And I found a present for me. Bombay Sapphire, nothing new, you say. Well, bites yer tongues!
This is only one of four to be made.
The bottle is covered in 10,000 swarovski crystals and it comes in a white leather case.
It's a snip at $3,960.
I have until January 6 to win Tattslotto and make it mine. Bwahahahahhaha!
37 comments:
Miss Jahteh (big, round, and in a hurry).
Miss Fen (nuclear sex explosion).
Miss O'dyne (Kerry Packer in drag).
Miss Boynton (Greta Garbo of blogging).
Miss Laura (firing Jane Austen from a cannon).
Miss Link (she has found romance in the sticks).
Miss Jane (jumping the rattler).
Miss Kath (bag lady).
Miss Panz (moo-cow).
Miss River (wordier than a pimp during a police raid).
Androo...Brian Hughes.....and so on. Merry Christmas. All my sweetiepies.
Loving you,
Robert.
That bottle looks splendid, J, it would suit any room of your house quite nicely ;)
That's a very pretty bottle, will you be able to pour from it without crusting the crystals in drips?
R.H. Merry Christmas you old reprobate.
Brian Hughes; Lord Whatshisname; Merry Christmas too.
Happy gin drinking, JahTen, even if it's only Gordon's or Gilbey's. I wish you good cheer over Christmas.
May the Blessings of peace, (gah, dare i write it .. love) be upon you.
(well fer few days, at least}.
Keep the bottle Witchy. Just send me the contents. Happy Christmas everyone.
Christmas Day and my biographical subject is slicing up a vegetarian meal for himself. The usual thing, somehow related to research on playing with his dick. "I sent out 23 cards," he says, "And only got three back." Then he stops for a giggle, like some poor wretch handed proof yet again of what social workers, nurses, psychiatrists and people in general, really think of him. But mind you, he's heartily amused; a joke's a joke after all.
We're in his Thornbury penthouse, nicely renovated; mother's estate paid very well. The point is will Trish Clarke turn up today. I said she won't, but his 'inner voice', the voice that killed mother, is on the job. "She's coming," he says. Total assurance. This gives me the shits. "She won't," I said. I banged the table. "Let's see who's right then, me or your stupid fucking inner voice that got you locked up in the Thomas Embling for ten bloody years! Idiot!"
Then I sat up straight; there's a rustling outside. "Geofffreeey..."
She's arrived. God fuck old Ireland!
Well darlings clairvoyance is a con, no doubt about it, a shrewd effort to bullshit you, and the the best of them can say it like they believe it themselves. Meanwhile the delusional have fantasies. A certain bird I know after losing her job as a schoolteacher through mental illness set a up a clairvoyance business in Fitzroy and did a roaring trade. She was getting everyone, all the professionals, they swore by her. Well people like hearing about themselves, but it was the sincerity that really got them.
Because darlings, she actually did believe it herself.
Personality is astounding. Trumps everything. Albert Daly was a weed of a man, colourless hair and four toes on each foot. Yet women were captivated, and tough men admired him.
I don't know why I've just thought of this, it's nothing to do with anything.
Hi, my name is Robert, man who never sleeps. Big social today: Lara, dance of the seven veils among the tractors. Spit barbecue, quite an attendance: pimps, cardsharps, race-fixers, pickpockets, dirty book salesmen, and old spivs whose income is mysterious but more than adequate. Fatima came out during a duststorm, danced the Seven Veils, I lost count after five.
It got late and I was leaving, but got called back, inspected $2,000 worth of fire works and a pump action shotgun. Should be quite a show New Year's Eve.
-Robert.
Per Basil the Second. Conqueror of Bulgaria.
Looks good. Would bring back fond drunken memories of when gin was THE drink for me in 1981. And don't try to tell me that bottle wouldn't recycle beautifully.
Blessings and blarney t' you also Robberrrt. (and i didn't send out 23 cards - only 'tought that i did. Probably explains why i only got four back .. all send by the same person.
Mmm .. will have to re-read the James Fraser and Alistair Crowley books [if i can remember which cardboard box i stashed them in]).
What?
