Monday, May 31, 2010
Songstress had her CD launch on the weekend.
Being that last time I wrote about my lovelife she was in the number one spot as potential girlfriend, you'd think I would be excited about attending, but no. I was ambivalent to the max.
I got dumped, sort of, you see. You may recall that I was one of three lovers on rotation in Songstress's life, but this list has been culled to one and that one is not me. Buff Man got the gig. Not that Songstress actually told me this. I heard it from her cousin, Miss Flatmate. But, my dignity still clinging, I decided to go to the CD launch anyway so as not to appear frail.
I had it all planned. Take Ponygirl. That would send a message of, "See, I don't need you anyway. I can attend a CD launch with your other lovers, because, well, look here, I have other lovers of my own..." and Ponygirl was up for the role.
Thing is but, Ponygirl pulled out three days' before. She had double-booked, and the other booking was a family birthday party in the country and so I lost my date.
So, I just went with some mates, as well as Miss Flatmate.
I got there, and Miss Flatmate looked haggard and tired and when I asked what she wanted to drink she said, "Water."
"What's up with you?" I asked.
She said, "Oh, I went on a massive all night bender with Ponygirl last night."
"What? My Ponygirl?"
Bear in mind, they only met two months ago, through me. I didn't even know they had each other's numbers, let alone were likely to hang out.
"It was massive," she said, "We went to this huge party and ate magic mushrooms and were dancing and tripping off our heads, as well as drinking, and we didn't get to sleep until 6am."
"Umm," I said, "Don't tell me she stayed at your house,"
"Yeah, she did. Why?"
"Did Ponygirl, umm, come across Songstress at your house?"
"Yeah, they had a quick chat in the morning."
"For fuck's sake," I said, "First of all, you are one of my best friends, Ponygirl is my lover and one of my best friends, and the two of you met through me only recently, and did it occur to either of you to invite me to this awesome night of decadence? I was at home watching Battlestar Glactica DVD's like a total spasmo! Second of all, I'm not too comfortable with Ponygirl and Songstress, two girls who I slept with within a week of each other, meeting in hallways."
"Whatever," said Miss Flatmate.
Buff Man was then pointed out to me. Wow. Talk about the anti-me. He was rugged and handsome, a little short but stocky and buff, with scraggly long hair, a tan, three day growth and a flanny shirt. There I was, tall-ish, scrawny, clean-cut, pale and in a suit. It was almost amusing.
Songstress performed her set, and ten minutes after it, I gave Songstress a kiss, said, "Well done," dutifully bought a CD and got the hell out of there.
We went to The Retreat in Brunswick, and someone had pills, so we had one.
At 3am, Miss Flatmate announced there was an 'Alice In Wonderland' party going on, so we decided to walk to it. It took 40 minutes to walk there, but when you're drunk and on a pill, it doesn't matter.
I was at the party for all of five seconds. I had just come through the back gate, and some people came in behind me. It was the cops. And, because I happened to be just inside the gate, they decided to approach the first person they saw, which was me.
"Whose party is this?"
"You need to turn the music down,"
"Where is the host of this party?"
"No idea. I just got here. I don't even know what suburb I'm in."
They looked at me and thought, "This man is obviously on drugs, and we have no interest in talking to him any further."
They left me alone.
We were at the party for no longer than ten minutes when Mad Irishman decided we were all moving on.
Back at Mad Irishman's house there was me, him, and two girls. One was Leggy, who is the lover of Fanboy, a member of my band (you may remember from ages ago that Leggy once tried to hook me up with her friend who looked like a horse, but instead I picked up a Mormon). The other girl back at Mad Irishman's house was Leggy's best friend, Spiderwoman, a goth. Both girls are 20 years old.
We drank a bottle of wine and it was 5am. Time for bed.
There were two beds, and Mad Irish said, "I'm not sleeping with Perseus, so I think that one girl should come with me and one with Perseus. I can be trusted not to attempt to have sex with either of you girls, but I will probably put my arm around you."
I said, "I can be trusted with you Leggy, as you are Fanboy's girlfriend. I won't even put my arm around you. But Spiderwoman, I can't be trusted with you. If you are in bed with me I will jump you. That can be guaranteed."
So Leggy says, "In which case, I shall sleep in the bed with Perseus, because I know him very well and know he can be trusted with me."
