One of the current terms being bandied by the socially aware is 'woke'. It means being cognisant of social issues, and social injustices. Being aware of an imbalance of what is fair in society is very important, and working to address any prejudicial inequalities is even more important. But the problem with some of these woke types is that they're picking the wrong hill upon which to die, with their pretentious, pompous, and peremptory piffle.
If they don't like the manner in which a view or explanation is given, it is derisively referred to with a portmanteau of the gender/ethnicity of the person giving opinion + '-splaining', such as 'mansplaining'. The silly suffix makes me think of Desi Arnaz chiding, 'Hey, Lucy! You got some 'splaining to do!' This would of course offend the woke types because it is buying into the racist stereotype of a Cuban-born man living in America.
The other night I turned into Q&A on the ABC, and heard a beauty of a question from the woke crowd. The theme for the evening was Shakespeare, and other issues affecting the arts. The person who asked this must have 'woke-n' that morning, feeling ready to take on the world on behalf of the downtrodden, and put on her pretentious but forgot to pack her brain. The question posed to the panel went thus: "What kind of influence can a 454-year-old dead white guy's plays have on Australia's varied cultural landscape, without whitesplaining things?"
Um, what? Shakespeare was 52 when he died! Oh wait, did you mean to say, 'What kind of influence can the plays of a white man who died 454 years ago have on Australia's varied cultural landscape, without whitesplaining things?'? That would certain make more sense insofar as the grammatical aspect goes, but that's about it. What is this 'whitesplaining' twaddle? Shakespeare cannot be held accountable for his ethnicity, and it shouldn't be an issue. And another thing: Shakespeare was an English writer trying to eke out an existence during the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, so it is very unlikely he was thinking about some future antipodean cultural landscape.
Shakespeare had an amazing understanding of human nature, quirks, flaws, and foibles, which is apparent in his works, the themes of which still resonate. He created magic with words, poetically enjambed on the page. How many phrases are used in common everyday language that have had their genesis from the quill of the Bard? Clue: a fucken shitload.
I also have left-leaning politics, but the utter stupidity of some people really embarrasses me. Like I said, find another hill to die on. And do it quietly.
The other lot of dumb permeating my newsfeed today comes courtesy of the Perpetually Offended who took umbrage at the costume worn by Shaun White for Hallowe'en. If you don't know who Shaun White is, and I didn't until today, he's a skater and snowboarder. His costume was Simple Jack from the movie Tropic Thunder. Did anyone see that movie? How funny was it? You'll recall Simple Jack was a fictional character played by a fictional actor in Tropic Thunder (the actor being played by Ben Stiller). Part of the running gag was Stiller's character didn't win the Oscar for this character because he 'went the full retard'. Part of the nuanced satire of Tropic Thunder was the commonality of actors winning Oscars when playing a character with some level of disability, be it physical or intellectual. Think Eddie Redmayne as Professor Stephen Hawking. How about Daniel Day Lewis as Christie Brown (but it was well deserved - a consummate performance)? Then there's Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump (a travesty because it should have gone to John Travolta in Pulp Fiction).
And you guessed it - someone got the shits over White's choice of costume in the belief White was being disrespectful to those with intellectual disability. To these numbskulls - and I will type this slowly - Simple Jack is a fictional character in a movie that was a satire of Hollywood norms. The movie dealt with Hollywood attitudes, not the disabled.
Shaun White did issue an apology, but I don't think he should have. Most people could see he was not trying to be disrespectful.
I think these woke AF perpetually sooky types owe everyone with a degree of common sense an apology for all the offence they're causing to US!
Every time I read about this shit, I find myself wailing, 'Can't people learn to CON-TEXT-STEW-WULL-IIIIIZE!' I've typed the last word in a phonetic representation of my frustrated caterwaul, mainly to give you an image, but the word to which I refer is 'contextualise'. Nobody seems to do that these days, and everyone's jumping up and down losing their shit over things that do not need to be jumped up and down and have shit lost over.
Tuesday 30 October 2018
Saturday 27 October 2018
Today's Rant: It Involves Apu & Tofu
I have a pretty dire prediction to make. I predict boiled potatoes and tofu are going to be the metaphor for all comedy, or other forms of art. It's happening now. Soon we will be wading through a thick, murky creek of total blandness, and that blandness will mirror boiled potatoes and tofu. You know what I mean, folks. Have you had boiled potatoes? I LOVE spuds. I was a real little spud-gobbler as a kid, but the thing is: boiled potatoes are boring. They have no flavour. They need a little zing, even just a few grains of salt. The same with tofu. I occasionally eat tofu, but it needs to be practically napalmed with flavourings, or it just tastes like a lump of wet paper. This is where we are going with comedy, and other forms of art, but I fear it's mainly comedy.
The reason we are reading down that boring path like the bereft characters in the Wizard of Oz ('Follow the boiled spud road! Follow the boiled spud road! Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the boiled spud road! Follow the now monochromatic post-rain weather phenomenon over the stream...', sorry, just a vagary that went through my mind) is largely due to Social Justice Warriors who get offended on behalf of just about everybody. I agree it is important to be respectful and mindful of people's cultural needs, or other's beliefs. The thing about comedy is that there is always going to be a victim somewhere. Someone is going to find the work either offensive, or just cripplingly unfunny. People who know me well know I yell obscenities at the television should Everybody Loves Raymond appear, because I find the show not only unamusing, but the character of Ray Barone offensive. Being a grown woman with opposable thumbs and free will, I pick up the television remote and change channels.
