Pinky's Book Link

Showing posts with label Guest Posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Posts. Show all posts

Sunday, August 17, 2014

What does go on at the Poinker's? A Chilling Guest Post!

Last month, my adored sister-in-law, Maz from the notoriously controversial blog, The Conscience Vote stayed here at the 'Poinker Ponderover' for a week of luxurious indulgence (so I imagined).

I asked her if she'd lower herself enough to write a guest post for Pinky Poinker but warned her I'd only publish it if it was about me. Naturellment.
I needed her to proclaim to the world what a truly loving, warm matriarch I indeed am (as in the picture above).

To my surprise, I finally received her questionable writings in my inbox and with some reservations present her guest post to you now, below, just under this!

I've titled it myself...

'The Otherlings' by Crazy Jane.

It was more than a month ago, so why am I only writing about it now? It's taken me this long to recover from the horror of it all. Even as I write, my hands are shaking as the terrible memories well up. But the truth must come out, gentle reader. 

The world must be told what life is really like at Chez Poinker. I've led a sheltered life here in Melbourne. Since I was young, I came to understand that our weather was an ever-changing marvel, four seasons in one year - and sometimes, in one day! Deciding what to wear each morning meant I had the pick of my wardrobe. Imagine my shock, then, to be suddenly thrust into a world where the weather was exactly the same, day after day! Yes, it sounds unbelievable, but that's what happened. On the first afternoon, I waited for the warm, sunny climate to change abruptly to cold and rain ... and waited ... and waited. Three hours later, it was still warm and sunny - and it remained that way until the evening! What fresh hell was this? What terrible effects would living in such conditions have on defenceless humans? That's when I realised something was very wrong. 

Sitting with Pinky and Scotto in the evening, I noticed that, while I was still clad in short sleeves, they were rugged up as though they were about to brave a Melbourne morning dash to retrieve the bins! Huddling on the couch, they complained about the cold, and solicitiously offered me an extra blanket or three to ward off the 'chill'. I could only stare at them in utter disbelief. Were they having me on? Or - wait - could it be that this Ugg-boot-wearing, shivering pair were not all they seemed

 I was determined not to let them see that I was rattled. Instead, I resolved to keep a close watch on them. And so, my long vigil began. The weather continued to wear at my sanity. Warm and sunny every day, slightly cool at night. I longed for the unpredictability of home - but then I noticed something else suspicious about the inhabitants of the house. For instance, there was Hagar (twenty-one year old son of Pinky), the human revolving door. He was in and out of the place more often than a cat. Somehow - possibly as a result of living in this strange climate - he had acquired the ability to never spend more than a few moments anywhere in the house except his 'bedroom'. Ha. Bedroom, indeed. Although I was unable to explore it more closely, I suspect it's really some kind of weird science recharging chamber, almost certainly built by Scotto for his experiments on the hapless Hagar. (I've long thought my brother is an evil genius. Who else would build his own video games and collect Back to the Future memorabilia?) 

Innocent brother or mad scientist? You be the judge. Hagar's strangeness paled into insignificance when compared to the ... others living under the same roof. These creatures were truly horrific, clearly the result of experiments both unethical and sacrilegious. (Scotto, again? I think so.) There was Pablo, the chihuahua with the ability to cause a sonic boom when he barked. And there was Celine - no words can explain the dreadful changes wrought upon her, so I will let this picture speak for itself. 

                The camera lens burned out seconds after this picture was taken. 

 Now I must tell you the crowning horror - and here, gentle reader, know that I am taking my life in my hands to write this. But you must know! The world must be told! 

 In the midst of this weirdness ... presiding over laser-eyed dogs and evil-genius husbands ... was Pinky Poinker, Queen of the Damned! Each night she would ascend her throne and her subjects would pay homage to her. Celine would bring her rubber balls, Pablo would dare to offer her his slobber, and Scotto would bring her the 'wine' she needed to maintain her deceptively harmless, youthful appearance. The illusion was nearly flawless - until one morning, when I happened to wake just as she was leaving for her morning walk (no one knows just where she goes, but she always comes back glowing with health), and ... oh dear God, the horror, the horror! Now I know the truth, and I can only be thankful that I escaped with my life and soul intact. Except ... sometimes, at night, I see the gleam of laser doggy eyes ... and I hear Pinky asking innocently, 'More ... wine, Maz?' 

