Family and Friends

Hello and happy 2014 everyone.  Hope this year has started off well for all you guys.  I'm still in the UK and having a great time.  I really wanted to behave this trip, but there have been so many other options.

More about my trip in later blogs.

Let me introduce you to my  brother, David.  David lives in Liverpool with his poor suffering wife Sue,and their two lovely children - Christopher and Ellie.

I know you read this David, but I'm going to embarrass you even further than I already have. 

David is trying to be a bloke, guys - or a female Hungarian heavy-weight lifter - nah, I'm pretty sure he wants to be a bloke.

Now, as if he needed further confirmation that he is a compromised male, a visit from the plumber, recently, put the final nail in the coffin.

If you asked David what he did for a living, he would tell you that he was a "professional gambler involved in organised crime". He is, in fact a financial advisor and has a more than healthy disrespect for the entire industry.  However, speaking to him recently, he said that he greatly admires people who actually work for a living.  Plus, with plumbers, he feels that they're (he and the plumbers) are in the same line of work.  It's just that he talks it, and they make sure that it get's flushed away.

Anyway at the end of a long day working in the cold and rain, and him awkwardly lingering, he decided to bond with the bonza blokes by getting them a 'bloody beer' (he learned everything he knows about bloke-talk from Alf in Home and Away)!

So he went to the fridge looking fr a good bloke's beer like the Aussie VB or Fosters, only to be greeted by a range of designer ales with titles so strange they sounded like they were named after Bob Geldof's kids.  I think he was quite embarrassed  by his poncy ales, he ended up pouring the beer into glasses for the plumbers, and writing 'Fosters' on the outside, in a felt tip pen.

His wife, Sue, and I were watching this.  I was laughing but Sue was just rolling her eyes.  She said that that experience probably won't do much for his sense of self as a red-blooded Australian male.  Sure enough, when he came back in, he said he'd made a resolution - he was going to try to become more of a male.

No, he wasn't going to shove some socks down his jocks, he was going to pull on some overalls, get his hands dirty, build a shed and hide in it, just like all the real Aussie blokes out there.  As a consequence, he's been doing so much nailing and screwing of late, that all his Aussie mates have nicknamed him 'Lara Bingle'.  (Look it up, non-Aussie people.)

Yes folks, in the last few days, he's spent every waking moment doing odd jobs. (By the way, I have  no idea why tasks such as putting up shelves are called 'odd jobs'.  Milking a rat for a living - now that would be an odd job.)

He's obsessed.  You've heard of born again Christians?  Well he thinks he's a born again tradesman.  He has seen the light, and then installed it himself.

Not that his home renovations are any good, I should point out.  You'd see less streaks at a nudist colony than his paint jobs.  His shelves are like the Australian Broadcasting Commission board -= they lean heavily to the right, and even an asthmatic wolf who had just walked up a flight of stairs could probably blow his house down.

And while Sue is very happy that things are getting fixed around the house, she's not so happy about the amount of crack he's started to show out the back of his shorts!

But I digress.

If being a home handyman is his new religion, then if he was in Australia, his church would be Bunnings Hardware.  Over here it's the equivalent, and I can't remember the hardware store name, and he's been praying at his 'hardware' church 5 times a day.  

He says he loves it there and he's been so often that the staff are beginning to think he's a stalker, although the real reason he goes there numerous times a day, is that he doesn't know what he's doing, so he keeps forgetting to buy stuff.  "Oh, so you're saying I need brushes to put the paint, I bought earlier, on the wall?"

Luckily, he says, the staff are so damn helpful.  It's like DIY for Dummies.  They're so full of answers that if he ever went on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire", he would use the staff at the hardware store as his 'phone-a-friend'.

Not that they are complaining.  No sir.  Mr Hardware-store, has just put a new wing on his house due to David's financial contributions.

In a couple of weeks, David went from a bloke whose only experience with screwdrivers was drinking them, to someone who has more tools than an audition for Australian Idol.  He niw has so many hammers, nails, screws, hooks, files and saws, that he has to go back to the hardware store to buy more wood so he can build a box to store them in.


A few days ago, I did a spot of babysitting.  Good friends finally put their resources together and made themselves a child.  Me?  I'm the godmother in the deal and I take my job seriously. So far I've introduced the kid to the good things in life - chocolate, wine, classical music and dirty jokes.   I don't think he cares much for classical music, but he's only 18 months old and he'll get tired of chocolate, wine and dirty jokes.

