Things I Would Rather Do Than Subject Myself To A Second Viewing Of Baz Luhrmann’s ‘Australia’

Scrub a toilet.

Go to the dentist.

Eat a bucket of overcooked broccoli.

Fling my naked body into a large clump of stinging nettles.

Initiate a conversation with the weirdos who live at Number 1 in my apartment block and are always doing something vaguely creepy when I walk past.

Wear dangly gumnut earrings.

Utter the words, ‘You know, I think those Scientologists are just misunderstood.’

Complete some kind of hideous, week-long ‘nature’ hike that involves sleeping under a tarpaulin, eating freeze-dried food and pooing into a hole.

Sit through a night of experimental student theatre, such as the one I saw where people threw white paint on the floor and then rolled around in it without any clothes on, or the one my friend Munkey attended where the audience was blindfolded and force-fed cat food.

Pierce my own nipple with a darning needle.

Eat a live mouse.

The Jelly Verdict



(Feel free to add to the list... )

Regeneration

Lookit! The extremely clever and kindly Byron has made my blog all shiny and new. I have absolutely no idea how he did it, and even less idea how to use all the new-fangled features that Blogger now has ('When I were a lad... It were all different, like...'), but it's an important step on the path towards the highway of the journey along the long and winding ill-thought out metaphor that represents the restart of this blog. The old blog had grown so unattractive, when I looked at it I felt shame and distaste, as if my once-cute child had grown up into an unattractive, sulky teenager with orange spray-on skin. But now it's all better. La.

Thanks to all the wonderful, beautiful peeps who commented on the last post. I am really excited about doing this blog thing again. But it might take me a while to work out how the bananas it's all going to work, and I will need help from Byron and others to make all the things go snap, crackle and pop, like Blogrolls and tags and the like. In the meantime, may I direct your attention to these pictures of the Cape Rain Frog, because it's weird and frightening* and adorable and I'm pretty sure you will love it just a little bit. You do, don't you? Yes, you do! That's why we're friends!

The Jelly Verdict
New blog is pretty... just like the new Doctor. Mmm.



Proper posts to follow...


*Wherefore the e in frightening? Take it out, I say. We could replace it with a jaunty apostrophe.

O Hai

I'm thinking of getting the band back together.

The Jelly Verdict
Watch. This. Space.

This One Time, At Band Camp...

Last weekend I lost my music festival virginity. My friend Tom turned 30 and celebrated by inviting mates to spend the long weekend with him at the Port Fairy Folk Festival.

I have previously steered well clear of music festivals, as they involve camping, and camping fills me with pure dread. There are two kinds of families: those who go camping regularly and find it enriches their lives, and those who go camping this one time and their mattresses deflate and a prowler steals their stuff and it rains and the tent smells like cat wee because the cat weed on it (which no one realises until the rain releases the stench of feline urine) and everything sucks. Or perhaps - there are two kinds of families: those who go camping, and those who go to see 'The King and I.' Twice. Maybe you can guess which was mine.

So, camping = scary. And festival camping in a rural dustbowl full of dreadlocked djembe players while listening to John Butler sing songs about pine trees = no way. I was perfectly happy to hear music in pubs and spend holidays sleeping on actual beds, kthxbye.

That is until now. See, Tom is the first of my friends to crack three-oh. And he and his ladylove, Snooze, are certified awesome. So I decided to be brave.

I snagged a ride down with Curtis and Sasha, who recently became the first in my 'peer group' (such as it is) to get married. To my immense relief they expressed a similar anxiety about camping, with Curtis even declaring that 'we haven't spent tens of thousands of years evolving as a race to be stuck in a tent in the middle of nowhere.'

It was a long drive. We got stuck in horrible traffic coming through Geelong. 'I've got it in for Geelong,' said Curtis darkly. 'They should just pull it down and start again,' agreed Sash.

It was dark by the time we arrived. Tom and Snooze had staked out a patch upon which about 20 of our friends-and-relations had already constructed tents. Curtis and Sasha had a trunkful of elite camping equipment, and a total lack of any clue as to its assemblage. Just as I was standing there thinking, fuck, we are going to be here all night sobbing into the instruction manual, Tom rolled up his sleeves and quietly stated, 'I'm going to get my head lamp.'

