'Imagine' & 'Re-Imagine'

 Okay, back at the desk, which can be barely seen underneath the plethora of keyboards and mouses - my sixteen-year-old used his Christmas money to purchase a gaming keyboard with mouse. From an ergonomic standpoint, I'm not minding this keyboard except for the 'return' key being set a little further away, just to the point where it involves extension of the right pinkie finger further than what I'm used to. Therefore, this keyboard will have to be swapped when I'm doing some serious typing.  Despite 2020 being a year we would like to flush down the dunny, Christmas has been very pleasant insofar as your blogger is concerned. Naturally, I ate too much, and I'm sure I am not the only person who has transgressed thus. Our lunch was cold meats, seafood, and salads; and the participants were my husband, two children, mother-in-law, local Anglican minister (a friend of my mother-in-law's who faced Christmas alone because her family weren't due until Boxing Day), and me. Oh, and the flies that are ubiquitous with an outdoor Aussie Christmas lunch. The minister said a blessing and we said 'amen', whilst my husband abused the flies. 

My gift haul includes a new Bluetooth speaker, an IOU for theatre tickets, and a book about the last few weeks of the life of John Lennon. I read the book and it was disturbing, but then again, any senseless violent deliberate taking of a life is disturbing. 

Anyway, I've found an antidote to the disturbing material. I've been watching the modern remake of Four Weddings & A Funeral on Stan. It's not a movie, but a television series, and I'm afraid I've become rather addicted to it. This remake is a re-imagining with completely different characters and is vastly different to the 1994 movie. I saw the movie in 1994 with my then-boyfriend-now-husband. We were fresh-faced young twenty-somethings as opposed to the still-good-looking (!) fifty-somethings we are now. We saw the movie at the Randwick Ritz, an establishment that is splendidly and sumptuously decorated in Art Deco style. I recall we were sitting in the dress circle. My future husband dozed off during the movie, and the person sitting on the other side to me was laughing himself into a hernia.I wanted to tell him, 'Dude, it's not that funny!'

Anyway, fast forward to the end of this suck-arse year that is 2020, and I'm not sitting in Art Deco surroundings. I'm sitting on a lounge purchased at Harvey Norman and my new DYI floor lamp from Big W is beside me (it needs a nice shade and I might see if I can find a Tiffany style one). Again, the story's action takes takes place in London, but the central characters are Americans living in London. The secondary characters are English. Also, there is more diversity in the cast. I just had a quick look at the dramatis personae for the 1994 production and I am sure there was not one person of colour there. I don't consider myself to be woke and am a staunch proponent of the ideal of Art for Art's Sake, but I must say I am enjoying the diversity in the current one, together with the background stories and subplots to the characters in question. I guess the current production reflects the multicultural society. Whatever. I'm liking it a lot and cannot wait to dive right back in after I've had my dinner! 

My Kid Looks Like One of the Partridge Family

 If you are a regular reader of this blog, please excuse my absence of late. I have been studying like a woman possessed, so I hope I have retained some information. The subject is Managing the Learning Environment. The suggestions and theories appear to be useful, and focus on maintaining dignity and respect for both the learner and the teacher. Gone are the days when you would have to quickly duck a flying blackboard duster that had been hurled by an angry teacher with force sufficient to decapitate its intended victim. If you were quick enough avoid the missile, you sustained whiplash in the ducking process.

After I have posted here, I am going to fold the washing and iron a few items, and then study some more. ROCK AND ROLL!!!!! <makes the recognised heavy metal gesture of fist with pinkies and thumbs signifying the beast's horns>

Is anybody really ready for Christmas this year? My youngest still has Christmas shopping to do. He's been growing his hair and taken to parting it in the middle, and today it occurred to me whom he resembles: David Cassidy as Keith Partridge.  I still have a few token items to purchase for his older brother, who is somewhat more sedate with his hair and looks nothing like Keith Partridge.  I will have to get a Christmas playlist happening. If you know me well, you will know my favourite Chrissy choons are:

1. Rockin' Christmas by Ol' 55. I just love this song. I guess it's because it takes me back to my childhood. Songs that evoke childhood and nostalgia are a joy. 

2. Merry Christmas by Slade - Noddy Holder has a head like a butcher's block and a voice that sounds like it's being dragged over shards of glass, and charisma by the bucketful. I loved Slade when I was a kid and still crank them up. 

3. How to Make Gravy by Paul Kelly. This is not a cheery tune, but it is very poignant and Paul Kelly has a way of delivering that could melt a polar cap. I was rostered to work last Christmas and the song came on the radio as I was driving between clients. I guess I was thinking about people who are away from family at Christmas and that it's the anniversary of my father's death (not on the 25th, but in the Christmas period), and my vision blurred with the tears. 

I don't know if I will watch Love, Actually this year. I know it's narky of me, but I do get the irrits with the implausible and preposterous vignette plots. I don't buy that a bunch of hot American chicks are going to just drop everything and come over to England with this dorky bloke because he has the same kind of accent as Prince William. Also, I just to scream at the Laura Linney character to turn off her frigging phone, let the carers in the home look after her brother, and shag that Karl guy's brains out. 

Anyway, the washing awaits. Along with a fruit cake I baked this morning in a fit of Martha Stewart-like domesticity. 

If I don't blog beforehand, Merry Christmas to you all. 

When Wednesday Feels Like Friday

 Today - which is Wednesday, but I keep thinking is Friday because school is completed for the year - my youngest son finished Year 10. Today is the last day he wore his blue school polo shirt because the senior school wear white shirts in the establishment where he is learning. He came home with his shirt covered in black sharpie-d signatures and slogans. Reminds me of my final day in Year 10 when my class signed each other's uniform. I have a recollection of the deputy principal warning us there would be trouble for anybody who partook in what was a school tradition, but we went ahead and did it anyway. What was he going to do, expel us? We were finished! Next year, my youngest will be a senior. Gosh. 

I asked my lad had they performed an end-of-year skit for the entertainment of the student body. They had not. We did. We pretended to be the teachers having a staff meeting. Everybody contributed ideas for the script, which I wrote. Can I just say it was, well, accurate? I played the English/History teacher, who had this quirk of telling the class, in air-raid siren tones, 'There is to be NOOOOOOOO talking!'  The following year, when I was in Year 11, I was recruited by the then-Year 10s (at the suggestion of one of the teachers) to assist with writing their script. I had fun collaborating, but clashed with the kid directing. Artistic differences, I guess. 

Today, I will just make a little list of some things I don't like:

1. Statements that begin: 'If you want MY advice...'. No, turkey; I DON'T want your advice. If I want your advice, I will ASK.

2. Apropos of the above point, statements that begin: 'Why don't you...?'. The reason I don't is because I don't want to do it, or maybe can't afford it, or am maybe physically incapable of doing it. Whatever the reason, I will not be taking that course of action. If the phrase is re-framed to 'have you considered', then I am more likely to mull it over. There is something obnoxiously imperative about 'why don't you', and the phrase never ceases to set my teeth on edge. I think it's because I have memories of overbearing people offering unsolicited advice. Sounds a bit like Point 1 above, doesn't it?

3. Fennel. Oh, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against fennel bulbs sliced and put into a salad. I kind of like those, and I don't mind licorice, either. I just have issue with the wild fennel growing in the vacant lot next to my home. The lot's owners had the land mowed today, so the air is redolent with the stuff, and my eyes are itching, and I'm sneezing with such ferocity that my nose is in danger of flying away. If this happens, I will have no nose, and be like Michael Jackson, if Michael Jackson had been a reasonably slim, pale-skinned woman. Oh, wait...

Over the next week, I will be arranging ISBNs for my books in order to facilitate uploading to Ingram Sparks. After such time, I can start marketing again and  you can start buying. Won't that be super-funsies? 

Anyway, time for my cup of tea. Got trivia tonight. My son probably still won't acquiesce to naming our team Tess Tickles. 

Ranting About Hanson & Cashless Welfare Card

 Okay, no doona day for me today. Like I said last post, I have registered a business. I spent the past few days constructing a website, which you can check out here. My husband said to me words to the effect: 'You know you are going to have to be so careful with what you post anywhere now, and make sure you have absolutely NO errors, don't you?' He's quite correct. I will make every effort to have no mixed homophones or misplaced apostrophes ('The horror! The horror!'). Problem is, despite punctuation being my superpower, I will occasionally make an error because it's part of being human (I know there are some who disagree with the concept that I am human). As soon as the error is pointed out to me, I make a mad scramble, akin to eager bargain hunters as the doors to David Jones open on Boxing Day, to fix the offending atrocity. 

Now, if you're new to this blog, I occasionally use a judiciously placed swear for emphasis. If it works in the art, then art for art's sake. Obviously, I would not do this in a professional article. I was thinking of making a pledge on my new website to help all, but there are people I will not help. If you're a neo-Nazi wanting your brochure of vicious filth proofread and edited, you can just fuck right off. I guess that policy goes without saying.

As stated in my opening paragraph, today is not a doona day. I am out of my fugue, probably because my tummy feels better, and probably because I am feeling ANGRY. Yes, I know I am excited about my new website (and rightly so), but there is something that always gets me very angry, and it's the politicians pushing to roll out the vile Indue card, or cashless welfare card. The House of Representatives and the Senate that been debating this over the past few days. Why are you people voting for it? What in the name of all things godly is actually WRONG with you? Pretty much nobody, or at least nobody with a modicum of scruples and conscience, wants the frigging thing rolled out or forced onto people. I will type this slowly for you: it helps NOBODY. Oh wait, it does help somebody - the people with a vested interest in Indue, and those people include Larry Anthony, son of Doug. ('*Sniffs air* 'What stinks? Is it a rat?'). It costs between $10K and $12K PER CARD per year in administration fees. Wouldn't the money be better spent elsewhere, such as TAFE, health, emergency services, or raising the benefit to those who receive it? Despite what RWNJs would have you believe, when people have received a little more, they go out and spend - not on the drugs or alcohol or gambling - but on food or appliances or maybe a little treat like the movies. I know some people will buy alcohol, but hey, don't bottle shop owners have bills, too? Besides, at what point did alcohol and gambling become illegal?

