Saturday, July 26, 2014

Games Games Games, every where Games

Didn't we just have the Commonwealth Games in Russia? In Stella, or Sochi or Shitty, or somewhere?

Didn't some games just happen in Brazil? And aren't some other games going to happen in Brazil again next month, or soon, or something?

Are we now having games every few months, or something? Have sporting events gone mad! What gives?

Have athletes suddenly got good lobbyists who have won them the right to bore us to death on a continual basis?

Is this a plot by Tony Abbot to take the spot light off him, actually, being a cunt?


Does this have something to do with Ian Thorpe telling us he is a fudge packer?

Oh... really... not the Australian spirit? Aussie Aussie Aussie, blah blah blah, is that better? I, actually, don't care who wins or who loses? No, I don't. Whatever country? Yawn. 

Can you tell?

(Aren’t they held for Rupert Murdoch to make millions from TV rights, anyway?)

I thought I was being un-Australain (you know, that expression that the barely not racist nationalist types like to use) maybe a bit GOM, or so my friend Perry labeled me when I told him, but there was a vote on ninemsn which asked, Are you interested in the Commonwealth Games and something like 60% of those who responded said no. I was, actually, surprised, I thought it would have gone the other way, you what a bunch of sporting yobs Australia is (you know you get your nuts rubbed with nugget if you can't kick a football by six months of age) but it made me feel better about how I was feeling. Ha ha. Better about myself, big smile.

Santo said that I didn't have to watch it, which is true, clever Santo, but it is hard to avoid sport overload altogether when all of the news/variety shows/online whatevers bang on about it relentlessly. 

Still, I'm not complaining, Santo is right, after all. Just turn it off and stop whinging. "The only ears you are making bleed are mine."

But, apparently, some athlete we sent to... now where is it? No, don't tell me, I know this, Barcelona, won gold, yippee!

Queue the national anthem. And pass the tissues. And excuse me while I...

(Rumour is, that Ian Thorpe is doing gobbies in the change rooms for the winners)

Friday, July 25, 2014


I love driving home in this sun light.

OMG! I nearly made a complete fool of myself

I nearly drove into the gates at work, yesterday morning. Jasus! I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Ha ha. Daydreaming? Would I say that I was daydreaming? What choice do I have, but to admit that I was daydreaming? It is what I do best, after all. 

Could you imagine, the new guy crashing through the front gates? Make an impression, they say. Get noticed, they say. Oh fuck!

I was zipping down the main road outside work. Although the roads weren’t especially busy, there were cars right behind me. There are two sets of gates, as there are two driveways next to each other, as there are two properties, with cyclone wire fences, evidence of our previous, glorious manufacturing past, before conservative Liberal Govts sold everything and allowed everything else to be moved offshore. In the morning, both sets of gates have always been open and in the open position they are barely recognisable as two sets of gates at all.



I usually go through the second set of gates to the car park. I think I was singing Angie, with Mick as we approached the driveway. It wasn’t until I had my left hand front wheel, literally, on the driveway – all that cyclone wire just tends to merge into one image – that I realised the second set of gates was, in fact, closed. I’d never seen them closed before. I hit the brakes and came to a sudden stop, I can tell you. (Insert skid sound) The cars behind me all stopped. They didn’t really have to, as I moved forward and onto the driveway and off the road completely. But there was a P-plate driver directly behind me who panicked, I guess, and stopped and remained stationary, as if to draw greater attention to my stupidity, like some little snitch. 

“Move alone, move along, there is nothing to see here.” 

I managed to back across the double driveway to the open set of gates and scoot out of sight, as the line of traffic behind the P-plater got steadily longer. It wasn’t until I had done that that the P-plater moved off cautiously, eyeballing me with his fear and ineptitude as he went. I almost expected him to bring his finger’s to his eyes and then point them at me. 

I wanted to call out, “Shoo! Shoo! Off you go! Get some driving experience and then you can judge,” but I didn’t, of course.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

What's with the mass outpouring?