So that particular morning while his folks were out doing parenty things, I looked after him my niece and nephew, and also a group of 5 six/seven/ year olds.  Happy, happy days.  I found myself playing a cutthroat game of Snap with these card sharks.  I was the 'babysitter' from my point of view, and the latest 'sucker' to play cards with them as they saw it.  We were eating popcorn laced with strawberry jelly and knocking back straight shots of coke (straight from the can which was being solemnly passed around).  You have to look serious when you play cards.  I was 'done' 3 times running and I got down to 9 M&Ms before I realised they were cheating every chance they got.  One of them had an extra deck and was passing cards under the table.  I can't prove it, but that's what I think!  Anyway, mother finally came home and saved me from utter ruin at the hands of this criminal element.  I went to bed that night thinking - if the future is in the hands of maniacs like these, we're in trouble.

Well you'll be pleased to know that the kids have progressed.  No more Snap or Old Maid.  Now I've decided they play by my rules - Poker!!!  It was up to me to teach them, and may I add, it was foolish of me to assume that they would be using their own money, so it was M&Ms again.

Ever tried to teach kids to play poker?  Difficult.  The hardest part was making them put all their cards back into the deck for another game.  They wanted to hold on to their good cards for the next time!  Bluffing  was  a stumbling block.  When I explained that sometimes you had to pretend you had good cards when you didn't, they asked "Isn't that lying?  I'm not allowed to lie." OK, just this once, you're allowed to kid.  Anyway to cut a long story short, I got my M&Ms back and I went to bed a happy woman.

Get me away from this madness.

Weddings and Anniversaries

I don't want to sound mean spirited, but it's always secretly pissed me off that when you go to a wedding. you're expected to take a present.

The fancy registry, in particular, gets up my nose.

Yes, I've been invited to a wedding. Grrrrrr .......

Isn't it enough that they've found true love? Do they really need a toaster or a waffle maker to sweeten the deal?  "Oh look ..... a stainless steel potato peeler. Now this is truly the most special day of my life.

The truth is I'm jealous.  You see, I don't have any plans to marry again - well not in the near future.  It seems, however, that all my friends are lately taking the plunge, and the obligatory coffee plunger.

Of course the gifts don't stop on the wedding day - then come the wedding anniversaries.

A couple of friends celebrated their 10th recently, so I jumped online to find out what might be an appropriate gift.  That's when I made a startling discovery.

Did you know that they've updated the traditional wedding anniversary gifts?  It's true.  Let's start with the 10th year anniversary.  In the good old days, if you made it to ten years, the appropriate gift was tin.  But these days, some baked beans or Alphabetti (noodles in the shape of letters, folks) in a tin doesn't cut it.  Tin has been replaced by - wait for it - diamonds.

It says something about the state of modern marriage that in the old days, you had to wait 60 years for diamonds. But now, if you're lucky enough to make it to ten, it's time to crack out the bling.

In fact, you better make sure you're earning some good coin because the next few years are going to cost you big time!

There are diamonds (10) - a girl's best friend, then there's fashion jewellery (11), pearls (12), furs (13) and gold jewellery (14).

And it's not just the big anniversaries that are more costly.  They've all changed.  Traditionally, the 1st anniversary was paper, so a card and a copy of a Sunday magazine had you covered.  Actually, of you think about it, you didn't really need a present - just what you would have wrapped it in.

These days, it's a bit more difficult.  If a husband of mine tried to give me something made of paper, the only paper they would get in return would have the word "divorce" written on it.  Apparently nowadays, the appropriate gift for a first anniversary, is a clock!

If you manage to make it to a second year, traditionally,the gift was cotton, which meant you could basically cover it with a T-shirt.  These days you're expected to fork out for china, which I think means plates and cups, not sweet and sour pork from the local take-away.

Third year used to be celebrated with leather - which makes me think, in the old days if you managed to stick to your wedded bliss for three years, things started to get a little kinky.  Sadly now you wait for nine long years before the leather anniversary.  Perhaps it's an incentive to make marriages last longer.

Today, thee fourth anniversary is celebrated with appliances - fitting because it's about the time when warranties on all your wedding gifts expire and everything stops working.  Traditionally, this anniversary was celebrated with flowers.  But these days they're the usual gifts blokes buy when they've forgotten anniversaries.

