This old world seems to be going crazy lately. Well, maybe not the entire clump of rock third in line from the sun, but my own microcosm has it's needle wavering precariously in the 'Let's Weave A Basket' section, like a Geiger meter in the Curies' workshop.
Part of it is the devilish heat, which is coming direct from the furnace in Satan's basement.
Part of it is the pall of misery hanging over the town in which I reside. Usually, this town has a cloud of coal dust, but right now it's also got a pall of misery, and I'm feeling for my fellow citizens. The PAC has rejected an expansion for a local mine, and this is quite likely going to cost many people their jobs. I'm a 'when one door shuts; another opens' type of person, but it's hard not to feel for people at the moment. Mining itself has not ceased completely, and it's important there be diversification in local industries. Local businesses are showing support by hanging hi-viz shirts at their frontage. Some people have stated they will choose to frequent establishments with these garments on display. I say this is counterproductive as boycotting a business has a flow-on effect for EVERYONE. It is a business owner's right to decide how his or her shopfront is adorned, and just because someone has decided to not dangle a florescent piece of clothing, it does not mean that owner does not care or is not supportive. I have pointed out to the folk that choosing to shop on the basis of a hung-up shirt is a form of manipulative emotional blackmail. I have read online petitions with grammar and punctuation that has made my eyes bleed. What is worst is I have read abusive online comments lamenting the pending arrival of 3000 Syrian refugees, and a proposed mosque. I am aware there has been no application, and therefore no approval for, a mosque in this town. What is annoying me, aside from someone saying '3000 Syrian rapests' (learn to spell, whoever posted that one), is that vicious remarks are what leads to disenfranchised people being attracted to organisations such as ISIL. It's not even definitely refugees are being placed in this town, to my knowledge. I wish people would stop and think. I wish people would live and let live, and not be arseholes in the name of religion, which after all is just a form of superstition. You like Allah? Fine. You worship a monotheistic being in the name of a Jewish carpenter who got hammered? Lovely, enjoy. You prefer a multi-armed being with an elephant's head? Hey, knock yourself out. But don't act like an arsehole just because someone else doesn't. Please. Like religions learning to co-exist, so should the local industries in my home town co-exist.
Oh well, my eleven year old is due home from school shortly. He will want to be fed, but he will fight with me over his homework, and he will also have to practise the piano for his performance of 'When The Saints Go Marching In' tonight. He will no doubt practise because he loves to partake in the recitals, having discovered the addictive appeal of an audience and applause.
What music can I play to cheer myself up, I wonder? Might have to crank up the Beach Boys.
Sunday 29 November 2015
Tuesday 24 November 2015
Yucky Yeast & Other Nuisances
Just when I thought I had seen and heard it all (and I come from a town where the postman got wasted and fucked a dog one night - I was in my final year of school, and boy was that some hot gossip), I read a snippet about a feminist blogger who posted in updates whilst baking a loaf of bread. Big deal, you're probably thinking. And understandably so; I too have baked bread. What was remarkable (and utterly disgusting) about this particular loaf was the yeast used as a rising agent was cultivated from thrush in the blogger's own vagina (I suppose it beats scraping it out of someone else's)! This just begs the question: WHY???? WHY would you do this? My money is on 'attention'. Look, there is merit in not wasting and recycling. Much merit indeed. But seriously, folks, WHY? If this was an experiment in the name of science, then I could actually understand. But I think this is just an attention-seeking exercise, and does nothing for the feminist cause. ('Hey look, everyone: I just harvested some cunt-snot and put it in some dough to make it rise! Go, Feminism! Woo-hoo!') What's the next great culinary exercise? Perhaps it will be a lemon meringue pie made with wads of hacked-up phlegm. Or maybe, when she's making Florentines, she will extract a great booger from her nostril and add it to the cornflakes-and-honey mix, so when it dries it will help set the confectionery. Some urine along with vinegar when making toffee? I will stop there; I'm starting to nauseate myself. But what people will do never ceases to astonish me.
On a lesser scale, I saw something else this morning that made me ask 'Why?'. I was at a client's home, and I knocked over something from the bathroom cupboard. It had a flip top lid, and cute brightly coloured tubular objects therein. 'Oh, bless,' I thought, 'I've knocked over her granddaughter's crayons. I will pick them up before they become a trip hazard.' So I reached down, and upon closer inspection realised I was not looking at crayons, but tampons. Yeah, brightly coloured tampons: electric blue, shocking pink, and justice purple. Again I thought, 'Why?' Truly, people, what is the point to brightly coloured TAMPONS? Who on earth is going to see the bloody things? No pun intended there, by the way; just a fortunate, or unfortunate, turn of phrase. Also, are those dyes safe? God almighty, you would be unable to gauge the qualities of your flow against a background of cobalt blue or maroon. 'God Strewth,' I thought, as I picked them up, still mindful they might become a trip hazard. It's not up to me to tell other women what sanitary products to purchase (although I do encourage people to go for the environmentally friendly moon cup), but I will say I think the purchase of colourful tampons is seriously inane, and probably more pricey.
Finally, this morning I had an, 'Oh, fuck off!' moment. I was at someone else's home and heard on the television Senator Jackie Lambie has called for drug testing of all welfare recipients. Was I not in the company of elderly people in their own home, I just might have snarled, 'Oh, fuck off!' at the television screen. It's all very well for people to bleat that they are subject to drug testing in their workplace, so why should welfare recipients not undergo this also. This is why: usually in the workplace where there is drug testing, it is because the safety of other people just might hinge on their workmates not being stoned to the gills. I'm thinking jobs like driving, mining, or construction where heavy equipment is operated. If someone drawing welfare decides to smoke a joint in his or her own time, it is very unlikely to impede upon someone else's safety. Also, as unpopular an opinion as this might be, I consider it an infringement upon someone's civil liberty to undergo a drug test if it is not really needed. RBT units when someone is operating a motor vehicle; no problem. Pulling a cone on your own time in your own home and affecting nobody else? Leave 'em be. Senator, your idea just seems like a massive waste of time and resources. Perhaps those clowns sitting in Parliament should undergo drug testing instead? Just a thought....
On a lesser scale, I saw something else this morning that made me ask 'Why?'. I was at a client's home, and I knocked over something from the bathroom cupboard. It had a flip top lid, and cute brightly coloured tubular objects therein. 'Oh, bless,' I thought, 'I've knocked over her granddaughter's crayons. I will pick them up before they become a trip hazard.' So I reached down, and upon closer inspection realised I was not looking at crayons, but tampons. Yeah, brightly coloured tampons: electric blue, shocking pink, and justice purple. Again I thought, 'Why?' Truly, people, what is the point to brightly coloured TAMPONS? Who on earth is going to see the bloody things? No pun intended there, by the way; just a fortunate, or unfortunate, turn of phrase. Also, are those dyes safe? God almighty, you would be unable to gauge the qualities of your flow against a background of cobalt blue or maroon. 'God Strewth,' I thought, as I picked them up, still mindful they might become a trip hazard. It's not up to me to tell other women what sanitary products to purchase (although I do encourage people to go for the environmentally friendly moon cup), but I will say I think the purchase of colourful tampons is seriously inane, and probably more pricey.
