Why so Cirrus?

Local cloud, Gary Smith

A cloud has responded to reports that he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he forms and dissipates all day.

Local cloud, Gary Smith, says the public try and predict his behaviour all the time and whinge, sometimes even to his face, when he comes into view. But he says he is just misunderstood.

“We arrive, we rain on you, we disappear; that’s just we do. When I was growing up I wanted to be a thunderstorm, or I could have been a hurricane if I applied myself, but sometimes you just need to stick to a solid, steady income to make ends meet”, he said, as he struggled to stay in one spot without the wind blowing him away.

Cloud Gary reads reports and forecasts about his behaviour but says it’s mostly fake news, “I read an online weather report this morning that gave me a 95% chance of clouding over the sky, but I’m unpredictable, man. The weatherpeople on the media rarely know what they're talking about”, Gary said, before waving two fingers in front of his mouth to summons a pink fluffy cloud to prove his point, just like Monkey in the 1980s TV series Monkey.

He also questions the validity of people who make a living talking about weather all day. “I mean, I know I’m part of the natural phenomenon process, but don’t you think a weatherperson is a job created by media to give boring people something to talk about on camera”. 

Human Dick Jones doesn’t like clouds, saying “when they finally eff off, it’s a very nice day!” 

Cloud Gary agrees, saying “the feeling is mutual; this is something humans and clouds have in common”, adding that he’s not the biggest fan of humans either. “I always hear they want me to make them a silver lining or something, like I’ve nothing better to do all day than create some sort of positive aspect over their shitful existence”.

Test Cricket - Australia vs the Hobbitses

 Some hobbitses fighting over the precious.

The New Zealand cricket team and its fans have taken a well earned break from sheep shearing, wine guzzling and Lord of the Rings ‘hobbitses’ role-playing to pop over to the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) to play some good ol’ fashioned proper sport that doesn't involve sheep, wine or hobbits.

This is the second Test in a trilogy of fantasy matches featuring these gnome-like hobbits battling evil warlords (the Australians, stay with me) for control of a magical place called the MCG.

As it turns out, the newly designed activity program for hobbitses at the MCG does in fact allow for all of the important leisure pursuits that New Zealanders enjoy.

The MCG Fun Curators have decided that fans should no longer have to choose between attending a Test Cricket match or maintaining basic hygiene standards, because now the MCG offers a barber service.

It is not clear whether it is for sheep and hobbits as well, but I saw a human-ish looking man in the barber chair having his sheep-like beard tended to, so he could sit back and watch the match in the blazing Melbourne sun/wind/rain/hurricane (depending on the time of day you choose for your manscaping). This is the new cricket. This is men living their best lives. It’s a great time for sheep shearing hobbitses to be alive.

The MCG has stepped up big time his year. There are a variety of goods and services on offer at the ground that you wouldn’t normally expect from a day at the cricket. You can get a shave, get a haircut, shear some sheep, indulge in some fush and chips, play some rugby probably and do some Haka, I don’t really know. Nevertheless, exhausting day!

Credit to the boys, the creative types at the MCG, they really are making the Fushy Chaps (my nickname for the drunk New Zealand larrakins who made their way across the fishy ditch to the Test) feel right at home. The Chaps are loud, and singsongy. Never mind ’alcohol free areas’; I’d need a New Zealander free area.

Where do we even draw the line with spectator entertainment at stadiums these days? I’ve got no idea, but I also have an idea, Cricket Australia. How about Pay to Play, where for a few hundred quid (going to charity) you get to field for Australia for 5 minutes? I didn’t say it was a good idea. I’m sure the Australian captain Tim Paine would more than welcome a drunkard twit running around his outfield tripping over their hobbit feet. Stupid hobbitses.

The Australian captain has been awfully perplexed lately at the Umpire Decision Reviewing System, the DRS, and rightly so. To be fair, the meaning of the acronym DRS should change with each ref decision. For example, Didn’t Really See, Dat Ref Shite, Didn't Review Shite. The reviewing system needs a systemic review.

Anyways, it’s looking like a win for the Aussies. We wants it, we needs it.

Happy Black Cat Day

It's Chat Noir Day! Black cats across the nation are looking forward to scaring the bejesus out of everyone who comes across their path today, Friday the 13th.

Local tabby cat, Jim Cumberbatch, said “it puts people into a clusterf**k of hysteria and panic when they see a black cat on Friday the 13th and I do not hate it. The only time it’s unlucky to see a black cat is when you’re a mouse.  You humans need to grow some furballs”.

"That's going to be my schtick this Friday 13th. While black cats are comparatively dull and boring to more interesting textured and colourful felines like myself, they nail the scary stuff", Mr Cumberbatch said.

