Families, eh!

What Bill said.

Over the last school holidays, I had the chance to spend a week with The Boy doing…umm…boys’ stuff.

Nothing that spectacular; a visit to the National Sports Museum, a boat on the river, a hit of mini-golf, the sort of stuff you can do when it’s sunny outside.

The good thing is that The Boy is still very keen to have both his dad and his mum involved in his life, to the point where he passed up the opportunity to have dinner at a mate’s place because “he was lonely for his mum and dad”.

I know this won’t last and it shouldn’t last. They grow up and they grow away. That’s how you get the next generation of adults. But it’s nice to have these sorts of memories, something I never really had with my own dad.

Bill Murray in Lost in Translation said something like, “when your kids are born, it’s terrifying because you know nothing will ever be the same, but they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk and they become the most fascinating people you’ll ever meet”.

So far, he’s spot on the money.

I apologies for the revolting level of mawkishness in this post. The next one will be full of abuse and sarcasm, possibly involving Tony Abbott.

And/or owls.

Matchbox Cars

When we were kids Perseus, Fanta (my brother) and I would hold regular Hotwheels/Matchbox Car race meets. Various tournaments would take place on varying tracks with varying importance. Sometimes it would be on orange plastic Hotwheels brand tracks, at other times we would use PVC pipes which we found lying around in the backyard, or planks of wood or even custom built tracks which had built-in (although not entirely deliberate) handicaps. Occasionally we would measure the furthest jumper or the fastest in individual time trials, but usually it was races of between 4 and 6 cars at a time, culminating, after several hours, in a grand final of the 4 fastest.

We had around a hundred cars each, we would relegate and promote them to the various tournaments based on their recent results and long term averages and we would draw up complex fixtures based on rankings. Each car had a name, the top cars were highly prized and stored carefully between races, while slow cars would regularly be thrown in disgust. We would argue over results (we alternated the roles of starter, judge and scorer) and would rotate the venue to eliminate home track advantage.

It was some of the best fun I ever had as a kid and, given that nobody else could be arsed posting anything, I thought I would reminisce in front of you.

Some important issues raised by The Boy while I was shaving

"Can I have some shaving cream?"

"Why do they call it 'shaving'?"

"Where do the whiskers go when you shave them?"

"Why don’t you grow a beard?"

"Did you have a beard before you were married to mum?"

"What would happen if you went to jail for 100 years?"

"What would happen if you went to jail for a thousand years?"

"Is a thousand years a long time?"

"Can I have some shaving cream?"

This was among some stream-of-consciousness musing along the lines of what would happen if the cat developed super-powers*

*The conclusion reached was that this would probably be a bad thing for all concerned.

EXTREME Narnia

Edmund discovers that Turkish Delight tastes like soap

My dad made a Narnia lamp but it stopped working ten minutes before the party. That's OK though because I photoshopped a glow into the lamp


There was a wardrobe



The invitations were wardrobes



The party favours were wardrobes. Because I am deranged, I made individual Narnia figures from wooden pegs. This is the Mr Tumnus batch





There was a scavenger hunt. Guests had to take all items to BigSquib who was dressed as Jadis and she handed out brown paper Mr Tumnus parcel prizes



This is one of the snowflake luminaries (with battery tealights) I made and BigSquib's crown. Also, some decorations






Food included deer cupcakes and white choc crackles

The piece de resistance... an ice castle cake

Guests decorated shields and BigSquib gave them fencing lessons with balloon swords

Handmade snowballs and two bags of insta-snow

The galleon in our backyard was renamed Dawntreader

Snowflake pinata filled with Turkish Delights, Raffaellos, chocolates, and paper snowflakes. There was also snowflake face painting

BigSquib/Jadis read the kids a book about Wilson Bentley, a guy who spent his life photographing snowflakes under a microscope. She left out the bit where Bentley died of pneumonia and handed around another book with photos of real snowflakes for everyone to look at

Playlist: Cold Acre by Augie March, Cold Wind by Arcade Fire, Winter for a Year by Arcade Fire, Turkish Delight by David Crowder Band, Let is Snow by Dean Martin, Like a Lion by the Decemberists, Cold Day in July by Dixie Chicks, Cold as Ice by Foreigner, White Winter Hymnal by Fleet Foxes, My Favourite Things by Julie Andrews, Under Ice by Kate Bush, Frozen by Madonna, Cold December by Matt Costa, Arctic World by Midnight Oil, Mr Tumnus lullaby from Narnia soundtrack, 15 Feet of Pure White Snow by Nick, Winter Wonderland by Pat Boone, Hazy Shade of Winter by Simon and Garfunkel, Ice Queen by Stranglers, California Dreamin' by Mamas and Papas, Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice, Snowman by XTC, Always Winter but Never Christmas by XTC

What?!

