To the trenches!

The problem with being a bit of a foodie/boozie, is that one often encounters other people of this type, most of which are beyond fucking tedious. These people are generally avoidable, but sometimes, when you make the mistake of attending something food and/or wine education based, you find yourself knee deep in the fucking lot of ‘em. There seems to be quite a few types of this lot, and I’m sure despite my protests, we fit somewhere in the mix of all this, or perhaps we have our very own category, something like, ‘pretentious yet unwashed sloth’.

“Oh, this caviar is just divine!”

One of our house can be heard annunciating this whilst delicately holding – caressing if you will – an elegant long stemmed champagne flute filled with the finest offerings Yering Station has to offer… whilst sitting on a beyond filthy couch permanently stained with many an upturned curry over the years, in a pair of track pants, quite possibly about to give her crotch, or perhaps breasts a good scratch.

Of course, I lie. She’d never have said “Oh this caviar is just divine!”, it would be something far more straightforward;

“Try the caviar! It’s choice!”

Or perhaps, as is the style of our house in general;

“CAVIAR! OM NOM NOM NOMMA OM NOM NOM NOM!”


But enough about us, lets talk about them. Them being those other types that offend us merely by their very existence. After all, we’re nothing if not antisocial and socially scathing.

There’s your nice middle class types of course, who sit about and try to look oh so terribly dignified, yet still think of lasagne as one of those exotic, foreign, migrant delicacies. They probably drive a nice, sensible car like a Camry, but one that displays their elegance of their older years and symbols of slowly yet surely accumulated wealth. So, a Camry in the highest price bracket I guess. The one that comes with an extra shiny stripe on the side and some kind of special coating on the headlights to prevent excess glare should you find yourself driving through a waterfall at night, in the high-glare season (April through August, apparently). It also no doubt has several extra letters tacked onto the end of the model number. Maybe a C, or perhaps an X or an S. Or perhaps all three, indicating that they are indeed Sexy Cunts with Xylophones.

I never really understood the vehicle naming system. I don’t understand why every car/motorbike/thing with a motor attached generally has a sensible name (obviously I’m excluding any ever made by Ford here. Ford Focus? On what? The bits falling off the sides perhaps?) which people would use to describe it, however they always seem to have a ‘real’ name, some kind of combination of letters and numbers that only an unusually unbalanced code enthusiast should be able to remember. Motorbikes are particularly guilty of this, probably thanks to bizarre brand of people who ride the damned things.

"OH! You have the ‘91 FGB##19273Z, do you?"

I get asked this by random people on the street (motorbike enthusiasts generally feel that their comments are welcome material to anyone within fifty feet of a motorbike, or indeed a poster of a motorbike). My confused response is something along the lines of “Er. It is a hornet 600. It’s yellow!”, in the sheer hope they don’t ask me some inane question about spark plugs. WHICH THEY OFTEN DO.

But back to the topic at hand, which is of course not vehicle loving freaks, but food and wine appreciating types. There’s your general art wanker types - and we know how I feel about those people – but they can be alright once you get past the ‘oh, I work in the filum industry’ sentence being dropped every ten minutes or so. They seem to know their chardonnay from their Riesling; their puttanesca from their saltati; or indeed their easymac from their 2 minute noodles, if you will. This is a good thing. For this, I can forgive them their over inflated view of themselves in conjunction with the rest of the world. Unless there’s a particularly obnoxious one wearing an ‘ironic’ collection of popped collars.

A group Fandango and I recently encountered was one I’d managed to mostly avoid up until that particular point, and we are probably best to refer to them from here on in as ‘The Hiltons’. This is of course based on a delicately balanced combination of their attire, their respective fathers’ wealth, and their sheer fucking stupidity. They don’t seem to know what ordinary objects like lamps, kerosene, and good fucking taste are. Don’t suppose they need to either, I’m quite sure they’re the sort of people who keep a slave or twenty stashed in some kind of terribly illegal yet beautifully furnished underground concrete cell buried beneath the family botanical garden, or perhaps their very own museum - Of course tastefully filled with artefacts acquired from those darkies all those years ago when it was the expected norm for rich wankers to march around deserts sporting stupid hats and improbable moustaches sometime after daddy granted them an entire army of peasants to carry everything from the mahogany desk to the complete contents of the Prime Ministers office on their backs. There were of course other important duties too; like maintaining a roving stock of freshly prepared gin and tonics/mint juleps (I’ll trust you to alter the drink mentally as required, based on perceived adventuring location. In your head. Or, if you prefer, in your lunchbreak.). But, you know, just in case.

This particular type seem to eventually grow into the category known as the ‘entitled bitch’, the type of woman who can be seen with a permanent sneer on her sixty year old dial, and who is just generally dissatisfied with everything and every fucking person around her. I do not like these people, and as such completely disregard any funny notions they might have about tasting, learning, or indeed, breathing.

The final group that spring to mind as I sit here at my desk, all enraged at the stupidity of a particular someone encountered recently, is of course, the complete and utter nutjob. Someone who is probably single and in their thirties, and have turned all the failures in their life, the tragedies of not owning a house and having a loving partner and 3 children at the age of 25, into sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm about food and or wine. Usually food. They are compulsive note takers, and in their eagerness to learn EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING actually miss out on a lot of good advice imparted to them. Like that little memo about valium.

These people are insatiable, and tend to ruin everything good around them by being just so obsessive about something fairly insignificant. Was the flour milled in Italy? WAS THE FLOUR MILLED IN ITALY?! I NEED TO KNOW! Are the cries heard, falling piteously to the uncaring ears of those intending to source nothing other than a pack of blue bag white wings to complete their future baking tasks. Yet they need to know, and until they do, nothing will seep through their collective ears or eyes into their very brain. It’s a terrible disability, one which is generally deserving of a sound proof booth and quite possibly some kind of straight jacket. These are the kind of people who stock those insanely pedantic internet forums about the most trivial of topics. Like the sourcing of Peruvian sprinkles hand made by grain-fed peasants in a broom closet painted purple. The internet has probably been a very good development in the keeping them away from us department.

It just goes to show that in the hospitality industry, everybody loses. I just feel incredibly sorry for the poor staff, who try as they might have to deal with a rapid succession of total wankers just to pay their rent. I mean, the rest of have to do that too, but at least we have the internet. These guys have bogan shitheads with too much money insisting on tasting their port before their chardonnay, then have the audacity to complain about the chardonnay afterwards. Every time I see this happen, I see the pain and anguish in the face of the poor server, doing everything in their power not to bottle the bastards right there and then. I suspect they later sneak out a side door and let the air out of their tyres, cackling maniacally.

