trade the emissions from my arse, you bastards!

Thanks to the collusion of Australia's pig-shit-thick voters, we've walked ourselves into what is essentially a one-party state masquerading as a democracy. All we get to choose is which faction of the Libor Party (or is it the Laberals) gets to play government for the corporate masters.

The dirtier elements of the corporate masters must be rubbing their hands with glee at how the CPRS (Comprehensive Polluter Reward Scheme) is shaping up to deliver them windfall profits in the billions, whilst reducing emission minimally, if at all, at stupendous cost to us all. In order that the average mug doesn't notice the glee, they take full page ads in the press bemoaning their fate.

An ETS skeptic is different to a climate skeptic. You can be the former without being the latter, I know because I am. The Aussie ETS is about as bad as these things can be; nearly unlimited free permits, but if you do need some more, cheap as chips unlimited offsets available, so no need improve your carbon efficiency. When the offset trees you've planted get destroyed in a wild fire, that's a natural event, so the emissions don't count (except to the planet).

The CPRS locks in failure on climate change for the next decade and is therefore worse than useless. Let's hope the Greens will join with the rabble on the right of the conservative faction and vote the bastard thing down.

I'm not a climate change skeptic, but I do admit that climate is so, so complex that there is a chance they are right. This slim possibility is no excuse for inaction, but as inaction is what we have, and what we are going to get more of, I really, truly hope they are right. Otherwise, we are completely and utterly... [insert preferred expletive here]!

Movember with Boarking

give away your hard-earned here: http://au.movember.com/mospace/124621

good onya'

Communicating with God about the tsunami

On wednesday morning I woke to this text:

"Hey boar did you hear about quake and tsunami in the samoas?"

My phone failed to recognise the number, so it wasn't in my contacts, but the writer clearly knew my name and that I had a Samoan connection (I spent a couple of years around the millenium bring books to the Samoan masses)

I replied:

"I do now! thanks mystery caller!"

And got the reply:

"Youre welcome, love from god."

This explains a lot. God is all knowing of my name and work history, but I'm the last person likely to have His number in my contacts. I said:

"Well god, might i suggest that you spend less time loving atheists like me and more time loving your adoring samoans. Stop working in mysterious ways! "

He said:

"I love all my kids, even prodigal librarians. Sounds like youre back on board tho if you think im responsible for the samoan earthquake..."

"i know you exist because you keep txt ing me. So, why attack the samoans.. They luv ya!"

"They went against god when they swapped road sides"

So there you go, that's it straight from the top. I tried ringing the number but it just rang out and no voice mail. Can't say I blame God for not having voicemail.

----

I can't offer prayers, but my thoughts and best wishes are with the beautiful people of the Samoan Isles.

Tipping with washing lines

Your head says tip Geelong.

But when I was taking in the washing at the weekend, I came to a point where what was left on the line were three vests: one red, one white & one black. It seems to me an omen from the footy gods, who've I've had dealings with before, so you best tip the Saints.

Boarking goes solar

as the polar bears smile their thanks,

and the glaciers regrow,

snows fall again on Kilamanjaro,

Gaia sighs her relief,

and...

...a cloud of smug becomes visible above Boarking Mansions!

Collywobblin'

I warned all my Collingwood Pie friends (I confess I do have some) not to watch the Preliminary Final. I'm sure they regret ignoring the man in the know, Ernest U.

Followers of the game knew it was going to go pear shape when the coach tried to play mind games, always the last refuge of the desperate.

What's the point?

Obviously, when you think about it, there is no point.

We're all, creatures great & small, just filling in time between birth & death, in a universe doing much the same (I suspect).

When you are doing alright, this is liberating.

When you struggle in the dark night of your (non-existent) soul, this is no consolation.

But you might as well go on with it, because you're a long time dead.

And you might as well do good, because you've evolved to get a kick out of it.

So, religion is superfluous, it seems...