Finally, this morning I had an, 'Oh, fuck off!' moment. I was at someone else's home and heard on the television Senator Jackie Lambie has called for drug testing of all welfare recipients. Was I not in the company of elderly people in their own home, I just might have snarled, 'Oh, fuck off!' at the television screen. It's all very well for people to bleat that they are subject to drug testing in their workplace, so why should welfare recipients not undergo this also. This is why: usually in the workplace where there is drug testing, it is because the safety of other people just might hinge on their workmates not being stoned to the gills. I'm thinking jobs like driving, mining, or construction where heavy equipment is operated. If someone drawing welfare decides to smoke a joint in his or her own time, it is very unlikely to impede upon someone else's safety. Also, as unpopular an opinion as this might be, I consider it an infringement upon someone's civil liberty to undergo a drug test if it is not really needed. RBT units when someone is operating a motor vehicle; no problem. Pulling a cone on your own time in your own home and affecting nobody else? Leave 'em be. Senator, your idea just seems like a massive waste of time and resources. Perhaps those clowns sitting in Parliament should undergo drug testing instead? Just a thought....
Monday 23 November 2015
Burning Rubber
The humidity and sweat form a film on my body that makes me feel I am in a science fiction movie, as I try and break free of this caul-like film. I so loathe this heat. Particularly as the last few days have had me as busy as a one-armed fan dancer. Saturday entailed a six hour round trip to Eastern Creek for Mr Bingells to enjoy is 50th birthday present. In case I didn't mention it in any previous posts, I arranged for him to have ten laps driving a v8 supercar around a race track, during which he was under the tutelage of a professional race driver. After this, he was given three laps as a passenger to his professional driver. He loved it, and it was great to see him happy.
He had to be suited up in the protective gear, and actually looked pretty handsome in this gear. Part of the package included a photograph in front of a race car, and the families were allowed to photograph their loved one in the pose, too. To Mr Bingells' chagrin, the car before which he had to pose was a Ford. The children and I tried to capture a shot showing the Ford logo so we could have a good laugh at his expense, but Mr Bingells shooed us to another area to get the photograph. We had to be quick with this, because the organisers had about forty or so participants to photograph. So I scooted over and held up my iPod to capture that fleeting moment when Mr Bingells was in front of the car, and fuck me dead if a stupid bloody teenager didn't walk in front of me, thus ruining my chance for a picture; Mr Bingells had to move away. I made an annoyed noise and shot her an infuriated glare, and she cowered and skulked away. Momentarily, I wondered should I seek out her parents and demand what manner of pharmaceuticals they had consumed prior to conceiving this brain-deprived little moron. Slow sarcastic golf claps to this imbecile. As you may glean, reader, I was in a state of true piss-off from this.
So we went to a kind of observation deck (those of you who have been to Eastern Creek Speedway probably know what area I'm talking about) and watched Mr Bingells doing his stuff. Mr Bingells entrusted our fourteen-year-old with his camera, which is a very good Nikon, and Master 14 got some good shots. Master 11 kept grizzling for a turn with the camera, and his mother was issuing threats through clenched teeth.
But it was a good day, not too hot, and the air was redolent with the pong of burnt rubber and the whizzing sound of cars speeding by. I think it was the most fun my husband has had whilst still wearing clothes.
Tonight has been spent at the local high school where my eleven-year-old performed with a group of other students from various schools in the district. He was in the percussion section. We arrived, and he managed to cut his finger on his can of lemonade. Whilst we waited for the teacher to bring a band aid, he managed to spill lemonade on the floor so I had to run to the canteen for towels - I was handed a roll of toilet paper. Finally, despite my meticulous supervision, he managed to slop tomato sauce from his sausage sandwich onto the school shirt he had been under strict instructions to KEEP CLEAN. I had to hurry to the dunny and dampen a wad of paper under the tap and sponge his shirt. It was a total 'Aaarrrggghhh!' moment. The concert was very enjoyable, and I even enjoyed the kids singing the Taylor Swift song. It was 'Shake It Off', in case you care.
Well, got some stuff to attend to now. Thanks for calling by. Leave me a message; I like messages.
He had to be suited up in the protective gear, and actually looked pretty handsome in this gear. Part of the package included a photograph in front of a race car, and the families were allowed to photograph their loved one in the pose, too. To Mr Bingells' chagrin, the car before which he had to pose was a Ford. The children and I tried to capture a shot showing the Ford logo so we could have a good laugh at his expense, but Mr Bingells shooed us to another area to get the photograph. We had to be quick with this, because the organisers had about forty or so participants to photograph. So I scooted over and held up my iPod to capture that fleeting moment when Mr Bingells was in front of the car, and fuck me dead if a stupid bloody teenager didn't walk in front of me, thus ruining my chance for a picture; Mr Bingells had to move away. I made an annoyed noise and shot her an infuriated glare, and she cowered and skulked away. Momentarily, I wondered should I seek out her parents and demand what manner of pharmaceuticals they had consumed prior to conceiving this brain-deprived little moron. Slow sarcastic golf claps to this imbecile. As you may glean, reader, I was in a state of true piss-off from this.
So we went to a kind of observation deck (those of you who have been to Eastern Creek Speedway probably know what area I'm talking about) and watched Mr Bingells doing his stuff. Mr Bingells entrusted our fourteen-year-old with his camera, which is a very good Nikon, and Master 14 got some good shots. Master 11 kept grizzling for a turn with the camera, and his mother was issuing threats through clenched teeth.
But it was a good day, not too hot, and the air was redolent with the pong of burnt rubber and the whizzing sound of cars speeding by. I think it was the most fun my husband has had whilst still wearing clothes.
Tonight has been spent at the local high school where my eleven-year-old performed with a group of other students from various schools in the district. He was in the percussion section. We arrived, and he managed to cut his finger on his can of lemonade. Whilst we waited for the teacher to bring a band aid, he managed to spill lemonade on the floor so I had to run to the canteen for towels - I was handed a roll of toilet paper. Finally, despite my meticulous supervision, he managed to slop tomato sauce from his sausage sandwich onto the school shirt he had been under strict instructions to KEEP CLEAN. I had to hurry to the dunny and dampen a wad of paper under the tap and sponge his shirt. It was a total 'Aaarrrggghhh!' moment. The concert was very enjoyable, and I even enjoyed the kids singing the Taylor Swift song. It was 'Shake It Off', in case you care.
Well, got some stuff to attend to now. Thanks for calling by. Leave me a message; I like messages.
Friday 20 November 2015
My Varied List
I'm doing the Grand High Executioner, and making a little list. I'm not doing a Santa Claus and checking it twice, because I'm confident with what I am about to say.
1. Crappy Moment: when I started to type this post and something fucked up, and I had to start it again. Grrrrr, grrrrr, and again: grrrrrrrr!
2. Enjoyable Performance In A Movie Today: I attended my local cinema and watched 'The Dressmaker', and I won't be so trite as to say I was blown away by the performances. They were adequate by some, and very good by others. What I noticed, or actually DIDN'T notice, was the Australian accent Kate Winslet adopted for her role. It occurred to me afterward she actually did not sound like she was trying to do an accent, which is a good thing in my view; it sounded natural. Her character sounded like a well-spoken Aussie, and not some actor desperately affecting some kind of nasally Strine. Believe it or not, there are some very well spoken Aussies out there, who do not sound like extras from 'Smiley Gets A Gun'. I am actually one myself. My written prose might suggest otherwise, particularly when I make use of the 'F-word', but in spoken conversation, I am quite articulate and do not swear much at all (my kids dispute this). It's hard to pinpoint this movie for a genre; I guess it's kind of a bittersweet black comedy. More creepy than 'Love Serenade', and more black than 'Muriel's Wedding' (the titular character of which annoyed the living snot out of me).
