I did get a case of black toenail at the snow again this year. I used to get two black toenails, which would then fall off (or get stuck on something and ripped off) about two months later. I now get one, and it is nowhere near as black as it used to get.
Only my left toe is black, and it's because I am leaning back on that side - I can feel my toe being jammed against the top of my boot, and after a while, it gets pounded black. I seem to be fine on the right.
I have resolved to get lessons every day next year to resolve this fault. I hate spending a few months being paranoid about rolling over in bed in case my toenail catches on the sheet and rips off in the middle of the night. It's even worse if it gets caught in the middle of nookie. Trust me - you don't want to go there.
Friday, 24 August 2007
A coffee in two places
After several road trips, the inside of the car was starting to look like the floor of an Arnotts biscuit factory - crumbs of various types were so thick on the carpet, a large family of rodents could have lived in the car for the next year or so. Today was the day to visit a car wash place to have the thing thoroughly scrubbed out.
Being a cheap bastard, I go to a place run by a Korean just up the road. He looks like a hard bastard to work for, but a complete clean of the Disco only costs $47. An equivalent clean in Mosman costs about $90. He even gives his coffee away for free, whilst the car wash cafe in Mosman charges $90 to clean the car and then $3 on top of that for a coffee.
I settled down to read the papers and accepted his offer of a coffee.
I shouldn't have bothered - it was complete shite.
Thankfully, I was heading east to visit an old friend, and she wanted to have coffee at an arty cafe on Bondi Road.
Now I have been going to Bondi for many years, but I never knew there was an arty cafe anywhere near the place.
It turns out that the cafe is nowhere near the beach - it's about a mile back up the road towards Bondi Junction. I always avoid that strip of road, so it is no wonder that I never knew about this cafe. Apparently only the locals know it is there. Penny told me that "Muggles can't see it" (she lives just around the corner, so she is not a muggle).
As an aside, Penny confessed a complete infatuation with Severus Snape. She suggested that I Google "I love Severus Snape" because apparantly millions of others do too.
I have not taken her up on that suggestion yet.
Anyway - the cafe. I am not going to tell you anything more about it as then more people might go there and that would spoil the marvelous ambience and make it harder for me to get an excellent coffee and would intrude on my time to chat with the magnificent waiters and I wouldn't be able to find space on one of the ratty old sofas - so screw you. You'll have to find it yourself.
Just look for a place with arty looking wankers out the front. Normally, I avoid places like that like the plague, but this one is worth it.
Being a cheap bastard, I go to a place run by a Korean just up the road. He looks like a hard bastard to work for, but a complete clean of the Disco only costs $47. An equivalent clean in Mosman costs about $90. He even gives his coffee away for free, whilst the car wash cafe in Mosman charges $90 to clean the car and then $3 on top of that for a coffee.
I settled down to read the papers and accepted his offer of a coffee.
I shouldn't have bothered - it was complete shite.
Thankfully, I was heading east to visit an old friend, and she wanted to have coffee at an arty cafe on Bondi Road.
Now I have been going to Bondi for many years, but I never knew there was an arty cafe anywhere near the place.
It turns out that the cafe is nowhere near the beach - it's about a mile back up the road towards Bondi Junction. I always avoid that strip of road, so it is no wonder that I never knew about this cafe. Apparently only the locals know it is there. Penny told me that "Muggles can't see it" (she lives just around the corner, so she is not a muggle).
As an aside, Penny confessed a complete infatuation with Severus Snape. She suggested that I Google "I love Severus Snape" because apparantly millions of others do too.
I have not taken her up on that suggestion yet.
Anyway - the cafe. I am not going to tell you anything more about it as then more people might go there and that would spoil the marvelous ambience and make it harder for me to get an excellent coffee and would intrude on my time to chat with the magnificent waiters and I wouldn't be able to find space on one of the ratty old sofas - so screw you. You'll have to find it yourself.
Just look for a place with arty looking wankers out the front. Normally, I avoid places like that like the plague, but this one is worth it.
Thredo vs Mt Hotham
I have mentioned to various people lately that we recently had a week in the snow at Hotham. They have all immediately piped up and asked, "Why go to Hotham and not Thredbo? Isn't it more sensible for a Sydney resident to go to Thredbo?"
For a weekend, yes, it is more sensible to go to Thredbo. If you don't meet any traffic and make minimal stops, you can get from our front door to an apartment in Thredbo in 5.5 hours. It took us more like 10 hours or driving to get to Hotham - that is out of the question for a weekend.
But we went for a week, so a few hours extra driving is not an issue.
I came to the conclusion three years ago that Hotham is so much better because the village is at the top of the mountain, rather than the bottom (like Thredbo). In itself, that might seem like a silly reason, but consider this: skiing consists of zooming downhill on two planks and then catching a chairlift or T-bar back up to repeat the process.
Now I love skiing early in the morning when the air is crisp and the snow is crisp and there is no other bastard on the mountain to get in my way. You can do that at Hotham - you simply walk to the top of the Big D (a major chairlift) and ski down the run. That can be done at around 8am when most people are still in bed and most of the lifts aren't operating. The sensible thing is to wait for the ski patrol guys, then follow them down.
When you get to the bottom, almost always an obliging liftie will let you get on the lift (even though it does not officially open for another 30-45 minutes) and travel up to the next peak. You can then get first tracks wherever you like. It's heaven. It is far and away my most favourite skiing time.
Now consider Thredbo. You start the day by getting in a line at the chairlift at the bottom of the hill, and stand there impatiently for half an hour waiting for the bloody thing to open. It always opens late. By the time you get to the top for your first run, your legs are cramped, your blood pressure is up and 500 people are tearing up the snow in front of you.
Screw that.
I'd happily never ski at Thredbo again for the continual opportunities to ski at sparrow fart at Hotham. I've figured out what makes me happy, and if I have to drive a few hours more to get to it, so be it.
For a weekend, yes, it is more sensible to go to Thredbo. If you don't meet any traffic and make minimal stops, you can get from our front door to an apartment in Thredbo in 5.5 hours. It took us more like 10 hours or driving to get to Hotham - that is out of the question for a weekend.
But we went for a week, so a few hours extra driving is not an issue.
I came to the conclusion three years ago that Hotham is so much better because the village is at the top of the mountain, rather than the bottom (like Thredbo). In itself, that might seem like a silly reason, but consider this: skiing consists of zooming downhill on two planks and then catching a chairlift or T-bar back up to repeat the process.
Now I love skiing early in the morning when the air is crisp and the snow is crisp and there is no other bastard on the mountain to get in my way. You can do that at Hotham - you simply walk to the top of the Big D (a major chairlift) and ski down the run. That can be done at around 8am when most people are still in bed and most of the lifts aren't operating. The sensible thing is to wait for the ski patrol guys, then follow them down.