Pissed again I see. Well Davo didn't ol' schoolmarm Miss Link tell you off for slapping a whole string of drunken comments onto her blog one time? ha ha ha, you old devil! Then I commented on it and she gave me a payout too! What a dragon. Well blimey, I can't see how she's found a bloke! Meanwhile Big Woman has found a bloke too, an opera singer, and they've snuck off to Milan, dropping in on mother en route to sing Che Tua Madre, from Madame Butterfly. Well Milan is a long way, I guess she'll be gone a while. And how's this, in the supermarket with my daughter the other day and started loading about $220 worth onto the belt, ahead of us was a fat bloke in a motorised scooter holding a packet of meat. Before he'd put the meat on the belt the checkout girl started it moving and our groceries rolled up to the register. My daughter pulled some back and apologised to this old boy and I heard him say something to her. When he was gone she repeated it to me. He'd said: "Can't fucking wait a minute, can you." Well praise the Lord I hadn't heard that or I'd have upended his scooter and all. You can be disabled and still be a cunt.
Sunset, and I'm walking the Strand: million dollar houses one side, Port Phillip Bay the other.
Hal Porter writes about sneaking into one of these big houses in the 1920s when it was empty. He found initials scratched on a window, and the year: 1880.
And so I'm interested in them, all these icons.
On a corner I passed a more modern style place. Upstairs in a lighted room with a huge window there was a middle-aged bloke in a chair reading a newspaper. I was amused at the relaxed way he sat there, on display, actually doing the latte thing in his own living room. I knew how he'd talk to me, like a headmaster. And with humour of course, to display a wit I wouldn't have; or so he'd think. He'd wag his finger too, being superior, but in a pleasant way, and for my own good. When I was broke and my daughter was tiny I was in a park with her late one day. There was another lighted window in the back of someone's house. What I really looked forward to was having my own place. I had to believe it could happen. But with the lousy dough I was making there was no chance. Not that way, no. And I might have despaired, but there was always the fancy to fall back on, the fancy I had talent that would put me on the other side of that glass one day. It cheered me up, gave me hope.
Hope being everything.
-Robert.
Happy New Year Darlings.
"I am the light," says the Lord, "I am the way. Who believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
Be good darlings. Hell is a long time.
Good heavens, fourteen comments and half are mine, that'll give big woman a jolt, big woman in Milan gnawing a pizza. I'll play Beethoven for her, a sonata, that's what I'll do, yea and all the birds of the world will darken the sky, as RH the Great thumps his pianna! Fly my lovelies Fly! and my soul among you! there's no laws, no regulations, no orders to land, we are eternal!
RH the GREAT!!!
Robbert dear, the only thing that keeps me from a complete breakdown is the fact that you might use me as an autobiographical subject.
Just mind the blog while I get my act together. And be nice about it I'm a little fragile.
I wonder that you dare put RH in charge, JahTeh.
I thought if I visited again he'd have cause to consider there's another overseer in the place.
Get well soon and happy new year.
What?
How about you, sixteen kids you've had, what kind of overseeing is that? ha ha ha. Come out to Lara tonight, meet a foreign class, Camberwell only sees it in the movies.
We should continue any further discussion that relates to our new year activities at my blog RH, or at yours if you had one, otherwise we are encroaching on JahTeh's hospitality.
It's rather like partying in someone else's house while they're away and as much as you're a close blog friend, RH, JahTeh might prefer we did not mess up her blog.
Wooh!- how posh, you're sounding like Miss Pavlov (there's a fruitcake for you!). Sorry, I have to go out now, wishing good times for you, and all my sweeties.
Wishing you an excellently satisfying New Year dear Copperwitch.
But still would prefer my cask of de Bertolli Columbard Chardonaay!!!am such a peasant
RH CONFESSES!!!
(Penny dreadful: valuable it ain't, but nice and cheap. Good writing is expensive. Art itself is expensive, a Picasso can buy ten blocks of flats. RH would take the flats, the money. He was never refined, never processed)
Miss Lis I'm intrigued to see some passion from you -so unlike what you put on your blog. Are you so saintly for goodness sake, never swearing or hating anyone. If you are there's something wrong with you. And your commenters; such lovely people, there's something wrong with them as well.
