For the past couple of days, this has been on a loop in my mind: Well, at least it wasn't Dutton. Also, playing on a loop in my mind has been: I think he's nearly as bad.
Anyway, if past history is indicative of anything at all, ScoMo had best not wear too comfortable a butt-groove in the prime ministerial chair because he will end up getting metaphorically knifed in the back, and ousted.
Oh, and Malcolm Turnbull? That line you spun about government having achieved marriage equality under your leadership? Bullshit! The people voted, and they should not have had to even vote, but you just had to waste $122 million tax dollars, didn't you?
What's on my mind today: I'm exhausted. Like the pocket money of a greedy kid in a lolly shop, I am just totally spent. The reason for this is last night I attended a Rolling Stones tribute show in a nearby large town. I won a double pass, so Mr Bingells and I attended, along with a friend who purchased a ticket upon arrival. How was my evening? For the most part, it was feckin' awesome! If you've read my bio on this blog, you will be aware one of my top three favourite albums is Sticky Fingers, and the band did five tracks from it: Brown Sugar; Can't You Hear Me Knocking?; Bitch; Dead Flowers, and Wild Horses. 'Keith Richards' performed Happy in the less-than-dulcet tones of an adenoidal cat (like the real thing). 'Bill Wyman' looked more like Richard Clapton, and I don't know whom 'Charlie Watt's was meant to look like. Interestingly, I would not place any of the guys who played last night as over thirty years of age. I chatted with 'Mick' during interval, and he said modern music is 'crap'. Anyway, it is indeed gratifying to see the younger generation keeping the good music going.
I consumed copious amounts of vin blanc, and danced my boots off. I haven't danced in ages, and was undoubtedly busting a few mum moves out there on the dance floor. It was fun.
The phrase I mentioned before is 'for the most part'. So what went wrong with this evening? As I was bidding farewell to some other patrons with whom I had struck up a conversation earlier in the evening, some slimy globule of postulant knob-cheese felt me up. It was a sly grope to my genitals. Who the fuck does this to people? Why do some people feel entitled to do this to people? It's not welcome, and it's not wanted. In strident tones, I told the creep to keep his fucking hands to himself. He said, 'I didn't touch ya! Wanna smell me fingers?' Oh, yuck. Just...yuck. It really soured my evening, and if I see him there again, and I will attend the venue again because they've got some fun-sounding cover bands booked, I will tell all the women to be on the look out.
Finally, I just want to share a little something I wrote the other day, when I went to pick up my seventeen-year-old from soccer practice. I haven't been writing as much as I should, but I felt the inspiration hit me as I was driving to the soccer field. It was just my thoughts, but I was pleased I felt inspired to write them, because having been a bit despondent and very busy lately. Mondo Rock's Cool World came on the radio, and it immediately triggered a memory for me. I parked the car, picked up my pen, and wrote: Associations. Hearing 'Cool World' on the radio as I'm picking up my 17yo from soccer practice. I had the single. Laughed when I found it whilst cleaning out my dad's house. Reminds me of the bittersweet emotions. The laughter and camaraderie with my siblings. My sister going mad at my brother when she found her glow-in-the-dark figurine of the Virgin Mary (who looked like she'd been caught in nuclear fallout) because my brother had snapped the Virgin's arms off when they were kids. 'It's been fifty years. You've got to let it go,' I laughed at her. But there's a void with a dull ache. How I miss my dad.
And that's all for now, folks.
Sunday 26 August 2018
Friday 17 August 2018
My Rant About Cashless Welfare, and Clods in Parliament
I haven't tried my hand at scriptwriting for quite some time, but here's a little scene I dashed off today. Reader, imagine if you will:
The scene is lounge room of a single mother aged thirty-four. She has two children, a boy aged twelve and a daughter of nine. She has prepared dinner for her children: sausages and mash, accompanied by a generic brand frozen vegetable mix (that happens to taste like soap). She's having a piece of toast because it's all she can afford. The daughter spills mash down the front of her school jumper, and looks at her mother in disconcertion.
Daughter: Mu-uuum, my jumper's dirty, and I don't have another one for tomorrow!'