I think it’s only fair that come the revolution, we force them to hand over the endless cases of wine they don’t deserve, as well as all the top notch chefs they keep chained in the aforementioned concrete cell. Sure, we’ll have to let the chefs run free, but maybe they’ll make us a lovely feast as a reward for releasing them. We should appropriate their large expanses of lawn too, and dig them all up and make a fantastic veggie garden, stocking the most fantastic of heritage and heirloom fruit, vegetables and herbs. No more of this safeways single species ‘mushrooms’, ‘onions’, ‘tomatoes’ – we will have all the mushrooms! All the time! Varieties all vastly different in taste, texture and colour! We will also establish large and elaborate barbeques where we will cook the fish farmed in their endless lakes! And the tofu that we will grow on the… er, tofu plains! Yes, the glorious tofu plains! We’ll store the sheep in the ceilings and walls where they will double as insulation, and the horses on the rooves where they will loom more gloriously than any gargoyle ever hoped to achieve. Actually, we’ll put cows up there – I’m not sure I’m particularly inclined to eat horse.

Actually, fuck the revolution, they should hand it all over right now. All we need is a large trap, some fine cheese, and a number of prestige four wheel drives. Oh! And a butler named Jeeves!

To Toorak!

Paint my nails in a pasta bake.

The week before last, I spent quite some time agonising over a particular post I’d written but not yet published here. The following Saturday, now of course known as ‘Black Saturday’, as the temperature slowly climbed until it was perched somewhere over the 46 degree mark, my mouse hovered over the ‘Publish’ button. This was in between little trips out into the backyard to try and wrestle the portable gazebo over the kiddie pool into submission, while it was doing its best to fly off and terrorise the neighbourhood in the incredibly strong and oven-like northerly winds. Eventually, sated with deliciously refreshing and ice-filled cocktails courtesy of VG, I opted not to publish. It’s probably worth mentioning a lot of this was influenced by Mr Jones, who had threatened me with all kinds of verbal abuse should I publish this post a day or two before.

This turned out to be a very, very good thing, because just like delightful turns of phrase such as ‘Die in a fire’ have been shelved somewhat indefinitely from outside our household, so too would a long and whinging post about the weather in general, filled with self righteous indignation about my initial demands for some nice, frying days a few months back.

As the body count from the fires rose, so too did the number of status updates on Facebook from friends threatening all sorts of nasty things against journo’s who’d been demanding that summer turn up. I quietly kept my own status to myself, and thought Well, thank christ I’m not a journo then. Dodged that bullet! I felt a little bit guilty, but also knew full well that many of these people were just as guilty of wanting a nice warm summer as I was – and after all, there’s nothing wrong with wishing for a warm summer - if we’d been declaring we wanted several hundreds of kilometres of bushfire front, then I think that might have been a different situation.

Luckily for some, soon the whole notion of deliberately lit fires came into the public sphere, and quicker than you can say burning pitchforks, the villagers had a whole new, far more plausible and violence-worthy target. While I was all for conversations in pubs amounting to a list of what we’d like to do to someone who has deliberately lit on of these fires, it all got a whole lot more disturbing when the notion of an arsonist became less arbitrary and a whole lot more pinpointed to some guy the cops picked up in Gippsland.

Frankly, I can’t believe for a minute that someone of sound mind could light one of those fires and not feel tremendous remorse. I think that anyone picked up and actually found guilty on these charges probably needs some pretty significant psychiatric care. I also tend to think that anyone who believes that bashing the shit out of anyone who may or may not be an arsonist, in a summer where we’ve had record heatwaves, uncleared bush, poorly maintained infrastructure such as powerlines, and a total reliance on volunteer firefighting forces, is fucking kidding themselves if they think that would solve this problem – that this would undo all the damage done.

I can’t imagine any chance in hell of this guy getting a fair trial in Victoria, let alone the rest of the country. The image of this one arson fire of many fires alone – a fire that met up with a bunch of ‘naturally’ sparked fires in the area, can’t help but be mixed up with all those images of the lost families and completely destroyed towns of Marysville and Kinglake. So few people in Victoria are removed enough from the impact of the fires to form a jury of any real, legal validity, and the prosecutors and magistrates themselves are under such incredible pressure to produce a guilty verdict – to produce a real, physical thing - a person - that can be blamed for everything that’s happened in the last week or so. After all, this is a lot easier than addressing the issues of effective forest management, of the issues of managing an ever expanding urban sprawl encroaching bushland.

During the record breaking heatwave in the week prior to the fires, let’s not forget that Melbourne virtually shut down. The train lines buckled. The power supplies collapsed. Roads were closed due to fires on their fringes – fires that could have, and should have been prevented with basic firebreak management by vicroads… you know, that organisation we each pay hundreds of dollars a year to in vehicle registrations, just so they can approve more toll roads. Now we all know that those were extreme conditions, but none the less, it’s a rare summer in Melbourne that we don’t see the thermometer slide over the 40 degree mark at least once, often to then hover in the thirties for quite some time – so why on earth is our city – and indeed our state – so poorly managed that we’re not even bothering to maintain, let alone build infrastructure that can cope with our temperatures?

Christ – Adelaide had something like two full weeks of over 40 degrees, and they coped! We had three days, and the state all but collapsed. Three days! Adelaide! What next? Fucking Tasmania? New Zealand? It’s just fucking embarrassing. We’re Victorians – we can do better than this. After all, we should be the ones setting an example for the rest of the heathen states in this country. Surely it’s basic fucking logic – you live in a part of the country where it’s not socially acceptable to run down the Aboriginal population in your cars, you should get functioning fucking train lines. I mean really, Cronulla. The entire state of NSW seems to have some kind of weird deep-seated fear of Mosques, yet they have seemingly constant supply electricity. The fuckers probably have functioning fire breaks, too.

The really depressing part is that ‘they’ (being experty types I presume), seem to think that this is an emerging pattern. Superfires and the like. What I want to know is how many seasons of full on fires like this it’s going to take before the State actually throws the necessary money at all those basic maintenance tasks that have become dilapidated through neglect over the years, let alone expansion of those tasks. I can honestly say that a couple more years of this sort of thing, and I reckon I'll be out of here... though that's probably not much of an incentive to getting things fixed I suppose.

It’s either that, or they blow the cash on migrating us all to Canada, which I suppose is one kind of solution. The really cool bit about that is they already have a Victoria sitting there just waiting for us.

*sigh*

So, how did you deal with the heat? Everyone doing alright? Not joining vigilante arsonist-hunting groups I hope?


The Rantolotl.
ps - please be sure to thank Shane for his title contribution.

Unsubstantiated rumours...

