Rake, Radradra & Satan's Skidmarks

What I'm enjoying:

1. Last night being curled up on the lounge watching 'Rake'. Having spent much of my time working in the criminal law industry in Sydney, I can definitely identify somewhat.  Besides, the dialogue is totes amaze-balls (unlike my pathetic attempt to use  Gen Y colloquialisms).  I am yet to view the US version of this show, but I've heard some not too bad things. I normally avoid US-appropriations because I find them not up to par with the original.  Who remembers the egregious 'Three's Company', a grotesque rip-off of 'Man About The House'?  I will admit to not minding too much the US version of 'The Office', which features some very talented character actors.  I would be interested to see how 'Rake' translates to the US version, not only because of the differences in our legal systems, but because it's a character driven series, and I want to see if the interpretations are similar.  Oh, just remembered the US version of 'Kath & Kim', and I think I was the only person in the Southern Hemisphere who actually didn't mind it.  Selma Blair played Kim, and she's quite good in the comedic roles - loved her as Cecily in 'Cruel Intentions' - another US appropriation, being their take on 'Dangerous Liaisons'.

2. The fact that Semi Radradra is playing in the NRL this weekend.  If you know me well, you might find this sentence something of a jaw-dropper.  You're probably thinking, 'What in the blue blazes is amiss here?  Bingells loathes football, particularly NRL.  Why would she care if someone has been allowed to play or not?'  The reason, dear blog-browser, is simple.  If you haven't heard, Semi has been charged with domestic violence style offences.  That the NRL have allowed him to play shows they are adhering to the important maxim that a person is entitled to a presumption of innocence unless otherwise proven in a court of law.  The NRL governing body is allowing the legal system to do its job, rather than make a pre-judgement.  Besides, what if they banned him pending legal proceedings and he was found not guilty?  Then what?  Also, the season could have quite likely been over by the time a verdict was found after due legal process.  So, yes.  I am happy he is allowed to play.  Will I watch the game?  Not on your Nellie; I'd rather watch someone's hairline receding.

What I will not be enjoying:

The third Bridget Jones movie.  I will no doubt watch it because as a writer, I will want to do a review.  But I find this woman, as portrayed in the movies, bloody annoying!  Yes, I enjoyed the books very much.  Yes, I rather enjoyed the first one (and Hugh Grant is very dastardly delicious in it).  But the sequel?  Oh God, it was a cinematic manifestation of the skid marks in Satan's underwear, and I suspect the third will prove to be the stale and encrusted unwashed skiddie's in old Satan's jocks.  But maybe I will be pleasantly surprised.

Election Campaign Crud

I. Am. FREEZING!  I am NOT happy to be FREEZING! I am not overly fond of being rugged up to the nth power, beanie on my head and all.  My house would make an igloo feel like a sauna.  My house is a shambolic mess because Mr Bingells has been (with the assistance of some handyman friends) redoing our bathroom.  It's going to look fine, but at the moment there are power tools on the floor of the dining room, and mess that normally goes in the bathroom all over the dining table. 

It will be a great relief when the Federal election is finally over, although neither party has much to offer.  We will be stuck with either Malcolm Turnbullshit, or Bull Shitten (credit to my friend Mark, and that's an hysterically funny name for him), and my money (but not my vote) is on Turnbullshit.  My vote is not on Bull Shitten, either.  Some of my readership would probably know I am a paid up member of the Australian Sex Party.  We have a fantastic campaign ad: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCDGMbPqNb4

Check it out - it's a bloody beaut parody.  Campaign ads from other parties seem to be about attacking the opposing party, rather than presenting the policy.  The Nationals ad that had Tony Windsor bitching and beefing, I thought, was actually rather clever.  It's two women in a coffee shop, and one looks at her phone and says, 'Tony wants me back.'  Well, Tony is not impressed because he says it implies he is a philanderer who has cheated on his wife.  Tone, Tone, Tone: this ad is what is commonly known as a 'metaphor'.  Look it up.  Your assertion is really going out on a limb.  Very, very far on a limb.  So far in fact that you are out on the very tip of it, and the limb is bending down to the ground where your weight is either going to cause the branch to snap just near the trunk, or else it is going to catapult you off into the stratosphere, kind of like Wile E Coyote.  Nobody with a skerrick of common sense would believe this meant you were cheating on your wife.  Christ strike a light, as my father used to say.

