The Bucket

Vox is dying

                   Due to the imminent closure of Vox,

                   GOF will now be preaching his rubbish from the pulpit at;

                   The all New Shiny Bucket......here.
                thebilgebucket.wordpress.com

               I don't want to lose a single Vox neighbour......if you
               would like to stay in touch, and I don't already have your
               email address please feel free to contact me at;

                         didimanian@y7mail.com

               This has been a fun place to be and I feel sad to be moving on.
               Thanks players, umpires, linesmen and ball boys, and also to the
               management of Vox who have provided this facility
               free of charge to us all

              

A Frog's Lament

Foggie goes fishing

This is a heartbreaking tale of unrequited love.

It comes with apologies for what I just did to a perfectly good Olde English Nursery Rhyme.

Because of the complex structure of each verse, I have taken the liberty of highlighting the most essential passages for the benefit of speed readers, or those with other pressing engagements, or if you are simply feeling a busting urgent need to go to the toilet in a hurry.
In this case, I would suggest that you should not bother reading this preamble at all, and instead go directly to the first verse.



A frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
A frog he would a-wooing go,
Whether his mother would let him or no,
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach.
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

"No wooing" says Momma, "Ripit still goes to school,"
Heigh-ho says Rowley,
"That sort of behaviour is just gossip fuel"
"Try fishing instead, you randy young fool."
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Froggie hops off to buy tackle at the store.
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
"You need Fishing Licence, cost dollars thirty four"
"And a Dangerous Goods Permit for hooks, fifty more"
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach,
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Frog, stoney broke, leaped down to the sea.
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
"Can't fish 'ere" was the Inspectors decree,
"It's May, and you're fishing ill.....ee...gally"
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Frog in September, with his surf rod and pail.
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
Inspector puts undersized fish on the scale,
Second offence sends Froggie to jail.
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach.
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Ripit, now eighteen, visits Frog in the clink,
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
Pretty as a picture, all dressed up in pink.
Says; "It's over, Frog, you're old, fat, and stink"
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach.
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Froggie from jail was eventually released.
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
Thinks "I'll impress Ripit with a huge gourmet feast".
Then got hit by ten cars,..... terminally deceased.
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach.
Heigh-ho says Anthony Rowley.

Remember when you see a squashed frog on the road,
Heigh-ho says Rowley.
That he might have died distracted, by the cross-cultural load,
Of being madly in love with little Ripit the toad.
With a roley, poley, gammon and spinach.
Heigh-ho says GOF, I'm done now.
 
Let me go find some other classical literature to deface.

Ben

Ben

                                                    (This was written on the 24th June 2010.)



To understand my connection to Ben, you firstly need to know that his Dad is my closest male friend, confidante, an inspiration in life, and the only remaining constant connection to my school days 47 years ago.

Ben was born in 1983, and we watched him and his siblings grow up in a family which nurtured old-fashioned values like courtesy, consideration, and respect for others.

Ben was Inga's contemporary, and the two of them as little children would play-act scenarios of their favourite television cartoon adventure characters.
Indeed, Ben went on to become a crocodile handler and adventurer in real life.
He "flew" my little computer flight simulator, then with a singular determination qualified as a fully fledged private helicopter pilot.

For the last 6 years he was a member of the elite SAS commando division of the Australian armed forces where he proudly served both at home and abroad, most recently in Afghanistan.

Last Friday was Ben's 27th birthday.

This week he will be coming home to his family from Afghanistan.

Ben was one of three young Australians killed in a helicopter accident in Afghanistan on Monday during joint military operations with American forces.

In this time of almost indescribable grief, an entire little country village and community is attempting to come to terms with it's loss and trying to ease the pain of bereavement for a family who has lost their son and hero.

Ben was blessed with the qualities of courage and bravery, but I will remember him as simply being one of the most respectful young men I have ever known.

Ben's entire remaining family are also now heroes to me as they respond to the intrusive media attention with unprecedented dignity and courtesy which has always been their trademark.

