A Culturally Iconic Bowl of Gridiron

America loves its bowls. While most bowls are round, the Americans seem to favour the rectangular ones. They believe their bowls are quite magnificent in their properties and hold things really good. They even go so far as to call them Super Bowls. Once a year, they put all the food and drink in America in a really big bowl and 100,000 people sit there and eat it and cheer on men with footballs. Such great craic.

Such a huge coincidence that I write today of awe inspiring containers typically used to prepare and serve food because that Super Bowl brouhaha has just taken place again - Los Angeles Rams took on the New England Patriots and lost.  There were broken bits of china bowl everywhere. And I watched a bit of it, like I often do, without a darn clue as to the nature of any of those player’s business on the field.

I don’t understand the end game of plays in gridiron at all. What are they trying to do. No-one will tell me. The commentators are really of no help whatsoever. I have to use my knowledge of other codes of football and just assume they are trying to get to each other’s end to secure points by being there with the football.

I don’t even understand what the name of the game means. I’m sure Wikipedia could tell me but I don’t care that much. Okay fine. Wikipedia says gridiron is “a team sport played by two teams of eleven players on a rectangular field with goalposts at each end”. Oh that’s extremely helpful, Wikipedia. Can you please explain astrophysics to me? Wikipedia also says gridiron is an instrument of torture on which people were secured before being burned by fire back in ye olden days, so that’s lovely. I feel like watching gridiron could also be considered an instrument of torture.

I always say I don’t understand this at all, and then it occurred to me that watching the national sport of another culture is like visiting another culture, so the least I can do is try to understand it.

So how does one begin to understand another culture? Become self-aware of your biases? Oh, I’m very aware that this game is stupid and makes no sense. But why is that? Should I do my own research to try and understand? Okay. I’ve done that. None of the plays make any sense. Should I talk to someone from a gridiron background? Um, the commentators are confusing the fuck out of me.  Here are some examples of their lingo:
 “2nd and 11” - I think this is basic gridiron. I don’t understand what those words mean. 
“Rams converted on their last 3rd downs” - that doesn’t mean anything.
 “62, 345, first of 20” - what. 
“The longest 3rd down the Rams face tonight” - not a thing. Not words that should be uttered in a sentence, because it’s not a sentence that makes sense.

Alright, back to the game. From what I can tell, there is only one footballer with any talent on the field. The quarterback. He’s literally the only skilled employee on the books. The rest of them just run into each other like I do all day if I don’t wear my glasses. Is that unfair to the rest of the players? I don’t know.

Oh now another timeout. The players, coach and Other Unnecessary Sideline People are all going to group together to try and figure out what the actual heck is going on.

I have to say that, culturally, I just don’t find it that interesting. But I get it, you know. The hallowed ground of Superbowl is a cultural place of significance. They have their own language, wear different clothes to sporting teams I’m familiar with, the land markings are different, the crowds have a different vibe, the stadiums are…huge. The stadium in Atlanta, Georgia, where this game is being played could fit 3 Australias in it. 

This is not a stadium; it’s a mothership.

Watching a sport you are not familiar with is like visiting a foreign country or culture, which brings me to the final hot tip to understanding another country’s sporting cultural icon. Travel. Go there. This one I have got covered. I’m planning on going to Disneyland later this year, which won’t help me understand gridiron at all, but it can’t hurt.

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.

The Chaosity of Jaipur

With Canberra undergoing a spell of cataclysmically gloomy weather – it was overcast ALL DAY - I decided it was best to go the cinema in an attempt to avoid the ensuing melancholic mood and to try and forget that such bollocks weather has the audacity to exist. So I took my mum to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

The exemplary cast includes Professor McGonagall (aka Maggie Smith), M (aka Judi Dench) and other fine British actors, so I wasn't worried - like I often am - that I will be subjected to a movie that I know I hate within minutes of its onset but have to endure for another two hours.

The flick is set in Jaipur, India and is about a group of retirees who, for numerous reasons, retire to the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which they believe to be a newly restored hotel. However, the establishment has in fact been rather significantly airbrushed in its promotional material by its entrepreneurial manager in an attempt to 'outsource old age', in the same fashion as companies outsource phone calls to exotic call centres and I often outsource cooking to a local Pizza Hut. They should have just checked TripAdvisor.com, but anyway.

