Bugging

 Today's little list is titled What's Bugging Me Today. Shall we begin?

1. The unvarying playlists of AM radio. I'm of an age group and genre preference that leans itself towards AM radio. However, AM radio is often mired in a stagnant pool of the same old songs that are looped in a fug of tedium. I do a bit of driving with my job and listen to the radio, and I can bet a bodily organ that on any given day I will hear Copperhead Road by Steve Earle. I am sick of the lugubrious narrative of some embittered cracker whose family business entailed brewing rocket-fuel quality alcohol. 

After I have had my teeth set on edge by Earle, my spirits will plunge when Fast Car by Tracy Chapman gets its daily spin. I really like Tracy's voice and think she's a wonderful lyricist, but this song depresses the living snot out of me. 

2. Checking the news and hearing about the cockamamie ramblings and tomfoolery of some senile cretin who has the temperament of a spoiled toddler, yet who scarily has access to nuclear codes. He treats geopolitics like a game of Monopoly and he's the type who would flip the board if he loses. He's just held a conference wherein he displayed some book of supposed achievements, like a primary schooler showing good work at weekly school assembly, and proclaimed the US to be the "hottest country" (in what context? Dumpster fire?). Every time he appears to have annihilated his career for sure with some risible logical fallacy, and you think it's over and you can breathe a sigh of relief, he returns with a level of offensive nonsense that even deeper plumbs the murky depths of Lake Offensive Nonsense. It's like the phoenix rising from the ashes, except in this time the rejuvenant firebird has apparently emerged from a pile of Dorito dust. 

Anyway, it felt good to vent and write. 

First Post for 2026!

 When the new year begins, it is common to reflect upon the year just gone. As I greet 2026 and ruminate upon 2025, there are two standouts for me: firstly, the finalisation of my Bachelor of Education; and secondly, competing as a grand finalist on Mastermind Australia. The support from my friends and family, as well as the local community, certainly warmed the cockles of this cynical woman's heart. But there are some things I feel I must clarify.

Most of you are familiar with the Back to the Future trilogy. Well, Thomas F Wilson, the actor who portrayed the thuggish bully Biff Tannen, found himself the recipient of the same questions. I will grant that an actor in a major film series has likely received more attention and repetitive questions than an unknown woman who has appeared on a national quiz show, but cut me some slack here, okay? Wilson has channeled his comedic and musical talents into a ditty whose refrain is "Stop asking me the question", and includes lyrics such as "What's Michael J Fox like? He's nice" and "Was that real manure? No, it wasn't."  I don't mind being asked questions, and I enjoy receiving warm wishes, but some of the comments I have received from community members I don't know well are somewhat doltish.

Anyway, whilst I do not intend to pen and sing a song, I thought it might be fun to type a list of answers to common questions and observations:

1. Mark Fennell is very nice.

2. Yes, I was very nervous.

3. Yes, I did think I could go that far. *

4. No, I was not ripped off on the question about Cabbage Patch Kids. **

5. No, I do not think I copped really lengthy questions during general knowledge, thus not having enough time to give as many correct answers, juxtaposed by other contestants receiving really short questions and more opportunities for points. ***

6. What the fuck does the fact that I'm a country girl have to do with anything? ****

* I had as much chance as anyone else and I don't buy into false modesty ("Oh, I never thought little old me could get that far!" - gimme a break!).

** The question required 'Kids' in the answer. Those insufferably kitsch dolls from the Eighties were officially Cabbage Patch Kids. I didn't say 'kids' in the studio. I might have KNOWN the answer but I didn't GIVE the answer. Therein lies the difference. Da rulez is da rulez. I was annoyed at MYSELF, but I do not believe that I was in any way gypped a point.

*** Seriously, get the tin foil off your head. 

**** Someone with whom I am peripherally acquainted said to me words to the following effect: "Not bad for a girl from the bush!" I regarded this person with a look that incorporated my incredulity and contemptuousness at such a disrespectful trope, then asked did he think women from small rural towns are stupid (in defence of my apparent snarkiness, this person has subjected me to hamfisted and unwanted comments in the past). In case nobody realises, we country girls can learn via reading, viewing, listening, or osmosis just as well as the next person. 

I guess the lesson from this post is try not to dim someone's shine, whether that shine comes from a competition or something as commonplace as changing a tyre for the first time.