People packed St Paul’s Cathedral? Why? Are people so bored with their lives that they need the misery of people they don’t even know to make their own lives more interesting, more meaningful. I’m sure it has something to do with our slavish addiction to the twenty four hour news cycle. I’m betting it will be a “syndrome” in years to come. 

I just don't understand why? Would you go to the funeral service of somebody you didn't know?

Do you think we feel this mass grief for disasters because we are so mean and selfish and self focused with each other day to day? We treat each other badly in this dog eat dog world. We are mean to people on the roads, we are mean to people at work, we are mean to people on social media. We’re all just one comment away from being a troll, apparently. We’d think nothing of disadvantaging someone else if it advantaged us. 


We are mean to the poor (try harder), the unemployed (get a job), the displaced (don't come here and take our jobs). We are taught by governments to distrust refugees (get in line, or we'll send you back to where you came from). 

Do you think a big disaster gives us a communal sense of relief, that we can throw off the guilt and feel good about ourselves for feeling empathy for other people?


Do big disasters make us feel better about ourselves?

Wednesday, July 23, 2014



Foggy Melbourne morning

Awful things happen to people, we're just not expecting it

Yes, the stories are awful, but there are always awful stories. 

Terrible things happen in the world. Awful things happen to a lot of people and now awful things have happened to all of those people on that plane. Well, I guess, to their relatives. From all reports, the passengers on the plane would have been killed instantly, so there was no pain for them, just the end. Blink. Over. Gone. Mercifully, I would add.

But, there is nothing the relatives of MH17 can do now. Write their open letters to the world leaders, but what will that do? Maybe, it might bring the perpetrators’ to justice, maybe, eventually, but what justice? It wasn’t personal, it was war. What justice is there in war?

It was sealed the minute that rocket was launched. It was sealed the moment that Russia invaded Ukraine. It was sealed with the annexation of Crimea. It was sealed when the USSR was broken up in 1991.

It was a war zone and we sanction war. We send troops to fight wars. We invade countries and fight wars. (Australia has ordered how many billions of dollars worth of war machinery airplanes?) Your children, your relatives, were a casualty of war. They were collateral damage.


Accept it with dignity, that is all you have left to you now. It is a terrible thing, for sure, but nothing can change it now. Look after yourselves, let grief go. Forgive.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Mr Rabbit must be thanking his lucky stars


One Term Tony must be whooping and yahooing behind closed doors with MH17 being shot down. It is taking the heat off his miserable budget and him being the most hated Prime Minister in Australian history.

Let's hope it is sorted out quickly so that hideous human being running the country can't get too much political millage out of it.

I never really understand the deal with the bodies? Is it because people still suffer under the Christian delusion of going to heaven? I guess it must be. You all know, there is nothing afterwards, don't you? It just seems like a waste of money to me. They are just shells, no good to anyone, once the life has gone out of them.

I watched them searching the Ukraine sunflower fields and thought if I was blown up in a plane and I landed there, I say, just dig a hole and bury me under the sunflowers, I could think of worst places to be buried. They are quite lovely, actually. I could think of worse ways to spend eternity, feeding the sun flowers.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Death by blancmange.

Former Foreign Minister Julie BitchUp (Oh I know, it just has a good ring to it though, don’t you think?) will travel to New York tomorrow to lead Australia's campaign for a binding UN resolution to support an open, transparent and international investigation into the tragedy.

You’ve got to hand it to politicians, any excuse for an overseas junket.

I’d like to see Julie BitchUp drown in junket, actually. I could imagine that famous stare, with the ball of my foot pressed firmly on her forehead, going slightly cross-eyed as her face slowly disappears from view under a sea of white pudding. Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug.

Watch her breath in the solid milk air in shorter and sharper bursts, blocking, nothing, gagging, still. It would froth around her nostrils and mouth, where it becomes thinner in consistency as it mixes with desperation until it lies in two layers, when the thrashing stops; thicker milk fats and thinner dribbles exiting Ms BitchUp, like bubbles floating away on the surface wake disappearing, in the silence of what once was.

Death by blancmange.


Flummery mummy.