Cock & Bull 2009 Semillon Sauvignon Blanc

This is very easy to drink (and reasonably cheap too)...very well balanced. A very sound wine to drink by the bucket-load.

A Little Known History of Brisbane Village

It is a grim and unsavoury tale that I have to tell, yet if the reader perseveres, he or she may discover some strange truths about Brisbane, and perhaps be amused; even unto death.
Brisbane! A town of possibilities and potential. Brisbane! A town with a history steeped in bestiality and corrupt politicians. Brisbane! What a town.
Most people forget that before our wonderful city became the sprawling metropolis that it is now, it was once just paddocks littered with small shacks, oddly built houses and the occasional hovel. Come to think of it, it hasn’t changed that much.
It was a different way of life back then, a simpler way of life that old people often refer to in their rambling diatribes as `the good old days’ whilst staring wistfully into space and smelling slightly eggy. Even today when people speak of such icons such as The Shingle Inn; teahouse of the rich & famous, their eyes glaze over with a nostalgic mist and they gush on sentimentally about the ‘original and best Tea Shoppe around’. These young whippersnappers (who are often as old as me) have no knowledge of the first, and original Brisbane cake shop, and that was Mr Poopah’s Cake Shop-A-Go-Go.
Over one hundred years ago, on the exact same spot where The Shingle Inn now stands, there was a bakery like no other, and there has been no other bakery like it since. We can thank our chosen Gods for that. Indeed, in obscure churches across Brisbane, small congregations still offer thanks, praise, incense, and dead animals to a wide variety of deities for refusing another monstrosity such as Mr Poopah’s establishment to exist.
Just over a century ago to this very day, there was a massive out-break of insanity at Mr Poopah’s Cake Shop-A-Go-Go, during his annual promotion; craftily entitled ”Mr Poopah’s Crafty Promotion”. Every day, from 1890 through to 1905, at exactly five past three in the afternoon, Mr Poopah’s would open the doors to his bakery and yell “Anyone want a free cake? Well just fuck off ‘cos you’re not ‘avin one.”. He would then return to his hot and sweaty bake house, laughing his merry (and slightly odd shaped) head off. This queer ritual has been played out with little to no variation for many years and it was only by an odd quirk of fate that there was a dramatic turn of events that changed the history of Brisbane.
It all began innocently enough with Madam Pimpdaddy answering Mr Poopah with her usual reply of “Get fucked wormy, I don’t want yer stinkin’ cakes.” This rather colourful exchange had been the mainstay of their conversation since they had become neighbours in 1898. In fact, it was the only dialogue that Mr PooPah and Madam Pimpdaddy indulged in. They saw it as a slow, brooding form of sexual tension, and although they would stare at each other in a most horrid fashion, with looks full of evil and malice, they both felt the same strange erotic twangs.
Madam Pimpdaddy had just given her normal response when there was a loud Poot-like noise and a rather nasty smell. Mr PooPah had just farted! “You sick little monkey, I’m going to vomit…” squealed Madam P. And with that, she did.
It went everywhere. It gushed from her mouth like a fireman’s hose on full power. It has since been said that it was worse than that scene from Monty Python because Madam Pimpdaddy was a real person, whereas Mr Creosote was just a character from a movie. However as The Meaning of Life would not be made for at least another seventy years, the residents of Brisbane had nothing to compare it with. It was simply the worst thing they had ever witnessed in their life.
The vomit dripped from the eves of nearby houses and rushed down the gutters of the street like a vast psychedelic river. Trees were festooned in long strands of half digested cats’ entrails (a major food group for Madam.P), and if one had been sniffing gas, one might surely have thought that the town had decided to celebrate Christmas early by decorating the streets with a strange mixture of muck and spew, and a bit more muck.
