Perhaps some middle ground?

Further to my experiences yesterday of professionals providing we punters with a littletoo much detail about the machinations of their responsibilities in theinterests of outstanding customer service, today we have an all-too-different approach on offer.

Now to be clear up front, today’s long haul flight is my first in many years which has not been with an Asian carrier, and this is my first time ever to have flown with Australia’s national carrier on any journey longer than a couple of hours, so the approach to customer service that is being displayed by the flight crew today may simply be a reflection of cultural diversity.

If one were to view the key to herding passengers on and off a plane and through the lengthy flight as being a customer service exercise best executed with a gentle, carrot and stick mentality, then one can clearly see from amongst the Southeast Asian carriers a pleasant, gentle, overly hospitable manner to coax people along, much as you might expect to experience when invited to share a meal in the home of a Thai or Vietnamese host.

This contrasts dramatically with our Australian hosts who are today dispensing with the carrot, grabbing the stick in two, muscular, tattooed sheep-shearer’s arms, and adopting a threatening stance while staring down any potential opposition with aggressively flared nostrils.  Today, we passengers are being subject to a high rotation of disgruntled, waspish directions from the ageing purser in her most condescending, School Marmish sneer;

“I would like to remind all passengers that the Captain has put the fasten seat belt light on and you are all to sit down immediately”, followed a couple of minutes later by an even more snidey,

“Passengers are again reminded to stop getting out of your seats”, and a few minutes later – thoroughly pissed now at the passenger body’s general affront to her authority,

“Right, now … for the safety of all the passengers you need to siddown and keep your seat belt on!”.

And then, in a final, exasperated attempt to address the insolence of the anarchic, seat-belt flaunting passengers throughout the cabin, our irritated purser must have gone to a higher authority.  The Captain’s voice crackled aggressively on the intercom,

“Ah it has been brought to my attention that passengers are not observing the fasten seat belt sign.  May I remind you that I control this vessel and it is not your decision to walk around the cabin … it’s mine!”.

Ha!  If there’s one thing that’s gonna drive this passenger to mile-high lawlessness, it’s a direct order from someone in self-imposed authority!  Two days; two customer service don’ts!  How ironic that Australia’s national carrier is currently in political hot water at home for sending all its maintenance services offshore to Asia; the exact place which would serve it well in terms of learning some improved approaches to customer service.

The purser on today's flight delivered a pretty good rendition of the embittered, angry school marm.  Pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/leahpraytor/5042543533/

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

Black-balled and black-handed

It’s a sad reflection of what blogging has become at the hands of Twitter, Facecrock and the like, that my blatant plea for sympathy and help at having to spend hours alone and bored in Canberra was met with silence and/or disinterest; gone are the days when such a post would have triggered a volley of replies from the blogosphere suggesting a visit to the National Museum, Questacon, some cute little bakery someone once visited on a school history trip, or at least a shopping expedition for porn in Fyshwick.  But these days, it’s nothin’, zilch, nada, bugger-all.  Absolutely no one is interested in appeasing cries for help … well, almost no one.

As it happens, someone was logging-in from Chile, and feisty volcano, Puyehue-Cordon Caulle has sent a massive, elemental vote of confidence in DonkeyBlogDroll’s hot air by matching with an appropriate-sized belch of stinking, sulphuric gas and ash, which has been sent Canberra-way such that the Nation’s capital will be shut down from noon, effectively cancelling Donkey’s roadshow schnore-fest.  Thanks Puyehue-Cordon, I’ll certainly be adding you to my Followers list.

So now I’m back to the office, trying to hide my filthy hands from my colleagues.  We all know what it is that causes teenage boys to develop hairy palms, but what of inky, black ones?

Years ago, my Tibetan staff took pity on a shivering Donkey when he arrived at the office on his first frigid, Tibetan winter morning, a pale, shuddering, snivelling mess.  My hands were pale, rigid claws, and after a good, guttural Tibetan chuckle, they took me to the market to buy some big, fluffy, black gloves.  Being a monumental tight-arse, I have hung onto those gloves for years, painstakingly patching-up the many holes which have formed in the seems such that I doubt any of the original stitching remains.