This is the routine in which I would engage should I not wish to watch The Simpsons. I haven't been watching the show very much lately, but I've always enjoyed it. Now, it would appear the producers are getting rid of Apu, following backlash about what is deemed offensive racial stereotyping. Once the beloved sub-continental businessman is gone, I'll bet a major bodily organ the same SJWs are going to be groaning about the lack of racial and cultural diversity in The Simpsons.
The thing about this show is that a major number of the characters are a piss-take on some stereotype or trope. We have the fat, lazy husband (Homer). We have a fat cop swilling donuts (Chief Wiggum). We have a frazzled teacher smoking in the classroom (Edna Krabappel). We have a fat, sweaty, no-mates loser running a comic book store.
Some of the criticism levelled at the show is that the actor who voices Apu is a Caucasian American man. This criticism really makes me feel very combative indeed. Voice acting is an art, and Hank Azaria is damn fine at it. He also voices one of the African-American characters in the show, so should he now drop this character from his repertoire, too? Do the producers have to shell out for ethnically congruent actors to play the characters whom they are actually VOICING, even though nobody actually sees them, instead of having talented people playing several roles in the show, as is the current practice? I'm certain the production company can afford the actors, but why should they have to yield to the pressure? Do the twits complaining think Bugs Bunny was voiced by an actual smart-arsed talking rabbit, and that Yosemite Sam was voiced by a gun-happy cracker, and that Daffy Duck was voiced by some water fowl with a speech impediment? This just in: they were voiced by ONE talented man.
One of the complaints levelled at Apu is that some people in the Indian community have experienced bullying from twits who mock the character. People who behave in this manner are lower than the amoebas at the bottom of Satan's fish pond. They have proven themselves to be fuckwits. THEY'RE the ones with the problem. Besides, if they're not picking on someone based on an ethnically diverse character in a comedy, they would probably be drawing their inspiration from another source. They'd probably be groping at women based upon their viewing of Benny Hill type comedy. These clowns will always find a victim, and their behaviour should be addressed, but let's not have characters written out of television shows. Please.
Let's not make art an anodyne banality because there are fuckwits in the world. Please.
Ah, rant over.
The reason we are reading down that boring path like the bereft characters in the Wizard of Oz ('Follow the boiled spud road! Follow the boiled spud road! Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the boiled spud road! Follow the now monochromatic post-rain weather phenomenon over the stream...', sorry, just a vagary that went through my mind) is largely due to Social Justice Warriors who get offended on behalf of just about everybody. I agree it is important to be respectful and mindful of people's cultural needs, or other's beliefs. The thing about comedy is that there is always going to be a victim somewhere. Someone is going to find the work either offensive, or just cripplingly unfunny. People who know me well know I yell obscenities at the television should Everybody Loves Raymond appear, because I find the show not only unamusing, but the character of Ray Barone offensive. Being a grown woman with opposable thumbs and free will, I pick up the television remote and change channels.
This is the routine in which I would engage should I not wish to watch The Simpsons. I haven't been watching the show very much lately, but I've always enjoyed it. Now, it would appear the producers are getting rid of Apu, following backlash about what is deemed offensive racial stereotyping. Once the beloved sub-continental businessman is gone, I'll bet a major bodily organ the same SJWs are going to be groaning about the lack of racial and cultural diversity in The Simpsons.
The thing about this show is that a major number of the characters are a piss-take on some stereotype or trope. We have the fat, lazy husband (Homer). We have a fat cop swilling donuts (Chief Wiggum). We have a frazzled teacher smoking in the classroom (Edna Krabappel). We have a fat, sweaty, no-mates loser running a comic book store.
Some of the criticism levelled at the show is that the actor who voices Apu is a Caucasian American man. This criticism really makes me feel very combative indeed. Voice acting is an art, and Hank Azaria is damn fine at it. He also voices one of the African-American characters in the show, so should he now drop this character from his repertoire, too? Do the producers have to shell out for ethnically congruent actors to play the characters whom they are actually VOICING, even though nobody actually sees them, instead of having talented people playing several roles in the show, as is the current practice? I'm certain the production company can afford the actors, but why should they have to yield to the pressure? Do the twits complaining think Bugs Bunny was voiced by an actual smart-arsed talking rabbit, and that Yosemite Sam was voiced by a gun-happy cracker, and that Daffy Duck was voiced by some water fowl with a speech impediment? This just in: they were voiced by ONE talented man.
One of the complaints levelled at Apu is that some people in the Indian community have experienced bullying from twits who mock the character. People who behave in this manner are lower than the amoebas at the bottom of Satan's fish pond. They have proven themselves to be fuckwits. THEY'RE the ones with the problem. Besides, if they're not picking on someone based on an ethnically diverse character in a comedy, they would probably be drawing their inspiration from another source. They'd probably be groping at women based upon their viewing of Benny Hill type comedy. These clowns will always find a victim, and their behaviour should be addressed, but let's not have characters written out of television shows. Please.
