As the children get older, it gets harder to blog in peace. First of all, telling them to vacate MY computer has them wailing and resentful like a person who has lost a limb. When I sit down, there is racket aplenty in the background. At present, my youngest is dancing around in the kitchen to 'Take On Me' by Aha. He was dancing to 'Don't Stop Til You Get Enough' by Jacko previously. He's actually meant to be unstacking the dishwasher, a chore so intense in its mundanity as to necessitate a perusal for these songs on You Tube, thus enabling him to hoof it around the kitchen. Seeing him messing around with cutlery and crockery during the aforementioned Michael Jackson number kind of reminded me of practical home science lessons when we were allowed to play a tape recorder - those of you under thirty years of age might need to Google this. One of the girls in my year had a copy of 'Off The Wall', the studio album that contained that song. Under the watchful eye of the malign old shrew that taught the lesson, we would be whisking or sifting, listening to Jackson's dulcet tones. The girl who brought in the cassette (again, all you under-30s, go to Google) spoke about the merits of the songs and of the talent of the pre-surgery Jackson, then added, 'He's good looking, too.' Whether she would have held that opinion in later years as the surgeries increased and his weirdness intensified, I do not know. I might ask her at my next school reunion.
My, there are some gronks around, aren't there? All I seem to have done this weekend is wade through a mire of gronky miasma. I think it started yesterday at the bowling alley, when we treated my son and some friends. In the next lane was a guy whom I suspect might have been smuggling bowling balls under his t-shirt, and when he bent over to bowl, the back of his trackie daks travelled southward, showing all and sundry an unappealing expanse of butt crack.
To the gronk behind me at the traffic lights this morning, I must apologise for wasting a second of your precious time when I shifted into first gear as the light changed from red to green. Sorry I couldn't take off with the ferocity of Alan Moffitt, but I didn't want to stall my car. Your honking certainly signified your impatience. I hope you got home before the explosive bout of diarrhoea that threated came to fruition. What other reason could have you to honk so impatiently when the driver in the car in front of you (that driver being ME) was in the process of changing gears and letting out a clutch? Let's face it: every nano-second is precious when the bowels are threatening a volcanic eruption, and like I said, that's the only reason you could have had to honk like that.
The gronks that left their trolleys in the parking bays at the supermarket today - there is a special corner in Hell reserved for you all.
Then we come to Chris Lilley. I actually don't think Lilley is a gronk. I think he's a rather clever satirist. He has landed himself in some doo-doo by sharing a clip of himself performing his 'Angry Boy's character, US rapper S.Mouse. If you haven't seen it - he presents as an African American rap artist. The song performed is called 'Squashed N***a', and it's about an African American who is run over. Aside from the blackface Lilley dons, there is the problem that he has shared this clip just after the verdict in the Elijah Doughty death case. Lilley, for a comedian, you sure do have a problem with timing sometimes! Oddly, I recall when 'Summer Heights High' was screened, the episode addressing Mr G's school musical about a student who overdosed on ecstasy occurred around the same time as the death, or inquest or hearing into that death, of a young party girl who - yeah - took an overdose of ecstasy. This I'm sure was nothing sinister on Lilley's part; just a grisly and unfortunate coincidence. Although I like Lilley's earlier material, I personally didn't find S.Mouse funny. I wasn't offended by any perceived cultural appropriation at all. Nay, I just wasn't amused. But you're probably wondering where the gronk theme of this post ties in. Well, it relates to Lilley, but he's not the gronk. No, the gronk is the Twitter user who posted a picture of Lilley in character as schoolgirl Ja'mie King, and said words to the effect, "the prick was absolutely dripping in misogyny first". What the utter fuck? Seriously? How is portraying a character who happens to be a bratty school girl 'misogyny'. Fuck me sideways, people are getting sillier every day. These people happen to be what I will now think of as 'the recreationally offended'. Read that term tonight, and it's a pearler. I did respond to this tweet, and asked for clarification on how misogyny applies to a male actor playing a female character he has created. At the time of typing this post, I have had no response. My reasoning is that there is none. I am hoping the Twitter user has actually picked up a dictionary, or a psychology textbook, and appraised him- or herself of the actually meaning of 'misogyny'. This user could of course be the same fathead that wrote Gillard's 'misogyny' speech, and unleashed a generation of people crying out this awesome new buzzword without an atom's nucleus amount of knowledge of the actual meaning of the word. And I am sitting here in the unbearable, insufferable smugness of one who actually DOES know, and is therefore very unlikely to use it in these situations. So there.
Sunday, 30 July 2017
Monday, 24 July 2017
My Little List
Not working today, and have every intention of filling my day constructively. I'd rather be filling my mouth with potato chips, but I'm trying to be good. I've been making a little list, like the Grand High Executioner.
1. Things That One Can Time An Egg To: the return of an 'unpopular' verdict in a highly emotive trial to the time the online ranting starts, although this might depend upon how viscous one likes one's egg albumen. If the result is likely to incite the SJWs to bellow 'Racism!', one might as well just crack open that googy and eat it raw. Okay, I'm using some rather farty imagery here, but I guess I'm just annoyed. I'm also going to type something that is possibly going to make me about as popular as a bastard at a family reunion, but in the interests of common sense and informed opinion, I am going to say it. The death of a fourteen-year-old is tragic, but it doesn't mean he was murdered. I'm referring to the death of Elijah Doughty, who was killed when pursued by a man who believed he was riding a stolen motorbike, said motorbike the said man believed to belong to him, being the said man. Yep, convolutedly worded; I will grant you that. Now, to all of you jumping up and down: the man stood trial for manslaughter, not murder. This is why there is no murder conviction. Understand that? Now, something happened in that courtroom. Something that happens in pretty much EVERY trial before a jury. That something was the jury listened to the evidence, both forensic and witness. The judge explained to them the nuances of the law regarding manslaughter, and the onus of the Crown to prove their case, and that thing we have called 'reasonable doubt'. The man gave evidence of having pursued the motorbike very closely, but the poor kid veered in front of him and a collision was unavoidable. The jury, having reviewed the evidence and listened to the judge's explanations and directions, found insufficient evidence to convict for manslaughter. The man was convicted for driving in a manner dangerous causing death, and has been sentenced duly by the judge in accordance with the parameters of the relevant section of the Sentencing Act for Western Australia. We have rule of law, and follow a judicial process, and whilst the outcome isn't always perfect, the system is actually good. Don't like it, all you SJWs? Then by all means, fuck off and live in North Korea. Also, do you think the man who's been gaoled feels good about what's happened? I doubt it very much. He has to live with it. Do I think the same verdict and sentence would have been delivered had the deceased been a fourteen-year-old white boy, instead of an indigenous one? Well, yeah. I do.
