This Wonderful Life

Patience, Peeps.

2011-12-13T03:21:00.001+11:00

I will be updating this space very soon.

I know it's been a while, but there are reasons for that. I'll let you know soon.

Cheers.

AmsterDAM!

2011-10-18T01:53:00.002+11:00

Hello everybody.

I have just returned form a weekend in Amsterdam, hosted by the charming and affable Kenneth and Vandi. First up I'd like to extend a hearty public thank-you to them for putting us up and showing us a great time.

Next up I want to wax lyrical about the intriguing and spectacular city of Amsterdam. Upon arrival in The Netherlands I was struck by the flat and almost completely featureless geography of the place. Even coming from Melbourne, whose suburban landscape is mostly devoid of contours, it was strange to encounter a place that seemed to stretch forever with not so much as a bump on any horizon. I could suggest that the topography of Holland is boring, but that doesn't convey the eerie feeling of being in a place completely different from anywhere else I have ever visited.

I will also suggest that the social differences of Amsterdam contrast directly with its unspectacular geography. In fact I will go so far as to suggest that the current conservative elements in Dutch society that are lobbying to rid Amsterdam of its other liberal attractions are in danger of turning The Netherlands into the most boring place on the planet.

A visit into town to showcase these attractions, whilst altogether too brief, was an enlightening experience. We caught the train into Amsterdam Central and walked to the museum district past canals and marketplaces. Like my recent trip to Sweden I was exhilarated by the bicycling culture there. It is such a way of life that the bicycles mix with pedestrians and automobiles without incident. As a newcomer you really have to be alert to avoid the darting cyclists, but I did not witness a single incident where any antagonism existed between any cyclist and a driver or pedestrian. It is possible, and Melbourne especially can learn a lesson in how to share public roadways.

But the thing that attracts the many tourists to Amsterdam town isn't the bikes. It is, of course, the sex and the drugs - the scourge of modern society elsewhere. Governments around the world are intent on clamping down on people's personal freedom to explore the limits of indulgence and desire, yet Amsterdam, at least for the present, is able to function as a modern, thriving, cosmopolitan city whilst exercising tolerance - even promotion - of these vices.

I am not for a moment suggesting that the place is perfect. I was not there long enough to gather enough evidence to mount a contrary opinion. But what evidence I did gather was, for me at least, compelling. There may be a down side to the drug culture in Amsterdam. But I didn't see it. There may be deep rooted social problems with regards to prostitution and sex slavery. But I didn't see it. I'm not going to pretend these things don't exist, but what I did see was happiness. Everywhere. I'm not kidding, or being glib. I have never, ever, ever been to a place where people were so openly and undeniable happy. Walking the streets of not only the red-light district, but much of the entire city, I have never seen so many smiling faces. Not in Sweden or Denmark, where the living seems easy, were the people so content as to wipe the serious, rat-raced, too-busy-to-care blank looks from their faces. In Australia, the lucky country in so many ways, the urban population, whilst friendly, do not exude the same delight whilst just getting about their business. Granted the day I visited was a picture postcard post-summer delight, but that surely was not the only reason for the relaxed countenances of the general population.

No. What we have in Amsterdam, at least to my casual observance, is something approaching a modern utopia. Was everyone high? No. Was everyone visiting the ladies (and ladyboys) of the red-light district? No. But the fact that the Dutch are trusted to indulge in mind altering (mind soothing?) drugs and pleasures of the flesh empowers them to exist in a tolerant and carefree state. My visit to The Grasshopper and subsequent sojourn through the red-light district and past the shopfront booths of ladies of ill-repute was entirely devoid of shame or fear. Contrast this with London's Soho district, where the atmosphere is dirty, cheap and threatening, and you have a window on what the world could be like if governments allowed people to exist without arbitrary restriction. I have long believed that prohibition, in almost any context, serves no other purpose than to criminalise behaviour and make it dangerous. If something is illegal there is nothing to stop those that control it (usually organised crime syndicates) from employing further criminal activity to secure their control and profitability. Remove the criminal element and you allow people to find their own limits. Are people spending too much time and money on drugs and hookers in Amsterdam? Very likely. Yet I cannot fathom that the Dutch spend any more of either because of their free access to both. I would argue that people everywhere else are more susceptible to the evils of the sins due to the criminality and illicit nature of the acts where they live. Indeed, in my new home ~~town~~ city of Inverness I see many more junkies upon every street than I saw in the whole of the Amsterdam red-light district, where I saw a grand total of one guy who looked like he might have been on smack. Maybe.

I took only a few photographs of Amsterdam on the weekend. There was very little to capture my imagination as an amateur travel photographer. Amsterdam's visual charms (if you don't count some of the stunning examples of femalehood on display in the windows) are few. It is what Amsterdam contains, what it stands for, and what it proves to the rest of the world that make it such an amazing place to visit. And I hope I will have the opportunity to visit again soon.

Local Market Colour

Mmm. . . Boobies.

The Happiest Place on earth?

Until next time.

x.

Witness the Fitness MkIII

2011-10-04T06:45:00.001+11:00

Just a quick update to let you know that another 'fun' run has come and gone, and I've survived.

Despite the rest of the UK sweltering from heatwave conditions, and a forecast for fine weather up here, Inverness turned on a typically dreary and misty day. You might say perfect for running. You might.

As my previous post indicated I held no great hope for my time for this 5k. Like I said, I was happy to just finish. And I did it comfortably under 30 minutes and was pretty fresh at the end. If I had have known how fresh I might have pushed a little harder to get my time down, but I did want to make sure I made it to the end in one go and in one piece.

I totally destroyed that little kid in the pink.

I'm pretty sure I was spot on 28 minutes. I was about fifteen seconds out from the line when the gun went off, and the clock said 28:15 as I crossed the line. My Runkeeper™app didn't do me any favours - it took almost a minute for me to press 'completed' with my phone holder all wet from the mist.

As I crossed the line I was 'awarded' another medallion to add to my collection:

The award that says 'Everyone's a WINNER!'

I also got a showbag with a few random goodies and a dinky little t-shirt with a picture of the Loch Ness Monster on it.

All in all I'm considering the whole excursion a moderate success.

I promise another update soon.

Crystalassis perfectamiossis

2011-09-22T21:53:00.000+10:00

My fitness regime commenced again in ernest after the whirlwind of moving house had subsided. Living on the beach presents me with a perfect, scenic daily run. It is too good for words.

Next on the running agenda is the Loch Ness Marathon. Don't be stupid, I'm not doing the marathon! I'm doing the 5k. I was on track to do the 10k before what little of summer we had distracted me. There was a lot that stopped me running for a couple of months but now, damnit, I'm back on track.

Well, I was back on track before an acute case of Crystalassis perfectamiossis struck. Crystalassis perfectamiossis? I hear you ask. Well, I could tell you that I had a recurrent bout of gout. See what I did there? No? Well, I was shocked to discover that I have been ashamed to tell people of my gout. why should I be ashamed? It is historically the affliction of the well-to-do. Kings get gout. The landed gentry get gout. Damn it, I get gout! But there is something about it that makes it difficult to confess. It sounds so . . . so . . . shameful.

Let me give you brief description of the condition. Foods high in purine (good stuff, like salmon, anchovies, red meat, mushrooms, spinach) causes an increase of uric acid in the bloodstream that crystalizes in the joints. Long story short, this feels like somebody has crushed glass in your toe. Right in there in the joint. It is incredibly painful (at worst - the first time I had it), and very uncomfortable (at best - this second time).

But the name sucks. It is so blah. It is not at all descriptive of the condition (in fact, gout in the big toe - like mine - is called Podagra, WTF?). So I've invented my own name for it. Crystalassis perfectamiossis.

What's in a name?

So, despite the fact (has anyone counted how many times I say that?) that the condition has interrupted my training, I've been in a fair bit of discomfort this week. Not helped by the NHS. I didn't have to go to the GP in order to obtain a prescription for pain relief. I phoned the practise, played a bit of phone chasey, and ended up having a telephone consultation. That bit was fine. In fact, it was great. I knew it was Crystalassis perfectamiossis and already know the symptoms and treatment. So it would have been a waste, not only of my time, but of the precious resources of the NHS if I had have been required to attend the surgery.

Brilliant! Well, not exactly. Hang on . . . I know I promised a good news story and here I am lapsing into a defacto rant. Well, I guess over here even the good things don't come without a cost. But bear with me. Where was I? Oh yeah . . . things were going brilliantly. The GP promised to fax my prescription to my local pharmacy by the next day (Saturday). So come Saturday (and at the point of my affliction when I was suffering the most pain) I had to hobble down the street (funny, someone else didn't offer to go for me) to the chemist to get some relief. But the pharmacist had not received any faxed prescription. We discussed my options at length, which included attending a hospital emergency department; an option I was unwilling to consider, even with the pain I was enduring. I decided I would just return home and phone the medical practise and have them re-fax the prescription through.

'Oh, you won't be able to do that,' says the pharmacist.

'And why not?' I reply.

It seems that medical centres are not open AT ALL on the weekends over here. What? Are you joking? No? If you want any sort of medical attention over the weekend you have to go to an emergency ward. I'm not making this stuff up. No wonder the system is barely coping. No wonder it costs so much to run.

So I limp home and suffer in (relative) silence through the pain for the remainder of the weekend.

I call the medical practise on Monday and they (re?)fax the prescription through. So I limp down the road again (only the symptoms are much less severe by now) and collect the drugs I have been prescribed. I pull out my wallet and get out my debit card and try to hand it to the pharmacist who looks at me incredulously.

'Oh, you don't need to do that,' says the pharmacist.

'And why not?' I reply.

It seems that nobody has to pay for their prescriptions here. Not anybody. Not ever. What? Are you joking? No? I'm not making this stuff up. No wonder the system is barely coping. No wonder it costs so much to run.

So anyway . . . it might not have seem like a story of big ups, but there it is. FREE MEDICINES! I seriously cannot believe it. But I guess it's something that's worth celebrating!

Meanwhile I recommence training by the sea tomorrow, barely in time to get enough miles in the legs to make it to 5kms next weekend. Oh, don't worry. I will be sure to let you all know how that goes*.

* A good time for me for 5kms is 26mins. At this stage a really good time for me will be 27:30. Realistically, I'll be moderately pleased to do it in under 30 mins. Ah, who am I kidding? If I manage to finish at all without the intervention of the paramedics I can consider myself to have succeeded.

Can't Resist the RANT!

2011-09-22T21:04:00.002+10:00

Hallo fiends.

The requests for an update have been overwhelming (no, really, for once I'm not making this up) so, in lieu of anything major to report, it's time for one of my patented 'one size fits all' rants.

The move into the new home is complete. It's unfair of me to gloat, but we really have lucked out with our house and everything about it. A close friend describe our existence as 'idyllic' and it's hard to disagree. Apart from the fact that one of us has to go to work (practically) each day is beside the point. That it is both 'apart from the fact' and 'beside the point' would indicate that it is important nonetheless.

So what do I have to rant about? I'm glad you asked, but I fear you soon won't be.

Firstly (yes, there's going to be more than one) I return to a previous rant about everyone's favourite telco - BT. FFS! I'll get the thumbs up out of the way early; the move of house (as far as our phone/interweb is concerned) went without a hitch. Thank you BT. But her parents came to stay a couple of weeks ago. Her parents cannot live without television. So, while we could care less and have done splendidly without it, we decided to hook up to a BT Vision package in order to entertain the 'in-laws' during their stay. Yeah, 'sif! I ordered our BT Vision a week or more before they were due to arrive only to be informed that the 'activation period' (WTF?) would be ten days. Brilliant. So we're going to have to talk with them for three days of their stay, but's that's alright I suppose. So I order it anyway. The day before the equipment is due to arrive she says 'You don't really expect it to arrive on time, do you?' to which I replied, 'Of course I do, what could possibly go wrong?'.

I am obviously an idiot.

The morning of our BT Vision activation comes and goes with no sign of our equipment. So I go online to check the status of the order. As is de rigeur for such interweb sites I get a message saying the website is unable to provide details of the status of my order, so I'll need to call them on the phone. A chill runs down my spine. I've tried phoning BT before, and the results still terrify me. Anyway, long story short and all that, they tell me that my order was move to their credit department for a credit check. What? That's right, a credit check. Despite me paying our phone and internet to BT on time every month for the past six months via direct debit they decide to ping me for a credit check. WTF? Obviously our recent change of address has flagged something, but my previous credit check and account status apparently means nothing. And it's not just the fact that I've been credit checked again, but the fact that (despite giving them my phone number - which THEY gave me remember - and my email address) they failed to advise of this development made me steaming with rage. Add to this the fact that not only had my order been transferred to the credit department, but the credit department had not processed my credit check and had somehow forgotten all about it. To say nothing of the fact (except that I'm actually now saying something about it) that after they phoned me back to explain what was going on they advised me that they could proceed with the order but would have to charge me a ₤50 deposit. Apparently I'm now a greater credit risk in a home I have just bought after paying them on time for six months. Are they mental?

So furious, I concede to their burning hoops and ask for them to proceed with my order. Great, let's just leave all of this nastiness behind us, shall we? However I am then informed that, because my order was in credit check, it never actually proceeded in the first place, meaning they have to schedule a new activation date. Some seven days away. WTF? The 'in-laws' will be gone by then. I ask to speak to managers up the line (I know you call centre people hate folks who do this, but I was livid and was going to exhaust every avenue) who all assured me that there was nothing they could do to expedite the activation period. So, because the 'in-laws' were going to be gone by then I had no need for their televimetric broadcast reception device and could they please cease with my order. And then they had the gall to talk to me as if I was being unreasonable. FFS!

BT, you are a joke. A ridiculous, brain-squeezing, stress-inducing JOKE! Where do I get compensation for having to speak to the 'in-laws' every single day of their stay? Oh, the HUMANITY!

Which brings me neatly (some would say segues) to my next rant. Television Licensing. For my Australian (and other international) readers, the BBC is partially funded by the issuing of television licenses to (almost all) UK households. It's not exactly cheap. It's around ₤150pa. But for those who can't afford it all in one go there is the option to pay in instalments. Brilliant! Now, because we've incurred a few incidental charges lately (like buying a frikken HOUSE!) I decide we'll opt to pay by instalments. I was going to pay upfront, but it made some sense to spread it out. That is until I got to the online checkout. Having chosen 'pay monthly' the site paid me the courtesy of listing the scheduled monthly deductions before I hit 'confirm'. I glad they did. My maths isn't terrible. I can do most sums in me 'ed. I don't always get the perfect answer to problems arithmetic, but my approximations are always pretty close. So I figured I'd be up for around ₤12 per month. However, this TV licensing website was going to charge me closer to ₤30 per month. WTF? My maths isn't that bad! It took me ages looking at various websites (not all of the relevant information was easily to hand on the TV Licensing site) to discover that the penalty you pay to pay via monthly deductions is to be charged six months in advance. Whose idea was this? The people who are most likely to have to opt to pay in instalments are those that are less likely to be able to afford to pay more than those who would likely choose to pay the fee upfront. Am I wrong? so why are you charging them six months extra? And don't try to tell my that it's a one-off advance. It's forever. You are NEVER going to get that six months advance back. You are always going to paying an advance in your TV License. Do they refund it to you AFTER YOU HAVE DIED? Seriously?

Deep breath.

After by BT debacle I have saved the TV License fee. But not before they have sent letters resembling court summonses threatening me with prison unless I fork over the cash. Pfft.

Thirdly, and finally for now, I will rant about car insurance. I have been driving for around twenty years. I have never had an accident. Ever. I have had a couple of minor (and a couple of major) indiscretions during my driving career, but nothing that has resulted in an insurance claim. I drive like a granny - usually. I have had advanced driver training whilst obtaining my motorcycle license (via an intensive, competency-based program). I am also over (well over) the age that insurance companies deem that I am an automatic threat to society given that I possess a penis (although I hear that that form of mandatory discrimination is now illegal). So I have just obtained my UK drivers license in order to be added to her car insurance - in the unlikely event that she would ever let me drive her car. I couldn't be added without a UK drivers license. So now I've got it (complete with the obligatory photograph that makes me look like a criminal) we phone the AA to get me added. so after all of the questions and back and forth, some 30-40 minutes (thank your non-existent god it wasn't me on the phone) the deal is done. Then she tells me that it cost an extra ₤400pa to add me to her insurance. Her insurance was originally ₤600. Now it's ₤1,000! That's a 66.6% increase (I told you my maths wasn't bad). WTF? It's the same car. It's not like it can be driven twice simultaneously. It didn't suddenly increase in value (in fact I guarantee you that car isn't worth half what she paid for it - but don't tell her I told you that). There is nothing that adding me as a driver could possibly add to the risk concerning an insurance company. Nothing. I would have gotten in a lather had they added ₤100 as some kind of 'administrative charge'. But no, they are extorting us out of an extra ₤400pa. I think I've got a right to pop a freaken nerve. ₤400? They have got to be joking? And it's not a one-off charge, either. It's a charge that will exist (decreasing incrementally for each year I hold a UK license) for around ten years. This theft is enshrined in law. It is illegal to drive without insurance. The insurance companies are all colluding to ensure that you cannot escape these charges. It is not only immoral, it is unjustifiable.

And I'll give you a quick lesson in insurance for anyone that may doubt me. Insurance companies don't hold your money in a box ready to pay you when something goes wrong. They invest it. They earn money (BIG money) on all of the premiums they collect. But it's not like they are some benevolent care givers earning revenue to distribute to people forced to make claims. No! Insurance companies actively (and in some cases menacingly) seek restitution of the monies they pay out in claims from those responsible for the claim. This means that when you are in an accident and the insurance company pays money for repairs it is not the end of the action as far as the insurance company is concerned, even if it is the end of the transaction as far as you are concerned. The insurance company will HUNT DOWN those responsible and take COURT ACTION against them to recover the funds. So in fact the insurance company rarely, if ever, pays for the cost of the claims out of the money they have collected (and subsequently invested) from you. and this extortionate profiteering is all sanctioned by government legislation (as opposed to any other random kinds of legislation).

Another deep breath.

Before I resort to extreme profanity I am going to curtail this ranting post. I've got a lot of things off my chest, and I thank you for listening. I am about to go and pour myself another coffee and promise to return with a post of EPIC WIN. Really. It's not all bad news.

Until about an hour or so . . .

x.

August Stuff

2011-08-31T00:47:00.002+10:00

Greetings everybody,

Well as you know the house move has gone well. Well enough that I'm back writing, which is nice. So I figure if I'm back writing I may as well reflect on recent events. Random events.

First I'll share with you a few shots from an event held on our street a few weeks ago. Let me explain. High Street Ardersier runs through to Fort George. Fort George is an 18th century fortress that remains in use today. It is a magnificent piece of kit and well worth the visit if you're in the area. It is situated on a peninsula that extends into the Moray Firth. The whole of the peninsula is occupied by the fort, but you can wander around pretty much at your lesiure any time you like - except for when the red flags are displayed. his, apparently, is when they are shooting live rounds of ammunition. The shooting ranges are quite surreal.

Shooting Range - also used to help soldiers learn to count all the way up to 12

Anyway, there is just heaps of land that will likely never be sold or built out. It is kind of like having our very own National Park at the end of the street.

So where was I? Oh yes . . . a few weeks ago Historic Scotland put on a(n) (h)istoric weekend complete with military recreations from the ages, as well as mediaeval displays and modern weaponry demonstrations. It really was rather good. The highlight, of course, was the recreation dogfight between a Spitfire and a Messerschmidt (which we were able to preview on the Saturday from our backyard).

The photography of the dogfight was best left to the professionals, my camera phone just was not able to capture the majesty of the spectacle. You can see how close these things were getting to the ground from the above shot - but not much else.

There was a lot to see. Many ~~freaks~~ folks dressed up in period costume. A lot of people went to a lot of effort for our entertainment. The barracks providing a spectacular backdrop. The major fail of the day was the manifestly inadequate catering options available. We were forced to have some manner of barbecued vegetable skewers on dry bread. I know it's a barracks after all, but to feed us like POWs? I'll let the remaining pictures speak for themselves (with some help from captions).

Ye Olde Midiaeval Army Camp

Shoots Actual Arrows

Shoots Actual Cannons

Does my bum look big in this?

Mmm... bombs look delicious.

A kite - no military relevance whatsoever.

Also in the merry, merry month of August was our summer holiday to Sweden. I think the reason I haven't posted this already is that it was so good that I can't believe I haven't posted this already - if that makes sense. We flew over on the day after we had moved into our new home, so you can appreciate it has all been rather hectic.Edinburgh to Skavska (Stockholm) isn't the worst journey in the world, and even Edinburgh Airport (which is close to worst in the world) was strangely bearable this time around. Once we landed we commenced something of a game of TICKET FAIL. This is a new game wot we invented which consists of someone managing to stuff up as many ticket purchases as possible. Firstly we got a bus ticket from Skavska to Stockholm, instead of the ticket to Lindskoping. We were rather lucky to sort that out without loss or disaster. Then, once we were at Linskoping Station we realised we were slightly early for our train. I could segway here to a dissertation about the train habits of the British (habits that stretch my patience and boil my blood, not to mention stress me out) but that would be too weary a distraction. However, in the vein of poor British train habits our next attempt at TICKET FAIL was enacted. The train we were supposed to catch was an Inter-City train. The next train due at Lindskoping which stopped at Lund (our destination) was an SJ-X2000. The XJ-X2000 is a super-duper high-speed tilt-train (personal record for consecutive hyphenated words) that gets to Lund in 3 hours (instead of the good old Inter-City's 4.5 hours).

I suggested that we may not be able to do this. The ticket we had was clearly marked. But no, good old-fashioned British train etiquette won out. We would just try our luck. Signs seemed doubtful when it was apparent that not a single person was not sitting in an allocated seat. Had this been Birmingham-London or Aberdeen-Inverness you'd just have to take your chances. If any of the reserved seats aren't taken it's probably because those with reserved seats are sitting in non-reserved seats. Or that the reserved seat you paid for is now on a train that no longer has a policy of reserved seats. Or there is a family of chavs drinking Tennents and Buckfast in what were supposed to be your seats. Either way, you'll be leaning against a rail opposite the toilet for the length of your British journey. Sorry, did I get distracted? Anyway, here we are on a SWEDISH train that has EXCLUSIVELY reserved seats. Boarding such a train without a valid ticket is apparently such an uncommon occurrence that the ticket inspector lady had no idea what to do with us. This resulted in us making it all the way to Lund without being booted off the train, but it was a close run thing, and of course what you want from your holiday is all that stress, especially after already purchasing the wrong bus ticket.

But we made it safely to Lund, so I guess I should be grateful. Another thing this incident taught me was that (similar to my Zurich experience) everyone can speak English to varying degrees (and varying levels of American accents) and most are only too happy to help you in English (I guess as a simple way of brushing up on their language skills). This is nice.

So Lund. Lund is beautiful little city. It is about the perfect size. Described as a university town, Lund is small enough that you can walk (or cycle) comfortably from one side of town to the other in little time at all. And boy do they like to cycle! From wikipedia: "Lund has been praised for its cycling infrastructure. There are 5000 bike parking spaces in the town, including a multi-storey facility, 160 km of cyclepaths, and 45% of commuters travel by bicycle. There has been no increase in car usage for the past 10 years." Just fantastic. My kind of town. And the bikes were all way cool. Many were like my pride and joy old Indian town bike. I was in bike heaven. There was a bike in a shop window in Copenhagen (where we visited for a day) that was made of leather.

Yes. Freaken LEATHER!

So here are a few random shots, helped once again by my friend Mr Caption.

I did say random pictures. What could be more random than shop window piglets?

Lund University. Rather majestic.

Gustav or Leon.

Leon or Gustav. Or is it the same one?

Jen's summerhouse, where we divided our time, was here on the other side of town. Nice.

Malmo Police Station. Thankfully I only saw the outside.

Watchmaker in Malmo.

The lovely Jen at a lovely cafe in lovely Copenhagen flanked by a lovely flower. Feel the love.

I probably should have read the history of this little guy in Stockholm. He's undoubtedly someone famous, if only for having a statue of himself in Stockholm.

Shop window - Stockholm.

Gorgeous laneway in Old Town - Stockholm.

Street Art - Stockholm.

Fountain thingy - Stockholm.

