Car-Nage

 It's just been a cruddy sort of day that's got me in a bit of a malaise. Firstly, the weather has been oppressively hot and humid. Also, I came down with a bit of a tummy bug today that's sapped me of energy. But what really drains my energy and boils my piss is the sheer stupidity of some drivers. 

This is a really crazy time of the year. When I die, I'm going to Heaven because I think I experienced Hell already today at one of my local shopping centres. The car park of this particular spot is best described as horrendous. It is not flat and even; it has a fiendish topography of rises and bumps and craters that resemble a reproduction of the moon. The civil engineer responsible should have put aside his or her crack pipe before drawing plans. It's a nightmare to negotiate a loaded shopping trolley, even worse if you've got a toddler sitting in the child seat of one - I'll never forget the time I snagged a bump and my then eighteen-month-old nearly spilled out; I was lucky to get away with only the twisted ankle I sustained. Today, I was rostered to get some shopping for a client and the only parking spot I could find was outdoors in a bay situated on an incline of about fifteen degrees. Whilst this does not warrant crampons, rope, and pickaxe, it is just right to set  your teeth on edge when you're pushing a trolley. 

When I went to the put the groceries in my vehicle, the next spot was empty, which enabled me to manoeuvre (with effort) the trolley next to my car. A friend who was in the line of vehicles entering into the park saw me struggling and dispatched her young daughter to assist me with the trolley. I had the trolley next to my rear driver-side door in readiness for unloading when lo and behold (and fuck me dead!) some braindead gronk started reversing his ute into the spot where the young lass and I stood. 

Astonished and flabbergasted, we edged back with the trolley, wondering was he aware we were there. He kept reversing in and I had fleeting visions of footage from Christine screaming through my head. My friend got out of her vehicle and stormed over to the gormless deadshit, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing, and suggested he help us rather than try to run us over. His excuse was he didn't want to hold up the queue of drivers. I don't know about you, Reader, but given the choice, I'd rather wait in queue whilst a person is packing away groceries than see the grisly carnage of people getting run over, whether or not I get to the shops in plenty of time! 

We ended up with trolley at the bonnet of the car and smoke coming from my ears. The guy got out of his ute and offered to help me with the groceries. As he should, the useless imbecile. I thanked him for helping me, but pointed out had he called out to the drivers behind him he was waiting for a person who was putting groceries in a vehicle, I'm sure they would have understood. Also, there are concrete structures to indicate where to stop the vehicle, and they proved most awkward to get the trolley around as we tried to avoid getting hit by this cockwomble. 

It kind of wrecked my day, as you can imagine. I know it's the season of peace and goodwill, but I'm not wishing this popped boil a Merry Christmas; he wants to be yeeted into the sun. 

Flint & Print

 This post is going to be all about dumb things I've either been called or told to do lately.

1. Aunt Lydia. If you're not au fait with this name, Aunt Lydia is one of the villains in The Handmaid's Tale. Her backstory is that she was a former lawyer and school teacher pre-Gilead, but now trains and supervises (and tortures) the women at the Red Centre, referring to the times when women were allowed to make their own choices as 'anarchy'. She is not at all a nice character. In fact, she is something of a total fucking bitch, for want of a better phrase. I know there are times when I am not the sunniest person in the world, but I have never called for the silencing and oppression of women. Quite the opposite, in fact. Anybody who knows me will attest to this. So, how did I earn a comparison to an odious shitbag of a woman who is a traitor to women everywhere? Why, by disagreeing with the Liberal member for Boothby, Nicholle Flint, that's how! Before I proceed, I will point out the name wasn't bestowed upon me by Ms Flint, but by some other tweep. Flint posted a link of a YouTube video by Friendly Jordies  (hereafter referred to as 'FJ') on Twitter, and in her accompanying comment decried FJ as an enemy to women and demanded Anthony Albanese weigh in and denounce FJ to the other side of the globe and back, basically (seriously, what does bloody Albo have to do with any of it?).

Anyway, I watched the video, and whilst it can by no stretch of the imagination be described as flattering of Flint, I am hard-pressed to find any comments that are sexist, per se. I therefore replied to Flint and stated FJ was criticising her because he disliked  her views and her policies, but that is because he clearly thinks her views and policies stink, and has nothing to do with her being a bearer of the XX-chromosome. I went on to state that disliking her doesn't make a person an enemy of women, but her government were quite happy to sweep under the carpet the alleged sexual assault of a former staffer, which is more threatening to women than some YouTuber's jokes. 

So yeah, shortly after this, someone replied and called me 'Aunt Lydia' and accused me of thinking I am entitled to tell women what they are allowed and not allowed to consider sexist. When the dizziness subsided from rolling my eyes with powerful ferocity at this nonsense, I just replied, 'Okay, dear.' 

I am at a loss to see how what I said is being an Aunt Lydia. I stand by what I said. I did not see anything actually sexist in the video, nor did I tell Flint she wasn't allowed to see anything sexist in it. If she does see sexism in it, then that's her problem and I think she should rub some Tiger Balm into her shoulders because that was one hell of a stretch. 

2. So, the dumb thing I've been told to do is get an age-appropriate haircut. Again, this occurred on Twitter. I am not inclined to take fashion advice from some anodyne-looking gronk who looks like he spends all day gaming in his parents' basement and eating Fruit Loops, but what is an age-appropriate haircut? I'm over fifty, so does that mean I must have the auburn cascade I've sported most of my life shorn off and shaped into the Lady Di hairdo (pre-engagement to Prince Charles)? That's not going to happen. I know we change over time, but when I was in my twenties, I favoured leopard print, skulls, heavy metal and hard rock, and preferred my hair long. Take a quantum leap to nowadays, and I still wear leopard print, have a glass skull paperweight on my writing desk, and won a drink voucher at trivia the other night when I answered the birthplace of Black Sabbath was Birmingham. Oh, and my hair is still long. Women my age are classed as invisible and I refuse to age gracefully, swathed in beige polycotton blend and with short hair. No, I'm going to put on my leopard print jacket and make some noise!

But right now, I'm going to make some dinner. 

The One Wherein I Mention Marcel Marceau, Peter Garrett, Plastic Bertrand, & Boofhead Et Al

 I've been having a very pleasant evening. I spend time helping students with the school work, but tonight my seventeen-year-old asked me for my assistance. He's written an explanation for a visual arts project, which is musically themed. The genres he has chosen are rock, pop, techno, and stage musicals. I explained why he should use an Oxford comma and why he should ditch the ampersand and write 'and', as well as how a reflexive pronoun should be applied. To bond with my son and talk grammar puts me in a state of blissful halcyon. But what really moved me was reading his explanation as to how the music 'spoke' to him. He wrote from the heart about how each genre affects him differently, and I particularly loved his self-comparison to Apollo, the Greek god of music, when listening techno and its musical idiosyncrasies. I guess what got me is that my son articulated exactly how I feel listening to music.

Speaking of music, today I had cause to view on YouTube a clip of Elton Montello singing Jet Boy, Jet Girl. Note-for-note, it's pretty much Ca Plane Pour Moi. But the lyrics are not a translation of the latter's nonsensical, um, whimsy (some would say 'bullshit', but I'm running with whimsy). I think the best way to experience this song is to look at it for yourselves, but I will forewarn you it is reminiscent of Marcel Marceau wearing a rude shirt and dancing like Peter Garrett on a hotplate, whilst singing disturbing lyrics about a dude who fellated him and who is now apparently into chicks. Also, the narrator of the piece is fifteen. Kind of like what makes A Clockwork Orange disturbing viewing (along with just about every other aspect of the film). 

What else is disturbing? Politicians' behaviour, that's what. Oh, I know you're all thinking: 'Big whoop-de-doo, what's your next great proclamation; gravity makes things fall?'; but they have been utter jerks, and it's not just limited to one party. 

Usually, the LNP do my head in, and this week was no exception. David Van making growling noises when Senator Lambie was speaking is one example. Don't like Lambie? That's fine; you don't have to. But Van, do you seriously think making animal noises whilst the woman had for the floor was appropriate? Would you like someone doing that to you? Or how's this: would you like someone to treat your daughter that way in the workplace? I didn't think so. Get in the sea, you obnoxious popped boil. 

Today, I had cause to be even more appalled. Generally, I don't mind the Greens, but Senator Lidia Thorpe is doing them no favours with her nasty comment to Senator Hollie Hughes in an interjection (I believe today or yesterday), which was words to the effect: 'At least I keep my legs shut!'. Hello? WTAF? In what universe is this deemed prudent senatorial behaviour (although there sure is a lot of rotten carrying on in QT)? The comment has been construed as a dig about Hughes having birthed a kid with autism. I think it sounds like slut-shaming. Seriously, didn't we leave behind this type of offensive, sexist, and pointless snarking around twenty years ago? There is no level or angle of spin that is going to make that comment in any way acceptable or funny. It's not, and furthermore, it is utterly disgraceful. Adam Bandt, are you going to call out or castigate your senator for this objectionable remark? Given the crap to which Thorpe's fellow Green Sarah Hanson-Young was subjected by David Leyonhjelm, I find it bizarre that Thorpe would make such an unconscionable comment. So you keep your legs shut, do you, Lidia? How about you include your MOUTH next time  you get the urge to let forth something so pathetically pointless and reminiscent of a coke-fueled 1980s board meeting? This grotesque type of insult has the potential to detract from any decent work you are trying to do, so put brain in gear before putting mouth in action, next time.

There was, however, one thing I did enjoy from Parliament House this week. Of course, it was Anthony Albanese calling Spud-the-Dud Dutton 'Boofhead'. Thank goodness it was in parliament, otherwise Albo might have been on the receiving end of a defamation action! Oh, it made me guffaw, my friends. What's more, I think I might purchase some of the merch celebrating this moment. 

Oh, the Paine! The Paine of it All!

