The best avian vet in Sydney | Dr Kathy Fearnside | Normanhurst Vet

If anyone is looking for the best bird vet or avian vet in Sydney, I couldn’t recommend Dr Kathy Fearnside at Normanhurst Vet with even close to high enough praise.

Doctor Kathy Fearnside has been a remarkable find for our family – one that currently consists of not less than six parrots.

Two weeks ago, she saved The Kakariki from a spiral wing fracture – something that kills most birds.

Kakariki - saved by Kelyville vet

Not only did she save her, but didn’t charge a wing and a claw for it either, and provided exceptional care.

Today, my naughty lorikeet Lucifer, as he is want to do, decided to be exceptionally naughty and feast upon an avocado – something quite poisonous to parrots. At 7pm on a Thursday evening, she was able to do an emergency consult within 30 minutes of it occurring.

Lucifer, the naughty lorikeet

She flushed his crop, and whilst he isn’t out of the woods just yet, she has given him a good chance of getting through it.

This post is a means of saying thank you to Dr Kathy and her staff for the fantastic job that they have done with our parrots thus far.

If you need a bird specialist vet in Sydney, look no further:

Thank you, Dr Kathy for all the ongoing care you have given to our feathered family. We can’t thank you enough.


Lucifer, Tupi, The Green Disease, The Kakariki, Boutros and Jermaine.

To Jan, from Arthur and Ann – the missing Xmas card

One can use the power of the internets for both good and evil.

I like it best when it is used for evil.

That said, I am going to attempt, for once, to use it for good.

Today, I received an Xmas card, addressed to Arthur and Ann.

I often receive incorrectly addressed mail. Usually they have a return address on them and am able to mark them RTS. This one did not, so I could not.

I, instead, opened it, hoping to find an address that I could send it back to along with a note, informing the sender that they had mis-mailed their card.

Sadly, there was no return address, rather a nice note and a 20 pound note.

To Arthur and Ann, from Jan

I am hoping, vainly, that someone, somewhere, may know who Arthur and Ann are, or indeed, Jan.

If you do, please drop me a note via a comment on this page and I will make sure that the card and the note go to the rightful owners.

Please include in your comment (which will not be published), the postmark that you think that the card originated from.

If I can’t find the rightful owners, I shall match it and donate it to a charity – probably a children’s or cancer charity (or combination thereof) – your suggestions would be appreciated. If anyone else wants to match the 20 quid as well in the case we can’t find the owner, please feel free.

On a side note, whilst attempting to resize the image in Photoshop, I received this error message:

No banknotes

Pretty good recognition, considering the image.


Fuck your family

If there is one thing that annoys me more than one of those pathetic “baby on board” signs, or the fucking reindeer antlers and red noses on cars at Xmas time, it is those fucking “my family” stickers.

Fuck your fucking family - my family stickers

Homo sapiens have, without help, just like all other species, been breeding for about 200,000 years, and, that unlike most other species, have begun to devolve rather than evolve (I mean, any drunken bogan can slam its cock into the cunt of a drunken boganette and produce a rat tailed, pathetic oxygen thief who will be forever dependent on welfare or crime to get through life). Why do people feel the need to display the fact that they have managed to somehow fumble their way through the process of conception and child birth?

Despite the fact that these stickers are inane, conform to the herd mentality, may be mass produced by Chinese child labourers and are indisputably moronic, let’s take a look at what the above rendition illustrates.

A beer gutted alcoholic who is only good for slapping slabs of cow onto a burning furnace, two retarded, precocious children and a person of no specific gender attempting to electrocute a fish with some kind of magical powers.

I suppose that that is better than the usual stickers that you see, the man cooking the barbie, the woman going shopping, both kids are either cricket or tennis champions – the fucking Aussie stereotype.

That said, what kind or moron has any desire to emblazon their petrol guzzling four wheel drive (that’s right, they *aren’t* SUVs); for that is predominantly the kind of vehicle you see them on, with an indication of not only that they were somehow able to achieve what comes naturally to even the most unevolved forms of life, but that they are indeed proud of the fact that the father of the family is a drunk who beats his wife?

That is what I take from the above.

Fuck you, fuck your family, and a fatwa on the clowns who created the stickers.

Let’s get it straight – any moron can breed. Your family and friends know you have children – the rest of us don’t give a flying fuck.

You aren’t original for having a fictitious depiction of your “happy family” on the back of your car, you are a fucking sheep.

What I’d like to see were real representations of family life – Fritzl style.

Wankers in Sydney, Neanderthal cunts with red hair at Opeth

Last night, I went to see Opeth for the third time – at The Enmore in Sydney.

As always, they were brilliant.

Consummate professionals, clinical musicians, the very epitome of what music is to me.

