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Monthly Archives: October 2010

It just got up and went

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‘Tis a funny thing you know,
To look back o’er a shoulder
To where childhood once did grow
Into youth, then slightly older.
For suddenly it vanished,
Lost innocence to lament.
By Father Time ’twas banished.
It just got up and went.

And then there was agility.
Climbing mountains in the rain.
An unlimited ability
To jog without the pain.
A body trim to flex, contort
Was just as nature meant.
Today I’m feeling quite distraught,
‘Cos it just got up and went.

And accuity of vision.
Threading needles in the wink
Of an eye, with precision.
Gone forever one would think.
All the girls I ogled locally,
For ocular entertainment
Now indistinct bifocally,
Since sight got up and went.

Simple life got filled with stuff,
A tractor, house and car.
There never seemed to be enough
For life’s fiscal bazaar.
Reflecting now it’s time to laugh
At inept mismanagement.
When piggy bank got filled to half
It just got up and went.

Seems just last week on Monday,
That Inga was still a teen.
Then university on the Thursday.
Tennis lessons in between.
An Aussie Navratilova,
Alas, gifts not heaven sent.
We’d only started to know her.
She just got up and went.

My hourglass sand’s diminished.
Enough for just a while
Get a couple of projects finished.
And write, edit, compile.
Cherish friends, a sunny day,
But even more impor-tent,
Are memories stored, for they,
Have not got up and went.




Ravenshoe wind farm

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These are photographs of the “Windy Hill” electricity generators not far from my place.  There are 20 turbines, with plans to build more.

I find them aesthetically pleasing. A sign of hope that mankind has the ability to learn from some of his thoughtless environmental mistakes of the past.
Kinetic monuments of apology to our Mother Earth.

Others would just like to continue spewing coal smoke into the air that we all breathe.

Einstein’s close shave

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Philosophers continue to sift through the barren wasteland of human experience looking for the key to happiness.

They won’t find it, because I’ve got it.

GOF’s Secret to Happiness is;

Finding someone or something else to blame for every single failure in one’s life.

A cousin on my Mother’s side had such extraordinary scientific and mathematical ability that he was selected to oversee Australia’s rocket launching programs at Woomera in the 1960’s.

It is of course an accepted genetic fact that I too must have inherited the same mathematical gift.

Mine however, according to school report cards, mysteriously disappeared somewhere between 1960 and 1963 after which time I rarely troubled the examiners ability to add up to a percentile number higher than 20.

So, what circumstances changed during this period to which I might allocate blame?

Pubescent GOF suddenly discovered that his previously all-boy’s world was equally populated by cute little humans who were all soft and cuddly, and which obviously required much more observation, examination and exploration.

Excessive devotion to this project apparently caused my arithmetical intelligence to suddenly plummet to the level of two thick planks.

Given the esteem with which The Bucket is held in scientific circles I obviously can’t go around rumour mongering that “girls cause boys to be mathematically dumb”, so let me search through my very private alphabetical list of possible excuses for something else which might satisfy empirical science.
(no looking at my private list please)

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *

A,B,C,D... they’re all used up……

Elle MacPherson,… obsession forced upon me.

Fireworks (unlit) stuck up both nostrils in 1958. Surgical removal

Glue…. sniffing and/or misapplication to body parts.  Minor surgery.

Hairspray mistakenly ingested after thinking it was olive oil cooking spray while Mrs GOF was away farnarkling in America.

Inbreeding ….because the big flood killed everyone on Earth except Noah and his Missus.

Jesus Juice aerosol lubricant erroneously used as underarm deodorant for all of 1992.

Kerosene fumes from that day when they arrested me for arson.

Leptospirosis infection; must ask the doctor how I got that.

Mohair….MOHAIR…..WOOHOO  that’s it.

Mohair……inhalation of mohair fibres.

Every cute 14 year-old chick in 1962 wore a mohair sweater.
No exceptions.  Joan Shepherd, my piano duet partner wore one
(I have photographic evidence) and all the girls at the YMCA learn-to-ballroom-dance classes wore them fluffily disguising hidden treasures and forbidden pleasures which were totally beyond my understanding, and sadly, despite much hopeful dreaming, grasp.

Goats and Joan Shepherd are totally responsible for denying me my rightful career in nuclear physics.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Henny the rooster

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Not quite so mellow today.

This is a story about a rooster who bestowed upon himself the mantle of spokescock for the Supreme Poultry Diety after having identified this role as a potentially lucrative source of wealth.

