Author: Matthew Green

The Botany Gentlemen’s Club

Posted on by Matthew Green

It was the 3rd of November, 2001 and in the beer-soaked front bar of the old Endeavour Hotel five of Botany’s brightest entrepreneurs had gathered to watch the title fight between American loudmouth Zabdiel Judah and the softly spoken Aussie, Kostya Tszyu. The pre-match interviews featured a brazen Judah inflating his own self-importance and declaring that he was about to make history. Tszyu on the other hand simply complimented his opponent’s ability and assured his fans that he had trained well. Zab entered the ring with Mike Tyson in his entourage and an American flag wrapped around his neck.

The Endeavour’s patrons booed.

Judah’s reach was a good two inches longer than Tszyu’s, which tested the Australian’s maneuverability. Kostya ducked and weaved throughout the entire first round and although a few of Zab’s blows found their mark the first three minutes ended fairly even.

Round 2 however was an entirely different story.

It was as if the Aussie boxer had heard the advice of the Botany Entrepreneurs for as soon as the bell went he was up in Judah’s face. The  southpaw New Yorker could not get back far enough to throw a decent punch and with only moments to go in the second stanza Kostya tapped him gently with a left and then planted his right fist flush in the middle of the Brooklyn bragger’s nose.

The Endeavour Hotel erupted as Judah hit the canvas.

History was made that day. Firstly by the diminutive Australia pugilist becoming the first man in thirty years to unify the belts in the Junior Welterweight division, and secondly by the amalgamation of these ‘Captains of Industry’ into the Botany Gentlemen’s Club.

The flamboyant behaviour of the BGC (as they quickly became known) epitomised the Noughties. Frequent revenue raising activities at Randwick Race Course resulted in an equitable distribution of wealth amongst hotel staff, pro-shops, bookmakers and restaurants of the little industrial suburb. Topless waitresses flocked to the Captain Cook Hotel every Thursday so that these local legends could help them with their college tuition fees, whilst meat-raffle merchants knew they could count on the Entrepreneur’s donations.

No social activity was ignored. School trivia nights and Blues Brothers Revivals all benefited from the BGC’s largess, as did the local cricket club with BGC members cajoling the flirty nurses at the Royal hotel to support the boys and girls.

And when the time came to cast the deciding vote that gave Russell Crowe ownership of the mighty South Sydney Rabbitohs Football Club, this League of Extraordinary Gentlemen were on hand to deliver the Bunnies their salvation.

Original Cast.

Formed over packet of Parker’s Pretzels and a schooner of Victoria Bitter, the BGC are indeed twenty-first century versions of Robin Hood and his band of merry men.

But who are the founding fathers of the Botany Gentlemen’s Club? Preferring anonymity to the praise they rightly deserve, these pillars of society can be identified as follows:

El Presidenté: Betting legend and dictator for life the BGC’s beloved President is a prince amongst men. Organiser of Christmas Parties, drinker of beer and member of the Guy Sebastian Fan Club, El Presidenté has never missed a planning meeting or a call to arms. Nor will you see him drunkenly abusing his minions because they refuse to watch that God-awful movie, Blues Brother 2000. El Presidenté is the only man who knows the babes from Bombshells by name and always makes eye contact when he engages them in conversation.

The Treasurer: Paul Keating’s got nothing on this guy. From his chipped little china teapot hidden away at the back of the pantry, the Treasurer managed the barren bankroll during the early days of the BGC, ensuring their financial stability and success for the years to come. As a share holder in Carlton United Breweries the Treasurer became the first man in history to build his children an above-ground swimming pool made entirely out of empty VB beer cans. With his innate ability to sleep standing up, the Treasurer has never shirked his responsibilities donating both his home and his brazier to the BGC’s bonfire requirements.

The Skipper: The BGC’s resident boating enthusiast (who’s afraid to go fishing outside the heads) has a fondness for Tyrells’ Old Winery Cabinet Merlot and James Boags Premium Lager. Although this man lacks a Gilligan he does have his very own Mary-Anne who, upon his command, will fetch him a beer or a sandwich and make sure the BGC members get home ok. The Skipper never thinks twice about paying a little extra at the silent auctions on school trivia nights and will wait until everyone is over the ales and onto the bourbon before he has his shout.

