This is just a note to let you know Rantolotl has moved, and is now active at: http://rantolotl.com
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Cheers,
The Rantolotl.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Monday, July 05, 2010
Vale Monty the Hat, 2005-2010
Yesterday, I lost my favorite hat. While changing from hat to helmet out the front of Bridie's in Brunswick, I put Monty somewhere, obviously not in my bag, and rode off into the sunset. 30 minutes and 10 kilometers later, whilst eating my dinner in a delightful restaurant, I realised Monty was gone. I checked my bag once, twice, and later, thrice, but alas, no sign of Monty. Nor Mark Latham.
Monty was a faithful hat and so much more. He was a friend, my greatest confidant, and erstwhile traveling companion. I first met Monty after a long search to replace his predecessor (Monty II), whom I foolishly left on a BA flight somewhere in Austria in 2005. It was a terrible flight. It was delayed two hours because someone vomited on a seat. Instead of being informed of this before trying to board the aircraft, we were told only when we were in the airgate. Two long, long hours with 30 strangers in a freezing airport appendage, and one single copy of the daily mail to share amongst us. This was the fateful day Monty II would be lost, and the hunt for Monty the latter would begin.
And similar in tone was Monty's final day upon my scalp. He came with me as I visited a pub I intensely dislike, kept me company while I drank pint after pint of terrible domestic beer - and at what price will I lose my standards? $5 a pint, apparently - and even stayed by my side during a set of what can only be described as Kew's finest rap quintet, who regaled us with fascinating tales of dealing with terrible associates who waste their lives stealing drinks from Liquorland, and other varied songs about the life threatening dangers of walking the mean streets of Melbourne.
I couldn't agree more. Melbourne is fucking terrible. Just last week, I was riding my bike along, and I was assaulted by a dastardly rain drop and icy cold wind, but somehow I get the feeling we're on different pages with that one. Either way, don't let me tell you that they weren't tough motherfuckers. And Monty's last ride; he was there, he protected me from it all.
So, now the search begins for a new Monty, a wonderful new cap that will wear well and be as hardy and strong of character as Monty II and Monty were. I'm sure I will soon find him in my travels, but in the meantime, anyone with suggestions of where to find a good, rugged, short peaked black cap (I am open to minor decoration, such as pinstripes and other such low key fancies), please let me know.
Goodbye, Monty, my dear friend. You will not be forgotten.
Monty was a faithful hat and so much more. He was a friend, my greatest confidant, and erstwhile traveling companion. I first met Monty after a long search to replace his predecessor (Monty II), whom I foolishly left on a BA flight somewhere in Austria in 2005. It was a terrible flight. It was delayed two hours because someone vomited on a seat. Instead of being informed of this before trying to board the aircraft, we were told only when we were in the airgate. Two long, long hours with 30 strangers in a freezing airport appendage, and one single copy of the daily mail to share amongst us. This was the fateful day Monty II would be lost, and the hunt for Monty the latter would begin.
And similar in tone was Monty's final day upon my scalp. He came with me as I visited a pub I intensely dislike, kept me company while I drank pint after pint of terrible domestic beer - and at what price will I lose my standards? $5 a pint, apparently - and even stayed by my side during a set of what can only be described as Kew's finest rap quintet, who regaled us with fascinating tales of dealing with terrible associates who waste their lives stealing drinks from Liquorland, and other varied songs about the life threatening dangers of walking the mean streets of Melbourne.
I couldn't agree more. Melbourne is fucking terrible. Just last week, I was riding my bike along, and I was assaulted by a dastardly rain drop and icy cold wind, but somehow I get the feeling we're on different pages with that one. Either way, don't let me tell you that they weren't tough motherfuckers. And Monty's last ride; he was there, he protected me from it all.
So, now the search begins for a new Monty, a wonderful new cap that will wear well and be as hardy and strong of character as Monty II and Monty were. I'm sure I will soon find him in my travels, but in the meantime, anyone with suggestions of where to find a good, rugged, short peaked black cap (I am open to minor decoration, such as pinstripes and other such low key fancies), please let me know.
Goodbye, Monty, my dear friend. You will not be forgotten.
Friday, March 19, 2010
G is for...
I recently read a fascinating article in The Age regarding the ongoing urban development plans for Coburg. I suspect this isn't of much interest at all to those of you who have nothing to do with Moreland, let alone know where it is (about 9kms north of Melbourne, incidentally), but lets just run with the whole redevelopment - if it ever happens - as having big implications for the remaining suburbs to be molested by the Melbourne 2030 plan.
Moreland City Council seems to be approaching the redevelopment in a cool enough way - they want to preserve the character of Coburg (presumably with less smackies). They recognise that industrial closures in the area over the last 30 years have gradually led to little in the way of employment for those who live in the area. They want to reinvigorate the suburb for the locals who have made it what it is and what it was (and recognise that's a good thing to do). So why at the centre of all this reinvigoration, are there plans for massive townhouse and apartment developments? Further still, why are the fuck are only a fifth of these new and proposed apartments actually categorised as "Affordable living", in a residency with acknowledged depleted employment?
Surely, this council might have worked out by now that placing expensive multi story apartments right on a train line isn't exactly establishing housing for locals, but is instead, you know, maybe aimed at attracting city workers to Coburg in a hope to increase rates and decrease dependence on community facilities? Now wait... what's the word for that again? That's right, it starts with a G...
Oh yeah - gentrification.
The reason traditional employment in Coburg has dropped in recent years, is not just because of those nasty industries closing down - though I have to say that the closure of Pentridge is one industry I'm happy to see in decline - but because of rocketing value of real estate in the area given its proximity to the city centre in the middle of a very, very long housing boom. However, while employers can move where they wish without much hassle, surely they'd have less incentive to if industrial land was not rezoned as residential – making it incredibly profitable - so willingly by councils?
Maybe someone needs to remind these Councillors that you don't protect jobs or community by razing factories and building unaffordable apartments, and that no amount of creating 'green squares' and - rather oddly - sinking rail lines and stations will help that.
Now I'm not arrogant enough to deny that I'm part of one of the key groups that benefits pretty well from this sort of gentrification, and that while I've spent the last ten years odd on my preferred side of the Yarra, I wasn't born there; my parents weren't born there; I have no connection to these suburbs other than what I directly choose to have now. That said, even I have felt driven out of these areas by overdevelopment, displacement of heritage, and just general fuckwittery – all of which doesn’t just force massive rent increases, but destroys community culture. It happens so slowly, too - one day you realise that the road that you would never choose to go north of, you would now never go south of. Why? Because the shops have changed so completely that they don't so much cater for the locals and blow ins, but cater almost exclusively for half cut 16 year olds from Ringwood trying to up their credibility over the space of a weekend. Basically, when people stop wearing moccies and hangover appropriate eyewear and instead start styling themselves after Corey Worthington, with the added touch of designer moccies, you know you're in the shit. Get the real estate guide out right now, you're going to need it.
But at least when this happened to Brunswick, and yes, I'm going to be the first to say it - right here, right now - Brunswick has gone to shit. It used to be great. Then it was AMAZING! Then it was good. Then less good. And now it just sucks. I have a few minor exceptions to this rule, and those are the Brunswick Hotel, Cafe Mingo, and Warwick Thai. Don't even fucking think about trying to placate me with lines such as "Oh! But have you been to The Retreat!" Have I fucking ever. It's a soulless cesspit smacking of the arrogance and desperation of the coked up owners clinging to their youth*. It was, is, and will be the future of Brunswick, I have no doubt. But sorry, I think I was saying there was some kind of silver lining about when and how this happened to Brunswick. Ah, yes, that's right. They didn't start knocking down buildings. Well, not many of them. I suspect it's just because I got there a lot later in the piece, but just in the same way that Fitzroy suffers in a different way to Collingwood, Brunswick will suffer in a differently to Coburg.
But lets get back to Coburg. The hypocrisy of the Councillors involved in this decision making process astounds me. The really wonderful thing about places like Coburg, and why I love living in these suburbs, is because they have not just a sense of history, but a sense of community. These aren't suburbs where the Italians are hidden in one corner, and the Asians in another - the cultures are there, they are vibrant, and they have living communities. Food, language, religion, art, and hell, even architecture** is all practiced, shared, and celebrated in its own way, and living in these places I've always felt every bit like the fly on the wall - I get to see all these wonderful interactions around me, I get involved in them as much as I please or want, and overwhelmingly, I've felt a part of it without much effort at all.
And that's what I find strange when I cross back over the river to visit family, or head further north visiting friends and so on. Hell, driving around Mill Park, you find house after house shuttered up behind a myriad of security devices (bars!!); other places, you find yourself as out of place as Shirley Bassey’s corpse in the set of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Some, you turn up and you get the overwhelming sense of unsettled, unsatisfied, restless people. I'm glad I don't live in these suburbs, but I think that as rent inevitably rises, I'll probably have to sooner or later.
To see Councillors actively destroy that awesome community culture of Moreland, shouting down gentrification while committing all the worst tenets is truly awful. These suburbs should be protected, and the council is absolutely correct that they should be reinvigorated; the residents deserve that at the very least - but expensive apartment living and eradication of industry is not the answer. It's great that they want to spend money on this community - but maybe that money would be better used in finally providing Coburg with a public high school, by supporting its desperately under funded sporting centres, and by giving industry an incentive to stay in the area, and even to move back into areas like the old Kodak site; all those issues that the residents have been fighting for over the last decade. Once that's done, maybe then you can talk about placing the rail system underground. Is that what we want to see as a model for the Melbourne 2030 redevelopments? Why the hell not.
To hell with their apartments,
The Rantolotl.
* I have a great story about that. Remind me to tell you one day.
** I have many great stories about that too. My favorite involves a dug up road, a burst water main, and four elderly Italian men complete with stubbies, knitted singlets, shovels, and ridiculous hats trying to convince any concerned passers-by that everything was A-OK.
Moreland City Council seems to be approaching the redevelopment in a cool enough way - they want to preserve the character of Coburg (presumably with less smackies). They recognise that industrial closures in the area over the last 30 years have gradually led to little in the way of employment for those who live in the area. They want to reinvigorate the suburb for the locals who have made it what it is and what it was (and recognise that's a good thing to do). So why at the centre of all this reinvigoration, are there plans for massive townhouse and apartment developments? Further still, why are the fuck are only a fifth of these new and proposed apartments actually categorised as "Affordable living", in a residency with acknowledged depleted employment?
Surely, this council might have worked out by now that placing expensive multi story apartments right on a train line isn't exactly establishing housing for locals, but is instead, you know, maybe aimed at attracting city workers to Coburg in a hope to increase rates and decrease dependence on community facilities? Now wait... what's the word for that again? That's right, it starts with a G...
Oh yeah - gentrification.
The reason traditional employment in Coburg has dropped in recent years, is not just because of those nasty industries closing down - though I have to say that the closure of Pentridge is one industry I'm happy to see in decline - but because of rocketing value of real estate in the area given its proximity to the city centre in the middle of a very, very long housing boom. However, while employers can move where they wish without much hassle, surely they'd have less incentive to if industrial land was not rezoned as residential – making it incredibly profitable - so willingly by councils?
Maybe someone needs to remind these Councillors that you don't protect jobs or community by razing factories and building unaffordable apartments, and that no amount of creating 'green squares' and - rather oddly - sinking rail lines and stations will help that.
Now I'm not arrogant enough to deny that I'm part of one of the key groups that benefits pretty well from this sort of gentrification, and that while I've spent the last ten years odd on my preferred side of the Yarra, I wasn't born there; my parents weren't born there; I have no connection to these suburbs other than what I directly choose to have now. That said, even I have felt driven out of these areas by overdevelopment, displacement of heritage, and just general fuckwittery – all of which doesn’t just force massive rent increases, but destroys community culture. It happens so slowly, too - one day you realise that the road that you would never choose to go north of, you would now never go south of. Why? Because the shops have changed so completely that they don't so much cater for the locals and blow ins, but cater almost exclusively for half cut 16 year olds from Ringwood trying to up their credibility over the space of a weekend. Basically, when people stop wearing moccies and hangover appropriate eyewear and instead start styling themselves after Corey Worthington, with the added touch of designer moccies, you know you're in the shit. Get the real estate guide out right now, you're going to need it.
But at least when this happened to Brunswick, and yes, I'm going to be the first to say it - right here, right now - Brunswick has gone to shit. It used to be great. Then it was AMAZING! Then it was good. Then less good. And now it just sucks. I have a few minor exceptions to this rule, and those are the Brunswick Hotel, Cafe Mingo, and Warwick Thai. Don't even fucking think about trying to placate me with lines such as "Oh! But have you been to The Retreat!" Have I fucking ever. It's a soulless cesspit smacking of the arrogance and desperation of the coked up owners clinging to their youth*. It was, is, and will be the future of Brunswick, I have no doubt. But sorry, I think I was saying there was some kind of silver lining about when and how this happened to Brunswick. Ah, yes, that's right. They didn't start knocking down buildings. Well, not many of them. I suspect it's just because I got there a lot later in the piece, but just in the same way that Fitzroy suffers in a different way to Collingwood, Brunswick will suffer in a differently to Coburg.
But lets get back to Coburg. The hypocrisy of the Councillors involved in this decision making process astounds me. The really wonderful thing about places like Coburg, and why I love living in these suburbs, is because they have not just a sense of history, but a sense of community. These aren't suburbs where the Italians are hidden in one corner, and the Asians in another - the cultures are there, they are vibrant, and they have living communities. Food, language, religion, art, and hell, even architecture** is all practiced, shared, and celebrated in its own way, and living in these places I've always felt every bit like the fly on the wall - I get to see all these wonderful interactions around me, I get involved in them as much as I please or want, and overwhelmingly, I've felt a part of it without much effort at all.
And that's what I find strange when I cross back over the river to visit family, or head further north visiting friends and so on. Hell, driving around Mill Park, you find house after house shuttered up behind a myriad of security devices (bars!!); other places, you find yourself as out of place as Shirley Bassey’s corpse in the set of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Some, you turn up and you get the overwhelming sense of unsettled, unsatisfied, restless people. I'm glad I don't live in these suburbs, but I think that as rent inevitably rises, I'll probably have to sooner or later.
To see Councillors actively destroy that awesome community culture of Moreland, shouting down gentrification while committing all the worst tenets is truly awful. These suburbs should be protected, and the council is absolutely correct that they should be reinvigorated; the residents deserve that at the very least - but expensive apartment living and eradication of industry is not the answer. It's great that they want to spend money on this community - but maybe that money would be better used in finally providing Coburg with a public high school, by supporting its desperately under funded sporting centres, and by giving industry an incentive to stay in the area, and even to move back into areas like the old Kodak site; all those issues that the residents have been fighting for over the last decade. Once that's done, maybe then you can talk about placing the rail system underground. Is that what we want to see as a model for the Melbourne 2030 redevelopments? Why the hell not.
To hell with their apartments,
The Rantolotl.
* I have a great story about that. Remind me to tell you one day.
** I have many great stories about that too. My favorite involves a dug up road, a burst water main, and four elderly Italian men complete with stubbies, knitted singlets, shovels, and ridiculous hats trying to convince any concerned passers-by that everything was A-OK.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Food reviews from a sickbed
As I contemplate spending day number three lying on my couch, watching vastly improved daytime television (thanks, GO!), and dozing, I can’t help my mind drifting to all the food I currently can’t eat. I am so hungry, yet drinking half a glass of juice in the terribly greedy amount of time, of say, half an hour leaves me feeling absolutely disgusting. While I hope to return to the world of chewable food in another day or so, I also know full well it’s going to be a few days I can eat the food that I started craving almost the minute I was told I couldn’t eat it. Yep, my two favourite food groups – cheese, and chilli.
