Memo to all those who are misunderstanding the appointment of Ms Susan Kiefel as our first female Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia: this does not mean more accurate rulings from the bench, okay? This does not mean less slaps on the wrist for offenders, okay? I have had to point out to misguided twerps lately that gender plays no part in the accuracy of findings from the bench, but knowledge of the law. I very much doubt Her Honour has studied law, been admitted as a barrister, practised, attained the position of judge, and now this most prestigious appointment merely to have her gender called in regarding any cases in which her rulings are used. Seriously, if I was Ms Kiefel I'd be pretty bloody offended by this notion. And for those of assuming slaps on the wrist in sentencing will be a thing of the past, it's not the role of the High Court to go handing out these sentences - it rules on constitutional arguments, as well appeals from State Supreme Courts (both civil and criminal matters). This is not to downplay the historical significance of Ms Kiefel's appointment, I just want SJWs to stop soaking the crotch of their underpants over meretricious ideals and misconceptions, okay? That being said, well done to Ms Kiefel on her appointment.
I haven't done a Christmas list yet. Here's my starters:
1. For people to stop misusing the word 'misogyny', and stop labelling any male who does not happen to agree with a female commentator, or happens to dislike somebody who just happens to be female, a 'misogynist'. It's inappropriate, incorrect, somewhat insulting, and it really, really annoys the living snot out of me. Ever since Julia Gillard's 'speech', it's been the constant sand in my vagina, which is a natural segue to item number 2/...
2. For writers to stop referring to the external parts of the female genitalia as 'vagina'. Can't you people write 'vulva'? It's a helluva lot easier because there are less letters! Reporting that a red carpet A- to D-Lister had worn a dress that exposed their vagina is really unforgivably stupid, unless the dress was equipped with a speculum and mirror, okay? 'Easy Tips For Shaving Vagina'? How about 'don't stick a fucking razor up your snatch in the first place, girls'?
3. For 2016 to just end (which is a natural occurrence at Christmas, anyway). This has been the crappiest year in living memory. Just about everyone appears to have died! Yet the Kardashians live on. They are the cockroach of the Grim Reaper's list - able to survive nuclear explosions when everything else around has succumbed to the radioactive fallout.
4. For my books to be best sellers - you lot can assist with this and perhaps do some of your own Chrissie shopping - check on the links in my bio and read the first chapters.
5. A new bathroom. A new EVERYTHING, it seems! Doing some renos, and they're taking a long, long time. My house looks like those stock photographs you see in articles about Syria.
Oh well. Time to put up some decorations now. I'm determined to make this as festive a Christmas as possible. Last Christmas was so bloody miserable because my father died a couple of weeks beforehand. This year it will be a good one. Unless 2016 strikes again.
Wednesday 30 November 2016
Monday 28 November 2016
Let Me Be Blunt
God, I hope the press have some tweezers handy to extract the splinters from underneath their fingernails where they've scraped the bottom of the barrel with the execrable headlines about Princess Beatrice slashing Ed Sheeran's face at a party with a ceremonial sword. I've seen the pictures, and I'm sure he's done more damage shaving!
It would appear there was some high spirited horseplay happening at a palace, and James Blunt mentioned he'd like a knighthood. Princess Beatrice thought she might be able to do this as a proxy for ol' Nanny Betty, and grabbed a ceremonial sword with which to do the honours. I'm not sure who owns the sword, to be honest I'm not certain if it's her father's residence where the party was or not. Even if it's her father's residence, it doesn't mean he is the owner of the sword per se, but he might very well be its keeper and custodian. Anyway, with all this goofing and tomfoolery as she tried to dub James Blunt (maybe she was attempting surgery on his vocal cords to spare us any more cat-on-the-bandsaw offerings a la 'You're Beautiful'), she ended up giving Ed's face a bit of a nick - well, it was more than a bit of a nick as it required hospital treatment. But nonetheless, all is well in the land of Royals and Britpop celebrities.
To me, this is proof that none of us are immune to dumb-arse hijinks at a party. It's a grander, marble-floored, damask-walled, suits-of-armour-in-every-corner, chandeliered-ceilings scale of the silliness we all get up to at times when the olds are out. At twenty-eight or so, Princess Beatrice should perhaps be beyond this dumb-arsery, but then I'm not about to judge too much. Maybe she was house-sitting (or palace-sitting) for Prince Andrew, threw a party, and things got a little out of hand. We've all been there. It kind of reminded me of a time when I was in my early-twenties and a maiden aunt went on holiday, entrusting her unit to be house-sat by a cousin of mine. My cousin was, and is still, a very responsible person. She had no intention of throwing wild parties in our aunt's absence. She did however decide to host a dinner party. Guests included yours truly, her younger sister, another cousin of ours with her then-fiancé (now husband), and two university friends of the younger sister, and younger sister's best male friend (who is now her husband). Most of us prepared a dish for the repast, and it was a very civilised - mostly - evening. Eventually, this uni friend - we'll call him Anthony because, well, it's his name - decided to open a bottle of Creaming Soda. God knows what he'd done with it, because the very microsecond the lid was removed, the bottle's contents burst forth like an erupting volcano, and the kitchen floor, stove top, refrigerator, doorway to the living room, and living room carpet were saturated in this sticky, radioactive looking syrup. I might point out that along with the furnishings, several of the party's attendees, your blogger included, were also sprayed copiously with the Creaming Soda. The place kind of looked like a murder scene, and we the innocent bystanders or perpetrators who had been caught in the grisly backsplash as the victim bled out, the blood pulsating in spurts from the fatal wounds. After a few seconds stunned silence, we set about mopping soft drink from the furnishings and carpet, and washing ourselves.
We never let Anthony forget it. Every get together where he was in attendance was punctuated with the anecdote starting, 'Remember the night you sprayed soft drink all over our auntie's flat?'
Anthony eventually graduated from university and took up teaching. By coincidence, one of his students was my nephew. My sister went to collect her son one day. Now, my sister has black hair, but will occasionally chuck in a rinse with auburn highlights. I am guessing she had treated her hair thus, and she told me she also had her sunglasses on, because Anthony thought she was me. He greeted her, and said, 'I still think about that party at your auntie's place.' From behind her sunglasses, my sister smiled blankly, but politely, as she tried to place him. 'At Crow's Nest?' he prompted, and she gave one of those smiles you give when you're trying to figure out what on earth someone is on about, but did twig which of our aunts he meant. 'You must remember,' he went on, 'I opened a bottle of Creaming Soda and it went everywhere!' My sister continued with the polite smile and polite 'mmmm' sounds, wondering had she been so utterly wasted at some shindig it had been totally obliterated from her memory. 'Your auntie was overseas and you guys had a party without her knowing,' said my nephew's teacher. The penny dropped, and my sister told him she believed he was referring to a night involving her younger sister (and in case you can't work it out - that's ME!).