It was of little surprise that shortly after this stench ridden episode that the pair became lovers, indulging in bizarre sexual practices that frightened the town’s folk and soured the milk of the cattle. No-one had ever witnessed the sexy rompings but it was a guarantee that when Mr and Mrs (for they had been wed in a satanic midnight ritual within hours of the vomit incident) PooPah decided to play hide the sausage, strange and terrifying noises could be heard from within the bakery. Of course, the occasional voyeur had attempted to penetrate the steamy windows of the shop but had always been thwarted by the bizarre condensation that clung constantly to the grime covered panes. Only one man had successfully seen inside the bakery and that was Mad Michael McMad, and the sight had obviously sent him completely mental (as opposed to his previous state of being only slightly mental) because he was found shortly afterwards gouging his eyes out with a stick and ranting about poo coloured imps brandishing whips and the like.
The only clue to the mystery was the strange cacophony of whoops, snorts, hisses and, oddly enough, mewling, that inevitably accompanied their allegedly frenzied love-making. All speculation on the erotic madness of the two was exactly that; speculation, and nothing more.
Due to poor record keeping of the time, it has never been noted that there was mayor of Brisbane way back then, a great lard-arse of a man, called Johnny Twinkle. It was he who decided to call a meeting with the most influential and well to do villagers. The gathering had been planned and executed with the utmost care and secrecy, as it was clearly understood by all concerned that if Mr and Mrs PooPah had even the slightest inkling of what was going on, they would surely unleash a furious and foul smelling rage upon Brisbane Village.
The select few who had received an invitation slowly filtered into the public toilets on the edge of the cricket field. This location is now known as the Chelmer Cricket Grounds, and whilst the toilets are still absolutely filthy, the actual pitch is now quite well maintained. It stank inside the cubicle, and of God knows what; I was there and even now, almost one hundred years on, my mind refuses to allow me any kind of recollection regarding the heinous whiff. But then again, due to my advanced senility, my mind rarely allows me any recollection of yesterday let alone events that occurred almost a century ago. The only connection I have between my conscious thought and the smell of that place is a combination of old man’s trouser and sloppy, wet dog plop joined in some hideous scent-based union of evil. We all crowded inside the toilet, which was no mean feat considering there were sixteen of us in total, all squashed up against one another in the dank and fetid box, jostling and pushing for any extra space we could snatch. All except Dairyman Dave, who seemed to be reveling in the claustrophobic conditions. I swear I could feel his little boner jabbing in my ribs as he balanced on the toilet seat, juggling with a half of one buttock that belonged to Johnny Twinkle in his left hand, and eating a cream bun (which ironically he had purchased from the Cake Shop A-Go-Go)in the other. Soon enough everyone had arrived and taken up a position in the human pyramid that was the meeting. Johnny spoke in his deep yet quavering voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Brisbane Village, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage…oh no! That’s not it.” He coughed and spat a lump of chocolate coloured phlegm over the cubicle wall before starting again. “Ladies and gentlemen, Brisbane Village is in crisis. Mr and Mrs PooPah have been increasing their sexual antics every week now for the past two months, and I’m sure we all understand the ramifications of such regular rumping.” From the blank looks and silence, it was obvious that nobody did understand so Johnny continued. “Milk production is at an all time low and we must do something about it. It has reached crisis point and I have been reduced to pouring water coloured with old white and crumbly dogs eggs over my corn flakes…it’s just not the same as good old fashioned milk, from a cow, fed on grass, in a field, with a…”. At this point he was cut off by Mrs Pinkyster, who pointed out that the committee saw the point, and we didn’t need to hear about the fence and the farm, or the farmer, or the farmer’s wife, and could he just get to the point?. Dairyman Dave was most upset by these events as he loved any conversation about milk but he did point out that Johnny Twinkle had been using dogs’ eggs on his cornflakes even before the Poopahs started banging like a dunny door in a hurricane. Anyhow, Johnny got to the point, and we were all horrified. And aroused.
