Heading South (Part 2 of 3)

Right then, where were we?  Honestly, my memory has been shocking since I passed away.  Ah, got it!  Last week I left my male staff and his friend Andy sleeping in a cold, damp bus shelter in the miserable town of Irun in northern Spain.  You may remember that is was late July 1978 and they were hitchhiking to Gibraltar in order to make a living as buskers despite the fact that between them they had even less musical talent than Milli Vanilli.

A damp, misty dawn saw Andy and my male staff sit up on the bus shelter benches and stretch their cramped limbs.  Then, hefting their backpacks and guitar cases they headed through the grim outskirts of Irun towards the emerald green foothills of the Pyrenees, their thumbs stuck out hopefully every time a vehicle passed by and this time they even managed to work out which side of the road to walk on.  It seems that the Spanish are just as silly as the French in that they too drive on the right.  There wasn't a great deal of traffic, but what there was ignored them totally.  Onwards and upwards they trudged until they'd left the straggling remnants of the town behind and found themselves amid a pleasant landscape of bulging, green hills, small farms, forests and streams.  Slowly the sun burned though the mist and the lads' clothes, still wet from the day before began to steam.  The sun was trying hard to dry their clothes but it just made them sweat and so the nett result was still wet, chaffing clothing.  As they climbed higher into the hills there was less shade as the forests thinned out and the cars that had been passing at the rate of about one every ten minutes dwindled to one every half an hour and still no one stopped to give them a lift.

By lunchtime they were hot, thirsty and becoming a little short with each other.  They purchased a bottle of water each from a village shop and marched on. They were still in the mountains and still walking when the sun starting to slip behind the smooth, round hills to the west so they decided to camp in a field by a stream, hidden from the road by a copse.  They'd walked all day without scoring a single lift even for one kilometre, not even a hundred metres.  Things did not look promising for the rest of the journey.  They still had the entire length of Spain to travel and so far they had not seen the inside of a single car. Laying side by side in their cheap nylon sleeping bags in the dark inside their tent they discussed the situation and decided to try to hitch a lift back to Irun in the morning and catch a train to Algeciras - a port town all the way down south and across the bay from Gibraltar.

That night my male staff heard something snuffling outside of the tent and when he woke and crawled out from under the canvas into a a chilly, dewy dawn he put his hand in a pool of cold vomit probably deposited there by a fox or a dog or whatever it was that had been snuffling around the tent.  The poor creature must have caught a whiff of the boys shoes.  My male staff's cursing woke Andy who's first vision of the day was my male staff's underwear clad butt blocking the opening of the tent.  It was not a good start.  Andy groaned and tried to go back to sleep, but as the sun rose it became too hot under the canvas so he too crawled out and put his hand in the pool of vomit. Swearing imaginatively he wiped his hand on the wet grass and looked around for my male staff.  He was kneeling by the stream with one hand in the water. "What are you doing? Tickling up a trout for breakfast?" Asked Andy.
 "No, I'm washing dog puke off my hand.  Be careful when you get out of the tent."
 "Thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to bear it in mind."  Andy joined my male staff at the stream and washed the remains of the vomit from his hand.
 "So, what now?" Said my male staff. "Back to Irun, or keep going?'
 "Back to Irun." Andy said emphatically.  These bastards are never going to give us a lift and at this rate it's going to take us a month to get even as far as Burgos and by then we'll have run out of money.  Let's do what we agreed and head back to Irun and get the train."  My male staff agreed, so they packed up their tent, still sopping wet from the dew and headed back to the road that led down through the mountains to Irun.

Yep.  You got it right first time.  Nobody picked them up, nobody even looked remotely like picking them up and so they marched all the way back the way they'd come only the day before to Irun.  It was about four in the afternoon when the arrived at the railway station, utterly exhausted, shoulders aching from their backpacks.  Oh what it is too be young and stupid.  Yes I was young once, but I certainly don't recall ever being quite that stupid, but then like I said, my memory has been shocking since I passed away.  So, having made inquiries in their rudimentary Spanish at the ticket desk they found that they had just missed an express train by ten minutes.  If only that blasted fox or dog or whatever hadn't puked outside their tent they wouldn't have put their hands in it and wouldn't have spent fifteen vital minutes washing their hands in the stream and therefore would by now have been relaxing on a nice comfy air-conditioned express train, each with an ice cold bottle of beer at their lips.

"There is another train." They were told.  "It departs for Madrid at midnight. You can catch another train to Algeciras from there."  Andy and my male staff looked at each other and sighed. What choice did they have?  They bought two one way tickets to Algeciras and found a vacant bench on the platform to wait out the eight hours until the train was due.  My male staff said he'd take a bit of a walk to find something to eat and drink.  An hour later he returned with a large chunk of cheese a baguette the size of a baseball bat and a bottle of red wine that had cost him the equivalent of thirty pence.  Later when they tried it, passing the bottle to each other (having shoved the cork into the bottle with a pen because they didn't have a corkscrew.) they discovered why it was only thirty pence, and even at that they thought it was way over priced. Nevertheless it didn't stop them drinking the vile stuff.  They ate half the bread and cheese and decided to keep the rest for the train journey.

The "midnight train" finally arrived just before one 'o' clock.  Evidently it had originated from somewhere in France and was already packed.  There was not a single seat left on the entire train, which they discovered by walking from one end it to the other, biffing people with their backpacks and guitar cases as they squeezed by.  Eventually they found a vacant spot on the floor of one of the carriages next to a particularly busy and odious toilet.  Still, beggars can't be choosers as they say and they were just grateful to be able to shrug off their loads and sit down.

The two of them spent the journey inhabiting that strange semi-conscious state so common in long haul air travelers.  Neither slept, yet nor were they fully awake.  It was as though they'd been sedated by the train's rocking movement and the buzz of their fellow passengers conversations.  Their backsides were numb from the hard floor and they'd finished their bread and cheese during the night and were starting to feel hunger pangs again.  A golden dawn greeted them as they pulled into the station at Madrid.  Already the sky was a deep cloudless blue and the air was crisp and free of the humidity of Irun.  The first task was to find something to eat and they soon found a cafe within the railway station.  They ordered "cafe con leche" and a whitebait roll.  The young chap behind the counter made the roll freshly for Andy, wrapped it in greaseproof paper and handed it to him and then started on my male staff's.  In the process of cutting the bread roll the fellow managed to slice his hand open.  The wound dripped bright red blood onto the bread roll.  Hissing several Spanish obscenities he reached for a handful of serviettes to staunch the flow.  Undeterred he then returned to the blood soaked roll, filled it with whitebait, wrapped it in greaseproof paper and handed it to my male staff who was too shocked to complain.  In any case his Spanish wasn't up to complaining.  Instead my male staff unwrapped the roll, ripped off the bloodied bit and ate the rest.  Very nice it was too apparently.

