Belgium Driving the Karma Bus

In case you didn't know, some good things have come from Belgium. Let's have a look at some of those good things, shall we?

1. Jeanne-Paul Marie Deckers aka Luc Gabriel aka Soeur Sourire aka The Singing Nun. You know, the wimpled songbird who gave us Dominique. Yes, the song is a daggy guilty pleasure to be sure, but it's fun to sing (or in my case: croak) along with it. As it happens, this woman had a shit life after this, but she had the guts to also release a song that supported the notion of contraception, a brave move, given she was a Catholic nun during the Sixties.

2. Jozef De Veuster aka Father Damien of Molokai. The missionary who cared for Hawaiian lepers was born in Belgium. 

3. Roger François Jouret aka Plastic Bertrand, who gave us Ca Plane Pour Moi. Yes, another daggy guilty pleasure and my pogoing days are behind me, not that I was ever much for pogoing, but the nonsensical number with the hyperactive beat sure could fill a dance floor. Don't read the English translation, because except for the chorus, "that glides for me", which was a kind of slang for "I'm cool with that", the rest is random lunacy.

4. Technotronic. More guilt, I know. But hey, who among us will willingly admit they danced to Pump Up The Jam during the Nineties? I did. Guilty as charged, m'lud.

5. Stella Artois. This is my favourite beer. I don't drink much beer; maybe the occasional light or no-alcohol beer on a hot day. However, for those times when I really would like a "proper" beer, it is for a good old Stella I shall reach. 

But you can probably guess what my favourite thing out of Belgium is right now. Yep. It's the De Rode Duivels aka Les Diables Rouges aka The Red Devils aka the Belgian soccer team. From an Aussie writer and blogger who rarely follows sport: YOU GUYS FUCKEN ROCK! 

I think most people were barracking for the Belgian side in the wake of that utterly nauseating display of corruption and cronyism by two presidents, one being an amorphous blob of rotting mango that occupies the Oval Office and the other being a clod who runs FIFA. Seriously, does nobody employed by the White House have the cojones to tell Trump that the optics of his request that FIFA review the red card given to Folarin Balogun are seriously and severely hazardous? We all know Trump reads a room like Mr Magoo reads the cooking instructions on a packet of frozen chicken nuggets, but does NOBODY have the sense to point out that hey, you know, this just might look pretty bad, given the near sanctity of a referee's decision in a sporting game, one without perceived external interference? I'm guessing not. And for Trump to actually admit he doesn't know about soccer, but to request a review anyway, is beyond pathetic. Does nobody tell this bloated blowhard "No", at all? Actually, some women probably have told him this, but we know his views on his own entitlement.. 

But not only did the Belgian team shit all over the USA team, they mocked Trump by performing his signature dance (the one that looks like performing duelling hand jobs). The team then added some salt with this tweet:

So, yeah. You go Belgium. You drove the Karma Bus magnificently, and for that, we thank you. That, along with the beer and borderline Eurotrash tunes. 

Boofheads at the Bowser

 This goes out to the arsehat in the car in front of mine at the servo today. In a nutshell: What - and I mean this with the greatest kindness - the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Today, I had cause to cut into my bank account and create profuse bleeding, which in a recent times had been known as putting in half a tank of fuel. However, since the actions of a certain jabbering pumpkin have led to the closure of the Strait of Hormuz, any attempt to put fuel in a car can be considered a grievous assault on one's bank account. 

Well, be that as it may, I needed fuel. I pulled into the servo. The first line of bowsers were occupied by a work vehicle to which a lengthy trailer had been affixed, so there was no available space for me. The third row of bowsers contain diesel, which is not an option for me. So the middle row it was to be, which I thought should be fine because there was only one vehicle and I could pull in behind it and use the second bowser (by way of explanation, there are two sets of bowsers in each row and each set contains different fuel hoses).  Anyway, I pulled into the area with the second row of bowsers, whereupon I found myself unable to park in a decent proximity to the hose because the clod in front had parked her car so that it was situate* between the two spots, thereby denying me room. This is the petrol station equivalent of those ignorant muttonheads who take up two spaces in shopping centre parking lots. And it's safe to say I was someone irritated.