Spiderwoman said, "And I don't know you at all Mad Irishman, and don't know if you can be trusted or not. So, I will only sleep in a bed with Leggy."
Therefore, I had the two girls in bed with me, and Mad Irish had a drunken tantrum about this along the lines of, "It's my house but Perseus gets to sleep with the two girls" and we're not sure what happened to him because when we awoke the next day he was gone.
In bed, I was on the end, Leggy in the middle, being a protector, and Spiderwoman on the other end. I announced that given even a slight chance, I would jump Spiderwoman, but not whilst Leggy was in the bed. We stayed awake and chatted, and then Leggy got up to go to the bathroom. She gave us five minutes. I rolled over and Spiderwoman and I snogged and copped a bit of a feel for the five minutes, then Leggy returned. I was satisfied with that, and we all went to sleep.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Now Bill was going to sell his packhorse, a well-bred mare, in Bourke, and he was anxious to get her into the yards before the horse sales were over; this was to be the last day of the sales. Jim was the best “barracker” of the two; he had great imagination; he was a very entertaining story-teller and conversationalist in social life, and a glib and a most impressive liar in business, so it was decided that he should hurry on into Bourke with the mare and sell her for Bill. Seven pounds, reserve.
Next day Bill turned up with the missing horse and saw Jim standing against a veranda-post of the Carriers’ Arms, with his hat down over his eyes, and thoughtfully spitting in the dust. Bill rode over to him.
“’Ullo, Bill. I see you got him.”
“Yes, I got him.’’ Pause.
“Where’d yer find him?”
“’Bout ten mile back. Near Ford’s Bridge. He was just feedin’ along.”
Pause. Jim shifted his feet and spat in the dust.
“Well,” said Bill at last. “How did you get on, Jim?”
“Oh, all right,” said Jim. “I sold the mare.”
“That’s right,” said Bill. “How much did she fetch?”
“Eight quid;” then, rousing himself a little and showing some emotion, “An’ I could ’a’ got ten quid for her if I hadn’t been a dam’ fool.”
“Oh, that’s good enough,” said Bill.
“I could ’a’ got ten quid if I’d ’a’ waited.”
“Well, it’s no use cryin’. Eight quid is good enough. Did you get the stuff?”
“Oh, yes. They parted all right. If I hadn’t been such a dam’ fool an’ rushed it, there was a feller that would ’a’ given ten quid for that mare.”
“Well, don’t break yer back about it,” said Bill. “Eight is good enough.”
“Yes. But I could ’a’ got ten,” said Jim, languidly, putting his hand in his pocket.
Pause. Bill sat waiting for him to hand over the money; but Jim withdrew his hand empty, stretched, and said:
“Ah, well, Bill, I done it in. Lend us a couple o’ notes.”
Jim had been drinking and gambling all night and he’d lost the eight pounds as well as his own money.
Bill didn’t explode. What was the use? He should have known that Jim wasn’t to be trusted with money in town. It was he who had been the fool. He sighed and lent Jim a pound, and they went in to have a drink.
Now it strikes me that if this had happened in a civilized country (like England) Bill would have had Jim arrested and jailed for larceny as a bailee, or embezzlement, or whatever it was. And would Bill or Jim or the world have been any better for it?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Well, this blog has stumbled through another year and what a wild old topsy turvey/roller coaster/Malcolm Turnbull sort of year it’s all been.
Some highlights for me include;
- After what seemed an eternity of love-gumbyiness, Perseus has finally ended up with more hot rumpy-pumpy than one could poke a stick at,
- Puss revealed the extend of her slightly disturbing obsession with shoes and hand-bags,
- Everybody’s favourite poster, EMS, toddled off to the one place colder than Hobart and unleashed her hitherto unsuspected political reportage skills.
But in what was surely a Lost style moment of revelation, Alex was unmasked as a chick.
Bet you didn’t see that one coming!!
I can only speculate that the creator of this blog, Stubbadub, has retreated into some “Mister Kurtz” style madness, peering at his creation from time to time only to mutter “the horror, the horror”.
Also – my local Labor Commonwealth MP just rang, wanting to know if I would have a “Vote Labor” sign in my front yard for the federal election.
Things are afoot!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Pre-pompous era Costello.