 Is it just me, or is it cold in here?

(Blog owner note: I suspect my sister-in-law thinks I'm a vampire. My children... it warms my heart to see you plotting against me.)

Got any weird in-laws?

Thursday, May 15, 2014


A guest post from my sister, Sam (with some cautionary footnotes).

We had a little cold spell this week, which means the musty old woollies get dragged from the back of the closet where they spend ten months of every year.

“Just look at this cardie,” I complained to my hubby. “It’ll need a good shave before I can wear it.”

The look of complete confusion on his face made me realise perhaps not everybody uses a razor to get rid of pilling on jumpers, but as my sister showed me long ago, it works a treat. This in turn had me thinking of all the other wondrous and mundane things my darling sister has taught me over the years. (1)

When Pinky and I were much younger the majority of stuff she shared was on the practical side. How to feed our dog my peas under the table (2) and not get caught, how to blame our little brother for anything I might have broken and how to read under the sheet with a torch after bedtime.

Our teenage years though were a very different story.

Pretty much everyone who knows us both has heard the story of Pinky forcing me to take up smoking. She’d just started the habit, and as our mother made her drag me around almost everywhere, she quite rightly worried that I’d dob her in.

“Right,” she insisted. “If you don’t smoke this cigarette now, none of us will talk to you.”

Since these Pinky and her gal pals were the coolest, most worldly beings I knew, I was only too willing. My first cigarette was an Alpine menthol in the toilets at the Odeon Cinema in the city. (3)

I’m sure she soon regretted this as I took to it like a duck to water and spent the next few years pinching them from her hidden packs at every opportunity. (4) (She also taught me how to do a thorough search of our house for secreted objects.)

During our 20’s, Pinky moved on to teaching me more exciting things. How to throw a great party (lots of booze), how to sneak into a concert (over the fence ) (5) and how to convince your boss that you’ve definitely caught a bug not a hangover. 

Are you seeing a trend here? Pinky made quite a fun teacher.

As they say, time waits for no woman, our single days were past and marriage and babies, soon to become toddlers, kids and dreaded teenagers were upon us. Pinky gave lots and lots of advice about all these things, often with an eye-roll and, as anyone who knows her will assume, a very bossy tone. 

I, of course, didn’t always listen, but a better arbiter of whether a bump needed a Bandaid or an X-ray you couldn’t find. I might not have had a village around me but at least with Pinky only a phone call away, my children didn’t grow up with disfigurements.

I like to think I taught my sister a few things too but the only one I could really come up with was patience as I blundered my way through life, but I am sure we learnt a few things together.

Some of my favourites are:-

How not to hold a grudge. (6)

How to bite your tongue when you need to.

How sitting in judgement doesn’t really help anyone.

That you might as well laugh at yourself because everyone else does.

And finally, to always love and appreciate your sister. (7)

Footnotes from Pinky:

(1) Thanks Sam. In one fell swoop you've destroyed my online reputation as (and I quote one of my favourite bloggers, Lee-Anne Walker, in her famous post, "Serious... and other important trivia.")  "a witty minx". 

Now anyone who reads my blog will form a mental picture of a witless Pinky sitting around all day shaving woollen garments like some sad middle-aged weirdo.

(2) Yes... and my scheme worked so well until you pushed the envelope by chucking a cold slab of Mum's steamed choko under the table, the dog refused to eat it, the game was up, I got the blame and we were both sent to bed with no dessert.

(3) I truly am incredibly sorry for that Sam. Especially as it took you twenty-five years longer than me to give the filthy habit away. But in all seriousness, how was I to know you had such an addictive personality?

(4) YOU STOLE MY CIGARETTES??? Do you know how much those things are worth now? When we were kids they were only two bucks a packet... now they cost twenty! You must owe me hundreds of dollars. 

I'll be around on the weekend to collect, and if you don't pay up I'll pin you to the ground and tickle you until you cry just like I did when you were five.

(5) Finally! My credibility is restored. I AM a minx.

(6) I still want the money for those ciggies.

(7) See above.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Sinead's Poignant Ballad: Nothing Compares to Pinky.

As promised, tonight's post is a guest post by one of our dearest family friends, Sinead (not O'Connor or the one from Bananarama). She's one of the most acerbic, witty and annoying people I know and I'm sure you will find her waffling to be very entertaining.