2. Things That Have Given Me Amusement Today: my Facebook group is having a theme today wherein we must post songs that remind us of US President Donald Trump. What fun we are having! So far my offerings have included:
'Rockin' Robin' by Bobby Day ('tweet, tweet, tweet')
A film clip from the Annoying Orange (I shouldn't need to explain this)
'Peaches' by Presidents of the United States of America (double brilliance - name of band and song reflects his skin colour)
A clip of the Oompa Loompas singing (again, no explanation necessary)
'South of the Border' by Marty Robbins ('down Mexico way...')
3. Thing That Has Sparked My Interest Today: I read a flyer calling for volunteers to be trained in tutoring in adult literacy. Over the past week, I have read local Facebook posts, and read some handwritten documents (which in the context of their creation are actually 'legal' documents) with spelling and syntax that makes my despair for the fate of humanity. This gives me a chance to do something about it. I was practically jumping up and down, and clapping my hands with glee, like a child on Christmas morning. Mr Bingells pointed out this is likely to just help people with the basics of reading, not all my fussiness. Doesn't matter. Reading can lead to an enjoyment of books. And enjoyment of books can lead to purchase of books. Purchasing books can lead to MY books getting purchased, and for those of you interested, click the links on the homepage of my blog. I am the segue queen!
4. Thing That Has Made Me Excited Today: I learned the local TAFE apprentices can wash, dry, and cut my hair for $10.00. This might not excite some of you. Indeed, if Peter Garrett is reading it's highly unlikely he gives a crap, but I have an ever-growing pile of bills, and an ever-increasing mass of straggly ends on my hair. So I'm happy. So there!
1. Things That One Can Time An Egg To: the return of an 'unpopular' verdict in a highly emotive trial to the time the online ranting starts, although this might depend upon how viscous one likes one's egg albumen. If the result is likely to incite the SJWs to bellow 'Racism!', one might as well just crack open that googy and eat it raw. Okay, I'm using some rather farty imagery here, but I guess I'm just annoyed. I'm also going to type something that is possibly going to make me about as popular as a bastard at a family reunion, but in the interests of common sense and informed opinion, I am going to say it. The death of a fourteen-year-old is tragic, but it doesn't mean he was murdered. I'm referring to the death of Elijah Doughty, who was killed when pursued by a man who believed he was riding a stolen motorbike, said motorbike the said man believed to belong to him, being the said man. Yep, convolutedly worded; I will grant you that. Now, to all of you jumping up and down: the man stood trial for manslaughter, not murder. This is why there is no murder conviction. Understand that? Now, something happened in that courtroom. Something that happens in pretty much EVERY trial before a jury. That something was the jury listened to the evidence, both forensic and witness. The judge explained to them the nuances of the law regarding manslaughter, and the onus of the Crown to prove their case, and that thing we have called 'reasonable doubt'. The man gave evidence of having pursued the motorbike very closely, but the poor kid veered in front of him and a collision was unavoidable. The jury, having reviewed the evidence and listened to the judge's explanations and directions, found insufficient evidence to convict for manslaughter. The man was convicted for driving in a manner dangerous causing death, and has been sentenced duly by the judge in accordance with the parameters of the relevant section of the Sentencing Act for Western Australia. We have rule of law, and follow a judicial process, and whilst the outcome isn't always perfect, the system is actually good. Don't like it, all you SJWs? Then by all means, fuck off and live in North Korea. Also, do you think the man who's been gaoled feels good about what's happened? I doubt it very much. He has to live with it. Do I think the same verdict and sentence would have been delivered had the deceased been a fourteen-year-old white boy, instead of an indigenous one? Well, yeah. I do.
2. Things That Have Given Me Amusement Today: my Facebook group is having a theme today wherein we must post songs that remind us of US President Donald Trump. What fun we are having! So far my offerings have included:
'Rockin' Robin' by Bobby Day ('tweet, tweet, tweet')
A film clip from the Annoying Orange (I shouldn't need to explain this)
'Peaches' by Presidents of the United States of America (double brilliance - name of band and song reflects his skin colour)
A clip of the Oompa Loompas singing (again, no explanation necessary)
'South of the Border' by Marty Robbins ('down Mexico way...')
3. Thing That Has Sparked My Interest Today: I read a flyer calling for volunteers to be trained in tutoring in adult literacy. Over the past week, I have read local Facebook posts, and read some handwritten documents (which in the context of their creation are actually 'legal' documents) with spelling and syntax that makes my despair for the fate of humanity. This gives me a chance to do something about it. I was practically jumping up and down, and clapping my hands with glee, like a child on Christmas morning. Mr Bingells pointed out this is likely to just help people with the basics of reading, not all my fussiness. Doesn't matter. Reading can lead to an enjoyment of books. And enjoyment of books can lead to purchase of books. Purchasing books can lead to MY books getting purchased, and for those of you interested, click the links on the homepage of my blog. I am the segue queen!
4. Thing That Has Made Me Excited Today: I learned the local TAFE apprentices can wash, dry, and cut my hair for $10.00. This might not excite some of you. Indeed, if Peter Garrett is reading it's highly unlikely he gives a crap, but I have an ever-growing pile of bills, and an ever-increasing mass of straggly ends on my hair. So I'm happy. So there!
Saturday, 22 July 2017
'Magic' Milestones
Tonight I did something I do not often do. I saw a Facebook post that ruptured the fabric of space and time with its utter stupidity, and instead of getting into an argument I scrolled past. Have I suddenly become mature? No, I'm just too tired tonight to quibble with embittered fuckwits, none of whom I have even met in the physical realm. The reason for my weariness is a wonderful one: last night I took my almost-thirteen-year-old to his first ever 'rock' concert. This to me is an important rite of passage, and was a joyous mother and son bonding session.
I won tickets to a Queen tribute show, and my youngest is a bit of a Queen fan. In fact, we share quite a few traits and interests; people often say he is a chip off the old block. Not sure I like being compared to a shapeless, splintery lump of wood, but I will let it slide. We set off late yesterday afternoon, both flying our colours: me in animal print and him with a green sequinned trilby hat. The venue was a club in Newcastle, which is one and a half hours or so from where we live.