Let's not make art an anodyne banality because there are fuckwits in the world. Please.
Ah, rant over.
Wednesday 24 October 2018
Bad Songs of 1983
I drive a Nissan Navara. What do YOU drive? It's probably not that DeLorean from Back to the Future, but just say it WAS the DeLorean from Back to the Future, where would you travel? If you're thinking of driving to 1983, you probably shouldn't. This is why:
1. Reckless by Australian Crawl. For a wordsmith, I am unable to conjure up the sentence that would adequately and honestly describe by utter loathing and detestation of this stultifying pile of steaming shit balls trying to pass itself off as a song. I rather like Australian Crawl, and can remember many a happy afternoon at the house of a friend who was a great fan of the band, listening to Sons of Beaches and The Boys Light Up, the album covers leaning against the stereo speaker. But Reckless just sucks. It is a tedious, atonal, discordant blend of blah. When he was in about Year 6, my oldest came home and asked was I familiar with Australian Crawl. I told him of course I was, and asked him the motivation of the question. He told me his class was performing Reckless for music class. He further told me he thought the song awful. I agreed, and directed him to You Tube, where we checked out some Australian Crawl numbers far more palatable to the ear (pretty much any other Aussie Crawl song is more palatable to the ear than that droning dross). I could not understand why anyone would use this as an example of a band's music, should that anyone actually want the children to listen. It would be like saying to someone, 'You want to hear some Beatles? They're great! Here, listen to this!', and then bunging on Yellow Submarine. But yeah, Reckless pretty much gobbles up shit. That chorus with the wailing 'Don't be so reck-leeeeeeessssssssss...' sounds like a crow going over a cliff.
2. Save Your Love by Renee and Renato. The Seventies gave us Ernie Sigley and Denise Drysdale covering Hey, Paula, which was pretty cheesy, but not too bad. The Eighties gave us Save Your Love, which is cheesy enough to send your cholesterol levels skyrocketing and constipate you for a month. I quite like me a bit of Italian tenor style singing, and Renato does have a lovely voice, but this song is just so flowery, I end up stuffing my ears with antihistamines after a listen.
3. Bop Girl by Pat Wilson. Okay, we all know I think this sounds like a mosquito in the dark, but it really is the most jejune inanity to come wafting from the speaker of my old Sanyo radio/cassette player.
4. Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler. Overblown bombastic grandiloquence delivered through sandpaper, that doesn't so much tell you to 'turn around', but beats you into submission. I remember this song coming on the radio, and one of my contemporaries exclaiming, 'This song is magnificent!' I looked at the rapt faces of my school friends with utter puzzlement and bewilderment, wondering was I just missing the point.
Well, that's it for today. Thanks for calling by.
1. Reckless by Australian Crawl. For a wordsmith, I am unable to conjure up the sentence that would adequately and honestly describe by utter loathing and detestation of this stultifying pile of steaming shit balls trying to pass itself off as a song. I rather like Australian Crawl, and can remember many a happy afternoon at the house of a friend who was a great fan of the band, listening to Sons of Beaches and The Boys Light Up, the album covers leaning against the stereo speaker. But Reckless just sucks. It is a tedious, atonal, discordant blend of blah. When he was in about Year 6, my oldest came home and asked was I familiar with Australian Crawl. I told him of course I was, and asked him the motivation of the question. He told me his class was performing Reckless for music class. He further told me he thought the song awful. I agreed, and directed him to You Tube, where we checked out some Australian Crawl numbers far more palatable to the ear (pretty much any other Aussie Crawl song is more palatable to the ear than that droning dross). I could not understand why anyone would use this as an example of a band's music, should that anyone actually want the children to listen. It would be like saying to someone, 'You want to hear some Beatles? They're great! Here, listen to this!', and then bunging on Yellow Submarine. But yeah, Reckless pretty much gobbles up shit. That chorus with the wailing 'Don't be so reck-leeeeeeessssssssss...' sounds like a crow going over a cliff.
2. Save Your Love by Renee and Renato. The Seventies gave us Ernie Sigley and Denise Drysdale covering Hey, Paula, which was pretty cheesy, but not too bad. The Eighties gave us Save Your Love, which is cheesy enough to send your cholesterol levels skyrocketing and constipate you for a month. I quite like me a bit of Italian tenor style singing, and Renato does have a lovely voice, but this song is just so flowery, I end up stuffing my ears with antihistamines after a listen.
3. Bop Girl by Pat Wilson. Okay, we all know I think this sounds like a mosquito in the dark, but it really is the most jejune inanity to come wafting from the speaker of my old Sanyo radio/cassette player.
4. Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler. Overblown bombastic grandiloquence delivered through sandpaper, that doesn't so much tell you to 'turn around', but beats you into submission. I remember this song coming on the radio, and one of my contemporaries exclaiming, 'This song is magnificent!' I looked at the rapt faces of my school friends with utter puzzlement and bewilderment, wondering was I just missing the point.
