Trying to stay on top of things at the moment. I refuse to be mired in the sorrow, but I know enough to recognise the fact I am grieving and pretty much everything goes. I just miss my wonderful Dad, that's all. I haven't spoken to him for almost three weeks now. I won't speak to him again, except in my mind; like yesterday when I looked at his photograph on the front of the booklet printed for his funeral, and I whispered, 'I miss you, Dad.' I am comforted that he died quickly and without pain, and he is at peace. He was devastated by the deaths of my brother and my mother, but I know he is no longer grieving their losses, and he cannot be hurt any more.
My brother, sister, and I each spoke at the funeral. It was easier than I thought it would be, but I wanted to do it, which was probably of great assistance. Everyone thinks of my father as a horseman, which he was, but to me he was Dad. I don't like horses, so we had to bond in other ways, which was what I told the congregation. We loved books, and our favourite was 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. We occasionally chewed the fat over what a great book that is. The last present I gave Dad was the sequel to this novel. I spoke of our mutual love of cryptic crosswords. I reminded the assembled masses (of which there was at least 250) that Dad was a horseman before a showman, who would always put the welfare of the animal first. Other funny stories came from my brother: Dad came second in a steer riding contest sponsored by Tarzan's Grip (we surmised had he used a bit more in the saddle, he might have come first!), and my sister about how Dad once suddenly took off at full gallop, removed a strap and buckle from the saddle, and clobbered a lamb-killing fox with it (still in the saddle). We showed a photo tribute on a screen, which was mainly put together by my 23-year-old nephew. He did a great job. I thought I would probably cry through it, but I was okay; I daresay because I had viewed it a few times already. My 14yo became tearful, so I put my arm around him. After a while, he whispered, 'Mum, you're frying me.' He is such a 'boy'.
It is hard describe how it feels to watch your son assist in carrying the coffin of his grandfather from the church. I was numb, sorrowful, and proud. All at the same time. I walked behind my sister and sister-in-law, on the arm of my niece's husband and with my other arm around my 11yo. The walk seemed so slow. We walked down the path to where the hearse was parked, and where six men on horseback waited. It is humbling and touching to recall the sight of all the farmers and stockmen outside the church, and men on horseback, removing their hats and placing them over their hearts, as my brother, brother-in-law, husband, son, and two nephews put my father in the hearse for his final journey. 'Don't cry!' my 11yo instructed me, several times. I dabbed at my eyes, though. My 14yo realised Pop is gone, and started to sob, and as the horses led the hearse away, with people in the churchyard clapping, my 11yo forgot his own edict and wailed for his Pop. It breaks my heart, but I guess children have to experience grief at some stage.
I guess writing this post is a catharsis for me. I have not been sleeping well, but it's getting better. And will continue to get better. I will be back to writing my usual cynical, and I hope, entertaining posts very soon. These past few weeks have been crappy, and the next few days will be. Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I am normally okay, but because I've just lost Dad, today just seems really sad. Tomorrow is the anniversary of my father-in-law's death, so Mr Bingells is bound to be really feeling it tomorrow; he also loved my father and has shed quite a few tears since we got the awful news.
In closing, I am including a link to the tribute. It's on YouTube, so I will post a link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQOAzx88do8
If you've read this post, thank you for doing so. I'm sorry to post something maudlin as I try to entertain my readers, but I needed to do this for me. I will be my usual acerbic self very soon. Probably when I next post in a few days. I told my son yesterday it is normal and okay to be sad at this time, but assured him he will feel happiness again, and it's all right to be happy.
Thursday 31 December 2015
Tuesday 29 December 2015
Not Just Friday On My Mind
I'm too tired to think. I'm almost overwhelmingly exhausted, and weighed down with sorrow. I have put the finishing touches on my speech for Dad's funeral tomorrow, and my nephew has made a wonderful video tribute. I won't link it here yet, I will wait until after the official 'premiere' tomorrow. My father is lying at the local funeral home, and I hate the thought of him being there. I guess I don't want him to be there alone, but the stupid thing is, Dad liked being on his own.
I'm also saddened by the death of Stevie Wright. Goodness, he was a talented dynamo. What a pity he wasn't equipped to cope with the business side and the pressures of the industry. It's like he, and others who suffer similar indignities like Pete Hamm from Badfinger, have the talent but they get fucked over by the corporate sector of the recording business. I was at a rock concert some years ago, and an announcement was made that during intermission, there would be people collecting donations for a charity called Support Act, which was to allow people like Stevie Wright some dignity. I don't mind giving to that charity. I'm no business woman. There but for the grace of God etc. Not that I would be recording anything because I can't sing for peanuts, although that doesn't seem to stop other people.
Someone said to me tonight, jokingly, 'I guess you're old enough to have been an Easybeats fan, Old Girl.' I tutted and said my memories of Stevie were from his solo career in the 70s. I loved 'Guitar Band' when I was a kid. Saw Stevie in 1986, when he was supporting The Sweet. Some of you will know The Sweet were my faves as a kid. This concert was at Selinas, and my cousin, her friend, and I stood outside waiting to go in, and I was chattering, and broke off in a daze, pointing, as I said, 'That's them...'. Yeah, a little way away were some of the members of The Sweet, having a quick ciggie before entering the venue to get ready. What an awesome concert it was. I was looking forward to seeing Stevie as much as The Sweet. When Stevie came on, I didn't recognise him because I was expecting a guy with long hair and a flowing shirt. The apparition that walked onstage had an Eighties perm and a wardrobe straight out of 'Miami Vice'. It was only that he nodded and smiled at the audience gave me an inkling this just might be Stevie. But when he swung into his opening number, 'Guitar Band', there was no doubt it was him. He really rocked the stage, and my cousin actually enjoyed him more than The Sweet (I enjoyed both acts equally). He also did some of the Easybeats numbers, and everyone was dancing when he sang 'I'll Make You Happy'. His grand finale was 'Evie 1, 2 and 3'. But where was 'that' song? He left the stage, and we kept cheering and calling for more. He would have known we were going to do that, because he came back on and yep, did 'Friday On My Mind'.
Saddened by the indignities he suffered. Saddened he was ill. Saddened he's gone.
Vale Stevie.
PS I wonder will my Dad recognise him if he starts up singing? We used to blare 'Guitar Band' on the old Sanyo tape recorder in the car when we were going somewhere.
I'm also saddened by the death of Stevie Wright. Goodness, he was a talented dynamo. What a pity he wasn't equipped to cope with the business side and the pressures of the industry. It's like he, and others who suffer similar indignities like Pete Hamm from Badfinger, have the talent but they get fucked over by the corporate sector of the recording business. I was at a rock concert some years ago, and an announcement was made that during intermission, there would be people collecting donations for a charity called Support Act, which was to allow people like Stevie Wright some dignity. I don't mind giving to that charity. I'm no business woman. There but for the grace of God etc. Not that I would be recording anything because I can't sing for peanuts, although that doesn't seem to stop other people.
