Welcome back Jess

Where on earth do you find this stuff?

Skin a bunny-rabbit

Dorset Deep Dish Rabbit Pie

Half a kilo of rabbit fillets, seasoned flour, fresh sage or thyme and streaky bacon; breadcrumbs, rind of one lemon, one egg, pepper, salt and one cup of milk

Preheat oven to 160°. Dredge rabbit fillets in seasoned flour an pack tighly in a deep pie dish, no more than two layers deep. Snip bacon pieces over the rabbit and scatter with freshly-picked herb leaves.
Pour in milk to just about cover the rabbit. Mix Breadcrumbs, lemon rind and egg, season, and press firmly over the meat to form a crust. Bake for 1½ hours.

YUM.

With thanks to Artbyelaine, The Collingwood Children's Farm Farmers' Market and The Bible.

I want to ride my bicycle...

A few months ago, right, well, half a year ago, I was happily riding my bike to and fro the workplace. It's only about 20 minutes or so, a coupla hills, a park, some tramlines and I'm there. It takes about the same amount of time as driving—unfortunately for my route, PT just doesn't cut it, and couldn't unless someone were to drill a whopping great tunnel under the Exhibtion Building. It's kinda sad, because I love me my PT, ever since that rockin' LGB train-set I had as a little skander. I have been a slut for infrastructure ever since. [Note to self: locate old train-set.][Note to LGB: Why the fuck do you need a massive flash intro with techno soundtrack for a manufacturer of model trains?] But, taking a tram (yes, non-Melbournites, a tram!) would take me about 40 minutes and entail at least 2 changes. Shite.
So, earlier in the year, I was cycling. Doesn't that word sound genteel? All boater hats and picnics. I didn't have a pushie of my own, and my olds had just moved house, and unearthed a really nice bike, a Giant mountainbike, that my mother had given my father a few years earlier in the hope he might do exercise with other parts of his body besides his elbow. No luck there.
So this bike is in very good nick (hardly used, one gentleman onwner) and about the right size for me. Bingo. I drop round to my olds to pick it up before the removalists do and find my brother has taken it and attached a kids chair to the back. No biggie, he's got a bike of his own, a road bike which he rides around Port Phillip Bay no less, a bike that reportedly set him back $8k no less. I'll get this one soon.
Eventually, after a shitload of hassling and finally turning up at his place and pretty much demanding this (let's get with the program here) MTB, I wrestle it back from him, to a soundtrack of his wife harping on, in another room but well within earshot, about how I should buy one of my own as they only cost about 400 bucks. At this point it is important to note that I had my father's blessing in this; something like "Your brother already has his own bike, yes, you can use mine, just go and bloody get it off him. It's not his, it's mine"
So there I am for a good coupla months, little flashing lights and all, pedalling off to work and back. Until the horrific incident that required a podiatrist (shout out to the lovely Anne-Marie if you're reading this), ergo no cycling for a while. It's coming up to the coldest months n shit weather n I'd worked out how to get a lift to work.
At some stage during injury time, the brother rings up to borrow this bike—his being way too flash and expensive to want to put a kiddie seat on.
"Sure" I tell him, and dutifully let him borrow the bicycle one Sunday morning. Monday arvo he asks if he can return it. "Sure" I say, "You know where the key is". Like you do.
It's there when I get home. I don't pay much attention to it. It's cold n wet n I want to get inside to the warmth and the red wine and pallet full of DVDs I have to watch for work.
About a week later, as I wander past, I notice that the bike has suddenly sprouted a pannier. Odd, why would my brother want a pannier when what he wants it for is a kiddie seat? So I look closer. The colours look the same, silver and blue. Yep, it's a giant. Something's odd. The grips are all old and worn; there's suddenly a bell; the clips for the lights are all in the wrong spots. He's returned the wrong bike.
I shrug my shoulders, and mention it to the olds the next time I see them:
"Frére has returned the wrong bike"
"What do you mean the wrong bike?"
"It's a different bike. It looks really similar, but it's not the same bike"
My mind drifted back to the time I first collected this bike from him, and thought, oh well, they must have gone and bought another bike for me so they could keep the other one. Crafty. Not too worried at this stage as it's still wintry and I sure as hell aint riding for another coupla weeks at least.
And then he rings up: "Hi Skander, can I borrow the bike again, I want to take jeune nephew for a ride."
"Sure" I say, "But it's not the same bike."
"what?"
"It's the new one you returned, not Dad's one"
"What do you mean?"
"It's the bike you returned to my place, not Dad's one that you borrowed."
"But I returned Dad's one"
"Oh no you didn't"
And so it progressed, as any conversation between brothers does. Some of you will know more about that than others, I'm sure. And so he's swearing black and blue that he returned the correct bike, and that therefore, the bike at my place, I dunno, just morphed into a similar looking but very different bicycle. Or, his logic runs, someone has broken into my house, taken one bike out of the two that are standing there next to my front door, leaving the other one, and then come back and replaced the bike they have stolen with a similar looking one, still leaving the old green Raleigh that doesn't get used, and locked the gate again on the way out.
This, strangely enough doesn't make sense to me. But I argue and get no where. And eventually it results in one of those huge family arguments where everyone has something to say and an opinion to contribute and no-one gets anywhere and everyone is talking over one another. You know the drill.
Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. I reckon I'll give this imposter bike a go—I haven't got anything else now have I? So off I trundle, and my lord, this bike is shit. The gears don't work, the deraillieur won't even look at pulling the chain in the way I want it to, the handlebars are loose (and of course I haven't packed the allen keys) and I realise that it's a woman's MTB and about 4 sizes too small so I can pedal like hell and hardly get anywhere. True.
So, it's a dud. It's no use to me, and probably only needs a good hour or two with the mechanic and I might be able to get some money for it. But it means I have to go out and get an new bike for myself. And where oh where do I begin?
He still swears he left the correct bike at my place. I'm lucky I mentioned it to the olds as early as I did or my story would have no credibility. No credibility? Like supposing someone broke into a house, stole a bike and replaced it with a replica has credibility. Ha!

