Just lately I've not been as prolific on the old blog as I normally am. When I first started blogging after the publication of my first novel Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh you could not keep me away from the computer. My fingers itched to traverse the keyboard the way an addict hangs out for his or her next fix (put to good imagery in the book Trainspotting, which is a motif in my first novel).
But I've noticed something of a change in my habits over the past month. A bit of self-diagnosis on my part tells me the longer times between posts are likely due to the culmination of one shit thing after the other that has just left me feeling buried in a pile of utter blah. The shit things are not resolved, either. I could handle these shit things (my phrase for social stressors) if they could be resolved before the next shit thing rolls in, like a great big shitball being pushed along by a dung beetle. The lamentable thing is they are not resolved. One shit thing appears in my life, and is joined by another shit thing, then another, and along comes another, until they snowball into one gargantuan shit ball that is the metaphor for the crap situations in my life. Given the potential litigious nature of one of the shit things, I have not discussed it in my blog. Trust me, I would just love to. I'd love to take down the trouble makers a peg or two, and metaphorically grind their faces into the footpath. When it's resolved, I just might do that. But when will it be resolved? That is the question (to borrow from the vexed Hamlet).
As you can imagine, these situations have made me dreadfully unhappy, and are doing my health no good at all. But I have been taking charge of things, and doing activities to cheer myself. Also, when I feel that Black Dog try to hump my leg, I attempt to remove myself from the situation. I did this on Monday night by switching off the television. I had to. I was watching Q & A and the panellist Jim Molan (a retired army officer and now a Liberal senator) said a few times he had faith in Peter Dutton. I shouted at the television like Molan could hear me, demanding to know what the fuck he was thinking placing his faith in that evil, grubby, reprehensible fascist monster Peter Dutton. Then I knew I had to turn off the television.
So today I have been watching You Tube clips, and smiling again. This is what I've watched:
1. Locomotion by Grand Funk Railroad. I smiled because it's live from the late Seventies, and Mark Farner is not wearing a shirt. Call me a dirty old sexist she-wolf, but the dude's body could have been carved by Michelangelo, and on the lyrics: 'you gotta swing your hips now' he swung his hips. Ladies, look it up for yourselves and tell me I'm wrong to feel the way I do. Also, you can thank me later after you have viewed said clip.
2. One More Night by Yellow Dog. I think this might have been a one hit wonder. Does anyone else remember it from 1979 or thereabouts?
3. Cool for Cats by Squeeze. Lyrically, it seems very nihilistic and bleak, with a rather disenfranchised nohoper for a narrator. But the tempo is upbeat, and the delivery (half-sung and half-rapped in Cockney) is most enjoyable. This song was out when I was about twelve, and I remember the line: 'I'm invited in for coffee and I give the dog a bone...'. Um, I thought he was a really nice houseguest being courteous to the family pet. How innocent was I? But I'm thinking of putting this one on the iPod. My thirteen-year-old will almost certainly enjoy it. He's definitely inherited my musical tastes (except for his constant playing of Africa by Toto, a song I cordially detest).
4. He's A Rebel by Debbie Byrne. This was a remake of the Vicki Carr number by one of the Young Talent Time alumni. I really liked Debbie's interpretation, and still do enjoy listening. I remember someone on the school bus playing it on the old Sony tape recorder, so I equate the song with red vinyl bus seats, and this scrawny little twerp in second class singing along.
Well, I had best sign off. My tutoring session for this afternoon has cancelled, so I might take my dogs for a walk in the fresh air. This will do me, and my dogs, good.
Tuesday 29 May 2018
Friday 25 May 2018
Memo to Channel 7 & Barnaby Joyce
Memo to: Channel 7 and Barnaby Joyce
From: Simone Bailey aka Bingells
Subject: Interview scheduled for the Sunday program
Please attend at nearest pharmacy practicable, and once there obtain Immodium. Consume the entire packet. Why? Because you're SHITTING us, aren't you? Honestly, do you seriously think we the public are interested in a paid interview - to wit, $150,000.00 - with Barnaby and his partner Vicki regarding their baby (bless the poor kid).
