Just a quick note, and not my usual ranting because I am on iPad in a motel room. You know why? Because on Christmas Eve my house got flooded after another freaking storm cell! Unbe-fucking-lievable. Two and a half years shy of last incident. More about this riveting episode in The World According To Bingells very soon.
How much has this year sucked arse? As aggravating as losing another admired childhood idol in Carrie Fisher, a person cannot even bare his soul without the Thought Police having a bitch. Steve Martin thought her a 'beautiful creature'. Thought Police lost their shit and he deleted his tweet. 'Creature'. Who the fuck has a problem with this, and why do they feel entitled to govern someone's grief, that someone being a man who knew Carrie Fisher personally?
Well, a more in depth post coming up when I have access to a proper computer keyboard.
RIP also to George Michael. A big RIP to Rick Parfitt of Status Quo, who inspired air guitarists everywhere.
RIP to my sanity. You'll all see why soon - damn that storm cell.
Thursday 29 December 2016
Friday 23 December 2016
My Christmas Message - It has Beetles and Popcorn
The 2016 Christmas season is thus far proving to be rather enjoyable, although today is a tad sultry with the heat. But it's Australia, I can expect nothing less and still remember my childhood Christmas Eves spent sitting out on my parents' patio, cracking open walnuts and hazelnuts from the Christmas hamper my father's employers (owners of a large sheep station) provided every year. The hamper usually had nuts, Christmas cake, oranges (go figure), and novelty stockings stuffed with lollies. Those lollies included sugar popcorn. This was the only time of year I ate that fluoro shit, which contains food dyes that I'm certain are corrosive and cause one's stools to glow in the dark like swamp phosphorus. I suspect the same ingredients are used to treat the popcorn as those used in Fruit Loops - a bag of sugar masquerading as breakfast cereal, and one I refuse to stock in my pantry. But yes, many a Christmas Eve and Christmas Night would be spent outside, cracking nuts and looking at the Christmas beetles with their pretty, bauble-like carapaces.
My kids no longer believe in Santa Claus, which makes Christmas a little less stressful money-wise for me. We are no longer expected to leave food out, and pig it later. Those of you who know me would be aware of my one time as a child when I decided to leave a snack for the Jolly Bloke in Red. I got all creative and bit the corners off a Sao cracker to give a skull shape, and then squashed some apricots on it to represent eye sockets. I don't know if my parents were alarmed at what some might have interpreted as a streak of morbidity in me. I do know Santa didn't eat my well-considered creation, and I was very disillusioned. Even more disillusioned than the time he was at the local supermarket with a shopping trolley stuffed with small white paper sacks of lollies, and he ran over my foot with the trolley. My father's dog enjoyed the Sao-and-apricot snack, in any event. But go the skulls. Most writers have different little knick-knacks on their desks, such as a paperweight, or maybe a good luck mascot. I have a row of glass skulls.
I have been playing my Chrissie faves, which are 'Rockin' Christmas' by Ol' 55, and 'Merry Christmas' by Slade.
So, this cursed year of 2016 is almost over. So many deaths. Today I thought there was going to be another one - Carrie Fisher aka Princess Leia. I was most envious of the bilateral-bunned babe, because she got to make out with Luke Skywalker, a little. Then she found out Luke was her brother, and I sat there listening for banjo music. Hang in there, Princess aka Carrie. Speaking of all things Star Wars, I am wondering whether to see the newest film or not. I haven't seen the others because, you know, Jar Jar Binks.
Well, Merry Christmas. It's probably a bit late to suggest you give the gift of books, *cough* mine *cough*, this year. But there is always the belated gift option. Check out the links on my blog to the first chapters, and see if you'd like to purchase them. They're available as both e-book or paperback. Speaking of book, I had better have a quick read of the edited manuscript sent to me by my publisher, before I go back to work. I've got the evening medication run tonight. And I'm working on Boxing Day.
Again, Merry Christmas!
Wednesday 21 December 2016
Trying To Be Clever With Dispiriting Ditties
I'm going to have to do something about the music to which I have been listening these past few days. Often I just hit 'shuffle' on my iPod as I go about straightening up the kitchen of an evening, and listen to good 'uns as I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the benches with my home made, chemical free, environmentally kind and inexpensive cleaning agent. But every now and then an utter stinker will pop up. The stinkers are not my doing. They are the fault of Mr Bingells. He bought me the iPod a couple of years ago, and tinkered about with it figuring how to transfer music from a CD to the cute little music machine. Mr Bingells has okay taste in music, too, but for some reason the CD he grabbed for this experiment was a Tom Jones one. I know, I know - there is nothing wrong with Tom Jones. I like a bit of Tom, too. My late mother was a humongous fan, and I recall my older brother and sister playing Mum's album when I was a kid, and for some reason lip-syncing to 'It's A Sin To Tell A Lie'. I don't know why. My brother was a huge Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath fan, so why he thought it would be fun to mime to Tom Jones is beyond me.
But the other night I was pottering about in the kitchen, and from my blue tooth I heard 'Green, Green Grass Of Home'. I smiled benevolently as Tom, in a tone so sentimental it almost hit mawkish, sang about stepping from the train to see his parents, and some girl named Mary, who has lips like cherries (collagen?). I'm guessing Mary might be his neighbourhood crushie. He mentions the old oak tree on which he once played. This is good. All little kids should climb trees at some stage or another. I smiled as I switched on the dishwasher, remembering times I played in trees, and on tyre swings.
And then, and oh THEN Tom sang about waking up and seeing four grey walls, a guard, and a sad old padre, and I realised he wasn't about to see this:
Oh no, not that beautiful lush specimen of arboreal magnificence. No, this is what Tom was looking at:
Yes, he was about to get strapped in and treated to 2000 volts. And I spent the remainder of my evening in a funk of cheerless gloom. The gloom returned today when I had a listen to 'One' by Metallica, which tells the less-than-sunny story of a wounded solder. And by wounded I mean quadruple amputee, no sight, no hearing, no speech. He lies on his bed bashing out messages in Morse code to the nursing staff, with his head. Those messages are not a request for a bedpan, or for a jug of water, but that he be subjected to a mercy killing.
Although I do not believe art must be all sweetness and light, and actually have a rather noir sense of humour at the best of times, those two ditties really are as depressing as fuck, and I think I'm going to have to crank up some Beach Boys now to cheer me.
Okay, one of the reasons for this post was not just to talk about how bleak 'Green, Green Grass Of Home' actually is, but to see if I could be clever and add images to my blog. Have I been clever, or what?
But the other night I was pottering about in the kitchen, and from my blue tooth I heard 'Green, Green Grass Of Home'. I smiled benevolently as Tom, in a tone so sentimental it almost hit mawkish, sang about stepping from the train to see his parents, and some girl named Mary, who has lips like cherries (collagen?). I'm guessing Mary might be his neighbourhood crushie. He mentions the old oak tree on which he once played. This is good. All little kids should climb trees at some stage or another. I smiled as I switched on the dishwasher, remembering times I played in trees, and on tyre swings.
And then, and oh THEN Tom sang about waking up and seeing four grey walls, a guard, and a sad old padre, and I realised he wasn't about to see this:
Oh no, not that beautiful lush specimen of arboreal magnificence. No, this is what Tom was looking at:
Yes, he was about to get strapped in and treated to 2000 volts. And I spent the remainder of my evening in a funk of cheerless gloom. The gloom returned today when I had a listen to 'One' by Metallica, which tells the less-than-sunny story of a wounded solder. And by wounded I mean quadruple amputee, no sight, no hearing, no speech. He lies on his bed bashing out messages in Morse code to the nursing staff, with his head. Those messages are not a request for a bedpan, or for a jug of water, but that he be subjected to a mercy killing.
Although I do not believe art must be all sweetness and light, and actually have a rather noir sense of humour at the best of times, those two ditties really are as depressing as fuck, and I think I'm going to have to crank up some Beach Boys now to cheer me.
Okay, one of the reasons for this post was not just to talk about how bleak 'Green, Green Grass Of Home' actually is, but to see if I could be clever and add images to my blog. Have I been clever, or what?
Saturday 17 December 2016
Another Lame-Arse Petition
When I was a kid, a remote controlled television set was to me cutting-edge, state of the art technology. Changing channels without getting up from your chair, merely by pushing a button on a battery-operated device was the stuff of science fiction. A TV screen changing just like that *clicking fingers*? This was surely material limited to Star Trek or Lost in Space! I would imagine Major Don West pulling a trick like this on the Jupiter II, and then Dr Smith would later steal the remote for his own unscrupulous gain, whilst the robot and Will Robinson would object, and the robot would be denounced as a 'Bubble-Headed Booby'. A television set operated via remote control was for the more wealthy of us.
We didn't have a remote control in our house. That job fell to me. I would be sitting on the floor playing with my farm animal set (in my mind they were in a classroom, not a farm), or reading something random from the encyclopaedia (this is why I tend to kick arse in trivia games), and either Mum or Dad would say, 'Turn it over, Simone.' So the remote job fell upon my shoulders, and I would put aside my plastic horse or the encyclopaedia, and shuffle on my bottom to the television, and change the channel. I didn't have to ask what channel they required; we only received NBN Newcastle or the ABC. So 'turn it over' just meant put on whatever channel wasn't currently playing.
Now I am an adult, and have a house with remote controlled technology. They're a good thing, these television remotes. They enable you to change the channel when there is something on the television that does not appeal to you. The technology is pretty widespread and accessible to everybody. Of course, if you can't find your remote because it's found it's way down the back of the lounge, you have the option to get up off your date and use your finger to change channels. This is a very easy thing to do, and it's an option I would respectfully (well, not respectfully actually) suggest to all those people who have signed the change dot org petition seeking Channel 7 dismiss Andrew O'Keefe from his role as a host on Sunrise. I seriously cannot believe someone would start an actually petition for this. Look, okay - disclaimer: I actually rather like Andrew O'Keefe. But even if I didn't, I would definitely not be starting lame-arse petitions. I'd use what evolution gave me, ie opposable thumbs and free will, and change the fucking channel! When I saw this in my newsfeed yesterday, all I could do was groan, 'You're fucking shitting me, aren't you?' Well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It seems lately all people do is bitch and whine and sook about stuff they don't like, and then seek to have it banned. I HATE Adam Sandler movies, and I HATE Everybody Loves Raymond, so what I do is this funny little thing called - and I'll type it slowly - doing something else rather than watch. Hell, O'Keefe is a more enjoyable host than Koch; Koch asks questions that leave me feeling soiled, kind of like your questionable uncle asking you if you've started wearing a bra yet (whether you're thirteen or thirty-seven).
So my point is - don't like Andrew O'Keefe? Change the channel. Not too difficult.
We didn't have a remote control in our house. That job fell to me. I would be sitting on the floor playing with my farm animal set (in my mind they were in a classroom, not a farm), or reading something random from the encyclopaedia (this is why I tend to kick arse in trivia games), and either Mum or Dad would say, 'Turn it over, Simone.' So the remote job fell upon my shoulders, and I would put aside my plastic horse or the encyclopaedia, and shuffle on my bottom to the television, and change the channel. I didn't have to ask what channel they required; we only received NBN Newcastle or the ABC. So 'turn it over' just meant put on whatever channel wasn't currently playing.
Now I am an adult, and have a house with remote controlled technology. They're a good thing, these television remotes. They enable you to change the channel when there is something on the television that does not appeal to you. The technology is pretty widespread and accessible to everybody. Of course, if you can't find your remote because it's found it's way down the back of the lounge, you have the option to get up off your date and use your finger to change channels. This is a very easy thing to do, and it's an option I would respectfully (well, not respectfully actually) suggest to all those people who have signed the change dot org petition seeking Channel 7 dismiss Andrew O'Keefe from his role as a host on Sunrise. I seriously cannot believe someone would start an actually petition for this. Look, okay - disclaimer: I actually rather like Andrew O'Keefe. But even if I didn't, I would definitely not be starting lame-arse petitions. I'd use what evolution gave me, ie opposable thumbs and free will, and change the fucking channel! When I saw this in my newsfeed yesterday, all I could do was groan, 'You're fucking shitting me, aren't you?' Well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It seems lately all people do is bitch and whine and sook about stuff they don't like, and then seek to have it banned. I HATE Adam Sandler movies, and I HATE Everybody Loves Raymond, so what I do is this funny little thing called - and I'll type it slowly - doing something else rather than watch. Hell, O'Keefe is a more enjoyable host than Koch; Koch asks questions that leave me feeling soiled, kind of like your questionable uncle asking you if you've started wearing a bra yet (whether you're thirteen or thirty-seven).
So my point is - don't like Andrew O'Keefe? Change the channel. Not too difficult.
Thursday 15 December 2016
Kaleidoscopic Emotions
Emotions are a fickle beast, really. They morph and change with the frequency and unpredictability of the Melbourne weather. Over the past few days, mine have been a turbulent maelstrom, twisting and changing like the images in a kaleidoscope. Some of those emotions have been:
1. Utter Fury. This is directed to former Twat-in-Chief Whose Silhouette Resembles A Ciborium, Tony Abbott. Last night I was doing the night medication run and from the radio heard him blathering and dissing pensions for people with bad backs and depression. The language I directed toward my radio would not have been out of place at a Naval boot camp. Hey, Abbott aka Entitled Arse, do you know anyone with a bad back? I do. I share my life with someone who has a bad back, and believe me, he doesn't see it as a means to shirk employment and live off the public teat for the rest of his life. He hates the situation. It is a thorn in his side. Do you have any idea how completely debilitating back issues are? No? Didn't think so. You must have copped a few to that ugly head of yours during your boxing for Oxford days if you seriously think bad backs are some kind of rort. You've always made my flesh crawl ('Virginity is a gift'), and my blood boil ('We will stop the boats' - seeking asylum is not against the law and Australia is mandated under the UN Convention on refugees, anyway, you prick). But last night you had my blood boiling to the point where the top of my skull nearly flew off because I have no pressure release valve. You utter, utter unscrupulous, miserable, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding moron if you believe what you said. Did your arse get jealous of the shit that made its way out your mouth? Complaining about these people seeking disability pension is somewhat craw-piercing coming from a bloke who's going to be enjoying a $300,000 per year pension.
2. Disgust. The disgust appeared when I saw on the news footage of a woman stealing Christmas decorations from a person's lawn. Honestly, why would you do this? Hey, I don't like 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs, either. I don't know why. I like lights, and tinsel, and baubles, and Nativity figures, and candy canes. I enjoy driving around at night and looking at the decorated homes, as I inwardly wonder about their upcoming electricity bills. I like hearing Christmas carols being piped through speakers at the shopping centre (except 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'Last Christmas' by Wham - those songs can fuck right off). But those 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs do my head in. There is something about them. They are not the sweet whimsy the home decorators believe them to be; they are whiny in tone. However, I would not remove one from someone's lawn, which this grubby type appears to have done. This might not be as low as stealing from a charity box set aside to buy presents for needy children, but it's still a pretty pathetic act. People often put up decorations in the hope others will enjoy them (and some probably put them up to one-up the neighbours), and along comes this slob in active wear gym pants (which was a laugh because she's clearly not been inside a gym since MTV aired) who takes it upon herself to stuff the decorations into a sack. Kind of like a reverse of Santa. Instead of a jolly fat man taking things out of his sack, we have a miserable, albeit fat, woman stealing and stuffing INTO her sack. But I know the footage looks damning, and I'm unsure whether it will be admissible in court proceedings. I will be interested to know what happens in those court proceedings, if any, from a legal standpoint. But all you bah-humbugs out there, just let people put out their decorations, okay? If the decorations are not impeding on your comfort, like lights with a wattage similar to a small sun being shone directly into your eyes when you're watching television or trying to sleep, just get over it if it's not your bag. Those of you who decorate your houses, I will continue to admire your graft and creativity. Just don't expect me to sigh with pleasure if I see a 'Santa, Please Stop Here' sign; those things set my teeth on edge.
3. Pride. My fifteen-year-old scored an academic award at his school presentation the other night: he came first in his year for Information Software Technology 100 Hours, which was an elective. Such an elective was unheard of when I was his age. Our electives were along the lines of the social sciences and creative sciences. Not that IST isn't necessarily creative, I guess. But I was one proud mumma!