So after we had laid each other, we laid our plans, and as we filtered out of that stinking hovel, we could not look each other in the eye; I’m not sure if it was anything to do with the orgy in the lav, or because of our dastardly plan, but anyway….
The following week was rather uneventful. I found a stone that looked a bit like a stone, and my good chum Billy Mildew fell off the world whilst trying to convert a patch of grass into sports coat. Had he succeeded with his crazy plan, we would have cornered the pasture based sportswear industry, became unfeasibly rich and never of had to commit the atrocious acts that I still deny committing, even to this day. So as Billy went sailing off into space, I pondered the ghastly plan that had been formulated in that stinking chamber.
It involved rats, big black furry rodents, with nasty little beady eyes. Red eyes, at that…yes, all manner of scrabbling claws and pointy teeth. I get all shuddery just thinking of them. They give me the willies, and aside from my photography (ahem) business I also happened to moonlight as the town rat catcher. However, in Brisbane Village the position carried the rather grand title of `King Furry Whacker, Whacker of All Things Furry’ which led to numerous misunderstandings throughout my time as `King Furry Etc’. But anyway, I digress….Oh yes, I was reflecting on the terrible plague of rats that we intended to unleash in some kind of biblical tidal wave of revenge upon the Poopah’s. That was the general idea that had been agreed upon after our erotic discourse in the lavs. It seemed reasonable enough, after all, who wouldn’t have come to the conclusion that sending in a swarm of rats to stop the village freaks from having a bang was the only possible solution? You’d be mad to think otherwise.
So there I was, reflecting on the solution to our problems when it struck me that in all my years as rat catcher for Brisbane, I had never caught a rat in my life. In fact, I had never been called upon to do so, because as everyone knew, the population of Brisbane in the late eighteenth century was just over sixty persons, and the rat population was zero.
It said so in our catchy tourist slogan of the time “Brisbane has no rats, come see for yourself!” The slogan obviously didn’t work as the total number of tourists visiting for that year was a whopping great two. That’s actually an exaggeration, the truth is the only tourist was a pregnant lady from Gatton who had come to see the only doctor in Queensland, who just happened to live and practice in dear, sweet Brisbane Village. But we had to count the unborn fetus as a tourist just to bolster the numbers for the annual report that Johnny Twinkle demanded each year.
No rats meant there was no foul plan, and no foul plan meant no getting rid of the Poopahs, which in turn meant no real milk, which in turn meant being forced to have poo milk on our breakfast cereal of choice. I could have gone on for hours listing the effects of no rats but I grew weary and decided to go and have a beer with Blind Michael.
Now the youth of today take Brisbane’s’ many pubs and clubs for granted, for this fair city now has an acceptable number of them, but when I was a lad there was only one. Nowadays there are your up market, swish and swanky venues, chock full of rich dicks paying thirty dollars for a glass of wine, as well as those establishments that are little more than tiled holes serving beer to old men in itchy pants and stained vests (such as myself). These vastly differing styles of pubs and clubs serve a very important purpose in so far as the rich can slum it at the lower end of the market and be totally outraged at the complete lack of octopus salad, and the not so rich, who would never dream of frequenting the more up market bars, can be amazed at the sheer gullibility of the foolish toffs throwing away vast sums of cash on Thai Infusion Tofu Burgers and cheeky chardonnays.
As a nice little link between the pubs of Brisbane and my meeting with Blind Michael, I shall share a little known fact with you, regarding Brisbane’s heritage.
The Shamrock Hotel is an icon of our wonderful town, and having consulted my lawyers, I have been advised to say only good things about it. Practically every resident of Brizzy is aware of “The Shammy”, as it sometimes affectionately known. It offers everything that a good pub should offer; that is beer and other alcohol based beverages. It also offers an extensive menu of fine meals, as well as exotic dancers for those seeking a more adult form of entertainment. Personally, I have never ventured upstairs to witness first hand the ‘dancers’, however I have it on very good authority that there is dancing and it is performed naked to semi-naked. Good Lord! What kind of a town is this?! Canberra?!