I lived with my family in India for a few years as a youthling, so mum and I sniggered throughout the ‘quintessential India' scenes that are included for comic relief, but actually provide an honest summation of the idiosyncratic chaosity that is India.

When people tell me they are travelling to India, by choice, I do try my best to hide my utter disgust, but I silently sneer at their ignorance of the poverty and smell and disease and suffering and the general pandemonium they will encounter on their journey. I am also confused by the popular movement these days that has convinced some people that India and such places are great to find oneself. India is not a place to go to find oneself. Do the people in this picture look to you like they are finding themselves?

As much as I mock the country, most of my favourite childhood memories were formed in and around New Delhi. I’m thankful that I was a child growing up before helicopter parents started ruining their kid’s childhood, so my parents didn’t overprotect us, but just let us be kids.

Touching things you shouldn’t touch and eating things you definitely shouldn’t eat are a rite of passage for a kid growing up; it’s all just a part of the process of building resistance to all types of bugs and disease.

Sure, there was the time I was bitten by a rabid dog, and the time I grew hundreds of warts on my hand overnight from doing something that I probably shouldn’t have been doing, and the time I grew a tapeworm in my stomach, and I endured every type of Asian stomach bug about five times, but these afflictions are the reason why I’ve never had an upset stomach, food poisoning or gastro since. Lifetime immunity idol. *knocks on wood*

Blogger Grim

Sometimes I really feel like writing something on my exceptionally average blog, but I feel a crushing sense of blogger's block. Obviously it's not that grim, because words are being produced, but it's bothersome none the less. At these trying times, I try to think of the kids in the Horn of Africa. Because they don't even have access to Blogger.  The horror.  Settle down, I'm not mocking the Third World, I'm just a pragmatist.

If I had my way, there would be no leftwingers with any power or authority anywhere in the world - including key posts in the United Nations - as they are completely incapable of handling any international crisis due to their weak ideological dispositions and senseless decision making and, thus, there would be proper policies in place that would mean that no kid in the whole world would be without Blogger. Or food.  Maybe. Well I imagine the situation would be far less dire if we could just find a way to disband the hapless U.N.

And I can think of a whole bunch of world military leaders who just get in the way of anything decent and good, but the United States aren't allowed to 'take them out' because that would make the U.S. the bad guys, apparently. This is just part of The Wonderful World of Leftwing Logic.  When I say 'take them out', I don't mean on a date; I mean the other thing.

Speaking of the world's bad eggs, I note that renown psycho, Robert Mugabe, is dying, but unfortunately it didn't happen years ago in his prime killing days. But fortunately there is a front row seat waiting for him on the rollercoaster to hell. It's a very long front row.  Why have I been so preachy and self-righteous lately? FFS. And why am I blogging about hell and death and starving children and mass murderers? FFS. I am totally depressed now.

Ah, North Korea

If it looks like a missile, and acts like a missile, then it most likely is a missile, and it's probably not going to be used for anything short of blowing something up (perhaps a place that rhymes with Mouth Diarrhea), doing something that is internationally illegal or just more generally pissing off the more judicious nation states of the world.

The secretive lunatics that form the North Korean Government have just given the foreign media unprecedented access into their state to scrutinise the launch pad where they claim they will be shortly launching a rocket that will be putting a satellite into outer space.

When North Koreans allow you to scrutinise something of theirs, it’s always from a distance, with a machine gun to your head. A satellite people, do you hear, it's not a missile! It's a satellite. We have no reason - nope, no reason at all - to believe the North Koreans are telling porky pies.

Seriously, how dim-witted do Pyongyang think we are? Well, I suppose most of the mainstream media are a few fries short of a happy meal, which, incidentally, is something North Koreans are dying for. Food, that is. But that's communism for you.

By North Korea's reckoning, this disclosure to foreign journalists of their wholesome little rocket launcher will appease the world - particularly the United States which, let's face it, is the world - into believing North Korea are just a peaceful little nation that wants to send sunshine, rainbows and smiles into the earth's atmosphere, without any hint of a sinister intent.

They want us to think that their launches will not be used for provocative purposes. Is that like their nuclear missile launches over the years that weren't for provocative purposes? North Korea government officials don't bother getting out of bed unless it's for provocative purposes.

I get tired of all the left-wingers in the west defending nation states that are completely out of their minds, and treat their citizens appallingly, with the line, 'well, it's just a different culture'. Um yes, yes it is, it's a worse one, and one that needs to be eradicated.