It's too early in the morning for me to write a lengthy post about this, and too early for me to really grasp why I am so offended/annoyed by this article.

But I am, so here it is. Discuss away.

The Needle and the Damage Done

It seems many of this city's most despicable, lowlife junkies have shifted from the decrepit environs of Smith St to the Vietnamese-restaurant-lined Victoria St. They're everywhere wearing their adidas tracksuit pants with no accompanying top, and walking all fast and jittery. Often yelling at respectable people, motorists and each other.

I was loitering recently outside one of my favourite of these restaurants, waiting for Tex to arrive - he's always late yet I continue to arrive on time because, well, that's what I do - when this filthy piece of shit came marching along the street while his 3-year-old son drove a motorised toy car behind him. The following 'conversation' ensued:

Boy: Dad, can I please have a donut?

Dad (yelling): I already fucken told you I left my fucken wallet at home, don't you fucken listen to me?

Boy:
Sorry...

Dad: You're a fucken stupid little arsehole! How many fucken times do I have to tell you something you dipshit! I'll push you into the traffic and that'll fucken teach you!

Dad pretends to push boy into the traffic. He was out of control, just stopping short of physically assaulting the boy.

Boy has by now covered his ears with his hands to block out what is, it seems, a common occurrence.

Meanwhile I'm watching, wondering whether it was within my rights to walk up and punch the junkie in the face, grab the kid and run to the police station. I was so very close to hitting this guy. This poor kid (who will probably one day become his father - just as his father was, probably, once upon a time this poor kid) did nothing to deserve this treatment or this father. The Dad's reaction was so over the top, so out of proportion, that he could only have been either on drugs, or needing the next hit.

Eventually, Dad and Boy walk off and stop outside a house in an adjoining street. The Dad leaves the Boy parked in his toy car outside the house and disappears inside - for ten minutes.

A police car drives past, I wave it down and explain what had just happened. The police show some measure of concern and they go and talk to the Dad. After about 3 minutes they leave and that's that.

This (along with a story I read recently in The Monthly about a 7 year old girl called 'Ebony', who was so badly negelcted that she ended up dying in her locked and boarded-up bedroom fouled by her own faeces and urine) makes me look at my own 4 year old boy (who, at least for now, idolises me) and wonder how this kind of mistreatment is possible.

What we did on the weekend.

The Boy: “Daddaddad, let’s do karate fighting in the backyard!”

Me: “Right-so, Boy.”

Some time later.

The Boy: “Daddaddad, let’s pretend to be tigers and hide in the front yard and growl at people as they walk past!”

Me: “A sage suggestion, Boy.”

Some time later again.

The Boy: “Daddaddad, let’s spin around and around until we feel sick!”

Me: “An adroit idea, Boy.”

Some time much later again.

The Boy: “Daddaddad, let’s…”

Me: “Hang on Boy; I have to lie down for a bit.”

See what you’re missing out on Puss?

That’s pretty much it for the weekend. Although I think I might have had a beer or two at some point.

Quality Policing

The local constabulary helps a citizen find the nearest hospital

I was in London last week. The weather was splendid (1 degree - that's what I'm talking about) and the beer damn fine (if you're canny enough to avoid the warm brown stuff). I spent 54 hours in transit and 54 on the ground. Consequently, I'm buggered beyond belief.

However, I had a tremendous experience while driving 5 actors through a small village in Essex. It was the morning after the job I had travelled all that way to oversee, after which I had drunk numerous pints until the bar closed at 3am. I suspected I was still lingering somewhere near the legal limit when, rounding a corner, I happened upon 3 policemen, one of whom was pointing what looked like a Polaroid camera at me. As I approached, a second copper waved me down and approached the window.

"Ullo sir," he said, in an Essex Boys' accent.

"Hi," I cleverly retorted, wondering how much beer the copper could smell drifting from the interior of the car.

"You do realise, o' course, that you were doing firty-six miles an hour in a firty zone?"

"Was I?" I said, imitating a ventiloquist: I didn't want to part my lips for fear of knocking him over with beer breath.

"Yes you were, sir."

"Oh dear, sorry about that."

"Ne'er mine that. You have two options. One. I will 'and you an on-the-spot fine and free demerit points or, option two, you drive firty metres furfer on and be ticked off by a coupla irate schoolkids."

"Really?"

"Yes sir."

"I'll take option 2."

"Everybody does sir."

So I drove on thirty metres and, sure enough, several schoolkids supervised by another couple of coppers were standing by the side of the road. Two other motorists were already on the footpath being spoken to by small boys. A female copper asked me to step out of the car and informed me that my interrogators would be two 8 year old girls named Sophie and Denise.

"Fank you sir," said the copper. "Now, Sophie, would you like to ask this gentleman your first question?"