Anyway, what's got me feeling very combative today is the footage of Pauline Hanson rancorously whining her case for having people placed on the card.  She stood there and said welfare recipients have 'lost their rights'.  Pauline, fuck you. Fuck the horse you rode in on (a nag like yourself, no doubt). And while we're at it, fuck whoever chose that outfit you were wearing when you spewed forth that vicious and misinformed bile. (Seriously, that outfit! It looks like it was salvaged and reworked from my mother's old kaftan from 1973). People on welfare have NOT lost their rights. Jesus Christ hooning along the lane on a dirt bike, even people serving prison sentences do not lose their rights, as you would know. I feel a touch mean pointing that out because I thought your sentence unfair, but you should know that prisoners have rights, so why not welfare recipients. You are a prize hypocrite of the first order - you ran a campaign a few years back with the slogan: Give The Girl A Go, and yet you stood there (in that hideous outfit) punching down on people who are doing it tough. I have never liked you, ever since you came onto the scene in the mid-Nineties, but I was willing to be fair. I will still try and be fair, but your batshit vitriol about vulnerable people made me feel as though my head were about to combust with fury. To rant about people spending hardworking taxpayers' money on alcohol and gambling - ARRGGHHHH! - I am so SICK of that idiotic trope. 

Some of the problems with this card include:

* stigmatisation

* stripping away people's rights and autonomy

* not helping people budget 

* preventing people squirreling away cash to escape domestic violence, thus leaving them in danger

* not helping people save because it can't be used at markets, fetes, second-hand shops, Gumtree, etc

* humiliation for adults who have to seek permission from some drone at Indue to purchase an item from an online store like Amazon - I say humiliation because it's very demeaning to get permission like some Dickensian orphan who wants a bit more crappy gruel 

I know there are people who say: 'I don't want my tax dollars supporting someone buying booze', but I really want to know is why do people CARE how other people spend lawful income? It's none of my business, and certainly none of yours. Why can't someone on welfare buy a small treat occasionally? Being kind to yourself is an important part of self-care. People on welfare have often been taxpayers themselves and had bad luck. 

Another question: why is the Government paying so much heed to Twiggy Forrest's views over this shitty card?

Senator Hanson, and all the others pollies who voted in favour of the card, you are all a bunch mangy, flea-ridden mongrels who will be voted out when the public realise what a foul concept this cashless welfare actually is. 

Doona Day & Verruca Salt

 I am having a Doona Day today. I don't want to deal with anybody or anything. It's likely due to the fact I am unwell and slept badly, so it is my intention to crawl back into bed with my uni textbook, do some study, and then nod off. After period of 'nod-off' state, I will likely wake up ready to tackle the world, but not just now.  It's probably a good idea to hide because my current state of mind will see every little thing annoying me in the way pierced ears on babies too young to have decided for themselves or the way that song Soul Kind of Feeling by the Dynamic Hepnotics annoys me (can't explain why, but that idiotic song just sets my teeth on edge). 

I did do something exciting recently - I registered a business name for myself. It's SCB Proofreading & Editing Services. I created a Facebook page, but am yet to build a website. As mentioned in the first paragraph of this post, I honestly feel three shades of blah, and want to have a rest. 

Other nice things of late include an excursion by myself, my husband, and oldest offspring to check out a kitchen design place. Got some fabulous ideas, courtesy of a rather eager sales assistant, but we have to do other things to the house before we can do the kitchen; and in the words of the unforgettable Verruca Salt: 'I want it NOW!' 

Oh well, it's off to bed for me, and some study about managing the learning environment. 

Hoo-roo. 

Satan's Flatulence & Garish Deodorant Cans

 You know what phrase I would really love to never hear again? It's: 'We're in for a hot summer.' It gets bleated, parroted, trotted out, groaned, or uttered in sepulchral tones by some lugubrious-looking sod Every. Fucking. YEAR! We live in AUSTRALIA, and a hot summer is kind of the nature of the beast when it comes to this wonderful sunburned country of ours.  That being said, I utterly detest the heat and don't handle it at all well. The weekend just gone was a horror with that fiendish heat, and of course, along came the doomsayers and prophets of misery: 'We're in for a hot summer'. Good lord, peeps: it's the Australian summer! My sixteen-year-old and I got into my car yesterday for the trip to purchase new joggers, and the hot blast came through the vents as I turned the key, prompting my son to complain, 'Mum, I feel like Satan's farting in my face!'

I didn't eat much today, which is unusual for me. This is because I had to have a filling this morning, and for a long time my jaw and lip were as numb as the collective IQ of Parliament House. But that's my dental work finalised for the next six months. My left lower incisor is a prosthesis set on a plate, which was removed during the process. I used a mirror to assist in its replacement today. I learned a rather gruesome lesson a few weeks ago when having another filling; I attempted to put it back into my numb mouth just by feeling my way, which led to a mishap with one of the plate's wire hooks that saw me snagging myself like a landed snapper. 

One of the my best achievements over this week was introducing a student to the Uncle Sam deodorant ad from the 1970s. This might sound twee and minimal, but might I remind you it is 2020, so anything that doesn't generate abject misery and despair could be considered an achievement. The young lad was studying TV commercials, so we talked about gimmicks applied, and we went on You Tube and viewed this ad. I told him the impact this ad had on my generation: it was widely talked about and analysed in the playground, and prompted the sector of the populace that comprised sweaty, smelly, BO-riddled teenage boys to go out and buy one of the garishly decorated cans ('..the Stars and Stripes can...'). As predicted, the young lad was most amused by this ad. I asked him was his teacher the same age group as I am, and he does not know (or else is too diplomatic to say). I advised him if his teacher is old enough to remember this ad, it will be a very pleasant trip down memory lane. It really is the best ad of the Seventies.  

Continuing with the gimmicks and tactics, we talked about catchy and memorable tunes, as well as appealing to a sense of glamour and freedom. This segued to me finding him the Amoco ad - you know, the one with the jingle: 'Amoco, nice and clean/Amoco, you know what I mean...'. Also had some bizarre bit '...escape from the sheep in the street (baa-baa)..'. At least, I think that's how it went. The downside to this is that I now have it stuck in my head. On the plus side, my Facebook group's theme today is 'ear worms', so I posted that ad. I also posted Seasons in the Sun (aarrrghhhhh!) and Call Me Maybe (double aarrrghhhh!). Sadly, someone in the group posted Fernando. But there was solidarity. I am not the only person on this planet who holds the belief Fernando is a pissy but brutal manifestation of nauseating mawkishness that totally fellates camels' balls. Fight me on this point if you wish, but I won't be swayed.

Heel & Heal

 I'm taking the time from admiring my coral-coloured toenails to write this post. I've been in a bit of a daze over the past few days; I daresay this is because the world is resuming a semblance of some normalcy. Borders between Victoria and New South Wales have re-opened, so I might take trip down to the Garden State some time soon. I do have the time because today I officially commenced long service leave. I have never before been in a job long enough to accrue this, and I must say it's left me feeling dazed. I had originally planned to travel overseas en famille, but Covid-19 shit on those plans copiously and from a great height. Therefore, any travel to be done will probably be around good old New South Wales, and I might pop into Victoria. 

Today, was another first for me: I had a pedicure. Yep, never in my over half-century on this planet have I had a pedicure, so I decided today was the day. To my pleasant surprise, the chair in which I sat as my Size 9's soaked had an inbuilt massage system that sensuously and expertly rubbed and pressed up and down my spine. I will definitely be doing this again.

Another thing that is resuming normality is the displeasured tweets that are appearing in my socials. The problem with producing a work of art is that you simply cannot please all the people all the time. No matter what the subject, someone is going to be miffed or offended; occasionally with good reason and other times the offended parties should pick a better hill to die on (or upon which to die, as my grammatical pedantry would prefer). A planned production of Hedwig & The Angry Inch has been canned after lobbying from the trans community because the lead role was to be played by Hugh Sheridan, a cis male actor. If you're not in the loop, the titular character is transgendered. I understand the trans community would prefer to be represented by a trans actor, but why the cancellation of this show has annoyed me is the arts community and industry has suffered horrendously during this pandemic, and with the cancellation of the show there are going to be people out of an income, and these people have likely been struggling to find work during this craptacular time. Also, there goes a nice night out to the theatre for people. I strongly support LGBTQI causes and can understand why the trans community get angered at trans actors missing roles of trans characters. Also, in movies and television, the trans community is nearly always portrayed in a way that sees them fetishised or an object of ridicule, and I, too, would be angry at being portrayed thus when I'm a human being with needs and wants, my own opinions, my own likes and dislikes, my own kinks and ideas that are sexually abhorrent, my own ideas on whether to have sugar in tea or add milk first when making instant coffee etc etc etc. I just get so mad when a show gets cancelled, that's all. By all means point out any disgruntlement with casting, themes, plot, or element of production, but let's not make negative impact upon other people's income. I'm aware what I've said is going to annoy people, but what I've said might resonate with some others. All I can say is, I don't mean any offence, but am just looking at a broader picture. 

That's me done for the time being. I have a lesson to prepare - although on long service, I am still tutoring. 

The past few years have been crazy, but now might be the time to heal. I mentioned this to Mr Bingells, and he pointed at my pedicured feet and made a dad-joke punning 'heal' and 'heel' that was enough to rupture the fabric of time and space with its sheer dad-joke dreadfulness. 

Trump, Scandals, & Dreadful Hair Partings

 Memo to Donald Trump: 'Denial' is NOT that long river in Egypt, okay? 

I was just scrolling through my Twitter feed, and I saw a tweet from him, all in caps, verbatim:  'I WON THE ELECTION!' As you can imagine, my face was frozen into the confused rictus of 'Huh?' 

