Egg Porn!!!

Egg porn!  It's all over instagram.  Over twenty thousand separate photos and counting.  Wherever you look on instagram there are explicit shots of eggs shamelessly flaunting their yolks for all the world to see.  Sweaty thumbed perverts with a pre adolescent chicken fetish breathe raggedly as the next picture of an egg reclining provocatively on a freshly toasted muffin dripping with melted butter (oh, that warm, salty taste) appears on their iphone screen.

Oh there are the excuses; "it's consensual" a supporter cries, "All I do is look," pants another licking suddenly dry lips as he does so.  Let's make it very clear; its exploitation.  Eggs normally come from broken homes, and depressed backgrounds with few hopes of educational or career prospects.  Egg porn can seem like the only way to avoid a lifetime of overcrowded housing and scratching in the dirt to find food.

Even its supporters acknowledge a dark side to the egg porn industry.  One industry veteran who spoke on condition of anonymity noted the rapidly growing presence of "undesirables".  "It used to be chefs," this insider said, "or at least decent cooks.  Now every dirtbag with a skillet and a camera phone is knocking out egg porn, sometimes under really unsafe conditions.  A few people are even photographing other people's work and claiming it as their own."  I thought of my latest instagram update and blushed with shame.

There's a shockingly high turn over in the egg porn industry.  Few eggs do more than one photo.  "What happens to them all?" I asked.  My contact wouldn't meet my eyes, "This industry devours them," she muttered before attempting to change the subject.  I tried to track down some former egg porn stars but I met a wall of silence.  It appears noone wants to talk about it.  When I attempted to press the point the threats started.  "Get that damn microphone out my lunch before I shove it up your arse, you freak," was the most polite of the comments I received.

Sure egg porn may seem harmless, especially when enjoyed in privacy between consenting adults but I beg everyone to consider the cracked shells and shattered yolks among some of our community's most vulnerable members.  The American journalist PJ O'Rourke once posed the question, "If meat is murder are eggs rape?"  The answer is, worse.  Eggs are child abuse.  I beg everyone not to support these monsters.

But first please "like" my egg porn photo on instagram.

Birthday Greetings #38

Happy birthday to Manuel II Palaiologos, Byzantine emperor.  Manuel was the second son of the utterly worthless emperor John V whose forty year reign was an unmitigated catalogue of disasters.  Even Manuel's worst detractors would have to admit he did better.  He was named heir to the throne because his older brother revolted against their father (he did this twice and managed to imprison John both times.  John was imprisoned on no fewer than four separate occasions by various enemies during his reign).  Manuel managed to free his father with Turkish help (the Turks rather liked the idea of a babbling halfwit on the Byzantine throne) and for his pains was sent as a vassal/hostage to the Turkish camp.  In this capacity he had the cheerful experience of being part of the Turkish army besieging the city of Philadelphia which was the last Byzantine outpost in Asia Minor.

When his father finally answered his few remaining subject's prayers and died Manuel sneaked away from the Turkish camp and was crowned in Constantinople to the irritation of the Sultan.  The Turkish Sultan at the time was a chap named Bayezid whose nickname "the Thunderbolt" gives a pretty good indication of what happened to people who irritated him.  Bayezid swept through the remaining Byzantine lands like, well, a thunderbolt and laid siege to Constantinople.  The siege would go on for eight years.

Some five years in Manuel entrusted governorship of Constantinople to his nephew (the son of that brother who revolted against their father) and travelled to western Europe hoping to gain aid.  He didn't gain aid although he gained a good reputation.  He is the only Byzantine emperor to visit England and he spent a good deal of time in Paris charming the locals, impressing them with his learning, writing treatises and lobbying for aid.  One can't help wondering if the role of distinguished refugee was somewhat more appealing than that of first candidate for head on a spike when Bayezid makes it over the walls which would have been his position in Constantinople.

It didn't come to that though.  Manuel and the empire were saved by sheer blind luck.  In 1402 Bayezid tangled with possibly the only person in the world more psychotically dangerous than he was, a Mongol descended warlord by the name of Timur.  At the Battle of Ankara Timur ripped the heart and guts out of the Ottoman army and captured Bayezid himself who (according to legend at least) spent the rest of his life in an iron cage.  With the siege lifted and the remnants of the Ottoman army cheerfully backing various contenders for the throne Manuel and the tattered shreds of his empire were given a breathing space.  Some adroit diplomacy with one of the Ottoman contenders won back the city of Thessalonica and a small scale military campaign recaptured the European coast of the Sea of Marmara.  A quick glance at Constantinople's location will show that this was essentially recapturing your own front verandah but it was the first victory the Byzantines had had in decades and morale rose accordingly.  With this under his belt Manuel took his army to the Peloponnese (capturing a few Aegean islands along the way) to strengthen the defences of what was now the largest patch of territory left to the empire.

