Dumb-Arse Suggestion Of The Day

Oh, dear.  People do get sillier by the day, do they not?  I sometimes wonder if people are just coming out with ludicrous ideas to get attention they desperately crave, or if they should in fact have their medication tweaked.  I often watch a bit of breakfast television to prime me for the day, and to learn what's happened overnight on this planet.  Well, this morning I heard of the news of a former Labor minister Gary Johns' dickwad of an idea for it to be compulsory for people on welfare benefits to use contraception.  Now, the main problem with this arsehat of an idea is this is Australia, and not China.  Also, Johns, you TWAT, here's another thing: you cannot force a person of sound mind to take medication.  I do believe the contraceptive pill could be classed as medication.  Truly, man, what the total fuck?  Seriously?  So wrong and stupid on more levels than you'd find in a game of Donkey Kong.  Is this some warped idea of social engineering you dreamed up one night?  Have you been sucking on a crack pipe?  Wrong, offensive, and elitist.  And throwing in her two cents' worth was Pauline Hanson, the Boomerang Kid of Australian Politics.  She said it was her opinion (to which she is entitled, don't get me wrong, but here's MINE....) the taxpayer should not be subsidising the second and subsequent children for women who have children - are you sitting down?  Is your bladder emptied? - OUT OF WEDLOCK.  Yeah, she said 'out of wedlock'.  Who the fuck says 'out of wedlock' these days.  Oh, that's right: Pauline Hanson.  Does this mean only married people should have kids?  Some of the most worthy parents I know didn't actually legally marry.  It knocked me for six, let me tell you all.  Enforced contraception sounds like it's targeting women, too.  And what if the contraception fails?  What's Plan B, you useless bunch of morons? 

Let me tell you a story.  A true story.  Back in 1452, a peasant girl of known 'easy virtue' (commit that phrase to memory, Pauline; I'm sure you're going to use it in one of your next speeches) gave birth to a kid, 'out of wedlock'.  Oh, even TYPING that stupid phrase makes me ashamed.  The kid's biological father was well-to-do, but no matter because the woman was a rather impoverished lass who liked sex.  But remove your socks, because this will knock them off.  That illegitimate kid with the less than prosperous single mother turned out to be LEONARDO DA VINCI!!!! Yes, talent and genius don't care WHO the parents are!!!  This is a very good reason to not decide who and who cannot sow the seeds of their loins. 

And a few other names on the Illegitimate List: Confucius, Lawrence of Arabia, and William the Conqueror.  So Johns and Hanson, dismount that fucking high horse before it bucks you off.  I don't care if the poorer types have kids.  I'd rather our politicians undergo mandatory testing to see whether or not they are in fact clinically brain-dead, and I suspect some of them are.

What do you guys think of sledging in sports?  I personally think trying to throw someone off their game is incredibly bad sportsmanship, but I don't mind a good sledge.  Especially if it's a good comeback.  Naturally, racist and homophobic sledges are not on, but every now and then, a player comes out with a good one.  Ian Chappell is apparently concerned sledging could lead to biffo, but not if the players are falling about laughing.  Apparently, Glenn McGrath was frustrated at being unable to bowl out portly South African Eddo Bandes.  McGrath, in a less-than-Wildean moment, demanded, 'Why are you so fat?'  Bandes replied, "Because every time I fuck your wife, she gives me a biscuit!'  Ka-ZING!  Full points to Bandes, and apparently the rest of the Aussie team were falling about laughing.  Laughter is a great thing.

A Batty Idea

I'm aware what I am about to write might cop me some flack.  The flack will be from people who have never met me, people who misunderstand me either by accident or design, or people who hide anonymously behind their computer screens firing off abuse at people they have not met, nor are likely to ever meet whilst they drink calorific soft drinks and masturbate to Miley Cyrus clips on You Tube, their miserable jizz dried under their fingernails (fingernails already grimy because these people don't ever tub as they're too busy looking at Miley Cyrus on You Tube) as they clack said fingernails over their keyboards (where there are flecks of dandruff from the heads of these miserable SOBs) to fire off abusive missives at folk they don't know. 

I will take this opp to advise that if you wish to disagree with me, that's fine.  It is your entitlement to do so.  If you abuse me, I will delete your comment and block you.  Or if your comment is interesting, I will store it for future use in my writing, and give you no credit whatsoever, so suck on that until your mandible aches.

But what has brought this on?  Well, it was a You Are Fucking Shitting Me moment I had the other night. I was doing an evening medication run, and as I was pulling over in front of a client's home I heard something on the radio that almost caused me to crash the vehicle in my incredulity, so I was thankful I was slowing the vehicle to a halt.  I was listening to a sports commentator on the AM station.  Why was I doing this when my fondness of sport is right down there with my fondness for root canal surgery?  It was because the FM station was streaming the Top 40, and I had trouble coping with what I was hearing  It's not that I am old, it is because a lot of modern stuff just sucks.  So I thought I'd just listen to some talking head (radio journalist, not US punk-ish band from the 70s).  And the guy on the radio said the Cricket Association of Nepal is planning on  placing Phillip Hughs' bat on Mt Everest.  And yes, that's what got my eyes bugging in abject disbelief, and I just slammed on the brake, and gasped aloud to the radio band, as though the bloke could hear me, 'You are fucking shitting me!'

WHY would they do this?  Many years ago, I trekked with one of my best friends through the Himalayas in Nepal.  Before childbirth, I can truly say this was the most amazing thing I have ever done in my entire life.  There was an overwhelming air - not due to the rarified oxygen but the vibe from the people - of peace, tranquillity, spirituality, and acceptance of everybody.  There were some manmade structures there, but they were for 'good'.  Prayer walls and prayer wheels, and when one walked by the prayer wheel one was meant to give it a spin and say a prayer.  It didn't matter if you weren't Buddhist, a prayer to your own God was more than welcome, I was told.  My friend and I strode along the meandering path carved into the sides of the mountains, and we would put our hands together in a prayer-like gesture and greet the Nepalese with 'Namaste', as we passed.  One day I waxed lyrical about the valleys below, the snow blowing from distant mountain peaks, the blueness of the skies above, the majesty of the place, the gaudy saddle cloth on one of the yaks that was led by via a nose-ring; my friend, suffering a niggling headache from altitude-sickness, finally grunted, 'Simone.  I've got eyes.'  Oh, how we would laugh when we reached camp because the sherpas couldn't pronounce my name, and would call, 'Hello, Semen!' as I arrived.  No matter how many times I told them, 'It's Sim-MONE' (over my friend's hysterical laughter), they never got it right.  But it's a happy, wonderful memory.  One afternoon my friend and I sat at the campsite, which was up a high mountain, and a cloud rolled in, engulfing us so we couldn't not see at all.  It was crazy.  It was amazing.  Those mountains are a place of mystical, spiritual beauty and majesty.

SO WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO STICK A FUCKING CRICKET BAT ATOP THE GREATEST MOUNTAIN OF THEM ALL?

I am aware that following Hughs' death there was the 'outpouring of grief'.  I used quotation marks because it's a hackneyed phrase that gets done to death and over played, like an irritating earworm of a Christmas song in a department store in the week leading up to December 25.  Yes, I also thought what happened to him was sad, and my heart went out to his family, as well as the young bowler in this accident.  But after a while, I got just a tad fed up with the click-bait and grief porn that saturated my Internet, and social media news feeds.  So, I did the best thing in these circumstances: ignored it.  I did not partake in the exercise of putting a cricket bat out the front of my house because (1) like I said, I will not take part in grief porn when I don't even LIKE cricket, and (2) there's this feral little self-entitled prick up the street who is likely to have stolen my son's cricket bat had I chosen to leave it outside.

I daresay I will be accused of being an unsympathetic troll lacking empathy, a cruel sociopath playing with people's emotions.  That's not true.  As mentioned above, I had immense sympathy for the family.  You know what?  When aged only 23, my oldest brother died from head injuries sustained in an accident, so yes, I think I can state I have a fair idea what the family are going through, and they will always have my kind wishes, as will his friends.   It's the sickening media saturation that roused my irritation, as well as the attendance of both the Prime Minister and Federal Opposition Leader at the funeral.  I don't get it.

Likewise, I don't 'get' why anybody would want to sully the landscape of one of the world's most forbidding, untamed, and reverent places with a piece of sporting paraphernalia. To me, this is absurd.  Apparently, 'they' want this done before climbing season commences in March/April. 

Maybe 'their' counterparts in Sydney might stick Alvin Stardust's black studded gloves on a flagpole at the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, so I can do a bridge climb and look at them?  This to me would be an achievement; I have no desire to do this climb because I don't like heights.  That might seem strange, given I've walked through Himalayan mountains, which are pretty high, but the difference there is even on the mountains, I felt I was 'on the ground', whereas it's different with the Bridge.  I don't like standing to close to the windows of the Centrepoint Tower Observation Deck, either.

Oh, well.

My Christmas Message

Just a quick note for tonight.  Haven't been blogging much these past few days, what with Christmas preparations.  Tonight I have prepared the dressing for the Caesar salad I am contributing for lunch tomorrow.  I have prepared another frozen dessert, kind of a bombe, I think it would be classed.  Mixed some basic chocolate cake mix (used the generic brand mix, it's all you need, and just do it to the instructions, only instead of pouring into a cake tin, you pour it out flat on some pizza trays, or something similar.  Once it is cooked, slice it into 'triangles', and line a bowl - by the way, line the bowl with glad wrap first - so you have a kind of basin of chocolate.  And for the filling get some good quality vanilla ice cream, soften it, and add some liqueur - the choice for your blogger was Bailey's Irish Cream, and not just because of her surname - and some tinned berries.  When the filling is in, use the left over bits of flat cake to make a lid, and seal it with the glad wrap, and freeze that baby.  When ready, turn it over on a plate and serve, so it looks like a dome.  Now, because I'm feeling charitable, and because I always like to stun with my amazing general knowledge, let me give you all a hint.  When cooking with chocolate, add a pinch of salt.  Yes, salt.  Want to know why?  It really enhances the flavour of the chocolate.