The trip was an uneventful one, save for constant questions of how long before the show started. The club bistro was quite crowded. We ordered our dinner, and in a sign he is growing up, my kid made his first order NOT from the kids'' menu. Such a special night of milestones, I thought. I also thought: how the fuck is he going to eat THAT, upon the meal's arrival. In case you care, he ordered a schnitzel with chips and salad, and the serving size would have even baulked his gluttonous older brother. As we dined, I became aware of an all-pervading malodorous stench I thought with disgust that someone had blown chunks somewhere. I then realised the diners at the next table were eating a pasta dish garnished with - shudder and gag - powdered parmesan cheese. Powdered parmesan cheese is a condiment devised by a culinary de Sade with no sense of scruples whatsoever. Mr Bingells refers to it as 'the green cylinder of death'. Like so many of my generation and upbringing, our introduction to parmesan was via this foul monstrosity. In the event the inventor of this gastronomic obscenity is reading this: you are a moron who should be punched out before being forced to eat a box of this shit, after which you should sit down and think about your actions. REAL parmesan cheese is a piquant delight, and I actually got into it when I was about thirty. It took so damned long because I had been prejudiced by that stuff in the cylinder which I would submit is not cheese at all, but the desiccated vomit of an infant. Actually, when we took our seats in the auditorium, my son told me he also thought someone in the restaurant had barfed.
We waited. And waited. My son, reasoning that we were at a rock concert, offered his opinion the band were all back stage doing cocaine. I refuted this, and squinted at the ticket stub (I had left my glasses at home) whereupon I realised the show was due to start at 8.30pm, not 8.00pm. However, the show started pretty much on the dot of 8.30pm, and what a show it was! 'Freddy' had all the flamboyance and vocal ability of the real thing, and the musicianship of 'Brian May', 'Roger Taylor', and 'John Deacon' was matched note for note by the back up band. It's trite to say this, but they really did capture the essence of the real band.
The venue has floor seating and a tiered section for standing, where the toilets are located. During the course of the first act, my son needed the gents, so I accompanied him and waited near the edge of the tier. We ended up staying there because we had an even better view of the stage, and my son was able to do what he does best, which is dance. Uh yeah. He danced like the little Mr Bojangles he is, much to the amused admiration of nearby patrons, some of whom joined him. At one stage, there was a group of about six people sitting in the front row not watching the posturing 'Freddie Mercury' on stage, but staring at my kid.
During the second act, he asked could he stand with the people at the front of the stage. Given the majority of the patrons there were rather sedate 55+ types, and not ecstasy-fuelled moshers, I gave my permission. I stayed on the tier watching the show, and my kid leaned against the stage watching in awe. His first actual 'rock' concert. A milestone has been reached. He loved the theatricality, the atmosphere, the music, and the showmanship. I felt he was my spirit animal. That fleeting thought really did make it a wonderful evening for me.
After the final bows and when the lights had come on, the Queen song 'Flash' was played as people left the auditorium. Most people walked out. My kid left performing some kind of interpretive dance. I regaled him with my association with that song: being taken to see the film 'Flash Gordon' for which that song had been recorded. My older sister's then-boyfriend took me to see the film as a school holiday treat. God, he must have really wanted to prove his affection for my sister because we both thought the film stank! What would have to be one of the worst actors ever cast in the titular role, and Max Von Sydow, who won an Oscar for his portrayal as determined, gentle Fr Merrin in 'The Exorcist' must have been facing disconnection of his electricity to take on the role of Ming the Merciless. Who can forget the line from Flash's love interest Dale (which is in the song)? 'Flash, Flash, I love you but we only have fourteen hours to save the Earth!' Pffft! Gimme a break! I will admit I do rather like this song - all the grandiosity and theatre you'd expect from Queen - and I guess it kind of helps make a putrid movie just that bit more palatable. Yeah, this film was kind of in the area of nadir of Eighties cinema.
So, after the show, it was a lengthy drive home. Possibly, I might have been able to organise some accommodation down there, but the hassle is I was rostered to work this morning, and my kids had things on, too. So I fell into bed at about 1.30am, was up again at 6.30am, and am now ready to collapse again.
But, it's like my son said when I asked him how he had enjoyed the show: 'Mum, it was 'a kind of magic'.' Yeah, boom-tish and all, but still....
I won tickets to a Queen tribute show, and my youngest is a bit of a Queen fan. In fact, we share quite a few traits and interests; people often say he is a chip off the old block. Not sure I like being compared to a shapeless, splintery lump of wood, but I will let it slide. We set off late yesterday afternoon, both flying our colours: me in animal print and him with a green sequinned trilby hat. The venue was a club in Newcastle, which is one and a half hours or so from where we live.
The trip was an uneventful one, save for constant questions of how long before the show started. The club bistro was quite crowded. We ordered our dinner, and in a sign he is growing up, my kid made his first order NOT from the kids'' menu. Such a special night of milestones, I thought. I also thought: how the fuck is he going to eat THAT, upon the meal's arrival. In case you care, he ordered a schnitzel with chips and salad, and the serving size would have even baulked his gluttonous older brother. As we dined, I became aware of an all-pervading malodorous stench I thought with disgust that someone had blown chunks somewhere. I then realised the diners at the next table were eating a pasta dish garnished with - shudder and gag - powdered parmesan cheese. Powdered parmesan cheese is a condiment devised by a culinary de Sade with no sense of scruples whatsoever. Mr Bingells refers to it as 'the green cylinder of death'. Like so many of my generation and upbringing, our introduction to parmesan was via this foul monstrosity. In the event the inventor of this gastronomic obscenity is reading this: you are a moron who should be punched out before being forced to eat a box of this shit, after which you should sit down and think about your actions. REAL parmesan cheese is a piquant delight, and I actually got into it when I was about thirty. It took so damned long because I had been prejudiced by that stuff in the cylinder which I would submit is not cheese at all, but the desiccated vomit of an infant. Actually, when we took our seats in the auditorium, my son told me he also thought someone in the restaurant had barfed.
