What's New Pussycat turns six this week. What keeps a blog alive for so long, aside from sporadic updates and stale design?

Comments, that's what. While you current folks are always golden, the real madness comes from random Google visitors and their comments on ancient posts. Years after an entry has passed its relevancy, people stumble in, skim read, then spout off. Some commenters seek advice. Some commenters give advice. Some just want you to know that they vehemently disagree with your opinion of half a decade ago.

Unfortunately I had to kill off this source of entertainment. While Movable Type has excellent spam fighting tools these days, and my thousands of comment spams were banished to a Junk folder, the extreme load on the server drained my bandwidth. So I closed comments on old entries.

In memory of my beloved comment-come-latelys, here's a few choice highlights.

The Funeral Business - September 2001
The Mothership went through a brief crackpot phase of coming up with small business ideas to help fund her retirement. First she was going to start a mobile adult toy store, a Bookmobile-style vehicle bringing vibrators and ben wa balls to deprived citizens of remote areas of New South Wales.

The next brainwave was to start a funeral business run entirely by women as they are apparently more compassionate. The result - fifteen commenters over four years, seeking or offering advice on how to get the show on the road.

Hi there, my name is xeng, i am interested in building a funeral home business for the hmong community. However, i don't know much about what to do, how to start, and what to expect. If you know, and would like to share, it would be a pleasure. Thank You, Xeng Yang
Posted by XENG YANG on March 30, 2003

Hello, Death - October 2001
Australian children of the 80s will remember student news show Behind The News. BTN was universally loathed as we had to pay attention and do worksheets afterwards. One of my classmates hated presenter Richard Morecroft so much that she stood on a chair, hurled pencils at the screen and screamed, "I HATE YOU RICHARD MORECROFT AND I WANT YOU TO DIE!".

She must not have wanted it enough, for he went on to present the ABC news and all sorts of wildlife documentaries. In what is probably my most cherished WNP comment ever, the man himself wandered in a few years later. Don't try and tell me it's not the real Richard Morecroft. So polite, so articulate, so balanced!

I very much enjoyed reading this piece... really - I did. I also really used to enjoy working on BTN, but I had no idea of the pain it caused Melissa and her classmates!
Posted by Richard Morecroft on May 26, 2004

Cats Stuck Up Trees - May 2001
Inane entry about seeing a local TV anchor at the gym sparks a dozen folk asking for advice on how to get their moggie down. The last comment was particularly heart-wrenching:

I see plenty cries (or is that meows) for help, but no answers!? My cat is stuck up a 25 metre gum ... He's only a kitten and the horrid dog next door chased him up there - the tree is in the neighbour's garden!!!!!!!!! What happened to the cats that feature on this site? Any stories of hope?????? Do they come down????
Posted by Judy on September 2, 2005

Gene Simmons - April 2001
I posted a photo of my dog Harry with his tongue hanging out like the KISS bassman. Two years later came this classic comment:

I am looking for a talent agent to help me exploit my talent and I meet peter [Criss, KISS drummer] when he was up in tahoe in 93 I need someone to help me find a realband that is career motivated and has what it takes to go to the top! thanks Gene for your time and consideration
Mark /Bam Bam
Posted by Mark Steffens/Drummer on June 24, 2003

Get Skinny With Portia - February 2002
I had a dream in which slender actress Portia di Rossi launched a cookbook of the above title. I even dreamed the back cover blurb: Hello. I'm Portia de Rossi. It has always been my aim in life to weigh as little as humanly possible. Let this be your mission too. Put down your chocolate bars and get cooking with me.

For years there was a steady trickle of teen visitors begging Portia for her diet secrets. Many of them are quite troubling and sad, but I liked this one:

HEY BABES!!! IF YOU ARE NOT PERFECT IT DOESENT MATTER!!!!!! LOVE YOURSELF FOR WHO YOU ARE AND EVERY TIME U EAT SOMTHING NAUGHTY, BE HAPPY, IF U ARE NOT HAPPY YOUR BODY WONT BE HAPPY!!!!! NO ONE IS PERFECT!!!!!!!
Rock on,
Tanya

And then last year this guy lost it:

Do you people realize that there is no such book as "Get Skinny With Portia"?? This story is just a joke and if you had even a minute semblance of a brain you might understand it. I am so sick of ignorance and just well, plain stupidity. Please learn how to spell too you moronic, self-absorbed, media-obsessed dumb-asses...
Posted by ben dover on July 23, 2005

Everybody Hates Raymond - August 2002
Although my petition to outlaw Everybody Loves Raymond failed miserably despite 91 passionate supporters, the sheer venom directed at the show raged on:

Everyone hates ramen sucks. I'm so hatefull of the show that I just did a search on the internet which brought me to this site. I searched for "everyone loves raymond sucks"...
The first time I watched it I saw this raymond guy acting like a little boy to who seemed to be his mother, by the way she was talking to him. After a while I figured out that was his wife. Maybe it's a Oedipus complex that interests some people in this show?? that's my only guess.
Posted by RELON on December 28, 2003

And sometimes, not.

I LOVE Everyone loves raymond and I think its a really good show for many people that have a borening life like me. I laugh and I cry and enjoy everyone on the show expecially raymond and his brother. KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK. AMERY WISCONSIN LOVES YOU
Posted by A on November 5, 2004.

Soul Shite - November 2000
Legendary Australian rocker Jimmy Barnes will be pleased that while I slagged off his cheesy album of soul covers, a devoted fan came to his defence, albeit four years too late. This ranks high amongst my all-time favourite comments because you can just hear the flannel shirt and Victoria Bitterness in his words:

shit mate I must have missed your #1 record last time I was at the record shop...... Then I look further down and see that you are from Canberra, and that explains it all. Wanker...
Posted by juddster on August 6, 2004

WNP's 6th Birthday is hereby dedicated to commenters both past and present, young and old, sane and clearly otherwise. Thank you all!

"G'dafternoon!" boomed the cheery blonde behind the Virgin Blue desk. "Have ya got any bags to check in?"

We heaved our giant suitcases onto the scale. Virgin Blonde tapped away at the keyboard, then suddenly froze and gasped. She whipped off her shoe and started pounding Gareth's suitcase with the pointy heel.

"Crikey!" she panted, "That's got the bugger. There was a spider on yer bag!" she explained to our blank, jet-lagged stares.

"Oh! Well, thanks for killing it for us!"

"No worries."

I wanted to leap across the counter and kiss her. Just for sounding so bloody Australian and reminding me I was home at last.

Our first day back was beautifully surreal. After two and half years I'd forgotten just how Australian the Australian accent can sound. We'd arrived in Melbourne at 1am and spent the next few hours in the airport hotel, where Gareth got his introduction to Australian television.

First up was a rugby league semi-final replay. Every player seemed to be called Jason, Brett or Mick. Gareth grinned as they slobbered breathlessly through their post-match interviews.

"Howzit feel Brett? Howz it feel to be going to the grand final?"

"Aww I'm stoked mate! But full credit to the other team!"

He particularly loved the low-budget local commercials, especially the plumbing company that urged you to, "Be Australian, BUY AUSTRALIAN!".

"Boee Ostrayan, BOY Ostrayan!" Gareth parrotted gleefully.

Then it was time for Rage, a legendary music video show that goes from midnight til dawn. The familiar theme tune and graphics filled me with a nostalgia so overwhelming I nearly wept, as happy memories flooded back of endless nights spent watching the show in various stages of intoxication. I soon dozed off but Gareth was instantly hooked, "Just one more clip and I'll go to sleep. OHH this is a good one! Last one I promise."

A few hours later we staggered into the sunshine, gazing in awe at the endless blue sky. We walked through the carpark to the terminal and I crowed at the familiar sight of Australian number plates.

After checking in with the exterminating Virgin Blonde, we grabbed lunch at an airport cafe.

"Oh my god, this pizza has VEGETABLES ON IT!" I squealed.

"Why is there salad on the side?" Gareth asked, "Where's the chips?"

"Ha ha ha."

"And why does my coffee taste so good? And why do we have a pile of change from a twenty dollar note?"

"This is just the beginning baby. You're in Australia now!"

"CROIKEY!"

Soon enough we arrived at the amusingly named Canberra International Airport.

"Ladies and gentleman," said the flight attendant, "As you disembark from the plane, please be sure to follow the witches hats into the terminal."

