NATALIA THE RUSSIAN SPY

TEN QUICK SPY-GIRL ODDITIES

2010-10-20T12:00:00.000+10:00

1. I turn on the indicator to coincide with the downbeat of the music I’m listening to on the radio. I go mental if the tempi match. If I’m feeling reckless I’ll add counter-rhythms with the windscreen wipers.

2. Both of my little toes are squashed as if I was the childhood victim of some bizarre foot binding ritual. One of my legs is longer than the other by about an inch. I have it manipulated back into place every couple of years or so. I have one dimple, not two. Actually now that I think about it, my features and limbs are completely beleaguered by asymmetry! (a bit too much chlorine in the gene pool methinks) I’ve a dropped right shoulder that constantly needs stretching and realignment. I blame Bob the Double Bass for that one.

3. I prefer the Clydesdale over all other horses cos they've got flares. They're the hippies of equine society.

4. Sometimes I can't even remember what I had for tea the night before but I have this freakish memory for tunes. I'm often left standing like a mute when asked to recall names, dates or places unless I have a musical reference for them. For some people, smells trigger memory, for me it’s always been 70s advertising jingles, Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers.

5. If I’m not totally convinced a book is going to be good judging by the content, author and cover notes, I will read random chapters out of order before starting at the beginning.

6. Rather than throw it over my shoulder, I put a pinch of salt in my coffee. I swear by pork spare ribs coated generously in chinese five spices as a hangover cure. I hate melons.

7. Drinking a lot of alcohol makes me terribly funny. It also makes me terribly fat. This is not necessarily an oddity but as a die-hard beer lover, it certainly seems a bit odd to me.

8. I get lonely at night and have arguments with myself over the amount of blankets and what side of the bed to sleep on. Sometimes, I just like to hear the sound of my own voice.

9. My vices all belong to the ‘c’ family: coffee, codeine, cigarettes, cheese, chocolate pineapple lumps, chunky chips and chinese checkers...actually I think it’s Mah-jong I have the addiction to but since when did I ever let the truth get in the way of a chance to use alliteration? I issue instructions to the Mini-Spy in spoonerisms just to drive her a little crazy.

10. I can’t swim the butterfly. Previous public attempts to rectify this have alarmed epileptics and near-drowning victims.

SPYING IN SYDNEY

2010-09-20T11:00:00.034+10:00

The front torpedo room of the HMAS Onslow, Oberon Class Submarine based at the National Maritime Museum. Cool uh?

I’m sorry Melbourne. I do hope you can forgive me. I cheated on you with Sydney. The trip was all very last minute you understand? The mission was to hop on a plane for a bit of R&R and to meet up with some of my favourite booze-hounds and online comrades, Therbatron, Abe Frellman and Dr Yobbo. I was flying QANTAS for the first time and quite excited. (yeah I know it’s sad all you worldly travellers out there but I didn’t get onto a plane until I was nearly 35 and have only ever flown on budget airlines) Additionally, I haven’t been to Sydney for a proper holiday since my family travelled there in 1981. My only other foray into this city was for a high school tour in 2001 and I was manacled by fifty kids and their musical instruments so there were limits to what I could do, naturellment. So anyways, after having a coronary hauling my luggage up the overhead pass of Moorooka train station and travelling with the great unwashed, I recover in time for the security checks at the airport. Next time I fly, I’m going wrapped in plastic. It’s mortifying having to virtually disrobe each time. The belt, the shoes and the jewellery are easy enough I guess but the titanium limb can be a real bitch.

My first impressions of the city were all to do with planes, trains and automobiles. Much of the airport run and the city trains are underground. In Brisbane we have two far-flung stations on the outskirts of the city centre. Sydneysiders have the luxury of at least eight city stations from which to choose...and they have double-decker trains! No fair. My second impression of the city was formed when I was nearly barrelled over by several heads-down-walking-texters within five minutes of being in the CBD. These bastards are everywhere in Sydney but the Gods were looking down on me that morning in Hyde Park when I spotted the businessman-variety step into a steaming pile of horse dung left by the constabulary. Thirdly, they've plenty of statues to molest.

Highlights:

1. Getting picked up in Pitt Street. Sadly, a guy used the same line of me the next day. They were hairdressing spruikers looking to flatter and relieve me of my cash.

2. Being constantly asked for directions and helping a bunch of tradies find their building site.

3. The peeling of the bells in St Mary’s Cathedral. AWSM.

4. Getting lost in The Rocks. Ask Therbs about that one!

5. Getting ‘Biebered’ in the pub. Don’t ask Dr Yobbo about that one.

6. The Clydesdale horse trumpeting his presence whilst hauling the Lowenbrau cart.

7. Spotting my doppelganger outside Town Hall. On closer inspection however, he appeared to have a lot more stubble than me.

8. Making loud and atrocious jokes walking by the Japanese Karaoke Restaurant with the mile-long queue. Must have been plenty of sucky in their sake uh?

9. Talking to the lovely volunteers on the Endeavour replica at the Maritime Museum.

10. Despairing that the HMAS Onslow tour didn’t have the whooping sirens. Depthcharge! Depthcharge!

FABULOUS IN FIBREGLASS

2010-08-29T10:00:00.001+10:00

Veronica successfully juggles career and family while still
finding time to volunteer, exercise and shop at Sass and Bide.

Meet Veronica. She successfully juggles career and family while still finding time to volunteer, exercise and shop at Sass and Bide. You don’t need to know her vital statistics because she’s hardly vital now is she? Despite being made of fibreglass Veronica’s still a little bit intimidating (what's with her left nork?) I’ve often wondered what I’d look like as a store mannequin. It would certainly be conducive to a life of voyeurism but I’m afraid my caption would have to read something like: Natalie just manages to keep her head above water, is twice-divorced, occasionally works part-time so she can be there for her daughter when she gets home from school, shops at Jeans West and Payless Shoes and has volunteered for some codeine and a good lie down. Her vital statistics are none of your business but thanks for asking.

I was driving the Mini-Spy and her friends home from school just recently and had a good chuckle as they impaled Jennifer Hawkins' latest Myer commercial on a flaming skewer of vitriol. Ms Hawkins, in a variety of stunning outfits, is filmed larking all over the place with her tai chi-style photo shoot on the beach. She’s perfect and every time she comes on the television I can feel the nation’s female population sigh in collective despair: which makes me shake my head in wonderment. Jennifer’s commercial does nothing to induce me to shop for clothes at the fucking omni-shambles that is Myer, but I digress. This fascination with perfection is a head-spin for both men and women if you ask me. The ones who frustrate me most are those that don’t expect it in themselves yet demand it in others. You should read some of the profiles on RSVP. For every guy that will settle for and take advantage of just about anything in a skirt you’ve got an equal amount of illiterate munters who demand nothing less than pouting lips, a DD cup and legs that go on forever.

I’ve removed myself from the world of online dating. It’s not for me. The mere process of meeting people in this manner fast-tracks all the good stuff: the initial random meeting, the shallow breathing and that dawning realisation that this guy rocks your world! (not to mention the slow burn that eats away at you until you can have him in a million wicked ways) None of that happens on RSVP because chemistry does not translate into pixels very well. Besides, when you’re sitting on your arse surfing dating sites you’re not actually engaging in much of an exciting life. Hermits don’t tend to pull. It’s time to get out there and leave it to fate, or whatever it is they say about such things. In hindsight, I might have had more luck on RSVP if I’d been more specific. I did set my preferences for men no more than ten years older than me but in the section labelled, ‘What I’m Looking For’ I wrote: I’d rather not be too specific in this section because then I might miss out on the opportunity to meet a really fantastic person. What I do know is that I am not interested in casual hook-ups. I would like to meet men that are interested in good old-fashioned dating. I have a soft spot for tall men. If I were ever inclined to return to RSVP I still wouldn’t be too stringent with my specifications but I would like to share a list with you dear reader, of some of my more ardent desires in the man department. Tell me if you spot him won't you?

1. A man that can out-do me in the verbosity stakes. Somebody as prone to hyperbole as me. I love wordsmiths. They’re my weakness.

2. A man that doesn’t sulk and can tell the difference between good-natured teasing and criticism. A man that will instead, find your funny bone: not your Achilles heel.

3. A man with sexy eyes who is into eye contact. He doesn’t have to be an Adonis but he does have to melt your pants off with one look.

4. A man that treats check-out chicks, barmen, cleaners and waitresses with respect.

5. A man with a slow hand. I hate being rushed in bed. Quickies are all well and good but we cannot survive on them alone. We’d rather talk to our friend in the bedside table.

6. A man that does stuff. And knows stuff.

7. A man that can handle a motor car. Nothing turns me off more than incompetent driving.

8. A man that would rather hear me playing piano than watch the TV all weekend.

9. A man who gets my jokes.

10. A man that can’t keep his eyes or hands off me. Including times when sex is not on the agenda.

ME AND THE MINI-SPY TALK SHIT: THE ROAD TO WEST END

2010-08-28T20:00:00.040+10:00

The William Jolly Bridge in Brisbane connecting North Quay to South Brisbane.

It was a cracker of a day in Brisbane so Me and the Mini-Spy went for a road trip into Fortitude Valley to replenish the coffee supplies from the Merlo Factory on James Street. On the way home we decided to take a detour to Bent Books in West End; so instead of hanging a left onto the Story Bridge like usual, we honked down Ann Street and over the William Jolly. Please do excuse the excessive squealing at the beginning of the film. The Mini-Spy was just a little bit excited to be on the same street that her beloved Parkway Drive had made a film-clip. I did attempt to point out some of the landmarks that may have been of interest to overseas visitors but the Mini-Spy was in charge of the camera and had a completely different point of view as you will soon see. Clearly, my predilection for people watching has rubbed off on the little one. Click here for head-spinning footage of Brisbane.

BLOW SMOKE IN HER FACE

2010-08-24T10:00:00.018+10:00

Blow in her face and she'll follow you anywhere!

Well blow me! (sorry I couldn't resist) There’s a lot to be said for smoking in front of your children. It certainly had an effect on me. My father was a heavy smoker and in turn, after a few experiments, at the age of nineteen I took up the habit as well. I remember smoking my first packet of cigarettes at a cricket match at the Gabba in 1982 when I was fourteen. I’d snuck an odd cigarette here and there before that but this was a whole packet of Winfield Red and I was so sick I didn’t touch another until I was at uni. I remember the moment clearly. I was reading some gloss and on the back cover was an advertisement for St Moritz cigarettes, the luxury length ones in the flat packs of twenty with the gold band. The scene was absolute pool-side French chic. It didn’t help matters that my best mate, a rather imposing looking Teutonic boy named Andrew from Rockhampton who also played double bass was a smoker as well. We hung out regularly in the male dressing rooms adjoining the Basil Jones Theatre when the Conservatorium used to be located at Gardens Point near QUT in Brisbane. The space was deserted throughout the week and Andrew and I used it as a lunch room/smoking lounge/practice suite. We would take turns lugging our bass into the shower cubicle to do our scale cycles and the acoustics would fool us into thinking we were really awesome players. I once got my spike stuck in the drain-pipe and ended up getting tangled and head-butting myself on the tiles in there one day but that’s a story for another time. We must have smoked a million cigarettes in that room over a period of three years and nobody could have cared less. Oh yeah good times. Nothing like the blue haze of a cigarette daze in the morning.

Gradually I weaned myself off menthol cigarettes and started buying Benson and Hedges. Of course I was heavily influenced by a boyfriend at the time who smoked John Player and so that I wouldn’t have to hear the old ‘smoking toothpaste’ line again I switched over to MAN cigarettes. Advertising laws pertaining to cigarette billboards hadn’t been heard of and as a result, all those years of going to the cricket must have subliminally influenced my decision to smoke B & H: a major cricket sponsor in the 70s and 80s. It was a good thing the Marlboro ads did nothing for me.

When I was a kid everyone smoked and we just lived with it: my Granny, my Aunt, my Dad and Grandad, the local priest and all the teachers at school. A trip to the staff room at lunch required night-vision goggles. In those days, the term ‘passive smoking’ hadn’t been coined. Even Sister Mary Francis used to smoke an Ardath when mowing the parish lawn. To this day the smell of a burning match reminds me of my dear old granny and still makes my adrenalin rush.

At the age of 41 I’ve been smoking regularly since I was nineteen. Yesterday I bought my first packet of Nicorette chewing gum. I don’t know why because I still enjoy smoking and the motivation to quit is low so we’ll see how that goes. As a smoker I’ve always been hyper-aware of the aging effect so I’ve always invested in excellent skin care but still you can’t escape the fact you’re depriving your body of oxygen and your complexion and moods suffer for it. I guess if I’m honest, the real problem is I love smoking but I miss the kissing. I’m hyper-vigilant in the breath department and am addicted to toothpaste and mouthwash but it’s just not the same. Wish me luck and spare me the earnest lecture! :-D

MAGAZINE MANTRAS

2010-08-21T11:00:00.002+10:00

How I looked before the sledgehammer incident.

I’ve never been into gossip mags but when I walk into a newsagency, occasionally I am drawn to the women’s section. I quickly scan the titles looking for something new and interesting to materialise but this task is usually futile with lashings of Beckett. I’ve been reluctant to part with the green stuff for Australian magazine literature for a number of years now but I did once have a fashion magazine obsession and I don’t intend going there again. I could cry when I think of all the money I wasted before I realized I was reading the same article over and over again. There’s only so many times you can do ‘Too Fast. Too Droopy. How to Handle His Erection’ before you realize that you got the same advice from a Better Homes and Gardens article on transforming boggy wet spots in your garden. So in an effort to redress my former fiscal errantry, I’ve decided to have a virtual garage sale on eBay. In three weeks I have made a neat $500 from selling celebrity autographs and posters, CDs and DVDs, vinyl records, electronics and computer parts, sheet music, jewellery and perfume. It’s been fabulous to offload some of this stuff and make some room in my tiny living quarters and I even managed to get rid of that magazine collection. My mum and sister reckoned they wouldn’t sell and told me I was mad. Sure enough, a woman in her early thirties from Dunwich on Stradbroke Island drove to my place to pick up a slice of that collection. She was absolutely thrilled with her fifty issues of Cleo and Cosmopolitan and even offered me money for my old Rolling Stones and Kerrang! magazines but I demurred. When her husband clocked my stash he just slumped his shoulders and ambled off to back the ute up to the garage. My family were surprised to say the least. I told them it was all in the selling and my carefully constructed ad which appealed to the student of magazine journalism to read the original 'How to have 10 Orgasms and Succeed on the Stock Market by Lunch' article. Even this morning when I idly picked up one of the remaining copies of my collection: a particularly pretty issue of Vogue with Natalie Portman on the cover, I turned to read an article that I’ve seen written in so many guises that it’s getting kind of beyond ridiculous. It was one of those ‘men and their feelings’ stories written by some intern who thinks she’s channelling her inner David Attenborough but instead, comes off with all the integrity of a marzipan dildo*.

Apparently the woman from Vogue writing this article has an apartment balcony that directly overlooks the courtyard of a bunch of twentysomething guys that have pizza and beer nights regularly. She writes the article as an eavesdropper, claiming she was privy to uncensored male conversations unskewed by the presence of women or the lens of reality television. (my kinda night!) She then goes to great lengths to assure us these men weren’t metrosexual nancy boys either. Just in case we thought they were gay or something. They windsurfed and rode motorcycles. They got laid regularly. The author then seeks to prove that tough boys talk about their feelings too with snippets like these:

The next night they talked about economic disparities between men and women (“Carly earns more than me, but who cares? I just want to support her in her career” said Peter”) The night after that they had an intense discussion about the trials and tribulations of raising girls (“I’m not going to give my daughter dolls when she’s a kid – it just sets her up for being a Mum and disappointment”) This assumption that friendships between men are shallow, puerile and devoid of any emotional content remain strong.

Ahem.

It’s about at this point I give the author B for BULLSHIT. The last time I heard such a tearful soliloquy coming out of the mouth of a twentysomething windsurfer, public or not, was at a wedding and it was a lively little toast, randomly punctuated with enthusiastic expressions of affection like ‘I fucken love yous all hey’. Toward the end it kind of got rambling and incoherent not to mention further marred by cries of 'Speak up Chad!' and 'Shut the fuck up Uncle Dave, you wanker' but overall I don’t remember anything particularly emotive or pertaining to gender roles and equality. Though the sweariness factor did increase significantly when the drunken ex-boyfriend made a cameo appearance.

It makes me wonder why women get such a boner for re-engineering man. He’s functioned perfectly well as is until now it seems. Traditional male traits like stiff-upper-lip stoicism, keeping one’s own counsel and taking risks, appear to be undervalued by today’s modern woman. Can you imagine if pre-historic man got a load of this feelings gear? A group’s cohesiveness and collective confidence depended on an unimpaired and unfettered male. As hunter and protector the last thing you want to hear from a man’s mouth when faced with a wild stampede of hairy mammoths is, ‘Hey guys, I’m just not sure if this hunting thing is working for me. I’m might go discuss these feelings with my wife, then have a Bex and a good lie down’ and yet these nutty little copy girls remain undaunted. I wish for once they’d just be honest about what women really want from men. Women want compliments. We want attention. We want to be the centre of your world and if you’re not talking about us then you must be thinking about something else and we can’t have that. Let’s talk about your feelings so we can get some closure on the issue and get back to me. I think there’s something in that for all of us now.....don’t you?

I've been dying to work a *Malcolm Tucker quote into something!

READ MY LIPS BIAAATCH

2010-08-20T21:00:00.012+10:00

The controversy that continues to surround lip-syncing fascinates me and I would like to write a piece in it's defence. Usually it would give me the greatest of pleasures to skewer musicians that are infinitely more successful than myself but that'd be hypocritical...because quite frankly, after working long hours I get so exhausted from typing that I'm unable to write live. That's when I resort to type-syncing. I pretend to type while a pre-written document is typed out for me. In fact I'm doing it right now. The words you are reading were actually typed in advance; I'm just miming along. If done correctly, the reader GORILLA LICKS A JELLY DONUT can't tell the difference. Because of chronic fatigue DANCING MY ASS OFF I've chosen to type-sync this article rather than write it normally ZOMBIE GOATS MIGHT EAT ME. The practice of lip-syncing during a live performance is usually frowned upon and considered a crutch used by lesser talents PARTRIDGE FAMILY EXPLODES but one must remember it is required from a production standpoint to ensure the quality of broadcast PAVAROTTI REFUSES TO FREEZE HIS BALLS FOR CRYOGENICS. Sometimes it is necessary to use lip-syncing when the singer is just too fugly to be foistered on the public BEIJING OLYMPICS NOT IMMUNE and other times it's needed when a band is completely talentless and relies heavily on their producers to play and write their own music PETER CRISS PLAYS PIANO WITH NO HANDS! I can't see anything wrong with that. Nobody wants ugly talented people dominating the music scene. That would just confuse all the ugly talented people out there and then there'd be chronic shortages in the field of custodial arts. Have you ever seen a beautiful girl singing into a mop? I didn't think so. And while we're at it, have you ever seen a pretty girl poop on stage? DEFIANT MILLI VANILLI ONLY ADMITS TO CHAFFING Well of course you haven't. So be thankful that Ashlee Simpson did the bolt during her SNL performance back in 2004. Her drummer fucked up and hit the wrong button (as drummers are wont to do) and her song 'Pieces of Me' was played twice. BICEP FEMUR LYMPH GLAND LIVER Suddenly Ashlee was struck by gastro pains and realizing that PATELLA TRAPEZIUS SPLEEN CLAVICLE BOWEL 'pieces of her' would soon become a reality, did a quick jig and ran for the nearest ablutions block whilst her song continued playing. That doesn't mean she's a fraud: just considerate of her adoring public and anatomical waste. Now don't forget that American Bandstand performances were entirely faked and nobody gave a rats about that: except maybe the ugly and talented artists ED SULLIVAN GOES DOWN ON THE DOORS So I ask you: can you imagine a world without lip-syncing? BARITONE DRAG QUEEN VOLUNTEERS FOR TELEVISED CASTRATION If it weren't for lip-syncing then punk bands like Green Day wouldn't get the chance to mock the practice on Top of the Pops in order to orchestrate a reputation for irony and disestablishmentarianism. IGGY POP AND BILLY JOE IMPREGNATE JUNKY BABOON. So as you can see, lip syncing, like oxygen GORILLA LICKING DONUTS are essential to our way of life.

CRUSHED BY THE WHEELS OF INDUSTRIAL DATING

2010-08-19T10:00:00.000+10:00

Why is it even a quick glance at your prospects on RSVP can you give the feeling you’re walking into some nasty over 40s singles bar with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe and your skirt tucked into your fishnet stockings?

DTE Aussie divorcee, 48, healthy and well preserved for age, seeks a female (any age) to share quiet nights on the couch with a bottle of red and a DVD.

Instantly you can hear the strains of Michael Bolton waft through the room as the ultraviolet light from the dance floor shows up the dandruff on your jacket. And just like the bloke with the handlebar moustache and the tattoos standing over in the corner of the bar straining to count his gold coins by the light of the cigarette machine, you know the people at RSVP have something to hide. It’s what those profiles don’t say that’s important. The mere fact that these people don’t need to pass through a metal detector makes the process somewhat daunting. Finding love on the internet might be more productive if the profiles had to go before some kind of Trades Practices Board chaired by your Mum and a forensics team.

Down To Earth: I’m just a slave to gravity. I have no grandiose ideas about myself or the kind of woman I can attract because quite frankly, I’m boring as batshit and spend most of my time scratching my nuts during Titans’ games and wanking over the K-mart underwear catalogue. People with a healthy self-esteem need not apply.

Looks aren’t important, it’s what’s on the inside that counts: I have a face like a bunch of smashed crabs and all the hot women I fancy don’t even know I’m alive. So if you’re happy to be a mere vessel whilst I get on with the very important business of imagining I’m humping Erin McNaught then let’s meet for coffee.

Honest and Trustworthy: Rather than just prove this through my actions, I’m going to pretend that I’m these things so that I can continue screwing prostitutes in the Valley without arousing your suspicions. It’s not my fault. You should have given me that hand job last Sunday night when Chuck Norris was on...bitch!

I want somebody to grow old with: I have a morbid fear of nursing homes and I’d like to invest in home care assistance. Must have warm body and be able to make a decent cup of tea and fetch slippers...to which my response is...get a dog!

Somebody to cuddle with on the couch and watch TV: to which my response is (Ad infinitum) get a dog!

What you see is what you get: My wardrobe consists entirely of cardigans, polyester slacks, garish socks and open-toe sandals. Sometimes I lose my shirt.

People that claim they have eclectic taste in music and then list Pink, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry as their favourites. GAH!!!!!!!

Good Sense of Humour: I am really funny. LOL! LOL! LOL! I haven’t graduated from toilet humour. LOL! LOL! LOL! I regurgitate jokes from the internet. LOL! LOL! LOL!

Guys that write their descriptions like they’re a house or a car for sale: I suppose that’s vaguely imaginative but it’s still a bit naff.

Guys that take photos of themselves in mirrors: I spend a lot of time in this bathroom doing...you know...stuff. Like choreographing that pecs manoeuvre and moisturising my body with high-grade sump oil. Besides, the kids are over this weekend and I don’t want scare the shit out of that cute baby-sitter.

Guys that appear to have an extra arm grafted onto their shoulder because they’ve cropped out their last girlfriend: There is currently nobody in my life that would care to take a photograph of me. I do have a sister but she refuses to navigate the engine parts, crusty underpants and the empty tuna cans that currently serve as my lounge room decor... either that or they’re too dim to find the timer on their camera.

Guys that post pictures with no regard for the background appearance of their shots: I have a degree in the field of quantum messiness. My flat is a hole of such infinite density that not even the light from my dusty lava-lamp can escape its gravitational pull. I register abnormally high levels of adrenalin at the sight of a vacuum cleaner. My dirty clothes basket recently reported me to Amnesty International.

People that list watching sunsets and walking on the beach as interests: I have absolutely no idea what romance is.

OK so I realize that this is all a bit snarky and considering that my attempts at humour are frequently abysmal, a little hypocritical. I’m obviously prepared to overlook certain deficits in appearance and my heart does go out to all those lonely and unfortunate looking men but the one thing I cannot compromise on is the guys that can’t spell, punctuate or construct a decent sentence. It’s more than just a lack of intelligence, it’s speaks volumes about a person’s desire to learn. Let me explain. Many years ago I went out with this fantastic guy. He hadn’t been raised with opportunities for higher education but he was fascinated with learning and sought knowledge at every turn. He didn’t default to disinterest when he wasn’t sure what I was talking about but rather he would ask questions and file it away in the ‘useful’ part of his brain. He didn’t pretend to know everything nor was he ashamed of that. Basically, he appreciated me and didn’t try to bring me down. I can’t tell you how many times I have made allowances for men only to have them turn around and tease me for not knowing the line-up of the Broncos or the entire back catalogue of Bruce Lee. The problem with going out with guys that aren’t real bright is not the fact that they’re not ‘well read’ or ‘dig the same shit that I do’...it’s their unwillingness to engage in a conversation I’ve initiated. The amount of times I have opened my mouth, only to be met with a blank stare and a change of subject are too numerous to count...and it wears thin really quickly.

