Car Crash

Yesterday there was a car crash about twenty metres from my house. Full report is here, and it lead the news bulletins in Victoria last night. In short: Car drives up on footpath - 14 injured.

Yeah, I live in Lorne.

I was sitting in my front courtyard leaving a message on my friend Melody's phone at the time. The crash shook my house's windows and Melody later reported that it was clearly audible on the message.

Lorne is a small town of only 950 people, but at this time of year there's anywhere up to 20,000 people hanging about. It's a tourist town, right by the beach and there's plenty of holiday accommodation. Yesterday was perfect seaside weather. Sunny and blue sky, hot but not oppressive and thousands of people were walking around eating icecreams and yapping and being happy when this car suddenly drives up the footpath, plows through all the pedestrians and then crashes through a fence and lands on top of some other cars in a picnic area carpark at the resort.

I was on the scene in seconds - along with about a thousand other people who were either screaming in horrow, howling with trauma, assessing injuries, picking themselves off the ground where they had dived to get out of the way, or desperately trying to help.

Fortunately, nobody died (though one poor little kid has spinal damage).

My observations:

* The car that caused the damage was on top of some other cars, smoking badly, and I kid you not, about 60-80 people converged upon it to free the three occupants within seconds of it happening. I don't know much about cars and fire, but in the movies it would have exploded and who are we to say that it wouldn't happen in real life? There were so many people rushing to help that I almost had to join a queue to lend assistance. A few hours later it made me feel better about the human species. Say what you will of how horrible we all are, but in a crisis, we're not too bad. For about half an hour afterwards, anyone who looked slightly off was given attention, free food and drink from local cafes, anything they wanted. It was actually quite touching.

* Seeing the little kids in pain was awful, but just as awful was the trauma of their parents and families. I'm not a parent, so I can only imagine what they were going through. Those poor people.

* There happened to be a doctor walking past who took immediate control of the situation and was yelling orders at everyone (he told me off for offering water to victims... I never knew that would/could be a bad thing but I do now). He was bloody brilliant, and he was running from one victim to the next very quickly assessing the damage and giving stern but professional orders to everyone. Oh, and he was Vietnamese-looking. Hey, Pauline Hanson: FUCK YOU. I prefer a legend like this bloke in my country to you or anyone who digs you.

* Police, CFA, ambulances, SES, medical choppers and hospital transporters were all there in under six or seven minutes which was remarkable given a) the small town thing and b) the intense traffic jams. I sat back and marvelled at all of them.

In the end, aside from being one of the possibly hundreds that made the 000 call and offering a sip of water and a cigarette to one bloke who had managed to jump out of the way just in time, my involvement in this episode was zero. It was carnage outside my front door, but I was safe and snug, and all that's left this morning is a temporary fence... my best wishes go to all the injured and their families.

**

In other news, tomorrow, I'm going away for three nights with my new chick who I'm calling for the moment Andromeda 3.4 (if it gets serious, she's promoted to Andromeda 4.0). Going away and spending 72 hours together is perhaps a little risky so early in the romance, but I figure it will mean we can quickly determine whether or not there's a future in it. Here's hoping... but even if the romance dies, at least we'll be in good company whilst we're away: Nick Cave, The Saints, The Dirty Three, Smog. Music heaven on Mt. Buller. Can't wait.

Seeyas next week.

Fame is the spur

Despite being a radio journo, I still managed to get my face on the television news on a number of occasions – usually in a media scrum; a) looking bored, b) checking the sound levels, c) scowling or d) staring off into the middle distance, wondering when I could sneak away and have a quiet ciggie.

I never gave it any thought until I was standing in the check-out at Coles some years ago and the check-out chick said to me “You look familiar. Have I seen you on the tellie?”

There followed a slightly surreal conversation, where I attempted to persuade her that no, I wasn’t famous and my autograph would have very little re-sale value.

This got me thinking about what it must be like to be truly famous, to achieve that level of fame where you can’t even go to the cricket without your mug appearing in the papers and where bogans fell compelled to comment on your tattoo.

Much like Lara Bingle (left).

At some point you must start believing your own bullshit, that you are a wonderful, talented individual and anybody that thinks differently must be a “jelus h8ter”.

It must do your head in.

At which point you feel qualified to comment on Middle Eastern politics.

Dlisters demand "stop this now, please".

Eighties singer Grace Knight, formerly of the Eurogliders has joined the list of celebrities demanding Israel “something, something”.

Ms Knight appeared on stage with the leader singers of Wa Wa Nee, The Ted Mulry Gang and Brian Mannix to deliver an impassioned plea in something that closely resembled English.

“I’m just so appalled,” Ms Knight said.

“I mean I thought, like everybody else, we’d finally seen the last of Annie Lennox and bugger-me-dead – she pops up large as life and twice as gruesome.

“Well, two can play at that game sweetie.”

When asked what credentials or expertise she had on the Middle East and why she was suddenly taking an interest in a complicated situation dating back to the 1920s, Ms Knight attempted to break into a “funk-grove” before falling off the stage.

Reports that Boy George is contemplating re-issuing “War (is stupid)” has caused wide-spread rioting among music fans.

Perils at the Prince

I went to see Fleet Foxes at the Prince of Wales last night. Great gig, excellent band and a pretty good venue despite the fire risk.

Trouble is, I'm starting to think I don't enjoy gigs as much as I used to. Perhaps I'm getting too old. I mean, jesus, they didn't come on until 11.30. Most nights I've been in bed for at least an hour by then. I have a 3 year old, you see. Further, it's hell getting to the bar, when you do the beer is overpriced and forget trying to get to the toilets unless you want to miss half the set. Then there are the dickheads filming the show on their stupid phones (which should only be used to make calls as far as I'm concerned - and I'm no luddite) and yelling out for specific songs as though the band didn't have a set list or any idea about what they were going to do next.

There's always some 6 foot 5 arsehole standing right in front of me, a dancing looney to my right and a group of 3 clowns discussing the show, their shoes, the weather to my left. Finally, for some reason, I'm always the hapless sap who inadvertanty indicates to everyone present that the path between the toilets and the bar passes immediately in front of me. I spend much of my time manoeuvring out of people's way and jumping about in pain because some lumbering dimwit has stepped on my foot. And I paid $45 for the privilege. Lucky me.

Or does your belief in free-speech only stretch so far?

Readers with a long memory will recall Australia’s leading cry-baby cartoonist Michael Leunig got all hot and heavy back in 2006 when somebody send one of his hilarious anti-Semitic anti-Zionist drawings to the Iranian newspaper Hamshahri, without his permission.

The paper was running at the time a series of cartoons suggesting the Holocaust was a "malicious hoax".

Poor old Mike had a bit of a sook, suggesting it was all the work of the “pro-war lobby” and thanked Hamshahri. The Melbourne Age reported at the time;

Leunig said the editors of the Iranian website had been "the first to defuse this", removing the cartoon immediately and apologising. He said he was pleased the editors were "acting in the interests of truth".

Mike went further and said the Iranian Government “cared”.

It was later revealed the cartoon had been sent as a prank by one of The Chaser team – an organisation not previously noted for its blood-thirsty, pro-war rhetoric.

Perhaps Mike might now like to take up cudgels on behalf of an Iranian newspaper which has been recently shut down by the Government for daring to suggest Hamas may not, in fact, be heroic freedom fighters.

AFP notes;

The Iranian press watchdog shut down leading reformist newspaper Kargozaran on Wednesday over publication of a piece criticising Palestinian militants, the official IRNA news agency reported…

He said the ban was ordered over "a piece yesterday which justifies the Zionist regime's crimes against humanity in Gaza and portrays the Palestinian resistance as terrorists who cause the deaths of children and civilians by taking up position in kindergartens and hospitals."

How about it, Mike?

Bob is Legend

So anyway, I wake up to find that a virus has wiped out the Earth’s population except for me and 9 beautiful, ethnically diverse women aged between 18 and 35. We come together through a series of coincidences and ingenious communication methods far too complex to explain here, settle down to live together in a large mansion in East Melbourne overlooking the Fitzroy Gardens and get along swimmingly.

Luckily one of the beautiful women is an excellent chef and is more than happy to cook for the rest of us each night. The mansion has an excellent industrial kitchen. Another of the women, fortuitously, is a former topless model and domestic maid who is neither a bogan nor a nag. She keeps the place spotless and looks great doing it.

We live happily, have incredible sex and chat about literature, music and films. Until I start to get bored with living in Australia and decide I want to live in a castle in the south of France. Luckily, one of the girls is a sea captain, so we drive in a convoy of luxury 4WDs – global warming is no longer a concern – to Darwin where we commandeer a sturdy, oceangoing fishing vessel and set sail for mainland Asia. We soon make land, stumble across a limousine that holds 10 (one of the girls is, would you believe it, a chauffeur) and has a large stock of liquor (not that the supply of liquor is going to be a problem…although beer may be an issue after a year and wine after 20 but Janine, the chef, assures me she can brew both wine and beer, phew) and travel across Asia, the Middle East and Europe – stopping at various points of interest – until we reach the south of France. Food hasn’t been a problem yet: there’re plenty of tins of food and we, of course, collected plenty of stuff as we traveled.