Well, that's it for today. Thanks for calling by.
Wednesday 17 October 2018
Irony - Good for the Blood
Just been brushing up on the use of irony as a literary technique. For those in the know, you'll be aware irony in literature falls into the categories of Situational, Dramatic, or Verbal. If you're an Alanis Morisset fan and happen to reading this, irony is NOT 'the good advice that you just didn't take'. That's not irony; that's poor decision-making.
Anyway, I got to thinking of irony just the other day. It is likely verbal irony, although the words were actually written, not spoken. Someone described me as 'dopey'. Given I had not partaken of the Devil's lettuce, I assume this person meant I was of somewhat limited intelligence. Reader, you're probably thinking I should be offended by that, but the words were levelled at me by a right-wing nutjob shock jock type, with whom I have engaged in online sparring and tussles in the past. So, given a person whom is capable of drinking Mark Latham under the table in a schooner of bile drinking competition thinks I'm 'dopey', this likely has the reverse (or ironic) effect of becoming a compliment for me.
I am a little bit embarrassed to admit I have been viewing the new Aussie series Playing for Keeps. If you've not seen it, it tells of the lives and dramas for the players and WAGs of a fictional Aussie Rules club. It is tacky and gaudy, and like some satanic blend of Real Housewives of Melbourne, Footballers' Wives, The Footy Show, and - best of all! - Dynasty. I would not be surprised to see Paige and Tahlia brawling in a catfight in a public fountain. It has drawn me in with its tractor beam of utter awfulness, and I'm tempted to watch with the blinds drawn and lights out, lest a person passing by my house suspect the occupant is watching this dramatic dross. To be honest, I haven't watched an evening soap opera for so long, watching again conjures up a feeling of the familiar mixed with the strange, and the guilt. We all need a guilty pleasure, and I suspect this just might be mine. However, the pleasure leaves me when the WAG characters share screen time; I resolve to never eat again, and book in for a course of fillers and Botox.
Speaking of viewing, I chanced upon a couple of episodes of current series of The Bachelorette. Why do people volunteer themselves for such tawdry scrutiny? Dudes, if you want to pick up, there's always Tinder and the pub. Yeah, yeah, I know you've all said you're looking for love. Furthermore, why do people want to watch this arse gravy? I swear I dropped a few IQ points in the limited viewing I had.
Well, real life beckons. I am off to the library, to the supermarket, and then to drop my oldest to a job interview.
Ciao for now. Oh, and buy my books.
Anyway, I got to thinking of irony just the other day. It is likely verbal irony, although the words were actually written, not spoken. Someone described me as 'dopey'. Given I had not partaken of the Devil's lettuce, I assume this person meant I was of somewhat limited intelligence. Reader, you're probably thinking I should be offended by that, but the words were levelled at me by a right-wing nutjob shock jock type, with whom I have engaged in online sparring and tussles in the past. So, given a person whom is capable of drinking Mark Latham under the table in a schooner of bile drinking competition thinks I'm 'dopey', this likely has the reverse (or ironic) effect of becoming a compliment for me.
I am a little bit embarrassed to admit I have been viewing the new Aussie series Playing for Keeps. If you've not seen it, it tells of the lives and dramas for the players and WAGs of a fictional Aussie Rules club. It is tacky and gaudy, and like some satanic blend of Real Housewives of Melbourne, Footballers' Wives, The Footy Show, and - best of all! - Dynasty. I would not be surprised to see Paige and Tahlia brawling in a catfight in a public fountain. It has drawn me in with its tractor beam of utter awfulness, and I'm tempted to watch with the blinds drawn and lights out, lest a person passing by my house suspect the occupant is watching this dramatic dross. To be honest, I haven't watched an evening soap opera for so long, watching again conjures up a feeling of the familiar mixed with the strange, and the guilt. We all need a guilty pleasure, and I suspect this just might be mine. However, the pleasure leaves me when the WAG characters share screen time; I resolve to never eat again, and book in for a course of fillers and Botox.
Speaking of viewing, I chanced upon a couple of episodes of current series of The Bachelorette. Why do people volunteer themselves for such tawdry scrutiny? Dudes, if you want to pick up, there's always Tinder and the pub. Yeah, yeah, I know you've all said you're looking for love. Furthermore, why do people want to watch this arse gravy? I swear I dropped a few IQ points in the limited viewing I had.
Well, real life beckons. I am off to the library, to the supermarket, and then to drop my oldest to a job interview.
Ciao for now. Oh, and buy my books.
Saturday 13 October 2018
Don't Badger the Badger!
Picture this, Reader. It's 1972. People are trudging around in flares and platform boots, and listening to the fabulousness that is glam rock. In Washington, two young journalists in the employ of The Washington Post are having secretive meetings in underground car parks with a whistle-blower, and as a result of their labour and research, what becomes known as The Watergate Scandal is unleashed, leading to the resignation of then-US President Richard Nixon.
Those young journalists, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, set the bar for the type of investigative journalism that reveals to the public the rancid and foetid behind-the-scenes corruption practised by those in power.