So this weekend I’m going to sit around in my trakkie daks watching ‘An Affair to Remember’ on DVD in the full knowledge that I’m not missing out on anything. Well that’s the plan until I actually decide to go out and get a life myself. Ahem.

B IS FOR BASTARD

2010-08-18T20:00:00.031+10:00

Hawthorne Ferry terminal situated on the Brisbane River.

If A is for ADAGE then B is for BASTARD. Today I saw a simple neighbourhood scene that thawed a small part of my black and shrivelled heart. A fit looking elderly gent was walking with a little boy dressed in a super hero costume of some description. The little one was swooshing around in his shiny red cape and stopping every few metres to inspect something microscopic of great importance. The pair had only advanced a few metres by the time I drove past them again. I presumed they were grandfather and grandson by the blissful expression on the man’s face. That look made me yearn for the grandfather I never had; at least the one I wished I’d had. I did have two grandfathers, as is per the normal maximum allowance, but neither of them played any part in my life and their passing has never grieved me much. Sometimes though, I find myself thinking of them bitterly, especially now that my own father and I are estranged. Bastards.

I grew up close to the river in Hawthorne (pictured) in the 70s and 80s. Back then the elderly were the largest demographic group and many of them owned large blocks with plenty of room for pools, vegetable gardens and incinerators. My father’s father Walter or ‘Wally’ as he came to be known to us, had such a block and when my father, the youngest in the family decided to marry, Wally subdivided his property and gave half to his son. Wally and Dad were both builders by trade and together they designed and constructed the family home. Apparently they fought like cats and dogs until finally one day, Wally painted the kitchen the wrong colour. When it was pointed out to him, he stomped out of the house like a petulant child and froze out the family from that day forward...or so the story goes. Either way, I grew up in fear of this mysterious ‘Wally', a sinewy creature usually found on his hands and knees poking about in the garden out back: he was my grandfather, a neighbour with a yen for snapdragons and a virtual stranger.

I have two memories of him. The first one is a snapshot of his gardening boots under the toilet door as he sat on the seat of his veranda loo and the other is of him handing me a buttered Arnotts shredded wheatmeal and saying ‘piss off kid’. I’ve always wondered exactly what happened to inspire this total black out. How can a person possibly live next door to their grandchildren and pretend they’re not alive? I’ll guess I’ll never know because my old man is currently giving me the same treatment. Split Enz were wrong people.

Wally was notoriously tight-fisted. The only thing I ever received from him was a portion of his estate when he died in the late 80s; just enough to buy my first car, the mighty Datsun 180B Triple S Coupe with the five-speed Celica gear box in sunburnt orange. When the timing chain broke six months later, I kicked a tyre and cursed his name. Bastard!

TWITTER RELATED INDUSTRIAL DISEASE

2010-08-18T07:00:00.003+10:00

The redoubtable Dr Yobbo has announced he will be absenting himself from Twitter. This has sent me into a bit of spin. No amount of pissing and moaning is going to change that so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose. Firstly, amid a tide of sage and sympathetic reactions amongst the Twitterati, may I be the first to have a virtual dummy-spit. Doc Yobbo’s leaving Twitter? WTF? How can this be? Who the hell is going to talk to me now? Despite the geography, I consider Doc a friend. He’s sharp, he’s witty and he’s ruthless in a debate. He’s sweary and funny-as-all-fuck to read. He’s generous with his time, knowledge and attention. I like him a lot. Sometimes, he even laughs at my jokes. I’m going to miss his company: he’s like the switched-on guy in the next cubicle at work who puts up with my incessant chatter and probably the reason why I stuck with Twitter. I’d always lampooned it and a variety of cached comments on the internet will attest to that. I just didn’t get it. Who would be interested in the minutiae of my life? How could you possibly construct a decent thought with 140 characters? How could you neglect blogs in favour of Twitter? It was like comparing a Raphael painting with an Andy Capp comic strip as far as I was concerned. Problem was I got lonely. My loyal blog readers disappeared. I found them on Twitter and stayed. Here was a real-time multi-threaded conversation that was fast-paced and fun: much more interesting than waiting around for people to visit your blog or for others to reply to your comments elsewhere. So I’m disappointed to be losing the frequent contact but something much bigger is bothering me: it’s the truth in his words. Blogging and reasoned thought are being neglected: yes, we’ve discussed this at length. Productivity and families are suffering he observes: yes indeed, I used to post to my blog daily; now I’m lucky to post once a month. Tweeting has become ‘an exercise in vanity which is a poor indictment on one’s character’

Ouch. Ouch and Ouch.

That observation hit a sore point. It has come to my attention that not only am I using Twitter as a distraction from my real life problems but I am investing far too much time thinking about impression I make which is ridiculous considering I’ve long abandoned the idea that blogging was going to make me famous enough to get paid to do it for a living. My tweets reveal a deeply entrenched need to remind people I have a woody for words and fancy myself a comedienne. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking otherwise but I’m not completely vain and self-obsessed. It’s just that I’m reticent to share my personal history and struggles in too much detail. I don’t generally post anything too sad or mundane. I think this hyper-awareness of what I post is a hangover from the time when cultivating a readership and writing funny articles used to be my daily joy and obsession. Let’s not forget what a blog essentially is: a truncated expression for web-log, an online diary. By its very design, a blog is a place where you talk about yourself. Early on I developed a preference for writing observational pieces and relying on humour rather than writing something heartfelt or revealing too much information. I spent a staggering amount of hours invested in that blog and when it imploded (along with my marriage and career) I was lost. I realize now that I have transferred all that energy into Twitter instead and that composing thinky tweets is for me, verging on some kind of perverse art form. Brevity is the soul of wit and all that. Even when I’m driving around my observations are composed in no more than 140 characters. If I’m perfectly honest with myself, I try to come off smart and funny to make up for other shortcomings and it’s got to stop. I think it has a lot to do with the fact I’m not getting enough social interaction in my daily life. A girl like me isn’t meant to be locked away from people for too long! I’m unemployed, largely by choice but my savings are depleting and I need to find work reasonably quickly. This means coming to terms with the fact that my window to achieve full-time status as a writer has ended. I must return to work and writing a part-time pursuit, at the very worst a mere divertissement. Twitter is great for gathering information and personal insights and it’s tempting to hang around there all day swapping dick jokes but with some reflection, I've decided to cut back a little and invest more time in my daughter and the art of blogging!

ME AND THE MINI-SPY TALK SHIT: SCIENCE AND SEX

2010-08-16T10:00:00.064+10:00

NOTE: Sadly, this episode will have to be transcribed. The conversation occurred sans video camera and the Mini-Spy refuses to mock it up, citing reasons of artistic merit or some such bullshit.

MINI SPY: I don’t know why I took that science elective last year. It was so bloody boring.

ME: Yeah I know what you mean. Science gets infinitely more interesting the older you get. I remember in high school looking at the table of elements in chemistry and thinking WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT? I. JUST. DON’T. GET. IT. If the teachers had said to me, ‘hey kids, guess what? There’s this big black funky hole out in space that sucks everything into to it’ I might have taken more notice.

MINI SPY: Yeah I love space. Science was so much more interesting in primary school. The teachers at our school suck. Except for Mrs Such-and-Such, she’s funny as. We had her for sex-ed in grade nine. She starts this lesson one day with just the word ‘nipples’.

ME: Oh you’ve got to be joking me?

MINI-SPY: Nuh. She said 'nipples’...the whole class just cracked up. She got majorly pissed off.

ME: Well what did she expect?

MINI-SPY: I know!

ME: I had the worst experience during sex education. We were stuck in this darkened auditorium and subjected to embarrassing films for half an hour and then my family doctor emerged, Doctor Pagliaro was his name. To this day I don’t know what possessed me, but I asked him this question in front of all the year eights, something along the lines of ‘how long does it have to be in there before it works’

MINI-SPY: (cue: guffawing uncontrollably)

ME: It was pretty bad. The room went silent.

MINI-SPY: You are SO embarrassing.

EPISODE ONE: 'MANNERS IN THE MORNING' CAN BE VIEWED HERE.

THE MUSICAL BANSHEE

2010-08-13T20:00:00.000+10:00

If there is one thing of which I am certain, a set of tubular bells does not belong within cooey of any studio where a song is being produced unless it’s the theme to a movie about demonic possession. They’re the banshee of musical instruments. No percussion device portends death more than a set of tubular bells; or so I thought until today. Evil has a new face my friends. Available for purchase here are lullaby renditions of Metallica, Nirvana, The Cure, Nine Inch Nails and the like. Seriously. Some of the most depressing rock songs ever have been arranged for music box chimes to put children to sleep. Now chemistry students will tell you that acid and alkali neutralise each other. Well I’ve got news for them. These arrangements are so diabolically depressing that I can guarantee anyone that plays them to their newborns will be seeking compensation from the damage inflicted in about 20 years time. My sad parental predictions are:

Metallica: As a baby the infant Timmy develops a cry so strained you’d think he was dead-lifting a Clydesdale. By two years of age Timmy has painted his very first portrait, a triumph, disturbingly similar to Edvard Munch’s The Scream, but rendered in poo.

The Cure: As a angst-ridden teenager, Timmy decides it’s a really good idea to dress like Nosferatu and sneak into local farms to suck the blood out of cattle. Shortly after he progress onto sleeping in coffins surrounded by empty absinthe bottles and the drained corpses of pale young virgins. Poor Timmy ends up in prison after bludgeoning his girlfriend to death with a bloody big Anne Rice novel.

Nine Inch Nails: After ten years in the slammer, the hardened Timmy embarks on a music producing career and decides that Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson singing a duet of ‘Danny Boy’ whilst jamming syringes into each other’s eyes is gonna be the next big thing. Bless.

Nirvana: Lithium is the drug de jour and Catatonia the 35th state.

EKKA RECONAISSANCE CONFIRMS: SEVERE MAN SHORTAGE IN BRISBANE

2010-08-12T15:00:00.024+10:00

He was hard-bodied but a little reticent to converse.

I found the entire experience to be wanting.

Comrades, battery failure and gale-force winds sent this Russian Spy home before all objectives were achieved. Guess they just don't make spies like they used to. More here.

EKKA RECONNAISSANCE 2010

2010-08-11T16:00:00.011+10:00

The EKKA is in town and Samantha and I will be prowling about there tomorrow or the day after to complete an important reconnaissance mission. For those of you scratching your head, the EKKA is the nickname for Brisbane’s ‘Exhibition’, originally conceived as a kind of country-meets-town fair in order for folks out west to exhibit their produce and livestock. Whilst its original purpose is still attended to, many go to the EKKA to sample grievous fast food and nauseating carnival rides.

As kids, my father approached the EKKA with extreme militancy. The routine would invariably schedule all the good stuff last therefore inducing us children to behave. After making a desultory attempt to admire some cows and pigs and giant walls of fruit and veg, finally we would be unleashed on sideshow alley. The day would conclude with browsing around the sample bag pavilion to purchase our allotted ‘three bag’ limit. I remember feeling like it was the biggest decision of my life.

This year I'm dusting off the stealth cameras to document the day. If you’re so inclined, orchestrate a photographic challenge for me. I'm prepared to subject myself to all manner of humiliation for your entertainment so be sure to check back. Time for some shits and giggles. Consider me at your service.

THE GREAT SEX WEEKEND

2010-07-09T16:00:00.011+10:00

I’ve just finished reading the appalling 'Great Sex Weekend' which appears to have been written for persons who need instructions to breathe. What a woeful waste of a great afternoon! The only way this book could be remotely useful is if you’d spent your entire life in Amish country. Even your average Joe could learn this stuff from M-rated movies with naughty bits. As suggested by the title this book is a step-by-step instructional guide to having amazing nookie all weekend. Apparently the authors are well known experts who have trialled their theories with an army of ‘road testers’ whose feedback is littered throughout the book in an attempt to strengthen the validity of their recommendations. The book begins by tackling all of the minutiae involved in organizing a weekend away. *yawns* I found myself getting a soft-on. The authors recommend that if you have children and are unable to secure family or babysitters to look after them you should ‘approach a couple that you think might be in a similar situation’ (that is if anyone seriously goes around telling people that don’t have enough sex) ‘Show them the book, tell them a bit about your plans for an intimate weekend and see if they are interested in swapping child-care favours. They can borrow the book after your weekend and maybe even some of the items that you bought to enhance your own getaway.’ Well no thanks. I dare say that nobody is going to want to borrow a half-used bottle of canola oil and a sweaty old shower curtain. ‘Here Janet…have my twelve inch strap on to try with Gary…’ FFS!

Then the fun really begins. ‘Just as your car needs tuning periodically, every relationship needs to be recharged now and then. Your relationship needs tune-ups that not only keep it going but keep it humming. Think of our play-by-play guide as a handy manual to use again and again to maintain a higher level of sexual desire and satisfaction. But don't feel restricted by our advice.’ And therein lays the problem with earnest instructional genres. The author invariably operates under the assumption that people are mindless drones that will follow their advice to the letter and consequently feel compelled to include constant reminders that the reader can ‘pick and choose'. What a tedious waste of page real estate. So for all this ‘freedom of interpretation’ I’ve been granted the authors are still hell bent on spelling out a rigid timetable for this so called ‘tune-up your sex life weekend’. Friday night: leisurely walk, dinner interlude, reminiscing and industrial scrubbing of genitals followed by orgasms but no intercourse. Saturday morning: snuggle before breakfast in bed, more industrial scrubbing of the genitals followed by intercourse in no less than six different positions. Saturday night: swap fantasies during hors d’oeuvres, role play a prostitute pulling tricks over drinks, avoid films with too many gynecological close-ups and root like rabbits in your daughter’s cheer leading uniform. Sunday morning: whisper sweet nothings over breakfast, shower separately, strap on that twelve inch dildo and go for gold in the verbal sex Olympics. I want to (adverb) (verb) your (adjective) (noun). I want you to (adverb) (verb) my (adjective) (noun). Sunday afternoon: scrutinize every detail from the weekend and offer each other a critique.

HER: You just thrashed around for five minutes and fell asleep.

HIM: That’s because you laid there like a log you fat blimp.

Sounds like university to me.

Anyway, it isn’t difficult to believe this book was written by two women. And two very cautious girls at that. By incorporating contrived ‘testimonials’ from third party reports they conveniently avoid having to write anything from firsthand experience which seems a shame. The clichés roll thick and fast.
‘‘I told him that I frequently fantasized that we’re making love outdoors. When we got back from dinner we had sex on a blanket on the bathroom floor with the heat lamp and pretended that we were outside in the hot sun”

“We gave each other full body massages and did food play. He dripped honey down my body saying ‘not that you need to be any sweeter’"

Oh PUHLEEEEASE! It gets worse.

“I overcame my resistance to oral sex when my lover sent me a steamy note that read: ‘Deep pools of viscous you – I long to go there.’"

Is it not enough that we must endure having our privates referred to as small hairy mammals without bringing glue into the equation? Any man that said that to me while on the job would find himself set upon in a combination of a rolling rugby ruck and a SWAT team manoeuvre until I had him in a grip that would neuter a bison…oops...sorry boys.

“My husband and I watched Jerry Maguire and it got me really aroused. When we were spent he told me I was his Sex Goddess!”

“My wife and I danced to Melissa Etheridge. Soon the action moved to the couch. It was really hot.”

I’m sorry but anyone that recommends watching Jerry Maguire or any other Tom Cruise movie as fodder for getting aroused deserves to be damned in hell with ‘show me the money!’ as their ring tone and poked in the both eyes with Lucifer’s trident. And while we're at it: anyone that recommends listening to Melissa Etheridge deserves a similar fate…only in a more hurty place. Last time I listened, Melissa’s catalogue was wholly based on personal suffering and consuming human flesh. Her lyrics feature drowning in desire, shocking and electrifying someone, tasting sweat, quenching her thirst, feeling the steel of red-hot truth and enduring nights of lust and fire while asking to be stripped and cut by the hand of death until she bleeds in Hell. Not to mention slaps and stings and foul night air. Combine those sentiments with an Ovation guitar (which incidentally, sounds to me like dung beetles being bitch-slapped inside a Tupperware bowl) and her music is taken to a whole new carnivorous level. Yep. That's the kinda gear that makes me frisky.

In the chapter on purchasing sex aids via mail order one man happily reports that his mother-in-law discovered the catalogue and pinched it from the coffee table for her own purposes. Bollocks! I would suggest anyone that needed to read this book to obtain advice about sex would not be inclined to casually swap sex tips with their mother-in-law.

Then there is the predictable chapter on recording the proceedings with the aid of electronics. “If you’re concerned that the videotape or photo may fall into the wrong hands and cause you embarrassment, plan to destroy them at the end of your weekend.” Now assuming this book as been written for married couples and not those partaking in casual rooting (Lermontov I’m looking at you!) do you honestly think your husband is going to want to share this with his mates? Here boys…check out my old lady’s wobbly arse!

Now if I have one serious criticism of this book is that it works on the presumption that women never initiate sex and that one day on the weekend should be declared the Sadie Hawkins Day. This line of thinking has become so ubiquitous that I fear it may just be the root of all the problems between the sexes. It has been my experience in long term relationships that men and women equally make the overtures in the initial stages but after the shine rubs off the relationship, it stagnates as each person waits for the other to make the first move. You can understand why. I love it when a man just ‘has to have me’ and is so confident that rejection isn’t even a concern. I’m certain men feel the same way about women seducing them. So what are we all waiting for uh? I reckon we should all just be really honest and confess that the bloom is off the rose…and that we love the intimacy but want an open relationships and be free to love lots of people. Now how good would that be? I guess some of you might think I'm a dirty filthy hippy. Well tough.

Interestingly enough the best advice I’ve ever read about sex was written by a man. I’ll never forget the day I read that chapter for the first time. I wept. THIS was the kind of sex I was missing out on. I’ve yet to find a partner willing to read it nor find a way of expressing it. You know how reticent the male species can be about accepting advice; especially from a woman. Now apart from being a traffic-cop in bed, how else can you get your man to lift his game? I've tried the encouraging approach. I’d appreciate the advice.

CLOSET CONFESSIONS

2010-07-07T11:00:00.009+10:00

Every time I nude up for the shower my daughter somehow manages to materialise. Coincidence or not, it has become so frequent that I usually respond to her presence in the bathroom with a hearty ‘rack off you lesbian!’ You see Samantha and I have this running joke about our sisters from the Isle of Lesbos. With all the mock innocence she can muster, Samantha asks me ‘Mother...what would you do if I was to tell you that I was gay?’ to which I respond with all the quelle horreur I can manage ‘I’d disown you of course!’ This is all delivered with a huge side order of Kraft and honestly, I don’t have a problem with people’s choices in sexual preferences (not that there’s anything wrong with that!) but hiding underneath all that homophobic role playing is a shred of truth. I am scared of lesbians: scared to death of them in fact. So there you go, I’ve said it. The shameful truth is out there. I’ve only ever met a handful of the sisters in my life, so clearly my judgement is limited, but in each case the experience was such an unmitigated disaster that now I just give them all the wide berth. Call me ridiculous and irrational but don’t call me irresponsible with my life insurance policy.

Lesbian Number One: was an unattractive bi-sexual and the wife of one of my first husband’s friends, Doug. A Harley Davidson enthusiast, this man was a particularly nefarious character and fashioned leather goods for an array of equally dubious purposes under his house on the southside of Brisbane. His kinky wife decided she was going to initiate me into the ways of the super-friendly sisterhood on my hen’s night. I wasn’t going to have hen’s party but she persuaded me to her house for ‘cocktails’ rather than spend the evening alone. So I arrive overdressed in my best frock, to what amounted to be a biker chick meet. This hen was superfluous. In hindsight, I really should have sensed something was up when she put on that blonde wig and lace-up leather bustier and cornered me in the lounge room with a predatory expression. She was speeding off her dial and truly frightening to behold. This was the early 90s and long before I had a mobile phone so after she went the rough grope on my pre-nuptials, I had no choice but to leg it from my own party (in high heels) and find a taxi on the foreboding night time streets of downtown Rochedale.

Lesbian Number Two: was a promotions staff member at the Once Formidable Radio Station. One of the best things about working there was all the freebies. If it was a new magazine or an energy drink or tickets to a concert, we’d suddenly find it on our desks at any given moment of the day. I suppose some would call it target marketing; we always called it ‘getting free shit’. The funniest thing ever to arrive on our desks was a promotional can of ‘Spray on Stud’. Apparently this gear gave you numb nuts so you could ‘go the distance’. Judging by some of the weasels in sales, whose sex lives I’d say would have been primarily solitary; I’d suggest that prolonging the act with ‘an erection that doesn't quit’ would just cause an unecessary bout of chaffing (either that or the man in question has a prostate big enough to park a Volvo in!) Anyways...turn up at any radio station in the morning while that mail is being sorted out and you will see grown adults squealing like a bunch of deranged Wiggles fans. Sadly, much of my day was spent handing the free shit out to the listeners and this is where my lesbian comes into the story. Before Lesbian Number Two arrived on the scene, whenever I wanted something from the prize cupboard that took my fancy, I would simply ask for it. Sometimes the answer would be ‘yes’ and at other times it would be ‘no’ and I was happy to live with that. When LN2 took over the role things changed drastically. Suddenly the amount of prizes given away and the stock levels didn’t match and it became normal for me to be standing in reception with a listener explaining that his prize had gone walkabout and would he like something else instead…in a nutshell prizes were going missing and LN2 was quick to point the finger at me and make a big scene. I was indignant and explained to her that theft wasn’t my style and if I wanted something, I would just ask for it. She in turn created this elaborate arse-covering system that involved co-signing for prize stock in order to placate her angry boss. This intolerable situation, in which I was regularly left embarrassed with an empty-handed prize winner in front of me at the reception desk, was really starting to mess with my head. To make matters worse, she treated me like a recalcitrant child in private but quickly turned on the disingenuous charm for the listeners and the rest of the staff. She enjoyed the amount of power her position afforded her. Salesmen were always smarming around her sniffing out the best tickets for Lions’ games and announcers were always after the best seats to whatever concert was on. LN2 had a lot of people at her beck and call. Some would say she was just taking advantage of the quid pro quo. I would say she was just cunning and manipulative. Essentially all of this means I was the one lone soldier in this battle with the LN2. The reception area was well segregated from the rest of the staff so this also meant she could wager her daily assault on me without any witnesses. Suddenly LN2 developed a fascination with expensive overnight express bags and posting CDs which I thought was odd considering she had imposed a steadfast ‘no posting prizes to the listeners policy’. After a month of this I was beginning to get fed up, mainly because I was the desk monkey in charge of ordering supplies. I reported her to the boss but nothing seemed to happen. LN2 disappears three months later. Apparently she’d been fixing the numbers when ordering prize stock and has been secretly selling her stash of unaccounted-for goodies on EBay and posting it from the premises! Last thing I heard the radio station was going to take her to court. I just wish I had the opportunity to see her again and give her a piece of my mind the sneaky bitch! Oh and I know that her being a bitch has nothing to do with her being a lesbian but I’m afraid the machinations of my mind don’t frequent very noble territory. Call it a nasty blind spot.

Lesbian Number Three: I didn’t even know her in person. I crossed paths with her online a couple of years back and now she hates my guts. What is it with me and lesbians? Why does this keeps happening to me? To be honest, I was probably asking for it. Referring to lesbians as the 'Fanny Rub Club' was not my finest moment.

GET A NOSE JOB AND GET A MAN!

2010-06-22T11:00:00.053+10:00

You can always tell when I’ve been shut up indoors too long without the company of a good man. I reach for the trash on the supermarket shelves. I’m one of these people that always has a healthy stock of unread material on the bookshelves so I don’t know why I felt compelled to do it, but in a moment of weakness just recently, I purchased two novels at Sam’s Warehouse in the bargain bin: two new titles from Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel. Much of supermarket chick-lit is harmlessly formulaic if you’re into that type of thing. Jackie Collins’ stories have their stock characters and predictable climax with a drugged up revenge seeking lunatic going ballistic on the beautiful people of LA with an assault rifle. You can also rely on her to give you a decent serving of dirty raunch and not just that hopelessly delicate and contrived stuff. Danielle Steel I was not familiar with, so with that glazed expression Spaniels get when they lick their balls (perhaps one of Jackie’s movie boy studs was already having his way with me right there in Sam’s?) I dropped ‘Big Girl’ into the trolley based on the quality of the embossed red lettering, the way the glitter played in the overhead light on the front cover and the whiteness of the model's teeth. Naturellement.

Anyway I’ve read it. And it was bad.

The entire book is weighed down with the dilemma of the central character and rather than give her the strength to overcome her penchant for doughnuts, instead, fills it with the maddeningly repetitive inner dialogue of woman addicted to the drama. This is probably not the first time Danielle Steel’s been accused of writing in a redundant fashion, nor will it be the last. If the book were written as a series of tweets, it would moronically read like this:

@QueenVictoria

My parents named me after a queen. I must be beautiful.

