Monthly Archives: August 2009

Persian delight.

30 Sunday Aug 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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Cyclamen rescued

Cyclamen rescued

gerard oosterman.

It just happens that we need flowers in the house as much as vegemite on toast (Helvi) or blankets on the bed.  We could not live without them. Admittedly, this is taken care of more by her than me, although at Aldi I often spot a nice bunch for little money, urging her to get them. The best way is of course to buy  flowering pot plants.

Here in the dry and crispy climes the most outstanding plant with months of flowering would have to be the simple cyclamen. When we wake up,( So far fairly regularly), we are greeted by a pink cyclamen in front of the window frame, with its buds and flowers nodding  at us.

After flowering we were brutal enough to chuck them in the garden, where they die from drought or simply go underground. It was one of those that had gone sub-soil who decided to rear its head last Autumn with the leaves poking up after some rain. Helvi dug up its tuber carefully and potted it. It was given top mulch and some fish emulsion. It  got more leaves and soon the first of its flowering buds. It is now in full glory and the picture above is the one.

They grow wild, with many species in abundance around the Mediteranian countries, usually in subdued light and underneath trees. According to some experts, it came originally from Iran’s mountain slopes and spread throughout Asia Minor, then to Greece, Spain and other countries.

They, the original species, could withstand frost of minus 15c. Amazing. On top of all those delightful qualities, it turns out you can not only admire the cyclamen for it’s looks but also eat them. The leaves in Iran are sometimes used to make tea. It makes one almost want to join the Cyclamen societies of which there are many. Perhaps go to a meeting and see what exciting things members come up with in the simple world of the Cyclamen.

The contented tombs

In the world of flowers, there could be nothing more depressing to a cyclamen, or a kalanchoe for that matter,than the popularity of artficial flowers, especially our fondness for those plastic things on graves and tomb stones. Can you imagine the dearly departed, after such difficult and tormented lives, to be further insulted by fading plastic. Even weeds or a gentle dusting by wattle flower  would be better.  Is it true, that a culture is judged by how we look after our dead?

Plastic homage to the dead.

Plastic homage to our dead.

Anyway, who would have thought the cyclamen would pop up in the Goulburn’s region?

Hope is alive.

Cyrus. Chapter 5, part 4

30 Sunday Aug 2009

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Judgement of Cambyses.

By mid-morning the next day, everyone had bathed and put on their finest clothes just as Cyrus had instructed them and started to gather in the garden of Cambyses’ palace. On their arrival they found that all the wood from their previous day’s work had been used to build dozens of large bonfires, spaced at almost regular intervals all around these extensive and beautifully landscaped palace gardens. Over these fires dozens of whole cattle, sheep and goats were already being roasted on spits turned by attentive servants; all provided by Cyrus, who had personally sacrificed them himself; working since before dawn beside his own servants, and harder than any of them, to prepare this feast.

In the huge ovens of the palace kitchens, countless loaves of flat, un-leavened bread and all kinds of cakes and other delectable sweetmeats were being baked; and, when they were ready, laid on platters on nearby tables ready for Cyrus’ guests to help themselves; while other platters were carried off by servants who circulated with them among the crowd, offering them to the guests.

Soon Cyrus’ servants began to circulate with huge trays of bread and honey-cakes and silver platters, piled high with pastries while others were filled with freshly-carved slices of deliciously roasted meat; offering their treats and titbits to all of Cyrus’ guests, regardless of their social positions. Other slaves carried goatskins of wine and similarly, they circulated among the crowd, keeping the wine-cups of their guests constantly filled as they ate and drank and generally amused themselves.

At first the poorest of the people thought that they would have to wait until the end of the banquet to beg for food as they usually did in their ritual guise as beggars, whose social purpose and function was to cleanse banquets of pollution which may have been generated over the course of the evening, by taking it upon themselves. Such pollution was usually transferred to these human ‘scapegoats’ or beggars, who were often nicknamed ‘killjoys’ or ‘the scourge of banquets’, in the form of small gifts of scraps of food and drink, or occasionally small coins; in return for which, these beggars also performed a priestly function; for to beggars especially was given the power of calling down the blessings of the gods upon the host and his house-hold.