Good evening readers (feel free to apply your own time zone, I care not a jot),

As those most loyal and faithful amongst you would know, I am Sinead - sidekick to Sister Sam (the Baldrick to her Blackadder, the Laurie to her Fry, the French to her Saunders etc ad nauseum).

Please note that my real name is not "Sinead". I threatened to sue the pants off Her Poinkerness if she used my real name...which is actually Geoff.

I have known and loved the extended Poinker clan for two decades - which is almost twenty years when you think about it. Sam and I first bonded when she would pop into the video store where I loitered behind the counter, Tarantino-style...just waiting for someone to read my manuscripts. She expressed a deep and abiding fondness for the written word (just what I wanted to hear, trying to flog videos and whatnot!) and I knew how to read so we formed our own little Book Club founded on a mutual adoration for John Irving's "A Prayer For Owen Meany"...cheers, John.

Perhaps our relationship would have maintained this vague customer/client status had it not been for the intervention of Sam's husband, the legendary Uncle Pedro. At the time, he was a rarely seen, formidable, grunting figure whose suburban reputation preceded him as a local bruiser/boozer/businessman with whom one did not f**k.

One November morning he bellied up to the counter and said. "You're coming 'round for a drink for my wife's birthday. She likes you."
"Well, thank you so much but I couldn't possibly. You se.."
"You. Are. Coming. Round. For.My. Wife's. Birthday."

It was like a Jedi mind trick with more oomph.

Consequently, I meekly turned up with a bottle of something cheap, fizzy and vaguely celebratory...and I never left.

Pedro and Sam made me part of their family. Their generosity and kindness to me have been boundless. They have let me share the joy of their three kids as if they were my own. They loved and supported me through my father's long battle with cancer...Pedro even paid for his wake!

(Not sure what the old man would have thought about the night ending at a strip club but surely naked chicks make everything better?)

We've laughed, cried, sang, fought and loved each other regardless. We have drunk an unseemly amount of booze and often danced like nobody was watching...I hope nobody was. We dyed the dog green on St Patrick's Day and ceremoniously buried the cat when she passed all too soon. To be fair, I was only invited to the funeral because I could lay my hands on a shovel and wield it more efficaciously than a bread knife but that is incidental.

And that is the back story.

(Note from Blog Host: Here comes the important part.)

I met Pinky fairly early in the relationship. Sam is the quintessential "middle child" (quiet, unobtrusive, insular, weird) and has grown up with a certain degree of respect and deference for her older sister. If you have read earlier blogs, a healthy sense of fear for her own physical well-being may have factored into it. How I tried to kill sister Sam.

I cannot recall exactly the circumstances of our first encounter, but it was before Pinky fell pregnant with the delightful Lulu (aka "please let this one be a girl and maybe she'll stop!"). Sam prepped me for the meeting like it was going to be a mid-term at MIT - what to say, what not to say "please don't try and be funny because not everyone thinks you're as funny as you do".....I get that a lot.

So. Pinky pulled up to Sam's place one afternoon and the entire brood tumbled out of an unfeasibly small vehicle (Ringling Bros had nothing on them) and proceeded to wreak havoc while Pinky issued motherly warnings and karate chops in equal measure.


After initial pleasantries, Pinky gave me a quick "up and down" (she has a knack) and, apropos of very little said, "Ok, Sinead - who do you think is prettier... Me or Sam?"

Imagine, if you will, the horrible, slow, sitcom-esque moment in which I realised she wasn't hinting at some obscure family in-joke...

Sophie had an easier choice (apologies, Ms Streep)!!

I took the coward's way out and shot myself in the foot. Far less painful.

But seriously folks - along with Sam, I have been a Pinky fan waaaaayyy before this blog made it fashionable. I have attended her performances in amateur local dramatic productions (no Deidre was ever more sorrowful, to be sure, to be sure), I have applauded from the sidelines as she made the lunatic decision to strike out on her own with five kids in tow. I have cheered as she went back to university and studied her arse off to achieve her teaching degree (five kids still in tow). I snickered behind my hand when she started chatting to some geeky dude on the interweb...I believe you all know him as "Scotto" (I'm sure she'll tell him about the five kids one day).