All jokes aside, some of the changes are just plain stupid.  In the old days, the 7th anniversary was simple: wool.  Nice.  That could be anything from a fluffy jumper to a tea cosy.  But do you k ow what they've replaced it with?  No joke. Desk sets!!!!!

Desk sets!  How romantic.  I know I've personally lost track of the number of Hallmark cards I've seen with "Roses are red, violets are blue.  I've got a stapler, paper clips and post-it notes just for you".

Some of you are now going to auto-label me as a dole bludging, chardonnay sipping, tree hugging, flag burning, latte leftie member of the Melbourne elite who doesn't know what it's like for the silent majority (yes, majority) of LABs (little Aussie Battlers) who live on - or a short cab ride - from Struggle Street.

Last time I was here in the UK, I went to a wedding also.  Please let me repeat a blog - or part thereof :

"Just wanted to tell you all of the most bizzare wedding I've ever been to.

It took place in London last week and the cast included Paul, groom and Emily, bride. However there was a cast of thousands, but one person stood out.

The central figure was the mother of the bride (MOTB).  Usually a polite, reasonable,  intelligent and sane human being.  

Nobody knew it, but this lady had been waiting with a script that would have met with Cecil B. DeMille’s approval.  And since it was her money, it was hard to say no to anything.  

The father of the bride began to pray for an elopement.  His prayers were not answered.  She (MOTB) had 7 months to work and no detail was left to chance.  Everything that could be engraved was engraved.  Everything that could be printed was printed and everything that could be bought was bought.  

There were teas, showers and dinners.  Then there were more teas, showers and dinners.

When I got married, I think we met with the minister maybe twice.  She called him weekly.  No-one was ever going to forget this wedding. And nothing was going to go wrong. 

So we arrived and by George, she had done it.  

It was an outside wedding and there was an 18 piece band playing softly in the background when the guests were arriving.  We were all seated and the wedding music started.  Nine – count them – 9 chiffon draped bridesmaids stepped down the aisle and then the bride herself.  

What you first noticed as she stood waiting to walk down the aisle was how white she was. Not her white dress (which, of course was beautiful), but her face – whiter than the dress itself!!  

Father started walking her down the aisle and just as she passed her mother, the bride threw up.  The mother fainted. Everyone rushed to help. Glasses of water were called for. Kids (and some adults) were laughing, Everyone was unnecessarily calling for an ambulance.    It was fantastic.  Only the Marx brothers could have topped it.  

They took her off to a room somewhere to get herself together and we all walked off for a smoke.  After an hour or so, the cast was re-assembled.  The bride, wearing a bridesmaid’s dress, tried again.  There was a lot of hugging from the groom, and a lot of tears from the bride.   MOTB was now whiter than white. Father was still laughing.  Finally the words were spoken and the dead was done.  

Everybody cried.  I think you’re supposed to at a wedding.  Hey, I’ve been to wet weddings before, but this one turned into a communal bath!  

What a great wedding and the MOTB was right.  We were not going to forget this one!"

OK let's give it another go.

Happy 2014 to everyone who's reading this by the way.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    a

The Letter

I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day and was just about to put pen to paper, when the pimply teenage waiter arrived at my table and asked the question. Not the question I was expecting, mind you. I was expecting something along the lines of "Can I get you a coffee?"

But instead, he asked "What are you writing?"

It really was quite a simple question and confident I knew the answer without thinking music or phoning a friend, I responded simply – "A letter."

He stared at me blankly. Clearly I hadn’t provided all the necessary information.

"You know. A letter! Words on paper. When I was a kid, this is how we used to communicate. OH. MY. GOD. Did I just use the expression "When I was a kid"? What next? Was I going to start banging on about how things were better in my day, and then complain about this noise they call music? "Sorry, mate, you know letters, right? Envelopes? Stamps? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh yeah," he replied. "I know stamps. Look at all the ones I got at the club last night, the DJ was awesome!"

"You might call that music," I said, trying desperately to catch the inevitable words before they tumbled out of my mouth, "I call it noise."

Damn.

"But I don’t mean those stamps," I said, moving on before I started suggesting all the world’s problems could be solved by a good dose of national service. "I mean the ones with the Queen’s picture on them, and you lick her back!"

