A winner and a pome..

Today I announce the much anticipated winner of my 1st Blogaversary Giveaway Exravaganza!

It was tough choosing a winner. From those few who entered, there were some sterling spleen ventings. Sterling.

But I have to choose one. I hate to do it really.  I'd like to say that spleen venting was the winner today but that's not the way this competition works.

So, without much further ado, I announce that the winner issss -

NESS OF BOGANVILLE! Mainly because she is growing a beard, just like me, and frankly has a better excuse (aka surrounded by testosterone) than I do.

OK so Ness here is your prize. A poem, just for you.

I have written it in the style of Keats, an updated version of his sonnet "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" which you can conveniently read here on ole Wikipedia if you felt overcome with the urge to Improve your Mind with Highbrow pomes.

On First Looking into Ness's Boganville

Much have I travell'd in the realms of bogan,
And many bogan states and Kingswoods seen;
Round many western suburbs have I been
Which bogans in Falcons to The Footy Show hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That fair-browed Ness ruled as her demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serenity now
Til I heard Ness speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the footy
When a new ball springs onto the field
Or like stout Alfie Langer when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the referee- and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darren Lockyer.

'Straylia Day. Utes. Chopsticks. The Silver Budgie.

G'day my fellow 'straylians.  Gettin' pumped for 'straylia Day? Me too! I'm fully sick amped to the max and plan to get plastered whilst wearing the 'straylian Flag as a cape and harrassing some New 'straylians whilst watching Today Tonight and eating some prawns and wearing pluggers with the boxing kangaroo on them.

Es vous?

We've got a new landline, after our having-mobiles-only-cost-cutting-measure was declared a failure, shrilly and vociferously, by yours truly.  Unfortunately I keep getting calls from people looking for a ute hire business.  Which, quelle surprise, is not our thing. Some of these people are sounding vaguely annoyed at me when I explain, no, this isn't a Ute Hire Establishment, it's a private household. One woman said huffily, " Well, that's VERY helpful!" before hanging up.

Look, I'm sorry lady but the best I can do is loan you the Suzuki Swift one arvo for a small fee but I'm betting it's not what you're after either. I mean, you can't even get your shopping in the boot when you come out and realise you've left the pram in it. Trust me. I've been there. Lots of times.  Perhaps the spate of calls is due to the proximity to Australia Day (tomorrow).  The Bogans of Suburbia have been restless tonight, with burnouts aplenty.  I'm wondering if some of the utes have been hired for this express purpose?  I think possibly.  As I write the silence is again being shattered by sirens, perhaps chasing the burnout perpetrators.  Go get 'em Fun Busters! You have my full support.

In other interesting developments, apparently P can use chopsticks now. WTF. I can't even do that shit. I mean, the kid spends half her life throwing food round the house, getting spaghetti in her hair and nose and every available orifice and shoveling it all in with her bare hands, and we go to sushi train like twice ever and all of a sudden she's all, oh yeah hey Mum, so, whatever, like I can totally use chopsticks now, what of it? Can't you? Urgh Mum and Dad you are so embarrassing the way your sushi keeps shooting out from between your implements, what are you, special needs or something?

Anyway in the spirit of Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oy, Oy, Oy, I feel compelled to post this ancient photo of moi with a great Australian, our former glorious leader, Prime Minister Bob Hawke, aka the Silver Budgie.  Just because I've been looking for an excuse.

His skin was like a leather lounge suite, his hair like spun, um, steel wool? No Blanche that day I'm afraid, Bob was ALL BUSINESS.  Even when my colleague Z cheekily mentioned these photos.

On that note, fellow patriots, I bid you farewell. For now.

Weekend. Beach bogan biffo. Darecember.

Am so exhausted. Will make this brief. I always have a million things to write but am always too knackered.
Spent the weekend at the parentals again, this time M came too. It was dad's birthday.