In stark contrast to last year, this glorious year, 2009, is off to a slow and drawling start (yes, I know drawling isn't a word, or at least not in that context, but lets just imagine it is for a minute or two.). So slow in fact, that the first 19 or so days of it have not quite been long enough for the newly appended digit to lose its shiny new sheen. It's quite the novelty, isn't it? Two thousand and niiiiinnnneeeee (Actually, now I really am drawling. But in the correct sense of the word. Hmm.). It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Niiiinnneeeeeee. I was a big fan of two thousand and eight, since it just seems lovely and rounded, probably for some mathematical reason I'll never understand, but two thousand and nine is just novel. It doesn't sound like it should be a year. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnneeee.

None the less, here we are, in the oddly placed linguistically speaking, yet highly amusing 2009. One day I'm sure we'll look back on it and be utterly convinced that it never existed, that it was a patch of our lives that was lived entirely in a magical pocket exclusive of time, and perhaps even physics. I'll be sure to experiment on that aspect when I get home, possibly with some kind of home made catapult, some pineapples, and Krus' shed. I'll let you know of any interesting developments. Anyhow, regardless of the space/time status of this current 'year' or whatever else it might actually be, it is indeed off to a start.

Now, while we all seem to have ascertained that 2008 was a horribly shitty year all round (except for the task of writing or pronouncing the the numbers two thousand and eight. Speaking of which, I wonder how the world would accept the lettered form of the year number on forms and the like? Hmm. Maybe a new dating format could be established. Again, in both senses of the word. Perhaps it is time for you, reader, to stop indulging my brackets now. I suspect they're making less and less sense.), 2009 seems to be showing some promise. Now I know it's only January and we're not back in full swing yet, but things are running quite smoothly thus far. Work is slowly getting back on track, social events seem to be occurring with minimal fuss, the weather has been a whole lot more typical than 2008 ever managed, and, while I wait for my normal coffee shop to reopen after a holiday, Hudsons have been serving me exceptionally average coffee - a marked improvement from their normal standard of inconsistent dirt water complete with crunchy bits. There is of course this whole Israel-being-the-worlds-biggest-fuckwits-and-shamelessly-getting-away-with-it aspect, but to be fair, that did start in 2008, that filthy trollop of a year.

Regardless, this first very quiet and relaxed 19 days or so has given me some time to reflect, and not being one for new years resolutions, this has quickly evolved into a rather abstract process. Niiiiiiinnnneeeeeeee. Now, I know what I'm about to say is rather insulting to many people, particularly those who have actually experienced what I'm about to discuss, and I'm pre-emptively going to go one step further and tell you right in advance, that the thing you really have issue with is the process. Yep, definitely. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to take this moment to discuss my thoughts on my workplace being remarkably like a minimum security prison.

Bear with me on this one. Currently, I have very little to do in terms of workload, so I spend most of my hours on the internet reading about stuff. From now on, the 'Internet' will be referred to as 'The prison library'. I also talk to a lot of people on msn, which I suppose could be closely considered to be chatting to my homies, my homies of course being my fellow prisoners. We discuss many mundane and uninteresting things (though we do also discuss interesting things) with the sole purpose of passing time whilst enjoying some form of human company. Many of these conversations would never pass as such were we to have them outside of work hours. In fact, we would just be considered rather strange, just as one would if prison conversations were to be aired in the public realm, I imagine. Every lunchtime, I go to the gym, which I will now, in line with the library reference, refer to as 'The exercise yard'.

We are contained in fairly lax, yet overcrowded conditions, and are required to enter through various locked doors to get in and out of a floor or building. We also are required to seek permission to do things from supervisory types. Our toilets are often on the disgusting side, and we have a kitchenette which we are required to look after, lest we lose the 'privilege' of using. We also have rations in the form of tea, coffee and sugar sachets, and arguably, the 'charity snack box' which no one seems to pay for. We also have a lot of fluorescent lighting which gives quite the institutionalised air.

Of course, we do get to go home at the end of each day, but I think this is a fairly trivial matter when one is expected to return the following day at the obscene hour of nine to ten-ish. We also have a chaplain.

This year, I plan to take advantage of the prisoner education scheme, I mean, professional development scheme. This will allow me to spend some of my hours here re-educating myself so that I may be of further use to the community, er, institution... er, company. Once completed, I can apply the parole board... er, human resources department, for an early release, er pay rise.

Do you see?! Do you see how interchangeable these situations are?! I mean sure, one has a horrible social stigma attached to it, arguably some potential violence, and the nasty matter of having to deal social low lives such as magistrates, lawyers and of course the police, but these trivialities aside, I think it's fair to adapt the old Anarchist Black Cross slogan of "Jails are the real crime!" to something a little more relevant to the working class of today. I think "Workplaces are the real prisons!" is quite fetching. It could be applied quite neatly to a badge or patch format, complete with a little icon of a coffee cup, symbolising all those hours we spend trapped in caffeinated escapism. Actually, we could even get a little skull and crossbones dealy going, with the steaming coffee cup as the head, and a couple of crossed cigarettes as the crossed bones. We could be the office-prison-pioneer-buccaneers.

Too much?

I don't think so.

This is the promise that 2000 and niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinneeeee offers us. A chance to start anew. Greener pastures. A pocket that time forgot, where we will wage a war against open plan offices. It may not achieve a lot, but it'll certainly make for an interesting year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment with my exercise yard.






Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeee.

A letter to one or more criminals

Dear inconsiderate lout,

I would like to take this opportunity to verbally punch you in the face, since I have no option to physically perform this task on your person. I'm sure you will accept this verbal punch in the spirit it is intended. That's right. Pure, unadulterated annoyance.

I call you a lout, but chances are that is exactly what you are not. In fact, I refer to you as a single human being, yet I suspect you are many more than that. From now on, I will automatically correct that statement to read 'a group of human beings who must all be single, mostly because they are contemptible arseholes'. There, much better.

I write this correspondence, because, just shy of a month ago, you stole my fucking wallet. Not only did you steal my wallet, but you promptly hopped on a tram, and took a little ride to the closest ATM that isn't right next to my workplace, and withdrew all of my money from my bank account, plus another three hundred dollars for good measure, using my very own bank card. What did that bank card ever do to you, you monster?

Now while this whole general umbrella act of wallet and money theft was a bit shitty and annoying, it's not what lies at the heart of my annoyance with you. I'm glad you didn't do something rude like mug me or beat me up, though that said it would've have made a far more interesting story, and given me the chance to feel very clever for at least being able to tell you to fuck off before being smacked in the face for my efforts. However, that is a small concession.