The driver eventually moseyed her desultory way inside and paid. I felt a twinge of rancorous gratitude and decided that when she moved out, I would park at the front spot, thus allowing any other driver who arrived to pull in behind me (I'm thoughtful like that). 

She returned to her vehicle, saw me watching, and gesticulated a message that was lost on me. Her subsequent actions indicate that it was not: "Sorry I'm such an ignorant dunderhead; I'll drive out of your way now." I make this deduction because she got into her car and moved forward slightly. I sat there wondering when was she going to get the fuck out of the way entirely. 

Well, I couldn't keep waiting. I needed to fill my car and empty my bladder. I manoeuvred my car to the appropriate spot at that second block of bowsers. She remained in her vehicle, which from the glowing taillights, was clearly 'on'. As I fueled up, I started to worry. Was I being unfair? Maybe she had had a medical episode preventing her from leaving. I resolved to check on her as I went to pay the king's ransom that is now the equivalent of an average syphoning session.

So I did this. I had a discreet glance at her window as I went by, to reassure myself she was not unconscious or something. And guess what? Are you ready for this? SHE HAD BEEN ON HER FUCKING PHONE!  Surely to goodness common etiquette states that if you must use your phone at a servo, park your car in one of the customer bays and don't block the bloody bowsers! 

So if you are reading this, Madam Dumbarse, have a word with yourself. 

* situate can be an adjective. It's archaic, but it can be an adjective.

AI-Yi-Yi!

Where have all the competent writers gone? Certainly nowhere near my newsfeed, but there may be one typing on my keyboard right now, heh-heh! I often see a headline teasing about an article that might interest me, so I click, whereupon I am bombarded with a discombobulated word salad that makes me feel as though I am the throes of a massive stroke when I am trying to decipher it. It is AI-generated hogwash. It is not writing. It is a jumble of disjointed ideas stuffed into a lousily parsed series of sentences that repeat or rephrase with the embarrassed air of someone trying to downplay an accusation of impropriety. Or a drunk who's cornered you at a party and insists upon boring the shit out of you with repeated anecdotes and questions. 

And AI-generated articles are the most insulting and offensive of impropriety. Don't get me wrong; AI can be a useful tool that has its place. It's a great time-saving device for certain procedures. But its problem is that it lacks soul. A curation of information synthesised by some LLM into the most minimal semblance of an actual article or story is no substitute for a properly researched and crafted article by an actual WRITER who can provide discernable tone, atmospheric mood, correct grammar, and - now take heed, because this is important - THE CORRECT INFORMATION!

The other day, I was scrolling and chanced upon an article about the late AC/DC singer, Bon Scott. I vacillated between opening and just scrolling because, let's face it, the article was likely to be AI-produced. The Common Sense Angel on my right shoulder pleaded with me: "Get real. Your gut is telling you this is not 'properly' written and it's going to annoy you." The Devil-May-Care Angel on my left shoulder said: "But it's Bon Scott. You LOVE Bon Scott. Have a read."

Against my better judgement, I listened to more foolhardy seraph on my left shoulder, who was not chanting: "Holy! Holy! Holy!", but rather: "Bon! Bon! Bon!"

So I clicked.

The first clumsy paragraph informed me that - are you ready for this? - Bon Scott "woke up dead". No, I did not type that wrong. But AI sure fucked it up big time. Bon Scott woke up dead, did he? How very rock and roll! What did he do next? Pick the bits of carrot out of his throat?

I am going to have to 'hide' every creator that appears in my feed with AI articles, because they are too much for this jaded writer to tolerate.

Pillocks, Penuriousness, and Heads Shaped like Amphoras

 From the Dumb Shit I've Read Today files: a petition to the Australian Senate seeking, inter alia, that the military service of Ben Roberts-Smith be recognised and he be given due process.

