Waiter, there's a ...

 It's fun to write about the things that irritate, grind one's gears, even boil one's piss, as it were. I'm a bit like this with Facebook cartoon avatars that depict the account owner bellowing into a bullhorn when said account holder is making a statement. I honestly don't know why, but they make me frown. The game Monopoly bugs me, it is phenomenally boring and goes on and on and on. It is a turd that won't flush, and I will not be enticed into playing it 

I felt bugged on Christmas Day watching Love Actually. I think I wanted to engage in a Christmas tradition, and yeah, I got irritated. I refuse to suspend my belief that the Kris Marshall character will fly to America and nail three good-looking women (although in fairness, they were all as dumb as a box of hair). And I haven't even started on my irritation at Sarah for not turning off her phone and jumping Karl's bones. 

But there is nothing quite so annoying as anticipating a pleasant luncheon date, only to have it go completely pear-shaped. This happened to me, my husband, and our eldest son yesterday. As an aside, our younger son had his own moment of irritation when the drone he had been given for Christmas took off in the wind like a demented Mary Poppins. He was somewhat despondent, but after some scouring of the neighbouring streets, his gift was located, albeit with a slightly chewed blade, courtesy of some mutt. 

But getting back to the lunch: we visited a local eatery, which I now realise should be recategorised as a chew-and-spew, and duly ordered or meals. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, my husband spoke to management. It transpired that our order had been misplaced. When the meals arrived, closer to afternoon teatime than lunch, it was discovered my husband's steak had not been cooked to his specifications. But imagine this scene:

Husband: 'This isn't cooked properly; I'm sending it back-' (eyes protruding from the sockets like deployed airbags) '- Jesus Christ!' 

Me (eyes also widening): "What the fuck?"

Son: "Bloody hell!"

And what brought on this abjection? Well, traversing its confused way through the shredded lettuce in the side salad, waving its hairsbreadth legs with trepidation, was a frigging SPIDER! Not a huge hunstman or anything like that, but an arachnoid in the salad is an arachnoid in the salad. It has raised the bar from the old 'There's a fly in my soup!' trope. 

That meal was sent back faster than Usain Bolt chasing after a bus. 

When Dagginess Becomes Grotesquerie

'Daggy' is a great adjective in the Australian vernacular. It's often applied to something that is awkwardly inept and uncool, and from this author's observations, has an almost grudging affection behind its use as a label on things that are naff or substandard on the scale of what is deemed socially acceptable. 

On the flipside, I was thinking about the word today in context with a song that was played on the radio as I was driving around. It is one I recall from my high school years, and when I was in high school during its heyday, I didn't like it. And you know what? The years have not mellowed my intense dislike of this asinine tune. You are no doubt wondering to what tune I refer, so wonder no more: Shy Boy by Bananarama. Why do I dislike it? It's daggy, and not the good kind of daggy that can be a fun and kitschy guilty pleasure. This song blows. It's just a boring tune that occasionally deviates from boring to pissy. Listening to it is like wading through a morass of banality, almost toppling Wings' Mull of Kintyre for its power to simultaneously annoy and send you into a catatonic state through its boring mediocrity. It takes meh to a new low level of meh-ness.

The dagginess of that torpid tune flatlines when compared to the show my husband and I partially saw on the weekend. I say 'partially' because we only saw part of it. We left during interval because it totally broke and recreated the paradigm for sheer dag. I don't want to give too much away, in the interests of privacy, but after seeing an advertisement for a show, we were under the impression there would be a band and singers performing classic pop tunes from the Fifties and Sixties - a tribute show to the era. What we were given was two singers (possibly a married couple) with a karoake type machine. Let me tell you, my friends: It...was...CRINGE. The banter between them was embarrassing, and the woman's stage movements made Peter Garrett looks like Nureyev. They exchanged lamentable witticisms and executed dance moves that conjured up visions of tacky drunken aunties and uncles at a wedding. Don't get me wrong, they were fantastic vocalists. We couldn't fault that aspect of the show. But the tide of ignominy became too torrential to navigate and we did not want to drown in that dreadful sea. When the lights came up at halftime, we scarpered for the exit. When we were safely away from the grotesquerie, I said to my husband, 'What a pair of dorks!'

Yes, I do like a bit of dagginess at times; I'm a woman whose iTunes playlist has Paper Lace and the De Franco Family. Put on YMCA, and I will be there busting out the moves. But the dagginess to which I have lately been subjected is at level so alarming, I fear crutching may be required.

The One Where I Mention Kiss & Matthew Perry

I've been meaning to get back into blogging for ages, but I seem to be mired in other stuff. The other stuff generally revolves around work and study, the latter of which is going exceedingly well: two High Distinctions for assessments on teaching creatively and teaching children to read. My real-life creative teaching experiences entailed using a Kiss song to demonstrate trochaic word patters in poety and how they make the piece 'pop' for the reader. When I was on prac, I played Shout It Out Loud whilst cleaning the whiteboard to demonstrate my point. I never thought I'd contextualise Kiss with TS Eliot, but this is exactly what I did.