When you get to the bottom, almost always an obliging liftie will let you get on the lift (even though it does not officially open for another 30-45 minutes) and travel up to the next peak. You can then get first tracks wherever you like. It's heaven. It is far and away my most favourite skiing time.
Now consider Thredbo. You start the day by getting in a line at the chairlift at the bottom of the hill, and stand there impatiently for half an hour waiting for the bloody thing to open. It always opens late. By the time you get to the top for your first run, your legs are cramped, your blood pressure is up and 500 people are tearing up the snow in front of you.
Screw that.
I'd happily never ski at Thredbo again for the continual opportunities to ski at sparrow fart at Hotham. I've figured out what makes me happy, and if I have to drive a few hours more to get to it, so be it.
Don't step under a bus
State Transit are going to stop running buses along Druit St in the CBD because 11 people have been hit by them in the last two years.
It might help if those 11 people had been sensible enough not to step in front of a moving bus! Why should they stop running buses? Knowing the way commuters jaywalk in front of anything in this city, they should just put a bunch of cops along the street and ticket every bastard that crosses the road incorrectly. God knows I nearly hit 11 people a week when I was riding home down Kent St - dickheads would cross the road without looking, or caring, or whilst jabbering on their mobile and looking in their purse. Their attention would be anywhere but on the road.
I hope State Transit has sued all 11 idiots that held up our bus system for lost income and damages and that sort of thing.
Step in front of a bus, get in the queue for a Darwin Award.
It might help if those 11 people had been sensible enough not to step in front of a moving bus! Why should they stop running buses? Knowing the way commuters jaywalk in front of anything in this city, they should just put a bunch of cops along the street and ticket every bastard that crosses the road incorrectly. God knows I nearly hit 11 people a week when I was riding home down Kent St - dickheads would cross the road without looking, or caring, or whilst jabbering on their mobile and looking in their purse. Their attention would be anywhere but on the road.
I hope State Transit has sued all 11 idiots that held up our bus system for lost income and damages and that sort of thing.
Step in front of a bus, get in the queue for a Darwin Award.
Rice pudding
After watching The Cook and The Chef last night, I was all enthused today about making rice pudding with rhubarb.
Then I went to the shop and discovered that rhubarb costs $5 a bunch at the moment. I just bought the rice.
Then I got home and studied the recipe and found that I needed evaporated milk. Back to the supermarket I went.
Then I made it, stuck it in the oven and waited 2 hours.
Out came a milky solution with a bit of rice rattling around the bottom. It was milky rice, not rice pudding.
I ranted at The Cook for about five minutes for screwing up the recipe on their web site, then went off to do other things.
An hour later, I had to get the milk out of the fridge. I bought this carton of milk at a different supermarket than the one I am used to. In very small letters, almost too small to read, was the word "Light" written across the label.
The recipe required full cream milk. Sorry Maggie Beer, your recipe is probably fine. But fuck you Franklins for putting stupidly labeled milk on your shelves. When I was in your store, 80% of the customers were over 80 and they were all bent double over walking frames and were trying to read things through coke bottle glasses. If I can't tell the difference between and bottle of light and full cream milk, what hope have they?
Then I went to the shop and discovered that rhubarb costs $5 a bunch at the moment. I just bought the rice.
Then I got home and studied the recipe and found that I needed evaporated milk. Back to the supermarket I went.
Then I made it, stuck it in the oven and waited 2 hours.
Out came a milky solution with a bit of rice rattling around the bottom. It was milky rice, not rice pudding.
I ranted at The Cook for about five minutes for screwing up the recipe on their web site, then went off to do other things.
An hour later, I had to get the milk out of the fridge. I bought this carton of milk at a different supermarket than the one I am used to. In very small letters, almost too small to read, was the word "Light" written across the label.
The recipe required full cream milk. Sorry Maggie Beer, your recipe is probably fine. But fuck you Franklins for putting stupidly labeled milk on your shelves. When I was in your store, 80% of the customers were over 80 and they were all bent double over walking frames and were trying to read things through coke bottle glasses. If I can't tell the difference between and bottle of light and full cream milk, what hope have they?
Friday, 10 August 2007
The end of the big breakfast
For many years now, my main chore on every trip to the snow has been to cook breakfast. It doesn't matter what people eat at home normally - when they are at the snow, they want a big, hot breakfast to give them enough get up and go to get through the morning without stopping for more food.
Cooking up a storm has generally not been a problem as we've been staying in apartments with 2 or 3 bedrooms and 8 or so guys racked out across every room (including the lounge room).
Cooking for that many always meant getting up at sunrise - and I have many photos taken at sunrise to prove it.
The usual feed was a bacon and egg roll. That sounds simple, except that the roll was toasted under the grill with some cheese on it (so that the cheese melted into the roll) and it also came with lettuce, carrot, tomato and avocado. And mayo. A good bacon and egg roll should have lots of mayo.
I am not much of an assembly cook, so cooking up 8 rolls usually made the kitchen look a bit like a disaster area. No one ever complained though, since the rolls did the trick, and the washing up really was minimal.
This year however is going to be a first - it's a family snow holiday, so instead of having 8 farting men packed into a small apartment, it's just going to be the four of us in our own place. It's going to be "civilised". It's going to be the same for almost everyone else who is going - kids are popping out all over the place, so we even have a nanny that we can all share.
I can see that the next logical step is to join a lodge and see if we can book everyone into the same lodge for the week. Sounds more sensible to me.
Cooking up a storm has generally not been a problem as we've been staying in apartments with 2 or 3 bedrooms and 8 or so guys racked out across every room (including the lounge room).
Cooking for that many always meant getting up at sunrise - and I have many photos taken at sunrise to prove it.
The usual feed was a bacon and egg roll. That sounds simple, except that the roll was toasted under the grill with some cheese on it (so that the cheese melted into the roll) and it also came with lettuce, carrot, tomato and avocado. And mayo. A good bacon and egg roll should have lots of mayo.
I am not much of an assembly cook, so cooking up 8 rolls usually made the kitchen look a bit like a disaster area. No one ever complained though, since the rolls did the trick, and the washing up really was minimal.
This year however is going to be a first - it's a family snow holiday, so instead of having 8 farting men packed into a small apartment, it's just going to be the four of us in our own place. It's going to be "civilised". It's going to be the same for almost everyone else who is going - kids are popping out all over the place, so we even have a nanny that we can all share.
I can see that the next logical step is to join a lodge and see if we can book everyone into the same lodge for the week. Sounds more sensible to me.
Photo frames
Digital photo frames seem to be reaching the point where they might soon be a few in every house. I have mixed feelings about them. On the one hand, I reckon they are great, as they can reduce a lot of clutter from your shelves - we have several shelves that seem to be nothing but photos in frames, and we are always breaking the frames (well, the little monkey breaks them).
On the other hand, a lot of photos that are taken are just terrible. I reckon that if we put a digital frame into the loungeroom to replace 10 normal photos, I'd be lucky to find 30 good digital photos to load into it.