Um, I had better type this slowly and loudly: HE IS BEING GIVEN DUE PROCESS! And I will continue to type slowly, whilst wondering can AI help me put in a bouncing ball graphic to help people at home reading along: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK THE AUSTRALIAN SENATE CAN DO?

My tetchiness arises from the emotive posts appearing in my news feed. He is a war hero, they cry. This is costing millions in legal costs and associated costs and coffee runs and those pre-packaged sandwiches in the vending machines, they moan. Oh, and 'they' includes clowns like Pauline Hanson, Malcolm Roberts, and Gina Rinehart. 

I am not going to speculate or comment on the possible outcome of a matter that is sub judice. What I will say is:

1. Due process is being followed insofar at court procedure is concerned. He's been charged with offences under the criminal code that are to be dealt with in the civilian criminal court.

2. His military service is being recognised everywhere you freaking well look! You can't turn around without bumping into or barking your shin on a post about "our heroes." However, his service does not preclude him from being subject to the rule of law. The law applies to everybody or nobody. BRS is not above the law. That also means he is entitled to the protections of the law, which means he is at this stage presumed innocent until proven otherwise.

3. The Senate can do fuck-all about the court process. Our parliamentary and judicial powers are kept separate for very good reason.

4. Yeah, it's probably a bummer for him that he was arrested in front of his children. However, he's not the first person to have been arrested in front of his kids. 

5. What does it matter if there is cost involved in pursuing justice? We are talking JUSTICE. There is a saying: Not only must justice be done; it must be SEEN to be done. If that means some dosh gets expended in its pursuit, then so be it. And why are you bleating about the apparent 300 million dollars this has cost, Gina Rinehart? You've probably got 300 million dollars in spare change squashed down the back of your couch. Rancorous old bag of penuriousness. Haven't you got a function at Mar-a-Lago to attend?

6. Malcolm Roberts and Pauline Hanson: you're both a pair of pillocks. Support and believe in whomever you want, but at least familiarise yourself on the principle and reason for rule of law.

I found something else in the Dumb Shit I've Read Today files - although technically I first read it the other day; however, it's popped up and bobbing around like a turd that won't flush. Ironic, given it's subject matter is former PM Tony Abbott. He's saying that we should support the US in its conflict with Iran. Why does this amphora-headed ninny think his view holds weight? We are talking about a person who wanted to bestow a knighthood upon Prince Phillip! 

Hopefully, the world will calm down soon. I doubt it. 

Mephistopheles and Mirrors

 I've spent a few hours today watching some episodes of Dynasty: The Murdochs on Netflix and wondering when is that scabrous old fuck Rupert going to cark it. He's probably entered some Faustian bargain, which seems difficult since he's also the embodiment of Mephistopheles. It's kind of like the miller's daughter and Rumpelstiltskin turning out to be one and the same, only with a biased media corporation whose minions think it's okay to hack the voicemail of murdered kids, rather than some old turd of a king who expects straw to be spun into gold. I'm no alchemist, but I'm pretty sure you can't turn straw into gold. 

I've also been wondering whether there are any mirrors in the White House. What's aroused my curiosity is the mind-bogglingly ludicrous rant posted by Trump on his favourite social media platform wherein he described Bruce Springsteen as resembling "a dried up prune." No, I'm not making that up. Nobody who resembles a desiccated cumquat topped by a thatch of dried corn silk would have the temerity to compare another human being to a piece of dried fruit if said cumquat had access to a working mirror. From this, I can only assume there are no clean or functional mirrors in the White House. 

I am also wondering if there should be some kind of training course for incumbent presidents of the US, one that features a unit on how to cope if an artist expresses disapproval of you. I can suggest this rudimentary lesson:

1. Remember you are supposed to be a world leader and have more pressing issues about which to be concerned.

2. If you're going to sook about it in an unprofessional and hypocritical manner, resign your position because you are clearly unsuited if you cannot handle another person's opinion of you. 

3. Change your tampon. 

4. Avoid posting petty whines on social media. This does not matter if you are sitting up in a four-poster bed, sitting behind your desk, or sitting on a gold-plated toilet: just do not do this. *

5. Resign anyway. You are a bloated moribund sunfish, with the IQ and emotional intelligence of said creature. 

* Gold for a toilet? Maybe that imp from the Brothers Grimm could come in handy after all; just bring along a bale of hay.