And speaking of the garishly bedaubed quartet, I saw them! Yeppers, I travelled to Sydney with my two sons, and a friend of my oldest son, playing Destroyer as I drove. I was reminded of that late Nineties flick, Detroit Rock City, which tells of four friends endeavouring to get to a Kiss concert after the misguided mother of one of them burns their tickets. Look, the film is no Citizen Kane, but it's enjoyable enough in a mindless way. I was reminded of the movie because we were blaring Kiss songs, as well as the fact my nineteen-year-old, who has long hair, looked a bit like the James DeBello character in Detroit Rock City. Of course, there was a glaring difference: the mother in this scenario was not going to stop her offspring and their friends enjoying the concert. Au contraire, she was tagging along to rock out, too! As an aside, my cousin and one of his sons came along with us. And oh-my-freaking-lord, what great concert it was. 

The death of actor Matthew Perry has really bummed me out. Feeling saddened is not unusual for me; the sudden death of a still-young person is sad. But Perry's death really put me in a funk. I don't know why; I'm not a huge Friends fan. I watched if I couldn't be bothered channel-surfing, but the show was never a must-see for me. I hated Ross and Rachel with the intensity of a small sun. What a whiny prat she was and what an imbecile he was! Maybe I'm cracking the sads because Chandler, the character played by Perry, was my favourite on the show. 

Perry's death has brought out the virtue signalling snot balls on the Internet. I read a tweet from someone who felt it imperative to point out to be careful about what was shared about Perry because, according to this sook, Chandler on Friends made comments that could be construed as hurtful to the LGBTQI community. Uh, Friends was made in the Nineties, everyone (in case some of you missed it). And correct me if I'm wrong, but this show featured a lesbian couple raising a son. I don't know if Chandler made many transphobic comments regarding the issue he had with his father, who performed in a Les Girls type of cabaret, and who was played by Kathleen Turner.  A lot of shows from decades gone by could be considered problematic, if one looks hard enough. What's that they say? Seek and ye shall find. So, being of somewhat sensible persuasion, I replied to this clown, asking was he aware that Matthew Perry was an ACTOR reciting lines for which he was not responsible? For my trouble, I found myself unable to view any more of this gronk's tweets. 

Oh well, I better get on with my studying.

Rock on, Kiss; and RIP, Matthew Perry. 

If the shoe fits, make sure it complies with footwear regulations

 Things I can pretty much do without at the moment:

1. Seeing in my newsfeed an article about some entitled uber-Karen in the UK who's cracked the shits and the sads because her precious kid was sent home on her first day of secondary school for having inappropriate footwear. She sent her daughter to school in a pair of Vivienne Westwood pumps, which - colour me flabbergasted! - are NOT school uniform. Gee, who'd-a thunk it? It seems the daughter has worn this style of footwear in primary, but the secondary school have advised it's a contravention of their WHS policies. I can understand that; the students are probably doing more design and technology subjects, or potentially hazardous experiments in the science labs, that were not part of their everyday activities in primary. The school advised the moaning mama that footwear must cover the top of the foot, which pumps don't. I guess this woman thinks it's okay to have these pumps because of the cute logo on them. 

Her grievances at the school's enforcement of their rules includes the children being treated like 'they're in the army'; and having to 'do this and that and wear this and that'. 

Um, does she actually know how schools operate? They have rules and are entitled to enforce them. She enrolled her sprog in the school and should therefore comply with the rules, which, when one looks at them objectively, are fairly typical. They are not unreasonable. But Mumsie here doesn't get that concept and is refusing to send her poor hard-done-by crotch-fruit back to the school. 

Listen, lady: if you can afford a pair of Vivienne Westwood shoes, then you can afford a pair of Bata Scouts that will comply with regulations and keep the kid's foot safe. (Do they still make Bata Scouts?). 

I seriously cannot understand the mindset of people who have a situation explained, and it's a SAFETY issue, but still take to the Internet in shouty capital letters about their cHiLd'S rIgHtS. Yes, kids have rights. Those rights include food, shelter, education, play, and the right to not sustain injury from a dropped piece of apparatus in the science lab because they're wearing a shoe designed by a woman who shagged Malcolm McLaren.

Yeah, I shouldn't give this woman my time, but the hill upon which she is choosing to die is so...damn...POINTLESS! I honestly feel very sorry for her kid, who's had her photo plastered on the Internet (and she's wearing the offending footwear), because her mother just doesn't get it. This is a true 'Gee, Ma. Do I hafta?' situation. 

2. The other thing I can do without at the moment is hearing Livin; on a Prayer by Bon Jovi for the fifty-seventh time this week.  I didn't mind the song when it first came out, but because I listen to AM radio, it seems to get a spin at least three times a day. Surely to God Tommy's got his bloody guitar out of hock now, the union's declared a resumption of work, and the dock's been knocked down or replaced by a waterfront restaurant. Can someone please let this song die already?