Their train to Algeciras was scheduled to depart at six 'o' clock that evening, so Andy and my male staff had about ten hours to kill.  Should they find a locker in which to leave their stuff and do some sightseeing or should they find a quiet corner of the railway station and get some sleep?  Fatigue conquered curiosity and the pair slept for most of the day on the cool tiles of the station, their heads resting on their sleeping bags.  Ar five thirty they decided they'd better go and find their departure platform.  The train was already there and a hand written notice on a blackboard listed the stations it was scheduled to stop at.  It was a long list, about twenty stations in all, most of which neither Andy or my male staff had heard of.  Only Toledo and Cordoba stood out as names they were familiar with.  It looked like it was going to be a long trip with lots of stopping and starting.

The sun was sinking as the train rumbled through Madrid's southern suburbs and out into the dry rocky countryside.  Silhouetted against the blazing sunset stood the impressive one hundred and fifty metre tall cross of El Escorial - The Valley of the Fallen - a memorial to the victims of both sides of the Spanish Civil War.  A memorial to both sides it may well be, but it still attracts it's share of controversy as it is also the final resting place of General Franco, a particularly nasty bit of work and one of Adolf Hitler's buddies.  Although Franco died a month before my male staff and his family first arrived in Gibraltar at the end of 1975 his policies would still make life difficult for Andy and my male staff on this trip.

The Valley of the Fallen

Beyond The Valley of the Fallen darkness fell and the boys could only see little clusters of lights through the windows, interspersed with larger settlements like Toledo of Toledo steel fame.  The train was not air-conditioned and it soon grew stuffy in the carriage.  Andy opened a window and immediately a delicious waft of herb, pine and eucalyptus scented air cleared the fug.  At each dark and deserted station the only sound was the hum of cicadas.  Nobody seemed to leave or board the train at any of these night time halts.

Dawn found the train shuffling slowly through stupendous mountain scenery around the little town of Ronda about seventy five kilometres north of Algerciras. At this time of year the mountains were great snowless sandstone bluffs towering above idyllic green valleys with occasional stone dwellings where horses grazed in the cool shade of the scented pines.  Andy and my male staff thought they must have died in the night and woken up in heaven.  Even here the train driver found a reason to stop, often in the middle of nowhere with no station to be seen.  Someone would jump down from the train clutching a battered suitcase and start walking to goodness knows where.

Finally the train looped around to the west towards the Atlantic before doubling back to the east and rattling down a shallow incline towards Algeciras, and there across the bay stood the Rock of Gibraltar - the northern Pillar of Hercules - in its unmistakable crouching lion pose, the little town clustered around its base, cowering under the forbidding limestone slopes that made up the Rock's western aspect.  These days my male staff often wonders what Algeciras is like now.  Back then it was a scruffy looking port with littered back streets and ragged children offering to sell hashish to anyone who was interested and many, like Andy and my male staff who weren't.  Nowadays it's probably a beautifully clean, palm lined place full of trendy restaurants and bars, has anyone been  there lately.  He'd love to know.

The Rock of Gibraltar from near Algeciras

I mentioned earlier that General Franco was still making life difficult for my staff after his death.  This is because in 1969 the General ordered the land border between Gibraltar and Spain at the town of La Linea be closed. Spain had claimed, and still does claim Gibraltar as its own but it remains a British outpost to this day.  One would think it fair enough for Spain to claim the Rock given it's location but the Spanish are not doing themselves any favours at all by clinging onto to their own "Gibraltar" on the Moroccan mainland.  Ceuta to the east of the Moroccan port of Tanger has been in Spanish hands since 1668 when it was gifted to them by Portugal.  Anyway when the British refused to give Franco back his Rock he threw his toys out of his pram, went off in a huff and closed the border suddenly, splitting families of Gibraltarians and Andalusians who had been inter-marrying for centuries.  It was still possible to travel from Spain to Gibraltar, but to do so one had to catch the ferry from Algecirus to Tanger in Morocco - about thirty miles and then catch another ferry from Tanger to Gibraltar - another thirty miles.  Hence it now took all day to make a journey that used to be one step across a land border.  Every single day back then people on either side of the border would stand at the fence and yell greetings and news across the fifty or so metres of no mans land.  It was tragic.

 An aerial view of Gibraltar taken from above the Spanish town of La Linea. In the distance are the Rif mountains of Morocco and the southern Pillar of Hercules. To the right of the photo is the Bay of Algeciras.  The land border is just this side of the airport terminal building - the long white roof at the foot of the photo.  The border is now open but now and again the Spanish government throws a hissy fit and closes it temporarily or tells their immigration officers to work as slowly as possible to make life difficult.  Seriously, they need to grow up.

It was a glorious day, the Bay of Algeciras sparkled and as the sun rose to its zenith the pale limestone at the summit of the Rock, just three miles away dazzled the eyes.  Andy and my staff were so close to their goal.  Just three miles!  It felt like they could almost hop from one cargo ship or tanker to the other to reach it and yet it was still hours away and thanks to Senor Franco, via another country, another continent - Morocco, Africa.

Next week Andy and my male staff eat rather a lot of figs.

BACI'S BALONEY 

Like lissun doods and doodesses, Sunday afternoon was like just so wikid. It was like this very speshul wunce a yeer day wen Uncal Billy's male staff kleens the underside of the deck roof.  It gets pritty durty over the yeer wot with mould and dust and spydas' webs and stuff.  He has to weight until it's like a reely hot day to do it cos he has to stand unda the roof with a long brush and a nose pipe wot skwirts water so he gets very, very wet.

Ennyway Sunday afternoon was like reely hot so he takes off all his clothes except his red Batman and Robin underpants, grabs the brush and a nose pipe and goes out and starts skwirting the roof with one hand and brushing with the other.  Uncal Billy's female staff, me, Alfie, Toby, Tom and Paolo the budgie all have our noses pressed against the windo.  Well strickly speeking Paolo hazunt got a nose, but his beek is pressed against the windo and we're all like giggling cos Uncal Billy's male staff looks so funny with no clothes on.