4. Just Plain Crazy Emotion. My twelve-year-old had his Year 6 Graduation Assembly today. I cried. I wasn't the only one, the hall was a sea of sniffling mums, dads, boys and girls. It was kind of encouraging to see the boys being open with their emotions; when I was that age the boys wouldn't have dreamed of crying at their graduation. What a day they've had. They graduated and had a party - I didn't stick around because I'm aware a loitering parent can bring about a social death akin to being bombed by an entire Luftwaffe. Then after school I had to collect him from his school band end of year party, and of course some of the members won't be there next year. The kids had a screen hooked up to You Tube and were dancing to, of all things, Queen. My son picked 'Don't Stop Me Now', and tore up the dance floor, along with his best mate. 'Don't stop me now,' they sang, ''cos I'm having a good time...' And they were. But the good times in primary are finished now, and a new chapter begins.
5. More Plain Crazy Emotion - yesterday was the first anniversary of the death of my father. Twelve months since I last spoke to him. Technically twelve months and one day because I spoke to him the night before he died to remind him what time Mr Bingells would take him to a doctor's appointment. Mr Bingells did take Dad to the appointment, which was the last time anyone in our family saw him alive. After the appointment, Dad drove home (the appointment wasn't in Dad's home town) and died that afternoon.
But tonight there might be some sleep for us. The cool change has finally made itself felt, and it's now raining. The past few nights have brought discomfort and irritability - a by-product of no sleep due to this infernal heat. We shall see.
Now, I must be away. I've got a kitchen to straighten, and Christmas cards to write.
1. Utter Fury. This is directed to former Twat-in-Chief Whose Silhouette Resembles A Ciborium, Tony Abbott. Last night I was doing the night medication run and from the radio heard him blathering and dissing pensions for people with bad backs and depression. The language I directed toward my radio would not have been out of place at a Naval boot camp. Hey, Abbott aka Entitled Arse, do you know anyone with a bad back? I do. I share my life with someone who has a bad back, and believe me, he doesn't see it as a means to shirk employment and live off the public teat for the rest of his life. He hates the situation. It is a thorn in his side. Do you have any idea how completely debilitating back issues are? No? Didn't think so. You must have copped a few to that ugly head of yours during your boxing for Oxford days if you seriously think bad backs are some kind of rort. You've always made my flesh crawl ('Virginity is a gift'), and my blood boil ('We will stop the boats' - seeking asylum is not against the law and Australia is mandated under the UN Convention on refugees, anyway, you prick). But last night you had my blood boiling to the point where the top of my skull nearly flew off because I have no pressure release valve. You utter, utter unscrupulous, miserable, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding moron if you believe what you said. Did your arse get jealous of the shit that made its way out your mouth? Complaining about these people seeking disability pension is somewhat craw-piercing coming from a bloke who's going to be enjoying a $300,000 per year pension.
2. Disgust. The disgust appeared when I saw on the news footage of a woman stealing Christmas decorations from a person's lawn. Honestly, why would you do this? Hey, I don't like 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs, either. I don't know why. I like lights, and tinsel, and baubles, and Nativity figures, and candy canes. I enjoy driving around at night and looking at the decorated homes, as I inwardly wonder about their upcoming electricity bills. I like hearing Christmas carols being piped through speakers at the shopping centre (except 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'Last Christmas' by Wham - those songs can fuck right off). But those 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs do my head in. There is something about them. They are not the sweet whimsy the home decorators believe them to be; they are whiny in tone. However, I would not remove one from someone's lawn, which this grubby type appears to have done. This might not be as low as stealing from a charity box set aside to buy presents for needy children, but it's still a pretty pathetic act. People often put up decorations in the hope others will enjoy them (and some probably put them up to one-up the neighbours), and along comes this slob in active wear gym pants (which was a laugh because she's clearly not been inside a gym since MTV aired) who takes it upon herself to stuff the decorations into a sack. Kind of like a reverse of Santa. Instead of a jolly fat man taking things out of his sack, we have a miserable, albeit fat, woman stealing and stuffing INTO her sack. But I know the footage looks damning, and I'm unsure whether it will be admissible in court proceedings. I will be interested to know what happens in those court proceedings, if any, from a legal standpoint. But all you bah-humbugs out there, just let people put out their decorations, okay? If the decorations are not impeding on your comfort, like lights with a wattage similar to a small sun being shone directly into your eyes when you're watching television or trying to sleep, just get over it if it's not your bag. Those of you who decorate your houses, I will continue to admire your graft and creativity. Just don't expect me to sigh with pleasure if I see a 'Santa, Please Stop Here' sign; those things set my teeth on edge.
3. Pride. My fifteen-year-old scored an academic award at his school presentation the other night: he came first in his year for Information Software Technology 100 Hours, which was an elective. Such an elective was unheard of when I was his age. Our electives were along the lines of the social sciences and creative sciences. Not that IST isn't necessarily creative, I guess. But I was one proud mumma!
4. Just Plain Crazy Emotion. My twelve-year-old had his Year 6 Graduation Assembly today. I cried. I wasn't the only one, the hall was a sea of sniffling mums, dads, boys and girls. It was kind of encouraging to see the boys being open with their emotions; when I was that age the boys wouldn't have dreamed of crying at their graduation. What a day they've had. They graduated and had a party - I didn't stick around because I'm aware a loitering parent can bring about a social death akin to being bombed by an entire Luftwaffe. Then after school I had to collect him from his school band end of year party, and of course some of the members won't be there next year. The kids had a screen hooked up to You Tube and were dancing to, of all things, Queen. My son picked 'Don't Stop Me Now', and tore up the dance floor, along with his best mate. 'Don't stop me now,' they sang, ''cos I'm having a good time...' And they were. But the good times in primary are finished now, and a new chapter begins.
5. More Plain Crazy Emotion - yesterday was the first anniversary of the death of my father. Twelve months since I last spoke to him. Technically twelve months and one day because I spoke to him the night before he died to remind him what time Mr Bingells would take him to a doctor's appointment. Mr Bingells did take Dad to the appointment, which was the last time anyone in our family saw him alive. After the appointment, Dad drove home (the appointment wasn't in Dad's home town) and died that afternoon.
But tonight there might be some sleep for us. The cool change has finally made itself felt, and it's now raining. The past few nights have brought discomfort and irritability - a by-product of no sleep due to this infernal heat. We shall see.
Now, I must be away. I've got a kitchen to straighten, and Christmas cards to write.
Monday 12 December 2016
My Take on Daily Mail and Sam Armytage Undies Story
In 1972, a young journalist named Carl Bernstein discovered a laundered cheque linking Richard Nixon to the Watergate burglary, and along with Bob Woodward (a man described as the best of his generation when it comes to investigative reporting) exposed a scandal that led to the resignation of the POTUS. For those of you who don't know, and I'm talking about the hacks at Daily Mail Australia, this is heavy shit. To save you twits googling, POTUS is an acronym for President Of The United States. An acronym is a new word (often a noun) formed from the first letters of the collective words that describe that new word, such as Anzac or ASIO. Most of you reading this probably already know what an acronym is, but I'm kind of doubting the staff of Daily Mail Australia do.
Anyway, yesterday Daily Mail Australia ran an article about 'Sunrise' host Samantha Armytage going shopping in a 'loose-fitting striped dress' and 'granny panties showed through the garment...' whilst she was doing some shopping at Bondi Surf Seafoods. It spoke of her blonde hair being tied back in a pony tail (God, who fucking cares?) Accompanying this paradigm of razor-edge journalism was a photograph taken from behind which showed Ms Armytage climbing into a vehicle. I shit you not. This is what's passing for journalism these days. Someone photographed someone climbing into a vehicle, that someone having some visible panty line, and decided it was a story worth running with. To the hack who wrote this: it's really not. What it is, is utterly creepy and loathsome, and kind of fucking boring. Why do you believe people care if a television talking head purchases seafood and also wears underpants? We don't. No, really; we don't. I don't purport to be a fan of Samantha. Indeed, she has made comments that have loosened the fillings in my teeth. But this article just makes my flesh crawl, and she has my support on this. Samantha, I too wear undies!
Dude who wrote that shit (Margan), I will help you out a little here. Here's a nice article for you:
"Upper Hunter author Simone Bailey was today seen sweeping and mopping her kitchen floor whilst wearing a blue chemise type nightgown over a pair of huge black granny knickers, those knickers large enough and with elastic strong enough to be mistaken for an infant's pilchers. Or those awful sports knickers we used to have wear under our sports tunic at school. Ms Bailey, who is married to a lovely man who has the fortitude and stoicism to put up with her, later showered and changed into a mustard coloured t-shirt that flattered her autumnal complexion, and a shabby pair of pale blue capri length pants through which an outline of her hipster briefs could be seen."
Did you feel better reading that? Did you swoon at the insightful journalism and ground breaking, bowel-loosening facts claimed therein? No? Then you might now know how the rest of us felt when we read your asinine article. On the other hand, a paragraph like that probably made you jizz yourself.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to write the next 'Narnia' series. As an adult, I want to write the new 'Bonfire of the Vanities', or 'A Prayer For Owen Meany'. These books are the pinnacle of fine literature and when I read 'Owen Meany' I actually got it. I understood what my English teachers meant when they talked about language and themes and imagery. I felt like I was falling in love, and thought to myself, 'This is what I want to write'. Now, Daily Mail Guy, when you decided on a career in journalism, is this grubby pile of festering crap what you aspired to write?
I have a memory of myself as a little girl writing stories, and my mother smiling with pride as a told her I wanted to write a play or book that would make people feel great. I'm just imagining this bloke telling his mother, 'Mum, when I grow up-' (hah!) '-I want to be a journalist. I'm going to write all that really important stuff like women's underwear.' His mother no doubt smiled indulgently, and then had a lock put on her underwear drawer.
I wonder what Bernstein and Woodward did after they completed their investigation and published their incredible article? Maybe they opened a bottle of booze and toasted each other. Maybe they just sat at their desks thinking, 'Faaarrrrk'. I'd probably have done both.
The sense of accomplishment, achievement, fear and pride those two guys, along with the staff of The Washington Post must have felt after finalisation of their investigation into the Watergate robbery is unfathomable to me. What do you lot at the Daily Mail do when you've completed one of your jaw-dropping ex-po-zays? I'm guessing break out the tissues and delete your Internet browsing history.
Saturday 10 December 2016
Belated Karmic Retribution, Uploading To You Tube, & Disco Ducks
Here is a little list of what I've learned lately:
1. Karmic retribution happens when you least expect it. It's like a cosmic universal Candid Camera thing. I went for a swim with my twelve-year-old son in the local indoor pool today. It was very enjoyable once I got over my almost insurmountable wussiness and got ALL wet, not just up to my chest. I did half an hour of laps and thought myself most virtuous. My son spotted a family playing some kind of pool ping pong - waterproof bats and a small ball - and asked could he play along. They graciously handed him the equipment, and he asked me would I play a game. In the interest of mother/son bonding, I agreed. As I've mentioned in the past, I am utter shit at anything involving a ball and implement with which to whack said ball, and an aquatic setting does in no way improve my woeful playing ability. Eventually my son lobbed a beauty, which bounced off my cranium, and actually bloody hurt! 'Sorry, Mum!' called my son, his chortles giving away the fact that he was not sorry in the least. I rubbed my head, and thought about a Boxing Day morning some thirty-nine years ago, when I was given Tether Tennis for Christmas. Anyone remember that? A plastic pink ball tied to a pole, and the players hit said ball with blue plastic paddles. It was fun. Well, I was playing with my cousin this Boxing Day morning. By some fluke, I actually managed to hit the ball, and I hit it so hard the string came untethered from the pole's pinnacle, and the pink ball when zoooooming through air currents on the trajectory set by the laws of ballistics, and bounced hard off my cousin's cranium. Although it had not been my intention to inflict this pain on my cousin, I did think it looked funny, and had a secret snigger. He stormed off to tell on me, and I then had to wait for one of the grown-ups, be it my mother or my uncle, to come storming to the top of the back steps and gruffly demand what was going on out there. So Karma has finally had her way with me for braining, and then sniggering at, my cousin that Boxing Day morning. And Cuzzie, if you're reading this, sorry for laughing but it did look funny. And my son, one day you are going to cop a plastic round projectile to the top of your head which will hurt, and the perpetrator will laugh, but that perpetrator will have a similar fate in due course, and plastic balls will bounce from perpetrators' heads like a series of never-ending Russian dolls, as the laws of Karma deem fit.
2. It takes forever to upload four minutes of footage to You Tube. Maybe because it was on my computer, having been put there from my husband's camera. I've filmed footage on my iPod at a concert - just a snippet of a song - and put that on You Tube before sharing on Facebook - which took only a few minutes. Anyway, last Friday night Mr Bingells, our water ping pong playing son, and myself went to the local Worker's Club to redeem a voucher I won at trivia last week on the Who Am I question (the answer was Weary Dunlop). We enjoyed very succulent salt-and-pepper calamari, and I redeemed some raffle tickets I had also won. This is making me wonder what the hell has happened to me. I used to drink on the beach across from Selinas waiting for the Hoodoo Gurus to come on. Now I'm going to raffles at clubs. I guess I grew old and had kids. I also won a meat tray on the raffles. Go me. I will probably go back there next Friday night because I've won another voucher on the Who Am I (the answer this time being Hugh Laurie). But back to the point. We got home to where our fifteen-year-old and his mate were playing the x-box again, which I daresay would have been a cover for looking at cyber porn whilst they had the house to themselves. I decided to put the footage Mr Bingells took on You Tube. I actually worked out how to do this. Then 'it' said the approximate time would be one hour and 47 minutes. It had to be shitting me, I thought. There was the option to encode to a different type of format, but I figured being a non-tech Luddite I had best stick to the path I was on, and in the meantime could utilise my time constructively by learning another language, or driving to Sydney and back. But here is a link to the footage, which is my twelve-year-old performing to 'No' by Megan Trainor in his school talent quest last week: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_80-6rRUHdw
3. The song 'Disco Duck' by Rick Dees and his Cast of Idiots is still pretty stupid. I found a link to it because my Facebook group is having an ornithological theme today so far as the songs go. The good ones like 'Freebird' and 'Wings of an Eagle' are gone. Someone's already posted 'Old Man Emu', so the only turd I had left (and I had to pick from turds) was 'Disco Duck'. The clip I posted has people in disco gear seriously dancing a choreographed routine to this. How did they do this and not revolt? 'Flapping my arms I began to cluck/Look at me: I'm the Disco Duh-uh-uh-uh-uhck!' I called my nimble-footed son over and asked would he like to learn the routine the dancers were performing. He had been previously shown footage of 'that' dance from 'Napoleon Dynamite' and drooled like Homer Simpson, and has vowed to perform that in the next school talent quest. But not 'Disco Duck'. His eyes widened. His mouth twisted into a moue of utter distaste. He clearly believed this to be the stupidest thing he had ever viewed, and he is from the generation that believed 'Gangnam Style' to be pinnacle of great music. He asked that he be excused from every viewing that again.
It is that time again. I must feed my dogs. They are eyeing me with patience, but that patience will not last. Thank you for reading. Drop me a comment. Also, check out the links and purchase my books. Someone did, and brought them along to a school band performance for me to autograph last Thursday. I guess I'm posting about my kids a lot lately, but it's the end of the school year, and there are so many concerts and things they're involved with.
1. Karmic retribution happens when you least expect it. It's like a cosmic universal Candid Camera thing. I went for a swim with my twelve-year-old son in the local indoor pool today. It was very enjoyable once I got over my almost insurmountable wussiness and got ALL wet, not just up to my chest. I did half an hour of laps and thought myself most virtuous. My son spotted a family playing some kind of pool ping pong - waterproof bats and a small ball - and asked could he play along. They graciously handed him the equipment, and he asked me would I play a game. In the interest of mother/son bonding, I agreed. As I've mentioned in the past, I am utter shit at anything involving a ball and implement with which to whack said ball, and an aquatic setting does in no way improve my woeful playing ability. Eventually my son lobbed a beauty, which bounced off my cranium, and actually bloody hurt! 'Sorry, Mum!' called my son, his chortles giving away the fact that he was not sorry in the least. I rubbed my head, and thought about a Boxing Day morning some thirty-nine years ago, when I was given Tether Tennis for Christmas. Anyone remember that? A plastic pink ball tied to a pole, and the players hit said ball with blue plastic paddles. It was fun. Well, I was playing with my cousin this Boxing Day morning. By some fluke, I actually managed to hit the ball, and I hit it so hard the string came untethered from the pole's pinnacle, and the pink ball when zoooooming through air currents on the trajectory set by the laws of ballistics, and bounced hard off my cousin's cranium. Although it had not been my intention to inflict this pain on my cousin, I did think it looked funny, and had a secret snigger. He stormed off to tell on me, and I then had to wait for one of the grown-ups, be it my mother or my uncle, to come storming to the top of the back steps and gruffly demand what was going on out there. So Karma has finally had her way with me for braining, and then sniggering at, my cousin that Boxing Day morning. And Cuzzie, if you're reading this, sorry for laughing but it did look funny. And my son, one day you are going to cop a plastic round projectile to the top of your head which will hurt, and the perpetrator will laugh, but that perpetrator will have a similar fate in due course, and plastic balls will bounce from perpetrators' heads like a series of never-ending Russian dolls, as the laws of Karma deem fit.