We waited. And waited. My son, reasoning that we were at a rock concert, offered his opinion the band were all back stage doing cocaine. I refuted this, and squinted at the ticket stub (I had left my glasses at home) whereupon I realised the show was due to start at 8.30pm, not 8.00pm. However, the show started pretty much on the dot of 8.30pm, and what a show it was! 'Freddy' had all the flamboyance and vocal ability of the real thing, and the musicianship of 'Brian May', 'Roger Taylor', and 'John Deacon' was matched note for note by the back up band. It's trite to say this, but they really did capture the essence of the real band.
The venue has floor seating and a tiered section for standing, where the toilets are located. During the course of the first act, my son needed the gents, so I accompanied him and waited near the edge of the tier. We ended up staying there because we had an even better view of the stage, and my son was able to do what he does best, which is dance. Uh yeah. He danced like the little Mr Bojangles he is, much to the amused admiration of nearby patrons, some of whom joined him. At one stage, there was a group of about six people sitting in the front row not watching the posturing 'Freddie Mercury' on stage, but staring at my kid.
During the second act, he asked could he stand with the people at the front of the stage. Given the majority of the patrons there were rather sedate 55+ types, and not ecstasy-fuelled moshers, I gave my permission. I stayed on the tier watching the show, and my kid leaned against the stage watching in awe. His first actual 'rock' concert. A milestone has been reached. He loved the theatricality, the atmosphere, the music, and the showmanship. I felt he was my spirit animal. That fleeting thought really did make it a wonderful evening for me.
After the final bows and when the lights had come on, the Queen song 'Flash' was played as people left the auditorium. Most people walked out. My kid left performing some kind of interpretive dance. I regaled him with my association with that song: being taken to see the film 'Flash Gordon' for which that song had been recorded. My older sister's then-boyfriend took me to see the film as a school holiday treat. God, he must have really wanted to prove his affection for my sister because we both thought the film stank! What would have to be one of the worst actors ever cast in the titular role, and Max Von Sydow, who won an Oscar for his portrayal as determined, gentle Fr Merrin in 'The Exorcist' must have been facing disconnection of his electricity to take on the role of Ming the Merciless. Who can forget the line from Flash's love interest Dale (which is in the song)? 'Flash, Flash, I love you but we only have fourteen hours to save the Earth!' Pffft! Gimme a break! I will admit I do rather like this song - all the grandiosity and theatre you'd expect from Queen - and I guess it kind of helps make a putrid movie just that bit more palatable. Yeah, this film was kind of in the area of nadir of Eighties cinema.
So, after the show, it was a lengthy drive home. Possibly, I might have been able to organise some accommodation down there, but the hassle is I was rostered to work this morning, and my kids had things on, too. So I fell into bed at about 1.30am, was up again at 6.30am, and am now ready to collapse again.
But, it's like my son said when I asked him how he had enjoyed the show: 'Mum, it was 'a kind of magic'.' Yeah, boom-tish and all, but still....
Tuesday, 18 July 2017
(Dr) Who CARES?
I'm not a Whovian and am pretty much incapable of giving a fuck that the newest incarnation of Dr Who is to be played by a female actor, Jodie Whittaker. I personally think this is a rather interesting idea. Many die-hard Whovians do not, and have gone into melt down crying and blubbering over what just might be the fall of Western civilisation. I'm aware this is offensive stereotyping on my part but I envisage these naysayers as virginal fatboys who weigh a good ten kilos more than what a healthy weight should be. But yeah, I tend not to bother too much over the Time Lord (soon to be Lady), nor have I done since I saw an episode wherein the Jon Pertwee version was zapped by what I suspect was a Cyberman. This freaked me immensely. But to the outraged Whovians: if you can accept an alien that travels through time and space, and who is in possession of a binary vascular system, who can withstand a large degree of radiation, who has some telepathic ability, and whose cellular makeup allows it to regenerate into a complete new form after a potentially fatal incident; why can't the new form be female? Does this alien even have testosterone given it's, you know, an ALIEN?
So much bitching over the casting of an actor to play a fictional character. And then we have the story in the Daily Mail with a series of photographs of saucy roles Jodie Whittaker has played in the past. I get the feeling this stupid article is to punish her for having the audacity to tackle the role. Good ol' Daily Mail, keeping it classy (just like the boss-man Rupes would want).
Like I am not a Whovian, I am also not a royalist. I did find myself reading some twaddle about the Duchess of Cornwall being known as the Princess of Wales. The comments I read reeked of the type of outrage normally reserved for sacrilege of some religious artefact. 'There is only ONE Princess of Wales!' appears to be the theme. Look, peeps. Camilla is, by virtue of her marriage to Charles, the incumbent Princess of Wales. She's chosen not to be referred to as such, but she is the Princess of Wales. The Princes of Wales is the title bestowed upon the heir apparent to the reigning monarch. That's Prince Charles. The heir's missus then becomes known as the Princess. In this case, that's Camilla. The die-hard Diana fans, in the same zealous frenzy as the outraged Whovians, gnash their teeth and cry there will only ever be ONE Princess of Wales. I sit and role my eyes and think, 'Yeah, along with Catherine of Aragon, Augusta of Saxe-Gotha, Alexandria of Denmark, Mary of Teck, and a few others I can't be bothered thinking of...'
Life is what you make it. It certainly seems to be full of crazy people lately. I daresay I might be joining those ranks. I have been reading some notes, the author of which has the spelling level of a mildly advanced seven-year-old. This has annoyed me. And I have apparently annoyed the karmic gods. I must have. Three times in the past two days I have managed to step fair splat in a dog turd. How can this be? I cannot think of any bad deed I have perpetuated of late, yet I have stepped in dog shit three times in an obscenely short space of time. Count 'em: three! Arrrggghhhhhh!
Oh well. Kids are back at school, I hope I will have some more time to devote to the editing process of the upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.
So much bitching over the casting of an actor to play a fictional character. And then we have the story in the Daily Mail with a series of photographs of saucy roles Jodie Whittaker has played in the past. I get the feeling this stupid article is to punish her for having the audacity to tackle the role. Good ol' Daily Mail, keeping it classy (just like the boss-man Rupes would want).