So he's skwirting and brushing and is abowt harfway throo the job wen he nocks down this hooge spyda's web and with it comes this hooge spyda and lands on Uncal Billy's male staff's chest.  Later Uncal Billy's male staff said it was as big as Uncal Billy and just as harie but he was eggsaj  exajarr
eggsaggerat  telling fibs.  Ennyway this spyda like panicks cos he can't fite his way throo all the chest hare and he's getting like soked from all the water.  So the spyda kind of lets gravity take over and he starts scrambling down throo all the hare towards Uncal Billy's male staff's red Batman and Robin undies.  Then Uncal Billy's male staff like sees the spyda or feels him tickling his tummy and he like skweels like a girl and starts doing this dance wot looks like wun of those German dances wot they do in those percuelear leather shorts of theirs.  He's slapping at bits of his body and his feet are like flying in all direkshuns as he skids about on the wet deck.  Then he like falls over and lands with a thump wot must have registered at about seven on the Richter scale.  The sad thing is wen he gets up he finds he's like skwished the spyda so then he's all sad cos he hates hurting things.  Then he looks up at the windo and sees us all larfing at him and he like forgets all abowt the poor spyda and sticks wun finger up at us - the middle one.  I suppose that ment that it was the furst time he'd fallen over this yeer.

Heading South. (Part 1 of 3)

This week Piggy Paradise has been blissfully quiet and uneventful.  We have yet to experience the horrors of the extreme Islamist loony butchers who are currently wreaking their cowardly brand of barbarism across the World.  The poor fools think that if they "martyr " themselves for their cause they will go to Paradise.  Boy have I got news for them. Mohammed pops in now and again to visit his favourite camels, and let me tell you, he's livid at what these crackpots are doing in his name and that of Allah.  Let's just say that any member of ISIL, Al-Qaeda Jemaah Islamiyah, or Boko Haram who rings the bell at the gates of Paradise will receive quite a hot reception.  So anyway in light of this quiet week I will tell you a tale of my male staff's youth.

It's 1978, my male staff is twenty years old and has yet to inflict himself on my female staff.  He still has his line green suit, his improbably tall cream and brown platform shoes, his newspaper print shirt and tie and his Hand of Fatima pendent that was about the size and weight of an aircraft carrier's anchor.  Just twelve months before he'd returned to England having spent two years in Gibraltar with his parents who had been posted there with the Royal Air Force.  He's spent that year working in Staines as a crash test dummy for a skateboard manufacturer.  Well, that wasn't his official title but it probably should have been since he spent most of his working days not manufacturing the stupid things but rather zooming around the factory on them, often making heavy contact with fork lift trucks and other large and dangerous machinery.  Having wrecked several skateboards and fork lift trucks he was finally called to the manager's office and told "I'm sorry, but we are going to have to let you go."  The manager made it sound more like he was going to drop him from the roof rather than give him the sack.

So with this setback to his career as a dummy he decided to embark on a new career as an adventurer and conned his friend Andy into joining him.  Andy thought he looked like John Lennon. and indeed he had the same round wire framed glasses.  He could even put on a passable scouse accent when he'd had enough to drink, but in reality the similarities ended there.  Between them they scraped together the princely sum of two hundred pounds and decided that they would hitch hike to Gibraltar and make a living busking.  There were two main problems with this plan. Firstly my male staff couldn't play an instrument to save his life. (Andy could play Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" riff on his ancient, battered guitar, but little else.) Secondly both had singing voices that had been outlawed under the Geneva Convention.  My male staff purchased a battered old guitar for five pounds and about three weeks later he could also play the "Smoke on the Water" riff and nothing else.

On a warm late July morning our two heroes caught a train from London's Victoria Station to Newhaven in order to catch the ferry across the English Channel to Dieppe in France. Both had a guitar case and an enormous backpack which made them look like strange beetles shuffling along the platform towards their train.  The plan was to start hitchhiking once they reached Dieppe, however, arriving there as they did at three in the morning they found that there wasn't an awful lot of traffic going in their direction, or in any direction for that matter.  They sat on the kerb by a road near the ferry terminal under one of those ghastly yellow streetlights for two hours as the damp sea air closed in around them and not a single car went by.  Actually this may have been just as well because they had forgotten that they should have been waiting on the other side of the road because the French are foolish enough to drive on the right.  Had they been offered a lift where they were waiting they might have found themselves in Amsterdam or somewhere, and with the delights on offer there for twenty year old males they probably would never have made it to Gibraltar.

By the time the first pallid light of dawn began to spread from the east a fine drizzle had begun to fall. Andy and my male staff looked at each other and simultaneously said. "Sod this! Let's get the train to Spain."  And so they did.  They trudged miserably, with drops of rain hanging from the ends of their noses to the railway station and bought tickets to Paris St Lazare.  Even this was an adventure because the dude at the ticket counter either could not or did not want to speak English and combined, Andy and my male staff's French amounted to oui, non, bonjour, bon appetit, Pernod. and merde; none of which were terribly helpful under the circumstances.  Nevertheless they obtained a ticket and a few hours later they had negotiated the Paris Metro system as far as Austerlitz station where they bought a ticket on a train to Hendaye - the most south westerly town in France, just on the northern side of the Pyrenees.  For a glorious moment the lads thought they would have the compartment all to themselves, but just seconds before the train pulled out they found their personal space invaded by an enormous Portuguese family consisting of six children of varying ages, their parents, what seemed to be three aunts and both sets of grandparents.  This crowd squeezed Andy and my male staff into a corner having shoved an epic quantity of luggage onto the rack on top of the lad's guitar cases.  The pair winced every time a large, heavy suitcase was hefted up and dropped as roughly as possible onto the instruments that they hoped would provide them with a livelihood once they arrived at their destination.

The kids were fat and obnoxious.  They grazed constantly on potato chips and chocolate and slurped noisily on brightly coloured sugary drinks, pausing only to scream at the top of their voices, throw food at each other and belch explosively to the great amusements of the adults in the family.  My male staff has since enjoyed breakfast with the orang utans at Singapore zoo and he says the experience was quite similar.  Fortunately it was an express train and approximately seven hours later the train vomited Andy, my male staff and the Portuguese family onto the platform at Hendaye.  Naturally it was raining.  It rains a lot in that part of the world at the best of times.  I could have told Andy and my male staff that if they'd consulted me at the time, but unfortunately for them my spirit was inhabiting the physical body of a very handsome guinea pig called Alphonse and was being cared for by a nice little girl in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The chance of getting any sleep while sharing the compartment with the Portuguese family was zero, or worse than zero if that were possible so they were utterly exhausted as they walked through the rain to the border post which they cleared without a problem and found themselves in Irun, the first town in sunny Spain.  The rain grew heavier, the evening was drawing in and there was nowhere to camp.  The town looked miserably poor and dirty. The people eyed Andy and my male staff suspiciously as they trudged on.  Grotty tenement blocks hung with limp, wet washing closed in around them and cars hissed by on the potholed roads, driving close enough to splash the travelers with cold oily water at every opportunity.  Darkness was falling as fast as the rain when they finally came across a dry place to spend the night - a bus shelter covered in graffiti in the southern outskirts of the town.  They struggled out of their backpacks and settled in for the night, laying head to toe along the wooden bench.  Why was everyone so unfriendly and suspicious they mused as they unsuccessfully tried to drop off to sleep.  Once again, if they had bothered to come to Sante Fe and ask me I could have told them.  Irun had been at the forefront of a long, bloody and ongoing terror campaign perpetrated by the Basque Separatist group ETA.  Shootings were pretty much a daily event and bombings were happening weekly.  It was not a happy place.

