The GofChef Cooking Show

Sir Les

Today The Bucket welcomes senior English Expression students from Sir Les Patterson’s  Finishing School for Refined Young Ladies. They will be attempting to sniff out a few subtle examples of sarcasm which I have delicately and almost imperceptibly woven into the fabric of the following story.

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One of the most magnificent achievements of Australia’s technological development during the last 60 years must surely be it’s commercial free-to-air television network.

John Logie Baird and Philo Farnsworth probably whack their decomposing crania into the lids of their coffins in unison on the hour, every hour of every day, attempting to provide standing ovations for what we have done with their inventions.

101 reasons why I  love commercial television;

(Marry me if you want to hear all 101…..here’s some samples;)

#11.  Impartial political reporting.

#22.  Unbiased science-based commentaries focussing on the ecological health of our planet and an emphasis on good-news stories whilst doggedly resisting all the sensational alternatives.

#39.  Andie MacDowell is pure poetry in motion as she flounces her bouncy unreal L’oreal tresses in my face nineteen times daily……for the twentieth year in a row. She is the inspiration for my own utterly gorgeous coiffure.

#48.  The sincerity and genuine concern for my personal health shown by infomercial presenters.  For example, it is truly humbling that George Foreman is worried about the condition of my arteries and that Justin Beiber with all his worldly experience has discovered a miraculous cure for my dodgy skin complexion costing just $30 per month for the rest of my life.

#51.  The American chick with the foghorn motor-mouth who urges me to rotate myself back and forth and round and round on an AbCircle Pro machine until I’m so giddy that I will probably need to seek refuge by disappearing up into my own cloaca is such a joy to have as company in my living room every evening.

#66.  The sheer genius of modern television technicians who have the abilty to superimpose advertising graphics over critical moments in a game of football and the dirty bits of movies, along with the magic of compressing film credits down to the unreadable bottom one inch of the screen in order to fit Katy Perry and her gaping massive rampant pustular exploding zits into the top 21 inches.

#99  Shy and sensitive, quietly spoken introverted Scary Spice  hosting Dancing With the Stars and advertising Jenny Craig.

All in all I have only one tiny criticism of commercial TV stations;

They broadcast an insufficient number of cooking shows.

(At this point my dear reader, if you’re still here, it may well have occurred to you that there is a very thin line indeed which separates a higher-education tutorial for girls and………well……
just an old-fashioned rant.)

I wish to address this programming deficiency by submitting a pilot for my very own cooking show which I expect will probably be snapped up for syndication by at least one of the major Australian networks before it inevitably gains global recognition.

The script for Episode One follows…..this is my very own favourite French recipe.

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Dauphin a la Buckeť

The following quantities will serve an entire convention of my blog friends…..you are all cordially invited to gather around my garden fountain (which features a life-size marble statue of Elle MacPherson dressed up as an Eskimo) on June 31st this year.

Ingredients;

One medium-sized dauphin  (at the time of writing I recommend fresh product from the Gulf of Mexico….remove head, fins, tail and all cancerous lesions before filleting)
Seven medium knobs of rasta.
Thirty one fresh unpeeled green gumptions.
Two lacks of daisical.
One large lump of Scary Spice.
Essence of Clostridium. (often difficult to source, but try your local Indian restaurant)

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Marinate the fillets overnight in Bolivian sombrero sauce into which the knobs of rasta have been finely grated and gently stirred.

Saute the fillets lightly before popping them into a Blasco saucepan (preferably with a glaspol lid) then sprinkle the diced (6mm) gumptions and daisicals on top with a clockwise movement of your right hand. Cook in a moderate industrial blast furnace for 20 minutes.
 
While waiting, please humanely tie up that unpalatable Scary Spice   like a turkey ready for basting, stuff it in a hessian sack and send it back to the United Kingdom where it belongs.  

Plate-up the dish with gastronomic flair (four or five sprigs will do) then drizzle one tablespoon of clostridium essence over the top.

Serve with an audacious racy little Madonna Merlot.

Bon apetit.

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Now if you’ll just excuse me, I need to take a Xanax and have a good lie down.  Please wake me up when Scary Spice is safely (or otherwise) back in England.

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The Port of Life

Queenslanders, unlike most other Australians refer to suitcases as “ports”, possibly derived from the French “portmanteau” (cloak carrier)

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The Port of Life……..a little poem by GOF

The young boy’s port of life
Was light, with just a few
Things like a pocket knife
To carve, as boys will do.

Some dreams and hope for what
In future lay unknown.
They didn’t weigh a lot,
But grew like acorns sown.

It also held some things
From fairy tales he’d heard
Rapunzel’s hair and Kings
Back then didn’t sound absurd.

