Last Post For 2017!

Today's ponderings are as follows:

1. Will I go and watch fireworks at nearby Denman tonight, or will I wander to a nearby pub and see in New Year, or will I go to bed early?  Haven't quite decided, and all ideas have their own merits.

2. Who used to watch 'Sons and Daughters' in the Eighties?  It was kind of a naff guilty pleasure.  Rowena Wallace played the arch-bitch Patricia Hamilton aka Pat the Rat.  I guess she was a kind of Aussie Alexis Carrington without the caviar, Bollinger, and brightly painted stripes of rouge.  Today I read she has spoken out and confirmed she had a one night stand with Peter Phelps, the actor who played her onscreen son, in the early days of filming.  She was thirty-five, and she was about twenty-two. She said she wanted to set the story straight because there have been whispers lately.  I'm kind of thinking she might have been the one whispering in the first place.  Yes, I know that makes me sound like I'm unsupportive of the sisterhood, but it's how I feel.  But why did she feel the need to tell everyone this?  I don't care if she and another actor, both of whom consenting adults at the salient times, bumped uglies after a boozy night. She has had tough times, and I'm wondering is she after some kind of coin in this.  I suppose is she had gotten drunk with the young on-set gaffer and banged him, nobody would know about it.  I don't know if Phelps has made a statement on this. If you're reading this, Pete: I don't care and you don't have to qualify or dignify any indiscretion on your former co-star's part.  But if my writing ever takes me to the clichéd giddy heights of success, can I please ask anyone I might have shagged in the past to just keep it to yourself?  There's no need to go to the media over it, and it would have been so long ago (like the night Phelps and Wallace did the horizontal hokey-pokey), and it really doesn't matter.

3. I have made no resolutions per se, but I do have some plans.  I have great plans, always do, but Karma and the Universe have counter-plans to sent my wonderful notions into a tailspin of despair.  I will keep on as I keep on with my day-to-day stuff.  That includes not typing 'yes' on those deplorable Facebook posts I see that implore you to 'type 'yes' if  you agree' to some everyday banality.   'Day Old Milk Tastes Gross - Type Yes If You Agree'.  Still, they're better than those 'Don't Scroll Past Without Typing Amen' memes.  I have a friend who actually does what I swear I'm going to do (and as yet haven't): he types 'fuck off' in the comments section.  *chortles and sniggers*  While I'm here, can I just ask my friends to not forward me chain messages in Messenger?  They irritate me.  I refuse to entertain the notion that I struggle to get bills paid at times is owing to my failure to forward chain messages to ten different people.  I don't forward them because I hate receiving them, and I'm not inclined to piss off ten of my friends, as well.

4. Today I discovered I am not the only person who thinks Sinead O'Connor's interpretation of the Prince number 'Nothing Compares 2 U' completely blows the foreskin off a bull elephant.  I know the song is meant to be sad, but I honestly find it as dreary and depressing as a Dickensian orphan shivering in a snowstorm on Christmas Day.  I remember when it came out; my then-flatmate was one of Sinead's fellow countrymen and he went totally NUTS over this song.  Speaking of 'nuts', he would practically blow one in his underpants every time it came on.  Of a Saturday morning, I'd be slouching (and likely hungover) in my beanbag on the lounge room floor watching 'Video Hits'.  When this song was aired, he'd come haring into the living room and exclaim in his rich brogue: 'This song is magnificent!' Everyone else I knew seemed to like it, but it just left me cold.  Still does.  And today, I discovered I am not alone in my indifference to this song.

Well, however I spend New Year's Eve 2017 is bound to be better than how I spent New Year's Eve 2016.  I was in a motel, having gone through a flood after a freak storm cell (the aftermath of which I'm still suffering - shit in boxes etc), and I had received the devastating news a friend had taken his life that day.  I was sitting up in the bed, wiping away tears and thinking it couldn't get worse, when just after the stroke of twelve my youngest son sat up and vomited violently and copiously though the motel bed.  I spent the beginning of 2017 bundling puke-sodden Manchester into a ball, and actually ended up lying on my son's bed (all the while trying not to touch or think about any be-spewed spots on the mattress) because he is awful to have in the bed with you.  I put him into my bed and he had to sprawl diagonally, and put his foot in my back.

Roll on 2018, and please don't suck.

Putting A Sock In It

My washing machine broke down.  Just thought I'd share that.  Let's face it, people are in the habit of sharing the most pointless and facile facts of their lives online these days.  Today I read about some mum copping online abuse because she mentioned she dismantled the Christmas tree yesterday, being Boxing Day.  People thought her a Grinch, or a flouter of the noble of tradition whereby one must wait until the twelfth day of Christmas, or 6 January, when one must take down one's Christmas decorations.  I'm eye-rolling so much my face looks like the front of a poker machine.  First of all, why do strangers lose their shit over someone's decision to pack away tinsel and baubles? Also, why would you put such a banal and mundane fact online?  Here's a basic guide to whether or not to share some dull minutiae on social media.  Ask yourself these questions:

1. Is it likely to be interesting to others (hint: would I find it riveting if I read it myself?)?

2. Does the integrity of the time/space continuum pivot on my sharing this snippet?

3. Does it really matter?

4. Do I need to validate my own existence with the number of 'likes' or positive remarks I get?

5. Will the balance of political harmony between the hemispheres and the superpowers be affected if I share this?

6. Will the Earth spin off its axis and disintegrate if I don't share this?

If the majority of your answers to the above questions is 'No', then do yourself (and everyone else) a favour and don't post it.  NOBODY CARES.

So, is everyone going to give me their two bob's worth on my buggered washing machine? Mr Bingells has been making enquiries because the rotten thing is still under warranty.  In the meantime, I schlepped three full washing baskets to my local laundrette today.  As I emptied one of them, to my abject horror two socks went fluttering over the back of the machine.  It is a cliché that a sock will disappear during the washing, but these two - not even a pair - went over the back, twisting and spiralling like two synchronised divers.  I moved a small table and craned my neck behind the row of machines.  Sure enough, the rotten fuckers had landed right where I just...couldn't...REACH.  I was there alone.  The business was self-serve only today whilst the proprietors and staff are enjoying Christmas.  Sure, I could have left the socks there.  After all, it wasn't like a litter of puppies had fallen down a drain.  But losing socks just annoys me.  Being unmanned as the business was, I couldn't ask one of the staff to lend me a broom.  Then as I looked out the window, blowing out an exasperated breath, I saw him.  A benign looking older gentleman crossing the road towards the laundrette.  The gentleman was using a mobility aid, to wit, a walking stick.  Fixing a pleasant smile on my face (which given my current mental state probably made me look like a frightened chimp), I walked out to him and asked could he help me.  Bless him, he did.  He came into the laundrette and graciously passed me his walking stick, which I used to drag my wayward socks back to me.  'You women,' he chortled, 'youse are always dropping things.' I knew it would not be politic to take him to task over his perceived sexism, so I merely smiled sweetly and coquettishly as I handed him back his walking stick.  I am glad I didn't drop his walking stick behind the machine, to keep company with my socks.  I then threw my socks into a machine.  They are now clean and folded, waiting to be put into their drawer.

Organising a wedding is nearly always rife with politics.  Mine wasn't too bad, although I did have the usual arguments about how No, We're Not Inviting ANY Kids And That Includes Yours Because We Don't Want Kids There (Particularly Yours), and Nobody Told Me You Don't Drink And It Doesn't Matter That The Dishes Are Cooked In Wine Because Alcohol Evaporates During Cooking So Just Fucking Eat What The Caterer Is Preparing, and I Don't Care What You Do Between The Service And The Reception And If You Can't Entertain Yourself Don't Bother Coming, and I Am Neither Clairvoyant Nor A Meteorologist So I Don't Know What The Weather Is Going To Be Like And Bring A Cardigan If You're Worried, and We Are Not Having A Full Nuptial Mass Because The Pews In The Church Are Execrable And Everyone Will Have Backache By The Time It's Over.  Jeez, Louise!  I've been married nineteen years and I still feel my teeth getting on edge remember some of the insignificant yet irritating things you find yourself arguing about when arranging the Big Day.  And yes, there were annoying squabbles about whether this person should be invited, and whether that person should be invited, and not to sit this person next to have person because these persons apparently don't know how to behave at a function that's really not about them, anyway.  My point is, I'm glad I'm not Prince Harry and Meghan Markle at the moment.  The British government are urging them to not invite the Obamas (who are friends) because there is a chance President Donald Trump could be offended.  Oh, FFS!  The wedding is a Royal occasion, not a State occasion. If Trump is going to have a sook because the Obamas have been invited, then let him.  We'll all read about it on Twitter, and have a laugh at him.  If he's that much of a painful guest, like the obligatory great-uncle who cracks racist and/or sexist jokes, and whom everyone tries to avoid but must be invited because he just must, well, just sit Trump at a place from where he cannot be seen from the bridal tableau.  Maybe behind a pillar, or sit some tall people between the wedding party and him.  Problem solved.  Harry and Megan, invite the people YOU want to invite.

My Grinch Moment

I'm know I'm going sound like the great villains in Christmas-tinted stories when I type what I am about to type - a miserable and petulant amalgam of The White Witch of Narnia, Ebenezer Scrooge, and the Grinch - but I'm starting to have this sinking feeling in the pit of my being that Christmas really does suck arse at times.  You run around like a blue-arsed fly in the final week leading up to 25 December, and it's all over in twenty-four hours.  If your kids are young, you're expected to get them to a relative's house in blistering heat, and the kids are chuckling wobblies that would rival Naomi Campbell on a bad day.  If you're kids are older, they're engaged in some infuriating battle of one-upmanship with each other, and their default setting is Snide.