Listen, you delusional hybrid of a jackass and an Oompa-loompa: you DID NOT. You know something else? A major part of why you lost (along with your total buffoonery and jackassery and shitfuckery in general) is the first word in that tweet: 'I'. It's all 'I', 'I', 'I', or 'me', 'me', 'me' where you're concerned. You don't give a flying one about the people you purported to lead, it was all about YOU. There have been 246 thousand  Covid deaths under your joke of a governance. I cannot wait until you are removed from the White House, and I'm imagining you rasping and squawking along the lines of Napoleon XIV: 'They're coming to take me away, ha-ha...!' 

I'd suggest getting out of there with a skerrick of dignity whilst you still can, but that ship has sailed, hit an iceberg, and sunk.

I've had a rather relaxing weekend. I did some study and did some Netflix binge-watching. I watched a three-part miniseries titled A Very English Scandal. It is based on a true story about an English MP who stood trial for conspiring to have his gay ex-lover murdered. The trial occurred in 1979. SPOILER ALERT: it is prudent to point out the MP (Jeremy Thorpe) and his three co-accused were acquitted. Thorpe was the leader of the Liberal party and also ended up in two heterosexual marriages (not simultaneous ones - that would be another scandal). Thorpe was played by Hugh Grant, who showed some seriously good acting chops in this. He showed a range greater than the lovelorn fop he normally seems to play. Grant has stated that a lot of the acting credit should go to hair-and-makeup, but I was pretty impressed by him. He had a point regarding that hair - it was parted waaaaaaaaay over to the side and skimming the tip of his ear. Ray Martin would have seethed with hair-envy (or toupee-envy). That 'do and crisp private school accent reminded me of a night in my early twenties when I was attending a work function that was held at a restaurant/nightclub. The workplace was a law office and among the attendees was a barrister we regularly briefed. This guy had the Knox grammar tones and was at the time likely in his mid-forties. He also had the same hairdo sported by Hugh in that series. This night, I had been bopping away on the dance floor, which I really enjoyed doing before Father Time stole my energy and kneecaps. Anyway, I sat down for a breather and refreshment, and the barrister said, 'Do you exercise regularly, Simone? I couldn't help but notice you have an extremely good figure.' The plum stayed in his mouth, miraculously not flushed out by the salivating. I told him I did karate (wasn't trying to scare him; that was true). He said nothing else after that. 

Getting back to this miniseries, the young gay ex-lover was played by the impossibly delicious Ben Whishaw. He won some award (Bafta?) for the performance, and deservedly so. His portrayal of his character's anxiety was heart-wrenching. 

Well, I'm going to do some more study and watch the fourth season of The Crown, which is another series I'm going to devour. 

The study is paying off - that assessment I complained about a few posts ago? Credit! 

Social Influencers (Why?)

There are things that make me squint and say, 'Why?' Back in the Nineties, it was the whole supermodel thing. I would read a glossy women's mag, and these mags usually had a smoke-blowing puff piece on one or more of these women, and I'd read the gushy prose, then squint and go, 'Why?' I have never understood the adulation heaped upon a woman just because she's taller than average and deemed to have some genetic advantage which sees her in a role that really just boils down to being a glorified coat hanger. 

Fast forward a little, and I found myself squinting and going 'Why?' at anything associated with Big Brother, and in natural progression, any reality television show. 

These days, it's the phenomenon of social media influencers. Seriously: Why? What is the point? I guess I get annoyed because they appear to have some over-inflated sense of entitlement and were brains dynamite, they would all possess insufficient to blow the snot from their noses. I was just reading about one such creature who was informed she would not be allowed on a flight because her outfit was not suitable. Maybe you read it, too. I'm not going to put a picture of her outfit here because I don't want to give her more of the publicity she's craving, but it was an extremely low-cut top in a leopard print pattern, and she posted a photograph of herself in the outfit and she had a matching face mask. Oh, and the face mask was only over her mouth, not her nostrils, so she might have just not bothered wearing the thing. I love me some leopard print, but here's the thing, dearie: your top contravened the airline's dress code.

The code states people cannot wear clothing that is obscene or lewd. If you're wearing a top that is low enough to get a case of the bends, then it's not appropriate for the airline. How can she not see this? Her outfit would have rocked had she been going to a party or nightclub, but this is an airline with families travelling. Furthermore, they are a business and have a right to enforce a dress code. If you purchase a ticket, then it is implicit that you are agreeing to comply with that code. 

So, this influencer (again: why?) posted a piteous, poor-me bleat about how the airline made her feel 'humiliated, embarrassed and highly offended'. Oh, spare me (and learn to use an Oxford comma).  She said she felt the staff were saying her breasts are too large and she has no control over the size of her breasts. In theory, this is true. Unless you're contemplating surgery, you don't have control over the size of your breasts. However, I am highly dubious the staff were criticising her over the size of her mams; their problem lay in the expanse exposed mam flesh! And in the circumstances, the outfit simply was not appropriate!

Why do people have to be so damned obtuse and stupid? Maybe the answer lies with the Uber driver who has just pulled up at her front door with the attention she ordered. 

Cruddiness, Gaudiness, & Other Things

 The past week has been a hectic-bordering-on-bedlam one, so on the weekend I did bloody nothing but watch Netflix. I'm working my way through The Queen's Gambit and am really enjoying it. It's based on a novel I've not yet read, and tells of an orphaned female chess prodigy in the US during the 1960s. 

This week has had a sorrowful pall with the death of a much loved uncle. I was able to attend his funeral - traveled with my brother who acted as a pallbearer. I am loathe to use the oft trotted-out cliche (which is what makes them cliches!), but it was great to see my relatives despite the lousy circumstances. 

To counter this cruddiness, I will try and think of some good things. First of all, I have completed some of the study I have undertaken. This is why I treated myself to a weekend of Netflix and shared a bottle of Moet et Chandon with Mr Bingells. Since receiving this hallowed drop as a birthday present a few years ago, it has been our realisation that if one is going to drink champagne, and I mean CHAMPAGNE. not sparkling wine, then by the Living Harries make it the good stuff! 

Second of all, I started thinking about bathroom renovation. I do not know when the renovation will commence, but I do know I'm having some marvelous ideas. I bought a magazine for inspiration but found myself thinking: 'Yuck! Who in their right mind would want THAT gaudy monstrosity as the chamber for carrying out the ablutions?' I don't know about you, Reader, but when I see floor-to-ceiling tiny rectangular tiles, all I can think about is public swimming pool change rooms or pubs. As Mr Bingells pointed out, having too much white will create an atmosphere of cold, clinical sterility that one would associate with a hospital or asylum (no jokes about your blogger being the resident, please), so I'm thinking white tiles (not all the way to the ceiling), but with some kind of frieze at the top, which will provide something visually pleasing and break the monochrome monotone. Currently, I think the most visually pleasing thing in the bathroom will be Mister Sixteen's discarded clothing in the laundry hamper instead of strewn over the floor. 

Only other thing that has really crossed my mind today is that I would happily never hear Tiny Dancer again. Oh, don't get me wrong - I do likes me a bit of Elton, which is just as well because my younger son is mad about him and plays his music frequently. But Tiny Dancer just gets on my nerves somewhat, possibly because it's one of those tunes that gets hammered to death by classic rock radio stations. I tend to think of that scene in Almost Famous whenever I hear it. I liked that movie - how astonishing an actress is Frances McDormand? - but am flummoxed that Kate Hudson was nominated as Best Supporting Actress for her role as the groupie Penny Lane. Huh? I saw nothing outstanding about the performance. You'd think it difficult to make the character of a groupie, a marginalised sector of society, really bloody boring, but somehow Kate managed to achieve this. Nah, I just didn't get it at all. 

My dinner is ready. I must away. Also, now that I am more au fait with digital technology, I should be able to finalise the uploads to a self-publication platform; unless there are some publishers out there who'd like to take me on now that my previous publishers have closed their doors?

Digital Dodginess

 Again, it's been some time since I ran my fingers at the frenetic pace over the keyboard. That is because I've spent nearly every spare hour this week working on a university assessment that was due tonight. Don't worry, I got it submitted, but not without trials, tribulations, and multitudinous drama that saw me seriously worrying for my sanity - yeah, yeah, I know: that horse has fled the stable and left behind a great steaming pile of horse apples -but this past week was really draining. I thought I was going completely around the twist, and furthermore, was taking along my family as unwilling hostages.

The assessment involved presenting two summations: one on cyberbullying and the other on any topic from a list relating to this crazy Internet world. In theory, this is all good because I enjoyed learning about the topics and was confident I understood the underlying issues, as well as having some ideas about how those issues could be resolved. But this was the problem: the summations had to be presented multimodally on a website to be created by me. The subject I'm studying relates to the digital world, and whist I have blogged for many, many years, there is a large pothole in my path to finalising this subject, and that pothole is this: the only people less digitally fluent than I am are the Amish. 

I will not go into too much detail at the moment, but the past week saw me:

1. Opening and closing accounts with presentation platforms

2. Grappling with a fucked-up headset mic that would not record my narration

3. To-ing and fro-ing between my PC and a laptop with a built-in microphone, only to discover I couldn't find the record function in the website when the app was opened on the laptop

4. Recording my script on my phone and emailing the audio file to myself

5. Contemplating selling everything I own and fucking off to live in Mustique, notwithstanding the sale of my worldly goods would probably only see me good to relocate in Newcastle one-and-a-half hours down the road

6. Discovering You Tube won't support an m4a

7. Finally - FINALLY! - getting my presentation into an MP4 and putting it in Movie Maker, and then working out how to add my m4a to it

8. Having the library scan and email my scripted work as a PDF, and then discovering the assessment platform wouldn't accept a scanned file

9. Putting out the call on Facebook to convert Word to PDF, and actually DOING IT, and submitting my assessment.

10. Sitting in total delirium that I learnt how to do this stuff

Yeah, it's been a bizarre week, but the way I feel right now; if anyone wants me, I'm out churning butter and will only answer to 'Rachel'. 