The most remarkable thing occurred whilst we were walking through Stockholm (our only day in Stockholm) on the last day of our holiday. We took a couple of turns and vaguely followed some music, only to discover hundreds of American cars doing a street circuit of one of Stockholm's main streets. It was hilarious. I was like it was AMERICA DAY or something. Some cars had loudspeakers blaring out bad music, there were girls in rock-a-billy outfits, there was big hair, there were tattoos. In fact the only thing missing was AFB and Eddie Best. I miss you guys! Anyway, here's a couple of the gas guzzlers on display.

Civic building - Stockholm

Station architecture - Malmo

Station architecture #2 - Malmo

Street Art - Copenhagen

Department store shopping - Copenhagen

Department store shopping? Are you kidding? I go to Copenhagen for one day in my life and we end up in a major department store, doing the same thing we could have been doing anywhere else in the world. Sense of humour was not able to get out intact.

Copenhagen was kinda cool. Kinda grungier than Sweden, but wherever we went (especially the cafes) everyone looked like an architect or industrial designer. Could they all be any more cool?

Anyway, I've bored you all senseless by now without mentioning all of the good stuff, so I'll leave this off with big ups to Jen and her kids Lulach and Saorla for the most magnificent hospitality we could have hoped for. We will be doing it again sometime.

Until next time.

x.

It's not a House, it's a Home.

2011-08-23T21:09:00.001+10:00

Greetings loyal subjects,

First post in a while, with the usual excuses. But the good news is that everything that's been keeping me from updating will be the subject of an update.

First things first: our new house.

To demonstrate the fact that we are now settled in our new abode I will reveal some shots of the little things. Those things that help make a house a home. Those things, for all of you men who've shared a house with a woman, that just appear as if by magic overnight. Those little things that mark your territory as shared. Don't ask questions; don't move them; don't put them back in the box from whence they came.

Here are a few examples:

This is a bird made out of wood. I think it's supposed to be an Oystercatcher. It's just sitting there on the windowsill.

This is the world's smallest and most out-of-proportioned Babooshka doll in the world. She looks like she's wearing a space helmet. She just sits there and watches me brush my teeth.

This is a snow-globe of Melbourne - featuring a tram and Flinders St Station. I think it's there to remind me that I don't have a tram at my door, and that it never snows in Melbourne. Or something.

This is a little crystal angel. Or a ghost. It just hangs from the window announcing to the world that 'a girl lives here'.

There appears to be an old lady with a dustbin on her head taking a wooden dump on the windowsill.

I think this is a tiny Chinese scarecrow. Only I think it is better suited to scaring off insects - of which it is doing an appalling job. A genie has yet to materialise out of the bottle, no matter how hard I rub it.

This bird was a Christmas present from her mother. When it's switched on it chirps as you pass. This thing will never be switched on again. Not unless it wants to join the birds in the trees outside.

Here we have another bird. Are the birds in the window to torment the birds outside? 'Hi, look at me, I'm IN the house!' How about 'Hi, I'm made of porcelain and will smash into a hundred pieces when Craig kicks me off the windowsill'.

I don't even know what we've got here on the bookcase. Inspector Clouseau seems to be looking for something by lamplight whilst whatever that thing is does whatever that thing is doing.

There are a couple of my things about: my magic roundabout; my Astroboy; my lucky gold Chinese waving cat. However I'll gladly pack them away for the chance to never have to look at girly tat just sitting there because, well, just because it can.

In an attempt to make this house a home I have succeeded in turning the back door into a chalkboard. It was an inspired bit of home handy decorating. Fun, too.

I shall provide further updates soon, including our magical trip to Sweden.

Warmest regards,
x

Sneak Preview

2011-06-20T19:18:00.000+10:00

Hallo!

I didn't want to alarm you, what with posting twice on the same day, but I have got a few photos to share with you of our new house.

Yep, we are now happy homeowners. All of the official stuff is complete and it's just a matter of signing mortgage papers on Friday.

So here it is, 32 High Street, Ardersier.

The back of the house and yard with shed.

Stunning, uninterrupted and never to be built out view of the Moray Firth and Black Isle.

Perfect for teh BBQOMGZLOL!!!1!FTW!

Back of kitchen and second shed. Yes, TWO SHEDS! Stain is on neighbour's wall.

Back door.

What these photos don't show you is the lovely bare stone at the front of the house. We move in on July 28th, so if you could start sending us your travel plans early we'll try to make sure you are booked in.

Can't wait to see youse.

x

Extra Special Fun Last Week

2011-06-20T19:05:00.001+10:00

Greetings one and all.

It's about time, but I finally found myself a paying gig in the Highlands - albeit a temporary one. I spent much of last week working as an extra on the set of Ken Loach's latest film - The Angels Share.

It was a whole lotta fun - except for the long stretch of mind-numbing tedium. Extra work really is filled with periods of complete boring inactivity, wrapped up with other periods of endless, soul destroying repetition. But I loved it. It reminded me of so many other times in my life when I've done really cool things that were a little out of the ordinary. Like films made with FoxHead and Ray the Golliwog. The shooting of Blokesworld with T and Felmo. At least with the Sexy Football Show I was too busy to be bored, but I remembered the thrill of being on set and of being the centre of the universe for a few short minutes.

I was a little disappointed though. I was given the impression during casting that I may be required for more than just standing around. There was a chance I was going to get an actual role. Not a wholly credited talking role, but something substantial, like a journalist, or a bidder at an auction. Sadly that was not to be. They seemed to get a bunch of ring-ins to perform those roles (at extra cost I may add), but I can't complain really. Everyone involved with the project was just lovely.

Ken Loach is an old fashioned director who shoots his scenes sequentially. He also employs tricks like not telling the lead actors how the story is going to turn out in the end - I guess to ensure an honesty in each performance. He is also a lovely old guy. I hope he doesn't mind me calling him old, but it was his birthday on the Friday. I, in typical brown-nose fashion (that I learned from the good Doctor), even gave him a birthday card I had made the night before. A simple gesture, but one that seemed to genuinely delight him.

The rest of the crew were honest, down-to-earth good blokes (and girls), and displayed enormous patience with many of the extras who were uber n00bs, I assure you.

The main cast were insulated from us a little, which is understandable, but there seemed to be no big movie star egos on set at all.

The highlight of the week, though, was meeting so many quality folks who were there in exactly the same circumstances as myself. Not many locals it seemed - most there had seemed to have settled in the Highlands from afar, and most, like me, were struggling to find gainful employment up here that could utilize our idiosyncratic talents. Apart from one or two (who I won't dwell on) that were simply unable to cope with the demanding nature of extra work, everyone was happy, friendly, smart, funny, generous and great fun to be around.

It was a terrific week and I'm sure many friendships were forged. I'm sure most of us will meet again on the set of the next feature film to visit the Highlands. I hear Batman is being shot at Inverness Airport next month. Giggity!

x

My first glimpse of the great man

Mr Loach on set

Oh, the glamour

Balblair Distillery

An actual camera

John, old boy - you are a legend.

RESET!

'You're nicked!' - thankfully pretend police

Works like magic.

l: Larisa from Siberia (true) r: Grace (who got us all there and back safe)

I Love Skye

2011-06-16T00:03:00.000+10:00

I mean 'Isle of Skye'.

We were fortunate enough to be guests of Suzy and Ewan at Ewan's family holiday cottage on Skye last weekend.

Just WOW.

It is possibly the most spectacularly beautiful place I've ever been. That the weather was perfect certainly helped - I was assured it quickly loses some of that charm once the low clouds and heavy rains set in. But I can only judge it upon what I experienced and it was damn near perfect.

We drove from the Kyle of Lochalsh, on the Scottish mainland, over the bridge to Skye and up to the main town of Portree. As a side note, almost all of the road and tourist signs in Scotland are bi-lingual. They refer to both the English and Gaelic place names. This causes a bit of consternation among the Scots as it seems to be not only a complete waste of resources, but also an insult to those regions of Scotland who have never spoken Gaelic and who have had their indigenous languages become extinct. Now, the reason I mention this apparently irrelevant fact is that most of the place names indicated in Gaelic are just made up. Many of the things referred to didn't exist when Gaelic was a common language. So you have signs painted up that have Theatre written in English on the top, and An Theatre written in English, I mean Gaelic, on the bottom. Even the spellings that are different are largely unnecessary. For instance Inverness is Inbhir Nis. No kidding? The town of Tomatin is Tom aiteann. Get outta here! I do find it strange, however, that the town of Portree on Skye is spelled 'Port Righe' in Gaelic. This makes sense. So it is the Port of Righe? And it's a port, situated on a harbour. Makes total sense. So it makes absolutely no sense that when translating this into English they have apparently transferred the place from a working harbour to a place of unfortunate forests. Did I mention that Scots, on the whole, are completely nuts?

So here's Portree:

Just gorgeous.

We then drove west to Dunvegan, and on to Colbost - famous only for the Three Chimneys Restaurant. What a remarkable place. We visited Neist Point Lighthouse with fishing rods in hand. The path from the carpark to the lighthouse severely tested my acrophobia, so it was no surprise that the final clamber over treacherous rocks resulted in me taking my leave and allowing Ewan all the fun of the fishing. I've never seen anything quite like it. As soon as his first cast hit the water he was reeling in a mackerel. I thought he was pulling my leg, but there it was - instant fish. He recast and was immediately dragging the line in again. Surely he's joking this time? Nup, there it is - another makerel on the end of the line. I felt embarrassed for the fish. This one was a fraction smaller, so he threw it back. However as soon as the third cast touched down it , too, was rewarded with another fish. I predict mackerel will be the next creature to evolve from their briny prison, given the rate at which they were launching themselves landward.

My acrophobia wasn't helped by feeling compelled to capture it all on camera. The jagged cliff are a stunning frame to a magnificent landscape, as I trust you will agree from the follow shots:

Our hosts could not have been any more accommodating, and their daughter (Neve) is just the most adorable thing. There are weekends away, and there are weekends away - and then there's Skye with Suzy, Ewan and Neve. Amazing. Thank you.

Until next time (which could even be later this afternoon),

x.

London Summer

2011-06-08T00:00:00.002+10:00

Hallo Everybody,

I'm another year older - yeayhe!

It seems rather odd blogging right now, as it seems there may be some reportable news quite soon. But perhaps it is better to keep people guessing and anticipating. I'm such a tease.

Until such time as I have anything of note to report I will share with you my recent trip to London to celebrate said birthday.

Firstly, and I hope you've all noticed, I have resolved not to use my blog as a purely ranting vehicle. Yeah, I know. This practically translates as 'does not blog so much anymore', but I'm making progress on becoming a better person. However I do have a brief rant to kick this all off.

Airports.

God I hate airports. And I don't even believe in God. One of the reasons I most hate airports is that one of the things I hate most is waiting. And I seem to be doing more and more waiting at airports. I don't mind getting there early and reading a book for a couple of hours before the plane leaves. Hell no. That's relaxing. What I don't like is waiting in snaking queues with my shoes off and belt removed. I don't like standing in a queue only to then have to queue for another queue. I don't like waiting behind people who either can't read, or are too selfish/ignorant/stoopids to comply with simple security requests. I don't like waiting for distracted and self-obsessed airport security staff to eventually get around to whatever it is they are supposed to be doing. And, to add insult to injury (not to mention a ripping cliche), the airport security GOON who waved us through to join the end of the longer queue, only to open the barrier and allow the dozen people behind us into a freshly opened, empty security station. Well thank you very much.

This hate is made bewildering by the fact that I used to love everything about air travel. Actually, not everything - I have to put a caveat on that. I used to suffer quite badly from sore popping ears, which was a nightmare, but I seem to have mostly grown out of that. But now, give me a train over a plane anyday. No queues. No excess baggage checks. No separating liquids into clear plastic bags. No worries about carrying on a set of carving knives. You get the picture. And if you factor in the cab fares, parking costs, ancillary travel times, transfers, delays and everything else associated with air travel, then jumping on a train makes a lot of sense for most destinations. I have, however, discovered that the UK rail network is extortionately priced. Oh well.

So, there I am - back to old form. Thank you for letting me get that off my chest. Now we can get back to the rest of the trip.

We arrive to check into the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel. Wow. What a magnificent building. So handy, too. The train from Luton Airport terminates at St P, and it is a relief to just haul your bags down the platform and into the hotel. I didn't go too snap happy at the hotel, but here's a couple:

Concourse Roof - from our suite

Grand Staircase - think 'Spice Girls' first video clip

Another view of the Grand Staircase

Main Concourse Roof - in artsy-fartsy black and white

Concourse Roof - with added reminder of impending Olympics

There were probably hundreds of other photo ops in the entire building. Such a stunning restoration. Speaking of stunning, did I mention that all of the staff employed by the hotel, especially in the bar/restaurant, were practically supermodels? Didn't I? Just as well, I might start to gush. And this hotel has only opened within the last month, so everything is shiny and squeaky clean. I don't usually use this blog for shameless commercial endorsements, but next time you are looking for a place to stay in London you could do a lot worse than consider the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel. Not cheap but.

So Friday afternoon we venture out for a pre-theatre dinner at Bentley's Oyster Bar and Grill. Not often I get to have dinner at 4.30pm, but we did have a show to catch. More about that later. The food was generally good. We shared nine oysters of three different varieties with a selection of juices and toppings. These were good, but let down slightly by our waiter's confession that all of the oysters were farm grown and subsequently taste pretty much exactly the same. Had he lied and invented some individual characteristics of each variety we no doubt would have sniffed and savoured like good little oyster snobs and agreed with his wankery. As it was we were left with no choice but to feel a little ripped off. Our entrees were superb. Hers was actually Soup-erb, as she had soup. See what I did there? You can use that. It was a scallop based minestrone, and boy - they didn't skimp on the scallops. The tiny mouthful (that makes no sense... how could it have been a mouthful if it was only tiny?) I was allowed was delicious. My entree was smoked eel on mustard potatoes with something else... I can't remember. Anyway, it was freaken awesome. Oh yeah, now I remember. It came with bits of bacon as well. Maybe the bacon was too crispy, and perhaps the mustard was too subtle, but the smoked eel was delectable, and the potatoes were miraculously firm and creamy. I know! Impossible. I intended for you to read that 'Impossible' as the French 'Im-poss-i-ble', but it's almost impossible to make the phonetic distinction obvious.

The mains were not so good. She ordered octopus salad. Who goes to an oyster bar and grill and orders a lousy octopus salad? I know you're reading this but, jaybus, I don't care what YOU wanted, how do expect me to share mine when you've got a plate of overly vinegary rabbit food and octopus tentacles? Oh sure it was okay, if you think a side salad is worthy of my birthday dinner. I guess that you ordered the skinny chips so I didn't have to makes it slightly more worthwhile.

My main sounded great. Lobster spaghetti. The way it was described sounded exactly what I wanted. Until I got to order, at which time I was politely told they didn't have any spaghetti. 'We can do it as a macaroni' they said. Macaroni? It just didn't sound right from the get go, but I was going to have to recalibrate my expectations and study the menu again to make another choice, so I just said 'Sod it, I'll take the macaroni'. Well, you can stick a feather in your cap and call it whatever you like, but the macaroni was a fail. Sure it's pasta and, sure, they heaped a whole bunch of lobster over that thing (I'm convinced they gave me extra to sweeten the deal), but when the head waiter brought it to our table and pulled a face when announcing the dish I just knew I'd made a huge mistake. It still tasted okay. I mean, I could see the promise in what they tried to do. But folks, don't ever let a restaurant substitute macaroni for spaghetti. It's just not right.

For atmosphere and opulence and all that it was a lovely place for dinner. Old school London.

In the words of Stevie Wonder - Isn't She Lovely?

In the words of Stevie Wonder - Happy Birthday To You (Mistah Pungwin came along for dinner, too)

So after dinner it was off to the Royal Opera House for some kulcha. Macbeth - The Opera. I don't know why, perhaps it is because I am a philistine, but I anticipated some modern adaptation of Shakespeare's classic play. I was kinda expecting a disaster, but was fascinated to see how they managed it. Little did I know that Macbeth - The Opera is one of Verdi's earliest, and most acclaimed, operas. Didn't I feel like quite the fool?

In a word it was brilliant. If you read that very literally it's actually three words, but you'd have to be pretty petty to pick that up. The opera itself is really very good. Very true to Shakespeare's play. Of course much of the wonder in the original play Macbeth is the wonderful language, something which is all but lost in an Italian translation meant for singing, but the storyline follows the same familiar lines, and the dramatic elements remain intact.

The stage, set, orchestra (including conductor Antonio Pappano) and cast was quite brilliant. The soprano, Liudmyla Monastyrska, was incredible. She was a blowtorch that shone white hot throughout. Yet it was that monster Monastyrska that highlighted the only failings of the evening's performance. She was so good as to cast everything else in her shadow, even going so far as to undermine Verdi's score as lacking in power and quality for the male leads.

How can Lady Gaga sell more units than this woman?

As I mentioned, everything else about this show was top-notch, but none of the male soloists could hold a candle to her. In fact she out-sang the entire chorus in full flight. Bravo Liudmyla. Bravo!

Apart from Liudmyla's performance, one of the highlights of the evening was recognising Aton Enus (SBS news anchor) in the crowd. I was >< this close to saying hello. I settled on him noticing that I recognised him - which appeared to give him a little thrill. I thought I'd best not spoil both of our nights by being a dick. So I was happy to leave it like that. Much like my Dave Graney story, but I'll save that for another time if I get enough requests.

Did I mention that the Opera House in Covent Garden is rather spectacular in its own right?

The audience were in tiers - ARF!

Captions would also have been necessary had this been in Scottish

The Atrium of the Main Bar - with added Anton Enus

This... this was ridiculous.

As you can see from the photos above, the English really know how to do old school architecture. But this last photo - it really appears as if the seats up there are in some kind of elevated capsule. It took me ages to figure out what was going on here. I'm not about to spoil the illusion, but if you should ever find yourself sipping champagne at the Royal Opera House, look up. You may just be startled.

The rest of the trip was quite good also. However, giving someone permission to buy a summer dress due to London turning on the most spectacular of June days proved to be a test of my gentlemanly good nature. I could have been in a bar somewhere. As it was I eventually escaped in time to see Switzerland embarrass Ingerlund over a few local pints. Nice.

Here are a few more happy snaps from Ol' Lundin Town.

And whilst walking through Soho on Saturday afternoon I spied this monstrosity:

Yep. Seriously, it's a Porsche Carrera that has been totally chromed. Off the chart.

People, until next we meet - it's been great.

xxx

Everything Since

2011-05-23T01:09:00.000+10:00

Hello All,

I guess you could charge that I've been lazy. I've just fallen out of the blog-zone. Instead of my usual blog updates I've been photoblogging to instagr.am (refer to my ig:lu review below for details). So it's not like I haven't been updating you all, I've just been doing it in a place you didn't know about. A prize to whomever says 'That's what she said' first.

I'm going to go back and drag a few of the instagr.am photos I've uploaded and see if that stimulates some worthwhile blog action. Here goes.

Ullapool - Street Clock

I can't remember if I told you all about my first Monro. Monroes are all of the mountains in Scotland over 3,000 feet high. So called due to the first person who could be bothered counting them all was named Monro. And it is something of a Scottish preoccupation - bagging Monroes. There are over three hundred of them. I bagged my first a couple of months ago. Am Faochagach is its name. The whole walk was over 9 hours long. It was murder. The walk was mainly through boggy marshland after crossing a river on foot. The walk to the mountain took around three and a half hours. Then the ascent took another hour and a half. I'm petrified of heights, so was clinging on for dear life. the views were quite spectacular, but at one point I was convinced I could not go on. But I did, and I'm glad I did. Fergus, our trusty guide, did lead us away from the normal track up the hill. Once we reached the summit we were greeted by an old geezer who looked startled at the direction from which we came.

'You came up the wild side?' he remarked. Thanks Fergus. My first Monro and you nearly get me killed.

The photo above is from the lovely harbourside town of Ullapool, remarkable for the fact that every single power-pole in town is labelled with a big yellow warning sign. Are they completely stupid?

This shot was taken on the weekend of our trip to Nethy Bridge. We stayed at a delightful little hostel/campsite called The Lazy Duck. Good times. There were Soay Sheep (from the archipelago of St Kilda in Scotland's Western Isles) who were lambing while we were there. Just lovely to wake one morning and have a newborn lamb appear. We also went and saw the nesting Ospreys. Ospreys were driven to extinction by Scottish farmers trying to protect their stock. Then suddenly, some 40 years later, the Osprey magically found their way back. What clever little blighters.

Our recent visitors all seem to have dogs. So we've mostly been driving to nearby coastal destinations so that the dogs can frolic on the beaches. The shot above is from Findhorn, a lovely little town not too far from us here in Inverness. Fidhorn is also home to a rather large and serious hippy community. It's like a caravan park that's gotten all crazy and had people build permanent residences there - all totally eco-friendly and mud brick and wind powered and all that nonsense.

The running waters above are of Shin Falls. Shin Falls is now a touristy place owned by Muhammed El Fayed. There is a lifesize wax model of him as you enter the visitors shop. Very unnerving, and not the least bit tacky. The store was second rate, and the cafe was a disgrace. We opted for a packet of crisps and a soft drink each rather than sit in and eat, and the drinks were not even chilled. We could figure out if the place would be better name 'Shit Falls', or 'Shin Fails'. A subsequent visit with a spray can should easily rectify all signage.

This shot is also from Shit Fails. For no other reason than I think it is a nice photo.

The Inverness Historic Car Parade was on last weekend. Lucky us, the cars were parked outside our house. The rally was a bit of a fail - not many particularly historic cars, and a couple of recent model Volvos and other less than spectacular offerings. But it was a bit of fun and breathed a little bit of life into Inverness's city streets.

Of course there was the ubiquitous Beetle.

Plenty of Minis. this one, if you look closely enough, is called Haggis. Hilarious.

This Aston Martin was perhaps the fanciest car on display.

And this little Lotus was a fine example.

Here are a couple more random images from the day:

Quite a bit of fun.

We also went to Lossimouth that weekend (of course with a dog in tow). Here are a couple of images from that part of the world.

And finally for today I shall leave you with a couple of images from this weekend's trip to Dundee, of all places.

As you can see, we've been out and about and exploring much of what Scotland has to offer. We're off to London in two weeks for my birthday. We're going to see Macbeth - The Opera. Random, I know. then we're off to the Isle of Lewis for a music festival, to Sweden to visit the lovely Miss Saucy McMinx, and later (October or so) off to visit Amsterdam.

I'll promise I'll get back to more writerly things immediately. I'm sorry I've neglected you all for so long.

Much love,

x.

Oh, a special shout out to Mr Chris Gregan following his most special 50th 'best-party-of-the-year'. I've watched all of the youtube vids and am very jealous. We wish we could have made it.

Conspiracy Theories #1

2011-03-17T21:30:00.001+11:00

Actual Image from Actual Game, Actually

Howdy folks,

Today’s report from sunny Inverness (nah, really, it is sunny) is from a battered and beaten correspondent. I hurt my knee running yesterday, I’ve got the sneezes and the sniffles, and I shouted myself hoarse last night watching my Inverness Caledonian Thistle get beaten by the fancy-pants-wearing Celtic from Glasgow (0-1 in the Scottish Cup quarterfinal).

And, surprise surprise, today’s rant is on the fitba.

I’m going to get a little housekeeping out of the way first. It is true, and you can keep this in mind as you read the rest of this post, that I rarely come home from the fitba praising referees. Keep in mind though, the best a ref can do is officiate in such a manner that renders him (or her) invisible. So to come home and not mention the referee means, QED, that I am duly acknowledging his (or her) wonderful performance. And you should also possibly note that it is rare for me to come home after one of my teams has been beaten and not find some fault with the referee (unless it is West Ham, who can lose just because they are utter pants). I will defend myself at this point and explain that whilst I may point out refereeing mistakes, it is rare of me to consider that a referee’s decisions altered the outcome of the match. So while it may seem that I’m always blaming the ref, it is a little more complicated and balanced than that.

But last night was a disgrace. Do you like how I set that up? I’m all being even-handed and rational and circumspect and then, BAM! Straight into it.

I’m going to set this up further by way of distracting anecdote. My kinda proxy brother-in-law James (what do you call these people when you’re not actually married?) is a Rangers fan. I know, don’t be too hard on him. I was in the middle of one of my ‘Terry Butcher is a good for nuthin’ bum’ rants when he cocked his eyebrow at me, scoffed, and basically asked who else Caley Thistle could hope to get as manager. The inference being that no-one would even want to live in Inverness, let alone want to manage ICT. Despite the fact that he had a point, I was furious. He also said something even more telling. He said ‘you should learn your place and stick to it’. He had a wry grin on his face, which pretty much prevented me from slapping it, but I know deep inside he really believes this. And I’m sure all of Scotland really believes this as well. And this includes the Scottish FA and its referees.

