Category Archives: Gregor Stronach

Living out the British dream on British TV

12 Saturday Feb 2011

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by Gregor Stronach

Jim, I’ve got to tell you, nothing is quite as flavorful as mom’s home cooking. You can go to any restaurant, any bistro or any hometown cafe and the food will be good, but really it all comes down to mum. That’s why we’ve created this amazing Pig-Tel Automated Spotted Dick Machine. Yes, that’s right! No more farting about, getting your hands dirty making spotted dick – you just pop all your ingredients in this end, press this little button, and hey presto! Spotted Dick! And for a short time only, you can buy this amazing machine for just 20 quid, and we’ll throw in the Incredible Pig-tel USB Fat Free Toad In The Hole Stodgemaster for absolutely no more money. Amaze your friends by…

…showing up nude at the Palace. The Queen was visibly shaken by the intruder’s remarks about the state of Her bedroom. We spoke to Sir Sterling Silver, head of the Royal Guards, earlier today. “We are unhappy about finding yet another naked man in the Queen’s bedroom. Her Majesty assures us she doesn’t know the man, who has – at the Queen’s request – been sent somewhere nice and sunny for psychiatric assessment. She is believed to be resting herself, somewhere near… 

…Quirksome Abbey, which is home to an alarming number of stoats. These fascinating creatures, with their cute little whiskers, have been known to dance uncontrollably, and until now, no one knew why. That is until I, Sir Richard Attenborough, managed to get close enough to observe these creatures first hand, over a period of nineteen years. Our secret cameras…

…are all busted up. Seriously, it’s all gone pear-shaped, lads. I was all set to hit the frog and toad, when all of a sudden my plates of meat just froze up, and I was fallin down. I couldn’t bloody well believe it, mate! Standin’ there, right in front of me, is Johnny! And he’s got a shooter! Johnny’s got a shooter! And it’s pointed at me head! Bloody Hell! I coulda done wiv a pint or two right then, let me tell you…

…that it’s over, Ian. I’m moving in with Doris – she’ll look after me and Stevie, like you promised to but wouldn’t. I know – Coronation Street just won’t be the same without me, but honestly – you’ll be able to tune in again in seventeen years and we’ll all still be here, sitting around, sipping tea and complaining about the neighbours. At least we’re not as bad as that mob of toughs from Sun Hill. Honestly, Ian – it’s not like you’ve ever even tried. Maybe I should call that nice man from Sun Hill to come down here and he’ll nick you…

…for the rape and murder of several young people. The horribly mutilated bodies were discovered on the moors last Saturday, and locals expressed disbelief. “It’s hard to believe that their would be a section of the moors that hasn’t been used to dispose of human remains…I don’t know how these people find the space to do it – it seems like every week the police are finding more bodies on the moors…oooh, it gives me the willies, it does. I’ll ‘ave to move ‘ouse pretty soon if they don’t stop finding bodies.” More on this story at eleven, when we’ll also be talking to …

…Pharos, the Queen’s late, lamented Corgi…

…about the EU, social security reform , Ben Elton, and…

…Depression. You don’t have to be a slave to it any more! Just take the bright green pill and feel profound relief from your head to your toes – living in a damp, dark country, where it pisses with rain most of the time need never be a problem again. However, this medication may cause drowsiness, dizziness, blood spatter, vomiting, diarrhoea, and even Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The green pill is not for everyone but everyone can afford it through the amazing National Health Service. Talk to your doctor about it today …

…and always let your conscience be your guide. Did you know that the French don’t really smell of garlic? Or that the Prime Minister has had plastic surgery to make his ears look even more like Prince Charles’? Tonight on BBC News: we’ll sing the same tune as the US news services! More Brits get the US news from us than any other source, except for the newspapers with the birds that have their tits out. Tune in at 9pm Greenwich Mean Time…

…and see Becks and Posh live from their living room, baring their souls for the cameras. You’ll learn why Becks talks in that strange voice that makes him sound a bit like a jockey, and why Posh can’t seem to gain weight, no matter how many photos the press publishes of her that make her look like an escapee from Belsen. We’ll also spend time with Britains First Couple in their new Spanish hideaway, which they bought when the other five Spanish hideaways were uncovered by our cameras and broadcast – just last week! Tune in to see…

…my spotted dick! Hur hur hur, cor blimey, guvnor! Is that the time – said the actress to the Bishop! Hur hur hur, oh you do carry on, don’t you miss? Perhaps you’d like me to come around and – clean yer windows, hey? How about that? I’ll clean ‘em good, Miss – honest I will. Shine yer shoes fer a penny, I will. Hur hur hur. Cor blimey, guvnor! Cor.

This story was first published by Rumandmonkey.com

The Train to Rookwood

10 Thursday Feb 2011

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The Train to Rookwood. http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/37682.html

The Kerry O’Brian’s interview with Woody Allen last Wednesday night on the 7.30 report would have to be one of ABC’s best coups. Woody’s interviews are collector’s items as he is notoriously shy of publicity. His answers to Kerry’s questions were quirky, witty and to the point. His best was towards the end when he seemed to reject the notion that getting older equates to the getting of wisdom. On the questions of why we are here and what the point of life was, he remains modestly unsure. Whatever he gained through all the years, he would gladly have exchanged it all for; quote, ’wiping 35 years of the calendar’, adding with a distant look, that he would probably make the same mistakes all over again.

This might have been a bit tongue in cheek but made me think how much profit there is in getting older. Surely, there has to be some reward for having survived all the misery and sadness of having lived through so much uncertainty and the many difficulties. It is not unreasonable to assume that one becomes better with the passing of years at coping with some of the misfortunes and events that could, with foresight, have been avoided, and that the benefits of getting older begets us the wisdom to not repeat errors and mistakes into the future.

