...as fast as a Brazilian takes a dive.

Ahh, the bandwagon. What a fun place to be. A nation of instant football fans. Still, had to better than the swimming, let alone yacht racing. Not that he was any different. Even if he had previously paid a bit more attention to the football than most of his compatriots, he couldn’t really consider himself more than a fair-weather fan.

Of course, he’d always liked socc…football. Even played it for a bit as a kid. Only as a defender, due to a lack of skill, he was reliably informed, but played nonetheless. The rules and the actual gameplay were a bit fuzzy in the memory – that was filled mainly with shinpads, funny coloured boots and a high speed ball to the stomach incident, accompanied by shouting from the sideline. If he remembered correctly, the shouting heard was “Don’t you bloody dare come off the bloody field, I’ll rip your legs off!!!”…or words to that effect.

But it had always been on the teev too late. Mangoman had watched the occasional FA Cup final, at three in the morning on a Sunday, too late for the chirren. So there were no stupid questions about remotely possible rule permutations, as there had been in the cricket, league and Aussie Rules.
Questions like “hey, dad, if the ball bounces off his helmet then hits a fielder on the left ankle without touching the ground then goes over the fence…is that a six or a four or a knock on or a pushintheback?”.
Thinking back now he considered the possibility that mangoman had taped the football earlier then watched it at that time to avoid such a situation. The thought was quickly dismissed as he remembered the technical inadequacies of his father. A video player was close to being HAL, able to tape a show while you weren't even there, and tape one while you were watching another!! "What are you doing , Daaave?". Contact with them was to be avoided. Them’s the Devil’s work, son.

A result of this was the lack of knowledge of football rules. Most weren’t that difficult to figure out, but the offside rule had him stuffed for a good while. He’d gotten a handle on the league version, but the football one didn’t make any sense. So away he went, watching more than a few games over the years, with no idea how that actually worked.

Not anymore, though. Now thanks to Google, he was onto it!

Which made the game much more exciting.

“Aww, come onnnn, bloody knock on/ forward pass!” became “Get out of it, no way was he offside! No foul! Get up you big sook!” in the blink of an eye.

Football, did have a lot going for it. Most of the tossers in Australia would never switch from rugby, Aussie Rules or V8 racing (only good racing was bikes, and he didn’t mean the Tour De Boredom), which meant that, unlike other countries, the crowds would remain mostly free of drunk wankers for a time.

That, however, would come, as evidenced by the coverage of the Aussies at the World Cup.

Also, it was shown on SBS, which left it mercifully free of ads.

Now, if only the penalty pulling South Americans could be convinced to stop rolling around on the ground holding the wrong leg…

...but the blogging slooowwws doowwwn

So, the blogging honeymoon is over.

A busy lifestyle, coupled with a severe lack of motivation, have led to no posting for almost a month.

What has inspired this post today? Well, a few things.

First, I am in the midst of writing an essay on the justification of the state in the redistribution of wealth based on the writings of Smith and Mill and Locke and Hume and....well.... Exciting stuff.

Second, mangoman has been appointed a Cosgrove style figure to be sent to an impoverished area to supervise the said redistribution. Or not.
Not, actually, but still. (Check it out here and here, particularly like the one about the Super Emo - credit to Sherd for that one).

Third, I watched the news about the Bananas in Pyjamas in Innsfail, and the not very-Cosgrove-like figure of... A HUGLEY FAT PETER COSGROVE was on. This man needs to go on the no carbs at night thingo for a while. The man is a mountain!

The connection between the three is somewhat tenuous, I'll admit, but I'm clutching at straws.

Anyway, I am actually writing the essay now, and will go and get back to it.

Maybe I'll post again tomorrow, maybe next week, who knows?

It's exciting reading this blog, no?

...and so does Rossi!

“..They got a chase last night from men with truncheon’s dressed in hatsThey didn’t do that much wrong, still ran away though for the laugh” echoed from the small en suite, accompanied by an incessant, and increasingly irritating, buzz as the mobile phone madly vibrated against the top of the cistern, announcing to the world that it was about bloody time to get up.

So he did…and the mobile phone went to back to sleep.