The Arabs had a lamb on a spit last night. I looked at it: head missing and a hole where its stomach should be, and I felt sorry for it. The Arabs aren't like us, never keep a cat or a dog, never feed anything unless they're going to eat it themselves. Most of Europe is like that, Asia too. Then they come here, migrate. My dogs yap at Arab families passing this house and the kids panic, get hysterical, they've no experience of dogs, never owned one. In most of the world an animal is an object, a foodstuff, doesn't have its own life. I've never seen it in that way, and last night I felt disgusted. They gave me half the carcass to bring home for the dogs. It's in the kitchen right now in a black garbage bag. It's macabre. I don't like to even touch it. But I'm going to have to hack it up even more for the dogs to eat.
Poor thing. I've gone off meat. And it's not a resolution, it's a dread, a revulsion.
I've had a funny thought over the last few days, I've thought I'd donate blood but only on the condition it goes to someone holding my opinions. The thought amuses me because it's so much like me. Or rather, like the difficult me. Really, I wouldn't care much who got it, so long as they weren't pimps, pornographers, capitalists: EXPLOITERS. Imbeciles would be welcome, but not fools. Relatively harmless people in general are welcome.
I've spent the past year trying to work out a way of construction that suits me, because I can't do it in a story-like manner. I'm no good at progression, development: one thing following another. I'm good in bursts, that's all. Linear narrative is enormously hard work and always a poor result. I simply can't do it. Others can, and I congratulate them for it. In the end I'll just have to do what I'm capable of. It may be less a copy anyway of someone else. I'm always a copy to an extent. Still, if I didn't enjoy what some others have done in 'letters' and didn't get a boost myself when I've done something I like I wouldn't be concerned at all with ways, means, construction. But also, if you want people to listen you have to entertain, or they won't. It's a shyster game, sometimes. To me what matters is the truth gets out. It can stand there, like a statue in a park. And like a statue in a park, the thing itself is what matters, not who made it.
Geez, I miss one day and look what happens over here. Comment explosion.
Be well JahTeh.
Hi, my name is Robert, have a nice day.
Special hi to the latte set. Hello suckers; bank botherers, keep up your interest payments (what is it, twenty, thirty, forty years?), good heavens. Well never mind, you'll be completely fucked but you'll own a house.
Yesterday I ventured out, a little trip to Fairfield, where me and Murderess Trish Clarke (wiped out her family but still a romantic) went arm in arm along the Yarra. "Sometimes you're almost a gentleman, Robert," she said. I avoided looking at her decolletage. "Almost," I said. Really, she has no idea.
We had a look at Fairhaven, the infectious diseases hospital, where I spent the first days of my life. My daddy had syphilis, quite a character, he passed it on to my mother, and I was born with it. We were in Fairhaven together, mother and me. It's all documented, social workers reports. My niece, a social worker herself, has all the papers, she reads them out at dinner parties.
He was unjustly treated, my daddy, the cross he carried all his life was doing good deeds for other drunks who didn't thank him enough. He wanted it talked about. Fancy that. Mind you, when someone did something for him he wanted it kept quiet. What a wag. And he was fun, entertaining, a terrific bloke and totally useless. His brother said he was worthless, that's documented too, my niece presents that paper during her adoption spiel, reporting how her mother (my sister) got passed around and finally adopted, and then she was herself got adopted (what a mess). It's her little shrine, this paper, her Victoria Cross, should hang beside her diploma.
She likes my part in all this. One night in Sydney she decided it was time to present me. We attended a little party at Hunters Hill where her most popular paper: The old Black Dress was read out. It describes my mother as a "High-grade mental defective" and I was a little ashamed, but then again, with all those toffs beaming at you it's hard not to feel flattered. Yes well it's helping her career, she's very high up now in Community Services. And I hardly know what to say about that, except it seems good education doesn't help much, we stop being vain when we're dead.
Murderess is a sentimental type, you have to be careful, she bursts into tears. I didn't say much to her, we just circled the old hospital. It was derelict, cheerless, what it had always been, what these government burgs always are: lost dog homes for people, except now it was empty. Inspecting the old brickwork I had a funny thought, the matron who'd grabbed the bottle of plonk from my old man on his visit there would be dead now, but the place would have looked the same. They all look the same.
