I’ve been trying to start a foundation to fight CBF* syndrome – but it isn’t easy, being as I’m a sufferer myself. It’s an insidious disease affecting, oh, probably heaps of people. I dunno. I mean sure, I could do some research and find out but... mehhh.
It’s not unlike me to think of others in this way. For instance those who know me well recently noticed that I’ve been growing my hair. (Many who don’t may well have made a similar observation, but said nothing. They know who they are.) There’s really quite a lot of it now. But the thing is, I’m not even really sure I like it that much. What it really comes down to is that I feel obligated to keep going with it, because I have an awful lot of bald friends.
To be honest though, I’m not really doing it so much for them, as TO them.
Another thing I like to do is give free advice to tourists. So many of them come here completely unprepared, it’s amazing. They set off to drive around the country with all of their water tanks and whatnot, you know, all the safety gear. And yet every year many of them never make it back. Sure, the Germans probably get eaten by crocs, but the Poms? Our reptiles have standards, you know.
No, what happens is they go missing, out there in the never never. (As in, ‘you’ll never never be found; and we never never really looked that hard’.) All because they are improperly equipped. The last we hear of them is a report on one of our finely principled, hard-hitting current affairs shows. Having set aside for the time being their perfume tests and explosive expose of cellulite creams, of course. A report no mindless lower middle class Bogan should miss.
Tell you what I’ll do – I’ll let you in on a secret. Just for you guys, I wouldn’t go to this trouble for just anyone. If you’re ever planning to travel in Australia, pack whatever you like; GPS, emergency beacon, extra water. Whatever. Just make sure you have on or about your person a nice, shiny new deck of cards. (I prefer the Bicycle brand, myself – but it’s a personal thing. It can be the hooter ones if you like, just so long as the suites can be made out.) Keep them to hand at all times.
Now, this is important. If you find yourself stranded in the middle of nowhere, out of range, nobody for miles, and all hope seems lost... Break out those cards, find a nice clear spot and start up a game of Solitaire.
I guarantee you that within two minutes there’ll be someone looking over your shoulder saying, “Nahhhh mate. Put the seven over there.”
Aaaaaand you’re saved. No, don’t thank me. It’s what I do.
My advice isn’t just for strangers with accents from which I can extract the wee, either. No, no - I also help those nearest and dearest to me.
For instance, just recently a friend was planning to have solar hot water heating installed. Can you imagine? As I explained, the sun is going to explode in just a couple of hundred billion years, and THEN what would she do for hot water, huh? Amazingly, not only had she not considered this prior, but it wasn’t deemed to be an issue.
Admittedly, when the Sun collapses we’ll be less concerned with bathing than we will with our change in circumstances; being as our entire solar system will be sucked through a hole the size of a grapefruit, and end up in the alternate universe to where all of our odd socks have gone. It’s just the wasted effort that upsets me most.
It’s not all high end stuff like that, of course. Why, barely a day goes by that I’m not enriching someone else’s life with some pearl of wisdom or other. Etiquette stuff, like: It doesn’t matter how cold it is outside the car, it is the fartee who decides when the window goes back up.
Or, when food shopping alone try to refrain from bursting aloud into the ‘Bacon, bacon, bacon’ song in the supermarket. Even if you are in the sliced meat aisle, you just look like a crazy person. Particularly, I might add, if you personalise the lyrics.
And, never (under any circumstances) allow your wife to wrest control of the clicker from you. You’ll end up having to sit through a reality show hosted by several queer folk, while on the other channel you’re missing reruns of the A-Team. And that just isn’t right. Don’t get me wrong though, I love my wife dearly. Really, really dearly – she’s cost me stacks so far.
Finally, languages can be tricky things, and you should take care when navigating them. You may have been aware that “Sacre Bleu” is indeed a French term, but as I’ve discovered it does not actually refer to the duration of your dry spell.
How does this relate, in any way whatsoever, to the foundation, you may ask. Well, the thing is that I expend so much energy helping others in day-to-day situations that, to be honest...
I just can’t be stuffed.
*Don’t know what it means, huh? I could tell you but... Nah.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Thursday, 3 June 2010
First no roast beef, now THIS?!?
In other news, I stubbed a toe yesterday. Sure, that in itself isn’t unusual; the world is full of clumsy tools after all.
What is odd though, are the circumstances surrounding it. In fact, I just got off the ‘phone with the people at Ripley’s, and they didn’t believe it either.
You see, first of all this stubulation occurred on a flat, stable surface entirely free of protuberances. Not a table leg in sight. Further, it struck not at the big toe, or indeed the little guy on the outside who normally bears the brunt of such things – all damage was restricted exclusively to the site of an INBOARD toe. How can that happen? It’s just bizarre.
Indeed, when I related the surreal tale to The Boss, she was instantly moved to ask if the digit in question was perhaps in some way excessively droopy. Well, it is NOW!
I tell you, that pinkie toe is so smug right now, it’s disgusting. I‘ve half a mind to kick a good-sized house brick, to bring it back down a peg or two. That’ll teach it.
What is odd though, are the circumstances surrounding it. In fact, I just got off the ‘phone with the people at Ripley’s, and they didn’t believe it either.
You see, first of all this stubulation occurred on a flat, stable surface entirely free of protuberances. Not a table leg in sight. Further, it struck not at the big toe, or indeed the little guy on the outside who normally bears the brunt of such things – all damage was restricted exclusively to the site of an INBOARD toe. How can that happen? It’s just bizarre.
Indeed, when I related the surreal tale to The Boss, she was instantly moved to ask if the digit in question was perhaps in some way excessively droopy. Well, it is NOW!
I tell you, that pinkie toe is so smug right now, it’s disgusting. I‘ve half a mind to kick a good-sized house brick, to bring it back down a peg or two. That’ll teach it.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Look out, Gervais.
Quite recently, The Boss informed me that I really ought to be doing something constructive with my time. Particularly in light of the fact that the vast majority of it is under-utilised, and largely drawing no revenue of any kind. Actually, she put it less like that, and more along the lines of, “How about you get off your large hairy white arse and get a job of some kind.”
Either way, the subsequent employment ad surfing turned up a couple of interesting positions that I deemed suitable, and that I might be in some way qualified to fill. Out of some several thousand, this figure (two) may on the surface seem a bit depressing. Well, only if you give it much consideration.