Someone said to me tonight, jokingly, 'I guess you're old enough to have been an Easybeats fan, Old Girl.' I tutted and said my memories of Stevie were from his solo career in the 70s. I loved 'Guitar Band' when I was a kid. Saw Stevie in 1986, when he was supporting The Sweet. Some of you will know The Sweet were my faves as a kid. This concert was at Selinas, and my cousin, her friend, and I stood outside waiting to go in, and I was chattering, and broke off in a daze, pointing, as I said, 'That's them...'. Yeah, a little way away were some of the members of The Sweet, having a quick ciggie before entering the venue to get ready. What an awesome concert it was. I was looking forward to seeing Stevie as much as The Sweet. When Stevie came on, I didn't recognise him because I was expecting a guy with long hair and a flowing shirt. The apparition that walked onstage had an Eighties perm and a wardrobe straight out of 'Miami Vice'. It was only that he nodded and smiled at the audience gave me an inkling this just might be Stevie. But when he swung into his opening number, 'Guitar Band', there was no doubt it was him. He really rocked the stage, and my cousin actually enjoyed him more than The Sweet (I enjoyed both acts equally). He also did some of the Easybeats numbers, and everyone was dancing when he sang 'I'll Make You Happy'. His grand finale was 'Evie 1, 2 and 3'. But where was 'that' song? He left the stage, and we kept cheering and calling for more. He would have known we were going to do that, because he came back on and yep, did 'Friday On My Mind'.
Saddened by the indignities he suffered. Saddened he was ill. Saddened he's gone.
Vale Stevie.
PS I wonder will my Dad recognise him if he starts up singing? We used to blare 'Guitar Band' on the old Sanyo tape recorder in the car when we were going somewhere.
Friday 25 December 2015
There's an Ewok in the house! Oh, wait....
I have not been blogging as prolifically as I normally would this past week. It has been a whirlwind of sadness and funeral arrangements. My darling dad will be farewelled next Wednesday. Owing to paperwork and red tape and public holidays and blah-blah-blah, we have been unable to secure a time prior to 30 December. We're happy with this date, and have been choosing songs for the service. People have been wonderful. One of Dad's friends offered to organise a horseback guard of honour. How beautiful this is going to look, and how I wish Dad could see it. My eleven-year-old thought we should make a robot of Pop to go on a horse too, but also thought there could be logistic issues if it happens to rain and causes Robo-Pop (my moniker, not his) to short circuit.
A friend left me a note today, in which she wrote her grandfather said my father looked to be part of the horse whenever in the saddle. This is so funny; I have been writing my speech for Dad's funeral, and I have used this analogy - he always looked like kind of a centaur in my eyes.
So much to do at the moment, and such little inclination to do it. My wretched German shepherd/kelpie cross has left hair everywhere. If I swept the hair into a pile and stuck eyes on it, I could convince my children we have a pet Ewok. I have washing to fold. Thankfully most of it is towels and my younger son has discovered there is a fiscal advantage to folding the towels for Mum.
Haven't been watching the news or anything. I've been rushing around like a dervish trying to get stuff organised, as have my brother and sister. Still got some tidying on my speech - I'm working on that bit where I found newspaper cuttings of my father. These cuttings reported the time a bull escaped from the Royal Easter Show, and my father (who would have then been aged about 26), along with two other riders, chased it down Anzac Parade. The bull dashed along tram lines, and the riders carried out an operation known as bulldogging. For those unfamiliar with the term, it's a rodeo event wherein a rider follows a steer, leans down and grabs the horns, and dismounts the horse and manoeuvres the bull to the ground. This is what Dad did, and people disembarked from the tram and ran over with ropes and things, and Dad tied the bull until help arrived. I read about all this (among other achievements) when I was about ten. You know that feeling you get when you think your father might be Batman? That's what it was like.
Oh well, the freaking dog hair won't sweep itself.
A friend left me a note today, in which she wrote her grandfather said my father looked to be part of the horse whenever in the saddle. This is so funny; I have been writing my speech for Dad's funeral, and I have used this analogy - he always looked like kind of a centaur in my eyes.
So much to do at the moment, and such little inclination to do it. My wretched German shepherd/kelpie cross has left hair everywhere. If I swept the hair into a pile and stuck eyes on it, I could convince my children we have a pet Ewok. I have washing to fold. Thankfully most of it is towels and my younger son has discovered there is a fiscal advantage to folding the towels for Mum.
Haven't been watching the news or anything. I've been rushing around like a dervish trying to get stuff organised, as have my brother and sister. Still got some tidying on my speech - I'm working on that bit where I found newspaper cuttings of my father. These cuttings reported the time a bull escaped from the Royal Easter Show, and my father (who would have then been aged about 26), along with two other riders, chased it down Anzac Parade. The bull dashed along tram lines, and the riders carried out an operation known as bulldogging. For those unfamiliar with the term, it's a rodeo event wherein a rider follows a steer, leans down and grabs the horns, and dismounts the horse and manoeuvres the bull to the ground. This is what Dad did, and people disembarked from the tram and ran over with ropes and things, and Dad tied the bull until help arrived. I read about all this (among other achievements) when I was about ten. You know that feeling you get when you think your father might be Batman? That's what it was like.
Oh well, the freaking dog hair won't sweep itself.
Saturday 19 December 2015
'Tis The Season, But For What?
I suppose most are up to their eyeballs in preparations just now. Preparing the house for the descending hordes of relatives. Preparing the good silverware for Christmas lunch. Wondering what designated job they will have this year: be it preparing the ham, or the salad; perhaps preparing the stodgy plum pudding with the gooey custard that looks like a giant has popped a big, grotesque boil over it (as you might have guessed, I detest plum pudding and custard); or perhaps preparing the baked lunch in sweltering heat that makes the entire house feel like a furnace. Or, there could be preparations underway in the backyard for BBQ to be 'enjoyed' under the tarpaulin borrowed from Apex, which becomes uprooted when the westerly wind appears, and it strikes Great Auntie Ethel up the side of the head and leaves her dazed, with her spectacles dangling askew from one ear. Perhaps the preparations have been done an easier way, and someone has trotted off to Aldi and purchased the pre-prepared turducken. 'Turducken' is a strange word, and to me sounds like some kind of German slang for faeces.
I am preparing none of this. I, together with my brother and sister, are in the process of preparing a funeral. Our father passed away though the week. Yesterday I drove to his house on the property where he lived, and met up with my husband and two of our nephews. I embraced my nephews; the younger of the two (a man of almost 23) and I clung to each other for a long time. Obviously, we all shaken and sad. But eventually, along with my brother and his wife, and my sister and her husband, we set about sorting Dad's stuff. It was a sad day, but also a day of laughter. There is more ahead of us today, and I daresay we will talk about the nitty-gritty for Dad's funeral. We will also go through photographs. I have shared my favourite on Facebook - it's Dad unsaddling his horse after winning the 100 Mile Tom Quilty Endurance Ride in 1968.
Shortly, I will open a box here with some old photographs, to see what I can find. We are likely to have a power point presentation, and I might have some more that would be suitable, although we do have some computer files with the presentations from past birthday parties.
Yesterday was hot and tiring. I couldn't even be bothered measuring out my vodka, lime and soda. Instead, after taking some clothes to whether Master 11 is having a sleepover, I stopped by the bottle-o and purchased a six pack of beer - blonde style (not so much for the lack of carbs, but I actually like the taste). I also saw something I had to have. I know logically I didn't really HAVE to have it, but I wanted it. I petulantly thought to myself, 'My dad's gone, and I want this.' I bought it. It is a small container made of thick glass, and it contains vodka. The attraction for me is the container is shaped like a skull. Another skull for my collection, and it contains a boutique distilled vodka to boot. You must think I'm a total pisshead, Reader. Nothing could be further from the truth; I don't drink a lot at all. The only liquor I can really stand is vodka, lime and soda or a cold beer on a hot day. Oh, I will not turn down a properly prepared Margarita, either. Good wine matched with a meal is also good. But no, I'm not that big a boozer. As mentioned, what got me excited was this little container is shaped like a skull.
