Let the Games Begin...

Back at work, Jiblets has been reunited with his arch-rival Le Poulet but darker forces are at work...

Yes, not only is Herbie not allowed to keep rubber chickens in his pigeon-hole (apparently they aren't to be used for pigeons either as I found out the next day) but having female friends on staff is very much not allowed. The rumours have begun again in ernest it would seem and the two rumourees (again, is that a word?) have decided upon their Grand Unified Master Plan (in my case GUMP) - DO NOTHING.

As suggestions become more outrageous (even if they were unbelievable before...) we shall smile sweetly and keep the ravaging hordes guessing. Plus, it helps refine your poker skills. Speaking of which... Corinthian has not only proven himself a mighty strategist in many fields of gaming (computerised mainly) but a damn fine poker player - with practice, all you lovely girls out there should watch out, he'll have you stripping down to your bare under-thingies before he's even taken a shoe off. Although, alcohol seems to inhibit his judgement on occasion. I reccomend shot-glass chess (again, ask later OR maybe... don't ask at all).

More photo's coming soon - just need to re-load the software (after computing accident)

Points of clarification...

Apologies must be made to those who have been taking my writings of late at face value. Stress relief via blogging has its advantages, but sometimes I get carried away a bit too much with the 'turn the whole world into a giant joke' thing.

So...

I haven't changed jobs, nor do I intend to. Permanent government employment is fine for me. Entertainer of sorts... well people do laugh AT me during the day (sometimes intentionally). 127.0.0.1 - the IP address for 'HOME' (nerd joke).

Time of Ice - a book written by Lilybee that I spent a month or so proof-reading early last year (180 thousand words, 412 A4 pages does take a while...) and the Jiblets pics that cannot be posted here - well Jiblets found a new friend and I decided to take some 'suggestive' photographs. For reasons of good taste, they will never be posted here or shown to anyone not involved in the actual event. Apologies to all and sundry.

Time for a change..?

Welcome one and all (again, I wonder if there are any visitors here...)

A few changes have been made around here.

Those who remember my previous details will be able to learn the following:

Instead of Government I now work for Non-Profit as an Entertainer (of sorts) one of my favourite books is Time of Ice (The Purple Owl will have to ask me about this one - it is quite funny!) and I have become something of an Animal (especially when it comes to playing the drums...)

Jiblets has been having adventures lately, but the photographs are all rated MA, so I couldn't post them here. In fact - they're all password-encrypted on a disk somewhere to one day be reviewed, OK, I shall stop being cryptic.

Fare ye all well and may your chickens all behave themselves.

The Fitz

For those of you who know me in reality (and thus my real name) I hope you will find these few piccies slightly amusing.

In this day and age where it is 'cool' to shorten names... Fitzroy (Brunswick St to be exact) has become known simply as Fitz. I must report with some sadness that it would seem the revolutionaries, poets and uni-bums have vacated Brunswick St somewhat and the place has developed a yuppie feel to it. Except of course for my dear friend, the Night Cat, where the Jazz remains as cool as ever.

Hmmm...

Again...

And Again...

And Again...

Cycling in the Scenery

Welcome again.

Jiblets has been suitably absent from these pages of late and I apologise to his fans. Summer is in full swing and the new year likewise, thus lessening the demands on poor Jiblets time, hence not too many pictures for the moment.

However we have been doing some cycling lately (Jiblets providing moral support for his owner as he renews his sport...) Normally I choose just to get on the rollers and pedal at a high cadence for an hour a day with The Cure belting out some loud music to drown the noise for the bike (rollers are NOT quiet!) but every now and then some gut-busting hill climbing is in order (read STUPIDITY on my part...) so cycling over loose surfaces around the Dry Creek and Kilmore East region was in order. IT WAS HOT! But at least the scenery was decent. Enjoy the photographs.

4

In Kilmore East, before coming down to the Broadford 'golf course' road.

3

Kilmore East - the 'Quarry'

2

The view from the top of the 'Murder Horn'

1

With Mount Piper in the Background, the scene from the Dry Creek Road is quite pleasant.

Living in the Rail world.

I would really like to be able to offer a picture with this rant - so tomorrow I think I'll go out and sanp one. This rant is about Railway lines. More specifically about how English-Irish disputes have been Mirrored in Australia in the form of Railway lines.

Australia is a rather odd country (to all the Aussies out there, it is a compliment of sorts) but foriegners do not really seem to appreciate just how bad it is until I make remarks such as: Europe would fit into Australia... and Melbourne to Sydney is longer than Paris to London. When this latter fact is offered, some people finally begin to appreciate just how detatched we are as a nation. Now Melbourne and Sydney are very important cities in Australia (again for the locals, neither is the capital, Canberra is the capital. Melbourne WAS the capital while Canberra was being built.)