Anyway, one of the ‘jobs’ – using the term quite loosely – was for movie and TV extras. Right up my street, I thought, seeing as I seem to be somewhat surplus at the present. And, of course, dashingly good-looking. So, I bunged a quick CV together to suit (with the handsomeness bit played down out of modesty), and fired it off to the agency. For your edification, here’s the bulk of it:
To Whom It My Concern,
I read with interest your advertisement seeking extras for film & TV work. Having a spot of spare time at the present and a desire to do something interesting (i.e. nothing better to do) with it, I feel that this is a good fit for me.
Of course, I have a ‘normal’ resume filled with some of the most crushingly boring employment history you’re every likely to come across – but as none of it makes me look either a) Cool or b) Like a potential star, I’ve not bothered including it.
What I can tell you is that I starred in my Primary school’s Year 5 (1983) video production; so without wishing to overstate the case, I clearly come armed with a prodigious talent. The fact that I‘ve done bugger all conventional performance work since should be of little concern, as my skills have been honed through a lifetime of pretending to be a normal person.
My other great strength for this type of work is that I am not devastatingly handsome enough to divert attention from your lead characters, and I’ve never to my knowledge made anyone weak with desire. In point of fact, I feel I’m in a position to provide you with a no-swoon guarantee. Conversely, neither (I am informed) am I quite repulsive enough to draw interest. I’m sure you’d agree, this finely-tuned balance is a rare gift that barely three quarters of the population possess.
I also take direction quite well, having been married for a number of years, and utterly whipped for all of those.
Finally, as are indeed all great artists, I’m extremely poor.
Clearly, I am custom made for the job.
P.S. I feel duty bound to inform you that as of yet I have not seen Jimeoin’s documentary on the subject, but am willing to sit through it if you believe it will help.
Yours, etc. etc. etc.
I then go on to state my various physical attributes, with which I’ll not either bore or arouse you here, depending on your various predilections and whatnot. I also included a bit of a piccie; you know, for that extra bit of ‘ka-pow’ and all that.
The concerning thing about it all is that, some days after advising the advertiser of my suitability, I’ve heard nothing back from them.
Maybe they’re waiting to hear back from Ridley, or something.
Either way, the subsequent employment ad surfing turned up a couple of interesting positions that I deemed suitable, and that I might be in some way qualified to fill. Out of some several thousand, this figure (two) may on the surface seem a bit depressing. Well, only if you give it much consideration.
Anyway, one of the ‘jobs’ – using the term quite loosely – was for movie and TV extras. Right up my street, I thought, seeing as I seem to be somewhat surplus at the present. And, of course, dashingly good-looking. So, I bunged a quick CV together to suit (with the handsomeness bit played down out of modesty), and fired it off to the agency. For your edification, here’s the bulk of it:
To Whom It My Concern,
I read with interest your advertisement seeking extras for film & TV work. Having a spot of spare time at the present and a desire to do something interesting (i.e. nothing better to do) with it, I feel that this is a good fit for me.
Of course, I have a ‘normal’ resume filled with some of the most crushingly boring employment history you’re every likely to come across – but as none of it makes me look either a) Cool or b) Like a potential star, I’ve not bothered including it.
What I can tell you is that I starred in my Primary school’s Year 5 (1983) video production; so without wishing to overstate the case, I clearly come armed with a prodigious talent. The fact that I‘ve done bugger all conventional performance work since should be of little concern, as my skills have been honed through a lifetime of pretending to be a normal person.
My other great strength for this type of work is that I am not devastatingly handsome enough to divert attention from your lead characters, and I’ve never to my knowledge made anyone weak with desire. In point of fact, I feel I’m in a position to provide you with a no-swoon guarantee. Conversely, neither (I am informed) am I quite repulsive enough to draw interest. I’m sure you’d agree, this finely-tuned balance is a rare gift that barely three quarters of the population possess.
I also take direction quite well, having been married for a number of years, and utterly whipped for all of those.
Finally, as are indeed all great artists, I’m extremely poor.
Clearly, I am custom made for the job.
P.S. I feel duty bound to inform you that as of yet I have not seen Jimeoin’s documentary on the subject, but am willing to sit through it if you believe it will help.
Yours, etc. etc. etc.
I then go on to state my various physical attributes, with which I’ll not either bore or arouse you here, depending on your various predilections and whatnot. I also included a bit of a piccie; you know, for that extra bit of ‘ka-pow’ and all that.
The concerning thing about it all is that, some days after advising the advertiser of my suitability, I’ve heard nothing back from them.
Maybe they’re waiting to hear back from Ridley, or something.
Monday, 12 April 2010
On a lack of depth
Here it is then. Finally proven, beyond all shadow of doubt. You could hang on this evidence.
I refer, obviously, to the most often – and yet least plausibly – denied difference between two of the three sexes that make up the human race. That’s right, I can now show unequivocally that:
Women Are More Shallow Than Men.
Scoff and choke all you like out there, but you know it’s true. It’s not as though there haven’t been clues. All through history, sprightly and variously inflated young ladies have been hitching their wagon to the fading star of some wrinkly billionaire. Life expectancy being what it is, these same young ladies tend to enter their mid twenties with shiploads of cash and a propensity to bathe often. It’s always happened, and not once has it been a shock.
However as a scheme it has had its low points, I’ll admit.
There was that bubbly, vivacious lady (read: drug addict) with too many first names... drawing a blank right now, but you know the one. Married a three hundred year old oil man, and then got zip when he popped his clogs a not particularly unseemly amount of time later. I felt she got dudded there, because after all it was just a business arrangement that could have worked well for both of them.
Knowing what the argument against this will be, let’s get it out in the open now. ‘But men do that too’. Yes, but only with Liz Taylor; and those guys are invariably gay, notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat. I don’t have any idea what’s going on there, and I don’t wanner. Ewwwww.
But all argument must now cease, as I have the definitive comparison that will end speculation for all time.
First of all, let’s have a quick squint at our man Tiger Woods. Where do we start with this dude? He’s a kind of goofy-looking black man, and by all accounts he’s a cheap, mean dork.
Not to mention the name. I don’t know about you, but when I want to address someone in a slightly disparaging way, I’ll apply one of several monikers to them. Muscles, Bro, Captain, Matey, they all work. But when I want to really stick the boot in, there’s only one arrow in the quiver that will do: ‘Tiger’. Delivered with a casual hair-ruffle, there’s no better back-handed insult.