"Ok," said Sophie, hunched in her coat: it was bloody freezing out there. Steamed emanated from mouths, noses, arseholes. "Why were you speedin'?"

"Oh. Well. Um. I'm from Australia and I..."

"Ooh Australia!" said Denise, suddenly interested in what had otherwise been a dull and cold morning. "My nan's just been t'Australia."

"That's a long way," said Sophie. "It's the uvver side o' the world innit?"

"Yes," I said, starting to see I could get off pretty lightly. "It took me 27 hours to get here."

"Ooh."

"Ok sir," interrupted the copper, eyeing me suspiciously. "You'll 'ave to finish your answer."

"Oh. Ok. Well, I'm really sorry for speeding, but I wasn't aware of your local speed limit. I made a mistake. I should've been more vigilant of your speed signs."

"You sound like Toady from Neighbours...," began Sophie.

"That's an honest answer innit girls?" said the copper.

The girls mumbled something.

"Now, Denise, your turn to ask the gentleman a question."

"Oh. Sir, how would you feel if you knocked down a small child while speedin' frew our village?"

Things had taken a darker turn. I got nervous and nearly blurted out "And I'm drunk too!"

"Oh. I think it would be the worst thing that could happen to someone," I finally said. "You'd regret it for the rest of your life. And from now on I'm not going to speed ever again." And I meant it.

"What do you fink, girls?" asked the copper.

They mumbled something, huddling further into their coats.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked.

"I can't feel my 'ands," replied Sophie.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the end*. I came away with a) an admiration for English rural policing and b) a good story which I relate with an over-exaggerated and regionally incorrect accent.

And the moral? It is a far more effective way of deterring speeding motorists than being a bastard and slapping them with a fine.


*Except that one of the actors, from the comfort of the back seat of the car, filmed the whole thing on his mobile phone and promises it will appear sometime soon on his facebook page.

Ah, the innocence of youth.

Sunday afternoon was mostly spent wrangling The Boy (aged five), The Boy’s Best Mate (also aged five) and the Best Mate’s Younger Brother (aged two).

While resting in the living room nursing a quiet beer planning more diversions for those young rascals, I overheard the following conversation floating in from the back yard.

The Boy: “Look, look, a centipede, coming out from that rock.”

The Boy’s Best Mate: “Wow! Kill it, kill it! Hit it with a stick!”

TB: “Hang on, I’ll get a brick.”

There followed some scuffling and the sound of muffled thumping.

TB: “There.”

TBBM: ‘Is it dead?”

TB: “I think so. Its head come off.”

TBBM and TB (together): “Cool!!”

That and asking the Younger Brother several hundred times if he needed to go to the toilet was probably the highlight of the weekend.

Girl, 12

Based on a true story:

Boy, 14: I wonder what would happen if I got my dick out.

Girl, 11: Out of where?

Boy: Out of my pants.

Girl: Do you need to wee?

Boy: No, but I have this evolutionary and totally instinctive desire to get it out.

Girl: Well I don't care, whatever.

Boy removes penis from trousers.

Girl: Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?

Boy: My dick.

Girl: Is that what they look like?

Boy: It's what mine looks like.

Girl: Shit, it's fucking disgusting.

Boy: Fair go! I bet your dick is ugly too.

Girl: I don't have a dick.

Boy: What do you have?

Girl: A front bottom. And it certainly doesn't have those revolting hairs around it like yours.

Boy: What the fuck's a front bottom?

Girl: A girl's penis.

Boy: I don't even know what the fuck that means.

Girl: Whatever.

Boy: How do you piss?

Girl: None of your business.

Boy: What would you think if I put my dick in there?

Girl: What the fuck for?

Boy: I dunno. See if it fits.

Girl: Yeah, whatever, I don't care.

*

Girl, 11: Mum!

Mum: What?

Girl: My belly's starting to get bigger.

Mum: Show me.

Girl reveals belly.

Mum: Oh my God! You know what this means?

Girl: No.

Mum: It means we're going to have to cut down to five meals of Maccas per week.

Girl: Aw mum!

*

Girl, now 12: Hey, Boy.

Boy, now 15: What, Girl?

Girl: The doctor says there's a baby growing in my tummy.

Boy: In your tummy?

Girl: Yeah.

Boy: How the fuck did it get in there?

Girl: How the fuck should I know!

Boy: Did the doctor tell you how?

Girl: He said my mum would tell me.

Boy: Yeah, your mum's pretty smart.

Girl: Yeah. She knows the price of everything at the supermarket.

Boy: Cool.

*

Dad: Whose fucken baby is it?

Girl: Mine.

Dad: But who else's?

Girl: Nobody's.

Dad: There must be someone else.

Girl: There isn't, I swear.

Dad: Jesus Christ. Get me a bourbon and coke will ya.