Love triangles and other geometric-type situations

I'm blogging with the telly on as background, which is the only time I tend to write.  I'm multi-tasking the shit out of this situation.  I get very bored just watching telly, apparently.  The program is about the aftermath of last year's earthquake in Christchurch, I think, because they are talking in an odd accent about "keyos iveryweer" and "eets quort skeery" and "ez thet en eftershock?" 

This is going to be one of those posts that I really shouldn’t waste my time constructing, and you most assuredly should not waste your time reading. Oh well, too late; the wrecking ball has swung – like a psychotic pendulum-type disco ball - and it’ll cost a lot of dosh and the weight of many, many strong people with numerous muscles to stop it razing my blog into a desolate wasteland. Although, I imagine it wouldn’t appear much different that it does right now.

It would be quite exciting to be a wrecking ball operator person. You'd never have to spend a day in therapy. But if you hit the wrong building you’d be in muchos trouble and would have to fill in oodles of confusing and pointless paperwork designed to obfuscate the entire issue.  Sounds just like a desk job with the Government to me, except you actually get to watch the train wreck in real time. No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m prattling on about either, but I did warn you.

I didn't actually want to write about wrecking balls or endless paperwork, so this is a good time for an intervention into the progress of this post.  I went to see A Dangerous Method at the cinema this week, which is about Keira Knightley's jawline and it's 'love triangle' with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. As far as shapes go, the old triangle has a bit of notoriety, don't it?

It’s unpredictable (hello Bermuda), perplexing (hello Bermuda and Grade 1 geometry) and a bit of a vixen (hello love triangles).  I am currently in a bit of a 'lack of interest' triangle at the moment; torn between continuing with this post or sticking a hot poker in my eye.

Circles aren't very exciting at all; I tend to roll my eyes at pie charts, and when people draw circles it often means they want to place arrows everywhere and try to explain something to you that you are probably not very interested in.  Round and round and round you go; the motto of any self-respecting Government.

Pentagons are five-sided polygons, which makes them slightly greedy and pretentious, rather confusing and the bearer of many wives.  The only pentagon that matters is The Pentagon.  It has five sides, five floors, five ring corridors per floor and possibly a five ring circus.  Don't be messing with The Pentagon. They can make you disappear.

How to build a Leprachaun Trap

Don't be silly, I have no friggin' idea how to build a leprachaun trap, nor any idea whether they exist or not.  If you really care to build one, then go and consult The Google, the youth of today's alternative to a real education.

We didn't have Google back in my day, we just had to read about intelligent things via a hard copy encyclopedia; things like the second law of thermodynamics and the reason socialism is such a retarded idea. Just look at those Swedes for evidence. 

Circling back to topic...

All nation states have to be known for something.  It's the rules.  Take Australia for example.  Our country is known for housing kanagroos in our collective rumpus rooms, padlocking our thongs to a fence when we go into a fancy restaurant like McDonald's so no-one nicks 'em, providing cradle-to-grave welfare for people who are sick of dying all the time in their stupid middle eastern homelands, and for a bridge that looks like a steel coat hanger that is nestled near a pointy white house on a pretty little harbour.  Not too bad a list if you ask me.

Any cookie-cutter country in the Middle East, on the other hand, is known for its teatowel hat industry, barbaric dictators, and general allround suicidal nutjobs.  Ireland, however, has quite an unfair reputation as a nation of leprachauns who are generally six guinness' short of a sixpack of guinness. 

It really is anyone's guess how the numerous Irish paramilitary groups over many years have managed to roust together to mastermind and kill civilians in coordinated attacks.  Obviously the key word causing great confusion being mastermind.

And, of course, the Irish are also known for giving the world St Patrick, the Lady Gaga of all Saints, who is greatly celebrated because he brought Christianity to Ireland and because he was born this way, baby.  The Irish generally celebrate the day by getting hopelessly drunk on green beer, and the rest of the world seem to think this is a great excuse to get pissed as well.

Dear Middle Earth

Ah, the Middle East.  It's been positively ages since I wrote a word about you.  This is most likely because you haven't blown up any of our people, embassies, nightclubs or world trade centres for some time now.  I know that it certainly isn't from a lack of trying - you'll never change - but rather it is because the west have institutions that are smarter than you.  Actually, I think we have cheeseburgers that are smarter than you.