RIP, Dad.
I am preparing none of this. I, together with my brother and sister, are in the process of preparing a funeral. Our father passed away though the week. Yesterday I drove to his house on the property where he lived, and met up with my husband and two of our nephews. I embraced my nephews; the younger of the two (a man of almost 23) and I clung to each other for a long time. Obviously, we all shaken and sad. But eventually, along with my brother and his wife, and my sister and her husband, we set about sorting Dad's stuff. It was a sad day, but also a day of laughter. There is more ahead of us today, and I daresay we will talk about the nitty-gritty for Dad's funeral. We will also go through photographs. I have shared my favourite on Facebook - it's Dad unsaddling his horse after winning the 100 Mile Tom Quilty Endurance Ride in 1968.
Shortly, I will open a box here with some old photographs, to see what I can find. We are likely to have a power point presentation, and I might have some more that would be suitable, although we do have some computer files with the presentations from past birthday parties.
Yesterday was hot and tiring. I couldn't even be bothered measuring out my vodka, lime and soda. Instead, after taking some clothes to whether Master 11 is having a sleepover, I stopped by the bottle-o and purchased a six pack of beer - blonde style (not so much for the lack of carbs, but I actually like the taste). I also saw something I had to have. I know logically I didn't really HAVE to have it, but I wanted it. I petulantly thought to myself, 'My dad's gone, and I want this.' I bought it. It is a small container made of thick glass, and it contains vodka. The attraction for me is the container is shaped like a skull. Another skull for my collection, and it contains a boutique distilled vodka to boot. You must think I'm a total pisshead, Reader. Nothing could be further from the truth; I don't drink a lot at all. The only liquor I can really stand is vodka, lime and soda or a cold beer on a hot day. Oh, I will not turn down a properly prepared Margarita, either. Good wine matched with a meal is also good. But no, I'm not that big a boozer. As mentioned, what got me excited was this little container is shaped like a skull.
RIP, Dad.
Thursday 17 December 2015
Supermarket Silliness
For those of you who are wondering, there are three types of morons who should not foul the space of the supermarket. Those people are:
1. The cretins who can't stow shopping trolleys properly. I don't mean the old chook who tried to shove one between my arse cheeks a few weeks ago, as we were queuing at the check out. Let me paint a picture: it's nearing Christmas, and every man and his mutt are out shopping, and you finally see an empty car space. You put on your blinker, make to manoeuvre your car into that space, only to find some selfish, brain-bypassed imbecile has left a shopping trolley in that space! That pisses me off to the nth power. I know theoretically one could climb from one's car and move that trolley, but the fact that one has to thanks to some cockhead really is infuriating.
2. The foul-mouthed beasts who think the rest of us enjoy listening to their repetitive, and abusive, use of the F-word. I am aware I use the odd F-bomb in my writing. Sometimes in creative writing it works quite well, and I make judicious use of it. What I don't do is get up from the outdoor bench, as my lift is pulling over, and berate the driver about how fucking long I've been waiting and how the fucking ice cream is melting and does she know what fucking time it is and how the fucking Dow Jones fell three fucking points. Truly, do these home-inked guttersnipes whose inked designs are usually amorphous outlines that appear to be amoebae, and whose acquaintance with toiletries is nodding at best, not realise how pathetic they sound and how offensive they are to the rest of the populace going about their shopping? I guess they don't, and I'm sure the no-class example yesterday
didn't either. 'Lovely,' muttered a man to me as we walked by this spectacle, on our way to the supermarket entrance, and we both rolled our eyes.
3. Shit-heaps who are inconsiderate about disposing of their rubbish. Yesterday, after walking past the aforementioned cursing bogan, I spotted a couple placing their toddlers into the seat of a trolley, and the wife put her rubbish - comprising an empty milk shake cup and a waxed box of the type that contains chicken nuggets - into the trolley next to them. The proper receptacle was only about six metres away. Honestly, how bloody lazy and ignorant can you get? Yeah, one of the kids was screaming. I've tried shopping with a tantrum-chucking toddler, and it's enough to send you onto the roof with a gun; I KNOW all this. You just want to zoom around the aisles, throw what you need into the trolley, pay, and get the hell out of there before the kid's screaming shatters a window. But I also know it is utterly rude to just put your used takeaway containers into a shopping trolley and leave it there, especially when the bin was So. Bloody. CLOSE. Couldn't the she-slob just give the rubbish to the he-slob for the appropriate disposal, whilst she made a start on the shopping?
Maybe these people just need a reassuring, encouraging pat. Across the face. With a cricket bat.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. It's not for a few months, but I thought I'd make a start on arrangements. Thinking of the lovely Sydney Harbour, I enquired with a cruise company. It's damn near impossible to get a booking around my birthday. I asked the clerk what might be available, and she said, 'We have a lunch cruise, and there's an Abba tribute band playing.' I resisted the urge to point out that an Abba band will make me want to do nothing so much as climb over the railing and throw myself into the brine. Sigh. The idea with which I am now toying is to just book a restaurant; the idea is for me to catch up with my friends, most of whom are in the Big Smoke. Maybe a few drinks first, then a meal, and then a few drinks later. There will be no greater gift than to see my family and friends, and it doesn't matter if we're not cruising around the harbour.
1. The cretins who can't stow shopping trolleys properly. I don't mean the old chook who tried to shove one between my arse cheeks a few weeks ago, as we were queuing at the check out. Let me paint a picture: it's nearing Christmas, and every man and his mutt are out shopping, and you finally see an empty car space. You put on your blinker, make to manoeuvre your car into that space, only to find some selfish, brain-bypassed imbecile has left a shopping trolley in that space! That pisses me off to the nth power. I know theoretically one could climb from one's car and move that trolley, but the fact that one has to thanks to some cockhead really is infuriating.
2. The foul-mouthed beasts who think the rest of us enjoy listening to their repetitive, and abusive, use of the F-word. I am aware I use the odd F-bomb in my writing. Sometimes in creative writing it works quite well, and I make judicious use of it. What I don't do is get up from the outdoor bench, as my lift is pulling over, and berate the driver about how fucking long I've been waiting and how the fucking ice cream is melting and does she know what fucking time it is and how the fucking Dow Jones fell three fucking points. Truly, do these home-inked guttersnipes whose inked designs are usually amorphous outlines that appear to be amoebae, and whose acquaintance with toiletries is nodding at best, not realise how pathetic they sound and how offensive they are to the rest of the populace going about their shopping? I guess they don't, and I'm sure the no-class example yesterday
didn't either. 'Lovely,' muttered a man to me as we walked by this spectacle, on our way to the supermarket entrance, and we both rolled our eyes.