It is rare that I ever agree with a right-wing politician, but I have to agree with this Israeli, in response to Elvis Costello being a blouse and cancelling his Tel Aviv concert - a lame, lame-o act of protest:
Culture Minister Limor Livnat, a member of the ruling, right-wing Likud Party, said that ''an artist who boycotts his Israeli fan base is not worthy of performing in front of them''.
For fuck's sake Mr. Costello, do you think cancelling a concert has any positive ramifications for Israel-Palestinian conflict at all? Will it stop Jewish settlements stupidly expanding in Palestinian held territories? Will it have influence over Hamas's charter to kill Jews and destroy Israel? No, and no.
You idiot, Elvis. You make your namesake (who used to shoot his TV when he got disgruntled with a TV show) seem postively level-headed.
Snoop Dogg also cancelled his Israeli concerts. I bet there was weeping in the streets of Jerusalem over that.
Of more concern that some pompous four-eyed musician cancelling a concert is my own Government expelling an Israeli diplomat over some forged passports.
I've been a Rudd apologist thus far. I've let him get away with insulation debacles, boring corporate-speak speeches and earwax consumption, but this time, I'm prepared to call him and his crony Stephen Smith a couple of geese for expelling the diplomat.
So some Mossad agents sneaked into Dubai to whack a genocidal psychopath? Good. So they used some forged Australian passports? Big whoop. I'm more than happy to lend them mine if they rid the world of psychos like that Hamas maniac.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a total Israel apologist. They should get the fuck out of Gaza and West Bank. They should get their extreme right 'God promised us this land so it's ours' religious psychos and slap them in the face, and deprive them of input to any political debate. They should go to great lengths to make Arabs living in Israel feel like they are part of a nation, with equal rights and voice.
But conversely, they should not, ever, do anything to support an organisation that exists predominantly in order to kill Jews. Namely, Hamas.
I;ve said it before and I say it again. Israel is a nation, and as such, has a right to protect itself, just as we do. And if New Zealand were lobbing bombs at us, and it was in their constitution to kill us, I'd want my Government to fuck them up.
No doubt in that scenario, if we did retaliate, Elvis Costello would cancel his Melbourne and Sydney concert dates.
Has he had a hit song since the early 80's anyway?
Hey Elvis... I'll take your act of protest seriously when you ban sales of your albums in both Israel AND Iran.
PS: I was in an Elvis Costello film clip when I was a teenager!
Monday, May 24, 2010
A woman lay comatose inside the store while a man wearing an Essendon jumper* prowled the grocery items shouting about “white cunts”.
The woman ahead of me at the check-out was making polite chit-chat to the check-out chick.
“Goodness, seems to be a busy day,” she observed.
“Oh no” replied the chick, “it’s pretty usual. We always seem to have something going on around here.”
The process of gentrification seems to have someway to go in my neck of the woods.
*Happily The Boy didn’t notice the Essendon jumper, as he may have asked for an autograph.
Friday, May 21, 2010
This is one of my favourites...
In the garden, small laughter from years ago.
Lanterns burning in the willows.
The power of those four words, "I loved a woman."
Put that on the stone beside his name.
God keep you and be with you.
Those horses coming into the stretch at Ruiduso!
Mist rising from the meadow at dawn.
From the veranda, the blue outlines of the mountains.
What used to be within reach, out of reach.
And in some lesser things, just the opposite is true.
Order anything you want! Then look for the man
with the limp go by. He'll pay.
From a break in the wall, I could look down
on the shanty lights in the Valley of Kidron.
Very little sleep under strange roofs. His life far away.
Playing checkers with my dad. Then he hunts up
the shaving soap, the brush and bowl, the straight
razor, and we drive to the country hospital. I watch him
lather my grandpa's face. Then shave him.
The dying body is a clumsy partner.
Drops of water in your hair.
The dark yellow of the fields, the black and blue rivers.
Going out for a walk means you intend to return, right?
The flame is guttering. Marvelous.
The meeting between Goethe and Beethoven
took place in Leipzig in 1812. They talked into the night
about Lord Byron and Napoloeon.
She got off the road and from then on it was nothing
but hardpan all the way.
She took a stick and in the dust drew the house where
they'd live and raise their children.
There was a duck pond and a place for horses.
To write about it, one would have to write in a way
that would stop the heart and make one's hair stand on end.
Cervantes lost a hand in the Battle of Lepanto.