Suddenly any debate and philosophical discussion I engage in about the rights and wrongs of war from the comfort of my home in my democratic free country can take a back seat.  I need to think more about the price we paid to make Australia the country which it now is and to keep it remaining thus.

But most importantly, even though I feel ill-equipped, I have a best mate who needs my support right now, and for a long time into the future.


(30 August 2010)

In Ben's memory I post the following poem which was read by his Mum and little sister at the memorial service held on the banks of Lake Tinaroo.  It should give us all something to think about.


The Dash      by Linda Ellis

I read of a reverend who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning---to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and he spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth.....
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own;
the cars....the house.....the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.....
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
You could be at "dash mid-range".

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what's true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile.....
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So when your eulogy is being read
with your life's actions to rehash....
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent your dash?


Ben Chuck   (1983 - 2010)

"When you have gone so far,
that you can't manage another step,
then you have gone just half the distance
that you are capable of."

Undercover bust

Tomorrow is going to be a big day.

I'll need to dust off my 1960's Ilya Kuryakin black supersleuthing skivvy, and give it a quick once-over with deodorant to mask the residual stench of my stale teenage spy sweat, then mosey on out west in a potentially dangerous exercise of chivalry.
 
This is a humanitarian project for which I might have to rope in a couple of my trustworthy male Vox friends to lend a hand.

Background Briefing

At least one website visitor tracking program records my whereabouts as "Innot Hot Springs". 
Now I wish all my enemies great success in finding me there, but the last time I checked, the tiny settlement of Innot Hot Springs, out in Queensland's savannah country, had a total population of seven, none of whom looked remotely like GOF.
(except for the unshaven drunk sitting in the gutter outside the pub)

Sinister things however seem to be happening at Innot Hot Springs. 
I am regularly receiving urgent popup pleas on my computer from distressed young women who are probably being held there against their will.

"Gina, 24, from Innot Hot Springs, needs YOU, GOF."

"Annika, 26, from Innot Hot Springs, needs YOU, GOF."

"Marie-clare, 22, from Innot Hot Springs, needs YOU, GOF."

                                         and

Heidi, 27 from Innot Hot Springs needs YOU GOF

There seem to be at least 50 of these innocent young women who are asking me to release them from their apparently miserable lives of enslavement at Innot Hot Springs.
I must be their last resort.
(no correspondence on the previous sentence will be entered into.)

They all seem to be putting on brave smiling faces in spite of their deprivations, as I imagine that they most likely have to labour all day in the fields under a fierce tropical sun.

It is possible, judging from the names, and blonde Nordic features of many of these young women, that I have stumbled upon an illegal Scandinavian immigration racket. 
Hopefully by late tomorrow night I will have everything uncovered and fully exposed.

As you can see from the picture of the virtuous young Heidi, the girls are all living in appalling circumstances with only the bare necessities of clothing which is tattered, dishevelled and poorly fitting with broken straps and fasteners.

There are two things I need to do today in preparation.

1. Hire a very large bus to accommodate all the released hostages, then cover it with camouflage paint.

2. Go down to the Salvation Army shop and pickup some proper bras, blouses and skirts so that I may immediately fit these innocent nymphs with correctly sized garments to ease the shame and embarrassment which they must now be suffering at the hands of their captors.

This will be one huge heroic rescue mission.

My social duty and obligation.

One way or another I may not be back for a while.

An unholy resurrection

OK, I admit it......there was a very subtle hint in my previous post that this was never going to happen.

Life changes.

For one thing, the mongrel 2010 wet season is over.  Gracias a Dios.
The beautiful bowser of solar energy has now refuelled my diminished resources of sanity and joie de vivre, as well as recharging the vital electricity storage batteries.

Additional changes to my life have, as usual, been instigated by the inspirational Mrs GOF.    Blame this born-again bloggery on her.

"GOF, when my happy single life was replaced with our dubious union of holy matrimony 30 years ago, there was no contractual obligation for me to ever be the sole recipient of your relentless nonsense and tedious opinionated sermonising."

