Lantana

In the year 1841 a defacto couple whom my male staff calls Anne Effing-Moron and Major Dick Head introduced a shrub called lantana to Australia because it had pretty little flowers and they thought it would look nice in their garden.  Now just one hundred and seventy four years later lantana, like many undesirable things - including cane toads and my staff love Australia so much that they refuse to leave.  It now chokes five million hectares of sub-coastal eastern Australian bush, including parts of my staff's garden.  In case you're not familiar with the stuff here's what it looks like.

Lantana.
Pretty isn't it?














Like the dreaded cane toad it comes from Central and South America.  Also like the cane toad it costs Australia millions of dollars every year, is poisonous and very hard to kill.  It grows rapidly in the warm, wet climate of sub-tropical and tropical Eastern side of Australia - rather like my male staff's stomach.  However unlike my male staff's stomach it is toxic to livestock.  Having said that, I have no evidence whatsoever that indicates that my male staff's stomach is not toxic to livestock because as far as I know no cow or sheep has ever shown the slightest inclination to taste it, and who can blame them.  His mad sister was once bitten on the belly by a zebra, but that's another story entirely.

Here in Australia the stuff climbs up into native trees and chokes them to death and it is probably one of the biggest threats to biodiversity this country faces.  Birds and mammals eat the berries and then poop them out wherever, and of course this produces another delightful lantana plant.  My staff have spent quite a large percentage of the fourteen years they have lived in this spot trying to rid their one hectare property of this scourge.  Pretty much the only reliable method if you don't want to go to the expense of hiring a bulldozer is to pull the stuff out by it's roots, which actually isn't that hard because they are quite shallow - again like my male staff.

The trouble is that my staff's garden is very steep and slopes sharply down to a dam where a large red-bellied black snake lives and neither of my staff (who have absolutely no sense of adventure) want to slip while wrenching out lantana and end up with the snake in the water.  The other problem is that lantana grows so thickly that you have to fight your way through an entire Amazon jungle of the stuff to get to the main root.  It's very time consuming, not to mention sweaty work and I'm surprised that the neighbours haven't complained to my staff about the foul language that accompanies their lantana clearing projects.  Mind you, if the neighbours did come around to complain they would probably regret it because it is due to their less than diligent approach to clearing their own lantana that causes my staff to have to spend so much time clearing theirs.  In fact I'd go as far as saying that it is almost pointless one household clearing their lantana if their neighbours don't bother because within six months of being cleared, the place is infested again.  Therefore any neighbour silly enough to knock on my staff's door to complain about profanities is likely to leave with a large sprig of lantana protruding from their bottom passage, which would be very uncomfortable indeed because along with all its other attributes it is also rather prickly.  The branches of the mature plant are lined with lots of little spines, so removing the sprig from his or her bottom passage would result in as much discomfort as the initial insertion.

These little spines also inflict rather a lot of damage on my staff as they do battle with the lantana.  Of course they wear thick gloves to protect their hands but their arms and often their faces look as though they've been assaulted by seven or eight irate cats after each anti-lantana operation.  They troop back to the house, sweaty, exhausted and bleeding from dozens of little scratches, which although cease to bleed quite quickly, the area surrounding the scratch turns to an angry, stinging rash which can last for days.  Anyway, you get my drift here.  Lantana is very unpleasant stuff and would have been better off left in Central and South America.  It even burns with an extra hot flame, making Australia's all too common and very damaging bush fires even more dangerous, but the worst thing is of course that guinea pigs can't eat it.

The stuff even gets my male staff into all kinds of trouble whenever he visits England.  This is due to his unfortunate habit of ripping decorative lantana plants from their pots whenever he sees them in garden centres or nurseries.  It's an instinctive reaction to the stuff whenever and wherever he sees it.  It's as though he just can't help himself.  "Ah-ha!" He thinks to himself.  "There's some lantana.  I'll rip that out now before it spreads."  He grabs the plant gingerly, because of the little spines.  Then a quick yank and it's out of the pot and deposited on the ground.  As a consequence he's always having to deal with tetchy, green-wellied nursery owners.
 "Oi!" They yell as they stomp after him.  "What do you think you're doing?"
 "I'm doing you a huge favour mate, that's what." Says my male staff.  "Did you know you had seventy two pots with lantana in."
 "Yes of course I knew." Says Mr Green Wellies.  "They're nine pounds ninety-nine a pot."  He rummages around in his pocket for a moment and male staff can see he's so angry that he thinks he's going to produce a Glock pistol and shoot him.  Instead he produces a calculator upon which he taps away for a moment.  "That's seven hundred and nineteen pounds and twenty eight pence you owe me.  Or should I just call the police?"  At the mention of this large sum of money my male staff snaps out of his weed destroying trance and with great sadness and even greater reluctance hands over his credit card.
 "Thank you." Says Mr Green Wellies, softening a little.  "Since you've now paid for all these beautiful plants, would you like to take some of them with you.?"
A few seconds later Mr Green Wellies was hobbling back to his office, his trousers around his ankles and quite a substantial lantana plant, flowering gaily sticking out jauntily between his buttocks.

BACI'S BALONEY

Beekoz I'm like the most ellikwunt piggy in this howse Uncal Billy has arsked me to tell you that he won't be righting a blog for the necks three wheeks beekoz his mail staff is like flying to sumwear called Inglund.  I spose his arms will be so tyred afta all that flapping that he won't be able to tipe.  Uncal Billy says he  pollojizes apollyjyzis uppollagiziz is very sorry for the inkunveenyunce and that as soon as his mail staff getz back home he'll make sure he getz on the job agane immeejutly.

Robin Gibb's Bottom

Oh boy! Today (Sunday) was a busy day.  I went in spirit with my staff (which is a lot safer than going in person) in the good hold Hyundai Getz to the Queensland Guinea Pig Refuge open day to pick up supplies of dry food and a couple of new water bottles for the boys.  All went smoothly initially thanks to the lady who lives in the GPS. (Guinea Pig Seeker).  She's very patient actually and only occasionally does her voice lapse into moderate exasperation as my male staff takes a wrong turn for the fourth time, and that's just getting out of the driveway.
 "Perform a U-turn when possible." She says. In fact she says this so often that the poor dear loses her voice and my staff have to drive home without her help/Thatcher-esque nagging.

My staff mooched around the scout hall where the open day was being held, admiring and molesting various cavies who were up for adoption.  "No," they said to each other. "We can't really adopt any more piggies."  They purchased a few bags of dry food and water bottles and tossed them into the boot of the Getz and then went back for another mooch and molestation session.  This time, they were stopped in their tracks by a set of handsome twins called Tiger and Sniffles.  Yeah I know. Who calls an intelligent animal like a guinea pig Sniffles?  Anyway, I must admit that these two, particularly Tiger bore more than a faint resemblance to my handsome self - right down to the mohawk hair-do.
 "We can't adopt any more piggies." Said my staff simultaneously to each other.

And with that, they jumped into the Getz and under the strict supervision of Maggie the GPS lady headed off for lunch at nearby Redcliffe.  Redcliffe is a bay side suburb of Brisbane and is famous as being the home of the Gibb brothers - yes that's right, The Bee Gees.
 "In two hundred metres turn left, Night Fever Street."  Demanded Maggie.  Male staff turns right into Staying Alive Avenue.
 "No you silly sod! What did I just tell you?" Says Maggie. "Perform a U-turn when possible."  Male staff swings the steering wheel around straight into the path of a nine ton truck which misses the Getz - barely, thanks to a large slice of luck and great skill on behalf of the truck driver.
 "Jeez!" exclaims Maggie.  "Please stop at the nearest public lavatory as soon as possible, I need to change my pants."