Also, people are coming out of the woodwork to say Tony Windsor was a bully at school.  If so, this is nothing new.  Just look at the revelations about Tony Abbott at uni, allegedly bashing the wall beside the head of a woman rival to whom he had just lost in some minor election or other.  Was the contest to see who could be the biggest tool?  If so, then you're right, Tony; you wuz robbed!  Sick of these grubby tactics.  I'm just waiting to hear the shocking scandalous revelations about how Barnaby Joyce snuck up behind one of the little kids and cupcaked him.  Someone with whom Pauline Hanson attended school is going to do a shocking ex-pose-zay to New Idea about how Pauline stuffed the greaseproof wrappers from her Vegemite sandwich into the drainpipe on the wall of the Year 3 Classroom.  Turnbullshit probably scooped the eyes from the frog that was being dissected in Biology and put it on someone's sandwich. 

Not planning on running for politics myself straight away, but in the event that I do, let me come clean now: I ate a heap of Milo out of the tin in the Home Science classroom.  So sorry, I have sinned-uh!  I beg-uh forgiveness! I also hid in the change room during my age race in the swimming carnival.  I was instrumental in the gladwrapping of the toilet seat in the admin block at my Year 12 Muck Up Day, and I don't think the cleaning lady has forgiven us for the shock after she used the toilet. 

Brexit, Bill Shorten, & Dog Barf All In One Post!

I'm kind of in a head-and-tail spin about the whole Brexit thing.  I'm not sure about the short-reaching OR the long-reaching ramifications.  The stock market has taken something of a good old arse-fucking, so it would seem.  This isn't bothering me too much because stocks that fall, do climb up again.  So I've heard.  I've never been a chalkie on the exchange or anything like that.  From what I've observed when a major event happens, the stock market does get a bit of a pummelling, and then it recovers.  I'm sure once every body is over the shock, things will be okay again.  Slowly, painstakingly, slug-on-Valium pace to be sure, but they will get there.

There is one small advantage to this Brexit thing - it's knocked the whole Eddie McGuire thing into a cocked hat.  For the past few days all I've heard about is needless whining and - as my friend Mark puts it - pussy arsed sookery over some hamfisted comment made by a sports personality. I really think nobody will be game to say anything soon, and we will all be making bland, generic anodyne statements.  We will sound like soulless androids. 

Along with the ludicrous saga of the Eddie McGuire vs Caroline Wilson kerfuffle, Roads Minister Duncan Gay told a young senator building a road was not like buying a handbag or a car.  Once again, everyone went into meltdown.  Look, Gay's comment is not overly clever.  But he kind of has a point because building a road probably requires the input of a civil engineer, and some other people to clear the space, flatten the area with a roller, and to pour the bitumen.  Some others will have to hold the Stop/Go sign to control the passing traffic whilst said road is under construction.  Buying a handbag requires some money.  So does buying a car.  Really, shouldn't everyone stop bleating and bitching and beefing about inconsequential bullshit like this?  To all of you who have a problem, it's probably time to pull up your big girl panties.  Sure, Gay's comment was lame but the thing is, when you're in an environment that features a variety of aged and gendered demographics, you are very likely to hear a comment that reflects an attitude of a different era, or different view.  If he was blatantly abusive, then of course that would be different.  Here, he was just idiotic.  And if you believe an apology from Gay is warranted, then change your fucking tampon and quit the sooking.

The other tauro-scat of the past couple of days has been the revelation Bill Shorten has gone into a strip club in the past.  He said when he realised what type of venue it was, he left.  How could he not realise what sort of a venue it was before he entered?  They usually have a flashing sign that reads: 'Hot Naked Girls!' - or words to that effect.  The sign is often accompanied by a neon silhouette of the female form.  Just to get the point home, a spruiker in an ill-fitting tuxedo stands at the door encouraging people to 'come right in, sir, and enjoy the show!'  And even if the establishment doesn't have garishly coloured neon to make sure the passers-by know what's lurking inside, there is usually a sign - maybe even a clumsily handwritten blackboard one - to lure the customers in.  It's called advertising.  But preposterous notion that he didn't know it was a strip club aside - who bloody cares if he attend?  Strip clubs could be construed as being a touch infantile and tawdry to be sure, but he wouldn't be the first person to attend one.  God, I remember the stink and kapooha when it was revealed Kevin Rudd had attended one.  This was during the 2007 campaign.  All I could think was - again - so bloody what?  Yeah, again, kind of sleazy entertainment but shit, it's not like he led us to partake in the invasion of a sovereign nation, is it?

