Treat 'em Mean, Keep 'em Keen...

Tonight I heard a bit of garbage talking. Hang on, was that garbage or was it that bit of turd under my shoe. No, wait! It's SuperTurd.

I just sat and waited for a good fifteen minutes for Dr. Brendan Nelson to say something of substance. FIFTEEN MINUTES of watching Julie Bishop's head bounce up and down like a cheap toy dog in the back window of a cheap imported car. She is so cross-eyed it is like all she does is focus on objects really close to her face. Like one of those scantily clad women in one of those films you get in Fyshwick. I think the symptom is some sort of sucker cramp.

By the way, where was Turnbull? He was conspicuously absent, perhaps he was off doing what he does best - pretending to be George Clooney. Or maybe he was causing Joe Hockey's head to bob up and down. No, that was caused by the fact that he is a fat, spineless piece of whale blubber.

There were a few moments of sheer comedic brilliance, however. Moments such as when Dr. Nelson remarked "watching petrol prices does not bring them down".

Ha, ha, ha, big belly laughs.

Good thing Julie Bishop isn't watching them. Oh wait, she can't. Julie looks in the mirror and thinks she has two heads like Zaphod.

I suppose what Dr. Nelson really wanted to say is "watching the opinion polls doesn't make you popular" or "watching a doughnut doesn't make you Joe Hockey".

Another piece of comedic brilliance was when Joe Hockey nodded his head furiously to confirm Dr. Nelson's views on alco-pops. Taxing them is going to cause the kids to take harder stuff - like marijuana.

Teenager: I can't afford a six pack of orange, yummy tasting stuff, so I am going to share a dirty, disease spreading bong that tastes like pigeon shit crossed with syphilis.

Joe Hockey : Well, pass me the bong when you are finished.

Teenager: No worries, but by the way it's not a doughnut.

Joe Hockey: I know, but that horse I just ate wasn't a doughnut either. Do you have any ideas of what I can say in parliament tomorrow? I am sick of sounding stupid. Wow, its weird when you listen to what you say, it's like you forget what you said and just keep going and going and going and eating...

Julie Bishop: (lighting bong with incredible dexterity and accuracy) It is like my eyes were designed for this.

Malcolm Turnbull: Wow, its like I'm not here.

Budget Budget Budget Budget Budget Budget Budgie Budgie Budgie SMUGGLERS!

Once upon a time, in the land of the Post Pubescens, a man called Jummifera swore that he would never become a Servent of the Pubelist, and nor would he care for the Budgetus. Jummifera would become a purveyor of magnificent smuggled goods, living a Bohemian life playing the five-string, pulsing, 'Lady Trembler' in a band of magnanimous fame. Consuming caffeinated beverages in the morning, and fine ales from noon would be his daily routine.

As much as Jummifera knew about the world - and he knew everything - he didn't know about himself. Nor did he know about Wisdom and the Rose that hath a Wyrm. The Wyrm of Growing Uppeth.

DAMMIT!

I grew up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck - I have now sat and watched TWO budgets in a row (the passing of years has become like the passing of days). Sadly I am going to sit and watch the budget reply. FOR THE SECOND TIME TOMORROW!

I can't believe I care!?

I remember sitting in a hazey blur a number of years ago, casting soap box comments on all politicians:

Me: They're just a pack of fags

Mate: It's not a fucking microphone, pass it over

Me: I mean, where do they get off? Determining what I pay for a pack of smokes, and for a longie of VB isn't fucking right.

- pause -

Me again: and they wear suits all the time... what's with that? You don't need a suit to be respectable. I know I'm a good person, right? I don't need neat hair to be taken seriously. Just 'cos I have an undercut, and black and blue colours in my hair doesn't mean I can't be a good person. Right?

Mate: I said... it isn't a FUCKING MICROPHONE PASS IT OVER!!!

Me: Oh, ok, sorry dude (passing the microphone over) what is it then?

Mate: It's a portal for our minds and souls to travel through this ridiculous material existence and into the panties of many hot chicks.

Me: Oh, I see... so it goes with my five-string, pulsing 'Lady Trembler' then. Cool. By the way, I dropped the portal in the ashtray earlier.

Mate: (Sniffing portal) You truly are a goose (gags)

Anyway, I have come to the realisation that I have now been in the Public Service for almost five years, have no intention of leaving, am the father of two children, am married, own a house, drive a car, kick a dog, attend church never and care about the budget. And interest rates, and tax, and the mortgage, and ironing my shirt and pants, and gardening.

Did I mention that I like gardening? No? Well, I am like a 32 year old Peter Cundall. Bloodey hell it is sad. I am going to plant leeks this weekend.

My bladder will also probably also start to leak this weekend.

New Zealand: Phase Fourteen - Goodbye and thank you very, very much.