You can appreciate how useful a rail link between Melbourne and Sydney would be for a nation such as ours (and finally the various governments have realised that a rail link between Adelaide and Darwin - literally straight North-South accross the country) would be for trade. OK. There was a problem - Rail gauges. New South Wales - of which Sydney is the capital was laid out using standard gauge which was originally 4'8" but now 4'8.5" (don't ask me why) - a gauge used all over England in the 20th Century. Victoria (yep Melbourne's the capital) used Broad Gauge which is 5'3" and was used (at the time) all throughout Ireland.

So when you want a train to run through two different states, there is a BIG problem... 7 inches of problem to be precise. The original solution was to change trains at Albury-Wodonga (named after the towns either side of the border on the river Murray) but this caused obvious problems, despite making Albury, in particular, a thriving economy. The solution that has since been adopted... lay standard gauge track in Victoria! Oh wait... that would be too expensive. I know... lets lay an extra track on the Melbourne to Albury line, connect it with the Albury to Sydney line and... there we have it!

It is a pity no one considered laying fast track as they have in France for the TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse - literally Very Fast Train, 187km/hr in open air!) it may have reduced the pollution in our area from trucks using the Hume to make the Melb-Syd trek. Oh well... they say governments only think four years ahead. Pity.

Whirlpools of Destruction...

When having a chat with the Corinthian and Lilybee the other day after the purchase of a bulk load of alcohol (why do the three of us always seem to consume wine by the half case when we get together...?) regarding the last time the three of us (well Corinthian remembers being very sober and wishing the total opposite) consumed bulk quantities of our favourite variety of grape juice. Apparently I spent half an hour hugging a pane of glass and telling everyone how much I liked it - going on to explain that after paying $160 Aus to replace the darn thing I have decided against playing football indoors.

But when discussing the evening, Corinthian and Lilybee seemed to be in agreement that my embarrasing performance was something of a once off as far as the three of us getting into embarassing situations is concerned. They also seemed to be in agreement that when I was around, the volume of wine consumed by the individual seemed to at least double and the 'cringe factor' the next day was quite remarkably high on the RunningNakedThroughOxfordStreetLondonInWinter Scale.

Before I get to the main quote (from Corinthian) of this posting, I wish to table a motion that the fore-mentioned scale be renamed LE Scale (they drink a lot of wine, unless, dear Lilybee you catch my double meaning here...) so on LE scale, the graduation would be about a 3 out of 10 and the park either a 2 or a 4 (depending on who's point of view you seek). Only one person has scored a true 10 on LE scale so far - but doing so twice has more than made up for it...

OK. So Lilybee started blaming me (in the oh so friendly manner she is apt to do) for a number of incidents. Corinthian (in his somewhat bizarre manner) placed the situation into a finite sentence that gained a round of applause in the car:

"Your very existence creates whirlpools of destruction!"

Being drunk is not so bad though, unless you happen to be a glass of water.

Water and Ice...

When previously I have been known to babble about coincidence... for a reminder you could check out one of my rather boring rant entries but the humour will be lost on the vast majority of onlookers - pretty much everyone who has not been involved in the recent escapades of Lancelot to be precise.

Long ago (by my lifespan anyhow) I tried my hand at painting abstract figures and portraits. One of which was a particularly interesting creation - at a number of times throughout the ensuing years I have met and become involved with people who have either resembled this figure or slowly evolved to resemble this figure. Quite odd perhaps? Perhaps not. Imagination has a nasty habit of running wild on occasion.

But what of the writer who has manuscripts unseen by others and then discovers after knowing someone for a short time that they are incredibly similar to one of the characters..? Only having read one such manuscript, I cannot be in a position to make proper comment, but I can appreciate the true oddity of the possibility that somehow a person in real life is incredibly similar to a character (or collection of characters) in a novel that an author penned many years ago never having met the living embodyment of their hero. This is not a problem. What happens when the author then does meet the personification of their character... that is a different matter and sometimes the boundaries between imagination and reality have become blurred by the digestion of grape juice. While I find sometimes find it difficult to understand fully the situation here, not being the author (nor even witness) to many of these works; somehow I can fully appreciate the complexity of the situation - enough to have a good laugh at any rate!

But to all you writers out there, please keep creating - I take great enjoyment in experiencing the works of those who have a gift of words; the creative future is largely in your minds.

Invitation to Cocktails.

