(Jagdschloss Grunewald- image from Medieval Karl@ WordPress)
didn’t begin at
Since there was some discussion as to what the rules of
a clerihew should be, I consulted my friend, Matthew Francis
on the matter- of course, by clerihew:
talking about the clerihew…
must you only have a name in the first line,
or, is having more than that, in your opinion, fine?
I received this reply:
devotees of the clerihew art,
on the principles of E. C. Bentley.
So, feeling a sense of liberation, I give you today’s:
(David Beckham in the Royal Box, 28/6/14
by Brian Minkoff- London Pixels)
David Beckham, aka ‘Becks,’
you seemed a model for your sex,
but your alleged obsession to receive a gong,
may taint your after-shave with a lingering pong.
Inspired by the phrase : ‘A Chat- Up Line’
With apologies to Izaak Walton…
Some Booby Nymphs met two Woolly Buggers,
who threw out some Gold Nugget lures to them,
thinking they were Pale Evening Emergers,
ready for the Down ‘n Dirty Fiery.
Hey, Damsel Wiggle Nymphs! Rise to our bait!
Black Suspender Nymphs-you with the Pearl Butts!
But the Kick Ass damsels merely replied:
You think you are Irresistible Adams;
we are not interested in tackle.
We are not attracted by Double Humpy.
We don’t want to get into Deep Water
and especially not with Green-Arsed Wickhams.
Rat-faced McDougal there could lose Half Stone.
He wouldn’t know a Sofa Pillow from
his Tup’s Indispensible and talks Tosh.
I’d clearly prefer a Green Highlander
to a Flash Charlie with a Zonker.
You haven’t got a Grey Ghost of a Chance.
My boyfriend ain’t no Leckford Professor
but you are a Moose Turd compared to him.
I’m a Redhead Buzzer and my pal here
will confirm that I am called Red Diva,
so there’s no use in saying, Baby Doll,
do you fancy a Whisky then in Bradford?
You are out of your depth- we’re World Class Flies.
But the Spin Doctor, full of Blue Charm, said:
No, I’d have to be on Chartreuse Poppers
to take on a Little Devil like you.
My mate here is a Black Bullet Conehead,
so you’d better shut your Grizzly Hot Lips.
You might be a Beaded Belly temptress,
but, up close, I see you are wearing Spandex.
I will get my Missionary elsewhere
and doubtless before Moonlight Shadows fall.
Good luck, Dirty Egg-Sucking Dogs!
Cast off! We don’t need no Psycho Princes!
Caracas, cascaras, Cedula Id card, cowbell post, De Sousa, disambiguation, Eguie Castrillo, hip-hop, jam blocks, Maiquetia airport, One Direction, Sabian cymbal, Salsa, snare drum, Stars and Stripes, timbales, timpani, Tito Puente, Tower of David, windsurfer
(* get in the car, my friend!)
The secretary at Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil had typed a label
and was sticking it on an envelope. It read:
Hugo de Sousa
19 Chavez Road
As her brother was a keen windsurfer, she had read some
of his magazines and thought she recognised the name.
However, she rationalised that it must be a case for
disambiguation. De Sousa was a fairly common name. There
was a Portuguese footballer so-named and a bandmaster who
had written The Stars and Stripes and so, this must be yet another
of the tribe.
But, Dear Reader, you remember who Hugo is, don’t you?
Yes, he is/was the blood nephew of Great-Aunt Augusta,
whereas Gus was only an adopted nephew.
Snod had supplied the address, glad that Hugo had sent him
new contact details after his eviction from The Tower of David,
some months previously. The squatter had been able to rescue
his timbales, cowbell post and other percussive instruments,
without any of them sustaining damage. He would put the tools
of his trade in storage, as Mr Poskett had written to assure
him that the school had plenty of timpani and snare drums.
