Kall the Kops! Kevin's Kracked and gone Kwazy!

Sometimes I have to re-focus my snot-green eyes and glance again at the miniscule time and date bar on my watch to check that it is still August 2007. This week it's because our aspiring national leader, Kevin Rudd, went to a strip club in New York one beer-fuelled evening ........ about four years ago.

Bless Greens leader Bob Brown's little cotton socks. He would easily win a 'quote of the week' contest if I had anything to give away instead of crinkled chocolate wrappers: "Four years ago Kevin Rudd got drunk and took himself into a strip club. Four years ago John Howard, sober, took Australia into the Iraq war. I think the electorate can judge which one did the more harm."

On Channel nine's 'Today Show', 35% of their viewers bored enough to ring in decided that they would not vote for Kev-the-Rev due to his naughty night out in NYC. Well ram my face into a combine harvester and call me Fraser Gehrig - who here hasn't gone to a nudey bar at least once in their lives? Glenn Milne, the so-called journalist who released this information, perhaps should consider installing some nuclear block-out blinds in his own glass house because the memory of his slobby, drunken lunge at the founder of the Crikey during the Walkley Awards is surely a hell of a lot more offensive than sitting down and seeing a few bouncing objects in front of you.....

If that's all our silver bodgie Prime Minister Bob Hawke got up to - a drunken night out in NYC - we'd have been surprised; disappointed even. He was the Rhodes Scholar who held the world record for sculling beer from a yard glass. That didn't stop him from being elected and re-elected, did it? Not only that, but Bob-a-job was well known for venturing a little further beyond ol Hazel's green hills towards other perhaps more well-travelled women and yet he still managed to keep 'Little Johnny Howard' (who was in fact taller than Bob) well and truly ground under his heel like a long-forgotten juicyfruit.

Like Kevin, our country's baby boomer 'Milky Bar Kid', I too went to a nudie bar. (Waving away howls of protest, shrieks of shock, tears of indignation and dismay). Yes, I voluntarily and quite soberly decided to go and see the world-famous (well, in Adelaide at least) 'Dazzling Darryl' in glorious, flesh-toned action.

It was 1988 when my 20th birthday rolled around. It was the era of spiral perms, buying canvas 'Country Road' bags instead of their over-priced clothing, Rattle'n'Hum, MTV on Channel Nine after 10:30pm and saving up for a real pair of RayBans. Judgement at that stage of my life wasn't as razor sharp as it is now - I was convinced that LA Law's Harry Hamlin was intelligent, Arnold Scharwenegger was a comedy genius in 'Twins' and Terence Trent D'Arby would have a very long and successful music career.

.....Back to the balmy evening in early November, when 'Kokomo' ruled the charts and Charlene had just left 'Neighbours'. About a dozen of my closest girl friends decided it was a good enough excuse to hit the girlie bar next to ChaChi's Mexican Cantina on Glen Osmond Road. The boobie bar ran a male revue about once a week and we all thought it was high time to support our local performing arts.

I would dearly like to say that I was too drunk to remember any of it, but it wouldn't be true. It is very hard to describe how soul-destroying it was to be served drinks by a waiter wearing only a leather cod-piece. This had a silver zip across the ~er~ 'widest bit' that he unzipped and rummaged through a tad over-enthusiastically to hand out the rather warm one and two dollar coins he used as change. It certainly didn't add to the anticipation considering he looked like an overly-detoxed Mr Bean. However it wasn't his erotica-erasing appearance that made me sober; it was the price of the friggin' drinks - about a week's rent in my case. I nursed one meagre glass of Southern Comfort and coke like it was God's own golden tears.

Then, one interminable song after the other, the 'acts' came out. Fellas, it must be said: Penises are not pretty. In fact, being forced to endure proud displays of corned beef dangled in front of our eyes every ten minutes or so took me back to my first (and only) excursion to the Murray Bridge meatworks. Sheep carcases were hung ready for gutting, and the marauding meat flutes helping me visually 'celebrate' my birthday recalled the cruelly disrespectful methods the factory workers used to rip out the poor animals' gizzards, let them tremble and reverberate in their hands for a while before flinging them on to the metwurst pile.

By the time Dazzling Darryl, had, um 'dazzled' us, my comrades' eyes were firmly on the exit sign as we frantically tried to work out a subtle escape plan - we just didn't need to see any more overly oiled inverted triangles pretend to blow into their silver cowboy guns and 'seductively' whip off their satin riding chaps, let alone be forced to cheer and whistle and give their forlorn-looking nooky fruits a standing ovation. It made me realise that the male fruit basket represented a divine accident - it was as though one of God's assistants had inadvertently dropped a scrap pile of earlobes, kidneys and elbow skin while leaning over Adam with a dustpan brushing away the excess body hair.

Escape looked very tricky. Our path to freedom was blocked by several tables of drunk (therefore richer than us, and infinitely more stupid) girls on hens' nights, accompanied by their even-drunker mothers. These tables lapped it all up as the willy wigglers danced, going as far as rushing the stage and dragging them over to their tables for a lap dance. Our table, on the other increasingly-nauseated hand, steadfastly refused to make eye contact when Lug Nuts or Dazzling or Wazza Walnut or whoever the hell was on stage was deciding which table was going to be treated to a close up view of his ~ahem~ personality. Naturally, this meant that our table was selected. Every single time.

The Mulleted MC would scream into his microphone, "Sooooo ladeez, who is celebrating something tonight?" and I would immediately and savagely hiss at my friends: "If Any Of You Dare Say It's My Birthday I Will Never Ever Speak To You Again And I If I Have To Go To The Ends Of The Earth To Make Sure I Fill Out Lifetime Subscriptions To The 'Plain Truth' To You Forever I Will Do and Don't Think I Won't Set My Phone To Ring Pizza Hut Home Delivery On The Hour Every Hour To Send Orders To Your Houses And While You Are Dealing With Boxes Of Bad Food And Angry Drivers I Will Sneak Inside And Fill Your Toothpaste Tubes With Anusol Until You Are Left Crumbled In A Sobbing Heap, Pleading With Me To Accept Your Heartfelt Apologies For The Evil Act Of Saying 'IT'S MILLYMOO'S BIRTHDAY OVER HERE', I Hope I Have Made My Feelings Clear Enough To You."

Luckily for me, I had. There were enough inebriated brides-to-be clamoring for a poke at Policeman Pete's pectorals or a sly snap of Sizzlin' Steve's sequined snake-sling to keep the fellas busy and well enough away from me. Noelene, a Kahlua-charged mother-of-the-bride had hoisted her sausage-like bulk onto the stage and was attempting to treat us to a striptease of her own devising. This was our sign to leave the bar when all eyes were unwillingly repulsed and fascinated by the events unfolding on the stage.

