Admiral's Urinal Cakes

When Goth Defended The Main

2008-07-23T21:21:00.001+09:30

I remember the day well. It was on the muddy delta of Operation Hastings in a critical GA ladder match that was as I recall, a do or die affair as far as TEA's continued presence in the pointy end of the ladder was concerned. The usual feared collection of TEA warriors was assembled, having practiced the map for hours with each player an integral and well-oiled cog in the machinery of the TEA behemoth that was poised to tear the arse out of whatever hapless opposition had made the dire miscalculation of challenging us on our "home ground". Goth had also turned up, having clicked the wrong Start Menu item and launched BFV accidently.

The customary pre-match douchbaggery consisting of various nade-to-arse combinations and other inventive teamkilling faded away as the countdown to the main event approached, and serious game-faces emerged. Splado and Jay ran to their Hueys, Tsunami tongued the throat of his smoking LAW, and Tossed alt-tabbed out to google BRDM while I jogged lazily to the "Peugeot of the Skies", aka the Coirsair. It was then that we noticed Goth entangled in some barbed wire, twisting and turning with sloth-like agility to free himself as fierce deficits of motor agility were brought to bear on the keyboard of our unfortunate teammate. As I slowly performed my relaxing pre-game ritual of stroking myself in the cockpit, I noted with relief the exhaustion of Goth's health bar and inevitable death, since a respawn would free him from his wiry coffin.

TS cracked with a few last minute strategies: "Todes, STFU about the accuracy", "Admiral get a REAL CLOSE look inside those Mi8's", "tooly, the server password is still Tango India Delta Yankee" and some anciliary remarks about the best routes to press our offence. Defence of the crucial main base wasn't really considered, since during any match on this map it was virtually a given. In previous matches, it had been possible to mount an impregnable defence of the main armed with nothing more than a revolver, with some bored backliners amusing themselves by doing it with a plantation knife only. On one occasion, Dave completed the objective without equipping a weapon at all, havingly simply run up behind some lone attactker and bunted them into the muddy stream to drown. A recent patch had introduced a fearsome Quad-4 0.50cal cannon mounted dead centre, with sweeping and far-reaching lines to every conceivable enfilade in proximity, making what was already a dead easy job one that was impossible to get wrong. Or so we thought...

As the pre-came countdown timer reached 0, I hit the throttle and felt the lethargic bucket of metallic crap that was the Corsair slowly think about lumbering forward. Zipping up my pants, I noted the figure of Goth sitting happily in the Quad-4, a ridiculous and idiotic expression pasted across his face as he gayly alternated between attempting to shoot a smiley face into the side of a hut, and attempting to shoot down a cloud. The hueys were already off, with Splado filling TS with excited chatter about the effect of the upcoming kills on his stats, and the strains of "Ride of the Valykaries" echoing through the hlls. By the time my shit bucket had unstuck itself from the runway, the first two flags were already ours, and NVA corpses stained the ground. I sighted the enemy mi8 on the radar and set of on an itercepting bearing, wondering idly if I'd make the distance before the round would already be over. It was all going to plan; a beautiful and well constructed plan that couldn't possibly fail to propel us to the top of the leader board and whatever glories awaited beyond.

It was then that the first hint of trouble surfaced. At first it wasn't even really apparent. The NVA dead were still scrolling healthily up the side of the screen, but back at base it was all a bit too quiet. Usually by this stage, Goth had asked at least one question, whether it be "Hey guys, what's the key to reload" or "How to I get in a vehicle again", but TS was unusually dead. I lazilly rolled the clunky tub of metal arse that was the Corsair over to one side and looked down towards out main, and there was Goth still happily sitting in the Quad-4, spinning it round and round and round like a spinning top, encased in his own little amusing whirly world. "Fair enough" I thought, since you make your own fun when you're the full-back and it's not like home defence was exactly a challenge.

Then we heard it. On TS came the barely audible "Hey fellas..." in a soft, squeaky whine. An icy chill clutched at my heart as TS exploded with a chorus of anxious questions about what was wrong. As I bored down on the enemy mi8, I could see a Huey far below me throw itself into a steep turn, and swing around to point the main, heading there at full throttle. [TEA]Goth knife [BoTM]BuM_punCher appeared in stark pink on the screen, that being Goth's designated colour in Splado's BFV buddy colouring system. In unison, teammates yelled profanities into their microphones and reversed direction, streaming back towards our beleagured base, now some miles behind us. "Umm, sorry fellas" was drowned out as strategies quickly shifted from powerhouse offence to scrambling defence, a defence that should never have been called into play. As I heaved the lardy blob of barely flying vagina that was my aircraft into a tight sweeping turn back to base, Splado's chopper flashed past. Tellingly it was sans-music. Things were serious.

Seconds later, the point was lost. Our main respawn point had gone. With engines screaming I peered through the veil of mist conferred on me by my ancient 4800ti GFX card, and saw a lone NVA soldier teabagging the deceased goth, the yellow scrotum of victory being repeatedly swallowed by the gaping cakehole of defeat. Waves of NVA spurted from their new spawn point faster than Shadowrunner's children and I knew it was over. Below me, SA-7's thudded into Splado's chopper as Jay bailed out into the muddy river. Dave's gunship thundered over the base with guns blazing, but became a fireball as the captured quad-4 peppered it with holes. I aimed my lumbering truck's nose at the mass of enemy and pressed the button as 4 rockets flashed past me from behind from the pursuing mi8. Another 4 condemned me to a fireball of death seconds later. It was over. Without our vehicles, we were left to spawn in the middle of a muddy ricefield miles from the action, or atop a remote pagoda on the verges of the map.

It was the quickest recorded TEA loss on any map, and the world record fastest loss on Hastings. Splado was contacted by Today Tonight a few days after, but we closed ranks and refused to comment. "Dumbass Loses Main on Hastings" stories started appearing on Digg and on BFV websites, but we held our resolve. We determined to use this as a learning experience, to profit from what was on the face of it, an embarrassing and soul destroying loss to an inferior opponent on an unloseable map. We'd refine our tactics and personnel configurations and be a better team for it. We resolved to introduce a buddy system for Goth, whereby a teammate would tag him at all times during ladder matches to steer him away from potential threats, and curb his propensity to run off the edge of the map in pursuit of imaginary butterfiles or rainbows that only he could see. Above all we introduced a system where player skills would be matched with in-game roles, with Goth being given special low-risk tasks only. After much deliberation we evolved a list of Goth-friendly jobs, the first of which we'd try out in our next ladder match a week away. We were playing Recaiming Hue and our main base was a large square building at the rear of the action. We'd give Goth the foolproof task of spreading C4 over the roof to discourage an attack that in all likeliness would never eventuate. The key skill requisites were the ability to see, and knowledge of gravity. What could possibly go wrong...?

Manila

2008-05-22T23:12:00.004+09:30

So, I had to go to Manila last month to check out this software package. It was basically get up at 5am, fly to Sydney for 11am flight. Got delayed 3 hours while they fixed something on the plane, so we walked around Mascott airport looking for any evidence to support the massive signs advertising the fact that a $500m upgrade is in place. Maybe the signs cost that much. Eventually we got on the plane and I took my allocated seat next to the other guy from the same office as me, Steve. My sweet talkin' of the Qantas check-in chick obviously paid dividends in for form of the massive allocation of legroom in our emergency row - BONUS! Sat through the obligatory special safety chat that comes with the territory: "SFO! Smoke, Fire, Obstruction! Check, Chuck, Check! Check (for SFO), Chuck (the door), Check (that the safety slide has fully inflated). Yep, got it!". The overtly homosexual cabin crew guy clapped his hands in fron of his face excitedly and then scurried away to serve my CEO and the vendor rep who were already necking wine a couple of seats further up as we backed out to the runway.

Fast forward five hours later and I was the same number of of VB's down. Our mincing cabin lackey was trained by that stage and arrived perkily with a fresh can and a plastic cup before each "DONG!" of the call button had finished echoing around the cabin. My executive collegues up the cabin were faring better, filling it with uproars of laughter at the end of each volumous politically incorrect joke. My CEO stumbled back to see how we were doing. I nimbly alt-tabbed from the episode of LOST I was watching to the functional requirements specification spreadsheet I'd cued earlier. "Remember guysss" he slurred loudly, spittle fizzing from his mouth throughout the lingering 's', "let's have some fun on this one as well, eh!". As the profound, sweet aroma of merlot wafted over my face, his meaty hand thudded into my shoulder and with a brisk loud "HAH!" he was off again, teetering back up the aisle to his seat. I rescued my tinny of VB from its place of hasty concealment, re-fired LOST and on we cruised.

Three hours later, we landed in Manila. It was pitch dark and there were a lot of Asians around. I pointed to a nearby group and nodded to my buddy - "Filipinos". He nodded in sombre agreement. We proceeded to customs and realised we'd completely stuffed our declarations. Hastily we filled them out in illegible scrawls as the line slowly snaked forward. I whipped out my passport. Less that two days prior, I had a different passport. My old passport. I loved that old passport, wrinkled and battered and full of stamps that bore happy remembrence of past international travel, including evidence of my famed "8 hours in Auckland". The old passport still had 5 good months left on it, but by some retarded rule, that's really a fake expiry date. The real expiry date is six months before the fake expiry date. Apparently it's to cover you in case you have to stay longer. We were going for 36 hours so my old one would have been perfect. As if was, at the last minute I had had to front the immigrations bureau in Adelaide the day before and get a fast-track passport! This was the same as the normal passport that usually takes a couple of weeks. A priority one usually takes two days. We got ours in two hours, sweet! We passed through customs and an officer felt my balls. Apparently frisking is a national sport in the Philipines.

