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A useful purpose

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This is my Maori weapon from New Zealand, a patu or mere, traditionally used to stave in the skulls of enemies, some juvenile delinquents, and presumably any irritating little turd who popped his head up at an inopportune moment.

A very useful purpose indeed.

My traditional patu is made from very dense wood shaped by a traditional band saw, engraved using a traditional industrial wood stamping machine before being finished off with three coats of traditional petro-chemical varnish applied through a traditional air-powered paint gun.

I inherited my patu following my mums death 23 years ago. Since then it has been sitting on the shelf gathering dust. A little like me really.

Neither of us have a purpose. Until…….

until……I remembered my all-time favourite comedy sketch featuring Rowan Atkinson.

Sunday I will be purposefully taking my patu into the city.

There is a great deal of work which needs to be done.



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…….

Imelda the millipede

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Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Millippines where all the Chilopods and Diplopods lived, there was a young millipede called Imelda. She was a very beautiful millipede. Every day she would look in the mirror as she was shaving the 70 pairs of legs which sprouted from her 35 segments and make a promise to her gorgeous reflection “One day I’m going to seduce our handsome King Ferdipoop and join him in holy millimony and then we’re going to live together in the Pod Palace and reign over all the other lesser pedes in the land.”

And do you know what happened? That’s exactly what she did.

King Ferdipoop and Queen Imelda spent many fun days in the Palace garden which was full of rotting leaves and hollow logs. In and out they would go, then over and under and up and down then in and out once more until it was time for them to go and exterminate anyone who might have been plotting against them.

They were also very careful looking after the Kingdom’s money. They stashed it all in lots of hidey-holes far across the sea where nobody else could find it.

Queen Imelda used some of the money to buy lots and lots of shoes for all her feet. There were breakfast shoes, lunch shoes, toilet shoes, tish shoes, and supper, party and dancing shoes. Her most favourite shoes of all were the sharp pointy-toed wooden clogs which she used to kick the Palace staff right up their excretory tubules whenever they were not working hard enough.

There were hundreds of working-class pedes employed to keep Imelda’s Palace looking shipshape.

First there were the disabled Monopedes who could do nothing much with their single legs except sproing through all the rooms in the Palace on pogo sticks painting the ceilings in short sharp brush strokes or changing light globes in stages. The Impedes were the court jesters and they flitted around joyously dressed in floppy red pixie caps adorned with green pompoms and flashing LED lights. They laughed a lot and played tricks on everyone with their protruding antennae, leaving behind a gay air of frivolity.

The Velocipedes dashed around here and there, hither and thither, high as kites on their staple diet of cocaine and amphetamines, while the squadrons of Stampedes just trudged around with military precision squishing all the invading ants and cockroaches with their hob-nail boots.

Life came to a sudden and tragic end for Queen Imelda. One sunny day when she was out tanning her ventral surfaces in the grass next to the bespoke coconut-shell swimming pool which Ferdipoop had commissioned, a human being whizzed over the top of her with his motor mower set on full throttle. All the Imeldrial legs, body segments and stink glands together with one hundred and forty tiny hot-pink Gucci flip-flops were splintered and splattered and flung all over the Arthropodian realm.

When King Ferdipoop came along and saw all the blood and entrails and pieces of thorax, mandibles and ganglia blemishing his brand new pool he exclaimed “Holy Crap! What a bastard!” Then he immediately went out and found himself a younger replacement millipede. One who he hoped would never upstage him in public like Imelda had done.


And her name was GaGa.




The Flintstones Investigation

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(Any similarity to what is occurring with the Cairns City Place is purely intentional)

Bedrock City Place before they dug it up.

Bedrock City Place before they dug it up.

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Silurian, Magma, GOF & Curtis.
Construction, archaeological and engineering investigators.

7th April 2014.


Mrs Elizabeth Rubble,
c/- Post Office

Dear Betty,
We are in receipt of your recent slate requesting an investigation into why the Bedrock City Council is taking so long to destroy your serene City Place and open it up again to cars, trucks and sauropod dinosaurs. We are appalled that 200 small businesses on Lake Street such as your Bamm-Bamm’s Boutique Babywear shop have been barricaded off from customers for several months and as a result are facing bankruptcy.