Half an hour later, the carry on began anew. This time, however, it was not so easily diverted form its intention. He stabbed a tired, unsteady finger at the snooze button, sending the phone into a flat spin…straight off the edge towards the waiting toilet bowl (which was, incidentally quite clean thanks).
A grasping catch of the charging cord and disaster was narrowly avoided. Annoying as the phone might be, it had been expensive, and came in quite handy at times.

Strangely, the tiredness was gone now, after the sudden rush of adrenalin. There was also the strange phenomenon which seemed to occur after a late night – he really didn’t wake up tired and stayed awake in the that slightly spaced out way until just past lunchtime when the head drooped and drool began to short out the keyboard.

The one thirty bedtime last night had been for a worthy cause – the standard ‘assignment due the next day’ routine – but the late night before had involved watching Casey Stoner almost…yes he’s winning!!.. wait…awwww crap…Melandri you little bastard….last corner…can he?...shit! No!

Ah well, it was a good race anyway.

Back to reality, sort of. A glance at the clock. Time was getting away, the quarter past bus not really an option. Not a major drama – the kudos he’d gotten from going to work when no one else had should be good for at least a nine thirty start. There hadn’t even been any repercussions for the random shots fired. Ahhh, public service.

The long weekend had been good. That made it four in a row. More than enough to again convince him that all weekends should be long. Not that anyone needed much convincing about that.

The venture out on the Saturday night had been marginally successful. It had been a while since he had been out to see the big city lights (tryin to gitbaiii) on a night with nothing in particular to go to. The uber trendy club had been a bit of a lowlight – those clothes looked stupid in the eighties and they hadn’t improved with time. The dj was bad enough to be given a gig at Discovery in Darwin, or even in the city in Brisbane. Good curry, though, notwithstanding the aromatic aftermath the following day.

The next day – a barbecue. Just to celebrate the fact that it was Sunday. And tomorrow was Sunday also, effectively.(which goes to show why unions rock – everyone who is not in a union because they can’t be bothered should be FORCED to go to work on that particular public holiday, just as people who are not willing to donate blood and organs should not be able to get them).
The poker game was going well and he was winning easily, after a similar triumph in Trivial Pursuit. He quit while the game was still in progress, just so CFP man could claim victory (CFP man needed these little lifts now and again as he generally had trouble relating to others).

The girls seemed to have the Japanese Naval Barbecue under control, so he decided it was time to play some tunes.

Some time later, it was some time later, and that was it.

...but don't forget the rules!

The first of the Midweek Mandates: (was to be Monday's mandates, but due a case of overblog has been postponed to today).

1.Unless you are his partner, never talk to a man who is holding his penis.

• (b) Or in the same room other men are holding theirs.
• (This mainly applies to blokes who feel the need to chat to you when you are at the urinal in public toilets, particularly at the pub.)

I have seen this rule mentioned before in 'general rules for men' type lists floating around out there, but the current rule leaves an opening for general discussion within the toilets away from the urinal, and needs considerable tightening up.

Blokes do not need to go to the toilets in pairs, and do not need to hang out in toilets chatting. Invariably, blokes toilets smell worse than girls do, and any more time spent in them than completely necessary is unpleasant and probably unhealthy.

Also, men's toilets are well known for the lack of queues and the speedy way you are able to do your business and get back to drinking/dancing/watching the band/waiting for your girlfriend to come out of the ladies with a "jeez..how much longer do you reckon you could take? I've already had another pint!" ready.
this is something for which most men are justifiably proud. We don't need stupid coloured, faux hawked/ urban mulleted/ collar up/ pink shirt wearing/posers buggering it up for the rest of us. So if you feel the need to chat...

.......the women's is next door!

nb. this rule does not apply to the scrotum. This exemption exists in order that people can actually speak to a man while he is asleep, or watching TV (which are essentially the same thing mentally). As for holding them while you sleep, this is NECESSARY. Every man knows there were many cases in the OLDEN DAYS (when things were in black and white and testicles highly prized for their health benefits when dessicated and made into a refreshing tea) of testicle theft in the dead of night. It's for protection.
The mere fact that not many women sleep holding their boobs shows the frivolous disregard they have for their own security.

