Rubbish is in the eye of the Beholder

When you see people searching through rubbish bins you probably have one of two reactions: pity or disgust. Save your reactions. You could be looking at me.

I am a student of Neology, the science of going through what people have thrown out on the street. As a pioneer neologist, I have turned “field walking,” which is an archaeological term for walking over fields in search of ancient pot-shard dumps, into the new art of “city-scrounging” which is searching for hopefully whole pots.

In the old days I would spend hours rummaging around on building sites for a few bricks or bits of copper pipe - and in those days there were no safety fences to keep children out. Scrap was good business. “Where there’s muck, there’s money”. Collecting old copper tube, bits of lead (not always from church roofs) and even the odd discarded aluminium road sign brought in a few extra coppers. Many a time I had to whack a few people over the shoulders who tried to beat me to a good bit of brass.

Now, with the local government organising ‘hard waste collection days’ I have to sprint to beat the antique dealers and hold them off with my walking stick just to pick up a discarded china dog with a chipped ear.

How times have changed

I live near a football ground and, although I have…

I live near a football ground and, although I have nothing against football fans, sometimes their manners after a game aren’t the best. Like taking a leak in my front garden.

Well, I think I’ve found the answer. Austrian officials fed up with motorists stopping to urinate by the roadside have put up fake snake warnings to scare them into using toilets. The idea is that men stop to relieve themselves, see the warning about snakes, and put their own snake back in their trousers.

So, where can I get one?

Finally …

After over a month of fires, I have retuned to my little cottage. In the old days, I would have been standing there with a wet bag on my head and another in my hands beating at the embers on the firebreak, but not these days.

Now I get sent away instead. For safekeeping. Parcelled off. Shipped out. Evacuated.

I’m not complaining, I frequently need a wet bag on my head, bushfires or no bushfires.

Cross Dressing suspicions

I’m beginning to wonder about my fellow members of the Lawn Bowls Club Ladies Team.

I read today that the Women’s Dragon-boat Racing Team in China turned out to be men in wigs. It seems the Team was of composed of suspiciously big women with Adam’s apples, and now I’m starting to look at the ladies on the lawn more closely.

Specifically at Beryl who is my new partner in the Doubles Championships. (That’s her on the left)

I’ve noticed she’s very shy in the Change Room and, when she drinks a sherry, she clutches the glass in her fist in a most unladylike manner. And she passes wind frequently. If that’s not masculine behaviour I’ll eat my bowls.

Cross Dressing the way to win medals in China

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Tea Party Diva

My Council Home help girl squashed my dreams of a celebrity life on the London stage. “You’re too old, Mrs O’Dwyer, the ad says 16-35″.

I said I thought it was the clothing size, but she just gave me a polite sneer.

I was contemplating ways I could wreak some small vengeance for her appalling ageing-hippie, tell-it-like-it-is attitude, maybe ripping the flower decals off her car, when she showed me a lovely blog full of tea-cakes and other goodies.

So I’ve settled down with an aspro, a large glass of sherry, and I’m going to read the Tea Party Diva and plan a little tea party for my cronies. Then I can be a Tea Party Diva too.

John Cummins

I see that Johm Cummins, Union Man has gone south, gone to the Great Rest Home for Organisers in the Sky.

He’ll be missed. We always supported Cummo around here, he supported pensioners as well as his Union members. I used to see him a lot at the Irish celebrations, we may be all Australians after living here 150 years or so, but we are still Irish inside.

A bright core of green beneath our sun-dried exterior.

Tocfaidh ar la!

Aliens abducting again

We recently lost a few athletes during the Commonwealth Games in March and I originally believed this to be a shocking case of alien abduction. Sierra Leonans are particularly susceptible, especially the athletic ones. But it turns out most of them had just decided it was more fun to hop on a train or something and see a bit of the countryside instead of running around in circles on a racing track. Who could blame them? I certainly can’t.

But there are still four missing Sierra Leonans. These are the ones who have obviously been abducted by aliens.

And I also found out that cows are being abducted by aliens all the time. All around us. All the time. Look at this incontrovertible proof of Cow Abduction

April Fools’ Day

Well I managed to stay inside for all April Fools’ Day. No one has managed to pull my leg for a while, but I kept an eye out through the venetians for suspicious activity just the same. Some of the nippers around here need a firm hand. My goodness, back in my day if I used the language I hear from these neighbourhood cherubs, it would be paddy whack the drumstick so hard I wouldn’t be sitting down for a week.

One year in primary school I pinned a note which read ‘Kick Me’ to Father Camilleri’s back. There was absolute hell to pay. I was hauled up to the Head Nun and she rang my father at work! I was nearly expelled, at the age of seven.

Father Camilleri wasn’t fashed about it, he liked the fact that I could pronounce his esoteric name. At the time of this lamentable incident, it was only a few years after the lifting of a ban on migrants from Malta. They couldn’t come here because of the White Australia Policy. Too dark, you see. Too swarthy, too somehow black. And these were Maltese! Fellow Members of the British Commonwealth and war allies.

And we haven’t moved forward since then either. We just don’t pick on the Maltese anymore, especially when they make such superb jockeys.

Winner announced

Goodness me, some people are quick off the mark! I popped up a little contest for a small discreet prize and someone answered correctly in 5 minutes. So Leisa from Nature’s Pixel has earned herself not 5 credits, but 10.

Congrats Leisa, you’re right, the annual Moomba festival in Melbourne is actually called Up Your Bum. What a load of mugs we are.

(Leisa isn’t a mug, she’s out of the place and living in Canada)

Win 5 credits …..

I’ve had a note from a cynical reader about our little town’s annual festival called Up Your Bum

It’s the truth! It’s in a language other than English and the closest translation idiomatically is place something in your buttocks but of course we normally call the holiday by its name in the other language.

If you know what the polite people of Melbourne usually call this holiday, post the answer in a comment. The first correct answer will get a reward of 5 credits at Blog Explosion