3. Enjoyable Moment In The Cinema Today: The scene where Liam Hemsworth was in his boxer shorts. Despite the air conditioning, I broke out in a sweat. My ovaries went into overdrive (or ovary-drive, boom-tish!). I swear I actually tittered. Being almost twice this young man's age, I suspect my lustful and lascivious reaction might qualify me as a Dirty (or perhaps Pathetic) Old Woman. Hang on, doesn't this make me a Cougar? Yes, cougar will do. Also, I wear a lot of animal print, so I'm sure this makes me a cougar.
4. Person I'd Like To Slap At The Moment: so-called actress Jenny McCarthy, who played Charlie Sheen's love interest in 'Two And A Half Men' some years ago. Listen, unless you've been in a vacuum, you're no doubt aware of Sheen's HIV-positive status. Unlike many snarkers I've noticed in the past few days, I do not gloat about this. I think this is sad, however, with medical know-how these days, Sheen can still live a 'good' life. Anyway, this actress has complained his status was not made known to her, although the actors have to let it be known if they have cold sores in the event of kiss scenes. You imbecile, you cannot transmit HIV by kissing. Cold sores, yes. HIV, no. I remember the great scandal when Rock Hudson was outed as having AIDS, after playing Linda Evans' love interest in 'Dynasty'. Have people seriously remained so uneducated and ignorant? She's either so damned stupid she should be forcibly sterilised, or else she's a desperate publicity whore. She should worry if she was sharing needles or having unprotected sex with Sheen. Which leads me to this segue: take some responsibility and INSIST on safe sex. 'If it's not on, it's not on.' 'Sex with a condom, or sex with your hand.'
5. What I'm Wondering: Why, in rural NSW, would someone name their kid Memphis. I heard a mother address her son thus the other day, and did my usual snobbish mental eye-roll. I doubt it is a reference to 'abode of good', which I understand to be a loose interpretation of the actual meaning of the word. I know it is not up to me to judge or dictate how a child shall be dubbed, but it did not stop my mentally rolling my eyes.
1. Crappy Moment: when I started to type this post and something fucked up, and I had to start it again. Grrrrr, grrrrr, and again: grrrrrrrr!
2. Enjoyable Performance In A Movie Today: I attended my local cinema and watched 'The Dressmaker', and I won't be so trite as to say I was blown away by the performances. They were adequate by some, and very good by others. What I noticed, or actually DIDN'T notice, was the Australian accent Kate Winslet adopted for her role. It occurred to me afterward she actually did not sound like she was trying to do an accent, which is a good thing in my view; it sounded natural. Her character sounded like a well-spoken Aussie, and not some actor desperately affecting some kind of nasally Strine. Believe it or not, there are some very well spoken Aussies out there, who do not sound like extras from 'Smiley Gets A Gun'. I am actually one myself. My written prose might suggest otherwise, particularly when I make use of the 'F-word', but in spoken conversation, I am quite articulate and do not swear much at all (my kids dispute this). It's hard to pinpoint this movie for a genre; I guess it's kind of a bittersweet black comedy. More creepy than 'Love Serenade', and more black than 'Muriel's Wedding' (the titular character of which annoyed the living snot out of me).
3. Enjoyable Moment In The Cinema Today: The scene where Liam Hemsworth was in his boxer shorts. Despite the air conditioning, I broke out in a sweat. My ovaries went into overdrive (or ovary-drive, boom-tish!). I swear I actually tittered. Being almost twice this young man's age, I suspect my lustful and lascivious reaction might qualify me as a Dirty (or perhaps Pathetic) Old Woman. Hang on, doesn't this make me a Cougar? Yes, cougar will do. Also, I wear a lot of animal print, so I'm sure this makes me a cougar.
4. Person I'd Like To Slap At The Moment: so-called actress Jenny McCarthy, who played Charlie Sheen's love interest in 'Two And A Half Men' some years ago. Listen, unless you've been in a vacuum, you're no doubt aware of Sheen's HIV-positive status. Unlike many snarkers I've noticed in the past few days, I do not gloat about this. I think this is sad, however, with medical know-how these days, Sheen can still live a 'good' life. Anyway, this actress has complained his status was not made known to her, although the actors have to let it be known if they have cold sores in the event of kiss scenes. You imbecile, you cannot transmit HIV by kissing. Cold sores, yes. HIV, no. I remember the great scandal when Rock Hudson was outed as having AIDS, after playing Linda Evans' love interest in 'Dynasty'. Have people seriously remained so uneducated and ignorant? She's either so damned stupid she should be forcibly sterilised, or else she's a desperate publicity whore. She should worry if she was sharing needles or having unprotected sex with Sheen. Which leads me to this segue: take some responsibility and INSIST on safe sex. 'If it's not on, it's not on.' 'Sex with a condom, or sex with your hand.'
5. What I'm Wondering: Why, in rural NSW, would someone name their kid Memphis. I heard a mother address her son thus the other day, and did my usual snobbish mental eye-roll. I doubt it is a reference to 'abode of good', which I understand to be a loose interpretation of the actual meaning of the word. I know it is not up to me to judge or dictate how a child shall be dubbed, but it did not stop my mentally rolling my eyes.
Thursday 19 November 2015
Do The Maths
This heat is fraying my nerves like the raggedy edges of a pair of denim cut-offs. I remember those. I made those. Not evenly, because I'm not gifted in that sense. They weren't too short. Unlike some of the shorts I see on the girls around town. Never mind being brief enough to be mistaken for underpants, what perplexes me is that I've always been under the apprehension your shorts should be LONGER than your vulva. When did this change? Am I getting old? I guess I am, and it beats the alternative.
Everyone in my household over the age of forty is irritable. That just means me and Mr Bingells. The kids are fine, although Master Eleven has had to be just shy of being horse-whipped to complete his homework. Mr Bingells is good at Maths, and explains it well. I am pants at Maths, and just do my best. Master Fourteen is a whiz at Maths, and COULD help, but chooses to tease in the process. I finally ended up groaning that it is of little consequence that he hates Maths, because he has to finish it, and to just Get. Back. To. The. Table. And. Do. It. NOW!!! I am bemoaning my impecuniosity; I cannot afford a tutor to help my son with this baneful subject. Now... if everyone goes to the links in my bio, clicks, and purchases either paperback or downloads a copy of my novels, then maybe I will be able to engage a tutor, who might be better able to keep his or her shit intact whilst explaining to a recalcitrant eleven-year-old.
Sign I Might Be A Martian #1: I saw on television this morning David Beckham has been voted Sexiest Man Alive 2015, in some poll. WTF? I am assuming this poll was conducted among a cross-section of vision- and hearing impaired. I really do not get this at all. I have NEVER considered the man sexy. He does nothing for me. Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised because sports people excite me about as much as they would excite a Galapagos tortoise on Mogadon. Seriously, what is the attraction of the Beckhams? David kicks a ball around, and to this I say, 'Big fucken whoop!' His wife was in one of the most loathsome bands of the Nineties, and her face is reminiscent of the north end of a south-bound cat. While I'm on the subject, why do so many women gush over Benedict Cumberbatch? He looks like he was scraped out of a field at Roswell.
What I Might Be A Masochist #1: I am about to watch The Verdict. It's kind of a guilty pleasure hate watch thing for me. However, tonight's panel features Anthony Mundine, and I think I am going to last about fifteen minutes into the show before giving up lest my head explode. I already had to vacuum dog hair of the lounge this morning, and assuming I am still ambulatory after my head explosion, I don't want to be sponging brain, goo and skull off the lounge (which is reminding me of one of my favourite scenes in 'Pulp Fiction' - when Jules and Vincent had to clean 'little bitty bits of skull' out of the back seat of the car).
Oh well, let's see how long I last with 'The Verdict' tonight.
Everyone in my household over the age of forty is irritable. That just means me and Mr Bingells. The kids are fine, although Master Eleven has had to be just shy of being horse-whipped to complete his homework. Mr Bingells is good at Maths, and explains it well. I am pants at Maths, and just do my best. Master Fourteen is a whiz at Maths, and COULD help, but chooses to tease in the process. I finally ended up groaning that it is of little consequence that he hates Maths, because he has to finish it, and to just Get. Back. To. The. Table. And. Do. It. NOW!!! I am bemoaning my impecuniosity; I cannot afford a tutor to help my son with this baneful subject. Now... if everyone goes to the links in my bio, clicks, and purchases either paperback or downloads a copy of my novels, then maybe I will be able to engage a tutor, who might be better able to keep his or her shit intact whilst explaining to a recalcitrant eleven-year-old.
Sign I Might Be A Martian #1: I saw on television this morning David Beckham has been voted Sexiest Man Alive 2015, in some poll. WTF? I am assuming this poll was conducted among a cross-section of vision- and hearing impaired. I really do not get this at all. I have NEVER considered the man sexy. He does nothing for me. Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised because sports people excite me about as much as they would excite a Galapagos tortoise on Mogadon. Seriously, what is the attraction of the Beckhams? David kicks a ball around, and to this I say, 'Big fucken whoop!' His wife was in one of the most loathsome bands of the Nineties, and her face is reminiscent of the north end of a south-bound cat. While I'm on the subject, why do so many women gush over Benedict Cumberbatch? He looks like he was scraped out of a field at Roswell.
What I Might Be A Masochist #1: I am about to watch The Verdict. It's kind of a guilty pleasure hate watch thing for me. However, tonight's panel features Anthony Mundine, and I think I am going to last about fifteen minutes into the show before giving up lest my head explode. I already had to vacuum dog hair of the lounge this morning, and assuming I am still ambulatory after my head explosion, I don't want to be sponging brain, goo and skull off the lounge (which is reminding me of one of my favourite scenes in 'Pulp Fiction' - when Jules and Vincent had to clean 'little bitty bits of skull' out of the back seat of the car).
Oh well, let's see how long I last with 'The Verdict' tonight.
Sunday 15 November 2015
Sigh
The comforting and dulcet tones of canned laughter set against corny jokes is the ambience to which I sit and write this evening. My household is tuned in to 'The Big Bang'. I guess this is a typical scenario in a house awash with testosterone. I have one husband, two sons, and three male pets. This I guess means 'The Big Bang' is going to get an airing - that and the fact the free-to-air channels don't seem to know how to run anything else. It's like there is a needle stuck in a groove. I'm starting to get seriously fucked off with 'The Big Bang'. The canned laughter is starting to erode and gnaw away my will to live, the way a rat will gnaw at a wall to make itself a portal to the other side. There is a subliminal message to canned laughter: 'This show is really unfunny so we have to point out where the humour is to make you laugh, and we think you're too stupid to get the jokes anyway'. Note to the producers and writers: we get the jokes, just don't think they're funny. My oldest enjoys this show, but his best subject in school is Science, so this might be why. My husband thinks the Bernadette character is hot. The Penny character shits me to tears.
It's not been a great twenty-four hours. First of all: I am sick. Again. First world problem given the rest of the shit that's going on. I am seriously tired of superstitious people attacking others. I don't give a fuck if people want to follow religion, or indeed what religion people want to follow, just live and let live; leave others alone. It's depressing the snot out of me, which at least might be more effective than the cold-and-flu medication I've been taking.
Warren Mitchell has died. This is not really a surprise, given the man was eighty-nine years old. Some mind find it interesting to know he was a rather left-leaning Jewish man, a complete opposite to the bigoted old curmudgeon Alf Garnett. There's a deliciously cringey scene in the movie version of 'Til Death Do Us Part' at his daughter's wedding reception, where he tries to show his acceptance of coloured people by slipping his arm around a West Indian woman, who jokingly tells him to be careful in case her skin colour rubs off on him. He realises she's joking, and decides to prove how encompassing he can be of other cultures by pointing to her, and telling passing guests, 'The coon's got a sense of humour!' I remember watching this with my hands over my face and pretty much shrinking inside my epidermis. This is of course the embarrassed reaction the movie makers wished to achieve, and it worked. If anyone cares, the actor playing Garnett's son-in-law, whom Garnett had great disdain for, is in real life the father-in-law of ex-PM Tony Blair. I was delighted and lucky enough to see Mitchell perform live in a play many years ago - I toddled along to Halftix and got myself a front row seat for a matinee performance of 'Orphans', which also starred Colin Friels and Mitchell's real-life son, Daniel. I had only ever seen Warren Mitchell as Garnett, and it was a true treat to see him playing an US gangster type. I know I'm gushing, but I think his performance was up there with Brando in 'The Godfather', and he rightly received standing ovation at the end of the play. Vale, Warren Mitchell. The world, and Australia where you made your home and took citizenship, will miss you greatly.
I had a lousy train trip last night. I know catching the Hunter Line on a weekend is like dancing with the devil. It doesn't make it any easier. At least I didn't need the loo on this trip because the toilet floor is usually a pestiferous petri dish of nasties. Patches of piddle, and peppered with swatches of toilet paper (seriously people, it goes in the fucking toilet!). The toilet bowl is usually half full of foul liquid that appears to be caustic, and will burn away your skin like the rays from a hydrogen bomb if it splashes you. The real hassle is the other passengers. And of course, last night, two guys in their early twenties staggered on, both totally wasted. I managed to ignore them, until the train reached Singleton where one of them stumbled off, as his mate kept calling him back. The train left the station, and he addressed the rest of the carriage, slurring as he did, to inform us his mate had disembarked at the wrong station. I bore this news with mild amusement, and turned back to my crossword puzzle. The young man lurched back to his seat, and then I heard it. We - that is, everybody else in the carriage - all heard it: that shuddering, hiccupping retching 'glurt' that is the sound of someone having a good old fashioned drunken chunder on himself. Myself, and other passengers looked up in disgusted disapproval. We coped, until lo and behold a few minutes later he barfed up again, with such force I became concerned he was going to bring up his liver. Most of the passengers in the carriage hurriedly congregated to one end. I, along with a few others, were already sitting at the other. The drunken moron stumbled along to the alcove where passengers stow luggage, and snuggled up in there. I thought he was going to pass out in there, and would have happily left him to miss his station as he slept the slumber of Bacchus, but I would not have wanted him to succumb to 'carrot poisoning'. I didn't want to touch him to wake him, but thankfully he stirred of his own accord. He left the train, or rather fell off, at Muswellbrook, same as me. Myself, and another passenger alerted the staff this idiot had puked in the carriage, and the guard said they would seal the carriage so nobody else would go in there. I felt very sorry for the people who had to clean it out.