Yet they were only too keenly aware that, although they were tolerated at least to the extent that they were thus fed, more or less, where they might otherwise have starved; yet apart from a few notable exceptions no-one really liked these beggars; they paid for their livelihoods by virtual ostracism, relegated as they were to society’s margins. Indeed, beggars were often feared; for the hand that blesses can also curse. They knew that they were tolerated merely for their services as ritual cleaners; and they were only too painfully aware that another method of transferring pollutions to them was via the medium of blows. Thus, as a means of survival, being a beggar or a scapegoat was not without its own dangers.

But when these poor people eventually realized that this banquet was as much for them as for anyone else, and that they need not fear violence from anyone, instead of waiting for scraps they began to help themselves enthusiastically to all the most tempting food and drinks with which the servants still circulated; offering them freely to even these poorest of Persians with genuinely warm smiles of welcome on their faces; just as Cyrus had commanded. But these poorest of Persians were only just beginning to recover from their shock at this latest wonder when suddenly their newly-appointed leader, Cyrus, climbed up onto a small, raised platform which he’d had constructed for just this purpose, and once again started to address them:

“Fellow Persians” he began, “today’s task is quite different from yesterday’s! Today, you are all to recline on the grass; eat and drink your fill and make merry. Enjoy yourselves until your hearts are content! Let the air be filled with revelry and laughter; and let joy be unrestrained! Musicians, strike up a tune, and play merrily so those who wish to may dance and sing!”

Cyrus’ guests did not need any further bidding but fell to with a will and soon the air was filled with the sound of music and laughter as some danced and sang for the amusement of their fellow revellers while still others merely ate and drank enthusiastically, reclining at their ease on the soft grass as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Thus they spent the whole day, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the absence of toil.

Not one of them thought to ask themselves why Cyrus had sacrificed so many beasts just so they might feast and enjoy themselves so pleasantly.

***   *****   ***

Greek mythology

By late afternoon the feasting had slowed down a little; the musicians were now playing slower and more melodic tunes as the guests began to tire of their exertions in their dancing and began to relax on the grass to quench their thirst with more wine; a luxury hitherto known only to the noblest of Persian aristocracy. Amid the continuing scenes of revelry Cyrus had a trumpeter play a brief fanfare in order to get the crowd’s attention. Then he addressed his guests once more:

“Friends! Fellow Persians! I have a question for you! I want to know which day’s work you all prefer? Today’s or yesterday’s?”

With a brief look at the other guests around him, a large, well-muscled man in his mid-thirties took it upon himself to be spokesman for the whole crowd; he stood up and with a deep laugh, began to speak:

“My Lord, the contrast is indeed striking; yesterday’s work was everything that is bad; full of toil and hardship; today’s work is everything that is good; nothing but enjoyment and pleasure!” As everyone cheered to show their agreement to this last proposition, he continued, “I think I can safely say that I speak for everyone here, when I say that we prefer today’s task to yesterday’s!”

This was immediately and enthusiastically greeted with even louder cheers and shouts of general agreement and even more applause from the crowd. With an indulgent smile Cyrus let them continue to cheer for a few moments before holding up his arms for quiet as he began to speak again:

“Men of Persia, this is how things are with you: If you choose to listen to my words, you may enjoy these and ten thousand similar delights, and never condescend to any slavish toil; but if you will not listen, then prepare yourselves for unnumbered toils as hard as yesterday’s. Now therefore follow my advice, and be free! For myself I feel that I am destined by Providence to undertake your liberation; and you, I am sure, are not inferior to the Medes in anything; least of all in bravery. Therefore I say to you, revolt from Astyages, without a moment’s delay!”

The multitude cheered and applauded again; louder even than it had for its spokesman; demonstrating its unanimous and wholehearted approval of everything Cyrus’ had said; for the Persians had long been growing weary under the tax-burden and the levies imposed upon them by their overlords, the Medes. Indeed, each year it was getting harder to meet the king’s ever-increasing demand for tribute and troops, so they were in any case just about ripe for revolution; all they had needed was a leader; and now that they had found one, they were all overjoyed.