Riddle Me This (hint: it involves troglodytes and idiots who cant think)

 Riddle me this: why do people post stupid stuff and go into politics? Answers: 

(a) Because they're stupid

(b) Because they're troglodytes

(c) Because they join the Liberal Party

(d) All of the above

Sometimes, if you have a potentially really stupid opinion, you should keep it off social media. Paradoxically, if your opinion is stupid enough to rupture the time/space continuum, then chances are you're too stupid to see that social media is not the place for stupid and inflammatory opinions if you want to pursue a career in politics. 

Okay, if you're wondering what I'm talking about, a post by the Liberal member for Mundingburra has surfaced from the depths of some foul, smelly swamp wherein he shared historic footage of people discussing whether education is a waste of time for married women. He commented that there was definitely more research needed. 

Look, Glennie Boy, let me spell it out for you: there is no research needed. None. Zilch. Zero. Blank. Void. Nothingness. The reason for this is simple: Education, no matter for whom, is NOT A WASTE OF TIME! Maybe try some yourself, when your knuckles feel a bit better, because the Almighty knows they must be scraped raw from being dragged along the ground. 

That odious comment has no place in our society, which is one that does not entail sitting in a tree flinging your own excrement. The dependent clause of that previous sentence describes what I imagine your existence to be. 

I'm a married woman, and I am in the process of getting some education. It's hard. It's interesting. It's making me want to break sobriety. But I'm pleased I'm doing it. My kids aren't neglected. The only thing suffering at the moment is my sanity.  But I will get this education and use it for good.

Riddle me this: Why do people whinge when the problem can be easily remedied with a little common sense? Answer:

(a) They're lame

(b) They want their Warholian fifteen minutes

(c) They possess neither lateral thinking skills nor common sense

(d) All of the above.

Okay, that particular riddle referred to the people groaning about the Emma Wiggle costume which, given it's October, I surmise is some Halloween gimmick. What people are groaning about is the costume comes in one for boys (yellow skivvy and black trousers) and one for girls (yellow skivvy and black tutu). 'What about a tutu for boys?' 'What if boys want a tutu?' 'Seeeeexxxxiiiiisssssttttt!' scream the usual adherents to the Church of Dumbarsery. 

Okay, you people: I'm going to suggest something. Before I do, make sure you've emptied your bladder. You might also consider removing your socks, because what I'm about to tell you is going to knock them off because of its mind-blowing simplicity. Right. Are you all comfortable? Here goes: 

Does your little boy wish to dress as Emma Wiggle, but wants to wear a tutu? What you have to do is purchase a girl's costume in his size that has the tutu, and get him to put it on. Jesus Christ hopping up and down on a pogo stick fitted with an outboard motor, and also fitted with fluffy dice and a fox tail waving in the breeze: isn't that INCREDIBLE? Who'd have thunk it? Thank me later. And in future: stop whingeing and start THINKING. 

Okay, I'm tired. I'm full of mushroom pizza. I have work to do on the weekend - curse that education thing; how dare I undertake it when I'm a married woman?

RIP, Eddie

 I was feeling all inspired earlier today, but now (9.04pm AEDST), I'm feeling about as inspired as a sloth that's been pulling cones. Nice things have been happening this week. I've received good news about a matter that I cannot yet discuss, but one that has been a millstone around my neck. I'm on holidays. I received a lovely bouquet of flowers from the family of the young woman to whom I rendered assistance last week when she had a medical episode. I received a 'Pass' on a subject I have been studying online. I had a lovely lunch on Sunday with Mr Bingells as we celebrated our wedding anniversary. We went to a nearby winery and had a delicious al fresco meal, looking at the beautiful vineyard. I got the final assessments on another subject finalised and uploaded. 

Prima facie, life is good.

Then this morning came the news Eddie Van Halen has lost his battle with cancer. 

Honestly, can 2020 suck any harder than it already has? Everyone is already miserable and melancholic with the changes and adjustments as this virus does its diabolical work. That malignant narcissist in the White House had a turn, and still does not appear to have learned, given his lap in a car waving to what he called 'fans'. Honestly, does he still think he's being a television star? What about the poor people who had to drive the deluded nincompoop; would they have enjoyed possible exposure?

But no, it's a guy who had more an a modicum of talent in is chosen field, and who was apparently a genuinely nice person, who had to go. Okay, I will admit to having harboured a bit of a crush in my teenage years. He had a cute baby-face and a gorgeous cloud of dark shaggy hair that cascaded below his shoulders, and he rocked the spandex pants. And he was seriously fucking talented, folks. What a virtuoso! As an aside, I won the Who Am I in an online live trivia game I play a few weeks ago - the clues were: born in the Netherlands in 1955, emigrated with family to US, played piano but decided to stick to guitar because brother liked drums - and I was first with the answer: Eddie Van Halen. 

When Thriller was released, and people sighed and rhapsodised about its brilliance (I didn't get the memo; not a huge Jacko fan), and the album was played ad nauseum at parties, and other kids would be up dancing: I'd just loll on a beanbag, glass of coke mixed with Blackberry Nip in hand, and wait for Beat It so I could enjoy that ripper guitar solo provided courtesy of Mr Edward Van Halen.  I still maintain Eddie's guitar solo was the best part of that album, but my palate has matured and I no longer drink Blackberry Nip with coke. 

You were a true talent, Eddie. Rest in peace. 

The Post Where I Mention the Infant of Prague and Nurse Ratched

 So, here I sit for the first time in at least a week. It's kind of hard to concentrate because I can hear my sixteen-year-old son in his room - I believe he has his ear buds in but he's singing along to Bad Case of Lovin' You by Robert Palmer. I feel a cuddly 'gee-shucks' type of warm fuzziness at the realisation my son has inherited my eclectic taste in music (he was listening to The Beatles and Michael Buble whilst he washed up earlier), but I must admit it appears he might have my singing ability, which is somewhat dire. I'm just having a bit of a tap on the keyboard to keep the old mind ticking along. My life has been busy lately with work and study. It's all I've done. But the study iceberg is decreasing as I chip and chip at it. Soon it will be reduced to a couple of cubes over which I will pour a measure of vodka, lime, and soda and toast its completion. 

Today's Facebook memory involved an episode where I was having a tour around the local Catholic high school with my cousin six years ago. My cousin had two of her daughters with her, and I had my younger son, who was then aged about ten. We were having a look because my cousin had attended there and wanted to show her daughters.  I attended a State high school, but did have the old Cat'lic torture as a primary schooler, and remember all those statues and icons. We walked past the Infant of Prague, a staple in Catholic institutions who radiates benevolence, and my son said, 'Mum, who's the kid doing this?' - to demonstrate my son struck a gangster rapper type pose and did a peace sign, before asking was the kid 'taking a selfie.' I laughed like a drain then, and had a good old laugh this morning when reminded of the incident. It's good to have a laugh and in this absurd time of Covid, it doesn't happen nearly enough. 

The other big thing in my life lately is that I gave first aid to a young woman having a medical episode last Sunday. I don't want to go into all the details, but it was good to be able to help. My husband gave me praise, and reminded me of about five other incidents over the years where I have been a Good Samaritan. I'm either a very kind person or else a jinks who should stay home for the safety of the general public. 

Also had a filling placed in my tooth. It had to be done - my tooth had a hole like the Mariana Trench. 

Okay, well I'm off to do some more watching of Ratched on Netflix. It's an imagining of the early career of Nurse Ratched from One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. It's awesome stuff. 

It 'Shore' Is Obnoxious

 Spring is in the air; as is the pollen. People are flocking to the hardware stores to purchase gardening supplies, and other people are feeling inspired and getting right into the spring cleaning. Traditionally, a young man's mind turns to fancy, but middle-aged people's minds often turn to clearing out the car port, which is a good thing because my car port has been driving me crazy-apeshit bonkers. Being September, there is another tradition rising to the surface, and that is the Year Twelve Muck-Up Day. 

I like this tradition, except when people behave badly. Has anyone else read about the checklist for the boys at one of the private schools in Sydney? It is a pretty offensive one, truth be told. The items to be ticked off include spitting on a homeless man and whacking some random in the genitalia. To my knowledge, Shore School is verifying the authenticity of the list, but if it is real, it makes me wonder about the mindset and entitlement of some of these boys, who seems to be fast-tracking themselves for membership to the Young Liberals. Astronomical school fees and these hellclowns don't know that assaulting someone whether with your saliva or a thump in the nads is wrong? As an aside, on the off-chance they DO whack a random in the genitalia, I hope the random recovers quickly enough to retaliate with a well-aimed roundhouse kick to their stupid, boater-wearing heads.

My oldest had his own Year 12 'Muck-Up' last year. He donned an inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex suit and went on a scavenger hunt with a some of his classmates, who were dressed in drag. I'm proud to say he didn't assault anybody. I remember my own, all dem years ago. I didn't commit an act of assault on anybody, either. Some might say flour bombing teachers is an assault, but hey, they gave as good as they got. I still remember the squicky feeling of having a rotten tomato squashed onto my head by the relieving geography teacher. The worst stunt we pulled was booby-trapping the toilets with Glad Wrap. The unfortunate victim was the cleaning lady, who actually apologised to us for ruining the trick. If it were me, I would have strangled us all. I suppose it was a piece of luck she had her mop and bucket with her.

But making a to-do list that includes challenges that border on plain offensive elitism and criminality? Never mind firing some people into the sun, these little arse-hats should be yeeted right into Betelgeuse. 

Because It Is Wrong!

 Some of you don't know what 'cause' means. Let me enlighten you, and I will try not to be my usual supercilious self when it comes to snarking thus (mainly because I've spent the afternoon lying down after being sick through the night). Oh, and if you want a hint as to my upcoming spiel, have a really good read of the bracketed segment of my second sentence; therein lies the hint.