I stared at him. Head lamp? Saywha'now? To explain: We all know one another through (wince) student theatre. Tom is an actor and former choirboy who sometimes wears an 'Importance of Being Earnest' cast t-shirt and who I first met shortly after seeing him perform 'The Jet Song.' Drama club people aren't meant to know stage left from stage right, let alone possess wearable light-sources and casually construct large tents in the pitch black after several beers! Yet here was Tom, striding about manfully and delivering instructions such as 'grab onto that toggle' and 'align the flies'. Good lord! He was ably assisted by another friend, CC:

CC: Be careful of that pole, Curtis, if you pull too hard it might...
Curtis: *holding two pieces* Er... break in half?

The next day everyone got out their festival guides and beetled off to various events. Well, when I say everyone I obviously mean everyone except one particular person who spent much of the day cataloguing and replacing the various things she forgot in the psychotic panic that characterised her packing attempts. You'll be glad to know that if you ever arrive in Port Fairy without, say, a towel, toothpaste, socks, sunglasses or a belt, they are easily bought, although you might have to endure the scorn of nosy old ladies in the shops who say loud things like 'Can you believe that girl came all the way here without any of those things?' And you might also only find one belt in the charity shop that fits and it might be a really cheesy one clearly originally bought from Supre for 14.95 by an 11 year old girl and have the letters NYC emblazoned on the buckle, and also it might be crap and keep coming undone the whole weekend but you're two embarrassed to take it back in case the old ladies talk about you again. Apparently that's what happened to one particular person.

Perhaps the most unpleasant part of camping experience is the issue of one's toilette. The Port Fairy ablution experience involved venturing into 'Mouse's' portable facilities.


You will notice this hygiene-based company has thoughtfully chosen to name themselves after a rodent.


I followed the example of my friend Mags, who declared she was not going to shower in anything represented by a nappy-wearing mouse, especially one unbuttoning a flap in it's diaper 'as if it really needs to poo in a hurry.'

Luckily, fellow TomFest 2007 attendees Virge and Sophie had use of an actual house, a human-sized one made out of wood and brick with plumbing, and were good enough not only to open it up for an official birthday party one night, but also to allow those of us traumatised by the Mousey trucks to have a real shower. Thus I showered once in three days. Skanky yes, but at least I kept my dignity.

At this same official party we gave Tom a group present of an hawsome fancy camera. I think he liked it, he kept making squealing noises.

Many festival goers looked like my Mum's friends - smiley middle aged social workers and teachers in zip up fleecy vests. This led to an amusing moment when Curtis declared he was sick of baby boomers and I, who grew up lovingly ensconced in the arms of a thriving inner-city baby boomer groove, sprang to their defence. A few moments later we walked into the Fesitval bar tent where a conga-line of inebriated older ladies were swaying and screaming 'Swe-e-e-et Caroline' at the top of their lungs. 'See what I'm talking about?' shouted Curtis.

There was also a huge contingent of underage poppets, or 'spankettes'. This lot were frankly disturbing as they seemed to be running around loud and boozed and totally unsupervised. I realise this makes me sound like a complete grumpy old woman, but it was actually kind of worrying. My friend Fishy's mum is a counsellor at a nearby high school and has spent the last week or so trying to repair the damage. Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be unsupervised and drunk on a beach at Port Fairy!

Pete developed a taste for the gourmet sausages on sale, and was often heard wondering aloud if it was wrong to eat a kransky with the lot for breakfast. (Verdict: if it's wrong, then dammit I don't want to be right!)


Ah, the God Botherers. I hated them! They had a large ugly bus with retarded slogans (see above) plastered all over it, and their massively loud P.A. could be heard blasting ALL DAY AND NIGHT with woeful God-rock. I really hate these kind of nutjobs because they give regular Christians a bad name. Among the many creepy and unsubtle tactics designed to convert folk was the use of shitful puppets singing rock and pop songs that had been re-worded in the lamest way imaginable.


If anyone can prove that seeing a felt cow-puppet mime a version of 'Sweet Home Alabama' which has been re-worded 'Sweet Home... In Heaven!' (genius!) caused anyone to convert I will personally perform a liturgical dance at Mass next week. Another gold lyricism was 'GOD! LOVES EVERY DAY PEOPLE!' (As Pete pointed out, don't they realise the original song was written by the one man who has perhaps consumed more drugs that any other person on earth?)

Musical stylings that were very much to my liking: Habib Koite and Bamada, who completely went off. I also give the Jelly thumbs up to Jordie Lane, Lisa Miller, and the extraordinary Liz Stringer, whose music gives me goosebumps. Mags, Rosie and I spent our final morning enraptured at the feet of Eric Bibb. The man is a miracle and I have ordered his cds instead of ripping them off Limewire, which is a big deal, believe me.