Take my past forty-eight hours.  I've had to work, and I've had a lot of work on.  My work involves taking house-bound people shopping at times.  I don't mind this.  I do mind this when it's two days from Christmas.  As well as client shopping, I've had to attend to my own, and the heat, the crowds, and my exhaustion all meld into some Kafka-esque nightmarish vision of Hell.  Does anybody know the Rolling Stones song 'Before They Make Me Run'? It's performed by Keith Richards, and today it really resonated with me because of the lyrics: 'Gonna find my way to Heaven/'Cause I did my time in Hell...'..  I have had that line in my head on some kind of a loop most of the day.  I've just listened to it properly for the first time in ages.  'Only a crowd can make you feel so alone..'.  Yeah, Keith.  You nailed it today for me.  'Let me walk, before they make me run..'; yeah, I feel your pain.  Keith might have one of the shittiest voices imaginable ('Call the RSPCA, some cruel bastard's force-feeding the cat helium!  Oh, wait...'), but I think he is the only member of the Stones who could have really delivered that song properly.  He seems the most damaged, most wild, most fucked-up.  Mick would not have given it that pathos, and anybody who even would have entertained for one moment the notion of having Bill Wyman perform it should be taken out the back and beaten with a cricket bat.

I worked today for a while, and grabbed a few groceries.  Got myself a treat with an EFTPOS card I was given as an appreciation gesture for judging a poetry competition - a Himalayan salt lamp.  They're reputed to have healing properties when it comes to feeling crappy.  It's got its work cut out for it tonight because I've just been for a drive with two teenaged kids whose default setting, as abovementioned, is Snide.  'Let's look at some pretty Christmas lights,' I said. 'It'll be fun,' I said.  The lights were pretty.  As for the outing? I'm not sure what your idea of fun is, but I bet it doesn't entail trying to negotiate streets, other traffic, gear changes, whilst simultaneously telling the kids to Stop It Now.  To add to the fun, the radio station to which my car is tuned played 'Single Ladies' by Beyonce, and that song shits me to sobs.  I eventually dragged out from my repertoire of Parental Edicts & Threats that old chestnut I swore I would never use, and snarled that I would Stop This Car and they could Just Walk Home.

But you know what? I've made it through another year.  I haven't harmed anyone. I'm going to listen to some Christmas songs I enjoy (think Slade and Ol' 55).

Merry Christmas.

Today's Little List

I've been a bit lax on the old blogging of late.  This is owing to the fact I've been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer.  Work colleagues are unwell, and the services must be attended to, so there has been extra work on for myself and the other carers on my team.  It's been too hot to even think, lately. Yesterday was a scorcher wherein the temperature hit a number that would have had Satan himself shouting: 'FUCK THIS SHIT!', as he chucks down his pitchfork and storms out away from the infernal heat.  I had a service yesterday at an air-conditioned house, and when I left, the heat felt like a slap to the face.  After work, I sat at home sweltering.  My fan would not rotate properly, and I believe this was due to extra stress on the local grid.  The grid, whilst not totally shitting itself, did clearly experience painful cramps of the flatulent type, and our electricity was as skittish and scatterbrained as a wet chook.  I grabbed an ice block from the freezer, one of those ice blocks designed to keep lunches fresh, and sat on the lounge holding it in various spots: back of my neck, against my temples, stuffed into my bra.  It soon matched my body heat.

Because I cannot be arsed thinking, and have been too hot to think, and have had things on my mind, I might just make a little list, kind of like the Grand High Executioner in 'The Mikado'.

1. What I'm Doing Tonight: trying to think about what to write, as I call out to my kid to turn down the television, thus enabling myself to think.

2. What I'm Not Doing Tonight: watching the 'Sex & The City' back-to-back episodes that are screened on Thursday evenings.  I'm a fan of the show, but I have to get in an early night because I start work early tomorrow.  Besides, I'm not in the mood for Carrie tonight.  She was my least favourite character. Given I am also a writer with some neuroses, it might seem odd that I do not like Carrie Bradshaw.  But here's the thing: I just ... don't.  She's TOO whiny.  At the moment, she's with Big.  Again.  Oh, and I hated Big, too.  Why was he called Big?  His nose?  His ego? He was this wooden, boring-as-a-dried-white-dog-turd stuffed shirt.

3. Song I'm Embarrassed To Admit I Like And That I've Just Been Listening To: 'Everybody Have Fun Tonight' by Wang Chung.  I shouldn't like it.  It's Eighties, and should therefore revolt me as much as seeing a bat masturbate, but I like it; the song, not the notion of a bat having a wank (you sickos!). I'm seriously considering adding it to the playlist on my iPod.  My iPod has Ronnie James Dio, Led Zeppelin, The Saints, Violent Femmes, and now... Wang Chung. Doesn't seem quite right.  But never mind.

4. Furious Moment Of The Day: whilst driving to the swimming pool with my 13yo, we were overtaken at the roundabout by this green P-plater.  The roundabout en route to my swimming pool has two lanes around it, but the southern lanes verge into one.  Anyway, this crazed shitstain in the right-hand lane went screaming past me as the lanes were verging.  And then had to slow down as the lights were changing.  Sucked in, you infantile little deadshit.  Hope the cops catch you one day.

5. What I Must Do Now: tidy the kitchen.

Don't Knock It (My Door, That Is)

Knocks on the door on a Sunday morning are generally not a portent of good things.  They're not necessarily bad things, more like things you don't really need.  Most knocks on the door are from neighbourhood kids asking if you've seen their dog. Usually, when I get a knock on a Sunday morning, I answer the door to be greeted by two men in short-sleeved white shirts and black skinny ties, and black trousers.  They usually have very conservative haircuts, no visible piercings, and are holding tracts.  They ask me am I familiar with the Word of the Lord.  Depending upon my mood,  I will reply, 'Are you familiar with the word 'I'mNotInterested'?'', or else I will reply in more polite terms that I am familiar with teachings of a Common Era Jewish carpenter-turned-teacher, but I have no interest in what they are hawking. I swear to myself that if I see the God Squad coming through my gate again, I will liberally soak myself in tomato sauce and answer the door and gasp in agitated tones, 'Quick!  I need you to help me get rid of the body!'

There was a knock at my door this morning, this morning being a very warm Sunday.  I was asleep. My 16yo answered.  Being a Sunday morning, you might be forgiven in thinking there were people spreading the Word of the Lord.

But this morning was different.  Mostly, the God Squad knock-or-tap-or-ring at a reasonable hour, like after ten (which is when many who DO care about the Word are actually sitting in a stone steeple-topped building wherein a sky pilot blathers from beyond the pulpit, so they're not even home).  This was at 6.15am.  What my son opened the door to was not a pious bible-basher in a neatly pressed shirt, but someone whom I suspect might be on crack wanting to know did my puzzled, blinking 16yo have a light.

To the imbecilic and thoughtless cow who decided knocking on my door at that ungodly hour was a good idea: if your drug-induced delirium has subsided, and you are not yet hanging out for your next hit so you can actually concentrate on this, did you seriously think knocking on the door of some random at 6.15am on a Sunday a clever thing to do? I will explain this in simple, monosyllabic terms: It Is Not.  If it happens again, I will have no compunction about releasing the hounds.  The hounds comprise a fat, lazy sook that would lick you to death, and a cantankerous mini-foxy, but that mini-foxy has quite a lot of spirit when roused.

People who knock at 6.15am seeking a light for their smoke, which was probably some butt she scavenged from the gutter, really are the skidmarks in Satan's underwear.

Well, I'm preparing another lesson for a kid I'm to tutor tomorrow.  Once we've gone through some comprehension, I might get him to read a poem by William Blake.  It is so wonderful to have the opportunity to introduce poetry from the Romantics to a young, pliant mind.  In case you're wondering, my favourite poets are Blake and Keats.  It is a nice diversion from what has been a horrific time, and it is only DAY TWO of the school holidays.  My kids have taken to gaslighting each other by, via remote control, turning off the portable fan the other is using.  Grrrrrrr! There ensued a scene that I just did not need: 'Give it to Mum. Pass it here!  Give it to me NOW, I said! Give me that remote!', all emphasised by excited and infuriated barking from the mini foxy, who gets worked up at any type of loud conflict.

Ciao for now.

Christmas Craziness & Christmas Crap

To use a trite and hackneyed phrase: The Silly Season Is Upon Us. Not sure if I'll be doing the Christmas party thing this year.  This year has been a very draining one on several levels, especially emotionally owing to circumstances beyond my control that have my life in limbo, suffering like the souls of the unbaptised infants who are doomed to wait there until Judgement Day (assuming you believe in that twaddle).  All I really want for Christmas is for the social stressors that have caused me, and those I love, much grief this year to be resolved.  I feel they will be, but for fuck's sake: WHEN?  This year has totally sucked dry the ball sack of a bull elephant in so many ways for me.  Believe it or not, we are still experiencing the aftermath of the flood last Christmas, and that's mainly because I'm in a hiatus as to being able to actually do anything on a practical level at the moment.

So forgive me if I don't party as hard as I used to.  I don't particularly want to.  I'd rather have sedate drinkies with good friends and good company.  The office party of yore, whereat someone would perform a strip tease (that someone being a paralytic solicitor with the physique of a freckled blancmange), or else barf like a demonically possessed adolescent first into the hippyastras and then over everyone else, no longer does it for me.  I'm remembering some function from the mid-Eighties when one of the barristers, much older than me, and in modulated upper crust tones redolent of 1960s Knox Boys' Grammar, asked, 'Do you exercise regularly, Simone? I couldn't help but notice you have an exceedingly good figure.'  Truly, it was like being hit on by Prince Charles. (But in fairness, I must compliment the bloke on his excellent eyesight!).