So as a pathetic attempt at closing this with a moral - there's a lesson here for all of us. By all means go to your nudey rudey entertainments, but don't be surprised if you discover that you'd rather have the soles of your feet stapled to the back of your head instead. Perhaps that's something Glenn Milne, parliament-sniggerer Alexander Downer and Little Johnny himself should consider.

Cringeing, Craptacular Cardigans!

A short while ago, the ever-gorgeous and insightful reader, 'River', expressed curiosity about my professed aversion to cardigans.

There are in fact, two reasons for this pathological distaste: one, the actual clothing item itself which I've always hated; and two, the types of people who have worn them throughout my employment history. I explained this a year or two ago, but for those of you who find my revulsion inexplicable, read on.......

Despite the fact that I belong squarely within the 'Administration' sphere myself, most of the administratum anuses (anii? anoose??) I have to deal with are just that - arseholes clogging up efficiencies because their fat filing fingers are up their own ........my brain tells me that you have the ability to complete this sentence yourself.

Perhaps I'm lumping too many of my fellow university administrators (whom I tend to refer to as 'Cardigans') in the same wastepaper basket, but - give me strength - I have yet to see any evidence to the contrary that most of them do not merely exist to ensure that I still have to wear my double-strength mouthguard at night in order to prevent cracking my crowns in teeth-clenching frustration. In fact, if I dared refer this blog to a certain bonehead on a neighbouring campus, she'd be likely to point out that the first sentence of this paragraph is far too long and I'd do much better to have a good read through the uni's 'Style and Formatting Guidelines for External Correspondence.'

The worst thing though, is that I have to email/nod/say "Ooh, that's helpful" really politely because without a successful liaison with these soul-sucking simpletons the thing I must get done won't get done without them. As with most large government departments, companies and corporations, these little dropkicks have created many intricate levels of task requests, online job logging, permission forms, account codes, invoice duplication, 'help desk' contacts and, perhaps most ironic of all, 'customer service portals' that even a naked, chocolate-slicked and willing George Clooney wouldn't be able to break through.

Any reasonable effort made to speak to a living, breathing Cardigan without formally completing the Delegations Directory is rebuffed or referred to voicemail where it lingers longer than a Christmas ham at a Jewish Vegan convention. Even when you do try your best to complete the hellish paperwork, they are always designed by Satan. Yes, Satan. On every page, in the greyed-out 'For Office Use Only' sections there are secret little compartments that spew your application back to you via internal mail (or via sea urchin, whichever is slowest), stamped in red with 'Incomplete data. Please include your unit's cost codes.'

On no account are these carcinogenic Cardigans ever prepared to explain to you exactly what information you left out or what they need to be able to help you. No, that would be robbing them of their power, wouldn't it? Let's face it - if you're single, 43, living in a flat with seven cats/chins and some plastic trolls blue-tacked to your computer monitor, you're not exactly a raging success in life, are you? Therefore, what better way to boost your self esteem than to possess the only key to the stationery cupboard and take an unpublicised flex day during a 3,000 strong survey mail-out?

Furthermore, you must never, ever make the assumption that their ability to excrete all over your executive existence only falls within office administration. Sadly, these post-it ponces will always fly into an email rage if anyone dares to fling out their tub of yoghurt that was dated before the first Bush got into office, moves their indoor fern ten centimetres to make way for a filing cabinet or leaves a coffee cup ring on the boardroom table. If they don't choose to chuck a tantie in cyberspace, they'll instead spend all morning designing a badly-spelled, printed sign to stick all over the offending fridge door/dumb waiter/vacant desk; thus avoiding having to work on the pesky things like the urgent phone calls from world-renowned professors stranded by militia at the Botswana international airport or the toilet now leaking into the reception area.

Sadly, there is no known, long-term effective solution to rid the universe of this determined breed of sub-human. All I do to cope is try to imagine a worse alternative. You know, something like having a puffer fish swim up my left nostril and inflate itself; bending over for a rectal examination in the middle of Rundle Mall during the post-Christmas sales or being forced to have sex with Philip Ruddock. It actually does help to reduce the pain a few notches.

Learner Drivers

We are lucky enough to have a park in our street and Dogadoo and I tend to visit there for a brief walk, sniff and crap (Dogadoo, not me) before having our lunch break. When sitting on my favourite park bench in the winter sun, I've noticed how many learner drivers use either side of the park (it has two suburban streets as its western and eastern boundaries) for their lessons.

As Dogadoo busied herself chewing a champagne cork by the BBQ and my brain was whirring away on an annoying case of writer's block; along came a learner car, with the 'L' plate on top about as large as a neon BP sign. The little corolla did few skip-jump laps around the park and a bit of gear crunching. 'Fair enough,' I thought vaguely. 'You have to learn some time, and 11am in the 'burbs on a weekday is about as safe a time as any.'

Our good fortune in having a gorgeous park and playground in our street is somewhat toned down by having a McDonald's at the end of it, facing the ever-busy Magill Road. I believe we are involved in a wasted physics PhD opportunity in that it clearly takes the average drunken bogan walking home on a Friday night the exact distance from Maccas to our house before they decide they no longer feel hungry but sick. They then automatically drop their unwanted thickshake, half-eaten McCoronary burger and stomp on sachets of dipping sauce for that Pro Hart, "I woz 'ere" effect.

The reason I mention this is that, during the weekdays, Maccas is the lunchroom of choice for many tradesmen, local veterinary staff and skiving students. Several of these were ambling through the park and could be heard making fun of the learner driver.
"Omigod, check it out over there," said Miss Norwood-Morialta. "Like, that chick in the car's like soooo getting it wrong, look at her."
Mr Marryatville agreed, his Adam's apple bobbling as he ate his McCrapple pie. "She can't parallel park for nuts!"
"How embarrassing," suggested Saint Joseph. "I would like totally die with my arse in the air if I was caught doing that."

As much as I wanted to tear strips off them for being so scathing I knew it would be wasted on those who were still too young to sit their L-plate theory test. They'd just regard me as some local loony given to berating irresponsible teenagers in local parks. Sure, they'd be correct, but why waste my breath? Instead, it took me back to 1985, when I dared to thumb my nose at convention and only learn how to drive a full YEAR after bothering to get my L plates.....

My parents owned two cars at the time - a 1973 volvo like this one, and a 1979 Toyota Landcruiser that required a forklift to sit in if you were less than five foot five tall. It also had a bull-bar that Dad had welded himself and presumably installed for our protection in case any angry rhinos or razorback boars crossed our paths in the wild streets of Murray Bridge.