Okay, 'cause' has a couple of uses in our vocabulary. It can be both a noun or a verb. If you are using the word as a noun, is is something that gives rise to an event or phenomenon; to demonstrate: 'The cause of my lethargy and malaise today is the tummy bug that assailed me last night with the stealth and suddenness of a seasoned ninja'. Got it? 

Its other noun usage is a principle or political movement, like in: 'They presented a petition with over ten thousand signatures backing their cause to Parliament'.  Got it?

If you're using the word as a verb, then you're discussing making something happen. Here is an example: 'Mixing a lot of drinks will cause an awful hangover'. Got it? Oh, the hangover reference has nothing to do with my illness today - I haven't had a drink for a few days. I've just got some wretched tummy bug.

What the word 'cause' is not is a conjunction. It is not a subordinating conjunction. It is not a prepositional conjunction. The word needed in these instances is 'because'. BE-cause! Got it? If you're trying to write a creative piece in a voice that would have the narrator dropping the 'be-' because (!) he or she is hip and casual (or as I prefer to call it: ignorant), then you must put an apostrophe at the beginning to indicate there are missing letters. Your sentence would thus read something like this: 'I don't want to to to the movie 'cause I don't like that genre.' Got it?

I'm seeing too many instances where 'cause' is used as a conjunction and it has to end. It is pure evil. 

Feeling crummy is such a bitch. I'm off to have a shower and put on some clean pyjamas now. This program that runs the blog into which I'm typing has underlined the word 'pyjamas' as being incorrect spelling. Bite me, program. 

There is  currently some campaign called 'Give Dan the Boot' wherein supporters upload a photograph of their boots outside their domicile to show their displeasure at Premier Andrews. If you want to do that, then fine. It's your right. However, some numbnuts put a pair of boots outside the shed where the Premier's late father's funeral was conducted. Whoever did this, you are an arse and a numbnuts, and you should get in the bin. 

Hating People But Loving George Harrison

 I try not to be a surly misanthropist, but it gets difficult sometimes when you encounter untold nincompoopery at every turn. Anyway, here are the three reasons I'm hating people at the moment:

1. Some lame-brains sparked a wildfire in California after using an incendiary device at a gender reveal party. This occurred on or about 8 September. I will admit to being one of those people who does not get the appeal of this type of gathering, but then again, I did not want to be informed of my unborn children's sex. When pregnant with my first, it was necessary for me to undergo a CVS. I informed the clinic I did not want to be told the baby's gender, but somebody in the doctor's surgery sent me paperwork where it was clearly printed: 'XY - MALE'. I was furious at this blunder and practically ripped them a new arsehole. This was NOT the way I wanted to learn about my baby's gender. It was soulless and upsetting. I learned my second child's gender when the midwife handed him to me. Which is what I wanted. I understand some people cannot wait to know, and respect their right to find out if it is their wish. But I do not understand the Byzantine lengths to which people go just to let other people know about their unborn kid's junk. I'm trying to imagine how this kid will feel when he is older and realises his folks were such colossal bogans they did a blue-smoke burnout and sparked a conflagration that destroyed plants and wildlife.

2. People have been abusing the lineswoman in the Novak Djokovic disqualification incident. Look, da rulez is da rulez, and Djokovic did something that warranted disqualification, okay? Why abuse the woman who was hit by the ball? It wasn't her fault. Those of you decrying the level of her injury, let me tell you this:  you don't get to decide another person's pain threshold. Maybe the ball would not have hurt you personally, but I would love to see a fit tennis player whack a fast one at your respective throats to test the theory. You don't have to hold qualifications in ballistics to understand being hit with a ball can hurt. The woman was hit in the throat and neck area; what if she had been asthmatic? How cowardly to send her threats over this, and the threats likely come from obese losers clouded with acrid body odour, hiding behind their keyboards set up on their parents' basements.

3. So-called journalists writing for The Australian about Catherine Andrews (wife of Victorian Premier Daniel Andrews) blocking some of them on Twitter. Given that the Murdoch press has done nothing but vilify her husband, why would she NOT block some of you on Twitter? It is her right. She is a private citizen and can choose what she wishes to see in her feed. But why do you write about this? Let me tell you something: this does NOT constitute news! I had a look at the obnoxious article wherein it was stated Melbourne had gone 'full Mean Girls'. Do the bimbos who write this shit have any concept of irony? Is this what people aspire to when they decide to pursue journalism as a career? Is this the legacy of Woodward and Bernstein? Great steaming shitballs, I would be embarrassed to have written such a fatuous load of rubbish.

Oh well, I must away. Those who know me well know I turn to music when I don't feel great. Music has lately had quite the Sisyphean task, given there has been nothing but misery in the news of late. Yesterday, I turned to Here Comes the Sun by George Harrison. It's a beautiful song, and its message resonates today.  Also, there is a hospital where it is played when a Covid patient is declared fit and healthy again. Oh, bless and love. 

Tedious Tunes & Dull Ditties

 When people hate on songs, it's often for obvious reasons like in the case of novelty songs that really grate on your tits after - or even halfway through - the initial listen. I loathed Shaddap Ya Face the moment I heard it, and the forty-year time frame since Joe Dolce committed that unforgivable felony has done nothing to temper my detestation of what is just pathetic dung accessorised with lyrics. 

Yet, there are some songs that are loathsome simply because they're as boring as the dried bad guano adhering to the floor of a cave. I've made a little list and beg your forgiveness as I remind you of these turgid, torpid, turd-like tunes.

1. Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. This song is so banal. Dude, she's breaking up with you because you bore the shit out of her, and this song has, in her mind, galvanised her resolve to never speak to you again.

2. Africa by Toto. This is just so...bloody...BORING. What is the point to this shite-fest?

3. I Don't Like Mondays by The Boomtown Rats. I have the utmost admiration for Bob Geldof as a humanitarian. Live Aid was the seminal pop culture moment of my young adulthood. But oh God, this dreary song! How on Earth did Geldof and his Rats manage to juxtapose such a horrifying subject matter against such a dull song? I cannot stand this song, and practically sprain my wrist turning off the radio should it come on when I'm driving (I'm old; I listen to AM, okay?)

4. 7 Years by Lukas Graham. It's just whiny bloat that goes nowhere.

5. All of Me by John Legend. Sometimes it's nice when an artist releases a paean directed to the love of his or her life. Not this time. This tedious offering has me vacillating between catatonia or else barfing my guts out into a sick bucket.

Anyway, that will do for now. If anyone wants to leave a comment about songs they personally don't like or find boring, I'd love to read them.

Oh, Puh-LEEEEEEEZE

 Today, I read an article that stated workers quarantined in St Kilda have had their solitude and isolation compromised by sex workers knocking on doors at all hours offering to do 'anything' for amounts ranging from fifty dollars to one hundred dollars. Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three:

'Oh, puh-LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE!' 

Would not the hotel security have stopped them,  or CCTV have footage of these amoral Jezebels sneaking into the premises, hell-bent on luring those innocent lambs, much like singing sirens luring the hapless sailors to their doom?

A less preposterous scenario is this: one of the quarantined dudes tried to make a booking and got caught. To cover his own arse, he concocted this story. Who's with me on this?

This story was brought to my attention because a retweet was commented upon by a person I follow on Twitter. The retweet was from an angry professional whose photograph had been used, minus her permission, to accompany this salad of baloney and malarkey. The so-called journalists have since removed her photograph.

You know, even if this yarn was true, and working ladies were knocking on the workers' doors, do the workers no longer have free will and the power to decline services? Oh, and to call security?

It's difficult to not get just a tiny bit over people at times, isn't it?

Whingers and Whiners

 Genuine question to the Libs in Victoria: do you have a workable solution to offer in staunching the spread of Covid, or do you just want to engage in political mud slinging at the Premier? Do you guys conduct Zoom meetings (presuming you have the common sense to not congregate in a lair) coming up with asinine insults to put out on social media? Who's telling you to do this? Why are you doing this? And you people listening to the Libs in Victoria: why are you doing this? 

What's got me ranting about this is the small ad Magda Szubanski appeared in, as her mad netballer character Sharon Strezlecki (spelling?), wherein she gives a brief spiel about hanging in there, and that the virus is the enemy, not lockdown. Important message, I would have thought. But this wasn't good enough for Liberal Member for Brighton, James Newbury, who thought it would be a great idea to post a tweet saying that Victorians have turned on the loved Sharon character because Magda read a 'condescending' script written by Premier Dan Andrews. First up: no he didn't; Magda wrote it and told you so herself. Second of all: is this the hill you're going to die on? You might want to get some tweezers to pull out the splinters you've sustained from scraping the bottom of the barrel. And in the midst of all the petty sniping, did you offer a solution? *Listens to the crickets*

Some of the assclowns on the Twitter thread complained Magda had been paid for the ad. Um, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, so fucking what? She's a professional actor who did a job. Why should she not be paid? She apparently donated her fee to a charity, but that wasn't good enough for the professional whingers, as well as some of the top-ranked amateurs. They demanded she name the charity. To the whingers: Magda is under no obligation to name a charity she patrons to anybody, and she is under no obligation to divulge details of how she disbursed lawful income. How about someone asks you how YOU spent your last pay? Offensive, right? Then take your moaning and shove it up your butts. 

I'm aching like crazy at the moment. Today, I tackled my garden and am now wondering was it worth the ache in my knees which I currently suffer. To reward myself for my labour, I reclined on the lounge and watched Puberty Blues. My mini fox terrier lay on my knees, which provided relief, and I put a rug over us, and watched the trials and tribulations of the fictional teenagers in late-Seventies Cronulla. I still recall buying a copy of the book when I was fifteen, and it went around the school, and was returned to me in tatters. I still have that copy, and it's held together with a suitably sized bulldog clip. I have a memory of one of my male friends attempting to corrupt the impressionable Year Sevens as he read to them the infamous panel van scene. 