Saturday M, P, baby B and I, and unusually, both of my parents, went to the beach (I know, I know) in the afternoon for fish and chips. Now although I spent a recent post holding forth like a madwoman on a streetcorner about my fear and loathing of the beach, I actually do enjoy consuming heavily salted battery crumby fish with equally heavily salted and fat laden chippies, in the vicinity of said beach. I was looking forward to it.

We set up camp at a likely looking picnic table and M and Grandpa George went down to the beach with P, Mum went to get the salty consumables, and I minded the possie with the baby. I had already noticed a group of dubious types occupying the adjacent tables and BBQs. In fact monopolizing them would perhaps be a better description. I was sort of half annoyed and half intrigued as I played with baby B and watched the middle aged parents downing a few (ahem) cans of ye olde Jim Beam and coke or similar, while a gaggle of high spirited teenage scamps ran squealing around spraying each other with humongous water pistols. Oh the hilarity.

A while later I saw a guy in maybe his 60s stalk past my table and the classy table next to me. I thought to myself, "Self," I thought, "self, I reckon he looks familiar. Hmm...".

Moments later, the darling little sprites with their sweet little water pistols and their just adorable scanty bikini arrangements came shrieking back to their adoring parents, saying " Oh my GAWD oh my GAWD, that was Mr S______. Muum, Daaad, it was Mr S_____, from Schhooooll!! Oh my GAWD!!"
The adoring mother laughed delicately, paused momentarily from her dinner preparations and said "Awww, youse guys, youse better RUN, gawwwwn, get runnin'!!!".
The youthful dears skipped off again singing hymns and playing The Glad Game a la Pollyanna.

"Aha!" I realised. The older gent had been one of my former teachers, and one of my Dad's comrades from their days in the teaching equivalent of trench warfare, my old high school. Think Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, only with Aussie accents and negligible street cred.

Seconds after the teens scampered off, Mr S returned back our way again, calling out " How are you people doing?" to my tablemates. As he strode purposefully off and crossed the road, I saw the be-singletted father and his equally well turned out son bolt like greased lightning across the road, whereupon the father proceeded to shout abuse at, shove, grab the collar of and generally roughly manhandle poor old Mr S. Naturally I did what any good citizen and concerned onlooker would do and sat on my fat arse watching unmoving from a safe distance, with my jaw hanging open in what I like to call Full Gawker Mode. I couldn't hear what was being yelled but Mr S is no pushover so was able to cool the nutter down,  and the son eventually held his father's flailing arms a back so Mr S could make a getaway. If there's one thing that spending 30 years at a rough state high school does for you it's give you mad skillz when dealing with lunatic parents.
RESPECT. Brother got game.

I've got no real idea what led to this bit of argy bargy and can only speculate that maybe Mr S had felt compelled to give a bit of a scolding to the junior bogans and that consequently the senior bogans got all " Noone fuckin tells my fuckin kids off except fuckin ME fuck em!". Or somesuch.

Needless to say I lost no time in gathering up our belongings and waving my returning family over to a table farther away from those lunatics. What with my own father being a 60 something former teacher I couldn't risk another similar confrontation particularly with Dad's gammy knee. I mean when dad was deputy principal back in the day he once kicked the school assembly hall door in on QCS morning when the cleaner had lost the keys or was drunk or whatever. It quite gave the watching Home Economics ladies the vapours.
He's a firy one. So best keep him out of harm's way is my motto.

I've got shitloads to say but I can't get the computer to work so am blogging from my phone which.frankly is giving me the hardcore shits and is tiresome and also labour intensive.

Before I go, as a way of brightening up my life I'm doing the Fox in Flats Darecember thing. Can't link, too hard. Google it. Here's the first two days.
Day one - hot pink lippy and trout pout.
Day two - denim. Pink jeans discarded on floor.

Too.tired to fix typos and.grammar problems ahahagrjdjdjd. Damm you phone fat fingers blarghhh.