Finally and without further incident my male staff double parks the Getz along the sea front - How Deep Is Your Love? Boulevard.  My staff stroll hand in hand down Bee Gees way, which is a pedestrian precinct lined with Bee Gees photos.  The place is packed with baby-boomers all examining the pictures minutely or watching a recording of an interview with Barry Gibb which is showing on a TV screen embedded in one of the walls.  The soundtrack can easily be heard over the babbling throng.  Come to think of it "The Babbling Throng" is a better name for a band the The Bee Gees.  Anyway, at the bay end of Bee Gees Way is an enormous statue of the Bee Gees, Barry, Maurice and Robin.  The three of them are standing together and they must be twenty metres tall at the very least.  There's a set of steps leading up behind them which disappears into a hole in Robin's bum. The hole is surrounded by flashing disco lights.  My staff of course are drawn to these lights like big fat moths to a flame.  Up the steps they go, through the flashing doorway in Robin's bum. Inside it's rather dark and "The Lights All Went Out In Massachusetts" is, appropriately enough booming out from hidden speakers.  They are literally inside Robin's bowels.  Then as my staff''s vision becomes accustomed to the gloom they see another set of steps with a glimmer of daylight showing from the top.  They climb these steps and find themselves peering out through Robin's mouth across the choppy, blue water of Moreton Bay to Moreton Island.  My male staff is so surprised by the sudden glare of the sun and the amazing view that he makes the mistake of standing up straight, bashing his head painfully on Robin's protruding teeth.  "Shit!" He exclaimed. "The bastard bit me."  The whole thing is all as tastefully done as one would expect from an Australian tourist attraction.

Finally, with my male staff still rubbing his head from Robin Gibb's "bite",  my staff shuffle back down the steps, popping out of his bum into the daylight and winding their way through the crowd to a suitable restaurant for a bite to eat and a cup of coffee.  the "Too Much Heaven Cafe" has quite an extensive menu, so even my male staff who like me is a herbivore, managed to find something suitable.  So my staff sit there, slurp their coffee and guzzle down their lunch while watching the comings and goings at the "More Than a Woman Hair Salon" next door.

 "Tiger and Sniffles were very cute weren't they?"  Say's female staff sipping her cafe latte.
 "Yes."  Say's male staff warily.  He knows what's coming.
 "Shall we go back to the refuge and get them?  We have plenty of room at home and there are spare cages in the shed."
 "No!" Says my male staff emphatically.  "Absolutely not. We have four piggies and a budgie already."
Female staff is not put off at all. "Oh come on, we can manage two more, and did you see how much like Billy they are?"
 "Nope, definitely not." Male staff puts his foot down once and for all in an impressive show of masculine dominance and decisiveness.

So anyway, here's a photo of the new members of my staff's furry family. Meet Trevor and Theodore, alias Tiger and Sniffles.  Female staff decided that Sniffles is a silly name and that Tiger looks more like a Trevor..  Meanwhile my male readers will be pleased to hear that my male staff had the last word. Two words actually.  "Alright darling."

                                                                         Trevor                  

                                                                        Theodore


BACI'S BALONEY

Woah!  That was like a big supprize.  Uncal Billy's staff go owt in the mourning and then in the afternoon they like cum back with thees too big fluffy ginny pigs wot look a lot like Uncal Billy, espeshully the wun wot they call Trevor whooz got this mow hawk haredoo just like wot Uncal Billy had.

I havunt reely had mutch of a chants to tork to them yet but I spect Uncal Billy's staff have eckplayned to them that I'm like the alfa pig of the heard and that they'd betta do wot I tell them or I'll like byte their butts and pull their fur owt like wot I did to Tom.  Not that I want to frytun them or nuffink. I just want them to no whooz boss piggy arownd hear.

The Blue Bird of Happiness

My staff's morning routine very rarely changes from day to day.

6am                      
The alarm clock bleeps.
6am & 5 seconds  
Male staff wakes up and groans.
6am & 10 seconds
Male staff goes back to sleep
6.05am                  
Male staff realises that the bleeping is not part of some hideous nightmare.
6.06am                 
Male staff stretches out his right arm, groping for the off button.
6.06am & 2 seconds 
Male staff knocks over his glass of water which stood, untouched as usual, on his bedside table.
6.06am & 20 seconds
The stream of obscene invective emitted by male staff wakes female staff.
6.06am & 30 seconds
Female staff yawns and sleepily says "Good morning darling."
6.06am & 40 seconds
Male staff says "No it f#@*ing isn't.  I've knocked over my f#@*ing water again".
6.06am & 50 seconds
Female staff says "Why do you even bother taking a glass of water to bed anyway? You never touch it."
6.07am
Male staff says "Because I'm practicing for when I lose all my teeth and have to put my dentures in water for the night."
6.07am & 20 seconds
Female staff says "Great! So when that happens you'll still knock the water over, but then you'll have to get out of bed to look for your dentures, which, even if you do find them will be covered in fluff and dust.  Not only that, but my day will be ruined.
6.08am
Male staff makes the mistake of asking the question "How come?"
6.08am & 5 seconds
Female staff says "Because you always sleep in the nude and I'll have to wake up to the sight of your old wrinkled bum sticking up in the air while you're scrabbling around on the floor looking for your furry dentures."
6.10am
Male staff gives up trying to think of a witty and cutting riposte, hauls himself out of bed, slips on a pair of underpants, picks the the now empty glass from the soggy carpet and wanders out to the kitchen to find a suitable cloth to soak up the spilled water.

You might wonder why my male staff bothers to don underpants when my staff usually live alone.  Well, mostly he he remembers to cover up when guests are staying, but he always used to wander out to the kitchen stark naked in the morning.  I cured him of that though, when very early one morning he was feeling peckish and raided the fridge in search of a chocolate biscuit.  I watched him from my cage in the adjoining lounge, and seeing him open the fridge door naturally I assumed that he was about to serve me my breakfast; the prospect of which as usual prompted me let out a few loud "wheeks" and to stand on my hind legs with my front paws on the cage bars.  My male staff wandered over, getting close to the cage, and leaning over said "Hello Billy.  It's not breakfast time ye........aaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhh!"  Well, how was I to know it wasn't a green bean?  It was the right size and shape, and since we cavies are, like most animals colour blind, I couldn't even tell that it wasn't green.  I also refuse to take any blame at all for him slipping on the dripping blood, or the pain he suffered from the stinging iodine he poured on the wound, or for that matter for the inconvenience of having to remove and replace the sticking plaster every time he needed to pee for the next week.

Now then, where was I? Ah yes, my staff's morning routine.

6.15am
My female staff yawns, stretches and removes a variety of objects from the bed.  There's the pillow that she keeps between her knees, the large hot water bottle and cover in the shape of a cow, her bed socks which she has kicked off during the night because he feet became too hot and at least two or three handkerchiefs.  She rises and pads out to the lounge to uncover Paolo the budgie and to hang his daily millet treat in his cage for him.  She bends down to budgie level and he waddles over to her, stretches his wings and does a little happy dance on his perch.  My female staff calls him the Blue Bird of Happiness, although yesterday she called him something else.  In fact yesterday my staff's usual routine was somewhat different to the norm.  For a start they don't usually spend half the day in the casualty department of the local hospital.

6.19am
Female staff presses her nose against Paolo's cage and as she does every morning makes kissing noises which Paolo responds to by very gently nibbling my female staff's nose.

6.20am
I'm no bird expert, in fact Paolo is just about the only bird I've ever known, but something must have upset him because he grabbed my female staff's nose through the cage bars with his surprisingly strong, sharp beak and refused to let go despite the high pitched squeal emitted by my female staff.

6.21am
My female staff calls urgently for my male staff who is still mopping up the water in the bedroom.