The kids are in bed, but I don't know if they're dreaming of sugarplums.  They're more likely dreaming of x-box games.  The youngest has left a carrot out the front for the reindeer.  I don't know if he actually still believes, or is maintaining the ruse to score extra gifts.  He had to be dissuaded from leaving out a glass of milk for Santa Claus, and I did this by pointing out this is the Australian summer, and the milk will spoil, and Santa will not enjoy flying along, hurling over the side of his sleigh.  Will he believe in Santa for sure next year?  I don't know.  It doesn't matter that the baby/little boy stage is over.  I relish observing my kids reach every new milestone and phase of their lives.  Yet, I wistfully think of a Christmas morning when my oldest, then aged about five, ran to the lounge room and jumped up and down, clapping his hands.  'He's been!  He's been!' he cried, in the tones of pure delight that are the sole province of an innocent child.

But in any event, I've already got what I wanted for Christmas. Open lines of communication. 

A merry, safe, and (if you are religious) holy Christmas to all reading.

How Can I Fix It?

What can I say?  What can I write?  I am grieving.  We grieve different things.  I grieve for eight children stabbed to death in Cairns, poor little buggers found by their older brother/cousin, and I grieve for that guy, too.

I grieve for something I seem to have lost, as well.  I am not sure exactly what I did to facilitate this loss, but I think I have an idea.  Have you seen 'Cool Hand Luke'?  Remember that line, 'What we have here is a failure to communicate'?  I suspect that's part of the problem.  I think my friend has misconstrued a view of mine.  Maybe to my friend I appear to be an insensitive clot.  That was NEVER my intention, and of course I don't agree with the terrible things that upset my friend.

So, I'm sitting here with tears in my eyes, and an ache in my throat which I attribute to the lump that's formed there.  I feel like I've been run through with a bitter poniard, such is my grief.  Oh, I know other people have lost worse this past week, and I am so sad for them.  But today I am sad for myself, and just want to make things right again.  It hurts so much when someone to whom you have become close, and have a deep affection for, severs you from his life like this.

Hurting or causing offence to my friends is never on my must-do list, and I am horrified to think I just might have inadvertently done this, and possibly lost someone very dear to me over it.

A good strong friendship is worth fighting for, and bitter wounds can be treated with some genuine kindness and care.  I hope we will be friends again.

How can I fix it?

To Be Pointed Out:

Things to be pointed out:

1. There are about half a million Muslims in Australia.  What happened yesterday was carried out by ONE fuck-knuckle with mental health issues and a criminal record that reads like a phone book.

2.  The worst act of terrorism committed in Australia to date has not been by a swarthy bearded man, but a clean shaven dude with blonde hair and blue eyes.  The name Martin Bryant ring a bell with anyone?

3.  Muslims are going to be targeted, as are refugees because I understand this miserable piece of filth was an Iranian refugee.

4.  It's not just the legal system.  There are probably other bodies that can have the pointed finger in their general direction: mental health, and immigration for starters.  So stop blaming lawyers and saying they have blood on their hands.

5.  I'm thinking about unfriending a few people on Facebook over their posts re this. 

6.  I'm tired.  It's just rained and now the steam is starting to appear.  I hate being hot (literally, not metaphorically.  Metaphorically 'hot' is my natural state of being, heh-heh!).  Got my work Christmas party, a lunch, on Thursday, and I've decided to contribute a salad.  I did offer to bring along the glamour and scintillating conversation, but it would appear my colleagues wish to eat, too.  Yep, just a quick lunch with no alcohol.  Nowadays there are directives sent around, and suggestion lists about how not to conduct oneself at the work Christmas party.  I have read these lists and must say I've committed a few of the offences.  Never tried to hit on the boss, and no doubt never will. A guy I once worked with told me one of his support staff was dancing with him at the party, and ground her knee between his legs asking, 'Don't you think I've got a good body?'  I asked him had he replied, 'Yeah, but you've got a dog of a head'.  He should have.  There have been parties I've attended where I would have sooner set my hair on fire, but have had to attend for political reasons.  I was attended one such lunch under duress and sufferance, and refused to speak to anybody all through the lunch.  I had told one of the partners I had no intention of going, and was told that the administrator would view this as a 'slight'.  Well, fucking duh because it WAS intended as a slight.  You know, it really annoys me that people are expected to attend work functions when they would rather do anything else.  I hate office politics.  So I sat at this lunch, and stared at the wall.  I did not partake in the toast - hell, it was with a glass of chardonnay and I seriously cannot stand that stuff; who ordered the fucking slop at that execrable party? - and ordered the most expensive items on the menu.  I bolted down my food, and the minute I had placed my knife and fork together on the plate, left the bistro.  Said goodbye to one of the other secretaries.  Said 'Merry Christmas' to NOBODY.  Oh, I did tell a couple of blue jokes to annoy the old bag who has the main reason I had not wished to attend.

Well, I must prepare the evening meal now.  Goodbye, and thanks for reading.  I haven't posted for a few days because I've been caught up with this siege, and worried, and heart-broken for the families of the victims.  Had a chat on FB about the likelihood of this guy wanting to be martyred for his cause, which would lead him to Paradise and into the arms of 67 virgins.  I offered the opinion that the reason some people want virgins is because with no prior experience, the virgins cannot tell what dud fucks they actually are.  Of course, at this time of posting, we don't know the full motives of this twisted fuck's actions.  But I've no qualms about calling him a twisted fuck, because how else would  you describe someone who arranges for the delivery of hate mail to the families of fallen soldiers in Afghanistan, sometimes at the funeral service?  I can't think of anything flattering, sorry.

Hello, Bureau of Meteorology? Did A Stormcell Form In A Teacup?

Over the past few days I've been reading comments about how Yumi Stynes turned up to the premiere of 'Paddington' with her six month old baby, gracing the red carpet attired in nought but a nappy.  I will point out to the fetishists and thick-skinned that it was the baby wearing the nappy, not Yumi (oh, for the fetishists, there is to be a protest at the British parliament about the banning of certain acts in the pornographic film world, so watch this space and I'll keep you appraised, if you don't end up Googling it).  Yumi wore an outfit I didn't particularly like, but that's not he point of this post.  Hey, I don't particularly like the outfit I'M wearing at the moment, either.  There were Aussie celebs at this premiere, mainly mums with children in tow.  I might have to check with the Bureau of Meteorology whether a storm cell has manifested itself in a teacup.  There are two main sides in the ensuing brouhaha (yeah, there's a brouhaha about a celeb of some sort who does not particularly rate on my radar who had an infant clad in a nappy.  I know, sheesh, right?): there are those who defend her right to dress the bubster how she sees fit, given it was likely stinking hot given it's the Australian summer; then there are those who think she is the worst mother since that old bag who lived in the shoe, and  kept popping out kids until her uterus exploded.  I am not a fan of Yumi Stynes, and this is due to the disgraceful comments she and her cronies on the now defunct 'The Circle' made about a decorated war hero, a man who has more integrity and achieved more than the lot of those scum-balls combined.  If I met the woman, I might feel differently.  Hey, it's happened before: I used to bag another television talking-head, met the woman in person, and was charmed.  But back to the point.  I am not going to champion her right to dress the kid in nothing but a nappy, nor am I going to demand a FACS intervention.  What I will question is: why would you do this?  Possibly the kid had barfed pureed carrots down the front of its outfit before stepping out of the car, but having had a couple of kids myself I know you venture NOWHERE without a spare change of clothes in tow when kids are that small.  Let me remind you the event they were attending was held in a cinema.  I enjoy movies.  I attend when I can and my experience has always been there are only two settings on the air conditioning unit in these venues, depending on the time of year, and they are (1) Glacial, and (2) Thermonuclear.  I just hope she had a shawl or something for the kid.  And one final thing: babies will occasionally release a poo of volcanic force, with the mustard-coloured contents seeping and leaking through leg-holes and up the baby's back at the top of the nappy.  Clothing can absorb some of the impact, which is another good reason to clothe the kid.

'Wash away my troubles
Wash away my pain
With the rain of Shambala'

Ring any bells?  It's 'Shambala' by Three Dog Night.  It's a great song, one I'd forgotten until a friend reminded of it the other night.  I love the harmonies and delivery, so much so I put it on my iPod tonight.  It soothes me a bit.  And we've had a bit of rain here today.  It poured for a while this morning, and I got alarmed, which is a by-product of having had my house flooded in a freakish storm on Anzac Day.

Another one I put on my iPod tonight is 'Blurred Lines'.  I've been meaning to do this for ages.  It's a guilty pleasure of mine.  Some will criticise my choice, but let me point out the song is not 'rapey', as other commentators will scream until they are blue in the face.  At no point, to my knowledge, does the narrator of the song say words to the effect, 'I'm going to have sex with you against your will'.  Wanna ban something?  Go after networks that screen the old Pepe Le Pew cartoons.  No that fucking stinking rodent is rapey!

Grinche and Imbeciles

I used to love Christmas when I was a kid.  I loved going to the pool, and then I'd walk down the street and hear the Christmas carols wafting through the conical loudspeakers attached to the top of the telegraph pole.  My dad would bring home a cardboard box from his employers, stuffed full of Christmas pudding (which I happen to hate, but never mind), and walnuts and brazil nuts packed in a string bag kind of contraption, not dissimilar to the way onions are packaged.  I remember the sharp, rifle-shot onomatopoeic qualities of the sound a walnut shell being cracked open with some instrument that could have been used to extract information from captured spies.  Or to maybe cut my father's yellowing, keratin-horned toenails.

Nowadays I'm kind of wondering is there a red button I can press in order to stop the planet and climb off.  Seriously.  Every year there are the usual apocryphal tales about how we cannot say 'Merry Christmas'.  It seems someone is trying to say that this innocuous greeting is going to offend other cultures.  This just in, folks: by and large the Muslims, Jews, and Hindus don't give a shit if we celebrate Christmas.  Take a moment to let that sink in.