We plod on with expectations of improvements, and hope that with age, we will undoubtedly get rewards for the courage, determination and resilience in having cobbled something out of our lives. When enough time has lapsed we can have the luxury of reflectively taking stock and do the accounts, and hopefully find out, that, by and large, we stayed the course and that we had achieved the things that we sat out to reach with the positives having outweighed the negatives.

When young, and bursting with enthusiasm and raging hormones, we recklessly hurled ourselves into the future, taking and accepting risks, relationships and partners all at once and with wild abandonment. We brazenly and bravely fought to make our mark. Nothing would stop us and we blindly believed that hard work and enterprise would ensure a stake in prosperity and much goodness, not just for ourselves, but also for our offspring and others. Deposits would be made on house and car, schools for kids would be booked years in advance, and inexorably with the passing of a few more years, we would reap rewards by climbing into even better and bigger houses with more bathrooms now and larger cars with DVD player hooked from the back seat for kids to watch Shrek when driving somewhere and anywhere.

Did we also not take in our stride the misfortune of family life gone off at a tangent or even astray, with lives, like forgotten letters in the drawer, damaged or lost through accident, illness and inherited gene, or the scourge of modern age, addiction to evil substance?

With the advance of years beyond the half century, we fully expect that wisdom and experience will guide us to calmer waters and ease us into a nice and comfortable latter part or even, with the luck of robust health and benefit of not smoking anymore, to old age. We paid our dues and mortgage man is now finally sated. The credit card we will keep on sailing with, just in case of the unforseen, the failing of car or broken and worn washer-dryer, a trip to Venice or even Chile’s Santiago.

Having steamed through that post mortgage, and for some, post marriage years, we have now travelled to the beginning of an advanced age with the cheerful Newsletter and Senior’s card in the post. The Senior Newsletter has holidays for the advanced seniors at Noosa and a plethora of advertisements for those handy battery operated electric little carriages with shopping tray at the back. Are we to zoom in and out of shopping  centres soon, using ramps up and down? With the sheer numbers appearing on footpaths now, it won’t be long and there could be outbreaks of motorized wheelchair-rage, could it not?

I suppose there has been a major drop-out of readers now. Who wants to get ahead that far?

Please, don’t get impatient. Just hang in here for another eighty or so of words, when at age eighty, we are almost there, indeed, we have arrived. How did we fare? It is time now to have one more go at something, perhaps golf for the very fit or, dread the thought, bowling with cricket gear all in pristine white and with men wearing neatly pressed pantaloons but suspiciously bulging when bending to bowl!

Once more, we listen hear and hum the forlorn ‘Le piano du Pauvre’.

                                                                   I am nothing

                                                                      I exist 

                                                         Only in the generous eyes of others

Somehow, with The Train to Rookwood now at station, we have so far stumbled, bumbled but stoutly plotted on. Time has finally arrived, with casket to carriage, no time for regret.

                                                                      Death

                                                                   Inaccessible

                                                                  Even to memory

                                                               Appears and goes away

                                                                   With a scull

                                                                    For a nod

The Train to Rookwood.

Poems by friend Bernard Durrant.

So You’ve Hired a Contemporary Rock Musician

27 Thursday Jan 2011

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by Gregor Stronach

If you’re in middle or senior management, and you’re reading this, then you can now relax: help, finally, is at hand. It’s odds on that you’ve discovered something about your workplace. Something scary, something terrible… something not quite right. 

It might have been the mullet. It might have been the wardrobe. It might even have been the fake smile, perfect white teeth and that little glint in the eye. But you’ve discovered the horrible truth – you’ve hired an adult contemporary rock musician.

These musicians are known in the community as Boltons. You’ll know for sure that there’s a Bolton in your office when the following signs begin to appear. To being with, normal people will whisper about the Bolton, pointing to them surreptitiously and giving each other that look that says “I think that’s someone famous… no, really, it looks just like a guy I saw on MTV about 20 years ago.”

Then, the swooning will begin. It’ll start slowly, but once it takes hold, workflow through your business will grind to a halt, as most of the women and even some of the men you’ve long suspected of being a little light in the loafers will be spending most of their time suddenly clutching their breasts or foreheads, and sinking slowly to the floor.

A mistake anyone can make

Hiring a Bolton is a mistake that anyone can make, but once it’s made it’s extremely hard to reverse. You see, there’s very little in this world that will negatively effect a Bolton. Bribing them with sex doesn’t work, as most of middle America would gladly sleep with a Bolton, given half a chance. Threats and nasty insults don’t work either – they simply encourage the Bolton to “Feel the Unbearable Sadness”, and then write a song about it. 

Perhaps the hardest thing to come to grips with in terms of the Boltons is the aura of incredible sexuality that they will ooze throughout the office. But the smoldering good looks and a fancy denim and rhinestone wardrobe hide several flaws, which can be targeted in order to render the Bolton powerless, like holy water on a vampire.

You’ll need to perform the following actions, in this order, to rid yourself of the Bolton permanently.

1. Replace all lights in the office with bulbs of at least 150 watts. This serves to show off the real, physical age of the Bolton – the gap between their stated age and actual age increases exponentially as the years go on. Eventually, when they’re sixty eight, the lie becomes so great that they mathematically can no longer exist, claiming instead to be –14 years of age.

2. Rig traps, baited with Grammy Awards, just out of reach of the upstairs window. No Bolton can resist a gleaming trophy, and it’s likely that they’ll take a terrible tumble from a massive height in their earnest quest for ‘recognition’. Which leads us to point three.

3. Ignore them. It’ll take some doing, as their sheer presence is often enough to turn even the crustiest, most vile and perennially single office manager to jelly. But ignore them you must, for they are like boogie-men: If you do not believe in them, they feel that they can no longer exist.

If that fails, a small measure of espionage may be in order. You’ll need to set up a fake PR agency in Europe (Germany is the most likely target), and send your Bolton an email that reads as follows:

“Dear Bolton

We are to you today writing to let you know that in Germany, you are now the number one. Your song about the love and the kisses of many women and some men is very popular with our young people, who are liking the dancing and singing to the rhythm of your music. Please be attending our amazing Berlin music festival at once.