Seeing as my folks were proud of their white whale and regularly discussed how safe it was, it was a given that I'd be taught to drive in it. Now we all know the old jokes about Volvo drivers (my grandpa even featured in a short film about them!) but she never let us down. The engine that could be heard several kilometres away, and I suspect that Mum and Dad appreciated it's volume when they lay in bed and glanced at their clocks to see if I'd got in before my 1am curfew or not. At the time of my driving lessons however, I was only thinking of how nice it would be to sit in the front seat and not in the back - the brown hessian seat covers - and smell - of the back held far too many car sick memories to contemplate with any fondness.

Mum was the first brave soul to help me, although she did look rather nervous. After spending about 20 minutes bunny-hopping our way around the golf course, she allowed to me to drive full pelt (or 50km/hour, which felt pretty bloody fast to me) up the Brinkley Road. Her reason for this was to escape any more painful gear changes; the sniggers of locals on the putting greens and to presumably have less targets for me to run into. Brinkley Road was kind of like an over-priced foccaccia - flat, dry and featureless. Every now and then Mum would feel a surge of security overtake her common sense and urge me to look out of the window at a retarded sheep, or crumbled hayshed, which would see me veer all over the road and Mum sitting there with her eyes closed, mumbling something about "....who art in heaven...."

When the lesson ended, Mum, a strict teetotaller, would rush inside and, failing having anything like vodka available, would tear into our den, where her sewing machine lived. She'd lift the machine off from the base and dive into the four family blocks of chocolate she had stored there. When I ambled inside a few minutes later, I could hear the unmistakable crackle of paper and foil before the 'thock!' sound of several rows being snapped off for consumption.

Dad was a senior high-school teacher and was going to make certain that I had all my driving techniques covered - no freewheelin' at 50 clicks for him. He would instead insist that we drive over the actual bridge at Murray Bridge which was scary enough, as the cast iron girders each side seemed to have a magnetic effect adn I was convinced I'd smash into the side. We would then find ourselves at the bottom of Look Out Hill, a popular spot for, well, looking out over the river and town and also for snogging late at night. For Dad however, it was the perfect place to teach his daughter the complexities of hill starts using the breaks, hand-break and gears.




Never drink and parallel park...... Never parallel park.




He was merciless and made me do it over and over and over again. At one stage I got out of the car, crying in frustration and rage, saying, "I hate you and don't want to learn how to drive - you do it - I'm walking home!"

..... which I did. Mum patted me on the arm and confided, "Your Dad taught me how to drive when we were engaged." She paused for a moment before going on, "Let's just say that the marriage was called off more than once and there were many times when your very existence - and your brothers' may not have eventuated."

Still, as Dad promised, I'd thank him later for it, and so, 22 years later: Thanks, Dad. I did pass my driving test - at first try! I couldn't 'rank' if my life depended on it, but managed to pull a passable attempt at landing the volvo between two thin sticks outside of the Cameo Cinema on examination day. I've since been advised that the term 'ranking' must have been a phrase used only by Murray Bridge-eans, and 'parallel parking' is the accepted term. I'd like to be able to defend my home town's preference, but considering that they thought the dump and tannery would be ideally placed by the river and that rendering fat at the meatworks would go a treat on hot, still summer nights, maybe I won't.

Since then I've needed about five car spots in a row so that I can glide the station wagon in like a jumbo jet or else I'm forced to park in shame about three streets away from where I need to be (which is getting increasingly difficult in *&^%ing Norwood, believe me).

But on that victorious, summer night, with my plastic P stuck proudly in the back and front windows, I drove over to my boyfriend Sean's place and took him out to the drive-in. All was well (as things tend to go with two consenting teenagers at the drive-in when something as utterly con-compelling as 'Short Circuit' and 'Policy Academy II' were on) between us, until I pulled into his parents' driveway - I'd forgotten to put the lights on.

Brotherly Love
I have a lot to thank my brothers for, but would rather give them both a dead leg followed by the typewriter, a few thigh slaps and top it all off with a hen-peck. Add a couple of 'Woo Woo Woos' ala the Three Stooges and you get my drift.

Robert is two years older than me (tallest one on the left, in 1981) and David is two years younger than me (The human Bowl-Cut Boy nearer left), and, as the only girl, a lot of my non-reading and non-Abba-record-dancing time was spent participating in brotherly pursuits.

Franzy got the ball (or more specifically, marble) rolling the other day during his nostalgic piece on playing marbles at school. Rob and Dave also jumped on that particular boy bandwagon and as the sister, I sometimes participated and learned a skill or two. Whilst I was never good enough to win any decent tombolas or cats' eyes from the bros, it did surprise a few of my classmates when I could flick a few of the leaders' marbles out of the ring, scoop them up triumphantly and put them in my own, customised marble bag (a purple paisley draw-string number lovingly created by Mum). During the fanta and coca-cola yo-yo phases though, I was utter crap and could only silently admire Rob's dazzling skills at 'around the world', 'walking the dog' and 'the pendulum'.

Robert always seemed so much bigger, smarter and worldly to me: two years was a huge developmental gap in primary and early high school years and I learned very early on that starting a fight with him was guaranteed to end in tears - and a few of my precious possessions being slung into the huntsman spider-infested cubbyhouse as a triple retaliation. Plus he was the master of the cutting and witty insult and my addled younger brain could never come up with a retort wittier than, "You are!". It was easier for me to retreat to the 'good room' (ie the front living room that was never actually used, let alone lived in) with a 1940s Enid Blyton my Mum had saved from her childhood and stay out of his way.

Sadly, Dave was too young and too dumb to adopt this approach. In his spindly, skinny, sickly little seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, twenty seven, thirty five year old heart, he honestly thought that one day he'd be able to throw Rob a punch that would render him out for the count. Approximately three times a day (triple figures if it was a Saturday or Sunday), he would walk up to Rob and give him a swift kick up the arse or in the shins and stand there, in genuine open-mouthed shock when Rob's body refused to crumple to the floor.

In the manner of a saltwater crocodile lazily inhaling a mosquito, Rob would almost carelessly thump Dave in the thigh and turn back to reading the newspaper or thrashing me at Monopoly. Dave's ear-drum piercing screams would reverberate around the house as he raced off to dob the Evil Giant in to his parents for the punishment of a lifetime. The little pipsqueak would rush into the dining room, his mouth an agonised square of pain and indignation, only to have Mum speaking from her cup of weak tea or Dad not raising his eyes from the bowl of weetbix in front of him, saying in a disinterested monotone: "Buzz off David, you asked for it."

