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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.



Double-barreled football

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Another cultural gift from The Bucket Sports Department.


Daly Cherry-Evans  is a prominent player in Australian Rugby League football.

Now I’m not about to make fun of his name because   I don’t want to run the risk of him coming around here and thumping the scheissen out of me I am an extremely charitable soul.

Instead I’ll just introduce some other hyphenated hunks of humanity who lace up their boots every weekend and bend over into the scrum to have their brains scrambled, rotator cuffs demolished and bottoms digitally remastered. (here)
Fortnightly Cantaloupe-Minesweeper.

Wallace Gromit-Parker-Bowles-Windsor     (Import from U.K.)

Kim Sun-Bush     (Korean American import)

Rastas Guggenheim-Mohammet     (Stateless import)

Li Ping-Pong     (Import from Serbia)

Matthew Brew-Munder

John-Susan Smith

Moses Inder-Bullrush

Zack Warrior-Princess

Confucius Thatcher-Hefner

Tupac Daley-Habbitt     (Import from USA)

Palmer Carpal-Tunnel

Dallas Hooshot-Jayyar      (Import from Arab Emirates)

The Bucket has yet to snare an Australian Media Association’s award for excellence in sports journalism. I have a good feeling about 2014.

Déjà vu; The Goats and The Donkeys

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(Any similarity to the state of play in Australian politics is just some really weird coincidence.)

The Goats were elected to govern the Australia Paddock some time ago after the Donkeys kept spitting and biting and kicking each other and crapping all over their own sleeping pads.

The first job the Goats did was to fix up the fences to stop all the outsiders from wandering willy nilly into our home Paddock whenever they felt like it.

After that was done the Goats discovered to their horror that the grass in the home Paddock was being eaten at a faster rate than it was growing.
In fact there was bugger-all grass left at all because the Donkeys (and another lot of Goats before them) had been so consumed with digging big holes and selling dirt out of the paddock to the Pandas in another field that they never noticed the disappearing grass.

When the Pandas decided they didn’t want any more of our dirt, the Goats panicked and immediately rushed into the silo to get some seed to start planting more grass. Lo and behold they discovered that the silo was empty and all it contained was a heap of bloated old Donkeys and Goats burping from overindulgence and three hundred corpulent foreign squirrels who’d been permitted to feed off the granary without ever having to contribute to it.

The Goats then decided it was time for all the animals in the Australia Paddock to start contributing more to it’s upkeep. This idea failed to pass the ultimate test of statesmanship and responsible governance;  The Popularity Poll.
It was also knocked on the head by one big fat Independent Wombat who had already single-handedly dug up much of the home Paddock and eaten it out of house and home.
A few green parrots camouflaged in the branches of the Parliament Tree also made some meaningless chirps and warbles but they soon went back to filling their bellies with perkberries.

Eventually the ruling Goats became obsessed with their popularity slump so they started spitting and biting and kicking each other, as well as crapping all over their own sleeping pads, and …………….


So where are all the wise owls when we so desperately need them?

They’ve been relegated to a patch of remnant habitat in the back corner of the Paddock. The environment created by the Donkeys and the Goats is unsuitable for their survival.



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…….

A more realistic vocation

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Governments all over the planet have the potential to achieve global unity, social equity and justice, and provide free chocolate for everyone. That they fail to do so is largely due to maladministration, abuse of executive power, and the various frailties of human nature.
The same might be said about organised religion. It must be comforting for all the round pegs who are prepared to fit through the inflexible round holes of scriptural faith, but the square pegs of the world need to find their own square holes in order to find peace and contentment.
As the following story illustrates;

As a Methodist child during the 1950’s I was one of the scrawny little automatons singing in the front row of the Castlemaine Sunday School Choir. One of it’s favourite songs was “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam”… a delightful reminder that our ultimate purpose in life was to spread rays of joy and happiness wherever we went.

Despite my intentions being honourable, I’ve subsequently spent more than half a century leaving behind trails of disgruntlement made up almost entirely of previously cheerful people who’ve had the misfortune to become caught up in my backwash of misery, insouciance and sarcasm.

Not a single illuminating sunbeam has ever snuck it’s way out of any of my organs or orifices.

This failure, and my general attitude of resolute contrariness, was reported by some traitorous bastard to the Director of Omnipotent Affairs who, it turns out, is a very decent fellow. After a mock stoning using black jellybeans** He gave me a gentle admonishment before whacking a “refurbished” stamp on my forehead. (which should scrub off in a week or two using steel wool and kerosene) Then with a wink He gave me a much more suitable job. A position which also comes with it’s own anthem.
This time I’ll sing it with rhapsodic conviction knowing that I’m the right man for the job. And now I can stop the futile task of trying to manufacture sunbeams.

Jesus wants me for a Stoker,
To fuel the fires of Hell.
Gather up all the cadavers
And cook ’em till they’re done well.
I’ll wear my asbestos jumpsuit.
And work religiously.
Y’all grab the sinners and villains
Then sling ’em on down to me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Quotation for the week;  You can’t make a Rolls Royce out of the Datsun 120Y parts you find in the wreckers yard. (GOF, 2014)
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** The ‘stoning’ didn’t really happen. I totally made that bit up.
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