Speaking Broad-ly

Hey, how's this for a scenario? A guy engages the services of a plumber for an agreed amount of money, but reneges on the deal. The plumber, wanting his payment for services rendered, reminds the guy about their agreement, but the guy, who happens to be a politician, still refuses to come to the party. The disgruntled plumber, who understandably wants payment, goes public about the politician's welching on their agreement.

I do not wish to generalise, but I'd like to think many of you are nodding along and thinking: Yeah, I'm totally with that plumber. What a two-faced twatwaffle that politician sounds. He's obviously a snake in the grass who cares only for himself.

Okay, now I'm going to tweak this scenario slightly. Let's change the profession. Instead of a plumber, we will have a young woman who earns her income as a sugar baby.  The profession of her client will remain a politician. The politician does not pay the agreed sum, so she goes public. All of a sudden she's the bad guy in the scenario. Interesting, isn't it?

Of course, you're aware I'm referring to the Andrew Broad brouhaha that is clogging up our timelines and news feeds. The young woman is being accused of blackmail. All I see is someone trying to claim her agreed fee for a service. The amount sought totalled approximately $1,500.00AUS, so I can't see why that freaking fool Andrew Broad didn't just pay the damn money and be done with it, because nobody would be any the wiser.

What really shits me about Broad's decision to use the Sugar Babies dating site is his rancid hypocrisy. It's almost a cliché: married politician who espouses traditional Christian values, to the point he vigorously opposed same sex marriage on these bases, is - to use a pithy, overused, and somewhat odious phrase - 'embroiled in a sex scandal'. I don't care if people bang each other, provided they're consenting adults; I just get the shits with the hypocrisy of it all.  Not to mention his nausea-inducing pick-up lines about how he wanted to caress her and whisper 'G'day'.  Eeeeewwwww, I think my labia shrivelled. I remember when I was a young thing, maybe a bit younger than the subject sugar baby, and some guy said to me, 'I'm nineteen and still a virgin. What about breaking me in?' I thought was a shit chat-up line, but I think Andrew Broad cornered the market on them. If you're wondering: no, I did not take the guy up on his proposal.

Other thing that's bugging me: all the people whingeing about the Queen having delivered her Christmas message with a gold piano in the background. Couple of things: it's not gold; it's timber with gilt. Queen Elizabeth II didn't buy it; I understand it to have been bought by Queen Victoria. If this is the case, then it's been in the Royal household for quite a number of years, and so what? Something else: the Queen lives in Buckingham Palace, so her drawing room (or whatever the room in which she delivered the message - it could have been the dunny for all I know) is going to be furnished with relative opulence. You are not going to see an Ikea sideboard, atop which is a figurine of a cocker spaniel with chipped paintwork. The floor will be graced with authentic Aubusson, not a series of synthetic fire hazards from Maharajah Matt's Mats.  There will not be a magazine rack from Copperart in sight.  The artwork on the walls will resemble this:

and not this:

Personally, I take greater umbrage with the concept of a celibate man who lives in luxury deciding the issue of contraception for Catholics in impoverished countries who cannot afford to have more children, than I do with the Queen delivering a message on Christmas Day from the confines of a tastefully furnished room. I also get peeved off with grubs like Rupert Murdoch, a scabrous reptile who pays zero tax in Australia, having his news outlets engage in welfare bashing and trying to influence our government. But the Queen sitting in front of a rather gaudy looking piano? Nah, I think I'll pick a better hill to die on.

My Chrissie List

Again, I'm pretending to be the Grand High Executioner from The Mikado, and making my little list.  Here's some of the items on My Little List:

1. Christmas Songs On My Playlist:

1.1 Merry Christmas by Slade. Well, why wouldn't I? Anybody who knows me knows I loves me a bit of glam rock. I just love glam (today I bought rhinestone craft pieces with which to decorate my new phone cover, but didn't get craft glue, so will be back to the shops later). Noddy Holder has the dress sense of a gay clown and a face like a dropped pie, but even through the computer screen, the man's charisma is palpable. His voice sounds like it's being dragged over broken glass, and man he can belt it out. I will admit I'm quite partial to Slade - have been since I was about nine years old - so it makes sense I would include this one on my Chrissie playlist.

1.2 Rockin' Christmas by Ol' 55. For those of you who don't know, this is a gorgeous retro-themed one from my younger days. I think I might have been ten when it came out. You might recall Ol' 55 were a type of pet project for rock historian Glenn A Baker, and the band had a Fifties style.  The band also had actor/singer Frankie J Holden on lead vocals, and Wilbur Wilde on saxophone. This song always puts me in a good mood, and when I was younger it never really felt like Christmas until the radio stations played it.

Mariah Carey and Wham: get in the bin. Your Christmas songs blow mightily, and these two are great.

2. Things I Like About Christmas:

2.1 Bonhomie and good cheer.

2.2 Presents.

2.3 Driving at night to look at Christmas lights around town.

2.4 Food.

2.5 Nativity!, which is a fun and whimsical British movie about a school teacher who finds himself in charge of organising the school's nativity play. It stars Martin Freeman.

3. Things I Don't Like About Christmas:

3.1 Grinches.

3.2 Certain Christmas decorations, to wit, those little signs that stick in the ground, reading: 'Santa, please stop here'. I cannot explain why, but for some reason those signs get right up my nose. I wouldn't be so petty and venal to go into someone's yard, then knock over or pull out the sign, but Gawd-strike-me-bloody-magenta, those signs shit me.

3.3 Flies. This is Australia, and when having your Christmas lunch outside in forty degree heat and a westerly wind, you will likely be battling the little black bastards, who will be dive-bombing your food like little black Luftwaffe.

3.4 Love, Actually I started off not minding this movie, but now it just gets on my nerves. It's a discombobulated quagmire of vignettes wherein everyone's miserable or wants to shag someone he or she is not allowed to shag, usually for societal reasons. I found myself shouting to the Laura Linney character, when she was about to boink that hot dude from her creative agency when her brother (a person with intellectual disability) rang, thus creating some kind of pre-coitus interruptus: 'For Christ's sake, your brother is in care! Now just give  yourself some self-care and let the staff at the home tend to him, and jump that guy's bones already!' I also wondered what planet the staff of 10 Dowling Street were inhabiting, when they were describing the Natalie character as being chubby or big-thighed. She looked pretty normal to me. And how's that bit where Colin flies to the States and has three hot women screwing him because he's British? Hello? Viewers, please suspend all belief whilst viewing. On an interesting side note, this movie also features Martin Freeman, who stars in the movie I mentioned in 2.5 above.

Anyway, that's my little list for today, folks.

I'm hoping to blog before the 25th, but if I don't, as Noddy growl-screams at the beginning of one of the You Tube clips for 1.1 above: 'Meeeeeerrrrrrry Chrrrrrrisssssssstmassssssssss!'

Where I Talk of Stuff That Will Likely Be Banned on Lyrical Content

Last week I posted about the banning of Baby, It's Cold Outside following the loss of shit by a bunch of woke as fuck morons who totally miss the point, and have an abysmal lack of ability to (1) contextualise, and (2) enjoy a work of art for what it is: a work of art. Let me type this slowly for you, you bunch of ignorantly driven dullards: a work of art does not actually need to conform to a societal expectation or moral. Hey, there is stuff out there that personally offends me, too, but guess what? I have free will and opposable thumbs, and these tools enable me to either close the book, walk out of the cinema, turn off the television, leave the museum, or turn off the radio. On a sidenote, I'm wondering are they working to get the poetic works of some rappers banned, too. You know, the ones with songs peppered with references to the female gender as 'hos' and 'bitches'.

Anyway, I was goofing around on You Tube the other day, just playing some choons. Those who know me well know I am something of a music trivia buff, with a particular interest in what was termed the British Invasion of the 1960s. Think Rolling Stones, Herman's Hermits, Manfred Mann, Gerry & The Pacemakers, Dave Clark Five et al. I was listening to a Herman's Hermits number, which I will talk about in greater detail shortly, and it got me thinking: I hope no woke as fuck morons are listening to this, because they'll have it banned on account of what they'd interpret as deprivation of liberty and coercion. Sadly, this is not hyperbole. Anyway, strap yourselves in, gentle reader. Or how does 'buckle up, bitches' sound? Whatever, settle in and check my list of Songs Likely To Be Banned Because There Is An Extraordinary Number Of Cockwombles Out There:

1. Because I've already alluded to it, I pretty much have to list it first, and it's You Won't Be Leaving by Herman's Hermits. Have a listen to it folks. If you're like me, you'll just enjoy the sweet vocalising of the lead singer, a toothy type named Peter Noone who joined the band when still in his teens. If, however, you are riding the Woke Bandwagon (screaming slogans and chucking pamphlets in your wake), you will be bellowing and bawling that this is a predatory rapey type of song. Look, the narrative is clearly a seduction. I want to know: is there something WRONG with a seduction (assuming all the parties are willing participants)? This just in: people like to occasionally fuck. There, I said it. The lyrics include: 'Never know just why it was/You really came to see me'. This is open to interpretation as victim blaming at its finest. You know, the 'What did she expect by going there?' type of stuff. Hey, I find victim blaming offensive, too. But let's not worry about what is only a song. Yeah, I know to date (to my knowledge) there has been no call to get this whimsical ditty banned, but I wouldn't be surprised if it happened, given the current atmosphere. It's a shame people can't just enjoy things for what they are, like this song, which happens to be an example of the zeitgeist when it was recorded by a group of talented guys playing instruments, who happened to be able to sing and blend their voices charmingly.