Hugo was to receive the largest portion from Great Aunt Augusta’s
will. Gus had paved the way for him to come over to St Birinus’ in order
to take up a temporary teaching post. The school would sponsor him,
but Gus would stand guarantor. Virginia, from the School Office, had
spent quite a bit of time researching work visas, restrictive foreign
exchange currency controls and Cedula ID cards. She was becoming
familiar with the girl on the end of the phone at The British Embassy,
Caracas. She received advice to the effect that Hugo should not take
more than 10,000 dollars out of the country, unless he declared it to
customs officials. He would need to remain calm as his flights may be
cancelled at short notice, or the price might increase rapidly. He should
pay for his flights in pounds sterling- the school would help with this-
and he should be discreet lest someone find out that he was going to
inherit some money. Kidnapping was a serious hazard. An armoured
car was the recommended transportation to Maiquetia Airport.
Until 1983, a child born to a British mother and a foreign father outside
the UK, had no claim to British citizenship. But, if Hugo registered and
paid £540, things might be arranged, eventually. Actually, the
extortionate admin. fee had been abolished, as of 2010, Virginia was
told subsequently. She now understood it to be £80.
The Willoughby twins, Castor and Pollux, were becoming excited. They
had been listening to Eguie Castrillo and Tito Puente, when most of the
rest of the class had been listening to One Direction. A new percussion
teacher was good news. They were keen to learn some Salsa, whereas
the other boys thought that was something to pour over salad. They
unwrapped their hickory timbale sticks, took out their mambo bells,
Sabian cymbals and cascaras and plagued their parents for jam blocks
and mounted tambourines.
Hugo and hip-hop were going to receive a wonderful welcome.
Banjo Paterson, billabong, Bluntschli, bogan, Djokovic, hoon, Kim Sears, Mcdonalds, Melbourne Park, Norman Brookes, NSW, Orange, Paul Hogan, poms, Pretty Beach NSW, quokka soccer, Rod Laver, roo, rutting stags, Sergius, swagman, terpsichorean, The Briars Homestead, Thomas the Tank Engine, Tony Wilding, Woy Woy
Woy Woy- not an exophoric reference to a Chinese conceptual artist, but
a heartfelt expression of anguish as to the reason you not been reading my
posts, possums. A girl just has to swan off to Pretty Beach etc and suddenly
all her readers droine away.
Well, I have been amassing verbal deloights for your delectation. I am now
attuned to the twangs of the Aussie lingo. A two year old approached me in
a play park in Orange, in a perfectly innocent, trusting way, not noted in
British kids since the Sixties, and proffered his Thomas the Tank Engine
toi, before revoking his intention and pronouncing very definitely, That’s
I was then privy to an eavesdropping from a sheila who was
discussing her boyfriend as she walked down the street in Mornington, Victoria:
It’s not that koind of relationship.
Everyone is moaning about the unusually bad summer here, with all the roine.
They should read the weather reported for the UK in The Doily Moil. Even the
commentary from Melbourne Park was punctuated with strangulated
phonological approval when players hit it on a doime.
As well as the accentual points, the idiomatic phrases are ripper too. Goodness
knows what That was right in the honey hole for him! means literally, though
the sentiment is not lost in translation. It would sit well in Kim Sears’ ‘potty’
Even Mcdonalds has an advertising slogan here which doesn’t sound remotely
American: More bang for your buck. It sounds like something Banjo Paterson’s
terpsichorean swagman could have uttered by a billabong, or an ejaculation
by Paul Hogan, who might brandish a roo in a bap and pronounce emphatically:
Now that’s a burger!
No, Candia didn’t enter the hallowed grounds in Melbourne, but watched
Andy’s defeat on television, like the rest of you poms, whingeing or otherwise.
And, by the sound of the current meteorological reports, you have plenty to
He and Djokovic went at it like rutting stags, but the control of language by
the Serb reflected his greater mental restraint and focus.
(Now who does this remind me of?)
On this occasion, Sergius conquered Bluntschli.
