I went to some Yoga training recently, and there was a skeleton. This fascinated me – especially as it only had one leg. Lots of jokes surfaced about type 2 Diabetes, pirates and pasty skinny people – of which there are quite a number in the Yoga world.

I break that mould.

The skeleton was frequently bought into play with a certain ruthless enthusiasm. Legs and arms were flailing around with little regard to the Skeleton’s feelings. I was mesmerized and couldn’t wait to get home and buy a Skeleton for my own studio.

Onto EBay, humming ‘Dem Bones’ – wondering if that was racist. You never know these days. I decided on a white skelton and it was $200. I was pleased. I was also pleased it was plastic – I wasn’t ready for the real thing.

Living in Perth, you have to wait months for your stuff to be shipped over from the East. Everything comes in huge trucks coupled with other huge trucks which are coupled to another truck – they’re called road trains. They’re driven by insane people who exist on a diet of roadhouse sex, late night talk-back radio and methamphetamine.

Eventually, a huge box arrived. I quickly hid it, and waited for my Wife to go out. I assembled the pieces together, remembering the best I could, my Anatomy days. Having got dem bones in the correct sequence, I inserted her (there was no penis) under the covers on my Wife’s side of the bed.

I retire early. My Wife retires late. In this way, we avoid any confrontations. Everyone knows the main cause of an unsuccessful marriage is communication. Too much communication.

It was about 1 am. I was fast asleep – when the of depths of serenity of the sleepy hollows of Cottesloe were disrupted be an ear-piercing scream. So worth it. Our neighbour rushed across, thinking I was Boris Johnson.

The next task was to get Victoria Beckham (I’d named her by now) to Bali. I pro’ed and con’ed buying an extra seat for her on the plane. She’d be reasonably unobtrusive sitting next to me. She only needed a one-way fare, no luggage and wouldn’t require a meal.

In the end, I decided to send her as sporting goods on AirAsia. There were passport issues. She would ride with the surf and boogie boards, getting frozen to the bones in those temperatures.

One thing I did learn, coming through Bali customs, was when they XRay something and it shows a skeleton, all sorts of loud shouting and running occurs. I also learnt it doesn’t help when you tell them it’s one of your errant children.

They cut the box open with great enthusiasm. How we all laughed when the contents were exposed. Grabbing the skull, they started to toss it around like a football. Then it got weird. One of the agents knew the Macbeth Soliloquy and started to act it out in Indonesian. This was impressive for a lowly border control person. A crowd formed. After he’d finished talking about Duncan, he said “On your way”. I slipped him a couple of hundred rupiah for the amusement and we all clapped.

The last piece of the puzzle was to get Victoria from the hotel to the studio. She was on wheels, so I pushed her up Jl Petitenget to further amusement.

Job done. She’s happy in the hot room and I can do lots of funny stuff.

Her jaw moves nicely, so I can say “What do you think of it so far”, to which I can move the jaw and ventriloquise “RUBBISH”. (Morecambe and Wise)

I’m here all week. Tip your waitress.

If voting made any difference they wouldn’t let us do it. —Mark Twain

The major problem with Democracy, is that no one really gets what they truly want. Democracy always gets in the way. The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter. I think Churchill said that.

They say the major reason Scotland never voted to leave the United Kingdom was because, if they left, the BBC would have pulled out of Scotland – and there would no longer be a Match-of-the-Day. There’s no interest, like self-interest.

Virtually the only thing that wins elections.

The good thing about Democracy is – well, I can’t think of anything just yet. Leave it with me.

I’m more in favour of a system, where politicians are selected randomly – like with Jury Duty. Anyone smart enough to get out of Jury Duty would be pushed directly into the Cabinet.

One thing to be thankful for, regardless of the election outcome, is that we don’t go out on to the streets and start killing each other. God bless Australia. Australians treat elections like a footy grand final. Sure, you’re disappointed if your team doesn’t win – but when you wake up the next morning, your life has changed very little. And there’s a small chance you’re not hungover.

The great thing in Australia (and a few other super-civilised countries) is that you can be side-by-side with your foe at a grand final and not end up hitting each other. And hence, the same with elections. Naturally there will be the odd fight at a football game. Usually caused by excessive bloating from the shitty mid-strength beer, rather than intoxication – but it’s infrequent.

Imagine if a Celtic v Rangers football game had mixed seating. The place would be an abattoir. In fact, that would be a great concept for a reality TV show.

Even more pleasing, VB (Victorian Bitter or Vomit Bomb, depending on your allegiances) was being offered free around the country after the election. It seems anything can be smoothed over, by dousing it in alcohol (ie, denial and suppression).

It appears we have to spend along time between drinks before a good leader comes along. Maybe they only happen every 50 years, or so. There were slim pickings, this time around in Australia. On the left, was a man so despised by the electorate (about 80%), it was always a mystery to me why he didn’t give it away. I would hate to be that hated. His rat-like demeanor, man-boobs and awful running style left him impotent. He was never going to win – any idiot could see that. Regardless of the polls. I suspect the polls were rigged to allow Australians to do what they love – support the underdog.