2. Can't Get Enough by Bad Company. The problem people will have with this is the opening line: 'Well I take whatever I want/And baby I want you...'.  This will have the triggered tragics up in arms because it just reeks of entitlement, and the patriarchy's perceived right to a woman's body. Not only does Paul Rodgers sing that, the next verse has him seductively singing, 'Well it's late, and I want love...'.  According to the militant Let's-Ban-It-All snotheads, this is also an example of entitlement. You know, 'I want sex, so gimme.' Again, I've not heard calls for this song to be banned, but I wouldn't be surprised if it turned to be the case. Now, here's the thing: Paul Rodgers is the vocalist for Bad Company, and would you care to know something interesting? He's a fucking brilliant singer. He's probably one of the best rock vocalists ever. Mr Bingells and I had the privilege of seeing him perform, with contempories such as Roger Daltry and Alice Cooper, many years ago (before we conceived our oldest child) in what was called The Rock Symphony. He performed Can't Get Enough, and All Right Now (from his time as lead singer with Free). He was mesmerising. Stage presence all over the place, charisma in droves, and still able to hold a tune like a mother cradling a newborn infant. He didn't come on for the finale because, as the compere advised, he was suffering from flu. We had no idea, such is the talent of the man. You know what else? If Paul Rodgers sang those lyrics to me, he'd have me. Strewth, if he sang the contents of his shopping list to me, he'd have me.

3. Centerfold by J Geils Band. It surprises me greatly nobody's bitching about this. I seriously abhor the song because the narrator is one of those piss-elegant milquetoasts with a Madonna/Whore complex. I'm not going into great detail about the many reasons this song annoys me because I've said it all before, but you know something? I'm not calling for it to be banned, because as I've mentioned before in this post, I have free will and opposable thumbs, so can stop myself being subjected to a work of art which offends me.

Yes, I can take steps to prevent myself listening or viewing stuff that gets up my nose, so try it some time, all you social justice warriors; you might find yourself in for a pleasant surprise.

Today's Thoughts

I recently re-read MacBeth to brush up because one of my students was studying the text in English. I was thinking about that this morning. There is a point where the titular tyrant bewails, 'My mind is a nest of scorpions.'  I was thinking about that line, and thought: Yeah, me too, Macca. My mind feels like a bunch of premenstrual, wasp-stung, sand-stuck-in-the-vagina goblins that have been stuffed into a shopping trolley and set careering down a steep, rocky embankment.  It must be my weird thoughts.

One thought I've had is I should type a little note of explanation, or a public service announcement, if you will. There has been a suppression order made by the courts following the conviction of a high profile defendant the other day. Everybody seems to be asking the point to this, and why the censorship, and why this, and why that? Let me put it as succinctly as possible. This is difficult, because I don't do succinct. However, I hope I can explain it in easily understandable terms:

This person is the subject of another trial that has been listed next year. Any adverse publicity surrounding this conviction could be prejudicial to this upcoming trial. Yes, everyone knows who this person is, but it's not the point. The court's role is to uphold the principle that not only must justice be done, justice must be SEEN to be done. Therefore, appropriate judicial conduct has been carried out in the issuing of this order. If the defendant is convicted because of prejudicial publicity emanating from the recent conviction, then the court would be criticised for not having issued a suppression order, and this would be used in an appeal. Therefore, the court has done its job, and can't be criticised.

There was a similar situation years ago when the miniseries Blue Murder was screened. The court issued an injunction against the series being screened in Victoria, because one of the characters portrayed was due to stand trial further down the track. Yeah, any juror could have crossed the border and watched, or had an interstate friend record the series and send a copy. However, in doing what it did, the court executed its duty and would not be subject to any criticism of it procedural adherence.

Because I've been feeling cruddy, I've been playing some daggy stuff today. Here it is:

1. In The Country by Cliff Richard
2. Penny Arcade by Roy Orbison
3. Afternoon Delight by Starland Vocal Band

I make no apologies for this cheese; we must do what we must do to maintain the serotonin.

Baby, It's Cold Outside & The Temperature Matches Your IQ

I've still got this dreaded lurgy, and it's a merciless thief of energy. It makes me glad I don't find most works of art - be they film, song, or literature - offensive and want them banned, because I'd pass out with exhaustion! The exhaustion I've had this past week has made me very drained and miserable, but if I was one of those perpetually offended pussy-arsed sooks that takes umbrage with just about EVERYTHING, then I'd be catatonic from the debilitating lethargy.

In case you haven't heard, some radio stations in the North American area of the globe have removed Baby, It's Cold Outside from their Christmas playlist, following the whingeing of some chronically lugubrious malcontents who claim the song has coercive and predatory overtones. I'd like to say I'm being satirical, but sadly, I am not. Some stations have capitulated to these moaning morons, who are also likely the same moaning morons that think saying 'Merry Christmas' is offensive to non-Christians. Here's a hint, you miserable milquetoasts: it's not offensive to non-Christians. Non-Christians have realised there are better things to worry about.

So, is this song problematic in its lyrics? Are the lyrics predatory. Perhaps. Or perhaps they are just a bit of cheeky fun. It's up to the individual listener to interpret those lyrics. The song, when performed by a talented duo, can be a beautiful harmonic blend. But just for shits and giggles, I'm going to post hereunder a link to a performance by Rudolph Nureyev and Miss Piggy on The Muppet Show. Miss Piggy is portrayed as the would-be seducer, and Rudy wants to get away from her clutches. The scene for this - ahem! - ham-fisted seduction takes place in a sauna.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EJ1SBAO1HU

Watch and enjoy. And all you naysayers, what's going to offend you in this clip? Aside from Miss Piggy's refusal to take no for an answer, maybe you're taking umbrage with the bestial interspecies erotica implied in this clip, or perhaps it's the fact that Nureyev, a gay man, is being forced to hide his sexuality owing to homophobia.

Is everything that might be slightly dodgy to be banned? Hey, I like the Osmonds as much as anybody - they're very talented - but they're going to be boring after a while because there will be nothing else to which we will be allowed to listen.

Baby, maybe it IS cold outside, but with this half-based idea, your HEAD is EMPTY inside.

Can I please beseech people to stop trying to have everything banned? You don't like it? Listen to something else. Problem solved. If you MUST have Christmas songs removed from playlists, start with The Little Drummer Boy and Last Christmas. Those songs suck the dried dags from the lanolin-matted wool around an old ram's arse.

Olfactory & Faust

I've not been blogging as prolifically as I would like to be. The main reason for my slackness of late is that I have been sick. The last post mentioned the assault on my olfactory senses with the passing of a rodent in my house somewhere. Well, if the wretched thing was baited this past week, then the putrefaction would be of no concern because I have been unable to smell properly for about a week now, owing to a head cold/flu of such magnitudinous strength that my nose has felt like there has been a medicine ball wedged in it. Along with the nasal discomfort, my head's ached, I've been breathless with exhaustion, and my ears are blocked.  On a side note, it's nice to type the word 'olfactory'. It doesn't get used often enough. Louden Wainwright III put it to good use in his ditty Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road ('You don't have to look/And you don't have to see/You can sense it in your/Ol-fact-or-reeee').

I had to take sick leave, and curl up on the lounge and binge-watch The Crown. Chez Bingells is moving with the times, and we now have Netflix. This capitulation to modern viewing habits is not something we had planned, but now my seventeen-year-old has a part-time job, he thought he could spend some of his pay on Netflix. Ergo, I have been bingeing on and drooling over The Crown.  I'm adoring it. I've always been fond of biopics, and am adoring the sumptuous costumes and recreation of the 1950s England, as well as the stellar performances. John Lithgow is mesmerising as Winston Churchill. I have always been a fan of Lithgow's, ever since his astonishing turn as the transsexual former footballer Roberta Muldoon in The World According to Garp.

But with the sickness, comes mild depression. I really hate being sick. I hate having no appetite (but enjoy the possibility of regaining the figure I had when I was in my twenties). I hate being miserable. I hate having blocked ears. Yesterday in the supermarket, I was so fed up with it, I decided to try an old remedy: I closed my eyes, held my nose, and swallowed. It worked; there was a temporary clearance of the ears. What was initial relief turned to abject horror when I realised the Faustian pay-off in having my full hearing return: the supermarket loudspeakers were playing Last Christmas by Wham, which has my vote of Worst Christmas Song In History Of Yuletide Celebrations.

Well, I must attend to other things now. Got some plans which I cannot yet discuss, but if they come to fruition, they will be blogged about, believe me. Just watch this space.

Rancid, Rotting Rodents & Trivia Traps

I've just taken a shower and washed my hair, but I perhaps I need not have bothered. I'm thinking of getting a perfumed handkerchief to wave in front of my face like those dandified fops of the eighteenth century; and if I'm going to do that, then I might as well go the whole hog and shove my feet into a pair of buckled clod-hoppers, and stick a powdered bouffant beehive wig on my head (thus invalidating the hair washing in which I have just engaged).

The reason I am after a perfumed piece of cloth is there is a pervading nostril-buster of a stink infesting my home. The other day, Mr Bingells saw a mouse, so he duly set out some bait. The rotten rodent has taken the bait, realised its error, and thought with a dastardly mocking laugh: Ha-ha! You might have poisoned me, but I will have the last laugh by expiring in a place you will not find me!

Okay, Mouse. Kudos to you for your fiendish foiling, but please finish with the putrefaction process already!

Regular followers of the blog will know I'm a keen trivia player, and a gun player at that (provided there are no sport questions).  Anyway, my kids' school held a fund-raising trivia night the other night. Naturally, my family formed a team. However, a few days ago, my oldest told me he was jumping ship to join his Modern History class and their teacher. To look at my son, one would believe he is the product of the love of Mr Bingells and me: he is the spitting image of his father, and has a great mind for mathematical calculations (like his father), and can spell pretty much any word thrown at him (like his mother, although my son didn't know how to spell 'lozenge' when he texted me the other week about his sore throat).  But this treacherous act of defection, one that tore asunder a winning combination, made me wonder could he perhaps have been the result of an unholy coupling between Judas Iscariot and Yoko Ono.  So I said, 'Okay, Miss might teach Modern History, but your mother REMEMBERS it!'

