Prose Slam Friday

...in following from Lewd Bob's entry, and in response to my e-girlfriend's damnation of the book, here are some quotes from Catcher In The Rye to muse over.



People always think something's all true.

When I really worry about something, I don't just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something. Only, I don't go. I'm too worried to go. I don't want to interrupt my worrying to go.

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes.

Sex is something I really don't understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact.

I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy.

There isn't any night club in the world you can sit in for a long time unless you can at least buy some liquor and get drunk. Or unless you're with some girl that really knocks you out.

Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.

If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late? Nobody.

"Take most people, they're crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. I don't even like old cars. I mean they don't even interest me. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake."

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be."

RIP Jerome David Salinger

JD Salinger is dead. He is responsible for me calling people phoneys at any given opportunity. He also inspired a character in a sit-com which I wrote with Perseus ten years ago, who we called 'Salinger'. He also gave airtime to disenfranchised adolescents (along with the Violent Femmes and Morrissey as recently mentioned, but from a whole other era if you don't mind).

And Catcher in the Rye was pretty good too.

He made my life slightly better for having read the book. Good on him for that.

Best present. Ever

My dad built me a bookcase and filled it with 121 books. Each book is wrapped in different paper

I salute you, Melbourne hotel bloke.

Bring back national "Giant sausage Day".

It’s the day after “Make meaningless generalisations about Australia” Day – otherwise known as “Australia Day” - so I’m back to give this concept a red-hot crack.

Yesterday I was driving through Collingwood, when I happened to pass a hotel*. Glancing up, I saw a man engaged in a passionate discussion** with someone in the room while smoking a cigarette. The window sill was lined with books and DVDs.

If there’s an image that sums up Melbourne, it would be that bloke.

* Which was closed. Bugger. Although I did have a beer in the beer garden of my local later.

** It may have been about Hegel. It may have been about the cricket. It may have been he finally had the courage to talk to that woman that he always had a crush on***. It really doesn’t matter.

*** You know that chick that you would see sometimes at parties. Wears black a lot and bright red lipstick. Long black hair and a dodgy tattoo on her right shoulder-blade. That chick.

Quality Policing

The local constabulary helps a citizen find the nearest hospital

I was in London last week. The weather was splendid (1 degree - that's what I'm talking about) and the beer damn fine (if you're canny enough to avoid the warm brown stuff). I spent 54 hours in transit and 54 on the ground. Consequently, I'm buggered beyond belief.

However, I had a tremendous experience while driving 5 actors through a small village in Essex. It was the morning after the job I had travelled all that way to oversee, after which I had drunk numerous pints until the bar closed at 3am. I suspected I was still lingering somewhere near the legal limit when, rounding a corner, I happened upon 3 policemen, one of whom was pointing what looked like a Polaroid camera at me. As I approached, a second copper waved me down and approached the window.

"Ullo sir," he said, in an Essex Boys' accent.

"Hi," I cleverly retorted, wondering how much beer the copper could smell drifting from the interior of the car.

"You do realise, o' course, that you were doing firty-six miles an hour in a firty zone?"

"Was I?" I said, imitating a ventiloquist: I didn't want to part my lips for fear of knocking him over with beer breath.

"Yes you were, sir."

"Oh dear, sorry about that."

"Ne'er mine that. You have two options. One. I will 'and you an on-the-spot fine and free demerit points or, option two, you drive firty metres furfer on and be ticked off by a coupla irate schoolkids."

"Really?"

"Yes sir."

"I'll take option 2."

"Everybody does sir."

So I drove on thirty metres and, sure enough, several schoolkids supervised by another couple of coppers were standing by the side of the road. Two other motorists were already on the footpath being spoken to by small boys. A female copper asked me to step out of the car and informed me that my interrogators would be two 8 year old girls named Sophie and Denise.

"Fank you sir," said the copper. "Now, Sophie, would you like to ask this gentleman your first question?"

"Ok," said Sophie, hunched in her coat: it was bloody freezing out there. Steamed emanated from mouths, noses, arseholes. "Why were you speedin'?"

"Oh. Well. Um. I'm from Australia and I..."

"Ooh Australia!" said Denise, suddenly interested in what had otherwise been a dull and cold morning. "My nan's just been t'Australia."

"That's a long way," said Sophie. "It's the uvver side o' the world innit?"

"Yes," I said, starting to see I could get off pretty lightly. "It took me 27 hours to get here."

"Ooh."

"Ok sir," interrupted the copper, eyeing me suspiciously. "You'll 'ave to finish your answer."