When advised that he wasn’t a black cat and was, henceforth, not that scary, Mr Cumberbatch was non-puss-ed. “I’ve got my onesie costume ready. Imagine this with a black onesie on”, before catapulting himself off his roof onto a reporter’s head, in what can only be described as an aggressive manner. “If I throw in a bit of eye contact stare and borrow my tradie mate Bryan’s ladder, they lose their friggin’ minds”.

When asked if he was bothered by praying on all the paraskevidekatriaphobic’s out there, Mr Cumberbatch said “I’m a cat, I don’t speak French I’m fairly certain”.

Before adding, “as if humans can’t get any more stupid, they get scared of a black 25cm high four-legged animal, which is kind of racist, and then develop some weird  fear of Friday the 13th, a fear of the number 13, and a fear of the friggin’ Norse goddess after whom Friday is named, who was coincidentally called Frigg. I’m not the main perpetrator here”.

When Louis (Vuitton) met Tiffany (& Co)

In a pairing reminiscent of that time when Harry met Sally, Louis Vuitton has just shamelessly, without caring about who was even watching, assumed a take over of Tiffany &a Co.

Looks like Louis is really going to have to up its game on Etsy - The Internets premier location for handmade or vintage crafty things. They'll be no more of those handstitched cheap canvas bags or velcro wallets they're always trying to flog on the online markets; no, they're in the big league now. Time to step up their game, because Tiffany is FANCY.

Although, just because Tiffany is a leader in the luxury jewellery market with its high-end products and its trademark Tiffany Blue coloured boxes, it doesn't make its name any less trashy. 

Tiffany sounds like the type of brand that grew up in a dubious part of town, conceivably in a trailer park neighbourhood, and worked at the local Taco Bell until it was 17, when it all started to sour and it began dancing at a ‘gentleman’s club’ to support itself through its cocaine habit. 

It definitely sounds like the type of company that could be bought. For whatever price you offer it. And, as it turns out, Louis Vuitton decided to offer it a lot of money. Lots of dollar bills were placed in its blingy diamond g-string. 23 billion dollar bills, in fact. That calls for one hell of a designer g-string with a lot of give.

Anyway, throughout the years, Tiffany has overcome its tragic backstory (aka the one about living in the real world with the rest of us) and has gone on to make an average annual revenue of AUD$4 billion, so its managing to get by in life in that 'one percenter' jungle it inhabits. 

But now, even though it’s known around the world for its bejazzled bracelets, pretty boxes and blingy diamond g-strings (just kidding, made this one up, don't sue me Tiffany & Co; but it's not a bad idea, no?), it’s just hooked up with a guy called Louis. 

Louis is likely to completely defile Tiffany’s reputation with its tawdry French personality and ruin the beautiful trademark Tiffany turquoisey bluey green with its horrid trademark poo shades.

Louis has significant material wealth, with annual revenue at AUD$74 billion in 2018, enough to keep Tiffany off the high streets and in the luxury retail establishments to which it is most accustomed, so I presume Tiffany isn't doing this for love.  

"I have enough diamonds", said Tiffany never.

Government House Open Day

This Saturday, Government House in Canberra is throwing open it's doors to visitors, when you peasants can pop along - for free! - and have a stomp (elegantly and quietly please thankyou) around the residence, including the over 100 acres of manicured lawn. 

By tomorrow, the garden’s cuticles will be trimmed and it's nails will be shaped and coated with all the shades of the colours of the Union Jack.

During the day, you’ll have the opportunity to chat to the new Governor-General of Australia, General David Hurley, and maybe his... wife (sorry, lazy journalism...Mrs Hurley?), as they go about their laundry, pre-prepare meals for the week ahead, and watch ‘Escape to the Country’ on Foxtel while they iron shirts and sheets in one of the many stately rooms. It’ll be much like your Saturday afternoon, only in the presence of rich people in splendid surroundings.

Government House is Canberra’s home-away-from-palace for the British Royals when they come to town, and they open their doors twice a year to us! And this year - our two world’s collide! -  as I’ve finally remember to check ‘what’s on in Canberra at Government House’ ahead of time.

But first, a lesson on the GG home's history (stay awake; I’ll make it fun for everyone. Or jump ahead a few paragraphs, but I’ll forever KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST PARAGRAPH). The original brick building of Government House was built in 1899, and included a substantial wooden shearing shed to house the owner’s numerous flocks of pet sheep. Everyone needs a hobby.

It's beautiful, innit?

In 1913, the owner decided to sell it via an early version of the All Homes property website and, by sheer coincidence, the Commonwealth Government had been scanning All Homes every chance they could get, looking for a former sheep shed to use as a temporary residence for the Governor-General of Australia that'll look good in photos for the 'gram. That's a telegram; not Instagram. 