2. It takes forever to upload four minutes of footage to You Tube. Maybe because it was on my computer, having been put there from my husband's camera. I've filmed footage on my iPod at a concert - just a snippet of a song - and put that on You Tube before sharing on Facebook - which took only a few minutes. Anyway, last Friday night Mr Bingells, our water ping pong playing son, and myself went to the local Worker's Club to redeem a voucher I won at trivia last week on the Who Am I question (the answer was Weary Dunlop). We enjoyed very succulent salt-and-pepper calamari, and I redeemed some raffle tickets I had also won. This is making me wonder what the hell has happened to me. I used to drink on the beach across from Selinas waiting for the Hoodoo Gurus to come on. Now I'm going to raffles at clubs. I guess I grew old and had kids. I also won a meat tray on the raffles. Go me. I will probably go back there next Friday night because I've won another voucher on the Who Am I (the answer this time being Hugh Laurie). But back to the point. We got home to where our fifteen-year-old and his mate were playing the x-box again, which I daresay would have been a cover for looking at cyber porn whilst they had the house to themselves. I decided to put the footage Mr Bingells took on You Tube. I actually worked out how to do this. Then 'it' said the approximate time would be one hour and 47 minutes. It had to be shitting me, I thought. There was the option to encode to a different type of format, but I figured being a non-tech Luddite I had best stick to the path I was on, and in the meantime could utilise my time constructively by learning another language, or driving to Sydney and back. But here is a link to the footage, which is my twelve-year-old performing to 'No' by Megan Trainor in his school talent quest last week: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_80-6rRUHdw
3. The song 'Disco Duck' by Rick Dees and his Cast of Idiots is still pretty stupid. I found a link to it because my Facebook group is having an ornithological theme today so far as the songs go. The good ones like 'Freebird' and 'Wings of an Eagle' are gone. Someone's already posted 'Old Man Emu', so the only turd I had left (and I had to pick from turds) was 'Disco Duck'. The clip I posted has people in disco gear seriously dancing a choreographed routine to this. How did they do this and not revolt? 'Flapping my arms I began to cluck/Look at me: I'm the Disco Duh-uh-uh-uh-uhck!' I called my nimble-footed son over and asked would he like to learn the routine the dancers were performing. He had been previously shown footage of 'that' dance from 'Napoleon Dynamite' and drooled like Homer Simpson, and has vowed to perform that in the next school talent quest. But not 'Disco Duck'. His eyes widened. His mouth twisted into a moue of utter distaste. He clearly believed this to be the stupidest thing he had ever viewed, and he is from the generation that believed 'Gangnam Style' to be pinnacle of great music. He asked that he be excused from every viewing that again.
It is that time again. I must feed my dogs. They are eyeing me with patience, but that patience will not last. Thank you for reading. Drop me a comment. Also, check out the links and purchase my books. Someone did, and brought them along to a school band performance for me to autograph last Thursday. I guess I'm posting about my kids a lot lately, but it's the end of the school year, and there are so many concerts and things they're involved with.
Tuesday 6 December 2016
Boasting Mum Alert
This is my blog, and upon this blog I do a helluva lot of bitching. Today will probably be no different - I'm sure bitchiness will appear. Oh, perhaps I should deal with it just now - and it's one of my usual beefs which is the inane questions being asked on breakfast television. The one I heard this morning related to some people who had welfare payments suspended whilst they were overseas. My guess is they might not have liaised properly with Centrelink regarding their reporting conditions. But naturally it was blown waaaaay out of proportion, and the question was put to the viewer: 'Should people on Centrelink payments be allowed to travel overseas?' No, I didn't just make that up. And being a woman of sound intelligence and with a modicum of compassion, and a fuckload of cynicism, I am pretty confident this question is designed to appeal to the base element of the viewing audience, who consider themselves to be the little Aussie battler who has to fight for everything they've got and who hates refugees and bludgers. The tone of the answers appears to be in the negative. The underlying sentiment appears to be 'I can't afford to travel, so why should they be allowed to?' Well, the keyword here is 'allowed'. If a judge has not confiscated someone's passport whilst they are on bail, then that person is allowed to travel, and it is nobody's damned business how they came by the money to purchase a ticket. As well as budgeting, there are things called inheritances, winnings on a horse race (and everyone will whinge because we all know people on welfare shouldn't be allowed to gamble - pfffft! gimme a break!), et al. Shame on the television show for asking such an inflammatory question, and stop pissing down people's legs as you attempt to pass it off as rain, okay? I don't care if someone on welfare travels. Good luck to them. I'm more worried about highly paid politicians rorting and claiming all sorts of perks and lurks. To the people who complain that they cannot afford an airline ticket, so 'they' shouldn't be travelling either, I say this: I don't have a bum like Beyoncé's, and I want one so therefore all you people who are genetically blessed with great glutes, or who take the time to do multitudinous leg curls and squats and not pig out on camembert on crackers - you can't have a great arse like Beyoncé, either. See how much sense this makes? Then connect the dots and stop dumping shit on people who happen to have found a way to buy an airline ticket.
But I won't let it spoil my day. Nor did I let my downtown-Syria-looking bathroom spoil my day (and believe me, it has really been getting me down lately, but Mr Bingells has been out pricing sheeting). I looked at my shitty bathroom today and muttered, 'You can't upset me today.' You know why it can't upset me? Because every now and then something happens and you are reminded about what's really important in the world. Two days ago Master 15 handed me a note from his school advising he would be getting an award at the end of year assembly. I am exceedingly proud. That same afternoon I took Master 12 to the presentation for his dance school. We sat through the awards, and then the principal announced the encouragement awards were to be handed to the boy and girl who were doing well, were a little bit shy, just needed that extra encouragement, and the boy who won was - yeah - MINE. In the split second before his name, I thought it wouldn't be him because he's not especially shy. But - drum roll - it was HIS name, and up he got. He did not walk to the stage. He sashayed and strutted like the most vain peacock ever to be hatched from an egg. He clasped his hands into the self-congratulatory gesture of old as he walked, er, sashayed. He received his trophy, said loudly he wished to thank his mum and dad, gave me the thumbs up from the stage, then struck a Zoolander 'Blue Steel' type post with the trophy held aloft. He cracked up the audience, that's for sure. I think his line of thinking is he might not be the most accomplished dancer at the school, but by the Living Harries, he's the one everyone will remember.
Today he competed in his school talent quest, having successfully passed the audition process. I didn't know if I'd get there in time because I was rostered to work. I drove there as quickly as the speed limit would allow, muttering, 'Nice blinker, fuckwit. Nice checking of your blind spot, fuckwit' to the, well, fuckwit who pulled over without indicating just near Big W, and went to do a turn back into traffic as I went past. I got to the school, hurried to the hall, and quietly made my way in so as not to disturb the three girls performing a skit on stage. I sat just behind Mr Bingells, who whispered to me, 'You missed him. He was brilliant!'. This saddens me to have missed him, especially since again he mounted the stage as though to the manner born, and gave his name and said, 'Is my dad in the audience? Put your hand up, Dad!' Then he danced like a veritable Mr Bojangles. Whether he has earned a placing, I don't know - the winners and runners up are to be announced on Friday.
Disturbing Fact Of The Day: today I learned my younger son shares the same name as one of the band members of Bucks Fizz, those saccharine twerps who inflicted upon us 'Making Your Mind Up', sugary confection that won that particular year's Eurovision Song Contest, and makes one wonder what in hell the other acts must have been like!
But I won't let it spoil my day. Nor did I let my downtown-Syria-looking bathroom spoil my day (and believe me, it has really been getting me down lately, but Mr Bingells has been out pricing sheeting). I looked at my shitty bathroom today and muttered, 'You can't upset me today.' You know why it can't upset me? Because every now and then something happens and you are reminded about what's really important in the world. Two days ago Master 15 handed me a note from his school advising he would be getting an award at the end of year assembly. I am exceedingly proud. That same afternoon I took Master 12 to the presentation for his dance school. We sat through the awards, and then the principal announced the encouragement awards were to be handed to the boy and girl who were doing well, were a little bit shy, just needed that extra encouragement, and the boy who won was - yeah - MINE. In the split second before his name, I thought it wouldn't be him because he's not especially shy. But - drum roll - it was HIS name, and up he got. He did not walk to the stage. He sashayed and strutted like the most vain peacock ever to be hatched from an egg. He clasped his hands into the self-congratulatory gesture of old as he walked, er, sashayed. He received his trophy, said loudly he wished to thank his mum and dad, gave me the thumbs up from the stage, then struck a Zoolander 'Blue Steel' type post with the trophy held aloft. He cracked up the audience, that's for sure. I think his line of thinking is he might not be the most accomplished dancer at the school, but by the Living Harries, he's the one everyone will remember.
Today he competed in his school talent quest, having successfully passed the audition process. I didn't know if I'd get there in time because I was rostered to work. I drove there as quickly as the speed limit would allow, muttering, 'Nice blinker, fuckwit. Nice checking of your blind spot, fuckwit' to the, well, fuckwit who pulled over without indicating just near Big W, and went to do a turn back into traffic as I went past. I got to the school, hurried to the hall, and quietly made my way in so as not to disturb the three girls performing a skit on stage. I sat just behind Mr Bingells, who whispered to me, 'You missed him. He was brilliant!'. This saddens me to have missed him, especially since again he mounted the stage as though to the manner born, and gave his name and said, 'Is my dad in the audience? Put your hand up, Dad!' Then he danced like a veritable Mr Bojangles. Whether he has earned a placing, I don't know - the winners and runners up are to be announced on Friday.
Disturbing Fact Of The Day: today I learned my younger son shares the same name as one of the band members of Bucks Fizz, those saccharine twerps who inflicted upon us 'Making Your Mind Up', sugary confection that won that particular year's Eurovision Song Contest, and makes one wonder what in hell the other acts must have been like!
Sunday 4 December 2016
Bitter Butter
It's unlikely that I will be directing any movies in the near future. If I do find myself in the director's chair, I will ensure that my actors are competent and I trust them. What I won't do is put them through humiliation sans their consent because if they are actors, they can ACT humiliation. Playing a harrowing scene can be very tough on an actor. I'm aware Ned Beatty was unable to go through another take after shooting the 'squeal like a pig' scene in 'Deliverance'. 'Deliverance' is a fantastic and brilliantly acted movie, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Be warned, it's not a feel good one and you're not going to be dancing and singing to the soundtrack, and I'm yet to see it in the suggestions for a gift for Mum when all those Mother's Day ads are shown. By the way, Messrs 15 and 12, your mother would prefer a copy of 'Deliverance' to the schmaltzy schlock, always starring Hugh Grant, often suggested by the merchandising folk. Acting is a craft and I'm sure actors have to sometimes take themselves to a dark place. That being said, I have a dislike for actors who talk about their craft like it was on par with curing cancer. Thespians: it's not.
Sir Anthony Hopkins did not really eat people when playing Dr Hannibal Lecter. Indeed, to my knowledge, the actor is vegetarian. You see, what he did was ACT.
If someone is directing a movie wherein the main character is a returned soldier dealing with PTSD, then the director is unlikely to drop the actor unaware into a war zone so the actor can feel the effects of PTSD, rather than acting them competently having carried out the research warranted to adequately play the role.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting my two cents worth on the revelations that have just surfaced about the 'butter' scene in 'Last Tango In Paris'. Sure, Brando might not have actually performed penetrative sex during the filming, but for the director and senior actor to conspire and not tell the much younger (nineteen) actress Maria Schneider what was planned in order to achieve a more visceral and genuine humiliation, well, that is just totally revolting. Bernardo Bertolucci said he wanted the humiliation of the girl, not the character. Bertolucci, you are a fucking prick. If Marlon Brando's character was to be raped, would you have conspired with other actors to humiliate him? Somehow I doubt it. I haven't sat through 'Last Tango In Paris' in its entirety, but now that I am aware the infamous scene was not consensual, I don't believe I will. I am perfectly happy to watch confronting and harrowing scenes if they are performed by actors who have made informed consent to play the roles in their contribution to art. Bertolucci's method does not sit well with me, and I am not inclined to watch a young woman feeling genuinely degraded because the conceited fuckwit of a director didn't trust her to simply ACT.
This does not mean I am going to eschew all Bertolucci's work because anybody who knows me knows I am a firm believer in ars gratis artis. I still watch Roman Polanski's movies because I believe in separation of art from artist, notwithstanding I think Polanski is a sleazy prick. However, if I hear someone has been treated as Ms Schneider was treated, then I will quite likely view something else. As I mentioned, I don't care what the movie's subject matter is because as a rule, the actors are consenting to the role, and doing this funny little thing called 'acting'. You do understand that, don't you, Bertolucci?
How big a pair of fuck ups must Brando and Bertolucci have been, if they thought that was okay?
You know what might be funny? If someone, somewhere, some day when he's least expecting it - no, it's not Candid Camera - someone steps up to Bertolucci and shoves a stick of butter straight up his arse.
Sir Anthony Hopkins did not really eat people when playing Dr Hannibal Lecter. Indeed, to my knowledge, the actor is vegetarian. You see, what he did was ACT.
If someone is directing a movie wherein the main character is a returned soldier dealing with PTSD, then the director is unlikely to drop the actor unaware into a war zone so the actor can feel the effects of PTSD, rather than acting them competently having carried out the research warranted to adequately play the role.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting my two cents worth on the revelations that have just surfaced about the 'butter' scene in 'Last Tango In Paris'. Sure, Brando might not have actually performed penetrative sex during the filming, but for the director and senior actor to conspire and not tell the much younger (nineteen) actress Maria Schneider what was planned in order to achieve a more visceral and genuine humiliation, well, that is just totally revolting. Bernardo Bertolucci said he wanted the humiliation of the girl, not the character. Bertolucci, you are a fucking prick. If Marlon Brando's character was to be raped, would you have conspired with other actors to humiliate him? Somehow I doubt it. I haven't sat through 'Last Tango In Paris' in its entirety, but now that I am aware the infamous scene was not consensual, I don't believe I will. I am perfectly happy to watch confronting and harrowing scenes if they are performed by actors who have made informed consent to play the roles in their contribution to art. Bertolucci's method does not sit well with me, and I am not inclined to watch a young woman feeling genuinely degraded because the conceited fuckwit of a director didn't trust her to simply ACT.
This does not mean I am going to eschew all Bertolucci's work because anybody who knows me knows I am a firm believer in ars gratis artis. I still watch Roman Polanski's movies because I believe in separation of art from artist, notwithstanding I think Polanski is a sleazy prick. However, if I hear someone has been treated as Ms Schneider was treated, then I will quite likely view something else. As I mentioned, I don't care what the movie's subject matter is because as a rule, the actors are consenting to the role, and doing this funny little thing called 'acting'. You do understand that, don't you, Bertolucci?
How big a pair of fuck ups must Brando and Bertolucci have been, if they thought that was okay?
You know what might be funny? If someone, somewhere, some day when he's least expecting it - no, it's not Candid Camera - someone steps up to Bertolucci and shoves a stick of butter straight up his arse.
