Just toying around with a little list in my head; things I've noticed lately. For example, I noticed on the news this morning Rolf Harris has been planning a new album. I guess it's something to keep his mind active whilst he serves his prison sentence. I'm waiting for the usual baying cries that he should not be 'allowed' to do this. I have no time for Harris and his crimes, but I don't see how, or indeed WHY, artistic expression should be stymied. Don't want anything to do with Harris's body of work? The answer is simple: don't. For those of you who would always get a lump in the throat and a shiver down the spine in that final verse of 'Two Little Boys', let me ask this: did the song stop being good upon the singer's conviction? I wonder if Harris is drawing inspiration from his current state of life, or will he be reworking some of his old stuff. "Jake the Ped", anyone?
I've noticed that I'm still a pedantic grammar Nazi, and neither time nor age have mellowed me. If anything, I'm worse. Whilst at the trivia last week, I noticed on the whiteboard the word: 'baffeler'. You see, each round has a 'baffler' question, with the clues getting easier as the rounds go by. So angered was I by this serious crime against spelling, I got out of my seat and went to the board, whereupon I rubbed out the erroneously placed 'e' with my thumb. I then returned to my seat and resumed my dinner. But the evening grew worse. Much worse. I noticed a poster for the raffles, which are sponsored by a local butcher. Well, you and I know they are sponsored. According to the poster, however, they are 'sponsered'. Seriously, that was on the professionally printed poster. My eyeballs started to ache looking at it, and it drew me in with its tractor beam of sheer godawfulness, and I was powerless to look away. One of my team mates observed my fixation on this, and teased me that it was eating away at me. I couldn't deny it; it was true. This poster was ruining my evening. Finally, I approached management and led him to the poster. I pointed out the misspelled word, and expressed my disbelief that nobody had picked up on it. I'm not going to be so elitist as to say I wouldn't have necessarily expected the butcher to know the spelling of 'sponsored', but if he or she didn't, then surely someone at the printers should have seen it. Don't those people have proof readers? And while we're at it, can everyone PLEASE stop putting apostrophes in plurals? They don't freaking go there!!!!!
True to my usual custom, I am way behind the trends. I have added Nirvana's 'Lithium' to my collection, some twenty-odd years after the Seattle grunge scene was at its height. I always liked the song, and I was reminded of it on Saturday morning when I was viewing the film 'The Big Short'. I enjoyed the movie. I still have fuck-all understanding of the machinations of banking and finance, but I did enjoy the performances and structure of the movie. I recommend it, but make sure you've done your tinkle before you go in as it's a long 'un.
I also notice my idea of what constitutes a celebrity seems divorced from what apparently actually does constitute a celebrity. I haven't watched the latest 'I'm A Celebrity; Get Me Out Of Here', but I'm sure I haven't heard of most of those people in the jungle. One of them appears to have attained celebrity status by being dumb enough to have appeared on a reality television show. Why are these people so lauded and feted? I'm in the 'Stop Making Stupid People Famous' camp on this one. I do note Bea Smith is in the jungle, too (yes, I know it's the actress playing her, stop rolling your eyes). I wonder will she be tempted to shove some of these so-called celebrities in the steam-press? I know I would.
Oh well, I'm in the process of finalising some arrangements for my birthday party. Back to it.
Sunday 31 January 2016
Wednesday 27 January 2016
The Rooster & The Dog
'Fresh Scandal Rocks NRL!' 'NRL Player Caught In Embarrassing Behaviour!' I'm thinking a better headline would be: 'Overpaid Entitled Flog Gets Pissed And Acts Like Dickhead While Equally Moronic Flogs Film Him'.
Can I just point out Mitchell Pearce didn't actually engage in interspecies intercourse with the poor mutt? He pretended, and there is a world of difference in that, and actually jamming his cock right up the dog's date. As far as I can tell from the footage, he still had his daks up, daks he is alleged to have urinated in (although some say it was spilled water or another liquid). I am in no way defending an utterly inebriated guttersnipe, but I don't know if the silly behaviour warrants some of the headlines. I cannot say I was surprised to hear and read the headlines. Indeed, I would be more shocked by a headline that went: 'NRL Player Drinks Sensible Amount And Behaves Appropriately'.
Also, why do people have to whip out phones and film every goddamned thing they see these days? Shame on the people who sold the footage - you're all just as creepy.
The behaviour is off-putting and offensive. But it's nothing new for people to get bombed and act this way. Is a drunk bloke putting a sausage in his mouth - the other end of which is sticking out another bloke's shorts - on par with thrusting a bloke thrusting his pelvis in a back-and-forth motion behind a dog? I guess if the dog's frightened, that's something to take into account. But as far as I can tell, he didn't actually - ahem! - give the dog a bone, so there is probably no need for the RSPCA to be called in. But I have heard of blokes doing this stupid stuff with sausages at barbecues - although they're consenting adults (chronologically speaking, anyway).
I'll tell you who did fuck a dog - it was the mailman in my home town many, many years ago. He got wasted one night, and some young blokes were cruising around town and saw him on a street corner, and he was most DEFINITELY engaging in some interspecies erotic action. These days the mail man is probably thankful nobody had camera phones back in the early Eighties. But on the other hand, people are still talking about it some thirty-three years later. Well, I am, anyway. I still recall walking into the school playground, after alighting the bus, jauntily swinging the Globite suitcase I wrote of in my previous post, and seeing a group of my contemporaries. I lined my Globite up with the other Globites at the classroom, and wandered over to the other kids. An appalled looking kid said, 'Hey, Simone did you hear about [INSERT NAME OF MAILMAN HERE, WHICH IN THE INTEREST OF AVOIDING A LAW SUIT I HAVE CHOSEN TO NOT DO]?' I said I had not, and asked who was this [READ THE PREVIOUS PARANTHESISED BOLD TEXT]. It was explained he was the local mail man. I did not know him because, being on a property out of town, our mail delivery was a separate service. I was appraised of his canine copulation capers, and I stood dumb struck, my jaw dangling and my hands clamped against the sides of my face. I could have been Munch's 'The Scream', had 'The Scream' meant to depict a tall, seventeen-year-old girl with long auburn hair. When my power of speech returned, all I could do was squawk, 'Eeee-YUCK! That's FOUL!'
But anyway, if you're going to play professional NRL, please don't get pissed and act like a flog. That stuff has a way of haunting you.
Can I just point out Mitchell Pearce didn't actually engage in interspecies intercourse with the poor mutt? He pretended, and there is a world of difference in that, and actually jamming his cock right up the dog's date. As far as I can tell from the footage, he still had his daks up, daks he is alleged to have urinated in (although some say it was spilled water or another liquid). I am in no way defending an utterly inebriated guttersnipe, but I don't know if the silly behaviour warrants some of the headlines. I cannot say I was surprised to hear and read the headlines. Indeed, I would be more shocked by a headline that went: 'NRL Player Drinks Sensible Amount And Behaves Appropriately'.