Barnaby, you have to be shitting us. Seriously shitting us. Packing box of Laxettes followed up with a two-litre bottle of prune juice shitting us. Mate, you pretty much threw the poor woman under the bus by implying the baby might not be yours. Glad you're not my partner. I guess your disposable income has nosedived like an Acapulco cliff diver now you're no longer Deputy Prime Minister, and ergo not enjoying the financial perks that accompany the position, hence the decision to partake in this interview. To be honest, I don't care you're being paid because that's your business entirely. You're entitled to take the money if Channel 7 are moronic enough to offer it. I hope they grill you about your recalcitrance to approve the potentially life-saving Gardasil, a drug that - by your flawed reckoning - could lead to promiscuity among girls. I said it before and I'll say it again: first of all, nobody - ahem! - gives a fuck as it's nobody's business, and secondly I'm pretty sure the medication does not have some potent alchemic qualities to cause a normal woman to transmorph into a raving nymphomaniac. That you don't want young women to have more than one partner, and then turned around and implied the mother of the Bubba Beetroot was not monogamous, tells me you're not only coloured magenta. You're also coloured a less-than-fetching shade of Hypocrite (it's near Jerk on the colour chart).
Channel 7, you too are shitting us. Why do you think we care? Are you hoping we will happen to be channel surfing and come upon this cheap ratings grab, whereupon we will be helplessly drawn in by the tractor beam of its sheer unadulterated tawdriness and car crash factor? This happened to me with A Current Affair some years ago. I looked, and was held in horrified thrall as though I had gazed upon the countenance of a fierce gorgon. The ex-Mrs Edelsten, Leanne (forget her current surname) was talking about her affair with Clive James. When the interview was over, and my delirium wore off, I felt as though I had soiled myself. Will I watch this interview with Barnaby? I'm not that inclined to. But I just might. If I do, you will all hear my thoughts.
'Tis all for now. Shall write again soon.
From: Simone Bailey aka Bingells
Subject: Interview scheduled for the Sunday program
Please attend at nearest pharmacy practicable, and once there obtain Immodium. Consume the entire packet. Why? Because you're SHITTING us, aren't you? Honestly, do you seriously think we the public are interested in a paid interview - to wit, $150,000.00 - with Barnaby and his partner Vicki regarding their baby (bless the poor kid).
Barnaby, you have to be shitting us. Seriously shitting us. Packing box of Laxettes followed up with a two-litre bottle of prune juice shitting us. Mate, you pretty much threw the poor woman under the bus by implying the baby might not be yours. Glad you're not my partner. I guess your disposable income has nosedived like an Acapulco cliff diver now you're no longer Deputy Prime Minister, and ergo not enjoying the financial perks that accompany the position, hence the decision to partake in this interview. To be honest, I don't care you're being paid because that's your business entirely. You're entitled to take the money if Channel 7 are moronic enough to offer it. I hope they grill you about your recalcitrance to approve the potentially life-saving Gardasil, a drug that - by your flawed reckoning - could lead to promiscuity among girls. I said it before and I'll say it again: first of all, nobody - ahem! - gives a fuck as it's nobody's business, and secondly I'm pretty sure the medication does not have some potent alchemic qualities to cause a normal woman to transmorph into a raving nymphomaniac. That you don't want young women to have more than one partner, and then turned around and implied the mother of the Bubba Beetroot was not monogamous, tells me you're not only coloured magenta. You're also coloured a less-than-fetching shade of Hypocrite (it's near Jerk on the colour chart).
Channel 7, you too are shitting us. Why do you think we care? Are you hoping we will happen to be channel surfing and come upon this cheap ratings grab, whereupon we will be helplessly drawn in by the tractor beam of its sheer unadulterated tawdriness and car crash factor? This happened to me with A Current Affair some years ago. I looked, and was held in horrified thrall as though I had gazed upon the countenance of a fierce gorgon. The ex-Mrs Edelsten, Leanne (forget her current surname) was talking about her affair with Clive James. When the interview was over, and my delirium wore off, I felt as though I had soiled myself. Will I watch this interview with Barnaby? I'm not that inclined to. But I just might. If I do, you will all hear my thoughts.
'Tis all for now. Shall write again soon.
Sunday 20 May 2018
I Got the Fever (Royal Wedding Fever)
Okay, I'm not ashamed to admit I had a look at the Royal Wedding on Saturday night. Notwithstanding the cool aloof insouciance I try to project, I am a sucker for weddings. I watched my first Royal Wedding in 1981 when Prince Harry's parents married. I hated Diana's dress. Still do. Even by Eighties standards I thought it absolutely appalling. It took excess to a level even Rose Porteous wouldn't attempt. It was a crumpled tizzy mess with bouf and puff and pomposity all over the place. At best, it looked like it needed a hit with the iron. At worst, it resembled a wad of scrunched up toilet paper. Of course, everyone remembers Diana's (apparently endearing) mix-up of Charles' names. Instead of vowing to Charles Phillip Arthur George, she vowed to Phillip Charles Arthur George. As we watched in our lounge room, my older brother roared like a troll on nitrous oxide. I think there's a reason Diana did this, alongside the understandable nerves (let's face it, she was being watched world-wide and had not long seen Charles' still-close ex Camilla in the congregation). But how does this sound for an explanation? When forming phrases, people find it more natural to use the word with the short 'i' sound first, before a word with the other vowels. This is why we say 'clip-clop' (although the horse's hoofs all make exactly the same sound), or 'ding-dong', or 'tick-tock'. This riveting phenomenon is known as ablaut reduplication, and since learning of it, I suspect it played a role in Diana's slip-up. Even now, if I have to recite HRH's names - not that I am often required to do this - I seem to think Phillip Charles first.
