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Monthly Archives: February 2012

Concert review; The Searchers 50th Anniversary

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The Searchers

Regular Bucket readers will recall that I can be a very difficult bastard to please when it comes to live music concerts.
Previous to the last one, I had walked out of three consecutive events before intermission.

At my age I have no tolerance to wasting my time being bored, putting up with sub-standard entertainment, or allowing my eardrums to be blasted involuntarily half-way down my Eustachian tubes.

So it was with more than a little trepidation that forever-tolerant Mrs GOF accompanied me to the very affordable Searchers 50th Anniversary Tour concert at the Cairns Civic Centre last Thursday night.

Daughter Inga’s only comment over the phone beforehand was “Wow, now ain’t that theatre just gonna be chockablock full of old farts.”

Indeed it WAS full of old farts. Packed to the rafters with old farts.

Following the cessation of hostilities in World War 2, Australians took to the task of procreation like ducks to water. The now worn-out little ducklings, the products of those post-1945 ‘deliberations’, were mightily entertained last week by The Searchers good old-fashioned rock and roll.
Inga too would have loved it.

The Searchers, a group from the U.K., surfed that unprecedented global wave of pop-music fame along with The Beatles and The Rolling Stones back in the 1960’s.

Today their music is unchanged. Thumping drum beats, catchy toe-tapping rhythms and pleasing vocal harmonies, all completely free of modern electronic whizz-bangery.

The two-hour program included most of their big hits along with some Orbison, Dylan and Status Quo covers and many amusing anecdotes from 50 years on the road. They also never missed an opportunity to poke fun at how ancient all of us baby-boomers are today.

The penultimate song on the program, the rousing English anthem “You’ll Never Walk Alone” certainly brought a lump to my throat.
I suspect that none of us in the auditorium felt we were alone at that moment knowing that we were all being nostalgically united by this rare and delightful opportunity to remember and relive the musical magic of the 1960’s.

After all, as teenagers, we witnessed the greatest musical revolution the world has ever seen.

The Searchers rock.  Still.

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Let the revolution begin.

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There are several proven techniques used by successful bloggers to encourage loyal readership.

This is not one of them.
(and herein also lies a valuable political lesson.)

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OK. I’ve had a gutful of Australia’s political representatives at the moment. The whole freakin’ lot of ’em, State and Federal.
With elections imminent they are behaving like recalcitrant schoolyard hooligans with as much vision for the long-term future as Bruce the Brahman bull sniffing cows on heat.

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Ladies and Gentlemen, you are herewith invited to participate in;

GOF’s BLOODLESS COUP   (did you get that Mr CIA and ASIO?)

I’ve scoured the world searching for the most distinguished, good-looking, and talented people, the cream of the human intelligentsia crop, to govern Australia by appointment, seeing as all these other elected egocentric incompetents have lost any semblance of credibility.

Your Remuneration Package;   $1 million p.a.
There are only two novel concepts requirements;

1. Party Politics is banned. You will use YOUR OWN brains, and implement YOUR OWN decisions, and be totally responsible for the consequences, in contrast to past practices.

2. You are in this for the long haul….perform accordingly with a LONG-TERM vision for Australia’s future.
(the priority is always AUSTRALIA’S future and not YOUR future.) .


Snowy                                Prime Minister    
Inga                                      Treasurer and Minister for Aged. 
(gossip-mongers mentioning ‘nepotism’ will be publicly flogged)
Flamingo Dancer             Minister for Education and Womens affairs.
Peter McC                           Minister for Religion and envoy to Vatican.
Amelie                                 Minister for Sustainability and Environment.
GOM                                      Minister for Industry and National Security.
Lauri                                     Minister for Communication and Animals.
Kimmy                                 Minister for Science and Literature.
Hangaku Gozen                Minister for the Arts and Culture.
Rich                                      Minister for Small Business.
Brad                                     Minister for Tourism and Tropical Affairs.
Ninja                                   Minister for Aviation.
Koan 911                           Minister for Foreign Affairs.
MadTante.                        Minister for Agriculture and Main Roads.
Emjay                                 Special envoy Washington/UnitedNations.
Vicola                                 Head of Diplomatic Services.
Elyse                                   Attorney General.
Drude                                 Chief of European Liaison.
LOM                                    National Archivist and photographer.
Angry MAW                     Minister for Health.
Mike                                    Minister for Technology and Music.
AuntieB                             Minister for Commerce.
Mrs GOF                            Minister for Psychological services.

Now that’s one extremely competent and colourful Government.

God speed and I wish you all wisdom in your deliberations.

Effective immediately, all communications, complaints and debate regarding omissions or allocation of portfolios should be directed to the Prime Minister.

