It's been a day of celebration, and preparation. We celebrated an event that occurred fourteen years ago. I recall sitting on a bed in a delivery ward, where a midwife was sitting behind me buttoning me into a gown. 'Oh darling!' she cried, 'I'm going to get all your lovely hair caught in these buttons!'
With my lower abdominal area being wracked by another ferocious contraction, I groaned, 'That's the least of my problems right now!'
'What's your body saying to you, Simone?' asked the other attending midwife.
'It's saying: Get this fucking thing out of me!' was my scowled answer.
'Want the radio on, Simone?'
Grateful for any kind of the diversion from the excruciating torment that is labour, I nodded. When the 'on' button was flicked, what wafted from the portable radio was Push Up by the Freestylers. Seriously, you can't make this shit up!
But less than an hour after I'd been brought into that room, I felt an almighty urge to sit up and push, and whaddaya know but the midwife's hurriedly snapping on a glove.
'Well done, Simone; your baby's head's out.'
Next instructions were to lie back and blow out short breaths. I did, and exhaled a quick succession of puffs. 'Keeping going, Simone!' the midwives called to me. I kept going. 'Remember: birthday candles, Simone!' was the instruction. I blew out imaginary candles. 'More birthday candles, Simone!' I wondered to myself, Whose fucking cake? Methuselah's?, but obediently huffed and puffed.
Then, wonder of all wonders, I inclined my head and saw a slippery, slimy thing being pulled from my body, and the midwife handed me this little scrap with dark blue eyes and strands of black hair. It regarded the monitors, baby-weighing scales, and the wall opposite with an almost holy insouciance. My delighted husband cried out, 'Another little mate!'
The cord was cut, and my husband sat beside me holding the precious bundle, all wrapped in a blanket. I started to feel the effects of the Pethidine that had been administered whilst I was in labour, but not kicked in before the birth. It was a quick birth!
Anyway, in the intervening fourteen years this kid has brought us much stress (especially when his epilepsy started to manifest), but much more laughter and joy with his antics both on- and off-stage (the day he mooned the CCTV camera in Coles will live in infamy).
Happy birthday, my second son. You made our family complete.
So, that's my celebration. My preparation is lessons for the kidlets whom I am tutoring in English. It seems I might have to prepare a submission as to why we must have the Oxford comma. I believe this to be the most important usage of punctuation. If you don't know, it's that comma people put before the 'and' that precedes the final item in a list specified in a sentence. There is a train of thought that this comma can be dispensed with. WRONG. I'll show you an example: 'It will be a raging party because we've invited the strippers, Donald Trump, and Pauline Hanson'. This is grammatically correct. Now, remove that comma and you're faced with this odious scenario: '...we've invited the strippers, Donald Trump and Pauline Hanson.' Think about it. Take all the time you need. Then get on eBay and bid on a brain scrubber with which you can eradicate the mental image from your mind.
Pettiest thing I heard today: Malcolm Turnball has been slammed for eating a pie with a knife and fork. Seriously? Is this what we've got to worry about? The man helms a government that is maintaining the suffering of refugees in detention, and appears to be doing fuck-all to help our farmers who struggle through this oppressive drought, but people are worried about how he eats his pies? He was actually sitting in a café, where a knife and fork is likely the appropriate etiquette. But seriously, folks, this is just infantile. He's a grown man; he can eat his pie with chopsticks if this is his desire. Let's find other things to worry about.
Saturday 28 July 2018
Monday 23 July 2018
Why To Buy A Ticket To Mars
I've not been writing as much this week, owing to work commitments and having had a brief sojourn in Port Stephens with a dear cousin. Today I'm thinking I might need to get a new hat. I like hats, particularly broad-brimmed ones, given I am blessed (or cursed) with Irish colouring. I have a very elegant one, handmade by a really-and-truly milliner years ago. I have an Akubra. I have a nice felt winter hat. But I might have to get a new one. The beauty of it all is I don't even have to spend a lot of money because I have the materials in my kitchen: a roll of aluminium foil and a pair of scissors. I'm going to make me my very own foil hat, because I suspect I'm becoming the type of whackadoodle who would wear one. Here's why:
I think the owner of Channel 7 has a vested interested in plastic bags, you know: the ones you used to get at Coles. Since the government instigated the ban on them, Sunrise has had, on an almost daily basis, a negatively-spun story on the banning of the bag. They really went out on a limb with one of the headlines today, making a nebulous connection between the bag ban and a fatality. No, I did not type that wrong. Briefly, some women checked the boot of the car to see whether they had packed shopping bags, and the car rolled back, killing one of them. The headline to the article went something like: Tragic Twist in Bag Ban. No, I am not making that up.
