Plonkers on the List; None of Them be Missed

Just been listening to some Gilbert & Sullivan for something different, and like the Lord High Executioner, 'I've got a little list'.  It's a list of plonkers. And in another Mikado reference, if they weren't around, would 'none of them be missed.'

1. First Plonker: Blair Cottrell.  He's got a social media following for being the leader of a far-right movement. Recently, he approached a street performer in Melbourne, whereupon he bullied and harassed the man for having the audacity to be wearing a pink 'G-string'. You can find the footage of the incident if you google it, Reader. He did not approach the man alone.  Oh, no. He was accompanied by his fawning sycophantic followers, one of whom was wearing an Australian flag as a cape. He abused the man for performing in front of children, kind of like a steroid-infused Helen Lovejoy from The Simpsons. He asked the man was he a paedophile.  No, I didn't type that wrong.  And yes, asking someone who chooses to wear pink if he is a paedophile is really, really, truly, ridiculously stupid. Another thing: the man was wearing a LEOTARD, not a G-string. Look, this is a pink G-string:

 This is also a type of G-string:

And THIS is a representation of what the performer was wearing, and you will see it is a garment favoured by wrestlers, and gymnasts. The man in the picture is the late wrestler Andre the Giant:

If you're so worried about a slightly built man in a pink leotard that you need a gang of pumped-up boofheads to approach him, then you really are a testicular-challenged poltroon.

1(a) Plonker by Association: the person who made a snide reply to my comment on some You Tube footage of the abovementioned fracas. It went something like, 'Trust you to defend that fag in pink'.  Yeah, and what's your point, mate?

2. Second Plonker: Senator David Leyonjhelm, who shouted across the room to Senator Sarah Hanson-Young the other day, 'You need to stop shagging men, Sarah!' Um, in what universe is a comment like this acceptable in the workplace? Hey, I'm not a huge fan of Hanson-Young; I'm kind of ambivalent about her. However, I cannot believe Leyonjhelm had the audacity, nastiness, and injudiciousness to shout something so utterly fulsome. Why wasn't he removed from Parliament? If I was overseeing Question Time, I would have had the lousy bag of dirt ejected, thus enabling him to make his way back to his cave, twin furrows being formed in the ground by his knuckles as he makes his journey.

3. Third Plonker: whoever complained about the Peter Alexander boys' pyjamas with the slogan: Boys Will Be Boys. Apparently, this offensive. To be honest, I've always found the saying irritating because I associate it with the excusing of some really obnoxious behaviour displayed by the male gender. Anyway, the jimmy-jams have been removed from sale.  Fuck me sideways.  This is children's pyjamas, people! Who's going to be offended by this clothing? The teddy bear?  If you don't like something, don't buy it! Simple.

Oh well, back to perusing the edited manuscript for upcoming Howling on A Concrete Moon now.  Then shopping for food.  The fun just never starts.

A Troll of My Own

Apropos of the last post I published, the presenters on Weekend Sunrise issued an apology on Saturday morning, and interviewed some people who appear to have a modicum of knowledge in the IVF industry. As far as I am aware, there has been no apology forthcoming from the flippantly cavalier Ron Wilson and Melissa Hoyer. If either of you are reading this, is it your intention to apologise to all those you hurt with your pissy, sarcastic, and utterly ignorant comments? Of course, if you're not sorry, then don't apologise. A fake and forced apology is about as effective as wiping the arse of a diarrhetic elephant with a speck of confetti, and frankly about as welcome a notion. If you guys never sat on the toilet, then burst into tears when you saw the ominous smear of blood on the toilet paper or in the crotch of your underpants, then you have no idea what you're on about (and yes, I have sat on the toilet crying upon the realisation another month was passing and still no baby on the way). My oldest is now seventeen, so our struggle was a while ago, but I will never forget how it felt.  As far as I'm concerned, you can still go fuck yourselves. 

Anyway, I passed a comment on the Sunrise Facebook post regarding their apology, and suggested Wilson and Hoyer offer an apology, too.  Well, colour me flabbergasted and knock me off the bridge with the rest of the Billy Goats Gruff if I didn't get me a troll all of my very own in the process! (It followed me home, Ma. Can I keep it?). Check this out:

Whoever you are, hiding as you are behind your fake profile, I'm sure your comments are just as effective and more accessible to you than Viagra.  Your father should have masturbated you into a wad of Kleenex. 