But despite my best efforts to keep these babies alive, even I must admit that it may be time to ditch ‘em in favour of preserving what remains of my relationship with my colleagues.  It is a fact of life in a Lhasa winter that your body goes through a good five months without producing a single drop of perspiration, and as such, my gloves were fantastic.  Not so in Melbourne, where five minutes on the bike has these fluffy mitts filling with fluid, causing the cheap, Chinese dye to leak an inky, black mess into my supple Donkey paws.  It is a complete mystery to me how such dye can so easily ooze from the garment for which it was meant, and yet be absolutely immovable from your skin, despite harsh, chemically-assisted scrubbing.

As if my hairy palms weren’t off-putting enough for the unsuspecting, new office colleague who might chance by to offer a friendly hello and an introduction, add to this sinister, black stains, and it’s no surprise my desk has been moved to the broom cupboard under the stairs.

Black-balled again.  Pic: http://magazines.multiplepage.com

Mind-numbing national capital

The midweek, Melbourne – Canberra run must be the biggest money-making scam this country has going; at best you might be lucky enough to snaffle a 1-way fare for about three-fitty, but in the main, you're looking at a blow-out of six-fitty and up.  I guess it's supply and demand; and charging exorbitant travel tabs to tax-payer [over-]funded execs and pollies may well be the only way to keep a fabricated city with no industry or self-sustaining infrastructure afloat.

The result of this feat of award-winning town planning is that Donkey, visiting our national capital next week for a one-and-half hour meeting, is looking down the barrel of having to kill 3 hours until after five just to escape the day within a reasonable budget.  What the hell am I going to do, other than sit in bland cafes fitted-out with generic office partitions, drinking disgusting brews at twice the price?  God Save the Governor General, indeed!

The title of this pic is "Painfully bored woman in cafe" – welcome to Canberra.  Pic: http://dailypic.co.uk

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

On the down-low

It’s that time of year again, and I am feeling low.  I know Melbourne winter is nothing like the perpetual darkness of, say, the London working week, nor as cold, but at this time of year, every year, I fall into the kind of funk that can’t even be overcome by the great working class escapes of beer and football.  It seems to have come early this year … I wish I could get outta here.

More coffee might help, but I am sure if I had a cardiologist, they’d be getting pretty worried about the extent to which I seek solace in that particular vice. 

More blogging might help a bit … if the fine writers out there hadn’t gotten completely over it all – why the nothing, people?  Does anyone know of anything good and reliable to read?

Urgh, I hate winter.

I hate the darkness, too.  Pic: http://www.chud.com

Man lovin'

As a final fling before Mrs D returns from her debauchery in Europe, I'm having the ironically-named Boarking over for a few beers and a night of oggling fit young men in tight shorts.

The last time I had a few lads over in Mrs D's absence I ended up getting plastered, chucking my guts up and then falling over in the bath room, cracking a couple of ribs and turning my left side a wonderful shade of puce (rather appropriately, given the title of this post).

So clearly I can't be trusted around alcohol and men when my main squeeze is away.  Who knows what'll happen tonight before half time? He is a good looking man, after all ... for an old bloke.

If only Warrick was on the tube as well ... oooooh pinch me!  Pic: http://www.afl.com.au

Now for today's puff news piece

I can always rely on China to haul me out of a writer's block.  Further to my recent remarks about the poor status of animal welfare at the Adelaide Zoo, this report in today's The Age is completely outrageous!

There is just so much wrong with this article that I dunno where to start; a zoo (being an institution supposedly in the business of protecting the lives of animals) breeding a tiger and a lion ... for what reason?  Or were they just locked-up in the same cage together? 