"Why would you want to lick her back?" He asked.

"Do you know, it’s a little-known fact," I said warming to the topic, "that every time you lick the back of a stamp with the Queen’s picture on it, the real Queen feels it."

He paused for a moment as if actually considering it, and then said "Nah … don’t be stupid. And anyway, I know what a letter is. I just wanted to know why you were writing one."

Why? The thought had never occurred to me. He seemed to sense I needed mor information and continued – "I mean, why would you write a letter when you could just send an email?"

"Well you can’t avoid paying your bills by telling someone the cheque is in the email, can you?" I joked.

He didn’t laugh and the thought suddenly struck me, why was I writing a letter? I mean, no one writes letters any more. Even the kid we sponsor in some hick country has an email address and a Facebook page. What was so special about a letter?

"Why?" I said half wondering what the next thing to come out of mouth would be, "let me count the reasons why. For starters, a love email will never be as romantic as a love letter, will it?"

He thought about this for a moment, nodded and said "What if you put some emoticons at the end? A smiley face or I could show you how to do a love heart with an arrow and a 3."

I felt like I was losing him.

"Well what about this then – if you get stuck on a desert island, it’s going to be hard to stick an email in a bottle."

"Unless you’re on Fiji" he countered "I went there with the boys at Christmas and they had a business centre with a printer and everything."

"OK then" I thought desperately, hoping I had another point, "what about spam? I have so many offers in my email for cheap Viagra, I could get the Tower of Pisa to stand up straight."

"There’s a tower somewhere made out of pizza?" he asked with amazement, and then just as suddenly seemed to pull himself back together. "Ok, I get why it’s better than email, but why then don’t you just use your phone?"

"OK mate" I said "letters are so much better than a phone. A letter won’t wake you up on a Sunday morning when you have a hangover, a letter won’t disturb you by going off in a movie, you can still understand a letter if you read it in bright sunlight, and it’s really hard to send a drunken smart arse letter to your mates in the middle of the night.

He laughed and I knew I had him I just knew we had found the same wavelength finally, so I motioned him closer and said "Do you want to know the real reason I am writing a letter?"

He nodded.

"The truth is I’m writing it to keep a tradition alive. You see, my most prized possession in the world is a letter written to me by my mum just before she died."

"Wow" he said "do you still have it?"

Of course and I read it often.

"Cool story, love," he said. "I’ll let you get back to it, but before I do, can I ask you something?"

"Sure" I said, suddenly sentimental.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

Telstra ... I love you!!!

I'm angry, and at the top of my 'why' list at the moment is the appalling level of service offered by Telstra (our biggest telco, for you non Aussies).

Seriously folks, I knew  I had to do something about my phone when a friend called me from the Serengeti recently and the line dropped out at MY end.

According to the adverts, Telstra is meant to have 98% coverage in this country.  If this is true, the other 2% must be between my lounge room and the kitchen.  So recently, I finally bit the bullet, climbed into the cupboard under the sink where the reception is pretty clear, and gave Telstra a call.  An hour and a half later, I was still on hold.

An hour and a half! Don't these organisations realise that most people have better things to do with their time than be kept on hold?  I mean, I don't, but I'm sure people with real jobs do.

And while we're on the topic, let's talk about the 'hold' music.  The music they play is ridiculous. I could understand if it was 'Ring Ring' or better still 'Hanging On The Telephone' but all you hear, over and over again, is that bloody 'I Am Australian' song. After about the 18th time hearing 'We are one, but we are many' you can't help but have some very, very un-Australian thoughts.

Even worse is when the interrupt the endless repeats of  'I am Australian' to remind you about their 'fantastic products and services'.  Really?  Are any of these products and services related to actually answered the telephone?  Because that WOULD be fantastic.

If you're going to keep me hanging on for so long, keep me up to date with Brad and Angelina or the Kardashians. Even Rob Patt  and Kirsten Stewart (are they on again or off again? I have trouble keeping up.)  Hey, since we have plenty of time, explain what's been happening on Big Brother.

Isn't there something wrong with our society when the only time you get to speak to a representative from your phone company , is when they call you in the middle of dinner from India?  "Yes actually I would like to talk to you about my long distance service provider, thanks for asking.  And I have a couple of other issues too.  Hang on, I'll go get my list'.

