Taking The P**s

Although I don't mind watching soccer, and in any event my oldest son plays, I really cannot stand football.  I don't get it.  I don't know why fans lose their shit on Grand Final Day, and have zero sympathy nor indeed tolerance at all for the ones that sit there weeping in the club house when their team loses the Grand Final.  FFS, why the tears?  Did you bet your house on the outcome of the game?  It's fucking football!  I have less sympathy for the players who sob when their team doesn't win.  Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, you're on a six figure contract and you didn't win a game of football.  Meanwhile, somewhere a paramedic is working frantically on a casualty, and neo-natal nursing staff are working around the clock on premature babies in humidicribs, and earning not even what would amount to loose change down the back of your sofa.

I have memories of being dragged to watch my brother play.  I'd sit in the car bored out of my skull, until I learned to bring along a book or read the newspaper.  I'd be engrossed in my reading material, and then startled almost to the point of cardiac arrest by the blaring cacophony of car horns which signified our team had scored a try. 

Now, when it's State of Origin night, or some such event, should I be showering an oldie and they ask my opinion on the upcoming game, I smile sweetly and advise my infinitesimal knowledge and interest, although it would be tempting to smile sweetly and say I just don't really give a shit.

What does seem to be particular to the code of league is that it attracts utter meatheads.  This is my main issue.  Meatheads who are paid an astronomical amount for the privilege of chucking a ball around.  Meatheads who don't appear to realise they are actually not gods, notwithstanding their feted status.  Meatheads who have no idea how to behave.  Meatheads who binge copious amounts of alcohol.  And most disturbingly of late, meatheads who appear to be stricken with raging cases of urolagnia.  Incidentally, I care not if one is a urolagniac.  Whatever blows your hair back, I reckon.  But what kind of foul cretin would willingly drink their own urine in front of someone?  What less foul, but equally cretinous cock would take a photograph and post it on social media?  The thirsty lad, whose name I won't mention, has already been sacked for drunken, loutish behaviour.  But I'm wondering should drinking via his own kidneys be sackable, given he hurts nobody (although I wouldn't want to pash him - not that I would anyway - yuck).

By the way, can people stop saying footballers are role models?  They are not.  Neither are actors nor musicians.  The role model your kid should have is you.

A Cornuopia of Snot

Still struggling with it all.  The flu I've had is just hanging on like a tenacious drunk at a party that can't take a hint.  Kind of like the dude that cornered me at a function last year and slobbered and drooled, 'You know what?  If Troy Cassar-Daly was on stage and saw me, he'd stop the show and say 'Hi'.'  I smiled the frozen smile of one who has just realised another person has dogshit on his/her shoe.  Maybe I should have grown a pair, metaphorically speaking, and come right out and said, 'You know what?  I really don't care because I totally fucking HATE country music.'  Certainly I'm much better than I was, but I just want it to be gone totally.  My head aches from constant nose blowing.  My nose is a regular cornucopia of snot.  Worst of all, my husband has caught it and when he gets sick, He. Gets. Sick. 

Anyway, I've ALMOST finished the paperwork I've had to do for the contents claim we've made since that godawful flood of Anzac Day.  Seriously, how much shit did we lose?  And how hard is it to work out the cost to replace?  We've been in a furniture shop while we were in Dubbo, and last night realised there were still things we'd forgotten to price, such as mattresses, and quilts, and quilt covers, and Oh-I'm-Beyond-Giving-A-Shit-Now.  I've spent the precious morning of my day off at the local Harvey Norman finalising quotes, and typing correspondence at the library because I have to replace my computer and printer when my claim is finalised.  It's all too hard, and I've been rostered to start work early tomorrow.  And I'm getting antsy; I want to get back into my work-in-progress, which is thankfully safe on a USB.  But can't do that until I get a new 'pute.  Sigh.  Well, the paperwork should be posted first thing Monday after I have spent my Sunday off filling in figures on an inventory. 

And I'm taking the fruits of my womb laser-tagging tonight, so I'd better go and get ready for it.  When will it all end?