 I'm a tad confused about this Tim Paine scandal, mainly because from what I have read, I can't actually find a 'scandal'. The statement from the Australian Cricket Association states that the incident in question was 'a private matter between consenting individuals'. The crux of the clause in that sentence is 'consenting', with a dash of 'private' thrown in. If it wasn't consensual, then of course that's a different matter, and might I just take this opportunity to inform guys that women generally don't consider it flattering to have inboxes and DMs bombarded with unsought pictures of your meat-and-two-veg, okay? 

Yes, I know Paine is married, and whilst flirting with a person who is not your spouse has the potential to cause hurt, it's not illegal. I don't need to peruse the Crimes Act, NSW to know this. So why the big kapooha if two adults send each other naughty messages? It's nobody else's business and I can't see how it impacted upon Paine's ability to play cricket. Disclaimer: I haven't watched Paine play cricket. I'm not in the habit of watching cricket because it is about as enthralling as a desiccated dog turd that's been bleached white by the sun. If the resignation is to do with some nonsense about bringing the game into disrepute, then I ain't buying it. I don't CARE what consenting adults do in privacy and I don't expect professional sportspeople to be in line for canonisation. 

Moving on to a different subject, I have had cause to compile another playlist. This one is brief, and if iTunes' definition is to be applied, something of an EP. It's for the shitful assholes in your life. I have complied a few lists in the past and thought I might run out of songs, but while there are toxic mongrels in the world, there will be material for songwriters everywhere. Here are some to give a spin, folks:

1. FOAD by Kid Rock. I only heard this song for the first time the other week and it brilliantly encapsulated my emotions at the time. The narrative is addressed to someone who's caused hurt and harm, aired dirty laundry, and talked malevolently about him, so he invites his malefactor to just 'fuck off and die'. 

2. You Should Hear How She Talks About You by Melissa Manchester. I know this song talks about a woman who's infatuated with someone, but I'm going to interpret the title as being about bitching, and by bitching, I mean refined, weapons-grade bitching.

3. Something in the Air by Thunderclap Newman. 'There's something in the air...'. Sure is, and it's people's noses, poised so precariously high, the owners are in danger of tripping over unseen obstacles on the ground.

4. Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. This is often the result of some vile shitfuckery on the part of malignant boils masquerading as human beings, and the title sums it up succinctly. 

Anyway, I must get to bed. I have an early start tomorrow. Bye for now!

Just a Disgusted Little Rant

 I've always been under the impression people attain qualifications or knowledge after the requisite study and due assessment, or otherwise via osmosis. But over the past week, everybody seems to have drawn on innate knowledge and - hey, presto! - looky here, maw, we done got us a dagnab true load of ballistics experts. No, I don't know why I'm attempting to type in a phonetic Appalachian patois, either. 

I refer to, of course, the tragic on-set incident involving Alec Baldwin and the cinematographer, Halyna Hutchins. 'Why was he pointing a gun at her?' 'Why was there a live round on set?' 'Who's the armourer?' 'How can a blank kill someone?' The aforementioned are a cross-reference of the overriding tone of the questions and demands. Here's the thing where I'm concerned: I don't know. I can hypothesise and say stuff I DO sort of know, like:

1. A 'blank' can kill someone if fired at close enough range. Remember Jon-Erik Hexum, the actor who died after fartarsing with a blanks-loaded handgun in a mock game of Russian roulette in 1984? 

2. I don't know if the bullet in the weapon fired by Baldwin was a blank or real one, but I'm more than happy to let the inquiry that surely must transpire take its due course. 

3. There's a good chance Baldwin was directed to perform an actor-facing-camera shot, and the cinematographer and director were standing behind camera. From what I understand of filmmaking, this is pretty common. 

4. There's every chance Baldwin is devastated about this and my heart goes out to him, and the family of Ms Hutchins. 

People have predictably been making unpleasant or snide comments about it, and while I will own up to having a crook sense of humour at times, I just cannot joke about something like this. I'm glad, because that would put me in the same league as Donald Trump Jnr, who has been selling online tee-shirts with the epithet: Guns don't kill people. Alec Baldwin kills people. Seriously, Trump-Spawn, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did Baldwin lampoon your shitgibbon father once too often for your liking? A woman lost her life in this incident, and all you can do is make foul humour of it. Still, given you get a boner when you shoot wildlife, I shouldn't be surprised. 

Oh well, study awaits.

For Future Reference

 Apropos of my last post wherein I had a good old bitch about APA 7th edition referencing, I am validated. It is DEFINITELY a whole new layer of Hell and Dante would do well to steer well clear. I received an assessment back this morning and I have been let down by my referencing. Can I just say referencing totally fucking bites the bag? There, that's off my chest. 

Here are my options:

1. Cry.

2. Start a whiny Change Dot Org petition wherein I call for the person responsible for this dastardly requirement to be stuffed into a weapons-grade trebuchet and catapulted right out to Betelgeuse. 

3. Accept that my referencing skills need work, speak to a tutor, install some referencing software, and work like a Trojan on my next assessment to ensure I get the overall marks necessary to pass this unit which, ironically, is about resilience. 

Guess I'll go with the third option. 

So, what's good at the moment?

1. My new kitchen is coming along nicely and I adore the new white tiled splash-back. I hyphenated the words 'splash' and 'back' because they refer to a noun, but spellcheck won't let me type them together, and I therefore say they must be hyphenated. 

2. I had a good tutoring session via Zoom this morning and successfully shared a screen. To all you digital natives out there, I know you're thinking: 'Ho-hum', but this is a big moment for a digital immigrant of my age. 

3. We have a new TV. Our old one died so we bought a new one yesterday, you know the kind: apps like Stan and Netflix already on it. I am old enough (why I'm a digital immigrant) to remember colour television being introduced in Australia, and how exciting it was to get a new colour TV. Also recall having to roll a button back and forth to tune in a channel that was blurry or snowy. Guess what? Had to get up off the lounge to do this. If the kid I was back then could envisage the television set I now have, that kid would not believe it. 

Anyway, I will now either work on my other assessment or watch something on this big-arse new TV.

THAT Lyric from 'Won't Get Fooled Again'

I had a look at my blog site tonight, and oh my giddy aunt, I was aghast to see I haven't written in a long time. This I attribute to a few factors. I've been renovating and my house is a chaotic hellscape. I've also been busy doing two uni assessments. Truth be told, I enjoyed the subjects and writing the assessments. What I did NOT enjoy was the referencing because, as anybody who has ever written a university paper will attest to, it is a special new level of Hell. 

What a clusterfuck New South Wales politics has been over the past few days. Gladys has resigned. I am not at all saddened by this, particularly in light of the scurrilous sale of Scone TAFE. Today, her co-conspirator in koala slaughter also resigned. I heard about Pork-barrel-aro's resignation and mentally fist-pumped (I was driving at the time and am mindful of keeping two hands on the wheel). No more misusing anti-terrorism police units because he couldn't take a bit  of teasing for him, eh? The Twittersphere has been dropping a few hints about some circumstances of his leaving, and if true, they're veee-rrrrr-y interesting. They are unsubstantiated, so I will refrain from repeating them here.  The problem we are facing now is the most likely contender for the role of premier is Dominic Perrottet. This man is a self-righteous Holy Joe type, and I am aware people are entitled to religious beliefs, but  I am concerned his ardent and fervent views will colour his decisions and actions, should he become premier. This is a dude who, in 2015, stated words to the effect that it is selfish of childless people to expect the pension in their old age, rather than having had children to look after them in those golden years (seriously, dude; was your arse jealous of the shit that came out your mouth?). Let us not forget he also allegedly blundered the iCare scheme with a level of incompetence that created the most monumental balls-up since King Kong stood on his head. 

So as The Who insightfully sang: "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss".

Speaking of The Who, and bands etc, tonight I'm listening to the strains of George Thorogood and Motley Crue as they waft from my seventeen-year-old's room. I'm so proud he does not curse my ears with the following:

1. Fast Cars by Tracy Chapman. I like her voice, but that song depresses the living snot out of me, and I feel as claustrophobic and trapped as the narrator thereof. 

2. Africa by Toto. A bland blancmange of a song from a bunch of dudes who've clearly never looked at an Atlas in their lives. 

3. Copperhead Road by Steve Erle. Lugubrious bitter bilge that's overplayed and I'd rather stick a handful of Fisherman's Friends cough lollies up my bum than listen to it again. 

 Well, that's me for tonight. I'm about to do my physio exercises and watch The Newsreader on ABC iView. Excellent series set in a fictional Aussie newsroom in 1986. Highly recommended. 

Who was that unmasked man, er, nincompoop?

 I now have another item to add to my list titled Reasons I Am Glad Tony Abbott is No Longer Prime Minister. This item will join other remarkable and noteworthy items such as #194 Fetishising virginity in girls (Tones, is your concept of virginity loss dick-in-vag? There's more to sex than dick-in-vag action, in case nobody told you); #194 Punching a whole in the wall near a woman's head after losing an argument to her); #67 Saying 'Suppository of wisdom'; #48 Appointing himself Minister for Women when he's a sexist troglodyte; #99 Crowing he would stop the boats without consideration he came out on a boat, too; and oh, lots and lots, too multitudinous to list in the short time I have available before cooking dinner.

The new # will be in relation to him not wearing a mask in public last week, which has the dual crime of (1) contravening public health regulation, and (2) exposing the public to more of his smirking face than what would be an acceptable level of exposure. 

For this deed, as is prudent, he copped a $500.00 fine. He then went on to bitch, beef, and blather about how he thought it wasn't in the Australian character to dob and snitch. Yes, he used the words 'dob' and 'snitch'. Mate, you're sixty-three, not twelve. Spoken like a true sniveling poltroon who's been caught out at school. By the way, didn't his government implement the 'dob-in-a-dealer' program? Look at the first word in my hyphenated phrase. 