3. Shit-heaps who are inconsiderate about disposing of their rubbish. Yesterday, after walking past the aforementioned cursing bogan, I spotted a couple placing their toddlers into the seat of a trolley, and the wife put her rubbish - comprising an empty milk shake cup and a waxed box of the type that contains chicken nuggets - into the trolley next to them. The proper receptacle was only about six metres away. Honestly, how bloody lazy and ignorant can you get? Yeah, one of the kids was screaming. I've tried shopping with a tantrum-chucking toddler, and it's enough to send you onto the roof with a gun; I KNOW all this. You just want to zoom around the aisles, throw what you need into the trolley, pay, and get the hell out of there before the kid's screaming shatters a window. But I also know it is utterly rude to just put your used takeaway containers into a shopping trolley and leave it there, especially when the bin was So. Bloody. CLOSE. Couldn't the she-slob just give the rubbish to the he-slob for the appropriate disposal, whilst she made a start on the shopping?
Maybe these people just need a reassuring, encouraging pat. Across the face. With a cricket bat.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. It's not for a few months, but I thought I'd make a start on arrangements. Thinking of the lovely Sydney Harbour, I enquired with a cruise company. It's damn near impossible to get a booking around my birthday. I asked the clerk what might be available, and she said, 'We have a lunch cruise, and there's an Abba tribute band playing.' I resisted the urge to point out that an Abba band will make me want to do nothing so much as climb over the railing and throw myself into the brine. Sigh. The idea with which I am now toying is to just book a restaurant; the idea is for me to catch up with my friends, most of whom are in the Big Smoke. Maybe a few drinks first, then a meal, and then a few drinks later. There will be no greater gift than to see my family and friends, and it doesn't matter if we're not cruising around the harbour.
Monday 14 December 2015
Menacing Melody
I get strange things in my mind at times. Most times, probably. It's lonely being me. So, I'm going to put out a call and see if there is anybody else out there who shares my utter loathing for the Blondie song 'One Way Or Another'. Anybody? Surely it can't be just me who feels the enamel peeling from her teeth in strips, and who practically sprains her wrist turning off the car radio when this twisted tune comes on.
I don't want to be one of these people who reads too much into song lyrics, because those people often need the waaah-mbulance. That being said, this song truly gives me at best the irrits, and at worst a raging case of The Creeps. In fact, it's right up there with 'Centrefold' by the J Geils Band for Songs That Cause Dry Horrors With Their Psychotic Undertones.
First of all, there is this repetitive sneering nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah quality to her delivery. But then it gets darker and positively chilling. She's threatening to 'getcha getcha getcha getcha'. Is it just me, or does she sound like the school bully threatening to grab you when you least expect it, and then drag you off to the school dunny and flush your head?
The repetitious nature of this song is enough to do your head in alone, but when you throw in the constant barrage of menace it's enough to make you want to run to the Chamber Magistrate and take out a restraining order. Not that this fixated psycho hose-beast would take any notice of the court order.
She even threatens to drive past the house the object of her affection (read: unhealthy obsession) to see if there are any lights on, and to spy on this poor sap when he's making telephone calls. Truly, the first time I heard this terrifying tune, I looked at the radio and asked, 'Seriously, woman, how big a fuck-up ARE you?' Let's put it this way: hope this poor guy has an impenetrable rabbit hutch.
But I'm wondering is it just me? Am I alone in finding this song flesh-crawlingly loathsome? Please, someone reassure me. I'm aware I sound like a bit of a fruitloop myself in my dislike of this cruddy song, but I'd like to know I'm not the only fruitloop in the box.
Now, if you've read this far and I haven't scared you away with my own eccentricities, let me suggest buying your loved ones BOOKS as a Christmas present. MY books in particular. The best place to purchase my stuff is via the publisher's website, and I will provide links to the first chapters, from which you will be able to decide who is the best recipient of which book. I do mainly adult satire, but one of my books is young adult (although it will appeal to adults - my husband had a tear in his eye when he finished it and he is my harshest critic). The young adult is titled 'Abernethy', and is best purchased as an e-book at the moment, so maybe you can make a gift of it. Alternatively, 'Hunt-a-Book' in Scone, NSW, has some copies, so Google them and they can help you. Forgive the blatant wheedling for purchases here, but it's my blog, so I'm allowed to. Besides, as I often point out, my kid just does not stop eating, and I need the royalties to feed the glutton.
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Yeah, some royalties would be good. It would cheer me immensely because I've had that rotten song stuck in my head all day - it came on the radio when I was driving around this morning.
I don't want to be one of these people who reads too much into song lyrics, because those people often need the waaah-mbulance. That being said, this song truly gives me at best the irrits, and at worst a raging case of The Creeps. In fact, it's right up there with 'Centrefold' by the J Geils Band for Songs That Cause Dry Horrors With Their Psychotic Undertones.
First of all, there is this repetitive sneering nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah quality to her delivery. But then it gets darker and positively chilling. She's threatening to 'getcha getcha getcha getcha'. Is it just me, or does she sound like the school bully threatening to grab you when you least expect it, and then drag you off to the school dunny and flush your head?
The repetitious nature of this song is enough to do your head in alone, but when you throw in the constant barrage of menace it's enough to make you want to run to the Chamber Magistrate and take out a restraining order. Not that this fixated psycho hose-beast would take any notice of the court order.
She even threatens to drive past the house the object of her affection (read: unhealthy obsession) to see if there are any lights on, and to spy on this poor sap when he's making telephone calls. Truly, the first time I heard this terrifying tune, I looked at the radio and asked, 'Seriously, woman, how big a fuck-up ARE you?' Let's put it this way: hope this poor guy has an impenetrable rabbit hutch.
But I'm wondering is it just me? Am I alone in finding this song flesh-crawlingly loathsome? Please, someone reassure me. I'm aware I sound like a bit of a fruitloop myself in my dislike of this cruddy song, but I'd like to know I'm not the only fruitloop in the box.
Now, if you've read this far and I haven't scared you away with my own eccentricities, let me suggest buying your loved ones BOOKS as a Christmas present. MY books in particular. The best place to purchase my stuff is via the publisher's website, and I will provide links to the first chapters, from which you will be able to decide who is the best recipient of which book. I do mainly adult satire, but one of my books is young adult (although it will appeal to adults - my husband had a tear in his eye when he finished it and he is my harshest critic). The young adult is titled 'Abernethy', and is best purchased as an e-book at the moment, so maybe you can make a gift of it. Alternatively, 'Hunt-a-Book' in Scone, NSW, has some copies, so Google them and they can help you. Forgive the blatant wheedling for purchases here, but it's my blog, so I'm allowed to. Besides, as I often point out, my kid just does not stop eating, and I need the royalties to feed the glutton.
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Yeah, some royalties would be good. It would cheer me immensely because I've had that rotten song stuck in my head all day - it came on the radio when I was driving around this morning.
Saturday 12 December 2015
Strong is the Stupid, and a new novel is on the way....
With the new Star Wars film about to open (and my oldest like a chook hopping about on a hot plate with the excitement), I've kind of been channelling Yoda, and thinking in Yoda's voice, 'Strong is the Stupid with this one!' more than I would like to, of late.
This Yoda-ish platitude came to my mind when I saw on the news footage has been taken of Bill Shorten driving whilst using his mobile telephone. Bill, I don't know if you really care about the ramblings of a struggling rural author, but I must ask you this: Are you stupid? Mate, this is against the law. Also, and please take a moment to let this absorb, it's fucking DANGEROUS! You could have wiped someone out. If it's that important, pull over. You have been awarded my Dickhead Of The Week Award. The runner-up award goes to the imbecile who took that footage on his/her own telephone whilst driving his/her own car.