The Light, The Hair, The Annoyance, The Sadness

Being the youngest in the family sucks.  Don't let the older siblings tell you you're spoiled, if you are the youngest you're the one who's had dirty football socks rubbed in their face, or been held down and farted on, shoved in a sleeping bag and dragged around the floor, or just generally teased.  But one good thing about being the youngest, especially during the Seventies, is when the older siblings had good taste in music.  My older brother introduced (well, if blaring at concert level decibels constitutes an introduction) me to Alice Cooper and Status Quo.  He also has some mellow tastes, and introduced me to Todd Lundgren.  For that, I will be eternally grateful (for the stunt with the footy socks, I'm still working out revenge).  Today I added 'I Saw The Light' by the very Rundgren on my iPod.  This song is just sublime.  Check it out, if you've never heard it.  From the musical arrangements to the sweet, poignant delivery - I totally love that song.

So I am sitting here, feeling a bit better.  Nose still blocked, but I've been sleeping well.  Doctor has given me two days off work, and I shall return tomorrow.   Got Friday off, and I'm planning to have a hair cut.  About three inches off - my profile picture doesn't tell the true story in that my hair is almost waist length, and starting to annoy me.  Speaking of hair, did anyone else hear of the New Zealand father taking his son's school to the High Court over their dictum the kid must cut his hair?  I'm in two minds about this because I don't think hair styles a good student maketh at all.  However, if one is enrolling a kid in a private school, then one must be willing to comply with the rules of that school.  Whilst it is reasonable to expect hair to be kept neatly (tied back if necessary), I would not enrol my kid in a school that was draconian when it came to hair length.  After all, girls are allowed to tie back long hair, so why shouldn't boys?  However, the kid's father is going a bit far in comparing his son to Martin Luther King Jnr.  To do this is just downright fatuous, and a tad offensive.  Hey, my son kicked a gaol in soccer a few weeks ago, but I'm not going around comparing him to Pele, am I?  But back to hair length.  I don't mind long hair on guys at all, if it's kept neat and well maintained.  Some guys look super awesome in a pony tail.  However, if your hair is starting to recede, then for fuck's sake cut it, because that look Michael Bolton used to sport is truly atrocious.

It's 2014, and twenty years since the Aussie classic 'Muriel's Wedding'.  Twenty years since my circle said, 'Go and see this film, Simone; you'll love it!'  Twenty years since I sat in a darkened cinema battling murderous rage, just itching to take to the face of that silly bitch with a cheese grater.  Truly, people, she is not sweet and whimsical.  She is an obsessive, neurotic, lying psychopath.

Sigh.  Mr Bingells had planned a trip to visit his oldest friend, who had planned his farewell in a few weeks.  His friend was an affable guy with a booming voice and a ready laugh.  I said 'was'.  He didn't get to have that farewell with all his friends.  We got word the other night that the leukaemia got there first.  Instead of having a laugh (albeit a bittersweet) one with his mate, he will now make a donation in his mate's name to the Leukaemia Foundation.  Bless him.  Bless his wife and six-year-old son, and bless his mum and brother.

Oh, just p**s off!

So many things to be pissed off about lately.  Where does one begin?  There's no beginning, and no end, it seems.  I'm pissed off because I've been clouted with what is an irksome, albeit mild, dose of flu.  My nasal passages are throbbing, and feel as though some cruel prick has shoved a softball up there.  My throat feels as though some near-sighted welder has aimed his oxy-torch down it.  My head's been aching, and sleep is only a nodding (not nodding-off) acquaintance.  I did have a very pleasant weekend, staying en famille in Dubbo and doing touristy things before a family dinner (SIL's 50th birthday).  Took the fruits of my womb to Old Dubbo Gaol, which they enjoyed, as did I.  I stood in the claustrophobic darkness of what had been the solitary confinement cell - the blackness was like a thick blanket.  I heard other visitors approach and look at the cell, and say, 'Nobody's in there.'  I briefly toyed with the idea of moaning in a sepulchral voice, 'Who dares disturb the rest of Cut-Throat Annie?', and listening to them scream and take off like scalded cats, their feet not touching the ground.  Oh, I know how scary this sort of thing can be.  Years ago, before our marriage, Mr Bingells and I were looking into the grille of the door of a very eerie looking crypt in Waverley Cemetary.  I jokingly asked, 'See any ghosts in there?'  Unbeknownst to us, a small yappy dog (a pomeranian from memory) had sneaked up behind us, and it let forth a series of staccato, high-pitched, and extremely loud yaps.  The beloved and I flew into the air, screaming.  But I didn't, and I'm kind of pissed off that I didn't.  Because it would have been kind of funny.  A bit of an unpleasant trick to play, but an exceedingly funny one.  Had coffee with an old school friend, which was lovely, and we also looked in a furniture store to get quotes on replacing the furniture we lost in the Anzac Day deluge.  The list is almost finished.  We can almost submit it.  We can almost get some new stuff and not have our clothes in baskets all over the house, which is causing extreme piss-off in your blogger.