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Meanwhile I’ve commandeered Fitzroy Island, and under the executive powers I just conferred upon myself have renamed it;
The Republic of GOFLAND.   Population; 1

And if anyone’s looking for the Wild Turkey or Bundaberg Rum Distilleries, I’ve now got both of ’em relocated on my island nation.

The childish and pathetic behaviour of politicians in this country, and the unmitigated pre-election bullshit being served up by candidates is enough to drive a man to drink.


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A granddaughter named Roman

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Great joy.

Behold, into the GOF Family a grandchild hath come.

My family does not discriminate on the grounds of ethnicity, religion or, it would seem, species.  I now have a rabbit granddaughter.

Inga  and her most recent arrival are domiciled at the other end of Australia down towards Antarctica. The adopted grown-up bunny-child is so technologically savvy that she was able to send Mrs GOF the following communication on her mobile phone the other day.

"Hi Grandma"

What did I get?  Zero.  Zilch.  I was beginning to think that little fluffy nerd-ears had probably already accessed and discovered that Grandpa GOF half a century ago was responsible for exterminating a very large number of her ancestors.

So yesterday it was a great relief when I received the following email from little Buggalugs.

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Hi Grandpa,

Mama Inga is letting me use the computer tonight while she tries to find every one of the 534 pellets that I hid around the house while she was at work today. It’s lots of fun seeing her down on her hands and knees looking underneath the tables and couches with a torch and mumbling lots of foreign words that I don’t understand yet because I’m too little.

Everything is good here except for one thing that I don’t really understand. I was christened ‘Madonna’ and that’s what everyone at the rabbit shelter used to call me, so why is Mama Inga now calling me ‘Roman’ all the time?

Is her memory shot?
Does she do weird things like this very often?

Your fluffy little granddaughter,


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My dear little Buggalugs,

Nomenclature is a very complicated adult business.  
Your Mama Inga had to find a name for you that she liked, but which was also acceptable to the Bunny Refuge people who were looking after you before.  You see, some humans give their offspring really stupid names like;

Pilot Inspektor                (Actor Jason Lee)
Sage Moonblood             (Sylvester Stallone)
Diva Thin Muffin           (Frank Zappa)  
Audio Science                  (Actress Shannyn Sassamon)
Globet and Musmus    (unattributed)

Mostly names are no big deal and they don’t unduly influence or predict the child’s subsequent behaviour.

Johnny Cash’s boy named ‘Sue’ got up and slugged his Dad right in the moosh as soon as he was able, which was extremely unladylike behaviour.

‘Chastity’ didn’t work out too well for Cher’s little one either and the kid’s still unchastely frolicking around decades later trying to discover whether she’s Arthur or Martha or something in between.   If only Cher Could Turn back Time.

So you see, Mama Inga was faced with a difficult decision.
She couldn’t name you ‘Fridge Magnet‘ or ‘Mophead’ or  “Squeegee” or ‘Bathtub Backscratcher’ or ‘Door Stopper’ because this might have rung some alarm bells with the Refuge management.

Mama Inga didn’t like your original name because people might have confused you with a couple of other famous ‘Madonnas’ in history, although you’re not really very much like the first Madonna because you are deficient in the ‘child’ department to the tune of one.

Inga was also a little bit frightened that you might be influenced by sharing a name with the second one, and the last thing Mama Inga needs right now is to come home after a long day in the office to find her very own Madonna squatting over a mirror having risque photographs taken for publication as Wanton Wabbit Centrefold of the Month in Playbunny Magazine.

So there you have it my little one.

Trust your Mama Inga. You won’t find a better one.
Or a more loving Grandma.  
Of other family members I am less certain.

Love from Grandpa.

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Germ warfare

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Never in the field of human conflict has one man fought so heroically to resist the evil forces of invasion.

He did not fight them on the beaches.

He did not fight them in the trenches.

He fought them in the garden shed because that’s where Brigadier-General Mrs GOF told him to go and stay until the Temple of GOF was completely liberated from the infantry of cold viruses which had entered, violated and occupied it.

Exceptional acts of gallantry and valour need to be recorded for posterity. They should also be written down so that someone might be able to read about them in the future.

The War Diaries

Thursday;  Utter astonishment and disbelief that any invading force would have had the affrontery to breach the nutritional fortifications constructed around my temple, thereby placing it’s homeostasis in jeopardy.

Friday;  Prepared a strategic emergency plan, then began flushing out some of the intruders with sodium compound after discovering three external orifices in the belfry suitable for the operation. (photographs and illustrations available free of charge upon request)

Saturday;  Phase 1 chemical warfare;  Commenced cluster-bombing with Ascorbic acid and zinc chelate. Initiate psychological warfare by persistently and loudly shouting abuse at all the germ soldiers, making particular reference to their uncertain parentage.