But yes, this was back in 1990, well before social media, and I doubt anyone would bother posting or reporting on this. Or maybe they would, God knows people post the most asinine things at times. Anyway, poor old Princess Beatrice can't get away with her shenanigans, trying to bestow a knighthood on James Blunt. Well, the potential knight was 'blunt', but the sword was not.
It would appear there was some high spirited horseplay happening at a palace, and James Blunt mentioned he'd like a knighthood. Princess Beatrice thought she might be able to do this as a proxy for ol' Nanny Betty, and grabbed a ceremonial sword with which to do the honours. I'm not sure who owns the sword, to be honest I'm not certain if it's her father's residence where the party was or not. Even if it's her father's residence, it doesn't mean he is the owner of the sword per se, but he might very well be its keeper and custodian. Anyway, with all this goofing and tomfoolery as she tried to dub James Blunt (maybe she was attempting surgery on his vocal cords to spare us any more cat-on-the-bandsaw offerings a la 'You're Beautiful'), she ended up giving Ed's face a bit of a nick - well, it was more than a bit of a nick as it required hospital treatment. But nonetheless, all is well in the land of Royals and Britpop celebrities.
To me, this is proof that none of us are immune to dumb-arse hijinks at a party. It's a grander, marble-floored, damask-walled, suits-of-armour-in-every-corner, chandeliered-ceilings scale of the silliness we all get up to at times when the olds are out. At twenty-eight or so, Princess Beatrice should perhaps be beyond this dumb-arsery, but then I'm not about to judge too much. Maybe she was house-sitting (or palace-sitting) for Prince Andrew, threw a party, and things got a little out of hand. We've all been there. It kind of reminded me of a time when I was in my early-twenties and a maiden aunt went on holiday, entrusting her unit to be house-sat by a cousin of mine. My cousin was, and is still, a very responsible person. She had no intention of throwing wild parties in our aunt's absence. She did however decide to host a dinner party. Guests included yours truly, her younger sister, another cousin of ours with her then-fiancé (now husband), and two university friends of the younger sister, and younger sister's best male friend (who is now her husband). Most of us prepared a dish for the repast, and it was a very civilised - mostly - evening. Eventually, this uni friend - we'll call him Anthony because, well, it's his name - decided to open a bottle of Creaming Soda. God knows what he'd done with it, because the very microsecond the lid was removed, the bottle's contents burst forth like an erupting volcano, and the kitchen floor, stove top, refrigerator, doorway to the living room, and living room carpet were saturated in this sticky, radioactive looking syrup. I might point out that along with the furnishings, several of the party's attendees, your blogger included, were also sprayed copiously with the Creaming Soda. The place kind of looked like a murder scene, and we the innocent bystanders or perpetrators who had been caught in the grisly backsplash as the victim bled out, the blood pulsating in spurts from the fatal wounds. After a few seconds stunned silence, we set about mopping soft drink from the furnishings and carpet, and washing ourselves.
We never let Anthony forget it. Every get together where he was in attendance was punctuated with the anecdote starting, 'Remember the night you sprayed soft drink all over our auntie's flat?'
Anthony eventually graduated from university and took up teaching. By coincidence, one of his students was my nephew. My sister went to collect her son one day. Now, my sister has black hair, but will occasionally chuck in a rinse with auburn highlights. I am guessing she had treated her hair thus, and she told me she also had her sunglasses on, because Anthony thought she was me. He greeted her, and said, 'I still think about that party at your auntie's place.' From behind her sunglasses, my sister smiled blankly, but politely, as she tried to place him. 'At Crow's Nest?' he prompted, and she gave one of those smiles you give when you're trying to figure out what on earth someone is on about, but did twig which of our aunts he meant. 'You must remember,' he went on, 'I opened a bottle of Creaming Soda and it went everywhere!' My sister continued with the polite smile and polite 'mmmm' sounds, wondering had she been so utterly wasted at some shindig it had been totally obliterated from her memory. 'Your auntie was overseas and you guys had a party without her knowing,' said my nephew's teacher. The penny dropped, and my sister told him she believed he was referring to a night involving her younger sister (and in case you can't work it out - that's ME!).
But yes, this was back in 1990, well before social media, and I doubt anyone would bother posting or reporting on this. Or maybe they would, God knows people post the most asinine things at times. Anyway, poor old Princess Beatrice can't get away with her shenanigans, trying to bestow a knighthood on James Blunt. Well, the potential knight was 'blunt', but the sword was not.
Thursday 24 November 2016
From Awkward Questions, To Occult, To Dougal From The Magic Roundabout
Might do a little tinkering on this thing tonight. Just been looking at the toolbar hereof, and I might have actually worked out how to do some techy stuff to make this blog of mine really rock. Oh, I know I should rely on my craft as a wordsmith, but sometimes it's fun to do tricks as well. Like insert images. Might try it soon-ish.