To be continued....................Next week Andy and my male staff finally arrive in Gibraltar.

BACI'S BALONEY

Oh no! Not a cereal. I hate cereals. In facked I'd like to be a cereal killer, that's how mutch I hate cereals.  They're like so frustrayting. Yoo just get like all involved and hinterested and then yoo find owt that yoo haf to weight till necks wheek to find owt wot happened.

Sum of yoo have kindly eckspressed consern that my pitcha this wheek shows me with a sirrinj in my mowf.  I'm fine now but I had like this yeest infeckshun and Uncal Billy's staff gave me this medisin called Nilstat and it tasted reel good. It wuz like cherry flayvered so I sucked owt every last drop of the medisin and then I refyoosed to let go of the sirrinj.

Wink

My staff are about to put my female staff's Mum's house on the market.  Anybody out there want to by a four bedroom, three bathroom double garage house in the beautiful little town of Cooroy in Queensland, Australia?  Walking distance to the town centre, sports ground, pub and my staff's favourite Thai restaurant. It even has a roof, some windows and a few doors, not to mention a large Eastern grey kangaroo who visits now and again to leave muddy footprints on the concrete path.

The real estate agent suggested that my staff have a chat with what she called a "stylist" with a view to displaying the house to the best possible effect.  A "stylist" turns out to be what my male staff calls an inferior designer.  My staff arranged to meet one of these strange beings at the house last Thursday and she turned up right on time in a very large, very new four wheel drive thing.  The driver's door swung open and what appeared to be a fourteen year old child clambered out and with great difficulty abseiled down to the ground, a feat made all the more treacherous by the ridiculous six inch platform shoes she was wearing.  Apart from the silly shoes she was stylishly dressed in smart black slacks and a white blouse.  Her blond hair was cut in a short bob.  As she tottered towards them my staff could see she was more like twenty five than fourteen.  She smiled and thrust out a soft, pale hand for my staff to shake.   "Dominique Clutterd-Hoams, Wink." She said.  My male staff did as he was told and winked.  Over long years of bitter experience he's learned that doing what one is told is the safest thing when ordered to do something by a human female, so you can imagine his confusion when Ms Clutterd-Hoams looked horrified and my female staff glared at him angrily.
 "Wink Interior Designs." She continued, and handed my male staff a business card, her smile slowly and with great reluctance returning to her face.
 "Oh." Said my male staff.
 "Let's go in then and we'll show you around the house." Suggested my female staff still glaring at my male staff.  The first room was the lounge.  My staff had furnished it tastefully with a spare cane lounge suite and coffee table, a large pot, a TV stand and a large flat screen TV.  On the walls they had hung some rather nice limited edition Charles Billich prints.

Ms Clutterd-Hoams took one look.  "Oh Puh-lease!" She exclaimed. "This is like so 2014."
 "That was only last week......." My male staff started to say, but was silenced by another glare from my female staff and a pitying look from Ms Clutterd-Hoams.  Clearly it was not his place to make a contribution. The stylist continued.  "This looks as though it has been furnished with left over furniture from someone else's house.  No no no no no. This will all have to go.  We'll bring our own furniture and artwork for each room you want us to work with."  My staff wanted her opinion on the lounge, the kitchen/dining room and the master bedroom and all met with either a stunned, horrified silence or the "Oh Puh-lease!" reaction.  None of my staff's excess furniture was to stay.  In fact if Ms Clutterd-Hoams had her way she would have built a bonfire with it there and then in the garden and had my staff arrested by the style police.

In the end my staff agreed to pay her a large sum of money to furnish the three rooms in question with Wink Interior Designs' furniture for six weeks and Ms Clutterd-Hoams would decorate all three bathrooms with nice soap, big, soft, fluffy towels and fresh flowers for nothing out of the goodness of her heart.  This, she said would ensure that the place looked up to date and would stand out from the crowd in the online adverts.  She also added that there was a lot they could do to improve the look of the garden and the outside of the house.  For example for just a few extra thousand dollars she could create a beautiful water feature in the back garden that would look "simply stunning".  There would be a fish pond with some huge coy carp at an extra nine hundred dollars per fish, a big, splashing waterfall and some lush tropical vegetation.  She could also arrange for some real flamingos to live in the garden for a few hundred dollars, though my staff would have to feed them themselves.
 "Greater or lesser?" Asked my male staff.
 "Sorry?" Said Ms Clutterd-Hoams, her face a picture of non-comprehension.
 "Greater or lesser?" Repeated my male staff.  "The flamingos. Will they be the greater or the lesser variety?" The stylist's expression was still blank.  "You do know that there are two sorts of flamingos don't you?  Only we couldn't possibly make such an important decision without knowing which sort of flamingo you would be providing us with."
The stylist looked flustered and rifled through her paperwork.  "Errrrrm, sorry no I don't know. I'll errrr have to get back to you with that." She stammered.
 "Good, see that you do." Said my male staff and stalked off to find the four guinea pigs that they had brought with them to run about in the house for a little exercise and a change of scenery.
 "I'll email my quote to you this afternoon." Said the stylist to my female staff.
 "Okay, that would be great." She replied.  "By the way, don't bother with the water feature."
 "Very well." Said the stylist.  "As long as you're sure."
 "We're sure."
 "Okay then, I'll be off.  Oh, may I use your toilet before I go?"
 "Of course.  You know where it is."

