The child bride and I and assorted friends and relatives went to a local courthouse yesterday to watch one of my brothers get married…..again. Now I always thought the marriage ceremony ended with “I now pronounce you husband and wife”. I guess it was because we were in a courthouse that the celebrant turned to my brother and said “I hereby sentence you to life in marriage”. And it’s the only sentence in the civil or criminal code from which you can earn early release for bad behaviour.

His first marriage lasted 30 years and his second 98 days. Based on that trajectory his third would have lasted about 12 minutes. Fortunately a genie granted him three wishes and he got the third one right.

Not everyone deserves “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” in the immortal words of the American Declaration of Independence – I’m looking at you Billy Ray Cyrus for inflicting “Achy Breaky Heart” on an unwitting populace. But my brother does having survived imprisonment for longer than your average murderer with sanity relatively intact.

Marriage is a wonderful institution it has to be said and everyone deserves a piece of it. But at the end of the day, it is still an institution and some people are quite reasonably reluctant to enter its enticing portals. I’ve been married for centuries and love it and I’m going to leave it there because the child bride reads this blog occasionally. Any sort of innocent commentary on a social compact that comes with reams of fine print is bound to attract conflicting views and generate a range of emotions so all I’ll say to everyone is “happy families”.

I can’t resist finishing on a note which links the name of this blog and the subject at hand. A woman and a man are sitting together sipping drinks when the wife says “I love you.” The husband says “Is that you or the wine talking?” She says “It’s me talking….to the wine.”

My Facebook page was hacked yesterday. I have no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing although they did manage to imply that I recommended a certain type of face moisturiser. It wasn’t even my favourite brand sweetie. Anyway, since I was on FB and had a few minutes to spare, I went looking for something from the past to put here, having just reminisced about our blockbusting, stadium filling (if Coldplay can do it, anyone can) musical combo. I found this Christmas story from a few years back and here it is for your reading pleasure.

So that’s the Christmas Eve job list done and dusted.
– Two dead trees near the dam chain-sawed and disposed of. Ahead of the Season of Goodwill, all latent aggression dispersed.
– New plants and herbs watered – a stinking hot day today so they need it. Who’d be a lettuce in Queensland in summer.
– Vine infesting one of our hedges chopped and poisoned. Not funny climbing into a hedge of grevilleas. Arms look like I’ve been sparring with the cats.
– BBQ moved from the shed to the deck in preparation for tomorrow. Managed to prevent it escaping down the driveway and finishing up in the next post code.
– Full gas bottle attached to same.
– Additional tables moved from shed to deck (after checking for red-back spiders, hiding snakes etc).
– Fridges stocked to the gunwales – experience tells us that when this family has a “do” the gunwales aren’t high enough.
– Tinselly stuff hung round the deck. Tinselly stuff picked up and re-hung after breeze proved too strong for blue-tack. Tinselly stuff picked up again, screwed up and shoved back in box to be re-hung when the breeze dies down a bit.
And the final chore:
Step 1 – remove beer from fridge
Step 2 – take beer to pool and put next to edge of pool
Step 3 – dive into pool, swim to other end then return
Step 4 – drink beer
Step 5 – repeat steps 3 and 4 ad nauseum
Note – Step 3 not compulsory.

A few hours later……..

Well, what an eventful Christmas Eve. Completed the beer ritual mentioned above then escorted the child bride round the estate while partaking of a glass of bubbles (origin New Zealand, but not to worry). Koalas successfully located and all well with the world. Graduated from bubbles to red (and in the CB’s case white) wine and settled down to watch the Royal Variety Performance. Recognized Dame Edna, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Jimmy Carr. The rest were plastic people presumably from some talent show. Then it was time for bed – we didn’t want Santa to turn up and here’s us still awake. So hit the shower at 11.00pm.

We have a small foot rest in our shower which, as the name suggests, you rest your foot on when washing it. So I put my foot on it as I have done most days of the 7 years we’ve been here. It takes a little weight but obviously you don’t transfer the whole ponderous bulk to this one small foot rest or you are inviting trouble. Anyway, it collapsed and I hit the floor of the shower. As I lay there mentally reviewing the potential damage from top to bottom, I realised that the absence of bones protruding through skin was due to the fact I was quite relaxed. So I gingerly stood up and realised I’d been lying on a bed of ceramic shrapnel.