I guess the GG is still there, so in the last 100 or so years they decided to do a renovation rescue rather than sell. Good decision, because it’s the best-looking spot in Canberra.

If this was ‘Escape to the Country’, Government House would be the mystery house that no-one asked to see because it’s about 18 million quid outside their budget. And that’s pretty much what we’ll be doing on Saturday.

If there is a Suggestion Box at the royal abode, I shall be suggesting that they cordon off an acre or two for a new Yarralumla dogpark because, how pretty is it!

TV REVIEW: I watched Midsomer Murders

I love a good old fashioned depraved murder as much as the next guy with a cold heart and a television remote. 

British old-school television show Midsomer Murders really sets the gold standard for people killing off other people in spectacularly perverse and unrealistic ways.  

And there's none of that new world Netflix business where you have to guess the plot because the TV show title is just a bit too clever. There gonna be murders in Midsomer.

There is something about a quaint little chocolate box village that has a tendency for murdering just about everybody who walks its cobblestones.

And as in all loosely based detective narratives, never in the history of the township of Midsomer has anyone ever linked any murder to the one that happened on the show just last week, or the week before that. They are all completely unrelated obviously and why would you even question that?

Here are some of my thought bubbles as dastardly events took place:

• Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Barnaby, the superstar super-detective super detective chief inspector of the show, seems to stay cheery despite the fact his beat is full of innovative sociopaths.

• DCI Barnaby spends much of his shift being accosted by little old ladies who like to spill all the sordid, scandalous personal secrets of the villagers. Which are invariably not relevant to any case he’s working on, but are quite useful for a mental filing of every villager into some sort of alphabetical list of nutters. 

• There's that guy in a hoodie who's been watching him in every scene of this episode. This time he's hiding in the bushes. Now he's on the run. DCI decides to chase him into an abandoned, dilapidated building, still not having called for backup. I'm sure the guy’s harmless.

• It's an old boarded up house and the music is getting a bit hair-raising. DCI Barnaby goes in. Sorry, false alarm, nobody got murdered here.

• This new guy has intricately detailed appointments in his diary apart from this mysterious one that seems to coincide with the time of murder. I'm sure it was a legit appointment. DCI decides there's no need to check it out any further.

• DCI Barnaby returns to the crime scene at night by himself for no apparent reason. A man with no apparent reason to be there yells at him "what the hell are you doing here. You shouldn't have come back". DCI leaves the area. There was no reason to further question the crazy man, apparently. Pretty sure cops would find him a person of interest. What's the point of this scene? As an armchair crime-solving enthusiast, it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to weed out the killer/s from all the village nutters.

• By my count, 180 people have being murdered so far in this episode.

Midsomer Murders is based on the real-life village of Midsomer Norton, a cutesy township in Somerset, England, not far from Bath, which is so named because it was quite popular amongst the Romans as the place to conduct their annual cleansing of the body.

Land owners in Somerset should consider themselves lucky they didn’t call their bathing spots jacuzzis.

The writer of Midsomer Murders found Midsomer Norton on a map and thought it sounded quintessentially British and sufficiently murderous. Is Midsomer Norton really like its television twin? 

Well, the crime stats of the real village indicate a boringly average amount of crime occurring in the township, with anti-social behaviour the most prevalent type of criminal activity. 

I’m a little hazy on the actual definition of murder, but I imagine it is certainly a fairly anti-social thing to do, so it may be more similar than we think.

I actually visited Midsomer Norton in July 2014. We were travelling through Somerset, mainly to attend the lovely city of Bath, and our hotel was a couple of miles from Midsomer Norton.

By some extraordinary stroke of luck, we were not murdered or even attacked by anti-social behaviour while walking the mean cobblestones of the pretty high street to get to Sainsburys in Midsomer, but there’s always next episode.

Surviving Disneyland

Let me tell you a story. Don’t worry, it’s not a long story. 

So I've recently had a holiday in an overseas destination type of situation.

It was a brutal, exhausting two-week adventure in a wild and really quite dangerous place. We had no tour guide, and no survival guide. 

It was fraught - FRAUGHT! - with danger. Man versus the wild in a treacherous habitat.

It’s widely known by just about everyone who know things that humans aren’t built to live in a jungle. 

We haven’t adapted; we’re artificial animals who live in artificial environments constructed by humans. 

We are suburban, not survival. We are vegemite, not vegetation. We are Instagram, not moist forest. That’s right; I don’t camp.

So, it was just us, the merciless terrain and the unpredictable locals.

Always on guard for a herd of charging wildebeest.

Man versus nature. You get the picture. In fact, other than the app that is designed to help you get around, we were on our own in Disneyland. It was Borneo with minnie mouse ears.

Fortunately, people have died in jungles before, so we can use their mistakes as a guide. 