So back to my conspiracy. In order to make it to a quarterfinal matchup against the mighty Caley Thistle, Celtic had to defeat the ‘only other club in Scotland’, Rangers. Imagine the gnashing of teeth at Scottish Fitba headquarters had Celtic not made it through to the next round. It’s bad enough that last season the lowly Dundee beat the even lowlier Ross County FC in the final. Who would want to watch that again? Think of the live gate, think (more importantly) about the TV revenue.

So we return to Tulloch Caledonian Stadium where my boys are up against the glamorous high flyers and ladies-underpants-wearing Celtic. If Celtic are so good, why do they seem to need the assistance of the referee to secure a win? It wasn’t just bad; it was blatant. It wasn’t discreet; it was corrupt. It wasn’t just cynical; it was infuriating. Every single fifty-fifty decision went the way of the Celtic. Every throw-in, every free kick, every play-on, every tackle, every injury. Whilst glaring refereeing mistakes can change outcomes (and there weren’t any of these), little decisions can add up in a game like this, and it was to Caley’s credit that they managed to keep up their workrate and pressure in the face of this obvious adversity.

But this bit was mighty hard to disguise. In the first half, as Caley Thistle had just gone 1-0 up, the assistant signaled three minutes of added time. Now where this three minutes came from is anybody’s guess. But that the referee allowed the half to keep on going until Celtic had somehow bundled the ball in the back of the net some six minutes later – you have to wonder. That he blew halftime immediately as play resumed confirms it.

And then the second half, in complete contrast to the first, with Celtic holding the one goal advantage, ended so quickly you’d think the ref had a plane to catch. Maybe to Majorca, where he could spend his pay-off.

It’s not just the weight of decisions throughout the game that raised the ire of the home fans, but the blatant cynicism of the extra time scenarios of each half that reinforced the perception that something is rotten with football. And it seems rotten and corrupt everywhere. From FIFA down. I hope Celtic enjoy the spoils of their semi-final. I hope, for the Scottish FA’s sake, it was worth it.

I also have to add something about Terry Butcher from last night, as I have been one of his most loyal critics. Last night he decided to be a hero and manage the team from up in the stands. That is until very late in the game when yet another ridiculous decision had been awarded Celtic’s way; he stormed down to the sidelines. He was waving his arms about like a lunatic and kicking his water bottle away and generally acting like a dick. Usually I’d be at him for this, and his shouting instructions to push up for offside looked ludicrous so late in the game. But I really felt for him. He had his team well prepared. They played a system that frustrated Celtic, but they did not abandon their own attacking forays. They took the lead then conceded an equalizer in suspicious circumstances. Celtic’s second was expertly dispatched but the free kick was fortunate, if not non-existent. Caley were unlucky not to score a couple more of their own, and then, despite Celtic repeatedly running down the clock, there seemed to be no time added on.

Terry, mate, I have to concede. If I were you, last night I would have been kicking my water bottle as well.

xxx

Broadscammed

2011-03-17T21:24:00.002+11:00

Is Inverness the world’s back end with respect to broadband internet?

Imagine seeing a deal for a new car. The latest model. Very fast, super fuel efficient and very, very cheap. You head for the dealership only to be told that that is an online offer only, not available in Inverness. You shake your head sadly, and ask what else they can offer you. Well, in lieu of the latest model, they’ve got a clapped out old vehicle that’s not in very good shape and has worse fuel efficiency than a Sherman tank. Just as you’re about to agree to this deal they hit you with the good news; this car is more expensive than the latest model you came here for in the first place.

Of course this wouldn’t happen in real life, would it? Logic dictates that when a retailer is unable to provide you with their latest and greatest product they will at least have the decency to offer the inferior product at a discount. However if we apply this scenario to telecommunications such rules of decency are apparently not applicable.

Should you wish to connect to the information superhighway from Inverness you will find, online, a variety of offers from each of the major broadband retailers promising much. Up to 20mbps downloads with unlimited data, all for under twenty quid a month. Brilliant. Until you try to subscribe to the product, only to be told that these deals aren’t available in your area. What is available in your area is a slower connection speed (8mbps) with a 20gig data cap. And to seal the deal, guess what? That’s right – the slower connection with a limit of data actually costs more per month than the faster connection with no cap.

Do they think we are fools?

The explanation given by O2 is that the existing copper line hardware used for the slower service is owned by the BT monopoly. O2 (and other data retailers) have to ‘piggy back’ off BT’s lines. They pay a fee to BT, which is then passed on to the consumer. I don’t believe the consumer gives two hoots about why it is more expensive. Consumers will only notice the discrepancy between the promised land of cable delivered internet, and the cold reality of Inverness style, copper line network. And the consumers know they are being ripped off.

The chances of BT laying the latest optic fibre network in Inverness seem remote in the short term. The last metropolis to receive a roll-out was Aberdeen some two years ago – and even that roll-out was truncated. Residents of Inverness are not taking to the streets demanding such infrastructure, but secretly they are wondering why they are being treated like idiots by the major players. Surely there could be some commitment to at least match the value of the cable network packages to the packages on offer to places, like Inverness, that seem to have missed out on the latest technology.

Until such a time exists, government representatives and business leaders will continue to scratch their heads at the decline of local business, and wonder why nobody will take seriously their calls for Inverness to be leading the Highlands in the technology stakes.

26:20

2011-03-15T03:41:00.001+11:00

Hello you all. Two posts in one day? Madness!

I figured I'd best relate my fun run experience from yesterday.

The Inverness half-marathon and 5km fun run went ahead yesterday despite winter's recent second coming to town. The predicted 10" of snow failed to materialise, but persistent showers throughout the night before and morning of the event had organisers contemplating a cancellation.

It was damn cold, but I was layered up and well prepared. Well, perhaps not well prepared. Having only participated in two previous races I thought I should read up on what do and what to expect on the day of the big race. And then proceeded to pretty much do the exact opposite of what they suggested. The key to success in these events, according to well reputed web articles, is preparation. Leave nothing to chance on the day of the race. Make sure the only thing you need to worry about is running the best time you can.

So, knowing I still need to pay the entry fee to enrol in this event (website credit card FAIL on their part) I sleep in. Knowing that there are limited places available on the day and that the office opens at 10am, I sleep in until 10am. So I have an unearthly anxiety that I will not be able to even participate in the race. So I end up spoiling someone else's Sunday morning sleep in to get a ride to the venue to get my race allocation. Not an ideal way to start the day. Then there is the quandary of what time to leave in order to get there; in time for the race, yet not so early that you chill to the bone before the start gun fires. So my idea to go to the gym to warm up on an exercise bike is replaced by a last minute dash to the line. The last minute dash to the line is then interrupted by our friend Debs and her brother bumping in to us on the way. Lovely chat, but forgot how close it was to race time.

We then watched and waited for the start of the half-marathon (it was supposed to start at 12.45pm, the 5k at 1.10pm). The half-marathon didn't start until after 1pm. So having watched those brave souls set off on their event we wander to the start line of the 5k. It sounds like it's just about to start. I figure I've just got time to get out of my tracksuit and wait for the thousands of other runners to set off before I join the tail of the field. Then I notice that there aren't thousands of other runners. There's only a couple of hundred or so. Far less folk than jut set of for the half-marathon. So I practically trip myself up trying to get my tracksuit pants off, and skip into place somewhere in the middle as the start gun goes off.

Needless to say, this all hardly accounts for ideal preparation.

So we're off. One thing I failed to mention as I stood on the start line: I realised that (despite going just before I left) the wintry conditions had inspired a desire to pee that was hard to ignore. But I had to ignore it. There was no time to go.

The first kilometre of a fun-run is usually (what do I know about usually, I've only done three) a free kilometre. The crowd of runners acts like a human tide, and all you have to do is remain afloat and you are carried by the surge. It is an exhilarating feeling. However there was no such feeling at the Inverness 5k. One look at the starters for the half-marathon should have been a clue. Up the front were some uber-serious looking runners, however not far back from them appeared to be a selection of folk that clearly were not runners. Some, I think, may have borrowed trainers for the event. Not the fastest looking race I've ever seen. So it was hardly a surprise to see the competitors lined up for the 5k. I'd say the majority were children. Many running in groups of their sports clubs, others paired up with a parent, others just going it alone. Those that were a little older (like myself) seemed to be in it for a laugh. Now, there's nothing wrong with that, however I was left looking like I'd joined the wrong queue in my running leggings, thermal vest and iPhone strapped to my arm (WANKER!).

So we set off (didn't I already say that?). That most of the runners were pretty short on experience or style or speed, I found myself having to wind myself through the first kilometre overtaking the waddlers in front of me. This was difficult enough by itself (seems people in Inverness run like they walk, for maximum inconvenience) and made even more difficult by some Einstein placing witches hats along the middle of the road, so as you tried not to get pulled in by the gravitational field of the woman in front's unfeasibly large posterior you are confronted with the tip of a witches hat aimed right at your jacksee. Is that how you spell jacksee? So what I'm trying to say is that the first kilometre was little or no fun.

The other thing to miff me slightly was the route of the course. The website lied. The race started pretty much where they told us, but instead of heading out through the Islands on the River Ness the course went in the opposite direction. This wasn't what I had planned for. All my runs in preparation I deliberately did the other way. This just messed with my program. It was like when I made the regional finals for the handball competition when I was 11, and I warmed up with my left hand first. Then when they swapped sides the jerk throwing me the balls wouldn't let me warm up with my right hand. Man, that was the greatest rip-off in the history of anything. But back to the race. Yeah, so we're heading in the wrong direction. This just meant that my internal timing mechanism was all out. I estimate that I was at least 500 metres out on my IGPS (Internal Global Positioning System). This really sucked after the poor craic of the opening kilometre. By the time I was nearing the stadium finish I was close to a whole kilometre out of whack.

So coming back through the islands was a little treacherous. I knew from my preparatory runs that the Islands are prone to puddles in poor weather. And seeing as this race was being run in the poorest weather since the December blizzards had cloaked the city in a magical white cover I knew there would be impassable lakes over the running path. And there were. I'm not going to exaggerate and claim that knee deep lochs barred our path, but I will be honest and say that icy cold, ankle deep puddles made the going uncomfortable and difficult. And in the final quarter of the race, when you really could do without further distraction. At least, I guess, it meant my trainers weren't soaked for the entire duration of the race. I guess I can claim small comfort from that.

So despite training kinda seriously for this event I didn't have a beauty. The weather sucked. Oh boy, the weather really did suck huge jobs. My own preparation was a shambles, and what I did prepare for was arsed about by the organisers. I tried to keep my split times up, but could not crack it for a sub 5 minute kilometre. I tried to lift my work rate as I entered the stadium to the cheers of my adoring entourage, but the legs said 'What?'. All over the vague distraction of needing to go for a pee.

But you know what? I did it in a time of 26 minutes and 20 seconds. Which I do believe is a personal best. So I am pretty darn well pleased with myself. You should be too. And I thnk you for that.

xxx

PS: As we walked back into town we watched the leaders of the half-marathon make it back to the finish. One of the more serious guys I noticed on the start line (in black and white striped vest) was doing it easy, and doing it solo. As he whooshed past he was barely breathing, and barely beading sweat. He was miles in front of his nearest rival. He finished in 1:07, second place finishing almost seven minutes behind. A remarkable effort. Oh, and the winner of the women's event finished 18th overall - the only woman in the top 50. Well done her.

PPS: Upon arrivin home it was a record quick shower and into the warm clothes to get to the ICT v Celtic FA Cup game. Amazing, looks like we're going to be able to get a car park right next to the stadium which is completely empty because the match has been abandoned due to poor weather. Another preparation FAIL!

Art in Inverness? Take II

2011-03-15T02:54:00.000+11:00

If you scroll down some you will notice my article from a week ago covering the Instagram PhotoGlobal exhibition being staged here on my street, Inverness. If you bother to read it you will notice that I panned it something chronic. I stand by those criticisms, but now offer an update.

I went back on Friday, and it was much better second time around.

The use of the space has become apparent, something lacking on Monday. The exhibition is organic in nature. The photographs shown on the live-feed wall by the featured 55 photographers are printed out each day and mounted on the walls around the IG:LU space. This has resulted in an exhibition that grows and changes daily. And it works. Despite each image being relatively tiny (say the size of a mobile phone screen), the growing number of prints beneath each contributor (arranged in timezone order around the space) is quite fascinating.

A couple of points from my previous post on the subject. The exhibition opens at 11am each day, not 9am as I had stated. Still, no excuse for them not being ready at 2pm when I first visited. The name IG:LU basically stands for 19 (Church Street, Inverness) Local Underground. Which is kinda misleading seeing as this underground space is on the third floor.

The exhibition ended yesterday, however both the live feed of invited contributors and the matrix of other contributors are running via the IG:LU website. In fact, I think this online version is a better way of viewing the images. Of course you don't get the sense of expanding gallery you did at the ig:lu space, but I assure you it is well worth the visit.

theig.lu

There, it is not often I provide an external link.

I shall write again. Perhaps today even.

xxx

Witness the Fitness - 2011 Edition

2011-03-11T21:41:00.003+11:00

Greetings, peeps.

First off, I was going to post of photo of me to head this one off. But I have discovered the joys of uploading from your own camera - no photos of oneself. So you'll just have to imagine the changes taking place to my body. When I arrived in Scotland I was carrying a little more than I should be. Those of you that know me know that I've been carrying around a little more than I should be for a while. Apart from a brief stint in 2009 when some good living and training for a fun run shed a few excess kilos temporarily, I've been a lazy fat-arse most of my adult life.

But why, Craig? You were such an active kid.

I can trace my descent into unfitness to one moment (and its subsequent moments). Don't laugh, I'm serious, this really happened. On our 15th birthday we received matching blue all-weather jackets. Yeah, we got raincoats or our birthday - whoop de woop. I'll vent on our wretched birthday life in a future blog, don't worry. So what does this have to do with fitness? Thanks for getting me back on track. The day of our 15th birthday we wore our new jackets to school. We had quite a walk to school, after we were sprung using expired term bus passes because our parents neglected to renew them. I'll probably discuss that on a future blog as well. Damn it - I'll just promise to do the 'our childhood sucked because' blog next week, yeah? Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, walking to school in our new raincoats. So the walk to school was long, and the quality of the raincoats was high. Upon reaching school I was overcome with the most severe itching I have ever experienced either before or after. This was a diabolical itch that seemed to emanate from the crown of my skull and radiate all over my teenage body. In retrospect I assume my sensitive teenage skin was being attacked by noxious teenage sweat, but I really figured I'd been attacked with itching powder. So much so that I accused my brother of sabotaging my jacket with itching powder, a claim he vehemently denied. The itching was horrendous, and lasted most of the day. It is an enduring memory, and one that revisits me on occasion whenever that familiar itching occurs. which thankfully is not often. Oh damn it. I'm wearing a woollen jumper right now, and just writing this is bringing on the itch. Aaaarrrrggghhh. Oh God, make it stop.

Okay, I'm back after a short break. I hope you weren't itching too.

So this blue raincoat initiated a terrible itch the day of my 15th birthday. Following this episode it seemed that whenever I participated in any extended exercise (I was okay with brief bursts, the power of baseball, or the thrill of a sprint) this itch would return. I couldn't jog around the block (which I attempted to do for a while), walk for extended periods wearing heavy clothing, play any code of football - ANYTHING! It was as if I was allergic to my own perspiration. And this condition lasted for what seemed like years. By the time I was sure I was over it (and subconsciously I'm still not sure that I am) I had reached a level of unfitness that I have carried around my waist ever since.

I know it probably doesn't sound like much of an excuse, but I assure you it is true. It is actually a little cathartic to share this with you. I've never really told anyone. At the time (and for a period since) I felt shame at my condition. And I've remained angry at my body that I've been relegated to the role of 'puddin' for around 25 years. 25 YEARS!

So now (with fewer Bowls Club related distractions - KEV!) I am tending to myself. Oh please, don't be dirty. I am running to the gym and back, pushing myself quite hard through a demanding cardio regime in the process. I am eating better and drinking less. We are still enjoying good food (Rocpool, cnr Young St and Ness Walk the other night for instance) and the occasional tipple. A pleasant side effect of this is that I've become such a cheap date. One glass and I'm off me 'ed.

If you believe the scales I was 94kgs at my arrival in Scotland (I happen to think those scales were a little dodgy, but they were electronical and everything). I am now hovering around 88kgs, having bumped down to 87 last week. I am participating in a 5k fun-run on Sunday, after which I will add more resistance training to my schedule to burn off some more nasty fat. But whilst I'm a little frustrated to be stuck at 88kgs after all my hard work it's interesting to notice the changes. I've lost a lot of blubber around my face. A quick check of facebook will reveal New Years Eve photos of me wearing what appears to be a full on fat suit. Most of that excess is now gone. The pair of jeans that didn't fit when I arrived here I'm wearing comfortably today. I bought a new shirt a couple of weeks ago with a 39.5cm neck. I haven't fit one of those since I was a teenager.

I've still got the belly. Hell, it wouldn't be me without the belly, but it's getting smaller. And as I run more and improve my endurance and conditioning it's getting easier to run further and for longer. And it's become really enjoyable. Not only for the solitude and meditative reflection it provides during the activity, but also for the endorphic high and self satisfaction it provides afterwards.

Wish me luck for Sunday. Realistically I'll be expecting to run under 30 minutes. On best form I'm hoping to come in around 26:30. What I'm really hoping for is to let adrenaline carry me to under 25 minutes. I'll keep you posted. I just checked my last fun-run (the Run Melbourne 10k in July '09) and my 5k split was exactly 30:00min, and my second 5k was 33:13. I've already smashed that with my recent 10.77km run, passing the 10k in under 60 minutes, so I'll be looking to improve further this week.

Here are a couple of happy memories of that event:

And I shall finish today with one of the greatest cliches of health and fitness and running of all time. I expect you all to read it as if it's the first time you've ever read it, and give me the kudos for such magnificent insight.

If I can do it, anyone can.

xxx

2011-03-10T23:39:00.001+11:00

Running in the snow. I could die of happiness. Or hyperthermia. ;)

The Small Print

2011-03-10T02:21:00.000+11:00

Sign here...

I hate being made to feel like a liar. But I bet most of you have lied within the last couple of weeks (or months, depending upon your habits) doing the simplest things.

I updated iTunes a couple of weeks ago. Hadn't done it in a while, as my mobile broadband is precious. However I was at my favourite wi-fi cafe and sucked an update down with my Americano (hold the milk). Before installing the update I was asked to agree to the terms and conditions. I was taught to always read the fine print. So I scanned my way down the front page nodding vague agreement with the legal terms and saw no reason to disagree. But at the end of that first page it advised that there were 52 more pages of T&Cs to read. 52 pages!

Needless to say I clicked 'agree' and proceeded with the install, but there remains a gnarly anxiety deep inside that I'm headed for a fall. A rip-off at least. You see, Apple has my credit card details. My iTunes Store account needs one to operate. They don't trust that you're only ever going to download the free stuff. No, they need to know they can slug you at will. So I've blindly agreed to 52 pages of terms and conditions that could very well be hooking me up to future charges I have no idea about. And when it gets to court some hessian-headed barrister is going to ask why I agreed to the terms and conditions. And then I am going to open fire with a semi-automatic weapon.

The Office of Fair Trading (OFT) in the UK here have released guidelines instructing companies to avoid hiding unexpected twists in the fine print. All well and good for the OFT to suggest this, but there's no guarantee companies won't. And who's idea of an unexpected twist is going to provide the litmus test for this?

Take for example one of my pet hates. Telecommunication companies. Why? Because they charge you exorbitant amounts of money for literally nothing. My favourite, O2, whose name literally means air. And that's all they're giving you, folks. And I just so happen to have a mobile phone connected to the O2 network. It is diabolical. They charge you an absolute (relative) fortune to send pictures via MMS, that then never show up. I'm so glad I have a new whiz-bang phone that can do almost everything, except that the network is so slow (even on the rare occasion I have strong network reception indicated) I may as well have kept my old T28 (now THERE was a phone). So apparently they way O2 bill MMS has arbitrarily changed from a number of charged txts to a separate charge regardless of any free txt quota on your contract. I have already seen, today, some O2 apologist use the doozy 'it was in your terms and conditions'. You know what you can do with your terms and conditions?

So basically (I'm going to try to wrap this rant up, otherwise it will continue to meander angrily towards hyperventilation), we are all being forced into lying ourselves into a position where we can be molested even further by telecommunications companies.

Ain't life grand. I suppose if I tried to resort to smoke signals I'd get arrested for arson.

Adios, amigos.

xxx

2011-03-09T18:32:00.001+11:00

SNOW FARKEN! Everything looks magical again.

2011-03-09T04:38:00.001+11:00

I was published in the Inverness Courier again today. This time under a pseudonym. This is getting easy.

Mumford & Sons

2011-03-09T04:19:00.002+11:00

Here's a list of the losers who couldn't get tickets to our gig

Many of you will already know that I am one of the unlucky thousands that queued for hours (about four of them) yet failed to secure tickets to see Mumford & Sons on their Highland Fling. So, that gig wot we missed out on is on tonight. Tonight just happens to be Shrove Tuesday, so we are visiting our friend Debs tonight to eat pancakes and sing a big F^&* You to Mumford & Sons - which will, ironically, include listening to all their music. Or is that 'listen to all of their music ironically'. Or something.

Anyway, by way of preparation I have prepared a surprise for the girls. If Debs's ukulele will stay in tune I shall perform it on that, otherwise, if there is a guitar in the house I shall perform it on that. All else failing I have rehearsed it on both my Ukulele app and Guitar app on my phone, so I will not be caught short. I was going to wait until after my debut performance to post the lyrics, however seeing as the gig is in barely a few hours I thought I'd get them online in case the local radio station (I'm looking at you, MFR) want to call me up and get me to perform it for real for a laugh.

To the tune of Little Lion Man (what else?)

Weep for yourselves our fans
You'll never make it to our gig in March
Weep for your friends as well
You said you'd get them tickets too, I laugh
Whip yourself and kick yourself and
Take the cash they gave you you've got left
And buy yourself a hundred pints and
Warm your frozen fingers off instead

Coz I got stuck at the end of the line
I slept in 'til half past nine
I should have pitched my tent in time
Shouldn't I my dear?

Shouldn't I my dear?

xxxx

PS: I've still got it.

2011-03-09T01:52:00.001+11:00

So it's 'Scalextric' not 'scalectrix'. You learn something everyday.

Art? In Inverness?

2011-03-08T02:18:00.003+11:00

Greetings people,

I've just returned after my lunchly sojourn and have an art experience to relate.

Inverness could hardly be touted as the thriving hub of anything, much less modern art. But there is an exhibition on right now that is worthy of a shout out.

ig:lu (19 Church Street - yes, that's right, my street) is a rather interesting art hub. Never knew it even existed before I read about this latest exhibition, but there you go. We have an arts hub.

So what is this latest exhibition? I'm glad you asked. A projection room has been set-up (well, partially set-up but I'll get to that later) which is broadcasting Instagram images on two walls in live time. There are over 200 amateur photographers' images being streamed on one wall, and a slideshow of images, in real time, from 50 invited photographers. All artists are using the Instagram application, which is a photosharing utility similar to flickr, although I think Instagram holds more facebookesque delusions of future grandeur.

So what of my reaction to the show? Let me coat my answer with a promise to visit the space again later in the week. Now, having coated my answer, allow me to answer EPIC FAIL! I'm not talking about the potential of either the space, or the show, I'm talking about my user experience of the exhibition.

For a start there was little (or nothing) to invite you into this exhibition from the street. On reflection it was nothing. Had I not been previously alerted about the show via other online media I simply would have no idea it was on. Not being a space that openly broadcasts itself to the street is a handicap for any show on at ig:lu, not having adequate signage at the space itself is simply unforgivable. And while I'm on it, I don't think ig:lu, or IGLU or IG:LU quite knows what it wants to do with it's own branding. Upon arriving home I set about looking up their website to confirm details on this blog post. I can't find a thing. I found their poster on my phone as I had a coffee across the road beforehand. But I can't remember if that was all lower case, or with the colon, or a combination. Point is I shouldn't have to. I'll tell you this for free, guys and gals, sort out your identity and you will make life a lot easier for yourselves.

