Some of you may be familiar with the dashing young GOF.
Today is his birthday, so I’ve decided it may be fitting to post a brief, entirely unembellished biography as a tribute to this sterling gentleman.
GOF was born 45 years ago into a Methodist family, and managed to draw comfort from his faith right up to the point when he spawned a drunken disrespectful daughter who writes snide blogs about him. At this juncture he decided there was no God and instead chose to pioneer his own religion starring himself as the main deity. When televangelism proved costly and Kool Aid raised too many legal issues, GOF turned to blogging as a means to preach his divine gospel.
The childhood of GOF predates modern historical record, but from what I can gather he lived on a farm for a while, rode his bike a lot, and at one point had a bird on his head .
GOF spent the late 60’s and much of the 70’s traipsing through Papua New Guinea, building hydro-electric facilities, integrating with the locals and convincing Mrs GOF he was indeed marriageable material, not the anti-social hermit she suspected. In the early 80’s he moved to a rural location in Far North Queensland, where once again he built hydro-electric facilities, integrated with the locals and continued to convince Mrs GOF he was still marriageable material. My sources don’t tell me how precisely he’s managed to persuade her thus far. I suspect chloroform is employed on a regular basis as Mrs GOF is utterly delightful, while GOF is a curmudgeonly old llama delightful in his own way.
These days, GOF sells decorative botanical giftware to the higher echelons of Far Northern Queensland society, who frequently squabble like suburban commoners at the prospect of owning a GOF Original (which are imbued with all the grace and style of GOF himself).
Due to his elevated position in the public eye, it’s necessary for him to stay at the forefront of fashion. GOF can often be spotted trawling Cairns’ trendier boutiques, Dunlop K-26’s slapping smartly along the footpath as he haughtily examines the latest in Hard Yakka and Rio vintage-retro workwear. He enjoys good coffee, and partakes of fine cuisine and beans on toast with equal relish.
When GOF is not increasing property values with his presence, he can be found belting out Elton John numbers on his digital piano, tinkering on his flight simulator or chasing Mrs GOF around the house with a sphygmomanometer. I suspect the latter has something to do with the chloroform, and ensuring she stays in good nick for the next dosage. (Of course GOF would never deliberately over-medicate his own wife, but I have it on good authority that he’s backed into her with a trailer on at least one occasion.)
GOF has been an exemplary parent, and the only occasion I’ve felt vaguely apprehensive about his fathering skills was when he made me lie on the floor while forcibly pouring hydrogen peroxide into my ear “because it feels really cool! Trust your old man! Eh, hold still!” I was 23 at the time, and am still undergoing counselling. Aside from that incident, I’d be hard pressed to name another gentlemen for which I have quite as much respect, admiration and affection – even if he weren’t my bloody old man.
Happy 62nd Birthday GOF!
Love, Globet XOX
(Random side note: I have been signing cards, letters and emails to GOF with “XOX” for the better part of two decades. Only this year has he decided to tentatively enquire “I know the X’s are kisses, but what is the O in the middle?” Sigh.)