I have attended work functions under duress in the past, because nobody could afford to upset a particular person who wielded power there, that person having considerable sway and likely to be very offended by a boycott of the function.  I recall sitting in the restaurant and glowering at the wall because I. Just. Did. Not. Want. To. Be. There, and the concept of having tabasco sauce dripped into my urethra held more appeal.  Office politics totally suck arse.

In today's climate, the work Christmas party looks to be a dangerous breeding ground for sexual harassment claims, like a noxious dormant petri dish.

On the bright side, I've completed some of the Christmas shopping.  If any store managers are reading this, can you please advise why you play 'Last Christmas' by Wham?  It's such a pissy, tedious, dirge-like number. It's as annoying as being subjected to a constant tap dripping on the head.  Come on, store managers, pick up your game; best Christmas song ever has to be 'Merry Christmas' by Slade.  Nobody belts out a glam number like Noddy Holder, and that voice might sound like it's being dragged over shards of broken glass, but what a voice it is!  Love his delivery in just about everything he sings.

Speaking of shopping, I was in the queue today, and heard a woman behind me rousing on her daughter: 'Lyric, get back here!' Yeah, you read that right.  I'm pretty sure, unless I need to clean my ears, the kid's name was Lyric. I felt like pointing to the other children and asking, 'Are these Harmony and Melody, and is that adorable little Rhythm lying in the pram?'

Well, I've said my piece, the tone of which indicates I'm in a bit of a funk.  All I really want for Christmas is for nothing awful to happen this year.  That would be good, Santa.  Was the flood last year a belated punishment for the time I left out a Sao biscuit with apricots squashed on it? (That was meant to look like a skull, if you didn't notice).  The fact we're in a heatwave has me in a cross mood.  A woman my age has enough hot flushes without atmospheric conditions adding to the misery.  Also, today is the second anniversary of my father's death.  Yesterday marked two years since I'd last spoken with him. Think about him every day, and miss him dreadfully today.  Sometimes, when I'm preparing my lessons, I think: 'I wish I could tell you about this tutoring, Dad; you'd be so proud.' (The dire news from Naplan regarding literacy levels is a mixed blessing: sucks for the kids, but it's potential income for me as I've been moonlighting as an English tutor).

Anyway, if you're stuck for gift ideas, perhaps go to the links on my blog here and give the gift of books to someone. *cough - hint! - cough*

Today's Little Rant

Today marks the day I heard the dumbest question ever, that being should you buy the boss a Christmas present.  (I really should stop watching breakfast television).  Anyway, let's have a look at these other questions:

1. Should you put tomato sauce on your fried eggs?
2. When making instant coffee, should you put the milk in first or the boiling water?
3. When making the bed, should you do the hospital corners?
4. Should you colour-coordinate your clothes pegs with the clothing when hanging out the washing?

All these questions deal with different subjects, but all have the answer in common: it's up to you and why even ask?  If there was to be a hastag before that question it would be #pointlessquestion. By the by, it should be hatch-tag, because the # is a hatch, not a hash.  This is a hash:

Also, a hash can be short for hashish, but I couldn't be bothered seeking out an image of that.  I could possibly have posted a picture of a dog turd and attempted passing that off as a picture of hashish.  Years ago, whilst sitting on a bench outside the Sacred  Monkey Temple a little way out of Kathmandu, my friend and I were approached by what appeared to be South East Asia's answer to Tommy Chong, who waved his hand in front of us - that hand containing a white handkerchief and his  shall we say, wares.  I recoiled in disgust as I actually thought he had a big dog turd on his hankie, but then he leered, 'Hashish, sisters?  You wish to buy?' 

Addressing those four scenarios above:

1. It's up to you.  Sometimes it's the only way to make them palatable if they're too hard in the yolk department.

2. It's up to you, but although I don't drink instant coffee if I can avoid it, putting milk on the coffee beans prior to the boiling water is the work of Satan's  barista.  If you are going to make me the demon's brew that is instant coffee, I cannot emphatically enough state my edict that you NOT put milk on the beans first.  If you do this, fuck you and your entire bloodline.
3. If you want to do hospital corners, do them.  If you don't, don't.
4. Again, that's up to you.  If you must colour-coordinate your pegs with the washing, I would suggest you get a life.

Yeah, there was a question on morning television today all about whether or not to buy the boss a present for Christmas.  People actually discussed this as a panel.  Seriously.  We have electricity prices that a Rockefeller would balk at paying.  There is a toupee-wearing Oompaloompa apparently intent on tweeting us all into World War Three as he goads some petulant, unstable brat-to-the-9th-power in North Korea. The Government is discussing ridiculous welfare reforms that take away people's basic dignity and autonomy, and benefit nobody except their buddies at Indue (manufacturers of the cashless welfare card).  People are homeless. Children rock up to school having had no breakfast.  But no; let's talk about whether or not to buy the boss a present at Christmas.

Look, again, it's up to you.  It depends on the workplace, and your relationship with the boss.  Is it an affable one?  Then why not buy a token gift, if that's what makes you feel good?  The last boss I had before leaving The Big Smoke was awesome, and an exchange of gifts was a tradition throughout the eight years I was there.  By the same token, I have worked for people to whom I would happily have gifted one of those glitter bombs.  Or maybe a stink bomb.  Or maybe a jack-in-the-box, only instead of the funny little figure, I would have a booby trap comprising a boxing glove (stuffed full of iron horseshoes) on the spring, all wound up and tense, whereupon removal of the restraining lid would spring out and sock the miserable recipient right in the miserable face.

That's my take on this pressing question, which apparently has the potential to bring down the government *cough - sarcasm - cough*. Want to buy a gift? Go for it.  Don't want to buy a gift?  Don't.

In closing, I'd like to issue this memorandum to the cocksmoking bureaucrat who has come up with the notion of reusing graves after twenty-five years (pursuant to conditions) to create space.

Date: 12 December 2017
From: Bingells
To: Cocksmoking bureaucrat
Re: Your idea

Your idea is noted and rejected.  Please consider the beauty, character and soul of the ancient headstones, even those crumbling and mossy.  ESPECIALLY those crumbling and mossy; they have history and a story to tell.  Like many, I take pleasure in strolling through the older sections of cemeteries and reading headstones, being reminded of who was sacrificed in the battle of the Somme, or who died in infancy from pneumonia, or who died protecting their child from a marauding thief (as is the case of one of the graves in the cemetery of my home town).  When I visit my home town, I make a special visit to where the remains of my parents and brother are resting together.  I think of them. Occasionally I smile.  Occasionally I wipe away a tear. Sometimes I even say hello, and if my children are with me tell my mother these are the grandsons she didn't get to meet.  Whimsical and fanciful, I know.  Now to you, you cocksmoking bureaucrat: you try and dig up my family's grave, then you just might need a grave yourself.  Capisce?

Manning Up & What A Great Day

Years ago the adage went something like: 'There are only two certain things in this life: death and taxes'.  For the modern age, the adage should probably be updated so it goes something along the lines of: 'There are only three certain things in life: death, taxes, and illiterate, slanderous comments from pig-ignorant fuck stains when you post a comment in a forum with which they disagree'.

You're probably wondering what's got me in such a philosophical mood.  A little background for you: Channel 9 reporter Ben McCormack has been sentenced to a $1000 fine and a three year good behaviour bond by a District Court judge for offences of a pederastic nature.  I'm sure the phrase 'pederastic nature' has your hackles raised and your flesh crawling.  And fair enough; there can be nothing so revolting as sexual crimes against children.  Now, let me point out McCormack pleaded guilty to an offence involving transmission of pornography via a social carriage.  He was sprung discussing his fantasies.  Those fantasies, whilst obnoxious to most people, have not been acted upon.  He has not actually touched any children.  Now, don't go jumping up and down at me when I point out this is on the lower end of the seriousness scale regarding these crimes, speaking in a legal sense.  Think for a second and you will see what I'm getting at.  The judge has had to take into account his guilty plea, any evidence, any precedent and case law, any psychological reports regarding McCormack's remorse and/or likelihood of reoffending - it's all very nuanced, and being a senior lawyer, the judge understands the law and knows how to apply it, which is the judge's mandate.

Problem is, people don't see reason and like to call you names when you give polite, educated responses.  Check this screenshot I have taken of a thread wherein I got called a very low name today.  I have edited out the names of the innocent, along with the pig-ignorant fuck stain, as a matter of prudence:

Okay, you've taken the time to read it, and hopefully the delirium has worn away.  In times gone by, I would have probably become upset at this type of abuse.  Not today.  I laughed.  If you're reading this, He Who Levelled The Abuse (or more likely, having someone read it to you), it really says more about you than me, that your way of presenting an argument is to accuse people of crimes, all the while using spelling and punctuation on par with a mildly impaired eight-year-old.  And yes, I did have a good laugh at it all.  I've been called many things in my time, some pleasant and some very unpleasant, but to be called a man with pederastic tendencies not only takes the cake, it cleans out the entire fucking bakery!  It is interesting that I had cause to criticise his misuse of the ellipsis; I've been tutoring school kids in English and I did a lesson on this very punctuation mark the other day!  The fact that I was able to just laugh at this imbecilic piece of gangrenous dung tells me I'm toughening up, and that I've finally grown a pair, as they say.  If this be the case, his accusation that I'm really a man might just hold water.