The Burglar: With two solo golf titles to his name and a handicap that would shame Tiger Woods, the Burglar is the youngest of the founding members. His skill at selling meat trays to vegetarians came in handy during those early years of fund raising and his penchant for winning seafood platters fed the BGC at times when their money was all but exhausted. A raconteur of literary repute, the Burglar partnered with the Treasurer to take out the 2010 BGC Pool Championship and, together with the Skipper and the Probie, he recently claimed the Inaugural Ambrose BGC Golf Trophy.

Blisters: So named because he would turn up after the work was done, Blisters went to the pub during one of the BGC’s early camping trips and was never seen again.

New Recruits.

With the groundwork done the founding fathers (sans one) refused to rest on their laurels and expansion quickly came to mind. The BGC’s notoriety had spread to soccer clubs, netball squads and touch football teams so a recruitment program was quickly put into place. Identification of possible candidates though was no mean feat. Selection criteria included the ability to drink beer from both aluminium cans and plastic bottles (if the need arose), an unfailing support of the South Sydney Rabbitohs and a like-minded, yet somewhat evil, sense of humour. Wannabes were culled thick and fast but the following outstanding applicants were successful.

The Signmaker: A humble, giant of a man with a passion for surfing and bonfires, the Signmaker brought brazier destruction and Bundaberg Rum to the BGC. With calloused hands harder than steel the new member could feed razor sharp palm fronds into the fire faster than the Flash. A misspent youth and wicked stories to match made the Signmaker a welcome addition to the BGC team.

Mr Email: Mr. Email is the only member who can simultaneously shut down the servers of several major international corporations with a simple electronic communication. His fondness for g-strings and the height impaired is legendary, as is his winning try for the BGC touch footy team. Unfortunately he talks a better pool game than he plays and his penchant for effeminate cocktails and wanting to ‘spoon the Probie’ frequently causes the Founding Fathers to look sideways at him.

The Probie: The newest addition to the BGC likes to brew his own beer and listen to doof doof music. He also has a man crush on ex Rugby League player Brett Kimmorley and only supports the Rabbitohs as his second side. In spite of his rugged good looks and rakish charm the question still remains how he got past the review committee.

With new talent on board the BGC quickly began to spread their wealth up and down the NSW coast. Una Voce, Gwandalan and Culburra were identified as towns in need of patronage and the BGC obliged. Cash was flashed at jukeboxes, bars, coffee shops and RSL clubs by loyal BGCers as their goodwill rampaged north and south. Discarded building materials and unwanted fence posts were properly disposed of in thirty foot infernos that provided warmth to all the local inhabitants whilst beer kegs were emptied and refreshed in all the regional bowling clubs.

So what’s next for this philanthropic band of brothers?

Following on from a successful stint as backing vocalists for Richard Clapton and The Neil Diamond Show there was a very real possibility that this charismatic cadre would go head-to-head with the rock star wannabes on Australian Idol. However, the BGC have always made it their mission to provide support for those that need it most and with the current condition of the Wallabies Rugby Union side and the NSW State of Origin team you can bet that interstate and indeed international expansion is certainly on the cards.

We call rest assured though that whatever happens it will be for the benefit of the lucky community that the BGC next sets their sights upon.

God bless you boys!

iDad 1.1 – No.1 Finds His Voice

Posted on by Matthew Green

One of my fondest memories of life with our first born was watching the interaction between No.1 and my wife. Dirty nappies, bath time, bottle cleaning, teat boiling and projectile vomiting – Blue Eyes took it all in her stride and still found time to blow raspberries on his belly, powder his backside, cuddle with him and talk to him in a language I’m sure only they understood. iDad on the other hand seemed to spend the first twelve months with my jaw agape in astonished horror, waiting for No.1’s head to start spinning. I actually suggested at one stage that we change his name to Damien but Blue Eyes knocked that idea on the head and then did the same to me.