Here are five helpful ways to increase your chances of survival in the jungle Disneyland:

STOP, THINK, OBSERVE, PLAN
Make sure you orient yourself with any landmarks you remember, like an exceptionally annoying group of stationary tourists. Look for evidence of the direction you came from, such as fairly obvious signs saying ‘you are here’, and walk in the direction the least amount of tourists are going.

Alternatively, pick up a map of Disneyland as you enter the park.

If you do get lost - S.T.O.P - Stop, think, observe, plan. This is also a really useful tip if you don’t want to walk 358 kilometres a day and prefer to map things out at the get-go. 

If you strategise correctly using Disneyland’s fast pass system, you can see nearly everything in a day. It was designed for people who don’t want to spend 90 minutes queueing with toddlers. But you have to arrive early and leave late. 

And like all jungles that I’ve ever heard of, the wildlife is quiet first thing in the morning and then again late at night, except for all the nocturnal animals who will kill you on sight first thing in the morning or late at night. 

Wild cats everywhere.

Try your best not to panic when you find yourself in such a survival situation. 

Fortunately, the bossy Disneyland ushers have got your back. They will guide you to the direction of one-way predators only so you will at least be touristed to death heading in the correct direction.

GETTING FOOD
Speaking of predators, the jungle is full of things that want to kill you. Look at Borneo. 

Well, I don’t know anything about the jungle in Borneo actually but I imagine it’s dangerous as heck. 

The other things that want to kill you is the food. Whatever you do, do not eat the food at Disneyland. I mean, don’t eat all the food. That’s what the locals do. 

They eat all the turkey legs, all the gumbo, all the almond butter ice cream, all the churros, all the mac and cheese off the enticing mac and cheese trees, all the time, and then wonder why they can’t run away from the predators. 

(Note: USA, not everything needs to taste like sugar.)

FOLLOW ANIMAL TRAILS
Look for obvious animal trails that are heading in the same direction as you and follow them to try and find a water source. 

Unfortunately, Mickey, Minnie and Pluto travel around the jungle daily with an enormous entourage of hired help so I’m pretty sure they have security on speed dial. They are important jungle animals. 

You’ll be slapped with an AVO before you can say MICKEYMOUSE if you follow the trails of their oversized cartoon feet. You ain’t getting to that water source any time soon.

FOLLOW ANIMAL POOP
Which is quite gross, but I guess it works. In a normal jungle. 

That's a long way.

A Disneyland cleaner called Chester came out of nowhere with magic Disney paper towels and quick solutions when I accidentally filled my bag with water via a leaking water bottle and blocked a busy thoroughfare near the ironically named Adventureland, so I don’t like your chances of following animal poop.

Disneyland don't do dirt. Or cigarette butts on the ground.  Or tourists blocking thoroughfares.

I’m sure no-one was watching on closed-circuit cameras; it was just a massive coincidence that a pop-up cleaner came out of nowhere.

Cue sad violins and all the sad emoticons to illustrate all my sad feels of that sad time when my iPhone had to swim for its life.

GET WATER
See above. I guess I die in this jungle story. Was never any good at choose your own adventure.

FIND SHELTER
Well, great, but Brand Disneyland don’t really do shelter. Sorry.

You’ll be queueing exposed for a minimum thirty minutes in a hazardous 100 degrees, listening to monotonous brain-spasming catchy Disney tunes, to ride the Haunted Mansion, surrounded by beautiful shady trees that you are not allowed to huddle under because they are fenced off and for attraction aesthetics only, so sweat it out friend.

This is likely to cause problems or to have adverse consequences to your day so I would strongly recommend you bring your own tree.

After all the days at the all-American cheese factory that is Disneyland, I kinda feel like the little mouse has burrowed into my brain and left his ears logo etched onto my amygdala.

How the hell did I survive Disneyland? We'll never know. It's the magic of Disney.

You need a lot of stamina to get through 10 days at that place (yes, 10 days, sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I thought you’d judge).

It’s a brilliant business model. Market your company as the happiest place on earth and then people will desperately want to return, even though their pockets are being drained and they become devoid of anything resembling sanity.

It’s the land of ridiculous, impractical fairytale fantasies and forces you to suspend your IRL for days on end and what's wrong with that.

Can’t wait to go back.

Am I too old to be going through a Star Wars thing?

Amazeballs album - Dark Side of the Death Star

I very recently watched a Star Wars flick again and now I'm freshly obsessed. Which was a goal in fact because next week I am going to the Galaxy's Edge, Disneyland's brand spanking new land made of stormtroopers and death stars, which are the prettiest most sparkly stars around.

The new land is called Batuu. It's a remote outpost planet on the edge of the galaxy and is the last stop before you hit wild space. I'm fairly certain none of this is based on rigorous study and experiment and is solely Disney Physics but that's okay because they had me at the first sod of dirt that was turned.