Ms Clutterd-Hoams tottered off on her silly shoes and my female staff went to help my male staff round up Alfie, Baci, Tom and Toby who had sensibly kept a low profile while the stylist was wandering around.  Those great clodhoppers of hers could do a cavy a lot of damage.
There came a blood curdling scream which sounded as though some poor woman was being torn limb from limb by a grizzly bear.  My staff forgot about catching the guinea pigs and raced to see what had happened.  Cries for help interspersed with hysterical sobs were coming from the toilet.

 "You'd better see what's wrong." Said my female staff.
 "Bugger off." Said my male staff. "I'm not going in there.  I've already winked at her once.  If I burst in there now she'll really lose it."
 "Sounds like she's already lost it."  The sobbing continued.
Bravely my female staff tried the door handle.  It wasn't locked.  Slowly she opened the door.  Ms Clutterd-Homes was standing with difficulty on the toilet seat, one huge platform shoe on either side of the hole.  Her smart slacks and knickers were around her ankles and she was wiping her nose with her blouse.  It was an impressive site.  Below her on the floor a small brown rodent was looking curiously up at her.
 "Baci!" Said my male staff.  That's where you are.  I was starting to worry about you.  He eased past my female staff standing in the doorway and scooped Baci up in two hands.  "It's okay, he doesn't bite." My male staff assured Ms Clutterd-Hoams as she hurriedly tried to pull her blouse down to cover her girly bits.  "My wife will see you out.  Don't forget to let me know about the flamingos will you."

BACI'S BALONEY

Funny woman that Ms Clutterd-Hoams.  I'm like mooching around in the toylit looking for sum toylit paypa to like rip up and then the door opens and in she comes with those hooge shoos and I'm like Whoa! I says to myself, Baci, I says, betta get owt the way pretty smartish or yule get skwished. So I runs behind the toylit pedestool thingy and weight for a bit. Then I heer this tinkling sound and I thinks Whoa! If I stay heer I'm like gonna get wet, so I hop owt from behind the pedestool thingy into this thing wot looks like a hammock between the laidies feet.  I wuz just like dozing off when there's this orfull screeming sound and I get tossed owt of the hammock onto the flaw as the stoopid woman leeps up onto the toylit.  Onustly, I reely don't see how I can be blaymed for enny of this.

The Year Of The Dentist

Happy New Year everyone and welcome to 2015.  Let's start the New Year with the traditional Scottish guinea pig New Year anthem.  Everyone all join hands or paws or whatever.  Altogether now..........

Should old cucumbers be forgot

And left inside the fridge

You'll find them once again my friends

Beyond the Rainbow Bridge.

Beyond the Rainbow Bridge, my dear

Beyond the Rainbow Bridge,

You'll find the cucumber my dear

Beyond the Rainbow Bridge. 

 

Okay that's enough of that now. Scotland is a dangerous place to be a guinea pig. It's far too easy to be mistaken for a haggis and have a ceremonial sword stuck up one's bottom passage by some hairy  bloke in a skirt.

A haggis

Baci

Depending on who you ask or which website you consult 2015 is the year of either the Sheep, the Ram or the Goat.  Who cares anyway, for my male staff it will be the Year of the Dentist.
He hasn't been to one for a while so he thinks it might be time to bite the bullet - so to speak.  Dentists have never been a favourite of his, or of anyone else I guess, but his last experience a couple of years ago put him right off.  His usual dentist wasn't available, she was off sick, or found out that my male staff was on her appointment list that day, lumbering my male staff with her replacement - an Irish lady who was built like George Foreman except George was better looking, he would have made a better dentist too.  By the time she'd finished with him his mouth felt like it had been pulled in four different directions by a team of carthorses, and that was just a check up.

I think his aversion to dentists began when he was eight years old - not long after King Henry V came to the English throne.  The family were living in Chippenham in England at the time and during school holidays he and his mother used to go for walks in John Coles Park where my male staff would do things that eight year olds like to do - feed the ducks, play on the swings, sell crack to the local schoolgirls - that kind of thing.  Anyway on this particular occasion my male staff's Mum suggested they go for a walk and (naive fool that he is) he accepted.  After the ducks had been fed up to the eyeballs my male staff's Mum said "Well, since we're here we might as well just pop around the corner and see if the dentist can give you a check up."  Yeah right! As if you can just drop into a dentist any old time without an appointment.  Still, at eight you don't really know that do you and despite my male staff's ardent protestations he was dragged to the dentist for the appointment his Mum had made days before without his knowledge.  Mothers can be so devious.

Two hours later he woke up in the dentist's chair minus two teeth which were handed back to him to leave under his pillow for the tooth fairy who left him a bright, shiny shilling.  Naturally he spent that shilling on sticky toffees so that the tooth fairy would soon have more work to do.

Then about ten years ago he had to have a couple of fillings and as you would know, most humans hate the dreaded drill with it's high pitched screech and the stench of burning enamel, not to mention the so called pain killing injection administered via a needle the size of a baseball bat.  Not many people know this, but the syringe is actually empty. The agony of the huge needle being roughly shoved into your gums is so intense that you barely feel the drill when it starts grinding into your nerves.  Dentists save a fortune in this manner.  It's how they can afford to become members of exclusive golf clubs.  Anyway, present at this particular appointment was a very attractive dental nurse, so to distract himself from the pain he knew he was going to have to endure he imagined himself as James Bond and the dentist as his hardened torturer, trying to extract state secrets while the nurse was a double agent whom Bond was trying to impress and maybe with any luck once the torturer had finished with him he and she would end up at some casino somewhere and then who knows what the night would bring. (Actually it would probably bring castration if my female staff knew what he was thinking.)

Bond lay back nonchalantly in the chair and gritted his teeth, determined not to spill any of his secrets.  M would be proud of him.  The masked torturer approached brandishing a vicious looking needle, his eyes were as cold and hard as his diamond tipped drill.  Bond glanced towards the torturer's beautiful blond assistant, her full breasts heaving under her blouse, she smiled and Bond smiled back.  "Do you expect me to talk?" He said.
 "No Mr Bond," replied the torturer with an air of finality.  "I expect you to pay my exorbitant fee when I've finished."
The blond grimaced as the masked assassin lowered the needle towards Bond's face.  Bond's nerve failed him then, his terror, a knotted ball in his stomach got the better of him despite his best efforts to control it.
 Thrurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp! Bond released a terrific explosion of bottom wind.  The masked assassin took a sharp backward step.  Bond looked to the woman who's face was a picture of disgust and loathing. 
 "Ooooops!" Said Bond, blushing hotly.  "Sorry about that, I'm a little nervous.'
The torturer backed away and opened a window.  His assistant had recovered her composure.
 "Don't worry about it." She smiled sweetly.  "It happens a lot with our older patients."