Your lack of success at annihilating the west probably also has more to do with the practical reason that you have recently lost one of the few terrorists who had a clue how to mastermind and terrorise to effect.  It is probably also because the United States have you on a permanent good behaviour bond, and a very tight leash, which gets a huge, red tick of approval from me.

But it seems we do have something in common, Middle Earth, because I would also very much approve of annihilating you and starting from scratch - seeing as all your people who are not trying to kill our troops are immigrating to the west anyway - but apparently that is a terribly racist and warmongering attitude. Personally I think getting rid of non-democratic countries and regions is just efficient global management.  But what do I know; I'm just a voter. 

Well we wouldn't need to have this conversation, Middle Earth, if your nation states stopped behaving like themselves and started democratising a little bit.  Your insurgents are slippery little suckers, aren't they?  But, lucky for you, you have the best cheer squad in the world - the west's own apologist leftist human rights campaigners, and much of our media - so anything we do to you is deemed racist, but anything you do to us is our own fault.

Yes, that would be an own goal; it is certainly a mystery to me why those who benefit from all the freedoms of democracy need to denigrate it.  Who the hell knows why leftists think like they do. 

And then we have our Green Movement, who also hate the west a lot, even though they too fully benefit from all the freedoms a libertarian nation has to offer, like being able to sit under the eucalypts with a tofu burger without the pesky worry of someone in their vicinity blowing everyone to smithereens with a C4 belt. 

It's another great mystery why the Greens and all the other leftists harangued George W, because he bothered to try and democratise Middle Earth's most insane nation states, yet they kick and scream and whinge and whine when freedom-loving countries like Australia don't accept refugees willy-nilly.  From a point of logic and reason, isn't it better to overthrow the bad guys in the bad countries and let their citizens just be, in their own country?  Ah, sorry, I hate it when my brain gets all practical.

I have been watching the goings-on in Syria over the past few months with (relatively little) interest; goings-on being the more pleasant way of referring to what I really think about Syria and other cookie-cutter, dodgy, decrepid little countries.  While Syria may not be Middle Earth, it's just like Middle Earth, in that it would totally suck to live there.  I don't really care about Syria, or Middle Earth, but I care when civil warfare spills out of these primitive little cocoons, which it almost always invariably does with these friggin' countries, and then it affects me, and then I care.

I will eat my pom-pommed beanie if Syria ever becomes anything vaguely resembling a free nation state in the next few hundred years, but if they do, they'll probably need a Prime Minister to start their long and winding road to democracy, so they should feel free to permanently borrow Australia's own Red Queen.

Patriotic theme parks

In news of total weirdness, thus completely normal French behaviour, France has announced that it is preparing to open a theme park that will pay homage to their deranged former military commander, Napoleon Bonaparte, as a celebration of 200 years since his passing, or when he gave up wearing white tights, or because he was 'born this way', or some other such momentous occasion worthy of a tacky theme park.  Evidently France thinks the world needs a never-ending sermon about the shit they've somehow managed to get away with over the years.

Napoleonland is the ludicrous brainchild of a former French politician, who wants to create this crazy French Revolution shrine south of Paris, where the N-Dog had his final victory against the Austrians.  Save it France; no-one cares about anything you do.  Washington hates you, most of Europe hates you, and the tourists only come to your country because of the Eiffel Tower and soft cheese.

The designers intend to recreate the Battle of Waterloo, there are plans afoot for a Battle of Trafalgar water show, and the piece de resistance will be a fun re-creation for the kiddies of Napoleon's greatest victory, against the Russo-Austrians in the bloody Battle of Austerlitz.  I guess it's going to be a case of 'do mention the war'.  My beloved Disneyland calls itself 'the happiest place on earth', so I guess Napoleonland will be 'the bloodiest place on earth'.  What a happy little educational theme park this is gonna be.

It's quite a fabulous way to alienate sections of the European tourist market if that is your intention, and knowing France, it probably is.  But I suppose all the nation states likely to get shitty don't care anymore, or have been subsumed by cooler countries and belonged in different empires back in the day anyway.  I'm not offended by war re-creations or their theme park equivalent, but I probably won't go to this one simply because it sounds like a really stupid pet project.  And it's based on a sociopathic military figure.  And it's in France.

Rather than pine for, and dredge up, and emulate moments that they consider to be full of historical brilliance, perhaps the French should look at their current political state of affairs and begin addressing their numerous failings that affect all of Europe and the rest of the world.  Like immigration, the troubled youth, the economy, Carla Bruni.