So we attended the school, en famille, and my oldest hailed his teammates. Mr Bingells introduced himself to the teacher, and told her, 'Your team should be called The Top Floor Elevators, because you're going DOWN!' On a side note, Mr Bingells might consider writing some sledges for the Australian cricket team.

As well as Mr Bingells, our fourteen-year-old, and me, our team included a mate of Mr Bingells, a friend of mine (and her son who is a friend to our fourteen-year-old), and another mate of our youngest son (same age). It is necessary to have the younger generation represented at these events, mainly for the modern pop culture questions. This proved a good strategy because my kid's mate is a Harry Potter geek who was able to name not just the number of books published in the series, but he could list all the books in chronological order, thus earning us a hearty eight points.  I am not ashamed to say I got a question about the Kardashians wrong; it was to list the Kardashian/Jenner siblings from oldest to youngest, and I felt like writing: 'Who fucking cares? They shouldn't be breeding, anyway.'

I did make a few mental notes for the next game in which I partake along the lines of: If it's a question about artists streamed on Spotify, Ed Sheeran is a good bet for the answer.

The rounds - with the exception of General Knowledge - were actually a tad difficult. However, in the final round, the Music one, we were able to redeem and fatten up our points tally. Snippets of songs were played. I was able to guess most of them. The kids running the night played the sound bytes again. One of the numbers was Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson. I don't doubt I've mentioned it in the past, but my fourteen-year-old is a dancer. For giggles, he stood up and did an impromptu dance, much to the delight of the crowd. The kid hosting the show suggested he get up on the stage of the school hall. In a movie, the 'dancer' would demur modestly, having little self-confidence. This is not a movie. My kid gleefully mounted the stage as though to it was an inherent entitlement, and danced some more.  Not to be outdone, the team of teachers joined him, but they did a different dance (naturally, I will say that my kid's dance was the best). It was the highlight of the evening. What a fun night out we had, and I'm not sure what the final figures were, but I'm guessing over $1,000.00 was raised for the rescue helicopter.

Oh, and the other highlight for me was my team beating my seventeen-year-old's team. Heh-heh. Okay, I will admit our win over that team was due to the extra points awarded to my younger son for dancing on the stage, and my older son's team had the victory on points.

I think the winning team was the one comprised of teaching staff. However, had there been less questions about Kardashians and Spotify-streaming, I'm sure the winning team would have comprised the Bingells clan, and their friends.

Grumpy Grammarian

Words and phrases that should be eradicated like smallpox:

1. 'I could care less.' People who say this: you're getting it wrong. You're trying to convey an air of nonchalance, sang-froid, and imperturbableness, but what you're doing is telling us that you actually DO care. Whether you care a little or a lot is immaterial, but the fact is you DO CARE. Say: 'I couldn't care less'. Repeat it. Say it slowly. Think about it. Get it?

2. 'Un-Australian'. This is a bog-standard complaint trotted out by people to complain about things they don't like. If this is the only way you can formulate an argument for whatever it is you find so distasteful, either get a dictionary or shut up.

3. 'Irregardless'. Now listen up, you perpetrators of this heinous crime against English. The prefix 'ir-' is used to negate, or denote an antonym. The suffix '-less' is used to negate, or indicate a lack of something. By putting both these negatives on a word ('regard'), you are only carrying out the old Two-Negatives-Together formula and making a Positive (or did you not listen in Maths or Science, either?). The word you are looking for is 'regardless', and you are likely confusing and conflating it with 'irrespective', and just creating a big clusterfuck of a word that makes no sense.

4. 'Fillum'. You've probably looked at that word, and wondered was it something you'd find on the periodic table of elements. No. It's a common mispronunciation of the word 'film', as in, 'Hey, want to see that new Spielberg fillum?'  (No, because I'm not really into Spielberg, and I don't know what a fillum is. I've heard of a 'filum', but never a 'fillum'.) People, the word 'film' only contains one syllable. You don't tell a rowdy class to 'callum down', or apply a soothing ballum to an aching muscle, do you?

5. 'Of' used as an auxiliary verb. The auxiliary verbs are 'has', 'had', and 'have', and form moods in the tenses employed in writing. They accompany past participles such as 'rung' and 'seen'. 'Of' is a preposition, so can the people who say or write phrases like 'would of' and 'should of' please cease and desist immediately.  I tend to become emotional when I write about this, because 'of' used as an auxiliary verb is one of my pet hates, not only in grammar, but in life itself. It makes me feel very combative.

That will complete my list for today. I have many more, but I also have washing to be brought in, and dinner to be prepared.

Many thanks for reading.

Knowing Your Onions

Every now and then there is a news event that just shakes you to your very foundations, and you'll always remember where you were when you heard this news. I will always remember standing outside my local fish-and-chip shop when a kid in my class told me John Lennon had been murdered. I remember picking up my oldest child, then a few months old, from his cot for his morning breast feed, and turning on the radio and hearing a sobbing, frightened caller wondering what was going to happen now, prompting me to turn on television and watch in the most abject horror the footage of the World Trade Centre being divebombed by an aeroplane, combusting into a hellish inferno, and subsequently crumbling in a dusty, stony heap.

Then there is the news which clogged my newsfeed today: Bunnings hardware stores have issued a direction that the onions go on the bread first when assembling the sausage sangers at the outdoor sausage sizzle. There was outrage - well, according to the MSM there was outrage, but it is likely to be as confected as the pink fairy floss spun at the town show. But in any event, there are people who appear to be genuinely pissed off about it. In God's name: why? WHY do people care about such insignificant things? Yes, I know it's the little niggly things that often drive you insane, but getting worried about the onions going on the bread first is a bit petty. Besides, it's to minimise the chance of onion falling to the ground and creating a slip hazard, which would see Bunnings sued should some hapless dunderhead tread on it and go for a skid, kind of like some cartoon character on a banana peel. You don't have to worry if the onion goes on the bread first, people. Look, I know I get very concerned if people put in milk before boiling water when preparing a cup of instant coffee, but that's different: there is a special corner in Hell reserved for people who do this. If you prepare my coffee in this manner, on the very rare occasions I deign to drink instant coffee (I drink the proper stuff!), I will pour it into the pot plant the moment your back is turned (and hope like crazy the plant is not an artificial one).

But yeah, everyone was carrying on like someone had shit on a portrait of their mothers over this heinous act of - *clutches imaginary pearls and places hand against forehead in an 'oh, woe is me' gesture* - putting the onion on the bread before placing the sausage.  I saw a vox pop conducted by Channel 9, and started to count down from ten. I hadn't even reached five when someone uttered the phrase guaranteed to get me on the roof of the clock tower with a gun: 'It's un-Australian'. Oh, fuck me sideways with a toaster, I HATE that phrase! 'Un-Australian'.  What the hell does that even mean, for fuck's sake? Does everybody have to adhere to some methodology or ideology that was prevalent in the 1950s in order to prove their allegiance to this country? (On a side note: I am going to start working on a post dealing with words or phrases that need to be put in the garbage bin).

In a country where approximately seventy women have been murdered in episodes of domestic violence already this year, do we really need to concern ourselves with the assemblage of a fucking greasy sausage sandwich? GET OVER IT, EVERYBODY! It's not going to rupture the time/space continuum.

In my first paragraph, I mentioned the phenomenon of people remembering the exact moments they received crucial news stories of the day. Well, I will always remember a November morning in 1991 when I got up to get ready for work. I was living in a flat in Bondi, NSW. I probably wasn't looking forward to going into the office. My flatmate was buttering her toast and said, 'Freddie Mercury's died of AIDS.' I was so, so saddened. Many years later, I've spawned a kid who is also a music tragic, and who happens to be totally nuts about Freddie Mercury and Queen. After my first day at the Scone Literary Festival last Saturday, we went to the local cinema and watched Bohemian Rhapsody. It's your standard biopic insomuch as formula goes, but Oh-My-God the performances were beyond sublime! The recreation of Queen's performance at the Live Aid concert was just mind-boggling. The Live Aid concert was such an incredible technical feat for the time, and whilst musicians had partaken in charity performances previously (like George Harrison's Bangladesh fundraiser), this was majorly ground breaking in terms of technical production and scale of audience. And I would submit it was the seminal moment in pop culture for my generation.

I adored the movie, and was at one point close to ugly-crying. Freddie Mercury, you are so very missed; a talented man taken by a cruel, unforgiving disease.

So, my advice to everyone is to see the movie, and stop worrying about onions being on the bread before the sausage in the old sausage sanger.

The Post In Which I Don't Whinge Too Much

This little post will be a slight deviation from my usual tone in my posts in that I won't be whingeing very much. Oh, I will probably tuck a little whinge in, but the thing is this: I had a fantastic weekend.

The weekend just past was the Scone Literary Festival, and being just down the road a'piece from what is known as the Horse Capital of Australia, I earned myself a little invitation to sit on a panel. This panel focused on Children and Young Adult. I'm a satirist, but have published a Young Adult novel titled Abernethy. It's about a lonely fourteen-year-old boy who befriends a talking beagle, being the titular character. It was released a few years ago, and something that sticks in my mind from my bookstore appearances is the people who, upon reading the back-cover blurb, would ask, 'Is this a true story?' I would fight back the urge to caustically reply, 'Yes. It's a true story about a talking dog. Now how about you try washing the pesticides off the fruit prior to eating it?' Instead I would be polite and say it was all fiction, and would they like to buy a copy.

