The Biscayne Bard

Below are some very interesting views on life as seen by our very own Biscayne Bard.
Happy reading!

August 2006

Rerunning the reruns

I was sitting and wondering what to write this month.

Politics? Done that recently.

Volvos? Done that recently.

Insane drivers? Done that recently.

So what to cover?

Then it struck me.

Bwian!

For those who have been in the club long enough you will remember we once had a president nicknamed Bwian who seemed to be the butt of a lot of Biscayne Bard attempts at humor. From being the bad guy in the Coffin’ City series, to the unauthorized member profile that revealed many secrets he would rather have kept to himself, to the final “ride off into the sunset” farewell. There was such an enormous amount of inspiration in the balding, Chev destroying, Austin 1800 rally car owning, train shop running, accountant who also had the misfortune to be in a position of responsibility at a time that I was casting around for inspiration. On his retirement from presidency I seriously wondered if I could continue writing the Bard without this fountain of inspiration.

But guess what? Bwian is back. He rode off into the sunset and found out that bald people should wear a hat when they are that close to the source of all life (and sunburn). Casting around he realized his hat was back where his heart was and he turned his horse once more to the east.

Bwian rode back into town and settled into a quiet bystander role that really didn’t suit him and finally, in a bloodless coup, he once again took on the office he had tried to leave.

President, Sheriff, Megalomaniac, butt of the Bard.

He’s back… and I’ve been waiting.

Watch out behind you Bwian, what’s that lurking in the shadows? It’s the silhouette of the Bard, and he’s packing a very large notebook.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month. Seen on a clapped out four-wheel drive that could barely turn its wheels “100kph speed limited”.

Yeah, right.

July 2006

Macao Madness

The Bard finally got that much promised overseas trip. Destination Macau (Macao is also correct). The only problem was that late June is one of the times that the guidebook tells you not to go. Why? High summer in Macau is bloody hot and bloody humid. I haven’t lost that much sweat since… never mind. Macau was a Portuguese colony until 1999 making it the last part of China to be foreign ruled. Most people in Macau speak Cantonese, a few still speak Portuguese, many speak Mandarin and, fortunately for the unilingual Bard, a lot speak English too. Macau consists of a part of a peninsula and two islands, Taipa and Coloane, with a sum total land area of 28.2 square km housing half a million residents.
So as well as bloody hot and bloody humid we can add bloody crowded. Macau is famous for it’s casinos too, sometimes called “The Las Vegas of the east”. Flashing neon everywhere and a huge number of gamblers, mostly coming from Hong Kong on the ferry for a weekend, trying their luck against the house. So where were we? Bloody hot, bloody humid, bloody crowded and bloody busy too.
There are some fascinating sites in Macau, the Macau tower that is 338mt tall and according to one source it was modeled on the one in Auckland and built by a New Zealand company. The statue of the goddess Kun Iam was built by the Portuguese and stands 19.99mt tall (get the relevance?). Some locals know it as “European Kun Iam” due to its less than Asian features.
The ruins of St Paul’s consist mostly of the façade of the church that was built in 1602 (although the façade was added between 1620 and 1627) and was destroyed by fire in 1835. A tour guide told me that the fire occurred during a typhoon and the church was allowed to burn as it was on high ground and it showed the way to those trying to climb above the flood waters. Insert offensive religious joke about the flare way to heaven or God’s beacon here. Either way many lives were saved and the church was never re built.
There are racing tracks for cars (up to formula three), horses and dogs. Did I mention a lot of casinos? Also apparently, to borrow a phrase from Terry Pratchett, there are a lot of ladies of negotiable affection too, but I didn’t investigate that claim. What with the churches, the parks, the statues, the sights, the South China Sea and the natural areas such as the least populated island Coloane we can now say bloody hot, bloody humid, bloody crowded, bloody busy and bloody pretty.
The islands are linked by three bridges to the peninsula and by a reclaimed land causeway to each other. Land reclamation is intensive and neon monoliths are growing where the sea once ruled. OK, bloody hot, bloody humid, bloody crowded, bloody busy, bloody pretty and bloody rapidly expanding. (Out and up).
But finally to the point. The most common method of transportation in Macau is the motor scooter. Mostly newer ones, but a few oldies too, with familiar names sitting next to badges in characters I cannot read. There are thousands of these things zooming around the streets and with the limited parking areas in Macau they can be seen at rest on footpaths, in alley ways, under bridge supports, on traffic islands just about anywhere where it is possible to put one. I think that if you were to push one motor scooter over in Macau the domino effect would be so intense that every scooter there would eventually fall over, even those being ridden.
But the riders too are something else. Zipping through red lights, between pedestrians, in front of busses, but amazingly I never saw an accident. Some outstanding individuals were those wearing surgical type masks to cut pollution breathed in, the lady riders with pull on elasticized sleeves to protect bare arms from the sun and the scooter with an umbrella attached for the same purpose. I saw helmets of many styles, shapes and colours, one scooter with a jeans and tee shirt clad helmeted rider carrying an unhelmeted passenger dressed for the office. The lady with the hairstyle that required her helmet to be strapped to the back of her head, the delivery scooter with a small dog standing on the floor section, bracing as they tore around corners, the plumber with rolls of copper and plastic pipe on board still squeezing between cars, and just so many more. And are they concentrating on the road? I saw one rider smoking a cigarette while riding and another with his mobile phone held to his ear having a good old chat as he cut through thick traffic.
So bloody hot, bloody humid, bloody crowded, bloody busy, bloody pretty and bloody insane all add up to a unique style of madness, Macao madness that is. Sometimes it almost too much but mostly I loved it and I recommend at least a couple of days to anyone who happens to be passing through.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month. I tried to get one in Macau but mostly I couldn’t read them.

June 2006

The Most Romantic Car

What, I ask, is the most romantic car in the world?

There are some that would choose a French car, a Renault, a Peugeot, or maybe a Citroen. French, they will tell you, is the language of love, and the French cars reflect this passion.

They are wrong. As a general rule French cars are crap and do not perform well. There is nothing less romantic than being stuck at the side of the road with a car that won’t run. (“Darling, the car broke down.” “Don’t give me that rubbish, just call a taxi and get me home.”)

How about the sports car? Many will tell you that the thrill of touring in an open top MG, or Porsche, or Corvette is the most romantic way to travel on four wheels. And not just romantic, it is exciting.

They are wrong. Not only do some passengers feel uneasy at speed, but also some get downright ill at all that cornering and braking hard. For those that don’t suffer this problem and do get excited the back seat of a sports car is no place to celebrate the passions aroused. Real sports cars, some will say, have no back seats.

Some will tell you the Cadillac, or Rolls Royce would be the most romantic car in the world. Cars that reflect the wealth and taste of the owner, cars that are smooth and refined, cars that less fortunate people envy.

They are wrong. These cars are so big that front seat passengers need to shout to communicate, and holding hands is almost impossible without adding an intermediary. Back seat passengers, on the other hand, can get very close and have plenty of room for athletic behavior. But how romantic is it to have people staring at you through heavily tinted windows, trying to see what is going on (or coming off) inside? People who live in glass houses do not have many children.

A Combi van, the hippies shout. What could be more romantic than a young couple, passionate for their cause(s) heading out into the wilderness to save the planet from the ravages of human progress and waste? The Combi with the anti nuke sticker, the save the whale sticker, the no uranium sticker, the no war sticker, the…

They are wrong. The oil burning clapped out polluting Combi damages the environment too. The unwashed, dreadlock wearing people inside tend to gather around campfires to sing folk songs and share their food, their pot and their social diseases. How romantic is it have to be hosed off outside before they will let you into the VD clinic?

The Love Bug (I am told) just might be the most romantic vehicle in the world. The name, the style, the closeness (with a back seat), what more could you ask for?

Sorry, wrong again. The Love Bug was an independent and opinionated vehicle. You want to go there? No way I want to go there. And it went. How romantic is being railroaded into uncomfortable situations you knew you did not want to be in in the first place? And the name does go back to the Combi Van problems too…

How about the Bard Mobile? Close enough in the front, roomy enough in the back (apologies for those who just had a picture of that in their head), performs well and cruises just lovely. But no, not even the Bard Mobile is the most romantic car in the world.

The most romantic car in the world is a Volvo. Yes, you did read that right; the Biscayne Bard just stated that the most romantic car in the world is a Volvo. OK let me explain myself.

The person who drives a French car may well find that the passenger he has is only interested in his money. Sure they think he is a pretentious wanker who has no taste but he must have lots of money to buy and then maintain such an obviously overpriced and overrated vehicle. And it does allow the passenger to boast about the European saloon, as long as they don’t give too much extra information.

Likewise the sports car and the limo. The passenger is more interested in the wallet that could afford to buy it and can afford to run and maintain it. This is not romance, it is economics.

The Combi driver too must be suspicious of the passenger’s motives. Sure they too are a slovenly left wing radical that likes to collect unemployment benefits funded by the taxes paid by the people they are protesting against, but is that romance? Most likely they just don’t have any pot themselves, or their own Combi broke down.

The Love Bug driver is not a driver. He is a passenger. Therefore the passenger of a passenger is never going to be impressed with the alleged drivers skill. Most likely just another racing nut that is ready to do anything to cross the line first. How romantic is it to be with someone who just wants to come first all the time? (Quiet please ladies).

The passengers in the Bard Mobile will often be just another adoring fan wanting to hang off every word, and this is not romance, this is hero worship. (Speaking of pretentious wankers…)

But the Volvo driver can be sure. A passenger who is willing to be seen riding in a Volvo is not just after money (no amount of money is worth that). They are not just after wisdom (people with that do not buy Volvos). This must be real romance, and on the second trip it just has to be LOVE.

Yes the Volvo is the most romantic car in the world because it is the only one that is so bad to be in, that other motives are just not sufficient to warrant being seen in it.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car rego of the month. Seen on a red Magna, the number plate “PURPL” (Now there’s a driver just out for a blue…)

April 2006

Power To The People

Way back in the dim, dark history of automotive conveyances (cars), electricity was not required much at all.
To start a car you swung the crank, to honk the horn you squeezed the bulb, to supply petrol you used gravity, to ensure you were visible at night you lit the candles. There was a magneto to create a spark, some sparking plugs and that was it.
A mechanic worked on things mechanical and roadside repairs were more common than workshop repairs.
We had a very, simple system that anyone with some basic mechanical ability could maintain. Why? Because they were trying to replace horses, that’s why. Everyone knew basic maintenance for horses, you had to feed them brush them and ensure they had water. To go and visit the rellies for Christmas the only mechanical knowledge required was how to buckle a saddle or, if necessary, harness the horse(s) and connect the buggy. Giddy up.
For the folk at the time, the introduction of the car meant a need to understand only very simple mechanics and then you were away, longer trips were possible, riding skills were replaced by simpler driving skills and best of all cars were built to last. Horses lasted for fifteen odd years of working life then you had to get and train another. The old horse needed to be retired to a paddock to see out his days chewing up the feed that could be used for working animals. But you wouldn’t send a member of the family to the glue factory would you? That’s the thing I’m trying to say, people loved their horses, they could just own and use a car. When the car did finally die it could be left next to the shed or under a tree to rust in peace and no one cared.
So slowly the car and the heartless disposable society we now know was introduced.
Soon the battle was won. More cars, less horses with no turning back and so the scientists and inventors decided to complicate the issue. Why limit brakes to just two wheels? Put them on the others and that way there is more maintenance and repairs required. Solid tyres are much too reliable, so let’s fill them with air that can get out. Puncture was a word rarely used and little feared but with the advent of pneumatic tyres and immunizations it now strikes fear into the heart of motorists and patients alike.
But eventually the people caught up with the mechanics. The farmer and the city driver both could change the oil and grease the moving parts. The mechanic was an endangered species (as was the farrier) and so the scientists and inventors turned to electricity. Electricity was something that was a mystery to the masses so generators and starter motors were added, batteries and electric lights. Like the encroaching ivy slowly covering the mighty tree the motorcar became entangled with electric wires.
For a while this worked and wiring was a nightmare for the common man.
More lights were added, indicators with flasher cams, generators became alternators, six volts grew up to be twelve. Heaters with electric fans, valve radios and even under dash record players. Windows were motorized to save the effort of winding a handle, horns were electrified to save squeezing and electric wipers were introduced because vacuum wipers really suck when you put your foot down.
The copper varicose veins enveloped the mighty car and the home mechanic shuddered when he looked at those cloth bound nightmares that did things he could not understand.
But, he thought, I can learn. And learn he did.
After a while the home mechanic became proficient at working on electricity, as well as oil changes, lubrication, plugs, points, bearings, king pins and even simple body work.
The NMA (National Mechanics Association) was not impressed. People were once again working on their own cars so they sent out another SOS (scientists our saviors) and automotive electronics and computers were introduced.
Carburetors were too easy to understand, so fuel injection was introduced, then multi point fuel injection. Timing and tuning were too simple so engine management computers were added. Gearboxes were suddenly computer controlled too. Climate control means that where, in the old days, you made sure the water was flowing through the heater core and then made sure the fan worked to fix a heater system, now you need to replace the electronic switch housing, the temperature sensor and the main climate control module buried somewhere deep in the bowels of the dash under layers of brightly coloured plastic coated wires that most likely do nothing except confuse the amateur who is persistent enough to reach that part of the car, the forbidden twilight zone of internal control.
If you think that was a long sentence then think of the home mechanic.
Cars these days include electronics that are a death sentence to the home mechanic and close to the same for the garage mechanic down the road.
To fix the aforementioned climate control system you need to take your car to the dealer (only he has the diagnostics computer) and then you go straight to your bank manager to get a new mortgage drawn up so you can afford to pick the car up after it takes four days to plug it in, order the part and the spend ten minutes fitting it. This is the world of the new mechanics, those that have spotless overalls and anti static wrist straps.
So why do people drag that rusty old relic out from under the tree and restore it to its former glory?
Firstly we are beating the disposable society and making our cars last longer, nobody has ever ridden an eighty-year-old horse have they?
Also they can understand it. They can maintain it. And suddenly, when compared to the modern motorcar they realize that, like a horse, they can love it. A horse is no longer practical but a ’27 tourer is (well, sort of anyway).