Whack-job politicians try to sway us from buying what kids might actually LIKE for Christmas, and instead buy some beige, neutered, um, thing.  I ranted and raved about this in my previous post, and haven't the energy to re-type it, so just re-read my last post.

And today's fresh Hell comes in the form of a notion put forward for children to not sit on Santa's lap for photographs.  It's getting like the 1950s, only instead of Reds under the Bed, we have PEDS under the Bed!  I liked going to see Santa at my local supermarket when I was a kid.  I would be playing at the local pub (my grandmother owned it), and my older siblings and a cousin would excitedly say, 'Come down to Campbells (the supermarket) and see Santa Claus, Bing!'  And they would escort me down there, my sister holding one hand, and my cousin holding the other, and we would wait with the other children as some poor sap who drew the short straw and had to bung on the outfit in the Australian rural heat would come in with a shopping trolley full of white paper bags stuffed with lollies.  Now, Santa might have driven that sleigh like a boss, assisted by Donner, Blixen et al, but he's total pants at wielding a shopping trolley.  The fat bugger ran over my foot with it.  I was a little disenchanted with Santa that day because of this, but soon forgot about my sore foot when I was handed a white paper bag of lollies.

But now we've got another truckload of shit to contend with, that being the suggestion that kids don't sit on Santa's lap.  Here's an idea: if the kid doesn't want to, don't force them to.  If they want to, let them.  My two weren't keen on the local Santa because whoever did the job actually scared kids.  Memo to shopping centre managers: as well as police checks, it is a good idea to make sure your Santa Claus is not repellent to children, because this can prove problematic.  To all the PC crowd: what the fuck do you think is going to happen?  Prospective Santa Clauses have to go through stringent police checks (and yes, I know, they COULD be a perve who just hasn't yet been caught - I KNOW that!) before they're even let within an ass's roar of the big chair in the grotto.  As well as Santa, there is a photographer, parents and/or guardians hovering, a photographer in an elf costume, various shoppers, sometimes other kids queuing for a picture, and at all times Santa must have both hands in full view.  So, get real, would you?

Dr Seuss got it wrong.  It's not the Grinch thieving Christmas, it's a pack of misguided and complete imbeciles.

PS: stuck for Christmas presents?  Check the links in my bio, maybe your 'recipients' might like some books.  *Cough - hint - cough*

Change.org - Nanny State Butt Out!!!!

I often receive notifications from Facebook about a new petition I might be interested in signing, generated through a page or site known as Change.org.  Invariably I am not interested in signing whatever new petition is going around because the ones I hear about make me with to God people would find something more constructive to do with their time.  Volunteer at an aged care home, or maybe just go out into the road and pick up rocks and then eat them, because seriously, folks, I am usually not interested in your whiny bullshit online petitions.  However, I might just have to go on Change.org and get one going along these lines: Stay Out Of Our Lives With Your Nanny State Censorship Horse Poop.  Target have acquiesced to the demands of one such petition and withdrawn Grand Theft Auto V from their shelves.  Target, get some bleach and a bandage to treat that self-inflicted bullet wound to your foot, because gamers are just going to buy that game elsewhere, and deny you a sale.  The so-called problem with GTA5, as the hip call it (I'm not hip, but my husband is a gamer), is it includes violence against women.  The fact that it includes violence against men as well is apparently of no consequence.  Today I had a chat with my 13yo, and asked him if he understood violence against any member of society regardless of gender is unacceptable.  He looked at me as though I had taken leave of my senses and replied, 'Of course I do, Mum.'  I said to my children, 'You know what you see on TV, and in games, is not what happens in real life, don't you?'  Again, they wondered had I gone completely bonkers because my kids are sensible enough to know that if Wile E Coyote detonates a bundle of dynamite and it goes awry, he is going to be pretty much blasted into miniscule smithereens that will land everywhere like grisly hailstones, rather than stand there with a black charred face and a stunned expression.  My kids are not likely to go handling dynamite for this reason.  Given we live in NSW, they don't even go fart-arsing with Tom Thumbs and throw downs.  Funnily enough, last night my son mentioned the land speed of a roadrunner, and that a coyote is actually twice as fast.  'Then why doesn't that coyote ever catch that roadrunner?' I asked, and my son rolled his eyes and replied, 'Because it's a CARTOON, Mum!'  So yeah, I think my kids are smart enough to differentiate. 

So here's an idea slightly left of field, for all you petitioners: how about giving people enough credit to exercise common sense, and allow for the fact people know what's real and what isn't?

Okay, next target on my list is Senator Larissa Waters, who is calling for a No Gender December petition, or some such malarkey.  This is based on the idea that gender based toys pander to sexist stereotypes that could stop girls achieving what they could.  For fuck's sake, you dingbat, wasn't Barbie an astronaut at some stage?  If not, she's been a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse, a teacher - she's done it all.  And you are seriously going out on a limb (which will break and you are going to flounder like said Wile E Coyote before thudding to the ground) to suggest that there could be some connection to domestic violence with traditional gender based toys.  Does my sister-in-law clocking my husband on the scone with his own Tonka truck when they were kids count?  This is seriously the biggest load of bullshit since muster at The Okay Corral.  I'm not going to be told what toys to get my kids, and great-niece and great-nephew, this Christmas.  When I choose things for my kids, I don't give a fart in the high wind if it's gender specific.  I wonder does it need batteries.  I wonder will my kid like it.  I wonder will it disintegrate within five minutes of being unwrapped.  I wonder is it a choking hazard (not for my kids, my brother's grandkids).  I wonder does it have tiny breakable bits that I'm likely to cut my foot on.  I wonder lots of things, but whether it appeases some bloody Brave New World type notion that toys must be genderless ain't one of 'em.  It's like Aldous Huxley and George Orwell had a baby, and this is what grew out of that unholy conception.  An eminent child psychologist has pointed out kids are generally hard-wired and have a pre-disposition to certain types of toys, so just fucken go with the flow, okay?

Finally, it's the British Board of Film Censors for declaring certain acts to be illegal in pornography being produced.  They're essentially fetish, from what I can see.  I worry our Board might follow in their sensibly laced shoes.  Not so much that I want to watch depictions of all these fetishes, but because I'd like to be able to in privacy in my own home, if it is MY CHOICE.  Among the items on the No-No List are spanking, caning, female ejaculation, and urolagnia.  I am guessing they're quite happy with violence in mainstream cinema, but a fetish enjoyed in private by a tax-paying citizen makes them hold their skirts and dance on the table, all the while going, 'Eeeeeek!'  How are they going to cope with the film version of 'Fifty Shades of Shit, er, Grey' when it opens, if it is true to the book?  Why do people care so much about what blows another person's hair back (when done in privacy)?  Why should it matter what's being depicted in a porn flick if it is being portrayed by informed actors over the age of eighteen?  Are they so afeared that someone might watch a water sports flick and then go out and piss on a passer by?  Hell, we've got football players here who are probably happy to do that! 

Sick of these meddling Nanny State-ers.  So yep, might be time to get on Change.org.

Day Trip & The Drip

So yesterday we set out on a drive of almost two hours to a beach suburb in Newcastle, me in the back behind my thirteen year old because having both my kids in the back seat together is dancing with the devil, and will lead to repeated angry demands of Stop It Or I'll Turn This Car Around And We'll Go Home Now.  So I was in the back with my ten-year-old, and one of his little buddies who came out for the day with us.  Master 13 thought it would be a good idea to move his chair back suddenly, thus almost wedging my knees under my chin.  I tell you, kids these days are very unappreciative of what we do for them, with day trips to the beach and all.  My memories of going for a drive with my parents were usually with me stuck between them both in the front, both of them smoking Craven As, and neither of them acceding to my request to put the window down.  We would arrive at our destination with me the colour of a ripe avocado flesh.  Meanwhile, my three older siblings would be squabbling in the back over the Sanyo tape recorder, which would be blaring 'See My Baby Jive'.  Funny how much I love that song, when it should be evoking memories of feeling like I'm crawling through an ashtray.  Other day trips were usually to a rodeo somewhere, because after my father retired from competing, he was in great demand as a judge for events.  I recall being sprawled out in the back of the station wagon, a ubiquitous family vehicle of the Seventies, and I could see my father's head over the back of the driver's seat, and in particular his akubra.  On one trip, we came home with a sheep in the back of the car, and I had to share this space with the woolly beast with the glaring yellow eyes, and the stink of stale lanolin coming from it's dag-and-bindii tangled fleece.  I think I was a bit nervous of it.

So yesterday's trip was relatively luxurious by those standards of yesteryear.  I recall from trips when I was a kid Dad would park the car wherever he could, the nose of the vehicle usually facing the fenced area of the rodeo 'ring'.  Yesterday we found one scabby spot in the car park, and when Mr Bingells put on the blinker to turn in, hit the brake and shouted, 'Oh, come on!'  I looked up and saw this surfie dude standing in the spot.  We made gestures for him to move.  He shook his head.  Mr Bingells wound down his window and demanded to know the meaning of this tomfoolery.  The bloke explained he was minding the spot for someone.  Mr Bingells pointed out the illegality of this given the car park is a public spot.  'Sorry, mate,' said the dickhead, 'I'm minding it for my girlfriend.'  At this point, I stuck my head out and shouted, 'I don't care if you're minding it for the Queen, we've just driven for ages with kids!'  Mr Bingells said we had driven two hours, and an interloper pointed out to the dickhead that he could not in all seriousness expect to 'bags' a car space for someone in a public car park.  The dickhead ceded defeat and moved away, and Mr Bingells moved the car into the spot.  Mate, in the event you are watching this, for the sake of future generations can you have yourself sterilised, and not infect society with your gene pool?  That would be ever so lovely.

