Monday, 18 May 2009

Weights and prices for a soldier's care pack

Things I was able to get at my local supermarket:

  • Nut bars - $4.99
  • Robert Timms coffee bags - $3.39
  • Chap stick - $3.89
  • ANZAC biscuits - $2.89
  • Sultanas - $3.04
  • Twisties (not shown, as the kids got to them first) - $1.69
  • Papaw ointment - $5.99
  • Peanut butter - $4.59
  • Minties - $2.49
  • Antibacterial handcream (waterless) - $5.50
  • Wet ones - $2.50
Total = $40.46, or around $20 per pack. Prices are doubtlessly different in your neck of the woods.


By the time I add some magazines, and buy a few bags of replacement Twisties, this will be over the 2kg limit, so I will spread this over 2 boxes. Magazines tend to be the most expensive item, so I try to limit them to stuff that we buy normally, read and then throw out. Some magazines are quite topical, and have a short shelf life, whilst others can be read a year later and still contain some value (think of the stuff you find in Doctor's waiting rooms).

I have no qualms about sending a pre-loved magazine that has a good shelf life, since 500 troops might end up passing it around if it is any good. It will be pretty worn by the time it gets to the end of the regiment. I don't think the first digger will complain much if it has my grubby fingerprints on it, and a few folded corners.

This is where the digital scales come in handy. A 375gm jar of peanut butter actually weighs 411gms.


This handcream comes in a 375ml bottle, which tells us nothing about the weight. It actually weighs 372gms.

The actual weights (vs advertised net weight) of all items are as follows:
  • Nut bars - 200gm (160gm)
  • Robert Timms coffee bags - 80gm (45gm)
  • Chap stick - 13gm (4.2gm)
  • ANZAC biscuits - 323gm (300gm)
  • Sultanas - 295gm (240gm)
  • Twisties (not shown, as the kids got to them first) - 90gm (unknown)
  • Papaw ointment - 33gm (25gm)
  • Peanut butter - 411gm (375gm)
  • Minties - 215gm (200gm)
  • Antibacterial handcream (waterless) - 372gm (n/a)
  • Wet ones - 76gm (n/a)
The actual weight of this lot comes to 2078gms, as opposed to an advertised weight of 1814gm. I guess that if you don't have a set of digital scales at home, the only way to do this in the supermarket is to add up the advertised weights on the packaging and add 15% for safety. Otherwise, you might find yourself having to open the box in the supermarket to take something out.

Magazines are surprisingly heavy. I weighed the 2009 Laura Ashley catalogue as a guide (don't ask) and found that it came to 815gms. Two copies of The Spectator, which are quite thin and light, came to 230gms in total. Magazines like Ralph and so on tend to be more at the Laura Ashley end of the spectrum. You can burn your allowance very quickly with reading material, so it has to be worth sending.

Now all I have to do is get organised enough to get this lot to the post office before the kids get into it (again).

Those poor, poor Democrats, Part II

Sheesh, I am a silly duffer.

It's obvious why rich Democrats are queuing up to pay $15,000 per couple for dinner with Obama - they want access to special pleading so that loopholes can be inserted into the tax code to protect their wealth and income. Yes, the rich should pay more tax - but as far as Democrats are concerned, it should be other rich people.

Those poor, poor democrats

For a bloke who is so interested in redistribution and "spreading the wealth around", he sure hangs out with some strange bed-fellows:

After his Notre Dame speech, the president is scheduled to travel to Indianapolis for a $US15,000 ($A19,757)-per-couple fundraiser to benefit some of Indiana's congressional Democrats. He completes his commencement season tour on Friday with a speech before the graduates at the US Naval Academy in Maryland.

Why would anyone who is "rich" even think of donating to a party that is intent on taking more of what you have? It just goes to show that you don't have to be smart to be loaded. I wonder whether some of these clowns have inherited their wealth, which explains why you can go from rags to riches to rags in three generations.
Virtually all of the graduates stood and applauded, as Obama received his honorary degree.

Which means that some remained seated. If this had been Bush, the headline would have screamed, "Students protest against Bush over something or other". Why did the media not bother to ask those that remained seated (and who perhaps did not applaud) why they were doing so? Everyone who ever protests against a conservative is given more air time than the conservative they are protesting against.

Sunday, 17 May 2009

More stupid statistics

Gone are my regular morning swims at Bondi. Maybe they'll start up again when the kids are a bit older, but for the moment, a splash and a feed just after dawn are out of the question.

I lived through the horror of the introduction of parking meters at Bondi. Waverly Council, which incorporates Bondi, gave new meaning to rape and pillage when they installed those meters. They need enormous garbage trucks to cart away all the gold coins that end up in them.

Two years ago businesses in Bondi argued that parking meters were causing a dowturn in business, despite evidence from the council that they led to a higher turnover of visitors.
Yes, you may well get higher turnover than before - but that doesn't mean that visitors are relaxing and sticking around the spend some cash locally. What I normally do is park a few streets back from the beach, where the parking is still free, and put up with the extra walk to the beach. I figure that since I am going to the beach to do a long swim in order to maintain some level of fitness, walking an extra 500 metres each way is not a bad idea either.

Since the parking is free, the pressure is off as far as leaving is concerned. That allows me to swim for up to an hour, then waddle over to one of the many fine cafes for a plate of eggs and a coffee; and perhaps a bit of time to linger over the paper as the salt dries in my hair.

However, I used to see plenty of bolters - people that would park at a meter, run to the beach, run into the water, swim like madmen, then shoot out of the water and race back to their car before the meter expired. Got time for a coffee and a relaxing chat? Ah, no. Got to run before the Parking Nazis get me.

Turnover of parking spots and turnover in a shop are not the same thing. But then again, I always found that Waverly Council was stuffed full of loopy greens and commies, so their attitude is not surprising.

Where did the proper hot dog go?

I used to enjoy a day out at the footy. I wouldn't say I am in to any code in particular (except soccer, which is for fruits), but I don't mind watching a couple of hours of a ball being thrown or kicked this way and that with a beer in hand.

I spent a decade or so living within walking distance of the SCG. It was a bit of a hike, but nothing to write home about - maybe half an hour on the hoof from door to turnstile. One of my favourite things was getting a proper hot dog outside the ground from one of the itinerant BBQ pushers. They cooked real sausages, served them in between bits of tasty bread and they always cooked their onions properly. I don't remember ever paying more than $2 for a hot dog.