Don't get me wrong, my male staff still tries to look after his teeth the best he can.  At least twice a day he sticks this strange, buzzing, vibrating thing in his mouth and swishes is around for a couple of minutes until a sort of bluey-white foam appears around his lips.  Then he sticks these tiny little brushes between the gaps in his teeth and wiggles them about.  I'm sure it would be far simpler and cheaper for him to eat a mouthful of hay like us guinea pigs, but you know what humans are like, you can't tell them anything,

BACI'S BALONEY

Wye duz Uncal Billy always compair me with sumthing I'm not?  A kuppel of wheeks ago he sed I looked like a nippo and now this wheek I parrently look like a naggis.  Shorely I can't look like a nippo and a naggis at the same time. Eyetha I look like a nippo or I look like a naggis, I can't look like both cuz a nippo duzzent look enything like a naggis.

Woteva. Wat I reely want to say today is like Happy Noo Yeer to all my frens and Tom and Alfie and Toby and even Uncal Billy and his staff.  My noo yeer rezolooshun is not to get bitta and twisted wen Uncal Billy is like rood abowt me, and I'm like gunna sujest to Uncal Billy that for his noo yeers rezolooshun he stops compairing me to things wot I'm not.

 

A Christmas Carol

There are so many depressing things to write about this week.  You humans have been doing some truly barbaric things to each other.  There's the Sydney siege - three dead including the gunman.  The attack on the school in Peshawar - one hundred and forty one dead.  A mother stabbed to death her seven children and her niece. Then someone shot two cops dead in their car New York.  Yes folks the season of peace and goodwill is well and truly upon us.  I've a good mind to cancel Christmas altogether this year because you obviously can't be trusted to behave in a civilised manner. 

However, I'm persuaded to be lenient by the tale of a homeless man and a student in the English town of Preston.  According to the BBC, art student Dominique Harrison-Bentzen had no money left for a taxi home after a night out with friends.  She was approached by a homeless man known as Robbie who gave her his last three pounds for the taxi.  Dominique then set about raising money to get Robbie set up with a roof over his head.  She asked her friends to donate three pounds each in the hope of raising five hundred pounds for him.  She has now raised twenty thousand pounds and is not only helping Robbie, but many other of Preston's homeless too.  So thanks to Dominique and Robbie you can have your Christmas, but you'll have to promise to behave a lot better next year or Santa will be getting a memo from me.

Now then to get you all into the festive spirit I'd like to sing you a cavy carol. You may recognise the tune as "While Shepherds Watched."  Okay after three.  One two three...............

Wheek wheek wheek wheek wheek wheek wheek wheek

 wheek wheek wheek drrrrr putt putt.

Oh, sorry I was forgetting. None of you lot speak Cavy do you.  I'll start again in English shall I?

One two three..........

Fe-male staff washed her frock last night

And hung it on the line.

My male staff tripped and dropped her glass

And covered her with wine.

Fear not said he, it could be worse

That glass might have been mine.

My female staff just glared at him

And said "You selfish swine!"

Those words, they hurt my poor male staff,

They cut him to the quick.

As he bent down to clean the mess

She gave his butt a kick.

He yelped and sprawled, his balance lost,

He really felt his age,

As finally he came to rest,

His head in Baci's cage.

Baci looked up from chewing hay

Intrigued by male staff's pose.

He waddled over to male staff

And promptly bit his nose.

His head was stuck inside the cage,

He could not get it free.

His butt was stuck up in the air.

It was a sight to see.

Fe-male staff pulled upon his legs

 His head was firmly stuck,

As Baci's teeth impaled his snout,

My male staff said "Oh.......dear!"

The fire brigade were duly called,

All hunky men no doubt

Fe-male staff winked and smiled at them

And said "Get this fool out."

They pulled and heaved on male staff's feet

And finally dragged him out.

His ears were sore, his pride was hurt.

A cavy on his snout.

My male staff pulled on Baci's bum

And pulled him off his nose.

His blood flowed freely down his chin

And dripped onto his clothes.

The firemen went home for their tea

And male staff closed the door.

"Now where's my glass of wine?" Said he

As his blood pooled on the floor.

He took a step towards his chair

And slipped upon his blood

Head first he fell in Alfie's cage.

He's really such a clod.

Alfie came up and bit his nose,

He thought it was a snack.

Fe-male staff opened up the door

And called the firemen back.

Well friends, that's it for 2014.  I hope your year has been truly wonderful and that next year is even better.  Thank you for reading my ramblings.  Have a happy and safe festive season.  As usual I'll leave the last word (albeit misspelled) to Baci.

BACI'S BALONEY

Wot duz Uncal Billy meen "misspelled"?  Hooz to say that his spelling is not like all rong?  Maybe the way I spell things is the rite way.  He likes to make owt like he's so edyewkayted  eddukait eddewca klevver and I reely don't like the way he incinerates that I'm fick as a brik.  It's not fare.
Ennyway, I'm heer to wish yoo all a very merry Krissmas and a happy Noo Yeer on beharf of all of us piggies - me, Tom, Toby and Alfie.

 Alfie

Tom

 

Toby

 

"To you in David's
Town this day
Is born of David's line
The Savior who is Christ the Lord
And this shall be the sign
And this shall be the sign."

"The heavenly Babe
You there shall find
To human view displayed
And meanly wrapped
In swathing bands
And in a manger laid
And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the seraph,
And forthwith
Appeared a shining throng
Of angels praising God, who thus
Addressed their joyful song
Addressed their joyful song

"All glory be to
God on high
And to the earth be peace;
Goodwill henceforth
From heaven to men
Begin and never cease
Begin and never cease!"

 
 

Test Drive

Five or six weeks ago my staff put the Mercedes up for sale.  You remember the Mercedes?  It's the pile of expensive German steel that prevented my staff from seeing me one last time before I departed for the Rainbow Bridge.  The wheels fell off when they were on their way to visit me at the veterinary hospital.  It had been my female staff's mum and dad's car and they lumbered my staff with it when they themselves went to the Pearly Gates.  They had wanted to take it with them but there are strict greenhouse gas emission laws in Paradise so they just had to buy a tandem bike instead once they arrived.  These same greenhouse gas emission laws are likely to cause my male staff all sorts of grief when his time comes because his bottom passage produces more methane than a whole herd of wildebeest, and that's not even taking into account the noise pollution laws.  Fortunately Saint Peter keeps an emergency supply of corks in a cardboard box under his desk at the Pearly Gates.