Like I am not a Whovian, I am also not a royalist. I did find myself reading some twaddle about the Duchess of Cornwall being known as the Princess of Wales. The comments I read reeked of the type of outrage normally reserved for sacrilege of some religious artefact. 'There is only ONE Princess of Wales!' appears to be the theme. Look, peeps. Camilla is, by virtue of her marriage to Charles, the incumbent Princess of Wales. She's chosen not to be referred to as such, but she is the Princess of Wales. The Princes of Wales is the title bestowed upon the heir apparent to the reigning monarch. That's Prince Charles. The heir's missus then becomes known as the Princess. In this case, that's Camilla. The die-hard Diana fans, in the same zealous frenzy as the outraged Whovians, gnash their teeth and cry there will only ever be ONE Princess of Wales. I sit and role my eyes and think, 'Yeah, along with Catherine of Aragon, Augusta of Saxe-Gotha, Alexandria of Denmark, Mary of Teck, and a few others I can't be bothered thinking of...'
Life is what you make it. It certainly seems to be full of crazy people lately. I daresay I might be joining those ranks. I have been reading some notes, the author of which has the spelling level of a mildly advanced seven-year-old. This has annoyed me. And I have apparently annoyed the karmic gods. I must have. Three times in the past two days I have managed to step fair splat in a dog turd. How can this be? I cannot think of any bad deed I have perpetuated of late, yet I have stepped in dog shit three times in an obscenely short space of time. Count 'em: three! Arrrggghhhhhh!
Oh well. Kids are back at school, I hope I will have some more time to devote to the editing process of the upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.
Sunday, 16 July 2017
I'm All Right... No, Really, I Am
They say all good things come to an end. As I type this, I am in the funk that settles when one really understands that one's holiday has ended and one will be returning to work tomorrow morning. The sludgy fugue in which I am currently mired might be attributed to being slightly hungover; I went out with a friend last night and watched a band, and whilst not drinking to excess per se, I did have more than my usual two drink limit.
Things on the home front are not yet resolved, but progress has been made. Exactly what this progress is, I will not elaborator upon just yet. Don't get me wrong, I would love to outpour all my aggravation and grievances like a torrent of water bursting through a crack in a dam wall, but discretion and common sense must prevail, after all. If I bare my soul, some people will be hurt. However, I am seriously out of fucks to give for those who will be hurt because they have hurt me and mine first. Also, if I bared my soul now, I might just find myself in A&E with a self-inflicted bullet wound to my foot. But watch this space, I might be able to reveal what's going on soon-ish. Whilst domestic matters are in limbo, or purgatory, I sometimes feel I am in Hell. Being unable to make progress on renovations is very teeth-gnashing.
But yes, I've been on holidays. Years ago, my holidays entailed sprawling on a deckchair by a swimming pool, sipping from frothy alcoholic drinks with paper umbrellas in them. This time I just took leave to coincide with school holidays to do stuff with my kids. To be honest, my holidays were somewhat sedate, save for attending the Live Aid Tribute concert last week. Funnily enough, I have won tickets to another tribute act, that being Queen. I will take my youngest with me to watch the show.
Yes, I think I've had the quietest holidays ever this time. I didn't write very much at all. I did attend a funeral in my home town for a lovely man, who was only in his late fifties. Thankfully the Tea Urn Nazis weren't catering at the wake. I know that's probably not their real name, but I've dubbed them thus a few years ago after I attended the joint funeral of my friend's parents, who tragically yet beautifully passed within hours of each other, and when I arrived at the wake, parched and starving, was told by these beldames I could not have a cup of tea until the family arrived. After I asked were they kidding, and they assured me they were not, I snapped that if it was too much trouble I would simply go into the adjoining bar and purchase a cup of tea there. With bad grace, they let me make a cup of tea and insisted I let nobody see me drinking it. I resisted the urge to point out it was a FUCKING CUP OF TEA AND NOT SECRET GOVERNMENT FILES, and drank the damned thing. My grieving friend was infuriated when I told her about this.
So quiet has my time been lately, the only real thought I have had is Kenny Loggins seems to specialise in cheesy soundtracks. Think about it. 'Footloose', in the eponymous movie. 'Danger Zone' in 'Top Gun', and 'I'm All Right' from 'Caddyshack'. I am wondering should I be worried that I have actually sat down and thought this through! On the flipside, I am aware this post reads in a rather depressing tone, because to be honest, I have been down in the dumps over stuff - HOWEVER! - as Kenny sings in Caddyshack (with a gopher dancing): 'I'm all right - nobody worry about me...'
Things on the home front are not yet resolved, but progress has been made. Exactly what this progress is, I will not elaborator upon just yet. Don't get me wrong, I would love to outpour all my aggravation and grievances like a torrent of water bursting through a crack in a dam wall, but discretion and common sense must prevail, after all. If I bare my soul, some people will be hurt. However, I am seriously out of fucks to give for those who will be hurt because they have hurt me and mine first. Also, if I bared my soul now, I might just find myself in A&E with a self-inflicted bullet wound to my foot. But watch this space, I might be able to reveal what's going on soon-ish. Whilst domestic matters are in limbo, or purgatory, I sometimes feel I am in Hell. Being unable to make progress on renovations is very teeth-gnashing.
But yes, I've been on holidays. Years ago, my holidays entailed sprawling on a deckchair by a swimming pool, sipping from frothy alcoholic drinks with paper umbrellas in them. This time I just took leave to coincide with school holidays to do stuff with my kids. To be honest, my holidays were somewhat sedate, save for attending the Live Aid Tribute concert last week. Funnily enough, I have won tickets to another tribute act, that being Queen. I will take my youngest with me to watch the show.
Yes, I think I've had the quietest holidays ever this time. I didn't write very much at all. I did attend a funeral in my home town for a lovely man, who was only in his late fifties. Thankfully the Tea Urn Nazis weren't catering at the wake. I know that's probably not their real name, but I've dubbed them thus a few years ago after I attended the joint funeral of my friend's parents, who tragically yet beautifully passed within hours of each other, and when I arrived at the wake, parched and starving, was told by these beldames I could not have a cup of tea until the family arrived. After I asked were they kidding, and they assured me they were not, I snapped that if it was too much trouble I would simply go into the adjoining bar and purchase a cup of tea there. With bad grace, they let me make a cup of tea and insisted I let nobody see me drinking it. I resisted the urge to point out it was a FUCKING CUP OF TEA AND NOT SECRET GOVERNMENT FILES, and drank the damned thing. My grieving friend was infuriated when I told her about this.