We ended back on the footpath. Murderess was in a marvellous mood, said we should go to Station Street, to a cafe. I said okay, and so we started off, then she made an observation, not unexpected: "We get on well when Geoff's not here," she said. "He's a crumb," I said. "He's got dirty books too, and videos." She reacted a bit, but not good enough, so I brought out the worst thing you can say about any man to a woman. "And he's a miser. You'll get nothing on Valentines Day." That got her. She looked at me shocked. Well the ol' Murderess, that's women for you, she might have wiped out her entire family but she's still a romantic at heart.
Posted 3/1/2011 Comments 695.
You expect things to improve but they just get uglier. There's a little dead end street no wider than a lane, looking a bit more ridiculous each time I see it. All there is now are a few little storage buildings with dirty windows. Maybe I'm the only person alive who knew it when there were four houses and a little brick lolly factory. It was low-wage, this entire area: sly grog and an SP Bookie up every lane. The lanes are gone, whole streets have disappeared, but mine is still there. What a joke. Well it waits there, just to keep me captive, it's where I started out and it's where I'll finish.
I'm writing at an old Army desk, brought here roped to the boot lid of an old Valiant. My biographical subject stole the Valiant but he paid for the desk. Later he drove the car to the hills and set fire to it. I've no idea why. His psychiatrists themselves wouldn't know why. He's a trick, a puzzle, with rubbish info just to muddle things up. It would be a harmless game, few would play it, if not for the terror.
I'm living in Newport. I had three dogs but one died recently, he was twenty years old. Mad Lance told me his cat was forty, but Mad Lance is mad of course.
The old dog was a border collie, he was around the streets all the time, I couldn't keep him in. A little kid said: "Your dog came into our house and peed in my dad's gumboots." Golly, well you have to laugh, that would be him alright. Then their dog had pups and they all looked like him.
My other two are strays, and they miss the old fellow. Some days I see them staring through the fence, looking for him.
For twenty years it's been okay here but now it's changing. Middle-income has discovered it, public servant types. The area is being 'restored', which means cafes everywhere. The op shop went first, becoming a sushi bar, the post office is now a French restaurant, and the huge electrical building for powering trains is some sort of artists ghetto. Good heavens. I'm not kidding! Who are these people? Generation yoghurt. Well I'm sorry but I just can't stand them, they make me sick. Dogs can't roam anymore, they ring the council. You can't play a piano at night, they call the police. If you light a smoke they start coughing. Dog shit gets them hysterical, they want cop cars and a helicopter overhead. The schoolmarm next door has three rings on one finger, and a little tattoo to celebrate her kitchen renovation. She glares at me like she's a catwalk model.
I worry about them, these new neighbors, what they might think of me. They misunderstand me, that's all, don't know what I'm on about. When they do they'll lynch me.
At the risk of offending, RH, I think it might be time to get yourself your own blog.
Is that so.
Golly.
Thank Christ you don't live in Newport.
Pardon me but I'm an invited guest, how about you? I don't visit places like yours, they count the silverware after I'm gone, knives and forks.
Robbert, wonderful vignettes of Melbourne life and I appreciate your caretaking of my blog. I don't trust easily but I trust you. (I counted the silver before you started)
Thank you Miss Jahteh. The queer thing about my vignettes is they're all true. My curiosity is to find out who people are when they're not themselves:
Peter W visited his mother's house and found his brother Geoff (my biographical subject) in the bath. He was surprised because Geoff wasn't living there anymore. "Where's mum?" he asked. Geoff was annoyed. "Gone out," he said.
After looking around a bit the very worried Pete left through the back door. He walked up the driveway, passing mother's body by a few metres, she was under the house.
if Geoff is a big fan of Robbie Burns ... I think I dated him ... briefly ... years ago.
RH, we never know until we know.
and even then
or when
experience tells us so.
Thank you Miss Stacks. All his dates have been short-lived (little joke) but it's not the same fellow. Meanwhile Davo, like myself, is a vexatious poet, living alone has its consequences.
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