It’s funny – you get to the point in your life where you think you’re right on track to fulfilling your career as a raging alcoholic, but after two days off the piss, it’s cheese you crave, not a drink. Hell, it’s not even like I actually eat cheese all that often – but remove my ability to enjoy a delicious platter of David Jones’ Foodhalls finest, and I’m not a happy camper. Remove my access to Sriracha, Tabasco and all inherent varieties, and my mood improves none at all.
Luckily, one kind person has delivered me a stash of supplies to keep me going in my temporary home imprisonment. So, in the interest of ensuring others who get struck down by food poisoning/gastro/other various bodily complaints, I’m going to review the foods I would not ordinarily buy, let alone eat.
Triangle Juice:
The thing about Triangle Juice (or Preshafruit, as the company actually likes to call it), is that it’s quite cute, and as such, appealing. In this particular 350ml of triangular juice packaging, I found an apple and strawberry combination which tasted every bit as fresh as the label suggested it would, but wow! So, so, incredibly sweet. Unless you are a two-sugars-in-your-coffee sort of person, I would not advise drinking nor purchasing said juice. I am guessing it is popular in Queensland.
Tiger flavoured Gatorade
I’m not kidding you, the label actually says TIGER! In large letters, forfeiting pretty much any ability to market the product as something relevant to your tastebuds at all. However, I’m sure that if it was trying to appeal to your tastebuds, it would be very successful and indeed impress many a persons tastebuds. Some would call this cheating, some would call it sporting prowess. I mean, delicious taste. Hmmm. Anyway; if you add a couple of ice cubes to it to thin it out a little, it fares quite well as both food replacement and rehydrator of rather sick people. As with any sweet drink, it just gets sickly and horrid after awhile.
Gatorade Lemon-Lime
You know how any time you eat anything blue coloured, it doesn’t have a described flavour, just ‘Blue’? Well, this drink makes me believe that sometimes the same thing has to happen with ‘Yellow’. This beverage is indeed very yellow, in both colour and taste. Again, thin it down with a couple of ice cubes to make it drinkable in useful quantities.
Vitamin Water
I kinda figured these drinks would be a lot like the Gatorade varieties, just with different packaging. This was largely because the ‘flavours’ of these drinks were named ‘Super-V’ and ‘Triple-X’. Now, far from the contents of these bottles being filled with strippers, as the name might suggest, they were indeed filled with something vitaminy. Super-V was actually quite nice, a light lemon flavour, and a little less sweet than the Gatorade. Triple-X however, tastes exactly like a 500ml bottle of cough syrup, and I suspect, without any of the benefits. I think it just exists to trick dirty old men in trench coats into drinking it, just to make the rest of us laugh.
Campbells Condensed Chicken Soup
This was the one item on the shopping list that I asked for, and somewhat insisted upon. I had childhood memories of being a bit crook, and eating a bowl of this soup, and somehow everything being a bit better. My conclusion, is that child memories are fucked. There’s nothing remotely nice about this soup as an adult, it’s pretty much the equivalent of eating clag with extra salt and some chunky bits.
LaZuppa Microwavable Creamy Chicken & Vegetable Soup
This soup was everything I expected the Campbells Condensed to be, but with bloody excellent peas. Marketed as a delicious and healthy convenience lunch, I currently recommend it as a highly enjoyable sick food. It may also double well for a standard lunch, depending how much you like bloody excellent peas.
Salada biscuits
Ohhhh, Salada! How I’ve missed you from my life! How has it happened that I’ve gone this long without your delicious, dry, crunchy wonderfulness? The salada is a truly under-rated biscuit! Perfect with vegemite (which I am hoping to broach tomorrow with success!), with butter, with cheese, or just by its lonesome, the Salada is surely the king of the plain cracker world. I heartily recommend it, regardless of your dietary requirements. I am almost certain that it will fix any kind intolerances you might have, from lactose to gluten. Trust me, I’m a doctor.
Unfortunately, that’s about it from the food assessments for me for a few days. Other interesting factoids I can comment on from the comfort of my couch are: I have a bat-tree outside my window which also acts as a doorbell; Digital TV has vastly improved Australia’s televisual landscape; My fish are boring as fuck and are free to a good home.
Good evening and good health.
The Rantolotl.
It’s funny – you get to the point in your life where you think you’re right on track to fulfilling your career as a raging alcoholic, but after two days off the piss, it’s cheese you crave, not a drink. Hell, it’s not even like I actually eat cheese all that often – but remove my ability to enjoy a delicious platter of David Jones’ Foodhalls finest, and I’m not a happy camper. Remove my access to Sriracha, Tabasco and all inherent varieties, and my mood improves none at all.
Luckily, one kind person has delivered me a stash of supplies to keep me going in my temporary home imprisonment. So, in the interest of ensuring others who get struck down by food poisoning/gastro/other various bodily complaints, I’m going to review the foods I would not ordinarily buy, let alone eat.
Triangle Juice:
The thing about Triangle Juice (or Preshafruit, as the company actually likes to call it), is that it’s quite cute, and as such, appealing. In this particular 350ml of triangular juice packaging, I found an apple and strawberry combination which tasted every bit as fresh as the label suggested it would, but wow! So, so, incredibly sweet. Unless you are a two-sugars-in-your-coffee sort of person, I would not advise drinking nor purchasing said juice. I am guessing it is popular in Queensland.
Tiger flavoured Gatorade
I’m not kidding you, the label actually says TIGER! In large letters, forfeiting pretty much any ability to market the product as something relevant to your tastebuds at all. However, I’m sure that if it was trying to appeal to your tastebuds, it would be very successful and indeed impress many a persons tastebuds. Some would call this cheating, some would call it sporting prowess. I mean, delicious taste. Hmmm. Anyway; if you add a couple of ice cubes to it to thin it out a little, it fares quite well as both food replacement and rehydrator of rather sick people. As with any sweet drink, it just gets sickly and horrid after awhile.
Gatorade Lemon-Lime
You know how any time you eat anything blue coloured, it doesn’t have a described flavour, just ‘Blue’? Well, this drink makes me believe that sometimes the same thing has to happen with ‘Yellow’. This beverage is indeed very yellow, in both colour and taste. Again, thin it down with a couple of ice cubes to make it drinkable in useful quantities.
Vitamin Water
I kinda figured these drinks would be a lot like the Gatorade varieties, just with different packaging. This was largely because the ‘flavours’ of these drinks were named ‘Super-V’ and ‘Triple-X’. Now, far from the contents of these bottles being filled with strippers, as the name might suggest, they were indeed filled with something vitaminy. Super-V was actually quite nice, a light lemon flavour, and a little less sweet than the Gatorade. Triple-X however, tastes exactly like a 500ml bottle of cough syrup, and I suspect, without any of the benefits. I think it just exists to trick dirty old men in trench coats into drinking it, just to make the rest of us laugh.
Campbells Condensed Chicken Soup
This was the one item on the shopping list that I asked for, and somewhat insisted upon. I had childhood memories of being a bit crook, and eating a bowl of this soup, and somehow everything being a bit better. My conclusion, is that child memories are fucked. There’s nothing remotely nice about this soup as an adult, it’s pretty much the equivalent of eating clag with extra salt and some chunky bits.
LaZuppa Microwavable Creamy Chicken & Vegetable Soup
This soup was everything I expected the Campbells Condensed to be, but with bloody excellent peas. Marketed as a delicious and healthy convenience lunch, I currently recommend it as a highly enjoyable sick food. It may also double well for a standard lunch, depending how much you like bloody excellent peas.
Salada biscuits
Ohhhh, Salada! How I’ve missed you from my life! How has it happened that I’ve gone this long without your delicious, dry, crunchy wonderfulness? The salada is a truly under-rated biscuit! Perfect with vegemite (which I am hoping to broach tomorrow with success!), with butter, with cheese, or just by its lonesome, the Salada is surely the king of the plain cracker world. I heartily recommend it, regardless of your dietary requirements. I am almost certain that it will fix any kind intolerances you might have, from lactose to gluten. Trust me, I’m a doctor.
Unfortunately, that’s about it from the food assessments for me for a few days. Other interesting factoids I can comment on from the comfort of my couch are: I have a bat-tree outside my window which also acts as a doorbell; Digital TV has vastly improved Australia’s televisual landscape; My fish are boring as fuck and are free to a good home.
Good evening and good health.
The Rantolotl.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Romantic? All I can smell is diesel.
Catching a train often seems like a good idea until that moment you’re standing on the platform, left wondering where, exactly your train might be. From there, if you happen to be a Victorian, it just goes downhill. Quickly.
A large part of this feeling of rapid decline could well be attributed to the fact that there aren’t really any regional trains anymore. Oh, yes, they say there are, but it’s pretty obvious they’re lying through their back teeth like the scum dogs they all inevitably are.
Once upon a time when I was just a little Rantolotl, I went to school in Melbourne and caught the train home for school holidays, the odd long weekend and other momentous occasions. This was in the days where the train actually ran all the way to Wangaratta, and in fact, they bothered to run more than once a day. My school would foolishly transport us all to Spencer Street Station some time in the afternoon, and let us loose on the unsuspecting public. We would spend hours cruising the dodgy little subway, the dodgy giant cafeteria, and the even dodgier pub across the road - the one that is now boarded up - where amazingly, we would get served despite being fifteen year olds in full school uniform. Mind you, in those days the ‘unsuspecting public’ largely consisted of junkies, thieves, particularly grotty homeless, and exceptionally low grade hookers, always presumed to be the retarded cousins of the ones we had heard about in St Kilda. But none the less, we ran riot. It was great fun! I might also add that these were the days where Spencer Street Station actually had character. Not necessarily a nice one mind you, but character none the less. It made you feel alive. Doubly so if you survived a mugging.
The trains themselves had character too. Just like the suburban lines, the regional lines all had a different feel about them, and different regard in the eyes of the seasoned V/Line traveller. Geelong line passengers were just taking the piss. You call that a train trip? I’ve seen better train trips coughed up into a hanky. Yeah, that’s right. A HANKY. It was trips to Mildura, Wangaratta & Warrnambool that earned you the real train-cred. In retrospect, I’m not sure I understand why Wang scaled to the dizzying heights of that illustrious list, but for some reason it did. I’m beginning to think it got extra points for danger.
I recall not once, but twice, that there was a police chase in the train. Somewhere around Benalla. My favourite one involved the bandits in question leaping off the train as it slowed down to stop at the platform. The police somehow didn’t quite anticipate this, and just stood on the platform looking dumbfounded as these guys ran off in the opposite direction while the train slowly came to a halt. Clearly they decided to make a day of it and searched and interrogated the train anyway. WHAT WERE THEY DOING! They barked. DRINKING! I replied with equal enthusiasm. WHAT WERE THEY DRINKING?! They responded. STRAWBERRY BIG M! I replied with gusto. And that was my interrogation over.
These days the train is far less fun. It’s full of old people and young regional refugees like myself. As I type, I’m sitting on the train, still waiting for it to leave Spencer Street (It’s now an hour late) and am surrounded by avid Herald Sun readers, and a nice young man, who, unfortunately, is reading a Dan Brown novel. The elderly are clambering over themselves to get little microwaved treats from the buffet car, in total denial that there are now places at Spencer Street that you can get food at much cheaper. Without the risk of stabbing.
Once upon a time, the punters on this train were all sorts. Families, kids, the elderly, bogans, farmers, scrubbers, ferals and bush pigs. In between the carriages people would drink tinnies of VB, and craftily open the door and smoke cigarettes and spliffs, usually in equal amounts. Occasionally someone would walk through on their way to the buffet car with a kid on their shoulders, having a chuckle and telling the enshouldered child not to breathe too deeply – a lesson/joke that would be lost on the child for about ten years or so, I suspect.
Now, the punters, particularly midweek, are mostly holidaying elderly or country residents who have lost their license. There’s also a smattering of younger country refugees (the lucky ones who escaped) like myself, who are almost inevitably heading home for a birthday, funeral or family illness. I will probably see a lot of these people on the return train tomorrow. And when we’re all collected on a train like this simultaneously – some in tears frantically trying to contact their mum or dad or brother or sister or hospital at each stop when there’s a hint of mobile coverage, some desperately trying to wrap their last minute birthday presents, almost certainly bound to be some random crap bought at a Spencer Street chemist(Happy Birthday! I bought you a travel pillow! Don’t like it? Here, have a luggage lock!), and some just patiently biding their time with laptops and ipods – boy, do we stand out. We’re all dressed to impress our regional acquaintances, while remaining hideously under dressed for Melbourne - unless you're heading directly to a funeral, in which case the standard Melbourne uniform of black on black is just perfect! It’s a delicate balance, one that involves jeans, sneakers, a smug look, and careful t-shirt selection. The delicate art of making it clear that we are at home on a farm, but are also successful Melburnians is clearly deeply entrenched in us all.
But for all the reminiscing, the dubious romance of train travel is not all gone. Why, just now, the conductor – who I might add, in my long career of regional train travel have always been wonderful, helpful and friendly – declared that she has a ‘sweet little super charger’ waiting for her at home. I’m not sure what the prompt for this was exactly, but she soon moved on, telling me that she likes my t-shirt, and proceeded to explain the graphic on it to me in full detail: "I like how the space invaders are learning to become space invaders! With a blackboard and a teacher!".
It’s very nice that VLine give country types a job. Since they don't really bother with the trains much these days, perhaps the conductors are the last honest thing you can really expect out of them.
A large part of this feeling of rapid decline could well be attributed to the fact that there aren’t really any regional trains anymore. Oh, yes, they say there are, but it’s pretty obvious they’re lying through their back teeth like the scum dogs they all inevitably are.
Once upon a time when I was just a little Rantolotl, I went to school in Melbourne and caught the train home for school holidays, the odd long weekend and other momentous occasions. This was in the days where the train actually ran all the way to Wangaratta, and in fact, they bothered to run more than once a day. My school would foolishly transport us all to Spencer Street Station some time in the afternoon, and let us loose on the unsuspecting public. We would spend hours cruising the dodgy little subway, the dodgy giant cafeteria, and the even dodgier pub across the road - the one that is now boarded up - where amazingly, we would get served despite being fifteen year olds in full school uniform. Mind you, in those days the ‘unsuspecting public’ largely consisted of junkies, thieves, particularly grotty homeless, and exceptionally low grade hookers, always presumed to be the retarded cousins of the ones we had heard about in St Kilda. But none the less, we ran riot. It was great fun! I might also add that these were the days where Spencer Street Station actually had character. Not necessarily a nice one mind you, but character none the less. It made you feel alive. Doubly so if you survived a mugging.
The trains themselves had character too. Just like the suburban lines, the regional lines all had a different feel about them, and different regard in the eyes of the seasoned V/Line traveller. Geelong line passengers were just taking the piss. You call that a train trip? I’ve seen better train trips coughed up into a hanky. Yeah, that’s right. A HANKY. It was trips to Mildura, Wangaratta & Warrnambool that earned you the real train-cred. In retrospect, I’m not sure I understand why Wang scaled to the dizzying heights of that illustrious list, but for some reason it did. I’m beginning to think it got extra points for danger.
I recall not once, but twice, that there was a police chase in the train. Somewhere around Benalla. My favourite one involved the bandits in question leaping off the train as it slowed down to stop at the platform. The police somehow didn’t quite anticipate this, and just stood on the platform looking dumbfounded as these guys ran off in the opposite direction while the train slowly came to a halt. Clearly they decided to make a day of it and searched and interrogated the train anyway. WHAT WERE THEY DOING! They barked. DRINKING! I replied with equal enthusiasm. WHAT WERE THEY DRINKING?! They responded. STRAWBERRY BIG M! I replied with gusto. And that was my interrogation over.