This was in 1571, the last great sea battle fought
in ships manned by galley slaves.
In the Unuk River, in Ketchikan, the backs of the salmon
under the street lights as they come through town.
Students and young people chanted a requiem
as Tolstoy's coffin was carried across the yard
at the stationmaster's house at Astapovo and placed
in the freight car. To the accompaniment of singing
the train slowly moved off.
A hard sail and the same stars everywhere.
But the garden is right outside my window.
Don't worry your heart about me, my darling.
We weave the thread given to us.
And Spring is with me.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
It was 1985, and I, like all other 15 year olds at Generic High in the suburbs was heavily into a diet of popular music, as played on 3XY and later on, EON FM (which became MMM).
From 1983 (Year Nine) onward, I followed a popular trajectory. We all liked early INXS, and being boys, throw Oils and Chisels and Angels and Springsteen into the mix. We danced around at parties or at the blue-lights (or Skateranch) to Thriller, Purple Rain, FGTH, and, assuming we got our hands on alcohol (UDLs or Brandivino at $3.99 a bottle), we'd tolerate dancing to Madonna, Culture Club and Uncanny X-Men becxause that's what all the girls we were trying to pash liked.
There's a line in a Courtney Love song about her high school years,
"Everyone's the same
We look the same
We talk the same"
And that kinda summed up growing up in the burbs, and that extended to our music tastes. You wouldn't dare like something nobody knew cos you'd be ostracised. Top 40... that was all you had to know. I guess I had a slight kink in that I had older sisters who were into 70's Bowie and The Doors, and so I was perhaps ready, deep down, to take some kink in my music appreciation.
As it happens, I can pinpoint the moment. I was watching, I think, Rock Arena, after school, and they played three songs by this new Scottish band The Jesus and Mary Chain. I had never heard anything like it before. The video featured below for the song 'You Trip Me Up' was my favourite of the three. The way they were running around the beach in leather, seemingly disinterested in performing for the camera... it was all so, non Culture Club.
I rushed out to buy the cassette (yes, cassette) but of course Brashs in Eastland and Box Hill didn't stock it (though they probably has hundreds of 12" mixes of Kids In The Kitchen's latest) and I had to order it in.
When I finally owned the casette, I played it full volume on a tinny cassette player in my bedroom. Mum rushed in, all excited, because she thought I was vaccuuming. That album, 'Psycho Candy' is still regularly played in my house, and 'Some Candy Talking' is one of my all time favourite songs.
I couldn't stop playing the album. The feedback appealed to me, I don't know why, and so I searched for more songs like it which eventually got me to RRR. I heard The Birthday Party do 'Big Jesus Trash Can' and that, in turn, lead me to be firmly in the 'alternative music' camp, which in turn lead me to all sorts of Uni dropouts, changes in artistic focusses and goals in life. Like, within months at age 16, my wardrobe had changed, my hair changed, I preferred to read Lord Byron poems than accountancy study texts so I did, and my 45 of Duran Duran's 'Reflex' was used as a frisbee.
I saw JMC live in about '89 and when they played this song I felt a special pang... also, Jim reid (the singer) touched me on the head.
I kid you not, this song changed me as a person. If I missed Rock Arena that night, I may have ended up being the economist I was supposed to be, with a complete Coldplay and Pink collection, and maybe I;d be able to name more than one Britney Spears songs (I know 'Womaniser').
Enjoy, or not.
Monday, May 17, 2010
It's really messy right now, but at least I'm gettin' some.
Aside from me, there are 4 characters in this tale.
1. Ponygirl: My former lover, and unrequited love of my (recent) life, 26 years old. As you may recall, she has spent a lot of time with me this year, but she refused to have sex with me since returning from 9 months overseas.
2. Songstress: My more viable love interest. Single, 30 years old, mutual friends. She and I did sleep together, but from then on we struggled to meet up because she's always busy. She briefly took another lover, but dumped him, contacted me and was supposed to come on the road trip but her cousin Miss Flatmate scuttled that plan. We caught up once after the roadtrip and it was okay... but there was no sex.
3. Miss Flatmate: 22 years old, cousin and flatmate of the Songstress and fan of my band. A close friend who spends a lot of time with me as I pay her to work on my garden. That's not a euphemism. I'm growing a native garden.