"Follow the witches hats?!" asked Gareth. "What the hell is a witches hat?"

"You know, the orange pointy things."

"Like a traffic cone?"

"Like a witches hat!"

My dear friend Jenny was there to greet us. As we drove through Canberra, I admired the sprawling orderliness of the roads; the manicured lawns, the logic of roundabouts. Gareth was busy bird watching. "HOLY SHIT there's a GIANT PARROT on the side of the road!"

"That's a cockatoo."

"There's another one! And a pink one!"

It didn't take long to settle back in. As the days went on my speech slowed, I dropped my G's and the colloquialisms came back. Gareth really got into the spirit too; I'd catch him laughing at the television and practicing his accent. "Today in Brizben: foine, sunny and twenny-noine dugrees!"

I loved how totally Oz my friends and family sounded. At one point a car in front of us failed to indicate before turning a corner, and Jenny yelled, "JEEZ, thanks for the blinker mate!". Gareth still loves to say that one.

And of course, The Mothership. Distance makes one cherish her Teacher Voice and colourful turn of phrase all the more. Not so her insane need to fling open every door of the house in the mornings to let the Fresh Air in, even during a late cold snap.

"Are you cold, Gareth? You're sitting there shivering!"

"Oh I'm fine, Mrs -"

"Don't bullshit me, Gareth!"

I'd missed the Australian news too, how there's wacky phrases that would never cut it on the BBC. One night there was a report on a netball match and the graphic behind the presenter simply read: FLOGGED.

"Flogged?" Gareth looked confused. "Flogged?!"

"Well derr!" I snorted, "Flogged! To defeat convincingly!"

Would you believe, he didn't know what trifecta or dink meant, either!

Almost eight months since we returned to Scotland, I thought my accent had diluted again - it's something you have to do if you want the natives to understand you. But Gareth is always there to point out that I am still true to my origins. The other day I made vegie burgers for lunch, and was choosing my condiments.

"Ohh. I reckon I feel like some HP Sauce on mine."

"You feel loike HAITCH POYEE SORCE?" he cackled, "Oi moight have some of that HAITCH POYEE SORCE too!"

Trade advertisments in the local newspaper today. I'd hire them for the puns alone!

Local Entertainment for the Contiki Crowd. Yartsevo, Russia 2004.

Cheers for the comments, comrades! I don't know if people see my comments on the comments so I thought I'd say thanks separately! It was so good to reconnect with folk from yesteryear and meet some new faces. Best of all, no one new from the Real World has outed themselves. So now I can happily go back to living in denial!

This blog is like a dinky little country town where the population never changes. Some people die, some new ones are born to replace them; and now and then a few strangers breeze in from the city and the locals look up from their beers and give them the stink eye. But thanks to the infrequent updates, the overall number always evens out beautifully in the end. It's been pretty stable for years now, except for that one glorious day in 2002 when the lovely Dooce made me a member of her fantasy all girl blog-rock band and the hit counter crapped itself.

Lately I've been thinking about the population of this wee metropolis. Do you ever wonder where internet people go? You meet so many interesting characters through the old computer screen, but so many end up disappearing into the ether. Every now and then an old 'face' will just pop into your head. Sometimes you'll remember fondly, other times you cringe. Either way you wonder what happened to them. Whether they got bald or rich or hitched or if they legally changed their name to ~DarkWolfe75~.

I think about Commenters of Yesteryear and why they went quiet. Did they go offline for good? Did I offend them? Did they stop reading when I sold out and got married? Or are they still reading, but being all quiet and lurkersome about it?

I also think about the Real World People. Back in Oz last year, I was alarmed to hear all these friends and family say breezily, "Oh yes, I've been reading for years!". What?! How did you find me? Who taught you to use Google? How could you not tell me that you'd discovered my sad, secret internerd life?

So when I add up the Real Life People and the Regular Commenters, there's still a lot of people unaccounted for. Which makes me worry, are there more Real Life People out there? Perhaps they're among the masses who stumble in having searched for 'trampoline sex', 'accounting love letter' or 'Pall Mall Monopoly pronouncement', then realise they're arrived at the site of that moron they used to know.