Anyway, I might crank up some Springsteen now.

Today's Little Rant

 Thought I might do a brief rant. There are so many things about which to rant and I'm sure I'm in the same dark and worried place as many others, as we watch with vacillating bouts of disbelief, rage, and distress at the events taking place in the Middle East. The human cost (what was it; 170 school girls?) is sickening. The lack of responsibility and doubling down from people who possess the intelligence, diplomatic know-how, and empathy of a discarded snake skin is even more sickening.

Attacking an oil-rich region has the other obvious effect, obvious even to a person like me who sneakily read MAD Magazine during Year 9 Commerce (and in a turn of irony, has now found herself teaching Year 9 Commerce in a relief role). That effect begins at the bowser, where I put in half a tank and nearly shit where I was standing when I saw the price. Yeah, people aren't inclined to sail their tankers of oil when there is imminent danger, and that leads to less oil for us, which in turn leads to prices going through the ozone layer.

But what's really boiled my piss today is reading that a certain person with access to nuclear codes has admonished those controlling the needed oil tankers for not transporting the resource, telling them to "show some guts." Yeah, well, he sure shows some guts: spilling over the waist band of his golf pants in a cushiony pudgy series of white blobs that look like a mass of the expanding foam I used to plug up the holes in my bathroom wall before it was renovated. 

Yeah, he said for them to "show some guts" and they have "nothing to be afraid of." Hmmmm. I dunno. Concerns about collapsed lungs, internal injuries, or even death from overhead missiles sound like a pretty valid fear to me. 

It's all very well and good for a bloated blowhard to goad from the safety of a distance of some 11,000 kilometres, but the Safety of Life at Sea Convention and International Safety Management Code probably carry more credence to the captains of the tankers than some blathering bloated cumquat.

So what to do in the meantime? How to stay sane? I've been playing a bit of New York Dolls lately. Anyone who knows me well knows I am partial to some early Seventies punk that hints at glam metal, with androgynous looking musos who ooze dangerous petulant sexuality. Next time I'm covering a class and there's free time, I might put Looking for a Kiss on YouTube instead of the Ed Sheeran I often get asked to play ("Oh, Miss must have pressed the wrong video. Let's have a look at this one and see what you think.").

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.

Influence = Affluence

 Many people commence diatribes with the hackneyed phrase "it doesn't take a lot to get me angry". I thought about commencing this post in that style, but it would be a lie. It would appear that these days my patience is eroding and deteriorating like a latex band left on the road. I am cultivating some serious Old Man Yells At Cloud energy lately. Or in my case, Old Woman might be a more apt sobriquet. 

If you're rolling your eyes and wondering what is currently making your humble blogger's blood boil, well, I'm sure it's something that has infuriated just about everybody who has a modicum of empathy and common sense. It's the female muttonhead from the US who describes herself as a biologist and who was filmed picking up a terrified wombat joey, separating it from its mother. The footage is sickening: she scoops up the poor thing and runs (yeah, you read that right) with it, holding it in such a manner that it's unsupported body is swinging about (yeah, you also read that right). She's filmed by an Aussie bloke who's laughing like a lobotomised troll, so much so, that I suspect that's what he is. 

This culture of the influencer is cringeworthy beyond words, but this cretin, who goes by the name Sam Jones (as in the bloke who played Flash Gordon in the schlocky Eighties movie with song by Queen) is beyond the pale. If you're reading this, Sam (aka samstrays_somewhere), what the actual fuck is wrong with you? So, you've always wanted to hold a baby wombat? Well, so fucking what? There are women who want to hold Hugh Jackman, but they don't, because they don't have the right to do this! Would you like some big weirdo to snatch up your infant and run around with it for shits and giggles? That being said, the thought of you breeding makes me shudder. 

