Thursday, November 18, 2004
And yes, that means I've stopped wallowing in my own issues and decided to get my teeth into some REAL issues. Belatedly or not. Out of the quagmire, into the frying pan.....
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
I didn't blog about Politics before the election, and I'm going to be consistent on that, until such time as I choose to make this a political blog. All I'm going to say about the result is that it wasn't the one I was hoping for. I was hoping for change. I was hoping that people saw through the lie that was the interest-rate scare campaign. I had hope. And in vain.
So congratulations to Howard, Costello, all the RWDB's who must be very happy right now, and anyone else who feels good about the result.
And huge Kudos to Darp, who, unlike myself, would not sit back and be apathetical about it all, and would not resign himself to defeat, who stood up for what he believed in, and to his credit, he and people like him in Bennelong forcedThe Rat to preferences.
Next time I'm in Sydney, I'm buying you a beer, Darp.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Because I am a simpering moron when it comes to those codey things (alright, I'll use the real word - templates. Happy?) I have only just updated my blog with new linkage, and fixing up old linkage that had gone awry. So, please make welcome:
The Supermacado Project (Has been on the sidebar for a while, but I'd fucked up the address)
The Line of Contempt (From the makers of John Howard: PM)
Burnt Karma (If the theory holds, I'm going STRAIGHT TO HELL)
Inhibitory Links (Should have been up here three months ago)
Ms. Hairy Legs (Go.Look.NOW)
Twisting and Turning through the Never (The Boy's blog. I'm so lazy my boyfreind takes two months to get a gig!)
So. Go and check out some blogs created and maintained by people far more talented, interesting and amusing than myself. But, give me kudos as you shut the door for finally working out how to get the linky table thing wider. It's taken me five months, and I'm very proud of it.
Friday, September 24, 2004
My birthday was on Monday, and since its traditional to get pissed, I figured, what better way to celebrate than to get pissed with other, and the grilling of a dead animal or two? So Saturday last saw me and a few of my freinds have a bit of a drink, lament the return of a Meatloaf CD from what we had hoped was a permanent retirement, and, as suggested by the title, the arrival of a giant penis.
We got into it fairly early, when Danny, Phildo, Jacob, Katie and Leprechaun Girl arrived around 3pm, and, despite my most ardent protests, I ended up with a red in one hand and a Coldie in the other. Next to arrive were Justin and Kirsty, a few freinds of my Dad, who gave me a present of my first lottery ticket EVER. A rather protracted conversation about how Lotto tickets worked ensued, and to date I still have no idea whether or not I'm a millionaire. The commandeering of the CD player drove us young 'uns outside, until the arrival or Andy, Crackers and Nuffman, when it had gotten a little colder and the bottle of Jim Beam on the kitchen counter started calling my name. From this point on things are much more blurry, although I can state with some certainty that everyone who arrived after that point got a 25 minute tour of the house, and a demo of the didgeridoo in the loungue.
Just as I was taking the 20th person to arrive on a totally pointless tourn of my house (Culminating in an in-depth discussion of my notice board), I heard a yell from the front door in Evil Andrew dulcet tones "KERI! There's a giant penis at the door!" I wondered out just as a giant balloon sculpture wandered up the hall followed by my best mate, Leis and her boyfreind Pete, was quite the ice-breaker for all those who had never met each other before (Which was most people) After the festivities had concluded around midnight, two car-loads of us decided to go on a bit of a jaunt to the nightclub my brother works at, where I am assured I was "As fucked up as I have ever seen you" But, somehow, I still ended up looking after Liz, a girl we had just met, and forcing water down her throat in an effort to stop her throwing up on my lap.
Needless to say, when I returned home at around 7am, having completely forgotten about the giant penis in my bedroom, and just shoved it off my bed, I was quite surprised, therefore, to wake up some hours later to discover a giant baloon-penis nudging me in the ear. Not at all surprising was the fact that I was not at all well enough to attend AJ'S Brithday BBQ, as it was during daylight hours, and I had suddenly allergic to both sunlight and getting out of bed with out the assistance of a drip and a stomach pump. Given the options, I think I made the right choice.