Oh well, I will now tackle some study. I've experienced a hiccup in an area of the course and it's created a funk of despondency in me.  Tomorrow might be a doona day, who knows? Hide under the doona, peeping out like a frightened animal to watch Netflix. 

Have you HEARD about this series?

This afternoon, I settled myself with a cup of tea and checked out the latest additions to Netflix. I'm partial to the odd docuseries, and have an interest in legal systems, so thought I'd have a look at the new docuseries focusing on the John Depp and Amber Heard defamation case wherein Depp was the plaintiff. If you haven't heard of this series, it's courtroom footage of the two parties giving evidence, as well as the witnesses. It's been edited so we don't see one l-o-o-o-ng episode of just one witness speaking; instead, it's cut and spliced in a kind of he-said-she-said presentation. Artistically, this is a good idea because in theory, it stops the viewer becoming bored.

But there is a problem, at least with this viewer (the one sitting here typing): I WAS bored. I have watched one episode and do not think I will waste time on the subsequent two. I am not going to contact the producer and demand that forty-one minutes of my life back, after all, I took the risk when I clicked 'play' - it's the old 'you pays your money, you makes your choice' scenario. 

Yeah, I know. It's potentially salacious stuff; it involves two celebrities, together with alleged substance abuse, alleged spousal abuse, and someone allegedly taking a dump on Depp's pillow. But I guess I'm feeling a wave of ennui and scepticism at this pair of ass-clowns. Don't get me wrong, I have always liked Depp as an actor, but these entitled Hollywood twats both lost me with their sorry-not-sorry apology for not declaring their ugly thyroidal lab-rat-lookalike mutts that time. I can cope with a genuine error on their part, but it was their entitlement afterwards. 'How dare we not be treated with total veneration and subservience and crawly-bum-lick - don't these people know we're FAMOUS ACTORS?' 

I don't care who people are - if you fuck up, own it and apologise! Genuinely apologise, that is. 

Anyway, I don't know if either of these people are abusers - I wasn't there. Furthermore, I really don't think I will be there for the remaining episodes. 

Now I have to find something else to watch. 

Hesperus & H-Bombs

 If my calculations are correct, then I will likely have that scrolled parchment (or a facsimile thereof) in my hands in just under a year. Yes, I will have confirmation that I hold a Bachelor of Education degree, making me a qualified high school English teacher (and not a moment too soon, given the atrocious spelling and punctuation I see in Facebook postings). To be honest, I don't know what's worse: the lamentable level of literacy or the underlying messages contained in these posts. Peeps, the ramblings of some nincompoop in a Tik Tok film clip hardly equates to a peer-reviewed scientific journal, okay?

Life has been busy. This has involved what seems insurmountable stress at times, but there has been fun. Let's focus on the fun. One of my university assessments requires me to imagine a piece of text as a short film. Not only do I have to imagine it, but I must also CREATE the film, along with a report explaining camera angles, diegetic elements, and all that blah-blah-blahdy-blah about which I have been learning. 

The text I have chosen is Longfellow's The Wreck of the Hesperus. I am not going to go to the extreme of crashing a fishing boat in the river of my town, but a call on Facebook for props and wannabe actors led to a kindly man offering me use of his miniature model ship. I took footage on my phone, wobbling the phone a little, and yes, it does look like the boat is sailing in a cataclysmic storm. A lady lent me a pipe that belonged to her late father, and it became a prop for the vainglorious sea captain in this piece. 

What has been really fun was filming Mr Bingells, who stepped out of his comfort zone to play the ancient sailor who warns the captain there is likely a hurricane approaching, so please put the ship in 'yonder port'. The captain was played by another guy I know, who does have a theatrical bent, but this was all new for Mr Bingells. Mr Bingells stepped up admirably. He even interpreted the character in a way I hadn't - my thoughts were that the old sailor might be timorous in his pleas to the foolhardy skipper - but Mr Bingells' motivation was fury and anger that this dunderhead paid no heed to the warnings of a very experienced sailor. 

Although I am using non-diegesis without spoken dialogue, Mr Bingells' improvised rehearsals involved him scolding the captain with words to the effect: 'You fucking idiot! There was a ring around the moon last night! Where's the moon now? There isn't one! There's a storm coming!' 

When we discussed his contributions later, Mr Bingells wondered how his dialogue would have fit in the source material. I am of the view that Longfellow did not have the older sailor address the captain thus because it is kind of difficult to work that speech into the traditional tetrameter-trimeter pattern particular to this ballad style of poetry. 

Yesterday, I filmed a young girl who had volunteered to play the daughter whom the captain had tied to the mast. She did well, praying in earnest for her salvation from the storm, as required in the narrative. 

Really, even though it was study, it has been something of a hoot. 