The Abbott government is not only pissing me off, it is making me want to club a baby seal (this from an animal lover).  Tell me, you clods who sit in Parliament House, are you seriously thinking off offering asylum seekers up to $10,000 to return to country of origin?  Are you all retarded?  Why do you all consistently ignore the fact asylum seeking is NOT illegal?  Why are you all such inhumane snot-buckets?  And yet the budget seeks to demonise welfare recipients who are doing it hard, such as the carers of people with disability.  The government seeks to forge ahead with the utterly asinine project of the school chaplaincy program.  Yeah, that's right.  Instead of counsellors trained in mental health, they would sooner install superstitious witch doctors with no relevant experience or training.  The negligible constitutional validity of this program has been brought to light, but Abbott's still pushing away, like the buckjumping horse at the gate, just waiting for the gatekeeper to pull that pin (I spent many a weekend at rodeos when I was little - hence the simile).

I went to give a talk at my local library last Thursday night, but nobody seemed to wish to listen to an author that night.  Bum.  Bum-bum-bumbedy-bum!  Oh well, it can't all be beer and skittles.  I have been approached by the publicty officer of the library in a nearby town, and been invited to talk to the participants of the University of the Third Age next month.  I'm sure I can recycle the speech I prepared for last week.

Finally, a friend has unwittingly reminded me of a song that used to send me abso-freakin'-lutely nucking futs.  That song, reader, is 'Laid' by James.  That song is not a bad song, per se.  Actually, for vocals, delivery, and production value, it's probably pretty good.  The message of consuming lust and infatuation, and fixation to the point of boiling a rabbit on the stone, is clear.  I didn't mind it at all when I first heard it.  When I FIRST heard it.  However, my then-flatmate thought it the song to end all songs, and played it on a fucking loop (which is a dose of choice irony, almost send me 'loop'-y).  I heard it when I had my morning coffee.  I heard it when I ate my toast.  I heard it as I stepped from the shower.  It tortured me as I brushed my teeth and applied my morning make-up.  It was the last thing I heard as I shut the door behind me and ran for the bus (I wasn't running because I was late, but to get away from the noise).  It was the first thing I heard as I turned the key in the front door upon my return from work of an early evening.  It was in the background as I told my then-flatmate I was one step from grabbing a gun and taking hostages, and never wanted to hear that bloody song again.

Well, I'd best be off and make sure I can find clean things for the kids to wear for school tomorrow, among the piles of washing higgledy-piggledy around my home.    All this as my nose drips like an old tap.

Alice? Who the....

Whilst still charging about like a blue-arsed fly in the lead-up to the launch of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', I found a $2.00 CD of compiled glam at my local Big W store. 'Awesome', I thought.  Notwithstanding its dearth of T-Rex, which is kind of what the novel alludes to, I thought it was a bargain.  Before the launch, I finally figured out how to compile a separate glam playlist on my iPod and just played that list at the launch (after scolding my almost-10yo for changing it to 'Get Lucky' by Daft Punk just as the guests were due to arrive).  Anyway, I had to do an evening medication/shower/meal preparation run for work last night, and whilst driving around thought I'd give that cheap CD a spin.  The radio, set as always on AM, was playing a commentary for some football commentators, and let's just say I give less of a shit about football than your average amoeba gives about quantum physics.  Now, I don't know what sadistic engineers got their mitts on these recordings for the CD, but they're all total shit!  None of them sound like the original.  Not really.  They are listed as the original artists, and I do recognise the singing voices, but here's the thing, budding engineers: if it works, don't fix it.  'Bye Bye Baby' by the Bay City Rollers sounds like Macy Gray on helium.  It's bad.  They've given it the UB40 treatment, in that they have decided to try a different twist, and achieved nothing but audio manure.  And to tell you the truth, I don't know that I'd class Smokie as a glam rock act.  I'd class them as cheese, yes.  Embarrassing schlock at times, for sure.  An occasional guilty pleasure, without a doubt.  But glam?  That's drawing one mighty long bow.  And the song the engineers, or whoever, chose in their not so pronounced wisdom?  Yes.  'Living Next Door To Alice'.  Tell me, you out there in the blogosphere, is there ANYBODY on this earth that actually likes that song?  I pulled into the drive (much like the limousine in this stupid song) of an old man for whom I was to prepare dinner and administer medication,  As I braked, the singer lamented and whined, 'Oh, I don't know why she's leaving....'.  I killed the engine, together with the miserable melody, and snarled at the CD player, 'She's leaving to get away from you, you dork, because you've been creeping her out by staring at her over the fence for the past twenty-four years!'