It couldn't last of course.  As Manuel grew older his son and heir became more prominent and swiftly demonstrated that he had the survival instincts of a lemming on crack.  While Manuel had skillfully navigated through the various tides of the Ottoman civil war and had wound up as a cautious friend of the eventual victor his son John rapidly managed to irritate him immensely and towards the end of Manuel's life Constantinople was once again under siege.  The new sultan was eventually bought off with a fair amount of grovelling and such money as the empire had left but Manuel was now a tired and broken old man.  He retired to a monastery and died in 1425.  He would probably have been astonished to learn that the empire would survive him by another twenty eight years.

It's Getting Warmer, Time to Sharpen the Flint Tools

It has been a while since I wrote a blog entry about the weather.  This is no surprise because the weather is a very boring topic.  Hot, cold, wet, dry and that's pretty much it apart from the occasional hideous catastrophe that can be safely ignored for statistical purposes.  There is only so much you can write about the weather and very little of it is interesting.

So what has made me lift my unofficial ban on weather commentary?  In case you haven't noticed it has been freezing down our way lately.  And I know the cause, it's all Caitlin Rowlands fault.  Caitlin or Caito (it was years before I realised that was short for something) is a rather attractive young lady who works at a cafe I frequent.  Last Sunday I was speaking with her and I happened to mention that it was a lovely day (talking about the weather being the last refuge of those with poor social skills).  Caito agreed and sombrely noted the lack of "real" Winter weather and wondered if climate change might be responsible.  Since then its been so cold I've had to break the ice on my blood to encourage circulation.  Thanks Caito, not that it bothers her since she promptly jumped a plane to Bali.  I hope the weather there is lovely and completely bereft of blizzards and outbreaks of bubonic plague.  Meanwhile I'd appreciate a little global warming if it was focussed on my neighbourhood.

Although I might be out of luck in any event.  According to one theory it was warming that caused the last ice age.  The theory goes that some twenty thousand years ago Canada was the repository of a vast amount of icy cold fresh water (it still is but there was even more then).  This water was blocked from entering the ocean by a barrier of ice.  The world warmed somewhat, the ice melted and countless billions of litres of near freezing fresh water got dumped in the North Atlantic Ocean temporarily short circuiting the gulfstream and leading to a drop in temperatures all around the North Atlantic coast.  This then snowballed (to coin a phrase) into an ice age.

Conceptually I think that humans handle the idea of an ice age much better than they do the concept of actual warming.  I suspect this is because ice ages are a lot closer to us in time.  I won't claim we actually have a race memory to fall back on but the last ice age was only about twenty thousand years ago.  Humans were around at the time and somehow we got through it.  The last time the world encountered a runaway greenhouse event was tens of millions of years ago and our ancesters were too busy learing how to be mammals to pay it much attention.  If we think about the results of global warming our minds tend to wander to some combination of Mad Max and Tank Girl.  A handful of thirst crazed survivors (strangely dressed in leather and metal studded bikini tops) clawing at each other for the right to lick the sweat of a recently deceased comrade while mutant kangaroos sabotage the petrol supply in the background.  This is not something we are emotionally equipped to handle.  Ice ages by comparison are a doddle.  Its just a case of digging out the warmer of your fur lined bikinis (apparently its the ultimate survival clothing), knocking up some flint tools and checking the expiry date on that packet of mammoth repellant at the back of the cupboard.  Warming may throw us for a loop but Ice Ages?  We've got that sorted.

Succulents Au Go Go

I recently wrote a blog entry that focussed on pot plants.  In keeping with my new role as a small scale social media whore I took a photo of a pot plant I own and posted it on Instagram with appropriate hashtags and links.  It just so happened that the pot plant in question was a cactus.  Somewhat to my surprise the photo received a number of "likes" from a bunch of cactus afficionados.  I've no idea if any of them actually went on to read the blog entry but just in case I thought I would dedicate an entry to all things xerophyte.