Mother: Sorry, I will rinse it out and pop it in the dryer. (stage whispers to the audience: I can't afford the electricity, but I don't have a spare jumper!)
Daughter: Mum, why don't I have two jumpers? Jacinta has two jumpers!
Mother: Who's Jacinta?
Daughter: You know Jacinta, her dad's a merchant banker and she has lots of new clothes all the time. Hey! The school's second hand uniform shop is open tomorrow; maybe you can get me another jumper there.'
Mother: I'm sorry, darling, but the shop only accepts cash, and I don't have any to spare.
Daughter: Why? And is that why we couldn't go to the movies last week?
Mother: Well, honey, it's like this: the government thinks because Mum's under thirty-five she can't be trusted, so they've locked away a large amount of her benefit and will only let her spend it at great big shops like Woolworths or Coles.
Son: Is that why you haven't been to the farmers' markets lately, Mum? Is that why we're eating these frozen vegies that taste like soap?
Mother: Yes, darling. The government doesn't like me supporting struggling farmers, and the farmers are struggling, too, because families like us can't shop at their stalls anymore.
Son: Oh, and Mum? You know how I'm having trouble with maths? Jack's really improved at maths. His family got him a tutor. It's a Year 12 kid who's doing it part time to make some money for his uni. Can you get him to help me?
Mother: Oh, dear. No, I don't think so. You see, this boy would be most likely doing it cash in hand, and I don't have the spare cash in hand because of the government's policy. Remember how I said because I'm under thirty-five I can't be trusted?
Son: That sucks, Mum! I really need the extra help. And what about the kid trying to get himself some money for when he goes to uni? It's not gonna help him, either! I wanted to try and earn some cash, too! You know that lady down the street? The one on disability, who's about twenty-five? I was gonna offer to mow her lawn. Now there's no point.
Daughter: Hey, mum! Will we be able to go the school fete?
Mother: I don't know, petal. You see, I won't have the available cash to buy things because the school won't be able to accept the welfare card.
Daughter: But we'll miss out on the fete!
Mother: Oh, please don't cry. You'll make me cry.
Son: But it won't help with the school, either. How will they get the funds for the air conditioning in the class rooms?
Mother: It's the cashless welfare card, darling. The government introduced it for welfare recipients under the age of thirty-five because they think we're all incapable of managing our money.
Son: Whose idea was that?
Mother: It was the Nationals' bright idea, darling.
Son: Mum, if you don't mind me saying so, the Nationals are a bunch of stupid cunts.
Mother: Yes, darling. They certainly are.
Now, I'm not saying that's a scene that would make Mamet jealous, but I think it flies.
Anyway, I am so SICK of this government and their bullshit ideas. So too am I sick of people saying, 'It's our taxes, and they shouldn't be spending it on booze and cigarettes and pokies.' I will type this slowly for you: people on welfare have often been taxpayers, and continue to pay tax in the form of GST. Also, although recipients are now 'employees', your employer is not allowed to tell you how to disburse your income, and so too should the same principle apply to those on welfare. Finally, at what point did cigarettes, alcohol, and poker machines become illegal? They're not, and no citizen should not be barred from partaking in those activities. Should a citizen wish to have him- or herself placed on an exemption list owing to some addiction, then that is the CHOICE of that citizen.
Nationals and Libs, how about getting out of the arses of your buddies at Indue and subject yourselves to the same conditions and restrictions you would place upon the people slapped with this crappy card? How would YOU like to be told where to shop? How would YOU like your autonomy and dignity removed? How would YOU like to be the subject of economic apartheid? I'm guessing you wouldn't, so stop trying to do it to the public who don't happen to be in the same socio-economic position as you. Also, don't you guys kind of LIKE getting revenue from alcohol, cigarettes, and poker machines? (Did someone just say 'fucking morons and hypocrites'?)
Also, how much is it to 'run' one of these Indue cards? Isn't it something like $10,000.00 per card (correct me if I'm wrong)? What an obscene waste of money for such a loathsome practice! Get out of parliament; you're a bunch of callous, careless clods.
Grrrrrrr!
