The Day of the Jackhole

The Day of the Jackhole

Celebrating 40 years on this earth

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1993. Off the dole(drums)

September 22, 2011

“The Prime Minister will be there. Spit in it! ahhhahahaha!”

– Junior chef, Parliament House, Canberra.

I am cutting dill. Tiny little slivers of it, which I separate into little ornate arrangements and carefully place atop some Steak Tartare hors d’oeuvres. I’m in the main kitchen in Parliament House, doing kitchen-hand things. Later on, I will have to wash all the pots and pans, and get down into the giant vats of burnt soup remnants to clean those cauldrons out. But for now I’m cutting this dill and keeping out of the way of an unpredictable chef. I think he’s swedish. Do Swedish chefs throw pots at unsuspecting kitchen hands? Because I’ve seen this one do that.

The junior chef is talking a lot of rubbish. He’s a larrikin. He’s in a white jacket. I am in a blue uniform, signifying my place in the pecking order in the kitchen. The dishwashers. The floor scrubbers. It’s low.

The junior chef tells me how many guests are at the function upstairs. In the grand ballroom. And who’s there. That’s when he mentions Paul Keating. About how I should spit in the steak – this is my chance.

I don’t. I quite like Paul Keating. He’s an intellectual brawler.

It will be his downfall.

Paycheck. 40hrs = $297 net pay w00t!


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