6.26am
My male staff saunters out to the lounge.  "Did you call?.............What are you doing to that poor bird?"
"Poor bird be buggered!" Said my female staff a little more nasally than usual. "The bloody little vulture won't let go of by doze."
"Won't let go of what?"
 "By doze, by doze.  He's bitten by doze and won't let go."
 "Is he biting your nose? Asked my male staff.
 "Yes he bloody is. Get hib off will you.  This really hurts."  My male staff could see that this was true because her eyes were watering.
 "Let me think for a moment." Said my male staff.  "I need to find a way to get him to release you without hurting either of you."

6.51am
My female staffs calls out.  "Have you thought of anything yet?"
 "Not really." replied my male staff regretfully.  Would you like a cup of coffee while I'm thinking?"
 "How the hell ab I supposed to drink a cup of coffee with by doze stuck to a bird cage and a budgie attached to one end of it?"  I think my female staff was becoming a little irritable.  She never was a morning person.
 "I could get you a straw." Suggested my male staff helpfully.  This was greeted by a growl from my female staff and Paolo responded by tightening his grip on her nose.

6.52am
"Why don't you just jerk your head back suddenly?"  Says my male staff between slurps of coffee and mouthfuls of toast and raspberry jam.
 "Because I'll probably lose a great chunk of by doze that why."
My male staff sighed.  "Well then, I'll just have to drive you and Paolo to the vet when they open at eight thirty."
 "I can't stay here for adother hour and a half waiting for the vet to open, and eddyyway, how am I going to get into the car with a birdcage stuck to by face?"
 "Hmmm" pondered my male staff, "you have a valid point there.  I'll have to try and cut a hole in the cage to release you and Paolo.  Anyway, maybe he'll let go when I start cutting.  I'll go to the shed and get the pliers.  Would you like some toast while you're waiting?" He asked considerately and was rewarded with an icy glare that he took for a "no thank you" or "doe thank you" in this case and hurried off to the shed.

7.46am
Male staff returned from the shed.  "Found 'em!" he called cheerily.  "They were in the box with all the old photo albums.  God knows how they got there."
 "Dever bind that." said my female staff. "Just get this bloody birdcage away frob by face."

7.47am
My male staff starts snipping away at the thin wires of the birdcage. "You realise," he said, "that we'll have to buy another cage now.  They're not cheap you know.  Har har! Not cheep. Get it? Not cheep.......birdcage, not cheep. Har har!"  My female staff closed her eyes.  Either she was in pain, or wishing that she was a long way away from my male staff; possibly both.

8.01am
Enough of the cage bars had been snipped through to allow my female staff to pull away from the cage with Paolo still attached by his beak to her nose.
 "Right," said my female staff.  "Get be to the casualty departbent DOW!"
 "Wouldn't the vet be better for Paolo?  Anyway, they'll be open in half an hour."
 "I can't wait adother half an hour, I want this bird off by doze ibbediately.

8.33am
Having endured the incredulous stares of the other motorists gazing at the lady sitting in the front passenger seat of a Hyundai Getz with a blue budgie attached to her face, my staff arrived at the casualty department of the hospital where they registered with a giggling nurse and sat in the waiting room, my female staff trying to look nonchalant, as though having a budgie stuck to one's face is a fairly common event.  And so they waited, and waited while a multitude of other accident victims deemed by the triage nurse as more urgent went in to see the doctors before my staff and Paolo.

11.58am
My staff and Paolo were finally called through to the treatment room.
 "What seems to be the trouble?"  Asked the doctor, who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone possess the necessary qualifications for removing small parrots from people's noses.  Understandably this question riled my female staff somewhat, standing there as she was with a bird stuck to her face.  In the end, she resorted to sarcasm, something she is always telling my male staff is the lowest form of wit.
 "By piles are givig be hell!"  She said.  "What do you thig this is?" She pointed at Paolo.  "Some sort of friggig blue, feathery bole?"
 "Hmmm." Said the the young doctor, peering closely at Paolo. "Could be a bole, er mole of some sort. I'd have to get a dermatologist to have a proper look at it."  It seems doctors can be sarcastic too when faced with difficult patients.

12.10pm
My staff were thanking the nice young doctor for removing Paolo from my female staff's nose, which seemed to be none the worse for wear except for a red, beak shaped indentation.  Paolo was placed gently into a cardboard box with a few air holes punched in it for the short drive home.

12.20pm 
My staff and Paolo were halfway home in the Getz. They could hear Paolo puttering about in his cardboard box on the back seat.
 "Who'd have thought a budgie would like toast?" Mused my male staff.  "It's a good job that doctor had the presence of mind to get some from the hospital canteen to offer Paolo.  He soon let go of your hooter when he saw the toast didn't he?  Shame you didn't accept my offer of toast this morning.  It would have saved us all a lot of bother."

BACI'S BALONEY 

I don't want to sound ungreatful or nuffin but I get the feeling that Uncal Billy's staff - the hewmins wot are supposed to be looking afta me and Alfie and Toby and Tom and Paolo are like insayne.  Sumthymes i get like reel wurried that wun day they mite throw a kompleet wobbly and get karted away by sum otha hewmins whering wite cotes and get put in this speshul hospiggle for wobbly throwers. Then wots going to happen to me and the otha boyz?

 

A Dog's Breakfast

I do sincerely apologise for the late publication of this week's blog.  Twenty four hours late is unacceptable and I can promise you that it will never happen again, though I should warn you that my paws were firmly crossed behind my furry back as I typed that.  So, why is this post so terribly tardy?  Well my male staff was trying to organise a trip to England to visit his dad, and in the same way that hairdressers always have terrible hair, doctors are always sick and dentists always have bad teeth, travel agents' own travel arrangements are always a dog's breakfast.

He must have looked at every single airline in the world and could not find anything at all that suited. Actually come to think of it he hasn't looked at Iran Air or Aeroflot yet, I must make a point of suggesting those to him when he starts looking again later today.  Both offer almost unlimited opportunities for adventure.  He's never flown on a Russian built aircraft yet - you can tell that because he's still alive, but surprisingly he doesn't seem to get over excited by the thought of unlimited supplies of vodka and borscht that are doled out by the Aeroflot hosties.  I can see why they carry such large supplies of vodka on Aeroflot planes.  It's so that in the event of the airline being refused aviation fuel as stopover points (and this has happened) because they have run out of credit, they can fill the fuel tanks up with enough vodka to fly to the nearest airport where they can still get credit without the captain having to walk up and down the aisle holding his cap out, asking the passengers for a contribution.  (That too has happened.)

Iran Air offers a different kind of excitement.  They have plenty of fuel, but because the Americans have long since had an embargo on the export of spare parts to Iran, all their aircraft, both civilian and military are held together with shoelaces, pipe cleaners and clothes pegs.  Consequently the things are falling out of the sky all the time.  You can barely go for a quiet walk in the country without being clobbered by the aileron of a 1971 Boeing 747 or a door from a 1969 Boeing 727.  These are not safe places to fly, and yet no doubt my male staff will consider them eventually when he discovers that none of the airlines with slightly better safety records meet the constraints of his budget.
  
So anyway, that's my excuse and I'm going to stick with it until I can think of something better, but now I will get on to more serious matters; matters that are causing me to be a cranky cavy this week.
Actually lets face it, there are many things happening in the world that make a deceased guinea pig very angry at the moment.  There's the wanton destruction of wildlife habitat for short term profit for a few greedy human individuals. There's the deliberate dismissal of the threat of climate change by many governments, most notably our own here in Australia, where the Prime Minister continues to demonize science, as if it's all a lefty pinko conspiracy to deprive his mates in the coal mining industry of some of their fat profits.  But most of all, the thing that is angering deceased guinea pigs everywhere is the current refugee crisis.  How sad that it took a single photo of a drowned three year old child face down on a Turkish beach for you humans to start thinking that 'Well, maybe we should consider doing something..........let's not rush into anything though.  If we look too anxious, people might start thinking that the developed world is somehow responsible for all this chaos and misery."