I was on the panel with a illustrator, and a very prolific children's book author. Her name's Susanne Gervay.  I was actually humbled to be in such illustrious company, and was also a bit worried because I had nothing prepared. I had to scratch out a few notes and even told the audience I was flying by the seat of my pants here.  The facilitator was a teacher at a local school, and she stated Abernethy is in their school library, and is frequently borrowed. I was absolutely chuffed.  When it was my turn,  I was introduced as 'the author with the lovely red hair.' That's very flattering, even though they did forget to say 'talented' in front of the word 'author'!  Heh-heh. Nobody raised their hands during question time, and this alarmed me. I said, 'No questions? Well, I've either appalled you all, or answered everything you want to know already!' However, a few audience members came up to me after the session and told me they'd really enjoyed my talk.  What is even better, they asked how to purchase a copy of Abernethy. So I advised them, as I am going to advise you now, Reader: it is rather difficult to obtain a paperback copy of the book, but it is available as e-book. Click on this link, read the first chapter, and download: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm

I sat in the audience on the sex scene writing session. One of the authors mentioned her teenaged daughter was incredibly embarrassed that mum had set a scene in a combi van, because they drive such a vehicle. During audience question time, I put up my hand and was handed the microphone. I pointed out that you can write a gruesome cannibalistic murder scene, and nobody worries. However, write a sex scene and everybody assumes you're writing about yourself. My advice for this is to point out to the inquisitor/accuser that none of the Beach Boys could surf. (You could also point out to the puerile questioner that even if it is you, so bloody what?)

I couldn't stick around for the session I reeeallllly wanted to see, being a discussion between David Marr, Phillip Adams, and Dr Barry Jones, because I wanted to ensure my kids hadn't killed each other (Mr Bingells had to go away for the weekend). They had not, but I was tempted to kill my youngest upon the discovery he had ridden a scooter into the house and knocked over the glass vase in which I displayed pretty marbles.

But the fun didn't stop there. This was a two-day event, so I travelled to Scone again on Sunday morning, for a talk given by journalist Tracy Spicer. She is a very funny and engaging speaker, and she spoke about the sexism that poisons the industry like a malignant tumour (simile is mine), and the MeToo movement, and sexism in broader society. I got to ask a question, which was did she envisage a time when we might have a prime minister who didn't engage in grotesque buffoonery vis-a-vis his comments about mates who would happily sort out Pamela Anderson (in reference to Pamela's approach to our government regarding Julian Assange). Morrison, if you're reading this, try and think before you tweet. That comment did you no credit, and I was really pissed off on Pamela Anderson's behalf. This is a serious issue, and you post a guffaw-toned tweet alluding to her Bay Watch and Playgirl persona. I didn't sign up to have an infantile, disrespectful jackass for a prime minister. You're running the country, not a bunch of meatheads in a locker room.

But if I have a weekend wherein I get to speak to David Marr, Tracy Spicer, and Dr Barry Jones (I shook his hand, and am now deliberating whether or not to wash my hand again, kind of like when Marcia Brady met Desi Arnaz Jnr), then that's like an early Christmas present for me. Also, it looks like I've got a couple of pending sales, and I also got to have an argument about art with somebody (my point being an artist can paint what he or she damn well chooses; why should a distasteful subject matter be off limits?).

Ciao for now.

Dumbest Thing I've Read Today

The ubiquitous 'they' say honesty is the best policy, but the reality is people occasionally have to lie. Most of us have told the odd little white lie like: 'That was a wonderful meal you cooked', whilst surreptitiously tipping bits into the dog's bowl (and later helping your host clean up dog vomit). Sometimes people have told lies in an attempt to boost their credibility in the eyes of their peers, like the colleague who told me her sister was in the Australia Post ad (she wasn't), or the kid who said the Bay City Rollers were her brothers (they weren't).

But some people take it to not only a whole level, they take it further to a new sphere, waaaaaaaay beyond the stratosphere.  I'm looking at YOU, Sarah Sanders aka Madam Press Secretary, in particular, Madam Press Secretary of the White House. Some of you might have seen a press conference today wherein that bloke who looks like he's been bukakke'd by a packet of Twisties, and who by some caustic twist is currently leading the United States. He was bitching, and beefing, and blathering, and calling a reporter (Jim Acosta) things like a 'terrible person' (Pot, meet Kettle). Acosta continued questioning, and a young female White House aide approached him, and grabbed at his microphone. Acosta hung onto the microphone. No biggie in as far as personal contact goes. I've seen the footage, and it appears he didn't touch her at all. The White House is acting like he felt her up, and then punched her out.  Acosta has since had credentials to the White House revoked.

But this is what Sarah Sanders had to say, in a series of tweets:

President Trump believes in a free press and expects and welcomes tough questions of him and his Administration. We will, however, never tolerate a reporter placing his hands on a young woman just trying to do her job as a White House intern... Uh, what? Sarah, did you actually read that total cow crap before  you hit 'tweet'? Lady, your boss has openly bragged, in his fugue of self-delusion and entitlement, of 'grabbing (women) by the pussy', so can you not see the hypocrisy, the speciousness, and pure spaced-out fantasy of a statement like that? Especially since the so-called altercation in question was really...nothing.

Sarah, just get in the bloody bin, and take your stupid boss with you. You're all a pack of fools, and it's really disconcerting and embarrassing to watch that buffoon carrying on like a petulant sook in a press conference, and then having the reporter barred from the White House.

Sigh...

Wake Up, Woke People!

One of the current terms being bandied by the socially aware is 'woke'. It means being cognisant of social issues, and social injustices. Being aware of an imbalance of what is fair in society is very important, and working to address any prejudicial inequalities is even more important. But the problem with some of these woke types is that they're picking the wrong hill upon which to die, with their pretentious, pompous, and peremptory piffle.

If they don't like the manner in which a view or explanation is given, it is derisively referred to with a portmanteau of the gender/ethnicity of the person giving opinion + '-splaining', such as 'mansplaining'. The silly suffix makes me think of Desi Arnaz chiding, 'Hey, Lucy! You got some 'splaining to do!' This would of course offend the woke types because it is buying into the racist stereotype of a Cuban-born man living in America.

The other night I turned into Q&A on the ABC, and heard a beauty of a question from the woke crowd. The theme for the evening was Shakespeare, and other issues affecting the arts. The person who asked this must have 'woke-n' that morning, feeling ready to take on the world on behalf of the downtrodden, and put on her pretentious but forgot to pack her brain.  The question posed to the panel went thus: "What kind of influence can a 454-year-old dead white guy's plays have on Australia's varied cultural landscape, without whitesplaining things?"

Um, what? Shakespeare was 52 when he died! Oh wait, did you mean to say, 'What kind of influence can the plays of a white man who died 454 years ago have on Australia's varied cultural landscape, without whitesplaining things?'? That would certain make more sense insofar as the grammatical aspect goes, but that's about it. What is this 'whitesplaining' twaddle? Shakespeare cannot be held accountable for his ethnicity, and it shouldn't be an issue. And another thing: Shakespeare was an English writer trying to eke out an existence during the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, so it is very unlikely he was thinking about some future antipodean cultural landscape.

Shakespeare had an amazing understanding of human nature, quirks, flaws, and foibles, which is apparent in his works, the themes of which still resonate. He created magic with words, poetically enjambed on the page. How many phrases are used in common everyday language that have had their genesis from the quill of the Bard? Clue: a fucken shitload.

I also have left-leaning politics, but the utter stupidity of some people really embarrasses me. Like I said, find another hill to die on. And do it quietly.

The other lot of dumb permeating my newsfeed today comes courtesy of the Perpetually Offended who took umbrage at the costume worn by Shaun White for Hallowe'en. If you don't know who Shaun White is, and I didn't until today, he's a skater and snowboarder. His costume was Simple Jack from the movie Tropic Thunder. Did anyone see that movie? How funny was it? You'll recall Simple Jack was a fictional character played by a fictional actor in Tropic Thunder (the actor being played by Ben Stiller). Part of the running gag was Stiller's character didn't win the Oscar for this character because he 'went the full retard'. Part of the nuanced satire of Tropic Thunder was the commonality of actors winning  Oscars when playing a character with some level of disability, be it physical or intellectual.  Think Eddie Redmayne as Professor Stephen Hawking. How about Daniel Day Lewis as Christie Brown (but it was well deserved - a consummate performance)? Then there's Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump (a travesty because it should have gone to John Travolta in Pulp Fiction).

And you guessed it - someone got the shits over White's choice of costume in the belief White was being disrespectful to those with intellectual disability. To these numbskulls - and I will type this slowly - Simple Jack is a fictional character in a movie that was a satire of Hollywood norms. The movie dealt with Hollywood attitudes, not the disabled.

Shaun White did issue an apology, but I don't think he should have. Most people could see he was not trying to be disrespectful.

I think these woke AF perpetually sooky types owe everyone with a degree of common sense an apology for all the offence they're causing to US!

Every time I read about this shit, I find myself wailing, 'Can't people learn to CON-TEXT-STEW-WULL-IIIIIZE!' I've typed the last word in a phonetic representation of my frustrated caterwaul, mainly to give you an image, but the word to which I refer is 'contextualise'. Nobody seems to do that these days, and everyone's jumping up and down losing their shit over things that do not need to be jumped up and down and have shit lost over.

Today's Rant: It Involves Apu & Tofu

I have a pretty dire prediction to make. I predict boiled potatoes and tofu are going to be the metaphor for all comedy, or other forms of art.  It's happening now. Soon we will be wading through a thick, murky creek of total blandness, and that blandness will mirror boiled potatoes and tofu. You know what I mean, folks. Have you had boiled potatoes? I LOVE spuds.  I was a real little spud-gobbler as a kid, but the thing is: boiled potatoes are boring. They have no flavour. They need a little zing, even just a few grains of salt. The same with tofu. I occasionally eat tofu, but it needs to be practically napalmed with flavourings, or it just tastes like a lump of wet paper. This is where we are going with comedy, and other forms of art, but I fear it's mainly comedy.

The reason we are reading down that boring path like the bereft characters in the Wizard of Oz  ('Follow the boiled spud road! Follow the boiled spud road! Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the boiled spud road! Follow the now monochromatic post-rain weather phenomenon over the stream...', sorry, just a vagary that went through my mind) is largely due to Social Justice Warriors who get offended on behalf of just about everybody. I agree it is important to be respectful and mindful of people's cultural needs, or other's beliefs. The thing about comedy is that there is always going to be a victim somewhere. Someone is going to find the work either offensive, or just cripplingly unfunny. People who know me well know I yell obscenities at the television should Everybody Loves Raymond appear, because I find the show not only unamusing, but the character of Ray Barone offensive. Being a grown woman with opposable thumbs and free will, I pick up the television remote and change channels.