There were other people that were obviously talented but not really my thing. One such act had been going less than a minute when Pete, sitting to my right, started to wriggle like a 6 year old.

Pete: I reckon I've only got another five minutes of this left in me.
*the woman performing lets out a high-pitched 'yiiiiiiip!' noise*
Pete: Well, that just shaved two minutes off.

By all accounts Luka Bloom (who, the Redhead pointed out, looked freakishly like Greg Kinnear) was very enjoyable. I'm ashamed to say that while he was performing I was sitting drunkenly in a tent with Curtis, Sasha, Mags and Rosie, trying to eat cheese and biscuits without getting them on my thermorest. This led to a now-infamous incident that involved us going to hear Lior, and finding ourselves completely surrounded by children no older than 16, many of whom were drunk, most of who were cuddling their emo boyfriend/girlfriend, and all of whom were convinced that every word uttered from Lior's lips was like, the Holy Gospel on how to live life and like, go on an amazing journey, man. As if this wasn't hideous enough, Lior himself achieved new heights of pretension even for an god of acoustic rock when he petulantly asked the crowd, 'This next song is like really special to me. Do you think you could be QUIET while I play it?'

According to other people, at this point I took a dislike to a girl in front of me who (a pox on this disgusting jingoistic teenage trend!) had an Australian flag painted on her face. And I apparently decided to kick her. Now that I type it out it sounds utterly mental but at the time it seemed quite reasonable. My memory is very blurry, but apparently this led to an horrific juvenile group 'kick the spankette' activity which eventually backfired when they all turned on us and started to say (quite reasonable) things like, 'if you're not here for the music, maybe you should leave?' 'Oh my God, they're bullying us!' shrieked Rosie. So we legged it. And then I spat on one of them. Or at least that's what Mag's reckons, but she's also an actress and they are prone to exaggeration.

All in all, it was a very cool long weekend. The camping wasn't even scary, but this was possibly because I ended up sleeping in Tom and Snooze's Party Tent, which is roughly the size of the Taj Mahal.* And I only got lost and cried once - bonus! The music was great, but even better was the company. How often to you get to go on holiday with 20 of your friends?

The Jelly Verdict
Tom and I have known each other for some years now, but I think it's fair to say it took us a while to become real friends. Speaking for myself, it was well worth the effort, which has revealed one of the softest hearts I know. It dawned on me recently that, in the words of the great** Bruce Springsteen, 'maybe we ain't that young anymore.' People are coupling up, and by the time I turn 30, a lot of my friends will already have babies. And that, of course, will change things forever. I am very grateful that Tom and Snooze encouraged everyone to attend TomFest2007. At least we'll always have Port Fairy - the group holiday where we we sat around in folding chairs, listened to music, drank beer, I may or may not have spat at some teenagers, and Tom wore a headlamp.




*I did have my own tent (courtesy Fluffy - whose current post you must ALL go and read because it's amazing) but as there was plenty of room in the Taj, I figured I didn't need it. However, any time I have mentioned this to people, they have immediately wondered if I might have, um, 'cramped' Tom and Snooze's 'style'? Yikes! Of course this is didn't even occur to me! I'm not a pervy girl, I swear! Tom's sister was sleeping there too! But oh God, did I deprive them of some kind of 30th birthday conjugal right? *is naive*

** Bruce Springsteen's greatness may or may not be debatable, although the level of wankerdom exhibited by me in quoting him this way is probably not.

Anatomy of a Family Wedding

The Day Before The Wedding
I stand semi-naked in an inconveniently small changing room in a clothes shop in Brunswick, attempting to convince my mother that the lacy pink dress she keeps poking in my direction is not what I am going to wear at my cousin's wedding. ''Cos I don't like it,' I whine from behind the curtain, sounding like a thirteen year old complaining about buying her school uniform. 'I just don't want to wear it!' The look on my mother's face tells me she is yet again wondering how she has raised a daughter who so dislikes being a girl.

Outside the cubicle, I can hear the murmurings of my younger brother, The Boy Wonder, who has been dragged along on this shopping expedition like the true metrosexual/SNAG/shemale hybrid he is, as he flirts shamelessly with the little poppet behind the register. My mother enlists him on her team: 'Try and get her to wear it, will you? She just closes off her mind to anything new at all!'