Did anyone else hear some rumour Peter Dutton might be challenging for the leadership? This is scary. Really, really scary. When I read this the other day, I thought it the scariest thing I'd ever read and I'm a big Stephen King fan. Think about this, folks: do we really want some grubby, fascist, cruel, ex-Queensland copper as our prime minister? No. We do not. Not at all.
The scene is lounge room of a single mother aged thirty-four. She has two children, a boy aged twelve and a daughter of nine. She has prepared dinner for her children: sausages and mash, accompanied by a generic brand frozen vegetable mix (that happens to taste like soap). She's having a piece of toast because it's all she can afford. The daughter spills mash down the front of her school jumper, and looks at her mother in disconcertion.
Daughter: Mu-uuum, my jumper's dirty, and I don't have another one for tomorrow!'
Mother: Sorry, I will rinse it out and pop it in the dryer. (stage whispers to the audience: I can't afford the electricity, but I don't have a spare jumper!)
Daughter: Mum, why don't I have two jumpers? Jacinta has two jumpers!
Mother: Who's Jacinta?
Daughter: You know Jacinta, her dad's a merchant banker and she has lots of new clothes all the time. Hey! The school's second hand uniform shop is open tomorrow; maybe you can get me another jumper there.'
Mother: I'm sorry, darling, but the shop only accepts cash, and I don't have any to spare.
Daughter: Why? And is that why we couldn't go to the movies last week?
Mother: Well, honey, it's like this: the government thinks because Mum's under thirty-five she can't be trusted, so they've locked away a large amount of her benefit and will only let her spend it at great big shops like Woolworths or Coles.
Son: Is that why you haven't been to the farmers' markets lately, Mum? Is that why we're eating these frozen vegies that taste like soap?
Mother: Yes, darling. The government doesn't like me supporting struggling farmers, and the farmers are struggling, too, because families like us can't shop at their stalls anymore.
Son: Oh, and Mum? You know how I'm having trouble with maths? Jack's really improved at maths. His family got him a tutor. It's a Year 12 kid who's doing it part time to make some money for his uni. Can you get him to help me?
Mother: Oh, dear. No, I don't think so. You see, this boy would be most likely doing it cash in hand, and I don't have the spare cash in hand because of the government's policy. Remember how I said because I'm under thirty-five I can't be trusted?
Son: That sucks, Mum! I really need the extra help. And what about the kid trying to get himself some money for when he goes to uni? It's not gonna help him, either! I wanted to try and earn some cash, too! You know that lady down the street? The one on disability, who's about twenty-five? I was gonna offer to mow her lawn. Now there's no point.
Daughter: Hey, mum! Will we be able to go the school fete?
Mother: I don't know, petal. You see, I won't have the available cash to buy things because the school won't be able to accept the welfare card.
Daughter: But we'll miss out on the fete!
Mother: Oh, please don't cry. You'll make me cry.
Son: But it won't help with the school, either. How will they get the funds for the air conditioning in the class rooms?
Mother: It's the cashless welfare card, darling. The government introduced it for welfare recipients under the age of thirty-five because they think we're all incapable of managing our money.
Son: Whose idea was that?
Mother: It was the Nationals' bright idea, darling.
Son: Mum, if you don't mind me saying so, the Nationals are a bunch of stupid cunts.
Mother: Yes, darling. They certainly are.
Now, I'm not saying that's a scene that would make Mamet jealous, but I think it flies.
Anyway, I am so SICK of this government and their bullshit ideas. So too am I sick of people saying, 'It's our taxes, and they shouldn't be spending it on booze and cigarettes and pokies.' I will type this slowly for you: people on welfare have often been taxpayers, and continue to pay tax in the form of GST. Also, although recipients are now 'employees', your employer is not allowed to tell you how to disburse your income, and so too should the same principle apply to those on welfare. Finally, at what point did cigarettes, alcohol, and poker machines become illegal? They're not, and no citizen should not be barred from partaking in those activities. Should a citizen wish to have him- or herself placed on an exemption list owing to some addiction, then that is the CHOICE of that citizen.