Happy New Year!

My Message to Armchair Experts

 As I scroll through my news feed in the wake of the unspeakable attack in Bondi last Sunday, I see many (mainly US) posts asking questions or giving advice, most of which are from oxygen-thieving muttonheads giving their flawed (read: 'bullshit') armchair expertise from the safety of their keyboards, beanbags, and mummy's basement. I have some answers for you:

How's that gun ban thing working for you? Hur-hur-hur! Guns aren't actually 'banned' in Australia. You are allowed to own one. Gun ownership is regulated. Your government probably regulates women's bodies more than our government regulates gun owners. And given this is Australia's first real mass shooting since the Port Arthur massacre of 1996, then statistics indicate the gun regulation is working pretty well. I cannot fathom why people would ask this question in a facetious mocking tone, particularly when it seems you can't go a week without  hearing about a mass shooting in the US. 

The shooter could have been stopped by a good guy with a gun. Huh? How many "good guys with guns", and I'm talking civilians, have stopped the "bad guys" in mass shootings across the pond? And are we living in an episode of Gunsmoke? Our "good guys" have been known to fight off attackers with plastic milkcrates and jars of Nescafe 43 coffee, so fuck off with that asinine narrative. 

The guy should have shot the shooter, but didn't, so more people were injured/killed. Oh, fuck right off again. The guy, Ahmed El-Ahmed (and my hat is off to you, sir), did not shoot at the killer. We don't know why. Maybe the weapon was empty. Maybe it's not in his DNA to shoot an unarmed person. We don't know. We do know that he is a very brave person who sustained injuries. It's easy to be an armchair expert and give criticism, but those who have done so would shit where they're standing at the notion of doing what Ahmed did.

The policewoman froze/the cops did nothing. The photo that's doing the rounds is a female police woman exercising crowd control to keep people away from the scene, not a person 'freezing' or doing nothing throughout the melee. Also, did someone say "Ulvade"? Hmmmm?

You naysaying, nitpicking, armchair critics might want to look around and sit this one out, okay?

The Joyless Division

 If I were on a twenty-plus hour flight, I know I would be comfortably dressed. I would probably exit the aircraft in trackie daks and a t-shirt. Our prime minister did this the other day. I have no issue with that. Nor do I have issue with the t-shirt he wore, one emblazoned with the name of a post-punk band whose style could be described as some kind of new wave gothic rock. A band who were led by a singer with a predilection for lyrics as deep as his his baritone voice, and one who would occasionally take epileptic seizures on stage. Maybe his condition influenced his bizarre dance moves. Or maybe not; my younger son has epilepsy and is a fantastic dancer. Sadly, this singer was also a very tortured young man who took his life at just twenty-three. RIP, Ian Curtis. 

But I digress.

This band, if you've been under a rock, was named Joy Division (later known as New Order). And yes, that is the band t-shirt worn by Prime Minister Albanese. You are doubtlessly aware, thanks to the shrieking and chest-beating and pearl-clutching by a bunch of malcontents (many of whom seem to be employed by the Murdoch media), that he is wearing a t-shirt with reference to the book House of the Dolls, which describes the practice of Nazis using Jewish women as sex slaves as 'joy division.'

The loudest of the bleaters appears to be opposition leader Sussan Ley, who adopted a second 's' into her given name for whatever reason, and is bliSSfully unaware that she has unwittingly incorporated the initials of Hitler's paramilitary Schultzstaffel into her name. Some would say she is a complete aSS. She is that and so much more. On the off-chance you're reading this, Sussan: what's it like to be a total fucking git?

And Sky News (news? bahbahahahahahahahahahahahaha!) journalist (journalist? Again, I say: bahbahahahahahahahahahahahaha) Sharri Markson has made reference to it being Day 3 of 't-shirt gate' (yeah, you read that right), with Albo yet to apologise. 

Um, apologise for what? Wearing a BAND T-SHIRT? Do you clowns truly think he is espousing antisemitic and sexual abuse? Seriously, what ails people?

That resounding TWAAAANNNNNNNNGGGGGG we will soon hear is the breaking point in the tension of the twine on the long bow being drawn by clowns like SuSSan.