Wednesday 30 November 2016
My Christmas List
Memo to all those who are misunderstanding the appointment of Ms Susan Kiefel as our first female Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia: this does not mean more accurate rulings from the bench, okay? This does not mean less slaps on the wrist for offenders, okay? I have had to point out to misguided twerps lately that gender plays no part in the accuracy of findings from the bench, but knowledge of the law. I very much doubt Her Honour has studied law, been admitted as a barrister, practised, attained the position of judge, and now this most prestigious appointment merely to have her gender called in regarding any cases in which her rulings are used. Seriously, if I was Ms Kiefel I'd be pretty bloody offended by this notion. And for those of assuming slaps on the wrist in sentencing will be a thing of the past, it's not the role of the High Court to go handing out these sentences - it rules on constitutional arguments, as well appeals from State Supreme Courts (both civil and criminal matters). This is not to downplay the historical significance of Ms Kiefel's appointment, I just want SJWs to stop soaking the crotch of their underpants over meretricious ideals and misconceptions, okay? That being said, well done to Ms Kiefel on her appointment.
I haven't done a Christmas list yet. Here's my starters:
1. For people to stop misusing the word 'misogyny', and stop labelling any male who does not happen to agree with a female commentator, or happens to dislike somebody who just happens to be female, a 'misogynist'. It's inappropriate, incorrect, somewhat insulting, and it really, really annoys the living snot out of me. Ever since Julia Gillard's 'speech', it's been the constant sand in my vagina, which is a natural segue to item number 2/...
2. For writers to stop referring to the external parts of the female genitalia as 'vagina'. Can't you people write 'vulva'? It's a helluva lot easier because there are less letters! Reporting that a red carpet A- to D-Lister had worn a dress that exposed their vagina is really unforgivably stupid, unless the dress was equipped with a speculum and mirror, okay? 'Easy Tips For Shaving Vagina'? How about 'don't stick a fucking razor up your snatch in the first place, girls'?
3. For 2016 to just end (which is a natural occurrence at Christmas, anyway). This has been the crappiest year in living memory. Just about everyone appears to have died! Yet the Kardashians live on. They are the cockroach of the Grim Reaper's list - able to survive nuclear explosions when everything else around has succumbed to the radioactive fallout.
4. For my books to be best sellers - you lot can assist with this and perhaps do some of your own Chrissie shopping - check on the links in my bio and read the first chapters.
5. A new bathroom. A new EVERYTHING, it seems! Doing some renos, and they're taking a long, long time. My house looks like those stock photographs you see in articles about Syria.
Oh well. Time to put up some decorations now. I'm determined to make this as festive a Christmas as possible. Last Christmas was so bloody miserable because my father died a couple of weeks beforehand. This year it will be a good one. Unless 2016 strikes again.
I haven't done a Christmas list yet. Here's my starters:
1. For people to stop misusing the word 'misogyny', and stop labelling any male who does not happen to agree with a female commentator, or happens to dislike somebody who just happens to be female, a 'misogynist'. It's inappropriate, incorrect, somewhat insulting, and it really, really annoys the living snot out of me. Ever since Julia Gillard's 'speech', it's been the constant sand in my vagina, which is a natural segue to item number 2/...
2. For writers to stop referring to the external parts of the female genitalia as 'vagina'. Can't you people write 'vulva'? It's a helluva lot easier because there are less letters! Reporting that a red carpet A- to D-Lister had worn a dress that exposed their vagina is really unforgivably stupid, unless the dress was equipped with a speculum and mirror, okay? 'Easy Tips For Shaving Vagina'? How about 'don't stick a fucking razor up your snatch in the first place, girls'?
3. For 2016 to just end (which is a natural occurrence at Christmas, anyway). This has been the crappiest year in living memory. Just about everyone appears to have died! Yet the Kardashians live on. They are the cockroach of the Grim Reaper's list - able to survive nuclear explosions when everything else around has succumbed to the radioactive fallout.
4. For my books to be best sellers - you lot can assist with this and perhaps do some of your own Chrissie shopping - check on the links in my bio and read the first chapters.
5. A new bathroom. A new EVERYTHING, it seems! Doing some renos, and they're taking a long, long time. My house looks like those stock photographs you see in articles about Syria.
Oh well. Time to put up some decorations now. I'm determined to make this as festive a Christmas as possible. Last Christmas was so bloody miserable because my father died a couple of weeks beforehand. This year it will be a good one. Unless 2016 strikes again.
Monday 28 November 2016
Let Me Be Blunt
God, I hope the press have some tweezers handy to extract the splinters from underneath their fingernails where they've scraped the bottom of the barrel with the execrable headlines about Princess Beatrice slashing Ed Sheeran's face at a party with a ceremonial sword. I've seen the pictures, and I'm sure he's done more damage shaving!
It would appear there was some high spirited horseplay happening at a palace, and James Blunt mentioned he'd like a knighthood. Princess Beatrice thought she might be able to do this as a proxy for ol' Nanny Betty, and grabbed a ceremonial sword with which to do the honours. I'm not sure who owns the sword, to be honest I'm not certain if it's her father's residence where the party was or not. Even if it's her father's residence, it doesn't mean he is the owner of the sword per se, but he might very well be its keeper and custodian. Anyway, with all this goofing and tomfoolery as she tried to dub James Blunt (maybe she was attempting surgery on his vocal cords to spare us any more cat-on-the-bandsaw offerings a la 'You're Beautiful'), she ended up giving Ed's face a bit of a nick - well, it was more than a bit of a nick as it required hospital treatment. But nonetheless, all is well in the land of Royals and Britpop celebrities.
To me, this is proof that none of us are immune to dumb-arse hijinks at a party. It's a grander, marble-floored, damask-walled, suits-of-armour-in-every-corner, chandeliered-ceilings scale of the silliness we all get up to at times when the olds are out. At twenty-eight or so, Princess Beatrice should perhaps be beyond this dumb-arsery, but then I'm not about to judge too much. Maybe she was house-sitting (or palace-sitting) for Prince Andrew, threw a party, and things got a little out of hand. We've all been there. It kind of reminded me of a time when I was in my early-twenties and a maiden aunt went on holiday, entrusting her unit to be house-sat by a cousin of mine. My cousin was, and is still, a very responsible person. She had no intention of throwing wild parties in our aunt's absence. She did however decide to host a dinner party. Guests included yours truly, her younger sister, another cousin of ours with her then-fiancé (now husband), and two university friends of the younger sister, and younger sister's best male friend (who is now her husband). Most of us prepared a dish for the repast, and it was a very civilised - mostly - evening. Eventually, this uni friend - we'll call him Anthony because, well, it's his name - decided to open a bottle of Creaming Soda. God knows what he'd done with it, because the very microsecond the lid was removed, the bottle's contents burst forth like an erupting volcano, and the kitchen floor, stove top, refrigerator, doorway to the living room, and living room carpet were saturated in this sticky, radioactive looking syrup. I might point out that along with the furnishings, several of the party's attendees, your blogger included, were also sprayed copiously with the Creaming Soda. The place kind of looked like a murder scene, and we the innocent bystanders or perpetrators who had been caught in the grisly backsplash as the victim bled out, the blood pulsating in spurts from the fatal wounds. After a few seconds stunned silence, we set about mopping soft drink from the furnishings and carpet, and washing ourselves.
We never let Anthony forget it. Every get together where he was in attendance was punctuated with the anecdote starting, 'Remember the night you sprayed soft drink all over our auntie's flat?'
Anthony eventually graduated from university and took up teaching. By coincidence, one of his students was my nephew. My sister went to collect her son one day. Now, my sister has black hair, but will occasionally chuck in a rinse with auburn highlights. I am guessing she had treated her hair thus, and she told me she also had her sunglasses on, because Anthony thought she was me. He greeted her, and said, 'I still think about that party at your auntie's place.' From behind her sunglasses, my sister smiled blankly, but politely, as she tried to place him. 'At Crow's Nest?' he prompted, and she gave one of those smiles you give when you're trying to figure out what on earth someone is on about, but did twig which of our aunts he meant. 'You must remember,' he went on, 'I opened a bottle of Creaming Soda and it went everywhere!' My sister continued with the polite smile and polite 'mmmm' sounds, wondering had she been so utterly wasted at some shindig it had been totally obliterated from her memory. 'Your auntie was overseas and you guys had a party without her knowing,' said my nephew's teacher. The penny dropped, and my sister told him she believed he was referring to a night involving her younger sister (and in case you can't work it out - that's ME!).
But yes, this was back in 1990, well before social media, and I doubt anyone would bother posting or reporting on this. Or maybe they would, God knows people post the most asinine things at times. Anyway, poor old Princess Beatrice can't get away with her shenanigans, trying to bestow a knighthood on James Blunt. Well, the potential knight was 'blunt', but the sword was not.
It would appear there was some high spirited horseplay happening at a palace, and James Blunt mentioned he'd like a knighthood. Princess Beatrice thought she might be able to do this as a proxy for ol' Nanny Betty, and grabbed a ceremonial sword with which to do the honours. I'm not sure who owns the sword, to be honest I'm not certain if it's her father's residence where the party was or not. Even if it's her father's residence, it doesn't mean he is the owner of the sword per se, but he might very well be its keeper and custodian. Anyway, with all this goofing and tomfoolery as she tried to dub James Blunt (maybe she was attempting surgery on his vocal cords to spare us any more cat-on-the-bandsaw offerings a la 'You're Beautiful'), she ended up giving Ed's face a bit of a nick - well, it was more than a bit of a nick as it required hospital treatment. But nonetheless, all is well in the land of Royals and Britpop celebrities.
To me, this is proof that none of us are immune to dumb-arse hijinks at a party. It's a grander, marble-floored, damask-walled, suits-of-armour-in-every-corner, chandeliered-ceilings scale of the silliness we all get up to at times when the olds are out. At twenty-eight or so, Princess Beatrice should perhaps be beyond this dumb-arsery, but then I'm not about to judge too much. Maybe she was house-sitting (or palace-sitting) for Prince Andrew, threw a party, and things got a little out of hand. We've all been there. It kind of reminded me of a time when I was in my early-twenties and a maiden aunt went on holiday, entrusting her unit to be house-sat by a cousin of mine. My cousin was, and is still, a very responsible person. She had no intention of throwing wild parties in our aunt's absence. She did however decide to host a dinner party. Guests included yours truly, her younger sister, another cousin of ours with her then-fiancé (now husband), and two university friends of the younger sister, and younger sister's best male friend (who is now her husband). Most of us prepared a dish for the repast, and it was a very civilised - mostly - evening. Eventually, this uni friend - we'll call him Anthony because, well, it's his name - decided to open a bottle of Creaming Soda. God knows what he'd done with it, because the very microsecond the lid was removed, the bottle's contents burst forth like an erupting volcano, and the kitchen floor, stove top, refrigerator, doorway to the living room, and living room carpet were saturated in this sticky, radioactive looking syrup. I might point out that along with the furnishings, several of the party's attendees, your blogger included, were also sprayed copiously with the Creaming Soda. The place kind of looked like a murder scene, and we the innocent bystanders or perpetrators who had been caught in the grisly backsplash as the victim bled out, the blood pulsating in spurts from the fatal wounds. After a few seconds stunned silence, we set about mopping soft drink from the furnishings and carpet, and washing ourselves.
We never let Anthony forget it. Every get together where he was in attendance was punctuated with the anecdote starting, 'Remember the night you sprayed soft drink all over our auntie's flat?'
Anthony eventually graduated from university and took up teaching. By coincidence, one of his students was my nephew. My sister went to collect her son one day. Now, my sister has black hair, but will occasionally chuck in a rinse with auburn highlights. I am guessing she had treated her hair thus, and she told me she also had her sunglasses on, because Anthony thought she was me. He greeted her, and said, 'I still think about that party at your auntie's place.' From behind her sunglasses, my sister smiled blankly, but politely, as she tried to place him. 'At Crow's Nest?' he prompted, and she gave one of those smiles you give when you're trying to figure out what on earth someone is on about, but did twig which of our aunts he meant. 'You must remember,' he went on, 'I opened a bottle of Creaming Soda and it went everywhere!' My sister continued with the polite smile and polite 'mmmm' sounds, wondering had she been so utterly wasted at some shindig it had been totally obliterated from her memory. 'Your auntie was overseas and you guys had a party without her knowing,' said my nephew's teacher. The penny dropped, and my sister told him she believed he was referring to a night involving her younger sister (and in case you can't work it out - that's ME!).
But yes, this was back in 1990, well before social media, and I doubt anyone would bother posting or reporting on this. Or maybe they would, God knows people post the most asinine things at times. Anyway, poor old Princess Beatrice can't get away with her shenanigans, trying to bestow a knighthood on James Blunt. Well, the potential knight was 'blunt', but the sword was not.
Thursday 24 November 2016
From Awkward Questions, To Occult, To Dougal From The Magic Roundabout
Might do a little tinkering on this thing tonight. Just been looking at the toolbar hereof, and I might have actually worked out how to do some techy stuff to make this blog of mine really rock. Oh, I know I should rely on my craft as a wordsmith, but sometimes it's fun to do tricks as well. Like insert images. Might try it soon-ish.
I thought I should do a little work on it tonight, because I'm going to be as busy as a one-armed fan dancer over the next few days, but it's hard to think about things tonight. What will amuse my readership? Will anybody care how proud I was when I took my twelve-year-old for a haircut today, and the hairdresser congratulated him on his recent performance in his school play? She was most ebullient and profuse in her praise, saying over and over how fantastic he was, how awesome he was. When I mentioned it would be impossible to cut the kid's hair because his head would swell to planetary proportions with all the praise, she said he 'totally deserved every bit of it'. No, that will not really interest the folks all that much. What might interest them is the question he asked of his poor harried mother when we were climbing into the car to go home: 'Mum, do vegans like sperm?' This is really one heck of a question from one's twelve-year-old. When I was twelve, I had never even heard of a vegan. I was aware of a substance called sperm, having read all those Where Did I Come From type books in my school library. When Mr Bingells and I discovered we were going to become a family, I decided I would always be there to explain when my kids asked questions. I couldn't wait to advise and instruct, to teach and shape their minds. What I didn't bargain for was the most commonly asked question being, 'Are we there yet?', or a constant repetition of some rhetorical question, such questions finally causing me to lose my shit on several occasions, one such occasion where I pulled over and threatened to make him get out of the car and walk. Nowadays the most constant questions I'm asked are: 'What's for dinner?' 'When's dinner?' 'Any dessert?' 'Can I eat the leftovers?' 'Can I play on the x-box?', and 'Hey, Mum - you done on the computer yet?' That's the fifteen-year-old. The twelve-year-old often asks some very off-kilter, out-of-the-box questions, and today's was a doozy. I am not sure why he is so interested in veganism, although I do take pains to point out they should be aware some people follow different diets for ethical or religious reasons, and they are aware one of my oldest friends is vegan. This is her life and her choice, but I don't think it defines her. But I have always explained to my kids vegans eschew all animal products for ethical reasons. And as much as I want to be that down to earth parent that doesn't pussyfoot around, and just answers the questions as honestly as I can in age-appropriate terms, this particular question knocked me for six. The propensity of anybody, vegan or otherwise, to swallow sperm is not something I wish to get into with my twelve-year-old. I'm sure those of you with children, hell - even those of you without, will understand this. I mumbled that I didn't know, and changed the topic. Sometimes you have to do these things.
I viewed the DVD 'Ouija' the other night. It appears to be a run-of-the-mill, follow the formula type of horror movie wherein the characters are chiefly high school students, in that one by one they all (except the heroine, natch) get bumped off. Plot wasn't too bad, but yeah, somewhat formulaic. I've never conducted a séance, and I'm under the impression it's probably not the smartest thing to do. When aged thirteen, myself and a school friend attempted to make contact with Johnny O'Keefe, who had passed not long beforehand. We sat at a small table in my bedroom with the lights out. We had no candles, so I sat a blob of glow putty in the centre of the table (I wish I was not making this up). We held hands across the table, closed our eyes, and I called in a sepulchral voice, 'Are you there, Johnny O'Keefe?' My friend whimpered, 'Simone, let's turn the light on.' Feeling shit-scared myself, I agreed to this course of action.
Didn't catch the ARIAs last night, but have seen some pictures from the red carpet, and the ceremony. In closing, I'm going to put this out there: does anybody else think Sia looks like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, with that bloody mop thing on her head?