Well, I had better think about some notes on myself for the talk I'm going to give next Thursday evening.  A touch nervous, but quite excited, too.

Turn Up That Radio Full Bore For Jim

Sigh.  Another one bites the dust.  We've lost another good 'un.  I've just heard the news Jim Keays, front man of The Masters' Apprentices, has died aged 67.  If there's a rock and roll heaven (don't worry, I'm not about to start singing Righteous Brothers songs, although that one is a guilty pleasure of mine), then Jim and Doc Neeson are doubtless slapping each other on the back.  This is all so sobering: everyone I've loved over the years as a kid and young adult is dying.  They are shuffling off this mortal coil.  And we're left to deal with dross like Miley Cyrus and Kanye West.  Oh, and Madonna.  I will not duck for cover because I stand by what I wrote.  There is really not a person alive who shits me like Madonna.

Only a few days ago I was staggered to learn of Rik Myall's sudden death.  Like many of my -ahem!- vintage, I became acquainted with Rik Myall's ouevre via 'The Young Ones'.  Now, I am very appreciative of Rik's talent and timing as a comic actor, and adored him in 'Blackadder', which is one of my very favourite shows and I am delighted to see my 13yo becoming a fan.  But after a while, 'The Young Ones' wore a little thin on me.  I couldn't see the humour in four very disparate and juvenile twerps shouting at each other.  To admit you're a little disenfranchised from 'The Young Ones', and that you just don't get it, is to invite looks of incredulity from ones' contemporaries, but the fact is, I don't really get their humour at all now.  But I still really enjoyed Rik in his other work, and actually saw he and Ben Elton live in 1986.  And Rik is now gone at just 56.  I'm curious to learn of the cause of death.

There is a very curious phenomenon out there, and it manifested itself at my home the other night.  It involved my almost-10yo adamant he had put the iPod on the lounge near his father.  What ensued was a frustrating and fruitless search as I shoved my hand into the crevices of the lounge to see if the iPod was there,  I dragged the lounge away from the wall, and ended up sweeping behind there after seeing the accumulation of dirt.  I recreated my son's movements to the best of my memory, as my son wailed at the punishment meted: not touching Mum's iPod for 24 hours once it was found.  I was going to grab a crowbar and rip up floorboards, so baffling was the mystery of the missing iPod.  My grizzling son went to bed, bemoaning the unfairness of life and not understanding it is high time he got himself a little sense of ownership (of his mistakes, not my iPod).  After a while, my nose started to run, and I went to the kitchen and reached into the box of tissues, and lo and behold, it was the missing iPod.  Now what is this phenomenon that transfers an iPod from the lounge beside Dad, to inside the tissue box?  Can any of you astro-travellers, or physicists out there tell me?  As relieved as I was to have my toy back, I was still infuriated at No. 2 Son, and he had to suffer the consequences.  Of course him having a few hours without my iPod is worthy of me being brought before The Hague, but it would send him into conniptions to learn I actually survived 48 years without an iPod.  That's not to say I didn't get pissed off whenever my Sony walkman was confiscated.

Oh, sigh again, RIP Jim Keays.  I had a listen to 'Turn Up Your Radio'.  How fucking awesome is that song?  Everyone, turn up the radio full bore, I say!

How Sheep Relate To Flashdance

Sheep are funny critters, aren't they?  If one runs, the others follow (woollen) suit, the dags at their behinds rattling like the wooden rosary beads of a rampant nun in full flight.  Nuns would have trouble sneaking up on people because of the wooden beads hanging at their waists.  On the weekend, I attended my home town of Merriwa for its annual Festival of the Fleeces.  Yeah, that's what it's called.  And being a writer and a stickler for these things, the word 'fleeces' makes me want to go out and stab a baby kitten with its eyes just newly opened.  For those who want to know, the plural of the word 'fleece', is still 'fleece'.  And, sigh, given the festival has been going since 1991 (when my father led the parade, dressed in an akubra and oilskin coat and sitting astride a horse), the name has probably been patented and trademarked and copyrighted to within an inch of it's mis-named life.  Over the years I have assisted in various aspects of Life With Sheep, as we in the bush know it.  I have held the lambs during the procedure known as 'lambing'.  If you've ever worked on a farm, you'll know what I'm getting at.  When I worked in the Big Smoke, I totally freaked out a lawyer who had invited me for a coffee, when I told him how I used to help out.  I learned from a mutual colleague that although he had at first thought me rather attractive, my tales of farm life had given my the status, in his eyes, of psychopath.