Unrequited love on the Upfield Line, remembered

At the pool after work, I go for my crook neck, I stay too long in the spa, I get a bit light headed. I sit on the side, half dressed, waiting to recover, waiting for my feet to dry and I remember this lovely woman that got on my carriage last Saturday arvo.

She got on at Antsey or Brunswick, or somewhere close; it's not really that important but perhaps it is, all the best people live in Brunswick these days. Late twenties, early thirties, it's hard to tell. Dark clothes and hair, just as I like it, not Goth though, hopefully a bit old for Emo. Warm eyes, but a bit tired around them, no make up excepting a touch of lippy on these wonderful, voluptuous lips which I'll never forget. She sat facing me, but a couple of bays down. She smiled at a toddler in the opposite window, I like to think that this hints at a good nature. I realised that she was all that I had ever looked for in a lover and soul mate, and if it was that good a match, then I must be The One for her too. I went back to reading my novel.

I got off at North Melbourne. She didn't look up.

"She doesn't know I exist,
I'm gonna keep it like this,
I'm not gonna take any risks..."

As I think of her, sitting by the pool, waiting for my feet to dry, all the noise, the shouting & splashing, the echoes, they all subside and I've got this wonderful Divine Comedy song exploding in my head. I smile, all is not lost, unrequited love is better than no love.

Boarking's great Carlton tanking theory

Forget all this talk about Adelaide being really good, Carlton were doing alright until they realised that Essendon, their Nemesis, were going to win and therefore Carlton would have the dubious pleasure of hosting the 'dons in a home final. At that point, Carlton stopped, "tanked" in the preferred vernacular, prepared to gamble on losing a home final just to avoid the Bombers...

You soft blue bastards... now you'll go to Brisbane, we'll go to Adelaide... and we'll all lose!

How good is footy?

Here's a question I'm often asked:
"Ernst, How good is footy?"
Last night, tired & emotional at the 'G, I had an answer:
"Not that good!"
One shocking quarter and big team wide dose of the kicking yips did all the damage.
I found some consolations:
*The Dons are young and the lesson will do us good
*The Pies are actually pretty good, so not too much shame in losing
*Didak is in my fantasy footy team,
But still it hurt (though not as much as ANZAC Day hurt your pie fan!)

Did you notice the name change?

I did, but that's because I made it.
If you did too, and you are not me, that would indicate that the new title is untrue. In fact, even if you didn't notice, but you are reading this, and you are not me, then that would indicate that the new title is still untrue.
And that makes me happy.
However, barring the odd wonderful exception that is you, I know the title is broadly true.

A comparative analysis of the temperature at the end of the universe and the temperature in my old weatherboard house

When the last star dies, when entropy and expansion have wrought the death of the universe; it will still be warmer than Boarking Mansions tonight.

Boarking conjures the footy gods

All that stuff yesterday about Christians and lions, about feeling like a Melbourne fan, and lottery winning odds, not to mention the tipping against my own team; all a ploy, to tease and goad the footy gods into delivering for the 'dons. I'm glad they fell for it, I know I did.

christian bombers & lion hawks

We're off to the Colosseum tonight to see the Christians take on the lions. I'm cheering on the Christians, but I'm not tipping them.

Actually, I'm going to the footy, as you might have guessed. I was using metaphor. But it's true that the bookies are paying similar odd on Essendon as they used to pay on the Christians (probably), so the metaphor would appear apt.

It's not impossible that Essendon will win, just as it's not impossible that Boarking will win the lottery.

I'm going to the game in the spirit that Melbourne supporters go every week, and I will enjoy it!

Those footy gods, again...

There is no other explanation for Fev's post-er.

Sometimes there is a little magic even in just listening to footy: Fevola marks 15 out, 45 angle. It's all over, Carlton have done what Essendon did a week before. The commentators go quiet as he takes the kick, leaving the listener with the crowd... We hear the roar waxing, but it falters then wanes, the crowd like one wounded, bewildered animal. We know something is amiss, but what?

The footy gods have struck.