Isn't this a great day?  It's a historic day, and for a good reason.  Equality at last!  Now for a segue to my last novel, 'Silver Studs & Sabre Teeth' - one of the plots therein dealt with the issue of same sex marriage.  Check it out.  There's a link to the first chapter on this blog homepage. But watching the news, and seeing the applause and cheering erupting in Parliament House put a smile on my face like a bacon slicer.  It also put a tear in my eye.  I wished I was there.  Later, I saw some other footage of the public gallery bursting into song, that song being 'I Am, You Are,  We Are Australian', and I was glad I was not there; I really detest that song. Talk about a way to spoil a great moment.  Still, it's better than a round of John Williamson's 'True Blue'. 

'Damned' Countdown!

Every Sunday night for the past few months has been spent like the Sunday nights of my childhood: watching 'Countdown'.  Only as a woman of mature years I am watching the specials and having a good laugh, and a good cringe.  Music is so evocative of memories both sweet and bittersweet.  Last night's episode focused on the year 1986, which like so much of the Eighties, had some horrifically sucky tunes.

One of the first clips played was The Damned's cover of 'Eloise'.  Look, I actually find their cover passable.  I was living with an aunt at the time, along with some of my cousins, and we taped it off 'Countdown'.  For those of you under twenty-five: sitting in front of the television or by the radio, holding a Sanyo tape recorder and with our fingers poised over the 'play' and 'record' buttons was how we downloaded music in the olden days.  So far gone is this era, it should perhaps be treated as a proper noun and I should class it as The Olden Days.  But anyway, I kind of liked singer Dave Vanian's voice.  Thought him a touch weird looking; perhaps his mother was a vampiric succubus who boinked Pepe Le Pew.  There was a posh lady up the road from where my aunt lived, and she had a mane of jet black hair swept back from her forehead, and a broad streak of white contrasting the blackness; my cousin and I used to call her 'the bloke from The Damned'.  The original of this song by Barry Ryan shits copious amounts on the cover, but the cover on it's own ain't too bad, in my humble opinion.  As I sipped my sangria last night, I reminisced about sitting in my cousin's bedroom playing the song she had acquired by the magic of taping, without the rightful copyright owners' knowledge, on her tape recorder.  Fun times.  Last night I was nostalgic for a time when I didn't have to adult too much, like I do these days.

Unfortunately, I was reminded of some total troll's tripe, too.  Dynamic Hepnotics, for one.  Shit, I found myself losing my will to live.  And then came The Thompson Twins, and I drank more sangria thinking just what a pack of donkey fellators they are.

Why do I do it? Why do I watch breakfast television?  It's like inviting the Devil for a twirl around the dancefloor and then complaining there are hoof-shaped scorch-marks in the parquetry.  I always end up rolling my eyes and/or feeling aggravated.  This morning's woeful reporting was about an article written by a Captain of the Australian Army wherein the notion of sex workers as a form of stress relief for those serving might have merit.  Okay: one, two, three: CUE THE OUTRAGE! It's my understanding the original article has been removed from the online place of posting, so it stands to reason most of those commenting haven't even read it.  By the way, you slugs at 'Sunrise', the preferred term is 'sex worker'.  The way you lot sneered 'prostitute', as though the word was a mouthful of someone else's phlegm, was condescending and infantile and pathetic.  Grow the fuck up, all of you.  Of course, the fact the original article's author is a female captain is another reason for the clutching of the pearls, and the howls of outrage (because God forbid a woman have what might be a pragmatic solution regarding sex, instead of a romantic one, right?).

I don't have too much of an opinion because, you see, I didn't get to do this really important thing which was READ THE FRICKIN' ARTICLE!  It's often advantageous to do this sort of thing because it's good when you can give an opinion that's informed.  Also, the captain is in the army, so she might be in a better position to actually comment on what it's like at the front line, and any issues of morale the serving soldiers are facing.   Prima facie, I'm not bothered in the least by the notion being proposed.  I've got other things to worry about than whether or not consenting adults are fucking, exchange of currency being involved or not.  Things like bills to pay, and that my house is still shambolic post-flood, and that I'm not a best-selling novelist (although you the blog-browser can change all that!).

Checking In

I've been a bit lax in the old blogging department this past week.  Undoubtedly the fact that I have been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer is to blame. Have had extra work duties, and they are to be carried out in an oppressive fog of yucky, miasmic, sweat-inducing humidity.  At the time of typing this post - 8.08pm ADST - just walking around feels like I'm walking through sticky, warm, molasses.  The heat clings and hangs around like that really annoying drunk at the pub who just doesn't understand you're watching the band, and you don't want to talk.  Nor do you wish to listen to his blathering babble about how you're just sitting along and shouldn't be alone.  At least, that's what you can make of it during the few seconds of quiet between the band's numbers.  When you frown at him, and cup your ears with your hands hoping he will take the hint and realise that you cannot hear what he's saying, it's to no avail.  So you stare with grim determination at the band as they belt out a Ted Nugent number, refusing eye contact, and hoping the drunk will leave you alone.  Anyway, that's what this heat's like.

Trying to keep the balls in the air is a pointless exercise.  I was always last kid picked for the team because I cannot even catch ONE ball, let alone juggle several, so they're all going to fall around me, and bounce a few little bounces, before rolling away.

Got one kid going on excursions for Japanese, and another doing life saving at the local pool.  Will he valiantly execute a safety jump and swim to the middle of the pool to 'rescue' the kid pretending to drown, before towing him back to the side of the pool?  When I had to do this all those years ago, we got lumbered with rescuing the fattest kid in the class.  Everyone nearly drowned trying to tow the behemoth to safety.  One year, nobody passed Intermediate because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin, owing to one kid sticking his dick in the mannequin's mouth when the instructor was momentarily called away.  I do hope the kids in my son's year aren't engaging in such buffoonish jackanapes.

I'm kind of happy about the engagement of Prince Henry of Wales to Meghan Markle.  What I will do is get over it very quickly if I don't stop getting bombarded with articles about it every time I switch on my television or check my online newsfeed.  The last time an American divorcee married into the British Royal Family there was an abdication, but I daresay being fifth in line to the Throne, Harry's not likely to relinquish any titles.

Person I'm Pissed Off At The Moment: Don Burke.  He's just an odious grub.  I'm not saying this because of the allegations, although if proven true, then he will be an even more odious grub.  No, it's his way of qualifying being a prick.  He blames it on self-diagnosed autism.  Yeah, you read right. 'Self-diagnosed'.  Um, first of all, does Burke have the medical qualifications to form this diagnosis?  Second of all, why does he think autism would justify that behaviour?  ('Wow, everyone's saying what a fuckwad I am.  This could lead to my downfall and a substantial loss of income.  Shit, what will I do?  Oh, I know!  I'll say: 'Sorry I come across as a sexist, entitled cockwomble, but I'm autistic.  I made that diagnosis up myself." That'll work!' - um, sorry Don, but it doesn't).

Anyway, got things to do, and no time in which to do them.  Ciao for now.

References To Aesop And Bill Wyman In The One Post!

That Aesop had quite a shitload of common sense, didn't he?  When I was a kid, I read a lot of his fables.  Their themes and their morals ring as true now as they did when Aesop was spinning a yarn some six hundred or so years before Jesus was born.  There was one I got thinking about: The Man, The Boy, and The Donkey.  In a nutshell, a man and his son were taking a donkey to market.  Someone pointed out they were mugs because after all, what's  a donkey for but to ride?  So the boy got on.  Then someone said the kid was a lazy little shit because the father had to walk.  So the kid got off and the father got on.  Some old biddies complained what an overbearing and obnoxious father to let the poor boy walk whilst he enjoyed the ride.  So THEN the kid climbed on, too, and a bunch of people castigated them for weighing down that poor donkey with their combined weight.  In a moment of brilliance <jokes>, they tied the beast's legs together and attached him to a pole, and tried to carry him in the mode of those African hunters who carry their kill back to the village, for boiling in the pot and divvying up amongst the villagers.  Anyway, they couldn't carry the donkey, the pole broke, donkey went over the bridge into the river.  Owing to its legs being bound, the poor beast couldn't get to safety and drowned.  Now, who knows what the moral to the story is?  If you can't figure it out, let me tell you: try to please all, you will end up pleasing none.  If you needed that explained to you, go back to viewing the Kardashians' pictures on your Instagram feed.

The reason WHY I got thinking about this story is the Blackfriars' Priory School in Adelaide has just unveiled a statue of St Martin de Porres, who in his earthly time was a member of the Dominicans in Lima.  Here's a picture of the statue that has caused consternation.  I'm sure you will realise why:

All right, get your minds out of the gutter and have a better look.  It's a piece of bread.  St Martin, having been an illegitimate mixed race child who experienced abject poverty when growing up, was very focused on providing for the unfortunate in society.  This piece of work depicts him giving the kid something to eat, okay?  It's not his dick.  It's bread.  Yes, the positioning is unfortunate, but I'm not a sculptor and I'm not sure if it was feasible for the artist to have the bread held elsewhere, given whatever medium the work has been sculpted in.

But some people complained.

'That's just offensive!'

'That will trigger young people who have been abused by the clergy!'

'This makes a mockery of child abuse carried out by religious institutions!'

'What were you people thinking?'

So the school did this:

Different people complained.

'It looks like a burqa, and is going to inflame anti-Muslim unrest!'

'Why did you give into the people whingeing?'

'It looks like he's being kidnapped, and is about to be thrown into the boot of a car and driven to a secret place, then held for ransom!' (That one's mine).

But you can see my reference to the Aesop fable here, can't you?  Doesn't matter what happens; someone's ALWAYS going to carry on like they need a tampon change.  To the school: please reinstate the statue.  It's a piece of art, it's not that bad, and St Martin de Porres sounds like he was an all right bloke.  Also, it's probably not going to be too long before the statue is covered with bird shit, anyway.  Of course this could be a job for the naughty children of the school: scrubbing it away.