Sometimes I'd feel sorry for the little pest and promise him that I'd be his 'Slave For the Day' from then on.

The poor little sucker fell for it every time. No sooner had I brought him his summoned cup of green cordial, a slice of Balfour's swiss roll and whatever Star Wars figurine was in favour, than he'd push his luck a bit too much. "I order you to give me a piggy back ride to Tom the grocer's and spend all your pocketmoney on Wizz fizz, Fags and Hubba Bubba all for me." The phrase, 'Yeah, whatever' wasn't in vogue then, so I'd just walk outside, hop on my malvern star and head off to Jodi's house. I'd hear his high pitched accusation in the distance: "Hey MillyMoo, come back here! If you don't, you're not getting the twenty cents I promised you!"

Life for Dave wasn't all about bullying and abandonment. He was frequently very seriously ill from asthma and had to be transferred to my room when Robert's patience at the night time attacks grew thin and he'd give Dave a dead leg or two to indicate his displeasure. In my room he could continue suffering for hours because my sleep patterns were far longer and deeper than they are now. When he was feeling well, he was an ideal testing ground for Frida costumes (it was a non-negotiable choice; I was always Agnetha), dance moves, art classes and maybe - just maybe - be persuaded to share some of his hoardings.

Dave used to have more saved twenty cent pieces, airline packets of peanuts and ancient easter eggs than a 1976 Don Dunstan time capsule. Rob and I would either bank or spend our pocket money and eat whatever treats we were given long before their due date, but David kept his stored for years. Those peanuts will still be around somewhere - alongside his perfect Star Wars figurines and his 'Have a Great Day' t-shirt that he wore constantly between 1975 and oh, about 1992. On our big Queensland trip in 1979, he thought we'd reached Nirvana when he clapped eyes on the Big Banana. The only way we could persuade him to leave the place was by describing the various kiosks, gift shops and souvenirs he could look through. That night, on the tiny top bunk of our caravan, he had decided his future: "I'm going to run a kiosk that sells souvenirs that rip off the tourists." Awww, bless his little eight-year-old heart of stone.

Finally, in my early teens, I worked out a way to defeat Robert at Monopoly. By quitting. He hated me saying, "Oh, I can see you've got hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane, as well as the greens and yellows, so I'll quit now - you've won, well done." That was more painful to him than slicing his back with a cheese grater and sprinkling it with salt: "Noooo MillyMoo, you've still got a chance, look - you've nearly got the whole set of pale blues....Hey, come back - how about I give you $500 and chuck in Fenchurch Station..... PLEASE come back!" The thrill of the drawn out thrashing was denied him as I hunted out Dave who was invariably in the 'poolroom', slumped in the brown velvet beanbag watching the exciting channel ten 'Midday Matinee' featuring Jason and his argonauts or Hercules roughly kissing what looked like a 1960s Italian porn star.

My sporting assistance wasn't quite so valuable, unfortunately. I threw like, well, a girl, could only bowl underarm and refused to play cricket unless a softer tennis ball was used (although during games of 'brandy' that same ball felt like a Mach-3 speed cannon shot to me). Being forced to be the wicket keeper or bottom-of-the-barrel bum-wallah who had to go next door when Rob hit a six and out wasn't particularly inviting, so I'd just stay over there and see what Amanda was up to instead.

It wasn't all a physical fizzle however: I could kick a footy reasonably well, but marked it as though I was catching a netball and refused to tackle. And whilst I may not have been the ultimate tennis opponent for Rob, he was a fabulous form of training for me. His utter competitiveness and willingness to risk a hernia every time he strained for the ball meant that I did the same in return and regularly thrashed my female opponents (and even a couple of teenage boys) during Saturday morning junior tennis. The only thing I chose not to borrow from his on-court prowess was his tendency to stick his tongue out when concentrating. He denies that he ever did this to this very day, but I bet his tongue's out when installing a particularly complicated piece of plumbing equipment!

Over twenty years later and those two hilarious, infuriating, annoying and odd-ball boys are my friends and pretty bloody hilarious, loving, generous and kind ones at that. I love youse, Robert and David!

Impossible to look away....

It's all my own fault. I like to hoik my heaving bulk up onto my hobby High Horse and pontificate to Love Chunks about the crass and clueless celebrities of today.

He always manages to prick my pomposity to a whirring, rapidly deflating balloon when he counters with, "Well you READ the stuff, so they're making money because of you."
"Oh no they're not - I read it online, I don't buy those ~ pause to add a snobby-but-dramatic shudder ~ magazines."

His look of contempt was withering enough to singe my eyebrows. "Haven't you noticed the advertising and pop-ups on every page? They love faux intellectuals like you!"

Humph. Yeah, well.... Take yesterday for example. Richard - I still wear those stupid chunky jumpers from airport souvenir shops - Branson has obviously felt the need to show off more than he usually does. His normal modus operandi is throw around millions of dollars that would be better spent providing malaria tablets and AIDS education to needy communities, to instead ponce about in hot air balloons trying to break records that generate about as much excitement as scum build-up on bathroom tiles.

So very clearly a bloke trapped in a mid-life crisis, he revealed yesterday that he was definitely NOT a Mile High Club virgin and had left his finger prints on a toilet mirror or two. He then 'treated' us to an anecdote about his first experience with Viagra, concluding that "I had to tie something around my trousers the next day to make sure nothing showed." Rest assured, Dicky dear, no-one was looking.

And why oh why did I happen to come across an old Oprah repeat where the clearly deranged Janet Jackson (in a thin phase, so it must have been Michael was still white) tell Oprah that her numerous below the neck piercings left her feeling aroused. All the time. If I'm not mistaken, her current Rump-pumpy partner is a dead ringer for a fresh stack of camel crap, so maybe she needs all the metallic help she can get.

Despite my horror, I remain fascinated. And ashamed of my fascination. I have a book to write, a family to care for, a child to inspire, washing to fold! ...........To read recently that Geri Slapper Spice Halliwell had dated Little Britain's David Walliams....! She had confided to one of those slippery little close insiders that it was the ~*cough*~ size of his wand as well as the magic he could wring from it that made him the Geri-jammin' stud muffin of her dreams. I'm still struggling to work out what is more repulsive: he being attracted to Geri or she deciding that his love muscle was the best thing about him. Pity her daugher, poor little BlueBell Clueless Prancy Unicorny kiddie whatshername thingy.

There are some good sides to being a secret celebrity vomit voyeur however - their pathetic escapades, Brazilian-exposes and faulty fashion choices make me - slightly less sylph-like and moneyed - feel rather good about myself. As such, it's time for some more Self Esteem Boosters!