...And the blogs keep a comin'!

A strange day, the day between a public holiday and the weekend.

It began like any other day. The raucous screaming of the alarm, the sudden spring out of bed into a soothing warm shower as the knowledge of the actual time penetrates the cloudy, sleepy brain.(bugger the water restrictions - not my fault the government is reluctant to charge appropriate prices for this precious resource - I am happy to pay extra for a stupidly long shower and would probably CURB my overuse as the cost increased).

Steaming rice from the microwave, nice cup of coffee with appropriately frothed milk and then out the door.

Conveniently, K had the day off, so a lift to work in the ute was in order. Once on the road, the day looked nice. It was strangely quiet, an odd feeling in the air, but otherwise normal. The drive in was over in short order, with a minimum of aggro (apart from one silly tart in a BMW who tried to outrun then cutoff the ute - NO ONE outruns the UTE OF DEATH!!!). The ute pulled up quietly to the KERB and he stepped out to meet the day.

It was at this point the day started to take on a different complexion. The tumbleweed bouncing gracefully down the city street would have unnerved a lesser man, but not our hero. "Coffee," he thinks, "Me needs, now. Um, no change, in pocket. Later, maybe". (This sort of strangely poetic sentence structure was the norm until said first cafe strength coffee was obtained).

The automatic doors seemed to almost sense his approach to the building, and were already open by the time he got to them. He stopped, looking suspiciously at the mechanism, as the security guard began to look nervous.

"G'day Herb!" he called to the guard, trying to put him at ease, having no idea what his actual name was and having never before spoken to him. The lift, too, was unnaturally quick. Not normal. So he took the stairs.

Sometime later, and a little out of breath, he arrived on his floor. At first, all seemed well. A phone was ringing, or was it? Clearly, the term 'ringing' implies some sort of bell making noise, and the noise he could hear was made by an electronic signal sent through a small speaker, not a bell at all! He was starting to worry. As he rounded the corner to his desk, he noticed the floor was practically empty. In fact, you could have fired a gun in here and not hit anything.

So he did.

No response.

No one here to give him stuff to do, and an inherited reluctance to work when no one else was left him at a loss. What to do? The internet served as a crutch for a good two hours, but once he had reached the stage of learning how staples were glued together, and the beginnings of Croatian vocab, he lost interest.

He sipped his coffee. Feet resting comfortably on the desk as he gazed out the window.

Maybe the naked chick would make an appearance today? Who knew, but he owed it to his absent colleagues to report on their return.

The clock on the computer ticked..or really 10010111001101ed ?

And he slept.

...but, apparently, I don't blog fast enough.

Is 'blog' a verb? Well, now it is, according to...people.

Latley I am torn about my constant whingeing/ campaigning for the continued purity of the English langauage and, in particular, Australian grammar and spelling. Remember, curb and kerb are different.

Mangoman's Manager is also guilty of this, but also tends to switch sides occasionally and point out the organic nature of language. And so on.

I've just bored myself, so the rest of you may started surfing Wiki by now. Sorry.

Back to the blog. Thought I might tell you about last weekend. I built some shelves. Or did I build a cabinet thingo which has shelves in it? The shelves already existed, and I put into a..thing? Dunno.

Anyways, thisa happen. I needed somewhere to put my records. Yes that's right, records. Oh crap. I can't think of anything else to write, so I'm just going to put a couple of photos in. I'll try to kick my brain into gear at a later time.




















And here's my decks!!!

..but faster on the weekend.

Thursday.

But Thursday before Good Friday, which is really Friday. Seems there is three people left on the floor at four in the arvo. I've been flat out all week for the first time in my new job and managed to finish all my work, so I have a bit of time to update.

The problem is, my little brain is out of fuel. Also, I was so busy today I had no lunch, so I'm feeling a little light headed. The pressure of writing something funny or interesting is too much, and I'm about to be the last person here.

So...

Just have a look at this website and pretend the stuff I haven't written here is as funny as that.
http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm
The whole department has been playing it today.

hometime....

...I gotta wear shades.

So, a lot of people in the public service seem to be stressed a lot of the time. I’m really not sure why. You know how something happens and you think you might have missed something? I’ve been here for about three months now, and I can’t really see what there is to be stressed about. Have I not been here long enough, or have I missed that meeting?