Sigh.  RIP, David Cassidy.  No more suffering for you.  'I Think I Love You' is a very nicely crafted pop song, ostensibly performed by your television family, but more likely performed by you, your stepmother Shirley Jones, and professional session singers.

Double sigh.  That moment when you go read the playlist of the CD you won - 'Hard To Get Hits' - and see 'You Raise Me Up' by Westlife (emetic putrescence), and even worse: 'Je Suis In Rock Star' by Bill Wyman.  It's not that they're hard to get hits, it's that they're hits nobody WANTS to get!  The Bill Wyman ditty is a labia-shrivelling, craptacular paean to the art of recording a song when one is completely tone deaf.  That part where Bill croaks in faux cockney: 'she took 'orf 'er 'at, and she 'ad lovely 'air' just makes me think having Tabasco sauce dripped into my urethra might be a slightly more pleasant experience than listening to that. 

Flogs: Illiterate, Stupid, & Evil

I start this post by doing something I thought I would never do.  I am going to thank Salim Mehajer.  He has actually come in useful for something.  Stop laughing.  Pick your jaws back up from your laps.  He has. It's true, I tells ye!  If you read my last post, you will have read my incredulous rant at the advertisement he posted for staff, a position that is clearly out of the question if you're a bloke with tattoos.  I have printed off a copy of that lamentable ad, and am taking it to the student I am tutoring this afternoon.  I will get him to read it, tell me what's wrong, and correct it.  I will probably also need to get him a handkerchief as he weeps with despair.

Aren't some people flogs?  They are just pure, unmitigated, unadulterated, flogs; stone-cold, motherless last down the bottom of the intelligence scale.  I don't know if it's even worth my time blogging about this flog, well she-flog in this instance, but I was so damned annoyed that the imbecile is taking up space in my newsfeed.  I guess it's her own fault in a way; she's the one who turned to the media with her grievance.  I was annoyed at her for what she's annoyed about.  This is what she's annoyed about: she attended the Stevie Nicks concert the other night and is complaining she was escorted out by security for dancing.  No, this is not a 'Footloose' scenario wherein the joy that is dance has been banned by a civic committee of misguided stodgy old farts.  This is a situation where she was told to sit down three times, and when she didn't, the security took her out of the venue.  She is totally humiliated, she says, and feels like a criminal.  Maybe the realisation that many people think she is an entitled prat might be just a tad more humiliating.  Listen, woman: if you're told by the security staff to sit down, and ignore directions, then you're going to be removed from premises.  How hard is it to understand?  This is what actually really pisses me off: you want to dance?  Great.  Go and dance where you're not impacting up on the visibility and enjoyment of other patrons.  This was the issue.  Usually there are standing areas, and you can dance your silly guts out there.  In a seated area, not everybody wants to have to stand up.  Not everybody can stand for long periods of time, either.  But these other patrons have parted with their hard-earned cash to see the show, and it is the show they wish to see; not your bloody arse swinging around in front of them.  It's annoying.  I saw a Live Aid tribute concert a few months ago.  Enjoyed it.  Then someone started dancing near the stage, just close enough to my peripheral vision to be really irritating.  I was actually going to say something, and closer inspection of the patron had me realise she was a person with special needs (there were a few special needs people there, so I daresay there had been an excursion organised).  I realised saying, 'Will you get the fuck away from there?' would have been a bit churlish on my part as the woman did not realise her repetitive dance movements were a bit distracting.  But to the person who has gone to the media crying because she no doubt annoyed the crap out of other people, ignored warnings, and then got what was due her: fuck off.  Listen - your right to extend your fist ends where another person's nose begins.  Try and remember that.  You are an idiot who has climbed onto my nerves like a virulent parasite.

Charles Manson has died.  I guess this kind of compensates for the loss of Malcolm Young the other day.  Rot in Hell, Manson.

The Good (Because It's Bad), The Bad (And It's Bad), And The Ugly (Because It's Pretty Bad)

I had planned to write about three topics and categorise them as The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.  But of the topics I have chosen, none are good; so a spanner has been chucked into my works.  Perhaps I can just re-phrase them slightly.  Here we go:

1. The Good (But Only Because It's So Hilariously Bad)
My travails on Twitter a few days ago had me chancing upon footage of Pauline Hanson decrying what she presumes to be a curriculum for sex education in schools. I'm going to see if I can post a link so you can have a listen and a good old guffaw like I did.  If you have hassles, go to my Twitter page. My handle is Bingells.

https://twitter.com/TheQTU/status/931305813897072640

She goes on in her usual shrewish and shrill manner, her voice as lachrymose as ever and capable of peeling open a sardine can.  But it's the combination of what she's saying, her indignant outrage, and that, that voice that kills me.  It is a horrible mixture of hilarious and ungodly to view a furious Pauline Hanson snarling the words: 'strap on a dildo'.  Then she squawks about teaching the kids to masturbate, but my giddy aunt, her pronunciation of 'masturbate' had me succumbing to another fit of the giggles.  Let's just say she watched a bit too much Captain Pugwash with the kids.  Giggle-fest aside, it also made me wonder when someone will slap a scold's bridle on the woman.

2. The Bad
Malcolm Young has died.  I'm very saddened for his family, given they lost his brother George only a few weeks ago.  Malcolm had been suffering from dementia, and it has taken him at the age of sixty-four.  It's funny to think of my childhood idols dying at sixty-four; my mother died at sixty-four.  Mr Bingells and I attended an AC/DC concert in 1996, and I remember them performing 'Dirty Deeds (Done Dirty Cheap)', and Malcolm on rhythm guitar, growling into the microphone: 'Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap/Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap...'.  From memory, he was wearing a dark blue singlet and jeans, his slightly straggly hair hanging down just past his shoulders.  No bullshit with Malcolm; just rock and roll.  Rock in Peace, Malcolm.  No more suffering for you.  If there's a Heaven, you're no doubt jamming with your bro George.

3. The Ugly
Check this out:

It appears to be an advertisement for a personal assistant to Salim Mehajer.  Notwithstanding no self-respecting secretary of sound mind would want to work for him, everything about this ad just made me want to (1) soothe my burning eyeballs with calamine lotion; (2) Cleanse my brain with Aqium to erase the unholy image; and (3) drink wine until totally blotto because everything I believe in, and hold dear and sacrosanct, has been compromised most foully.  

He is seeking a 'sophisticated personal assistant'. This is understandable because the secretary who is a ditzy dumb-arse is really only the fodder of corny television situation comedies.  But Jesus Christ on a pony galloping through a field of land mines, where to begin on the rest of it!  The crimes against grammar and spelling include:

1. A mix-up of 'then' and 'than'.  For future reference: 'then' is a sequence of events, and 'than' is a comparison of subjects.  Got that?  Easy to remember: the last two letters of 'then' are the first two letters of 'ensue', which is what happens in a sequence of events.

2. The word 'luck' is not a proper noun.  What's with the capital 'L'?

3. The word 'legitimacy' has been spelled apparently by pulling random Scrabble tiles out of the drawstring bag.  Seriously, mate; can you even spell your own name?

3. Termination will take 'pace'?  Huh? 

I was labouring under the misapprehension one of the worrying things about low literacy levels in adults is being unable to competently carry out tasks like preparing reports, or incident reports, and case notes - these things are becoming more and more of a requirement these days in what some would consider even the most basic of blue collar tasks.  This ad has made me consider the lugubrious situation that someone with the grammatical skills of a backward nine-year-old, or maybe a monkey at a typewriter, can become the deputy mayor of a Sydney suburb.  This ain't right (and before everyone jumps up and down, my use of the colloquially poor form of 'isn't' is my idea of irony).

Watched the 'Countdown' special episode tonight.  It focussed on 1984, and it was awash with so much putrid synth pop it made me question the fairness of life.

It Takes The Cake

My fellow Australians, isn't it great to be in the 21st century, along with other First World countries?  Yesterday, it was announced the majority of the country had voted 'Yes'.  I hadn't realised my youngest was so politically and socially aware until he came home from school and asked, 'Who won, Mum?'  'The 'yes' vote did,' I smiled.  He fist pumped in the time-old triumphant gesture.

Not everyone likes this.  I just roll my eyes, make a 'pfffffft' noise, and invite the naysayers to eat a dick.  I know this has all been said, but if someone marries someone of the same gender, is it really going to affect your life?  That's what annoys me.  It's someone else's life - not yours - and what they do really is not going to affect you, unless they move next door and throw dead cats on your lawn.  That option will have nothing to do with marital status, but a lot to do with mental status.

The legislation has not yet been finalised, to my knowledge.  I think the anti-discrimination aspects are to be ironed out.  Problem here is you can't please all of the people all of the time.  There is an oft-trotted out argument that a baker shouldn't be expected to bake a cake for a same sex marriage if that baker objects on religious or moral grounds.  I'm uncertain how the baker will know the cake is for a same sex couple, unless that couple has the cake decorated at that premises. But hey, if the baker is silly enough to turn away business and gain a reputation as an intolerant bigot (whether or not that reputation is warranted), then that's the baker's fault.  If I was one half of a same sex couple and had a service refused on the grounds of my sexuality, I'd just say, 'Well, you know where to shove your cake-or-wedding-car-or-camera, mate', and take my business elsewhere.

Churches are a different kettle of fish, I suppose, given we have freedom of religion here.  The Catholic Church will probably say no to solemnising the wedding of a same sex couple, because it's against the doctrine.  Hey, I've known of people who've had to marry in another place because one of the party was a divorcee.  Churches might have their own rules, kind of like a club might have rules about members and dress codes etc, but if the Church wants to influence our government, maybe pay a little tax?  Oh fuck it, pay some tax anyway.  It's absurd to have a bunch of superstitious men in dresses trying to influence people's lives and the legislation in this land - all in the name of an omniscient invisible sky wizard - without coughing up a little to help pay for some infrastructure and health care.

