed at the airport in Taipei.

I was transported to a hotel by a non-English speaking taxi driver and handed over a Taiwanese Shekel? or somesuch and he gave me a handful of different sized Taiwanese Centavos?. Being a very sceptical person regarding taxi-drivers in general and airport taxi-drivers in particular. I took him to the reception desk and asked the receptionist, if this lying bastard was trying to rip me off.

Unfortunately, the receptionist was equally as unreceptive as far as the English language went, but managed to convey the fact that they were in the process of changing from large coins to smaller coins and that some of the smaller coins were in fact worth more than the larger ones, even though they were made of the same stuff (In Australia most of the little ones are made of gold stuff and are worth more than bigger silvery ones).

As there were no Roman Numerals on the coins, this made life difficult during my time there and I had to rely upon the honesty of the good folks of Taiwan. Which is not a very reliable assumption of any nationality and I am not casting any aspersions on the Taiwanese.

After parking my bag and having a quick shower, I went back to the reception desk and managed to make it understood that I desired something to eat. She signalled that I could take a taxi, but once bitten, I decided to go out for a walk and check the place out, figuring that I could just do the usual and find a bar somewhere and have a packet of peanuts if necessary.

This proved easier said than done, this was early evening and already dark, so I approached the first place I came across with flashing neon lights and went in, to say that I was surprised to find that it was a ladies hairdressers would be an understatement. To find out that the next two places I approached turned out to be the same, was more than a trifle disconcerting. I appeared to have stumbled on the Ladies Hairdressing Centre of the Capital of Taiwan.

By this time, I had worked up a terrible thirst so I caught a taxi and indicated this in sign language. He took me to what may have been at that time the only street in Taipei that catered for western style drunks. I entered one such establishment and went to the bar, over which was a huge sign saying “IF YOU AIN’T A PILOT, YOU AIN’T SHIT”.

Being a bit of a grammatical pedant and not a pilot, I could only concur wholeheartedly with this sentiment. Seeing as the rest of the clientele appeared to consist of veterans of the ‘Flight over the Hump’ in the 1930’s. Or at the very least, from the Vietnam War, having ‘choppered’ innumerable Medevacs, I kept this observation to myself, (wisely, I thought at the time). Although I wasn’t totally accepted, I had a reasonable time and preferred it to being in a Ladies Hairdressing Salon.

Cheers for now,

SkyBlueSkull