Now, to whomsoever is charged with stocking the first aid box at Channel 7, are there any sets of tweezers? You're going to need them to extract the splinters lodged beneath the fingernails of those who decided on this tripe, thus scraping the bottom of the barrel. A woman lost her life, and you write a shitty headline trying to correlate the bag ban with the death? Fuck all of you! What lowlifes you must all be. This just transcends poor taste, and is a textbook example of what's wrong with the media. It also shows why we need the ABC.
A brief time ago, I decided to have another look at the article and see whether anybody else has given you all a well-deserved pasting over it. It's not there. Gone. Vanished. Vaporised into the ether. I highly doubt you lot saw the error of your ways, but more likely succumbed to the pressure from just about everybody who commented. I am not Robinson Crusoe in my utter loathing and contempt for what you guys did.
Look, just sit down, and read this slowly: The government has banned single-use plastic bags in supermarkets, so get the fuck over it. Take your bags with you. Or else buy them there; they're only 0.15c per bag!
I haven't been watching much television lately, and I don't think the choices have improved. Today I heard about a Judge Judy type show to be aired, and it's called Trial by Kyle. Kyle Sandilands will arbitrate over disputes, and results are supposedly legally binding. Given Vile Kyle is not a judge, and the studio is not a court room, I'm guessing the legality stems from contractual law because the dunderheads willing to participate in this televised effluvium would have signed an agreement regarding the show's rules. As shrill as a harridan she is, at least Judge Judy is a judge. You know, with a law degree and everything. I'm pretty sure Sandilands is not a judge. I'm pretty sure he's a toxic, talentless windbag.
Just lately there is more bullshit produced on television than there is in a field stocked with diarrhoetic cattle. Once again, Mars is looking good.
Before I head off (tutoring this arvo), I went to the cinema with my almost-14-year-old the other day. We watched Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again. You know something? I really enjoyed it. I liked the plot premise better than the one proposed in the original movie, and of course the fact Pierce Brosnan didn't do much singing only made this experience better. Without giving too much away, you're probably aware there is a young woman who has a biological dad, and two other surrogate dads. The Cher characters states it takes three great men to make a woman as wonderful as the young woman referred to. That's nice. That's poignant. Interpreting this as meaning the greater number of wonderful men then the more terrific the resultant child, my son leaned over and hissed, 'So how many men did you shag to get me, Mum?' I sat there with my jaw hanging and swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and seriously contemplated stuffing the popcorn box over my son's head.
I think the owner of Channel 7 has a vested interested in plastic bags, you know: the ones you used to get at Coles. Since the government instigated the ban on them, Sunrise has had, on an almost daily basis, a negatively-spun story on the banning of the bag. They really went out on a limb with one of the headlines today, making a nebulous connection between the bag ban and a fatality. No, I did not type that wrong. Briefly, some women checked the boot of the car to see whether they had packed shopping bags, and the car rolled back, killing one of them. The headline to the article went something like: Tragic Twist in Bag Ban. No, I am not making that up.
Now, to whomsoever is charged with stocking the first aid box at Channel 7, are there any sets of tweezers? You're going to need them to extract the splinters lodged beneath the fingernails of those who decided on this tripe, thus scraping the bottom of the barrel. A woman lost her life, and you write a shitty headline trying to correlate the bag ban with the death? Fuck all of you! What lowlifes you must all be. This just transcends poor taste, and is a textbook example of what's wrong with the media. It also shows why we need the ABC.
A brief time ago, I decided to have another look at the article and see whether anybody else has given you all a well-deserved pasting over it. It's not there. Gone. Vanished. Vaporised into the ether. I highly doubt you lot saw the error of your ways, but more likely succumbed to the pressure from just about everybody who commented. I am not Robinson Crusoe in my utter loathing and contempt for what you guys did.
Look, just sit down, and read this slowly: The government has banned single-use plastic bags in supermarkets, so get the fuck over it. Take your bags with you. Or else buy them there; they're only 0.15c per bag!
