When I was younger, I had aspirations to be an actress. I also had aspirations to be a writer. The latter dream came true, although it doesn't pay my mortgage. Yet. Also, although I could draw, it never occurred to me to try my hand at commercial art. Ergo, I never became a graphic artist. Right now, I am kind of relieved because if certain folks have their way, I might have ended up with no job or outlet for my creativity because I wouldn't be allowed to design a label for a product unless it was 'plain packaging'. You all know about plain packaging laws on cigarettes here. I'm kind of in two minds about that only because I think it encroaches up on the creativity of an artist engaged with the task of designing the product's packaging. That being said, I seriously cannot stand cigarettes anyway.
But last night I was attending a client's house and caught a little snippet of the news, and it was an article that had my eyes rolling like a row of cherries in a poker machine, and had me groaning sotto voce, 'You are fucking kidding me.' It has been submitted by the Adelaide branch of Zonta International to a senate inquiry on gender equality that - hang on, are you ready for this? Are you sitting comfortably? Emptied your bladder? - children's toys be marketed in plain packaging because they believe the designs are likely to reinforce stereotypes that little girls need to be submissive and girly, and boys need to be dominant. Their moronic logic is that these early stereotypes can contribute to domestic violence.
Minions of the Adelaide branch of Zonta International, I don't know any of you personally, to my knowledge, but I would respectfully suggest you wash the pesticides off the fruit before you eat it. I cannot recall hearing such a dumb-arse suggestion since, well since last December when the Greens thought it was a good idea for parents to not buy gender-biased toys for children that Christmas. This just in: I will buy whatever I fucking well want to buy for MY kids, and I don't care if it's girlie, or blokey, or whether the packaging features pink unicorns or army fatigue camouflage pattern.
And like I suggested before, this really does infringe upon the creativity of a graphic artist entrusted to design the packaging for the product. How is the manufacturer meant to get their product sold if they can't make it appealing? Lack of sales leads to job losses, and all because some bloody pack of twerps who don't properly wash the pesticides from the fruit had an arse-hat of an idea and wrecked the whole bloody thing. All products will be packaged in grey cardboard soon. If you're at the liquor store, you will have trouble distinguishing the Grange Hermitage and, if you're like me and forget to take your glasses when shopping, might end up accidentally serving your guests a nasty plonk redolent of lawn mower fuel.
What a dull society we are going to have. Soon we are all going to get around in grey robes, like that episode of 'The Simpsons' where they were brainwashed by a cult.
Why can't people find more sensible ways to address gender inequality?
On a lighter note, the other day I was in the supermarket and I heard a song that I'm sure I'm not going to particularly like. I've just googled to see what caused my consternation as I negotiated aisles with my wilful trolley, and it's a song by a bloke called Lukas Graham. He is in the running for James Blunt Soundalike, and the song had these lyrics, 'Once I was seven years old...'. I couldn't see the point to it at all. Yeah, mostly we WERE all seven years old. In my case a miserable old nun, who had the face and disposition of a constipated ferret, whacked the crap out of me with a ruler.
Thursday, 31 March 2016
Wednesday, 30 March 2016
Sigh... Here We Go Again
This one goes out to anybody who seeks to have me sign a petition calling for the release of Ben Batterham: my answer is a resounding NO, I WILL NOT SIGN YOUR STONE COLD MOTHERLESS PETITION!!!!
My first reason, as anybody who follows my cyber-ranting will know, is that online change dot org petitions aggravate the living snot out of me. They really are one of my pet peeves, right up there with 'would of', and grubs who hawk up wads of phlegm and spit them in public.
Now, I will try and explain why I refuse to sign any such damned petition calling for the Attorney General to facilitate the release of Batterham:
1. The reason Batterham doesn't have bail is because, to my knowledge, it's not been applied for. Okay? If this be the case, and he applies when his case is next mentioned before the court in May, he just might get bail then. Okay?
2. It is - and I will type this slowly - NOT the role of the judiciary to listen to the baying public. Any judiciary swayed by the baying public is corrupt. Just say you found yourself in court, would you want an impartial judge/magistrate who is willing to review the facts before him or her, and apply the law accordingly and without fear or favour? Or on the other hand, would you want some lily-livered milquetoast listening the populist political rantings of the Perpetually Outraged & Chronically Misinformed? This is why we have separation of judiciary and parliament.
3. You are allowed to use reasonable force in your own home, as far as I am aware. Now howsabout you all let the courts rule on what has been reasonable force et cetera et cetera et cetera? You know, once the evidence has been gathered and any forensic examinations conducted, and all that finicky shit that helps ensure the evidence is correct. Yeah, I know, it seems a bit logical and fair, but sometimes that's just the way you gotta go, okay?
My first reason, as anybody who follows my cyber-ranting will know, is that online change dot org petitions aggravate the living snot out of me. They really are one of my pet peeves, right up there with 'would of', and grubs who hawk up wads of phlegm and spit them in public.
Now, I will try and explain why I refuse to sign any such damned petition calling for the Attorney General to facilitate the release of Batterham:
1. The reason Batterham doesn't have bail is because, to my knowledge, it's not been applied for. Okay? If this be the case, and he applies when his case is next mentioned before the court in May, he just might get bail then. Okay?
2. It is - and I will type this slowly - NOT the role of the judiciary to listen to the baying public. Any judiciary swayed by the baying public is corrupt. Just say you found yourself in court, would you want an impartial judge/magistrate who is willing to review the facts before him or her, and apply the law accordingly and without fear or favour? Or on the other hand, would you want some lily-livered milquetoast listening the populist political rantings of the Perpetually Outraged & Chronically Misinformed? This is why we have separation of judiciary and parliament.
3. You are allowed to use reasonable force in your own home, as far as I am aware. Now howsabout you all let the courts rule on what has been reasonable force et cetera et cetera et cetera? You know, once the evidence has been gathered and any forensic examinations conducted, and all that finicky shit that helps ensure the evidence is correct. Yeah, I know, it seems a bit logical and fair, but sometimes that's just the way you gotta go, okay?
Sunday, 27 March 2016
The Monopoly On Annoying People
So I filled my kids with chocolate, but not piety as we didn't attend Easter Sunday Mass. We did however attend lunch with my mother-in-law at a popular pub in a nearby town. Did we have a nice time? We had a tolerable time. Mr Bingells' back is being a fucker again today. My kids, whilst polite at lunch - bless 'em - were painful on the drive home. My crumbed fish was not fish, but watery paper. Well, that's what it tasted like.