Albo wore a t-shirt supporting a band with a conflagratory name. That is all. Nothing to see here, folks. Gee, anyone would think he did something lousy like fuck off to Hawaii while the country was burning (hey, SuSSan, wasn't that your party's former leader?).

Back at the keyboard

 The last time I posted, I mentioned I was finalising my Bachelor of Education. Well, I have not long completed an internship. It was a ten-weeker, too. For the main part, I enjoyed it and learned a lot. The worst part was the mismanagement of the Commonwealth government's scholarship funds (students undertaking internships in teaching, nursing, midwifery, and social work are eligible in this scheme). I qualified and was advised I would receive my funds within the first two weeks of the internship. I didn't see a single penny until I was six weeks into my placement. Whoever is in charge of this scheme couldn't organise a game of marbles or a root in a brothel. 

Because I was so engrossed in my placement, I have not been writing. Planning to change all that soon. But what a crazy few months it's been. I've competed in Mastermind Australia, where I advanced to the Grand Final, and scored equal second. I'm in Series 7, Episodes 49, 50, 83, and 85. I spent so much time studying and have now forgotten just about everything about Mata Hari (my semifinal specialty subject). 

Things have not changed much in the hiatus I have had. People still behave like a pack of gossipy old biddies, hair tightly rolled into spiky hair curlers, yapping over the back fence. Every time I looked at my newsfeed, it was clogged with images of that couple who were sprung on the camera at the Coldplay concert. Everyone had a problem because the couple were engaged in an extramarital affair. This might be an unpopular opinion, but who cares (oh, yeah: everyone on the Internet)? For all the sniping and snarking and calls for a big scarlet "A" to be pinned to the clothing of all involved, did anyone stop to think about the fallout on the couple's families? And another thing: they're consenting adults. Why they want to go to a Coldplay concert is beyond me, but hey, different strokes for different folks.

People are similarly dissecting the marriage breakdown of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. According to some cockamamie theories, Nicole got too exhausted faking orgasms in one of her movies and this put a strain on the marriage because it would hard for Keith to watch this and everyone knows this and he's back on the gear and blahblahblah. First of all, Nicole is an actress and this is part of her job. Second of all, nobody knows what's happened except for the parties involved, and the parties are really Not. That. Interesting. They are just ...not. To speak - or write - frankly: they're as boring as shit.

Ages ago, I wrote my annoyance about a trans woman who claimed to have experienced discrimination because she was denied a Brazilian wax. This person has male genitalia and targeted a beautician from a culture that is not comfortable handling male genitalia. Also, there is a skill in waxing a scrotum, and if handled improperly, can cause damage. Not every beautician is trained in this area, so it's advisable to consult a specialist if you want a bald ball-bag. ANYWAY, this person is at it again. I'm not going to state her name because she clearly wants attention. She is complaining she is being discriminated against because she was denied an examination by a gynaecologist. Is it possible that the gyno has not studied care of transwomen, assuming this person is post-operative? Or there is the other possibility: this person has male genitalia, and the gynaecologist is not going to risk prosecution after sticking a speculum into a person's urethral meatus? 

You figure it out. 

Pickleball Pickle

 Just having a quiet one tonight. Sipping wine, thinking about listening to some music, and watching the series Sherlock, an updated version of Sherlock Holmes (starring Benedict Cumberbatch in the titular role and with Martin Freeman as Dr John Watson). I have gotten into this because I am tutoring a Year 11 student whose class has been studying it as a text for the English concept of intertextuality. And you know what? I've really been enjoying it. I'm not one of those women who goes gaga over Cumberbatch's looks at all, but I do think he's a fantastic actor. And I will concede he's an interesting looking man. 

Speaking of high school students, I've been doing some casual teacher aide work to assist me in the finalisation of my degree. My plan to teach English entails assisting in other subjects, and most alarmingly, one of those subjects is sport. I do not have happy memories of school sport. My clumsiness and lack of coordination resulted in me always being the last kid picked for the team. My standing plummeted the day I somehow bounced a medicine ball from the ground during a game of tunnel ball, almost neutering the kid behind me. I was once the determining factor of a relay loss because I had to keep stopping to pull up my underpants, having chosen the pair with bung elastic that morning. In high school, I misjudged a leap from the springboard and landed in an ungainly bellyflop on the vaulting horse, thus winding myself dreadfully. It is not an unreasonable assumption that I do not enjoy sport. 