It was 10pm local time. We stumbled around dragging travel bags to and fro, looking for the limo. A Tarago thing rocked up which would have to do. We piled in and headed to the hotel. Manila is typical of Asian countries where road rules are more suggestions than rules. Most situations can be fixed by honking the horn and flashing the high beams or rubbing bumpers with other vehicles like some bizzare metallic mating ritual. A few hardcore motorists had their hazzard lights on as they drove as well. Maybe that meant they wanted to be rubbed, or maybe they wanted to turn but couldn't decide whether to go left or right. Who knows? We eventually got to the hotel after passing through the security blockade where they look under the car with mirrors on sticks. I guess they were looking for a group of tired Western terrorists looking to blow themselves up, having packed the Tarago with explosives ingeniously concealed underneath, rather than in the large pile of luggage in the back.

It was about 35 degrees and there were lots of chicks with miniskits on milling around. I thought about asking to borrow a mirror on a stick, but thought better of it. The guards on the door poked through our luggage with giant novelty chopsticks looking for more C4 and we were in. Up to the rooms to dump our gear, and into bed for a well-earned sleep. HAH, wrong, it was work time! A mere mini-barrel of Pringles later and I was back down in the lobby with my trusty lappy bag, and my three travelling companions. We were off to the office to check out the call centre. The call centre services the US, so it really only got cranking around 2am.

We arrived at the office and got frisked. As we entered the lift, I felt my left ball high-five my right ball. They hadn't seen this much action in years.

A couple of hours later, I snapped the lappy shut and we were done. We'd seen the software in action and got the vibe o' the call centre. The call centre guys demonstrated the accents they mimic when calling internationally, then showed us their "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" DVD they were using to perfect Australian accents. We'd nodded respectfully, and I wondered when I'd get my next call from someone sounding like a homosexual Asian drag queen. Their accents were actually pretty good. After we'd bidden goodbye to the night shift, the CEO of the company we were visiting clapped his hands together and said "Gentlemen! Who wants a hamgurger!?". Yay, a burger! I'd been awake for 24 hours, 8 of them cramped in a jet drinking VB and eating tiny trays of reheated crap, so I was ready for some real pseudo-food.

We piled back into the Tarago and headed off, straight past a McDonalds. I banished any "WTF?" thoughts, and thought we must be heading somewhere local for a genuine Philipino copy of an American tradition. Ace. To my confusion, we arrived minutes later in some dingy little street full o' neon. Hmm. I reasoned that maybe hamburgers are outlawed in this country, and hence we were going for a Black Market Burger. Our host gestured to a dark building and we proceeded inside, where we sat down at a giant rectangular counter inside of which was a seething mass of tight young binkini-clad flesh. Apparently "hamburger" is Philipino CEO code for "bar full of semi-nude teenage girls". Well, if it had to be code for anything, that's probably not a bad choice.

I parked my arse at the bar next to Steve. "Well, this is great" he said. "They're all about the same age as my daughter". I slapped his back in commiseration, my thoughts drifting to my own young family half a world away back in Australia. How would my little girl, Ensign_Bayls be coping without her dad? Would she be sleeping in her little cot, tiny baby-arse pointed upwards in some impossibly uncomfortable sleeping pose, hugging her stuffed doggie? Would her mum be pining without her husband, her soul mate, staring dolefully into the night and clutching a framed wedding photo tightly to her heart, counting the minutes until the conclusion of this business trip would see our union renew... CONNECT FOUR! That's right, a pair of nubile, scantily clad Filipipo teenagers had plonked a Connect Four game on the bar in front of me and were seperating the disks into blue and pink. I shot a "WTF?" look at Steve, but he was busy watching a group of six set up a tower of blocks in front of him - Kenjo or something apparently. A chubby mamasan plonked some San Miguel Light beers in front of us and waddled away. Light beer has always been sex with a condom to me. Almost like the real thing, but why wouldya!? Regardless, I heartily necked the bottle and it was surprisingly good. With a sly sideways burp into the the hair of the girl caressing Steve's shoulders, it was game on!

Out of practice, I lost the first game. My nubile conquerers squealed with delight and mamasan arrived with two shots of tequila and thrust a piece of paper under my nose. She illuminated it with a little torch, I scribbled the best forgery of my CEO's signature that I could muster under those conditions on it, and off she went. Steve was still pulling blocks from his tower but appeared to be having a good time, two bikini-clad vixens sensuously massaging his shoulders now. I looked around. My CEO had a hand on each of two young arses so he was travelling nicely, and the rest of the entourage seemed to be faring pretty well also. Connect Four carried on, and gradually my childhood skillz returned. I worked out that of my two key attention providers, one was an old hand and one was a n00b. The n00b tended to make outrageous bets like "You win, we go naked!" and the old hand would rebuke her, half playfully, half concerned. Inevitably I could beat the n00b, which led to much coaching in some foreign dialect from the gathering crowd of Who Wants to be a Poledancer? Each win brought another beer and some display of nudity and each loss brought Tequila and a receipt. Whatever I was signing was costing 700. 700 what, I had no idea. Presently, Steve's block tower crumbled into a heap and he raised his fist in victory. Whatever his prize was, I didn't see, as a hand cupped my balls and a breathy mouth met my ear. "What hotel you stay?" came the grammatically inept entreaty. I rattled off the name and pondered the testicular conversation that was happening in my pants now.

More of the same was the order of the night, with various salacious offers put on the beer-stained bar, but my resolve held fast. My years of overexposure to the full catalogue of bizzare and inprobable Internet pr0n had rendered me with an immunity to this kind of solicitation. Even when my two protagonists' tongues snaked into each others' open mouths inches from my face, I was busy abstractly wondering about the sheer improbability of a decent future for anyone whose young life had culminated in a career of feigning interest in asshole western tourists while playing kids' games. My quota of flesh satisfied, I purposely lost the remaining games, my beer-addled brain retaining enough cognisance to recognise the concilitory payout these girls would get from mamasan for making me buy them drinks, if not by me r00ting them. At whatever time it was, we pulled stumps. I blocked the last deperate promises of hawt threesomes back to the bowler, and we emerged into the warm night. The bar tab was $1200. I still didn't know how much 700 was. As wel approached the limo/Tarago, our driver stared wide-eyed through his haze of cigarette smoke, struggling to comprehend the fact that we'd emerged sans-girls. "No girls?" he sputtered in disbelief. I nodded somberly, "Afraid not my friend". I heard a faint cry of disdain from my pants.

The ride back to the hotel was a subdued affair, partly because we'd been awake for a day and a half, and partly because our universally married entourage was no doubt playing out various hypothetical mental scenarios involving taut teenage ass. We arrived back to the hotel and hit the bar. After one more San Miguel Light, I was stuffed and stumbled to the elevator. I stepped inside and rode to my floor, leaving a gassy fart as a calling card to the next occupant. In my room I looked at myself in the mirror, dishevelled and messy, my shirt a crumpled canvas painted with the sweet smelling aroma of underage teenage poledancer body lotion. I made a mental note to spare my wife the launder of this article and dispose of it pose haste, preferably by fire. My nerdish insticts flickered, and I firing up the laptop to "check out the forums". I made a quick post and checked IRC. It was typically dead. I made a fake !admin call in #ign to make the admins feel alive and then hit the sack exhausted.

The next day I awoke with a hangover not commensurate with the light beer we'd been quaffing. My mouth felt like someone had poured sand in it and my head hurt like a truck had reversed over it. I sniffed last night's shirt, seeking affirmation that it had all really happened, and then cast it aside heading for the fridge and its precious hair o' the dog. I grabbed the nearest beer and to a throbbing protest from my dehydrated brain, popped the top. It was then that my blurred, bloodshot eyes saw it. San Miguel Light wasn't light beer at all. It was 5%, and "Light on calories!". That explained a lot. How ever many 700's made how ever much was my share of $1200 was probably too much. I suckled the bottle gingerly. As daggers of sunlight pierced my eyeballs through the ineffectual curtains I checked IRC. No response to my !admin call about midget wrestlers on Vespas infecting server #07. Typical.

I texted Steve. He called and groaned that he was awake so we headed downstairs for the buffet breakfast. The dining area was huge. I got lost twice looking for bacon but managed to find my way back. My guts, blue-balled the night before with promises of a hamburger, were ready with open arms for the mountains of food I shovelled in. By the time we'd finished, team executive had arrived looking much the worse for wear. With bloodshot eyes and hoarse, gravelly voices, they explained how they'd soldiered on at the hotel bar after we left, and how in the small hours of the morning one of them had missed a room page when two teen hookers had arrived looking to close the deal. Steve and I headed back to the rooms to pack.

My guts had sent a signal to my bowels about the post breakfast buffet payload they could expect soon, and so the order was made to clear the back dock. I sat on the porcelain and did the bidding of my intestines; the result an impressive testament to the great aussie grog-bog. Unfortunately as I pulled the lever and waved goodbye, it became apparent that something was amiss. The toilet was one of those magical US types that fill with water and then drain away when you flush, except mine only knew act I. It filled and then just sat there. Reckoning it must be a gravity thing, I flushed again, confident that the extra volume of water would convince the incumbent to make good its evacuation. With horror, I saw that no such convenient outcome was imminent, as water crested the lip of the bowl and started cascading onto the floor. Snatching an array of towels and bathrobes, I constructed a hasty system of levees and dykes to contain the surge.