What can I say to all this, but: 'Sigh'.
It's not been a great twenty-four hours. First of all: I am sick. Again. First world problem given the rest of the shit that's going on. I am seriously tired of superstitious people attacking others. I don't give a fuck if people want to follow religion, or indeed what religion people want to follow, just live and let live; leave others alone. It's depressing the snot out of me, which at least might be more effective than the cold-and-flu medication I've been taking.
Warren Mitchell has died. This is not really a surprise, given the man was eighty-nine years old. Some mind find it interesting to know he was a rather left-leaning Jewish man, a complete opposite to the bigoted old curmudgeon Alf Garnett. There's a deliciously cringey scene in the movie version of 'Til Death Do Us Part' at his daughter's wedding reception, where he tries to show his acceptance of coloured people by slipping his arm around a West Indian woman, who jokingly tells him to be careful in case her skin colour rubs off on him. He realises she's joking, and decides to prove how encompassing he can be of other cultures by pointing to her, and telling passing guests, 'The coon's got a sense of humour!' I remember watching this with my hands over my face and pretty much shrinking inside my epidermis. This is of course the embarrassed reaction the movie makers wished to achieve, and it worked. If anyone cares, the actor playing Garnett's son-in-law, whom Garnett had great disdain for, is in real life the father-in-law of ex-PM Tony Blair. I was delighted and lucky enough to see Mitchell perform live in a play many years ago - I toddled along to Halftix and got myself a front row seat for a matinee performance of 'Orphans', which also starred Colin Friels and Mitchell's real-life son, Daniel. I had only ever seen Warren Mitchell as Garnett, and it was a true treat to see him playing an US gangster type. I know I'm gushing, but I think his performance was up there with Brando in 'The Godfather', and he rightly received standing ovation at the end of the play. Vale, Warren Mitchell. The world, and Australia where you made your home and took citizenship, will miss you greatly.
I had a lousy train trip last night. I know catching the Hunter Line on a weekend is like dancing with the devil. It doesn't make it any easier. At least I didn't need the loo on this trip because the toilet floor is usually a pestiferous petri dish of nasties. Patches of piddle, and peppered with swatches of toilet paper (seriously people, it goes in the fucking toilet!). The toilet bowl is usually half full of foul liquid that appears to be caustic, and will burn away your skin like the rays from a hydrogen bomb if it splashes you. The real hassle is the other passengers. And of course, last night, two guys in their early twenties staggered on, both totally wasted. I managed to ignore them, until the train reached Singleton where one of them stumbled off, as his mate kept calling him back. The train left the station, and he addressed the rest of the carriage, slurring as he did, to inform us his mate had disembarked at the wrong station. I bore this news with mild amusement, and turned back to my crossword puzzle. The young man lurched back to his seat, and then I heard it. We - that is, everybody else in the carriage - all heard it: that shuddering, hiccupping retching 'glurt' that is the sound of someone having a good old fashioned drunken chunder on himself. Myself, and other passengers looked up in disgusted disapproval. We coped, until lo and behold a few minutes later he barfed up again, with such force I became concerned he was going to bring up his liver. Most of the passengers in the carriage hurriedly congregated to one end. I, along with a few others, were already sitting at the other. The drunken moron stumbled along to the alcove where passengers stow luggage, and snuggled up in there. I thought he was going to pass out in there, and would have happily left him to miss his station as he slept the slumber of Bacchus, but I would not have wanted him to succumb to 'carrot poisoning'. I didn't want to touch him to wake him, but thankfully he stirred of his own accord. He left the train, or rather fell off, at Muswellbrook, same as me. Myself, and another passenger alerted the staff this idiot had puked in the carriage, and the guard said they would seal the carriage so nobody else would go in there. I felt very sorry for the people who had to clean it out.
What can I say to all this, but: 'Sigh'.
Tuesday 10 November 2015
My List
Today's little list comprises of:
1. What I Watched Last Night: 'Love and Mercy' - if you don't know, this is a biopic on Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys. It wasn't a linear story of the rise of the band, it was a slightly fragmented (but fragmented in a good way) portrayal of Wilson himself, and his battle with mental illness. He's portrayed by John Cusack as an older man (give Cusack an Oscar, someone!), and Paul Dano as the younger man (while you're at it, give Dano an Oscar, too).
2. Guilty Pleasure I Just Listened To: 'Magnet and Steel' by Walter Egan. Look, I know, I know. I know, all right? But I like it. It might be a little bit overwrought. Maybe it's not. It's one of those daggy-as-a-sheep's-arse guilty pleasures that I will put up my hand and admit to liking, whilst I adopt a vulture-like crouch of embarrassment.
3. Annoying Shit I've Been Reminded Of: 'I've Been To Bali, Too' by Redgum. Hated it when I first heard it. Hated it when I heard it every other time since. Had cause to be reminded of it the other day, and the negative emotions washed over me again. Those emotions include annoyance, irritation, and nausea. Can't stand the inane tune, but what really grinds my gears is the attitude in the narrative. All smug, superior, snide, oh-so-hip-tosser to the max. I always imagined the inhabitants of Bali listening to this and thinking, 'Well, stay the fuck away if you don't like the place', or the Indonesian equivalent of that sentence. I would listen to this song and wonder were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island, and more importantly: WHY were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island. I went to Bali when I was a young thing of 21. I didn't go with a group of friends, I went over alone. People questioned my decision to do this, but to be honest, it didn't occur to me to invite anyone with me. I wanted to get away from it all, and therefore wasn't about to take 'it' with me. I stayed in the Club Med resort (much to the disgust of a hipster anti-capitalism friend of mine, and to this friend I said, 'So fucking what?'), went on day trips, and had fun with people from other nations. I strolled through the streets of Kuta, picking up my pace to get away from a bunch of kids who wanted to braid-and-bead my hair (you've seen my profile pic - my hair back then was pretty much like it is today, and I wasn't about to waste all my holiday having it braided etc). I bought some cassettes - The Doors, from memory. I deliberately did not purchase an incense holder as requested by my then-flatmate's girlfriend, because I hated the bitch. I posed for a photograph with residents of Java, who wanted me to pose for a picture with them - I guess having the complexion of a ghost was exotic over there. I ran off in shock one day at the resort, when one of the French staff tried to hit on me. I knew he was paying more attention to me than other holiday makers, and I was somewhat flattered, but when the others left the table tennis room and he slunk up behind me and ran his hands over my shoulders and whispered in that accent, 'What are going to do now, eh?', I spluttered I was going for a swim and took off. Later on, he tried to touch one of my breasts. I was quite surprised because I didn't expect such unprofessionalism. Oh, and I also won a potato sack race. Yes. Clumsy, non-athletic me actually won a race, and a potato sack race at that. The staff member adjudicating said it was because I was 'ze Australian kangaroo'. Yeah, good times. Fun memories. Even if I had any negative experiences there (well, just a bout of Bali Belly), I certainly wouldn't be making up a glib, crappy song about it.
1. What I Watched Last Night: 'Love and Mercy' - if you don't know, this is a biopic on Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys. It wasn't a linear story of the rise of the band, it was a slightly fragmented (but fragmented in a good way) portrayal of Wilson himself, and his battle with mental illness. He's portrayed by John Cusack as an older man (give Cusack an Oscar, someone!), and Paul Dano as the younger man (while you're at it, give Dano an Oscar, too).