Finally, after months of mum, mum, mum and dad, dad, dad, No.1 uttered his first word – ‘Maccas.’

Thinking back on it now I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised. As the sole grandchild on both sides of the family No.1 was spoiled rotten. Red cordial, green jelly, chocolate, and lollies with more sugar than a Krispy Kreme doughnut, conflicted with the bland soy formula that Blue Eyes and I had tried desperately to get our little boy to eat. As a result we spent many a Sunday night watching No.1 bounce of the walls before the sucrose withdrawal finally caused him to crash into unconsciousness. It was a sight akin to the Tasmanian Devil tearing his way through the scrub in a frantic search for Bugs Bunny, the only difference being that our devil was toothless. Through the week we would ween him back off the white powder and bring his eczema under control, all in preparation for the next round of grandmotherly love.

The real clue was the finding of soggy, half-sucked french fries in his nappy from time to time. The culprit though was never identified.

Speaking in Tongues.

‘Maccas’ opened the flood gate so to speak and more words quickly followed. Having both a grandmother and a great-grandmother on one side of the family caused but a moments pause for No.1 and so ‘Nanny’ and ‘More Nanny’ came into being. The grandfathers though were a little more difficult. My wife’s family is partly of Lebanese descent and the Arabic word for Grandfather is Jidi (pronounced zhiddee). Unfortunately the Australian vernacular often mispronounced the ‘zh’ as an ‘sh’ and so Jidi refused to be known as Shit-tee. It was a fair request, upheld by most members of the family, and because the other adults referred to Jidi as ‘K’ No.1 began doing the same.

My father on the other has was a little more stubborn. He refused to accept the fact that he was now a grand parent so Grandpa, Pop, Gramps etc were all off limit. So my son did the only thing he could do and that was to invent his own name. I’m still not sure to this day whether ‘Bynel’ was actually pleased with being called ‘Bynel’ but I do know for a fact that grandma was none to pleased with being dubbed ‘Mynel’. She seized every opportunity available to get No.1 to change her nickname but for many months Blue Eyes and I would get daily requests to visit ‘Bynel’ and ‘Mynel’.

My sisters fared better than my parents and to this day they are still known as ‘Dee’ and ‘Pee-Dee’ whilst my brother-in-law, who was a huge bear of a man, simply became ‘Bop’. On my wife’s side of the family we got ‘Dabe’, ‘Doughie’, ‘Muck’, ‘Wibby’ and ‘Dinta’ to add to the mix.

Asthma.

A child with allergies is a terrifying experience and iDad quickly worked out the fastest route to Prince of Wales Children’s Emergency from every part of town. Watching their little faces puff up with anaphylaxis and not knowing the cause is the stuff of nightmares. Blue Eyes and I spent two Christmas Eve’s in the Asthma Ward at POW with a number of other little kiddies and their bewildered, frightened parents.

There was one incident in particular that haunts me to this very day. No.1’s face and neck was so swollen with the allergic reaction that he was almost double in size. I had dropped him off at Emergency with his mother and dumped the car illegally in the handicapped zone. I’m not sure what the thought process was that made us to drive to hospital instead of calling an ambulance, only that blind panic makes you do the craziest things. As I crashed through the automatic doors my wife tore a photograph out of her purse and thrust it into the face of the apathetic orderly, screaming at the top of her lungs,

“This is what my boy is supposed to look like.”

The dawning apprehension that we had not arrived with a miniature sumo wrestler hit the orderly, the triage nurse and the resident doctor simultaneously and No.1 was quickly snatched from our grasp, injected with adrenalin and placed on a ventilator. We sat together for hours that night in the semi darkness holding hands. Neither one spoke, words weren’t necessary. We had come as close as possible to losing our child and the tears, sniffles and sighs of relief were the only noises outside the click and puff of the oxygen mask.