The other activity in which I engaged to distract myself from the stress that is modern life was to treat myself to a movie last night: Oppenheimer. I thought it was magnificent. 

Oh well, I'd best away. Chat soon. 

Not a Fan(tale)

 I do like to share on my blog, but lately I've had to deal with some shit that is probably best not shared for politic reasons, and because it might just turn around to take a great big chomp out of my arse, so I won't talk about the narcissistic embittered shit stain who did my head in recently and gave me cause to drive my family mad with my complaining. My goodness, that's a long sentence. It's not up there with the opening to Tale of Two Cities, but it certainly is lengthy. 

Different things have caught my attention lately. I live in the Upper Hunter Valley, which was the scene of a catastrophic bus crash on the Sunday of the King's Birthday Weekend. My son and I had travelled that road earlier in the day, after attending a Neil Diamond tribute show in Cessnock. We had a lovely day out, enjoying lunch at the pub next door with a schoolfriend of mine, before going in and rocking out to Crunchy Granola Suite. Well, my friend and I rocked out to Crunchy Granola Suite; I daresay my son was wishing we were at the Queen tribute show and wondering if attending Neil Diamond shows with his mother and her friend rendered him some kind of whack loser (or whatever terminology is bandied by the young folk nowadays). But like just about everyone else in this district, that crash left me saddened and horrified.

On a lighter note, or a heavier one depending upon the strength of one's sweet tooth, I read the news Allens have discontinued the Fantales. This will no doubt lead to gnashing of teeth (those still not destroyed by over-indulgence in the lollies) and beating of the chests. Allens, why discontinue the Fantales? We understood when you discontinued the Bananas. How long did it take you to realise that people aren't generally over-enamoured with a confection that is reminiscent of chalk flavoured with monkey barf? 

Your press release has reassured us that you're still making Snakes Alive, Party Mix, and Minties. Now, about those Minties: they're HORRID! Eating (or labouring through) a Mintie is like eating a wad of tar mixed with superglue and flavoured with a globule of toothpaste. You've probably never heard the consumers express their distaste for this execrable confection because it's hard to bitch when your teeth have been cemented shut by a blob of Mintie, the removal of which carried the risk of molar extraction. 

I liked the Fantales and I liked reading the wrappers. My night is hardly ruined by this news, but it's certainly bummed me out somewhat. 

Coronation Cookers

 I watched some of the coronation of King Charles III. I was out for most of it because my son and I attended a local high school's production of We Will Rock You (and my, we have some talented kids in this area!), which meant I missed seeing the headgear being officially plonked on the royal scone, but that's what social media is for: catching up on bits you missed. 

Unfortunately, social media has the side effect of making it obvious that there really are some utterly imbecilic fatheads out there. There was a torrent of comments about Diana being the rightful queen. Um, how do I break this to you people? I will type this as gently as I can, but not so gently the keys don't depress, thus causing no letters to appear on my screen. Are you sitting down? Comfy? Ready for this? Okay - *deep breath in, exhaling forcefully* - Diana is not the rightful queen and cannot be so because she is no longer with us, and has not been since 1997. Another thing, in case you clodpoles missed it: Charles and Diana were divorced. She was no longer the wife of the heir, which from my sketchy understanding of monarchical constitution, means she was not eligible to be crowned. Much of the hue and cry stemmed from the relationship between Charles and Camilla, whilst he was still married to Diana. Well, folks, Diana cheated in the marriage, too. Get over it and quit with the sickening hagiography of the poor woman already! There were no winners in this situation and they're all human beings with flaws, so stop with the judgement and accept that Charles and Camilla love each other. Or else cry about it, if you must. 

Similarly, every gronk in a tinfoil hat has offered a criticism or theory about Prince Harry: He was seated next to Anne so the feather in her hat would obscure him. He was scowling at Princess Charlotte. He was scowling at Prince William. He was planning to put a whoopee cushion on the throne (okay, I made that one up just to show the ludicrousness of the theories I've been reading). Listen, just because someone has a serious expression on his face doesn't mean he is deliberately scowling, okay? You might as well say everybody in the building was scowling because everyone was looking serious. It was a solemn event, and if he smiled, you'd all say he was being disrespectful and smirking! And if he WAS scowling, it was probably because he was stuck in the same row as his slimy Uncle Andy. 

I wish people would stop wearing these tinfoil hats. Change your hats. But don't get one like the monstrosity atop Julie Bishop's head. What the hell WAS that thing?! 

Is It A Bad Look?

I'm going to ask a question here: does it matter that Prime Minister Albanese has planned to attend the nuptials of Kyle Sandilands today? He's been invited to the wedding and accepted the invitation, but there are many who believe this is, to say the least, a Bad Look. Is it a Bad Look in the way Eighties shoulder pads teamed with geometric haircuts and Kabuki-style cosmetic application is a Bad Look? Is it a Bad Look in the way a pink plastic flamingo surrounded by a phalanx of cavorting garden gnomes in the front yard is a Bad Look? Nah, I guess it's a Bad Look in that it's controversial company.

