More Archie

I can't resist these guys. They're not just a shop, they're a state of mind. Archie McPhee's product range is out in time for the "holiday season" (PC way of describing the season without soiling one's tongue with references to any religious holidays such as Christmas, Chanukah, Secular Humanist why-believe-in-a-god festival, Obama's birthday, the Grand Prix, etc).

And it includes what must be one of the most innovative and useful gift items of all: inflatable fruitcake.


Seriously, who eats real fruitcake? It's like dark matter. Sharon and I have been married for (wait... I know this one...) 15 years and I'm sure there is still a piece of our wedding fruitcake stashed somewhere. It's probably become magnetised by now.

But with the inflatable fruitcake you can create some holiday cheer without having to worry about offending the person who gave you something you not only will never eat, but think is one of the most hideous recipes ever to be vomited up from the depths of hades.

Check out some of the testimonials for this amazing innovation:
I have an allergy to candied fruit. ... Now, with the Inflatable Fruitcake, I can experience the holidays without collapsing on the ground, gasping for air as hives break out on my skin. ... Candied fruit is poison and should be banned from airplanes and schools. Now if I could only find a girlfriend my life would be complete.

When can I buy a franchise of this place??

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What really caused the economic downturn..

You won't see this on the mainstream news, but it might shed the best light on the recent financial woes...

A week. Any week.

Yes, I know, how wrong of me that we have not been on a family getaway greater than a long weekend, for over 6 years. But hear my defence...

For some reason, the older you get, the more stuff you do. I've been doing stuff, Sharon's been doing stuff, the kids have been destroyi...doing stuff. You get the picture. I blogged earlier that this year was already the year of the date clash, and that was by month two.

It's basic maths. I must find ONE WEEK out of 52 where
1) I'm not desperately unable to leave work,
2) Sharon isn't at work, or a quilting weekend,
3) There isn't a pony camp, or
4) dancing lessons, or
5) the extended family (which extends across the entire Victorian midwest and some parts of Germany) doesn't have a 21st/ wedding/ birthday/ footy tipping competition which requires our presence
6) A child does not bring home from school a project due yesterday (actually brought home from school a week ago), or the flu, or gnits, or rabies.
7) The horse/cat/guinea pig(s) is/are sick

So, when you calculate that over 52 weeks of the year and factor in religious holidays such as Christmas, Easter, and the Grand Prix, the probability of being able to take a holiday successfully is actually around 1 in 10 to the power of 9, or 1 in 1,456,079,001.

Well, okay. I made that up. Poetic licence. Real mathematicians bugger off now.



So, you see, it's not always my evil billykart racing which is to blame. But we found one week, a little window of fortune which enabled us to get up to the Hawkeses' legendary Pretty Beach house. We'd heard all about this place but were beginning to doubt it actually existed.

So, armed with the Uebergang's DVD player for the trip up we headed off, not really at any stage believing it was really happening. Oh yeah we did...um...stop at Wakefield Park/ Goulburn for some billykart racing. Well, c'mon. I was doing all the driving. I needed to be rewarded with some....more driving.

Here's me giving my imaginary friend a drive in the Hyper Racer

By that time, the kids had learned at least half of the screenplay from the brilliant Flushed Away starring Hugh Jackman, Kate Winslet and Ian McKellen and I was rather enjoying listening to it, sans pictures.

No you CAN'T all have puppies!!

As if feeding unexpectedly tame Kookaburras on the balcony was not enough, Pretty Beach is all it cracked up to be and more. I won't ruin the pictures with excessive verbage.

Besides, there is little to satirise about (finally) getting to relax with the fam, and do stacks of what I love doing the most: NOTHING. Just the ticket. For once I turned off the phone. Huzzah!

Sadly, Sammy discovered he didn't have sea legs. And this in a boat which had the power of an electric pencil sharpener

Thanks to this hungry Kookaburra, my hand modelling days are now over. MY HANDS..!! MY BEAUTIFUL HANDS...!!

We were also able to catch up with the Sydney Hawkeses at Parammatta on the way back. Particularly "smashing" was seeing chip-off-the-block Peter and wife Bams, both back from Chennai after doing some amazing stuff. Well, I can't be young anymore but I can let someone else do it for me.

There's something exceptionally manly about a Hawkes. Sammy catches up with The Godfather, carrying on a fine tradition

Even the Hawkeses' Parammatta oasis is worthy of a holiday. Hot-tub, brilliant company, beer, botanical gardens. Sigh. Bye for now.


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Feeling horse

Gee I'm smart. Back when I first got offered oodles of money to go billykart racing, I sold the whole idea to Sharon and the kids as a chance to spend time together as a family. The kids would be inspired watching their dad actually participate in something rather than watching him watching other people participating in stuff on the telly.

Indeed, once or twice, the family did get to come and stand in the pits at Phillip Island and try not to get run over by sports cars, while watching feral superkart people behave like idiots. So my next move was to commandeer the nice new company van only for races which mean I could sell the trailer. I sold this idea to Sharon by suggesting it would be one less thing to clutter up the driveway. Of course, that the van barely fits two other people failed to come up.

But, for the next race, it's back to the future; we're all going up on a (drumroll) FAMILY HOLIDAY to Sydney, beginning with a day of billykart racing at Wakefield Park/ Goulburn. Which means I need a trailer. Fortunately, the one I had was sold to a mate, who is lending it back to me, now with LED lights and a jockey wheel. What a great scam.

Now get this- apparently, when you buy a horse, even if it has rego papers, top-end breeding and pedigree, it can still get sick! Fancy that. I'm still not really sure about it so I'm going to check the contract again, but I'm sure the lady said our cute little Opal could never get sick.

I first noticed it when we were lunging her and she would bolt off, run around the yard, jump over stuff and buzz past us really close like Maverick and that other less important character in Top Gun. A couple of times she even had a nip at my nice jumper. Oh well, I thought, that'll learn me for wearing my Sunday best out in the paddock.

But our agistment lady said it wasn't right, so I rang the vet. After saying hello (which cost me $300) he suggested that our sweet, demure little girly pony Opal was suffering from an increased testosterone problem and was behaving like a stallion.

This was confirmed at the next visit, when we found Opal sitting back watching telly, sinking beer and chips, burping, scratching herself, leering at the other ponies and swearing at me every time I tried to talk about how it made me feel.

So it was off to another vet for an ultrasound, which meant towing a horse float. As mentioned earlier, when it comes to towing trailers I like to think I've been around the block once or thrice. But towing one laden with a 500 kilo animal who acts like it's just downed three kegs of Red Bull is unchartered territory. In the end, our big-bottomed friend towed well. What's more, my oil-burning Captiva drove no differently with 1-tonne of trailer full of hyperactive animal hanging off the back, than it does on it's own. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Moving on; we arrived at the home of our charming equestri-vet Emma, who pumped Opal full of enough sedatives to relax a gang of Hell's Angels. I'd always known that horses sleep standing up but never really accepted it, until now. Opal's eyes glazed over, her bottom lip hung like mine did when I got some fillings last week, her spindly little legs wobbled but by golly, she stayed upright.

And all this with Emma's arm, holding an ultrasound scanner, plunged right the way up her big horsey bottom. This was the ideal time to ask Naomi if she really wanted to be a vet.

Well folks the news is good and bad. Good because the enlarged ovarian tumour we thought she had doesn't seem to be there. Bad because now, we have no idea what's making her act like a bloke. Ideas, anyone?