Am I the only one on the planet who thinks that most of this current state of affairs could have been avoided if a certain George W Bush and his "coalition of the silly" had confined themselves to rooting out the evil bastards who perpetrated the 9/11 atrocity from Afghanistan instead of pursuing regime change in Iraq in order to gain control of Iraqi oil.  Let's face facts for once shall we.  Saddam Hussein had absolutely nothing to do with 9/ll.  Indeed he was a sworn enemy of Osama bin Laden.  Sure, he made life miserable for the majority of Iraqis, he was a brutal, criminal psychopath, but there are at least a dozen others who fall into that category - Robert Mugabe for one, but does Zimbabwe have anything else the developed world needs? No, unless you count tobacco.

It's not too long a bow to draw to say that Saddam's demise triggered the Arab spring uprisings throughout north Africa and the middle east in which oppressed populations rebelled against their despotic leaders, cheered on from the sidelines by the USA and others including Britain and Australia.  In most cases, but particularly in Libya, Egypt and Syria this destabilised the nations so much that anarchy took hold in the vacuum left by the ousted rulers.  This of course played right into the hands of the Islamist nutters that we are all so scared of now.  And why are we scared of them?  Because our government tells us to be.  Australia's Prime Minister looked people in the eye and said "The evil ISIS dealth cult is coming after you."  This suits his own political agenda of course, because an incumbent government with a serious security crisis usually gets re-elected, no matter how bloody awful they are otherwise.  Just ask Maggie Thatcher, she'll tell you the same.  Wait, you can't can you - she's dead and probably playing backgammon with Saddam Hussein and Augusto Pinochet.  Tony Abbott is obviously taking a different tack to that of his old boss John Howard, who during the security crisis that followed 9/11 coined the phrase "Be alert, not alarmed."  Abbott's message is "Be alarmed, not alert."  An alert population would never vote for him again in a million years.

So, where does all this leave us?  It leaves us with a huge humanitarian crisis.  It leaves us with a bunch of nations who actually indirectly, if not directly caused the crisis desperately washing their hands of the blame for it.  It leaves us with millions of Syrian refugees trying to escape the misery of life in a war torn land and it leaves us with a handful developed nations spending billions of dollars happily bombing ISIS, chasing them from Syria to Iraq and back and doing absolutely nothing whatsoever to treat the cause of this awful disease - injustice.

BACI'S BALONEY

I've got no eyedear wot Uncal Billy is banging on abowt.  He's got sum sort of bee in his bonnit abowt sum place called the Midda  Leest.  Now, like most Orstraliuns or Merrycuns I've like got no eyedear wot soeva where that is, but I don't think Uncal Billy's mail staff intends to go that way wen he goes to Inglund.  Cum to think of it I don't no where that is eyetha.

Insuddently, Uncal Billy's feemail staff fownd this green thing in the toylut the otha day. She fished it owt and put it in the garden.  Dunno wot it is but it ain't a ginny pig.

1963

My staff's house descended into pandemonium this morning.  Now I always thought that a pandemonium was an old fashion musical instrument made from Pandas.  Apparently not.  I now understand that it is in fact a state of utter chaos, and it was this said state into which my staff's house descended when my male staff switched on his laptop to find out how many goals his beloved West Ham United Football Club had lost by this week.  They were playing Liverpool at Liverpool's home ground. where West Ham had not won since 1963.

 First there was a soft click as my male staff switched on his laptop, then a gentle hum as it warmed up, accompanied by the usual under the breath cursing.
 "Come on, come on! Hurry up you f#*@ing piece of s@#t."  Nothing unusual in that.  It's a kind of morning chorus in my staff's house.  Then "Hoo-bloody-ray, about time." as the thing connected.  Then tap tap tap "BUGGER!" tap tap tap tap "DAMN!" tap tap as he typed in his commands with the usual typing errors.  Then finally "GASP!" and crash!  This was my male staff passing out as he read the scoreline.  Liverpool 0 West Ham 3.  A few moments later he regained consciousness and stood up, banging his head on the desk as he did.  With blood running into his eyes he sat in front of the computer again.  The scoreline was still there, and still the same.  Liverpool 0  West Ham 3.  It had to be a mistake, he was sure.  This sort of thing never happens except in his wildest dreams, and some of his dreams can be very wild indeed.  Believe me, I know.  As a supernatural guinea pig I have access to all the dreams that are spinning around inside his head.  For example there was that one involving Amanda Holden, a hamster, a watermelon and the theme tune to East Enders.  I'll tell you about it now if you like.  You see my male staff was laying on deck chair in a mankini.  He was cuddling a pet hamster and feeding it chunks of watermelon.  Then suddenly the hamster turned into Amanda Holden and she started humming the East Enders theme tune, and my male staff knew, as you do in dreams, that the moment she stopped singing she would............................ Oh bugger!  My male staff has just come into the room. I'll have to continue this story another time.

Now where was I?  Oh yes, the computer still said Liverpool 0  West Ham 3.  My male staff blinked.  He didn't believe the website, it was the BBC after all, a broadcaster known for their unreliability.  So tap tap tap tap....s#@t tap tap tap....dammit!......tap tap again.  This time he found a more reliable source of news - The Sun newspaper website.  Everyone knows that Rupert Murdoch would never tell a fib.  He found the soccer results.  Liverpool 0  West Ham 3 it said.  It even listed the goal scorers and they were all West Ham players.  Finally reality sank in.  "Whooooo Hoooooo!" he yelled, stood up, pulled his shirt over his head and ran around the room with his arms stretched out like an inebriated pelican, sweeping ornaments from sideboards and vases from tables.  Eventually he ran into a wall, but even that didn't dampen his buoyant mood.  Paolo the budgie was given a large piece of millet and the Guinea pigs where each handed a fistful of the greenest, freshest basil leaves.  Even my female staff was kissed much to her disgust.

 "1963!" he ranted.  "The last time this happened was on 14th September 1963.  Do you realise how long ago that is?" he demanded of my female staff, who wisely remained silent.  "It was ore than half a century." he said.  "The second world war had only been over for eighteen years.  The Beatles were number one in the charts in the UK with "She Loves You."  John F Kennedy was the US President and was making plans with Jackie for a nice quiet trip to Texas in November.  "Come on dearest." Said JFK.  "Dallas is lovely in November.  It'll be a blast."  Poor old William Hartnell was Doctor Who - the very first one, and even back then he looked too old to be chasing daleks around the place."  By this time my female staff was starting to feel a little drowsy, so she made herself a cup of coffee and flopped down on the sofa.

My male staff continued.  "Martin Luther King had a dream." (I bet it was nothing like the one my male staff had about Amanda Holden.)  "Harold Macillan was British Prime Minister, but he was so ill that he was to resign in October and allow Alec Douglas-Home to take his place.  Here in Australia, Robert Menzies was the Prime Minister with his Liberal/Country Party coalition, but aboriginal people were still not able to become citizens of a country they had inhabited form tens of thousands of years.  That was not to be permitted for almost another fourteen years."  My female staff yawned, but my male staff continued unperturbed.  "Of course with Tony Abbott in charge it's still only 1953 in Australia, never mind 1963.  There was a race riot in Birmingham, Alabama. Nice to see that some things haven't changed in the USA.  Paul McCartney was fined seventeen pounds for speeding.  later that year he was fined again for the same offence - 31 pounds, and this time his licence was suspended for a year.  The biggest movie of the year was Cleopatra.  I was five years old and was given a toy James Bond gold Aston Martin for Christmas, which was actually the last white Christmas I ever remember having.  And listen to this. Here's the scariest thing of all.  The world population in 1963 was just over 3.2 billion.  Do you know what it is now?"  My female staff opened her mouth but didn't get chance to say anything.  "7.3 billion. Yes," he repeated. "7.3 billion!  No wonder I can never find a bloody parking space outside the post office."