4. Miss Rat: Divorcee, mother of three children, 41 years old, former bikini model, has been my friend since we were fifteen years old.
After the roadtrip I decided to really apply myself to the whole Songstress thing. But, she just bought a house and is moving soon, plus her two bands are working heavily, the album comes out next week, plus she works a variety of jobs and has hardly any time to spare. She kept making dates with me, then cancelling. In amidst all that, I got a call from my old friend Miss Rat who invited me around for a night. "I've just finished breast-feeding the youngest," she said, "...and I haven't had sex since conceiving him more than two years ago. I need some attention." I think Gen Y refer to this as a "booty call". I obliged, for old time's sake. Having known her for 25 years, we have, over the times, in between her three marriages, shagged often. She's into bondage, which makes me giggle, but if I drink enough I can play the role she expects me to. So, I went over and spent the night and it was fun. I hadn't had sex for two months (Songstress was the last - Feb)and it was all cool. Since that night, Miss Rat has taken on two other lovers. A local cop, and a neighbour, plus me (in theory, even though I haven't been back, but I'll be visiting next week).
Songstress was supposed to come down to me the following weekend, but she cancelled on the Friday. She said she would be definitely come down the following weekend.
Then she cancelled again on that next Thursday.
I got annoyed. We're supposed to be in the 'getting to know you' phase and we just never see each other. I offered to come up to Melbourne many times but she kept saying no, so I gave up on her.
Ponygirl happened to ring and I said, "Songstress just cancelled me for about the 10th time. Wanna come down for the weekend?" and she did.
I thought it would be our usual sort of weekend. Get drunk, play rummikub, have no sex. She announced when we sat down that she has two lovers in Melbourne... Young Lesbian, and Lapsed Catholic Boy. I said, "I'm a bit jealous, but at least I got some with my bondage friend, Miss Rat."
Anyway, one thing lead to another, and after a 15 month drought, Ponygirl and I shagged. I think it was because she knew I was getting some elsewhere, and I was less of a chance to start hassling her to be my girlfriend, especially given that she has two lovers in Melbourne anyway. We spent Friday to Monday together, and there was much physical activity.
We caught up again last Tuesday night, briefly. Dinner on Sydney Road, and Miss Flatmate also came along. I said to Miss Flatmate, "Your cousin Songstress is supposed to come down to my place this weekend, but she'll probably cancel again, as she always does."
"She probably will cancel," said Miss Flatmate, "Because, well, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but she has two lovers at the moment. Buff Handsome Man and Hip-Hop Guy."
"Fucken hell," I said, "Well, that's okay, cos Ponygirl and I hooked up, and Miss Rat and I hooked up as well," and the three of us had a laugh.
But deep down, I was upset. As much as I love Ponygirl, I have given up on having her as a girlfriend. I must be content with having her as close friend, and sometimes lover. But Songstress... she was an option, and it turns out, she's just not that into me.
Sure enough, like clockwork, Friday night just gone, Songstress rings and says, "Sorry, have to cancel the weekend."
"Why?" I asked.
"Look, to tell you the truth Perseus, I've been shagging these two guys in Melbourne."
"I know," I said, "Your cosin Miss Flatmate dobbed on you. Hip-Hop guy and Buff Handsome Man. I know all about them"
"Little dobber!" she yelled.
"But I don't care. I have two lovers myself. Ponygirl and Miss Rat. And each of them have an extra two lovers. There must be something in the air."
"Oh, in that case, if we're being all open about it, I'll come down," she said.
And she did. She came down Saturday night and we had a great night, and we're catching up Tuesday night in Melbourne.
So, I have three lovers (rains, pours): Miss Rat, Songstress and Ponygirl.
Miss Rat has three lovers: Me, Local Cop and Neighbour.
Ponygirl has three lovers: Me, Young Lesbian and Lapsed Catholic Boy.
Songtsress has three lovers: Me, Buff Handsome Man and Hip-Hop guy.
That's a love triangle with ten points (cop that, geometrists).
The fuck? Honestly, I don't know how I get myself into these things. Actually, I do. Desperation. Clinging at straws. Bachelordom does weird things to your head. You may think, "Oh stop complaining, you're getting sex and you're in the mix," and it's true to an extent, I'm having fun when I am with these women, but the in-between times are a barren emotional wilderness. I have that sick feeling in the stomach. I feel rotten, and used in a way, and a user in another way. It's rubbish.