I haven't been watching much television lately, and I don't think the choices have improved. Today I heard about a Judge Judy type show to be aired, and it's called Trial by Kyle. Kyle Sandilands will arbitrate over disputes, and results are supposedly legally binding. Given Vile Kyle is not a judge, and the studio is not a court room, I'm guessing the legality stems from contractual law because the dunderheads willing to participate in this televised effluvium would have signed an agreement regarding the show's rules. As shrill as a harridan she is, at least Judge Judy is a judge. You know, with a law degree and everything. I'm pretty sure Sandilands is not a judge. I'm pretty sure he's a toxic, talentless windbag.
Just lately there is more bullshit produced on television than there is in a field stocked with diarrhoetic cattle. Once again, Mars is looking good.
Before I head off (tutoring this arvo), I went to the cinema with my almost-14-year-old the other day. We watched Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again. You know something? I really enjoyed it. I liked the plot premise better than the one proposed in the original movie, and of course the fact Pierce Brosnan didn't do much singing only made this experience better. Without giving too much away, you're probably aware there is a young woman who has a biological dad, and two other surrogate dads. The Cher characters states it takes three great men to make a woman as wonderful as the young woman referred to. That's nice. That's poignant. Interpreting this as meaning the greater number of wonderful men then the more terrific the resultant child, my son leaned over and hissed, 'So how many men did you shag to get me, Mum?' I sat there with my jaw hanging and swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and seriously contemplated stuffing the popcorn box over my son's head.
Saturday 14 July 2018
Flying Flips & Foreign Non-Dignitaries
It's been a few years since I have travelled as a passenger on an airline. The last time I flew was a trip to Newcastle from Melbourne in 2013. I spent the flight berating myself for not being able to work out the answer I got wrong on Millionaire Hot Seat (I'd been in Melbourne for the taping of the episode). Other flights I've undertaken have seen me chatting with my mate, excited about our upcoming trek through the Himalayas; or trying not to puke as the pilot of Royal Nepal Airlines navigated a tiny plane throughout the mountain peaks; or snoozing on an overnight flight from Singapore to Brisbane; or just reading a book. You know, normal things. What I have never done, and never intend to do, is eavesdrop on the people in front of me and live tweet their conversation and burgeoning friendship to the Twitterverse.
Some nincompoop did this recently, and the creepy action was given the hashtag #planebae, or #prettygirlonplane. It would appear she was really excited that there might be some kind of romance brewing between the people in front of her, and she photographed the people sans permission. Dafuq? Who does this? Oh that's right, everyone these days.
She seemed to think she was the instigator of this fledgling romance, having asked passengers to swap seats, thus facilitating the two sitting together. Maybe she thinks she was some kind of latter day Jane Austin heroine, like Emma Woodhouse, playing matchmaker.
Anyway, the female in the imagined love story ended up having to deactivate her social media accounts following harassment and stalking, and it's all thanks to the she-chump who thought filming and tweeting about strangers sans their permission was, you know, like a really good idea. (Here's a hint: it's fucking well NOT!).
Surely I am not the only person who considers this a monstrous invasion of someone's privacy. The stupidity alone is so mind blowing it would register on the Beaufort scale. Other people's airline travel is really not interesting, and unless the passengers in front of you are joining the Mile High Club, then it's not worth tweeting about.
To the woman (a supposed comedian and writer) who did this: next time you're on eBay, for fuck's sake, try bidding on a LIFE! To anybody who is considering filming and tweeting about me, minus my consent, whilst we are on a flight: best make sure you are equipped with lard, or KY Jelly, or even the little packet of butter the airline catering service provides because if not, then your device will go in sideways and dry!
Next idiot on the list: Donald Trump. It astonishes me that he still holds the office of POTUS. Honest to God, why don't his flunkeys appraise him of etiquette required when he visits a foreign country? Maybe they're all scared of being sacked. The gauche and maladroit tomfoolery he displayed to the Queen is beyond embarrassing for his countrymen. He left her waiting in the sun for fifteen minutes (unmindful of the fact she is a 92-year-old woman), and then blundered around walking in front of her. Dude, it's not on. Some of you will recall the outcry in around 1992 when our then prime minister Paul Keating placed a hand on her back when directing her somewhere. The way some people, particularly the British press who dubbed Keating 'The Lizard of Oz', carried on, you would be forgiven for thinking Keating had either sexually groped the Queen, or else punched her lights out. I didn't think Keating had behaved badly per se, but perhaps he had breached protocol. His intentions were not bad. And maybe Trump's intentions were not bad either, but Jesus Christ hooning up and down the lake on a jetski, what was he thinking? Oh that's right, he WASN'T! Because it's all about MAGA, right? Or else trying to find a way to posture and strut about like a peacock with an erection.