Girl gets Dad a Woodstock pre-mixed can while he lights up a Winnie Blue.

Dad: That's better. So, who the fuck did you sleep with?

Girl: Last night?

Dad: Last night! Anytime!

Girl: Golly.

Dad: Who the fuck's golly?

Girl: My gollywog!

Dad: Oh Jesus Christ, you fucking little shit! Mum! She's going to have a black baby!

*

Uncle Glen: She was always a good girl. She's the best shot in the family. She could hit a tin can from forty paces. Fuck me if she didn't know how to rope a steer. Christ, who the fuck's going to plough the back paddock now she's knocked up?

*

Auntie Gladys: She was always trouble. Always had a thing for the boys. God knows I slept with boys at 11, but I made them shoot their filthy stuff into the dirt. Girls weren't stupid back in my day. I didn't have my first kid 'til I was 15.

*

Midwife: Push!

Girl: Push what?

Midwife: Push the baby out!

Girl: what with?

Midwife: It's ok, there it is, it's a boy!

Girl: Thank God, Dad woulda killed me.

Boy, 15: What's his name?

Girl, 12: Rawlings.

Boy: Cool. What do you think about getting its ears pierced?

Girl: He's booked in for Thursday.

Boy: Awesome.

Midwife: Would you like to cut the cord?

Boy: Fuck that, I'm going out to get pissed.

Hold the Onions

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again

Ok, I was tempted to blog about the suggested alteration to this classic nursery rhyme from 1810 but, as you can see, it's already been done and, anyway, it's probably just a beat up and, anyway, I really don't care that much because we've been down this road before and we've all got annoyed about it - perhaps even angry - and we're probably mostly over the ridiculousness of these acts of stupidity and the ludicrousness of these crimes of absurdity.

After all, are kids really going to be offended, scared or saddened by some dimwit (and clearly fictional and largely comical if we can make a judgement from the picture above) egg taking a tumble off a wall and smashing his protective shell into smithereens, and thereafter dying a horrible death while being picked over by the King's four and twenty blackbirds (ok, that's a different nursery rhyme but I'm imagining a Tarantino or Altman-esque screenplay where nursery rhyme characters' lives intersect)?

I mean, there's even a moral here: kids, don't climb shit cos it's dangerous. Eggs are, after all, things to be eaten (and that's apart from their very important role of providing a cosy, gestational home for foetuses). I personally like mine fried with a side of bacon and mushrooms and liberally seasoned with pepper. Eggs, not foetuses. Preferably on thick, heavy, European style toast if it's available. And I'll sip a flat white while I'm about it thanks very much waitress and do that walk as you head back to the kitchen that's the girl.

But it got me thinking about nursery rhymes in general. Many of them revolve around death, injury or violence. Let's look at Jack n Jill. Two stupid kids climbing shit, falling over and cracking their skulls open. Ring a Ring a Rosy is about dying horrifically from the Black Death. Goosey Goosey Gander? A guy gets thrown down the stairs for not saying his prayers. I suspect Perseus and Boogey could entertain us with a grandiloquent discussion about the merits of this one. A baby crashes to its presumed death in Rockabye Baby. And then there are the sudden beheadings in Oranges and Lemons.

This all occurred to me as I recited nursery rhymes to my son in attempt to get him to sleep last night. No wonder he has nightmares.

The Details

I went to the Dali exhibition on Sunday with the Missus and the Kid. The queue was very long but we bypassed this frustrating occupation thanks to my son's ability to whinge at the right moment. A compassionate security guard (yes, they exist) allowed us to use the members' queue. Lovely.

It was interesting, particularly his earlier works which were prima facie unrelated to his more famous surrealist stuff. You know, the melting clocks and so on.

What I found most interesting was my four year old son's reaction to the paintings. I'd been apprehensive. Would he be interested? Would he last the distance as I did the slow, plodding, gallery shuffle? Boy, he loved it. He didn't want to look at every painting - who did? - but chose those that caught his attention such as the self portrait pictured above entitled The Sick Child.

My son saw things, details, that at first I hadn't seen. For example in The Sick Child the first thing he saw were the long fingers. He questioned me about it. Fortunately he's still at the age where he believes everything I say and thinks I know everything (one day he'll be shattered but for now I'm happy to ride that wave) and so I blabbed something obscure which he accepted. Standing before another painting he noticed that the subject had 'pooed his pants'.

"I don't think so," I said, staring closer at the brown mess below the arse of the man on the rocks.

"I think he has Daddy."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe he has pooed his pants."

"He has!"

"Jesus Christ, he has too!"

"I told you."

"Yes but I was looking at the bigger picture."

"I was looking at the poo. Look! He's bleeding from his head."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Look!"

"He is too."

"You're silly Daddy."

Quite. I was looking at the forest. He was looking at the trees.