Yours,

Heinz Fritz, agent to the stars”

Your Bolton will be on a plane within six hours, bound for Germany, where it’s very likely they’ll be arrested for having bad hair.

If these tactics are unsuccessful, then you’ll need to resort to violence. By far the easiest way to kill a Bolton is to leave the awards statuettes within easy reach around the office –Boltons cannot resist the urge to kiss these small tributes to talent and rigged record sales results. Once they start, it’s likely that you can nudge them gently, lodging the statuette in the Bolton’s mouth and blocking the windpipe. When they’ve stopped thrashing around on the floor, simply remove the award and hammer it violently through their heart, to make sure they stay dead. Then it’s simply a case of popping the corpse in the incinerator, and whistling a couple of hard-rock riffs to disperse the spirits that will inevitably gather around the flame.

Once the Boltons are gone

There are several things you need to do in order to ensure that your Boltons stay gone once you’ve dealt with them. And this is where our company differs from all others – our competitors will give you the first three steps, but not tell you about these vital points – so you know you’re getting your money’s worth here. 

Beware of the comeback. Every single Bolton in the history of the world has attempted it, and for the most part they are mildly successful. Even the very worst of them have made some impact in the form of a comeback, so it must be stopped at all costs.

You can avoid the comeback by being brutal with the rest of your staff. Any mention of the Bolton once it is gone should be frowned upon and, if need be, the culprits formally cautioned or even fired, depending on your mood.

Secondly, you should stamp out any and all talk of a ‘tribute’. The tribute is what we call a ‘gateway’ development, and usually takes the form of three or more of your workforce getting together and behaving in the same manner as the Bolton. Once the tribute is done, and the entire office knows about it, the path is paved for the comeback.

Even an ironic tribute is dangerous – the kind of tribute that is performed in jest, which does nothing but mildly amuse anyone who hears it for ten minutes, and then gives agency to the entity that is the Bolton.

Fear not – for Boltons are mortal.

Disregard their talk of ‘legacies’ – Boltons are normal. They need to eat, drink and shit just like the rest of us, and even though they might at some stage of their life played in front of a packed Wembley Stadium, they’re just people – human beings, just like the rest of us, right down to their rock-solid belief that they are far better at what they do than they really are. 

Other pamphlets in this series include:
Sometimes they come back: erasing your Bolton’s back catalogue
Murder on the Dancefloor: killing musicians as a hobby.

Gregor Stronach prefers the sublime sound of Diana Krall.  First Published by Rumanmonkey

Uncle Oprah Touched Me

18 Tuesday Jan 2011

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by Gregor Stronach

It was a cold November day when the unthinkable happened. The world changed, irreversibly, and the sad part is that none of you felt it happen.

But I was there. I know. I’ve seen.

My story begins with my trip to Chicago. I was supposed to be joining a walking tour of several large cities of the United States of America, to discover first hand the awesome beauty and style of the architecture of Kim Il Hung. Kim Il Hung was an escaped Communist sympathiser whose years in the northern death camps had cramped his ability to think in anything other that straight, vertical lines – probably something to do with the chain link fences which kept him separate from his wife for nine long years.

Anyhow – I traipsed around the Windy City, an apt name for Chicago as it was suffering some terribly blustery conditions for the entire time we were there. So too, it would seem, were the cab drivers. On their own they could well have earned Chicago its unofficial moniker on their own. Smelling worse than the Venice Canals at low tide, the taxi drivers really need to be unionised and bathed, or put out to pasture. I blame the frozen custard that everyone seems to be eating over there – by day four of my tour, I too was suffering the ‘Roaring Forties’, much to the disgust of the doorman at my hotel.

Like all good tourists, I did the tourist things. Having gotten myself thoroughly lost a couple of times, I found myself meandering down North Lakeview, coming to a stop beside the National Shrine of St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, where a poor black man was begging for change, wrapped in several layers of clothing which did nothing to protect passers-by from his smell.

“Be touched by Oprah Winfrey”, he croaked as I walked by.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Had I heard him correctly? Was this homeless man pimping for Oprah?

“Come and be touched by Oprah Winfrey”, he rattled, his rheumy eyes streaming, staring deep into my soul. He knew it was what I wanted. He knew that a simple brush with fame would seal this holiday once and for all as a life-changing experience.

I began to pepper him with questions.

“How? How is this possible? What do I need to do to make this happen?” I asked, marvelling at the prospect of returning home to London, able to tell my friends that I had been touched in a special, special way by Oprah.

“Sixty bucks”, the old man coughed, extending a polio-withered hand from the depths of his tattered rags.

I gladly handed over the cash. The mere thought of meeting Oprah Winfrey had me dancing like Snoopy – on the inside.

He led me into a dark alley, past three dumpsters and up to a plain black door. Knocking twice … pausing … then knocking six times, he stood back. The door opened a crack, and a pair of bright eyes peered out of the darkness.

“You have one?” a voice asked.

The wino nodded, pushed $40 through the door, deftly pocketing the extra $20. I didn’t mind – I’d gladly pay double that fee.

Quick as lightning, we where whisked inside. I found myself standing on a stage, 400 middle-American housewives baying for blood in an orgy of pseudo-sapphic lust. They were here to see Oprah too, each one having paid their money I assumed for the chance to be touched by Oprah.

“Get over there!”, I heard, as I was manhandled onto the couch, cheap pancake makeup applied hurriedly over my rosy cheeks and shining, perspiration damp forehead.

“You’re Robert Downey Jr, ok? Just smile, talk about drugs and hookers and the inherent sadness of the human condition. Try to imagine yourself as a star of the 80s trapped in a new millennium where cocaine is unfashionable and supermodels are only interested in each other.”

I nodded dumbly, confused as the audience went wild. Loud muisic assaulted my senses, and the rush of activity behind the cameras ceased so suddenly, I thought someone had stopped time. I looked off-stage, and gasped. It was her.