(Many apologies to AJ, and I PROMISE you will received your present soon Happy Birthday, AJ!
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
At my bus stop this morn I noticed a new ad for Nurofen. At least I think it was Nurofen, but considering I'd only been awake fifteen minutes and it was the wrong side of seven am, I could have been wrong.
But I digress. The ad, proclaiming in large letters that it offered STRONG PAIN RELIEF, also proclaimed it was so strong it was available ONLY IN PHARMACY.
No, that's not my error. Thats what the ad said. What I would like to know is;
A) If you're marketing strategy covers hundreds of Bus Stops, wouldn't you proof read it first?
B) If it is indeed, only available in pharmacy, would you mind telling me specifically WHICH pharmacy its available in?
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Fuck. The day started off so well. Had a fairly succesful 8.30 meeting, though The Boy missed the bus because the bus driver is a bastard. Again, the man is so rude it beggers belief.
Got the house to myself tonight, as my father is playing darts, so if my latest purchases of Pride and Prejudice on DVD (Yes, Jeremy, it IS an obsession) and Black Books Series three are waiting for me then I've got a good night of couch-time booked in. If not, then maybe I'll clean my room. More likely I'll give Love Actually another spin, or find something else I haven't watched yet.
Anyway. Apparently there's been a bomb blast at the Australian Embassy in Jakarta. Jeremy at Melbourne Lefty has the details, so go have a look if you haven't already. Hope they catch the sons of bitches who did it, and they burn in hell while their however many virgins taunt them with something long and pointy and sharp. Martyrs my arse. Anyone who strikes at innocent is no fucking martyr in my book.
It's also occured to me that I've made a rather large oversight and not linked to Scott over at Inhibitory Links, so here's your link, Scott, and it'll be in the sidebar by tomorrow morning. Sorry, mate. Should have been done months ago.
Anyway, by now I'm sure The Boy is waiting at the bus stop, as I'm running stupidly late again, so thats all from me for today.
Fuck I talk some shite. And boring shite at that.
As I bitched yesterday about things I don't like, I figure I'll go the opposite and tell you what I DO like. Sorry if its a little too coated in sachrine, but at least its freindly to diabetics.
Things I love
Arguing. I love being quick with an answer. I like catching someone else tripping up on their words. I like trying to get out of my own verbal gaffs. I love it when someone beats me, but I love beating them just as much.
I love discussing a viewpoint with someone who doesn't agree with me. You learn more that way. I love changing my mind because new information has just come to light, because it means its still open. I love having Political discussions when you least expect it - In the middle of a pool tournament, with a taxi driver at 5am, with someone in the line for beer at the footy at half time at the MCG.
I love the smell of rain, even though rain makes my knee ache. I love watching someone catch on to a song I love. I love the sound of laughter - racous, belly laughter, squacking, snorting laughter. I love the crinkle in the skin around someones eyes when you make the smile. I love being afraid. I love the crowds at rugby games ("Ten thousand instant Christians") on that note, I love Max Boyce, Billy Connolly, All of the Monty Python crew, Black Books, BlackAdder, Ben Elton and Lenny Henry.
I love a close sports game of any kind. I love the roar of the crowd, the shiver up your spine, the nail marks in the palm, the loss of your voice from screaming your team over the line, the jubilation with total strangers on the way home, bursts of song, bursts of joy, bursting into tears when it goes the wrong way ("There's always next week, love")
I love the stupid In-Jokes you have with freinds from years ago, some so old you have trouble remembering where they came from ("Today is Tuesday. NEVER forget that"/ "My shoe is falling off, My shoe is falling off, ladidadidadida, my shoe is falling OFF!"/"You spelt illiterate wrong!")
I love pressing the snooze button. I love the smile on The Boys face when I meet him somewhere. And the goofy smile on mine. I love the looks people give us when we do stupid things like tickle each other mercilessly in public. I love that he is the EXACT perfect height for me to lean my head on his shoulder when we're walking down the street. I love that it feels wierd if I sit on the train or bus without an arm around me or his hand in mine, and I fear falling asleep and automatically leaning my head on a strangers shoulder (I'm SURE I did that this morning) Fuck it. I love The Boy.