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s cars vs. horses terminology guide:

Fuel injection = nosebag
Leather upholstery = saddle
Climate control = suitable clothes
Hood or roof = oilskins
Suspension = knees
Car factory = top paddock
Performance pack = racing breed
New set of tyres = new set of shoes
Exhaust emissions = fertilizer
Motor racing = horse racing
Rally racing = rodeos
Used car salesman = horse trader
Radio and entertainment unit = nature

March 2006

The Wheel Truth

A friend pointed out something to me the other day.
Why, he asked, is it that those little cheap Korean cars, the ones that always seem to be driven by young girls with P plates, have hubcaps that are not quite round?
If you look around in traffic you will see he is right. There are lots of little cars with oval plastic hubcaps spinning distractingly off center.
We had a bit of a workshop on the out of round mystery, and some of the possibilities we considered are as follows.
Maybe their manufacturing allows a certain leeway because it is not a safety issue?
Maybe the roads over there are very bumpy and the oval hubcaps make the wheels look like they are not bouncing around?
Maybe they think the movement will attract attention?
One unsubtle person even suggested that through their eyes they may actually look round.
But no matter what the cause, it did turn my attention to wheels and tyres.
Way back in the early days of the bullock drays and the horse and cart, the road going wheels were usually wooden, first solid discs then wooden rims with wooden spokes. To add strength people eventually began to add a band of steel around the rim. This finally was the wagon wheel we came to know and love in westerns and milk bars. Wheels eventually started to get smaller in relation to the vehicle, the solid rubber tyre was added and then the pneumatic tyre. Wheels continued to shrink in size and eventually steel wheels were introduced. Wheels still kept getting smaller until the twelve and thirteen-inch wheel with a good-sized tyre was quite common. Have you noticed the latest trend? Wheels are getting bigger again. The wheels expand and the tyres contract until finally we have these huge wheels with just a narrow band around them. Are these people trying to put the “T” back in car?
Even the new trend toward run flat tyres is reminiscent of the old solids.
But hubcaps too can be quite strange. In a normal situation the wheel spins and the hubcap spins with it. But some time ago some hotrodder looked at his car and wondered why this had to be the case. Static hubcaps were born. The wheel spins and the caps stay stationary. This must make the logo much easier to read. The current fashion has gone the exact opposite. For an obscene amount of money you can fit hubcaps to your car that continue spinning after the car has stopped. I wonder how many heart attacks have been caused by some poor car lover seeing movement and thinking their pride and joy is off down the hill?
Wheels are odd in movies too. Have you noticed that wheels often seem to be spinning backwards in the movies and on television? The scientists tell us something about frame rates but I think I know what is really going on. Moviemakers are not mechanically minded and what with the new directional tyres maybe they are just putting them on backwards? This poses another question too. If you put directional tyres on correctly and use them until they are worn down to the minimum safe amount of tread, can you then put them on backwards and pick up rubber off the road until they are built back up to new condition? Another possibility is the fact that movies are often filmed in reverse, with later scenes filmed before earlier ones. Could it be that the wheels look like they are going backward because the car is going backward in movie reality time?
And what about these new silicone tyres? Being silicone does this mean they pump themselves up on their own? Can these tyres be recycled to make gaskets when their driving life is over? How can a material that is more slippery offer better grip? Do they resin ate more?
But there are many more mysteries in this subject.
Tyre companies say that road tyres benefit from the technology used in racing. So why do road tyres have tread and racing tyres do not?
Is the Michelin man really a woman? There are a lot of curves and no visible valve stem.
Why is it called a burn out when it actually is a smoke up? Why do the Kiwi’s call the same thing patch? “Do you do Patch?” sounds like they have turned their attention from the flock to the sheep dog.
Are jockey wheels usually found on cars parked at Flemington?
Why is a flat so bad if it is only flat on the bottom?
Is it true that tyres represent the second most common use for rubber?
Is wheel balancing a circus act?
Why is it that cars that are driven (rotating their tyres) require their tyres to be rotated while cars stationary in storage (that do not rotate their tyres) do not?
If a penny-farthing were made today the coins represented would be worth more, say two dollars fifty. This would put the smaller wheel on the front and the back wheel would be a number of flat surfaces, not a round one. Very impractical, decimal currency sure has a lot to answer for.
Is it true that brick companies encourage wheel thieves when there is a downturn in the building industry?
Is it true that the great fans of white walls are Australian rugby fans that cannot tolerate all blacks? (Sorry Carl, I missed that?)

So many questions, so few answers, but now sadly I must go.

Until next time, tread carefully.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car stickers of the month:
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy” and “All for rum, rum for all”. These were not seen on a “feral” ute, but on a newish Commodore wagon. Everyone needs an ambition I suppose.

February 2006

4 Letter Words

Mother always stressed it, I guess you heard it too,
The words you use, let others see, the person who is you.
Now language is important, you should choose all you say,
Words, which are 4 letters, we discard now, today.

I now shall be so crude, and too, a touch risqué,
I use these words, to demonstrate, and after I shan’t say.
So if you are offended, by words of letters 4,
Please peruse another place, I now advise the score.

Four is banned, and five and nine, if you write it out,
You either use the symbols, or you change the way you count.
We simply round these numbers, I’m happy you agree,
Eight to ten and way below, we count to six aft three.

We shall not go to work, to do so would be crass,
But too the dole, is out of bounds, so we sit on our, um, laurels.
But maybe we change phrases, remove the bad effect,
We go to our employment, or benefits collect.

We are not sick, how could we say, if we cannot attend,
We ring the boss, no phone the sod, I’m ill, I shan’t be in.
We change our toil to labour, for rest we now abate,
We do not park, or halt or stop, we cease to motivate.

And food is but another thing, we can no longer say,
No meat no fowl no fish no pork, we eat no cake today.
Too, if you crave the bottle, no Earl Gray can you savor,
No milk, no Coke, no wine no beer, seems water is the flavor.

Those awful months, June and July we can no longer mention,
And nose, arms, legs, or foot or hand, to say could increase tension.
Too other words struck off the row, of things, which we may say,
From that date mate, your life will rate, then must just bust away.

I’m sorry Mum to cause you stress, for you say hate is banned,
But no longer say I, “I love you”, not quite as you had planned?
And Ford no longer is no grief, but now we do get heavy.
If we can say not Chevrolet, we not say Chev but Chevy?

I think I say my expose of words not all preferred,
I looked and planned, but cannot ban, a choice four-letter word.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month: Seen at a car show.
“And the Lord said unto the shepherd, bugger off this is cattle country,”

January 2006

Stupidity Suppressors

In old cars there used to be the problem of the constant static whine in the radio. In really old cars this wasn’t a problem, they didn’t have radios, but there was often the constant whine of the diff or gearbox. In new cars the problem is usually the constant whine from the back seat. This one comes in stages, for the teenage driver it’s, “Stop at the next pub, we’re almost out of (a) Beer, (b) Coolers, (c) Jim Beam or (d) Bundy.” For young families it’s “Are we there yet?” or “He hit me.” For older families it’s “Why do we have to visit the boring cousins anyway? They are morons.” For empty nesters it seems to be “Where’s the next toilet?”
For the old car problem there is the electronic noise suppressor.
For the really old car problems there is the banana skin whining gear noise suppressor. (It actually does work too).
For new cars (teenage) there is the loaded esky alcoholic road trip noise suppressor. (Not, of course, to be used by the actual driver: it’s amazing how your friends that are really funny when they are drunk and you are drunk are just painful when they are drunk and you are sober isn’t it?)
For new cars (young family) there is the “Lets stop for an ice cream.” (Very temporary) whinge noise suppressor.
For new cars (older family) there is the Game Boy, PSP and MP3 brain numbing noise suppressor. To be quite honest this is hardly necessary anyway, teenagers barely talk ever and if they do it seems to be a totally different language.
For empty nesters there is the colostomy bag weak bladder noise suppressor.
However, despite all our wonderful technology, there are two serious automotive problems that have never had effective suppressors created to solve them.
The first of these problems is the small explosion followed by large smell, usually without warning and the window won’t open problem. While there has never been a cure for this it has proven useful sometimes for assistance in removing that awful home window-tinting job. No, hang on, maybe it’s the thing that creates those terrible bubbles in the tinting? I can’t quite remember.
The other problem that has never been solved is the automotive instant stupidity syndrome.
This one is seen all the time and, put simply, it is the well observed fact that the vast majority of sane, careful, considerate, friendly people who step into a car instantly turn into an irrational, risk taking, spiteful, vengeful species that only resemble people after they have crashed and are moving to the next stage of existence. (Rage In Peace).
Just an observation, if this problem has not been solved in Heaven then there will either be no cars or no drivers. I don’t think Hell wants them either; there is no way to make it worse than it is here on Earth. Unless they give us all Volvos.
What we need is someone to invent stupidity suppressors, things that leave the driver of a car normal when they get behind the wheel.
I was driving to work this morning, and at a set of lights some Kia (pretend to be luxury) car pulled up beside me. The driver gunned it to make sure he got in front of me before the road narrowed to one lane, then slowed down to 60 in a 70 zone and less around those scary things called corners. The nice, twisty bit that the real driver loves was done in slow motion.
Further down the road Mister Kia (Kompletely Ignorant As#$%*e) turned off (slowly) and I caught up with an electricians Hiace. No problems, we all have to get to work and some vehicles are slower than others. The problem came when the road went to two lanes again. Mister Hiace (He Is A Complete Eediot) took the right lane beside a loaded up four cylinder tray truck and the accumulated traffic was treated to the slowest uphill tradesman’s drag race of all time. More putt’s than the complete calendar of the PGA tour.
Finally, at the top of the hill, maybe a day and a half later, the road split to three lanes at another set of lights. The far left had all the drivers wanting to pass while the middle and fast lanes had the wheezing tradesman’s rides desperately gulping in air trying to get ready for race two. We went around and traffic flowed well, back into two lanes and then I spotted it. Look up ahead; is it a Bard? (No, he’s here). Is it a plane? (No, too low). No, it’s Stupid man! On the next uphill there was a public transport bus, in the right lane, trying to overtake another public transport bus. At this rate, I thought, I might as well turn around. I’m not going to reach work before the weekend anyway.
Stupid man, by the way is married. Stupid woman was observed the other day, near Luna Park. She was following a small car sporting shiny new “L” plates, obviously looking for a place to park. Stupid woman, unhappy with the slow progress, just held her hand on the horn constantly. That’s it lady (and I use the term very loosely), show the next generation of drivers how to behave in traffic, it’s a lesson that will be hard to forget for the poor, flustered learner.
Only a couple of months ago I was coming back from an event in the Bard mobile. We were coming from Yea to Yarra Glen and were following a very old (maybe twenties?) magnificently restored open car down the hill and, as you would expect, the traffic built up behind it. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill there was a very long line of cars behind Mister Vintage (Very Inconsiderate Never Turns Aside Greatly Enraging) who continued to plod along at his leisurely pace with dozens of irate drivers behind him. There were a number of places where a considerate driver could have pulled aside and allowed the traffic past, but not this one. I was getting angry glares as I was in an old car too and people assumed I was with stupid. I was not.
So the point you ask?
If you are in front, be considerate of the drivers behind. If they want to risk their license by going fast it’s not your job to stop them, just let them past and smile when you see the flashing lights ahead. The overtaking lane is for those who want to overtake (and who actually can without disrupting traffic).
If you are behind, be considerate of the drivers in front. They may not have the experience or power you have. Overtake when safe and avoid unnecessary displays of anger. Leave on your trip with enough time to spare so an idiot or two won’t make you late.
Do not jealously guard your little bit of the road. A very clever man once told me, when I was younger, “Don’t get upset if someone cuts you off or squeezes past in a hurry, they may be on their last warning and being late would make them lose their job. If they think it’s more important for them to have that bit of road, let them. Your livelihood is not at stake over twenty seconds.”
Pretty wise words coming from a man nicknamed “Cowboy”. So just maybe we can all put on our own stupidity suppressors before getting into the car next time.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker(s) of the month: Seen on a Chevy pickup.
“Caution, I drive as bad as you do.” On the other side of the window was a “Navy” sticker.
Hey everyone, I think I’ve found the helmsman from the HMAS Melbourne.