Again, I shook my head as I read a comment on social media - maybe I'm spending to much time thereon - telling me I am a 'dick' for an opinion I expressed. Listen, if this person thinks I am a dick, then that's her problem; it is of little consequence to me. I've been called worse. No, it's more to do with her describing what she feared were Chinese men purchasing infant formula to send to China as 'greedy gooks buying for them selfs'. Sigh. Hopefully she has found a UDL can from which to quaff, and her ire has abated.
Now, although I have had a hectic week in many respects, it has also been a good one. On Thursday, I signed the contract for the publication of my next novel. This novel will probably be available later next year. The evaluation editor, in her report, used phrases like 'interesting and fascinating' together with 'mystery and tension'. She believes it would have reasonable prospects in the young adult market, but I feel it should appeal to older adults, too. It is a variance from my usual satirical style; it is a first person narrative from a seventeen-year-old girl trying to write her memoirs in 1982. It is NOT autobiographical, but naturally I drew on many of my own experiences, as most writers do. When she's writing and wondering where to start, she remembers a particular day being Remembrance Day 1975, when a nun excitedly announced to the class Whitlam had been sacked. I thought this would be a good image for the reader, and an identifiable one. Many of us of a certain age do remember receiving this news, and yeah, for me it was via a nun who appeared in the classroom door, gave the news in a gleeful manner, and then disappeared like a rabid bat in the night. I felt confused, and wondered why Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank should take delight in somebody's downfall. Obviously this good (choke!) Sister of St Joseph was not really called Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank, but in the interest of law suit avoidance, I have re-named her thus. Besides, my moniker suits her greatly.
So, I'm starting my marketing early, and hoping everyone is intrigued enough to buy the book when it comes back from the printer. The flipside of this is I might make everyone so fed-up with the hype, they refuse to buy it as a matter of principle.
After the Christmas break, I will forward a cover art questionnaire to the publisher, along with an author photo for the back jacket. Mr Bingells, a very good photographer, will be entrusted to take the picture. I shall refrain from the odious trend of duck-face. I might grease up my arse like Kim Kardashian did for the a stupid picture that, as they say, 'broke the Internet'. If you care, my arse is nowhere near the size of Kim's, so will not need to be shot in a panoramic style. I have suggested replicating this shot to Mr Bingells, but he is not keen - might be something to do with his own artistic integrity as the photographer. I then suggested I balance a champagne glass on my bum with the open bottle being held over my head as the sparkly stuff gushes into said glass. Again, this probably won't work as I don't have sufficient arse area to balance the glass. Well, let's face it: these are the shots that are getting noticed. Maybe I should try doing something different. Perhaps I'll do a DIGNIFIED author photo. Yes, that could be the ticket - dignified.
The new book, by the way, is titled 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. This was thought up by my eleven-year-old. I was about halfway through the first draft, and he suddenly asked, 'Mum, could you call your book 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'?' I agreed it was a catchy title, and set out figuring out a way for that title to make sense in the work. This was eventually achieved.
Finally, I just want to share my three favourite guitar solos:
1. Mick Ronson in Ian Hunter's 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy'.
2. Chris Spedding in Bryan Ferry's 'This Is Tomorrow'.
3. Allen Collins and Garry Rossington in Lynard Skynard's 'Freebird'.
This Yoda-ish platitude came to my mind when I saw on the news footage has been taken of Bill Shorten driving whilst using his mobile telephone. Bill, I don't know if you really care about the ramblings of a struggling rural author, but I must ask you this: Are you stupid? Mate, this is against the law. Also, and please take a moment to let this absorb, it's fucking DANGEROUS! You could have wiped someone out. If it's that important, pull over. You have been awarded my Dickhead Of The Week Award. The runner-up award goes to the imbecile who took that footage on his/her own telephone whilst driving his/her own car.
Again, I shook my head as I read a comment on social media - maybe I'm spending to much time thereon - telling me I am a 'dick' for an opinion I expressed. Listen, if this person thinks I am a dick, then that's her problem; it is of little consequence to me. I've been called worse. No, it's more to do with her describing what she feared were Chinese men purchasing infant formula to send to China as 'greedy gooks buying for them selfs'. Sigh. Hopefully she has found a UDL can from which to quaff, and her ire has abated.
Now, although I have had a hectic week in many respects, it has also been a good one. On Thursday, I signed the contract for the publication of my next novel. This novel will probably be available later next year. The evaluation editor, in her report, used phrases like 'interesting and fascinating' together with 'mystery and tension'. She believes it would have reasonable prospects in the young adult market, but I feel it should appeal to older adults, too. It is a variance from my usual satirical style; it is a first person narrative from a seventeen-year-old girl trying to write her memoirs in 1982. It is NOT autobiographical, but naturally I drew on many of my own experiences, as most writers do. When she's writing and wondering where to start, she remembers a particular day being Remembrance Day 1975, when a nun excitedly announced to the class Whitlam had been sacked. I thought this would be a good image for the reader, and an identifiable one. Many of us of a certain age do remember receiving this news, and yeah, for me it was via a nun who appeared in the classroom door, gave the news in a gleeful manner, and then disappeared like a rabid bat in the night. I felt confused, and wondered why Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank should take delight in somebody's downfall. Obviously this good (choke!) Sister of St Joseph was not really called Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank, but in the interest of law suit avoidance, I have re-named her thus. Besides, my moniker suits her greatly.
So, I'm starting my marketing early, and hoping everyone is intrigued enough to buy the book when it comes back from the printer. The flipside of this is I might make everyone so fed-up with the hype, they refuse to buy it as a matter of principle.
After the Christmas break, I will forward a cover art questionnaire to the publisher, along with an author photo for the back jacket. Mr Bingells, a very good photographer, will be entrusted to take the picture. I shall refrain from the odious trend of duck-face. I might grease up my arse like Kim Kardashian did for the a stupid picture that, as they say, 'broke the Internet'. If you care, my arse is nowhere near the size of Kim's, so will not need to be shot in a panoramic style. I have suggested replicating this shot to Mr Bingells, but he is not keen - might be something to do with his own artistic integrity as the photographer. I then suggested I balance a champagne glass on my bum with the open bottle being held over my head as the sparkly stuff gushes into said glass. Again, this probably won't work as I don't have sufficient arse area to balance the glass. Well, let's face it: these are the shots that are getting noticed. Maybe I should try doing something different. Perhaps I'll do a DIGNIFIED author photo. Yes, that could be the ticket - dignified.
The new book, by the way, is titled 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. This was thought up by my eleven-year-old. I was about halfway through the first draft, and he suddenly asked, 'Mum, could you call your book 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'?' I agreed it was a catchy title, and set out figuring out a way for that title to make sense in the work. This was eventually achieved.