Then the trustees of the SCG got all uppity and had them removed. After that, I went to a few games safe in the knowledge that I could still get a good hot dog outside the pub across the road after the game. But even that bloke was disappeared by a black helicopter, so I gave up. He might be back for all I know, but I couldn't be bothered going back for a look. A good sporting contest should involve real sport, real beer and real food. We still seem to have the first, the second is a distant memory and the third is gone and completely forgotten. Except by me.

This is what I got for $5.50 at the Roseville Racecourse today:


It was even worse than it looks. This is billed as a "gourmet hot dog".

I think things went downhill when the Swans started playing Collingwood at the SCG - the Collingwood fans must have demanded food that they could eat without teeth.

Sending A Little TLC

Guest post by Nilk:

I am linkwhoring this post (over at RWDBogan and also at A Western Heart), but I do believe it’s something we really should be addressing.

Yesterday, Bolta brought to our attention the interesting tidbit that our soldiers need to cough up for their own life insurance.

The comments at the original article are enlightening. While plenty of pundits are outraged, there are also a few who don’t seem to get the issue.

they get paid enough, what’s their risk compared to a lowly paid cop.

True, Saint George of Brisbane. It’s not like Mt Gravatt is any less dangerous than Afghanistan now, is it?

Then we have the remarkably astute Rex of Camp Hill:

JohnP (6) You say “..Govt SHOULD and MUST pay for life insurance”. By that, you mean taxpayers?? These boyscouts are already overpaid for doing bugger all.

Boyscouts? My girl’s in Scouts, and I don’t see her roaming around Iraq trying not to get blown up, or the same in East Timor or Africa.

Why should I, through my taxes pay for diggers insurance? I did not ask them to take a job with the army/airforce etc. My employer (state government) does not pay life insurance for me, nor do I ask for anyone else to do it for me. Suck it up and pay it out of your own pockets. The Australian people are not going to add this to all the other perks you lot get for serving overseas. Remember, you chose that lifestyle, you were not forced. And before all the mums etc get on the band wagon, I honestly believe that we are sending troupes out to fight wars that are not of our making. We are only propping up other countries.

From mates of mine who’ve served overseas, I don’t know a whole lot about perks. I’ve heard of the heat, and the boredom, and the tension and lack of sleep, and missing home.

Some perks.

In the comments at bolta’s, Boy On A Bike pointed out something that really does need a bit more publicity than it currently gets.

Did you know that if you are in Australia, you can send a care package to a soldier in Afghanistan for free?

I did learn of it a while back, but didn’t take advantage of that until easter when I sent easter eggs and other goodies over.

Slack of me, I know – I have tended to send stuff to people I know personally.

Unfortunately, not all of our guys and girls have anyone to send the things and just let them know that they are thought of and their work appreciated.

If I’m getting off my arse, it’s about time others did too.

So many people like to put down America and how they act like they’re so good, well when it comes to showing appreciation for their troops, they are light years ahead of us.

Let’s have a look:

Soldiers’ Angels
Any Soldier
Operation AC
Wounded Warrior Project
Project Valour-IT
Homes For Our Troops

These are only a few off the top of my head, and yes, I know they have a population of 300 million.

That’s not the point.

They are our men and women in harm’s way, so we should support them.

I’ve started making enquiries about what is appreciated, but as a starter kit, how about:

Via one source:

Lollies, small fruit cake, muesli bars, small deodorant, small sultana packs, soap, hand lotion (antiseptic type), ANZAC biscuits, short bread, vegemite and peanut butter.

Australiana is also popular for trade purposes such as pins of Aussie flags, kangaroos etc

Via source #2:

Snacks – nuts, chips, BBQ Shapes etc, Twisties, Cheezels – all are good, they’ll be shared out among the Aussie contingent when we play cards of an evening.

Biscuits – other than Anzac bikkies. It takes about 3 weeks to get here, and often sits in quite hot warehouses on the way. Butternut or other types are good, even chocolate bikkies (not iced ones though)

Sauces and condiments – tomato sauce, BBQ sauce, asian sauces, Tabasco etc – We’re mostly good for this stuff. The PX stocks most condiments.

Spreads – vegemite, peanut paste, jam, marmalade – Peanut Butter!!! The RSL sent us a heap of Vegemite (with ANZAC Bikkies and real knitted socks).

Drinks – Milo, tea, coffee – Again, the PX stocks most of this stuff, no Milo though.

2 minute noodles, packet soups – Rolled gold! All good. Also good would be those Continental meal sachets. We are cooking our own food, and some variety would be a bonus.

Chockies – violet crumble, picnic, polly waffle – Not likely to travel very well.

Minties or other chewy things – See chips etc.

Staminade/Gatorade powder – A good idea. Might be a bit bulky though.

Cereals – weetbix, just right etc – No milk. They get fresh milk in Khartoum, but out here it is all powdered.

Magazines: Ralph, Top Gear, motoring or fishing mags. Home decorating and gardening (if you’re into that) – Boys mags (not stick). 39 PSB send us some, but they tend to be Take 5 and New Idea, I suspect the guys in Khartoum are taking first dibs on what comes in – can’t blame them I guess. The one female here is well catered for. Mags like Ralph and FHM should pass the “not stick” rule, and still give us the necessary ammunition when we brag to the other nationalities about how much better looking our girls are.

For a few extra bucks when you go shopping, I don’t believe that it is all that difficult to put together a small pack that you can send for free.

I also like to send those biodegradable toilet wipes. I’m the biggest fan of baby wipes out, and these ones have the added bonus of biodegradability, which can only be a Good Thing.

The Robert Timms coffee sachets as well are something I have a stash of in the cupboard.

I don’t have scales, but I add up the weights on the pack as I go, and can generally get it to within a cooee.

You can buy boxes to pack from the post office, or recycle boxes. I buy from amazon.com, and so I have a nice supply of boxes that are the perfect size. Two or three books at a time works best in the box department, or else shoe boxes. Nothing that can’t be sealed with a bit of packing tape.

So, if you do decide to do like I have and get off your backside and down to the post office, where do you send?

