Better than a slap in the face with a wet fish

Do you ever stop and wonder how particular sayings became about?

For a long time, during my informative years, I was often referred to having an appearance like a famous ship.

The Wreck of the Hesperus was actually a poem about a boat in a hurricane, first published in 1842. It quite obviously, got wrecked. It was in the 1950’s that the term “Wreck of the Hesperus” became a common colloquialism for looking shabby. I still hear it subliminally from time to time, and run my fingers through my hair while inspecting my face for evidence of food.

Have you ever heard of the expression “A wigwam for a goose’s bridle”? Well, until about twelve minutes ago I thought it must have been some intricate macrame tassel that a member of the poultry family might wear as an adornment. Maybe at Christmas? Or any other special occasion one might think about our feathered friends?

In fact, what other festivals or celebrations celebrate typically useful birds? Apart from the stork dropping babies down chimneys, of course… I mean, chickens lay eggs, but those bloody Rabbits get all the glory for them come Easter. Why. GODDAM IT WHY?


Right. A “wigwam for a goose’s bridal” is just a more polite way of telling someone to fucking go and mind their own business. Allow to to put that in context.

Susan was sitting at the cafe (Pre-covid time naturally) waiting for Patricia to meet her for a coffee. As she sat there in the sun, she was enjoying her book entitled “Erotic tales from an Amway Conference – Lose your knickers now! Ask me how!” and just when the main villain Double Diamond Debbie had new comer Sapphire Steve cornered in the condiments cupboard, Patrica rocked up.

Susan quickly blushed and popped her well thumbed book into her empty Aldi Shopping Bag. For it was a Wednesday and the Special Buys were super random this week, as well as typically being super superfluous.

Patricia raised an eyebrow and asked, “What are you reading?”

Susan, well aware of Patricias propensity of spreading rumours and lies at the Mosman Bridge Club, wanted to scream “For fucks sake Patricia, why do you need to get up on my grill? Why do you need to know everyones business! Maybe you should invest more time in Brian’s new found interest in ornithology!”

Brian was Pat’s husband of thirty eight years and recently got a set of binoculars for his 60th Birthday.

But instead of causing a scene, Susan laughed gaily and said “Oh Patsy! That is just my wigwam for a goose’s bridle!” and then they dropped some acid and went to Taronga Zoo to pat the sharks.

So this is a rather round about way of explaining what happened to me yesterday morning.

I woke as the sun broke, around 6ish I believe. I ran down the stairs, flicked the kettle on then went to the front door where Mocha the Pomeranian was dancing the dance of the busting bladder. I opened the screen door and followed her out into the front yard while she spent an inordinate amount of time sniffing for the perfect spot to piss. I stood patiently at the end of the driveway.

“This is the first morning that I am not freezing my tits off!” I thought to myself. And it was at this point that it happened. Out of nowhere, I was hit across the noggin with, well I don’t know what it was but it struck with such force that my glasses went flying off into the nearby camellia bush.

Once I located them, I composed myself and looked up to find a man sitting in a white sedan, with the window down and a slightly innapropraite bemused look on his face. My assassin.

At my feet lay the assault weapon, a plastic wrapped copy of the Australian Financial Review. I had been whacked with a copy of the Capitalism Bible!

“Better than a slap in the face with a wet fish!” He offered up before disappearing down the road to deliver more propaganda from Rupert and the gang.

And with all the shit that’s going on everywhere right now, never a truer word was spoken.

The End.