For the record, I think Kyle Sandilands is a loathsome scraping of toenail jam with a level of talent bordering on negligible to non-existent. He makes simply offensive comments. I understand his groomsmen include John Ibrahim. 

But - is Albo responsible for the guest list? I'm guessing no. If the guest list includes convicted criminals, then one can reasonably assume their attendance today is their right as currently free or bailed citizens, as per our laws. I too have attended a wedding where the guest included people with criminal convictions and was seated at the same table. The world kept turning. Yeah, I know; I'm not the prime minister.  

Does Sandilands himself have a criminal record? I don't know and don't care to google it right now. I'm guessing if he does, then it would be a relatively minor or summary offence, or the details would have come to my mind straight away. 

But does Albanese's attendance, as per his right, at the wedding of a loudmouthed and controversial shock jock constitute a Bad Look? Right now, I am thinking of the infamous photograph taken of Murray Farquhar as he enjoyed a day at the races in the company of George Freeman. I think the Chief Stipendiary Magistrate, as Farquhar then was, consorting with a known criminal does equate to a Bad Look. However, does a prime minister sipping bubbles and nibbling canapes at a function to celebrate the wedding of some overrated slob, who has nefarious acquaintances, also deserve to be lumped under the umbrella that has 'Bad Look' in bold lettering? I cannot answer that one.

The thing that has really got me scratching my head is that this event suggests there is someone who would actually want to marry Kyle Sandilands. 

NDIS Narkiness & Trivia Testiness

 Did everyone have a nice Good Friday? Mine was good and bad. I wasn't working today and planned to finish an assessment for university. But Madam Universe had other plans and I had to drive my son to a train station some ninety kilometres away because our burg has very limited services at the best of times, let alone public holidays. He missed the sparrow's-fart service, so it was good old Mum-Uber to the rescue. However, after dropping him at the station I met a friend for coffee, so I ended up enjoying my day out. The assessment remains unfinished, but I am fed up with it for now.

Similarly, I am fed up with Pauline Hanson. Oh, we know she is just ripe fodder for the piss to be taken, but One Nation's latest antics have really boiled my piss. They like to share animated satirical videos and the latest one leaves me speechless. It addresses what her dopey-arsed party think of the NDIS scheme and manages to punch down on vulnerable people and sneer about some of the services accessed via this scheme. Those services include sex workers, and to this end, they depict Greens Senator Jordan Steele-John (a wheelchair user), in the company of two sex workers. Who gives a flying one if he DOES avail himself of these services, provided they don't contradict whatever he is preaching? 

Naturally, the people agreeing with the video are using examples like this to galvanise their argument: 'I know of someone who uses funding to go to Dungeons and Dragons Club.' Um, how do I put this? I will run with so fucking what? 

People are always griping about what services NDIS recipients are accessing. 'I don't want my taxes going on this or that' seems to be the argument du jour. Look, that argument is a facile one. There will always be something with which someone has issue. A person on NDIS could, in theory, use an escort. Someone might seek a crystal wand healing session. Someone might have a driver provide transport to a horse racing event, which is an activity to which some people take moral objection. You cannot please everyone all the time. If a business has an ABN, provides a lawful service, and is registered with NDIS through the appropriate channels, then what's the problem? Let people have things. It won't affect your life. 

This reprehensible video just reinforces my theory that Hanson is a toxic bag of dirt, low enough to parachute from a snake's arse and still have time to free fall. 

Something else has boiled my urine, but not to the astronomical boiling point caused by One Nation, It's the team whose score sheet I marked at trivia the other night. At my weekly trivia game, the teams mark each other's sheets each round. It's a good system because we get the game over more quickly. Anyway, the other night, the hostess asked the name of Prince Harry's Netflix docuseries. It's Harry and Meghan. I have watched a couple of episodes, but it bored the shit out of me, and I haven't returned to it. Anyway, the next table wrote 'Meghan and Harry'. That's incorrect, and I marked it accordingly. When the hostess had collected the sheets and tallied the scores, that table believed they had been dudded a point. They demanded their answer be noted as correct, and the hostess capitulated. Well, that left me one snarky trivia player. I turned around and started to sing: 'Babe...I got you, babe...', and asked them whom I was trying to be. Someone replied, 'Cher'. I agreed, but asked for the full name of the attributed artists. They duly replied the singers were Sonny and Cher, to which I triumphantly responded, 'Yes! Sonny and Cher, not Cher and Sonny! Get my point?'

I think my tactics embarrassed my teammates, comprising my son and his mate, but there is a principle at stake here.