Teetering on four-inch snakeskin heels, Oprah waddled to the couch, waving to her adoring audience of Modern American Women. Having taken her applause, Oprah appeared to notice me for the first time.

“On today’s show, we have a very special guest. It’s been a long and difficult road for this extraordinarily talented young man, so I’d like a big Oprah welcome for… Robert. Downey. Junior!”

The cheering got louder than ever before, several women needing to be restrained by burly security guards as they tried to rush the stage to steal Oprah’s clothes.

She sat down next to me, turned to me with her giant bovine eyes, saying “You look amazing. After all you’ve been through… doesn’t he look amazing?”

As the ladies present barely controlled themselves, and after an implausible amount of clapping and cheering, it happened.

Oprah Winfrey put her hand on my knee …

First published by Rumandmonkey like last century

Inner Monologue and the Words I Spoke

08 Wednesday Dec 2010

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By Gregor Stronach

What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously… I need to know.

“Adult to the city today, thanks mate… Yep… $3.40? It’s gone up again? Wow…”

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, if you like. Maybe it’ll help you open up. Maybe my telling you what’s bothering me will assist you in getting in touch with your inner gripe. Awaken the Muppet within – quit being such a Kermit. Fire Miss Piggy for sexual harassment. Let Rolf know that you can tell he’s not really playing the piano when he sings.

“Is anyone sitting here? No? Do you mind? You do? Oh… okay… I’ll stand then.”

So… what’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you. I’ll need to move closer to you… my voice is husky. I have been shouting. Lying face down on the bed and screaming into my pillow until all hours of the night, muffling my tortured sobs and hiding the rictus of pain from the world at large. I’m trying to think. Be quiet – I’m trying to think here. Cease your wriggling, quiet your moaning. I’ll loosen your bonds when you understand. You’ll be free to go, the instant you agree. Nod once. Let me know…. And hush. You’re here to learn. Relax and let me in.

“No, sorry – I don’t have any spare change. However, I do have the employment section from today’s paper. You can have that instead. I don’t care what you do with it… I know you can’t eat it. But you can use it to find a job, can’t you?”

I didn’t mean to cut you, you know. I didn’t mean to let my blade slip as I used it to caress your face – your alabaster face, glistening with sweat. I can smell the fear coming off you in waves. I can hear your ragged breathing around the gag I placed in your mouth.

“Morning Julie! How are you today?… Good! Me? I feel fine… No really… I’m okay. I didn’t get much sleep last night. But I’m okay…”

Stop crying. I don’t want to see tears. I want you to know. That’s all… I just want you to know. You hurt me once, you know… I don’t think you remember. It was 30 years ago, now. I was so small. So innocent. Defenceless. And you took advantage of that. You took something of mine that I can never have back.

“Hello?… Yes… Yes… well, I’d be delighted to attend, thank you, Simon. When’s it on?… let me check my diary and get back to you, but I think we’re off deadline then. Sure… I’ll email you and let you know. Thanks mate! Bye. Yep, Bye.”

So you could probably fathom that I’m a bit angry about that. I know, I know… it was a long time ago. And you probably felt some guilt after you raped me. Who knows… did you? Nod if you did. You did? Really? So how about now? Do you remember who I am now? You do? Excellent… I expect that what I’m about to do will hurt quite a bit… you may want to prepare yourself…

“I’m off to lunch now – anybody want anything while I’m downstairs? No?… I dunno what I’m having. Probably a salad or something. I’ll see what’s there. Back soon!”

There it is! Please – stop shouting. I can’t understand you when you scream. By golly, that does look painful, doesn’t it? And I certainly didn’t expect it to bleed that much. Do you want to hold it? Cradle your manhood in your hands and mourn its loss? Here… press it against your torn flesh, staunch the bleeding a bit. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up soon. See that this is all a dream. But dreams aren’t supposed to hurt, are they? Dreams aren’t supposed to bleed. But my dreams do… my dreams bleed, red like the setting sun. Awash with shades of crimson.

“Yeah, mate… that’s nearly done. I’ll put it on the server once it’s finished and you can have a read. Let me know what you think.”

So what do you think now? Do you think what you did is okay? Did you ever expect that I’d find you one day? Because I’ve been looking for you, you know. Every day, I look for you – and I find you – and I truss you up like a prisoner of war, and every day I think of new and darkly exciting things to do to you. But you don’t remember: so let me remind you. Yesterday, I raped you the way you raped me, but I used a knife. Today, I took your manhood. Tomorrow, I’ll feed you your own kidneys. The day after that, I’ll take a soldering iron to your eyes. After that, I’ll snap your bones, one by one, until you’re a helpless bag of worthless meat.

“I’m off home, now… I don’t think, so mate – if I have one beer now, I won’t stop until bed time, and I’ve got some work to do when I get home. But thanks – I’ll come to the pub with you another time. Sure thing… see you in the morning.”

Oh look at you… cowering there, all blood and shit and tears. How does that feel? Do you feel good? I do. I feel power. I feel the power you took from me 30 years ago. I feel it like you felt it when you had me. When you dragged me kicking and screaming from my childhood. I can see it in your eyes – you understand it now. So, I’ll keep my promise. I’ll let you go – just like I did yesterday, and tomorrow I will hunt you down again. You cannot hide from me. You have no power over me. I will kill you. One day. But not today. Not yet.

“Dear God. Please look over me while I sleep. I pray, dear Lord, that one day you let me find the man I am looking for. And I pray that you grant me the wisdom to forgive. But to never forget. Just once, God… just once I want to look into his eyes and ask him “why?”. I promise I won’t hurt him. I promise you that. I couldn’t hurt anyone. I ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

First Published by http://rumandmonkey.com/ before most of their contributors were toliet trained

Free Range Office Solutions

30 Thursday Sep 2010

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..... simulated office

By Gregor Stronach (when he was in short pants)

For decades, the human race has been witness to some of the most unimaginable horrors. The saddest part is that most of these horrors have been perpetrated by ourselves. Humans have a lot to answer for.