Yet all of the foregoing aside, he’s quite good at sports. Well, golf anyway. And because of this, the guy’s got enough money to give the mafia loans, and is really really famous.
On the strength of that, he has managed to marry himself a ridiculously hot Nordic model, with whom he seems to have produced some rather odd-looking children. Oh, admit it. Then – and this is the kicker - at the same time he’s collected a couple of dozen similarly attractive (white) girlfriends. All of whom were really quite nice, loved him for him, and weren’t in any way slutty at all.
Inevitably he got totally busted, both figuratively, and as it turned out literally, by his good lady wife. And yet despite all that went after that caning*, he’s still married to said tasty golden-hued chick.
(*Don’t even get me started about ‘Sex Addiction’, because there is simply no such thing. Dude just likes to bang chicks a lot. Or to put it another way, lots of chicks. The only men who went on about all of that being so shameful could also be seen visibly cowering under the furrowed-brow glare of their wives and/or mothers. Bunch of Seymour Skinners, the lot of ‘em.
The other thing is that after seeing the way his missus handled a golf club, you'd have to say that on balance Tiger's lucky he wasn't a javelin champion...)
Then, there is Exhibit ‘B’. This person has become an overnight singing sensation since bursting into the limelight a year or so ago. And despite taunts from Simon Cowell – who is if nothing else an ugly and jealous old lady – has gone on to be a household name worldwide. Lucrative recording contracts recently announced confirm that Susan Boyle is now indeed a millionaire several times over.
And yet... still a virgin.
Your worship, the defence rests.
I refer, obviously, to the most often – and yet least plausibly – denied difference between two of the three sexes that make up the human race. That’s right, I can now show unequivocally that:
Women Are More Shallow Than Men.
Scoff and choke all you like out there, but you know it’s true. It’s not as though there haven’t been clues. All through history, sprightly and variously inflated young ladies have been hitching their wagon to the fading star of some wrinkly billionaire. Life expectancy being what it is, these same young ladies tend to enter their mid twenties with shiploads of cash and a propensity to bathe often. It’s always happened, and not once has it been a shock.
However as a scheme it has had its low points, I’ll admit.
There was that bubbly, vivacious lady (read: drug addict) with too many first names... drawing a blank right now, but you know the one. Married a three hundred year old oil man, and then got zip when he popped his clogs a not particularly unseemly amount of time later. I felt she got dudded there, because after all it was just a business arrangement that could have worked well for both of them.
Knowing what the argument against this will be, let’s get it out in the open now. ‘But men do that too’. Yes, but only with Liz Taylor; and those guys are invariably gay, notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat. I don’t have any idea what’s going on there, and I don’t wanner. Ewwwww.
But all argument must now cease, as I have the definitive comparison that will end speculation for all time.
First of all, let’s have a quick squint at our man Tiger Woods. Where do we start with this dude? He’s a kind of goofy-looking black man, and by all accounts he’s a cheap, mean dork.
Not to mention the name. I don’t know about you, but when I want to address someone in a slightly disparaging way, I’ll apply one of several monikers to them. Muscles, Bro, Captain, Matey, they all work. But when I want to really stick the boot in, there’s only one arrow in the quiver that will do: ‘Tiger’. Delivered with a casual hair-ruffle, there’s no better back-handed insult.
Yet all of the foregoing aside, he’s quite good at sports. Well, golf anyway. And because of this, the guy’s got enough money to give the mafia loans, and is really really famous.
On the strength of that, he has managed to marry himself a ridiculously hot Nordic model, with whom he seems to have produced some rather odd-looking children. Oh, admit it. Then – and this is the kicker - at the same time he’s collected a couple of dozen similarly attractive (white) girlfriends. All of whom were really quite nice, loved him for him, and weren’t in any way slutty at all.
Inevitably he got totally busted, both figuratively, and as it turned out literally, by his good lady wife. And yet despite all that went after that caning*, he’s still married to said tasty golden-hued chick.
(*Don’t even get me started about ‘Sex Addiction’, because there is simply no such thing. Dude just likes to bang chicks a lot. Or to put it another way, lots of chicks. The only men who went on about all of that being so shameful could also be seen visibly cowering under the furrowed-brow glare of their wives and/or mothers. Bunch of Seymour Skinners, the lot of ‘em.
The other thing is that after seeing the way his missus handled a golf club, you'd have to say that on balance Tiger's lucky he wasn't a javelin champion...)
Then, there is Exhibit ‘B’. This person has become an overnight singing sensation since bursting into the limelight a year or so ago. And despite taunts from Simon Cowell – who is if nothing else an ugly and jealous old lady – has gone on to be a household name worldwide. Lucrative recording contracts recently announced confirm that Susan Boyle is now indeed a millionaire several times over.
And yet... still a virgin.
Your worship, the defence rests.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
It’s not healthy to keep things inside.
My lovely wife (i.e., ‘The Boss’) and I celebrated an anniversary recently. No, no, don’t applaud – you’ll jinx us. People tend to stare aghast upon this woman’s suffering and ask how long we’ve been married, and I usually respond with something flippant like, “Eleven happy years. That’s not bad out of seventeen really, huh?”
And that’s the amazing thing. Despite being born with a severe deformity - not a trace of a sense of humour, poor thing – The Boss has managed to bear such gentle barbs with amazing good grace. For my part I’ve learned to deliver them with a cheesy grin so she can tell I’m kidding. Though to be honest I’m not a very attractive smiler. Not much of a platform to work from, of course. The Minister for War and Finance, on the other hand, has made an art form of the raised eyebrow. She manages to convey at once a sense of weary resignation and simultaneous alarm.
And that’s the way we operate. I say something that I really shouldn’t simply because it amuses me, and The Boss only hits where the bruises don’t show. It’s an M.O. that was set up in the very early days before we were even seriously courting. When we were shiny and new Queen’s front-man died, and being a bit of a fan my dearest was naturally quite upset. Seeking to apply a salve to her pain, I said something comforting like, “It’s okay, honey. Freddie’s a good poof now.” Well she did stop crying, and I learned that she has a temper as terrible as her throwing arm.