Another thing that has people's ire up of late is the picture of two women, who happen play on opposing teams representing the Women's State of Origin, sharing a kiss afterward. They're partners in real life, you see.  Here's the picture for you all:

Critics say a photograph like this might deter young girls from taking up the sport. To this I say a resounding and loud pffffffft! I would hope kids are better educated these days to know they are allowed to kiss their partner in celebration after an emotional time, whether that partner be of same sex or opposite sex.  I bet most of the people groaning and carrying on about this photo would have no issue if the participants were dressed in lingerie and swinging pillows at each other. 

Finally, what's got me shaking my head today is a story I read about a woman who has apparently accidentally caused the death of her partner in a stunt gone wrong. She did not want to partake in the stunt, but being of the social media generation, they wanted to share a bodacious vid on You Tube. She was to shoot fire a bullet, point blank range, into an encyclopaedia the guy was holding to his chest. You see, the big fat information book was to absorb the bullet.  It didn't work. Okay, I'm not a ballistics expert, but I do have the sense to know the propulsion of a bullet fired at that close range is not going to be stopped by ANY encyclopaedia, even the fat A-E section. The faster something moves, the more momentum it has.  Bullets are pretty bloody fast things. Even a blank fired at close range has the potential to kill. Kids, please do not try this at home. Or anywhere else for that matter. Strewth, the article I read even referred to the guy as having said if the trick didn't work, he was ready for Jesus knowing his girlfriend loved him, or some such guff.  The girlfriend is a pregnant twenty-year-old.   I cannot fathom her heartbreak and fear, and a part of me cannot fathom the stupidity of people chasing their fifteen minutes of fame via social media, doing something seriously moronic.

Oh well, I'm off to review more of the edited manuscript to Howling on A Concrete Moon, coming soon to a good bookstore near you.  Hell, maybe even a crap bookstore.  Just help me remain solvent and buy it.  Pretty please.

Sunrise Smugness & Stupidity

Might have to change the old viewing habits somewhat. Of a morning, I brew my cappuccino and sit down to catch up on what's happening in the world. I switch on the television to Sunrise, and spend the rest of the day cursing myself over my poor choice. Look, I know it's meant to be light entertainment and not heavy-hitting news, but let's just hope the Channel 7 first aid kit is stocked with tweezers - they're going to need them to remove the splinters from beneath their fingernails where they have scraped the bottom of the barrel.

What's got me pissed off actually occurred a few days ago. I've been a bit busy to write about it, but believe me, the anger hasn't subsided. It was a segment on the weekend edition, and featured talking heads Melissa Hoyer, Monique Wright, Bazil WhatshisfaceandIcan'tbefuckedchecking, and Ron Wilson. The topic upon which these informed and knowledgeable philosophers were conversing (typed using sarcasm font) was IVF. The headline to the segment read - and I shit you not - 'hopeful mums are getting addicted to IVF like the pokies, chasing the win of birth'.

Before I go any further, let me state this: Fuck you, Sunrise. Fuck all of you there who went along with this obnoxious and disgraceful headline. Fuck you sideways dry with a cactus for the flippant tone in which the four smug-sketeers handled what is an incredibly heartbreaking and stressful subject for the people who have, and are in the process of undergoing, IVF!!!

How dare you liken this distressing and emotional procedure to gambling on the pokies? From what I could tell, none of your panellists have experienced infertility, and from the insensitive comments it's might be parenthetically inferred it's a shame these panellists have been allowed to breed.

'Start younger!' chortled Wilson. Hey, guess what? I know people who started in their mid-twenties before finally welcoming their beautiful twins at age thirty-six.  Wilson then went on to tell people they had to 'relax'. Hey, Wilso, do you have any gynaecological qualifications? I'm guessing not. Want to know how to shit people dealing with infertility?  Tell them to relax. Guess what, you insufferably smug pile of festering parrot shit? I had issues conceiving, too. Genuine medical issues that prevented me falling, and no amount of relaxation was going to help. Luckily, the problem was discovered and fixed, and I am now the loving mother to two beautiful kids.  It's also the reason I am a slightly older mother, but I'm a pretty decent one, and my kids are really good human beings. But even though it's been many years since Mr Bingells and I had to deal with the grief of infertility, I still remember how much I loathed unsolicited advice from lay people.  Also, smug know-alls saying you've got to accept 'it's nature's way'.  The 'nature's way' argument loses a considerable amount of gravitas when it's being put forward by a woman whose face is bulging with Botox.  Isn't aging and the accompanying wrinkles also 'nature's way'?

So yeah, that's a big FUCK YOU to you arseholes for your flippant insensitivity. I'm actually among those who are calling upon you to issue an apology to the people undergoing IVF, although unless it's genuine, don't insult them further with a fake sorry-not-sorry type apology.