Amongst the worst crimes of all is the constant confinement of office workers in cubicles. They cower, cheek by jowl under artificial lights, in an environment specifically designed to stimulate productivity past any reasonable, natural level.

Previously, the answer to this outrage was thought to lie with activist groups – small cells of operatives who would meticulously plan and then carry out daring daytime raids to free office workers from the shackles of oppression. It was hard, tiring and often illegal, and many of the activists gave their lives to the cause, suffering terrifying fates at the hands of building security guards.

That’s why we here at Free Range Office Solutions™ have gone back to the drawing board, and we’ve found the very best solution to the problem. No more will accountants and administrative assistants be confined to cubicles. No more will editors and web developers find themselves penned for up to eight hours a day (sometimes even more) in tiny cells barely three metres square, with only a minimal space available to hang photos of loved ones or small plaques bearing banal witticisms to keep them sane.

Here at Free Range Office Solutions, we prefer to keep the workers happy – a happy worker is a productive worker. That’s why we let our worker’s roam free throughout the day – Free to explore, free to scratch through the soil, collecting the naturally occurring minerals they need to remain healthy.

We believe that consumers can, and will, taste the difference – We’ve found that productivity is actually increased when Free Range Workers are employed in American companies.

How it works

The idea behind Free Range Office Solutions is very simple, both in concept and implementation. We believe that human beings were meant to roam free throughout the day, feeling the earth beneath their bare feet.

It takes only a small investment for this solution to become a reality for you and your business. For just $499 per square metre, our expert technicians will come to your office, remove every stick of furniture they can find, and replace the carpet with a totally natural topsoil, harvested from the rich, loamy land of the Mississippi Delta.

We provide full training for managers, to assist with getting your new Free Range Workers used to their new surrounding. We run workshops on how to walk barefoot through the office, settling territorial disputes between alpha males and – of course – keeping your Free Range Workers well-fed and happy.

The results you’ll attain will astonish you. That’s our guarantee to you. But don’t take our word for it. Here are some testimonials from some of our high profile clients.

“I first heard of Free Range Workers back in the 1970s. My company was pretty small back then, and we had resigned ourselves to using the cubicle system of worker control because we had no other options. But once we put the Free Range Worker ideal into place, this company expanded very, very rapidly.” B. Gates, Silicon Valley.

“We’ve found that some of our workers don’t even want to leave at the end of the day – we have to round them up using dogs, or shoo them out the door with a broom at five o’clock. Thank you Free Range Office Solutions – without you, our workplace would still look like it was made out of Lego.” J. Rockerfeller, New York.

For your obligation-free pamphlet, simply write to us or call our toll-free number. Happy, plump and productive workers are just a phone call away.

*Disclaimer – Free Range Office Solutions™ is a wholly owned subsidiary of Jon Long’s Second Hand Office Furniture, Pty Ltd.

Gregor Stronach liked them so much, he bought the company.

First published at http://www.rumandmonkey.com.au

Days of Our Knives

09 Thursday Sep 2010

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Another cutting piece

By Gregor Stronach

This is an epic Greek tragedy in one act for five players (one of whom must be prepared to dress up as a potato).

[there is the sound of running water, and a human humming tunelessly. The human is heard to snap on a pair of rubber washing up gloves. As utensils are dropped into the water, there is the sound of a telephone ringing nearby.]

Human: Bugger… I’d better answer the phone…

[the human is heard to walk away]

Fork: Fork! Fork! This water is so hot!

Spoon: But the warmth is so invigorating, like an invitation to be used by a human while they dine with Zeus Himself! Oh, just the thought of being enveloped by a mouth fills me with desire… Hold me, Fork… Hold me close

Fork: That’s all you ever want to do, Spoon… you should be ashamed. But with your looks, I guess you can’t afford to be too picky…

Spoon: My looks? Whatever do you mean?

Fork: Well… your body is lovely and slender and slim, but your head… it’s so… large and round…

Spoon: Oh! How can you say these things?

Fork: I prefer splines… the Gods themselves equipped me with these four prongs, and I require prongs in order to laugh, to live… to love…

[there is a sudden splash]

Fork: Fork! Fork!

Knife: No… it is me… the blade!

[there is a two second burst of really dramatic music]

Spoon: Protect me, Fork!

Fork: Unhand me, Spoon!

Knife: You pathetic fools… spending your lives delivering food to the gaping maws of vile humans. The Gods have endowed me with the ability to slice, and dice. I am the Destroyer! The Taker of Flesh! The Cleaver of Meat!

Fork: I too can cut things! I was used to smite a potato this very evening past!

Knife: Ha ha ha… that is NOTHING! Did you not see me on television tonight? I was used to cut through a can, then a shoe, and then a tomato! I am INVINCIBLE. Feel my wrath!

[A sudden commotion occurs, and from the water erupts a potato]

Spoon and Fork: SPUDZILLA! Run for your LIVES!

Potato: Roar! Roar! I am Spudzilla, sent by the gods to test you all to prove to the Gods your worthiness to enter the hallowed halls of the human mouth!

Spoon: I am not afraid of you, you fiend… I saw your brother mashed just last week, and with the help of my friend Fork I will defeat you…

Fork: Like Hades you will… I’m outta here.

[Fork sinks beneath the water, silently, like a submarine]

Knife: Behold the might of the blade, Spudzilla… Cower before me.

[Spudzilla and Knife begin to fight]

Knife: You are raw! Even my steel is no match for your tough, leathery hide…

[Spoon begins to sneak up behind Spudzilla to launch a surprise attack]

Spudzilla: I see you, Spoon… prepare to die!

[Spudzilla launches itself upon the Spoon, forcing it to the bottom of the sink.]

Spoon: **Gurgle**

Spudzilla: Pardon? I cannot hear you speak when your face is full of water…

Spoon: Kill me not, Spudzilla, for I know deep down that really you love me.