On the right, was a pentecostal who spoke in ‘tongues’ – the only time he makes sense, apparently. He is childish, sulky and uninspiring. To his credit, he had a lot of energy and ugly children – and hence, won.

Congrads. May your world be filled with franks credits and negative gear. If the climate wants to change, who am I to stop it.

I’m required to declare my interest.

I’m left-leaning. I love Barrie Cassidy, David Marr and Jacinda Ardern. I despise Gerrard Henderson. I find the ‘Project’ and Waleed Aly irritating – as I do with anyone who thinks they’re the moral centre. I belong to the Greens, mainly because I love being around wack-jobs, shocking dressers and terrible decision makers. It gives me self-esteem.

I’ve no idea why I’m left leaning. I think sometimes it’s in your DNA. My parents leaned either way – my Mother (who should have been left) was a right-winger. My Father (who should have been right) was a left-winger. My Father would demand my Mother voted his way. How we laughed.

Maybe it was my French Teacher at school – a Mrs Douglas, whose husband was Roger Douglas. He was New Zealand’s equivalent of Paul Keating – except without the personality. Mrs Douglas got me a job with her Father-in-law, who was a MP for Auckland Central. A lovely old man. I also worked for Michael Moore – the youngest MP ever in NZ. He got me out of the army when he abolished the draft on day one of his inauguration.

I’m also forbidden to vote in Aus – even after 30 years of paying taxes and representing Australian in World Championship Sports (Unicycling). I believe this makes me a perfect person to commentate.

And that is what I’ve done.

When I first met my Wife, the thing that impressed me the most, was her ability to operate a VHS. It was a while ago. I stood back in amazement, as she set up a time to record a program, without even looking at the controls, so we could go out to dinner.

Usually, both being Cancerians, we would be home well before the tv show started recording anyway.

The thing which most distressed me about her, was her lax attitude towards the rule of life. She would hang washing without using pegs. She had a bewildering disrespect of authority. She was unable to close a draw or turn off a light. She found it impossible to pay a bill. She had no concept of consistency. Her keys could be anywhere. Frequently in the ignition.

At that time, I thought she would be a terrible Mother. Like that woman who recently left her baby in the transit lounge in Singapore, while she boarded the plane and continued her flight alone.

Which reminded me of a story, when I was flying a while ago.

I was sitting in my aisle seat as the plane was boarding. The only seat in which to plant my cancerous bladder. I noticed an ungainly young woman staggering towards my seat. She was carrying about a 100 bags. She stopped at my row and motioned her head towards the window seat. “Let me help you”, I politely asked. I took all her bags, and chucked them into the overhead, while she stumbled towards her seat and sat down. I sat down. She turned to me and asked, “Where’s my baby?”

However, I was wrong about my Wife. When she gave birth, she completely transformed into a responsible human, and a terrific Mother.

Out of all the crappy ‘Hallmark’ type days we endure, I’ve always considered ‘Mother’s Day’ to be the least offensive. It’s a pretty special profession, given the grossness of the procedures Women undertake to produce life. At both ends of the 9 months cycle.

With this in mind, I went to Harvey Normal to buy her a robotic vacuum for a Mothers Day gift – even though she’s not my Mother (although she acts like it). To be honest, this was something I wanted – but I would pretend. A nice lady helped me purchase the expensive one, and we queued up together to ‘put it through’. In the process of my engaging smalltalk, she asked me to ‘grab a coffee’ with her. I was quite shocked – but also flattered. I regretfully declined and left, ego raised. Our children were of a similar age, but hers were obviously Fatherless. Or maybe not, I don’t know. Whilst flirting, it’s unwise to mention you’re married.

The day arrived. I had to teach an early Mother’s Day yoga class – which became a vehicle for some Mother’s Day jokes. Like, where to put the apostrophe when you have two Mothers and you wish them “Happy Mothers’ Day”. Some were better than that.

I returned home. She was still asleep. I returned to bed, remembering the two things women like on Mothers Day. Not engaging with their children or in sex. The two greatest gifts of all. Eventually we awoke and kids presented some last minute cards and pathetic gifts.

The Roomba was presented to a reserved tepid reception. We named it Bruce, after a builder we’d had in recently, who wandered around aimlessly all day. It performed well and was quickly full of the dog’s hair. It was particularly funny when it went out the front door and headed down Perth Street.

The day progressed like all other Sundays. We resisted Facebook – as we didn’t want to see what all the normal families were doing. I had to work in the afternoon. When I came home, it was decided we would wander down to the local burger joint (flash burgers) and have a Mothers Day dinner. We took the dog, who likes burgers a lot. It was very enjoyable – mainly because of it’s quickness. At the end, my Wife announced she would like another baby. This meant the day had been successful. I did my little explanation on how ships have sailed.

We headed home. I scooped up Bruce on the way. He had made it to Railway Street.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton