Paradise Anthology Launch

Paradise Anthology #3
St Kilda Library
Sunday 7th February, 2010.

It was no surprise to be greeted by the pink-shirted, Cheshire-cat-grinned Brian Nankervis (aka Raymond J. Bartholomew) at the Paradise Anthology launch last Sunday. In fact, I probably would have been disappointed had he not been emceeing –he’s making quite a habit of these sorts of occasions. And as usual he did not fail to deliver.

But it was not all plain sailing at this particular launch.

This was a free, yet fully ticketed event. So there was no excuse not to have enough seats on hand to accommodate the audience of generous numbers. The effort to bring in extra seats was appreciated by everyone but me. The destination of these added seats was directly in front of the vantage point I had selected – primarily to spare those around me the stench of the previous night’s absinthe evaporating acridly from my every pore.

First on the bill was Monique Brumby. Monique is adorable, and her voice so sweet I would enjoy listening to her read the street directory. In fact, I probably would have preferred that to the songs she chose to share with us. What is it about poetry launches that makes musicians feel the need to trot out their most lyrical and literal material? Sadly Monique’s repertoire this day left me filled with inertia.

We then had the convenor of Poetry Idol and co-editor of the Paradise Anthology, the revered Michael Crane (accompanied by Trish Anderson on guitar) deliver a couple of poms set to music. Michael, I’m afraid, just doesn’t do it for me. His laboured speech and inarticulate delivery makes me uncomfortable and, sadly, I think this event was more the worse for his contribution.

But we weren’t there for a musical indulgence; we had come for the poets. Amongst the first five readings (all, I’m pleased to report, of an exceptionally high standard) was our own Carolyn Hirst. Her poem entitled “Murder In The Nursing Home” – a reflection of an incident that made headline news last year – was particularly well received and one of the highlights of the afternoon.

After the obligatory red wine (or two), and an impressive cheese platter that was whisked away prematurely – almost completely intact and untouched by yours truly, Stephen Cummings regaled us with charming anecdotes as only he can. One of St Kilda’s pre-eminent raconteurs, Stephen is perpetually awkwardly at home behind the microphone. A few tunes from him and it’s back to another six poets, delivering their own work on a public stage without fear. Again, each poem was of a particularly high standard, and I was left to reflect that each of these budding stars could possibly have been granted the indulgence of two poems each at the expense of some of the other entertainment we had been provided.

A generally enjoyable afternoon was topped off with a random encounter with a girl I inexplicably remembered from high school (she hadn’t changed a bit) and a free copy of the Paradise Anthology in return for an impromptu performance of a love poem about Coburg* that this writer concocted on the spot.

Free wine + Free music + Free poetry + Free book = Four stars from me.

Craig Ising
Monday February 8, 2010.









Coburg Lovestory

You invite me back to your place
To indulge in carnal sin

I’d rather catch the tram to Coburg
And get my face kicked in

Back to Skool.

 

Welcome, peeps.

Well - a whole week of school under my belt and now, at last, some time to write.

The response has been overwhelming: everyone who replied has voted for me to vent my spleen without regard to consequences. So I’ll stick both boots in and give an honest assessment of last week’s events, even if it means no-one will ever trust me again for fear that I betray them on this forum.

Lat time I was at school (without counting AwardSchool in 2008) was as a fresh (read: pimply) faced teenager. There were a few mature-age students in my classes back then, and each one (bar a really lovely chap named Marty) was an enormous pain in the neck. Here at the CAE though everyone is a mature age student – so we have more than our fair share of pains in the neck. We pay good money to listen to experts who share their time and knowledge for our own educational advancement. I did not pay to listen to the same old grey haired women every time they think they’ve got something important to contribute.

Of the 45 people in the class 5 were males. Of the 40 females around 70% were over 50 years old. So that might give you a rough idea on how the week was going to pan out.

So here are some brief notes from our first week of study:

Mobile phones. Guess what people? Mobile phones actually have “OFF” buttons. I know – CRAZY! And even if you can’t bring yourself to turn the things off they have this thing called as “SILENT” function. To my knowledge this has been a standard feature of mobile phones since even the earliest bricks began making our lives a misery. Ladies – mobile phones are no longer a status symbol (even the ubiquitous iPhones are now de rigueur). Leaving it ring in class doesn’t make you special; it just makes you like everyone else, only RUDER. And actually screening your calls whist your dubious ringtone is interrupting an entire class? Sweet mother of Jesus, could you be any ruder?

Eating at your desk. I think we may have all done this at some stage. Those occasions where you really are so bloody busy that you don’t have time to leave the office even for a second – so you park it wherever you can and fill your face in a hurry and then straight back into it. But that is in the real world. This is school. We’ve just had an hour’s lunch break (yep, an HOUR – the last time I had a one hour lunch break was… NEVER!) and you have just opened and started eating your lunch whilst we are trying to listen to the next guest speaker. How rude is it to be filling your face whilst someone is trying to teach you?

Ask a stupid question. It is great to have a whole bunch of talented experts come visit and share their stuff with us all. It is also mighty nice of them to open themselves up for questions at the end of their little lecture. But it seems you don’t need to wait until the end to ask your questions. The minute a speaker says anything about a topic that you know anything about you have license to interrupt with a question that only serves to demonstrate that you have a pre-existing knowledge about some thing totally unrelated to the subject that’s just been discussed. You look like an idiot. If you were listening, you’d know the answer. If you waited, your question would likely be answered in the next few minutes anyway. But go ahead and waste our time just so you can hear your own voice out loud. Again. And don’t get me started on those who ask questions that have already been answered. You should be failed for that, as either you clearly weren’t listening, or you clearly didn’t learn it when they told you the first time.

My solution to the problem of excessive question askers? At the start of the week you are given, say, 5 tickets. These are your question asking tickets. When you ask a question, you hand your ticket in. You run out of tickets? No more questions for you.

Time management. So you’re one of those people who insist on wasting our time by asking stupid questions. It is your fault the guest speaker hasn’t been able to complete their entire lesson. It is your fault that our timetable for the day is out of whack because you have deemed yourself more important than anyone else. And how do I know you have deemed yourself more important? Because even though it is you that has caused us to go overtime it is now you who gets out of your chair before the speaker’s finished and head for the exits – because your time is so much more important than the rest of us.

The talkers. These women are different to those above. They are generally nice enough, and they are as frustrated with the idiots above as the rest of us. But instead of sitting there patiently biting their lip and biding their time, these women insist on starting little side conversations with the person next to them. Now, they’re quietly talking – but when you have half a dozen little side conversations going on suddenly the idle chat is louder than the speaker I’ve paid good money to hear. Just shut the fark up. All of you.

The obligatory gay guy. Every class has one. And they are almost always cast from the same mould. Whinging, self-centred, time wasters. Hey, Mr Gay – I DON’T CARE! Fortunately we only had one of these, because when you get two together in a room – LOOK OUT. The whinging gheyness overwhelms all around them.

Okay, I’ve had a bit of a go at those that deserved it most. I actually think they got off lightly. The week certainly wasn’t bad – it was incredibly informative and will prove helpful, I’m sure. But by the time Friday was half done I was allowing myself the fantasy of murdering a certain half dozen or so students.

Alas, until next time.

Craig

xxx

Place holder.

 

Simon Le Bon - my Facebook Doppelganger this week.

Don't fret, Ladies, lassies, lads and gents.

I am back at school, to be sure - and that means I've been swotting madly with my casual writing time.

However I promise next Monday (Feb 8th, 2010) to bring you all up to speed with the latest stuff.

I am presented with one of my first ethical dilemmas of my blogging career.  Up until now pretty much anyone has been fair game for my rants. But the lines have now blurred. There has been plenty to raise my ire this week at "writers' boot-camp", however I fear that venting my spleen in certain subjects' direction may blow up in my face. Y'see, eventually the time will come when this blog becomes common knowledge. In fact I'm certain (because I'm such a modest and humble soul) that my blog will become THE pre-eminent blog amongst writers of my generation. I really am that farken good. But I don't need to tell you that - otherwise you wouldn't be here at all, would you. Don't argue, you know it's true.

I could, though, live without the scorn of my peers if it appears I have been too callous and harsh with my attack on those who I fell need the treatment this week.

So I am going to invite feedback from YOU, dear reader. If you want me to betray the inner sanctum and stick the boot into subjects ripe for the kicking then please comment to this post with a simple 'YEAYHE!"

If, on the other hand, you respect that telling stories can get one into serious trouble, and that I should resist (for once) the urge to rant at subjects that may become privy to my barbs thus putting me in a socially and professionally awkward position please comment to this thread with a simple "YOU CRAZY, MAN!"

The ball, for now, is in your court.

Regards,

xxx

Sure! Lock homes.

So last night we venture to the movies.

As most of you may already be aware I usually farken hate going to the movies.  There is almost always something that gets under my skin enough for it to end up a complete disaster of a night.  Whether it's something about the movie, or the noise made by other movies goers, or some random event that occurs just prior or immediately following - movies nights are just not the thing that soothes me most.

So where to start last night?

Okay, I'll start with the good stuff.  We went to Kanpai Japanese Restaurant prior.  This is one of my favourite places.  It always smells the same each visit (of vaguely toasted green tea pods) and the menu is simple and the quality of food (especially their sushi/sashimi and the eel I'm quite partial to) is beyond reproach.  Yet again they delivered the goods.  Thank you Kanpai.

The movie.  Sherlock Holmes.  I'm going to list this a little later as one of the bad things for a number of reasons (mainly Guy Ritchie's direction, but I don't want to waste time talking about that here with the good bits). Generally, though, I quite enjoyed this flick.  It was a rollicking adventure particularly well shot and conveyed a 19th century London in magnificent detail (thanks in no small part, I'm sure, by some amazing CGI effects).  The story (whilst preposterous and fantastic) motored along at an entertaining rate of knots and when the segue ***SPOILER ALERT*** to the obligatory sequel to what appears to be designed as something of a modern movie franchise I kind of wanted it not to stop.

The performances were generally good, also.  Whilst Robert Downey (do we have to continue to call him Jnr?) glided through this effortlessly and charismatically, I feel he could have added more by being a little grittier.  Whilst Holmes was apparently a troubled character RDJnr's casual ease failed to give the viewer a real sense of depth of character.  But don't get me wrong - RDJnr absolutely steals this show and looks a sure bet to win hearts and capture imaginations as the modern incarnation of Sherlock Holmes for at least a couple of sequels to come.  Most of the other characters were comic book caricatures, but Jude Law did well with what he had to deal with.  Someone doesn't particularly like Jude Law, but was quite smitten with this performance.  To the point that, as we were walking home, suggested that Jude and I share more than a few common mannerisms.  But of course, we already knew that, didn't we?

So, as we're leaving the cinema and my opinion on the film is sought and I respond ebulliently - so I'm asked if I'm feeling alright.  Apparently I've never had a positive thing to say about a movie first thing upon leaving the cinema.  So, whilst I'm only giving this 3.5 stars I think my positivity is enough to recommend this film to just about anybody.

So good food and a pleasant movie experience (and a lovely walk home down the full length of Chapel St) made for a wonderful evening.

But, you're not going to get off so easy as to only hear the good, no sir-ee.  Here's a little of what was wrong last night.

Straight back into what was wrong with the movie.  The sound effects.  I don't know if it is just the Jam Factory Village Cinema's policy to play their movies with the sound turned up to 11, but this film was seriously loud.  Now I'm not getting grumpy-old-man on you here, I know I'm getting older and I'm getting more sensitive, but this was loud enough to be uncomfortable.  When gun shots went off it was loud enough to make me jump. Which effortlessly segues to my next criticism:

Guy Ritchie.  He's essentially a one trick pony, and I'm tiring of his trademark tricks.  The fight scene (which was as gratuitous a scene as I think I've ever seen) and Ritchie's trademark ultra slow motion on the ultra violence.  And the anticipatory sound effect.  This is the one I hate the most.  Especially with the movie being played up so loud.  The trick, for those of you naive enough not to have noticed, is to start a scene with a ridiculously loud noise.  A gunshot, or door slamming or something.  Only what you do is edit the scene so that the loud sound interrupts the quiet ending of the preceding scene making you JUMP OUT YOUR CHAIR IN FRIGHT for no apparent reason.  I absolutely concede that this is actually a magnificently clever movie trick - but when you use it on almost every scene, like everything else in this life, it not only loses its impact, it PISSES PEOPLE OFF!!

Movie ticketing.  I got in early in order to purchase these tickets prior to dinner. "Would you like to be seated in the middle toward the back?" I am asked dutifully. "Sure!  Who wouldn't want that. Best seats in the house!"  So when, almost two hours later, we arrive at the cinema PACKED TO THE BRIM with perhaps only half a dozen or so other cinema-goers, I am delighted to learn that amongst the vast open spaces of available seating there is a couple SAT RIGHT NEXT TO US!  Thanks ticket-lady. Why, oh why, do they do this?

Cinema patrons.  So the movie is advertised for 6.50pm.  We all know that they're going to make us sit through at least 15 minutes of advertising and movies trailers.  But that is an important time for a number of reasons.  It gives everyone plenty of time to get in and get their seat, to get settled, to turn one's mobile electronical communications devices to silent, to eat that noisy packet of crisps or the crunchy cone of that mint-choc choc-top ice-cream before the real stuff begins.  So why is it that as the lights are dimming for the main feature dozens (yes DOZENS) of punters start streaming into the cinema to take their belated places at the altar?  Takes 'em ages to get seated (it's dark now so nobody can find their way) and now, once seated, they take advantage of the first 15 minutes of the movie to do what they should have done 15 minutes ago.  Brilliant!  And, as per, it just so happened that the person whose group crawled in later than anyone else, and just so happened to have sat closer to me than anyone else, smelled like they were a backpacker that got caught in a downpour whilst in the sleeping bag they've been trekking around the globe in for the past three years.  Okay, maybe your idea of personal hygiene isn't quite the same as mine, but SHEEKS people, put on a fresh change of clothes!!!

Whilst I am at it, there was one other pet hate of mine that got me particularly agitated last night.  The good-ol'-fashioned 'People-Who-Can't-Share-The-Footpath' syndrome.  It's really getting personal now.  Seriously - it seems like some god forsaken virility test.  Do I "oh, it's okay, you take as much of the footpath as you want whilst I just submissively get out of your royal highness's majestic way" or do I "NO YOU FUCKING DON'T - I'VE GOT AS MUCH RIGHT TO WALK IN A STRAIGHT LINE AS YOU HAVE TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!"?  I am so sick of it.  It is so symptomatic of modern life and everything that's wrong with it.  You're sharing a public walkway - yet you can't share at all.  YOU are more important to ME.  I am invisible to you.  What happens when I hold my line and walk straight through you?  Most times I'll be bigger than you.  Most times YOU will come off second best.  Yet here you come again.  Straight for me.

Is it any wonder people are getting stabbed on the streets at night?  I wonder how many of them are just ordinary, innocent sidewalkers like myself who have, for once in their life, simply held their ground. Only to be stabbed to death by the jerk who was too important to share the footpath.

Until next time,

xxx

iWank

So I wake to the news this morning that Apple have released the greatest piece of technology in the history of the entire universe.  The iPad.

No thanks.

I'll start with the pros.

This thing looks great.  Kudos to Apple's design team, they really know how to package up that shiny aluminium and glass.

Big screen with an incredible ability to sense touch.  If it works in real life as well as it does in Apple's launch video* then this thing will certainly have quite the WOW factor.

Apps.  Apps, apps and more apps.  Since the launch of the ubiquitous iPhone it seems we haven't really been living at all - not until we got all of them iApps.  There's a freaken app for just about everything, and the new iPad will be able to handle them all 'right outta the box'.

I love when Apple says 'right outta the box'.

The cons?

For it's great looking design it is really only a larger version of the iTouch.  Nothing really new or revolutionary about it.  What about a device that utilises the entire footprint as useable screen area?  Why the black border?

Lack of multi-tasking.  Apparently (and I won't know how this goes for sure until I've tried it myself) this thing is super fast... however even a low spec netbook is fast when you're only performing one task at a time.  This thing won't even let you listen to your playlist as you send email (apparently). F@#$ that!

Memory.  Flash memory is awesome.  My girlfriend's Macbook Pro has flash memory and it runs quiet as a mouse with laryngitis and as cool as the very blog you are reading presently. But there's only a maximum of 64GB on these things.  64GB is a handy amount, but a decent iTunes library I would guess would be around 40GB, not including movies and e-books (which is supposed to be a big part of this thing's appeal), and pretty much useless considering the next con:

No SD card slot.  That's right, if you wanted to keep your iTunes library or other stored media on a card to expand your iPad's memory - you can't.  Because there isn't one.  Whaaaa?

Huge scratchable screen.  This is where this thing will live and die.  Even netbooks have screens that are protected by the folding keyboard.  This thing is a huge "oh my GOD I just ran a key down my iPad" waiting to happen. sure you can buy the funky faux-leather pouch for it, but it sure looks like they could fit a keypad in that flap kinda making it look a bit more like a... traditional laptop computer!!

Plenty of people are going to want one of these.  Heck, if my lucky numbers came up one of these days I'd get one just for fun.  But if you've already got an iPhone, and an iTouch, and an iPod, and a MacBook Air and an iMac... seriously, I can't see why in a million years you'd need one of these.

I'm not averse to the whole notion of e-readers.  I think they'll eventually become something of a revolution. this device may be part of accelerating that revolution, but this device sure don't seem to me to be revolutionary in its own right.

I am very interested to see what happens with this little baby.  Now that's cool.

*Apple's recent history of using stop motion video technology to 'speed up' the appearance of the apps on their devices (such as iPhone's advertising) does not engender an overwhelming trust in their claims of speed.

Until next time,

xxx

Zoinks!

So last night I'm sitting there minding my own business.  Another crappy Clive Owen movie was on TV (what is this, crappy Clive Owen movie month or something?).

I notice a shadow moving across the ceiling.

Oooooooh.  My.

I guess it may have been the shadow caused by the projector light, but this thing looked enormous.  A spider.  A hunstman.

I'll post some pics later, but this thing was seriously creepy.  I'm not that fussed about spiders, but this one had me just a little jumpy.  Almost 10cm across, it was.

So I'm trying to get it out the door with the help of some insect spray when it drops to the floor.  Someone screams, a lot of people did a lot of crazy things, and I pounded it with a single shot with a well placed thong that sent most of its legs spontaneously exploding from its body.

Poor itsy bitsy.

D'oh! Dough.

So today I'm catching the train to Bendigo to cook dinner for the Mulqueens and Folwer-Browns.

What could be better to feed a growing and starving family than PIZZA!

So last night I'm making pizza dough. Let me tell you, like everything else in this world "practice makes perfect".  The first batch I made just didn't seem to be the right mix of wet and dry, and every time I dipped my hands in the water to give it extra moistness I was forced to dust a little more flour on top.  So I'm doing the mixing right next to the kitchen sink so's that I can wet my hands at will when "POP"; the whole bowl ends up in the sink.  Fortunately the dough mixture didn't sink and only received a quick shallow bath.

So I check on my little dough balls of joy this morning and, sure enough, the second lot I made have risen majestically t'ward heaven, whilst the first attempt sit their unrisen, embarrased, retarded.

I think we're having a garlic or margharita for starters; then a mushroom and thyme and garlic; a hot Mexican salami; a prosciutto rocket and parmesan; a real ham and pineapple; and to finish, a flaming banana pizza for dessert.  I was originally in charge of the whole pizza thing, but when I explained my M.O. and the pizzas I had planned to make (Aussie with an extra egg; Marinara; Capricossa etc.) somebody decided that they were too meaty and too cheesy. Now suddenly we are all eating pizzas that may appeal to homosexuals.  The Mulqueen men are more robust.  I fear they may well go out for Maccas at the sight of our gay pizzas.

I <3 Kate Micucci

I've been unfaithful.

I have fallen in love with another.

I'm not going to elaborate too much, because I would just start gushing.

Just visit her website and bask in the adorableness.

She also performs in the immensely talented and sexy Garfunkle and Oates.

And this further reinforces my apparent destiny to buy this ukulele:

Did I mention that she has a show every month in California called "Playin' with Micucci"?  Adorable.

xxx

The Scavenger

Last night we had a visit from a scavenger.

As way of preface I should explain that the bins for our entire apartment complex are dutifully arranged, like green soldiers with yellow and red hats, directly outside the front window of our ground floor apartment. Oh the joy.

Sure he said he was “looking for my watch that my girlfriend threw in the bin last night” but I instantly knew that was bullshit. He was unkempt. He wasn’t old, but he appeared weary and was slightly ravaged by the effects of a decade long smack habit. He had a bike but no helmet. His fingers were too thick for his skeletal build, and well crusty from years of sifting filth through them. His manner, his inability to make eye contact, his insistence at repeating his story about looking for the watch – each time he told another stranger he added an extra, unnecessary detail further suturing his neat lie.

I first noticed unfamiliar noises before 5pm. It may well have been well prior to 5pm – I was reading, and oblivious. I went to the gym and he was still there upon my return. Rubbish was now lining the street and incidental items (a soy sauce bottle; mustard half left; unlabeled chutney, all clearly past best) lined up atop one of the bins. This guy was clearly not looking for a watch, although – had he found one, he would surely have claimed it.

As it got to around 8.30pm my mood shifted. To this point I was ambivalent. I felt sorry for him. I pitied him. His noises were slightly annoying yet not overly distracting. But at around 8.30pm something in me changed.

Before 8.30pm a number of passers-by and residents in other apartments had commented to him. His scavenging had started to get messy. His refuse was growing by the bins – and open bin lids were gently overflowing with the odours best kept in by closed lids. He very audibly promised that he was giving up on the watch and would start cleaning up and would be gone within five minutes. A woman walked past and said, “That’s disgusting!” To which our scavenger replied almost menacingly “We’re not living in a Third World country.” I still don’t know what correlation there is between the two statements, but his manner was now anti-social, as if his scavenging prior was not, and it was apparent that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It also became increasingly apparent that he would be unwilling at best, and unable at worst, to clean his mess once he was finally done. I also noticed he had started wandering down the street, to other people’s bins, and had started hauling their bags of rubbish in front of my apartment to commence work on those as well.

Upon this realisation, and the added realisation that it would be most likely me that ended up cleaning this mess, I called the police. I was patient and polite and explained the situation. He wasn’t hurting anyone, but he was providing a nuisance and I was now sure he would leave our bins festering amongst piles of the rubbish even he was not desperate enough to consider. I also suspected that someone so desperate as to trawl so fastidiously through so much rubbish would not hesitate to try a door to see if it were unlocked – to jemmy window to reach the promise within.

I don’t like calling the police. They’ve got a tough enough job without having to worry about matters of minor social disorder. And our local police station is at the end of our rather modest street. They are less than one minute away. They promised to send a van. They never did. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

After being asked repeatedly now by various residents (all to politely in my opinion) his scavenging became almost silent. His presence was betrayed only occasionally by the odd gently clinking bottle. He became like a hyena all too aware of the lion’s imminent arrival. But he was still there. It was raining, intermittently but heavily. Persistently. Still there at 11.30pm when I finished my book and decided upon bed. A total of perhaps seven hours scavenging through a dozen or so bins.

So what of my role in all of this? I never confronted him. Not once. I didn’t really care until 8.30pm. I was happy in my world, and happy enough to leave him in his, content to deny his existence like the other scavengers; the vultures, . But after 8.30pm any confrontation would have been counterproductive. I felt myself becoming angry. I knew I would not be able to approach him without doing something that would go over the edge. Something that would get me in trouble, if not with the law, then with someone else who would never look at me with the same respect again. My pity turned to contempt. I wanted to cure us of him. I fantasised about beating him so badly that I would just dispose of him, head first, into one of the bins – to be buried with the filth of which he was so fond. I wanted to cure him of himself. His life, so pathetic.

I woke this morning and there is litter strewn loosely around the bins on my street. In front of my apartment. Down the street, in front of other houses and buildings. He’d obviously moved on east after exhausting the remnants of ours. It could have been worse. To his credit he did make some attempt to clean up as he left – but the rain had melted and stuck the paper items to the road and footpath; the dark had made some objects invisible to him; and other items had become inaccessible enough (in cracks or between bins) as to make them too hard for him to bother with.

But he has washed away. The street, apart from the trail of rubbish he left, has been washed clean by the rain. The bins, now soldiers with their hats scalped off backwards, revealing their filthy guts – awaiting their collection patiently, with their dignity stripped.


I will wander out shortly – once the rain has dried – and with gloved hands pick up what he has left, and wonder why I am cleaning up after the scavenger.

DERAILED

Clive Owen takes aim at the writers, producers and director of "Derailed".

Last night I was witness to one of the all time indulgences of movie watching.  That (I guess not so) rare event where a movie transforms from an out and out stinking turkey, into a movie that is so delectably so-bad-it's-good that you cannot bear to turn away.

Derailed is just such a movie.

I couldn't believe I was being made to watch this royal stinkfest of a film by the other half.  What had I done to warrant such treatment?  I know I've not exactly been the greatest company to have around of late, but surely it doesn't mean that I'm fit to be tortured with a Jennifer Aniston chick-flick?  Oh, the HUMANITY!

SPOLIER ALERT!!!

I'm not going to pull any punches or hide any script or plot lines here, so if you're planning on seeing this shitflick a) DON'T or b) STOP READING NOW.

So this kind of doofus'y charming business type guy meets a stranger on a train.  She buys something for him (I don't know, a coffee or something) because he's short of change.  He bumps into her again (quite coincidentally) and pays her back.  They get to small talk and BINGO, they're just SO right for each other.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the affable Mr Clive Owen's character has a terminally ill daughter, as well as being married to the cute-but-not-hot Melissa George.  So anyway, all the seeds of infidelity are being sown through the script and you just know that Clive and Jen are going to be bumping uglies any minute.

So they go out for dinner and on the way home set about searching for a hotel to consummate their unholy union. Jen gets cold feet and jumps out of the cab, which just happens to be near an old time weather beaten hotel.  Clive convinces her to change her mind and they book in a room at this slightly dodgy motel.

I interrupt this transmission to highlight the hypocrisy of the female of the species.  Up to this point a certain someone (in the spirit of this being a chick-flick, and 'oh Clive but he's so dreamy') has been defending Mr Owen's descent into infidelity.  "Oh his life's so wretched", "Oh, he just needs something nice in his life" and all of the other defending his indiscretion has my blood on the point of boiling.  It's topped off when she asks if I've ever taxied around town looking for a hotel to perform such a betrayal.  I'm incensed!

So anyway, just as Jen's about to go the full blown... well... blow... ("She doesn't seem like the blowjob type" - are you SERIOUS?????) the hotel door is kicked open and a very unsavory character (the typecast ugly bloke from Eastern Promises, whatever his name is, let's call him "Frenchy") bursts in and threatens them with a gun.  Pistol punches poor Clive, and sets about raping Jen.

After the event Jen refuses Clive's contacting the police because her husband might find out.  Boo hoo.  Still later Clive gets a call from Frenchy and is now the victim of a $100,000 extortion.

Here's where I cut to the quick.

After Clive's life is just about at breaking point, after he's helped be responsible for the murder of a work colleague, after stealing the $100,000 for his daughters kidney transplant, after embezzling money from work - you get my drift... somehow he discovers (through some particularly amateur sleuthing) that Frenchy and Jen were actually IN IT TOGETHER!  That's right folks, NONE of their chance meeting was co-incidence at all.

So Clive spies them pulling the same scam to some other poor sap and proceeds to foil there plans and recover his goddamned money.

I don't know how the hell he did it, but through the wonders of modern day script writing, and a few plot holes the new airbus could get through, he foils their plan and murders everyone in sight.

He would have gotten away with it, too - if it weren't for the pesky company detective where he works who insists on prosecuting poor Clive for the embezzlement.

So Clive ends up on community service, teaching perps English or something.  And inside he discovers that Frenchy ISN'T dead.  He's serving time inside.  Which give Frenchy the perfect opportunity to gain revenge against Clive for killing Jen (you following all of this?).

Except that when Frenchy is about to kill Clive, Clive reveals that he REQUESTED to teach at this prison (so somehow Clive knew Frenchy was alive and in this particular prison) at which point Clive produces a knife so big it probably set off the metal detectors at the prison in the next state - yet somehow avoided detection getting into this prison - and stabs Frenchy good.

Game over.

Oh my GOD.  I have never before watched a film so gloriously pathetic that it actually gave me a thrill to watch it get more and more preposterous with every scene.

In fact, if getting a kick out of such things is your bag then I couldn't rate this abomination any higher.

Rent it tonight!

Music Thief - Girl Talk

©

Fascinating that I stumbled across this article in "The Age" online.

Massif wanker and music thief Gregg Gillis is getting yet more publicity for his illegal money making machine, Girl Talk.

I saw quite a bit of his rockumentary a week or so ago (RiP!: A Remix Manifesto) where he attempts to justify his theft of others' intellectual property, and bangs on relentlessly about the need to overhaul copyright laws in order for scum sucking bottom feeders like him to be able to exploit others' work for profit at no risk of legal action.

Dude, go crawl under a rock and die.  YOU are what is wrong with the music industry.  YOU are SO Gen Y.  Why don't you try to write a song yourself, you gutless, talentless piece of crap.

I hate you.

Racist KFC ad.

So I'm reading about the alleged "racist" KFC ad this morning.

I'm not surprised.

Let me paint the picture.  Our bogan hero sits down amongst a rabid bunch of West Indian cricket fans, all of whom happen to be black skinned.  They are raucously cheering some event and our white bogan hero is feeling a little intimidated, at which point he produces a huge bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken which instantly silences the crowd as they start hoeing down on tasty chicklets.

When I first saw this ad I was, like, OMFG!  Did I just see that?  I'm three parts Australian - four parts Australian, and even I know that the stereotype of coloured folks chowing down on KFC is a despicable racial slur - even if that's primarily in the good ol' USA.

But, after a little thought, I figure it's kinda like the Hey Hey blackface skit controversy.  We in Australia (and possibly even the West Indies for that matter) don't have that same cultural reference, so could hardly be considered racist in that context.

But THEN I thought, no WAI!!  Every ad guy worth their salt spends pretty much every spare waking hour trawling through the interwebs.  If there is an ad guy out there who is unfamiliar with the "n*gg'r/KFC" meme then they are just not doing their job.  Of course they knew about it.  And, QED, that makes it racist.

These KFC ads are not sitting easily with me.  The first, I recall, had a spectator being knocked unconscious by a stray cricket ball after which our bogan hero steals his fried chicken product.  Inspirational stuff.  The next I recall was our bogan hero cracking the shits because his housemates dared have a conversation about, you know, stuff, whilst his beloved cricket was on (oh, my hero). Another suggests you can get free tickets to the cricket by impersonating a police officer, and yet another suggests you can get the best seat in the house by wearing a fluoro vest and impersonating a security guard.  Brilliant stuff that.

Usually I'm pretty forgiving with the suspension of disbelief, but this series has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, and the quicker it is off the screen the better.

One more reason not to eat that shit.

Stadium Wars and new news.

Okay folks, first some GOOD NEWS.

Yeah, I know - you're used to me whinging and complaining like a bitch, but just for something different.

Firstly my interwebs appear to be unbrokined. Not only is my pathetic 3 mobile broadband (which I have panned repeatedly on this blog) back up, running and connecting (nearly every time), it is also now fast enough to actually, you know, do - stuff.

Secondly, my latest musical project "Fine Dining In Scotland" has been COMPLETED (YEAYHES!!) and is being sent out to the lucky recipients as I write this. You can still listen to the rough drafts of these songs (not far off the finished product) via the links I provided in previous posts below.

When I say "completed" what I'm really telling you is that the two songs that were giving me the most grief, and taking the longest to get right, have now been dropped in order to get this baby out for Xmas. So the 'travel' song (which has a killer chorus, but the rest I can't get right) and Oscar and Rose's little ditty (which is nice, but not quite up to the rest) get left on the cutting room floor - destined to be revived for my double-sided greatest hits and rarities to be released not long after my death.

And thirdly, perhaps most importantly, I am now a FULL-TIME STUDENT!! Who woulda believed it? I have been accepted into CAE's Professional Writing and Editing Certificate next year. AWESOME! I'm gonna be a real writer. But before then I'm destined to be a poor starving student again. Brother can you spare a dime?

Now that the latest personal news is out of the way...

Australia are biding for the right to host one of the 2018 or 2022 World Cup of Football tournaments. You'd have to be deaf and blind to have not heard this news, and you'd have to be stoopids as well if you think we're a chance to actually host this event with things as they currently stand.

For one, the AFL (and their bestest buddies in the whole wide werld The Herald-Sun) are stirring up as much anti-football sentiment as they can muster. Not only are they exaggerating facts about the bid and its resultant impact on our most anacronistic indigenous football code, they are also making up fairy stories about such things as having to shut down the AFL for an entire season. Smell the fear.

The other main farce surrounding Australia's World Cup bid is that of appropriate stadia to be used during the tournament.

Our beloved new Clamshell Stadium by the river is shaping up as one of the most awesomest things that ever thung. However it is not big enough to be considered for a World Cup venue, and the cost (in excess, it has been reported, of $150MIL) to expand it would seem prohibitive.

The AFL are telling football that they cannot have the Dome at Docklands for the tournament, despite the fact that their autonomous deal at Etihad expires before the tournament is scheduled to commence.

There is talk that the MCG could be modified to provide a rectangular configuration, which has all of Melbourne up in arms it seems; although this correspondent can't understand why the MCG can't be used as is at it were for football at the '00 Olympics (and that was before the new Northern Stand redevelopment).

Now the AFL are suggesting a new stadium near the North Melbourne station. At a cost of over $250MIL. Which can be constructed in rectangular configuration for the World Cup, and then have the seats retracted for AFL use. This is perhaps the most brilliant idea I've ever heard of [/sarcasm].

Only about 200 meters away from this site is a stadium that has seats in a rectangular configuration that can be retracted for AFL use. It's called DOCKLANDS, dickheads!

I've been a minority voice in some circles defending the cost of the new Rectangular Stadium, given it's construction fills the last remaining hole in Melbourne's impressive portfolio of stadia. However I could not in a million years defend spending $250MIL+ on a new stadium that is just a slightly smaller cookie cutter than the existing stadium next door.

The AFL has successfully moved all Melbourne teams out of their original local homes for the majesty of having all games at super stadiums. Now they are worried that the stadium deals are going to hurt the clubs when West Sydney and Gold Coast are brought into the competition and crowds inevitably plummet.

I say: "YOU BOUGHT IT... NOW EAT IT!"

Until next we chat,

xxx
Craig

I'M MAD AS HELL...

Sorry for the lack of updates, but my interwebs are brokined.

My 3 Mobile Broadband (HA!) has always been criminally slow, but now it seemed 3 have oversubscribed the service to the extent that you cannot actually use it at all any more.

DO NOT SIGN UP FOR 3 MBB IF YOU LIVE ANYWHERE NEAR ST KILDA!!!!!

Seriously, it's been bad enough for twelve months, but now it isn't even funny any more.

I will advise when I've sorted this mess out.

Oh, and F@$# YOU 3!

Latest Stuff

Why howdy, y'all.

Just thought I'd get you all back up to speed.  No ranting today, just stuff.

So, I'm unemployed.  It's pretty cool actually.  Sure I wish I had money coming out of my ears so I could do stuff right, but it's proving to be a rather cathartic experience.

As you've been privy to my songs are coming out at a pretty good rate.  They seem to get just that little better one by one, so soon I hope to have enough to record a proper demo in the hope of releasing a real album.  Wouldn't that be awesome?

Lawn Bowls is going pretty well.  After a year and a bit learning the game in the fifths I've been promoted to the thirds.  We are sitting on top of the table six (or is it seven) games into the season, so it looks like we'll be playing finals again this year.  My rink has been up and down... the selectors haven't yet settled on a consistent starting lineup for me - which has been really tough.  Fortunately we've managed to roll enough good bowls down to either keep winning, or minimising our loss to the extent that we haven't hurt the overall team score.

We've been having car troubles.  My Dad (awesomely) lent us his car, but not so awesomely the brakes were SHOT.  These cost almost $700 to fix.  This after I'd recently paid over $100 to replace the battery after someone left the light on in the car.  And now guess what?  The battery suddenly finds itself dead again.  After only a matter of weeks.  FMD!!

We've been to the beach a couple of times.  The weather has been nothing short of spectacular of late, but a word of caution... DO NOT go to the section of beach just in front of Rickett's Point in Beaumaris.  Terrible beach.  If you've got real young uns maybe - it's really very shallow and safe, but other than that - eurgh!  Elwood has been the favoured destination of late.  we've gone a couple of times with my sister-in-law (of Queen Bee Allergy Free blog fame) and neice, and even with my new niece Greta.  Funny story, she's too young to comprehend that her Daddy (my twin brother) and I aren't the same person.  I've just shaved most of the hair off my head.  Greta spends the afternoon with me and my short hair only to go home to longer haired Daddy - did she scream her head off every time she looked at Daddy?  Oh the laughs.

And Monica, of course, my other niece - gets so excited at the beach with her Uncle Craiggles that she screams and squeals and just goes a bit mental.  The biggest problem I have with that is for some unknown reason she starts to call me Mr Stinky.  At the beach.  Whilst I'm playing with her in the water.  She SHOUTS it out as loud as she can, "MR STINKY, MR STINKY, MR STINKY!!!!" and everyone on the beach look over at me suspiciously like I'm some kind of kiddy fiddler.  MOST embarrassing.

I was our three year anniversary last week.  Wow.  Three years.  I'm a lucky, lucky boy.

We went to the final MTC play for the year last week as well.  "When the Rain Stops Falling".  Wow.  Seriously - WOW.  They sure saved the best 'til last.  some of what we've seen this year has been awesome (August - Osage County) and some has been, well (Poor Boy) Poor, boy.  But this just hit and hit hard.  If you get a chance go and see it.  Brilliant performances.  Great script.  No obligatory environmental or indigenous issues to be bollocked about the head with.  Just brilliant.

I've just entered another beer song competition - seeing as I'm developing a habit of winning such things.  Toohey's Extra Dry have an AWESOME competition out at the moment - however I did need to activate a new myspace account to apply.  So now I've got a myspace page for my solo stuff.

Oh, in case you're wondering - the picture atop this blog entry has not been photoshopped in any way.  It is actually a legit natural watermark I found whilst strolling along the river at Gunnerside, UK.  I thought an artist or some kids had deliberately coloured in the rock to look like a Valentines heart, but then I noticed other similar pools of water in the rocks that had the same red colouring.  This one was just an incredible fluke of narture that I did well not only to spot, but to capture on camera as well.

Anyway, for now, that is all.

xxx

Craig

Another day another song... and a new blog.

Greetings peeps.

So much has happened since I chatted to you yet - but little of it important.

First... my new song.

Second... a new blog for you to subscribe to. This isn't just one of those "LOOK AT ME ARE I GREAT" blogs (like mine). This is an important community service blog. Y'see, my niece (adorable as she is) has about million allergies. No nuts, no eggs, no dairy, no flavour... well, you'd be wrong. My sister-in-law is putting together a blog of allergy friendly recipes that are REALLY TASTY!! Go there, subscribe, and tell everyone you know.

Maybe this afternoon, but more likely tomorrow, I'll blog back in and get you all up to speed about everything else that's going on.

Until then, enjoy the song.

xxx

<3

Craig

Some Kind Of (hilarious) Monster

So we watch "Some Kind Of Monster" last night - the documentary about Metallica.

Hilawious.

Before I go any further I would like to point out that I have NEVER liked Metallica. EVER. They are just hopeless.  I can't stand the riff driven dross that these guys spit out as heavy metal.  It is possiby the lowest form of musical invention. END OF.

But to see these jerks in action really was wildly amusing and hugely entertaining.

These 'tards have sold 90 million albums? Man, I wanna build a spaceship and go live on the moon - the human race is pathetic.

Their efforts at songwriting had me in stitches every time they put pencil to paper.

"My Life-style determines my Death-style" FFS.

And the adoring hordes continue to lap it up.

Talk about the Emperor's New Clothes.

Bu seriously - watch the movie.  It is awesome.  I can't believe it actually out does Spinal Tap at its own game - 'cept these guys are serious.

<3 Craig

Turning ones hand to Poetry

I promised Sheena's father that I would write down my impressions of Scotland.

Whilst in the middle of a songwriting phase I've had certain words and phrases fighting to get out, and this morning a poem erupted.

I'm not going to post it here... not just yet - it's not quite perfect.

But I did manage to distill most of the main ingredients into yet another song this morning.

Her Scotland - although I might change the name of the song to Buried Inside.

What do you think?

Music makes the world go 'round.

Okay folks, are you ready for this?

I've been teasing you the last week or so - so today i post links to not one but TWO new songs.

You just can't get this stuff anywhere else for free!!

I wrote this this morning after lamenting on the balcony of The Prince Bandroom how the world has just got it wrong, so here's Where Did It All Go Wrong.

And here's another if that's not enough. This one's called Take You Over.

Send love and money.

xxx

<3

Craig

Now we're in direct competition!!

Okay guys and gals,

It's finally happened - the better half has FINALLY started the definitive Melbourne Food Blog.

After learning PHP and SQL Development languages and writing thousands of pages of script to ensure the ultimate blogging experience, Sheena has finally opted for a blogspot hosted blog. Well who would have guessed?

You can visit here, or cut and paste this link http://sixmonthsinmelbourne.blogspot.com/ and bookmark it and visit frequently. Just don't visit more frequently than you visit here... all I need is "Ha! My blog has more followers/visitors than yours - IN YOUR FACE!!"

Now all we need is for Queen B to get of hers and start with the allergy blog - then the circle will be complete at last.

The Clamshell... The Witchety Grub...

The new Melbourne Rectangular Stadium.

I visited today and took these shots.


























It really is looking awesome.

Amazing Story of survival.

Okay, so check this out.

This morning Dobbo, Nicole O'Connor and I go for a couple of laps of Albert Park Lake.  Whilst me doing a couple of laps of the Lake is an amazing story of survival in itself a most peculiar incident occurred.

A car traveling south along Lakeside Drive hit a seagull (it was a sickening thud - quite a hard impact) and we got to see the poor thing tumble underneath the car.  It was quite awful to watch.  The driver of the car slowed, almost to a stop, but decided (as any of us would) that there was nothing that could be done and nothing to be gained by stopping.  The following cars all took precaution enough to avoid the carcass and no one cared to stop.

I was fascinated though.  The seagull had ended up in an extremely unorthodox position.  It was kind of twisted and dropped into a sitting position.  Despite the gruesomeness of the event just witnessed, I couldn't take my eyes off the lifeless bird as it just sat there looking stupid - and dead.

"Don't look," said Dobbo, "it's dead."

"Oh that was gross," added Nicole.

"But look at the way it's just sitting there, it's almost human." added Dobbo followed with a, "No, don't look, it's terrible."

"Hang on." I said.

"Craiglet, I said 'don't look'"

"No, it just moved its head!"

"No it didn't"

"Yes it did!"

"It must have just died and its head has dropped."

"Maybe you're right... hang on IT DID IT AGAIN!"

And sure enough it had.  Now this really confused the issue.  It was okay to assume this creature was dead - nothing could be done.  But now it's moving.  GROSS.

"Who's going to do the Commando thing and go and put it out of its misery?" asked Dobbo, not really seriously considering it.
"Let's just leave it." said Nicole.
"Stop looking Craig." offered Dobbo again.

And then up it hopped.  It fell around in a couple of drunken wonky circles for a bit, but with a few shakes and twists and flaps the bird was back up and at it.  To be fair the bird did appear to be doing a brilliant impression of Fevola at the Brownlows, but it was up and about none the less.

We remain flabbergasted.

Have a great day you all.

<3 Craig

Can you Baweeve it?

Seriously folks - here's another song today.

I'm spittin' 'em out a song a day.

This one about the flight over.

Fly to Your Side.

What a killer hook in the chorus.

CAN SOMEONE GET ME A JOB PAYING BIG BUCKS DOING THIS, PULEEEEEZZZ???!!!!!!

On FIRE!

Here is today's song.

Hope you enjoy it.

<3 Craig

Singing 'bout Scotland

Ladies and Germs,

Since my return from the UK I've been a little slack in the old updating the blog.

There are reasons for this.

1. I have been having a rather lot to drink, thank you.

2. Lawn Bowls' Season is once again upon us and I have been rolling.

3. I have been documenting my trip via musical composition.

Yeah.  A new concept that I'm working on... an 'albumblog'.  Eventually I hope to have enough tracks to record an album to send to everyone that we stayed with during our trip.

To give you a sample here are the first two installments:

a) Ella.  This song was written in Inverness while we were there and is the song that kick started this idea.

b) Your Kids Are Nuts. I wrote this yesterday and finished recording it today. It is obviously about Sheena's sister Ishbel's kids (Matthew, Callum, Lewis & Olivia) and the song I guess is pretty self-explanatory.

I hope you like 'em.

<3  Craig

Before I Go On...

So here I am at Heathrow.

Eventually.

I get to Liverpool St Station and buy a ticket to Heathrow, yeah?  So I figure most any line will connect with a train to Heathrow (if I understand the maps properly). I choose the Central Line to Holborne toget the Piccadilly line to Heathrow.

As I'm traveling along the Central Line I double check my journey plan against the map in the train.  Sure it says Holborn is on the Piccadilly Line, but it doesn't say anything about connecting to Heathrow.  It does say that Heathrow trains depart from Ealing Broadway, where the train terminates.

Who am I to argue with the advice from the map?

So I stay on the train to the end of the line.  Upon disembarking I cannot see ANY signs directing me to a Heathrow service.  So after wandering aimlessly about upand down each platform I notice a platform with "Heathrow Connect Service" information.

"Great" thinks I.  Then I read the sign fully and it indicates that the service that runs from Ealing won't allow the ticket I bought at Liverpool Street.

WHAT THE FUCK???!!!

So I have to get on this train (which is not due for close on half an hour WHAT THE FUCK????) or else I have to travel back into London to get another line out - in which case I'll be fucking well late.  So I get on the train and the ticket girl explains that this line is a completely different company and I'llhave to buy a whole new ticket.  So I already paid £4 atVictoria Street,and now I have to pay an EXTRA £6 to go ONE FUCKING STATION????!!!  WHAT THE FUCK??!!

You've got the fucking OLYMPICS????  Good fucking luck with that you fucking imbeciles.

Oh, and kudos to Great Western (or whatever the fuck you call yourselves) - the train I was on was practically EMPTY - so fucking SUFFER you LOSERS!!!

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Travelblog v.III

Well, I was seriously interrupted, no?

Anyway, since we chatted last I've been to Glasgow for a curry, to Stirling for a wedding, to Inverness for a couple of days, to Edinburgh and the most outrageous hotel room anywhere EVA, down to Yorkshire for English breakfast, back to Glasgow and off to see Rangers v Aberdeen tomorrow.

Phew!

Too much to talk about in one go, so I'll get around to the highlights at a later stage.

Off to see Matty & Erica and a few others for dinner tonight at Gamba in Glasgow  - then it's up at 5am to watch the Cats and the Sainters go at it half a world away.

Hope you're keeping well and missing me.  Yeah, right - the flood of replies and comments to my travelblog thus far has been a little underwhelming.

<3 Craig

xxx

Travelblog v.II

So, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?

Chapter 4. Leaving  Singapore or Killing Time - a LOT of time.

So after I knocked down my expensive drinks with fruit swizzle sticks and umbrellas I decide I might be running out of time (6.30pm) to get back to Changi in time to make my flight (11.30pm).  Yeah, right.  For a start, Singaporean Public Transport is so wildly efficient there was no way in the world I couldn't make it back in time.  Second, the check-in and boarding gates for Singapore Air flights open three hours before the flight. In Changi they open a mere 60 minutes prior.  So I'm back at Changi with about another four hours to kill.  Only I didn't know this at the time, so I spent endless hours just wandering around the airport looking like a very well dressed, white terrorist.

I did manage to squeeze in a magnificent shower at the transit lounge, and left resplentdent in the tackiest $15 t-shirt money can buy.  All class, me.  I downed another expensive beer at a bad bar and headed for some food.  All of the Asian food looked remarkably similar to anything I could get down Victoria St, so was not filled with the travel wonderment from the local eateries.  As I passed Burger King I scoffed at the anglo chavs and bogans who were not courageous enough to dine anywhere else but an American burger chain. "Uncouth" thinks me, the last of the great snobs.  Until something on the Burger King menu board catches my eye.

RENDANG BURGER

Well, figuring I could get any manner of char seiw, or tom yum or any of the other local fare, I figured the only thing in the whole of Changi International Airport I may never again have the chance to try, how could I resist?  And the verdict?  Rendang burger puts the flavour back into fast food dining.  Who knew that such a clash of culture could result in such a magnificent grease filled meat flavoured sandwich?

So after HOURS waiting I finally manage in to the departure lounge.  As our flight is readying boarding a disturbing announcement is made: our flight would now be boarding from gate A5 rather than gate A2.  What?  You forgot where you put the airplane?

This announcement followed many minutes later by the "this flight has now been delayed by one hour and will depart 00:30".

GREAT!  My connecting flight at Heathrow leaves for Glasgow at 0830. Check in closes at 0800.  It was going to be a frantic stretch to get there with the flight running to schedule - now I'm FARKED!!!

Chapter 5. Singapore to Heathrow or The Elephant of the Sky.

My first time ever on a huge A380 Airbus.   Man this thing is HUGE.  I've got a window seat (which is becoming de rigour) and enough space between me and the window to stow a small hippopotamus.  This thing is HUGE.  I look out the window and all I can see is wing.  It is ENORMOUS.  No kidding (and I know you know I'm occasionally prone to exaggeration) literally three quarters of the viewable area of my window was takn up by wing.  It stretched as far as I could see ahead, and as far as I could see behind.  So I'm thinking "this thing must really need some serious thrust to get airborne".  I mean, I know aeronautical engineering principles, yeah, and the force of the air pressure as the air rushes over the surface of the wing creates upward pressure blah, blah, blah.  This monolith surely must have to get to about 500kmph on the airstrip before it could possibly take off.  You know the force of the trust on an ordinary jet as it takes off?  I was expecting the skin on my face to be stretched harder than Joan Rivers'.

So, about an hour after the extra hour added to our flight we're taxiing to the runway.  We turn and I brace for the adrenalin inducing thrust that is about to rock my world when we start down the runway.

"Hmmm... a little slow," I think, "Can't wait 'til the pilot hits that super-turbo-thrust button" as we dawdle down the runway, "any minute now Mr Pilot," as we've travelled what seems like a couple of kilometres at what seems like no more than 40kmph, "at your leisure, dude," I begin to fret hoping tha tthe runway extends for about another five kilometres to allow us to get up to speed.  And then, it dawns on me.  This flight was delayed for technical issues.  OH MY GAWD!  THIS PLANE DOESN'T HAVE ANY THRUST!!!  So just as I think we must surely have run off the end of the runway and are destined to be tomorrow's headline the thing just kinda lurches up and almost reluctantly leaves contact with mother earth. As easy as all that.

So anyway, this trip has none of the previous screaming children or obnoxous spoilt Indian families, so there's little to report - other than my bemusement at the two Chinese girls I shared the aisle with who wore swine-flu face-masks for the enitre duration of the flight.  Well, almost the entire duration.  they did take them off to eat, at which time I thought they looked better with them on. Can you say that?

As we approach London I mentioned to one of the stewardesses that the delay to our flight has meant there is little or no chance of me making my connecting flight.  I showed her my boarding pass for the next leg and she giggled and assured me that even if I could reach that flight (and then she giggled again, reassuringly) that the chances of my luggage being transferred in that time were, well... in cases of such delays there is usually Singapore Air staff at our destination to assist me to book a subsequent flight.  Oh great.  I'm screwed.  Just when I had that argument about whether or not I should get travel insurance.

