Sic transit gloria mundi, PSF.

Gloria Swanson. Not Gloria Mundi.

The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls

Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just

Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,

 Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,

And I don't feel so well myself.

You're just too hip, baby. Part two.

I'm third from the left.

Yesterday I went to the High Noon festival in High Street, Northcote for my annual dose of bands and beer*.

As somebody who participated in the hippest festival, in the hippest street, in the hippest suburb, of the hippest city in Australia**, I thought I’d post my observation of what’s hot and what’s not*** for you – the loyal readers of this nonsense.

For teh chicks;

• The sixties look is very big this year – possibly inspired by Amy Winehouse.
• Lesbians are big.
• Big lesbians are big.
• Beer is big.

For teh blokes;

• Beards are big. Half the blokes there looked like extras from the Story of the Kelly Gang, so this bodes very well for Mr Kettle.

For everyone;

• Tatts are outsville, baby. I don’t think I saw a single person under the age of 30 with a tatt, for which we should all be profoundly grateful.

Also, after a Melbourne winter, if you put a street full of pasty-white people out in the open on a sunny spring day – said people will be all sorts of interesting shades of red by the end.

Sunburn sucks dogs’ balls.

* Although I probably have a beer a bit more frequently than that.

** I’m sorry, but we just are.

*** Although, given how fast these things move, it’s probably already out of date.

An "oddly enough, this is how most of my former relationships finished" PSF

Except the current one, of course.

The current one ROCKS!!

It's over
You don't need to tell me
I hope you're with someone who makes you
feel safe in your sleeping tonight
I won't kill myself, trying to stay in your life
I got no distance left to run

When you see me
Please turn your back and walk away
I don't want to see you
Cos I know the dreams that you keep is wearing me
When you’re coming down, think of me here
I got no distance left to run

It's over, I knew it would end this way
I hope you're with someone who makes you feel
That this life is the night
And it settles down, stays around
Spends more time with you
I got no distance left to run

A poem about chickens. Huzzah!

The chick in the egg picks at the shell, cracks open one
        oval world, and enters another oval world.

“Cheep… cheep… cheep” is the salutation of
        the newcomer, the emigrant, the casual at the gates
        of the new world.

“Cheep… cheep” … from oval to oval, sunset
        to sunset, star to star.

It is at the door of this house, this teeny weeny egg-
        shell exit, it is here men say a riddle and jeer each
        other: who are you ? where do you go from here?

(In the academies many books, at the circus many sacks
        of peanuts, at the club rooms many cigar butts.)

“Cheep… cheep” … from oval to oval, sunset
        to sunset, star to star.

What. A Pack. Of Bastards.

The Age notes here.

Labor MP Craig Thomson cannot be guaranteed a parliamentary "pair" to attend the birth of his child if it occurs during the period of the carbon tax debate.

"We have made it crystal clear that only in the most extraordinary circumstances will pairs be offered for the carbon tax vote," Mr Abbott told reporters during a visit to Tumbi Umbi in Mr Thomson's NSW central coast electorate of Dobell.

Update.

Tones has now announced he will grant a pair if Mr Thomson's wife goes into labour.

Smooth move, Tones.

What the what!?

Oh goody. I'm in the Olympic spirit already.

As many of you will be aware, I’ve given up on political commentary in this country as all too often, it reduces me to a spittle-flecked rage.

Unfortunately, upon reading that The Clash’s mighty 1979 song “London Calling” is being used as part of the countdown to the London 2012 Olympics has reduced me to a spittle-flecked rage.

Again*.

What I suspect happened is that some 20-something “marketing consultant”, who has never heard of The Clash or indeed heard “London Calling”, had the brainwave** of thinking “Oh, this song has the word London in it. The London Olympics are coming up. We’ll use this song.”

Right, because nothing says “Olympic frolics” like a song about the coming apocalypse, environmental destruction, political repression and possible violent death.

And I don’t know about you, but the lines

London calling to the faraway towns

Now that war is declared-and battle come down

have me just itching to book tickets.

Once again, a precious part of my youth has been pissed away in some stupid marketing campaign.

* Any suggestion that “spittle-flecked rage” is my default setting is a foul slander.

** Possibly as part of “blue-sky***” thinking.

*** Whatever that is.