Kirsten Dunst. She may be only 25, earn millions for her 'acting skills' in Spiderman but even a size zero needs a bra to re-lift and rectify the 'ol rack droop. What's her shirt made out of - my grandma's bathroom curtain?


Steve Martin, 61, married Anne Whatsit, 35 on the weekend. I'm not sure which one to pity the most. (They make *me* look addicted to permatan and people don't call me Fluoro Legs without good reason.)

Poor old boofhead Britney is really just saving reality TV companies a fortune by living out her own trash tube show, isn't she? Not a day goes past that she's not wearing a G-string to the kindergym or driving back from a nightclub with a newly-bought baby harp seal shoved in her naval ring and her two sons occy-strapped to the SUV's bullbar...

This shot is apparently from her latest single and reveals her continued determination to remain a powerful role model to the tweens and has-beens. It's such a comfort to know she was awarded dual custody when her divorce to Devon Spermline was finalised yesterday.

Could this be the face and fate of our dear, sweet, sensitive Britney in 20 years' time? Thanks to drugs, surgery and botox, Courtney now has a mummified mouth that could suck the seeds of a lemon a mile away and has to pluck her bikini line which has moved up under her chin.

When the research laboratory runs out of beagles for experiments, they call on Clinically-Dead Courtney instead. She doesn't feel a thing: she thinks it's Frances looking for the keys to the liquor cabinet.

I'll conclude this post with a picture of horror that is still allowed to roam freely and relatively undisturbed. That's right, Madonna's arms. Do they even have skin covering them any more or does she directly spray paint the sinews and muscles white before she goes out? And is it just me, but is she getting face lifts downwards instead of sideways like Courtney? Is a horse the look she's going for?

* thanks to the Superficial, eonline and go fug yourself for the photos

What if we all sucked?

If you've ever spent time with anyone aged under two recently, you will not have failed to notice that everything - everything - everything (to paraphrase Mr Haggle, our retarded rug retailer) goes into their mouths.

As you can see from the gorgeous young Zara here on the left, even a felt Kermit is worth sticking in at least six times before deciding that the pink plastic motorbike is a much more mouth-friendly option.

It got me to thinking: What if we all sucked? Well maybe we all do already, but let's forget kicking our own arses for a while about our achievements and ponder my query from another angle: what if our nine-month old tendency to 'try before we buy' involved putting everything into the 'ol cake hole before we did anything else with it?

Can you imagine how messy grocery shopping would become?
If our oral urges were still strong, we would be literally drooling on unpeeled bananas and giving grapes a good gumming over before putting the soggy selections into the trolley. Tins would be licked; corners of packets popped in the mouth for quality control and heaven help us if toilet paper was no longer wrapped in plastic. My thoughts go out to the check out operators who would have to patiently wait for us to stop sucking our credit cards before handing them over, still dripping with drool, for payment. Then we would have to try and flatten out their paper mache balls that were formerly our receipts so that we can get our 4c petrol discount later on.

How we would ever find the time to get the groceries into the car and head off to work? The average set of car keys would have to rank in the parental all time top ten choices for 'Impromptu toys to entertain toddlers when no toys are available.' In doctors' waiting rooms around the world are millions of knee-high nibblers busily inserting keys into their mouths and then taking them out and shaking the set to not only hear the jangle but also to see the sprays of saliva catch the light in a dazzling display. If we also were as fascinated, imagine how clogged the car parks would become. We would have to eat our entire weekly shop because of the time taken to suck every key, the door handle, antenna, gear stick, seat-belt buckle and the container of wet-ones shoved in the glove box since 1997.

Sales of bottled water, filters and tanks would skyrocket due to the need to top ourselves up with ten times the fluids we do now. As Tom Hanks said to the drooling dog he inherited in the movie 'Turner and Hooch': "Isn't there some way we could use that stuff? Like for some industrial lubricant or something?" What would the workplace be like - I sure as hell wouldn't be as keen to lend or borrow my stapler, hole punch or liquid paper and job interviews could get far too personal.

First dates could be a much more erotic - or repellent experience, depending on your thrill factor and point of view. Do I suck his ---------------- jacket zipper while we're in the car or wait until we're inside the cafe? Should I lean in to lick her -------- handbag strap during the movie or afterwards? Ooooh yuck, why does his hair taste like coconut and glue? Crikey, when was the last time she washed behind her ears??

Our-two-years-and-under role models also use their oral fixations to keep themselves amused when they're not feeding, backing out a John Howard into their huggies or laughing at Daddy tripping over the mega bloks. If you have nothing to do try their techniques: grab the dog's tail, give it a saturating suck and rub it all over Mummy's new designer sofa cushions like a poochy paint brush. Or, if you're into living on the edge, have a bite of the barkchips covering the ficus and regurgitate them into the nearest unoccupied shoe. Don't forget the bookshelf - who says it's not fun to dampen each and every Encyclopaedia Britannica with farex-flavoured saliva?

Oh well, it'd be cheaper than smoking and less fattening that a faceful of fries.

Immature Orange



As some of you may know, my 8 year old daughter Sapphire and I have been going to weekly karate lessons since December last year. In January we earned our 'yellow tip' belts and then the full yellow in February. A couple of weeks ago we were shoulder-tapped by the sensei and asked to do the test for the orange belt.

I was pumped: the second kata is not unlike a rather complex set of dance steps - albeit designed to shake off an attacker trying to grab your arms and getting a swift chop to the throat in retaliation. Not sure that the vienna waltz would work out too well as an accompanying soundtrack but it was thrilling to be chosen (you are not allowed to ask to be tested, your sensei decides when you are ready) and I was ready to 'dance' to the new orange tune. Nevertheless, such silly thoughts were not in my brain as I jubilantly skipped back to the carpark.

Deliberately fumbling for the keys meant that I could do a few awe inspiring 'moves' in front of the reflective car door, and Sapphire managed to pop my balloon of self-inflated pompousness by pointing out that, "Mum, we can't do the second kata test next week. I'm in the school concert."

Pffffftttttzzzzzz went the wind out of my sails (and a sly fart or two, after all it was karate and an hour of bending, lunging and high kicking is hell on the bowels after a long day paying proper attention to my fibre requirements).
"Oh. Yeah. That's right," I said as tonelessly as I could manage. "You're in a recorder group thingy, aren't you?" And then I tried to do what no parent should ever do - I tried to guilt her out of being in her own school concert: "Look, do you really need to be in it? I mean, can't Maya and Lucinda do 'Speed Bonny Boat' without you?"

Not for the first time did Sapphire's expression of hurt, disdain and utter disapproval reverse our roles - me as the selfish child and she, the towering personification of maturity, consideration and fairness. "Oh, Mum."