Not knowing what to do with the wretches I grew in my womb, and desperately fed up with their love of technology, I suggested we play a board game after dinner. Master 14 got out the Monopoly set. I had to grit my teeth and go along with it. Gentle Reader, is there anything more stultifying than this tedious game? Part of my ennui is brought about by the fact that I am utter shit at it. Master 14 is quite the little tycoon. He expostulated with excitement, and cheered with each property bought and each rental paid. The incandescence behind his eyes, when he placed his houses on Mayfair and Park Lane, was just like Christmas morning when he was small. It was kind of like playing Monopoly with Alex P Keaton from that old sitcom 'Family Ties', except my son is probably at least half a head taller than Keaton. The other problem with playing with teenaged boys is they are sneakily flatulent creatures.
Master 11 has to be creative and dramatic with each roll of the dice. His turn takes twice as long as it needs to. He cups the dice in both hands, and gives a theatrical shake to one side of his head, then repeats the mannerism on the other side, his shoulders twitching to some tune playing in his head. He looks like nothing so much as a bartender in some movie from the Sixties. I finally complained he was not mixing a Brandy Alexander, and could he please just roll the dice.
Well, poor Mum kept landing in gaol, not passing go, and not collecting $200.00. On the rare occasions the children landed on the scant properties I owned, my oldest thought it funny to deliberately and slowly hand over the money S-L-O-W-L-Y one note at a time. On a random whim, I asked how they would feel if males were paying notes to their mother by tucking them into her garter. In case you're wondering, this is a hell of a good way to weird out your children. I was met with wails of, 'Muh-uuummm! I would be a-SHAMED!' I informed them I was disappointed in their answer because I thought I had raised them to be non-judgemental. 'It's not that,' Master 14 explained, 'I mean, am I supposed to say to my friends: "My fifty-year-old mother's a stripper"?'
Well, anyway, I ended up being bankrupted by my fourteen-year-old. But being given a reprieve from the catatonia-inducing past time known as Monopoly was worth watching him gloat as I handed over my small cash reserve and the title deeds to my properties.
Yet, as much as I dislike playing Monopoly, I really did enjoy having the time with my kids. I think I might just suggest another game tomorrow, after I finish priming the part of the front veranda I am painting.
Without going into the details, I achieved a first yesterday, and part of today: I annoyed someone who enjoyed a fleeting moment of celebrity status in the late Nineties. All I did was reply to her comment on a thread, and NO, I was NOT trolling. I disagreed with what she said in relation to our judiciary. Shit, I disagree with what most people say on public forums in relation to the judiciary because I find most people commenting on public forums in relation to the judiciary have absolutely no fucking idea what they're on about. I find when it is pointed out to folks that judges are not out of touch, and that they hand down the sentence within the parameter of the law, as per their mandate; well, people don't like that much. They get shitty. I won't be snarky and refer to this woman as a has-been, because when you think about it, I'm probably a never-was! Heh-heh. But this former darling of the women's magazine set really did not like me pointing this out. She called me a sheep who never questioned things. She baaaaa'd. Oh, the Wildean repartee of it all! Anyway, I just reiterated my point about how the legal system works and all the palaver on the thread was nothing more than misinformed spurious rhetoric, and suggested she keep her knickers nice. I did raise her 'baaaa' by throwing in a 'pfffft', I will admit to that.
Well, I do believe the rotten pup has peed in this room, so I'm off to get the 50/50 white vinegar and water to clean it up.
Not knowing what to do with the wretches I grew in my womb, and desperately fed up with their love of technology, I suggested we play a board game after dinner. Master 14 got out the Monopoly set. I had to grit my teeth and go along with it. Gentle Reader, is there anything more stultifying than this tedious game? Part of my ennui is brought about by the fact that I am utter shit at it. Master 14 is quite the little tycoon. He expostulated with excitement, and cheered with each property bought and each rental paid. The incandescence behind his eyes, when he placed his houses on Mayfair and Park Lane, was just like Christmas morning when he was small. It was kind of like playing Monopoly with Alex P Keaton from that old sitcom 'Family Ties', except my son is probably at least half a head taller than Keaton. The other problem with playing with teenaged boys is they are sneakily flatulent creatures.
Master 11 has to be creative and dramatic with each roll of the dice. His turn takes twice as long as it needs to. He cups the dice in both hands, and gives a theatrical shake to one side of his head, then repeats the mannerism on the other side, his shoulders twitching to some tune playing in his head. He looks like nothing so much as a bartender in some movie from the Sixties. I finally complained he was not mixing a Brandy Alexander, and could he please just roll the dice.
Well, poor Mum kept landing in gaol, not passing go, and not collecting $200.00. On the rare occasions the children landed on the scant properties I owned, my oldest thought it funny to deliberately and slowly hand over the money S-L-O-W-L-Y one note at a time. On a random whim, I asked how they would feel if males were paying notes to their mother by tucking them into her garter. In case you're wondering, this is a hell of a good way to weird out your children. I was met with wails of, 'Muh-uuummm! I would be a-SHAMED!' I informed them I was disappointed in their answer because I thought I had raised them to be non-judgemental. 'It's not that,' Master 14 explained, 'I mean, am I supposed to say to my friends: "My fifty-year-old mother's a stripper"?'
Well, anyway, I ended up being bankrupted by my fourteen-year-old. But being given a reprieve from the catatonia-inducing past time known as Monopoly was worth watching him gloat as I handed over my small cash reserve and the title deeds to my properties.
Yet, as much as I dislike playing Monopoly, I really did enjoy having the time with my kids. I think I might just suggest another game tomorrow, after I finish priming the part of the front veranda I am painting.
Without going into the details, I achieved a first yesterday, and part of today: I annoyed someone who enjoyed a fleeting moment of celebrity status in the late Nineties. All I did was reply to her comment on a thread, and NO, I was NOT trolling. I disagreed with what she said in relation to our judiciary. Shit, I disagree with what most people say on public forums in relation to the judiciary because I find most people commenting on public forums in relation to the judiciary have absolutely no fucking idea what they're on about. I find when it is pointed out to folks that judges are not out of touch, and that they hand down the sentence within the parameter of the law, as per their mandate; well, people don't like that much. They get shitty. I won't be snarky and refer to this woman as a has-been, because when you think about it, I'm probably a never-was! Heh-heh. But this former darling of the women's magazine set really did not like me pointing this out. She called me a sheep who never questioned things. She baaaaa'd. Oh, the Wildean repartee of it all! Anyway, I just reiterated my point about how the legal system works and all the palaver on the thread was nothing more than misinformed spurious rhetoric, and suggested she keep her knickers nice. I did raise her 'baaaa' by throwing in a 'pfffft', I will admit to that.