But back to Harry and Meghan. Yeah, I thought she looked gorgeous. The dress was elegant simplicity which melded beautifully with the tiara and veil. The tiara - oh my god! I sighed orgasmically when I saw it. I even liked the veil, with it's homage to the traditional national flowers of the Commonwealth, and Meghan's home State. This is high praise from me; I dislike veils - they make me think of mosquito netting and some kind of female oppression - and I refused to wear one at my own wedding. Seeing Prince Charles escort her along the aisle put a lump in my throat; such a lovely and welcoming gesture. Meghan's mother projected a poise and elegance that matched any member of the Royal family, and thank heavens Meghan's arsehat father and half-siblings were nowhere in sight. The couple themselves looked so lovely, and I melted at the tenderness with which Harry used his thumb to stroke Meghan's hand as they were seated. He has matured into a terrific guy, and she has somuch grace, style and confidence. I cannot believe I am gushing so. What is wrong with me?
I also enjoyed seeing what the guests were decked out in. The York sisters are probably still wincing at the reactions to their headwear (Eugenie in a blue vulva, and Beatrice in shell-pink antlers) from the wedding of Wills and Kate, and wore more sedate head apparel this time. Amal Clooney looked stunning; indeed, all the guests I saw looked appropriate and dignified. But why-oh-WHY can't Victoria Beckham ever bloody smile? I'm imagining the Beckhams getting ready to step out in public:
David: 'Come on, Vicky; we gotta go. Do I have my shoes on the right feet?'
Victoria: 'Hang on, David. I've got to suck a lemon first.'
I've read she does not like how she looks when she smiles. But surely a smile is better than looking like this:
But back to Harry and Meghan. Yeah, I thought she looked gorgeous. The dress was elegant simplicity which melded beautifully with the tiara and veil. The tiara - oh my god! I sighed orgasmically when I saw it. I even liked the veil, with it's homage to the traditional national flowers of the Commonwealth, and Meghan's home State. This is high praise from me; I dislike veils - they make me think of mosquito netting and some kind of female oppression - and I refused to wear one at my own wedding. Seeing Prince Charles escort her along the aisle put a lump in my throat; such a lovely and welcoming gesture. Meghan's mother projected a poise and elegance that matched any member of the Royal family, and thank heavens Meghan's arsehat father and half-siblings were nowhere in sight. The couple themselves looked so lovely, and I melted at the tenderness with which Harry used his thumb to stroke Meghan's hand as they were seated. He has matured into a terrific guy, and she has somuch grace, style and confidence. I cannot believe I am gushing so. What is wrong with me?
I also enjoyed seeing what the guests were decked out in. The York sisters are probably still wincing at the reactions to their headwear (Eugenie in a blue vulva, and Beatrice in shell-pink antlers) from the wedding of Wills and Kate, and wore more sedate head apparel this time. Amal Clooney looked stunning; indeed, all the guests I saw looked appropriate and dignified. But why-oh-WHY can't Victoria Beckham ever bloody smile? I'm imagining the Beckhams getting ready to step out in public:
David: 'Come on, Vicky; we gotta go. Do I have my shoes on the right feet?'
Victoria: 'Hang on, David. I've got to suck a lemon first.'
I've read she does not like how she looks when she smiles. But surely a smile is better than looking like this:
Not sure who modelled it, but I guess he's on his way to get his saucer of milk, or kill some native birds.
Now, to answer some of the social media questions I've been reading about the nuptials, and all things related.
1. Major James Hewitt is not Prince Harry's father. So what if they both have red hair? Diana's brother and one of her sisters are also rangas. Furthermore, Harry was born in 1984, and the affair between Diana and Hewitt started in 1986. I'm sure he didn't cross the fourth dimension and impregnate her around Christmas 1983.
2. For those in the US, Meghan is not now a princess. She is a duchess. Duchess of Sussex, to be precise.
3. For those saying the daughter of Earl Spencer (Diana's brother) is the lookalike of her late aunt, she's not. Get to Specsavers post-haste. I will say Lady Kitty is pretty, and I adored the green dress she wore to the wedding. But she is not the lookalike of Diana, and everyone stop saying this, please.