2. Guilty Pleasure I Just Listened To: 'Magnet and Steel' by Walter Egan. Look, I know, I know. I know, all right? But I like it. It might be a little bit overwrought. Maybe it's not. It's one of those daggy-as-a-sheep's-arse guilty pleasures that I will put up my hand and admit to liking, whilst I adopt a vulture-like crouch of embarrassment.
3. Annoying Shit I've Been Reminded Of: 'I've Been To Bali, Too' by Redgum. Hated it when I first heard it. Hated it when I heard it every other time since. Had cause to be reminded of it the other day, and the negative emotions washed over me again. Those emotions include annoyance, irritation, and nausea. Can't stand the inane tune, but what really grinds my gears is the attitude in the narrative. All smug, superior, snide, oh-so-hip-tosser to the max. I always imagined the inhabitants of Bali listening to this and thinking, 'Well, stay the fuck away if you don't like the place', or the Indonesian equivalent of that sentence. I would listen to this song and wonder were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island, and more importantly: WHY were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island. I went to Bali when I was a young thing of 21. I didn't go with a group of friends, I went over alone. People questioned my decision to do this, but to be honest, it didn't occur to me to invite anyone with me. I wanted to get away from it all, and therefore wasn't about to take 'it' with me. I stayed in the Club Med resort (much to the disgust of a hipster anti-capitalism friend of mine, and to this friend I said, 'So fucking what?'), went on day trips, and had fun with people from other nations. I strolled through the streets of Kuta, picking up my pace to get away from a bunch of kids who wanted to braid-and-bead my hair (you've seen my profile pic - my hair back then was pretty much like it is today, and I wasn't about to waste all my holiday having it braided etc). I bought some cassettes - The Doors, from memory. I deliberately did not purchase an incense holder as requested by my then-flatmate's girlfriend, because I hated the bitch. I posed for a photograph with residents of Java, who wanted me to pose for a picture with them - I guess having the complexion of a ghost was exotic over there. I ran off in shock one day at the resort, when one of the French staff tried to hit on me. I knew he was paying more attention to me than other holiday makers, and I was somewhat flattered, but when the others left the table tennis room and he slunk up behind me and ran his hands over my shoulders and whispered in that accent, 'What are going to do now, eh?', I spluttered I was going for a swim and took off. Later on, he tried to touch one of my breasts. I was quite surprised because I didn't expect such unprofessionalism. Oh, and I also won a potato sack race. Yes. Clumsy, non-athletic me actually won a race, and a potato sack race at that. The staff member adjudicating said it was because I was 'ze Australian kangaroo'. Yeah, good times. Fun memories. Even if I had any negative experiences there (well, just a bout of Bali Belly), I certainly wouldn't be making up a glib, crappy song about it.
Sunday 8 November 2015
Getting Shirty
A warning to all ye who enter here: you might read something that offends your tender sensibilities. I'm not going to deliberately offend anybody, but if you are someone who looks to be offended, chances are offended is what you will be by what I intend to write. As Yoda might say: 'Offended you are? Shit I don't give!'
We are fast approaching the day when slogans and pictures will no longer be printed on T-shirts because they are offensive. No matter how innocuous the intention of the designer or the wearer, there will be the type of outrage that normally would be more commensurate with some repugnant little necrophiliac violating corpses in the morgue. I am sure I will receive an email advising of the new online petition seeking the recall and removal of the T-shirts stocked by Jay Jays that read 'You Can't Sit Here'. I am even more sure I will react in my usual manner, which is to sneer 'Fuck off!' at the screen, whilst slipping the bird with my left hand and clicking on 'delete' with my right.
The Perpetually Outraged take umbrage with this t-shirt because it, to their reasoning, promotes bullying. I honestly don't know if it promotes bullying or not. I am aware that kids practise this insidious form of bullying by ostracising, and of course, I think it's awful. However, if someone wants to wear a t-shirt with a saying on it, then why must everyone lose their shit? If someone is old enough to shop at Jay Jays, they are probably aware the slogan is a quote from the movie 'Mean Girls'. Furthermore, their colleagues probably know the wearer is not deliberately trying to ostracise others.
There really are worse movie quotes which could be emblazoned upon t-shirts. How about this little gem from 'The Exorcist': 'Your Mother Sucks Cocks In Hell'? Would this be less offensive? I guess it is a form of bullying to imply somebody's mother is fellating Satan's minions whilst the furnace blazes in the background.
My favourite movie is 'Pulp Fiction', and I am imagining someone printing a t-shirt with a reference to 'Dead N*gger Storage'. You will note in the interests of prudence I have placed an asterisk in what is considered an immensely offensive word, and as much as I get a bit crapped off by political correctness, I certainly would not wear a t-shirt that read thus, although I think it's a great quote when placed in the context of the movie.
Soon, only t-shirts with plain solid colours will be allowed. But then someone is going to ban white t-shirts on the basis they subliminally promote white supremacy. Scoff if you will, but I wouldn't be surprised to see this happen. Likewise, a black t-shirt will be deemed racist. I'm currently wearing a blue t-shirt, which is actually more of a teal colour, and someone is probably going to think I'm promoting the slaughter of ducks.
I might start printing some shirts emblazoned with: 'It's A MOVIE QUOTE!', and 'Drink Some Cement & Harden Up!'.
Today I am suffering with a dire cold, and hoping it is not planning to morph into the flu. I took some Codral night time tablets last night, but I think someone was day dreaming at the factory and put in the ingredients for the day time tablets, because I slept hardly at all, and felt as wired as a party goer at an 80s record company bash. Mr Bingells is also suffering, as is my 14yo. We are all as miserable as shags on rocks. Never had a shag on a rock - I like my comfort! I will have to crawl back to bed soon.
On My Mind: I recently met somebody who showed me some nasty scarring and skin grafting on his backside. The story goes that in a fit of drunken exuberance, he stuffed thirty-two sparklers into his bum and lit them. Not the brightest of things to do, but it was compounded by the fact he greased the sparklers for easier insertion with Vaseline petroleum jelly. The combustion must have been enough to set off a flux capacitor. This story kept me awake at night.
We are fast approaching the day when slogans and pictures will no longer be printed on T-shirts because they are offensive. No matter how innocuous the intention of the designer or the wearer, there will be the type of outrage that normally would be more commensurate with some repugnant little necrophiliac violating corpses in the morgue. I am sure I will receive an email advising of the new online petition seeking the recall and removal of the T-shirts stocked by Jay Jays that read 'You Can't Sit Here'. I am even more sure I will react in my usual manner, which is to sneer 'Fuck off!' at the screen, whilst slipping the bird with my left hand and clicking on 'delete' with my right.
The Perpetually Outraged take umbrage with this t-shirt because it, to their reasoning, promotes bullying. I honestly don't know if it promotes bullying or not. I am aware that kids practise this insidious form of bullying by ostracising, and of course, I think it's awful. However, if someone wants to wear a t-shirt with a saying on it, then why must everyone lose their shit? If someone is old enough to shop at Jay Jays, they are probably aware the slogan is a quote from the movie 'Mean Girls'. Furthermore, their colleagues probably know the wearer is not deliberately trying to ostracise others.