I also think that they can be a terrible distraction - as bad as TV, if not worse. When people come to visit, the TV goes off. The last thing I then want is their eyes being drawn to a digital frame that changes picture every few minutes. Very anti-social.
On the other hand, a lot of photos that are taken are just terrible. I reckon that if we put a digital frame into the loungeroom to replace 10 normal photos, I'd be lucky to find 30 good digital photos to load into it.
I also think that they can be a terrible distraction - as bad as TV, if not worse. When people come to visit, the TV goes off. The last thing I then want is their eyes being drawn to a digital frame that changes picture every few minutes. Very anti-social.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Parramatta and the slappers
We did a bit of a field trip to the Westfield mall out at Parramatta this evening. Personally, if you asked me what I wanted to do on a Thursday night - go to Parramatta or perhaps clean up a dead dog that has been lying out in the street for 17 days - I'd probably pick the dog. Even if the dog had to be scooped up by hand. Parramatta is just one of those places that fails to entice me with its glamour.
The main reason for the trip was to get some appropriate footwear for our trip to the snow next weekend. All my old boots fell apart last year, so they were binned before we moved, so I needed something for shuffling around in the slush. So did number one. We have been explaining to him for a week that wearing non-waterproof trainers and getting wet feet when the temperature is below zero is not a good idea, but it's pretty much impossible to get that concept through to someone who has never seen snow and never seen the thermometer in negative numbers. I ended up with blue toes on my first trip to the snow, and I don't want his trip to go the same way. Having no feeling in your toes for a year is not pleasant.
So we got some boots, and then whiled away an hour or so watching the silly slappers walking past. The whole mall was unbelievable in terms of odd looking people. We got the boots at Kmart, and all the serving staff looked like a member of the Munster family. I can understand employing maybe a few Munsters, but employing an army of them must smack of nepotism after a while. Or a serious case of suburban inbreeding.
There was one woman that encapsulated Parramatta for me. She was maybe 21, rake thin, ugg boots and pushing a pram and had a four year old in tow as well. She was standing a few feet from me, yelling at the 4 year old at the top of her lungs, and in an accent that threatened to peel the paint from the walls.
She finally managed to collect the errant youngster and was on her way. It was then that I noticed that she was wearing a Playboy bunny singlet.
I can put up with 17 year old tarts wearing those things, but once you start to squeeze out the kids, I think it is a good idea to start dressing a bit more like a respectable adult and less like a pole dancer. There's that whole idea of setting a good example to the kiddies. Clearly, she had no idea.
Getting out of Parramatta brought home the worst aspect of it - they've messed with the street system in order to make it really hard to leave. Once you're in there, it's damned near impossible to get out.
Now that is a scary thought.
The main reason for the trip was to get some appropriate footwear for our trip to the snow next weekend. All my old boots fell apart last year, so they were binned before we moved, so I needed something for shuffling around in the slush. So did number one. We have been explaining to him for a week that wearing non-waterproof trainers and getting wet feet when the temperature is below zero is not a good idea, but it's pretty much impossible to get that concept through to someone who has never seen snow and never seen the thermometer in negative numbers. I ended up with blue toes on my first trip to the snow, and I don't want his trip to go the same way. Having no feeling in your toes for a year is not pleasant.
So we got some boots, and then whiled away an hour or so watching the silly slappers walking past. The whole mall was unbelievable in terms of odd looking people. We got the boots at Kmart, and all the serving staff looked like a member of the Munster family. I can understand employing maybe a few Munsters, but employing an army of them must smack of nepotism after a while. Or a serious case of suburban inbreeding.
There was one woman that encapsulated Parramatta for me. She was maybe 21, rake thin, ugg boots and pushing a pram and had a four year old in tow as well. She was standing a few feet from me, yelling at the 4 year old at the top of her lungs, and in an accent that threatened to peel the paint from the walls.
She finally managed to collect the errant youngster and was on her way. It was then that I noticed that she was wearing a Playboy bunny singlet.
I can put up with 17 year old tarts wearing those things, but once you start to squeeze out the kids, I think it is a good idea to start dressing a bit more like a respectable adult and less like a pole dancer. There's that whole idea of setting a good example to the kiddies. Clearly, she had no idea.
Getting out of Parramatta brought home the worst aspect of it - they've messed with the street system in order to make it really hard to leave. Once you're in there, it's damned near impossible to get out.
Now that is a scary thought.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Is this integration?
We were at a restaurant last week celebrating a friends birthday. There were 20 or so of us on a couple of tables on one side of the room and another long table for another birthday on the other side of the room.
The food was lousy by the way and I am never going back, but that is another story. It was Italian, and the meal consisted of about 23 courses - except that we only discovered this when courses 8, 9 and 10 came out and we found that there were still plenty more to come. By that point, we were all loosening out belts.
At around course 12, a young girl detached herself from the other table and came over to ask us some questions. It turned out that she was 17, and had been dared by her friends to go and talk to the "old people" at the table next door. We invited her to sit down and we yarned away for a good half an hour. In fact talking to her was the best part of the night. She was joined a bit later by her twin brother, who couldn't believe that she had taken up the dare.
One of her first questions was to J, and it was "Are you Croatian?", the answer being yes. She then fired off a pile of Croat at J, who just looked at her blankly and tried to work out what she was jabbering on about. After a few minutes of grinding the cogs, J managed to start to string together enough rusty phrases to chat away.
Here's the rub - this girl was 17, was born here, and her parents were actually Italian! But because she goes to a school that is 70% Croat, and they are all still madly Croatian, she knows more Croat than J.
The kids at her school all totally support some Croat soccer club, they all go to Croatian school on the weekend and I guess the parents all read the Croat Daily News in Croat. They are all still totally immersed in being Croatians.
What got me is that these kids were probably 2nd generation Australians, yet as far as they were concerned, they were Croatians who happened to be living in Australia.
What's the point? If you want to be a Croat so much, just jump on a plane and go back. Surely it can't be that hard?
The food was lousy by the way and I am never going back, but that is another story. It was Italian, and the meal consisted of about 23 courses - except that we only discovered this when courses 8, 9 and 10 came out and we found that there were still plenty more to come. By that point, we were all loosening out belts.
At around course 12, a young girl detached herself from the other table and came over to ask us some questions. It turned out that she was 17, and had been dared by her friends to go and talk to the "old people" at the table next door. We invited her to sit down and we yarned away for a good half an hour. In fact talking to her was the best part of the night. She was joined a bit later by her twin brother, who couldn't believe that she had taken up the dare.
One of her first questions was to J, and it was "Are you Croatian?", the answer being yes. She then fired off a pile of Croat at J, who just looked at her blankly and tried to work out what she was jabbering on about. After a few minutes of grinding the cogs, J managed to start to string together enough rusty phrases to chat away.