God filled his port with weight
Of guilt and heavenly scorn
For sins added since the date
That little boy was born.

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The young man’s port o’erflowed
With confidence and knowledge
Deceptive seeds he’d sowed
Illusions gained from college.

Life with too much fiction,
A juvenile facade,
So with silent benediction
He dumped them… wasn’t hard.

The fairy tales went first.
No “happy ever after’
Unless you seek and thirst
Compromise and laughter.

God was the next to go.
With all His threats as well.
The world he came to know
Didn’t need a place called Hell.

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The old man’s port is worn.
Tattered from all the years.
‘Tis not something to mourn
Or shed too many tears.

The contents not to show
The public, or display.
It protects the things I know.
Wisdom gained along the way.

In secret pockets hide
Memories, some regret,
Of loved ones who have died.
Kept lest he should forget.

Old mans port overflows
With gifts from life he led.
Only he ever knows.
With his eyes only read.

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More complaints

Primrose Cottage,
13 Gladioli Crescent,
Bristol.  U.K.
20th April 2012

Dear Mr GOF,

I find you to be a very common and tedious little man. Your gift to literature is comparable to The Duchess of York’s contribution to good taste and the dignity of our beloved British Royal Family.
I suppose some fragments of your blog may be considered mildly amusing by a minority of lower-class descendant-of-convict Antipodean readers despite my judgment that you are unrefined, coarse and extremely vulgar. What I find especially irksome is the frequency with which you choose to resolve contemporary problems by resorting to primitive instincts and the use of explosive devices.

Disappointedly yours,

Lady Penelope Mountshaft.

.

.

Primrose Cottage.....30th April 2012

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On a much brighter note, one valued, observant, perceptive, intelligent, beautiful and impeccably well-bred close relative wrote regarding my ‘illustrations’;

(Editors note;  Another puff of air into GOF’s balloon of hope to eventually be placed into a humanely managed old folks home.)

“GOF, some of your helicopters lack landing gear”

Thank you Inga for bringing this omission to my attention.
In future, to comply with Aviation Authority operational requirements, all my helicopters will have landing gear…..of one sort or another.

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P.S.  No Lady Mountshafts, innocent bystanders, dogs, cats, sqwerls or sloths were hurt in the preparation of this story.

From The Bucket’s Complaints Department

Mr Anders Oberleuter from Kandersteg, Switzerland, wrote;

Hello there Mr Bucket,

This is being Anders here. On the last story you have been publishing photograph shooting from your house looking in the one direction only with the words telling me “Not a neighbour in sight….in any direction.” Yah? How can I know this to be true story from just one picture?
I am now needing the snapshorts looking onto the other three directions for me to believe you telling me the truth.

Long live all your dingoes in the billabong Cobber,

Anders.

Certainly Sir.   My pleasure.
You obnoxious distrustful culturally insensitive old bastard.
Here are the sights which I see when looking through the other windows of my house Mr Oberleuter.

View from the East window

View from the West window

.

View from the North window

OK, are you satisfied now?
I admit that I lied with my original statement, Mr Oberleuter.

The last thing I need is for the likes of you to come poking around these parts interfering with my view.

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This one’s for sunshine

During recent years I have maintained a habit of taking time out
every day just to be thankful for the blessings I have in this life.
Occasionally I will share one with you.

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Golden gumboot at Tully

Most Australians are probably unaware that there is a tiny part of this dry continent which receives an average annual rainfall well in excess of 150 inches.  The coastal towns of Babinda and Tully bicker and snort at each other every year in their race for statistical rainfall superiority.

Mrs GOF and I live high up on the mountainside behind these two towns taking the full brunt of the powerful moisture-laden south-easterly trade winds after their trajectory across the Tasman and Coral Seas.
Because of the altitude and geographic location we would win hands down if ever a ‘miserableness factor” was applied to rainfall figures.

I never look forward to April, May and June. The blowing fog and heavy drizzle is relentless….day and night….. on average for 25 days per month, and unlike the coastal towns we never even get glimpses of the sun during these days.

For only the second time in 30 years this April has been different.  Whilst we have still received our average 500mm (20″) of rain, it all fell during 6 days, and for the remainder of the time GOF’s Paradise looked something like this;

The mansion

Not a neighbour in sight...in any direction

Pathway down to the "office"

One half of my "office"

The other half

The REAL cause of rising ocean levels

SMIRNOFF, FULCRUM and GOF.

Environmental Engineers by Appointment.

Secretary-General,
United nations.
3 United Nations Plaza.
NEW YORK    10017

Dear Sir,

Thank you for awarding our company the consultancy to investigate the real causes of rising ocean levels. We also acknowledge and appreciate the $1,000,000 advance which enabled our distinguished Partner, the environmentally oracular Mr GOF, to travel the world collecting data.  