All was okay though except for my red left arm. It hadn’t been red that I’d noticed when I got in the shower but there it was leaking vital bodily fluids onto the floor of the shower. Bummer. Anyway, the CB did a wonderful job patching up my arm (too pissed to drive to hospital and not serious enough to bother the ambulance) which has a number of rather nasty gashes in it. Nothing she can do for the shoulder which feels like it hit the ground first but even though it’s on the right side, won’t prevent the important events of the day. So first port of call this morning is the emergency room at Prince Charles Hospital to get stitched up then back here prior to the commencement of festivities which I might add, will not be affected by this unfortunate occurrence.

12 stitches from a babe of a doctor who looks like she is on her way home from a Christmas Eve party and a tetanus shot later and normal programming is resumed. Liquid painkillers beckon.

I just read an article about how bands like the Beatles and Pink Floyd and pretend bands like Coldplay got their names. It was interesting up to a point. The point being that they left out one of the world’s premier, if somewhat understated and underground, bands. I speak (write, actually) of none other than Not Garfunkel. The stories of how others got their names pale into insignificance when compared with the saga around our name. Did I mention that I was one of the founders of this iconic band and am currently the only member? Actually the others may still consider themselves to be members. It’s just that when I grab a guitar to play, I’m the only person in the room these days.

Back to the name. Son and girlfriend at the time came round to see the CB and me one night. The girlfriend was 24 and basically knew nothing about anything that had happened before her 18^th birthday and outside this state. So when we told them we had tickets to see Simon and Garfunkel she explained that not only had she never heard of them but that it was a stupid name for a band.

Later that evening I announced that Saturday afternoon some mates were coming over and we were going to set up our gear on the deck and play some music and drink some beer. I forget which was used as an excuse for the other. Son asked if we had a name for the band and before I could answer girlfriend blurted out “It’s not Garfunkel is it?” And a legend was born.

Another rollicking good time at the Hammo last night. It seems tribute bands are all the rage at the moment. It was Led Zeppellin a couple of months ago and we have Pearl Jam and Bon Jovi on the horizon. But last night it was the turn of Killer Queen, a tribute to Queen (obviously) dutifully attended by daughter, son-in-law, son-in-law’s mate and your humble correspondent.

Whereas the Led Zepp tribute sounded really good, not only did the Queen guys sound good, they even looked like Queen. So we had Freddy with the obligatory black short back and sides and the 70’s pornstar moustache, Brian May with the still black shaggy curls and John Deacon with the gravity defying front bouffant which looked like it was about to tumble down his face.

But make no mistake, these guys spent more time on music than appearance and nailed it. The night did, however get off to a rather confusing start. We were advised that the Freddy character was sick and the John Deacon character would do the singing. Now a lot of the Queen songs contain some pretty lengthy and unmistakable bass runs so I was a bit dubious as to how the poor bugger would be able to handle both roles. But as the intro to the first song was being played, out bounded Freddy like Trevor Gillmeister off his death bed in State of Origin III in 1995 to lead an unexpected triumph.

Of course there were those iconic moments to look out for and the crowd didn’t disappoint when it came to their (our) turn. Everyone remembers the head banging scene from Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne’s World. This was faithfully reproduced by all of the women with long shaggy hair. Sorry, but it doesn’t work with a sensible haircut. And the spontaneous hand clap (well it was spontaneous at Live Aid in 1985) for Radio Ga Ga was there if a little disjointed. But we only had a few hundred people, not 72,000.

And when Freddy told the ladies that the next song was especially for them and the unmistakable intro to Fat Bottomed Girls started I scanned the fat bottoms for signs of rebellion but thankfully that potential tipping point passed without a descent into chaos or at least indignant detachment.