I’ve only one address so far, and that’s for Afghanistan. You can send to:


“An Australian Soldier”
Op Slipper
AFPO 13
Australian Defence Force
SYDNEY NSW 2890

In my experience, contact from home is the most longed for thing, but a few other goodies can only help.

And besides, it’s free to send!

Email me if you want to know more.
rwdbanon@yahoo.com.au

Father's Day, Part II

In reality, it should be Part III, but I didn't write about day 1, so this will have to be Part II.

We were all supposed to go west today to visit some friends and their new baby, but since our kids are all mobile germ factories at the moment, we thought it best if only J went. Let me describe one germ factory in particular.

Mr Squishy is still too young to be able to cough up snot, so he swallows it and then chunders it up wholesale a while later. He is producing so much mucus, I think he is half human, half slug. Have you ever watched a line marking machine in action on the road when it is laying down the broken centre line? It moves along a bit, then plops down a trail of white paint. Then the paint stops, it moves again, and another trail of paint lands on the road.

We had Mr Squishy sitting in the middle of the dining table. He leaned forward and chucked up a puddle of goo between his legs. J dragged him backwards a bit so he wouldn't put his hands in it, and he threw up some more. J dragged him back again, and he threw up yet again. By the time we ran out of dining table, there was a broken trail of undigested snot marking the centre line.

In other words, I was stuck with him for the day.

I was given a mission today, which was to acquire a new rocker for Mr Squishy. The rocker started with Monkey, and he rocked that thing to bits. Most kids like to rock, but Monkey loved to rock. When Mr Squishy inherited it, it was starting to look a bit ragged and creaky. Mr Squishy took one look at it, and his rocking gene took over and he turned out to be even worse than Monkey. I thought he was going to flip himself on his face from time to time. And then I caught Monkey stage diving into it. Not long after, it fell to bits - a bit like the scene near the end of the Blue's Brothers where the car disintegrates after the boys leave it for the final time.

Luckily for us, J noticed that there was a baby expo on not far from where our friends live, so the plan was for us to drop her off, then I'd take the kids to the expo and pick her up on the way home.

Nice plan. Pity about the execution.

The expo was in the pavilions at Rosehill Racecourse. I thought it would be a small affair, but when we got there, I found that every family with kids in Sydney had decided to visit as well. And then I noticed that almost every woman there was pregnant. What the hell was going on? Where did all these pregnoids come from?

I read the flyer again and found that it was a baby and pregnancy expo. Duh.

Of course they had to park a jumping castle right at the front door. Monkey howled that he wanted to jump as soon as he saw it. So I parked the pram and took his shoes off, and then he howled and said he didn't want to jump after all. Back on went the shoes. If we had been at a private party, I simply would have tossed him in, but you have to worry about child abuse nutters at events like this.

We entered the first pavilion and..... holy heck. I have never seen so much baby related stuff in my life. We have a simple philosophy when it comes to raising kids - you stuff food in one end, take care of the stuff that comes out the other end; you wrap them in hand me down clothes and find something to cart them around in until they can walk. When you shower, they shower. That's about it. Then you kick them outside and let them run around until they return demanding food. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

J and me are clearly living on a different planet when it comes to child rearing. There was cubicle after cubicle of.... stuff. I am not sure what it all did. I wandered around gobsmacked at the stuff that you can buy these days for raising rug rats. I almost fell over at the price of one range of prams - $2099 and up. So much for a recession.

And then there was another pavilion - even larger than the first! With even more incredible stuff - none of which we needed. After that, there was a third pavilion which I did not bother with, because Monkey decided to use this as an opportunity to go walkabout. One moment, he was right in front of me, and then he was gone. He'd simply shot forward 10 feet or so, but there was no way to see him in amongst the enormous jumble of prams driven by idiots who failed to keep left. I was worried that I was about to become one of those parents that you hear about over the PA - "Would Mr Monkey please report to reception to collect your child".

I was breaking out into a cold sweat when I saw him bouncing back down the aisle between the prams. He gave me his cheeky monkey grin, did a pirouette and disappeared yet again. I was ready to engage the pram rage button and ram my way through the bottleneck of retarded parents when he zoomed back again. He was having a blast.

In the end, we found the rockers that we were after, and it quickly became apparent that Mr Squishy was also err, Mr Chunky, and the midget sized rockers on offer were not for him.

As soon as we got outside, Monkey spotted the jumping castle again, and this time, he had a go. The woman operating it had to go inside the castle when the whistle for changeover blew to carry him out upside down. We then took in a Bob the Builder show, which was completely lame - but also intriguingly reminiscent of TISM. I will post video on that later. After that, it was the petting zoo - Monkey loved looking at the goats and sheep and chickens and ducks, but as soon as they approached him to say hello, he ran away. He touched one goat, and that was it. No petting for him. We are a long way from our agricultural heritage.

Then we had another go on the jumping castle, at which point I discovered that the miserly owner would only allow each kid to have one go per day. Monkey got his 2nd go, but another family was turned away, resulting in floods of tears. There was no point in being so mean, because there was no queue. Monkey had the castle to himself.

Of course he had to be dragged away a second time. The only way to extract him was to offer him ice cream - a softserve cone dipped in chocolate. That soothed the savage beast, and I grabbed a "gourmet" hot dog at the same time - ha. $5.50 for meat paste wrapped in a red plastic skin, served on a stale roll.

Whilst Monkey was smearing ice cream all over his body, I put Mr Squishy in a swing. He swung back, then forward, then back and then the buckle holding him in popped and he did a face plant on the ground. I'm sure he bounced, even though he only fell about six inches onto foamy stuff. Mr Squishy howled about having a sore face, so Monkey took the opportunity to frolic in a playground - until he did a faceplant and I was stuck with two howling kids, and a melting softserve cone.

Time to leave.

Speaking of expensive prams, during a break in wandering around the pavilions, a security guard came and sat next to us. We were next to an exit, and he was there to guard the exit - a team of Asian thieves was stealing prams and other high-end goodies. Their modus operandi was to put a kid in a display pram and then simply walk off with it. The guard was on the lookout for a red, $800 pram. Apparently they had been at work at the expo on all three days, and it was only towards the end that the organisers figured out what was going on.