odds n ends

I cried at Neighbours last night.
and
Ned Zelic: dude, what's doing? I don't reckon you could'nt've had your knees any further apart. Shave around your goatee and straighten up and I shall accept your slavic testosterone seeping through my screen with much more readily.

La Salle d'Attente

A quick shoutout to John Fowles who died on the weekend. This man was responsible for one of my earliest journeys into literature, with the engrossing entrapment that is The Magus. Just the thing for a boy of 19: sunkissed, mysterious, and ever-so slightly erotic.

It's all about the sunnies

Thank god that's all over. But golly it was fun while it lasted.

The statistics:

• 216 stubbies of Melbourne Bitter
• 48 bottles of San Pellegrino
• 30 regular bottles of Trilogy
• 6 Magnums of Trilogy
• 1 bottle of Pimms No 1 Cup
• 3 bottles of lemonade
• 2 bottles of dry ginger ale
• 4 bottles os Schweppes 'lemon lime & bitters'
  
• mint, cucumber and ornage to garnish
• 20 bags of ice
• 2 grams of cocaine
• 162 baby chicken, coriander and almond sandwiches
• 36 mini prawn and butter lettuce baguettes with a lime mayo
• 60 sticky BBQ pork rice paper rolls with hoi sin & peach dipping sauce
• 60 middle-eastern spiced lamb meatballs with red capsicum dipping sauce
• 60 mini felafel with hummus, tahini & yoghurt sauce wrapped in flatbread
• 3 Mediterranean moulles
• 2 sides of smokin' Tom Cooper's smoked salmon, smoked the day before
• 1 fillet of beef
  
• 1 bag of chips
• 1 market umbrella
• 1 tressle table
• 2 table cloths
• 50 champagne flutes
• 2 red tin buckets
• 1 red tin jug
• 100 plastic cups
• 4 eskies
• 1 bunch of yellow roses
• 2 packets of serviettes
• 4 platters
• 2 car spaces
  
• 38 satisfied punters
  
• 32 degrees celsius
• 10 horse races
• 1 historic event

I heart this T-shirt design

and have for quite some time. From those crazy cats at Tshirt Hell.