I love my Dads jokes and the way he laughs at himself. I love the smell of his cooking. I love the way he'll break into an old song for no reason, and you find yourself singing along. I love the way he chews on his gold chain, and the fact that because I used to play with it so much he bought me an identical one for my eighteenth. I love the way he walks, and occasionally dances, into a room. I love his wicked sense of humour.
I love my brothers total enthusiasm for some things and his dislike for EVERYTHING else. I love watching him read a newspaper as though its interactive, and watch him take things he doesn't like personally, as though the bad review of a movie he loves is there just to annoy HIM. I love the stress he causes himself over the loss of a sock, when none of his socks are his, he just pinches my Dads.
I love my Grandmothers laugh and her optimism and toughness, and the at the same time, I love how gentle she is. I love the fact that shes nearly totally blind but still manages to notice if I've had a hair cut. I love my Uncle Rays protectivness and the simple joy things give him. I love watching my cousins learn new things and hang on your every word about the rain cycle even though they're only five. I love watching them emerge into brand new people and forming the same bonds I have with my family. We won't see each other for years at a time because we live so far apart, but we fall back in to old patterns so easily.
I love listening to my Grandfather talk about history, and his love for boxing, his obsession with being in the paper, his penchant for ties and cardigans, even if he's only going shopping. That you can laugh at him, and he'll laugh along with you, the way he calls me "Chick" or "Chicken"
I love the fact that most of my family has at least four ways of spelling my name, and sometimes use more than one at once. I love that the back door is always open, and the kettle always on. When I was a child, I loved the Gooseberry bush out the back of my aunts house. I love the hills of my homeland, and the trees of the new. I love my family from the old, and the freinds who've become my family here. I love that I'm the child of two countries, and the itchy feet I get in both to be in the other. I love that when I'm here, Merthyr is "Home" and when I'm there, "Home" is Melbourne. I love the indignation I feel for this city when someone says that Sydney, souless, Sin-City, is superior. Mexicans rock, my freinds, Mexicans rock.
Home is where I keep the majority of my shoes, it would seem.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
I'm just a little weary today. Last night was The Boy's first gig, at the Barley Corn Hotel, and considering they went onstage at 9.30pm it was never going to be an early night.
But I certainly didn't expect to wake up so shagged and have so much trouble getting out of bed. Although very strange dreams involving people I know living in Mangrove Swamps, The Boy turning commentator/Pro Wrestler after a stouch with a security guard at Crown Casino and people swinging on lamp posts in the middle of an argument about a Post-it note doesn't leave you very refreshed of a morn.
Anyway off the Swamp Monkeys and back to the gig.
It went really well. Although I could tell The Boy was nervous, I don't know that anyone else would have, and having performed in Theatre for 13 years does give you a more critical view than most. He has a fantastic voice, the songs are well written, and no one booed. There was jigging, four "groupies" with "Malk's our man" t-shirts, cheering from people with rather loud voices, a VERY bright camera flash, and visits from people up until yesterday I had vowed never to speak to again. I'm not going into that, sketchy details are here, and we'll leave it at that. Suffice to say The Boy wasn't the only one with nerves. For several reasons. Firstly, the fact that Lion was turning up, with his girlfreind, and I hadn't seen him since the night he said something he later changed his mind on but decided that the best way for me to find out would be through other people and through alternate periods of complete ignorance of my existence, apart from the occasional message blaming me for miscommunications from someone I will never again trust in my life, and sending me messages full of curiosity to how I was going and promising me we'd meet up soon, etc. Not that i'm bitter, or anything.....