Reality Check

November 2005

Has anyone noticed that not only are there now an enormous amount of “reality” TV shows on the box every night, but a lot of them also seem to be part of a huge world wide franchise. “Pop Stars” Australia is bad enough without hearing all about “Pop Stars” USA, UK, France, Taiwan and Ethiopia too. There have been some attempts at a uniquely Australian “reality” show but the most impressing thing about them is their apparent search for perfectly embarrassing lameness and extreme mediocrity.

So I have gathered a team of elite screenwriters (these guys work in car yards writing “Auto with air”, “Any test welcome”, “Ideal first car” and other inspiring slogans on the front glass) and we have knocked out a few ideas to “Australian-ise” and make more interesting a few of these programs.

The first idea is called “Dancing behind bars”. To get on this show you first need to smuggle drugs in certain countries in Asia. If you get through undetected you win a big cash prize, but you don’t get on the show. If however the local customs officers “select” you then you are in for a very long running show with no off-season. Once you are in the cast of this one the only way out is to be voted off the show and if this happens to you it is permanent. There are no comebacks, ever.

How about “Big Bowser’? You get a mixed group of morons and put them in a confined space (a petrol station) and spend weeks listening to them whine about the price of petrol, each other and how unfair life is in general. Now that’s entertainment.

We were looking at a new series of “The Mole” and were going to call it “The Wombat”, you know the one, “eats roots and leaves” but then we found out this has been done by some infamous heiress and it flopped. It just went straight to video (and the internet).

“Backyard Blister” is the next one, and in this you get a few of your average Aussie blokes to get out in the backyard with a: a mower, b: a shovel, c: a pruning saw and d: a gutter cleaning tool. They have to race to see who can finish his assigned task first but after a few minutes they are getting tired and sore, then after a few more minutes you find them on the couch with a tinny discussing the footy show or similar and saying “bugger it, I’ll do it next week”.

We looked at “The biggest loser” but could only get politicians to come on the show. It was just too close to call…

A personal favorite was “Australian Idle”. This is a proper “reality” show, and it stars forgotten contestants and winners from other shows. It is set in the Byron Bay dole office and has all these people sucking funny cigarettes and discussing how they need to fund a new CD since they now have the right material to get their “career” back on track. “Yeah mate, that’s all right for you but, like, what about me?”

And, because of the time of year, we decided on a seasonal show. How about “Survivor Christmas”? Your individual contestants get $40.00 to buy presents for 87 long lost relatives who are mostly only coming over out of guilt and under threat. You have to survive the broken toy phase where the dodgy Chinese two-way radio only can communicate with the truckers passing on the highway, and they don’t care what they say to a six year old. You have to go out and find batteries for a dozen toys that are no fun without flashing eyes and authentic fart noises. You have to cook up enough for a crowd and find plates and cutlery enough for it all. And if you think that’s bad enough then we make it really interesting and introduce “the tribe”. Hours of chaos follow with drunken uncles falling through the coffee table, kids screaming, huge fights over toys and who will play with who (this is just the adults you know). After hours of this you finally roll the last one out down the driveway and look at the wreckage that used to be your house. Easier to move than to clean it you think. Reminder to self, don’t mow over that area, double-diced carrots would be twice as bad.

So anyway,

Best wishes for a safe and happy festive season everybody and I will catch you in 2006.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month: Seen on a dirty four wheel drive.
“We’ll keep our cow shit in the country, you keep your bull shit in the city.”

Cycle Laws

October 2005

As one of the many road users who has to have a license to prove I am capable of operating my vehicle safely, who has to pay registration and insurance to ensure I am identifiable and that other road users are covered if I do something wrong and who pays ridiculous rates of petrol taxes to ensure our roads (and politician’s superannuation levels) are well maintained I feel qualified to create some new laws to cover a certain group of road users that don’t.

So, welcome to the Biscayne Bard’s top twelve new laws for cyclists.

1: If you can ride close enough to the kerb to pass my car when I am stopped at lights while I am in my lane then ride close enough to the kerb for me to pass you while still in my lane when I am traveling faster.

2: Similarly if you are riding in a group do not ride past me in single file then spread out and block the lane in front of me when I want to pass you.

3: At night your lights should be visible. If I cannot afford petrol I don’t drive, if you cannot afford batteries you don’t ride.

4: If there is a bike path or lane right next to the road then use it instead of the road, I do not drive on bike paths. Yet.

5: Do not touch my car. Either put your foot down or fall over but do not touch my car.

6: If the road I am on has too much loose gravel for a bicycle at the edge then choose another road, not the middle of my lane.

7: Red light means stop. It is a simple rule and it applies to all road users. Similarly think about give way signs, stop signs, no turn signs, pedestrian crossings, speed limits…

8: I use my turn signals by pushing the stalk up or down. You use your signals by actions with your arms. If you have arms this means you can provide warning of your intentions to other road users.

9: Sudden changes of direction in front of moving vehicles can and will cause gravel rash or worse.

10: Putting your nose that far up someone’s rear is not slipstreaming, it is a perversion that is illegal in many countries.

11: Adults riding bicycles are role models for the kids that ride bicycles. If you do something stupid they will copy you. If they get hit while doing so, this it is your fault as the teacher, not mine as the car driver.

12: Guys, you may think your butt looks good but I don’t. For goodness sake put some clothes on. Girls, those of you who have never heard of chafing may ignore this rule.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s ironic car sticker of the month: “C&A Auto Fashion” Seen on a vehicle that is the height of fashion, a white Camry wagon that is totally standard and slightly knocked around. Please daddy, buy me one of them….please, please…

Feeling Flat?

September 2005

Perk yourself up with the concerto for a deflated day set to the memorable tunes of “Shake, rattle and roll”, “Suspicious minds” and “Amazing grace”.

Get into the tyre place and swap those tyres around,
Get into the tyre place and listen to that sound,
I got to take care to share that tread around.
So rotate, rattle and roll,
Yeah, rotate, rattle and roll,
Align and balance them all,
So rotate, rattle and roll,
If you just do nothin’ then bad wear is the call.

I’m caught with a flat, I can’t move on,
Because my bloody tyre’s down baby.
Oh why can’t you see, that my nuts are seized.
It’s at the roadside I am staying.
I can’t go on with driving,
With my nuts in a bind,
The place that used that rattle,
Was just so unkind.

Amazing brace, how sweet the sound,
Of wheel nuts breaking free.
My nuts too tight by rattle gun,
A stranded driver, me.
‘Twas rattle gun that caused my pain,
And brace my pain relieved.
Next time the tyre place does my wheels,
By hand, my nuts will be.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s saying of the month:
“You can lead a moron to data, but you can’t make him think.”

Rules and Responsibility

August 2005

The intention of the first ever rules made was to make people feel safer. Gone forever were the days of murder, rape, and all other anti social behavior. Haven’t you noticed?
The problem with rules is most of them are imposed on society with the intention of making society safer, but this is often without enough thought or consultation with those they will directly affect. Rules these days have got so far out of hand that they often protect the guilty rather than the innocent.
Take burglary for example. It is against the law (rules) for someone to enter your home without your permission. But someone does. They break a window and climb in, but then trip and break their leg. My attitude would be charge them with a criminal offence but no, the rules say they can sue you for compensation for their injury. What if they break in and you hit them? In some cases you find yourself up on assault charges. So what is this attitude? Have the rule makers decided that burglars need to make money too and now we have to provide them with a safe workplace?
Speaking of safe workplaces there has been a bit of a push to get the army to fix its system so the soldiers can have a safe workplace. The last time I looked it up the primary function of an army is to fight wars. I want to know how they propose to make a profession where people are trying to kill you safe.
But I digress, back to burglary. Should the first law broken override all others? “You were breaking the law, son, by being there. The only compensation will be you paying for the window you broke.” What if the homeowner uses a knife or gun and kills the burglar. Should they be charged with murder? You see it all the time with people talking about the “victims” (perpetrators) of bungled burglaries or of legitimate police action. They say the “victim” would never have harmed the property owner and excessive force was used in defense. The criminals’ family and friends might believe that but the person alone in a dark house with an intruder is hardly likely to be able to ask for references are they? They assume the worst because sometimes the worst happens.
Does a person actively breaking the rules deserve the protection of the rules?
Does this apply to a person entering a country illegally as well as person entering a house illegally?
A small businessperson hires someone as a sales assistant. The employee steals money in front of a video camera. Is the employee dismissed immediately? No, they still need to get another 2 warnings. The businessperson assumes they will continue to steal but will now be more wary of being caught. What happened to the right of the owner to protect their personal investment that supports the business?
Then there are those who use rules to gain power. The overzealous parking cop, the bylaws officer, the ticket inspector, the weekend umpire, the traffic cop (who is often wearing motorcycle leathers while driving his car), there are so many examples.
You often find small minded people who are not successful in life using work or social groups to control people just so they can feel better about themselves.
Rules have now evolved to ensure that irresponsible individuals have more rights for protection and less responsibility to make sure they look after themselves.
The ad campaign for the new 40kph zones around schools starts with the line “kids only see what they think is most important” and shows a boy chasing a ball onto the road in front of a car. Does this ad tell you the driver is wrong because he is going too fast? One of the biggest things it tells me is that the child’s parents, teachers and friends are avoiding the fact that they should be teaching the child not to do that. If the child only sees what he thinks is most important then teach the child that traffic safety is more important than a ball. But no, we make the errant driver at fault and we let the child think it is ok to run out onto a road. So now do we have to put a 40 zone around where that child lives, plays, visits, shops etc? Driving to Sydney is going to take a lot longer at 40 and there are a lot of overdrives that won’t get much wear.
The ad tells the drivers, who mostly do not go to school, to obey the school rules but does not tell the kids who live near the road to obey the road rules.
Another comment on responsibility is the two children that recently set a homeless man alight. The parents have been fined, which looks reasonable as the children have been allowed to run wild, but isn’t it ironic that the same people who say you are responsible if you do not make your children responsible then tell you that you cannot hit your children to discipline them? It’s like having a dented guard and being told you must fix it if you want to drive your car, but also that you cannot have any tools to fix it with.
And where does religion fit into this equation? All religions are based around love for your god and your fellow man. So how does this translate into “kill innocent people and you will be rewarded in heaven”? Once again it is a lack of responsibility. There is no bigger ideal than love your fellow man so why do so many people use religion to justify doing just the opposite?
A recently widowed pensioner took some audio equipment to her church musical director to be valued. He then returned different and much less valuable equipment to her and said that is what she gave him in the first place. The rules say this is illegal, the church teachings say this is wrong so how can it happen? The simple answer is this person is living by the ideal of “me, me, me”. He does not care about laws, he does not care about teachings, he does not believe in the punishment of hell, he is just trying to make his life more comfortable now and he does not care how much others suffer in the process.
He is morally and responsibility bankrupt.
For a suicide bomber to kill innocent people in the belief that they will go to heaven they must have been taught that this is true. The people who teach this do not kill themselves in the same struggle. They teach the next group to do the same, while ensuring they are personally comfortable in this life.
They are morally and responsibility bankrupt.
My suggestions? Be good to other people, not because the bible tells you to, not because the rules tell you to, but because this is what differentiates us from the other creatures on this planet. We can think, we can care but most of all we can be responsible.
So fix that damaged tyre. If you know it is faulty and it blows causing you to hit a child then you are responsible.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s saying of the month:

In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.

The Car Spangled Highway
(Apologies to Francis Scott Key)

July 2005

O say can you see, through the bug specked windscreen,
What so proudly we trail, By the headlights dim gleaming?
Whose broad guards and bright chrome, Thro’ the perilous drive,
O’er the tarmac we watched, Were so gallantly rolling?
And the taillights red glare, Exhaust growling in air
Gave proof thro’ the night That old car was still there.

O say does that car-spangled Highway yet wind
Through the land of the free And the home of the drive.