OMFG! My prettier, younger sister just showed me a copy of Woman’s Day circa 1990. The Queen Mother is like really ugly.

I don’t look anything like my parents. I’m fat. They’re ashamed of me and don’t love me. I’ve gotta big nose and wall of tits. #FML

No guys want to go out with me because I eat my body weight in ice-cream every night.

I don’t look anything like my parents. I’m fat. They’re ashamed of me and don’t love me. I’ve gotta big nose and a wall of tits. #FML

My prettier, sexier sister gets all the love and attention in our family. I order pizza with five different kinds of cheeses.

I don’t look anything like my parents. I’m fat. They’re ashamed of me and don’t love me. I’ve gotta big nose and a wall of tits. #FML

I got a nose job and instantly found a boyfriend. He’s just as broken as me. We have sex with the lights off. I eat enough bread to feed a starving nation.

I don’t look anything like my parents. I’m fat. They’re ashamed of me and don’t love me. I’m pretty now but still have this wall of tits. #FML

My boyfriend says he loves me even if I am fat and I look it in this dress. Is that an eclipse? Gosh that pavlova looks nice.

I can’t believe what a glutton for punishment I am! I really am lovable. I can't believe it took me a whole book to work that out.

As a regular on the New York Best Sellers List, Danielle Steel is apparently the seventh best selling writer in the world. Well blow me! After getting through the first quarter of the book I remember thinking to myself ‘OK...Roger that. It’s going to get good now’...so I trudged on...waiting and waiting...Nuh. Not even a decent sex scene to get me through the dry patches (of which there were many) not even a decent ‘you’re not our real daughter!’ drama. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I have come to the conclusion that Danielle Steel is like a total scam artist! Not having read any of her stuff before, this felt totally disingenuous and I was both seething and embarrassed. Good thing I turned all that ill will into the courage to continue writing each day lest I go mad knowing that Danielle’s laughing all the way to the bank.

Often authors get criticised for being too formulaic but in this case it’s as if Steel has never heard of the word. There is no formula. Just a bunch of pissing and moaning from the central character about how hard her life is because her sister is prettier and thinner than she is. Steel wouldn’t know a formula if Newton hit her in the head with his second law of motion (you should see what that man can do with a salad spinner and his strides 'round his ankles!) Wikipedia says her formula ‘tends to involve the characters in a crisis of some sort which threatens their relationship’...threatens to turn me into a raving mental patient more like it. Well crisis is hardly a formula is it? More like a staple of any basic story. Steel doesn’t give the character a lot of strength to tackle these so-called ‘threats’ and despite character development, maturity and age (not to mention years of therapy) Victoria continues to piss and moan about until she finds Mr Right. ‘Happiness comes to those that wait’ is the moral of the story, Steel may as well have castrated the heroine. The Prince saves Queen Victoria! Hardly the stuff of post-feminism or modern romantic drama is it? Maybe if this Victoria had have had a Twitter account she might have seen the pattern forming. Who knows? I had in some way, been expecting upgrades in the world of chick-lit but no it was not to be. I really don't know how that woman sleeps at night! Yeah thanks a lot Danielle Steel. Thanks...for nothin’!

Oh. The only thing I can truly give the book credit for is for reinvigorating the adverb ‘blithely’. Great word that. Describes my daughter's present state of mind :D

THE STREAK AND THE FLASH

2010-05-11T13:00:00.001+10:00

Quite a few months back now, our resident professor Paul Boylan, posted a comment at Blunty that reported in Davis California, one could be fined for smoking unless they were in motion. Apparently smoking standing still is more abhorrent than smoking on the move. The strange machinations of my mind got me thinking about the issue of flashing versus streaking and the fine line that exists between the two. According to the website Streakerama! a study conducted by the British Medical Journal indicated that many of us don’t see streaking as an act of a sexual deviant because the streaker is essentially moving and doing it for giggles as opposed to bailing up an individual in order to elicit a response. I would have to concur. That is unless the bloke in question was doing the bolt with a stiffy whilst holding hands with ten of his best bum-boys...err mates. Like most Australian children, I was first introduced to the streaker via cricket telecasts back in the 70s. Those long and humid summer afternoons were just that little bit more special when our family would be roused from our cricket stupor to point and laugh at some Wally doing the pantless-Matt-Shirvington dash across the MCG. However I do remember with some clarity, that if the streaker in question was a big breasted woman with a full bush the reaction would be slightly different. The finger pointing and laughing would be replaced with sly sniggering and uncomfortable chair squirming. But I digress. Whilst teaching at Springwood High I clearly remember being on bush duty. Now before you start your own sly little sniggers, the school was situated near a large parcel of bushland and the kids used it as a short cut to the main road. It was so far away from the administration of the school that teachers on duty there had to carry a walkie-talkie to report infractions to the big-wigs. Reports started to filter through that there was a flasher in the area. A bunch of startled year eight girls described him as a skinny little ginger runt with a goatee in a long spray jacket and not much else. Apparently he was waggling his tongue whilst grappling his bits and laughing maniacally not more than fifty metres up the track. These girls were petrified and he was eventually caught and charged. When you imagine this situation it’s kind of clear why we tolerate infantile attention-seeking tricks like streaking and not the former. The streaker just wants to be laughed at. The flasher actually thinks of his penis as the resentful, uninvited guest at every party and seeks to rectify that.

Anyways, the fact remains that both flashing and streaking defy logical explanation. I don't know what compels a flasher but when asked in court why they streak, many respond with an answer that could rival Sir Edmund Hilary for equal amounts of stupidity and existentialism: ‘Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Well not anymore sadly because pitch invasions carry heavy fines these days. The last incident I recall was during the second one-day final between Australia and India in 2008. Brisbane man, Robert Ogilvy, invaded the pitch during the 10th over and copped a shoulder barge from Andrew Symonds. The poor bugger dropped like a dead Clydesdale. It was all over the news. He was fined $1500...though Dr Yobbo once informed me that Mr Ogilvy considered the experience a privilege.

All this talk of gleeful exhibitionism also reminds me: back in 1984 I saw my first flasher penis; but it wasn’t a pariah in a trench coat. It was a professional sportsman. Back in the day when you could run onto the oval at the Gabba at the end of the game, my girlfriends and I found ourselves outside the Australian cricket team’s dressing room. A man already notorious for slapping streakers on the arse with the broad end of his Willow suddenly appeared entirely naked in the doorway. It was Greg Chappell. He spotted us and scratched his nuts. Even from that distance I could see he was mighty pleased with himself...and that it was rather wrinkly and rather old, not to mention in desperate need of grooming. I wish we’d been savvy enough to take a few photographs and extort the bastard. Little did I realize our world would become so sanitised. Today’s technology would have been perfectly suited to the task and I’m fairly certain I could have found backers in New Zealand.

A BUNCH OF REASONS WHY LIVING ALONE ROCKS!

2010-05-06T13:30:00.006+10:00

1. You can sloth about the house in bra and undies without fear of ridicule or molestation.

2. If you couldn’t be bothered cooking and just want cereal for dinner, nobody is going to complain.

3. You can verbally abuse the television or have a conversation with yourself and no-one is there to make inferences about your sanity.

4. You will never asphyxiate on the overwhelming stench of sulphur and Lynx deodorant again.

5. You can do your ridiculous exercise routine in the lounge without an audience.

6. You can do your more embarrassing grooming rituals without barricading the bathroom door.

7. You can find all of your possessions when needed because nobody has decided to pile everything into the miscellaneous kitchen drawer.

8. You can spend hours admiring your floor to ceiling bookshelves and nobody will think you’re mad as a cut snake.

9. You don’t have to endure a clash in furniture and decor. Everything is to your taste.

10. You will never find toenail clippings stashed down the back of the couch.

11. You will never have to explain who is who and what they’ve just said in a period drama.

12. You will never have to endure interviews with Rugby League players again.

13. You are free to ogle Australian Rules players without consequence.

14. You will never have to share your couch with a snoring drunk at 7.30pm.

15. You will never be tempted to trim the moustache of that snoring drunk from sheer boredom.

16. You will never have to attempt to sleep with sound of porn booming through surround speakers in the next room.

17. You get to do all the cool jobs around the house like changing light bulbs, opening tight lids on jars, mowing lawns and fixing cars.

18. You will always have the last word.

19. Nobody is going to lecture you about carbon emissions should you happen to spend hours on the end on the phone talking about nothing.

20. You will never find your housemate sniffing his underwear in the dirty clothes basket.

TOTO TWEETS

2010-04-04T11:00:00.001+10:00

THE WIZARD OF OZ by L. Frank Baum

@totorulz

I just bit that fugly biaatch next door. Then she conks me over the head with a rake. No-one gives a FCK ‘cept 4 Dorothy.

Biaatch dognapped me. Said the pleece gave her the nod to smash me over the head with a brick. When the time comes I’ll maul her snatch.

Hairy muff dive FTW!

Me and Dorothy ran away but some dude that stunk like cabbage made her cry and go home. Just in time cos big black clouds r brewing. I hate storms.

WTF? Suddenly I’m not colour blind anymore.

There’s a bunch of short arses harassing me with lollipops. Least I can sniff their crotches no problemo.

Bet that MILF in the sequins smells like chocolate. I’d so hit that.

Scores! Dorothy just got a fancy new pair of shoes. Can’t wait to piss in them. The fugly biaatch has a twin. W/e.

Off 2 find body parts & spare pair of nuts. Wish straw boy wld STFU. Ditto 4 bucket head & whining rug. Can’t a dog lick his balls in peace?

It’s hard to keep up when you’ve only got little legs. Can we pls go home now??? #FML

Not until we find the fugly biaatch and bring back her fluorescent dildo says the big green mouth in the steam room. Kinky.

Prolly have better chances finding prOn starring nasty lions, tigers and bears on the interwebz. ROFL!

Scored a mystery flight on Gorilla Airlines. L8R!

Fail frosted with arse.* Gorillas working 4 Fugly Biaatch. Dorothy locked up in her den of iniquity. I’ll never get to piss in those shoes.

Must piss in shoes. Must piss in shoes. Must piss in shoes. Time to fetch straw boy & bucket head. Maybe the rug has grown a pair.

Wet T-shirt competition sorts out Fugly. Problem is she only has a strap-on. Hope that big old green mouth is into that sort of thing.

I can sniff an arse a mile off. Big green mouth is nuthin but smoke & mirrors. Least the dude behind the curtain can give us a lift. #PWND

Uh-oh. My bad. Couldn’t resist the pussy. Now we’re stuck in this FKN hell 4ever. Who’d have thunk I’d miss the smell of Aunty Em’s crotch?

MILF suggests to Dorothy that her new shoes have secret powers. GTFO! Hope the puddle of piss doesn’t electrocute her.

This bed smells like cheese. There’s no place like home.

*© Dr Yobbo

THE RETURN OF THE RADIO

2010-04-01T07:00:00.007+10:00

I used to work as the phone monkey and director of first impressions at a popular, once formidable, FM radio station in Brisbane. Funny how I ended up doing that job after twelve years of teaching. I used to have thirty state high school students under my thumb everyday. I was there to teach and they had no choice but to learn it. Being boss was both intoxicating and comforting. I knew how the day would pan out. I knew the job like the back of my own hand. Boredom drove me into the arms of a long held fantasy. I would become a radio announcer!

As this brainwave struck me at the age of 34 and I hadn't an ounce of relevant experience, I took an entry-level job to gain some. I became a receptionist, much to my father's chagrin, at a radio station. The constant complaints on the phone and the steady stream of couriers, listeners, celebreties and basic whackos required the hyper-vigliance of a soldier in Vietnam. Tenacity was required. I took the job to make contacts and learn new skills. I had to hang in there. Besides, I loved radio.

As a child of the '70s, I'll never forget the first time I heard FM radio in stereo. As I had grown up snuggled next to the old fashioned AM receiver that was cleverly disguised as some stylish piece of sideboard furniture, ensconsed in laminex, hearing Radio 10 in stereo through my walkman in 1981 was a revelation. Surely I could conjure that same feeling in my daily occupation??? My journals henceforth, will be chronicling my times as an ambitious radio receptionist.

PART ONE

Radio stations seem to attract unstable and deeply unhappy people. Despite the neutral delivery of the announcers, some people still view the radio station as essentially, a friendly kind of place. They come to make contact. 'Gary' bore a strange resemblance to that blonde guy in 'Love My Way'. But more crestfallen. He first appeared as a threat to be monitored. The lobby has this blind spot in front of the elevator and the corner was fitted out with one of those bulbous mirrors for vision. Gary stepped from the lift into the small alcove, and considering himself unseen, proceeded to unzip his jeans and reach far inside. Needless to say I was alarmed. From my vantage point, I was able to activate the silent alarm. This was supposed to inspire grown men to clamour to my rescue. The girl needed help, and I wasn't sure what he was going to do. Was he reaching for a gun? I'd heard the stories about the previous receptionist having a large pot plant hurled at her head over something Fat Cat had said. Let's not take any chances here.

Was he going to get his John Thomas out to frighten me with or did he have an irresistable need to scratch himself? Just why did he have his hands down his pants?

Long legged heroic types were at my side by the time Gary made his grand debut. Brandishing a harmless packet of Drum, he nonchalantly began to roll a spliff in the central lounge. I guess he didn't have a gun after all. Half an hour of coaxing was required to remove Gary from his new found home. G was a fan with personal problems. He cried like a baby about his last failed relationship. Apparently he hadn't been home in days and had been on an ugly bender at the Casino. In fact, he'd 'just come from there' and 'would we like a cold VB?'

Gary slobbered in every morning for a fortnight after that. After a week of dancing the same unintelligible routine with him, I resorted to handing him pen and paper for him to write out his whacky requests. With a jet-stream of Bacardi breath, Gary would challenge me as to whether his messages ever got through to their intended recipients, and with considerable mirth, I swore to him they did.

PART TWO

She looked remarkably like Marty Feldman on a bender.

Shelley stumbled from the methadone clinic into our garden hedge. Unfortunately, she was a very ugly woman. Each time Shelley presented herself to me at the reception desk, she was whacked from methadone. A government funded clinic was located directly behind the radio station near the Roma Street lock-up. It was no longer surprising to find emaciated people shooting up near your car or behind the industrial bin.

Shelley stalked me for about two months. She was the source of much amusement for an amateur anthropologist. She appeared to be in her mid to late forties. Age is always difficult to judge when serious drugs are involved. She was very stooped and skinny and any attempt she made at verbal communication would be interrupted with sudden and violent spasms. Apparently, Shelley loved Guns and Roses and was mother to a son by the name of Axel. He'd been taken away from her by family services. Her long rants about him would be randomly punctuated with recitations of lyrics from random ‘80s songs...“My little man Axel means everything to me. Those government fuckers took him away…and (insert Depeche Mode tune) “when I’m with you babe, I just go out of my head, and I just can’t get enough.” Unbeknownst to me, Shelley also visited the receptionist from B105 radio. Apparently she had presented Hilda with a naked plastic doll and threatened her with voodoo spells and other incantations.

Said place of work was anchored on the apex of a nasty little hairpin turn, notorious for swallowing small cars and mopeds. The architecture of the building allowed the boss to view the exact point at which the William Jolly Bridge connects the quay. That was the last place I saw her…completely fucked off her tits and attempting to walk in front of traffic.

PART THREE

My journey into the world of radio would have to start at the bottom of the shit heap. The following will attempt to outline a typical day working as a receptionist for Triple M.

Catch the train.

Zone out with some Hoodoo Gurus on the walkman with the loose fitting head phones.

Get berated on the train by ugly little ferret who would rather humiliate me loudly about the offensive volume than give me a brotherly ‘wink wink nudge nudge’. (and that's just a taste of the Ipswich line commuter demographic)

Suffer humiliation in front of a packed train of smirking high school kids.

Discover that ferret owns a Triple M back pack.

Have smug fantasises that when he comes to collect his U2 tickets I will allocate him the crappiest seats in the venue.

Walk from Roma Street Station to North Quay.

Step over previously mentioned junkies.

Smile back at ‘Sven’ backpacker types.

Arrive at work and am greeted with the salutation “Is the coffee van here yet?”

Turn the phones on and pray that I don’t have to answer 300 calls like the day before and that none of the announcers have said anything too provoking.

Settle a wager between two factory workers as to whether Mark Knopfler is singing Hawaiian ‘noises’ or ‘oysters’ in Money for Nothing.

Navigate a listener calling from her mobile who claims she’s driving the wrong way up North Quay.

Spin lies to get rid of a woman renowned for stalking our breakfast announcer Marto.

Shake my head at the staff member who begins our interaction by asking me how I am, then without pausing to find out, launches into their own infinite black hole of need.

Roll my eyes at Brian from Kingston who calls to complain about the jocks ruining his ‘mixed tape’ by talking over the intros and outros of songs.

Attempt to diffuse an angry soldier on the phone who was determined to convince the station to broadcast from Iraq.

Interrupt a long diatribe about aluminium trays for utes to inform caller he had the wrong “Triple M”. Rattle off the number he should have called by heart. Impress stranger because I did a better job than Telstra Directory.

Try to block out the bimbo I work next to because she won’t stop banging on about her personal problems.

Fear for my life when anonymous caller threatens to beat me with a length of lumber that’s 2 inches thick and 4 inches wide if we played that Ashlee Simpson song one more time.

Attempt to keep my cool when a courier abuses me for his mistake.

Miserably fail at explaining the concept of satire when an angry Steady Eddy type calls to complain about playing Randy Newman’s ‘Short People’

Deflect deluded rock star wanna-be stalking the station wanting feedback about his song titled “Bigger than your Mum’s Bum”

Act as a basic venting receptacle for everyone’s angst and being expected, by management, to smile my arse off through it all.

Is it any wonder that by the end of it all, I had the attention span of a gnat?

MOROSE MIDLER

2010-03-20T21:00:00.004+10:00

Many moons ago I taught high school music. This was during the 90s and well and truly before the ‘Idol’ phenomenon had hit Australia. I can only imagine how the poor old high school teacher manages today with all these wanna-be divas in the modern classroom. You see, young ladies of a certain vintage and temperament start to develop what I like to call the Celine Dion Syndrome: if I belt it out loud enough and high enough for long enough then people might take me seriously schlep. The time of year I dreaded most was fourth term year ten. The syllabus at the time stated I must teach a vocal unit of sorts and I knew I was in for a hell of a time if the latest and greatest diva songs weren’t tackled, despite the certain injuries to mind and body. The girls could choose their final exam piece and it would inevitably be ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion or ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Whitney-only-dogs-and-special-equipment-can-hear-me Houston. Sometimes they’d look to musicals and be inspired by none other than ‘Memory’ from Cats or ‘I Know Him So Well’ from Chess, but I was constantly amazed at how often Bette Midler’s ‘The Rose’ would make an appearance. These kids were teenagers in the 90s. That song came out in 1979 and it’s still hanging around like a bad smell! Maybe it was on high rotation in the hospital the day they were born? Who knows? The only thing of which I am certain is that the entire time I was accompanying the little darlings on the piano; I would find myself distracted by the ridiculousness of the rhymes. I’d then have to reassure little Kristy or Kirsty (or whatever her bloody name was) that it wasn’t her voice or performance that was making me roll my eyes and shake my head. Honestly! I mean, can you really hear what you’re saying? Some crap about drowning reeds, aching needs and souls that bleed? You sure the songwriters didn’t pinch your Mum’s diary Kirsty...I mean Kristy? :-D

My heart fills with dread as my right hand moves to C and G in the upper register of the piano: ping – ping – ping – ping – ping – ping – ping. Now might be a good time to turn and run: nauseating piano ballad locked and loaded. Ray Charles did not triumph over handicaps and racist indignities just to have his instrument of choice used as a glockenspiel. Then finally, after a pause so pregnant it’s having triplets, Kristy warbles in with something about love being ‘a river that drowns the tender reed’. I’ve heard many sentiments about love in my time: love hurts, love steals, love is a battlefield, love is like oxygen, but a river that destroys plant life? Yeah right. We only need the ‘reed’ because it rhymes with ‘seed’ Bloody tragic overwrought metaphors. ‘Love is a razor’ (so you ‘bleed’) and ‘love is a hunger’ (that you ‘need’) until the final refrain where love is ‘a flower and you its only seed’. See how much trouble it was to get there? Later on we hear about the ‘heart that never learnt to dance’ because damn it we have to rhyme with the ‘dream afraid of waking that never takes a chance’ Phew. I’m exhausted. Have you heard anything more ridiculous? Well…have you?

BEAUTY AND BEASTIALITY!

2010-03-12T11:05:00.013+10:00

OMFG. I've just been offered a role on a 'Beauty and the Beast' style program on community television! I haven't been this excited since the day I divorced my first husband. When I worked at the Once Formidable Radio Station, I met Mr X at reception. He was regularly employed as a voiceover talent. We've had a few beers and plenty of shits and giggles since. Anyways, just as I was at my lowest ebb professionally, he rang me out the blue yesterday with the news. I doubt that visitors to this page would be connoisseurs of daytime TV but you may remember the last rendition of this show in Australia was headed up by the late and overtly obtuse Stan Zemanek; a persona likely to be relished by ratings-hungry networks. The format of the program required a ‘beastly’ male host and a panel of female ‘beauties’ (a term used very loosely if you consider Jeannie Little and the likes of myself) who attempt to solve viewers’ problems with sage (but more often ridiculous) advice. We haven’t met to discuss our personas or the tone of the program as yet but I would expect that the standards won’t be as restrictive as they would be on a commercial station. That said, I don't expect the world would be ready for Aunt Mavis (well fuck me swinging you’re one sad little soldier!) but you can be sure that I'll want to scratch the funny bone wherever possible. Earnestness isn't my strong suit. For the pilot we are going to have to write mock problems and this is where I seek your assistance. I would be grateful for your Agony Aunt conundrums for the panel’s consideration. They don’t need to be crass or humorous (as the comedy emanates from the solutions themselves) but they do have to be composed in such a way as to be vaguely genuine and provide scope. You can bet your bottom dollar the panel is going to have some New Age Hippy on board! I would very much like to make this a collaborative project for those of you with the time or the inclination. I will leave this post open for a considerable time in case the mood strikes you later.

AFRAID OF CONSONANTS

2010-02-25T21:00:00.007+10:00

Pearl Jam’s rise to success here in Australia is just more proof that nobody listens to lyrics anymore. The song ‘Alive’ from their debut album Ten, is about incest. Yah great. Except a lot of people didn’t know that at the time. Including me. OH HEEYYY-AYE-YAI WHOOAA-OHHH, AHM STAHL A-LAHVE OH-WAY-HEEYYY (not that’s not some weird arse sanskrit or Welsh but a literal translation of the title) Eddie Vedder is the only man I know who is afraid of consonants. Either that or his jaw dislocates an awful lot. I’ll be damned if I understand a fucking word of it. Pearl Jam was all over the radio in the early nineties here in Australia and we took to it much like a rag would to sump oil. It was as if somehow, fuzzy distortion, flannelette and lots of indecipherable lyrics were suddenly new concepts. We had James Reyne for fuck’s sake. Not even the guy that cracked Germany’s Enigma Code in World War 2 could work out what the fuck Aussie Crawl were singing about.

Anyways I initially thought ‘Alive’ was something about stepfathers and didn’t know about that thing Eddie had for his Mother until a few years later. Long time readers of this blog will remember a post in which I wrote about my former experiences with a man that scared the daylights out of me with his Oedipus complex and thing for Jim Morrison. Well then it should come as no surprise to you all that I ended up at a Pearl Jam concert with this very same man in 1995. At least I think it was. I can’t be sure. I do remember enjoying ‘Animal’ and ‘Rear View Mirror’ and drunkenly singing along with the mob to ‘Alive’ but I just couldn’t make it to the end. This clown standing next to me kept splattering in my face about how much he wished he was a girl and had boobies just so he could fuck Eddie. (sic) You can imagine. I had to get out of there immediately. I can get pretty anxious around crowds and in lots of traffic and will think nothing of bailing a concert before the end, unless the band is really worth it. Obviously Pearl Jam wasn’t and much to my boyfriend’s annoyance, I wanted to leave early. Though not over that one issue entirely, our relationship pretty much ended there in the car park that evening. His behaviour had always been erratic and frightening. It was time to call it quits anyway. No wonder he looked at me funny in the car when the words to ‘Better Man’ suddenly punctuated our argument. We strained to listen to what we were missing. The words ‘she lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man’ could not have resonated at a more significant time. Yeah good on ya Eddie, nice one! I know reader; it’s pathetic and sad but it’s true. It was indeed my most triumphant MTV moment. I wonder, has a song lyric ever synchronized so perfectly with your situation like that before?

MAYER EQUALS MOOCHING MUNTER

2010-02-22T13:00:00.024+10:00

Looking for good music on Brisbane radio stations is a fraught with danger. If you don’t kill yourself attempting to tune the radio while driving in heavy traffic, then the music seriously will. I’m reasonably certain that if I didn’t have a CD player in the car, I’d have to fight the compelling urge to declare war on the general public and take hostages. Therefore, it was with great distress that I found myself subjected to John Mayer this morning. Locusts swarmed, foundations crumbled, worlds collapsed, universes imploded and then my ears bled. I was listening to 97.3. Which for all intent and purposes appears to be a chick radio station. Rhianna and Katy Perry mixed in with a bit of lightweight 80s nostalgia and some House music from the 90s: occasionally bearable but more often that not, on mute.