"Oh. Ok. Well, I'm really sorry for speeding, but I wasn't aware of your local speed limit. I made a mistake. I should've been more vigilant of your speed signs."

"You sound like Toady from Neighbours...," began Sophie.

"That's an honest answer innit girls?" said the copper.

The girls mumbled something.

"Now, Denise, your turn to ask the gentleman a question."

"Oh. Sir, how would you feel if you knocked down a small child while speedin' frew our village?"

Things had taken a darker turn. I got nervous and nearly blurted out "And I'm drunk too!"

"Oh. I think it would be the worst thing that could happen to someone," I finally said. "You'd regret it for the rest of your life. And from now on I'm not going to speed ever again." And I meant it.

"What do you fink, girls?" asked the copper.

They mumbled something, huddling further into their coats.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked.

"I can't feel my 'ands," replied Sophie.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the end*. I came away with a) an admiration for English rural policing and b) a good story which I relate with an over-exaggerated and regionally incorrect accent.

And the moral? It is a far more effective way of deterring speeding motorists than being a bastard and slapping them with a fine.


*Except that one of the actors, from the comfort of the back seat of the car, filmed the whole thing on his mobile phone and promises it will appear sometime soon on his facebook page.

Poetry Slam Friday

(one of my personal favourites...)

467

We do not play on Graves—
Because there isn't Room—
Besides—it isn't even—it slants
And People come—

And put a Flower on it—
And hang their faces so—
We're fearing that their Hearts will drop—
And crush our pretty play—

And so we move as far
As Enemies—away—
Just looking round to see how far
It is—Occasionally—

Strawberry Fields Forever

Lewd Bob and his brother Fanta and I grew up a few minutes walk from a stunning and relatively untouched piece of bushland that spans many hectares right in the middle of the suburbs of Melbourne. The bushland is still one of those 'local secret' places, rarely mentioned anywhere, but much loved by those who live within cooee of it. My family in particular has a long history with the bushlands as there's a national trust cottage at one end of the bush that my great-grandfather helped build in the late 1800's. My grandfather insisted that the tracks through the bush were made by him as a kid when he delieverd eggs to the tenant of the cottage.

Lewd Bob, Fanta and I grew up in that bushland. We seemed to be there every possible day. It was back in the days before 'stranger danger'. We'd have breakfast, and head to the dense bushlands and spend all day there, coming home maybe for lunch, but definitely tea. We started going there alone when we were about 8 years old. It was more than a mile from our homes. As we got older, it also became the place for underage drinking at night, one's early pash experiments with equally awkward girls, and then as we got even older, it became our strawberry fields. Only happy memories.

I hadn't been there for years, but last week I found myself with time to kill in Melbourne and thought I'd go for a walk through the bushland. There's now a freeway going under it and I'd heard that it sounded different these days... some of the birds that were the soundtrack of my childhood had just flown away, forever. I knew it would make me sad.

It certainly did sound and feel different, and it saddened me. But what angered me was the fucking nanny state faggot cunty interference of I don't know who but they can get rooted who put fences up. Fences? All the paths of our youth were closed... so you can't cross the creek. Fuck, we used to walk in the creek, and race icy-pole sticks down it. We walked alongside it for miles and regularly fell in and that was all part of the growing-up process. Now for our 'safety' they are all closed. We're breeding a nation of soft cocks.

For instance... look at this cliff in the distance.



We were early teenagers and Fanta said, "I bet I can climb that cliff." Lewd Bob and I offered $1 each if he could, which was a lot of money back then. It was like a whole week's pocket money. But we were confident we wouldn't have to pay out because it's impossible to climb with bare hands.

So anyway, up went Fanta. He got about 4/5ths of the way and then got stuck. He was stuck there for a while. He couldn't go up, or down. Lewd Bob and I started to worry, so we offered him $1 each if he could get down safely, as well as make it to the top safely. Fortunately we got to keep our money because Fanta promptly fell off the cliff, smashing many bones and falling unconscious at the base of the cliff, seemingly dead.

I whipped into action. I ran. I ran through the creek at the deep spot and ran to the road and waved down a truck with three people in it and explained that my friend died and they must come immedately. They came running with me and luckily, Fanta was not dead at all, just smashed up. They drove him home and from there he was taken to the hospital.

I have two things to say about this. One - I was a 13 year old boy waving down a truck and I wasn't abducted and raped.