On the road dimly seen Thro’ the mist o so thick,
Where the truck’s haughty mass Loud exhaust brake it passes,
What is that which the moon, O’er the towering hills,
As it fitfully shines, Half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam Of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected Now shines the machine.

Tis the car-spangled highway O long may it wind
Through the land of the free And the home of the drive.

And where is the band Who so vehemently swore,
‘Mid the havoc on tar And the traffics confusion,
A home and a garage They’d leave it no more?
Their oil has dripped out Their foul fuel is pollution.
No refuge could save The driver not brave
From the terror of rust And their cars early grave;

And the car-spangled highway In triumph alive
Through the land of the free And the home of the drive.

O thus be it ever, When free men shall pass
Between their loved homes And their work’s desolation;
Blest with handling and pace, In their well restored cars
Praise the power that hath made And propelled us in motion
Then conquer we must The long road and the dust
And this be our motto “In Detroit we trust!”

And the car-spangled highway In triumph shall wind
Through the land of the free And the home of the drive.

The Biscayne Bard.

Answers from last month’s quiz (accuracy attempted but not guaranteed)
01: Biscayne San = J: Japan 02: Comrade Biscayne = Q: Russia
03: Herr Biscayne = F: Germany 04: Herr Biscayne = M: Norway
05: Hr Biscayne = D: Denmark 06: Meneer Biscayne = R: South Africa
07: Mignheer Biscayne = L: Nederland (Holland) 08: Mister Mister = O: Poor 80’s band
09: Monsieur Biscayne = B: Belgium 10: Monsieur Biscayne = E: France
11: Pak Biscayne = H: Indonesia 12: Pan Biscayne = N: Poland
13: Senhor Biscayne = C: Brazil 14: Senhor Biscayne = P: Portugal
15: Senor Biscayne = A: Argentina 16: Senor Biscayne = K: Mexico
17: Senor Biscayne = S: Spain 18: Senor Biscayne = T: Venezuela
19: Shri Biscayne = G: India 20: Signore Biscayne = I: Italy

The Biscayne Bard’s saying of the month:
“They said smile, things could be worse. So I did and they were.”

What’s Before A Name?

June 2005

Titles and salutations are words used before a person’s name. The correct one to use and the correct way to use it can vary and the whole deal is, in many cases, quite confusing.
Take, for example, royalty. They have titles like “King”, “Queen”, “Prince”, “Princess”, “Emir”, “Emperor”, “Empress”, “Sultan” and “Sultana”. Royalty also give us the first example of the “Your”, “His” or “Her” prefix to the prefix to the prefix to the title, which in itself is the prefix to the name. I did say it could get confusing. So lets try an example. (Prefix to prefix to prefix) “Her”, (prefix to prefix) “Royal”, (prefix) “Majesty”, (“Highness” is also acceptable here for those royals who like to indulge), (title) “Queen” and (name) “Elizabeth”. Because there is not enough information in this data we also add a suffix, in the form of a number “The Second”.
Confused yet?
Simpler titles are allowed for those who are mere nobility, such as “Lord”, “Lady”, “Baron”, “Baroness”, “Earl”, “Sheik”, “Duke” and “Duchess”. We know some of these nobility types may “Lord” it over we mere plebs but judging by the tabloid papers there are a lot of “Lady’s” who just aren’t. I have never heard of a nobleman named Earl but can you imagine it? “I would like to introduce you to “Earl” Earl from Scrubby Creek.” Of course there are also those who are not born into a title but by being knighted they become “Sir”.
Religion reverses some of the rules. A religious “Lord” outranks a royalty “King” who in turn outranks a nobility “Lord”. Then you introduce some more “Your” titles such as “Holiness”, “Eminence” (not the rapper) and “Grace” (only before meals) before the religious titles suddenly get closer to home. All Priests are “Father” and some Nuns are “Mother” and “Superior” (so does this mean “Mother” outranks “Father”? Discuss…). Monks are “Brother” and more Nuns are “Sister”. The hungry religious folk can be called “Pastor” and I have never had a knock on the door from an “Elder” who was actually my elder. Does this mean this doorstep religion is only for the very young?
Courts also use the “Your” prefix before “Worship” or “Honor”, possibly because the person in the dock is praying the court believes what they are saying is true. A judge is also often referred to as “The Right Honorable”, “Judge” or “Magistrate”... Does this mean the person is always right, always honorable, both or neither? I think of a case recently when the presiding “Right Honorable” used words to the effect of “I have not let one off yet, why should I start now?”
Law enforcement and the military have different ways of using “Officer”. In the military, in this case the Army, the senior people are the ones who are officers but they are addressed by their rank, “Lieutenant”, “Captain”, “Major”, “Colonel” and all sorts of “Generals”. It is ironic that “General” usually refers to something common but the Army puts someone “General” higher than someone “Major”. That is, of course, unless you are a “Major General” which puts you in the middle of the other “Generals” the most senior of which is a “Field Marshall”. As for Naval officers I am not sure if a “Rear Admiral” is someone who has been schooled for the position since birth or if they just don’t go to the front when there is fighting. The Air Force is no better. Imagine a “Wing Commander” having to ask for a second wing because his aircraft won’t fly with just one. There are many other military titles including such gems as “Petty Officer” (minor issues only please), “Gunner” (I’ll get around to that someday), “Commander” (pretty obvious but what exactly does a “Commander In Chief” do to his boss?), “Sapper” (something to do with rubber production I think) and, of course, “Corporal” (bastardization may go but you will always need “Corporal” punishment). Now the military has these officers addressed by their rank but those who are lazy can just call them “Sir” even though they have not been knighted.
On the other hand while the police also call their senior people by rank, “Commissioner”, “Assistant Commissioner”, “Inspector” etc it is the lower ranks that are generally just known as “Officer”. A “Detective” can be all sorts of ranks too so this becomes another preface eg “Detective Sergeant” etc.
Politics adds yet another dimension to the salutation discussion. A “Prime Minister” who seems to be well past his prime runs the country. Senior politicians are called “Minister” (is this because the only real chance of a result is from constant prayer?) We have “Senator”, “Premier”, “Governor”, “Councilor”, “Mayor” etc but the really amazing thing is all these parasitic leeches on society seem to require the title of “The Honorable”! Where does this come from? Everyone knows that when there are surveys on those people most trusted in society politicians usually come last just behind real estate agents and used car salesmen. (My apologies to any real estate agent or used car salesman who is offended by being mentioned in the same sentence as politicians).
On the top end of those same trust lists are “Doctors”. Just to show how humble these genuinely trusted members of society are, when they finish their long and expensive medical degree they earn the title “Doctor”. When those who choose to become surgeons gain more knowledge they change their title back to the common peoples title of “Mister”. How’s that for keeping your feet on the ground? It seems those people we actually do trust do not seem to need titles to tell us what they think we should believe about them. Remember royalty and judiciary? Hmm. Anther trusted medical title is “Nurse”, with a number of prefixes to denote area of responsibility or if more senior then the title is “Matron”. Just to confuse the issue along with nuns, who teach us to suppress impure thoughts, a Nurse, who often can inspire impure thoughts, can also be known as “Sister”.
Veterinarians are also called “Doctor” and their assistants “Nurse” due to the similarity of their occupations. Is it easier to be a Vet? If the patient dies there is not such a fuss but could a people “Doctor” work well when the patient couldn’t describe their symptoms or pain and only wanted to chew their arm off or hump their leg?
“Doctor” is also a tile used by senior academics. This “Doctor” cannot prescribe treatment for your thyroid problem but if you want to know what royalty have suffered the same problems or what molecules have to conga in the right direction for this to occur then this is your man (or, of course, woman). Academics and the like also can reach the heady title of “Professor”, and those of us old enough to remember Gilligan’s Island know how clever you have to be to be one of those.
But what about the rest of us? We, the humble untitled masses?
The men are “Mister’, the boys are “Master” (Are they then senior to the men? I know some who think so.) The Married women are “Mrs.”, or sometimes “Madam”, which has a whole world of new connotations, and the unmarried women are “Miss.” The phrase “hit and miss” actually grew from Friday night drunken pub lore and was originally “hit on (a) Miss” which is still the primary objective of that group of “Masters” and the more than occasional “Mister.” Of course those women wishing to conceal their marriage status prefer to be known as “Ms.” The “Misters” at the pub just remove their wedding ring and pretend the tan line isn’t there to achieve the same result.
To finish up I thought a little quiz was in order. The person with the tile “Mister” can have other titles meaning much the same thing in other countries. Try to match the title of “Mister” Biscayne (number) with the country he lives in (letter). Answers next time.

01: Biscayne San A: Argentina
02: Comrade Biscayne B: Belgium
03: Herr Biscayne C: Brazil
04: Herr Biscayne D: Denmark
05: Hr Biscayne E: France
06: Meneer Biscayne F: Germany
07: Mignheer Biscayne G: India
08: Mister Mister H: Indonesia
09: Monsieur Biscayne I: Italy
10: Monsieur Biscayne J: Japan
11: Pak Biscayne K: Mexico
12: Pan Biscayne L: Nederland (Holland)
13: Senhor Biscayne M: Norway
14: Senhor Biscayne N: Poland
15: Senor Biscayne O: Poor 80’s band
16: Senor Biscayne P: Portugal
17: Senor Biscayne Q: Russia
18: Senor Biscayne R: South Africa
19: Shri Biscayne S: Spain
20: Signore Biscayne T: Venezuela

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month:
Seen on a beat up EH station wagon “I shoot fish and I vote”
Rednecks should learn punctuation, I have seen what happens when you shoot a shotgun with the muzzle under water and it is not a pretty sight.

Let There Be Light

April / May 2005

Back in the old days a blown light globe just stopped illuminating. One moment it worked the next it didn’t. You would take the globe out, put in a new one and it was bright again. No problem. But now this seems to have changed.
The other day I flicked the light switch and the globe exploded. No subtle pop for this one; it was a bang with a big flash of light and fragments of thin nasty glass everywhere. If you are lucky enough, as I was, and your light switch is far enough away so you are not hit with this glass then the next issue is cleaning up. Sweeping, vacuuming, shaking out cushions etc is not a lot of fun. Then comes the task of getting the remains out of the fitting in the dark. More little jagged edges waiting for a soft finger to approach.
So, you say, an unusual isolated incident. Wait, I say, there is more. I mentioned this to a friend and he told me the same thing has happened to him twice in the last year, both times it was the toilet light. Can you imagine that lengthy clean up procedure while you are busting to go? No thanks. Then another mate said a similar thing had happened to him recently too. It seems to be a quite recent epidemic.
I have a couple of unsubstantiated theories on this one (how unusual you say in disbelief).
Could it be that the electricity supply has deteriorated since privatization? We did get a lot more interruptions to the supply for a while; maybe the new boys can’t shut down the generators quickly enough. Picture this; the turbines are spinning at Loy Yang (and many others) while power hungry factories suck the lifeblood down the line to change steel into tinfoil cars, to change old growth forest into flimsy furniture, to change nutritious fresh food into unhealthy sugar and salt ridden instant meals. You approach the light switch. The whistles blow at the factories and thousands of people hit the off switch and consumption drops dramatically. Your finger is on the switch and you press. Meanwhile all those volts and amps that were rushing to the machines have to be diverted somewhere, because the generators are now pushing them in too fast at the other end, so everyone else using electricity gets a bit more, the stove gets a bit hotter, the shaver turns a bit faster, the computer processes more data and the lights get a bit brighter. Except at your place. You open the switch just as premium power rushes into your house, through the wires, through the switch and into the cold light globe. Cold motors can be damaged if you rev them hard before they are up to temperature, maybe cold light globes can be damaged if hit with super electricity before they are up to temperature. The globe explodes leading to all the other stuff mentioned before.
What? You don’t believe that? OK let’s try another theory.
Everyone knows that the only reason light globes don’t blow up is they have a vacuum inside them. The super hot element has no oxygen to ignite so all is illuminatingly well. This is fine except we invented bug zappers. Bugs, like most living creatures, don’t particularly like being fried to death by thousands of volts. So what do they do? Easy. They wait for evolution to catch up. Thousands of generations of bugs have finally realized that the new enemy is electricity but are still working out how to defend themselves. They have tried tiny sets of sunglasses so the bright lights won’t seem so enticing but they kept falling off because bugs don’t have ears, at least not as we know them. They have tried little rubber insulating suits but you all know how much rubber stops you getting the full feeling so that didn’t work either. They have tried aversion therapy where hundreds of bugs at a time are shown a bright light and are whipped when they approach it, but the bug has such a short memory that when it is leaving the training and it sees a bug zapper it vaguely remembers there was something it should know about that. So it goes to see if there is something there to jog its memory. Fizz. But the last group has had some success. Mosquitoes are getting stronger. They bite more and leave a greater bite mark too. The elite athlete of the mosquito world has worked and trained until its probe is strong enough to pierce glass. The super fit mosquito will bit a light globe and put a tiny hole in it. This lets oxygen in and when you turn on the light, bang. Fortunately for us there are not many mosquitoes dedicated enough to reach this level of fitness and those that are, are athletes and not intellectuals. They sit on the light globe and wait to see the results of their work. Sad really isn’t it?
Oh come on that one was better wasn’t it? All right try again.
China is in the northern hemisphere. Everyone knows that the water in the basin spins opposite in the northern hemisphere as it drains compared to the southern hemisphere. It is a very little known fact that air currents spin opposite too. All our light globes used to be made here in Australia. Southern hemisphere globes built for southern air currents. Now most consumables are made in China where the labor is cheap and the pet food industry actually feeds people. Think about it. Light globes are a fraction of the cost they used to be but they are northern hemisphere globes you know. The globes manufactured in China have the glass made with the air currents going clockwise around them. This puts minute thread like indentations in the glass. This is fine when they are used in the northern hemisphere because the clockwise air currents have an easy path to follow. But here in the southern hemisphere the currents going anti-clockwise go against the threads. This creates miniscule vibrations that cause the globe to fail quicker and in extreme cases the vibrations crack the glass and pop goes the light globe.
What? Still not convinced? One more but this will be the last.
Glass is made from sand and other things right? You heat it up and do stuff and then the rich people can see the beach, from their lounge rooms, through what used to be the beach itself. Amazing. Now everyone knows that when you go to the beach you should always wear sunscreen to protect yourself from the ultra violet rays. This is particularly important now that the hole in the ozone layer has allowed more UV to get through. We slip then we slop then we slap. Shirt, sunscreen and hat right? If we don’t there is a very real and very serious risk of skin cancer, which can be fatal. We have now changed the habits of beach goers radically. Yes there are still those that strip down to a piece of dental floss and a fly’s blanket to soak up the UV rays but they are a rarity, a genuine endangered species living for now and not worried about the future. I think I have covered natural selection in the past. But who looks after the beach itself? The traffic to the beach has destroyed so much vegetation that more and more sand is in the sun all day. The hole in the ozone layer lets more UV onto the sand too. So this overexposed, unprotected sand is scooped up and sent to the glass factory. The light globes are made from sunburned sand and when a melanoma pops up on the glass no one treats it. Eventually it is fatal and the light globe leaks air. I don’t need to go through that result again.
Oh come on that sounds pretty likely doesn’t it? OK one more but only a really short one.
Maybe the globes we buy today are substandard quality and our Australian standards are not enough to keep the cheap shoddy products out? No I didn’t think you would believe that, just pick one of the other theories.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s sticker of the month: “No high octane electricity, Olympic mozzies, clockwise currents and tanned sand”

