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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.
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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……………..
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…..then I woke up.

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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.)

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My Favourite Things.

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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.

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

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