My review of the Led Zepp tribute also featured a crowd review because when we’re talking about bands with their origins in the distant past, all manner of enthusiasts emerge from the shadows. This time the attendees seemed a tad more middle of the road with more women than men by my estimation. I expected the gay community to be out in force and maybe they were, I just didn’t notice. Anyway, one thing’s for certain; when the band starts up all of the tall men and short women push their way to the front. Lucky the child bride wasn’t there or she would have been somewhat miffed.

At the end I commented to my daughter that most of the songs we heard were recorded before she was born, some of them a decade or more before she was born. I don’t know how to adequately explain this but it’s like time has condensed or concertinaed in recent decades. Had I been her age and we were listening to music from a similar time in my past, we’d be listening to Glen Miller and when I was 30 that was never going to happen.

After a month in Europe, long flights home and a decent night’s sleep, the CB and I are back in the land of the living. Here are a few final thoughts, in no particular order, to wrap things up.

In Nuremberg we had a look at the place where Hitler conducted his rallies and made those infamous fist waving speeches to the then adoring masses. It’s been preserved so we never forget what went on there. As a music lover I like the idea that it’s now used for rock concerts. I don’t know if Iron Maiden have performed there but seeing Bruce Dickinson in his redcoat tunic waving the Union Jack while singing The Trooper and leaping about in the spot where Hitler once stood appeals to my irony gene.

We saw numerous castles on our travels. I love castles. Inverlochy Castle in Scotland was used for protection back in the 13th century. This involves fighting. I am photographing the defensive capabilities of the castle – the moat, the battlements, the walls, the ingenious ways they had in those days to trap or kill attackers. The CB is photographing bluebells growing out of the walls.

I’ve previously reported in Widows and Walking Sticks and other previous posts that we have been travelling with a bunch who are about a generation removed from us – up, not down. And there are a lot of single ladies amongst them. So while Cuz1 and I have been focussed on getting the next round in, Cuz2 and the CB have been more concerned with who’s doing what to whom. A bit crude I know but when we are talking about an average age of about 80 it takes on a whole new dimension. They had the male and female tour guides sorted on day one despite a left-field intervention from another of my cousins in Vienna which I won’t outline here but some of the other “connections” were ……… I don’t know why I’m talking about this and will stop immediately.

We’ve encountered many, many famous people on our travels this past month ranging from Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome and philosopher extraordinaire to Ferenc Puskas, Hungary’s and one of the world’s most famous footballers who was given a cathedral burial. We saw Oscar Schindler and Ralph Wallenberg, Gothe and Richard the Lionheart. There was Zsa Zsa Gabor and Conrad Hilton and various Habsburg kings and queens. We caught up with Mozart, Beethoven, the various Strausses, Haydn and Schubert in Vienna and Richard Wagner in Germany. It seemed like every town, big or small, had a claim to fame usually involving a figure from the history books. And that’s a big reason why the CB and I love visiting Europe.

Of course getting from Aus to Europe can be a pain and readers of one of the earlier Rheinube episodes will be aware that British Airways fell rather dramatically in my estimation when they put the CB and I in the middle two seats of the four in a 2-4-2 configuration. They redeemed themselves by giving us an aisle seat and a middle seat with no one in the other middle seat coming back the other way. It was looking dodgy there for a while BA.

Then when we showed our boarding passes at the Qantas lounge in Singapore the nice Qantas gentleman said they had different boarding passes for us and went to consult with a colleague. They were different but not in the way I hoped and at this point expected. Rather than an upgrade, they were switched from paper to cardboard and the seat numbers didn’t change. Hoo-bloody-ray. Maybe Alan Joyce knows I think he’s a social justice warrior wanker who should confine himself to running an airline when wearing his Qantas hat. I’m a Qantas shareholder and he doesn’t speak for me when he says Qantas believes this or Qantas believes that (insert favourite lefty cause).

And finally we were very fortunate to have travelled with such fun loving, and booze loving companions in Cuz1 and Cuz2. When intentions (having a good time mainly) are perfectly aligned you can’t go wrong. Any hint of disunity prior to departure however will be magnified especially in the close confines of a boat or a coach as someone I know recently discovered. Not us. We had a blast and intend doing it again and if you hang around long enough and I don’t get sick of doing this you’ll read about it here first.