Thankfully the fecal armada I'd birthed in the bowl merely bumped the inside of the seat with the tide instead of breaking free and sailing scross the floor. Still, it wasn't good. A saturated floor populated by a few tiny stray nuggets, and a full bowl looking for all the world like some dire incarnation of the Magic Mountain bumperboat pond, a few underpowered chocolate boats aimlessly drifting and nudging each other on its surface. The batchroom was devoid of a dunnybrush, but I had to find a way to clear this mess before the fleet broke up. I briefly considered thrusting my arm into the e-coli soup, but banished it immediately, looking for some inanimate tool to assist. Nothing came to mind so in MacGuyver-style desperation, I removed a wooden coathanger from the wardrobe and broke it up. The long horizontal pole should do the trick, I reasoned.

I jammed the stick into the bowl, jabbing, poking and twisting, all to no avail. All I was doing was creating undue turbulance on the surface, to which the bronze navy responded by breaking into pieces. A saw a lone peanut break free, a tiny lifeboat seeking freedom from a large tan dreadnaught and several cruiser-sized articles started listing ominously. We were losing structural integrist fast - I knew things were serious. I wasn't going to be able to undo whatever beer-fuelled u-blocker was causing havoc with the meagre tools I had, so I rinsed off my makeshift stick and stashed it with the remainder of its splintered companions on top of the wardrobe amongst some dodgy looking aircon piping. "Noone will ever know" I mused, choking on the fruity aroma eminating from the mire.

Presently checkout time arrived. I towed my baggage to reception, and checked out. As the other guys signed receipts and fell back, I mentioned casually that there was a problem with my shitter. "A problem?" came the inquisitive response. "It's blocked" I explained. I was rewarded with a knowing look and an understanding "Of course, sir". That was it then, we could escape. But no, we didn't fly out until 8pm that night so we had to leave the bags there, collecting them only after the full extend of my bathroom destroying escapades had become known to whatever crack team of enviro-suited hazmat technicians were brave enough to take on the task of mopping it all up. I suspected that dynamite would have to be used, but then tried not to think about it any more.

The rest of the day was a combination of drinking more full strength beer masquerading as light, and ineffectual brainstorming about what we should do to kill the time. We settled on a massage at a health spa which involved a pre-event communal shower in which I saw enough of my colleages' dicks to last me two lifetimes and culminated in the most painful massage I've ever experienced. As I lay semi-naked on the bed, some tiny lithe girl entered and asked me "you like hard massage?". I said I did. The marathon pobing at my balls the night before had been gentle enough, and this kid sounded about 15. How bad could it be?

The answer is "bad". When she wasn't sliding up my greased back digging her knees into my overworked kidneys, she was attacking my tortured shoulders with what felt like fists full of blunt screwdrivers. She dug, slapped, probed and punched me into submission, offering the occasional spirited "You IMMUNE to massage!" or "You feel no PAIN!" with what sounded like genuine admiration. I managed a weak "Heh! Yep!" through clenched teeth as tears welled in my eyes. Blinking them back I peered through the semi-darkness at Steve, who was getting his own massage about 4 feet away. His girl was languidly stroking his oiled back with slow tenderness. A little rivulet of dribble snaked from his mouth - was he asleep? Bastard! When it was over I walked gingerly to the shower and stood motionless under the steaming cascade for what seemed like eternity. As I painfully dried myself, Steve and his cawk emerged from his shower stall. I was too paralysed to even shield my eyes.

After that, we had a beer and caught a taxi to the office again. The taxi driver drove us round and round, clearly lost. We called the office and gave him the mobile so a native could give him directions. This had a negligible effect and we still drove around lost, the only saving grace being that the potholed tracks masquerading as roads combined in perfect unison with his shitty all-or-nothing manipulation of the accellerator to jolt my back into some semblence of its former pre-massage mobility. Eventually he dropped us off, about 1km from where we should have been. The taxi cost 200 no-ideas. We finally found the office and got frisked again. We caught the lift to the 14th floor in time to conference-call a guy in Jakarta we needed to get some details from. The hookup was a shocker. I'd seen the spaghetti-like cabling between power poles during our two hour taxi ride to nowhere so I wasn't surprised. Time was up so we left for the airport.

Here, I got my final two ball-attentive friskings and then we were on the plane. Our gay hostie remembered us and beamed with pride when I recited the safety demo back to him flawlessly. He then berated the pair behind us who couldn't understand because they were from some non-English speaking background. He threatened to move them if they didn't take it seriously and I looked at their seats with envious eyes. More legroom. Unfortunately they worked out how to check for fire and throw a door so they got the seats - I got a beer. The trip back was like the trip over except in reverse. It's all really the same when you're confined to a little metal cylnder hurtling along at 900km/h 10km up. As usual I ran through the mental catalogue of "Aircrash Investigations" episodes I'd seen and mused about which one a crash right now would be like, and what kind of actor they'd get to play me. Probably Richard Burton if he was still alive.

After eight hours we were in Sydney. Three pointless hours later we were ferried in the pissing rain to our domestic flight and back to Adelaide where we arrived at 11am. I'd been awake since 7am the day before, and I chuckled wryly about my joust with the foreign toilet safe in the knowledge that Interpol probably now couldn't track me down for crimes against humanity. I checked that the Adelaide boys hadn't blown anything up in the office and headed home to see my girls. They weren't home, so I ventured outside and dragged out the brazier. Cracking a beer, I ignited my kerosine-drenched shirt and reflected on the past two days before the retard dog over the back fence detected that someone was enjoying the peace and started yapping. I then dumped in a real toilet - it was good to be back!

Build Queue 100% + 365

2008-02-22T14:04:00.002+10:30

Well, the Ensign turns 1 year old today. Seems like only yesterday she emerged from the She_Admiral's innards in a torrent of viscous womb-juice.

How time flies!

MR Z

2008-02-04T23:07:00.000+10:30

I was driving home tonight, piloting my ebony steed with casual aplomb down Fullarton Road when I saw something ridiculous looming behind me. It was a black 4WD which caught my attention because as it approached, it was ziggin' and zaggin' through the sparse traffic obviously on some kind of time-critical mission. Each lane change was celebrated with a single crisp flash of the indicatior after 90% of the lane change had been completed. Impressive.

Anyway, as it pulled up behind me, I could see it was an Audi 4WD. I didn't even know Audi made them. And it was immaculate black, like someone polished it with a freshly slaughtered baby bunny every day. The jet black wanker-plates announced that the driver was a "MR Z".

So far so good, except Mr Z was the spitting image of Rader O'Reilly from M*A*S*H, except perhaps shorter. I only caught a quick glimpse as I was at a red light and he manouvered his black ego chariot to within 5mm of my towbar, obviously comforted to be 100mm closer to his eventual destination than would have been the case had be pulled up normally.

Anyway, the light went green and I blasted off the line, my parched power steering reservoir causing the belts to add a satisfying whine to the engine's usual masculine roar. Seconds later, MR Z streaked past, speeding to the next set of lights, to repeat the effort of attepting to fellate the exhaust pipe of the car in front with his prefectly chromed boutique front bumper.

Bye MR Z, bye!

My Stupid Watch (Band)

2008-02-04T22:33:00.000+10:30

My watch is great. It's a SEIKO Chronograph, which translates to "watch". It's got a stopwatch with a cool red sweeping second hand, and a "tachymeter". Tachymeter translates to "numbers around the diameter of the face". You can use the second hand and the markings to see how long it takes you you travel 1000m and then you can calculate your speed. I guess the guys at SEIKO thought that there's a lot of people owning cars with odometers but no spedometers or something. If I ever have a 400km/h car and need to go 1km to Hungry Jacks, I'll know to allow 9 seconds. Anyway, the watch.. nay, chronograph itself is great.

The band however, sucks! It's one of those metal ones that has a couple of curved plates that fold together under your wrist when it's closed and open on a hinge when you flick it open. So far so good. Except the thing FLIES open any time you attempt to do anything with the limb it's on. Like open a door, or close a door, or pick something up or turn your wrist to see the time, or think about turning your wrist to check the time. Maybe it's got metal fatigue. I certainly have useless watch band fatigue.

I took it to a watchmaker at Marion. "Check this out. Canya fix it?". I figured that the guy must have seen this kind of thing 1000 times. He had all sorts of tools laying around. "Jeeeez!" he said, scratching his head, "I dunno". My mental "WTF do you mean?" was interrupted by him saying "I could sell you a new one".

"Yah, thanks. Don't need a new one. Just need this one to stay closed. Can't you bend it back to how it was?"
"Oooh, jeeez. I dunno".
"Wouldn't one of those tools do it? What about that little hammer or those pliers?"
"The thing is, I dunno how long it would last"
"Let's find out. What about that round thing with the thread. Would that do it?"
"Maybe you could get a rubber one instead"
"I like this one though."
"Yeh, you're better off getting a new one"

Seriously, how hard could it be? I ended up telling him not to worry about it because the fruity smell of fresh baby-shit was wafting up from the Ensign, who's obviously been watching the exhange with the same bemused disgust as myself. Lacking the linguistic skills to express her displeasure at the ineptitude on display, she'd clearly made a frank statement the only way she knew how. I lingered just enough for the alleged watchmaker to sniff the acrid air, and then headed for the baby-change room. At least they have Hi-Five on the TV.

As I scraped babyshit off my daughter clammy date, feeling the unnerving warmth through the wiper, I pondered three things.

- How carrot rice and corn all seems to get the "Yep, straight through mate" call by the intestinal door bitch, arriving at the bowels unscathed like some fecal VIP.
- How the chicks on Hi-Five are tubbing out.
- And how customer service by watchmakers has gone the way of the Dodo.

At length, I emerged from the humid, fetid labyrinth of the change facility and re-entered the mall proper. With the third revelation fresh in my mind, I set a vector for the nearest carpark exit, shooting a middle finger salute to the watchmaker as I passed. My watch band shot open and dropped my watch to my elbow as usual.