Of course, the non-stop fun doesn't stop when you finally get through.  First you get the option menu, which for some reason, never seems to contain the option you need.  Then there's the computerised speech recognition software, that sounds like it was programmed by the Swedish Chef from he Muppets.

Actually while we're on the topic of computerised voices, what the hell is it with Telstra and their misleadingly named Directory Assistance Service?

First they changed the number from the very simple 013, to something that even Rainman has to write on the back of his hand.  The only way to be connected these days it seams, is to enter pi to 20 decimal places.

But that's not even the worst of the 'new service'.  No, I'm talking about the new and improved (cough, cough) computerised voice recognition.  My God, voice recognition is as misleading a name as Australia's Funniest Home Videos TV program.

Just who is the mental giant who took a perfectly good system - where you spoke to a real, live person, who would tell you the number you wanted - and replace it with a computer.  At the very least, is it to much to ask for a  system that actually works better, rather than one which replaces people's jobs with a machine, that makes a simple phone call more difficult than conversing with a drunk and dyslexic Alf from Home and Away.

Seriously, have you tried this craputer?  You request something simple like "Qantas" and the technology translates it into "Purple Monkey Dishwasher Service".  Errr no, I didn't ask for that, but by now I'm feeling like I'm on acid.  Recently I asked for the number of Singapore Airlines, and it replied "Do you mean Frankston Homosexual Midget Waxing Service". Ummmm, no I didn't, but on second thoughts, put me through!

While it's novel to experience what it might be like to talk to Ozzy Osborne, I have become so frustrated with this lack of service, this morning I tried to be clever and head it off at the pass. As soon as the message kicked it, I screamed 'Operator', but the bloody computer simply replied "I'm sorry, I did not understand your request. Please hold for an operator."

I rest my case, your honour.

Forget the citizenship test, when new immigrants arrive in our country, just give them a pre-paid mobile phone and if they can negotiate the security questions at Telstra, they're in, and deservedly so.

I digress ...

After being on hold for so long, I finally got through, and after giving my address, birth date, family tree, star sign, mother's maiden name, best friend's nickname, Snoop Dogg's real name, shoe size, but size, five favourite films, secret ingredient in my nan's lasagne and DNA sample, I finally got through to the department I was looking for.

This is when I began to think I'd licked a Chinaman, or whatever it is you do with Chinamen,  (Kicked, right KICKED!) because the lovely lady at Telstra - and I swear on the complete box set of Home and Away - said to me : "We can't help you with that, we don't really deal with phones anymore".

Okey and/or dokey, let's go through that one, one more time, so even the speech recognition software can understand it : We ... don't ... really ... deal ... with ... phones ... anymore!

Ummmm but aren't you Telstra? Isn't that what the 'Tel' bit in your name stands for? Or are you just 'Stra' now?

I was so stunned I even contemplated ringing Consumer Affairs, but with the day I was having, I was worried I'd spend 3 hours on hold only to be told that they no longer dealt with consumer complaints.

Modern Doodads

Recently, while I was recuperating in bed, I started thinking about childhood and I realised something quite profound: the moment you go from being young and cool to being an old sheila/codger is not related to age.  It's when you start using the expression "in my day".

This is especially true when you combine "in my day" with any of the following - "people had manners", "Children knew the real value of money", "Men wore trousers around their waists and not their knees", and "Music was actually music, and not this noise".

I'm really loathe to admit that I've been dishing up "in my day" way too frequently of late, so I guess it's only a matter of time when I too will be wearing my trousers around my nipples.

A good example of "in my day" - people used to write letters.  These days, kids seem to think 'letters' is the bit of the Big Mac that's left over once the two all beef patties, special sauce, cheese, pickles, onions and sesame seed bun have been eaten.  Lettuce .... LETTUCE!!

You know that nobody writes letters anymore, when even your World Vision sponsored child sends you emails or tells you to access their Facebook page.

Don't get me wrong, I like email, but it's nowhere near as good as an old-fashioned letter.  A love email will never be as romantic as a love letter, no matter how many smiley faced emoticons you attach to the end.

And let's not forget, it is far less likely your regular mailbox will be filled with deals for cheap viagra.

Don't even get me started on the fact that when I was a kid, if you wanted to take a photo, send an emal, listen to music and make a phone call, you actually needed a cameras, a computer, a stereo and a telephone. These days you can do it all on your mobile.