My female staff sighed.  "Did West Ham win?" she asked.
 "Yes." replied my male staff.
 "Thank God it doesn't happen very often." said my female staff and took a long slurp of her coffee.

BACI'S BALONEY 

1963! That's like ten ginny pig lifethymes ago.  I wunda wot my annsesters were doing in them days.  I bet nun of them were alfa mails like wot I am and I bet nun of them were like as edjookayted like wot I am eetha, oar as suffistacated as me.  Yoo'd never beleeve that I am toadly self edjookayted wood yoo?

Toilet Trouble

Have you ever noticed the eccentric toilet habits of humans?  I supposed that being one yourself you probably take it for granted.  But look at it from a guinea pig's perspective.  We just poo wherever we want and let someone else worry about cleaning it up.  Yes indeed, we just wander around making a noise that sounds a lot like a squeaky bicycle wheel. Guinea pig text books insist that this sound means we are just being inquisitive.  This is rubbish of course.  We're actually saying to ourselves "Now then, let me think. Where can I poo that makes it really hard for my staff to get at it.  Ah yes, I know. I'll just drop a little pile here and then kick it under the piano."  If, as is often the case we can't be bothered trudging all across the room to the piano we'll just deposit our load of magic beans in the middle of the room and hope that our staff don't notice them until the morning when they come down barefoot from the bedroom and tread in something cold and squishy.  You humans should try it.  It really wakes you up in the morning - gets you going, sets you up for the day.

Frankly I don't understand why you humans don't do the same; just poo wherever you like and wait for someone else to clean it up.  Having said that, my male staff tells me that there are some places in the world that actually do that.  Many years ago he took a very long walk (we're talking several days) along the eastern beaches of peninsular Malaysia.  It was a time of new found prosperity for the country and some people had skewed priorities when it came to the important things in life.  Wherever there was a little seafront kampong (village) the beach was a minefield of human poo.  The locals would just wander down to the water's edge, squat and do their business.  Some of them would even take a newspaper with them - seriously.  My male staff had to be very careful where he put his size twelve feet and was forced to make long detours around squatting locals.  And yet these same locals would have a new Mercedes Benz or Audi sitting in front of their tumbledown, tin-roofed, running water-free shack.  Who needs a flushing toilet when you can have a shiny new German car instead? There were always a lot of flies around the beach adjacent to the kampongs and my male staff really hated it when they would land on his lips.

The problem with pooing in or close to the sea (apart from the danger of sitting on a sea urchin), is the tide.  Yes the tide takes your poo away with it, but only temporarily.  In a few hours time it brings it back, and even if you have a nice little tidal sweep happening on your bit of beach, your kampong's poo might disappear a few miles down the coast, but it will be replaced by the poo from the next village along from yours, so in the end everyone's poo just gets mixed up and you have no idea who's poo you are stepping in as you stroll down to the surf, newspaper, under your arm, a mug of coffee in one hand and a toilet roll in the other to do your business.  The situation is not ideal as you can plainly see.

Anyway, never mind all that.  The fact is that my staff and all the humans I've ever seen visit them prefer to disappear into a small room containing a strange ceramic bowl to deposit their droppings.  I willingly throw up my furry little paws and admit that I have no idea why they do this.  It's very selfish for one thing, for it deprives others the pleasure of sniffing their friends' droppings and rolling them around the floor with their noses the way more highly evolved creatures, like guinea pigs for example do.

Apparently there's a plastic seat on the ceramic bowl to make it more comfortable for humans to park their ample butts on.  On my staff's ceramic bowl this seat had somehow worked its way loose (Something to do with one of the re-enforcing titanium bolts snapping under the constant strain I believe.) and this caused the seat to slip and slide alarmingly whenever anyone sat on it.  And so after much nagging from my female staff, my male staff went to the local hardware shop and purchased a brand new seat.  "Tool free installation" the packaging proudly proclaimed and this worried my male staff because he is the first to admit that he is a complete tool when it comes to installing things.  Nevertheless he took the thing home and without too much fuss dismantled the old broken one and tossed it into the dustbin.  Then he got distracted by a phone call  and forgot all about the new toilet seat.  A couple of hours later nature called and he hurried to the little room.  To his dismay he was confronted by a ceramic bowl and no seat.  The new seat was propped at a mockingly jaunty angle against the wall, still in its plastic wrapping.  "Shit!" Exclaimed my male staff appropriately.  Still, he'd have to make do.  There was no time to install the new seat.  For him, a job like that could take four or five hours and possibly two or three trips back to the hardware shop either for further instructions or a replacement seat, the original one having been hurled against the wall and smashed to pieces in a fit of pique.

So, he tentatively sat down on the ceramic bowl. (Having first pulled down his trousers and underpants you'll be relieved to hear.)  It was particularly cold and uncomfortable so he was pretty quick in doing what had to be done, and then he saw that there was no toilet paper on the holder, so he reached back to where the spare ones were kept in a basket.  This sudden movement (If you'll pardon the unfortunate expression.) caused my male staff's right buttock to lose its grip on the slippery ceramic and it, closely followed by the left buttock plunged deep into the depths of the bowl and there they stuck, wedged firmly.  Stunned, my male staff sat there for a moment trying to regain his somewhat elusive wits.  He wiggled his legs, but they could no longer reach the floor to gain any purchase.  He tried pushing himself up on the toilet roll holder but it snapped off the wall.  After five minutes he realised that he was going to need help if he wasn't to spend the rest of his life in the little room.  "Chook!" He called.  That's his pet name for my female staff.  "Chook! I need a little help here please."
 "Where are you?" My female staff called back.
 "In the toilet."
 "What are you doing in there?"  There was a moment's silence.
 "Building a bloody hang-glider, what do you think?"
My female staff opened the door to the little room.  "Are you stuck?" She enquired.
 "No, I'm washing my bum in the toilet 'cos we don't have a bidet.  Yes I'm bloody stuck."  He raised his arms.  "Pull me out will you?"  My female staff tugged his arms but nothing shifted.
 "This is hopeless." She said. "Shall I call the fire brigade?"  Regular readers will know that my female staff likes calling the fire brigade.  All those hunky young men in uniforms............
 "No! Don't call the fire brigade.  Just get some butter and smear it over my bum, then try pulling my arms again.  My female staff went to the kitchen and returned a moment later.
 "We haven't got any butter," she informed him. "We've only got this margarine.  It's the stuff that's supposed to lower your cholesterol, so it'll be better for you anyway."  She scooped a handful of the margarine from the tub.  "Wait a minute." She said. "If I smear this stuff on the part of your bum that's not in the toilet it won't do any good.  Unless I want to push you further down, and although that's certainly very tempting it won't get us out of this current situation."
 "Hmmm, you're right." Said my male staff stroking his chin and looking as wise and dignified as anyone can with their backside stuck in the toilet and their feet waving in the air wrapped in their trousers and underpants.  "You'll have to stick your hand between my legs into the toilet and plaster my bum with margarine that way."
 "Bugger off!" Said my female staff sympathetically. "You do it."
 "I would, but I can't reach can I?  I'm not double jointed."  My female staff sighed and scooped up an extra large helping of margarine, closed her eyes, held her nose with one hand and reached between my male staff's legs with the other and liberally plastered his bum with the stuff.
 "This should reduce your cholesterol levels by at least fifty percent." She said as she carefully withdrew her hand.
 "Yeah! Ha ha! Very funny." Said my male staff and raised his arms again for my female staff to pull.  "Okay, lets try again. Grab my arms and pull and the count of three."  My female staff grasped his arms. "Ready?  One, two three!"