Sunday;  Laid down booby traps of Vicks VapoRub on the sanctuary exterior.   Fumigate the tabernacle interior all the way down to the pipe organ with asphyxiating eucalyptus fog blasted in through the temple door.

Monday;  Launch unrelenting blitzkrieg of chemical weaponry to counter renewed insurgency;  Brought in special forces from the paracetamol and phenylephrine divisions.
GlaxoSmithKline shares rise 12% in the wake of this assault.

Tuesday;  Urgent dispatch to Brigadier-General requesting repatriation back to Headquarters.  Request pending “until receipt of a suitable Last Will and Testament signed by you GOF.”
More rations and ammunition received in the garden shed strapped to my dog’s back.

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GOF will resume his blogging obligations just as soon as he feels a little less like a recently pulverised and tenderised slab of chuck steak.

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A change of heart

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Mrs GOF, just last week;

“GOF, don’t you think it’s about time that you developed some other interest in life and stopped posting pictures of women in various stages of undress in The Bucket?
Why not try acting your age and start taking some nice photographs of nature at work or some inanimate objects instead.”


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Hark……dost one hear the sweet strains of an angel whispering?

Oh yes, one does.







OK, thank you dear.


Raquel Welch

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GOF’s Philosophy for the week;

Marriages are like unstable alpine snowfields.
You need to regularly fire small explosive charges
into them to prevent cataclysmic avalanches.

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Foo was here

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Puberty is a confusing time of life which I’d  prefer to forget.
It was a total waste of ten good years.

Adolescent boys growing up in the Victorian goldmining town of Bendigo fifty years ago were blessed with the empowering gift of freedom to explore the countryside around them, but compared to the youth of today many of us were mere babes in the woods when it came to understanding more worldly matters.

Every weekday I pedaled five miles to the brand new White Hills Technical School on the outskirts of town.  At lunch time we were allowed to swarm unsupervised across the Midland Highway to the one hundred acres of abandoned gold diggings where we would climb mullock (tailings) heaps and explore underground tunnels and shafts which had remained unused for half a century or more.

No kids died, or disappeared, or required medical repair.
To the best of my knowledge.

At thirteen I was also impressed by one of my classmates who, when we went into the central part of town, exhibited some special talents, including the ability to identify women in the crowd who were in either the second and third trimester of pregnancy.
The very first time he pointed some of them out to me I wondered what awful thing might have caused these poor women to swell up like that.

“Well I think it happens like this”  commenced Bodgie Carmichael, Form 2A’s fourteen year-old fount of grown-up knowledge, before giving me the dubious benefit of his vast inexperience whilst tamping down his brilliantined Elvis hair and admiring his own reflection in a plate-glass window.
“Wayne, my big brother, said he almost did it once, so maybe we should ask him. There is a difference too between fat and pregnant y’know Goffy and sometimes even I can’t  tell which is which”.

Presiding over all this childhood naivety was Foo the King of Graffiti.  He was everywhere.

He peered over fences or looked up at me from footpaths and roadways and gawked at me from the walls of factories and even the hospital perimeter wall.  He rattled past me trying to disguise himself amongst advertising placards on trams, and he even sped past me one day as a barely distinguishable blur on the side of a red wooden carriage of the Melbourne to Bendigo express train.

Foo was omnipresent.

Whatever happened to Foo?  I never see him any more.

Even Mr Google doesn’t know what happened to Foo.

It seems that Mr Foo was probably born shortly before or during World War II, but his parentage remains uncertain.
Perhaps his name derived from the British and Australian military acronyms for Forward Observation Officer, or FUBAR  
(F***** Up Beyond All Repair).

American cartoonist Bill Holman also discovered ‘Foo’ inscribed on the base of a Chinese figurine and then used the word in his pre-war cartoons. The United States however widely adopted the name ‘Kilroy’ for it’s very own little bald-headed graffiti man. (Possibly named after a Massachusetts Shipyard Inspector J.J. Kilroy)

The original Foo graphic is thought to have been inspired by the following electrical circuitry diagram.

A British naval magazine in 1946 noted that  “Mr Foo is a mysterious second world war product gifted with bitter omniscience and sarcasm.”

I remember him more fondly as the only other witness on a Bendigo tram in 1962 who saw three schoolboys discover a packet of condoms hidden underneath the slatted wooden seat.  The boys proceeded to inflate them one by one to maximum lung pressure before setting them loose out the window onto View Street where they erratically jetted, flubbered and kerfoofed amongst cars and bicycles just like single-minded little spermatazoons in search of the perfect egg.

Mr Foo and I were both appalled at the juvenile delinquency which we had just witnessed.

Has anyone seen Mr Foo or Mr Kilroy recently?  

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