What you have managed to do, is steal both my bank card, and magically acquire my PIN. And no, for the last time, I didn't write it on the fucking card. You'll have noticed that my card has a credit facility on it. I sincerely wish you had used that instead of MY FUCKING BANK ACCOUNT AND PIN NUMBER. Why, you ask? BECAUSE I'D HAVE MY MONEY BACK NOW. You know what else I'd have? MY SANITY AND MY DIGNITY. Why do I not currently have these intangible items in my possession? BECAUSE THE COMBINED FORCES OF THE VICTORIAN POLICE AND A CERTAIN FRIGGING BANK CREATE ALL HELL ON EARTH AND LET IT LOOSE RIGHT INTO MY VERY LIFE.

Do you know what the police asked me when I reported it stolen? Do you? Right after I explained that money had been withdrawn from my account, and that no, *sigh* I did not write my PIN on the card, the cop in question asked me:

'How do you know it's been stolen?'

Seriously.

When I went to see the police in person, they told me to go to a bank with a card they had filled in, to take it in, hand it to them, and the problem would be resolved. I can only assume it's some kind of magic card, because as far as I can see with my non-invisible bank/police ink reading eyes is this:


To.....*my name here*.....
Constable .....*cops name here*....
attended this address today but you were unavailable.

Would you please contact
.....*location*..... Police Station on telephone ......*blank*.....


The icing on the cake is what is presumably meant to be today's date, written as 1/9/08. Clever.

The problem with this, team of single people, is that I actually need a piece of paper from this establishment in order for the fraud group at the bank to actually investigate the fraud, let alone return my fucking money. I suspect this fabled return of funds may never, ever, happen. This is unfortunate, since unlike knowing you're not going to get your rental bond back or something of a similar nature, I don't get to trash a damned thing.


You absolute mother fuckers.

Sincerely,
The Rantolotl.

Tis the season for Boxmas.

I’ve noticed a lot of my fellow bloggers, friends, and much to my dismay, colleagues have been abusing the slow moving days of December to eke out 2008 retrospectives. You know the type; “thanks for a wonderful year, the kittens and rainbows were fantastic and I couldn’t have done it without you!” or alternatively, “another year where everything has deteriorated at an ever increasing pace. Inevitable really. But chin up, cause next year some thoughtless bastard might choose not to steal my kittens and rainbows and leave me in a pit of misery. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, YOU WHORE”.

Now I know these things happen from time to time, people feeling a great urge to look back on a well defined time frame and take stock - in fact I’m probably guilty of it myself – but this year it all seems to be happening too early, and waaaay too often. What happened to waiting until New Years? Isn’t this what January’s for? Bloody hell.

People need to get their priorities straight. FIRST comes November, with bbq’s and parties, then comes December with bbq’s and parties held on weekdays and weeknights as well as weekends, then towards the end you get the whole Christmas thing, boxing day thing, and then, of course, Boxmas. If you're not familiar with the traditional holiday, you might want to read up on it sometime before the 27th. A noble and spirited festival celebrating all that is BOX. A day or two to rest up, and then New Years it is. It’s after New Years that you start to look back on the last year and feel a bit miserable, and no wonder – you’ve just spent a month drunk and eating snack food in fucking droves – of course you feel like shit.

I don’t really blame people for stuffing up this quite basic seasonal equation, but it’s just so bloody arbitrary; particularly when we’re all meant to be hanging around the city, frolicking inappropriately among workmates, champagne bottle in one hand, stolen trophy from previous venue in the other. Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?

Instead it’s all:

Dear all,

I’d like to take a moment out of my year to thank you all for the wonderful contribution you’ve made to my life, in between the hours of 8am, and 10am this morning. As some of you are aware, it got off to a rocky start when I was woken up quite rudely and with little regard for my own peace. Normally, this would’ve been okay, but this morning it wasn’t, it just cascaded. I spilt my coffee all over the bed. VG then spilt hers. We had to hang our doona out to dry and wash. They were really hard times, and I really appreciate you all for helping me out. You know who you are. That’s right – a big thanks to my coffee shop – you really came through when I needed it most – at about 8.45am with a large skinny cap. A big thanks to Dave who ran and got me some tissues after I spilt that coffee all over myself and the lift, a dangerous side effect of walk-reading. Also, Anna – massive shout out to you, you got me to the tram stop this morning, and didn’t ask any question about the stale coffee smell filling the car. Also, big ups to the metpigs this morning, who were kind enough to not be on my tram and do me for fare evasion.

You guys are like my team – I couldn’t function without you. Here’s to the next two hours being so much better for us all.


Much love,
The Rantolotl.



Now I know I’ve been lamenting the crappy weather lately, but I really do feel it’s a key contributor to all this doom and gloom reflection. For fucks sake, it’s been pissing down this last week, and the temperature itself just seems to be getting colder, not warmer. Hell, looking at some photos taken at an outdoor event last Saturday, the scene seems far more appropriate for a Scandinavian city street, rather than Summer in the worlds largest desert continent. BBQ’s really aren’t much chop when it’s raining sideways.

So what do people do with all their extra hours of daylight when it’s fucking freezing and the streets are flooded? They write lots of introspective wank while staring despondently out the window, shrouded in blankets. Perhaps they also huddle by the warmth of a fire fuelled by old photographs, treasured memories and childhood pets, cursing the war lords… er, rain gods? who bought this fate upon their mortal souls. Either way, they write a lot of tripe. I know this, because I’ve been fighting back the urge myself.

Where’s the fun Melbourne? The streets are empty, the students have left, people are on holidays, but no one’s coming out to play. Just the other day, the only scrap of interest to be found on Swanston Street were two young unicyclists, with one with a very large unicycle, and a very bandaged nose. They also had nice hats. Other than the rather untimely theft of my wallet, and subsequent removal of several hundred dollars from my bank account last week, this has been about the only moment of interest around my little corner of the CBD for days and days. Thieves, and wannabe circus performers. I’m not impressed. Actually, I should note that there were plenty of police around too, presumably hiding from the northern suburbs until this whole murdering a fifteen year old thing blows over. I notice that crimes such as WALLET STEALING and NOSE INJURIES seem to have risen since their arrival – coincidence? I think not!

But indeed, it is time to stop wallowing in our rain drenched filth and take Summer back. We will need heaters, champagne, and party hats. Maybe some good quality party drugs too, just to get things moving. After all, if we don’t get onto this matter soon, Boxmas will be at stake, and Mr Fandango Jones will not be happy. You don’t want to see that man angry, no you don’t. There’s lots of gnashing of teeth and projectile weapons and nasty, nasty, ham filled traps. Which is more or less how he is when he’s happy, but a bit less gnashing of teeth and a bit more evil chuckling.