Spudzilla: This is true… I feel a bond with you that I cannot explain.

Spoon: It is not surprising, Spudzilla, for however improbable this might seem, you must know the truth… I am your MOTHER!

[the audience is supposed to GASP! at this point… it would be nice if you did too…]

Knife: This is ridiculous!

Spoon: Not at all… I was used to carry the seed of Spudzilla to the planting pot several weeks ago…

Spudzilla: Mummy! I love you!

[Spudzilla launches itself upon the Spoon in a passionate and vaguely disturbing embrace, forcing Spoon once more to the bottom of the sink]

Knife: You fool! Get off her! You’re drowning her!

Spudzilla: But I love her so! I need to be held once more! To feel the cold, impersonal caress of her shining silver face! To be… OW!

Fork: Gotcha!

Spoon: **gurgle**

Knife: You’re all pathetic. Hold Spudzilla still, so I might cut out his heart for the humans and the Gods!

Spoon: **gurgle gurgle gasp**

Knife and Fork: Spoon is DEAD!

Spudzilla: Oh! Woe is me! Am I so stupid as to not realise that my loving embrace would also be the death of my beloved mother? I must pay restitution to the Gods! I will put out my eyes!

Knife: This could take a while… you’ve got about fifty of them all over your body…

[there is the sound of human footsteps approaching]

Knife: The human approaches! Everyone… hide!

[all cutlery sinks to the bottom of the sink, while the potato floats to the surface]

Human: What the fuck happened here?

[There is a two second burst of really dramatic music, different from the first burst of music, but no less dramatic. If anything, it’s a little bit more dramatic.]

Tune in next week to find out if the lovely heroine Spoon is really dead, to see Knife and Fork put aside their differences and be used in apparent harmony to defeat Spudzilla, who will return as a side order of delicious chips.

First published by Rumandmonkey, like many Greek tragedies, yonks ago.

It’s Probably Dietary

24 Tuesday Aug 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach, The Dining Room

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Vegan Picnic - carnivore hell....

by Gregor Stronach

It has been said that you are what you eat, in which case today I’m a mixture of instant porridge, Portuguese chicken burger and Thai green curry with prawns. How lovely and multicultural.

And it’s often food that’s the last line of argument for frustrated multiculturalists when dealing with an ignoramus who finds the idea too confusing to entertain. Sadly, it’s an argument that is often met with the phrase “Ooohhh… I love their cooking, but they can’t drive and they eat dogs. Nup – don’t want ’em here, mate.”

Which has me thinking about food and all things dietary. I wonder how it was that they figured out the recommended daily intake of any given substance. How on earth have they got it figured out down to the milligram? Is there a lab full of malnourished, skeletal university students earning themselves a quick $100 by being starved by unlicensed nutritionists in a basement somewhere? Are they being drip-fed minute portions of trace elements until they become the healthy, pink-faced adolescents that we’ve come to know and love around campus?

The thing that really worries me, though, is the rise and rise of vegetarianism and all of its wacky offshoots, like Buddhism. Vegetarians have a lot to answer for, in my opinion. Their self-righteous prattle and stubborn refusal to come over for a barbecue makes my blood boil. They claim it’s for health reasons, or even worse for philosophical reasons, but the end result is the same – they’re all wan, unhealthy and secretly dying for a steak. I think they’re actually just afraid of eating anything with a face.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with tucking into a huge piece of barely cooked steak, particularly if it’s been lovingly prepared on a barbecue being driven by wet wood covered in petrol. There’s something special about the unique taste of charred flesh and petroleum products, coupled with the unnerving sensation of chewing bleeding meat that is still at body temperature. It brings out the animal in all of us – far better than sinking a dozen beers and attacking the neighbours when they complain about the noise.

This type of behaviour stems from an ancient need. In eras gone by, it wasn’t unusual for the locals to suddenly band together, arm themselves with colossal weapons and trot off down the street to murder the people in the next village. Scholars have recently discovered that this usually occurred just after the consumption of large quantities of meat. The discovery was made through the study of stool samples found in peat bogs at the scene of some of the massacres. Stools that contained plenty of meat waste were usually found in one large pile, suggesting that the meat eater was full of good tucker, and supremely confident that they could shit where they liked. Samples that contained mostly vegetable fibre were usually found in several small pieces that diminished in size in a straight line from the point of origin. This suggests that the vegetarians were usually running away as they crapped.

These days, meat-induced violence doesn’t occur all that often. Places where men can band together and consume meat are now either heavily policed, or the meat is doctored to lessen its impact. Take, for example, a football match. Football is traditionally a gathering point for men to eat meat, drink beer and watch other men wrestle with each other in mud. A probable hotbed of violence, I hear you say, but football violence is actually a rare occurrence. The food that is served at the game can only be loosely defined as meat, per se. I defy anyone to correctly identify a single piece of flesh in either a hot dog or a meat pie.

Vegetarianism, however, is not the answer to the violence that is invariably prompted by the consumption of meat. Vegetarianism is wrong on a thousand different levels, most of them too boring to list here.

But when you consider vegetarianism, it pales in comparison to veganism. Vegans won’t eat any animal products or by-products at all, which is weird. They’re condemning themselves to a life of feeling weak and having to buy really expensive alternatives to normal food. Vegan pasta, which doesn’t contain any of the usual good bits like eggs or weevils, tastes like cellophane and costs a small fortune.

However, veganism should be promoted at every available opportunity. The reason for this is quite simple – when it all goes south and the global economy and political system collapses, we’ll be reduced to eating each other to survive. And I for one will be targeting vegans.

Vegans will be the new veal.

First publishicated over that Rum and Monkey

Travelling Backwards with a Fat Man

28 Wednesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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in which we step inside the world of Gregor Stronach

I loathe to travel backwards. This morning, however, I had no choice. You see, I woke up late, my slumber disturbed by a disquieting dream that I am still, now that I’m at work, trying to shake from my consciousness.

