Madness for you at home.

The therapuss can see you now

Some of the semi-regular followers of my gibberish will remember I’ve been battling my natural tendency to be an arsehole, through a variety of means.

As part of this self-absorbed narcissism brave battle I’ve been seeing a therapist on and off for a couple of months now.

It’s hard going but I think, worthwhile. Part of the strategy is to unpack my fairly disastrous family history and put in place the tools I need to ensure I don’t pass this onto my son.

But the best point is – the clinic is just opposite a pub, which for a depressive alcoholic such as myself is pure gold!

Nothing better than a couple of quiet Coopers after a hard hour of wrestling the ol’ destructive inner demons*.

Therapy rocks!

*Not the football team.

Monday Sports Wrap

Motor-Racing

Apparently the Melbourne Formula 1 Grand Prix was on yesterday.

Who won?* Who cares? The organisers should be arrested.

I can see why motor sport attracts public interest, sponsors and bikini girls. It's glamorous, and, for motor enthusiasts like Stubbadub, it's a gripping contest featuring man and machine. But as a 'sport' it's failing, badly.

For starters, the Victorian State Government loses money. We don't know how much because this is never made clear, and it's hard to guage anyway unless they have some futuristic machine that can work out exactly how much every single visitor/patron spends on every gumstick, can o'Fosters and Bar 20 VIP passes. All we know is that it runs at a generalised loss. So really, the Government spends money in order to make overseas manufacturers and drivers richer, provide Max Mosley enough dosh to indulge in his more etxreme sexual fantasies and give a platform to Sir Richard Branson to pontificate about, umm, whatever the Hell it is he pontificates about surrounded by hot chicks.

But to compound the loss, numbers are down. In Melbourne, we don't really care anymore. We only really cared the first year - and even then, it was just the bogans blinded by Jeff Kennett's 'panem et circe' style of governance ("Yeah, he closed my local school, hospital, railway and now I have to pay to use roads that were once free... but he got us the Grand Prix!")

To illustrate: My friend Melody reported that her two sons, at Primary School, had their school excursion to the Grand Prix on Friday (warmup day). That's how desperate they are for numbers. They have to bus school kids in.

Also; At the footy Thursday night, there were heaps of people handing out brochures advertising 'The Who' concert... in fine print down the bottom was something about how you have to go to the Grand Prix to see them. When you need a band to attract an audience to a sporting event, the sporting event is cheapened.

The thing is, sports are meant to pay for themselves. The local netball team don't have The Who playing at their grand final because they can't afford it. The Grand Prix can't afford them either... luckily for them, the State Government pays the bill.

After ten years, it's time to get rid of this white elephant. Adelaide: You can have it back now. Thanks for the loan.

*Apparently, a man called 'Button'. Heh.

Footy

Richmond are shit.

Oooo - a political poem.

Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.

Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Great triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?

Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?

So many particulars.
So many questions.

I was going to post Tigerland, but I didn't think Perseus would be in the mood.

Crikey, why bother?

Very interesting piece from the electronic magazine Inside Story, about the Queensland election and the malign role played by the News Limited papers.

Veteran journalist Geoffrey Barker argues;

But perhaps more importantly the media’s Queensland election debacle exposed two disturbing aspects of contemporary Australian political journalism. The first is the apparent spin that is put on the interpretation of events by News Limited papers; the second is the strong tendency of other media to follow News Limited’s lead – especially when they have the empirical support of polls commissioned by News Limited.

It’s well written and convincing and I urge you to have a look.

It also explains how Crikey’s Andrew Crook could produce this howler on the Thursday before the Queensland election;

Even if the ALP somehow squeaks home on Saturday, it would be galling indeed for the Queensland Left if its most senior campaigner Wood ended up costing his internal ally Bligh the election. But with the finger pointing already beginning in earnest, it seems Bligh, Kaiser and Wood may have already boarded a slow train to political oblivion.

“Squeaks home” eh? Oh dear. What a schlub.

Really, if Crikey is just going to parrot the nonsense talked in the mainstream media – then what’s the point?

Two signs.

Posted up outside my local railway station.


ATTENTION THIEVES

This is a working class suburb.

If you must steal, steal from the rich.


In my local supermarket.

Order your fish now for Lent.


