If I Were A Bushranger I’d Probably Ride A Bicycle

There’s a golfing term called the yips. OK, it isn’t just a golfing term, applies to a number of sports and is about loss of control with fine motor skills, and has been mentioned or referred to over the last few years, with an episode of How I Met Your Mother actually called ‘The Yips’. I was going to say that it is applicable to life and that there are several areas where I feel like I’ve just lost the knack, and whenever I try again, with no-one around, to watch me possibly fail, majestically again, I realise that the old instinctive skill has remained just that – old – and the new, think too much about it and have a crappy hesitant go, is all that remains. It’s frustrating. It’s sobering. It’s disquieting. Tends to bring one up short and make one think dark, unpleasant thoughts – and it’s been done before, on several TV shows. Is How I Met Your Mother even worth watching, I wonder. Can’t be unrelievedly crappy if they’re still making it, and yet Charlie Sheen gets $1 million for playing a version of himself, minus the illicit drugs on Two And A Half Men, and people watch that, for some reason.

So, yeah, hook gone for the day. Thanks to my researchers for their efforts.

Today I rescued a cat from a tree – a very, nay extremely high, branch, and followed it up with feline massage. Mu seemed to approve. He purred anyway.

I almost told an exceptionally boring story then.

Have I told the one about the air conditioner already? Yes? Oh, sorry about that.

Today I held up a bank. In full bushranger regalia – a fake beard was required as I’m follicularly challenged, in the facial region, you understand – and wearing a battered hat, with a sash – they were important apparently (to the Kelly Gang anyway) – I rode a horse up to the local branch of St. Bastard and called out “Bail up!” Nobody knew what I was on about, so I hastily changed lexicographical approach and issued the following smooth warning: “Get down on the floor, you fucking maggots, and if anyone moves I’m going to get 19th Century on your arse” (I don’t believe in saying or typing the word ass, except when referring to a donkey). I somehow produced sherry and port and brandy from somewhere (bushrangers know how to do these things) and invited the staff and customer of Strathfield’s branch of St. Bastard to sing and dance and tell jokes up on the karaoke stage I erected, while I went into the Bank Manager’s office, with the Bank Manager, and asked her with all possible modesty, grace, and erudition if she might empty the contents of her electronic bag of gold and notes into my electronic bank account, using an electronic funds transfer. She graciously complied and praised me for my manners when I pointed the police revolver I had stolen at her. I wonder whether she made a note of my name and bank account details when she asked me where she was to deposit the money to, and I typed them into the fields on her screen. Hope not. And so, merry gigs were being danced and hilarious stories told and much laughter was being laughed as I mounted my faithful (stolen) gelding Zipping. We cantered out into the street and sustained a minor knock from an out of control ice cream van as we made our getaway in the direction of Waratah Somethingorother, a real suburb, deadest, which is near the site of the 2000 Olympics, and doesn’t take twice the time it should to get to because maps and GPS systems don’t entirely recognise it, and the man with the item you bid successfully for on eBay, which is why you’re going there, said nothing about it being tricky to find – no, not at all, no problem there.

Nothing to see here today.

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Published in: on November 16, 2010 at 7:07 pm  Leave a Comment  

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