Before presenting our recommendations I must firstly pay tribute to Mr GOF for his conscientiousness in spending unpaid extra time on the waterfront at Rio De Janeiro during Carnivale in February, observing, measuring, and taking thousands of photographs.  

It is however regretted that one of your Portugese negotiators was required to travel urgently from Geneva in order to defuse the international misunderstanding which he caused, and to bail him out of police custody.  
In view of the attached comprehensive report we are prepared to take no further action regarding Mr GOF’s single ill-conceived moment of social exuberance.  He has been issued with an official reprimand.

SUMMARY

We have great pleasure in advising the General Assembly that rising ocean levels cannot be significantly attributed to any of the following;

A.  Global Warming resultant from increased CO2 emissions.
B.  Displacement caused by lost fishing sinkers.
C.  Burials at sea.

Eighty seven percent of the annual rate of increase in ocean levels is caused by MAMMALS, especially HUMANS and WHALES.

The biospheric physics is relatively simple.

Average ocean temperature = 17 degrees Celsius.
Average human and whale body temperature = 36 degrees Celsius.
Heat from any object is transferred 27 times faster to sea water than it’s dissipation rate into International Standard Atmosphere.

i.e. Too many humans and whales in the sea = increased ocean temperature = warming of atmosphere and melting of polar ice caps = higher sea level.

Additionally Archimedes Theorum comes into play. Bodies of humans and whales immersed in the sea displace equal volumes of water.

At any given moment there is an average of  23,631,203 humans swimming, skinny dipping, diving, frolicking or wading in the ocean, and 11,000,003 whales doing all of the above except wading, the displacement water from which has only one way to go.
 
i.e. UP = rising ocean levels.

RECOMMENDATIONS;

1. Ban and forcibly remove all humans from the sea.
Since we are now evolved with bipedal competence, there is no excuse for revisiting the primordial brine, slime and froth from which we emerged.  

2. Encourage the Japanese to catch more whales.
After all, they only ‘do it for research’, and ‘research’ must surely be a very good thing.

3. The remaining whales which are surplus to Japan’s immediate research requirements should immediately be fitted with ‘rubber duckies’ as a temporary measure to float them ON TOP of the ocean. This action alone will see a reduction in the global ocean level of 7 inches, and make these giant environmental hoodlums easier to spot and harpoon when the Japanese whalers mount their next research expedition.

Thank you for awarding our company the honour of serving the world. Please find enclosed invoice for $2,500,000 being the balance owing.

Yours Faithfully,

Vladimir J. Smirnoff
Director.

c.c.   Greenpeace.
Save the Whales.
Yakuza Fish Factory.
Benny Hinn Ministries.
Brazil Naturist Society. (for urgent attn. Paula)
President, Federated States of Micronesia.
(together with an aid gift of 20,000 flippers and snorkels.)

.

P.S. …. SMIRNOFF, FULCRUM and GOF apparently have a vacancy for a competent accountant.

Assorted crud in The Bucket

Nice aeroplane

Therapy centre for sleepwalkers?

It feels like the lower right 5 Mr dentist.

GOF feels an artistic urge coming on.

 

God’s obscenity

Warning; Please do not proceed if bad language offends.

.

Melanesian Tok Pisin is the primary lingua franca used in Papua New Guinea, a country with more than 600 languages.  It is derived mainly from English but also has roots to German, Indonesian and several other tribal languages.

One unintended consequence of the Australian presence in PNG last century was that many Aussie profanities were rapidly incorporated into Tok Pisin, often without the speaker having any understanding at all of the original literal meanings of the words.

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Mrs GOF, in her adult life, has retained many endearing (and occasionally infuriating) carefree youthful behaviours. Some of this innocence came to an abrupt end in April 2000 when her Mum died in the remote PNG village which was her home.

As the eldest daughter in the family, tradition dictated that Mrs GOF was in charge of preparing the body for burial.   I will always be proud of her unflinching acceptance of this extremely confronting and daunting cultural responsibility.

The body had been frozen in the morgue pending the arrival of all family members, so on funeral day Mrs GOF and her siblings cheerfully chatted away to their Mum while she was defrosting, assuring her that she was in good hands and being well cared for.

A Village Pastor, locally trained at the Logaweng Lutheran Seminary, was a family friend and he officiated at the funeral ceremony.  After the various eulogies from family members had been delivered, Pastor Pukot gave a final address which concluded as follows;

(I have translated it from Tok Pisin……all except the final unambiguous directive which is reproduced verbatim.)