My Ebony Powerhouse

2008-02-03T22:30:00.000+10:30

A few people are curious about my vehicular tastes, so behold!

First, my daily driver: 1994 Holden Apollo sedan.

And my project car: 1994 Holden Apollo sedan.

I like to keep things low key, so while she looks like a sleeper, she does numbers.

First, the donk.

It's a 3.0lt featherweight block, stroked out to 3.0lt, delivering 1200 kilojoules of power at 1000RPM. I use a mixture of Black and Gold oil and Dr Pepper, which lowers the viscosity and adds taste, so she drives like a 3.01lt. As you can see, I have removed the cover from the -ve battery terminal which cuts 10g off the kerb weight. I also installed a streamlined windscreen washer reservoir which balances out the front end.

3 blue cat6 LAN cables have been patched in to the silver thing in the middle, to maximise high-end bandwidth to the firewall.

The windsceen wipers have been extended 3mm-5mm and a blue blade has been used. The light blue is designed to reflect errant photons rather than absorbing them like a stock black wiper blade, meaning less photoelectric resistance on the windscreen and allowing an additional 0.02nm of torque. The wiper motor has been tricked out to 30watts, including the installation of an aftermarket wiper dwell relay which times wiper oscillations with gearchanges to minimise wind resistance and glue the front feet to the tarmac.

I've also includes some generic yellow campground permit stickers. As I usually drive this baby hard, the weight of the stickers counters the torque of hard acceleration, and counterbalances sustained driving with the tacho needle weighing down the right hand side of the car when it points right.

The shoes are Intensa 205 R15s with a Addigitasse crosshatch tread pattern. I keep them permanently bald to counter railing and decrease diameter. This baby corners like the Mad Mouse in steroids. I've installed some brake dust to the rims to deaden the inherent sheen and counter high speed bump steer. All front end bushes have been fully waxed with Nolathane Automotive Nair for improved handling and wear.

You can see here the TH400 drink holder with 2800 Stall and Stage 2 Shift Kit attached to yella terra street terra roller vent covers with crow 496 lift ducts. This delivers chilled air to any installed cans. Out of frame is the digital clock, set 180 seconds slow, and allowing me to get there before most ricers have even changed the batteries in their LED exhaust tips.

The iCOM UHF CB sets off the interior really well, and compliments the stock Holden/Toyota/Whatever shifter. The gear indicator light has been re-engineered to phase shift the stock green light with a 70 lux 400 blue light at 500 kelvin. The colour temp compliments the guage illumination kit pumping out 280 luminaires at 0.038nm reducing intra-occular rod and cone stimulii and preserving night vision.

Protecting the investment is the smashed door locked filled with superglue installed by a retarded wanker using a tyre iron and a paving brick while Tossed and I played Cossacks on the LAN at work.

Dual rear antennas provide a striking contrast to the clean lines of the vehicle, and turbo-like whistling noise at high speeds.

Cracked Password

2008-02-03T00:06:00.000+10:30

Finally cracked the password to this account again. It's been a historical moment.

Woo!

2007-11-27T23:10:00.000+10:30

Heh, apparently someone reads this blog. Hi Disco! :)

Camping

2007-10-03T20:26:00.000+09:30

We're all going camping next week, so spent the weekend spending a fortune on camping equipment. That's the thing about "getting away from it all". You inevitably try and take it all with you as evidenced by the vast range of equipment found at Anaconda Superstore, where "The Adventure Starts Here!".

Driving there, I kept en eye on the Ensign in my dedicated baby-view mirror. This is something I purchased from Repco a week or so ago, and it's basically a suction cup mirror stuck to the windscreen near the real mirror, but adjusted so I can watch my offspring's delight at my urban rally-driving. I originally aimed to get it from "Supercheap Autoparts", but on nearing the store, I saw the usual sack trucks, wheelbarrows and mountain bikes out front and remembered that since changing from Rocca Bros, they no longer actually sell anything for cars. Wanna rake? Supercheap Auto. Wanna Bundy Rum bar mat? Supercheap Auto. Wanna car battery? Bunnings.

Anyway, as we drove, I couldn't shake the feeling that the Ensign was looking less alert, less vibrant, and frankly dumber than previously. All because the She_Admiral dropped her on her head the other day. I mused about how my retirement age had probably pushed out 5 years because my child would no longer grow up to be a neurosurgeon, happily supporting her father during old age. I shot an accusing glance at the She_Admiral and then back into the mirror, almost rear-ending a truck in the process. Staring into the polished mirror, it was clear that the Ensign was asleep, or worse. Her eyes were closed and drool was suspended in a glistening arc from her lip to her slobbery hand. Some kind of brain aneurysm I expected. "At least we got the baby bonus" I mused philosophically, and the She_Admiral slapped my non-dominant bicep with crisp slap. "That's horrible!" she cried, waking the slumbering ball behind her.

It was a miracle!

Man Down!

2007-10-01T23:38:00.000+09:30

Well, it had to happen. The baby rolled off the big bed today and thudded onto the floorboards below while the She_Admiral was getting dressed. And here I was thinking I'd be the one to drop her on her skull or let her roll over in the bath.

We checked for signs of instant retardation - all clear so far. We also checked for signs of gravitational awareness. A nappy filled with an exposive spray of baby shit proves that (a) you're never too young to know you're falling on your head, and (b) babys can shit faster than gravity, and I suspect faster than the speed of light.

I suspect the She_Admiral birthed a small nugget also.

Something Down Under Tour

2007-09-27T13:50:00.000+09:30

Got tickets to a corporate box to see Silverchair and Powderfinger at the Entertainment Centre. Was pretty good. The beer was cold and free as well and helped overcome the "These tickets are wasted on me" feeling I had with every new song I didn't know.

I felt sorry for Daniel Johns though. I knew he had manorexia, but he tried to eat his guitar for at least half the show!

Perth - Jewel of the West

2007-09-25T20:31:00.000+09:30

Woke up bright 'n' early this morning and completed my morning beautification routine of a brisk shower and a lengthy dump all before the rooster three doors down had completed an hour's crowing. Either it was dead, or it was before 6am. Either way, it was an ungodly hour - one I'd been progressing closer and closer to in my campaign to see more of the Ensign during waking hours. My previous modus-operandi had been to arrive at the WCS around 8:30am - 9:00am and leave 7pm - 8pm which meant only seeing my tubby little offspring when she's asleep. Plan B was to get to work 6:30am - 7:00am and leave 5:00pm - 6:00pm. Cunning.

So, imbued with the invigoration my new routine afforded me, I finalised my bag packing and awaited the Tossed's arrival. We were off on a WCS-sponsored adventure to Perth. As regular a Derryn Hinch on an all All-Bran diet, I heard the discordant rattle of his Ford as it sputtered into my driveway, and gave the She_Admiral the perfunctory peck on the cheek as I left. "That counts as foreplay!" I yelled as I left, anticipating my return late the next day where such pre-coital luxuries would be abandoned.

I hauled my "luggage" to the car. It consisted of a heavy laptop bag containing my essential travel items, and my "check in luggage" which consisted of a pair of socks, a pair of jocks and one magnetic screwdriver. The absurd post September 11 flight rules mandated that the screwdriver could not be taken on board the aircraft, presumably because I could be a terrorist and might be inclined to dismantle the aircraft one screw at a time.

We swung into the airport entrance with a rattling groan from the Foulcan and it was with shock that I saw Tossed heading for the Long Term Parking area. I blurted a "WTF!?" and he shot back a "Cheaper!", just in time for my to yank the steering wheel sharply to the right, shepherding us into the Short Term Parking area. Corporate VISA does not differentiate, I explained to Tossed. Sure it might cost us $75 to park for 2 days, but that's better than having to walk 200m carrying a bag weighed down with two undergarments and a screwdriver.

Having parked the car, we made our way to the terminal, instinctively looking for the Internode brochure stand, that had at one time contained the Splado Sux! parephanalia. It was nowhere to be seen. Unsustainable I expected. We checked in, Tossed hefting his weighty suitcase onto the scales, and me lightly piffing my screwdriver case onto the adjacent one. Luggage safely checked, we then quickly irradiated our gonads at the security checkpoint and were off. Amazingly, my run of 13 straight "Random Explosive Detection" selections was broken, as I was waved through. I just hoped it wasn't another case of mistaken "Life Partner" identity on behalf of the security personnel. I'd already taken steps to ensure that we were sitting at opposite ends of the plane by checking in online, so it would have been a shame to undo all that good work now.

For once we were flying Qantas instead of Virgin, because all Virgin flights from Adelaide to Perth go from Adelaide to Canberra to Melbourne and then to Perth, whereas Qantas fly direct. What was immediately obvious on boarding the plane was that our cunning plan to get an empty seat next to each us had failed. I was seated next to a reasonably attractive blonde chick, while Salad was shoehorned in between his window and a massively fat Sumo wrestler. Another thing was also immediately obvious, Qantas's hostie-hiring policy had slipped badly.

A quick taxi later and we were in the air. As soon as the seatbelt lights went out I cracked open the laptop and fired up to do some work. This involved watching a couple of episodes of Californication, since the She_Admiral's lethargic progression through Entourage at home had been holding me back for weeks. Barely 30 seconds in, the laptop screen was jigging with a pair of pneumatic norks attached to some sultry young vixen enthusiastically riding David Duchovny. Instinctively, I turned the laptop to the right, but it was too late. The bird next to me was chucking to herself, no doubt confinced that I was some pr0n-obsessed computer nerd who liked nothing better than to mentally whack off to naked teenagers on domestic flights. "Fair call" I conceeded, and settled in to watch the rest. Five minutes further in I heard the Windows login sound from Tossed's laptop which had finally booted up. I snickered at the thought of his aging Pentiun II Dell attempting to play DivX. Lucky for him it was a 3 hour flight. Unlucky for him, his tired laptop batteries generally last 45 mins.