But back to the original story, my home town has this thing where quite a lot of sheep are gathered, and have red socks on their forelegs (the feet of the socks have been cut out, so the sheep look like they are actually wearing red leg warmers, and believe me when I tell you they don't really rock that whole Jennifer Beals/Flashdance thing), and run along the main street, just like those bulls in Pamploma.  Unlike Pamplona, there are barricades because although again unlike the Spanish town, the sheep are not likely to cause harm to any bystanders, if someone perchance should baulk a trotting ovine beast en route up the main street, the sheep is likely to turn around and the entire flock will go after them, which kind of wrecks the spectacle of the Running of the Sheep.  (If this does happen, it's pretty bloody funny).  But yeah, and the parade commenced with a blessing from no less than three local clergy representing the Catholic Church, and those other ones that aren't the Catholic Church.  It should be noted that neither rabbi, imam, shaman, nor medicine man shaking a stick were invited to offer a kindly spiritual bestowing.  And like when I was a child, the sight of sheep running had me tickled pink.  Also the sight of children behind what appeared to be a papier mache sheep head, with long white sheets attached coming up the street had me in fits of laughter; it looked like a Chinese dragon.

My sister attended, bringing along husband, a couple, and an elderly man from the West Indies, who was engrossed in the shearing display.  But what held us in thrall was exploring what is colloquially known to the locals as 'The Top Pub.'  It was just my sister and I who looked, but there was a sentimental reason for this: when we were younger our grandmother owned the pub, and much of our childhood was spent there.  The mirror above the fireplace is still there: it has 'McWilliams Wines' stencilled on it.  The jukebox that always blared 'The Night Chicago Died' has been moved to a different spot, and in its place (a little room) are poker machines.  The staircase has been moved to the back of the pub, but it's the same structure and has the same newel posts and bannister.  As we ascended, my sister noted the same step squeaks.  At the summit of these stairs, I was taken aback to see it's THE SAME BLOODY CARPET!  We wandered along the hall, and remembered which door had led to the Forbidden Zone aka our grandmother's suite.  We walked onto the balcony and I asked did she wish to spit on cars parked in the road. (Disclaimer: this was an idiotic game played by bored cousins years ago). She declined.

So we caught up with old friends, and I was able to duck into doorways and avoid the people I wanted to avoid, in particular, my old school bully who still walks with her fists clenched as though about to take a swing at somebody, and still has a face like a bulldog shitting barbed wire.

And as corny as a festival which has sheep running along the main street sounds, it was just lovely.  And despite what Tom Wolfe said, you actually can go home.

The Doc No Longer In The House

Music celebrities appear to be created on reality television, these days.  Or You Tube.  It's hard when poker machines take up what was once valuable performing space for a fledgling band cutting its teeth.  Today's young music stars like to sing pissy songs and shake their butts (aka twerking).  Come to think of it, is twerking just a modern day form of lewdness that was construed from Elvis shaking his hips?   

I used to go and watch pub bands, and didn't Australia produce the creme de la creme?  A good night out often entailed my toes hurting from the shoes I wore, my stone washed jeans (uh, yep), and mousse in my fringe (I had one until I was informed by a stylist it did nothing for me).  A good night involved beer spilled down your back, and the ends of your hair gummed together with dried beer.  A good night was hot, and sweaty.  A good night often started with a brain-dead bouncer on the door.  One of them would not let my cousin's then boyfriend (now husband) in on the basis he was wearing a singlet.  We went to a nearby friend's flat in order for him to borrow a T-shirt.  We were finally granted access to the venue and - surprise, surprise! - the guys in there had taken off their shirts because it was so damned hot.  WTF?  A good night would start by drinking cider from the bottle shop on the beach, because nobody could afford those damned prices in the bar.   And then it would be hot, and crowded, and noisy, and should you be standing near a speaker your ears would ring like the bells of St Clement's all the next day. 