Well, I do believe the rotten pup has peed in this room, so I'm off to get the 50/50 white vinegar and water to clean it up.
Thursday, 24 March 2016
Happy Easter, All
So it's Good Friday, and at the time of typing this, 3.35pm, presuming it's all true, then we have passed the time Our Lord commended his spirit to the hands of the Father, and expired. Actually, it's probably not past the time because where I am is practising daily saving, so technically it's only 2.35pm, and there's still another 25 minutes to go before the actual 'time', which when I was a kid was always taken to be 3.00pm. Double actually, it's probably not the right day, either, because Easter falls at different dates just about every year depending on the lunar cycle in March.
Of course what interests me the most about the whole Easter thing is the arrest and crappy trial of Jesus. I understand the correct judicial procedure wasn't followed, so it's quite possible a good lawyer could have seen Jesus acquitted on a technicality. The baying crowd demanding his crucifixion are very much like those clowns you get on social media these days calling for harsher penalties, and for judges and magistrates to be sacked, and all the usual bullshit incumbent with holding the position of armchair lawyer. I go cross-eyed with fury when I read the malevolent ignorance, particularly as the comments are often peppered with misplaced apostrophes.
I should probably have gone to the Veneration of the Cross today, but I didn't. I recall the occasional Mass attendance on Good Friday when I was a kid, but surprisingly my late mother, a devout and staunch Catholic, did not take us to this service on a regular basis. We had nuns at my school who would go bug shit if they heard someone had not attended the Mass. 'What were you doing?' demanded one nun, Sr Mary Ellen (aka Sr Pademelon). This hapless kid replied he'd been watching television. 'Watching television!' she shrieked, her voice redolent with the disgust one might expect had the kid been watching a movie depicting someone up to his balls inside his stepdaughter. I sat at my desk, quivering with fear she was going to ask me had I gone to the Mass service. No amount of wheedling and pleading we'd attended the Easter Sunday Mass would see this vicious old hag give an inch of relent. If asked was I too watching television, I would have to admit I was, but suggest given I'd been watching the old Easter standby 'King of Kings', then surely that would mitigate me having not gone to the Church to kiss the crucifix.
That's something I miss about my childhood: the inevitable screening of Easter movies. 'King of Kings' was a favourite of mine, for some reason. Maybe because the Jesus was such a deadset spunk, and probably looked nothing at all like the real Jesus of Nazareth. I've just watched a scene from this movie on YouTube; the one where Salome dances for Herod.
No Easter movies today, as far as I can tell. There's a school in Bondi that's copped some flack for banning the word 'Easter' in its celebrations, as it attempts to be more inclusive of cultures. But wouldn't a ban of this word be an exclusion of those who DO observe? It really seems a bit daft. But there's quite likely another side to the story and the media are doing their usual whip of the hoi polloi with articles about PC taking over.
But it's a fairly calm sort of day here. I've been busy cleaning up the back patio area of my house, and working in my garden. Now, I might pour wine and have a bath.
To those of you who have read my post, and whether you observe or not, enjoy the next few days that comprise the Easter period.
Of course what interests me the most about the whole Easter thing is the arrest and crappy trial of Jesus. I understand the correct judicial procedure wasn't followed, so it's quite possible a good lawyer could have seen Jesus acquitted on a technicality. The baying crowd demanding his crucifixion are very much like those clowns you get on social media these days calling for harsher penalties, and for judges and magistrates to be sacked, and all the usual bullshit incumbent with holding the position of armchair lawyer. I go cross-eyed with fury when I read the malevolent ignorance, particularly as the comments are often peppered with misplaced apostrophes.
I should probably have gone to the Veneration of the Cross today, but I didn't. I recall the occasional Mass attendance on Good Friday when I was a kid, but surprisingly my late mother, a devout and staunch Catholic, did not take us to this service on a regular basis. We had nuns at my school who would go bug shit if they heard someone had not attended the Mass. 'What were you doing?' demanded one nun, Sr Mary Ellen (aka Sr Pademelon). This hapless kid replied he'd been watching television. 'Watching television!' she shrieked, her voice redolent with the disgust one might expect had the kid been watching a movie depicting someone up to his balls inside his stepdaughter. I sat at my desk, quivering with fear she was going to ask me had I gone to the Mass service. No amount of wheedling and pleading we'd attended the Easter Sunday Mass would see this vicious old hag give an inch of relent. If asked was I too watching television, I would have to admit I was, but suggest given I'd been watching the old Easter standby 'King of Kings', then surely that would mitigate me having not gone to the Church to kiss the crucifix.
That's something I miss about my childhood: the inevitable screening of Easter movies. 'King of Kings' was a favourite of mine, for some reason. Maybe because the Jesus was such a deadset spunk, and probably looked nothing at all like the real Jesus of Nazareth. I've just watched a scene from this movie on YouTube; the one where Salome dances for Herod.
No Easter movies today, as far as I can tell. There's a school in Bondi that's copped some flack for banning the word 'Easter' in its celebrations, as it attempts to be more inclusive of cultures. But wouldn't a ban of this word be an exclusion of those who DO observe? It really seems a bit daft. But there's quite likely another side to the story and the media are doing their usual whip of the hoi polloi with articles about PC taking over.
But it's a fairly calm sort of day here. I've been busy cleaning up the back patio area of my house, and working in my garden. Now, I might pour wine and have a bath.
To those of you who have read my post, and whether you observe or not, enjoy the next few days that comprise the Easter period.
Sunday, 20 March 2016
Creepy
I'm admin of a Facebook group who post songs according to a daily theme. Today's theme is junk food. Tomorrow's will be science. I'm thinking 'Lithium', 'Chemistry', 'She Blinded Me With Science' for starters. I haven't set Wednesday's theme yet, but I'm thinking of songs that could be just a little, er, creepy. Songs that might be a bit creepy include:
1. 'I'm On Fire' by Bruce Springsteen. Look, I like Bruce's delivery in most of his songs. I like 'Hungry Heart' - a cheerful little paean dedicated to abandoning your wife, kids, and responsibilities. I love 'Brilliant Disguise', soaked in ennui and suspicion. I love the pep and go-get-'em of 'Born To Run'. I love the moodiness and atmosphere of 'Philadelphia'. I don't love 'The River'; it alternates between depressing me and making me snore. But back to my original example here, 'I'm On Fire'. Seriously folks, have a listen. It starts off with this creepy, sleaze-soaked opener: 'Hey little girl/Is your daddy home/Did he go out and leave you/All alone....' He sounds like that friend of the family all women hated when they were small. That one that just seemed not quite .... kosher. The one that offered to help when it was bath time (and you were actually sixteen at the time). Yep, tres creepy, this song.