I didn't have the good fortune to be raised with sisters, But now, thanks to Sam and Pinky, I feel that I am blessed with two - both younger and much, MUCH prettier.

Monday, January 13, 2014

A Guest Post by Pinky Poinker's Dad.


Last night I watched a fireworks show that made Sydney's New Year display look like a walk through a glow-worm cave. All from my front deck and all for free. For two hours or more a thunderstorm raged all around, and all above our house and it was the best lightning show I have ever seen.

There were complex sky-to-sky bolts with patterns that you couldn't dream up and great flashes of sheet lightning, but best of all were the sky-to-ground strikes, especially those that hit some of the tall high-rise buildings on the skyline. And the two that struck high tension powerlines only 300 metres away - wow! What thunder claps. How do I know that it was 300 metres? Well lightning is more-or-less instantaneous and thunder travels at around 300 metres in one second, and the bang was no more than a second after the flash---just ask my dog, if you can coax her out from under the bed.

Hello! All you readers of Pinky Poinker’s daily diatribe. I've been invited to make a contribution for whatever reason I'm not quite sure. It could be to raise the tone of the blog with a bit of quality writing , or then, it could be because I'm Pinky's papa. Anyway this post should help raise the standard to at least Upper-Bogan.

                                        Image Credit

To gain some insight into the usual scope and style of this site I have read some of the past efforts, and it appears to me that the whole thing is supposed to revolve around those five loveable rascals - Pinky's darling little children You know who I mean - the ones who phone me at 12.30 am to ask some inane question, the answer of which could readily be found on Google. The same ones who can make 3 packets of biscuits disappear faster than a politicians promise. The four gentlemen who all managed to crash their first motor vehicle---lovely Lulu hasn't managed that yet, who said that men are better drivers...?

          Little Hagar and Pinky's Dad. Perhaps the boys should have stuck to this                                                               mode of transport.

Pinky, of course, (let me assure you that my surname is not Poinker---that is her married name) is not without fault when it comes to motor vehicles. Has she posted a story about the time that she borrowed my car to go out-on-the-town only to park it in a forbidden zone from whence it was spirited away to an impounding yard? Probably not. That was the same car that she had sold to me when she was working for a car rental company.

What dear Pinky didn't tell me was that this car had been deregistered prior to the sale but that someone had forgotten to hand back the numberplates. In my blissful ignorance I assumed that the vehicle was correctly registered and the ownership properly transferred.

For a whole year I drove around in that unregistered car, and when a rego-renewal form didn't turn up, I made enquiries at the transport department and then had to bluff my way out of a prosecution and a substantial fine. And Pinky thinks her kids are a trial.

      A photo I snapped of Pinky in her uniform after she'd had a big night out.

I was a very thoughtful child, I moved away from my parents home at a relatively young age. I thought that my issued would do the same---and they did. The two girls moved out of our four bedroom house leaving just a son, Pinky's mum and me. So we sold the house and moved into a two bedroom unit. What happened? The girls decided to move back---five of us in a twobedder. So we bought another house and sold the unit. Before we could settle the contract the girls were off again. And this happened with 'regular frequency'. So we did the only thing we could think of and moved 1500 km away---to a mountain---where they didn't want to be. Where all the lightning and thunder happens.

Ciao Readers, Acolytes, Friends or whatever you people out there call yourselves.

Richard Not Poinker.


Thursday, July 25, 2013

Myrtle Turtle asks "Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed?"

Today I am delighted to introduce a guest blogger, Myrtle Turtle.
Myrtle is a friend of mine who will tickle your funny bone with a humorous tale of how she could not keep her kids in their own beds! Please enjoy!