If you notice any similarity to human behaviour, or to any specific living person, I will not be disappointed, but it is of course entirely coincidental and only a product of your imagination.


Henny was a rooster who grew up to be too big for his spurs.

He was a Rhode Island Red who liked to wear a pure white uniform around the farmyard to make himself look like a superior, more important, imposing, and spiritual White Leghorn.

Henny crowed to all the chickens in the world including the Australorps and the Bantams and all the Fancy Breeds that he had special powers, and a message given directly to him by the Avian Divinity, and that he was the only one who had it, and
“all you chickens had better believe me OR ELSE“.

A lot of the chickens did believe Henny, and many were scared out of their tail feathers, so they all gathered in special chicken sheds to listen to him crowing about how all of chickendom was doomed and was going to be destroyed unless they followed his threatening sermon channelled directly via Providential hot-line into his skull.

Then Henny started to do some really weird things to improve his popularity and profit margin following, like getting lame chickens to limp up onto his high perch, after which he would slap them in the face with one of his wings, and they would fall down on their backs looking for all the world like they were hypnotised, before they all miraculously fluttered off with fully-restored unfettered bipedal competence to the back of the shed.

When all the other chooks saw these performances they would jump with joy, and sob, and cry things like “Amen Henny, you da Rooster” and clap their wings together and thump nesting boxes with their feet until their gizzards felt like exploding.

Side to side he would strut across the perch, with his “striking wing” occasionally pointed towards the rafters of the barn, in front of twenty virginal pullets who cluckily provided an accompaniment of the  “Halle-brrrrrk-buk-buk-buk” Chorus, which gave Henny time to pause and consider his own wonderfulness before patting his comb back into an appropriate state of evangelistic perfection.

And before all the chickens vacated the hen-house they would leave behind gifts, including shell grit made out of diamonds and gold, and pledge to him a portion of all their future egg-laying profits just so that Henny would never go hungry or poor.

Henny never did ever go hungry or poor, and all the chickens thought that they’d been shown the true road to Poultry Heaven, until the following week when the big truck came and took Henny to the abattoir instead.

At that moment they realised that Henny had in fact been a deceitful imposter who had never really been an officially designated Chickengodly Spokesperson, or even a greater poultry-being than themselves.

Their own personal quiet beliefs in their Diety, along with daily good deeds which honoured their faith, were always going to be in His eyes one thousand-fold more important than anything sprouted by a rooster with a loud beak and a gift of theatre.



The Bucket reaffirms it’s respect for those who choose to hold religious beliefs, but not for those self-appointees or hierarchically commissioned monothiest leaders who find ways to take advantage of those believers.


Thank you to all my wise and wonderful friends who contribute to the discussions following my stories…….especially those who pointed out last time the error of my assumption that garden tools and concrete mixers were keys to a woman’s heart, …

so I went out and got her some of these instead;

For the love of ……

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Today finds me in mellow and reflective mood with an inclination to ponder romantic love and relationships.

“neither be cynical about love for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass” Desiderata

At my age it would be very easy to be cynical about love.
I have witnessed the relationship implosions that affected several of my friends, and also had my own first well-intentioned marriage disintegrate after a decade of decline into a sump of disappointment, despair and litigation.

Replaced thankfully by thirty years of what continues to be for me
“as good as it gets”.  Peaceful coexistence. No lofty peaks of romantic delusion followed by deep troughs of recriminatory argument.
No expectations second time around of everlasting bliss and a marital road paved with scented rose petals.

Our stage of longevity was set by the impeccable and flawless quality of my marriage proposal, followed by her judicious response.

We had previously shared a platonic working relationship before it came time for me to geographically relocate 2000 km away, so one day shortly before my departure I casually queried;

Q.   “Is there any chance you might like to join me sometime?”
A.    “Ahh………………………………………..Oh, anything’s possible”

(In retrospect that verbal pause was probably the longest of her entire life)

Four months later she arrived on my new doorstep to discuss the terms and conditions.  Contrary to what now seems to be popular opinion, forcible application of chloroform was never required, although I would have considered almost any chemical agent or mechanical device to prevent her walking away from my life at that time.

Somehow we have managed to “get by” with our simple but often nebulously negotiated partnership, bolstered by a few shared but unspoken principles of life, and survived the test of working and living together 24 hours every day for almost three decades.

Whenever cracks appeared in our house of civil matrimony we clogged them up with mortar of compromise before they had a chance to develop into anything more destructive.

