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Monthly Archives: January 2014

A special ‘Service to Humanity’ post.

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free sarcasm

Last year an average of 20 people per day visited The Bucket after using the appropriate search term to discover the following illustration.

I’m guessing most of them were Post-Doctorate Research Fellows studying within the disciplines of genetics, biology, anthropology or perhaps even chemical engineering.  My illustration was previously only accessible after scrolling through an entire page of irrelevant data,  so as a special service to those working at the coal-face of scientific discovery I have chosen to make it more readily available in this special post.

By doing so the planet’s most gifted minds will be able to more rapidly access the required information before resuming whatever valuable service it was that they were providing for humanity beforehand.

You’re welcome.

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micro bikini

micro bikini

Three bags full……….of evil.

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Two questions arising from the following recent event in my town;

1.  Does each one of us have a latent capacity to inflict barbaric acts on another human being?

2.  Under what circumstances is it acceptable to tell the world about the sexual intimacies we have shared with past lovers?

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not a nice man
Sadly whenever we see a man tearfully pleading on television for the return of his missing wife chances are that he’s already bumped her off.
There was certainly never much doubt from the very beginning when this 70 year-old bastard staged his television debut with a smirk on his face.

The following facts emerged during the court process;

1.  He bashed and killed his 42 year-old Chinese second wife in their home before he went to bed and had a sleep.
2.  Next morning he brought their plastic wheelie bin inside the house and threw her body in it.
3.  Then he went down to the hardware store where he bought 60 litres of hydrochloric acid  using her credit card  before dissolving the body and pouring everything down the street drain in the dead of night.
4.  After that he toddled off to the Social Security office and attempted to have her Government payments redirected into his bank account   ‘for easier bookkeeping’.
5.  Occasionally he took time off from all this exertion to send text messages to his 35 year-old Thai mistress explaining that ‘I’m sorting out our problem’ …and that they could soon be married.

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None of the evil mentioned above surprises me. After all, he got his ideas from television and the movies.
What I do find extraordinarily repugnant however was his decision to justify these heinous acts by publicly revealing graphic details about the ‘unsatisfactory’ sex life he shared with his wife.
An additional hideous betrayal of trust.
He told the court and the news media about her apparently lacklustre and lethargic sexual performances which drove him to murder. His younger mistress on the other hand received his equivalent of an Olympic gold medal for her dexterity, athleticism and gymnastic flamboyance.
Words almost fail me.  Not being content with extinguishing the life of another person he then chose to deliberately and grotesquely defile her memory by providing all these sordid details in front of her grieving relatives gathered in the court’s public gallery.  For them the nightmare will never end.

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For what it’s worth, here are my thoughts on the questions above;

1.  I have no idea. It’s completely beyond my comprehension, but if someone did this to my daughter I suspect I’d  be quite capable of killing for retribution.

2.  None.  My intimate memories reside in a special secure vault somewhere within my consciousness.   No-one, no circumstance, and certainly no court of law will ever make me divulge a single one of them. They are inviolable. They are sacrosanct.  They are my strictly private record of those who cared enough to help me make them.

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The hills are alive……..dah de dum

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(A moonbeam of loveliness for our world darkened by cynicism.)


My Favourite Things.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.
Sauce on a meat pie, and jocks snugly fittens.
Millions in banknotes all tied up with strings.
These are a few of my favourite things.

New cars, and bare feet on sandy beach walkin’
Bikinis on beach girls set my eyes a-gawkin’
Peroxide in ears, and fried chicken wings.
These are a few of my favourite things.

Rum mixed with coke, and the Simpsons, and full moons.
Rhythmically farting in church to the hymn tunes.
Pulling the wings off march flies every Spring,
These are a few of my favourite thing. (s)

Stabbing the car tyres of noisy transgressors,
Burning the wigs of the barristers and lawyers.
Travelin’ Australia making alien crop rings.
These are a few of my favourite things.

So when the dog bites, and the bees sting your face,
Then Earth rends consuming you in fiery embrace,
It’s no use remembering your favourite things…..
‘Cos we’re going to Hell and the doom that it brings.


Copyright GOF 2014
Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the royalties to roll in.


A flight back in time. (Part 2 of 2)

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Part One is here.

So we’ve already established that GOF did something strange and irresponsible back in 1983 by moving his young family to an isolated, abandoned and waterlogged paddock in the middle of the tropical rainforest.
No services.  No close neighbours.  Access to the nearest road via six kilometres of disused logging track which was trafficable only by tractor during the worst of the wet season.  A place which would guarantee permanent financial uncertainty, but also offer the greatest challenges and rewards of a lifetime.

Mrs GOF must be one of the most tolerant women on the planet.  (Quite apart from the most obvious cross she’s had to bear for 34 years.) Together we have dug house foundation trenches with picks and shovels, built the house and numerous sheds, installed tanks, irrigation and water supply systems, grown food crops, constructed plant nurseries (then rebuilt them each time they were blown away in cyclones)  and re-forested the farm…..mostly just the two of us with some help from Inga’s child labour.
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In December 2013 we decided to overfly our little piece of paradise so Mrs GOF could take some aerial photographs.

Today these pictures remind me of our long journey and I feel some pride that we have made a living from our land when many people said it could not be done, but more importantly that we will leave most of it in better condition than when we arrived.  In return, the spirits of this country have always looked after the three of us.

The photographs also prompt me to remember all the sweat and swearing and occasional blood and tears which went into this place, but I still can’t help wondering whether we’ve done the right thing by the planet…..we’ve brought an awful lot of crap onto this land which previously had none.

And so my friends, this is how GOF’s Paradise evolved;







gofs place 6     …………………….                                  Click to enlarge.