Anyways, having worked at the Once Formidable Radio Station for a number of years, I am more than familiar with the concept of ‘concert presents’ deals. A radio station with good ratings and the artist in question on high rotation, will partner up with a promotions/touring company and in exchange for tickets to giveaway to listeners, will flog the hell out the fact that ‘xyz’ is coming to Brisbane. To wit, it has come to my attention that John Mayer will be bringing his wet panties act to this corner of the globe in April, or so some breathless 30-something female listener informed me this morning by squealing her delight down the phone line to a thoroughly bored radio announcer. I find it difficult to compute that women in their 30s and 40s can still work themselves up into a lather about a musician with bee-stung lips. Aren’t they over it yet? I know that this little black duck hasn’t entertained a romantic fantasy about a rock star since the time Johnny Diesel ignored her fan mail. Then again, maybe I’m just suspicious. Years of dealing with serial prize pigs at radio stations that freely admitted to selling their concert tickets on EBAY will do that to you. HONETLY PEOPLE!!! DO WOMEN REALLY LOVE JOHN MAYER THAT MUCH? If you’re a fan, please step forward. You've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do sunshine.

Now I will freely admit that his first song ‘No Such Thing’ has a pretty beguiling melody, but I’m afraid just about everything he’s written since then is so utterly precious I’d gladly drink bleach than endure another one of his breathlessly contrived songs. Do you remember ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’? Well considering visitors to this page are mostly male, I will presume you don’t, because if there is one thing of which I am certain, preppy wet-arses waxing lyrical about bubble-gum tongues wouldn’t register on your radar. I heard it this morning and my forehead knitted so much that it made a scarf. So to purge myself of this insidious brain-worm and to add weight to my argument, let me elucidate.

The song begins with Mayer popping syncopated chords (much in the vein of Extreme’s More Than Words) and then chronicles a lazy afternoon banging his girlfriend while Bold and the Beautiful plays in the background. In that I-just-woke-up-so-horny vocal style, he describes her having skin like porcelain (well of course she does!) with ‘candy lips’ and a ‘bubble-gum tongue’. Already my breakfast attempts to resurface. When I try to visualise these images, I see a wasted cheerleader’s mouth stuck to the bottom of his deck shoe. The set-up for the chorus involves the pair swimming in a ‘deep sea of blankets’ as they cancel all their plans for the day, which included downloading the new Lady Gaga album and rotating the tyres on the SAAB. Her Body is a Wonderland, a place where he’ll lose his hands...I’d rather not know exactly where. I quite enjoyed that bowl of muesli.

The next stanza commits that all too common error, in which an awkward lyric is employed so as to not upset a rhyme. He admires her hair that falls around her ‘face’ but then decides to rhyme this with ‘I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillowcase’. Next, he reassures her that he’ll never let her head hit the bed without ‘my hand behind it’. I’m at a complete loss as to what all this means, other than maybe this chick is a pillow-chasing freak with OCD who likes to ram her skull against headboards. Probably in an attempt to block out the memory that she just went down on some doofus with Asperger’s and a penchant for crisp linen. Need I go on? No...I didn't think so. BLECH.

A IS FOR ADAGE

2010-01-29T10:00:00.035+10:00

If you asked my Granny what was for tea, chances were she’d reply: ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, that’s the pot calling the kettle black, talk is cheap, two wrongs don’t make a right, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, you’re judged by the company you keep, absence makes the heart grow fonder, there are plenty more fish in the sea, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, once bitten twice shy, don’t count your chickens before they hatch, blood is thicker than water, you never miss the water until it's dry, you can’t judge a book by its cover and you cetainly can’t teach a dog new tricks!!!’ *sighs* Yeah......but what’s for tea Gran?

Her well-worn axioms would also be peppered with dubious religious phrases (Jesus Fucking Christ!) and far-fetched superstitions. Umbrellas weren't to be opened inside, black cats were to be avoided, ladders would never be walked under and bread crusts had to be eaten lest our hair went curly. I'm sure you've all been there. She was an Irish Catholic so it wasn’t surprising that she was equally invested in religion, superstition and proverbial wisdom. Considering she didn’t exactly live like a nun but still attended church on Sundays, her interest in the Big Guy in the Sky was kind of like insurance for the after-life. Hedging her bets you might say. Incidentally, Saturday afternoons with her would often involve listening to her give furtive instructions to a bookie over the telephone, tuning into the horse racing at Doomben on the wireless and then witnessing her triumphant victories expressed with reverent cries of ‘thank fucking Christ, thank the fucking Lord, you fucking beauty!’ Then she’d drink half a bottle of rum, tuck herself into bed (careful to cover all the mirrors in the house with sheets in case of lightning strikes) and rise early on Sunday to absolve her sins. Now that I think about it, I’ve never met an Irish person that wasn’t superstitious. One of my mother-in-laws was a staunch Catholic born in Belfast and had no trouble believing in astrology, numerology, reincarnation and aliens. When you consider that Christianity is based on tales of a reanimated dead guy whose followers metaphorically drank his blood and ate his flesh then I guess why not bring on the rectal probes?

Anyways, the only time I'd ever heard my family swear in front of me as a young child was when I went to visit my Gran and because it was second nature to her and never seemed to make a big deal of it I kind of innocently picked up the habit. One of my earliest memories is sitting amongst the clover patch in our back yard in Hawthorne, furiously trying to split a leaf down the centre in order to fashion a ‘lucky’ four-leaf clover and hollering ‘Jesus Fucking Christ’ over and over in manic frustration. To my Mother’s dismay, washing my mouth out with a cake of Sunlight soap only served to strengthen my resolve, in later years, to carve out a long and illustrious career in swearing for Australia.

DANCING THEIR ASSES OFF

2010-01-16T12:00:00.020+10:00

To try and snap me out of my funk, Mum suggested I might like to accompany her down to Easts Leagues Club for her birthday last night. This wasn’t the first time I’d stepped foot into this establishment so I had a fair idea of what to expect. It kind of has this air of desperation about it...sad old timers marking time, catatonic pokie patrons and thrice divorced balding middle aged men with plenty of money and no dress sense...but she enjoys herself down there so who I was I to deprive her? They have cheap, decent home cooked style food, rock and roll dancing and big cash prizes; plus I enjoy her company so it wasn’t too much of a stretch. So rather than sit there and sulk about ‘where have all the good men gone?’ I decided to don the latex cat-suit, pop on the night-vision goggles and indulge in some long overdue reconnaissance. What else is a Russian Spy to do when her dancing technique resembles something like Elaine from Seinfeld on crack?

My first impressions were centred on the dress-sense and age of the female patrons. Without a word of exaggeration, some of these women were hitting 70 and still trying to squeeze themselves into tight tops with spaghetti straps (despite having arms that looked like a string bag full of camembert) and clingy dresses in leopard print with plunging necklines and it wasn’t pretty. This is definitely something I’ve never seen in such concentration before: middle-aged to elderly women still out on the pull. Not content to sit at home with tea and toast and Eddie Maguire for company, these old ladies were out there shakin’ their booty (and other fleshy bits) and refusing to lie down quietly. Various tensions amongst the regular patrons were centred on bitching about who was dancing with whom and one-upping each other in the war to snag the best man. Whilst a part of me was thinking ‘yeah go sister!’ another part felt sympathy for all the grandchildren out there sitting at home with surly teenaged babysitters instead of their grans. Some of these kids will never know what it’s like to get a big sloppy whiskery kiss or have their nostrils fill with the scent of lavender talc or sink their faces into a large pair of pillowy bosoms on a cold night. Then my thoughts turned to economic disaster: were the makers of floral bath cubes, lace hankies and shortbread feeling the pinch? Well at least manufacturers of polyester halter tops in garish prints and hairdressers specialising in platinum hair-dos will never go out of business. Though I might suggest that the people whose job it is to market support underwear to the middle-aged are simply not trying hard enough. Then again, maybe I should just pull my head in and hope for the best in my advancing years. One thing is for certain: I don’t want to be desperately fighting for the scraps at age 70 whilst discussing the details of my illnesses with all and sundry. I think I’d rather die in a state of blissful apathy; eating shortbread and smelling of talc whilst a grandchild snuggles into one large pillowy bosom. How do you see yourself as an old person?

DIRTY MOUTHED HEADLESS WOMAN

2009-11-21T09:00:00.003+10:00

For reasons too dull to explain, I have been of late driving a Nissan Pathfinder. It's another loaner. All I can say is if I had the choice, I'd rather be driving around in a Russian Lada Niva than this hunk of plastic on wheels. Firstly, the genius who designed it thought it would be a really great idea to put the speedometer in the middle of the dashboard. I don't need to explain how dangerous it is to be having your eyes off the road for any time more than absolutely necessary, but after driving it around for a good two months I am still looking for the speedo in it's regular position and having a DOH! moment when I find it's not there. Secondly the front side panels are made of plastic. I discovered this as I was leaning up against it one day and the whole front panel caved in under my weight. Suffice to say there's not a lot of metal between me and an errant semi-trailer...making the airbags somewhat redunant don't you think? Anyways the reason for my little spit about this particular vehicle is that yesterday I nearly rear-ended a car outside my house in it. Hail was forecast for Brisbane and I had to move the damned thing off the road. My street is on a gentle incline and I was facing downhill. A Corolla had earlier squeezed into a space right in front of me and reversed within a bee's dick of my front bumper. Unbeknownst to me, the Pathfinder has a dodgy handbrake. You'd think I would have discovered this before now but I tend to ride the clutch a lot and only use it if parking on a steep hill, of which I haven't had to do as yet. As I was putting the car into reverse and employing the hand brake I realized that I couldn't release the foot brake in order to get the revs up because the hand brake wasn't holding! I was sickenly close to the rear bumper of the Corolla in front of me when I realized I had to take desperate measures. Picture this: left foot riding clutch at point of gear engaging, right foot on brake pedal, head under the dashboard and left hand desperately reaching down to the accelerator to get the revs up and find the balance point so I could get the damned thing moving without risking it rolling forward. Anyone observing this fiasco would have found a car revving unecessarily high then reversing with no sign of the driver in the front seat all the while being accompanied by my special brand of expletives. I made it under the car port with no damage to either party. Then it didn't hail. Fuck this shit. So cheer me up with your near-miss stories if you please!

SAVING BLUNTNESS FOR BLUNTY

2009-11-19T11:00:00.022+10:00

Years ago when I was working for the Once Formidable FM Radio Station all the staff were given a copy of 'Don't Sweat the Small Stuff' by self-help guru Richard Carlson as a Christmas gift. I'm not adverse to this type of genre as they generally contain something useful; be that either for the purpose of piss-taking or serious consideration. Well I had cause to be reminded of one of the chapters contained within that little tome this morning when I was criticized by a young chap on YouTube for playing 'Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover' incorrectly. When I first read his comment I was ready to lash back with full ammunition but decided to find the 'grain of truth' in his criticism before committing myself. One of the lessons in DSTSS discusses the benefits of this technique in that it gives us a chance to learn something we may have overlooked. So after giving his advice serious consideration I found him to be talking out of his arse and told him in so many words. Now I find I’m having mixed feelings about it all. You see I’ve alienated friends before because I’ve opened my big mouth to righteously defend a position. The need to be right and the need to make other people wrong doesn’t always sit well with me (it is appropriate at Blunty though not particularly productive with loved ones) but in the case of the 20 year old self-proclaimed bass expert that I will never have to lay eyes on, I’m feeling both victorious and ashamed in equal measures. So for all the She-Man traits I pride myself on there seems to be no getting away from this distinctly feminine desire to keep the peace and the ensuing internal counterpoint of feelings. I think. URGH.

GET YOUR BOMBAY ROCKS OFF

2009-11-13T09:00:00.007+10:00

As a mildly modern, socially responsible type of person, I was quietly confident that I had expunged most ‘isms’ from my attitudes. I don’t indulge in racism, sexism or ageism and I once tried fundamentalism but didn’t like the outfits. Well it has come to my attention that I need to address a new ‘ism’ of which I’m guilty. A prejudice against good-looking people: spunkism. I hate you all! I was browsing through KWOFF this morning when I happened upon an article about the new social networking site b eautifulpeople.com which is essentially a dating service for gorgeous guys and gals only. Apparently potential members need to upload a photo of themselves before being eligible to create an account. So in a grand moment of disillusion I think to myelf ‘I must try this!’ (being the glutton for punishment that I am) and sure enough I was rejected with a resounding ‘Nope. Not good enough love.’ Well blow me! Fuck you beautiful people and your inner sanctum! Fuck you all with your glossy hair, symmetrical features and well-turned ankles!

So what are the creators of this website saying? I’ll tell you what they’re saying. They’re saying the rest of us who are short, flat-chested, bald, knock-kneed and unsymmetrical are not worthy of love. We are left marginalised, disempowered and oppressed. I guess that’s nothing new though is it? Botticelli, Raphael, Manet and Matisse all preferred the pretty lasses. How do you think the Venus de Milo lost her arms? Knocked off no doubt in a jealous fit by a woman whose arms looked like a string bag full of camembert. Only great humanitarians like Rubens dared to paint overweight women; Picasso at least made women with flat heads and pointy noses feel good about themselves. Then there’s Michelangelo’s sculpture of David isn't there boys? Ahem.

You have to ask yourself what will our society be like if we continue to judge people by their spunk quotient. Will all the people with wonky noses by forced to live under bridges; will people who have acne have to ride in the last train carriage; are we creating a huge underclass of people with unmanageable nasal hair? Honestly! I believe people that have been denied positions to model underwear because they have beer guts should have legal redress. And be generously compensated.

Now for those of you who have been reading this blog for some time know that this isn’t the first occasion that I have despaired about perfection in others. Back in 2007* I wrote an article chronicling the favouritism beautiful people received at my place of work, specifically a young spunk who enjoyed preferential treatment in that he routinely failed to turn up to shifts and was never admonished. I clearly remember a most astute observation made by Girl Clumsy: ‘The worst thing, though, is when beautiful people are also really nice, or really talented. I mean, come on. If you're naturally stunning, then at least have the decency to be a total shit, or at least dumb.’ You bet your ass! You can only console yourself with being witty, mildly brainy and having a good body for so long folks. Just look at Venus and weep.

*For the sake of nostalgia I have inserted some memorable comments in response to my original whinge below. And don't visit that bloody site!

STEALING CANDY FROM BABIES

2009-11-10T17:00:00.008+10:00

As discussed in this forum before I have a love of all things TULL; which is what happens when people who use big words grow a beard and pick up a flute and a codpiece. Suddenly concept albums about horses seem like a good idea. Named after the inventor of the seed drill, TULL sounds both sexy and agrarian at the same time. Whilst young girls in my day lamented along with Janis Ian's 'At Seventeen' I aligned myself with young fellas despairing about slim-hipped Gold Coast lads slipping their tongues into nubile beach babes. But not for reasons you think. The TULL was a chance for disenfranchised youths to feel superior. Here was music for teens with artisitc pretensions. You couldn't dance to it, you couldn't pash off to it and it was too hard for your garage band to play. Their songs went for 20 minutes so they had to be intelligent! Bugger Dylan. 'Thick as a Brick' bangs on for half an hour and it still makes no sense. It's hard finding people to admit they're TULL fans. Like buying shares in Telstra being a TULL fan is an embarrassing secret not many will admit to. But I have no such pretensions. CHECK OUT MY VIDEO.

KILLING MUSIC WITH CAPTIONS PROJECT

2009-11-09T21:00:00.001+10:00

Long time readers will remember back in the days of JournalSpace I gleefully attacked awful music in the SEROTONIN DEPRIVED series. Well since discovering Windows Movie Maker I have decided to re-imagine that idea on YouTube. Instead of writing scathing commentaries in this forum I will instead do it in 'real time' with the assistance of silly video captions. I do so hope you enjoy KILLING MUSIC WITH CAPTIONS.

PINK FROCKS AND DINNER LADY ARMS

2009-11-05T19:00:00.005+10:00

It’s amazing what a pencil skirt can do for a girl. Must admit I enjoyed a degree of male attention at the Breakfast Creek Hotel on Melbourne Cup Day just last Tuesday but alas it was of the leery drunken kind. Impertinent remarks directed towards my rear and choice of hat abounded. As discussed on Twitter a punter at the bar likened me to Inspector Gadget. Well I guess I’ve been called worse. My mother always said to me ‘Nat it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed’ and with that in mind I donned by best ‘work-girl’ outfit bought at Cue several months ago that had until that day, gone unworn. I even scored a couple of free bourbons from an amorous bartender! This is where I’m supposed to insert some faux modesty but fuck that shit. It was fun to dress up and receive compliments. I was expecting to see all sorts of gorgeous girls with glossy hair and well-turned ankles but it was not to be...as my dodgy little video will reveal. It’s such a shame I didn’t get any footage of the nasty piece of work sitting behind me. She was broadcasting the sordid details of her sex life then proceeded to claim she’s had enough and was going to go ‘celebrant’. HA! Nearly snorted my sherbet. I’ve only just mastered the video camera and movie editing software so of course it’s decidedly amateurish. Anyways mucho fun was had, especially when a bunch of disgruntled dentists had to sit with the plebeians in the public bar because the hotel staff stuffed up the bookings.

MARKET MISDEMEANOURS

2009-09-29T09:00:00.015+10:00

Went to the markets last weekend (which shows you how completely bored shitless I was) and came home empty-handed. Amongst the half used tins of paints, cheap sunglasses and racks of XXXL faded T-shirts the only useful items to be found were a cup of coffee and loaf of bread. As you would all well know; Aussies don't go to these places because they actually need anything. If we really needed this kind of stuff we'd be in the aisle of Woolies that carries lace doilies and shells stuck on rocks. No, it's because an outdoor craft and second-hand goods market fufills Aussies' three great loves -food, sunshine and shopping. For those of you unaccustomed to such places I've taken it upon myself to become your personal consumer watchdog. Amateur Art: The prospect of buying an original piece is an exciting one. But how to choose? 'Will it match the decor in the lounge?' is one option, however the odds of finding a painting with a bourbon stain down the front and some stale corn chips and spare change down the back are fairly remote. You could try the old 'do the eyes follow me around the room?' method but this will not be very satisfying if it's a bowl of fruit. Being stalked by a feral cumquat is no-one's idea of a great work of art. It's best to stick with the old tried-and-true 'this stirs something in the depths of my soul which cannot be named' Which is why one often walks away empty-handed and feeling dizzy.

Caricatures and Portraits: It's important to remember that your portrait will never look anything like you. The expression will be slightly pained, eyes will be shifty and anxious. This is because while you are sitting for it the fifty-odd onlookers that have gathered will be whispering 'he'll never get that wonky nose right' and 'I wonder if he'll draw in those furrows between the eyebrows?' I guess one consolation is you now have a matching set with your drivers license.

Granny Goods: This includes gum leaf jewellery, padded lace tissue boxes, chipped tea cups and saucers, Xmas t-shirts with bells and ribbons sewn on, lavender sachets, padded coathangers and embroidered face washers. Nobody under sixty wants this shit. Nobody over sixty wants it either which is why they're trying to sell it. Don't torture your elderley loved ones with this crap. Most grannies prefer gifts of cash, spirits or white goods. I know mine would.

Fortune Tellers: It's best to be wary of the predictions made by cross-eyed weirdos called Natasha with a cheap sarong thrown over a trestle table. Just consider the practical difficulties of making contact with Grey Wolf, an American Indian spritual guide who rides a piebald mare, when there isn't a car parking space in a five kilometre radius. Besides, like carnival folk, they smell like cabbage.

Knick-Knacks: This includes spice racks and keyring holders. If you look hard enough I'm sure you'll find these things in your shed still sitting there since the day they were bought. Sometime back in 1992 along with the 'Hello Kitty' mobile phone cover and ceramic frog.

ODE TO THE BBQ

2009-09-25T06:00:00.003+10:00

The backyard barbeque remains the most popular of Australian customs even in winter time. I attended one recently and all I can say is that it was entirely too civilised. Perfectly prepared meat cooked on a state of the art gas BBQ with six burners and rotisserie and served on sturdy dinnerware on an equally sturdy outdoor setting. A gas heater hummed away close-by and it was all very nice but my GOD it was a far cry from the BBQs of my youth. Combining, as it did then, various aspects of fire, animal sacrifice, tree felling, alcohol and the great outdoors, the BBQ was considered first and foremost an informal affair. Despite this, it was still a highly ritualised ceremony which included some or all of the following requirements:

1. The BBQ would be crudely constructed of Besser brick and a big steel hotplate - greased up with oil and rubbed down with salt and newspaper before the obligatory charring would commence – usually by your Dad wearing a rubber apron with boobs holding a tinny.

2. Your boob-wearing drunken father would then assemble a woefully inadequate collection of wet and green sticks which would only catch alight after being liberally doused with lawn-mower fuel and fed endless balls of newspaper or anything else flammable within reach.

3. Invited guests who had been asked to ‘bring a plate’ would invariably bring the same thing so that you ended up with three plates of vinegary bean salad and no coleslaw or potato salad.

4. Those same guests would also park their cars in such a fashion as to cause maximum inconvenience. This would include parking in guests with young children who would have to leave first and then locking the keys in the car; parking across a neighbour’s driveway or on the nature strip on a newly sown lawn. It'd also be customary to park in such a way as to block the access and egress of fire engines.

5. Neighbours would play a great role in enhancing the ambience of the event by firing up the chainsaw or deciding it was the perfect time to dig in that load of chicken manure. Some would even indulge in a spot of nude sunbathing just for the benefit of small children.

6. Blackened sausages and steaks would be served up on flimsy paper plates perched precariously on the laps of the participants so that at some point the family pet would score a greasy free meal. This would in some way make up for the torture that would come as every child under ten would later torment the poor animal with a red-hot stick.

7. At some point an item of guest’s clothing would catch fire if not the backyard. This would add an element of danger and drama and it's well accepted that Australians just don’t feel they’ve put in a full day unless they have had a life-threatening brush with the elements.

8. The BBQ would be officially finished when the boys from the fire brigade arrived. That is if they could actually get onto the property.

AN APPETITE FOR GUILT

2009-09-23T16:08:00.012+10:00

I realize all you foodies out there might find this abhorrent but my attitude towards food ranges somewhere between eating-to-survive and a grateful appreciation of a well-cooked meal. Whilst many of you take pride and pleasure in this daily ritual I'm just as happy eating a boiled egg on toast. I marvel at people with the ability to whip up gastronomic delights but I've never been one to make it a priority in my life. Now don't get me wrong. This piece is not a judgement on the merits of bland food nor a criticism of those with a more refined pallete. The thing that's really starting to bug me lately is people who are obsessed with food. Recently I dined with some acquaintances on the large side. One of the ladies ate an entree, main meal and dessert and constantly qualified every mouthful with 'I haven't eaten a thing all day'. Fair enough I thought. What bugged me though was that she kept making remarks about the fact I only wanted a main meal. She was really anxious about it. I wanted to tell her to quit worrying and just enjoy her meal but I didn't know her well enough. But do you know what's worse than dining with an overeater? Dining with a fussy under-eater! Imagine this dinner order from hell:

'Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Manuel and I will be your waiter this evening. Are you ready to order?'

'Okay. I'll go first. I've got about four grams of fat to play with this evening so I'd like ninety grams of baked chicken breast with no skin and five steamed asparagus spears topped with skim milk yoghurt.'

'Certainly madam...and for you sir?'

'Well I'm into dynamic harmlessness expressed in daily life as veganism so I'll have some textured vegetable protein pattie, tofu gluten and seeds. By the way are these seats leather?'

'I'll ask the interior designer and get back to you sir. Now for you?'

'Have you forgotten about the French doing nuclear testing in the Pacific? I can't believe you have pate on the menu. I'm leaving! Oh could I get a anti-cellulite celery, parsely and dill cocktail, take-away?'

'And for you sir?'

'I'm watching my cholestrol, so do you have any low-density lipoproteins and soluble fibre on the menu tonight?'

'I'll just have to check with chef.'

'Never mind. I'll just have a bowl of oat bran to start and a couple of steamed egg whites for mains.'

'Steamed egg whites...wonderful choice. How are we going here?'

'Well I've just found this amazing naturopath and realised after all these years that I am actually highly allergic to most foods. I have intolerances to dairy, starch, sugar and fermented foods and we're testing fruit and veges next week so I'll just have a plain rare steak.'

'Fabulous. And for you madam?'

'I've been doing some incredible repressed memory sydrome work with my therapist and she says that a lot of my problems with my mother stem from abuse at the dinner table when I was a child. So I'll have a plain cheese sandwich with a smiley face on it made out of cherry tomatoes, two fish fingers on a Bunnykins plate and a glass of red cordial. Hold the brussel sprouts.'

'Well I expect your plate cleaned or no dessert for you. And have you decided yet madam?'

