Well, I knocked around Binangon for a good few years. Tried me 'and at just about everythin' at one time or another. Even went on the land for a while out round old Yoosterbee. (Know it, do yer? It ain’t there no more).
First I had a walkin' stick farm. But the summer was a cold one that year and it wasn't hot enough to bend the handles over. Then the grasshoppers came. It took me two days to dig myself out. Lucky I was workin' on the roof at the time else it would have taken me a week. Anyway, I thought I'd better come up with somethin' new. So I started a cat farm. What do you think of me prospectus...?
I am looking for interested parties to invest in a large 'Cat Farm'.
It is my intention to start small, with approximately one million cats. Each cat averages twelve kittens a year, and skins can be sold for 20 pence for black ones and up to 40 pence for white ones. This will give approximately 12 million cat skins a year to sell at an average price of around 30 cents, making projected revenues of 3, 600, 000 pounds per year.
A qualified cat man can skin up to 1,000 cats per day at a wage of 73.00 pounds per day. It will take only 40 men to operate the ranch, so the nett profit would be over 9,400.00 pounds per day.
The cats would be fed on rats. Rats multiply four times as fast as cats. I then envisage starting a rat ranch adjacent to the cat farm. If we start with one million rats, we would have four rats per cat each day. The rats will be fed on the carcasses of the cats that we skin. This will give each rat a quarter of a cat.
This business is a very clean operation - self-supporting and automatic throughout. The cats will eat the rats, and the rats will eat the cats, and we will get the skins.
Eventually, it is my intention to secure permits to import snakes from South America to cross with the cats, so they they will skin themselves twice a year. This will save the labour costs of skinning, as well as giving two skins for each cat.
Offers to participate in this investment opportunity of a lifetime have only been made to a limited number of individuals - so send your cheque now!!
An’ they did! The cat farm went well for a while, but it all started to go wrong soon after they changed to dollars. Overnight me overdraft doubled.
I was just gettin' used to that when they brought in kilograms and the catskin cheque dropped by half. Then they began playin' 'round with the bloody weather and brought in Celsius and millimetres. We haven't had a decent fall of rain since. Then they changed to hectares and the size of the farm was halved.
When daylight saving come in I reckoned I was workin' eight days a week, so I decided to sell out. I put the place in the agent's hands and then they changed over to kilometres - now the place is too flamin' far out of town to sell.
As if that wasn't bad enough, then the taxman caught up with me. Why hadn't I filed a tax return for - ever? How much had I earned? When? How? On and on it went. Bugger this for a game of toy soldiers, I thought. So I give the cat-farmin' business away and ‘ad a go at the tourism. Used to take busloads of Japanese tourists round the bush, show 'em the sights, you know.
One day we're harin' through the scrub with a load of ‘em when the bus knocks down this old man ‘roo. Big bastard he was, too. We all got out to have a look at the corpse and take photos - of course. Pretty soon one of the Japs gets an idea and jabbers at me to take ‘is flashy jacket and put it on the roo, so's he can take a photo.
So we stand the ‘roo up and put this bloke's jacket on ‘im (it fitted, too). Just as the Jap's about to snap his camera, the ‘roo comes back to life - 'e was only stunned - and hops off into the bush, still wearin' the jacket. What a sight! The real laugh was that the Jap's wallet, money and credit cards we're all in the jacket. He wasn't too pleased, either, I can tell you.
Anyway, the tourist business ain't what it used t' be. Neither's much else in the place, as far as I can see. I been doin' a bit of 'rithmetic lately - see if yer can follow me in this...
If the population of the country is about 22 million and there's about 4 million retired, that leaves 18 million to do the work.
There's about 11 million under 18, leavin' 7 million to do the work.
There's 3 million employed by governments. They won't work. That leaves 4 million.
Another couple of million in banks and insurance companies. That leaves 2 million.
Half a million in asylums and hospitals. That leaves 1.5 million.
There's 1.5 million university students and others who won't work. That leaves 1 million.
There's 999, 998 people in prison, leaving a balance of just 2 people to do all the work.
That's you and me. And you'd better pull your socks up, mate, 'cause I'm sick of runnin' all of bloody Binangon on me own.
As you can see, I’m so busy that I've decided to give up the land, for a while at least. It's too flamin' hard to get a livin' these days. Just in case, I've made me will. I've left me soul to me banker - he's got the mortgage on it anyway. I've left me carbon tax calculator to the Energy Authority. Maybe they'll be able to make sense of it. And I'll 'ave a couple of last requests.
The first one is to the weatherman: I want rain, hail and sleet for the funeral. No sense in finally givin' me good weather just because I'm dead.
And last, but not least, don't bother to bury me - the hole I'm in now is big enough. Just cremate me and send me ashes to the Taxation Office with this note: 'Here you are, you bastards, now you've got the lot'.
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