Anyhow, Dirty Molly used to frequent The Shammy on a regular basis until she was banned for life following her lewd (and some say obscene) behaviour in the upstairs section of the pub at some point in the mid-seventies. It would have been OK if Molly had been a part of the show but for her to have leapt up on stage and performed with a German Shepherd in front of the clientele without first obtaining a) a dancing permit and b) the managers permission, well, it was just too much for the Nudie Police, and they had her arrested and imposed the life time ban as part of the sentence for her heinous crime.
Where was I? Oh yes, right here, I haven’t moved from my chair today. Damn legs don’t work quite as well as they used to. Yes! That was it. I was divulging little known tit-bits about our beloved city. So way back, when I was a young man, I was meeting Blind Michael for a beer on the exact same spot where the Shamrock now stands, of course back then it was simply a shed which had been built next to the eighteenth wonder of the world, the wonder that was Ham Rock.
Now this miraculous rock was like no other, and only the terminally stupid readers would not have realized that this is where the Shamrock Hotel took its name. Ham Rock was a magical place where even the poor could get a free feed because despite being a large piece of stone, it actually tasted of the finest smoked ham. Those who had no real food could simply break off a piece of Ham Rock, take it home and chuck it in a pan of boiling water and hey presto! A tasty and nutritious soup was born! I admit that it wasn’t actually that tasty or nutritious but if you closed your eyes when eating it, you could almost imagine that you were eating a delicious bowl of ham soup. Ham Rock; another interesting fact about Brisbane that most people are unaware of.
When I entered the shed that was propped up next to Ham Rock, Blind Michael (or the Artist formerly known as Mad Michael) was in the process of chatting up a large pot plant. I put this down to his blindness but after telling him that he was hitting on a fern, he was continued to do so for quite some time afterwards. Obviously despite being Blind Michael instead of Mad Michael, he still clung to traits of the former (or was that the latter? I can never remember which is which.). I ordered two beers, steered Mike to an empty table, and sat down with him.
“Michael, Michael, Michael, I have a proposition for you.” He responded with a positive sounding “Gargh!” He was obviously in pirate mode, which was a good sign.
“I know you have a penchant for dressing up, and I know you have a preference for schoolgirls’ uniforms but I’ve got this rather natty costume that I thought you would like. It’s a giant rat suit.” I let these details sink into the swirling soup that was his mind. “Gargh?” There was an inquisitive tone to his buccaneer-esque noises.
“Yes Michael, it does have whiskers and a tail. I can tell that you have a discerning mind when it comes to costumes.”
There was a grating noise and I realized it was Michael’s personality shifting gears. “Well, in that case, I’d be absolutely delighted to take it off your hands. Super, old chap.” He’d slipped into English gentleman mode. “Just swing by my house tonight and you can try it on.” I finished my beer and got up to leave. “Toodle-pip, old boy.”
“Yes, see you later, Michael.” There was another loud grating noise and Michael had reverted back to his Yellowbeard impersonations again. I left the bar to the sounds of Michael dancing a hornpipe, hugely relieved that I would not have to put up with the Poopahs, or Michael, for much longer.
I was very busy for the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, stitching and sewing, in order to make the necessary adjustments to Michael’s costume. Luckily, I still had the possum suit that I’d worn to last years Brisbane Wildlife Festival, which was another pissweak tourist attraction that Johnny Twinkle had come up with. However, most of the village had turned out for it and it was rated a huge success. If you’re interested in the number of tourists for that year, it was a staggering six. Some people had decided to wear their costumes for some time after the actual event which meant that for weeks after the Festival, I was served by a wombat at the butchers and a koala at the bakery. I never visited the Candlestick Maker during this time but apparently that particular shop had always been staffed by cane toads so there was no change there.