Our last full nights sleep was fantastic. We both woke up resplendent, fresh and happy with coffees, robes and newspapers. I don't give a shit for the philosophies that denigrate material possessions; luxury is excellent. Really, really excellent.

After brekky we had to drop off our friend, Little GPS. This was a strangely sad time for us. We had travelled around for two weeks in the little fella, seeing mountains, sheep, llamas, deer and fjords of startling beauty - eating chocolates, having picnics, ginantonics and spilling beers behind the seat. We had become used to the little idiosyncrasies of the little food space under the bed, getting our clothes out before sleeping, the slightly strange column shift, and the funny vibration that happened only at 5251 rpm.

If you ever hire a Spaceship do not use this petrol station before you drop it off. The owner/manager/sheep fucker that runs it deserves herpes. If you ever want to know what happened you will have to ask, but be prepared to cop a spray.

After we dropped Little GPS back (very sad) we went for a bit of a walk, grabbed some food (I had a very healthy apricot Danish, Stacey had a decidedly unhealthy custard roll), we wandered down to the America's cup area (very Darling Harbour) and then up to the Sky Tower.

I was really quite impressed by the tower, the glassy floor bits that made my feet tickle, and the view across all of Auckland. It truly is a magnificent city.

After our little tower experience we bolted on up to drop off our oversized, ovine oval that is now in the possession of Aaron, and back down to the America's Cup area to eat some lunch.

We had a fun meal, listening to Beatles and sipping wine and beer. We then enjoyed the rest of the day buying cheap Kiwi souvenirs. We finished our time over there with some take-away, a bit of wine, a few Kiwi beers and a chat to the folks.

I suppose that ends my blog on our travels to beautiful New Zealand. Maybe I should claim 'trog' as my word for a 'travel blog'. New Zealand is an impressive and beautiful country. I cannot think of any other words to describe what the place means to us.

We had a lot of fun over there, and maybe, just maybe we will go back there and visit with our family.

Maybe, just maybe we will go back to that spot where we argued, and where I felt a little foot touch my hand for the first time.

FUNT

I just realised that I had posted one of my most prized possessions. My word. Miss Fitz took it upon herself to write a post on made up words. I stupidly used my special little word in my comment.

So here it is - my word is officially in the public sphere - FUNT.

There. My word, so piss of you pack of funts and have some fun with a T.

New Zealand: Phase Thirteen - Lucky?

Thankfully the last night in Little GPS was strangely fitting. There were more mozzies than the Rainman could count, I spilt a stinky beer behind the car seat which I mopped up with dirty t-shirts, the damned DVD went on far too long and I slept with a sheet over my puffy, mosquito bitten face. As unpleasant as it sounds we actually thought it was fun. We are into BDSM as well.

After waking up with muppet faces we had a quick brekky in the communal kitchen, left our supplies in the communal fridge and hit the road in search of the last remaining giant Kauries.
After a bit of a drive and a bit of a walk (Stace was just starting to feel some of the pressures of pregnancy) we found our first one.

These huge sentinels were truly breathtaking. The primeval forest was silent, damp and musty, and the solid, powerful and silent trunk just towered above us like an eternal, sad Goliath. Only a small handful of this size are in existence now, and it was like they were trying to talk above the tree line, standing on their toes just to get a peek of each other in the distance.

I was truly moved by them.

After a little drive through Opononi and Omapere (I think lots of hippies lived there once) we drove on through some beautiful territory to Waitangi where a treaty was signed. Not just any old treaty, the treaty of Waitangi! This was monumentally important for the development of New Zealand as a country. As opposed to us, where we can barely bring ourselves to say sorry after two centuries.

Even though the treaty was signed, the Maoris and the Poms beat the living shit out of eachother for a while afterwards. It did, however, recognise the Maoris as the true holders of the land and as a real people. The Kiwis, like the Canadians, are proud of this. Good on them.

The funny thing about the area, and perhaps my favourite thing, is the fact that it was all done not far from the 'hell hole of the Pacific' - Kororareka. Full of prostitutes, notorious pirates, violence, booze, and probably a bit of fun, like hopscotch or something. The area was very pretty, the grounds were very English, and the temperature and humidity was more akin to a Sydney like clime than I expected.

After this wonderful little walk we started meandering our way back to Auckland. With a small detour. A small, very special little detour. A detour with a difference, should I say.

We had to just drop into the Coopers Creek Winery, home of the favourite wine of our honeymoon in Vanuatu. FAT CAT! Yum, oh yummy yum yum with yummy yumminess with a bit of creamy yum on the yum yum.

Getting a bottle of this has been a mission of ours since we got back from our honeymoon, we even walked a few mile and explored a weird half empty building in Ultimo just to get a taste again. It was like we were smackies or something. After grabbing a couple of bottles and a silly hat we wandered out to the car. As I went to get in I looked back at the winery...

We had found our little pot of gold.