Well, I'm off now. I'm going to finalise some notes for when I resume tutoring upon resumption of school term. Going to see if some kids can pick up the subtext of the conversation between Jack and Ralph upon their initial meeting in Lord of the Flies. I've been re-reading the book whilst cycling on the exercise at the gym. I see so much more in it as an adult, and it is so, so dark.
Catch yas!
Some nincompoop did this recently, and the creepy action was given the hashtag #planebae, or #prettygirlonplane. It would appear she was really excited that there might be some kind of romance brewing between the people in front of her, and she photographed the people sans permission. Dafuq? Who does this? Oh that's right, everyone these days.
She seemed to think she was the instigator of this fledgling romance, having asked passengers to swap seats, thus facilitating the two sitting together. Maybe she thinks she was some kind of latter day Jane Austin heroine, like Emma Woodhouse, playing matchmaker.
Anyway, the female in the imagined love story ended up having to deactivate her social media accounts following harassment and stalking, and it's all thanks to the she-chump who thought filming and tweeting about strangers sans their permission was, you know, like a really good idea. (Here's a hint: it's fucking well NOT!).
Surely I am not the only person who considers this a monstrous invasion of someone's privacy. The stupidity alone is so mind blowing it would register on the Beaufort scale. Other people's airline travel is really not interesting, and unless the passengers in front of you are joining the Mile High Club, then it's not worth tweeting about.
To the woman (a supposed comedian and writer) who did this: next time you're on eBay, for fuck's sake, try bidding on a LIFE! To anybody who is considering filming and tweeting about me, minus my consent, whilst we are on a flight: best make sure you are equipped with lard, or KY Jelly, or even the little packet of butter the airline catering service provides because if not, then your device will go in sideways and dry!
Next idiot on the list: Donald Trump. It astonishes me that he still holds the office of POTUS. Honest to God, why don't his flunkeys appraise him of etiquette required when he visits a foreign country? Maybe they're all scared of being sacked. The gauche and maladroit tomfoolery he displayed to the Queen is beyond embarrassing for his countrymen. He left her waiting in the sun for fifteen minutes (unmindful of the fact she is a 92-year-old woman), and then blundered around walking in front of her. Dude, it's not on. Some of you will recall the outcry in around 1992 when our then prime minister Paul Keating placed a hand on her back when directing her somewhere. The way some people, particularly the British press who dubbed Keating 'The Lizard of Oz', carried on, you would be forgiven for thinking Keating had either sexually groped the Queen, or else punched her lights out. I didn't think Keating had behaved badly per se, but perhaps he had breached protocol. His intentions were not bad. And maybe Trump's intentions were not bad either, but Jesus Christ hooning up and down the lake on a jetski, what was he thinking? Oh that's right, he WASN'T! Because it's all about MAGA, right? Or else trying to find a way to posture and strut about like a peacock with an erection.
Well, I'm off now. I'm going to finalise some notes for when I resume tutoring upon resumption of school term. Going to see if some kids can pick up the subtext of the conversation between Jack and Ralph upon their initial meeting in Lord of the Flies. I've been re-reading the book whilst cycling on the exercise at the gym. I see so much more in it as an adult, and it is so, so dark.
Catch yas!
Monday 9 July 2018
A Grassy Noll
There has been a huge paradigm shift in appropriate, or understandable, or expected behaviour over the past few years. Some of it good. Some of it not so good. Some of it a total inhabitant of Whatthefuckistan. Shannon Noll has issued an apology over his reaction to having a full can of beer thrown at him whilst he was performing on stage recently. Noll's reaction was one of anger and expletives, and you know what? I actually think it was pretty understandable. That can, had it connected bodily with one of the performers, could have caused a nasty injury. Some commenters are stating Noll issued rape threats. Among the words he used to the can-thrower were ones to the effect he'd 'fuck (his) missus and mum'. He didn't say 'rape'. He was making a statement designed to offend the can-thrower grievously, by having the thrower imagining Noll enjoying conjugal relations with the women the thrower would admire the most. I'm not defending the statement, nor do I think it's the height of wit. He also called the thrower (or tosser, heh-heh!) a 'private school fuckhead motherfucker!' This nomenclature has seen Noll accused of being classist. Classist? So what? Some dickwad throws a heavy object at the stage and people are worried about classism?