And more Neighours...

BEST EPISODE EVER.

Leaps and bounds ahead of Tuesdays, in my books. This is what soaps are about—trauma, and the way this affects the relationships between people. This is what Ramsay Street doesn't do well. It is something the British soaps are very good at, getting everyone together for the bubbles of emnity to rise to the surface and create divisions between characters. A la Max and Karl, previously pretty good mates, at each other's throats. I hope they keep this sort of tension going.

And Neighbours was blessed the day they wrote and cast Janelle Timmins: "I've always said that man was a cockroach. He'd survive anything". PURE GOLD.

The only negative aspect to the episode is that Connor survived.

The Holy See

And so we have seen the last of everyone's favourite JAP, the ersatz Serbo-Australian Serenna Bishop. Yes, after the tumultuous time she has spent in Erinsborough—snapping up the storyline Delta ditched featuring the oddly attractive internet soft-porn-meister, Chris Cousens; heavy-petting her heavy-breathing half-brother; A whole bunch of excuses for her to wear a bikini (whihc we don't mind at all); and well, not really much else. For one thing, at least poor Lara won't have to lock lips with Australia's leading example of premature balding, Connor O'Something Oirish. Perhaps that is the reason why she decided to 'jump ship'.

And so we've seen the end of wanton hussy Ljiljana Bishop and her sap of a huband, dorky Dave—Dave, who's not done much except lose all his cash in his opening weeks, and have one great scene where he finally had a go at his wife for shagging Paul Robinson. Where were all the holier-than-thous when poor Dave got cuckolded, Susan and Lyn? As for Ljil, well, pfft.

What shits me about this aeroplane tragedy, what really shits me, is that off all the characters who have been killed, they are all from the same family, and at least two of them had potential. Why the fuck wasn't Stuart Parker on that plane? Why the fuck did Connor have to survive? He can't even read, he's balding, he's hard to understand, and he's ugly. If I'd had three characters to axe, it would have been Chooka, Connor and Ljiljana, no questions asked. All three of them are superfluous wastes of space in my opinion.

But back on topic: Harold has to be the unluckiest guy in the world. Everyone around him dies. And not just dies, but dies spectacularly. I understand the arguments the Neighbours producers have put around that they wanted some drama, some grief, and a few less characters, but to strip Harold of three of the only four people in the world who are releated to him is altogther too cruel. Why not share the grief around? We could all have done without Dylan, and the Timminses could outmourn any family, I'm sure. Or Bobby Hoyland, even, if we wanna extend the circle. Hell, there's an army out there with its sights firmly set on Lyn Scully—a character with so much potential as the new busybody in my books, and yet gets thrown so little. Surely the Hoylands are due a tragedy? Perhaps it could have been Summer? make that Boyd, he's more of a sap. Wouldn't a whole street in ourning be better than the chance to alter Harold's personality YET AGAIN, this time so he can attempt to murder Paul Robinson?

I dunno. The logic behind the murder of these three characters is beyond me. I saw so much potential in spoilt brat Serena and have held out hope of a hottie Serb family from WA leaving the vineyard to join aunt Ljil, whether she's there or not. And now, no. Although I can still hope to see crazy-eye Sventanka Ristic again, can't I? Can't I?

Terror-fied

Once again the Premiers are barking up the wrong tree. It's not some vague Howardian "shoot to kill" clause—a right most Australian police forces already have—that is the most disturbing part of this so-called "anti-terror" legislation. It's the restrictions on freedom of speech implied in the sedition clauses. The sort of clause that that could have someone who may support the Palestinian struggle against the brutal, illegal occupation of their lands by a foreign military force, 'detained' without charge for up to a year.

Now that's scary

And while I'm at it, good on John Stanhope for being the only Labor leader with any spine.