So quiet has my time been lately, the only real thought I have had is Kenny Loggins seems to specialise in cheesy soundtracks. Think about it. 'Footloose', in the eponymous movie. 'Danger Zone' in 'Top Gun', and 'I'm All Right' from 'Caddyshack'. I am wondering should I be worried that I have actually sat down and thought this through! On the flipside, I am aware this post reads in a rather depressing tone, because to be honest, I have been down in the dumps over stuff - HOWEVER! - as Kenny sings in Caddyshack (with a gopher dancing): 'I'm all right - nobody worry about me...'
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
Stairway to Hell
Those of you who, like me, are of what's euphemistically referred to as 'a certain age', being polite-speak for middle-aged, will recall the 1985 Live Aid concert. This was a phenomenal sixteen hour event staged in Wembley Stadium, London and John F Kennedy Stadium, Philadephia wherein performers donated their time to raise funds for starving children. It was broadcast live to at least 150 countries, quite a technological feat in those pre-Internet days. If you're interested, it was also the catalyst that I believe has Phil Collins in the Guinness Book of Records as being the only artist to perform on two separate continents on the same day - owing to the power of a Concord jet and time differences; he boarded such a plane after finishing his London gig, and then flew to Philadelphia to perform there, on technically the same day! Amazing, great piece of trivia, and I have no doubt it gave Phil a great chance to bore the shit out of people on two continents on the same day. Snide sarcasm aside, I still get a tear when I remember the finale of the British leg when Paul McCartney and Pete Townsend carried Bob Geldof onto the stage on their shoulders. I highly doubt they could do that now.
The point to this reminiscing is that last Friday I attended a concert that was actually a tribute to that amazing show. It did not go for sixteen hours, but rather was a series of highlights performed by some very talented people, who with the aid of wigs, accoutrements, and affected mannerisms, did actually give passable performances of the people they purported to be impersonating. I know I have just typed a very convoluted sentence, but it's what I do. I don't give a straight answer, and I very rarely type a brief declarative sentence when blogging. The guy playing Robert Plant in the Led Zeppelin segment wore a rather daggy blond wig and flares, but he definitely had a great set of pipes and proved a very convincing Plant. I sat in my second row seat in dread, knowing what was coming. It's like a trip to the dentist when you know the drill is imminent. You sweat and feel nauseous, and this is what I was doing. And as feared, they sang THAT song. It's the song I didn't mind at all when I first heard it, but then the oldies stations I tend to favour didn't realise they don't need to have 'Stairway to Heaven' on a loop at all. It's really not necessary, but so many station programmers didn't get that memo. However, the guy in the show was so good, I ended up enjoying watching them perform the song.
I'm ambivalent about that song, but only because I got so sick of the constant beating over the head with it over the years. There used to be these really feral bogans that lived behind us a while back - a real 'Housos' casting dream. The lady (hah!) of the house had a vocabulary that rarely extended beyond a bellowed adjective starting with 'F', and a bellowed noun starting with 'C'. Her spouse had a mullet that went down his back in some kind of Coolie plait, and favoured sweat-stained flannos, grease-stained King Gees, and dirty thongs. His vocabulary matched hers, but was delivered in muffled grunts. Between them they had produced a foul-mouthed pair of he-cubs, whom I'm sure are now currently on remand waiting trial for armed robbery. My point to getting you, the reader, to picture this foul family is that when it comes to a choice between hearing 'Stairway to Heaven' and watching that grotesque couple in sexual congress, I would honestly have to sit down and weigh up the options.
But yes, I enjoyed the show, and 'they' raised $900 for a local food charity, which was just wonderful. They finished the show with a rendition of 'Do They Know It's Christmas', which is also wonderful because had they performed the US offering of 'We Are The World', I would have fled the venue screaming, and burned rubber racing out the car park. But I am tired, and I might save my complaints about that cheese-fest inflicted upon us courtesy of Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie et al for my next blog post.
The point to this reminiscing is that last Friday I attended a concert that was actually a tribute to that amazing show. It did not go for sixteen hours, but rather was a series of highlights performed by some very talented people, who with the aid of wigs, accoutrements, and affected mannerisms, did actually give passable performances of the people they purported to be impersonating. I know I have just typed a very convoluted sentence, but it's what I do. I don't give a straight answer, and I very rarely type a brief declarative sentence when blogging. The guy playing Robert Plant in the Led Zeppelin segment wore a rather daggy blond wig and flares, but he definitely had a great set of pipes and proved a very convincing Plant. I sat in my second row seat in dread, knowing what was coming. It's like a trip to the dentist when you know the drill is imminent. You sweat and feel nauseous, and this is what I was doing. And as feared, they sang THAT song. It's the song I didn't mind at all when I first heard it, but then the oldies stations I tend to favour didn't realise they don't need to have 'Stairway to Heaven' on a loop at all. It's really not necessary, but so many station programmers didn't get that memo. However, the guy in the show was so good, I ended up enjoying watching them perform the song.
I'm ambivalent about that song, but only because I got so sick of the constant beating over the head with it over the years. There used to be these really feral bogans that lived behind us a while back - a real 'Housos' casting dream. The lady (hah!) of the house had a vocabulary that rarely extended beyond a bellowed adjective starting with 'F', and a bellowed noun starting with 'C'. Her spouse had a mullet that went down his back in some kind of Coolie plait, and favoured sweat-stained flannos, grease-stained King Gees, and dirty thongs. His vocabulary matched hers, but was delivered in muffled grunts. Between them they had produced a foul-mouthed pair of he-cubs, whom I'm sure are now currently on remand waiting trial for armed robbery. My point to getting you, the reader, to picture this foul family is that when it comes to a choice between hearing 'Stairway to Heaven' and watching that grotesque couple in sexual congress, I would honestly have to sit down and weigh up the options.
But yes, I enjoyed the show, and 'they' raised $900 for a local food charity, which was just wonderful. They finished the show with a rendition of 'Do They Know It's Christmas', which is also wonderful because had they performed the US offering of 'We Are The World', I would have fled the venue screaming, and burned rubber racing out the car park. But I am tired, and I might save my complaints about that cheese-fest inflicted upon us courtesy of Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie et al for my next blog post.
Thursday, 6 July 2017
Oh, My(er) God; The World's Gone Nuts Again!