Pin-headed, Pudding-headed Petitions

In a moment of Descarteness, I have decided: I blog, therefore I am. Usually I blog about what's annoying me, or got me shaking my head with disbelief at the unadulterated injudiciousness and doltishness that is spreading its tentacles across the world.  It often manifests itself in the form of a Change dot org petition, petitions which makes me sneer, 'Fuck off!' as I simultaneously press the delete button with the index finger of my right hand and flip the bird with index finger of my left, when such purpose-devoid communications appear in my email inbox.

Today I saw a beauty, not in my inbox but in my Twitter feed. Of course, should it appear in my inbox it will suffer the same fate as its predecessors.  The generator of this petition is calling for the boycott of Justice Geoffrey Marson QC, who last week sentenced Tommy Robinson to a prison sentence of thirteen months. Reader, I am unaware if you are a fan of Robinson or not. It doesn't matter. I am not a fan, and am of the firm belief his parents wasted a fuck and he should have been spurted into a Kleenex. Here are some salient points for you to consider:

1. Last year Robinson received a suspended sentence for committing contempt of court during a rape trial. He was told he faced prison if he re-offended. What that means, and surely to God even dimwits like Robinson can work it out, is that if the judge warns that you face a prison sentence should you re-offend whilst subject to a suspended sentence, and you re-offend: you go to prison (I typed those last four words slowly).

2. The fuckwit did it again. He carried out an act that constituted contempt of court, whilst still subject to a suspended sentence, and live-fed his buffoonery. Not only could the potential mistrial cost an astronomical amount of coin, it would mean witnesses have to undergo the ordeal of giving evidence again. Does anyone ever stop to think of the human cost?

3. He pleaded guilty to the offence referred to in (2) above, whereupon he was sentenced by Judge Marson QC, whom I am sure issued his sentence within the parameters of the law as it applied to the case before him.

Anyway, dissatisfied with the judge having done his duty as per his mandate, some dullard has started a petition calling for the boycott of Justice Marson. The spelling and punctuation of the petitioner, along with that of the signatories who have left comments, makes me wonder is it the work of dextrous chimpanzees.  Perhaps it is a work of satire.  I can only hope.  If not, I will point out a few things. Again, I will type slowly:

1. You can't 'boycott' a judge.

2. You don't get to pick the judge who presides over your court case.

3. If there is a blatant conflict, the judge can stand down, or an application can be made to have that judge not preside over your court case.

4. Your petition is as fruitless as a desiccated mummy's womb (I'm talking about ancient Egyptian funeral practices, in case my analogy isn't clear).

5. Your petition makes as much sense as trying to slam a revolving door.

6. Your petition plumbs the darkest, swirling depths of bleak jackassery.

7. Your petition makes colonisation on Mars seem pretty appealing right now.

8. I want wine.

Queen's Birthday Dishonours List

Another year has passed without me making the Queen's Birthday List.  I still do not have the letters OAM behind my name. I occasionally have the letters JP behind my name, but that OAM still eludes me.

Just as there is some kind of Honours List for the birthday of Her Maj (yeah, I know it's not really her birthday), there is a Dishonours List.  It's not for Her Maj, it's for me.  I've compiled a list of twatwaffles and cockwombles and arsehats, and here it is, together with a brief explanation of the achievement that placed them in this not-so-esteemed category:

1. Tanya Davies MP.  Lady, you're a mess and a disgrace. You actively voted against safe zones around abortion clinics, and your deficient logic was that the people protesting served as 'sidewalk counsellors'.  Listen, I don't know what you're on, but you should change doctors.  They are not 'sidewalk counsellors'. They are zealous bigoted thugs harassing women who are likely in a very vulnerable place emotionally. No counsellor of repute stands in the street shouting unsolicited advice to people whose stories they do not know. I don't care if these people have a different opinion to mine; it is after all their right. I do care about the vicious tactics, and if any of you harassing hogshits are reading this, it's not your uterus so stay away.  Ms Davies, that you would endorse this treatment of and encroachment upon the person rights of women whilst you hold the portfolio of Minister for Women just beggars belief. Your position is untenable, and you should do women a favour by resigning.