Honestly, woman, how old are you? I ask because I suspect you've defined medical science by living so long minus a functioning cortex. Your Instagram, now set to private, apparently has photographs of you with animals you've slaughtered for fun. I guess you're IG is now private because your stunt has bitten you on the arse and what a shame the mother wombat didn't do the same. Speaking of the mother wombat, I really hope she did not reject her baby because she no longer recognised its scent after it was permeated with the stink of Stupid Entitled Seppo Twat. 

To the parents of this arsehat: Why didn't you get yourselves sterilised the day you met each other? 

To the dickwad filming: Shame on you; as an Australian, you should know better than to allow for our wildlife to be treated this way. Get in the bin, and take your stupid sniggering with you. 

I hope so much this stupid person is penalised by the appropriate authority for this revolting act. I'm sure even other influencers are ashamed of her. 

Effluent Pools and Affluent So-Called Celebs

 I'm trying to get healthier. I'm in reasonable shape, but I'm trying to improve. Today, in resolute virtue, I attended the local swimming pool with a view to getting in thirty minutes worth of laps. I swim in the indoor heated pool because I am first and foremost a massive sook and can't bear the thought of getting cold in the outdoor pool. Secondly, I have the complexion of my Irish forebears and the thought of the sun (despite my slavish and heavy-handed application of sunscreen) causes me to combust and disintegrate like a vampire who has also had the misfortune to cop some ultra violet rays. Anyway, I was enjoying my swim but my planned session was truncated by an attendant who ordered everybody out because someone had blown chunks in the pool. Fair enough. It's gross enough swimming by a floating used band-aid, but the thought of swimming into a pod of regurgitated carrot cubes, all afloat on the watery surface, is too ghastly to contemplate. 

Also ghastly is the stunt pulled by Kanye West and his wife - well, I think she's he's wife, but she might also be a remote-controlled anthromorphic plaything of the kind not readily available at K-Mart (it's the withdrawn catatonic expression that makes me wonder). The story has clogged up my newsfeed like a turd that won't flush. All I see is pictures of Bianca Censori wearing a vacant expression, but the expression she wears is still more substantial than the practically invisible garment she has on. You can't call it diaphanous - seriously, it makes diaphanous looks like a suit of armor. 

Honestly, what the actual fuck is wrong with these people? Is it a desperate need for attention to compensate for an abysmal lack of talent (come on, you heard West slaughtering Bohemian Rhapsody at Glastonbury 2015, didn't you?)? I will say I am a tad concerned for Bianca's mental health and wonder about the dynamic in the West/Censori household. 

But to show up, by all accounts uninvited, and pull a stunt like this, stinks to high Heaven of eau-de-desperation. Maybe it's a kink. But nobody consented to the display and I would happily never hear from these shit-gibbons again. 

With reference to my day, I really think risking a swim in chlorinated effluence is preferable to being bombarded with news about these vacuous nobodies. 

Catching Up On Movies

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Scents & Sense

There are things I'm not grasping. They are eluding my understanding as though lubed with a bucket of still-warm-thus-viscous bacon lard. One is frangipani scented air freshener and the other is Virginia Woolf. Let us explore these mind-baffling phenomena. 

1. Frangipani scented air freshener. I get that some people like to have those battery operated devices that intermittently send a scented spray through their domicile. It can be for whatever reason - an enjoyment of the scent or maybe to mask the mustiness of some old houses. But here's the thing: there are some floral scents that assail the nostrils like a wrecking ball and leave you begging for mercy. The real plant pumps out its scent at night to attract insects. The automatic air wick thing sprays this wretched mist - with which the Hun could have felled the troops in the trenches once the mustard gas ran out - for no discernable reason other than to make those in its reach suffer. I enjoy a subtle light fragrance, but this cloying pong beats me into submission and leaves me with a foul headache.