4. Again, and this one goes out to the former Posh Spice: for God's sake, bloody learn to smile.
Anyway, I'm signing off now. Maybe I should look for my usual acerbic attitude, which I appear to have misplaced in my enjoyment of the wedding.
I was very worried yesterday morning when I saw my oldest son with a broom. I thought he had been kidnapped, and an evil foreign lookalike spy sent in his place. My son NEVER sweeps his floor unless he is asked. Countless times. But I relaxed when I saw him using the handle to retrieve his soccer shin pad from behind the dresser; I knew he was the real thing.
Wednesday 16 May 2018
Today's Musings
Again, I've not been on the computer that much this week. It seems last week I had something on Every. Single. NIGHT! From meetings, to writers' group get-togethers, to my kid's dance class, to the school musical.
Anyway, my kids' school staged a production of Disco Inferno last week. I went along with my youngest, who surprised pretty much everybody by not having auditioned for it. We loved it. So much talent in this town. I kind of knew what to expect because I had seen another school's production some years ago. What impressed me is they didn't 'sanitise' songs, which is what happened in the other production. One of the kids sang a Gary Glitter number (Wanna Be in My Gang), and I'm sure it wasn't included in the other production I saw. I would remember if it was because it's a bit of a contentious thing to do, include Gary Glitter's songs in a show. Also, I'm a fan of Gary Glitter's music, given I'm something of a glam rock nut. Yes, the sprog and I had a lovely night. Unfortunately there was no sausage sandwich stall, and our dinner that consisted of popcorn, which I happily bought for us as I parried the questions along the line of: Why isn't your boy up there? (God, do I sound like a pushy Mama Rose stage mum type, or what?).
Anyway, two more sleeps until the Royal Wedding. It's been fraught with drama, and I'm sorry for the poor bride, having the family hassles she has been having. It's been dubbed the Markle Debacle. I just want the damn thing to be over because I am so over hearing about it. I like the couple and wish them every happiness. I just wish the media would stop saturating us with pointless twaddle. Oh well, it's very rare that the path to a wedding is smooth, when there's family involved. People seem to forget the wedding is about the couple, not THEM. One of my peeves with weddings is the people who refuse to attend if their children are not invited. Can't get a sitter? Then just one of you attend. I remember reading on a forum a comment that a person had refused to attend a family wedding to which the kids weren't invited with the explanation: 'We attend as a family.' (Yeah, the bride and groom really want to have to feed your kids as well, you entitled pratt). Years ago, at a playgroup Mums Night Out, one of the mothers was talking about an upcoming family wedding, and added she had told her husband, 'If the kids aren't invited, then we're not going!' Unable to take any more of the bullshit, I put down my knife and fork and pointed out that the couple possibly did not want children there. Geez, my husband and I didn't have kids at out wedding, either. Some people do want children there and that's there choice, bless them, but it wasn't for us.
So who's going to walk Meghan down the aisle? I'm kind of hoping it's her mum. Prince Charles has offered to do the honours. Maybe she will shrug it off and walk herself down the aisle.
Oh, and they're having lots of kids in the wedding party. Hopefully they will behave themselves. I think having children in a wedding party is kind of like herding cats (main reason we did not include our nieces and nephews).
Anyway, I've got a couple of days off to shiver and stress. It's cold here, and I've had a blood test today because I've been unwell. Don't like feeling apprehensive and nervous, but it's how I feel.
Anyway, my kids' school staged a production of Disco Inferno last week. I went along with my youngest, who surprised pretty much everybody by not having auditioned for it. We loved it. So much talent in this town. I kind of knew what to expect because I had seen another school's production some years ago. What impressed me is they didn't 'sanitise' songs, which is what happened in the other production. One of the kids sang a Gary Glitter number (Wanna Be in My Gang), and I'm sure it wasn't included in the other production I saw. I would remember if it was because it's a bit of a contentious thing to do, include Gary Glitter's songs in a show. Also, I'm a fan of Gary Glitter's music, given I'm something of a glam rock nut. Yes, the sprog and I had a lovely night. Unfortunately there was no sausage sandwich stall, and our dinner that consisted of popcorn, which I happily bought for us as I parried the questions along the line of: Why isn't your boy up there? (God, do I sound like a pushy Mama Rose stage mum type, or what?).