I’d like to point out here that a lot of what exits my mouth is not necessarily reflective of the views of management, and may have only been released for the shock value. A bit like the last Jackass movie, if they were perhaps a bit less considerate of others.
Another case in point. We were sharing some unwinding time in front of the square eye not so long ago, watching the latest Chuck Lorre slam dunk in the form of Gary Unmarried. And isn’t it good to see that likeable everyman, Jay Mohr, getting a regular gig?
Anyway in this particular episode there was some snarky back-and forth between the main characters regarding the boy child being scared of girls. Gary’s response to this was an accusation that it was the ex’s fault - she’d proven that all girls do is pretend to like you for a while and then take all of your stuff. Ever eagle eyed, I saw an opportunity for some point scoring.
Turning to the object of my affection, I said, “At least I know that will never happen to us”.
This got the ‘Awwwwwwwwwww’ cuddle that I was looking for. “Do you really mean that?” she purred.
“Sure”, I replied nonchalantly. “You hate all of my stuff.”
The biggest difference, I find, between a companionable silence and a bitter one is the temperature at which it’s delivered.
Still and all, I love her dearly; and she figures it would be a waste of time starting to train ‘a new one’ now.
Which is why on a sunny lunchtime a week or so ago, we found ourselves in quite a nice riverside restaurant, celebrating our milestone. (If you’ve been married for seventeen years, you’ll know it’s an important one. It’s a whole year since the last one and she hasn’t killed you yet.)
In light of the special day, I went out on a limb and tried something I’ve heard a lot about and wanted to have a go at; Wagyu beef. Having normally shied away due to a feeling that spending that much on meat constituted cheating in some way, I thought that if the wife is present and okays it, we’re on. Next we’ll try that theory at the Daily Planet.
When the thing arrived at the table, I must admit to being temporarily underwhelmed. For a hundred dollar steak it looked remarkably like, well, a piece of steak. (I’m not sure what I expected instead, but had a vague feeling that sparklers would be involved.) I know very little of the value went into preparation because, like any good steak, it was quite rare. Quite. Rare. Not complaining of course because that is the way I asked for it – just saying, is all.
All concerns melted away when the first bite did the same. Praise Jeebus this bovine death was not in vain. If Nine and a Half Weeks taught us nothing else – and it didn’t – it is that the taste buds, treated nicely, are a useful sex organ. If treated nicely. If Ms Basinger had chowed down on the rump of a Wagyu cow, the movie would have lasted for about nine and a half seconds, and Mickey Rourke would have returned to his old job in the Manatee breeding grounds. Leaving us the Hell alone.
Seriously, I enjoyed this thing so much I felt I should have bought it dinner first. I’ve never eaten so slowly in all my life, normally being of the opinion that to pause and draw breath is a waste of time. But then, in the way that I do, I began to over think things.
Like most people, around here the number two train to the beach normally departs twice a day. But I’d just spent a hundred bucks on a piece of steak, and it was AWESOME. But it was a hundred bucks. It was the closest food ever took me to a religious revelation. But, without wishing to labour the point too much, it was a hundred bucks. So I did the only sensible thing and, in an attempt to make the whole experience last longer, ummm, held it in.
This lasted the better part of two days, by which time I was distinctly unhealthy. Still holding to the theory that I was continuing to enjoy that wonderful cow, it was nonetheless becoming increasingly difficult to either see the telly or walk in a straight line. My sweat, of which there was now quite a lot, had an odd red wine jus taint to it. Well even Captain Kirk knew when to abandon ship, so with a heavy heart and a belly dragging along the ground, I attempted an evacuation.
This relief turned out to be easier to seek than find. Having been sent home without pay, the Peristaltic Transport Union was unwilling to go back to work just because someone was sweating and moaning. There were negotiations, thankfully, and after a mercifully short time the trains were once again running. Although the result was a little disappointing, because I’d anticipated a bright shaft of sunlight, maybe some harps and a choir to mark the occasion. Perhaps the several gallons of coffee and hundredweight of bran muesli used to bribe the P.T.U. shrouded Bessie (yes I named the steak) and prevented the deserved recognition from occurring.
Anyway despite a desire to never do so, I learned something as I recovered over the ensuing days. Something valuable. Wagyu steak is a metaphor for life. It is to be savoured and enjoyed. But when the moment is over, everything (EVERYthing) must move on. Otherwise we can’t enjoy the next serving, can we?
Also, it is simply hilarious to niggle at your wife a little bit at a time until she explodes.
And that’s the amazing thing. Despite being born with a severe deformity - not a trace of a sense of humour, poor thing – The Boss has managed to bear such gentle barbs with amazing good grace. For my part I’ve learned to deliver them with a cheesy grin so she can tell I’m kidding. Though to be honest I’m not a very attractive smiler. Not much of a platform to work from, of course. The Minister for War and Finance, on the other hand, has made an art form of the raised eyebrow. She manages to convey at once a sense of weary resignation and simultaneous alarm.
And that’s the way we operate. I say something that I really shouldn’t simply because it amuses me, and The Boss only hits where the bruises don’t show. It’s an M.O. that was set up in the very early days before we were even seriously courting. When we were shiny and new Queen’s front-man died, and being a bit of a fan my dearest was naturally quite upset. Seeking to apply a salve to her pain, I said something comforting like, “It’s okay, honey. Freddie’s a good poof now.” Well she did stop crying, and I learned that she has a temper as terrible as her throwing arm.
I’d like to point out here that a lot of what exits my mouth is not necessarily reflective of the views of management, and may have only been released for the shock value. A bit like the last Jackass movie, if they were perhaps a bit less considerate of others.
Another case in point. We were sharing some unwinding time in front of the square eye not so long ago, watching the latest Chuck Lorre slam dunk in the form of Gary Unmarried. And isn’t it good to see that likeable everyman, Jay Mohr, getting a regular gig?
Anyway in this particular episode there was some snarky back-and forth between the main characters regarding the boy child being scared of girls. Gary’s response to this was an accusation that it was the ex’s fault - she’d proven that all girls do is pretend to like you for a while and then take all of your stuff. Ever eagle eyed, I saw an opportunity for some point scoring.
Turning to the object of my affection, I said, “At least I know that will never happen to us”.
This got the ‘Awwwwwwwwwww’ cuddle that I was looking for. “Do you really mean that?” she purred.