If you're out there, why not say hello? Just send an email with a memory-jogging subject like:

• Remember me from Brownies?
• Remember that time I loaned you two dollars for the canteen?
• Remember how you were the worst piano student ever?
• Remember how you were an inarticulate dope at university?
• Remember when we worked at KFC and we got it on in the storeroom and there was flour and secret herbs and spices flying all over the place?

OH YEAH, that one only happened in my head.

Just don't email to say how much this entry sucks, because I already know :)

On Wednesday I ate a bagel with cream cheese and chugged down a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. The occasion called for serious carbo loading. We had a Radiohead show to attend!

You may recall the last time I saw my beloved boys, I embarassingly fainted from excitement, and knocked over a few lasses before hitting the floor. This time I was determined to be prepared and get through the gig without medical attention.

There's no way to describe how excited I was without sounding like a really sad bastard. It was so all-consuming, my limbs were tingling and my heart trilled like an idling engine. I just wanted to get there and get my elbows out to jostle for a good spot, to see the lights dip and hear the crowd roar. Oh you know the feeling, it's the same glorious anticipation when it's been too long between shags or you've just undressed a family-size chocolate bar.

Last time I saw Radiohead I'd only been going out with Gareth for a couple of weeks, but now we're old and married I don't have to have to pretend that it's entirely about the music. He is most tolerant and understanding of my undying lust for his royal tallness, Mister Ed O'Brien.

"Where are you going to stand? Edside, I presume?"

"Oh fuck aye!"

"And I s'pose you'll be wanting to get up close since he's cut his hair short again, just the way you like it."

"Wheeeeeeeeeee!"

This gig was all the more interesting because it was in Amsterdam. Radiohead announced their mini European tour a few months ago, playing smaller venues to showcase their new tunes. This sparked a ticketing frenzy, and after seven fruitless hours on their pre-sale website then a panicky encounter with the Ticketmaster general sale a few days later, we decided to go Dutch. Or rather, I decided and then later convinced Gareth to come along and bring the smelling salts and spare undies. Besides, I'd never been to Amsterdam before and it would be our first holiday together in which we didn't have one of our weddings to go to!

So after a day of sightseeing we finally arrived at the Heineken Music Hall, all well nourished and hydrated. We were greeted with the Times New Roman of Doom.

Sadly, due to a sudden and unexpected family bereavement, the show was cancelled.

It's a strange situation, because on one hand you can't help feeling crushed that you came a long way to see your most favourite band and now you won't see them and even though the show has been rescheduled for August you won't be able to come because it was a fiscal stretch to make this sortie to Amsterdam, let alone do it all over again in a few months. But on the other hand, you feel the PIRANHAS OF GUILT gnawing at your stomach for feeling so devastated, because somebody has lost someone, and you know how you'd feel if it happened to you.

We later found out that it was Phil Selway's mum who passed away. He posted a wee message on their blog which makes your heart go out to him.

"Just wanted to say sorry to the people who were due to come to our show in Amsterdam last night, particularly those who made wasted journeys. My mum died suddenly in the early hours of yesterday morning and so I just wanted to be at home with my family. Mum was a big Radiohead fan, and was very proud of all we've done as a band. I love and miss her very much."

Oh you just read that and really hope he is doing okay. And you want to reassure on behalf of all dedicated-but-totally-not-stalkersome fans that it was not a wasted journey because we got to spend a couple of days in a great city. We saw touristy things like Anne Frank's House and the Van Gogh Museum and ladies in glass boxes in the Red Light District. It averaged 23 degrees so I freaked out at the unfamiliar sensation of sunshine on bare arms. But my favourite bit was last night, sitting by the canals near 10pm, eating takeaway sushi and watching all the people cruising past in their boats. Unfortunately every photo I took on this trip is beyond mediocre, so just close your eyes and imagine blue skies and squeaky bicycles.

Today we finally wind up Anniversary Week, which somehow ended up morphing into six weeks.

In the interests of balanced reporting, I decided to speak to some Edinburgh expats to gauge their views on being a stranger in this strange town. You poor readers have been subjected to three years of my personal rants and raves, but what do other foreigners think of the place? Am I the only one who goes on about the food? Am I the only one with a pathological fascination with River City?

Let's meet our panel...

Rhiannon - My sister is blogless but has consulted on many WNP entries. She now resides in London after putting in a good stint in Jockland.