Here's the rub - this girl was 17, was born here, and her parents were actually Italian! But because she goes to a school that is 70% Croat, and they are all still madly Croatian, she knows more Croat than J.
The kids at her school all totally support some Croat soccer club, they all go to Croatian school on the weekend and I guess the parents all read the Croat Daily News in Croat. They are all still totally immersed in being Croatians.
What got me is that these kids were probably 2nd generation Australians, yet as far as they were concerned, they were Croatians who happened to be living in Australia.
What's the point? If you want to be a Croat so much, just jump on a plane and go back. Surely it can't be that hard?
I've had it with quacks
You know what I'd like to find?
A Doctor that actually listens to you. I have dealt with about half a dozen different quacks in the last year, and none of them really bothered to listen to me when I told them about my neck problems. I'm trying to get the blasted thing fixed, and none of them have listened enough to what I have to say to actually offer an opinion on how it might be better treated.
It really makes me wonder how much of our health budget is squandered on these silly buggers misdiagnosing or mistreating because they fail to open their ears properly.
A Doctor that actually listens to you. I have dealt with about half a dozen different quacks in the last year, and none of them really bothered to listen to me when I told them about my neck problems. I'm trying to get the blasted thing fixed, and none of them have listened enough to what I have to say to actually offer an opinion on how it might be better treated.
It really makes me wonder how much of our health budget is squandered on these silly buggers misdiagnosing or mistreating because they fail to open their ears properly.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Snot
I tried a simple experiment this week in the best way to loosen snot in your sinuses.
My first method was to stand under a nice hot shower and to suck water up my nose. That did no good at all - didn't dislodge a single thing.
I should explain. I have not slept properly for a week. I am a zombie. You know when you buy a magazine and they have some special promotion for a tea bag and so they've stuck a tea bag to a page with some sort of latexy goo? Well, I have about a litre of that liquid latex stuck to my mouth, throat and sinuses at the moment, and it refuses to budge. It doesn't exactly stay still though either, and that is the problem. As soon as I try and sleep, it loosens up just enough to start vibrating, and I start making noises that sound like a Vogon choir singing "Doom to Planet Theta in a Most Disturbing and Horrible Manner". I reckon I sound more like a choir than a single Vogon as I am grunting and greebling enough to wake myself up with the sheer racket of it all.
I tried a nose spray. All that did was re-arrange things internally. I tried hot water.
Then I got up at around 1am and tried snorting cold water. The temp was down into single digits by then, so the water was pretty icy. It hit the inside of nostril land and before you knew it, it was like the bursting of that tailings dam in PNG a few years ago. The bathroom basin was awash with green goo.
I am working under the assumption here that as snot gets colder, it gets harder and thus more brittle, so that when you blow nice and hard, instead of it sticking in place and just vibrating a bit, it actually snaps off like a stallactite.
That said, snorting cold water at 1am is not a fun option. But it does seem to do the trick.
Up until around 3am that is.
My first method was to stand under a nice hot shower and to suck water up my nose. That did no good at all - didn't dislodge a single thing.
I should explain. I have not slept properly for a week. I am a zombie. You know when you buy a magazine and they have some special promotion for a tea bag and so they've stuck a tea bag to a page with some sort of latexy goo? Well, I have about a litre of that liquid latex stuck to my mouth, throat and sinuses at the moment, and it refuses to budge. It doesn't exactly stay still though either, and that is the problem. As soon as I try and sleep, it loosens up just enough to start vibrating, and I start making noises that sound like a Vogon choir singing "Doom to Planet Theta in a Most Disturbing and Horrible Manner". I reckon I sound more like a choir than a single Vogon as I am grunting and greebling enough to wake myself up with the sheer racket of it all.
I tried a nose spray. All that did was re-arrange things internally. I tried hot water.
Then I got up at around 1am and tried snorting cold water. The temp was down into single digits by then, so the water was pretty icy. It hit the inside of nostril land and before you knew it, it was like the bursting of that tailings dam in PNG a few years ago. The bathroom basin was awash with green goo.
I am working under the assumption here that as snot gets colder, it gets harder and thus more brittle, so that when you blow nice and hard, instead of it sticking in place and just vibrating a bit, it actually snaps off like a stallactite.
That said, snorting cold water at 1am is not a fun option. But it does seem to do the trick.
Up until around 3am that is.
Entrees
I have come to the conclusion that Thai entrees should never be eaten any further than 50 feet from the kitchen where they were cooked. Those little nibblies are so spicy and scrumptious, they deserve to be eaten piping hot and crispy.
We live about 250 metres from a good Thai restaurant. Even if I ring and place an order in advance, then walk down and collect it, and then hurry home, the little packages of yum have started to turn into congealed blobs of ick.
There's just no substitute for eating in and having them delivered to your table fresh as fresh can be.
We live about 250 metres from a good Thai restaurant. Even if I ring and place an order in advance, then walk down and collect it, and then hurry home, the little packages of yum have started to turn into congealed blobs of ick.
There's just no substitute for eating in and having them delivered to your table fresh as fresh can be.
Should we whack the little buggers?
I read these comments with interest today on a teaching blog:
"A survey found that a significant majority of parents believe pupil behaviour had declined since then and over half were in favour of the return of corporal discipline in schools.
"It is worth noting, that the argument against corporal discipline, was largely along the lines that; if you treat children violently (and opponents classified corporal discipline as violence), it will produce a violent society.
"Interestingly, though corporal discipline has not really been used in schools since 1987, violence and discipline problems appear to have become much worse since then and a greater problem now than ever."
This was from a UK blog. I wonder whether the supposed increase in bullying can also be traced back to the removal of the cane? Back in the old days, bullies always knew that there was a bigger bully than them - either the headmaster, or a teacher who might be known as a particularly ferocious caner. If you were found to be bullying some little kid, the teachers would simply bully you a few times with the cane until you got the point that they'd stop whacking you when you stopped beating up other kids.
These days, the "big bully" has disappeared. There are no rough, tough teachers on the playground that will pull young dickheads into line with a few strokes across the backside.
Why else might bullying be rife? Is it a perception thing, or is there really a lot more of it going around than when we were kids? If there is a lot more of it, then why has it grown so much?
My two cents worth is that the potential for bullying is present in most young males. I don't know about young females. Unless you keep a very firm lid on it by threat of physical coercion, it will break out all over the place. It's not something you can eliminate - all you can do is control it, and controlling it requires a firm hand.
Unfortunately, the namby pambys seem to hate that idea, and believe that "counselling" will do the trick. I remember being a young boy. Being spoken to never did me much good. I used to think of it as soft and weak and not worth listening to.
But I did listen intently in maths because the teacher that took it was also the football coach and he was prone to throwing dusters at your head - and he did not aim to miss, and he did not pull his throws. When there is a good change of you ending up with a duster sized bruise on your forehead, you become very quiet and obedient. We didn't mind the dusters - it was better than him having to cane you.
