Gina Spirelli, circa 1982, getting ready for the Year 12 Senior Formal at East Keilor High

More on the legend of Choc 'n Bits

The following was posted in reponse to my stupid story entitled Lamentable Enterprise. I feel an obligation to post the comment out of respect and the obvious authority that the poster clearly commands on the whole question of the orgins of Choc n Bits. Might I add that that commenter's work is his own, and I deny all legal liability in relation to any subsquent actions claiming defamation, slander or any similar. Enjoy - NS


Re: Choc N Bits FAN Club, I mean what the fuck, what are the chances of? I am not sure if Nino Spirelli is aware of it or not, but in fact, a Choc N Bits Fan Club has been thriving in the business community of Melbourne in particular for over a decade, and in fact, it even has cells in Sydney (where an Australian commodities tycoon come movie maker is well known for letting the phrase 'Choc N Bits' role of his tongue each and every time a member of his crew comes out with an economically dim-witted business concept just before he fires them. "What the fuck I am paying you for? Don't waste one more second of my time and life with your lame duck Choc N Bits ideas, and get the fuck out of here".

The club itself was founded by a renowned player in the grain business (late 80s/early 90s), quite famous for making money where there was none to be made, in an industry that sends suited cowboys to the cleaners year in year out. The individual involved, while on a road trip to the depths of the grain belt to visit growers, heard a community radio announcement broadcasting of course none other than the latest fabulous rural news the grand opening of Choc N Bits, in (well where the hell do you think?) Dimboola of course!

Driving along a barely used road that branches off the Western Highway, in the outer sphincter of nowhere, as the never ending hot bitumen road kept flying beneath his executive edition Commodore's bonnet (and that is what all the new money business folk used to drive back then), with destination arse-hole of the universe� not seeming to get any closer, our man was out of mobile phone range, mobile towers where few and far between in those days, and mobile phones were like bricks in volume and weight, so it was just him, the car, and a good old dose of rural isolation, broken by the occasional wheat truck flying by in the opposite direction. Totally consumed with the pressure of running an export focused industrial business, our dear founder received no therapeutic benefit from the rolling fields of wheat stubble, the sheep huddled under the shade of the branches of ancient gum trees, or the sight of the glorious Grampians on the horizon, and feeling quite frustrated and stressed, thought he would lighten his substantial mental load by listening to a little country radio.

Wanting to escape the game of business ping pong going on in his head (business does that to you), he butted out his International Passport to Smoking Pleasure cancer stick into an over flowing ashtray which had the word stress written all over it, and started fidgeting around with his radio dial (back and forth, back and forth), desperately searching for a clear signal. "The fuckin thing" he thought, as he nearly lost control of his car in the gravel on the side of the road. Anyway, as soon as he managed to finally lock onto 3WM (three standing for three cents short of the full two bob, not two, but three cents, and WM being the abbreviation for Wimmera Mallee, although to this guy, it might as well have stood for Wasted Money) well, within seconds of him finally managing to get something at least audible from his pioneer speakers (pioneer being all the rage back in those days, young women were attracted to men who had pioneer sound systems in their cars), out comes the Choc N Bits announcement, with all of the fan fare in the world.

The announcement went from the radio, to the ears of our man, to his brain. He stared blankly ahead. Seconds went by that felt like hours. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, the whites of his knuckles began to show, and our dear founder began to sweat, his face twisting and contorting with anger. Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech – in the middle of no-where, he slammed on his brakes, and his car came to a complete stand still, engine stalled. Sitting there, the smell of burning rubber in the air, with no living animal in sight, the silence being broken only by the distant hum of a tractor engine, he buried his head into his hands and thought. "What the, what the, my God, what the, what the fuck was that? Fuckin Choc N Bits? What the, what the fuck! Fuckin Choc N Bits! I, I, I, I must be dreaming, FUCKIN CHOC N BITS, FUCK, FUCK, I CAN'T STAND IT ANY LONGER. FUCKIN CHOC N BITS!!!!!!!".

Well, we are all entightled to a mini-nervous breakdown when the nearest human being is 50 miles away. Our dear founder did thankfully recover from that moment. He has never admitted it, but we all think it did make him weep, not tears of sorrow, but tears of anguish and frustration, the kind of tears that an irate toddler who can open the fridge door sheds tears brought on by the frustration of knowing that someone actually exists that thought of a business plan called Choc N Bits, that they brought it to the table, and they actually went about bringing it to fruition. Our poor founder was deeply insulted by it all, his business brain was slapped in the face by it (not slapped, that is not strong enough, punched is better, his business brain was punched in the face by it) � what he thought was going to be the sounds of some relaxing country radio might as well have been a shot gun going off a centimeter from his left ear. So, the story goes on - he got out of his car, poured some water from his water bottle into his handkerchief, wet his face, took ten deep breathes, got back into the car, started the engine, promptly turned the radio off, and went on his merry way, later in the day buying 5000 metric tons of grain to be shipped to India and Bangladesh.