Also, why do people have to whip out phones and film every goddamned thing they see these days? Shame on the people who sold the footage - you're all just as creepy.
The behaviour is off-putting and offensive. But it's nothing new for people to get bombed and act this way. Is a drunk bloke putting a sausage in his mouth - the other end of which is sticking out another bloke's shorts - on par with thrusting a bloke thrusting his pelvis in a back-and-forth motion behind a dog? I guess if the dog's frightened, that's something to take into account. But as far as I can tell, he didn't actually - ahem! - give the dog a bone, so there is probably no need for the RSPCA to be called in. But I have heard of blokes doing this stupid stuff with sausages at barbecues - although they're consenting adults (chronologically speaking, anyway).
I'll tell you who did fuck a dog - it was the mailman in my home town many, many years ago. He got wasted one night, and some young blokes were cruising around town and saw him on a street corner, and he was most DEFINITELY engaging in some interspecies erotic action. These days the mail man is probably thankful nobody had camera phones back in the early Eighties. But on the other hand, people are still talking about it some thirty-three years later. Well, I am, anyway. I still recall walking into the school playground, after alighting the bus, jauntily swinging the Globite suitcase I wrote of in my previous post, and seeing a group of my contemporaries. I lined my Globite up with the other Globites at the classroom, and wandered over to the other kids. An appalled looking kid said, 'Hey, Simone did you hear about [INSERT NAME OF MAILMAN HERE, WHICH IN THE INTEREST OF AVOIDING A LAW SUIT I HAVE CHOSEN TO NOT DO]?' I said I had not, and asked who was this [READ THE PREVIOUS PARANTHESISED BOLD TEXT]. It was explained he was the local mail man. I did not know him because, being on a property out of town, our mail delivery was a separate service. I was appraised of his canine copulation capers, and I stood dumb struck, my jaw dangling and my hands clamped against the sides of my face. I could have been Munch's 'The Scream', had 'The Scream' meant to depict a tall, seventeen-year-old girl with long auburn hair. When my power of speech returned, all I could do was squawk, 'Eeee-YUCK! That's FOUL!'
But anyway, if you're going to play professional NRL, please don't get pissed and act like a flog. That stuff has a way of haunting you.
Monday 25 January 2016
Monday's Musings
I cannot believe the speed at which these summer school holidays have sped by. In a few days, Master 14 will be again traipsing up the hill to the local high school where he is to commence Year 9, resplendent with his new back pack bouncing against his shoulder blades with each step he takes in the new black shoes we bought him. The back pack has some eerie faces on it - they are pineapples with skull faces. I guess it's the sort of thing one would find in a tattoo parlour on the Sunshine Coast. I didn't have a back pack at school. I had one of those rock hard Globites - remember them? I found my old one when cleaning at Dad's, and it's in my car now. It still has my name on it - I did the lettering with liquid paper back in Year 11, and one of the boys traced over it with his own liquid paper. I don't know why he felt compelled to waste his liquid paper thus. Anyway, Mr Bingells and I were telling Master 14 about the old Globites, and Mr Bingells said they were a very efficient weapon indeed if one was called upon to defend oneself with a Globite should one find oneself set upon by the local bully. Those weren't Mr Bingells' exact words because he does not share grammar and syntax with Prince Charles. But a well-swung Globite connecting with the jaw of your antagonist could do some very choice damage indeed, particularly if the Globite contained one of those heavy old Science Missals Volume I (blowfly squashed between slammed shut pages an optional extra). I never swung my Globite at anybody. If I was going to do this, the bully who would have been on the receiving end had left by the time I was given this Globite - she left when I was at the end of Year 8, and she Year 10. She was this horrible fat bitch who looked like Jabba the Hutt in a school dress. She sat up the back of my school bus in the middle of the very back seat (probably to provide some kind of balance and alignment when the bus was turning a corner). I just got thinking about her, and all that went through my mind was, 'God, she was a cunt.' In the event you are reading this, you globular pile of nastiness: Yes, you did make my life miserable and yes I hated you. However, I might point out that my bestie (another of your victims) and I used to laugh like mad when you played volley ball - your uniform barely covered your wobbly big bum because your parents probably couldn't afford to buy enough material for the dress required, and when you jumped to hit the ball you caused undue stress to the topography of the playground.
But on a lighter (tone, not density) note, I've been having a lovely time perving at the shirtless Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad in a clip for a live performance of 'Locomotion'. Here is the clip, and ladies, take note at 0.58 when he wiggles his hips. You can all thank me later. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBVgVABsf-4
Tomorrow is Australia Day, a political hot potato of cultural clashes. Whatever it is, I am going to join some friends for a barbeque. I'm not putting lamb on the bbq, but only because I can't afford it. What I would like to have done is bought a nice firm salmon fillet and wrapped it in foil for the hot plate. And for the record, I don't have a problem with the Sam Kekovich Australia Day ad, as I'm sure I pointed out on a previous post. It is what is called 'tongue in cheek'. What happened to our sense of humour? If I met a person like Sam Kekovich, and indeed I have, I would find this person obnoxious. However, in the context of a satirical ad, I see the humour. As for the assertion to this ad promotes violence against vegans, I say a resounding 'pfffffft!'. The coffee table is torched, not the vegan. My other bestie is vegan; I must ask her if she finds this ad offensive. I'm thinking she doesn't, because although she gave up using animal products many years ago, she did not give up her sense of humour.
But on a lighter (tone, not density) note, I've been having a lovely time perving at the shirtless Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad in a clip for a live performance of 'Locomotion'. Here is the clip, and ladies, take note at 0.58 when he wiggles his hips. You can all thank me later. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBVgVABsf-4
Tomorrow is Australia Day, a political hot potato of cultural clashes. Whatever it is, I am going to join some friends for a barbeque. I'm not putting lamb on the bbq, but only because I can't afford it. What I would like to have done is bought a nice firm salmon fillet and wrapped it in foil for the hot plate. And for the record, I don't have a problem with the Sam Kekovich Australia Day ad, as I'm sure I pointed out on a previous post. It is what is called 'tongue in cheek'. What happened to our sense of humour? If I met a person like Sam Kekovich, and indeed I have, I would find this person obnoxious. However, in the context of a satirical ad, I see the humour. As for the assertion to this ad promotes violence against vegans, I say a resounding 'pfffffft!'. The coffee table is torched, not the vegan. My other bestie is vegan; I must ask her if she finds this ad offensive. I'm thinking she doesn't, because although she gave up using animal products many years ago, she did not give up her sense of humour.