This is the routine in which I would engage should I not wish to watch The Simpsons. I haven't been watching the show very much lately, but I've always enjoyed it. Now, it would appear the producers are getting rid of Apu, following backlash about what is deemed offensive racial stereotyping. Once the beloved sub-continental businessman is gone, I'll bet a major bodily organ the same SJWs are going to be groaning about the lack of racial and cultural diversity in The Simpsons.

The thing about this show is that a major number of the characters are a piss-take on some stereotype or trope. We have the fat, lazy husband (Homer). We have a fat cop swilling donuts (Chief Wiggum). We have a frazzled teacher smoking in the classroom (Edna Krabappel). We have a fat, sweaty, no-mates loser running a comic book store.

Some of the criticism levelled at the show is that the actor who voices Apu is a Caucasian American man. This criticism really makes me feel very combative indeed. Voice acting is an art, and Hank Azaria is damn fine at it. He also voices one of the African-American characters in the show, so should he now drop this character from his repertoire, too? Do the producers have to shell out for ethnically congruent actors to play the characters whom they are actually VOICING, even though nobody actually sees them, instead of having talented people playing several roles in the show, as is the current practice? I'm certain the production company can afford the actors, but why should they have to yield to the pressure? Do the twits complaining think Bugs Bunny was voiced by an actual smart-arsed talking rabbit, and that Yosemite Sam was voiced by a gun-happy cracker, and that Daffy Duck was voiced by some water fowl with a speech impediment? This just in: they were voiced by ONE talented man.

One of the complaints levelled at Apu is that some people in the Indian community have experienced bullying from twits who mock the character.  People who behave in this manner are lower than the amoebas at the bottom of Satan's fish pond. They have proven themselves to be fuckwits. THEY'RE the ones with the problem. Besides, if they're not picking on someone based on an ethnically diverse character in a comedy, they would probably be drawing their inspiration from another source. They'd probably be groping at women based upon their viewing of Benny Hill type comedy. These clowns will always find a victim, and their behaviour should be addressed, but let's not have characters written out of television shows.  Please.

Let's not make art an anodyne banality because there are fuckwits in the world. Please.

Ah, rant over.

Bad Songs of 1983

I drive a Nissan Navara. What do YOU drive? It's probably not that DeLorean from Back to the Future, but just say it WAS the DeLorean from Back to the Future, where would you travel? If you're thinking of driving to 1983, you probably shouldn't.  This is why:

1. Reckless by Australian Crawl. For a wordsmith, I am unable to conjure up the sentence that would adequately and honestly describe by utter loathing and detestation of this stultifying pile of steaming shit balls trying to pass itself off as a song. I rather like Australian Crawl, and can remember many a happy afternoon at the house of a friend who was a great fan of the band, listening to Sons of Beaches and The Boys Light Up, the album covers leaning against the stereo speaker. But Reckless just sucks. It is a tedious, atonal, discordant blend of blah. When he was in about Year 6, my oldest came home and asked was I familiar with Australian Crawl. I told him of course I was, and asked him the motivation of the question. He told me his class was performing Reckless for music class. He further told me he thought the song awful. I agreed, and directed him to You Tube, where we checked out some Australian Crawl numbers far more palatable to the ear (pretty much any other Aussie Crawl song is more palatable to the ear than that droning dross). I could not understand why anyone would use this as an example of a band's music, should that anyone actually want the children to listen. It would be like saying to someone, 'You want to hear some Beatles? They're great!  Here, listen to this!', and then bunging on Yellow Submarine.   But yeah, Reckless pretty much gobbles up shit. That chorus with the wailing 'Don't be so reck-leeeeeeessssssssss...' sounds like a crow going over a cliff.

2. Save Your Love by Renee and Renato. The Seventies gave us Ernie Sigley and Denise Drysdale covering Hey, Paula, which was pretty cheesy, but not too bad. The Eighties gave us Save Your Love, which is cheesy enough to send your cholesterol levels skyrocketing and constipate you for a month.  I quite like me a bit of Italian tenor style singing, and Renato does have a lovely voice, but this song is just so flowery, I end up stuffing my ears with antihistamines after a listen.

3. Bop Girl by Pat Wilson. Okay, we all know I think this sounds like a mosquito in the dark, but it really is the most jejune inanity to come wafting from the speaker of my old Sanyo radio/cassette player.

4. Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler. Overblown bombastic grandiloquence delivered through sandpaper, that doesn't so much tell you to 'turn around', but beats you into submission. I remember this song coming on the radio, and one of my contemporaries exclaiming, 'This song is magnificent!' I looked at the rapt faces of my school friends with utter puzzlement and bewilderment, wondering was I just missing the point.

Well, that's it for today. Thanks for calling by.

Irony - Good for the Blood

Just been brushing up on the use of irony as a literary technique. For those in the know, you'll be aware irony in literature falls into the categories of Situational, Dramatic, or Verbal. If you're an Alanis Morisset fan and happen to reading this, irony is NOT 'the good advice that you just didn't take'. That's not irony; that's poor decision-making.

Anyway, I got to thinking of irony just the other day. It is likely verbal irony, although the words were actually written, not spoken. Someone described me as 'dopey'. Given I had not partaken of the Devil's lettuce, I assume this person meant I was of somewhat limited intelligence. Reader, you're probably thinking I should be offended by that, but the words were levelled at me by a right-wing nutjob shock jock type, with whom I have engaged in online sparring and tussles in the past. So, given a person whom is capable of drinking Mark Latham under the table in a schooner of bile drinking competition thinks I'm 'dopey', this likely has the reverse (or ironic) effect of becoming a compliment for me.

I am a little bit embarrassed to admit I have been viewing the new Aussie series Playing for Keeps. If you've not seen it, it tells of the lives and dramas for the players and WAGs of a fictional Aussie Rules club. It is tacky and gaudy, and like some satanic blend of Real Housewives of Melbourne, Footballers' Wives, The Footy Show, and - best of all! - Dynasty. I would not be surprised to see Paige and Tahlia brawling in a catfight in a public fountain. It has drawn me in with its tractor beam of utter awfulness, and I'm tempted to watch with the blinds drawn and lights out, lest a person passing by my house suspect the occupant is watching this dramatic dross. To be honest, I haven't watched an evening soap opera for so long, watching again conjures up a feeling of the familiar mixed with the strange, and the guilt. We all need a guilty pleasure, and I suspect this just might be mine. However, the pleasure leaves me when the WAG characters share screen time; I resolve to never eat again, and book in for a course of fillers and Botox.

Speaking of viewing, I chanced upon a couple of episodes of current series of The Bachelorette.  Why do people volunteer themselves for such tawdry scrutiny? Dudes, if you want to pick up, there's always Tinder and the pub. Yeah, yeah, I know you've all said you're looking for love. Furthermore, why do people want to watch this arse gravy? I swear I dropped a few IQ points in the limited viewing I had.

Well, real life beckons. I am off to the library, to the supermarket, and then to drop my oldest to a job interview.

Ciao for now.  Oh, and buy my books.

Don't Badger the Badger!

Picture this, Reader. It's 1972. People are trudging around in flares and platform boots, and listening to the fabulousness that is glam rock. In Washington, two young journalists in the employ of The Washington Post are having secretive meetings in underground car parks with a whistle-blower, and as a result of their labour and research, what becomes known as The Watergate Scandal is unleashed, leading to the resignation of then-US President Richard Nixon.

Those young journalists, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, set the bar for the type of investigative journalism that reveals to the public the rancid and foetid behind-the-scenes corruption practised by those in power.

Picture this, Reader, and shed a tear of despair as you do so. It's 2018. People are getting around in all sorts of things, but listening to the predictable bitter I-Hate-You melodious misery that is Taylor Swift. In Australia, A Current Affair sends a crew to harass a bloke on holiday in PNG.  Woodward and Bernstein set the bar; Channel 9 and A Current Affair crawled on their miserable bellies underneath it, and in doing so they bumped the supporting poles thus causing the bar to wobble and come crashing to the ground, whereupon they set fire to it.  There is now no bar to which journalists and reporters can aspire, and nowadays any rank, malodorous pile of garbage is passed off as an important story.

I don't watch A Current Affair. I would sooner watch the feral bogans who used to live behind me (the she-bogan was a scrawny, foul-mouthed shrew, and the he-bogan a home-inked, beer-butted freak with a skinny plait that went all the way to the arse crack exposed by his low-riding shorts) HAVING SEX than watch A Current Affair.  But the other night I was holidaying with a relative, and it happened to be on the television. Their all-important, earth-shattering, bowel-loosening scoop focused on Nick Cummins (aka the Honey Badger), the contestant on The Bachelor who didn't choose either of the two finalists, staying in a hotel in PNG.

'We've tracked him down!' was the gleeful voiceover. Um, pardon my French, but why the fuck would you guys do this?  They were going to grill him on the 'mess he left behind'.  Again I will offer a perfunctory apology, but who the fuck cares if he didn't like either of the girls enough to commit? 'What have you got to say to the girls?' was the reporter's demand.  Seriously, mate, fuck off already!

To use a hackneyed phrase: this really is a new low. I should not need to spell this out to you clowns at Channel 9, but it looks like I have to. Firstly, Nick Cummins has broken no laws. Secondly, people who invest too much of their emotional energy into a 'reality' television show with a shallow premise should have a word with themselves. Thirdly, most people don't really give too much of a fart in a wind tunnel about neither woman being chosen. Fourthly, reality television sucks. Fifthly, ambushing someone relaxing in their own time for no good reason, armed with television cameras and asinine questions, just totally sucks the dried dags away from a smelly old sheep's arse.