Two - If I was thirteen today and had to run to the road from that cliff I wouldn't have to run through the creek, because they have built this fucking ugly thing at the point I ran across:



There's concrete paths there! They've actually paved my grandfather's tracks! And made dainty wooden bridges with fucking signs! Sigh. It's soft, and killing our imaginations, all this OH&S obsession and public liability and gentrifying ancient and primitive wonders and it shits me. Just cos some retard once broken an ankle falling into a creek do we all have to suffer? Look, I like my creature comforts as much as the next lapsed Goth, but hell, bush is bush. Let the kids have what we had in that suburb... bushland, not a park for soft-cocks.

Here's a view of the 'beach' (where they've built a shaded 'seat' for retards... we used to sit on logs!).




We buried a time capsule there when we were 10-ish. We filled a large glass jar with posessions and notes and planned to go back to the spot in twenty years' time. Thing is, we buried it in sand. We went back the next day and it was already gone.











Here's one of the 'slides' (it's steeper than it looks). It's just a hill with heaps of leaves, pine needles and hidden rocks. We scrambled up the top then slid back down, smashing into tree roots and branches and rocks and were attacked by strange dogs and we went home covered in cuts, bites and dirt. It's fenced off now.




I know I know.. I could just go walking in the real bush, but hell, this was a rare gem in the suburbs. We spent thousands of hours of our childhood in that place and there wasn't a fence or paved path to be found. It was big enugh to always find some place new. You could walk everywhere, fall everywhere and if you didn't go home injured in some way it meant you didn;t try hard enough. It really was a beautiful place hidden in the suburbs where kids like us could experience a bit of bush, and now, it's just a park with a lot of trees.

Mind you... I like everything else about the modern world.

...and in breaking news

My local MP Martin "Mumbles" Ferguson has sent a note to all Party members, asking for volunteers for the "coming Federal election".

Has Kruddy decided to pull the pin sooner, rather than later?

At last, a social media site which isn't shit!

Robert Llewellyn is an interesting fellow.

If you haven’t seen this, then why haven’t you?

It basically consists of English actor Robert Llewellyn* driving an electric car around London chatting to people he finds interesting.

Could Andrew Denton do this? Of course he fuckin’ couldn’t.

Also, should I get a twitter site? I suspect if I did, it would largely consist of me saying “cunt” at random intervals.

*Or Kryton from Red Dwarf, if you prefer.

Totally over rated.

The Tote. Even grottier on the inside.

In a move that has shocked ageing Generation Xers and tired publicity whores alike, Melbourne’s The Tote hotel in Collingwood has closed after decades of presenting loud, largely talentless bands in a foul environment to a sweaty collection of drunks and speed-freaks.

The hotel says it will be forced to close after the Liquor Licensing Commission required additional security measures at the inner-city venue. Representatives of the Liquor Licensing Commission said they were still trying to wash the smell of stale cigarette smoke and vomit out of their hair after a late-night trip to said venue.

Fans milled around in a half-arsed protest before dispersing to have a bit of a sook at home.

Independent film maker from North Fitzroy Marcus Hall said it was totally unfair The Tote had to abide by the law, especially when it came to over crowding and selling alcohol to people who were already really, really, pissed.

“I mean, that obviously only applies to venues in the outer suburbs where nasty bogans go, not The Tote,” Mr Hall said.

“If a venue like The Tote, which for years provided a venue for struggling bands who were – quite frankly – a bit crap, for audiences who were too pissed to know any better, closes then the entire Melbourne live music scene is doomed.”

Amazing news to amaze you!

Following Bob’s excellent de-tox post, I thought I’d get into this bad science caper as I am completely out of original ideas keen to debunk gibberish wherever it is found.

The UK’s Daily Mail reports amazing details of ancient amazing science which seems to be pretty…err…amazing.

The paper notes;

Ancient man had his own form of 'sat nav' that helped him find his way across Britain, according to new research.

The sophisticated geometric system was based on a stone circle markers.

Our ancestors were able to travel between settlements with pinpoint accuracy thanks to a complex network of hilltop monuments.

Wow, pretty amazing eh?

Researcher Tom Brooks analysed 1,500 prehistoric monuments, including Stonehenge and Silbury Hill in Wiltshire, and found them all to be on a grid of isosceles triangles - those with two sides of equal length - each pointing to the next site.

He believes this proves there were keen mathematicians among the ancient Britons 5,000-6,000 years ago, at least two millennia before the Greeks who were supposed to have discovered geometry.