Nationals and Libs, how about getting out of the arses of your buddies at Indue and subject yourselves to the same conditions and restrictions you would place upon the people slapped with this crappy card? How would YOU like to be told where to shop? How would YOU like your autonomy and dignity removed? How would YOU like to be the subject of economic apartheid? I'm guessing you wouldn't, so stop trying to do it to the public who don't happen to be in the same socio-economic position as you. Also, don't you guys kind of LIKE getting revenue from alcohol, cigarettes, and poker machines? (Did someone just say 'fucking morons and hypocrites'?)
Also, how much is it to 'run' one of these Indue cards? Isn't it something like $10,000.00 per card (correct me if I'm wrong)? What an obscene waste of money for such a loathsome practice! Get out of parliament; you're a bunch of callous, careless clods.
Grrrrrrr!
Did anyone else hear some rumour Peter Dutton might be challenging for the leadership? This is scary. Really, really scary. When I read this the other day, I thought it the scariest thing I'd ever read and I'm a big Stephen King fan. Think about this, folks: do we really want some grubby, fascist, cruel, ex-Queensland copper as our prime minister? No. We do not. Not at all.
Sunday 12 August 2018
Gossipy Gasbags
Has anyone else heard about the proposed anti-gossiping rules for the workplace? I'm not sure if they're really enforceable and workable. What's one person's malicious mudslinging is another person's garrulous gossip around the water cooler. It's human nature to gossip, although I did once work in an office where the senior secretaries did nothing BUT gossip all day. And not the chatty fun type of gossip, either. They'd crowd into their coven, er, the manager's office, and indulge in the most catty and pointless sniping I've ever known. I'm not sure I was ever the target of the invective, but it would have been fun to have lived rent-free in their otherwise empty heads.
To tell the truth, I don't like being gossiped about at work. Many years ago (I was aged 22 - that's many, MANY years ago) I had Friday night drinks with some workmates. We ended up at the Wentworth Hotel, which from memory is in Phillip Street or Macquarie Street, Sydney. I don't even know if it is still operating, but can't imagine why it wouldn't be. Our group ended up chatting with a bunch of suits from somewhere, and I was talking - just TALKING! - to a man many years my senior. He seemed to like talking to me. That was the extent of the evening, and I caught a taxi home.
As the Jimmy Buffet song goes, 'come Monday' (and it's on my iPod) I went to work, and made my way to my desk, which was 'down the back' with other junior clerks. At the time, I was working with a bunch of bleached blonde bimbettes beamed direct from Planet Airhead in the Vacuous Solar System. 'Hey, Simone!' chortled one, 'I hear you were being chased around by a 40-year-old man last Friday night!' (Nowadays being chased by a 40-year-old would make me feel like a Mrs Robinson type).
I demanded to know what they were on about, and then saw the culprit who had started the bunkum. She was sporting the smile of one who has swallowed a packet of Zoloft and washed it down with a long draught of stupid. And my friends, I sure did feel like kicking her arse in. I'm not sure what her problem was. She used to tell lies, which in itself offends me. She also used to ask inane and personal questions all day. I dunno, mebbe she thought of me as some kind of older sister type. The only way I would have any type of sisterly influence over this twit was if we were the Manson family. All day, she'd ask questions about - wait for it - sex. Yes. Wanting to know this and that and the other. On the one hand, I'm a fairly broad-minded person; but on the other, there is a time and place for discussions. One day I got fed up and snapped at her to just find someone and fuck them, and let me get on with my work in peace.
Yeah, she was a total dimwit and one of the reasons I'm not fond of being gossiped about. Perhaps if people told the TRUTH, it wouldn't be so bad.
Still, as Oscar Wilde said, 'The only thing worse than being talked about is NOT being talked about.'
Anyway, good luck with enforcing the anti-gossip rule in the workplace. #ItWontHappen
To tell the truth, I don't like being gossiped about at work. Many years ago (I was aged 22 - that's many, MANY years ago) I had Friday night drinks with some workmates. We ended up at the Wentworth Hotel, which from memory is in Phillip Street or Macquarie Street, Sydney. I don't even know if it is still operating, but can't imagine why it wouldn't be. Our group ended up chatting with a bunch of suits from somewhere, and I was talking - just TALKING! - to a man many years my senior. He seemed to like talking to me. That was the extent of the evening, and I caught a taxi home.