Finally, I just want to share my three favourite guitar solos:
1. Mick Ronson in Ian Hunter's 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy'.
2. Chris Spedding in Bryan Ferry's 'This Is Tomorrow'.
3. Allen Collins and Garry Rossington in Lynard Skynard's 'Freebird'.
Monday 7 December 2015
Today's Little List
Today's little list comprises what I've noticed these past few days. First cab off the rank is:
1. Today is the 35th anniversary of the senseless and ugly death of John Lennon. I might be a little bit out in my calculations because his death is the 8th, but in Australia we probably heard it on what was our 9th December. I'm a bit of a pedant that way, but it does not change the way I felt when I received the news. It was after school, and instead of catching the school bus home I was doing what was commonly referred to as 'walking down the street'. My mother worked casually in a dress boutique, and on the days she worked I would go to the shop instead of catching the bus home. The shop was located a few doors along from the fish-and-chip shop, and the daughter of that shop's proprietor, who was in the same class as me, stopped me on my way past. 'They've assassinated John Lennon,' she told me, her already expressive dark eyes even more expressive. 'They've'. It's always 'they' or 'they've'. Who is this 'they', I wondered. I'm not sure whether Lennon's murder would necessarily be an 'assassination', but it was a vicious and foul theft from the world. Mark Chapman, I don't know if you have Internet access but you are seriously one sick fuck, and I hope you rot where you are. (On an unrelated note, I saw Jared Leto give a great performance as Chapman in a movie, the name of which escapes me). When I got home, I sat down in front of the television, and there was the image on the screen - an aquiline face framed with lank brown hair, and plain round spectacles over the bridge of the nose, and the words: John Lennon 1940 - 1980 as 'Imagine' played in the background. It made me cry then, and it would make me cry today.
2. An unpopular decision by the judiciary brings out the armchair lawyers. Oh, it's not like I haven't noticed this before, but it's happening again today. Everyone starts up how the judges have to grow a pair, or the courts are letting us down, or it's a slap in the face for the victim's family, or how the courts and laws favour the criminals, or how the lawyers and judges are going to turn into giant venom-spitting pterodactyls. Okay, I might have embellished on that last one - just a little. In case you're unaware, Gerald Baden-Clay had his murder conviction overturned by the Court of Criminal Appeal today. Whether all the armchair lawyers like it or not, he had a legal avenue of appeal, and the appeal worked for him. The appeal judges interpreted the material before them and applied the law accordingly. It's what they do. The judges know the law; all you armchair lawyers don't. And you know something else? Our legal system and courts are not designed to protect to criminals, they are designed to protect the innocent. I will shout it from the rooftops that I will see ten guilty men walk free before I see one innocent man go to gaol. The judges have a law degree, and most of your moaners and groaners don't. Don't like our legal system, which is a damn good and fair one? Fine, fuck off and live in North Korea. Something that is really grinding my gears about this is that I cannot comment on one of the most offensive sites for perpetuating this rubbish because I got banned. Yes, harmless, innocuous, and inoffensive little me got banned from a feminist site where I would often point out the machinations of our legal system which crap all over pig-ignorant populist drivel spouted by no-nothing lynch mobs. My husband has told me it is more likely because I called the writers on the site 'nasty slags'. Perhaps he's right.
3. People like to shout over others in discussions. Last night I watched something about the use of pornography by Australians, which was hosted by someone from Triple J (who was something of a hottie). It was an interesting show. A broad spectrum of people were discussing - from the young woman who campaigned for the banning of Zoo Weekly from supermarket shelves, to an adult movie actress, to a couple who watch movies for fun, to a couple who have banned them in their house, to a gay man who found watching gay porn as a teenager made him accept himself for who he was, to a relationships counsellor, to a Lifeline counsellor, to Melinda Tankard-Reist from the organisation Collective Shout. It occurred to me during the show this organisation might have earned its name because Ms Tankard-Reist kept shouting over everyone who was giving their opinion. Now, I have spoken on the banning of Zoo Weekly previously, but my view in a nutshell is yes, the magazine in infantile which leads to my CHOICE to not read it, but what about other stupid magazines on view that promise women they can return to their pre-pregnancy bodies in two weeks, or that a friend of a friend of the gardener to the celebrity couple can vouch for the couple separating, or whatever the fucking Kardashians are up to? They are truly obnoxious magazines, too. Hey, I still remember one headline from years ago promising to give advice on how we too could achieve Elle McPherson's perfect body. I did not read the article but given Ms McPherson is much taller than your average woman and top heavy, I'm guessing the author suggested time on a stretching rack and silicon breast implants. Other things I observed from the show were this: some people have issues. The couple who separated because the wife likened her husband's occasional porn watching to another woman? The woman needs help and the bloke was soooo pussy-whipped. Ms Tankard-Reist? Stop yelling over other people. I still have the your clarion cry of 'gaping arseholes' ringing in my ears, like a bout of tinnitus inflicted by Satan.
Look, here's what I think if you care, and if you've read this far, it would tell me you do: I will spell it out: E-D-U-C-A-T-I-O-N. Tell the young folk about whom we are worried that what they see in an adult film is being performed by actors and not everyone with whom they establish a sexual relationship will want to emulate what is depicted on the screen. Teach people to respect other peoples' wishes and boundaries.
If adults in their right minds enjoy watching adult actors having a root in a movie? Let them watch. If others have a problem with a 'porn-addiction'? Let them get help. Let people use their common sense.
A bad diet can cause diabetes and other health issues, but I don't see anyone campaigning for the banning of KFC. It's all about education.
1. Today is the 35th anniversary of the senseless and ugly death of John Lennon. I might be a little bit out in my calculations because his death is the 8th, but in Australia we probably heard it on what was our 9th December. I'm a bit of a pedant that way, but it does not change the way I felt when I received the news. It was after school, and instead of catching the school bus home I was doing what was commonly referred to as 'walking down the street'. My mother worked casually in a dress boutique, and on the days she worked I would go to the shop instead of catching the bus home. The shop was located a few doors along from the fish-and-chip shop, and the daughter of that shop's proprietor, who was in the same class as me, stopped me on my way past. 'They've assassinated John Lennon,' she told me, her already expressive dark eyes even more expressive. 'They've'. It's always 'they' or 'they've'. Who is this 'they', I wondered. I'm not sure whether Lennon's murder would necessarily be an 'assassination', but it was a vicious and foul theft from the world. Mark Chapman, I don't know if you have Internet access but you are seriously one sick fuck, and I hope you rot where you are. (On an unrelated note, I saw Jared Leto give a great performance as Chapman in a movie, the name of which escapes me). When I got home, I sat down in front of the television, and there was the image on the screen - an aquiline face framed with lank brown hair, and plain round spectacles over the bridge of the nose, and the words: John Lennon 1940 - 1980 as 'Imagine' played in the background. It made me cry then, and it would make me cry today.
2. An unpopular decision by the judiciary brings out the armchair lawyers. Oh, it's not like I haven't noticed this before, but it's happening again today. Everyone starts up how the judges have to grow a pair, or the courts are letting us down, or it's a slap in the face for the victim's family, or how the courts and laws favour the criminals, or how the lawyers and judges are going to turn into giant venom-spitting pterodactyls. Okay, I might have embellished on that last one - just a little. In case you're unaware, Gerald Baden-Clay had his murder conviction overturned by the Court of Criminal Appeal today. Whether all the armchair lawyers like it or not, he had a legal avenue of appeal, and the appeal worked for him. The appeal judges interpreted the material before them and applied the law accordingly. It's what they do. The judges know the law; all you armchair lawyers don't. And you know something else? Our legal system and courts are not designed to protect to criminals, they are designed to protect the innocent. I will shout it from the rooftops that I will see ten guilty men walk free before I see one innocent man go to gaol. The judges have a law degree, and most of your moaners and groaners don't. Don't like our legal system, which is a damn good and fair one? Fine, fuck off and live in North Korea. Something that is really grinding my gears about this is that I cannot comment on one of the most offensive sites for perpetuating this rubbish because I got banned. Yes, harmless, innocuous, and inoffensive little me got banned from a feminist site where I would often point out the machinations of our legal system which crap all over pig-ignorant populist drivel spouted by no-nothing lynch mobs. My husband has told me it is more likely because I called the writers on the site 'nasty slags'. Perhaps he's right.