Then there's the mother abandoning the cubs (which under the circumstances is probably completely natural, even though the in-depth analysis from the reporter attributed this outcome to "unknown reasons"), resulting in two of them dying of weakness [presumably from malnutrition/starvation].  Sure, this sort of thing would happen in the wild, but isn't there supposed to be supervisory care of animals in zoos?  Surely the zoo staff would be tasked with paying extra special attention to newborn cubs?

And then there's the statement, "...zoo staff found a dog ... to feed the surviving cubs".  Ah geez.  Pretty lucky to have that dog hanging around – and she looks so impressed in the photo, too.  What sort of outfit is this?

There's so much more going on with this story than has been articulated in this three sentence grab.  I don't know who I am more angry with, a Government which treats its caged animals only slightly better than many of its citizens, or The Age, for spewing out this regurgitated, Chinese propoganda. 

And don't be blaming all this on on-line content killing the print media – I paid the full $1.70 for the print version, and that's where the story was!  Grrrr.

This poor girl's eyes are as dead as my faith in the international community to support both human and animal rights in China.  Pic: http://www.theage.com.au

Cracking the Mousey Browns

So we're just sitting here watching the box the other night and out of the corner of my eye, I see a farking mouse!  Well, I'm hoping it's a mouse and not a rat ... but Fark!  A Farking mouse!

Now I don't wanna say I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I have managed to get through the first 36 years of my life without having had to deal with mice!  Sure, I've had possums, snakes, massive cockroaches and ridiculous, steal-your-baby-sized tropical spiders ... but never mice!

Makes me feel like I've failed 'cause my place is now so dirty that vermin wanna live here.  Gross man.  It's always the way; you finally give-in and get a cleaner every 2 weeks 'cause you don't have tome to live and clean, so instead of actually cleaning  a bit here and there every few days, you do absolutely nothing and let the place turn into a cesspit for 2 weeks until the cleaner comes, just so that you get your money's worth ... well, that's what we do, anyway.

So my first step in 'Operation Eliminate Jerry' was to ignore it all and hope it went away.  The next day, I find the end of an open banana gone.  Mr Belfast tells me that traps work, and that yes, they really do go for cheese, so against all my innate, animal rights sensibilities, I went and bought some traps and set 'em up with cheese.

The next day, the bastards had eaten through a plum, another banana-end and a tomato (which they carried half-way across the room in a parody of one of those old-school Disney, ants-at-the-picnic cartoons.  The cheese was untouched.

So I bite the bullet and decide that if they don't like cheese, but they eat bananas and tomatoes, I'll set the traps with that.  I also vacuumed the Begeezus out of the space behind the oven.  Since then, nothing on the traps has been touched, so I'm tipping they're either US Military-prototype Cyborg Mice with enhanced intelligence, or they've farked-off somewhere else.

Not sure which I'd prefer.  But I still feel dirty.

Cute, my arse!  This little, smug bastard was the nastiest piece of work going.  That big, fat, black lady in the stripey socks just couldn't ever see it.  Pic: http://4photos.net

Give me strength

Hit the 'Next Blog' button and odds are you'll end up staring at one of the following;

1. Horses and dressage,

2. Gay sex tourists in Asia,

3. US-based Eastern European immigrants showcasing a series of big-breasted sports models, or

4. A new mother coming to terms with full-time parenting, and sharing her new little bundle's daily developmental milestones with the world.

Now I don't know much about what options 1-3 mean in real-time, but I can tell you that after only 3 days of single-parenting, I can't for the life of me work out how these new Mums have enough energy to blog.  I'm knackered!  And I've still got 2 weeks to go!

Surely gay, Asian, big-breasted horses with plaited tails would be an easier option than this?

Just wait 'till your MOTHER get home, Young Man!  Pic: http://www.flyfmkingston.com

Editorialising

Partly because I am so high brow and intellectual, but mostly ‘cause it’s the only channel on the TV here, I’ve been watching a lot of BBC World News lately.  I’ve noticed that in the midst of the hard hitting analysis and commentary, a lot of the reporters try to editorialise, and show a bit of flare, but with only very rare success.