Might as well cover all bases hey?

Growing Up

March 2005

A boy usually starts his lifelong fascination with the yearning stage. He desires the car and chooses which one he will get over and over as his tastes mature. A TV show with a glimpse of the workings is enough to excite him.

When a young man is totally inexperienced he is in his junk stage. This is when he has got to the point that he wants any car at all. It just has to be a car. It may not get him all the way but at that stage of his life any distance is better than nothing.

He moves on to the trip stage. This is where he has managed to go the distance a few times and suddenly half way there is no longer enough. Here he just wants a car that will get him there, the brand, style, age and condition is not important.

After a while he knows what it takes to maintain his car in top condition and has worked out if he treats it well it will do the same for him. Now he looks at things like body condition and maximum speed when looking for a new car. This is known as the fussy stage.

Some men then get to the commitment stage. They no longer want to change cars all the time as they often have had some nasty surprises. They start looking for a car to last the long term and usually swear fidelity to this car, occasionally without the benefit of a test drive.

During the commitment stage many men go through the unfaithful stage. They become bored with the car in the garage because the bodywork is losing it’s condition and the upholstery is becoming worn, and start looking for any excuse to do short trips in other faster and more exciting cars.

The unfaithful stage often leads back to the trip stage. He no longer has the car he was going to keep forever but finds that the cars available to him are fewer that they used to be and he can no longer be choosy.

For those men who are rich enough they can get to the trophy stage. They change cars regularly for a newer, more sporty and well-styled model, but even these cars that many would cherish get discarded for something else. Commitment is not a word allowed in this stage.

For some men, after many years and many trips the excitement just isn’t there any more. They only use the car occasionally and start looking elsewhere for thrills quite often spending too much time with their mates. This is the turning stage.

Others reach the endurance stage where they want to take longer and longer trips without a break. They push the limits and find new territory. This can, however, be very dangerous if they finally fall asleep at the wheel.

For those who do not reach the turning or endurance stage some get to the kinky stage. They try to find new ways to enjoy equipment they are very familiar with. Skiers use chains, off roaders use snatch straps, there are many ways this is done.

Some men become scared of the dangers of taking the trip. They add protection and safety measures en masse, at the expense of performance and style, so much that there is no pleasure or thrill any more. This is known as the Volvo stage and should be avoided at all costs.

The restoration stage comes to some men, often those in the commitment stage. They look in the garage and can picture the former glory of the car they have. They spend years getting the body right and getting the motor back to original. They end up with a beautiful example of an older model.

The rodding stage is similar to the restoration stage except the man looks at what he has and sets about enhancing it. Body modifications are regularly seen and elapsed times seem to drop rapidly.

Similar to the rodding stage is the horsepower stage. The man spends all his time and effort ensuring the car is the most powerful and the fastest around. This can end badly when the man realizes his own skills are not enough to bring out the best and other drivers can handle it better. It is sad when you can finally afford the performance equipment you have desired all your life but your skills are no longer up to using it properly.

The final stage is the wind down. The man loses interest in taking trips as he has trouble getting the car started. Once it is running he has trouble keeping it going in the right direction for the full trip. This stage often finishes with faded memories in photo albums. Either that or those little blue diamond shaped pills can help.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s sticker of the month: Seen at a major car event on a bright yellow, small Japanese ute with a bowtie emblem on it (it sounded very V8 too),
“BRUM - Tic Tac on steroids”

Carachnophobia

January / February 2005

The doomsday prophets are at it again. The horrific Tsunami, the incredible storms all over the place, the swarms of flies, the Australian cricket team losing (once) and Leighton almost winning.

Yes, once again, the end of the world is nigh.

I’m sure that throughout the ages there have been two sets of individuals that have been reincarnated over and over. The first are those who proclaim the end of the world and tell us that Nostradamis was right because he wrote there will be a major upheaval in the land of the eagle and this will signal the end…. of something or other. The proclaimers (the people, not the Scottish band) then interpret this as being the end of the world whenever something bad happens in America. There are a hell of a lot of people in America and it covers a huge area, so bad things will happen. I do not believe that Auntie Mabel’s verandah collapsing is a sign that the Earth is about to go spinning off into the sun. The proclaimers usually also say “give me your money and I can save you” or “have sex with me and I can save you”, or both.

Can we trust these people? I’d rather trust a politician. “Yes Steve Bracks, I believe you will keep your promises, just look at your track record”. “Yes John Howard, I believe you when you say sending troops into a foreign country will not increase the risk of terrorism at home”.

But the other set of individuals are just as bad. A gun is not dangerous without bullets. OK you can still hit someone with it but you know what I mean. The other set of individuals are those who keep track. Of everything.
The wettest day on record, the hottest February Thursday afternoon since 1973, the longest thunderclap since the monster of ’56.

The statisticians record, the proclaimers proclaim and we, the gullible public, believe.
Take my money, ravish my body, and sell my first born over the Internet; just save me. If the statisticians did not point it out we would just be saying, “A bit hot for this time of year isn’t it?” Has anyone noticed that what we are panicking about is stuff that in older times was unknown or simply not communicated extensively like it is today? Technology and our shrinking world are exposing us to more and more information, which just gives the crackpots more ammunition for their guns.

So, Armageddon? Nay. Conspiracy? Of course.

It’s the spiders.

Have you noticed that all these disasters serve to better the lives of spiders? Global warming means more flies, more flies mean more food for spiders. And the spiders are mobilizing.

Years ago I woke up in a small two man tent to see a huge huntsman inside on the roof. Out we go screaming; six year olds camping in the back yard do not like big, hairy spiders. But it’s not usually the kids, it’s the adults. The spiders are attacking us in our cars. How many times have you hit the wipers saying “Please be outside the screen… oh no.” I’ve had spiders on the gearshift virtually daring me to drive on a highway in peak hour in second. Spiders crawling across the dash, spiders just ducking out of reach when you have a chance to squash them.

But now it seems to be getting worse. The big spider in the daily driver that took ten minutes and half a can of surface spray to remove from under the drivers seat, the spider in Lady Bard’s car (she does not panic, but since she winged it with the club lock there’s been some strange problems, is the injured spider chewing wires for revenge?)

If you don’t believe the conspiracy theory just tell me how in modern cars do huge spiders that look like they could bench press more than me fit between those door seals and get in in the first place? They can’t get in when they are babies and live off the crumbs on the floor and the flies that blow in, because then we’d have to see little ones.

The last straw happened recently when I took the Bardmobile for a spin. As usual it was wait until the driver is going fast on a busy road without any quick exits then poke those hairy legs out from behind the sun visor. Don’t panic, I thought, if I can hit the sun visor from underneath I can squash the spider before it gets out. Because I wasn’t panicking I tapped the visor gently and broke it clean off sending the spider and the visor into the gap between the front seats. That must have killed it I thought nervously, and watching the last known spot I continued along.

The next thing that happened is the still very intact, enraged, giant revenge killer spider started crawling up my leg, fangs poised to ruin my Mother’s grandchildren. Don’t panic I thought as I swatted and sweated and then a small movement in the corner of my eye made me look and see killer spider mark 2 sitting on my shoulder.

OK, now panic.

Since when do these bastards gang up on you?

So anyway, as you can see the spiders are the ones benefiting from this doomsday chain of events. Douglass Adams was wrong, it’s not the mice it’s the octopeds and it’s not Armageddon it’s Aracnageddon. Global warming is actually the spiders making the climate better for flies to breed, more flies equals more spiders because there is more food. So how, you ask, can the spiders control all this? How is it the world can be manipulated by creatures that cannot speak and cannot (we think) understand our technology?

The spiders are reincarnated into statisticians. Just look around you and you can see what creatures we are all reincarnations of. How many mice and sheep are there at your work? There might be the occasional dingo and plenty of cockies squawking around at morning tea. The lions usually run the place and often hire gorillas as deputies. But all of this is very overt, the kings of the jungle tell us what to do and when, but the spiders’ influence is far subtler, they use mind control to change the way we think. First they control our minds and the next thing is Spider Man is a hero.

What is the solution you ask? Chairman Mao had it right. If every person on the planet killed a fly every day there would be less disease and less food for spiders. Fortunately for us spiders do not breed too fast (can you imagine how long it takes little Miss black widow to shave her legs before a hot date – for her a hot date is straight into the sex, then the meal). Let’s print car stickers that say “Squash a fly, starve a spider”. But better is direct action. Spray your car regularly, spray your house regularly, and kill the buggers before they can make you think you are a lamb going to slaughter. Don’t forget the only time there should be eight legs in your car is when you are carrying three passengers.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car rego of the month: Number plate on a Peugeot 306 “OUI 306”.

Does this mean “yes it’s a 306” or “YES it’s a 306”?

For those who are interested Bard and Bardmobile survived, shaken but undamaged (except for the visor).