I thought I should do a little work on it tonight, because I'm going to be as busy as a one-armed fan dancer over the next few days, but it's hard to think about things tonight. What will amuse my readership? Will anybody care how proud I was when I took my twelve-year-old for a haircut today, and the hairdresser congratulated him on his recent performance in his school play? She was most ebullient and profuse in her praise, saying over and over how fantastic he was, how awesome he was. When I mentioned it would be impossible to cut the kid's hair because his head would swell to planetary proportions with all the praise, she said he 'totally deserved every bit of it'. No, that will not really interest the folks all that much. What might interest them is the question he asked of his poor harried mother when we were climbing into the car to go home: 'Mum, do vegans like sperm?' This is really one heck of a question from one's twelve-year-old. When I was twelve, I had never even heard of a vegan. I was aware of a substance called sperm, having read all those Where Did I Come From type books in my school library. When Mr Bingells and I discovered we were going to become a family, I decided I would always be there to explain when my kids asked questions. I couldn't wait to advise and instruct, to teach and shape their minds. What I didn't bargain for was the most commonly asked question being, 'Are we there yet?', or a constant repetition of some rhetorical question, such questions finally causing me to lose my shit on several occasions, one such occasion where I pulled over and threatened to make him get out of the car and walk. Nowadays the most constant questions I'm asked are: 'What's for dinner?' 'When's dinner?' 'Any dessert?' 'Can I eat the leftovers?' 'Can I play on the x-box?', and 'Hey, Mum - you done on the computer yet?' That's the fifteen-year-old. The twelve-year-old often asks some very off-kilter, out-of-the-box questions, and today's was a doozy. I am not sure why he is so interested in veganism, although I do take pains to point out they should be aware some people follow different diets for ethical or religious reasons, and they are aware one of my oldest friends is vegan. This is her life and her choice, but I don't think it defines her. But I have always explained to my kids vegans eschew all animal products for ethical reasons. And as much as I want to be that down to earth parent that doesn't pussyfoot around, and just answers the questions as honestly as I can in age-appropriate terms, this particular question knocked me for six. The propensity of anybody, vegan or otherwise, to swallow sperm is not something I wish to get into with my twelve-year-old. I'm sure those of you with children, hell - even those of you without, will understand this. I mumbled that I didn't know, and changed the topic. Sometimes you have to do these things.
I viewed the DVD 'Ouija' the other night. It appears to be a run-of-the-mill, follow the formula type of horror movie wherein the characters are chiefly high school students, in that one by one they all (except the heroine, natch) get bumped off. Plot wasn't too bad, but yeah, somewhat formulaic. I've never conducted a séance, and I'm under the impression it's probably not the smartest thing to do. When aged thirteen, myself and a school friend attempted to make contact with Johnny O'Keefe, who had passed not long beforehand. We sat at a small table in my bedroom with the lights out. We had no candles, so I sat a blob of glow putty in the centre of the table (I wish I was not making this up). We held hands across the table, closed our eyes, and I called in a sepulchral voice, 'Are you there, Johnny O'Keefe?' My friend whimpered, 'Simone, let's turn the light on.' Feeling shit-scared myself, I agreed to this course of action.
Didn't catch the ARIAs last night, but have seen some pictures from the red carpet, and the ceremony. In closing, I'm going to put this out there: does anybody else think Sia looks like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, with that bloody mop thing on her head?
I thought I should do a little work on it tonight, because I'm going to be as busy as a one-armed fan dancer over the next few days, but it's hard to think about things tonight. What will amuse my readership? Will anybody care how proud I was when I took my twelve-year-old for a haircut today, and the hairdresser congratulated him on his recent performance in his school play? She was most ebullient and profuse in her praise, saying over and over how fantastic he was, how awesome he was. When I mentioned it would be impossible to cut the kid's hair because his head would swell to planetary proportions with all the praise, she said he 'totally deserved every bit of it'. No, that will not really interest the folks all that much. What might interest them is the question he asked of his poor harried mother when we were climbing into the car to go home: 'Mum, do vegans like sperm?' This is really one heck of a question from one's twelve-year-old. When I was twelve, I had never even heard of a vegan. I was aware of a substance called sperm, having read all those Where Did I Come From type books in my school library. When Mr Bingells and I discovered we were going to become a family, I decided I would always be there to explain when my kids asked questions. I couldn't wait to advise and instruct, to teach and shape their minds. What I didn't bargain for was the most commonly asked question being, 'Are we there yet?', or a constant repetition of some rhetorical question, such questions finally causing me to lose my shit on several occasions, one such occasion where I pulled over and threatened to make him get out of the car and walk. Nowadays the most constant questions I'm asked are: 'What's for dinner?' 'When's dinner?' 'Any dessert?' 'Can I eat the leftovers?' 'Can I play on the x-box?', and 'Hey, Mum - you done on the computer yet?' That's the fifteen-year-old. The twelve-year-old often asks some very off-kilter, out-of-the-box questions, and today's was a doozy. I am not sure why he is so interested in veganism, although I do take pains to point out they should be aware some people follow different diets for ethical or religious reasons, and they are aware one of my oldest friends is vegan. This is her life and her choice, but I don't think it defines her. But I have always explained to my kids vegans eschew all animal products for ethical reasons. And as much as I want to be that down to earth parent that doesn't pussyfoot around, and just answers the questions as honestly as I can in age-appropriate terms, this particular question knocked me for six. The propensity of anybody, vegan or otherwise, to swallow sperm is not something I wish to get into with my twelve-year-old. I'm sure those of you with children, hell - even those of you without, will understand this. I mumbled that I didn't know, and changed the topic. Sometimes you have to do these things.
I viewed the DVD 'Ouija' the other night. It appears to be a run-of-the-mill, follow the formula type of horror movie wherein the characters are chiefly high school students, in that one by one they all (except the heroine, natch) get bumped off. Plot wasn't too bad, but yeah, somewhat formulaic. I've never conducted a séance, and I'm under the impression it's probably not the smartest thing to do. When aged thirteen, myself and a school friend attempted to make contact with Johnny O'Keefe, who had passed not long beforehand. We sat at a small table in my bedroom with the lights out. We had no candles, so I sat a blob of glow putty in the centre of the table (I wish I was not making this up). We held hands across the table, closed our eyes, and I called in a sepulchral voice, 'Are you there, Johnny O'Keefe?' My friend whimpered, 'Simone, let's turn the light on.' Feeling shit-scared myself, I agreed to this course of action.
Didn't catch the ARIAs last night, but have seen some pictures from the red carpet, and the ceremony. In closing, I'm going to put this out there: does anybody else think Sia looks like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, with that bloody mop thing on her head?
Sunday 20 November 2016
Birthday Toasting, Hot Weather Toasting, Atkins Petition
In all honesty, I cannot see the point to change dot org petitions. I've made my bafflement and vexation very clear in previous posts, and as a matter of principle I don't sign the fucking things when they appear in my news feed or email inbox. I see those horrid words 'Simone, here is a new petition you might be interested in...' and I think to myself, 'No, Change Dot Org. I won't be interested. These things are pointless and annoying, and fuck off with it, okay?' The latest one I've seen is a call to have Michael Atkins banned from all gay nightclubs. Atkins is the former lover of Matthew Leveson, for whose murder he has been ACQUITTED. Matthew's body has never been found A recent search in bushland achieved nothing. Don't get me wrong; my heart goes out to Matthew's parents who must ache for closure, but to the person who generated this petition: what the hell? I'm not sure what you're trying to achieve from this. Well, I kind of do, but how the fuck do you get someone - that someone being a free man and entitled to the same rights as other free citizens - banned from licenced establishments where he is legally entitled to enter? I have no doubt the management of the establishments have the right to refuse entry, but I cannot see what right they have against someone who, as I have stated, is a free man. It might have to be a business decision because if other patrons won't frequent the club, then I'm sure the establishment won't want to lose income. How do you police every gay club in Australia to ensure he's not entering? I really think this petition is flawed. Don't want anything to do with Atkins? It's very simple: don't engage with him.