And a REALLY good night would include the refrain, 'No way!  Get fucked!  Fuck off!' 

Yep.   Sigh.  RIP, Doc Neeson.  What a charismatic showman you were.  One of my workmates back in the 80s had the most massive crush.  We are still good friends, and she told me yesterday how devastated she is.  We worked in a law office together, and a group of us juniors would walk to Martin Place Station every afternoon after work,  I would take the train to Bondi Junction, and the others had to stand on the other station and take the Cronulla line.  We'd stand on, or walk up the escalators together, dodging stragglers and dunderheads standing to the wrong side.  I remember one of the clerk's complaining after walking behind somebody, 'Aw, I walked straight into that knob's fart!'  What I mainly remember about our walks to Martin Place, was a very tall, dark, saturnine looking man passing us from the opposite direction.  My friend cried, 'Doc!'  We all thought she had cried, 'Stop!' and all stood stock still.  She was gibbering like an excited school girl, and being a good friend, I accompanied her in her search for the Angels' front man.  We walked all the way back from just near Hunter Street to Circular Quay, and couldn't find him.

Now he's in Rock and Roll Heaven, and now there's even more of a Hell of a band.

And our kids might not know the fun of being in a sweaty hot venue, shouting at the stage.

Things To Be PO'd About

Been trying to stay sane lately, but busy as a one-armed fan dancer.  Worked for two hours Saturday morning, and then travelled with hubby, sons, and about five 12 and 13yos to host a birthday party for my 13yo at the next town, which features ten-pin bowling.  I'm not sure what's more unnerving: testosterone-fuelled boys on the cusp of adolescence handling heavy bowling balls in a dangerous, devil-may-care manner, or what it was like years ago with a phalanx of sugared-up 7yos swinging sticks at a pinata.  The last time we had a pinata it was an effigy of Spider Man, and the first kid, probably my son, swung the stick in an upward arc and gave poor Spidey a solid thwack to the nads that would have crippled him had he been human.  We travelled in two vehicles.  I drove home with a 9yo and three 12yos giggling and sniggering, and holding up a stuffed elephant at the window in such a manner that he looked like he was mooning other commuters.  Admittedly I didn't know whether to scold them or laugh, as well.  Mr Bingells travelled with three 12 & 13yos whispering in the back seat about wet dreams, which brings home the point that my kids are growing up.

Things To Be PO-d About:

1.  The government's notion of drug testing dole recipients.  Everywhere I hear people saying this is a good thing.  I'm calling bullshit on it.  It is an infringement of civil liberties.  There is no reason to do it.  I know in principle it might not be great to spend what is tax-payer's money on whoopee weed, but the thing is, my employer cannot tell me what to spend my money on, Joe Blow in the street cannot come up to me and say, 'Hey, Simone!  Don't spend your money on booze, and don't buy the latest issue of Cosmo.'  I indulge in neither, but you get my drift.  I'm sick of hearign the argument 'those with nothing to hide, hide nothing.'  I give not one iota of fuck about that argument.  I do not think it is the government's business how I spend my money, and I don't want to be harassed and made to undergo tests to prove that I may or may not have ingested a substance if I am not likely to be affecting the public with my ingestion of said substance?  Got all that?

2.  The government's school chaplaincy program.  Truly, guys, you are all just Tools On Parade.  HOw much is it? $245 million for a chaplaincy program in STATE schools?  You twits dispose of the Science Minister position, and there are funding cuts to the CSIRO.  But someone who buys into a concept as abstract as a meta-physical being advising kids in STATE schools?  Here, have a considerable amount of money!  I might not be able to transport a chap to a specialist in Newcastle because of funding cuts, but let's put fucking CHAPLAINS in schools!  This just totally sucks three kinds of arse.  What about a scared kid coming to terms with his homosexuality?  What's a staunch Christian going to say?  Is this chaplain going to make the kid feel worthless?  I personally am not against the idea of pastoral care in principle, but seriously, all that dosh when there are far more deserving causes?  And while I'm on my soap box, leave the ABC alone! What are you scared of the ABC for?  You complain they're biased, but the silence after the Murdocracy publishes bilge in your favour is deafening.

3.  My pup is unwell again.  Gross-er-oo.  He's had his parvo innoculation, so I'm hoping he will be okay.

Must take a kid to soccer training.  Shall post again anon.  That's anon in the Shakespearian sense, not under a pseudonym.