I should probably point out to those of you who have yet to kick the bucket that deceased animals and deceased human animal lovers reside in the same place once they leave their physical bodies.  It's just that they enter Paradise differently.  We animals automatically qualify for entry due to our innocence,  so all we have to do is trot across the rainbow bridge.  Whereas humans have to answer a series of tough questions posed by Saint Peter - the old geezer with a long white beard, before they are allowed to pass through the Pearly Gates.  Or to give them their proper name "The Coca Cola Pearly Gates". Corporate sponsorship is everywhere these days.  I really want to be there when my male staff arrives.  Knowing him he'll probably trip over Saint Peter's beard and then rip off his robe as he grabs onto him trying to save himself from falling, leaving poor old Saint Peter standing there naked holding his clipboard with a tattered robe and my male staff at his feet, with all the angels giggling at his wrinkled bum.  Or have I been watching too many "Carry On" movies?  

I've lost my train of thought now.  Where was I?  Ah yes - the Mercedes.  My staff advertised the damned thing on a website - PleaseBuyThisWreck.com and just last week they received an offer from a nice family who have just moved from Boston USA to Brisbane which made the test drive interesting because they kept forgetting which side of the road they were supposed to drive on.  This didn't really bother my male staff who went with them on the test drive because he tends to drive in the shade at this time of year, whatever side of the road the shade happens to be, which of course produces an interesting weaving trajectory.  This in turn means that he frequently gets breathalysed by the police who are constantly astounded that any sober, fully sighted person can possibly drive so badly.  Naturally my male staff had to take at least one guinea pig with him on the test drive and the lucky winner this time was Alfie, who much to the curiosity of the Bostonian buyers sat on the dashboard in front of the steering wheel and unsurprisingly produced copious amounts of bush chocolate whenever the American forgot that here in Australia, as in most of the civilised world we drive on the left, and found himself staring at the oncoming grill of a large truck, usually driven by a large fat, bald dude in a blue vest.  My male staff, sitting in the front seat, the Bostonian and Alfie could all make out pretty much every wrinkle on the truck driver's shocked face as the Bostonian wrenched the wheel to the left at the last moment, then turned in his seat and yelled "ASSHOLE!" much to the chagrin of his wife sitting in the back, unaware of the violent death she had just marginally been spared.
 "What have I done?  Don't call me an asshole. Asshole." She exclaimed, assuming that her loving husband had been yelling at her, not the truck driver.
My male staff, anxious to be the peacemaker and also not realising that the gentleman had been talking to the truck driver turned to her and said, "Actually he didn't call you an asshole asshole. He just called you an asshole - singular."
 "Mind your own business asshole." She said kindly.
 "Yeah!" said the Bostonian. "Who are you to call my wife an asshole? Asshole."
 "I didn't call your wife an asshole asshole." Said my male staff.  "You called her an asshole. Asshole."
 "Now you're calling me an asshole. Asshole. Why should I buy your stupid car if you're going to call me an asshole?"

By this time the Bostonian had given up looking where he was going altogether and Alfie's bush chocolate was beginning to overflow from the dashboard onto the Bostonian's lap, his fur was standing on end and his little red eyes were sticking out on stalks. (Alfie that is, not the Bostonian.)
 "Look where you're going asshole!" His wife screamed from the back seat has she saw an interstate Greyhound bus heading our way.  Another violent swerve to the left and another burst of bush chocolate from Alfie.  All three humans turned in their seat and yelled "ASSHOLE!" at the back of the bus as it disappeared into the distance.

"Okay." My male staff threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I promise not to call either of you an asshole if you promise to look where you're going. You're making my guinea pig car sick."  With that they drove erratically but silently to the vehicle registration office where much to my male staff's surprise the Bostonian couple said they loved the car and would indeed but it.  So having swapped the keys and paperwork for a cheque the Bostonians drove off in their new Mercedes and my male staff phoned my female staff to tell her to pick him up in the Hyundai Getz.  An hour later they were back at home celebrating the sale of the Mercedes with a nice cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. (My staff really know how to party.)
 "Where's Alfie?" Said my female staff suddenly.
 "Oh my God!" Exclaimed my male staff.  "He's still in the Mercedes.  Call the police."
My female staff frantically dialed 000 and asked for the police.
 "How can I help?" said a female voice.
 "Our little Alfie's been abducted." Wailed my female staff close to tears.
 "Calm down Madam we'll find him. Now, how old is he."
 "He's only eighteen months. An American couple took him.  He'll be in a white Mercedes heading south on the Bruce Highway towards Brisbane."
 "Did you get the registration number?"
 "Yes, it's Aardvark Giraffe Buffalo four six two." Female staff's knowledge of the phonetic alphabet was always a little hazy, but the lady seemed to understand.
 "What was he wearing?"
 "Don't be ridiculous, he wasn't wearing anything, but he's white all over."
My female staff heard the dispatch officer call out the alert over the radio. "Please be on the lookout for a white Mercedes Alpha Golf Bravo four six two, heading south on Bruce Highway. It is believed the occupants have abducted an eighteen month old naked Caucasian male."
 "Don't worry madam." Soothed the dispatch officer. "We'll soon have your little boy back at home safely."

 The missing child.

Two hours later there was a knock on the door.  Male staff opened it and there, holding Alfie in two hands well away from his smart uniform was a policeman.  "We found Alfie for you." He said and handed the cross looking guinea pig to my male staff.  My female staff joined them. "Oh Alfie!" She squealed. "Thank heavens you're safe."
 "I'm arresting you both for wasting police time." Said the policeman sternly.
 "What do you mean "wasting police time"?  How can you say that.  Look at his little face." He pointed to Alfie.
 "Yeah," said the policeman. "And that little face contains several very sharp teeth. He raised his left hand which was covered in blood."
 "You must have frightened him." Said my male staff.
 "I'm arresting you for wasting police time." repeated the policeman. "Why didn't you say you had lost a guinea pig, not a child?"
 "Nobody asked." Said my female staff truthfully.
 "You had half the Queensland police force out looking for a guinea pig."
 "Look." said my male staff as if explaining something obvious to a small child. "If the Queen came to Australia and lost one of her corgis you'd all be out looking for it wouldn't you?'
 "Yes, but.........."
 "Well, she's not here and her corgis are all safely tucked up in their Royal baskets so you should be grateful that our guinea pig gave you all something to do or you'd just have spent a boring night sitting in your patrol car stuffing doughnuts down your necks." 
The policeman seemed not to be particularly impressed by this line of argument.
 "I now require you to accompany me to the police station." He said "Where you will undergo enhanced interrogation.  You will be played a continuous tape of One Direction's Christmas Hits until you confess."  I'm joking of course. Even the Queensland police aren't that brutal.  Normally they just stick to waterboarding and whipping the soles of suspects feet with electric cables, or tasering their genitals. In the end my staff received a sentence of ten weeks community service - that is to say they were to do the community a service by staying out of town for ten weeks.  