These days the train is far less fun. It’s full of old people and young regional refugees like myself. As I type, I’m sitting on the train, still waiting for it to leave Spencer Street (It’s now an hour late) and am surrounded by avid Herald Sun readers, and a nice young man, who, unfortunately, is reading a Dan Brown novel. The elderly are clambering over themselves to get little microwaved treats from the buffet car, in total denial that there are now places at Spencer Street that you can get food at much cheaper. Without the risk of stabbing.
Once upon a time, the punters on this train were all sorts. Families, kids, the elderly, bogans, farmers, scrubbers, ferals and bush pigs. In between the carriages people would drink tinnies of VB, and craftily open the door and smoke cigarettes and spliffs, usually in equal amounts. Occasionally someone would walk through on their way to the buffet car with a kid on their shoulders, having a chuckle and telling the enshouldered child not to breathe too deeply – a lesson/joke that would be lost on the child for about ten years or so, I suspect.
Now, the punters, particularly midweek, are mostly holidaying elderly or country residents who have lost their license. There’s also a smattering of younger country refugees (the lucky ones who escaped) like myself, who are almost inevitably heading home for a birthday, funeral or family illness. I will probably see a lot of these people on the return train tomorrow. And when we’re all collected on a train like this simultaneously – some in tears frantically trying to contact their mum or dad or brother or sister or hospital at each stop when there’s a hint of mobile coverage, some desperately trying to wrap their last minute birthday presents, almost certainly bound to be some random crap bought at a Spencer Street chemist(Happy Birthday! I bought you a travel pillow! Don’t like it? Here, have a luggage lock!), and some just patiently biding their time with laptops and ipods – boy, do we stand out. We’re all dressed to impress our regional acquaintances, while remaining hideously under dressed for Melbourne - unless you're heading directly to a funeral, in which case the standard Melbourne uniform of black on black is just perfect! It’s a delicate balance, one that involves jeans, sneakers, a smug look, and careful t-shirt selection. The delicate art of making it clear that we are at home on a farm, but are also successful Melburnians is clearly deeply entrenched in us all.
But for all the reminiscing, the dubious romance of train travel is not all gone. Why, just now, the conductor – who I might add, in my long career of regional train travel have always been wonderful, helpful and friendly – declared that she has a ‘sweet little super charger’ waiting for her at home. I’m not sure what the prompt for this was exactly, but she soon moved on, telling me that she likes my t-shirt, and proceeded to explain the graphic on it to me in full detail: "I like how the space invaders are learning to become space invaders! With a blackboard and a teacher!".
It’s very nice that VLine give country types a job. Since they don't really bother with the trains much these days, perhaps the conductors are the last honest thing you can really expect out of them.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Politician deathmatch
Say what you will, but I'm still a bit sad that Latham was never elected to the top seat. Australian parliamentary politics would have so much more engaging. In fact, I suspect they’d be at least 60% more awesome. Better? Perhaps not, but definitely more entertaining. For starters, he wouldn't be afraid to grab Abbott by his stupid flappy ears and give him the beating he deserves. HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES!, he would scream, foot firmly planted on the back of dear old Tony’s sodden head, stuffed into a filthy toilet bowl out the back of some kind of gambling hall of ill repute. WHAT APPLES, MARK?! WHAT FUCKING APPLES?!
*FLUSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH*
Surely this is the sort of behaviour we should expect and encourage from our erstwhile leaders. Bring back the days of honest politics where blokes were blokes and your ability to drink enormous quantities of low grade beer measured your mark as a sportsman, family man, politician, hell, even race car driver. Nothing says ‘responsible member of society’ like a booze cruise turned pirate-like expedition somewhere between the consumption of slabs number eleven and twenty three.
Australian cricketer David “The keg on legs” Boone famously drank 52 tinnies of full strength beer on a single flight. Bob Hawke, later to become Prime Minister, managed to down a yardie in the record time of 11 seconds. Now we live in a world where the little talking Boonie’s distributed with VB have been banned for setting a poor example to the darling little young‘uns. I reckon if they were stupid enough to be buying slabs of VB in the first place, a talking Boonie is the least of their problems.
But what would I know? I have a shrine to Melbourne Bitter in my house. I’m not sure there’s an official mascot for good old Melbs’ yet (do you like my abbreviation? Do you think it will stick? Is ‘Bitters’ better?), but I’m going my damnedest to create one. Recent visitors to my house have been sent away with a traveller of Melbs’, and some kind standout adornment. Last week it was capes, goggles and sailors hats. But it’s been disappointing. Not once have I seen anyone else in the street walking around with a good ol’ Melbs’ imitating the dress style of my unwitting social experiments. That said, I have noticed increased sales of Melbourne at my local, so maybe I just need to ramp up the accessorising a little and see what happens. Or just move further away from a white trash pokies venue.
As a society, we crave all these things and more in politics. We love a good stoush! And despite the weird ultra conservatism we seem to be slowly sliding into - I mean really, a drinking age of 21?! How on earth are the kiddies meant to be proud of our celebrated cultural heritage when they can’t actually participate in it? – we clearly love a bit of biffo. There’s a reason footballers – particularly the drunken-rampage-assaulty-lets-take-a-shitload-of-coke ones – get more public sympathy and support than our politicians ever will. Perhaps it’s the honesty that wins us over. “Yes, I’m a dickhead, and yes, I was pissed. But seriously, that guy deserved to be smacked in the chops! What’s wrong with that?”
I think Abbott would be up for it too. While I’m not sure he’d fare that well against Latham, I reckon he’d give it a red hot go. It’s really very difficult to imagine the same thing of Rudd. Or Bob Brown for that matter. In fact, the only thing I can think of those two dudes bringing to a schoolyard fight is a blimp and an inflatable raft. Don't ask me why, that’s just the way my brain works. Gillard would be into it I reckon, and she’d give Abbott a run for his money. Wayne Swan would of course be the little fat kid in the corner who’s screaming PICK ME! PICK ME! on the inside, but will of course remain there, sulking, silent, and unchosen. Naturally, he’ll have to defect and lead the Democrats.
As Gough Whitlam famously said; It’s time. Time for a leadership deathmatch, that is. All parties; all leaders; all cabinet and shadow cabinet members: Fight like it matters! Fight like you mean it! Show a bit of passion! But for the love of christ Abbott, do not show a bit of leg. The budgie smugglers were bad enough the first time.
*FLUSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH*
Surely this is the sort of behaviour we should expect and encourage from our erstwhile leaders. Bring back the days of honest politics where blokes were blokes and your ability to drink enormous quantities of low grade beer measured your mark as a sportsman, family man, politician, hell, even race car driver. Nothing says ‘responsible member of society’ like a booze cruise turned pirate-like expedition somewhere between the consumption of slabs number eleven and twenty three.
Australian cricketer David “The keg on legs” Boone famously drank 52 tinnies of full strength beer on a single flight. Bob Hawke, later to become Prime Minister, managed to down a yardie in the record time of 11 seconds. Now we live in a world where the little talking Boonie’s distributed with VB have been banned for setting a poor example to the darling little young‘uns. I reckon if they were stupid enough to be buying slabs of VB in the first place, a talking Boonie is the least of their problems.
But what would I know? I have a shrine to Melbourne Bitter in my house. I’m not sure there’s an official mascot for good old Melbs’ yet (do you like my abbreviation? Do you think it will stick? Is ‘Bitters’ better?), but I’m going my damnedest to create one. Recent visitors to my house have been sent away with a traveller of Melbs’, and some kind standout adornment. Last week it was capes, goggles and sailors hats. But it’s been disappointing. Not once have I seen anyone else in the street walking around with a good ol’ Melbs’ imitating the dress style of my unwitting social experiments. That said, I have noticed increased sales of Melbourne at my local, so maybe I just need to ramp up the accessorising a little and see what happens. Or just move further away from a white trash pokies venue.
As a society, we crave all these things and more in politics. We love a good stoush! And despite the weird ultra conservatism we seem to be slowly sliding into - I mean really, a drinking age of 21?! How on earth are the kiddies meant to be proud of our celebrated cultural heritage when they can’t actually participate in it? – we clearly love a bit of biffo. There’s a reason footballers – particularly the drunken-rampage-assaulty-lets-take-a-shitload-of-coke ones – get more public sympathy and support than our politicians ever will. Perhaps it’s the honesty that wins us over. “Yes, I’m a dickhead, and yes, I was pissed. But seriously, that guy deserved to be smacked in the chops! What’s wrong with that?”
I think Abbott would be up for it too. While I’m not sure he’d fare that well against Latham, I reckon he’d give it a red hot go. It’s really very difficult to imagine the same thing of Rudd. Or Bob Brown for that matter. In fact, the only thing I can think of those two dudes bringing to a schoolyard fight is a blimp and an inflatable raft. Don't ask me why, that’s just the way my brain works. Gillard would be into it I reckon, and she’d give Abbott a run for his money. Wayne Swan would of course be the little fat kid in the corner who’s screaming PICK ME! PICK ME! on the inside, but will of course remain there, sulking, silent, and unchosen. Naturally, he’ll have to defect and lead the Democrats.
As Gough Whitlam famously said; It’s time. Time for a leadership deathmatch, that is. All parties; all leaders; all cabinet and shadow cabinet members: Fight like it matters! Fight like you mean it! Show a bit of passion! But for the love of christ Abbott, do not show a bit of leg. The budgie smugglers were bad enough the first time.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Patriotism in bounds!
The problem with Australia Day is... well, that it exists. But beyond that, there’s a whole bunch of reasons it’s a bit shit. That it celebrates genocide is certainly a biggie, but then there’re the more practical and less political reasons it’s worth avoiding. Starting with the fact that the 26th of January is totally meaningless in the national sense – I mean really, if we want to pick a day to mark on the calendar to celebrate the successful invasion and colonisation of this large island rock we call home, then surely celebrating federation would make a touch more sense?
But just like how we search and scrape and hunt high and low now for some kind of national identity – something more culturally binding than a burnt sausage and a can of VB - federation wasn’t exactly a matter of great consensus either; more of a matter of solidifying an economy rather than any great push for national independence. It’s this kind of enthusiasm we see echoed in polls today indicating that supporters of a republic are now down to 44%. This might be a weird drop in numbers tied to the recent Prince visit, as well as those echoes of British colonialism that we hark back to every Australia day in total ignorance of the Australia we actually do have around us.
I’m pretty sure I’ve harped on about it here before because it is something that really engages me, but the whole notion of a united, federated Australia was a crock in 1901, and is still a crock in 2010. It took actual decades to get the now federated states to agree to federation, and let it not be forgotten that at the drawing board, there were a whole lot of other colonies slated to join. On top of that, for better or worse (no doubt better for the Pacific Islanders enslaved at the time), Queensland (and other now familiar states) very almost didn’t make the cut – because federating would mean giving up its slave labour force (unfortunately it remained more or less legal to enslave/withhold wages from indigenous Australians for a few more decades… after all, they were fauna, and not citizens). On the whole, white settlement of Australia was an incredibly disjointed affair, and the people who actually lived here had very little interest in actually cementing it into a single nation state… a sentiment that’s still reflected today if you scratch even slightly beneath the flag be-caped surface.
What does it mean to be Australian? This time of the year, you can find thousands of us useless dickheads asking that question, and invariably answering it with that list of qualities that are obviously unique to all ‘true’ Australians… such as:
Mateship. Yep – no wonder we’re such an awesome country – no one else in the world understands this whole friendship thing! Weird, cause every time we travel, we seem to accumulate masses of new ‘mates’… clearly we are very influential and effective ambassadors for our cause. Frankly, I’m surprised the UN hasn’t cottoned on and started deploying Australian friendship brigades to all the worlds’ major military conflict points. Oh wait. We already do that. We just throw grenades instead of joy.
The Fair Go. We (apparently) generally believe that everyone should be able to have ‘a go’, if for no other reason, then so we have an opportunity to do that other uniquely Australian thing, the slow clap, in response to their meagre efforts. Having ‘a go’ is not to be confused with ‘Having a go’. The two are mainly distinguished by tone, and blood alcohol content (though to have ‘a go’ can produce a great exponential curve in any measurement correlating ‘fun’ and ‘beer consumption’), and resulting violence. If you end up being chased by a pack of angry sportsmen waving various sporting implements, you’ve probably misread the situation, and have indeed confirmed that you are ‘having a go (mate)’.
Mate. Not to be confused with mateship. ‘Mate’ can be used as a greeting to a best mate (not to be confused with Mate, or mateship), as a warning to a stranger, acquaintance or enemy, or, as a direct insult to someone you’re about to either punch, or get punched by (friend or foe, doesn’t really matter). Generally, you can determine any potential threats to your short term health by assessing the length of the word if it is used against you; Hey Maaaaaaate! (Greeting); Mate Mate Mate Mate Mate Mate! (potential warning); Mate. (potential threat). My personal favourite use of the word is: “Look sharp, Mate!”. Even I can’t tell if it’s an insult, a warning, or a greeting.
Barbeques. We like to burn the shit out of meat while rat arsed and standing in a kiddie pool (or perhaps even an eski) in a park/backyard/balcony. Anything that gives us the excuse to stand around for six hours and murder a slab of cheap domestic beer while eating large amounts of salt, fat, potato and bread is alright by us. However, just because we like to do this, doesn’t really make it uniquely Australian. I was tremendously disappointed when I first travelled overseas and found that pretty much wherever you go, you will find bogans barbequing things and getting outrageously pissed at the drop of a hat.
Recently, equipped with these ‘qualities’ and a few Maaaaaaaaates, I made a return pilgrimage back to the States. While that’s a story for another day, we ended up staying in a house filled with 9 adults at one point - with combined heritages covering corners of Australia, Europe, and all over the US, including the deep south, where the drawl will put any proud Aussie bogans’ to shame. We spent three weeks being mates, trading stupid accents, barbequing, ‘having a go’ and having ‘a go’, and getting completely, utterly, rat arsed drunk. Either we’re bigger ambassadors to our nation than we’d ever care to admit, or maybe – just maybe – people are pretty similar and pretty awesome all over the world if you give them half a chance. Except for the dickheads. You should just avoid them. A good start is not leaving your house on Australia Day.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
There was a man who entered a local newspaper's pun contest...
...He sent in ten different puns, in the hope that at least one of the puns would win.
Unfortunately, no pun in ten did. *
When I grow up, I want to work for a newspaper. No, not as a journalist. Nor a columnist. Not even as an editor, copy writer, typesetter or any of those other important sounding jobs. No. I want to be that very special person employed by News Limited to create the most inane, cringe worthy, spectacular insults to modern day communications; that’s right – the person who comes up with the headlines.
Obviously, the pinnacle of this particular field would be being responsible for the front page of the Herald Scum, or some other capital city distributed tabloid rag. There’s challenge in such a job; three to seven words in the boldest of bold type, accompanied by a picture from a completely different story, in a daily paper which seeks an audience of society’s lowest common denominator. It must be defined by scandal, it can’t be too clever, and anyone who lives in a caravan backing on Kananook Creek must be able to relate to it in some way. Dodgy plumbers (Dishonest brutes taking advantage of widowed pensioners!), immigration scandals (Indian student gets bashed – own fault for listening to an MP3 player in public!), hard done by footballers (Sure, I raped that girl, but all I ask for is my wife’s understanding and support!) and other imminent threats to the Little Aussie Battler™ are king.
