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Simon the wonder forecaster

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Farming is an occupation where financial viability is often determined by events beyond our control.

Children, an excellent traditional source of free labour, have the propensity to irresponsibly leave the family farm at around the age of 20 to look for a paying job, search for some nooky, or plug into Australia’s social welfare payroll from a more prestigious address such as Surfers Paradise.
Politicians mess with our livelihoods yet we are not permitted to shoot or castrate them as we would any other feral pest. Rural life is just one disappointment followed by another.
Weather is farming’s greatest uncertainty. In Australia we have one of the most technologically advanced organisations in the world charged with monitoring and predicting weather.
For the last 20 years at 6.35 every morning I have turned on ABC radio to hear various blokes (until recently they were all male) from the Bureau of Meteorology making weather predictions.

If I were a cynical man I might be tempted to tar all these forecasters with the same brush; i.e. they are overpaid useless bureaucratic wankers who lounge around with eyes glued to computer screens all day in comfortably airconditioned bunkers, and toilet-trained monkeys could make more accurate forecasts by simply sitting on the roof using instinct coupled with superior intellectual capacity.

The Bucket does NOT tolerate intolerance such as this.
Cynicism might be a useful nail with which to deflate the tyre of mindless certainty, but in this case it fails to take into account all the proficient weathermen….. like Simon.
Simon, aka Sanjay, was welcomed into the portico of my local Weather Bureau in 2009 by a wizened hirsute sitarist and the Indian Consul General who delivered a rather lengthy speech about bilateral relationships before everyone tucked into a free breakfast of barbecued beef sausages with onion rings and tomato sauce on wholemeal buns.

Simon’s enviable reputation as Andhra Pradesh’s premier weather guru had preceded him, and it came to pass that indeed Simon had unique powers of meteorological prediction. “Yes it will be rainings on next Tuesday but only until one quarter past ten in the morning time with the numbers of millimetres being thirty five and goodness gracious me I am seeing the sun will be shining at two o’clock in the exact moment.”
And every time Simon predicted rainings in the exact amounts, and sunshinings in the precise moments, it happened.

For three years he never made a mistake and his reputation grew exponentially. Simon became a celebrity. Aussie forecasters were jealous. Women swooned and Simon received marriage proposals from besotted meteorology students and professional gold-diggers.

Felicity-Jane Hobgoblin, Miss Twin Peaks U.S.A., submitted an irresistible handwritten application tucked neatly into a subtly perfumed item of intimate apparel. Simon, despite being betrothed to a young lady in Mumbai who had been selected by his parents on the basis of bullion ownership and potential fecundity rather than physical beauty, could not resist calling Felicity-Jane.

He nervously dialed the fifteen digits until the phone was answered on the seventh ring and……………..






…..then I woke up.



Observations of a bushie in town (Part 3)

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A debriefing on denim shorts.


Photo credit; NOT me.

Photo credit; NOT me.

I’m utterly appalled!  (again)

This sort of arse shrink-wrapping complete with homeless pockets is worn by 79% of young women aged 18 to 22 (range amended following legal advice) who wiggle and sashay around shopping centres.

Mini denim shorts defy all commonly understood laws of physics. They are a lot like Dr. Who’s Tardis. The volumetric mass contained within them far exceeds that which could be expected from the external dimensions of the garment. (Unfortunately I am lacking corroborative data as all attempts I’ve made to take measurements with my theodolite, micrometer and tape measure have been met with varying degrees of resistance.)

Tardis-shorts also don’t comply with the laws of gravity. They’re constantly inching higher and higher away from the Earth’s centre of gravity….presumably attempting to launch themselves, vacant and unpersoned, on new time-travel adventures into unexplored places and the distant corners of the galaxy.

All that prevents take-off is a narrow retaining band of tattered textile and frequent yanking back downwards by the owner… an average frequency of seven times every minute.
(Erudition is never the product of sloppy observation.)

Thank goodness. Let’s count our blessings.

Australia has already been sucked into a vortex of depravity, wickedness and turpitude. The last thing we need to see is seething scrums of bare-assed young sheilas mooning around public places accelerating our progress toward eternal damnation.



Observations of a bushie in town. (Part 2)

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More observations in Shopping Centres.


Ethnic deficiencies.

Australians of Anglo-Saxon origin (of which I am one) are a really ugly bunch. (86%)

Kangaroos, wombats and camels are much prettier.

ugliness scale

The growing numbers of Hispanic, Asian and Scandinavian immigrants make us look even worse.

It’s no wonder England rounded up all of our hideous forefathers who were a blight on the picturesque hills and dales before shipping them off to Australia two centuries ago. Since then we’ve just bred indiscriminately with the first person who was too slow to slam the gate shut on our libidinal inquisitiveness. The result is a genetic train wreck.

We are now a pox on the beautiful face of our wide brown land.

Cosmetic attempts are being made to beautify the human landscape. Three quarters of all men below the age of 35 now have ‘artwork’ tattooed on their arms. Just like the Mandrill monkeys with hair-capes over their shoulders and Hamadryas baboons and their striking pink buttocks, the tattoos at least provide an element of distraction from all the unsightliness existing above the neckline.