But the question for now is: do I continue to work on my assessment, or will I watch some more Puberty Blues? I don't much feel like thinking. I want some more cool dialogue like: 'Redskins are unreal!'

Bye for now.

GET OUT OF THE GENE-POOL!

 Whilst I was taking leave from my role as blogger over the last week, Blogger decided they would alter the style for making posts. Dudes, and I say this with the utmost respect: LEAVE IT ALONE! DON'T RE-INVENT THE WHEEL! FAAAARRRRRRRKKKKKK!

Ah, that's better.

All I've been doing lately is plodding through the vicissitudes of life (as are we all), and I'm sure they've not been all that interesting. Indeed, the most exciting part of my life lately has been, whilst I was in a small town about an hour away, realising my driver's licence had expired and having to drive further up the highway to the nearest town where it could be renewed. This in itself doesn't sound particularly thrilling, but there is the added adrenaline rush of wondering whether you will be pulled over by the Highway Patrol and wondering whether you will be believed. Whilst not a race against the clock, it is a battle against statistics and chance. My brow was beaded with sweat (but what the heck, maybe it gave me a dewy complexion) and my heart raced a little as I scanned the road ahead, searching for the alarming sight of the car with red and blue strobes parked at the side of the road, and the uniformed walloper with the broad-brimmed hat and high-vis vest gesturing for me to stop.

No such apparition materialised, which is good because some of the highway patrolmen in my area have a reputation for being less than understanding, and more than officious. I made it to that town sans incident, and renewed my licence. 

And this, dear reader, is my idea of what has been exciting in my life this past week. 

Today, I have been preparing notes on why Shakespeare is still relevant nowadays, and enjoying it. Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I believe the Bard is very relevant and relatable, and I enjoy telling students why this is the case. 

Before I go, I will share with you the dumbest thing I have read in a long time. It is the copied text from a tweet posted by some braindead dunderhead, and here it is:

if a man says no to a womans orgasm but she orgasms anyway while they are having sex, isnt that like rape?

No, I'm not making that up. Someone asked that. *Dons terry-toweling hat, sunglasses, smears white zinc across nose, climbs to the top of the high tower, sits in the seat, blows lifesaver whistle, and shouts to this imbecile: 'YOU! GET OUT OF THE GENE POOL!* 

Karens, Hacks, and Mick Jagger's Lips

I haven't been blogging as much as I like to because I've had a lot of work on, and also because there's only been news about the dreaded virus. It's altogether very dispiriting, and I really feel for the people in Victoria at the moment. However, it's six weeks, and I can't promise it will fly, but if the six weeks helps staunch the spread of this virulent mongrel thing, then it's been worth it. When it's under control, if  not completely knocked on the head, there will be one huge party - you mark my words.

I'm going shopping soon, and will mask up. I will not be travelling interstate. It's just how it is at the moment. I'm a reasonably healthy person, but if I caught the virus, then as well as getting sick, I could compromise the health of someone who is elderly, immuno-suppressed, or undergoing chemotherapy, and I'd like to think I'm just not that inconsiderate or stupid,  unlike the 'Karens' of Bunnings, or those dimwits with the puffed up lips (Mick  Jagger rang and said you're doing it wrong) who attempted to cross the State borders.

What's also giving me the irrits is the insistence of the Murdoch press upon having a field day with the employment of one of the women who was arrested. She works as a topless waitress, so naturally the Herald Sun have to make a big deal about this. Honestly, who cares? It's her lawful income. I care about the fact that she's a completely thoughtless shitgibbon who'd happily compromise the health of others. Let's complain about that instead.

The News Corps(e) stable of bitter mangy old nags should be ashamed of themselves (but they won't be). Columnist Rita Panahi, a Melburnian, tweeted she hasn't felt this oppressed since living in Tehren and referred to Premier Dan Andrews as 'Ayatollah Andrews'. Seriously, lady? Andrews is trying to get this crappy virus under control and it's not like he has a blueprint from which to work. He's possibly listening to epidemiologists for advice, and I'd understand why he would be listening to a bunch of ignorant hacks or petulant whiny Libs from the Victorian opposition party .Maybe News Corps(e) journos could ask their puppet master Murdoch why he's so intent on destroying Andrews and doesn't care about the population. When did that scabrous, desiccated old fart last pay tax in Australia? The economy can rebuild. The dead can't.

Anyway, I have to go to the library and organise some photocopying for my tutoring.  Ciao for now.

Oh, one bright(ish) thing: I've put in application to be a panelist at an Indie Festival in Maitland scheduled for February, 2021. Let's hope 2021 knocks 2020 into the ballpark. In a good way.

Thinking of the people in Victoria.

The Beastly Beldame of Bunnings

My other half and I are thinking about a trip to Bunnings soon. We want to look at bathroom settings and get some cushions for our outdoor chairs. While we're there, we might blather some misinterpreted sections from the 1948 Charter of Human Rights at the poor staff. We will then threaten to sue the staff for doing their jobs because, you know, entitlement and all that.

Well, if that woman who stormed in demanding her rights at a Melbourne Bunnings can do it, so can we, right? Wrong. We can't.

Did anybody see the footage the woman took on staff who were politely telling her to leave because she was not wearing a mask? Seriously, what ails some people? Who wakes up in the morning and thinks: What will I do today? Oh, I know. Why don't I defy a current law that's been issued for health reasons, and abuse people? I have my rights, after all! I don't want to wear a mask and I'm SURE it contravenes my human rights, and furthermore ,it is discriminatory to make me wear one. I will film the staff's reactions, because I want everyone to know I'm fighting the good fight here!

If you're reading this, you entitled she-shitgibbon, your plan was one steaming pile of turds because you don't seem to understand that the staff in an establishment have the right to refuse entry to somebody who is not complying with conditions of entry. The conditions of entry stated masks to be worn, except by those who have exemptions. Sorry, dear, but being a brain-dead fuckwit doesn't entitle you to an exemption.

To stand there complaining your being discriminated against because you're a woman is laughable, and does not help the cause of women who face genuine discrimination. I will type this slowly for you: you were not the victim of gender discrimination. What you were was a complete skank.

Listening to your threats to sue the staff had my eyes rolling into another dimension. Sue them for what, exactly? Doing their lawful jobs? Fuck right off with your buffoonery, you nonsensical beldame! They were not breaking the law: YOU WERE!

I'm not sure what you're hoping to achieve by filming yourself acting like a shrewish scold. I'm not sure this is what Andy Warhol had in mind when he philosophised about the fifteen minutes of fame that everyone would one day experience. You're experiencing it for the wrong reasons. Everyone knows what a misinformed and selfish sow you are.

Sure, masks aren't a barrel of laughs. However, I'm sure you're not getting sympathy from surgeons who were them for hours at a time when operating. If people worked together to stop the spread, then we can start resuming some type of normality.

But it won't happen while we have entitled scowls like this 'Karen' thing determined to cause distress for everybody. Get in the bin and pull the lid over yourself, you lame-brained cow.

Let's talk about something good - Howling on a Concrete Moon is available as a paperback. Google it. Haven't done the conversion to e-book yet.

Let's talk about something else that's good - I got my first uni assignment back, and earned a credit. *Does happy dance*.

Rattling the Fillings in My Teeth

We've all have at least one: a song with an okay tune but lyrics that make you want to take the singer, subject, or narrator out the back and beat some sense into them. My regular readers know I can write a complex manifesto on how Centerfold by the J Geils Bands transforms me into a frenzied zealot hell-bent on taking the incel narrating that song by the throat and introducing him to a duly heated penis-flattener. But today, as I was driving around between clients, I heard a song that never ceases to rattle the fillings in my teeth: I Can't Standing Losing  You by The Police.

As I alluded to in the above paragraph, I don't think this song has a bad tune. Au contraire, I enjoy the reggae influenced piece. However, I don't think I have ever listened to the lyrics without thinking, in hypothetical conversation with the narrator: Fuck, you're an idiot!

First of all, he whines that he's called the object of his obsession 'so many times today'. Dude, did it work? No? THEN TAKE THE BLOODY HINT!!!!!  He observes her brother's going to 'kill (him) and he's six feet ten'. Mate, I'm ready to kill you and I'm only five feet seven.

By the third verse he's threatening to top himself, leaving a legacy of guilt for the woman who's been - sensibly - rejecting him. Mate, she's not going to feel guilty. She's going to feel relieved because you're no longer pestering her.

Guys, let this be a lesson. If she says no, she's not playing hard to get. Don't bombard her with telephone calls. This can bite you on the arse with the force of a closing rabbit trap. I still remember, in my former career as a paralegal, having to deal with a guy who didn't grasp constantly ringing a woman won't get her to change her mind, but it just might get you charged because harassing someone with a telecommunication device is Commonwealth offence. Please take this on board.

Guess what I did today? I rang my local telephone station for a competition to guess the 'voice'. I knew the guy torturing Jump in my Car was not Ted Mulry but The Hoff! Do I revel with pride in knowing this, or hide under the doona with embarrassment? I'm running with the latter.

Well, that's me for today. I had a full on day, but hope to have the books on the new platform very shortly. Cheers!

Making My Little List...

Tonight I am just going write a little list; kind of in the vein of The Mikado's Grand High Executioner. It's people who have annoyed me these past few days:

1. Victorian MP Tim Smith. He is constantly tweeting puerile digs at Victorian Premier Dan Andrews and calling for his resignation over the whole Victorian Covid-19 situation. Whilst I've seen snide tweet after snide tweet, I am yet to see any semblance of a workable solution from Smith. I don't have a solution myself, but I would suggest seeing what New Zealand did, because they apparently have it under control. I think their approach included listening to doctors and epidemiologists instead of politicians (funny that), and having funds available for mortgage relief etc to alleviate any hardship caused by the strict lockdown. Smith just comes across as a caricature-like, stereotypical entitled bratty private schoolboy with his finger poised one centimetre from his victim as he taunts, 'I'm not touching you!' I think Andrews has the shittiest job around at the moment, and can I just say it's probably NOT his fault that some idiotic security guard who was meant to be guarding those in quarantine decided he could no longer keep it in his pants, and boinked one of those meant to be guarded?