If the world isn't as bloody nuts as I think I can handle tonight, things took a turn for the worse when my German Shepherd/Kelpie cross puked on the lounge.  Instead of doing a manicure, I was donning PPE gloves and getting out some plastic, vinegar and bicarb soda.  Also, I think I will not purchase that type of dog food again.  There is something disconcerting about seeing partially digested lamb-and-rice balls still almost with their original integrity on your gorgeous lounge.  The dog actually is not allowed on the lounge unless I have a sheet draped over it, which I did.  So the dog was lying on his sheet, but instead of containing his barf to the sheeted area, he did it on the lounge.  So I've been cleaning my lounge instead of painting my nails.  I don't often paint my nails, but I saw an online tutorial for a French polish manicure, and the girlie side of my personality (which doesn't surface very often at all, she's kept buried and locked away in my inner cellar) was just squealing ecstatically for me to give it a try.  I will do it tomorrow morning.

My Take On The Eddie McGuire/Caroline Wilson Thingie

My bathroom is a work-in-progress, and the fumes from the freshly painted ceiling are making my sinuses hurt.  My kids trying to one-up each other is making my head and arse hurt in keen co-operation.  One is toying with some film clip on his iPad, and the other has reported he is listening to swear words in the clip. Grrrrrrr. 

All the attendant bullshit with Eddie McGuire's recent gaffe is also doing my head in.  He did the ice challenge, and good luck to him.  He suggested some female journalist - Caroline Wilson - do the same and said he would throw in a substantial amount of money (although it's likely spare change down the back of the couch for him) if she stayed submerged.  Naturally, this has got everybody calling for his resignation.  It's got me rolling my eyes.  You know something?  I don't fucking CARE what Eddie said.  From what I can gather, and bear in mind I am not somebody who spends my waking hours following AFL, there is no love lost between McGuire and Wilson.  Eddie made a silly and tasteless comment about a journalist for whom he has scant affection.  However, because this journalist is in possession of a uterus, people are screaming about the sexism and misogyny, and some are calling for Eddie's immediate removal from his position in the AFL.  If someone doesn't like a journalist of the female persuasion, it's quite likely because they find the person irritating, not because they are a manifestation of the XY-chromosome combo, okay?

Some of the biggest cow flop I read today likened his comments to an incitement to domestic violence.  If someone's going to attack their partner based on the inane burblings of Eddie McGuire, then that someone is a monstrous fuckhead who would probably have attacked their partner anyway.  What really pisses me off with this assertion is that domestic violence is a bloody serious issue, and to put some lame-arse comment made by Eddie McGuire in the same basket really cheapens the experiences of genuine victims.

If someone doesn't like me, or my writing, it's because they find me ANNOYING, or because I've actually offended them in some way.  The fact that I am female is of no consequence.

I don't know if Eddie has apologised.  I did read he wasn't going to.  That's good.  Unless he's genuinely sorry then don't apologise.  A coerced apology is hollow and more insulting than the perceived crime for which one is apologising. 

I don't know, I just have this image of me going to a shopping centre Santa Claus at the end of this year (not the local one; their 'Santa' scares the children), and plonking myself on his lap.  The poor hapless man will wheeze, 'Hello, little - uh, BIG girl.  What would you like for Christmas?' I will look at him with innocence and non-guile, and lisp, 'Santa, I just want a world where people actually learn the meaning of 'misogyny' and stop misapplying it in everyday whingeing, and I just want people to stop acting so butt-hurt all the time.'  Santa will snap, 'What do you think I am, kid, a MIRACLE WORKER?', before shoving me from his lap in disgust, and I will land on the floor in a heap. 

Today's Musings

I've just been having a rather pedestrian week, at best.  Trying to maintain good spirits, but those spirits become as dire as the spirits produced in a dirty distillery coated with rust and dried guano, when faced with the prospect of drawing on one's mortgage to fix one's bathroom.  Note to self: next time you buy a house, wear your accountant's hat, not your artist's hat (fixer uppers are great, but there's only so much the old hip nerve can stand).  Still, it would be good to have a new bathroom.

A few messages today for different people.  The first one is for Sheikh Shady Al-Suleiman.  I've heard a theory AIDS generated from the Simian Immunodeficiency Virus, which was transmitted to humans from the infected blood of chimpanzees that were hunted for their meat.  The virus then mutated to what we know as HIV, and it is the nature of that virus (because it is a virus) to mutate, which is why it can be difficult to cure viruses.  I'm running with this theory because it makes a fuckload more sense than to say AIDS is a form of divine punishment for homosexuality.