He then committed the more heinous offence of using the word 'un-Australian' (which I would suggest is not a word so much as an unavailing letter salad), by griping it is un-Australian to dob. This term, bandied about by desperate flops, has the power and brio of a wet Sao. Seriously, if this is how he fortifies and formulates arguments, it is little wonder he lost that debate at university all those years ago. 

Tony, might I suggest you:

1) Obey health directives because entitled nincompoops like you are making it difficult for the rest of us; and 

2) Use stronger terminology in your supposedly persuasive arguments. 'Un-Australian' pretty much just eats shit and the argument flatlines the instant the user puts it forward. 

Off to update the list now. Sigh...

Oh, Vi-en-net-taaaaaa! (Sorry, Ultravox)

I've learned a few things this week, and not just because study has resumed. Speaking of the study, I'm enjoying the online collaboration and reading one of the links that breaks down the nouns into even further subsets, to wit, agentive nouns and demonstrative nouns. Now I have the tools to drive people even sillier when I'm differentiating between common, proper, and pronouns. One of the suggested exercises was to click on a link and complete and Year 9 NAPLAN language conventions test. I looked at the questions and rolled my eyes almost to the next dimension. Forgive my hubris (or don't; I'm not bothered), but I felt the suggestion I do that test was akin to suggesting Da Vinci complete a join-the-dots drawing designed for a six-year-old. 

Another thing I learned is who Nardia Bartel is. Until this week, I had never heard of her, which is not surprising given my interest in AFL WAGs is comparable to a slug's interest in thermodynamics. She was filmed snorting cocaine off - and this is what has the cyberworld losing its collective shit - a K-mart plate. Maybe the Royal Doulton was in the washing up pile. Frankly, she can snort her Bolivian booger-sugar off a dirty toilet seat for all I care, and she can snort until her septum disintegrates, but did she miss the news about avoiding gatherings in a pandemic? This is what's really giving me the irrits. And Nads, when we are allowed gatherings again, I'd get some new friends, if I were you. Whoever 'accidentally' (yeah, right, and I'm Angelina Jolie!) uploaded the footage of you doing the hooter-hoover to Instagram is not your friend, okay? This person is a complete arsehole. 

I have also learned that Viennetta desserts were first marketed in Australia in the mid-1980s. This became news of great importance because Anthony Albanese reminisced about the odd treat of Viennetta in his house when he was a kid. The only problem was that Anthony would have been in young adulthood, not a kid, when Viennettas were marketed, and the Murdoch press and LNP swooped on this factoid like the miserable, carcass-devouring buzzards they are. Honestly, is a mistimed and anachronistic reminiscence really that much of a scandal? Barnaby Joyce tried to get in on the story during Question Time! As an aside: Barnaby, had you been drinking AGAIN when you tried to segue to this non-story? You florid flip. Given the Federal government's sickening mishandling of Covid and the vaccine rollout, this is the most ludicrous red herring I have ever seen bandied. 

Before I leave, I will mention two little phrases that have really been doing in my poor old head of late. The first one is 'Asking for a friend.' It was actually mildly amusing the first time I read it. However, the little joke has lost its lustre after the 472,000th sighting. 

The other one is 'I'll wait'. Meme-generators create their meme, which contains a question, and then finishes with: 'I'll wait.' First of all, what the fuck else are you going to do in the time between posting the meme and receiving answers? Waiting is what everyone does in the passage of time when they are anticipating something, whether it's an answer or a parcel in the mail or just about anything. Furthermore, there is something imperiously smug and supercilious about the tone of that phrase, when used in the manner described, and that's what really grinds my gears. I wish people would just stop doing it, but I WON'T wait. 

Oh well, that's me for now. Chat soon.

Wiggles & Giggles, Plus More Palpable Jackassery from Politicians

 When I was in my early twenties, my cousin and I went to (I think) Sydney Cove Tavern and watched the Cockroaches. No offence, dudes, but you guys weren't really my cup of tea. Having typed that, I'm sure the former members of the band are unperturbed a woman they've never met didn't really get into their music. 

Unless you've been living on Mars (in which case, welcome back and I'm glad you didn't burn up on re-entry), you'd be aware the Cockroaches kind of morphed into the Wiggles. Like with their previous incarnation, I attended a Wiggles concert, this time in my capacity as a parent, and did not have a good time because I had to drag my then three-year-old and carry my then four-month-old up to the nosebleed seats, and clamber and stumble along a row of people, mumbling: 'Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me, ooops sorry...', clobbering people with a nappy bag in my wake. And the minute we took our seats, my oldest kid said, 'Mummy, I want to do a wee!' And when we had resumed our seats, clobbering the same hapless patrons with my nappy bag as before, the kid said he wanted the toilet again. He did absolutely nothing, and was told in no uncertain terms to not ask for the toilet unless he genuinely needed it because Mummy had absolutely no intention of spending the entire show climbing up and down the damn stairs. And when we had resumed our seats, my baby filled his nappy. Ah, happy memories of parenthood. I must admit, I am having a bit of a chuckle remembering that day. It has taken a long time, given my oldest child is now twenty and the youngest seventeen, but I can actually laugh a bit about it now. 

As with many other parents, the Wiggles were a quasi-babysitter for me when I would be preparing dinner or bathing the baby. They're an institution. 

Well, what's been in the news lately is the Wiggles have morphed into a different lineup. They now have eight members instead of four, and are considerably more gender and culturally diverse than the original lineup of four men. I have always been one who dislikes art being altered for the sake of political correctness, but I don't see these changes as bowing to the 'woke' crowd. Nay, it is a reflection of evolving society and a reflection that we are not all cis-het Anglos. I applaud Anthony Field and the others on making this change, which acknowledges diversity and inclusivity.

But the changes have not pleased everybody. Oh no. There are some who having taken great umbrage at this new lineup. These people probably also lost their shit when Emma became the first female in the group because the Wiggles are guiiiiiiiiiiiiyyyyyyyyyys! Everyone knows that!

Senator Matt Canavan (the one with the coal-smeared face and prop hard hat in his Twitter profile pic) has been critical of their decision, and warned them that if they 'go woke', they 'go broke'. Um, given their reputation and current net worth, I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen, Matt. Oh, and wash your face - you look like a Dickensian orphan who has to clean chimneys, except not cherubic - just plain shitty. 

However, the politician who wins the award for Abject Jackassery is Lyle Shelton. He's started a petition, to be presented to Anthony Field, requesting they stop what they're doing, which according to Lyle is - I shit  you not - 'indoctrinating kids into harmful LGBTIQA+ ideology'. Lyle, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but WHAT THE FUCK DRUGS ARE YOU ON? Oh, I get it. It's because of the new character that's a nonbinary unicorn, isn't it? Did you miss the part about it being a UNICORN? I haven't researched unicorns, so I don't know if they're meant to be binary, nonbinary, hermaphroditic, asexual, cis-gendered, straight, gay, or Nickelback fan; but they don't exist, so why worry about who, what, or how they're interested in shagging? Tell you what, I would like to be a fly on the wall when Anthony Field receives that petition. I think it's more likely that he will roll about on the floor laughing than say, 'Oh, no! We're poisoning the children with our wild counter-culture ideology. How could we have not consulted Lyle Shelton before instigating these cockamamie and crackpot notions? Sorry, newbies, you're going to have to register for Jobseeker and that includes the NIDA graduate in the nonbinary unicorn costume!' 

Did anybody else see the recent footage of Anthony wearing nose plugs and singing to a Covid patient? The patient was a twenty-two year old woman with Down's Syndrome who wouldn't keep her nose plugs in place. She was also a humongous Wiggles fan, so one of the nurses contacted the Wiggles to see if something could be done. And something WAS done. Anthony played a song with lyrics explaining the importance of her keeping the nose plugs in place, and Anthony wore some to show her they wouldn't hurt her. This put a tear in my eye. Nurses are awesome, too. 

You know what's NOT awesome? Stupidity and pettiness propagated by dickwad politicians like Charcoal-Cheeks Canavan and Lyle. There was a trending hashtag some time ago: #EatShitLyle. I refrained from putting that in my tweets, and will still refrain from saying it. I might say this instead: Lyle, attempt your own impregnation as you go away. 

Viva the new Wiggles!

Mixed Bag: Walker, Texas Ranger; Chimney Sweeps; and Rodriguez

 Some things are a puzzle. I was, um, puzzling over them today. I puzzle over things at random times, but usually when they are brought to my notice. Here are some of them:

1. The appeal of Walker, Texas Ranger. Don't get me wrong; Chuck is adequate in this role, but the whole premises just seems like gung-ho bulldust. I was reminded of it yesterday when I was at an old lady's house. It was on the television and there was the pretty much obligatory scene with Walker leaping in, hands chopping and feet kicking; and taking out three bad guys, a fence, and the buffet table in a single one-minute session. The lady said to me, 'You'd think his feet would get sore, wouldn't you?' Maybe. But I tell you this: the ears get sore listening to that cringe-worthy patriotic embarrassment of a theme song. Why did they let Norris sing it? Was everybody scared of Chuck opening a can of whoop-ass on them if they told him he happens to carry a tune like a skateboard carries a hippopotamus?

2. What was going through the mind of the numbskull who drove from Sydney to Byron Bay to look at real estate. Seriously, what twatwaffle does this when his wife is in hospital with Covid? What ails some people, aside from a serious dearth of reasoning ability? I'm just pissed off. My town's in lockdown and I don't know if we will come out tomorrow, which has so far been the original plan. My town is not near Byron Bay, but it's the principle that's grinding my gears. If you're reading this, you clown: You (*clap*) are (*clap) an ARSEHOLE (*jazz hands*).

3. Was Senator Matt Canavan's morphing from a human being (kind of!) to a completely soulless, heartless dickwad a gradual process or a sudden and startling total transmogrification, complete with fireworks and a mariachi band. His profile photograph with the coal-smeared countenance is beyond wanky (who does he think he's kidding?), but he appears to care more about money than he does human lives. I've copied this text from one of his recent tweets:

We don't all drive Volvos and we don't put a hospital in every country town even though those decisions would save lives.