Blatantly Stolen Content

I came by this work for a Brazilian artist called Icasro Doria. It rocks. And there's more. But never enough. I love this sort of shit. It's the type of stuff that led to me having a big stack of COLORS magazines a few years back. Man they were good. My sister still denies nicking them, but she has a history of poking her nose into places and not owning up to it. That's what sisters are for, isn't it?

GRR

Two things that have got my goat this morning:

• emails that begin "This actually works!!!": FUCK OFF.
• and people who do not refill the kettle and turn it back on, when they have used the last of the hot water. ARSEHOLE.

Heart and Seoul

A cautionary tale from the land of video games and fucked-up violence, from our man in Seoul, The Bee:

This is not a tale for everyone so if you don't enjoy blood and violence better to stop here. This is a story that i recently witnessed all too closely that sheds light on a darker side of korea.but hey,we're not perfect either.Not too long ago i was casually sampling a few sherberts at the local candy shop (aka a bar). sundown.nearing the end of the tastings a few disgruntled korean customers, one 30 something man and two similary aged and average looking women started a minor raucus when they steadfastly challenged the owner, a near eldery woman, that they were overcharged on the bill. the owner promptly double checked and reiterated that the bill was correct.stalemate.story should have ended there but this trio refused to back down or go away.they held their ground and voices began to roar. one of the girls was particularly vocal,noticeably inspired with dutch courage.the guy was equally stubborn but more controlled in his speech and of far fewer words.standoff.within minutes, any remaining chance of peace morphed into a ugly hardcore verbal wrestling match, without the script.the "ugly" korean woman was particularly abusive in her verbal attack on the older lady in a way which makes shane warne look like a perfect gentleman.while i don't understand the language i can read vocal volume, spitting and pointing - kinda like a john mcenroe outburst without the tennis racquet. lowdown.enter the young cook, a slight and slightly hunchbacked korean, nobly left the kitchen to bolster the home team.the 2 boys went outside.showdown.the next thing i saw was the cook stumbling back inside with a hole in his head the size of a golf ball and a trail of blood flowing from his temple at a worrying pace.a sickening sight,ostensibly the product of a glass bottle.takedown.the elderly lady voluntarily hit in the ground in an almost half faint/half statement and hysterically flapped her armed and legs about like a upturned beetle. tough to watch but she still had a element of control about her drama, and in fact i saw this same move on a tv drama several weeks later.laydown.looking at the growing pool of blood and the tears of the elderly lady set off my compadre, a 55 year a jolly,fat,white haired white bearded canadian red neck, appropriately named Santa Dave.Santa Dave had seen enough and quite liked this place.he shot a volley at the guy if he wants a war he's got one. nexts he fires at the witch "shut up." she snaps back with "i don't speak english" to which santa d gives her a free spelling lesson "B-I-T-C-H".putdown.Then he turns his attention to her male companion."look at this" gesturing at the ugliness of the scene."what's it all for?" he charged. "She overcharged me!" came back the original male antagonist."how much?"The most illuminating words spoken all night was the korean warrior's reply:"10 bucks." shakedown.Santa was in a festive mood and returned with "U f'n kiddn me - i'll give u 20 to f off right now!". "principle" came the korean reply.no backdown.Upon his offer to buy the group out from the premises being swatted down Dave promptly issued the staunch korean with one word "outside".meltdown.the most surprisingly thing was the korean dude held his ground.didn't move.despite possibly nearly killing someone, an ambulance on the way,the police probably likewise, and now he's been challenged by a man mountain of a guy who belies his 55 years.he hesistantly but not uncooly rebounds with, "this will be your grave" and made a series of phone calls with the air of a call for reinforcements. Santaty prevails on santa d and he calls the cops. calm down.ambulance arrives for the cook, a husband for our lady manager to relieve her after an enduring night and the police for the terrible trio.downtown.end of chapter but i think there's some sort of message about principle and korean culture in there.

You can't take it with you!

In lieu of the myriad draft posts I have not finished, I give you my greatest success of the week:

An ADDAMS FAMILY PB:

389,000,000 odd! All 12 mansion rooms! 3 extra balls! Tour the Mansion! 3 Replays and 6 free credits! Such success! The barman commented! And he works there! Highest Score! Grand Champion!