“Sure”, I replied nonchalantly. “You hate all of my stuff.”
The biggest difference, I find, between a companionable silence and a bitter one is the temperature at which it’s delivered.
Still and all, I love her dearly; and she figures it would be a waste of time starting to train ‘a new one’ now.
Which is why on a sunny lunchtime a week or so ago, we found ourselves in quite a nice riverside restaurant, celebrating our milestone. (If you’ve been married for seventeen years, you’ll know it’s an important one. It’s a whole year since the last one and she hasn’t killed you yet.)
In light of the special day, I went out on a limb and tried something I’ve heard a lot about and wanted to have a go at; Wagyu beef. Having normally shied away due to a feeling that spending that much on meat constituted cheating in some way, I thought that if the wife is present and okays it, we’re on. Next we’ll try that theory at the Daily Planet.
When the thing arrived at the table, I must admit to being temporarily underwhelmed. For a hundred dollar steak it looked remarkably like, well, a piece of steak. (I’m not sure what I expected instead, but had a vague feeling that sparklers would be involved.) I know very little of the value went into preparation because, like any good steak, it was quite rare. Quite. Rare. Not complaining of course because that is the way I asked for it – just saying, is all.
All concerns melted away when the first bite did the same. Praise Jeebus this bovine death was not in vain. If Nine and a Half Weeks taught us nothing else – and it didn’t – it is that the taste buds, treated nicely, are a useful sex organ. If treated nicely. If Ms Basinger had chowed down on the rump of a Wagyu cow, the movie would have lasted for about nine and a half seconds, and Mickey Rourke would have returned to his old job in the Manatee breeding grounds. Leaving us the Hell alone.
Seriously, I enjoyed this thing so much I felt I should have bought it dinner first. I’ve never eaten so slowly in all my life, normally being of the opinion that to pause and draw breath is a waste of time. But then, in the way that I do, I began to over think things.
Like most people, around here the number two train to the beach normally departs twice a day. But I’d just spent a hundred bucks on a piece of steak, and it was AWESOME. But it was a hundred bucks. It was the closest food ever took me to a religious revelation. But, without wishing to labour the point too much, it was a hundred bucks. So I did the only sensible thing and, in an attempt to make the whole experience last longer, ummm, held it in.
This lasted the better part of two days, by which time I was distinctly unhealthy. Still holding to the theory that I was continuing to enjoy that wonderful cow, it was nonetheless becoming increasingly difficult to either see the telly or walk in a straight line. My sweat, of which there was now quite a lot, had an odd red wine jus taint to it. Well even Captain Kirk knew when to abandon ship, so with a heavy heart and a belly dragging along the ground, I attempted an evacuation.
This relief turned out to be easier to seek than find. Having been sent home without pay, the Peristaltic Transport Union was unwilling to go back to work just because someone was sweating and moaning. There were negotiations, thankfully, and after a mercifully short time the trains were once again running. Although the result was a little disappointing, because I’d anticipated a bright shaft of sunlight, maybe some harps and a choir to mark the occasion. Perhaps the several gallons of coffee and hundredweight of bran muesli used to bribe the P.T.U. shrouded Bessie (yes I named the steak) and prevented the deserved recognition from occurring.
Anyway despite a desire to never do so, I learned something as I recovered over the ensuing days. Something valuable. Wagyu steak is a metaphor for life. It is to be savoured and enjoyed. But when the moment is over, everything (EVERYthing) must move on. Otherwise we can’t enjoy the next serving, can we?
Also, it is simply hilarious to niggle at your wife a little bit at a time until she explodes.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Part of the English speaking world.
I always manage to have a quiet chuckle when I hear a Yank ask someone if they speak English. Why, I wonder? YOU don’t. Now before you go getting all big and tall on me, I’m not claiming to be a paragon of pronunciation. Me, I don’t even LIKE plums. No, I’m a Norstrayan; I speak Strine, and I’m proud of it. Our biggest crime, linguistically speaking – which is... well, you know – is that we tend to make entire conversations into just the one word.
“Gdaymatehowyougointoday?” And for the love of all that’s good don’t you dare either open or move your mouth when you speak. We’re a nation of ventriloquists, we are.
At least Australians can all understand each other. Have you been to Britain? I haven’t but it’s on my to-do list. Just under ‘amputate own toes with rusty pliers’. Anyway, it seems that if you’re from more than two villages over, no-one can comprehend a bloody thing you’re saying. Or such is my understanding, at least. Apart from being cold, wet, and full of Poms, it IS still all villages there, isn’t it?
The septics are the same. Put a guy from Kentucky and another from somewhere clenchy like Vermont in a room together and there’s no chance they’ll get along. Granted they’ve got more barriers than just language – their grandpappies probably sighted each other over muskets once or twice, and it seems the Yanks are worse at getting over stuff than Christopher Reeve’s horse.
But where we compress and slightly mangle our words, and the Poms just lay thicker and thicker accents over their mother tongue, the Ahh-Mayor-Eye-Cans have taken it upon themselves to ruin it completely.
They’ve got form on this sort of thing, too. Let’s start with sport. Ever seen more than about five minutes of their football? I guarantee you haven’t, even if you think otherwise. They’ve taken the game (allegedly) played in heaven – rugby union – and turned it into the most stilted, slowed down, overdone garbage ever seen. Whilst simultaneously turning the players into raging Pooves. They look and act like ballet dancers (masculinity benchmarks that they are) that have never shrugged off the shoulder pad trend. Their scones must be pretty soft, too – helmets are for warriors, boys...
Basketball? That’s just a bastardisation of Netball (a GIRL’s game) with the rules changed around to make it less appealing. You see, what makes Netball bearable – even enjoyable, at times – is the presence of tall hot chicks in shorts skirts running around getting all fired up and sweaty and... Unnnnngh...
Where was I? Right, so basketball does away with all of that. Sure, there’s ladies (using that term loosely) basketball but when there’s already the original game, why bother? And they wear PANTS. Yuck.
NASCAR – Latin for, “You want me turn in WHICH direction?”
Then finally we have the disgrace they’ve made of interpreting cricket. Great game, cricket. Five day tests played in (but not mostly by) whites, nasty hard ball, batsmen who spend hours at the crease building big scores; I could (and do) go on.