My apologies were brushed aside during the drive back home and she rushed inside to dob on me before I'd even finished locking up the car.
"Dad, hey D-a-a-a-a-d! Mum wants to try and get me to not to go the concert next week so that we can get our orange belts! She told me to quit the recorder so that we don't have to wait until October to get tested again!!"

Well putting it like that didn't make my actions sound too noble, so I stared down at my sneakers and tried to find a tiny shred of self-confidence - which is hard to do when you're dressed in an oversized, white canvas kimono.
"Ah, yes, I did say that, but I had only her continued progress in karate at heart...... she's done so well and is ready for the next stage and...." They both ignored me and went off to have a cuddle and a snack together before she went to bed (and also in time for Love Chunks and I to watch 'Spicks and Specks').

The next morning as we walked together to school, I was recovering from enduring a night of lectures by Love Chunks and a couple of strong coffees to help stir my senses and reawaken my maternal responsibilities. "Sorry about last night, Sapph. I am truly really *dying* to see you in concert and know that you'll be great. After all, your dad and I get to hear you practise every night after school, don't we? That silly orange belt can wait until October."

She reached for my hand - even though she could see some of her classmates - and I knew that I'd been forgiven. Of course, leave it to stupid old me to ruin our precious moment by keeping on pushing the boundaries: "Um, do you know what time you're on? Maybe I can have a chat to Miss Stevenson after her school crossing duty to put you on first and then I could stand outside with your Gi and we could roar on to the dojo straight afterwards and--"
"M-U-U-U-U-U-U-M!"



Oh well. Perhaps the concept of orange stuck with Sapphire, or perhaps it's a clear indication of how much she overhears my conversations with Love Chunks because look what wandered up to me when I was on the phone

..... perhaps I was rewarded with a taste of orange after all.

Coffee Connection

Every morning, my caring and considerate husband, Love Chunks, makes me a big mug of cappuccino courtesy of our gorgeous Gaggia machine. We've had the beloved shiny beast for nearly a year now and boy-oh-boy has it improved our breakfast time.

Not only does it make a delicious, full-frontal, eye-opening caffeine kick-up-the-arse that we both need - nay, crave - each day, but it gives us about five minutes together before our little 8 year old bird starts chirping from her bedroom. We sit up at the bar in our kitchen on our black'n'chrome stools and for those 300 seconds we sip the warm nectar and are content to just 'be'.

My meditation class teacher reckons that this morning ritual is a modern form of meditation in that we are in the moment: we are fully mindful - or appreciating - the act of making, drinking and getting the full benefit from the coffee and we are alone together. Good.

Lately too, this time has become more valuable because Love Chunks has been left to provide about 99% of the parental supervision, entertainment, transport, social coordination, excursions, shopping, cinematic experiences and discipline required to ensure that Sapphire remains alive, sane and relatively unspoiled. He has also cooked a gourmet-standard dinner every evening and still found time for piano practice and muscle-pumping in our backyard gym.

His mediocre marital reward is seeing me like this first thing in the morning (and at night) and hearing my endless stream of complaints about sore neck and shoulders, being too farty from the new fibre diet, pining for chocolate, crying about my weight gain from said chocolate, insomnia from worrying about how the chapters in my book are panning out and the odd visit from Mr Migraine. My poor swindled soulmate!

Even so, our coffee time together is the time I long for. I lean against his side, feeling his warmth and strength and am so grateful for the support and encouragement he's been giving me.

After our coffees we'll chat about things that matter to us - Sapphire first and then stuff about our upcoming house renovation, a future holiday, his overseas trip for work and how cute Dogadoo is. If he's made me two cups of coffee, he'll even be able to coax me into having a lively discussion about politics and the ills of our society; perhaps even raise a few suggestions for improvement.

Mostly though, we're silent and happy to enjoy the silence of long love and companionship. His blue eyes are always glistening, full of intelligence and foresight. Yesterday morning I asked that question that all males dread. No, not "Sweetheart, will you please pull over so that I can get out and ask that bikie over there for directions?" but the other one: "Love, what are you thinking about?"

And my physicist/meteorologist answered with, "Oh I was wondering about something..."

"What?" I asked eagerly, ready for an illuminating discussion on the progress of the Labor Party and the demise of John Howard.

"I was wondering why premature ejaculators hadn't died out already."

Oh.

The seven modern wonders of the world - as if!

It's nice that the bloke who played Ghandi got to help read out the seven winners (as voted online) for the Seven Wonders of the Modern World.

Firstly, I didn't even know that there was an online competition, so it raises all kinds of questions (or eyebrows if you're as statistically-challenged as I am) about the validity of the votes cast. For instance did the the Rio de Janierio-ans have a glass rocking-bird executive paperweight tapping on the 'vote yes' button while us Australians couldn't be arsed?

Secondly, what do they mean by 'modern'? If the Cheops pyramid was a finalist and Petra was a winner, do we consider that the days of stoning for being an unmarried mother; having to give birth in a goat shed and tagging along with some scraggly bloke wearing sandals and a beard only happened yesterday then? That the young Christ chap was encouraging you to drop your things and follow him around the countryside without having made any accommodation or meal bookings beforehand??

Ah, who cares. If *I* had been consulted, the list would have been much cheaper to attain/visit, easier to enjoy and much, much more 'now':

1) Haighs chocolates
2) Nestle chocolate (especially their mild dark range)

3) Cadburys

4) Dove (chocolate, not the soap0

5) Lindt, darling, sweet, fabulous Lindt

6) Mars M&Ms (even though we don't get the peanut butter variety here in Oz)

7) Menz Fruchocs - heaven in a handful.

Puking on Public Transport

After reading (and enjoying, despite her suffering), Redcap's recounting of her joyous journey on public transport; meeting ships crew who called her 'Sir' and being lost in the darkness at Port Adelaide, I thought I'd share my own travel experience.

Many many blue moons ago, I was still living in Melbourne and suffering the effects of morning sickness when Sapphire was a mere 10-week-old embryo. In the space of only three weeks, 7:18am from Heidelberg to Swanston street was fast becoming an olfactory nightmare and the lowest point of my day. I would feel queasy when my eyelids first reluctantly opened and all the well-meaning advice about eating a cracker before getting out of bed (no doubt making for itchy sheets) didn't appeal and didn't work.

Instead, what was normally a ‘refreshing’ one-and-a-half kilometre walk from our house to the train station became a march of straining, sweaty agony, vainly chain-sucking boiled sweets the entire journey. I’d be on my fifth by the time I shoved my ticket into the validating machine. Each colour and flavour was carefully selected before I left home - orange or raspberry ones today?