As the Jimmy Buffet song goes, 'come Monday' (and it's on my iPod) I went to work, and made my way to my desk, which was 'down the back' with other junior clerks. At the time, I was working with a bunch of bleached blonde bimbettes beamed direct from Planet Airhead in the Vacuous Solar System. 'Hey, Simone!' chortled one, 'I hear you were being chased around by a 40-year-old man last Friday night!' (Nowadays being chased by a 40-year-old would make me feel like a Mrs Robinson type).
I demanded to know what they were on about, and then saw the culprit who had started the bunkum. She was sporting the smile of one who has swallowed a packet of Zoloft and washed it down with a long draught of stupid. And my friends, I sure did feel like kicking her arse in. I'm not sure what her problem was. She used to tell lies, which in itself offends me. She also used to ask inane and personal questions all day. I dunno, mebbe she thought of me as some kind of older sister type. The only way I would have any type of sisterly influence over this twit was if we were the Manson family. All day, she'd ask questions about - wait for it - sex. Yes. Wanting to know this and that and the other. On the one hand, I'm a fairly broad-minded person; but on the other, there is a time and place for discussions. One day I got fed up and snapped at her to just find someone and fuck them, and let me get on with my work in peace.
Yeah, she was a total dimwit and one of the reasons I'm not fond of being gossiped about. Perhaps if people told the TRUTH, it wouldn't be so bad.
Still, as Oscar Wilde said, 'The only thing worse than being talked about is NOT being talked about.'
Anyway, good luck with enforcing the anti-gossip rule in the workplace. #ItWontHappen
Saturday 4 August 2018
Hadley Feeling Badly
Heartbreaking to hear of the arrest of Ray Hadley's son for cocaine possession, especially when he is a serving police officer. This is a stressful time and we must give them privacy. My thoughts and prayers are with Ray Hadley.
On the other hand: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! - *draws breath* - BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
*Wipes eyes, grabs tissue to clear up runners of snot that have appeared from nostrils like New Year noisemakers, and runs to toilet to relieve bladder*
Ever since the news of Little Hadley's arrest broke, my lips have been twisted into a smug smirk; I'm sure it's neither pleasant nor becoming. But you know what? I don't care. Hadley is a right-wing nut job who makes a career out of finger-pointing, and vitriolic bile. He spouts his ultracrepidarian bullshit from behind the safety of his microphone, and rants about defendants being given bail (familiar with the Bail Act and the principles of being granted bail, Ray?), about soft sentences being handed down by the judiciary (got a law degree, Ray?), and about the mental health card (different when it applies to one of your own, isn't it, Ray?). Hey, if Ray's son goes to trial, wouldn't it be hilarious if his case was put before Judge Jeffreys, whom Ray tried to have removed from the bench due to perceived lenient sentencing (and again, you know all about the nuances of the law and mitigating circumstances, don't you, Ray?). However, should this situation arise it's not unrealistic to surmise there would be a successful application to have the learned (he's learned; you're not, Ray) judge removed from presiding over this case.
Maybe we should whip around the hat, and buy Ray a shitload of Windex to clean the glass house in which he resides.
Now that he and his family are experiencing what actually happens in our judicial system, perhaps this ranting, snapping old tortoise will pull his head in. One can only hope.
Okay, I've been bitchy enough. I think. But schadenfreude is such a sinfully delicious thing, isn't it? It's like a Belgian chocolate stuffed with almonds. It's like dipping lush strawberries in Moet et Chandon, and savouring their flavour whilst your shoulders are being rubbed by a loincloth-clad Brad Pitt (as in Thelma & Louise Brad Pitt) lookalike. It's delightfully decadent.
Just wondering if Ray's going to have a rant about the scruples of the legal profession, should the retained counsel obtain a good result for his kid. Watch and observe what happens, Ray. Learn from it, and keep your armchair lawyer bullshit in your mouth next time there's a high profile case with which you disagree.
Hey, in case you're thinking I've gone completely nasty, be assured I haven't. I actually want the defendant in this matter to be represented by competent counsel, and the case argued competently and within the parameters of the law. He must be afforded correct, due, and fair judicial process because the right to a fair hearing is one of the cornerstones of a well-run democracy, and the law must apply equally and fairly to all. Also, if the defendant is having mental health issues, I wish him well, too.