The second message is for the slob who left a tampon in the carpark of Aldi today.  That message will come to me when I find the words.  It is difficult to find the words (along with my Year-11-English-Award-Roget's-Thesaurus so I can't find any just now) to describe the slatternly disrespect of someone who would do this.  In fairness, not that this pig deserves fairness, I'm not actually sure if it was used because I wasn't going to bend down and closely inspect the thing.  It was flattened somewhat, so I'm guessing it had been run over a few times.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I know what it's like to prank people with tampons.  I, too, was fifteen once.  I recall the hilarity of having one of the gang unwrap a tampon and throw it into a group of boys seated nearby, and watch the boys all but jump on the lunch seat, holding their skirts (or school shorts) and screaming, 'Eeeeek!'  Come to think of it, that really was funny.  But playground hijinks to do not translate well to the public carpark of a supermarket.  I guess it's better than finding used a used condom, which I did find on the grass at soccer training a few years ago.  Ick.

The third and final message goes to Sir Paul McCartney, who is turning 73 today.  Happy birthday, and thank you for the music.  Those classics like 'Mull of Kintyre', 'Ebony & Ivory', 'Say, Say, Say', and 'The Girl Is Mine'.  Hey, wait a minute....

Sheep, and the Sheep-Brained

It is difficult to try and unleash the creative juices while I'm watching the clock because I'm collecting Master 11 from the cinema at 3.15pm (it's currently 2.37pm AEST), and Mr Bingells and Master 15 are sanding the windowsill of the bathroom, which is just next to the computer/dining room.  I'm enjoying, more or less, a freaking chilly Queen's Birthday Weekend.  I took Master 15 to my home town yesterday to watch the Festival of the Fleeces.  If you're new to this blog, and haven't heard of this spectacle: yes, there is such a thing.  My late father was of the view the 'only thing stupider than sheep running down the street is the idiots who watch' - hahaha!  But what the heck, it's fun.  And it draws a crowd.  The spectacle started with a warning from the booth announcer for the children to not have their feet beyond the barrier (huh?  It's not like Pamplona!), and a welcome from an auntie elder of the local indigenous tribe, the Kamilaroi people.  There was an interdenominational blessing of the sheep (hoo boy!), and then they were off and, um, NOT racing.  No, they just meandered along at a rather leisurely pace, and when it was over, I took my son to the pub that had been owned by my grandmother to show him where his mother used to play as a child.  The railing and newel post of the staircase has not changed, nor has the carpet upstairs.  It's the same carpet from when I was a kid!  We went out to the large verandah/balony structure, and I confessed to my son it was over that very railing his uncle, one of his second cousins, and myself had spent some devilish time spitting on the parked cars in the street below.  In hindsight, I should perhaps be glad of his technology addiction; I'd rather he play on the x-box than hack on motor vehicles.  I have a reasonable excuse: I was only about six and therefore easily led.  On a brighter note, I was able to incorporate this gruesome activity into my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', which is in the queue for edit with my publisher.  Also, it was touching to see a photograph of my father in his buckjumping hey-day had been placed on the wall of the main bar (the tiles of which have not changed since I was a pre-schooler).

This goes out to the dick who honked and flipped me off at McDonald's this morning.  First of all, and ask this as respectfully as you deserve: mate, what is your fucking problem?  Gentle reader, here is the scenario: I drove through the drive-thru and ordered two cappuccinos for Mr Bingells and myself.  I was requested to park in Bay 1, which I did.  Wholly and entirely; my entire vehicle was in that spot designated for drive-thru-ers whose order might take a few minutes.  Anyway, this deadshit in a - I'm not sure what - pulled up beside me and motioned for me to turn, and I get the impression he was trying to communicate he couldn't see around me.  Or perhaps he was trying to give directions for a plane to land.  Dude, I was in a parking bay; go around me!  So I shook my head, and indicated for him to keep going, wondering all the while was he some kind of idiot, and could he not see I was parked in the first of the series of parking bays.  So I watched this imbecile continue to travel, he was scowling and muttering - I don't read lips but I'm guessing he wasn't saying, 'Gracious me, I appear to have erred and I have right of way and must keep driving, whilst that hot mama is sitting there in the parking bay where she is entitled to be when awaiting her order' - and he stuck his paw out the window and made the age-old gesture with raised finger.  I'm certain he was not suggesting I look heavenward because there was a hot air balloon over head, or perhaps he had had a skywriter leave me a message to have a good day.