For example one reporter, in describing the Libyan rebels’ brave stance against Gaddafi’s ruthless military juggernaut, said “…despite the sporadic mobilisation and apparent lack of discipline amongst the rebels, the militia leaders assure NATO that their forces are indeed well organised.  From here at the front line, however, one could only describe their position as organised chaos”.  Hmm, pithy - not bad, I suppose.

Or how about this, “for now, the world is asking, is there a cure for the US’ Afghanistan headache?”, lame!

And tonight, this one nit wit described Gaddafi at one of his recent, rare press appearances as wearing “his trade mark dark glasses”.  Hmm … trade mark?  “Distinctive”, I’ll give you, but surely if Muammar Gaddafi’s got a trade mark, it’s more in the line of political and military obstinacy and ruthless, blood-thirsty butchering and maiming of innocent civilians.

If you’re going to free-style it off the auto-cue, BBC World, at least have a go at keeping things on the straight and narrow as you fall over yourselves trying to let fly with the witty one-liners.

TM

Pic: http://www.thewashingtonnote.com

Sold Out

The worm has turned for Donkey … I have completely sold out and am now ‘one of them’.

Back in the day … back when I was a REAL development worker, I wouldn’t have been seen dead in Honiara’s Lime Lounge.  Every location in the developing world where you’ll find a collection of two or more expatriates will have one of these joints.  The coffee is bad, the food is bad, the staff are hopelessly slow and the clientele suck, but it’s the only coffee in town, the only place you can get a BLT and, if you’re that way inclined, the only place you can scoff down a [relatively] fresh piece of chocolate cake.

Sounds alright, doesn’t it?  The only thing that I’ve failed to mention is that the only dark faces in the room are behind the counter, and the cost of a cup of the afore-mentioned muddy water is about three times their hourly wage.

But times’s changed, and I’m moving up the slippery ladder of self-importance, so I’ve been in here everyday, scoffing disgusting, greasy food and closing my eyes as I French-kiss my coffee cup in an attempt to remember the special relationship I enjoy with my espresso machine at home.  Actually, I’d rather not be here, but it’s the only way I can access email while I’m here in the Sols, so they’ve got me.

Is it so bad after all?  Well, let’s see.  Opposite me on this Wednesday morning at 11.30 are three young, bored looking Australian women, by the appearance of them, partners of blokes who are working here.  Each of them are completely done-up to the nines; short, black cocktail dresses, 4 inch heels, immaculate hair and painted nails.  Screaming with laughter as they ostentatiously blow their cigarette smoke around the sealed room.  And I should mention, they were here yesterday … and the day before … and the day before.

Over the other side are three very fat, wispy-white-haired, ruddy-faced consultants (I know this cause they are wearing fawn-coloured pants and a shombre shirts).  They are making lude remarks to the waitress who is smiling apprehensively at their errant hands.

At the counter is standing an angry, grey-haired, middle-aged woman – a kiwi – abusing the staff as she demands her coffee which she claims she’s been waiting ages for.

And it goes on … Looks like I’ve finally made it to the big time; I’ve found my people … and my place.

The Stairway to [Development] Heaven.  Pic: http://www.geckogo.com/Guide/Solomon-Islands/Honiara/

Might is Power?

There’s been quite a bit of a comment in the Australian media of late concerning the Australian Government’s “intervention” to arrest rampant child abuse and community dysfunction amongst indigenous communities in the Northern Territory through the deployment of a military and civil police force to remote communities to round-up suspects and limit misuse of government support pensions to households.

The Intervention, initiated by the Howard Liberal Government, and subsequently continued by both the Rudd and Gillard Labor Governments has polarised both the indigenous and wider Australian community, with as many advocates and commentators from both groups lauding the “something had to be done” approach, as those outraged by the blatant infringements on the civil rights of indigenous Australians.

The Intervention was modelled precisely on the Australian-led, Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI), which was sent-in back in 2003 to restore law and order, and kick-start reform towards self-governance in the civil war-torn country.  The Intervention in the Northern Territory employed the same military tactics, the same infrastructure, the same logistics operators and even the same Military Commander to oversee its initial implementation, and like here in Solomon Islands, the Intervention is still in place, some four years later.