Anyway, two more sleeps until the Royal Wedding. It's been fraught with drama, and I'm sorry for the poor bride, having the family hassles she has been having. It's been dubbed the Markle Debacle. I just want the damn thing to be over because I am so over hearing about it. I like the couple and wish them every happiness. I just wish the media would stop saturating us with pointless twaddle. Oh well, it's very rare that the path to a wedding is smooth, when there's family involved. People seem to forget the wedding is about the couple, not THEM. One of my peeves with weddings is the people who refuse to attend if their children are not invited. Can't get a sitter? Then just one of you attend. I remember reading on a forum a comment that a person had refused to attend a family wedding to which the kids weren't invited with the explanation: 'We attend as a family.' (Yeah, the bride and groom really want to have to feed your kids as well, you entitled pratt). Years ago, at a playgroup Mums Night Out, one of the mothers was talking about an upcoming family wedding, and added she had told her husband, 'If the kids aren't invited, then we're not going!' Unable to take any more of the bullshit, I put down my knife and fork and pointed out that the couple possibly did not want children there. Geez, my husband and I didn't have kids at out wedding, either. Some people do want children there and that's there choice, bless them, but it wasn't for us.
So who's going to walk Meghan down the aisle? I'm kind of hoping it's her mum. Prince Charles has offered to do the honours. Maybe she will shrug it off and walk herself down the aisle.
Oh, and they're having lots of kids in the wedding party. Hopefully they will behave themselves. I think having children in a wedding party is kind of like herding cats (main reason we did not include our nieces and nephews).
Anyway, I've got a couple of days off to shiver and stress. It's cold here, and I've had a blood test today because I've been unwell. Don't like feeling apprehensive and nervous, but it's how I feel.
Thursday 10 May 2018
Buy A Hundred Shares In Viagra!
I am not qualified to give out investment advice, or advice on anything regarding the Stock Market. However, it occurs to me that purchasing some shares in Viagra could net bulk dividends, and earn me a nice little nest egg which I might pop into an account in the Cayman Islands. If PM Turnbull gets a chance, maybe he can give me some pointers? Reader, you might think this over, too, because I believe Viagra is going to be The Place wherein to make your fortune. I have often whimsically thought if time travel were a possibility I would tell my younger self to invest in Apple. Crossing this fourth dimension isn't an option to me, so I'm going to get me a broker to procure me some shares in Viagra.
Why Viagra, you are no doubt asking. Well, like the geek on The Curiosity Show used to say: I'm glad you asked. The reason is that the world is being overrun and infested with soft-cocks, and therefore Viagra will be in great demand to remedy this insidious soft-cockery. People are now calling for voicemail to be 'banned' because the prospect of leaving a recorded message is causing people to experience anxiety. Similarly, the notion of retrieving a recorded message conjures up the same emotion in some people. What the actual fuck? I understand it can be nerve-wracking to leave a message, particularly if you're not one for public speaking. And you wouldn't be alone; public speaking is one of the top fears people have. But instead of calling for something to be banned, how about just not leaving a message? How about disabling the function on your technology, so you won't have to retrieve the message? Or better yet, how about planting some gonad seeds between your miserable, spindly, scared legs and GROWING A PAIR!!!!!! Fuck me, some people are ridiculous. Before the accusations fly in about how I am dismissive of people with mental health issues, I am not. I have mental health first aid training and the point that stayed with me the most is that people's fears and neuroses are REAL to them. I have great empathy for people who are frightened. But my patience will only stretch so far when it seems people are just being downright bloody stupid. Yes, speaking can be nerve wracking. But at some stage, you are likely to have to. You can't expect functions to be banned just because you're a Scaredy-Cat-Scaredy-Cat-Sitting-On-The-Doormat. Drink a cup of cement and harden the fuck up.
I'm not sure if soft-cockery is at play in the moaning about cultural appropriation so much as stupidity. The latest I've heard is some people are grousing about Catholic appropriation in costumes at the Met Gala, particularly Rhianna, whose outfit was rather Bishopric. I'm really yearning for the days of my childhood when the musicians I adored would wear all sorts of lairy, other culturally inspired, outfits. And being a glam rock fan, I saw some beauties (think of The Sweet in Native American inspired outfits singing Wig Wam Bam). But if everyone wants to have a moan about someone wearing what looks like Catholic clerical costumes, go on You Tube and find some footage of Skyhooks on Countdown singing Horror Movie. Red Symonds is in cardinal red bishop robes, and sporting a mitre on his head. I still recall my mother chortling, 'He's got the Bishop's hat!' My mother was a woman of great faith, yet didn't let Red Symonds in a cheeky outfit bother her. This was because she had common sense. And all those who are bothered, I suggest you get some common sense, too.
