Vocational Training

Every job in the world has its perks … and its lurks; the butcher is a legally sanctioned killing machine who gets to walk around all day with a lethal weapon at his hip … but spends his days up to his nuts in guts; the baker makes tonnes of dough*, but is up at 1am and covered in flour; the candlestick maker does a roaring trade each year during Earth Hour … but has hands covered in burns; the primary school teacher get 38.4 weeks a year holiday … but those bloody kids; and the podiatrist gets around in a Maserati with a hooker on his lap … but suffers a daily ordeal of toe-jam and horny old nails.

Obviously, in business as in life, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and in order to enjoy the good, you have to put up with a bit of the bad.

Here in Vanuatu, the good is most certainly the fantastic climate, the laid-back pace, the wonderful people and the brilliant, sparkling sea, and understandably it is not uncommon for adventurous folk from places like Australia and New Zealand to move here and sign-up for an extended, working tropical holiday through managing small scale tourism businesses such as resorts and restaurants.

Over Easter, the Donkeys visited one such establishment where a young couple taking a break from a year or two on the backpacking trail, had recently arrived to service the needs of their fellow travellers, and at the same time, enjoy living on a stunning coastline in one of the world’s few remaining tropical coastal wildernesses.

But instead of being happy with the perks they enjoy every day, at three weeks, they are at each other’s (and their resort guests’) throats; he wanting to hang-out all afternoon with the young [and female] guests and she wanting to visit the local tourist sites because, as she would tell all within earshot, “it’s not fair.  I have been here for weeks and I never get to go anywhere”.

Every job has its perks, people … and its lurks.  The explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings aren’t free; you might also have to do some work, like stock the larders, fix things, clean things and look after guests.  One thing’s for sure, as someone who paid for my explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings, I was not entirely happy with the nagging lurk of a disgruntled and dysfunctional resort management. 

Still, life has a way of working itself out, and looking around at the haunted looks of my fellow guests every time one of these managers walked out onto the balcony, I have a feeling that they may soon find themselves enjoying far more ‘me time’ than they’d signed-up for.  It’s called hospitality for a reason … and it aint about you!

Bit of a mixed metaphor here, but the point is that even these guys suffer lurks in return for the perks of their jobs … and they don’t look to be complaining.  Pic:  http://www.robertabaird.com

*urgh – that was terrible

Scott Morrison; MP, racist … bully

Scott Morrison’s interview with the ABC’s chief politicalcorrespondent, Sabra Lane, this morning from Adelaide was an exercise in everything that is rotten about politics in Australia today.  The leaderless cancer eating away at the ranks of the ALP is so malignant that the Opposition knows well it need do absolutely nothing to get into power in September … nothing at all … not even needing to develop workable, articulate or costed policies.

This was certainly clear from a snarling Scott Morrison this morning whose aggression right from the go-get soon descended into paranoiac accusations of the ABC meddling in Coalition affairs, and eventually into outright bullying in his juvenile attempts to disguise the clear fact that the Coalition has not even attempted to cost what they are claiming they will do to ‘stop the boats’.

So it seems that Mr Morrison and his Coalition need not exercise any of the baby-kissing traits of conventional politics in the lead-up to this election.  They simply do not feel they need to be liked, and discernible, well-developed and articulated policies appear to be unnecessary also.

No one’s arguing that our current lot are doing very much for our best interests at present, but at least there is some compassion in the way they talk to and treat the electorate.  Not so Mr Morrison and his ilk.  I mourn the loss of humanity as a trait we value in our leaders.

Introducing the Coalition’s new media advisers.  Pic: http://csu301d.wordpress.com

Gen Y stinks

It's not as though anyone pretends to love catching the tram to work ... especially at this time of year.  I mean it's crowded, damp, cold; there's never a seat for you to park your weary butt after dragging it across city blocks in order to hook-up with the illogical tram routes, and people are generally rude and as grumpy as you.

As if all that's not bad enough, this morning I had to stand next to two young guys who I am pretty sure ... hang-on ... [sniff sniff] ... yeah, I'm sure they had both been rolling in poo.  I lifted my nose (now on auto-shutdown) over the top of my magazine, and dared to view the source of this funk, but on viewing these fragrant specimens, I could see no brown smears, nor any other visible sign of soiling on their outer garments.  But I could smell them ... perhaps not poo after all, but certainly a rather putrid mixture of cigarette smoke and the stale odour of unwashed bodies.

As I retched and searched around for a place to stand at the other end of the carriage, these two stinky youths started talking about a girl of their acquaintance, whom they supposed was "going to be there later", and who they were expecting would bring some of her friends, and, from their leering tone, these two were pretty certain they were going to see some action as a result

Whaaaaaah?

Now I've never pretended to be an attractive Donkey, but even back in the day, when I was even more pimply, whiney and awkward than I am now, I still went to a lot of trouble to make an effort, and one of the first things one learnt when one was trying to attract a mate, was that the reek of unwashed adolescent boy was almost certainly the first criteria on that massive list of rejectable pre-requisites that the Presentation Nuns used to instil in their young borders, right from Day 1 (I know what you're thinking, perhaps Donkey might have had a little more luck if he'd cast the net a bit wider than the local Catholic girls' school – but we'll deal with that another time).

But the point is, one made an effort ... if not to smell like the Celvin Klein counter at Myer, then at least not to reek like stale faecal matter.

Still, these young turds thought they were in with a chance, and from the sound of their conversation, they didn't appear to be complete strangers to the female flesh.  So was it the young Donkey who was wrong? – going by my track record, it's possible – or are young women these days into the stinky stuff?  Either way, Melbourne's unfortunate commuters ought not to have to eat the shit sandwich yet again, this time by being forcibly exposed to the offensive courting rituals of Gen Y.

"Yeah Dude, let's go get some action".  Pic : http://8mm16mmfilmscollectibles.com

Starrs in his eyes

Ringo sighs as he stares out across the street through the foggy murk.  He sucks deeply on his rolley and lets the burning air fill his lungs to near-bursting, enjoying the unbearable pressure before slowly exhaling.  The frigid, opaque air mirrors his dank mood; fifty years ago, he, George, Paul and John had been chased down this very sidewalk (admittedly in reverse order) by fifty screaming, lust-crazed nymphs in miniskirts, go-go boots and all gagging for some hardcore Mersey Beat.

Today, the odd passer-by neither recognises him, nor cares.  It's the last throw of the dice for Ringo; his solo career and hit-and-miss studio collaborations have not kept pace with the party scene he has well and truly over-stayed, and now he's back where it all started.  Back at the office of his Darren Lamb-type manager, begging for a job.  He's desperate; he'll take anything.  He flicks his butt into the mist, flips his collar up over his neck, and heads inside.

Ten minutes later, Ringo's sitting next to a wooden desk, doubled-over with his face in his hands, sobbing.  "This is really all you've got?  A children's TV series about a model train set is all you've got for Ringo Starr, one of the most famous musicians of all time?"

The tall manager nods somberly, "Afraid so".

He sighs, thinking of his maxed-out MasterCards.  "Alright, I'll take it".

Thomas throws Ringo a bone ... a very large bone, as it transpires.  Nine lives, Ringo.  Pic: http://ttte.wikia.com/wiki/Ringo_Starr