Saturday 23 January 2016
Just for the Record
I sit before my screen, a hot, tired, and cranky blogging-type. No prizes for guessing why I'm hot; it's summer and I'm in rural New South Wales. I'm cranky because I'm hot. I'm tired because I've been out at my father's house sorting out, packing up, throwing out and all the other activities that you just have to roll up your sleeves and do when you've lost a parent.
Lately I've had more than my fair share of crap on my mind, but today it was concentrated on working in my childhood home. I was to meet my brother and sister-in-law, and as chance would have it arrived first. I let myself in, and it hit me like a sock in the jaw: he's gone. I get lots of these moments, and walking into Dad's living room was a doozy, and I thought: I miss you so much, Dad.
Today's finds included the second volume a K-Tel conglomeration from the mid-60s: '26 Groovy Greats'. When I was growing up in the Seventies, these conglomerations had more risqué names like 'Teaser' and 'Ripper', but this one I looked at was '26 Groovy Greats'. Some of these 'groovy greats' are 'Rescue Me' by Fontella Bass, and 'Locomotion' by Little Eva. The 'Locomotion' I was introduced to as a child was the one by Grand Funk in the mid-70s, and I might see if I can find some footage on YouTube soon, if only to have a perve on the pervalicious Mark Farner sans shirt. Looking at the playlist on '26 Groovy Greats' dredged up a memory of my sister and cousin wearing sunglasses and shower caps, lip-synching to 'Shimmy Shimmy Koko Bop' (Little Anthony & The Imperials, Track 4 on Side 1). There were some 45s, too; hawked out of the jukebox when my grandmother sold the pub in 1974: 'Sasha' (a beautiful instrumental by Hank B Marvin), and 'Day by Day' (Colleen Hewitt). 'Get in On' by T-Rex was there, along with 'Come And Get It' by the tragically fated Badfinger. Looking at those records conjured up a blend of different emotions, all twisting and changing a little like a kaleidoscope. And then I found that hybrid of shock, dagginess, and kitsch - 'Shock Treatment' from the movie that purported to be some kind of a carry-on from 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'. From what I can tell, that movie died in the arse and is buried, never to be mentioned at Rocky Horror family gatherings as it is accorded the same disdain as that cousin nobody mentions. You know, the one who got caught fucking a horse. And yes, I've brought those finds home with me.
Before leaving, I looked across the paddock to a neighbouring house where a relative lived when I was a child. Sometimes as a youngster, I would wander over and play with the children there (third cousins to me). We would play football. What made this game notable was an excitable sheep that was wont to join in the game. We would be running along with the ball, and it would chase us. It would knock us flat, and run over us as we lay winded and sprawled. In hindsight, it really was funny.
Oh well, I'd best have a quick shower and cool down.
Lately I've had more than my fair share of crap on my mind, but today it was concentrated on working in my childhood home. I was to meet my brother and sister-in-law, and as chance would have it arrived first. I let myself in, and it hit me like a sock in the jaw: he's gone. I get lots of these moments, and walking into Dad's living room was a doozy, and I thought: I miss you so much, Dad.
Today's finds included the second volume a K-Tel conglomeration from the mid-60s: '26 Groovy Greats'. When I was growing up in the Seventies, these conglomerations had more risqué names like 'Teaser' and 'Ripper', but this one I looked at was '26 Groovy Greats'. Some of these 'groovy greats' are 'Rescue Me' by Fontella Bass, and 'Locomotion' by Little Eva. The 'Locomotion' I was introduced to as a child was the one by Grand Funk in the mid-70s, and I might see if I can find some footage on YouTube soon, if only to have a perve on the pervalicious Mark Farner sans shirt. Looking at the playlist on '26 Groovy Greats' dredged up a memory of my sister and cousin wearing sunglasses and shower caps, lip-synching to 'Shimmy Shimmy Koko Bop' (Little Anthony & The Imperials, Track 4 on Side 1). There were some 45s, too; hawked out of the jukebox when my grandmother sold the pub in 1974: 'Sasha' (a beautiful instrumental by Hank B Marvin), and 'Day by Day' (Colleen Hewitt). 'Get in On' by T-Rex was there, along with 'Come And Get It' by the tragically fated Badfinger. Looking at those records conjured up a blend of different emotions, all twisting and changing a little like a kaleidoscope. And then I found that hybrid of shock, dagginess, and kitsch - 'Shock Treatment' from the movie that purported to be some kind of a carry-on from 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'. From what I can tell, that movie died in the arse and is buried, never to be mentioned at Rocky Horror family gatherings as it is accorded the same disdain as that cousin nobody mentions. You know, the one who got caught fucking a horse. And yes, I've brought those finds home with me.
Before leaving, I looked across the paddock to a neighbouring house where a relative lived when I was a child. Sometimes as a youngster, I would wander over and play with the children there (third cousins to me). We would play football. What made this game notable was an excitable sheep that was wont to join in the game. We would be running along with the ball, and it would chase us. It would knock us flat, and run over us as we lay winded and sprawled. In hindsight, it really was funny.
Oh well, I'd best have a quick shower and cool down.
Tuesday 19 January 2016
Players' Privates
Reasons I Don't Buy Women's Magazines #4: Their articles are usually regarding people about whom I truly don't give a fuck, mainly those whose initials are 'K' and whose backsides could double as a helipad. They usually abound with the latest inanity committed or stated by a Z-list wannabe, or someone whose claim to fame is participation in an asinine reality television show. We are told about the 'amazing weight loss' of some actress who peaked around 1993 in a rom-com, or else how some WAG regained her pre-pregnancy figure as she was being wheeled from the delivery room to the maternity ward, newborn sprog (probably named after a figure in Norse mythology) cradled in her skinny arms.
Anyway, they've struck a new low, so it would seem. Woman's Day is running photographs of two AFL players in the nuddy. Oh, don't worry; they are going to hide the wedding tackle. But these photographs were provided in dubious circumstances. The players in concern 'sexted' nude pics of themselves to some women who were not their respective WAGs. The recipients of the pics appear to have provided them to this tabloid mag. For what gain? I'm guessing it goes a little like 'ker-ching!', because I understand the names of the women are not revealed, so it can't be for fame. Is it perhaps a revenge porn type of thing? I dunno. I hope the women who sent the pics to this odious excuse of a magazine enjoy their metaphorical thirty pieces of silver.