Firstly, a disclaimer; when I say "a pot plant I own" what I really mean is "a pot plant that lives rent free on my balcony".  It was there when I moved in about ten years ago and shows no signs of leaving.  In that time I have not watered it, tended it or cared for it in any way.  Until I took the photo my sole interaction with it was when I used it to hold my balcony door open (a role it enjoys to this day).  Despite this it appears to have thrived.  It actually needs repotting but I'm terrified to touch it in case the application of care upsets the delicate balance of neglect and the thing promptly dies.

As you can see my qualifications to talk about plants in general or cacti in particular are somewhat scanty.  As near as I can tell cacti exist solely for the purpose of giving buzzards something to sit on in a particular type of cartoon.  They are also noted for their ability to survive in regions not famous for their ability to support plant life, such as my balcony.  Yet another example of nature's utter inability to take a hint.

Cacti survive by storing such moisture as may be available in the fleshy parts of their body while downsizing such gaudy fripperies as leaves.  This enables them to survive in places where other plants can't.  The fact that no other plant in its right mind would want to survive there is apparently irrelevant.  Still, as winners in a competition nobody else bothered entering the humble cactus has gained iconic status.  Like camels and bleached cow skulls they are an immediately identifiable symbol of the desert.

Perhaps this stubborn determination to exist somewhere plants really shouldn't is what appeals to humans because as I recently discovered cacti are quite popular.  Organisations exist where cactus fanciers can meet others of their kind and exchange stories, photos and, presumably cuttings.  Although since these are cacti we're referring to possibly the term should be "spikings".  If one wants to get all official about it then let me refer you to the Cactus and Succulent Society of NSW Inc whose website proclaims them to be "one of Australia's oldest, largest and most dynamic cactus and succulent societies".  The implication firmly being that there is more than one.  In fact there is more than one.  For a more localised cactus experience try the Western Suburbs Cactus Club which meets on the third Friday of every month in Greystanes.

I can't help wondering if there is rivalry between the clubs, possibly an affection for one sort of cactus over another or differences on appropriate care techniques (my experience is that totally ignoring them works well).  Perhaps there is intense hatred with denunciations, insults, slander and honour killings.  After all, if you can't really call yourself a cactus lover if you aren't prepared to shed blood for the cause.  And if human history has taught us anything at all then it is that the respective merits of various cacti are one of the less stupid things we've been prepared to kill each other over.

As for myself I'm not really a club sort of person.  Besides if I went along to a cactus club they would ask questions like, "What sort of cactus is it?"  "How do you take care of it?" and "How does it handle the winter?".  In reality the only question I'm qualified to answer is "What sort of a doorstop does it make?"

A pretty good one actually.

Well Done! Have a Pot Plant

According to a recent survey a pot plant on your desk at work makes you happier and increases productivity.  Such a statement gives rise to certain questions the most significant probably being, "Who on earth gets paid to study the impact of pot plants on productivity?"  There are other questions as well of course such as, "Would a plastic plant do?",  "How about a garden gnome?" and "Don't you have anything better to do?"

I wonder if any thought has been given to the possibility that, rather than causing joy and productivity amongst the labouring masses, it is possible that those who are happy and productive in their work are rewarded with pot plants.  It's cheaper than a payrise.  If the firm has a good year perhaps everyone could get a pot plant.  "Congratulations on sealing that deal, have a ficus."

Of course if someone failed to measure up there would be the ceremonial stripping of the potplant.  The hapless employee would stand rigidly to attention beside their desk racked with silent tears while a grim faced representative of management rips the leaves from the pot plant and casts them at the perpetrator's feet while fellow employees watch in shocked and fearful silence.

Thus the pot plant is less a promoter of productivity and more part of a system of rewards and punishments.  Let's face it, if an employee turned up at their desk one day and the pot plant was missing everyone would get the message.  This begs the question, what happens if someone truly excels?  Do they get a second pot plant?  A third?  How valuable do you have to be to the company before you qualify for the hanging basket with crossed swords and (of course) oakleaves.  At what point does the company acknowledge your value by simply moving your desk up into a tree?

Think of the bragging rights that would be associated with working in a tree.  While others have to make do with some droopy leafed pot plant there you are sitting on a branch literally gazing down on lesser folk.  Admittedly it would be somewhat ironic if you happened to work in the timber industry, ironic and possibly dangerous.  Getting the axe would have an unpleasantly literal connotation.

I, it will surprise noone to learn, do not have a pot plant on my desk.  Obviously my stock is not high with management (who at last report were located somewhere in the Brazilian rainforest).  It would seem I am not worthy of the honour.  Perhaps its time to review and acknowledge that possibly pot plants do help productivity and that my glaring lack of such a leafy adornment is the explanation for my current level of productivity.  That seems to make a lot more sense to me than blaming it on irrelevancies like my laziness and incompetence.