2. Now for the highly esteemed Ms Woolf. I actually understand the theory behind the stream of consciousness writing style. But understanding does not automatically lead to enjoyment. I understand how to prepare trifle but I detest the damnable dessert. Reading the prose of Ms Woolf, which I currently must do in the finalisation of my degree, makes me want to bang my head against a brick wall. The stream of consciousness makes me think of viewing a movie without a non-diegetic soundtrack. Whilst it is realistic that we don't hear the telltale tight strings of the violin in a tense or suspenseful situation in real-life, by jinkies it adds to the mood and enhances the experience when we are viewing a movie. Virginia Woolf is boring. I said it. Fight me if you must. 

Chat soon.

"The horror! The horror!" (of stupid panelists).

It has come to my notice that I'm a 'little bitch'. Well, in the world according to that all-knowing oracle Kate Langbroek, I am a 'little bitch'. Why am I a little bitch? It's because I have had the Covid vaccine. She has praised No-Vax, er Novak Djokovic for his stance in refusing to line up with all the other 'little bitches'. I understand she said this on The Project, which I must admit to not having watched in the vicinity of forever because of panelists like her and the miserably loathsome Steve Price.

If the vaccine can mitigate the effects of Covid and help you protect the more vulnerable of the community, then I will take it. I've had Covid. It sucked. I cannot imagine what it would have been like had I not been vaccinated. The vaccine can also minimise the incidence of people become desperately ill and requiring intubation. Ever seen someone you love, a vulnerable person, with a tube down their throat after having had Covid, Kate? I have. It's something that gets burned into your memory as though tattooed with poisonous burning ink. I wish I could forget it. I can't. Kate can take her snide flippancy and shove it straight back up her arse. The Tinfoil-Hat Brigade (oh, by the way, Kate; I've plenty of spare foil if you need some - I checked when I was making my shopping list the other day) can be as devil-may-care and dismissive as they like, but they'd no doubt make the lives of the heroic nursing staff utter misery when they're hospitalised from the after-effects of Covid, after-effects that would have been likely less severe had they been vaccinated.

So, maybe I'm a little bitch because I had a vaccine, in the world according to Kate Langbroek. So what? It's better than being an ignorant bitch whose arse is jealous of the shit coming out her mouth.

Years ago, I read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad for a university course I was doing. Thought the themes and storyline interesting, but didn't enjoy the prose. Last week, I realised I would have to read it again for one of my current uni subjects. I sighed, and scoured my bookshelves for my old copy. I found Puberty Blues, heaps of Stephen King books, a few Carl Hiassens, a plethora of Maeve Binchy books, some of my own books, cookbooks by the dozen (my husband and I are keen amateur chefs), David Cassidy's autobiography (don't judge me), and anthologies of poetry. Did I find Heart of Darkness? No. This kind of aligns with Alanis Morrisset's flawed notion of irony; I've apparently donated the book to Vinnies after many, many years, only to find I need to read the damn thing again. Thank goodness for e-book libraries. Anyway, I did some reading about Conrad to understand the novel's setting and context, and waded through the first chapter this afternoon. What do you know? I kind of, well, got it. Sure, the narrator Marlowe waffles on like a marathon in the kitchen of Pancakes at the Rocks, but I actually rather enjoyed reading it now that I understand it's Conrad's indictment on colonialism. Maybe the winding sentence structure reflects the symbol of the winding river in the book. Or maybe Conrad had taken a challenge to write the most lengthy and exhausting sentences ever attributed to a frame narrator he could. Whatever. But the good thing is: I just mind enjoy this book second time around.

Lazy Sunday Ponderings

 A few nights ago, my 19-year-old son clicked his nail against the plastic tumbler containing the water with which he was washing down his antiseizure medication (seriously, one of the tablets in his evening dosage looks like a horse pill). He clicked it again, several times and with feeling. He said, 'Mum, this sounds like Low Rider.' Sure enough, he clicked out the telling tattoo: Click-clickclick-click-clickclick-clickclick-click-clickclick, then he and I 'rapped' in unison: 'All...my...friends...know the low rider'. Maybe not an event of great significance, but it was a fun mother-and-son moment. As the youngsters grow up and away from you, it's special to cherish those moments. That song makes me think of the indie film Dazed and Confused (not to be confused with the Led Zeppelin one), set on the last day of school in 1976. I've seen it a few times since its release in the Nineties, and last night, I watched it again, courtesy of a streaming service. 

