The Continuing Adventures Of Your Own Personal Jesus

Next time someone says, “I’ve seen everything,” punch them in the face. Hard. And more than once. Then say, "My dear friend, you, sir, are a goddamned liar." Because they haven’t. Far from it. So stick with me here, this won’t take long at all. In my current occupation as a spoon I’m always on the look out for things to avoid. Things to avoid, for me, generally take the form of serious conflict, angry people and especially those who appear to be seriously unbalanced. And, as a spoon, I am now very attuned to these people, can spot them a mile off and am able to neatly side-step out of danger’s way and scurry off to whatever corner of the world I’m allowed to exist in this week. Case in point: I decided to break my diet and try the new place on a street well known for violence and oddball characters. Well, the place isn’t well known for violence (other than the standard Saturday night/Sunday morning crowd), it’s better known as a place that sells deep fried food whi

The Melbourne Cup should no longer be billed as "The Race That Stops A Nation", if we were to be totally accurate then it should be, "The Race That Ensures All Productivity Ceases For At Least A Day And A Half, Depending On Who Wins, Who Gets Drunkest And Who Scores In The Filing Closet." Back in the day, and I mean when Moses was a lad, the Melbourne Cup was the premier horse racing event on the Australian sporting calendar. Now it’s the premier racing event on the social calendar. You tell me what went wrong because I have no idea. I think when someone dragged Jean ‘The Shrimp’ Shrimpton to the event and allowed her to show off her long legs and tight buns it all went tits up. Certainly by the time Susan Renauf-Peacock-Sangster-Alphabet graced the event and Sir John Kerr gave one of the more fondly remembered of all drunken speeches (along the lines of “Blaarrgghhhh tha’ fuggin’ Gough fuggin' Whitlam and that fuggin' caaannnttt, Malcolm, don't fugg

Helloooo! I’m back!! Missed me? Oh, please, you’ll make me blush darlings! So, you think you have it bad? You ain’t got shit! Seriously. Doing the rounds at the moment is this email purporting to be the ‘new’ email rules of a major department (can’t say which one it is, but I’m glad I’m not stuck there). At first I thought it was another one of those joke emails, but was told that, no, it's deadly serious and about to go into effect immediately. I did a bit of digging and it appears that the person who has come up with these rules isn’t fond of emails and firmly believes that emails are an utter waste of productivity. Naturally the staff disagree in private, but when pushed have to display the best qualities of sycophants and automatically agree, same as lemmings when push comes to leaping off cliffs. Using the net to its utmost effectiveness and working in the Government aren’t always easy. Earlier this year I was part of a huge seminar to discuss the various aspects of

William Randolph Hearst made a few mistakes in his life and was far from perfect, but when you consider the fact that he was one of the richest men of the first half of the 20th Century, a man who amassed one of the largest collections of fine art and sculpture, then it’s hard to find any real fault. That is if we only ever look at his professional life (and public persona) and ignore his xenophobic tendencies and the facts that he was as pigheaded as they came, hated taxes and unions, along with immigrants, had extra-marital affairs (which, if we believe history, resulted in the birth of an illegitimate daughter, Patricia Lake) and ruled his publishing empire with a hand so iron he could have made all the Packers combined look like mealy mouthed pacifists. His expenditure was gigantic. This was a man who had wealth enough to tell someone to buy a castle, no matter the cost, and have the structure dismantled and shipped from Europe to America to be reassembled, brick by brick, building

In work, as in life, I’ve always tried to be as good as I possibly can be. I’ve tried to be a good father, partner, brother, son, uncle, pal – you name it, I’ve done my best to be as good as I can be. I know that, at times, I’ve failed both miserably and spectacularly, but each time that’s happened I’ve tried to learn from it and then apply those lessons down the track. Each time something has gone wrong I’ve analysed what happened, dissected it and decided what to do next time, if there is a next time, and what I could have done differently. That’s one of the lessons that I was told once when I sat down for lunch with none other than Edward DeBono back in the early 1990s. That one hour private session, over a feed of cheap sandwiches (courtesy of the ABC cafeteria) taught me more about analytical and lateral thinking than any book I’ve ever read, and that includes DeBono’s own work. Having said all of that, in this situation I can’t think of anything I could have done differentl

FIFTEEN DAYS IN GOLGOTHA Introduction: What Happened Before The story of the Fifteen Days In Golgotha actually began nearly four months beforehand. I’d been promoted to the position of Housing Officer from CSO nearly a year previously. I’d then applied for temporary positions and was always successful to the point of being offered contracts to run with. This was despite the Person In Charge (PIC) of the region not being overly fond of me on a personal level. Cunning guy that he is, nothing was ever said in front of witnesses, others were always tapped to carry out any dirty work, and nothing was ever written down. But it was there. My contract was due to expire early in the year. I inquired as to whether an extension or another contract would be considered, only to be told that no, nothing was on the table. This was despite at least three positions being vacant upon my leaving. I took it with good graces, if somewhat confused, and applied for, and was granted, nearly two months

I had a recent discussion with a colleague about the thorny issue of African Gangs. We’d get complaints about African Gangs on a weekly basis, especially in large flat groups. We’d have people from all works of life whinging about the Gangs, from little old ladies through to young males, and all demanding that something be done. When nothing was done, for good reason, the complaints would escalate into Ministerial complaints, for all the good it’d do. We’d advise that the complainants contact the police, again, for all the good it’d do, because the police knew exactly what we did and would deal with the complainants appropriately. So what did we all know? African Gangs, in this state, simply do not exist and now that I've made that statement I'm going to explain why. The reality is that there are not enough Africans in the state, certainly not enough in the city central and suburbs to be that organised. The perception is that gangs do exist and that those gangs are organised

Be warned, the following contains some very strong language and adult themes and shouldn’t be read until after 9:30pm. Now that that’s out of the way I have a few questions to ask people, the first and foremost amongst them is a simple one: what the fuck is wrong with some people? And you know full well who I’m talking about. I mean, Jesus Fucking H Christ on a bloody bike!! I recently had to allocate a property out at a group of units. I grabbed the file and drove out, found the units and outside was a child waiting. The child greeted me and I asked, “So, where is Blankety Blank?” The child laughed and said, “I’m Blankety Blank.” I almost fell over with shock and surprise. I’ve seen some odd things in my time but this was very strange indeed – the child was just past the age of being able to legally vote and looked four years younger. I wanted to ask the question, “Where are your parents?” but refrained as I knew the answer wouldn’t be a good one. I've learnt that lesson very

I’ve been having an ongoing debate with a few people about hoarders versus collectors. Most people fail to see any difference between the two groups – you’re either one or the other, and each will deny that they’re the worst. A hoarder will tell you that they don’t hoard, they collect items, and a collector will tell you that they have everything under control and as such can’t be considered to be a hoarder. Over the past few years I’ve seen both types, hoarders and collectors, and I can tell you there is a very defined line between them. Just for fun and games let’s look at the common (accepted) definitions of the two terms. Collectors are those people who buy and sell, or manage to gather from wherever, items of some value, be it monetary or otherwise. Collectors will generally itemise their collections, they’ll organise them, catalogue and, more often than not, will set up little displays for themselves and if need be, other people, to enjoy viewing. Collectors often have a specia