When Pinky asked me to write as guest blogger on her Pinky Poinker, Tales from the Mother of Teenagers blog, I was a bit hesitant. After all Pinky had five teenagers, all in close succession, and her journey into motherhood could only be described as a wild, hilarious, ride. Definitely an interesting read. Mine was positively tame (possibly boring) with only two offspring and a hiatus of five years between. But no matter how many children you have, there will always be some obstacle to overcome or hilarious moment to recall!
Who’s been sleeping in my bed?
After much procrastinating I finally took the plunge and had my first child at 30. Tyrone was a good baby and kid. He was toilet trained by 2 ½ years, he did not suck on a boob, bottle, dummy or fingers after 12 months; he had no unhealthy fixations to his toys, blankets or penis. And he never plastered himself with poo or picked his nose and ate the findings. An angel child …expect for one minor flaw. He would not sleep in his own bed…he preferred ours. Now many child rearing experts would say that was entirely his parents’ fault for allowing this to happen. But I can argue that it was not our fault. And here are my three excuses.
1. I went back to work when Tyrone was three months. His daycare mother believed in long afternoon naps so she could watch her soap operas and subsequently when we got him home Tyrone never seemed tired and it was so difficult to get him to go to sleep at reasonable hour. 
2. When Tyrone was two, we sold our house and began building a new home. In the meantime we rented a small Queenslander from a friend and stored all our furniture in the sleepout and second bedroom. This meant Tyrone’s cot was placed in our room and we slept on a mattress on the floor. Of course, knowing we were in the same room as him, Tyrone decided our mattress on the floor looked like much more fun than his cot. So every night he would wake up and push his chubby arms through the rails of the cot pleading to join us. As working parents it didn’t take much for us to give in. I reasoned that this arrangement was only until we moved into our new home. 
3. We moved into the new house on Boxing Day. The Christmas of 93 was the hottest on record. We hadn’t bargained for this as we had not air-conditioned the place. In those days we thought it was a luxury though nowadays we consider it a necessity. We had planned to save up for it. After two sleepless nights hubby Glen could stand it no longer. He went down to Chandlers (local Appliance Store) and stood in line (with receipt in hand) along with what seemed like most of the Townsville population to collect his air-conditioner from the back of a truck. They didn’t even have time to unload the stock as the demand was that high. So with only one bedroom air-conditioned we could not allow our baby to swelter in his cot while we enjoyed a cool night’s sleep. And that’s how Tyrone permanently ended up in our bed. 
By the time Tyrone was four we had managed to install air-conditioning to all the bedrooms and the lounge. I suggested to Tyrone he might want to sleep in his own room for a change? “It’s not fair!” he cried indignantly “You and Dad are big people and you can sleep together. “Why do I have to sleep by myself? I’m only small and I get scared”. Damn that kid’s logic! 
When Tyrone was five, I had completely forgotten the pain of childbirth and had another one. Marigold was a whopping 9lb 3oz. 

 Tyrone was quite independent by then and extremely useful. Although he was disappointed that the new baby was a girl, he was very interested in the baby’s toilette. He would fetch and carry things and test the bathwater for me, but he did have a rather morbid curiosity of the contents of her nappy. “Let me look! Let me look!” he yelled one day when I had Marigold on the change table. “No…go away” I said, thinking his interest in her poo was unhealthy. “Well…that’s not fair”, he grumbled crossly “You can look, why can’t I?” Damn that kid’s logic!
I had explained to Tyrone that now we had Marigold, he would have to sleep in his own bed because there would not be enough room for him. He considered this very carefully and looked at the bonnie baby taking up every inch of her bouncer and reluctantly agreed. He slept in his own bed from then on without protest.
Unfortunately I cannot offer any excuse for why I let Marigold take Tyrone’s place in the parental bed. I took a full 12 months maternity and was basically lazy. I would get up her to feed her in the middle of the night and could not be bothered to put her back in her cot. Marigold had firmly established her sleeping pozzie bang in the middle of our bed. We tried again when she was three to wean her back to her own room. We would put her to bed in her room and she would wake up and trot back into our bed. Marigold didn’t use logic like Tyrone, she would just scream and scream. 

The battle raged on for many weeks until one fateful night. Marigold got up in the middle of the night and went into Tyrone’s room crying that she wanted her toys. Like any normal brother he growled back at her “Get out of my room”. He then heard her toddle down the hallway and to his horror unlock the front door and walk outside. He jumped up and raced into our room yelling “Marigold’s gone outside”. Glen and I bolted upright and then dashed out into the night. Marigold had not gone far. She had actually pushed up one of the garage roller doors which in those days we kept unlocked…we don’t do that now. 

 Now one would think that she is safe enough in the garage. But not in our garage! We used our double garage for storage. It was filled with tools and junk. One of Tyrone’s little mates had suggested to us “If you got rid of all that stuff, you could put your cars in there”. Boy we wished we had that night! It was quite a dangerous place to be walking into in total darkness. Luckily Glen managed to grab her just before she banged into any heavy objects. “I want my toys!” she wailed. That was the first and last night Marigold walked in her sleep. 