Three hours later we were in Perth, five minutes ahead of schedule, with the usual premature unbuckling of seatbelts and standing up as soon as we hit the tarmac. As usual, I continued to read my magazine since being first to the baggage counter before it even started never rated high on my life's goals. I needn't have worried. The pilot came onto the intercom and announced that not only were we parking in the middle of the airfield, there were no stairs available to drive out to us. A symptom of the mining boom, he explained. A collective groan rose up from the packed aisles, where sweaty bodies pressed into each other, and tired arms were frozen holding half-extracted bags from the overhead lockers. Chuckling I went back to reading The Advertiser until my mirth was abruptly silenced by the chronically unfunny adventures of Fred Basset on the comics page.

In time, they found some stairs and let us off, impatient travelers surging forward like a tsunami of impatient stupidity to the baggage carousel. Tossed and I sauntered over and found the thing motionless as expected. According to the information sign, it was soon to disgorge luggage from our flight as well as one from Melbourne, but five minutes later the sign amended itself to only include the Melbourne flight. Great.

Eventually, the light flashed and it groaned into life. Tossed and I had cunningly positioned ourselves at the start of the belt, and we smugly looked around, knowing we'd get our bags first. Except we were at the wrong end. Stupid reversing belts. It didn't matter though, because only one small red suitcase came out, did a slow little tour in front of all the passengers, finally passing myself and Tossed and then vanished out the back again. Bye bye little red bag! I'd worn out my WTF-gene this trip already so said nothing. Sure enough, the little red bag appeared once again, but this time a dotted assortment of other bags followed it. I grabbed by lightweight little bag, and watched Tossed heave his off the rails, noting a massive dent in the side where it looked like a baggage tractor had run over it. Typical. Outside we went.

Perth has five taxis, and today three of them were on the road, so it was something of a record. We waited patiently for the three taxis to pick people up, take them away to their destinations and then come back again to pick up another three people. Whenever two people got into the one taxi, everyone cheered because it meant one less hour of waiting in the line. An hour later it was our turn and in we hopped with Mohammad. "What's with the useless taxi situation?" was our first probing question of Mohammad. "Da minin' boom mun!" was the predictable answer.

We finally found the office and I knocked off my work in about 30 mins. Tossed soldiered on for the remaining 5 hours until the office closed and we hit the streets. I'd booked a random Hotel about 15 mins walk away, and Tossed was 20 mins somewhere else. I'd been to Perth maybe 3 times before, always for work. One time was a lengthy sojourn in a place we called Melrose Place: some serviced apartment within a complex that has its own pool, gym sauna and whatever. The other times were in hotels. As I walked the streets, I was having a distinct Jason Bourne moment as I half recognised bits and pieced of the city I'd seen before. This reached its peak when I reached the hotel where I was half sure I'd stayed there before. I just hoped I hadn't assassinated any Russians there.

Once inside the room I cracked the bar fridge and downed the two Crownies. I flicked through the TV channels and exhausted the 5 x 30 seconds of preview soft-core pr0n that was available. The room had no Internet either. Well, actually it did have free wireless, but I didn't check that until the next day, five mins before I was dude to leave. Great effort, that!

Tiring of the room, I headed downstairs to use my free beer voucher. Having been stung before with the retarded lack of beer-glass standardisation that exists in Australia, I wasn't sure what to get. Forget the inconsistency of railway guages across the nation, how could they not get beers right? I waited for someone else to order a beer and then stepped up to the plate. "One of those thanks. Err what size is that anyway?" I mumbled like a loser. "Err, a PINT!" said the bar-wench, looking at me like I was a loser. "Thanks" I said, and headed to an outside table like a loser. Slamming it down while waiting for Tossed to complete his trek to meet me for tea I decided to count taxis going past. After 10 mins the count was 0. There were also 0 Tosseds as well so I wandered back inside and boldly asked for another pint. The bar-wench gave me a sweet smile usually reserved for children who have pissed into the potty correctly for the first time, chuffed to the core with my progress. I grabbed pint-II and dashed back outside before she could ruffle my hair and give me a gold star.

Soon enough Tossed appeared, on the verge of cardiac arrest from his 15 minute power-walk. I chugged my ale and we went next door to the Swedish all-you-can-eat, Miss Maud's. This part of my Bourne Identify existence I could remember, and nothing had changed. Same raven-haired girls affecting Swedish accents, same washed up old crooners playing piano and accordion by the door, and most importantly, same impressive buffet. As we waited to be seated, the musical duo asked for requests. "Play Stairway to Heaven!" came from a table nearby - yep, same classy crowd. Instead, the duo launched into a sombre rendition of some allegedly Swedish dinnertime ditty but we didn't hear it. All I heard was the blood pumping in my head as I launched myself at the Swedish meatballs with ravenous fury.

An hour later it was all over. We'd both made four trips, and chucked back a couple of pints each. It was time to leave. At the counter I fumbled for my wallet sufficiently long for Tossed to produce his and whip out his card. I certainly didn't want "Miss Maud's" appearing on my Corporate VISA statement after an interstate trip, but since Tossed was in sales, "Rub 'n' tug" and "Cocaine" hardly raised an eyebrow anymore when he submitted his. Before the Swedish Asian behind the counter could swipe the card, I grabbed a fridge magnet and a stubby holder and blurted "These too thanks". "Presents for the wife 'n' kids", I explained over Tossed's whining.

Then it was back to the hotel to drop off the Cosby kids and drain the remaining Crownie. I SMS'd the She_Admiral the touching SMS template I'd created earlier and then fell asleep.

I was woken by the phone at 5am - some berk from the Vic office. I reminded myself to initiate some network mayhem for him once I had an some method of VPN again, and went back to sleep. Up again, to check out, I bade farewell to the room and gorged myself on the buffet breakfast, making note to order one of the three cabs for 9am before I did so. "No problem" said the woman behind the counter. Stumbling from the dining room 50 mins later, I checked again at the counter about my taxi. "On its way!" was the cheerful response.

I headed for the kerb where 5 other groups were waiting for taxis. One group was a trio of elderly bags with the kind of flabby double chins that marked a life decadent excess once they'd tied the knot. One of the trio broke away and stormed inside and barked something at the desk-bint. I caught the words "taxi" and "hour" and felt a sense of foreboding since I needed to be at the airport in an hour. I asked the old guy next to me how long he'd been waiting. "45 mins - booked it last night" he said. "Mining boom!" he explained.

Taxi drivers are basically mercenaries. They're platonic wheel-bound hookers with smelly armpits and beaded seat covers. They don't discriminate. I resolved to use an oft' used taxi getting maneuver I'd used to great affect many a crowded New Years day at 3am-4am. The hotel was on a one way street so it was even easier. I wished the old guy good luck and headed off down the road and around the corner where I could intercept any taxis heading for the hotel as well as lure in any that might have happened to be going past. Sure enough one appeared 10 mins later and a quick swing of my laptop bag later, it was mine. "Airport thanks!" I barked in triumph and off we went.

The check-in process was the same inefficient charade as my arrival the previous day, except in reverse. Eventually though, I was on board in my seat on the very back row, 29D. At least this time, I'd managed to score an empty middle seat next to me. On the window was a guy who worked as an engineer at the same company as my ex-beloved. We chatted about engineering things, and fired up our laptops. When the food came, we pulled down the middle tray and used it as a platform for discarded beer cans and various rubbish from our trays. It was a lovely little picnic at 38,000 feet.

All in all it was a pleasant flight, except he refused to tell me who was banging my former love. No matter though, because as we landed and waited for our baggage, we worked out we both lived south. Waving a Cabcharge triumphantly he bellowed "Let's go" and off we went. Adelaide has more than three taxis, and we happily told our gracious driver so on the way home. It was then that I realised that having encouraged Tossed to park in the short term parking area by saying I'd pay it, I'd now also escaped that cost as well. I'd return to the office a darling of corporate frugality, while Tossed would be hauled over the coals for his reckless spending.

These thoughts were banished as we pulled up at my palatial residence. As I opened the door, the acrid scent of fresh baby shit assailed my nostrils, and I detected a faint aroma of vomit. "Carrot", I mused as I snuck inside. Spirited splashing and happy motherly encouragement indicated it was bath time, and I lingered unseen in the passage for a few moments, soaking up the sweet symphony of homely bliss before poking my head 'round the corner to a delighted squeal. It was good to be home.

The City Bhey - Part II

2007-09-21T21:23:00.000+09:30

Temporarily banishing any bladder-related thoughts from my mind, I surged the Ensign across North Terrace into a vicious crosswind from the West. As the gale blustered the stroller sideways, I recalled that awesome Boeing video of jets landing in savage crosswinds. I thought of applying some opposite rudder, but then remembered I was in a stupid walking event, and not a jet. Pfah! Soon enough though, the gale was at our backs and it was with delight that I found it was enough to propel the stroller along all by itself. T-plus 5 mins and all was well.

By Victoria Square, the first momentous race decision needed to be made - left or right? We went right.

As we reached South Terrace, my bladder send my brain the following message:

This is an automated message - generated at 16/09/2007 08:51:32 We have sent this message in order to assist you to manage your bladder storage.

Your current urine storage for the account admiral_bayls@bladder.urinarysystem.com has exceeded 98% of your storage allowance.