'I'll just have dessert...but could you check with chef whether the apples in the pie are organic? If they've been sprayed with unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine or fungicides then he might like to cook it with these apples I've bought in from home...'

'How thoughtful of you...and finally what would you like sir?'

'I'm currently under treatment for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome so I'd like an uncarpeted room painted with non-oilbased paints, a table which is not manufactured with formaldehyde particle board and no oil heating. Thanks. Oh and could you wash off your aftershave?'

'Consider it done.'

AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH.

BACK IN THE FOLD

2009-09-22T10:00:00.003+10:00

My girl is home and safe and promises never to pull a swifty again on me when the goin' gets tough. One of the reasons I was so shocked that she up and left was that things here in the world of teen-dom had been going swimmingly. For example: she's recently been giving a lot of serious thought to her career. At the start of the year we attempted to get her hairdressing apprenticeships and the like but she showed no real zeal for any of her ideas. Anyways she announced to me a few weeks ago that she was upgrading herself from general Art to OP Art and wanted to enrol herself in a creative arts course at TAFE to be done in year twelve in conjunction with her regular studies. This blew me away to see her showing some initiative and I encouraged her enthusiastically. Then last night she upped the ante and made me beamingly proud. You see she has been assigned an art project in which she has to present the theme 'political power' in a number of mediums. To my dismay she opted for the Nazi Regime (but that's just me getting the shits with other regimes not getting a corn-holing - though I guess we probably all get a jones at one point or another for the topic) but what blew me away was her desire to really understand how the Nazis did it. It would have been really easy for her to google a bunch of images and recreate them but no: she's decided to read up on Nazi propaganda and produce other possible persuasive images and slogans in poster form. For those of you with brilliant children this might seem like nothing but for me it's a milestone. She normally only ever does the barest of minimums in assignment work and to see her attack this with such zeal and desire to understand warms the cockles of me heart! She's also reading the Zombie version of Pride and Prejudice but hates Jane Austen. MWAH

DIARY OF A POP STAR

2009-09-20T20:00:00.001+10:00

Wow! What an exciting year 2006 has been for me. First, the song ‘My Humps’ with the Black Eyed Peas was a big hit and all I did was rap about my ass. Then, my first solo single ‘London Bridge’ went platinum and that was about my poonie. I really think I’m onto something. I can’t wait for my next single to come out cuz it’s all about me. I reckon ‘Fergalicious’ is gonna be as big as ‘Let’s Get Retarded’ but with a bit more of a positive message. Never mind that guy from the LA Times called it ‘pure hubris’. I’d probably be more pissed off if I knew what that meant. But what does he know anyways? I mean, that song like took me almost an hour to write. Like, first I had to pick the music so I went with JJ Fad’s Supersonic and used it cuz there’s this law that says you can’t write your own music anymore. Then I chose a drum and synth loop from this free program on my laptop and then I sampled some strings from a group not-as-famous-as-me and that alone nearly took twenty minutes. Next I asked my manager what I should sing about. He says to me ‘So what part of your body haven’t we rubbed in everyone’s face yet?’ and I said ‘how about all of me at once? It won’t just be about my bum and love tunnel. It’ll be about my boobies, bung hole and pee shaft too. I could talk about how delicious I am…no wait…I could be Fergalicious!’ My manager loved the idea and said he’d never thought of me as an adjective before. After I googled ‘adjective’ and figured out he wasn’t dissin’ me, I told him thanks! Y’know they always say you should write about the truth in a song and I agree. Everyone knows that boys jerk themselves blind whenever they see me. They can look all they want...as long as they don’t make eye contact. It’s great! I tease boys ‘cause they come and go like seasons... y’know like Autumn, November and Wednesday. Seriously, you should see all the pools of jizz on the sidewalk outside my apartment. Oh man!!!! I’m just so freakin’ Fergalicious!!!!!!!!

STILETTO AND SUSPENDER SERVITUDE

2009-09-15T06:00:00.006+10:00

I think I might owe Hugh Hefner an apology. It pains me to admit it: but my younger more enraged self used to consider him nothing but an evil, opportunistic overlord of sleazedom. Probably had something to do with a raving jealously of his subjects I suspect. My secret heart was bitter with the knowledge that I could never be an object of irrepressible desire and make squillions doing it. But as time went by (sometime in the early 2000s when I gave up looking for a Knight in Shining Armani and the sisters continued to wear power suits with a couple of venture capital portfolios up their sleeves) I began to see him, not so much as malevolent, but merely comical. When I had Foxtel connected I used to find watching Hef on 'Girls of the Playboy Mansion' quite riveting. Whilst your average entrepreneur was number crunching on Wall Street what was Hef doing? Lounging around in his monogrammed dressing gown and velvet scuffs, changing sheets, washing hand towels, perusing photo proofs and having threesomes with buxom blondes. (well that's a tad hard to verify since you only ever saw him watching movies and eating in bed) And what exactly did Hef change into when he wanted to relax? Now for research purposes only you understand: I happened upon one of his publications and have discovered that, with a little age and tolerance under my suspender belt, Hef is in fact a force of conservatism; an expert on handy hints and etiquette on all matters sexual. A sort of under-the-covers version of Martha Stewart. Now whilst Women's Weekly continues to wrestle with how to get pen off your husband's business shirts, Playboy's advice column is happily assisting us with getting edible anal lube off the waterbed. Wouldn't want to damage the vinyl now would we? In another letter a concerned reader asks of the correct procedure for showing appreciation should one catch an illict glimpse of nipple when a lady reaches for an item on the lower shelves at the supermarket. 'Don't drool. Don't touch.' says Playboy. 'Smile and show your appreciation with a simple 'you look terrific!' One has the feeling that without Hef's advice the gentleman may have made a rather uncivilised lunge for the breast in question. A similarly earnest inquiry in the same issue asks about the rules for an affair. Among the tips offered were the following: 'No picture taking or receiving, nothing in writing, no souvenirs and never display affection in public. More importantly, don't change your personal style around your spouse just because you feel different.' As an afterthought Playboy adds, 'frankly, the rules don't make it right' Well blow me Hef! I'd never considered you a keeper of modern-day mores: a promoter of civil behaviour between the sexes! Another reader asks as to the appropriate amount of time to wait before initiating sex with a new partner. Playboy advises to wait at least a day so that each person has sufficient time to talk about their sexual habits. Hmm...not too sure about that one mate.

HIM: Well I like to thrash around for three minutes and then fall into a coma.

HER: Well I just like to lie there like a corpse and let someone else do all the work.

BOTH: Sounds great! Let's do it tomorrow.

When asked about the best way to tie a person to a bed Playboy advises one should use bright, paisley neckties. Unfortunately there were no tips for a girl who finds herself at a loose end with a Lacroix devore silk scarf and a dental floss dispenser...and finally a female reader (WTF???) asks about the rules for a polite one-nighter. 'Leave early' says Playboy. 'Some women think that wearing his pyjamas and padding barefoot around his kitchen preparing French toast and squeezing orange juice is inexpressibly sexy, but if you don't want him to tunnel out through the bathroom, leave before dawn.' Ha! Now that's more like it! If it were me providing advice I would add 'always know where you are going. There's nothing worse than creeping out of bed in the dark, fumbling about for your clothes and phone, stumbling down the hall and closing the door quietly behind you only to find you've locked yourself out of your own house.' Yeah nuff said.

SOJOURN SOUTH

2009-09-14T12:00:00.027+10:00

I take it all back! I love, love, LOVE Melbourne! The weather certainly didn't disappoint...always cold and alternately overcast, drizzly or blowing a dog off a chain but it mattered naught. I've been back in Brisbane for three days now and I still can't stop thinking about the experience. I was amazed at the architecture and how much of the 'old' Melbourne has been retained in comparison to Brissy which seems to have torn down most of its treasures. On the first night in town Mum and I caught 'Chicago' at Her Majesty's and it had me yearning for her equivalent in Brisbane that was ripped down years ago. Also I'd heard that the shopping and restaurants were excellent but nothing prepared me for the sheer volume of choices and quality. Some of the highlights:

1. Eating a Kransky in pastry bought from a hole-in-the-wall for $3!

2. Spying the homeless guy from the ABC show 'Choir of Hard Knocks'

3. Riding the trams and people watching. Check out the slideshow.

4. Haggling for a fabulous hat bought at the Queen Victoria Markets.

5. Wondering why the hell everyone in Melbourne wears black.

6. Chatting with a guide about Cptn Cook and molesting his statue.

7. Admiring the cyclamen at the conservatory in the Fitzroy Gardens.

8. Getting lost in Brunswick. (thanks to Brad the Dickhead Navman)

9. Spying 'Metrosexual Man' in the Young & Jackson pub on Flinders.

10. Being cracked onto by an Italian barrista half my age! Woohoo! Some of the lowlights: 1. The amount of homeless people. They're much more visible in Melbourne than Brisbane. One morning I heard a noisy row occuring in the St Pauls cathedral thoroughfare and later saw a cleaner dispose of blood stained cardboard that had obviously been used for bedding.

2. Not enough Merlo coffee.

3. Having to pay for parking at the hotel and lug my own suitcase.

4. Being charged for a mini-bar item that I didn't have. Grrrr.

5. Not being able to get a life-time supply of goat's cheese pizza from an Italian place on Lygon Street. Simply the best I've ever eaten!

SAMANTHA THE ZOMBIE

2009-09-13T19:00:00.003+10:00

Hey it's pretty cool when your daughter wants to emulate your blogging habits and flex her imagination. My spunky girl has penned her first zombie piece...please visit her blog.

ASTERIX WORLD TOUR

2009-09-13T10:00:00.003+10:00

Have a listen to this. If you're not familiar with Classical music you may not recognise this melody until you reach about the forty-five second mark. Anyways the reason for my sharing this with you today is to inform you all of my newest musical protegee. It's a bird. Yup. My new Blue Quaker called Asterix. They're amazingly intelligent little creatures that live up to forty years of age and are reknown for learning large vocabularies that they invariably use in context. Apart from that skill they are very agile singers...not unlike the colouratura soprano heard in the Mozart aria posted here today. Asterix can already imitate one of the rapid passages after only two days of training. I must admit the idea came from surfing about YouTube looking for singing parrots when I stumbled upon this. It's a cockatiel (an intelligent creature but nothing compared to the Quaker) singing the same aria. I'm confident Asterix is up to the challenge and then some. In the near future look out for the T-shirt and 2010 world tour!

MIGHTY MELBOURNE

2009-09-04T06:00:00.005+10:00

Mum and I are making the trek to Melbourne on the 8th until the 11th of September. I would be most grateful for any suggestions as to great places to see and things to do. Mum has already flagged a drive along the Great Ocean Road but apart from that the only thing we have planned at present is shopping at the Victoria Markets. She would also like to see a show. I'm looking at you Barnes, Bangar, Naut, Guru...HAVOCK? The last time I was in Melbourne it was for a day trip only and I did the tour of the MCG and snaffled a tuft of grass so a trip to Jolimont station ain't high on the list of priorities. Also it might be nice to catch up for a coffee if we can swing it.

URBAN INVESTIGATION

2009-09-03T07:00:00.016+10:00

If it weren't for the benefit of having a calendar I dare say, going by the weather alone, I'd be hard pressed to distinguish what time of year it was here in Brisbane. Lately we've been experiencing the most amazing fluctations in temperature and conditions. Last week the thermometer wobbled around 32 degrees accompanied by hot and dry northerlies and warm evenings. I'd no sooner packed away the doona when the weather reverted back to freezing rains and top temps of 14 degrees. Once upon a time the weather would abruptly change with a new season and cues in the natural world would invariably be reliable. As a child, I remember granny standing in the backyard, straining her eyes skyward, nodding sagely and proclaiming 'Red sky at night, sheperd's delight. Red sky at morning, sheperd's warning' Unfortunately when pressed, Gran had to admit that was really about the extent of her wisdom, apart from something about ants and wet weather which her Dad had told her and she couldn't quite remember. This is probably the last snippet of ancient folklore which connects urban Aussies to their surrounds. Country folk like Hughesy probably have a few more tales to tell: when spiders come indoors rain is on its way; when kookaburras laugh in the evening wet weather isn't far behind and if waterbirds build their nests low in the trees a drought is expected. But for we urban dwellers kookaburras are in short supply and the only thing indicating Spring has arrived is the amount of blokes wearing their footy jerseys to work. Despite this, city folk are a lot more canny about the weather than they realize. Here are my predictions of natural phenomena based on subtle signs in the urban environment.

The appearance of hastily made signs advertising cheaply made Chinese umbrellas (often spelt incorrectly and sporting a redundant apostrophe) is an indication that the weather channel predicted fine conditions and it's been pissing down cats and dogs since lunchtime.
The sight of big blokes dressed in Santa suits is a sign that Xmas is on the way. But it also may indicate the first few weeks of October.
The completion of renovations to a hotel beer garden will often indicate the impending arrival of subartic winds or in some cases, the likelihood of a freak fire that will gut the entire building.
An influx of international rock bands who are prepared to do concerts in Cairns is one way to tell it's winter in the northern hemisphere.
The appearance of current affairs reporters with hairy chests in open-necked shirts hoping to bust people breaching water restrictions in your neighbourhood indicates the area is in drought. Or it could just mean there's a poor toothless family next door abusing animals.

IF VENUS HAD A PENIS

2009-09-02T19:00:00.005+10:00

It's official. It's the second day of Spring in the southern hemisphere. The heavens will proclaim the new season in a few weeks' time with the vernal equinox. The sun will traverse the celestial equator and the days will begin to lengthen, bringing warmth to the earth and heralding a frenzy of activity in the natural world. Here in downtown Holland Park I'm wondering how on earth we Australians are going to celebrate the changing of the seasons. With a jubliant procession to the shrine of Venus, goddess of beauty and love perhaps? Or how about with rabbits and eggs, symbolising fecundity and new life? Well, no quite frankly. Mardi Gras and Easter have appropriated both these rituals and here were are left to celebrate spring by cleaning the gunge off the BBQ, slopping on the fake tan, packing away the leather jackets and queuing online for footy finals tickets. Oh joy of joys. I ask you dear reader: what does September represent for you?

PLEASE EXPLAIN

2009-08-31T14:00:00.012+10:00

Writing again today from a secret location. My new computer is ready for me to pick up and posting should resume to normal soon enough. It's been hard going without my daily dose of the Flange Gasket. You know one of the features that I liked about JS was that you were able to keep a track of visitors to your site: whether that be by username or IP address. Unfortunately blogspot doesn't have the ability to do such things which makes it difficult to block the nutbags that lurk about this pixelated world. The only way I can keep a track of visitors is via the feedjt web traffic widget installed at the bottom of this page. It keeps a record of the origin of visitors according to their city and country as well as the google search terms people use to land on this site. I have observed a disturbing trend as of late. I seem to be getting a LOT of visitors searching for 'spy shitting'. Somehow the machinations of Google has picked up on my username and an entry about giving birth (in which I described the sensation as being akin to 'shitting a watermelon sideways') and suddenly Uncle Pervy is in my corner of cyberspace. So to all of you with a keen interest in morning ablutions: you won't find secret camera footage of cigar fish splashing the surface here. Freaks.

THE INCONVENIENCE OF CONVENIENCE

2009-08-26T10:00:00.005+10:00

My computer is dead and am writing this whinge from a secret location. I ask you today: when exactly did customer service go out the door? And when did we all accept this? It seems these days that businesses are only interested in what conveniences them. I just rang a computer store to prepare me a quote that I could pick up at a later date. I didn't want to sit in the shop for hours being bamboozled by some dickhead salesman. I had a detailed list of the exact specs I required but was informed I would have to make myself present in order to gain the quote. This was announced most unapologetically. No wonder I get so pissed off with advertisements on television making out that their lastest time saving device will benefit me. I say bullshit people! Ever been on the phone to a telecommunications company to get help only to be disconnected after half an hour of waiting? Ever been caught on the Gateway bridge without an E-toll tag because you don't watch commercial television and had no idea that the booths were no longer manned? Ever decided to switch to phone banking to pay your bills to realize they charge you a hefty fee and for the phone call to boot? Have you recently paid rent only to be charged $20 a month to do it via direct debit because they don't want you rocking up to their office every two weeks? Fuck I'm tired of this shit. Please, moan along with me. Before I go nuts and declare war.

THE NAG THAT CAME IN LAST

2009-08-24T10:00:00.014+10:00

Right. It’s official. I’ve become a cranky old misanthrope. Went to the Doomben races last Saturday afternoon and whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the company and watching the horses race by, I found myself distracted by the hordes of slobbering twenty year old attention seekers. Sunlight and champagne certainly are a lethal combination. It doesn’t matter how beautifully you’re dressed: loud, potty-mouthed drunken women look really bad. There I’ve said it. I don’t really want to go down on the sisters but when you get to my vintage you start seeing things differently. Have some class girls. Do it under your breath like I do. Ahem. It never ceases to amaze me how horny young guys will pretend to be blissfully fascinated with anything pretty women say no matter how boring as batshit it is. Here’s a question. How many times can one pout into their camera phone? Infinitessimally it seems. Further observations also confirmed that women walking on grass in high heels adopt the gait of poorly operated marionettes. Hilarious to watch. Get a few vodka coolers into them and they look even more ridiculous. Also it seems the bigger a woman is the more flesh she wants to put out there. It’s your duty to conceal girls! Sky high heels in blue sequins will not redeem an arse that wobbles endlessly under cheap black material. In between races a painfully earnest duet regaled us with Pete Murray covers and Aussie rock standards performed in the same maddening strumming pattern for the entire afternoon. It didn’t seem to bother two drunken idiots who decided to drop their strides and do the helicopter in front of everyone. One of them needn’t have bothered his tackle was that underwhelming. As he strode past I deliberately made a snide remark to the people at my table to which he boldly replied ‘oh come on love you know you want it!’ I named him Salty Jack the One-Eyed Sailor for the rest of the afternoon. Good times. It was a sponsored event on the St Ledger Lawn in order to raise funds for Operation Smile. Carlton Mid-Strength provided the beer (much to everyone’s dismay…particularly as there was XXXX Gold signage as far as the eye could see) and by the afternoon we’d all had a gutful. Some twit of a girl heard us bemoaning the beer situation and informed us imperiously that ‘all beer was the same’…err fuck off idiot. I was the winner of a silent auction and managed to score a free massage, facial, cookbook, Mary Ryan’s voucher and cosmetics which was nice seeing as I won diddly-squat on the track. Just missed out on a quinella…the photo-finish was sadly not in my favour. I taped a couple of the races with my new JVC camcorder. (Yeah!) As you can see in the following footage, my technique could do with some work. Not to mention my potty-mouth. Sorry Mum!

FORTY AND FORGETFUL

2009-08-20T09:00:00.000+10:00

The man with the three legs and a wobble board. Sicko!

I’ll probably get raked over the coals by some do-gooder for admitting this but I don’t buy music anymore. A few years back I went nuts on shareware sites and have all the music I need sitting on my hard drive. So it was with great trepidation that I found myself in a music store purchasing a CD for my daughter recently: something I hadn’t done in a very long time. She normally downloads her music too but this time she wanted the real thing. The Mini-Spy sends me on this mission armed with the title and artist and even played the song to me several times so I’d get it right. However, upon entering the store I realized I’d left the piece of paper at home and completely panicked. You might know the symptoms yourself. As you approach the shop with the song in your head, no sooner are you in the door than…blank. Not only have you forgotten the song, but the whole history of contemporary music flees your mind quicker than that quadratic equation did the day of your high school maths test. Your chest tightens, your eyes roll back in deep concentration and you pathetically try to hum the tune out loud. To your fellow shoppers it appears as if you’re having a stroke, but no…you’re in the grip of something far, far worse: you've become Forty and Forgetful; a random affliction that can strike even the most innocent. By now the 20 year old behind the counter is staring at me in a horrified fashion because she knows what’s coming next. ‘I’m looking for this CD. It’s got these long haired guys with masks on it. You know the video with the goat’s head in it and the chorus goes…and then you do it, you overstep the mark and sing straight in her face. Her look is priceless. Becoming annoyed that my impression of a goat being hot-waxed has not reminded her of the latest Slipknot album, the hunter-gatherer instinct kicks in. Damn it, you think, I’ll just start with ABBA and keep going until I find the bloody thing. By the time you’ve flicked your way through to Iron Maiden you've got blisters on your fingers, your eyes glaze over around the Billy Joel section, you frighten a small child by holding up Robert Palmer and claim ‘I lost my virginity to this song!’ and by the time you hit the Zs you’ve been beat. You’ll buy just about anything, which is, coincidentally, how Warren Zevon managed to maintain a career after ‘Werewolves of London’. I know I’m not alone. Look amongst your CDs and look into your hearts people. Were you in full possession of your faculties when you bought the best of Air Supply? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It can be cured. The electrodes hurt at first but no more than the chorus of ‘Making Love Out of Nothing At All'. Sure we’re the lucky country...but as folk gather around the bargain bin to dig their way through one hundred copies of the ‘Best of Rolf Harris’ you have to ask: just how bloody lucky are we?

LONELY BOY

2009-08-19T17:00:00.009+10:00

This drives me bloody mental! I only have webcam capacity for shooting video and bugger me if I can get the picture and audio to sync! ARRGGH. I recorded the video on the laptop as an AVI file, burnt it to disc, saved it on the PC and then converted it to an MPEG to reduce it's size. Any ideas where I am going wrong? Perhaps I need to compress the audio on the webcam? May have to invest in a serious video camera. Anyways, this is me having a stab at an old song by Andrew Gold recorded in 1977. This is the same guy that wrote the theme for the Golden Girls. Heard it in the chemist today, came home, searched the net for the sheet music and after two hours of fucking around this is the result. Don't laugh! Didn't major in piano or singing at uni. Very amateurish. Like my recording set-up.

MAY YOUR RODS BEND OFTEN

2009-08-17T09:00:00.012+10:00

Sometimes words seem entirely inadequate to full express the magnitude of an experience. Deep sea fishing off Hervey Bay is an example of my current dilemma…but I shall valiantly attempt to do so regardless. As I wobbled my way from my bed to the keyboard this morning…aching from head to foot I am struck by the notion that I am forever changed. What can I say? If you’ve never done it you simply must! (already with the cliches) Aussie and I load up the BT-50 early Friday morning and set off north for the four hour trip up the coast, picking up Spaz and Johnny on the way. Wearing my best cream woolen coat and jeans the guys rib me endlessly on the way. I soon realise this was a fair call when we board the boat at the Hervey Bay mariner: the Aussie Rules it was not. My accommodation for the next three days was a stinking damp cupboard sized cabin in the hull of a filthy charter boat. Our opening safety instructions warned of the perils of using the toilet or shower in the bow of the ship whilst the boat was in motion. Apparently people have cracked ribs and skulls attempting to do so…fabulous. With a gutful of sea sickness tablets, ten seasoned fisherman and a first-timer set sail in the dark for the overnight passage into the ocean. Our destination: one hundred and twenty kilometres off-shore. I was rocked to sleep that first night: my head resting on a hard and putrid pillow (note to self: take own bedding and plastic drop sheet next time) Not a glamorous beginning I think to myself…but these feelings melt away the moment I step onto the deck early the next morning…breathtaking views of nothing but swelling ocean and sun. All my fears were forgotten in that instant and despite a vow to wear a life-jacket all weekend, I didn’t reach for one then nor for the rest of the trip. Dressed like a grub I hit the ground running. Let the games begin! Aussie hands me his rod to take care of while he rigs up mine. The moment I grab it and steady myself the line begins tugging and I pull in a four kilo Pearl Perch from one hundred metres below. Stoked! This fishing lark is easy I say to myself…but alas the action stops. You know that saying ‘watched water never boils’? Everytime someone lit a cigarette or cracked open a beer their rod would bend. Sure enough, the moment I sat down to eat breakfast there’s a shout from the deck. ‘Someone’s rod’s going off!’…oh man…that’s mine! Whatever the hell that was down there was freakin’ BIG…everyone swarmed around me to shout encouragement and God knows I needed it. I was pulling in a monster from one hundred and fifty metres below the surface and I thought my arms were going to fall off such was the effort…but I kept at it. Got me a seven kilo Red Snapper I did!!! From that point I made sure my rod was bending all weekend…I was hooked! (sorry…had to be done) All in all I bagged two Pearl Perch (both around four kilo) two Pig Fish, two Parrot fish, a huge bloody Cod and the mammoth SNAPPER! I would have had a few more if it weren’t for the opportunistic sharks snagging the big ones on the way up (the first time I wrangled a shark I was nearly pulled into the ocean…yet I kept on regardless…are you proud of me?) I fell exhausted into bed around 8pm that second night but found it difficult to sleep. We were anchored near a continental shelf and the waves relentlessly slapped the boat…a sensation akin to swimming with earplugs inside the bladder of a waterbed. Again the day time more than made up for any discomfort. We saw plenty of humpback whales up close: breaching magnificently and slapping the surface with their dorsal fins (sorry the photos are blurry...need more memory) and sea birds jackknifing the surface but the highlight was being up on the front deck while the boat rode the waves as the skipper manoeuvered us through the sand bar. To top it off a school of dolphins raced along with us! The perfect weekend. I’m burnt and sore but very very happy…might have to bake me a fish tonight…mashed potato stuffing, lots of greenery, chilli, garlic and lemon!