See where I'm going with this? Some time ago people would actually be understanding about Noll's predicament; now he's being accused of toxic masculinity and classism.
What about the total-waste-of-a-fuck-on-his-parents'-part who threw the can? Has he issued an apology? Where are the demands for his apology? All I hear is crickets and it's not even summer yet.
I'm not going to say Noll's reaction was over the top. I don't know if it was over the top. I'm not Noll, and was not given a nasty and offensive fright by a potentially dangerous object hurtling at my head whilst I was doing my job. But let me tell you a story, folks. I'm going to take you back some twelve years, when my youngest was a cherubic two-year-old.
Our family rented a nice house quite close to the local high school, where my ex-cherubic toddler now attends as a student. Well, on this pleasant and warm afternoon, he and I were enjoying some together time in the back yard; I was planting flower seeds in pots (they didn't grow because I'm a crap gardener). Our gardening time coincided with the time school was let out for the day, and hi-ho-the-dairy-o, what should come sailing over the colour bond fence but a thick plank of wood, which struck my beautiful son IN THE FACE!!!!! I use judiciously placed swear words when I'm writing, and I know this post already has a few in it. In real life, I prefer to not swear and am actually very well-spoken. None of this came into play when I scrambled over the fence (quite a feat when one remembers I am as athletic as a slug on Valium), and screamed after the fleeing school kid using words that would embarrass the Navy. I demanded passing school kids give me the name of the 'little fucker', which is what I'd called him, and then scooped up my screaming kid and marched back into my house. By the way, the kids gave me a false name.
I cuddled and soothed my kid as I looked up the number of the school, and told him over and over that Mummy would make it okay. As I was being transferred to the office of the principal, I told myself over and over to be calm, and to handle it in a polite and reasonable manner. Despite my mantra, when the deputy principal identified himself the first thing I did was shout, 'MY TWO-YEAR-OLD IS HYSTERICAL BECAUSE SOME IDIOT FROM THE HIGH SCHOOL JUST THREW A FUCKING LUMP OF WOOD INTO MY YARD AND IT HIT HIM IN THE FACE!'
The deputy assured me there would be an investigation into the matter. I said I would accept no less a punishment than the removal of the kid's testicles from his scrotal sac. Don't worry, once I'd calmed down I apologised to the deputy for having yelled down the phone with awful language and terms; he said, 'Mrs Bailey, I am a parent myself and would feel exactly the same.'
So yeah, I'm kind of understanding where Nollsy is coming from. I don't know the guy in real life, so I don't know what he's like. But people can react quite vociferously, and use very offensive and menacing language when faced with a perceived threat from an act of thoughtless stupidity. Well, the incident involving my kid was thoughtless stupidity because they would not have seen us through the fence which was, as I mentioned, colour bond. However, throwing a full can of drink at the stage is not only dangerous, there is an undercurrent of malice thereto.
Therefore, unlike many other commenters, I am not going to chase Nollsy with the torches and pitchforks. He has apologised for his reaction. He has not apologised for his cover of What About Me?, and I am waiting for such an apology.
Monday 2 July 2018
Scummy Sky News, Lousy Leyonhjelm, & Plutonium Please
Odd question, but does anyone have any plutonium lying around? I'm of a mind we might be able to fix the flux capacitor in David Leyonhjelm's DeLorean and send him back to whatever-the-fuck decade from which he hails, so we can be spared any more of his revolting, sexist, antediluvian dribble.
Apropos of my last post, he has again been in the spotlight for making assertions about the sex life of his fellow senator, Sarah Hanson-Young. Again, I state I am not a great fan of Ms Hanson-Young per se, but what transpired on Sky News over the weekend makes me mad enough to stomp on the heads of newborn kittens. Leyonhjelm was interviewed by two boofheads going by the names of Rowan Dean and Ross Cameron, and, well... this:
To all three of you mouth-breathing troglodytes, note well:
1. No pun intended, but Who Fucking Cares? Whether Ms Hanson-Young likes men, women, both, or neither is of no interest to me, and certainly of no business to anybody else.