Yet among them there was one man who did not share the general enthusiasm. He was one of Astyages’ spies; and as he listened to Cyrus’ intentions, he was so horrified by his speech that as soon as he could he quietly slipped away from the feast, unnoticed by anyone, while the revellers were still cheering loudly for their new master. As soon as the spy was off Cambyses’ property and out of sight of the revellers he broke into a run and, as fast as he could, he soon left the city gates behind far him and headed for the King’s Highway; the quickest route to Media; to report this new development to Astyages.

***   *****   ***

Avoid at all Costs

30 Sunday Aug 2009

Posted by in Travels

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Emmjay's cool indifference to Aussie yobbos

Emmjay's cool disdain for Aussie yobbos - alternatively, resting standing up. Or has he left his teeth somewhere?

Pig’s regulars are well used to the risks and terrors of Australian tourists displaying some of the less wonderful national characteristics.  I’m not fond of the larrikan streak of disobediance unless of course there’s a figure of absurd authority deserving of it.  In this case, despite our bicycle tour guide’s express advice that we may sit (but not stand) on the concrete objects that make up the Monument to Jews murdered by the Nazis, our tour group yobbo – let’s call him Brett (because that is his name) encouraged three other fucking turkeys to get up there with him.

He was wearing a checked shirt.

What more can I say.

Five hours of Brett  was enough to encourage me to become an asylum seeker in New Zealand.

BTW, the tour was a complete blast, despite the yobbos and is highly recommended.  The rest of the photos were of the tour guide – whom the lesser Emmlet found to be fascinating and a surprisingly good looking (for a former Mancunian) artist now painting as a member of the contemporary Berlin expressionist school.

But to finish on a positive note – well, another positive note, I was watching Arsenal play Man U in the cafe at Circus Berlin.  No, sorry, they weren’t in the cafe, I was in the cafe.  Another Aussie walked in and was recognised as a long lost pal by some ex-pats.

It was my old sailing skipper’s son.  I went to this young man’s wedding four years ago in Vaucluse where he married his German sweetheart.

Pretty small world, eh ?

I was speculating with the first mate that the Gods are toying with me again.

Can I have a professional deitological opinion from ‘Mou, T2 and Glenda, please.  Others may also put forward a plausible explanation.

Note:  Like Julian, I have more than one Pig’s Arms T-shirt, and this one was definitely washed since the last post.  (OK, Mom ?)

Note 2:  I was a bit worried about the lack of a Kosher shirt, so I respectfully stayed outside.  Did you get that , Brett ?

Vegemite or not….

28 Friday Aug 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, Travels

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continental.

continental brekkie

Vegemite or not… by Helvi Oosterman

Leaving your mother country, you’ll leave behind mother’s home cooking and most times also Speciality foods of your nation. In my case it was the flat Finnish rye bread, which I hadn’t encountered anywhere else on my travels. The Estonian black bread became a reasonable substitute in Australia.

Some countries of course have food to die for ; their recipes have crossed the borders and we all enjoy our spaghetti Bolognese , our Danish pastries, Russian beef stroganoff and Swedish meatballs. That’s the easy bit, but what happens when visiting or moving into a foreign land, and you are offered those countries’ less known or some of their more peculiar tid bits.

First trip to Amsterdam and you are given your first raw herring with raw onions. How’s that for a new culinary experience. Not as good as roll mops out of the jar, but not bad either ; I could learn to love this. Greek olives or dolmades are easy to like, but what about the funny drink Ouzo, that could be problematic. Sweet and sour pork, Mongolian lamb don’t need getting used to but please, don’t ask me to tackle bird’s nest soup or hundred year old eggs, ever, never..

English roast dinner even with the peculiar Yorkshire pudding goes down well, but a pea soup with a pie floating in it, a floater, they call it…good for piglets at pigs Arms maybe..?  Haggis, now that’s something that only the starving amongst us dares to touch.

season's first herring.

Dutch herring eater.

New Zealanders wrap their fish in banana leaves and bury it in sand over hot coals to cook and this of course can taste fantastic, depending on type of fish and the cooking time. Kiwi friends of ours did this once; they buried their catch in the Balmain back yard…sadly the Snapper tasted like compost and smelled like burning rubber.