Whether you agree that a 600-strong military intervention to subdue a ragged collection of presumably unarmed Australian citizens was the right way to go or not, one would have to question what the impact of whole troops of white guys with guns barging-in on their community will have on the mentality of the young kids who will grow to become the leaders of those communities.

Here in Solomons, a visit to the only DVD store in town will demonstrate hoards of young people selecting their favourite entertainment option from a limited range of genres comprising “Action”, “Martial Arts”, Kick-boxing”, “War”, “Westerns” and “Horror”.

The same images glorifying war and violence amongst young people can be seen all over their school books, behind bus seats and on public walls all over the city; the fully-armed, equipped, cruelly calculating Melanesian Super-soldier (see pic).

Military might may be useful in creating a dramatic halt to actual violence, but has the unintended consequence of portraying the lesson of that ‘Might is Power’; a potentially dangerous lesson in a setting where young people are likely to grow-up with limited economic and employment opportunities.  I wonder whether this is good for our country as well.

These images appear all over Honiara.  This one beneath a bridge.  Pic: Hagas

Driving Blind

Sheesh!  S’been a wild and crazy week; work, drink coffee, eat, work, drink coffee, little bit of sleep, drink coffee, work, drink coffee, work, eat, work, little bit of sleep … am completely knackered but have that wonderful sense of happiness and fulfilment that being in the Islands gives you.

Have also got some fun little observations for you over the next few days, but for now, until I get some shut-eye, this will have to do.

Given how much of my everyday schedule involves wistful sighs as I reminisce about the things I miss most from my years in the Pacific, it always comes as a surprise when I arrive back on-island and am reminded of something which is so typically Melanesian, and which I always marvelled at before, but which has completely slipped from my awareness until I see it again.

Case in point was what struck me after striding purposefully out of the arrivals hall on Monday, past all the confused, first-timers staring wild-eyed and paralysed with fear at the menacing-looking savages which they imagine are and drooling over their succulent hambones .  I smugly head straight for the taxi stand, and even just the 20 metre walk through the oppressive heat has me dripping by the time I collapse into the front seat, to the welcome, air conditioned darkness … hang-on, darkness?

As a taxi passenger in the Solomons, one doesn’t have to travel much further than a kilometre or so before one’s neck starts to develop a permanent, aching stoop.  This is a result of the DIY window tinting that adorns every taxi here, and which almost completely blacks-out the windscreen, apart from a narrow, horizontal strip across the lower 1/3 – the cause of my acquired, tropical upper spinal kyphosis.

Now I can appreciate that a taxi driver’s complete privacy is conducive to receiving blow-jobs in the front seat during quiet moments at the taxi stand, but surely being able to see out the window is somewhat of an occupational requirement, and a greater priority for the sustainable economic development of the taxi driver and his family?

It’s good to be back!

Admittedly Solomon Islands is not the only country I’ve visited where the transport workers aren’t as alert as they should be.  Pic:  http://tomstock.photoshelter.com

Coming Home

Tomorrow I’m off to the Solomon Islands; first time back in over five years, and although the homesickness has eased a bit since, sobbing with grief and anguish, I wrote this all those years ago while I sat uselessly at my desk with absolutely nothing to do inside Saving the World HQ, I find myself very, very excited to be returning to good ol’ Honky Town.

Ah yes, Honiara.  Where the smelly crowds jostle you along the crumbling pavements towards filthy, rat-infested, sparsely stocked supermarkets, and where over-crowded, clapped-out minivans which serve as buses pull-up and disgorge their hopelessly poor passengers beside to fat-and-fed expats lining-up outside the best (although absolutely over-priced and atrocious) café in town for their third coffee and bacon sandwich of the day.

I can’t wait to be amongst it all again … to listen to the conversations, swelter in the heart and the dust, and to wander beneath the shady, swaying branches of Hibiscus Avenue to escape the midday sun.