Bilious Break Up Songs

One of the things I always tell potential Hemingways when I give lectures about character development is the old saying: always be nice to a writer.  This is because in some form or another, you WILL end up in their stories.  Many of my characters are amalgams of people I have known, and I have given traits of people who have wronged me or my family to the more unsympathetic characters in my work.  I totally own that.  It's on the table, and believe me I am not alone in doing this.  Of course I know to tweak the character traits enough to dodge the knock on the door from a process server armed with a Statement of Claim, with my name in the space marked 'Defendant'.  A writing instructor once said not to worry too much because most people will not speak out and say, 'I'm suing because they've based the arsehole on ME!', probably because nobody will admit to being an arsehole.

Writers are not the only ones who use their work for this purpose.  So, too, do singers.  There are some beaut songs out there inspired by rancorous feelings toward an ex.  One of the biggest-selling albums of all time, 'Rumours' by Fleetwood Mac, was stuffed to the max with break-up-inspired-ditties galore.  It seems all the band members were in the process of breaking up with others, and out of the pain came this fantastic album.

Unless you've been under a rock, you are probably aware of Carly Simon's 'You're So Vain'.  Conjecture has floated around in the forty or so years since its release about who was the cad who inspired this.  Some say Warren Beatty.  Some say Mick Jagger.  I'm inclined to think it's not Mick Jagger because he actually appears on this record, uncredited, doing back up vocals.  This of course could have been Carly's ultimate two-fingers-up gesture to him: having him sing on a record that takes the piss out of him.  I'm putting my money on Beatty, because I can see him walking into a party like he's walking onto a yacht, as the opening lyric goes.  And what a lyric it is, and what a classy singer Carly is.

There are other songs at exes, like Alanis Morriset's 'You Oughta Know', which is seriously vicious vitriol on a musical stave.  It's supposedly about the bloke who played Joey in the nausea-inducing 80s sitcom 'Full House' (seriously, am I the only one who hated that show?).  I always say it's funny she sings about fellating him in a theatre, because 'Full House' really sucked, too.    But I do like this song, it's delivery cuts like the line of a whipper-snipper: quick and to the point.

But there is a flip side to this.  Taylor Swift seems to have cornered the market on singing songs aimed at exes, but they don't seem to have the bite of the aforementioned examples.  'We are never ever getting back together...' to me just sounds sing-songy (duh) and childish, like a kid in the playground.  Worse still, we have now been introduced to another one, performed by Abigail Breslin, actress known for her role as Olive in 'Little Miss Sunshine'.  'LMS' is a fantastic movie, with commendable performances all round, including Abigail's.  But this dweeb of a song, titled 'You Suck' just - ahem! - sucks.  It's supposedly about a failed relationship with a guy from the Aussie band 'Five Seconds of Summer', and it's lyrics are in the nonsensical, petty vein of Ms Swift's.  And you know what?  The guys who are on the receiving end of his melodic malice are probably thinking, 'Shit, I dodged a bullet when I broke up with that one!  Thank fuck I don't have a pet rabbit!'

One of my favourite songs aimed at a reputed ex is 'Respectable' by The Rolling Stones (yeah, I know I'm biased; I'm a huge Stones fan).  It's supposedly a dig at Mick's ex, Bianca, and young ladies in the aforementioned paragraph, this is HOW a dig at your ex should be.  Lyrics like 'you're the easiest lay on the White House lawn' far eclipse twaddle like 'you suck'.  Look at the official film clip.  The band a playing (because they can play instruments) in a stark, shabbily painted room with Jagger all swagger and attitude, and tongue firmly planted in cheek.  Having Keith and Ronnie is of course a huge bonus.  Not sure what Charlie Watts is making of it, he looks a little like one of those nodding dogs you used to see in the back of cars.  One of the things I like about this clip is the song sells it, not some Hollywood blockbuster type of non-linear bullshit with puppets, dancing midgets, and special effects.  But it's a good way of digging at an ex without looking like an embittered little turd who's sitting at home squeezing a cushion while everyone else is out getting on with their lives.

A lesson to be learned from this, young men: don't date potential popettes.

Mums Go To Battle, & This Blogger Rolls Her Eyes

I am grateful my primary school kid takes the bus, and my older one walks to the local high school.  Because if I ever had to drive my son, I might just be swept up in, and become a victim of, the Mummy Mafia.  There is apparently such an organisation and its sole purpose is to drink coffee, give condescending looks to the mothers who are in pyjama pants with a sloppy-joe over the top, and make other parents feel inadequate if they do not devote all spare time to school committees.  I read about this insidious phenomenon a lot, and what I find in online comments is a pitting of Working Mums vs Non-Working Mums.  I should point out I abhor the phrase 'non-working mum' because if you're home with pre-school kids, it's still work.  Also, if all your children are at school and you are not in paid employment, then it is the business of absolutely nobody else outside your home.  Actually, my sons' preschool had the right idea: when my oldest had his first day, and I was chatting with the teacher and child care worker, instead of saying, 'Do you work?', they phrased it thus, 'Do you work outside the home?'

But for some reason, all the commenters in a thread I was just reading seemed determined to do battle.  The non-working mums (or Mummy Mafia, perhaps) were all wonderful because they do power walking and drink coffee, and discuss fund-raising for the school.  Their boasting would be parried by the working mums with the chestnut, 'I am paying my taxes and setting a good example and being a role model...'  I sat there grinding my teeth because I think I'm not too bad a role model for my kids, and for a while I was not working outside the home, either.  If you teach your kids not to be little arseholes, then you're a good role model, regardless of whether you draw a pay cheque or not.  Outside Chez Bingells, my kids are very good and NOT little arseholes, but they are painful when there is nobody around, but maybe I'm still an okay role model.

I did do the school drop off and pick up for a while before my oldest started catching the bus (the bus was at his request, and it gave me an extra 45 minutes to myself in the day, which I devoted to my writing).  There was no Mummy Mafia that I could see.  The only woman who got up my nose was the flip in the Tarago who, even though I had parked the requisite metre space from the end of the kerb), would insist on braking hard in front of me, making the vehicle give a squeal, and back up so she was at the front of the queue, in contravention of RTA rules.  God, she pissed me off.  Particularly as I couldn't see around the car.  Also, as we mums made our respective way to the classroom and nattered until the bell sounded, I couldn't notice any demarcation or snobbery.  I did kind of look down a bit at a mother who went around with her tits about to fall from her top, but only because I thought it was inappropriate at a school (if we were at a pub, I wouldn't have cared less).  But nah, people would just chat.  I remember one mum talking about plans to get a new fan.  'I think it's one of them menstrual fans,' is what she said.  I bit the inside of my cheeks to quell the braying laughter that threatened to erupt, and politely asked, 'Do you mean Mistral?'  Her reply was, 'Yeah, I think that's it.'  'I think so, too,' was my reply, 'trust me, you wouldn't want to stand underneath a menstrual fan.'

If you're reading this, and want to read more of my work, click dese linkz (that's my gangsta-speak, which is very realistic coming from a middle-aged, reddish-haired Aussie woman):

http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm

http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm

http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm

Today's Grumbling

It is my firm belief that readers of this blog have been on the edge of the seat, gripping said seat, their knuckles white with the force of said grip.  Everyone is wondering how my be-spotted tyke is.  Well, he's still home from school.  I did take him yesterday, after a visit to the doctor, but was telephoned by the school who were very concerned he might have had chicken pox.  'Well,' I said, 'I have Senior First Aid, but Doctor went to uni and attained a degree in medicine, so I'll defer to this expertise.'  It turns out there are three pregnant staff members at the school, one of whom is my son's teacher, so the concern is very understandable, and I was worried, too.  This meant another trip to the doctor, and because chicken pox could NOT be ruled out one hundred per cent, I have my little fella home with me.  I have collected some school work for him to complete, much to his disgust, but I do not want him falling behind.  I will always be supportive of the school  It's a good one, and they were fabulous when he first started to have seizures that are symptomatic of his epilepsy.  He was to play 'Jingle Bells' for a concert last night, but I rang the conservatorium to have him removed from the program.  I explained to him there might be pregnant ladies in the audience of the small auditorium, and we just cannot risk the babies getting sick.  I thought he would be very disappointed because he loves the smell of greasepaint and the roar of the applause, but he understood, and I am very proud of what looks like a pox-riddled little man.

I'm not sure what your idea of a good time is, gentle reader, but mine does NOT entail running repetitive errands like doctors' visits in 40 degree heat.  Maybe I'm a tad unadventurous, but I just do not enjoy this.  I hate the heat at the best of times, and wanted to lie down, but it didn't turn out that way. 

When Master 13 got home, all he wanted to do was play on the computer.  He had to get ready for his music class's concert last night.  He fart-arsed all afternoon, and with about five minutes prior to leaving time still wasn't in costume.  I shouted and roared like a mad bull-elephant, and just as I was gathering up my handbag, he decided he had to fire one off into the bowl and made for the toilet, leaving me tapping my foot and glancing at my watch.  At one stage I was in the car, honking the horn, as he struggled into his shoes.  He and his class had to dress as nerds, and along with all the others, he had plain oversized spectacles on.  Their act looked like a Brains from 'The Thunderbirds' Lookalike Convention, and not a bunch of kids playing Blink 182 songs on instruments.

Things to be glad about: I don't write kids books.  Nothing wrong with that, but when a publisher wants to remove gender references from titles is when I start wanting to rip out my auburn locks.  Truly, what the fuck is WRONG with a gender reference anywhere, let alone in the title of a work?  For the most part, people are gendered.  Some of course are transgendered and intersex, but the majority of us have a gender.  It's biological.  It's a fact of life.  This watering down of what is just a manifestation of nature is not going to help kids to not discriminate or pigeon-hole on the basis of gender.  It's going to leave a dumbed-down populace with no idea what to do.  God, I'm just imagining these on the shelf in the children's section of the library: 'The Amphibian Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage', 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage and the Pea', and that all-time popular fable: 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person Who Cried Animal-That-Might-Or-Might-Not-Be-Gendered-And/Or-Wild'.