Your story was offensive. It was objectionable. It was coarse and truly pointless. Just a heads up to the crew and reporter Reid Butler: this is not the stuff of Walkley awards.

Haranguing some bloke who's done no wrong, going about his lawful business - surely this is not what aspiring reporters dream of doing? Why not report on the reason Cummins travelled to PNG: a charity walk along the Kokoda Track? Oh no, let's not report someone's altruistic work; it would be more our style to manufacture outrage over some perceived scandal in a dipshit reality show screened on another network.

SEGUE ALERT: the atrocious and noisome behaviour of tabloid journalists forms a subplot in my first ever novel, Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh. There's a link to the first chapter of the novel in the bio section of my blog page. Check it out, and 'check it out' in the trolley icon!  Heh-heh.

Monkees, and Organ-Grinder's Monkeys

I quite like most of the Monkees' material. One song I'm not overly fond of is That Was Then, This Is Now, which appears on a 1986 compilation.  Oh, I don't loathe it the way I loathe Sylvia's Mother (and anything by Dr Hook, really), but I would press 'skip' if it was on a playlist. I've had the song in my head this morning, and I will explain why:

The furore over the proposed advertisement on the Sydney Opera House has had some people offering this argument in support of the odious campaign: 'Oh, but the Opera House was built from funds raised from a lottery! That's gambling! Oh, ho, we've got you now, you leftie elitist wankers!'  So to this I say: Yes, funds from a lottery DID enable the Opera House to be built. But as I also said: that was THEN, this is NOW!

Our Prime Minister defended the State government's capitulation to vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones, er, decision to allow the advertisement to be displayed in a radio interview with vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones, er, radio host Alan Jones - oh hell, I'm running with original choice: Our Prime Minister defended the State government's capitulation to vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones in an interview with the said vile, pissy shock jock, and stated, 'I just don't understand why we tie ourselves up in knots about these things.'

Now, listen Prime Minister, I did not appreciate snorting twin streams of scalding hot coffee out my nostrils when I heard that.  Tied up in knots about things? The toxic twerp interviewing you practically shat out his own liver in a vitriolic and offensive tirade at the CEO of the Opera House, a woman who was DOING HER JOB, which is to administer the charter of the Opera House, and SHE is the one who understands the nuances of what is allowed to be displayed, and what is not. It would appear a promotion of gambling is NOT what the Opera House is about, and let's face it, horse racing is saturated with gambling. And yeah, the proposed ad is just downright tacky and tawdry.

Jones, is it the case that you have associates with interests in the Everest race? Is this why you acted like the Devil had pushed a peeled chilli up your arse? Get over it! Ms Herron understands the rules regarding the Opera House, and you're just an overbearing, over-pampered, piece of dung.

And Gladys Berejiklian, you should be utterly ashamed of yourself for not defending a NSW public servant when she was reviled by that bitter little personification of Toad of Toad Hall.

What a disgraceful business this is.  It actually got me doing something I pretty much never do, and that is signing one of those change dot org petitions. I wonder are Scummo and Berras feeling a bit uneasy at this backlash?

Reader, if you want to leave me a comment, I invite you to do so. However, I probably won't respond for a few days because I'm going on holidays.  Yaaaaaaay!

This has been a simian-inspired post. From Monkees, to organ-grinder's monkeys.

My F**k You Messages For Today

If I was asked to compile a list of things about which I am totally incapable of giving a shit, well, they'd be largely sport related, along with a few Instagram influencers thrown in for good measure. That list includes horse racing. It doesn't interest me in the slightest. I don't even bother going to my local track because the ladies' loo is home to big, horrible, green frogs. I know this because I did attend a meet a few years ago, and ended up having to hobble around with my legs plaited because no way on God's green earth was I going to sit on that toilet seat after I'd flipped up the lid and seen that horrible, bug-eyed, green face peering up from the murky depths of the dunny.  Fortunately, the friend I was with had trainer's credentials, and I was able to get into the Members' Bar and use their facilities, and avoided wetting myself (just narrowly).

Anyway, even now I'm more inclined to avoid racing more than ever, and it's owing to the gloating (yeah, I know I gloated in my last post, but it was about a person who has personally done me much malign) of Racing NSW over the most repugnant interview I have heard in a long time. I don't listen to Alan Jones. I'd prefer to spend my time being fisted by a stevedore wearing studded boxing gloves than listen to Alan Jones. This interview took place between Jones, Opera House boss Louise Herron, and Racing NSW CEO Peter V'Landys. Racing NSW wanted some lighting on the sails of the Opera House to advertise the Everest race. No matter how Racing NSW dressed it up or put on the spin, it's an advertisement, and not a work of art, which is often used to great effect in light shows on the Opera House. Ms Herron pointed out in the interview that the Opera House is not a billboard.

Well, didn't the Parrot just take great umbrage at this? He huffed and puffed like an overblown toxic Toad of Toad Hall, or like a spoiled little brat who's had its toy taken away. He demanded to know who Ms Herron thinks she is because she doesn't own the Opera House. Seriously, Jones, do you operate from a studio in a radio station, or a sandpit in a playground? Grow the fuck up, why don't you? He acted like a vicious, vitriolic, overbearing, perverse poltroon (oh, wait; he IS!) and threatened to ring Premier Berejiklian over this.  Jones, Ms Herron was too much of a lady to tell you to go fuck yourself, but it's really what you should consider doing.  He told Ms Herron she should be sacked. This from a dude who's just been successfully sued for defamation from a family he slandered over the safety of their walls in the 2010 flood in Queensland. And it's not the only time he's been successfully sued for slander, I might add.

And guess what happened next into this total clusterfuck of events? Berras has ordered the Opera House to comply with the submission tendered by Racing NSW!  What the actual fuck?!!!! Who's running the State? Nobody voted for Alan Jones to run the State; it was the Liberal party who were voted in. Not by me; I wouldn't vote those fools in, and I wouldn't vote Gladys Berejiklian to the position of town shit-carter, especially after this.

I'm guessing Jones has some vested interest in the racing industry, aren't you? Also, if he has THAT much sway with the government, maybe he can get onto Berras about getting some of the needed English text books into the schools.  Might tweet the shitheap and ask him...

What Racing NSW has tendered to be shown on that magnificent Sydney land mark is tacky beyond measure. We are talking a level of tackiness on the same level as safari suits, toupees, flying ducks on the walls, garden gnomes, and sauterne-with-roast-beef.  Old Berras caving into that mouth-running pissant Jones has nauseated me to a degree I have not felt in years - even when I copped a tummy bug in India.

Fuck you, Berras and Jones. What an unholy union you make.

While we're on the topic of grots to whom Fucks Yous are to be directed, I will make mention of Channel 9 in their coverage of the little conjoined twins from Bhutan who are in Melbourne awaiting surgery to facilitate their separation. The headline from Channel 9 went along the lines 'Taxpayers to foot the bill for surgery...'.  This had me shaking my head in despair at its utter disgracefulness. So what? These are CHILDREN, and this is life-saving surgery.  Were I a Victorian, I'd be more than happy for my taxes to assist. I was incredibly angry about this headline, designed purely to whip up xenophobia and populism. Fuck you too, Channel 9. Whoever devised, and whoever sanctioned that headline: you suck and should eat a bag of dicks.

Show Tunes in a Snarky Setting

Some words are unpleasant to the ear, and equally unpleasant for the speaker to enunciate. Some of the words have the 'oa' diphthong, like 'gloat', which rhymes with 'bloat'. Both have negative connotations.  Spoken aloud, the word 'gloat' sounds like the heraldic note of an imminent chunder.  Think about it, Reader - it really does. However, 'gloat' and 'bloat' are wonderfully onomatopoeic words.  'Onomatopoeic' is an awesome word. It's musical to the ear, and doesn't evoke memories of having a chuck over toilet (aka driving the porcelain bus).

When a person gloats, they are revelling in malicious glee at another's perceived misfortune. They are dripping in Schadenfreude (another awesome word). They are being unpleasant.  They are being smug. They are being obnoxious.

They are also being me, at the moment.

Yes, I have been gloating today. In my own logic, I have good reason to be gloating because the Karma Bus appears to have come screaming around the corner and splattered this odious pile of pox-ridden cunt snot who has really been putting the pennies on its Opal card for the fare Karma demands. Note: driving the Karma Bus is not the same as driving the porcelain bus.

I know I'm not being nice, but if you knew the stress this person has caused me, you'd understand WHY I've been singing showtunes from Oklahoma ('...I've got a bee-yooo-tiful feeeeeelinnnggg/everything's going my way!) and Gypsy ('Everything's coming up roses....').  You'd totally empathise with me cranking up Instant Karma as I tidied the kitchen.  Whilst the karma wasn't actually instantaneous (indeed, it took a good year or so), it felt mighty fine. And like the song says, I will 'shine on'.

Okay, enough with the snarking, and being snide. I will now continue enjoying the sunshine as I go to the supermarket, and thenceforth the gym.

And we all shine on.

Council Craziness

Whilst I am not in a hurry to throw my hat into the ring and stand for council, I know what I would do if I WAS a councillor in the tier of Local Government. I would door knock and get some concerns from the coal face of the townsfolk. I would ensure potholes are filled. I would ensure the garbage is collected, and the swimming pool is maintained, and the parks are looked after, and especially the drains. Having been a victim of flooding twice after freakish storm cells partly owing to, I still maintain, woefully inadequate drains that couldn't cope with an anaemic fairy having a piss down them much less the torrential rainwater, I would DEFINITELY be working on dem drains, believe you me!

Maybe I would encourage the townsfolk to partake in a tidy towns type of project. I would definitely encourage the pubs to have live bands, and especially provide a platform for local musicians.