 We placed her straight back into our bed where she slept soundly (and possibly smugly). Her parents on the other hand lay there staring blankly into the darkness imagining all the possible horrors that could have befallen their little princess. The next day Glen placed a safety chain on the door and we gave up the bed battle. Our hearts were no longer into it. 
We thanked Tyrone profusely for saving his little sister. He replied scornfully “You would have killed me if I hadn’t said something”. Damn that kid’s logic!
We did however managed to encourage Marigold to sleep on a mattress in our room and by the age of 8 she decided sleeping with her parents was not at all cool. Now she is making up for those 8 years. Her bedroom looks like something out of Home Beautiful while our bedroom looks like the before shot from any DIY reality TV show! Now a teenager, Marigold retires to her bedroom and flat screen TV about 8.30 pm along with laptop, smart phone and iPad. On weekends and holidays she does not emerge until noon.
“You have spoilt her”, mentions Tyrone occasionally. Damn that kid’s logic!

Monday, May 27, 2013

The Great Driving Test Debate by Scotto

(As it's Scotto's birthday tomorrow I invited him to write a guest post. He has some brilliant arguments... please enjoy!)

Have you seen the movie Idiocracy? If you haven’t you should put it on your must watch list for a glimpse into the potential future of our society.  It’s quite a funny movie but it makes you think and at times you can’t help but feel the movie has a slightly prophetic feel to it.
Just look at what the TV stations try to pass off as entertainment these days.  Reality show after reality show and yes, I’ll admit to watching some of them such as X Factor and Bondi Rescue, but there are those that are so mind numbingly stupid you have to wonder what idiot came up with the concept and what TV executive gave it the green light. Of course it could be that the idiot and the executive are one and the same person.  Shows like Big Brother should be banned as a public health service.
Take Celebrity Splash for instance, did they really think a bunch of has-beens jumping in to a pool was riveting telly?  The whole series could have been condensed to a 5 minute gag reel so the fact that it bombed (no pun intended) gives me some hope that we haven’t yet reached the tipping point of stupidity.
Last night, while sitting down relaxing with Pinky and sipping on wine chatting about the complexities of life (ok, we were probably talking rubbish), that RBT police show came on and there was a teenager who had lost control of his six cylinder Ford and wrapped it around a light pole.  Thankfully everyone was alright but it brings me to the point of my post, the hotly debated subject of P-Plate drivers and the plethora of ideas being bandied about in an attempt to stop such incidents.
The latest push is to make driving tests tougher and extend the P-Plate period until age 25.  While I agree that a driving test should not be a walk in the park and driver education is extremely important, I think they’re missing another important point – the cars themselves. We can talk to our kids until we’re blue in the face but the truth is, they’re not listening to us. You can give them all the statistics, show them stories of fatal crashes yet the usual answers you get are things like, “Well obviously I’m not going to have an accident” or they roll their eyes at you as if you’ve just said the stupidest thing ever.  The point they are missing is that nobody leaves the house intending to have an accident, that’s pretty much why they’re called accidents.  But, teenagers being teenagers know everything and they must blindly follow that unwritten teenage law, everyone older than them is an idiot and must be treated as such.  Maybe it’s something hard-wired into them but it’s annoying as hell.
So what’s the answer? Well there’s no easy quick fix but perhaps if we change from focussing on one aspect we should look at the big picture.  First of all, take away access to powerful cars, six or eight cylinders and any car considered performance cars.  They have far too much power for inexperienced drivers to handle.  Limit their choices to low power four cylinder cars and have speed limiters in them.  Set the maximum speed of the car to 110kph (this should probably be done to all cars as speeding is not limited to P-Platers).  Perhaps the government is simply too afraid to push through legislation that will be unpopular, but wait, they didn’t mind pushing the carbon tax through and that was supposedly ‘for our own good’. 
Of course teenagers and Civil Libertarians will vehemently oppose such restrictions but you know what?  Too bad, isn’t protecting the lives of our children our (and society’s) responsibility?  Would you rather have a complaining teenager or a dead one? Bit of a no brainer really isn’t it? Besides, they’ll always complain about something so don’t feel too bad for them, especially the Civil Libbers.  