"This has been the longest three and a half months of my life."

"If you would like us to clock up 31 years together, please go back to your little (* expletive deleted) Bucket and fill that up with all your insipid ideologies instead of inflicting them upon me."

I argued that a reason for terminating the blog was my dwindling supply of half-intelligent ideas, and the consequent risk of writing pure unadulterated bullshit.

She reassured me.

"Don't worry GOF, the supply won't dry up.  Your cup runneth over with it.  You are quite full of it."

Additionally, since I took my eye off it for a few months, the world has gone to the dogs.

Nobody in authority seems to give a rat's arse that since I last wrote a blog, the population of Earth has increased by another 20 million.

It doesn't take a genius to work out that this behaviour, indifference and complacency is unsustainable in the long term.

Our human Titanic is listing precariously with an overloaded shifting cargo of people, political correctness and religious intolerance.
It surely requires some hefty irreverent and innovative counterweights in the hold, so that after we inevitably hit the iceberg of our self-indulgent arrogance we will at least gurgle on down to the bottom of the ocean of life on a more even keel.

Therefore I'll firstly make my token contribution by solemnly promising not to sire any more children.
(Escape Clause; this oath will be rendered null and void upon receipt of any invitation, demand and/or ultimatum from Elle)

Also, with jemmy bar in hand, I now prise off the rusty lid of The Bucket and make this token fresh deposit of satirical ballast to the now fermented semi-digested putrid cesspit of GOF's philosophy.

The end.

The Bucket (at least for the moment) is full.  

This is the lid.

My blog contains 290 stories written over a period of 2 years.

It is my autobiography, diluted with a lot of nonsense and dogmatic drivel.

To continue would be an exercise in self-indulgent twaddle and repetition.

So I thank you.  A really heartfelt thank you to everyone who has ever read this blog, especially those who encouraged me and took the time to leave comments.

Thank you also to my old New Guinea friends, especially those in Korbau and Mindom villages who inspired so many of my stories by showing me that much common sense has been lost by Western society which now mistakenly believes that the "good things in life" involve material possessions.

If you need me I'll be in the shed at the bottom of the garden resuming my reclusive pre-blogging life.

GOF's shed

All that remains for me to do is officially hand over the entire contents of this blog to Inga, who, after I have shuffled off the coil, will  never have grounds for wondering what her Father's opinion might have been regarding every subject known to mankind.

I could not conclude this blog without once again publishing Desiderata.  If all the lengthy ambiguous scriptures of every religion on earth could be replaced by this single page of philosophy our world would be a much better place.

Thank you for your company on this journey.

Take care of yourself........and each other.

.

.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
 

One last story

I am often asked the question;
"Why, when Mrs GOF is able to occasionally travel overseas,
do you choose to stay at home by yourself?"

My stock answer is always;
"None of your freakin' business now please rack off."

I never tell them the real reason which I am happy to reveal to you, my trusted reader, which is that I am frightened that my Defence Shield might not work outside of Australia.

No,no, no, come back....don't leave yet......logic will eventually gain the upper hand.  (Well we can at least live in forlorn hope.)

Most of you have already discovered how annoying and totally aggravating I can be when I really set my mind to it.  
A complete pain in the arse.

I was born that way.

I was also born very short sighted which necessitated wearing spectacles ever since my early school years.

At Castlemaine North Primary School, with considerable joy, I discovered the most important law in the Universe.

My "four-eyed force shield" provided impregnable protection against all of my classmates (and probably a few teachers and sundry strangers) who quite frankly were busting to punch my lights out almost on a daily basis.

In Australia during the 1950's there was an unwritten law passed on from parents, and reinforced by teachers, that hitting people with glasses was the lowest form of disgraceful behaviour.

I was quick to recognise this loophole in the laws of Australian society and accordingly took full advantage.