The trouble being, it’s complete bollocks, as the always amazing Ben Goldacre points out in this blog, Bad Science;

Matt Parker, his nemesis, is based in the School of Mathematical Sciences at Queen Mary, University of London. He has applied the same techniques used by Mr Brooks to another mysterious and lost civilisation.

“We know so little about the ancient Woolworth stores,” he explains, “but we do still know their locations. I thought that if we analysed the sites we could learn more about what life was like in 2008 and how these people went about buying cheap kitchen accessories and discount CDs.”

The results revealed an exact and precise geometric placement of the Woolworths locations. “Three stores around Birmingham formed an exact equilateral triangle (Wolverhampton, Lichfield and Birmingham stores) and if the base of the triangle is extended, it forms a 173.8 mile line linking the Conwy and Luton stores. Despite the 173.8 mile distance involved, the Conway Woolworths store is only 40 feet off the exact line and the Luton site is within 30 feet. All four stores align with an accuracy of 0.05%.”

Matt Parker used an ancient technique: he found his patterns in 800 ex-Woolworth locations by “skipping over the vast majority, and only choosing the few that happen to line-up”.

So there you have it comrades.

From which we can take away the lesson that either; ancient people had access to advanced science (possibly as a result of visiting aliens travelling unimaginable distances to teach geometry to a bunch of smelly people wearing animal hides) or people make shit up.

You be the judge.

Detox This!

This Ain't Detox, It's Fruit

The body does not need to detox. There is no accumulation of 'toxins' that we have to rid ourselves of. The liver and the kidneys are excellent organs which eliminate bad things from our body readily, quickly and efficiently*.

By all means stop drinking heavily or eating fatty foods or consuming large amounts of caffeine - they can be bad for you. But your body isn't storing any toxins**.

If you're fat and you don't want to be fat, go on a diet. If you have high blood pressure, reduce your amount of caffeine and salt. If you have high cholesterol, perhaps that second pie isn't doing you any favours. If you're constipated, eat more fruit and vegetables.

But don't detox. Because there is no such thing. And certainly don't buy products that 'assist the body to detox'. Because there is no such thing.

"I'm on a liver cleansing diet."

"Why?"

"I do it every year."

"But why?"

"To rid my liver of toxins."

"What toxins?"

"From the food and alcohol I've been consuming."

"But what toxins?"

"Like alcohol."

"But it doesn't accumulate. You stop drinking and it goes away."

"What about the unnatural stuff in food?"

"Like what?"

"Preservatives and stuff."

"Again. Your body doesn't accumulate them. Maybe some preservatives are bad, but just stop eating them."

"But that's what detoxing is. You stop eating the bad stuff."

"No. That's called a healthy diet. Detoxing suggests that there are toxins stored in your body until you eat 43 guavas, a pound of ginger and a small shrub."

"What star sign are you?"


*Unless you have severe liver or kidney disease.

**I have clearly included no references, however Google 'detox myths' and rejoice in the outcome (unless you disagree with me in which case either Google 'Why Detox' or go fuck yourself).

Art Appreciation Wednesday - Kazimir Malevich

The great Russian painter Malevich (1878-1935) was an artistic genius and poineer in many ways who helped give birth to multiple genres and strains of modern art.

By way of introduction to this incredible artist, I present to you one of his most excellent works, Black Square (Oil on Canvass: 1915).




In this instance, the artist has applied black paint to a square-ish canvass. In the corners, you will find black paint and yet interestingly (and most innovatively) the central section of the painting features more black paint. I have prepared a detail image (below), focussing on the upper section of the piece where we can see the black paint in finer view.


(Black Square, detail)

Interpretations on the meaning of this amazing work vary from critic to critic, generation to generation, and the artist himself muttered something about art being something that owes us nothing, but one thing we can say with certainty is that it is black and it always will be black. I see it is a black work of art. It is the old black, and the old black will perennially be the new black (except for 1983 when it was grey) and for this reason the artwork will maintain relevence for countless millenia.

1915 was a watershed year for Malevich and his best works were produced in this, the second year of the great war. Here I present another of his works, Black Circle (1915).



A cursory glance would suggest that this piece is in many ways similar to Black Square, but if you stare it long enough you will notice that in this ground-breaking work, the shape of the 'black' is circular, not square. It surprises and bewilders on several levels. Not only that, the black circle is off-centre which adds to the sense of wonderment. Inspired by Ouspensky who spoke of "a fourth dimension beyond the three to which our ordinary senses have access" Malevich proceeded to develop a stream of art self-called 'Suprematism' that presented geometric patterns in varying guises.