Whoever would have thought that there was a market in hot prams? Some people will steal anything. I really do like the approach they take in the third world, where the shopkeepers chase down thieves and beat them to death. That might not be quite the go at a baby expo, but I think the idea is still sound.

Maralyn Parker drives me nuts

The old socialist dingbat is at it again.

Luckily most Australian university courses nowadays have assessment procedures that are spread out over the semester and involve a variety of essays, presentations, tutorials, research and small tests. The one off end-of-course high pressure exam has gone. However in schools we have gone the other way. The HSC in NSW for example is a prime example of a one off big bang exam where half of a student’s score for the final year exit assessment is at stake, The pressure is increasing - even more with the looming publication of school performance data. I don’t know why we do this to our 17 and 18 year olds at a time when they are emotionally and physically vulnerable. It is so unnecessary.

This particular post was about kids taking ADHD drugs because they think doing so will improve exam performance. Maralyn, in her usually deranged and moralising way, wants to reduce the pressure on kiddies because of some anectodal "evidence" (more like hearsay) that kids are nicking their sibling's pills. I'd like to see proof of that - like making every kid sitting a certain exam to do a urine test to see who is popping what. If they catch 1 kid in 1000, so what? You chuck him out and let the rest get on with it. Trouble is, no one has done any drug testing of students (as far as I can tell), we we really have no way of sorting fact from fiction. Playground gossip is not a good place to develop education policy from.

Having to wee in a jar will certainly prepare the little dears for the real world, where quite a few workplaces now routinely test for drugs and alcohol. Fancy working on a mine, where the money is good? Get used to the idea of getting sampled on a regular basis. I've had the snoopers knock on my office door and ask me to blow in the bag, and plenty of my staff had to trundle off to the dunny to squirt out a sample.

As for the pressure of tests.... pffft. Maralyn needs to get out in the real world a bit more often. I am currently going through a certification process for my industry. I've just sat through night after night of high-pressure lectures, all done after work, meaning I have been getting home at 10pm or later for a few weeks. Talk about drinking through a fire hose. During the day, I had to find time to read 50 or 60 pages of tedious, mind-numbing technical guff before the next lecture.

That was the easy part. Now comes the exam.

It's 200 questions in 4 hours. The people setting the exams are sneaky bastards, so there is usually more than one correct answer - you have to choose the most correct answer. In some of these computer based testing systems, when you get an answer wrong, the system zeroes in on you and asks a whole battery of questions around that point to see whether you understand the topic or not. When the system detects weakness, it piles on. There are no "mid term" assesments, tutorials or any of that other fluff - the exam is 100% of your result.

If you don't know your stuff, the computer grills you mercilessly, stacking on the pressure to see if you crack or not.

Because in my game, there is no room for weaklings, duffers and WOFTAMS*. When the poo hits the fan, which it does several times per week, we need people who can keep their heads whilst those around them are losing theirs. You need to have an enormous amount of knowledge, a wheelbarrow full of experience and steady nerves. Nasty, evil, one-shot, pressurised exams quickly and cheaply determine who has the right stuff, and who doesn't.

Oh, and our pass mark is in the mid 60's - not 50%. In some exams, you might need to score 80% to pass and become certified.

I am always relaxed going into these exams because I was put through the pressure cooker at school - they screwed the lid down tight and turned up the heat every single term from grade 3 at my school. By the time we got to the equivalent of the HSC today, we had sat hundreds of high intensity exams - for not only did we do real exams every term, most teachers made us do papers from previous years in class. We'd be given an hour to complete as much of a 3 hour maths paper as possible - by the time we hit the HSC, I was able to do both my 3 hour maths papers in an hour, and still scored in the top 1/3 of the state (and that was in the most difficult maths stream). The same went for chemistry, biology, economics, history, english and so on. Our economics teacher was also lecturing at uni, so he gave us first year Economics 100 papers to do as well in the leadup to the HSC (it was called the TAE back then).

If kids are cracking these days in greater numbers, it's because they've been babied through high school. The work place is not a great place for sooks, wimps, blouses and babies. Maralyn should be thinking of ways to get them to harden the f*&k up, rather than preparing them for a world of unicorns and rainbows.

By the way, I work with an awful lot of Chinese and Indian guys and gals - they seem to find the study and certification process to be not too onerous, presumably because their parents ran them through the mill during their school years, rather than allowing them to take the Maralyn route - the low road of mediocrity and "equality".

*WOFTAM - Waste Of Fucking Time And Money.

Saturday, 16 May 2009

Father's day

Don't panic, you haven't missed the official Father's day. What I am referring to is a day when dad is at home with the kids, and mum goes off to work.

It's been like that for the last two days. J normally runs her business from home, but there are times when she has to hit the road and press the flesh, and now is one of those times. Unfortunately for me, that time also coincided with days where the kids were not in daycare, and Junior was either at school or roped in to helping J with her business stuff. He's normally a great help when I am left with the little tackers, but today, he was earning cash.

What does a day with dad entail?

Normally, it would include a lot of time at a park or playground, either outdoors or in - but that was out this time as all of us are sick and J needed the car for work. If we are stuck at home, we generally try to spend a reasonable amount of time outside making sand castles and painting and kicking balls and blowing bubbles, but the weather was too miserable for doing that for more than half an hour today.

That meant it was very much an indoors kind of day. Monkey would normally want to do lots of drawing and building things with blocks and puzzles, but he was too lethargic to do that for a good chunk of the day. So he watched Madagascar on DVD. About 8 times. I am getting ready to scratch that disk well and good. He also demonstrated that he is now able to drag a chair over to the kitchen bench, climb onto the bench and get a jar of peanut butter out of the top cupboard. I almost fell over when he walked out of the lounge room and came back in a minute later with a jar in hand. He eschews the idea of putting peanut butter on a cracker and then eating cracker and peanut butter - he prefers to eat it straight from the jar, eliminating this whole cracker "middle-man" idea.

Even though we had the TV going for a good chunk of the day, we still managed to play with lots of toys in the lounge room. By the time I cleaned up at the end of the day, we had a train track, a race track, a cubby house, a stack of wooden blocks and piles of Duplo blocks, along with five different Buzz Lightyear's arrayed in readiness for jumping off the couch ("To infinity - and beyond!")