We go back and forth like this for a while, until a few compromises are agreed upon. The Boy Wonder springs into action, dashing around the shop enjoying the continuing admiration of the staff as he commands, 'We need this in a medium!' and similar. Mum keeps throwing open the flimsy curtain around me with great abandon, and when I say, 'Shit, close it will you!' She yanks it back even harder which usually exposes me from the other side. Who designs those freaking things anyway? And it's the second time lately I've been stuck in one, as...

*flashback*

A Few Weeks Before The Wedding
Snaz and Canoe, my beloved wives and FORMER BLOGGERS *glares* *prays for resumption* drag me into the lingerie department of a major shopping chain. Snaz has finally got me to agree to buy some new bras, my previous ones having been repeatedly declared not up to standard. While I giggle and wander round the store saying useful things like, 'Har har, look at those enormous cups, fill them with water and quench the thirst of an entire African nation', she marches determinedly between the racks, pulling things down with an experienced flair.

Canoe waits patiently outside while Snaz steers me into the change rooms and helps me grapple with piles of satin and webbing and what seems like lever-and-pulley systems - bosomry is a complicated business. Snaz approves of the strapless bra. I am unconvinced. I have never worn a strapless bra, I complain. Surely the mnang-mnangs will not remain under control without the extra support of straps? 'No, no. this is a really good bra. I promise. Try it! Jump up and down! Bounce to your hearts content! Like a bouncy castle! See? You're fine!' I am. I am also, it turns out, a size smaller, but several cup sizes larger, than I have been wearing for most of my adult years. WTF, people? Double-d, for fucks, all I can think it that when you sit in row DD at the theatre you are right down the front because they have taken the orchestra out. (God knows that that metaphor should be taken to mean, aside from the fact that I am an incredibly tragic theatre nerd.)

BUT I DIGRESS.

Back To The Day Before The Wedding
We find a dress. Everyone likes it. And I can wear the strapless bra with it. We find some shoes. None of us really like them, but we're running outta time here, and normal people prepare for these things in advance, so we're lucky I'm not heading off in a burlap sack with a bit of Christmas wrapping as a sash. Alrighty then. Family wedding ahoy - let's go!

The Day Of The Wedding
This wedding trip means extensive travel. With all four family members. In a small car. Together. For hours. Good times, good times.

Nine Hours Before The Wedding
My mother and I have an argument about my hair.
Dad reminds us how expensive the hotel we will be staying in is.
We pass a truck labeled 'Frigmobile,' and the Boy Wonder and I crack up.
I announce that I'm hungry.
Dad: Did you have breakfast?
Me: ...
The Boy Wonder: Foolio.

Eight and a Half Hours Before The Wedding
Me: *looks at map* Oh my god, there's a place in Victoria called Lurg.

Eight and a Quarter Hours Before The Wedding
Me: And right near it, there's a place called Lurg Upper.
The Boy Wonder: *composes country song* Don't leave me in Lurg, Lareena/Don't leave me in Lurg, Lucille/You broke my heart, down by the marina/All because I tried to cop a feel.
Me: Nice work
TBW: I do my best.

Eight And a Half Hours Before the Wedding
Mum points out a place that does reenactments of Ned Kelly's last stand.
Dad reminds us how expensive the hotel we will be staying in is.

Eight Hours Before the Wedding
Signs for the town Yarrawonga inspire Dad to start his own resounding chorus of an actual Australia song that rhymes the name with, 'linger longer.' What a family.

Seven and a Half Hours Before
Signs to food up ahead.
Me: Sweet.
Dad: It's probably a grotty old roadside caravan.
*we drive past a grotty old roadside caravan selling hotdogs on sticks and chiko rolls*
Mum/Dad/TBW: *laughs*
Jelly's Stomach: *growls*

Seven Hours Before
There's also a plce on the map called, 'Howlong.' Now, that's just being silly.
We haven't spent this much time together as a family alone, in what feels like (and probably is) years. I have to admit, it is kind of fun.

Six and a Half Hours Before
TBW: I don't wanna sound like a little kid or anything, but - are we there yet?

Six Hours Before
Signs for Drage Airworld. Th Boy Wonder and I both express a desire to visit. We love planes. Sad, but true.

Five Hours Before
I stare glumly out the window. Seriously, have you seen how fucking dry and yellow and miserable our countryside is looking right now? It is not a pretty sight. We are not far off being completely fried to death.