3. People like to shout over others in discussions. Last night I watched something about the use of pornography by Australians, which was hosted by someone from Triple J (who was something of a hottie). It was an interesting show. A broad spectrum of people were discussing - from the young woman who campaigned for the banning of Zoo Weekly from supermarket shelves, to an adult movie actress, to a couple who watch movies for fun, to a couple who have banned them in their house, to a gay man who found watching gay porn as a teenager made him accept himself for who he was, to a relationships counsellor, to a Lifeline counsellor, to Melinda Tankard-Reist from the organisation Collective Shout. It occurred to me during the show this organisation might have earned its name because Ms Tankard-Reist kept shouting over everyone who was giving their opinion. Now, I have spoken on the banning of Zoo Weekly previously, but my view in a nutshell is yes, the magazine in infantile which leads to my CHOICE to not read it, but what about other stupid magazines on view that promise women they can return to their pre-pregnancy bodies in two weeks, or that a friend of a friend of the gardener to the celebrity couple can vouch for the couple separating, or whatever the fucking Kardashians are up to? They are truly obnoxious magazines, too. Hey, I still remember one headline from years ago promising to give advice on how we too could achieve Elle McPherson's perfect body. I did not read the article but given Ms McPherson is much taller than your average woman and top heavy, I'm guessing the author suggested time on a stretching rack and silicon breast implants. Other things I observed from the show were this: some people have issues. The couple who separated because the wife likened her husband's occasional porn watching to another woman? The woman needs help and the bloke was soooo pussy-whipped. Ms Tankard-Reist? Stop yelling over other people. I still have the your clarion cry of 'gaping arseholes' ringing in my ears, like a bout of tinnitus inflicted by Satan.
Look, here's what I think if you care, and if you've read this far, it would tell me you do: I will spell it out: E-D-U-C-A-T-I-O-N. Tell the young folk about whom we are worried that what they see in an adult film is being performed by actors and not everyone with whom they establish a sexual relationship will want to emulate what is depicted on the screen. Teach people to respect other peoples' wishes and boundaries.
If adults in their right minds enjoy watching adult actors having a root in a movie? Let them watch. If others have a problem with a 'porn-addiction'? Let them get help. Let people use their common sense.
A bad diet can cause diabetes and other health issues, but I don't see anyone campaigning for the banning of KFC. It's all about education.
Saturday 5 December 2015
Mental!
Last night I attended my third concert this WEEK! But unlike the others, I was not watching my child, but instead watching a band at a local pub. Yes, I went out with three friends to see Mental as Anything. They were supported by a local act in one of the other bars, and this act's repertoire consisted of some Bachman Turner Overdrive, some Creedence, some Kiss, and some good ol' Acca-Dacca. I was in Heaven, as you can well imagine. I drank my vodka/lime/soda (which tasted funny - I wonder did the barmaid mistake the gin bottle for vodka?). The band struck up 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'. Love this song, but I have a problem, and two of my friends are similarly afflicted. When we hear this, we sing along. This is no big deal as many sing along with Acca-Dacca. But my friends and I, when it gets to the chorus, sing 'Dirty deeds....DONE WITH SHEEP!' Infantile, I know. But funny. To a degree. It's reached a point where I cannot listen to this song and not sing this cheeky substitute lyric. It's like when the woeful 'Living Next Door To Alice' is played on the radio (I listen to AM - I'm old, so sue me), and you just HAVE to caw, 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' And yes, I also HAVE to respond when I hear 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?' Actually, I saw ACDC in 1996, and when the pre-dementia Malcolm Young was growling into the microphone, 'Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap...', I'm sure in my mind I was thinking, 'Dirty deeds and they're done with sheep.'
You take away different memories and impressions from gigs. Prior to entering the room where the Mentals were to play, I visited the Ladies' room. The previous occupant of the stall I used had done what can only be described as a toxic dump. Not good. Seriously, I less sicked out when I went to the loo at the Hoodoo Gurus gig some years ago and there was a couple having a knee-trembler in one of the stalls.
However, I had a mainly good time at the show. I saw the band with these same friends last year and enjoyed it more this time, as the venue was just a tad less crowded so I wasn't getting buffeted by drunken idiots. Most times when I catch a band at this venue, I find myself stuck beside a swaying, tone-deaf drunk. Honestly, why do these people think we are happy to listen to their monstrous caterwauling? Do they think we say, 'Hey, I know I paid good money for my concert ticket, but go ahead, make a noise like a cow with a calf jammed in its birth canal; I don't mind'? However, I did have to be careful of the pissheads doing interpretive dance. People, please don't do interpretive dance at gigs - you run the risk of poking someone in the eye. Not entirely sure what last night's 'dancer' was trying to interpret; walking through a cobweb when under the influence of a box of Mogadon, maybe? Oh yeah, and to the she-twits who clambered onto the stage and squawked, 'Hey there yew wif the saaaad face come up to moi place an' live it up...' into the bass player's microphone, kindly refrain from doing so in future. The aforementioned principle applies; people don't part with hard-earned money to watch tone-deaf clowns who seem to be unaware of the God-awful racket they are making. The exception to this is a Kanye West concert.
Things like this make me glad I don't get sauced when I go to see bands, but I might have to in order to become, if not oblivious, then at least indifferent to this annoying behaviour. It might also have fortified me from the horrific vision of the bogan who tried to execute some dance move best left to younger break dancers that caused his track suit pants to slip down and expose a great deal of his gelatinous backside. That just cannot be unseen.
But yeah, a good night was had, and my friend got her Mentals paraphernalia signed by Greedy Smith after the show. She said to him, 'Remember my friend Simone?', and he said he did. I was cynical at this, thinking the Greed-ster was being polite, but then remembered that when I chatted with him last year, I told him I trekked Nepal just after he did because the Nepalese guide had asked my friend and I had we heard of Greedy Smith; Greedy having done the same organised trek just before we did. I guess it's rare to go to a gig in a country town and have someone tell you you've a trekking holiday in common, when you'd be used to hearing how 'Oh-I-Used-To-Watch-You-Guys-On-Countdown', and blahblahblah.
In case you're wondering, my favourite Mentals song is 'Come Around', so I was very happy when they did this - makes me feel thirteen again, and unsure of myself and wondering would boys like me.
You take away different memories and impressions from gigs. Prior to entering the room where the Mentals were to play, I visited the Ladies' room. The previous occupant of the stall I used had done what can only be described as a toxic dump. Not good. Seriously, I less sicked out when I went to the loo at the Hoodoo Gurus gig some years ago and there was a couple having a knee-trembler in one of the stalls.