The circular figure represents a 'circle' and the 'black' paint which the artist uses is black, thus cleverly arriving at the title 'Black Circle'.

Black Circle is surely the Magnum Opus of this experimental artform that still resonates today. Before Suprematism we were forced to endure portraits, landscapes and still-lifes that spoke volumes and told incredible stories and inspired great works of music and literature. Suprematism, however, opened up the doors for works such as John Cage's 'Silence' and the Commonwealth Bank logo.

Just like dreams, interpretation is open, buit for the record, I interpret the Suprematism works of Malevich as being both black, and with shape.

I would be interested in your interpretations.

Dream Tangerine

There is nothing more boring for me than someone saying, "I had the most bizarre dream... what happened was (insert three minutes of nonsensical rubbish I'm not interested in)."

Some people are obsessed with their own dreams and the more vivid the better. "I came across a city filled with ice-cream castles. I was in a rowboat with my old maths teacher except it wasn't my maths teacher, it was my mother..." and so on and so on.

I'm no psychologist or any other ologist that knows anything about the brain, or the sub-conscious, but I have come to the conclusion that dreams are nothing more than the mind going on an abstract wander, free from the necessary rules and restrictions that it faces in the awake hours. As such, they are meaningless, and, I hasten to add, of interest only to yourself and nobody else.

Jung can suck my dick.

I have therefore written page 1 of my 'Dream Interpretations by Perseus Q' book which I'm psitive will become a best-seller.

DREAM INTERPRETATIONS

Dream: You are attacked by spiders.
Interpretation: You don't want to be attacked by spiders.

Dream: You are drowning.
Interpretation: You don't want to drown.

Dream: Your husband dies and you are very sad.
Interpretation: You don't want your husband to die.

Dream: You had sex with Natalie Portman.
Interpretation: You want to have sex with Natalie Portman.

Dream: You score a century in the Boxing Day Test.
Interpretation: You would like to score a century in the Boxing Day Test.

Dream: A wild bull chases you across a paddock.
Interpretation: You would not like to be chased across a paddock by a wild bull.

Dream: You roll down a hill and land in a fairy land where you learn to cast spells that heal the sick, and you have a pet fox that can communicate telepathically with you and you and your fox called Ingwahla live in a house atop a magic tree that almost touches the sky, and everyone in fairy land love each other and when the snowflakes touch the ground in fairyland, they turn into emerald gems.
Interpretation: You are a boring hippy.

Dream: You send off all these stupid SMSs to former and potential lovers that are offensive and/or stupid, then end up falling into a bush and waking up an hour later with a splitting headache and you have lost your wallet.
Interpretation: It wasn't a dream, you were drunk last night. Call your bank.

Dream: You are sitting around at home reading Dostoyevsky and smoking cigarettes, and a naked Natalie Portman comes in and says, "Hey, I love Dostoyevsky. Can I have a ciggy?"
Interpretation: You are me.

Dream: You are sitting around reading 1875's 'Critique Of The Gotha program' when a naked Julia Gillard comes in and says, "Rudd's gone and I'm taking over, and I want you to be my deputy, but first of all, congratulations on scoring that ton in the Boxing Day test. Can I have a beer?"
Interpretation: You are Ramon Insertnamehere.

Decisions

Ok, well that was a hot one. Hot enough for me? Yes, thank you for asking, it was.

I'm sick of it and am thinking of moving to a) Sweden, b) Canada or c) Tasmania.

Pros and Cons?

Sweden

Pros: Beautiful countryside, Swedish models, proximity to the rest of Europe.

Cons: The food, the prices and it's a long way to the closest test cricket venue.

Canada

Pros: Beautiful countryside, relatively liberal philosophy, maple syrup.

Cons: Shit beer.

Tasmania

Pros: Beautiful countryside, good pies, cheap housing.

Cons: A little too quiet, further from Europe than pretty much anywhere else except New Zealand, and I might run into Punter.

Regicide eh? I'll be in that.

Yeah, take that, you king, you!

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

And remember, regicide is not the murder of a man called Reggie.

Perseus and Bob Make a Film - Day 5

The Valiant

I skipped days 2-4 because Perseus wasn't involved. However we were required to lure him away from his family for several hours just prior to Christmas so we could pick up some additional shots on the beach on day 5 - the final day.

The film is now in the can and has been submitted to tropfest. Will we be short-listed? I think there's a chance. Will we make the finals? Probably not.