Getting used to Aussie food was not so hard; it was a matter of learning to like bland or plain food; the chops and the three veg. Sometimes the greens came out of tin, especially if you were eating in a road side milk bar, on your way to Brisbane. Sister in law, having been a waitress, had had her share of difficult customers, therefore she in her turn turned ‘difficile’ when dining out. Are the mushrooms fresh, she queried. Straight out of the tin, was the Taree cafe owner’s answer.

Husband had been in Australia many a year before I came, but he had never managed to even taste Vegemite. For me it was love at first sight , I have to have it at least twice a week.Our kids couldn’t be without it either; when living in Holland, we had to do with Marmite…no match to Vegemite. The jars were cute though, ideal for my dried herbs.

Siloing.

28 Friday Aug 2009

Posted by in Ladies Lounge, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Siloing the unwelcome

By Madeleine Love by-line.

Siloing

Siloing; sounds like liloing.

Last thing I wrote was about a GM virus with wires… since then so much has happened… here’s one thing…

The Department of Innovation, Industry, Science and Research was developing a new strategy for ‘Enabling Technologies’, being biotechnology and nanotechnology.  Gene Ethics was informed about stakeholder consultations for the strategy, and submissions were invited.

MADGE found out about it through Gene Ethics.   MADGE was ‘Mothers against genetic engineering’ and then MADGE became ‘Mothers are Demystifying Genetic Engineering’.  We’ve just finished demystifying and we’re about to re-morph.

The deadline for consultation and submission was so close that it was instantly assumed to be a bogus consultation.  Many public stakeholder organisations, such as the Public Health Association of Australia knew nothing of it.

MADGE asked for three seats at the consultation in Melbourne and got two.  We learnt there were two Melbourne meetings.  At this consultation there was MADGE, Gene Ethics, Friends of the Earth, the Victorian Trades Hall Council, Safe Work Australia, Nanosafe Australia, and someone from Monash regulatory studies who had reviewed all the regulatory bodies that might have to do something with nanotechnology (about 17 of them).

First question… Who is at the other consultation and why are we at this one?  Because it was quite clear that the people who were at this meeting were those who would prefer a precautionary approach.  They wouldn’t say who was at the other meeting, but we knew that it would be industry.

We asked that the minutes from this meeting be written and published on the web.  Everyone at the meeting agreed to this.   We asked that the minutes of the industry meeting be placed on the web, and the Department of Innovation said they would ask the attendees at the other meeting.  We asked for the Department of Innovation to recommend that the minutes of the other meeting be placed on the web.  The Department of Innovation would not answer this request (literally – head down writing and refusing to meet eye contact).

This is called ‘siloing’ – they silo interest groups and prevent them from exchanging information and coming to sensible decisions together.  There were to be two meetings in Sydney, and one in Bris, Can, Ade and Perth.  After the Sydney meeting we learnt that they had been silo’d.  Silo’d to the extent that the Department of Innovation organized for Greenpeace in Perth to attend the Sydney consultation by teleconference, rather than attend the Perth meeting.

So will the groups at the Industry meeting be similarly frustrated for not meeting the groups who may oppose their magnificent products?  Were they offered more than tea, coffee, biscuits and GM lollies?

Brits Release Mass Murderer

27 Thursday Aug 2009

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms

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McAskill defending the release of the Lockerbie bomber

McAskill defending the release of the Lockerbie bomber

One of the luxuries of being away from Australia (well, not for many Americans, since I was indistinguishably present in Austria), is that one can, from a distance, gain a different perspective.
Seeking out an English language newspaper, today I paid six bucks for a copy of the Times.  Isn’t it ironic when one considers that the Australian can be picked up gratis from a metropolitan railway station but another national fourth estate treasure holds its price

A couple of days ago the Times reported that Britons and overwhelmingly, Americans are seriously unhappy with the decision to free the convicted terrorist – the Libyan former spook Abdul Baset Ali al-Megrahi, just 8 years into a 27 year sentence for murdering 270 people in the bombing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie in 1988. The murderer, let’s be quite clear is alleged to be dying of prostate cancer and has, it is said (by presumably medical experts in direct communion with God) only three months to live.