JunoBear After Action Report

Tradition demands that on the Queen's birthday holiday weekend a select group of men abandon their families, forsake home and comfort and gather at Paddington RSL to play Advanced Squad Leader.  This grizzled band of veterans, each one scarred with the marks of cardboard battles won and lost talk quietly among themselves in a jargon unintelligible to outsiders.  Terms like "HIP", "infantry critical" and "low crawl" are tossed around in a lingua gamer apparently designed to exclude outsiders.

Before long it was time to begin and eyes narrowed as a dozen men squinted myopically at tiny slivers of coloured cardboard covered in even tinier writing.  Hands palsied only slightly with age and drink rattled cups containing dice worn with use and, with the bellies of experience resting comfortably on the thighs of endurance the first shots were fired.

All four scenarios in the tournament were set in and around the city of Bobriusk in 1944 as parts of what the Soviets called "Operation Bagration" and what the Germans originally called "What the hell was that?" but on reflection renamed "the Destruction of Army Group Centre".

Break In

 

The first scenario saw a powerful force of Soviets, eleven elite or first line squads backed up by three T34M43 tanks assaulting a spotty force of three German squads, as many half squads and a single 75mm anti tank gun.  To redress this somewhat lopsided odds ratio the Germans were provided with a plethora of fortifications; six wire counters, twenty four factors of minefields, four trenches and three pillboxes.  The Soviets gained two points for each pillbox captured and one for each trench for a total of ten.  Germans gained points for the ones they could hang on to.

 

My opponent was David Bishop who took command of the vengeful Soviets while I had the Germans.  I had come up with what I thought was a rather clever plan (subsequent events would show it to be babbling idiocy but that's anticipating).  I set up my fortifications in layers, first wire, then minefields then trenches and finally pillboxes.  With my front as I thought secured I set up the anti tank gun to protect against a flanking attack.  As it happened I needn't have bothered.  David simply smashed through my front.

 

You see I had forgotten about the smoke.  On the first Soviet turn a shroud of smoke blanketed my positions and made it impossible for my troops to see.  The whole point behind a layered defence such as mine is not to stop the enemy but to give your guys plenty of opportunities to shoot them while they struggle through it.  With the smoke blinding my troops David simply charged forward unharmed.  The wire delayed his infantry and he cleared the antipersonnel mines by the simple expedient of driving tanks over them but his force reach my trench line pretty much unscathed except for a single lucky shot from the ATG which managed to blow the tracks off a T34.  There were some tough close combats and I managed to kill another T34 with a panzerfaust (the burning wreck providing him with yet more protection from my fire) but David got into my trenches and disposed of my entire force for a complete victory.

 

 

Break Through

 

The second scenario saw another, somewhat tougher force of Germans attempting to defend a roadblock.  The onrushing Soviet hordes, commanded by Paul Haseler, had to traverse a wood, the road was the only practicable route for their armour and the Germans had a roadblock on it.  The Soviets had to smash their way through the roadblock and exit vehicles and troops off the edge of the board.  They had three AFVs (two light tanks and an armoured car) plus three squads of cavalry and a pair of half squads.  Each AFV exited was worth two points, each squad was worth one.  Additionally five squads of partisans arose from the countryside to give the Germans more of a headache.  The Germans, unfortunately commanded by me, for their part had four squads, an antitank gun, a Marder self propelled gun, a trio of half squads and a small mortar.  All of them had to set up within three hexes of the roadblock. 

 

One option for setting up the roadblock was at the very front of the woods thus allowing a clear shot for the various anti tank weapons as the Soviets approached.  I considered this and rejected it.  It allowed the partisans to deploy in the German rear and effectively surround them.  I took the second option and deployed well back with my rear and one flank covered by the edge of the board.  The Marder and the ATG were deployed to bring fire down on the roadblock and the bulk of my infantry, leavened with dummies was spread in a semicircle covering my open southern flank with a ring of steel.  The mortar went to the rear to deal with any partisan infiltration.

 

My plan fell apart in the first turn.  Paul deployed his partisans to deal with my infantry while his vehicles and cavalry rushed down the road before halting around a bend from the roadblock.  This is really an infantry scenario, the armour is too precious in points to risk until you've already won the game.  The partisans eagerly came to grips with my infantry who collapsed like wet cardboard.  At the end of the first turn a huge gap had been torn in my southern flank while his cavalry had dismounted and were deploying in the north to deal with the Marder.

