NATALIA THE RUSSIAN SPY

THE GREAT SEX WEEKEND

2009-11-22T16:00:00.026+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 weekend 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.

DIRTY MOUTHED HEADLESS WOMAN

2009-11-21T09:00:00.000+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!

GET YOUR BOMBAY ROCKS OFF

2009-11-13T09:00:00.006+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!

SAMANTHA THE ZOMBIE

2009-09-13T19:00:00.002+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 and effuse over it!

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!!!

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

2009-04-19T12:00:00.002+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

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.

THE MUSICAL BANSHEE

2009-11-11T20:00:00.003+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.

READ MY LIPS BIAAATCH

2009-11-08T21:00:00.003+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.

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!

FORTY AND FORGETFUL

2009-03-11T11:00:00.021+10:00

I’ll probably get raked over the coals by some do-gooder for admitting this: I don’t buy music anymore and tend to download songs from shareware sites or pilfer free CDs from work instead. So it was with great trepidation that I found myself in music store purchasing a CD for my daughter recently: something I hadn’t done in a very long time. She’d sent 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. I knew the symptoms well. 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 the quadratic equation did the day of your high school maths test. Your chest tightens, eyes roll back in deep concentration and you pathetically try to hum the tune out loud. To your fellow shoppers is appears as if you’re having a stroke, but no…you’re in the grip of something far, far worse: Music Store Amnesia. By now the 20 year old behind the counter is staring at me, horrified 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 utterly 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’ 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 but no more than the chorus of ‘Every Woman in the World’ Sure we’re the lucky country but as folk gather around the bargain bin to buy the ‘Best of Rolf Harris’ you have to ask: just how lucky are we?

PRUNES AND JUNKET

2009-03-13T17:00:00.011+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.

NAT THE TOOLBITCH

2009-03-17T11:00:00.003+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!

CLAYTONS CAT

2009-03-17T13:00:00.008+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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

FLIES ON RANCID MUTTON

2009-04-02T11:00:00.003+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.

CAUTIONARY TALES

2009-04-04T22:00:00.006+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.

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?

UP FOR SALE...MY JOINT

2009-04-16T23:00:00.004+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.

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.

FOOD FASCISTS

2009-04-20T13:00:00.001+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.

UGG BOOTS AND BEANIES

2009-05-18T11:00:00.002+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!