2. The entire catalogue of The Police. 'Every Breath You Take (I'll Be Watching You)'. 'King Of Pain' ('Yeah, that's it! Put a hot poker against my ball-sac! Please spill a droplet of Tabasco sauce down the eye of my penis!'). 'I Can't Stand Losing You' (because it's sung by a manipulative jerk).
3. 'Centerfold' by J Geils Band. I won't explain why just now, but everyone who knows me knows why I detest this and why it creeps me.
4. 'Living Doll' by Cliff Richard. 'Gonna lock her up in a trunk...' Hello? What are you, Josef Fritzl?
5. 'Where The Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue. I've said it before, and I'll say it again now. This song makes me feel like I have discovered bats having sex in my hair.
So, that's some choice little numbers for starters. Now onto something a bit different. I am posting hereunder a link to the latest review on Amazon for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. If you'd like to read the first chapters of my novels, there are links on my blog home page. These links also have purchase options. *cough* hint *cough*.
http://www.amazon.com/review/R10WEBHGQ0H7FW/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books
The reviewer mentions 'great book' and the hero being a 'morally flexible' character. I like morally flexible characters, because as I tell my fledgling Hemingways whenever I'm lecturing in creative writing, a character with a flaw is a lot more interesting than your run of the mill, anodyne hero. In case you're wondering, Hector's perceived flaw is he likes to strip naked and get rubbed down at his local rub-and-tug parlour. People who have mentioned they consider this a flaw in his character are probably referring to the fact Hector is married.
I have to write something for my writing group tomorrow night. The theme is 'relationships'. What to write flummoxes me and leaves me stumped; I've no idea.
1. 'I'm On Fire' by Bruce Springsteen. Look, I like Bruce's delivery in most of his songs. I like 'Hungry Heart' - a cheerful little paean dedicated to abandoning your wife, kids, and responsibilities. I love 'Brilliant Disguise', soaked in ennui and suspicion. I love the pep and go-get-'em of 'Born To Run'. I love the moodiness and atmosphere of 'Philadelphia'. I don't love 'The River'; it alternates between depressing me and making me snore. But back to my original example here, 'I'm On Fire'. Seriously folks, have a listen. It starts off with this creepy, sleaze-soaked opener: 'Hey little girl/Is your daddy home/Did he go out and leave you/All alone....' He sounds like that friend of the family all women hated when they were small. That one that just seemed not quite .... kosher. The one that offered to help when it was bath time (and you were actually sixteen at the time). Yep, tres creepy, this song.
2. The entire catalogue of The Police. 'Every Breath You Take (I'll Be Watching You)'. 'King Of Pain' ('Yeah, that's it! Put a hot poker against my ball-sac! Please spill a droplet of Tabasco sauce down the eye of my penis!'). 'I Can't Stand Losing You' (because it's sung by a manipulative jerk).
3. 'Centerfold' by J Geils Band. I won't explain why just now, but everyone who knows me knows why I detest this and why it creeps me.
4. 'Living Doll' by Cliff Richard. 'Gonna lock her up in a trunk...' Hello? What are you, Josef Fritzl?
5. 'Where The Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue. I've said it before, and I'll say it again now. This song makes me feel like I have discovered bats having sex in my hair.
So, that's some choice little numbers for starters. Now onto something a bit different. I am posting hereunder a link to the latest review on Amazon for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. If you'd like to read the first chapters of my novels, there are links on my blog home page. These links also have purchase options. *cough* hint *cough*.
http://www.amazon.com/review/R10WEBHGQ0H7FW/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books
The reviewer mentions 'great book' and the hero being a 'morally flexible' character. I like morally flexible characters, because as I tell my fledgling Hemingways whenever I'm lecturing in creative writing, a character with a flaw is a lot more interesting than your run of the mill, anodyne hero. In case you're wondering, Hector's perceived flaw is he likes to strip naked and get rubbed down at his local rub-and-tug parlour. People who have mentioned they consider this a flaw in his character are probably referring to the fact Hector is married.
I have to write something for my writing group tomorrow night. The theme is 'relationships'. What to write flummoxes me and leaves me stumped; I've no idea.
Thursday, 17 March 2016
The Madonna Debacle
I don't actually know which touring company is responsible for bringing that withered, soulless old hag Madonna to our shores to perform a series of embarrassing shit, um, concerts, but whoever had that bright idea, and whoever green-lit and rubber-stamped, enjoy filling out Centrelink forms because you're probably going to end up sacked. This is undoubtedly not fair as you probably couldn't foresee the utter fuckwittedness of what has transpired on stage, but when there are angry fans demanding refunds, and what is constituted to be sexual assault in this country, then someone's flung a bloody huge turd into the fan and you might want to duck from the flying flecks.
Keeping the fans waiting for three hours is unforgiveable. Unless weather conditions have rendered your transport useless, then there is no excuse. Not once, but TWICE!!! A friend of mine is going to Madonna's concert in Sydney. I hope she's packed some dinner to sustain her during the interminable period between walking into the venue and when the old crone actually gets on the stage.
Seriously, getting a fan on stage and tugging at the bottom of her top, which is strapless, thus exposing the breast? I'm not sure if this fan was a 'plant', but if not, then that's sexual assault! At the time of typing this post, the concert-goer has not laid charges, but let me just say had it been me whose shirt she had pulled down, there would probably be charges against ME as the creature calls upon her acolytes to look for her missing teeth.
I'm just waiting for the spin doctors to release a statement explaining old Madge didn't anticipate the top coming down. This will be yet another pitiful attempt to piss down everybody's leg and explain it as rain. Given her wardrobe over the years has consisted of bustiers and corsets, she must know they are susceptible to gravity and outside forces such as a moron tugging on the hem in a downward motion.
And as usual, I cannot help but think the silly stunts, the shitty costumes, the taking to the stage only just prior to the date changing, is all a ruse and red herring to detract from the crappy songs.
This whole debacle could not be a bigger train wreck, even if the Granville Bridge collapsed on it.