Quoting Lady MacBeth

The aggravations are coming thick and fast, like tennis balls being fired out of one of those serving machines set on 'bombard'.  Had to take my ten-year-old out of school on Thursday - he was headachy and nauseous.  On Thursday night he had a slight fever and developed a rash.  Mr Bingells took his temperature and fired off questions at me about normal body temperature, whilst I tried to help Master 13 with his Maths homework.  Don't worry, it was copying and pasting a picture of the Tower of Hanoi for his project in Maths - not actually working out problems.  Trust me, I suck big time at most mathematical applications.  When I launched 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' (http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm) in May, it was he who worked out the change for the buyers who handed over the fifty dollar notes!  Master 10 stood on the other side of me trying to filch fifties out of the cash box.

Friday morning, and Master Ten had even more spots.  Mr Bingells had to go on a bus trip with pensioners (he might have to drive them in future and needed to familiarise himself with the bus route), so I cancelled my shift and took my spotty little man to the doctor.  At the doc's request, he removed his shirt in order for the doctor to have a better look at his spots.  My pointed to one of his nipples, and helpfully informed the doctor, 'This isn't one of the spots.'  His vaccinations are up to date, so I didn't think he had Chicken Pox, and neither does the doctor.  He is likely allergic to something, but what?  I told the doctor I haven't changed laundry liquid brands, and furthermore, clean with white vinegar so there are no chemicals in the house.  He had a salad with anchovy a few weeks ago, but surely an allergy would manifest itself prior to now.  Doctor asked about grasses, and it's been as dry as a bone bleached in the desert sun of late, so there might be a few airborne allergens.  Also, I've been getting a blocked nose and itchy eyes, so I'm going to run with that theory.  I was given a sample of ointment to apply.

Today, Master 10 looks like he has measles, but that's because the spots have multiplied in number.  They're all over him.  I left him at home with his dad and took Master 13 shopping for new school shoes, and to get some more of the ointment, having used the measly (no joke about spots intended) amount in the tiny tube.  One of the aggravations I have mentioned clobbered me in the face, so it seemed, when the pharmacist told me the cream was not readily available over the counter and only available on prescription.  I groaned.  I wondered why I had not been handed a written prescription.  I asked what on earth I was going to apply on those multitudinous spots.  I was offered a choice of something strong with cortisone steroids, or something a bit more gentle with pine tar.  Fearing the former might turn him into the Hulk, I went with the pine tar lotion.  It has menthol in it, and he has been greased up (kind of like Kim Kardashian's satellite dish of an arse, but with my son it's for good reasons).  My hands tingled after application (I didn't bother applying gloves), so my heart goes out to my poor kid, who has this stuff all over his body.  I so hope his rash clears up soon.  He sees the doc again on Monday, and also has to play 'Jingle Bells' in a concert that night.

More aggravations awaited in the supermarket queue.  I stood near the checkout, eyes wandering over the trashy magazines which I will never buy.  The cover of one promised to tell us Taylor Swift is back with whoever it is from 1D (Wow.  Like I really fucking CARE!).  The other magazine said Taylor Swift is pregnant to John (from the picture, I think it's John Mayer).  Seriously, where do the so-called journalists get this dung?  At least with my writing, I don't pretended to write anything other than fiction.  Why are people fascinated with Taylor Swift, anyway?  I find her songs a bit banal, personally.  I guess the same people are fascinated with the other perennial magazine fodder, The Kardashians, who should all be serving sentences for theft of valuable oxygen from more deserving people on this planet.  And yeah, silly me mentioned KK's fat bum AGAIN.  The people slavering for information on these pointless carbuncles on the butt of humanity can probably name EVERYTHING about these carbuncles, but would they know who someone like Dr Elizabeth Hamblin is?  No, because their book leaning all comes from pointless trashy tabloid magazines that nearly always feature a celebrity's bikini body.  Want to get a bikini body?  Put a fucking bikini on; there's your bikini body, okay?

I will give my kid a lesson in Shakespeare tomorrow morning: I'm going to run the cream in and quote from Lady MacBeth: 'Out, damned spot!'

Bummed Out

Why is the world just getting sillier and sillier?  It must be getting sillier, because everybody is losing their shit over a photograph of Kim Kardashian's backside, and to be honest, it's making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips.  STRIPS, I tell you!  I cannot see the point to this oxygen thieving, publicity hungry hive of grubs that comprise the family (and get a dictionary guys - there are other letters in the alphabet besides 'K', you know).  Everywhere you look when you go online lately is a photograph of her big fat bum (I'm not saying I have a peach, but it ain't bad, but you also ain't gonna find out, 'cos I ain't plastering it all over cyberspace in the erroneous belief that the world gives a shit about my bum), and it's greasy and shining like the lower lip of a drooling drunk in the pub.  In what universe is this a great look?  A bum one upon which a helicopter could be landed greased up and shining like a satellite?  I think her entire body's been larded up for this photo shoot, and I'm wondering was it her intention to swim the English Channel.  Did the bum cure cancer, contain and find a cure for the Ebola virus, or broker peace in the Middle East?  It must have, because of all the publicity it's receiving.  Over it, and annoyed with myself for giving it blog space.

Annoyed with being nagged to pay for a school excursion today.  Apparently my kid's been told to nag for the school excursion money.  I could understand this if the money was due today.  It is not.  It is due in a few days, but instead I got nagged today.  I get paid tomorrow, and the excursion fees will be duly paid, but it is not fair to be nagged.  'Tell the school your mother is a struggling author and part-time AIN!' I exploded, adding, 'Tell them to go after the families that work in the mines and haven't paid.'  Immensely unimpressed with this turn of events this morning.

Am not minding the re-working of Band Aid's 'Do They Know It's Christmas', with a view to donating funds to Ebola research.  Felt a bit of a sad old git when I watched the film clip, and recognised almost nobody from the new version.  In the 1984 one, I knew everybody in that clip the moment I watched it.  I looked at it the other day, and recognised Bono (the urine-yellow sunnies kind of gave it away), and Midge Ure.  Looked at the new line-up, and recognised Ed Sheeran and Seal (whose voice I adore), and - horribly - recognised One Direction.  There's a young woman who does a few lines, and her voice is magic - must look up who she is.  Now, just because Band Aid have re-imagined for Ebola, this doesn't mean USA for Africa should.  Everyone knows my opinion on 'We Are The World' - that it tries to sound serious, and fails miserably with the result being a constipated sounding cacophony.  Still, there are some artists in the US these days I'm liking, and if they do decide to ride on the coattails of Band Aid 30, here are some pointers:

1. DON'T have Cyndi Lauper squawk, 'Wo-wo-wo-wo-wo!'  It was monstrously ugly then, and shall be in #2.

2.  DON'T have Bob Dylan made a godawful noise at the end of it.

3.  DON'T talk about God-this, God-that.  They aren't all Christians in Africa, and your bleating whilst probably not deliberately culturally insensitive, did kind of miss the mark with me.

4. DO what you should have done last time: have Eddie Van Halen rip a beaut guitar solo into it and detract from all the sweetness, light, and saccharine. 

Nifty Nineties

I have a theory.  The Music Cosmos, to atone for the lameness that infested most of the Eighties, put out some bloody beauties during the Nineties.  Yesterday my FB group was posting pursuant to a Nineties theme, and more and more often good ones cropped up.  I posted 'The Way' by Fastwall.  Then I posted 'Cry' by The Mavises.  'Walking on the Sun' by Smashmouth was another of my offerings.  The collaborative output of a Hoodoo Gurus/Midnight Oil hybrid - The Ghostwriters - was my next choice.  Yeah, Rob Hirst from the Oils, and someone from the Hoodoo Gurus, but I can't recall who, and the song's called 'Someone's Singing New York, New York'.  YouTube it if it doesn't ring any bells - you won't be sorry.  Some muse took over my clicking finger, causing me to locate and post 'I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well' Flagpole Sitta.  Awesome, or what?  Congratulations from my fellow group members were the bulk of the comment threads.  The fire department had to be put on standby because this Daughter of Eve was definitely on fire last night!  A recent addition to my iPod, 'American Life In The Summertime' by Francis Drummery, graced the thread of this page, too.

Oh, I did not post ALL the good stuff.  It was up to someone else to post 'How To Save A Life' by Fray.

I can't recall if I was the one who posted 'Where The Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue.  I probably did because he came up in conversation.  If I am hosting a dinner party, I am not going to allow him to be a topic of conversation.  Discuss all the contentious stuff you like: religion and politics?  Go for your lives.  But a discussion about this gloom merchant will most likely lead to tears, and thrown bread rolls because he is more polarising a topic than the most offensively worded Murdoch press headline.  There are some in my loved group that think he is a genius.  I, however, am in the camp that thinks he's a gloomy weirdo who sucks all the life out of the room, like a lugubrious vacuum.  The aforementioned song evokes the same feeling of revulsion and horror I would face were I to discover a bat is dry-humping my head.  Whenever someone praises him and preaches his relevance and brilliance, I look out the window to see if the emperor is walking down the road in the nuddy, wedding tackle bobbing in time with his feet striking the bitumen.

Two songs stayed with me, and I've been playing them tonight.  'About A Girl' by Nirvana is one of them.  Listening again, it occurred to me what a very good singer Kurt Cobain was.  I really enjoyed the raw and raspy vocals on this, and how he can really hit a note and stay in tune. The intensity of his delivery (particularly in the MTV unplugged version) just grabs you by the collarbone, and squeezes hard.  Alternatively, he could have just been constipated when it was recorded.  But it sounds really great.