Dear readers, a momentus occasion is but two months away and plans must be set in motion. International Alektrobutryphobia day (followed immediately now by Alektrobutryphillia day with a change over ceremony at midnight...) is only two months away and it is vital that we begin rehersals.

The Corinthian and I were discussing the virtues of Shot-Glass chess the other day; but after discovering his dislike for aniseed flavoured drinks, the black and white sambucca party game was decided against. Good thing too when each player has 16 shots ~ 12 standard drinks on their side of the board...

So I propose a slightly different tact. After phoning Milliways and speaking directly to Zaphod, the recipe for a Pan-Galactic Gargle-Blaster has been 'borrowed' and modified to include only Terran ingredients - the trip to Barnard Star was highly improbable and since neither of us fancied being turned into a bowl of Petunias again (oh dear, not again!) Mr Beeblebrox granted us permission to modify his drink for one special occasion. This application can now be found in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying 'Beware the Thirty Ton Mega-Elephant with chronic Bronchitis...' OK so I've modified more than the drink for the occasion, but I suppose it keeps you all guessing.

For those who want to attempt two drinks (or three if you particularly enjoy the sensation of lemon wrapped around large gold brick which collides with your brains in exactly the same way surgeons don't...) I suggest the following Link (possibly soon to be added to the list of diversions)

http://www.webtender.com/db/drink/2573

I seriosuly reccomend drinking three pints of lager and nibbling some peanuts beforehand...

Who was Nimue?

OK. Quiz time again. This time only the Corinthian is requested to delay answering for a couple of days to allow others a fair chance (hint hint Mr 'Out to Lunch')

Who was Nimue?

For a contextual reference, try this quote (name the source for double points)

"Is this what Nimue might have felt like when she took on Lancelot as her apprentice? Starting something that she had no idea where it would take her?"

Somehow I have found the quote abstractly fitting this weekend...

Evidence or Belief?

What follows is the result of oversleeping and missing a morning train (the next one being more than four hours later...)

If we consider the question, "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" And assume for the moment that we still want to answer the question seriously rather than marginalise it to the realm of a teasing childrens paradox.

I believe, for now, that the question is easier solved if we first answer the question of what came first: evidence or belief...

When drunk people believe they are invincible (or the worlds best karaoke singers) they have no evidence of this but rather a belief induced by alcohol. Of course, this is not neccesarily a belief that they are the worlds best karaoke singers, but it provides suitable courage for the task to be attempted. If sufficiently drunk, when at the microphone they do quickly believe that they are the greatest and continue inflicting Vogon Poetry on the rest of the audience.

In short: the answer to the question of what came first, evidence or belief is...

An earlier kind of belief.

Thus the answer to what came first, the chicken or the egg....

An EARLIER kind of egg!

Seems quite logical in the end, doesn't it.

Speaking of Phobia's...

Here's a little piece of Anonymous Genius I found while browsing for some of the more recent pictures - enjoy.

There was a young metrophobic
Who hated to hear any verse.
He took a job as a poetry critic
Which made matters even worse.

Alektrophobia

From http://www.wordsources.info/

Lilyliveredrubapoultryphobia

Although Trey Parker and Matt Stone maintain that ,"There are no stupid questions, just stupid people." I do believe I have been asking more than my fair (although still excessively small) share of stupid questions lately.

For instance, knowing that Alektrophobia is a fear of chickens (or winged creatures in general) and that butyrophobia is a fear of rubber... I could not help but wonder if Alektrobutyrophobia was the correct word for a fear of Rubber Chickens. Jiblets being a European (and thus half backwards) chicken believes the word should actually be Butyroalekrophobia. Still, I wasn't satisfied and sought out a true expert on all things bizarre.

Steve Martin (yes THE Steve Martin) tells me that he has a word for fear of Rubber Chickens: Lilyliveredrubapoultryphobia.

Now although Mr Martin has a superior claim at this juncture, I wish to stake an ease of speech claim, namely that Alektrobutyrophobia is far simpler to pronounce. And in doing so I also pronounce March 13 international Alektrobutyrophobia day.

The celebrations will begin with a traditional LAN party where I will be cunningly disguised as a RUBBER CHICKEN rather than the normal Uther Pendragon (the armour gets a bit rusty after the underwater levels...) and thus all gamers choosing to participate in the 1PS variety must first sign a waiver regarding their state of Alektrobutyrophobia - of course this is a sneaky ploy to be guaranteed victory on the greatest stage of them all.

Sorry, Mr Steve Martin, I must firmly disagree with you on this one; better luck next time.