How interesting was it for Candia today to stand on ground which reputedly
was once the tennis courts on which the first non-Briton to win Wimbledon
practised. Norman Brookes even won The Davis Cup in the USA, with Tony
Wilding and yet he warmed up on what was once a cattle station on this
Today the sacred spot is struggling lawn in front of The Briars Homestead,
whose grounds are now a Nature Conservancy Centre. I expect the expletive
was unheard of in this gracious residence, once upon a colonial toime. I doubt
Sir Norman was a cashed up bogan in pocket, or personal behaviour. Some of
the latter day sporting, or unsporting, hoons need to cease vocalising in the
parlance of those who indulge in activities such as quokka soccer. Return to
the days of Rod Laver and his self-disciplined behaviour and all will be foine.
Airey's Inlet, Bass strait, Bunurong, Creed mcTaggart, Cuillins, David Rastovich, eudyptula minor, fairy penguin, fulmar, grippin' the lip, Howard Hughes surfboard, Koolin, Lew Brown, Loyd Grosman, mutton-bird, Namibia, one piece leash, painting zebras, passeggiata, Phillip Island, Port Phillip Winery, rip curl, Rip Van Winkle, Roll out the Barrel, shearwater, Sojourn, St Kilda, stabmag.com, Sumatra, Surf Beach, Teahupo'o pizza, The Nobbies, Tracks-the Surfers' bible, ultimate gypsy, wallaby
You would think that The Nobbies would be an excellent place to get
away from Joe Public, but even with a howling gale blasting in from
The Bass Strait, there is the eternal shrill whine of children whose decibel
level outperforms the crashing waves and predatory shearwaters. Once
placated by a cuddly toy penguin, however, the juveniles are generally
benign, unlike their adult counterparts who simply will not obey rangers’
instructions and whose attention span seems limited to one advance
by a single cohort of fairy bands of brothers before they have to stand up,
blocking others’ views and flashing away at the shy bird-life which is
trying to avoid the unwanted attention of a sea eagle, or a fox, but which
ends up mating under spotlights, beneath the boardwalks, to a perpetual
What are they doing? Oh, look! A threesome!
Eudyptula minor is a cutie and its nightly parade reminded me of a
Mediterranean passeggiata, except that those on the fringes do not
usually get picked off – or do they?
The whole ambience recalls accounts of the fulmar-dependent,
indigeneous people of St Kilda. No doubt the mutton-bird eating
Bunurong would have had heaps in common with the original
inhabitants of the Scottish archipelago, although the Bunurong
had not been planted on their terrain, but were the supplanted.
Mind you, the Koolin people sounds rather like the Cuillins, don’t
I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t savour a short-arsed shearwater,
or whatever the mutton-bird is. I preferred the duck confit at Port
Phillip Winery, the previous day.
Those of you who have been questioning whether I have morphed
into a fully-formed Sheila yet, might be better employed rating my
surf babe status. Forget The Husband. The only thing he surfs is
the internet. As for Rip Curl experiences, he is more into those of the
Rip van Winkle variety. Or Lip Curl, when he comes across snippets of
his fame being promoted over this site. (He can be as desultory as
that lone wallaby that hopped across the dusky beach last night,
silhouetted against a giant red full moon.) Just trying to divert
attention, I’d say.
We stayed over at Surf Beach in a house on stilts, all weather
boarding and corrugation. The walls were decorated with a Howard
Hughes, Airey’s Inlet finned surfboard, bearing the endorsement:
I felt like Loyd Grosman- remember the guy who used to traipse
through people’s houses trying to guess what kind of a person lived
therein? He actually only got the job because someone mistakenly
thought he was a journalist. I felt a bit of a fraud myself. But now
that I’ve heard of stabmag.com, I feel that I have some beach cred.
I might even get The Husband some Board Shorts. Apparently, Life
is better in them. The guys in the adverts seem to prove the point.