Next, back to the action, I enter the building. I've never been here before, so I don't know where I'm going. There are little stickers pointing me upstairs, but not telling me how far upstairs. Then, as I climb higher and higher, I am invited by posters on the wall to join the Inverness Befrienders on the second floor. Now, I'm sure the Befrienders do a great job at whatever it is that they do, but it all felt like a bit of a scam to get me into the Befrienders. I nearly turned around. Anyway, I persevered through the tunnel of poor signage to eventually find the door (I've been working out, and even I was short of breath having climbed those stairs - for the record, I think it's on the third floor) and in I go. I look around, and there's no one and nothing here. I peek into a room with a couple of rows of seats (which is empty but for a clipboard on a table), sneak into a darkened room which is also empty, past a slightly open door marked 'PRIVATE' and another signed 'TOILET'. I finally reach a door with a label on it 'PROJECTION ROOM' although the text was smaller than you're reading on here. A brief (and tiny) description of what delights awaited inside was underneath. Keep in mind I still haven't seen a single human being at this point.

I open the door and enter the 'PROJECTION ROOM'. There is a ladder in my way. I wonder if this is part of the exhibition. There are four or five human beings in this room, all of them appear to be 'crew'. They appear to be wearing matching t-shirts at least.

'Hi, come in,' welcomes one of them, which was nice. He then leaves the room, leaving me alone with a girl on a stool, a guy on the floor with a laptop, one other loitering staff, and the ladder. It appears that they are still 'setting up the space'. It is 2pm. What little advertising I have seen indicated that this opened at 9am. Some guy is up the ladder twiddling with alignment or focus or some such nonsense.

And none of them engage me in any way. Not a 'what are you doing here?', a 'how did hear about us?' or 'what do you think?'. Not an explanation that on one wall is live-feed images from 200 amateurs, and the other wall is a live feed single image slideshow from 50 invited photographers. Nothing. All they were worried about was that the guy with the laptop hadn't yet had his soup. They actually seemed embarrassed that I was even there.

So I stand there for a couple of minutes looking at the show and just get an overwhelming sense of underwhelmed. For a start, the matrix wall of amateur images is too congested and too slow moving to capture your attention. It is an impressive wall of colour, but there is little artistic integrity reaching out to suck you in*. Think iTunes wallpaper, you know - the one that displays all of your album covers and flicks them over, one at a time. I spent ages configuring my iTunes wallpaper so that the effect was just right. It might have helped had someone in charge here had afforded it the same indulgence. And over on the other wall the one image at a time was fine except, well, except that that bloody ladder was in the way. There were seats facing each wall, but the feng-shui was all wrong because, well because people were still kinda working on the show in there. I felt like I was intruding.

So I left.

I'm not rubbishing the show necessarily. It's an interesting and ambitious project. It is all warm and fuzzy that this is happening in Inverness, and on my street no less. But get it right. The things that let this down are the things you can get for free. A little direction, a little organisation, a little preparation. I guess, to their credit, when I left the building the guy who initially greeted me was writing the exhibition details on the blackboard outside. But hey, fella, aren't you about five hours too late?

I will be back to see how they've got on. The advertising promises that the exhibition will grow over the course of the week, so I suppose I should have something to look forward to. Unless that day later in the week is anything like today.

* You should know by mow that ALL of my mixed metaphors are intentional.

PS: Whilst attempting to research this post I stumbled across two websites that seemed to promise plenty. What's on Inverness.com and Northings.com. Each appears to be a listing of what's happening locally, each with a bit of an Arts perspective. Neither of them have this exhibition on any (easily navigable) part of their website. There is too little happening in this part of the world to excuse these listings being incomplete. Highland FAIL!

2011-03-06T03:18:00.001+11:00

Bloody Marys only on breakfast menu? How does f*** off sound? Corinthian FAIL!

2011-03-05T01:49:00.001+11:00

And the winner, by KNOCKOUT: Dr Jones! Yeayhe! Looks like I'm now a fully fledged Invernesian. Inverness is now home permanently.

2011-03-05T01:40:00.001+11:00

She's been in there over an hour. The suspenders are killing me!

2011-03-05T01:36:00.001+11:00

My opinion was published back page of the Inverness Courier today. Shame they only used a dozen words from my 1000 word rant, but a start is a start.

2011-03-03T20:48:00.001+11:00

Ping.fm - does it work, or have I just wasted half an hour of my life?

Butchering Our Chances

2011-03-02T23:32:00.002+11:00

Butchering Our Chances

Greetings loyal readers. I know your patience has been tested, but spare a thought for my own. It is now approaching three months since I arrived in Inverness. It seems it will be close on another two months before my stuff arrives from Australia. So still no computer, no recording studio, no guitar, no ukulele, no bicycle.

But I’m making do and couldn’t be happier. Really.

I’m going to launch into today’s topic with the studs showing on two raised boots. Today’s topic is Terry Butcher.

You new readers may be unfamiliar with my previous lives, one of which is football pundit. Please rest assured that when I use the term ‘football’ I am referring to the World Game, the Beautiful Game, Association Football. Soccer. So one of the first things I did upon learning of my upcoming migration to Inverness was to do a little research of the local football team. One of the first things I learned about my new club was that Mr Terry Butcher is at the helm.

This is, of course, the same Terry Butcher that was in charge at Sydney FC in 2008. The same Terry Butcher who couldn’t convince the players, the Sydney board, the Sydney media, or the Sydney fans that he was worth keeping around for a second season.

So what is my problem with Terry Butcher? If you look superficially at the progress of Inverness Caledonian Thistle (ICT) under his reign you will find a team that has appeared to have over performed. Winning promotion to the Scottish Premier League from Division One, and holding down a league position slightly better than mid-table for most of their return season. Winning through to a Cup face-off against either Celtic or Rangers in a few weeks time and, amongst all that, the incredible achievement of going through the entire calendar year of 2010 undefeated away from home. A truly remarkable statistic.

How could I possibly be unhappy with that? Well, I’m about to tell you.

Terry Butcher is something of a legend in UK football. I’m not going to waste space here describing his entire career (something you can quickly wiki yourselves), however one of English football’s enduring photographic images is of Terry Butcher leaving the pitch in his white England shirt tuned red with blood. A true warrior. The image indicative of a tough, no nonsense, uncompromising defender. And here we have the crux of the problem that is Terry Butcher the manager.

The modern game is not one of big tough defenders. It is not a game for lumbering sloths crudely hacking at passing legs. It is not a game of blind hit-and-hope. It is a game of speed and endurance. Of skill and finesse. Of youth gambling its destiny within systems of order and repetition. It is a complicated world.

So when I heard Terry Butcher last week telling his players to ‘put their bodies on the line’ I died a little death. This is the same Terry Bucher who told the media at Christmas that all he needed was a couple more bodies before the close of the January transfer window and everything would be fine. And why did ICT need more bodies? Because enough had already been sacrificed playing the ‘bodies on the line’ kind of game their manager demands.

There is a romanticism to this war-like rallying of troops. I see the way the players look at Terry; I hear the way they talk about him. They hold him in such regard that they would do anything for him. The way he screams at them from the sideline, and on the training track, he commands respect. So when he tells them to get stuck in, when he yells to do more, when he pleads to put the body in the way – they do. But when this is plan A, B & C you can start to see your season quickly unravel. And like it did in Sydney, it is now happening here in Inverness.

And failing to learn the lessons of Sydney, Butcher seems intent to blame everyone and everything else for his failures. Buying new players to replace players wearied and injured as a result of your game plan is not good man management. Continuing to appeal to the players fighting qualities is not the answer when that tank has been exhausted by Christmas.

For once your players have given their 100% they are spent. They are done. Without tactical second nature they are lost. And lost is what they have appeared to be since December, when St Mirren spoiled our Boxing Day. If you enter the field of battle prepared with tactics that rely on skill and guile, pace and endurance, you can face the final minutes of each half confident that digging a little deeper, or putting your body on the line might get you to the line ahead. But when it’s been your only tactic for 45 minutes it makes the ref’s whistle seem a long way away.

Look to recent results, and the number of goals conceded within a few minutes of the halftime and fulltime whistle. It makes for damning reading. Bad teams concede goals at these times. Inverness Caledonian Thistle, under the watch of Mr Terry Butcher, is becoming a very bad team indeed.

I thank you all for allowing me to get all that off my chest.

In other news I am back on the training track. I’m trying to get enough ks under the belt to a) tighten that belt slightly and b) achieve a personal best time for the 5km in a couple of weeks at the Inverness Half Marathon. My preparation has been going so well that I actually considered entering the half marathon instead of the 5k, but who am I kidding? Much as I’m trying to get published in the local papers I’m not too keen for that to be in the obituaries.

So long for now, dear folks.

xxx

Slip Slidin' Away

2011-01-25T20:54:00.003+11:00

Greetings loyal followers,

Again, as most of you have noticed, I still do not have a computer to call my own. Nor do I have a guitar, a ukulele, a bicycle, or any other manner of possessions. But that is another story - all I'm attempting to do is excuse the lack of updates.

I have, however, set up something of a home office now. I bought the ubiquitous Swiss Exercise Ball yesterday, so so I've somewhere to sit whilst I tap. Still not my computer, but one I have ready access to throughout the day. The Swiss Ball I purchased yesterday is the weighted kind (ie: it has sand or something in the bottom of it), so it doesn't roll away like other pesky exercise balls I've known in the past (I'm looking at you Grimace!). It also means it is better for the actual business of exercise which, I guess, is the reason it was invented in the first place.

Which gets me on to the next topic for today (an effortless segue), my new fitness regime. Now that the Christmas/New Year madness is behind us I have joined the gym. There are a few gyms in Inverness - Sebastian Coe has a fancy one out of the Ramada Hotel a few doors down from us, there is the new shiny DW Fitness out in the retail park, as well as some manner of gymnasium over at the Tennis and Badminton/Squash Club (the tennis courts, like the bowling green, well under snow when I arrived, though it's probably melted now). But easily the pick of the bunch is the Inverness Leisure Centre and Aquadome.

I thought this was just a little too far away to be practical (around 1.5 miles/2.4 kms), but it turns out to be a perfect warm-up run there and cool-down run home. The gymnasium is a little small, but plans are afoot to open up the Highland Athletics Academy's weight training room to members, which should spread the love a little better. What this means is that, even in quiet times, it is difficult to get access to the equipment you need when you want it. Back to that in a moment. Our monthly membership (which is around £35 - ridiculously cheap) entitles us to everything. Gymnasium, 25m competition pool (when the Highland Swimming Academy aren't hogging all the lanes), leisure pool (which is creepy - full of mums and young kids, not the place for a 40 year old in Speedos*), health suite (including spa bath, steam room and sauna), climbing wall (yep, a freakin' climbing wall) and access to whatever classes you want. We are attending the punishing Friday night spinning with Charlie (the sadist) and Saturday morning yoga sessions led by our friend Hazel, which is quite lovely (although yoga and me is a relationship that needs therapy). There is also 'body pump' and those sorts of things, but hey, let's not over do it.

Oh, I nearly forgot to mention (actually, I really did forget to mention - I've just scrolled up here after nearly finishing and signing off) THE FLUMES! For my antipodean readers, flumes are what the Scots call water slides. And The Inverness Aquadome has three of them. There is one that is quite popular with the kids and families. It lolls around in three nice, concentric circles. Then there is 'Nessie'. This thing is a straight three story drop. You get in, you start to fall, you have a heart attack, then you die... I mean splash to the bottom. At least that's what I think it does. It was closed the day I went on the flumes - but it looks ridiculous. The one that I did manage to go on was called the 'Cyclone' or something. You climb the three story staircase (which is about enough cardio for one visit in itself) and find yourself in front of a big green hole in the wall. You actually have to decide halfway up the stairs which flume you're going on, as the stairwell is split by metal barriers. So good luck if you (like me) have no idea what to expect at the top. So here I am in front of the big green hole in the wall and something strikes me as odd. No one else is using this particular flume. At all. So, I think, this must mean this flume is either particularly lame, or (as I step into the gushing water) particularly HHHHHHOOOOOOLLLLLLLYYYYYY SSSSSSHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTT...

Tripped backwards into a pitch black tube of twists and turns and unholy G forces, it is seconds before I catch my breath and chant to myself that this thing must be safe, or it wouldn't be here in the first place. Trust that it's safe, trust that it's safe, trust that it's safe. My body is being thrown around, left, right, right again, this time nearly flipping over - this is fantastic. It's just brilliant. If I'm going to die (which surely I am at any moment) this is how I want to go. And then, in an instant, a green halo glow in the approaching distance and then SPLASH. It's over. I look around (after picking my swimming trunks out of the crack of my arse) waiting for the raptured applause from the crowds below. Only nothing. It may seem anti-climatic but for the endorphins and serotonins that are doing their own water dance through my brain, leaving me floating on air now that I'm out of the water.

People, it was brilliant. But back to real life...

So they won't let you use the gym until you've had an induction. Primarily this is so they can introduce you to the Fitlinxx system. This is a computer simulated personal trainer who keeps an eye on what you're doing every time you visit the gym. You get on a treadmill and Fitlinxx will tell you how far you've run, how many calories you've burned, and how many points you've gained for their reward system. Earn 150,000 points and you may get a free water bottle. So, Craig, you've been talking for a while today but, as yet, no rant. Well here goes.

Your gym membership also entitles you to a personally designed fitness program to follow your path from fat bastard to maximum hotness. A lovely gentleman (from Nottingham originally, but that's not important) named Nick guided me through a fitness routine that should have me looking and feeling super hot in time for summer... 2015. No, really, it is a good, balanced program. The only problem is, most of the routine he has me doing is free weights and mat work. None of these things are provided for on the Fitlinxx system. So almost everything I'm doing, my run there and back, my rowing cardio work, my squats, my lungs, my crunches, my planks - none of it is being monitored by my electronical fitness guidance system. So no chance at a free micro-fibre towel or free shuttlecock with badminton court hire.

What a rip!

So now that I've got this new fitness ball to sit on, I may as well get an exercise mat and a few more bits and pieces and do the bulk of my workout at home. At least I won't have to worry about getting room in the gym, and I can save my gym visits for hair-raising adventures on the water slides. Yahoo!

Anyways, tonight is Burns Night. I'll let you all that don't know use Google to look that up. Save to say it involves Haggis, Neeps and Tatties, as well as toasts, poetry, song and (plenty of) whisky. I'm cooking. Wish me luck.

xxx

*I do not possess Speedos. My swimming trunks (purchased in Singapore) do, however, leave little to the imagination.

Pretty Plockton (or) Now I'm a sk8r boi

2011-01-10T22:18:00.002+11:00

We caught the train across to Plockton this weekend just gone. Some of you may recognise Plockton as 'Loch Dubh' from the Hamish Macbeth TV series. Let me tell you, and I know you will, that this place is simply gorgeous.

A single line of cottages face the harbour - their subtle colours painting a very pretty picture. I was chastised for almost completely depleting the camera's batteries within an hour of arrival. It was one of those weekends where you wished you could record every blinking view, whether that be on the train journey across stunning landscapes, of the beauty of Plockton and its surrounding walks, or of the local characters - who were charming hosts.

'Angry Arras' Roddie (left) and James '26'

A couple of local lads even invited me to play darts with them. One of them even let me win.

Check out the weathered ol' dart board.

Aiming for the lipstick was like driving in the fog. The proprietor apologised, saying he had a new board waiting to be delivered or something, but I wouldn't change this for the world. What's the point in giving up your home board advantage? Oh, they also had one of these little beauties:

A brilliant little machine you use to count down your score. The club could use a few of these. Speaking of the club, Plockton also contributes to my expanding series of Scottish bowls clubs. This may provide enough fodder for a future blog post, so here's Plockton's to set the scene and get us started.

There was even more snow and ice covering it on day 2.

We stayed at the Plockton Inn, which was marvellous. Truth be told we likely would have stayed at the Plockton Hotel had it not been closed for holidays, but we remain delighted with our choice of the Plockton Inn. The staff were friendly and the atmosphere was lovely. The food was also top notch. I tried Skate for the first time. No, April Lavigne was not playing over the speakers (Simon and Garfunkle were, but that's another story), but the locally caught (and, the menu assures, underated) fish was intriguing and delicious. If you're the kind of person who struggles to negotiate a fish and bones and the rest, try skate. It's fish eating for beginners 1.01. Check it out:

It looks like the wing of an aeroplane. Those are capers dotted across it. Now, all you have to do is scrape or peel the flesh from the thick part of the wing down. Ingenious.

You can see in the foreground how easily the meat lifts from the frame of bone until...

...you are left with the remaining 'flat' of bone. Flip it over and do the same to the other side. Magic. And really, very tasty - with a texture similar to swordfish, only stringier (in a good way).

The only kinda downer or weirdness of the weekend was Crappy Castle, oh I mean Duncraig Castle. It looks thoroughly majestic across the harbour from Plockton, however the slippery when wet walk rewards you with a feeling of 'meh'. There is a prefabricated college dormitory type structure attached to the right which just looks wrong. The whole place appeared to be closed for renovations. Let's hope the first renovation is to demolish this tacked-on wing. Added to that disappointment, half of the estate is marked 'PRIVATE - NO ADMITTANCE', so there is no chance of getting around to the front of the Castle (if you can still call it that) to get a view from the harbour. Damnit!

We also failed to visit the town closest to the castle. A town called Craig. Now wasn't that a shocking bit of itinerary fail?

I assure you, dear readers, that the stories are building, the experiences are building up, and that I promise to update you all again shortly.

xxx

Brief Update

2011-01-06T03:21:00.000+11:00

Hallo,

Just letting you all know that updating is difficult at the moment because I don't have my computer here yet.

Oh, sure, I am able to help myself to her computer - however it just isn't the same thing.

And I'm sure you'll all be delighted to learn that our mobile broadband, whilst better than it was in Melbourne, is still fluky and prone to moments of frustration.

Coming soon, 'Service with a Smile'. How the Scottish Highlands are rewriting the book on face-to-face retail.

Coming soon, 'My but don't you all just talk a wee bit funny'.

Coming soon, 'Terry Butcher - from A-League FAIL to SPL FAIL!'.

Coming soon, 'Whisky, whisky everywhere - but not a drop to drink'.

xxx

In Inverness

2010-12-22T05:13:00.000+11:00

It really is hard to describe just how beautiful Inverness is.

It is somewhere in between a large town and a small city. I think you can technically refer to it as a city, but it retains the charm and atmosphere of a town.

And I cannot adequately express in words just how perfect my new home is. On one of the main streets of central Inverness, it is one of the oldest buildings in town, recently renovated to a modernish townhouse.

I'm not kidding, this is my backyard:

Spectacular!

Still getting myself sorted, so more updates to follow later.

That is all for now.

xxx

Music Shop FAIL!

2010-12-03T02:38:00.000+11:00

I'm less than two weeks away from moving to live (semi)permanently in Inverness, Scotland, UK. So it makes sense that I would do some interweb searching to find a decent music store. Wow. I seem to have come across the greatest little example of all that's wrong (or right) about modern business.

There are two music shops withing spitting distance of each other on Church St, Inverness. I'm not going to perjurise the debate by actually naming them, but this is a wonderful example of modern business dynamics.

There is one shop on this street that has a guitar tech on staff and seem only too happy to help. Now I've not visited this shop yet, but I'm willing to consider that certain like-for-like items might cost a few quid more at this place. Maybe not, but perhaps they do. But from what exists online, all signs point to 'good guys; good service'.

But place #2 is doing it wrong. Every review online (from Google maps links) SLAMS this place. Their service is shite, and I'm planning not to ever set foot in this store. Seriously, if they are as bad as the reviews say they are not even worth talking to. But you have to wonder how they remain in business. Most musos I know are web savvy introverts (ie: will spend days online searching for a deal without having to actually speak to a human being). So how can a music store continue to exist when they are so apparently rotten?

I thought I had found the answer to this. One of the music shops had a web page that wasn't. It was merely a placeholder for the domain: meaning that you couldn't even get a phone number, let alone a retail price for anything.

But then I visited the site for the other music store. Ha!

'We're hoping to have this online by... ...2007'

Are you freakin' kidding me?

Gawd I'm looking forward to moving to Inverness.

xxx

Chadstone FAIL!

2010-11-26T15:12:00.000+11:00

So the other day I need to run some moderately urgent errands. Instead of going to my local shopping strip here in sunny Carnegie, I choose instead to venture to the monolith of Chadstone Shopping Centre. My local shopping centre doesn't have an Apple Shop, and I was hoping to pick me up an 11" Macbook Air. Well, I was going to play with one anyway.

I've got to go to a Post Office and purchase a couple of Platinum Post packs, but before I do I've got to print off a single A4 Word document. I go to the information touch screen thingy and start looking for a place that might print off my documents. Nada.

I go to Kmart to use their print shop.

'No, we don't do document printing, only photo printing.'
'Umm... lady, I used to do all my colour printing here.'
'No, we've never done that here.'
WTF?
'You'll have to go to Officeworks.'
'But there is no Officeworks in Chadstone.'
'There is... on the corner of Warrigal and Waverley Roads.'
WTF? I flipping caught the bus here. That's, like, a twenty minute walk - at least!

So I go to the Apple Store™ and it is full of flipping wankers, both customers and young urban hipster type Gen-Y jerk sales assistants. That's right Clarke, you're just a flipping shop-assistant you douche. Anyway, they tell me they can't print out my document, because they're not 'set-up' for printing. Well I'm interested in this 11" Macbook Air here, and might want a printer to go with it. Are you able to show me how that might work using my own document from my own USB stick?
'We're not set up for that. You could try Tandy or something.'

So I go to the information desk (one of two huge sprawling information desks in the centre that are staffed by one person, usually preoccupied with a phone conversation, however if you are lucky you'll be waiting in a queue behind some woman wondering where she can redeem her shop-a-dockets and get free wrapping for her Christmas presents) and eventually am politely told that there is nowhere in the ENTIRE FLIPPING METROPOLIS THAT IS CHADSTONE SHOPPING CENTRE that does ANY FORM OF DOCUMENT PRINTING.

I'll have to go to Officeworks.

So first I go to the Post Office while I'm here. I ask the girl at the counter while she's ringing up my post packs if there's any chance she could do me a favour and print off just one teensie tiny word document. She gives me this pitying look and says, 'You'll have to go to Officeworks.'
She tells me people are asking them all the time to print stuff, but they can't.

So I flipping well walk to Officeworks in 32°C heat. Flippin' ridiculous. And after waiting for the lazy tardios at Officeworks to serve me I end up with a marvellous black and white, single A4 print out for the grand total of 8c! Well, 10c with rounding.

What a flipping Royal pain in the neck.

Flip you Chadstone. Flip you very much.

Too (Many) Girls - One (Melbourne) Cup

2010-11-03T14:42:00.001+11:00

So the Melbourne Cup has been run and won for yet another year. The 150th year no less.

God I hate the Melbourne Cup.

'But aren't you from Melbourne?' I hear you all protest.

Yes, however, like the Collingwood Football Club, the Melbourne Cup represents most of what is rotten about this supposedly great city.

Firstly, it is a great self-proclaiming prophecy. 'The race that stops a nation!' 'The whole world's watching' 'The greatest weight-for-age race on the planet'. Who cares? It is just a freaken horse race. That it is (even if it isn't) the greatest such thing on earth elevates it to no greater status than 'just another horse race'. Just another reason for bogan Melburnians to believe that our city is betterz than Sidny FTW!!1!!! Melbourne is better than Sydney - on so many levels, but this bogan horse festival is not one of them.

A public holiday for a horse race? Give me strength. I am as lazy as the next guy. Hold that - most of my loyal (and very attractive - I may have the most attractive readership of any blogger going around) readers will attest that I am probably MORE lazy than the next guy. So I welcome public holidays. I, once elected as Prime Minister, have vowed to legislate in favour of Siestas. I think we should have public holidays to celebrate such things as great inventions (like the REVA three-holed plastic clothes peg, and the wine cask), however I simply cannot abide that we have a public holiday for a horse race.

Boganvillia. There are two reasons the Aussie Bogan owns a suit. For court appearances, and the Melbourne Cup. God pity the bogan soul that buys his suit as a novelty for the Melbourne Cup (as these perfect bogan examples did)

note discarded 'BOAGS' cans despite posing with sparkling wine. BOAGS beer... how very twee.