Sadly, however, there were three wankers in the audience – lead by a throwback to the cro-magnon era of evolution (or should that be devolution) – who continued to abuse the band, ruin the quiet moments and call out “more metal” at every opportunity.

Obviously they weren’t devotees of the band, nor the style of music, just a bunch of pissed cunts, hell bent on ruining the night for everyone else.

One, a red haired, bearded Neanderthal, another covered in Nazi prison tatts, they were the quintessential examples of the necessity for breeding licenses.

Were I a violent man, I would have been hard pressed to refrain from instigating an “accident” in the mosh pit that they attempted to create.

If you don’t like the music, leave – or better still, go and neck your useless selves – but don’t disrespect musicians who have flown so far to entertain their true fans.

I feel compelled to apologise to Opeth for the poor behaviour of a few members from the shallow end of the gene pool at what was a fantastic display of sublime musicianship.

Thanks for coming back guys, I hope that it isn’t the last time you visit.

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Valé Hitch – the death of the greatest thinker since Socrates

It was just a few weeks ago that I was wondering how I would feel when the greatest thinker of our time died.

I knew that I would lament that the world had lost a man who, in my opinion, has contributed more to the evolution of human thought, the progression of humans as a species, than any other in the past several centuries, perhaps the most influential since Socrates.

I didn’t realise just how much it would effect me when I read the news this morning, how upset I would become, as a result of the death of a man that I cannot even claim to have been within several hundred kilometres of, let alone known.

The impact of his death on me has been profound, it has devastated me – not because a human life has been lost, but because the world has lost so much with his passing, because the collective human intelligence has been significantly reduced.

Stephen Fry put it brilliantly:

“He was one of very, very few people on earth whom I would have missed just as much had I never had the pleasure and fortune of knowing him. He lit fires in people’s minds. He was an educator.”

I have been an atheist now for around 30 years. I have never wavered in my lack of belief in a god or the supernatural, but I have, at times, wavered in my prosecution of the evils of theism.

Hitchens was responsible for me reawakening and the rekindling the fires within me with regards to my tacit acceptance of both the intellectual sloth of the passively religious and the evils of the aggressively religious.

It was more than that though. Hitchens did, to paraphrase Fry, light a fire in my mind, and bring me out of an intellectual reverie of my own.

Whereas Dawkins made me angry, Hitchens made me think. He made a lot of people think, and I am sure, in death, will continue to do so.

Hitchens summed up my distaste for the intellectual laziness that some call faith quite brilliantly:


“People always demand respect for their faith, you’ve noticed this happening. Why should I respect someone who makes enormous claims on no evidence, and, when confronted with that fact says ‘well, I don’t need any evidence, I’ve got faith’?

I think extraordinary claims, such as they know not just that there is a god, but that they know his mind, they know his instructions, they’ve had revealed truth from him… claims like that demand extraordinary evidence. Instead of which, they say ‘how about no evidence at all and just take me on faith?’

Why am I supposed to respect that? I don’t respect it, I suspect it”


Hitchens respected thought, the human capacity to think and analyse, the ability to reason, to take responsibility and not abdicate reason, and he lead by example:

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The same cannot be said those who call themselves religious leaders.

A heavy drinker and smoker, upon diagnosis of his cancer, Hitchens accepted that it was of his own doing, and would lead to his death.

He drank “because it makes other people less boring. I have a great terror of being bored”

He relished the attacks made by others as a result of his lifestyle ‘because I always think it’s a sign of victory when they move on to the ad hominem.’

He made no apologies, he had always known that he was a mortal man and this was his one shot, and so he enjoyed life as he saw fit, seeing no evil in doing so, so long as he didn’t hurt others.

It is somewhat ironic that a man so loathed and detested by so many of theistic bent, would carry himself to his death with a dignity that they could only hope to achieve.

He put it more eloquently than I could ever have hoped to when he wrote, upon diagnosis:


In one way, I suppose, I have been “in denial” for some time, knowingly burning the candle at both ends and finding that it often gives a lovely light. But for precisely that reason, I can’t see myself smiting my brow with shock or hear myself whining about how it’s all so unfair:

I have been taunting the Reaper into taking a free scythe in my direction and have now succumbed to something so predictable and banal that it bores even me. Rage would be beside the point for the same reason.

Instead, I am badly oppressed by a gnawing sense of waste.

I had real plans for my next decade and felt I’d worked hard enough to earn it. Will I really not live to see my children married? To watch the World Trade Center rise again?

To read—if not indeed write—the obituaries of elderly villains like Henry Kissinger and Joseph Ratzinger?

But I understand this sort of non-thinking for what it is: sentimentality and self-pity.


Valé, Hitch, you will be sorely missed, but the lessons you taught us will be learned by many a generation to come.