It would never have happened in my day.

Having said all of that, in a relatively short space of time, I have metamorphosed from a complete Luddite to someone who is a sucker for any new doodad (it's a technical term) on the market.  My favourite gadget, by far, has to be my iPod. I love it, yet I have to confess the feeling wasn't always mutual.

I got my first iPod back in the early days, when they were made of wood and you had to pedal a bike to make them play more than 2 songs in a row.  The main problem way back in YOT (Ye Olde Times) was that even though the technology enabled you to listen to thousands of songs in a row, the battery had a shorter life than most new Australian comedies on the 7 Network.

Still it was certainly an improvement on the discman, which if you tried to take  it with you when jogging, , it made your Best of Susan Boyle sound like it was remixed by Eminem. By the way, owning an iPod is kind of like being married to Rod Stewart - you know in a couple of weeks a new model is going to come along.

OK, seriously folks, I'm all for technological advancement, but  for me, the justifying principle is that the new doodad must enhance your life in some way and perhaps even improve you as a person.  for example, I reckon I'm a much friendlier sheila since I got my new Samsung phone.  But before I explain why - a little background  .....

Despite my best efforts - and I do try - I'm hopeless with names.  For some reason, my brain has an uncanny capacity for retaining useless trivia, but anything important like names, birthdays, tax file numbers, car registrations or my PIN gets erased like an Etch-a-Sketch.  I've lived in the same place nearly all m lfe, and I still don't know my home phone number.  Although, given I live alone, I don't know why Id ever need to call my home - unless I was going to ask the dog to tape EastEnders.

But I digress.

I find it amazing, and completely frustrating, that I can still clearly remember that Mrs Mangel caught the bouquet at Charlene and Scott's wedding on Neighbours, but often I'll be halfway through a conversation with someone I know, and have to say "Excuse me, I'm so sorry, but what's your name again?"  Only to have them stare at me, shake their heads, sigh and say ... "It's Peter, but to be honest, normally you just call me dad!"

I was ready to give up and resign myself to a life of constantly being embarrassed in social situations until a little bit of technology changed my life forever.

(I finally have come to the point of my story, thanks for your patience).

It all happened when I was invited to a wedding and had to confront what is basically my worst nightmare - a room full of people who were 'friends' of a friend.  You know, the sort of people you've met once or twice, so you should know their names, but you'd actually struggle to identify them in a line-up.

Then I had a sudden realisation.  On my new Samsung, I can access the internet.  I quickly ducked outside, and quickly looked up the bride's Facebook page where there were photos of most people at the party with their names underneath each photo.  And not just their names!  I strolled back into the party full of confidence and conversation starters.

"So, Paul, good to see you.  Are you still into ....... Kylie Minogue?  And Sally, its good to see you too.  I was so sad to see that you and Paul had gone from being 'in a relationship' to 'it's complicated'.

Ha ha no problem!!!!!

Beep Beep

It was, I think, just after my 12th birthday. My mother thought I was old enough to be trusted to go to school and back on the bus - alone!

She didn't know I was already way beyond buses.  I had even driven her car around the block with my brother David (older brother, I might add), when both our parents were out.  

Actually, I remember it really well. I turned the ignition key and put it into gear and my first thoughts were "I'm going to die" followed by "She's going to kill me" followed by "Heeeeeyyy, I'm driving. Cool".  When I drove back into the driveway and got out of the car, I thought "I've gone from child in danger to dangerous child".

When my dad finally got around to teaching me to drive at about 17, he was really impressed by my 'natural talent'.

Ah ..... cars!  I have figured that one of the most embarrassing things in life is when you become the person you used to hate.  That's why it absolutely pains me to admit that for the past couple of days I have been driving a 4WD.  

Yes folks, I am now one of those road-hogging, petrol-guzzling, environment-destroying, talk-on-the-mobile-while-driving, compete and utter tossers who drives a 4WD in the city.  I have been driving this baby for a couple of days now and the closest I've come to going off-road was when I buggered up a reverse park and ended up on the nature strip.

Friends who know me will also know that my little red car is broken, or sick, and is in hospital.

By the way, did you know that you can now buy spray-on dirt to give your 4WD that off-road look even if you've never been anywhere near the back country.