I know what I would not do, and that is orchestrate some dumb-arsed scheme wherein what adults view in the privacy of their own home is under question. This should not even be a concept. But it's happening, folks; in Toowoomba, to be precise. The civic fathers are hoping to turn Toowoomba into a porn-free town. There will be a gathering - whereat male attendees are encouraged to take the pledge to not view porn - on 16 October 2018.  Sorry I can't get there, folks; I'm busy cutting my toenails and using the clippings as boomerangs that day.

To the Mayor of Toowoomba and his fawning acolytes, how can I put this delicately? Oh, I know: Are you all smoking crack? Do you seriously think this idea is going to work? Why do you think the viewing habits of adults in their own homes is of your concern? I'm aware you're trotting out the 'encourages abuse against women and children' trope, but that's a load of gangrenous shit.  As a parent, what my kids view concerns me. I'm not so naïve to think they're not accessing questionable material when I'm not around. I have two teenage sons, and they have male teenage friends. I have had 'the talk', and told them they are looking at paid actors and to not expect every female (or male) partner they have to be willing to carry out the acts viewed on screen. It was uncomfortable. My oldest turned an incandescent shade of magenta, and squirmed like a bucket of worms in an earthquake. But the talk had to be had.

As I just mentioned, as a parent, I get concerned about KIDS. As an adult citizen, I don't give a fart in a hurricane what other adults of sound mind choose to view in privacy. It's none of my damned business, and it's certainly none of the business of the civic drones of Toowoomba Council. This silly idea is laughable, and it's really not workable. What are you going to do? Sit outside residents' homes in a van that has been equipped with satellite equipment, as you grip high-power binoculars in one hand, and a thermos of hot cocoa in the other, kind of like some self-righteous cops on stakeout?

Your idea totally sucks the dried dags from the fur around a Maltese terrier's arse. I would suggest you worry about Toowoomba's infrastructure or something instead.

The Space Race

Before I start my rant, just let me point out I KNOW it's bad form and tantamount to bullying to 'shame' someone on the Internet. I'm just really pissed off at something I saw on breakfast television this morning. I'm pissed off at the woman in the latest 'going viral' footage, and I'm pissed off at the attitudes of the talking heads blathering their bullshit, saying 'good on her for standing her ground.'

If you haven't yet seen it, the footage was filmed in a Westfield car park in Auckland, New Zealand. The driver of a vehicle wants to get into a car space, and it's being 'held' by a large (well, more like elephantine) woman in a blue skivvy top, with a young boy beside her. She would not move for the person in the car, because she was holding it for someone. They had a stand-off for ten minutes, and she got out her mobile phone, perhaps a pretend conversation. The driver honked the horn to disturb her conversation, assuming there was conversation. I would have done the same. I would also have phoned the management of the car park, and told them to have their security guards remove the behemoth from the parking space (and as a matter of courtesy advised a tow truck might be necessary).

Throughout the undignified interchange, the kid looks nervous.  I don't blame him. He was probably wondering would the driver of the vehicle lose it, and mow them down. Perhaps he was wondering was there even the smallest chance he might be adopted (assuming the cretinous woman was his biological mother).

Lady, people like you really get me grinding my molars. You are a mutton-headed, lame-brained lummox with a sense of entitlement that rivals your hip measurement in size. Just because you share the same dimensions as a Volkswagon Golf doesn't mean you can just stand in that vacant car space.  There is no dibs, no bags-ing, no holding when it comes to available car spaces.

She reminds me of the dried dingleberry tangled in Satan's butt hairs that my husband and I had the misfortune with which to deal on a day out at the seaside, with our kids and a friend in tow. We found the last car spot, only to find the said dried dingleberry standing in it. 

'Get out!' yelled my husband to the numpty.

With the hangdog expression of one who is totally pussy-whipped, the idiot said he was waiting for his girlfriend.

I lowered my window, stuck out my head and shouted, 'I don't care if you're waiting for the Queen! We've driven one and a half hours with kids in the back, now MOVE!'

A guy walking by stopped and joined the brewing fracas, telling the fool, 'Mate, you can't hold car spaces. You're not allowed. Now MOVE.' 

He skulked away, wondering was the haranguing he would get from his hellbeast of a girlfriend better than the haranguing he was getting from us.  Also, even if we DID decide to park blocks away, the next driver might not have been so understanding and flattened the squib. 

Yes, people like him, and that woman in the car park really, totally, unequivocably shit me to tears.  And you two idiots on Sunrise, what the fuck were you thinking supporting her? Just wait until YOU find a car space with a fuckhead like her standing in it.

Where I Make Mention of Leprous, Syphiltic, Mass-Murdering Rats

I don't know what to title this little post, but it's along the lines of: What The Government's Doing To Piss Me Off Today. Life can be an ordeal at times when you're not a financially advantaged person. Believe me, I know. It doesn't make you a bad person. But if you're a welfare recipient, you're right down there with a leprous, syphilitic, mass-murdering, gang-raping rodent if the Government is anything to go by. Today's news headlines are along the lines of the Morrison Government cracking down on 'welfare bludgers' travelling overseas.

Is this even constitutional? Weee-llll, given people who owe child support are occasionally stopped at airports, perhaps it is. The creeps in charge seem to be extending that power to cover people owing money to the Commonwealth, or 'welfare rorters and bludgers' as the Murdoch press is so fond of dubbing them.  Also, let's face it: that scabrous old shit Rupert Murdoch is the puppeteer of the Liberal party, his arthritic, gnarled, and knotted old fingers working the strings on the marionettes as they dance around Parliament House, dropping this leader and that one because the said leaders aren't conducive to Rupe's grand plan (which appears to be making a pile of money that reaches the moon).

What this blogger takes issue to is the arrogant and draconian nature of this plan. Next thing, instead of lacing up his Oxfords of a morning, Scummo will be lacing up jackboots.

Travelling bludgers, Scummo? Then surely this includes Bronwyn Bishop, aka Bronnie the Beehive, with her helicopter rides!

To my knowledge, having debts is not a crime. So why should people be not allowed overseas travel? What if someone else has actually paid for the journey? What if the purpose of the journey is a funeral? And what if these people who allegedly owe money to the Commonwealth are actually victims of the robodebt generated by Centrelink's computer system? Is this fair? I'm running with 'No'.

'We don't believe people who owe the Commonwealth money should be allowed overseas travel,' they're saying.  Well, I don't believe the country should be run by Indue-loving, needlessly punitive, welfare-bashing pustules-on-a-diseased-donkey-dick, but hey, here we are!

Those of you who know me well will know I have miniscule patience with Social Justice Warriors. You know, the people who wake up and wonder what they can be offended by that day, and on whose behalf. Last night, I read in my Twitter feed a company that manufactures costumes has withdrawn the latest idea for the upcoming Hallowe'en festival: a sexy imagining of the robes worn in The Handmaid's Tale.  Nearly every negative comment I read described the company as being 'tone-deaf' in this current sensitive climate. As an aside, what's with the constant description of something possibly insensitive as 'tone-deaf'.  I thought 'tone-deaf' was me attempting to croak out a tune!

It's like someone has cried, 'I'm offended because this is fetishising the costume representing the oppression and punishment, and stripping of individuality of women insofar as it dictates what women can wear, so I'm going to call for its removal from sale because I don't think people should be allowed to wear this and express their individuality!' See where I'm going with this?  Try some irony, SJWs; it's good for the blood.

You think the costume is offensive? Then that's your problem. Nobody is forcing you to dress thus for the Hallowe'en celebrations, and from the sounds of it, you'd not really be a laugh-a-minute at costume parties, anyway. You'd be too frightened of cultural appropriation, or sexism, or ageism, or fetishisation, or being mistaken for someone who might have a sense of humour.  Let me point out this:

1. The Handmaid's Tale is fiction. Yes, there are some creepy parallels in real life, but at the end of the day, this is a work of FICTION, and the costume is a parody.

2. Anything is capable of being fetishised.  I'm personally irritated by sexy nurse costumes because nurses do a damned important job, but that's my problem and I'm not about to tell people they can't dress this way for a party. I once read an article about fetishes (I like to remain informed), and one of the contributors had a thing for the smell of freshly baked bread. Do we ban bakeries now?

3. A Clockwork Orange is also a violent and dystopian art work, so can people not dress like Alex De Large because, in your labyrinthine logic, this is a glorification of violence?

4. You probably need to have a really good poo.

So, those of you annoyed at having the sexy handmaid costume withdrawn, let me suggest this: go to a charity shop, buy a red dress and some draping fabric.  You can either fashion costume yourself, or else a crafty friend could stitch you up the cape, a minidress, and a bonnet.  Also, you will be supporting the charity shop and doing much more for society than people who whinge for nothing.

Defcon1 and DeafEars

Once upon a time in the fair land of New South Wales, there was a large festival whereat some people ate poisoned pellets and died. 

The ruler of this fair land, Queen Gladys, was aghast and decreed that from that day forward the festivals would be no more.

After that, nobody ever ate poisoned pellets and died again, and they all lived happily ever after.

How's that for a bedtime story, children? Not buying it?  How about this one:

Once upon a time the fair land of New South Wales was ruled by a very silly Queen. The subjects of the Queen liked to attend galas, and one day, some people ate poisoned pellets and died. 

The Queen declared that from that day on galas would be banned. The people didn't listen to her, and just held their festivals in secret. Some people ate poisoned pellets, but because there were no physicians at the gala because the physicians didn't know about it, the pellet-takers were unable to be helped, and as a result died.

People were very angry because the deaths could have been prevented, and because the land was a democracy, voted the silly Queen and her Band of Merry Simpletons out as soon as they could.