From this I conclude I live in a suburb dominated by radical left-wingers and Catholics.

Possibly radical left-wing Catholics.

Who can say?

Oh, FFS!

Thank you yes, I will have another beer.

The Melbourne media, politicians, talk-back hosts and that cat who lives down the road in my street and keeps shitting in my front yard have been in a mad flap over this, with much hand wringing and cries of woe.

Imagine! A fight! In a nightclub! On Saturday night!

Hand me the soup spoons and escape pack comrades, there’s alcohol-fuelled violence in the city – sometimes, with not many people hurt.

Get a sense of perspective chaps.

Violence in inner city Melbourne is nothing new. Read any newspaper from the turn of the last century and gangs would be fighting in the streets with razors. Fitzroy and Collingwood were “no-go” regions*. Violence is obviously distressing for those caught up in it but to assume things are getting worse is a nonsense.

And now that Marcus Einfeld is in the slammer, can we get rid of this stupid, stupid “National Living Treasures” sheep shit. It’s meaningless, pompous, twee gibberish – much like Radio National, really.

Run your eyes over this list from 2003 and one name stands out (apart from Marcus Einfeld, that is)

The Most Rev Peter Hollingworth AO OBE

Whoops.

And John Farnham!? Somebody has to be taking the piss, surely?

*They’re still “no-go” regions, but for very different reasons.

Skeletons In The Closet

All names in this post have been dramatically changed.

In a post I made a few weeks ago about my trip to the Mallee Desert, I made mention of how I stopped in the town of Ouyen on the way to Ponygirl's farm to do some research on my paternal side's family history.

At the Ouyen Historical Society's chambers (open Fridays) I found old rates' ledgers, old town maps and some other stuff featuring my great-grandparents.

They asked me to write down in the guest book any specific requests I had, and I wrote something vague like, "Looking for information on the Kneejerk family."

Well, yesterday, in the mail, came a letter from one of the old ladies at the centre who had, in her own time, compiled a whole geneaology for me. It must be her hobby or something, and I much appreciated it as not only did it have all the information as to when my grandfather and his siblings were born, married and so on, but it even had some information on my great-great grandparents (from Ararat and Ballarat apparently).

The one that shone out though was the entry for my grandfather's marriage.

It said: Leonard Arthur Kneejerk married Irene Rosenberg, 1931 (reg: 8236).

That's all well and good, except... who the fuck is Irene Rosenberg? My grandmother was Antonia Fairbairn, and she married my grandfather Leonard in 1935! When she was pregnant with my eldest Aunt!

I can now only assume that my grandfather was married once before. My Dad had never mentioned this to me, and indeed, he may not even know. Nobody might know! I may be the only person in the Kneejerk family that knows this. What do I do? Do I tell Dad? "Hey Day, did you know Pa was married before he married Nana?"

My grandfather died in 1992, and may have thought he took the secret to the grave. My grandmother died a couple of years after that. Dad is 70. Is this the sort of thing to tell a 70 year old man?

My grandfather Leonard was an odd man. I remember his as a grump, but a very interesting one. He was a voracious reader, a communist, a mad sports fan, incredibly well-dressed (after his retirement he sat in a chair in his Ascot Vale housing-commission flat for about twenty years wearing 3 piece suits, chain smoking from a pipe and downing a bottle of whiskey every day) and was only interested in discussing literature, philosophy, politics and sport. If the discussion was along the lines of "How's the health / kids / meal?" he'd not speak.

Hm. Like grandfather, like grandson.

I never saw him walk, though apparently he got his haircut every Wednesday.

Maybe his lack of sociability was all just a 50 year ploy to avoid ever disclosing his previous life.

At his funeral there were a group of people none of us knew. They weren't Masons. He hated Masons. We assumed they were Communists. They stood there, paid their respects, and then left, refusing to answer questions.

I'm now thinking they were Rosenbergs.

Sports Wrap

By Captain Perseus Kneejerk.