We initially sought an independent professional opinion from the Chairman of the Australian Civil Works and Engineering Guild, Sir Moses Gantry on why the project is taking an entire year to complete. He said “The Council is an unrepresentative mob of empire-building wankers who have over-engineered this project to buggery and if they’d contracted the job out to some Chinese outfit instead of overpaid Australian bureaucrats with all their bloody workplace health and safety bullshit the whole frigging job would have been finished in seven days flat.”

We consider this statement by Sir Moses, whilst substantially correct, to be inflammatory and offensive so we sent our own Mr GOF, an experienced undercover agent to investigate. He left behind the company Mercedes and replaced his Julius Marlowe shoes with Dunlop KT26 rubber soles, then disguised himself as a bearded old country yokel before visiting a City Place cafe to conduct clandestine sleuthing and surveillance operations.

This company has a policy of circumspection when it comes to the presentation of reports but we are nevertheless now in a position to reveal why this project will take donkey’s years to complete.
The following video evidence collected during last Tuesday’s frenetic construction phase would suggest that work practices on-site are probably not achieving the highest levels of efficiency and urgency which you should reasonably expect from the Bedrock City Council.

Please accept these findings with our compliments.

Yours Faithfully,


Clay Silurian
Senior Partner



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Suffer the little children ……..

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It reflects rather poorly upon me that in more than five hundred blog stories I have failed to present a single literary bouquet of love and gratitude to the children of the world:  the fruit of our collective loins without whom Homo sapiens would become extinct.
(I have a plausible argument in favour of that possibility too, but let’s deal with one catastrophe at a time.)

Human offspring are annoying and ingratiating little people with disgusting habits and unsavoury bodily functions.  Additionally, the antiquated birthing process is a ghastly atrocity which should no longer be necessary in these modern days of genetic engineering and medical manipulation.
Let’s face it, to a large extent we’ve cleaned up the unpalatable mechanics leading up to conception by using bright and shiny autoclaved in-vitro flasks and sterile shrink-wrapped turkey basters but parturition remains an extremely ugly, unpleasant and (I’m told) painful business.

A few years ago some obsequious male came up with the idea of ‘sympathy pain’ as a last-ditch attempt to ease the copulative guilt of his gender.   Good try, but it’s absurd.

The entire reproductive shambles needs to be overhauled.  Anyone would think we are just animals.

The Bucket is honored to be called upon for technical guidance;
1. Reproduction from the year 2035 onwards will be done exclusively by genetically and surgically created self-inseminating hermaphrodites. 
Why the need for change?
Surely it is the height of insensitivity and bad manners to inflict upon another person the disruptive emotional roller-coaster of pregnancy, and an unconscionable abuse of friendship expecting an innocent life-partner to witness the horrendous collateral damage concomitant with childbirth.

Michael, a ruminative local lad, concluded that watching the trauma of his wife giving birth to their first child was “like watching my favourite pub burn down.”  Michael may well require counseling for the remainder of his life. Indeed it is entirely possible that he may never enter another hotel during the term of his natural life in fear of the appalling consequences.

Next comes the vexed question of what to do with (please forgive my use of the agricultural livestock terminology with which I am most familiar) the progeny once they are on the ground.

Well fortunately The Bucket’s Legislative Drafting Service has come to our rescue. Please feel free to suggest any minor changes that you think might be required before we send it off to the Secretary-General for presentation to the General Assembly of the U.N.

2.  In compliance with United Nations Laws of Reproductive Procedures 2035 (Section 23, subsection 4b)  all children will be sent to the Global Obedience Factory at Tombouctou in Mali to be raised by an International corps of wet nurses and benevolent disciplinarian educators.  Neither breast nor rod shall be spared.  At the age of 30, when they might finally begin to exhibit a modicum of maturity, usefulness and responsibility they will be evaluated for possible release and re-introduction into civilised adult society.


William Wordsworth wrote in 1807;  “Dear child of Nature, let them rail.”

Indeed Bill.  Let them rail ……and ship and truck and fly…. to Tombouctou.



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(With apologies to Elaine, …. and all the devoted midwives everywhere, …Oh yes, and then there’s the mothers of the world too, and…..Oh shit, I think I just did something really bad here.)

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