I thought I should do a little work on it tonight, because I'm going to be as busy as a one-armed fan dancer over the next few days, but it's hard to think about things tonight. What will amuse my readership? Will anybody care how proud I was when I took my twelve-year-old for a haircut today, and the hairdresser congratulated him on his recent performance in his school play? She was most ebullient and profuse in her praise, saying over and over how fantastic he was, how awesome he was. When I mentioned it would be impossible to cut the kid's hair because his head would swell to planetary proportions with all the praise, she said he 'totally deserved every bit of it'. No, that will not really interest the folks all that much. What might interest them is the question he asked of his poor harried mother when we were climbing into the car to go home: 'Mum, do vegans like sperm?' This is really one heck of a question from one's twelve-year-old. When I was twelve, I had never even heard of a vegan. I was aware of a substance called sperm, having read all those Where Did I Come From type books in my school library. When Mr Bingells and I discovered we were going to become a family, I decided I would always be there to explain when my kids asked questions. I couldn't wait to advise and instruct, to teach and shape their minds. What I didn't bargain for was the most commonly asked question being, 'Are we there yet?', or a constant repetition of some rhetorical question, such questions finally causing me to lose my shit on several occasions, one such occasion where I pulled over and threatened to make him get out of the car and walk. Nowadays the most constant questions I'm asked are: 'What's for dinner?' 'When's dinner?' 'Any dessert?' 'Can I eat the leftovers?' 'Can I play on the x-box?', and 'Hey, Mum - you done on the computer yet?' That's the fifteen-year-old. The twelve-year-old often asks some very off-kilter, out-of-the-box questions, and today's was a doozy. I am not sure why he is so interested in veganism, although I do take pains to point out they should be aware some people follow different diets for ethical or religious reasons, and they are aware one of my oldest friends is vegan. This is her life and her choice, but I don't think it defines her. But I have always explained to my kids vegans eschew all animal products for ethical reasons. And as much as I want to be that down to earth parent that doesn't pussyfoot around, and just answers the questions as honestly as I can in age-appropriate terms, this particular question knocked me for six. The propensity of anybody, vegan or otherwise, to swallow sperm is not something I wish to get into with my twelve-year-old. I'm sure those of you with children, hell - even those of you without, will understand this. I mumbled that I didn't know, and changed the topic. Sometimes you have to do these things.
I viewed the DVD 'Ouija' the other night. It appears to be a run-of-the-mill, follow the formula type of horror movie wherein the characters are chiefly high school students, in that one by one they all (except the heroine, natch) get bumped off. Plot wasn't too bad, but yeah, somewhat formulaic. I've never conducted a séance, and I'm under the impression it's probably not the smartest thing to do. When aged thirteen, myself and a school friend attempted to make contact with Johnny O'Keefe, who had passed not long beforehand. We sat at a small table in my bedroom with the lights out. We had no candles, so I sat a blob of glow putty in the centre of the table (I wish I was not making this up). We held hands across the table, closed our eyes, and I called in a sepulchral voice, 'Are you there, Johnny O'Keefe?' My friend whimpered, 'Simone, let's turn the light on.' Feeling shit-scared myself, I agreed to this course of action.
Didn't catch the ARIAs last night, but have seen some pictures from the red carpet, and the ceremony. In closing, I'm going to put this out there: does anybody else think Sia looks like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, with that bloody mop thing on her head?
Sunday 20 November 2016
Birthday Toasting, Hot Weather Toasting, Atkins Petition
In all honesty, I cannot see the point to change dot org petitions. I've made my bafflement and vexation very clear in previous posts, and as a matter of principle I don't sign the fucking things when they appear in my news feed or email inbox. I see those horrid words 'Simone, here is a new petition you might be interested in...' and I think to myself, 'No, Change Dot Org. I won't be interested. These things are pointless and annoying, and fuck off with it, okay?' The latest one I've seen is a call to have Michael Atkins banned from all gay nightclubs. Atkins is the former lover of Matthew Leveson, for whose murder he has been ACQUITTED. Matthew's body has never been found A recent search in bushland achieved nothing. Don't get me wrong; my heart goes out to Matthew's parents who must ache for closure, but to the person who generated this petition: what the hell? I'm not sure what you're trying to achieve from this. Well, I kind of do, but how the fuck do you get someone - that someone being a free man and entitled to the same rights as other free citizens - banned from licenced establishments where he is legally entitled to enter? I have no doubt the management of the establishments have the right to refuse entry, but I cannot see what right they have against someone who, as I have stated, is a free man. It might have to be a business decision because if other patrons won't frequent the club, then I'm sure the establishment won't want to lose income. How do you police every gay club in Australia to ensure he's not entering? I really think this petition is flawed. Don't want anything to do with Atkins? It's very simple: don't engage with him.
Well, it's stinking hot. This of course makes me very irritable. Maybe that's why the aforementioned petition has irked me so. I could of course be in the grip of a motherfucker of a hot flush. On Saturday I attended the birthday party of twin cousins of mine - they turned 50. I stood on the front porch with the birthday girl (they're a male and female) at about 11.30pm, with another relative, and we discussed the hot flushes that occasionally torment us at our age. How things change. These are the people with whom I discussed periods; now it's the symptoms of menopause. Funnily enough, I was with this cousin when I got my first ever period. We've always been very close, and chances are she was my first ever friend. I have lots and lots of first cousins (it's a generational Irish Catholic thing), and we are all great mates. Every guest at this party was a relative of some sort. I caught the train, and got out my notepad to do notes for the speech her younger sister had asked me to prepare: the toast to the female of the twins (another cousin toasted the male). So much rich source material, and I tried to make notes. But there was this kid on the train, probably about two years old. From Muswellbrook to Singleton (which is half an hour), it was a constant robotic, Stephen Hawking type delivery of 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.' It was like a broken record. Gen Y and millennials, who have long enjoyed CDs and MP3 players and iPods, don't know the torture of a needle stuck in the groove, but take it from me: this kid could be used to extract information from enemy spies. Half an hour of relentless 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy' in total monotone made the top of my skull feel like it was peeling away, and I wanted to shout to her mother to Fer Chrissakes Stop Looking At Facebook And Give The Kid Attention Before I Push Her Under The Wheels Of The Fucking Train!'
Speaking of trains - I caught five of them on Saturday. Muswellbrook to Hamilton, where I had to change. Hamilton to Central, where I had to change. Central to International Airport, where I checked in to the hotel (I'd won a voucher a while ago, and decided to redeem it whilst in Sydney). International Airport to Wynyard, where I changed again. The Wynyard to St Leonards, where I cadged a lift with some of the rellies. Hell, I have flown Sydney to Denpasar in the same amount of travel time and with less hassle!
But the so-called hassle didn't matter. It was wonderful to catch up with my cousins and share laughs and memories. My speech was very well received, particularly when I mentioned going out partying with the birthday girl. Unfortunately, much of our partying was in the Eighties, and this meant going to see Uncanny X-men, Wa Wa Nee, and The Cockroaches - none of those bands appeal to me and I mentioned I quaffed many a West Coast Cooler (the drink du jour) to make the gigs listenable. My cousin's palate matured and she introduced me to Strongbow Apple Cider, and we used to sit on Coogee Beach drinking that prior to going to see a gig at Selinas. But yeah, our first friends are often our cousins, and I said to the assembled throng, 'Aren't we a lucky lot?' There were actually a few tears throughout the speeches, and my cousin gave me a big hug after I had proposed my toast. Oh, some interesting props were produced by the younger siblings - like the old Globite school case with 'INXS' carefully lettered on it in liquid paper. I'm sure the amount of names to denote ownership, or music and/or sporting team allegiances painted on Globite school cases in liquid paper during the Eighties have assured Mike Nesmith a most comfortable retirement.
Anyway, I'm home again and stinking hot. Here's cheers to you all.
Well, it's stinking hot. This of course makes me very irritable. Maybe that's why the aforementioned petition has irked me so. I could of course be in the grip of a motherfucker of a hot flush. On Saturday I attended the birthday party of twin cousins of mine - they turned 50. I stood on the front porch with the birthday girl (they're a male and female) at about 11.30pm, with another relative, and we discussed the hot flushes that occasionally torment us at our age. How things change. These are the people with whom I discussed periods; now it's the symptoms of menopause. Funnily enough, I was with this cousin when I got my first ever period. We've always been very close, and chances are she was my first ever friend. I have lots and lots of first cousins (it's a generational Irish Catholic thing), and we are all great mates. Every guest at this party was a relative of some sort. I caught the train, and got out my notepad to do notes for the speech her younger sister had asked me to prepare: the toast to the female of the twins (another cousin toasted the male). So much rich source material, and I tried to make notes. But there was this kid on the train, probably about two years old. From Muswellbrook to Singleton (which is half an hour), it was a constant robotic, Stephen Hawking type delivery of 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.' It was like a broken record. Gen Y and millennials, who have long enjoyed CDs and MP3 players and iPods, don't know the torture of a needle stuck in the groove, but take it from me: this kid could be used to extract information from enemy spies. Half an hour of relentless 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy' in total monotone made the top of my skull feel like it was peeling away, and I wanted to shout to her mother to Fer Chrissakes Stop Looking At Facebook And Give The Kid Attention Before I Push Her Under The Wheels Of The Fucking Train!'
Speaking of trains - I caught five of them on Saturday. Muswellbrook to Hamilton, where I had to change. Hamilton to Central, where I had to change. Central to International Airport, where I checked in to the hotel (I'd won a voucher a while ago, and decided to redeem it whilst in Sydney). International Airport to Wynyard, where I changed again. The Wynyard to St Leonards, where I cadged a lift with some of the rellies. Hell, I have flown Sydney to Denpasar in the same amount of travel time and with less hassle!
But the so-called hassle didn't matter. It was wonderful to catch up with my cousins and share laughs and memories. My speech was very well received, particularly when I mentioned going out partying with the birthday girl. Unfortunately, much of our partying was in the Eighties, and this meant going to see Uncanny X-men, Wa Wa Nee, and The Cockroaches - none of those bands appeal to me and I mentioned I quaffed many a West Coast Cooler (the drink du jour) to make the gigs listenable. My cousin's palate matured and she introduced me to Strongbow Apple Cider, and we used to sit on Coogee Beach drinking that prior to going to see a gig at Selinas. But yeah, our first friends are often our cousins, and I said to the assembled throng, 'Aren't we a lucky lot?' There were actually a few tears throughout the speeches, and my cousin gave me a big hug after I had proposed my toast. Oh, some interesting props were produced by the younger siblings - like the old Globite school case with 'INXS' carefully lettered on it in liquid paper. I'm sure the amount of names to denote ownership, or music and/or sporting team allegiances painted on Globite school cases in liquid paper during the Eighties have assured Mike Nesmith a most comfortable retirement.
Anyway, I'm home again and stinking hot. Here's cheers to you all.
Monday 14 November 2016
My Take On The Tostee Interview
Not sure to whom I should address this. Not sure what salutary start fits the most. Should I begin with: 'Memo to all judgemental idiots out there'? Perhaps something along the lines of: 'Dear Armchair Lawyers, Armchair Jurors, & Armchair Psychologists' would be more suitable. 'Dear Fuckwits' is kind of mean and harsh, but it's what I want to type. I settled down on my lounge Sunday night, revelling in its current freedom from dog hair because I vacuumed it Saturday, and did something I virtually never do: watched '60 Minutes'. I detest that show, and equally detest all tabloid style journalism. However, I was curious to see how the Gable Tostee interview would be conducted (my guess was 'with heavy handed bias'), and interested in how Tostee would conduct himself. I didn't mind Tostee's answers, but like many of my age a bit puzzled as to why someone would record a date, but then it's a generational thing, I suppose. Tostee was at the salient time twenty-eight years of age and his generation post every insignificant minutiae of their lives on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest ('Hey, look at this monster crap I did, everyone! It's all lumpy like a hand grenade! #cleanedout'). Hell, they probably record themselves swiping a packet of chewing gum at the automated checkout.
Naturally, the majority of the comments I've since read online are along the lines of Tostee being creepy. 'Oh, his eyes are creepy'. 'Oh, he shows no emotions.' It would appear in the Court of The Public being someone less than warm, or not wailing like a banshee with a stubbed toe equates to being guilty. People, I'm going to type this slowly for you: having a 'cool' demeanour does not equal guilt. Got that? Take a moment to let that absorb. In my humble (well, not really) opinion, the only really creepy thing about the interview was Liam Bartlett's style of questioning. He made great use of the dramatic pause that I think might have been patented by Mike Willesee. The aired segment would have been fifteen minutes shorter had Bartlett not used those dramatic pauses at the beginning. Those pauses were designed to give the same dramatic tension and angst as when Sir Alec Guiness did one in his soliloquy in 'Bridge Over The River Kwai' (apparently he actually forgot a line when filming and had to think for a moment, and the director thought he was doing some great acting and giving the scene a special gravitas - and he got an Oscar for it!). This ploy didn't work with me; all it did was get on my nerves. There were bits where I thought Bartlett was behaving in a manner that was slightly adversarial and hostile, and especially formulated to make Tostee look guilty. Liam, are you a frustrated Crown Prosecutor or something? At least you spared us the tactic used by your late predecessor, Richard Carlton, which entailed removing his spectacles, looking disdainfully around the room (anywhere but the subject's face) and spitting out accusatory and interrogative questions (and coming across as something of a prick).
But getting back to addressing the occupants of Judgemental Self-Righteous Land: you lot weren't there that night. You weren't serving on the jury. You didn't hear all the evidence the jury did. You didn't receive any advice on points of law from the learned judge like the jury did. You were fed sensationalised bits and pieces from the media. Some of you are acting like small-minded biddies gossiping over the back fence, quite frankly. Some of you are saying he behaved appallingly following the unfortunate woman's fall. He didn't behave accord with the societal norm. Look, everyone is different. Our base instincts are fight or flight. Self-preservation is also a powerful response to a situation, as well. Ringing one's solicitor would appear a sensible thing to do, when wondering how to preserve one's liberty. And let's be honest here: these were some seriously bodacious circumstances: Tinder, alcohol, sex, fighting, and a fall from a balcony. 'Why didn't he put her out the door?' 'Why did he put her on the balcony?' is the common demand of the Keyboard Lynch Mob. Well, who bloody knows? Again, if you're not the one in that situation, it's hard to know WHY the balcony was chosen. Similarly, it's hard to know how you'd react, when someone suddenly goes over your balcony. Shock and alcohol make people respond in different ways, and there is probably no true 'right' way. There is likely an 'honourable' way, but I don't think there is a 'right' way.
It's my understanding Tostee is on the autism spectrum, which would assist in explaining why he appears as detached and clinical as he does, but let's not make mention of this, will we, 60 Minutes? Go, you!
To those of you expressing horror that 60 Minutes paid Tostee for the interview, you might want to sit down because I've got some interesting news for you. Remove your socks as well, because this will knock them off and you wouldn't want to lose them. Ready for this? Bladder voided? Socks removed and put in a safe spot? Okay: tabloid television shows will pay for interviews, and something else you might be unaware of is that gravity makes things fall down. If the producers are going to fork out money for an interview, then Tostee is entitled to take it because he is a free man, acquitted for a jury of twelve good men and good women. What he does with it is nobody's damn business.
Naturally, the majority of the comments I've since read online are along the lines of Tostee being creepy. 'Oh, his eyes are creepy'. 'Oh, he shows no emotions.' It would appear in the Court of The Public being someone less than warm, or not wailing like a banshee with a stubbed toe equates to being guilty. People, I'm going to type this slowly for you: having a 'cool' demeanour does not equal guilt. Got that? Take a moment to let that absorb. In my humble (well, not really) opinion, the only really creepy thing about the interview was Liam Bartlett's style of questioning. He made great use of the dramatic pause that I think might have been patented by Mike Willesee. The aired segment would have been fifteen minutes shorter had Bartlett not used those dramatic pauses at the beginning. Those pauses were designed to give the same dramatic tension and angst as when Sir Alec Guiness did one in his soliloquy in 'Bridge Over The River Kwai' (apparently he actually forgot a line when filming and had to think for a moment, and the director thought he was doing some great acting and giving the scene a special gravitas - and he got an Oscar for it!). This ploy didn't work with me; all it did was get on my nerves. There were bits where I thought Bartlett was behaving in a manner that was slightly adversarial and hostile, and especially formulated to make Tostee look guilty. Liam, are you a frustrated Crown Prosecutor or something? At least you spared us the tactic used by your late predecessor, Richard Carlton, which entailed removing his spectacles, looking disdainfully around the room (anywhere but the subject's face) and spitting out accusatory and interrogative questions (and coming across as something of a prick).