Presuming the recipients of the nude photographs are also adults, and not unhappy to receive those photographs, why the hell should everybody bloody care what these boofheads are doing? To those of you who say the club should taken action, I say this: What the fuck for? Presuming the players didn't breach any club social media conduct clause, then mind your own freaking business. And even if they did, still mind your own freaking business. Does a sexted phone-to-phone correspondence actually count as 'social media' anyway?
Running this ludicrous article achieves nothing, except heartache and embarrassment for the players' partners.
I'm sick of lame-arse comments about how these men are expected to set an example. Why? They're footballers, fer chrissakes! Do you expect a session similar to an audience with Gore Vidal? What about YOU being a role model for your kid?
I read today, and hope with every fibre of my being it is a hoax, that Kanye West is planning to record a Bowie tribute album. Mate, please, just.. don't. Your cover of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at Glastonbury was enough to strip the enamel from my teeth. As much as I loathe change dot org petitions, if somebody circulated one calling for this to not eventuate, I just might click and sign.
Anyway, they've struck a new low, so it would seem. Woman's Day is running photographs of two AFL players in the nuddy. Oh, don't worry; they are going to hide the wedding tackle. But these photographs were provided in dubious circumstances. The players in concern 'sexted' nude pics of themselves to some women who were not their respective WAGs. The recipients of the pics appear to have provided them to this tabloid mag. For what gain? I'm guessing it goes a little like 'ker-ching!', because I understand the names of the women are not revealed, so it can't be for fame. Is it perhaps a revenge porn type of thing? I dunno. I hope the women who sent the pics to this odious excuse of a magazine enjoy their metaphorical thirty pieces of silver.
Presuming the recipients of the nude photographs are also adults, and not unhappy to receive those photographs, why the hell should everybody bloody care what these boofheads are doing? To those of you who say the club should taken action, I say this: What the fuck for? Presuming the players didn't breach any club social media conduct clause, then mind your own freaking business. And even if they did, still mind your own freaking business. Does a sexted phone-to-phone correspondence actually count as 'social media' anyway?
Running this ludicrous article achieves nothing, except heartache and embarrassment for the players' partners.
I'm sick of lame-arse comments about how these men are expected to set an example. Why? They're footballers, fer chrissakes! Do you expect a session similar to an audience with Gore Vidal? What about YOU being a role model for your kid?
I read today, and hope with every fibre of my being it is a hoax, that Kanye West is planning to record a Bowie tribute album. Mate, please, just.. don't. Your cover of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at Glastonbury was enough to strip the enamel from my teeth. As much as I loathe change dot org petitions, if somebody circulated one calling for this to not eventuate, I just might click and sign.
Friday 15 January 2016
Munsey & Melodic Miscellany
I've been doing what I often do during my down time, and that's goof around with musical miscellany. By that I mean I 'enjoy' a variety of different tunes in the one sitting; some I choose and others friends bring to my attention. I've compartmented the numbers to which I have listened this mild afternoon - yeah, it's mild now, but you wait, Reader, that frigging heat will come back and grab us all by the crotch and twist hard! - into a type of genre.
1. Song That Makes Me Think The Narrator Is A Twat: 'Baby, Don't Get Hooked On Me' by Mac Davis. I actually rather like this guy's voice, but I listen to the song and the narrator of the piece just sounds like a high-maintenance knob with an overblown sense of his own sexual prowess and appeal. 'I'll just use you and then I'll set you free....' Dunno about you, but I listen to this and think, 'Just get over yourself!'
2. Song That Also Makes Me Think The Narrator Is A Twat: 'The Wanderer' by Dion et al. I mean, seriously, folks: 'I kiss 'em and I love 'em 'cause to me they're all the same/I hug 'em and I squeeze 'em/They don't even know my name/They call me the Wanderer..' More like the Molesting Sex Pest! I will own a certain guilty pleasure to enjoying Status Quo singing this, but when Leif Garrett does it, it's grotesque because he was only sixteen when he recorded it. To my horror, when we were cleaning out at our parents' house, I discovered the most embarrassing album I have ever bought: a compilation of songs recorded by Leif Garrett, and this ditty is on it. I thought about tucking that shameful find into my top, like a shoplifter in Angus & Coote, but swallowed my pride and held it out for my husband, siblings, and siblings-in-law to see. And then I tried to shrink inside myself like a turtle retreating to its shell as my husband, siblings, and siblings-in-law all brayed laughter at me.
3. Song That Must Be The Ultimate In Chutzpah: 'The Lost Sheep' by Adrian Munsey. I'm not sure this qualifies as a song per se, as there is not a lot of singing. What there is, is bleating. Adrian Munsey bleating. He stands there, holding a cute lamb, and bleats piteously and mournfully. If you weren't watching the film clip, you would actually cry for that poor lost little lamb. But if you DO look at it, you find yourself gobsmacked at the sight of a very plain man, who resembles your daggy old Commerce teacher, surrounded by formally-attired musicians on piano, drums, violin, cello, and harp; that man replicating the sounds of a sheep lost and bleating for its flock. I would like to find out how many 'takes' had to be done when filming this clip, because the musicians are deserving of medals for maintaining their composure. I daresay when that final note was played, and the director called 'Cut!', everybody must have been rolling around laughing their guts out. I understand Munsey to be a prolific figure in a few artistic disciplines, so it's got me wondering what he was thinking with this, um, piece. Perhaps he was thinking, 'What the hell, I'm going to have some fun!'. Yeah, like I said, for someone to actually conceive this idea and orchestrate it, and convince someone to go along with it, and then have it played on 'Countdown' in Australia no less, that's some serious chutzpah happening!
Well, I'd best be off now.
1. Song That Makes Me Think The Narrator Is A Twat: 'Baby, Don't Get Hooked On Me' by Mac Davis. I actually rather like this guy's voice, but I listen to the song and the narrator of the piece just sounds like a high-maintenance knob with an overblown sense of his own sexual prowess and appeal. 'I'll just use you and then I'll set you free....' Dunno about you, but I listen to this and think, 'Just get over yourself!'
2. Song That Also Makes Me Think The Narrator Is A Twat: 'The Wanderer' by Dion et al. I mean, seriously, folks: 'I kiss 'em and I love 'em 'cause to me they're all the same/I hug 'em and I squeeze 'em/They don't even know my name/They call me the Wanderer..' More like the Molesting Sex Pest! I will own a certain guilty pleasure to enjoying Status Quo singing this, but when Leif Garrett does it, it's grotesque because he was only sixteen when he recorded it. To my horror, when we were cleaning out at our parents' house, I discovered the most embarrassing album I have ever bought: a compilation of songs recorded by Leif Garrett, and this ditty is on it. I thought about tucking that shameful find into my top, like a shoplifter in Angus & Coote, but swallowed my pride and held it out for my husband, siblings, and siblings-in-law to see. And then I tried to shrink inside myself like a turtle retreating to its shell as my husband, siblings, and siblings-in-law all brayed laughter at me.