Chapter 6. HEATHROW = PWNT!!! or "I had to hustle right through Heathrow, don't be alarmed now."

Flight touches down. How the hell can you land such a gigantic aircraft? Probably best not to think too hard about that.

I approach the staff member obviously appointed to help those inconvenienced due to the delay and waved my boarding pass at her, "It's okay," she intoned, "you've got almost an hour before it departs." "Hey Lady, I've been here before and I know it takes at least an hour to queue for the toilets!" It's amzaing how witty you can make yourself sound when you're recounting the story a couple of days later.

"Well, you can try, and if (when) you miss the flight there will be staff to assist you in booking another."

Great.  That conversation just wasted almost thirty seconds of the 3300 I had to spare before take-off.

So I run to the flight connection area.

I skip past the dawdlers blocking the corridors with little or no idea where they were going, me - I was running on instinct and sense of direction alone.

I wave my boarding pass at one attendant... "Terminal 5" she calls as I turn into a blur before her eyes.

I leap on the connecting bus as the doors close behind me only to be greeting by the recording suggesting this journey will take 15 minutes.  15 MINUTES??!!  Precious seconds ticking down.

Terminal 5 now and there is a queue of people for the flight connection information but me, I don't got time for queues.  I slide like Tom Cruise in Risky Business (only this time with pants on - but that doesn't last for the whole length of this tale) to the side of the front of that queue where a curt but helpful woman escorted me to the check-in desk where a very helpful man proceeded to help.  Only he was a little too helpful.

Oh noes.  Time for dinner.  It's at this most climactic part of my charming tale that I must bid you adieu.  Again.  For now.

xxx

Travelblog v.I

Greetings funlovers.

Where to start?

Okay the beginning (where else), but I reserve the right to skip chronological events like that crap movie I saw - when was it - some time ago.

Chapter 1. The Hilton.

Rather than wake in a blind panic on Tuesday morning and race to the airport and inevitably forget something, I instead decide to treat myself to a night at the Melbourne Airport Hilton Hotel. Was okay. I felt spoilt. Perfect start to a long overdue holiday. Highlight was the Ox-cheek tagine. Mmmmm. Ox.

Chapter 2. Melbourne to Singapore.

Was seated next to a polite elderly couple en route to visit their daughter who backpacked to the UK eight years ago and never came back. They were sweet, and Margaret was funny ordering Singapore Slings followed by rum and coke all journey. But that's hardly newsworthy.

We were in row 32 (or something which is two rows behind business class - which means the row behind the families with infants. OH JOY! Not only were the family in front the parents of an evil demon spawn who screamed and evil demonic scream from the moment we started taxiing, but they were the rudest, most demanding, selfish a-holes I have ever travelled with (well, near). They pressed the stewardess call button CONSTANTLY. Not occasioanlly, but CONSTANTLY. I'm not going to go too much into it, 'cause it would only make me mad, but seriously - they expected to be waited on hand and foot, and probably would have been happy to have artificial limbs attached so that they may be service constantly as well. These guys made the next-most-annoying-brat-ever-to-travel (the young girl who insisted on kicking the back of my sat for the entire duration of the journey) seem perfectly angelic in comparison.

Chapter 3. Singapore.

Arrive with 7 hours to spare. Alone. What to do but catch the train into town and sink some authentic Singapore Slippers at Raffles. so as I'm heading out through immigration the dude asks "what are you doing? Where are you going?" and I says, "Meh, I've been here before, I know what I'm doing" to which he replies (like a good wanna-be policeman) "Just make sure you're back in plentty of time to get your return flight - you don't have long."

I had SEVEN spare hours.

So I catch the (ridiculously efficient) train into town and head straight for Raffles. Hey, I might not know much (despite being the smartest man Andrew knows) but I have ONE-HELLUVA sense of direction. Sit down and order myself a sling.

This stuff is good. I mean REALLY good. It goes down so easily in the 98% humidity that you begin to question whether or not it would be wrong to get a room here and just spend the rest of my life sitting in this heat and drinking this magical elixr. "Would you like another?" asks my man behing the bar. Thinking "F*£$en OATH" I politely agree that another would be just the tonic. The second lasts less than the first as I start to calculate the possibility of taking the next one intraveinously.

"Another?" asks the next barkeep.
"ABSO-FARKEN-LUTELY!" I think but instead have the presence of mind to ask "That depends... how much are these costing me?"
"$27.50ea"
"WHAAAAAAAAAA???????" I sputter, "umm... best get me a beer."

So I head back to Changi (we don't call it 'the airport', we call it 'Changi') with still hours before the flight. But, like Mr Immigration policeman said, I didn't wanna be late.

But now I have to go and have a cuppa tea before visiting some of Sheena's relatives, so I'll continue chapter 3 when I have a minute soon.

Regards,
Craig McCraig from the Clan Craig
xxx

It's that time of year.

Sunday saw the Bowls club gather around and pitch in to help spruce the place up a bit.

Well, I was there, but I did nuthin'.

Place actually has come up looking rather nice. Very neat.

Which brings us to next weekend. The green opens in anticipation of the coming season, followed the following weekend with the annual Open Day. Sunday the 13th September, noon 'til dark.

Come along, everybody - and experience the joy that only bowling can bring. ;)

Unemployment beckons.

I handed in my resignation on Monday.

I've been doing this job for quite a while; four and a half years here in Melbourne and a couple of years in Queensland. That's a lot of rubber stamps. A lot of responsibility and day to day deadlines that has recently started to turn a few hairs grey.

I'm off to the UK in a few weeks, and it just made sense that when I return in October I'd be looking for a fresh start and a bit of a distraction before I embark on the next (grown up) phase of my life.

I've a few projects in mind. The Magic Spot could do with some more intense work; there's recording for that coming up, and I could get a few covers gigs to pay some bills. There's a couple of Xmas projects bubbling away in the background that need some attention, and who knows what else I'll find to fill in the time.

I am very relieved, but at the same time anxious about what the future holds.

Yeayhe unemployment.

What has been seen CANNOT be unseen.

I received a nasty surprise this morning.

Got a message on a previous post from the Castlemain Crew. You may remember them from such weekends away as Golden Plains and... that other time... yeah... Golden Plains.

So I get a message from Dave and Yohdi (Hai Guys!) telling me that there is an image of TUBGIRL on my blog. For those of you who don't know who Tubgirl is, please DO NOT do a google search... you don't wanna know.

I am absolutely MORTIFIED that this image was linked to the image I had used (which was an innocent and amusing cartoon of a fat guy looking in the mirror and imagining himself buff). I wonder if it is possible to take out legal action? I know hotlinking is bad, m'kay, but it surely doesn't warrant the display of an image which, despite being disgusting and shocking, surely is illegal to view in pretty much every country on the planet.

But it probably goes some ways to explaining why my blog has such a following in Bendigo.

;)

To all who were unfortunate enough to have been subjected to this abomination I am sincerely apologetic.

As for the webmaster who thinks that this is an appropriate way to discourage hotlinking - you'll get yours in hell... seriously.

Kind regards, and more (really exciting) news to follow later in the morning.

<3

Yesterday's Heros

Well, the dust has settled on an EPIC day.

We journeyed in to the studios of SEN Sports Radio to collect the first installment of our prize of FREE BEER FOR A YEAR. And you know what? It's a rather generous prize. We get delivered a slab a week of whatever beer they review on their beer review segment on Thursday afternoons. We're talking real gourmet gear.

So thanks, SEN - although it's not like we didn't deserve it. ;)

Go here to read about our day and to listen to our winning entry.