A man or woman who has lived a good life on earth, who has been honest, and treated other people well, will be rewarded by God after death. Upon arrival at the golden gates of heaven they will be welcomed by the angels who will have reviewed the life of the deceased and reported to God, who will then pronounce “You have lived a good life. Welcome to Heaven.”

It is however another story for those who have been bad and lived meaningless or dishonest lives. They will arrive at the gates of heaven and the angels will present the unfavourable report to God who will become very angry, point in the opposite direction and, in a loud voice, tell them to “FUCK OFF”.

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The gathered mourners accepted this sermon as being appropriate, dignified and meaningful……all that is except for the two English-speakers present.

Mrs GOF, and her brother (who had traveled from Minnesota) glanced at each other and, despite the solemnity of the occasion, just could not help cracking up with laughter.

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McFamished

This scourge managed to invade Australia last century, then multiply on a scale only previously seen with the rabbits, prickly pear and cane toads which had preceded it.

We now have a plague of calf-scour-yellow arches.

Good friends introduced me to this escapee from America 20 years ago.  Despite their error of judgment they remain friends.
The quality of companionship on that day was five-star, whilst that of the food was kennel.
I vowed to never again allow such garbage to foul my perfectly pristine peristaltic processes.

Principles, even mine it would seem, can be compromised by hunger and desperation.

During my recent sojourn in Brisbane to bestow upon baby GOG some of the grandfatherly bonhomie and beaming conviviality for which I have become renowned, the only conveniently located take-away food establishment open for breakfast before the 7 am hospital appointment time was the House of McYuk.

Before entering, I paused and thought for a moment about the superior nutritional benefits which might accrue from ratting through yesterday’s left-overs in the KFC bins next door, but instead opted for something warmer and marginally less fetid and congealed.

Top of the breakfast menu I observed was a bacon and egg muffin thingy.  (I’m attempting to avoid legal ramifications here)
My stomach and salivary glands spontaneously went into overdrive secreting gallons of digestive juices in preparation for receiving the item illustrated in glorious spotlit panoramic technicolor on the four-foot-square wall poster.

Bacon and egg muffin thingy

This was obviously going to be a meal of sufficient size and calorific value to fuel an overweight worm-infested Sherpa laden down with oxygen bottles all the way up the final 10,000 feet to the summit of Mount Everest.

I briefly gave consideration to stealing a neighbouring resident’s wheelbarrow from his back yard in order to cart this gastronomic monstrosity back to my motel, then hiring a crane to hoist it up to the third-floor balcony before somehow squeezing it through the doorway to my room using a system of rollers and a crowbar.

The product was made even more enticing by the promise of “freshly cracked eggs”.

Now I just happen to be an enthusiastic disciple of the Freshly Cracked Eggs Movement.
No antique-cracked eggs for me. You may well prefer the added crunchiness, chewy embryonic texture and subtle salmonella taste of  more mature cracked eggs, but all-in-all I remain an admirer of the “freshly cracked” variety. Call me pernickety.

As it turned out I never did have to go and look for a wheelbarrow.

After taking two little nibbles I felt sorry for the starving anorexic-looking cricket who had spent all night in room 309 with me unsuccessfully attempting to gnaw her way into a sachet of raw sugar, so I gave the remainder to her.

She gulped it down in a single mandibular mouthful, then hopped up into my shirt pocket after which we wandered back across the road to the KFC bins in search of a proper-sized breakfast.

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Siwea airstrip, Papua New Guinea

This story is to jog the memory of all the old PNG pilots who will never forget Siwea.

It is also for all the arriving passengers who, during the final landing approach (when most of the airfield disappeared from view because of a steep uphill landing threshhold) were terrified and thought they were going to die.
Departing passengers too, whilst falling over the edge and dropping down into the Tewae gorge to gain flying speed with the Cessna stall-warning horn blaring, were also tricked into thinking that the future looked rather bleak.

To my knowledge the only person who ever did die in an aviation-related accident at Siwea was a pedestrian who was struck by the propeller of a landing aircraft.

The Siwea ‘strip was constructed circa 1970 by villagers using shovels to dig back into the mountain. It was 1500 feet in length at almost 6000 feet altitude which severely limited the performance of most light aircraft. The ‘runway’ surface was nominally grass but often just mud, and the airstrip provided an outlet for smallholder-grown arabica coffee, strawberries, onions and other fruit and vegetables.

Siwea was, in 2011, no longer an operational airfield.

(Photographs taken by Mrs GOF, 2011)

Siwea airstrip, view from the landing threshhold.

Siwea airstrip, view during landing roll.

Siwea airstrip showing total length in takeoff direction.

Siwea airstrip showing direction of takeoff and the typical weather conditions which made in unusable after 10 am on most days.