2. Barnaby Joyce for crying that he wants a tort of privacy after filming a photographer who had lain in wait in the bushes outside church.  You're another one who was happy for distressed and vulnerable women to be harangued and possibly filmed by Ms Davies' 'sidewalk counsellors'.  Now you're crying because someone photographed you leaving your church. How would you feel about people harassing you on your way to worship? You know, maybe waving placards about children sexually abused by priests, or beaten by nuns and brothers? Get where I'm going with this?  As an aside, the photographer who took the picture gets a mention on this list because who cares if Barnaby goes to church? We all know he's a hypocrite. And he's really not all that interesting. (Also, this was one of the paparazzi who sprayed Heath Ledger with a water pistol some years ago, which is a pretty weak and puerile act).

3. Rudy Giuliani. He's advising and acting for Trump in some capacity. I don't care about that, per se. Trump is entitled to counsel. What I care about are his comments regarding Stormy Daniels' profession. He said she has 'no credibility', and if 'you're going to sell your body for money, you just don't have a reputation.'  Well - and no pun intended - fuck you, Giuliani. I bet you've perused the odd porn magazine in your time. Did you hire the services of a Sherpa to help you reach the high moral ground? I don't really think you're in a position to spout off on credibility, given you announced the breakdown of one of your marriages (I'm not sure which wife it was, not the one to whom you're a cousin) at a press conference - before the wife concerned even knew!  You're a total flog and cockwomble, and should eat a bowl of dicks.

4. Salubrious Trombone. Yeah, I don't know who the hell this deadshit is, either. It's a fake Twitter account who told me I should shave my vagina after I shave my armpits. I don't know why he told me this. I don't know why he thinks the hirsuteness of any part of my body is actually his business.  I don't know why he cares.  What's got me concerned is that if he ever met a woman with the poor enough taste to allow him access, he'd know the vagina is actually an internal organ! Salubrious, mate, I'm not sticking a razor up my snatch. Go away and learn some anatomy, why don't you?

There's my list.  Enjoy it.  Feel free to comment here and add your own nominees.

My Clusterf*ck of A Day

Who out there has seen The Godfather? It is a movie famous for the mesmerising performance of Marlon Brando as Don Corleone. I was too young to view it when it was first released, but Mr Bingells and I attended a twenty-five year anniversary revival screening. Afterwards, we went for a glass of wine at the bar across the road from Hoyts in George Street, and talked about Brando's performance. I remember my words: 'Poetry in motion'.

There is a more notorious factor to this movie, and one often referenced in pop culture. Of course I'm referring to the scene where the movie producer Mr Woltz, having displeased Don Corleone by refusing to cast Corleone's godson in a movie, wakes up to find the severed head of his prize thoroughbred in the bed. The scene is horrifying in both the build up and climax. You feel the tension, the suspense, the fearful apprehension as Woltz slowly wakes up to the feeling something is not quite right.  You bite your nails as he moves his bedclothes around and sits up, and then want to add your own horrified anguished screams to those of Woltz upon seeing the gruesome, grisy, gory obscenity.

Well, guess what?  I had a scene like that of my own yesterday morning.

I woke up with trepidation. Something wasn't right. I just knew it. I didn't want to open my eyes, but knew I had to.  I sat up slowly, engulfed in an oppressive shroud of fear and foreboding.  I looked around, whereupon I discovered my mini fox terrier had left piles of solid, salmon coloured vomit all over my bedspread.  My reaction didn't quite rival Mr Woltz in terms of volume and grief, but it was notable.  Still, I suppose if you're going to find something disgusting on your bed, dog puke is preferable to a horse's head.

The torment did not finish there. I was still in my pyjamas, pondering the mountain of soiled bed linen I was to wash (Mr Bingells is away for a few days), when I was telephoned and asked could I cover a shift for a person who is sick (I wonder did that person chuck all over the bedspread, too?).  I said I could, but would have to shake off the barfed-up bedspread in the back yard first.

It was necessary for me to travel to a nearby town, and I was assigned a vehicle. It was a bloody European model, and every time I when to turn a corner or diverge, I found myself turning on the windscreen wipers instead of the blinker.  Also, what clapped-out engineer thought making the vehicle as complicated to start as a jet was a good idea?   You, Sir or Madam, should be punched in the throat.

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday afternoon. I sat, and sat, and sat.  Concerned, I texted the mother of the student I had arranged to tutor to advise I was held up. An hour after the scheduled appointment time, the doctor called me in. I found I had been scheduled for fifteen minutes, when I had specifically asked for a half hour.  So I had to reschedule.  'Never mind, doc,' I said. 'My dog vomited all over my bed, so that clearly set the tone for my day today.'