Mrs GOF probably used up a much greater supply of her mortar
than I ever did.  Like many women of my generation she spent a disproportionate amount of time keeping the matrimonial house in a state of good repair, yet she has never found the need to complain.

Our partnership now has the comfortable feel of an old couch which has been moulded to our body shapes, yet our future together is not something I should automatically take for granted.

If she ever feels the need to fly away and attend to some neglected corner of her garden of girlhood dreams, or to more fully explore and develop the many dormant talents of her middle age, she will do so with my support and encouragement because………

this life is not a dress rehearsal.


And, as for young love…….when I see lovers holding hands or stealing kisses in the shadows it still makes me smile and feel all warm inside, for these small acts of affection are so full of the promise that this little seed of love will be unique, and that it might blossom into the most perfect fulfilling love story of their generation.

I still hold for them, despite all my life experience, the hope that their dreams will come true.

And just for Mrs GOF, the words of Charles Aznavour’s
“She”  (Tous Les Visages deL’Amour)

“The one I care for through the rough and ready years”

Ah yes, this is definitely for Mrs GOF.

She may be the face I can’t forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
Maybe my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
A smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seems
Inside her shell….

She, who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one’s allowed to see them when they cry
She maybe the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows in the past
That I remember ’till the day I die

She maybe the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I’m alive
The one I care for through the rough and ready years

Me, I’ll take the laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I’ve got to be
The meaning of my life is

A Childrens Story (Illustrated)

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(Parental Guidance recommended;  Contains partial nudity)


Once upon a time there was a cuddly teddy bear called Fozzie.

Fozzie lived in the middle of the rainforest with a little girl named Inga, who grew up into a big girl called Globet which is a really funny name that she chose for herself.
When she was little, Inga would dress Fozzie in nice clothes and tuck him warm and snug into bed every night.

Fozzie had another best friend called Garfield.

One day, soon after Inga had grown up into a Globet, she knew that she had to leave home because her Daddy told her to, so she flew all the way to the other side of Australia just to get away from him.

There were no more seats left on the aeroplane, so Fozzy had to stay at home with Garfield, and Inga’s nice Mummy, and the evil Grandpa GOF, who sometimes made Fozzie sit all alone on top of the wardrobe where all the cockroaches and spiders lived.

After a while Fozzie got really angry at being treated that way, so he sent messages to all his little piggy friends in the rainforest to come and create havok amongst GOF’s assets and gardens.

“Please come and create absolute havok and make a really big mess of GOF’s place” pleaded Fozzie at a meeting of their Porcine Parliament.

The pigs were very happy to help, and they dug, and they wallowed, and they shat, and they ploughed up Evil GOF’s gardens big time.

When Evil GOF found out what was happening, he got really angry and tried to shoot the pigs with a gun which is a very naughty thing to do, but Fozzie and Garfield always warned the pigs when GOF was coming to look for them, so none of them ever got hurt.

Then Evil GOF built a trap to try and catch the pigs, and it was then that some really funny things happened.

First he didn’t build the trap door properly and it fell down on his foot which made him use some words that Fozzie had never heard before.

You  $#%@   %$#&*%   @%$#   *&$%#  door” shouted Evil GOF at the top of his voice.

Fozzie laughed and laughed and laughed until tears streamed down his face as he watched the Evil One hopping around in the mud on one leg.

Then Grandpa GOF tightened some trotter trip wires to make the door fall down after the pigs came inside his trap, and then a long nylon fishing line back to his hideout in the shed so that just in case the pigs didn’t trigger the first one he could do it himself.

Then you wouldn’t believe what happened next.

In the middle of the night after he had given up and gone to bed,
Evil Grandpa thought he heard the trap go off, so he came running helter-skelter out of the house wearing gumboots, a fully loaded shotgun and not a great deal else, to check his trap.

That was a really disturbing sight for Fozzy to see, but what happened next was the funniest thing that he had ever seen in his whole life.

Evil GOF forgot all about his fishing line which he couldn’t see in the dark, so he went running into it and the door came crashing down with a really big bang.
He had caught himself in his very own trap.

Fozzie almost wet himself because it was all so, so funny.

It reminded Fozzie and Garfield of the last time they went to a soccer match together.  But this time the big scoreboard was reading;

Pigs 1 :  GOF  0.

Dear oh dear, Fozzie hadn’t laughed so much for a really long time, but Evil Grandpa heard him laughing and, as punishment, made Fozzie sit on permanent sentry duty with the gun ready on his lap.