 

With defeat assured false hope was then provided as my surviving southern troops tied down his partisans in interminable close combats.  This caused Paul to move circumspectly but eventually he got his northern troops in a position to do bad things to the Marder.  The Marder is a great tanker killer, as an infantry killer it leaves a bit to be desired and most of its infantry support was locked in close combat with partisans.  A half squad of Soviets died getting close to the Marder but then it was gone.  Meanwhile other infantry had blown up the roadblock.  I actually won a close combat or two in the south but by then his infantry was swarming forward.  My only real success came when Paul apparently got a bit impatient and tried to find my ATG with his armoured car.  He succeeded and a single shot was sufficient to reduce the car to scrap.  With my last ace revealed however his infantry rolled over it and the way was clear for his surviving forces to exit.  Not quite a complete victory, he got seven points, I got three.

 

 

Break Out

 

The third scenario was set after the encirclement was complete and the Germans were doomed.  In desperation they grabbed everything left in their vehicle park and threw it at the encircling Soviets in an attempt to escape.  Naturally this was the one where I was attacking as the Germans.  The Germans have a light tank and a collection of nine half tracks and armoured cars carrying everything from machine guns to mortars and a 75mm gun.  They started at one end of the board and had to make it off the other.  The Soviets, played by David Longworth, had a .50 cal machine gun, an anti tank rifle, an anti tank gun and would be reinforced by a pair of self propelled guns of various types and troops toting demolition charges and a flame thrower.

 

OK, David is a good player and placed his troops well but basically I had no idea what I was doing.  My plan (to give it a title it didn't deserve) was to split into two forces and try therefore to ensure the survival of one of them.  I rolled passed his defended forward buildings (I'm not a complete fool, I did try laying smoke but it wasn't successful) and moved onwards leaving them to shoot at my rear.  Halfway across the map was a stream, with no bridges, which meant everybody was going to get wet and possibly bog.  My light tank splashed through the stream and out the other side but an armoured car which tried to follow bogged.  A second half track was shot in the rear by the troops I had bypassed and destroyed.  An armoured car I had moved to the centre was destroyed by the .50cal and small arms fire took out another half track. 

 

Now splendidly alone my tank gunned forward to be ambushed and destroyed by a well placed ATG gun and a newly arriving ZSU-37 killed another vehicle.  This was turn two and I was six vehicles down facing an unbroken defence.  I gave up which isn't exactly glorious but was a fair indication of how the game had gone.  Others did better which indicates that the fault essentially lies with me.  Having been crushed like a bug and having garnered three point from a possible thirty I faced the final scenario with trepidation.

 

Break Apart

 

With the encirclement complete and the Germans crushed all that remained was to moved against their desperate and shell shocked rear guard holed up behind medieval walls in the city of Bobriusk itself.  This time I would be the Soviets commanding nine squads of troops ranging from good to excellent, backed up by demo charges, a flame thrower, the SU76 self propelled guns and some of the best officers ever to be seen on a Soviet order of battle.  The Germans had seven squads ranging from good to poor, a medium machine gun, a panzershreck and the thickest walls you've ever seen.  There were ten objective buildings with a point for each building.  Peter Palmer was my opponent. 

 

My approach options were limited by the wall, you either had to go around the wall or through some narrow and easily shot at breaches.  Peter had set up his main defence in the centre with an outlying force in the west to cover my set up.  The east yawned empty of defending troops but was a long way away.  I decided to send most of my force west where they could be supported by the self propelled guns who turned up from that direction and push the remainder of my troops (toting flamethrowers and demo charges) through a breach in that wall in the centre.

 

The first two turns were almost an anticlimax in the centre as my troops uneasily aware of the fact that they were carrying packages of high explosives and multiple gallons of flammable substance into a firefight made them creep as discreetly as possible.  To keep his own concealment Peter largely forbore from shooting at them.  The result was that I was huddled in rubble on the other side of the wall with few casualties taken and none inflicted.