But sometimes, they really get it right:
But for those headline crafters who are lower down the ladder, they might get paid less, but there is a particularly silver lining in that very hefty cloud. Just as they must suffer, so must we, the readers. They have a captive audience, and very low standards to meet in the editing and readership world. They can resort to the most groan worthy, stupid, ill conceived, offensive, backwards, extremely un-witty, and sometimes – surprising and rare times – they pencil actually witty titles and headlines. In short, they can make Queensland look good. In case you haven’t worked out which particular litter box liners I’m talking about today, stand up and take a bow mX.
For the uninitiated, mX is a free daily Melbourne commuter rag, which appears to have very similar equivalents in every city I’ve visited, from Prague to Brisbane. Equally similar are the despondent uni students hired to hand them out at train stations around the globe. They really look the same everywhere, and not just because the logos and banner of these papers are virtually the same (yellow/orange/blue or red/black/blue), but because they’re poor bastards whose job it is to be surrounded by rude, arrogant commuters who are in a hurry to get home and be fed, bask in the warm glow of the telly or sit and cry in a dark corner or whatever it is that these people who can’t say ‘please’ or ‘thankyou’ do with their spare time. And they do it well. They tolerate the pushing and shoving, the snatching and the interfering, all the while resisting the urge to punch people. I couldn’t do it. Day one, and there’d be shredded bits of paper, Armani, and metcards everywhere.
Such is the quality of the mX that once upon a train, people seem to either settle into the crossword (which is shit), the sudoku (which is alright, but usually a bit on the novice side), the ‘witty’ one line observational comments about the world today interspersed among the pages (which are shit), or the ‘mX Talk’ pages (which are really shit). Or the quality journalism. Hahahah! – Oh, I’m clutching my sides!
I‘m one of the mX talk reading people. For the same reasons I cast an eye over the Andrew Bolt column whenever a copy of the Scum is left lurking near me, I like to peruse what the good people of Melbourne have to say about life, the universe and everything in the space of a text message. Just like Bolt, the submissions either remind me why I always keep an escape from Australia plan up my sleeve, or just leave me wordlessly shaking my head. That is, until I started submitting them myself.
In an effort to find out exactly how stupid a message the mX would accept, I started texting in numerous entries, all from different names, with the same mobile phone. So far, they’ve published every single one of them. Big and Beardy wrote in to the ‘Here’s looking at you’ column, requesting contact from someone of a non-specified gender who caught his eye after falling off a train platform and gaining assistance from a lawyer. In peak hour. The genius who published that one titled it “Platform Souls”. Another submission, this time from a shady character named “More punk than you”, detailed to the Melbourne public, in form of argument with both a non existent person and a non existent previous submission, exactly how influential Green Day were in the baby days of punk rock. So influential that they invented the flannelette shirt, it seems.
I intend to keep this going for as long as possible and encourage you all to join in. Let’s turn this paper from something disappointing and mundane into the absurd and confusing. Theological debates about Lego? Bring it on! Thinly disguised innuendo about unlikely subjects? The more the merrier! The beauty is that you don’t even need the paper itself to do this – all the numbers you need are here. General comments should be texted as VENT to 1994 4000. "Here’s looking at you" (train stalking colum) can be texted to the same number, with HERES in place of VENT. If you’re not in Melbourne, let us know you’ve submitted in the comments, and I’ll be sure to pick up a paper and keep you posted. The submissions usually take about two days to appear.
But lets face it. With headlines like mine, I'm never going to make it in this industry. Not unless I start to get some serious coaching. In the meantime I'Il leave the headlines to the professionals and get back to whatever it is I'm meant to be doing.
* Courtesy of Krus; aspiring News Limited editor.
** Big thanks to Mr Fandango Jones for capturing what would have to be the most entertaining Herald Scum headline of 2009.
Unfortunately, no pun in ten did. *
When I grow up, I want to work for a newspaper. No, not as a journalist. Nor a columnist. Not even as an editor, copy writer, typesetter or any of those other important sounding jobs. No. I want to be that very special person employed by News Limited to create the most inane, cringe worthy, spectacular insults to modern day communications; that’s right – the person who comes up with the headlines.
Obviously, the pinnacle of this particular field would be being responsible for the front page of the Herald Scum, or some other capital city distributed tabloid rag. There’s challenge in such a job; three to seven words in the boldest of bold type, accompanied by a picture from a completely different story, in a daily paper which seeks an audience of society’s lowest common denominator. It must be defined by scandal, it can’t be too clever, and anyone who lives in a caravan backing on Kananook Creek must be able to relate to it in some way. Dodgy plumbers (Dishonest brutes taking advantage of widowed pensioners!), immigration scandals (Indian student gets bashed – own fault for listening to an MP3 player in public!), hard done by footballers (Sure, I raped that girl, but all I ask for is my wife’s understanding and support!) and other imminent threats to the Little Aussie Battler™ are king.
But sometimes, they really get it right:
But for those headline crafters who are lower down the ladder, they might get paid less, but there is a particularly silver lining in that very hefty cloud. Just as they must suffer, so must we, the readers. They have a captive audience, and very low standards to meet in the editing and readership world. They can resort to the most groan worthy, stupid, ill conceived, offensive, backwards, extremely un-witty, and sometimes – surprising and rare times – they pencil actually witty titles and headlines. In short, they can make Queensland look good. In case you haven’t worked out which particular litter box liners I’m talking about today, stand up and take a bow mX.
For the uninitiated, mX is a free daily Melbourne commuter rag, which appears to have very similar equivalents in every city I’ve visited, from Prague to Brisbane. Equally similar are the despondent uni students hired to hand them out at train stations around the globe. They really look the same everywhere, and not just because the logos and banner of these papers are virtually the same (yellow/orange/blue or red/black/blue), but because they’re poor bastards whose job it is to be surrounded by rude, arrogant commuters who are in a hurry to get home and be fed, bask in the warm glow of the telly or sit and cry in a dark corner or whatever it is that these people who can’t say ‘please’ or ‘thankyou’ do with their spare time. And they do it well. They tolerate the pushing and shoving, the snatching and the interfering, all the while resisting the urge to punch people. I couldn’t do it. Day one, and there’d be shredded bits of paper, Armani, and metcards everywhere.
Such is the quality of the mX that once upon a train, people seem to either settle into the crossword (which is shit), the sudoku (which is alright, but usually a bit on the novice side), the ‘witty’ one line observational comments about the world today interspersed among the pages (which are shit), or the ‘mX Talk’ pages (which are really shit). Or the quality journalism. Hahahah! – Oh, I’m clutching my sides!
I‘m one of the mX talk reading people. For the same reasons I cast an eye over the Andrew Bolt column whenever a copy of the Scum is left lurking near me, I like to peruse what the good people of Melbourne have to say about life, the universe and everything in the space of a text message. Just like Bolt, the submissions either remind me why I always keep an escape from Australia plan up my sleeve, or just leave me wordlessly shaking my head. That is, until I started submitting them myself.
In an effort to find out exactly how stupid a message the mX would accept, I started texting in numerous entries, all from different names, with the same mobile phone. So far, they’ve published every single one of them. Big and Beardy wrote in to the ‘Here’s looking at you’ column, requesting contact from someone of a non-specified gender who caught his eye after falling off a train platform and gaining assistance from a lawyer. In peak hour. The genius who published that one titled it “Platform Souls”. Another submission, this time from a shady character named “More punk than you”, detailed to the Melbourne public, in form of argument with both a non existent person and a non existent previous submission, exactly how influential Green Day were in the baby days of punk rock. So influential that they invented the flannelette shirt, it seems.
I intend to keep this going for as long as possible and encourage you all to join in. Let’s turn this paper from something disappointing and mundane into the absurd and confusing. Theological debates about Lego? Bring it on! Thinly disguised innuendo about unlikely subjects? The more the merrier! The beauty is that you don’t even need the paper itself to do this – all the numbers you need are here. General comments should be texted as VENT
But lets face it. With headlines like mine, I'm never going to make it in this industry. Not unless I start to get some serious coaching. In the meantime I'Il leave the headlines to the professionals and get back to whatever it is I'm meant to be doing.
* Courtesy of Krus; aspiring News Limited editor.
** Big thanks to Mr Fandango Jones for capturing what would have to be the most entertaining Herald Scum headline of 2009.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Well!
Instead of turning this into yet another apologetic post stinking of Yirmumah type shame, commitment and remorse, I'm gonna come right out and say it: I am more than a bit shit at maintaining a functioning blog. I thought I'd got away with it until the last couple of weeks when the international period of seasonal slow-down/work-slacking kicked in. Take note: Everyone who has commented on the lack of posts in recent history, I've kept a record of who you are and when you asked, and I'll be forwarding those details to your respective managers ASAP. That is... unless you purchase me a nice, cool, refreshing beverage in the interest of seasonal goodwill.... wink wink.
The good news though, is that I have a backlog of material, all so out of date that I'll probably never bother to publish. So you'll be spared that particular bullet. Phew! I hear you gasp with relief! Well, the next bit of news you may, or may not also enjoy, is that I'll be changing the format of this blog a bit in some kind of attempt to make sure I start publishing it in some kind of timely fashion again. What does this mean for you? Probably more frequent posts, even more flippant material, and best of all, they'll probably be a damned site shorter.
If you're still around, let me know your thoughts. Otherwise, to hell with 'ya.
The good news though, is that I have a backlog of material, all so out of date that I'll probably never bother to publish. So you'll be spared that particular bullet. Phew! I hear you gasp with relief! Well, the next bit of news you may, or may not also enjoy, is that I'll be changing the format of this blog a bit in some kind of attempt to make sure I start publishing it in some kind of timely fashion again. What does this mean for you? Probably more frequent posts, even more flippant material, and best of all, they'll probably be a damned site shorter.
If you're still around, let me know your thoughts. Otherwise, to hell with 'ya.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
at least I still have my miniwheats.
As usual, here I stumble in; head hung, slouching, and full of half arsed apologies regarding the frequency of my updates. Oh! The updates that could have been, but never were! I can no longer recount! Tragedy! Drama! Foes! Vanquishment!
Some time ago when I was probably quite bored and on the curious side, I checked out the stats for this blog over a couple of years, and was tremendously surprised to find that I average an entry once a fortnight – not once a month, or indeed once in a fucking millennium as I would certainly have suspected in my recent updating history, but once a fortnight! Well! I thought to myself. Slack I am, and slack I can be! And since then, I’ve obviously never looked back.
That is, of course not entirely true. While I’m certainly on the unforgivable side of slack, let me recount to you by way of apology in a manner more or less completely ripped off the Good Author* of Well Done Fillet, what my life has been since we last met.
Since my last entry, I have:
Caught trams.
Not an exciting prospect in itself, no! But when you add a good handful of Brunswicks’ finest crazies to the mix, you just count the seconds down to sheer fucking insanity. In just three consecutive days, I’ve suffered a number of affronts to my dignity, nay!, my very person and property on these normally adequate trams.
One of the more notable incidents was a mentally ill (I hope) semi-elderly woman who… well… I’m not quite sure how to say this, but… assaulted me… with her rude bits.
There I was on a tram, sitting on the nanna seat up the front, when I was surrounded by elderly people refusing the offer of seat, instead choosing to glare in my general direction while coughing sick germs all over the place in that way only elderly people can. Oh look! You had toast for breakfast! Isn’t that just lovely? COVER YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
Anyway, the tram is at capacity. I am studiously focusing on playing my DS, refusing to even begin to engage with the horrible and smelly world around me. I’m completely hemmed in by stubborn elderly. That is, until they start topping over like loud, smelly and very fucking angry bowling pins. People are shouting exclamations in more languages than I can recognise, and walking sticks are flying. Well, maybe just one, but none the less, commotion is afoot. I further refuse to engage in this strange game the listless elderly are playing.
They settle down, I did not think to perhaps examine why. Had I, I would have found right before me, a completely bonkers woman, surrounded by a ring of elderly doing everything they can to keep their distance, avoid eye contact, and by all means not engage the woman in speech. Oblivious to all this, I continued to play my game, occasionally considering that the person standing in front of me was falling on me rather a lot while the tram was jostling. That’s okay, I thought. Trams jostle, and not everyone is sure of foot.
More and more, I found myself justifying the woman’s constant bashing into me; however it reached a point – and I note this with quite some alarm - that I could no longer justify a damned thing. The woman was now straddling my leg, her entire weight it would seem, supported by her crotch on my knee. I froze, looking to my neighbours for help. Their expressions, I believe, reflected my own. They stared on in absolute horror, as the crazy woman made little to no effort to stand up, occasionally doing so only to end up right back where she started. I tried to wriggle away, but there was no room. People around me hurriedly offered her their seats, but she refused. Some old men even tried to jostle her away, but to no avail. There I sat, screaming on the inside, my sudoku game long forgotten. Eventually – and I doubt I will ever say this again – a pram came to my rescue. The woman had no choice but to move on the presentation of a pram into our little commute of horrors, and the woman was whisked away. There I remained, stunned. I reflected upon what had just occurred, still staring mindlessly at my DS, and I think, inside, a little bit of me died.
The previous day, a completely different nutter had punched me in the back of the head in some kind of crazy-speak way of asking me for my seat. I found this to be a preferable approach, sore head and possible concussion issues aside.
Listened to ‘metal’**.
I’m always a bit reluctant to get onto the topic of ‘metal’ - whatever that might be these days. I know absolutely fuck all about it (and certainly don’t profess to), but through the people around me I seem to have latched onto the odd band here and there. But what I don’t get about metal are the two extremes of what I would personally call enjoyable music***, and what I’d like to call unenjoyable music****. I get that some people ‘ironically’ enjoy the whole theatre, makeup and general glam/cheese overtones of the latter category, but I’ve certainly got fuck all time for it. But back to what I don’t understand… what on earth gels these two – I think – vastly different styles of music under the ‘metal’ banner? That’s a genuine question, too - I really have no idea. I honestly see way more in common with a wing of my traditional genre of choice – old school punk – with many of the metal bands I like, than I do with the likes of, well, Satyricon.
Anyway, enough of that. What I’d really like to discuss now is a great little gig VG, Fandango and myself attended a few weeks ago – the Musicians Against Police Violence benefit gig for Lex Wotton. It was a genuinely fun gig, and for a rather good cause, but the overwhelming thing I noticed was the number of people there at the gig, really getting into the ‘metal’ on offer, were like little lost man-child-nerds who somehow missed the punk boat of the 90's. Or perhaps thought the boat wasn’t manly enough for them. Or that not enough people were running around shirtless, growling and throwing horns up in the air sweatily enough, on said boat. Perhaps, the boat was goatless, and they were forced to shed a very manly tear in its notable absence.
Maybe it was just a bit of a bad lineup, I don’t really know, but I can’t say it’s inspired me to turn up to any future gigs officially sanctioned by the united board of metal. After all, one vocalist could be heard repeatedly screaming “Lets hear it for contact lenses! WOO”, and sadly, the crowd responded, cheering her and her stupid showboating on. It was all just a bit sad.
Maybe I’m just old and far more attached the good old nerdy punks of the day who were equally shirtless and sweaty and yelly and stampy, but at least managed to refrain from working on their ‘crazed maniac’ stare for the crowds, or indeed, their hair solos. Plus if anyone had gone on at length about contact lenses, we’d have just set fire to ‘em.
Toyed with the notion of firing a steady stream of landlords straight into the sun.
The short version of this story is: We’ve been evicted! The long version is: We’ve been evicted so our money-grubbing landlord can flog it off to the highest overpaid, Brunswick invading scumbag they can find.