(Fat) Suit-Ability

 

I’m working today, so I did what I normally do: a few yoga stretches, physio exercises for my bung knee, brewed a strong cappuccino, and went through the typical morning ablutions. The ablutions included applying deodorant. I’m not going to tell you the brand, because I’m not here to spruik for that organisation, but I will tell you what brand it was not, and that was Dove. I will also tell you what brand deodorant is unlikely to grace my pits or what brand body wash is unlikely to cleanse my form under the shower spray, and – you guessed it! – that brand is: Dove.

Why am I picking on Dove, you might be wondering. Okay, wonder no more. I am avoiding Dove simply because they have really fucking annoyed me. And how have they annoyed me; I hear you ask. The answer is simple: they’ve put shit on the decision for Brendan Fraser to be awarded this year’s Oscar for his portrayal of a morbidly obese man in the film The Whale.

Dove, just so we’re clear here: the fat suit did not win the award, Brendan did. For ACTING. Dove have joined the call that such a role should have gone to a suitably obese actor. Okay, I didn’t actually go through with that law degree and I’m sure the former Lucifer below has his own consigliere, but I’m about to play Devil’s Advocate here, and put forward these arguments to Dove, and everyone else who states a morbidly obese actor should have been cast in the role.

Argument the First: How do you know the studios did NOT put out a call for overweight actors?

Argument the Second: The character being played by Fraser balloons out to a frightening 600 pounds. That’s over 272 kilograms. That’s approximately 43 stone. That is, yes, morbidly obese. Let’s have a look at that word ‘morbid’. It is associated with death and disease. A person that heavy will be plagued with and drowning in health issues, so do you believe such an actor could cope with the demanding and gruelling schedule of filming?

Argument the Third: Given the health issues of this hypothetical actor, do you think there must MIGHT be some issues with obtaining insurance for the set? The insurers might not be willing to underwrite the production.

Argument the Fourth: The on-set adjustments for OH & S, together with lack of available insurance, could make it just not worth casting a person who is 600 pounds, as unpalatable and un-PC as that may sound.

Argument the Fifth: Brendan Fraser is an ACTOR. Actors do this thing called ACTING. By all accounts, he did a bloody good job. He has been through a difficult time, having experienced unwanted sexual attention from producers and been blacklisted. Let him enjoy his Oscar without shitting on his achievements.

Argument the Sixth: The suit and prosthetics worn by Fraser have been created by artisans who also received accolades for their achievements. This means employment for them.

Argument the Seventh: Movies are an art form that involve making illusions real. This particular movie involved an actor with makeup and prosthetics. Deal with it.

Argument the Eighth: Do you expect producers to cast real zombies and real murderers in films that deal with such subject matter?

I recently submitted an assessment for uni wherein I had to design a four-week unit for Year 11 English. One of my lessons involves the students debating the question that if a character is diverse, should only actors with that diversity be cast or should art for art’s sake always apply? It’s an interesting conundrum and one which I believe will encourage the critical thinking we want in our young people. I wonder what my hypothetical students would say about this situation. I’ve said my piece.

Dove, stick to your toiletries, okay?

Censoring Dahl & Naff Disco Choons

 I know I'm a bit behind the 8-ball posting this NOW, but I've been thinking about the actions taken by the publishers Puffin to the classic Roald Dahl books to bring them into line with modern-day sensibilities. Hang on, I might have typed that wrong. Perhaps what I should have written is this: arse-hattery carried out by some numpties in charge of a publishing house to cater to a trend of pussy-arsed sookery. 

This less than admirable accomplishment was achieved by hiring sensitivity readers, which is apparently the polite term for pussy-arsed sooks who can't read for context or nuance, and who have no functioning resilience to cope with the world. They do not know the power of the correct adjective, by which I mean the Oompa-Loompas are now 'small' and not 'tiny'. August Gloop is no longer 'fat'. He is described as 'enormous', but the word 'fat' was removed. Apparently, someone hit the global search-and-replace function and eliminated the word 'fat' from every original occurrence in the book. 

Seriously, what ails you people? August Gloop is FAT. That's Eff Ay Tee FAT. Fat. He's a fat-fat-the-water rat. He eats constantly, and furthermore, eats the wrong food constantly. He pigs into unhealthy fattening foods, and whilst I do not claim to hold any credentials that would qualify me as a dietitian, I have been around the sun enough times to know that if you binge and gorge on fattening foods, you're going to end up fucking fat, okay? Deal with it. 

Yesterday, I was reminded of the Joe Tex disco song Ain't Gonna Bump No More (With No Big Fat Woman). I'm adopting a vulture-like crouch of embarrassment as I type this: I - shhhhhh! - like that song. It has some great funk delivered with a gravelly voice juxtaposed with the naffest concept imaginable: this dude is at the disco and finds himself the unwilling partner of some she-behemoth who wants to do the then-fashionable dance The Bump. Being corpulent and enthusiastic, she delivers a bump of a force that apparently sends him airborne, whereupon he crashes down and almost breaks his hip. Don't judge me. It's funny, okay? Anyway, these sensitivity readers would be screeching for a red pen as they slash through the lyrical fat-shaming like sugar cane cockies going through a crop. 