2. Look at the calendar. It's 2018. Gone are the days when men asserted their power in the workplace by attempting to slut-shame women (although Liberal Senator Michaelia Cash didn't get that memo, either). Trying to mock a woman about her sexuality and sex life is a ploy designed to humiliate and degrade her, and stop advancement in the workplace, and usually the modus operandi of weak, soft-cock simpletons who are threatened by a woman's ability. Weak, soft-cock simpletons like, well, David Leyonhjelm. You wouldn't care if a bloke had a robust personal life; indeed, I'm sure you would envy him. But when it's a woman, out comes the double-standards hoisted by the standard-bearers of the Madonna/whore complex sufferers.
Why was a producer suspended over this screen-strap (or whatever term you television industry types use for the tag at the base of the screen)? Is it a case of: 'Hey, I know how we'll look like we're contrite! Let's use the most vulnerable person as a scapegoat, and that's the producer who's 25-years-old!'? Many have expressed disgust that a woman of twenty-five has been treated thus. I'm not going to buy into the politics of the producer's gender because I see this as a case of workplace bullying, and nothing to do with the gender. I reckon had the producer been male, he'd have been subjected to the same treatment, also. It is beyond disgraceful.
An apology was subsequently issued by Dean and Cameron, but this was only after threats of legal action. Also, the apology had all the sincerity of a three-dollar note. You're a pair of infantile goons, with the mindset of thirteen-year-old schoolboys sniggering over a purloined copy of Playboy.
As for you, Leyonhjelm, you might want to get some Savlon and dab it over your knuckles because I'm sure they're very scraped after being dragged along the ground. As I mentioned before, why not get back into the DeLorean and fuck off back to the distant past; I'm sure your attitude's getting lonely. Given you don't appear to have evolved with the rest of us, you might prefer to climb up a tree and fling your crap around (rather than flinging it around in Parliament!).
Apropos of my last post, he has again been in the spotlight for making assertions about the sex life of his fellow senator, Sarah Hanson-Young. Again, I state I am not a great fan of Ms Hanson-Young per se, but what transpired on Sky News over the weekend makes me mad enough to stomp on the heads of newborn kittens. Leyonhjelm was interviewed by two boofheads going by the names of Rowan Dean and Ross Cameron, and, well... this:
To all three of you mouth-breathing troglodytes, note well:
1. No pun intended, but Who Fucking Cares? Whether Ms Hanson-Young likes men, women, both, or neither is of no interest to me, and certainly of no business to anybody else.
2. Look at the calendar. It's 2018. Gone are the days when men asserted their power in the workplace by attempting to slut-shame women (although Liberal Senator Michaelia Cash didn't get that memo, either). Trying to mock a woman about her sexuality and sex life is a ploy designed to humiliate and degrade her, and stop advancement in the workplace, and usually the modus operandi of weak, soft-cock simpletons who are threatened by a woman's ability. Weak, soft-cock simpletons like, well, David Leyonhjelm. You wouldn't care if a bloke had a robust personal life; indeed, I'm sure you would envy him. But when it's a woman, out comes the double-standards hoisted by the standard-bearers of the Madonna/whore complex sufferers.
Why was a producer suspended over this screen-strap (or whatever term you television industry types use for the tag at the base of the screen)? Is it a case of: 'Hey, I know how we'll look like we're contrite! Let's use the most vulnerable person as a scapegoat, and that's the producer who's 25-years-old!'? Many have expressed disgust that a woman of twenty-five has been treated thus. I'm not going to buy into the politics of the producer's gender because I see this as a case of workplace bullying, and nothing to do with the gender. I reckon had the producer been male, he'd have been subjected to the same treatment, also. It is beyond disgraceful.
An apology was subsequently issued by Dean and Cameron, but this was only after threats of legal action. Also, the apology had all the sincerity of a three-dollar note. You're a pair of infantile goons, with the mindset of thirteen-year-old schoolboys sniggering over a purloined copy of Playboy.
As for you, Leyonhjelm, you might want to get some Savlon and dab it over your knuckles because I'm sure they're very scraped after being dragged along the ground. As I mentioned before, why not get back into the DeLorean and fuck off back to the distant past; I'm sure your attitude's getting lonely. Given you don't appear to have evolved with the rest of us, you might prefer to climb up a tree and fling your crap around (rather than flinging it around in Parliament!).
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