Take me to the Greek

When I recline in my private , so special  Double Bay club, I feel this country’s pain, it’s not easy imbibing the Scotch and Soda ,talking with one’s friends about things that really matter, share prices, the housing market, the world politic and how do they stuff the olive and what condiments do they put in it..did you know that the humble truffle is a dirty blob of fungi, yes a disgusting germy fungoid ,no nor did I until I saw it on the Discovery channel ,I now will avert my glance away from such portends in future…though I digress…is it me or are these Helenic gods determined to drag us into some consummate cess pit that is the Euro zone. God knows my investments in the Isle of Capri have suffered immeasurably , coffee shops are a money pit, though obviously philanthropy is close to my heart…but the Greeks have always been an idle lot, when they could be working purposefully   they always choose to sit around in Toga’s and philosophise about the world and dare I say talk about work. Yes the Greeks love to talk about work but never actually do any…that’s why we have philosophy, but take for instance the humble Greek salad, it’s a salad that has cheese in it, pardon me but how hard is it to cut up some old cheese and put it in the salad ,that’s not hard, and the cheese is just milk that has been strained through some grandmothers underpants and left to go bad…which frankly I find quite abhorrent to think about…but as they say one good turn deserves another…so to my good  friend Demetri who I am quite fond of,  I hope one day he may be allowed to clean the toilets at our Double Bay club….and repay his debt .. tootly poops Tartly         

Cadel and the Tour Da Farce

As I sup on my mulled wine from the deepest regions of Sicily, I consider things of great portense, things that the average human being has no time for…in fact probably if I were to be more devishly brutal ,most haven’t the grey matter to process. Yes I’m extremely mortified with the latest assault on one of this country’s greatest sportsman, Cadel Evans…yes I do have a problem with his name but that issue aside..how dare those frog eaters sabotage his and other potential champions chances for glory in Lycra, podium nirvana and so on. Now let me not get too distracted with the thought of Lycra on a grown man and bulging groinal areas, though I tend to not focus on those things so much but that being said it appears Cadel is definitely well endowed in the one meat and two veg category..if you succour my flambience…though I digress of the major latitude. These French are I dare say heinous bastards…yes blaspheme…bastards… when we fought them with my great great grandfathers blood ,with Nelson by his side we showed them what King and country meant…and of course, never has there been a more pathetic debacle than the scourge of Austria’s driving Miss Daisy invasion of France in the second great war…yes it was as simple as Adolf Hitler calling up his chauffer, “please bring the stretch Merc we’re off to Paris for the day”. Yes my god it was that simple and whilst the French ate cake..we pitted ourselves on the other side of the ditch to save Queen and country and then with much manevolence, we  later extricated  them out of the pathetic hole they slid into. No I have no time for the French and less time for this Tour Da Farce, next year I propose we have our own great race and call it “The  Tour Down Under” there will be no Tack or nail throwing and hopefully no padding of the Lycra Groinal area that seems to wreak of penal inadequacy. Yes Cadel has my unreserved support but not those French lunatics…time to top up the decanter…toodily pops Tartly Roud  

What's in a name ?

As I recline back in my drawing room I can’t help but think that this country is in the hand of some damn lunatics…firstly and foremostly this woman Gillard is nothing short of a communist. To the lay person they would be ill aware that the name Gillard comes from the Russian Bolshevik inflection of Gillardoviesk. Yes in simple terms this clan came from somewhere deep in Siberia. The fact that Ms Gillard prefers Borsch and her Vodhka neat ,should have the  bells and sirens ringing for every decent, honest Australian. Frankly from my first sighting of her after the despicable despatchment of her Sichuan Leader, Mr Rudd, I knew that the proverbial trouble was most seriously afoot. I’ve never trusted any ilk with red hair and a penchant for sidling up to those pesky rabble rousers of the green persuasion. No good folk, I knew that these reds would drag this country down the most filthy of roads to where we are now. Now if only we could saddle up a more  robust mare like, Ms Rhinehart in the captain’s chair, that would be most agreeable, sadly though I would never vote for a woman, though if Ms Rhinehart would consider one of those downright frankenstinian operations( gender reassignment )I may reconsider my lofty position on that front. Till then I will ponder my next instalment. Tartly Roud