The new ruler of the land knew the galas were lots of fun for many people, and also helped raise money for the merchants in the land, so the galas were reinstated. The ruler also had the wisdom to install special  apothecaries at the galas who could test the pellets to determine whether they were more dangerous than normal. When the gala-goers were told whether the pellets had been adulterated with poisons like Borax, or whether they were just compressed Cashmere Bouquet, those gala-goers knew the risks. When things went wrong, there were lots of wise physicians available to help the pellet-takers. The pellet-takers learned their lessons, and the families of the pellet-takers were happy.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Yeah, I like second version. Queen Gladys, er, Premier Berejyklian, bloody stop and THINK for a moment, instead of riding the knee-jerk train. Seriously, your knee jerks like a prisoner riding the lightning in the electric chair! From what I understand, Sydney's party life had already been squashed like a bug, what with the curfew laws. This ludicrous and Draconian measure you're thinking of is NOT going to prevent drug deaths. They will continue, and possibly increase because if a festival has been driven underground, it might be difficult to facilitate the attendance of paramedics at said festival.

Pill testing is available at festivals held overseas, and there is evidence to suggest it actually works as a harm minimisation strategy. Experts in the area, such as Dr Alex Wodak, push most vociferously for the testing to be made available at venues. Is it that difficult to listen to an expert, or are you just a great big ball of obtuse, coated in a crunchy layer of imperception? Yes, I know it's a person's choice to take drugs, and ideally they shouldn't, but here's the reality: they DO! Do you and your Merry Band of Simpletons just not want to help prevent a death, and the subsequent grieving of a family?

 How many families lives are destroyed by gambling? Lots. Where's your cry to ban poker machines? What's that I hear? (*typing with one hand because other is cupped to ear in pantomime style*). Crickets. Ooooh, that's right; the government gets income from the poker machines, so we won't ban those, will we?

How many people die on the roads? More than we'd like. I have seen no call for cars to be banned.  Furthermore, some of these road deaths are caused by alcohol. Although the nightlife has been all but disintegrated, there has still been  no call to actually ban the pubs, clubs, and bottle shops outright.

The festivals are subject to the approval of the local council with jurisdiction over whatever venue is proposed. Yet, here you are wanting to come roaring in like a bull in a china shop, overriding everything and everyone with arsehat ideas that do absolutely fuck-all. Why not, instead of a fruitless ban, an idea right down there with your proposed knocking down and rebuilding of sports stadiums, how about worrying about aforementioned roads, and hospitals, and schools? I'm still not happy that my son came home and asked could he borrow my old battered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, because his school (a State one) had insufficient copies of the syllabus-decreed text. Is this just not important to you?  I'm guessing not.

At a press gathering following the deaths at Defcon1, you emphatically stated, from beneath your hardhat (what's with the hardhat; are you frightened someone's going to drop a house on you, like what happened to the Wicked Witch of the East?), that your government has zero tolerance on drugs. Hey, I'm not a huge fan of drugs, either. But I'm even less a fan of not implementing potential life-saving strategies.

Zero drug tolerance? Add to that zero common sense, and this is somewhat disconcerting.

Who Will Be Offended Today?

I swear some people must do massive buy-ups at Bunnings and stock up on the pitchforks, and those stick-in-the-ground garden torches.  They bide their time, hear about something, then snatch up the pitchforks, light the torches, and chase some hapless patsy through the street as they yell, 'Raaaar-aaaaarr!'

All I'm reading about lately is some cartoon of Serena Williams. It's caused a shitfight that Tom Wolfe could only dream about putting in one of his novels.  Unless you've been on the Moon (in which case, welcome back and glad you didn't burn up on re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere), you would be aware that the world appears to have lost its shit over a cartoon that was published in the Murdoch press, depicting Serena Williams chucking a massive tanty. I've seen the cartoon, and to be honest, thought it was a good caricature. I wasn't overly amused by it, but I wasn't offended, either. It seems everyone else is offended, on the grounds it is racist.

Racist, how is what I wondered, so I did a little bit of research into what has everybody lighting the torches and sharpening the pitchforks, as well as clearing the throat and expelling the phlegm so they can yell, 'Raaaar-aaaaar!' The perceived problem in the cartoon is the style is reminiscent of the Jim Crow era cartoons in which people of colour were depicted in a derogatory and exaggerated style, and are generally considered offensive.  Okay.  That is offensive.

But is the cartoon in question offensive? Let's contextualise a little folks. This is Australia and the year is 2018. The Jim Crow laws, that enforced racial segregation, took place in the Southern States of the US from around the 1970s until 1965. I don't know personally know the cartoonist who drew this apparent portent of the apocalypse (going from the reactions of everybody from JK Rowling to the old guy up the road who used to yell at my dog), so I can't say whether he's familiar with the aforementioned cartoons. Maybe he studied that style of drawing in art history, but I don't know.  Did he draw the cartoon with a sinister racist intent?  Again, I don't know, but I kind of have my doubts.

This cartoon addresses petulant and perceived brattish behaviour on the part of Serena Williams. What its vociferous critics are up in arms about is the style in which it is drawn. I am going to point this out to the critics: the drawing is a caricature. It is not a portrait. It is a C-A-R-I-C-A-T-U-R-E. You tend to see them a lot in satirical works. One of the elements of caricature is the exaggeration of the subject's features. Put it this way: have you ever seen a caricature of Prince Charles in which his ears don't rival that of Dumbo the Elephant?

I've copped a bit of flack over my refusal to believe the cartoon set out to propagate racism. I honestly don't see any in the cartoon. I'm not so arrogant to believe that just because I don't see it, it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. But yeah, I just don't see it. I see a caricature of a woman chucking a massive wobbly.

I mentioned on a Twitter thread that I understood WHY people considered the cartoon racist, but didn't see anything offensive myself and that the cartoon was directed towards Williams' behaviour, and not her ethnicity. For my pains I was told by an enlightened social media user to pull my head out of my ass. I informed this erudite wordsmith that she should read my comment again properly because I acknowledged that some people see it as racist, and understood their reasoning; and I suggested she organise for Search and Rescue to retrieve HER head from HER arse (I said 'arse'  because I'm an Aussie).  Apparently my whiteness is really showing.  According to her, anyway.  Is there something wrong with believing a cartoon actually focuses on a tantrum thrown by an elite sportswoman?

Something that's really bothering me is the concept of people being afraid to work on their art, because someone will lose their shit. Good art makes people think and speak, and furthermore, art is under no obligation to conform to societal norms and morals.

Ars gratia artis, folks.

From Shakespeare to Shit

Last Thursday, for my tutoring work, I located my old copy of MacBeth, which thankfully I had not thrown out and which also thankfully had some notations I scribbled during uni lectures (I'm assisting a student whose class is studying the play). I adore this play.  It is my favourite Shakespearean work: corrupt nobility, evil and soulless people, supernatural, gore, and an awesome plot twist worthy of Hitchcock - what's not to like? I sat on my lounge, text in one hand; pen and lecture pad in the other, and re-read the text, making notes as I did so. Even though I was reading for 'studious' purposes, I really did enjoy my day. I remembered the themes, I picked up different points for imagery, and really got to understand what a cold-hearted and high-riding bitch Lady MacBeth was. My friends, I read Shakespeare for the enjoyment! This made me feel smugly superior and intellectually advanced.  What a lovely day I had.

But from Shakespeare to twaddle. My elation at reading a classic, and grabbing 'more' from it soon soured. I read something that I am certain caused my IQ to plummet like a busted elevator. I read some article on the Sunrise Facebook page regarding footage of a woman dipping her chicken strips into a cola drink, and then eating them. Who. Fucking. CARES?!!!! I personally would not do this, but if she wants to, then it is her right. What really, really makes me want to stomp on the heads of newborn kittens is that somebody actually filmed this, and shared it online. Why? This is a common recurrence in my whingeing: that people film other people minus their subject's knowledge and consent, and then share it on social media. And the 'hook' is usually something incredibly inane and pointless, like the dining eccentricities of somebody. Unless the woman was eating someone's liver with fava beans and swilling it down with Italian plonk, then it is really not of interest. I don't think I have any eating quirks, but if you think I do, please consider this: if you are going to film me and share footage sans my okay, then you might find yourself enjoying a tasty knuckle sandwich, capisce?

Another person who appears to think it is okay to film and share, minus consent, is Jett Kenny. I actually don't mind this young man. If you don't know who he is, he is the son of Grant Kenny and Lisa Curry-Kenny. He's a model, and did the old 'sparked online smacking debate' about a picture he took of a rambunctious kid in a doctor's surgery, which he shared on a social media with the caption along the lines of 'give your kid a smack'.  There was hue and cry from all quarters about the rights of parents to smack, or that parents should not smack, but not many comments I read addressed the pachyderm blocking everyone's view of the television set: he photographed someone's kid and put the photo online! As I said to you in a Facebook comment, Jett: by all means have an opinion on someone's parenting, but putting a photo of the kid online is very, very WRONG! I really rather hope if you pass on those golden genes of yours, you find yourself in a supermarket, and your kid is tired, and screams like an air raid siren before knocking over an entire stand of that week's special: Maltesers, and the packets break, and Maltesers roll everywhere, and everyone in the supermarket gives you the judgemental fish-eye.

Other dumb thing I read: Greens' MP Adam Bandt posted a photograph of himself with his wife on his Facebook page, and captioned it he was out with his 'hot wife'.  Oh, that's not what's dumb. If he thinks his wife is hot, then he can say that. What was dumb is the criticism he copped for posting a comment that some deem is in the sexual objectification of women territory.  Everyone, cool the fuck down. It's his WIFE! And then, his wife commented to state she was not worried by his comment, but this wasn't enough. The social justice warriors were still squawking like a nest of starving baby birds. Listen, people, Bandt's wife Claudia Perkins wasn't offended by Bandt's comment, so leave it alone already! You're giving us lefties a bad name. Pick  your battles. Get some perspective: a man mentions he thinks his wife looks attractive. This is not the crime of the century. This is not rape culture. This is not being sexist. Find another bone to gnaw on, okay?

Well, I'm off now. No doubt I will find more dumb things to read, and wonder if the species is actually devolving.

Note to self: stop looking at Sunrise Facebook page.