The other one is 'Every You, Every Me' by Placebo.  The song is delivered with a cynical in-your-face, almost fuck-you style by the lead singer Brian Molko.  This band has gay, pissed off emos in it; what's not to enjoy?  Especially a song that opens with if not angry strumming, then definitely annoyed strumming of the guitars, and erupts like a volcano of attitude, with lyrics like 'my heart's a tart/Your body's rent...'.  When I hear this, I always think of the opening credits to the 1999 movie 'Cruel Intentions'; it's heard whilst Sebastian is cruising along in his black Jaguar.  If you are not au fait with this movie, it's an imagining of 'Dangerous Liaisons' only instead of aristocratic French root-rats, it's spoiled LA step-siblings, who also happen to be root-rats.  Ryan Phillipe plays the John Malkovich  character, re-imagined as Sebastian Vicompte (can't quite remember the French spelling of 'viscount').  He wants to fuck his step-sister, the manipulative and sociopathic Katherine (Sarah Michelle Gellar), and the Michelle Pfeifer character from the movie is played by Reese Witherspoon, whilst a very funny Selma Blair (funny actress/awful name) takes on the role of Cecile (the Uma Thurman character in 'Dangerous Liaisons').  I must admit, I do love the scene where Sebastian carries out his initial seduction of Cecile ('You have to let me kiss you, Cecile.  Oh, I don't want to kiss you there, I want to kiss you there!').  If you're thinking of watching the movie, do so.

List for tomorrow:
1. Work on my disabled care assignment.
2.  Draft my lesson for the creative writing class on Tuesday afternoon (I'm going to talk about character dialogue).
3.  Prepare a 500-word piece for my creative writing group.
4. Tell my kids to stay away from Mum's computer, and Mum as well, whilst she does these things.

List of the Day

Today's List:

1.  Twat Of The Week (Possibly The Month)
The self-righteous pontificator who filmed his mate's wife cheating, and uploaded it to the Internet.  Now, I'm not condoning cheating per se, but I'm not giving much of a shit about her cheating on her husband because she's broken no laws and more importantly, it does not concern me.  My business it is not - please note I'm not trying to channel Yoda.  Commenters everywhere are donning the judge's robes and wig (seriously, you judgemental prats, doesn't it get hot under there?), and saying it serves her right.  Okay, I will now play Devil's Advocate and ask this: does it serve the other party right?  The guy she's supposedly fooling around with, I mean.  Did he know she was married?  Does he deserve to be splashed over cyberspace for the judge and jury that comprise the trollers of the Internet to determine his character?  And what about her aggrieved husband, would he feel humiliated in the knowledge that all of cyberspace knows he's been cuckolded?  ('Cuckolded' - is that an awesome word or what?)  Why did this guy believe he was entitled to upload this footage and pass judgement on the woman?  Is this being a loyal friend, or a spiteful prick?  I'm actually running with the latter on this.  If he wanted to prove to his mate the trouble-and-strife was playing away from home, why not present the footage privately, and leave it at that?  What a vindictive piece of work this guy must be.  Maybe he uploaded it because it's not legal for him to have her led to a public place where people can hoik rocks at her, or else he can't stick a big red letter 'A' on the front of her shirt. 

2.  Total Fuckwit Of The Day
It's the personification of Satan's knob-cheese who Just. Couldn't. Wait in the main street of town at about 7.15pm on this date.  I was walking my two dogs, and at the other side of the road, waiting to cross, was a gentleman I know - one I look after in the line of my work.  He has a mobility aid, and when the 'walk' sign was showing, he laboriously made his way across.  I waited to say hi.  He was about three quarters of the way across when the light turned green, and this festering pile of mouldy pustules, and in the event you're reading this it's YOU in the 4WD towing the covered tool trailer, or whatever it was - the poor guy was barely out of your line of drive and you just fanged it down the road - almost dragging him down with your slip stream!  Couldn't you wait a few more seconds until he was definitely safe?  Were you on your way to deliver a kidney on ice, or receive on for yourself?  If you happened to look in your rear vision mirror, you would have seen an angry woman with two dogs yelling something less than congratulatory after you.

3.  Guilty Pleasure Of The Day
Now this song itself is not a guilty pleasure - indeed it is a good 'un.  But the reason I watched the clip a few times is.  It is a live performance of Grand Funk Railroad doing 'We're An American Band' in 1974.  It's got a primal rawness to it, and long-haired dudes strutting around in flares, as the drummer belts out the lyrics.  It's rock and roll.  And the shirtless guy in the white flared trousers has a smokin' hot upper bod.  His waist tapers down to nice shape, and his biceps are perfect - not too big (I will own that I am a biceps girl).  Truly, he has a form that could have been carved by Michelangelo.  And yeah, that's one of the reasons I watched the film clip.

4.  Good News Of The Day
I finalised and submitted a subject on integrating disabled into the community.  Three more modules to go, and it's out of my hair. It's been hanging around in my hair like a virulent manifestation of headlice, which I am finally now combing out having smothered the fuckers with conditioner.  Oh, this is all metaphorical; I am not really afflicted with nits, okay?  And I hope to finalise those modules over the next few weeks, and finalise what's really important: the first draft of my next novel.

Ciao for now.

My Funk

I flaked out this afternoon without thought to the lesson which I am to teach tomorrow.  I am going to teach my greying wannabe Hemingways more about characters.  I think what I will have them do is create a character, and then give them some choices about scenarios in which to juxtapose that character and have them react accordingly.  Sounds orright, dunnit?

Also, I am to do some subjects in disabled care - I have set aside Wednesday to study.  When these subjects are under my belt, I will resume my work in progress - its' about eighty per cent done on the first draft, and I'm a tad happy with this, and I think it's a good 'un. 

Just seems everything's been piling up again.  Last week I had to drive my father to a doctor's appointment some one and a half hours away, and when I got home I helped a local art student write a speech.  I had a few days' work, and then on my day off had to attend a meeting, and I cannot go into the reasons why, but trust me, it wasn't fun. 

I'm trying to arrange somebody to take over as convenor for the writing division in the local eisteddfod, and having no luck.  Local newspaper editors don't seem inclined to call me back, and if the content of the local papers is anything to go by, it's not like they are overly busy.

The big problem is: I am in a monstrous funk.  It's this oppressive heat.  It weighs me down, like a bit rubber hot air balloon trying to squash me.  Now, when I am trying to think, I am hearing my younger son practising 'Jingle Bells' on his keyboard, the number he is performing in the end-of-year concert.  He enjoys music, as do I, and loves the stage.  I think I am looking forward more to his showmanship than his actual playing.  He tends to take to the stage like Liberace, waving to the crowd (comprising mums and dads filming their various sprogs on iPads), plays okay, and then takes a bow like Pavarotti at the end of it all, much to the amusement of the crowd (and the embarrassment and angst of his older brother who tells him later how embarrassing he is, only to be shushed by me because I think his hamminess is adorable).

Having trouble thinking, and feeling overwhelmed.  Well, sitting here isn't going to get things done on the lesson front.  Off I go.  Might write here again tonight after 'Q&A'.  I will no doubt be infuriated because there is someone coming on who thinks the ABC is unnecessary because we have sites like Mamamia from which to get information.  If this is true, on the count of three, everyone; One, Two Three: Dude, Seriously, What The Fuck?

Not So Dirty Deeds Now, Hey?

Some twenty years ago, thinking this a natural progression from working as a secretary/paralegal, I walked into the admissions office of what was then known as the Solicitors' Admission Board and collected an enrolment form.  I took it back to the flat I was renting, and that night started to complete it.  I wrote my name, and had an epiphany.  'What the fuck am I doing?' I cried, after my inner voice, the voice that's always true and the voice from which I cannot hide started making noises to me, and told me to look deep inside myself.  Grateful for the lucky escape, I crumped the form and threw it into my wastepaper basket, and turned back to my typewriter (this was before I could afford a computer).

I have never regretted the decision to not study law, and instead keep writing.  My dream has been achieved in that I now have three novels under my belt, although  I'm not earning much of a living from it.  (You, Reader, have the power to change all that if you check out my bio and click on the links to my novels, heh-heh).  I thought it would have been an immense waste of time and energy to qualify for a position I didn't really want, rather that expend that time and energy into my writing.

And what's really great is this: if I decide to obtain the qualifications in law, I don't even have to enrol in the course for a degree or Diploma of Law.  I won't have to take the few years required to get the skills and paperwork that will entitle and enable me to frame a piece of paper on the wall of my office and take on clients.  And you know why?  Because with Facebook, EVERYONE becomes an expert on the law.  Have you noticed?  It happened with the Oscar Pistorius case when it seemed most people who had an opinion seemed well-versed in the niceties of the South African judicial system.  Everybody thought the sentence was a disgrace.  And in the past few days, following the arrest of Phil Judd, drummer with AC/DC, it all happened again.  Headlines screaming 'Dirty Deeds' in the wake of is arrest for attempting to procure a murder.  I must admit, were I the editor of some rag, I'd have to work 'Dirty Deeds' into the headline, too.  'Drugs and money will do that to you,' warned many social media armchair lawyers, as dire and secretly loving the scandal as any neighbourhood gossip in a floral pinafore and her hair in curlers.  'He'll go for sure,' said some.  Being the admin of a 70s Site had me warning posters to refrain from comments about his guilt because the man is entitled to the correct judicial process.

And guess what?  That charge has been dropped.  So much for all those FB Briefs.

I am so weary - it's bed for me now.  Been a big, and stressful day.  oxox

My Cup Runneth Over

Horse racing just gives me the shudders.  This admission no doubt offends a few people.  I hope a couple of my old friends from school aren't reading this because one of them has a racehorse (which I understand performed quite well at the local cup event which coincides with Melbourne Cup yesterday), and another is an equine nurse and equally passionate about horse racing.  Actually, another friend is big on the GGs, and has worked as a trainer locally.  I attended a local meet with her a while back, and had a pleasant time but only because it was her company, not because of the thundering hooves and the smell of freshly laid (and old dried) horse apples.  I had to borrow her trainer credentials to use the toilet in the more uppity club area, because the public ladies' bog had a big horrible green frog in it, and the presence of those repulsive jumping monsters is enough to keep me from ever attending an event held at that venue  If you haven't guessed, I am highly amphibiphobic.  On this particular day I wore comfortable shoes, but a very stylish hat.   But I couldn't cope with having to stand around in heels for a day.  I cannot stand in heels for a minute.  I find the whole fashions on the field blah-blah-blahdy-blah a load of -ahem! - horseshit.  I roll my eyes at some of the outfits people wear, and I might have to issue a memo to a certain Aussie chick who seems to be famous for not much that what she wore looked more like an onion bag than a fascinator.  