We also fiddled with some play dough in the backyard (which I made myself, and it turned out a shocking pink) which we used to make snowmen - which kept falling over. Monkey did some "chop-chop", which means he cuts junk mail into a thousand itty little bits with his scissors, and we did "stickers", whereby I bought a book of 600 stickers, and we spent an hour pulling them out of the book and sticking them onto things. I made the prime boo-boo of buying stickers that you need artificial fingernails in order to get them out of the book - either that, or you need to slip a scalpel under each sticker to lift it. My fingers are almost bleeding from lifting stickers.

One thing we didn't do was letters - I draw letters and Monkey reads them out, or I draw a picture of something (like a frog) and we then write "frog", and he reads the letters out. He then traces the letters to get used to writing them. He was over that - he jumped into my office chair instead and typed his name using the keyboard instead.

Mr Squishy refused to eat or drink anything that I offered him, so J had to return halfway through the day to top him up. I spent most of the day carrying him from room to room, sitting him on the couch, then the floor, then the couch again, then the bed etc etc etc. He sat on the bed whilst I folded laundry. He sat on the couch as I ironed shirts. He sat on his bed and bashed two penguins together as I picked up the toys off the floor. He sat in his high chair and stuck his hand into the tub of yogurt that I was trying to feed him, and then rubbed his hand through his hair. He sat in a mini-me chair in the kitchen as I baked ANZAC biscuits and did several loads of washing up. And then thankfully he had two sleepy-sleeps, and failed to poo all day.

Monkey also discovered today that he comes off second best when Mr Squishy is around and mummy is not. If Mr Squishy was crying, Mr Squishy was attended to. Monkey of course is used to having me to himself, and he took umbrage at the usurpation of his position in the hierarchy. At one point, Monkey jumped on the bed and whacked his head on a bed post, and as I went to grab him, Mr Squishy leaned forward on the bed and I whacked him in the face with the hand that was reaching for Monkey. I had two bawling kids sitting in my lap, with Monkey trying to push Mr Squishy out of the way so that he was the only one getting a hug. God, what a mess.

The house was not a total disaster area when J got home. I'd managed to wash everything in the house, including Junior's ponging teenager bed linen. But I had not managed to shower all day, and hadn't left the house or been able to answer the phone. Our bed was a mess from us playing hide and seek under the covers with Mr Squishy. I was completely over Madagascar (I am ready to strange Chris Rock) and I'd barely managed to eat any lunch. As soon as J walked in the door with Junior, I shot out the door to get the shopping done.

I have come to the conclusion that the way to have a happy family life is to keep the grandparents nearby. If this happens again, I am going to fly one of our parents into town for the day. I am stuffed. This is the first bit of time I have had to myself all day.

Friday, 15 May 2009

Why do we need interpreters for immigrants?

I spotted this when reading a post over at Iain Hall:

According to a question taken on notice by a Senate committee in February, the Government spent $1.7 million in charter flights to and from Christmas Island in the months between October 2 and February 28.

Over the same period, $6500 a day was spent on detention service providers, about $9945 a day on interpreters and $7850 a day on immigration staff costs and allowances.
If you are so keen on coming here, why haven't you learned English? It's not like it's a rare language, only spoken in the highlands of some backward fleapit.

If you want to live here, and you don't speaka the lingo, you can pay for the interpreters. That might act as a small incentive to make an effort to pick up the language. As for the illegals, if they can afford to pay for the ferryboat ride across from Indo, they can afford to pay for the 'terps.

The pitfalls of jamming more kids into uni

Education, education, education - that's the modern mantra of the soft-in-the-head. Education is supposedly a magical panacea to all sorts of woes, from economic growth to income inequality and welfare dependency.

Funny how ever increasing numbers of uni graduates did not save us from a recession, isn't it? Isn't spending on universities supposed to act as a multiplier on economic growth?

In the UK, the Labor government set the absurd target of pushing 50% of school leavers into Uni. They've gone a long way towards meeting that target, mainly by fudging figures and dumbing down entrance requirements.

However, there is a downside to this that no one seems to mention.

A huge number of students are now quitting uni in their first year, and never going back.

How much money has been spent gearing the universities up for all those extra students, who fail to progress into the 2nd, 3rd and 4th years of their degrees? How many extra buildings were built to accommodate a flood that turns into a trickle after a 6-8 month weeding process? How many extra administrators, lecturers, tutors and so on have been employed to cater for this horde, which evaporates as soon as it faces some serious study?

I am extremely sceptical of all attempts to force unnaturally large numbers of teenagers into uni. This is just one more way by which Gordon Brown exploded government spending to newfound heights, and another example of the profound wastefulness of tossing sacks of money at the pet projects of lefties.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Heading for a fall?

The average house price in Sydney is still around the $550,00 mark.

From moneyweek, via the Adam Smith blog, we get:

The average salary multiple over the last 37 years (1971 to 2007) is 4.54. At the 2007 average wage of £24,000, that gives an average house price of £109,000 – a fall of 40% from the peak. But if you exclude the bubble years (from 2001 to 2007), you get a 4.17 average salary multiple – which would give an average house price of £100,091, a fall of 45% from the peak.

The average weekly earnings in Australia are about $1100 per week, or $57,200 pa.

If we use the pommy multiplier of 4.17, that gives us an average house price of $240,000.

House prices only have to fall 57% to reach that level.

Ouch.....

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

A looney view of government

I view government as a sack of crap, essentially. I've worked in it, I've worked around it, I've seen the inside of the sausage machine and it is an unpleasant place to behold.

Who in the right mind would want more of it? Why have we elected retards on both sides of the Pacific who think that a bigger government is a good thing, and that it will do wondrous things for our lives?

The most effective government body I was ever a part of was the Army. Laugh if you want, because I know the military always gets a bad rap for being hopelessly inefficient and stupid and all the rest. And it is. I know it is. I've seen the Army from the bottom rung, and it has its fair share of wingnuts, idiots, WOFTAMS and oxygen thieves. Yet for all that, it is extremely good at breaking things. Mostly other people's things, but when you point the Army at something and tell it to go break some stuff, it really goes to work on breaking stuff. It even breaks its own stuff with panache and style and really loud bangs.