Where was I? Oh yes, God pity the Aussie Bogan who buys his one and only suit as a novelty for the Cup before his first committal hearing. Thankfully this is a rare occurrence, as the Aussie Bogan usually attends court a few years prior his first Melbourne Cup.

Druuuunk Slaaaarts. Sorry, it is rare for me to resort to the profane, however it is impossible to refer to the Melbourne Cup without referring to Druuuunk Slaaaarts. Take this young lass for example.

This fine specimen is about to be taken home by these charming young men. I'm not about to speculate what happens next, but if these guys were AFL footballers I'd be very worried about the subsequent publicity, once she wakes up and tries to defend the stains she... oops - too far.

The 'know-it-all punter' syndrome. Every year there is a crowd favourite. I can name most of them. Kingston Town, Dulcify, Makabe Diva, So You Think. There's always one horse that attracts a huge share of media coverage, mainly due to a Cox Plate win, that becomes outrageous crowd favourite. Despite 99% of the crowd knowing absolutely nothing about horse racing. So it was this year with So You Think. Or, as it should have been known, 'So You (Can't) Think (For Yourselves)'. As someone, who will remain nameless on this blog, proclaimed when the horse ran third, 'See, I told you it would win!'.

I've fast run out of time, as did my bet for the cup. I never bet on the horses. I've a great tip for the big race - don't bet. However my absent girlfriend insisted I pick a horse for her. 'Pick something that reminds you of me' she said (in a round about way). So I put a lazy $20 (and believe me, in my world there's no such thing as a LAZY $20) on Profound Beauty. I know, corny. I nearly made myself sick.

I think it's still running.

Until next time.

xxx

Grownd Hawg Day

2010-10-23T01:19:00.001+11:00

Happy Saturday to ya, Peeps.

Just watched most of one of my favourite movies - Groundhog Day.

The only reason I'm blogging it is because something strange happened during the film. My Dad walked in. I was kind of happy to see him, after we shared an effort this morning moving a kitchen cupboard. A heavy kitchen cupboard. There was a moment of connection there this morning that was nice. So Dad comes home during Groundhog Day and I greet him and ask if he's seen it.
'Yeah' he offers without a shred of joy.
'How many times?' I ask with requisite intended hilarity (and if you don't get it you either haven't seen the film, or shouldn't be reading this blog).
'Once.'
The tone with which this is delivered gives me the impression father is not amused.

How can you not like Groundhog Day? And if you don't, what is it about it you don't like?

It works on so many levels. And it works brilliantly on each of those levels.

Bill Murray plays a TV journalist who is a complete and utter jerk. However, over the course of what could be years of the same, endlessly repeating day, turns into a character worthy of the requited love of the female lead (admirably portrayed by Andie McDowell).

There are so many lessons in this movie, and it is handled so delicately and hilariously, that it is well within my top 20 movies of all time. So much so that I now realise that I try to live my life as close to the 'reformed' central character as is humanly possible.

Yet my old man hates it. I scoured the screenplay for any moments of overt antisemitism (you should have heard him unleash on some pathetic Irish comic last night as he switched the television off) yet could find none. He was unforthcoming, so I remain bewildered at the reason my Dad hates Groundhog Day.

Meh. If you hate Groundhog Day, comment below and let me know why. Give me a window to peer in to the soul of my grumpy old father.

xxx

My Store, Myer.

2010-10-22T12:30:00.000+11:00

I'm not going to waste many words on this.

I'm on the MYER mailing list, courtesy of the fact that I have a MYER ONE card. I'm not a shopping rewards kinda guy, however when I bought my computer getting one of these babies saved me around $300. So on this occasion I relented, and it was worth it.

I do however get emails from MYER advertising their specials and sales. Which is pretty much all the time.

Today's is a special MYER CARD HOLDER SPECIAL whereby you get $25 back on every $75 you spend. That's amazing! No, really - bargains ahoy!

Until you read the fine print, which I have pasted for you below:

Excludes sunglasses. Womenswear excludes Australian and International designers, Anthea Crawford, Charlie Brown, Country Road, Cue, Dangerfield, David Lawrence, Esprit, Feathers, Howard Showers, Jigsaw, Karen Millen, Leona Edmiston, Levi's @ Sydney basement, Marcs, Perri Cutten, Pilgrim, Princess Highway, Review, Rhodes & Beckett, Sportscraft, TS14+ and Vicky Mar. Menswear excludes ck Calvin Klein, Country Road, Dangerfield, Déclic, Dom Bagnato, Esprit, Gibson, Hugo Boss, Levi's @ Sydney basement, Marcs, Politix, Polo Ralph Lauren, Rhodes & Beckett, Rodd & Gunn, Sportscraft, Spurling, Politix 464 and St Lenny. Women’s accessories, watches, jewellery and handbags excludes Alan Pinkus, Burberry, Country Road, Cue, Dangerfield, Emporio Armani, Karen Millen, Pandora, Princess Highway, Rhodes & Beckett, Sportscraft, Swarovski and Sunglass Hut. Footwear excludes Alan Pinkus and Karen Millen. Homewares excludes electrical cookware and kitchenware, ABC delicious, Alessi, Design House Stockholm, Fissler, Jasper Conran, Leonardo, Lladro, Monique Lhuillier, Plumm, Riedel, Rosenthal, Royal Doulton, Swarovski, Thomas, Vera Wang, Versace, Villeroy & Boch, Vinturi, Waterford Crystal and Wedgwood. Furniture excludes nursery furniture, Nova furniture and Weber barbecues. Cosmetics and fragrance excludes Kit Cosmetics, Mecca Cosmetica, Benefit Brow Bar services and Galerie de Parfum. Electric excludes console hardware, Apple branded products (including iTunes Gift Cards), Asko, Miele, Nespresso Boutiques and bags by Crumpler. Food for gifts excludes hampers, restaurants and cafes. Albums not available Bondi, Colonnades, Forest Hill and Hobart. Furniture and bedding not available all stores but may be ordered. Delivery charges may apply. Books not available Bankstown, Colonnades, Dandenong, Elizabeth, Forest Hill and Werribee. Frames not available Forest Hill, Werribee, Hobart and Colonnades. Toys and travelgoods not available Forest Hill and Werribee.

So go to MYER this week and there's sure to be one or two items you can purchase on their $25 cash back sale. Or maybe three. Tops.

;)

xxx

Weeks, not months.

2010-10-18T16:36:00.000+11:00

People,

The countdown commences. Well, the countdown began some time ago, in April in fact, but now it's getting close.

December 13th. The ticket is still booked. That's 56 days away folks. 56 days!

So now I have to try to lose close to twenty kilos, in order to be as near maximum hotness as it is possible for this body to be. What a co-incidence. Today's story for analysis was 'Feeder' by my favourite (not that I'm playing favourites, Sabina) editing lecturer, Glenys Osborne. FYI, if you haven't bought and read 'Come Inside' (Glenys's recently published first novel) you should do so immediately. However I digress.

Feeder is a wonderful (even though the subject matter is dark) short story about body image and associated issues. Now I'm not going to give away the plot (like a certain classmate did for me - Terry!), but it is interesting that at this point (when the realisation that I'm a big fat blob has well and truly hit home) that I should read and dissect this particular story.

Even more interestingly, one of my classmates with whom I studied this text today was previously a sufferer of anorexia nervosa. Furthermore, another of our classmates has a daughter who also suffered from the condition. So I was perfectly placed to ask for weight loss tips at the conclusion of class.

It seems 150 is the magic number. Calories that is. Apparently if I limit my daily caloric intake to 150 the pounds will veritibly drip off me. So I just visited this calorie counter website. Today I have had three poached eggs on two slices of toast. I was even evil enough to grate a bit of cheese over my toast as well. I also had a Big M. I had to; it was the first time I've seen the Limited Edition Egg Flip (which I voted for), so I just had to have it. Anyway, that's all I've eaten today and alerady I'm coming in at a massive 780 calories. Ridiculous!

So in order to achieve 150 calories per day I am going to be drinking nothing but water, and eating nothing but alfalfa sprouts. Mmmm. Yum.

xxx

I'll Get Me Coat . . . Hang On!

2010-10-10T13:58:00.000+11:00

I decided to be a good boy last night and go home early. No late night drinks; no hanging about with riff-raff. So I goes to leave, leave I does, and go to get my jacket. I'm sure I hanged it up right there? Right there I did. There I did hanged it. EMPLOYEES ONLY is the sign on the door. But no, it's not there. So I decide to turn the place upside down. Nowhere to be seen. So this jacket has my phone, my keys, and my lip balm. Yeah, my lip balm.

Someone has stolen my jacket.

So I'm sat at the bar, bar I am. Right there at the bar. Jacketless. So I break the promise to myself. Break my internal contract. How can I not? I've nowhere to go. No jacket, no phone, no keys - no lip balm. So I'm recounting my tale of woe to all and sundry, to all and sundry I am. I'm receiving warm wishes and best regards, pity from some and solace from others. Until I get to the bit about the lip balm. Some curvaceous brunette at the bar, who tries to make glad eyes at me, at me the glad-eye she tried to muster. But she could not summon the glad-eye 'cause of the cheap champagne she had imbibed. Decided to mock me for using lip balm she did, try she tried. Tried to make an innuendo about lip balm and kissing and lips and balms. Failed spectacularly did she, fail she did. But it was the revelation of my lip balm that brought mirth, replaced the pity, replaced it did.

So I'm on the couch of a barmaid who cared enough. Wonderful hostess. We dial my number this fine Melbourne morning. Marathon runners on the street.

'Run faster! You're still not yet far enough from Frankston!' I call.

So it takes some hours before my phone is answered. Eventually Dave, Dave you mong, answers and and volunteers that he came across my jacket, jacket he did, did he. Volunteers that he will return my jacket, jacket he will, to the bowls club in one half of one hour. So I venture forth, forth to the club I venture. And I wait.

Eventually, some half of one hour after the promised half he promised, he did, arrive with my jacket in tow. 'Everything's there,' he proclaimed, 'I do not know how this jacket came to be in my possession.'

Except that you STOLE IT, you did, dear Dave, you mong, whilst drunk. Drunk enough, you were, to enter a restricted area and steal. Where, oh where, was I supposed to sleep, dear Dave? But you were drunk, the drunk's excuse, and cannot recall, can you?

So I arrive here, at Terry's abode, to homework the afternoon away, we shall. Shall, shall we, homework this fine afternoon, with the last marathoners having long since given up, with traffic restored to its usual flow.

And as we embark upon some fine homeworkery indeed, I reach, reach do I, into my jacket pocket. I shake the familiar rattle of keys, and check the phone, check do I, the messages that might have meant something last night. And I feel unease. I feel loss. I feel dread.

My jacket has been returned, returned it has, and is missing a vital thing, My lip balm has vanished. 'Everything's there!' said Dave, the mong, the drunk, the thief. Everything. No, Dave, you vile tard, you vacant stared, already dead, non-entity. Not everything. Not my lip balm. The very thing that caused me to be an object of ridicule, and for what?

Oh Dave, you sort. Next time you ask for a bourbon and dry, I trust you know what the answer will be.

You cost me a new toothbrush, and a pair of socks. You cost me my breakfast, and you cost me my dignity. And now, I fear, I need to buy some more lip balm, lip balm do I.

Please, the rest of you, enjoy this most wonderful day.

xxx

No Love?

2010-10-01T16:23:00.000+10:00

It's not often I do this, but this week I've really been making an effort. I'm begging for reassurance.

Even if you just click a junk button on on of my recent posts it will make me feel like there's someone out there who cares. Or doesn't care. Right now I'm not fussy.

I know you're reading. I also know that my being slack and conspired against by evil interwebs has probably meant some regulars aren't checking in as often as they used to.

But give a brother a little love.

xxx

Showman?

2010-10-01T15:44:00.000+10:00

I found this on The Age's Friday Funnies site today. Hell, that must make today Friday. My last official day of holidays.

Seriously, Docklands Entertainment is one of the funniest things I have seen in a while. Sure, The Fast Show is awesome, but this is local. And it's funny coz I bet it's true. I have devoured the entire site in one sitting. Yeayhe.

Kudos to these folks. They win the week.

xxx

Don't You Want My Money?

2010-10-01T15:36:00.000+10:00

So I've been using my MYKI. Whoop-dee-do.

Since they FINALLY managed the roll out on all public transport (even if they did have to fudge the distinction between Zone 1 and 2 on trams, but I'll get to that later) it's suddenly become worth my while to travel using Melbourne's new smart-card travel solution.

But now I have a problem. I'm all out of credit.

I have previously topped up my MYKI (is it strictly necessary for my to write 'my' in front of 'MYKI'?) at Clifton Hill station and, hmm... somewhere else - possibly Flinders Street station. But now I'm all out of credit and I'm stuck in Carnegie. Despite living at the end of the 67 tram route, there is nowhere for me to top-up. Not even a top-up machine at the end of the bloody line. So I am forced to travel on the good-old-fashioned Metcard system. Thank God they still work.

So I figure I'll top-up next time I catch the train into town. Umm... no top-up machine at Carnegie. No top-up machine there, either.

I realise I can just top-up at Flinders Street. I know I can probably hunt one down somewhere else. I know, although I don't trust them, I can probably do it online - but I'm worried about the 'lag'.

I know of at least one reader who will seek to make this MY problem (Hi Boonga), but surely when you're trying to change a culture of behaviour it's gotta be easier than this? I mean, it is now more convenient for me to use the old system than to top-up my card on the new system.

And don't start me on the top-up machines themselves. They are about as intuitive as cutting and pasting on Mac OS.X.

And don't start me on the sheer number of touch-on machines on trams and at train stations that simply do not work.

Just don't start me.

xxx

The End of the World as We Know It.

2010-09-30T22:03:00.001+10:00

It's not often I share links from other blog sites. Perhaps it's time I started?

Maybe I'm just jealous of other bloggers who attract thousands of followers and are able to quit their day jobs whilst raking in millions from Google Ads. I tell you what, if I were one of these people I'd get myself a day job just so as I could quit it.

Anyway, I'm digressing.

Many of you readers will already be aware that I'm half writer, half musician and half geek. I was going to add half mathematician but that would clearly be spurious. My interest to all things geek extends from gadgets and devices, to automobiles (the VW Karmann Ghia a particular fave, along with the Citroen SM), to astronomy. So you'll mostly understand why the following blog appeals to me so.

The 5 Scientific Experiments Most Likely to End the World | IXPLORA - Mobile Phone News and General Tech News and Discussion

This dude (or dudette, I haven't checked which yet - it's not important) has detailed, as the name loosely implies, the 5 scientific experiments most likely to end the world. Oh yeah, that's what it's called.

It is funny, informative, interesting, just slightly scary, and has probably received about a million more hits that the complete total of my blog.

So sad.

xxx

Today I 'ave been mostly. . .

2010-09-30T14:01:00.001+10:00

A week or so a young friend complained via facebook of a ripping hangover caused by everybody's old friend - Gin.

I located an old clip for everybody's favourite comedy show - The Fast Show - and posted it in response.

What? You've never heard of The Fast Show? Zut Alors!

Most of my UK readership will be well versed in the adventures of Paul Whitehouse, Charlie Higson, Simon Day, Mark Williams, John Thomson, Arabella Weir and Caroline Ahern. Yet many of my Australian compatriots may be in the dark. Whilst anyone in the USA that reads this blog (come on, there must be a few hundred thousand of you) may remember this show referred to by the name of 'BRILLIANT!'.

The most recognisable skits on this sketch based comedy programme were the Brilliant Kid, Competitive Dad, Chris the Crafty Cockney, Channel 9 Neus, Billy Bleach and I'm Not Drunk!

The clips I posted for my facebook pal were the I'm Not Drunk family:

I'm Not Pissed

You can't go past:

Channel 9 Neus

This is funny because it reminds me of. . . well. . .

Billy Bleach

In researching this post I came across this gem of a site:

Fast Show Sound Bites

You can download 100s of sound bites from the series. Brilliant!

You can lose hours of your wretched life.

xxx

Teenage Rampage!

2010-09-23T15:14:00.000+10:00

Caught the 67 tram home last night at around 10.30pm.

The tram turned into Glenhuntly Road and a bunch of youths boarded. They were boisterous and obviously misbehaving, however the extent of the carnage to come was not yet apparent. It was only a matter of second before there were close to thirty young punks on the tram, and plenty more outside it. What was also immediately apparent was that there had been/was about to be some altercation between two large groups of teenagers.

One of the ringleaders, let's call him Forrest Gump (the similarity was uncanny) had armed himself with what appeared to be a collapsible metal chair. No, he wasn't off to the wrestling. I am bewildered though, why he took the metal chair onto the tram, when clearly the object of his (and his crew's) aggression was with antagonists that weren't on the tram. Perhaps he just wanted to be sure he got a seat if the tram was crowded. Which by now it most certainly was.

The tram was unable to move for close on five minutes, as the delirious mob were unable to decide whether to remain on the tram, or to disembark and confront their foes. The behaviour was self perpetuating, as the louder one yelled the more his accomplices felt they had to escalate their behaviour. Forrest Gump was the main offender, but there was another, smaller punk - we'll call him Rocky - who was, and I quote, 'fucked up and really needing to smash some cunt'.

It was a textbook perfect guide to the workings of teenage mobs. And it was really quite terrifying. There wasn't one of these punks that I couldn't have handled, and I sense they knew it - not one of them approached me, even when they went begging for cigarettes, but the sheer number of them, and the frenzy they had worked themselves into, was well out of hand.

A fellow passenger took his life into his own hands by telling them to settle down, however I had decided to act only if there was a direct threat to anyone else's physical safety.

So after the tram eventually departed, the group (including a couple of girls, for what they are attracted to in this situation I am at a loss) could still not decide whether to continue or disembark. Some got off, other remained, and of those that remained, Rocky and another kid, let's call him fat try-hard loser, were talking up just how bad they wanted to smash cunts and that the rest of their crew were pussies for leaving the scene. They discussed how drunk they were ('I'm smashed', 'I'm not that drunk, hic!', 'I'm really fucken fucked up, man!') and Rocky then started punching things. Seats, windows, screens. His technique was rather good, and his punches were ferocious. I figure he hurt his hand delivering one of his blows as he soon stopped that action.

In the meantime, Forrest Gump had lit up a cigarette. The passenger who had told them to settle down told Forrest to put it out. He didn't of course, however he did continue smoking with his head, and the cigarette, out the window.

It was a hell tram ride for every other passenger, and the imminent threat was very real. The sense that every one on the tram was bracing themselves for something out of control kicking off was palpable. Rocky was desperate for a cigarette because he was so wound up. He asked an Indian guy for a cigarette and I winced when the Indian guy told him he had a cigarette, but that Rocky couldn't have one. It was a deliberately provocative thing to say from our Indian hero, and it threatened to escalte - until he told Rocky that the reason he couldn't have one was that it was his last one. 'Oh, that's cool then, Bro!'

The last of them, Forrest Gump, Rocky and Co. all alighted at Glenhuntly Station. I was worried for a moment because the only passenger on the tram brave (stupid) enough to stand up to them got off at the same stop. However it soon became apparent that he was headed in a different direction.

I guess the kids all then went to the railway line to start throwing rocks at trains, or whatever it is that punk kids do to entertain themselves these days.

Then I figured it out. Whilst gang culture in the US was born out of displaced and disaffected youth, the Australian youth gang scene is just an acting out by mollycoddled, spoilt, brats who entertain themselves by acting as hard as the heroes they are fed via TV, movies, the Internet and video games. they had all been drinking. WTF? These kids were probably 15. They were out as a gang at 10.30pm. I know it's school holidays, but seriously - don't their parents have any idea where they are, or what they are up to? Do they even care?

And what would have happened had this escalated to a point where I, and others, was forced to act? What if I had've messed up one of those punks? What if they (and I'm pretty sure they did) had knives?

And through all of this, and this is the thing I can conceive, the tram driver did not make a single announcement, and he sure as hell didn't call the cops. If someone got hurt I, for one, would be pointing my finger at Mr Gutless tram driver.

Anyway, we all got home and no one appears to have been hurt.

Lucky country indeed.

xxx

Crust are the DEVIL!

2010-09-23T14:24:00.000+10:00

Some of you may be fans of the new, hot franchise on the block - Crust Pizza.

Don't be fooled. They are the devil.

On Koornang Road, Carnegie (for instance) there are a plethora of pizza shops. There are: Herb Pizza, who do a very god job with some interesting pizzas (although they dropped a notch when they delivered a pizza practically cold); Gabriella Pizza, who have also added some nice gourmet selections and smells like a good old-fashioned pizza house; and Rimini Pizza, who provide good, huge, tasty, cheap pizzas (even if they can be a bit cheesy).

So why in the hell do we need an extra pizza shop wedged in between Gabriella and Herb, who are already absurdly close to one another as it is?

Crust have spent thousands refurbishing a shopfront there making it all look nice and spiffy. No doubt with the mega-bucks of a powerful franchise behind it. It is all neat design and clean lines and modern graphic design. As well as that there are external speakers piping music out onto Koornang Road at all hours, just so as you can't forget they're there.

Who decided to put this Crust franchise in this particular shop? It seems madness. Either this franchise is destined to fail (which I'll look at shortly), or it is going to drive one (or both) of the existing establishments out of business.

As for the franchise failing. I have witnessed many times before a shiny new franchise trying to muscle out an established local business. And, interestingly enough, the example I'll use is Mussels. Once upon a time there was a Fish and Chip shop on Carlisle Street Balaclava. Lets, for argument's sake, call this shop Megas Seafoods. Let's also, to further illustrate a point, suggest that Megas was in dire need of a good old fashioned kick up the arse. The shop appeared to have been passed down from the original Greek proprietor into the hands of the sons, with Yiayia providing token support. The sons appeared to have grown tired and cynical over time (perhaps they thought of a brighter, more prosperous future for themselves in - I don't know - real estate or something) and standards had slipped considerably. The service was lacklustre, the cleanliness standards had slipped a little, and it just seemed like they were lazy with a captive clientele.

Enter Mussels. The swanky new squids on the block. They were fresh, clean, modern, friendly - everything you'd hope for in a fish 'n' chip shop. But it was a franchise. They had these Fish Bites, see? They were deliciously golden fried morsels of chunky fish fillets in fresh tasty oil aaaarrrggggghhhhh. So these fish bite were insanely good value. They were something like six for a couple of bucks and they always seemed to throw a couple of extra in for goodwill. Point is, it wasn't long before Megas Seafoods's doors seemed to close. Well, I thought, serves them right for leaving the door ajar for a competitor to come in and knock them off. But then something entirely predicable happened. Suddenly (almost as soon as Mussel had seen off Megas in the battle for Carlisle Street fried food supremacy) the fish bites got a little smaller. They suddenly stopped throwing in the extra fish bite or two. The very friendly man who had served me weeks earlier was now nowhere to be seen, replaced by a couple of good-for-nothing, couldn't-care-less teenagers. The side serving of chips was now mean and cold and pre-cooked. Basically, Mussels had dropped the ball the minute they destroyed Megas.

However, Mussels hadn't considered one very important point. Those Greek sons weren't stupid. They were just lazy. So what did they do? They sold their fish 'n' chip shop to a Chinese family who came in and kicked arse. They cleaned the place up, implemented a service regime of military precision, and suddenly there was a phoenix risen from the (oily) ashes. It wasn't much more than a matter of months following the re-launch of the now Asian inspired Megas Seafoods that Mussels disappeared from their cosy perch, never to be seen of again.

I've had a Crust Pizza before. It was okay. It was nothing special, and they make a big song and dance about their 'Gourmet Options' that quite frankly are all about ripping another couple of bucks out of your pocket. But the bottom line is it's only a pizza. And once the special deals (there must be special deals - the place has been full all opening week with Indian Students) have evaporated we'll be left with another food franchise staffed by people with no vested interest in the shop's bottom line. You will get tired and sloppy service, and the pizzas will inevitably start to suck arse. The other downside to this is that one or both of Gabriella or Crust maybe forced to disappear unless they each take steps to lift their game. Not that they are necessarily doing much wrong.

Anyone remember the queues stretching for miles outside of Krispy Kremes? Arf! What a laugh. Wasn't long before everyone saw through the hype and realised that, hey, these are just fucking donuts. And crappy, expensive ones at that.