But, and there is always a �"but", the insult of Choc N Bits endured. Each week, our man would make phone calls to other business people, in non related business areas, to discuss business in general, these mini phone conferences, which were more about talking about business in a universal sense , in a relaxed and comfortable manner (since the folk involved were in different industries, and thus were not necessarily hostiles), well, each and every Friday they were made (just before pub time, what they were, they were pretty much wind down and relax calls, but still with a general business focus, since people in business find it very hard to talk about anything other than business). They went nation wide (because our founder in fact had friends from school, and friends he met via business, across the entire continent, across the world in fact) � well anyway, they were called 'the whip around' and it was via the �whip around that the legend of Choc N Bits was established, and Choc N Bits became the label to attach to any dumb business, any failed business, any stupid idea at all in fact. � "How did your week go Banger? Mine was busy as shit! Man, you would not believe what I heard on the radio the other day, it just about did my head in. Some people are so fucked. Fuckin Choc N Bits! There is this fucking idiot"

Choc N Bits then grew in notoriety - members of THE Whip Around Gang (originally a gang of three), would then make calls to their own groups, and so forth, and so forth and so forth, and the news of Choc N Bits gained momentum, and raced around the globe. I am sorry if the above bores you all but that folks, was the true beginning of the legend of Choc N Bits – no shit.
It is now pretty much in the Australian Dictionary of Business to describe any failed business. I was once in a hotel foyer in Sri Lanka, and witnessed an Australian business man, who I had never met, and knew nothing off, throwing a tantrum and berating his Sri Lankan business partner for having conned him into investing in a Choc N Bits business. Choc N Bits – just fabulous!

John Brack's The Seagull

Spaghetti con Seagull and Piseli

Seagull Spaghetti with Peas - A traditional Calabrese dish provided by Nonna Spirelli.

Spaghetti con Seagull and Pisceli was handed down from her mother. Her own mother learned it from Nonna's grandmother, and she learned it from her own mother. Her mother learned it from her mother, and her mother stole it from the back pocket of some hairy-arsed Genovase fisherman while he was giving her a seeing to against the back fence in some ally. A right slut apparently.

The interesting thing about this dish is that unlike most recipes from this region which tend to focus on fish, meats and various peasant vegetarian staples, this utilises seagulls, a form of poultry absent from every other coastal cuisine. It remains the only seagull recipe ever recorded in history. Enjoy!

The following is enough for a family of 18.

Ingredients:

White flour
Egg 1
Water ½ cup
Olive Oil 24 litres
Carrots 1
Tomatoes 10Kg ripe
5 Kg tinned
2 Kg paste
Garlic 15 bulbs or 2Kg
Onions 2
Seagull 2
Procuitto 2 slices (thin)
Peas ½ cup
Black Olives 1 cup (dried)
Porcini mushrooms ½ cup
Red wine 10 litres
Rind of orange 1
Basil (fresh) 1 bunch
Rosemary 1 bunch
Bay leaf 2

Method:

To make this, you will need to begin by donning the same black mourning dress that you'd worn everyday since your great grandfather died in 1956.

The first step is to collect your good walking stick and gather a large wicker basket of firewood from the nearest forest. Best if you mumble complaints as you go. Ignore anyone milling around wells since they are mostly likely gossiping about you.

Make a fire in the mud brick oven that you’ve constructed by hand in the backyard the night before. Be sure to start the fire only on the morning of the previous night where there was a full moon.

Once you've said 28 rounds of the Rosary the fire should be right to begin. If you've used hardwood, you may need some extra Hail Marys.

Take the olive oil, dab your finger in it and make the sign of the cross. Pour a glass and drink it to keep your skin looking healthy. Finally pour a litre or three into a large stock pot. Look into the pot and add another litre.

Take a large sharp knife and threaten to cut the throat of your grandson's new girlfriend, the one that isn't Catholic and has short hair. Cut the carrot into small cubes, then slice the onions. Vow to the saints that you'll make that little tart cry like the onions are making you cry. Peel and cut the garlic, giving thanks to god. Sautee the carrots, unions and garlic till brown and take off heat.

Place colander between knees and shell peas while watching World Championship Wrestling. Pour yourself a glass of the red wine for your blood. Not that shit that Louey made last year and not fit to use as vinegar, some of the good stuff. Drain the olives, slice the prosciutto, and prepare the mushrooms.

Take the seagulls and the wine and move the front porch where you can keep on eye on that bitch from Number 27. Pluck seagulls thoroughly and singe with blow torch or gas stove to remove any remaining feathers. Keep neck and head attached. Gut the gulls and cut into pieces. Keep the feet.