Poop

We knew right from the start that No.1 would have allergies. Blue Eyes suffered from eczema as a child and iDad was an asthmatic from way back. This is why we started the little guy on soy formula as soon as he started biting the breast that fed him. The side effects of soy leave a heck of a lot to be desired I can tell you. Finding an old rancid baby bottle that had fallen under the seat in your car is a smell I will never forget. Neither is the odor of said formula when it has been spilled on the floor and cooked in the summer sun. But worst of all are the soy scented nappies; and No.1 was the master of poop.

iDad learned from early on to always carry a collection of shopping bags in the car. If you cut some holes in the bottom for his legs and pull the handles up over his shoulders, you effectively get an inexpensive pair of plastic overalls. There have been many occasions when we have had to employ the ‘Franklins Tactic’ and beat a hasty retreat. No.1 has befouled high chairs in restaurants from the Sutherland Shire to the Gold Coast, leaving his indelible impression on waiting staff and costing iDad a fortune in extra tips.

The worst episode however was the day we took No.1 to visit his great grandfather in hospital. As we tootled along the Grand Parade at Brighton Le Sands the familiar baby chatter in the back was replaced by a constant whining ‘er, er, er’ noise. Blue Eyes was driving so iDad looked over the back to see what was the matter. The soy explosion had not only exited the cuffs of his shorts but it was pouring out of his shirt sleeves and over his collar. It was in his hair, on his hands, all over the car seat, the window, the door and worst of all it was in his mouth.

“Honey, we need to pull over.”
“Why darling?”
“Ummm. Its best if you see for yourself.”

With the Camry idling in Bay street Blue Eyes looked over her shoulder. No.1 smiled with a mouthful of poo, held out his hands and said,

“Ucky mum.”

Whether that translated to yucky or lucky I have no idea. All I know is that a white t-shirt is not the best article of clothing to be wearing when you clean up that volume of excrement and by the time we got to St Vincent’s No.1 was the only one not coated in poop.

Coming soon: iDad 2.0 – God Sakes.

iDad © Matthew Green 2010

iDad

Posted on by Matthew Green

Having a child is not a right. Nor is it an obligation. Its a blessing. An often hungry, frequently snotty, very smelly and incredibly expensive blessing, but a gift from God nonetheless. This has been my philosophy for the last eighteen years as I have struggled to raise our five little angels and its probably the only thing that has kept them alive at times.

I remember my introduction to parenthood as if it were yesterday. My wife and I were only children ourselves at the time, scratching out a living from our love nest in Leichhardt. She looked at me one evening, her beautiful blue eyes brimming with love and desire, and sensuously suggested that we should have a baby. I stared back into those shimmering azure pools and offered to buy her a dog.

Tip 1: Do not attempt humour at the height of romantic congress. There are too many exposed body parts within striking distance.

Eventually the change in blood flow direction awoke the ‘little brain’ and  No.1 son was on the way.

Our Pregnancy

My wife looked absolutely beautiful each and every time she was pregnant. Although the rosy glow in her cheeks can be attributed to the burst capillaries from months of early morning regurgitation; and the dark, brooding eyes had more to do with lack of sleep than expertly applied mascara, she honestly looked fantastic.

I always like to refer to those glorious trimesters as ‘our pregnancy’. Yes this has resulted in some eyebrow raising, choice language and the odd lashing out by many female friends and family members, but Blue Eyes and I have a very special bond that helped me to partake in the joy of carrying a child. As a man it was physically impossible for me to bear the burden or gestation and labour, only Arnold Schwarzenegger has had that privilege (what were you thinking Emma Thompson?). In spite of our physical differences though I was determined to be a part of this wonderful experience. As our child grew and her stomach expanded I gorged myself on beer and fast food in order to achieve the same result. This had the double effect of allowing me to participate in the rituals of morning sickness, although mine was met with less respect, and helped me to share in the constipation and flatulence.

Tip 2: Stick to your guns boys. This is ‘your’ pregnancy just as much as it was ‘your’ wedding 😉

One thing I couldn’t replicate though was the ‘nesting’ phase. By the time the third trimester was well underway Blue Eyes was busy painting rooms, laying shag pile, building cribs and shopping for baby clothes. Target and Ikea became our second home and her energy levels were boundless. The only problem was that iDad was so full of fried chicken by this stage that the best I could do was offer a lot of advice. Unfortunately with my choice in colour, clothing and carpet not being ‘right for the baby’, iDad was eventually shuffled off to watch the cricket and as Alan Border smashed another ‘six’ over mid-wicket I couldn’t help but feel a little left out.