But Fozzie isn’t really going to hurt any of his piggy friends, and all the animals still laugh at the silly things that Evil Grandpa GOF does, so they all lived happily ever after…..

except of course for Evil GOF….but that’s another story………and God help us, he’ll probably keep inflicting them on people ad nauseum for ever.

Bouncing tits

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Judgeth me not that mine tits are small, and blue, and accordingly liveth not up to thine expectations, but verily I say unto thee that neither size nor colour are important.

I have a serious question.  (No, really….I do.)

Those who noted that it took me 3 weeks to eventually work out just how to configure the simple title “GOF” as your main source of annoyance on WordPress, will not need further convincing of my abysmal understanding of computers and this internetski thing.

Is it just my imagination that search engines have more difficulty picking up posts made here at WordPress than they did on Vox?

At Vox, geographic references and specific phrases from my stories were recognised by Google within a couple of hours of posting, and that does not seem to be happening here where identical stories have resided for 7 months now.

I ticked the box at WP to have my blog readable by search engines because of the historical New Guinea content contained within it.

During the last 7 months there have only been a small handful of referrals from search engines.

Four were in response to the search term
“stunning women with no clothes” who were directed here.
A further three were in Russian, a language with which, alas, I am unfamiliar, (apart from internetski and Tatiana Grigorieva) but whose search probably translated into; “stunning women with no clothes”.

I think I can understand how difficult it would be for a search engine to locate one piece of information on the Internetski.

It would be like me rummaging through all the shredded-paper dumpsters at the United Nations trying to find a single piece of evidence to suggest that the UN was NOT a morbidly obese administrative monstrosity which had gotten to be that way by feeding solely off it’s own bureaucratic excrement.

One theory I am considering is that Google itself is now a teenager, and it’s Google-eyes might be preoccupied looking for puerile adolescent content relating to bodily functions, rather than actually indexing the literary genius that all my blog neighbors produce here at WordPress.

In other words, Google is presently nothing more than a very naughty juvenile search engine.

To prove my point, The Bucket proudly launches;

.o0O    The  BOUNCING TITS  project.    O0o.

How long will search engines need to crawl all over my
BOUNCING  TITS before they show them to the public?

How long will it take Google to nail down my BOUNCING TITS?

I fully understand that my BOUNCING TITS might attract an undesireable multitude of dirty old reprobates from fifty different countries who will pollute my blog of purity.

And ten thousand devious but hopeful old Dolly Parton fans.

And 100,000 nine year old boys who, after viewing my offering, will go back to school the next day wondering what the hell all their classmates were getting excited about.

I am standing by, waiting for the first desperate pervert welcome visitor to arrive via a BOUNCING TITS search.

As a reward he will be annointed from my special crystal decanter of  Eau de Bilge.

Final results of this  BOUNCING TITS experiment will be published at the end of October.

That should give me just enough time to apply for the next
Nobel Prize for outstanding Scientific research.



P.S. Don’t even try it.

Any comment received below which attempts to re-use my phrase “dirty old reprobate” in a manner detrimental to the good reputation of  The Bucket or any specific member of it’s staff will be viewed quite unfavorably.

Edit 90 minutes after posting;  Google discovered this within 60 minutes of posting, which I find quite an extraordinary achievement.  Bing did not.

Healthy sarcasm

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The well-intentioned (and rather attractive) presenters on the television science program “Catalyst”  recently spent half an hour giving birth to this ill-conceived issue of dubious parentage;

“When old people STOP taking ALL their daily between 5 and 20 prescription medications they begin to feel healthy again.”

Now who would’ve thunk it.  Considering one of those “medicines” was probably Warfarin (rat bait) and God knows (or perhaps She is equally bewildered) what other toxic chemicals were contained in the colourful geriatric pill cocktails.

It is high time that these brilliant researchers stopped whispering sweet nothings to us from the back row of the arena, and instead donned their medical matador gear to do some serious fighting inside the bullring.

The beast they should be confronting is this;

For the majority of people, if they simply stopped spending their entire lives overloading and polluting their bodies with fat, sugar, salt, nicotine, excess protein, food additives and drugs (legal or otherwise) then collectively got off their arses to exercise daily, they would not need to visit the peddlers of toxic pharmaceuticals nearly as often in later life, or live their final years nibbling away at rat bait.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a large portion of black forest cake topped with whipped cream.

All this self-righteous proselytising is making me hungry…..and giving me a headache……but nothing compared to the intensity of the one facing health educators as they attack their single greatest challenge of the twenty-first century.