A Concourse Story

December 2004

Chevy McMember, along with many other members of the club, had heard the requests for help with the Concourse. Help organizing, help running, help judging, help by getting your car on the oval, just help.
There are a lot of people in the club, he thought, and they have a lot of cars. So they really don’t need me. Chevy had some problems with the event too, he didn’t like some of the rules and other things so why show up? He paid his dues every year so what more did they want?
Chevy went to sleep the night before the Concourse not even realizing that the event was the next day. He was busy at work and busy at home, just busy. A good night’s sleep was just what the doctor ordered.
Chevy felt like he had just got to sleep, but the clock said 12.00 when a ’64 Impala crashed through the wall and pushed his bed to the side of the room. Dust and debris everywhere and an old man wearing a leather flying helmet got out of the strangely undamaged car.
“Who are you?” Asked Chevy.
“I am the ghost of Concourse past.” Said the man.
“You mean this is not real?” Asked the still dazed Chevy.
“Of course not, you live on the fourth floor.” Said the ghost.
“What do you want?” Asked Chevy.
“I will show you.” Said the ghost and suddenly they were in the Impala.
The ghost explained to Chevy that he was the first of three ghosts that would visit that night and his particular job was to show him Concourse past. They drove the car through the night and suddenly it was daytime and Chevy realized where they were.
“We are at the old factory,” said Chevy, “the rented one. And that’s a Concourse held there. I remember all the cars scattered round the complex, the hot days where there was no shade and the sun beating off the concrete. Look there’s me, with that old ’67 polished up and cleaned to perfection. What a car that was. And there we are sticking the Polaroid photos to the certificates with the names typed on and putting the whole lot into frames. What good times we had.”
Then all of a sudden they were back in the car and Chevy tried to ask a question but the ghost ignored him and stated to turn transparent. Chevy knew he was better off with half a driver than none so he shut up and closed his eyes.
Chevy woke up in bed. Startled he looked around and saw the room was intact (although there was a strange draught). The clock on the bedside table showed midnight and he settled back thinking it had all been just a weird dream.
Crash, down came the wall again. Chevy jumped as the Volkswagen beetle pulled up on the bed. The man who got out this time was smartly dressed in a three-piece suit and wore a bowler hat.
“You are the ghost of Concourse present.” Said Chevy.
“Ah, a brain surgeon,” said the man “get in.”
And then they were in the beetle, going at a pace that was unsafe even if the man had chosen to stop at the red lights.
“Shouldn’t we slow down?” Asked Chevy who was nervous to say the least.
“No problem for me, I’m already a ghost.” Said the man. “Died in a car smash.” He added with relish.
Then they were at the oval.
“This years Concourse,” said Chevy, “a few cars there but some leaving already and the judging hasn’t finished. I can’t see any members from other chapters either. Look at the certificates being printed with digital images on them, a PA system even an ice cream truck. It’s all laid on but where is everyone?”
Then they were back in the car again, Chevy hanging on to the safety strap for all he was worth. Another nightmare drive and then they were looking through a window of a house.
“I’m not going to the Concourse,” a well-known member was saying, “it’s really just a show and shine, and you have to go down a dirt road. We wouldn’t want just any crappy car at a real Concourse.”
“He’s telling his mates,” said Chevy, “not the club. How can they fix it if he doesn’t tell them?”
“Who do you tell?” Asked the ghost.
“Oh.”
Then they were at another window.
“It’s not worth taking my car,” said another well-known member, “it can’t win because it won before.”
“Stupid rule,” said his mate “It’s like telling Thorpie he can swim in a special race but it’s someone else’s turn to get the gold medal.”
“Or cricket,” chimed in another mate, “imagine the authorities saying we have to drop half the team because no-one can beat us.”
“Yeah,” said someone else, “if they want to win they should work at being better, not try to make rule changes to put the best out of the game.”
“They are like formula one.” Said one.
“They fiddle with rules like that too.” Said two.
“A competition should be handicap free.” Said three.
“It’s like keeping the best cars away is what these rules are for.” Said four.
Then Chevy and the ghost were back in the car.
“So that’s why there were not that many cars.” Said Chevy.
“Not again.” Yelled the ghost.
Chevy looked up as a semi trailer skidded straight at them, he closed his eyes and waited for the impact.
Chevy woke up in bed again.
It was still midnight on the clock; the wall was intact again (but the draught was still there). The ghost of Concourse future is next he thought, and I don’t think I want to see that.
Chevy set the time to four o’clock thinking that might just fool them. He then stood next to the window and thought they can’t come through here without going over me first. He looked out the window at the still night.
Crash.
It was behind him this time. Chevy turned around and there was a battered 70’s orange Volvo on his bed. It had fallen through the roof. He couldn’t see a driver.
“Um, you’d be the ghost of…”
“IN.” Said a voice in his head and Chevy was in the Volvo.
It was very tattered and he wondered whether he would have to marry the broken seat spring that was getting very friendly. The car drove out through the wall and this broke the windscreen giving Chevy a very distorted view of the road ahead. They traveled, not to a graveyard but to the oval. There were three cars in the roped off section at the front, the three drivers in front of them, an enormous mountain of equipment that Chevy did not recognize but not another person in sight.
“Good turnout this year.” Said one of the drivers. And he seemed to be serious.
Back in the Volvo they went to the club headquarters. Chevy saw a team of people taking out the equipment, the memorabilia, the library and the regalia. They were putting it straight into a rubbish skip.
“Strange,” Said one of the workers, “a club that big and rich can disappear so quickly.”
“People just went their own directions.” Said another.
Then the van pulled up with the new owners of the factory.
“NO,” screamed Chevy, “not them!”
Chevy woke up in bed. The clock showed 7.15. The wall was there yet again. It was daylight. It was Concourse day.
I’m going to do it he said to himself, shivering from the draught. I’ll take the car I’ll help run it or judge it or something, I’ll tell the committee what my gripes are so we can all work together. I’m sure they will listen and discuss my issues with me.
Chevy rushed down the stairs and ran out the door.
Chevy tripped on the pile of rubble that had been his bedroom wall and was later taken to hospital with concussion.
He missed the Concourse but there is always next year.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s extra bit:

Merry Christmas and a safe and happy New Year to all Chev Club vehicles and their owners. (Concourse condition or not (owners that is). Bah humbug.)

All For The Sake Of Some Glowworms

November 2004

It was a fairly simple request, one member of the group wanted to take his kids to see some glowworms and he asked where do you go? A dugout was suggested. So, we asked, what is a dugout?
A dugout is a fire protection device, he explained. It is a man made cave usually constructed by digging out a pit, making log walls and a log roof then filling in earth over the top. The doorway has blankets and a supply of water. When sheltering from a fire the occupants keep the blanket wet, which insulates those inside from some of the heat and the smoke.
Because of the log walls there are usually glowworms there.
I had occasion to be traveling the road from the Upper Yarra area to Marysville where one of these dugouts is, so I took the instructions and went looking. To make a long story short I did not find it. The instructions were simple a sign with “dugout 2km” then “dugout 1km” then a clearing on the east side of the road and the dugout. I saw no signs, no dugout, but no serious problem really, just no glowworms.
However we must stand on our principles and the person who suggested the dugout was curious. In the seventies and eighties he had spent a lot of time in the Yarra Ranges area exploring many things including dugouts. Therefore a second trip was arranged.
We did the trip and the dugout was found. There are no signs, no blanket and no water. The entrance is overgrown and the walls and roof are now concrete so there are also no glowworms. But why is the dugout in such a state of disrepair? Possibly all will be restored when the fire danger season is upon us but I ask a question. If there is a potentially life saving thing like this should it not be signposted all year? A refuge needs to be something you head to instinctively not something you have to try to locate at the last minute.
So we discussed the situation further.
There must be more dugouts shall we go and look?
There are and I do believe we shall.
Trip three really started in Poweltown. The very helpful lady in the store was able to sell us a local map but no dugouts were marked. A long time ago there was a forestry commission map that had them but this new one is privately produced as the forestry ones are out of print. The talk went to glowworms, of course, and they have a dugout for the town. She had never been in it but knew where it was and, yes, it was still a timber construction. We went and looked and there it was exactly where suggested but no, it was not timber, it was concrete.
Dugouts two glowworms zero.
All right off we go into the forest, we know from the old days where there is another.
A drive through the forest and there we are in the open area with a water point but no dugout. There are very fresh tracks of some sort of bulldozer and it looks like this has been filled in recently. Has the state government decided to eradicate glowworms?
We continue. Apparently the requirement was a dugout every five miles so we should see another soon. Another clearing, another remnant, this time with many old logs still visible amongst the earth.
My friend explained that the wooden framed dugouts had to be rebuilt every ten years or so to stop rotting and collapse. From what we could see the dugouts where a concrete truck could reach have been concreted and the rest destroyed. Could this be fire safety at it’s most cost effective?
We continued up Mount Bride and there is one at the top. Apparently. We stopped before the locked gate in the fire trail but by this time there was heavy rain so we did not walk the three hundred meters or so to find out if there were more bulldozer tracks.
We gave up at that point and headed home.
So there are many unanswered questions. We know that as far back as 1932 after fires that left nine people dead, forests commission officers are said to have urged saw millers to construct dugouts at mills. There are a number of dugout stories involved in the fires that led up to and became the 1939 “Black Friday” disaster where 71 people died. In the Rubicon area four people apparently died after they placed their furniture in a dugout and then tried to outrun the fire, another eight died when trapped in an area where a dugout had been started but not finished. In Tanjil Bren there were two dugouts and the thirty-one workers in the large one survived but the three people, including the owners, in the small one died. Apparently they were unable to keep the blanket wet due to the extreme heat while the larger group could rotate people to do this, as the heat at the doorway was exhausting. In the Erica district there were many dugouts built after the 1932 experience and in 1939 there was no loss of life.
After the 1939 fires there was a Royal Commission headed by Judge Stretton and the report lead directly to the forests act of 1939 which gave forest commission officers the power to enforce the building of dugouts at mills in protected and reserved forests.
We know the dugouts were there, signed, and maintained as recently as the eighties but what has happened since?
Maybe cars are deemed to be fast enough to outrun a fire these days although many lives were lost in 1939 as people tried to do just that. As a suggestion if we are on a Chevrolet Car Club run in a forest and we see smoke approaching we should not then let the President, in his club eligible vehicle, set the pace. (Sorry Michael).
I spoke to a friend who is in the CFA in a farming district near Ballarat. He had never heard of dugouts. It is my understanding that the CFA volunteers are sent where there are fires and may be unfamiliar with the area they attend. Should the existence of such a major protection system in the saw milling areas be widely known in these circles?
But finally I have one more very important question. Where can we send the family that want to see those elusive glowworms?

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s poem of the month:

I wish I was a glow worm,
A glow worm's never glum.
'Cos how can you be grumpy
When the sun shines out your bum!
(Author unknown)

Old Proverbs Die Hard

October 2004

Farmer Joe Dust was angry. In fact he might even say he was “bloody pissed off”. Farmer Dust was a fourth generation dairy farmer and it looked like he was going to be the last in his line. He read the letter again, cursed so much that it made the poddy calf in the home paddock blush, then went to the outhouse and used the letter for a very basic thing (no not to plug the hole in the wall).

Early next morning, (that is early by city time - farmer Dust had already milked the cows, serviced the tractor and plowed the big tree paddock by the time he left), farmer Dust carefully tied the dog onto the tray of the ute, checked the lights were working and the number plates visible, put his seat belt on and drove into town making sure to stop at the stop sign at Johnson’s corner. He thought to himself - who is there that I can talk to about this new copper, another city boy who does not understand what crapping in your own nest means.

There was a gathering outside the solicitors with all the farmers in the district there. It seems that Australia Post was very efficient that day and they had all got the letter too. Dave, the solicitor, was in the middle of the crowd trying to get a copy of the letter but all he heard was “I burnt mine”, “fed mine to the pigs”, “chucked it in the bin”, “Bull?” “bog roll” “good work!”
Slowly they pieced it all together and eventually the story was this. Apparently the breeds of cows the Dusts, and all the other district farmers, had had for four generations were about to be banned. They were very hardy, always gave good milk and hardly ever kicked the bucket over (mostly because in farmer Dusts district they had gone to milking machines 30 years ago). But some pimply, suit wearing, tree hugging, university educated upstart who had never had to get up at four or five to milk the cows had decided that these cows created too much methane and no longer passed the brand new retrospective emission standards.

In China they had bred an experimental brand new “super cow” breed that cut methane emissions by 40%, this was a huge boost to saving the environment and helping reduce the hole in the ozone layer. Not only that but the new cows were cream limited, that is the government has worked out the maximum percentage of cream that is healthy in milk and these cows had been genetically modified to never produce more cream than that amount in their milk. In effect they were “skinny cows”.
Each farmer had been given 12 months to change his heard over to the new breed or face fines and after 2 years any of the old cows were to be destroyed. Dave said there was no way this upstart would get away with this and it would never get past the Senate because the Democrats held the balance of power there and they were very sympathetic to the rural community.
The group tried to remember who had signed the letter and eventually came up with Andrew Ford, the new Federal Minister for Agriculture. No one knew much about Andrew Ford. It seems he was very young and had been given a prime cabinet portfolio as soon as he was elected to parliament. This was the first anyone had heard about him, and what a way to get noticed.

Dave’s secretary, Jenny, came out of the office and gave Dave a letter that had arrived in the mail that morning. It was from Andrew Ford. Dave read out the important bits to the assembled farmers. The letter said Dave should expect to be contacted by some local farmers with regard to the new rules on low emission skinny cows.
Just to save time, wrote the Minister, the bill has already passed the senate so that is not a problem, the dairy industry has been re-classified as an essential service so don’t even consider strike action as the farms could then be confiscated and failure to comply with the new rules will automatically put the farmer concerned into the category of “un-Australian” which enables all sorts of penalties and sanctions. In short, said the letter, don’t even try to stop this happening, just obey the new rules. Or else.
Dave looked into the details of the letter and a week later was telling the group of farmers there was nothing they could do. There was no way around the new laws as they were just that, laws.