"A survey found that a significant majority of parents believe pupil behaviour had declined since then and over half were in favour of the return of corporal discipline in schools.
"It is worth noting, that the argument against corporal discipline, was largely along the lines that; if you treat children violently (and opponents classified corporal discipline as violence), it will produce a violent society.
"Interestingly, though corporal discipline has not really been used in schools since 1987, violence and discipline problems appear to have become much worse since then and a greater problem now than ever."
This was from a UK blog. I wonder whether the supposed increase in bullying can also be traced back to the removal of the cane? Back in the old days, bullies always knew that there was a bigger bully than them - either the headmaster, or a teacher who might be known as a particularly ferocious caner. If you were found to be bullying some little kid, the teachers would simply bully you a few times with the cane until you got the point that they'd stop whacking you when you stopped beating up other kids.
These days, the "big bully" has disappeared. There are no rough, tough teachers on the playground that will pull young dickheads into line with a few strokes across the backside.
Why else might bullying be rife? Is it a perception thing, or is there really a lot more of it going around than when we were kids? If there is a lot more of it, then why has it grown so much?
My two cents worth is that the potential for bullying is present in most young males. I don't know about young females. Unless you keep a very firm lid on it by threat of physical coercion, it will break out all over the place. It's not something you can eliminate - all you can do is control it, and controlling it requires a firm hand.
Unfortunately, the namby pambys seem to hate that idea, and believe that "counselling" will do the trick. I remember being a young boy. Being spoken to never did me much good. I used to think of it as soft and weak and not worth listening to.
But I did listen intently in maths because the teacher that took it was also the football coach and he was prone to throwing dusters at your head - and he did not aim to miss, and he did not pull his throws. When there is a good change of you ending up with a duster sized bruise on your forehead, you become very quiet and obedient. We didn't mind the dusters - it was better than him having to cane you.
An $8 billion contract?
I saw in the paper recently some fluff about a RailCorp train contract being worth $8 billion, and it being the largest private-public partnership in Australia yada yada yada.
Journalists are such suckers for numbers that they never bother to question. "$8 billion" just sounds like such a marvelously huge number to throw around, so they use it without question.
I presume that the bulk of that $8 billion is not being spent up front, but rather over the 20 or 30 year life of the contract. It must be 30 years. Given the way NSW keeps trains running for longer than that in general, I am surprised they didn't go for 40 years. If we can keep B52s flying for that long or longer, we should be able to keep train carriages trundling around without falling to bits.
The up front cost of building the carriages isn't a lot - maybe a billion and a half, with the other six and a half being spread over the next 30 years. That's what - $200 million per year? That seems an awful lot to keep some nuts tightened on a bunch of carriages. But who am I to tell?
What annoys me is that the government tries to make that expenditure look like it is spending "new money" - that all this money is going to flow into the economy and create jobs and provide BMWs for all. Bollocks. The money was going to be spent one way or the other and you can't pretend that it is "new money". These new carriages are simply replacing old clapped out ones, and the taxpayer is already spending millions per year maintaining them. The maintenance work could be done in house or outsourced and it wouldn't matter - it's still the same old annual maintenance budget, just that it's being spent on different trains or being done by different people.
The only thing that really screws the government is that they can't fly the trains overseas for maintenance in China, like Qantas could do with its aircraft. I'd bet they'd love to do that.
Journalists are such suckers for numbers that they never bother to question. "$8 billion" just sounds like such a marvelously huge number to throw around, so they use it without question.
I presume that the bulk of that $8 billion is not being spent up front, but rather over the 20 or 30 year life of the contract. It must be 30 years. Given the way NSW keeps trains running for longer than that in general, I am surprised they didn't go for 40 years. If we can keep B52s flying for that long or longer, we should be able to keep train carriages trundling around without falling to bits.
The up front cost of building the carriages isn't a lot - maybe a billion and a half, with the other six and a half being spread over the next 30 years. That's what - $200 million per year? That seems an awful lot to keep some nuts tightened on a bunch of carriages. But who am I to tell?
What annoys me is that the government tries to make that expenditure look like it is spending "new money" - that all this money is going to flow into the economy and create jobs and provide BMWs for all. Bollocks. The money was going to be spent one way or the other and you can't pretend that it is "new money". These new carriages are simply replacing old clapped out ones, and the taxpayer is already spending millions per year maintaining them. The maintenance work could be done in house or outsourced and it wouldn't matter - it's still the same old annual maintenance budget, just that it's being spent on different trains or being done by different people.
The only thing that really screws the government is that they can't fly the trains overseas for maintenance in China, like Qantas could do with its aircraft. I'd bet they'd love to do that.
What a difference a postcode makes
When I was out west last week, I had the misfortune to ride into a pack of slothfully perambulating bogans. I didn't actually hit any of them - I just came up behind them on a combined bike/foot path and asked them politely to get out of the way.
I asked once, twice, three times and then really started to raise my voice. The stupid buggers were wandering around in a daze with not a care in the world. They seemed shocked to actually see someone on a bicycle on a bike path - I presume everyone out that way hankers after a car with a fat exhaust and a pumping sound system and some pimped up wheels. Bikes are for dilletants from the east.
Like me.
The thing is this - they were school kids. Or should I say, skool kids. I have never seen such a slovenly bunch of no hopers. Their haircuts were amazing - mullets with the sides of the head completely shaved and that kind of thing. I just took one look at all of them and thought "unemployment queue for you boyo". Except that in this full employment economy, they'll get a job somewhere with some desperate employer who will take anyone.
I wonder how they will fare though when things turn down. I expect they will be the first on the scrap heap, and they won't know why. They'll just find themselves at home one day, drinking beer out of longnecks at 10am and watching the WRX being repossessed and wondering why?
I don't have to wonder why. I just read the latest edition of my old school magazine. It was a bit of an eye opener looking at the photos - the kids looked so clean cut, I expected most of them to be putting down "Duntroon" as their place of residence next year. There was nary a hair touching an ear to be seen - lots of short back and sides in evidence.
And they're all wearing jackets and ties and looking comfortable in them. The bogans that I ran into looked uncomfortable in shoes. I guess that's one major difference between us and the rock apes.
I asked once, twice, three times and then really started to raise my voice. The stupid buggers were wandering around in a daze with not a care in the world. They seemed shocked to actually see someone on a bicycle on a bike path - I presume everyone out that way hankers after a car with a fat exhaust and a pumping sound system and some pimped up wheels. Bikes are for dilletants from the east.
Like me.
The thing is this - they were school kids. Or should I say, skool kids. I have never seen such a slovenly bunch of no hopers. Their haircuts were amazing - mullets with the sides of the head completely shaved and that kind of thing. I just took one look at all of them and thought "unemployment queue for you boyo". Except that in this full employment economy, they'll get a job somewhere with some desperate employer who will take anyone.