Pictures of drunk girls passed out amidst their own vomit and various litter, just near the row of portaloos also make me cross.

One of the most cringe worthy moments yesterday, and forgive me because I'm not trying to sound like a cybertroll but am just speaking what I think (and my blog if my fiefdom anyway) was the on-camera proposal by Geoffrey Edelsten to whatever that woman is meant to be.  It had all the spontaneity and romance of the planned invasion of another country.  I am normally happy for couples who announce their engagement, but this one just had me shrieking, 'Oh, puh-LEEEZE!'  She did not look delighted in the least (maybe she hates the ring?).  Maybe she was worried that when Geoffrey got down on his knee, he wouldn't be able to get back up?  It was so contrived, and shudder-worthy, and not even entertaining.  The outfits were repulsive, but that's to be expected.  Now, I don't mind something different.  I liked it when Bjork turned up to the Oscars in that white swan, because that's, well, her.  But when your eyes feel they are going to vomit after viewing, now that's something else.  I honestly do like some of the people who show up in fancy dress, but dearie me, when you look like  you've been hijacked by a bird of paradise, you've got some sartorial problems.  Also, that glitter.  Now, friends who do craft tell me glitter is considered the 'herpes' of craft materials - it just gets everywhere.  I'll stop here, and say no more.

Now, not being a gambler, I got rather caught up in the local buzz and attended a TAB outlet and placed a couple of bets.  They added to $7.00.  I put money on poor Admire Ratki.  If you're reading this, then you've been travailing the Internet and you know what happened, right?  That poor, poor creature.  I did watch the race at home, and you know what?  I didn't enjoy watching those horses racing.  I enjoyed even less the news that Admire Ratki had dropped in his stall and died afterward.  I was even more saddened to hear Araldo had to be destroyed after that injury when he was spooked by a kid waving a flag.  While I'm here, can I just plead with parents to either (a) leave their excitable kids at home from horse events, or (b) tell them not to do anything sudden near them?  Although I'm not a horsey type myself, I grew up on a farm and my father is a very well known rodeo rider/stockman, and it has been ingrained and osmosis-ed into me all my life: no sudden movements near horses!  It's that old saying: 'The gun is always loaded, and the horse always kicks'.  Is this glamour?  Is this the sport of kings?  One of my friends commented that injuries can happen in any sport.  This is indeed true.  But most people who are injured on the sporting field have made their own decision to partake in the said sport.  The horses have not.  I am so saddened by the deaths of these creatures.  I will be interested to hear the autopsy results for Admire Ratki, because it might not have necessarily been race-related, whatever happened to him.  And of course they are not the only horses that die, and get injured.  This horror juxtaposed against desperate Z-listers in gaudy hats and outfits as they cavort before a camera, trying to stay relevant, and drunken people chundering behind the portaloos, and ads for Tom Waterhouse's betting agency.  Nah, next year I think, if I'm not working, I will just read a book.   I will probably take note of the winner because I play trivia, but all other things are off the table.

Samhain, folks!

Look, I'm not a historian.  I'm not an expert mythologist.  What I have is a passing interest in custom geneses, and mythology, and by virtue of this passing interest it's my understanding Halloween stems from the Celtic festival of Samhain, which is celebrated at the end of the harvest and warmer months, which in the northern hemisphere is around the end of October.  Some would say it's been hijacked by the Americans, but I don't think this is necessarily the case because lots of cultures appropriate different customs, and celebrate them in their own unique way.  For instance, most of us probably open our presents on Christmas morning, whereas my good friend is married to a guy of German background, and when it's her in-laws' 'turn', they do the major celebrating on Christmas Eve.  Also, the Christmas tree tradition originated in Germany.  Many celebrate Christmas in front of a roaring fire, roasting chestnuts, and carving a goose or turkey as the snow flakes can be seen swirling, when one looks through the window.  In Australia we often celebrate with seafood, or cold meat and salads, and if you're eating at a trestle table outdoors, you find yourself cursing at the Westerly that's blown flecks of mown lawn over the trifle (but I hate trifle, so that wouldn't worry me per se), or gouging a fly out of the pasta salad with the once-a-year good family silver fork.  But you see my point: traditions do evolve with different cultures etc. 

But if Halloween is a celebration of the end of harvest, why in the Devil's droppings must we celebrate it on 31 October in Australia?  I have given up bemoaning that we celebrate it at all in Australia; I'm beyond caring about that.  Besides, it is a fun and community thing for the local kids  But what it is NOT is fun for me, as a parent, trudging around in the heat with my kids to go trick or treating.  Yesterday was 36 degrees Celsius, fer Chrissakes!  I wish we'd do it at the end of April, which would be more in keeping with the 'meaning' behind it, and not so torturous in the sweltering and oppressive heat.  I know of people who have even attempted carving pumpkins, only to have the flesh rot and fruit flies swarming in plague-like proportions.  It's so damned impractical and uncomfortable to celebrate at this time of year in the southern hemisphere.  At least last year one of the houses gave me a stubby of beer on the basis the 'parents deserve something, too'.  Mate, right with ya on that one!  Nobody gave me a beer this year, but I did get thinking that it might be nice to have some decorations out the front, and a bowl of lollies for the kids; then should a parent accompany them offer them a cold one.  My front lawn is a very untidy, and there is still rubbish which must be removed after my Anzac Day flood.  I am surprised kids did not think this was a Halloween decoration and knock on the door. 

Buy Some Crampons, Rope & A PIckaxe, Guys

Okay, I'm firing this little piece off at my local library because I have used up all my Internet allowance, and my Internet is soooooo slooooooow today.  It makes a tranquilised slug look like Usain Bolt.  The computer at the library is pretty darn slow, also, but it's still faster than mine.  Mr Bingells is going to upgrade our plan, because whilst I can cope with slowness  for a day or two, a week is out of the question.  I took a selfie and SMS-ed it to a friend, and thought I was King Shit with my new-found skill, so did a few others, and bang went my Internet allowance!  Be aware of this, peeps.

Anyway, it would appear NewsCorp, or News Crap, has deemed some supposed extra-marital affair by Nova Peris Kneebone is news-worthy, and apparently we should all sit in black robes with an itchy horse-hair wig on our heads, banging gavels. It is my theory that people who take a censorious and unwarranted interest in the sex lives of other people merely have none of their own.  They say it was a misuse of tax payer funds.  No, it's just their ploy to get more papers sold because - YIKES! - someone was having - shhhh! sex.  Whether Ms Peris Kneebone (or maybe she's just known as Peris now; I'm not sure because I'm not interested in her or her sex life) did get up to a bit of the old nasty with this athlete from Trinidad & Tobago is nobody's business.  They are what's commonly known as Consenting Adults.  I wonder why Rupert's paper has her in its cross-hairs?  Were the staff issued a directive and expenses sheet to go to Paddy Pallins and purchase some crampons, rope, and a pickaxe to reach the high moral ground?  I don't think a paper helmed by people who think nothing of hacking the private phone of grieving, bereaved parents is entitled to be self-righteous about anything.

Excerpts of salacious, PRIVATE, messages were published.  I wonder how lawful the obtaining of this data was?  Was it like hacking private phone numbers? I noticed in one of them, she says she wishes  she 'had of' done blah blah blah with the athlete.  The only thing with which I take issue is that the word is not 'of' but 'have'.  HAVE!!!  Goddamnit, I go mad when I see that!  That offended me.  The possibility of her conducting some extra marital relations did not.

I saw a photo of the bloke, by the way, and had to fan myself.  Talk about a hottie.

Yesterday I conducted a class about creative writing to some seniors, and my topic was 'characters'.  I really did wax lyrical because characters are my favourite things in any book.  I found myself continually using 'To Kill A Mockingbird' as examples of different ways to make the characters come to life - such as having a hidden talent (Atticus Finch being an expert marksman).  I spoke about sympathetic villains, and unsympathetic villains (Bob Ewell - an arsehole with no redeeming features).  I spoke about avoiding stereotypes, but making the character believeable.  I read a book once where the protagonist was a lawyer who refused to take on a client because he believed he might be guilty, and why should he take the case just because the dude had money, and oh-I-must-polish-my-halo etc.  As someone who spent most of her adult life in the legal industry, I do not believe there is a lawyer out there who thinks like that, or at least , not a one who has a solvent practice, if you get my drift.

A Hell Of An Orchestra

A guttural and thundering bass, evocative of peace and the era of free love, followed by the wistful, true, sincere and earnestly sung, 'It's gettin' near dawn/When lights close their tired eyes...'

Give up?  I'm thinking of 'Sunshine Of Your Love' by Cream, comprising Messrs Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker, and Eric Clapton.  What talented men, and what trials they have dealt with over the years.  By this I refer to Baker's heroin addiction, and Clapton's tragic loss of his young son.  I cannot listen to the song 'Tears in Heaven' because it distresses me so, and makes me cry.

Now we have our own loss.  I woke up this morning to learn man who delivers that powerful bass and the vocal power behind those lyrics, Jack Bruce, has died aged 71. 

This has been the utterly crappiest week for me, a music fan.  First of all, Raphael Ravenstock died at just 60 years of age.  If you're not sure about the name, then you'll definitely know his work.  Go to You Tube and have a listen to Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street'.  Ravenstock was the saxophonist, and if that's not one of the most BRILLIANT pieces of sax, then what is?  Yes, I know 'Yackety Sax', aka, 'Benny Hill Getting Chased By Women In Lingerie' is good, too, but oh, the feelings the solo in 'Baker Street' stirs in me.  I just want to lie down and close my eyes, and this music helps me forget the world.