The second being The Boys ex-girlfreind, who we shall, from now on, be referring to as Psychotic Stalking Manipulative Bitch. Maybe just The Psycho for short. God, I hope she reads that, because even though a lot of people (including myself and The Boy) have told her that, it doesn't seem to have sunk in and to the best of my knowledge she isn't currently sporting a straight-jacket and bouncing her crazy conspiracy theories about how much of a bastard The Boy is (while in the same breath apologising for her behaviour) to four padded walls. Or bringing up things THAT NEVER HAPPENED from four and a half years ago that she had no involvment in as a way of justifying stalking The Boy, sending flaming messages to all his freinds, making up two completely false identities as a way of staying in contact with him and generally being, well, a Psychotic Stalking Manipulative Bitch. There was the possiblity she would turn up, as she still frequents the forum The Boy and his freinds have for organising group outings and the like, and she would have known all about the gig, where it was, what time, etc, and knowing her, could justify her presence there even though quite a few people have made it plain that her presence around us will not be tolerated. I wasn't so much nervous as wary of the fact that I know I would have no compunction in kicking her psychotic arse, and I didn't want to make a scene unless it was absolutely necessary. Okay, so a large portion of me wants to snap her neck like a twig and hear that satifying crack (Something akin to snapping apart yoghurt packs) that means a broken bone, but the non-mental part of me realises that its probably not the best idea in front of a stupid amount of witness' and The Boy was nervous enough without having to perform with the spectre of his girlfreinds impending court date for murdering his ex-girlfreind Jerry Springer style hanging over his head.
Speaking of his head, does anyone know a way to cure a bad hat fetish? And we're not even going to discuss the horrible red tie. You know those ties that are a faded kind of red with those patters usually seen on circa-70's wallpaper? mmm. I have a burial spot all picked out for it, but The Boy, even if he has the occasional bad tie, is far too clever for any kidnapping plot to succeed unless it was exceptionally covert, and undercut with the theme to Mission: Impossible. Not that I want The Boy to change, you understand, I just want him to change that paticular tie, and the hat. I have no objection to A hat, but this hat is slightly, shall we say, ZZ Top-esque.
Anyway, I think now that I've bagged his hat and his tie, its only fair I give him huge Kudos now. Firstly, for having the balls to get on stage and belt out tunes the public had never seen (or heard) before, especially considering how nervous he had been. Secondly, for having a beautiful voice, well controlled (apart from a few nervous twitches) and well suited to his chosen genre, and, if I might say so myself, he was easily the best looking person on stage last night, even in the hat and sunglasses, for persevering even though his pick got inexplicably caught in his E string (Not a G-String. Ick) in the middle of a paticularly nice piece, for generally being a kind, generous, giving, fun and lovable Boy, and for all of that, I couldn't be prouder to be the Frontmans Ho' (I had previously suggested Band Whore, but he took exception to the fact that I'd be sleeping with the entire band, one of whom is 16. Some people are so pedantic.)
So, a good performance all round, and here's hoping its the first of many.
Monday, August 30, 2004
And get your collective arses down to the Barley Corn Hotel this Wednesday to see The Boy's band, Lethal Lix, play live. There will be drink giveaways (If I haven't nabbed them all before you get there) and the rest of the details are as below:
WEDNESDAY 1ST SEPTEMBER
The Barley Corn Hotel,
177 Johnston Street, Collingwood.
9.30pm $5 entry.
Friday, August 27, 2004
So I have two posts that I was going to put on here, and one for today.
I suggest you grab a cup of tea, and prepare for a bex and a good lie down, because this is going to be a long one....
A GOOD WEEK.
Sorry for the absence, people, I had the week off work, so no blogging for this little cookie.
So for those who are gluttens for punishment, here;s a brief look at last week:
Failed to sleep in on my first day off. Barely slept at all. Wnet to the pub with Danny, my brother, for lunch, went shopping and BOUGHT TWO SKIRTS. It's a monumental thing that people get to see my knees now, so it needed to be put in capitals. Trust me, it did.
Went underwear shopping. I'd say lingerie, but I had to buy a sports bra and sensible underwear for wearing with the new skirts. Met The Boy for lunch at the Oxford Scholar. Won a Southern Comfort Lanyard. Found out what the word Lanyard meant. Saw The Boys office. The Boy asked if he could see my blog and considering he was checking my e-mails, doing my banking and generally being his usual sweet self, how could I refuse? The boy sets up his own Blog after reading mine.
Got m hair done, FINALLY. I now have straight, shiny, lovely coloured HAIR, instead of a poodle-esque afro mess. The Boy came over and we watched Black Books. Kinda.