This compassionate act displays the depth of the British legal system and strongly contrasts it with the “laws” supposed to be held as fundamentalist truth – by  fundamentalists.  The Times reported that justice has been done and that British justice does not preclude access to compassion.

But it really does call into question the motivation of the British authorities for whom the need to be seen to be compassionate by a fundamentalist dictatorship is apparently a priority.

How can this be ?  How can a British government politician facing certain annihilation at the next election, or any public servant or diplomat justify this supine act ?

The Times was even-handed in dishing out the vitriol.  They reported that the United States ‘deeply regretted the decision”.  Mon brave !  Translation : Obama and the really reasonable team are seriously pissed off.  Big mistake !

So what could be the motivation ?

Perhaps the most outrageous part was the circus plastered over the front page of the Times on Friday 21 August.  It includes a photograph of the murderer, being escorted down the gangway from General Gaddafi’s private plane – by his son – to a “hero’s welcome”.

Big mistake #2.  And big revelation.  British compassion does not lead to Libyan contrition.   The clash of values systems.

At least the Brits – well the Scots are up to a bit of arse covering with the Scottish Parliament being recalled to discuss (and big prediction ‘condemn’) the release.  The Times presaged a public inquiry and an opportunity to spend a few million more taxpayers’ pounds in pursuit of the last few million they spent to secure the conviction and maintain the inmate alive in incarceration.

From the comfortable distance that Australia has from British politics – mostly – the decision to release a mass murder looks like arrant nonsense and must be deeply offensive to the families of the victims. The appalling release of fundamentalists complicit in the Bali and Jakarta bombings after a few years’ incarceration in the minds of many Australians was not compensated by the execution of the three murderers.  Moreover, many Australians including even some who lost love ones in these atrocities, expressed the view that execution was stooping to a lower form of justice not acceptable  in civilised nations and that martyrdom for the convicted murderers was highly counter-productive.

And perhaps here in lies the answer.  If death from prostate cancer for the Lockerbie bomber is certain, this is certainly not a death in custody that the British government wants on its hands.  Particularly when one considers the recent efforts both the Americans and the British have been putting into rehabilitating at least one dictator.

So is the price of North African oil cheaper than that of the Middle East or is it any easier to justify morally ?

The farewells of no returns.

27 Thursday Aug 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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Those final farewells.

 There were quite a few English ‘ten pound’ single men migrants saying their permanent farewells with parents on the quay. I remember,” Goodbye Jack, don’t forget to write to your sister. Cheerio son. Let us know how you are going, won’t you?  Yes mum, see you then. Keep well boy,” and with these words of parting they too set sail for Australia.

After a couple of days, the sun came out and weather was getting Mediterranean with passengers settled. I was most impressed with the food and menus that we were asked to choose from. Can you imagine, getting to choose between boiled or fried eggs, beef or pork, mashed or boiled spuds, carrots or spinach, tea or coffee?

After a few days, arriving first in Genoa then Naples and finally Messina in Sicily, where I then witnessed the goodbyes of all goodbyes. Not only to Mama, Papa, sorelli and brothers, uncles and aunties, the barber, grandparents, villages and brotherhoods, but also forever and ever with the unrelieved and spine tingling goodbyes that haunt those harbours still.  With great heaving, wailings, endless sobbing, and despair soaked up in acres of their best hankies. These were the goodbyes at their best and saddest and so final.

Those were the farewells of no return.

As the ship of Johan.V.Oldenbarnevelt finally pulled away from Messina’s moorings and thick ropes, huge cries would rise again; reach across the widening gap of water. One old man, and papa to dear son Luigi departing, the best cobbler of the village, so unrelentingly steeped in grief and sobbing, lost his dentures in the water as well as son (going far away,) no doubt to be found that same week by a keen archaeologist of that ancient harbour.

The Dutch way of departing was a bit in between, more practical matters would be discussed. Have you got enough underwear for the six weeks? Don’t forget the cod liver oil. We heard the vegetables are not fresh. Yes, we are doing this for the children, and yes, we heard there are bathrooms in some of the houses in Sydney.  The weather is much warmer there and palm trees too. Stop sniffling and fidgeting Gerard!

See you!