You have the option of :

* finding a public toilet soon;
* pissing in that drink bottle you packed;
* pissing in your pants and hoping none of the 28,000 people around you noticed for the next 2 hours

That was it then, the next dunny was mine. Mine and 48 other weak-bladdered people it seems, as I saw a queue of old ladies dancing on the spot in an incontinent conga line towards three portable toilets in the park lands. There was no way I was queuing for that, so on we powered, the drink bottle in the bottom of the stroller looking more inviting with every step. I looked for other options. There were none that didn't involve me pissing in plain view of anyone in the park lands. The thought of un-holstering my Trouser-Mauser amid the thick bushes of Adelaide's prime underground homosexual hangout didn't fill me with enthusiasm. Even less so, given the temporary lifestyle choice status conferred on my by Tossed's proximity.

By West Terrace, my back teeth were floating and I scanned the surroundings. Great, a water station. One billion cups of water splish splashing little rivulets of water all over the road. People sclurping and spitting, tricking water down their chins, tossing half-filled cups to the ground, each action causing my bladder to threaten an immediate payload release. I looked for a convenient spot to accommodate it. To the right west was West Terrace Cemetery. Privacy: good. Chance of one day getting into Heaven: Poor. Straight ahead was just a sea of bodies. To the left was the scraggy little mini-forest surrounding netball courts. It looked like my best bet.

Mentally assessing the challenge of pissing on a tree and attempting to remain invisible, it was then that I spotted a vague brick outline in the parklands distance. Welcoming this makeshift urinal, I shot a quick "Need a piss!" to the She_Admiral and grabbed my phone. A brisk "ME TOO!" from Tossed, and we were trotting off through the trees. Reaching the de-facto urinal, we found it housed an actual urinal, being a public dunny. Luckily it was sufficiently far from the road that it had escaped the usual influx of runners. It was also far enough away from Veale Gardens that it was fortunately pedophile-free. I raced inside, released Bayls Jnr Jur and fronted the urinal. Like Azureus on a 100Mbit connection, I unleashed a furious torrent of pent-up piss against the steel wall, causing it to flex and buckle with a thunderous drumming sound, filling the air with a fine tan mist. Tossed too was unloading against the stainless steel like a minigun-toting Jesse Ventura in Predator. 120 seconds later, we were empty, and thoughts returned to the race.

I rang the She_Admiral who advised that she was just passing Keswick barracks. I mentally calculated what her velocity must have been throughout operation urination and concluded that she must have been barely moving to have only made it that far. Still, it would take at least a minute of lethargic jogging to catch up, and that was more exercise than I'd done in the last 12 months. Sucking in the guts, we set off, breezing past walkers, bowling through kids, splitting groups of walkers like human log splitters until finally we spotted team WCS. I relieved the She_Admiral of the stroller controls, gave the Ensign a quick sniff to check nappy status, and picked up the pace.

The first thing we passed was team go-kart, their heavy steel vehicle crippled by a solid rubber tyre that had peeled off a rim. One down, I mused, and looked for the removalists and their piano. They were nowhere to be seen until we reached the Anzac Highway dog-leg following Le Cornu, where a slight rise in the road afforded a clear view of the next few kilometres. Looking ahead, there it was. The frickin' piano in its steel cage, cutting a path through walkers like a Soylent Green pickup truck. Squinting, I saw the impossible was happening - they weren't walking, but trotting along pushing their heavy cargo. Feeling relieved that I didn't vocalise my hat eating oath from the starting line, I pushed my own heavy cargo - the tubby little Ensign. Peeling back the stroller sun-shade I peered at my cargo, and it was evident she was having the time of her life. Sitting up, looking around, laughing at people as we passed; a distinct contrast to the handful of infants we'd passed, being unceremoniously stripped of crap-laden nappies or placated with lukewarm bottles of milk. "No Breastfeeders though", I thought happily, aware that Tossed's breast-fetish didn't discriminate.

The remainder of the race was monotonous repetition, which means plenty of interesting things happened, but I can't be arsed documenting them. We were regularly assaulted by paternal grandmotherly types cooing at the Ensign, and doubtless musing about same-sex partner adoption laws. For her part, the She_Admiral did nothing to redress this misconception, avoiding any manner of lewdness, despite the list of "Sexual Suggestions" I'd taped to the back of the baby's bag. At around the half-way mark I was surprised to see several wheelchair-bound competitors heading back into town on the other side of the road. It was amazing not only for the fact that they'd finished already and were effectively doing twice the distance by rolling back into town, but also because they were doing it on the side of Anzac Highway that was completely open to traffic. All it would have taken was one inattentive driver, or someone distracted by the spectacle on the other side of the road and a terrible accident might have marred the event, and worse still, crippled an elite athlete so that they'd never walk again. We also saw several runners, jauntily trotting back into town having finished the event before we'd even crossed the starting line.

It should also be noted at this point that she She_Admiral completely borked her race application, having registered independently of the WCS. Amusingly, she'd registered as a runner, despite her assurances that she clearly specified that she'd be walking with a "pushable object". The net effect of this was a roar of callously accurate laughter by the sea of spectators lining the finishing line, apparently having nothing better to do than to watch en endless stream of strangers amble past. Cries of "pffft, check that one out!" and "Bwwahahaha, there's a runner still going!" eroded any marital pride I'd had at the She_Admiral's perambulatory accomplishment, and it was something akin to relief I felt as I felt Tossed's tongue snake into my ear with a breathy congratulation as we crossed the line.

After guzzling the free Powerade and collecting my free Sunday Mail, we located the rest of the WCS, huddling in the gale force winds under a pine tree. Consisting solely of women, they were 10 degrees colder than everyone else. Although happy to loudly voice their displeasure at the freezing conditions, not one of them was thoughtful enough to harden a single nipple for the edification of the breast-obsessed Tossed. Still, at least we'd made it, and it was time to plot out evacuation of Colley Reserve before the impending deluge eventuated. I whipped out the mobile and rang Admiral's_Mum. As usual, the first call went to voice mail and I could picture the typical scenario on the other end. First, confusion that there was music coming from whatever receptacle was holding her mobile. "Strange! I don't remember packing a wireless!". Then sudden recognition that the handbag wireless was a telephone, and lo, 'twas ringing! Then a fumbling extraction of the device followed by confusion that there was no handset to lift followed by my call going to voice mail. I dialled again, and she answered, happily proclaiming that she'd finished in 1 hour 40 mins. This contrasted sadly against my own 2:00:06.

Bigging adieu to the WCS crew, I hitched a ride back into town with Mrs_Salad to collect the car, enjoying a frigid downpour as I covered the distance between the drop off point and the car location. It was then a spirited drive back to the bay to collect the three generations of febayls and off home to enthusiastically undo any enhancements to health provided by the walk, by ravenously devouring a couple of Whoppers and a handful of chilled brewskis.

The City Bhey - Part I

2007-09-18T21:59:00.000+09:30

The City Bay fun run was on Sunday and the WCS entered a team. Well, not a team as such, just a group of people doing it. They paid our entry fee and gave us a nice shirt with a smartarse slogan on it. Nice.

The day itself was one of those days you'd expect to see if you lived in England, except with less exploding public transport. The clouds were grey and unbroken. The temperature was George Bush's IQ. It was a perfect day for sitting home and doing nothing, except maybe whinge about how average the weather was.

The alarm went off at 5:30am and I slapped the snooze button hard. The clock radio screamed and elbowed me in the groin - whoops, wrong side. I'd just head-slapped the She_Admiral. The previous night's sexual gymnastics had obviously left me disoriented and on the wrong side of the bed again, which also explained why I'd been spooning the spare pillow all night, whispering suggestively into it's mute fibres "Hey, how about another crack in the morning!". The She_Admiral's black eye had wrecked that plan - looks like I'd be runnin' heavy on my feet today.

Made myself some toast and checked on the Ensign who was just waking up. She was hungry for milk, and vaguely aware that my toast with Vegemite was something better than milk - something she couldn't have. She started crying the long drawn out baby-wails that come from knowing you have no teeth and can't eat anything as good as toast first thing in the morning. I bent over the baby monitor and chomped my toast dramatically with a low growl, chucking at the "Monster is gnawing your baby's head" effect this combined with the crying would have back in "No Sex This Morning Central" over the speaker. I was grateful the monitor only transmits one way. Hearing the bedroom door slam open, I ran for the Little Admiral's Room and began my mission to eject 1kg of chicken schnitzel.

An hour later, we were in town, having transported my mum there as well. She was walking the 12km, but didn't want to hang back with Team Stroller because she was "goin' for a time". Off she went to the start line, while the rest of us, now joined by our WCS workmates huddled in the cold waiting for the starter's gun. Except there's no gun now. They used to start the race by firing a blank from a massive 105mm Howitzer, and I figured the shock of that was just what I needed to shift this schnitty, but alas it was not to be. One year, someone probably saw the gun scare a duck, or were moved to cough when assaulted by a whiff of cordite, and sued the event organisers. So now the race was set in motion by an announcer unseen mumbling "go" into a microphone. Weak.

For the walkers "go" meant "wait". For the stroller crowd, it meant "wait longer" as the sea of people surged away like a human glass of beer emptying in a Carlton Draught ad. I used the time to assess the opposition: "Tyres at no more than 18 PSI. Puching that will feel like lead by 8km. We could take 'em" "Dunlop KT26 shoes from Target. New. Blisters by 5km" "Baby grimacing. Undoubtedly dumping. Nappy change before the parklands". We were looking good.