A flight back in time. (Part 1 of 2)

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Given that I’ve been contentedly living my modest dream for the last 30 years, it is highly unlikely that I could ever be bothered compiling a Bucket List which might provide me with one or more of the following enrichments;

1. Being carjacked and mugged in Nairobi.
2. Accidentally discovering a ladyboy in Thailand.
3. Having my cranium dunked underwater whilst dangling upside down on the end of a bungee rope.
4. Experiencing little cannibal fish swimming up my penis or worms eating me from the inside out in the Amazon.
5. Learning Russian in order to completely satisfy the urgent needs of Hot Olga who keeps reappearing in my email spam folder no matter how many times I delete her.

No, when I’m ready to kick the bucket none of these things would bring the slightest smile to my pallid wizened face. 

Just one thing has been on my wish list for several years.
I wanted to fly a light aircraft one more time.

In 1983 I relinquished a perfectly good flying job along with my pilots licence, a company-supplied house and car and many other perks of civilisation including electricity and a flushing toilet.    Then I dragged Mrs GOF, the Infant Inga and a 10 foot caravan onto an abandoned 46 acre horse paddock in the middle of nowhere at the beginning of the tropical monsoon season.  All of this just to follow my lifetime dream of living sustainably from the land.

I never flew again.

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As the years went by, doing some circuits at the local aerodrome with a flight instructor always seemed to be nothing but a fanciful dream and a complete waste of our precious money.  Truth be told I seriously doubted whether I still had the courage or sufficient residual skills after 30 years to do it.
I no longer have the unbridled self-confidence of a thirty year old, but every time a little Cessna flew over our farm I felt nostalgic yearnings to relive the magic of flight and the unique sense of freedom and detachment from mundane events on earth which pilots feel.

Recent events in my life convinced me it was now time to cough up the cash, confront my fears and just DO IT.

Doing ‘circuits’ (touch and go’s) with an instructor is a demanding and stressful business which requires precise flying technique and intense concentration.


Pre-flight, the instructor sat me down for a half hour lecture in the classroom.  By the end of this time my head felt like exploding with all the instructions and numbers relating to altitudes, engine settings, flap extension, climb-out, approach and landing configurations. I very nearly aborted the entire exercise to go back into town with Mrs GOF for a quiet cup of tea instead.

Having come this far, I reluctantly, nervously and perfunctorily carried out the pre-flight inspection of the aircraft before buckling myself into the drivers seat.  Instructor next to me.  Mrs GOF in the back.



Then something quite magical and unexpected happened.

Suddenly it was 1977 all over again.  It was wonderful and exhilarating and no-one got killed and the aircraft came back in one piece, even though the first landing seriously tested the strength of Mr Cessna’s tricycle undercarriage.



Yep……in exchange for all my memories of flying I’ll give you my broadest jaundiced and toothless deathbed grin.

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With P2-WKD at Mindik airstrip, Papua New Guinea, 1977

With P2-WKD at Mindik airstrip, Papua New Guinea, 1977

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Mrs GOF’s video of recent events is here.

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What the World did on New Year’s eve.

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It came to Cairns, Far North Queensland, Australia.

I know this because I was there when it happened.  Minding my own business sitting on the Esplanade lawn trying to stay awake long enough to see the 9pm fireworks display for kiddies when, like a dung beetle attracted to a cowpat, the World suddenly arrived and engulfed me.

First to turn up was Europe. For those of you who are unaware, Europe consists mainly of sunburnt inebriated Englishmen, Swiss yodelers, Russian ballet dancers and some very large German and Nordic backpackers who look like they could be quite useful on my farm if only I could lassoo a couple of ’em.
Europe is good. I don’t mind Europe.

Next came America. There are three kinds of people in America.  Preachers and missionaries, (of one persuasion or another)  rich cruise-tourists wearing white cargo pants and camera necklaces, and nine-foot tall black basketballers. These dudes can easily be distinguished in Australia by the attendant swarms of post-pubescent Aussie girls gesticulating and tittering with their most recently acquired assets.  I like America too….apart from the preachers and missionaries.

Then came Asia……except for Mrs Chiang from Foochow in Fukien Province in China who changed her mind at the last minute and stayed home because her gallstones were playing up something terrible. I like Asia too, but there’s just too much of it.  Since it moved to Cairns last Tuesday I keep worrying about the vacuum it must have left in the northern hemisphere and what’s going to fill it.

It was a relief that New Zealand didn’t come too. It didn’t need to. It has Mother Nature’s own pyrotechnics with bonus geysers and plopping mud, and the amplified punk rock music being played on the Cairns Esplanade had probably reduced to a less ear-shattering decibellage by the time it had traveled across the Tasman Sea. So New Zealand was head-bangingly heppy and in it’s own fustive mood on new year’s eve…..except for one person.

Dairy farmer Mr Quentin Barlamb, purveyor of blackberry flavoured organic yoghurt and other fine cultured milk products was not amused.  He of course only allowed his cows to listen to Bach Preludes, and the punk rock cacophony arriving from across the waves caused the milk to curdle and go rancid in the cows udders before he could extract it early on new year’s day. It was not a good start to 2014 for Farmer Barlamb.

So there you have it.  The World came.  Now I wish it would just bugger off back to where it came from. If it doesn’t go away I’ll just have to move in with Mrs Chiang in my pursuit of tranquillity ……..and a half-decent sweet and sour chicken.  We’ll also have another New Year to celebrate in just a few weeks time.  Just the two of us.  Nice.
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PS….. I shimmied up a flagpole to get the following pictures of the fireworks for you. You’re very welcome.