2. Channel 7's Chris Reason for tweeting that the 'Melbourne virus' has reached Sydney. Ugh! It's NOT the 'Melbourne virus'. This deliberately divisive and inflammatory language is helping nobody.

3. The arse-hat who had his headlights burning at an intensity that would rival a small sun tonight. I had to work in a nearby town and I encountered this muppet on my journey home. I knocked off work three hours ago, and the glare-induced floaters are only just dissipating now. Mate, I'm sure the population of of Tamworth knew you were on your way. In fact, I think the astronauts working on the space station saw you.

Well, that's me for tonight. Not sure what I might do now. I'm a bit tired - or probably suffering something similar to welder's flash thanks to the aforementioned arse-hat and his headlights. I have assessments to work on, but I will get into that tomorrow. Also, I MUST upload that PDF to Ingram Sparks. I have had PDF of the manuscript altered to remove the former publisher's logo. This is for Howling on a Concrete Moon. The other manuscripts will follow shortly.

'Bye for now.

Floundering Through the Virtual Platform

I did it. I got through a week of a virtual classroom for a course I'm doing. I'm worn out, but I did it. Of course, it's not over; there are still assessments to be completed, but the classroom aspect (the most arduous part) is over! Again, the technology gods were not totally benign. I ended up asking my son for the use of his laptop (he had recently upgraded for his own lectures during lockdown because his previous laptop didn't efficiently support the platform in which the learning process is conducted). Other students had technology issues, also.

When I was a kid, and had to do remote learning when the teacher was away for professional development, it was arranged the class would sit around a table with a Sanyo cassette player in the middle, and listen to a recorded lesson of a man reciting the times tables whilst we followed with the use of a text book. I think this recording and book was specifically designed for children in remote areas (not that I was in a particularly remote area; the teacher was away). We also learned songs via a program broadcast on ABC radio, and sang along with a book. I think that's how I learned the song The Rhythm of Life. Whilst primitive, these processes weren't as fraught with danger as the online processes. The biggest issue we faced was a blackout, which could be circumvented if the radio or tape recorder had been fitted with batteries, and if there was enough light to see. The only other technological screw-up was if the cassette spewed out its tape, and this was easily fixed with an HB pencil. We certainly didn't have to worry about lag, connectivity going AWOL, or the webcam just deciding to not work. For one of my lessons, I had to conduct an assessment on somebody who was a lot younger than I am, and I mentioned there would be allowance for technology issues. I then said in my spiel about the cassette and spewed tape being my only issue as a kid, and she was totally enthralled, all agog at what I'm sure she perceived to be a lesson in ancient history direct from the horse's mouth.

With this intense training last week, I have not been paying too much attention to the world. What's the point? It hasn't changed. People are still stupid. The thing that's burrowing skyward in my nostrils at the moment is the praise being heaped upon actor Mike Henry for stepping back from his role as Cleveland Brown in Family Guy. If you don't know, Henry is a Caucasian voice actor and the character Cleveland is African-American. His reasoning is only actors of colour should voice characters of colour. Look, I understand about diversity in casting, and support it. I really enjoyed the stage adaptation of Frankenstein's Monster I viewed on You Tube recently -- Benedict Cumberbatch played Dr Victor Frankenstein, and his father and younger brother were played by actors who were POC. I liked seeing the diversity and work given to a sector of actors who often miss out. The performances were great and the differences in appearance not at all distracting. As an aside, it's common in New Zealand for Maori actors to play traditionally Caucasian roles or members of Caucasian families and nobody bats an eyelid.

But what's pissing me off is that voice acting is an art form in itself. If an actor can make an animated character real just through the power of his or her voice, then what's the problem? Like I always say, Bugs Bunny is not voiced by an actual rabbit. Also, Mike Henry voices other characters in Family Guy, including that creepy old pederast with the Zimmer frame. Are producers and casting agents going to put out the call to nursing  homes where there might be such a creature lurking?

I daresay actors voicing several characters in animated series is because it saves the production company money on paying more actors than necessary, and it gives the actor a chance to show off his or her range. People like to save money and actors like to show off the skills - it's win/win - but maybe the world is getting too politically correct altogether.

Oh well, that's me done. Ciao for now.

All Right on the Night

In the words of that creepy kid from Poltergeist: 'I'm baaaa-aaaaaack!' As mentioned in my previous post, I have been busy with presentations for a subject I'm studying, and as I also said, these presentations were to be delivered via a virtual classroom. Look, technology, when it is working, is fantastic. When it is not working, there is a shitstorm to rival the aftermath of the time the sadistic zookeeper put laxettes in the elephants' food.

Before anyone says anything, I tested my equipment via the 'test' link I was sent. Everything went fine. I was able to speak to and look at the IT lady, and she was able to look at and see me. Everything was hunky dory. However, Wednesday morning, pretty much nothing worked. My new headset, blue-toothed to the computer, thought it would get boy germs from the Adobe classroom. I'm aware this isn't IT technical language, but in my Luddite mind, it is the best way I can explain things. Also, my webcam shit itself on the weekend, thus necessitating the purchase of another one. So, I could see the others; they could see me, but nobody could hear me speak.  Five meltdowns later, I ended up setting up at my son's laptop, installing the classroom software there, and emailing my visual aides for the presentation from my PC so I could access them on son's laptop to upload to a special screen in the classroom. Sounds complicated? That's because it is. Then, as I was being put in the 'presenter' area of the screen, I went to upload my first picture/slide, and absolutely nothing happened. I couldn't find the damned things, even though I know I downloaded them. The trainer told me to email them to him, and the person slotted after me to present had to step up to the plate, and I'm sure the poor thing wasn't quite ready in her mind yet.

Finally - FINALLY! - it was my turn to present. The first words out of my mouth, before I told them the objective of my presentation, before I did 'housekeeping', before I did a 'Welcome to Country', were to the effect: 'Thank you for  your patience with me, everybody. I apologise for all the interruptions. I have apparently angered the Gods of Technology, and when this presentation has ended, I will have to make a sacrifice to appease them. Unfortunately, I can't find a virgin because I live in Muswellbrook, but I will now show you how to use an apostrophe.' The presentation was very well received: everybody loves the one about the difference between the butler 'calling the guests' names' and 'calling the guests names'.

Like they say in showbiz: "It'll be all right on the night". And it was.  Today was a far smoother day, insofar as technology is concerned. Today's topic was proper comma usage. I focused on the Oxford comma, and the vocative comma. Regarding the latter, "Let's eat, Grandma!" juxtaposed against "Let's eat Grandma!" proved, as always, a winner.

But don't think today started well. I was scrolling through Twitter, and read this most awful attempt at erotic fiction since Fifty Shades of Unreadable Crap. This guy was upset at his parents' reaction to his execrable crud. I've been trying to copy and paste the actual passage, but not having much luck. Anyway, I've got a copy here and I've added a blue circle to save you reading too much shit:

This is why feeble metaphors for sexual organs, or for any act involving sexual organs, are really not a good idea. Reading this made my eyeballs bleed, and it almost put me off my presentation today. I do note the author forgot the possessive apostrophe when referring to the head of the turtle, so maybe I could use this when next presenting on apostrophes?

Multiliteracies Leads To Multibreakdowns

Golly gosh, hell and fishes; jinkies, and run me over with a giant toaster on wheels; I haven't written here in a week. What have I been doing that's kept me from here? Well, official author-wise, I have had to submit a PDF of my manuscript for Howling on a Concrete Moon for removal of the previous publisher's logo before uploading to Ingram Sparks. Turns out word document not suitable. I'm not good with technology, to me a computer is a glorified typewriter,  and this is doing in my head.

Also, I have been trying to study. The subject involves what's known as 'multiliteracies', and my head is spinning like that of a demonically possessed adolescent. I have no crucifix here to defile - I'm not sure who took the crucifixes when my siblings and I were clearing out our parents' home. I did have one hanging in my old bedroom. Our Lord had been painted with that glow-in-the-dark stuff. I recall so many religious figurines from my childhood were treated thus. I suppose it was to give it a glow of holiness, but they looked like they'd been caught in nuclear fallout. However, I do feel in danger of barfing green slime everywhere at the moment.

I also had to write two presentations. I'm giving them via a virtual classroom, and I prefer a physical audience. Anyway, one presentation is on apostrophe usage; the other is on comma placement. Naturally, I will wax most lyrical about the Oxford comma. (I am aware I am the only person you know of who gets loquacious and vivacious about Oxford commas, so stop rolling your eyes).

Another achievement: a social media blocking from a conservative politician - our local one, this time. This is my third blocking from such a creature in about a month. What puzzles me about it is I'm not overly abusive, unless telling a politician to get in the bin and pull the lid over himself is abusive. It's not the nicest thing to tell someone, but gosh, there are so many far worse insults out there. Someone told me I was not giving him the right to express his opinion, but that's not true at all. He can express his opinion, and I can give MY opinion on HIS opinion, particularly if his opinion ruptures the time/space continuum with its sheer stupidity and offensiveness.

So, I guess I've been busy with study and not taking much notice of the news. What's the point? It's all about frigging Covid-19. Oh, and Trump making a horses arse of himself drinking water with one hand holding the glass (before you @ me for the punctuation, adjectival phrases like 'horses arse' and 'big girls blouse' don't have possessive apostrophe, and I daresay that's because the actual backside of the horse is not the object of the sentence). He wants to prove he's not physically ill or incapacitated. Trump, Franklin D Roosevelt ran the States at one stage, too, and he was a person with disability, so stop being ableist. Maybe Trump does not have a physical disability, but oh my giddy aunt, there are multitudinous bats flying about the belfry!