An important part of race prep is also to plan your perving strategy. You're going to be walking behind a vast smorgasbord of arses for the best part of 90-120mins so you better pick a good one. I spotted a group of nubile vixens limbering up 10m away and subtly manuovered the stroller to point in that direction by crouching down and pretending to check on the Ensign, swinging the stroller around to bear as I did so. "Hehehe, LOCKED ON!" I cooed in baby-voice and then stood up chuckling at my own brilliance, only to be met by the icy stare of the She_Admiral wearing her well-practiced "You pathetic man" look. Glumly, I returned the stroller to its default position, pointing dead centre into the monumental arse of a middle aged woman, grotesquely lunging forward to stretch her scant used muscles.

Finally, it was time to set off. We lunged forward a full 5m and then pancaked into a wall of people who'd stopped abruptly in front of us. Then they surged forward again, and the same thing happened. In a fit of inspired design, the starting arch had been constructed 50% narrower than the channel running up to it, meaning that people were being squeezed together to get through, like a giant human funnel. I looked for the posse of lycra-clad honeys I'd seen before. If I could just make some minor headway into the sea of people and initiate a 12 degree tack to the right, the archway crush would cause them to be in perfect position for the rest of the journey. A brisk corrective jerk on the stroller once again foiled my plans and I resigned myself to the fact that the She_Admiral's active perving detection array was operating perfectly despite the cold.

I risked a glance to my six and saw a guy playing a piano in a cage. A heavy steel cage being pushed by a group of burly removalists with tree-trunk calves. Walking amongst the stroller convoy was bad enough, but risking defeat by a team pushing a piano was too much. Alongside was 4 kids with a crude go-kart. Heavy tube steel, solid rubber wheels, spindly, chicken-like legs. No chance. The installation of an esky into their wedge-shaped vehicle was a touch of genius, as was the honky tonk bike horn they'd mounted on the front, but the overall design was questionable. There were four of them, two riding and two pushing. They'd obviously be working in shifts. If we didn't beat them, I'd eat my hat. I kept the thought to myself though, just in case.

Several iterations of the horizontal concertina later, we'd reached the start line and the race was on. Worse than that though, my pre-race preventative hydration routine appeared to be incompatible with the frigid weather. Three steps into the event, I was in minor need of a piss...

Todes-a-palooza

2007-09-15T13:25:00.000+09:30

Todes is in town! That's right, everyone's favourite pseudo-Nazi chemist has returned from his forced exile into Vic-bore-ia for a night of fun, frivolity, beer and Big Buck Huntin' at the Earl. Looks like a few of the IGN/TEA nerds will also be in attendance so should be an interesting night so long as the conversation doesn't become mired in the greatness of games that my archaic excuse for a PC can no longer contemplate playing. Or if they start talking "Secret Admin Business" and I have to wait out in the car park again.

Regardless, a giant-ass schnitty and few frosty ales is all you really need. Sadly though, the City Bay "Fun" "Run" is on the day after and I'm enrolled to push the tubby little ball of funniness that is the Ensign. As practice, the She_Admiral and I walked 'tween the jetties last week, along the beach pushing the stroller. It was fun and easy for the first 5 minutes until my calves (otherwise accustomed to walking the 10m to the letterbox and back) exploded. Anyway, we made it so at 75% of "race distance" we should be OK, assuming that my ritual morning dump fully clears any remnants of beer 'n' schnitty.

The WCS commissioned custom shirts for all the employees taking part. On the back it says "Trample the Weak. Hurdle the Dead" which is fine and amusing when you're in a pack. Sadly, everyone else from work will be in the "Walking" group where I'm in the "Strollers" group which is like the Special Olympics category of walkers starting riiiiight riiiight at the veeeery back. This means, I'll be the only tool wearing a t-shirt oozing attitude unreconciled by the tubby beerguts it will barely be containing. In a stirring show of solidarity, Tossed has agreed to walk with the She_Admiral and me. I suspect this is more to be in proximity with the supply of Coke and Mars Bars that will be crammed into the luggage compartment of the Ensign's stoller than it is to relieve me of my "lone wanker" tag. The fact that two fat men wearing matching shirts, pushing a baby, and accompanied by a woman trying to keep her distance will look for all the world like we're homosexuals doesn't really help either.

On the bright side though, maybe my rusted cardiac equipment will seize up at the start and I'll be spared the whole tortuous experience, enjoying instead a leisurely ride to the nearest hospital instead!

Teh Royal Show - Part II

2007-09-09T21:42:00.000+09:30

After the baby-chicken fiasco, it was off to get a $10 mini custom horseshoe made by the authentic Royal Show blacksmith. With the baby's name stamped into it, we were off to watch some woodchopping.

Woodchopping is awesome. They have either vertical or horizontal logs and big guys come up and chop them in half. I've chopped logs that size in half and it took me half a day, back before the most exercise I did in a day was push the mouse all the way to the top right to click the X. It takes these guys under a minute. There's always one guy that takes forever and you have you wait for him to finish, lethargically denting the wood with an axe that's suddenly become far too heavy. He usually gets the most applause, a tribute to the underdog, like a one-legged marathon runner.

Freshly hewn woodchips still clinging to our clothes, it was time for a beer so finally, off to the Coopers bar we went. As an aging drunk cracked onto the She_Admiral, I ventured to the bar and ordered a couple o' pints. This process repeated itself until the boozehound leering at my wife left and with him took the main source of my amusement. Damage - 4 pints. Back to the show.

By then it was "amusements" time. Any other time of the year, or at any other venue, they're called "rides", but at the show, they're officially "amusements". I loaded the She_Admiral up onto the miniature "Spinning Teacups" and immediately thought of TEA's own miniature - Splado. Chuckling to myself I watched wife 'n' baby spinning around at the 3 RPM that the She_Admiral had deemed to be a safe, non-spew speed and stoically snapped away with the camera. Same deal with the miniature trucks. Brilliant.

Thrillseeking gene satisfied we resolved to get some showbags and leave, and made out way through "Every Player Wins a Prize" land where some bird running a "Land the ball in the bucket" game yelled out for us to have a go. Momentary eye contact was all that was required for her eye tractor beams to lure me in for a "free try". It was the game where they have a plastic tub tilted 45 degrees towards you and you have to land 2 out of 4 balls in it to win something. If you hit the bottom of the tub, the ball bounces straight out and you're not allowed to ricochet off the sides or the top or bottom rim. Tubgirl handed me my balls (hah) and Icommenced my free turn. Sneakily, all the spare balls were stored in the "test tub" so when you lobbed a ball in, it generally hit one and then dispersed all its energy to remain meekly in the tub. This made it appear all too easy. Trial concluded, she asked if I wanted a shot for real. "Naarp!" I burped, but she She_Admiral was already scanning the display of stuffed animals, so I coughed up the $10 payment and got another set of balls.

First one was brilliant, arcing gracefully into the tub and staying there. Perfect! Or was it. Tubgirl stepped over and pointed at the sign - "If they hit the rim they don't count". "Yeah, so how was that one?" I asked. "Hit the rim!" she said, all previous "Roll up and have a go" cheerfulness drained from her carnie face. As there was no way my first inebriated toss was faulty, it was on. On like Donkey Kong!

Second lob was well clear of anything resembling a lip, landing dead onto the first ball. Both jumped around and stayed in, much to the chagrin of Tubgirl. "So, just one more, yeah?" I breathed in her direction, sweet second hand Pale Ale advertising my beer-laden intent. With beady eyes looking for any signs of error, Tubgirl could only watch with horror as the skillful backspinning third ball lofted into the tub, making contact over the lip and onto the sloped surface of the inclined tub, skidding almost to a half before gently contacting the first two balls. Victory was mine, an achievement announced with an appropriate Viking Quest bellow, while Tubgirl racked her poorly indexed brain for an excuse not to pony up the loot. Her thoughts were interrupted by a cry of "THAT ONE THANX!" from the She_Admiral, pointing at a fluffy stuffed dog. As Tubgirl reluctantly retrieved it, I piffed the last ball into the tub baseball-style, where it landed dead-centre and bounced back out into my waiting hand. I lobbed it gently to Tubgirl and we were on our way again for another celebratory beer.

While the Ensign ingested the cheap fibres of the stuffed animal into her infant lungs, I sipped a cold Paley and reflected on a day well spent. Any day away from the WCS is by default a good day, but this one was even better. Bright sunshine, cold beer and a happy little family plundering cheap trinkets from carnies - it simply couldn't get any better.

At least not without showbags, which we piled onto the baby like she was a Taiwanese "Master of Logistics" before trekking back to the car. Pissing onto the South Parklands, I made a mental note to record the charitable act at www.savewaterpissinthegarden.com when I got home.

Teh Royal Show - Part I

2007-09-08T13:49:00.000+09:30

Took the day off work and went to the Royal Adelaide Show today with the She_Admiral and the Ensign since they're fresh back from their "Avoid Buying Fathers' Day Present at all Costs" mission to sunny QLD. Initially I protested, arguing that after the two weeks I'd had, I needed rest and would like nothing better than to laze around home for a day. I guess the mountain of empty beer cans and pizza boxes littering the lounge room floor and neatly framing the TV gave me away, and the She_Admiral postulated that I might have been doing just that already for the past fortnight.

So we drive to the show and I drop them off at the end of a 200m long queue then go off to part the car... slowly. I figure it'll take them a good 30 minutes to get anywhere near the pointy end of the queue. I pay $10 and park in the park lands. "Who does that money go to anyway?" I wonder. Clearly not anything relating to the dusty bowl of dead grass masquerading as a car park anyway.