BEST SCORE EVAH!

All I need now is to conquer the king of Pinball: The Twilight Zone.

A vegetative state

One of my favourite little graffiti conversations is etched above the urinals at the Union Club. It warms my heart every time I read it:

"How many peas does it take to change a lightbulb?"
"None, they don't have any arms."

LAME!

Not really, it's just the way they're made

Silence is golden

The Trouble with Auntie

I'm not quite sure what the ABC is up to lately. It's the Saturday and Sunday night line-ups which have me puzzled. The old Sunday night in with Auntie is a long established tradtion in my household—well, it was when I was a kid, and it is now that I am a conservative old man. An old man who shakes his head in wonder that what on earth Mark Latham thinks he's achieving with all this bile; and the same goes for Robert Doyle and his spectacular policy launch last week; and for those New Zealandish voters; and, and I'll stop now.

The way I see it is grey-haired types stay home with a certain amount of regularity on a Saturday night. Agreed? Whereas, plenty o' people of all ages stay home on a Sunday night, what with work eating into our Mondays.

So the ABC gives us Midsomer Murders of a Saturday night. Fine. My grandmother will happily sit down with a stable-table and a boiled egg to sigh about how wonderful the old days were and reminisce about the verdant joys of a village life she's only ever dreamed of, where there was nothing untoward about two ladies co-habiting, the vicar rode a bicycle and red lipstick was considered garish (and red shoes too, for that matter). Nothing new there.

And on Sunday night, my parents, who are only just starting to grey, get all het up over New Tricks, about a quartet of grumpy old has-beens (both as actors and characters) including a feisty, muttony Alison Braithwaite, solving cases. The attraction here is that the characters in this TV show are slightly older than my olds, so they can sit there with their Sunday night boiled egg and guffaw at the old klutzes, thinking "thank christ we're not that old yet!" Nothing new there—onscreen, or off.

Recently, this has been followed by Canterbury Tales. My mother doesn't even get Canterbury Tales. "It's, like, Chaucer, mum. Surely you read this when you were at school. It was published around then." But no, it's the washing up and an early night for them after New Tricks.

The common denominator of this is that the audiences for both programs enjoy a boiled egg while they watch. They are old people. And these shows are on different fucking nights. Who on earth in the programming department deep in the bowels of Ultimo (it can't have been anything but some vogue-ish Sydney decision) decided that it would be fun to stretch the gerry programs over two nights, and follow them—each of them—with shows that younger people can relate to? Nay, can sit in front of with a pizza and still go "cool", or "phwoar!" or even just "what's this then?"at?

So, why doesn't Auntie program New Tricks to follow Midsomer Murders—that way, the boiled-eggers of this world could have a jolly good night in with a few chuckles and "I don't mind if I do have a little whisky before bed, it is Saturday night after all". While those of us with less, let me say, quintogenarian tastes, could stretch out on the couch with a nice little reefer, a vegetarian with hot salami and a cleanskin red, in front of Hustle, followed by Canterbury Tales. That way we get 2 hours of quality entertainment, each of us, on our respective nights. And never the twain shall meet.

OK, so all of this is because I was actually in on Saturday night, and caught Hustle again. And it rekindled my weak-at-the-knees crush on Jaime Murray:

Phwoar.

Out of Colac by way of Erinsborough

How awesome are Janelle and Janae Timmins, then?

Why I Love British Newspapers #13

SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW, SOMETHING BORROWED,
SOMETHING BLEURRGHH

The Sun was thankful for a guerns to the stylish nuptials of Jordan and Our Peter Andre .

I want to be a part of BA, Buenos Aires' big apple

I'm going to be spending 5 days in Buenos Aires at the end of the year. At which of these hotels do you think I should stay?

• At an NH hotel?
• the Hotel Madero?
• at Hotel Bobo?
• the Four Seasons perhaps?
• or Wallpaper's recommendation, the Faena+Universe?
• 
  
• and now, a late starter, Malabia House
  

Decisions, decisions.