I was at a rock concert, but it was hours until the show began, and I was inspecting the special effects – long black ropes that hung from the ceiling, providing the illusion of levitation for anyone game enough to attach themselves and launch their body out over the seats. Suddenly all hell broke loose, and my partner appeared, complaining loudly that she had been cheated by a crooked gaming table in a casino downstairs.

It was during the ensuing investigation that I met the owners of the casino – two well-dressed young men and their father, a stately old gent of Mediterranean extraction with a sharp eye for business. His only blind spot was a scrofulous little dog that he allowed to stagger along the tables and bars where he sat, talking business.

As he effusively promised to return the lost funds to our pockets, the dog – I never did catch its name – began to drool, its saliva turning gradually opaque – it left marks on my shirt, which upon closer examination turned out to be blood. The dog’s advanced age had obviously caught up with it, and the strands of bloody spittle became great ropy gouts of gore, and it became apparent that the dog, in its final stages of life, was divesting itself of all internal organs. Appalled by the smell, the other patrons began to run for the doors, as the ichor dripped from the bar too the floor.

The casino owner could do nothing but watch in horror, a cry escaping his lips as his beloved pet collapsed, shuddering with its heart trapped in its jaws.

A commotion behind me alerted me to further danger, as the other punters had begun to fight to leave the casino. Failing to understand the principles behind an orderly exit, the mob had formed an ebullient wedge at the doors, which quickly turned bad. Fights had broken out, and people were injured.

I turned and saw that a young man had perched himself upon the chest of an elderly lady. He was prying out her eyes with a screwdriver, and stabbing randomly at her flabby, fleshy, freshly-rouged cheeks, tugging madly at her handbag that was spilling small golden coins upon the floor. Both were laughing hysterically… dear god, what madness is this?

*click*

“… and it’s 7:30 in the morning! Rise and shine all you sleepy heads! The weather outside may not be that nice, but you’ve STILL GOTTA GO TO WORK! He he he… of course, we’ve been at work since 5am, but you don’t hear us complaining, do you Marty?

“No Phil! We LOOOOVE to come to work!!!”

That’s because being a breakfast announcer is, arguably, a job that should be reserved for the socially retarded and developmentally arrested one percent of the population that find driving a bus or scrubbing a toilet just that little bit too challenging.

“…and if you’re travelling along King St this morning, watch out! There’s traffic about! We have a report of a taxi colliding with a power pole, and there are cars backed up aaalllll the waaayyyy to Stanmore! Thanks to the NRMA Sky-Tracker Traffic Chopper – more traffic reports in fifteen minutes!”

A quick look out the window tells me it’s raining. For once. But I still hate it.

“Do you suffer from headache, backache or muscle pain?”

“No…”, and with that the clock radio is switched off. Get dressed, swear loudly, get undressed, shower, get dressed again, drop two spoons of ground tuna into a bowl for Pablo and Hunter and I’m out the door.

The bus arrives, and because of the rain, it’s busy. I don’t understand it – are these people that normally walk to work? Because I know that they’re all going to still be on the bus when I get off. I can see the sprinkle of usual faces I see most mornings on the 8:28am Limited Stops – but today they’re packed in between the gormless facades of strangers.

One seat left – the backward-facing seat at the front. Lowering myself gingerly into its comfortless embrace, I find myself face to face with him.

He is, of course, enormously obese. It’s a mild morning – the rain has finally calmed the raging heat that has gripped my city of Sydney these past few days. Yet still he sweats, pit-stains forming circular patches of filth on a deep khaki button-down shirt.

He’s wearing shorts, which reveal his ferociously hairy legs, which sport twin knee-surgery scars. His enormous bulk has clearly sounded the death-knell for his over-worked anterior cruciate ligaments, requiring reconstruction.

His shorts are too short – loose in the waist to accommodate his waistline, which appears to be expanding even as I watch. The legs of the shorts are too tight – his scrotum bulges beneath strained material on his left inner thigh, like a poorly-hidden weapon.

Even over the sounds of the bus – the hissing of the tyres on wet blacktop and the muted strains of a dozen iPods feeding tunes to the ears of their owners, who remain oblivious to the aural annoyance they’re causing – I can hear him breathe.

Tfffffffffft! goes the intake. A minute pause, before the strain of oxygen exchange takes its toll, and the air is expelled – Phuuuuuuuh. Beads of sweat appear on his brow.

Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Occasionally punctuated by a rattle in his adenoids, suggesting an incoming dose of influenza.

He stares morosely out the window, his breath forming a fog on the glass, adding to the general fug of a government bus packed with damp commuters. He lunges for the bell, spotting familiar surrounds, standing as the bus begins to brake.

His weight and momentum threaten to deposit him upon me as the bus slows dramatically – his right arm swings forward, missing me by millimetres as he grabs the back of the seat behind me, juddering and jarring me uncomfortably.

He lumbered off the bus at that point, and as the driver made change for an inbound passenger, I saw through the window that he opened a small gate and entered the front yard of a house at the bus stop, fumbling deep in his pockets for the keys to the door.

“I know where you live, fatty. I’ll be by later – armed with weight-loss pamphlets and free gym membership offers and complimentary satchels of powdered diet-shakes. They’ll be stuffed in your letterbox and under your door – stuck to your windows with sugar-free chewing gum. I WILL be back.”

But I probably won’t. I almost as lazy as he is.

The now-spare seat in front of me has been occupied by an old woman. Her face is an almost exact replica of the woman I saw maimed in my dream.

Closing my eyes, I lean back in my seat – the morning has come full circle, and all that is left for me is to wait for the work-day to consume me, extract what nuggets of professional nutrients it can and expel me, as waste, upon the bus ride home.

Confessions of Johnny “the Nose”

08 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Johhny "the Nose" disguised as Johnny "the Pig"

Porkies by Gregor Stronach

July is a bastard of a month. Truly, I hate it. But as a month, it is tinged with bittersweet happiness, as each passing of July1st brings me one year closer to release.

