A Robless Christmas

Christmas is regarded by the majority of the Australian population as a festive season; a day, for the average punter, of gluttony, sore stomaches and a bank statement that declares in no uncertain terms that the race between income and expenditure did not require a photo finish; the latter winning by an easy two lengths. It is understandable then, that Christmas is a day followed by a day of mourning; taking one's wrath out on oneself or another on the aptly named 'Boxing Day'.
To further worsen this Christmas, we were given a pledge (no less in a Christmas card addressed to someone other than yours truly); a pledge promising the company of Rob, his wife and spawn. You may be a little confused that a pledge of the company of Rob and Co. (as they will be referred to in the rest of this pericope) resulted in a further demise in emotions by myself. Be patient, dear reader, and you too may find yourself wiping a tear or two in sympathy, for no sooner had the pledge party started (as we called the celebration that followed the reading of the card mentioned earlier), a text followed (cursed technology) stating in no uncertain terms that the pledge had been withdrawn due to work commitments.
No grape has been squashed nearly half as hard for wine as my heart was upon receiving this horrid news, dear friend. While you wipe your tears with me, console yourself, as I did, oh fellow championer of Rob, with a reminder that some other soul was blessed and graced with Rob's presence in our stead.
Truly, the greatest gift we gave this Christmas was Rob to another Christmas lunch.

The blissful combination of Robert, Beetroot and Kangaroo

Beetroot and Kangaroo Pizza is clearly the way of the future. Rob is the man to get us there.

Sir Robert of Tuna

I must relate this story to you (oh myriad of three followers, myself included), despite being accused of simply attempting to pass time that would otherwise be filled staring emptily at the clock, the red clock with a gold band, the one that doesn’t work in Kupang, Indonesia. That clock. The accusation just declared, noneless by myself, has some merit, although difficulty may be had in getting the clockful evidence to attend court, not least because at least two of the three of ye know little of its place and station, and the third unwilling to disclose its location for fear of prosecution.
Accusations and counter-arguments aside, I shall proceed with this mighty task of championing the cause and person of Sir Robert.
You see, or rather you read or may already know, Sir Robert has this particular gift of naming ridiculously detailed future events, at times up to a week in advance. Whether it is a gifting or merely voices in his head is yet to be determined, which is not to say that voices in one’s head cannot count as gifts or that they should be given the designation ‘merely’. While they are often considered talents, they should not be, since talents come from within, voices from without.
The story develops, and will proceed to an anti-climax shortly. Rob declared that he would catch a particular species of tuna at a specific location (no less, a Global Positioning Something specific location), within a particular timeframe (for the boat was moving at a pace similar to this pericope), facing a particular direction. And he did.

I promised you a triumphant story of the exploits and skills of Sir Robert. I have done that. I promised a speedy anti-climax. I have also done that. God bless you and, if appropriate, goodnight.

A poem

There’s a lovely young man called Robert,
Norwegian; he’s a troll, not a hobbit.
But unlike a troll,
O’er his bridge ye may stroll,
And trust he’d ne’er try stop it.

How to champion the cause and person of Rob

If you're wondering how to join the increasing number of homosapiens who wish to champion the cause and person of Rob, the following true story may inspire you and plant an idea that may grow into an enormous tree that has placards nailed to its plethora of limbs, each screaming 'Go Rob, Go Rob':
Michelle and I were invited to Rob and Charlie's to enjoy some cheese and the classic board game called Risk (which incidently, or maybe not so incidently to this blog, Rob won clearly and honestly within three rounds, and which incidently, he was so humble in winning, that I had to point out to him that he had won the game... without which, he would have happily carried on playing the game, permitting some lesser being (yae, even me) to 'win'). So invitation recieved, I promptly forgot said invitation, and, as the sun was setting on that glorious day, asked Michelle: "what are we up to tonight darling?" (for she is worthy of such a title, since she is related to Rob through marriage). Said she: "We're going to Charlie's tonight"

Said I: "I'm going to Rob's tonight" - a clear case of championing the cause and person of Rob from the tranquility of one's own home. Go forth then minions, champion him; you knew why, today you know how. Champion him - for his name is Rob.

Further Proof that Rob deserves Championing

Said I to Rob: "Sorry for being short on the phone today."
Said Rob: "I didn't realise you were being short, I'm not that intuitive."

Champion. Rob's radar doesn't pick up nasty; he just lets that big ol' warship sail right on by without taking a blow or firing a shot in retaliation. You see, warships are made for war, but when those you seek to engage in a bit of that age old game called battle simply refuse to acknowledge or, in this case, fail to see the warship at all, then suddenly the mighty warship becomes redundant. Or easily victorious. But that's not helpful to my arguement.
May I present to you Rob, your (irish accent) Warship: terrible in the crow's nest, blissfully unaware of his peace-making abilities.

The Encore

Few people realise that Rob usually gets by with an acknowledgement of half his person; for indeed, his full name is Robert - an additional three letters that, if as potent as the first three, may set this man a little lower than the angels, and a little higher than the mighty garden gnome. Perhaps the three letters that make up 'ert' are best left to their own devices; but I believe their existence deserved highlighting. Clearly a complex fellow, this Rob. ert.

The person of Rob

Compare the following two recipes:

Recipe 1
Three ingredients:
Rob, wheelbarrow, ute load of dirt.

Outcome:
The hole in Rob's backyard is now considerably smaller.

Recipe 2
Two ingredients:
Wheelbarrow, ute load of dirt.

Outcome:
Dirt stays on ute, ute rusts, disappears in a pile of corrosion.

Important conclusion:
Rob = champion/ute saver.

The because, why and why not

Before setting out on any venture, particularly of the relatively new sport of blogging, one must first examine one's motives, attitutes, purpose, drive, yea, even the usefulness and shall we say market for one's blogspot, especially one endowed with such a lofty title as championing the cause and person of Rob. For championing the cause and person of Rob is no mean feat; he is a large, upright and complex fellow - futher, it can be difficult to champion the cause of someone with little, secret, obscure or (and we must leave this possiblity open), no cause.
However, it has come to my attention that there is little being done in any political or other such realms of power to champion the cause and person of Rob; yet he labours long and hard, toiling, sweating (and occasionally swearing, but always quietly and respectfully), with little result. True his name is mentioned on other blogs that rival this blog; but that is all - a mere mention. Rob. One syllable, three concise letters. Clearly the authors of other blogs which rival this blog know little of what those one and three contain; for there is much more to be revealed of Rob than any (and I stress any) three letters can do justice to. To date, it appears, Rob has gone unchampioned. Those days, my friends, require closing.

Thus my task lies before me.