Therefore, it was with trepidation that I found myself in a game of pickleball with the Year Sevens yesterday morning. I informed the teacher and students that I have the athletic prowess of a tranquilised slug. Nonetheless, I bravely brandished the pickleball paddle, and surprised myself by hitting the ball occasionally. I managed to play for almost the full lesson, but ensured I did some yoga stretches when I got home to stave off any aches. 

I appear to have avoided any resultant aches from my cavorting around with the pickleball paddle. This is good. I don't need further aggravation at the moment; I'm babysitting my fur-grandkid, a rambunctious beagle-crossed-with-a-staffy-and-a-tornado named Daisey. She's not whimpering for my son too much, which is unlike her. She grizzles if she misses him. He's gone to Melbourne for a few days. It's an adventure for him. The last time he flew on an aeroplane (ironically, also to Melbourne) was when he was in utero - I had flown to Melbourne to compete on Sale of the Century. That experience gave me a taste for blood, so much so, I took part in the filming of this current season of Mastermind Australia. I'm in Series 7, Episodes 49 and 50. Catch 'em on SBS on Demand. I am not at liberty to divulge the airing date for the semifinal yet, but I will get around to it. 

Anyway, might watch a bit more Sherlock now. I mentioned trepidation about taking part in a pickleball game yesterday. I'm feeling a bit of trepidation about this so-called military parade scheduled in the US this weekend. It's being touted as a military parade, but it's a MAGA circle-jerk at the very least, and reminiscent of the fascist grotesquerie of the parades in North Korea. It's beyond cringe. 

Danger in the Drawers

 The theme to this post will be things that don't make a lot of sense to me lately. Let's get into it.

1. Some Neil Diamond material. Before the die-hard fans come roaring into my street like a horde of infuriated Visigoths, all clutching copies of Hot August Night with a view to swatting me into submission with said album, I will preface this by pointing out I enjoy listening to Diamond. But to anybody I've offended, please bung on your copy of Hot August Night and have an honest listen to I Am ... I Said and THEN try to tell me I don't have a point. Yes, the narrative does demonstrate disenfranchisement and loneliness, but tell me you cannot listen to him moaning some quasi-Sartre lyric ('I am...') that nobody heard, 'not even the chair', without wanting to roll around the floor, clutching your sides. I have this image of an anguished person wailing, "I am!" to a room devoid of other sentient beings, and then reproachfully demanding: "Well, what about you, Chair? Why aren't you saying anything? Don't you even care?" 

I feel guilty for wanting to laugh because Diamond is such a prolific songwriter and I do enjoy his stuff (except for that whiny shite You Don't Bring Me Flowers and the nauseating Turn on Your Heart Light), but I can't help laughing when I hear that lyric. 

2. Donald Trump Junior. The semen-demon of #47 has commented upon the recent cancer diagnosis of his father's predecessor, Joe Biden. Trump Junior tweeted the question as to how Biden's wife Jill, a doctor, failed to diagnose a Stage 5 cancer. This is beyond spiteful. This is also deeply flawed. Do you know why, Trump Junior? It is because Jill Biden holds a doctorate not in medicine, but in EDUCATION. You would know this if you pulled your head out of your arse and did some research. Honestly, he appears to have removed his head from its poised position over a line of booger sugar only to stuff it straight up his bum. And the fact that someone can post something so malicious makes no sense.

3. The dormant danger of getting a clean pair of Reg Grundies out of your drawer. It's true. Yesterday, I cleaned my bathroom sink and mopped the bathroom floor with no problem. I then attended to my ironing - no problem. I decided to have a shower before going grocery shopping. I was at my drawer choosing from the freshly laundered Under-Chunders, moved slightly, and OHWHATTHEACTUALFUCKINGFUCKHAPPENEDJUSTTHEN? 

Anyway, I'm having some rest with a diet of ibuprofen to quell the small spot fire that spontaneously ignited in the small of my back.  Feeling a lot better, just taking it easy and taking no chances. But how can one perform a task that requires a certain level of manual handling with no drama, yet sustain injury choosing a pair of underpants? Maybe one day the Universe will yield an answer, but in the meantime, I will take great care in choosing my undergarments.