If they think this loopy theme park idea is going to pull them out of the financial doldrums they need to talk to the idiots running Euro Disney before they go ahead with it.  The French should just leave Mickey and Minnie alone and stick to what they are good at.  *if there was a sound to denote nothing I would insert it here*

I love theme parks; they are the best.  I put my adult love of roller coasters down to the fact that my parents didn't take me to Disneyland when I was little.  In fact, a holiday to United States a few years ago was designed around theme parks, because I'm all carny folk like that.  Yep, perfectly balanced, psychological response to the trauma that is CDD (Childhood Disneyland Deficiency).

Aren't theme parks supposed to be about escapism, rather than a history lesson? If schools did their job properly, like teaching kiddies about actual history, rather than teaching them how to recycle television sets by turning them into planter boxes and how to live your life in a biodegradable sack to reduce your carbon footprint, we wouldn't need to take history lessons from theme parks.

Australia already sort of has its own patriotic theme park.  Australia Park in Queensland is replete with fierce crocodiles and non-domesticated vegemite toast.  Perhaps, in the spirit of Disneyland, we should include Bogan Land, Macquarie Fields Island and an 'It's a Multicultural World' ride, that ends in passengers capsizing in a rocky ocean enclave, and being tormented by a glow in the dark, laughing hyena that sounds a lot like Prime Minister Gillard.

America has Dolly World and Graceland and, well, the whole country is a bit like an amusement park; highly entertaining, overcrowded, full of rich, fatty foods that make you sick and if you stay too long you may be thrown out of the country by an immigration officer who sounds like Elmer Fudd. 

Italian fail

If you take a close look at the competency of Italians, you will note that it is really not the best idea to put them in charge of the running of anything of importance.  But fortunately, they are fairly genius when it comes to manfacturing stuff.  For example, the Italians excel amazingly at making quality sports cars. 

If I had a few extra billion lying around, I would buy a ferrari in every colour, except that gross mustard colour that seems to be fashionable at the moment.  Mustard and ferrari equals fail.  Mustard and anything that does not resemble a hotdog equals fail.  And I would complain loudly if they sent me one in baby poo brown.  There's something very wrong with the world if there is actually a ferrari in existence that is baby poo brown.

Italians are also pretty darn impressive at manufacturing footwear and the type of clothing that snooty, wealthy wankers wear to the mall, but secretly wish they could wear tracky dacks, rather than fancy schmancy haute couture designer sweat pants made from silkworms and baby duck fur.  The Italians can also kick around a football, but when you think about it, this isn't much of an admirable list.

At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter if your country excels in the manufacturing sector; what actually matters is if it can be trusted and is capable of being in charge of anything.  For example,  Italians clearly cannot be trusted to be at the helm of a cruise liner without running it into the ground. What makes Costa Concordia cruise liners so special? Um, at least one of their captains can't fucking drive a boat.  And Italians sure as shit cannot be trusted to be in charge of a government without running it into the ground. 

Former Italian PM Bonkasconi's superlative fiscal skills would run a brothel into the red.  Actually his government frequently resembled a brothel, and look how well that turned out with an Italian at the wheel. 

Italians clearly shouldn't be allowed to operate or be in charge of the security, protection or management of anything ever; they should just stick to making fast, red, shiny things and then let the grown up* nation states take over.  And Italy, if you don't want crude, offensive, insensitive jokes at your expense, then stop being so incompetent at everything that affects your citzens lives.

* When I say grown-ups, I wasn't technically referring to any of the countries of the E.U., which is, in my opinion, a dsyfunctional family of idiots.

How do you solve a problem like Iran?

How do you solve a problem like Iran?  Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her. Many a thing she ought to understand. For example, I think perhaps Tehran should understand that if the U.S. didn't already have enough valid reasons to annihilate it from the world, it probably shouldn’t give them another one.

The latest brouhaha that has Iran all in a tizz is their insistence – INSISTENCE! – that the U.S. aircraft carrier that passed through the strategic Strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf last week should stay out.  Iran have warned the U.S. not to come back into its region or else blah blah blah. Or what, Tehran, what are you going to do? 

Let’s not forget that the U.S. stations itself there because the whole region is unpredictable, dangerous and insane, and is concerned that Iran will close the strait. Iran has not said what action it would take if the U.S. continue hanging around, but I double dare Tehran to even consider blocking the world oil supply.