GONE FISHING

2009-08-13T13:00:00.007+10:00

Well at least I will be this weekend. I'm off to Hervey Bay for a deep sea fishing trip and I'm both excited and scared shitless. The last time I went fishing I was a scrawny kid with a hand reel. This time it's serious men's business in the middle of the ocean. Sharks were mentioned...which served to strenghten my resolve: I would live in a life-jacket for the entire weekend and not drink a drop! Thankfully I've been working out with weights for the last year so hauling in the fish shouldn't be too much of a problem. I'll see you guys next Monday with (hopefully!) some happy snaps of me and some...well...snapper. Any seasoned fishermen out there care to share some useful advice?

MID-COITUS FLEEING

2009-08-11T08:00:00.010+10:00

‘I think I’d know Nora's fart anywhere. I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.’ The Selected Letters of James Joyce I heard my Mum break wind for the first time when I was ten. I think I was so shocked because before that, I’d never heard her cut one loose. Dad never seemed to have problem with it. In fact, you could tell the time by my Dad. So why was I so shocked when Mum let one slip and why did she looked so embarrassed when Dad always looked secretly proud? To add further to my confusion, I had just spent the weekend fishing with Dad and his mates and was introduced to the charm of the ‘unacknowledged fart’ as the men partook in beer drinking and the ancient ritual of fire gazing at the end of the day. Not even a wet one was capable of raising an eyebrow. Ahem. I’m now convinced that this is one of the most delightful double standards that both men and women buy into. I was reading this advice column in which a man was complaining that his wife no longer aroused him because she loudly farted. ‘She never farted when we were dating, why start now?’ the husband bemoaned. To further complicate matters, the wife was known to flee mid-coitus if hubby accidentally squeezed one out during the throes of passion. All those years of holding it in must have really poisoned her brain. Now I know people have very different levels of tolerance for such things (let's just say the commercial market for emissions offsets is not mature enough to handle the output from this household) but surely it’s ridiculous to expect that couples living together have a requirement that their ability to get aroused means each has to run from the room whenever the pressure starts to build. I’m starting to wonder if couples who date forever, then finally get married, only did so because they couldn't hold the gas in any longer. Now despite all appearances, I’m not promoting the merits of rampant emissions in public, but surely married couples can laugh about such things!

PRECIPITATING MEN

2009-08-07T08:00:00.006+10:00

Not only does there seem to be such a shortage of men in the Australian mining sector but there appears to exist a shortage of womenfolk in country areas as well. Trends indicate however, that city women are slowly migrating to the outback. About a year ago when I was still working at the wireless, my radio presenter interviewed a lady from an agricultural college in regards to the large amount of city girls presently enrolling to become jillaroos. That’s what we like to call cowgirls down here in Australia. Of course she went on to make a connection with the television program McLeod’s Daughters but she also mentioned a ‘sheila shortage’ in the Australian outback and a ‘man drought’ in the cities. I suppose if the amount of seemingly normal women prepared to debase themselves on the national television program Farmer Wants A Wife is any indication, then I guess there is. Rather than build a massive pipeline to carry men from the country to the city or construct a huge plant to convert seawater to men, or even install tanks to collect men that fall from the sky I suppose we’ve no choice but to herd up all the reasonably attractive women desperately searching for a husband and ship them off to the Australian outback. We have to do something to stop our country from falling to pieces! Do you really want to see your taxes wasted on a future generation of loveless, bitter spinsters who thought they were too bloody good for Mt Isa? No. I didn’t think so. Now I’m certain some of you would say a man drought is no great catastrophe; that a woman can get along perfectly well without a man, that her value isn’t dependent on how good in bed she is or whether she makes a decent cuppa or not. Yeah well show me a woman who doesn't want a man and I'll show you naked glossy of Germaine Greer. And I don't think any of us would want that. As any good Catholic girl knows, men and women were made for each other, and there’s a very good chance that this man drought is angering God, and I think we've made God angry enough now don’t you? What with divorcees and pornography and Kyle Sandilands and everything. The marriage rate is now the lowest on record. Do we really want a nation of lovesick geographically challenged singles? Think about it. There are many reasons why marriage remains the foundation for our modern society. It has been proven by scientists that when the state of lust wears off in about six months, humans need powerful deterrents to stop them following home entire softball teams or running away with Man Power. Let’s face it. If there were no husbands, women would have to nag house plants. If there were no wives, men would have absolutely no excuse for ever leaving the pub. Without marriage the entire fabric of Australian society would break down. So come on girls! Do it for your country. Marry a farmer today! Besides...enduring a life of hard labour is a small price to pay for having someone to blame for ruining the rest of your life. Ahem.

JUST BLOW IT UP

2009-08-06T10:00:00.009+10:00

All hell had broken loose. In the guise of a female warrior clad in chain-mail and armed with a broadsword and magic bow and arrow, she spent some forty hours on a deadly rampage through the endless corridors of a dungeon, slaughtering any unfortunate beast that crossed her path. Skeleton kings, poison-spitting mutants, half man-half bats, undead apparitions all fell before her merciless onslaught. And still she pushed on down to the lava caves, determined to further descend to the bowels of hell and kill the demon they call Diablo. ‘Reach out and turn off the computer girl.’ ‘Mum. I don’t think that I can.’ Whenever my daughter Sam is hankering for a bit of retro-gaming, she reaches for the Doom or the Diablo2. After mastering Grand Theft Auto at the age of ten, she started telling me how to drive. We’d be waiting at a set of lights and she’d suggest I drive over the nature strip instead of waiting. Then she seemed to grow out of this destructive phase and she got hooked on creating households in SIMS for most of grade eight. Now she’s sixteen and seems nonplussed about the latest games. Ever since the PlayStation was taken out by a freak lightning strike a couple of years ago, she’s been forced to do her all her gaming on the PC. I came home from a long visit with my mother on the weekend to find she’d been on a Diablo marathon. Apparently she took the phone of the hook, ignored visitors, refused meals and played on and on until she was seeing double. Do you think she was consumed with guilt about the glorious day passing her by? No-uh. Was she wasting time? I don’t know. How does playing games endlessly compare with sitting in the sun on a banana lounge with a book for an entire day? Perhaps it was just my Catholic guilt which demanded every thing I did in life should be bent to a higher purpose. Playing Diablo she rationalised, did have a higher purpose. She was increasing her manual dexterity and honing her spatial skills. If ever Holland Park was invaded by a murderous gang of magma beasts hurling fireballs, she was ready! Anyway I’ve got the shits with the diabolical soundtrack. Just because she’s unable to resist a souped up version of Dungeons and Dragons at 3am in the morning doesn’t mean I’ve got to bloody well put up with it. I’m on the internet right now. I’m going to the Diablo Cheat Zone, cast an invisibility spell then proceed directly to whatever level of hell it is and dispatch Diablo on her ass. I must away. The Evil One awaits!

ROAD TO NOWHERE

2009-07-29T10:00:00.007+10:00

I remember the worst kind of holiday you could ever have as a kid was when Dad came home and said: ‘Well, money’s a bit tight this year, we can’t go on holiday so we’re going to go on lots of drives!’ Only an adult could think putting three petulant children into the back of a Kingswood on a stinking hot afternoon and driving six hours west to see some ramshackle deserted shed in the mountains was a holiday. Often there wouldn’t even be a destination. You’d just drive until the fuel gauge showed half empty and everyone was fed up and hungry. Then you’d stop, eat sandwiches (or scotch eggs on special occasions!) make a desultory attempt to admire a dry creek bed, a rock formation or a rusting tractor and then pile back in the car for the trip home, fighting with your brother over the window seat. By then the bonhomie of the game ‘I Spy’ had long lost it’s appeal and you’d miserably tried to sleep to wile away the hours ahead. Of course ‘I Spy’ would start out nicely enough…‘I spy with my little eye…something beginning with P’…and then ten kilometres down the road it would be ‘I spy with my little eye…something that looks like a big, fat, ugly pig sitting right next to me!’ Then Dad would be swiping at the back seat with his free hand and bellowing ‘Would you kids just bloody sit still and get your knees off the back of my seat!’ That’s the domino effect of a Sunday Drive…it starts with your brother giving you a dead-leg and ends with a Kingswood up a gum tree. Worst of all, we had a father that believed every Sunday Drive should be an education… ‘see those mountains ahead?…they’re part of the Great Dividing Range the fourth longest string of mountains in the world. It stretches more than 3,500 km from the northeastern tip of Queensland, running the entire length of the eastern coastline through New South Wales and ending in Victoria’ And he was forever pointing out things you couldn’t see. ‘Hey kids! Can you see that goanna up the tree?... ‘What tree Dad?’ … ‘That tree over there…the one with the eagle’s nest’ … ‘WHERE DAD?’… ‘Oh never mind…we’ve passed it…’ Then there was the time we broke down for six hours on the inland highway in New South Wales during a drought with only dead sheep for scenery. ‘I’ve got enough fat reserves to last for days’ said Mum…‘but you kids won’t even see out the afternoon!’ Now despite all of this, I found myself doing the exact same thing yesterday. I’d been stuck in the house for days and just wanted to get out and drive except it’s a lot more fun when you’re the driver, not a back seat passenger and there’s no-one to tell you to ‘turn the bloody music down’. So I took off west on the Cunningham Highway in the mighty Mazda BT-50 with Van Halen on the stereo and no particular destination. The scenery hasn’t changed that much from when I was a kid. Australia is still a big, wide, brown, flat country of rude distances and half-hearted excuses for scenery. I didn’t quite make it to Aratula or the range itself but ended up in Coleyville at Cunningham’s Lookout…doing exactly the same thing that would have bored me shitless as a kid…staring at mountains, dried creek beds and deserted shedsappeared as I was nearing the turn off to the RAAF base at Amberley. Hot damn! This magnificent beast was flying low enough that it appeared in my windscreen! I nearly wet myself with excitement…until the bloody big bull-ant in my jeans decided to drag me back screaming into reality.…and loving every minute of it…ha! Still the best was yet to come when one of these babies

THE UGLY STICK

2009-07-28T10:00:00.001+10:00

Her name was Georgina Grout and she was the most unfortunate looking girl I’d ever seen. She had an awful case of acne and the most unmanageable case of nasal hair I’d ever seen for a girl her age. Private school girls in eighth grade can be utterly vicious. It was in this very environment that I first learnt the phrases ‘hit with the ugly stick’, ‘robber’s dog’, ‘crater face’ and ‘uglier than a hat full of arseholes’. Georgina also had a bagful of nervous tics which only served to exacerbate her unenviable situation. It got to a point where even the dumpy and flat-chested girls were game enough to have a go. Being in the latter category myself and feeling awkwardly unattractive I could only look on her plight with morbid fascination. Our desks were arranged in such a way that her repertoire of tics was in my direct line of vision. I found myself studying her with earnest. She always seemed to be straining sideways to view something microscopic on her shoulder and whatever it was would invariably make her eyes twitch and her nose wrinkle. At other times she seemed to simply enjoy rolling her eyes into the back of her head to see how far they could go. The most alarming tic of all used to occur only every other day. Georgina’s whole body would suddenly convulse violently: her arms and legs jerking upwards as if someone had pulled a mat out from under her and she would make this high pitched crying noise in the back of her throat. It got to a point where my classmates didn’t even try to conceal their mirth. How I felt for her! I continued to monitor her from a distance and noticed that her tics ceased abruptly in year ten. I wondered if perhaps she was on medication. Without wanting to embarrass her by prying into her business, I decided instead to follow her when she disappeared each lunch hour. Georgina appeared to have found a secret hiding place. Our school (Lourdes Hill located in Hawthorne on the Brisbane River) was perched high up on a cliff face and a series of open drains sloped down that cliff at a sixty degree angle near the lowest point of the school oval. It was at the top of one of these drains, camouflaged by scrub and lantana that I discovered Georgina had taken up smoking. Maybe it was coincidental or perhaps the tics retreated in the face of an adversary that, despite the health risks, was much more socially acceptable than crying out in tiny voices. Were she not smoking, I’d say she would probably be on some sort of medication that would cost her parents the same amount of money but deny her the accoutrements: the lighter which she endlessly flicked on and off, the smoke rings to distract her and the actual cigarettes themselves that calmed her down and gave her something to do with her hands and mouth. It was as if she was born to smoke. Maybe her limbs just didn’t know it and were searching for an alternative? Curious indeed.

SPIES LOVE SPOOKS

2009-07-28T09:00:00.008+10:00

Oh my God. Spooks is the BEST SHOW EVER! Having only just cottoned on to it (partly due to the fact that I haven't had Foxtel connected yet) I've entered this TV show halfway through series seven and am in serious farking awe of it. Set in the offices of MI5 British intelligence this show is super slick and lightning paced...the kinds of stories my little spy heart has always dreamed of! Apart from the eye-candy (that would be Mr Richard Armitage pictured above...gggrrrrrrrrr) I'm also in delirious admiration of the main female character Ros Meyers played by Hermione Norris. Now that's some woman! Her steely exterior and razor sharp mind never fails to impress. Has anyone out there seen this series from the beginning?

SHITTING MELONS SIDEWAYS

2009-07-27T13:00:00.004+10:00

It was the 22nd of July in 1993 when I experienced the most excruciating lower back pain. I looked like some errant spider: all abdomen and legs. My mother assured me it was the first signs of labour. Sure enough at midnight, I experienced my first contraction: a sensation not to dissimilar to having your insides ripped out with a red hot poker. I woke my husband to inform him of the necessity to leg it to the hospital. He grunted something like ‘can’t it wait?’ to which I responded viciously with my very best Linda Blair impersonation ‘no it bloody well can’t!’ and the next thing you know I was whisked away and promptly ensconced in a birthing suite at the Mater Mother’s. It was 3am. Nothing ever prepares a first time mother for when her waters break. A flood of amniotic fluid literally douses all within a five metre radius. I rejected the idea of an epidural and instead opted for pethidine and nitrous. Bad move. The pain was so severe I clung to that nitrous mask with all my might and sucked enough of it to warrant blacking out. Apparently I delivered several deft side-piercing kicks to the midwife who was not at all impressed with me when I came to. Like most mothers I’ve spoken to I remember bellowing several times ‘would you get this damned thing out of me!!!’ That ‘damned thing’ was my girl Samantha Jade who turned sixteen last Thursday. I held a party for her last weekend and it was so good to see my surly girl finally come out of her shell, acting gracious and enjoying herself. She invited a few girlfriends and also present were a family who are friendly with my housemate and happen to have three teenaged children. They had a rogue game of croquet on the lawn, watched scary movies, stalked each other in the dark and tossed all matter of flammable materials into the open fire. So much better than watching your kid’s arm permanently attached to a phone keypad and game console. The evening ended with lap-dancing. Yup. You read that right. Daniel (sixteen, sober and sinewy) stripped down to his singlet (in front of his cacking parents!) and proceeded to give me (shriveled up forty year old!) and my daughter a bit of a harmless touch-up. To think I had to wait forty years for that and Sammy’s lap is defiled at sixteen. So not fair!

BLUDGEON THE BLUNT

2009-07-21T21:00:00.024+10:00

After a few beers last night I ended up crashing pretty early and was still feeling a bit precious this morning when I decided to replenish the household supplies and trundle down to the supermarket. Bad move. Nearly had a brainsnap. James Blunt was playing over the PA and the woman standing behind me in the queue was tunelessly humming it my ear at about 8.30am this morning. The sound of his voice mingling with hers was downright eviscerating. Let me purge the experience here dear reader, lest it sour the rest of my day. Now first of all, let’s get one thing straight. Everybody I know hates ‘You’re Beautiful’. By everybody I mean every person, invertebrate, arthropod and furry marsupial; every creature that crawls, swims or flies. Leaf litter hates it. Statues hate it. Zombies hate it. Air hates it. Aliens hate it. Even black holes hates it. If my Granny was alive she’d hate it! The only person who doesn’t hate ‘You’re Beautiful’ is obviously James Blunt. Give him time. Now you can understand why I was feeling somewhat perplexed. Why was this woman in the shops enjoying herself so much? This is another song that despairs me no end when I hear it at weddings. Are people really that stupid? I mean has anyone listened to this song beyond that blasted refrain? Some stoner sees a pretty girl (his angel) on the train. She appears to have a boyfriend. He bemoans her apparent unavailability. He throws himself off an icecap. End of story. But no. He’s gotta bleat like some damned wounded lamb for another three minutes about an encounter that probably lasted ten seconds. I really don’t understand how this song came to be so popular; nor why programmers continue to spin it on Brisbane radio. I’m not sure this article warrants any more elaboration on the subject. As I said, sweet fuck all happens but I’ll give it a go anyways…It’s two hours later. I’ve responded to some emails. Ran some errands, watered the indoor plants and worked out the bass line for a Foo Fighters song. I’m still stuck. Guess I could start with the intro. Listen here to an acoustic guitar strumming some very simple chords. Another acoustic pops in with a pithy tune. OK now that’s all done. I’ll be right back. Gotta put on a load of washing and categorise my black t-shirts. Back again. We’re at the chorus. ‘You’re beautiful’, he sings. He bleats it again. And again. Yeah that’s right baby, I’m beeoooootiful. James doesn’t know what to do and figures he’ll never get his end in. I guess he doesn’t have a plan then. What else is on my to do list? That’s right, a workout. Twenty minutes of self-devised stretches with half kilo weights. Feel like a kick arse espresso now. Let’s fire up the machine yeah! OK where were we again? Oh yeah that’s right. Woe is the sheep; he’s recapping it again. He was too stoned and didn’t seize his very brief opportunity and doesn’t quite now how he’s ever going to survive. In case you didn’t hear it the first time round. I now visualize a scene from the film clip for a moment in order to find the answer. There he is looking sadly resigned in bare feet on the icecap. An agonizingly slow ritual of laying out his personal effects takes place before he risks permanent shrinkage of his vitals by diving feet first into subzero temperatures. How very earnest James. OK now the coffee’s kicking in with a vengeance. Excuse me while I use the ladies and ponder the mystery that is the continuing popularity of this song. Can you offer a reason dear reader? Because the way I see it, If I’d have known that the market that tapped into a woman’s capacity for sympathy was still booming, I’d have been ape-ing the situation at Hallmark a long time ago.

TEN GREEN BOTTLES

2009-07-17T06:00:00.008+10:00

My daughter left for school camp this morning literally kicking and screaming. Instead of chastising her for negativity, I graciously offered her some of my most learned parental wisdom. Shit happens I say. And it invariably does on camp. Be prepared for pain girl. Grin and bear it and get home in one piece. That was all I had. Then in the car and without her mp3 player to zone out with, she had to endure a long winded recollection from me. And now so will you. Years ago, I was taught to play the drums in primary school by naval officer, Mr Fenlon. He was brass and woodwind specialist. On special occasions he’d thrill all the girls by turning up in his formal white uniform and hat. It was very Richard Gere. Anyway the band played a lot military marches and he insisted I hold the sticks in the old fashioned way (nestled in the crook of the LH) and eventually I could roll and flam as well as any ten year old could. I thought it was top stuff. The year I went on camp to Tallebudgera Creek in 1979, my mother saw me off in a purple skivvy and a yellow lunch box full of home-made caramel. During the trip our captain insisted we all sing ‘Ten Green Bottles’ from a thousand and I was stuck next a kid in year seven who carried a tune like a Vespa would a truck transmission. Up the back of the bus, a kid with a euphonium kept playing the ‘Baby Elephant’s Walk’ and proudly emptying his spit valve. When the cabin groups were being announced, I embarrassed myself in front of Mr Fenlon by referring to Bach as ‘batch’. I developed a hopeless crush on a trumpet player from another school and I stuffed up the glockenspiel part during a performance of Henry Mancini’s arrangement of the ‘Love Story’ theme because I was too busy gazing in the other direction. Then I lost a tooth eating Mum’s caramel and missed the chance to redeem myself at the concert. During recreation time two days later, I found myself uncomfortably sandwiched between Mr Fenlon in his Speedos and my trumpet playing crush on a water toboggan and then suddenly being hurtled around at high speed behind a boat with a full-on wedgie from my togs. The toboggan itself was only very small and flimsy and you might imagine with three people squeezed onto it, also pretty darn snug on the vitals. Ahem. So brace yourself my dear. Humiliation is par for the course. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?

TORTURING INNOCENTS

2009-07-16T10:00:00.015+10:00

Just had a run in with the yappy dog next door. Apparently his name is 'Fluffy'. I learnt this quite by accident when I heard his big burly owner growl out his name last week telling him to 'shut the fuck up'. Ha! I was at the letterbox and fetching the bins when he came bolting over to put on his big show. I turned around, looked at him with distaste and then claimed my territory by basically marching in his general direction and giving him a good kick in kidneys as he got under foot. Well then he proceeds to bolt, turning back every so often to yap it up some more but careful to keep his distance. Fuck it's funny watching little dogs put on a bit of bravado. Wonder what he'd be like with a few beers and cones in him? The mind boggles.

PEST PICNIC

2009-07-15T05:00:00.001+10:00

My housemate and I have just planted some vegies. Everything seems to have taken well particularly the snap peas which are thriving under upturned drink bottles. So far they haven’t succumbed to any pests but I’m not looking forward to the summer planting if my efforts from years gone by are anything to go by. Years back I went through a stage of shunning pesticides but it’s one thing to garden organically and quite another to be running what amounts to be a Sizzlers for bugs. It takes more ingenuity to hunt down and kill a cabbage white butterfly than it does to fell a rhinoceros. The following is a list of my attempts to become a tiny game-hunter. Grasshoppers: lay pieces of yellow plastic in the garden, make a small depression and pour beer into it. The grasshoppers will be attracted by the smell and drink the beer giving time for birds to catch them…I tried this one to no avail. I decided that waiting for them to die of cirrhosis of the liver would be quicker. I put out some beer nuts and employed a praying mantis to play ‘Piano Man’ which only resulted in them partying all bloody night and crashing on the lettuces. I can only presume that my magpies were teetotallers. Moths and Beetles: mix stale beer, brown sugar and crushed bananas to a thick paste and smear it on tree trunks…again a failure. A possum licked it off and attempted to hump the garden gnome. Aphids: in the morning when the bugs are too cold and lethargic to move quickly, try vacuuming them…it took me three hours to hunt down enough extension cord and then I spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to prise a beetroot out of the crevice tool. So as you can see my previous attempts to control pests have been futile. I can honestly say that carrot was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Wish me luck. I may very well learn how to live with them.

SCIENCE FRICTION

2009-07-14T08:00:00.004+10:00

From time to time you've heard me bemoan the demise of JS. Well with good reason. I spent a good two years on that website building up a repetoire of articles and a fabulously intelligent and funny band of readers (many of you who are still with me) and in an instant *poof!* it was sucked into the ether. (boo-hoo) Sure I had a back up of half of the articles and comments but frustratingly the archived comments appear in reverse making it difficult to re-install them into another blogging platform. Back then I entertained the idea of blogging for a living but without the necessary evidence of readership I gave up. Now I'm not complaining...hell knows I've had long enough to get over it...but occassionally I get sentimental and want to post old articles. So long time readers please bear with me. I'm still working on new stuff. Old articles will be labelled with 'The Russian Spy Files'. Today I had cause to remember a nostalgia piece I wrote about the 'Curiosity Show' which you will find below. I will also post some of the old comments as they were particularly memorable due to Rob Morrison from the show dropping in to tell me he was offended by me referring to him as a 'seventies porn star'! He must have had Google Alerts set on his computer. The comments that ensued after his visit still make me giggle. So for old time's sake!

One of them had a goatee and a skivvy; the other a mini afro and a clingy body shirt zipped up to the chin. They could have been 70s porn stars if it weren’t for the prominently displayed Bunsen burner, a boiled egg, a milk bottle, a dazzling array of coloured thumb tacks, ping pong balls, pipe cleaners, iron filings, magnets and pins. “It’s really easy boys and girls. All you need is an empty margarine tub, sticky tape, an old candle and a particle accelerator” A smug little know-it-all in the television audience adjusted her pigtails and smiled broadly to herself. She loved question time! “Deane it’s all very well understanding the physical properties of atoms, electrons, protons and neutrons, but has anyone ever had a serious look at my Dad’s navel fluff?” “Well I’m glad you asked little girl. Watch me create a magnetic field by setting off this room full of mouse traps” “But Rob, if the earliest Homo Erectus were indeed living in Africa more than 1,600,000 years ago" the little girl persisted, “why is it we still laugh at people hurting themselves?” “Well I’m glad you asked. This is after all ‘The Curiosity Show’. Now watch me freeze off Deane’s vital organs with this liquid nitrogen”

From ROB: Porn stars??? A bit unkind, but I have lost the goatee these days - when I was 50, it started to get white streaks and it looked from a distance as though a rat had eaten bits of it, so it went in the big clean up. That theme was the third, although nobody remembers the earlier two - one of them (the first) was when we broke away from Humphrey (Yes, the Curiosity Show originally had Humphrey in it) and formed the show in its own right. It was then an hour long magazine show and, I think, not so hot (fortunately also not remembered in that form). In about 1984 Deane and I took it to a more tightly focused 1/2 hour dealing with science and technology, and that's when the awards and overseas sales started.