Four Hours Before
We arrive. We bathe, dress and beautify. Mum and I have an argument about my hair. Dad reminds us all to make full use of the free shampoos, hairdryers, irons and television, because do we remember? The hotel, it is really expensive.

HEY ITS TOTALLY THE WEDDING NOW WOW!
The ceremony is beautiful. My cousin looks thrilled, very grown-up, handsome. His wife is gracious, graceful, a total fox. I nearly cry *wipes manly tear*

One Minute After The Wedding
And now is the time at the wedding when we drink.

Two Minutes After The Wedding
We survey the crowd. I seem to be the only girl present who has not made a bold foray into the world of the fake tan and blonde highlights. In my rockabilly dress and red shoes and big sunglasses and dark hair, I feel vaguely out of place.
TBW: Heh. You look kind of like early-era Winona Ryder has accidentally wandered into a Hilary Duff movie.
Me: Thanks a lot, pal. *glares*
TBW: Especially as you're so scowly.

15 Minutes After The Wedding
My LadyCousin wanders over. 'I've noticed there's an awful lot of tit on display here today,' she remarks. 'I think I even saw some nip.'

20 Minutes After The Wedding
Groomsman Cousin rubs his temples and remarks dejectedly he got stuck with the 'dud bridesmaid.'
TBW: It's not all bad. She's certainly got the twins out on display.
GC: Well, she has to emphasise her only good feature.

An Hour After The Wedding
Woo hoo! Weddings rock. Let's party! Where's my champagne? Oops, it's photo time! Try to remember to take sunnies off, smile at the nice people, hide your beer behind that bearded guy, what's his name, oh yeah, Dad. Hey, when does the dancing start, peoples, lets get this show on the road! Also, I'm hungry. Also, go Wolverines! *falls over*

An Hour And Ten Minutes After The Wedding
My brother and I lure my little kid cousins into misbehaving. We sneak back to the hotel and watch tv until the proper reception starts. We reflect on the curiously comforting nature of Simpsons re-runs. Itchy and Scratchy land! Bort nametags! Yee-ha! Hey, was I allowed to bring this champagne with me? Ah, no matter *drinks*

An Hour And Fifteen Minutes After The Wedding
*raids the snack bar*

An Hour And A Half After The Wedding
Dad tracks us down and orders us all back to the party. I nervously shove the snack bar wrappers under the bed.

Two Hours After
PARTAY TIME PEOPLE.
*eats*
*drinks*

Two and a Half Hours After
Speeches. Oh, God, it's all really emotional. Somehow, when very blokey men start going on in a heartfelt manner about how much everyone means to them, it is all so much more intense that when it is emo inner-city folk. Because they only say it when they really mean it. By the time step-children are thanking step-parents for raising them like their own kids, and parents are reflecting on kids they brought to Australia from overseas to give them a better life, I am slightly undone. Lady Cousin is also crying. As are all the bridesmaids. And Dad.

Three Hours After
My Aunt and Uncle carve up the damn dance floor. My uncle dances better than any farmer in the country, and possibly the world. He is as light and nimble on his feet as Gene Kelly. The Boy Wonder and I hit the dance floor too. So do Mum and Dad. And Lady Cousin, Groomsman Cousin, and everyone else. This. Goes. Off. The family that dances together stays together, I say.

Three and a Quarter Hours After
Some random song called 'Thank God I'm A Country Boy' comes on, and massive groups of men charge the dance floor and start dancing together in circles with their arms around each other. The bromance on display here, folks, is unparalleled. It's all so energised and full on that it's like we're suddenly in the barn-raising scene from 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.' The Boy Wonder attempts to leave the dance floor, only to be caught in an endless series of interlocking male arms, in the 'Swing your partner round and round!' manner, from which he remains unable to escape for several minutes. I can just make out his alarmed expression within the sea of madly bobbing heads. I'm not exactly sure what I'm witnessing, but as a form of culturally sanctioned male bonding/creative expression, IT IS FASCINATING.

Fours Hours After
One of the chief instigators of the aforementioned bromance attempts to breakdance and I nearly trip over his efforts at the turtle-style back spin. Perhaps I'll sit this one out.

Five Hours After
Cake. More declarations of love. The happy couple are affectionate and loving and beautiful the whole time. Meanwhile, not a person present has looked at me twice or even attempted to flirt with me. Clearly I am hideous to all of humankind and no one will ever love or marry me. *drinks* I grab a piece of cake and remember that old story that, if you sleep with it under your pillow you will dream of the person you are going to marry.

