GOF’s Scrap Bucket

Uno momento please while I have a word with the children.

Hello boys and girls,
You know, not everything you read on the internet is true.
Have you ever heard of "blue moons"?  
Well, in your life they happen about as often as you can expect to discover things which are really the absolute truth.
And what about the dodo.  Do you know about the dodo?
Well, there is almost as much truth on Uncle Gof's website as there are dodos in ALL of the world and the known universe, but sometimes when he finds the truth, Uncle Gof does some really really naughty things with it.

Now, while I get on with talking to my adult friends here, why don't you go and read something really educational  (here) that every intelligent child should know about our fabulous world.

There, that's got rid of the ankle biters because the following story makes adult reference to d**g use. 
Now where was I?

I have translated for adults only (with my usual extraordinary linguistic dexterity) the following excerpt from the original Japanese audio tape purloined by my thugs operatives from the Mitsubishi Headquarters boardroom after a meeting between the Chairman and his automobile design team.

Mr Mitsubishi;

"Gentlemen, as you are all aware, this Company has a strict poricy in place regarding the smoking of ganja by it's employees.
I am also fully cognisant of the fact that because of your devotion to our esteemed Organisation you often take work home with you at night where you are beyond my direct supervision.

Now, which one of you baka-na nincumpoops got stoned one night and designed the front half of this vehicle before coming back into the office the next day to finish off the rest of it?

Who is responsible for this design excrement with my name plastered all over the side of it?"

Dog's breakfast

Climate at GOF's Paradise is somewhat enigmatic.
Whilst geographically we are situated in the tropics nominally with only two seasons, wet and dry, both altitude and latitude combine to provide us with four seasons slightly skewed from those in temperate zones.

Aug-Oct        Dry season
Nov-Jan        Hot, humid, thunderstorm season
Feb-Apr        Warm wet season....heavy rain with fog.
May-Jul         Cold wet season......constant drizzle and mist/fog.

This is the wettest part of Australia.
The coastal towns of Babinda and Tully might like to argue between themselves over rainfall superiority, but in reality those of us who live up in the mountains behind them know who really deserves Australia's Golden Gumboot Trophy .

After a very long dry season we recently welcomed 2 weeks of unseasonal "wet".  Continuous rain brought in on persistent south-easterly trade winds.
The following 3 photographs show scenes common around Gof's place during the wet season.

ONE

TWO

TITLE IN DISPUTE

Christian evangelists long ago perfected the art of making oratory mountains out of scriptural molehills.

What follows is GOF's first tentative step on the road to becoming the world's next Benny Hinn......or maybe even Jimmy Swaggart if I get lucky with my staff and congregation.

I have chosen a text today from the Gospel according to John.
John Laws, that is, self appointed deity of Australian talkback radio.

If at any time you feel the power of divine extortion annointing, please tithe your salary, or place a generous number of shekels in the collection plate which my henchmen stewards will soon be passing around .  
Bless you.

"The world is full of wonder.
 One day you will have to leave it for good.
 Make sure you absorb all its mysteries and pleasures
 while you have the time"   

I would like to speak to you today about John's use of the word "all".

Some degree of circumspection needs to be employed when it comes to experiencing what our world offers if we are also to score well in the game of longevity.

There are probably many mysteries and pleasures to be "absorbed"  at night in the back streets of Bogota, the favelas of Rio, canyoning in the Alps, or cave diving deep beneath Australia's Nullabor Plain.

Now admittedly I personally have the courage of a newly hatched chicken who is reticent to venture very far from its mother's wing.  
For me that "wing" is my instinct of self preservation which tells me not to go base or bungee jumping, parachuting, train surfing, swimming with sharks, or truthfully telling that big tattooed Maori security guard that he is a fat bastard who should lose some weight.

Some things are just not worth the risk.

Recently while decending a particularly steep section of the Mt. Bartle Frere walking track Mrs Gof and I came across a young man, alone, half way up, carrying a mountain bike on his shoulder.

The narrow track is in places almost vertical, and strewn with loose rocks and exposed slippery tree roots.  There are deep chasms between boulders where you cannot see the bottom.
He had chosen as a challenge to ride his bike down several kilometers of this trail.

In fading afternoon light.  With only one functioning eye.

The other had, at some stage of his young life, obviously been lost in some sort of horrific facial accident.  I do not wish to focus particularly on his disability or deny his right to adventure, but anyone attempting this particular project, alone, in a remote area and ignoring basic survival rules will inevitably draw attention to the very thin line between bravery and foolishness.
There were no other people on the mountain that day to help him if he got into trouble.
(I hasten to add that I returned specially on the following day to make sure his car had departed from the mountain base carpark)

Maybe my eagerness to survive life has also denied me some of its other more obscure pleasures.

Injected drug use and autoerotic asphyxia, apparently, can be fun, but the possible side effect of death always put me off those ventures.

No, I don't need to experience all the mysteries and pleasures of life to guarantee my happiness.
Some of them are located far too distant from my protective wing, and neither the destination or the journey involved in getting there appeal to my sense of responsible exploration.  

Now if I can just work out what chemicals Benny uses to get all that body and bounce into his silvery mane.

Two television "lifestyle" programs made in the UK were recently aired in Australia. Both of them advocated with double-barrelled enthusiasm a return to subsistence gardening, as well as hunting and collecting as a way of putting healthy food back on Britain's family plate.

The presenters used shotguns to kill any animal that looked remotely feral and unprotected, fishing tackle to hook anything which swam, then plucked and pillaged hedgerow and seaside edibles with gay and/or straight abandon.

Now I hope these programs will never see the light of day in the Mother Country.

The prospect of having 40 million adult Britons evacuating cities every Friday afternoon with Land Rovers loaded to the gunwales with rifles, shotguns, slingshots, truncheons, spears, fishing rods, flies, lures, gelignite, detonators, traps and snares for a weekend of food gathering in the countryside is frankly quite frightening.

I can forsee an extraordinary amount of collateral damage occurring, as well as a massive injury list through "friendly fire".

There may inevitably be some spinoff television shows:

"So you think you can do  #%$@&%$  WHAT!"
(a rural landowners perspective)

"UK's biggest loser"
(a weekly review of the most serious incidents of blood and limb loss from last weekend)

In view of this latest social development I would like to be the first to suggest that England's current National Anthem might be replaced by the 50 year old offering (below) from my hero Tom Lehrer.
 
Now is an appropriate time with the Olympic Games rapidly approaching.
 
Athletes and citizens of every nation on earth can learn the simple words of this anthem, then the massed choral voices of 100,000 can raise the roof during the opening ceremony.

It will bring tears to my eyes, and dramatically shorten the odds of my receiving a second Nobel Peace Prize.

The Hunting Song