Well, it might have worked had my female staff washed the margarine from her hands, but sadly in the excitement and the adrenaline rush of the moment she'd forgotten and as she pulled with all her strength her grip slipped and she fell back against the door, banging her head hard.
 "Right! That's it. I'm calling the fire brigade." She cried.  "Jeez it stinks in here! Have you flushed the toilet?"
 "No, I can't reach it can I?"
My female staff reached behind him and lowered the flush lever. 
 "Yiiiiiiiiii!" Yelped my male staff as the cold water splashed his nether regions and he shot into the air with a champagne cork like pop!  He was free.
 "Dammit!" Said my female staff.  "Does this mean I don't need to call the fire brigade?"

BACI'S BALONEY

Yoo humans don't no wot yor missing by dropping yor poopies into a toylutt.  Frigzample yoo miss owt on playing my fayvritt sport - poopsoccer.  Wen I'm like on the flaw afta wun of the otha piggies have been there furst I like to find wun of there poopies and like dribble it arownd obstackles with my nose and then shute it unda a chair with my feet.  Uncal Billy's staff enjoi watching me do this and they like cheer and klap witch makes me very happy, ecksept this wun thyme wen they sed I was like offside, but I never woz.

Leadership

Have you ever noticed that many humans with aspirations to lead often confuse leadership with I-know-better-than-anyone-else arrogance?  There are more examples of this than I can name in a short blog post, but most of them are male - wannabe alpha males obviously, though not all.  Margaret Thatcher led us all to believe that she was female by wielding a handbag, having big hair and wearing a skirt, but then I have seen many Scotsmen with at least two out of three of these so this has yet to be officially confirmed.

A prime example of this is a chap called Campbell Newman.  Mr Newman was the Premier of the Australian state of Queensland.  I guess Americans might call him the State Governor while people in the north of England might call him a "fooking twat".  Anyway, Mr Newman began his political career as Mayor of the city of Brisbane and in that role he did a pretty reasonable job.  When the city was hit by a disastrous flood in 2011 his military background came in really handy and there was no doubting his logistical prowess as he swiftly organised aid and clean ups in cooperation with the state Labor government of the time.

The trouble is that his military background became a definite disadvantage once he was elected Premier of the state in 2012.  His Liberal National Party won by a massive landslide, decimating the Labor Party to such an extent that after the election they were able to hold full party meetings in the public toilet at Parliament House - in just one cubicle.  Everyone thought that the Liberal National party would be in power for more than a decade, such was their majority.  However, nobody was taking into account Mr Newman's staggering capacity for arrogance and pig-headedness.  Assuming that due to the overwhelming nature of his victory in the polls he had a mandate from the public to do whatever he liked, he embarked on a programme of highly unpopular and often draconian, not to say barely legal policies.  These he implemented without consultation, and very often they were the very same things he's whinged about the Labor government doing when he was in opposition.  Too often his policies fell foul of the judiciary who warned him that they were either non-constitutional or else sailing too close to the wind.  Mr Newman knew best though and pooh-poohed all the warnings and pushed on anyway.

Obviously with his military background he was used to giving orders, which is fine in the army which lets face it is not supposed to be a democracy.
 "Right men.  We need to make a frontal assault on that heavy machine gun post if we're going to be able to advance across the river.  All those in favour say "aye".  All those against say "no".  Errrrm...... righto.  I'll.......errrr....... just go ahead and attack the thing myself than shall I?" 
Not only that, but the parade ground would be a proper kerfuffle if everyone just marched whichever way they wanted.  It would be like having an entire battalion of soldiers with no sense of direction. Or what if the sergeant major had to hold a vote every time he wanted to give the order to present arms.  No, it just wouldn't work would it?  And so Mr Newman should have stuck to what he knows best - that is telling people who are paid to do what they're told, what to do, if you understand my meaning.

In any case, if I'd been equipped with opposable thumbs I'd have written to him and warned him that he was heading for trouble.  Sadly though my thumbs remained stubbornly un-opposable and so I was unable to tell Mr Newman that if he ever wanted to be a truly great leader he would have to respect those people whom he purports to lead and must never under any circumstances take them for granted.  I would have intimated to him that the reason he came to power in the first place was that the Labor government was perceived by the voters as being arrogant and pig-headed.  He'd even said as much himself.  So in the end his tenure as the Premier of Queensland was brought to a grinding halt when Queenslanders sacked him after just one three year term.  It was a landslide to equal the one that brought him to power.  Obviously he hadn't heard of the Santayana's quote - “Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it”.  Yes, that's Santayana the philosopher, essayist, poet, and novelist.  Not to be confused with Santana who once said.

                                            "Yes, don't turn your back on me baby
                                            Stop messin' 'round with your tricks
                                            Don't turn your back on me baby
                                            You just might pick up my magic sticks".


Personally I wouldn't touch his magic stick with a bargepole, but each to his own I suppose.

I think our young Baci must have learned all he knows about leadership from Mr Newman.  Like Mr Newman he's very small and uppity, though he certainly has more hair than Mr Newman did.  In fact here on the Sunshine Coast there is a suburb called Bald Knob and whenever I heard it mentioned I was never sure whether the speaker was referring to the suburb or Campbell Newman.  Anyway, Baci is definitely under the impression that he is the alpha guinea pig of his herd of four.  When all four boys are in their own separate cage he likes to sit on top of his house so that he can keep an eye on what the other three are doing.  In fact often he'd rather sit there and glare at the others than eat his food.  If as is happening more and more regularly as they get older, my staff are too slow to grab him when he and either Tom or Alfie are out having "floor time" he'll fluff himself up to appear as big as possible (Though he's still only the size of a small rat.), chatter his teeth and charge at the other guinea pig, often tearing a chunk of fur from their butt and then strutting off with it still in his mouth.  Both Tom and Alfie are terrified of him even though they are about twice his size and weight.  This fear may be due less to the threat of violence than the threat of being rogered to within an inch of their lives, which is what Baci does to them when he doesn't feel like biting.

However, Toby, the oldest and slowest of the boys shows no fear at all.  Baci will fluff himself up, chatter his teeth and charge at Toby who just looks up casually from whatever he's eating, waits until Baci is close enough and then sits on his head.  It's a bit like watching the scene from the Indiana Jones movie when "Indie" is confronted by the Arab dude with the huge sword who spins and twirls it and does all sorts of intimidating tricks until "Indie" just pulls out his pistol and shoots him.  If only Mr Newman had an adviser like Toby to sit on his head when he got too big for his little boots he might still be the Premier of Queensland now.

BACI'S BALONEY 

I don't think I like wot Uncal Billy is incinerating.  There's absolootlie no way I'm ennything like Camel Nooman and I resemble enny sirjestyon that I mite be.  I never give ennywun enny ordas and I demand that yoo all forget evrything wot Uncal Billy sed abowt me immeejutly.  In facked if you don't I'll like cum round to yoor howse and pull bits of fur from your bum. Rite?

                                                           Toby aka "The Tobinator"

 

Pull Ups

The trouble with Facebook is not that there are people on there who think we are all interested in what they had for lunch, or that they have broken up with their girlfriend because she turned out to be the scrum half for the London Irish rugby union team.  Or for that matter even that they think they are the first to call Tony Abbott a dickhead.  No not at all, and in fact my staff and I rather enjoy all the funny cat videos.  The real problem is that Facebook is inhabited by some very strange people with very extreme views, views that they think everyone should share, and I must say that I have a sneaking feeling that if everyone did suddenly decide to agree with these views, these peculiar folk would then take the opposite view just to be contrary and to provoke an online argument.