From NOWHEREBOB: Rob. We're not worthy. We're not worthy. We're not worthy. I'm with Nat, Porn star is a term of affection, nay even envy. What experiments did you perform with "The Pants-less one"?

From MICKH: Rob! WE ARE NOT WORTHY! :-) Hahahahahaha Nats! boy! did you get caught out!! :-) Oh and Rob, WE ARE NOT WORTHY! (still giggling here...hehehehehehe)

From SIMONBEDAK: Dear Dr Morrison, via NatV Come on, you enjoyed being compared to a 70s porn star. Lounging around the pool with your soap-powered speed-boats, thermos filled with martini, corrugated cardboard sunglasses on... What a superb show. Apart from one teacher in primary school, your show was perhaps the only time I got around to learning anything. Many thanks. Warmest r., Simon Bedak Wagga Wagga

From ABEFRELLMEN: Rob. Wow. What an honour! I owe my childhood love of science to you guys. Thank-you!

From BARNESM: Rob, porn star when used by NatV is definitely a term of affection. I am sure like most of us here all have fond memories and can trace a love of science and technology back to our early viewing of the show.

From TOBP-STEVE: Celebrity and science icon as the case may be, it was still quite the porn look. Hey, I loved my Dad, but I was horrified at some of the clothes he wore back then.

From NOWHEREBOB: I know I'm dwelling here, but I'd love to see what a vivisectionist could do with Humphrey.

SOOTHING SAVAGE BEASTS

2009-07-13T19:00:00.004+10:00

Some days I really miss the kids. I loved teaching. In the end it was the other teachers that drove me away from the profession not the students. I taught high school music from 1990 until 2002 in the public system. In my first year out of college I was posted to Alexandra Hills High School, a pilot school situated in a suburb in the south east of Brisbane. I remember the place was a bit of an experimental ground for teaching any new syllabus and it was decided that every child should do music, drama and art until year 10. This meant a lot of surly boys doing music and drama when normally they would have had the option to drop those subjects after year 8. I found myself with huge mixed classes in which angry young men made up the majority. This was my first year of teaching and I was determined the kids would learn. I realized how imperative it was to get them under my thumb. It was hopeless trying to teach them to read and write music at that stage, so we spent a lot of time doing what I liked to loosely call ‘music appreciation’. Basically I'd play them some music then conclude the lesson with a lecture and discussion. Then we’d all tool around on the guitars for a bit. Metallica released ‘One’ in 1989 and I decided that this song was just what a group of angry young men needed to listen to. I don’t know what possessed me, but I’ll never forget their stunned faces at the end of it. This class took place in an annexed room at the back of the school so we had the luxury of playing it at a decent volume as well. The only thing more depressing than being an armless, legless war veteran with no face, who’s blind, deaf and mute, is being forced to read about one. The song is based on ‘Johnny Got His Gun’ by Dalton Trumbo I tell the kids. In the introduction, the sound of helicopters (despite them being an unknown commodity in World War 1) and machine guns indicate the impending doom and gloom to follow. Then James Hetfield assumes the inner monologue of the mutilated, faceless man thanks to his terminal grimace of a voice and tightly clenched teeth. Half way in Metallica are already trying to rip our heads off with their maniacal double-tracked guitars and Lars Ulrich bashing his kit like he just found out about Napster. ‘Darkness! Imprisoning me!’ Hetfield is screaming. ‘All that I see, absolute horror!’ The double bass drums pump out the rhythm with each shouted syllable, as if it were choreographed machine gun fire. The boys then proceed to tear into this mind-boggling guitar soloing that rewrites Einstein’s space/time continuum and when played loudly enough; has the power to implode small buildings as well. ‘One’ ends abruptly; much like a Lamborghini stops when it runs into a truck. Well you should have seen their kid’s shocked and sad little faces at the end of it! Looking back it was a little evil of me. But I didn’t have an ounce of trouble from that class ever again. Good times.

MATRIMONIAL STATE

2009-07-09T16:00:00.008+10:00

After two failed marriages, I have come to the conclusion that the odds are better for finding intelligent life on Mars than expecting a marriage to survive (although the chances of finding intelligent life on Earth still remains remote) I have realized now that the lack of prenuptial education may be to blame. So that young couples may benefit from my experience and in the interests of civic duty, I present dear reader, a sensitively constructed prenuptial quiz.

For Men:

‘Do I look fat in this dress?’
a) I can’t see. Is that an eclipse?
b) Well, not compared with how enormous your arse looks in jeans.
c) You know I love to see a woman with curves.

‘What are you thinking?’
a) Whether my passport is valid for the Seychelles.
b) If I was locked in a room with Sandra Sully and a jar of honey.
c) Whether it’s impossible to love you any more than I do now.

‘Do you think I should get a breast enlargement?
a) Not before you invest in rhinoplasty, no.
b) Now you’ve gone an ruined your birthday surprise!
c) Sweets…how can you improve upon perfection?

‘Would you still love me if we couldn’t have sex?’
a) No. I’d be across the road slinging stones at you.
b) Sure, like I’d enjoy footy if there was no ball.
c) It’s you I love pet. Not your body.

For Women:

‘Do you mind if my mate Baz comes over to watch the footy?’

a) Why don’t we wait until he evolves into a recognizable life form?
b) Only if the lesbian next door can take me to that K.D.Lang show.
c) You know your friends are always welcome in our home dear.

‘Do you think I’m losing my hair?’
a) Well, it’s either that or a yeti has been using your comb.
b) Of course not. Do you think my breasts are beginning to sag?
c) I haven’t noticed. I’ve been looking at your cute arse.

‘Am I the best lover you’ve ever had?’
a) Is that before or after we got married?
b) Sorry? I just nodded off there for a minute.
c) I can’t remember any man before I met you.

If you answered mostly a) or b) then marriage is not for you. By the way, your house plants have asked for a trial separation. If you answered mostly c) then by all means go forth and multiply. Sounds like you have already lost the capacity for independent thought.

EFFING EFF ME BOOTS

2009-07-08T19:00:00.013+10:00

Well blow me! I've got money to spend and absolutely nowhere to spend it. Having lived frugally these last few years I've finally come into a bit of dosh (after the sale of the house) and have put aside some green stuff for a splurge. Found me a trenchcoat (a la Peter Sellers) and a classy pant suit, a few tight pencil skirts and some frilly blouses but alas and alack no appropriate footwear to finish off the new ensembles. So in earnest I went in search of some knee-high boots. *big loud drawn-out sighs* I'll be damned if I could find any. Most appear to be made for women with the calves the size of a Chinese wrestler giving you that sloppy gum-boot look or the skanky type with heels nine inches long with legs ending up somewhere around your woo-hoo. Then there's the wanna-be biker chick style with thousands of extraneous chains and buckles. Arggh! All I want is a classy form fitting pair in a soft leather with a three inch heel.

THE BIG BLOWIE

2009-07-03T18:00:00.002+10:00

It’s freezing cold and blowing a gale here in Brisbane today, so it seems appropriate that slap-bang in the middle of winter is a good time to review the naming of the seasons. It’s about time we jettisoned the traditions of our English forebears and came up with some seasons of our own. The Yanks call autumn ‘fall’ and likewise we Aussies should become more conscious of our own environment and adjust. Most Australian-born children suffer from a crippling cultural schizophrenia. There is something deeply disturbing about watching your parents paint frost on the window on a 38 degree December day. Children feel cheated when story books promise a snowy Christmas, blazing Yule log and magnificent fir tree only to be greeted by a piece of gum tree sprayed silver with cotton wool glued on it. How can we expect our children to be beguiled by the wonder of scrawny, mixo-ridden vermin bringing gifts at Easter? You may as well tell the kids the kindly old Easter European carp is on his way. Rethinking the seasons is a good way to start healing this cultural schism. We obviously can’t look to the trees to help us out being the mix of evergreen and deciduous varieties that we have. Perhaps northern Australians could have two seasons, ‘Wet’ and ‘Dry’ and the southerners could have two called ‘Cricket’ and ‘Footy’. Melbourne’s seasons could be renamed ‘Drizzle’, ‘Overcast’, ‘Sopping Wet’ and ‘Blowing a Dog off a Chain’ and here in Brisbane we could go ‘Muggy as Hell’, ‘Rumbling Skies’, ‘Freezing Westerlies’ and 'Bludge’, a season which runs from November until January, as in, ‘Oh sorry mate, we’d love to come out and look at your new fridge/extension/pergola, but we’re flat out like a lizard till Chrissy’. So dear reader, how would you rename the seasons of your city?

CHARING CROSS

2009-06-30T12:00:00.005+10:00

Just been shopping for second hand books to fill the last of the empty spaces in my three new floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and in the process found myself in Charing Cross Books in Annerley. What I saw broke my heart. It was absolute mayhem. The passageways were narrow, the books thick with dust and the floor haphazardly littered with boxes of books sadly waiting for categorising...and whilst there was seemingly no attempt to make it easy to find anything I could tell there were some absolute gems to be discovered. Problem was the poor lighting and disarray filled me with such trepidation that I didn't get past the first two shelves in the doorway. Perched in a dark corner at the front of the shop, hidden behind a mountain of books was this darling elderly gent with these sad, kind blue eyes listening to 4BC. Luckily I stumbled upon a book near the entry about the scandalous history of one of Brisbane's most famous families (the Maynes) and enquired as to whether this was the same family buried in the mausoleum on top of Toowong cemetery. Well that set him off with a million fascinating stories. He was quite the raconteur though I couldn't help but be distracted with my own sadness at the state of his wonderful collection. Honestly the man was sitting on a farking fortune worth of books but only the brave would wander past the entry. Soon we were talking about the demise of the Chardons Corner Hotel (diagonally opposite the shop) and he was inviting me to the back of the store to show me a painting of it. He struggled to pull it out from where it was wedged and in the process we were both rained down on by an avalanche of books. He was so damned pleased that I was interested in his stories that it was difficult to leave. Now that I'm home all I can think about is getting in there and cleaning the place up. It was an absolute tragedy to see it in the state it was in. How do you volunteer for such a thing without causing offence?

MOVING SCHMOOVING

2009-06-24T09:00:00.035+10:00

My life has been rearranged. As you all know I have just shifted house and whilst I was prepared for a certain amount of physical upheaval, the arrival of the Formidable Pair a couple of weeks ago was an event completely outside the experience of my sheltered inner-urban working-class existence. The moment my house went up for sale I was targeted ruthlessly via mail by marketeers pimping removalist companies. In the end I chose the one whose motto was simply 'Pros that Care'. This hardly prepared me for the dawn assault of Dan and Stump, a crack squad of lifestyle police who would break my spirit and force me to re-evaluate my entire belief system.

'Come on in boys and have a prowl around. I'm making coffee. Who wants one?' The Formidable Pair assess the surrounds and tell me I have far too many possessions for a single woman. Some seventeen cubic metres to be exact. 'All this yours, is it? And it's just you and your kid? Far out lady...we're gonna be here for hours. Hope we bought a big enough truck....shiiiiit...I've got four kids and we haven't got this much stuff!' Oh and apparently the milk tastes off. What could I say? I'm a hopeless pack rat with a penchant for heavy second-hand furniture and large musical instruments. But in the end I saw their point. The hallways were narrow and they'd have to be lugged up a flight of stairs at the destination and here I was with seventeen cubic metres of shit. I also realised that most of my furniture is substandard. As the pair loaded my gear into the container they shouted out the sorry details on the condition report. 'Double seater lounge: chipped legs, torn seat, unidentified stain behind the right cushion. Doesn't look like she's ever been to IKEA.' Check. 'Small bookcase: once a nice piece of timber,now scratched, total disregard for Australian hardwood.' Mattress: ripped on the left hand side, springs had it. Looks like it's been used as a trampoline.' Check. 'Cheap knock-off painting by some French dude. Think it's a Ren...a Ren...Ren-wa. Issat how ya say it?' According to the Formidable Pair I have lousy taste too. 'Hey Stump! Have you loaded that weird picture yet?' 'What, the weird one in the lounge or the one my six year old could have painted in the hallway?' I also see now that I have an unnatural attachment to heavy furniture. 'Jesus Dan. Feel the weight of this. You have to wonder how she got it through this doorway in the first place. You know they have some nice cane furniture these days which is cheap and functional...and chipboard is light and durable. Ever been to IKEA?' 'Ah yes Stump...but I don't much care for it' 'You know you've got about fifteen cartons of books here. That's about 200 kilos of books. Now that you're living in a split level house you should really consider reading those paperbacks lady.'

It's all too clear now. I've lived my intellectual life as a dilettante. Perhaps I should live in a yurt, my possessions easily loaded on the back of a donkey: a prayer rug, a shawl and a hymn book. A simple nomadic lifestyle. I hereby renounce all the attachments I have to worldly goods. And to think...I may never have met simple good folks like Dan and Stump. Nor risked the inherent dangers of shopping at IKEA last weekend. Oh...and apparently Stump (the one with the missing front tooth) thinks I'm really good lookin'...thanks mate.

MISSIN' YOUSE

2009-06-17T20:00:00.011+10:00

Awwww....shit.

Deep in boxes here in Holland Park West. Finding myself missing the days of Journal Space. Blogger just ain't the same. I miss you all tremendously and I miss the writing ritual. Should be back in the swing of things really soon. Thanks for hangin' in there comrades!

SWORD SWALLOWING

2009-06-04T10:00:00.012+10:00

Greetings! Another sporadic entry from yours truly. Since the house finally settles in a week’s time, I’ve been on the hunt for a rental property. From somebody that has been an owner for several years I’d forgotten how much real estates make the humble renter feel like chopped liver. To go from having an agent falling all over you to being treated like dirt as a renter makes my blood boil! During the process of inspecting about fifteen different properties I had to deal with several curt young ladies on the telephone. I repeat…not a happy camper about being made to feel sub-human. Anyways, I’ve found the perfect property and have put in an application. Fingers crossed. There’s a lot of filthy, rundown rentals out there. I had to kiss a lot of toads let me tell you. But there was a little surprise waiting for me in a place I looked at in Salisbury that tickled my fancy. A warning to all potential renters: if the internet ad does not show internal pictures of the property, don’t waste your time inspecting it! This place was positively feral…kinda looked like a bunch of marauding soldiers had occupied the building during wartime and trashed the joint. Mud tracked over every square inch of the carpet, dust an inch thick on every surface, windows that had lost their transparency, the smell of stale piss. Urgh. But what have we here on the floor in the second bedroom? A pile of crusty old undies and a book…hey I recognise that cover…HOW TO BE A MAN by John Birmingham and Dirk Flinthart. WTF??? I do believe the back cover reads something like, ‘For the purposes of this book, we’re going to assume that you’re within the normal boundaries of blokehood. You know enough to shower daily, brush your teeth after meals and pick the fattest, slowest moving lice from your body. If this description doesn’t apply to you, no amount of reading is going to be of assistance.’ Ha! So Dirk and Birmo…I thought you should know…despite all your best efforts and advice…some men are clearly beyond help. And I had such high hopes for the evolution of man.

LOW-FAT WITCHCRAFT

2009-05-21T15:00:00.013+10:00

I was at a dinner party the other night talking to my old radio friend Cindy about nothing in particular when she paused and said, ‘I’ve just had a psychic flash’ and mustering my most grave and thoughtful expression in response, I whispered, ‘Really?’ I’m used to Cindy’s psychic pronouncements by now, but it was a shock when I first realised she had been taken by the forces of the Other Side. I’d known Cindy for years. Bad-mannered, hard-living, sardonic, cynical Cindy. Then one day, again talking about nothing in particular, I said that I was feeling a bit depressed. And right out of the blue she said, “Have you had your numerology chart done? You may just be entering a low energy cycle. It would make sense because according to the Celtic-Nordic Eightfold Year calendar it’s now fallow time. I don’t know how many of you have seen The Invasion of the Body Snatchers but it was like some strange spiritual being had taken the real Cindy away and left in her stead a New Age Whacko. ‘But it’s also the power of positive visualisation. Have you read ‘The Secret’? If things aren’t happening for you it just means you aren’t putting out the right signals.’ Although I immediately thought there would be a few million people starving in Africa who would have been fascinated with her theory, I just whispered, ‘Really?’ These days I swear there’s a resident loony at every party! The following are some recent conversations I’ve attempted to have with a New Age Whacko. ME: I’ve just had the lounge room painted and some renovations done. I’m really happy with the way the house is looking. HER: Have you had a Feng Shui consultant in? You know that if the extensions are L-shaped you could be missing your wealth corner. ME: I’m really worried about my sister. She hasn’t had a relationship in a long time and she’s come to a dead end at work at the solicitor's. HER: Don’t worry, she has Saturn in her opposite sign at the moment, but she’s going to be fine after the eclipse in March. I tell you all this New Age mumbo is really starting to seriously unnerve me. Those who know me will know that I do have my (ahem) spiritual side and I do try to keep an open mind on all things transcendental. Karmic law may well be a universal force (but it doesn’t explain why so many mean, rich bastards die happy), reincarnation may exist (although it doesn’t have much point if those same bastards don’t know they’ve come back as a bogong moth on a windshield) and angels may be abroad in the world of men (but it seems unfair that they save one person but let 200 people die in a train derailment). But all this holistic, herbal, low-fat bollocks which is expressed as an unassailable belief system is driving me bonkers! And these women are otherwise sophisticated and intelligent. You can imagine what happens when men start talking like this. At least someone in the group will have the sense to say, ‘Oh for fuck's sake shut-up Harry, you’re talking out of your arse’. And if a man didn’t knock such stupidity on the head, soon enough we’d have the spectacle of the Australian cricket team taking a break for Bach Rescue Remedy, lavender eye pillows and positive affirmations. CRICKET CAPTAIN: I dunno, we can’t seem to win a trick at the moment. I can’t work out why we’re in such a slump. WICKET-KEEPER: Well, if you look at the configuration of the pitch and sightboard we’ve got a negative energy flow situation. If we hang a flute or a mirror on the stumps it should restore positive chi. CRICKET CAPTAIN: Shut-up Harry, you’re talking out of your arse. So all you New Age Whackos out there, do us a favour and try to keep your amazing insights to yourself. Some of us are trying to think.

BOOZE BLOGGING

2009-05-21T13:00:00.007+10:00

It’s considered quite the norm amongst Australians to partake in a daily cold beverage or two. In fact, most of us refer to five pm as beer o’clock. Fortunately, I no longer drink in public in the interests of self-respect, unless of course it’s a few at a restaurant or wedding. You see, spirits tend to make me black out and go silly. By about the fifth drink, the sugary goodness is starting to be consumed at a much faster rate than can possibly be metabolized and pretty soon, I’m loud and obnoxious and making a bloody fool of myself. It's quite possible for me to physically function for the rest of the evening but then the next day I wake with no memory of prior events. I’ve lost hundreds of dollars in poker games this way! I’ve had to give up spirits in public for my own personal safety more than anything. It’s not usually a good idea going empty-handed to a poker game in the wee hours with complete strangers. I've had enough of that action. These days, I’m the dull one in the corner clinging desperately to a warm beer and pretending not to people watch. This leaves me with the drinking at home option and all of its inherent dangers. Drinking alone with communication technology is a recipe for disaster my friends. Believe me, a stray drunken thumb and a mobile phone are powerful weapons indeed. All technology should be strictly quarantined for the duration of the aforementioned binge. You see it is my belief that alcohol unleashes a toxic worm that is responsible for all the stupid things you do when drunk. A popular theory exists that alcohol reveals your innermost repressed desires and urges; but I beg to differ. I believe that buried deep within every cerebellum is an evil brain worm that bears no relation to your good self and if left unchecked, will emerge to wreak all sorts of havoc...uninhibited discussions with estranged relatives...bitchy remarks on blogs...stray cryptic text messages to people who have slighted you. It’s a world of hurt when booze and electronics combine forces. The immediacy of the medium is the real downfall. The usual editing software one employs during conversations in the daytime seems to malfunction when one has had a few and inevitably, people get hurt. Care to share your most shameful, drunken mishap?

UGG BOOTS AND BEANIES

2009-05-18T11:00:00.005+10:00

Well the house is finally under contract and fingers crossed will be sold for only $5000 less than what I felt it was worth. Anyway, I was sitting out on the patio last Saturday night when I heard the whine of super-modifieds in the distance and decided to do something I've always wanted to but never have: spend Saturday night at Archerfield Speedway!!! It was everything I expected: loud, dirty and mullet-infested. The track has this rough clay surface and is tilted like a bike velodrome. The only thing between you and the track is a metre high fence and about fifty feet of caged wire. Upon entering the first thing I noticed was all the grannies in fold-out chairs, scarves and goggles but I promptly stopped sniggering when I realized the eye-wear wasn't just for show...the hillside was littered with speedway virgins like myself: all desperately rubbing the dirt kicked up by the cars out of their eyes. But it was a helluva lot of fun. Watching the V8s at Indy on TV is nothing compared to the excitement of watching a bunch of jalopies slowly lapping in formation and then suddenly roaring into life. Three laps in and a handful of cars came-a-cropper on a tight bend and I watched one of them break free and soar sideways into the air no more than fifty metres in front of me!!! Then the gargantuan monster trucks bounced out and wrought havoc on a collection of 'retired' vehicles...fark me...apparently each tyre is six grand to replace and the nitrogen gas suspension a cool 40 grand...and here I was thinking the Commodore bled me dry. So anyway folks it's finally official...I AM BOGAN...HEAR ME ROAR!

FOOD FASCISTS

2009-04-20T13:00:00.002+10:00

I had a dream about dining with the Two Fat Ladies last night. Remember them? Those pleasantly plump English lasses that loved nothing better than swilling cooking sherry and swimming about in thick, rich, salted, heart-stopping butter? Well for some reason they’ve seeped into my subconscious lately. Maybe you dear reader can shed some light on this strange scenario? OK...so here goes... We’re in some upmarket bistro overlooking the Story Bridge. Clarissa is on my left and Jennifer on my right. An emaciated looking waiter with a ponytail and a vacant expression approaches the table. ‘Today’s specials are…’ he began. ‘Stop right there pet’ I say. I look him straight in the eye and say as slowly and as nicely as possible ‘I want fish fingers with melted cheese on white bread and lashings of butter’ He looks absolutely appalled ‘Pardon moi madam?’ ‘You heard me sunshine. I want fish fingers. In fact I want a whole platter of them.’ ‘Well madam’ he began again ‘today’s specials are a crisp rocket salad with char-grilled cuttlefish’ I could see this was going to be a lot harder than I had anticipated. I looked over at Clarissa who appeared to have already been served. She was unhappily picking her way through a collection of wilted lettuce leaves that the most self-respecting rabbit would reject. Clarissa lifts her greasy head and says in her booming voice ‘and I want chips…not New York potato wedges, not shoe-string fries but really thickly cut chips with vinegar and lashings of salt!’… ‘Here here!’ joins in Jennifer, fixing the waiter with her watery, cross-eyed look through those heavy black-rimmed spectacles. ‘I want chips too, and a battered saveloy AND potato scallops with mayonnaise. Get this grain-fed veal in red wine jus out of my sight!’ Suddenly, things got out of hand. In slow motion I watched my fellow diners smashing plates and throwing mineral water and then as a mob we marched to the kitchen. The chef looked terrified as well he should – like the storming of the Bastille, this was a powder keg in the new dining revolution! We’d had enough of big white plates and miniscule serves and we weren’t going to take it anymore! Our rallying cry was ‘What do we want? Fish Fingers! How do we want ‘em? DEEP FRIED’ Ahem. Things got a bit hazy after that. Last thing I remember was Clarissa holding the dishwasher hostage and Jennifer wielding a hot spatula in the direction of the chef’s reproductive organs. How very quaint.

A LETTER FROM THE RHINO TO THE HEAD OF CARDINALS, VATICAN, VATICAN CITY, ITALY.

2009-04-19T12:00:00.005+10:00

Your eminences, How’s it going? I suppose things must be getting pretty busy what with Easter coming up and all. Well, I’ll be brief. I was reading in the paper the other day that the holy father Pope Benedict XVI seems to have found himself in a spot of bother…what with all those gay rights activists and Holocaust denying bishops shaking things up.Did you have a contingency plan in place had one of those diamond-tipped Protestant spears penetrated the pope mobile in Cameroon? I didn’t think so. You never can be too careful these days you know. Have you considered possible replacements should anything happen (God-forbid!) to his holiness-ness? I know this isn’t exactly a pleasant topic but you don’t need the hassle of sitting round on those cold sixteenth-century tiles late into the night do you? Men of your age should watch that kind of thing. That is why I’m offering my services now, getting in early as it were. I believe myself more than suitable.