Maybe I could tether one of these Adonises to my side with the
World’s Strongest Leash, a one piece leash technology. Might just
keep The Husband from wandering off towards the wine aisle in
Even the reading matter was connected to the ocean and Night
Surfing was the only novel on view. The blurb confided that it was
about a wave that arcs so high it drops down the sun, stars and
moon from the sky and turns day to pitch. Hannah is a drop-out
who wants to learn to walk on water and Jake has been a dustman,
or re-cycling engineer, from Liverpool, but he dreams of surfing the
night. Presumably he has had a shower first. He has demons of his
own. Let’s hope that Hannah exorcises them.
Right, enough of those barbed comments, as prickly as the fins on the
I did enjoy leafing through Tracks: the Surfers’ Bible– the next best
thing to a Teahupo’o pizza delivery, apparently.
You see, I had never heard of grippin’ the lip; surfing in Namibia- I
thought it was all desert dunes. I thought Roll out the Barrel was a
1940s song by Lew Brown and nothing to do with tides and waves.
Painting zebras on a wall sounded artistic to me, something like
decorative murals on a kindergarten reception hall.
Hoovering through the slob sounded like clearing up after the
kindergarten kids had gone home. And I had never heard of
films such as Sojourn, a surf film about Sumatra, with David
Rastovich. I really must have been up a gum tree!
Oh, wait a minute! It’s hovering through the slob. It’s all this
being on the road. I’m turning into an ultimate gypsy like Creed
McTaggart. That’s a different creed from the one I know back
home and which I can recite by heart on Sunday mornings.
Okay, so he’s known for his sunglasses and criticised for faux
surf celebrity; I’m known for my hats and…
I’m morphing into something. It’s Travel. It broadens the mind,
as well as the behind.
Alan Bennet, Barramundi, Barry Manilow, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Blue-Eye, Brave, Carsten Holler, Castilian Spanish, Chai Latte, cone bra, Creole, David Shrigley, Eleftherios, Federation Square, Flinders lane, Frozen, Great Ocean Road, gum tree, heist, Ice, John Paul Gaultier, kanga bangas, koala, kookaburra, lingusitic convergence, McClelland Sculpture Park, Melbourne, Melchisedek, Mornington Peninsula, Mountain Goat Steam Ale, NGV International, no worries!, Panagia Kamariani, Pele Tower, Philip Larkin, Pidgin, possums, Poundland, Rab C Nesbitt, Red Claw, Red Hill Greek Orthodox monastery, rhinopithecus strykerl, sans soucis, shotgun wedding, snub nosed monkey, Sorrento, Talking Heads, The Island Bird by Neto, www.chrispattas.com, Yabby Lake, You'll Never Walk Alone
Dear Posse, or should that be ‘possums’?
You have probably all wondered why Candia has gone off radar,
but I haven’t got time to correspond with you individually. So,
maybe you can make do with reading the communal postcard I
sent to my dear girlfriends in Suttonford, who are probably even
now sharing its contents in Costamuchamoulah‘s must-seen
cafe, as they sip their Chai Lattes– an inferior blend to the original
which I have just imbibed in Flinders Lane, Melbourne.
You see, the price of an air mail stamp to Pomland- not to be
confused with Poundland- is almost as much as an additional glass
of Yabby Lake fizz for moi and, on this once- in-a-lifetime walkabout,
I am not about to downgrade to the Red Claw ‘drinkable’ variety.
So, G’day, mates! I’ve already been down The Great Ocean Road;
seen my first koala in the wild- thankfully unaccompanied by Putin,
One Direction, or Obama- gawped at a joey peeping out of a row of
vines and consumed my first Blue-Eye and Barramundi. The latter
sounds like Barry Manilow, but is infinitely more subtle. As far as I
know, it doesn’t attempt to sing. I do seem to remember Big
Mouth Billy, the singing sea bass, so maybe one could form a
It’s so good to relax and the upgrade to Business Class from
Singapore was a down-payment of future bliss. It took a few
moments before I realised that I was watching ‘Brave‘ in Castilian
Spanish on the back of the seat in front, but my personally
appointed steward soon tuned me in to the appropriate lingo.