Real estate agents are making our lives unbelievably difficult in the process, and I’m downright sick of looking at houses claiming three bedrooms, but actually having one quantifiable bedroom, and a garden bed in which one might be able to erect a tent or two. I’m also getting fed up with filling in completely ludicrous applications that usually involve some kind of certification that you had a kidney removed when you were two years old, and YES, I am certain that this is the name, address and indeed first-born of the doctor in charge at the time. I bet they secretly sell identities to shady types on the side. The real estate business: very profitable indeed!
So; it’s goodbye to Brunswick (but not Hanover Street – we’ll be taking that with us), and hello to somewhere beginning with P, where we will become the overpaid, place-beginning-with-P invaders. Such is the food chain, I suppose.
Over and OUT!
The Rantolotl.
* Certifiably so! I guarantee it!
** By the time you have finished the 'metal' bit, you will want to kill me for putting the word metal in between these ''. Don't worry, I do too.
*** This! And this! And some of this too!
**** The list is too long. But you can start with some of this and progress - if that's what you want to call it - from there.
Some time ago when I was probably quite bored and on the curious side, I checked out the stats for this blog over a couple of years, and was tremendously surprised to find that I average an entry once a fortnight – not once a month, or indeed once in a fucking millennium as I would certainly have suspected in my recent updating history, but once a fortnight! Well! I thought to myself. Slack I am, and slack I can be! And since then, I’ve obviously never looked back.
That is, of course not entirely true. While I’m certainly on the unforgivable side of slack, let me recount to you by way of apology in a manner more or less completely ripped off the Good Author* of Well Done Fillet, what my life has been since we last met.
Since my last entry, I have:
Caught trams.
Not an exciting prospect in itself, no! But when you add a good handful of Brunswicks’ finest crazies to the mix, you just count the seconds down to sheer fucking insanity. In just three consecutive days, I’ve suffered a number of affronts to my dignity, nay!, my very person and property on these normally adequate trams.
One of the more notable incidents was a mentally ill (I hope) semi-elderly woman who… well… I’m not quite sure how to say this, but… assaulted me… with her rude bits.
There I was on a tram, sitting on the nanna seat up the front, when I was surrounded by elderly people refusing the offer of seat, instead choosing to glare in my general direction while coughing sick germs all over the place in that way only elderly people can. Oh look! You had toast for breakfast! Isn’t that just lovely? COVER YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
Anyway, the tram is at capacity. I am studiously focusing on playing my DS, refusing to even begin to engage with the horrible and smelly world around me. I’m completely hemmed in by stubborn elderly. That is, until they start topping over like loud, smelly and very fucking angry bowling pins. People are shouting exclamations in more languages than I can recognise, and walking sticks are flying. Well, maybe just one, but none the less, commotion is afoot. I further refuse to engage in this strange game the listless elderly are playing.
They settle down, I did not think to perhaps examine why. Had I, I would have found right before me, a completely bonkers woman, surrounded by a ring of elderly doing everything they can to keep their distance, avoid eye contact, and by all means not engage the woman in speech. Oblivious to all this, I continued to play my game, occasionally considering that the person standing in front of me was falling on me rather a lot while the tram was jostling. That’s okay, I thought. Trams jostle, and not everyone is sure of foot.
More and more, I found myself justifying the woman’s constant bashing into me; however it reached a point – and I note this with quite some alarm - that I could no longer justify a damned thing. The woman was now straddling my leg, her entire weight it would seem, supported by her crotch on my knee. I froze, looking to my neighbours for help. Their expressions, I believe, reflected my own. They stared on in absolute horror, as the crazy woman made little to no effort to stand up, occasionally doing so only to end up right back where she started. I tried to wriggle away, but there was no room. People around me hurriedly offered her their seats, but she refused. Some old men even tried to jostle her away, but to no avail. There I sat, screaming on the inside, my sudoku game long forgotten. Eventually – and I doubt I will ever say this again – a pram came to my rescue. The woman had no choice but to move on the presentation of a pram into our little commute of horrors, and the woman was whisked away. There I remained, stunned. I reflected upon what had just occurred, still staring mindlessly at my DS, and I think, inside, a little bit of me died.
The previous day, a completely different nutter had punched me in the back of the head in some kind of crazy-speak way of asking me for my seat. I found this to be a preferable approach, sore head and possible concussion issues aside.
Listened to ‘metal’**.
I’m always a bit reluctant to get onto the topic of ‘metal’ - whatever that might be these days. I know absolutely fuck all about it (and certainly don’t profess to), but through the people around me I seem to have latched onto the odd band here and there. But what I don’t get about metal are the two extremes of what I would personally call enjoyable music***, and what I’d like to call unenjoyable music****. I get that some people ‘ironically’ enjoy the whole theatre, makeup and general glam/cheese overtones of the latter category, but I’ve certainly got fuck all time for it. But back to what I don’t understand… what on earth gels these two – I think – vastly different styles of music under the ‘metal’ banner? That’s a genuine question, too - I really have no idea. I honestly see way more in common with a wing of my traditional genre of choice – old school punk – with many of the metal bands I like, than I do with the likes of, well, Satyricon.
Anyway, enough of that. What I’d really like to discuss now is a great little gig VG, Fandango and myself attended a few weeks ago – the Musicians Against Police Violence benefit gig for Lex Wotton. It was a genuinely fun gig, and for a rather good cause, but the overwhelming thing I noticed was the number of people there at the gig, really getting into the ‘metal’ on offer, were like little lost man-child-nerds who somehow missed the punk boat of the 90's. Or perhaps thought the boat wasn’t manly enough for them. Or that not enough people were running around shirtless, growling and throwing horns up in the air sweatily enough, on said boat. Perhaps, the boat was goatless, and they were forced to shed a very manly tear in its notable absence.
Maybe it was just a bit of a bad lineup, I don’t really know, but I can’t say it’s inspired me to turn up to any future gigs officially sanctioned by the united board of metal. After all, one vocalist could be heard repeatedly screaming “Lets hear it for contact lenses! WOO”, and sadly, the crowd responded, cheering her and her stupid showboating on. It was all just a bit sad.
Maybe I’m just old and far more attached the good old nerdy punks of the day who were equally shirtless and sweaty and yelly and stampy, but at least managed to refrain from working on their ‘crazed maniac’ stare for the crowds, or indeed, their hair solos. Plus if anyone had gone on at length about contact lenses, we’d have just set fire to ‘em.
Toyed with the notion of firing a steady stream of landlords straight into the sun.
The short version of this story is: We’ve been evicted! The long version is: We’ve been evicted so our money-grubbing landlord can flog it off to the highest overpaid, Brunswick invading scumbag they can find.
Real estate agents are making our lives unbelievably difficult in the process, and I’m downright sick of looking at houses claiming three bedrooms, but actually having one quantifiable bedroom, and a garden bed in which one might be able to erect a tent or two. I’m also getting fed up with filling in completely ludicrous applications that usually involve some kind of certification that you had a kidney removed when you were two years old, and YES, I am certain that this is the name, address and indeed first-born of the doctor in charge at the time. I bet they secretly sell identities to shady types on the side. The real estate business: very profitable indeed!
So; it’s goodbye to Brunswick (but not Hanover Street – we’ll be taking that with us), and hello to somewhere beginning with P, where we will become the overpaid, place-beginning-with-P invaders. Such is the food chain, I suppose.
Over and OUT!
The Rantolotl.
* Certifiably so! I guarantee it!
** By the time you have finished the 'metal' bit, you will want to kill me for putting the word metal in between these ''. Don't worry, I do too.
*** This! And this! And some of this too!
**** The list is too long. But you can start with some of this and progress - if that's what you want to call it - from there.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
To the trenches!
The problem with being a bit of a foodie/boozie, is that one often encounters other people of this type, most of which are beyond fucking tedious. These people are generally avoidable, but sometimes, when you make the mistake of attending something food and/or wine education based, you find yourself knee deep in the fucking lot of ‘em. There seems to be quite a few types of this lot, and I’m sure despite my protests, we fit somewhere in the mix of all this, or perhaps we have our very own category, something like, ‘pretentious yet unwashed sloth’.
“Oh, this caviar is just divine!”
One of our house can be heard annunciating this whilst delicately holding – caressing if you will – an elegant long stemmed champagne flute filled with the finest offerings Yering Station has to offer… whilst sitting on a beyond filthy couch permanently stained with many an upturned curry over the years, in a pair of track pants, quite possibly about to give her crotch, or perhaps breasts a good scratch.
Of course, I lie. She’d never have said “Oh this caviar is just divine!”, it would be something far more straightforward;
“Try the caviar! It’s choice!”
Or perhaps, as is the style of our house in general;
“CAVIAR! OM NOM NOM NOMMA OM NOM NOM NOM!”
But enough about us, lets talk about them. Them being those other types that offend us merely by their very existence. After all, we’re nothing if not antisocial and socially scathing.
There’s your nice middle class types of course, who sit about and try to look oh so terribly dignified, yet still think of lasagne as one of those exotic, foreign, migrant delicacies. They probably drive a nice, sensible car like a Camry, but one that displays their elegance of their older years and symbols of slowly yet surely accumulated wealth. So, a Camry in the highest price bracket I guess. The one that comes with an extra shiny stripe on the side and some kind of special coating on the headlights to prevent excess glare should you find yourself driving through a waterfall at night, in the high-glare season (April through August, apparently). It also no doubt has several extra letters tacked onto the end of the model number. Maybe a C, or perhaps an X or an S. Or perhaps all three, indicating that they are indeed Sexy Cunts with Xylophones.
I never really understood the vehicle naming system. I don’t understand why every car/motorbike/thing with a motor attached generally has a sensible name (obviously I’m excluding any ever made by Ford here. Ford Focus? On what? The bits falling off the sides perhaps?) which people would use to describe it, however they always seem to have a ‘real’ name, some kind of combination of letters and numbers that only an unusually unbalanced code enthusiast should be able to remember. Motorbikes are particularly guilty of this, probably thanks to bizarre brand of people who ride the damned things.
"OH! You have the ‘91 FGB##19273Z, do you?"
I get asked this by random people on the street (motorbike enthusiasts generally feel that their comments are welcome material to anyone within fifty feet of a motorbike, or indeed a poster of a motorbike). My confused response is something along the lines of “Er. It is a hornet 600. It’s yellow!”, in the sheer hope they don’t ask me some inane question about spark plugs. WHICH THEY OFTEN DO.
But back to the topic at hand, which is of course not vehicle loving freaks, but food and wine appreciating types. There’s your general art wanker types - and we know how I feel about those people – but they can be alright once you get past the ‘oh, I work in the filum industry’ sentence being dropped every ten minutes or so. They seem to know their chardonnay from their Riesling; their puttanesca from their saltati; or indeed their easymac from their 2 minute noodles, if you will. This is a good thing. For this, I can forgive them their over inflated view of themselves in conjunction with the rest of the world. Unless there’s a particularly obnoxious one wearing an ‘ironic’ collection of popped collars.
A group Fandango and I recently encountered was one I’d managed to mostly avoid up until that particular point, and we are probably best to refer to them from here on in as ‘The Hiltons’. This is of course based on a delicately balanced combination of their attire, their respective fathers’ wealth, and their sheer fucking stupidity. They don’t seem to know what ordinary objects like lamps, kerosene, and good fucking taste are. Don’t suppose they need to either, I’m quite sure they’re the sort of people who keep a slave or twenty stashed in some kind of terribly illegal yet beautifully furnished underground concrete cell buried beneath the family botanical garden, or perhaps their very own museum - Of course tastefully filled with artefacts acquired from those darkies all those years ago when it was the expected norm for rich wankers to march around deserts sporting stupid hats and improbable moustaches sometime after daddy granted them an entire army of peasants to carry everything from the mahogany desk to the complete contents of the Prime Ministers office on their backs. There were of course other important duties too; like maintaining a roving stock of freshly prepared gin and tonics/mint juleps (I’ll trust you to alter the drink mentally as required, based on perceived adventuring location. In your head. Or, if you prefer, in your lunchbreak.). But, you know, just in case.
This particular type seem to eventually grow into the category known as the ‘entitled bitch’, the type of woman who can be seen with a permanent sneer on her sixty year old dial, and who is just generally dissatisfied with everything and every fucking person around her. I do not like these people, and as such completely disregard any funny notions they might have about tasting, learning, or indeed, breathing.
The final group that spring to mind as I sit here at my desk, all enraged at the stupidity of a particular someone encountered recently, is of course, the complete and utter nutjob. Someone who is probably single and in their thirties, and have turned all the failures in their life, the tragedies of not owning a house and having a loving partner and 3 children at the age of 25, into sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm about food and or wine. Usually food. They are compulsive note takers, and in their eagerness to learn EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING actually miss out on a lot of good advice imparted to them. Like that little memo about valium.
These people are insatiable, and tend to ruin everything good around them by being just so obsessive about something fairly insignificant. Was the flour milled in Italy? WAS THE FLOUR MILLED IN ITALY?! I NEED TO KNOW! Are the cries heard, falling piteously to the uncaring ears of those intending to source nothing other than a pack of blue bag white wings to complete their future baking tasks. Yet they need to know, and until they do, nothing will seep through their collective ears or eyes into their very brain. It’s a terrible disability, one which is generally deserving of a sound proof booth and quite possibly some kind of straight jacket. These are the kind of people who stock those insanely pedantic internet forums about the most trivial of topics. Like the sourcing of Peruvian sprinkles hand made by grain-fed peasants in a broom closet painted purple. The internet has probably been a very good development in the keeping them away from us department.
It just goes to show that in the hospitality industry, everybody loses. I just feel incredibly sorry for the poor staff, who try as they might have to deal with a rapid succession of total wankers just to pay their rent. I mean, the rest of have to do that too, but at least we have the internet. These guys have bogan shitheads with too much money insisting on tasting their port before their chardonnay, then have the audacity to complain about the chardonnay afterwards. Every time I see this happen, I see the pain and anguish in the face of the poor server, doing everything in their power not to bottle the bastards right there and then. I suspect they later sneak out a side door and let the air out of their tyres, cackling maniacally.
I think it’s only fair that come the revolution, we force them to hand over the endless cases of wine they don’t deserve, as well as all the top notch chefs they keep chained in the aforementioned concrete cell. Sure, we’ll have to let the chefs run free, but maybe they’ll make us a lovely feast as a reward for releasing them. We should appropriate their large expanses of lawn too, and dig them all up and make a fantastic veggie garden, stocking the most fantastic of heritage and heirloom fruit, vegetables and herbs. No more of this safeways single species ‘mushrooms’, ‘onions’, ‘tomatoes’ – we will have all the mushrooms! All the time! Varieties all vastly different in taste, texture and colour! We will also establish large and elaborate barbeques where we will cook the fish farmed in their endless lakes! And the tofu that we will grow on the… er, tofu plains! Yes, the glorious tofu plains! We’ll store the sheep in the ceilings and walls where they will double as insulation, and the horses on the rooves where they will loom more gloriously than any gargoyle ever hoped to achieve. Actually, we’ll put cows up there – I’m not sure I’m particularly inclined to eat horse.
Actually, fuck the revolution, they should hand it all over right now. All we need is a large trap, some fine cheese, and a number of prestige four wheel drives. Oh! And a butler named Jeeves!
To Toorak!
“Oh, this caviar is just divine!”
One of our house can be heard annunciating this whilst delicately holding – caressing if you will – an elegant long stemmed champagne flute filled with the finest offerings Yering Station has to offer… whilst sitting on a beyond filthy couch permanently stained with many an upturned curry over the years, in a pair of track pants, quite possibly about to give her crotch, or perhaps breasts a good scratch.