Aaaaaah, to pour, or not to pour wine?
On the other hand: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! - *draws breath* - BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
*Wipes eyes, grabs tissue to clear up runners of snot that have appeared from nostrils like New Year noisemakers, and runs to toilet to relieve bladder*
Ever since the news of Little Hadley's arrest broke, my lips have been twisted into a smug smirk; I'm sure it's neither pleasant nor becoming. But you know what? I don't care. Hadley is a right-wing nut job who makes a career out of finger-pointing, and vitriolic bile. He spouts his ultracrepidarian bullshit from behind the safety of his microphone, and rants about defendants being given bail (familiar with the Bail Act and the principles of being granted bail, Ray?), about soft sentences being handed down by the judiciary (got a law degree, Ray?), and about the mental health card (different when it applies to one of your own, isn't it, Ray?). Hey, if Ray's son goes to trial, wouldn't it be hilarious if his case was put before Judge Jeffreys, whom Ray tried to have removed from the bench due to perceived lenient sentencing (and again, you know all about the nuances of the law and mitigating circumstances, don't you, Ray?). However, should this situation arise it's not unrealistic to surmise there would be a successful application to have the learned (he's learned; you're not, Ray) judge removed from presiding over this case.
Maybe we should whip around the hat, and buy Ray a shitload of Windex to clean the glass house in which he resides.
Now that he and his family are experiencing what actually happens in our judicial system, perhaps this ranting, snapping old tortoise will pull his head in. One can only hope.
Okay, I've been bitchy enough. I think. But schadenfreude is such a sinfully delicious thing, isn't it? It's like a Belgian chocolate stuffed with almonds. It's like dipping lush strawberries in Moet et Chandon, and savouring their flavour whilst your shoulders are being rubbed by a loincloth-clad Brad Pitt (as in Thelma & Louise Brad Pitt) lookalike. It's delightfully decadent.
Just wondering if Ray's going to have a rant about the scruples of the legal profession, should the retained counsel obtain a good result for his kid. Watch and observe what happens, Ray. Learn from it, and keep your armchair lawyer bullshit in your mouth next time there's a high profile case with which you disagree.
Hey, in case you're thinking I've gone completely nasty, be assured I haven't. I actually want the defendant in this matter to be represented by competent counsel, and the case argued competently and within the parameters of the law. He must be afforded correct, due, and fair judicial process because the right to a fair hearing is one of the cornerstones of a well-run democracy, and the law must apply equally and fairly to all. Also, if the defendant is having mental health issues, I wish him well, too.
Aaaaaah, to pour, or not to pour wine?
Thursday 2 August 2018
God Help Me, I Was Only Browsing The Top 40 List....
If you've been following my rantings of late, you will know one of the things that has been bringing me joy is tutoring in English. I have a few students, ranging in age from ten to seventeen, and with the high school students I have found myself going through assigned poetry texts and helping them isolate techniques used to make the poem more vivid to the reader, and to discuss the themes - all that stuff you no doubt did when you were in high school. The poets I had to study in high school and uni vacillated between ones I liked (the Romantics such as John Keats and John Blake), and ones that made me scratch my head (the Metaphysical types like John Donne and T S Eliot). I was asked to assist with a poetry assignment, and approached this with interest, hoping it might be Blake. You wouldn't credit it, but what I was asked to render assistance with was the song I was Only 19. Yes, songs from my high school days are now texts to be studied in school. People say you know you're old when the elevator muzak is the Top 40 from your high school days, but I think that pales to insignificance when you find yourself discussing imagery, themes, and literary techniques to the stuff you used to listen to on the radio when doing your own homework (on Keats and Donne).
Naturally, I went into old fart mode and said to my pupil, 'This song came out when I was your age' (another sure sign you're getting old is when you trot out the 'when I was your age' line).
I actually enjoyed looking into the themes and techniques of the song today. To me it hearkens to the common theme of Lost Innocence, with a heavy dose of Futility of War.