Take flour, eggs, water, and salt to the good house next door and make the pasta. Be sure to give your ungrateful grandson a crashing backhander to the head on your way. Threaten with a rolling pin if there is one handy. Leave pasta to dry out the back.

Cut a loaf of Vienna bread in two, place a whole mozzarella and some salami inside and eat with half litre of wine for lunch.

Hang crucifix above stove. Return the pot with the sauteed vegetables to heat, place in gull pieces and cook until brown. Add 6 litres of red wine, all of the tomatoes, the olives, mushroom, prosciutto, rind and herbs. Place a fresh log on the fire, say a prayer to St. Anthony and add more garlic and tomatoes.

Simmer on low heat for nine hours. In the meantime you may, while half pissed, lecture the dog on how easy you children have it compared to what it was like in village during the war. Gloss over the part about the lost infantryman and the barn.

Get the spaghetti from the good house next door. Curse the ungrateful greedy widow three doors down that refuses to sell her house to you. Cook and drain the pasta, and add to the pot. Stir through while secretly pretending to be a witch. Make a note for your next confessional.

Take the pot to the table. Make sure the table is in the garage, next to the industrial deep freezer and the plastic wine tank. If not, under a carport will do.

Serve in portions of no less than 5KG each.

Garnish the plates of the guests of honour by sticking in two legs, as if the gulls had buried themselves in the steaming pasta.

Say grace and eat.

Best served after a large horsemeat steak.

If anyone fails to finish their second plate ask why they don't like it. After that ask why it isn't good enough for then. Following this, ask if they'd like an omelette. Regardless of what they say, get up and make them that omelette. You should be muttering under your breath various exclaimations as to how it couldn't be good enough. Finally start banging on about how much you've suffered over the years.

Nino Spirelli

Transport

There are times, moments even that exist simply to let you know that you're in for an ordinary sort of day, a signal of sorts that you might as well brace yourself for more than your fair daily quota of sanity eroding twentieth century stupidity.

I don't know. It started on the morning tram, as I sat there on those fabric seats and their inescapable remnant odour of one million previous arses. It reminded me when I'd once caught the last tram from the City to Brunswick in the middle of winter, wet and freezing. I was sitting in the carriage alone when an old wino scuffled in and sat next to me despite every other seat being empty. He stank about as bad as a live human being possibly could, the type of gangrenous, gut wrenching stench that makes your nostrils reel. He was clutching a package of fish and chips. I was doing my best to pretend that I wasn't there when he looked over, wiped his mouth and nose with the length of his arm and proceeded to dig out a sorry looking chip. With a mucus smeared hand, he wagged the horrific limp, oily thing at me, offering it up. All I could manage was a, er, no thanks mate, not wanting to appear rude. He was one of several unsavoury public transport experiences as any regular commuter can testify to.

There was a woman recently on my morning train to the city. In fact more Michelin Man than woman and a gaggle of snotty nosed spawn - proto juvenile offenders � all 70s rat tail haircuts and bite marks. Apart from her sheer size, she stood out by her very hairy armpits. It was as if she was walking around with a racoon head-locked under each arm. I'd heard her well before I'd seen her. Cory you fucking little shit. For fucks-sake. Cory. Cory, come the fuck here fuck ya. CORY I said COME HERE!!!! There were two empty seats to my left. I instantly knew that I was unlikely to escape this. My seated neighbour, a corporate woman with excellent posture, French Bun and expensive shoes almost visibly shuddered. Michelin squeezed to the edge of the seats, clearly intent to move in. The best I could hope for was that she'd plonk the least offensive of her kids next to me and that they'd behave. Unlikely though. The last one that sat opposite me took great delight in inventing a game called Kick the Legs of the Guy Opposite. He even made up a little song to go with bruises he was systematically inflecting on me. After a couple of minutes I protested to the bizarrely orange tanned mother. Excuse me, but your son is kicking my shins. What I wanted to say was, look leather face, would you kindly stop your vile child from kick me. It sort of worked. Junior contended himself by licking the window. That's a good boy, I thought, consume the germs, consume the germs.

Michelin started to move towards the seats and Corporate Woman and I moved our knees to the side to let her in (as required by unwritten law of commuter manners). With various bags across each shoulder, and grappling numerous kids with each hand, she was half way, red faced with effort, when the driver suddenly slammed on the breaks. The first thing I remembered was being suffocated by what seemed like a roll of upper stomach fat and a huge, monstrous bosom. It was as if my head was being sandwiched between two overweight fur seals. The more she struggled to right herself the deeper my head was sucked into the flesh trap. It felt like a full five minutes of both us flaying around like epileptics before I managed to shove her off me. The entire carriage was transfixed. I gasped for breath and it was clear Corporate Woman had suffered collateral damage. One the kids had been flung wide and their shoe had caught her on the bottom lip which was bleeding slightly. Fuck, sorry love, sorry, sorry about that. Michelin tried to give her something for the cut and could only find a dubious windcheater with Cats on the front at which point tears began to swell in Corporate’s eyes. I pretended that everything was OK. In fact I felt like spinning Michelin around and giving her a serve.