Why wouldn't you wanna be there?  Pic: Hagas

League of Unimpressive Gentlemen

I'm sitting here watching this Q&A special on Australia's relationship with the Monarchy.  Right now, I've heard just about enough from Amanda Vanstone who has to be one of the least impressive individuals of all time.

Apart from her horrid, priggish performance as the Howard Government's Minister for Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs, I am reliably informed by my good friend Judi (not her real name), that Ms Vanstone spent every day of her post-Parliamentary 'fall-job' as Australia's Ambassador to Italy, scoffing spag bog in a backstreet Roman trattoria.  Judi, who stumbled across the classy, but admittedly unassuming diner was alerted to Ms Vanstone's culinary habits by the over-sized Australian flag and signed coat of arms hanging on the wall (not, she informs me, by the broken chairs), and was informed by the waiting staff that Her Excellency did not once miss lunch while in-country during her tenure.

By the looks of Ms Vanstone this evening, I would offer that she might not have missed breakfast, morning tea, dinner nor supper, either.

Oh, but Vanstone's not nearly as unimpressive as Angela Bishop – Kar-aest Almighty, won't she just have oh-so-much to recommend her contribution to humanity when she reaches those Pearly Gates!

Australia's international ambassador for the promotion of spag bog.  Pic: http://nicholsoncartoons.com.au

City of Cull-cha

"So what kind of place is Adelaide, anyway?"

My friend, Mr Belfast tells me it's the serial killer capital of Australia.  Other reports make mention of bikie-dominated organised crime.  MasterChef would tell us it's all Asian gastro-culture, or young engineering students who also excel at the culinary arts.  And art itself seems to be a biggie for Adelaide as well; a thriving scene of galleries, live music and comedy.

But what strikes us as we come down off the Adelaide Hills to the flatlands and the coast?  A scary, black, hot-rod ute with male and female mannequin heads sticking up out of the covered tray, their faces set in frightened screams and their manacled feet hanging out the end.  An Australian flag flying above a surfboard bolted to the roof, and bumper stickers featuring skulls, bourbon and porn ... and this one gem which I particularly liked,

"The real forgotten race (White Australians)".

What kind of a place is Adelaide?  Serial killers, bikies, avant garde art installations and racism - I think this particular road user just about covers them all.  Lock yer doors, people!

Welcome to Adelaide, where the locals are real friendly.  Pic: http://www.sodahead.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

Ikea – it's Swedish for "Get me the f@rk outta here!"

The only thing worse than going to Ikea on a Saturday morning, is going to Ikea on a Saturday morning ... with a mission ... with a two year old!  Throw-in a red wine induced, slightly fluffy mental capacity, and needless to say my Saturday morning was like being in labour*.

It's hell!  One spends the first 20 minutes trying to drag Hambones through the one-way-maze of display lounge rooms (which not even a tradie named Sven would have been able to produce with Ikea products alone) in an attempt to get to the bed section before he goes completely bananas and rips one of the flat screen TV's off the flimsy, artificial walls.  But all your efforts are in vain as you dive to save some Swedish, faux designer vase which has been launched off a plush display couch by your talented offspring.  This, of course, releases him from your impatience- and alcohol-induced, rigor mortis grip, amd within a heartbeat, he's halfway up a towering stack of cheap wine glasses.

By the time we did make it to the beds, we were completely shagged and more or less passed-out on the Kings while the darling cherub disappears into the bathroom section to the crash and bang of falling implements. 

I've always known that Ikea on a Saturday morning was hell – it's because irresponsible, hungover parents with kids let their monsters go berserk ... now I get it.  Have a little sympathy, will ya?

Looks bad enough with a hangover – add to it a thousand screaming children, straight in from AusKick, and see how much your $3.99 Swedish meatballs are hardly suitable compensation.  Pic: http://thecuriositiesofacollegekid.blogspot.com

  

* I know, I know – I just throw it in there to get a reaction!