Keeping the fans waiting for three hours is unforgiveable. Unless weather conditions have rendered your transport useless, then there is no excuse. Not once, but TWICE!!! A friend of mine is going to Madonna's concert in Sydney. I hope she's packed some dinner to sustain her during the interminable period between walking into the venue and when the old crone actually gets on the stage.
Seriously, getting a fan on stage and tugging at the bottom of her top, which is strapless, thus exposing the breast? I'm not sure if this fan was a 'plant', but if not, then that's sexual assault! At the time of typing this post, the concert-goer has not laid charges, but let me just say had it been me whose shirt she had pulled down, there would probably be charges against ME as the creature calls upon her acolytes to look for her missing teeth.
I'm just waiting for the spin doctors to release a statement explaining old Madge didn't anticipate the top coming down. This will be yet another pitiful attempt to piss down everybody's leg and explain it as rain. Given her wardrobe over the years has consisted of bustiers and corsets, she must know they are susceptible to gravity and outside forces such as a moron tugging on the hem in a downward motion.
And as usual, I cannot help but think the silly stunts, the shitty costumes, the taking to the stage only just prior to the date changing, is all a ruse and red herring to detract from the crappy songs.
This whole debacle could not be a bigger train wreck, even if the Granville Bridge collapsed on it.
Sunday, 13 March 2016
Just Pondering
Okay, Grim Reaper, you've had your fun. Isn't the bloody sack full, now that you've added Keith Emerson (which I guess makes them Lake & Palmer now)? It appears Keith might have taken his own life. If so, how sad. But anyway, you robe-wearing and scythe-toting fuck, please top taking our musicians!
I have just been having a bit of a listen to ELP's 'Fanfare For The Common Man', but it's very hard to not think of the Channel 9 Sports Team. I defy anybody of a certain age to not associate that tune with Channel 9's sporting coverage.
Speaking of being of a certain age, today I found myself remember a more spry time when Mr Bingells and I were in our mid-twenties, strolling hand-in-hand around The Rocks in Sydney, checking out that fantastic candle shop (Mr Bingells loves ornamental candles). Today, we were in our new vehicle, purchased from my father's estate, and Mr Bingells was fiddling around with my new phone, in which he has installed my old SIM card. He squinted and handed it over, saying, 'I can't read that without my glasses.' My reply was, 'Well, don't look at me to help you, I haven't got my glasses, either!'
I'm going to have to learn how to add things like GIFs and photographs to this blog of mine. I'm not an overly savvy tech type. My blogging is for my writing, but I would like to occasionally add pictures to my posts. I wanted to add one of me in the hotel celebrating my 50th birthday.
We stayed in a local plush motel last Friday night, which was nice. I had won a voucher for a story I wrote. It's kind of like being paid for your writing, and it felt mighty fine. The meal was a seven course degustation, and being a gluttonous wretch, I ate too much. I also ate Mr Bingells' two oysters and scallop, because he loathes oysters and scallops. It surprises me I did not roll back to the room, which had a king sized bed. It was nice to sprawl out and touch nobody, given Mr Bingells is a gangly over-six-footer. I do love to stay in these places, although I have misgivings about the wasted packaging on individual little toiletries. Surely it would be better to put the lotions, body wash, and shampoos into dispensers on the wall, and save on the packaging? I expressed these misgivings to Mr Bingells as I stuffed the complimentary toiletries into my bag, thus denying the motel the opportunity to be environmentally friendly and recycle those goodies for the next guest.
I have just been having a bit of a listen to ELP's 'Fanfare For The Common Man', but it's very hard to not think of the Channel 9 Sports Team. I defy anybody of a certain age to not associate that tune with Channel 9's sporting coverage.
Speaking of being of a certain age, today I found myself remember a more spry time when Mr Bingells and I were in our mid-twenties, strolling hand-in-hand around The Rocks in Sydney, checking out that fantastic candle shop (Mr Bingells loves ornamental candles). Today, we were in our new vehicle, purchased from my father's estate, and Mr Bingells was fiddling around with my new phone, in which he has installed my old SIM card. He squinted and handed it over, saying, 'I can't read that without my glasses.' My reply was, 'Well, don't look at me to help you, I haven't got my glasses, either!'
I'm going to have to learn how to add things like GIFs and photographs to this blog of mine. I'm not an overly savvy tech type. My blogging is for my writing, but I would like to occasionally add pictures to my posts. I wanted to add one of me in the hotel celebrating my 50th birthday.
We stayed in a local plush motel last Friday night, which was nice. I had won a voucher for a story I wrote. It's kind of like being paid for your writing, and it felt mighty fine. The meal was a seven course degustation, and being a gluttonous wretch, I ate too much. I also ate Mr Bingells' two oysters and scallop, because he loathes oysters and scallops. It surprises me I did not roll back to the room, which had a king sized bed. It was nice to sprawl out and touch nobody, given Mr Bingells is a gangly over-six-footer. I do love to stay in these places, although I have misgivings about the wasted packaging on individual little toiletries. Surely it would be better to put the lotions, body wash, and shampoos into dispensers on the wall, and save on the packaging? I expressed these misgivings to Mr Bingells as I stuffed the complimentary toiletries into my bag, thus denying the motel the opportunity to be environmentally friendly and recycle those goodies for the next guest.
Thursday, 10 March 2016
My Current Updated Lists
I amass these lists of things, the way some people amass a bucket list. One of my lists, which sadly is growing lengthier, is the list of Shit Remakes Of Once Good Songs. There is a new entry on that list, and the entry has been provided by, not surprisingly, The Chantoozies. This lot appear to be trying to usurp UB40 from the throne from where they reign supreme in the land of Lousy Song Remakes. The song that was brought to my attention yesterday was released around 2014. I had not heard it until now and I am not thankful for being appraised of the wretched tune's existence. Does anybody remember The Promises' 1979 hit 'Baby, It's You'? Did anybody else think it was awesome? Yes, I thought so. Anyway, yesterday a friend sent me a link to the execrable remake by The Chantoozies. As you can imagine, the remake completely bypasses the soul, pathos and passion of the original, and just delivers a farty, pointless pile of sickening confection. There is none of the angst brilliantly brought across by the Knauer siblings, who sing rings around this lot, but there is lots of dross, if it's dross you're after. Oh, and lots of hair-flinging in the film clip, along with some dance moves inspired by The Wiggles and the opening sequence of 'Xanadu'. This is really the biggest deadshit of a remake, with accompanying film clip to match, I have had my senses assailed by in a very long time. I think the only reason to make the film clip was so they could all say, 'Hey, everyone! Menopause might be tweaking us, but we still fit into skinny jeans!'