I wonder how they will fare though when things turn down. I expect they will be the first on the scrap heap, and they won't know why. They'll just find themselves at home one day, drinking beer out of longnecks at 10am and watching the WRX being repossessed and wondering why?
I don't have to wonder why. I just read the latest edition of my old school magazine. It was a bit of an eye opener looking at the photos - the kids looked so clean cut, I expected most of them to be putting down "Duntroon" as their place of residence next year. There was nary a hair touching an ear to be seen - lots of short back and sides in evidence.
And they're all wearing jackets and ties and looking comfortable in them. The bogans that I ran into looked uncomfortable in shoes. I guess that's one major difference between us and the rock apes.
Hoons
The latest flap to hit Sydney is street racing. Two lovely old ducks were cleaned up last week by some car racing fools on some major highway, and so the paper has been full of stories everyday about cars being confiscated, people being charged and today - another prang. This time, no one killed.
I just can't believe it's taken the cops this long to work out that racing on our freeways is pretty much endemic. I witnessed my first drag race years ago. I was driving down to Goulburn when these two cars in front of me slowed right down to about 30 in a 110 zone. I was mighty annoyed with them, but then they planted it and took off. Might have been a pair of BMW's. They shot through in a big hurry. By the time I had the tank back up to 110, they were gone.
Now this was not out in the sticks - this was about 20km from the CBD, and it was mid afternoon. Since then, I've seen quite a few more like it. It's not unusual to see a couple of arseholes weaving through the traffic as they race each other.
I guess it will all blow over in another week or two and we can move onto the next crisis.
I just can't believe it's taken the cops this long to work out that racing on our freeways is pretty much endemic. I witnessed my first drag race years ago. I was driving down to Goulburn when these two cars in front of me slowed right down to about 30 in a 110 zone. I was mighty annoyed with them, but then they planted it and took off. Might have been a pair of BMW's. They shot through in a big hurry. By the time I had the tank back up to 110, they were gone.
Now this was not out in the sticks - this was about 20km from the CBD, and it was mid afternoon. Since then, I've seen quite a few more like it. It's not unusual to see a couple of arseholes weaving through the traffic as they race each other.
I guess it will all blow over in another week or two and we can move onto the next crisis.
Newspapers and military rank
The SMH had an article in it this week about a Sergeant who was busted with a huge cache of weapons. All obsolete of course - like the stupid F1 sub-machine gun that I had to learn to use back in 1985. The F1 I believe was a knock off of the Sten, which itself was a cheap and nasty sub machine gun made from very thin metal. It was fun to fire, since it was 9mm, had very little recoil and a 20 or 30 round magazine, but it was a waste of space. The magazine was top mounted (I think) and you had to look down the side of it to aim it.
The Corporal that instructed me on it told us a memorable story about using it in Vietnam. He said he emptied half a magazine into the back of a fleeing VC, and the bullets practically bounced off the blokes backpack. He ditched it after that and carried an SLR. And there we were, learning how to use it 20 years later.
Anyway, this Sergeant was charged with having 500,000 rounds of ammo, some SKS rifles, the aforementioned F1 and some other things, but the classic bit is that he was described as being "in charge of the school of artillery at puckapunyal", or wherever it was.
A sergeant. The CO of an artillery school.
Yeah right. Somehow, I think the paper stuffed up something.
The Corporal that instructed me on it told us a memorable story about using it in Vietnam. He said he emptied half a magazine into the back of a fleeing VC, and the bullets practically bounced off the blokes backpack. He ditched it after that and carried an SLR. And there we were, learning how to use it 20 years later.
Anyway, this Sergeant was charged with having 500,000 rounds of ammo, some SKS rifles, the aforementioned F1 and some other things, but the classic bit is that he was described as being "in charge of the school of artillery at puckapunyal", or wherever it was.
A sergeant. The CO of an artillery school.
Yeah right. Somehow, I think the paper stuffed up something.
Deja Vu - have I seen a film this bad before?
I just sat through about 3/4 of Deja Vu. What I mean by that is I watched the first half (which took an hour) and then fast forwarded through the rest, avoiding big chunks along the way until I got to the last five minutes.
Hasn't Val Kilmer gotten fat? That's the only new thing to come out of this movie.
I feel I can tell you the entire premise of the movie, since it's so awful, you will never want to see it, but the premise is so bad, I don't think I should even put you through the pain of reading it. Denzel Washington is crap. Val, as noted earlier, is fat and his makeup creases around his neck. There is lots of time warping technology which is just dribble. I just couldn't bear it.
The worst thing is the direction. Remember how really jumpy camera movements were just so action-like when they were first used in the dog fighting sequences in Top Gun? The way the camera raced around to show a Mig zooming by, then lost it, then found it again etc etc? It was really, really good.
Top Gun was directed by one of the Scott brothers - I can never remember whether it was Tony or Ridley, but whichever one it was, he just can't let go of the technique. Especially when he is making a movie for Jerry Brucheimer, as is the case here. It's gotten so bad, you have two people sitting in a cafe having a coffee and the camera has to leap around so much, you start to think that the cameraman is actually a monkey with a bad amphetamine habit. I am so over it. One day, someone is going to get really frustrated and nail Tony or Ridley's camera to the floor and that will be that. I personally would like to be the person that does it.
Hasn't Val Kilmer gotten fat? That's the only new thing to come out of this movie.
I feel I can tell you the entire premise of the movie, since it's so awful, you will never want to see it, but the premise is so bad, I don't think I should even put you through the pain of reading it. Denzel Washington is crap. Val, as noted earlier, is fat and his makeup creases around his neck. There is lots of time warping technology which is just dribble. I just couldn't bear it.
The worst thing is the direction. Remember how really jumpy camera movements were just so action-like when they were first used in the dog fighting sequences in Top Gun? The way the camera raced around to show a Mig zooming by, then lost it, then found it again etc etc? It was really, really good.
Top Gun was directed by one of the Scott brothers - I can never remember whether it was Tony or Ridley, but whichever one it was, he just can't let go of the technique. Especially when he is making a movie for Jerry Brucheimer, as is the case here. It's gotten so bad, you have two people sitting in a cafe having a coffee and the camera has to leap around so much, you start to think that the cameraman is actually a monkey with a bad amphetamine habit. I am so over it. One day, someone is going to get really frustrated and nail Tony or Ridley's camera to the floor and that will be that. I personally would like to be the person that does it.
Friday, 3 August 2007
The ride to Tamiflu
I've been off the air for a few days because I have been as sick as sick can be. I had such a fever, I was halucinating when I was awake, and having the same halucinations when I was asleep - and it was the same bloody halucination over and over again. I got pretty sick of it after a while, and it was not very good - it was about a computer game of all things.
It all started with me wanting to be able to ride to Parramatta Park. I have no great desire to see the park - it's just that there is a cyclepath that heads north from the park, and if I wanted to get onto that path, I needed to get to the park first.
