How do we carry on now that Masterchef is over?

For those not in the know, it's basically American Idol with foie gras and fancy knives. It's hosted by two strangely endearing blokes who don't understand the concept of Inside Voices, so they constantly bark at the contestants, I WANNA SEE A NICE PLAYDA FOOD and NOW THAT'S BEWDIFULLY SEASONED!

The contestants are mostly earnest Former Bankers or Ex-Barristers who gave up high-flying careers to pursue their Passion for Food. This intrigues me as I don't think I could sacrifice even my low-flying career until I was 100% certain that the Passion was 100% secure and paid near enough to the low-flying career that I wouldn't need to live in a cardboard box. But on the telly, Passion RULES and people can chuck their jobs with gay abandon.

The final episode was both compelling and insane (and beautifully live blogged by Anna Pickard) Shouty Aussie was reduced to tears by Emily's beetroot tagliatelle and Shouty Bald insisted that EVERY YEAR THEY. JUST. GET. BEDDA AN BEDDA! Curly James was eventually declared the winner of the suitably curly Masterchef trophy.

It was so easy to be swept up in such culinary drama but Gareth brought some perspective to the table:

	"Whoever wins… IT WILL CHANGE. THEIR. LIVES"
	"It DOESN'T get any TOUGHER THAN THIS"
	"They're just COOKING THE DINNER!"

Dr G and I are off to the fair city of York this arvo to celebrate three years of hasty marriage.

I should have thought of this weeks ago but forgot amidst the deaf and snottiness... I was wondering - you guys had so many brilliant ideas when we went to New York - has anyone been to the old one? Gareth's all geeked up for the air museum and the rail museum, but what's in it for me? Mwahaha.

Signs of old age and crotchety-ness:

• We booked our train tickets in the Quiet Coach. Shush, you kids!
• Gareth is bringing a thermos of tea coz we're too stingy to pay £1 for the pissweak on-board swill.
• Although Gareth will say it's more about environmental reasons - all them nasty plastic cups.

If he shows up with a tartan rug we're doomed.

A parcel arrived from The Mothership. It took two months and $90 to come over on the boat. Among the loot - ancient issues of delicious magazine, a random handbag, moisturiser, two fleece hoodies, tiny tins of passionfruit and creamed corn.

As always, Mum had mummified the parcel with a kilometre of packing tape so we had to hack it open with a breadknife. But when I was finally in, I could almost smell home… traces of Bert the dog, Earl Grey tea and chilly Goulburn air, trapped in the fabrics and pages.

Reading the magazines was a strange mix of foreign and familiar. I gawked at a photo of a sheep for ten minutes, because I’d forgotten how beautifully beige and sturdy Aussie sheep look. And all those food brands… King Island Dairy, Devondale, Pauls. It’s pathetic when a yogurt pot makes you sigh with longing.

And that Bill Granger… bloody hell, he’s everywhere, isn’t he? Does he ever stop smiling? They had his show on the BBC but he hasn’t become the same level of culinary god as he seems to be in Oz. Maybe he’s just too smiley for Britain? All that sunshine and salad; we just can’t relate to that. Gareth reckons if he shot a series on a council estate and flipped the bird as he stirred the gravy, he’d be huge.

Recently I sent a parcel to Hollie and James, my wee brother and sister. It cost £30 to send about £5 worth of British sweets and crisps. But that’s the grand tradition of the long distance care package - the postage is always at least five times the value of the contents. The ratio may have been higher for Mum’s parcel - she sent me a bagful of loose change left over from her last visit. I could just hear her voice as I pawed through the pennies, They’re no good to me now, you might as well use them! This 2p coin has had an exciting life - from Scotland to Australia and back again.

"Wherever you were this morning I hope you managed to hear and see the government's apology to the stolen generations. The message was loud and clear. Australia is sorry. There will be no more lies and evasions; the government of Australia apologises for what it did. The first business of the new Parliament was the making of a long overdue forceful and formal acknowledgement of dreadful wrongs and a sincere expression of sorrow for the pain and grief these wrongs caused. It is not incongruous or wrong to feel joyfulness and optimism because the joy is for what might come of what was done so well today."

- Lucy Tartan on an incredible day.

• What Sorry Looks, Sounds, Feels Like - Beth at Sarsaparilla
• He Didn't Fuck It Up - Ampersand Duck
• Some BBC background if you don't know what I'm banging on about!

Right now I’m watching a film on BBC4 about Scott Walker. You know, that bloke that David Bowie, Radiohead, Pulp et al always namecheck. So far the film is 50% interesting information and 50% random shots of famous musicians nodding with their eyes closed, Scotty crooning in the background.

What I have been wondering for many years is, why do Men of Rock always have such skinny legs? When I think of the Beatles I think of their twig-like pins in those natty grey suits. Mick Jagger, AC/DC, Johnny Rotten, every boofheaded hipster in the NME. All of ‘em!

Which comes first - the body or the rock? Do blokes hit the age of 16 or so and look in the mirror, Right. I’ve got no arse and tiny legs, I’d better join a band! Or do the legs come later; a product of the rock lifestyle - sex, drugs and malnourishment. Are there heaps of really talented bottom-heavy blokes sulking in their bedrooms, not even trying because they know they won’t look good in drainpipe jeans?

If you can think of someone truly rockin’ with chunky thighs let me know!