Oh, so tired.  I've had some wine and I think it's affected me somewhat.  I have a big day tomorrow, and a big weekend of lesson planning (got some students to tutor), some poems to look at (I'm judging a poetry competition), and taking one kid to dress rehearsal for his dance concert.

Just been goofing on You Tube.  Watched a film clip of Ted Mulry Gang playing 'Heart of Stone'.  Everyone will always associate 'Jump In My Car' with dear old TMG, but the one I'm playing I rather like.  I don't know if it's musically marvellous per se, I just like it.

I have also discovered someone has decided to remake 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show', and watched a clip of Adam Lambert as Eddie performing 'Hot Patootie'.  Meatloaf pretty much made that song his own from the original movie (and Broadway production).  It's not the easiest song to sing, from what I can tell, but Meatloaf of course could sing for the country in his heyday.  I've seen the show live a few times.  The first time I saw it on stage a very young Russell Crowe played the dual roles of Eddie/Dr Scott.  He brought humour in the latter role of the wheelchair-bound science professor, but watching him trying to sing 'Hot Patootie' made my nostrils flare and set my teeth on edge.  Some years later, in the early courtship of Mr Bingells and me, we saw a production wherein the doomed biker was played by Wilbur Wilde.  Again, I thought he sounded a bit pants and was only cast because he could actually play the saxophone in the song's bridge.  But watching Adam Lambert performing it in this remake kind of restored my faith in mankind.  Lambert is a very talented man with a heaping helping of the X Factor.

That's all for now.

'Shiny, Shiny' (More Like 'Shite-y, Shite-y')

Gather around the campfire, children; it's time to tell ghost stories.  Auntie Bingells has a doozy.  I'm not going to shine a torch under my face for effect (trust me, the last thing I need at my age is any kind of technical effect that makes me look more haggard or scary), nor am I going repeat the oft-told urban myth of the serial killer with the fork for a hand, and then hold up the barbeque fork as I triumphantly roar, ''THE KILLER STILL ROAMS THE WOODS!  BOO!"

Nope, this one is even more chilling.  Here goes...

Way back, back, probably in the late Seventies or early Eighties, there were some men who worked as record producers.  Most scary stories and fairy tales feature hunters or wood cutters, but these blokes were record producers.  They met up in an office one day, and someone had left magic powder there.  They breathed it up their nostrils, and strange ideas came to them.  One of them said, 'I've got the most fantastic idea!  Let's find a young guy and girl, preferably completely devoid of any musical talent whatsoever, and get them to record the most dissonant, jarring, and meaningless song ever!'

'But, but..' giggled one of the other producers, as he toyed with his erection, 'we're talking about music here!'

The original producer went on, sniffing a little, 'It doesn't matter.  The kids will listen to what we tell them to listen to.  They will believe this is the New Age.'

One of the acolytes, now under the thrall of the magic powder, interjected in the most ingratiating of tones, 'Super idea, boss!  What super larks!  I think I might know of such a couple.  The guy is a bit androgynous which is super fashionable these days.  You know, that Boy George chappie and all, really.  The girl can't sing for toffee, but the sneer on her face is second to none. Also, she has the most filthy dreadlocks because she doesn't wash her hair, and writes the most horrid rude words on her shoes.  The young folk will lap it up!'

'Right!' exclaimed the most senior of the producers, rubbing his hands together in unholy glee.  'I can just see a cottage on Mustique now!

They carried out their evil plan, and soon thereafter a single was released by a band with the name Haysi Fantayzee, and that single was 'Shiny, Shiny'.  Teenagers everywhere were taken in by the evil spell cast by that song.

Not all teenagers were hoodwinked.  Your blogger, for one.  I saw through the tripe for what it was: a disharmonious, discordant, atonal heap of bullshit.  I despaired for the future of music when I saw the clip on 'Countdown'.   In the passage of time, I thought I had put the nightmare behind me.  I thought the spell had been lifted.  But tonight its evil presence manifested itself on the 'Countdown' special.  I should have known I was not in for a good time when the episode opened with Pat Wilson's squeaky 'Bop Girl', a ditty that ruptures the fabric of time and space with its pointless mediocrity.  But I coped.  And then it re-appeared, like an evil boomerang: 'Shiny, Shiny'.  My thirteen-year-old sat there stunned by the sheer godawfulness of it.  So did I.  I found myself reaching for a beer to cope.

That song is a gangrenous pile of pustules.

Patriot Yellow (Better Suited Colour Than Blue)

This were my thoughts and plans when I woke up today: 'Coffee.'

I had my coffee, and then started to really get in depth for my plans, and my thoughts went something like: 'Well, I'd best fold the washing, and I want to make those chocolate-and-macadamia nut cookies.  I have to get something for dinner at the supermarket, and then I'll call by work and print off my roster for next week.  I'll contact the parents of the kids I'm tutoring and let them know when I'm free.  Better get something sorted for writers' group tonight, too.'

What I did NOT think was: 'I'll catch up with a few of me redneck bogan mates at the pub.  With a bit of luck a politician we don't like will drop by.  What a fucken bonus if he was born in the Middle East because then we can crowd around him while he's havin' a coldie and that way we'll block off his exit route, 'cos that's real brave an' all that, especially if there's only one of him and three or so of us, aye? Don't want him to get away when we call him a terrorist and tell him to go back to Iran.  I'll wear me hi-vis work shirt with the company logo on it, 'cos that's real smart of me.  Fucken bonus if someone films it on his phone because then we can put it on Facebook and all our mates'll see what top blokes we all are, like all our mates at Patriot Blue.'

Yet, it would appear some guttersnipes representing a group called Patriot Blue thought this very thought one recent morning.  Seriously, you dimwitted, mutton-headed, imbecilic poltroons; did you really think this was a good idea?  You've abused someone going about his business and put it on social media.  I am unware of your employer's social media policy, but if you've contravened it, then don't come crying to me when  you find yourselves out on your respective cowardly arses. 

I'm ambivalent about Senator Sam Dastyari personally, but to you gangrenous cankers from Patriot Blue: I'm actually sure Dastyari has renounced any former Iranian citizenship and is a full Australian citizen.  Heavens to Murgatroid, he's been here since he was a young boy, and as for your concerns about his Islamic background, the man doesn't even consider himself religious.  From the footage I saw, Dastyari was actually being served a beer.  Beer is alcohol, and Muslims aren't really supposed to drink alcohol.  That's probably want offends you because not drinking is 'unastrayan' an' all that, roight?

I daresay A & E will have to get ready for the incoming casualties with self-inflicted bullet wounds to the feet.  Ever hear the phrase 'shot yourself in the foot'? As well as something that might happen when  you lot are out drunkenly pigging, it's a metaphor for unintentionally making things bad for yourself because you've not thought through your actions.  A metaphor, by the way, is a rhetorical figure of speech that compares two unrelated things by saying one IS the other: 'Jack is very helpful to me, he is an absolute ROCK.'  Rhetorical means, oh never mind, just look it up yourselves instead of acting like unmitigated arsehats.

Just go away with your stupidity.  You are all manifestations of the pilled up flecks of toilet paper tangled in the hairs around Satan's butthole.

Counting Down The Dross

I've been questioning my own behaviour of late.  Do I find it my life mission, my raison d'etre to set misinformed people straight, or to just downright annoy them in a fit of perverse superiority?  The people I like annoying are usually the ones who follow an elected senator.  Not just any elected senator, but one who has never actually fecking well voted in an Australian election in his life and then has the hide to stand for Parliament.  Him, his minions, and the mainstream media are just doing my head in again.  Look, I'm about to say something that's probably not a likeable comment, but I'm sure if my interpretation of policy is correct, is a true one. First of all, you've no doubt seen the headlines about how 'hardworking Australians' are 'outraged' that 'their taxpayer dollars' have gone toward the legal bills of Cassie Sainsbury in Colombia.  Those are clichés and standbys straight out of the Bog-Standard Journalistic Maxims textbook, in particular the chapter that deals with how to whip up public outrage.  Tabloid media, shock jocks, and shock-jock-turned-senators are whipping away like frenzied dominatrixi.  I am sure the plural of dominatrix is 'dominatrixi', but as I type this my on my 'pute, the stern red squiggly line appears below.  I tried 'dominatrixes' , but 'it' didn't like that spelling either.  Spelling semantics aside, I'm sure you get my drift.  The crappy senator wrote a post all huffing, puffing, bluff and bluster about this, how Cassie is a 'some time prostitute' (note to the senator: Who gives a flying - ahem - fuck? Judgemental and irrelevant, much?) and the hard working taxpayer blahblahblah (he was no doubt cribbing from the aforementioned textbook).  Look, I'm now at my point: my interpretation, albeit sketchy, of the Foreign Affairs policy is that in these overseas cases there will be funding made available in instances where the defendant is charged with a crime that could garner (a) the death penalty, or (b) a sentence over twenty years.  Cassie was for a while looking at option (b), hence the funding.  It's our law, and it must be applied without fear or favour.  Also, the $100,000 that has everyone losing their shit where they stand is really pretty small potatoes, chats really, compared to the obscene amount of money spent on the same sex marriage postal survey.

But questioning my behaviour?  I think I just enjoy stirring.

