Saturday was a big day. Over in Sydney to see the British and Irish Lions play the Waratahs. First off, I was taken by my younger daughter to Baker Bleu, the local bakery frequented by the Double Bay fashionistas. All activewear and handbag dogs with bulbous eyes and neurotic demeanours. Botox galore, there were a few women wandering around with green juice in transparent beakers just so you did not miss the vegan virtue-signalling. How Beverly Hills. I am sure it was no coincidence.
Next off to Icebergs on Bondi Beach. A table on the narrow balcony watching the never-ending sets of rolling waves crash over the pool. All was idyllic until a stream of Asian tourists took it in turns to stand right over us to get a better picture. Personal space and manners clearly count for little. For this privilege and a couple of rounds, I paid as much as a weekly shop for a family of ten.
Time to hit the Paddington pubs ahead of the game. The Paddington side-streets were as charming as I remember them when I lived in Sydney over 40 years ago. Stepping into the London Tavern I felt the warm embrace of 200 rugby supporters topping up their fluids. Two hours later, numbers had probably doubled, and drinkers were two-deep at the bar. I was glad to see the olds skills and charm had not disappeared as I was still able to get a round in relatively quickly. My wife would have been so impressed.
As to the game the less said the better. While the Lions won it was so boring. By the end of the game, I made it plain to various of the stadium staff that I wanted to make an official complaint. None of them could understand what I was on about. I may well have been ranting about wanting my money back. All I got was ‘the men’s toilets are on the left sir,’ or ‘would you like chips with that?’ I can only hope the coach has been roasting the players’ gonads with a blowtorch for the last 48 hours.
The night was not altogether lost. Young George introduced me to Samantha, one of his nursing friends, who has a lucrative sideline injecting Botox wherever her clients may want it. Being the old crusty that I am, I thought Botox was just for women, but Samantha sensing that I might be left out, proceeded to explain at some length, and in great detail, the benefits of, and the ease of having penile injections of Botox.
With the messianic zeal of a used car salesman, she proceeded to explain the disasters of using the wrong Botox practitioner and she even showed me pictures of when it all goes wrong. Not normally what you expect to be shown in a Woollahra pub, I was nonetheless intrigued by the misshapen penises whose shapes could be useful in a school geometry lesson. I was particularly impressed by the trapezium. Confident that she had piqued my interest, Samantha gave me her card and said I should ring her on Monday. I did not have the heart to tell her I was flying out on Sunday.
.
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam
It is that time in the cycle again. Every two years the government sends me a bowel cancer testing kit with which I am meant to return a faecal sample. The problem is I have lost the test kit and the return envelope. Undeterred I have laid a deposit in a normal envelope and I have sellotaped it as best as I can. There is a little seepage from the sides, but I am sure Australia Post can handle that. Not knowing where to send it, I have sent it to the Prime Minister’s office as our newly elected Prime Minister seems to have a solution to all of Australia’s problems. I am sure he must know the relevant department. I’m hoping for confirmation of receipt.
***
I recently had the chance to go to a ZZ Top concert, which for all who know me must surely regard as an aberration. Always game for source material I was undeterred in putting on my sensation seeker’s hat. I was looking forward to it as I had listened to ‘Gimme all your lovin’. It was the first time I had been to a concert of contemporary music as my usual gig, if you will excuse the pun, has been classical concerts including opera and ballet. My fellow concertgoers were slack-jawed when I told them it was my first time. It was if I had just admitted to being a virgin. Each to his own.
It was certainly throwback time. There were a lot of aged rockers, both on and off stage, while numerous rocker chicks, both young and old, wore jeans far too tight for them. As ZZ Top has been visiting Adelaide since 1981 some of their original supporters had turned up, beards and all, with younger members of their family trying to emulate their granddads. You do not often see that in modern society, but this was clearly a family event. I was impressed by the number of ZZ Top beards given their scarcity in the circles in which I move. Where these people live, I know not. Clearly not the eastern suburbs.
Ahead of sitting down I inserted earplugs, but on second thoughts I added two others just to make sure. I am now waiting to get them surgically removed at the end of June. An eight week wait, but that is why you pay for private health insurance. The first act was George Thorogood and the Destroyers. They all had surprisingly good heads of hair even though they were all 72. Though not all was well with their bodies. The bass guitarist at one stage had his legs spread so wide he seemed to be attempting the splits. Either that or his hips had locked. After 10 minutes, having been immobile from the hips down, we knew his hips had actually locked. Their session ended early so he could be taken off.
Returning to our seats post interval, the stage was literally a wall of speakers. With two sets of earplugs in place I felt confident I could survive. I had not reckoned on the G-force of the blast. I looked round and it all looked as if we were all skydiving as the flesh of our faces was flattened. A few days later I was asked what the concert was like. ‘LOUD. VERY LOUD.’ My questioner could not understand why I was shouting.
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam
It is that time in the cycle again. Every two years the government sends me a bowel cancer testing kit with which I am meant to return a faecal sample. The problem is I have lost the test kit and the return envelope. Undeterred I have laid a deposit in a normal envelope and I have sellotaped it as best as I can. There is a little seepage from the sides, but I am sure Australia Post can handle that. Not knowing where to send it, I have sent it to the Prime Minister’s office as our newly elected Prime Minister seems to have a solution to all of Australia’s problems. I am sure he must know the relevant department. I’m hoping for confirmation of receipt.
***
I recently had the chance to go to a ZZ Top concert, which for all who know me must surely regard as an aberration. Always game for source material I was undeterred in putting on my sensation seeker’s hat. I was looking forward to it as I had listened to ‘Gimme all your lovin’. It was the first time I had been to a concert of contemporary music as my usual gig, if you will excuse the pun, has been classical concerts including opera and ballet. My fellow concertgoers were slack-jawed when I told them it was my first time. It was if I had just admitted to being a virgin. Each to his own.
It was certainly throwback time. There were a lot of aged rockers, both on and off stage, while numerous rocker chicks, both young and old, wore jeans far too tight for them. As ZZ Top has been visiting Adelaide since 1981 some of their original supporters had turned up, beards and all, with younger members of their family trying to emulate their granddads. You do not often see that in modern society, but this was clearly a family event. I was impressed by the number of ZZ Top beards given their scarcity in the circles in which I move. Where these people live, I know not. Clearly not the eastern suburbs.
Ahead of sitting down I inserted earplugs, but on second thoughts I added two others just to make sure. I am now waiting to get them surgically removed at the end of June. An eight week wait, but that is why you pay for private health insurance. The first act was George Thorogood and the Destroyers. They all had surprisingly good heads of hair even though they were all 72. Though not all was well with their bodies. The bass guitarist at one stage had his legs spread so wide he seemed to be attempting the splits. Either that or his hips had locked. After 10 minutes, having been immobile from the hips down, we knew his hips had actually locked. Their session ended early so he could be taken off.
Returning to our seats post interval, the stage was literally a wall of speakers. With two sets of earplugs in place I felt confident I could survive. I had not reckoned on the G-force of the blast. I looked round and it all looked as if we were all skydiving as the flesh of our faces was flattened. A few days later I was asked what the concert was like. ‘LOUD. VERY LOUD.’ My questioner could not understand why I was shouting.