Sincerely,
The Rantolotl

Merry bloody summer

A few weeks ago, I sat here extolling the virtues of Spring and made some kind of greeting to the warmer months. Now, in earlyish December, I would like to take back every last fucking word I hammered out on this keyboard in praise of this time of year. So far, the first eight days of Summer have been shithouse. The heater has been on more that once so far, it’s been fucking raining or drizzling every second day, and my office is currently sitting at a chilly 18 degrees – a temperature that’s more or less matched outside.

I know this, because about half an hour ago I decided that it’d be warmer outside, wandered downstairs without my jacket, and thinking it may have just been a problem more of mindset than actual temperature, I purchased a summery mango smoothie. Then I stood outside shivering, and threw out my not so delicious icy treat in disgust and came back to the equally chilly, but somewhat more fluorescent office. In summary – this is not pleasant beer garden nor bbq weather, and I’m not fucking impressed.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but Winter was an absolute trial this year. It was cold - as winter often is – there were far too many of us living in the house, my wife had a broken arm and was generally insufferable, the power we were churning through in heating and entertainment enough to stop us from killing each other cost a small fortune in bills, and for some reason I’ll never work out, my office was heated to thirty degrees. To put it bluntly, it was a bit shit.

In Spring marched, being all promising with a couple of thirty degree days and balmy evenings, only to end in random hail storms descending on us and cloudy overcast days, and so here we find ourselves right back in some kind of screwy alterno-winter with well lit evenings.

For those of you in other states and indeed countries, I could go on about how this is not typical Melbourne summer weather, no matter how many ways you desperately try to stereotype it in a thinly veiled attempt to cover your own denial about Melbourne being so much better than say, Sydney, or indeed the whole of Queensland. But I won’t. Instead, I have one simple message for you. Fuck you all, you sun stealing motherfuckers. Why don’t you all fuck off and tend to your tractors or your suntans or whatever the fuck it is you do up there when you’re not inventing new racist slurs.

All this said, it’ll probably end up taking a swift turn from the 17 degree forecast tomorrow and end up being a nice dry forty. Which will be very nice for sitting around and enjoying a beverage or two after nightfall, but not so pleasant to actually move about in. Luckily, I’ve thought ahead and purchased this years paddling pool – an essential device for cooling down both tempers and temperatures of whiny and overheated wives and housemates alike.

I totally recommend the paddling pool to all Melburnians during the summer days. We’re so oft ill prepared to face the heat, and if you live in the inner suburbs, chances are the house you live in is a little on the old side, and your landlord is a little on the stingy side, so you’re unlikely to have air conditioning. Conveniently, most of these houses are built in a way allows you to block out the heat relatively well for several days by closing all doors and blinds during the day and not moving, then opening them all up from 10pm to 6am. It can become quite annoying, particularly if you live in a noisy neighbourhood, or own cats. Indeed, I’ve lost count of times we’ve been awoken by the sounds of thrashing, meowing and bloody great bellows of “ARGH! YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A CAT! GET OUT! OUT!!!!” accompanied by the sounds of stamping, thumping, and the occasional smash.

Last year, there was great excitement after one of the cats jumped straight through the venetian blinds and onto a stack of papers, paintings, and lots of other things that go ‘smash’ and ‘ruffle’ when you throw a high velocity cat at them. In the confusion of many belongings being scattered everywhere, and the cat trying to run out of the door at an insane pace, only to turn around and jump back out the window (via the bed and our faces), we of course awoke, grumped at the cat and each other a bit, and went back to sleep. This was of course short lived, because there was now something on the sheets, in the darkness and new found quiet, creeping about with spindly legs. VG very suddenly screamed, dramatically leaping out of bed, and I for some reason pointed out it was just a cat, when it clearly wasn’t, and went back to sleep.

This sleep was also very short lived however, because VG had now decided that the best way to resolve the issue of the mystery creepy crawly was to simultaneously hit the bed (and her wife), and try to remove the sheets off it, all while being extremely high pitched. No longer able to pretend I was asleep, I started grumping quite loudly, only to have the creepy thing now assumed to be a very large spider given all the commotion, land on my face. I too leapt out of bed, yelling. It actually turned out to be a caterpillar that had at some point been attached to the cat, and I chalked up yet another notch to the list of reasons why I should get the bed, and why VG should have to sleep on the couch.

So. The all windows open through the night plan of action does have its downfalls, but it is probably quite a lot better than having an ultraheated house on day one of a four or five day warm spell. Maybe this year we can get around the problem by tossing the cats through Krus' window then gaffa taping all the exits on his shed shut. In the morning, over our breakfast we could untape the room and enjoy the spectacle... I imagine it would be just like going out for dinner and a show, only a bit earlier in the day, and perhaps a bit bloodier. Something to ponder on, one way or the other.

In the meantime however, I will prepare the pool, and try and find my sunglasses and my best summer hats, all beautifully suited to long evenings sitting in a wading pool with some other pleb at the helm of the bbq, and a nice cool esky within reaching distance. I might even get a heater or two at the ready to provide us with some warmth to actually make these very summery tasks possible. Or alternatively, I could just burn down The Shed.

Stupid bloody seasons.

Happy 110!

This post officially marks 110 published Rantolotls!  Fanfare please!

Actually, it seems kind of strange, because it's been pottering along for some time now - since February 2006 in fact - , and it really feels like I should have a lot more than 110 of them.  Perhaps if I counted them by paragraph I'd feel more accomplished.    But none the less, 110 it is, which I suppose equates to one post every week and a half or so, which is obviously a little shy of the original intention of a once a week posting.  That said, I think there's been gaps of a month or more along the way too, so lets stick with every week and a half being a good thing.

Interestingly, I get less comments than I used to, but have much higher regular readership and lots of small numbers on my stat-a-majig, however, small numbers that I can't possibly account for in terms of people I know.  So I'll chalk that up as a win, I reckon.  Also, I suppose I should take this moment to introduce myself to those readers I don't know.  Hello to you all!  I'm glad you're here, and I hope you enjoy your stay!

Over the last couple of years, my rants have varied greatly.  From mocking my housemates, to complaining about Connex, to trying to implement a terribly flawed and indeed failed points system, to complaining about Connex, to mocking my friends, and indeed, complaining about Connex.  I think there's probably a lot of bitching about work in here too, but I really can't be fucked looking through the archives.  Oh wait, just last week will do.  But I feel some of the more important events documented here are the fierce and ongoing rivalries.  Such as the square/round scone issue.  Believe it or not, this remains a contentious issue in my social circles, but I am proud to say that many have been recruited to the side of the round.  Soon, we will be able to completely ostracise those foolish enough to slice their fucking scones into squares.

Which brings me to another baked goods issue, one that I hope can unite all appreciators of the bakery, regardless of scone preference.  I am referring, of course, to the occurrence - or indeed lack thereof - of savoury muffins.

