Monthly Archives: May 2013

Gladstone Delivery Blues

Picture of Mike, the owner/operator of Super Fast Express Deliveries, getting ready for the Gladstone CQ run.

Picture of Mike, the owner/operator of Super Fast Express Deliveries, getting ready for the Gladstone CQ run.

In the 1970’s, if you ordered anything from Brisbane, it could take up to two weeks to reach Gladstone.  How far we’ve come!  Nowadays it takes two months.

We needed a new washing machine, so we choofed off to the shop and found one that suited our needs, ie: big and cheap.  After I’d crossed the managers’ palm with shiny coins, he announced, “It’s in Brisbane and should be here next week.”

“A week?!” I cried, “Why?!  Are you using bicycle couriers?!  Are you trucking it via Adelaide?!”  I didn’t hear his reply as the security guard dragged me from the store.

Like many Gladstonians, I have the misguided impression that we live in a modern city linked to the outside world by speedy road, rail, and air freight.  But the reality is, we are more like some forgotten outpost beyond the Black Stump, where all the supplies arrive courtesy of the annual camel train; weather permitting.

Anyway, several weeks later I popped down to the creek where Long Suffering Wife was pounding my shirts clean with a rounded stone, and from a safe distance I called, “The washer’s arriving today!”  She narrowed her eyes and redoubled her efforts to beat my clothes to rags.

Well, it didn’t turn up that day, or the next.  In fact, by the time the nice delivery folk finally arrived, I’d actually forgotten we’d bought a washing machine, and sent them next door instead to see if it was theirs.  They sorted it out; eventually.

Now, if previous experience is any guide, the new washer will have a factory set, self-destruct code that will fry all the machines circuits in two years’ time, which is why I’ve already pre-ordered another washing machine.  And with a bit of luck, the camel train will get it here before the new washer carks it.

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Fundawear – Smart Phone Undies

Well, whatever it is they're doing, it certainly looks like fun...

Well, whatever it is they’re doing, it certainly looks like fun…

If you’re a FIFO worker pining for your partner’s touch, then I’ve got some great news for you!

Apparently Durex, the nice folk who make rubber products for the discerning gentleman, have come up with a new product called ‘Fundawear’, which is going to take smutty phone calls to a whole new level.

The ‘Fundawear’ pack contains a bra, panties and a pair of men’s underwear, and once you and your partner have put them on, you can use your smart phones to give each other little thrills; anywhere, anytime.  I don’t think Telstra had this sort of thing in mind when they came up with the old jingle, “Reach out and touch someone.”

Upon learning of this wonderful product I immediately texted the link to Long Suffering Wife, who was sitting in the room next door, and she

 

told me to call her they instant they bring out men’s undies that can administer long distance, high voltage, electric shocks via her smart phone.

Anyway, thanks to this new-fangled technology, I reckon we’re about to see the introduction of some new laws.  For example, it may become illegal to wear ‘Fundawear’ while driving.  It’s bad enough that people are texting behind the wheel, the last thing we need is motorists trying to negotiate the Toolooa Bends in a state of heightened ecstasy.  Mind you, it may end Gladstone’s current road rage problem…

And to find out which motorists are wearing Funny Undies, Qld Police could be issued with a special app to use at roadside testing sites; which will do wonders for Police / Public relations!

Industrial workplaces may have to introduce Funny Undies‘ Checks to halt the spread of erotically induced accidents onsite.  And office workers could find themselves in acutely embarrassing situations mid-presentation after receiving a long distance tickle from their partners.

Well, you won’t see me suffering that sort of humiliation; not since Long Suffering Wife hid the credit cards.  You know, I’m starting to think that the ‘Funnymoon’ is definitely over here in South Gladstone.

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Hooked on the HookUp!

Dory Jan 06 1Last Friday just before dawn, the wind lashed the tops of trees, rainclouds gathered in the dimly lit sky to discuss their plans for the weekend, and the BOM site crashed under a barrage of hits from the Gladstone region; yes, it was Hook Up time again!

Earlier in the week, great billowing clouds of dust covered the city as boat covers where whipped off and shaken out, and our suburbs echoed with the sounds of anglers eagerly preparing their gear; rattling rods, roaring outboards, and the frantic screams of boaties who had discovered large carpet snakes sleeping amongst their life jackets.

Meanwhile, convoys of trucks carted in extra supplies of bait, booze and 2-stroke oil.  Ice making machines came within cooee of burning out as they toiled around the clock, as did harassed tackle shop staff and sleep deprived outboard mechanics.

By Thursday, you could have cut the air with a rusty fishing knife, but you couldn’t slip a wet squid between the 4WD’s and boats crammed into service station forecourts.  Over the din of engines and tempers overheating, you could hear the fuel barons chuckling, and rubbing their hands together in glee.

On Friday morning the surface of our harbour was churned to foam as thousands of boats swarmed off to wreak havoc on the regions’ fish population.  Below the water line, panicking sea creatures dodged hails of anchors, showers of hooks, and sprinklings of lures.

By Sunday night it was all over, and as flotillas of fishing boats were hauled homeward, the surviving fish wiped their brows, while dolphins, turtles and dugongs lunged to the surface and gratefully sucked in huge lungful’s of air.

And as usual, I spent the weekend wandering around Bray Park exchanging whopping lies about whoppers that had got away, and eating my bodyweight in hotdogs.  I love the Hook Up!  In fact, I like it so much, that next year I might dust off ‘Collapso’, my faithful tinny, and actually go fishing for a change.

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The Ages of Reason… apparently.

Last week our Eldest Princesses turned 18 and 21, and to celebrate we threw them a party.  The total cost of this shindig has been kept secret from me, but I suspect it’s in the region of Chile’s national debt.

Upon hearing the news that we were holding a joint 18th and 21st, I eagerly rubbed my hands together and announced, “Leave it to me!  I know exactly what we need!”  Then scuttled off to find my old ‘Party ‘til you Puke!’ t-shirt.

Afterwards, I scribbled out this list:  One keg of beer.  Two cartons of rum.  10 kg of snags.  5 packs of buns.  Yardglass… two yardglasses (in case one gets dropped).  Fix lock on toilet door.

After reading my list, Long Suffering Wife sighed and added: Heavily sedate husband.  Buy large, potted plant to tie the drooling vegetable against, and hope this stops him from wrecking another party.

Apparently things have changed since my 21st.  For starters, we hired a private room instead of using the vast, fibro clad, car port of Bray Manor.

And instead of gathering round a keg and drinking like we were trying to set several world records, bar staff were employed to responsibly dole out the booze.  They would also prevent any children ‘accidently’ knocking back a few brews, which I’ve been reliably informed now attracts the sort of fine that would make Clive Palmer choke on his cream bun.

We even had a security guard.  “A security guard?!” I yelled, after seeing Rent-a-Thug’s hourly rate, “I could do that!”  Cue the sound of laughter.

Honestly, why do we bother?  The whole point of these events is to announce to the world that your children are now adults and no longer need Mummy and Daddy looking after them.  I suspect this is what 40th birthdays are for nowadays.

Which is a shame, because by then, I won’t be able to party as hardy as I used to; probably because I’ll be too busy looking after the flamin’ Grandkids.

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