A leisurely stroll later and I homed in on the She_Admiral, just reaching the front of the queue where I "pushed in" under a filthily accusatory stare from a couple of old bags immediately behind her. I casually swung the stroller around so they they could get a view of the Ensign to defuse the situation since it's become apparent that any latent motherly instincts are awakened in any female as soon as they sight a baby. "Ooooh, she's GORGEOUS!" cooed one of them "She's SO ALERT!". "More alert than you, dumbass" I mentally sneered, "she came out of my penis you know!". Situation under control, we progressed to the booth, and I feigned a lost wallet to get the She_Admiral to pay for my ticket and we were in!

The Show never changes much. Every year there's one less connection to what the whole thing used to be about, and one more tacky amusement or tawdry ripoff in its place. They'd demolished Centennial Hall this year, the place where my parents saw The Beatles when they came to Adelaide, and someone was making a little replica out of sand. When the show was finished, they'd knock that one down as well I guess. The chair ride thing is gone, and the Mad Mouse will be gone next year as well apparently. I wonder what transient carnie attraction will be towed in and set up in it's place next year.

We made an immediate beeline for the food area, since it had been a good 45 mins since we all ate and my wizened body was craving junk food. Luckily that's all the Show has, and I settled on a steak roll - nice. Refuelled, I checked that it was past 10am and set a course for the Coopers bar. "Full Steam Aheeaad" I said in extended baby-talk to my little one, and she giggled happily, a bleak contrast to my not-so-little one who was hitting me with the stern wifely hattrick of raised eyebrow, folded arms and tapping foot. "It's all about the baby now!" she lectured and thus thoughts of beer were replaced with the solemn procession to towards the every-increasing aroma of rank barnyard incontinence.

It could mean only one thing, and yep, that's what it meant. The Bank SA baby animal farmyard thing. In we went, confronted by a humid wall of "musty hay covered in urine" smell and I whipped the baby out for her mum, reversing the stroller "out of the way". This was ridiculous since anywhere you were, you were in someone's way. Kids, mums with kids, kids with kids, all bumping into each other for a glimpse of baby duck or chicken. I looked around and say another dad behind his stroller, immobilised in a sea of kids, locked in an infant traffic jam. He shot back a "WTF are we doing here?" look and I nodded. Just then a Burnside mum arrived from outside, propelling one of those giant 2-baby strollers, almost as wide as the BMW 4WD she no doubt drove there. Amazingly, she just bowled into the sea of kids, bunting them here, shunting them there, cutting a swathe through the masses with awesome effect. Otherdad saw as well, and with a resolute look on his face, thrust his own stroller forward, straight into a fat little idiot eating from a cup of chips while looking at his porcine equivalent. He went arse up, chips went everywhere, and well-rehearsed tears started streaming down his pudgy cheeks. I looked for the She_Admiral. She was dangling the Ensign over the pit of fluffy chicken nuggets crowded under a spotlight. I turned the stroller around and bolted for the door figuring I'd meet them at the exit.

They finally emerged and off we went, to some other display where you could sit on a bales of hay arranged in a big circle and hold a fluffy little chicken proffered up by a team of bored-looking schoolgirls. Naturally, it was a requirements that we did this as well, although when the Ensign's ratchet-like baby-claws latched onto the little fluff-ball in a choking death grip, we figured maybe it wasn't such a great idea...

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 13

2007-09-05T07:57:00.000+09:30

Well, the dream is almost over. A dream involving sweaty socks hanging over the back of the couch, jocks lying for days wherever they've been cast off, endless pr0n and a solid diet of unhealthy food, beer and downloaded TV shows. Spent at least 2 hours on a concerted mission to get the house looking back in some reasonable fashion, pending the She_Admiral's imminent return. Looking forward to seeing the Ensign. Looking forward less to the return of her shitty nappies.

Completed watching Season 4 of Entourage, despite my solemn promise that I'd wait so that we could "watch them together". I'm undecided whether to just admit that I've watched them all already, or sit through them all again. It's a good show, and admittedly I watched the whole of Seasons 3 and 4 while heavily to abysmally drunk so I can't really remember anything that happened. Think I'll watch it again!

Also embarked on Californication. Lots of cans.

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 09

2007-09-01T10:06:00.000+09:30

Well, it's Fathers' Day. My dad's dead, my child's in QLD and I have a 6am flight to Melbourne tomorrow for a 5 hour audit. Cheers!

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 05

2007-08-28T07:50:00.000+09:30

Having trouble filling the cistern. Resolved to eat less food and drink more beer!

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 04

2007-08-27T22:25:00.000+09:30

Day 4 and all is well. Worked how to drive the dishwasher, which was a bit of a waste because the ants has just about cleaned all the plates that were piled up on the sink. The Finish brand powerball thing really got everything sparkling clean. So clean in fact that you could eat off it, which is handy. Didn't bother putting anything back into the cupboard because it seems a monumental waste of time. Why not just leave it all in the dishwasher? Just pull out a plate as you need it, and then whack it back in when you're done. Simple, effective, brilliant!

Down to my last microwave meal now. The Lean Cuisine just isn't cutting it. The maximum serving size seems to be about the size of a CD, so I usually have to top up with a packet of Sakata and a cup of noodles, and then some of that dire Home Icecream.

Had another great idea as well in the throes of these crippling water restrictions. If everyone simply pissed into the cistern of their toilets (women, make the effort, please!) you'd have that thing filled in no time ready for your far-less-frequent dumps. Then you'd simply flush everything away with your own aromatic urine. I'm amazed it hasn't caught on!

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 03

2007-08-26T11:23:00.000+09:30

Woke up with the customary hangover, although not too bad since I took it easy last night watching the footy. The steak sanger with onion and beef croquette combo festered into a fairly potent blob of red meat and fat inside my bowels, causing wonderfully aromatic farts this morning. Took advantage of the empty house to attack some cleaning duties, starting with the PC room. I should have taken before/after photos because the difference is remarkable. I still have to holepunch and file about 2 years worth of VISA and bank statements, but that can wait. Need to take baby steps with these things.

Got distracted halfway through and sprayed "Weed 'n' Feed" on the back lawn. There was a mini-football on the lawn which was obvious from the tards next door. The ones that burnt the fence and habitually block the driveway with their cars. The latest act of apparent neighbourly warfare was when I found a large patch of lawn that seems to have had cooking oil dumped on it. My amateur CSI skills allowed me to conclude that the direction of impact was direct from tard-town, but who knows what would prompt you to dump 2-3 litres of oil on your neighbour's lawn. Idiocy probably. That was 2 weeks ago though, and I managed to make a fair amount of noise on the fence with the high-pressure cleaner trying to degrease it. While performing methodical up and down sweeps on the colourbond, I naturally made the requisite extensions beyond the top of the fence to spray water over their pergola. I tried to aim specifically for the electrical wiring in the roofing, but had to settle for dousing the outdoor poker table. Oh well.

Naturally, the faint click of the hose being connected caused the retarded dog over the other fence to commence its pointless yapping. At least this time, the unholy din of what sounded like an inebriated Satan breaking the piss-seal against the urinal that was my fence was sufficient to drown out the little canine bastard. I'll remember that for future reference!

Back to today, and the little footy. I made a particular point of hosing it down with the "Weed 'n' Feed" and then letting the thin veneer of herbicide dry before tossing it back over. Who knows, the kids who own it might still be at the "Lewinski" stage of childhood development where they need to insert anything they play with into their mouths and will manage to successfully remove their genes from the pool, saving further generations from having their fences burnt down and their lawns destroyed. :)

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 02

2007-08-24T22:03:00.000+09:30

Spoke to the She_Admiral on the phone today and all seems to be going well at her end. The Ensign was happily chirping away in the background, and I could almost smell the nostalgic aroma of baby vomit and excreta that's defined her existence of late. The flight went well - no hysterical bawling on descent that happens anytime I sit next to a child on a plane, not helped by the fact that my own wrecked eardrums still manage to accurately amplify that particular frequency despite bursting themselves due to cabin pressure changes.

Dinner tonight was a brilliant single-man concoction requiring no concoction at all. Four slices of bread and Vegemite for entree, a pack of salt and vinegar Sakata at the PC was the main course, and three mini-tubs of Home Icecream with embedded M&M's was the blissful desert. All washed down with low-carb beer of course since I take pride in eating a healthy and balanced diet at all times.

Temporary Bachelorhood - Day 01

2007-08-23T12:10:00.000+09:30

The She_Admiral and Ensign are off to QLD for two weeks. Not really sure why, but I suspect that it's to get out of buying me a Fathers' Day present. Tightarses!

Up at 4am to take them to the airport. Checked the Internode hotspot leaflet display in the domestic terminal and all my modified "Splado Sux" leaflets are gone. It's great to see that the word is spreading. :)

Vista Shmista

2007-08-18T18:32:00.000+09:30

Bit the proverbial OS bullet and installed Vista today. I put it off for as long as I could because I hate installing Windows. Well, the Windows bit itself is OK, but I hate then reinstalling all the applications that I use regularly, and there's always something you miss when you format. So, I've persisted with XP for about two years, the last half of which has been difficult as the PC regularly gets its pants in a knot and crashes. Regularly - like every 2 days and 16 hours. No idea why either. No scheduled tasks running, and nothing useful in event logs. Ah well.

Anyway, Vista is now installed and yes it's a lot better looking, but a lot more annoying. Any time you want to do anything remotely controversial to the operating system like, let's say... look at Control Panel, the whole thing freezes dramatically, blanks the screen, and asks you if you really really want to proceed. Yup, sure I do, Vista. That's why I clicked on the icon in the first place, but hey, thanks for looking out for me by constantly second-guessing me! Apart from that, everything seems to run a lot slower on this archaic PC, which is to be expected. Really should upgrade it I guess. One of these days... :)