It was at the first second the train doors slid opened that I realised that morning sickness produced an ultra-sensitivity to smells and, as we all know, train carriages aren't exactly up there with fields of lavender and red rose petals. Even so, the pervading BO, morning breath, smelly feet and general unsavoury ponginess almost took on an active physical presence - so much so that it seemed as though the carriage had a vague brownish fog of odour inside.

I tended to rely rather heavily on the air sickness bags that I’d been prophetic enough to take from previous plane trips, and had even asked Love Chunks to grab a few on his work travels. Alas, by the ten-week mark, this precious stash had now gone. The closest thing I could find (apart from a sealed Tupperware container) were those clear plastic snap lock sandwich bags.

On one particularly cold-morning the over-heated carriage was stifling hot with condensation dripping from the window and the unwashed funk of wool jackets brushing up against my legs. The rocking motion as we chugga-chugged our way into the city was encouraging my stomach to do some unwelcome chugga-glugging of its own. Sweat formed on my upper lip as I forced myself to focus on the station signs - only six stops to go.... I was determined to last the distance and heave somewhere on the platform or in the station toilets - the blue lights installed there to deter drug users would make my pallid face look particularly attractive.

Drops of perspiration ran down my temples and the backs of my knees and the glugging in my tummy began to develop an even faster, more bilious beat. Slowly and reluctantly, I reached into my back pack and felt for my plastic bag. It was there - good. I prayed that the comforting act of touching it would prevent any further evictions from my digestive system. Another stop went past. Another milestone of non-vomit. I touched the bag again for good luck, fingers sweating against the plastic.

Eventually I counted only three more stops to go. My stomach had become a set of internal bellows, hellishly determined to pump out its contents ASAP. Panicking, I hastily unsealed the top of the bag. No time for prayers or to wait for doors to open now -

BWWAAAAH! - straight in, no spillage. This would have been something to have been proud of if I had been in any mood to care. I hurled three more times, wiped my mouth with my hankie, and sealed the top of the bag again. It was then I looked up from my lap and noticed the stares of my fellow passengers.

The blush I experienced was so deep and so red that I felt as though my internal organs were on fire. I muttered my explanation to the passenger on my left, “morning sickness,” but the look he returned was so devoid of sympathy I pretended to rummage for something in my back pack - my dignity had a good chance of being in there, next to my work shoes, buttered vegemite crackers and spare sick bags. I could not look anywhere or meet the stares of anyone. The entire carriage was disgusted and their collective opinion of me seemed to be the derisive judgment of ‘Alcoholic.’

It was then that I longed to have a big belly and be hugely and obviously pregnant. My size 12 trousers still fit me and no-one offered me a seat when all were taken because I still looked like everybody else. At least, like everybody else when they had their first real hangover after a night on the Blackberry Nip, St Agnes brandy, chewing three bird's eye chillies and drawing back on a cigar......

The remaining five minutes of the journey stretched out before me like the space-time divide still to be travelled by Dr Who's Tardis. I forced a vacant (but hopefully contented) smile on my burning red face and primly clutched the sick bag in my lap. I could hear a faint ‘sloosh sloosh’ of my vomit each time the train entered a tunnel, and only then had the wit to realise that, perhaps, clear plastic wasn’t the best way to hide the ‘ol regurgitated peas and carrots from my fellow travellers.

That demented smile remained on my face for the longest five minutes of my life. Never again did I take the 7:18 - it was worth getting out of bed fifteen minutes earlier to preserve some of my anonymity on the 7:03.

Probably no surprise to you, dear reader when you consider the intelligent frame of mind I'd obviously shown from very early on in life (see above, circa 1970)

Fabulous Footy Follices (Hair)

It's been a while but it's long over due - it is time for to focus our attention on AFL players. No, not their superbly fit and chiselled bodies, but their hair. Yes, brace yourself, it is finally time for Dumb Football Hair 2007!

(you may wish to see the last series - http://http//blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/08/dumb-hair-men-in-sport-are.html).

A common strategy amongst Aussie Rules players is to cultivate some ludicrous locks in order to catch the umpire's eye, hoping that they will remember/pissthemselveslaughing/automatically-nominate them for a brownlow medal point or two. That may be true, but for us at home watching it is often the case of, "What the hell has that guy done to his hair - is he the full can of fanta?"

In no particular order of talent, youth or stupidity, this year's contenders are:

Dale Thomas, Collingwood

This one concerns me, not because my flokati rug has suddenly gone missing but for reasons of safety. Surely Daley-babes is at risk of getting his flokati-follicles ripped or pulled out of his head during play?

Wouldn't it be hot running around the oval (don't they run an average of about 10km per game) with the equivalent of a container load of mukluk liners on your scone? He's a brave - but none-too-bright - young man...

Daniel Hayes, Melbourne

I know you're good at your footy Dan, and it's great to be able to live the dream but must your hair be styled to resemble the shape of the football itself??

Or are you a fan of that funny-as-death Dan Akroyd movie, 'The Coneheads'?

Daniel McConnell, Kangaroos

Another Dan but this one's got a flatter head and ears like an angry elephant. What's not helping his case is the oily mop flopping down in an awkward imitation of a comb-over from the back to the front.

Perhaps he's the son of the guy in the Godfrey's tv commercial? (that guy has the KING of comb-overs). Haven't you heard of layering, my son?

Josh Kennedy, Carlton

Joshua, sweetie-darling-sweetie, normally it is good form to brush your hair before having your photo taken. It will make you look less like a five year old who has just been told to stop eating his boogers and more like the slightly older (mentally) football hero that you are.

You may win some extra points if you can confirm that you are, in fact, trying to show us what Ray Martin's hair would look like if it was fully deconstructed and just survived a sailing regatta in gail force winds.

Brock O'Brien, Fremantle

Oh. My. God. The clear winner so far - if only through the sheer height of his hair. What should I have expected from a kid named after the surname of a dead bloke who could drive holden commodores really fast around a mountain heaps of times? This obvious hirsuteness doesn't bode well for his shoulders and back remaining hairless when he hits his thirties, does it?

If he has that much hair sprouting from his head he can either be a Busby guard at Buckingham Palace when he's no longer playing or the silverbacked stand-in for the movie 'Gorillas in the Mist 2: Fugly in the Valley'

Nathan Carroll, Melbourne

My personal favourite. 'Ol Nath may possibly be the love child of Hulk Hogan and Ben Stiller from 'Dodgeball'.