Well, it's stinking hot. This of course makes me very irritable. Maybe that's why the aforementioned petition has irked me so. I could of course be in the grip of a motherfucker of a hot flush. On Saturday I attended the birthday party of twin cousins of mine - they turned 50. I stood on the front porch with the birthday girl (they're a male and female) at about 11.30pm, with another relative, and we discussed the hot flushes that occasionally torment us at our age. How things change. These are the people with whom I discussed periods; now it's the symptoms of menopause. Funnily enough, I was with this cousin when I got my first ever period. We've always been very close, and chances are she was my first ever friend. I have lots and lots of first cousins (it's a generational Irish Catholic thing), and we are all great mates. Every guest at this party was a relative of some sort. I caught the train, and got out my notepad to do notes for the speech her younger sister had asked me to prepare: the toast to the female of the twins (another cousin toasted the male). So much rich source material, and I tried to make notes. But there was this kid on the train, probably about two years old. From Muswellbrook to Singleton (which is half an hour), it was a constant robotic, Stephen Hawking type delivery of 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.' It was like a broken record. Gen Y and millennials, who have long enjoyed CDs and MP3 players and iPods, don't know the torture of a needle stuck in the groove, but take it from me: this kid could be used to extract information from enemy spies. Half an hour of relentless 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy' in total monotone made the top of my skull feel like it was peeling away, and I wanted to shout to her mother to Fer Chrissakes Stop Looking At Facebook And Give The Kid Attention Before I Push Her Under The Wheels Of The Fucking Train!'
Speaking of trains - I caught five of them on Saturday. Muswellbrook to Hamilton, where I had to change. Hamilton to Central, where I had to change. Central to International Airport, where I checked in to the hotel (I'd won a voucher a while ago, and decided to redeem it whilst in Sydney). International Airport to Wynyard, where I changed again. The Wynyard to St Leonards, where I cadged a lift with some of the rellies. Hell, I have flown Sydney to Denpasar in the same amount of travel time and with less hassle!
But the so-called hassle didn't matter. It was wonderful to catch up with my cousins and share laughs and memories. My speech was very well received, particularly when I mentioned going out partying with the birthday girl. Unfortunately, much of our partying was in the Eighties, and this meant going to see Uncanny X-men, Wa Wa Nee, and The Cockroaches - none of those bands appeal to me and I mentioned I quaffed many a West Coast Cooler (the drink du jour) to make the gigs listenable. My cousin's palate matured and she introduced me to Strongbow Apple Cider, and we used to sit on Coogee Beach drinking that prior to going to see a gig at Selinas. But yeah, our first friends are often our cousins, and I said to the assembled throng, 'Aren't we a lucky lot?' There were actually a few tears throughout the speeches, and my cousin gave me a big hug after I had proposed my toast. Oh, some interesting props were produced by the younger siblings - like the old Globite school case with 'INXS' carefully lettered on it in liquid paper. I'm sure the amount of names to denote ownership, or music and/or sporting team allegiances painted on Globite school cases in liquid paper during the Eighties have assured Mike Nesmith a most comfortable retirement.
Anyway, I'm home again and stinking hot. Here's cheers to you all.
Well, it's stinking hot. This of course makes me very irritable. Maybe that's why the aforementioned petition has irked me so. I could of course be in the grip of a motherfucker of a hot flush. On Saturday I attended the birthday party of twin cousins of mine - they turned 50. I stood on the front porch with the birthday girl (they're a male and female) at about 11.30pm, with another relative, and we discussed the hot flushes that occasionally torment us at our age. How things change. These are the people with whom I discussed periods; now it's the symptoms of menopause. Funnily enough, I was with this cousin when I got my first ever period. We've always been very close, and chances are she was my first ever friend. I have lots and lots of first cousins (it's a generational Irish Catholic thing), and we are all great mates. Every guest at this party was a relative of some sort. I caught the train, and got out my notepad to do notes for the speech her younger sister had asked me to prepare: the toast to the female of the twins (another cousin toasted the male). So much rich source material, and I tried to make notes. But there was this kid on the train, probably about two years old. From Muswellbrook to Singleton (which is half an hour), it was a constant robotic, Stephen Hawking type delivery of 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.' It was like a broken record. Gen Y and millennials, who have long enjoyed CDs and MP3 players and iPods, don't know the torture of a needle stuck in the groove, but take it from me: this kid could be used to extract information from enemy spies. Half an hour of relentless 'Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy' in total monotone made the top of my skull feel like it was peeling away, and I wanted to shout to her mother to Fer Chrissakes Stop Looking At Facebook And Give The Kid Attention Before I Push Her Under The Wheels Of The Fucking Train!'
Speaking of trains - I caught five of them on Saturday. Muswellbrook to Hamilton, where I had to change. Hamilton to Central, where I had to change. Central to International Airport, where I checked in to the hotel (I'd won a voucher a while ago, and decided to redeem it whilst in Sydney). International Airport to Wynyard, where I changed again. The Wynyard to St Leonards, where I cadged a lift with some of the rellies. Hell, I have flown Sydney to Denpasar in the same amount of travel time and with less hassle!
But the so-called hassle didn't matter. It was wonderful to catch up with my cousins and share laughs and memories. My speech was very well received, particularly when I mentioned going out partying with the birthday girl. Unfortunately, much of our partying was in the Eighties, and this meant going to see Uncanny X-men, Wa Wa Nee, and The Cockroaches - none of those bands appeal to me and I mentioned I quaffed many a West Coast Cooler (the drink du jour) to make the gigs listenable. My cousin's palate matured and she introduced me to Strongbow Apple Cider, and we used to sit on Coogee Beach drinking that prior to going to see a gig at Selinas. But yeah, our first friends are often our cousins, and I said to the assembled throng, 'Aren't we a lucky lot?' There were actually a few tears throughout the speeches, and my cousin gave me a big hug after I had proposed my toast. Oh, some interesting props were produced by the younger siblings - like the old Globite school case with 'INXS' carefully lettered on it in liquid paper. I'm sure the amount of names to denote ownership, or music and/or sporting team allegiances painted on Globite school cases in liquid paper during the Eighties have assured Mike Nesmith a most comfortable retirement.
