Skip to main content

No society can surely be flourishing and happy, of which the far greater part of the members are poor and miserable.


The tigers of Richmond. ZooDoo, April 2010.

There are a couple of Bengal Tigers to be found at ZooDoo in Richmond. Fortunately, these are fine and healthy specimens, more than capable of tearing your head off and using it as a play toy. Unlike some other Richmond Tigers that come to mind...

On that, is this the worst Richmond side ever? I mean, the great teams of 1987-89 were atrocious, but were they THIS bad? Does the absence of Richo mean that the dross running out (and coaching) in 2004 would trounce today's toothless Tigers? Would the likes of Brian Leys, Mick "Don't kick it!" Laffey, Chris "Remember him" Pym, Richard "The Pres" Nixon, Des "Socks down" Ryan, and Mark "Useless" Eustice get a run in the current line up?

Labels

Labels:

Comments

Roddy said…
If I had one, how long do you think it would be before he tired of being treated as a pussy and ripped my head off?
26 April 2010 at 12:30
Linda Bob Grifins Korbetis Hall said…
http://itistimetothinkformyself.blogspot.com/2010/04/awards-are-given-to-jingle-by-kathy.html

visit me for awards,
Happy Tuesday!
28 April 2010 at 10:14
Tony said…
My wife & I went to Zoodoo last year. Really enjoyed the visit. Great Tiger photos, they were all asleep when we went there & couldn't get any decent photos of them up & about
29 April 2010 at 13:48
Kris McCracken said…
Insert Imran Kahn joke here. Thanks all, I like these photos.
30 April 2010 at 19:12
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...
62 comments
Read more

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...
50 comments
Read more

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...
5 comments
Read more