Of course, I lie. She’d never have said “Oh this caviar is just divine!”, it would be something far more straightforward;
“Try the caviar! It’s choice!”
Or perhaps, as is the style of our house in general;
“CAVIAR! OM NOM NOM NOMMA OM NOM NOM NOM!”
But enough about us, lets talk about them. Them being those other types that offend us merely by their very existence. After all, we’re nothing if not antisocial and socially scathing.
There’s your nice middle class types of course, who sit about and try to look oh so terribly dignified, yet still think of lasagne as one of those exotic, foreign, migrant delicacies. They probably drive a nice, sensible car like a Camry, but one that displays their elegance of their older years and symbols of slowly yet surely accumulated wealth. So, a Camry in the highest price bracket I guess. The one that comes with an extra shiny stripe on the side and some kind of special coating on the headlights to prevent excess glare should you find yourself driving through a waterfall at night, in the high-glare season (April through August, apparently). It also no doubt has several extra letters tacked onto the end of the model number. Maybe a C, or perhaps an X or an S. Or perhaps all three, indicating that they are indeed Sexy Cunts with Xylophones.
I never really understood the vehicle naming system. I don’t understand why every car/motorbike/thing with a motor attached generally has a sensible name (obviously I’m excluding any ever made by Ford here. Ford Focus? On what? The bits falling off the sides perhaps?) which people would use to describe it, however they always seem to have a ‘real’ name, some kind of combination of letters and numbers that only an unusually unbalanced code enthusiast should be able to remember. Motorbikes are particularly guilty of this, probably thanks to bizarre brand of people who ride the damned things.
"OH! You have the ‘91 FGB##19273Z, do you?"
I get asked this by random people on the street (motorbike enthusiasts generally feel that their comments are welcome material to anyone within fifty feet of a motorbike, or indeed a poster of a motorbike). My confused response is something along the lines of “Er. It is a hornet 600. It’s yellow!”, in the sheer hope they don’t ask me some inane question about spark plugs. WHICH THEY OFTEN DO.
But back to the topic at hand, which is of course not vehicle loving freaks, but food and wine appreciating types. There’s your general art wanker types - and we know how I feel about those people – but they can be alright once you get past the ‘oh, I work in the filum industry’ sentence being dropped every ten minutes or so. They seem to know their chardonnay from their Riesling; their puttanesca from their saltati; or indeed their easymac from their 2 minute noodles, if you will. This is a good thing. For this, I can forgive them their over inflated view of themselves in conjunction with the rest of the world. Unless there’s a particularly obnoxious one wearing an ‘ironic’ collection of popped collars.
A group Fandango and I recently encountered was one I’d managed to mostly avoid up until that particular point, and we are probably best to refer to them from here on in as ‘The Hiltons’. This is of course based on a delicately balanced combination of their attire, their respective fathers’ wealth, and their sheer fucking stupidity. They don’t seem to know what ordinary objects like lamps, kerosene, and good fucking taste are. Don’t suppose they need to either, I’m quite sure they’re the sort of people who keep a slave or twenty stashed in some kind of terribly illegal yet beautifully furnished underground concrete cell buried beneath the family botanical garden, or perhaps their very own museum - Of course tastefully filled with artefacts acquired from those darkies all those years ago when it was the expected norm for rich wankers to march around deserts sporting stupid hats and improbable moustaches sometime after daddy granted them an entire army of peasants to carry everything from the mahogany desk to the complete contents of the Prime Ministers office on their backs. There were of course other important duties too; like maintaining a roving stock of freshly prepared gin and tonics/mint juleps (I’ll trust you to alter the drink mentally as required, based on perceived adventuring location. In your head. Or, if you prefer, in your lunchbreak.). But, you know, just in case.
This particular type seem to eventually grow into the category known as the ‘entitled bitch’, the type of woman who can be seen with a permanent sneer on her sixty year old dial, and who is just generally dissatisfied with everything and every fucking person around her. I do not like these people, and as such completely disregard any funny notions they might have about tasting, learning, or indeed, breathing.
The final group that spring to mind as I sit here at my desk, all enraged at the stupidity of a particular someone encountered recently, is of course, the complete and utter nutjob. Someone who is probably single and in their thirties, and have turned all the failures in their life, the tragedies of not owning a house and having a loving partner and 3 children at the age of 25, into sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm about food and or wine. Usually food. They are compulsive note takers, and in their eagerness to learn EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING actually miss out on a lot of good advice imparted to them. Like that little memo about valium.
These people are insatiable, and tend to ruin everything good around them by being just so obsessive about something fairly insignificant. Was the flour milled in Italy? WAS THE FLOUR MILLED IN ITALY?! I NEED TO KNOW! Are the cries heard, falling piteously to the uncaring ears of those intending to source nothing other than a pack of blue bag white wings to complete their future baking tasks. Yet they need to know, and until they do, nothing will seep through their collective ears or eyes into their very brain. It’s a terrible disability, one which is generally deserving of a sound proof booth and quite possibly some kind of straight jacket. These are the kind of people who stock those insanely pedantic internet forums about the most trivial of topics. Like the sourcing of Peruvian sprinkles hand made by grain-fed peasants in a broom closet painted purple. The internet has probably been a very good development in the keeping them away from us department.
It just goes to show that in the hospitality industry, everybody loses. I just feel incredibly sorry for the poor staff, who try as they might have to deal with a rapid succession of total wankers just to pay their rent. I mean, the rest of have to do that too, but at least we have the internet. These guys have bogan shitheads with too much money insisting on tasting their port before their chardonnay, then have the audacity to complain about the chardonnay afterwards. Every time I see this happen, I see the pain and anguish in the face of the poor server, doing everything in their power not to bottle the bastards right there and then. I suspect they later sneak out a side door and let the air out of their tyres, cackling maniacally.
I think it’s only fair that come the revolution, we force them to hand over the endless cases of wine they don’t deserve, as well as all the top notch chefs they keep chained in the aforementioned concrete cell. Sure, we’ll have to let the chefs run free, but maybe they’ll make us a lovely feast as a reward for releasing them. We should appropriate their large expanses of lawn too, and dig them all up and make a fantastic veggie garden, stocking the most fantastic of heritage and heirloom fruit, vegetables and herbs. No more of this safeways single species ‘mushrooms’, ‘onions’, ‘tomatoes’ – we will have all the mushrooms! All the time! Varieties all vastly different in taste, texture and colour! We will also establish large and elaborate barbeques where we will cook the fish farmed in their endless lakes! And the tofu that we will grow on the… er, tofu plains! Yes, the glorious tofu plains! We’ll store the sheep in the ceilings and walls where they will double as insulation, and the horses on the rooves where they will loom more gloriously than any gargoyle ever hoped to achieve. Actually, we’ll put cows up there – I’m not sure I’m particularly inclined to eat horse.
Actually, fuck the revolution, they should hand it all over right now. All we need is a large trap, some fine cheese, and a number of prestige four wheel drives. Oh! And a butler named Jeeves!
To Toorak!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Paint my nails in a pasta bake.
The week before last, I spent quite some time agonising over a particular post I’d written but not yet published here. The following Saturday, now of course known as ‘Black Saturday’, as the temperature slowly climbed until it was perched somewhere over the 46 degree mark, my mouse hovered over the ‘Publish’ button. This was in between little trips out into the backyard to try and wrestle the portable gazebo over the kiddie pool into submission, while it was doing its best to fly off and terrorise the neighbourhood in the incredibly strong and oven-like northerly winds. Eventually, sated with deliciously refreshing and ice-filled cocktails courtesy of VG, I opted not to publish. It’s probably worth mentioning a lot of this was influenced by Mr Jones, who had threatened me with all kinds of verbal abuse should I publish this post a day or two before.
This turned out to be a very, very good thing, because just like delightful turns of phrase such as ‘Die in a fire’ have been shelved somewhat indefinitely from outside our household, so too would a long and whinging post about the weather in general, filled with self righteous indignation about my initial demands for some nice, frying days a few months back.
As the body count from the fires rose, so too did the number of status updates on Facebook from friends threatening all sorts of nasty things against journo’s who’d been demanding that summer turn up. I quietly kept my own status to myself, and thought Well, thank christ I’m not a journo then. Dodged that bullet! I felt a little bit guilty, but also knew full well that many of these people were just as guilty of wanting a nice warm summer as I was – and after all, there’s nothing wrong with wishing for a warm summer - if we’d been declaring we wanted several hundreds of kilometres of bushfire front, then I think that might have been a different situation.
Luckily for some, soon the whole notion of deliberately lit fires came into the public sphere, and quicker than you can say burning pitchforks, the villagers had a whole new, far more plausible and violence-worthy target. While I was all for conversations in pubs amounting to a list of what we’d like to do to someone who has deliberately lit on of these fires, it all got a whole lot more disturbing when the notion of an arsonist became less arbitrary and a whole lot more pinpointed to some guy the cops picked up in Gippsland.
Frankly, I can’t believe for a minute that someone of sound mind could light one of those fires and not feel tremendous remorse. I think that anyone picked up and actually found guilty on these charges probably needs some pretty significant psychiatric care. I also tend to think that anyone who believes that bashing the shit out of anyone who may or may not be an arsonist, in a summer where we’ve had record heatwaves, uncleared bush, poorly maintained infrastructure such as powerlines, and a total reliance on volunteer firefighting forces, is fucking kidding themselves if they think that would solve this problem – that this would undo all the damage done.
I can’t imagine any chance in hell of this guy getting a fair trial in Victoria, let alone the rest of the country. The image of this one arson fire of many fires alone – a fire that met up with a bunch of ‘naturally’ sparked fires in the area, can’t help but be mixed up with all those images of the lost families and completely destroyed towns of Marysville and Kinglake. So few people in Victoria are removed enough from the impact of the fires to form a jury of any real, legal validity, and the prosecutors and magistrates themselves are under such incredible pressure to produce a guilty verdict – to produce a real, physical thing - a person - that can be blamed for everything that’s happened in the last week or so. After all, this is a lot easier than addressing the issues of effective forest management, of the issues of managing an ever expanding urban sprawl encroaching bushland.
During the record breaking heatwave in the week prior to the fires, let’s not forget that Melbourne virtually shut down. The train lines buckled. The power supplies collapsed. Roads were closed due to fires on their fringes – fires that could have, and should have been prevented with basic firebreak management by vicroads… you know, that organisation we each pay hundreds of dollars a year to in vehicle registrations, just so they can approve more toll roads. Now we all know that those were extreme conditions, but none the less, it’s a rare summer in Melbourne that we don’t see the thermometer slide over the 40 degree mark at least once, often to then hover in the thirties for quite some time – so why on earth is our city – and indeed our state – so poorly managed that we’re not even bothering to maintain, let alone build infrastructure that can cope with our temperatures?
Christ – Adelaide had something like two full weeks of over 40 degrees, and they coped! We had three days, and the state all but collapsed. Three days! Adelaide! What next? Fucking Tasmania? New Zealand? It’s just fucking embarrassing. We’re Victorians – we can do better than this. After all, we should be the ones setting an example for the rest of the heathen states in this country. Surely it’s basic fucking logic – you live in a part of the country where it’s not socially acceptable to run down the Aboriginal population in your cars, you should get functioning fucking train lines. I mean really, Cronulla. The entire state of NSW seems to have some kind of weird deep-seated fear of Mosques, yet they have seemingly constant supply electricity. The fuckers probably have functioning fire breaks, too.
The really depressing part is that ‘they’ (being experty types I presume), seem to think that this is an emerging pattern. Superfires and the like. What I want to know is how many seasons of full on fires like this it’s going to take before the State actually throws the necessary money at all those basic maintenance tasks that have become dilapidated through neglect over the years, let alone expansion of those tasks. I can honestly say that a couple more years of this sort of thing, and I reckon I'll be out of here... though that's probably not much of an incentive to getting things fixed I suppose.
It’s either that, or they blow the cash on migrating us all to Canada, which I suppose is one kind of solution. The really cool bit about that is they already have a Victoria sitting there just waiting for us.
*sigh*
So, how did you deal with the heat? Everyone doing alright? Not joining vigilante arsonist-hunting groups I hope?
The Rantolotl.
ps - please be sure to thank Shane for his title contribution.
This turned out to be a very, very good thing, because just like delightful turns of phrase such as ‘Die in a fire’ have been shelved somewhat indefinitely from outside our household, so too would a long and whinging post about the weather in general, filled with self righteous indignation about my initial demands for some nice, frying days a few months back.
As the body count from the fires rose, so too did the number of status updates on Facebook from friends threatening all sorts of nasty things against journo’s who’d been demanding that summer turn up. I quietly kept my own status to myself, and thought Well, thank christ I’m not a journo then. Dodged that bullet! I felt a little bit guilty, but also knew full well that many of these people were just as guilty of wanting a nice warm summer as I was – and after all, there’s nothing wrong with wishing for a warm summer - if we’d been declaring we wanted several hundreds of kilometres of bushfire front, then I think that might have been a different situation.
Luckily for some, soon the whole notion of deliberately lit fires came into the public sphere, and quicker than you can say burning pitchforks, the villagers had a whole new, far more plausible and violence-worthy target. While I was all for conversations in pubs amounting to a list of what we’d like to do to someone who has deliberately lit on of these fires, it all got a whole lot more disturbing when the notion of an arsonist became less arbitrary and a whole lot more pinpointed to some guy the cops picked up in Gippsland.
Frankly, I can’t believe for a minute that someone of sound mind could light one of those fires and not feel tremendous remorse. I think that anyone picked up and actually found guilty on these charges probably needs some pretty significant psychiatric care. I also tend to think that anyone who believes that bashing the shit out of anyone who may or may not be an arsonist, in a summer where we’ve had record heatwaves, uncleared bush, poorly maintained infrastructure such as powerlines, and a total reliance on volunteer firefighting forces, is fucking kidding themselves if they think that would solve this problem – that this would undo all the damage done.
I can’t imagine any chance in hell of this guy getting a fair trial in Victoria, let alone the rest of the country. The image of this one arson fire of many fires alone – a fire that met up with a bunch of ‘naturally’ sparked fires in the area, can’t help but be mixed up with all those images of the lost families and completely destroyed towns of Marysville and Kinglake. So few people in Victoria are removed enough from the impact of the fires to form a jury of any real, legal validity, and the prosecutors and magistrates themselves are under such incredible pressure to produce a guilty verdict – to produce a real, physical thing - a person - that can be blamed for everything that’s happened in the last week or so. After all, this is a lot easier than addressing the issues of effective forest management, of the issues of managing an ever expanding urban sprawl encroaching bushland.
During the record breaking heatwave in the week prior to the fires, let’s not forget that Melbourne virtually shut down. The train lines buckled. The power supplies collapsed. Roads were closed due to fires on their fringes – fires that could have, and should have been prevented with basic firebreak management by vicroads… you know, that organisation we each pay hundreds of dollars a year to in vehicle registrations, just so they can approve more toll roads. Now we all know that those were extreme conditions, but none the less, it’s a rare summer in Melbourne that we don’t see the thermometer slide over the 40 degree mark at least once, often to then hover in the thirties for quite some time – so why on earth is our city – and indeed our state – so poorly managed that we’re not even bothering to maintain, let alone build infrastructure that can cope with our temperatures?