Better than a remote in the control of The Husband and a tad
more obliging. It’s good to be treated better than Dame Edna
I see Billy Connolly is coming to Melbourne shortly. The Scots’
community should comprehend his repartee, but no doubt his
Antipodean spouse has taught him a little linguistic convergence,
so the audience should probably work out that he is not speaking
some kind of Pidgin, or Creole. Anyway, hybridisation and cross-
fertilisation seem to be the name of the game over here. One minute
you are in Sorrento and the next you are driving through Blairgowrie.
Talk about fusion!
The Husband grew some roots in Federation Square as he
downed a Mountain Goat Steam Ale, while riveting his gaze
on the big screen’s events at the MCG and demolishing some
While Gus, Virginia, Diana, Murgatroyd, Dru and Nigel are
snowed in at the pele tower in The Borders, The Husband
and I are experiencing four seasons in one day down in The
Mornington Peninsula. The chattering classes of Suttonford
have been silenced by the maniacal laughter of a kookaburra,
who stereotypically does sit in an old gum tree, as well as
crapping all over the garden fence every morning. But, sans
soucis! Even the mynahs’ cackles are shriller than some South
of England socialites.
I know I said that I only sent one postcard, but that isn’t
I did send Juniper a card of Jean Paul Gaultier’s teddy bear,
which he has cherished since the age of three and which sports
his prototype cone bra.
She would have loved the holographic talking heads on his models
in The NGV. So would Alan Bennet! Maybe I should have sent him a
postcard too, but he’s probably a friend of the designer and gets a
Even church-going is a lot more exciting here. I don’t think Philip
Larkin would have been as lugubrious if he had removed his cycle
clips and gone into the Red Hill Greek Orthodox Monastery of Panagia
The priest told me that his Christian name- ‘Eleftherios‘ means ‘Liberty’
and he certainly takes a few. I mean, back in Suttonford, the staid
congregation are startled out of their professed sobriety by the
ringing of a ship’s bell; the crashing of the organ and a cacophany of
bells in the Easter Saturday service in Wintoncester Cathedral. But
Father Tatsis is much more melodramatic. Look up http://www.chrispattas.
com and you can see a Youtube clip of the sacerdotal gesture of
celebration to the pronouncement: He is Risen! Brings a whole new
angle to the phrase ‘shotgun wedding‘!It is a pity that the latter day
Melchisedek didn’t wield his weapon at the teenage thugs who raided
the icon’s golden votive jewellery collection and who made off with a
heist worth $100,000. Failing that, he could have maybe stowed the
stuff in a safe. Unfortunately there is Ice in Paradise and I don’t mean
anything as innocent as the latest Frozen movie.
The liberating thing about Oz seems to be that you can act like a big
kid and you are actually encouraged to do so. Case in point: The
Husband climbing into the art installation The Island Bird by Ernesto
Neto at The NGV International.
He got tangled up in what appeared to be an unravelled string shopping
bag, or a coloured version of Rab C Nesbitt’s vest. I was more attracted
by Carsten Holler’s golden, mirrored carousel and managed to restrain myself
from breaking into You’ll Never Walk Alone, though, if I had, it would have been
regarded as a valid interactional response. Like Oz itself, even the artwork
invites us to stand on our heads and re-imagine the world, reconsidering our
place within it.
So, whether it is wallpapering a gallery with anarchic David Shrigley
observations, or sculpting a Sneezing Snub Nosed Monkey -Rhinopithecus
strykerl (McClelland Sculpture Park), the infectious Aussie irreverent take
on life affects even its Un-Orthodox priests and makes one feel that,
indeed, there are No Worries!