There really are worse movie quotes which could be emblazoned upon t-shirts. How about this little gem from 'The Exorcist': 'Your Mother Sucks Cocks In Hell'? Would this be less offensive? I guess it is a form of bullying to imply somebody's mother is fellating Satan's minions whilst the furnace blazes in the background.
My favourite movie is 'Pulp Fiction', and I am imagining someone printing a t-shirt with a reference to 'Dead N*gger Storage'. You will note in the interests of prudence I have placed an asterisk in what is considered an immensely offensive word, and as much as I get a bit crapped off by political correctness, I certainly would not wear a t-shirt that read thus, although I think it's a great quote when placed in the context of the movie.
Soon, only t-shirts with plain solid colours will be allowed. But then someone is going to ban white t-shirts on the basis they subliminally promote white supremacy. Scoff if you will, but I wouldn't be surprised to see this happen. Likewise, a black t-shirt will be deemed racist. I'm currently wearing a blue t-shirt, which is actually more of a teal colour, and someone is probably going to think I'm promoting the slaughter of ducks.
I might start printing some shirts emblazoned with: 'It's A MOVIE QUOTE!', and 'Drink Some Cement & Harden Up!'.
Today I am suffering with a dire cold, and hoping it is not planning to morph into the flu. I took some Codral night time tablets last night, but I think someone was day dreaming at the factory and put in the ingredients for the day time tablets, because I slept hardly at all, and felt as wired as a party goer at an 80s record company bash. Mr Bingells is also suffering, as is my 14yo. We are all as miserable as shags on rocks. Never had a shag on a rock - I like my comfort! I will have to crawl back to bed soon.
On My Mind: I recently met somebody who showed me some nasty scarring and skin grafting on his backside. The story goes that in a fit of drunken exuberance, he stuffed thirty-two sparklers into his bum and lit them. Not the brightest of things to do, but it was compounded by the fact he greased the sparklers for easier insertion with Vaseline petroleum jelly. The combustion must have been enough to set off a flux capacitor. This story kept me awake at night.
Friday 6 November 2015
My Take On Oakes Day Oafery
I just don't understand people. WHY would someone want to strip off their dress and run around in their undies at a race meet, which is SUPPOSED to be a classy event for which one dresses to the nines? Come to think of it, we tend to see a lot of footage at the end of Oakes and Melbourne Cup, and said footage comprises sloshed slags and drunken drongos, teetering on needle-like stiletto heels, puking up carrot particles into the carefully manicured rose bushes. It always makes me think of the aftermath of a B & S Ball, rather than the prestigious sport of kings (not that I really get into horse racing, although I have good friends that are trainers, equine nurses, and race horse owners). The town in which I grew up used to have a B & S, and the morning after when walking through town there would be blokes asleep in the park, or the front step of a shop, their St Vincent de Paul dress shirts and dinner suits stained with spilled rum-and-coke. You know what? Any time I drink a spirit mixed with cola, I am transported back to those days from my youth. You know what else? I haven't drunk a spirit-and-cola based drink in yonks, mainly because I don't really like cola.
Anyway, whoever peeled off her frock in the rain at Oakes Day and ran around in her Reg Grundies was, I rolled my eyes and was very derisive of this action at first. I have softened my stance a little, after all, she didn't actually hurt anybody (except maybe our retinas). It's not like that silly prat who shoved a copper over into a bush - I know the copper wasn't hurt, but I do think between the two, shoving the copper into the bush was a bit more dumb-arsed. However, I will not soften my stance to the point of admiration. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.
I do hope this is not how I am going to have to get my books sold. Is resorting to silly pranks the way to get the attention of the public? It will get the attention, but it will not get the respect. Also, if I do decide to do this, I will not be doing it in a daggy pair of witches' britches that have been washed repeatedly to the point where their original colour is but a distant dream, and they now are the hue of dirty dish water. Not to mention their nodding acquaintance with elastic.
It's been a crappy time for me on the personal front. Mr Bingells is a bit unwell. My kids were both off school sick today. I have been sleeping very, very badly. Indeed, when I attended the house of a client today her first words were, 'Christ, Simone, you look bloody terrible!' When I finally finished work, it pissed down rain. I imagined myself pulling over, yanking off my work polo and slacks, and then doing a run along the road in my underwear, which although not matching and not even my best pair of underpants, they are at least unlikely to succumb to gravity and trip me. They are also a more appealing colour than toneless-dishwater-dun-grey.
And then, what should come on the radio but 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. Look, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand it is a guilty pleasure, but on another level it is a grandiose wank. I just cannot take it seriously when Billy sings, 'There's an old man sitting next to me/Making love to his tonic-and-gin...' Seriously, Billy? You're playing the piano and trying to sing with THIS going on beside you? Why not alert management and have a bouncer remove the pervert? Jesus, that sort of behaviour makes the shenanigans of those drunken race-goers almost palatable.
Anyway, whoever peeled off her frock in the rain at Oakes Day and ran around in her Reg Grundies was, I rolled my eyes and was very derisive of this action at first. I have softened my stance a little, after all, she didn't actually hurt anybody (except maybe our retinas). It's not like that silly prat who shoved a copper over into a bush - I know the copper wasn't hurt, but I do think between the two, shoving the copper into the bush was a bit more dumb-arsed. However, I will not soften my stance to the point of admiration. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.
I do hope this is not how I am going to have to get my books sold. Is resorting to silly pranks the way to get the attention of the public? It will get the attention, but it will not get the respect. Also, if I do decide to do this, I will not be doing it in a daggy pair of witches' britches that have been washed repeatedly to the point where their original colour is but a distant dream, and they now are the hue of dirty dish water. Not to mention their nodding acquaintance with elastic.
It's been a crappy time for me on the personal front. Mr Bingells is a bit unwell. My kids were both off school sick today. I have been sleeping very, very badly. Indeed, when I attended the house of a client today her first words were, 'Christ, Simone, you look bloody terrible!' When I finally finished work, it pissed down rain. I imagined myself pulling over, yanking off my work polo and slacks, and then doing a run along the road in my underwear, which although not matching and not even my best pair of underpants, they are at least unlikely to succumb to gravity and trip me. They are also a more appealing colour than toneless-dishwater-dun-grey.
And then, what should come on the radio but 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. Look, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand it is a guilty pleasure, but on another level it is a grandiose wank. I just cannot take it seriously when Billy sings, 'There's an old man sitting next to me/Making love to his tonic-and-gin...' Seriously, Billy? You're playing the piano and trying to sing with THIS going on beside you? Why not alert management and have a bouncer remove the pervert? Jesus, that sort of behaviour makes the shenanigans of those drunken race-goers almost palatable.
Tuesday 3 November 2015
My Unpopular Opinon
Okay, a warning to all ye who are about to enter and read: I am about to write an UNPOPULAR OPINION (Shock! Horror! Gasp! Swoon! Oh no, Great Auntie Ethel's unloaded in her granny knickers!).
All I have heard about, or seen in my news feed since about 6.00pm yesterday (I wasn't looking at the television any earlier, so no, I didn't watch That Event) is the great shattering of the glass ceiling, the trailblazing victory for women everywhere, the trite From Humble Beginnings etc articles because we have achieved the pinnacle of greatness (or so one would assume) in that - are you sitting down? Are you comfy? Have you voided your bladder? Removed your socks so they don't get knocked off? - a FEMALE jockey has ridden the winning horse in the Melbourne Cup. Everyone appears to have lost their shit, and is flapping their arms and shrieking, 'Yaaaaaay!' a la Kermit the Frog at the beginning of 'The Muppet Show'.