The same world that the other day lost Alvin Stardust.  I loved 'My Coo Ca Choo' when I was a kid.  Yes, I know the lyrics might be a bit naff compared to what I've quoted in the first paragraph herein, but it's Glam!  It's a piece in the puzzle of the glam rock zeitgeist.  And Alvin tries to looking menacing, but somehow doesn't, yet it's all wonderful.  'Tom Cat/You know where it's at/Come on, let's go to my flat/Lay down and groove on the mat/Oh won't be my coo-ca-choo?'  Yeah, yeah, I know.  But it's probably more poetic and inviting than, 'Let's go to my place and have a root on the floor', which I'm sure is the subtext of those lyrics.  I am sure Stardust was in a West End production of 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' a few years ago, playing the grandfather.  He's died after a brief battle with prostate cancer.  RIP to him, too.

And now Jack Bruce.  We are left on Earth with what appears to be a glut of drones who have no skill on an instrument, unless it's programmed into a computer, and pain our ears with banality such as 'My anaconda don't want none/Unless you got buns, hon.'  Pfffffft!

Speaking of music, the other day I was driving an elderly lady around the district (a scheduled respite outing for her), and being the old dag I am, had the local AM station on the radio.  They had some program where the top selling singles for consecutive years were being played.  It came to 1985, and yeah, 'We Are The World'.  I won't labour the issue.  If you've followed my blog in the past, you will know I detest this song with passion, so I calmly turned down the radio, looked at the woman beside me and apologised, explaining the song made my ears bleed (particularly the part where Bob Dylan honks in like a sick goose at the end).  After an appropriate amount of time, I turned the radio back up, and what did I get? 1986  - and the best selling single of that year was 'Venus' by Bananarama!  I almost let fly with expletives, but just turned down the radio again, and kept driving.  The obligatory three minutes went by, and I ventured a twist 'up' on the dial.  Now it was time for 1987, and what was I subjected to?  What was the best seller for that year?  Well, it started with a string of the synthesised boppy notes that was a signature to the dung inflicted on us by Stock Aitken Waterman, a trio responsible for the most horrid dross of the Eighties.  And yeah, it was frickin' Rick Astley singing, 'Never Gonna Give You Up'.  'Aaaaarrrggghhh!' I wailed, 'What fresh hell is this?'  And turned down the radio again.  With the sound fluctuating, the poor old girl in the passenger seat probably had concerns for her hearing aid battery.

So, RIP to some musical greats.  Shit, the band up there is getting wonderful.  It's not a band anymore, it's an orchestra, I reckon.

Oh, and last night I wasn't hope.  I telephoned my home and spoke to my kids.  The oldest sounded different.  It seems his vocal chords are thickening.  And it's not just me, but when his dad got on the phone, he asked did I think the boy's voice sounded different.  My son is growing up.  Tissues, please.

Scarfing it Up

And now for today's chapter of Whipping Up Anti-Muslim Sentiment brought to you by our local media: In today's gripping and riveting instalment, we hear from a woman who claims to have received discrimination from her employer Qantas because she was not allowed to show her crucifix on a chain, whereas a Muslim co-worker was allowed to wear her headscarf.  Meanwhile, in a smallish house in rural New South Wales, a harried mother-of-two tossed her auburn-tressed head, rolled her green eyes, and yelled at her kids to hurry and finishing dressing for school. This mother-of-two was exasperated and annoyed at the continual 'Us vs Them' sentiment being created by the media in an attempt to feed bogans all over, and recalls the time her friend applied for a position as a flight attendant with Emirates Airlines.  She showed this woman the criteria of the airline, strict the point of being Draconian  thought the then-younger woman who eighteen years later became your blogger (got that?  Not too convoluted?).  One of their rules was no eye-glasses to be worn.  If the eyesight required assistance, the attendant was expected to wear contact lenses.  The would-be applicant explained this was an OH&S issue, after all, such accoutrements could slip off and fall onto a passenger.  The same with loose jewellery such as necklaces and bracelets - not to be in view.  Now  you know what, people?  In 2013, Emirates and Qantas merged.  Some of the policies have probably merged a bit, too.  The disgruntled trolley dolly (I KNOW that is a disparaging term for a flight attendant, but I feel like being a bitch, so deal with it) would apparently have been allowed to wear a chain, provided it was under the uniform.  A headscarf cannot be hidden under the uniform, and properly attached to the scone, is unlikely to come loose and land in someone's beef-or-chicken, or injure someone if it DID come into contact with them.  The scarf is traditionally a soft piece of fabric, after all.

Can everyone PLEASE stop losing their shit?  The place is starting to pong somewhat.

I have a big day tomorrow.  Sigh.  I want to get back into the work-in-progress, but cannot do so tomorrow.  Double sigh.

Images

This frigging cold's been hanging around like an annoying drunk at a party.  You know the type I mean: thinks you're impressed about his (minimal) knowledge of current affairs and that you're agog that he knows Troy Cassar Daly.  I've had such a beast in my face at a 50th a while back, and given my dislike of country music and slurring drunks, naturally didn't give a rat's ring that he knew Troy Cassar Daly.  It's almost gone - I've been sleeping better and no longer reliant on Codrals.  What I have discovered is if I go to another pharmacy in town, I can select my Codrals from the shelf and pay at the till with no questions asked, and go about my business without feeling like I'm reporting at the cop station pursuant to some bail conditions.  But I'm still at that stage where I wake up, and fantasise about when I can next lie down. 

But can't quite do that because I've got to give a talk to the U3A about writing this afternoon, and my topic is imagery.  I've prepared some rudimentary notes, and I'll wing it.  Perhaps my comparison of a malingering cold to an annoying drunken party bore would make a good example?

I've also committed to helping a local art student restructure an essay today.  So that will blow apart at the seams a chance of a good snooze, too.

Perhaps I should have had an earlier night, but Jeez-Louise, Professor Brian Cox was on 'Q & A' last night, and oh my giddy aunt, is he a dreamboat, or what?  I have been crushing majorly on him for ages, and I just sat enthralled at what he had to say, even if I didn't understand some of it, not being blessed with the brilliant physicist's mind he has.  Loved the bit about time slowing on the watch when one is moving quickly.  I THINK I understood it.  I don't know if this is within the realm of physics, but I fear I may have constructed a bimbo force-field where he is concerned.  I am concerned about this, because I really hate women who do this in the presence of the male of the species.  I've known some reasonably smart women who would reduce to giggling, inferior, B-class things so as not to appear to bright or threatening.  I cannot knowingly do this.  Take me as I am, or not at all. A lot of this insidious phenomena was observed during the Eighties, when I worked at a place specialising in insurance law, and compensation claims.  We acted for the epitome of Eighties Corporate Greed - the insurance companies who would have had Gordon Gecko jizzing himself.  Occasionally, the office would have a party for the clientele: a bunch of boozing buffoons whose own senses of attractiveness would become more warped with each passing cocktail.  I was introduced by one of the solicitors, and some slob drooled, 'What a good looking sort!'  I arched my eyebrow, a la Roger Moore as James Bond (this was probably the gamut of his encapsulation of Bond), and snottily replied, 'Brains, too.'

Well, unless you've just woken up, it's RIP and Vale to Gough Whitlam.  What a superior dude.  People of a certain age always remember 11 November 1975.  I remember this miserable specimen of a nun, a nasty piece of work who should have been garrotted with her own rosary beads, sticking her veiled head into our classroom and gleefully crying, 'They've sacked Whitlam!'  This was probably the only time Sister Mary-Slag ever smiled, now that I think of it.  She maliciously gloated at the downfall of a man who introduced Medicare, free university education, indigenous recognition, no-fault divorce, abolition of conscription, needs-based education funding, arts funding, and legal aid, among other things.  In hindsight, she probably didn't like him because he was helping unmarried mothers and divorcees.  Will we ever have another visionary like him again, or are we stuck with the imbeciles we have now?

A D&A Night, and A Revelation

Life can throw curve-balls.  I'm not sure if this is a curve-ball, or irony, or what, but the other night I attended a drug and alcohol information night which was put on my 13yo son's school year.  I entered the hall and collected my lucky door prize ticket.  I won.  Thrilled was me.  Chuffed.  I walked to the front of the hall and was handed a - wait for it - football.  Rugby League code football.  Those who know me well will know I seriously loathe this game.  I smiled with the sincerity of someone who has been 'roasted' by a comedian, and went back to my seat.  Afterwards, when the deputy headmaster commented to me, I could not help but say, 'I detest the game, and I detest the culture.'  Yet the forum and information night was very well put together, and kudos to the Year 7s.  I hope my son was listening.  The headmaster talked about the rules against smoking at the school, and it reminded me of my fourth-grade teacher who used to light up an Ardath in front of us, puff away, and leave a bunch of green-faced kids spluttering and choking, eyes streaming.  My husband, now a non-smoker, used to smoke when he was in high school, and he would be accosted by the PE teacher, who'd demand, 'Where's your smokes?', and bludge a few.  The headmaster then spoke about what would happen to a student whom it was suspected was affected by alcohol at school, and I thought back to when I was fifteen, and a few of the guys turned up rotten, maggoty, plastered, off-their-tits drunk to the school dance.  They had been swilling rum-and-coke in the park near by hall.  Throughout the course of the evening, I was - ahem! - making out with one of them, and almost got drunk on his saliva.  Also got busted by the Maths teacher.  That was sooooo embarrassing, but thank God I did all this stupid stuff before social media (yet here I am, yammering about it on social media; go figure).

I had to work this morning, after a bad night's sleep owing to this monstrous head cold and cough that has plagued - PLAGUED, I tell ye - me of late.  I'm going to have a rest shortly.  But as I drove around from home to home, medicating one oldie, showering another, the song 'Slow Hand' by the Pointer Sisters came on the radio.  Reminded me of when I was fifteen, and all that was encumbent with that tumultuous time in my life ( including going the grope a the school dance and getting caught by the Maths teacher). Bit of a guilty pleasure.  Kind of sultry.  Kind of seductive.  But I had a bit of a think today.  Bonnie, June, Anita, and Ruth, whichever of them warbled on the recording, tell us they want a man with 'a slow hand'; somebody who 'will not come and go in a heated rush'.  And it hit me, like a Damascene revelation.  These ladies are utterly sick of premature ejaculators!  Who's with me on this theory?