But what I'm wondering is this: if songs from my final high school days are going to be used as English texts, will I find myself assisting people with this bilge:
1. Shiny, Shiny by Haysi Fantayzee. This is hands down one of the worst songs ever released. Literary types, don't even bother looking for themes, or imagery, or indeed sense. The song just sucks balls, and is a musical manifestation of the skid marks in Satan's underwear.
2. Safety Dance by Men Without Hats. Maybe there is some depth to 'We can dance/Everybody look at your hands', but the depth is comparable to that of a teaspoon.
3. Bop Girl by Pat Wilson. This is fingernails-down-the-blackboard stuff if ever there was. Have you ever bitten into a bar of chocolate, only to catch some foil lining on one of your fillings? The song has the same effect.
4. I Eat Cannibals by Toto Coelo. Fuck me dead, why? This song has the power to stun and debilitate at fifty yards by its sheer godawfulness alone.
5. The Clapping Song by Belle Stars. A close runner up to Number 4 above, and pretty much word for word with the explanation, so just see above.
6. Fraction Too Much Friction by Tim Finn. Look, I really liked Split Enz and think the Finn brothers prolifically talented; so why this dross? It makes me think he needs K-Y Jelly.
7. Living on the Ceiling by Blancmange. Like the name of the band, the song is a bland, flavourless pile of slop.
8. Zoom by Fat Larry's Band. This is a massive pile of cheeeeeeeze, so much so that listening will render you constipated for a week.
9. Shoop Shoop Diddy Wop Cumma Cumma Wang Dang by Monte Video & The Cassettes. Don't even try to analyse this; you'll end up under the desk in a foetal position, sobbing and clutching a bottle of wine.
I could go on, but I will stop there. Got other things to do. Besides, I'm getting seriously bad flashbacks from this list.
Will post again soon. Things are starting to improve slightly for me, and I'm getting excited about the upcoming Scone Literary Festival, whereat I shall be a panellist (hell, in my mind I'm the star attraction!).
Naturally, I went into old fart mode and said to my pupil, 'This song came out when I was your age' (another sure sign you're getting old is when you trot out the 'when I was your age' line).
I actually enjoyed looking into the themes and techniques of the song today. To me it hearkens to the common theme of Lost Innocence, with a heavy dose of Futility of War.
But what I'm wondering is this: if songs from my final high school days are going to be used as English texts, will I find myself assisting people with this bilge:
1. Shiny, Shiny by Haysi Fantayzee. This is hands down one of the worst songs ever released. Literary types, don't even bother looking for themes, or imagery, or indeed sense. The song just sucks balls, and is a musical manifestation of the skid marks in Satan's underwear.
2. Safety Dance by Men Without Hats. Maybe there is some depth to 'We can dance/Everybody look at your hands', but the depth is comparable to that of a teaspoon.
3. Bop Girl by Pat Wilson. This is fingernails-down-the-blackboard stuff if ever there was. Have you ever bitten into a bar of chocolate, only to catch some foil lining on one of your fillings? The song has the same effect.
4. I Eat Cannibals by Toto Coelo. Fuck me dead, why? This song has the power to stun and debilitate at fifty yards by its sheer godawfulness alone.
5. The Clapping Song by Belle Stars. A close runner up to Number 4 above, and pretty much word for word with the explanation, so just see above.
6. Fraction Too Much Friction by Tim Finn. Look, I really liked Split Enz and think the Finn brothers prolifically talented; so why this dross? It makes me think he needs K-Y Jelly.
7. Living on the Ceiling by Blancmange. Like the name of the band, the song is a bland, flavourless pile of slop.
8. Zoom by Fat Larry's Band. This is a massive pile of cheeeeeeeze, so much so that listening will render you constipated for a week.
9. Shoop Shoop Diddy Wop Cumma Cumma Wang Dang by Monte Video & The Cassettes. Don't even try to analyse this; you'll end up under the desk in a foetal position, sobbing and clutching a bottle of wine.
I could go on, but I will stop there. Got other things to do. Besides, I'm getting seriously bad flashbacks from this list.
Will post again soon. Things are starting to improve slightly for me, and I'm getting excited about the upcoming Scone Literary Festival, whereat I shall be a panellist (hell, in my mind I'm the star attraction!).
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