By eight o’clock, I had finished playing at seamstress and sat back puffing on my pipe, admiring my handiwork and pondering the possibility that The Plan might actually work. Michael turned up shortly afterwards, and I immediately drugged him up to the eyeballs with a particularly strong cheese from Dairyman Dave. This brand of cheese was stored in a locked safe at the back of Dave’s dairy, as it had been fermented with wild mushrooms and was known to produce the most horrific hallucinations in the poor unfortunate who happened to consume it. It also tasted a bit like dirt too. It was rather easy to feed the cheese to Michael as he was renowned for being fond of dirt sandwiches and the occasional slice of mud cake so I simply put the cheese in his hand and told him it was a large sod of the finest turf in Brisbane. Being blind and mental, he wolfed it down like a greedy schoolboy and within three minutes had began to froth at the mouth and ramble incessantly about monkeys with hammers attacking his brain. There was actually very little change in his demeanour except now I guess you could call him Mad, Mad, Blind Michael. After an hour of very intense theological discussions that revolved around how many angels could fit in a schooner glass, Michael slipped into a cheese induced coma. Relax, dear reader, t’was only temporary. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
I stuck a large piece of rag in Michael’s mouth, and after much struggling, I got his dead weight into the suit. It was very strange to see a six foot rat slumped in my armchair and for a moment I thought that perhaps I had accidentally ingested some cheese and was under the influence. Time was now of the essence, so I brought my wheel barrow into the parlour and got Mr Rat into it. In truth, I nearly gave myself a hernia as I strained and strained to fling Michael into the barrow but I managed it and carted him off through the back door and across the paddocks that my house backed onto. I dodged the dark silhouettes of cow pats, old and new, that littered the fields, occasionally slipping on one and upturning the barrow. Each time this happened I would lift Mike back into his chariot and continue on my way. I still have the vaguest of recollections from that night and they are not pleasant. The moon had come out and hung in the night sky, all fat and yellow. A planetary witness to my evil scheme. It was dark now and a number of fruit bats attempted to crap on me as I wheeled the cart through the woods that stood opposite the main drag of Brisbane Village.
The bats continued in their efforts to drench me in hot runny shit but I managed to avoid their filthy poo bombs. Michael was not so lucky and by the time we got to the courtyard at the rear of the Poopah’s bakery, he was covered in a mixture of cow pat and bat droppings. I won’t mince words; he stank, and it took all of my strength to stop myself from puking all over him. To be honest, that probably would have improved the smell of him but I felt bad enough about what I was about to do so I didn’t. I contented myself with the odd dry retch here and there, and braced myself for the worst part of The Plan. Originally, we villagers had decided to unleash a swarm of rats into the bakery but as there were no rats in Brisbane, I figured one gigantic rat would do just as well. Now the time had come to unleash the beast that was Michael, King Rat, Bringer of Justice and Vengeance. I looked down at Mike, all cosy in his rat shaped pyjama like costume. For a moment, I was almost overcome with remorse but that was immediately smothered by the prospect of having poo milk for the rest of my life. Mike was beginning to wake up and make muffled shrieking noises. Quick as a flash I pulled off the rat head, whipped out the remaining cheese and jammed it into his mouth. I re-secured the gag and waited.
Ten minutes later Michael was making the appropriate mewling and squeaking noises of a rat, and as he was hallucinating quite severely, I simply told him that I was the Devil and commanded him to crawl into the bake house through a delivery hatch that led into the bowels of the Poopah’s abode. Essentially, The Plan was to scare the living Hell out of the Poopah’s thus ensuring their immediate departure from the Village, restoring delicious creamy cows’ milk to the residents of Brisbane. There was little else I could do so I went back to the Shamrock Pub and got quite drunk on XXX beer (Way back then, the brewery could not afford the extra X that has since been added to the name).