But getting back to addressing the occupants of Judgemental Self-Righteous Land: you lot weren't there that night. You weren't serving on the jury. You didn't hear all the evidence the jury did. You didn't receive any advice on points of law from the learned judge like the jury did. You were fed sensationalised bits and pieces from the media. Some of you are acting like small-minded biddies gossiping over the back fence, quite frankly. Some of you are saying he behaved appallingly following the unfortunate woman's fall. He didn't behave accord with the societal norm. Look, everyone is different. Our base instincts are fight or flight. Self-preservation is also a powerful response to a situation, as well. Ringing one's solicitor would appear a sensible thing to do, when wondering how to preserve one's liberty. And let's be honest here: these were some seriously bodacious circumstances: Tinder, alcohol, sex, fighting, and a fall from a balcony. 'Why didn't he put her out the door?' 'Why did he put her on the balcony?' is the common demand of the Keyboard Lynch Mob. Well, who bloody knows? Again, if you're not the one in that situation, it's hard to know WHY the balcony was chosen. Similarly, it's hard to know how you'd react, when someone suddenly goes over your balcony. Shock and alcohol make people respond in different ways, and there is probably no true 'right' way. There is likely an 'honourable' way, but I don't think there is a 'right' way.
It's my understanding Tostee is on the autism spectrum, which would assist in explaining why he appears as detached and clinical as he does, but let's not make mention of this, will we, 60 Minutes? Go, you!
To those of you expressing horror that 60 Minutes paid Tostee for the interview, you might want to sit down because I've got some interesting news for you. Remove your socks as well, because this will knock them off and you wouldn't want to lose them. Ready for this? Bladder voided? Socks removed and put in a safe spot? Okay: tabloid television shows will pay for interviews, and something else you might be unaware of is that gravity makes things fall down. If the producers are going to fork out money for an interview, then Tostee is entitled to take it because he is a free man, acquitted for a jury of twelve good men and good women. What he does with it is nobody's damn business.
Monday 7 November 2016
That Scavenging Hound Strikes Again
This one goes out to the dog who last night upended my garbage bin and strewed the rubbish all over the road: I am a dog lover. I have always been fond of dogs. Even as a pre-schooler when playing Monopoly with my older siblings, I didn't care if I won or lost the game (I always lost, and still do) as long as I had the little Scottish terrier token. But I don't love you, you rotten fucking mutt. I hate your guts. I didn't hear you last night, but I am plotting revenge. I'm guessing you can't read this but maybe your owner will. I'm not sure how I am going to have my vengeance. I don't know where to buy Semtex. But I'm thinking a spectacular form of revenge, and a warning to all dogs who are thinking of strewing mine, and some of the neighbours', rubbish all over the road will be to place an amount of Semtex moulded to resemble a rubbish bag in my bin, and wait nearby with a detonator. I will also have my iPod and earphones so I can listen to an audio of 'Moby Dick' whilst I wait for you, and I will have a thermos of coffee to keep me awake. Because, believe me, I am on a mission here. Blowing things up isn't always a great idea - does anyone remember the story of the townsfolk who decided to use dynamite to deal with a beached whale carcass? The laws of mass displacement certainly came into force as property was damaged by flying clunks of blubber and ambergris. But you're not a whale; you're a dog and it's my reasoning you won't cause as much damage. I might have to enlist the assistance of an explosives and ballistics expert to minimise the damage your miserable detonated corpse will cause. There are lots of mines around here, so I'm sure I can find someone with the appropriate qualifications. Maybe some of those who have the skills to handle explosives have also had you at their garbage bins, and are feeling as murderous and vengeful as I am right now.
Or maybe I could just head off to the supermarket and buy some cayenne pepper; I've heard that's a good deterrent for dogs, too. But the Semtex would certainly be a more spectacular and permanent result regarding this scavenging mutt, and coldly satisfying for the victims of his or her garbage bin marauding.
I didn't think I'd get it done today, but I managed to complete the worksheets and assessment section of my first aid handbook. I cannot believe it, but I have to renew my first aid certificate this Saturday. It seems like only yesterday that I last renewed it, but nope, it was three years ago. But we're all going to be sensible with the mannequins, and not pretend to hump them when the trainer's called away momentarily, which is what the kids at school used to do. Well, I didn't, but the boys did. Someone took it a step further and actually stuck his dick into the mannequin's mouth. Nobody was awarded their Bronze Star because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin. Also, this is your usual first aid - not surf lifesaving. I will not be called upon to do the safety jump into the swimming pool and swim out to the kid pretending to drown, promising I would help him or her to safety. It was usually a him, and I'm not going to say his name but he was the fattest kid in the class, and I would almost drown trying to tow the behemoth back to 'shore', 'shore' being the edge of the swimming pool. Tugboats are designed to tow liners. I don't think I'm designed to tow a kid who was a sumo wrestler in training. Once at the pool's edge, the 'victim's' arms would be lain over the cement, and the rescuer had to get out of the pool, and do the safety lift. You had to cross your arms over, grab the kid's wrists, go 'one-two-three' and pull the kid from the water, and uncross your arms which would result in the kid turning and being sat - presumably safely - on the edge of the pool. I was the 'victim' once, and the kid doing my rescue banged me into the side of the pool, thus winding me, and dragged me along the edge which almost barked my entire ribcage. Never again.
The opening of this post was addressed to that rotten dog who keeps dragging my rubbish all over the road. The closing is to certain bloggers, and everyday people who are moaning that Gable Tostee has been paid by 'Sixty Minutes' to give his interview. A certain blogger has been carrying on how the family of the poor woman who died after that unsuccessful Tinder hook-up deserve better. Look, they would find that interview distressing. They also have the right to turn off and not watch it. Also, Tostee was found not guilty in a court of law by a jury of good faith. Did you not get that memo? Or do you choose to ignore this fact because Tostee is a man and therefore guilty of every infraction and wrong under the sun? Also, to everyone surprised 'Sixty Minutes' would pay a controversial figure for an interview, here are some other things you might be surprised to learn: the sun rises in the east, and gravity makes things fall. If a tabloid television production are willing to fork out money to interview somebody, then that somebody is entitled to take the money if that somebody so desires. Hell, if someone wants to pay me some coin to talk, then I just might do so, too. Quit the judgement, folks.
Another thing I've noticed in my newsfeeds today is everyone's weighing in on the plans of a bride-to-be to have a 'dry' wedding. No, this does not mean a wedding in a drought-stricken paddock, but a wedding where alcohol is not served. I've heard some derision from commentators like 'it's un-Australian...'. Aside from the phrase 'un-Australian' making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips, whereupon it curls like those decorative ribbons when you run the scissor blades down them, why is this news? God, who bloody cares? Why did someone sit down and say, 'This woman's not serving alcohol at her wedding, I'm going to inform the media'? I was under the impression a wedding is about the couple coming together in an official union and public declaration of their love, not to see how much booze you, as a guest, can put away. Can people please stop making this sort of stuff news?
Or maybe I could just head off to the supermarket and buy some cayenne pepper; I've heard that's a good deterrent for dogs, too. But the Semtex would certainly be a more spectacular and permanent result regarding this scavenging mutt, and coldly satisfying for the victims of his or her garbage bin marauding.
I didn't think I'd get it done today, but I managed to complete the worksheets and assessment section of my first aid handbook. I cannot believe it, but I have to renew my first aid certificate this Saturday. It seems like only yesterday that I last renewed it, but nope, it was three years ago. But we're all going to be sensible with the mannequins, and not pretend to hump them when the trainer's called away momentarily, which is what the kids at school used to do. Well, I didn't, but the boys did. Someone took it a step further and actually stuck his dick into the mannequin's mouth. Nobody was awarded their Bronze Star because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin. Also, this is your usual first aid - not surf lifesaving. I will not be called upon to do the safety jump into the swimming pool and swim out to the kid pretending to drown, promising I would help him or her to safety. It was usually a him, and I'm not going to say his name but he was the fattest kid in the class, and I would almost drown trying to tow the behemoth back to 'shore', 'shore' being the edge of the swimming pool. Tugboats are designed to tow liners. I don't think I'm designed to tow a kid who was a sumo wrestler in training. Once at the pool's edge, the 'victim's' arms would be lain over the cement, and the rescuer had to get out of the pool, and do the safety lift. You had to cross your arms over, grab the kid's wrists, go 'one-two-three' and pull the kid from the water, and uncross your arms which would result in the kid turning and being sat - presumably safely - on the edge of the pool. I was the 'victim' once, and the kid doing my rescue banged me into the side of the pool, thus winding me, and dragged me along the edge which almost barked my entire ribcage. Never again.
The opening of this post was addressed to that rotten dog who keeps dragging my rubbish all over the road. The closing is to certain bloggers, and everyday people who are moaning that Gable Tostee has been paid by 'Sixty Minutes' to give his interview. A certain blogger has been carrying on how the family of the poor woman who died after that unsuccessful Tinder hook-up deserve better. Look, they would find that interview distressing. They also have the right to turn off and not watch it. Also, Tostee was found not guilty in a court of law by a jury of good faith. Did you not get that memo? Or do you choose to ignore this fact because Tostee is a man and therefore guilty of every infraction and wrong under the sun? Also, to everyone surprised 'Sixty Minutes' would pay a controversial figure for an interview, here are some other things you might be surprised to learn: the sun rises in the east, and gravity makes things fall. If a tabloid television production are willing to fork out money to interview somebody, then that somebody is entitled to take the money if that somebody so desires. Hell, if someone wants to pay me some coin to talk, then I just might do so, too. Quit the judgement, folks.
Another thing I've noticed in my newsfeeds today is everyone's weighing in on the plans of a bride-to-be to have a 'dry' wedding. No, this does not mean a wedding in a drought-stricken paddock, but a wedding where alcohol is not served. I've heard some derision from commentators like 'it's un-Australian...'. Aside from the phrase 'un-Australian' making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips, whereupon it curls like those decorative ribbons when you run the scissor blades down them, why is this news? God, who bloody cares? Why did someone sit down and say, 'This woman's not serving alcohol at her wedding, I'm going to inform the media'? I was under the impression a wedding is about the couple coming together in an official union and public declaration of their love, not to see how much booze you, as a guest, can put away. Can people please stop making this sort of stuff news?
Tuesday 1 November 2016
More Dingbattery
On Monday morning, I was labouring under the impression I had woken up in Muswellbrook, where the rather gaudy looking statue of the blue heeler dog sits on its plinth near the Shell Servo, and where there is often a cloud of coal dust hazing up the horizon, and where eighteen-wheelers pass through (because there's no bypass yet) causing the shop windows in the main street to jangle alarmingly as they leave behind lanolin- and sheep dag-fused clouds of smog, and where you can often hear people saying 'fuck' in all its possible variances (some sentences even incorporate it as noun, verb AND adjective!) as you're walking your dogs past the public housing unit blocks. These aspects of the town are not necessarily appealing, but at least I know I'm making my own choices as I walk my dogs around, and we breathe in air redolent of sheep dags, lanolin, and coal dust. I have the freedom to shop where I please, be it at Coles, Woolworths, Aldi, or a farmers' market. I can call in at the bottle-o and purchase some booze, if I wish. If I wanted to, I could feed a few coins into the Queen of the Nile poker machine at the local club. I actually don't, because I cannot stand poker machines, but it's nice to know I could if I wanted to. I'm fortunate enough to be in paid employment, and have the right to disburse my income in this manner should I so desire. As it happens, I am currently not in a very strong financial position to go boozing it up, or playing the old one-armed bandits (not that they have arms anymore), but if I wanted to, I can do this. If I was solely dependent upon welfare, and happened to have a few bucks left over, I could still do this. This is the free society in which we live.
But on Monday morning, my friends, when I turned on my television I thought I was no longer in my free society. I grabbed my mini fox terrier, and channelled Dorothy from 'The Wizard of Oz' as I said, 'Fergus, we're not in Muswellbrook anymore.' No, my friends. What I was seeing on the television made me believe I had woken up in the sort of dystopian world that Huxley and Orwell were jizzing themselves over. The moronic Liberal government want to introduce a welfare card further afield than the current trials in Ceduna. This card can only be used at some major supermarkets and is not to be used for poker machines and purchase of alcohol. Since when can the government tell somebody how to disburse their own money? Last I heard, poker machines and alcohol consumption were still perfectly legal. What if a welfare recipient prefers to shop at Aldi? Why is the choice being taken away? Are the members of this current government the puppets of major supermarket giants? Think about it; this just might be more than a half-arsed conspiracy theory I've thrown into this blog post for the amusement of my readers. Some op shops and farmers' markets don't have EFTPOS facilities, either. Not only does this prevent a welfare recipient saving some money by shopping there, it has a detrimental flow-on affect to the charity organisations and the small businesses selling their wares through the markets. It's hard enough and demoralising enough being on welfare without having autonomy and dignity removed, and being treated like a criminal. You guys in government have members with snouts in the trough who don't see past your own pig-swill encrusted snouts (yeah, I'm thinking of you, Hockey - telling us all to tighten our belts and expecting taxpayers to subsidise the baby sitting of your offspring indeed!). One of the worse aspects was hearing the talking heads/social commentators blathering and shrieking about it. Prue MacSween squawking, 'What about the rights of the taxpayers forking over the money for them?' Well, excusez mon francais, but SO FUCKING WHAT? You have employees, don't you? You do not have the right to tell them how to disburse their income, do you? Why do you think we have the right to tell a free citizen how to disburse the pittance they receive on welfare?
No, I don't like strange new world in which I've woken up. I want my coal dust choked Muswellbrook back.
Getting back to morning television, why does Sunrise invite female guests who have awful speaking voices (to say nothing of the aggravating viewpoints). My idea of aural hell is Prue MacSween and Pauline Hanson rapping. I wonder if Senator Hanson's views are only made more repulsive by her lachrymose, keening dolphin delivery? 'Oss-staayyy-lee-yans are sick of ref-yew-gees!' Um, what? Oh, you meant 'refugees'. People like Ahn Do, the comedian, actor and artist. People like Ahn's brother Khoa, a film maker who dedicates time to the under-privileged, and who was once Young Australian of the Year (yes, Pauline, he's an Australian now). People like the brilliant Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, who is also of refugee background. People like Deng Adut, a former child soldier from Sudan who put himself through law school and is now a human rights lawyer who works with the Parramatta Community Justice Clinic and assists with giving disadvantaged people access to the legal system. People like Aguek Nyok, a cab driver who helped rescue eleven people from the burning bus fire that killed the driver in Queensland last week - Mr Nyok also being a refugee from Sudan. I am not in the least bit sick of refugees, Pauline. What I'm sick of is your utter bilge and drivel being delivered in your paint-peeling voice. Both your party, and the Liberal government's proposed policy on not allowing people visas even when PROVEN to be GENUINE REFUGEES just completely blows the foreskin from a bull elephant. I'm interested to know if it contravenes our obligations under the United Nations convention on refugees, too.
One good thing, I don't have much access to breakfast television at the moment because my television has died. It gave up the ghost yesterday morning, and I should pay bills before replacing it. After all, no point buying a television if I don't have electricity from which to power the thing, is there? I am admittedly enjoying the solitude, and will this evening challenge my kids to a game of Scrabble.
But on Monday morning, my friends, when I turned on my television I thought I was no longer in my free society. I grabbed my mini fox terrier, and channelled Dorothy from 'The Wizard of Oz' as I said, 'Fergus, we're not in Muswellbrook anymore.' No, my friends. What I was seeing on the television made me believe I had woken up in the sort of dystopian world that Huxley and Orwell were jizzing themselves over. The moronic Liberal government want to introduce a welfare card further afield than the current trials in Ceduna. This card can only be used at some major supermarkets and is not to be used for poker machines and purchase of alcohol. Since when can the government tell somebody how to disburse their own money? Last I heard, poker machines and alcohol consumption were still perfectly legal. What if a welfare recipient prefers to shop at Aldi? Why is the choice being taken away? Are the members of this current government the puppets of major supermarket giants? Think about it; this just might be more than a half-arsed conspiracy theory I've thrown into this blog post for the amusement of my readers. Some op shops and farmers' markets don't have EFTPOS facilities, either. Not only does this prevent a welfare recipient saving some money by shopping there, it has a detrimental flow-on affect to the charity organisations and the small businesses selling their wares through the markets. It's hard enough and demoralising enough being on welfare without having autonomy and dignity removed, and being treated like a criminal. You guys in government have members with snouts in the trough who don't see past your own pig-swill encrusted snouts (yeah, I'm thinking of you, Hockey - telling us all to tighten our belts and expecting taxpayers to subsidise the baby sitting of your offspring indeed!). One of the worse aspects was hearing the talking heads/social commentators blathering and shrieking about it. Prue MacSween squawking, 'What about the rights of the taxpayers forking over the money for them?' Well, excusez mon francais, but SO FUCKING WHAT? You have employees, don't you? You do not have the right to tell them how to disburse their income, do you? Why do you think we have the right to tell a free citizen how to disburse the pittance they receive on welfare?