I'm going to put it out there to whomsoever happens to be reading this: are you one of the animal rights activists who complained about Myer's ad with Katy Perry? If you are, then what the fuck is wrong with you? I too believe there is a special place in Hell reserved for anybody who is cruel to an animal, but to complain about Myer's ad on the basis that, in your skewed view of the world, this ad promotes cruelty to koalas, is really a misuse of the oxygen this planet is labouring to produce as rainforests are decimated. If you have a problem with this ad, I would suggest you mix some cement powder with water (I'm pretty sure there are no animal products there, so it's okay), have a good long draught of this mixture, and then HARDEN THE FUCK UP!
I have a slight problem with this ad, and that problem is this: the ad is mind-numbingly, jaw-clenchingly, nostril-flaringly, screw-up-the-eyes, sphincter-tighteningly lame. It's honestly one of the most pointless, pedestrian, bland and banal offerings to ever come from an ad agency. To the advertising agency that claims this as their brainchild, I seriously suggest you sit down and consider your life choices. It's so anodyne. The said chanteuse says her piece from a script that I daresay was written by the work experience student, and on the promise she is visiting us here in Australia, says to her dog something like, 'Come on, Nugget; let's go chase some koalas.' Now, this offbeat, throwaway line is what has so many activists up in arms. These twerps don't seem to understand nuance, nor jokes, nor, nor anything, really. I will type this slowly for you: Katy Perry and her dog are not going to go out and chase koalas thus causing them injury or death. Okay? Understand? And given Nugget actually looks like a brown pompom, I highly doubt he could cause any damage to a koala. However, if he catches one in a foul mood, the koala might just cause some damage to Nugget with its claws (after it pisses on him, which is a rather antisocial trait displayed by koalas).
Honestly, I really think we are going to have a race of overly precious sooks who cannot understand subtlety of different humour types, and just about every time someone tries to be funny, there is going to be a hue and cry, shit will be lost, and we will not be allowed to laugh at anything.
Don't like an ad? Don't buy the product. Simple. Also, if you're concerned about the content of an ad glorifying behaviour or traits that are offensive to you, go for a walk around the block and think it through. Really think it through. I would suggest if you had really thought it through, it would be apparent that Katy Perry is not really coming out with her pompom-on-legs to torture our unique and urologic fauna. I'm sure Barnaby Joyce will have something to say about it if she does (Katy, declare your mutt).
People, lighten up a little. Stop griping about everything, and starting inane petitions and complaints. You don't see me firing up with petitions over ads for sanitary products that seek to demonstrate the product's efficacy by blue ink dispensed from a dropper, do you? In case you haven't guessed, those ads annoy the living snot out of me. This just in, advertisers: menstrual blood is NOT blue.
Rant over. Last night, I watched the sequel to 'Trainspotting'. I thought it almost as good as the original. Mr Bingells watched by association. He was in another room and could hear the television loud and clear. I had to crank up the volume because my youngest son had a friend over, and they were playing some loud and noisy game which I suspect was a re-enactment of the invasion of the Visigoths. But here comes the segue - the original movie had an effect of me, as did the brilliant novel upon which it's based. It actually became a motif in what is my first novel: 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' (Welsh is the author of the book 'Trainspotting'). Feel free to go to the links on my blog and read the first chapter of that novel. Feel even more free to purchase a copy!
I have a slight problem with this ad, and that problem is this: the ad is mind-numbingly, jaw-clenchingly, nostril-flaringly, screw-up-the-eyes, sphincter-tighteningly lame. It's honestly one of the most pointless, pedestrian, bland and banal offerings to ever come from an ad agency. To the advertising agency that claims this as their brainchild, I seriously suggest you sit down and consider your life choices. It's so anodyne. The said chanteuse says her piece from a script that I daresay was written by the work experience student, and on the promise she is visiting us here in Australia, says to her dog something like, 'Come on, Nugget; let's go chase some koalas.' Now, this offbeat, throwaway line is what has so many activists up in arms. These twerps don't seem to understand nuance, nor jokes, nor, nor anything, really. I will type this slowly for you: Katy Perry and her dog are not going to go out and chase koalas thus causing them injury or death. Okay? Understand? And given Nugget actually looks like a brown pompom, I highly doubt he could cause any damage to a koala. However, if he catches one in a foul mood, the koala might just cause some damage to Nugget with its claws (after it pisses on him, which is a rather antisocial trait displayed by koalas).
Honestly, I really think we are going to have a race of overly precious sooks who cannot understand subtlety of different humour types, and just about every time someone tries to be funny, there is going to be a hue and cry, shit will be lost, and we will not be allowed to laugh at anything.
Don't like an ad? Don't buy the product. Simple. Also, if you're concerned about the content of an ad glorifying behaviour or traits that are offensive to you, go for a walk around the block and think it through. Really think it through. I would suggest if you had really thought it through, it would be apparent that Katy Perry is not really coming out with her pompom-on-legs to torture our unique and urologic fauna. I'm sure Barnaby Joyce will have something to say about it if she does (Katy, declare your mutt).
People, lighten up a little. Stop griping about everything, and starting inane petitions and complaints. You don't see me firing up with petitions over ads for sanitary products that seek to demonstrate the product's efficacy by blue ink dispensed from a dropper, do you? In case you haven't guessed, those ads annoy the living snot out of me. This just in, advertisers: menstrual blood is NOT blue.
Rant over. Last night, I watched the sequel to 'Trainspotting'. I thought it almost as good as the original. Mr Bingells watched by association. He was in another room and could hear the television loud and clear. I had to crank up the volume because my youngest son had a friend over, and they were playing some loud and noisy game which I suspect was a re-enactment of the invasion of the Visigoths. But here comes the segue - the original movie had an effect of me, as did the brilliant novel upon which it's based. It actually became a motif in what is my first novel: 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' (Welsh is the author of the book 'Trainspotting'). Feel free to go to the links on my blog and read the first chapter of that novel. Feel even more free to purchase a copy!
Monday, 3 July 2017
Addressing the Style of Dressing
Living as I do in rural New South Wales, I spent the last few days shivering and wrapped in layer upon layer of clothing as that cold snap hit us all like a sock in the jaw. So many layers wrapped my bod, I felt I was dressed by the House Du Couture De l'Onion. My French isn't passable, so if I've fucked it up in that phrase, I'm trying to say that my multi-layered ensemble was like an onion. Today is actually very nice, considering, and whilst my French is not passable I can say with confidence my high school Geography of natural systems is, and I'm sure this warm day is heralding one mofo of another cold snap.