FRIDAY - Well. Friday could use its own post. Friday, I woke up rather grumpy, as is my wont, and wandered out, bleary-eyed, to collect the mail. And tripped over something that had been placed right in front of my front door. Luckily, I noticed the name and address on it before I kicked it flying. It was a box-of-flowers shaped box, and it was addressed to me. ME? Huge-dressing-gowned-Peter-Alexander-thesearen'tuggbootstheirhomeboots - booted - crazy eyed me? So, gingerly - just in case they were a bomb, or some kind of practical joke - I carried them inside, bewildered. Totally and utteryl flabergasted. The Boy is the only person (I hope) who would send me flowers. Why would the boy send me flowers? So I opened the box, and, squealing far too girlishly (Yes, Boy, I squealed) saw red roses, a box of Lindt chocolates, potpurri, and rose oil. Roses. Red Roses. Lindt chocolate. Then, as if it could get any better, I opened the card that came with them. They were, indeed, from The Boy. And he'd written me a poem.
And a real-honest-to-goodness poem.
Written for ME.
I am, therefore, nominating The Boy for best person EVER.
Turns out Friday was one month since we'd gotten together. I've been so wrapped up in the goodness that it hadn't occured to me, but The Boy notices and decides to send me Roses.
And you know the best thing? (Apart from the above) I let him read this Blog last week, and there was a post that said things were close to perfect, and the only things I needed for perfect were a packet of Tim Tams that never runs out and a big bunch of flowers. And he gets me the bunch of flowers.
Before he had even read the Blog.
Anyway, he's started a Blog. The Boys blog can be found here . Check it out, not only because he's my Boy, but because he says several nice things about me, and if you're in need of cheering up, his post of last Friday should put a smile on your face.
It did with me. But, The Boy can do that to you.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Musings of a Friday afternoon are never bound to be productive or thought-provoking, but it's possible I've set a new low today.
Ah well, drinks with The Boy tonight before he goes to the footy, and dinner and a movie tomorrow. What more could a girl want? Apart from a packet of Tim-Tams that never runs out, and maybe a big bunch of flowers.
But if you can't have absolutely, positively everything, bloody close to perfect will just have to do.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
And yes, Mildura IS a hole.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
A few new blogs to link to, that I recommend, endorse, and lick the boots of talent that I don't possess:
AUSSIE ANKLE BITER - A Blog run by Jess Healy, lead Democrate candidate for the Senate in Victoria. She's got my vote.
And after reading Jess' blog, I came across URBAN CREATURE. Some creative ideas, and quite well written (In my humble opinion)
That's really all I can be arsed with today. Meeting The Boy shortly so we can catch the bus home together. And I'm tipping his infinite patience will not extend to blog-related lateness resulting in us having to wait half an hour for the next bus.
Will also introduce The Boy formally tomorrow. Or talk about him on a blog he knows exists but hasn't been given the address to yet, as the case may be....
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Danny Williams has been banned for 18 weeks following his king hit on O'neill. (Full Story here)
I find that absolutely disgusting. Banning someone for 18 weeks for a clumsy punch that was in response to a careless high tackle is just bullshit. And O'Neill, while found guilty of the infringement, doesn't miss one minute.
18 weeks for a clumsy punch in response to an illegal tackle is just pure bullshit. Not only does it end his career if he can't get the sentence reduced, but O'Neill gets off 100% scot free for the tackle! It's not like the spear tackles and careless high tackles that can cripple, maim and end players' careers, and in extreme cases, lives. This wasn't something that could have done, realistically, a whole lot of physical damage to a man who is used to taking a lot more physical punishment, as Rugby is a harsh, physical game.
Concentrate on trying to stamp out the more dangerous aspects of the game, I say. O'neill could have inflicted far more damage on Williams with that tackle than Williams could have done with a dozen punches, not just one.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Last thursday saw me and 32 others who play at The Pool Room in Upper Ferntree Gully (Just south of the end of the earth) set out for a journey of epic proportions. Well, not really, but I've never had any sense of proportion, so it felt pretty epic in the lead up. We all had to play Elite league first (Where my team, the Premier Pussies (charming name, I know) had their FIRST EVER Elite win. HURRAH!!!) so we ended up leaving the Room at around 11.30pm. After a stop at Safeway to get the necessaries (Batteries, a camera, Multi-V Juice (my saviour), pringles and Natural Confectionary Company Dinosaurs), and a stop so Vroom could take a highly unneccesary amount of time to clean his car, we set off properly. All was going well, and some spirited rounds of Twenty Questions ensued. Although as we'd all been up from times varying between 5am and 7am in the morning and it was 3am the next day, it turned into more like 120 questions.
