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.
Saturday 30 December 2017
Wednesday 27 December 2017
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.
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.
Saturday 23 December 2017
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.
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.
Thursday 21 December 2017
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.
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.
Saturday 16 December 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday 13 December 2017
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*
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*
Tuesday 12 December 2017
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:
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?
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.
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.
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?
Thursday 7 December 2017
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:
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'.
Monday 4 December 2017
'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!).
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!).
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