Athletics

Tamsyn Lewis won her 15th National Title on the weekend. FIFTEENTH! And, in winning the 400m Hurdles, it is the third event she has won a national title for (along with the 800m and 400m). Admittedly, there's no way she would have won if Jana Rawlinson/Pittman was not injured, but you can only beat the opponents that turn up on the day. What makes her hurdle win even more impressive is that she only started practising the hurdles a couple of months ago. At age 30, she decides, "Hm, might jump over hurdles." She jumps over them like a retarded reindeer, and still wins the NATIONAL TITLE. I've posted about Tamsyn before and I'll reiterate my point again: She is a magnificent athlete, and has magnificent boobs. One point does not invalidate the other.

Tamsyn Lewis: "Gaw!"




Cricket

McGain. Oh McGain. My heart bleeds. 0/149 from 18 overs. Jesus wept. But equally shamed should be the selectors. There seems to be a global agreement amongst cricket-playing nations that "Yer hafta have a spinner! Yer godda have a spinner!". Why? Surely, you just pick the best four bowlers no matter what they bowl? And anyway, we have Clarke and Katich in the team, who, as predominantly batsmen, happen to be fine exponents of spin bowling on the side. Why didn't they just bring the next best bowler into the team? Or even another batsman, and get Clarke and Katich to share the spin duties?

But even more noteworthy last night was Mitchell Johnson's century. He's a bowler. And, he's almost been the best batsman for Australia in the recent series. Certainly he's the most exciting batsman. Do the established batsmen get embarrassed when they face him in the changerooms later? He's better than them. In fact, the three highest scores in our second inning were posted by two bowlers and the wicket-keeper. Shame, batsmen, shame. Well may you point to McGain - it means you don't have to point to yourselves in the mirror.

Which prompts me to come up with the Perseus XI for the Ashes. A team made up mostly of all-rounders.

PERSEUS XI

Hughes, P
Katich, S
Ponting, R
Clarke, M
White, C
Johnson, M
Haddin, B
McDonald, A
Symonds, A
North, M
Siddle, P

12th Man: Watson, S or Hopes, J.

Mark my words, at full fitness, this team will not be beaten.
NB: No Hussey. He's gawwwwwnnnn.


Andrew Symonds, Mitchell Johnson and Brad Haddin celebrate their selection in the Perseus XI.



Footy

I'm going to the footy Thursday night. Round One. Richmond v Carlton. Cousins v Judd. Richo v Fev. Can't wait. CANNOT WAIT. I've waited since August 2008 for this moment. I love footy. CANNOT WAIT. Round one, my hopes are high, I have nothing but positivity, optimism and confidence for my beloved Tigers' chances this year. The match starts at 7.40pm Thursday. And, as I am a Richmond supporter, and we are the worst performed team of the last 25 years, by 8.10pm I expect to be weeping and moaning, crying into my thermos of coffee, experiencing flashbacks and succumbing to my ongoing Richmond-based PTSD and shall book into therapy Friday morning.

As much as I love footy, at least when the footy isn't on, Richmond isn't losing.

Still, upsets are possible. And if we're ever going to cause an upset, this hopefully will be the one. There is something immensely satisfying about beating Carlton... probably because Richard Pratt is their President (same goes with beating Hawthorn with Jeff Kennett as their President).

Go Tiges.


Ben Cousins: Arrested for crimes against tattoo art.

The Enigma that is Queensland

Anna Bligh has done it. She's won the Queensland election pretty comfortably in the end. Labor leads the state and the nation, still. Rudd breathes a sigh of relief. It shows his popularity is strong and his sober competence and so-called fiscal conservatism well regarded. At least in his home state.

Queensland is a funny place. It covers a huge and diverse geographic and ideological space. This is home, after all, to Joh Bjelke-Petersen, The Go-Betweens, Warrick Capper and the Big Pineapple. As well as some of the country's finest national parks, loudest greenies, toughest miners, best beaches and most horrendous beachside developments.

Arguably the most redneck state of all, they have voted in the country's first directly elected female premier. And she's Labor. Meanwhile, Hanson still manages to rakes in 20% of the primary vote in her electorate*. One might conclude there is a polarisation of opinion and a small middle ground. Based on such a superficial analysis of course.

* I suspect if those photos had proved to be her, she may have tipped 25%. Honk, honk. Know what I mean?

(Comic) Poetry Slam Friday

Warning! Contains strong owl themes!

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,'

O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?'

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Well, that’s it for the funny.

Next week I return to my usual themes of horror, death and decay.

Can’t wait!