And another thing, the film clip features appearances by Eric Bana, Hugh Jackman (swoon!), and Anthony LaPaglia. Seriously, guys, WTF were you all thinking? Did you all lose a bet?
Now, the OTHER list to which I have added is the one titled Reasons I Can't Stand Madonna. The addition is that she kept fans in Melbourne waiting for three hours before finally taking to the stage. Huh, I wouldn't have waited three minutes to see this soulless hag. How unprofessional! You will not raise an eyebrow to know that she has an entry on the Shit Remakes Of Once Good Songs list with her, um, interpretation of 'American Pie'. I'm not sure if I class the original as a good one at the moment because I get very over it very quickly, given you can go out and do your grocery shopping and when you come home, it's STILL bloody going! The other reasons I cannot tolerate Madge, briefly, are:
1. She's fake.
2. Her singing voice hurts my years.
3. She courts controversy to detract attention from the fact her songs are pedestrian.
4. She tried to appropriate the death of the Princess of Wales to create attention for herself ('I felt like I was in that car with her' - oh puh-leeze and puke!).
5. She pretends she doesn't understand why people get upset when she pulls stupid stunts like entering the stage on a crucifix with a crown of thorns on her big, fat head. In my dictionary, this is pissing down people's legs and telling them it's raining.
6. She's a publicity whore.
7. She wrote Malala Yousafzai's name on her back, and I'm pretty sure she showed everyone her bum afterwards.
8. She keeps showing everyone her boob, or her bum, and doesn't stop to consider a person with true sex appeal and talent doesn't actually need to do this.
Anyway, I'm on my way to check out the motel in which Mr Bingells and I shall be enjoying luxury this evening - I won a voucher.
And another thing, the film clip features appearances by Eric Bana, Hugh Jackman (swoon!), and Anthony LaPaglia. Seriously, guys, WTF were you all thinking? Did you all lose a bet?
Now, the OTHER list to which I have added is the one titled Reasons I Can't Stand Madonna. The addition is that she kept fans in Melbourne waiting for three hours before finally taking to the stage. Huh, I wouldn't have waited three minutes to see this soulless hag. How unprofessional! You will not raise an eyebrow to know that she has an entry on the Shit Remakes Of Once Good Songs list with her, um, interpretation of 'American Pie'. I'm not sure if I class the original as a good one at the moment because I get very over it very quickly, given you can go out and do your grocery shopping and when you come home, it's STILL bloody going! The other reasons I cannot tolerate Madge, briefly, are:
1. She's fake.
2. Her singing voice hurts my years.
3. She courts controversy to detract attention from the fact her songs are pedestrian.
4. She tried to appropriate the death of the Princess of Wales to create attention for herself ('I felt like I was in that car with her' - oh puh-leeze and puke!).
5. She pretends she doesn't understand why people get upset when she pulls stupid stunts like entering the stage on a crucifix with a crown of thorns on her big, fat head. In my dictionary, this is pissing down people's legs and telling them it's raining.
6. She's a publicity whore.
7. She wrote Malala Yousafzai's name on her back, and I'm pretty sure she showed everyone her bum afterwards.
8. She keeps showing everyone her boob, or her bum, and doesn't stop to consider a person with true sex appeal and talent doesn't actually need to do this.
Anyway, I'm on my way to check out the motel in which Mr Bingells and I shall be enjoying luxury this evening - I won a voucher.
Wednesday, 9 March 2016
RIP, Jon English
Could musicians I loved when I was a kid please, please STOP DYING!! It seems I can't go a week, if not a day, without looking at my news feed, or turning on the television to hear someone I admired has gone to that great gig in the sky. Stevie Wright. David Bowie. The other day we lost Ross Hannaford from Daddy Cool. Now we've lost Jon English! Whhhhyyyyyy?? (Wailing in anguish and gesticulating like a crazed ham attempting to play King Lear).
I loved that gravelly husky voice of Jon's. He had such a good rock voice, and he was fantastic as Judas in the first Aussie production of 'Jesus Christ Superstar'. Trivia: you probably already know Australia cast the first ever black Mary Madeline (although I'm supposed to say person of colour) with Marcia Hines taking the role, but did you know Trevor White, who played Jesus, provided the singing voice of Rocky Horror in the film 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'? You didn't? Now, aren't you grateful you're reading this, because you might have gone to your respective graves not knowing this riveting factoid. Go on You Tube and you will find a television performance of Jon performing 'Heaven On Their Mind'; old black and white, and I think he nails the inner worry and torment Judas was experiencing watching the Jesus brand spiralling out of control. And yes, if 4BC had some of today's catch phrases, perhaps Jesus would have been a 'brand'.
My favourite Jon English number is 'Hot Town'. Love the lyrics: 'So you think you've got it made/At least for a while/Always sitting in the shade/Adjusting your smile...'. I like Jon's delivery and the cynicism in the song, and the subtle derision directed toward some socialite type.
And - some will think this blasphemy - my LEAST favourite is 'Six Ribbons'. Look, I hate it. I just do. I loved the television series 'Against The Wind' (which will no doubt be on sale on DVD is all good stores now). Saw Jon in an interview once when he said he got the inspiration for that song whilst 'sitting on the loo'. Yeah, I get that; the song's a turd.
That band in Rock and Roll Heaven is getting better and better, and we are being left poorer and poorer. Christ strike a light, we've got clowns like Kanye West, and associated clowns like the Kardashians polluting this planet with their inanity, so can whatever is killing our great musos please bloody well STOP?!!! Maybe there should be a telethon to raise funds to research whatever insidious phenomenon is striking down these great musicians.
I loved that gravelly husky voice of Jon's. He had such a good rock voice, and he was fantastic as Judas in the first Aussie production of 'Jesus Christ Superstar'. Trivia: you probably already know Australia cast the first ever black Mary Madeline (although I'm supposed to say person of colour) with Marcia Hines taking the role, but did you know Trevor White, who played Jesus, provided the singing voice of Rocky Horror in the film 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'? You didn't? Now, aren't you grateful you're reading this, because you might have gone to your respective graves not knowing this riveting factoid. Go on You Tube and you will find a television performance of Jon performing 'Heaven On Their Mind'; old black and white, and I think he nails the inner worry and torment Judas was experiencing watching the Jesus brand spiralling out of control. And yes, if 4BC had some of today's catch phrases, perhaps Jesus would have been a 'brand'.