No, I don't like strange new world in which I've woken up. I want my coal dust choked Muswellbrook back.
Getting back to morning television, why does Sunrise invite female guests who have awful speaking voices (to say nothing of the aggravating viewpoints). My idea of aural hell is Prue MacSween and Pauline Hanson rapping. I wonder if Senator Hanson's views are only made more repulsive by her lachrymose, keening dolphin delivery? 'Oss-staayyy-lee-yans are sick of ref-yew-gees!' Um, what? Oh, you meant 'refugees'. People like Ahn Do, the comedian, actor and artist. People like Ahn's brother Khoa, a film maker who dedicates time to the under-privileged, and who was once Young Australian of the Year (yes, Pauline, he's an Australian now). People like the brilliant Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, who is also of refugee background. People like Deng Adut, a former child soldier from Sudan who put himself through law school and is now a human rights lawyer who works with the Parramatta Community Justice Clinic and assists with giving disadvantaged people access to the legal system. People like Aguek Nyok, a cab driver who helped rescue eleven people from the burning bus fire that killed the driver in Queensland last week - Mr Nyok also being a refugee from Sudan. I am not in the least bit sick of refugees, Pauline. What I'm sick of is your utter bilge and drivel being delivered in your paint-peeling voice. Both your party, and the Liberal government's proposed policy on not allowing people visas even when PROVEN to be GENUINE REFUGEES just completely blows the foreskin from a bull elephant. I'm interested to know if it contravenes our obligations under the United Nations convention on refugees, too.
One good thing, I don't have much access to breakfast television at the moment because my television has died. It gave up the ghost yesterday morning, and I should pay bills before replacing it. After all, no point buying a television if I don't have electricity from which to power the thing, is there? I am admittedly enjoying the solitude, and will this evening challenge my kids to a game of Scrabble.
Saturday 29 October 2016
Knaves & Knuckleheads
I've been a bit lax on the old blogging lately, owing to a hectic work and home schedule. My 12yo played the Knave of Hearts in his school's production of 'Alice - The Musical'. The children were amazing. The sets and costumes were a triumph to the parents and teachers who put aside the time to bring the production together. And I will admit to a bit of pushy stage-mum syndrome here a la Mama Rose in 'Gypsy' ('Sing out, Louise!'), but he was very good as he acted the sneaky little tart thief, surreptitiously nibbling away from the tray he held during the croquet match. And when it was time for him to stand trial for the theft of those tarts, my breath caught and my heart was in my throat as he was marched up the middle aisle of the hall by two kids in executioner garb. Staying in character, he whispered, 'Help me, help me...' to audience members as he made his solemn way past, but bestowed us with a 'Help me...hi, Dad!' to Mr Bingells, who was seated at the end of the aisle. On the second night, I brought him to the school and hung around to be a parent helper. Being a pushy stage mum, I decided he needed extra eyeliner for the second half. He wouldn't hold still as I tried to apply it. I warned him he would end up looking like Alice Cooper. He asked who was Alice Cooper. I have since shown him some clips of the Gruesome Glammer, and Master 12 thinks looking like Alice Cooper would be kind of cool. But thankfully he looked more Russell Brand than Alice Cooper, and like Russell, kind of rocks the guy-liner look. After the final bows, the kids did a dance to 'Can't Stop The Feeling', and I am going to put this song on my iPod. Yes, Justin Timberlake is going to be gracing my iPod alongside AC/DC and Rainbow.
Maybe there's more to this than what the media is feeding us, but I am really - if not actually hating on - seriously DISLIKING on Joe Hockey at the moment. This is a dude who bleated and blathered to us that the age of entitlement was OVER, and we are all to tighten out belts. Hey, Hockey-sticks, if the age of entitlement is over, then pay for your OWN fucking babysitters instead of making a claim for fees. I'm feeling just a touch jaded at your lecturing because if I tighten my belt any more, I'm going to look like a figure eight, and I don't see you tightening YOUR belt - possibly because you need a boomerang to get the damned thing around your waist.
I'm just disliking on the government in general over proposed legislation for asylum seekers arriving by boat to be banned from receiving Australian visas. Dutton, you are an utter prick and a disgrace. Seeking asylum is NOT illegal, regardless of how you arrive. Aren't we signatories to the convention set by the United Nations? Most illegals are people who arrive by aeroplane and overstay their visas, so pick on them, you dumb mutt. This government makes me want to just vomit. Cruel and demoralising, and with the compassion of a sociopathic snake - all of you!
The other person upon whom I am directing some serious shade is the clown in the white car (didn't get the make - he was going too fast) who fairly flew through the roundabout near my local Coles this morning, the busted muffler sending out ear-shattering flatulent bursts in his wake. Seriously, mate, what was the problem? Were you experiencing the warning tummy rumble that heralds a bout of explosive diarrhoea? Why else would you need to race through a roundabout doing at least 50kph? You are a tool and a fool of the highest order.
Well, that's me for now. I'm off to put Justin Timberlake on my iPod. Seriously never thought I'd write that.
Maybe there's more to this than what the media is feeding us, but I am really - if not actually hating on - seriously DISLIKING on Joe Hockey at the moment. This is a dude who bleated and blathered to us that the age of entitlement was OVER, and we are all to tighten out belts. Hey, Hockey-sticks, if the age of entitlement is over, then pay for your OWN fucking babysitters instead of making a claim for fees. I'm feeling just a touch jaded at your lecturing because if I tighten my belt any more, I'm going to look like a figure eight, and I don't see you tightening YOUR belt - possibly because you need a boomerang to get the damned thing around your waist.
I'm just disliking on the government in general over proposed legislation for asylum seekers arriving by boat to be banned from receiving Australian visas. Dutton, you are an utter prick and a disgrace. Seeking asylum is NOT illegal, regardless of how you arrive. Aren't we signatories to the convention set by the United Nations? Most illegals are people who arrive by aeroplane and overstay their visas, so pick on them, you dumb mutt. This government makes me want to just vomit. Cruel and demoralising, and with the compassion of a sociopathic snake - all of you!
The other person upon whom I am directing some serious shade is the clown in the white car (didn't get the make - he was going too fast) who fairly flew through the roundabout near my local Coles this morning, the busted muffler sending out ear-shattering flatulent bursts in his wake. Seriously, mate, what was the problem? Were you experiencing the warning tummy rumble that heralds a bout of explosive diarrhoea? Why else would you need to race through a roundabout doing at least 50kph? You are a tool and a fool of the highest order.
Well, that's me for now. I'm off to put Justin Timberlake on my iPod. Seriously never thought I'd write that.
Tuesday 25 October 2016
Doctor Disciples & Other Things
We should take joy in the little things that make up this wonderful tapestry that is life. Oh, 'Tapestry' is also a beaut Carole King album. I think I might put 'Hard Rock Cafe' on my iPod. I know that's not from 'Tapestry', but it's just a vagary that floated through my mind. I'd rather think about Carole King songs than the usual cesspit of emotions that swirls there, dark and sinister. There is something for which I am very grateful in this crazy old pile of embroidery and cross-stitch. I am thrilled to bits that I knew the apostle Luke was a physician. And if you didn't know before, now you all know, too. You're probably wondering why in heckety-heck it should matter if you know the apostle Luke was a physician. You're probably wondering why I'm so delighted I knew this. Yes, the bulk of Our Lord's apostles were fishermen, but there had to be other jobs, too. Like I said, Luke was a physician. This is something I happened to know, but for years and years I've wondered how I can possibly make use of this knowledge. Well, last Saturday night I was at the club playing trivia, as is my wont. I was all by myself because my usual team mate is in hospital. I didn't ask to join any other teams, I wanted to fly solo. The questions were pretty good, but I wanted to kick myself for writing 'Tony Grieg' instead of 'Keppler Vessels' for a cricket related question. I had thought about writing Vessels, but wasn't sure if he had played for both South Africa and Australia, and I was pretty sure Grieg had. Anyway, you guessed it: the answer was Keppler Vessels. But back to the point. As the questions wore on, and my confidence increased, the host said something along the lines of, 'Question twenty-five: who is the patron saint of doctors?' This is a moment I've been waiting for. It's like a singer who gets picked to perform the national anthem on Grand Final Day. It's like an athlete getting chosen for the Olympic team. Although I have never been actually told, or read, or absorbed via osmosis that St Luke is the patron saint of doctors, I made the connection in my crazy old mind that having been a physician, then it would stand to reason the Doctor Disciple is the patron saint of doctors. So I wrote 'Luke' on my answer sheet. And I got it right!!! And, even better, I won the game. Playing alone. I got to pocket the $200.00 prize money all to my greedy, avaricious self. On the way home, I sat behind the wheel of my car doing a victory dance to Huey Lewis & The News' 'Hip To Be Square', which happened to be coming from the radio. But for years, I have wanted to put my knowledge about St Luke to good use, and I did. I fuelled my car, and bought the groceries the very next day.
When I was a kid, it was important to me that I be liked. Now that I am older, I think I have grown up not only physically, but emotionally. Oh, I guess I have a very small wanting to be liked, but if people I don't know don't really like me, I'm finding I'm vascillating between either not giving a shit, or being rather amused. Twice in as many weeks I've been abused by different people online, and then blocked. The only thing annoying me is I can't respond to the stupid comments because I'm blocked. It's all very well for folk to say, 'Simone, don't respond. Don't give them ammunition.' The snag herein is that the comments or accusations are often fallacious, and I just want to defend myself. Oh, and deliver a worthwhile zinger in the form of the written word that in a boxing ring would have my abuser lying flat on the canvas with a ring of stars circling over their stupid unconscious countenances. So if anybody wants to abuse me for my views, then at least give me the opportunity to respond, or answer your criticism.
I could choose to not ark up over idiotic stuff I read on Derryn Hinch's Justice Party threads, but a veritable tsunami of pig-ignorance must be addressed. Well, in my mind (which in its recesses stored the information that Christ's disciple Luke was a physician; let's not forget that), it must be addressed. Any regular readers know what I'm going to say to this lot, and I won't repeat it here. We know I will point out to folks what the judiciary take into account upon formulating sentences. This particular court matter, from Victoria, involved a defendant with a Middle Eastern name. There were calls for the dude to be deported. But what got me really blinking was some remark about how all the 'sand monkees' could just rot on Manus and Nauru. I had to ask the poster to clarify exactly what were 'sand monkees'. I asked him were they a commercially constructed pop band designed specifically to appeal to adolescent girls, and was the lead singer a diminutive baby-faced cutie with an appealing accent, and was he - as was the drummer - a former child actor. Were the others probably more serious as musicians, and was one of them financially set up for life because his mother had invented liquid paper? (If you don't know, Mike Nesmith's mother invented liquid paper. Remember this, it's often the subject of trivia questions, and you too might win $200.00 all to yourself).
Anyway, the hour groweth late. Your blogger groweth tired. Your blogger had a lovely day off work, and went to lunch with her husband - using one of the club vouchers she had won at the trivia. Your blogger also sent off the manuscript of her next novel back to the publisher with only four errors found, so hopefully after this it will be ready for print!
When I was a kid, it was important to me that I be liked. Now that I am older, I think I have grown up not only physically, but emotionally. Oh, I guess I have a very small wanting to be liked, but if people I don't know don't really like me, I'm finding I'm vascillating between either not giving a shit, or being rather amused. Twice in as many weeks I've been abused by different people online, and then blocked. The only thing annoying me is I can't respond to the stupid comments because I'm blocked. It's all very well for folk to say, 'Simone, don't respond. Don't give them ammunition.' The snag herein is that the comments or accusations are often fallacious, and I just want to defend myself. Oh, and deliver a worthwhile zinger in the form of the written word that in a boxing ring would have my abuser lying flat on the canvas with a ring of stars circling over their stupid unconscious countenances. So if anybody wants to abuse me for my views, then at least give me the opportunity to respond, or answer your criticism.
I could choose to not ark up over idiotic stuff I read on Derryn Hinch's Justice Party threads, but a veritable tsunami of pig-ignorance must be addressed. Well, in my mind (which in its recesses stored the information that Christ's disciple Luke was a physician; let's not forget that), it must be addressed. Any regular readers know what I'm going to say to this lot, and I won't repeat it here. We know I will point out to folks what the judiciary take into account upon formulating sentences. This particular court matter, from Victoria, involved a defendant with a Middle Eastern name. There were calls for the dude to be deported. But what got me really blinking was some remark about how all the 'sand monkees' could just rot on Manus and Nauru. I had to ask the poster to clarify exactly what were 'sand monkees'. I asked him were they a commercially constructed pop band designed specifically to appeal to adolescent girls, and was the lead singer a diminutive baby-faced cutie with an appealing accent, and was he - as was the drummer - a former child actor. Were the others probably more serious as musicians, and was one of them financially set up for life because his mother had invented liquid paper? (If you don't know, Mike Nesmith's mother invented liquid paper. Remember this, it's often the subject of trivia questions, and you too might win $200.00 all to yourself).
Anyway, the hour groweth late. Your blogger groweth tired. Your blogger had a lovely day off work, and went to lunch with her husband - using one of the club vouchers she had won at the trivia. Your blogger also sent off the manuscript of her next novel back to the publisher with only four errors found, so hopefully after this it will be ready for print!
Thursday 20 October 2016
Boring Ballad & Tempestuous Tostee Tantrums
I am somewhat partial to a bit of Johnny Cougar, or John Cougar Mellancamp, or John Mellancamp, or whatever the blue blazes he wants to call himself these days. Hell, in my second novel 'Abernethy' I even had the protagonist's parents' backstory being they met at one of his concerts. Some of his earlier hits are on my iPod. What I am not partial to is his song 'Small Town'. This is seriously one of the most pointless, shit-boring songs I've ever heard. It goes nowhere, and tells a story nobody cares about. The narrator just goes on that he was born in a small town, he lives there, he'll probably die there (of boredom, from the sounds of it), he taught the fear of Jesus there, and his job provides little opportunity. If it wasn't for the rather contented sounding delivery, I'd think he was the 'hero' of one of Bruce Springsteen's more depressing working class ballads. Worst thing is, it was on the radio when I was driving home from work today, and now the aggravating song is stuck in my head.
Now, those of you who have had a perusal of my third book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' will know from my author bio that (and yes, I know I often refer to it when posting here), my background is in criminal law. I had actually considered undergoing a Diploma of Law, but the call of the Writing Siren was too seductive, and held my heart. Now, because of this background, I am pretty well qualified to give what's commonly referred to as an informed opinion on the subject that's been clogging my media feed since yesterday afternoon, and that of course, dear blog-browser, is the Tostee verdict. Let me give it to you in a nutshell: Gable Tostee (a man with a degree of Aspergers, not a roof design) had an unsuccessful Tinder date (when your date ends up deceased, it's not a good evening). He was charged in relation to this death, had a trial in the Queensland Supreme Court, and yesterday afternoon a jury of twelve men and women good and true returned their verdict: not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. Tostee (who has changed his name) is now a free man. Look, I don't know if he 'did it' or not, but the evidence is that he did NOT, and furthermore, I'd rather see a guilty man walk than an innocent man go to gaol.
The verdict, which was reached by the jury who were appraised of all the relevant evidence and the judge's rulings on points of law, has aggrieved some of the hoi polloi. To the aggrieved, I say this: eat a bowl of dicks.