I think savoury muffins are tops.  I'm not at all a fan of their sweeter cousins, but I do really enjoy a nice savoury muffin, preferably complete with feta, pumpkin, and perhaps some roasted red peppers.  They are absolutely fantastic, and everything a delicious lunch/snack should be.  The problem is, I can't seem to locate anywhere in my little chunk of the CBD that actually sells them.  Hudsons claim to, but then again, Hudsons claims to make coffee and not sugar filled, crunchy sludge.  Their 'savoury muffins' actually appear to be quiches, and given the only fillings they seem to offer are egg and bacon, I'm guessing that's exactly what they are.  Fucking hell that place is backwards.

But I don't get it.  I used to find savoury muffins everywhere I went.  Now, the only place I can say for sure actually stocks them is Cafe V in East Melbourne (and they're pretty excellent).  Why has Melbourne abandoned the savoury muffin?  Why?  

Unfortunately, with the advent of Drink for Change the hunt is only going to become more difficult as I strenuously avoid every fucking cafe that's signed up to this feelgood cashgrab whose one credit is in demonstrating its ability to manipulate a public complacent enough about water use to not actually pressure its government to enforce sensible policies, but suffering from middle-class guilt just enough to accept the ridiculous argument of consumer use being the root cause.  

To cut a long and stupid story short, Drink for Change is a collaboration of cafes who will be asking patrons to make some kind of payment or donation in return for tap water at their table.  Somehow - just somehow - this is meant to raise awareness for water wastage, and will assist in funding participating cafes in switching to water saving devices and so on.  And here I was thinking that water wastage/usage could be addressed most effectively at an industry and planning level.  You know, silly ideas like using grey water to flush toilets, water gardens etc.  Perhaps even legislating that all new constructions must collect their own rainwater runoff and use its powers for good and not evil. 

But trivialities like that aside, I for one, didn't realise that drinking water was wasting it.  In fact, I was operating under the strange illusion that water was somewhat necessary to my survival as a human being.  But clearly I was wrong.  Bottled water, on the other hand, is completely sustainable.  My theory is that the plastic bottles it comes in generate the water magically, which is fair enough I suppose, given the amount of water that goes into the production process for the bottles, let alone other environmental costs associated with shipping and distribution, etc.

Things like this really piss me off.  Cafes are fucking businesses, not a public service that's scraping funds together.  When the cost of electricity goes up, as it often does, we don't get asked to make a donation for the lighting in our area, or indeed the increased cost of operating a sandwich press - at worst, we see a small rise in the costs of the products the shop sells.  In fact, that's kind of the whole notion of setting up a business and selling your wares.  You don't just sell a fucking muffin for the cost of the base ingredients - you sell a muffin at a price higher than the proportional cost of the labour involved in manufacturing and serving the muffin, the capital investment involved in making the muffin (ie, oven), the rent on your shop, etc etc.  But all this is moot, since you won't sell any fucking muffins anyway, you bastards.

So please, tell me all about your favorite savoury muffin recipes, or indeed where to purchase them (quality suggestions only please).  Alternatively, share your favorite rantolotl moment, and I'll get off my arse and update the disgrace that is my sidebar.  Oooh, and if you look to your left, you will find a brand spanking new poll for your enjoyment!

Sincerely,

The Rantolotl.

If my titles were numbered, I wouldn't have to think of words.

Last week, VG went on a bit of a shopping mission, and as often occurs when she embarks on such missions, she returned with a great number of items not really detailed in her original quest, and only some of the items that actually were. None the less, this tends to work out well for all involved, with the notable exception of the credit card. Among her purchased items, one could find 'summer slippers' (fluffy thongs), a few other boring items, and surprises! Yes! Surprises!

Treating us like the overgrown children we really are, VG picked up a treat for myself and Fandango Jones, namely, chocolate filled advent calendars. Fandango received the really cool Transformers one (old designs!!), while I received the notably shitty 'Marvel Superheroes' calendar. Together at last, I can view Spiderman, The Incredible Hulk, and some other hero I don't even know the name of in their full, spectacular, chocolate backed glory. Dear, if you really loved me, you would have got me the Freddo calendar. A DIFFERENT FREDDO FOR EVERY DAY OF DECEMBER! Obvious, I'd have thought. Ah well, never mind.

But then... then I realised that she had provided me with a most awesome gift. The gift of jealousy! You see, my teamlead is a complete and total manchild. He buys so many games, usually purely based on the hype they receive around them. He has man-toys (warhammer) hidden from his girlfriend in other peoples' desk drawers around the office. He giggles as he hijacks coworkers msn conversations foolishly left open on an unlocked workstation, writing witty and derisive insights such as lol!, I like poo!, and I'm a fag!. But most of all, he likes comics. Marvel comics!

The only assumption I am left with, is that my partner is now quite wittingly encouraging me to
bribe, or at least seriously taunt my boss with my newly acquired possession. There is clearly no other option.

How I will carry this out however, I have no idea. At the moment, everything is backfiring on me and I have little doubt that any attempts to misuse this advent calendar will likely end with me wearing a great deal of chocolate, quite possibly on my arse, while hopping around on one foot, perhaps partially blinded. In fact, those last two things happened to me (along with several other little bits of tragic) the last time I really, truly tried to humiliate a coworker - so I speak from quite extensive experience.

But really. In this last week or so, do you realise how many times I've been to the same stinking, bogan filled shopping centre? Do you have any conception of the number of children being marshaled - and I use the word marshaled very fucking loosely indeed - by inconsiderate, line pushing, aisle blocking, noise emitting, god fearing Aussie Battlers? Do you realise that while writing this post, Cold Chisel came up on my playlist? And that now, mere minutes later, Alanis Cunting Morisette just came on as well? Given that I've never owned nor enjoyed either of these 'artists', both of these events in the musical timeline of my day, nay life, should be highly improbable, if not outright impossible. Kittens and rainbows this is not.

But I digress. Maybe I'm being totally unfair on these tools (both the artists and the bogans, you understand). It must be difficult being a bogan. All those inner city types who just don't understand your stringent set of revolving door, Today Tonight style morals which they so frequently go out of their way to offend by doing such things as breathing and existing. And then, those inner city types, they'll do other things too. Like have facial piercings. Or wear slogans on shirts that actually read as a sentence, instead of disjointed words in varying fonts and sizes. Some even have political opinions! And I swear, last week, I saw one eat foreign food. It's just not cricket.