However, I had a mainly good time at the show. I saw the band with these same friends last year and enjoyed it more this time, as the venue was just a tad less crowded so I wasn't getting buffeted by drunken idiots. Most times when I catch a band at this venue, I find myself stuck beside a swaying, tone-deaf drunk. Honestly, why do these people think we are happy to listen to their monstrous caterwauling? Do they think we say, 'Hey, I know I paid good money for my concert ticket, but go ahead, make a noise like a cow with a calf jammed in its birth canal; I don't mind'? However, I did have to be careful of the pissheads doing interpretive dance. People, please don't do interpretive dance at gigs - you run the risk of poking someone in the eye. Not entirely sure what last night's 'dancer' was trying to interpret; walking through a cobweb when under the influence of a box of Mogadon, maybe? Oh yeah, and to the she-twits who clambered onto the stage and squawked, 'Hey there yew wif the saaaad face come up to moi place an' live it up...' into the bass player's microphone, kindly refrain from doing so in future. The aforementioned principle applies; people don't part with hard-earned money to watch tone-deaf clowns who seem to be unaware of the God-awful racket they are making. The exception to this is a Kanye West concert.
Things like this make me glad I don't get sauced when I go to see bands, but I might have to in order to become, if not oblivious, then at least indifferent to this annoying behaviour. It might also have fortified me from the horrific vision of the bogan who tried to execute some dance move best left to younger break dancers that caused his track suit pants to slip down and expose a great deal of his gelatinous backside. That just cannot be unseen.
But yeah, a good night was had, and my friend got her Mentals paraphernalia signed by Greedy Smith after the show. She said to him, 'Remember my friend Simone?', and he said he did. I was cynical at this, thinking the Greed-ster was being polite, but then remembered that when I chatted with him last year, I told him I trekked Nepal just after he did because the Nepalese guide had asked my friend and I had we heard of Greedy Smith; Greedy having done the same organised trek just before we did. I guess it's rare to go to a gig in a country town and have someone tell you you've a trekking holiday in common, when you'd be used to hearing how 'Oh-I-Used-To-Watch-You-Guys-On-Countdown', and blahblahblah.
In case you're wondering, my favourite Mentals song is 'Come Around', so I was very happy when they did this - makes me feel thirteen again, and unsure of myself and wondering would boys like me.
Thursday 3 December 2015
Dis-Concert-Ing
Did the mum thing last night and took my fourteen-year-old to an end-of-year school concert, the purpose of which was to showcase art works, along with music and drama. Master 14 was to play the glockenspiel with his music class. My, there are some talented kids locally. They performed some numbers that I have always liked, those numbers prompted me to download them to my iPod last night. In case you're biting your nails wondering what musical marvels are now in my playlist, think 'From the Sea' by Eskimo Joe, and 'Holiday' by Green Day. When I was a bit - oh shit, a LOT - younger, 'Holiday' was a song by Madonna. Didn't mind old Madge's song, notwithstanding the woman normally shits me to sobs. Before the concert, I was subjected to my son's usual snotty sarcasm. 'Sarcastic' is his default setting these days. You know, I once had a huge-eyed cherubic three-year-old who would pipe, 'Thank you, Mummy', when I handed him a tumbler of milk. I am now lumbered with a lummox in a muscle shirt, and a voice almost as deep as his father's as he challenges, 'What?' when I berate him for drinking straight from the milk carton. Last night it was all, 'Come on, Mum, do the maths' as I counted out some coins for him to purchase a sausage sandwich. When he couldn't get the coins into his tight pocket, I seized the opportunity for revenge over his constant sarcasm. I loudly asked, 'Do you want Mummy to do it for you?' I am no Carol Brady.
But I couldn't stop the smiles as I watched him performing 'Little Talks' by Monsters & Men. I wonder if I'd have known this were I not the mother of a teenager. He sat with three other boys, all with glockenspiels across their laps. There were other kids on stage, of course; guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, and vocalists. But of course I watched my son intently playing the glockenspiel, and it was beautifully synchronised with his fellow glockenspiel-bashers. Truly, they were like a machine - all striking the keys at the same time - it was poetry to watch. I congratulated him on the way home, and remarked how the boys had all concentrated hard on their glockenspiels. His incredulous reply was, 'Mum! Didn't you notice that spotlight? If I'd look up, my eyes would have died!'
It's been a week of kids' concerts - on Monday evening I watched my eleven-year-old play 'When The Saints Go Marching In' on the piano at the local conservatorium. It's that time of year - too much happening at once.
What else is on my mind? Could it be the clowns that jay-walked as I was driving my youngest home from band practice today, thus necessitating my hitting of the brakes and missing of the green light? You flogs! What are the road rules, again? Oh yes: 'Look to the left. Look to the right. Look to the left again. If it's safe you can cross.' That's how I recall it. I'm sure it didn't go: 'Look at your fucking phone as you blunder blithely into oncoming traffic'. Slow sarcastic golf claps to you, morons extraordinaire.
And my final message is to the twerp who has been in the news for refusing to stand for the judge in his trial. His excuse is that he is 'not at the behest of anything but Islam'. I actually respect the rights of people to practise whatever religious beliefs they want, but here's the thing: if you're charged with an offence and find yourself being tried in a court, get up when the judge enters. Courts are secular. Unless you're wheelchair-bound, get up off your fucking arse and show some respect, you tool.
But my iPod is getting interesting. Green Day and Eskimo Joe, alongside Jimmy Buffet and the Sex Pistols, and some Ronnie James Dio thrown in for good measure.
But I couldn't stop the smiles as I watched him performing 'Little Talks' by Monsters & Men. I wonder if I'd have known this were I not the mother of a teenager. He sat with three other boys, all with glockenspiels across their laps. There were other kids on stage, of course; guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, and vocalists. But of course I watched my son intently playing the glockenspiel, and it was beautifully synchronised with his fellow glockenspiel-bashers. Truly, they were like a machine - all striking the keys at the same time - it was poetry to watch. I congratulated him on the way home, and remarked how the boys had all concentrated hard on their glockenspiels. His incredulous reply was, 'Mum! Didn't you notice that spotlight? If I'd look up, my eyes would have died!'
It's been a week of kids' concerts - on Monday evening I watched my eleven-year-old play 'When The Saints Go Marching In' on the piano at the local conservatorium. It's that time of year - too much happening at once.
What else is on my mind? Could it be the clowns that jay-walked as I was driving my youngest home from band practice today, thus necessitating my hitting of the brakes and missing of the green light? You flogs! What are the road rules, again? Oh yes: 'Look to the left. Look to the right. Look to the left again. If it's safe you can cross.' That's how I recall it. I'm sure it didn't go: 'Look at your fucking phone as you blunder blithely into oncoming traffic'. Slow sarcastic golf claps to you, morons extraordinaire.
And my final message is to the twerp who has been in the news for refusing to stand for the judge in his trial. His excuse is that he is 'not at the behest of anything but Islam'. I actually respect the rights of people to practise whatever religious beliefs they want, but here's the thing: if you're charged with an offence and find yourself being tried in a court, get up when the judge enters. Courts are secular. Unless you're wheelchair-bound, get up off your fucking arse and show some respect, you tool.
But my iPod is getting interesting. Green Day and Eskimo Joe, alongside Jimmy Buffet and the Sex Pistols, and some Ronnie James Dio thrown in for good measure.
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