Is there something wrong with saving lives? I'd rather spend some tax dollars on saving people. I'd like to look in the mirror and know I'd done something to help people, instead of looking to artfully apply soot like an actor playing a Dickensian chimney sweep. 

4. Why I do certain things. The thing in question is waste my time explaining to someone that the word 'professor is both a common noun and a proper noun, depending upon context. By way of explanation, I am a member of a Facebook dedicated to grammar and spelling (yes, I know it's a shock; pick yourselves up from the floor). Some of the members are EAL, but I think this person I was interacting with was deliberately obtuse. He wanted to know whether to refer to some professorial types in a missive with a capital 'P'. I advised if he is addressing the learned folk by their courtesy title, then it's Capital P. He kept responding that professor was a common noun. Well, it is. However, it's also a courtesy title. It got to the point where I wanted to type in shouty capitals: DID I FUCKING STUTTER, but I managed to keep it together. More importantly, I think I got the OP to realise when and where to capitalise his 'P'. But I later reflected I had wasted a goodly chunk of my evening quarreling over this. Jeez-Louise. 

As Rodriguez so artfully and soulfully sang years ago: I wonder.

Just Pondering to the Kid's Playlist

 I'm just sitting here, wondering what to write about, and listening to the playlist emanating from my son's bedroom. He's playing random songs from my iTunes account, and furthermore, singing along. At present, it's Todd Lundgren's sublime I Saw The Light. Just before, it was Mr Brightside by the Killers.  My kid was very much in my mind last week; it was his seventeenth birthday. Now, I'm listening to him playing Modern Girl by James Freud and the Radio All Stars (James is missed, isn't he?). It amazes me to think I've grown a human inside me who emerged as a laidback, easygoing, constantly smiling baby, subsequently developing into a theatrical, incredibly funny, talented dancer who plays the drums and gigs with a few schoolfriends occasionally. 

It's hard to find things to write about lately because the news is still saturated with pandemic stories. I am so looking forward to the day when we regain some of the pre-Covid life. (Now Get it On by T-Rex can be heard from my offspring's room). Folks, wear your masks and get jabbed. 

So, what have I been doing lately? Well, I've been on leave. Didn't do much, what with restrictions and all. I was able to get to Tamworth and attend the exhibitions of costumes from The Dressmaker. My, they were sumptuous. My local TAFE needed some hair models, so I got a colour and foils done. It only took four hours (eek!).  Trivia is back on, so the fun (and successful!) evenings I have been having with my oldest and his mate have made me feel good. I ponder this pleasantness as the strains of Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters, talking about how they Learn to Fly, waft from beneath the door of my son's room.

Most of all, we are in the process of organising renovation to our be-it-so-humble abode. Soon, it won't be humble. Soon it'll be pimping a brand new kitchen, much in the manner that the Kaiser Chiefs are now pimping Ruby. 

My leave is over and I'm back at work tomorrow. I've still tutored during the break, which has proven most rewarding. My older students are studying satire at the moment and I've enjoyed discussing the elements and questions a good piece of satire provokes in the viewer or reader. Let me ask you, reader, does a work of art have to conform to societal values and norms?

Anyway, I'm a bit sleepy at the moment. Might start getting ready for bed. I will probably write tomorrow or Wednesday about some of the hilarious stories I was able to share with two old schoolfriends the other day. These stories involve nuns, which usually make for excellent guffaw fodder (once you get past the screeching and ruler-waving).

The Poltroons of Parliament

 Has anybody else been watching Ms Represented? If you haven't heard about it, it's a four-part series wherein Annabel Crabbe interviews a multitude of female politicians, both former and currently serving, about their experiences in the job. I watched Episode 2 and what was revealed in that episode, to put not too fine a point on it, just boiled my piss. 

It's a common chestnut to say this, but WHY do some male politicians feel entitled to behave in a manner that would never be accepted in any other workplace? Parliament House is a workplace and us poor schlubs are the ones paying the wages. Sarah Hanson-Young spoke of her experiences when she was harassed by Cory Bernardi as she spoke during a parliamentary session. It seems there was a party somewhere in the building (which Ben 'Obi-Wan' Kenobi could also describe as a 'wretched hive of scum and villainy'), and Cory took it upon himself to wander (more likely stagger) into the room and keep sitting closer and closer to where Sarah stood, until he was close enough to start murmuring nursery rhymes at her. This alone is obnoxious enough, but then he decided to display his utter destitution of decency and total propensity to malefaction by hissing a list of names of the men Sarah had reputedly slept with. Who, upon reading this, is thinking: What the actual fuck? 

If you're reading this, Cory, you inveterate bully, some questions:

1. Why is the sex life of another consenting adult any concern of yours?

2. Why should the sex life of a woman be used against her, when it is not used against a man?

3. Why did you think it was acceptable to distract and harass a woman in the workplace?

4. Why do you have no respect for women?

5. Why are you such a nasty scrote with the moral fortitude and manners of a scraping of pox-riddled rat smegma? 

6. Do you know slut-shaming is a really ineffectual tool that is used by, well, ineffectual tools?

7. Does this behaviour empower you because you're such a loser?

Under the laws of the Quantum Sex Life Paradigm, the more nosey, judgemental, gossipy, sexist, and nasty Person A  is about Person B's sex life, then the more insignificant, scarce, dull, and minimal is the sex life of Person A. To put it in lay person's terms, Cory: you seriously ain't gettin' any. This dearth of conjugal fun has rendered you as bitter and toxic as a cane toad that has had its toy taken away. To remedy this, I would suggest you go on eBay and look at acquiring:

1. Manners.

2. A life of your own that doesn't involve being pointlessly nasty about other's. 

3. A blow-up doll to take the edge off what appears to be your own frustration.

You and those other slimy grubs like Lleyonhelm should have a serious word with yourselves and ask yourselves WHY you are so fixated on the personal lives of women, and more importantly, why you think those personal lives are something over which you are entitled to be castigatory? Doc Brown is a fictional character, so he clearly can't transfer you in the DeLorean back to a time where belong with your stinking double standards, so since you are stuck in the twenty-first century, try and evolve like the rest of us, instead of sitting in a tree flinging your crap at others. 

Side B and a Different Compilation

 Apropos of my recent post wherein I started a playlist dedicated to some foul and toxic ghouls I have had the misfortune to have in my life who have caused me some distress, I now continue with Side B of the Melodic Misery:

1.Gonna Get Along Without You Now by Viola Ellis. It looks like that's what I'm going to have to do.

2. Another Bloody Motherfucking Asshole by Martha Wainwright. The lass has issues.

3. You Can Go to Hell by Alice Cooper. Often the people to whom this sentiment is directed are the most self-righteous prigs to ever manifest as carbon-based lifeforms. This situation is no exception to the rule.

4. Why'd Ya Do It? by Marianne Faithfull. The lyrics don't actually apply to my personal situation but the question is one I'd like to ask to some certain reproachable scum-dumpsters whose reprehensible actions contributed to a difficult situation for me. And speaking of those lyrics, have you read them? All I can say is: OUCH!

5. Instant Karma by John Lennon. 'Instant karma's gonna get you...'. Hopefully, right between the teeth. Hopefully, I will get to see it. 

6. Respectable by the Rolling Stones. Dedicated to the social climbers and nose-in-the-air types who think they're so much better than everybody else. Like the song says, 'Get out of my life/Don't come back.'

But enough of Side B. Let's look at Side A of my playlist that is dedicated to the loved family and friends that supported me over the past few weeks. By the way, I know it's been a few weeks since things came to a head, but I haven't been blogging - don't worry, haven't been stewing - I just made myself a goal to write about this and haven't. To the friends and family that supported me:

1. Thank You for Being a Friend by Andrew Gold. It's a no-brainer that I'd pick this, but I mean it.

2. You're a friend of Mine by Jackson Browne and Clarence Clemons. You people are friends of mine and you've helped me through a difficult and hurtful period.

3. Just Got Lucky by Jo Boxers. I did get lucky when you guys came into my life.

4. Waiting on a Friend by the Rolling Stones. 'I need someone I can turn to.' I know, with you guys, that I have that someone.

Oh well, not much else to report. Have a niggly headache which I suspect is a side effect from the A-Z vaccine shot I had yesterday. It hasn't bothered me too badly, but I did wake up aching and with a miasmic malaise that hung around like a cloud of insects around a street lamp for pretty much the entire day. So, I will either get my hot water bottle and crawl into bed, or watch another episode of Puberty Blues on Netflix and then crawl into bed. 'Nick off, ya moll; before I smash ya!'

Palpable Jackassery

 I know I said I'd compile a Side B for the foul ghouls and jackals we have in our lives, but I got sidetracked. The good news in my life is I got 77% on my final assessment in the Creative Writing unit in my university studies. Bad news is I'm freezing cold today and my renovations are not finished.

Best get onto that list. But there is another list and it comprises jackasses. It's only a short one, but the jackassery in this list is palpable, with the ability to stun and debilitate at fifty paces. Here we go:

1. Rebel Wilson for her advice to Sydney about the current lockdown. It goes something like 'WTF' and 'You can't keep locking down as a strategy.' Rebster, your Twitter profile lists your credentials as actress, writer, and producer. Nowhere did I see the word 'epidemiologist', so just fuck off with your blathering, okay? Hell, I think I'd rather see another nauseating story about your weight loss than one about your advice on how to best handle a pandemic. Piss off.