Anyway, I'm home again and stinking hot. Here's cheers to you all.
Monday 14 November 2016
My Take On The Tostee Interview
Not sure to whom I should address this. Not sure what salutary start fits the most. Should I begin with: 'Memo to all judgemental idiots out there'? Perhaps something along the lines of: 'Dear Armchair Lawyers, Armchair Jurors, & Armchair Psychologists' would be more suitable. 'Dear Fuckwits' is kind of mean and harsh, but it's what I want to type. I settled down on my lounge Sunday night, revelling in its current freedom from dog hair because I vacuumed it Saturday, and did something I virtually never do: watched '60 Minutes'. I detest that show, and equally detest all tabloid style journalism. However, I was curious to see how the Gable Tostee interview would be conducted (my guess was 'with heavy handed bias'), and interested in how Tostee would conduct himself. I didn't mind Tostee's answers, but like many of my age a bit puzzled as to why someone would record a date, but then it's a generational thing, I suppose. Tostee was at the salient time twenty-eight years of age and his generation post every insignificant minutiae of their lives on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest ('Hey, look at this monster crap I did, everyone! It's all lumpy like a hand grenade! #cleanedout'). Hell, they probably record themselves swiping a packet of chewing gum at the automated checkout.
Naturally, the majority of the comments I've since read online are along the lines of Tostee being creepy. 'Oh, his eyes are creepy'. 'Oh, he shows no emotions.' It would appear in the Court of The Public being someone less than warm, or not wailing like a banshee with a stubbed toe equates to being guilty. People, I'm going to type this slowly for you: having a 'cool' demeanour does not equal guilt. Got that? Take a moment to let that absorb. In my humble (well, not really) opinion, the only really creepy thing about the interview was Liam Bartlett's style of questioning. He made great use of the dramatic pause that I think might have been patented by Mike Willesee. The aired segment would have been fifteen minutes shorter had Bartlett not used those dramatic pauses at the beginning. Those pauses were designed to give the same dramatic tension and angst as when Sir Alec Guiness did one in his soliloquy in 'Bridge Over The River Kwai' (apparently he actually forgot a line when filming and had to think for a moment, and the director thought he was doing some great acting and giving the scene a special gravitas - and he got an Oscar for it!). This ploy didn't work with me; all it did was get on my nerves. There were bits where I thought Bartlett was behaving in a manner that was slightly adversarial and hostile, and especially formulated to make Tostee look guilty. Liam, are you a frustrated Crown Prosecutor or something? At least you spared us the tactic used by your late predecessor, Richard Carlton, which entailed removing his spectacles, looking disdainfully around the room (anywhere but the subject's face) and spitting out accusatory and interrogative questions (and coming across as something of a prick).
But getting back to addressing the occupants of Judgemental Self-Righteous Land: you lot weren't there that night. You weren't serving on the jury. You didn't hear all the evidence the jury did. You didn't receive any advice on points of law from the learned judge like the jury did. You were fed sensationalised bits and pieces from the media. Some of you are acting like small-minded biddies gossiping over the back fence, quite frankly. Some of you are saying he behaved appallingly following the unfortunate woman's fall. He didn't behave accord with the societal norm. Look, everyone is different. Our base instincts are fight or flight. Self-preservation is also a powerful response to a situation, as well. Ringing one's solicitor would appear a sensible thing to do, when wondering how to preserve one's liberty. And let's be honest here: these were some seriously bodacious circumstances: Tinder, alcohol, sex, fighting, and a fall from a balcony. 'Why didn't he put her out the door?' 'Why did he put her on the balcony?' is the common demand of the Keyboard Lynch Mob. Well, who bloody knows? Again, if you're not the one in that situation, it's hard to know WHY the balcony was chosen. Similarly, it's hard to know how you'd react, when someone suddenly goes over your balcony. Shock and alcohol make people respond in different ways, and there is probably no true 'right' way. There is likely an 'honourable' way, but I don't think there is a 'right' way.
It's my understanding Tostee is on the autism spectrum, which would assist in explaining why he appears as detached and clinical as he does, but let's not make mention of this, will we, 60 Minutes? Go, you!
To those of you expressing horror that 60 Minutes paid Tostee for the interview, you might want to sit down because I've got some interesting news for you. Remove your socks as well, because this will knock them off and you wouldn't want to lose them. Ready for this? Bladder voided? Socks removed and put in a safe spot? Okay: tabloid television shows will pay for interviews, and something else you might be unaware of is that gravity makes things fall down. If the producers are going to fork out money for an interview, then Tostee is entitled to take it because he is a free man, acquitted for a jury of twelve good men and good women. What he does with it is nobody's damn business.
Naturally, the majority of the comments I've since read online are along the lines of Tostee being creepy. 'Oh, his eyes are creepy'. 'Oh, he shows no emotions.' It would appear in the Court of The Public being someone less than warm, or not wailing like a banshee with a stubbed toe equates to being guilty. People, I'm going to type this slowly for you: having a 'cool' demeanour does not equal guilt. Got that? Take a moment to let that absorb. In my humble (well, not really) opinion, the only really creepy thing about the interview was Liam Bartlett's style of questioning. He made great use of the dramatic pause that I think might have been patented by Mike Willesee. The aired segment would have been fifteen minutes shorter had Bartlett not used those dramatic pauses at the beginning. Those pauses were designed to give the same dramatic tension and angst as when Sir Alec Guiness did one in his soliloquy in 'Bridge Over The River Kwai' (apparently he actually forgot a line when filming and had to think for a moment, and the director thought he was doing some great acting and giving the scene a special gravitas - and he got an Oscar for it!). This ploy didn't work with me; all it did was get on my nerves. There were bits where I thought Bartlett was behaving in a manner that was slightly adversarial and hostile, and especially formulated to make Tostee look guilty. Liam, are you a frustrated Crown Prosecutor or something? At least you spared us the tactic used by your late predecessor, Richard Carlton, which entailed removing his spectacles, looking disdainfully around the room (anywhere but the subject's face) and spitting out accusatory and interrogative questions (and coming across as something of a prick).