To many people, the Army is pointless, badly dressed, full of rough necks and neer-do-wells and a colossal waste of money. Hold that view if you like - it is a free country - and I agree with parts of it. However, by comparison with every other government agency that I have ever dealt with, it is a paragon of efficiency, hard work, dedication, commitment, tenacity and drive.

In short, the Army shits all over most civilian government agencies.

Yet it is supposedly hopeless.

If the best government agency is hopeless, why is it then that mad lefties want us to have even more of the even more hopeless agencies?

If I was to rate the Army on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being awesome and 1 being a total waste of space, I would rate it at about 6.5. The health and safety mob (whatever they are called now) I would rate at 1. Or less than 1. Maybe 0.8. Yet those that curse and mock and deride the Army then turn around and say, "We need a bigger health and safety agency", even though the current one is utterly, utterly useless, and its entire staff should be marched out and shot.

Why is that? Am I missing some crucial wiring in my brain that I need in order to understand how they think?

Good and evil

In these days of moral relativism, I often hear lefties say that it is stupid for us to brand our enemies as evil. Osama bin Laden and the Taleban and Al Queda are not "evil", they say. The lines these days are blurred, there are shades of grey, there is no black and white. Some of our enemies can be good, and some of our allies bad. Blah blah blah.

So from their perspective, when it comes to fighting nasty bastards that will kill and torture and mutilate anyone to achieve their ends, and use any weapons at their disposal, it is wrong to call such people "evil". Just like they are "militants" rather than "terrorists" or "murderers".

Try talking to a bunch of moonbats about this topic, and then mention that you are about to hop into your 4WD to go to McDonalds for a couple of hamburgers in order to build up the energy to go and chop down some trees.

With one voice, they will all scream, "EVIL"!

Yes, when it comes to their pet causes, such as abortion and the environment and global warming and social justice, anyone that opposes them is more evil than Hitler. Suddenly, things become very black and white. Good and evil suddenly exists, and they stand in stark contrast to each other - the "good" hemp wearing, birkenstock-shod beardies in one corner, vs the "evil" corporate types in suits and sitting on bulldozers in the other corner.

I just love the way they twist language to suit their ends.

Monday, 11 May 2009

Holy..... whatever!

I have almost finished reading House to House, which covers a small part of the battle of Faluja. It's just over 300 pages long, and I started it around this time last night. Talk about impossible to put down. It's absolutely gripping from page 1. Bellavia is one hell of an author.

Here's how gripping it is. I had to go into town today, so I took the bus. I read the book on the bus. Although the bus was quite cool, I was sweating from the action. It is that intense. I never trained for MOUT, which is what this book is all about, but there are many infantry concepts or ideas or experiences that are common across all terrain - like suffering and hardship and ungodly physical and mental strains. This book takes those ideas and smacks you in the face with them, and smacks with gusto.

It's not a deeply introspective and thoughtful book like Jarhead, and compared to the Australian way of describing "recent" wars, such as In Good Company, it's blisteringly confronting and the action is quite over the top. The yanks do extreme violence like no one else, and it's just so unrelenting.

Screw blogging. I'm going to finish the book.

Where do people get their freaking manners?

Bugger, what a day. I spent a few hours on the phone, dialling small businesses scattered across a few states. They are all connected in one way or another to the company I am working at for the moment. These are all independent, small Mum & Dad type businesses.

For starters, the list I was given was rooted. Half the office numbers were no longer connected. When I switched to calling mobile numbers, a stack of them were disconnected as well.

I was calling them to try to help them to stay in business. If they don't talk to me and follow a few simple steps, they will not be in business in a few months. It's not that I have anything special to offer - the ground rules of their business operations are changing, and I have to walk them through those changes. If they fail to change, that's it. Game over.

That meant I spent half my time trying to track these characters down. I spoke to very few. I left a lot of voice mails, and the voice mail messages that they left were generally very unbusinesslike.

But that was nothing compared to the way they answered the phone. Here are some examples:

  • "Yeah"?
  • "What"?
  • "Whaddayawant"?
  • "Hoozat"?
  • ....silence....
Only one person that I rang bothered to give their name when answering the phone, and in a manner that I would call "welcoming and inviting". The rest..... urgh.

I know we like to hold up small business as the bedrock of the economy and our society. People love making speeches about the wonders of small business and the grit and determination of small businesspeople. The salt of the earth, and all that.

After today, I have a different view. It's no wonder so many go broke each year. Many of them are useless, uncommunicative, incompetent boobies. They are not paragons of virtue, or the lifeblood of the economy. I'm not sure how to describe them, but it is no wonder that so many remain small, or that they end up being smaller than when they started. What a pack of gumbies.

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Ranting time

Kae has been kind enough to point me at a post of hers regarding a story about Air Scout CDF Angus Houston breaking his wrist after slipping over in his bike shoes.

Been there, almost done that. I think I have the same type of shoes as Houston. Whenever I stop, I tread very, very carefully. I used to curse the marble foyer in the building that I worked in last year - I had to swap from one set of lifts to another when coming up from parking my bike in the basement, and I nearly went arse over tit a few times. I think my beer gut provides the ballast that I need to stay upright in those situations.

I am now firmly of the opinion that one should never remove one's bike helmet whilst bike shoes are being worn - unless you are sitting down. If you happen to slip over backwards, the helmet will stop the back of your skull from smacking into the hard surface that you just slipped over on. Call it risk mitigation. You will still hurt from going over backwards, but your scone should still be in one piece.

Now, to ranting.

Claire Harvey, who wrote up this story for the Tele, is a stupid bint. That's me being polite on Mother's Day.

If Claire had bothered to talk to a few cyclists, rather than just sniggering at them, she might realise that we don't wear lycra in order to go faster (as she thinks). We wear it for comfort. Do you think I like to ride around looking like a brightly coloured clown wearing ball-huggers? Let me slowly stuff her article into a large shredder for you.

OK, let's start with the "brightly coloured lycra" snigger. If I wasn't wearing lycra, I'd still be wearing something brightly coloured. If I was just pottering down to the shops on an old grannie bike in my normal casual daily attire, I'd stick an orange safety vest over the top with reflective stripes. Why? Because 10% of you twats in cars are blind. I'm not saying all of you are blind. I'm not even saying 50% of you are blind. But one in 10 should be driving a white labrador rather than a car, and I need to be brightly coloured so you don't fucking run me over (again). Some of you are so blind, you don't even see brightly coloured people with a megawatt headlight attached to their handlebars. Motorcyclists have the same complaint, and they tend to ride things that make more noise than a bus full of drunken wogs - at least you can hear them coming, even if you can't see them.