I’m a Pennsylvanian Yankee currently residing in King Bubba's court and well used to saving an ungrateful world on a regular basis. You guys don’t want some new-wave pope trying to reform things now do you? I mean if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. It’s been going strong for a while now and you've been doing a great job naysaying science…you just need a professional figurehead to handle the commercials and public appearances. You write it, I’ll speak it…no problemo padres!

I feel that my intimate, yet secret relationship with dear old JP the II should be taken into account. You do realize it was me that quietly gave him hints about polishing up his act all those years ago? That kissing the tarmac manoeuvre? My idea. Although I still think it would have been better if he’d then done a few forward rolls and finished with a handstand. Look what it did for Jason Akermanis’ career.

I know my large muscular appearance is not what you had in mind but, gentlemen, we haven’t had a big pope since Pious XII – affable old roly-poly Pious the Twelfth. The Party Pope. The pope who always seemed to be saying ‘put your hands back in your pockets buddy, this one’s on me’. Just think of me as Pope Rhino the First...‘he loves to pray but he loves to barbeque’...Pope Rhino who bought back porterhouse steak on Fridays and offered a free cigar with every communion wafer. I can also fry up a pretty mean burger. In fact my reputation is such that I have my very own cult following. Their religious convictions are somewhat tenuous (to say the least) but in this day and age you guys really can’t afford to be fussy now can you?

You want a yes man as pope, then yes, I’m the man.

(I’m assuming this is a 200k plus job)

Yours ‘til the puff of white smoke goes up,

The Rhino

SHIT FIGHT: AUSSIE CITIES

2009-04-18T20:36:00.022+10:00

The capital city of Australia is of course Canberra and was built purely to settle a shit fight dispute between rival candidates and long time enemies, Sydney and Melbourne. The war continues to this day. Well what a load of old bollocks! As a neutral outsider and Brisbane resident, I feel it my civic duty to settle the score once and for all. Melbourne (which much like Brisbane) is a sad and anonymous collection of drab suburbs huddled around a deserted city centre in the desperate search of a defining architectural moment. The city has four seasons being: ‘drizzle’, ‘overcast’, ‘sopping wet’ and ‘blowing a dog off a chain’. You can tell when it’s summer because the rain gets a bit warm. Californians visiting in winter have been known to contact Amnesty International. Melbourne’s sister cities are Blackpool, Reykjavik and Launceston. Melbournians have styled themselves as ‘an enclave of European intellectualism in an antipodean cultural wasteland’ while the rest of us see them as bunch of whinging wine wankers. Melbourne footy fans are mean-spirited and only feel good about themselves when they beat Adelaide. Once a dumping ground for overcrowded British prisons, Sydney stays true to its origins by elevating corrupt police, con artists and colourful racing identities to the upper echelons of society (again...much like Brisbane) The women are vicious matrons with complexions like lizard skin handbags and often lunch in Double Bay wearing Chanel knock-offs from Asia. They’ll spend $300 on lunch to raise funds for victims of collagen abuse and call it ‘charity’. They eat their own young. Sydney prides itself on ‘Pacific Rim Cuisine’, which is what happens when you take a prawn roll with mayo for $2 and flog it off as a warm seafood and mesculun salad for $40. A Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gra is what you get when cabaret lounges refuse entry to anyone not wearing knee-high socks and bloody sandals. And there you have it. At least here in Brisbane we know we’re shithouse...and proud of it......*dislcaimer* Evidence entirely anecdotal. Author never resided in either city but did visit for a bit. Once.

UP FOR SALE...MY JOINT

2009-04-16T23:00:00.005+10:00

So, this is what I've been up to these last 4 months: attempting to make this property look semi-respectable. My wee little house is finally up for sale All work and no play makes for a very dull blog.

INAPPROPRIATENESS-NESS

2009-04-06T10:00:00.005+10:00

My daughter found herself in trouble at school for wearing an ‘inappropriate’ amount of make-up. You know I’d forgotten how much headmistresses loved giving you the old ‘inappropriate’ lecture. What a lousy excuse for word! Well I’m going to have a few inappropriate words with you all on the inappropriate use of the word ‘inappropriate’. Have you noticed it’s usually favoured amongst those who have the most invested in not saying what they mean? It’s a word in which the spin doctors can hide all their monumental stuff-ups and righteous indignation. Headmistresses love to use inappropriate precisely because it’s so imprecise. It could mean anything: improper, crude, thoughtless, reckless even scandalous. But oh no those words might give us a cheap thrill. It seems politicians don’t lie any more, they ‘respond inappropriately’. And kids don’t get suspended for wagging school and smoking anymore; they get transferred for ‘inappropriate’ language in the classroom. Inappropriate also means the boss never has to say, ‘look I’m sorry but some dipstick at our end fucked this up comprehensively and quite frankly, I’m amazed you’ve managed to follow the electronic trail of incompetence back to this computer. Of course shit-for-brains was overcome with remorse and has since resigned’. Then there’s the problem with male office workers drinking inappropriate amounts of alcohol and being completely inappropriate towards female colleagues: ‘Oh come on sweetheart! Show us ya euphemisms!’ So what the bloody hell does this inappropriate mean? Just tell us! It’s like trying to get a straight answer from Dame Edna. Now funnily enough, history books have never shown much use for the word. What on earth would we make of the fall of the Roman Empire if it was written that two hundred thousand Huns behaved inappropriately? And where would the fun be if we only knew Catherine the Great had an ‘inappropriate’ amount of husbands and died doing ‘inappropriate’ things with a horse? Then again, maybe if Napoleon Bonaparte had realized ‘inappropriate’ meant ‘freezing your tits off’ he would not have attempted to cross Russia in the middle of December. And then we all would have missed out. Now despite all this, I still think there are some things which are genuinely inappropriate: farting at the dinner table; black bras under white T-shirts; and screwing the best man in the bridal suite at your girlfriend’s wedding. So while we’re having fun not saying what we really mean, what does your inner prude still find inappropriate?

CAUTIONARY TALES

2009-04-04T22:00:00.009+10:00

After reading Flinthart's post tonight about warning labels I felt compelled to post this old rant of mine...About six months ago I imposed a ban on commercial television in our house because I’d had enough of the sub-standard programming, the inane and patronising advertising and the dire state of news reporting. It was desperate attempt to restore some peace to the household. I know I joke a lot about being the number one candidate for the funny farm, but this was serious. I realized that I’d developed this maddening co-dependent relationship with the largest inanimate object in the house; to a point where I had to keep a spray bottle of window cleaner and the paper towels by the screen. This habit of verbally abusing the television had not only become invisible to me but was starting to scare the family. Even the TV thought I was a jerk. It all started when programmers decided that cautionary tales and other vague predictions of doom and gloom should be considered the highest form of entertainment. Let’s have a look at a typical week of news and current affairs. On Monday we have dire warnings of obesity underscoring random shots of headless fat people minding their own business in the Queen Street Mall. Tuesday it’s prostates and breasts being squeezed into imaging machines. Wednesday is ode to skin cancer day. Thursday it’s more useless analysis of the road toll followed by the dangers of compulsive gambling and passive smoking; and you can bet your bottom dollar Friday will be a party-themed discussion about binge drinking and driving under the influence. I really don’t know how we managed to survive before all this. At least back then the news had some bloody news in it. If there is one thing of which I am certain; this culture of dispensing advice and rampant fear mongering is turning the nation into candidates for the mental hospital. How on earth did we manage to survive before TV? Who was there to tell us to exercise more, to swim between the flags and to avoid walking into oncoming traffic? You had your Mum for that and rightly so. It’s hard to imagine how the Australian Army managed to recruit enough troops for Iraq considering all of the reports about the inherent dangers of war: things like 'shell-induced deafness' and 'grenade-throwing repetitive strain injuries'...“Yes the situation is looking terribly grim. I’m dug in on the north face with a chain-smoker, an obsessive-compulsive with ADD and Smith has been laid out with a bloody awful case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. We’re also down to our last tube of sun-factor 15. I really don’t know how much longer we can hold out.” Don’t you reckon it’s time for TV to get real? Just for once I’d like to hear some straight talking the next time the news decides to dedicate half an hour to the dangers of crossing train tracks. I want to hear the spokesman from Queensland Rail say, “Yep those kids are farking A-grade jerk-offs. Even my five year old has enough brains not to do that” I happy to report, that thanks to Foxtel, the TV and I are almost back on civilised speaking terms. Fewer commercials, a decent slice of Australian programming and re-runs of your favourite show from the 70s. This new and improved relationship with media got me thinking. George Orwell really was onto something when he wrote 1984 but little did he realize that whilst some people would tune into Big Brother, the rest of us would be watching re-runs of the Goodies…and loving every minute of it.

FLIES ON RANCID MUTTON

2009-04-02T11:00:00.010+10:00

First, a notice to all wannabe cabaret stars and Australian Idol contestants: never under any circumstances sing Stephen Sondheim’s ‘Send In the Clowns’ when auditioning for a musical or the like. You’ll be pegged as a tragic amateur, impaled on a flaming skewer of queer vitriol and tossed out the stage door on your barista arse. This once sublime show tune has long been a sad parody of itself; due to decades of other vocalists chowing down on to it like flies on rancid mutton. ‘Send In The Clowns’ is now the obligatory ‘poor me’ number that lounge singers will invariably pull out of their bag of tricks to try and make you sob in your veal parmigana. To really appreciate how sickening this show tune has become, just know this: even gays openly gag on it. I’ve seen it.

No doubt you would have heard one of it’s versions: whether that be by Frank Sinatra, Barbara Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor, Cleo Laine, Acker Bilk, Grace Jones (a disco version? what on earth was she thinking?) Judi Dench, Shirley Bassey, Glen Close or for the under 30s, Krusty the Clown. But to fully appreciate it’s cyanide choking qualities, one must be forced to hear it (or in my case accompany the damn thing) in the most horrifying of venues: the cabaret lounge.

For fear of litigation, let’s call her Fifi Whatsherface. Imagine a creepy chanteuse who resembled Jocelyn Wildenstein after ten skin grafts draped in a red feather boa and sprawled across a baby grand. The band had several nicknames for her but my favourite was always ‘Lumpy: The Sequined Sausage’. Her first set would usually comprise of mangled interpretations of George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Peggy Lee and, to show you she was impossibly hip, some selections from Disney’s ‘Beauty and the Beast’. Ahem. ‘Send in the Clowns’ would unfailingly set the tone for the second set. The piano would begin with a sideways version of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ as Fifi stared cross-eyed into the imaginary distance. ‘Isn’t it riiiiiiii-CH…? Are we a paaaaaair?’ As she continued chomping away at the melody like some hyena feasting on a slow moving yak, Fifi then informed us she’s on the ground watching someone in mid-air. ‘Alrighty’, you think to yourself. Who exactly? The window washer? A bungee jumper? Spiderman perhaps? At the end of the first stanza she makes some half-arsed request for somebody to ‘send in the clowns’ At this point most of the audience (and the band) would motion the waiter to send in the booze. I think you get the idea.

I remember first hearing it when Barbara Streisand got a hold of it and being utterly clueless as to it’s meaning. Maybe because Stephen Sondheim was an obsessive wordsmith, known for going to great lengths to avoid being obvious. Which is great I suppose, but his songs only work within the context of the stage production they belong to. To worsen matters, he was oft inclined to shove a thesaurus into a blender and hit frappe. Now anyone that’s bothered to decipher the meaning of this song, probably think it’s about loss and regret. Oh no my friends. It’s the ‘poor me’ whimperings of a has-been who probably ate personal assistants for breakfast (or in my case publicly abuse the poor bass player for drinking on the job) Besides, anyone that talks about entering a room with their usual flair and walks like a duck in urgent need of a proctologist needs to have words ‘insufferably pretentious’ stamped on their foreheads.

ME AND MY NEW(ISH) CELICA

2009-04-01T14:00:00.007+10:00

Well the Commodore is now officially dead. This is me with the replacement: a 1993 Toyota Celica. Two doors, power windows...and naff little spoiler. Just need some mags and a proper detail and she should look pretty schmick. Picked it up for an absolute bargain. Second gear has plenty of legs in it...basically it goes like a shower of shit! Of course it pales in comparison to the Mazda RX-8 of which I had a drive of recently...but at about 55 grand difference in price I think I'll stick with this baby. More pictures of it can be viewed here.

A CULINARY WARNING

2009-03-30T12:00:00.004+10:00

Anyone been to Sizzler’s lately? I went last night (for the first time in about ten years) due to utter exhaustion after what I like to call ‘the day of a thousand squats’ (read sugar-soaping and painting half a house) Mysteriously, my memory of this smorgasbord establishment was limited to the delicious parmesan cheese toast which instantly appears at your table on arrival. Somehow, in my delirious state of hunger, I failed to remember the health scare that threatened to close the chain down irrevocably a couple of years ago. Sadly, I was reminded of this the moment I laid eyes on a chubby boy wiping his nose and fingering the spaghetti noodles. I realize I should've bolted at that point, but I’d already paid for the meal and endured the simpleton cashier informing me that her day had ranged from levels of ‘shit’ to ‘crap’ so I figured I could handle just about anything. My daughter is nearly sixteen, so it’s been a while since I’ve frequented a ‘family restaurant’ and dined with small children. I forgot how much fun it is watching tantrums and having Creaming Soda and ice spilt all over my Diana Ferrari’s…or the unmitigated joy to be had in fighting over the last scoop of Smarties with a pug-faced eight year old and winning…and let’s not forget the atrocious table manners of which, if it had been me as a child, would’ve earned me a good old-fashioned clip around the ears. I watched this kid with an enormous plate of potato wedges at the next table. Apparently you can either eat them or use them to assemble furniture. The adults weren’t much better either. First I observed an angry mother berate her child and spray her fellow diners with alfredo sauce and then it was a huge man wearing a lurex tank top in fluorescent yellow demolish three plates of lips and arseholes…err I mean seafood extender... with his big grubby fingers. My mother always told me ‘never eat anything bigger than your head’. In Sizzler it should be ‘never eat anything that looks like it needs third party insurance’. And that was just the salad bar. Then came the meal. My friend Aussie ordered the grilled prawns: of which their size gave a ring of accuracy to the term ‘shrimp’ and I ordered the Swiss-grilled chicken which quite frankly tasted like…well…the grill. ‘Did you enjoy your meal Miss?’ enquired the waitress. I just rolled my eyes wearily at her. After all...it’s impolite to laugh out loud with your mouth full.

MEN ARE LIKE CAMELS

2009-03-29T08:00:00.001+10:00

I readily admit to having a K-mart bladder and often find myself wondering why there aren’t ever enough public toilets. It’s a well known fact that women need to go more frequently and take a lot longer in there than men do, so why is it then that venues don’t install more women’s than men’s? I reckon if men wore pantyhose, knickers, petticoats, suspender belts and skirts there’d probably be a lot more loos to go around. It’s okay for the blokes: a quick zip and a shake and they’re off, back in their seat for the second half of the show with the Crown Lager they managed to slip past the door bitch. (Bedak!) In the meantime, the girls have come to know about thirty women on a first-name basis. ‘No, go on Susan. You look really desperate.’ ‘No after you Karen, I think I can hang on a minute longer.’ ‘What the hell is she doing in there?’ ‘Does anyone out there have a tissue?...anyone? I’ve run out of loo paper damnit!’ ‘What the fuck is wrong with this hand-dryer and what’s that on your skirt?’ It really is an undignified scene as women groan loudly and tap dance with pained expressions when the warning bell goes off for the second half. And how many times have you raced for the loo, only to find the queue is still too long and decide just to hang on? Hugh Jackman could be stage dancing the hornpipe with Magda Szubanski in the nude and you’d barely even notice as you cross and uncross your knees, chew your nails and bite off your own wrist waiting for that blissful moment when the show ends and you can bolt for the loo once more. It was probably a good thing that I couldn’t sneak a beer into Felafel last Friday night. I may have missed the entire show!

THE AUTHOR & THE PLAYWRIGHT

2009-03-28T11:00:00.002+10:00

What can I say? He Died with a Felafel in his Hand. Jaw-dropping, gobsmacking one-liners. References to Havock and Sweet Jane. Gay Dirk mincing about with a carrot. Tales of eye-popping mice worshipping giant spliffs to a Strauss soundtrack. Dancing mops. Utter filth. All this wedged between those two cacking themselves stupid. Fucking brilliant! Bedak...Birmingham...'twas a pleasure!!!

DOMESTIC FRACAS

2009-03-21T14:00:00.012+10:00

Last night my daughter ran screaming from her bedroom after discovering a cockroach having a party with some old mates in her schoolbag. Wearing one of those helmets with a light attached and bearing a canary in a cage, I bravely entered the room to be poleaxed by the overwhelming stench of something fruity. Further investigations revealed a soggy apple and furry sandwich harvesting mutant spores in one of her many lunchboxes. After the requisite verbal spray, I surveyed the chaos at my feet and was filled with utter despair. You see the last time I tried to clean my daughter’s bedroom, the exercise took on all the logistics of an archaeological dig. Such is her pathological inability to differentiate ‘clean’ from ‘utterly filthy’ that I am convinced she suffers from a syndrome which warrants serious scientific investigation and classification. That way, when a parent starts to notice that their child has no sense of smell and registers abnormally high levels of adrenalin at the sight of a vacuum cleaner, one can stage an early intervention. It reminded me of share housing in 1988. Neil is the only person I've ever met that’s been able to strip down a Holley Carburettor and spread it across four hectares of floor space. In fact, his room proved he was a pioneer in the field of quantum messiness. His space was a hole of such infinite density that not even the light from his dusty lava-lamp could escape it’s gravitational pull. Amongst the fetid underpants, the empty tuna tins and the rancid bucket bong were washing machine parts, a hunting knife collection and a rumpled Credence Clearwater Revival poster. When challenged, Neil informed me somewhat imperiously, that it was all about ‘war preparedness’. It was important that he have all his things closely surrounding him should he ever be called upon to do night manoeuvres in the jungle. Riiiiight. In that case Neil, you’d better arm yourself with something more substantial than pizza boxes and an assortment of screws. By the way...your clothes basket asked me to report you to Amnesty International. I thought you should know.

CLAYTONS CAT

2009-03-17T13:00:00.009+10:00

There’s this cat that comes to visit everyday. I don’t know which of the neighbours owns him but he spends an awful lot of time at my place. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if he was a stray but he’s a fat little fucker so I figure someone must be feeding him. I call him Clayton. The cat you have when you don’t have a cat. You see the thing is…Clayton would have to be, undoubtedly the dumbest fucking cat on earth. Honestly. I’ve tried all levels of reasonable torture on this beastly creature and still he keeps coming back. I thought my memory was bad. You see it all started about three years ago. We’d just moved into this house and I’d scored a new job at the MMMs. I was wearing my finest pair of black slacks when the little bugger snuck up behind me and smeared his vile, ungroomed coat all over my leg. The fluff brush was buried somewhere deep in a packing box of course, so I was forced to change outfits and ended up being late on the first day of the job. Then there was the time he snuck into the house and crash-tackled the cockatiel cage and let’s not forget the presents he leaves at the door for me…like the headless mice and lizards and vomit. Vile animal! So anyways, since then I usually start my day giving Clayton a swift kick in the cods. He’ll untangle himself and stroll back purring...looking for more leg to rub. And on it goes. Lately I’ve taken to hosing him with the jet setting on maximum. He’ll go hide in the bushes and wait until I turn off the tap. Soon he’s back for more lovin’ only this time he’s wet and smelly. Now I track him down in the bushes and saturate him until he decides he's had enough and does the bolt. An hour later he’s back like nothing’s happened. Cats are so not smart people. So don’t even go there.

NAT THE TOOLBITCH

2009-03-17T11:00:00.005+10:00

Here I am. It's me Nat. Just in case you forgot. Rong time no rite uh? Well...you get that. It's quite amazing what you can achieve when you put the mouse down. The house is up for sale so I'm tackling all the jobs that have been steadfastly ignored over the years. I've taught myself to plaster and can now tell the difference between an orbital and a belt sander. I can wax lyrical about the merits of coarse versus medium sandpaper. I've wheelbarrowed and shovelled a truck load of cypress bark into the garden beds and slashed through the forest out front with the best gardening tool ever: the HEDGEHOG. Yeah baby yeah! Recently, gap filler and a nifty little paint edging tool have become my new bestest friends. Bunnings wets itself when it sees me coming. Seriously, I think I missed my calling in life. I'm just loving big sweaty bloke jobs. Told you I was goddamn She-Man!

PRUNES AND JUNKET

2009-03-13T17:00:00.012+10:00

I was taking a spin down Newmarket Road in the suburb of Windsor on the weekend when I clocked all the gorgeous vintage cars parked outside Harry’s Diner. This restaurant is reminiscent of ‘Arnold’s’ from ‘Happy Days’ and as to be expected, is full retroheads admiring each other’s Chevrolets and Cadillacs. My friend tells me the place does a roaring trade. As far as themed restaurants go, Australia tends toward American concepts like the Lone Star Steakhouse and Hard Rock Café. Well I’d like to put forth a few ideas of my own. The Orifice Kitchen: Self-serve at its finest. Patrons select a chipped and filthy ‘decaf is the anti-Christ’ mug from the overflowing sink and ferret through cupboards and drawers to find a teabag and a fork. All tea comes with complimentary sugar laced with instant coffee granules and trim milk well past its use-by date. Today’s specials are complimentary birthday cheesecake and something growing spores in a Tupperware container labeled ‘this is mine-piss off’. The walls are covered with graffitied memos from the boss’ PA asking ‘would you leave your own kitchen looking like this?’ blu-tacked above the water purifier. Patrons that take advantage of BYO should not complain when their Snickers bar and six pack of Red Oak disappears. This restaurant is, after all, a shining beacon of modern communal living. Make sure you leave your crusty crockery and cutlery for someone else to clean up in The Orifice Kitchen. The Stadium Soirée: An establishment for the whole family. The car park is always full and conveniently located ten kilometres in the other direction and the toilets, merely a mirage in the desert. All the essential food groups are represented: tepid chips, microwaved pies scalding hot on the outside and frozen in the middle and watered down beer (that inevitably runs out so don’t forget to BYO). Anticipate your hunger by three hours and stand in a cue while you crane your neck to view the impossibly placed monitors. Hear the roar of the crowd die down as you make your way back to your seat only to find foreigners with hygiene problems have taken up residence. Blanche at the DNA and tomato sauce left by way of evidence. Here’s your chance to dine alfresco, no matter what the weather, and rub shoulders with potty-mouthed yobbos who swear and threaten murder in front of their children. Don’t forget to blue with our security guards before you leave at The Stadium Soirée. The Blue Rinse Café: Embroidered table cloths and napkins smelling of mothballs, lazy Susans and crocheted teapot cosies set the scene at The Blue Rinse Café. So authentic, it’s just like being at your Gran’s. You really haven’t experienced bland until you’ve eaten at The Blue Rinse Café. Our menu offers Toad in a Hole, Tuna Mornay, Corned Beef with White Sauce and None Of That Foreign Muck. Make a selection from our sweets trolley comprising of Pink Junket, Prunes and Custard, Baked Sago with Jelly and Stewed Rhubarb, or just sit in front of the Days of Our Lives with a tray and let our surly staff cater to your every whinge. Velvet slippers and gaping brunch coats are considered more than acceptable attire here at The Blue Rinse Café. The Blue Collar Brassiere: Sit on a fold out stool or balance on the scaffolding. It’s your choice at The Blue Collar Brassiere. Your Kentucky Fried Chicken, mashed potato and gravy and Pepsi will be personally delivered by an idiot apprentice who couldn’t even bang in a nail straight. Openly ogle and wolf whistle our waitresses and don’t forget to trample mud all over the cream carpet as you leave. Cattle and Pig dogs are welcome here at The Blue Collar Brassiere. Patrons please note: we are closed when it’s too wet, too hot, too cold, either side of a long weekend or when the Holden Ute is playing up.

THE MAN SKIRT

2009-01-23T08:00:00.004+10:00

I reckon it was all downhill for the female species the moment man put on a pair of pants. I was lazing about on the couch and channel surfing this afternoon when I stumbled upon Rob Roy on the movie channel. It was during that idyllic scene with his wife and children in the Scottish countryside. More specifically the part where Rob Roy explains what ‘honour’ means to his children and then the sex scene with Jessica Lange. Oh man. That scene does things to me. All that fresh air and green grass and rolling hillsides and wildflowers…oh and Liam Neeson reclining casually against a rock looking absolutely magnificent helps. His long, muscular legs stretched out before him. His wife’s hands snaking up his kilt to cop a feel and then taking him right there out in the open. Heavens to Murgatroid! Lucky wench! I wonder what it is about men in skirts? What is so alluring that causes women to openly goggle and behave just like the brothers? All I can say is that after watching Jessica Lange get it on with Liam Neeson this afternoon I am absolutely certain that it speaks to the primal cave woman within. I say the lads are a bit hard up should get themselves into a man skirt and start reaping the benefits. Not a Scotsman? So what? Go for it. Wear a toga if you must. Give your woman permission to release the inner predator within! Who invented damned pants anyway? Shy strawberry pickers? Cowboys with chaffing? Puritans hell-bent on coverage? I say bring back the man skirt and bring it back today! All those in favour say aye!