Picture this, Reader, and shed a tear of despair as you do so. It's 2018. People are getting around in all sorts of things, but listening to the predictable bitter I-Hate-You melodious misery that is Taylor Swift. In Australia, A Current Affair sends a crew to harass a bloke on holiday in PNG. Woodward and Bernstein set the bar; Channel 9 and A Current Affair crawled on their miserable bellies underneath it, and in doing so they bumped the supporting poles thus causing the bar to wobble and come crashing to the ground, whereupon they set fire to it. There is now no bar to which journalists and reporters can aspire, and nowadays any rank, malodorous pile of garbage is passed off as an important story.
I don't watch A Current Affair. I would sooner watch the feral bogans who used to live behind me (the she-bogan was a scrawny, foul-mouthed shrew, and the he-bogan a home-inked, beer-butted freak with a skinny plait that went all the way to the arse crack exposed by his low-riding shorts) HAVING SEX than watch A Current Affair. But the other night I was holidaying with a relative, and it happened to be on the television. Their all-important, earth-shattering, bowel-loosening scoop focused on Nick Cummins (aka the Honey Badger), the contestant on The Bachelor who didn't choose either of the two finalists, staying in a hotel in PNG.
'We've tracked him down!' was the gleeful voiceover. Um, pardon my French, but why the fuck would you guys do this? They were going to grill him on the 'mess he left behind'. Again I will offer a perfunctory apology, but who the fuck cares if he didn't like either of the girls enough to commit? 'What have you got to say to the girls?' was the reporter's demand. Seriously, mate, fuck off already!
To use a hackneyed phrase: this really is a new low. I should not need to spell this out to you clowns at Channel 9, but it looks like I have to. Firstly, Nick Cummins has broken no laws. Secondly, people who invest too much of their emotional energy into a 'reality' television show with a shallow premise should have a word with themselves. Thirdly, most people don't really give too much of a fart in a wind tunnel about neither woman being chosen. Fourthly, reality television sucks. Fifthly, ambushing someone relaxing in their own time for no good reason, armed with television cameras and asinine questions, just totally sucks the dried dags away from a smelly old sheep's arse.
Your story was offensive. It was objectionable. It was coarse and truly pointless. Just a heads up to the crew and reporter Reid Butler: this is not the stuff of Walkley awards.
Haranguing some bloke who's done no wrong, going about his lawful business - surely this is not what aspiring reporters dream of doing? Why not report on the reason Cummins travelled to PNG: a charity walk along the Kokoda Track? Oh no, let's not report someone's altruistic work; it would be more our style to manufacture outrage over some perceived scandal in a dipshit reality show screened on another network.
SEGUE ALERT: the atrocious and noisome behaviour of tabloid journalists forms a subplot in my first ever novel, Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh. There's a link to the first chapter of the novel in the bio section of my blog page. Check it out, and 'check it out' in the trolley icon! Heh-heh.
Those young journalists, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, set the bar for the type of investigative journalism that reveals to the public the rancid and foetid behind-the-scenes corruption practised by those in power.
Picture this, Reader, and shed a tear of despair as you do so. It's 2018. People are getting around in all sorts of things, but listening to the predictable bitter I-Hate-You melodious misery that is Taylor Swift. In Australia, A Current Affair sends a crew to harass a bloke on holiday in PNG. Woodward and Bernstein set the bar; Channel 9 and A Current Affair crawled on their miserable bellies underneath it, and in doing so they bumped the supporting poles thus causing the bar to wobble and come crashing to the ground, whereupon they set fire to it. There is now no bar to which journalists and reporters can aspire, and nowadays any rank, malodorous pile of garbage is passed off as an important story.
I don't watch A Current Affair. I would sooner watch the feral bogans who used to live behind me (the she-bogan was a scrawny, foul-mouthed shrew, and the he-bogan a home-inked, beer-butted freak with a skinny plait that went all the way to the arse crack exposed by his low-riding shorts) HAVING SEX than watch A Current Affair. But the other night I was holidaying with a relative, and it happened to be on the television. Their all-important, earth-shattering, bowel-loosening scoop focused on Nick Cummins (aka the Honey Badger), the contestant on The Bachelor who didn't choose either of the two finalists, staying in a hotel in PNG.
'We've tracked him down!' was the gleeful voiceover. Um, pardon my French, but why the fuck would you guys do this? They were going to grill him on the 'mess he left behind'. Again I will offer a perfunctory apology, but who the fuck cares if he didn't like either of the girls enough to commit? 'What have you got to say to the girls?' was the reporter's demand. Seriously, mate, fuck off already!
To use a hackneyed phrase: this really is a new low. I should not need to spell this out to you clowns at Channel 9, but it looks like I have to. Firstly, Nick Cummins has broken no laws. Secondly, people who invest too much of their emotional energy into a 'reality' television show with a shallow premise should have a word with themselves. Thirdly, most people don't really give too much of a fart in a wind tunnel about neither woman being chosen. Fourthly, reality television sucks. Fifthly, ambushing someone relaxing in their own time for no good reason, armed with television cameras and asinine questions, just totally sucks the dried dags away from a smelly old sheep's arse.