Then I heard the most frightening phrase in the English language,

‘Honey, my waters broke.’

Birth

Watching your wife give birth is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Early in the process Blue Eyes lay on her side moaning through the pethidine haze whilst iDad was busy running around the bed in a vain attempt to comfort her.

“Where are you honey?” [plaintive question]

“I’m behind you, rubbing your back.”

“But I can’t see you.” [muffled growl]

Lap number 32.

“Would you like some ice sweetheart?” [stupid question]

“Mum can give me ice. I need you to rub my back.” [louder growl]

Lap number 33

I vowed to bring a mirror next time.

With contractions less than a minute apart and painted fingernails permanently embedded in my forearm I told her to breathe – big mistake. Fortunately the baby’s head crowned before the blow landed and ten minutes later our nine-pounder let everyone in Darlinghurst know he had arrived. iDad was both in shock and awe at what I had just witnessed.

As any man who has ever been there will attest watching the love of your life go through such agony, which you are powerless to prevent, is soul wracking. For all our years of evolution men are still very primitive mammals. We hunt, we gather, we propagate our species and we protect our clan; and when these four functions are out of our control we are lost.

iDad was no exception. My eyes were like saucers when Ridley Scott’s Alien burst forth from the chest of John Hurt and screamed at the stunned shipmates. But as I waited for the little monster to run off into the bowels of the Nostromo and slowly begin its rampage against the survivors, a strange thing happened. Our protesting progeny was wrapped up and presented to his mother as a macabre, mucus covered pass-the-parcel and all at once the noises stopped. There was no moaning, no screaming, no ‘get out of the way you stupid man’, even the machine that goes ‘ping’ ceased ponging and all that was left was the cooing of a proud new mum to her little bundle of joy.

Two new grandmothers stood alongside iDad as we all shed a tear together. Then Blue Eyes uttered the second most frightening phrase in the English language,

“I could do that again.”

Damn oxytocin.

Wetting the Baby’s Head.

Within a few short days of becoming a father I submitted my illustrious entry to the ‘Husband of the Year’ competition. A couple of beers with the boys turned into a soppy, yet immensely inebriated 2am telephone call to the delivery ward at St Margaret’s Hospital. The sisters were not happy to hear from me and my wife…. well I’m sure you can imagine her response.

Tip 3: A drunken ‘I love you’ should never be used in any circumstance whatsoever.

The next day I showed up at the hospital incredibly hungover. We missed her grandmother’s funeral and the new mum got to drive hubby and bub home. iDad was off to a flying start.

You’re on Your Own

In one of my more lucid moments during our pregnancy I had agreed to move in with my in-laws to get some assistance with the rearing of No. 1 son. Prenatal classes only pass on so much knowledge and with iDad expecting ‘Parent Craft’ to teach you how to build bedroom furniture, as opposed to folding techniques for cloth nappies, well we needed a heck of a lot of help.

My wife’s grandmother was an amazing woman. She emigrated from Lebanon at the age of fifteen, walked with her husband and growing family from Sydney to Charleville, and proceeded to raise eleven children in the dry Queensland outback. Its an incredible tale of courage, love and sacrifice that deserves its own story. Suffice to say that her funeral in Toowoomba was attended by hundreds of family and friends including our entire support base.

Blue Eyes and I stood all alone in the renovated garage cuddling our hungry bundle with an astonished look of bewilderment on our faces.

“What do we do now?” I said.

“Why are you asking me?” Was the reply.

“Because you’re a mother aren’t you?”

Tip 4: Women do not suffer fools at the best of times. Exhausted women with sore breasts and a pile of dirty nappies to clean are prone to violence.

My wife blinked rapidly as the stupidity of my statement hit home. I close mine and waited for the punch. To her credit she simply pushed past me muttering to herself.

“Great! Now I have two children.”

As the little lump began squawking for his dinner I stood all alone in the nursery. The crib, the mobile hanging from the ceiling and the change table in the corner all took turns in mocking me until finally a very deep voice inside my head said,

“You’re a dad now. Get used to it.”