Baseball. Utter shite. More poofy pyjama based uniforms. Nuff said.
Warfare, it’s not a really difficult concept. We all learned how to do this in the schoolyard. Pick some kid you don’t like – smaller than you, if you’re smart – crack him one when he’s not looking and then run like buggery. (Let’s face it, if there’s been buggery, there’ll be running. In more ways than one.) If any teachers ask, you were never there. What you don’t do is go around to his house, camp in his lounge room and go him there. He’s probably got older brothers, and his mum will give you SUCH a whipping with the wooden spoon. Are you listening, America?
Yes, the Seppolians like to take something elegantly functional, ruin it, and then hand it back to you with some needless extra bits and the claim that it’s ‘new and improved’. How can it be both, I wonder?
Which brings me to English. It was working fine the way it was, but our Empire-building North Pacific cousins have long established themselves as the supreme exponents of the art of choosing to be wrong simply to be in possession of the opposing point of view. And then chucking a hissy fit when we don’t all agree.
The Americans, they’ll claim, stopped using vowels in their words because they have a burning desire to spell things the way they sound. Phonetically, like. While this argument may seem good in theory, it falls apart under scrutiny. Particularly when you factor in a detail such as a standard of pronunciation that would see the word ‘second’ contain two ‘T’s, an ‘A’ and a ‘K’.
And the changes in meanings, for just no reason whatsoever. Ask for a biscuit in the States, and up North you’ll get blank looks. Down where the cotton done get picked they’ll give you something, but my friends a biscuit it is not. What you need to have been requesting is a ‘cookie’. Why you’d want to chomp down on that companionable chef from the RSL is beyond me, but there you go.
Having some toast, are we. Like some jam to put on that? HAH. Try ‘jelly’. Fear not, you’re not stacking Aeroplane’s lemon-lime on your toast; that’s what they call their conserves. What do they call their jelly, then – why that’s Jell-O. It’s just all messed up. Has anyone ever rung a mate up and asked for help because, “I’m in a bit of a jelly”??? Over here that means that he’s wrestling with bikini-clad dancers in a wading pool, which is no cause for concern unless his wife finds out.
Incorrect usages, that’s a personal fave. ‘Momentarily’ means FOR a moment, NOT IN A MOMENT, you tosser! Often I hear a seppo say, “I’ll be with you momentarily”. I think, ‘Okay, so I’ll need to be brief. Then where are you going?’
Or another classic is the utterance ‘I could care less’. So you care then; to a degree at least. Do you, just by chance, mean that you couldn’t?
Look up the word ‘rout’. A defeated and fleeing army is said to be in ‘rout’. Or, a rout is also a groove cut in your Craftwood. Remember that stuff? Sold to us by that old Pommy actor guy in those clever ads – don’t claim you don’t know. Now say it with me. R-Ow-T. To cut said groove, we use a machine from Black & Decker that’s technically known as a dovetail cutter, but is universally called a ‘router’. Easy enough so far, right?
And then there’s ‘route’. A route, as opposed to your short cut which is a different kettle of fish, is quite simply ‘the way’. Your direction, if you will. Your Tom-Tom points out the route, and I’m told computers use routers for something or other as well.
Here’s where the problem arises. Route is pronounced ROOT, but some jerk probably got embarrassed or something, and decided that we should refer to the dovetail cutter instead. Maybe they were worried about routers being confused with rooters, which might seem fair enough but is really no cause for concern.
You see, all of our rooters are mad, and are automatically noted as such. But that’s not a bad thing. A ‘Mad Rooter’ is a thing of beauty to be cherished and admired – put the Black and Decker away because she already has a groove, and she knows how to use it. Bless her.
The last word on this comes courtesy of our sheep-rooting (not routing) little bros on the other side of the ‘dutch’. Some Kiwi bloke made a beer purely for the Yank market, and in a fit of inspiration called this brew – which incidentally sold quite well - ‘Wanker’. I’m not making this up. He then launched the most brilliant marketing campaign with Tee shirts emblazoned with the prophetic words, “I feel like a Wanker”.
And so you bloody well should. You’ve already buggered up the footy, but if you could just leave our beautiful expressive language alone, you meddling pricks, everything would be just fine.
“Gdaymatehowyougointoday?” And for the love of all that’s good don’t you dare either open or move your mouth when you speak. We’re a nation of ventriloquists, we are.
At least Australians can all understand each other. Have you been to Britain? I haven’t but it’s on my to-do list. Just under ‘amputate own toes with rusty pliers’. Anyway, it seems that if you’re from more than two villages over, no-one can comprehend a bloody thing you’re saying. Or such is my understanding, at least. Apart from being cold, wet, and full of Poms, it IS still all villages there, isn’t it?
The septics are the same. Put a guy from Kentucky and another from somewhere clenchy like Vermont in a room together and there’s no chance they’ll get along. Granted they’ve got more barriers than just language – their grandpappies probably sighted each other over muskets once or twice, and it seems the Yanks are worse at getting over stuff than Christopher Reeve’s horse.
But where we compress and slightly mangle our words, and the Poms just lay thicker and thicker accents over their mother tongue, the Ahh-Mayor-Eye-Cans have taken it upon themselves to ruin it completely.
They’ve got form on this sort of thing, too. Let’s start with sport. Ever seen more than about five minutes of their football? I guarantee you haven’t, even if you think otherwise. They’ve taken the game (allegedly) played in heaven – rugby union – and turned it into the most stilted, slowed down, overdone garbage ever seen. Whilst simultaneously turning the players into raging Pooves. They look and act like ballet dancers (masculinity benchmarks that they are) that have never shrugged off the shoulder pad trend. Their scones must be pretty soft, too – helmets are for warriors, boys...
Basketball? That’s just a bastardisation of Netball (a GIRL’s game) with the rules changed around to make it less appealing. You see, what makes Netball bearable – even enjoyable, at times – is the presence of tall hot chicks in shorts skirts running around getting all fired up and sweaty and... Unnnnngh...
Where was I? Right, so basketball does away with all of that. Sure, there’s ladies (using that term loosely) basketball but when there’s already the original game, why bother? And they wear PANTS. Yuck.
NASCAR – Latin for, “You want me turn in WHICH direction?”
