lay back in your chesterfield

I wonder what the Queen of England makes of us Australians (except WA) having a public holiday for her birthday – when it’s not even her birthday? I’d like to know why we have this public holiday. When did it start to be observed and why is it not held on the Queen’s actual day of birth? I’ve tried to find an answer but can’t. For the record, last weekend New Zealand celebrated the Queen’s birthday with long weekend. Do we have a different Queen? Stupid. But I’ll still take the day off on Monday!

At least the wind has stopped blowing. For the third time this year a few million tonnes of fertile (or maybe salty) top soil hovered over Melbourne and gave my eyes and nose the dribbles. Every white car in this city is now orange thanks to the rusty-red soil that has deposited itself on the city. Today there were trees knocked over everywhere, wheelie bins rolling down streets by themselves and a fair few cityfolk picking dirt and fragments of leaves out of their eyes on every street corner. You’ve just gotta love winter…but where’s the rain?

Here’s a post (in portuguese) that’ll make you spit on the next person you see wearing a fur coat. Hmmm. A few months ago I was watching a documentary about meat, the subject of meat eating to be precise. The aim of the documentary was to show that ANY meat that you eat comes from a living, breathing animal. Most of us tend not to care where salami, lamb chops or bacon rashers come from. But when faced with the thought of dog or cat being on the menu, we will be the first to accuse the chef of being some sort of barbarian. The doco showed a man preparing a cat for cooking. It was live. First he whacked the living daylights out of it – hitting it’s head with a mallet. Then the cat was dipped in a tub of boiling oil for 10 seconds. The moggy pipped and crackled like a freshly cut potato. Then the cat was pulled out of the oil and skinned, leaving behind a pink and white muscular corpse. The next step involved dipping the cat in a solution of vinegar and water. When the cat was dipped into the liquid it was still breathing. Big bubbles of air came out of it’s gasping, skinless mouth. At that point I walked into the kitchen and threw what was left of my rump steak into the bin and went to bed swearing that I’d never eat meat again. That oath lasted 2 days.

Below is a clever advertisment. The translation from Portuguese is “Here is the rest of your fur coat.” Yeah, I know it’s a few years old.