Back when I was a teenager my first car was a 1967 Mini that cost me $200 and it was my pride and joy.  British racing green but it was a gutless wonder and quite frankly, a piece of crap.  My skateboard was worth more but I still loved that car.  Of course it wasn’t without its faults and as you would expect of such a car, it had its fair share of breakdowns.  During one such period I had to borrow Dad’s car and his had a lot more power than mine and going around a roundabout in the wet I found the back-end slipping out on me.  I’d like to say I slipped into Nicolas Cage ‘Gone in 60 Seconds’ mode and skilfully counter steered and brought the car under control while being admired by all and sundry.  The truth is that I had no idea what to do in that situation and I ended up facing the wrong way and it scared the bejeesus out of me and I looked like a right goose.  I wasn’t driving like an idiot, I was just inexperienced, especially on wet roads and it surprised me just how easy it was for that sort of thing to happen.  After that I went and took all the driver training courses I could find so in future I would know what to do if I ever found myself in that situation again.
The biggest hurdles we face in trying to convey these dangers to our kids, is that they have a tendency to see us as preachy or that ‘things are different now’.  We may have safer cars but regardless of how high the safety rating is, you drive it like an idiot the end result is not going to change.  V8 Supercars are nothing like their street going counterparts and the drivers of those can survive a crash at 200kmh thanks to the reinforced safety cages, racing harnesses and helmets – things normal cars don’t have.  Do that in any street car and you’ve got zero chances of survival – no matter how many airbags you have.
At the end of the day young drivers don’t need powerful cars, they need reliable ones they can get experience in. I’m 42 and am only just getting my dream car so show some patience kids! You’ll be far less likely to put a dent in your car with some experience under your belt.
 We, as a responsible society, have a duty to guide teenagers safely through the beginning of their adult lives and sometimes that means being the bad guy and making decisions that aren’t going to be popular.  You know what though?  They’ll get over it.
Will this idea fix everything? No, but I reckon it could help improve the situation.
I can already hear some of the arguments, well I’ve got some answers.
I need a more powerful car to tow my work trailer…
Get a turbo diesel ute such as a Hilux.  A turbo diesel has all the pulling power you need, you don’t need an XR8 that can do 0-100 in 6 seconds. A turbo diesel is vastly different to a turbo petrol engine.
I have to use the highway to get to work…
I might need to overtake someone…
If you need to go faster than 110kph to overtake then you don’t need to overtake.
If the speed is limited to 110kph what’s to stop people speeding in suburban streets?
Unfortunately nothing, however the fact they’re in a 4 cylinder buzz box and not a performance car might change their outlook.  You can’t do donuts in a Toyota Starlet!  While we may not eliminate speeding we can put the brakes on hooning.
What’s to stop people modifying the cars to get around the restrictions?
One hell of a fine and confiscation of their car would be a good start.  Mandatory Department of Transport checks when renewing registration would put the brakes on this practice.
Aren’t we just molly coddling them and giving them the impression that we don’t trust them?
No, molly coddling is giving in and saying yes to everything.  It’s not a question of trust, it’s protecting teenagers from themselves.  While they need to be allowed to find their own way in life it’s up to us to intervene if their safety is at risk.
I’m not driving a car like that!
Then I guess you don’t drive.  
It’s not fair…
But they’re just being kids, you probably did stupid stuff when you were a kid…
Isn’t the role of a parent to pass on to our kids the lessons we learnt to help and protect them?  I got a couple of speeding tickets when I was young, does that mean the kids can justify speeding ‘because I did it’? Of course not, that’s a cop out. They will try and use it against you of course but as the adults we just need to stand firm.  We always hear about learning lessons from previous generations for the betterment of society, why is this any different?
But my little angel deserves this big shiny muscle car! Seeing them happy makes me happy!
Number one they probably don’t deserve it. Number two, how happy are you going to be when they wrap that over-powered behemoth around a tree and kill themselves or their friends? There’s plenty of time in their life to get a car like that after they get more experience.
Kids will always do silly things but if we give in and do nothing, do we even deserve to be parents? It’s up to us to teach our kids but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. They may hate you for it in the short term but if it means getting them through alive, isn’t it worth it?

If your kids don’t hate you at some point in their life then you’re doing it wrong.