Okay, who watched tonight's episode of 'Countdown'.  It focused on 1982, and started with a snippet of Christopher Atkins performing 'How Can I Live Without Her?' from that woeful, cine-shite 'The Pirate Movie'.  Atkins probably peaked in 'The Blue Lagoon', when he had that absurd perm.  I hadn't wanted to see 'The Blue Lagoon'.  Even at fifteen, I was not a 'chick flick' type of gal.  I knew of the controversy surrounding the movie, and also knew the nude scenes were performed by a body double.  There was fuss because the Brooke Shields character experiences menstruation.  I didn't care; most women do experience menstruation and I was three years into the menstrual stage of my life then, anyway.  But I was wheedled into viewing this film by some younger cousins who needed an older teenager to accompany them.  'Will you take us to see 'The Blue Lagoon', Simmie?  The girl gets her periods in it!', they pleaded.  So I took them along.  And sat in the cinema bored out of my scone.

On the bright side, the episode screened a clip of Iron Maiden performing 'The Number Of The Beast'.  How awesome a singer is Bruce Dickinson?  I knew he was a pilot, but had forgotten he was also a high-ranking fencer, having declined a place in the Olympic team because he was touring with the band.  I sniggered at the lycra, and pointed out his black studded wrist bands to my 16yo, telling him I used to wear similar, having been something of a metal head when younger.  Upon hearing his mother used to sport such gauche accoutrement, my son said, 'You are not a good person.'

Other bands were featured, some of whom I'd never heard and indeed would have remained happy in my ignorance; one featured a singer who appeared to be a precursor Courtney Love in that she was bleached, skanky looking, and had a painful singing voice (which matched the shit song she was, um, delivering).  Seeing Devo performing 'Whip It' was lots of fun, and compensated for the rest of the dross.

But it was fun, and made up for the aggravating afternoon I spent trying to purchase my 13yo son a pair of shoes.  I couldn't find suitable ones in his size, but he found some elegant women's high heels and put them on, strutting around the store like a cross between a catwalk model and Dr Frank'n'Furter.

I have also prepared a lesson for a lad I am to tutor in English tomorrow.  So I am feeling virtuous.  I am also feeling tired, and have a kitchen to tidy.

Ciao for now.

Your Daily Dose Of Kitsch

Okay, reader.  Don't say I don't do anything for you.  I'm going to post a clip of true, flesh crawling badness for you.  It might make you laugh.  It might make you cringe.  It might make you tap your feet.  It might take you back to a carefree time when you wore studded black wristbands - a heinous crime against fashion to which I plead guilty, but then again, I was a nineteen-year-old metal fan (as opposed to a fifty-one year old metal fan) so I plead mitigating circumstances m'lud.  Without going into too much detail, I had reason to You Tube this clip today, which is Brian Mannix and Uncanny X-Men on 'Hey, Hey, It's Saturday' performing 'Best Looking Guy In The Factory'.

For sheer kitsch horror, it simply cannot be beaten.  Mannix is busting moves that make Elaine Benes from 'Seinfeld' look like Margot Fonteyn.  The blonde guitarist is in shiny leather (or more likely sweaty vinyl) pants.  The bassist has a permed mullet.  The lyrics include 'the girls are all dogs/the men are all wogs...'.  Not exactly the stuff of Sondheim, is it?  Towards the end, Mannix addresses some unseen person - possibly an audience member, or possibly a character in the ditty - 'Hey, you with the snot rag on your head!'  Truly, what's not to love?

So, I had a look at it again today.  And I could not look away.  It drew me in with its tractor beam of sheer unadulterated vulgarity, as if plotting to stow me onto the mother ship and transport me to the planet of Tacky.  Almost a little like St Patrick being kidnapped by pirates.

I will post the clip here, and don't say you weren't warned.  It's really an unbearable guilty pleasure.  Maybe, as I mentioned, it evokes memories of being carefree.  However, it's awfulness is enough to rupture the very fabric of time and space, so to save embarrassment, you might want to draw the blinds and dim the lights, lest the neighbours watch you viewing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoBFZWEkZjQ

The other day my home town unveiled a statue to honour the 100 year anniversary of the Battle of Beersheba.

It's not apparent from this picture, but if you were up close you would see pure horror, fear, and determination in the faces of both the rider and the horse.  There is remarkable detail in the anatomy of the animal, and the body language of the rider is phenomenal.  As a work of art, it is breathtaking.  I was not at the unveiling, but when I had my chance, I inspected the new statue.  Then I read the plaque, and it mentioned 'unveilled'.  Yeah, you read that right.  Double consonant after diagraph vowels before a suffix.  My day was officially ruined, and I made due enquiries with my local council.  I have been informed this plaque is only temporary, the Good Lord be Praised.  

Again, I have advertised my services as a tutor in English.  One of the local schools informed me I could not advertise in their newsletter.  The email bringing this negative news had a misplaced apostrophe, and I had to fight an almost insurmountable urge to write back and point out the author of that email could do some tutoring herself.  Pedantry aside, I have had enquiries from other people, so will hopefully have some more students next week.

The Princess & The Paisley

Has anybody else ever turned up to an event wearing the same outfit as somebody else?  It's never happened to me, and I don't know anyone else to whom this has happened.  For a woman, it's supposed to be considered some kind of great social death and embarrassment.  I'm thinking about this because Princess Mary of Denmark turned up to some fashion awards in Copenhagen, and another attendee was wearing the same dress.  Of course the press are fawning about how they laughed it off.  I'd be thinking: Who gives a fuck?  Whilst not a sartorially blessed type myself, I do remember one piece of advice - you're supposed to be the great looking girl in the dress, not the girl in the great looking dress.  But herein lies the fundamental problem.  This was not a great looking dress.  My first reaction upon seeing a picture of the two women together was not that they looked the same, but, 'So THAT'S what happened to the fabric Mum had to cover the dining chairs with when I was a kid in the Seventies. I have wondered about that often.'

Truly, that dress is one of the most hideous garments ever, second only to the mid-Nineties baby doll style dress with its billowing sack silhouette that flattered nobody, including baby dolls.  It looks like paisley brown, and is silk.  Come on, people.  As I've mentioned, I'm not a fashionista but really, not many can wear shiny fabric with any hint of brown like that.  Our Aussie glam band Hush did back in 1975, and it takes some special je ne sais quoi to do this.  It should be noted that along with an ability to carry off brown satin, Hush also featured two Asian-Australians, which was very uncommon so it could be described as brave and ground-breaking. 

Redheads too can wear brown, and even some shiny fabrics, but this dress was so blood chillingly hideous with its swirly brown everywhere, and it just screamed Seventies Kitsch.  It reminded me of this old fondue set my mother-in-law owned, which my husband appropriated because we love to cook in different styles.  Looking at the princess and the other attendee in those monstrous outfits, all I could think was old episodes of 'Number 96', or 'Matlock Police'.  I was wondering were the wait staff passing around cheddar-cubes-and-cocktail-onion combos on toothpicks.  Perhaps there was a tray of devon meat slices, all rolled up with mashed potato filling.  The record player might have had a subtle decibel level of Santana .  Perhaps there was a bowl full of car keys.

My previous post told of dumb-arses I have met of late.  Yesterday there was another to add to the list.  I was in a local clothing store - not a boutique just a franchise in the vein of the old Fosseys.  I had to buy my son some flesh coloured underwear for his outfit in his upcoming dance concert.  I made my way to the check out, to what I thought was the queue.  Well, when there someone stands in the aisle at the point nearest the check out it usually indicates the commencement of the queue.  I stood behind a woman.  'Next, please!' called the till operator.  The woman in front of me, resplendent in active wear that made her look as though she had been shoplifting in the cushion department of this store, remained oblivious.  'Next, please!' called the till operator, again.  I wondered had the woman been encaged by some invisible yet impenetrable force field that rendered her impervious to any sound (such as that of a check out operator calling). I craned my neck a little, and saw the damn woman was looking at Facebook on her phone!  'Next, please!' called the operator, a little more loudly this time.  I rolled my eyes, squeeeeeeezed past the woman and slammed my son's flesh coloured underpants on the counter for payment.  My challenge to the laws of physics in passing this woman caused her to stir from her reverie.  'Duh, sorry,' she said in this really dull, slow fashion that made me think of Brain from 'Top Cat'.

Yes, it's Hallowe'en.  Yes, people are posting pictures of costumes.  Yes, everyone's complaining and losing their shit over perceived racism or cultural appropriation.  Some coloured guys have white-faced and said they are going as 'White Privilege'.  I actually think this is rather funny.  It's hardly racist.  And if it was, I don't really care all that much.  Everybody who is celebrating, wear whatever the hell you want, have fun, and don't act like a dick.

Dumb-Arses I Have Met

It has been my grave misfortune to encounter dumb-arses today.  In person and in cyberspace.  Why do people have to indulge in and live by the laws of abject dumb-arsery, all the while stealing a good share of the oxygen from the rest of us who actually have some sense?  These are the dumb-arses who ruined my day today:

1.  A blogger whom I won't name who wrote a post on her reservations about allowing her daughter to dress as Disney's Moana for Halloween.  In her dung heap of a view, this could be racist.  It could also be a manifestation of the most vile of phenomena these days: 'cultural appropriation'.  I am staring to loathe that phrase.  Every time I see or hear it, I know my teeth are going to be as set on edge as if I was listening to a honey badger scraping its claws along a blackboard.  The odious phrase is taking over from 'misogyny' as the catch cry and cause of SJWs everywhere, the type who get up and even before they've had their coffee are hard at work trying to figure out exactly what to be offended by and on behalf of whom for the day.  This lady doesn't want to raise a racist kid.  I'm cool with that.  I don't want to raise racist kids, either.  Raising kids who aren't racist is commendable.  Raising kids who are going to turn into a writhing knot of neuroses and end up costing you a fortune in therapists' fees is not.  Is Moana offensive to those of Polynesian descent?  I don't know; I've neither seen the film nor asked anybody of Polynesian background.  Does a young girl want to represent a foreign culture, or a Disney heroine she admires?  And here's something for all you people who have fallen in love with the cultural appropriation cause: while you're worrying yourselves stupid over some costume for a little kid to wear and have fun in over Halloween, does it not occur to you that Halloween is the appropriation of another culture, albeit an ancient one?