I kind of wish Tehran was stupid enough to attack the U.S. carrier with one of their missiles. Iran might be developing their military capability but they are still highly inferior. A missile attack would allow the forces of hell to validate a total ambush on the city and reduce it to a stinking pile of rubble. Which means Tehran wouldn't look much different to how it looks now.

While this is my favoured method of 'sanctioning' this middle eastern dropkick, it is probably not the best idea, given that it has many other nation state allies that are equally as psychotic.  May cool heads prevail; which is a little impossible when it comes with dealing with the Middle East.

Dateline winning

Sleepy, cruisey Samoa has to do something pretty drastic to make international headlines, and they pulled out a showstopper this week when they jumped in their time machine and landed ahead of the rest of the world on the International Dateline, the imaginery line on the earth that tells us when to do stuff.  BAM! Winning.

Just in time to get to 2012 first. Or second maybe. I don’t know, and don't particularly care.

Samoa last made the news in 2009, when the Samoan powers that be decided that the citizens would be switching to driving on the right side of the road, which we all know is the ‘correct’ side of the road. Evidently not much of interest happens in Samoa.

Apparently this whole change of dateline thing was to better align itself with its main trading partners, Australia and New Zealand. Which makes a great deal of sense.  So all the coconut oil we already have in the country is only from three days trade a week?  Great, that's exactly what Australia needs; more coconut oil.

Obviously Samoa doesn’t care to align itself anymore with its previous favourite trading partner, the U.S. Take that America; dumped by Samoa.

Samoa’s Prime Minister went all Gillard on everyone’s arses and said there would be no ne-go-ci-ation or something to that effect because this jump through the space/time continuum would aid trade with its key partners and everyone should just shush.

The Samoan-shirted PM had become increasingly concerned that Samoa was losing two working days a week being so far behind the rest of the world.

Hm, no-one in Samoa thought to alter their working week? No-one at all? Only in Samoa would they not be able to come up with a solution to this conundrum.

If Samoan public servants are anything like Australian public servants, I imagine they will be super thrilled about their working week increasing from three to five days. 

And the Australian Public Service would have a total conniption at having to make such drastic changes with regard to resources and superannuation, but I guess everything is just cruisey with the budget in Samoa.

The Samoan PM thinks his townsfolk are rejoicing at the time change, saying, “You can hear the sound of a lot of vehicles going around town, going round the town centre clock and tooting their horns. People screaming”. They are screaming in distress, Mr Prime Minister. You have ruined their lives.

Betrayal © Copyright 2011 (Short Story)

Sergeant Ralph “Hectic” Percy kicked open the door of the officers’ mess with his combat boots. Instead of getting the hell out of his way, the door swung back and got another firm kick for its troubles, then slammed angrily behind him. Percy walked across the metal mesh access point and stood at the top of the dusty makeshift stairs. He looked stoic and composed, but he was devastated.

This morning, Captain Percy had walked into the dusty HQ building for a debrief over the incident last night. Two hours later, he had less than 24 hours before he and his team would evacuate the area. It was deemed to be too dangerous and just too much of a risk to remain.

Percy’s team had flown into this Afghani province from Kabul to support the Army field engineers, who were teaching bridge construction skills to the local Afghani tech heads and soldiers, as part of the Coalition’s attempt to instill functioning infrastructure in the country.

And last night, on a routine patrol, one of the Afghani engineers - Behnam – decided to catch a lift with Percy’s team. Just out from the base, their Bushmaster was hit by a roadside bomb and exploded into pieces, injuring three soldiers and killing two team members instantly. Killing Behnam. Percy blamed himself for their deaths, and thought it would have been better if it had been him.

Percy’s superiors said the incident last night was the ‘straw that broke the camel’s back’. The Coalition troops were being thumped by the Taliban, and had suffered heavy losses in all provinces of Afghanistan where they had a presence. But Percy figured that was nothing new in a war zone, and nothing new against an enemy that valued death over life, and power over democracy.

Last night Percy had no men to fight the might of the Taliban. And they were still mighty, all right! He had no men to patrol the area where the Taliban had laid their deathly trap. Percy knew they could take the Taliban; if only they had more time. And more resources. However, resources had been reallocated to anywhere but controversial, conflict-ridden Afghanistan. Facing monumental pressure from some sections of the Australian media, the Prime Minister had decided to pull the Aussie contingent from this province.