But I digress. Where things got interesting (And I say interesting in the context of exceptionally frsutrating and teeth-grindingly incompetant) was when we reached St. Arnards. Vroom turns to Crackers (My ex, a good freind, and an exceptional pool player and thouroughly acomplished drinker) and utters a phrase I'd been dreading -
Vroom:"How far is it to Mildura?"
Crackers:"Oh, about 400 kilometres"
Me: "Ahem. WHY?"
Vroom:"Oh, nothing really. It's just that we have 130 k's of petrol left"
Vroom: "Um, yeah. Where's the next open Servo?"
Crackers: "Ah. Bendigo...."
Vroom: "And how far is Bendigo?"
Cracker: "About 135 kilometres..... in the OTHER DIRECTION"
Vroom: "Ah..... well..... we can have rest there anyway"
Me: "Turn around, shut up, and keep your fucking hand off the Red Bull from now on, would you?"
Well, turned out Vroom's fancy new car's fancy petrol gauge isn't entirely accurate. We got as far as Bridgewater before the petrol ran out. We literally rolled into the servo (Which was conveniently closed for another three hours) as we ran out of petrol. So we had a fun filled three hours waiting for the servo to open, and wondering if we could smuggle the large box of pies that had been delivered sometime earlier into the car without inciting a riot (Which, we assumed, would take the form of pitchforks and burning torches) There was also speculation as to whether to car would run on Jack Daniels, but we decided that mine and Crackers medicinal needs in that area took precedence, and the theory went untested.
The upshot of all this was that an eight hour drive took us a touch over thirteen hours. Now, thirteen hours in a car with two ex boyfreinds (one very recent) and Vrooms new girlfreind (Her status, however, by the end of the weekend had rapidly been demoted to "Fuck Buddy" and an insecure one at that) with the only entertainment being "Spot the Tumbleweed", by the time I got out of the car, I was well and truly ready to have a drink.
And drink we did. In large, stupifying quantities. To the point where we gave up on Uno. To the point where one of the guys from work, who had called for advice on a piece of work I'd given him, made comment on the Monday after as to how many times I stumbled over and "Do you realise that you can tell when someone is skolling from a can over the phone?" To the point where only four of us won more than one frame, and water bombing random strangers seemed like a great idea, as did handcuffing all in sundry, stealing flags from golf-courses, and playing Night Bocce on the springiest, most uneven surface in history also seemed like a good idea. To the point where the two people I was rooming with (Tiger and Justa) thought that the first thing I wanted to see on a Sunday morning half and hour after I'd gone to bed was them having sex in a bed less than a foot from my head.
But it all ended up okay. But for those who decide to veture to Berri for the Pool Tournament next year (And I'm sure that's none of you, but I'd highly recommend it) I have the following advice:
- Don't set off at night. Everyone will be grumpy at the lack of sleep, and you end up spending more time sitting on the side of the road waiting for the drivers to wake up from a power nap or sitting in a closed servo forecourt than on the road. It's just not worth it.
- Don't expect to get ANY quality sleep, and if you do, sleep outside. It's your best option.
- Beware of handcuffs.
- Look up when approaching balcony's water-bombing is not out of the question.
- Take a water-proof jacket. And several changes of clothes more than you think you could possibly need.
- Go nowhere near a pool unless you want to end up in it, fully clothed (thankfully I had learned my lesson the hard way with a spa and a jelly pool three weeks previous at Lee's party. But there were those who clearly didn't get the memo)
- Don't room with anyone who have a history of casual sex unless you want to be woken up in the most brain-jarring of manners.
- Don't expect to be able to run at a golf flag, pull it out as you keep running and it will come with you. It won't, and you'll end up flat on your back with three pissed people with cameras collapsing around laughing and taking photos.