2. John Barilaro for talking about having the third 2021 Origin game played in Newcastle, given the current lockdown in Sydney. Also for destroying koala habitats. Then there's his government's sell-off of local TAFE. Just when you think the jackassery has plateaued, he calls in the FPIU because a YouTube comedian teased him. You're a politician, so you need a thick skin! Seriously, dude, what do you do when you see someone in your street parked on the nature strip? Call in the TRG? *Knock at my front door, my dog goes ballistic, son answers the door to some badge-wielding nongs who say: 'FPIU. Your mother home?'*

3. Whoever issued a directive to teachers to hyphenate when writing reports, such as: "Johnny is able to sound-out difficult words when reading aloud". I don't know if this is nationwide or if it's just in Victoria. A friend of mine who is in the Victorian education system posted on Facebook about it, and it's fair to say I went into meltdown. If the arse-clown responsible for this total heinousness is reading, then let me type this slowly for you: This. Is. NOT. How. Hyphens. Are. Used! 'Sound out' is a verbal phrase, and in the event you need reminding: verbs are 'doing' words. Putting the hyphen in will change the phrase's function, most likely to a noun or adjectival phrase. To demonstrate: 'A stand-in will stand in for a person who is unavailable' or 'We are about to drive by the house that was the scene of a drive-by shooting'. Don't put hyphens in verbal phrases, okay? I'm glad I wasn't asked to write that in a report; the resultant fireworks would have seen every dog within a five-mile radius (see what I did there?) escape and run away.

Well, I had best get my mask, my son, and my son's mask, then head off to the dentist. 

Ciao for now.

Melodies for Miserable Malfeasants, Tunes for Toxic Toads

 I'm pondering some blurb about a hypothetical studio compiling an album dedicated to those people whose raison d'etre, whose great calling, whose divine vocation, or whose plain twisted hobby appears to be ensuring they render every aspect of your life miserable as they either just suck the joy out of life with the force of an imploding black hole, or else just deliberately make you miserable for whatever grotesque self-justification they conjure. Yes, here at Bingells Blog we play AAAAAAALLL-LLLLLL the hits, and dedicate these ones to the poltroons, the fiends, the scapegraces, the swine, the malfeasants, or the plain old meany-poopy-heads - whatever you want to call them - that you have the misfortune to be struggling with in your lives at present:

1. Two Faces Have I by Lou Christie or Ol' 55 (choose whatever version you want). I know this song is really about a person who is putting on a cheerful visage to hide his true feelings, but on the basis of the title alone, I'm dedicating it to those duplicitous types who'd stab you betwixt the shoulder blades as soon as look at you. I know some people like this, and I'm sure you do, too. 

2. Bad Blood by Neil Sedaka (Elton John on backing vocals). I think this is an underrated number. I also think Elton's Greek chorus style delivery of 'Baaaaaaad' after Neil sings his bit sounds a bit like a lamb bleating for its mother (have a listen; you'll totally get what I mean). I do like this song very much and the title makes me think of bitter and toxic jackals from Hell who manifest spite and perpetuate their acrimony with the mulish determination of a malign toad. 

3. I Hate Everything About You by Ugly Kid Joe. I like this song. It's quirky and has a great Fuck-You tone in its delivery. And yes, there are people I know who have utterly no redeeming qualities; and I'm sure you know people exactly like this, too. 

4. A Town Called... by Kevin Bloody Wilson. It's Kevin Bloody Wilson, which should give you a hint about what this town might be called. If you are unable to access this tune, the narrative has Wilson giving directions like: 'Take a left on Screw You Avenue/Take a right on Wank Stain Lane...', until you reach a town called ... Go Fuck Yourself. Be honest, peeps: haven't we all wanted to say this to certain people at times? I know I have. 

5. Don't Expect Me to be Your Friend by Lobo. This goes out to the aforementioned toxic jackals who are free and easy with vicious spite and who really need to get on Whereis for those directions to the aforementioned town. 

Well, that might do for Side A. I might think of some more for Side B soon, but I also want to think of some tunes that we would dedicate to the people in our lives who have been there for us when we've needed them. For the times when we've been hurt or maligned by total shit-gibbons who should just crawl back under their respective rocks, there are people who have listened and helped pick us up. I am lucky to have a good network of friends and family who have given support and encouragement when I have needed it, and trust me, I definitely needed it this past week. To them I say: Thank you.

Life's Great Wonders

 Tempus fugi - I think I've conjugated that correctly -  since last post. So what's been happening? Well, my local government area held a by-election and guess what? The Nationals retained their seat! Isn't that fantastic? Oh wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to type was: Fucking hell! Why must we have these idiots back in? Oh, and when I went to do a pre-poll vote, who should say hello to me but that shrew with the voice reminiscent of a fork being dragged down a blackboard. Ugh! Yes, we had the leader of that eponymous shit-show known as Pauline Hanson's One Nation in town. Did I say 'hello' back? No, I kept walking before I turned to stone from the force of her gaze, or else got squashed in the event someone finally dropped a house on her. 

But it's been mainly good. I appear to have scored a Distinction on my last assessment. I wrote about Marc Bolan, so it was bound to have been well-received. Also, as I type, I'm listening to rain on my new roof. Yes, you read that right: we have a new roof. FINALLY! It's good to have rain here, but it's a bonus to hear it on a new roof and know I won't be floundering around with buckets to catch the leaks. 

Although I have been working for what feels like a constant era, I have found the time to go out and enjoy myself. Last Saturday, my youngest son and I went to a Queen tribute show. We stayed at a motel to save a drive home that would have seen me navigating through fog and possibly hitting a kangaroo. I have always had a fondness for tribute bands. My husband and mother-in-law are planning to see a Johnny Cash tribute act this coming Saturday evening, and I have booked tickets for an ELO act in August. 

Whilst my husband is enjoying the embodiment of the Man in Black, I am thinking about seeing Cruella at the local cinema. I am rather interested in the character study. Also, it might be a fun way to while away some time. I don't go nuts over 101 Dalmatians by any means, I just thought it might be interesting to see the tale of another character in the movie. It's a common creative writing ploy; taking a well-known story and telling it through the eyes of a character other than the accepted protagonist. Oh - I read the oddest tweet the other day. Some US politician said the movie had spoiled his childhood memories of 101 Dalmatians by having an openly flamboyant gay character. Seriously? Is this the hill he's going to die on? I replied to him along the lines that given the titular character works in fashion and design, it would be unrealistic to not feature someone who is flamboyantly gay (don't @ me for propagating a stereotype); furthermore, isn't a more disturbing character the evil beldame who skins puppies?

The other great thing that has happened in The World According to Bingells is my son, his friend, and I won the trivia last night. This is good, but we won by SEVEN POINTS - count 'em! - SEVEN! Some of our answers were formulated by educated guessing, but there is a thrill to be had from that process when you realise your line of reasoning was true. I drew the voucher for ten dollars, but the pride in our win greatly ameliorates that sting. As an aside, my son has banned me from drawing vouchers because I appear to be cursed in this area. But the best part of all was WE BEAT THE KARENS! They appear to be toning down their Karenness, but nonetheless:  sex is good and all, but beating a table of Karens is the pinnacle of life's great wonders. 

My Upcoming Book: 'How to Make Enemies and Completely Sh*t People

 In October, 1936, Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends & Influence People was first published. I have not been working on new projects lately because of my studying, but apropos of Carnegie's classic, I am considering a non-fiction work whose current working title is How to Make Enemies and Completely Shit People. 

This new work won't take very long to complete, because the crux of the 'how to' is almost criminal in its simplicity: all you have to do is be a KAREN! I have, to the best of my ability, avoided using this term when referring to whining ignorant malcontents because I know some awesome people with that name. Unfortunately, the term is now used to describe, as previously stated, whining ignorant malcontents, some of whom are imperiously bossy and like to ride roughshod over situations where they should keep their big mouths shut to staunch the flow of whiny bloat. 

But I can remain quiet no more.

I have had cause to use the term and it was directed to the complaining and kvetching crosspatch at the adjacent table when I played my weekly trivia game last week. If you follow my blog or know me personally, you will know I am a gun trivia player. No room for false modesty; I am. Every week, I enjoy a night at a local pub in a team with my almost-twenty-year-old son and his friend, who has turned twenty. (On a side note: my kid's about to turn twenty. Bloody hell!). They are fantastic on some of the younger generation's pop culture, as well as science. We have a ball and score well. We are making friends with other regulars, going so far as to have a pre-game meal with another team. We dine as friends and play as rivals. So much fun.

Until this fated evening last week. There was another team of three, comprising women maybe my age or a little younger. They are not regulars, but I have seen them there previously, and I have the graciousness and good sportsmanship to admit they are also good players. 

Here are the rules by which the game is conducted: the first-place getters, the second-place getters, and the penultimately placed team have the right to choose a blank envelope for the chance to win a voucher ($50.00, $20.00, or $10.00) to the pub's bistro. In the instance of a tie, a decision is made by rock-paper-scissors between representatives of the tying teams. Last week, there was a tie for first place and a tie for second place. We were in the running for second place, and my son stood to duke it out in rock-paper-scissors. If you're looking for a young man with Rain Man anticipatory skill in rock-paper-scissors, I pushed out his head almost twenty years ago. 

Then we heard the whining clarion call of a woman from 'that' team. It was her contention that only the winning teams should draw the envelopes, although she deigned to allow the penultimate team to make their draw. There's no nice way I can put this, except: Fuck off, lady; you didn't write the rules. The hostess was clearly put on the spot because they had already started the stride to the envelopes, like they were racing to the Chanel table at the Myers Boxing Day sale. Then came a catcall from a woman on the table comprising the other second-placers: 'Ya KAREN!' It was followed by someone else: 'Yeah, ya KAREN!'. It kind of reminded me of that scene toward the end of Dangerous Liaisons when Glenn Close, in her role of Marquise de Merteuil, goes to the theatre and is booed by the disapproving patrons, only of course instead of booing, it was 'Ya KARENs'. 

I cannot imagine the trepidation and fear that went through the Karen's mind as she drew her envelope. The shooting sharp pains she experienced were from everyone else looking daggers at her. In a stroke of cosmic retribution, she drew the envelope containing the ten-dollar voucher. I will admit to a delicious frisson of schadenfreude.

They were not there the other night. As my son pointed out, they were probably too fearful to come back, knowing they had incurred the utter loathing and contempt of a roomful of serious trivia players (we trivia players might be nerdy, but we are not to be messed with). My son and his friend were chortling, 'Imagine winning, but having everyone in the room hate you, and earning ten dollars for the privilege!' 