Your story was offensive. It was objectionable. It was coarse and truly pointless. Just a heads up to the crew and reporter Reid Butler: this is not the stuff of Walkley awards.
Haranguing some bloke who's done no wrong, going about his lawful business - surely this is not what aspiring reporters dream of doing? Why not report on the reason Cummins travelled to PNG: a charity walk along the Kokoda Track? Oh no, let's not report someone's altruistic work; it would be more our style to manufacture outrage over some perceived scandal in a dipshit reality show screened on another network.
SEGUE ALERT: the atrocious and noisome behaviour of tabloid journalists forms a subplot in my first ever novel, Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh. There's a link to the first chapter of the novel in the bio section of my blog page. Check it out, and 'check it out' in the trolley icon! Heh-heh.
Sunday 7 October 2018
Monkees, and Organ-Grinder's Monkeys
I quite like most of the Monkees' material. One song I'm not overly fond of is That Was Then, This Is Now, which appears on a 1986 compilation. Oh, I don't loathe it the way I loathe Sylvia's Mother (and anything by Dr Hook, really), but I would press 'skip' if it was on a playlist. I've had the song in my head this morning, and I will explain why:
The furore over the proposed advertisement on the Sydney Opera House has had some people offering this argument in support of the odious campaign: 'Oh, but the Opera House was built from funds raised from a lottery! That's gambling! Oh, ho, we've got you now, you leftie elitist wankers!' So to this I say: Yes, funds from a lottery DID enable the Opera House to be built. But as I also said: that was THEN, this is NOW!
Our Prime Minister defended the State government's capitulation to vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones, er, decision to allow the advertisement to be displayed in a radio interview with vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones, er, radio host Alan Jones - oh hell, I'm running with original choice: Our Prime Minister defended the State government's capitulation to vile, pissy shock jock Alan Jones in an interview with the said vile, pissy shock jock, and stated, 'I just don't understand why we tie ourselves up in knots about these things.'
Now, listen Prime Minister, I did not appreciate snorting twin streams of scalding hot coffee out my nostrils when I heard that. Tied up in knots about things? The toxic twerp interviewing you practically shat out his own liver in a vitriolic and offensive tirade at the CEO of the Opera House, a woman who was DOING HER JOB, which is to administer the charter of the Opera House, and SHE is the one who understands the nuances of what is allowed to be displayed, and what is not. It would appear a promotion of gambling is NOT what the Opera House is about, and let's face it, horse racing is saturated with gambling. And yeah, the proposed ad is just downright tacky and tawdry.
Jones, is it the case that you have associates with interests in the Everest race? Is this why you acted like the Devil had pushed a peeled chilli up your arse? Get over it! Ms Herron understands the rules regarding the Opera House, and you're just an overbearing, over-pampered, piece of dung.
And Gladys Berejiklian, you should be utterly ashamed of yourself for not defending a NSW public servant when she was reviled by that bitter little personification of Toad of Toad Hall.
What a disgraceful business this is. It actually got me doing something I pretty much never do, and that is signing one of those change dot org petitions. I wonder are Scummo and Berras feeling a bit uneasy at this backlash?
Reader, if you want to leave me a comment, I invite you to do so. However, I probably won't respond for a few days because I'm going on holidays. Yaaaaaaay!
This has been a simian-inspired post. From Monkees, to organ-grinder's monkeys.
The furore over the proposed advertisement on the Sydney Opera House has had some people offering this argument in support of the odious campaign: 'Oh, but the Opera House was built from funds raised from a lottery! That's gambling! Oh, ho, we've got you now, you leftie elitist wankers!' So to this I say: Yes, funds from a lottery DID enable the Opera House to be built. But as I also said: that was THEN, this is NOW!
Our Prime Minister defended the State government's
Now, listen Prime Minister, I did not appreciate snorting twin streams of scalding hot coffee out my nostrils when I heard that. Tied up in knots about things? The toxic twerp interviewing you practically shat out his own liver in a vitriolic and offensive tirade at the CEO of the Opera House, a woman who was DOING HER JOB, which is to administer the charter of the Opera House, and SHE is the one who understands the nuances of what is allowed to be displayed, and what is not. It would appear a promotion of gambling is NOT what the Opera House is about, and let's face it, horse racing is saturated with gambling. And yeah, the proposed ad is just downright tacky and tawdry.
Jones, is it the case that you have associates with interests in the Everest race? Is this why you acted like the Devil had pushed a peeled chilli up your arse? Get over it! Ms Herron understands the rules regarding the Opera House, and you're just an overbearing, over-pampered, piece of dung.
And Gladys Berejiklian, you should be utterly ashamed of yourself for not defending a NSW public servant when she was reviled by that bitter little personification of Toad of Toad Hall.
What a disgraceful business this is. It actually got me doing something I pretty much never do, and that is signing one of those change dot org petitions. I wonder are Scummo and Berras feeling a bit uneasy at this backlash?
Reader, if you want to leave me a comment, I invite you to do so. However, I probably won't respond for a few days because I'm going on holidays. Yaaaaaaay!
This has been a simian-inspired post. From Monkees, to organ-grinder's monkeys.