3. Song That Must Be The Ultimate In Chutzpah: 'The Lost Sheep' by Adrian Munsey. I'm not sure this qualifies as a song per se, as there is not a lot of singing. What there is, is bleating. Adrian Munsey bleating. He stands there, holding a cute lamb, and bleats piteously and mournfully. If you weren't watching the film clip, you would actually cry for that poor lost little lamb. But if you DO look at it, you find yourself gobsmacked at the sight of a very plain man, who resembles your daggy old Commerce teacher, surrounded by formally-attired musicians on piano, drums, violin, cello, and harp; that man replicating the sounds of a sheep lost and bleating for its flock. I would like to find out how many 'takes' had to be done when filming this clip, because the musicians are deserving of medals for maintaining their composure. I daresay when that final note was played, and the director called 'Cut!', everybody must have been rolling around laughing their guts out. I understand Munsey to be a prolific figure in a few artistic disciplines, so it's got me wondering what he was thinking with this, um, piece. Perhaps he was thinking, 'What the hell, I'm going to have some fun!'. Yeah, like I said, for someone to actually conceive this idea and orchestrate it, and convince someone to go along with it, and then have it played on 'Countdown' in Australia no less, that's some serious chutzpah happening!
Well, I'd best be off now.
Thursday 14 January 2016
Chunderous Cha
What I must not do tonight: bitch about the heat. This is going to be so difficult. I feel like I've just stepped from the shower, and guess what? I HAVEN'T! It's that fucking HOT and I'm coated in a film of sweat. I look like a glistening basted chook spinning on a rotisserie, poniarded up its clacker with that rod that turns.
Not much to report on, except that we have had a bit of rain, so it's probably going to get all muggy, but with a bit of luck I will actually sleep all right tonight. A decent sleep and I have only had a nodding acquaintance throughout this loathsome weather pattern. Oh, who am I kidding? We've been total strangers.
Other things that a pissing me off today are set out hereunder:
1. The cup of tea I got at my local cinema today. Oh, it's probably a luxury that I can get a cup of tea at a cinema, and I am very impressed with the local cinema itself. I'm not impressed with the cup of tea. It cost me an amount of money that was not commensurate with the shitty product served in a waxed cardboard cup with which I found myself. It was not a coin operated self-serve machine, but instead I had to pay at the counter. I'm cool with that; it fazes me not at all. But there was nothing that said 'tea'. The staff pointed out all the coffee styles available to me, and their varying strengths, but I kept saying, 'Where's the 'tea' option?' I was told to press a particular button and I pointed out that was for the COFFEE! Finally, someone handed me a tea bag to plonk into my waxed cup, and I poured the hot water myself from this high-tech, state of the art urn that resembled nothing so much as the control panel in the brig of 'Enterprise', and then placed the cup under the spigot labelled 'milk'. Out came a stream of hot milk with froth on the top; clearly this was more suited to a cappuccino. My 14yo said, 'Mum, that doesn't look like a cup of tea.' I replied, 'No, it looks more like a cup of crap.' Truly, the space-age urn looked like it would do everything including parking your car, so why did I end up with an unseemly expensive cup of tea tasting like liquefied sawdust?
On the bright side, I actually rather enjoyed the movie - 'Daddy's Home' - as did my children and my younger son's friend who was spending the day with us. I didn't think I'd hate the movie per se, but because it stars Will Ferrell my alarm bells were jangling a little. Will Ferrell's comedy usually just leaves me in two states, either pissed off, or scratching my head and wondering WTF. But yeah, I didn't mind him in this, probably because he was a bit restrained on the goofball slapstick shtick.
The other thing pissing me off today is:
2. Everyone whingeing at the Australia Day Lamb Ad. People are saying vegans are offended. People are saying it is disrespectful to the indigenous culture because the military operation referred to in the ad is called 'Operation Boomerang'. Oh, puh-LEEEEEZE! I saw no disrespect of the traditional owners of the land in that ad at all. The nature of the operation is to repatriate people, hence the 'boomerang' syndrome of those people returning. Can everyone just stop twisting their pearls? Some people just look for things to get outraged over and twist their pearls. All this pearl-twisting is going to lead to self-strangulation, so just stop it. On, the other hand, if you're THAT offended and must twist the pearls.... (heh-heh-heh!)
Not much to report on, except that we have had a bit of rain, so it's probably going to get all muggy, but with a bit of luck I will actually sleep all right tonight. A decent sleep and I have only had a nodding acquaintance throughout this loathsome weather pattern. Oh, who am I kidding? We've been total strangers.
Other things that a pissing me off today are set out hereunder:
1. The cup of tea I got at my local cinema today. Oh, it's probably a luxury that I can get a cup of tea at a cinema, and I am very impressed with the local cinema itself. I'm not impressed with the cup of tea. It cost me an amount of money that was not commensurate with the shitty product served in a waxed cardboard cup with which I found myself. It was not a coin operated self-serve machine, but instead I had to pay at the counter. I'm cool with that; it fazes me not at all. But there was nothing that said 'tea'. The staff pointed out all the coffee styles available to me, and their varying strengths, but I kept saying, 'Where's the 'tea' option?' I was told to press a particular button and I pointed out that was for the COFFEE! Finally, someone handed me a tea bag to plonk into my waxed cup, and I poured the hot water myself from this high-tech, state of the art urn that resembled nothing so much as the control panel in the brig of 'Enterprise', and then placed the cup under the spigot labelled 'milk'. Out came a stream of hot milk with froth on the top; clearly this was more suited to a cappuccino. My 14yo said, 'Mum, that doesn't look like a cup of tea.' I replied, 'No, it looks more like a cup of crap.' Truly, the space-age urn looked like it would do everything including parking your car, so why did I end up with an unseemly expensive cup of tea tasting like liquefied sawdust?
On the bright side, I actually rather enjoyed the movie - 'Daddy's Home' - as did my children and my younger son's friend who was spending the day with us. I didn't think I'd hate the movie per se, but because it stars Will Ferrell my alarm bells were jangling a little. Will Ferrell's comedy usually just leaves me in two states, either pissed off, or scratching my head and wondering WTF. But yeah, I didn't mind him in this, probably because he was a bit restrained on the goofball slapstick shtick.