Yes, I am being a bit catty about this team, but Reader, were you there, you'd likely feel the same.

By the way, we came in equal second again the other night, and my son duked it out in rock-paper-scissors, wherein he beat a twelve-year-old, but at least it was in accordance with the rules. Oh, and we drew the ten-dollar voucher, but we trod on no toes nor tried to introduce out own petty rules in order to do so. We will enjoy our $3.33 each. 

Mother's Day & Memories of My Mum

It's that day when we share memories and anecdotes about our mums. Here's are some stories about my mother and the things she did:

1.  She was a philosopher, demonstrated by the occasion when she passed a washcloth to the then five-year-old me, who was sitting in the bathtub, and advised, 'Don't wash your bum and then wash your face.' A metaphor for how to go through life.  

2.  Once told me, 'You're pretty enough without makeup.' Not true, but thanks, anyway, even if it was during an argument because I wanted to wear makeup. 

3.  Warned me that if a balloon burst in my face, it would blind me. To this day, I have an almost insurmountable fear of having a balloon burst in my face if I am called upon to blow it up.

4.  Was very musically inclined and had a singing voice like Judith Durham's. She often performed a solo at twenty-first birthday parties. One of my happiest memories is us attending a production of Les Miserables at the Theatre Royal, Sydney. When the lights came on during the interval, I said, 'Are you enjoying it, Mum?', and she replied, 'Oh, I'm just loving it, darling.' 

5.  When I was about fourteen and was having a friend stay during school holidays, she hopped into the loungeroom dressed as a Playboy bunny. No, I am not making that up.

6.  We were having drinks with some relatives and my uncle jokingly suggested he would have his newly installed swimming pool converted to a nudist colony. He suggested to my mother she put a red dot on each buttock to denote a pair of breasts. Mum replied, 'How about a 'W', so every time I bend over, it says: WOW?'

7.  Would do a reading at Sunday Mass, and often forget to take her glasses with her to the lectern.

8.  Occasionally called me Simoney-Baloney. 

9.  Tended bar at the pub owned by my grandmother, where she caught the eye of a young rodeo champion who liked to have a drink there. This guy was very shy and Mum was at her wit's end, so she climbed into the passenger seat of his ute and said she was coming along to the rodeo with him. The man was undoubtedly stunned, but he acquiesced to her wishes, and some years later became my father! 

Mum succumbed to an aggressive cancer on New Year's Day, 1993. Some years later, I became a mum and understood why she would get so annoyed at me when I fartarsed around instead of getting ready for school, or when I complained I couldn't find something that had been put in my drawer. I drove her mad tearing out pages from her writing pad so I could write my little 'books'. Now I've written big books and wish she was around to witness this.

From my mother, I inherited my sense of humour and theatricality, as well as a distinctive set of eyebrows. She never met my kids, but they both have a sense of humour, distinctive eyebrows, and the youngest has a theatrical streak, too. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mum. Wish you were here. 

This One Combines Pink Floyd, Scone TAFE, and Tom Wolfe!

 Okay, here it is. My confession as to why I have been so slack with the posting of late:

1. Assessments. Okay, I shouldn't whinge because it was my choice to undertake a university degree, and you know what else? I'm proud I'm doing it. But the downside is assessments. My current subject is Creative Writing and, in theory, this should be a piece of cake for an author. But here's the catch or, in this instance, creative metaphor: I don't actually like cake very much. Seriously. Sponge cake is a device of Satan's baker. On the bright side, the subject is research portrait and I chose Marc Bolan. I watched concert footage and a documentary, so I enjoyed the research very much. Also, I got to use my own novel Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth as a reference in the bibliography section of the assessment. Do many others get to do this? This was a first for me.

2. Work. It's been constant. 

3. I had a doona day on Sunday. Don't worry, I wasn't depressed; just wanted to unwind with some binge-watching after finalising my assessment. I wallowed in Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist and watched the movie A Promising Young Woman, which is a very topical movie lately.

4. Tutoring - but this is a good thing because I happen to really enjoy it. If I can borrow from Keith Richards, it's 'like a well-paid hobby'. What I'm finding rewarding is that a fourteen-year-old boy is enjoying the writing of Tom Wolfe. I showed him a copy of the first page of A Man in Full, after which I asked questions such as: What sort of person do you think Charlie is? Would you continue reading? He said he would, so I took along the novel to our next session and he continued to read and was very interested in the technique used by Wolfe of writing Charlie's dialogue in Southern US-speak. Anyway, by introducing a young person to some awesome writing, I feel I have achieved something.

5. Kind of protesting/agitating. Well, if attending a proposed debate is a form of protest and agitation, then that's what I've been doing. Last week, I attended a venue where there had been a debate called to discuss the scurrilous sale of one of the local TAFE campuses. The minister involved didn't accept the challenge, so it turned into a community forum. I had looked forward to some robust debate, but the minister said he wasn't going to play politics. Well, although I was not to have been a participant, I'm going to offer my rebuttal to that, and it starts with one word that calls to mind bovine scatological matter. I would also like to ask why the NSW Libs think it's okay to criminally undersell the land at a rate of $4 million and give just $1 million back to the community and expect them to be pathetically and grovelingly grateful for the miserly crumbs. I want to know why they think it's okay to just sell off the Scone campus to NSW Racing with no thought to the fact that not everybody in Scone wants to study fields related the equine industry. How are we supposed to rebuild post-Covid when nobody can learn other trades without the inconvenience of travelling to a far-off campus? Not everybody drives and our public transport options are scarce. DIS GUVVAMINT SUX!

So, that's it in a nutshell, folkeroonies. I've been working and studying. When not engaging in these activities, I've been doing my physio exercises, although I haven't been able to get to the practice and use the wobbleboard to work on my balance. I have been doing my home balance exercises and there has been some improvement in that I have progressed from having the coordination of a drunken ragdoll, which is pleasing. 

Before I go, there is something that I would like to ask you all: do you also happen to think Pink Floyd are overrated? I listen to AM when driving, and as a home care worker I do a bit of driving, and whenever one of their songs comes on, I just groan. Money came on the other day and Good God, it's a fucking boring piece of twaddle! I also cannot bear Another Brick in the Wall. Is it just my experience, or do the people who rave about those numbers listen to them whilst pulling cones? It's probably the only way one can tolerate the listening experience. 

Listicles

 Like the The Grand High Executioner of The Mikado, I've been making a little list. It's what I'm a tad fed up with, and it goes a little like this:

1. People calling Prince Philip a Nazi. He wasn't, okay? He fought AGAINST them. His sisters might have had husbands who were Nazis, but that doesn't make Philip one. Sure, he was a bit like that worrisome relative with no filter that we all have, the one who can be guaranteed to say something inappropriate at the family barbeque, but it doesn't mean he was a Nazi, m'kay?

2. The conjecture about Harry and Megan. Nobody knows what's going on within the family dynamics, so just let them grieve in peace, m'kay? 

3. The fuss about Jenny Morrison's circled fingertips. Sometimes, a circled fingertip is just that, m'kay? Do people seriously think she'd be silly enough to do a white power gesture in photographs when she's the wife of the Prime Minister? She's possibly a nail biter. She's possibly a compulsive nose-picker and is in the process of rolling a freshly plucked booger at the time the photograph is being taken. Those last two theories make more sense and require less tin foil on the chapeau, believe me.

4. My knee. It's going along okay, but on Holy Thursday I was emerging from my car and - HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED - the knee and surrounding area were KILLING me! Despite the holy day, the pain was most unholy, as was the language and invective with which I let fly. At the moment it is what my physiotherapist calls 'grumpy', and that demeanor is being reflected in its owner. As part of treatment, I have been applying surgical tape prior to exercise and work. I am certain I have ripped and applied more tape to my knee in the past week than I have to Christmas presents over the past five years. It's getting better, but I don't anticipate performing the Can-Can any time soon.

Speaking of the knee, it's time for me to do my physio exercises and make a cup of tea. Cheers, dears. 

My Sh*t List

 Since last posting, I have been as busy - to rehash my oft-used saying - as a one-armed fan dancer. I have been working on a uni assessment which was duly uploaded on the weekend, working in my day job, tutoring English, and undergoing physiotherapy on my knee (the poor old joint appears to be suffering a meniscal tear). Along with this plethora of activity, I have been compiling a shit list, and Christ Chewing On Saladas Topped With Swiss Cheese, the list is growing. Here it is thus far:

1. Jeremy Cordeaux. He's described as 'radio legend'. I think a more apt description is 'sexist and disgusting old dinosaur who should crawl back under rock where he was hiding when the meteor hit and wiped out his fellow dinosaurs, thus sparing him so he could spout revolting comments about Brittany Higgins'. He called her a 'silly little girl who got drunk'. I don't deny Brittany was intoxicated, but what in the blue fuck does that have to do with the alleged sexual assault, or any sexual assault? If someone gets pissed, they can expect a hangover, not to be assaulted. Then he said, 'She should have her bottom smacked.' I am a wordsmith and pride myself on my vocabulary, but I am finding it difficult to formulate with words how hearing an entitled man of seventy-five talk about smacking the bottom of a woman in her twenties makes me feel. Let's just say I wanted a barf bag and my skin feels like there is an army of itchy grubs wriggling beneath it. Anyway, he's been sacked for these detestable comments and he's getting no sympathy from me. He loses further points for his Lego hair. It's probably one of those synthetic toupees.

2. Peter Dutton. He's, well, he's Peter Dutton and that's bad enough. However, he has issued threats to sue those who make mean comments about him for defamation. I doubt he has the ability to detect the nuances of sarcasm and satire. As he mentioned, people are using anonymous accounts on Twitter to insult him. Oh, diddums. How does he expect to issue due process on people who can't be verified? Why does he want to clog up the courts because people don't like him? I've got this image in my head of him shaking his fist at the computer screen and going, 'Grrrrrrrrr! Raaaaaaar!' like Grandpa Simpson shaking his fist at a cloud. 