It reminds of a time I was in Melbourne on holidays and went shopping at a supermarket near the city. I looked around and saw that each of the people in front of me had a packet of toilet paper – you know the ones with 9 rolls? Then I looked further around. Every person I saw had toilet paper…everyone! It was freaking me out! Had I missed something? Was there some news story only I hadn’t seen? Was the world ending? And if so, what use would lots of toilet paper be?...
Anyway, that’s what working in the public service is like so far. It’s actually a lot of fun.


And I can hear the career public servants in the next cubicle talking about how the new IR laws are a good thing. “If you do a good days work for a good days pay, what have you got to worry about?” they say. “My husband negotiates his contract now”.
And “I don’t think small business people will just find someone who will accept worse pay and conditions, they’re not like that”

Holy shit, Batman! What kind of a fantasy world are these people living in! And how does working in a place for the last twenty years (where, incidentally, the new laws don’t apply – lucky them) give you a perspective on casual, low paid workers?

Anyway, that’s enough soapboxing for one day. Time to flex off and have a long lunch. Suckers…;)

...so stop whingeing and do something positive.

So i got an email the other day, as one is wont to do when one sits at a computer all day reading emails. It was one that asks you to forward to x amount of people and so on. Generally, I don't like doing what people ask, and am even less likely when I think it's crap. I never even forward those anti-loggingtheendangeredwhalepandagreenearedmarmothabitat emails, so this is what I sent for this one:


So, I've decided not to do what this piece of vigilante vitriol has asked. I wasn't on the jury, I'm not a judge and I hesitate to condemn two 10 year old boys if the law considers that they were too young to know what they were doing. I'm sure that if I knew the little boy, I would feel different...but I don’t.
Where's the petition about the leaders of the free world looking the other way while a quarter of Africa dies of AIDS, while indigenous and minority groups in their own countries are shat on, while bands like Destiny's Child are still allowed to pollute our ears with their sh*te?
And those bloody bike riders with their stupid spandex pants dinging me on the path!!
Phew...(is shat a real word?)
-----Original Message-----
From:
Sent: Monday, 27 March 2006 2:20 PM
To:
Subject:

Something to think about.
Do you remember February 1993 when a young 3 yr old was taken from Liverpool, United Kingdom, by two 10-year-old boys?
Jamie Bulger walked away from his mother for only a second and Jon Venables took his hand and led him out of the mall with his friend Robert Thompson.
They took Jamie on a walk for over 2 and a half miles, along the way stopping every now and again to torture the poor little boy who was crying constantly for his mummy.
Finally they stopped at a railway track where they brutally kicked him, threw stones at him, rubbed paint in his eyes and pushed batteries up his anus. It was actually worse than this. What these two boys did was so horrendous that Jamie's mother was forbidden to identify his body.
They then left his beaten small body on the tracks so a train could run him over to hide the mess they had created. These two boys, even being boys, understood what they did was wrong, hence trying to make it look like an accident.
This week Lady Justice Butler-Slosshas awarded the two boys anonymity for the rest of their lives when they leave custody with new identities.
They will also leave early this year only serving just over half of their sentence. They are being relocated to Australia to live out the rest of their lives. (didn't think we were a convict settlement anymore) They disgustingly and violently took Jamie's life away - in return they each get a new life.
Please .. if you feel as strongly as we do, that this is a gravemiscarriage of justice .. copy entire email and paste into new email...then add your name at the end, and send it to everyone you can!
If you are the 500th person to sign, please forward this e-mail to:
cust.ser.cs@gtnet.gov.uk <mailto:cust.ser.cs@gtnet.gov.uk> and attention it to Lady Justice Butler-Sloss.
Then start the list over again and send to your friends and family.
The Love-Bug virus took less than 72 hours to reach the world. I hope this one does as well. We need to protect our family and friends from creatures like Robert and Jon. One day they may be living next door to you and your small children or your grandchildren, without your knowledge.
THANK-YOU!!!




I know it was a bit wanky, mangoman, but who can be bothered thinking at the uncivilised hour of 9 am?