But on the bright side, I have just read Penguin and Puffin have backed down after the backlash. As for hiring sensitivity readers, why not just have a disclaimer that the work contains material that does not align with the company's cultural inclusive values and/or may contain material that could be in today's world be considered culturally insensitive? 

If you're reading something that is giving you the icks, either put it down or learn to contextualise. Lave the original art alone! Would you draw eyebrows on the Mona Lisa because it might upset people who don't have eyebrows? Pffffft! 

The Macerated Arse Cheeks of one Member

 I don't have it in front of me, and wouldn't sully my fingers with anything he'd touched, but I'm guessing Peter Poulos MP's To-Do list reads something like: Chemist - Betadine and opsite bandages. Why would Poulos need Betadine and opsite bandages, you ask? Well, it's to treat his macerated arse cheeks. I am aware nobody wants to contemplate Poulos' arse cheeks, but they have been chewed and gnawed to pulpy shreds by his own pathetic actions in circulating nude pictures of a political candidate in 2018, in an attempt to discredit her. Yes, his nasty stunt is now biting him on the arse like a row of frenetic Pac-mans, all going chomp-chomp-chomp like the clappers. 

I have read numerous calls for Poulos to be charged under revenge porn laws, but from what I can tell, the pictures that were circulated were in the public domain, having been featured in a Penthouse magazine pictorial in the 1980s. It's unlikely the woman concerned owns the rights to those images so therefore had no 'consent' to give in their circulation. She's moved on, going so far as to claim she and Poulos are mates. Madam, if you're reading this, take it from me: Poulos is NOT your mate. He's a grubby backstabber out for himself. 

Poulos probably hasn't broken the law. However, he has shown himself to be a venal, malicious, sexist, nasty, spiteful shit stain in the underpants of humanity. He apologised for making a 'regrettable mistake'. Poulsie, let me clarify something for you. This is not a regrettable mistake. A regrettable mistake is misreading a recipe and putting in one tablespoon of chilli powder instead of the one teaspoon sought by the recipe. (As an aside, I've done this and it's not fun). This was a vile and calculated attempt to destroy a woman's reputation in the pettiest way possible. I'm guessing your then boss didn't have the right stuff for a deserved meritorious win, so you chose to attack another candidate using the most disgusting weapon available to you: The Reputation Destroyer. You thought you could get her to back down by attacking her for having the unholy temerity to make her own choice and pose nude in a magazine. Whether you agree with her actions or not is immaterial; her actions were LEGAL. 

I'm trying to establish how old you are, but if you're in my age bracket, you might think of a ditty from high school: Centerfold by J Geils Band. You remind me of the incel-like narrator who takes the high moral ground over someone who's decided, for whatever reason, to partake in a nude pictorial. The narrator of this song admits at the end he's going to buy the magazine (hypocrite!). I don't know you well enough, but I would not be surprised if you jerk off to the material created by the people whom you seem quick to criticise. If you do find arousal in visual erotica, that's no issue to me. What I do have issue with is your hypocrisy and utter nastiness. 

Anyway, your disgusting behaviour didn't work, did it? The woman got voted in and now everybody just thinks you're a spiteful dingleberry swinging around in the hairs that surround Satan's butt crack. 

Slut-shaming as a weapon is ineffectual, as it should be. Women can make choices and you can just suck it. 

You're not fit to hold office Kindly resign. And flatten the edges of those opsite bandages so they don't peel away too quickly. 

The Urine is Heating

 Okay, I'd been reading about it on Twitter, but with uni, assessments, and work, I hadn't had the chance to view first screening or the repeat. Anyway, let's hear it for iView, where I have just finished viewing last Monday night's episode of Four Corners, you know, the one that explored the practices in the Opus Dei run schools Tangara and Redfield. 

Assuming the veracity of the content is reliable, then what can I say? Holl-lee fuck comes to mind. What is wrong with a school and teaching body that would willingly feed blatant misinformation to impressionable students? The funding given to those schools, who discourage girls from receiving the vaccine against HPV on the grounds it will encourage promiscuity, is far more obscene than any of the pornography they warn against (porn apparently burns holes in the brain, y'see). 

If any of you wank-socks who determine Opus Dei school policy are reading this, can I just point out a few things?

1. I'm not a neurologist, but I'm pretty confident that watching pornography will not cause holes to materialise in the brain like tired old rubber perforating in the sun. Were this true, there would be an awful lot of people getting around with brains like Swiss cheese. 

2. I am not a pharmacologist or endocrinologist, but I'm similarly confident the HPV vaccine does not contain an ingredient that renders the vaccinated lass a raving nympho with a sexual appetite of voracity and ferocity usually associated with stud stallions that have been given a dose of Viagra. It just doesn't happen, okay? 