The other thing pissing me off today is:
2. Everyone whingeing at the Australia Day Lamb Ad. People are saying vegans are offended. People are saying it is disrespectful to the indigenous culture because the military operation referred to in the ad is called 'Operation Boomerang'. Oh, puh-LEEEEEZE! I saw no disrespect of the traditional owners of the land in that ad at all. The nature of the operation is to repatriate people, hence the 'boomerang' syndrome of those people returning. Can everyone just stop twisting their pearls? Some people just look for things to get outraged over and twist their pearls. All this pearl-twisting is going to lead to self-strangulation, so just stop it. On, the other hand, if you're THAT offended and must twist the pearls.... (heh-heh-heh!)
Monday 11 January 2016
RIP, David Bowie
Pretty much everyone in my circle is utterly pig miserable tonight about the death of David Bowie. God knows, I am. I usually do become saddened when I hear of a musician I liked dying. I was most despondent when Stevie Wright left us a few weeks ago, but I wouldn't say I felt grief. Tonight, I do feel a bit of grief. I'm guessing shock has played a factor in this grief. With Stevie Wright, it was hardly a surprise to hear the news. Let's face it, his lifestyle and addictions had left him a ravaged shell of the talented man he was, and I hoped he was at peace.
But with Bowie, it's just plain shock. Not many outside his immediate circle knew he was sick. Fuck me, I was only celebrating his birthday a few days ago, as were many of the legion of fans. And yes, I was a fan. Not to the point of obsession, but I was definitely a fan. Ever since I was eight years old and heard him petulantly and seductively intone, 'Hot tramp, I love you so...' in 'Rebel, Rebel', I've been pretty much hooked on his oeuvre. The way he delivered that line just oozed promise of some rather naughty things to come. Not that I realised that at eight, you understand; just the magnetic draw of the man.
This public distress and shock is pretty much on par with the death of John Lennon, although with Bowie it's due to natural causes and not some psychotic fuck-up who should just say in his cell and keep on reading J.D. Salinger, and never set foot on commonly-public trodden soil again. So at least with Bowie, I only feel sadness. Sadness is not great, but when accompanied by anger, it is so much worse.
Why the fuck did Bowie have to die? The term 'genius' is parried about too lightly, and it's a term I'd rather reserve for the likes of Tesla, Edison, and Da Vinci. But in the musical and pop culture sense, maybe it could apply here. Everyone talks of his reinvention, and it was so entertaining (unlike Madonna's constant reinvention: in every incarnation she produces she still looks like a desperate drag queen). Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, The Thin White Duke - loved 'em all, I did.
This has been a crap day. You know what the highlight of my day has been? Getting some whiteout and obliterating a misplaced apostrophe on a notice at work. Well, the context was plural noun, not possessive noun, so that pesky annoying apostrophe had to go, before my sanity did.
I guess if there's a Rock and Roll Heaven, Bowie is jamming with Mick Ronson again, or performing another duet with Freddie Mercury. Possibly Freddie and Bowie are rolling their eyes about Vanilla Ice and 'Ice, Ice Baby', a clusterfuck that had the temerity to sound like 'Under Pressure'.
Sigh. Vale, Bowie. You were so awesome.
But with Bowie, it's just plain shock. Not many outside his immediate circle knew he was sick. Fuck me, I was only celebrating his birthday a few days ago, as were many of the legion of fans. And yes, I was a fan. Not to the point of obsession, but I was definitely a fan. Ever since I was eight years old and heard him petulantly and seductively intone, 'Hot tramp, I love you so...' in 'Rebel, Rebel', I've been pretty much hooked on his oeuvre. The way he delivered that line just oozed promise of some rather naughty things to come. Not that I realised that at eight, you understand; just the magnetic draw of the man.
This public distress and shock is pretty much on par with the death of John Lennon, although with Bowie it's due to natural causes and not some psychotic fuck-up who should just say in his cell and keep on reading J.D. Salinger, and never set foot on commonly-public trodden soil again. So at least with Bowie, I only feel sadness. Sadness is not great, but when accompanied by anger, it is so much worse.
Why the fuck did Bowie have to die? The term 'genius' is parried about too lightly, and it's a term I'd rather reserve for the likes of Tesla, Edison, and Da Vinci. But in the musical and pop culture sense, maybe it could apply here. Everyone talks of his reinvention, and it was so entertaining (unlike Madonna's constant reinvention: in every incarnation she produces she still looks like a desperate drag queen). Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, The Thin White Duke - loved 'em all, I did.
This has been a crap day. You know what the highlight of my day has been? Getting some whiteout and obliterating a misplaced apostrophe on a notice at work. Well, the context was plural noun, not possessive noun, so that pesky annoying apostrophe had to go, before my sanity did.
I guess if there's a Rock and Roll Heaven, Bowie is jamming with Mick Ronson again, or performing another duet with Freddie Mercury. Possibly Freddie and Bowie are rolling their eyes about Vanilla Ice and 'Ice, Ice Baby', a clusterfuck that had the temerity to sound like 'Under Pressure'.
Sigh. Vale, Bowie. You were so awesome.
Sunday 10 January 2016
Latter Day Lady MacBeth
Ugh, again we are to be assaulted by a furnace-like heatwave, and I will be wearing a second skin of sweat. I hate this frigging heat. I am rostered to work tomorrow, but when I knock off - lunchtime-ish- I will suggest my children come for a swim with me. I am over the school holidays already. It's hard for me to concentrate on my computer with kids playing x-box and iPads, or squabbling, or playing hide-and-seek with Master 14's buddy who stayed most of yesterday and today.
Over the past few days, at intermittent periods, I have been polishing a belt buckle. It was a commemorative belt buckle, one of many, worn by my father. These buckles were awarded to riders who completed hundred mile endurance rides (I'm buggered what they'd call those events these days, what with the conversion to metric). He had eight in total, and wore one every day for as long as I can remember. A friend who works for a local jeweller's gave me a special cloth, and I've just been rubbing and buffing, rubbing and buffing, rubbing-rubbing-rubbing like a woman possessed. A latter day Lady MacBeth, if you will. At one stage, I even gritted my teeth and muttered, 'Out, damned spot!' When I looked at the grime on my hand from whatever that cloth is impregnated with, I did refrain from wailing, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!' I probably won't be able to get it back to its original state, but I don't want to - I want it to retain some of its character from having been worn so many times over the years. Mr Bingells is keen to get the brass embossed figure of a man-on-a-horse and the lettering professionally polished. This buckle is of particular importance to me because it was the one Dad was wearing when he died. It was returned by the funeral home in a package, and I unwrapped it away from the kids, and held it in my hand, sobbing softly. I will try and include a picture of it in a post shortly.
Today I've been listening to 'Romeo's Tune' by Steve Forbert. I have always liked that song, and I guess I'm just in the mood for it. I'm aware Keith Urban has done a cover, but I can't be arsed listening to it. I don't reckon he could portray the sweet longing and whimsy Steve Forbert does, although I should give him a chance. Yeah, I know, I know. I'm just thinking of Forbert singing, 'Let me here you say everything's okay...', and it encapsulates how I'm feeling today. And how I have been feeling lately.