The other weird thing I read this morning is that, according to Spotify, the most listened-to artists during the act of making love are Beyonce and Rihanna. To this I say: Yikes and Yuck! I could not imagine a greater libido crusher than Single Ladies with its inane, 'If you liked it/Then you should have put a ring on it...'. Hey, Beyonce! Put a ring on this! (*Flips the bird*). Oh wait, yes I can. Rihanna's Umbrella is a seriously putrid piece of melodic murkiness. It's just so shit. 'Under my umbrella-ella-ella-ella, eh-eh-eh'. Those last three syllables sound like a reversing truck.

Well, I'm off to do some work on my assignment now.

Grease Grrrrrr

I'm admin of a few Facebook groups, one of which is dedicated to Seventies memories. In the days of constant cancelling or removal of certain works from streaming services, there have been a few posts about shows from the 1970s that would not make it past the table at the production meeting these days.  Being admin means I (along with other four or so admin of this group) will receive a notification when a post is reported. I am sure you can see where I'm going with this, so I will tell you what post was reported: it was along the lines that Grease should be removed because it is racist.

Okay, Snowflake, let's back it up a little. How is Grease racist? Silly frippery? Sure. Dumb? Yeah. But racist? C'mon!

When challenged to explain the racism in the movie, the original poster (OP) stated there is not one person of colour in the movie. The responses to this were to the effect that the movie is set in a 1950s high school, so it would make no sense to have actors of colour in the cast.  The OP stuck steadfastly to his presumably all-ethnicity encompassing guns about the racism in the casting of this movie.

Listen, everyone. The movie is as dumb as dirt, and whilst guilty of trying to pass off cocaine-ravaged thirty-somethings as seventeen-year-olds, it is certainly not guilty of racism.  But someone complained, and I said I'm keeping this post because it's a Seventies movie, but if comments spiral into personal attacks, then out it goes. So the person who complained griped at me for keeping it.

People, the world is nuts at the moment with a fucking fast-travelling bug and some of you are reading racism into a movie that has been cast with a view to the context of the setting (even though the actors are poster children for menopause)? People are complaining that I haven't bothered removing the post from a Facebook group?

Again, the world is hooning on its way to Hell in a shitbox without a muffler (probably borrowed from that deadshit who revs his engine in my street occasionally), and again chucking empty UDL cans out the window.  Speaking of the deadshit revving his car over and over and over, thus destroying the crepuscular serenity, this is a message for you, you solipsistic wad of gusset froth: We get it; your dick's small.

To deal with it, I had to go on You Tube and watch live footage of Grand Funk Railroad performing We're An American Band. Not only does the song kick every kind of arse going, Mark Farner is shirtless and glistening. This is why I looked at the live footage instead of finding a studio recorded clip. I know my comment here can be construed as sexist, and if you want to @ me, I guess you can, but be warned: I'm half-past caring.

Got some homework to do, so ciao for now.

Gone with the Wind Up & Cancel Culture

I'm sure the Devil needs no mouthpiece, but I'm going to play Devil's Advocate here, and ask: when do we stop with the censorship of art? Censorship manifests in different ways, but they are all just roundabout ways of telling a grown man he can't eat a steak because a toddler might choke on it.

Art also takes different forms. It can be literature, sculpture, painting, or cinematic. Whether a member of the public likes or doesn't care for each form is purely subjective. Some subject matter is offensive, no doubt about it. But the question is: do we ban it? HBO have banned, and are apparently reinstating, Gone with the Wind from and now to its streaming service. The reasoning is the film's offensive portrayal of people of colour. Yes, the depictions are racist. It is set in a very racist society. I'm wondering does nobody these days ever contextualise?

Netflix have removed Little Britain and some of Chris Lilley's series from their platform because some characters are portrayed with the white actors in blackface type makeup. I am well aware why blackface is problematic, but is banning a show the answer? I don't watch Little Britain because I consider it to be about as funny as a fart in an elevator. I didn't mind some of Lilley's earlier shows, and thought Mr G hysterical. Lilley is very good at characterisations, and I see him as a satirist taking aim at preconceived notions of sectors of society. I always saw Jonah as a disruptive kid more than a 'Poly', as he was often called. That spoiled school girl he played - Ja'mie - made me laugh like a drain because I've known entitled, stuck-up kids just like her. I could not get into Angry Boys or Lunatics; indeed, those shows made me wonder had he lost momentum. But ,whilst acknowledging the foul and offensive history of blackface comedy itself, is banning a show because a satirist puts on makeup to portray a character going to resolve the problem of racism? Is banning a movie that depicted a racist antebellum society going to magically fix the problem of racism in our modern society?

Elmer Fudd is now being depicted with a scythe instead of that awkward blunderbuss looking thing he used to tote. ('Be vewy, vewy quiet. We're going harvesting wabbits!'). I'm surprised nobody's banned Pepe Le Pew yet. I'll be honest and admit I cannot stand this sleazy stinking lothario. He's the Harvey Weinstein of the weasel family. He can't tell it's not another skunk, but a cat with paint, and he continues to grope the poor creature when she is clearly trying to get away. That being said, I wouldn't ban the cartoon, but make it clear to my children (who don't watch him, anyway), this is not the way to interact in the real world. I think my kids would understand this because they know a coyote can outrun a roadrunner any day. Hey, what about Speedy Gonzales and his mates, including those two crows always trying to eat him? Do these characters buy into racist stereotypes?

Last night I tuned into Stan and watched, for the first time in my life, an episode of Mad Men. True dinks, I've never seen it in my life. It was the pilot episode, and I found some of the sexist attitudes very offensive. I wanted to reach through the screen and slap the judgemental doctor prescribing contractive pills to a single woman. I wanted to punch the groin of the advertising gronk making sleazy remarks to the new girl on her first day. I wanted to give a colossal wedgie to the dickwad who stormed out of a meeting because he didn't like the way the prospective female client spoke to him - it wasn't want she said, but that she was a woman with which he took umbrage. Other minority groups like Jews and African Americans were regarded with derision. As you can see, these are really offensive characters, to say nothing of the perpetual fug of cigarette smoke clouding every scene. I hate sexism, and I can't bear cigarettes. Should Stan pull the series because some people might think being sexist, anti-Semitic, racist, and stinking up the planet with ciggies is a good and acceptable idea? Or should Stan keep the series streaming, content in the knowledge that the populace have the common sense to know that the series is set in a different time, and by and large mostly know how to contextualise?

Some of these banners are probably the same pussy-arses who would have Huckleberry Finn and To Kill A Mockingbird banned on the basis a character uses the N-word. People these days are well aware this word is monstrously offensive, and therefore wouldn't dream of saying it. However, these novels are set in a time when the word was used, mainly by ignorant types. And if these wannabe-banners took the time to read each book, they would realise there are wonderful and important lessons to be learned from them. Mark Twain was very much against slavery, and he uses Huckleberry's realisation that the ownership of another human being is wrong to make his own views known to the reader. For me, the most powerful scene in that novel is when Huck apologises to Jim after pulling a mean prank, and reflects that this is the first time he has ever apologised to a person of colour (phrase mine, not Twain's) but he doesn't regret it, and furthermore, would do it again.

Here's an idea: if a movie or television show has portrayals or language that are culturally offensive, how about a warning before the show, with a disclaimer that the setting warrants this material in the interests of historical accuracy and integrity? If people don't want to watch it, they don't have to. If people do want to watch it, let them decide for themselves if they are offended - and this includes the sector portrayed in the work.

Can we please stop just banning things willy-nilly?

Ain't it Sweet? No

Whilst driving around a few days ago, I heard on the radio a snippet about grants being made available for home renovations. Well, I got kind of excited about this because my bathroom is a shabby mess in dire need of a makeover. My dining and living rooms need to be gyprocked and painted, and my  kitchen needs a splashback. My laundry needs tiles. The bedrooms need built-ins (well, they don't really need built-ins, but built-ins would be nice). Fast forward a few days when the catch has been landed: this grant is only available to people seeking to outlay $150,000.00 on renovations. I don't need work in that vicinity, and I am not going to re-mortgage my home just to possibly access $25,000.00 in grants to fix it up. If I had a lazy $150,000.00 for renovation expenditure, I'm not about to worry about jumping through the Government's hoops for what really amounts to a mere piss in the ocean in the renos budget. This grant helps nobody except those already rather well-off, and if you've got $150,000.00 to chuck at renovations, then it is my submission that you are rather well-off. Of course, our Liberal government are great friends to the already rather well-off, so maybe instead of giving money to those already rather well-off, perhaps put the coin set aside for this ill-conceived scheme towards public housing?

Just when I thought 2020 couldn't get worse, today news came through Steve Priest has died. If you don't know who he was, think about the opening spoken dialogue in the old Sweet song Ballroom Blitz. First line is Brian Connolly asking, 'Are you ready, Steve?', to which a man would reply, 'Uh-huh'.  Remember now? Well, that's Steve. That song was on the first album I ever bought with my very own pocket money:

Steve is the member to the far left. These guys were amazing musicians and vocalists, with four-part  harmonies giving Queen a run for their money. They did some bubble gum in the early Seventies, but were also prevalent in the glam rock movement, and anybody who knows me well knows I likes me a bit of glam. As well as this, I bought their 1976 album Give Us A Wink - the song Lies in  Your Eyes really showcased their talents. RIP Steve, reunited with your bandmates Mick (far right) and Brian (blonde gentleman). Eat a dick, 2020.

I will share another photo of some people who make me think it is time for the cosmos to hoik another asteroid at our planet;

Superior jeans, hey? Too bad we can't see them under the white sheet. What are superior jeans? I'm wearing Levis at the moment. Are those the ones? Anyway, have a look at this picture and you will see what can happen when inbred unwashed have intercourse with and impregnate their own sisters.