Okay, you know the world's gone nutty when someone who likely doesn't have children suggests you get your child's permission prior to changing its nappy. This woman has been ridiculed, but I think what she's after is instilling a sense of bodily autonomy in a child at an early age. Children have to be made aware they have rights over their own body. Couldn't agree more on that score. She reckons parents should say things like, 'I'm just going to change your nappy now, okay?' This is problematic for a couple of reasons. Firstly, people are really very tired of being told how to look after their children. Personally, I reckon if they're fed, clothed, bathed, and aware they're loved then you're doing something right as a parent. Secondly, babies can't express permission very eloquently. My oldest had a vocabulary that vacillated between a contented 'gah' type of coo when he was happy, and a strident air-raid siren 'baaaaaaaaaaaaah!' when he was cranky. There was no way anybody could construe a 'Yeah, Mum. Go ahead and change my nappy. Sure beats sitting in my filth' from those sounds. So I just used to do what any responsible parent would: changed his nappy and kept him clean and happy, and rash-free around the groin and bottom when he was teething.
Can people please try being sensible?
Why Viagra, you are no doubt asking. Well, like the geek on The Curiosity Show used to say: I'm glad you asked. The reason is that the world is being overrun and infested with soft-cocks, and therefore Viagra will be in great demand to remedy this insidious soft-cockery. People are now calling for voicemail to be 'banned' because the prospect of leaving a recorded message is causing people to experience anxiety. Similarly, the notion of retrieving a recorded message conjures up the same emotion in some people. What the actual fuck? I understand it can be nerve-wracking to leave a message, particularly if you're not one for public speaking. And you wouldn't be alone; public speaking is one of the top fears people have. But instead of calling for something to be banned, how about just not leaving a message? How about disabling the function on your technology, so you won't have to retrieve the message? Or better yet, how about planting some gonad seeds between your miserable, spindly, scared legs and GROWING A PAIR!!!!!! Fuck me, some people are ridiculous. Before the accusations fly in about how I am dismissive of people with mental health issues, I am not. I have mental health first aid training and the point that stayed with me the most is that people's fears and neuroses are REAL to them. I have great empathy for people who are frightened. But my patience will only stretch so far when it seems people are just being downright bloody stupid. Yes, speaking can be nerve wracking. But at some stage, you are likely to have to. You can't expect functions to be banned just because you're a Scaredy-Cat-Scaredy-Cat-Sitting-On-The-Doormat. Drink a cup of cement and harden the fuck up.
I'm not sure if soft-cockery is at play in the moaning about cultural appropriation so much as stupidity. The latest I've heard is some people are grousing about Catholic appropriation in costumes at the Met Gala, particularly Rhianna, whose outfit was rather Bishopric. I'm really yearning for the days of my childhood when the musicians I adored would wear all sorts of lairy, other culturally inspired, outfits. And being a glam rock fan, I saw some beauties (think of The Sweet in Native American inspired outfits singing Wig Wam Bam). But if everyone wants to have a moan about someone wearing what looks like Catholic clerical costumes, go on You Tube and find some footage of Skyhooks on Countdown singing Horror Movie. Red Symonds is in cardinal red bishop robes, and sporting a mitre on his head. I still recall my mother chortling, 'He's got the Bishop's hat!' My mother was a woman of great faith, yet didn't let Red Symonds in a cheeky outfit bother her. This was because she had common sense. And all those who are bothered, I suggest you get some common sense, too.
Okay, you know the world's gone nutty when someone who likely doesn't have children suggests you get your child's permission prior to changing its nappy. This woman has been ridiculed, but I think what she's after is instilling a sense of bodily autonomy in a child at an early age. Children have to be made aware they have rights over their own body. Couldn't agree more on that score. She reckons parents should say things like, 'I'm just going to change your nappy now, okay?' This is problematic for a couple of reasons. Firstly, people are really very tired of being told how to look after their children. Personally, I reckon if they're fed, clothed, bathed, and aware they're loved then you're doing something right as a parent. Secondly, babies can't express permission very eloquently. My oldest had a vocabulary that vacillated between a contented 'gah' type of coo when he was happy, and a strident air-raid siren 'baaaaaaaaaaaaah!' when he was cranky. There was no way anybody could construe a 'Yeah, Mum. Go ahead and change my nappy. Sure beats sitting in my filth' from those sounds. So I just used to do what any responsible parent would: changed his nappy and kept him clean and happy, and rash-free around the groin and bottom when he was teething.
Can people please try being sensible?
Thursday 3 May 2018
The Metaphoric Gauntlet & An Abundance of F*ckwittery
I'm here again before the screen, fingers a-itchin' to fly over the keyboard (I am a very proficient and fast touch-typist). Wanted to type that it's been a week of highs and lows, but that is as clichéd as a foppish character played by Hugh Grant. Still, there have been ups and downs. I pondered this this morning as my 13yo walked by, carrying two plastic zip-lock baggies each containing a disconcerting red pulpy mess. I wondered, What's in there? Aborted foetuses? Turns out he had eaten the celery sticks I'd packed but not the cherry tomatoes, then put the baggies not in his lunchbox but straight in his backpack, whereupon the tomatoes were squashed by his school books. He tried to put a positive spin on this heinous act by suggesting I make a pasta sauce. I snapped at him to just put the mess in the bin. I am aware that the italicised thought I have included in this anecdote is offensive to some, and will likely garner me some online abuse. If you're planning on abusing me: stow it elsewhere; at least I pack my kid a healthy lunch.