Over the last two weeks, I have made two abortive attempts to find the park. Well, two abortive attempts to find Parramatta in fact, which is pretty hard, given that it is supposed to be the second CBD in Sydney. Typical of the RTA that the signage that they erect on our cycle paths is so bad, you can miss an entire CBD.
On my second attempt, I actually took the correct turn off (or at least one of the available alternatives), but my ride petered out several hundred metres off the cycle path because those dicks at the RTA had not bothered to erect any signs telling you where to go once you get off the path.
The thing about following a cycle route is that it is generally not a straight line. If you were to drive from A to B, you would not deviate from your path if there were some nasty hills in your way, or if the traffic on certain bits of road was fast, crowded and nasty. Taking a bike route is lot more of a meander - you try and go around the nasty hills, and you definitely avoid the shocking bits of road. Your course is anything but straight. That means you need lots of signs to say to cyclists "this way" and "that way", and you need them to be numerous and obvious.
That is obviously not at all obvious to the RTA.
I wasn't going to give up after two measly attempts. I went home and studied the RTA bike maps for a while, then compared them to Google maps and tried to make sense of where they wanted me to go.
It was a bloody nightmare. None of their maps have street names on them, so I'm not sure how you are supposed to work out which street to take. I simply took a best guess, and trusted in the Force.
As soon as I turned off the cyclepath into suburbia, this is what I found. Christ, what a lovely area.
Until now, my main considerations for the route that I take revolve around speed and safety - with safety being foremost. But I've only really considered road safety. I'm now going to think about the risk of being mugged!
On my way back, the poor bastard that owns the car was standing there with a mobile mechanic. He was obviously trying to get some new wheels for the car. It made me think - this car is a piece of junk - just what type of wheels did he have on it that someone wanted to steal them? Did dipshit put several thousand dollars worth of wheels on a car worth about the same?
Some people are such tools.
I didn't want to take a photo of the meathead and his car as he looked like he was not long out of prison. I just glanced his way and kept on going. Discretion being the better part of valour and all of that.
I won't bore you with the details of how I found my way to Parramatta Park - let me just say that I am considering printing the RTA maps on soft paper and hanging them next to the toilet. Backing the filling was the order of the day.
Once I got to the park, I found it quite nice to ride around. It's one way, there is a lane for pedestrians (which, like pedestrians everywhere, they stray out of), a side lane for bikes and a single lane for cars. Speeds are kept down to 30. I was toodling around the park when I went past this woman setting up her racing wheelchair. I kept going to a bit, then pulled over, took some photos of some birds to pass the time and then snapped her as she went by. She was the first wheelchair athlete that I have seen out and about.
They don't actually grab the wheels with their fingers when they go to push - they have these big rubberised pads on their gloves, and they push the pad against the wheel and push. The pad must have enough grip for them to impart a lot of force on the wheel. She was obviously warming up, because she was as slow as a wet week on that first lap (about 20km/h). I followed her for a while to watch her action, then took off. Those wheels are also canted right in as far they will go - there is about 1/4 inch of space between the wheels and her sides.
Once out of the park, I needed to find a way home. I was not going back the way I came in, because that way was crap. Along the way, I passed the dead centre of Parramatta.
Did you know that people living in Parramatta can't be buried in this cemetery?
Of course - they're not dead yet.
By the time I got to the cemetery, I had done about 30km and I was feeling a bit the worse for wear. I know I haven't been riding an awful lot of late, but I shouldn't have been feeling that bad. I managed to get back to the cycle way without too many problems, but it was not long before I was really hurting. I had to stop every few kilometres for a breather and then promise myself that I'd call J for a lift when I got to point X. All I had to do was get to point X.
Point X came and went, so I gave myself a new point X and kept on going. This went on until it was complete agony, but by then, I was close to home, so I said bugger it and kept on going.
All up, it was not a fun ride.
By the next morning, I was a complete mess - fever, chills, sweats, joint pain, hallunications, pressure behind the eyeballs and the cough from hell. At one point, I was coughing violently every 15 seconds, and it went on for hours. I couldn't sleep, and I could barely breathe at times. As a result, I've wrenched every muscle from my groin to my armpits from coughing.
A day later, I was barely in shape to go and see the quack. How I wish these guys made house calls still. He prescribed Tamiflu, but warned me that it cost $70. It could have cost $700 and I would have paid for it. I also would have paid him a few hundred dollars to make a house call. When you are that crook, even leaving the house and sitting in a waiting room is agony. Sydney's completely crap roads don't help. The jolting there and back just about killed me.
To cut a long story short, the Tamiflu kicked in about 30 hours later, and 40 hours later, I am able to do some writing (but not much else). My brain feels like mush, my head is full of snot and my voice is completely wrecked from coughing.
All in a days riding really.
It all started with me wanting to be able to ride to Parramatta Park. I have no great desire to see the park - it's just that there is a cyclepath that heads north from the park, and if I wanted to get onto that path, I needed to get to the park first.
Over the last two weeks, I have made two abortive attempts to find the park. Well, two abortive attempts to find Parramatta in fact, which is pretty hard, given that it is supposed to be the second CBD in Sydney. Typical of the RTA that the signage that they erect on our cycle paths is so bad, you can miss an entire CBD.
On my second attempt, I actually took the correct turn off (or at least one of the available alternatives), but my ride petered out several hundred metres off the cycle path because those dicks at the RTA had not bothered to erect any signs telling you where to go once you get off the path.
The thing about following a cycle route is that it is generally not a straight line. If you were to drive from A to B, you would not deviate from your path if there were some nasty hills in your way, or if the traffic on certain bits of road was fast, crowded and nasty. Taking a bike route is lot more of a meander - you try and go around the nasty hills, and you definitely avoid the shocking bits of road. Your course is anything but straight. That means you need lots of signs to say to cyclists "this way" and "that way", and you need them to be numerous and obvious.
That is obviously not at all obvious to the RTA.
I wasn't going to give up after two measly attempts. I went home and studied the RTA bike maps for a while, then compared them to Google maps and tried to make sense of where they wanted me to go.
It was a bloody nightmare. None of their maps have street names on them, so I'm not sure how you are supposed to work out which street to take. I simply took a best guess, and trusted in the Force.
As soon as I turned off the cyclepath into suburbia, this is what I found. Christ, what a lovely area.
Until now, my main considerations for the route that I take revolve around speed and safety - with safety being foremost. But I've only really considered road safety. I'm now going to think about the risk of being mugged!
On my way back, the poor bastard that owns the car was standing there with a mobile mechanic. He was obviously trying to get some new wheels for the car. It made me think - this car is a piece of junk - just what type of wheels did he have on it that someone wanted to steal them? Did dipshit put several thousand dollars worth of wheels on a car worth about the same?
Some people are such tools.