Christ – Adelaide had something like two full weeks of over 40 degrees, and they coped! We had three days, and the state all but collapsed. Three days! Adelaide! What next? Fucking Tasmania? New Zealand? It’s just fucking embarrassing. We’re Victorians – we can do better than this. After all, we should be the ones setting an example for the rest of the heathen states in this country. Surely it’s basic fucking logic – you live in a part of the country where it’s not socially acceptable to run down the Aboriginal population in your cars, you should get functioning fucking train lines. I mean really, Cronulla. The entire state of NSW seems to have some kind of weird deep-seated fear of Mosques, yet they have seemingly constant supply electricity. The fuckers probably have functioning fire breaks, too.
The really depressing part is that ‘they’ (being experty types I presume), seem to think that this is an emerging pattern. Superfires and the like. What I want to know is how many seasons of full on fires like this it’s going to take before the State actually throws the necessary money at all those basic maintenance tasks that have become dilapidated through neglect over the years, let alone expansion of those tasks. I can honestly say that a couple more years of this sort of thing, and I reckon I'll be out of here... though that's probably not much of an incentive to getting things fixed I suppose.
It’s either that, or they blow the cash on migrating us all to Canada, which I suppose is one kind of solution. The really cool bit about that is they already have a Victoria sitting there just waiting for us.
*sigh*
So, how did you deal with the heat? Everyone doing alright? Not joining vigilante arsonist-hunting groups I hope?
The Rantolotl.
ps - please be sure to thank Shane for his title contribution.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Unsubstantiated rumours...
In stark contrast to last year, this glorious year, 2009, is off to a slow and drawling start (yes, I know drawling isn't a word, or at least not in that context, but lets just imagine it is for a minute or two.). So slow in fact, that the first 19 or so days of it have not quite been long enough for the newly appended digit to lose its shiny new sheen. It's quite the novelty, isn't it? Two thousand and niiiiinnnneeeee (Actually, now I really am drawling. But in the correct sense of the word. Hmm.). It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Niiiinnneeeeeee. I was a big fan of two thousand and eight, since it just seems lovely and rounded, probably for some mathematical reason I'll never understand, but two thousand and nine is just novel. It doesn't sound like it should be a year. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnneeee.
None the less, here we are, in the oddly placed linguistically speaking, yet highly amusing 2009. One day I'm sure we'll look back on it and be utterly convinced that it never existed, that it was a patch of our lives that was lived entirely in a magical pocket exclusive of time, and perhaps even physics. I'll be sure to experiment on that aspect when I get home, possibly with some kind of home made catapult, some pineapples, and Krus' shed. I'll let you know of any interesting developments. Anyhow, regardless of the space/time status of this current 'year' or whatever else it might actually be, it is indeed off to a start.
Now, while we all seem to have ascertained that 2008 was a horribly shitty year all round (except for the task of writing or pronouncing the the numbers two thousand and eight. Speaking of which, I wonder how the world would accept the lettered form of the year number on forms and the like? Hmm. Maybe a new dating format could be established. Again, in both senses of the word. Perhaps it is time for you, reader, to stop indulging my brackets now. I suspect they're making less and less sense.), 2009 seems to be showing some promise. Now I know it's only January and we're not back in full swing yet, but things are running quite smoothly thus far. Work is slowly getting back on track, social events seem to be occurring with minimal fuss, the weather has been a whole lot more typical than 2008 ever managed, and, while I wait for my normal coffee shop to reopen after a holiday, Hudsons have been serving me exceptionally average coffee - a marked improvement from their normal standard of inconsistent dirt water complete with crunchy bits. There is of course this whole Israel-being-the-worlds-biggest-fuckwits-and-shamelessly-getting-away-with-it aspect, but to be fair, that did start in 2008, that filthy trollop of a year.
Regardless, this first very quiet and relaxed 19 days or so has given me some time to reflect, and not being one for new years resolutions, this has quickly evolved into a rather abstract process. Niiiiiiinnnneeeeeeee. Now, I know what I'm about to say is rather insulting to many people, particularly those who have actually experienced what I'm about to discuss, and I'm pre-emptively going to go one step further and tell you right in advance, that the thing you really have issue with is the process. Yep, definitely. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to take this moment to discuss my thoughts on my workplace being remarkably like a minimum security prison.
Bear with me on this one. Currently, I have very little to do in terms of workload, so I spend most of my hours on the internet reading about stuff. From now on, the 'Internet' will be referred to as 'The prison library'. I also talk to a lot of people on msn, which I suppose could be closely considered to be chatting to my homies, my homies of course being my fellow prisoners. We discuss many mundane and uninteresting things (though we do also discuss interesting things) with the sole purpose of passing time whilst enjoying some form of human company. Many of these conversations would never pass as such were we to have them outside of work hours. In fact, we would just be considered rather strange, just as one would if prison conversations were to be aired in the public realm, I imagine. Every lunchtime, I go to the gym, which I will now, in line with the library reference, refer to as 'The exercise yard'.
We are contained in fairly lax, yet overcrowded conditions, and are required to enter through various locked doors to get in and out of a floor or building. We also are required to seek permission to do things from supervisory types. Our toilets are often on the disgusting side, and we have a kitchenette which we are required to look after, lest we lose the 'privilege' of using. We also have rations in the form of tea, coffee and sugar sachets, and arguably, the 'charity snack box' which no one seems to pay for. We also have a lot of fluorescent lighting which gives quite the institutionalised air.
Of course, we do get to go home at the end of each day, but I think this is a fairly trivial matter when one is expected to return the following day at the obscene hour of nine to ten-ish. We also have a chaplain.
This year, I plan to take advantage of the prisoner education scheme, I mean, professional development scheme. This will allow me to spend some of my hours here re-educating myself so that I may be of further use to the community, er, institution... er, company. Once completed, I can apply the parole board... er, human resources department, for an early release, er pay rise.
Do you see?! Do you see how interchangeable these situations are?! I mean sure, one has a horrible social stigma attached to it, arguably some potential violence, and the nasty matter of having to deal social low lives such as magistrates, lawyers and of course the police, but these trivialities aside, I think it's fair to adapt the old Anarchist Black Cross slogan of "Jails are the real crime!" to something a little more relevant to the working class of today. I think "Workplaces are the real prisons!" is quite fetching. It could be applied quite neatly to a badge or patch format, complete with a little icon of a coffee cup, symbolising all those hours we spend trapped in caffeinated escapism. Actually, we could even get a little skull and crossbones dealy going, with the steaming coffee cup as the head, and a couple of crossed cigarettes as the crossed bones. We could be the office-prison-pioneer-buccaneers.
Too much?
I don't think so.
This is the promise that 2000 and niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinneeeee offers us. A chance to start anew. Greener pastures. A pocket that time forgot, where we will wage a war against open plan offices. It may not achieve a lot, but it'll certainly make for an interesting year.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment with my exercise yard.
Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
A letter to one or more criminals
Dear inconsiderate lout,
I would like to take this opportunity to verbally punch you in the face, since I have no option to physically perform this task on your person. I'm sure you will accept this verbal punch in the spirit it is intended. That's right. Pure, unadulterated annoyance.
I call you a lout, but chances are that is exactly what you are not. In fact, I refer to you as a single human being, yet I suspect you are many more than that. From now on, I will automatically correct that statement to read 'a group of human beings who must all be single, mostly because they are contemptible arseholes'. There, much better.
I write this correspondence, because, just shy of a month ago, you stole my fucking wallet. Not only did you steal my wallet, but you promptly hopped on a tram, and took a little ride to the closest ATM that isn't right next to my workplace, and withdrew all of my money from my bank account, plus another three hundred dollars for good measure, using my very own bank card. What did that bank card ever do to you, you monster?
Now while this whole general umbrella act of wallet and money theft was a bit shitty and annoying, it's not what lies at the heart of my annoyance with you. I'm glad you didn't do something rude like mug me or beat me up, though that said it would've have made a far more interesting story, and given me the chance to feel very clever for at least being able to tell you to fuck off before being smacked in the face for my efforts. However, that is a small concession.
What you have managed to do, is steal both my bank card, and magically acquire my PIN. And no, for the last time, I didn't write it on the fucking card. You'll have noticed that my card has a credit facility on it. I sincerely wish you had used that instead of MY FUCKING BANK ACCOUNT AND PIN NUMBER. Why, you ask? BECAUSE I'D HAVE MY MONEY BACK NOW. You know what else I'd have? MY SANITY AND MY DIGNITY. Why do I not currently have these intangible items in my possession? BECAUSE THE COMBINED FORCES OF THE VICTORIAN POLICE AND A CERTAIN FRIGGING BANK CREATE ALL HELL ON EARTH AND LET IT LOOSE RIGHT INTO MY VERY LIFE.
Do you know what the police asked me when I reported it stolen? Do you? Right after I explained that money had been withdrawn from my account, and that no, *sigh* I did not write my PIN on the card, the cop in question asked me:
'How do you know it's been stolen?'
Seriously.
When I went to see the police in person, they told me to go to a bank with a card they had filled in, to take it in, hand it to them, and the problem would be resolved. I can only assume it's some kind of magic card, because as far as I can see with my non-invisible bank/police ink reading eyes is this:
To.....*my name here*.....
Constable .....*cops name here*....
attended this address today but you were unavailable.
Would you please contact
.....*location*..... Police Station on telephone ......*blank*.....
The icing on the cake is what is presumably meant to be today's date, written as 1/9/08. Clever.
The problem with this, team of single people, is that I actually need a piece of paper from this establishment in order for the fraud group at the bank to actually investigate the fraud, let alone return my fucking money. I suspect this fabled return of funds may never, ever, happen. This is unfortunate, since unlike knowing you're not going to get your rental bond back or something of a similar nature, I don't get to trash a damned thing.
You absolute mother fuckers.
Sincerely,
The Rantolotl.
I would like to take this opportunity to verbally punch you in the face, since I have no option to physically perform this task on your person. I'm sure you will accept this verbal punch in the spirit it is intended. That's right. Pure, unadulterated annoyance.
I call you a lout, but chances are that is exactly what you are not. In fact, I refer to you as a single human being, yet I suspect you are many more than that. From now on, I will automatically correct that statement to read 'a group of human beings who must all be single, mostly because they are contemptible arseholes'. There, much better.
I write this correspondence, because, just shy of a month ago, you stole my fucking wallet. Not only did you steal my wallet, but you promptly hopped on a tram, and took a little ride to the closest ATM that isn't right next to my workplace, and withdrew all of my money from my bank account, plus another three hundred dollars for good measure, using my very own bank card. What did that bank card ever do to you, you monster?
Now while this whole general umbrella act of wallet and money theft was a bit shitty and annoying, it's not what lies at the heart of my annoyance with you. I'm glad you didn't do something rude like mug me or beat me up, though that said it would've have made a far more interesting story, and given me the chance to feel very clever for at least being able to tell you to fuck off before being smacked in the face for my efforts. However, that is a small concession.
What you have managed to do, is steal both my bank card, and magically acquire my PIN. And no, for the last time, I didn't write it on the fucking card. You'll have noticed that my card has a credit facility on it. I sincerely wish you had used that instead of MY FUCKING BANK ACCOUNT AND PIN NUMBER. Why, you ask? BECAUSE I'D HAVE MY MONEY BACK NOW. You know what else I'd have? MY SANITY AND MY DIGNITY. Why do I not currently have these intangible items in my possession? BECAUSE THE COMBINED FORCES OF THE VICTORIAN POLICE AND A CERTAIN FRIGGING BANK CREATE ALL HELL ON EARTH AND LET IT LOOSE RIGHT INTO MY VERY LIFE.
Do you know what the police asked me when I reported it stolen? Do you? Right after I explained that money had been withdrawn from my account, and that no, *sigh* I did not write my PIN on the card, the cop in question asked me:
'How do you know it's been stolen?'
Seriously.
When I went to see the police in person, they told me to go to a bank with a card they had filled in, to take it in, hand it to them, and the problem would be resolved. I can only assume it's some kind of magic card, because as far as I can see with my non-invisible bank/police ink reading eyes is this:
To.....*my name here*.....
Constable .....*cops name here*....
attended this address today but you were unavailable.
Would you please contact
.....*location*..... Police Station on telephone ......*blank*.....
The icing on the cake is what is presumably meant to be today's date, written as 1/9/08. Clever.
The problem with this, team of single people, is that I actually need a piece of paper from this establishment in order for the fraud group at the bank to actually investigate the fraud, let alone return my fucking money. I suspect this fabled return of funds may never, ever, happen. This is unfortunate, since unlike knowing you're not going to get your rental bond back or something of a similar nature, I don't get to trash a damned thing.
You absolute mother fuckers.
Sincerely,
The Rantolotl.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tis the season for Boxmas.
I’ve noticed a lot of my fellow bloggers, friends, and much to my dismay, colleagues have been abusing the slow moving days of December to eke out 2008 retrospectives. You know the type; “thanks for a wonderful year, the kittens and rainbows were fantastic and I couldn’t have done it without you!” or alternatively, “another year where everything has deteriorated at an ever increasing pace. Inevitable really. But chin up, cause next year some thoughtless bastard might choose not to steal my kittens and rainbows and leave me in a pit of misery. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, YOU WHORE”.
Now I know these things happen from time to time, people feeling a great urge to look back on a well defined time frame and take stock - in fact I’m probably guilty of it myself – but this year it all seems to be happening too early, and waaaay too often. What happened to waiting until New Years? Isn’t this what January’s for? Bloody hell.
People need to get their priorities straight. FIRST comes November, with bbq’s and parties, then comes December with bbq’s and parties held on weekdays and weeknights as well as weekends, then towards the end you get the whole Christmas thing, boxing day thing, and then, of course, Boxmas. If you're not familiar with the traditional holiday, you might want to read up on it sometime before the 27th. A noble and spirited festival celebrating all that is BOX. A day or two to rest up, and then New Years it is. It’s after New Years that you start to look back on the last year and feel a bit miserable, and no wonder – you’ve just spent a month drunk and eating snack food in fucking droves – of course you feel like shit.
I don’t really blame people for stuffing up this quite basic seasonal equation, but it’s just so bloody arbitrary; particularly when we’re all meant to be hanging around the city, frolicking inappropriately among workmates, champagne bottle in one hand, stolen trophy from previous venue in the other. Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?
Instead it’s all:
Dear all,
I’d like to take a moment out of my year to thank you all for the wonderful contribution you’ve made to my life, in between the hours of 8am, and 10am this morning. As some of you are aware, it got off to a rocky start when I was woken up quite rudely and with little regard for my own peace. Normally, this would’ve been okay, but this morning it wasn’t, it just cascaded. I spilt my coffee all over the bed. VG then spilt hers. We had to hang our doona out to dry and wash. They were really hard times, and I really appreciate you all for helping me out. You know who you are. That’s right – a big thanks to my coffee shop – you really came through when I needed it most – at about 8.45am with a large skinny cap. A big thanks to Dave who ran and got me some tissues after I spilt that coffee all over myself and the lift, a dangerous side effect of walk-reading. Also, Anna – massive shout out to you, you got me to the tram stop this morning, and didn’t ask any question about the stale coffee smell filling the car. Also, big ups to the metpigs this morning, who were kind enough to not be on my tram and do me for fare evasion.
You guys are like my team – I couldn’t function without you. Here’s to the next two hours being so much better for us all.
Much love,
The Rantolotl.
Now I know I’ve been lamenting the crappy weather lately, but I really do feel it’s a key contributor to all this doom and gloom reflection. For fucks sake, it’s been pissing down this last week, and the temperature itself just seems to be getting colder, not warmer. Hell, looking at some photos taken at an outdoor event last Saturday, the scene seems far more appropriate for a Scandinavian city street, rather than Summer in the worlds largest desert continent. BBQ’s really aren’t much chop when it’s raining sideways.
