Thursday, 14 May 2015

Why do the victims have to suffer?


If you haven't heard, after Alastair Clarkson got harassed by some *ahem* "fans" after the Hawks loss to the port scumbags the AFL has decided that coaches aren't allowed to walk back to the hotel after a match.

Are. You. Fucking. Serious?!

These FANS have done the wrong thing, and so the COACHES get punished?!  This has to be a joke. Coaches should be allowed to leave the venue in whatever way they see fit. They should expect to be able to leave their workplace like everyone else and not be subject to harassment, in whichever manner they choose, whether they walk, drive or take a unicycle.  I wouldn't be surprised if the AFL soon decides that players/coaches/officials aren't allowed to leave their hotels or homes at all except to train and play.

Of course, this isn't an isolated thing.  Oh no no no no no.  I'm sure many people have often told female relatives "You shouldn't wear revealing clothing" or "You shouldn't walk by yourself after dark".

Notice the similarity? That's right, because there are dick-heads in the world who are never adequately punished, innocent people who have done nothing wrong have their rights curbed "for their own safety". How about we actually punish people who make infringe upon the rights of others?
Oh, that's right, we need to remember the "rights of the perpetrator".  As far as I'm concerned, those bleeding hearts who cry foul when criminals get less than 5 star treatment in prison have a severely whacked-out view of the world.  The simple equation SHOULD be that if you infringe on the rights of others, then you lose your rights until you have repaid your debt to society and have learned to be a decent human being.  Until we see this happening, innocent people will continue to have their rights curbed purely out of necessity to stay alive.

This is a pathetic message sent out by the AFL.  They have not stood behind their coaches at all, and I am very disappointed.

Sunday, 10 May 2015

Good-bye Bastet Achilles III

Most of my followers on Facebook and Instagram would already know the horrible news - on Monday, 4th May, Bastet was run over by a car.  One of my neighbours was reversing out and clocked him right in the head.  At least he died instantly.  I can still remember my other neighbour telling me what had happened, me ringing vets wondering if he was there, and finally finding his still-warm body in a box.  I've never been so devastated in my life.  Even when Morgan died, at least we knew he'd had a long, good life.  Bastet was four years old. I've played the "what-if" game to death, wishing I'd been home earlier instead of staying back at work, or wishing I hadn't made Bastet go outside that morning.  It was a horrible shock and I'm still trying to adjust to having only one cat.

You see, Cheynee and Bastet were two sides of a coin.  Having one without the other is hard.  While Cheynee likes to lick me to death, refuses to come when called, is exceptionally chatty, is very much an indoor-pet and is very much a cat.  Bastet used to come when called (unless outside), loved to explore, only opened his mouth to eat, yawn or whinge, loved to stop me from trying to get to work and was pretty much a dog in a cat suit.  One without the other was unthinkable until Boofy died suddenly.

So I guess all that's left is for a tribute to my beloved little big boy.  Seriously, Boof was a big cat. He loved to think of himself as a wild hunter, and my feet were usually his favourite prey.  When it actually came to hunting living things though, like insects, Cheynee usually had him beat.  Except for the friarbird.

You see, when I lived with my parents, I lived in the garage with my babies.  They had a little fenced-off area to play in just outside my window, called Catopia.  One Saturday morning I was trying to have a sleep-in, when I heard loud growling outside.  Irked, I went outside to see what was gong on.  Picture this: One small bird-of-prey glaring at Bastet.  Bastet glaring back with a native friarbird in his mouth.  Cheynee looking bemused.  Of course, once the bird-of-prey saw me it decided the bird wasn't worth the trouble.  Bastet immediately shot inside and under the bed, where I rescued the poor friarbird (which wasn't the least bit grateful) while Bastet fumed.

Another amusing story was Bastets first Christmas.  A picture paints a thousand words, so I'll share it.

We're still not sure who the guilty party was, but I'm willing to bet Bastet was involved.

I can still remember how he used to hate me leaving him for work.  He'd try to stop me brushing my hair, would sit on me, would cry, would do anything in his power to try and stop me.

Don't ask me how I could resist that face.

Although he was always willing to help with my shoelaces.

He was also a big fan of the outdoors and loved his Uncle Morgan (RIP).

Of course, we can't forget the time he injured his paw antagonising his sister.  He wasn't too thrilled about having it cleaned!

It was a horrible, horrible way to lose my fur-son, but hopefully he's at the Rainbow Bridge with his Uncle Morgan and Aunt Footsie, and hopefully it will be a long, long time until his sister joins him.

Mummy loves you Boofy, and Chinny misses you.  Good-bye.