Then finally we have the disgrace they’ve made of interpreting cricket. Great game, cricket. Five day tests played in (but not mostly by) whites, nasty hard ball, batsmen who spend hours at the crease building big scores; I could (and do) go on.
Baseball. Utter shite. More poofy pyjama based uniforms. Nuff said.
Warfare, it’s not a really difficult concept. We all learned how to do this in the schoolyard. Pick some kid you don’t like – smaller than you, if you’re smart – crack him one when he’s not looking and then run like buggery. (Let’s face it, if there’s been buggery, there’ll be running. In more ways than one.) If any teachers ask, you were never there. What you don’t do is go around to his house, camp in his lounge room and go him there. He’s probably got older brothers, and his mum will give you SUCH a whipping with the wooden spoon. Are you listening, America?
Yes, the Seppolians like to take something elegantly functional, ruin it, and then hand it back to you with some needless extra bits and the claim that it’s ‘new and improved’. How can it be both, I wonder?
Which brings me to English. It was working fine the way it was, but our Empire-building North Pacific cousins have long established themselves as the supreme exponents of the art of choosing to be wrong simply to be in possession of the opposing point of view. And then chucking a hissy fit when we don’t all agree.
The Americans, they’ll claim, stopped using vowels in their words because they have a burning desire to spell things the way they sound. Phonetically, like. While this argument may seem good in theory, it falls apart under scrutiny. Particularly when you factor in a detail such as a standard of pronunciation that would see the word ‘second’ contain two ‘T’s, an ‘A’ and a ‘K’.
And the changes in meanings, for just no reason whatsoever. Ask for a biscuit in the States, and up North you’ll get blank looks. Down where the cotton done get picked they’ll give you something, but my friends a biscuit it is not. What you need to have been requesting is a ‘cookie’. Why you’d want to chomp down on that companionable chef from the RSL is beyond me, but there you go.
Having some toast, are we. Like some jam to put on that? HAH. Try ‘jelly’. Fear not, you’re not stacking Aeroplane’s lemon-lime on your toast; that’s what they call their conserves. What do they call their jelly, then – why that’s Jell-O. It’s just all messed up. Has anyone ever rung a mate up and asked for help because, “I’m in a bit of a jelly”??? Over here that means that he’s wrestling with bikini-clad dancers in a wading pool, which is no cause for concern unless his wife finds out.
Incorrect usages, that’s a personal fave. ‘Momentarily’ means FOR a moment, NOT IN A MOMENT, you tosser! Often I hear a seppo say, “I’ll be with you momentarily”. I think, ‘Okay, so I’ll need to be brief. Then where are you going?’
Or another classic is the utterance ‘I could care less’. So you care then; to a degree at least. Do you, just by chance, mean that you couldn’t?
Look up the word ‘rout’. A defeated and fleeing army is said to be in ‘rout’. Or, a rout is also a groove cut in your Craftwood. Remember that stuff? Sold to us by that old Pommy actor guy in those clever ads – don’t claim you don’t know. Now say it with me. R-Ow-T. To cut said groove, we use a machine from Black & Decker that’s technically known as a dovetail cutter, but is universally called a ‘router’. Easy enough so far, right?
And then there’s ‘route’. A route, as opposed to your short cut which is a different kettle of fish, is quite simply ‘the way’. Your direction, if you will. Your Tom-Tom points out the route, and I’m told computers use routers for something or other as well.
Here’s where the problem arises. Route is pronounced ROOT, but some jerk probably got embarrassed or something, and decided that we should refer to the dovetail cutter instead. Maybe they were worried about routers being confused with rooters, which might seem fair enough but is really no cause for concern.
You see, all of our rooters are mad, and are automatically noted as such. But that’s not a bad thing. A ‘Mad Rooter’ is a thing of beauty to be cherished and admired – put the Black and Decker away because she already has a groove, and she knows how to use it. Bless her.
The last word on this comes courtesy of our sheep-rooting (not routing) little bros on the other side of the ‘dutch’. Some Kiwi bloke made a beer purely for the Yank market, and in a fit of inspiration called this brew – which incidentally sold quite well - ‘Wanker’. I’m not making this up. He then launched the most brilliant marketing campaign with Tee shirts emblazoned with the prophetic words, “I feel like a Wanker”.
And so you bloody well should. You’ve already buggered up the footy, but if you could just leave our beautiful expressive language alone, you meddling pricks, everything would be just fine.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
You can always tell when the holidays are on.
I’m not talking about public holidays, those one-day events that are merely an excuse for an epic Tuesday hangover. No, the fault here lies with those two-week clumps of school leave that always seem to hit just when I want to go somewhere nice.
Now, I don’t have kids - as mandated by the UN - not that there’s anything wrong with having them, of course. Some of my best friends are munchkin ranchers. Really.
But this being the case, why should it bother me when the dirt magnets are on the tear? Because, come evening peak hour, the way the roads work is completely different from the norm. Generally, there are only two classes of idiot that you’ll encounter. The morons going faster than you (good luck to them, I say) and the utter clowns who have the temerity to go slower.
But when the ankle biters have downed crayon, things are different. For a start, those ridiculous forty-kay signs aren’t flashing, which is actually quite good for the blood pressure. Darwin must be generating enough torque over that one to give Jeremy Clarkson a chubby: hasn’t anyone in the OH & S world ever heard of natural selection? And besides, the only person that you’ll ever see speeding in front of schools is the soccer mum with a carload of kids. You have to see her point – why should she slow down? Her kids are safe. Besides, the sooner she dumps- er, drops them off, the quicker she can get to her ‘tennis lesson’ with Miguel.
I almost don’t have the heart to point this out, but it’s also fairly pointless having the speed restriction out the front of the school. Think about it; that’s the exact point where the kids won’t be on the road. The ‘40’ signs should be in front of the real high risk areas in which the short folk congregate: - milk bars, skate parks, (pony clubs, I suppose), and the house where that year eleven girl lives. You know, the one who hit her ‘growth spurt’ over the summer.
But when the holidays are on, we swap one hazard for another. Because hols mean the kids are home, and this in turn means that swarms of nannas and pops descend like Heritage-listed Griswalds upon the built up areas in order to visit with them. Without getting into the (undoubtedly) hilariously entertaining area of family dynamics, these geriatric vacations create a problem that affects everyone, not just you breeders. Oh, shut up, you know you are.