So what do people do with all their extra hours of daylight when it’s fucking freezing and the streets are flooded? They write lots of introspective wank while staring despondently out the window, shrouded in blankets. Perhaps they also huddle by the warmth of a fire fuelled by old photographs, treasured memories and childhood pets, cursing the war lords… er, rain gods? who bought this fate upon their mortal souls. Either way, they write a lot of tripe. I know this, because I’ve been fighting back the urge myself.
Where’s the fun Melbourne? The streets are empty, the students have left, people are on holidays, but no one’s coming out to play. Just the other day, the only scrap of interest to be found on Swanston Street were two young unicyclists, with one with a very large unicycle, and a very bandaged nose. They also had nice hats. Other than the rather untimely theft of my wallet, and subsequent removal of several hundred dollars from my bank account last week, this has been about the only moment of interest around my little corner of the CBD for days and days. Thieves, and wannabe circus performers. I’m not impressed. Actually, I should note that there were plenty of police around too, presumably hiding from the northern suburbs until this whole murdering a fifteen year old thing blows over. I notice that crimes such as WALLET STEALING and NOSE INJURIES seem to have risen since their arrival – coincidence? I think not!
But indeed, it is time to stop wallowing in our rain drenched filth and take Summer back. We will need heaters, champagne, and party hats. Maybe some good quality party drugs too, just to get things moving. After all, if we don’t get onto this matter soon, Boxmas will be at stake, and Mr Fandango Jones will not be happy. You don’t want to see that man angry, no you don’t. There’s lots of gnashing of teeth and projectile weapons and nasty, nasty, ham filled traps. Which is more or less how he is when he’s happy, but a bit less gnashing of teeth and a bit more evil chuckling.
Sincerely,
The Rantolotl
Now I know these things happen from time to time, people feeling a great urge to look back on a well defined time frame and take stock - in fact I’m probably guilty of it myself – but this year it all seems to be happening too early, and waaaay too often. What happened to waiting until New Years? Isn’t this what January’s for? Bloody hell.
People need to get their priorities straight. FIRST comes November, with bbq’s and parties, then comes December with bbq’s and parties held on weekdays and weeknights as well as weekends, then towards the end you get the whole Christmas thing, boxing day thing, and then, of course, Boxmas. If you're not familiar with the traditional holiday, you might want to read up on it sometime before the 27th. A noble and spirited festival celebrating all that is BOX. A day or two to rest up, and then New Years it is. It’s after New Years that you start to look back on the last year and feel a bit miserable, and no wonder – you’ve just spent a month drunk and eating snack food in fucking droves – of course you feel like shit.
I don’t really blame people for stuffing up this quite basic seasonal equation, but it’s just so bloody arbitrary; particularly when we’re all meant to be hanging around the city, frolicking inappropriately among workmates, champagne bottle in one hand, stolen trophy from previous venue in the other. Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?
Instead it’s all:
Dear all,
I’d like to take a moment out of my year to thank you all for the wonderful contribution you’ve made to my life, in between the hours of 8am, and 10am this morning. As some of you are aware, it got off to a rocky start when I was woken up quite rudely and with little regard for my own peace. Normally, this would’ve been okay, but this morning it wasn’t, it just cascaded. I spilt my coffee all over the bed. VG then spilt hers. We had to hang our doona out to dry and wash. They were really hard times, and I really appreciate you all for helping me out. You know who you are. That’s right – a big thanks to my coffee shop – you really came through when I needed it most – at about 8.45am with a large skinny cap. A big thanks to Dave who ran and got me some tissues after I spilt that coffee all over myself and the lift, a dangerous side effect of walk-reading. Also, Anna – massive shout out to you, you got me to the tram stop this morning, and didn’t ask any question about the stale coffee smell filling the car. Also, big ups to the metpigs this morning, who were kind enough to not be on my tram and do me for fare evasion.
You guys are like my team – I couldn’t function without you. Here’s to the next two hours being so much better for us all.
Much love,
The Rantolotl.
Now I know I’ve been lamenting the crappy weather lately, but I really do feel it’s a key contributor to all this doom and gloom reflection. For fucks sake, it’s been pissing down this last week, and the temperature itself just seems to be getting colder, not warmer. Hell, looking at some photos taken at an outdoor event last Saturday, the scene seems far more appropriate for a Scandinavian city street, rather than Summer in the worlds largest desert continent. BBQ’s really aren’t much chop when it’s raining sideways.
So what do people do with all their extra hours of daylight when it’s fucking freezing and the streets are flooded? They write lots of introspective wank while staring despondently out the window, shrouded in blankets. Perhaps they also huddle by the warmth of a fire fuelled by old photographs, treasured memories and childhood pets, cursing the war lords… er, rain gods? who bought this fate upon their mortal souls. Either way, they write a lot of tripe. I know this, because I’ve been fighting back the urge myself.
Where’s the fun Melbourne? The streets are empty, the students have left, people are on holidays, but no one’s coming out to play. Just the other day, the only scrap of interest to be found on Swanston Street were two young unicyclists, with one with a very large unicycle, and a very bandaged nose. They also had nice hats. Other than the rather untimely theft of my wallet, and subsequent removal of several hundred dollars from my bank account last week, this has been about the only moment of interest around my little corner of the CBD for days and days. Thieves, and wannabe circus performers. I’m not impressed. Actually, I should note that there were plenty of police around too, presumably hiding from the northern suburbs until this whole murdering a fifteen year old thing blows over. I notice that crimes such as WALLET STEALING and NOSE INJURIES seem to have risen since their arrival – coincidence? I think not!
But indeed, it is time to stop wallowing in our rain drenched filth and take Summer back. We will need heaters, champagne, and party hats. Maybe some good quality party drugs too, just to get things moving. After all, if we don’t get onto this matter soon, Boxmas will be at stake, and Mr Fandango Jones will not be happy. You don’t want to see that man angry, no you don’t. There’s lots of gnashing of teeth and projectile weapons and nasty, nasty, ham filled traps. Which is more or less how he is when he’s happy, but a bit less gnashing of teeth and a bit more evil chuckling.
Sincerely,
The Rantolotl
Monday, December 08, 2008
Merry bloody summer
A few weeks ago, I sat here extolling the virtues of Spring and made some kind of greeting to the warmer months. Now, in earlyish December, I would like to take back every last fucking word I hammered out on this keyboard in praise of this time of year. So far, the first eight days of Summer have been shithouse. The heater has been on more that once so far, it’s been fucking raining or drizzling every second day, and my office is currently sitting at a chilly 18 degrees – a temperature that’s more or less matched outside.
I know this, because about half an hour ago I decided that it’d be warmer outside, wandered downstairs without my jacket, and thinking it may have just been a problem more of mindset than actual temperature, I purchased a summery mango smoothie. Then I stood outside shivering, and threw out my not so delicious icy treat in disgust and came back to the equally chilly, but somewhat more fluorescent office. In summary – this is not pleasant beer garden nor bbq weather, and I’m not fucking impressed.
I wouldn’t mind so much, but Winter was an absolute trial this year. It was cold - as winter often is – there were far too many of us living in the house, my wife had a broken arm and was generally insufferable, the power we were churning through in heating and entertainment enough to stop us from killing each other cost a small fortune in bills, and for some reason I’ll never work out, my office was heated to thirty degrees. To put it bluntly, it was a bit shit.
In Spring marched, being all promising with a couple of thirty degree days and balmy evenings, only to end in random hail storms descending on us and cloudy overcast days, and so here we find ourselves right back in some kind of screwy alterno-winter with well lit evenings.
For those of you in other states and indeed countries, I could go on about how this is not typical Melbourne summer weather, no matter how many ways you desperately try to stereotype it in a thinly veiled attempt to cover your own denial about Melbourne being so much better than say, Sydney, or indeed the whole of Queensland. But I won’t. Instead, I have one simple message for you. Fuck you all, you sun stealing motherfuckers. Why don’t you all fuck off and tend to your tractors or your suntans or whatever the fuck it is you do up there when you’re not inventing new racist slurs.
All this said, it’ll probably end up taking a swift turn from the 17 degree forecast tomorrow and end up being a nice dry forty. Which will be very nice for sitting around and enjoying a beverage or two after nightfall, but not so pleasant to actually move about in. Luckily, I’ve thought ahead and purchased this years paddling pool – an essential device for cooling down both tempers and temperatures of whiny and overheated wives and housemates alike.
I totally recommend the paddling pool to all Melburnians during the summer days. We’re so oft ill prepared to face the heat, and if you live in the inner suburbs, chances are the house you live in is a little on the old side, and your landlord is a little on the stingy side, so you’re unlikely to have air conditioning. Conveniently, most of these houses are built in a way allows you to block out the heat relatively well for several days by closing all doors and blinds during the day and not moving, then opening them all up from 10pm to 6am. It can become quite annoying, particularly if you live in a noisy neighbourhood, or own cats. Indeed, I’ve lost count of times we’ve been awoken by the sounds of thrashing, meowing and bloody great bellows of “ARGH! YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A CAT! GET OUT! OUT!!!!” accompanied by the sounds of stamping, thumping, and the occasional smash.
Last year, there was great excitement after one of the cats jumped straight through the venetian blinds and onto a stack of papers, paintings, and lots of other things that go ‘smash’ and ‘ruffle’ when you throw a high velocity cat at them. In the confusion of many belongings being scattered everywhere, and the cat trying to run out of the door at an insane pace, only to turn around and jump back out the window (via the bed and our faces), we of course awoke, grumped at the cat and each other a bit, and went back to sleep. This was of course short lived, because there was now something on the sheets, in the darkness and new found quiet, creeping about with spindly legs. VG very suddenly screamed, dramatically leaping out of bed, and I for some reason pointed out it was just a cat, when it clearly wasn’t, and went back to sleep.
This sleep was also very short lived however, because VG had now decided that the best way to resolve the issue of the mystery creepy crawly was to simultaneously hit the bed (and her wife), and try to remove the sheets off it, all while being extremely high pitched. No longer able to pretend I was asleep, I started grumping quite loudly, only to have the creepy thing now assumed to be a very large spider given all the commotion, land on my face. I too leapt out of bed, yelling. It actually turned out to be a caterpillar that had at some point been attached to the cat, and I chalked up yet another notch to the list of reasons why I should get the bed, and why VG should have to sleep on the couch.
So. The all windows open through the night plan of action does have its downfalls, but it is probably quite a lot better than having an ultraheated house on day one of a four or five day warm spell. Maybe this year we can get around the problem by tossing the cats through Krus' window then gaffa taping all the exits on his shed shut. In the morning, over our breakfast we could untape the room and enjoy the spectacle... I imagine it would be just like going out for dinner and a show, only a bit earlier in the day, and perhaps a bit bloodier. Something to ponder on, one way or the other.
In the meantime however, I will prepare the pool, and try and find my sunglasses and my best summer hats, all beautifully suited to long evenings sitting in a wading pool with some other pleb at the helm of the bbq, and a nice cool esky within reaching distance. I might even get a heater or two at the ready to provide us with some warmth to actually make these very summery tasks possible. Or alternatively, I could just burn down The Shed.
Stupid bloody seasons.
I know this, because about half an hour ago I decided that it’d be warmer outside, wandered downstairs without my jacket, and thinking it may have just been a problem more of mindset than actual temperature, I purchased a summery mango smoothie. Then I stood outside shivering, and threw out my not so delicious icy treat in disgust and came back to the equally chilly, but somewhat more fluorescent office. In summary – this is not pleasant beer garden nor bbq weather, and I’m not fucking impressed.
I wouldn’t mind so much, but Winter was an absolute trial this year. It was cold - as winter often is – there were far too many of us living in the house, my wife had a broken arm and was generally insufferable, the power we were churning through in heating and entertainment enough to stop us from killing each other cost a small fortune in bills, and for some reason I’ll never work out, my office was heated to thirty degrees. To put it bluntly, it was a bit shit.
In Spring marched, being all promising with a couple of thirty degree days and balmy evenings, only to end in random hail storms descending on us and cloudy overcast days, and so here we find ourselves right back in some kind of screwy alterno-winter with well lit evenings.
For those of you in other states and indeed countries, I could go on about how this is not typical Melbourne summer weather, no matter how many ways you desperately try to stereotype it in a thinly veiled attempt to cover your own denial about Melbourne being so much better than say, Sydney, or indeed the whole of Queensland. But I won’t. Instead, I have one simple message for you. Fuck you all, you sun stealing motherfuckers. Why don’t you all fuck off and tend to your tractors or your suntans or whatever the fuck it is you do up there when you’re not inventing new racist slurs.
All this said, it’ll probably end up taking a swift turn from the 17 degree forecast tomorrow and end up being a nice dry forty. Which will be very nice for sitting around and enjoying a beverage or two after nightfall, but not so pleasant to actually move about in. Luckily, I’ve thought ahead and purchased this years paddling pool – an essential device for cooling down both tempers and temperatures of whiny and overheated wives and housemates alike.
I totally recommend the paddling pool to all Melburnians during the summer days. We’re so oft ill prepared to face the heat, and if you live in the inner suburbs, chances are the house you live in is a little on the old side, and your landlord is a little on the stingy side, so you’re unlikely to have air conditioning. Conveniently, most of these houses are built in a way allows you to block out the heat relatively well for several days by closing all doors and blinds during the day and not moving, then opening them all up from 10pm to 6am. It can become quite annoying, particularly if you live in a noisy neighbourhood, or own cats. Indeed, I’ve lost count of times we’ve been awoken by the sounds of thrashing, meowing and bloody great bellows of “ARGH! YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A CAT! GET OUT! OUT!!!!” accompanied by the sounds of stamping, thumping, and the occasional smash.
Last year, there was great excitement after one of the cats jumped straight through the venetian blinds and onto a stack of papers, paintings, and lots of other things that go ‘smash’ and ‘ruffle’ when you throw a high velocity cat at them. In the confusion of many belongings being scattered everywhere, and the cat trying to run out of the door at an insane pace, only to turn around and jump back out the window (via the bed and our faces), we of course awoke, grumped at the cat and each other a bit, and went back to sleep. This was of course short lived, because there was now something on the sheets, in the darkness and new found quiet, creeping about with spindly legs. VG very suddenly screamed, dramatically leaping out of bed, and I for some reason pointed out it was just a cat, when it clearly wasn’t, and went back to sleep.
This sleep was also very short lived however, because VG had now decided that the best way to resolve the issue of the mystery creepy crawly was to simultaneously hit the bed (and her wife), and try to remove the sheets off it, all while being extremely high pitched. No longer able to pretend I was asleep, I started grumping quite loudly, only to have the creepy thing now assumed to be a very large spider given all the commotion, land on my face. I too leapt out of bed, yelling. It actually turned out to be a caterpillar that had at some point been attached to the cat, and I chalked up yet another notch to the list of reasons why I should get the bed, and why VG should have to sleep on the couch.
So. The all windows open through the night plan of action does have its downfalls, but it is probably quite a lot better than having an ultraheated house on day one of a four or five day warm spell. Maybe this year we can get around the problem by tossing the cats through Krus' window then gaffa taping all the exits on his shed shut. In the morning, over our breakfast we could untape the room and enjoy the spectacle... I imagine it would be just like going out for dinner and a show, only a bit earlier in the day, and perhaps a bit bloodier. Something to ponder on, one way or the other.
In the meantime however, I will prepare the pool, and try and find my sunglasses and my best summer hats, all beautifully suited to long evenings sitting in a wading pool with some other pleb at the helm of the bbq, and a nice cool esky within reaching distance. I might even get a heater or two at the ready to provide us with some warmth to actually make these very summery tasks possible. Or alternatively, I could just burn down The Shed.
Stupid bloody seasons.
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