Let's be honest, I live in the city, what do I need a 4WD for?  So I can get to the next set of traffic lights faster?  Most mornings, I don't even get my speedo above 50.  I don't need a 4WD - I barely need a 4th gear. I don't need a V6, I could probably run my 'little red car' on a couple of cans of VB (that's beer for you Brit type people, who I know, read this).

Come to think about it, if petrol prices get any higher, I think I'll finally get to take this baby off road, because I may have to use it to invade Iraq myself to get some cheap oil. Honestly I filled my car before it broke and I'm sure the car doubled in value.

So transportation seems to be the topic of conversation around our street lately.  

It was like this a while ago and my partner at the time, and I went out and had a quick look at cars.

I really don't know about you guys overseas, but here, our devotion to the car borders on worship.  Despite what you hear, it's not really a matter of economics, it's an image issue.  In Australia, you are what you drive  Go and have a look at your car, and there you are.

So I thought a new vehicle (image) was in order.

The red Mercedes with leather everything really felt like me.  The bank didn't really think it felt like me to them.  Nor did the black BMW convertible.

I remember my next door neighbour suggesting, I put all my money into drugs, stay home and take all the trips I wanted.

Ok so what's wrong with my 'little red car'? Let me tell you ....

Firstly the automobile driver side window has now decided, while it is happy to open, it won't close unless I push the button while pulling up the glass with my other hand (and then pulling out my fingers at the last minute to ensure i don't sever my fingers in the process).  And I do have to get the window up as high as possible, because my car has already been broken into.

Anyway, apart from the guillotine window, the car had been fine for some time, but lately things have been falling apart.

As I said, my car was broken into at the airport, then I got a flat tyre, only to discover when I went to grab the jack, that the thieves had stolen than too.  I mean, seriously folks, who steals a jack?   I've heard of car-jacking, but car jack-jacking? Or maybe their getaway vehicle had a flat and they needed to improvise.

Is there a lucrative black jack market?

As if that weren't enough, a couple of weeks ago I got into the car and I turned the key and it didn't work at all. I turned the key again. Nup, still nothing. Turns out the battery had died.  Luckily roadside assistance was quickly on the spot and replaced it with a new one.

Only problem was, when I started the damn car, the stereo wouldn't work.

Obviously my car has some sort of security override, that means when the battery dies, the stereo locks. Now instead of belting out some non-stop blocks of rock, it was flashing "Enter Code" in a way that implied if I didn't enter said code, my car would self destruct in 30 seconds.

But what code was I meant to enter?

I tried the PIN for my bank card, my phone number, the numbers from The Da Vinci Code, Pi to 100 places, 58008 (which is boobs upside down) and last week's lotto numbers, but none of them seemed to work.  Finally, I tried my last resort, I yelled at the stereo while mashing all the buttons at the same time. Surprisingly, that didn't help either.  Go figure!

It was at this moment when the lovely man from roadside assistance (who I hadn't noticed was still there and I suddenly felt very embarrassed about the shouting and mashing) suggested I check the owner's manual for the code.

Brilliant idea!

At least something was going right.  Only one problem. Only a tiny one of course. Turns out when they robbed my car, they also took - wait for it - the owner's manual.

Think I'll buy a Jeep!!!  (ask an Aussie to explain the joke, guys). Car won't start again, so I had to admit it to hospital.

Hang on, I just thought of my friend, Damian (not his real name for reasons which will become obvious).  He is - how can I put this nicely? - frugal.  Like ex Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, Damian would consider himself to be an 'economic conservative'.  Most people would use another term.  Derived from the Latin - maximus tightius arseus.

Yes Damian is tight and proud of it.  You know the old joke about someone opening their wallet and moths flying out?  Well, that sums up Damo; except if he had moths living in his wallet, he'd charge them rent.

Why I mentioned him here .... take a drive with Damian and you'll learn that when he puts petrol in his car, he makes sure he shakes the hose until he gets to $50.02, because he knows that they'll round down the amount and he'll drive away with 2 cents worth of free fuel!!!

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie eh, eh, eh?????

News of my credentials as a true-blue, kiwi-mocking Aussie must have travelled the globe, because when I landed in London last year, I found myself on the news.  Now before you start making assumptions, no I didn't try to take in a boogie-board full of Schapelle's secret stash.

No, I was on the news defending our Great Land.