The tutoring session was going well, when my mobile telephone sounded. I didn't answer it, but when my student set about working on the exercise I set him, I asked his family did they mind if I checked my phone; the call had come from my landline and given my kids were home alone, I wanted to make sure there was no blood or a burning house. They graciously said they didn't mind at all.  My youngest answered, 'Hey, Mum. I just wanted to ask what's for dinner.'  With disbelief and annoyance, I snapped, 'You rang me whilst I was tutoring to ask that?  Could this have not waited?  I'm not telling you. You can just wait until I get home, and unless the house is on fire, do not ring me when I'm working.'  In the event you're on the edge of your seat wondering, we had a store-bought lasagne. The oldest was instructed to pop it in the oven at 6.00pm, and we would dine en famille when the youngest and I had returned home from his musical theatre class.

So, I was not rostered today. I have spent the day washing. If you're feeling sorry for me, and wondering how you can take away the pain of what was a total clusterfuck of a day yesterday, go to the links on the homepage of my blog and purchase my novels.  I know that is a very gauche and childish form of manipulation, but guys, I had to shake great horrible globs and blobs of dog chuck from my bedspread yesterday, so cut me some slack here.

Fun with Fennel

It's not Spring, it's the first day of Winter. But I feel like it's Spring, and not because of joyous birth and hope and blossoms on the fruit trees, but because my eyes are itching and I feel like having a huge wheeze.

Unless you know me personally, you are likely unaware my domicile is adjacent to a large vacant block. The owners of said block decided to have someone attack it with a ride-on lawnmower this morning. Hey, I'd prefer that block be maintained over looking like an ominous snake-ridden jungle any day.  But what's troubling me today is the block masquerades as a fennel plantation. I like fennel. I like aniseed-flavoured things. But what I don't like is that the mower has sent a heap of seeds airborne to land in my yard and pollute the damn place with fennel weeds everywhere (still, at least there will be some greenery in my yard should this happen). If you've ever tried to rid your yard of one of those weeds, then you will know it is an arduous and Sisyphian task requiring more than a weed fork and a little bit of effort.  You find yourself wondering whether it might be worth hiring a pile driver to drill the fucking bulb out of the ground.  Alternatively, sending out the call to see who has the appropriate ticket to handle explosives and might be available to blast those tenacious bloody things to smithereens, becomes an attractive notion.

The other side effect to the mowing is that I appear to be a tad sensitive to the fennel.  Physically, not emotionally. If you knew what I've been going through, and if you read my last post, you'd be forgiven thinking I'm letting the fennel get to me, just like all the other aspects of my life. But no. As I mentioned before, my eyes are itching. But what happened first was a bout of sneezing. I was just sitting on my lounge, enjoying (well, not really) Sunrise and playing some game on my iPad. I was rostered to work today, but not until after lunch, so I had a kind of leisurely morning. Then it hit me like a blow from a wrecking ball.  I started to sneeze and could not stop.  I do not sneeze in a cute and lady-like fashion.  I make a noise like a keening mad banshee coming through a wind tunnel, and come close to shattering the sound barrier. I sneezed so volubly my fox terrier jumped from my lap and took off through the house. I could not stop. I became concerned my nose would fly off, and I'd be noseless, kind of like Michael Jackson had he been a reasonably slender woman with very fair skin (hey, wait a minute...).

Yes, so it was a morning of misery.  I thought it would be over once I was away from the fennel mushroom cloud. What a naïve dreamer I was.  I was carrying out a domestic service and asked to use the vacuum cleaner.  'It's just there, love,' the owner told me, pointing to some clapped-out pile of machinery that looked like one of the more untrustworthy models of the second-hand droids being dealt by the Jawas in Star Wars (there was no Luke Skywalker in sight, cursed be my life!).  I figured where the hose should fit, and crouched over the, the contraption and turned it on.  To my dismay, a cloud of God-knows-how-old dust flew from some opening at the top and right into my fennel-vexed face.  This did not make me feel any better.

So I am home again, and the house smells like those old Black Cat lollies. Again, I like fennel flavoured food. I am just not enjoying hay fever symptoms.

Tomorrow, I must write a bio on myself.  Not for the upcoming Howling on A Concrete Moon.  That's been done and sent to the publisher.  No, I've been invited to partake in the Scone Literary Festival, which will take place at Scone (yeah, shocking, I know) in November. My role will be on a panel regarding young adult and children's literature.  I'm delighted and looking forward to it.  Also have to submit a headshot. I can do this on my iPod and email it, but I might have to take the shot somewhere where I will not be reacting to flying fennel seeds - a scourge on par with Flying Monkeys. I'd like to look slightly presentable in the picture, and not like a swollen-eyed freak.