Farmer Dust drove home that day seething. He had priced the new cows and they cost twice as much as “normal” cows and to make matters worse there was no detail on the yields from these animals available so he was unsure how many he would need to maintain his current output. The other thing the government had done was cap the price of milk so the co-op would not pay anything more for milk so Farmer Dust was unsure whether the business would still be viable.

As Joe Dust got to Johnson’s corner a car came through the stop sign on the wrong side of the road. Joe swerved to avoid the car, which he did, but ended up stuck in the ditch at the side of the road. The other car stopped and the new Policeman got out and looked at the stuck ute. “Too bad” he said “but no harm done”. Farmer Dust had a few choice things to say to this but the cop just told him to shut up or he’d be booked for abusive language. Joe asked the cop why he was not booking himself for the traffic offences and was told “the law only applies when there is someone to enforce it, and I’m off duty now.” The cop left and Joe had to wait for someone to come along and pull the ute out. “What’s the matter Bull?” “Ute’s stuck.” “What happened?” “Swerved to avoid a pig.”

Two days later a primary producer registered truck pulled up outside Parliament House. Joe Dust got out and dragged a cow out of the back. Cow in tow he approached the security guards and showed them an order from Minister Ford’s office for one cow for comparison tests. It took some talking but eventually Joe Dust became the first man ever to walk through Parliament House with a cow on a rope. The security guard escorted him to the Minister’s waiting room and left. Farmer Dust knew the Minister and his staff were at an important trade briefing so he let himself in to the Minister’s private office. A cow can produce a nasty kick and those door locks just aren’t quite up to that sort of treatment. Shortly after that he left Parliament House without the cow but with a rather thick bundle of papers under the forged order, now sporting a fresh signature to confirm delivery.

When the Minister returned to his office it was badly damaged by a rampaging cow and much of the paperwork was destroyed or unrecognizable. The name of the visitor who had been there was false and the registration of the delivery truck was also fictional.
Joe Dust sent a parcel to every television station, every radio station and every newspaper in the country all containing the same information and telling them the others had also received it. The news broke very quickly that a farmer had entered Parliament House and obtained documents from the Minister for Agriculture’s office. The farmer had said this was not illegal as his local police officer, who was named, had told him the law did not apply when there was no one to enforce it and there were no lawmen in that office that day.

The paperwork proved the Minister was being paid by a Chinese consortium to promote the low emission cows and also by a very large hamburger chain to create an excess of beef in the Australian market and drive the prices down. The suppressed milk yield figures for the new cows were averaging only 25% of the old ones so methane emissions would actually increase by 60% per liter of milk produced with the new cows. The genetically modified cows produced milk and cream that was totally unsuitable for cheese production. This did not bother the minister who was lactose intolerant.
There were also details of the deal reached to get the bill through the Senate but these were not produced due to legal charges being laid.

The minister has vanished.
The laws have been repealed.
The policeman has been transferred.
Farmer Dust smiles as he tells his mates the Minister and his mates should never have let a Bull loose in a China shop.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month: “Volkswagen – The Heartbeat Of Germany” seen on a Kombi van.

All The Chapel Bells Stopped Ringing

September 2004

Are you married? Have you been married before? Getting on and yet to take the plunge? With all the failed marriages and bad publicity it is not surprising that fewer people are making the commitment of marriage these days. But I have discovered that the problem with the very large number of marriages that fail can be linked to the changes in automotive attitudes over time. Stay with me here – think of your partner or potential partner as your car (in this case lets call her/him Betsy) and consider this:

Then: You had to crank Betsy over a few times to get her going, so you worked up a sweat.
Then: You had to turn Betsy on and find the right button to push to get her going, so you had to concentrate.
Now: It’s just a quick twist of the key and you expect Betsy to be going.
Then: Betsy was a high maintenance vehicle. You had to regularly check her fluids, pressures and charge and keep them right.
Now: Someone else does the maintenance because you are too busy and you just jump in and expect Betsy to be ready.
Then: You usually took Betsy on long trips and were ready to drive all day if necessary.
Now: Everything is nearer to hand and the quick trip to the shops is all you have time for. Betsy is not even warmed up when you have got back home.
Then: You could feel the road, the driving and the danger (I am NOT going to use the “wind in the hair” joke here).
Now: There are so many extras and safety features that you hardly feel a thing.
Then: You had to work and save for ages to get Betsy so when you did you would look after her very carefully.
Now: Cars are almost disposable, easier to get, easier to get rid of for a new one and so often treated badly.
Then: Cars had individual shape and style so many older models were considered attractive.
Now: All modeled the same so the only real difference is age.
Then: You had to be aware of others, think what they may do and plan your actions.
Now: We rely on indicators, numerous brake lights, red arrows etc and don’t think.
Then: Betsy was built to last.
Now: She’s far too sophisticated and complex to last long term.
Then: The practical models were considered to be the best.
Now: The tiny fast ones that burn out quick are the most desired.
Then: You made your own special music in the car.
Now: CD’s, FM radio etc mean others create the entertainment for you.
Then: Time in the car was time on your own; you could concentrate on the road.
Now: The phone rings non-stop.
Then: Manual cars – need to learn clutch control, manual windows – need to wind them yourself.
Now: All automatic.
Then: Low power headlights meant you had to carefully feel your way.
Now: High power halogens dazzle everyone.
Then: Slow vacuum wipers made some things mercifully blurred.
Now: High-speed wipers with high tech inserts make even negative things crystal clear.
Then: Betsy was made in Australia, America or England. Some exotic Betsy’s may also have come from France or Italy.
Now: There are Betsy’s from countries that we have never even heard about and we cannot understand their culture.
Then: The accessories to brighten things up were chrome bright work.
Now: Plastic accessories.
Then: You took your family sedan wherever you wanted to go.
Now: So many like to show by their choice of car that they prefer the dirt track.
Then: You drove your own car all the time.
Now: People lend their cars to their friends or hire something different.
Then: There were plenty of unexplored places.
Now: Seems everywhere you go someone has been there before.
Then: Cars were reasonably quiet.
Now: Loud exhausts, doof-doof headaches and constant nagging beepers.
Then: You were lucky to have one car to drive.
Now: People want a garage full to choose according to lifestyle and whim.
Then: Major mechanical failure (gearbox, engine etc) you fix it.
Now: Get rid of Betsy and get a new model.
Then: Drive carefully.
Now: Push her to the limit.
Then: Go to church every Sunday.
Now: Weddings and funerals (have we lost our faith?)

If you are getting married soon I suggest the vows be changed to remind us of what true commitment really is:

Do you take this vehicle to be your lawful wedded drive?
Will you love it for Pontiac or for Camry?
In Volvo and in GMC,
For Cadillac or for Chevrolet as long as you both shall motivate?

I do, I will, and let’s do a massive burnout right down that aisle.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month: “Give way to the right. And I’m right” seen on a young girls car wearing P plates.

A Farewell Message.
As most will have realized by now this is the last issue of the Bow Tie that “Mad” Mark Raos will be editing. The amount of work he has put into this job has been enormous and I must add my thanks to that of many other members for his many years of service to the club in the capacity of editor of the best car club magazine I have seen. On a personal level I also want to say thank you for the support and encouragement over the years I have been writing this column, Mark has made my task much easier and rewarding.
I wish you much enjoyment in having the magazine finally arrive in the letterbox finished, and my thoughts are with you and Nea in this difficult time.
Your testament remains in mine and many other bookshelves, proudly displayed.

The Biscayne Bard.

Magic Happens

August 2004

There is a lot of talk that there is no magic left in the world today, but even if there are very few magicians anymore you only have to look around to see magic from many different people on any day.

There are different types of magic and the first on we will look at is the transformation e.g. the magician will turn a scarf into a bunch of flowers. Here are some modern examples:
Traffic planners - who turn freeways into car parks.
State governments – who turn freeways into toll ways.
Television production companies – who can turn comedy into tragedy.
All of us – who turn cars into corners.
Kids – who turn skateboard rides into ambulance rides.
Some football teams – who turn a certain win into a loss.
A bunch of guys watching footy on TV – who turn beer into urine.
Inclement weather – that turns hairstyles into mops.
Politically motivated individuals – who turn clubs into unhappy places.
Children hooked on fizzy drinks – who turn water into whine.
Celebrity marriages of convenience – that turn homosexuals into heterosexuals.
David Copperfield – who managed to turn a supermodel into a housewife.

The next type of magic is the vanishing act where a magician would make the pretty half dressed assistant disappear. Here are the modern examples:
Politicians – making election promises disappear.
More politicians – making a surplus vanish into thin air.
Multinational development companies – making natural resources disappear.
That bunch of guys watching the footy – making a few pizzas disappear.
Network executives – making a TV series disappear.
The minister for immigration – making migration zones disappear.
GST – making 10% of you pay packet disappear.
Drivers suffering from burnout – making tyre tread disappear in a cloud of smoke.

The last type of magic we will look at is the conjuring trick; you know the old “watch me pull a rabbit out of this hat”. Our modern examples are:
Off road driving clubs – pulling a 4wd out of a puddle.
Some much envied clubbers – pulling a good sort out of a bad lot.
Emergency service members – pulling a drunken politician out of a car.
Reporters on a slow week – pulling a story out of a boring situation.
Swap meet vendors – pulling a trailer out of a site.
A housewife – pulling a leg of lamb out of a fridge.
Maternity staff – pulling a baby out of a woman.
My goodness its twins – pulling another baby out of the woman.
Deranged drag racers – pulling a 9 second pass out of a Volvo.
That’s it. This has got just too ridiculous, this article ends here.

By The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month:
“My other car is a Porsche – but today I am in a hurry” seen on a Suzuki Alto.

A way to B caring for the C or saving D planet

July 2004

This is what is known as a “choose your own” story. In it you choose the multiple-choice answer you most agree with to create your own version.
To test the system, choose your answer to the statement below.
If you were to choose more than one answer:
A: You will spoil the story
B: You are greedy
C: It will be more fun
D: There’s not much I can do about it is there?
So, that done, are you ready to give it a go?
A: Yes, let me at it
B: Just wait until I get a pencil
C: Bugger off - which way to the wanted and for sale?
D: Sorry, I’ve turned the page already.
All right, time to start the story.
Ever since you were first told that a “greenie” is not:
A: What you call your mate John Green
B: A pretty girl who lives in a brottle
C: Something adults do not want you to eat
D: Found in Sesame Street next to the blue A
You have been bombarded with messages urging you to save:
A: Amazon rainforests and pristine wilderness
B: Space for dessert
C: The ozone layer
D: Baby seals and giant pandas
Now lets take a huge step backwards, way back past the age of the dinosaurs. It is common knowledge (everyone who wasn’t there knows) that since life began on earth countless different species have flourished and died in a process known as:
A: Evolution
B: Natural selection
C: Critters with big teeth eat critters without faster legs
D: Consumerism
So what this tells us is that when the human race:
A: Was created
B: Emerged from the primeval swamp
C: Landed on Earth
D: Came down from the trees
They did not start the process by which species become:
A: Extinct
B: History
C: Lunch
D: Redundant
What it tells us is that we have just changed the order of what survives and what does not because we prefer:
A: Plains of Mccows producing Mcmethane
B: Eating wild animals
C: Sniffing exhaust fumes
D: Smelly unwashed hippies telling us what is right
To:
A: Vehicles limited to one horsepower
B: Forests where malaria breeds
C: Having enough firewood to keep warm in winter
D: Wild animals eating us
But in defense of our questionable ecological record it must be stated that we have gone to great lengths to protect and preserve many species that:
A: Did not care about us and would not save us if the situation was reversed
B: We save for our own conscience, not to maintain the “balance of nature”
C: Had reached their “annihilate by” date
D: Deserved to die out anyway
Mankind has reached this number one position at the top of the evolutionary tree due to:
A: A complete lack of respect for our fellow creatures
B: Superior intelligence
C: Dumb luck
D: Gunpowder
But no matter how we got to this position we need to maintain it, if only to ensure that:
A: Our children inherit the responsibility to fix our mistakes (they won’t clean their rooms so how about the planet)
B: The bugs don’t win
C: We don’t give the critters with the big teeth indigestion
D: We can live in the manner to which we have become accustomed.
At this point in time the biggest threat to the human race is:
A: Nuclear weapons
B: Martians (particularly Marvin)
C: The crocodile hunter
D: Global warming
And the best possible way to confront this threat is with superior numbers. To let us achieve this we must reverse the Australian population decline. The most effective way to increase population, as shown when studying:
A: Giant pandas
B: Whales
C: Bilbys
D: Tigers
Is to create authentic:
A: Habitats
B: Social groupings
C: Libido
D: Upholstery
Now it is well known that the best place for humans to breed is in the back seat of a car. But we have more and more cars so why is the population decreasing? Picture a typical Friday night, out for a romantic dinner, some dancing then off for a cuddle in the back seat. But due the .05 laws they have decided she will drive and they struggle in the back seat of her:
A: Hyundai
B: Pulsar
C: Daewoo
D: Corolla
Either that or they are in his car which is a:
A: Lancer
B: WRX
C: Celica
D: Skyline
Complete with masses of doof doof gear and a cavernous exhaust that makes it sound like the baked beans scene from “Blazing Saddles” played at 100 times the speed. Either way there’s not a lot of room and we aren’t all contortionists are we? Frustration and cramp take their toll and the dreaded Fiesta flop sets in and another opportunity is lost. So, Ladies and Gentlemen, get rid of that contraceptive rice burning buzz box and restore a:
A: Chevrolet
B: Pontiac
C: Buick
D: Oldsmobile
And you will know that you are doing your bit to save the world.