 

By contrast over in the west it was a murderous deathfest.  Open topped AFVs aren't the safest things to tool around the streets of a hostile city in but my troops needed the punch they provided.  In two brutal turns two of my three AFVs had fled the scene with terrorised crews but not before they had virtually crushed all resistance in the west.  Led by the remaining SU76 my largely untouched infantry swept around to the north.  In the centre Peter pulled back from his forward positions to consolidate his defence and I followed up detaching an officer and squad to dash east and seize the undefended buildings there.  Creeping into his forward building I let my flamethrower loose and not only incinerating his troops but started a flame in the building hex.  Uneasily aware that if the place caught fire with him as the last in residence I wouldn't be able to claim it I advanced boldly in.  The building promptly burst into flames around me and my broken troops fled out faster than they arrived but the building was officially mine.  A second flamethrower squirt wiped out another stack and suddenly Peter had run out of troops.  With my unemployed soldiers running around grabbing empty buildings and nothing left to stop them Peter conceded.  So I ended on a win; fairness insists that I point out that everyone agreed this scenario was hard on the Germans.

 

Much thanks to Mark McGilchrist who organised the competition, designed the scenarios and then had to tolerate endless queries from the collective of rules lawyers who played them.  Thanks also to all my opponents and particularly David Longworth who had to put up with my nervous breakdown in the third game.

 



Cows, Guns and Garlic

A Tale from Australia's Wild South

 

 

There is another Australia.  Far beyond our teeming cities with their glittering skyscrapers, mean streets and seagull eviscerating falcons.  Look to the south stranger, where the horizon beckons and the land blurs so much it could almost be the sea.  Actually, that is the sea so don't go walking there unless you plan to hop from drilling rig to drilling rig.

 

Away from the cities, across the water you will find Tasmania, Australia's southern frontier.  Tasmania; where the forests still ring to the sound of the woodsman's axe, bouncing off the head of a persistent environmentalist who in response has poured sugar into the guys petrol tank.  A tough place, a rugged place where spare, rawboned individuals with faces beaten by experience lean against fences and gaze into the middle distance while waiting for their welfare cheques and methadone doses.  It's a place of startling natural beauty despite the best efforts of the inhabitants.  Its a place where civilisation has trodden but lightly (or not at all according to some), a place where you can go to get away from it all (sealed roads, modern dentistry, jobs) and get in touch with how people used to live.  You know, before we decided "sod this, I'm moving to the city".  Down here a man can be a man or at least a part time garlic farmer.

 

Like many ignorant city dwellers I have little idea of where my food comes from.  If pressed I wave my hand in the general direction of that part of Australia not covered in concrete and asphalt.  I do realise that farms grow wheat and cattle (although I've no idea how you plant the latter) but I find it difficult to grasp the concept of someone actually farming something as small as garlic.  It would be like herding mice.  But down in Tasmania where man can still roam free (as long as he doesn't mind dying of exposure) a person can strike out on his own, plant garlic and lovingly tend them when he gets home from the office.  One of my colleagues is married to such a man.

 

 

Using only weekends and time off work this man hacked out a few hectares from the unforgiving existing farmland and planted garlic.  Now, apparently, it is sprouting.  Come Christmas time it will be ready to harvest in keeping with the ancient natural rhythm which demands that the work be done at a time when the kids are off school.  But before that happy day a thousand challenges have to be met and overcome, heartbreaks endured and garlic rustlers defeated.  According to my colleague last weekend's challenge was a mad cow.  By mad I don't mean "unsafe to eat" I just mean mighty pissed off.  The neighbouring farm (owned, not coincidentally, by my colleague's father in law) has a small herd of cattle (due in the fullness of time to become a large pile of beef).  Possibly to give them a change of scenery it was decided to move them from one field to another.  This relocation involved persuading them to cross a road.  Most of them did this docilely enough, probably just glad to undertake a journey that didn't end in them getting eaten, but for one cow it was the final straw.

 

There's always one isn't there?  This cow looked at the road and decided she was having none of it.  With fire in her eyes and her cowbell jangling defiance she stood her ground and prepared to fight to the death.  I'm not sure what happened next as I stopped listening but I'm pretty sure it involved guns, cattleprods, chainsaws, flamethrowers and children hiding under their beds weeping in fear.  I do know my colleague spent a good proportion of her weekend in the road stopping traffic before it was stopped by something more terminal like seven hundred kilograms of cow.  While she was engaged in traffic control a wild eyed cow was thundering back and forth damaging fences while her husband clung desperately to its tail and tried to steer it away from the garlic.  At last report the garlic was safe but the cow was still on the wrong side of the road so they're calling it a nil all draw.

 

So remember gentle reader, when you eat your pizza with extra garlic, to pause for a moment and give thanks to the rugged outdoors on weekends at any rate men down in the tames of Tasmania whose struggles against the odds can be thanked for your flatulence and bad breath.