My favourite Jon English number is 'Hot Town'. Love the lyrics: 'So you think you've got it made/At least for a while/Always sitting in the shade/Adjusting your smile...'. I like Jon's delivery and the cynicism in the song, and the subtle derision directed toward some socialite type.
And - some will think this blasphemy - my LEAST favourite is 'Six Ribbons'. Look, I hate it. I just do. I loved the television series 'Against The Wind' (which will no doubt be on sale on DVD is all good stores now). Saw Jon in an interview once when he said he got the inspiration for that song whilst 'sitting on the loo'. Yeah, I get that; the song's a turd.
That band in Rock and Roll Heaven is getting better and better, and we are being left poorer and poorer. Christ strike a light, we've got clowns like Kanye West, and associated clowns like the Kardashians polluting this planet with their inanity, so can whatever is killing our great musos please bloody well STOP?!!! Maybe there should be a telethon to raise funds to research whatever insidious phenomenon is striking down these great musicians.
Tuesday, 8 March 2016
Chiming for Abbott
I've gone a tad Martha Stewart lately. No, I've not served time in gaol, but I have been getting very domesticated. Believe it or not, I am something of a homebody by nature, but I have had little time to indulge myself in this regard of late. Anyway, I hung wind chimes out the front, only to have my eleven-year-old complain this morning about 'those goddamn wind chimes' having kept him awake all night. They are now out the back, and hopefully the Feng Shui of my horrific back patio will be improved outta sight. Today I hung a print of that photograph by Robert Doisneau - you know - the black and white of a couple kissing in what looks like an outdoor café in Paris, in 1950. I have always liked that photograph, and it looks pretty good on what up to a few hours ago had been a bare expanse of wall in my living room. The bloke in that picture looks to be a bit of a babe, it must be said. Anyway, I'm enjoying my little redecorating jag. I really want to install a splashback in the kitchen and gyprock a few rooms, but that might have to wait. You know, money and all that...
So there appears to be some insinuation that the relationship between former PM Tony Abbott and his chief of staff Peta Credlin was a bit more on the carnal side. You know something? WHO FUCKING CARES!!! I do not really believe they did the Wild Thang, and more to the point: I don't fucking CARE!!! Many workplace relationships do develop into something physical, and why should the PM be immune? Hey, I'm not saying it's ideal because he's married, but it's not something that's beyond the realms of possibility, and it's also something that's not actually illegal given he and Ms Credlin are adults. What would give me the cranks if the Smirking Wingnut was actually porking his chief of staff is that he has always presented as a religious family man. Paging Dr Hypocrite!
It annoys me that because a woman is in a powerful role, there is the intimation that she achieved that role on her back, or her knees. Peta Credlin always looks more to me like she's been sucking a lemon, not the boss's dick.
I do not want to imagine Tony Abbott and Peta Credlin in sexual congress; the thought makes my labia pucker horribly. I have a vision of Tony yelling and shouting in the throes of ecstasy: 'Oh God, I stopped the boats! I stopped the boats! I STOPPED THE BOOOAAAAAATS!!'
Yeah.
So there appears to be some insinuation that the relationship between former PM Tony Abbott and his chief of staff Peta Credlin was a bit more on the carnal side. You know something? WHO FUCKING CARES!!! I do not really believe they did the Wild Thang, and more to the point: I don't fucking CARE!!! Many workplace relationships do develop into something physical, and why should the PM be immune? Hey, I'm not saying it's ideal because he's married, but it's not something that's beyond the realms of possibility, and it's also something that's not actually illegal given he and Ms Credlin are adults. What would give me the cranks if the Smirking Wingnut was actually porking his chief of staff is that he has always presented as a religious family man. Paging Dr Hypocrite!
It annoys me that because a woman is in a powerful role, there is the intimation that she achieved that role on her back, or her knees. Peta Credlin always looks more to me like she's been sucking a lemon, not the boss's dick.
I do not want to imagine Tony Abbott and Peta Credlin in sexual congress; the thought makes my labia pucker horribly. I have a vision of Tony yelling and shouting in the throes of ecstasy: 'Oh God, I stopped the boats! I stopped the boats! I STOPPED THE BOOOAAAAAATS!!'
Yeah.
Sunday, 6 March 2016
Nauseating Nuptials
I try not to be cynical. Yes, I know Cupid's arrows are often ill-aimed. You can't help who you fall in love with. Nobody knows what makes people fall in love, but it's likely to do with chemistry. But the bitch in me (and it's a rampant, snarling one with venom dripping from its fangs) is very, very cynical about the union between Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall on the weekend.
Christ hooning down the hill on a skateboard, Jerry, what do you SEE in that dried up old lizard? One thing I'm glad of is this: I was not a fly on the wall on the wedding night.
As mentioned, I do not like to be cynical and I am aware that this marriage is none of my business, but seeing as old Rupe runs a vicious rag and has no compunctions about tapping the telephones of grieving parents, then I think I might as well say something, and that something is: YUCK!
Jerry is someone who is referred to as 'former supermodel'. That's a tag I just don't understand. Even back in the Nineties when the phrase was everywhere, I could not see the point to the phenomenon of the 'supermodel'. It seemed to be a bunch of tall women named Linda, Naomi, Claudia, Christy and Cindy, who according to Linda would 'not get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day'. The flippancy of the phrase really got up my schnoz. I mean: are they curing cancer? They're glorified coat hangers!!! Years ago, Claudia was in Australia and she gave a press conference, which I saw on the news when I stomped into the flat where I was then living, after a day of fielding annoying police officers, constant phone calls from the girlfriend of someone always euphemistically referred to - in Rupert's newspapers ironically enough - as 'colourful Kings Cross identity' for whom we were preparing a bail application as he was on remand in Long Bay, and the boss was down with the flu so I was pretty much running the place. It was probably the same day I frightened the newly minted junior solicitor who had joined the firm when after the umpteenth phone call from the gaol bird's girlfriend, I slammed down the phone and shouted, 'I AM SO FUCKING SICK OF [INSERT NAME OF 'COLOURFUL KINGS CROSS IDENTITY HERE]!!!!' But yeah, after a day of this constant barrage of stress, I saw Claudia given a press conference in which she explained the stresses of getting paid a shitload of money for strutting around in new clothes: 'Sometimes, I get jet lagged.' At this piteous poor-me mewling, I scowled at the television, 'Want to swap?', and also got an understanding of why Elvis Presley shot the television.