No contact lenses for me thank you, and my policy has served me well for 6 decades.  Not a single busted nose, black eye or cauliflower ear to be shown for all of my years of impertinence, impudence, subversive conduct and giving people the absolute and utter dribbles.

That is why, in the interests of maintaining my cranial integrity I dare not leave these shores, to visit some place where I am sure the same rules do not apply.

Nah. I know where I belong. I like the shape of my head just the way it is now, thank you.  But feel free to come visit me....anytime.

But remember, regardless of your urges and justification,

"Never hit boys wearing glasses."

Looking back, looking forward

In recent years I have taken to setting aside a little quiet time each day to be thankful for what I have in this life.

A Baby Boomer who had the accidental privilege of being born in Australia. Someone who has never known war first-hand, or real economic depression and hardship like my parents did, and who has always enjoyed good health.
These are not things I ever take for granted now.

Nevertheless, there are occasionally some trivial things which tempt me to complain just a little.

A long time ago I saw a beautiful thing.  It was called sunshine.

There is good reason why no-one prior to 1983 chose to settle permanently in this quite small orographically-influenced super-wet belt of these tropical tablelands.
 
Having spent most of the last three and a half months living in the twilight  "fogness"  inside a deck of cloud seven thousand feet deep, with one inch of rain blowing in horizontally every day on a 20+ knot south easterly, I am Vitamin D deficient, morose and uninspired to work in all the drizzle and slush.  Or write blogs.
 
In an attempt to counter this seasonal condition I have been in the habit of doing an almost daily 8 kilometre walk through the rainforest. 

This activity is partly driven by fear.
Fear that at my age, if I sit on my arse for too long I may never get up again.
Mostly however, this "jungle time" gives me the opportunity to come to grips with my own insignificance in the overall scheme of things.

Today, under the umbrella in the pouring rain, and ankle deep in  mud at the end of the track, I wondered how the original Aboriginal hunter/gatherer inhabitants ever survived wet seasons in this country.
No waterproof houses.  Firewood too wet to burn, and having to go out in the rain daily to forage for food. It must surely have been a miserable existence.

Would they have considered themselves to be "disadvantaged"
in any way?
Possibly not.  Like those living in subsistence cultures around the world, the people probably found many sources of happiness.
Family.  A successful hunt.  The rainforest tree whose delicious fruit was just ripening. Discovering a previously unknown dry shelter amongst the rocks on the mountainside. 

If humans still inhabit the Earth in 200 years from today, will one of them unearth the archaeological remains of my existence here and conclude that GOF too must have lived a life of great deprivation relative to his modern times?

Please excuse me while I pour myself a glass of wine, sit on a comfortable cushion next to the fire in my little weatherproof house and give that proposition some more thought.

P.S.   May is our worst month of the year for harvesting solar
          power.
          With batteries below minimum capacity it's either the
          computer or house lighting which has to be sacrificed.
          Mrs GOF says it's the computer. (except for emails).
          I can't argue with that.
          Back on June 1.   Take care of yourself......and each other.
        

 

Always 2 steps ahead....A tribute to Ian Rowles

Have you ever had a role model in life, who might have played for your team, yet was forever positioned at the far end of the field which thus prevented your paths from ever crossing?

Someone you held in high regard, yet they never even knew you existed?

Have you had a distant admiration for someone, based only upon the trail of evidence and reputation which they left for you to find along your road of life?

Someone you were never quite able to catch up with. Ever.

That person in my life was a man called Ian Rowles.

Physically, the closest I ever got to him was soon after my posting to the tiny outstation at Pindiu in Papua New Guinea in 1972.    
He came, very briefly, to within about ten feet of me.

Above.

"Rowlesy" was piloting his single-engined taildragger Cessna 185 when he sneaked between treetops on the 5000 foot high mountain  behind my house, cut his throttle and dive-bombed a group of us standing beside the airstrip, before heading off directly to his home in the remote Kabwum valley.