Blonde tips, porn star moustache, Chopper Read beardy-bits and Gallagher brother eyebrows makes him outstanding in the field. Or, at least 'standing out in the field' on his own after the game. Ten bucks says he'll star in a triple X feature called 'Melbourne's Meat Man' in retirement to pay the rent on his gold-plated monaro and ceiling mirrors.....

Brad Moran, Kangaroos

Now Brad, what is this? Even you look as though you're too ashamed at your own retardedness to smile for the camera!

The white hair, the pathetically half-arsed effort at spikes or a mohawk and the Amish beard just do not work. Are you the bastard son of Warwick Capper and the guy from the Curiosity Show? And the moustache.....why go to the trouble - just grab a fat black texta and draw it on so that it matches the thickness of your eyebrows and do us all a favour!

Cameron Moody, Geelong

It was quite a challenge finding a photo of Mr Moody that did him any justice and even here his Paddle Pop Lion (or should that be cat?) hair is kept back by a rather fetching head band (Note to Dale Thomas - an Alice Band can do wonders for your complexion and keep your vision free for play).

The blonde dye job just completes the stereotype. Warwick Capper's long lost baby brother.


Beau Waters, West Coast Eagles

Didn't you go to school with me? Are a bona-fide Murray Bridge Bogan and still proud of it? Are you still driving that Ford Escort with the 'La Cucharacha' air horn that you'd blast all the way down Swanport Road?

Can you now do the drawback on your Winnie blues or are you still bum-sucking to save your lungpower to sing out the chorus to the Angels' 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again' at the pub after hard week at the meat works?


Beau's buddy-in-crime, Mitch Morton

Ah Mitch, how could I forget you. The last time I saw you was at Donger's 21st at Mypolonga: you were out cold after drinking bundy and couldn't get out of Macca's Mum's hammock quick enough to stop getting sick all over your Levi californians. Your girlfriend, Trudy, ending up getting on with Mud-Guts who left a big 'M' in love bites on her neck......

Daniel Merrett, Brisbane Lions

To be honest, I'm not sure if it's his kewpie doll hairstyle or the arched eyebrows framing his beady, slightly-deranged little eyes that unsettle me the most.

I'm crossing my fingers that he's an intelligent, hard-working model of society who does NOT film geriatrics getting it on or collect body parts to sew himself a wetsuit..

Courtney Johns, Essendon

It's tempting to write 'Last, and certainly Least' but I won't. The albino rasta look isn't one that's likely to sweep the nation: I can't see Kevin Rudd rockin' this style on his way to the polling booths.

The lack of fringe on his lo-o-o-o-o-ng horsey face doesn't help matters - it's as though Sarah Jessica Parker has been gender reassigned and slapped with a sliced squid. Probably also stinks like Laurie Oaks' trousers after a short jog to the buffet table.

Poochapalooza

Izzy the gorgeous white and black terrier (pictured below) had cleverly managed to buy, hand write and post our dear little Dogadoo a Scooby Doo-themed invitation, asking us around to help celebrate her 2nd (or 14th, depending on either human or canine age interpretation) birthday and commemorate moving into a new place at Kensington.

Apparently Douglas the fuzzy muttley (adopted after a cruel dumping at Mambray Creek) arrived first, and promptly left a fragrant calling card or three on the back lawn. Whilst hostess Izzy busied herself giving them a good sniff, William the whippet seized the moment to expertly squeeze himself into the cat-flap and cock his leg on the loungeroom beanbag. Luckily Eleanor (aka Izzy's Owner) deducted that, at age thirteen (or 91 if you're four-legged), William was reduced to producing 'dry runs' as a purely symbolic gesture and no damage (or saturating) was done.

My pooch, Dogadoo, heaved up her breakfast as soon as she arrived via the back gate. Not being the world's classiest guest, my first reaction was to say, "Ah well, you know what dogs like to do...it'll be cleaned up soon enough", but Eleanor (Izzy's owner) decided to find some newspapers and get rid of it so that the party guests would still have their appetites for chew bones, mutt mints and chook necks.

The tone had already been set for this doggee soiree however: - poo, wee and vomit, and all in the first five minutes! All it needed now was some ear-bleedingly loud doof-doof, P-plated gatecrashers and a visit by the police to be the carbon copy of the 18th birthday party down the street that we'd suffered through recently (including having lemons stripped from the neighbouring tree and thoughtfully placed under our windshield wipers).

I decided it was time to hand out a Schmackos beef hide for each of the guests. Izzy and Douglas looked at them doubtfully - in terms of size to height ratio I guess it was like asking them to gnaw through a boogie board. William the elder took his off to eat in privacy behind the willow tree and Dogadoo flopped on the doormat, holding it between both paws and gnawing at it protectively. It would be nice to be able to write about Dogadoo behaving impeccably after that but alas that wasn't the case. She snapped irritably at any pooch who ventured within a metre of her until every last shred of the beef hide was eaten.

William (as you can see here) was rather non-plussed by the whole event and was clearly hoping that there'd be a fire, a broadsheet newspaper, a pipe and a rocking chair for him to enjoy and retire to.

He was quite happy to let the three young upstarts have a good tussle over the pass-the-parcel event: it was pointless telling the three boneheads that each layer had liver treats in it and each guest was going to receive a doggy rope ball. Photography was an even more pointless exercise because their wagging tails, wriggly bodies and twitchy noses made posing an impossibility.

Soon it was time for party hats but Dogadoo was not impressed. She had hers on for about three seconds before jumping clear from my restraining arms, flapping her ears like a centrifuge and escaping the infernal appendage.


Douglas was more tolerant, but no less inclined to sit still for a photograph.

It was then that the humans decided to go inside and have a cup of tea, some croissants and mud cake and leave the dogs outside. "They all seem pretty happy now - I'm sure we can trust them," said William-the -Whippet's owner. "We can see them all from here," replied Eleanor reassuringly. It felt as though we were four Norwood yummy-mummies leaving our 3 three years olds unsupervised in the garden....

Sort of. Douggie started howling, so was brought inside to the laundry and placed behind a child-proof gate so that he could see his beloved owners but not chew at the table cloth. William sought sanctuary from the rabble by hiding amongst the bushes and, as the rain started falling, Izzy decided to retreat to the warmth of her kennel.

My Dogadoo sat on the mat, looking forlornly at us eating, drinking and making merry inside; occasionally adding a heart-rending whine to make the croissant flakes stick in my throat like ash. "You won't die out there, furry-face," I told her.

An hour later we both walked home in the soft rain. Dogadoo's tail wagged as she forced me to stand and wait patiently as she strained to birth the Norton Summit of butt nuggets and eagerly investigated her party bag of treats including a pig's ear, chew-toy and bone at the other end. Life was good in Dogadoo Land.