Bloody media, Percy thought. They had no idea how things were on the ground. They wrote about the war, but many just spun negative rhetoric and Tweeted their days away in a complete disconnect from the realities on the ground in Afghanistan. Percy thought they were here to do a job, and as a trained soldier, he wanted to finish the job that they started.

The bright sunshine forced Percy to squint as he watched a group of young Afghani boys playing footy in the dusty paddock that was surrounded by more dust and dirt than seemed possible and a massive contortion of barb wire fencing, that was designed to belie the fact that there were soldiers in the area.

The logic was that the local tribes would never suspect Coalition forces to be on this base given that it was protected with what effectively amounted to a white picket fence. The logic had served its purpose until last night.

Percy patted down his fatigues, looking for his polarised sunglasses, and then remembered that he left them sitting on the ‘dash’ of the Bushmaster when he went out on night patrol last night. His glasses were designed for every type of weather condition known to man and offered protection from the brightest reflective surfaces, but were rendered useless once night fell.

Good men had been killed, and all Percy could think about was his sunglasses. It was easier that way. He was too experienced a soldier to wonder why he was spared; why him? They were at war, and war meant soldiers and civilians will die. Good men who will do anything for you. Good men who had done anything for him. True heroes. Percy stood on the top of the stairs and stared over at the kids kicking up a mini dust tornado.

Percy heard the familiar scream of an F-15E Strike Eagle as it ripped open the endless blue sky, and looked up just as it streaked above him and then rapidly started to reduce in size as it blasted over the mountains in the distance. The boys had raced over by the fence to get a better view, and stared at the fighter in awe as though it were the greatest feat in engineering history.

And then the village boys, six of them, went back to screaming and carrying on with the Aussie Rules football that Percy had kicked into their game before his debrief. As soon as they saw him leaning on the HQ staircase they flashed their cheeky, wide grins.

“Oozy! Oozy man! Kick the ball with us!” said a boy named Awrang.

“I’ve got some things to take care of, kid. Maybe tomorrow eh? ”

“You work one day and then not work for the next day! You have to shampoo your hair?”

Cheeky little brat. All the boys laughed and screamed as Percy walked down the stairs over to Awrang, who tried to run away but Percy caught his oversized dirty grey shirt, picked the boy up by his waist, and hung him over his right shoulder.

“Little man, that sport you’re playing is sacred. You have to learn how to play without cheating first”.

And then Awrang’s friends hooted with laughter as Percy walked over to the water tank and threatened to drop him in.

“I don’t cheat, Oozy! You are just no good because you’re old man!” shot back Awrang, the shortest kid in the group, but the one with the biggest mouth.

“What’d you call me?”

“Tough soldier man! Old tough soldier man!” he giggled, as he wriggled and pointlessly punched the broad back muscles of the commando.

“Put me down and we can settle this man to man! On the field with the funny ball”, said the cocky little kid.

“Man to man? You wanna settle this man to man?”

Percy put Awrang down in the dirt and ruffled his jet back hair. The kid stood up and came to just past the waist of Captain Percy, but all he could do was swing at Percy like a demented monkey.

Awrang was a cunning kid. Seven years old and sharp as a tack. He was of the local village, and spent his days creating trouble and mayhem for the troops, who protected him as if he was one of their own, even though Awrang was more than capable, somehow, of looking after himself. Nevertheless, he won over the soldiers with his dodgy card games, sharp wit and cheeky grin. Awrang was Behnam’s son.

Awrang was already showing an interest in his father’s profession. In fact, the only time the kid would focus on anything was when it involved fixing, making or breaking things. He had the brains to do whatever he wanted, yet the nation state in which he was born and bred did not exactly subscribe to the Afghani equivalent of the Great American Dream.

What was going to happen to Awrang?, Percy thought.

Awrang’s uncle, Rajeesh, was in the Afghani army battalion that was learning the ropes in this province from the Coalition troops. The local soldiers were improving in their military prowess, but it was clear that they had their training wheels on. But the cause was their own, and they had much to lose, and that counted for so much. And they had enthusiasm to burn and knew the ass end of a gun from where the bullet came out. Awrang would be okay because he had Rajeesh, a good honourable man. He had to be okay.