Crust, I admire your corporate ethic, but you are what's wrong with the world. FOAD.

xxx

Nobody Gives a Damn About Your Dreams

2010-09-17T10:39:00.001+10:00

Fiona Apple waiting for me on Oprah's couch

I had the most wonderful dream last night. I figured out long ago (maybe mot so long ago) that people really don't give a damn about your dreams. They may feign interest when you explain your goals and ambitions, but I mean real dreams, that you have at night, about stuff that never happened.

Anyway, it's been a while (too long) since I blogged* so I figure this dream was fodder enough for you.

Somehow got myself a Gizmo (from the movie Gremlins) - it was so cute. It did go a little spastic when it got wet or when you shone light in its eyes, so I was very careful. Anyway, it was so bloody adorable, and it's been so long since that movie that everyone's forgotten about them, so I became quite the centre of attention over it all. Actually, Gizmo became the centre of attention - I was just his owner (a very charming and talented one at that).

So somehow I find myself on Oprah. Let me tell you, Gizmo bares a little more than a passing resemblance to Oprah as it happens. Oprah loved Gizmo but, despite my strongest warning, made a point of having a lighting guy shine a strobe in his eyes and he went all apoplectic for a second, before I stood and violently threatened the lighting guy (and Oprah - big mistake). So that left the segment finish a little flat and uncomfortable, however we (me and Giz) were allowed to remain on Oprah's couch for the remainder of the show.

So up next was Oprah's 'women of song' segment or something. There were a few female singers including Aimee Mann (who I just ignored because I didn't want her to find out I fell asleep at her gig), and some spunky black haired thing in a retro green dress. This girl was singing a cover of Alphabet City, and I said 'Oh I love this song' and there was Fiona Apple. So this black haired girl (with colourful tattoos covering her bare arms - she was lovely, you would have adored her) starts singing Alphabet City on stage with her guitar and Fiona Apple and me start singing along. But Fiona Apple gets singing so loud you can hear her on stage and (despite the fact that she's singing it fucken AWESOME, and with ME) it kinda spoils the other girl's performance. This makes Fiona Apple terribly self-conscious and embarrassed and I console her by saying 'Don't worry, that's just the kind of thing I'm forever getting in trouble over'. She turns and gives me this looks that says 'Aww, you're so sweet' and plants one on me. So Fiona is kissing me and I figure to impress her I'd best introduce her to Gizmo, so whilst she's kissing me I'm calling out 'Giz! Giz!' and she's holding me down asking what I'm doing, and I said I wanted to introduce her to Gizmo. Fiona replies that she couldn't care less about my rat (she hadn't seen my previous segment so had no idea who Gizmo was). Anyway, very shyly, Gizmo comes over. Say 'Hello Fiona' I tell him. And Gizmo says hello Fiona in that freaken adorable way that he does and Fiona sat up and said, 'That is so adorable, but it's you I want' and held me down again and started kissing me like I've never been kissed. After a few minutes of this she looks into my eyes and says 'Craig, you're really good at this boyfriend stuff'.

The rest of the dream contained some football game between the Swans and North, and Dad and I had an argument about how when the team kicks into the stadium from outside the stadium the ball has to be kicked directly at goal, not just in over the sideline over the stands. I argued that that was the most ridiculous rule I ever heard, that you should be able to kick it back into the stadium to whoever is free, and seeing as you can't see over he stands you're taking a risk by doing so; Dad, of course, agreed with the umpires, him being a former sports umpire. So we had this stupid argument. Wasn't until I woke up that it was obvious to me that as soon as the ball goes over the boundary line it is out of bounds and out of play - so there is no chance a team has of kicking the ball back from outside the stadium (where much of this game was taking place).

There was also this bit in the dream (and I was still, technically, Fiona Apple's boyfriend at this point) where some guy was doing graffiti with his mobile phone. His mobile phone had a little paint spray nozzle out the end. I thought that was so cool so got myself one. It was awesome. It had a rotating button on it, and with a press of your thumb spray paint came out in a jet spray, and by moving your thumb on the nozzle you could change the colour of the paint and the thickness/angle of the line. It also seemed to improve your handwriting out of sight. So I start spraying a little bit on the wall of a tram and I start to try to write 'Beauty Within', but I'm admiring the quality of the print, and my handwriting, so much I kind of make a mistake and end up writing 'Beauty Without'. I was still vaguely satisfied with my handiwork.

I promise to post again soon.

xxx

* Internets have been diabolically slow of late - everywhere.

There is Something Very Wrong With the World

2010-09-12T21:13:00.000+10:00

The big debate in the world right now seems to be concerning the construction of a Mosque within spitting distance of ground zero (of the September 11 terrorist attacks on New York City).

This is precisely the kind of debate that works me up the whole wrong way.

Wouldn't you think that to accept all races and religions is as perfect a response to terrorism that a modern multicultural society could muster? Okay, that may have been a clumsy sentence, but you know what I mean. Even if it was an Islamic radical sect that perpetuated such evil against America, wouldn't accepting that the majority of Islam couldn't conceive of such evil reflect America's tolerance of all difference?

To prove America's (QED the western world's) tolerance and acceptance of diversity, surely permitting the construction of an Islamic place of worship and community is the very mark of a society's maturity.

But I have a problem with this.

The attitudes of the people behind this development have me grinding my teeth.

In this life I suggest that we just get on and try to be the best damn Barney's we can be. If you want an Islamic Community Centre, good for you. But doesn't a rational mind concede that putting such a centre within coughing distance of one of this centuries greatest atrocities fill you with any kind of remorse? I don't think even KKK middle America would for a second suggest that the terrorism committed on 9/11 was due to ordinary Muslim American faith. But to suggest that what happened that day was immune to radical religious faithism is naive at best.

So to put this basically, because I don't want to waste time. . .

The glut of anti muslim crap emanating from the US is proof that we live in a world of intolerance and decisiveness. But the fact that there is a movement of Islamists that seek to impose their terms of worship upon a city that is still reeling from acts of despicable atrocity is testament to their insensitivity.

As much as New York should welcome a Mosque at ground zero, Muslim America should respect that to build a place of worship there is just, frankly, taking the piss.

This whole argument is very similar to the Israel situation. One day wiser heads are going to compromise and move forward to a better, more peaceful, world.

xxx

The RIP-OFF that is MOBILE PHONES

2010-09-01T10:51:00.001+10:00

What would I get for my money if I budgeted to spend $150 per month for the privilege of owning a mobile phone? Absolutely whatever I wanted. In fact, having just visited the 3 website, I discover that the largest advertised phone plan is a mere $119 per month.

But I can't afford $119 per month. I've been on a $49 cap, and only recently decided to cut that back to $20 per month. You see, I am a phone company's dream. I hardly make any calls. Really, ask my friends (if you can find any). I hardly ever call ANYONE (ask my Mum, if you can find her). I limit my calls generally to the 'where are you?' and the 'I'll see you there' variety - each call no more than a few seconds.

So imagine my surprise (and anger - yes, most definitely ANGER) when for the past two successive months I've been whacked with bills totaling $150 each. $150! Are you freakin' joking me?

There must be some mistake, methinks. So I consult my bill and it seems I am being charged almost 50c for every international TXT message I send. This is extortion, mainly because each and every one of these suckers is 'outside' my cap. So you give me $300 of free TXT for my $49, yet you charge me close on that amount for sending TXTs which (as I have read elsewhere) cost the telcos nothing. That's right. TXT messages sent across the mobile network do not cost the service provider a single cent.

And I can hear all of you Judge Judys out there saying 'did you read the contract' and 'serves you right', but is it too much to expect that there is some kind of fairness applied to these plans? I mean, seriously, if the maximum monthly cap is $119 per month, how can you justify charging Joe-poor-boy over here $150 a pop?

Also, keep in mind that these $150 charges have occurred whilst on the $49 cap. Having only last month switched to a $20 cap to save some money I'm fascinated to learn just how much extra this decision is going to end up costing me.

WHAT A RIP!

xxx

New Blog!

2010-08-31T11:58:00.000+10:00

Greetings peoples.

I have just started a new blog in an effort to get myself employed in the good ol' U K of . . . Aye!

Not that it's going to be any more special that this one, however it will be just that tiny bit less like that last post of mine (what in the world happened there?).

I've called it The Best Job in the UK, as that is precisely what I am hoping to attain. Actually, it would be nice if you all visited and replied and said nice things like 'Craig is a very punctual young man' and 'Craig's personal hygiene is beyond reproach'. You know, those things that a prospective employer would like to hear.

So skip on over to http://bestjobuk.blogspot.com/ and let's never speak of it again.

xxx

In Your Face You Commie Red Wing Facists

2010-08-21T23:12:00.000+10:00

As I write this, your Bendigo correspondant, Jooooolia is in the process of writing her non non defeatist speech; Tony is in the process of writing his non non acceptance speech; the Greens are in the process of claiming victory from defeat; and the Australian Sex Party are engaging in the orgy to end all orgies and don't even realise counting has commenced.

Meanwhile, back in the back of Australia.

Kevin has almost started to cry. It's not enough that his beloved coal miners have been ousted back home by Cameron's new Thatcherism, but also that now The Mad Monk, and let's face it, Tony Abbott is about as hard to elect as rubbing one out to the image of Kevin07 and Terese Rein in the heights of a fit of mad panic when they realise they are naked in the hog fat together without a shoehorn to rub between Andrew's giant pectoral nobblies, wow that was as long a parenthetic diversion within the one phrase as one could manage can you tell that it involves something delivered in alfoil?

Back to reality. Or not.

The girls have threatened some photographs. Sadly, these are not photographs of the first episode of WWYRF? (between Maxine McKewn and Joooooooolia Gillard - the results of which were a unanimously successfulated combubstulation) but rather of all of us, here in Bendimigo, and nouwnce the larftersishmush has commencedement.

Okay, now we wait. For girls. with photomagraphs. And hencwithforth, we wait. Lewis is sending gay messages to Justin Beiber, who just happens to be breathing beiberishness over my shoulder, whilst he just beibers.. relentlessly. lewis, go away. no body likes you lewis, you fag drummer. What's the difference between Lewis, and a drum machine? I only have to punch the information into a drum machine once.

We need photos. So come on ladies. Shake it. Shake it. Shake it like a polaroid picture. Oh, looks like the n00bs can't work out how to use their iPn00bs. Oh, Andrew wants iBn00bs. Harry says he can shake his iBn00bs. True story, bru.

Paully will get off on Harry's iMaBn00bs. Jack appears to have caught a bad case of teh ghey. doctor, doctor, give me the bewbs... he's got a ghey case of loving andrew who just left the room so now we can talk about him.

How about Andrew's ghey? Is it getting worse? How does one measure such ghey? Well, said one, in terms of Andrewness. How ghey is Andrewnessness? Well, that depends. Let me tell you a story. It all began in the beginning. where all goods stories begin. Except for that other quite good story, which began somewhere in the middle and later got back the start at some time following that bit.

So The Mull Queen tried to squeeze a gallon of hope through a microcosim of despair. He was gone for some time. Perhaps he was trying to find the photographs of Destiny's Child he had hidden amongst the iBooty of iPassion.

Meanwhilest, there is sitllington worthless emongstenough of Jack's Rabbit of harelingstingmongst binny. Fertheringstinktivity forwerthwithidstnessness, ha he he, there mungst beingstmesstmessed enuffidmunstmess portractindinunciadoumoust, thering boungst amunulmentist borg huffably.

The begin.

no photomogriphistamundst. Gerls. Om.

I know you're reading!

2010-08-12T18:11:00.000+10:00

This is a simple message to my classmates who are having dinner without me.

I know you are reading, and I love youse all.

Much fun. Regards.

Follow Me!

2010-08-12T12:24:00.002+10:00

Okay folks, it's finally happened. I'm on Twitter.

Yeah, I know, I've been banging on for ages about how vacuous it is and how anything worth saying is worth saying in more than 140 characters. However a classmate of mine (Hi Carolyn) explained that a good friend of hers has secured a well credentialed writing job by making erudite twitter posts on some influential people's feeds.

So I've signed up - purely for professional reasons. And because it's for purely professional reasons I've not messed with my username too much. So you can follow me: #craigising

See you there.

xxx

Carbon Copiers

2010-07-26T22:33:00.000+10:00

I'm blowing the lid on Australia's inability to make real progress on matters of climate change control (CCC).

The debate has inevitably fallen down along party lines, meaning if you're a Liberal you are a climate change denier, and if you're a pinko communist (Hi, Kev!) you favour a carbon tax (or Emissions Trading Scheme). No, don't argue - it really is that simple.

If you're a Green, do yourself a favour. Put your money down, become a member, and get your arse down to their monthly meetings. You will discover that they are an ineffective political force with absolutely no idea, and can't be trusted with the balance of power in the Senate. End of. Now shut up.

So back to our efforts at CCC.

There can be no doubt that human interference is contributing in some way to our environment and, consequently, our climatic conditions. But let's keep a few things in perspective. Detailed records of global temperatures only extend less than than two hundred years - and even some of those records have to be considered dubious - from the instruments used to measure the information, to the methods used to record them.

Also, I'm something of a keen astronomological observer, when one considers that the single greatest influence on our climate is the proximity of the earth to the sun you have to wonder just what extent human factors are playing on these already rubbery figures.

For those of you that need a little edumacation, the orbit of the earth around the sun is not a perfect circle. Nor is it a perfect ellipse. The vertical axis of the earth as it orbits the sun is also a variable factor from year to year. So global temperatures are going to fluctuate not just on a yearly basis, but on an almost incalculable cycle.

But I'm getting away from the point I was trying to make. If you're a Liberal you are a climate change denier. Of course you are. Penny Wong just said as much on Q&A tonight. Okay, that's a fair enough call. People with a right leaning political persuasion just want to stick their head in the sand and deny (actually in much the same way as I've done above) that anything at all could ever be going wrong.

Well, if that's the charge you levy, how about this? The left side of politics is so bereft of leadership and ideas that they can't possibly solve a problem without whacking a tax, a surcharge, or a levy on the solution. The ETS is typical of this. The Labor Party complain that they can't get consensus on this issue, and now (just like Kev07's brilliant 2020 summit) are calling for another wankfest to solve a problem that the government was charged to do when they were elected.

Maybe I can boil this down for any ALP plants that are trawling my blog for solutions. Show some real leadership and LEGISLATE your CCC solutions. This is the platform you were elected on. But don't complain when the polls slam you when your idea of a solution is to charge people to solve it. Seriously. I could solve the problem of organised crime by taxing everyone and siphoning the proceeds to criminals. I could solve the problem of drink driving by taxing everyone and paying for stretch limos to ferry boozers to and from the pub. I could solve the problem of asylum seekers by taxing everyone, buying a tropical island, and sending illegal immigrants to live scot free in paradisde.

But this doesn't work! Not only doesn't it work, but even the illiterate, retarded, inbred jerks that are the Australian electorate know it.

Here's an idea. Come up with a solution that shows leadership. Come up with a solution that is inspirational. Come up with a solution that is world's best practice. Come up with a solution that is so good the Australian people will embrace it.

Until you do can you please STFU about how everybody that complains that you wanna tax them as a solution is somehow a Dickensian luddite?

Can I also ask, for those that might know a little more about the subject than me, why solar power isn't compulsory for all new residential developments? All the press I've read is of ordinary people, in ordinary homes, selling their excess electricity back into the power grid for profit. I do read that solar power isn't perfect, and that the technology still has room for improvement, but there seems no reason why we can't just destroy the existing paradigm of power companies with a technology that (let's face it) has been around for as long as I've been on the planet.

Anyways - as you were. Until next time.

xxx

MasterPoli

2010-07-22T11:48:00.000+10:00

The only things I've been witness to on television of late have been MasterChef (okay, I know - but I'll explain) and coverage of the Federal Election campaign. There's just not that much else on.

Okay, MasterChef. Why am I watching this abomination? Well some days you get to thinking that maybe you should check pop culture for a pulse. As someone who suffered the delusion that he could be a breakfast radio host, and as someone who is maintaining one of the most erudite blogs on the planet (this one - HELLO!?)I fell it is my duty to at least have half an eye on what else out there is feeding the masses. It is a sacrifice I am making for youse, dear readers.

So here I am watching MasterChef, and I'm not going to do a blow by blow rendition of all that occurred, there are plenty of others who know more about it than me - I'll leave it to them. So here I am watching MasterChef immediately after watching coverage of Joolia v Abbott. Abbott was stacking bananas in a fruit shop, and Joolia was scaring a group of infants.

'What has stacking bananas and kissing babies got to do with running the country?' I thinks to meself. And then I thinks to meself that neither Joolia, nor Tony, has demonstrated to me their credentials when it comes to being the Primest of all Ministers.

So I'm watching Alvin molest a vanilla cake, and Courtney's in tears because, I don't know, the roots of her blonde hair aren't dark enough or something. And Callum's put his whole cake in upside down. Jimmy over there has stolen someone's macaroon, and has put his cake in the wrong tin. It's, quite frankly, a disaster for the lot of 'em. But I'm impressed. This challenge was set with no hope of anyone actually being able to pull it off perfectly. It's a lot like real life (unless you're me, which you're not). What resonated with me was that all of the contestants were faced with obstacles that they had to overcome somehow. They all had to plate up a cake, and all had to make sacrifices and compromises to come up with a finished (if half-arsed) product.

And I got to thinking, yes - I was doing a lot of thinking that night, if only we were able to subject Tony and Joolia to such scrutiny prior to the upcoming election. What if we had a mini-lodge, or mini-parliament that we could drop them both in for a month before the poll? We could give them a foreign affairs challenge one night; an economic brainteaser another night; we could have them hosting a visiting head of state for dinner; perhaps a lie-detector test or something for fun and... I don't know - what else does a bloody Prime Minister have to do but swan about and look stupid?

So there it is. Let's not waste airspace and time on expensive and boring election campaigns. Let's just give the electorate exactly what they want to see. Joolia and Tony head-to-head in the Big Brother house of politics.

You know it's true.

xxx

Here is a poll

2010-07-16T13:18:00.000+10:00

Okay Peeps,

It's time to participate in my FIRST EVER POLL!

I was mucking about with the design/layout of my blog and I've had a mixed response. Sheena loves it apparently, and I can't argue with her until I get a job; yet Terry hates it because it makes some text hard to read, but he's old and losing his faculties. Sorry Terry, tell me it's not true.

So if you like the new design please click the 'cool' response button.

If you'd prefer I change it, please click on the 'junk' button to the right hand side. And I know that hundreds of you have been simply gagging to click JUNK on my posts for ages, so here's your chance. But please, if you want me to change it I'll accept suggestions. Andrew, I know you'll hate it - perhaps you and your l33t dezyne skillz could knock something up that is close to 'world's best blog' quality. You know, to match the 'world's best blog' quality of my posts.

So get voting, and get suggesting. It's not always I choose such a populist approach.

xxx

One hell of a huge teacup!

2010-07-16T13:08:00.000+10:00

So News Limited have just sacked the board of Melbourne Storm rugby league club. This is the board that did nothing wrong. That's right - they've been sacked because they DIDN'T do anything wrong. Brilliant.

Apparently (and this is mere speculation at this point) they have been sacked as punishment for bringing legal action against the NRL for the way they were punished over the recent salary cap debacle. They have been sacked by News Limited - the owner of Melbourne Storm. News Limited, who holds a major stake in the NRL. That's right, the owners of the club effectively also own the League. So they took none too kindly to their board of directors effectively initiating legal action against their own owners. Are you confused yet? Don't worry, it's a mess.

This brings me to the thrust of this post. The salary cap breaches are now estimated to be over THREE MILLION DOLLARS above the salary cap. Not ONE, not TWO, but THREE MILLION DOLLARS!! Which begs the question: what were the owners of Melbourne Storm (News Limited) doing throughout this period of massive rorting? Nothing? They just didn't realise that an extra THREE MILLION DOLLARS was disappearing somewhere?

Either one of two scenarios existed at this time. One: The owners of News Limited were fully complicit in the mechanations that resulted in such a huge breach of the rules. This is logical. This is a massive amount of money, and surely an organisation such as News Limited has matters of financial probity well in hand. So it makes sense that the ownership was facilitating the fraud.

Or Two: That News Limited was completely unaware that these breaches were occurring. Despite investing millions of dollars into Melbourne Storm for little return, News Limited were just completely in the dark and had no idea THREE MILLION DOLLARS was being diverted from its appropriate destination. I find this almost impossible to believe, but it can be the only explanation (if one believes News Limited). Subsequently News Limited should be BANNED from being able to hold any ownership stake in ANY rugby league team - now, or in the future. Because if they were unaware that these breaches were occurring it betrays an alarming lack of measures of financial probity.

News Limited cheat, I mean chief, John Hartigan (and remember, this is the guy that has been rooting Rebecca Wilson) can seek to demonise former Storm CEO Brian Waldron all he likes, but the reality is that all this occurred under his watch. Either Hartigan is guilty of overseeing this rort, or he is guilty of allowing it to happen under his command. Either way he is the one who should be sacked.

I don't care much for Rugby League. But I was kinda charmed by the Storm's success in the hostile territory of AFL infested Victoria. Storm didn't just go out and buy the best current players at exorbitant prices, they actively scouted the best young talent from all over the country - many of them mostly ignored by other franchises. They built the best League team in the country, and it seems very few people were asking appropriate questions about how this was being achieved. I guess because the very people who should have been asking these questions were News Limited. The media with a controlling stake in a team and the League? No surprises that they now are embroiled in possibly the biggest case of conflict of interest ever seen in Australian (and possibly World) sport.

RIP Storm.
RIP Rugby League.

RIP News Limited.

I guess I've now just cost myself a chance at getting a job for News Ltd too? Damn!

xxx

Eyes without a face

2010-07-14T13:40:00.000+10:00

Many of you may have noticed that my journey towards total world domination via the blog-o-sphere continues unabated. Consequently more people than ever are visiting this site and gleaning vital (sometimes life saving) information straight outta my head. This is nice.

One of the highlights of keeping this blog is having comments from my loyal and learned readership just letting me know that some of you are still taking notice. And some of you are even almost just as smart as me. This is also nice.

Trouble is it is starting to get difficult to negotiate just who said what, as most of the comments are coming through as anonymous posts. This is not so good.

I know some people have an aversion to setting up a Google account. I don't blame you. Google is half of the world's evil. The other half of the world's evil are butchers who are unable to remove the knuckle from the tail of a bacon rasher. But that's not important right now. What is important is that it's easy as pie to comment using an Open Id from wordpress, Live Journal, Type Pad, or AIM. Failing that, and probably the simplest, easiest and safest (for all of you paranoid web users) is simply typing in a name from the drop down menu as you post a comment.

C'mon. It's not often that I ask ANYTHING of ANY OF YOU. Except you Andrew. I keep asking you for money, and you haven't yet learned how to say 'no'. That, too, is nice.

I will post again the minute anything of note happens in my life. You may be waiting some time.

xxx

Too damn good looking for radio.

2010-07-09T19:10:00.000+10:00

Well, that's my excuse.

How could you waste such a face on the radio? That's what they must have been discussing at FoxFM this week when they thwarted my lifelong ambition of being a breakfast radio host in the cruelest possible fashion. They said I was in the top 5. Not good enough - I needed to be in the top 3. Now I'm pretty sure there were only 5 people in my final, so it's scant praise, but I'm proud of what I've done.

It was a fantastic experience and, as I mentioned in an earlier post (before the anonycrowd go telling me again that I'm repeating myself), I felt like I deserved to be there and that I could actually do this gig for a living (in case anyone else out there in radio land is reading this).

I have spent the best part of the afternoon cutting myself up over what I could have done better, or at least differently, but unlike Jo brushing her teeth naked I have no regrets.

So a cheerio to everyone at Fox who made me feel like a rock star again, and to everyone who wished me luck and subsequent commiserations.

In other news our Editing teacher, the incomparable Glenys Osborne, has resigned this week. I bumped into her and her adorable child on Swanston Street yesterday where she dropped the bombshell. I know I speak for all of my classmates when I say she will be almost impossible to replace. Her enthusiasm and expertise were a joy to behold, and I feel we are all going to be just that little bit poorer for losing her. She has, as some consolation, a novel that's just been released 'Come Inside' (Clouds of Magellan) - I am about to indulge in its majesty. I will report at my conclusion.

I remain quite dejected today, but overall I am still,

Yours,

xxx

Still in the hunt.

2010-07-09T12:15:00.001+10:00

Uh Oh! Marion GAWN!!