But getting back to addressing the occupants of Judgemental Self-Righteous Land: you lot weren't there that night. You weren't serving on the jury. You didn't hear all the evidence the jury did. You didn't receive any advice on points of law from the learned judge like the jury did. You were fed sensationalised bits and pieces from the media. Some of you are acting like small-minded biddies gossiping over the back fence, quite frankly. Some of you are saying he behaved appallingly following the unfortunate woman's fall. He didn't behave accord with the societal norm. Look, everyone is different. Our base instincts are fight or flight. Self-preservation is also a powerful response to a situation, as well. Ringing one's solicitor would appear a sensible thing to do, when wondering how to preserve one's liberty. And let's be honest here: these were some seriously bodacious circumstances: Tinder, alcohol, sex, fighting, and a fall from a balcony. 'Why didn't he put her out the door?' 'Why did he put her on the balcony?' is the common demand of the Keyboard Lynch Mob. Well, who bloody knows? Again, if you're not the one in that situation, it's hard to know WHY the balcony was chosen. Similarly, it's hard to know how you'd react, when someone suddenly goes over your balcony. Shock and alcohol make people respond in different ways, and there is probably no true 'right' way. There is likely an 'honourable' way, but I don't think there is a 'right' way.
It's my understanding Tostee is on the autism spectrum, which would assist in explaining why he appears as detached and clinical as he does, but let's not make mention of this, will we, 60 Minutes? Go, you!
To those of you expressing horror that 60 Minutes paid Tostee for the interview, you might want to sit down because I've got some interesting news for you. Remove your socks as well, because this will knock them off and you wouldn't want to lose them. Ready for this? Bladder voided? Socks removed and put in a safe spot? Okay: tabloid television shows will pay for interviews, and something else you might be unaware of is that gravity makes things fall down. If the producers are going to fork out money for an interview, then Tostee is entitled to take it because he is a free man, acquitted for a jury of twelve good men and good women. What he does with it is nobody's damn business.
Monday 7 November 2016
That Scavenging Hound Strikes Again
This one goes out to the dog who last night upended my garbage bin and strewed the rubbish all over the road: I am a dog lover. I have always been fond of dogs. Even as a pre-schooler when playing Monopoly with my older siblings, I didn't care if I won or lost the game (I always lost, and still do) as long as I had the little Scottish terrier token. But I don't love you, you rotten fucking mutt. I hate your guts. I didn't hear you last night, but I am plotting revenge. I'm guessing you can't read this but maybe your owner will. I'm not sure how I am going to have my vengeance. I don't know where to buy Semtex. But I'm thinking a spectacular form of revenge, and a warning to all dogs who are thinking of strewing mine, and some of the neighbours', rubbish all over the road will be to place an amount of Semtex moulded to resemble a rubbish bag in my bin, and wait nearby with a detonator. I will also have my iPod and earphones so I can listen to an audio of 'Moby Dick' whilst I wait for you, and I will have a thermos of coffee to keep me awake. Because, believe me, I am on a mission here. Blowing things up isn't always a great idea - does anyone remember the story of the townsfolk who decided to use dynamite to deal with a beached whale carcass? The laws of mass displacement certainly came into force as property was damaged by flying clunks of blubber and ambergris. But you're not a whale; you're a dog and it's my reasoning you won't cause as much damage. I might have to enlist the assistance of an explosives and ballistics expert to minimise the damage your miserable detonated corpse will cause. There are lots of mines around here, so I'm sure I can find someone with the appropriate qualifications. Maybe some of those who have the skills to handle explosives have also had you at their garbage bins, and are feeling as murderous and vengeful as I am right now.
Or maybe I could just head off to the supermarket and buy some cayenne pepper; I've heard that's a good deterrent for dogs, too. But the Semtex would certainly be a more spectacular and permanent result regarding this scavenging mutt, and coldly satisfying for the victims of his or her garbage bin marauding.
I didn't think I'd get it done today, but I managed to complete the worksheets and assessment section of my first aid handbook. I cannot believe it, but I have to renew my first aid certificate this Saturday. It seems like only yesterday that I last renewed it, but nope, it was three years ago. But we're all going to be sensible with the mannequins, and not pretend to hump them when the trainer's called away momentarily, which is what the kids at school used to do. Well, I didn't, but the boys did. Someone took it a step further and actually stuck his dick into the mannequin's mouth. Nobody was awarded their Bronze Star because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin. Also, this is your usual first aid - not surf lifesaving. I will not be called upon to do the safety jump into the swimming pool and swim out to the kid pretending to drown, promising I would help him or her to safety. It was usually a him, and I'm not going to say his name but he was the fattest kid in the class, and I would almost drown trying to tow the behemoth back to 'shore', 'shore' being the edge of the swimming pool. Tugboats are designed to tow liners. I don't think I'm designed to tow a kid who was a sumo wrestler in training. Once at the pool's edge, the 'victim's' arms would be lain over the cement, and the rescuer had to get out of the pool, and do the safety lift. You had to cross your arms over, grab the kid's wrists, go 'one-two-three' and pull the kid from the water, and uncross your arms which would result in the kid turning and being sat - presumably safely - on the edge of the pool. I was the 'victim' once, and the kid doing my rescue banged me into the side of the pool, thus winding me, and dragged me along the edge which almost barked my entire ribcage. Never again.
The opening of this post was addressed to that rotten dog who keeps dragging my rubbish all over the road. The closing is to certain bloggers, and everyday people who are moaning that Gable Tostee has been paid by 'Sixty Minutes' to give his interview. A certain blogger has been carrying on how the family of the poor woman who died after that unsuccessful Tinder hook-up deserve better. Look, they would find that interview distressing. They also have the right to turn off and not watch it. Also, Tostee was found not guilty in a court of law by a jury of good faith. Did you not get that memo? Or do you choose to ignore this fact because Tostee is a man and therefore guilty of every infraction and wrong under the sun? Also, to everyone surprised 'Sixty Minutes' would pay a controversial figure for an interview, here are some other things you might be surprised to learn: the sun rises in the east, and gravity makes things fall. If a tabloid television production are willing to fork out money to interview somebody, then that somebody is entitled to take the money if that somebody so desires. Hell, if someone wants to pay me some coin to talk, then I just might do so, too. Quit the judgement, folks.