Well, I'm off to have a cool shower and a drink of cold water.
Over the past few days, at intermittent periods, I have been polishing a belt buckle. It was a commemorative belt buckle, one of many, worn by my father. These buckles were awarded to riders who completed hundred mile endurance rides (I'm buggered what they'd call those events these days, what with the conversion to metric). He had eight in total, and wore one every day for as long as I can remember. A friend who works for a local jeweller's gave me a special cloth, and I've just been rubbing and buffing, rubbing and buffing, rubbing-rubbing-rubbing like a woman possessed. A latter day Lady MacBeth, if you will. At one stage, I even gritted my teeth and muttered, 'Out, damned spot!' When I looked at the grime on my hand from whatever that cloth is impregnated with, I did refrain from wailing, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!' I probably won't be able to get it back to its original state, but I don't want to - I want it to retain some of its character from having been worn so many times over the years. Mr Bingells is keen to get the brass embossed figure of a man-on-a-horse and the lettering professionally polished. This buckle is of particular importance to me because it was the one Dad was wearing when he died. It was returned by the funeral home in a package, and I unwrapped it away from the kids, and held it in my hand, sobbing softly. I will try and include a picture of it in a post shortly.
Today I've been listening to 'Romeo's Tune' by Steve Forbert. I have always liked that song, and I guess I'm just in the mood for it. I'm aware Keith Urban has done a cover, but I can't be arsed listening to it. I don't reckon he could portray the sweet longing and whimsy Steve Forbert does, although I should give him a chance. Yeah, I know, I know. I'm just thinking of Forbert singing, 'Let me here you say everything's okay...', and it encapsulates how I'm feeling today. And how I have been feeling lately.
Well, I'm off to have a cool shower and a drink of cold water.
Tuesday 5 January 2016
My View On The Chris Gayle Thingy
Twenty-three years ago, I read a novel that had a large effect on me. I fell in love with its cynicism, it's worldliness, it's wisdom, and it's language. That novel was 'The Bonfire Of The Vanities'. If you haven't read it, a nutshell summation would be the protagonist fucks up but the world goes stupid with righteous indignation fuelled by the media. The novel is set in 1980s New York, but I see parallels right here in 2016 Australia. The 'protagonist' in this scenario didn't even do a massive fuck-up per se, at least not in my view, but Holy Jesus, everyone appears to have lost their shit! Nurses who do bowel care, you don't have to squeeze the little enema nozzle up your patient's date any more, just get them a social media platform to watch the latest 'scandal', and - trust me on this - shit will spray!
I'm referring to the incident in which West Indies cricketer Chris Gayle flirted with a female sports commentator. People have been screaming about sexual harassment in the workplace (no, I didn't make that up). People have been dourly droning on about the power play the male sports player was trying to exert with the female reporter. Oh, the sexism! Oh, the sleaze! Oh, the bullshit!
Hang on, I must pause in my blogging because I can hear a thunderous noise going by - whatever can it be? Wait...
Okay, I'm back now. I looked out my front door and saw a massive crowd of people running along the street in which I live (and good on them, it's a steep hill) and they were carrying flaming torches and pitchforks. I think I heard one of them say something about getting Chris Gayle....
See where I'm going with this?
All I saw was a hyped-up guy (whom I originally thought was Snoop Dog; I don't follow cricket) fresh from the sporting field make an off the cuff remark to a female reporter, jokingly asking her for a drink and saying, 'Don't blush, baby!'. He also complimented her eyes. Look, I'm not saying it was the most intelligent thing anybody's ever done as it clearly isn't. Fleming's discovery of penicillin was a lot smarter. But on the scale of smart things to do, Gayle's actions are still ahead of eating the silica gel packs you get in the new box of shoes (you know, the ones you're warned to not eat).
But once again, everyone appears to be going totally and hopelessly batshit. Why? He's even copped a ten thousand dollar fine. I'm guessing that would be a lazy lot of spare change stuck in the back of his sofa, but still: why? I truly don't see what's wrong with what he said. The journalist might have felt some discomfort and annoyance, and that's her right. But I don't think it warrants the outrage that's been generated.
One of the television stations perpetuating the crud seem to be missing their own hypocrisy. A little while back, their female weather reporter chatted up a rather hunky guy on a beach as she did her live weather report. This same show also had a reporter on site when Johnny Depp (in Captain Jack regalia - swoon!) was getting ready to board a boat, and he kissed her on the cheek. Where was the outrage then? I sure as hell didn't see any.
There are surely better things to worry about than some clumsy off-the-cuff remark, aren't there? What's wrong with complimenting someone's eyes? I can just imagine the outcry had he said, 'Last time I saw a face like yours, it was peeping up over a trough'! At least the reporter was spared the atrocious pick-up line someone tried on me years ago: 'I'm 21 and still a virgin; what about breaking me in?' (Sheila's Nightclub, North Sydney, 1985).
Oh, and I am unsurprised at what I saw yesterday. A petition calling up the PM to sack Peter Dutton for calling a journalist a 'mad fucking witch'. Honestly, you people! If you're going to become infuriated and indignant every time somebody calls somebody a name, you'll be doing nothing but hurting your index finger with the constant clicking on the online petitions. If Dutton is an incompetent dolt, then yes, sack him forthwith. But because he called a Murdoch hack something unsavoury? Gimme a break! When this twerpy petition shows up in my inbox, I will do what I always do. Flip the bird at my computer screen, and sneer, 'Fuck off!' as I delete it.
I'm referring to the incident in which West Indies cricketer Chris Gayle flirted with a female sports commentator. People have been screaming about sexual harassment in the workplace (no, I didn't make that up). People have been dourly droning on about the power play the male sports player was trying to exert with the female reporter. Oh, the sexism! Oh, the sleaze! Oh, the bullshit!
Hang on, I must pause in my blogging because I can hear a thunderous noise going by - whatever can it be? Wait...
Okay, I'm back now. I looked out my front door and saw a massive crowd of people running along the street in which I live (and good on them, it's a steep hill) and they were carrying flaming torches and pitchforks. I think I heard one of them say something about getting Chris Gayle....
See where I'm going with this?
All I saw was a hyped-up guy (whom I originally thought was Snoop Dog; I don't follow cricket) fresh from the sporting field make an off the cuff remark to a female reporter, jokingly asking her for a drink and saying, 'Don't blush, baby!'. He also complimented her eyes. Look, I'm not saying it was the most intelligent thing anybody's ever done as it clearly isn't. Fleming's discovery of penicillin was a lot smarter. But on the scale of smart things to do, Gayle's actions are still ahead of eating the silica gel packs you get in the new box of shoes (you know, the ones you're warned to not eat).