Friday 5 October 2018
My F**k You Messages For Today
If I was asked to compile a list of things about which I am totally incapable of giving a shit, well, they'd be largely sport related, along with a few Instagram influencers thrown in for good measure. That list includes horse racing. It doesn't interest me in the slightest. I don't even bother going to my local track because the ladies' loo is home to big, horrible, green frogs. I know this because I did attend a meet a few years ago, and ended up having to hobble around with my legs plaited because no way on God's green earth was I going to sit on that toilet seat after I'd flipped up the lid and seen that horrible, bug-eyed, green face peering up from the murky depths of the dunny. Fortunately, the friend I was with had trainer's credentials, and I was able to get into the Members' Bar and use their facilities, and avoided wetting myself (just narrowly).
Anyway, even now I'm more inclined to avoid racing more than ever, and it's owing to the gloating (yeah, I know I gloated in my last post, but it was about a person who has personally done me much malign) of Racing NSW over the most repugnant interview I have heard in a long time. I don't listen to Alan Jones. I'd prefer to spend my time being fisted by a stevedore wearing studded boxing gloves than listen to Alan Jones. This interview took place between Jones, Opera House boss Louise Herron, and Racing NSW CEO Peter V'Landys. Racing NSW wanted some lighting on the sails of the Opera House to advertise the Everest race. No matter how Racing NSW dressed it up or put on the spin, it's an advertisement, and not a work of art, which is often used to great effect in light shows on the Opera House. Ms Herron pointed out in the interview that the Opera House is not a billboard.
Well, didn't the Parrot just take great umbrage at this? He huffed and puffed like an overblown toxic Toad of Toad Hall, or like a spoiled little brat who's had its toy taken away. He demanded to know who Ms Herron thinks she is because she doesn't own the Opera House. Seriously, Jones, do you operate from a studio in a radio station, or a sandpit in a playground? Grow the fuck up, why don't you? He acted like a vicious, vitriolic, overbearing, perverse poltroon (oh, wait; he IS!) and threatened to ring Premier Berejiklian over this. Jones, Ms Herron was too much of a lady to tell you to go fuck yourself, but it's really what you should consider doing. He told Ms Herron she should be sacked. This from a dude who's just been successfully sued for defamation from a family he slandered over the safety of their walls in the 2010 flood in Queensland. And it's not the only time he's been successfully sued for slander, I might add.
And guess what happened next into this total clusterfuck of events? Berras has ordered the Opera House to comply with the submission tendered by Racing NSW! What the actual fuck?!!!! Who's running the State? Nobody voted for Alan Jones to run the State; it was the Liberal party who were voted in. Not by me; I wouldn't vote those fools in, and I wouldn't vote Gladys Berejiklian to the position of town shit-carter, especially after this.
I'm guessing Jones has some vested interest in the racing industry, aren't you? Also, if he has THAT much sway with the government, maybe he can get onto Berras about getting some of the needed English text books into the schools. Might tweet the shitheap and ask him...
What Racing NSW has tendered to be shown on that magnificent Sydney land mark is tacky beyond measure. We are talking a level of tackiness on the same level as safari suits, toupees, flying ducks on the walls, garden gnomes, and sauterne-with-roast-beef. Old Berras caving into that mouth-running pissant Jones has nauseated me to a degree I have not felt in years - even when I copped a tummy bug in India.
Fuck you, Berras and Jones. What an unholy union you make.
While we're on the topic of grots to whom Fucks Yous are to be directed, I will make mention of Channel 9 in their coverage of the little conjoined twins from Bhutan who are in Melbourne awaiting surgery to facilitate their separation. The headline from Channel 9 went along the lines 'Taxpayers to foot the bill for surgery...'. This had me shaking my head in despair at its utter disgracefulness. So what? These are CHILDREN, and this is life-saving surgery. Were I a Victorian, I'd be more than happy for my taxes to assist. I was incredibly angry about this headline, designed purely to whip up xenophobia and populism. Fuck you too, Channel 9. Whoever devised, and whoever sanctioned that headline: you suck and should eat a bag of dicks.
Anyway, even now I'm more inclined to avoid racing more than ever, and it's owing to the gloating (yeah, I know I gloated in my last post, but it was about a person who has personally done me much malign) of Racing NSW over the most repugnant interview I have heard in a long time. I don't listen to Alan Jones. I'd prefer to spend my time being fisted by a stevedore wearing studded boxing gloves than listen to Alan Jones. This interview took place between Jones, Opera House boss Louise Herron, and Racing NSW CEO Peter V'Landys. Racing NSW wanted some lighting on the sails of the Opera House to advertise the Everest race. No matter how Racing NSW dressed it up or put on the spin, it's an advertisement, and not a work of art, which is often used to great effect in light shows on the Opera House. Ms Herron pointed out in the interview that the Opera House is not a billboard.