The only positive I can put on it is that after three years of having only Ponygirl in my wider romantic net, Songstress has at least matched her. I've ruined all other chances at romance over the past three years because whoever I meet just doesn;t compare to Ponygirl, and finally, I found one that does. It's just that she happens to have two other lovers.
I don't know how all this will end, but in a fortnight, Songstress has her album launch and there will be at least 6 of the 10 players in this fruity melodrama at the show. Maybe that'll be the next post.
Oh, and as an aside: I actually told this yarn to a chick I know, a 22 year old Goth called Batgirl, and she immediately asked if she could come down for a night of lust. I said no, but that's not the point. The point is that she found it sexy. Aren't girls supposed to be put off by guys who 'play the field'? Why, after just telling this girl I have three lovers, did she want to be a fourth? This is the exact opposite of what people are supposed to be like.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One ray the more, one shade the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
All complaints, suggestions, whinges along the lines of "I only like poems about trains/owls/giants squids" should be directed to my agent (pictured above).
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
"Women are no longer owned by their father and then their husband"*
(Deveny on insecure, conservative, stupid women who change their names when they marry)
Well duh Fred. There’s just one problem. If a woman keeps her maiden name then it’s almost certain that it belonged to her father or, if she has adopted her mother’s maiden name, then it probably belonged to her mother’s father. And so on and so on right back to when she was some bloke’s rib
Obviously it would make more sense to have a matrilineal surname descent system because we all know who the **mother is. Take the case of Jesus. But we only think we know who the father is
To truly wipe the patriarchal slate clean, you’d have to start again and create a new name and until you do that, don’t claim that you’re way more feminist than everyone else because you hung onto to your daddy’s name. Or because you concocted some double barrelled husband-father eyesore in the belief that this makes you feminist. It doesn’t. It makes you someone with a patrilineal double whammy, you idiot.
Keep your maiden name because you like it or change it because you want to but don’t get all feminist-superior with me (unless you have made up your own surname and it's She-Ra, in which case you are way cool)
*except of course in charming countries like Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nigeria, and Saudi Arabia
** except when nurse puts ID bracelet on wrong baby
Friday, May 7, 2010
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Quite a wordsmith, that Will.
It’s impossible not to hear that speech without wanting to get to your feet and invade France.
And I quite like the French.
Although it’s just as well that he didn’t write
Then imitate the action of the cat;
Wake up, demand food,
Then returnth to sleep.
Which robs it somewhat of its grandeur.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
What’s interesting was the speed and the terse nature of the announcement in the paper this morning.
The paper noted at the bottom of the replacement column;
“Catherine Deveney’s column will no longer appear in The Age. A new writer will be introduced in coming weeks.”
That’s it. No “good luck on your new venture”, no “thanks for all your work for the paper over the years”. This is the newspaper equivalent of “fuck off and be eaten by wolves – you mad bitch”.
This won’t be a popular opinion here but I’m sorry The Dev is gone. She was always passionate, you were never in doubt about what she was thinking and she was always ready to pick a fight. With anybody.
A mate of mine summed her up by saying “she’d rather have a fight than a fuck, that woman”.
Above all, she wasn’t afraid to be angry – and that’s a rare thing in a female columnist. She didn’t write about shoes or frocks or “whoops, what a klutz I am, silly old me”.
I didn’t always agree with what she said but I’m glad she said it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Now I’d rather staple wolverines to my genitals than go and see this film, which is neither here nor there, but what did baffle me was that in one puff piece, Mr Helliar was described as “one of Melbourne’s most beloved comedians”.
To which the only reasonable response is “sez who?”
I have no strong personal opinion about Mr Helliar either way. For all I know, he might be an absolute top bloke, loves his mum and pats kittens on the head on the way to work. What I find to be a bit of a puzzler is the above cited description of “most beloved comedian”.
A quick squiz of Mr Helliar’s Wikipedia entry reveals a string of capers, including The Bounce and the radio show he co-hosted with Myf Warhurst, all of which have crashed and burned owing to the fact that not really that many people took any interest in them.
If Mr Helliar really is one of “Melbourne’s most beloved comedians”, then we have an odd way of showing it.
Same with that Magda Szubanski chick. We’re constantly told how loved she is but just about every show in which she starred, tanked.
It’s all very perplexing.