The following day, I woke up half undressed, lying in the bath, swearing that someone had put a dead rat in my mouth. I checked in the mirror and to my horror, I was right. Someone had put a dead rat in my mouth. I pulled it out and examined it. It was not simply a dead rat; it was wearing a Blind Michael costume. I rushed around the village, calling on every one who had been in the toilet cubicle when The Plan had been hatched. Within the hour, we were all crammed into the very same toilet, holding an Emergency Meeting.
I explained what had happened to Michael, and then how I had woken up with a dead rat in my mouth that morning. There was total silence in the lav. Then it exploded. Not literally, however that probably would have been a good thing as the whole place was wholly revolting and annihilation would have saved us all a great deal of trouble. Everyone at the meeting tried to speak at the same time and we were reduced to shouting and jostling, much like the first meeting we’d had. Through the cacophony, I was able to make out that every last person at the meeting had woken up to find a dead rat placed either on their person or in close proximity to them. Dairyman Dave had gone to milk his cows only to find their udders plugged with deceased rodents. Johnny Twinkle had awoken to find his milk jug chock full of dogs eggs and rat. Even poor old Buddy the Buggerer had fallen foul of rats. His ass was stuffed full of them, and he was unable to even violate himself (which was essentially a morning ritual for Buddy).
“This can only be the work of the Poopahs.” I said over the noise. “We must immediately go forth to the bakery and destroy them”. I had to yell this several times before I was heard. But once my idea sank in, everybody was filled with a horrific bloodlust and we stormed forth from the toilets, determined to have vengeance and fresh milk. We arrived at the Poopahs’ shortly after ten o’clock, and it struck us all as being too quiet. Usually around this time of the day, there were frenzied noises of passion and baking coming from the kitchens of the Bake house but today it was still. Tumbleweeds blew across the street, and a church bell rang, slow and baleful, somewhere in the distance. I didn’t like it. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. I strode up to the door and as I got closer, I noticed that it was slightly ajar, which was unheard of. The Poopahs always kept the door locked so their filthy acts could go on unwitnessed. Everyone in Brisbane knew that….so why was the door swinging gently on the morning breeze? I looked back at the Committee and saw that they had all taken refuge behind trees, waste bins, and other objects that could offer shelter from what ever lay behind the door. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The entire kitchen had been stripped bare; the outline of pots and pans could be seen, stark white against the filthy brownish yellow grime that had become fixed to the walls over the years. Obviously Mr Poopah had never heard of Health and Safety Directives such `Clean your premises every once in a while’ or `Don’t leave decomposing fruit on the shelf for more than one week’. The whole place was just disgusting beyond description; and to think that this was where everyone in Brisbane purchased their bread, cakes and other bakery based products. I even noticed piles of old Hessian sack, rotting and stinking in the corner, mildewed potatoes spilling from within. Yet it was still fascinating, as if I were an archeologist entering a pyramid for the first time, viewing strange objects of queer ritual, piecing the mystery together. I was probably the first person, other than the Poopahs, to step foot inside the bakery for over twenty years. It was still and silent in there, rogue dust motes caught the sunlight that streamed through a single broken window pane. I hardly dared to breathe for fear of disturbing the silence. Then the door crashed open and the entire Committee came spilling in, landing in a huge tangled pile at my feet. They were all equally gob smacked, staring wide eyed at the strange and new surroundings. It was just at that moment that I saw the note on the bench.
It was written on a piece of yellowing paper but the penmanship was truly beautiful, the loops and swirls of each letter were works of art, and certain characters were skillfully decorated with a variety of birds, animals and flowers.
I read it aloud.