I sat reading some of the comments, and thought to myself, 'Great steaming shitballs, what a bunch of stupid people are out there!', and being unable to help myself (well maybe I COULD help myself, but chose not to), argued with some of them. I now repeat my points. For the benefit of the infuriated woman who insisted the Crown appeal this verdict: I am pretty sure the Queensland DPP cannot appeal a not guilty verdict delivered by a jury, so suck it up, buttercup. To the woman who cited the Gittany case in her cruddy argument and told me she had better things to do than argue with someone who was misinformed: Bitch, please. Stop stealing my script, ie, YOU'RE the one who's misinformed, not me. Particularly if you'd cite a completely unrelated case with unrelated circumstances and unrelated, oh, EVERYTHING!!! To the woman who told me to butt out of an argument I commented on and go paint my nails: It was a public forum and I was entitled to comment, particularly as I pointed out Tostee has been charged, tried and acquitted on evidence and law. As for painting my nails, I cannot be arsed.
Oh, and Channel 7 Sunrise, what is to be served by running a story about Tostee's criminal record, which is in the past and totally irrelevant to the case of which he has just been acquitted? You are behaving like utter grubs.
Oh well, must away. Things to do, groceries to buy.
Now, those of you who have had a perusal of my third book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' will know from my author bio that (and yes, I know I often refer to it when posting here), my background is in criminal law. I had actually considered undergoing a Diploma of Law, but the call of the Writing Siren was too seductive, and held my heart. Now, because of this background, I am pretty well qualified to give what's commonly referred to as an informed opinion on the subject that's been clogging my media feed since yesterday afternoon, and that of course, dear blog-browser, is the Tostee verdict. Let me give it to you in a nutshell: Gable Tostee (a man with a degree of Aspergers, not a roof design) had an unsuccessful Tinder date (when your date ends up deceased, it's not a good evening). He was charged in relation to this death, had a trial in the Queensland Supreme Court, and yesterday afternoon a jury of twelve men and women good and true returned their verdict: not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. Tostee (who has changed his name) is now a free man. Look, I don't know if he 'did it' or not, but the evidence is that he did NOT, and furthermore, I'd rather see a guilty man walk than an innocent man go to gaol.
The verdict, which was reached by the jury who were appraised of all the relevant evidence and the judge's rulings on points of law, has aggrieved some of the hoi polloi. To the aggrieved, I say this: eat a bowl of dicks.
I sat reading some of the comments, and thought to myself, 'Great steaming shitballs, what a bunch of stupid people are out there!', and being unable to help myself (well maybe I COULD help myself, but chose not to), argued with some of them. I now repeat my points. For the benefit of the infuriated woman who insisted the Crown appeal this verdict: I am pretty sure the Queensland DPP cannot appeal a not guilty verdict delivered by a jury, so suck it up, buttercup. To the woman who cited the Gittany case in her cruddy argument and told me she had better things to do than argue with someone who was misinformed: Bitch, please. Stop stealing my script, ie, YOU'RE the one who's misinformed, not me. Particularly if you'd cite a completely unrelated case with unrelated circumstances and unrelated, oh, EVERYTHING!!! To the woman who told me to butt out of an argument I commented on and go paint my nails: It was a public forum and I was entitled to comment, particularly as I pointed out Tostee has been charged, tried and acquitted on evidence and law. As for painting my nails, I cannot be arsed.
Oh, and Channel 7 Sunrise, what is to be served by running a story about Tostee's criminal record, which is in the past and totally irrelevant to the case of which he has just been acquitted? You are behaving like utter grubs.
Oh well, must away. Things to do, groceries to buy.
Wednesday 19 October 2016
Playing A Frustrating 'Game'
I've been making valiant attempts to keep my head above water, and just when I think I'm doing well, and keeping those waves lapping gently at the level of my throat with the seductive, yet reassuring gentle caress of a lover, bloody Satan decides to hoon past on a jet ski, causing a massive bow wave to drench and chunder me. By this I mean a mysterious transaction appeared on my credit card statement, such transaction making my card haemorrhage more, and go over the limit. I was confounded by this, and telephoned Microsoft.
The clerk to whom I spoke sounded much younger than I am, and spoke with a heavy accent. I think she was trying to be hip and colloquial as she asked, 'Do you have, like, an x-box?' Annoyance at the use of a verb as an interjection caused me to respond sarcastically, 'Yes, I do have, like, an x-box.' However, I think my subtle dig at the bad grammar was completely lost on her, lost and vanished like the crew of the Marie Celeste.
Anyway, I was transferred to the department that deals with x-box accounts, and placed in the - I think - capable hands of the clerk to whom x-box accounts have been entrusted. But here's the rub: I don't know. I couldn't understand a fucking word she was saying. Compounding my confusion and frustration, the very few words and phrases I could understand were asking me about a topic with which I am very unfamiliar: gaming. Now, had the woman wanted to discuss classic late twentieth century American literature with me, I would have been all over it. Irving, Wolfe, Ellis, maybe some Updike - I can wax lyrical for hours. But gaming? Gimme a break! Don't ask me the gamer tag of the household user - please!! I had to hand the telephone to Mr Bingells who, along with our oldest son, does like to game. By the way, when did 'game' become a verb? Back in my youth, it was a noun ('Who wants to play a game of Scrabble?') or an adjective ('I'm game to sneak through the cemetery if you are.'), but now it's a verb, as well? Soon it will be an article and conjunction, too! Somebody will say, 'Game game game game game', and it will make perfect grammatical sense! This is utter dystopia, in my eyes.
Even though he is far more au fait with the topic at hand that me any day, Mr Bingells was soon very perplexed and frustrated as he dealt with the clerk. He finally wound up the conversation and pressed 'End', and looked at me, stunned. When he regained his powers of speech, he said, 'That was painful.' I felt bad about abrogating my responsibilities in handling the telephone call, but really, I know nothing about the x-box and our account therewith. At least Mr Bingells had been able to work out some of the problem, and understand some of the conversation.
What it boils down to, we suspect, is the annual account fee for the x-box. I don't mind if it is, at least it means we haven't been hacked and someone's running up bills on my credit card. But in the meantime, it must be paid. I might just have to beg for everyone to buy my books, to help alleviate these bills, and enable my husband and kids to continue with their - *shuddering at the verb* - gaming.
Speaking of books, I've still been going through the edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', and am quite happy. It's not a big tome, by any means, but it's just that I have been rostered to do quite a few hours work-wise, and therefore haven't had as much time as I would like to spend reading. It will be released next year - early - and hopefully sell well.
The clerk to whom I spoke sounded much younger than I am, and spoke with a heavy accent. I think she was trying to be hip and colloquial as she asked, 'Do you have, like, an x-box?' Annoyance at the use of a verb as an interjection caused me to respond sarcastically, 'Yes, I do have, like, an x-box.' However, I think my subtle dig at the bad grammar was completely lost on her, lost and vanished like the crew of the Marie Celeste.
Anyway, I was transferred to the department that deals with x-box accounts, and placed in the - I think - capable hands of the clerk to whom x-box accounts have been entrusted. But here's the rub: I don't know. I couldn't understand a fucking word she was saying. Compounding my confusion and frustration, the very few words and phrases I could understand were asking me about a topic with which I am very unfamiliar: gaming. Now, had the woman wanted to discuss classic late twentieth century American literature with me, I would have been all over it. Irving, Wolfe, Ellis, maybe some Updike - I can wax lyrical for hours. But gaming? Gimme a break! Don't ask me the gamer tag of the household user - please!! I had to hand the telephone to Mr Bingells who, along with our oldest son, does like to game. By the way, when did 'game' become a verb? Back in my youth, it was a noun ('Who wants to play a game of Scrabble?') or an adjective ('I'm game to sneak through the cemetery if you are.'), but now it's a verb, as well? Soon it will be an article and conjunction, too! Somebody will say, 'Game game game game game', and it will make perfect grammatical sense! This is utter dystopia, in my eyes.
Even though he is far more au fait with the topic at hand that me any day, Mr Bingells was soon very perplexed and frustrated as he dealt with the clerk. He finally wound up the conversation and pressed 'End', and looked at me, stunned. When he regained his powers of speech, he said, 'That was painful.' I felt bad about abrogating my responsibilities in handling the telephone call, but really, I know nothing about the x-box and our account therewith. At least Mr Bingells had been able to work out some of the problem, and understand some of the conversation.
What it boils down to, we suspect, is the annual account fee for the x-box. I don't mind if it is, at least it means we haven't been hacked and someone's running up bills on my credit card. But in the meantime, it must be paid. I might just have to beg for everyone to buy my books, to help alleviate these bills, and enable my husband and kids to continue with their - *shuddering at the verb* - gaming.
Speaking of books, I've still been going through the edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', and am quite happy. It's not a big tome, by any means, but it's just that I have been rostered to do quite a few hours work-wise, and therefore haven't had as much time as I would like to spend reading. It will be released next year - early - and hopefully sell well.
Wednesday 12 October 2016
My Brush With Egyptian Royalty
"Esteemed Madam Pharaoh,
Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule of marrying your brothers, fucking a few Roman generals, and having your servants hunt up asps to stick down your décolletage to contact me. I am indeed humbled and flattered that you would send me a private message, albeit one with the grammatical, spelling, and punctuation skills of a dyslexic Martian.
I would have responded to you via your preferred method of communication, being the private message function on Facebook. However, I cannot do this because you have blocked me. This cannot be right. Surely the Queen of Egypt is not so frightened of a writer living in rural New South Wales that she would send a rather terse and insulting message, and then BLOCK said writer before said writer can formulate her reply? Nonetheless, this appears to be what has happened, hence I have chosen this more public method of response. Yes, I AM a writer. So therefore, you must be the Queen of Egypt. That's what you said: 'If you're a writer; I am the Queen of Egypt'. Madam Pharaoh, forgive me for taking the liberty of correcting the spelling and punctuation of your sentence, by the way, but 'if your a writer I am the queen of Egypt' is not how that sentence was supposed to be presented. It's capital 'I' for the beginning, it's 'you're' (the contraction for the phrase 'you are'), and there should probably be a semicolon after 'writer' because you haven't used a conjunction between those clauses. In this case, the conjunction should be 'then'. Also, it's a capital 'Q' on 'queen' because you are referring to your title. Again, Madam Pharaoh, I crave pardon for punctuating your sentence, but how you presented it to me really did hurt my eyeballs.
Madam Pharaoh, you're probably expecting me to refer to myself as 'your humble servant', but I will not do that because I am an Australian citizen and therefore not subject to your reign over there in Egypt whilst I'm here in Oz, however I seek leave to attend to the other part of your message, to wit, ' you are on the side of paedophiles'. No need for capital 'Y' on 'you' because I have only copied the second half of the sentence (maybe I should have stuck an ellipsis in). A paedophile is someone who loves children, but in our modern lexicon it has become the word to describe someone who would be better described as a 'pederast'. Now, Madam Pharaoh, this is where I start to get a touch truculent. If you will recall our Facebook convo (we Aussies like to shorten words), I pointed out some judicial procedures. Being stuck on a throne in Egypt as you are (and getting fanned with palm leaves by buff loin-clothed slaves, and then getting banged stupid by Roman generals - lucky gal!), you're clearly not au fait with how it works here. Please unblock me, and take the time to read my comments again. Slowly. Or have someone read them to you, because being the Egyptian Queen, I'm guessing English is not your first language. I have neither the linguistic nor translation skills necessary to convert my words to hieroglyphics for you, but certainly your court will have a translator to do the job. However, to say I am supportive of somebody who would molest a child merely because I (1) pointed out judicial procedure, and (2) stated somebody's suicide does not prove he was a criminal but merely tortured, is seriously fatuous to say the least, and downright offensive. Madam Pharaoh, to engage in spurious ad hominem rhetoric in the manner in which you have done is the last bastion of the impotent.
Your misspelled messages state you are reading law for a hobby. I would suggest a different hobby because you clearly do not understand the subject matter. Perhaps resuming the solving of those nice easy puzzles in 'Take Five' magazine would be less taxing for you. Have one of those buff loin-clothed slaves bring you some crayons.
I will admit to having been somewhat star-struck to have been contacted by Egyptian royalty. However, the excitement proved meretricious and all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh at the imbecility of the fallacious arguments, followed by a blocking.
I leave you now, Madam Pharaoh, as I must peruse the edited manuscript of my upcoming novel. But in the interest of bestowing upon you some cultural learnings, as well as letting you know how I feel about your communication with me, this good old Aussie idiom beautifully encapsulates my feelings: Go stick your head up a dead bear's bum.
Yours,
Simone (who is a writer)"
Do you like, peeps? That's what I would have told this person had they not blocked me. But as mentioned, I am a writer and if any of you, (including the Queen of Egypt) are interested in my novels, here are links to the first chapters:
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
Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule of marrying your brothers, fucking a few Roman generals, and having your servants hunt up asps to stick down your décolletage to contact me. I am indeed humbled and flattered that you would send me a private message, albeit one with the grammatical, spelling, and punctuation skills of a dyslexic Martian.
I would have responded to you via your preferred method of communication, being the private message function on Facebook. However, I cannot do this because you have blocked me. This cannot be right. Surely the Queen of Egypt is not so frightened of a writer living in rural New South Wales that she would send a rather terse and insulting message, and then BLOCK said writer before said writer can formulate her reply? Nonetheless, this appears to be what has happened, hence I have chosen this more public method of response. Yes, I AM a writer. So therefore, you must be the Queen of Egypt. That's what you said: 'If you're a writer; I am the Queen of Egypt'. Madam Pharaoh, forgive me for taking the liberty of correcting the spelling and punctuation of your sentence, by the way, but 'if your a writer I am the queen of Egypt' is not how that sentence was supposed to be presented. It's capital 'I' for the beginning, it's 'you're' (the contraction for the phrase 'you are'), and there should probably be a semicolon after 'writer' because you haven't used a conjunction between those clauses. In this case, the conjunction should be 'then'. Also, it's a capital 'Q' on 'queen' because you are referring to your title. Again, Madam Pharaoh, I crave pardon for punctuating your sentence, but how you presented it to me really did hurt my eyeballs.
Madam Pharaoh, you're probably expecting me to refer to myself as 'your humble servant', but I will not do that because I am an Australian citizen and therefore not subject to your reign over there in Egypt whilst I'm here in Oz, however I seek leave to attend to the other part of your message, to wit, ' you are on the side of paedophiles'. No need for capital 'Y' on 'you' because I have only copied the second half of the sentence (maybe I should have stuck an ellipsis in). A paedophile is someone who loves children, but in our modern lexicon it has become the word to describe someone who would be better described as a 'pederast'. Now, Madam Pharaoh, this is where I start to get a touch truculent. If you will recall our Facebook convo (we Aussies like to shorten words), I pointed out some judicial procedures. Being stuck on a throne in Egypt as you are (and getting fanned with palm leaves by buff loin-clothed slaves, and then getting banged stupid by Roman generals - lucky gal!), you're clearly not au fait with how it works here. Please unblock me, and take the time to read my comments again. Slowly. Or have someone read them to you, because being the Egyptian Queen, I'm guessing English is not your first language. I have neither the linguistic nor translation skills necessary to convert my words to hieroglyphics for you, but certainly your court will have a translator to do the job. However, to say I am supportive of somebody who would molest a child merely because I (1) pointed out judicial procedure, and (2) stated somebody's suicide does not prove he was a criminal but merely tortured, is seriously fatuous to say the least, and downright offensive. Madam Pharaoh, to engage in spurious ad hominem rhetoric in the manner in which you have done is the last bastion of the impotent.
Your misspelled messages state you are reading law for a hobby. I would suggest a different hobby because you clearly do not understand the subject matter. Perhaps resuming the solving of those nice easy puzzles in 'Take Five' magazine would be less taxing for you. Have one of those buff loin-clothed slaves bring you some crayons.
I will admit to having been somewhat star-struck to have been contacted by Egyptian royalty. However, the excitement proved meretricious and all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh at the imbecility of the fallacious arguments, followed by a blocking.
I leave you now, Madam Pharaoh, as I must peruse the edited manuscript of my upcoming novel. But in the interest of bestowing upon you some cultural learnings, as well as letting you know how I feel about your communication with me, this good old Aussie idiom beautifully encapsulates my feelings: Go stick your head up a dead bear's bum.
Yours,
Simone (who is a writer)"
Do you like, peeps? That's what I would have told this person had they not blocked me. But as mentioned, I am a writer and if any of you, (including the Queen of Egypt) are interested in my novels, here are links to the first chapters:
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)