What a fucked up world of sensibility these people must live in. Well may we make jokes about VB, supporting the coppers, meat and three veg and shopping at kmart, but it's all fucking true, and they're all fucking proud of it. These are the same people who criticize the yanks for being backwards, but really, they're just as guilty of remaining wilfully ignorant about the world around them, or indeed even such advanced scientific theory as appropriate eating for climate. Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge fan of the traditional aussie christmas... forty degrees and we'll all be out playing cricket in the sun, drinking heavily, eagerly awaiting our roast pork, our roast turkey, roast chickens, roast beef, potato salad, pasta salad, and of course, a flaming pudding. But fucking really, does this principle need to be applied to every fucking Sunday? Do we need a miniature version of it on our plates every night of the week? Fucking really - we essentially live on a very large dessert island, and we insist on farming and eating food typical of your average miner living somewhere in the rain and cold of the north of england, and swilling it all down with VB, the end result of many failed ale and brewing experiments from the days of british invasion.

Perhaps the one redeeming feature of this nation of fools is the sentimentality they so dearly cling to in the face of progress. All of their stupidity seems, guided by whatever ridiculous excuse, essentially comes down to some kind of base emotion. Just like Tamagotchis. Or, if you prefer, the driving forces in a childrens educational video game. The other major bugbear of my week - connex - completely does away with any such notion, and will just arbitrarily screw around with your life, with no reason, excuse or indeed apology offered, with the obvious exception of that ridiculous 'Connex apologises for this delay' recording, which is about as sincere an apology as shit on toast is a delicious breakfast.

Interestingly, the major aspects of their fuckups this week haven't actually directly affected me. I've sat in my office nursing a coffee while reading the paper, and have been in the privileged position to sit there and shake my head in disbelief, instead of shaking my fist at everyone in my path in the unenviable position that would be being in the middle of one of their many, many cock ups. What has affected me, however, is the increasing number of incredibly angry people stamping their way onto trams and trains, and worse still, the even angrier ones stamping pushing and yelling their way around platforms and associated stationy areas. I have very little doubt their reasons for anger are quite legitimate, but I must say it's a pretty contagious attitude. One person stands on your feet, looks at you as if they're just daring you to bitch about it, then walks off scowling, and that's a good few hours ahead of you ruined.

Perhaps Connex should try and redeem itself by handing out free Marvel advent calendars at city stations. Sure, at first everyone would be completely perplexed, but I'm sure they'd all eventually end up causing everyone great delight as part of a extremely elaborate teamlead trap. Sure, they may not know my teamlead (though he does seem to know a remarkable number of people), but he has such comical reactions to pretty much everything that I'm sure they'd enjoy it. I certainly would, and having the commuting population of Melbourne directed right to his desk would save me a hell of a lot of time and effort.

How is your week going? Angry? Not angry enough? Surrounded by bogans? Are a bogan? I'm sure we can find some kind of non lethal cure...

Sincerely,
The Rantolotl.

Testing ones temper

Last week, I said two things that could have been construed as a little inappropriate for the situation. It hadn't really been a good week, and the only thing left to do was get a bit squiffy and generally voice my disdain with all unfortunate enough to be around me. One of the more unfortunate things about this whole scenario, was that VG and I had to go on a shopping mission to cater for the events detailed in my last installment - ie, wedding.

Unfortunately, over the nesting winter months, too many bottles of red, hearty beef and guinness stews, and of course cheese platters and a good number of puddings have left me a little (a lot) on the porky side. As you can no doubt imagine, this doesn't really leave me in a particularly good frame of mind for shopping expeditions. It's not so much the excess fat that's the problem, but the absolute spectacle of trying to find womens clothing that isn't designed to fit a minibus as soon as you cross the awful, awful size 16 threshold.

And it's not just the fit that's insanely miscalculated either - it's the fucking god awful patterns they insist on covering everything with! "Oh look, it's spring and FAT PEOPLE LOVE FLOWERS!", I could be heard shouting across one particular clotharium as I threw yet another shirt back in the general direction of the rack from whence it came. Needless to say, I am currently back at the gym.

But moving on - or indeed moving back somewhat - it's reasonably safe to say I had a varied and somewhat lonely childhood, one that to this day leaves pleasant enough, but still somewhat bitter memories of my primary school days. This had very little to do with the kids, or even the various towns, but more so the frequency at which my parents shifted locales during these formative years.

Actually, even when we were quite stationary, they had a very strange habit of removing me from one school (always at the midpoint of a term, of course) and placing me in a 'completely different' and 'much better' school, usually about 37 or so meters down the road. It's difficult to say why this did this - indeed it's difficult to say why these two do a lot of the things they do, presumably because they are both absolutely, barking, batshit insane.

By grade six (final year of primary, for all you dirty foreigners), I had attended well over ten different primary schools. The vast majority of these schools - particularly towards the end - were tiny schools in hick filled farming communities, where by the age of ten most kids could probably, quite accurately detail what they would be when they grow up.

Every now and then when I visit these towns, I notice that many of them have done just that. Mr Hammond is now a boilermaker, Jenny is a nurse, and the rest of them pretty much grow various types of animals. So, when this weekend past, VG & I sat on the balcony of our hotel, half cut and listening to Shazza and Matt below on the street argue about what song to play on the jukebox next - Khe Sahn or Living on a Prayer - I did not yell out the obvious answer ('You're the voice! You're the voice!'), no. Instead, and quite reasonably I believe, I observed that "I probably went to school with some of these people... AND LOOK WHO'S ON THE BALCONY NOW!". Then I chuckled evilly to myself for awhile. VG shook her head and looked suitably embarrassed.

But despite these recent and somewhat escalating outbursts, in the face of the circus that is currently occurring around my good self, I have mostly, I believe been the absolute picture of calm in the more retarded situations (yes, I know some of you are likely spitting your coffee all over your screen at that, but I still stand by it).

Like Saturday night, when I was in the middle to attempting to charm Mrs Campbell at a fancy affair involving hats. All was going well, we were discussing the economic development of the Melbourne CBD, and how this has affected the restaurant and bar scene in the city. I was erudite, I was charming, and I was earning my many refills of their tasty Gewurz. I was also writhing in pain after being stung on the arse by some fucker of an insect or another. Slowly, I transferred my wine to my left hand, and in some odd attempt to appear completely normal as I attempted to maim whatever the fuck was stinging me, I smoothed my shirt with such enthusiasm that my hand would brush over my arse from time to time. Strangely, she didn't seem to notice. However, after a quick glance over my shoulder to see if I could spot the errant insect, I found Mr Campbell staring at me sternly, mouth agape.

And still, patiently, I sit at work with my arse-bite itching madly, resisting the urge to yell at my bottom or otherwise throw tantrums about it. Currently, I am funnelling all of my anger and discomfort into addressing the ongoing matter of my work pc being a piece of shit. Last week, it crashed every time I tried to open a word document. Today, it's crashing every time I log into a particular database. Tomorrow, no doubt, it will find something equally irrational and annoying to torture me with. Stupid fucking piece of shit that it is.