“Dear Fuckholes,

You are all ungrateful bastards who have never appreciated my cakes, bread and other savoury delights. Me and the missus are off to set up a traveling pie house such as never been seen before. We will be famous and will always slag Brisbane Village off to everyone we ever meet. No more tourists for you, Johnny Twinkle.”
At this point, Johnny screamed like a girl and swooned onto the floor, his flabby hand draped across his forehead as if he were in some Victorian melodrama. I continued on, unperturbed.
“As a parting gift, we have left one pie in the oven for you to taste. It is the most delicious pie in all of Australia and it is the first and last one that you will ever taste because, if by some unlucky event, any one of you retarded villagers happens to come across our magnificent traveling pie house, you will be refused service.

We hate Brisbane and all who live in it.

Lots of love

Mr & Mrs Poopah.

P.S – Yes, it was I who put dead rats in your houses/faces/cows/etc.”

Just as I finished reading the letter, we became aware of the most fantastic smell emanating from the oven. A delicious spicy meat pie kind of aroma, it seemed to verily tickle the tastebuds, and caress ones saliva glands into immediate overdrive. We were all drooling as we were hypnotically drawn towards the oven. Johnny Twinkle (who had obviously been reinvigorated by the smell of the pie) grabbed an old grimy tea towel and wrapped it around his hand. He slowly opened the huge oven door, and there was the most magnificent pie that any one of us had ever seen. It was golden brown and decorated with small pastry flowers, the biggest pie in the history of Brisbane. Tendrils of steam rose from the pie, carrying the delightful smell of meat and vegetables, tender and cooked to perfection, like a wondrous perfume to our noses. Johnny pulled the pie out of the oven with a reverence usually reserved for holy objects such as the Holy Grail (which Johnny had somehow managed to borrow for a week last summer for his `Visit Brisbane, Home of the Holy Grail’ tourist drive). He set it down on the bench and went off to find a knife. Everyone just stared at the pie. It was truly wondrous and I was sucked into some strange daydream where I slaughtered everybody in the bake house and eloped with the pie, getting married to it in a hasty ceremony and settling down to have a family of strange half man half pie children. I was shaken form my reverie by the return of Twinkle with a huge knife. For a moment I thought that he had a similar plan for he looked as if he were possessed. But then he swiftly cut the pie into equal portions and distributed it among us.
Dairyman Dave and several others began cramming the pie into their mouths, frantic and wild, sighing ecstatically as it slithered down their throats. People were crying with delight as they tasted the pie. There were shouts of “Incredible!” and “Beautiful!” and other praises were bandied about. I held back, something was wrong. I looked around at the pie induced hysteria and then it struck me that someone was missing. Michael. I had seen no trace of him since entering the kitchen and I looked around to see if he was around. It was then that I saw the tail of a very large rat poking out from beneath the sacks in the corner. Michael! I ran to him, throwing back the covers. What an evil man I had been! Putting poor Michael, whose only crime was to have been quite insane, through such a traumatic series of events. Luckily for me, Michael was fine. Apart from missing his legs and genitals, he was fine.
He looked up at me, gazing though hollow eye sockets. “Ahoy me hearties.” Was all he said. I don’t think he was even aware that the lower half of his body was missing. Bless him. I rapidly deduced that it was the flesh of a madman that had given the pie its character and that I really shouldn’t eat my piece of it. But I did and it was fucking delicious. The Committee even gave Michael the rest of the pie for his part in The Plan, which considering the level of its deliciousness, was very generous of them.
So the Poopahs were gone and milk was restored to Brisbane Village. Everything worked out quite well in the end so that was nice. But even now, I still can’t look at a pie without thinking of how tasty human flesh is, and of everything that we villagers did to rid ourselves of the blight that was Cake Shop-A-Go-Go. So dear reader, you now have an insight into Brisbane that very few people are aware of, and if perchance you are traveling through the outback of this great, red land and you happen to come across a traveling pie house, be sure to doff your cap to the owners for they will surely be direct descendants of Mr & Mrs Poopah.
Just don’t mention Brisbane.
Even though it really is a truly great place to live. Allegedly.

Muddy Water 2007 Dry Riesling

My Word! This is a fantastic drop, evocative of wet river stones, and all manner of fruity goodness. A real thirst quencher coupled with deliciousness. Very dangerous! Could easily knock off a couple of bottles on a sunny afternoon. Top marks!

But is it art?

Mark Inglefield of Blain/Southern sent me the following statement in regard to the EU decision to label Dan Flavin's work as (merely?) electrical fittings:

"We were grateful for the clarification given in the British courts two years ago on the treatment of these types of artworks coming into the UK. The new EU ruling is clearly at odds with this and merits further enquiry. We will be seeking the advice of the various trade bodies to see what can be done."

It does beg the question; what qualifications do the EU inspectors hold that validates their opinion as to what is/isn't art? To take this one step further, what gives the art critic this right also?