Chicken and the Egg

From http://www.nettunonet.it/humour

Who came first?

From http://www.zacharyparker.com/

Jiblets learns Yoga

Sick of trying to squeeze himself, Jiblets tries Yoga as a new form of stress relief.

Coffee: a sign of the times?

After being phoned by dear Lilybee the other day (and I use dear in the sense it is intended, not the 'worlds greatest mother-dear' or the male version of a Doe-deer, am I rambling again? Probably, ok - time for another bracket ( no, the other one ) there we go, now to be mathematically correct we need another ) in there somewhere - oops, there it went...

You can probably imagine that I am suffering in a fit of hysteria. Or maybe insomnia. Or perhaps even lethalogica (thanks to the collector of purple owls - can I simply call you the purple owl for now?) Regarldess of howmany 'indeed' moments one wishes to interject with, poor Beleobus is suffering from transition sickness (as I shall call it for reasons soon to be discussed)

Actually... Coffee was meant to be the topic of this rant, so perhaps I should quickly return before everyone else ducks out for one...

Back in the 70s coffee became extremely popular (as far as I can gather...) people would start gathering for 'coffee' now I have a small problem with this, not being much of a coffee drinker. When Lilybee drops past my neck of the staffroom and asks me to 'coffee' we don't always depart with the express intention of drinking any. Granted, our destination is usually a cafe, whose supposed primary function is the serving of coffee... does this make any sense??? To do coffee has become a new verb in modern English and it does not neccesarily involve the consumption of caffeinated beverages (hot ones, normally brown).

So in the 70s we had people meeting for coffee - it was the trendy thing to do. Back in the 70s I drank whatever the umbellical (spelling??) cord threw my way.

Then the 80s came around. Coffee was still the trendy thing (growing at a rapid rate) but Cappuccino became the beverage of choice amongst the select fashion followers (henceforth sheep - unless they are Kiwis, in which case they will be called 'square sheep' - work it out.)

In the 80s I'm pretty sure I was a juice drinker (whenever I was allowed of course).

Then we had the massive cafe uprising in the 90s combined with the surge in supermarket Deli sections. The Late now became the coffee of choice, although the only difference most non-barrista people could tell was that it came in a glass. If the sheep knew the French origins of a Late (yesterdays cold coffee mixed with lots of warm milk and drunk for breakfast) then the trend may not have ocurred.

In the 90s I was a coke drinker. Gallons of the stuff when my nerd potential was first realised and part time work ensured some form of income. When university days came along and coffee was useful to staying awake through lectures on cognitive psychology by 130 year old men, I remember expressly being a flat white drinker. The reason is quite simple:

Lygon street (for those who don't know) is basically Little Italy in Melbourne. You can order a Decaf-Soy-Mocachino and not get a raised eyebrow. I was dining with a friend in a reasonably down-beat restaurant just off Lygon street one evening and asked the waiter for a coffee. His response was something along the lines of, 'Certainly... Late, Mocachino, Cappacino, Machiato, Long White, Short Black or Espresso?'

I looked the man in the eye and said, "Listen carefully. I want a COFFEE."

When I asked him what was in the mug infront of me and he responded 'flat white' it has been my choice coffee whenever in the need (which is fortunately quite rare these days).

So if the flat white ever becomes the fashion, I guess I'll have to give up coffee for a while.

Now... transition sickness... Ah, it can wait until next time.

Why the world needs JW.

Without literacy, school becomes... I don't know really!

Lack of Chicken

To satisfy the curiosity of some of the (?) newer viewers of this blog (I'm not entirely sure there are any, but just incase...)

The title does not currently bear too much resemblance to the original purpose of this site, although if you peruse the archives, all the reasons for Vladamir the rubber chicken wanting to seek revenge on Dr Moriaty and Mr Vett have been given (in picture form where appropriate) and the ONE act of revenge that was eventually played out.

From that point, this has pretty much become a place to rant about what the rubber chicken once stood for - stress relief.

But fear not, where Moriaty and Vladamir ever come together, havoc is to be had. Le Poulet has not been seen recently by the way... anyone with information is asked to contact Polymer Poultry, the eccentric poet of chickenography.

Fonetics of the Phowl.

Sorry dear readers (all three of you), there are no piccies today. Just boring old Beleobus the maths-nerd cum historian of useless inventions with a side interest in non-digital watches... you know the one. Well two really, as you would have gathered from a previous post, 'Never the two shall meet.' In which personalities A and B were introdiced and discussed. I shall leave it to those with any interest in psychology to determine which persona is currently addressing you. Try A point 5 (if you can work that out... silly humour creeping in once again!)