Another thing I've noticed in my newsfeeds today is everyone's weighing in on the plans of a bride-to-be to have a 'dry' wedding. No, this does not mean a wedding in a drought-stricken paddock, but a wedding where alcohol is not served. I've heard some derision from commentators like 'it's un-Australian...'. Aside from the phrase 'un-Australian' making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips, whereupon it curls like those decorative ribbons when you run the scissor blades down them, why is this news? God, who bloody cares? Why did someone sit down and say, 'This woman's not serving alcohol at her wedding, I'm going to inform the media'? I was under the impression a wedding is about the couple coming together in an official union and public declaration of their love, not to see how much booze you, as a guest, can put away. Can people please stop making this sort of stuff news?
Or maybe I could just head off to the supermarket and buy some cayenne pepper; I've heard that's a good deterrent for dogs, too. But the Semtex would certainly be a more spectacular and permanent result regarding this scavenging mutt, and coldly satisfying for the victims of his or her garbage bin marauding.
I didn't think I'd get it done today, but I managed to complete the worksheets and assessment section of my first aid handbook. I cannot believe it, but I have to renew my first aid certificate this Saturday. It seems like only yesterday that I last renewed it, but nope, it was three years ago. But we're all going to be sensible with the mannequins, and not pretend to hump them when the trainer's called away momentarily, which is what the kids at school used to do. Well, I didn't, but the boys did. Someone took it a step further and actually stuck his dick into the mannequin's mouth. Nobody was awarded their Bronze Star because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin. Also, this is your usual first aid - not surf lifesaving. I will not be called upon to do the safety jump into the swimming pool and swim out to the kid pretending to drown, promising I would help him or her to safety. It was usually a him, and I'm not going to say his name but he was the fattest kid in the class, and I would almost drown trying to tow the behemoth back to 'shore', 'shore' being the edge of the swimming pool. Tugboats are designed to tow liners. I don't think I'm designed to tow a kid who was a sumo wrestler in training. Once at the pool's edge, the 'victim's' arms would be lain over the cement, and the rescuer had to get out of the pool, and do the safety lift. You had to cross your arms over, grab the kid's wrists, go 'one-two-three' and pull the kid from the water, and uncross your arms which would result in the kid turning and being sat - presumably safely - on the edge of the pool. I was the 'victim' once, and the kid doing my rescue banged me into the side of the pool, thus winding me, and dragged me along the edge which almost barked my entire ribcage. Never again.
The opening of this post was addressed to that rotten dog who keeps dragging my rubbish all over the road. The closing is to certain bloggers, and everyday people who are moaning that Gable Tostee has been paid by 'Sixty Minutes' to give his interview. A certain blogger has been carrying on how the family of the poor woman who died after that unsuccessful Tinder hook-up deserve better. Look, they would find that interview distressing. They also have the right to turn off and not watch it. Also, Tostee was found not guilty in a court of law by a jury of good faith. Did you not get that memo? Or do you choose to ignore this fact because Tostee is a man and therefore guilty of every infraction and wrong under the sun? Also, to everyone surprised 'Sixty Minutes' would pay a controversial figure for an interview, here are some other things you might be surprised to learn: the sun rises in the east, and gravity makes things fall. If a tabloid television production are willing to fork out money to interview somebody, then that somebody is entitled to take the money if that somebody so desires. Hell, if someone wants to pay me some coin to talk, then I just might do so, too. Quit the judgement, folks.
Another thing I've noticed in my newsfeeds today is everyone's weighing in on the plans of a bride-to-be to have a 'dry' wedding. No, this does not mean a wedding in a drought-stricken paddock, but a wedding where alcohol is not served. I've heard some derision from commentators like 'it's un-Australian...'. Aside from the phrase 'un-Australian' making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips, whereupon it curls like those decorative ribbons when you run the scissor blades down them, why is this news? God, who bloody cares? Why did someone sit down and say, 'This woman's not serving alcohol at her wedding, I'm going to inform the media'? I was under the impression a wedding is about the couple coming together in an official union and public declaration of their love, not to see how much booze you, as a guest, can put away. Can people please stop making this sort of stuff news?
Tuesday 1 November 2016
More Dingbattery
On Monday morning, I was labouring under the impression I had woken up in Muswellbrook, where the rather gaudy looking statue of the blue heeler dog sits on its plinth near the Shell Servo, and where there is often a cloud of coal dust hazing up the horizon, and where eighteen-wheelers pass through (because there's no bypass yet) causing the shop windows in the main street to jangle alarmingly as they leave behind lanolin- and sheep dag-fused clouds of smog, and where you can often hear people saying 'fuck' in all its possible variances (some sentences even incorporate it as noun, verb AND adjective!) as you're walking your dogs past the public housing unit blocks. These aspects of the town are not necessarily appealing, but at least I know I'm making my own choices as I walk my dogs around, and we breathe in air redolent of sheep dags, lanolin, and coal dust. I have the freedom to shop where I please, be it at Coles, Woolworths, Aldi, or a farmers' market. I can call in at the bottle-o and purchase some booze, if I wish. If I wanted to, I could feed a few coins into the Queen of the Nile poker machine at the local club. I actually don't, because I cannot stand poker machines, but it's nice to know I could if I wanted to. I'm fortunate enough to be in paid employment, and have the right to disburse my income in this manner should I so desire. As it happens, I am currently not in a very strong financial position to go boozing it up, or playing the old one-armed bandits (not that they have arms anymore), but if I wanted to, I can do this. If I was solely dependent upon welfare, and happened to have a few bucks left over, I could still do this. This is the free society in which we live.