BACI'S BALONEY

Dudes! I'm like so glad Uncal Billy's male staff didn't make me go in the car cuz wot wiv all that swurving and karrying on I'd have like chucked up all over the driver.  On second thorts that mite not have been such a bad thing cuz at leest then nobody wood forget me and leeve me in the car so that the police had to go owt looking for me.

Ennyway, we were all like reely glad wen Alfie came home, tho I did heer him muttering sumthing that sounded like "Bugga! For a kuppel of ours I thort I'd escaped this bluddy mad house."

  

The First Communist

Well, here we are, rapidly closing in on the two thousand and fifteenth anniversary of the birth of the world's first communist.  For that is what Jesus was if we are to believe the words of Comrades Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Now I realise of course that pigeon holing Jesus as a "Red" might be a little controversial, but then what else would you call him? The Bible certainly backs the idea that Jesus was a communist. Galatians 3:28 says -

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.

These words are not attributed to Jesus but according to the New Testament he certainly encouraged the rich to give all their wealth to the poor and told the press gallery of the time that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter through the Gate of Heaven, and didn't he make a mess of the merchants' market at the temple?  Yep. This Jesus dude was a card carrying member of the communist party if ever there was one.  Or at least he would be today.

It has to be one of humanity's greatest ironies.  Modern communists deride organised religion as elitist - just another way of controlling the proles, and they have a point given their hierarchical make-up and the fact that the Roman Catholic church and many other churches have more money and power than they knows what to do with.  In fact Cardinal Pell - the Aussie charged with the task of sorting out the Vatican's finances - has just discovered millions of euros tucked away in bank accounts that nobody knew about.  Millions of Euros!  You know you've got too much money when you can lose millions of Euros and not even know you had it in the first place.

On the other hand, if Mr J Christ was to be delivered in a grotty motel today, the son of a tradesman and a rather naive young woman (I was visited by an angel and now I'm pregnant.) The first group of people to persecute and denigrate him would be the bible-thumpers of this world who have absolutely no intention of giving away their worldly goods to the poor and who generally think of communists as being the spawn of Satan himself. Mainly because they associate communism with the Cold War - Brezhnev, Honecker, Ceaușescu and their ilk. They weren't communists at all of course. They wouldn't know one if he kicked their hammer and sickle tattooed butts,  They were just as elitist as their capitalist counterparts - just more brutal.  So poor old J.C. would get it in the neck from both sides, just as he did two thousand years ago from both the Romans and the Jews.  In other words, if you happen to be a Messiah or are thinking of becoming one, do it quietly and without preaching equality, or telling humans to give away their money to the poor.  It will only get you into trouble.

These days my staff tend not to make a big fuss at Christmas. They don't have a tree or any other decorations.  They sent out "Seasons Greetings" cards like everyone else, and like everyone else, every year they're dismayed when they receive a card from someone they've forgotten to send one to.
They have an arrangement with each other and their families not to give gifts and they have no children to wake them up at four 'o' clock on Christmas morning - only guinea pigs who start shouting for their breakfast as soon as it's light no matter what day it is.  Their Christmas lunch is usually salad (which suited me just fine) and little nibbly things, dips and a bottle of good chilled white wine.  December in Queensland is way too hot and steamy for roast turkey, stuffing, chipolatas wrapped in bacon, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts. baked parsnips and gravy so thick you have to slice it, followed by a lump of Christmas pudding the size of a small car and a bucket of brandy custard.  Imagine having to cook that lot when it's ninety degrees Fahrenheit and ninety percent humidity. Nevertheless many people still do it.  Well I suppose all the weight you lose sweating over the oven would be regained (plus a bit) when you consume your lunch.

My staff's one concession to Christmas is their annual guinea pig nativity play.  I'll tell you about it but you have to bear in mind that my staff's grip of the events of two thousand and fifteen years ago is as tenuous as their grip on sanity.  One of my male staff's early nativity drawings, done as a Sunday school project featured a helicopter hovering over Jesus' stable instead of a star.  Not only that, but it was being shot at by a Messerschmitt 109, presumably piloted by King Herod himself.

Before I went to Piggy Paradise earlier this year I always played the part of Joseph and when my little pal Badger was still with us he played the part of the innkeeper. Mary was my female staff's old teddy bear - Jimmy and baby Jesus was played by a carrot, wrapped in swaddling lettuce and laid in a manger made of half a capsicum.  Paolo the budgie was the Angel Gabriel because he was the only one who could fly.  The shepherds watching their flock by night all seated on the ground were portrayed by my staff's collection of African Ndebele dolls and their flock was mostly china elephants with the occasional leadwood hippo thrown in to make up the numbers.

  The Shepherds

 Unfortunately last year The Angel Gabriel told the shepherds to "Be not afraid" and then crapped on them so I doubt that Paolo will get the role this year.  In any case the family nativity play usually goes pear shaped well before the end.  Two years ago for example when the innkeeper (played by Badger) told Joseph (played by yours truly) that there was no room at the inn but that he and Mary could use the stable (Badger's cage), Joseph mounted him.  Well, I couldn't help it, he just looked so cute in his little costume and the production's director (my male staff) told me that I should display gratitude to the kindly innkeeper.  Then once Joseph and Mary had settled into the stable and baby Jesus had been safely delivered and laid tenderly in his half capsicum manger the innkeeper ate the Messiah and his swaddling lettuce at which point Joseph (me) decided that if he didn't make a move quickly the innkeeper would probably consume the manger too, leaving him (me) with nothing but a bit of boring hay and one of Mary's arms to chew on.

Starring Badger as the Innkeeper.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to this year's production.  Baci being the smallest will be playing the baby Jesus.  Tom will play Joseph.  Alfie has scored the role of the innkeeper and Toby will play the role of all three wise men, he's big enough and anyway, this being Queensland my staff couldn't find another two.

BACI'S BALONEY

Uncal Billy has got me wurried now. I don't want to be Jeezus if it meens I get eetun by the innkeeper. I think I'll ask Uncal Billy's staff if I can be the hellykopta pylet instead.  That way I can stay owt of trubbel.  I'd feel much better if Jeezus was a karrit again this yeer.