So perhaps some news for those of you who follow the annals of Count Vladamir von Jiblets with interest...? He has been pleasantly sleeping off the after-effects of a Monopoly-Board pub crawl (done of course on a Monopoly board, not the streets of London, as a certain David Lister was known to have attempted with results that lasted eight seasons... RED DWARF for those who are unfamiliar with the BritComs.)

And so we are ranting again... not being a cunning linguist (don't say that when you're drunk, you usually say it correctly, assume you got it wrong and then say something very embarrasing in an attempt to correct for your own mis-hearing) the words scribed on this web page have become more of an outlet for the vast litres of imaginative juices that have been flooding the 'do the work you're being paid for' parts of my brain at present. Of course, in doing so I am not working and as working is what the government pays me for... although if I were to switch departments and begin to rave about the absurdity of today's youth... the department of human services may just employ me in their public relations department!

So here goes:

The youth of today is not at all unlike the youth of yesterday in that their basic desire is to feel heard, understood and accepted. The whole principle of 'seen but not heard' may have applied to all household servants below the rank of Butler, but then again they chose to enter such a service. Most people with minor issues do not need advice (in my soon to be humbled opinion - when the psychologists get onto me...) but a confidential ear. Everywhere I turn I see people giving advice - quite frankly it has gone past amusing and into the depths of frightening. When someone has a small problem (they lost their job/girlfriend/drinking competition) everyone around them is suddenly an expert on what is best for them and what they should do. In the vast majority of cases I have witnessed at a distance (or sometimes as the third party involved) the advice does nothing but worsen the situation. The recipient of the advice (which may be as good as Star Wars DVDs...) does not feel heard, understood or accepted but rather further alienated and generally useless. The problem then spreads and inflicts collateral damage...

The line of my argument should be quite clear. I am not sure what meaning this holds for any of you, my dear friends. But perhaps we can all learn a lot from the humble chicken who listens to everything...

There once was a wise old bird
Who listened to everything he heard
The less he spoke
The more he heard
Now why aren't we all like that wise old bird?

He was - OF COURSE - a chicken. Possibly made of rubber, we haven't had the chromograph results back yet.

Another Boring Rant

Dear Lilybee, at last you are not alone. It would seem I have been able to inadvertantly pre-empt another fine thinker (although in a rather embarrasing fashion)...

Yet - speaking to everyone now - the incident in which I suggested to someone that they could move interstate to avoid me and then I recieved an email from them in another state (!!!) has prompted some thinking. Do great minds really think alike (or fools seldom differ) or is coincinence to blame in the majority of said circumstances?

The topic came up again while I was taking lunch with an esteemed colleague one one of the more well known streets of Melbournes inner south; I don't know how, but we got onto the topic of the Calculus dispute.

Please forgive me in advance for boring all the non mathematical historians out there, I chose to spend a significant amount of time at university researching this topic for a paper on conroversy in the history of science (unfortunately so did about three others... again, coincidence??) But to those who may (for some odd reason) be interested in this matter but know precious little about it... In a nutshell, Leibniz published founding works on calculus many years ago. Sir Isaac Newton published his own work on 'fluxions' six years later and claimed that Leibniz had seen his notes and effectively stolen his ideas.

Of some mathematical note... the notation and terminology we use in modern mathematics is predominantly that of Leibniz although many people would credit Newton with the invention of calculus (even though he invented fluxions - OK, same thing, pretty much anyway)

It is very unlikely in the eyes of the scientific community that a man as well respected and renowned as Sir Issaac Newton would have stolen the ideas of Leibniz, but surely we must respect Leibniz claim to priority considering the six year time gap.

The question that plagues many historians is that of whether or not it is plausible that both men invented the same concept at about the same time.

I am interested in your thoughts on the matter, from anyone.

CHAOS!

Wondering how to begin the new year in true chicken-like fashion, Jiblets has suggested a new bill be proposed in the state parliament, then federally and finally at the next UN conference. Legislation that would give chickens the vote, access to public health cover and of course, power of attourney for every non-chicken the world over.

We call it the bill of Chickens Have Absolute Overpowering Superiority (or CHAOS for short)

When the world has plunged into CHAOS, the chickens will again rule the universe...

OK, so I'm bored and this was the best I could come up with on a saturday night. Satisfied?

Sweaty Sardines.

Afterwards, we all played a game of sweaty sardines - there is no other way to describe the experience of many people crammed into small spaces on hot nights (or is there?).

/./

/...

Firework at the moment of explosion!

/..

/.

NYE 2004-5

Jiblets tags along for the celebrations.