I normally applaud any person who breaks stereotypes. Indeed, I was very supportive when a male entered the Miss Australia pageant years ago (from memory, he was technically the winner in that he raised the most funds for the nominated charity, but he could not be awarded the crown because the rules stated the winner must be female, and da rulez is da rulez). However, whilst I understand the accolades being bestowed upon the winning rider of yesterday's Cup, I am having trouble giving a shit. Not even a box of Laxettes and a cup of prune juice will induce me to give anything even resembling a shit. I just cannot conjure one up at the moment. I opened the cupboard where my fucks are stored, and it's rivalling Old Mother Hubbard's, so there were no fucks for me to give, either.
People are already saying what a great movie it will be. It has all the hallmarks of a Typical Aussie Movie. Underdogs everywhere. The jockey is female, and from a large family. The strapper, her brother, has special needs. The winning horse was purchased quite cheaply by a syndicate, and paid handsomely on the win. Casting agents will be checking the books for scrawny actors. I'm sure it has AFI written all over it. There's bound to be a John Williamson song somewhere in the soundtrack.
And of course - sigh! - the usual mob are bleating about the 'misogyny' of it all. I will buy sexism and chauvinism, but not misogyny. Oh yeah, another bugbear will emerge when everyone starts going on about the mis-o-gyn-eeeeee to which women are subjected in sport. Can the people who throw around accusations of misogyny please look up the definition of the damn word, and then place a rubber band around your wrist and give yourselves a good, eye-watering snap with it next time you feel the urge to misuse the word. If you can't find a rubber band, settle for giving yourselves an uppercut.
Perhaps my cynicism is generated by the fact that horse racing does absolutely nothing for me. Never has. My experience is limited to having worked as a wait person at a race meeting many years ago, and almost had my head bitten off by a well-known socialite who was one facelift away from having a beard. I have also partaken in the traditional office sweep on Cup Day, as well. Often the situation was just painful because the old bag in charge of the office annoyed everyone, and most people didn't want to be there because of her yet felt pressured somehow to be there. I envied the receptionist who cried off on religious grounds one year, and I cried off one year on financial grounds and was on the receiving end of the stink-eye from the old bag all afternoon. There was a secretary working there who asked did I want to go in a syndicate and purchase a race horse. I'm thinking of this particular person because he also defied a gender stereotype in that he worked in a traditionally female role. People used to be surprised when I mentioned there was a male secretary on the floor, and I'd hear him speaking to people on the phone: 'Yes, I am a man. Not at all, ma'am, it's the twentieth century now, men can do this.' He actually resorted to announcing himself as his boss's clerk instead of secretary to save putting up with the guff. As much as I liked the busting of the gender stereotype, the guy himself shat me to tears. He stayed with me for a week whilst in the process of moving flats, and not once did he re-wrap the plastic around the cheese properly. In terms of flat sharing, this is a deal breaker for me. Never mind the old adage 'Who moved my cheese?', 'Who didn't re-wrap the fucking cheese properly?' is where we should be directing our energy.
My malaise and inability to give a shit is undoubtedly symptomatic of the lack of sleep I am getting lately. My lack of sleep is due to personal issues, but the issues seem to be getting slowly, slowly resolved. Resolve, damn you! Resolve, already!
All I have heard about, or seen in my news feed since about 6.00pm yesterday (I wasn't looking at the television any earlier, so no, I didn't watch That Event) is the great shattering of the glass ceiling, the trailblazing victory for women everywhere, the trite From Humble Beginnings etc articles because we have achieved the pinnacle of greatness (or so one would assume) in that - are you sitting down? Are you comfy? Have you voided your bladder? Removed your socks so they don't get knocked off? - a FEMALE jockey has ridden the winning horse in the Melbourne Cup. Everyone appears to have lost their shit, and is flapping their arms and shrieking, 'Yaaaaaay!' a la Kermit the Frog at the beginning of 'The Muppet Show'.
I normally applaud any person who breaks stereotypes. Indeed, I was very supportive when a male entered the Miss Australia pageant years ago (from memory, he was technically the winner in that he raised the most funds for the nominated charity, but he could not be awarded the crown because the rules stated the winner must be female, and da rulez is da rulez). However, whilst I understand the accolades being bestowed upon the winning rider of yesterday's Cup, I am having trouble giving a shit. Not even a box of Laxettes and a cup of prune juice will induce me to give anything even resembling a shit. I just cannot conjure one up at the moment. I opened the cupboard where my fucks are stored, and it's rivalling Old Mother Hubbard's, so there were no fucks for me to give, either.
People are already saying what a great movie it will be. It has all the hallmarks of a Typical Aussie Movie. Underdogs everywhere. The jockey is female, and from a large family. The strapper, her brother, has special needs. The winning horse was purchased quite cheaply by a syndicate, and paid handsomely on the win. Casting agents will be checking the books for scrawny actors. I'm sure it has AFI written all over it. There's bound to be a John Williamson song somewhere in the soundtrack.
And of course - sigh! - the usual mob are bleating about the 'misogyny' of it all. I will buy sexism and chauvinism, but not misogyny. Oh yeah, another bugbear will emerge when everyone starts going on about the mis-o-gyn-eeeeee to which women are subjected in sport. Can the people who throw around accusations of misogyny please look up the definition of the damn word, and then place a rubber band around your wrist and give yourselves a good, eye-watering snap with it next time you feel the urge to misuse the word. If you can't find a rubber band, settle for giving yourselves an uppercut.
Perhaps my cynicism is generated by the fact that horse racing does absolutely nothing for me. Never has. My experience is limited to having worked as a wait person at a race meeting many years ago, and almost had my head bitten off by a well-known socialite who was one facelift away from having a beard. I have also partaken in the traditional office sweep on Cup Day, as well. Often the situation was just painful because the old bag in charge of the office annoyed everyone, and most people didn't want to be there because of her yet felt pressured somehow to be there. I envied the receptionist who cried off on religious grounds one year, and I cried off one year on financial grounds and was on the receiving end of the stink-eye from the old bag all afternoon. There was a secretary working there who asked did I want to go in a syndicate and purchase a race horse. I'm thinking of this particular person because he also defied a gender stereotype in that he worked in a traditionally female role. People used to be surprised when I mentioned there was a male secretary on the floor, and I'd hear him speaking to people on the phone: 'Yes, I am a man. Not at all, ma'am, it's the twentieth century now, men can do this.' He actually resorted to announcing himself as his boss's clerk instead of secretary to save putting up with the guff. As much as I liked the busting of the gender stereotype, the guy himself shat me to tears. He stayed with me for a week whilst in the process of moving flats, and not once did he re-wrap the plastic around the cheese properly. In terms of flat sharing, this is a deal breaker for me. Never mind the old adage 'Who moved my cheese?', 'Who didn't re-wrap the fucking cheese properly?' is where we should be directing our energy.
My malaise and inability to give a shit is undoubtedly symptomatic of the lack of sleep I am getting lately. My lack of sleep is due to personal issues, but the issues seem to be getting slowly, slowly resolved. Resolve, damn you! Resolve, already!
Review for Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth
Here is a recent review for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. Hope it persuades people to rush out and buy the book. http://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1EL8JJ5TN793C/ref=cm_cr_pr_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868
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