Still, much better than yelling at ones coworkers. Wait - scratch that.

Anyway, as the weeks progress and wedding, christmas and the rest of the never ending train of events pass, I'm sure many a comment will be yelled enthusiastically at the unsuspecting, and hopefully, hopefully hopefully hopefully, I have suffered my first and last insect sting of the season. If any more were to occur, I might be compelled to take some kind of vengeance mission against all living bees, wasps, ants, etc, formal event or no formal event.

Stupid bees.

Kept by bees.

I find that Spring can often be the most obvious of seasons, and I don’t think this year is any exception. Maybe it’s the emergence from a long, cold and miserable winter, or the sudden requirement to flaunt all sensibilities and wear your favourite sunglasses, hats and shorts, in whichever way suits. Our house enjoys sipping Pimms and lemonade - or, gin and tonic depending on available ingredients - on the back deck, observing neighbourly traffic as we generally gossip/whinge the evening away. This task involves quite a spectacular array of shorts, sunglasses and hats, often combined with some remnants of the days’ work wear. We wear these items, and glare at people who glance into our open backyard, visually challenging them to utter a single contemptuous word in our domain. Spring. It is truly an exciting time.

But perhaps the greatest thing about spring is all those events! All of a sudden, people who you thought were dead start organising things, or attending them, and be all chatty and propose various alliances and so on. At first it is a lovely feeling, being wanted, appreciated, and most importantly offered lots of complimentary champagne, but then – oh but then! You realise you are but a pawn in this celebratory game. A pawn who is part of a list of pawns that is a longer list of pawns than the list of pawns some other person throwing some kind of celebration - perhaps involving prawns - has.

And these people who appear as if out of nowhere. At first, their re emergence is fun, a little frolic if you will – but soon you remember why you thought they were dead – turns out it was just wishful thinking. They are annoying, and you want to sever all ties immediately, preferably with a rusted chainsaw. You will manage, but it will take another 3 – 6 months, and then you will make the same mistake all over again the following year. But fuck all that – the awesome thing indeed is all the parties, the promise of an even more partacious summer (yes, that is a word), and in my case, all beautifully capped off with early autumnal birthday celebrations before we begin the slow trudge back into Winter. Don’t get me wrong – winter can be pretty awesome too, but there is simply no denying it is summers hangover.

This particular spring is, I am afraid to say, quite familycentric. A spring wedding is on the cards, and while the marriagees are friendly enough sort of people, they run the risk of Too Much Family Exposure Syndrome (TOOMF). You see, some families are like a delicate ecosystem, and are not to be messed with. After years of trial and error, and even a few deaths and international migrations, the Clarks have worked out an arrangement which ensures Maximum Enjoyment © and Least Frustration ©.

While I advise such an arrangement, the crux of the issue is that we avoid each other for 364 days a year, so that the one day we do actually see each other is not marred by stupid activities, comments or general behaviours which may have occurred in the last year or so. It is instead fuelled by a genuine want to be in each others company. Sort of. By and large, people are pleased to see each other – with the exception of Fandango, who I suspect is rarely pleased to see anyone, let alone random bits of family - , do the standardly superficial catch up on each others lives, eat a lot of food, drink a lot of piss, and tell a lot of stories. Hoorah!

Unfortunately, a spring wedding is in great danger of sapping all of that goodwill in one fell swoop. I experienced the first taste of Family Spring just last Saturday when attending a Hens do for the bride to be. All the aunts were present, as was my mother, and of course VG. Now, as anyone who knows me would realise, I was way out of my depth, and was relying on VG to navigate the unfathomable seas of Girliness, Hens Protocol, and of course, Alcohol Provision. She possesses all of these talents, and more. This is why I married her, you see.

However, even with all of this preparedness I was still a little bit surprised when I arrived, to find a room full of women. My little, round and behatted rudder frottered off into the sea of clucking aunts, and I became more than a little bit awkward about my surrounds, and indeed my general place in the room. So I stood in the doorway a bit. It wasn’t until the third or fourth prompts to get out of the doorway from the one person, and indeed the ushering from a drinks waiter, that I relented and attempted to stroll into the room, all casual-like. The aunts, sensing my general discomfort with the situation, took great pleasure in mocking me, by stuffing me into grapple like ‘hugs’, all the while tsking various items of clothing, or laughing at my general demeanour. I hastily set about acquiring more champagne.

So, it was inevitably strike one in a long list of social events to occur prior to Christmas. I say long list, but it’s really just one more event – the wedding itself. But it will be long, and tedious no doubt, with the added bonus of hired hotel rooms for wedding preparation, promises of room service lunches, and christ knows what else in store. Regardless, it will certainly break the three-hours-and-no-more family rule.

But it has given me some insight into the very nature of spring. In reality, the whole spring/summer thing in Melbourne is quite a novelty – will it be 40 degrees? At some point, definitely – but on any given day, it’s just as likely to be some kind of hailing thunderstorm, or even a cool 18 degrees. This makes every day - let alone event - new and exciting, and another opportunity for exotic and mostly disused dress-ups. For the entire 5 or so months, Melbourne is one giant return to childhood and fancy dress, only now, we’re allowed to drink and stay up past our bedtime.

And the Hens day was no exception. There we were in a room full of 20+ grown adult women, all of which were sporting completely impractical handbags, accessories, jewellery (are these all the same thing? I don’t know), a variety of dresses that would seem impractical for virtually any occasion I would ever attend, and bracelets big enough to knock out and kill your grandmother with. Now that’s dress-ups if ever I’ve seen it.

But it turns out that even adult dress up parties have their limits. A bit of a family scandal has erupted over a recent piercing in the family, sported by the ever noble Fandango Jones. His mother could be heard snapping “What do you mean he can’t take it out for the wedding?!” over the general Hens day din, soon to be followed by a later comment from my very own mother, telling me just how traumatic it is when “your children go and get pierced like that”, no doubt referring to my own collection of mother-traumatising piercings. So kids – clothing dress ups are okay, facial ones are not. God help us if they ever see the tattoos.

How Spring should be enjoyed.

But tell me, what are you looking forward to this Spring? I’m hanging out for the first barbeque of the season (Cup Day of course), complete with stupid clothing, painfully bad attempts at neighbourhood graffiti, and of course, a great deal of splendidly refreshing summer drinks washed down with deliciously charred and condiment smothered meat.

Plus I saw a real life bee swarm a couple of weeks ago, so I’m kinda hopeful they’ll come and abduct the neighbours kids. You know, turn them into bees or something.