2.  The reeking grot at Aldi trolley bay today.  I didn't get a very good look, because I was trying not to swoon from the nose-busting stench of the slob.  The body odour assailed my nostrils in palpable noisome waves that could have been sliced through with a cutlass.  Listen, mate, commercial deodorant as we know it was first trademarked in 1888.  In the 130-odd years since, it has become widespread, easy to come by, is relatively inexpensive, and not at all difficult to apply.  There is no reason to get around in a virulent cloud of utter ponginess.  I shoved the little latch back in the trolley slot, snatched out my dollar coin, and virtually sprinted back to my vehicle away from the toxic fumes so I could take a breath of BO-free air again.

3. The imbecilic retard driving what looked like a Rodeo this afternoon at about 1.25pm.  I have a sixteen-year-old.  He is a tall, brainy, computer and gaming nerd.  He is also on his Ls.  This afternoon, at the aforementioned time, I took him out to our local industrial estate for a diving lesson.  I turned off the main road at a T-intersection, whereupon we put the magnetic L-plates on my car and swapped seats.  Everything was going smoothly.  There was a vehicle approaching from the other direction, but it is not that driver with whom I take issue.  I'm getting to that.  The scene went a little like this, with me speaking in an encouraging yet authoritative manner: 'Turn the ignition on.  Got your blinker on?  Put it into gear.  Mirror, mirror, blind spot.  Good.  Nothing's coming.  We're right to pull out.  Ready?...WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING DOING YOU BLOODY FUCKING IDIOT!!!!'  The capitalised section of my dialogue was directed not at the fruit of my womb, but at the 'fucking idiot' that came screaming around from the main road at high speed, and flew past us almost straight into the oncoming car, wove sharply back into the correct lane with the grace and trajectory of a drunken pinball pellet, before continuing at that alarming speed into the distance, where I assume he made the jump into hyperspace.  As we continued with our lesson, I said to my son that I hoped that idiot had made it to the toilet in time, because it must have been an imminent bout of explosive diarrhoea threatening to make him speed and drive so dangerously.

Well, that will do me for the time being.  Tomorrow will bring another day - it's what tends to happen when the Earth spins on its axis - and hopefully it will be a day not hampered by dumb-arses.

Explosive Hits (Not The K-Tel Collection!)

Those of us of a certain age probably had a K-tel conglomeration of contemporary pop tunes titled 'Explosive Hits' in our K-tel flip finder (yours for just $2.99) wherein we stored our vinyl. I have been thinking about other explosive hits, shall we say, and set out hereunder is my list of things that have a propensity to explode or blow up:

1. Baked potatoes.  Pierce the skin, always.

2. Light bulbs.  I've had this happen.  A crystalline sounding explosion and a hail of shards all over my dining room floor later.

3. Shaken soft drink bottles.  Stop doing this.  It isn't funny.

4. Propane tanks.

5.  Gas-hotplates/grills.  Lit the grill in a share house of which I was a tenant in 1986 - WOOOF!! - simultaneous loud noise and bright flare.  Me standing in stupefied horror with singed eyebrows and fringe ensued.

6.  Any explosive of the Acme brand.  Just ask Wile  E Coyote.

7.  Employment Minister Michaelia Cash's hair when near a naked flame.  Seriously, how much hairspray must she use?

8.  Contacting the media about the AFP raid on the offices of the AWU so the media arrives at the offices of the AWU BEFORE THE AFP DOES!  See where I'm going with this, Ms Cash?  And keep your head away from naked flames.

References To Ancient Roman Backstabbing & RIP George Young

Something I have grown to realise and accept in my life of late is that blackface is not okay.  I personally don't find it offensive as I tend to try and see the motivation for whoever is masquerading thus, such as a fancy dress party.  It's quite likely the person who has dressed thus has had no intention of denigrating an entire race and culture.  However, people do tend to jump on a bandwagon about it, and frankly, it's not worth doing.  Not that I would.  Not that I ever have.  Some people have donned blackface for fancy dress when attending a costume party. However, in these times of social media should you attempt such an outfit, you are going to end up on the Internet and labelled a racist, whether the term is deserved or not.  Blackface was, to my understanding, linked to vaudeville entertainment wherein white entertainers lampooned people of dark skin.

In Australia, we don't have the history that the US has and don't get it.  Likewise, I think the US doesn't 'get' us, either.  I do think people should look for context before they start getting offended.  I tend to think of this as the Harry Connick Jnr Syndrome.  It's not a recognised psychological textbook condition, but just something that makes me think of the crooner having a sook on 'Hey, Hey' that time when a group of contestants performed a spoof of the Jackson Five.  Harry complained about their makeup, and Darryl Somers crawled up his bum.  Rather than having the host of the show crawl up Connick's bum, the producers should have organised a crash course for him in history and geography so he could understand the rest of the world is not America and there was no way the contestants on this Australian show intended offence of any type.

The skit was first performed at a university medical students' revue.  I actually attended the show, accompanied by a guy with whom I was then hanging around.  I did not see racism; I saw a rather funny pisstake of the Jacksons.

The point to these ponderings is that an aide in the cabinet of Bill Shorten has resigned after a picture of him in blackface was leaked onto social media.  This was from a party some ten years ago, before Harry Connick Jnr enlightened us, or else spoiled everything with his amazing ability to totally miss the point and not see past his own nose (depending upon your point of view).  Should the staffer have resigned?  In my opinion: no fucking way.  Come on, hands up who hasn't done something completely bloody stupid when they were younger.  Here's a hint: I'm typing this with one hand because I've got the other raised in the air.  Why should someone lose their job over youthful hijinks that at the time were not considered really offensive, and not illegal anyway?  I don't care that one of Shorten's staff did something a bit asinine when younger.  I wouldn't care if a member of Turnbull's staff had done the same, either.  Nowadays might be a bit different because we KNOW it's considered not cool, and you'd have to be completely devoid of any sense particles to pull such a stunt, and for THAT you should be castigated.

I'm curious about whomsoever leaked this photograph.  If a member of Shorten's staff, maybe THAT person should be called to task.  I bet if we tried to find a photograph of this person in fancy dress some years ago, he or she would be in a Roman toga and brandishing a knife to portray the backstabbing Brutus, murderer of Julius Caesar.  Or perhaps the person would be in a shiny, scaly reptilian looking body suit with some greenery around him or her ('Who have you come us?' 'Who, me?  Oh, I'm a snake in the grass!').

Speaking of politics, now there's stories abounding of Barnaby Joyce having had an affair with a staffer.  What can I say but: ick.  Kind of flies in the face of Barnaby's image of being a family man, and having policies to protect the traditional nuclear family unit.  But if they're consenting adults, why do people have to care?  Certainly I question the sensibilities of the lady involved, but it's honestly none of my business if Barnaby Joyce is doing The Wild Thang, and it's honestly not an image I want in my brain, either.

This might be a more entertaining image for the brain.  Picture this: the year is 1977, and in rural New South Wales an eleven-year-old girl is sitting down in the lounge room of her home to watch 'Sounds', which is typical Saturday morning fare.  She is the only one watching; her mother is in the laundry tending to the weekly wash.  Her father is out fixing the windmill.  Her siblings, much older than her, are elsewhere; the oldest working as a jackaroo in a nearby town, the next to oldest away at university, and the closest in age to her (still a seemingly whopping gap of five years) is away at boarding school.  She enjoys her solitude, being somewhat socially inept and not always enjoying the fact she towers over most of the boys her age, because she is very tall for an eleven-year-old.  Then the film clip is played for a song she has never heard before.  It is performed by two guys she can't quite place.  One is tall and blonde, and the other is short with dark hair.  They're both kind of plain.  That doesn't matter.  The verse is kind of spoken to the music, with a powerfully evocative feeling of ennui in the delivery as he tells us 'the sun arose/trying to smile/gave it all away....'.  It's just saturated with the pathos of really, really trying, but in the end being unable to give a fuck.  Then it's the chorus picks up the pace drastically as these bland guys give a shout to the keeper of the Pearly Gates, who is also one of the patron saints of fishermen.  'Hey! Hey! Hey, Saint Peter...', they beseech, and go on to plead their case, 'Just been down/To New York Town/Done my time in Hell...'

The song continues and then it moves into the liveliest bridge played on the piano this eleven-year-old has ever heard, and in the forty years since she's not heard a bridge so mesmerising in its ability to transfix her to the spot, make her feel alive quite the way that one has.  As an adult, she wonders could have bridge be almost Rachmaninoff-ish, and wonders is she leaning a little towards grandiose hyperbole.

The film clip closes with the actor playing St Peter cutting loose in his biblical costume and throwing around Peter's brand ice creams (such an Aussie outlook in this clip).  On the final uttered, despairing, 'Hell...' the figure at the keyboard turns.  It's a skeleton in a hooded cape, with Devil horns.  The entire film clip was probably miserly cheap by today's standards, but the song sells itself.  That is one mofo of a song.

The eleven-year-old learns the name of the band is Flash and the Pan, and they comprise Harry Vanda and George Young.  The eleven-year-old, already a music nut, eventually comes to realise Vanda and Young are responsible for a considerable percentage of the Australian music she enjoys.

The eleven-year-old grew up, and maintained her admiration for Vanda and Young's body of work, and yesterday was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of George Young.  RIP, George.  You no doubt climbed the stairs to the gates, and greeted the keeper with a companionable, 'Hey, St Peter!'