Hell, some clowns in cars haven't even be able to see me in my 4WD with its headlights on. That's how blind and stupid some people are.

So we wear brightly coloured clothes in an attempt to stay alive. I live in Sydney, so unlike Melbourne, there is no legal requirement to wear black at all times. The stuff I wear on the bike is not a fashion statement - it is a survival statement. I don't hear you laughing at sailors in their immersion suits during an ocean race for wearing "brightly coloured sailor suits". I don't hear you saying, "Yellow is a stupid colour for life vests. Why not produce them in a more fashionable colour, like blue or black?"

Then again, if you sat behind Claire on an aircraft during the safety demonstration, you might well hear her say that as the hostie dons the life jacket ("Oooh, look at that awful vest, Marcus. You wouldn't see me dead in that.")

Then we have the "skin tight" issue of the lycra. Yes, it looks ridiculous on middle aged men. I should know. Do you think I dare look in a mirror before going out for a ride? Don't be silly. The path from where I put my gear on to the bike is devoid of mirrors. If I caught sight of myself before leaving, I'd be too embarassed to leave the house. I'd be riding around with a raincoat over the top, looking like a fast moving flasher.

However, there is one over riding reason for wearing skin tight "knicks", as we call them.

I like my balls. I treasure my testicles. I think my gonads are great. I like them to be warm and dry and comfortable. I also like the skin on the inside of my thighs, and I prefer it to be smoothe and soft.

Because how else could it be?

Well, if you ride any distance in normal clothes, chances are they will not wick away moisture, and they will bunch and rub on your skin. Ever had the seam of your undies dig in somewhere uncomfortable? Think about that times about 100. If you wear normal jocks and a pair of shorts on say an 80km ride, you will probably finish that ride with ball rot and badly chafed thighs. Riding with your nether regions bathed in sweat is an open invititation to infections and rashes. Seen all those annoying ads on TV for thrush creams? Imagine having the external equivalent of thrush all over both arse cheeks, down your thighs and all round your reproductive bits.

No thanks. If I have to wear skin tight, moisture wicking lycra to avoid that, I'll do so. It's worth the odd bit of embarassment.

The more serious amongst us, especially commuters, have to be prepared to ride in any weather. I have ridden in the rain more times than I can count. You are on a bike. You get wet. You get wet everywhere. Try wearing normal clothes, then jump in a swimming pool. Then walk 5 km, being sure to jump into a swimming pool every kilometre to stay good and wet. Suffering a bit from chafing are you? Got an incoming set of nasty crotch rot? Walking bow-legged to stop your thighs from rubbing together? Lycra knicks prevent all that.

The skin tight bit also avoids bunching of cloth. Again, I've seen enough ads for women's underwear that talk about a lack of seams and how important that function is. But if you don't normally wear women's underwear, think about this.

Ever been on a really, really long plane flight where you are stuck in a seat for hours on end? How do your undies feel by the time you've landed? Wedged halfway up somewhere they shouldn't be? Seams digging in?

The problem with normal shorts and undies is that the fabric moves and bunches, and it bunches in all the wrong places. And then it rubs. On a long ride, it is as uncomfortable as buggery. In fact, it can downright hurt. Lycra does not bunch, and the knicks are made in such a way that they feel like they are seamless.

So you can take my smelly knicks, Claire, and stuff them. Or, as many Blairites would say: "Suck my nuts!"

Then there is the aerodynamic helmet. The helmet that I had as a kid looking like a pudding bowl with a few small holes in it. It was all about stopping your skull from caving in when it made contact with the pavement. It was not fancy at all. Modern helmets are about 50% plastic, 50% holes. The main aim is to stop your skull from splitting open, but the secondary aim is to stop your brain from boiling under the helmet. The shape is designed to suck in a stack of air, flow it over your head and then eject the hot air out the back. Essentially, it is helping your head act like the radiator on your car.

And I can say, most of them work really well at doing that. I can ride for two hours without a bead of sweat running down my face, and then when I stop, it's as if someone has poured a bucket of hot, salty water over my head; because it all runs into my eyes. You can laugh at the shape, but it performs its function well.

Clip on shoes. Why do we wear shoes with little clattery cleats on the bottom?

The main idea is that by being connected to the pedal, you not only push on the downstroke, but you pull on the upstroke. That gives a much smoother pedalling motion, and also provides more power, since on each stroke, both legs are working. On a bike with old-style pedals, on each stroke, only one leg is working. I have a lot of trouble riding one of those bikes now - my "idling" leg keeps coming off the pedal on each stroke as I try to lift the pedal.

The second idea is that they lock your foot into the most bio-mechanically efficient spot for power output. If you don't have toeclips or cleats, your foot slids forward and the pedal sits under the arch of your foot. The ball of your foot is the bit that should do the pushing. So although cleats can be a bit deadly when you are off the bike, they are magic once you get used to them - and they do take some getting used to. Particularly the clipping out when you stop. I think everyone who uses cleats has fallen over sideways at some point from being too slow at extracting a foot to put down on the pavement. Yes, it hurts, and is embarassing as hell. I would no more ride a bike any distance these days without cleats than play a game of footy in boots without studs.

Let me finish with shaving the legs. I don't do it, but I know quite a few people that do. They don't do it for speed. They do it for the pain and suffering they avoid when they hit the ground.

Don't get me wrong, the initial contact with the bitumen hurts just as much whether you have hair on your legs or not. It is the weeks of treatment afterwards I am talking about.

I have gone down 5 times in 4 years. On 4 of those occasions, I ended up with skin loss on arms and/or legs. Take a cheese grater or potato peeler and remove a section of skin on your forearm about the size of a cigarette packet - that's what tends to happen when you hit bitumen. It doesn't bleed as much as you might think, and unless something is broken, you lie there and go "Ow, ow, ow" for a minute, then get up and keep riding.