But once again, everyone appears to be going totally and hopelessly batshit. Why? He's even copped a ten thousand dollar fine. I'm guessing that would be a lazy lot of spare change stuck in the back of his sofa, but still: why? I truly don't see what's wrong with what he said. The journalist might have felt some discomfort and annoyance, and that's her right. But I don't think it warrants the outrage that's been generated.
One of the television stations perpetuating the crud seem to be missing their own hypocrisy. A little while back, their female weather reporter chatted up a rather hunky guy on a beach as she did her live weather report. This same show also had a reporter on site when Johnny Depp (in Captain Jack regalia - swoon!) was getting ready to board a boat, and he kissed her on the cheek. Where was the outrage then? I sure as hell didn't see any.
There are surely better things to worry about than some clumsy off-the-cuff remark, aren't there? What's wrong with complimenting someone's eyes? I can just imagine the outcry had he said, 'Last time I saw a face like yours, it was peeping up over a trough'! At least the reporter was spared the atrocious pick-up line someone tried on me years ago: 'I'm 21 and still a virgin; what about breaking me in?' (Sheila's Nightclub, North Sydney, 1985).
Oh, and I am unsurprised at what I saw yesterday. A petition calling up the PM to sack Peter Dutton for calling a journalist a 'mad fucking witch'. Honestly, you people! If you're going to become infuriated and indignant every time somebody calls somebody a name, you'll be doing nothing but hurting your index finger with the constant clicking on the online petitions. If Dutton is an incompetent dolt, then yes, sack him forthwith. But because he called a Murdoch hack something unsavoury? Gimme a break! When this twerpy petition shows up in my inbox, I will do what I always do. Flip the bird at my computer screen, and sneer, 'Fuck off!' as I delete it.
Monday 4 January 2016
My Take On The Dutton Stink
I've missed my chance to board the Outrage Train. Maybe if I jump in my Magna, I can head it off at the next station, which I think is Resignation Now. If I make it in time, I'll get on board this train, and along with what seems to be just about everybody, scream for the resignation of Immigration Minister Dutton over his text that somehow ended up in the wrong hands. If you don't know what I'm talking about, he sent a nasty text ABOUT somebody to the wrong person, that person being the person about whom he was being nasty in the first place. All I could think was 'Ooops', when I heard about this, not 'This Foul Sexist Misogynistic-' mainly because I loathe the misuse of the word 'misogyny' and every possible derivation thereof '-Oaf Must Tender His Resignation Immediately And If Not Then Turnbull Must Sack Him!'. Hey, don't get me wrong. I'm no fan of Dutton and I find it offensive a politician should be given the power to remove someone's citizenship - that should be up to a judge after due judicial process. But having said that, I do think the overcrowding on the Outrage Train (seriously, there are people hanging out the windows and being dragged along at the caboose) is extremely bloody unnecessary. People should have stopped on the platform at Overreaction Station, and perhaps walked back down the steps to Think About It Street, and had a brewski at the Calm Down Inn.
He typed a text in which he referred to journalist Samantha Maiden as a 'mad fucking witch' and pressed send. Unfortunately, the text went to Ms Maiden herself, instead of his buddy Briggs. And oh my giddy aunt, hasn't everyone well and truly lost their shit?
I've just viewed footage of Senator Penny Wong stating this is a test for PM Turnbull, and that Dutton has not shown the 'high standards ministers are expected to demonstrate' (she might have a little point with that one), and that 'Australians don't think it's acceptable'. With respect, Senator Wong, I am Australian and whilst I don't think what Dutton said about Ms Maiden was pleasant, I also don't frigging CARE! Particularly in the context of what he believed would be a private text to a fellow minister.
To people complaining about 'gendered language', he called her a 'witch'. Was he meant to call her a 'warlock'? Next time Dutto might have to refer to a journalist as a 'non-compos mentis copulating being of non-specific gender with supernatural abilities of flight and telekinesis', although this might make his fingers tired when he's typing his text. When I look at it this way, I can see why he went with 'mad fucking witch'.
Also, if anybody thinks a politician is not going to use an occasional swear word in what he or she perceives to be a private communication, all I can say is this: How's the weather there is Fairyland?
Perhaps I'm missing the point, but I am really not understanding why everybody has gone troppo. He called someone a 'witch'. Get over it; there are far worse names to call someone. If he had a gripe with a male journalist, and typed then mistakenly sent a text in which that journalist was referred to as a 'fucking dick', would everybody be scrambling to board the Outrage Train? I somehow doubt it.
I'm just waiting for some stupid title for this, with the suffix '-gate'. 'Witch-gate', perhaps. 'Text-gate', maybe. Sigh.
Think it over peeps. Did he call for the invasion of a sovereign nation? No. Then let's all calm down, shall we?
He typed a text in which he referred to journalist Samantha Maiden as a 'mad fucking witch' and pressed send. Unfortunately, the text went to Ms Maiden herself, instead of his buddy Briggs. And oh my giddy aunt, hasn't everyone well and truly lost their shit?
I've just viewed footage of Senator Penny Wong stating this is a test for PM Turnbull, and that Dutton has not shown the 'high standards ministers are expected to demonstrate' (she might have a little point with that one), and that 'Australians don't think it's acceptable'. With respect, Senator Wong, I am Australian and whilst I don't think what Dutton said about Ms Maiden was pleasant, I also don't frigging CARE! Particularly in the context of what he believed would be a private text to a fellow minister.
To people complaining about 'gendered language', he called her a 'witch'. Was he meant to call her a 'warlock'? Next time Dutto might have to refer to a journalist as a 'non-compos mentis copulating being of non-specific gender with supernatural abilities of flight and telekinesis', although this might make his fingers tired when he's typing his text. When I look at it this way, I can see why he went with 'mad fucking witch'.
Also, if anybody thinks a politician is not going to use an occasional swear word in what he or she perceives to be a private communication, all I can say is this: How's the weather there is Fairyland?
Perhaps I'm missing the point, but I am really not understanding why everybody has gone troppo. He called someone a 'witch'. Get over it; there are far worse names to call someone. If he had a gripe with a male journalist, and typed then mistakenly sent a text in which that journalist was referred to as a 'fucking dick', would everybody be scrambling to board the Outrage Train? I somehow doubt it.
I'm just waiting for some stupid title for this, with the suffix '-gate'. 'Witch-gate', perhaps. 'Text-gate', maybe. Sigh.
Think it over peeps. Did he call for the invasion of a sovereign nation? No. Then let's all calm down, shall we?
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