Like most boys, Awrang simply loved anything that involved soldiers and guns. But tragically, his escapism was also his reality. Still, while Awrang and his friends were born to be realistic, they lived their lives carefree and innocently and full of hopes and dreams. The way it should be. And now Percy was about to blow Arwang’s world apart by telling him his father was dead, and that his soldier friends were leaving as well.

“Hey Arwang, I need to talk to you about something important. Come for a walk with me?”, Percy said to the young boy.

Awrang eyed Percy suspiciously, thinking this was a trap to try and throw him into the water tank again. But he saw something in Percy’s face, and came up to the commando he considered a friend. For all the tears for the cameras, none of the politicians had to deal with what Percy was about to do.

Percy told Awrang what happened to his father. Percy’s eyes welled with tears as Awrang apologised for his people killing the good soldiers. Awrang was saying sorry for betraying Percy. Arwang was apologising when he had just learnt his father had been killed? That’s a lot for a seven-year-old to shoulder and was more than Percy could handle.

And then Arwang didn’t want to talk anymore.

Tears rolled down Percy’s face as he watched Awrang walk away, with his head hung to his chest. Percy had betrayed this kid, not the other way around. This kid who had welcomed his team with open arms, loyalty and great trust. This kid, who felt he had betrayed Percy, deserved so much more than trying to survive each day; come what may.

Queanbeyan Quartier français

The French Quarter, Queanbeyan. On exquisite April mornings in Le Dodsworth Hauteurs, I like to ride my bicycle into la ville de Queanbeyan, taking in the impossible tranquillité of the hurlement (yell) of cockatoos and the subtle répercussions of the idiots locaux automobiles, as they prepare to head into town for a petit pisser du jour.

On my ride, I take in the délicieux scents of freshly cut herbs, foie gras, bird excrement and other various non spécifié odours, and I snort in admirablement at other feisty smells as I near the l'avenue de fromage moisi et graisse (avenue of moldy cheese and grease). The dewy dawn air blanchits my breathe as I bid my bonjours to a local mademoiselle, who wanders the gouttière (gutter) collecting various fresh produce from the local boite (trash) dotted along the pittoresque route on the le boulevard de bogans.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle!”, I wave frantically while flicking my tasselled handlebar bell.

“F*%#@ off”, she grunts.

I have always loved La Queanbeyan. It reminds me of a grande country town, with friendly human visages and petit amigos everywhere you go.

While the monsoirs like to while away their day in the gaztrillion pubs, many of them remain in le populaire establishments until late in the evening; preferring to walk home along the queanbeyan rivière at the fraiche dawn, away from the harsh polluer des joueurs (foul players), or get a lift in the chariot de paddywagons.

I whizzed onto the bustling Grand Rond (big roundabout) on the Route du Bungendore, chiming my bell and directing traffic on the circle de suicide.

“GET OFF THE ROAD YOU STUPID F%#@!!!”, says one of locals, greeting me in the usual quoi que manner.

“Oh yes, good day to you, monsieur!”, I said, waving back.

The townsfolk and I would exchange pleasantries all day if we could.  I love the hustle and bustle of this part of the Secteur Obèse (fat quarter), with its shiny, riche asphalte surface and boulevards bustling with idiots de village and classe ouvrière, heading off to collect their welfare profites from sécurité sociale and participer in some early afternoon combat de pub.

I park my bike on the la maison de vélo (home of bike) and enter the razzle éblouit of the l'arc d'or (arch of golden) into the jaune and rouge brick building that houses the la maison de hamburgers, owned by the famous cuisinier Monsieur McDonald.

I enquire about the fresh products of the day to the young monsieur behind the compteur, with an eye for a de graine de sesame seed (bread roll) or lasagnes d'escargot or les pommes de terre ont cuisiné dans le vin with 12 herbes secrètes (potatoes cooked in wine with 28 secret herbs).

“Fresh? Um, the sweet and sour sauce packets arrived in a box yesterday?”, monsieur says to my delight.

“Oh, lovely, may I take ten please?”

“Whatever.”

Full of de joie after my brisk and savoure purchases, I positively skip out the l'arc d'or and allow the succulent l'odours de village to direct me to my next destination on the l'avenue de pépites (avenue of nuggets).

I often leave the village with a grand trolley brimming with l'homme a fait (man-made) fresh fruit and veg and various delicat knickerknackers that I don’t need or want, but provide équilibre in my trolley and ensure I will look tres faux and pertinent yet blasé on my journey back to the grand maison.