Ian Rowles will probably be remembered by most Australians who knew him, or knew of him in PNG, for his irresponsible and reckless aviation exploits.  Thinking about him always causes me to recall the old aviators saying;
"There are old pilots, there are bold pilots, but no old bold pilots."

After just a few years of flying which notably included a string of accidents which were often a result of grossly disregarding Civil Aviation Regulations, Ian was killed, along with 6 passengers, a pig and a dog, when his plane was involved in a horrific fiery crash near Sialum on PNG's north coast.  
I think the year was 1974.

He was just 34 years old.

But I choose to remember Ian Rowles for something else.

He had another life before aviation and private enterprise.

He was my predecessor in the position of Rural Development Officer at Pindiu which I had just recently occupied.

The job involved trekking to each of more than 100 villages in the area, across some of the steepest, most broken terrain on earth permanently populated by humans, to find ways of helping the people achieve their economic and social development aspirations.

Many weeks of each year were spent camped out in the villages with  pleasant evenings sharing stories around cooking fires in the thatched houses of the host families who invariably "adopted" us for the duration of our short stays.

During my seven years of walking around the Huon Peninsula highlands I would hear, wherever I went, almost identical stories of admiration for "Masta Ian".
The Didiman who shunned any notion of racial superiority (which was common amongst expatriates in PNG at the time,) and selflessly devoted his time, expertise and prodigious energy to helping people wherever he could.  
This was not just another man from the Government full of piss and wind who failed to honour his promises. He was their friend.  A real friend, a hard worker, and an advocate for ordinary people living in the bush.  He was one of them.

Ian Rowles.

Although my feet were many sizes smaller, I once walked in your  footsteps.
Noni kike hatage boyopepo.

It was one of the greatest privileges of my life.

.
.
.

P.S.  There is a vivid first-hand account of the amazing exploits of  Ian Rowles  (here)  written by his friend, Patrol Officer Paul Oates, who also documents his own unenviable, gruesome and emotional task of overseeing the removal of bodies from the crash site.

Dead or alive?

Early in 1996, the year when I was going to turn 48, I decided that this was the year during which I was probably going to die.

No family predisposition to early mortality.

No clinical indications of depression or ill health.
 
I was still firing on all cylinders, although lower gears needed to be selected when going up hills, and there were a few other worrying mechanical noises and exhaust emissions which indicated that the journey was not going to last forever.

My life had been interesting and productive up to that point, so I simply decided that my time was probably up.
I figured it was better to die with only preliminary signs of decrepitude in 1996 than hang around annoying people into the next millennium with my malingering whilst waiting for the wheels to fall off completely.

Nineteen ninety six was also a nice looking even-numbered year.
Born in an even-numbered year I like the idea of symmetry and balance.  Forget astrology and all that sort of bunkum. 
It all comes back to numbers.

If I ever died in an uneven numbered year I would be forever pissed off afterwards.
 
Forty-eight plus forty eight equaled ninety-six. (and probably still does)  Beautiful numbers.
All exquisitely divisible by two and one into the other.
Time for GOF to depart in this moment of exotic equilibrium.
Observers of my gravestone would remark;
"there lies a man who lived a life of exquisite numerical balance."

So I paid my taxes, packed my pillow and waited for the train to take me to the Kingdom of Eternal Rest.

The trouble is that now, fourteen years later, in moments of deep philosophical contemplation, can I ever really be completely certain that I did not die? 

All these current preoccupations I have with middle-aged ex supermodels, flight simulators, growing pretty plants and blogging might just conceivably be components of my afterlife.

One or two of our deep thinking Vox neighbors seem to know a lot about this "proof of life" stuff but I probably never paid enough attention to them.
 
But then again, how can I be absolutely certain that they too are not also dinner guests seated at some heavenly table from which we may all be dining.

I'm confused, and what's left of my either dead or alive brain is overloaded, so I'm off to have a little lie down.

Please wake me up when you think you have an answer to my conundrum.

But only if you have unequivocal and absolute proof of your life status.

I don't want some dead person trying to tell me what to do.

I'm not a complete weirdo.