It was a phrase that would become my own personal slogan over the years.

I headed upstairs to prepare a cup of tea for Blue Eyes as No.1 began his four hourly gorging process. A quick kiss on the forehead with a sheepish ‘I love you’ was reciprocated with a look that told me I had been forgiven.

We fed, burped, bathed and put our little one to bed before collapsing onto the couch. A lasagna had been left in the fridge for us and as we munched happily on the reheated pasta, pausing occasionally to sip some red wine, I reflected on the fact that day one, which had started with a headache, had finished with a life changing revelation.

This truly was the first day of the rest of our lives.

Coming soon iDad 1.1 – No.1 Finds His Voice

iDad © Matthew Green 2010

Ambrosia

Posted on by Matthew Green

I’d like to preface this post with a brief apology. This is not the most brilliant piece of literature I have ever penned to paper (or pawed onto the iPad as circumstances would have it), but I would be remiss if I didn’t recognize the good people at the Park Café on Chalmers Street.

You see, I have been sitting in the stands at Redfern Oval since 8ish this morning with my red Rabbitoh hoodie pulled over my head and silently regretting the decision to go for that short haircut last week. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine belie the fact that the temperature is struggling to get above eleven degrees and my shivering fingers are making it increasingly more difficult to type.

As the under sixes swarmed around the paddock in font of me, and the buffoon two rows down decided to argue with the ground staff over the placement of the rubbish bin, my grumbling gut delivered the message,

“I’m hungry! Time for breakfast.”

Now I have become something of a connoisseur of footy food, having spent the last four months sampling the finest fare from fields all over Sydney’s southeast. The BBQ put on by the Botany Rams at Booralee is absolutely brilliant, as is the pie and chips from Pioneers Park. For sheer indulgence though you cannot go past the Rover’s Special at Erskineville Oval. This elongated, yeasty extravaganza is crammed with crispy bacon, plump sausage, al dente onions and an egg that oozes a river of rich orange yoke down your forearm to dribble off your elbow. It is absolute drool fuel, unequalled anywhere outside of a five star resort.

So it was with mixed expectations that I decided to wander over to the Park Café on Chalmers Street to peruse the breakfast menu. Any apprehensions I had to the available victuals were quickly put to rest as I rounded the corner. The snap, crackle and pop of the pork fat and the sizzling of butter soaked albumen was second only to the wafting aroma of roasted Arabica beans. My esophagus concurred with my duodenum with its declaration of,

“Oh yeah baby!”

The morning munchies arrived in the form of a crusty focaccia filled with smokey bacon, swimming in barbecue sauce and topped off by a fat, fluffy egg. The golden goo exploded in my mouth eliciting rapturous applause from titillated taste buds before my stunned tongue was sent to ambrosial nirvana. Pan fried pig flesh peppered my senses with a salvo of savory scrumptiousness, delicately complimented by the herb encrusted Italian masterpiece.

Unfortunately it was over all to soon so, with my arteries suitably clogged, I headed back to the frosty stadium with a large cappuccino to warm my soul. As I sipped the second best brew in Sydney (number one being the All Press coffee shop in Epsom Road, Rosebery) I was grateful that my cholesterol check was not for another few weeks. Having said that I am resolved to return to the Park Café on Chalmers Street. Their tummy tempters would satisfy any hungry man and for the girls there is the chance you’ll catch a glimpse of League hunks such as Sam Burgess and Roy Asotasi 😉

Bon appetit.

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National Lamington Day

Posted on by Matthew Green

Ladies and gentlemen as I’m sure you are all aware today, the 21st of July, is National Lamington Day. It is a day to celebrate this iconic Australian delicacy so glorious in its flavour, especially with its layer of strawberry jam in the centre and an optional dollop of whipped cream on top, that it rivals the French truffle as the number one desert choice for backpackers and the dollar conscious alike. So popular is our national cake that thousands of schools from Wilsons Promontory Presbyterian Ladies College in Victoria to Steep Point Primary in Western Australia and the Cape York Catholic Grammar have used it to raise funds for the local community. Without the lamington our ‘Stop, Revive, Survive’ campaign would have become ‘Stop, have a Kit Kat and for Heaven’s sake don’t use the portaloo’.