That was definitely a 'low'. I had a kind of 'high' yesterday, but it was the yin to a 'low's' yang. I caught up with loved family but it was at a funeral. The patriarchal uncle of my family passed away aged 92 on the morning of Anzac Day. How fitting for him, given he respected the solemnity of the day so much. Mr Bingells and I travelled two hours to the funeral, and along with my brother, took a pew in the church. It was with trepidation I sat beside my brother. I have not done this since childhood because he would, without fail, crush my hand every time during the sign of peace ritual of the Mass. We would quarrel and my exasperated mother would slap us. By-the-by, the officiating priest said, 'Let us offer each other the sign of peace.' I gingerly extended my hand, but thankfully my brother realised he is no longer fourteen-years-old (he's just turned fifty-seven), and I escaped with my fingers intact.
It is important to focus on the good things like family and uncrushed hands, when there appears to be an abundance of fuckwittery in the universe of late. People act like triggered fools over the stupidest of things. Don't get me wrong, I respect people's cultural heritage. What I don't respect is pissants who decide some random has offended them, and retaliate to this perceived slight by having approximately 100 thousand people abuse this random online, particularly when the random is a kid of about seventeen. Okay, I will clarify. A young American girl wore a pretty red cheongsam style dress to her prom. She posted a picture online, as the youth of today wont to do. A Twitter user named Jeremy Lam attacked her with a pissy, hissy tweet along the lines of: My culture is not your prom dress! The poor kid, who probably just wanted a nice night at her school dance, copped a barrage of abuse. I haven't met the kid, but I doubt she wanted to denigrate a race and culture, and I also doubt Jeremy Lam can really prove she did. I, along with many other Twitter users, did wonder why Lam got all uptight and piss-elegant, when his own profile picture has him wearing an Adidas baseball cap ('Hey, stop appropriating American culture!'). Why doesn't he target genuine racists and mongrels, instead of inciting people to bully a kid who, like I mentioned before, just wanted to wear a pretty dress and have a nice evening. Honestly, some people really need to go and have a good, long, firm poo.
Next on the list of those who engage in unpardonable fuckwittery is the Daily Telegraph. I know, it's no surprise, stop rolling your eyes. They are again plunging to their nadir with their putrid style of addressing Emmanuel Macron's description of Lucy Turnbull. President Macron referred to Mrs Turnbull as 'delicious'. I'm guessing it's some kind of Gallic flattery, and nothing for people to bother their social justice warrior heads over. Certainly Lucy Turnbull did not appear to care. But here is the front page the Telegraph ran yesterday:
That was definitely a 'low'. I had a kind of 'high' yesterday, but it was the yin to a 'low's' yang. I caught up with loved family but it was at a funeral. The patriarchal uncle of my family passed away aged 92 on the morning of Anzac Day. How fitting for him, given he respected the solemnity of the day so much. Mr Bingells and I travelled two hours to the funeral, and along with my brother, took a pew in the church. It was with trepidation I sat beside my brother. I have not done this since childhood because he would, without fail, crush my hand every time during the sign of peace ritual of the Mass. We would quarrel and my exasperated mother would slap us. By-the-by, the officiating priest said, 'Let us offer each other the sign of peace.' I gingerly extended my hand, but thankfully my brother realised he is no longer fourteen-years-old (he's just turned fifty-seven), and I escaped with my fingers intact.
It is important to focus on the good things like family and uncrushed hands, when there appears to be an abundance of fuckwittery in the universe of late. People act like triggered fools over the stupidest of things. Don't get me wrong, I respect people's cultural heritage. What I don't respect is pissants who decide some random has offended them, and retaliate to this perceived slight by having approximately 100 thousand people abuse this random online, particularly when the random is a kid of about seventeen. Okay, I will clarify. A young American girl wore a pretty red cheongsam style dress to her prom. She posted a picture online, as the youth of today wont to do. A Twitter user named Jeremy Lam attacked her with a pissy, hissy tweet along the lines of: My culture is not your prom dress! The poor kid, who probably just wanted a nice night at her school dance, copped a barrage of abuse. I haven't met the kid, but I doubt she wanted to denigrate a race and culture, and I also doubt Jeremy Lam can really prove she did. I, along with many other Twitter users, did wonder why Lam got all uptight and piss-elegant, when his own profile picture has him wearing an Adidas baseball cap ('Hey, stop appropriating American culture!'). Why doesn't he target genuine racists and mongrels, instead of inciting people to bully a kid who, like I mentioned before, just wanted to wear a pretty dress and have a nice evening. Honestly, some people really need to go and have a good, long, firm poo.