I'm hoping the Disney Imagineers have managed to evoke The Force, because I quite like the idea of getting what I want in life simply by concentrating hard enough. How lovely. I'll have All The Things, please.

Surprisingly, many people have not even seen one scene of the most cultic, iconic cinematic cashcows there has ever been. I know; I've polled all of the people.  I imagine I am one of the first bloggers in history to blog about Star Wars but anyway.

First the people who have never witnessed the greatness, Star Wars stars a couple of robots, a big furry bear thing, men who wear too much beige, an annoying lady with a retro Princess Leia hairdo, armed men in all-white outfits wearing tap shoes, and a cape-wearing lunatic, but we all have our foibles.

While the fanatics debate the intracacies of hyperspace travel, the exact measurements of the Death Star, and the main themes running through the series, for example, the power of knowledge and the inability to control your destiny and how awesome and powerful you are if you are the Dark Side leader, a few key questions that never get answered keep rattling around in my head:

• Why do storm troopers wear tap shoes?

• There is practically no responsible use of lightsabres.  Someone could get seriously hurt.

• Every single malfunction on the Millenium Falcon can easily be fixed with a blowtorch.

• None of the windows on any of the space fleet seem to be double-glazed.  Who builds a space thingy without even blinds or curtains to keep out the intergalactic chill?  Who?  I wonder if Richard Branson has thought of curtains for his flying harem of galactic Virgins.

• There is far too much work involved to become a Jedi Knight.

• Yoda would have had another 200 years in him if Luke had stopped hassling him with endless inane questions.

• I love Harrison Ford.

• I want one of those doors that slide open at lightning speed.  The first movie was filmed in the 70's, so why aren't quickarse speedy doors mainstream forty years later?

Mortal Engines - my remote control

The other night I had big plans. BIG PLANS. I was going to hire a DVD (Mortal Engines) and go home and watch it! I wish you could have seen my super excited face. So I ventured to the local Hoyts Kiosk – OLD SKOOL!, where a non-human machine thing dispensed the DVD into my hand in a cold, hard business transaction; just the way I like it.

Mortal Engines was released in early 2019, and I missed it at the cinema, and I’m up to the last book of the Mortal Engines Quartet by Philip Reeve, so have been mega keen to see the series come to life.

Anyway, anyway, my Mac is the one made of Air and thus does not allow things to be stuck in it, so I headed to my DVD player, which I haven’t activated since 1908, and the ‘child safety lock mode’ was on, with no remote to be seen for many, many miles. 

I turned my lounge upside down looking for that damned thing, getting more and more frustrated, the way you do when the world Zuckerberg created helps to turn you into an inpatient, demanding jerk who can’t just ‘be in the moment’ with a lost remote.

My lost remote is all very hilarious actually in this context, because the main character’s job in Mortal Engines is as an ye olde world historian who hunts down and trades in old tech to survive. Maybe he could have found my lost remote. Maybe that can be the second movie. 

Mortal Engines is a post-apocalyptic world where entire cities are mounted on wheels and drive around preying on each other and, let me tell you, I’m gonna kill my bloody remote when I find it.

So after lots of button pressing and holding, it quickly became apparent that I needed another way into the machine. Professionally trained ‘child safety lock mode’ defusers get paid a lot of money to do this job with a remote. One small mistake, and you’re dead.

So, I turned to the Googles to help me dismantle the 'child safety lock mode' sans remote. Unfortunately, I immediately ended up in one of those tech help forums, where the answers to questions create more confusion than the questions themselves. And then, before I knew what was happening, information technology folk starting peppering me with questions via a bot called Bob. I didn’t care for it, so I left the theatre of war, and took sanctuary IRL.

In the end, much like in the movie, the device wasn’t infiltrated, someone was mortally wounded in a sword duel, the crash drive was destroyed with an old tech nuclear warhead, and no-one lived happily ever after.

Scottish Tourist tax? Noo jist naod on!

Poor ol' Scotland - she’s got herself all riled up. Earlier this year, Councillors in Edinburgh voted in favour of a "tourist tax", ending tourists rampant exploitation of the city’s hotel accommodation. Wait, what? Tourist tax? Noo jist naod on!

The tax will be a £2 (AUD$3.70) room surcharge, per night, for the first week of every stay in the city's accommodation dwellings.

Tourists already pay a wee bonnie fortune to travel and stay in big, popular cities. But, evidently, the wee scunners at the Council think this plan will offer huge financial benefits, estimated at a staggering £14.6million every year.

Not really relevant, but adorables.

They are going ta skelp yer wee behind!

To be honest, I’m very much on board with this idea. Providing I can dish out my own levies if I choose to tour Scotland, including, but not limited to, £2 for any rainshower during the day. 