Well it seems I'm not totally out of the running to be breakfast host just yet.

It's been impossible to decide on a top three apparently, which obviously means I was the absolute stand-out and they're trying to figure out which other two monkeys they take through with me to the second round.

Not that these other guys are monkeys or anything. I'm sure they're very nice lads with ample talent. Just get outta my way to the top - that's all I'm saying.

In other news Marion has been eliminated from MasterChef. Now I'm no expert on MasterChef, but I hear people talk. And I've seen a couple of episodes. Apparently Marion is just the puppy's panties when it comes to all things kitchen related, and was close to an unbackable favourite to win the whole box and dice. Not only does she appear warm and genuine on the small screen, she can also cook - her defeat of Movida's Frank Camorra in a celebrity challenge almost unthinkable. So how is it that this wunderkind gets the boot when every episode of this show has seen n00bs with barely a clue invited back after they've already been eliminated. And those other two n00bs last week who were fighting an elimination battle only for both to survive? Don't make me laugh.

The cynic in me suggests that this is all a cleverly orchestrated ploy in order to even up the competition in order to maximise ratings for the final few weeks of the show. I'd be pretty pissed if I were Marion. I suggests she moves quickly to capitalise on her popularity and start getting her name and face on some top end food related merchandise.

You go girl.

I think I just blew it!

2010-07-08T10:46:00.003+10:00

Good morning folks!

This morning I think I've just about blown my chances at winning the FoxFM breakfast host competition.

I went in for a chat and a bit of an audition, and generally it went really well. It was all a bit impossibly-good-looking in there at Fox. Which segues nicely to my first failure: shaving this morning. I've nicked a bit out of my chin (I know, and the haircut - I should just revert to the rough and ready caveman look that's served me so well in the past) and as I left the studio via the mirrored lift I've noticed a bit red traffic light right there on my chin. It's honking like a beacon. All those pretty young thangs must be pissing themselves laughing. So embarrassment.

Second strike was my last blog post. Who would have known they would have read it? My wondering if I wasn't more suited to something more highbrow and sedate? Way to insult your potential gravy train dude. They seemed to take in more or less good humour, but I just know if it comes down to a choice between me and some other guy who hasn't insulted them I know who they'll pick. Dang!

Thirdly, and possibly most importantly, I dropped the 'F'-bomb on air. Before I went in this morning I kept telling myself 'don't drop the 'F'-bomb, don't drop the 'F'-bomb'. Target fixation I think they call it. I'm letting myself slightly off the hook as it was within the context of a song ('F#$% You' by Garfunkle and Oates) and Matt did say 'sluts' without fear or favour.

Again, overall it was a great experience. It felt like I deserved to be there, and God dammit, I'll feel like I deserve it if I end up winning.

And in case Fox end up reading this blog post as well, Jo is so hot right now and Matt's personal hygiene is beyond reproach.

Adieu until next time... possibly even this afternoon. I'm planning a few drinks to celebrate this morning's efforts - so it might get a little blue.

xxx

Radio on a shaved head.

2010-07-06T12:31:00.000+10:00

Hey everybody.

This morning I appeared on FoxFM's search for a replacement breakfast host. I don't think I will win - I'm just not ZANY enough. I think I'd rather something a little more highbrow and sedate, but I'm going to at least give it a try.

Please vote for me here to spare me the indignity of finishing the competition in last place.

http://www.fox.com.au/shows/mattandjo/you-and-jo-entries

I'm still in the land of the freezing. Worse so of late. I gave myself the obligatory haircut last week. A number 4 clipper all the way over; smooth and beautiful. I took the guard off and trimmed around the edges and had it looking superb. Until I noticed a little bit at the front was unever. So I gave it another trim - however I neglected to replaced the guard leaving me with an instant reverse mohawk. I tried to get away with it for a day, but sadly had to shave the lot back to the bone. On the coldest week of the year to boot.

Speak to you all soon!

xxx

Always trust a professional.

2010-07-03T11:05:00.000+10:00

Good Saturday morning to youse.

For those that haven't seen me lately let me share a follicular tale of intruigue. I was taking the clippers to me 'ed as I'm liable to do when I get a bit unkempt up top. Usually when I self administer a haircut I invariably miss a bit. Usually just a little line right at the back where I can't quite see, but my friends take delight in pointing out. So this time I was determined to get it right. I took ages to run the guarded clippers over all of the loose strands of hair. Ages, I tells ya. Maybe twenty minutes to half an hour. I kept going until the tell-tale buzz of shaving hair was all but a memory. Damn, I'm lookin' good.
So I replace the guard with a #2 and trim around the back all professional, like. I'm a natural born trimmer (hey, I just made that up). So when I'm done with that I remove the guard completely and trim the back and the edges around me tiny little hippopotamus ears. I could get a job doing this.
But then, once I was finished, I had a momentary lapse of brain. I spotted a bit at the front that didn't quite look even. That could do with another trim. So I stab at it with the clippers and recoil in horror as the wicked buzz of death reveals that I have failed to replace the guard and have just shaved a chunk out of the front of my head. A reverse mohawk if you will.
So I tried to get away with it for a day, but the ridicule I had to endure from all and sundry was too much to bear. Someone at the tram stop gave me a dollar, ruffled the rest of my hair and said 'You're the real hero'. Or something like that - you get the picture.
So, the upshot of all this is that I've taken the unguarded clippers to the rest of my head. I look like a cross between a neo-nazi and a kiwifruit.
And DAMN it's cold.

xxx

World gone (completely) mad (again)!

2010-07-02T12:49:00.002+10:00

So I'm at the bottle shop the other night getting some BYO for Franca's going away curry. Ciao Franka. Bon Voyage.
Anyway, I'm at the register paying for my booze when the d'ude behind the counter says 'Would you like a bag for that?'. 'Not if you're going to charge me a surcharge for the plastic bag,' I answer. 'Nah, we don't use plastic.' and he proceeds to load my drinks into an oversize paper bag.
Hang on. Didn't we say goodbye to paper bags in the 80s? So now it's unacceptable to use cheap, light, recyclable plastic bags (which I maintain will provide the oil supply for future generations) and instead continue to cut down old growth forests for woodchips for paperbags?
WHO TO BELIEVE? I just don't get it anymore.

Still wet and miserable in old Melbourne Town today, but at least I'm out of the house. I'm on a two week semester break at the moment so life has just slowed down to a crawl. Hibernation is the plan.

I'm currently re-reading Tim Winton's Cloudstreet, which is required reading for my Novel class. I feel like I've had an unfair advantage having read this only last Christmas. Let me tell you it is far easier going second time around. The imagery is no less spectacular, and I am really enjoying it again. If you haven't already, and you enjoy a gripping Australian yarn, do yourselves some favours and give it a read.

I'm not going to write anymore, because I think the computers here at school have just packed up completely. Oh well, you'll just have to wait for my next instalment.

Love youse all,

xxx

So very, very cold.

2010-06-29T13:46:00.000+10:00

Greetings loyal followers.

Today's post is brought to you by the number 10 (degrees celsius) and the letter 'F' for FROZEN.

I'm not making this up: I can't feel the second toe on my left foot. My nose is numb (not that I use it to feel my way anyway), and I'm having to re-type every sentence three times as my fingers have a mind of their own in this cold. Plus the internet cafe keyboard is typically dodgy.

Okay, firstly I'll molest you all with my latest World Cup rant:
I HATE THE FARKEN WORLD CUP!!
No, it's not the vuvuzelas. I kind of like their incessant drone now. Like white noise in the womb it is strangely reassuring. When the BBC's noise limiter kicks in and everything goes eerily quiet a sense of panic sets in and
I start making the noise myself by blowing raspberries into my beer bottle. Strangely comforting. I wonder what I'll do after the World Cup? Will I be sitting in an otherwise silent tram and subconsciously start loudly 'BRRRRRRRRRRRRR'ing away? Will I be in the queue at the supermarket and start making trumpet sounds through empty toilet rolls? But I digress.
I hate the World Cup because it is not the ultimate showcase of the best of the World Game. Second rate referees from useless leagues the world over have turned this alleged spectacle into a debacle. Sepp Blatter's (is there a more despised man on the planet at the moment) insistance that video referees will not happen on his watch has made the greatest game on the planet into the world's laughing stock.
Germany gave England a right and proper towelling, make no mistake. But had Lampard's legitimate goal been allowed to stand at a point in the match where England were threatening to dominate it would have been 2-2 (at least) at the break. Germany would have nothing to show for their early effort, and the game certainly would have had a different complexion. England's more experienced heads may well have then prevailed (especially seeing as Germany's remaining two goals came from breaks after England were in goalscoring positions).
And Brasil this morning? I cannot abide that the poewrhouse of world football, the perennial favourites for these competitions, needs to be handed the advantage by referees paying them free kicks for absolutely nothing whilst they themselves are allowed to kick and push and dive. Why, for instance, wasn't Maicon penalised with at least a yellow card for his blatant dive immediately preceeding Brasil's first goal? FMD!
So we now see Argentina through after cheating at least twice, with Brasil who can do whatever the f@#k they like with impunity, and Germany the benificiaries of a ridiculous mistake.
This world cup just goes from bad to worse for me. You can stick it where the sun don't shine Blatter.

Okay, that's the World Cup done.

Last week I ventured against the cold and wet to watch St Kilda take on Melbourne in the Winter Lawn Bowls semi-finals at Richmond Union Bowls Club. Wonderful day for the Saints. Melbourne really looked, player for player, to have St Kilda's measure - however it was the mighty Saints who prevailed. Special mention must go to Steve Mooney, who bowled like a Demon against the Demons, and the curiously handsome George Matoulis, who can do no wrong with a pair of black balls in his hands.
Afterwards we retired to the club for a lazy couple, and then on the AFB's place for a couple more. He was kind enough to extend his hospitality to letting me stay overnight.
So I wake in the middle of the night dehydrated and disoriented. I figure a glass of water is in order. So I goes to the fridge to see if he has any filtered or bottled water and find a bottle of milk instead. Oh baby. I love my milk. It's practically a full litre. I check the date and in my disoriented barely awake haze I make out the '7th' on the bottle. Cool. It's the 26th now, so he must have just bought it. Ha!
So I put the bottle to my lips (okay, I concede it's pretty poor form to drink out of someone else's milk bottle) and take a giant swig of sweet, sweet milk. Only something's wrong. It's not sweet, sweet milk. It's very, very wrong. I re-check the expiry date and it's the 7th of MAY! Almost a month ago! What kind of degenerate batchelor keeps milk in the fridge for a month after it's expiration??!! BASTARD!! EEEUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!!! Disgusting.
But it gave Andrew a hell of a laugh the next morning. Why I ought to....

Well, that'll just about do for now. I hope you are all braced against the weather and keeping out of trouble.
Oh, and I'd appreciate a few more invites for dinner over these long cold winter months. Seriously!

xxx

World Cup Wrap

2010-06-24T10:15:00.000+10:00

See ya, wouldn't want to be ya.

I'm still not happy.

Many this morning are lauding our 'unlucky' Socceroos after defeating Serbia this morning but I, for one, am less forgiving. This isn't just about Pim. Sure, I still think he's a fraud. I haven't seen anything from him in the last couple of years to suggest that we've come any distance than from when he took over. The same old pathetic dead wood sits alongside him on the bench (yes, I'm talking to you Greame Arnold) and the ranks of young players with the potential to form the spine of our next world cup campaign squad appears thinner than at any time previous.

The players battled hard. That's what I'm hearing this morning. Crap. Sure they tried, but battling hard is what New Zealand and North Korea should be doing. Playing the ball is what we should be doing. And we were disgraced technically by Serbia this morning. I'm not going to turn into a Craig Foster clone and spout his tactical and technical mantra, but he's got a point. Too often we gifted the ball in midfield, made sloppy passes in attack, and went to sleep in defence. Harry Kewell's red card against Ghana, for instance, was a direct result of Wilkshire (who had a good tournament by the way) and Bresciano (who was a dud this tournament) being skinned easliy on the right.

Much needs to be done to reinforce the gains we've made over the past twenty years. Getting rid of Pim should be the first step, getting rid of Arnold should be simultaneous to that, and instating ME as interim manager (at only half the pay Pim was on) should be the highest priority.

Oh, and in other news Julia Gillard has been handed the Prime Ministership of Australia. It's hard for me to complain seeing as most of you know what I think of Rudd, but Julia? PM? Good luck with that one, Australia.

xxx

Safe as Houses - being shot at.

2010-06-22T13:33:00.000+10:00

Yesterday I disembark my City-Loop bound train for a Flinders Street direct service. Three minutes? No problem. but when is three minutes not three minutes? When you're waiting for Public Transport. Some ten minutes elapse before I am greeted by the following announcement:
"Due to a Police Operation all services to and from the City via Richmond Station have been suspended until further notice."
WTF? Is it war? Has Carlzilla raised from his brass encrusted tomb to wreak terror on Melbourne this crisp foggy day?
I walk down to Swan St to attempt a tram into town, but no dice. All tram and light rail services through Richmond are suspended as well. Spooky.
So I decide to walk into town.
Swan Street is blocked to vehicular traffic by a couple of police cars, but not one approached me as I walked past towards the river. I stalled a little as I reached Hisense Arena (directly opposite the new stadium) as there were not only multiple police cars (complete with armed officers looking on nervously), but also OB news vans complete with well suited newsreporters from all major networks. I walk on, pass them all, and continue towards the river.
It was a lovely day. The dense fog that shrouded the Olympic Park Precinct hiding the throbbing chop of the police helicopters from view lifted almost as soon as I reached the Yarra. The sun's reflection spectacular off the gold post-it note atop the Eureka Tower.
So I make it in to school here to look up the interwebs to see what was going on earlier - all those police.
There was an ARMED GUNMAN (I know, saying armed gunman is a lot like saying 'work colleague') running loose around the area I had just walked through. This was deemed serious enough to suspend all rail and tram services through the area, enough to lock down workers at the site of the new stadium and Melbourne Park redevelopment. It was considered threat enough to prevent Melbourne Victory staff from leaving their offices for a cafe latte. It required that through traffic was diverted in all directions away from the scene of the siege. However it wasn't deemed a serious enough threat for EVEN ONE COP TO STOP ME AND TELL ME TO BE CAREFUL - AS THERE WAS A GUNMAN ABOUT!!

So, thanks to Victoria Police I am sat here safe and well. No bullet holes, no internal injuries. I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

xxx

Falling Behind Again

2010-06-16T11:28:00.000+10:00

Greetings loyal peeps.

I'm not about to make excuses, but I've been out of interweb actions for a few weeks.

And school is taking a little more of my time than usual, as end of semester approaches.

I promise that I will make a mega-blog-post to end all mega-blog-posts within a week.

May I preview that post with a www.sackpim.com.au reference, and a general 'you can stick your World Cup trophy sideways where the sun don't shine'?

Stay tuned, people - I promise not to neglect you further.

xxx

The Things Wot I Love

2010-06-02T22:01:00.000+10:00

As I sit here waiting for the clock to strike 40 I think I should put the grumpy old man persona to bed for the night and reflect here on more positive things.

I’d like to share with you all the updated list of things I love.

I love winter sun. I like being able to wear nice clothes including jackets and scarfs and hats that the cooler weather demands, but when that warm winter sun hits my face and puts chocolate freckles in my squinted eyes, that’s just magic.

I love that every time you get on a crowded train there is probably at least one other person thinking dirty thoughts about you.

I love Clare and the Reasons singing ‘Can Your Car do That? I Don’t Think So.’

I love going to class and having a classmate unexpectedly give me a book for my birthday.

I love when you’re having a dream that is so amazing that you’re able to make yourself return to sleep and pick up right where you left off.

I love talking on the phone to a friend in Sydney who can make you look at your life from a completely different, and ultimately more positive, perspective.

I love going to a friend’s house for the weekend and working like a bastard ripping down the ceilings to clean up 30 years of possum poo. I didn’t love the possum poo, but those sorts of weekends are priceless.

I love cooking myself meals at home that are better than restaurant quality.

I love milk. That’s been on the list for a while now.

I love the sound of an orchestra tuning up.

I love the thought that there is someone on the other side of the earth that loves me.

So there you go. Getting soft in my old age. When you read this I will be 40.

I love you all.

xxx

The Humanity

2010-06-01T23:45:00.000+10:00

In what appear to be two separate incidents in ol' Melbourne town today, two women have been attacked and set on fire. One is rumoured to be a domestic dispute, the other a rape.

I simply cannot fathom what has occurred.

Whatever the circumstances surrounding these events can we a) pause and reflect on the horror of what has been inflicted upon these poor women and b) lament that our public health service is manifestly under resourced in regards to mental health.

I don't want to waste too many words on this. I am close to tears.

You Gotta Laugh

2010-05-28T13:30:00.002+10:00

I went to the ENGLISH WORLD PREMIERE of 'Sex And The City 2' last night.

It was awesome. God I love those crazy girls so much. Can not get enough of the SATC franchise. I live my life by their code.

However there was one slight problem with last night's premiere. I was sat behind Sarah Jessica (who needs two christian names?) Parker.*

HEY LADY!! TAKE OFF YER FREAKIN HAT!!!

Who in a million years would be so rude to wear that freakin' monstrosity TO A MOVIE? I seriously hope they stuck her in the back row - only the mess on her hair would probably throw an enormous shadow across the screen.

xxx

* Certain elements of this story may or may not contain traces of truth. However, yes, she did wear that ridiculous hat to the movie. That much is true. *shakeshead*

Dear Minister for Transport

2010-05-26T14:21:00.004+10:00

Dear Mr Pakula,

I enclose for your reference a copy of an infringement notice that I have just received for traveling on public transport without a valid ticket, and to indicate my intention to refuse to pay the $176 fine.

I have a reputation amongst my friends for being the most conscientious ticket purchaser in Melbourne. It is something of a joke in my social circle that I am so fastidious when it comes to purchasing and validating tickets on our public transport system. I am often ridiculed for insisting upon paying for tickets for journeys of only a couple of stops, and am constantly derided for ensuring that I always validate my ticket, even when the ticket has already been previously validated.

I took with good humour the barbs and jibes that came my way when I ordered a MYKI ticket, with the faith that (despite the delay and flaws with its implementation) there was some good to be had for having a pre-paid smart card for our public transport network.

However my faith has now evaporated. I was very tempted to enclose my MYKI card with this letter telling you exactly what you could do with it, but seeing as I still have a couple of dollars charged to the card I see no point in sacrificing even such a small sum to make a point.

I feel some obligation to illustrate all of the circumstances that led to the issuing of this infringement notice, however my excuses are not the real reason for my displeasure – should you wish I am happy to detail the events of that day if it will help you accept my decision not to pay this fine.

At the heart of my frustration is the fact that I am possibly the furthest thing from a fare evader in the whole city of Melbourne. The arbitrary and punitive $176 fine is hardly a fair punishment for what was merely a moment of absent-mindedness. I had a MYKI in my pocket. I could not use that on the tram. When the tram driver informed me that it would be ten minutes before the tram departed (at the Carnegie end of the 67 route) I chose to purchase my ticket from the adjacent milk bar instead of on the tram, as I figured I needed a flavoured milk beverage and a copy of the morning’s daily paper to ease my journey. So I’ve got not just one ticket that I had pre-paid, but two. Obviously I was doing a pretty mediocre job of evading a fare, seeing as I’d technically paid twice.

The instances when I have had a valid ticket (ie: EVERY SINGLE TIME I’VE EVER CAUGHT PUBLIC TRANSPORT) and ticket inspectors have boarded my tram, I have witnessed (EVERY SINGLE TIME) inspectors giving helpful advice and ‘coaching’ people who are either elderly, or claiming English as a second language, on how to use their ticket. This includes allowing them the grace of validating a previously unvalidated ticket. On this occasion I was not afforded that same latitude. Whilst diligent in the execution of his duties, the inspector that issued me with an infringement notice refused point blank to engage me in any explanation of why my ticket was not validated. When I offered my MYKI ticket (not as proof of validation, rather as proof of intent) he suggested that I ‘take it up with the government’.

I nearly had a sense of humour failure when, after the inspector had recorded my details, a group of middle-aged commuters boarded the tram. They had obviously (to me) no intention of purchasing a valid ticket until they noticed inspectors were on board. When they had subsequently purchased their tickets they tried to validate them on the tram, only to be instructed by the inspectors that you don’t need to validate tickets purchased on the tram. Now I heard their instruction and it was misleading. Those commuters were left with the impression that as long as you had pre-paid a ticket you did not need to validate it on the tram (essentially the same offence that I had just been pinged for). It was only upon my insistence that the inspectors re-word that advice that those commuters completely understood the process. Again, hardly the actions of someone who is a fare evader.

Minister, as someone who believes absolutely in public transport, and as someone who knows the importance of the data collection of validating tickets to the effective delivery of public transport services, I cannot abide that your department is seeking to punish me in this way. As I mentioned previously, your arbitrary fine of $176 is nothing but punitive, especially seeing as I had paid for my ticket, and also had money charged to a perfectly functioning MYKI card.

In Melbourne at the moment we are caught between two ticketing systems. As an educated, literate, diligent fare-paying commuter I have been caught out. I can only ponder the number of commuters out there who are both deliberately and unintentionally rorting the system due to this confusion. I feel it is both cynical and mean spirited that the focus of your ticket inspectors seems to be those that (like me) have inadvertently slipped up, rather than those who have sought to gain advantage by cheating the system.

Should none of the above sway you, Minister, I offer to barter the fine I have been issued. To demonstrate my good will I am prepared to trade my fine for a consultancy fee that may very well save your MYKI system. I was prepared to offer my solution free of charge (you know, because I’m such a believer in public transport) but now – well, if you want to go to the next election with an operational MYKI system rather than the white elephant it currently appears to be… Ha! I’ve just read that last paragraph back and I sound like a crank with a mental illness, but I’m serious.

I eagerly anticipate your judicious reply.

xxx

Well, SOMEONE'S reading.

2010-05-25T08:37:00.000+10:00

Finally! The world wide recognition I deserve.

Last night's post about Fergie got me invited onto the BBC World Service. What a lovely surprise.

And for all you people not actually reading this - IN YOUR FACE!

And how about those Socceroos? What are the chances we can sack Pim BEFORE the World Cup instead of having him walk after it?

HHHHHOOOOOLLLLLMMMMMAAAAAANNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!

xxx

Nothing wrong with Fergie

2010-05-24T19:13:00.000+10:00

So now there's this ripping controversy surrounding the Dutchess of York, Sarah Ferguson, 'selling' access to the royal family.

Now Fergie has never struck me as the brightest light on the Christmas tree, but I seriously can not see anything wrong with her recent actions. And let me set the record straight, and this may surprise some of you, I've never met Sarah Ferguson. She comes across as something of a soft target, and there's little I hate more than people coming down hard on a soft target. But I've never met her, so all of my opinions regarding her have been based on a deplorable UK media perspective.

So what has she done, exactly? Well apparently she's in the habit of accepting cash money from people who want to chew the ear of her ex-husband, Bonnie Prince Andrew. There are a couple of things wrong with this picture. Firstly, things must be pretty chummy in the House of Windsor for the carrot topped Fergie to be able to set up liaisons between her EX husband and interested third parties. And secondly, wouldn't you think that Teflon Andy isn't the slightest bit complicit in the arrangements being negotiated by the mother of his children?

So there seem to be people with so much money that they would spring half a million squids for a hook up with Andy. what's that going to gain them, exactly? Surely if they're dumb and rich enough to offer such payment for such a meeting then Fergie is well within her rights to pocket whatever she can from the deal. More fool them, I say. And it strikes me as just plain odd that Sarah is copping so much flak for this when it is Andrew, if anyone, that is compromised by meeting random people for god knows what.

Get off her back, people. Some of us don't seem to be able to make our intelligence pay us a decent buck. At least Fergie seems able to profit from her stupidity. Good on her.

Line in the Sky

2010-05-19T12:55:00.001+10:00

I was just walking home when I heard a faint drone in the distance above me. I looked up to see a huge jet (I'm guessing it may have been a new airbus, but I can't be certain) with a perfect jet-stream spewing out behind it.

I looked back across the length of this line in the sky to see a perfect arc. The air up there must have been perfectly still, and as the aircraft it left a magnificent white thread from one point on the horizon to the other.

It was as if the whole of Melbourne was covered by the Wembley Stadium Arch, only x 1,000,000.