Next day on board, those sad Sicilians were still hanging over the sides of the boat. Doe eyed and cast towards the shores that had disappeared and gone forever with’ famille en casa con la tavola’. While the young poms were strolling towards the bars that would open up in international waters away from coast and provide tax free alcohol relief. A little orchestra would soon strike up a cheery waltz, such as the much favourite; It’s on the isle of Capri where I met you………Was it Dean Martin?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOVbB_rEar8

 It would be another two weeks before an ’Oh sole mio’ would be tried. Tables would be set up for card games and Tombola. After a couple of days, the red rimmed eyes of the Southern Italians would revert to black again and friendships were being made quickly.

The English bachelors were less forthcoming and seemed more at ease pondering uncertain futures by themselves, perhaps with a glass or two of beer.

Father O’Way goes to the Oval

26 Wednesday Aug 2009

Posted by in Mark, The Sports Bar

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Grigor Ian Chant (2)

Grigor Ian Chan

Clouds are swirling through the sky as the wind blows cold from the north. Out of a large Cumulus humilis a man appears wearing a flat cap. He talks with a strong English accent “Sandy, Gordon here, I need you to do me a favour, know wot I mean, can you get my Stat-o-matic 4000 from my old mate Grigor?, I lent it to him last century and he hasn’t returned it, anyway I’m off now for a few pints of lager, know wot I mean, bye”.

I wake to smell of coffee that the beautiful Belinda has prepared for me. Only last evening I told Belinda that I was off to the cricket for the last days play. Belinda replied “Oh Sandy, can I come, I really wanna come, big time, you know, all the way, I love cricket” Well I suppose that makes one of us “Yes, of course you can come my little sweet pea” I utter. Belinda shrieks with delight “I’m coming, I’m coming, oohh, yes, yes, I’m coming, hmmm, ohh, yes, I’m goin’ down, yes, yes, the Big O [Okay stop right there, cut, Astyages here, Sandy you know that the analytical paranormalisation that juxtaposes the desensitisation of the syntax inferring Belinda is about to sexually climax over a cricket game is just scientifically flawed] [Jesus Christ give a guy a break, everyone’s a critic].

We have breakfast in the ground floor café when out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar face. It’s Grigor, Grigor Ian Chant. As he approaches I notice something in his hand “Is that a pen Chant?” I ask. “Morning Sandy, very desirable but no it’s a Stat-o-matic 4000 for Gordon. See you pop it in your top pocket and it transmits cricket statistics straight into your brain. So you can turn to the person next to you and rattle off stats in a most impressive manner. Can you pass it to the Bish so he can get it to Gordon?” I suddenly remember my dream. So that’s God, Gordon O’Donnell, the astrophysicist the Bish told me about. “Certainly old chap” I reply, “Off to the cricket you know, last days play, what, rather!” With this news Grigor erupts into laughter. Now I didn’t think my English accent was that bad. “Cricket Sandy, you? The man who hates cricket with a vengeance” Grigor bleats, Yes old boy, that is I “Er, um, Sandy old bean, I hate to tell you” Grigor boasts “but the crickets finished” “Finished” I gasp, “Finished, but cricket goes for 5 long boring days where hardly anything happens”.

I see trouble brewing, the Bish wanted me to streak or start a riot to slow the game down, oh shit, I see really big trouble brewing. The Bish will have to cough up 50 bucks to Basil Sauce and the Bish hates losing. Grigor can’t help himself now, talking advantage of my ignorance and the fact that his side won he pushed on “Well that’s your view old chap, but see we beat you inside the five days because we are a vastly superior team. You Antipodeans just don’t get it do you, we are the rulers of the game, we are bigger that big, we are blah blah blah, rant rant rant, rave rave rave…..”. I can’t stand this verbal debasement of our players and something makes me place the Stat-o-matic 4000 in my top pocket. It instantly tells me that England are rated 5th in world rankings, one behind Australia and that not one of their batters are ranked in the top ten, the best the bowlers could do was 9 and 10. The Stat-o-matic seems to tune to the needs of the person wearing the device, gee, I could even sound like I know what I’m talking about, I wonder if Gordon has one for horse racing. “Okay Grigor, now listen