A bit crook

Hello everyone and a Happy New Year to you all. Here's hoping 2010 brings you prosperity and good fortune... and that you avoid the mishaps that we have encountered over the New Year period.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. Once upon a time, in a land far far away, where the sun always shines, and the sea is made of liquid emeralds, and Donner kebabs graze the rich green pastures, and CDs (made by 1990's pop/indie bands) grow on trees, there lived a handsome, well hung (I will get to this part of the story later), mature (okay balding... just leave it will you) man named Davo (also to be explained later - yes, I'm afraid it's going to be a long one... you might want to go and grab a coffee, or something stronger).
WARNING: The following part of this story involves scenes of extreme gore and are only suitable for a mature audience.
Twas the last day of the year, and the clock had only recently passed the hour of six in the evening, meaning that absolutely no alcohol had been consumed at the time of the incident (not even a small sherry). So, the story is that I had a fight with a camp bed (it wasn't even a macho bed... camp bed, 'camp' - oh forget it) and the camp bed won. Using the element of surprise, the bed cunningly pretended that it's spring loaded leg was in place and then just when my guard was down hurled it at my head - opening up a sizable wound just above my right eyebrow. As most of you know, Wendy doesn't do blood - indeed, the mere fact that I told her not to come into the laundry room (where the incident took place), but instead should get her dad to come and help, caused her to feel faint and have to sit with her head between her knees).
Needless to say, 'Dusty' took things in hand and had me and the laundry room (it previously resembled the shower scene in psycho) cleaned up in no-time.
Part Two:
Twas the first day of the year, and the clock had only recently passed the hour of six in the evening, meaning that absolutely no alcohol... etc.
George and his friends (the hoody gang) were out on their scooters scouring the neighbourhood for 'go-cart' wheels when George failed to properly negotiate a tight bend, at speed and came a cropper. The outcome was, extensive grazing and bruising (and that was just to his ego). Luckily I was on the phone to my mother at the time (she got a running commentary of the incident), and as you all know by now... Wendy doesn't do blood so once again 'Dusty' stepped in to administer the first aid.
Today, the second day of the New Year, we are all confined to our rooms, and at six o'clock we are all going to drink plenty of alcohol.
As you may well know (no, this isn't the Wendy/blood thing) all Australians have to have a nickname. The creation of a nickname tends to be quite an easy process, in fact it's very easy for women - they are all called Sheilah. With blokes, it tends to be truncating the surname and sticking an 'o' on the end. In my case it's Davo - which, with amazing hindsight, is what my former work colleagues used to call me at the mighty Press Association (the World's leading news agency). They did have other nicknames for me as well but they really aren't worth repeating. Of course, my nickname may well change now that I have a Harry Potter scar on my forehead. I'm not sure how boys get theirs but George's is 'little tuna'. As Wendy's mum and dad are over here for a month and a half it was compulsory for us to create a nickname for John. Tuffo didn't really work, so I employed the other method for creating a nickname - waited until after 6pm then drank several sherrys, ciders, lagers and another sherry and came up with 'Dusty'. Now all I have to do is have a few more beers and then tell John what his new name is.
I mentioned last time (or maybe the time before last) that I was applying for membership to the art club. Well, not only did they let me in, they also asked me to contribute a painting to an exhibition they are staging at the Mindarie Marina Hotel. If I'm honest I think it had more to do with the fact that they were short of exhibits than that they thought my painting was any good. So I am now hanging in the foyer of the aforementioned hotel... and indeed I am very well hung (although when we all went to inspect it yesterday I was hanging slightly to the left). My painting is an old one (but let's face it no one over here has seen it before) and it's a bit surreal... but it has got boats in it - I thought it might go down well with the marina crowd. The themes explored are: the existence of a supreme being, love - unrequited and otherwise, the power of nature, and whether there is any place for the referral system in Test cricket. The exhibition is on for a month, so if you are planning on attending you may need to book in advance to avoid disappointment.
I am now off out to drink copious amounts of alcohol. Quick, call me an ambulance (Davo you're an ambulance).
Nee nah, Nee nah, Nee nah.
Please note: no camp beds were injured during the making of this blog.