Still the simple things that are truly inspiring. Except that putting 200 tonnes of metal in the air with nothing but air pressure is hardly a simple thing, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

xxx

The Digital Television Revolution

2010-05-18T21:49:00.000+10:00

Thank GAWD for the digital television revolution.

Firstly, straight up, I don't need any of you pay-TV subscribers writing in and telling me I'm a loser for not subscribing to pay-TV. Because I don't even have a home. So there. And even if I did I wouldn't subscribe to pay-TV.

Why should I pay for the home shopping network when I can't even afford to shop for groceries; two country music channels that I'll never listen to; The Seinfeld Channel (there is a Seinfeld channel, yeah?); The Hallmark Channel; what else is there?

So, YEAYHE I says when the digital revolution hit us. Was no trouble for me to buy a cheap set top box. Welcome more than twice as many channels to surf!

So why is it the other day I'm looking for something to fill the procrastinating time when Channels 7/1, 7/2 & 7/3 all have exactly the same thing on; SBS1/2/3/4 all have exactly the same thing on and Channel Ten is showing netball on their free to air service concurrent with ONEHD-1 and ONEHD-2 (one hd one and one hd two - sounds like a skipping game the girls would play at primary school)?

It's madness, I tells ya. MADNESS!!!

AAARRRGGHHH!!!!!

Until (most likely tomorrow),

xxx

Friends Done Good

2010-05-15T11:36:00.000+10:00

If more of my friends were more successful then this could become a regular feature of my blog. Sadly, most of my friends are talentless hacks with no ambition to try any harder to reach any greater success (you know who you are).

But Shalini Akhil continues to set the bar just high enough to make the rest of us want to stop trying.

After having her novel 'The Bollywood Beauty' published a few years ago, Shalini is now a FEATURE WRITER for a new magazine out west, the AU ZONE. Don't ask, I don't know. It's based in the western suburbs so it really could mean anything. I'm surprised it doesn't come with a cap on turned sideways and a flick-knife.

But that's not to detract from Shalini's achievement. I'll let her take the glory over at her blog, i, writer.

Well done, Shalini.

xxx

Traveling Norfside.

2010-05-14T18:37:00.001+10:00

So last night I venture to The Union Hotel north of the river to see my old hero, Stephen Cummings (pictured above). Suave old Stephen. It used to be just 'Suave Stephen', but he's earned the 'old' tag now.

He's really starting to lose it, I'm afraid. His shows have been less enjoyable to me for a few years now, but last night he really didn't do himself any favours. Hey, I still love him - don't get me wrong. But you know your hero is on the way out when he has a folder filled with cheat sheets and he still can't play a single song without error. Did you even rehearse for this latest residency (Thursday nights in May), Stephen? In an old interview on Rage (ABC TV) Stephen suggested one of the beautiful things about music was that people sang their own versions of the songs they loved, substituting lyrics and lending to the work's organic nature. It is a charming story, and riotous that Stephen is essentially doing the same thing to his own songs.

The man is so full of charismatic charm it is almost impossible not to let him get away with it. But the inner muso in me had me practically volunteering to get up and snatch the guitar out of his hands and let him concentrate on the vocal bits. He reminds me of Sinatra (and comparison Stephen would likely relish) when he gave his farewell tour and was caught singing from an auto-cue. Stephen, you are still a formidable force, but you are first and foremost an entertainer - and you do owe your audience the respect to at least put a little more in, or employ some talented others to shoulder some of the burden. Hell, I'll even do it for free.

But to visit a Stephen Cummings show merely to bask in his virtuoso abilities would be ludicrous. It is still the man I love. The man I want to be. He is as charming and effusive as ever. His stumbling and bumbling, whilst frustrating to me - the musician, is ultimately endearing. Some people's old uncles regale you with oft repeated tales, but Stephen regales you with THAT voice. Those mannerisms. And his stories are as funny as ever. Last night's revelation that Catherine Deveny only became an atheist at 38 years of age was precise and hilarious. As much as I've bagged him above I can think of no other performer, or human being, that I'd rather have over for dinner. The man is a living legend, and despite his modern limitations I urge you all to go and see him. One day he may stop doing this - and that I just couldn't bear.

Thanks to Tim & Loz for their incredible hospitality, and the vinyl karaoke session well into the wee small hours. Mark's impromptu rendition of Weddings Parties Anything's 'Up For Air' was incredible... only the second other person I know that knows the song - and he could play it, too.

Anyway, I may well yet make it back to The Union next week for another dose. Only next week I may well pack my ukulele and offer my services to Stephen to spare him his frailties.

Much love,
xxx

Head-On Collision!

2010-05-13T16:54:00.001+10:00

The next person that walks directly at me without watching where they are going is going to be met with 90kgs of me in their way.

I am taking a vow to not step out of anyone's way. Since when did it become the norm for people to just power through the footpath expecting everybody else to get out of their way? It is a modern epidemic, is it not?

I'm not saying I'm going to suplex the next unsuspecting geriatric who inconveniences me. I understand that the footpath is to be shared and we have to make allowances for other people, even if they are mobility challenged. No, I'm talking about YOU, Mr Hipster. You in your too-tight black jeans. You with the fat black rings INSIDE the piercings of your ears. You with the lip ring, the Buddy Holly glasses and the neck tattoo. You, you fucking jerk. You, you underweight over opinioned Gen Y'er. You'll be smirking through the back of your designer flannel when the wrath of my bulk baulks in YOUR way.

You fucking inconsiderate shit.

xxx
Until tomorrow,

I Love a Rudderless Country

2010-05-13T09:24:00.000+10:00

Okay, so I've broken my duck about talking politics. So now the floodgates open. I also figure I can't draw a comment out of my readers to save myself, so if this doesn't fire you all up you can all @#$%-OFF! ;)

Well, it's finally happened.

KRudd's personal persona has spilled into the public domain. I've only seen 'highlights' of the interview on the 7.30 Report, so it could have been taken out of context ARF!), but here is an example:

But Mr Rudd said his government had been the hardest working at the Copenhagen conference.
"(Climate Change Minister) Penny Wong and I sat up for three days and three nights with 20 leaders from around the world to try and frame a global agreement," he said.
"It might be easy for you to sit in 7.30 Report-land and say that was easy to do. Let me tell you mate, it wasn't.

This is typical of this fraud. He thinks working three days and three nights straight is 'hard work'. He works his parliamentary staff (by all accounts) harder than any minister (or PM) in history.

I've always been told that businesses need to 'work smarter, not harder', and KRudd is the antithesis of that. His 20/20 Summit was a stunt by a man with no ideas who cannot lead. He substitutes ideas and leadership with endless hours of huffing and puffing and inventing ways to talk without saying anything.

Last night's outburst, coupled with the polls which have turned against him, signals the end for KRudd. He is gawn. Latham styl-e.

Never talk about Religion, Sex, or Politics.

2010-05-11T17:19:00.002+10:00

Most of my closest who read this blog (I know you pretend you don't, but I know you do) will already be aware of my political leanings. I don't like to bang on about them here because it's pointless. Why alienate people by drawing them into political debate? You're just giving people an excuse to switch off.

However I am breaking that rule right here, right now.

I have just seen our illustrious treasurer, The Hon. Wayne Swan MP, front a media throng prior to the announcement of this year's federal budget. This sort of media opportunity is de rigeur in politics, but the fact that Mr Swan had Jimmy Barnes's 'Working Class Man' piped out during the proceedings is perhaps the greatest act of political kow-towing I have ever seen. Shameless. Pathetic. Disgraceful.

I won't resort to profanity, but I'm sure my readers can fill in the blanks.

_ _ _ _- _ _ _- _ _ _- _ _ _ _ _ _ _ -_ _ _ _ !!

A prize awaits the first correct entry.

xxx

Back to Basics

2010-05-11T15:13:00.001+10:00

Hawwo everybody,

The last couple of months have been mental. I'm not going to bore you with a rundown of what's been keeping me away from blogging, 'cept to say 'I'm back'.

So I've just gotten back from a week in Perth (strange, lovely place) and am in East St Kilda for a few weeks. Got the place to myself (it's not MY place) so I'm looking forward to being able to provide you all close on daily updates for the next little bit.

The good news is that Catherine Deveny's loose tweets have gotten her sacked from The Age. Well, it's not good news if you're Catherine Deveny, but I'm going to try to get her gig. I'm going to start flash flooding the features editor with daily blog posts in the hope that they'll pay me to shut up. Well, not shut up - that's pretty much the exact opposite for what I'm hoping.

The easy target for such local blogging is, of course, public transport. I begin with my recent ode to the transit police following an incident where I failed to validate the ticket I had just purchased despite having a MYKI in my pocket also. Very frustrating.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yemjsAcRKOc

My follow-up was going to be at a new trend in public transport in Melbourne; that of the RIDICULOUSLY SLOW TRAM DRIVER!! The last few tram journeys I've been on (the #5 & #64 routes especially) have been with the world's slowest tram drivers. There's nothing more frustrating. However, in the interests of balance and fair play, I would like to bouquet my tram driver this afternoon. A stupid, reckless woman drove her car out into the median strip on Dandenong Rd and this driver managed to avoid her certain death by judicious application of his brakes. Really, I'm not exaggerating - if he wasn't 100% on his game this lady was DEAD. D-E-A-D. It sure shook him up, so I'm tempering my 'SLOW TRAM DRIVERS CAN @#$&-OFF' with a 'THAT TRAM DRIVER JUST SAVED YOUR LIFE LADY!'

Until tomorrow (probably).

xxx

In your FACES! (Mk II)

2010-04-07T09:55:00.000+10:00

Published again in The Age today.

Dear Editor,
Driving to my Easter holidays this weekend illustrated the madness of our road rules and speed limits.
Joining the M1 at Kingsway I was confronted with a 60kmph speed limit. This on a brand new, multi-million (billion?) dollar road that, if you use the correct ramp and pick the correct lane, is about as idiot-proof driving as you can manage. As we proceeded the was an 80kmph limit, on a stretch of road some five lanes wide. The limit rose further (to 100kmph) as we crossed the Bolte Bridge, and continued at 100 until we reached the outer suburbs and the Calder Park Raceway. I don't know the reason (perhaps it is an effort to convince people living in these suburbs that they are still somehow in the metropolitan region) the limit inexplicably dropped back to 80kmph until well after the raceway. Not long after (a few minutes of doing 100kmph again) the limit dropped back to 80kmph for some imaginary roadworks.
I'm all for a zero tolerance on hoon behaviour, and speeding motorists should cop whatever fine they get for their reckless actions, however the speed limits along our major freeway network are a joke. They force drivers to travel at uncomfortably slow speed, risking arbitrary fines, and the ire of other drivers less respectful of the posted limits than the rest of us.

Yours Sincerely,

Easter stuff

2010-04-05T15:14:00.000+10:00

Hi people.

Just got back from the annual camping trip to Serpentine in Victoria's northwest. Beautiful.

Went up on Wednesday (there was just a few of us there that early) and returned today (Monday) - so that's five/six days without bathing. Delightful. ;) I did swim in the gorgeous Loddon River, so I'm not completely manky.

More arrived Thursday, Friday and Saturday; and not all stayed overnight or indeed for the full trip. But everyone made for a splendid time.

Graeme and Ian, the 70+ year old twins who own the farm we stay on, were in fine form. They visited Friday and Sunday and tried their best to charm the ladies.

Anyway - the stars were amazing, the weather was perfect (save for a bit of wind on Sunday) and the goat curry (thanks Shalini) was awesome.

Thanks to Shane, Sarah and the kids for having us, and I'll be sure and post some more tales (if not from this weekend, something better) and Happy Easter to you all (not that I believe in that guff).

Love,

Craig

xxx

Stuff from today. Friday March 26th 2010.

2010-03-26T12:11:00.000+11:00

Hey ya folks.

Firstly, I have some good news. Garfunkel and Oates are coming to town. Yes, yes, these are the keraaazy gals who sing songs and play guitars and ukuleles. The gorgeous Kate Micucci (pictured left) is one of those gals. They are in Melbourne for the Melbourne Comedy Festival (playing every night at the Hi-Fi Bar & Ballroom, Swanston St). Not sure if I'll be able to go (things are tight, what can I say), but anyone wanting to buy me a ticket and take me along will be guaranteed an awesome night out.

I've just stuck my head outside to watch The Roulettes (Australia's crack precision flying squadron) doing laps over my apartment as part of the Australian Grand Prix celebrations. They're kinda awesome - they fly right over my head here and it's fun to watch. However, as they flew down aways I notice a truck at the end of my street. It drives off as I'm watching it, and it appears to be some kind of tree maintenance vehicle. They've got a huge mulcher on the back and the truck is full of woodchips. So I looks up and what do you know? They've chopped down the tree at the end of the street that looks like (a green) Big Bird from Sesame Street. OH THE HUMANITY!! It's gone... just... gone.

I'm supposed to be writing my novel. I'm enjoying school and doing most of the work expected of me and generally doing well, but the Novel class I'm doing (which started much later than the other subjects) has just revealed that I'm supposed to be workshopping 2500 words of my novel in order to get it ready for submission on the 5th of May. Now this is pretty exciting stuff, except that not only haven't I even begun writing my novel, I have next to no pharken clue what my novel is going to be about yet.

So I've decided to have another competition. I'm going to ask you all what my novel should be about. I know it will be almost impossible for you all to take this seriously, but if you could try to be serious for just a moment I'd really appreciate it.

Anyways, we're of on a surprise weekend tonight. this means I miss out on Monroes Bowls Classic, but what the hell. This should be better. I was forced to guess what the weekend will be, and I wasted my guess on a trip to Tasmania on the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. It's not that - but that would have been nice. So instead it seems it may well be a flight to Sydney tonight and dinner at one of Australia's finest restaurants. I think. I'll tell you next week what it was and how it went.

Until then, compadres.

xxx

Letter to the Editor 23-3-2010

2010-03-23T17:09:00.002+11:00

Dear Editor,
Oh brilliant! The Worm is back ('Worm turns for Rudd in health debate' March 23, 2010). Not content to let voters make up their own minds based upon the performances of our political leaders, television networks insist on feeding us an instant voter reaction to every word uttered in a televised debate. I don't know who these faceless people are, or how qualified they may be to provide such expert instant analysis, but I am amazed that their approval (or disapproval) is often indicated before a question has even been finished - let alone the answer fully heard, comprehended and assessed. Is it any wonder that our esteemed Prime Minister resorts to endlessly repeated catch phrases that can be mindlessly regurgitated by the masses at the expense of real policy detail. Forza 'The Worm'. I don't know how I could direct my vote without it.
Yours Sincerely,

Leter to the Editor 19-3-10

2010-03-19T11:32:00.003+11:00

Dear Editor,
The news that Melbourne has endured 100 days straight of temperatures in excess of 20℃ has brought a predictable response from global climate change believers and skeptics alike. Regardless what view you hold on the issue, it is hard to argue against this being one of the finest Melbourne summers in memory. I then request a moratorium on implementing emissions reductions strategies until our summer temperatures plateau at or around 23℃, if that's okay with everybody else.
Yours Sincerely,

xxx

Letter to the Editor 18-3-10

2010-03-19T10:49:00.001+11:00

Mark Dennis (The Age Letters 18-03-10) complains that he can't ride the same route each day whilst there is an event on at the Exhibition Buildings.
As cyclists (of which I am one) insist, we should all take the courtesy to share our roads (and other tracks) with all. As motorists have to re-route to avoid Albert Park Lake each March, so should cyclist expect that at times (especially at the Exhibition Buildings of all places) we may face the odd inconvenience. Mr Dennis, on two wheels, should be grateful that his inconvenience should allow him to get more exercise and see more of our beautiful city, rather than the gridlock encountered by motorists when faced with similar obstructions.
Yours Sincerely,

NOTE: It appears they won't publish you two days in a row. Bastards!

Letter to the Editor 17-3-10

2010-03-19T10:48:00.000+11:00

Stockland Managing Director Matthew Quinn warns us that Australia is facing a housing affordability time-bomb (The Age 17/3/10). This barely a week after Lorenz Grollo offered more Rialto style high rises to solve the exact same problem. I am not surprised at each of their proposed solutions (build them smaller and pack them in), however I am amazed that the so-called lucky country continues to be left for dead in regards to development zoning and urban planning by autocracies like Singapore. For our governments to act seriously on these critical infrastructure issues there needs to be a wholesale reassessment of our views on urban sprawl. Of course this won't happen, and we will continue to have our housing 'solutions' decided by our biggest (and most profitable) developers.
Yours Sincerely.

NOTE: THIS LETTER GOT PUBLISHED! YEAYHE!! FINALLY!!!!
Although you will note that it is written in a more serious and formal tone than most of my other letters - the irony being that the letter published directly underneath mine was much more like the voice I've been using previously. Damn bastards! ;)

xxx

Letter to the Editor 16-3-10

2010-03-19T10:46:00.000+11:00

Dear Editor,
I read with interest (The Age 16/3/10 'Train commuters spurning myki')that the Public Transport Authority is now paying Claus Jensen $3000 to consult on the myki ticketing fiasco (as well as paying undisclosed sums for additional PR spokespersons).
The irony of this is that if I had have offered my services for half of this fee I would have predicted exactly the same rubbish as they are now spitting back to us three years earlier.
Yours Sincerely.

NOTE: Almost this exact same letter was published under someone else's name yesterday. BASTARDS!!

IN YOUR FACE(S)!!

2010-03-18T21:49:00.000+11:00

Anyone who hasn't already should buy a copy of today's (18/3/10) The Age and turn to the Letters section.

Oh yeah, BABY!

I will indulge a little later on this and other recent events.

I just got published, I just got published, nyeah nyeah nyeah nyeah.

:)

xxx

Blissful ignorance.

2010-03-17T22:51:00.000+11:00

Word to my homies - my phone is practically kaput.

Touch screen isn't operating, so I can't phone, txt or even access numbers.

I can, however, receive calls.

So if you've anything important to tell me (like how you've bought me tickets to this weekend's A-League Grand Final) it is probably best you give me a call.

k

thx

bai!

Golden Plains 2010

2010-03-09T14:52:00.001+11:00

Greetings peoples.

Updates have been quiet this week due to my unexpected participation in the Golden Plains Music Festival 2010. I had not budgeted for this event this year (my poor student funds are way low) and resigned myself to a long weekend at home. However, AFB jumped to the rescue and brought forward my birthday present by a few months to save the day (umm... weekend). So it's BIG UPS to AFB. That is until I reveal that it seems the main reason he couldn't bear to have me absent this year was because then he would have no-one to bag mercilessly. Yeah, thanks for that Andrew. ;)

Firstly to the folks - great times. After avoiding such festivals for years (I like to bathe daily - you damn hippies) I am now a huge convert. Whilst there are plenty of idiots, and more than a fair proportion of ugly people to spunks, the atmosphere at Golden Plains is an absolute revelation. It is proof that people can live in tents in close proximity, high on drugs and fueled with alcohol, without bathing, and being bombarded with loud music of almost every persuasion incident free.

It also appears to be the only annual event that unites the tribes North and South of the Yarra River. Wonderful to spend time with Tim and Loz (yes, even the spirited political discussions); Nicky and Jamie (who is such a Gregan clone I had to double take a few times); Paul (Balki) Young and the delightful Julia; and Tim's mate Matt - the communist version of Frasier Crane.

The Castlemaine crew were there again. Dave and Yodhi (Dave seemingly recovered from his tubgirl experience and Yhodi dancin' up a storm - "I'm f@#$in' OUT OF MY MIND!!" she screamed whilst dancing at one stage); and Paul and Robyn (sorry, Robyn is still my favourite - she's so dreamy). There were a few other Castlemaine Crew tacked onto to the periphery of our site this time around, but to be honest they were of dubious benefit to the vibe. I was particularly resistant to one woman who enlisted the help of three people to help dismantle her tent. Three people helped to dismantle her tent whilst she did absolutely NUTHIN' to help. Didn't like her at all.

There were a few stories of abject failure. Kev got coerced to have a beer (as if it is possible to coerce Geezer into having a beer) at breakfast time Sunday, and slipped down a very slippery slope resulting in us (ie: Shane) carrying the poor wee unconscious Kev to bed at bout 3pm - never to surface again that day. This served merely to lessen the softness of AFB's effort (8.30pm) and Shane's effort (also 8.30pm). You are all SOFT.

What I got up to probably doesn't belong on this blog, but (without going into specifics) it was fantastic. Each of the million drops of rain that fell onto my tent Saturday night set off a pinprick of light of infinite colour, infinite vibration and infinite intensity. My mind was a moving, talking, singing, drowning Mandelbrot set that was as joyful and religious an experience as you could ever wish for. That as until AFB started heckling me to the point that I had to rise from my trance-like state. Although, to be fair, had I not emerged I probably would not have witnessed the Ferris Wheel contorting and spinning in a wild cacophony before transmorphing itself into the shape of a giant elecronical baboon that took on the entire festival with its War of the World light-beam claws.

As for the music, well, let's say I was mildly disappointed. Pavement were by far the highlight for me. I've been a huge fan for years and to get the chance to see them live years after they disbanded was simply magnificent - even if the set lagged a little. But Pavement weren't the only culprit in this - my biggest disappointment of the entire festival was the number of bands that seemed to lose interest two-thirds of the way through their set.

Nashville Pussy (who were rated as easily the highlight of the show by the majority of our crew) were just about to suck cynical ol' me in with their renegade devil-may-care muthafucking Southern Rock and Roll (which, to be fair, they did brilliantly) when they commenced a dire twenty minute version of "Nutbush City Limits". Diabolical.

The Cruel Sea were close on the headline act and even they disappointed with the same misdemeanor. Tex has got charisma to burn, and much like Tim Rogers and You Am I did last year had the potential to rip the crowd into tiny pieces and blow them away. However just as it seemed they were about to fire up and rock out they reverted to this lame and unconvincing twenty minute white-boy faux-reggae schtick that fell as flat as the singing of the guy from "The Wooden Shjips" (who were my suckarse award winner for most pathetic impersonation of a rock band I've ever been subjected to).

It rained, but we barely got wet. MEGA-TARP did its job once again. The rain that attacked us on Sunday night was relentless and forced me inside prematurely, but seems it was far milder than the savage storms that attacked Melbourne in our absence.

So once again, huge thanks and big ups to everyone who helped make this weekend so special once again,

xxx (and an extra x to Robyn *blush*)

Craig

Letter to the Editor 4/03/2010

2010-03-05T09:35:00.000+11:00

Still unpublished. I'm getting mad now - yesterday's was a peach.

Dear Editor,

Your link to an article (Essential Baby 03/03/10) revealing the obscure practice of parents tattooing their twin babies for identification provided fascinating reading.

As a twin myself I wondered if this couldn’t be adopted as standard practice – it would spare much confusion and save a lot of trouble for the children involved.

Today’s article ‘Man duped twin brother’s lover into having sex’ (The Age 4/03/10) suggests that a discreet tattooed dot on the foot may not be enough of a marking for some people’s taste. Perhaps a name across the forehead would be a better idea?

Yours Sincerely,

Letter to the Editor 18/02/2010

2010-03-04T18:50:00.002+11:00

Dear Editor,
Thank you for the story regarding Tony Abbott’s sex life (The Age online 19/02). I think it essential that voters have a sneak peek into the deepest recesses of the mind of any potential Prime Minister. We’ve previously heard his views on sex-before-marriage and abortion. I think it only fair that we add his views on carnal pleasure to the list.
Are Abbott’s fundamental Christian values on these issues more newsworthy than anyone else’s? Should this make Abbott an easy target of ridicule?
Our current Prime Minister shares quite strong religious tendencies, yet we don’t seem to be subjected to mental images of Kevin’s views on similar matters.
I suppose I should at least be grateful for that.
Yours Sincerely,

Letter to the Editor 1/03/2010

2010-03-04T18:49:00.000+11:00

Dear Editor,

Keiran Ryan of Sorrento (The Age 1/3/10) complains that he feels he is in the middle of an episode of Yes Minister with regards to the systemic failure of the Solar Energy Billing system.
Over the past few weeks Yes Minister has been mentioned on frequent occasions as an anecdote to the current workings of government. My question is why is anyone so surprised? A television comedy series whose script is based on the workings (and failings) of government? Of course it reflects with some accuracy the real processes of government and all its pitfalls.
What should be more distressing to your readers is the disturbing resemblance current government process bears to an episode of the Teletubbies.

Yours Sincerely,