A metaphor for the film-making process



Perseus hoping he has a hanky



Bob looking forward to savouring the cool feel of plastic while Perseus loses focus again

Bob wondering if fake blood comes out of polyester

Once a) the film has been rejected or b) Tropfest 2010 is all over, I will provide a link to the film if anybody's interested in seeing it.

New Year's Resolution

God I love this photo. I understand her. She's me, but a chick.

I've made some New Year's Resolutions. I've never made any before, but I find life rather unsatisfactory at the moment and something has to give. My December: Jeez. I had a 20 year old German backpacker living with me. She turned up late November at a party at my house. At 6am, drugged and wild, I took a girl I fancied to my bed. I had been trying to seduce her for months. When we got in to my bedroom, we found another girl already in there. "Oh," said the stranger, "I needed somewhere to sleep." She stayed for six weeks. The girl I fancied got into bed with me that night, but never came back. Well, she said she would, as long as nobody would ever know and I did not agree to this condition. I could've had a secret girlfriend. Anyway, the German. She stayed for six weeks. We had a grope two nights before she left, drunk, on the beach, under Pleiades. I thought, "I always leave these things too late."

Oh, I also went on a date with a semi-famous singer during in late December. She said she was tired and wouldn't last past 9.30pm. At 2am she said, "Would you like to come back to my house for coffee?" "Yes, I would," I said. We got back to her house and she turned on the kettle.

Then my family moved in the day the German left. Middle sister doesn't like Mum. Mum doesn't like Dad. It set off a virus of manners. Nobody spoke out of turn because if they did there'd be a fight. "It is a little colder than yesterday," one would say. "Yes, it is, but tomorrow may even be colder," another would say. I sat in my courtyard and smoked cigarettes, thinking about the cricket.

The day my family moved out, six friends moved in. New Year's Eve was meant to be an orgy. I had invited Miss Flatmate down, but one of my friends doesn't like her and he actually rang her and told her not to come. I said to him, "Well, you cancelled my date. Your job is to get me a replacement date." He had four days to do so, and failed.

There were 19 people at my house NYE. Nine couples and me. I rang the German. She said, "I hate Sydney. I should have stayed with you."

The houseguests left yesterday, and last night was the first time I slept in my house alone since November 21.

I sat watching Antonioni's 'Blow Up' and something about Jane Birkin's tits perhaps motivated me to appreciate things more. I sat with a pencil and paper and wrote...

1. Get fit.
2. Work harder.

I figure, if I do those two things, I will like myself more, and other good things will fall into place. I have booked a Personal Trainer. He is coming to my house tomorrow night, and he will be $50 a session.

I start work full time tomorrow as well, and I will work harder than before.

I need a l/wife.

At least he had a decent shave.

Punter was starting to think that opting to bat may not have been that great an idea.

There’s a wonderful scene in The Simpsons where Sideshow Bob*, on one of his many missions to murder Bart, steps onto a rake, gets whacked in the face, groans and moves to step onto another rake; wherein the entire pattern continues for a whole five minutes.

Whack, groan, whack groan, whack groan.

I bring this up because the expression on Ricky Ponting’s face yesterday during the – say we say – embarrassment of the first day of the Second Test does rather suggest the entire Sideshow Bob scenario.

Hughes, 0 – whack, groan,

Ponting, 0 – whack, groan,

Clarke, 3 – whack, groan,

Watson, 6 – whack, groan.

Fair shake of the sauce bottle Punter, that pitch was so green, I reckon I could have taken a couple of quick wickets**.

Of course, if we win, I’ll do what every other sports journo does and pretend I never said any of this.

* The cartoon character, not Senator Bob Brown.

** This may not be true.

It's the thought that counts

I thought I would ask for your contributions for Worst Present Ever Received, as I'm pretty sure a lot of you received some pretty craptastic gifts this year. Yes, it's the thought that counts, but that's exactly it. It's the thought that counts. I hate receiving presents where the person has put absolutely no thought into it at all. If they're going to do that, they may as well just give me a card with a scratchie or lottery ticket in it or something.

You can also usually tell when someone doesn't like you by what they give you as a present. Case in point. I was once given a tea towel and a 10 year old bar of Nutrimetics soap for my birthday from my partner's parents. At that stage, I thought it was just because they didn't know me very well. How wrong I was. This Christmas they gave me... you are not going to believe this... a packet of paper serviettes with Christmas motifs on them. I shit you not. Even if I was the sort to use paper serviettes, I couldn't use them until next year anyway.

So, can you beat that?