Tourists do not like rainfall during the day. £2 for every haggas reference and/or offer of haggas. No tourist is eating the haggas. No-one. Yer aff yer heid if you think I’ll eat the haggas.

But surely – SURELY – they could be more creative about this. If you really want to make some decent cash to put into the kitty for the city’s insfrastructure and development, tax tourists for things they do that are annoying.

Because if they'd whack a levy on all the annoying things tourists do, they'd actually have quite enough cash to fix all those ruinous royal castles that are dotted around the green, green wolds and the blue, blue lochs.

The definition of the word tourist is annoying. That’s the tourist calling card. It’s our meishi. It used to be on our visas. It was a very easy way to identify us.

Simple ways to tax tourists:

• Pronouncing it Edin-borrow, instead of the correct Edin-bur-a or Edin-bra – Fine: £5

• Not knowing that you are not in England – Fine: £5 

• Expecting locals to be impressed about your clan. They are not. There are millions like you – Fine: £5

• Buying your own family’s tartan. There is evidence that highlanders wore tartan cloth as far back as the seventeenth century, but your clan probably didn't have it's own, despite what the tourist shops would like you to believe – Fine: £5 

• Barging in front of queues. The British do not like a queue jumper – Fine: £5

 

Marmalade is not really my jam

I like the idea of marmalade, but it's really not my jam. But the taste always does make me hark back to Victorian England, when I sat at the dining table, circa 1881, taking breakfast, toast with a nice, fresh marmalade - freshly squeezed from a hen - in my white smock, reading the news on my iPad - “Queen Victoria beheads rogue marmalade maker”, “Victoria snubs new sour marmalade”, and the like. 

Back in the very old days, when life was really quite shit, unless you were obscenely wealthy, but even then... marmalade was taken in the evening, but it was the good ol’ Scots who elevated its status to a ‘breakfast staple’, making all the other toppings feel unwanted and disrespected and wondering if they should start to make their Instagram page more racy and/or aesthetically pleasing to the masses.

I haven’t had marmalade in nearly 130 years. I first met marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge, strutting itself on the streets.  It’s one of those hard-to-find-a-good-one products that could really go either way. Sour, sweet, lots of peel, even more peel, please sir no peel, peel is not appealing. 


Anyway anyway, back to circa 2019. In the very best British spirit of Keeping Calm and Carrying On, I will continue my search for a non-disgusting Marmalade. So I bought some, in an effort to not judge a jar by it’s contents.
 
So I cooked some bread, in the traditional manner of toasting it in a toaster, favoured by many, and, lo and behold, I could not for the life of me open the darn jar of marmalade. And in the very best British spirit of Keeping Calm and Carrying On, I used vegemite instead. Vegemite never lets me down. And it has a positive, happy little vegemite attitude while it's at it, which is nice.

The next day I tried again with the marmalade jar, because I ain’t no quitter of opening marmalade jars. I used a knife, I tried to bang the lid open, I hired a forklift to wedge it open, I threw it off the Grand Canyon and watched it plunge 1,000 metres to the bottom of the Colorado River; but nothing worked. 

Downton Abbey marmalade??? Shut up and take my $$$

Day three, and I was not ready to throw in the towel. I was not going to be defeated by a jar of breakfast spread. I slaved and toiled over the opening of that bloody jar, day after day, year after year, and, finally, on the 15th year anniversary of trying to open the stupid thing, it popped open, like no-one had suffered in the opening of that jar. And you know what; it wasn’t the one for me, so I gave it to my dad, an unfussy marmalade consumer.

And to this day, the search for My Marmalade continues.

I watched Premier League Darts: the professional tossers

I was surfing on the remote control the other day and amongst all the millions of television people who live in the magic little machine I came across a dart competition. And you know what? I watched Premier League Darts for you.  It drew me right in, right. In the way that a car crash draws you right in and demands your attention just enough to call emergency services.

After watching 35 seconds of the internationally-broadcast, Liverpool-hosted Premier League Darts competition on Foxtel, I was hooked. 

Yeeeesssss, innit

If you were to go there in person with a ticket, presumably a Darts Biatch is standing at the entrance with a breathalyser, and if you are intoxicated with alcoholic beverages to a state of being over the absolute tosser limit, you are welcomed with open arms. Come in, lads!

The first thing I noticed was the crowd. It was hugely huge. Huge even. Actually, quite big. You could say huge-gantic. So many lads. Why are you so obsessed with the crowd size? Move on, man. There’s other things in the world than the size of your crowdhood.

Anyway anyway, look, I know Liverpool is cold, rainy, boring and, well, Liverpool at this (any) time of the year but, jesus people, it’s darts. There are at least three other decent things you could be doing with your Saturday afternoon in Liverpool and you picked this one? I really must stop judging absolute tossers. Or cut down a bit at least.