By The:
A: MC Author
B: iscayne Bard
C: adillac Critic
D: esoto Despot

The Biscayne Bard’s car sticker of the month is:
A: Just another poor excuse for not doing one
B: Some twisted observation about the world
C: “Four out of three people do not understand fractions”
D: A pitiful waste of space in an otherwise good publication

The Bard’s Favorite Jokes

June 2004

A midget, 2 foot tall, goes into a bar. He climbs up the bar and sees the bar tender. “’Excuse me, can I have a beer?” “Have you got proof of age?” He unfolds his license and shows it. The barman gives him a beer and he pays for it. The midget looks left, looks right then drinks the beer down in on shot. He sees a truckie at the end of the bar drinking from a jug and runs across the bar, pokes his head in the jug and goes “brrrrrreeeeeee” The truckie says “What the…” but the midget has run down to the other end of the bar again. The truckie shrugs and goes back to drinking. The midget asks for another beer and again looks left then right and drinks it all down. He looks across and the truckie is still there so he runs across, puts his head in the jug and goes “brrrrrreeeeeee” The truckie says “Hey you don’t…” but the midget has run away again. At the other end of the bar he calls the barman. “Schuse me, canniva nudder beer?” “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” “Jusht one more an I’ll go home.”
“OK but this is the last one I’ll give you.” He gets the beer, looks left then right and drinks it down. He runs across the bar to where the truckie is drinking out of a new jug, pokes his head in and goes “brrrrrreeeeeee” The truckie grabs him by the scruff of the neck, looks him in the eyes and says “You do that one more time and I’ll rip your knob off.” “I haven’t got a knob.” “Then if you do that one more time I’ll rip your balls out.” “Haven’t got any balls.” “No knob?” “No.” “No balls?” “No.” Puzzled the truckie says “The how do you pee?” and the midget goes “brrrrrreeeeeee”.
I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't find any.
Two peanuts walk into a rather rough bar, not looking for any trouble. Unfortunately, one was a salted.
A jumper lead walks into a bar. The barman says, "I'll serve you, but don't start anything."
A sandwich walks into a bar. The barman says "Sorry we don't serve food in here."
A dyslexic man walks into a bra.
A man walks into a bar with a roll of tarmac under his arm and says: "Pint please, and one for the road."
A termite walks into a bar and says “Is the bar tender here?”
"Doc, I can't stop singing 'The green, green grass of home'." "That sounds like Tom Jones syndrome." "Is it common?" "Well........It's not unusual........."
A guy walks into the psychiatrist wearing only cling film for shorts. The shrink says, "Well, I can clearly see you're nuts."
Answer phone message "....If you want to buy marijuana, press the hash key...."
A man takes his Rottweiler to the vet and says, "My dog's cross-eyed, is there anything you can do for him? " "Well," says the vet, "let's have a look at him" So he picks the dog up and examines his eyes, then checks his teeth. Finally, he says, "I'm going to have to put him down." "What? Because he's cross-eyed? " "No, because he's really heavy"
My friend drowned in a bowl of muesli. He was pulled in by a strong currant.
I went to a really energetic "Seafood Disco" last week .... and pulled a mussel.
A tourist is walking in the Greek Isles when he sees a man sitting on a rock crying. He asks the man what the matter and the man points to all the fishing boats in the harbour at the bottom of the hill. “You see those fishing boats? I built them all, plank by plank and do they call me Stavros the boat builder? No. You see all the sails on the boats? I made them all, sewing them by hand and do they call me Stavros the sail maker? No. You see the roofs on the houses in the town? I tiled them all piece by piece and do they call me Stavros the tiler? No. But you have sex with just one goat….”

The Biscayne Bard.

The Biscayne Bard’s editorial of the month: That last joke is a reflection of some club members thoughts on the committee over the last year. Don’t let the bad overrule the good things that have been achieved, we are all, after all, just volunteers doing our best to assist the club in any way we can. By the way where are the goats?

Horsing Around

May 2004

You are standing on an open plain where the only sign of human habitation as far as the horizon in any direction is the occasional wagon track or hoof mark with a horseshoe imprint. You are standing above millions of dollars worth of undiscovered oil which doesn’t matter because horse power is currently counted in horses and high technology is the steam locomotives that sometimes pass somewhere out of sight. Internal combustion only occurs if you suck too hard on that cigar while drinking that high-octane rotgut whisky they serve at the saloon in town.
The wind blows through the spinifex, the prairie dogs hide in their burrows, yes you are in the Wild West back when cattle were steaks on the hoof and not growing up to join the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles…
Any moment you expect to hear galloping hooves and see a rider approach in a cloud of dust.
The rider does not appear.
I said any moment you expect to hear galloping hooves and see a rider approach in a cloud of dust.
Still no rider.
All right, who’s in charge of production? Carol? Hey Carol the scene is set, we’re ready to go – let’s get this done and knock off before it gets too hot. Now send in the rider.
Still no rider.
OK Carol are we going to have a bun fight about this? I‘ll go and find the rider myself.
You go looking for the missing rider and after a while you see a couple of shapes sheltering in a small patch of shade. You approach and see that, due to the miracle of modern poetic license, it is the Lone Ranger and his trusty steed, Silver. But something is wrong, Silver is on his side and his breathing is labored. Silver is getting old and with all the new series, the reruns and the movies he’s been carrying a load too big even for a young horse and, let’s face it, if Silver was any longer in the tooth he’d be called Paul McCartney (goo goo goo joob).
The Lone Ranger is sad. He is watching his faithful companion of countless years fade by the minute. Is this the end of the longest partnership since Jagger and Richards?
Suddenly you hear galloping hooves and a group of riders approach in a cloud of dust.
Oh Carol, I know that I am but a fool, but how is it that there is no rider when we want one and then a whole bunch when we don’t want them? What are they - Coppers?
But the riders are not the law. They are Indians. One says to the Lone Ranger “His breath is random we must test.”
The Braves approach Silver and test and observe.
“Bad.”
“Very bad.”
“Must call the Spirit of the Bow and Arrow.”
“More bad.”
“Must summon the old Spirit of the Spear.”
“More bad.”
“Then must invoke the sacred and ancient Club Spirit.”
The Lone Ranger said, “Can this be done? I thought your tribe was lost.”
The Indians replied “As long as there are Braves with true hearts there is always hope.”
The Indians invoked the sacred and ancient Club Spirit, many members of the tribe assisted, many hours were spent but eventually Silver was saved. At first his breathing improved and then he was able to stand. The Braves rubbed Silver with the sacred snake oil (which is used before the coat protector) and, as Silver got cleaner and cleaner he also got darker and darker. When they had finished Silver turned out to be blacker than the ace of spades (on a really dark night).
The Lone Ranger was asked how this could be and his explanation was strange but apparently true.
Flashback.
The Walking Ranger strolled the main street of town dispensing his own justice to those who could not ride or run away too fast. He was, to be honest, the butt of many a joke. One day a cruel, rich property owner rode into town on a magnificent young black horse that proceeded to throw him off in front of the saloon, much to the amusement of those watching. The man drew his Colt Pieces Maker to blow the young horse away but the Walking Ranger stopped him. He said that given three months he could make horse the best in the whole state. They eventually agreed that he should train the horse and return him in three months for a small payment. The Walking Ranger trained the horse and rode him and soon the Walking Ranger became known as the Loan Ranger due to his borrowed steed. The man and horse became good partners and very attached and, as the day of return approached, the Loan Ranger realized he could not return such a noble beast to such a cruel man. The Loan Ranger took the horse to a peroxide mine (he said this had worked for many a filly so why not a colt) and he made the black horse Silver. The Loan Ranger changed his name to the Lone Ranger, put on a mask and he and Silver set out to do good where they could.
End of flashback.
So now we see the Lone Ranger and the cured Silver celebrating, they are dancing and singing.
They must think it’s Christmas, Carol.
But what was the real problem behind this episode? The Lone Ranger had recently spent time in hospital getting his heart fixed and Silver was jealous.
Yes Silver had open-heart surgery envy.
But now, thanks to those Braves, Silver has a new heart too.

The Biscayne Bard.

The Biscayne Bard’s bad taste headline of the month: Seen in the March 2004 Air Cargo Asia Pacific. “CIA upgrading to handle boom”.

A Pen With No Ink

April 2004

Recently I spent the $7.95 and bought a copy of a very popular "car enthusiast" magazine. I get this on a regular basis to see what is happening in the world of modified cars.
The magazine covers the VS HoIdens, Fords, Chryslers, Chevs as well as some racing coverage including drag racing and the occasional 6 or 4 pot vehicle. We also get a look at interesting new additions to the new car line up and reviews of major events such as the Summernats.
All in all it is a good read and we get to see some interesting things.
But just how important is one columnist to a publication?

I know and appreciate greatly that some people enjoy reading the Bard in this esteemed publication but reality is that if the Bard finished this month there would be no gap on a page with the caption "This is where the Bard should be". Who noticed the "Last Laugh" column missing out of the April "Royal Auto"? There are many other interesting and funny items that can and do appear and the gap would be rapidly filled.
Back to the magazine I was reading...

I saw the cover car was a ute built for burnout competitions with an engine hanging out the bonnet that would make the QE2 envious. 2000HP it said, nice one I thought.
The index page has pictures of various cars from the articles in the magazine and I noticed the biggest picture was of the cover ute, it still looked good.
A few pages in there was a picture of a '57 Chev drag car driven by the owner of the cover ute. The motor was about the same size and I love to see any Chev out there even if it is severely modified and, I believe, Hemi powered.
In a couple more pages there was an ad for an upcoming event showing a number of very cool cars and there in the front row was, you guessed it, the cover ute. Well it does have a very big motor.
A little further in there was the section where the readers write in to have their say. One young reader was very complimentary to the ute owners dad who is even more well known for a '57 Chev drag car. Nice pic of Dad and the cover ute was not in sight.

Further in was a report on the new drag racing venue in Sydney and a picture of Dad's car heading down the strip. The report told us that the son had won the Door slammer event, hey well done.
Turn some more pages and we reach the feature on the ute. 6 pages of info on what was done to achieve the 2200 odd horsepower etc and because we are in the middle of the magazine we look at the pull out poster.
One side had a shot of a lovely '33 Ford coupe although the car was only half the poster and the rest was sky. Look, the sky is blue!
Turn the poster over and there is the ute filling the entire page. Did I say it has a really big motor?
The rest of the magazine was clear except for Dad's regular column toward the back, complete with picture, which also gave us a rundown of the Sydney event this time from the insider's point of view. Very cool!
So what is the problem with me you ask? Why have I wasted an entire column of my own counting how many pictures of the ute appeared in the magazine? (11 - family total - 15)

At the time of writing the massive motor had never turned in anger.
They had not started it.

The super huge burnout ute could have had a cardboard mock up engine and we would still have thought the same about it.
What is missing from the 11 pictures of the massive burnout ute? The smoke of course, maybe their editor used it all to blow up someone's arse?
Is Dad's column so important to the magazine that this massive coverage could not wait until someone could find the key? Surely, in an attempt to keep one (much respected) columnist happy, they have now put the cart before the horsies.
So what sort of precedent is this?

Come and look at the biggest airliner in the word! (It doesn't fly yet but it will)
Man breaks high jump world record! (Tomorrow)
Fastest computer processor ever invented! (We think)
Huge budget surplus and tax cuts. (Predicted)
Bow Tie magazine circulation exceeds 200,000. (In our dreams)
So, my friends, we now have reduced ourselves to all talk and no action.
Oh well, just check out the guys with all the empty glasses in front of them at most Aussie pubs on a Friday or Saturday night and you will see that in itself is not innovation, it is tradition.

The Biscayne Bard

The Biscayne Bard's word of the month: Nepotism.
PS: I hear the ute has run since. How did it go? I have no idea, I'm sort of over it, but
I'm sure there will be a full report in the next issue. And maybe some pictures!