But on Monday morning, my friends, when I turned on my television I thought I was no longer in my free society. I grabbed my mini fox terrier, and channelled Dorothy from 'The Wizard of Oz' as I said, 'Fergus, we're not in Muswellbrook anymore.' No, my friends. What I was seeing on the television made me believe I had woken up in the sort of dystopian world that Huxley and Orwell were jizzing themselves over. The moronic Liberal government want to introduce a welfare card further afield than the current trials in Ceduna. This card can only be used at some major supermarkets and is not to be used for poker machines and purchase of alcohol. Since when can the government tell somebody how to disburse their own money? Last I heard, poker machines and alcohol consumption were still perfectly legal. What if a welfare recipient prefers to shop at Aldi? Why is the choice being taken away? Are the members of this current government the puppets of major supermarket giants? Think about it; this just might be more than a half-arsed conspiracy theory I've thrown into this blog post for the amusement of my readers. Some op shops and farmers' markets don't have EFTPOS facilities, either. Not only does this prevent a welfare recipient saving some money by shopping there, it has a detrimental flow-on affect to the charity organisations and the small businesses selling their wares through the markets. It's hard enough and demoralising enough being on welfare without having autonomy and dignity removed, and being treated like a criminal. You guys in government have members with snouts in the trough who don't see past your own pig-swill encrusted snouts (yeah, I'm thinking of you, Hockey - telling us all to tighten our belts and expecting taxpayers to subsidise the baby sitting of your offspring indeed!). One of the worse aspects was hearing the talking heads/social commentators blathering and shrieking about it. Prue MacSween squawking, 'What about the rights of the taxpayers forking over the money for them?' Well, excusez mon francais, but SO FUCKING WHAT? You have employees, don't you? You do not have the right to tell them how to disburse their income, do you? Why do you think we have the right to tell a free citizen how to disburse the pittance they receive on welfare?
No, I don't like strange new world in which I've woken up. I want my coal dust choked Muswellbrook back.
Getting back to morning television, why does Sunrise invite female guests who have awful speaking voices (to say nothing of the aggravating viewpoints). My idea of aural hell is Prue MacSween and Pauline Hanson rapping. I wonder if Senator Hanson's views are only made more repulsive by her lachrymose, keening dolphin delivery? 'Oss-staayyy-lee-yans are sick of ref-yew-gees!' Um, what? Oh, you meant 'refugees'. People like Ahn Do, the comedian, actor and artist. People like Ahn's brother Khoa, a film maker who dedicates time to the under-privileged, and who was once Young Australian of the Year (yes, Pauline, he's an Australian now). People like the brilliant Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, who is also of refugee background. People like Deng Adut, a former child soldier from Sudan who put himself through law school and is now a human rights lawyer who works with the Parramatta Community Justice Clinic and assists with giving disadvantaged people access to the legal system. People like Aguek Nyok, a cab driver who helped rescue eleven people from the burning bus fire that killed the driver in Queensland last week - Mr Nyok also being a refugee from Sudan. I am not in the least bit sick of refugees, Pauline. What I'm sick of is your utter bilge and drivel being delivered in your paint-peeling voice. Both your party, and the Liberal government's proposed policy on not allowing people visas even when PROVEN to be GENUINE REFUGEES just completely blows the foreskin from a bull elephant. I'm interested to know if it contravenes our obligations under the United Nations convention on refugees, too.
One good thing, I don't have much access to breakfast television at the moment because my television has died. It gave up the ghost yesterday morning, and I should pay bills before replacing it. After all, no point buying a television if I don't have electricity from which to power the thing, is there? I am admittedly enjoying the solitude, and will this evening challenge my kids to a game of Scrabble.
But on Monday morning, my friends, when I turned on my television I thought I was no longer in my free society. I grabbed my mini fox terrier, and channelled Dorothy from 'The Wizard of Oz' as I said, 'Fergus, we're not in Muswellbrook anymore.' No, my friends. What I was seeing on the television made me believe I had woken up in the sort of dystopian world that Huxley and Orwell were jizzing themselves over. The moronic Liberal government want to introduce a welfare card further afield than the current trials in Ceduna. This card can only be used at some major supermarkets and is not to be used for poker machines and purchase of alcohol. Since when can the government tell somebody how to disburse their own money? Last I heard, poker machines and alcohol consumption were still perfectly legal. What if a welfare recipient prefers to shop at Aldi? Why is the choice being taken away? Are the members of this current government the puppets of major supermarket giants? Think about it; this just might be more than a half-arsed conspiracy theory I've thrown into this blog post for the amusement of my readers. Some op shops and farmers' markets don't have EFTPOS facilities, either. Not only does this prevent a welfare recipient saving some money by shopping there, it has a detrimental flow-on affect to the charity organisations and the small businesses selling their wares through the markets. It's hard enough and demoralising enough being on welfare without having autonomy and dignity removed, and being treated like a criminal. You guys in government have members with snouts in the trough who don't see past your own pig-swill encrusted snouts (yeah, I'm thinking of you, Hockey - telling us all to tighten our belts and expecting taxpayers to subsidise the baby sitting of your offspring indeed!). One of the worse aspects was hearing the talking heads/social commentators blathering and shrieking about it. Prue MacSween squawking, 'What about the rights of the taxpayers forking over the money for them?' Well, excusez mon francais, but SO FUCKING WHAT? You have employees, don't you? You do not have the right to tell them how to disburse their income, do you? Why do you think we have the right to tell a free citizen how to disburse the pittance they receive on welfare?
No, I don't like strange new world in which I've woken up. I want my coal dust choked Muswellbrook back.
Getting back to morning television, why does Sunrise invite female guests who have awful speaking voices (to say nothing of the aggravating viewpoints). My idea of aural hell is Prue MacSween and Pauline Hanson rapping. I wonder if Senator Hanson's views are only made more repulsive by her lachrymose, keening dolphin delivery? 'Oss-staayyy-lee-yans are sick of ref-yew-gees!' Um, what? Oh, you meant 'refugees'. People like Ahn Do, the comedian, actor and artist. People like Ahn's brother Khoa, a film maker who dedicates time to the under-privileged, and who was once Young Australian of the Year (yes, Pauline, he's an Australian now). People like the brilliant Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, who is also of refugee background. People like Deng Adut, a former child soldier from Sudan who put himself through law school and is now a human rights lawyer who works with the Parramatta Community Justice Clinic and assists with giving disadvantaged people access to the legal system. People like Aguek Nyok, a cab driver who helped rescue eleven people from the burning bus fire that killed the driver in Queensland last week - Mr Nyok also being a refugee from Sudan. I am not in the least bit sick of refugees, Pauline. What I'm sick of is your utter bilge and drivel being delivered in your paint-peeling voice. Both your party, and the Liberal government's proposed policy on not allowing people visas even when PROVEN to be GENUINE REFUGEES just completely blows the foreskin from a bull elephant. I'm interested to know if it contravenes our obligations under the United Nations convention on refugees, too.
One good thing, I don't have much access to breakfast television at the moment because my television has died. It gave up the ghost yesterday morning, and I should pay bills before replacing it. After all, no point buying a television if I don't have electricity from which to power the thing, is there? I am admittedly enjoying the solitude, and will this evening challenge my kids to a game of Scrabble.
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