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Vince, a friend to all enslaved home makers.

Vince, a friend to all enslaved home makers.

The world appears to be a better place today. Not because The Whacko passed away or even because we are now one Charles d’Angel short but because the sun is shining and I am gainfully employed. I find myself typing away here in a gleeful, if not slightly hung over, mood after holding a minor celebration in honour of my new found job. It doesn’t take much to please me and any excuse will do on a Friday afternoon.

Today, my homestead is a hive of activity. John is making basil pesto, the basil was picked fresh this morning still with dewy sweetness clinging to the leaves, I have done the shop and dishes are being done. Mister Hotpants is patrolling the street looking for any open door to enter and somebody to charm. All in all …things are good and that doesn’t include the lamb chops under the grill waiting to be smothered in fresh pesto and devoured in seconds.

The picture above is one I snapped whilst going from A to B sometime back. Such is the vintage of the front that I couldn’t resist the photo op and am considering which women’s rights group I should post it to. Vince Martino must have been some man to be servicing all the betrothed women of the area and still hold down a grocer’s job. I reckon he must have been in cahoots with the milkman’s union and the backdoor men to coordinate the servicing of the local female clientele on a shift basis.

which is what exactly?

which is what exactly?

This picture was captured on the outside wall of a milkbar within a 3 mile radius of Vince’s and is equally dated. It probably dates to the same era of free and easy customer service when cocaine and heroin were on the shelves of every corner drugstore. Those were the days when drugstores really were drugstores.

I had the misfortune to work in Frankston yesterday. Melbournians will need no further elaboration on the subject but to those of you from foreign lands I shall try to sum up the place in a few choice words:

  • Frankston was home to Ava Gardner’s character in Stanley Kramer’s adaptation of Neville Shute’s post apocalyptic novel “On the beach”. She plays a wanton hussy pursued by Gregory Peck’s character in a film which is still poignant even by todays relaxed standards. In the film,Frankston is shot as a nice seaside retreat on Port Phillip Bay just a wee drive from Melbourne, nothing could be further from the truth.
  • Frankston is home to an outlet of the much acclaimed Savers thrift shops. It has two levels chock full of cheap and weird junk which the locals seem to have no appreciation of. This is evident in their hair styles and the general aura of sinister despair which enshrouds the seaside settlement.
  • Seán Patrick Michael Sherrard was born in Frankston on the 13th day of May, 1954. This is a momentous date in Irish Eurovision history and should be celebrated with obsequious fervor and tackiness in every sitting room in the Land of Erin. For those still in the dark, just like greater Frankston, would it surprise you to learn that Johnny Logan is in fact a Victorian. A dinky di Auzzie, a true blue Bruce. I was always under the impression (just like everybody else) that he was a pure bred Creton. Johnny won Eurovison on 3 separate occasions and has sold millions of records the world over.He is sometimes referred to as “Mister Eurovision” by fans of the contest and the media at large. “Hold Me Now” has been adopted by fans of Dublin’s Bohemian FC as their very own “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and is sung primarily at away games(to be verified).
  • Frankston is sometimes disparagingly and yet endearingly referred to as Funkytown. Freakytown would be closer to the truth. It should be bypassed at all cost.

    The Frankston Way

    The Frankston Way

Now that you are up to speed on the location you can imagine how my days travail went. I shall say no more but leave you with a few bon mots of my own;

Run Down Motel, mullets a plenty, bad coffee and a rotund English old dear in a shop who proclaimed ad nauseum that I sounded just like Bob Geldof.

‘Thank God I don’t look like him’ is all I’ll say on the matter.

And to bring today’s cloudy column to an end here’s a quick cryptic clue:


As Roy Walker used to say on catchphrase-“say what you see”.


A to M = Atom