A few years ago my male staff happened to mention that perhaps a more tolerant approached towards asylum seekers from the Australian government might be a good thing.  He pointed out that it is not actually illegal to seek asylum and that modern Australia has been largely built by immigrants - British and Irish (Who of course disposed the original Australians, but that's another argument.), Greeks, Italians, Vietnamese, Lebanese and a dozen other ethnicities, all of whom have made their own valuable contributions to Australia's mostly peaceful multi-cultural society.  Almost immediately Facebook exploded with racist rants, name calling and naughty words that I hadn't heard since I accidentally bit male staff's dangly part through his trousers while sitting on his lap. (It tasted of chicken by the way.)

Most of these types of "Status Updates" came from young, attractive women, or at least their Facebook profile photo was that of a young attractive woman.  It is of course entirely possible that the person typing this vitriol was in actual fact a disgusting snaggle-toothed old hag.  I guess I'll never know, and that's a risk you take with Facebook and Twitter.  You're never quite sure, unless you know them personally, that the human you are corresponding with actually bears the slightest resemblance to their photo.  I guess it's a bit like phone sex.  You run your finger down the list of young lingerie clad sex kittens in the personal ads (or so I'm told), pick one, dial the number, give her your American Express card number and she'll tell you what she's wearing (Which if the pictures are anything to go by won't take very long.) and what she'd like you to do to her if only you were there.

Well, as a guinea pig of the world I'm guessing that it's just as well that you're not there, because if you were you'd probably find that your busty, husky voiced chicky babe is actually a seventy two year old grandmother of six with a colostomy bag and dentures which are sitting next to her in a glass of water on the coffee table beside a packet of corn plasters and her toenail clippers complete with a neat little pile of clippings which she'd forgotten to put in the bin last Monday.  Oh yes, the eftpos machine would be there too, along with a stopwatch to make sure that her clients don't get a second more excitement than they've paid for.  That sexy, husky voice of hers is probably the result of her sixty ciggies a day habit and she's only doing the whole phone sex thing because she spends all her pension on poker machines.

Anyway, where was I before this little fantasy broke into my train of thought?  Oh yes - Facebook.  So along with all these hateful replies that my male staff received from young women were an equal number of supportive "updates" also from seemingly young women, and pretty soon an online cat fight had broken out between the racist women and the non-racist women.  It was getting really nasty, so being the utter coward that he is my male staff turned his computer off and let them get on with it; the online equivalent of starting a fight and then skulking off before you get hurt.

It just goes to show you that as far as social media goes you never really know who you are talking to or what you are taking on when you plunge into it.  But then I guess that applies to life generally.  Take the case of my male staff's mad sister for example.  She agreed to look after her friend's two year old boy for an afternoon while her friend and her husband went to a matinee show at a local theatre. 
 "He'll be no trouble." said mad sister. "I'm taking my granddaughter to the church fete so we can all go together."  So off they went to the fete and a great old time was had by all, the children petted the lambs, held the bunny rabbits, ate lots of sugary treats and drank gallons of pop.  At the end of a lovely afternoon as they were leaving, the vicar's wife approached mad sister to thank her for coming and to say that the event had been a great success.  She crouched down to the children's level and said to the little boy who was clutching mad sister's hand "My, you're a big boy aren't you?" The little boy shuffled his feet shyly and inspected his free grubby, sticky little hand before proudly pronouncing "Yes, and I've got bollocks" in a loud voice.
 "I'm sorry darling, what did you say? asked the vicar's wife, apparently not quite believing what she'd heard.
 "I said I've got bollocks!" repeated the little chap, louder this time.  In fact loud enough for people twenty metres away to turn and look to see who was bragging about their genitals.

My male staff's mad sister made hurried excuses and whisked the children away from the scene as quickly as she could.  Later, when the little boy's mum came to collect him mad sister told her what had happened, how embarrassed she'd been and how he couldn't have chosen a worse person to tell that he had bollocks. 

The little boy's mum laughed.  "Oh!" she said.  "He's always doing that.  He's so proud, but he's not saying bollocks, he's saying "pull-ups". I've just started him on lined pull-up pants instead of nappies so he likes to tell everyone what a big boy he is now because he's got pull-ups.  It's just that he hasn't really learned to pronounce it properly yet."

BACI'S BALONEY

Hah! Kidz eh?  Uncal Billy sez that his male staff wunce told him that his mum's bestest frend came for aftanoon tee wun day wen he was littul and then wen she was like leeving she sed goodbuy and Uncal Billy's male staff sed britely "Goodbuy and good riddunts."  I don't think that she was Uncal Billys male staff's mum's bestest frend ennymoor afta that.

Comedy Class

Right! You'd all better start behaving yourselves again because I'm back from deepest, darkest Africa and I've got my beady little eyes on you.  Of course I travelled in spirit with my staff and I must say it's certainly much easier to travel in spirit than in person.  There are no customs to worry about for a start and no security people wanting to pat down your fur to make sure you're don't have a pair of nail clippers in your your musk gland, not that any security guy with any sense would go within thirty feet of my male staff's musk gland.  Yep, gone are the days when I used to have suffer the indignity of being shoved down the front of my male staff's trousers or up my female staff's blouse to be smuggled through airports.  I can now go wherever I like, whenever I like and I don't even have to travel in comedy class with my staff.  Being a deceased piggy definitely has its advantages.  Seriously, I don't know why more people don't try it.

Incredibly there were very few life threatening incidents for my staff on this particular trip although one of the flights definitely had that potential thanks to a typical schoolboy error by my male staff.  The last of the internal flights within South Africa was on a small jet which had a row of two seats on one side and a row of just one seat on the other.  My staff opted to ask for seat in the row of one so that they could both have a window.  My male staff had the front seat and my female staff had the seat behind him.  It was only a forty five minute flight, but that gave my male staff amble time to consume at least four glasses of chardonnay and a dozen bags of peanuts, much to the chagrin of the single flight attendant who had to keep them coming, not to mention the other passengers, most of whom she didn't have time to serve due to the demands of my male staff.

Anyway, just before the pilot commenced his descent into Johannesburg my male staff decided that it might be nice to tickle my female staff's leg, so he pushed his left arm through the gap between his seat and the aircraft wall and groped around a bit until he found my female staff's leg, then while continuing to read his in-flight magazine (There was a fascinating and highly controversial article on the various types of carrot grown in South Africa.) he rolled up the leg of her jeans a few inches and began gently kneading her calf.  He continued to do this until the plane had landed and come to a halt in its parking bay.  The fasten seat belt sign blinked off and he let go of my female staff's leg, stood up, grabbed his bag from the overhead locker, then grabbed my female staff's bag.  Turning to hand it to her he noticed that she was standing in the aisle a couple of rows back, while sitting on the seat behind him was a large, grinning African gentleman in a white fedora hat.
 "Pretty good flight wasn't it." He said to my male staff, who suddenly turned first very pale and then a rather fetching shade of pink.

As soon as my staff were inside the terminal they had a fairly animated discussion on the importance of telling each other if they are going to swap seats with another passenger.
 "How was I to know you were going to sexually assault a total stranger?"  Asked my female staff.     "The poor man asked if I'd mind swapping seats because he had very long legs and the seat behind you had a bit more legroom.  I said "No problem" and we swapped.  Had I been aware that you were going to start fondling him I would have warned him."  And so it went on.........and on.  Still at least it helped to pass the time on the twelve hour flight back to Australia.