But where did the Lamington come from?

The roots of this spongy delight dates back to Scotland where William Baillie, the Laird of Lamington, waged war on Clan Olgilvy at the Battle of Brechin in 1452. Fresh food would not last long out on the windy moors so the enterprising Scots invented a rock hard loaf of bread that was dipped in tar and coated in sand for extra roughage. Unfortunately they were soundly beaten by the Earl of Angus, who had excellent supply routes to the tastiest beef this side of Wagyu Farms, and the leftover lamingtons were used to shore up the broken walls of his castle.

It wasn’t until the 1700’s that the humble lamington was to make another brief appearance on the menu. The owners of Sporran Street Bakery, descendants of William Baille, inherited the old family recipe and began tinkering with the ingredients. Eventually a marvelous concoction of sponge, haggis and chocolate was launched upon an unsuspecting United Kingdom. The result was the Jacobite Uprisings, which culminated in the Battle of Culloden in 1745.

While the Duke of Cumberland was busy sweeping all before him the Earl of Airlie was rumoured to have stolen the lamington formula and escaped to France. Several years later he boarded the Lady Penrhyn and came to Australia, where he found a secluded beach in what would later be know as Queensland, named it after himself, and became a recluse. The humble lamington was once more lost to the world.

Then, in 1880, a strange thing happened. Students from the Mosman MasterChef College were on a field trip to Airlie Beach when one of them stumbled upon the bleached bones of long dead Frenchman still wearing his tattered Lacoste polo with a faded crocodile on the breast pocket. Lodged between the gritted teeth of a crazed and sun-scorched skull was a leather parchment covered in a Gaulish scrawl. The precious paper was prised from the jawbone and brought back to the Home Economics department; and the Iced Vo Vo was born.

So successful was the latest interpretation of the ancient recipe that Arnotts acquired the rights to mass produce the biscuit and provide it to an international audience, which is where it was discovered by Charles Wallace Alexander Napier Cochrane-Baillie (descendant of William Baillie), also know as Lord Lamington the Governor of Queensland.

The combination of desiccated coconut and pink fondant stirred up sub-primal salivations for the Lord and his Lady. Ancient emotions had awoken causing intense and confusing feelings, which frightened the couple. In an attempt to beat the addiction they retreated with their entourage to Harlaxton House in Toowoomba. There they managed to resist the cravings for several weeks but eventually the over powering desire for dried slivers of Cocos nucifera became so overwhelming that the Governor and his wife began hallucinating.

Fortunately, before the couple were able to move to Kingaroy and establish a peanut farm, the house cook came to his senses and decided to try his hand at creating his own version of the tantalizing biscuit. The only ingredients he had available was day-old sponge cake, strawberry jam, cooking chocolate and a single large coconut, so with one eye closed and his fingers crossed, he began to put it all together. The guests were enthralled by the new treat, dubbed dandruff balls by the psoriasis-suffering chef, and began consuming them in vast quantities. Finally sanity prevailed and Lord Lamington decided to share his title with the delicious cake.

The rest is history.

Since its inception in Australia that magical day in 1886 our lamington has gone on to inspire greatness within our people. In 1915 the Labour Government declared 20,590 hectares of old growth rain forest to be the Lamington National Park after our beloved desert. Later that same year the 1,700m mountain in the Oro Province of New Guinea was also named for the squishy cake. Unfortunately the same mountain erupted in 1951 killing over 3,000 people but that’s another story.

Nowadays the lamington can be found in tuck shops, supermarkets and at ex-pat barbeques all over the world. So lets raise a mug of Bushells to the sky and shout hip hip hooray for National Lamington Day.

Perhaps next year we will make it a public holiday.

Serious Note: The Variety Club, in partnership with Top Taste, has used National Lamington Day in the past as a means to raise funds for The Children’s Charity. From what I understand they have been very successful in their endeavours.


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