Now, aside from the needlessness of his stupid behaviour, what really gets my molars grinding is this: having had a good look at the knob-end, I'm pretty sure it is his wife who is the worst vehicle parker in town!  Before my kid started catching the school bus, I would drive to the school to collect him, and often arrive first.  Upon my arrival I would gentle pull over to the kerb and park no more than the legal allowance to the corner of the road.  I would listen to the radio and wait for the bell.  But more often than not, my solitude was shattered and destroyed as though by a lobbed frag when this woman in a van would go by, pull up with a squeal of brakes that sounded like mass murder in the pigpen, and then clumsily fishtail the van in a backward motion, making me fear for the front bumper of my car.  The van would come to an abrupt halt, leaving a cat's whisker of space to spare between our vehicles, and she would alight and strut off to the playground, leaving me wondering why she would park illegally, and fuming that she was blocking the view of all and sundry with her illegally parked people mover. 

It is for this reason I would submit the dickface in the turd mobile at Maccas this morning had no call getting huffy with me. 

From Camp to The Running Of The Sheep

Your blogger has been feeling somewhat icky and blah for a few days, so I decided to look at cheesy clips on You Tube in an effort to live my spirits.  I'm not sure if they lifted my spirits or arose my gorge.  I seem to have gravitated towards the gayest film clips ever today, and I didn't even go anywhere near The Village People.  I had a bit of a look at the Bowie/Jagger collaboration 'Dancing In The Street'.  I recall it's maiden airing at the 1985 Live Aid concert, and the 'big thing' about this clip, technically speaking, was the clever editing and splicing: Bowie and Jagger were never 'together' during the filming.  What stands out - aside from Jagger's hideous mullet - is the campiness.  It's not as campy as that beach volley ball scene in 'Top Gun', which has a palpable air of homoeroticism in it.  I think the producers wanted to appeal to the ladies by promoting the beefcake factor with all the oiled pecs and biceps, but the plan kind of went awry.  By the way, who's the twerp with the awful porn moustache who keeps whining, 'One more game'?

From this, having decided in for a penny/in for a pound, I decided to check out a very naff guilty pleasure of mine - 'Life At The Outpost' by Skatt Bros.  It was out when I was 14 and I don't think I really 'got it' back then.  Now, at 50, I kind of do.  I laughed watching the buff oiled specimens in jeans and cowboy hats strutting and chanting that a cowboy man's 'gonna love ya hard as he can!'  I'm starting to see possibilities for 'Brokeback Mountain: The Musical'.  Maybe I will invest if anybody wants to stage this; it might earn me a nest egg.

Anyway, it's my day off and I'm deciding what to do.  I might go to the gym.  I might crawl back to bed.  Tomorrow, I am planning to take my children to my home town for its annual 'Festival of the Fleeces'.  The highlight will be a parade with the running of the sheep down the main street.  Never mind Pamplona's Running of the Bulls - Merriwa's Running of the Sheep shits all over it.  Also, there is less chance of someone being gored by a frightened animal.   The first parade was held in 1991, and it was actually led by my father.  He donned his Akubra and an oilskin raincoat, and rode a horse down the main street.  Soon after it was time for the running of the sheep.  Everybody was agog and atwitter with anticipation.  In due course, the woolly ones came sprinting down the road, to much amusement from the crowd.  Some of you probably know sheep are not reknowned for being free spirits.  Where one goes, the others follow.  The sheep at the front decided to not follow the planned route to the showground.  Instead, it turned and ran back up the road.  The others followed suit, leaving organisers stunned. They stopped at the Anzac Cenotaph, and just ran laps in a circle.  From a distance, it was just blobs of wool spinning like a lanolin soaked whirlpool, or a fleecy Coriolis cyclone.  It was incredibly funny.Anyway, as daggy (ahem!) as it is, I'm looking forward to it.

Last night at writer's group I read from my upcoming novel.  It's in the edit queue at the publishing house, but if you're interested in my other works, click the links on this blog.  Please.

Today's Meanderings

Been feeling a tad meh today.  It's my day off and there is so much I wanted to achieve.  I will probably achieve half of it.  No point attempting to tidy the house because the bathroom is to be painted soon and everything seems to have found a temporary living spot on my dining table, which leads to what we in the Bingells household term 'picnic dinners' in the lounge room, where we must be vigilant because the mini fox terrier is likely to jump up and snatch something from a plate, and run away.