3. Barnaby Joyce. When asked about the culture in Parliament the other day he garbled some shit about 'carbon neutral, politically correct wowserness'. Um, what? I could eat a can of alphabet soup and shit a more coherent sentence than that garbled nonsense. And being respectful does not equate with being a wowser or politically correct.

4. Andrew Laming. Oh, spew. Just spew. He's been referred for empathy training. What a waste of money if he's reached the status of being aged fifty-something, educated, and with opportunity, but still doesn't realise it's illegal to take inappropriate photographs of people in the manner in which he did. It's going to take more than empathy training to help this pile vicious slime learn how to behave in civilised society. 

Is it just me, or would some of these blokes in Parliament be more at home sitting in a tree throwing their excrement? No wonder I've called this a shit list.

Anyway, I'm going to go now. I've been typing for ages and want to watch a bit of television.  

A Desk Job

 Being in Year 10 can be difficult because, let's face it, you're aged about fifteen and that sucks.  I found Year 10 cruddy, if not for the saturation of shitty New Romantic Eighties music, but for the fact that the students were given a Talk. The sexes were separated (I attended a co-ed school), and we had a talk about safety and sexual assault. There were a few rooms of girls, and one of them had a teacher sum up with, 'So girls, don't be getting around like tarts.' If it wasn't for the moldy looking green eyeshadow she wore, I would nowadays think this woman could have been mistaken for that arsehat cleric who likened women to exposed meat, should they dare dress immodestly.  I'm glad I wasn't in that woman's group because I think I might have challenged her, thus spending the remainder of the week in detention. What exactly is a 'tart'? Also, I thought we should have the right to get around dressed and acting as we pleased, provided we kept within the parameters of legislation and didn't encroach upon other people's enjoyment of life. It propagated the trope that guys can't control themselves and girls who dress or act a certain way are asking to be assaulted. I don't know what the guys were told in their special talk that day, but I hope it included the points that no means no, people are allowed to withdraw consent, and you don't touch people sans permission. 

What got me thinking about that subject is the news that a male staffer filmed himself masturbating over a female MP's desk. This just reeks of entitlement and smug superiority, some snotty fuckwit establishing his male dominance by leaving his mark like a dog pissing on a post. When given The Talk these days, will kids have to be told it's not okay to do this to someone's property? Anybody with a modicum of common sense and decency would know you don't engage in Onanistic activities over someone else's property. And why film yourself? ('Hey, look how stupendous I am, everyone! I'm having a wank over a woman's desk!'). Who hires these morons? Will the key questions in the job applications from here on in include one about whether applicant thinks there is a problem about going into someone's office and indulging in self-gratification, and FILMING IT? 

Don't get me wrong: I believe masturbation is healthy and normal. If anyone wants to rub one out, by all means do so; but if you are at work, then go into a toilet cubicle and do it. I will have to type this slowly, and I am flabbergasted that I have to type this at all, but: jerking off over a person's property in the workplace is not acceptable. 

Did the wanking grot (who has since been sacked and rightfully so) wipe up his nut-juice or did he expect the cleaner to do it? 

Strewth, I hate people at times. This is why. 

The now unemployed staffer is probably attending employment agencies as he seeks a new position. I wonder is he specifying it must be a desk job?

I Don't (K)Need This Crap

 Great steaming shitballs, my life sucks at times! Apropos of my last post, I had no sooner recovered from my toilet-scrubbing acquired back twinge, when I blew out a kneecap! I wasn't removing skid marks from the toilet bowl this time, but getting up from the floor after a yoga session. I try to maintain a healthy home and a healthy body, and this is the reward I get. So, I have spent the past few days with a taped kneecap, taking great care as I inch along with the vigour, pace, and caution of a slug with haemorrhoids. 

On a happier note, my son and I regained our crown at the trivia last night. We have had a couple of slack weeks, probably because there has been a stream of sports type questions lately, but last night the questions were more Bingells & Son friendly. Also, my son brought along a friend who knew a few answers we did not. We were placed equal first with two other teams, so the drawer of the mystery envelope was determined by Rock Paper Scissors. My son has an almost preternatural, talismanic, and Rain Man ability to determine the odds on this time-honoured deciding code, so he was sent to the front, and sure enough: he came through with the goods and was given the right to draw a blank envelope. The envelope he chose contained the ten-dollar voucher, but the glory is still radiating from us.  Our pride (some would say hubris) sees us positively incandescent. 

Anyway, I must do a few of my physio exercises before Q&A starts. Tonight's topic is consent. Talking of which, the NSW Commish floated an idea today about consent being recorded on an app. I know lots of things are done with apps these days, but the recording of consent is flawed. Seriously flawed. As far as flaws go, it's on par with that idea of blowing up the beached whale with dynamite (and that was a seriously dumb idea, which its progenitors no doubt realised as they were hailed with debris consisting of whale carcass). The app doesn't allow for the fact that people can change their minds during the act. What if an act occurs that was NOT consented to, such as choking or stealthing? A person could be forced or coerced into giving his or her consent on the app. Sorry, Commissioner Fuller, this idea of yours does not hold water.

But that's all for now, folks. One good thing about tonight, I really felt inspired to write. This is good and makes up for hurting my knee.

Watery Blancmange & Tofu Type Blandness

 Good day, reader. This is a bland salutation with which to commence a blog post, but I'm feeling bland. Watery blancmange, dust-flavoured soy yoghurt, plain tofu style bland. This is not a way I enjoy feeling. The catalyst for this malaise is that for the past two days I've been resting and on painkillers, after moving the wrong way and doing something to my back. Pain-level, I am so much better. I feel stronger, but just apathetic and lethargic. Perhaps it's the painkillers - they've killed the pain but also  taken out any skerrick of joie de vivre I ever had. And it happened in the most ordinary and banal of situations: I was cleaning my toilet. It made for a boring story when the doctor asked me how I had hurt myself. It would have been amusing to reply, 'Well, you know how it is, doc, when you're getting spit-roasted and all that...', but instead, I had to explain I was scrubbing my toilet bowl. 

I just tried to watch a pre-recorded uni lecture, but found I couldn't be arsed. I'm back at work tomorrow, but have a long enough rostered break in which to view the lecture. I got through an assigned reading article (and enjoyed it), but I cannot be bothered thinking too much at the moment. I have been complying with doctor's orders and just lying flat on my back (although I'm currently sitting up to type), and watching television. This is what I've been looking at:

1. Some of that Meghan and Harry interview with Oprah. I am sorry for them. Being married into the British Royal Family must be dreadful, and the way the press treated that poor woman. The double standards over something as common as a pregnancy bump: there was an article showing the Duchess of Cambridge lovingly cradling her stomach, whilst the journalists practically jizzed with all the mawkish gushing over the sanctity of motherhood, juxtaposed against an article showing the woman formerly known as the Duchess of Sussex holding her pregnant stomach, with pointless and spiteful vitriol complaining she was touching her stomach for attention and vanity. Seriously, what the actual fuck? Why do people care if a pregnant woman touches her stomach? As someone who has been through two pregnancies, it is very natural to touch the bump. I suspect in my case, it was a primal protective instinct. Also, it was a good place to rest my hands at times. Is this the hill those miserable bags of negativity are going to die on? Funnily enough, or maybe not so funny if you're a grammar pedant like me, what stayed with me about the interview was Oprah speaking about the relationship of Kate and Meghan, and saying words to the effect: 'You and Kate, you're two sister-in-laws...'. Let me tell you, reader, had I not been on some kind of bedrest, I'd have thrown something at the television! Oprah, they are sisters-in-law, and I understand the term comes from old Canonical rules, but the law is singular whilst the people are the plural. Grrrrr. Thank goodness for Netflix, which lets me segue to...

2. Sex Education. I binged Series 2. If you haven't seen it, it has Gillian Anderson playing a British sex therapist named Jean, but the main character is her sixteen-year-old son, Otis. The dramatis personae are culturally and sexually diverse, and very different to my high school, I guess. The British accent Gillian adopts for her character is a bit distracting to me; she sounds like Margaret Thatcher having an asthma attack. 

3. Insatiable. I've just started on this. It's an American revenge comedy about a slimmed-down teen named Patty who, now that she's 'attractive', decides to extract her pound of flesh from the kids who made her life hell. It's really quite amusing.

Anyway, I'd best shake off some of the slump and have a shower. I'm sure that will make me feel better.

Will You Still...SHADDAP!

 I haven't done much relaxing of late - have had so much work on, professionally and privately. To facilitate some kind of much-needed relaxation, I have taken to lying on my bed and listening to a meditation session. It works; I am nearly always out cold during it. The Faustian payoff here is that I am drowsy when I come out and then later am unable to sleep. The oppressive afternoon mugginess that punishes the town where I live is of no help, either.  As I type, I am seriously considering removing my bra, such is the sweltering discomfort. Whilst I cannot claim to be a Jayne Mansfield, I do not like to go without a bra; I like support. However, I am happy to be unsupported this afternoon if it frees me of some of the mugginess-inspired misery. 

To compound my irritation, I have had the song Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? stuck in my head. This is because my Facebook group are having a theme today of 'future'. Well, tomorrow counts as future, so I decided to post it. Now it's stuck in my head. This song just annoys me at the moment. Don't get me wrong, The Shirelles sing it beautifully. The harmonies are just sublime. However, Fractious Bingells (blame the humidity) just wants to tell the young ingenue narrating this ditty, 'Listen to your Crone, in this case: ME! If you're that worried he's going to dump you, don't pork him! Or, pork him anyway, and OWN IT! Make him your bitch (assuming he consents to this dynamic). But don't bleat and whine, okay?'