Luckily for us, one of the girls happens to be a superb physician and surgeon (with a great set of tits it must be said) so sets our minds at ease regarding potentially fatal illnesses. The Indian girl is a farmer and sets about managing our property with a view to long term nutritional requirements. We gather sheep, goats, chickens and a brown cow by the name of Greg, begin growing vegetables and grain crops and soon become self sufficient. The engineer amongst us – Madderly the German – not only sucks great cock but manages to keep our electricity running via a generator powered by food scraps. She also builds an Archimedes screw to ensure constant fresh water – the river is a 12 minute walk from the drawing room. After several years we realise that we have, probably as a result of the virus, become immortal which I consider most convenient because I’m really starting to enjoy my new life.

Some of us take occasional trips to Africa and northern Europe and occasionally Asia, just to keep the relationship(s) alive, while several others stay home at the castle and hold the fort, so to speak. We’re occasionally tormented by packs of wild dogs but luckily Bambi is an excellent shot and keeps them at bay.

It’s a lovely life and only good seems to have come from the end of humanity as we know it.

New Year's Revolutions.

I’ve never understood this peculiar mania for making lists of improvements to be contemplated over the next year, otherwise known as “New Year Resolutions”.

Never done it, never will.

I could, theoretically;

Give up smoking – nup,

Cut down on the drinking – nup,

Exercise more – as if!

Still, tonight promises to be very special. Air Crash Investigation is on Seven.

Fuck, I love Air Crash Investigation.

Some holiday thoughts.

Christmas Day.
Oddly enough, the gathering of the Insertnamehere clan at Lenin House this year did not result in fist-fights, food-fights or agonised discussions about who did what to whom in 1976*.

From this I conclude the best way of dealing with my family is to shove vast amounts of food into them as soon as they arrive.

The Second Test.
Could this match get anymore exciting?

I spent most of Sunday, watching the game with my jaw firmly lodged on the floor.

And how fuckin’ good were JP Duminy and Dale Steyn**?

I hope you’re enjoying the match, Melba. It really doesn’t get much better than this.

Harold Pinter
Proof again that being a playwright of some note doesn’t stop you from being a complete cunt in other aspects.

And here was me thinking Ertha Kitt was rhyming slang.

*I didn’t even tell my sister to “put a feckin’ sock in it” when she kept rabbiting on and on about reflexology – such was my restraint.

**The answer – fuckin’ good!

I don't care who's making the feckin' gravy

People must know by now I’m a huge Paul Kelly fan but in the lead-up to Christmas, 774 in Melbourne has been flogging perhaps his worst song pretty much non-stop.

“How to make gravy” is a compendium of crap Paul Kelly songs; musically overblown, trite and schmaltzy.

But these lines really give me the flying shits.

Just add flour, salt, a little red wine and don’t forget a dollop of tomato sauce for sweetness and that extra tang.

Fuck Paul, who makes gravy like that?

Spoon the stuff out of the Gravox tin, whack it in some boiling water and get back on the sauce like everybody else.

And on that festive note, I’d like to wish all the wonderful CuntCunts at TSFKA best wishes and happy travelling.

See you when all this madness is over.

The "liberal blogosphere" can shove a stick up its collective clacker.

It seems, comrades, we’re ending the year pretty much as we started it.

The Canberra press gallery is disappearing up its own orifice at a rate of knots, the Australian is still looking for the brooding prince of Higgins, Peter Costello, to spring forth from the backbench to save the Libs and “Punter” Ponting still looks like a sour-faced prat.

One worrying trend however seems to be gathering pace; the slightly odd obsession for some of the current affairs blogs to worry obsessively about what all the other current affairs blogs are saying. Thus, Crikey* reports that the Rudd Government ETS plan is “wildly unpopular in the liberal blogosphere”.

And what “the liberal blogosphere’ inevitably seems to produce is either carping acceptance of Kruddy or vitriolic opposition – the sort of low-level whining you get when your fan-belt is slipping on the car or you’ve stumbled into a meeting of well-off NIMBYs.

Sections of the “blogosphere” reminds me of those terribly polite middle-class dinner parties (to which, happily, I am no longer invited) where everybody is terribly agreeable and terribly well read and can reproduce large slabs of comment from the Age or ABC without ever engaging their brains and nobody ever really disagrees.

Well, who gives a fuck?

Why should I care what a pack of cunts with an opinion and a computer think? I’m a cunt with an opinion and a computer and nobody cares what I think. Not even me.

It’s this nervous reluctance to move too far out from the pack that annoys me. If you have an opinion, for fuck’s sake express it.

Or not.

Up to you.

But spare me this timid cut and paste from “the liberal blogosphere”.

Oh and Salon opined recently:

There was a bit of controversy in the liberal blogosphere that's worth noting, if only for its implications regarding the future of blogging on the left.

Sweet Jesus!

*Which has been pretty shit** recently, so no surprises there.

** Apart from Firstdogonthemoon.