The trouble starts at evening peak hour, when these befuddled old farts hit the highways like so many wobbly Wildebeest. With just about no idea as to either destination or route, incidentally. Just cruising along in the fast lane at a steady 28 knots with the blinker on, to the sound of nan screaming, “Clarry! SLOW DOWN!”, while maintaining a white knuckle grip on (simultaneously) her seatbelt, the Jesus handle, the dashboard, the handbrake lever, and grandad’s now-separated shoulder. Nannas have LOTS of arms – each and every one armed with a death-dealing, suffocation inducing bye-bye.
Anyway, where are they going at six in the evening? It’s not to dinner; they had that at two, and tomorrow’s breakfast around half-five. Maybe when they woke from their post-prandial nap to a dusky sky, they imagined it to be morning, and ‘got going early on the run to Dubbo’. Fine, but then why go so slowly? You’d imagine people with so little time left would be in more of a hurry.
And that’s the thing: The Olden Farts are doing forty (EVERYwhere), and they’re not very safe, now are they?
It’s probably mildly evil of me, but I’m waiting now for one of those self-congratulatory political road shows to pop up out the front of one of our fine primary learning installations during morning peak hour. Just a quick trip for the local member to pat himself on the back before your huddled masses. Showing them how, with the signs all aflash, it’s now quite safe for the year fours to play cricket on the footpath out the front.
I then imagine the local MP’s antiquated mother quite coincidentally Braille-ing her way down the main drag in a clapped out smoky behemoth, perhaps her late brother’s 65Galaxie. In no hurry of course – she’s old, after all - rhythmic braking to the beat of whatever tossy random opinion generator yaks away on 3AW nowadays. Captain Polling Booth is extolling to the assembled ante-pubescent masses the virtues of the latest safety campaign that protects not by educating - hey, this is a school, after all - but by legislating everyone else to a standstill. Just as our favourite pork barreller (does anyone actually know what that means?) gets to the part where he tells the kids they’ll never need to look before crossing the street again because the passing cars are being overtaken by foot traffic, mama ploughs through the assembly at precisely thirty-eight kilometres per hour, taking out everyone over the age of nineteen (it’s a wide car).
That’s probably only an Alanis level of irony, but oh-so-sweet nonetheless.
Now tell me; wouldn’t THAT be worth a public holiday?
Now, I don’t have kids - as mandated by the UN - not that there’s anything wrong with having them, of course. Some of my best friends are munchkin ranchers. Really.
But this being the case, why should it bother me when the dirt magnets are on the tear? Because, come evening peak hour, the way the roads work is completely different from the norm. Generally, there are only two classes of idiot that you’ll encounter. The morons going faster than you (good luck to them, I say) and the utter clowns who have the temerity to go slower.
But when the ankle biters have downed crayon, things are different. For a start, those ridiculous forty-kay signs aren’t flashing, which is actually quite good for the blood pressure. Darwin must be generating enough torque over that one to give Jeremy Clarkson a chubby: hasn’t anyone in the OH & S world ever heard of natural selection? And besides, the only person that you’ll ever see speeding in front of schools is the soccer mum with a carload of kids. You have to see her point – why should she slow down? Her kids are safe. Besides, the sooner she dumps- er, drops them off, the quicker she can get to her ‘tennis lesson’ with Miguel.
I almost don’t have the heart to point this out, but it’s also fairly pointless having the speed restriction out the front of the school. Think about it; that’s the exact point where the kids won’t be on the road. The ‘40’ signs should be in front of the real high risk areas in which the short folk congregate: - milk bars, skate parks, (pony clubs, I suppose), and the house where that year eleven girl lives. You know, the one who hit her ‘growth spurt’ over the summer.
But when the holidays are on, we swap one hazard for another. Because hols mean the kids are home, and this in turn means that swarms of nannas and pops descend like Heritage-listed Griswalds upon the built up areas in order to visit with them. Without getting into the (undoubtedly) hilariously entertaining area of family dynamics, these geriatric vacations create a problem that affects everyone, not just you breeders. Oh, shut up, you know you are.
The trouble starts at evening peak hour, when these befuddled old farts hit the highways like so many wobbly Wildebeest. With just about no idea as to either destination or route, incidentally. Just cruising along in the fast lane at a steady 28 knots with the blinker on, to the sound of nan screaming, “Clarry! SLOW DOWN!”, while maintaining a white knuckle grip on (simultaneously) her seatbelt, the Jesus handle, the dashboard, the handbrake lever, and grandad’s now-separated shoulder. Nannas have LOTS of arms – each and every one armed with a death-dealing, suffocation inducing bye-bye.
Anyway, where are they going at six in the evening? It’s not to dinner; they had that at two, and tomorrow’s breakfast around half-five. Maybe when they woke from their post-prandial nap to a dusky sky, they imagined it to be morning, and ‘got going early on the run to Dubbo’. Fine, but then why go so slowly? You’d imagine people with so little time left would be in more of a hurry.
And that’s the thing: The Olden Farts are doing forty (EVERYwhere), and they’re not very safe, now are they?
It’s probably mildly evil of me, but I’m waiting now for one of those self-congratulatory political road shows to pop up out the front of one of our fine primary learning installations during morning peak hour. Just a quick trip for the local member to pat himself on the back before your huddled masses. Showing them how, with the signs all aflash, it’s now quite safe for the year fours to play cricket on the footpath out the front.
I then imagine the local MP’s antiquated mother quite coincidentally Braille-ing her way down the main drag in a clapped out smoky behemoth, perhaps her late brother’s 65Galaxie. In no hurry of course – she’s old, after all - rhythmic braking to the beat of whatever tossy random opinion generator yaks away on 3AW nowadays. Captain Polling Booth is extolling to the assembled ante-pubescent masses the virtues of the latest safety campaign that protects not by educating - hey, this is a school, after all - but by legislating everyone else to a standstill. Just as our favourite pork barreller (does anyone actually know what that means?) gets to the part where he tells the kids they’ll never need to look before crossing the street again because the passing cars are being overtaken by foot traffic, mama ploughs through the assembly at precisely thirty-eight kilometres per hour, taking out everyone over the age of nineteen (it’s a wide car).
That’s probably only an Alanis level of irony, but oh-so-sweet nonetheless.
Now tell me; wouldn’t THAT be worth a public holiday?
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