One thing of note - sold our Magna yesterday.  Farewell, Maggie (Mr Bingells has a propensity to name vehicles).  Mr Bingells forgot to collect the Notice of Disposal from the new owner, so I sent his wife a message and she had him drop it in to us.  This is indeed fortunate, because I happened to be doing an evening medication run last night, when I saw the new owner leaving our street in his newly acquired Magna drive up the hill where he failed to stop at the STOP sign.  What other fine-worthy misdemeanours is he going to commit?  Would hate to thing we'd neglected the Notice of Disposal and be hit with fines we just really don't need.

2016 has taken another good 'un, Mohamed Ali.  Whilst not a fan of boxing per se, I always enjoyed watching footage of Ali in his prime.  He was a man of infinite grace; so much poise and feathertouch on the feet in such a huge package, whereas I'm not a particularly robust specimen and cannot take three steps without either stubbing my toe, bumping my knee, or barking my shin.  The man's charisma was palpable, and his courage to stand by his convictions truly breathtaking.  I always think of him refusing the draft ('No Vietcong ever called me 'nigger'.'), and his willingness to be stripped of his title.  Would any of the entitled twerps in the boxing fraternity today be prepared to do that?  RIP, Mohamed Ali. 

Oh well, I'd best get going if I am to achieve anything else today.

I Say, Thaiday; Good-O O O

I'm not a sports journalist.  I'd probably make a very bad sports journalist.  I'd be a passable journalist in that I am literate and actually can write in a creative manner, but this is negated by my sub-zero interest in just about every sport going.  I don't care about people chasing a ball around a muddy field, and don't lose my shit at Grand Final or State of Origin time.  I'm not in a position to be issuing advice or directives to sports journalists, and it is hypocritical of me to try because I hate armchair experts.  But I will have to put my hypocrisy aside and say it now: sports journalists, it may be prudent to not interview athletes fresh from the field.  My sports psychology is a little sketchy, but odds are they're hyped up and not liable to think what spews from their mouths, along with the mouth guard.  They are likely to say something asinine at best, or something that offends the Church of the Perpetually Outraged at worst.  You will all recall the Chris Gayle bull dung because he suggested buying a journalist a drink (could you imagine if it had gone like: 'What about a drink?' 'No'. 'I suppose a fuck's out of the question?').  And we now have the shit of all being lost because of some silly comment by Sam Thaiday following Queensland's State of Origin victory last night.  He said something like the game was 'a bit like losing your virginity.  Bit unpleasant, but had to be done.'  Look everyone, this is HIS perception, and HIS analogy, and as mentioned he has just come of the field and is likely not thinking about who he's likely to offend if he makes an off the cuff comment.  Had I been the journalist, I might have replied, 'Oh?  It was over in three minutes and you wiped your spoof-dripping dick on your beanie afterwards?', but I have a warped sense of humour.  However, there appear to be many people who are jumping up and down and causing undue stress on the earth's topography with all this synchronised jumping.  Please stop it, people.  There are complaints that children might have heard it.  You know what?  If there are kids watching television at that time of night perhaps the parenting in the household is more concerning than some stupid comment made by a footballer.  I've heard panellists say worse on 'Q&A' which is run in an earlier time slot, but because it is the ABC and 'Q&A' is all left-leaning intelligensia, then that's fine.  Don't get me wrong, you all know my politics lean slightly to the left, but you do see the point I'm making here, don't you?  But anyway, did Thaiday say something inane?  Absolutely.  Is it worth having an entire nation go into meltdown over? Christ on a stick, NO!! So sports journalists, please remember you are interviewing footballers, not Gore Vidal.

Soon I am to pick up my son from band practice, but I must state that last night I fought the good fight.  The poster at the club where I play my weekly trivia game has been infuriating me with its misspelled 'sponsored'.  It purports to be 'sponsered' by a local butcher.  Yeah, you read that right.  I cannot believe nobody noticed that error before it went to print, and I'm including the staff at the business who printed the poster in my disdain.  So last night I took along a post-it with a red 'O' lettered on it, and stuck it over the offending 'E'.  Magically, I felt calmness and inner tranquillity after doing this.  It seems as though the universe has been realigned.  Someone asked me what I would do in the event management removes my post-it.  The answer is simple. I will put on another post-it.  And another.  And another.  I will keep doing this, cackling maniacally on my 150th post-it note application, and still cackling and shrieking, throwing 'O'-ed post-its in the direction of that poster as I am dragged away by two white coated attendants, each with an elbow hooked under my armpits, and my heels digging burrows as I am dragged.  As the needle is administered to my bicep, I will still be crackling and screeching, 'It's 'O'!  'O'!  'O!', fading to a whisper as the Thorazine takes hold.