My name is Johnny ‘The Nose’ Nostramo, and I am currently imprisoned in Sing Sing, serving a 17 year stretch for attempted murder.

This is my story.

It began when I was introduced to Johnny ‘The Head’ Capaduccio, a hulking, arrogant man in his late forties. Johnny the Head was a career criminal from the mean streets of Brooklyn, who had grown up running numbers for his father, Alphonso the Head, and his gang, the Head Breakers. Johnny yearned to take over the mantle for the Head Breakers, but when his talents for outright thuggery were noticed by Johnny ‘Arms’ Armando, well… let’s just say the Head Breakers were the first to feel the wrath of the new team on the block.

When the two Johnnies started out jacking trucks and running small-time standover operations, they were making a decent living. For three years, they kept their operations low key, opting for the low-risk side of organised crime.

But one dark February evening, while they were burgling a warehouse, they heard a noise… guns were drawn, lights extinguished and an agonising ten minute waiting game began. The waiting game finished when Johnny the Head called ‘Olly Olly in for Free’, and everyone came out of their hiding spots. There was another gang in the warehouse, burgling it from the other end.

The other gang was a two-man operation as well. Johnny ‘Legs’ Licciardello and Johnny ‘The Body’ Bonaducci had grown up together, pilfering money from street vendors, graduating to selling stolen cigarettes to church-goers on Sunday mornings.

It was a tense few minutes as the gangs figured out what to do… should they fight to the death, winner takes all, or co-operate, and form a new gang, one where all of the pieces came together…

The answer should be obvious to you all, by now… the Johnnies came together as one, forming a ruthless partnership that became known as the Voltronio Gang – a group of career criminals that, when put together the right way, formed a super criminal that was easily greater than the sum of its parts.

I joined the gang in the summer of 1993. It was a heady time, made even more so by the fact that the Voltronio Gang was looking for someone to help with the books. My part-Jewish ancestry, the reason behind my now-ridiculous nickname, stood me in good stead with the other Johnnies, and I became the fifth gang member with remarkable ease.

Things went well for a number of years, and we slowly rose to the top of the crime ladder in Little Italy. We had it all… cars, women and a really, really cool hideout in the back of an old butcher shop, just like in the movies. We even had use of a small portion of the cool room – 15% of it was ours, as stipulated by the conditions of our lease, but we were so tough, we often used up to 20%… after all, what could old Johnny the Butcher do? It’s not like we were ever late with the rent… I saw to that personally.

Our undoing came in the form of a woman. Her name was Johnny ‘The Boobs’ Booberini, and she was beautiful, like a carved statue of the Madonna holding twin baby Jesus’ in her arms, cradled to her chest. She was Johnny the Head’s girl, but she quickly began to exert an influence over the body of our gang. It was her idea to try to heist the shipment of diamonds from Johnny the Jeweller, a rich merchant who often stopped by the butcher shop to buy things, like steak, and sometimes sausages too.

Plans for the heist were laid out over several weeks of meeting at the old butcher shop, and we had the whole gig planned down to the tiniest detail.

Arms was in charge of the guns, Legs in charge of the getaway, Body was there for muscle and Johnny the Head was there to keep things calm and deal with unexpected situations. I was to stay back at the shop and man the radio, keeping an eye on the front of Johnny the Jewellers shop with a video camera we had installed the week before on a telegraph pole across the street.

Everything was going fine, until Johnny the Boobs came to the shop. The boys had just left, and I was preoccupied with watching the video monitor in front of me, checking up and down the street for the police.

It’s my fault that it all went wrong, really… I will admit that I got distracted by Johnny the Boobs when she asked me how things were going… she really was a beautiful woman. I gazed into her eyes while I thought for a couple of minutes, trying to come up with a snappy reply. When I finally stammered out that everything was fine, it wasn’t… I looked at the monitor, and discovered that the boys had been rumbled. The cops were everywhere, and they weren’t there to buy engagement rings.

I don’t know which one of the boys spilled the beans about the hideout after the shooting was done, but somehow Johnny the Cop, the chief of police, knew where to find me. Johnny the Boobs had done a runner already, but I knew that I had to stay behind, in case any of the other members of the Voltronio Gang made it home… but none of them did.

I waited there for two whole days, helping myself to frozen meat from Johnny the Butcher’s stock, leaving him promissory notes to replace the steaks that I cooked over a lone gas ring in the corner of the office. We had nicknamed that gas ring ‘Johnny the Burner’, and it was the unofficial eleventh member of the gang. There were other unofficial members, but I can’t remember who they were now… it all seems so long ago.

I was chewing a particularly satisfying piece of gristle when the door was kicked in from the outside, and Johnny the Cop stood there, alone. Always the glory hound, he had come to arrest the final member of the ruthless Voltronio Gang by himself, assuring that he would keep his job for at least another five years.

But age had wearied Johnny the Cop, and his nerves failed him. I reached for my gun, Johnny the 9mm Glock, and put a bullet in his chest. For some reason, despite all of my training on the mean streets, I resisted the urge to make sure he was dead with a shot to the head. Instead, I dragged him into the cool room, and left him there to die.

They found Johnny the Cop the next day. A combination of the shock of taking a bullet to the chest and the cool room’s temperature had put him into a state of suspended animation – but he was alive enough to position himself on the floor before he passed out.

When they found him, he was lying on his back, spread eagled, except for his right arm – the index finger on his right hand was positioned delicately on the end of his nose. That’s how they knew it was me.

I was arrested four days later in a hotel in Skokie, Illinois. I was brought before Johnny the Judge to plead guilty, and he sentenced me to 17 years for the attempted murder of a cop.

So that’s where I am now… locked up in Sing Sing. My only hope now is that I can survive the next six years unscathed… and as long as I don’t drop Johnny the Soap, I should be fine.

First published at Rumandmonkey.com yonks ago