Why me, you ask?  Well you all know of my credentials, but aside from those, all I can guess is it must have been one of those rare occasions when ex Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, was actually in Australia - visiting from his back-packing tour of Europe or something - so they checked which Aussies were in town, saw Jason Donovan, Sir Les, Peter Andre and Dannii Minogue and figured I was the best of a bad bunch.

But the reason why I was asked to defend our beautiful home, GBS (Girt By Sea) is interesting. As it turned out, the English had taken particular exception to an advertisement put out by the Australian Sports Commission. The story was making front-page news in the tabloid press over there (whose motto, incidentally, seems to be "Small Words, Big Type, Bigger Boobs").   And suddenly I was an expert. Yes, it turns out that all it takes to be an expert is convenience by being at the right place at the right time..

Now if you haven't seen the advert I'm talking about, it was a viral email starring a boasting Brit that was meant to arouse anger and passion in Aussies.  If you can't be bothered looking it up on YouTube, it stars an actor with a less convincing British accent than yours truly, taunting Australia about our Olympic Gold Medal count.  Why the ad agency couldn't find an actual geezer for the ad, I don't know. Surely they could have just popped down to Bondi beach and asked every 2nd person there.

Anyway, I found myself on TV in the UK. Camera in my face, lights burning my eyes and being asked "Would it work?"

"Well, maybe." (Oh yeah, They were really getting their money's worth with my outrageous opinions). Maybe - I feared I was going to get splinters if I sat on the fence any longer.

I reckon most Australians would confess that in certain areas we've always seen ourselves as superior to the Brits - weather and dentistry are a couple that spring immediately to mind.  But sporting prowess is the one that trumps them all.  Sometimes I really suspect we'd be happy to come second last in the medal count in the Olympics, as long as Great Britain came in last. (Well, actually, 3rd last because there is always New Zealand too!)

In most countries, the Olympic motto is Citius, Attius, Fontius. But in Australia it is Citius, Attius, Fontius Beatius, Pommius, Bastardius.

As much as they Olympics should be about celebrating the spirit of taking part and striving for excellence, it genuinely did a) surprise us and b) burns us up that the bloody Brits beat us.

Remember when it happened? It basically knocked all the other news off the front page.  Suddenly no-one cared about terrorism.  Forget 'beat the bombs', it was all about 'being beaten by the Poms'.

And beaten we were. Every mathematician in the country was pulled off important research to prove that we won more medals 'per capita' than Great Britain.  Then we decided that although the British total was higher than ours, some of these medals were won by the Welsh and the Scots so they don't count.

Hell, if they could all compete as Great Britain, we should be allowed to combine with other countries too ... maybe the United States of Australia or Chinalia.  We just couldn't admit that the British had beaten us fair and square.

'So where does this rivalry come from?' I was asked.

Well, my theory is that we resent the British because they think we're convicts, and they resent us because someone stole a loaf of bread in cold, wet, plague riddled London and they were sent to Summer Bay. The other reason we like to play this game is simply that sporting rivalries are mostly harmless and fun. That's what's worth remembering. It's the bloody Olympics.  It's not a matter of life or death.

OK, let's talk briefly about something that REALLY matters - the Ashes!  Supporting the Australian Cricket team used to be rewarding. Used to be - thank you England!!!!  Now it's getting harder and harder to support the team who can't even spell the word 'VICTORY' at the moment.

Enough of that.  And if we're going to talk sport, a long overdue reform is making the Melbourne Cup - the horse race that truly does stop a nation - a public holiday for the whole country.  No-one can argue that there isn't something really special about the Melbourne Cup.  If nothing else, it's the only time usually rational people set their alarms early on a day off, then spend hours fighting traffic just to sit in a car park getting pissed.  It's like going to the movies but, instead of going inside the cinema, spending the entire time sculling coke and snorting lines of Wizz Fizz (a sweet for you non-Aussies) at the candy bar.

The current situation in places outside Melbourne is that people get to stop work for the duration of the race.  So if the whole day isn't declared a public holiday, like it is in Melbourne, at the very least they should have the decency to make the race longer. Forget 5 minutes, get the horses to run a marathon.  That way, the rest of Australia would get a couple of hours off. Hey make it like an F1 race Bathurst or even better, like The Amazing Race.

Ohhhhhh - sport!!!!!