I didn't want to take a photo of the meathead and his car as he looked like he was not long out of prison. I just glanced his way and kept on going. Discretion being the better part of valour and all of that.
I won't bore you with the details of how I found my way to Parramatta Park - let me just say that I am considering printing the RTA maps on soft paper and hanging them next to the toilet. Backing the filling was the order of the day.
Once I got to the park, I found it quite nice to ride around. It's one way, there is a lane for pedestrians (which, like pedestrians everywhere, they stray out of), a side lane for bikes and a single lane for cars. Speeds are kept down to 30. I was toodling around the park when I went past this woman setting up her racing wheelchair. I kept going to a bit, then pulled over, took some photos of some birds to pass the time and then snapped her as she went by. She was the first wheelchair athlete that I have seen out and about.
They don't actually grab the wheels with their fingers when they go to push - they have these big rubberised pads on their gloves, and they push the pad against the wheel and push. The pad must have enough grip for them to impart a lot of force on the wheel. She was obviously warming up, because she was as slow as a wet week on that first lap (about 20km/h). I followed her for a while to watch her action, then took off. Those wheels are also canted right in as far they will go - there is about 1/4 inch of space between the wheels and her sides.
Once out of the park, I needed to find a way home. I was not going back the way I came in, because that way was crap. Along the way, I passed the dead centre of Parramatta.
Did you know that people living in Parramatta can't be buried in this cemetery?
Of course - they're not dead yet.
By the time I got to the cemetery, I had done about 30km and I was feeling a bit the worse for wear. I know I haven't been riding an awful lot of late, but I shouldn't have been feeling that bad. I managed to get back to the cycle way without too many problems, but it was not long before I was really hurting. I had to stop every few kilometres for a breather and then promise myself that I'd call J for a lift when I got to point X. All I had to do was get to point X.
Point X came and went, so I gave myself a new point X and kept on going. This went on until it was complete agony, but by then, I was close to home, so I said bugger it and kept on going.
All up, it was not a fun ride.
By the next morning, I was a complete mess - fever, chills, sweats, joint pain, hallunications, pressure behind the eyeballs and the cough from hell. At one point, I was coughing violently every 15 seconds, and it went on for hours. I couldn't sleep, and I could barely breathe at times. As a result, I've wrenched every muscle from my groin to my armpits from coughing.
A day later, I was barely in shape to go and see the quack. How I wish these guys made house calls still. He prescribed Tamiflu, but warned me that it cost $70. It could have cost $700 and I would have paid for it. I also would have paid him a few hundred dollars to make a house call. When you are that crook, even leaving the house and sitting in a waiting room is agony. Sydney's completely crap roads don't help. The jolting there and back just about killed me.
To cut a long story short, the Tamiflu kicked in about 30 hours later, and 40 hours later, I am able to do some writing (but not much else). My brain feels like mush, my head is full of snot and my voice is completely wrecked from coughing.
All in a days riding really.
Nutella
I was in the supermarket the other night, browsing through the tinned goods and minding my own business when four people in suits marched up to the shelf next to me and started examining the Nutella on display. I was quite intrigued by them, so I hung around a while to listen to what they were saying. I take it that they were managers of some sort from the supermarket chain, or a wholesaler, or the company that owns Nutella. I never did work it out.
Or they could have been connected with the company that sold the Nutella-knock off that was languishing on the bottom shelf. I forget what it is called, but it is nut-something. That's brand recognition for you - I have passed that shelf almost daily for several years now, and I have bought quite a few jars of Nutella, and I have never noticed the competition lurking on the bottom shelf.
And lurk it does, and lurk for sometime as well. A woman from the group grabbed one of the jars from the bottom shelf, turned it over and announced to the rest of the group (and sticky-beak me) that the jar had been sitting on the shelf for over a year and had expired 54 weeks before. That brought forth some groans from the group. Another jar was pulled out, and that one had a clear band of white around the top where all the fat or oil had separated out and solidified on the surface. That one was also out of date. Another out of date jar was manipulated and found to be as squishy as anything.
All those jars went back on the bottom shelf, so I think that rules out them working for that company. If they cared about their product, they would have removed it from the shelves straight away and tidied up the remainding stock, which looked like a dogs breakfast.
A comment was made along the lines of "We sell 53 jars of Nutella a week and have not sold a jar of this other stuff so far this year". So they could have been from the supermarket.
The thing is, its been at least a week since I saw that group in the aisle, and the crap nut spread is still on the bottom shelf. If they had been from the supermarket, and they wanted some action, they should have pulled the junk from the bottom shelf by now and replaced it with another line of stock.
I still can't think of what it's called. I walk past it daily now and have a look at it and the name just doesn't stick in my mind.
I'm certainly not going to buy a jar of it, but that is probably the only way that I will be able to remember what it is by the time I get home.
I have read that thousands of new products are tried out on supermarket shelves each year, and most of them fail. Here is pretty clear evidence of one of the failures. I get the feeling it is a solid brand in its home market, so they've shipped some over here, and backed it with zero marketing.
Managers who do that kind of thing really need to be taken out and shot.
Or they could have been connected with the company that sold the Nutella-knock off that was languishing on the bottom shelf. I forget what it is called, but it is nut-something. That's brand recognition for you - I have passed that shelf almost daily for several years now, and I have bought quite a few jars of Nutella, and I have never noticed the competition lurking on the bottom shelf.
And lurk it does, and lurk for sometime as well. A woman from the group grabbed one of the jars from the bottom shelf, turned it over and announced to the rest of the group (and sticky-beak me) that the jar had been sitting on the shelf for over a year and had expired 54 weeks before. That brought forth some groans from the group. Another jar was pulled out, and that one had a clear band of white around the top where all the fat or oil had separated out and solidified on the surface. That one was also out of date. Another out of date jar was manipulated and found to be as squishy as anything.
All those jars went back on the bottom shelf, so I think that rules out them working for that company. If they cared about their product, they would have removed it from the shelves straight away and tidied up the remainding stock, which looked like a dogs breakfast.
A comment was made along the lines of "We sell 53 jars of Nutella a week and have not sold a jar of this other stuff so far this year". So they could have been from the supermarket.
The thing is, its been at least a week since I saw that group in the aisle, and the crap nut spread is still on the bottom shelf. If they had been from the supermarket, and they wanted some action, they should have pulled the junk from the bottom shelf by now and replaced it with another line of stock.
I still can't think of what it's called. I walk past it daily now and have a look at it and the name just doesn't stick in my mind.
I'm certainly not going to buy a jar of it, but that is probably the only way that I will be able to remember what it is by the time I get home.
I have read that thousands of new products are tried out on supermarket shelves each year, and most of them fail. Here is pretty clear evidence of one of the failures. I get the feeling it is a solid brand in its home market, so they've shipped some over here, and backed it with zero marketing.
Managers who do that kind of thing really need to be taken out and shot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)