This is a potentially life-saving vaccine and you're worried some young women might interpret it as carte blanche to bang a few dudes? Stop getting your information and logic from Barnaby Joyce (who opposed Gardasil on the same grounds), but more importantly, STOP POLICING PEOPLE'S SEXUALITY! 

I'm currently working towards a Bachelor of Education (Secondary), and along with teaching English in a fun and efficient manner, I want to create a classroom where the students feel safe and respected. So, guess what I WON'T be doing? That's right, I will not be having the students pass around a piece of sticky tape, such exercise being underpinned by the notion that just as the tape loses its efficacy and value and becomes dirty with excessive handling; so too do girls who are handled by more than one sexual partner. There are better ways to teach a metaphor, and those ways are not potentially harmful and confusing to the psyche of young people. 

I guess it's a tired trope to whinge about the funding these schools receive, but a few years ago, my son asked could he borrow my tired, battered, loved copy of To Kill a Mockingbird because his school (a State school that doesn't teach this poison and respects student diversity) did not have sufficient copies for the students. The thought that places who compare kids to sticky tape and teach misinformation receive serious coin just, to put it bluntly, boils my piss. 

2023: "Hold my Beer"

 The general populace: "2016 has been a shit year for music lovers."

2023: "Hold my beer."

Yeah. Sigh. Over the past ten days or so we have lost:

1. Jeff Beck. Hi-ho, Silver lining and away you go, Jeff. You will be missed.

2. Rob Bachman of Bachman Turner Overdrive. Everyone automatically associates him with Takin' Care of Business (and I'm one of those clowns who sings 'Baking carrot biscuit') and You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet, but I am particularly fond of Hey You (Sha Na Na Na) and Let it Roll (Down the Highway). I'm the baby sibling of Seventies teenagers who played their music ad nauseum, so it's a good thing I grew to like it. 

3 Renee Geyer. The Gods, what an amazing voice and stage presence. Shit, it sucks she's gone. 

4. David Crosby - prolific singer/songwriter from The Byrds and Crosy, Stills, Nash & Young To be honest, I'm surprised he lived as long as he did, but it doesn't make his passing any less sad. 

Righteous Brothers, or remaining Brother, it is time to do a reimagining of Rock and Roll Heaven, methinks. You know they got a hell of a band (at least Pell - who burned his receptors last week - isn't in the audience). 

So, what's good lately? Well, last week I travelled with my eighteen-year-old to Newcastle so he could get orientated with the TAFE campus where he is to commence a Certificate II in Music Studies next month. He chooses not to drive because of epilepsy, and he's not au fait with the layout of Newcastle, so this jaunt was pretty important. It was a great day out and he's very excited about this next stage in this life, and as his mum, so am I. He's limited for public transport from Muswellbrook to Hamilton, and it's going to be an ordeal for him to become acclimatised to getting the early train, but it is what it is. 

A young man I tutored, and for whom I edited university applications in my capacity as a freelance editor/copywriter, was accepted into several institutions to study a medical degree. This pleases me greatly and makes me feel worthwhile. 

Anyway, I haven't much to say at the moment. Just wanted to touch base. Chat soon. 

It Rhymes with Hell

 I'm of a generation that was raised to believe one should not speak ill of the dead. Only say good things about the dead. So therefore: 'He's dead. Good.' To borrow from Clarence Darrow (and not Mark Twain, as is often apocryphally stated): 'I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.' 

You all know whom I'm talking about. Normally, when I hear someone's died, I feel a pang, even if I disliked the person. When I heard about Cardinal Pell's death, I felt nothing. Oh, I did have a fleeting thought that went something like: Disgusting creature who reckoned abortion was a greater moral crime than the abuse of children by men of God in houses dedicated to His name and who covered up this sickening behaviour, thus allowing it to continue. 

Honestly, I cannot understand why he is being lauded. Check former Liberal MP Joe Hockey's nauseating smoke-blowing: 

Note my reply. My fingers were typing the moment I saw that fatuous tweet, my face twisted into a rictus of shocked disbelief that someone could tweet something so totally tone-deaf, it makes a constipated camel sound like Pavarotti. Maybe I'm a hard-hearted harridan, but I'm saving my thoughts and sympathy for the survivors of the abuse, especially those who DIDN'T survive and succumbed to the inner demons arising from this abuse.

Why don't I think about something good? I've been watching Wednesday on Netflix, and must say, I'm loving it! I am enjoying this noir reimagination of the characters in The Addams Family and the script is deliciously diabolical. It would appear the scene at the dance has gone viral and my eighteen-year-old son has suggested we add Goo Goo Muck to our playlist. Wednesday's po-faced (or 'Poe'-faced, given the themes of the show) dance moves will be no doubt replicated dancefloors all over, consigning Thriller to long overdue obsolescence. It occurred to me that the song was out when I was the age Wednesday and her school colleagues are. I don't recall funking out to it at my school dances. I do recall dancing to Gotta Pull Myself Together by The Nolans (blech!). 

I had best return to my study now. Chat soon.