Five And A Half Hours After
Hit by uncontrollable wave of tiredness. Time to go back to the hotel and try not to be sick on anything expensive.

Five and Three Quarter Hours After
I throw up on my shoes and dress while doubled over in the car park. The Boy Wonder stands 50 metres away, killing himself with laughter.

Five and Seven Eighths Hours After
I shower fully clothed.

6 Hours After
*sleeps*

The Morning After The Wedding
I am woken very, very, very, very early - possibly as early as 10am - by the little cousins, who come galivanting into the room, desperate for me to play with them. 'Jelly, why is your hair all sticky-uppy like that? Hah, Jelly your eyes look all funny and puffy. Uh... Jelly, why is your dress on the floor in the shower?'

And Five Minutes After That
Dad comes running into the room, anxiously reminding me not to sleep through the breakfast buffet. There's a lot of food out there and we need to make the most of it because, in case I have forgotten, this hotel is really fucking expensive.

The Jelly Verdict
It is not hard to make an argument for the irrelevance of marriage these days. Plenty of the happiest couples I know are unmarried, plenty of others might never be allowed by our government to get married, and plenty of married people I know have relationships that are total crap. On the other hand, going to a good wedding is like being in a Broadway show - everyone has cool costumes and a few lines to say, then the band plays, someone sings a song, you swing your partner round and round, the softies in the audience cry.

And as for the wedding cake, who did I dream of? As I packed my bags, copped it from Dad about the snack bar purchases (oops) and we readied ourselves for the long journey home, I found my piece of cake. Half Squashed. Under the bed, with the wrappers from the snack bar. I forgot to put it under my pillow.

Well, fuck. Who believes in those stupid superstitions anyway.
















PS- Hello.

It Takes One Solid Weekend Of Training To Get That Badge

I was standing with my friend Curtis on the tram stop near the corner of Collins and Spencer St, engaged in a cheery discussion about the hypocrisy of the Australian government and the inevitable demise of civilisation as we know it. We paused in our upbeat chat long enough to note that we were opposite the new Krispy Kreme donut city shop. The shop looked busy - there was a queue at the counter, despite the fact that it was after 8pm. Both of us agreed that we didnt really 'get' the whole Krispy Kreme phenomenon. Yes, they're tasty, but, you know, they're still only donuts. Why do people go berzerk for them?

Conversation wandered back onto other topics. Suddenly a siren whooped and two police cars came racing down the street towards us, lights flashing, the works. They pulled up outside Krispy Kreme. Curtis and I were like, whoa, maybe a donut fan has gone mental! Riots in the store as punters fight over the single remaining glazed chocolate item! The cops hopped out of the two cars and headed inside. A few minutes later I was like, What happened, are the cops still in there? We checked - and discovered that no, the cops weren't inside now, they seemed to be standing in a little clump around their cars. They certainly didn't look like they were working hard to break up a hostage situation, or even a food fight.

Curtis: Haha, how funny would it be if the cops have actually just turned up to get some donuts?
Me: Yeah, hahah, you know, cops love their donuts, gobble gobble! Like Chief Wiggum!

And it was at this point that a store employee wearing some kind of wacky get-up - possibly a Krispy Kreme sandwich board-type arrangement - scurried out of the store and handed a large cardboard box to the cops.

Curtis: Oh, no way.
Me: They can't possibly be--

The cops rested the box on the hood of one of the cars, opened it and...

Curtis: They are!

Yes, they were. They were eating them. Cops! Eating donuts! On the job! LIKE CHIEF WIGGUM! And they'd driven up with sirens a-blarin' and lights a-flashin', and everything! Curtis and I stood shocked. Complete strangers started to join us.

Businessman: Did those cops just turn up at Krispy Kreme to score donuts--
Us: Yep.
Irish Accent: And now they're all standing around eating them?
Us: Yep.
Businessman: Good God.
Irish Accent: *baffled* You mean... Just -- car -- arrive-- cops-- now -- donut -- eating?
Us: You are correct, sir.

After a bit more head-shaking and muttering from those of us watching along the lines of 'Am I dreaming?' 'I can't believe that just happened' and 'Why don't you go and catch some fucking rapists, you knobs,' the transport arrived and I left, but not before Curtis and I, without a camera or phone to record the incident, resolved I must blog it.

The Jelly Verdict
And so I do, in order that the story not be lost and forgotten forever in the sands of time. The tale must be told. Mine own eyes did not deceive. Your taxes at work. WIGGUM LIVEZ.