Speaking of dressing, I viewed today an article that a Sydney mother of three has been criticised over the way she dresses. This is nothing new. Women are always being criticised over the way they dress. She's in her early thirties, has had breast implants, and dresses to suit her bangin' figure. She apparently likes to dress like Kim Kardashian. Why on earth anybody would want to look like they have an arse the size of a helipad is beyond me. That being said, she can dress how she wants provided she is keeping within our laws of decency and is appropriate for the occasion. If she rocked up for school pick-up wearing a spangled G-string and tasselled pasties, I could understand some disgruntlement upon the parent body. But she is not dressed thus, so everyone calm down. This just reminds me of that old Jeannie C Riley number 'Harper Valley PTA', which some of you will recall is the ultimate Bah-zing-ah! number when it comes to telling those who seek to criticise to just fuck off. ('Mrs Johnson, you're wearing your skirts a little high...', and then Mrs Johnson addresses the PTA meeting and points out all the members' foibles and crimes).
I've seen mums attend in all manner of attire at school pick-up, before I got my kids onto the bus and was spared the aggravation of finding a park, only to have that lunatic in the Tarago who HAD to be at the front of the queue execute a tyre-squealing manoeuvre that saw her fishtail backwards into position in front of where I had SAFELY parked, and obliterate the view of all who were parked behind her. But yes, I've seen mums in skinny jeans topped with singlet style tops (in winter), one mum in jeans a size smaller than her arse teamed with a filmy blouse that did not concealed her sun-weathered décolletage and from where her braless breasts threatened to fall (which we did NOT want to see), mums in trackie dacks, and then there's me who'd be dressed in jeans and a sloppy joe.
I felt like a frump when I attended my son's school concert the other week, but admittedly I had just finished the evening medication run and I was in my AIN work polo and slacks, and hadn't had the time to dress nicely. However, my son didn't care; he was pleased I was there to support him. It's better than some of the outfits I remember from my school days - mums in the canteen with their hair in curlers, covered with a scarf. Why would someone wear hair curlers in public? It's kind of slovenly, and it kind of makes you look like a Martian.
Today's narcissistic selfie culture bugs me, what with people constantly posting photographs of themselves pouting in revealing outfits, but if this woman hasn't broken the law, then leave her alone. If you've got it, flaunt it. Because I'm getting a little more tech savvy with this blog, and not just typing my discombobulated and crazy thoughts, I'm going to post a photograph of myself taken some years ago, wherein I'm kind of rocking the lyrca. I hope this works. I've copied the photograph into a folder, and discovered a way to edit it so the face of the other person isn't showing. The other person in the photograph is my boyfriend at the time. That boyfriend is now my husband, but I haven't asked Mr Bingells if he minds me using this photograph, so as a precaution I've removed his face in case he didn't want his image used in this post. I'm also proud having worked out how to edit the photograph thus. Anyway, here goes:
Speaking of dressing, I viewed today an article that a Sydney mother of three has been criticised over the way she dresses. This is nothing new. Women are always being criticised over the way they dress. She's in her early thirties, has had breast implants, and dresses to suit her bangin' figure. She apparently likes to dress like Kim Kardashian. Why on earth anybody would want to look like they have an arse the size of a helipad is beyond me. That being said, she can dress how she wants provided she is keeping within our laws of decency and is appropriate for the occasion. If she rocked up for school pick-up wearing a spangled G-string and tasselled pasties, I could understand some disgruntlement upon the parent body. But she is not dressed thus, so everyone calm down. This just reminds me of that old Jeannie C Riley number 'Harper Valley PTA', which some of you will recall is the ultimate Bah-zing-ah! number when it comes to telling those who seek to criticise to just fuck off. ('Mrs Johnson, you're wearing your skirts a little high...', and then Mrs Johnson addresses the PTA meeting and points out all the members' foibles and crimes).
I've seen mums attend in all manner of attire at school pick-up, before I got my kids onto the bus and was spared the aggravation of finding a park, only to have that lunatic in the Tarago who HAD to be at the front of the queue execute a tyre-squealing manoeuvre that saw her fishtail backwards into position in front of where I had SAFELY parked, and obliterate the view of all who were parked behind her. But yes, I've seen mums in skinny jeans topped with singlet style tops (in winter), one mum in jeans a size smaller than her arse teamed with a filmy blouse that did not concealed her sun-weathered décolletage and from where her braless breasts threatened to fall (which we did NOT want to see), mums in trackie dacks, and then there's me who'd be dressed in jeans and a sloppy joe.
I felt like a frump when I attended my son's school concert the other week, but admittedly I had just finished the evening medication run and I was in my AIN work polo and slacks, and hadn't had the time to dress nicely. However, my son didn't care; he was pleased I was there to support him. It's better than some of the outfits I remember from my school days - mums in the canteen with their hair in curlers, covered with a scarf. Why would someone wear hair curlers in public? It's kind of slovenly, and it kind of makes you look like a Martian.
Today's narcissistic selfie culture bugs me, what with people constantly posting photographs of themselves pouting in revealing outfits, but if this woman hasn't broken the law, then leave her alone. If you've got it, flaunt it. Because I'm getting a little more tech savvy with this blog, and not just typing my discombobulated and crazy thoughts, I'm going to post a photograph of myself taken some years ago, wherein I'm kind of rocking the lyrca. I hope this works. I've copied the photograph into a folder, and discovered a way to edit it so the face of the other person isn't showing. The other person in the photograph is my boyfriend at the time. That boyfriend is now my husband, but I haven't asked Mr Bingells if he minds me using this photograph, so as a precaution I've removed his face in case he didn't want his image used in this post. I'm also proud having worked out how to edit the photograph thus. Anyway, here goes:
Having added that, I can see I was a little haphazard and untidy in my methods of masking Mr Bingells' face. I don't know if I'd wear that dress now, which is a moot point because I no longer have that garment. This photograph was taken about twenty-four years ago, and sometimes I feel the number of years matches the number of kilos as well, if you get my drift!
But it's crazy to think this is what passes for news - someone's pissed off because she's criticised over her choice of attire. She shouldn't have to change, but she will have to accept there will always be detractors. I don't know if I'd got to the media if someone had a go about how I was dressed. I've got too much to worry about. But there must be other things to groan about. Like when I opened my electricity bill today. I read the figure, scowled, and thought: fuck my life.
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