Frolicking with the footy gods

I don't believe in God, the one who loves me and has a personal plan for my salvation, but is quite happy to send me to eternal damnation if my reason (given by Him) leads me to conclude that He doesn't exist.

I'll believe in the footy gods though; they love no-one but the game, they are as capricious as the bounce of the Sherrin. They love the great spectacle, but understand that it must be given sparingly. I give praise that they bestowed a spectacle yesterday, and wore a red & black scarf whilst they did so!

They slew Hille in the opening minutes then steeled Ryder with the spirit that the day is about, to step in for a fallen comrade. They slighted Rocca, then took the dream of a boy called Zakaharis and made it true.

All to the good, but a small god took the time to play a little trick on Boarking, who thought himself 5 out of 5, after tipping all yesterday's upsets, who thought himself on for 8, a collection of the work comps' $250 jackpot, and the kudos of tipping 8 when few can. But the little god has messed with his tips, or else he forgot to save his changes, and finds he hadn't tipped the tiggers after all. Amid much gnashing of teeth, there was a powerfull whiff of deja vu.
Oh well...

Some bemoan the mixing of footy with the ANZAC sacrifice, and the depiction of players antics with the terminolgy applicable to real soldiers in real wars. I don't mind. Football and other team sports were founded in the English public school system as a preparation for war. I, for one, am quite happy when sport becomes a replacement for war.

another bad choice in the world of blokes

Following a turn of events, hinted at in Love Song, that were a little damaging to the Boarking lovelife, it has been decided to re-activate the long dormant internet dating profile. Here's the blurb:

"Click here to make another bad choice in the world of blokes.

The infamous, and frankly a bit nutty, blogger that is Boarking, is now available for the Delight of discerning* young** ladies of a cute, quirky, silly and perhaps slightly hopeless nature.

Their friends think them a bit odd, but love them dearly.

* By "discerning" we mean a lady still prepared to not compromise on the following:
A partner must... be male, not gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), have pulse.
** By "young" we mean that her mother's friends define the lady as "young""

Why it could work:

• We are not aiming to be the prospects first choice. They have to buy more "stamps" or whatever than they need. We aim for the humorous, silly profile, that looks good for the last throwaway stamp they have left after contacting their good prospects.

• Apart from the "infamous" bit, it's all true.

• We attach a sweet, natural photo (taken by the ex-!)

• If the contact doesn't want to spend any money, they can google, and contact the boy publicly for free via the blog comments.

Why it won't work:

• It's internet dating.

• I am hopeless.
  

We all understand that...

...it is un-Australian to not tip the footy.

Boarking recommends the Pago Pago Memorial Comp. for the discerning tipper.

Journal entry

A reversing truck woke me up and all of the million or so dreams meandering through my strange head drifted off, so many will-o'wisps. I'm left grasping for fragments, here's a couple:

I was in a crowded pub negotiating with Adam Hills to be on the panel, I think for something akin to "Good news week" rather than "Spicks'n'specks" so I was probably talking to the wrong bloke. Next up, most of the blokes in the crowd start stripping off, whilst the women do the same in another room. Confused, I leave my underwear on. Everyone starts to mix it up a bit.

My final image from this segment is of a young lady. In old, unPC days, I'd have used the "d" word, but instead we'll go with the less clear wording and describe her as a "little person". However, in other ways she was quite a big girl. Bashfully, she used one of her breasts to hide her face.

In my last snippet, I'm working in a library that looks nothing like the branch it's claiming to be. That's the least of my worries; the computer system is playing up, I'm trying to deal with difficult customers, demanding things we cannot give, and now I'm in the nude. It's very difficult to be assertive when you are working in the nude. Trying to do a job without clothes makes you feel quite naked (unless you work in porn, I suppose).

-----------

The night before I visited friends in hospital to meet their new addition. I'd never seen a day old bubba before. Face all wrinkly, eyes reluctant to open, an "ooh, you've caught the sun a bit" skin colour. Lovely, nonetheless. Not much conversation.

The absence is not explained