Well, didn't the Parrot just take great umbrage at this? He huffed and puffed like an overblown toxic Toad of Toad Hall, or like a spoiled little brat who's had its toy taken away. He demanded to know who Ms Herron thinks she is because she doesn't own the Opera House. Seriously, Jones, do you operate from a studio in a radio station, or a sandpit in a playground? Grow the fuck up, why don't you? He acted like a vicious, vitriolic, overbearing, perverse poltroon (oh, wait; he IS!) and threatened to ring Premier Berejiklian over this. Jones, Ms Herron was too much of a lady to tell you to go fuck yourself, but it's really what you should consider doing. He told Ms Herron she should be sacked. This from a dude who's just been successfully sued for defamation from a family he slandered over the safety of their walls in the 2010 flood in Queensland. And it's not the only time he's been successfully sued for slander, I might add.
And guess what happened next into this total clusterfuck of events? Berras has ordered the Opera House to comply with the submission tendered by Racing NSW! What the actual fuck?!!!! Who's running the State? Nobody voted for Alan Jones to run the State; it was the Liberal party who were voted in. Not by me; I wouldn't vote those fools in, and I wouldn't vote Gladys Berejiklian to the position of town shit-carter, especially after this.
I'm guessing Jones has some vested interest in the racing industry, aren't you? Also, if he has THAT much sway with the government, maybe he can get onto Berras about getting some of the needed English text books into the schools. Might tweet the shitheap and ask him...
What Racing NSW has tendered to be shown on that magnificent Sydney land mark is tacky beyond measure. We are talking a level of tackiness on the same level as safari suits, toupees, flying ducks on the walls, garden gnomes, and sauterne-with-roast-beef. Old Berras caving into that mouth-running pissant Jones has nauseated me to a degree I have not felt in years - even when I copped a tummy bug in India.
Fuck you, Berras and Jones. What an unholy union you make.
While we're on the topic of grots to whom Fucks Yous are to be directed, I will make mention of Channel 9 in their coverage of the little conjoined twins from Bhutan who are in Melbourne awaiting surgery to facilitate their separation. The headline from Channel 9 went along the lines 'Taxpayers to foot the bill for surgery...'. This had me shaking my head in despair at its utter disgracefulness. So what? These are CHILDREN, and this is life-saving surgery. Were I a Victorian, I'd be more than happy for my taxes to assist. I was incredibly angry about this headline, designed purely to whip up xenophobia and populism. Fuck you too, Channel 9. Whoever devised, and whoever sanctioned that headline: you suck and should eat a bag of dicks.
Monday 1 October 2018
Show Tunes in a Snarky Setting
Some words are unpleasant to the ear, and equally unpleasant for the speaker to enunciate. Some of the words have the 'oa' diphthong, like 'gloat', which rhymes with 'bloat'. Both have negative connotations. Spoken aloud, the word 'gloat' sounds like the heraldic note of an imminent chunder. Think about it, Reader - it really does. However, 'gloat' and 'bloat' are wonderfully onomatopoeic words. 'Onomatopoeic' is an awesome word. It's musical to the ear, and doesn't evoke memories of having a chuck over toilet (aka driving the porcelain bus).
When a person gloats, they are revelling in malicious glee at another's perceived misfortune. They are dripping in Schadenfreude (another awesome word). They are being unpleasant. They are being smug. They are being obnoxious.
They are also being me, at the moment.
Yes, I have been gloating today. In my own logic, I have good reason to be gloating because the Karma Bus appears to have come screaming around the corner and splattered this odious pile of pox-ridden cunt snot who has really been putting the pennies on its Opal card for the fare Karma demands. Note: driving the Karma Bus is not the same as driving the porcelain bus.
I know I'm not being nice, but if you knew the stress this person has caused me, you'd understand WHY I've been singing showtunes from Oklahoma ('...I've got a bee-yooo-tiful feeeeeelinnnggg/everything's going my way!) and Gypsy ('Everything's coming up roses....'). You'd totally empathise with me cranking up Instant Karma as I tidied the kitchen. Whilst the karma wasn't actually instantaneous (indeed, it took a good year or so), it felt mighty fine. And like the song says, I will 'shine on'.
Okay, enough with the snarking, and being snide. I will now continue enjoying the sunshine as I go to the supermarket, and thenceforth the gym.
And we all shine on.
When a person gloats, they are revelling in malicious glee at another's perceived misfortune. They are dripping in Schadenfreude (another awesome word). They are being unpleasant. They are being smug. They are being obnoxious.
They are also being me, at the moment.
Yes, I have been gloating today. In my own logic, I have good reason to be gloating because the Karma Bus appears to have come screaming around the corner and splattered this odious pile of pox-ridden cunt snot who has really been putting the pennies on its Opal card for the fare Karma demands. Note: driving the Karma Bus is not the same as driving the porcelain bus.
I know I'm not being nice, but if you knew the stress this person has caused me, you'd understand WHY I've been singing showtunes from Oklahoma ('...I've got a bee-yooo-tiful feeeeeelinnnggg/everything's going my way!) and Gypsy ('Everything's coming up roses....'). You'd totally empathise with me cranking up Instant Karma as I tidied the kitchen. Whilst the karma wasn't actually instantaneous (indeed, it took a good year or so), it felt mighty fine. And like the song says, I will 'shine on'.
Okay, enough with the snarking, and being snide. I will now continue enjoying the sunshine as I go to the supermarket, and thenceforth the gym.
And we all shine on.
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