Now then if you don't mind I'd like to say my threepence worth on the subject of Cecil the lion.  While my staff were in Africa a certain Dr Walter Palmer - a dentist from Eden Prairie, Minnesota was busing shooting his bow and arrow at a large male lion which he and his white Zimbabwean guides had lured from the relative safety of Hwange National Park onto an adjacent hunting concession.  His arrow wounded poor Cecil and enabled Dr Palmer and his pals to track him for a couple of days before they finally caught up with him and finished him of with a firearm.

Apart from the obvious barbarity of killing any animal in this way it was illegal to kill Cecil who was a collared research animal.  He may not have known that, but his guides - the professional hunters certainly did, but apparently their greed got the better of them.  Dr Palmer has apologised for killing Cecil, saying that had he known that the animal was a local favourite he wouldn't have shot him.  Sadly the (not so) good doctor is missing the point.  It may well be legal to shoot some animals, indeed many African nations welcome hunting concessions, (Botswana being the shining example of a country that does not allow hunting at all.) but that does not make it right, moral or humane.

If Dr Palmer is such a hunting enthusiast then he would certainly have known that lions are endangered.  Across Africa their numbers have declined by about forty percent over the last two decades due to loss of habitat, conflict with human settlement and hunting.  Despite the furore Cecil's disgraceful killing has caused I just can't see hunting being banned in other African nations, there is too  much official corruption, two much money at stake, too much greed and too many mindless humans with a huge blood lust and tiny egos that need boosting at the expense of innocent creatures.

The saddest thing is that Dr Palmer has not only killed Cecil he has almost certainly slaughtered Cecil's cubs who will now be killed when one of Cecil's rivals takes over his old pride.  The best we can hope for is that some people will take note of the outrage and anger aimed at Dr Palmer and be dissuaded from hunting themselves.  Because lets face it, if you are killing animals for fun, not food you are without doubt an utter LOSER.  And by the way, there are worse things than Dr Palmer's favoured form of hunting.  "Canned hunting" for example.  This involves paying a shipload of money to someone who breeds animals for the sole purpose of being killed for trophies or whatever such sickos want.  Your chosen animal is then placed in a small enclosure so that escape is impossible and then you get to kill your animal with whatever weapon you choose - Rifle, bow and arrow, crossbow, uzi machine gun, hand gun, spear, rocket propelled grenade launcher, surface to air missile..........whatever.  I guess if you really want value for money you could opt to use a pea shooter.  I have just one question.  How on earth does any human being involved in this industry sleep at night?

BACI'S BALONEY

Jeepers! Uncal Billy is reelly on his high horse today isunt he.  I'd like stay well owt of his way for a wile if I were yoo.  Anyway, I just wanted to let yoo no that Uncal Billy's staff are okay after there trip to Afrikka.  They had like the bestest thyme eva and wen they came back they went to this Krissmuss in July party at Uncal Geoff and Arnty Cath's howse witch is in sum littal outback villidge called Brisbane.  Here in Orstraylya we have Krissmuss partys in July cos it's like two hot at real Krissmus and Santa won't come due to all the elf and safety regyoolayshuns.  I eckspect yoo all remember Uncal Geoff from a nerlier blog wen I like peed on his lap and he like got the blame cos Arnty Cath thort Uncal Geoff was like two old to be kontinunt.

So anyway Uncal Mike and Arnty Robyn were at the party too and all the men drank kwite a lot of whine.  Nobuddy seems kwite shore eggzackly how it happunnd but my male staff woak up the next mourning in the chikkin coop wearing nothing but a lyme green mankini.  Uncal Mike wuz their too, but at leest he wuz fully drest.  He wuz wearing a mullet wig tho, but the chikkens dint mind cos it looked better than wot wuz left of his reel hare.

Uncal Geoff dint seam to be uffected mutch at all.  In facked he evun brought My male staff and Uncal Mike a cup of tee in the mourning wile they lay there among the fethas and chikkin poo.  He was very cheerful ackchooly, shouting "Rise and shine evrywun."  I thort it was very rood of my male staff and Uncal Mike to tell him to like "Go away and let us dye in piece."

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Techno-prat

Those of you who have the misfortune to know my male staff personally will be shocked at what I am about to tell you.  For the last two weeks he's been building a website for his reverse people smuggling business.  That's right, he's been building a website from scratch and it actually looks rather good - almost like a real one in fact.  He's what I like to call a techno-prat.  If you are some sort of foreigner the meaning of the word prat can be found below.  In fact if you yourself happen to be a prat there is even something to help you pronounce it.

prat

prat/

noun

informal

noun: prat; plural noun: prats

1. 1.

   British

   an incompetent or stupid person; an idiot.
2. 2.

   a person's buttocks.

In fact when it comes to practical matters both my staff could quite easily be described as prats.  A while ago they thought that the two guinea fowl - Peanut & Pecan who wander around their garden might need a more comfortable place to roost at night.  They were roosting in the trees, suffering the vagaries of the weather and subject to being swallowed whole by Carl the enormous carpet python whom my staff had befriended and who didn't mind at all if you stroked his tail.  Even my staff weren't stupid enough to try to pat his head.

Anyway my staff found some bits of wood under the house that didn't appear to be holding up anything particularly important - like the bathroom for instance, and after a couple of hours of hammering, sawing, foul language and threats of divorce they had built a perch for the birds.  They placed the contraption under the deck where it would be sheltered from the rain.

 "How are we going to get them to roost on it? Asked my female staff.  My male staff thought for a moment, which was unusual for him.  I knew he was thinking because I could hear cogs grinding and there was steam coming from his ears.

"I know," he said at last.  "We'll fix two plastic flowerpot dishes to it and fill them with bird seed.  That should do it."  There then followed a further hour of hammering, swearing and Laurel & Hardy-esque incompetence in the "Okay, you nod your head and I'll hit it" style.  Then with bleeding and bruised fingers, perspiring brows, fractious tempers and wild eyes my staff stood back to admire the finished product.  Frankly it looked like something a pair of retarded baboons had put together, but they seemed quite pleased with it so I didn't like to point that out to them.

At dusk my staff went out to try to herd Peanut and Pecan towards their new luxury roost.  They happened to be passing the contraption on the way to their regular tree roost.

 "Look what we've made for you." Said my female staff.  "Come and try it.  Look there's bird seed here and everything."  Peanut and Pecan looked at the thing and sniggered.  (Do guinea fowl snigger?)  They flapped their wings to shake out the dust and strutted off to their tree in disgust.  I heard Peanut say to Pecan "Hah! Do they really expect us to sleep on that monstrosity.  It looks bloody dangerous to me.  I'd rather take my chances with the rain, the wind and Carl."  

 "Amen to that." Said Pecan decisively and they flapped noisily up to their usual roost to settle down for the night, leaving my staff in the gathering gloom with a pile of useless old wood and two plastic flowerpot dishes with nail holes in them. 

Now then.  Still on the subject of prats, I'd just like to say a few words about Barnaby Joyce, our very own Australian Minister for Agriculture and General Buffoonery.  Last week he suggested that if Australia legalised same sex marriages our Asian trading partners would see Australia as decadent.  Well for a start Mr Joyce, when did you become concerned about what Asia thinks of us?  For years you've been stirring up xenophobia with your hysterical objections to Asian investment in Australia.  Secondly, which developing countries don't see first world nations as decadent already?  Now, partly thanks to you and your ilk, half the world thinks Australia is xenophobic and the other half thinks we're still living in the nineteen fifties.  I think I prefer to be thought of as decadent thank you very much.

BACI'S BALONEY

I sore wot Uncal Billy's staff bilt for the ginnie fowels and I must say that there's like no way I'd be seen ded anywear neer the thing.  It looked like it wood clapse if a sparra sat on it, let aloan a ginnie fowel.  I reckun me and the otha piggies cood have dun a betta job.  Evun if we only had like hay to werk with it wood have been sayfa.