We need to clean up the joint permanently by expanding our annual Tidy Towns Competition. Allocate a special day to put all the ugly people in a bin with options;
1.  Deportation to Antarctica.
2.  Being whacked on the scone with a nulla-nulla.
3.  Shish-kebabing with a red-hot greased scimitar.
4.  Compulsory cross-breeding with a Venezuelan.
And I’m not finished yet. To be continued………………….perhaps from Antarctica or South America.


Observations of a bushie in town. (Part 1)

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market stall
Economic necessity dictates that one day each week I have to get up before sparrowfart, drench myself with underarm stench-suppressant and slip into snazzy town clobber before motoring off to the big smoke to sell some potted plants.

We’ve been making a living like this for 29 years, the first fourteen of which were spent trading beneath blue plastic tarps at various nondescript flea markets during all kinds of weather.

Shopping centres opened their hallowed airconditioned vestibules and galleries for desperate  distinguished stallholders like me in 1999. Since then I’ve spent thousands of hours observing, taking notes, and scientifically evaluating the behaviour of my fellow Australians in their modern natural habitat; supermarkets and shopping centres.
Accordingly, out of respect for this diligent scholarship, please refrain from disputing any of the following conclusions;

1. Facts about Aussie blokes.
Twenty two percent of Australian men aged between 41 and 70 need a shopping trolley to aid locomotion.  They hoist and heave their magnificent quivering beer-bellies up on top of the trolley with breathless grunts of satisfaction before wheeling them into the shopping centre. Without the trolley the entire human organism would simply topple forward and coalesce into an amorphous blubbery blob on the floor.  These occurrences require mechanical or team intervention to stand the mass up again and mould it back into something vaguely resembling an evolved vertebrate.



2. The truth about Manicure and Pedicure salons.


(Exit data evaluation and analysis of 23,457 women and 7 men who went into Manicure Salons 1999-2013;)


12%   Manicure and pedicure treatments proved to be so elegant, glamorous and eye-catching that I would be favourably disposed to employing them all as Potting Mix Shovelers at GOF Horticultural Corporation.

87%    Nail painting was about as useful for improving physical beauty as thimbles would have been for bailing out the sinking Titanic.

1%    Never came out again. Assume they were asphyxiated by the noxious acrid fumes and ended up being disposed of in the industrial dumpster bins out the back.


To be continued…….

Because you let me go

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It is almost a quarter of a century since my Mum died at age 82. She gave her solitary boy life and love and freedom. The first two were unconditional, but she never let me forget that freedom comes with responsibilities and consequences.
Here are a few words for her on Mothers Day just to let her know she’s not forgotten.



It’s Mum’s Day number sixty six,
Again I think of you.
The heroine of my childhood
Who taught me what to do.
Of course I don’t remember
My first step long ago,
I hear you held my hand one stride
But then you let me go.

There were cuts and scrapes and bruises.
Misadventures on the farm.
I crashed my bike into a tree
And almost broke my arm.
When gored by Jersey horns I said
A bad word, yes, I know.
You patched me up and told me not
To swear……… then let me go.

You watched my years of awkwardness
From youth to adulthood.
Not judging all the foolishness
Like other mothers would.
And now I’m old and thinking back
Of gifts you did bestow.
The greatest was to love, and care,
…..but then to let me go.



Mr Osborne’s new testament

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True story from ABC News





Matthew Mark Luke John Osborne, a British tourist, was recently arraigned in Cairns on charges of stealing a $250,000 Argyle pink diamond. There is a possibility that he’d swallowed it at some stage for safe-keeping whilst decamping from the scene of the crime, but investigating detectives were too late to intercept the passage of the precious rock.  Only M M L J O knows where it is now.

I have questions;

1.   Would the diamond have lost value in transit due to diminished lustre and glitter?

2.   Would it have gained value because of it’s celebrity and unique provenance?

3.   Would this diamond still be a girl’s best friend if it were slipped on her finger in the form of an engagement ring?

4.   Would she ever lick melted ice-cream off her ring finger.

5.   Did Mr and Mrs Osborne impose an unreasonable burden of saintly expectation on their boy-child by naming him Matthew Mark Luke John?

6.   Would he have lived a more law-abiding life if he’d been baptised   Titus Philemon Thessalonian Revelation Osborne instead?

7.   Why didn’t they name him John Paul George Ringo Osborne?


So many questions. So few answers.




Reasons why pilots fly

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Occasionally in the past I’ve tried to describe the sense of magic, freedom and exhilaration that comes with flying aeroplanes. Each time my vocabulary has disappointingly lacked appropriate superlatives. Now I’ve discovered a 4-minute video which does the job much better.

It is a pilot’s eye view of the final approach into Queenstown, New Zealand. Beginning with breathtaking views of solid gold mountain tops before descending through a blanket of cloud. We are then treated to aviation’s most astonishing conjuring trick; making an airport runway appear out of nowhere.

Instrument Landing Systems must surely be high on the list of mankind’s greatest technological achievements.


PS….It does however worry me slightly that the aircraft still seems to be traveling rather fast when the video cuts out at the far end of the runway.


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