Pille - Estonian foodblogger extraordinaire. I stumbled across her blog when she'd written about a restaurant I'd been to in the Estonian countryside, and then discovered she lived in Edinburgh... the world is too small!

Rory - A fellow Canberra escapee, Rory is a blogging veteran and if not for meeting him I'd never have met Dr G, which is just one more reason why he's a top bloke.

Anna - A lovely Canadian and seasoned traveller, now doing a stint in Scotland before moving on to Australia.

Now on to the questions!

I really need to move on from all this deep-fried stuff. I still have to do Wedding Part III from seven months ago, and there's a post from Lithuania 2004 to finish. But it's this bloody Mobile Chip Van! It keeps coming back every Saturday night and further endearing itself to me. Like instead of playing Greensleeves like Mr Whippy, this dude just drives up and down the streets honking the horn over and over until the customers come forth.

At the first toot last night, Gareth and I ran to the window to observe.

"Ohhh yes," he sighed as they opened up the serving hatch. "Go and get us a single fish?"

"You're not really wanting a single fish?"

"No. Not really."

"Why do you call it a single fish, anyway? Why don't you just say, Can I have a piece of fish?"

"Because it's a Single Fish. That's just how it is."

There is still much to learn about the way of the world here. You don't ask for "fish and chips" either. Fish and chips is called a Fish Supper. Deep-fried black pudding and chips is a Black Pudding Supper. If you asked for a Sausage Supper And A Tin Of Juice Thanks Pal, you'd get a deep-fried battered sausage of questionable origin, chips and a can of Irn-Bru.

"So is it only fish that comes in a single format?"

"Oh no. You can get a single sausage or a single pudding. Don't think you get a single pie though. You'd just ask for a pie."

"And if I wanted two bits of fish, I'd say Double Fish?"

Gareth snorted. "Don't be preposterous! There's no such thing as a Double Fish!"

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't! You'd ask for two Single Fish!"

"That makes no sense at all."

"It makes sense if you're Scottish."

"I don't see why all these bloody fish have to be Single. Don't get they lonely?"

"Some hook up with the chips. That's your Fish Supper!"

The Mothership believed in throwing you in the deep end and seeing if you'd sink or swim. Quite literally. It was Tuesday Night Swimming Club, I was eight years old and it was the 25 metres freestyle race. By that age most Australians could swim a lap of the whole island if called upon, but I was always a slow learner.

I stood at the pool edge, shivering with dread as we waited for the starter's pistol. I looked over to Mum. She was leaning against the pool fence with what she'd say was as an encouraging smile but I thought embodied pure sadism. I hate you, I fumed silently. I can't believe you're making me do this. I will drown right here in all that kiddie pee and then you'll be sorry!

The gun fired and the fright tumbled me into the water. I thrashed along for all of ten metres, spluttering and flailing, before some bloke had to jump in and fish me out. I felt like the eyes of the whole town were on me. See Mum, I glowered, Told you I sucked. But I'm sure all she said was, "Well done."

My main complaint growing up that Mum always made me do things I didn't want to do. Drama classes, netball, Brownies, the dishes; looking up words in the dictionary rather than her just telling me how to spell something. I wasn't just lazy, I was scared and I hated new things. It was like she existed purely to dream up more ways to make me suffer.

It's only when you're old enough to figure you out for yourself, that you realise she had you pinned right from the start. That sometimes you needed to be pushed, and that you wouldn't have turned out as interesting if she hadn't. It's incredible to think that when I was that grumpy brat at the swimming pool, Mum was the same age as I am now.

The Mothership steered us through all the dramas and divorces; droughts, deaths, depression, dead-end jobs. There were situations so surreal and ridiculous; there were arguments so volatile I thought we'd never recover. But when that fades, what you remember most is how you never had to doubt that she loved you. Other things filled you with fear and uncertainty, but never her.

The older I get the more I appreciate that. And the more I appreciate being thrown in the deep end. Sorta.

Happy 50th Birthday, Mothership! You rule the school.

(If you're new round here and haven't seen the brilliant blog fodder she's provided over the years, here's the Mothership archives. And if you've been reading about her for awhile, why not leave a wee birthday message? She's always watching!)