But anyway, Jerry's just married Rupert, and for the life of me I cannot understand what she sees in him. She's lowered the bar considerably. This is a woman who was engaged to Bryan Ferry. I'm talking Bryan Ferry from the 1970s, and if you still don't understand, go to You Tube and look at the official film clip for 'This Is Tomorrow Calling', and you will just see what I mean. There is nothing cooler than Seventies-era Ferry. Jerry actually appears in the film clips for 'The Price Of Love' and 'Let's Stick Together'. And she was with Mick Jagger for many years, and bore him four children. Now Mick actually is kind of sexy, believe it or not. I am aware he looks like a scrotum with lips, but he has charisma by the bucket load. Rupert just .... doesn't.
It's all just icky, icky-poo.
Christ hooning down the hill on a skateboard, Jerry, what do you SEE in that dried up old lizard? One thing I'm glad of is this: I was not a fly on the wall on the wedding night.
As mentioned, I do not like to be cynical and I am aware that this marriage is none of my business, but seeing as old Rupe runs a vicious rag and has no compunctions about tapping the telephones of grieving parents, then I think I might as well say something, and that something is: YUCK!
Jerry is someone who is referred to as 'former supermodel'. That's a tag I just don't understand. Even back in the Nineties when the phrase was everywhere, I could not see the point to the phenomenon of the 'supermodel'. It seemed to be a bunch of tall women named Linda, Naomi, Claudia, Christy and Cindy, who according to Linda would 'not get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day'. The flippancy of the phrase really got up my schnoz. I mean: are they curing cancer? They're glorified coat hangers!!! Years ago, Claudia was in Australia and she gave a press conference, which I saw on the news when I stomped into the flat where I was then living, after a day of fielding annoying police officers, constant phone calls from the girlfriend of someone always euphemistically referred to - in Rupert's newspapers ironically enough - as 'colourful Kings Cross identity' for whom we were preparing a bail application as he was on remand in Long Bay, and the boss was down with the flu so I was pretty much running the place. It was probably the same day I frightened the newly minted junior solicitor who had joined the firm when after the umpteenth phone call from the gaol bird's girlfriend, I slammed down the phone and shouted, 'I AM SO FUCKING SICK OF [INSERT NAME OF 'COLOURFUL KINGS CROSS IDENTITY HERE]!!!!' But yeah, after a day of this constant barrage of stress, I saw Claudia given a press conference in which she explained the stresses of getting paid a shitload of money for strutting around in new clothes: 'Sometimes, I get jet lagged.' At this piteous poor-me mewling, I scowled at the television, 'Want to swap?', and also got an understanding of why Elvis Presley shot the television.
But anyway, Jerry's just married Rupert, and for the life of me I cannot understand what she sees in him. She's lowered the bar considerably. This is a woman who was engaged to Bryan Ferry. I'm talking Bryan Ferry from the 1970s, and if you still don't understand, go to You Tube and look at the official film clip for 'This Is Tomorrow Calling', and you will just see what I mean. There is nothing cooler than Seventies-era Ferry. Jerry actually appears in the film clips for 'The Price Of Love' and 'Let's Stick Together'. And she was with Mick Jagger for many years, and bore him four children. Now Mick actually is kind of sexy, believe it or not. I am aware he looks like a scrotum with lips, but he has charisma by the bucket load. Rupert just .... doesn't.
It's all just icky, icky-poo.
Friday, 4 March 2016
What To Write?
Will I write tonight? I am unsure. As an author, it is important to do a little every day, or as often as possible. The problem is, I have no idea what to write about this evening. My day has been consumed with the application of Murphy's Law in just about every little thing I did. What was going to be a simple work day went awry with hastily added medication jobs, and rushing around. Taking a pensioner shopping was like navigating a mine field of fucking idiots. They either jay-walked in front of my car, or else blundered along like blind moles in the darkness as they were held in the thrall of their telephone, reading from their screens and/or texting as they made their uncertain way around the shopping centre, bouncing and ricocheting like Ping-Pong balls as they studied their phones. I cannot say this often enough: Will you cretins who insist upon looking at your phones please get out of everybody's way and stop ploughing into people? What the fuck is so important that you have to be reading your phone all the time? I will type this slowly for everyone: It. Can. Wait. Until. You're. Out. Of. The. Way. You. Are. Not. That. Important.
My fiendish day ended with a wild goose chase regarding insurance on the vehicle Mr Bingells drives. I'm exhausted and miserable, and really should get to bed. I haven't bothered tidying the kitchen because, seriously, I want to play on the computer.
The only good thing about the day has been my discovery the Violent Femmes are to tour. I could totally cope with seeing them. I've got 'Blister In The Sun' in my head now, and am dumbfounded to realise it goes back as far as 1983. I do not remember this choice little number from my final school year. Could it be because the radio station in the country area where I grew up did not play the Violent Femmes? Were they considered too controversial? I wish so much they had been played on the radio, instead of what I was subjected to back then, being dross like Wham (I know, they're not THAT bad), Hayzee Fantayzee (now they ARE that bad, and a whole lot more!), Culture Club (whose songs mainly fellated the foreskin away from a bull elephant's dick; one of their very few tolerable numbers was 'Church Of The Poisoned Mind' and that was only because it had the amazing Helen Terry singing on it), Paul Young ('Ladies and gentlemen, this train is about to pull in to Bland City'), Fat Larry's Band (eeeeyeeeewwww!), et al. I might have enjoyed doing my homework a little more had I had some Violent Femmes to listen to, rather than that lot.
My fiendish day ended with a wild goose chase regarding insurance on the vehicle Mr Bingells drives. I'm exhausted and miserable, and really should get to bed. I haven't bothered tidying the kitchen because, seriously, I want to play on the computer.
The only good thing about the day has been my discovery the Violent Femmes are to tour. I could totally cope with seeing them. I've got 'Blister In The Sun' in my head now, and am dumbfounded to realise it goes back as far as 1983. I do not remember this choice little number from my final school year. Could it be because the radio station in the country area where I grew up did not play the Violent Femmes? Were they considered too controversial? I wish so much they had been played on the radio, instead of what I was subjected to back then, being dross like Wham (I know, they're not THAT bad), Hayzee Fantayzee (now they ARE that bad, and a whole lot more!), Culture Club (whose songs mainly fellated the foreskin away from a bull elephant's dick; one of their very few tolerable numbers was 'Church Of The Poisoned Mind' and that was only because it had the amazing Helen Terry singing on it), Paul Young ('Ladies and gentlemen, this train is about to pull in to Bland City'), Fat Larry's Band (eeeeyeeeewwww!), et al. I might have enjoyed doing my homework a little more had I had some Violent Femmes to listen to, rather than that lot.
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