The fun thing about televised darts though is you can’t help but notice the drunken lads in the background, which is refreshingly entertaining because watching darts is extremely dull. I mean, honestly. As it turns out, being intoxicated with alcoholic beverages at a professional darts competition is an absolutely crucial component in being able to tolerate watching professional darts for hours.

So the dart-tossers stand a few metres away from the board and somewhere in the middle of that stands the referee/compere/adult which made me nervous until I realised that dart tossers are actually very good tossers and only very occasionally nail one into the back of the compere’s head. Look, I imagine there are plenty of ways to die in Liverpool on a Saturday afternoon, and a dart in the skull is a relatively tame way to go, I"m pretty sure.

Much like many sports to me, the scoring makes no sense whatsoever. No-one else knows what’s going on either it seems, which accounts for all the fireworks, the drunken football crowd singing and the disturbingly sober cheerleaders. But this sport is clearly a BIG DEAL and I’m quite scared of drunken or sober Liverpudlians so I’ll let them have it, innit.

BBC’s 'Make me a Dealer'

Reality television’s great. A little screen full of millions of tiny attention seeking people for you to pity and ridicule. 

So today I watched BBC’s Make me a Dealer. Calm down, it’s not about junkies teaching overly keen individuals their dirty junkie selling ways in a bus interchange on a Friday night although that would also make for a pleasant evening viewing experience.

According to the BBC, Make me a Dealer is about a man called Paul Martin, who “takes to the road as he searches the length and breadth of Britain in pursuit of a new generation of moneymaking antiques dealers”. Sounds like a snooty, boring sort of James Bond thing.

Apparently this quaint British show helps regular normals become overnight antiques sensations - experts at determining trash from not-trash - with the aim of making some cash via a little side hustle. 

Hmm…it seems to me the whole thing about knowing trash from not-trash is having extensive knowledge of your market. Like having a degree in knowing trash from non-trash.

Like having a degree if you were a doctor, for example, as an example that's not really the same at all. Let’s have a medical show like this, where they release members of the public onto other somewhat sick members of the public, and they try to treat them using Dr Google, under the watchful yet mocking gaze of medical professionals. That’s sounds fun and watchable, BBC.

Alas, probably not in their upcoming pilots sadly, so you’ll all have to play Dr Google to diagnose yourself, your neighbours, your friends, strangers and your long-suffering work colleagues without getting reality television famous. Probably for the best.

Anyway anyway anyway, the point is, if you want to be an antiques pro-fesh-i-narl, you kind of have to do a lot of groundwork to know what the goshdarnit you are doing with all those period pieces of great antiquity.

So, anyway anyway, in our show our hero Paul Martin does that elitist voiceover thing of mocking and humiliating David and Laura - tonight’s contestants - because he thinks they don’t know what they are doing. Well, David has a vague idea; Laura not so much. 

Fortunately, Laura has been humiliated before and knows exactly what’s she’s doing in that regard and she is having none of it, maintaining her sense of humour with such nuggets as “I’m going to buy a mug, not be a mug”. Yeah Paul Martin, save your toff scoffing and contemptuous ridicule for another day, mate. How very British is this show?

So lots of things happened and ad breaks blah blah and then more things and then they had to go to an auction and they keep putting their hands in the air. No, don’t put your hands in the air unless you have money to buy this useless crap. 

And then, in the end - let’s fast forward at the fastest speed possible to the end - Paul Martin comes out with, “well, I think they both got lucky”,  presumably because they made some type of profit off the stained mid 18th century mug and ugly decorative art that they bought at auction (I wasn't paying attention really). Yeah? Fancy that, Paul Martin. Turns out guessing the value of cor blimey ye old shite ain’t that hard after all.

Anyway, I’m VERY ANNOYED, because I quite liked this show.

Escape to the new Yarralumla dogpark

This Saturday, Government House in Canberra is opening it’s doors to visitors, when you peasants can pop along - for free! - and have a stomp (elegantly and quietly please thankyou) around the residence, including the over 100 acres of manicured lawn. 

By Saturday, the garden’s cuticles will be trimmed and it's nails will be shaped and coated with all the shades of the colours of the Union Jack.

During the day, you’ll have the opportunity to chat to the Governor-General, His Excellency General the Honourable Sir Peter Cosgrove AK MC (Retd), and Lady Cosgrove, as they go about their laundry, pre-prepare meals for the week ahead, and watch ‘Escape to the Country’ on Foxtel while they iron shirts and sheets in one of the many stately rooms. It’ll be much like your Saturday afternoon, only in the presence of rich people in splendid surroundings.

