Make Like Christopher Robin

About a year ago I subscribed to Discover Britain, a highly addictive heritage magazine that is best administered in minisculian doses or it will force one to pop over to the other side of The Planet Earth far more times in one year than one can possibly afford, unless you work for the Australian cricket team as Michael Clarke.

I've always had a predisposition to hit up the Mother Country.  I wasn't born there, I don't have one of their fancy schmancy passports bearing the crown jewels on the cover, and any ancestral connection that I have dates back to a bloody long time ago, ol' chap, but I lived there about 15 years ago, and that was enough to win one over.

I'm potentially going to Britain next year for my first time in many years.  I LOVE ENGLAND LOTS.  Can't explain it.  There are only about 22,000 things I want to do over there, so that's good.  You don't want to cram too much in.

Ireland is gonna make an appearance on the itinerary, which will be my first visit, as will lots of old castles, walls and rocks throughout the vacay.  It will be great craic.  Hmm, I suspect the Irish don't use that term at all.

I can't really be bothered writing any more, so I've thoughtfully compiled a list of very serious facts about the Old Blighty.  Some of these facts may not be altogether true and may merely be a product of my imagination.  That's the inherent fun/risk of my blog. 

This:

1. Elizabeth I was the first British monarch to have a fully-fitted flushing toilet.  Anyone with the number 1 after their name likes to be first at everything. So she was presumably the first person to do a number two.  Eww and eww.
2. Next year is Shakespeare's 450th birthday, so if he is still alive, Elvis style, the lucky duck will get four and a half telegrams from the Queen.  
3. Another William, the Conqueror, ordered his peasants to go to bed at eight o'clock every night.  Oh no he didn't!  Oh yes he did.  Presumably that was the time of the evening Eastenders finished in ye old Middle Ages, or whenever it was he ruled the roost.  And this is also presumably why he is often quoted to this day in newspapers like The Guardian as William the Bastard.
4. Another William, Prince William, is currently a little bit pregnant.  It's lucky then that pregnant people in Britain are allowed to relieve themselves anywhere, anytime.
5. Speaking of which, Winston Churchill was born in the ladies toilet during a dance.  Wait a minute... this sounds made-up...

Mini-Tree Land

I'm not much of a plant person.  Don't get me wrong - I think trees and forests are very green and foresty and flowers smell real pretty for the most part - but I'm just not into the whole gardening thing.  If I had a garden I would hire a Columbian called Jose to tend to my weeds.  And a half-naked pool man called Javier.  They may be brothers, I don't know.

Anyway, gardening for the most part is dirty, spidery and it usually involves an inordinate amount of stinkin' dynamic lifter, which is like sticking your head up a cow's bum for two days or until the wind changes.  And, no, I'm just not into that.  Speaking of green things that don't involve cows bums, I went to Canberra's National Arboretum this morning for coffee.

It was my mum, you see.  She's recently become a lifetime member of the Arboretum cult-like fan club (great - look what happened to Britney and Xtina post-Disney) and it's all Arboretum does this and Arboretum does that, so we went to this mysterious tree place to see what all the fuss is about. 

According to the glossy brochure, which I used mainly as a base for my many snotty tissues that are a result of The Cold That Won't Die, the Arboretum is home to 92 forests of rare, endangered and symbolic trees from Australia and around the world. 

One's mind conjures up a majestic forest of dense, exotic bushland, but it really is just a bunch of hills with a lot of weird and wonderful looking saplings trying to grow, despite the fact that they are supposed to be in the Himalayas or China or Japan or England or any other number of places with unique climates that are perfectly suited to each plant. 

Apparently a lot of the mini-me trees have died since being planted in a place with a climate that is probably akin to that of Mars.  It's like bringing a husky to Australia and being all surprised when he doesn't want to go to the beach and play fetch or sunbake and eat Streets Golden Gaytimes (yum, so good).  Because he belongs in the fucking snow.  But good luck to the Arboretum.

From what I observed this morning, the Arboretum seems enormously popular for the view, rather than anything else.  It certainly wasn't the parking, which is around $500.00 per hour, but all money goes to maintaining the baby forests before they wither and die.  The view, however, is most pleasant.  And free.  Here are some pictures.

Kim Jong-Un's Candy Crush Addiction

I first started blogging back in medieval times.  My days were jammed packed with super fun jousting tournaments, battles with shiny fair dinkum swords, and much feasting on wild boar's heads through the fast food drive-through.  Oh the shenanigans, kids.  My first writings were - now try to follow this - NOT ON A COMPUTER.  Yep, not on a computer.  I used a thing called an actual diary.  I know, those were heady, biro-fuelled days.

Now flash forward to the 1990's - when it was still amusing to make 'now flash forward' jokes about time travelling in a Delorean circa Back to the Future - and I would write for days and days about all manner of important and meaningful things in my diaries.  Politics and philosophy mostly. 

I was cocky, young, impressionable and hopelessly naive that I could one day change the whole planet earth.  And I cared fairly deeply about the fate of the world until I reached approximately 23 years of age.  And now I am in the public sector, which is well-regarded for it's exemplary work at grinding one's dreams into the dirt. 

I swear to god I started this blog post with a point in mind, but I've gotten all distracted now with jousting and wild pigs.  Oh yes, Candy Crush; the ridiculously pointless smart phone game that wastes hours and hours of time that people could otherwise spend looking at I Can Haz Cheeseburger cats on Facebook. 

Hm, now who else wants to alter the world?  Looks like that delightfully sociopathic North Korean freakshow, Kim Jung-Un, wants to take a crack.  You know what America needs to do?  They need to get that little despot hopelessly addicted to Candy Crush like the rest of us, and then he'll have no time - NO TIME! - for his political re-landscaping.  Although the other thing it may encourage him to do is set off nukes in sets of three, so there's that.

Since the inception of my own personal addiction to this stupid game, I have noticed that it does nothing more than enable my borderline OCD.  123, 123, 123, 123.  And bad things do actually happen if you don't make it to the count of three.  You lose, mainly.  Must go; I have candy to blow up.