Next on the list of those who engage in unpardonable fuckwittery is the Daily Telegraph. I know, it's no surprise, stop rolling your eyes. They are again plunging to their nadir with their putrid style of addressing Emmanuel Macron's description of Lucy Turnbull. President Macron referred to Mrs Turnbull as 'delicious'. I'm guessing it's some kind of Gallic flattery, and nothing for people to bother their social justice warrior heads over. Certainly Lucy Turnbull did not appear to care. But here is the front page the Telegraph ran yesterday:
My initial thought, which has not changed, was: I am fucking embarrassed to be Australian when I see that. Seriously, DT? What ails you? Is it the progressive views of Emmanuel Macron that has threatened your puppet master Murdoch so? I'd expect nothing less from a rag helmed by Murdoch, a foul, scabrous, scaly reptilian thing that appears to have been shat out from the titular planet of that old Eighties miniseries V.
Okay, now I'm in stirring mode. Time to put up or shut up, Julia Banks MP, aka Little Miss I-Can-Live-On-$40-A-Day. I am throwing down my metaphoric gauntlet, Sirrah. Or perhaps that should be She-Sirrah? Whatever. I chucked it on the ground and I am challenging you to do this. Before you pick it up and stroke my metaphoric visor, I should point out I am not alone in challenging you to live this way. It will be something of a shock to you, given you own - is it five or six? - properties. By the way, I don't care that you have some an impressive property portfolio. I wish I did, too. What I do care about is the attitude of you and the Liberal party ilk about how easy it is. All you do, along with the Murdoch press, is engage in welfare bashing. Think you can do it? Give it a try. Three months should be sufficient. Furthermore, I'm calling for conditions to be imposed. Conditions that your odious party would see imposed upon people already struggling in the form of the Orwellian-inspired, fascist-dictatorial cashless welfare card (which will keep your buddies at Indue jizzing like crazy). You can't save by buying at markets, or on Gumtree, or at Aldi. You can't have a little cash in hand transaction (like a cleaning service, or a tradie).
I'm old enough to recall Stephen Usher MP (shit, I remembered his name!) attempting to live on the dole in the mid-Eighties. I think it was for a week. He had to eat his words (along with very basic meals of mince and tinned spaghetti). He admitted his naïvete, and I grudgingly admired him for doing so. And like the prim old spinster who gets flashed by an exhibitionist during church, you are in for one rude shock.
Well, there we are. These are just some of things that have me grousing this week. What I am not grousing about is the news I will be liaising soon with the graphic artist charged with designing the cover for my next book, Howling on A Concrete Moon. Looking forward to it.
Okay, now I'm in stirring mode. Time to put up or shut up, Julia Banks MP, aka Little Miss I-Can-Live-On-$40-A-Day. I am throwing down my metaphoric gauntlet, Sirrah. Or perhaps that should be She-Sirrah? Whatever. I chucked it on the ground and I am challenging you to do this. Before you pick it up and stroke my metaphoric visor, I should point out I am not alone in challenging you to live this way. It will be something of a shock to you, given you own - is it five or six? - properties. By the way, I don't care that you have some an impressive property portfolio. I wish I did, too. What I do care about is the attitude of you and the Liberal party ilk about how easy it is. All you do, along with the Murdoch press, is engage in welfare bashing. Think you can do it? Give it a try. Three months should be sufficient. Furthermore, I'm calling for conditions to be imposed. Conditions that your odious party would see imposed upon people already struggling in the form of the Orwellian-inspired, fascist-dictatorial cashless welfare card (which will keep your buddies at Indue jizzing like crazy). You can't save by buying at markets, or on Gumtree, or at Aldi. You can't have a little cash in hand transaction (like a cleaning service, or a tradie).
I'm old enough to recall Stephen Usher MP (shit, I remembered his name!) attempting to live on the dole in the mid-Eighties. I think it was for a week. He had to eat his words (along with very basic meals of mince and tinned spaghetti). He admitted his naïvete, and I grudgingly admired him for doing so. And like the prim old spinster who gets flashed by an exhibitionist during church, you are in for one rude shock.
Well, there we are. These are just some of things that have me grousing this week. What I am not grousing about is the news I will be liaising soon with the graphic artist charged with designing the cover for my next book, Howling on A Concrete Moon. Looking forward to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)