Government House is Canberra’s home-away-from-palace for the British Royals when they come to town, and I’ve been keen to see it for years. And this year - our two world’s collide! -  as I’ve finally remember to check ‘what’s on in Canberra at Government House’ ahead of time.

But first, a lesson on the GG home's history (stay awake; I’ll make it fun for everyone. Or jump ahead a few paragraphs, but I’ll forever KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST PARAGRAPH). The original brick building of Government House was built in 1899, and included a substantial wooden shearing shed to house the owner’s numerous flocks of pet sheep. Everyone needs a hobby.

It's beautiful, innit?

In 1913, the owner decided to sell it via an early version of All Homes and, by sheer coincidence, the Commonwealth Government had been scanning All Homes every chance they could get, looking for a former sheep shed to use as a temporary residence for the Governor-General of Australia that'll look good in photos for the 'gram. That's a telegram; not Instagram. 

I guess the GG is still there, so in the last 100 or so years they decided to do a renovation rescue rather than sell. Good decision, because it’s the best-looking spot in Canberra.

If this was ‘Escape to the Country’, Government House would be the mystery house that no-one asked to see because it’s about 18 million quid outside their budget. And that’s pretty much what we’ll be doing on Saturday.

If there is a Suggestion Box at the royal abode, I shall be suggesting that they cordon off an acre or two for a new Yarraluma dogpark because, how pretty is it!

I watched Downton Abbey.

The lovely electronic people who operate the buttons at Foxtel are replaying the sixth and final season of my beloved Downton Abbey, the British historical period drama about a centuries-old estate in England in which a bunch of obscenely rich people sit around drinking tea and whinging about their society friends. It's exactly the same as 2019, but with less comfortable clothes.

In it's 2011-16 hey day, Downton Abbey was among my favouritest TV programs. 

I honestly don't know why Britian's ITV brought it to an end; they could have kept this ship sailing all the way to the 1970s, with Lady Mary now in her early 70s and rocking high cut boots and a technicolour cowl neck sweater. Mr Carson, the house butler, would be still ruling the roost at about 170 years old.

The final season is set in 1925, which will go well to explaining why not one person has a mobile phone glued to their hand. They just had to remain stoic in the face of great suffering without Snapchat filters to cheer them up.

If  they wanted to communicate with each other in 1925 they had to telegram each other, or travel by early, early model crappy cars for hours and hours to reach each other to communicate a thought bubble that could have just been texted with a smiley face emoticon attached. 

Or, and this is the worst of all, they had to pick up a thing that was attached to a machine that was attached to a wall and put it near their ear until they heard voices on the other end! Absurd! Thankfully, everyone in the West is now in complete agreement that  speaking to another person on a telephone is passé and no longer worth our time.

For context, other things that happened in 1925 include the release of Hitler’s Mein Kampf, The Great Gatsby, Phantom of the Opera and Ben Hur, giant tornadoes in the U.S., UKs Child Labor Laws, Mussolini took over Italy, an airship crashed over Ohio, lots of airlines were formed around the world, diptheria outbreak, scotch tape was invented. Scotch Tape! All the things.

For more context - because I acknowledge the last bit of context was not particularly helpful in following the show's storyline - the people who sleep in the comfy beds in Downton Abbey are very rich. They have significant material wealth and also significant mounts of butter on their toast in the morning. I have noticed. Rich in many ways. Both of which sort of kill you in very different ways. 

Downton Abbey, season six, episode 5 or something:

SPOILERS!

Action!

Lord Grantham is recovering from last week’s episode, when his ulcer came out of his mouth in a bloody explosion. Too much butter on his toast probably. He is bedridden and has to receive incessant visits from his family all day because Netflix wasn’t invented. I suppose he could have entertained himself with a newly minted roll of scotch tape.

Kitchenhand Daisy speaks something annoying and annoys me.

The Crawleys  - the custodians of Downton Abbey - are planning to open the house to the peasants to raise money for the local Hospital. Don’t do it, Crawleys. As it turns out, the Open House is a roaring success, except for the common people ambling around their grand home, looking at the artworks with their dirt-poor, commoner eyes and dragging their pauper backsides across the antique furniture and carpets.

All the poor people have to wear dogpoo brown and dogpoo grey because Supre and other synthetic clothes from China were not invented yet.

Everyone gathers in the drawing room over and over again for tea and tedious, fairly pointless conversation.

Mr Bates and Anna, two of the house staff, have a conversation after work in their dark and depressing living room. “What about a fire? It’s a bit indulgent but we’ve earnt it today”. Everything I hate about ye olden times in one handy sentence.

Again, sitting around drinking tea. Always sitting around drinking tea. But they still do that today in England, because it’s always cold, grey tea-drinking weather. I also like drinking tea, because tea is everything that is right and good in the world. Viva la Downton Abbey.