But it wasn't the wino this morning, or a dangerously large woman but two young girls, probably thirteen, fourteen, obviously friends, off to the city during the school holidays to hang out, smoke cigarettes, meet others, eat mass production burgers made by that paedophilic clown and engage in those particularly pointless teenage dramas, recounted over and over in that particularly annoying teenage gibberish. They were dressed in what you might call high camp young slut, THE fashion trend of the moment. One had a cut off T shirt with the word, "Pussy" on the front, tiny denim shorts, fishnet stockings and silver disco boots. The other wore sunglasses, had "Shaved" on her singlet, no bra and was sporting what looked like a homemade black tutu and army boots. Charming, I thought. It reminded me of an ad I'd once heard on the radio about Schoolies Week. YOUNG GIRL trying on fragrance to MATURE SHOP ASSISTANT, in hesitating voice� "Does this make me smell like a slut? MATURE ASSISTANT ..no! Of course no! .YOUNG GIRL� "Hmm, can you show me one that does? They were the new generation of young Australia women I'd recently read about. Those that thought nothing of venturing out at night and dragging a newly acquired playmate into a corner for a pash and a head-job, walking away, wiping their mouth, saying, "see what a dirty little minx I am, so there," as some type of small defiant victory in a tangled, fucked up, gender based, post feminist dating war. I don't know. They disturbed me. I can't be convinced that they're confident, strong, or empowered.

On balance however the girls were somewhat less disturbing than their mature counterparts. We've all seen them. Same clothes. Same attitudes. Just forty years or so older. Perhaps I've been in a coma. Since when did grown mothers and yes, even grandmothers, ever latch onto the idea and dressing like some dried up, withered old bargain basement crack whore constitute an informed aesthetic style for the mature woman? My grandmother was content to wear the same black dress without variation and watch World Championship Wrestling with her grandchildren while making fresh pasta. She didn't wear boob tubes. She didn't pretend to leer at men's asses. Now she was the power, an immovable monolith. As to the new lot, you can only shake your head with wonder. They'd have their own magazine soon. It'll be called Skank of the Third Age, something like that. And there will be in-depth stories about some bizarre, wide eyed, surgery addicted septuagenarian banging on about how liberating and exhilarating it is to get in touch with your inner whore. Of course, it probably is liberating and exhilarating, and, my objections are just my own multiple neuroses. Clearly.

With that thought mentally polluting me, I averted my eyes to something a bit more manageable, and settled on reverse reading the newspaper of the guy in front of me. I was hoping for an interesting story about a lost tribe or the discovery of some ancient artefact. What it had was a full colour head shot of Bronwyn Bishop. What a face. It's as if the Federal Member for Mackeller one day decided to have her make up done by a Kabuki artist. But not just any Kabuki make-up artist but one cruelly disabled by arthritis, and not just any arthritic kabuki make-up artist but one that had just spent the previous three hours on the piss. And not being content with a crippled Kabuki make up artist off their face from sake, but deciding to finish the whole horrible lot off by being dragged face down across a gravel pit by a tractor. Good grief. Her number is (02) 6277 4382 by the way. Ring her and ask her to explain. Alternatively, ring Dr Pearlman and nominate her for an extreme makeover.

For those that don't know her, Bron's a former Liberal party Queen of Hate, somewhat displaced by equally horrific Amanda Vanstone whose three times as large and twice as incompetent (if that's possible). They're both typical bullet headed conservatives - devoid of any imagination or intellect, full of born to rule ignorant self assurance. Her daughter is similarly plain and talent less - a third rate celebrity interviewer occasionally featured in the most inane programs ever broadcast by the cheapest TV station in Australian history. You'd suspect she'd readily bend over for any C grade celebrity after a pre-made cocktail or two. You know the sort - Big Brother contestants who were voted off first three years ago, magazine chefs, regional radio broadcasters, gardening segment hosts, lotto presenters, that lot. It's almost guaranteed. Scary? They should both be arrested and locked away under the new anti-terror legislation.

So that's what public transport does for you. At 8:45 today I walked into Public Servant Land with terrible images of that rancid old wino, strangulation through indirect obesity, pathetically wobbly old disco queens, and horror puppet Bronwyn Bishop in my head. Thank-you.