After the ride, you have to get it treated. For my worst skin removing prang, I went to a medical centre in town for some professional treatment. The rather robust Kiwi nurse took one look at my arm, then pulled out a brilo pad, some Detol and a bottle of iodine. The brilo pad and Detol were then used to vigorously (and I mean vigorously) scour the wound to remove all particles of road and dirt. All the squashed bugs and dog poo and engine oil and other muck that builds up on the road had been rubbed into my skin by the fall, and now it had to be rubbed out.

Unlike those old western movies where they give the cowboy a belt to bite down on as they cut the bullet out, they don't give you anything these days for a skin scour. Including anaesthetic. You just grin and bear it. Once all the grime has been removed, the wound is bathed liberally in iodine - which hurts some more.

The worst thing about this is that if you have hair, your hair has also been jammed into the wound by the fall. Even after it has been scrubbed free by the brilo pad, it will get bound up in the scab that forms. That scab will come off every few weeks as the wound heals, and when it does, it will tear out a few hairs - like a slow moving wax job. And then there are the regular changes of dressing, which remove hair by the square inch on each occasion. That is why the serious types shave.

Cyclists (who are semi-serious) tend to have an engineering-type mindset. I have never riden with an airey-fairye "artistic" type (probably because they are never out of bed at 6am on Sunday) - it is amazing how many of my fellow cyclists work in IT. All cyclists care about is function, function, function. If someone finds that it is more comfortable to have a shaved head when riding, that trend will probably sweep the cycling world (as it is, I wear my hair Marine-short because it is more comfortable under a helmet).

This article simply reinforces my impression that Houston is a sensible fellow who isn't swayed by the chattering of fashionable idiots who know nothing about which they speak. Like Claire Harvey.

Saturday, 9 May 2009

Dealing with teenagers is like being part of the Goon show

My goodness, were we really that gormless and silly at that age?

Junior got a phone call this morning inviting him to an event for a few hours. We agreed that he could go. As we were on the phone to the other kid, we heard the familiar sound of a bike turning up on our doorstep - it was the usual unannounced arrival of one of Junior's mates. As soon as Junior saw who it was - and I will codename this kid "Catfish"* - he asked if Catfish could come too.

There was much chatter back and forth, all of it incredibly disorganised, but it was eventually worked out that there was room in the car for Catfish if he wanted to attend as well. He umm'd and ah'd and finally decided he would think about it.

The kids were to be collected within the hour. That much we knew. Junior was immediately put to work, ordered to clean his room and square his shit away before departure. He took to that with gusto - or what passes for gusto for a teenager. It still took him over half an hour to do what would take me about a minute. All the while, Junior and Catfish talked about whether Catfish was going or not. Catfish had money on him, so that was not an issue. We could look after his bike whilst he was gone. All we wanted to know was whether he wanted to use our phone or not to ring his parents to ask permission - no way in hell was he leaving our place without doing that first.

About five minutes before the expected pickup, a decision had still not been made. Something distracted Junior and Catfish though, and they disappeared. It turned out they had decided to go for a ride on their bikes - they'd completely forgotten about the event they were supposed to be going to!

Luckily, they had only decided to do a few laps of the block, so we caught them as they were passing by. "Oh yeah, we'd better get ready", was their reaction when we reminded them that a car would soon be arriving to collect them.

Catfish finally decided that he would not be going. Then the car arrived, and Catfish changed his mind. Suddenly, he really, really urgently had to call his mum to ask her permission. We handed him the phone. His mum told him to ask his dad. He rang dad. Dad said ok.

Through all this, J and I stood back at a distance and tried not to piss ourselves laughing. The kids eventually piled into the car, and the long suffering mum of the other friend drove them to the event.

God, we've got five more years of this. Is there any way to speed it up?

*I have used the military system for designating his codename. That is, it is randomly drawn, and means nothing. So no, Junior does not have a funny looking mate that looks like a whiskered bottom feeder.

Human seagulls

We have a little mall in Five Wog in the middle of the shopping strip. The old geezers hang out there in theit string vests, leaning on their walking sticks and oggling the chicks as they walk by. There's a giant chess set with pieces two feet tall, which I have never seen anyone use. The only permanent inhabitants are the seagulls, who hang around waiting for people to throw them a bit of lunch.

I took a seat there today to munch on a roll that I had bought in order to provide me with the energy to do the shopping. After sitting there for about a minute, a scrawny teenager approached me and asked if I had "a dollar for a bus fare". I told him no.

He went and sat down with his mate across the mall. Or plaza. Or whatever it is. Both looked about 15, and both were smoking. No way in hell I am giving money to a teenager who can afford to smoke.

Both looked like ferals.

As I chowed my way through the roll, I watched them approach and annoy a number of other shoppers. Some were asked for money as soon as they sat down to eat, others as they walked through the plaza.

Human seagulls.

When asked for money for a bus ticket, I should have asked the little turd:

  • Which bus are you catching (as in which route or number)
  • What time does your bus go
  • How much is the fare?
If he could answer all three questions, I would have waited at the bus stop and given the driver the money, if only to get them the hell out of my suburb.

It's pretty low when kids that age are begging, and they showed no signs of needed to beg. I guess mum didn't give them enough money to satisfy them when she booted them out of the house that morning, so they were bumming it off the productive people walking by.

Oh, the joy of having a housing commission block within walking distance.

I can fiddle with words too

It was only recently that Krudd called "people smugglers" the scum of the earth.

We also have refugee advocate groups trying to change the language so that illegal immigrants are called something softer and cuddlier - there was a letter in the Fin Review (no link available) earlier this week from one such group saying that we need to be less judgemental.

OK. In that case, why not call the "people smugglers" something else as well. How about "ferry boat crew"? Is there really any difference between a boat load of paying passengers arriving off the north coast and a boat load of paying passengers arriving in Circular Quay after leaving Manly half an hour earlier?

If Rudd wants to soften the language on illegal aliens and queue jumpers, we should soften the language on those that transport them. Perhaps we could even get the MUA to issue them with union cards.

[I have no complaints about letting in refugees. However, we are a nation that operates under the rule of law, rather than anarchy. We are a civil society, governed by a moral order. Getting in line and waiting for things is part of our culture - you don't see people muscling to the front of the queue in the supermarket for instance. Anyone who tries to bribe their way in or attempts to jump the queue clearly doesn't understand our culture or society, and they can just go to the back of the line as far as I am concerned.]