I do enjoy that movie. It has an unrecognisable Ben Affleck as O'Bannion, a senior school bully who is even more loathsome than Biff Tannen from Back to the Future. The movie's non-diegesis is particularly effective when O'Bannion is is using a wooden paddle on the butt of a freshman named Mitch, whilst the viewer hears No More Mister Nice Guy by Alice Cooper. The whacks are filmed in slow motion, and the young actor playing Mitch shows his humiliation and agony in a way that made me, the viewer, want to weep for him. But don't worry, O'Bannion gets his comeuppance and it's just as enjoyable as watching George McFly sock Biff Tannen in the jaw. 

So, I'm having a bit of a lazy one today. With practicum completed, I am now in the process of organising internship, which is very exciting. I was thinking of booking some theatre tickets through the week, but unfortunately, my cooktop has to be replaced. Damn it all 

What am I pondering of late? This is the sort of comment that is going to upset some purists, but I think the Kinks had better songs than the Beatles. There, I said it. This is probably going to fling the yowling feline among the cooing birdies, but I stand by what I said. 

What say you?

Maybe it is 'Amazing'

 Has anybody noticed the word 'amazing' is being used to describe everyday occurrences? Friday afternoon, I called by a local bottle-o to purchase a piccolo of sparkling wine to celebrate successful completion of my teaching practicum, and the shop assistant said, 'Cash or card? Card? Amazing. Can you just tap - oh, you're going to insert? That's gone though - amazing.' At what point did a small-scale act of commerce become 'amazing'?  The aurora borealis is amazing. A Himalayan sunrise is amazing. This is just ... not. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky as my trips around the sun increase, but this is really starting to get on my wick.

Who among you ever watched Welcome Back, Kotter? If so, then you will remember the premise: a newly-graduated high school teacher accepts a teaching position at his old high school in Brooklyn, New York. He takes on a class of unruly underperforming remedial students known as the sweathogs, and draws upon his experiences as a former sweathog to assist this motley crew. The show had a great theme song, performed by Lovin' Spoonful singer John Sebastian. It was lyrically sublime: The names have all changed since you hung around/But those dreams have remained and they've turned around/Who'd have thought they'd lead you/Back here where we need you.... Anyway, my point is, I kind of had my OWN Welcome Back, Kotter moment recently, when I carried out a practicum placement at my old high school (although my students were not a coterie of racially diverse underperformers). 

The highlights for me include:

1. Teaching a lesson wherein the Year Eights were to write creatively.

2. Exploring the school and all the changes (the old Maths rooms are now the school hall and I still remember the lyrics to the old school song). The wall where I had my first kiss is still there. I think the bush my friend used to smoke behind is gone (probably a victim of hydrogen cyanide and formaldehyde poisoning).

3. Explaining to a Year Three lad (the school is a central one and I did a day's observation at the primary campus) who was going through his reader with me that 'verse' is not a verb. He told me that two of the wolves in the story had a fight in words to this effect: 'X was versing Y when were little cubs.' I explained this is a common error, acknowledging that sports commentators are in this odious habit, but I have hopefully educated and cured the lad now. 

4. Agreeing with the said Year Three lad that the '-ough' blend is the reason English is an incorrigible language. 

5. Playing the Sex Pistols to Year 10. Not really relatable to the syllabus, I will grant you that; however, it was my last ever lesson with them and somehow discussion segued to my ringtone, which is the opening vocal section to Anarchy in the UK. Being Year 10-ers, one guy insisted I must be the Antichrist because of my musical tastes. I explained a person's taste in art is not necessarily a reflection of who that person is; after all, I listen to the Beach Boys and can't surf for peanuts! 

Overall, a positive experience and I cannot wait to get that piece of paper. Maybe it was just a bit, well, amazing. 

I stayed in town on weeknights, and one afternoon, as I drove home to my family, my iTunes made a very serendipitous selection: Welcome Back by John Sebastian. I smiled as I drove.