The house still looks like it vomited, but we have a gyprocked and painted wall in our dining room, where there was once, just, um, shabby mismatched nonsense surrounding a door-shaped hole. The rest of the room is still to be painted, but the wall that needed gyprocking has been completed, and it I wasn't cutting back on the booze, I'd crack open a beer to celebrate. 

I'm getting closer to understanding appropriate PDF conversion and uploading manuscripts, so hopefully will have a link for you all to click on soon. 

I could go on a rant about the government, but I'm over them at the moment. We all know what is bothering everyone at the moment, and I am bothered, too. Might do a post on this soon. I'm fuming about the State government at present, too. It looks like one of my local TAFE campuses is to be sold. I'm as mad AF about this. More on this soon, too. Watch this space...

Trivia Terrors

 Some time has lapsed twixt last posting and this evening's little tap-tap-tap o'er the keyboard. Part of it is because I've been in something of a lethargic fugue that has depleted me of writing mojo. I'm not sure what's brought it on, but I am happy to place a small wager that constantly working with no time to scratch myself for the past few weeks has played a role somewhere. 

Honestly, what is there to write about of late? Everything is to do with the Covid vaccine roll-out (bring it on!) or else the only other thing I get to see in the news pages I follow is some hack that's been posted online about how best  to get the grime off your grout, and it sends everyone into a tizz. Tonight I saw an article about a lactating woman who has the ability to squirt breast milk from her armpits. I suppose it makes a change from the usual stories about people who have found an error on their shopping docket or a ham-fisted sign in the supermarket and, instead of discreetly reporting to management, have decided to seek their fifteen minutes in a manner that would see Warhol spinning in his grave. 

So yeah, I've been working constantly and attending to uni stuff. I had to resubmit one assessment - honestly, I'm a very passable writer but I'm being let down by my in-text citations - and submit another one. It's left me feckin' exhausted.  

The exhaustion has been compounded by the renovations. They're not being physically carried out by me per se, but living in a house where nothing is where it should be and where one can't move without barking one's shin on a misplaced article of furniture does get tiring. 

The highlight of my life lately has been the weekly trivia games at a local pub. My son and I make a formidable team. We won two weeks ago, and came equal second last week - only to lose the chance to claim a voucher in the rock-paper-scissors decider. One of the 'name the singer' type questions last week was for Total Eclipse of the Heart. The hostess declared the song to be musical magnificence (my alliterative term, not hers), whilst I demurred and said the song was 'grandiose wankery'. I do believe this denouncement made me a little unpopular with the other trivia players, but I stand by my comment. On the bright side, my son and I have amassed $60.00 worth of vouchers for the pub bistro, so I look forward to a super feed when we rock up this Wednesday evening.

Ciao for now. 

Holiday & 'Sin', but not at the same time

 Has anybody been watching It's a Sin on Stan? I finished  my binge last night and I must say the series was really, really, amazingly good. For the uninitiated, it's set during the Eighties in London, telling of a group of disparate young gay men who move to that city and become friends. Their friendships and new lives are tainted by the spectre of AIDS, then a new and largely misunderstood disease. The show brought back many unpleasant memories for me because I was a twenty-something during the series setting, and remember, with disgust and anger, the ignorance and prejudice surrounding HIV and gay men, mainly from contemporaries in the workplace whose idea of the height of wit was this joke: 'What's the difference between an AIDS patient and a cancer patient? The cancer patient gets visitors'. Yeah, real knee-slapper, that one *does eye roll*.  I recall an incident from the early Nineties when I encountered one of my former colleagues at Martin Place Station, and without going into too much detail, the conversation segued to me stating I had had to stay away from cancer patients and HIV-positive people during a recent nasty flu. I said I had told my doctor my mother had cancer and I also knew a person with HIV, so I would keep my distance. This dickwad of a guy asked, 'So you know someone with AIDS?' I said this particular person was not suffering full-blown AIDS, but did have HIV. The guy then did a camp theatrical step away from me, ironically not realising I didn't like his company much, anyway; he was the laziest bludger with whom I have ever had the misfortune to work. If you happen to be reading this, turkey, I hope you've acquired an education and a work ethic. I thought of him as Hurricane Lamp because he was not too bright and had to be carried. 

But back to It's a Sin. The sets and soundtrack really achieved an Eighties ambience. The acting was stellar from all the cast. The show's creator, Russell T Davies, apparently believes only gay actors should tell this story, and therefore the show was cast accordingly. It's up to Russell how he casts his productions, but this theory could prove problematic should he decide to make a series about zombies. But no matter, this series had me laughing and crying, as cliched as that sounds. Highly recommended.

Oh well, all good things come to an end. I am typing this post in the final hours of my leave. I return to work tomorrow. So, what did I do on my break?

1. Purchased and assigned ISBNs to my books for paperback version and will hopefully garner a few sales at the Maitland Indie Festival in May. 

2. Purchased a new car, which some scraping of diseased goat smegma scratched yesterday. I didn't see it happen, and the paintwork can be fixed, but this is so infuriating.

3. Made some major decisions and commenced some work on my dining room - it should be painted over the next few weeks - yippee and yahoo! 

4. Went on two separate getaways to the Port Stephens area, and had an utterly wonderful time on each trip. 

5. Registered a business, and the link is here. 

6. Did lots of yoga, but I'm still about as graceful as an elephant on a skateboard. 

7. Meditated a lot. 

8. Did some uni work. 

Well, must get onto dinner. Chat soon. 

Intoxicating Aroma: Eau de Noo Cah

 Happy greetings, Gentle Reader. It has been a few weeks since I last sat here at my blog. In any event, the world hasn't changed - well, I guess it will for the better on 20 January, if  you get my drift - in that we're still chopping and changing the State border rules and Channel 7 is still using Reddit as a major news source. 

So, what have I been doing? Well, I had a brief holiday in Port Stephens with an old school friend, which was lovely and relaxing.  I also received a pass mark of 69% in Teaching and Learning in the Digital World, which was surprising and gratifying, given my apprehension in this field. 

But, my reeeeeaaaaaaaalllllllllly exciting news is that Mr Bingells and I bought a new car! Some of you mightn't find this exciting, but I have NEVER owned a car that was brand new. Every vehicle in which I have claimed ownership has been second-hand, so therefore, this is very big bikkies to me, and Mr Bingells because it's his first new car, as well. We travelled on the train to the dealership, our nineteen-year-old son in tow.  We drove home breathing in the hitherto-unknown aroma of Brand New Car. I'm thinking of investing some coin into an aftershave with this scent, and retiring next year.

From the back seat, Mr Nineteen asked could he tuck into his doggy bag of leftover chips and chicken from Henny Penny, a request that was met with a resounding 'NOOOOOO!!!!!!!'  For the rest of the trip, Mr Bingells and I exchanged quick delighted glances, reveling in the euphoria of this purchase. Being mature, we had the radio tuned to the local AM station, and what should come on but TMG's Jump in my Car? Serendipity at its finest. I must admit to liking this daggy offering, and had the joy of seeing the Ted Mulry Gang in concert many yonks ago, but truly, how awful is the narrator of this ditty? As soon as he finds out the lass lives miles away, he refuses the lift, and resorts to the weak argument of attacking her appearance ('But you look a mess!'). Still, I guess this obnoxious narrator is still nowhere near as bad as the poisonous and delusional incel of The J Geils Band's Centerfold. 

The other big thing I have achieved since last checking in is to upload another assessment, wherein one of the questions was how I would use a corrective strategy in a Positive Learning Framework. It was very tempting to just submit the YouTube link to Kevin Bloody Wilson's The Kid, He Swears a Bit. If you're wondering, check it out. It tells of how a first year teacher used the best strategy she could to bring into line a kindergartner who had shown up fresh from the shearing shed and was somewhat troublesome. Hint: there's a length of four-by-two involved.

Ciao for now.

It's A Wonder, Wonder Woman

 Happy New Year, reader, and may 2021 not suck donkeys' balls to the extent 2020 has. As I guessed, the virus did not magically dissipate as the clock struck midnight. The kindest way one can describe this latest New Year's Eve is 'weird'.  I hadn't even planned to see in the New Year, but I found myself watching Netflix and before I knew it, it was almost midnight. My sixteen-year-old (the David Cassidy lookalike) was still up because he had wanted to see in the New Year. We live not far from a pub and could hear some racket and chanting. I walked out the front door, and could hear the raucous countdown from the pub: 'Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one...HAPPY NEW YEAR!' And then the fireworks commenced. Seriously. Some local guys set off fireworks in the beer garden of the pub. So I called my son to come outside, where we watched the display together. There was a light drizzle (which made my hair frizz) and a pong of gunpowder. I said to my son, 'Happy New Year, my darling.' And I felt a little bit sooky.

There's something about this day that makes me a bit mawkish. I always resolve some kind of self-improvement, but whether I adhere to that resolution is something else. And I always take a moment to remember New Year's Day, 1993 when, surrounded by those closest, my mother took her last breath. I lost both my parents in the Christmas/New Year period, and I do feel a bit of a pang, but you are allowed to be happy, too. 

Tonight, the youngest son is at the movies with a friend. I am glad our cinema is still operating; I was worried Covid would see the business fold.  They are watching Wonder Woman 1984. From what I can tell, as the title suggests, the Amazonian princess is kicking butt in the year 1984. This makes me wonder will she be adding killer shoulder pads to her weaponry, which from memory comprised a tiara with boomerang properties, a rope that compelled those it tied to tell the truth, and those awesome feminium bracelets. She could really do a super shoulder-charge if she was decked out in some Eighties shoulder pads. 

I'm not sure if tonight's show will feature any of the characters from the Seventies television series I used to watch. If anybody else remembers it, did you ever sit there thinking Major Steve Trevor must surely have been one of the dumbest carbon lifeforms to ever walk the planet? How could he not see Wonder Woman and Diana Prince were the same person (if not a mortal person)? How many women did he know who (1) stood about six feet tall; (2) were built like a brick shithouse; and (3) were genuinely stunningly beautiful?

Again, Happy New Year.