- Take a day off either side. You'll need it.
- Don't be the token female. I made that mistake a few years back and ended up losing a series of bets that culminated in a white t-shirt/pool lapping incident that will serve always as a reminder that no matter your intellect, it will be compromised after several drinks.
- Make freinds with the owners and security, as they'll be round to your room quite often telling you to shut the fuck up if you don't.
And don't go on any kind of tournament weekend expecting to win. If you do have those expectations, and they don't come to fruition, then you'll be left with a weekend feeling like crap while everyone else is living it up. And enjoy yourself. You're only young enough to go on these kind of trips with no feelings of guilt for so long, so take advantage of it while you can!
Friday, July 30, 2004
You may (or may not) notice that there is some new linkage in the (horrid mess of a) toolbar to the left.
I'll give them a brief introduction:
DAWEI - Some of the best narky commentary I've read in quite a while.
SPIN STARTS HERE - Catering for all those who need a good laugh at everyone else's expense.
MR. ALPHABET - Doing a PHD and still finding time to blog it up. A great read.
85 GEORGE STREET - Been reading it for a while, but because I'm a lazy shite, I've only just got around to giving it Kudos and a link.
IS IT WRONG TO WISH ON SPACE HARDWARE? - Delightful reading, and he gives Tim Blair a good kick up the arse, so instant points from me.
These are just some of the thousands upon thousands of blogs out there that make me look like the idiot hack that I am, so check them out..
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Nick Earls new book will be out in August! Now, for those of you who haven't guessed by now, I'm a hell of a fan. So, to anyone else who is also a fan, check it out at this address
The blurb sounds good, and if it's half as good as his last few books, I'll be happy. Will review the book as soon as I have it in my hot little hands.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
This story just gets worse and worse.
Alleged drug cheat and trafficker Sean Eadie is claiming that he had no knowledge of a package that contained banned substances addressed to him and seized by Customs. He's also saying that he didn't receive TWO notifications that the incident had occurred.
Now, excuse me for having a dig at the AOC, but I've been very wary of the whole bunch for a number of reasons for quite a while now.
Firstly, take a look at them. What is going on with Eadie's beard? Surely who'd have to be on something to think that growing something like that on your face is a good idea? It's not like he's the Brad Pitt of cycling to start with, but that beard. Oh, the beard.
Secondly, the whole Kathy Watts thing was a debacle from start to finish. Someone in Cycling Australia doesn't like her, and all of a sudden she's getting locked in Port-a-Loos at the start of races for qualifying and generally being subjected to the kind of treatment I received in High School until people learned that if they kept that shit up I'd lob a chair at their head.
And now our only female weightlifter, Caroline Pileggi gets done for refusing a drug test. And her excuse? Confusion.
Confusion? I'm sorry, I was under the impression that these people were professional athletes, not two year olds being tested on their times tables. How hard is it to pee in a jar? Where in that can confusion arise?
I don't think there is much room for excuses in drug-cheat cases. If you are making a living/livelihood out of being a professional athlete, make sure you know the rules, genius'. It's not that hard, surely. And if you're in any doubt, how hard would it be to ring up the hand-holders that are employed to look after you and say "Hey, I was thinking of shooting up some Horse Hormones, that's not against the rules is it?"
And another thing. If you plan on importing banned substances, couldn't you find a stealthier route that the postal system? And if you plan on shooting up in team-mates room, it's probably not the best idea to hide the used syringes in a bucket where the cleaner might be able to find it.
This "I didn't know" excuse holds no truck with me. Even I know that Equine Growth Hormones are not something an athlete can take. And if it has the word steroid in it, it's probably a good idea to give it a miss. Stop feeling hard done by when you get caught people, even if you're innocent, you're certainly not innocent of being culpably brainless. I remember a couple of years back when Hirdy panicked because he'd taken cough syrup without checking the label. The first thing he did was call the club doctor and check that nothing in the syrup was on the banned list. Surely a good rule of thumb for an Olympic athlete would be "If it's in a syringe, check I'm not going to get hauled over the coals as a drug cheat?"
Don't come looking for sympathy from the public when you've clearly done something that if it wasn't intentionally deceptive is mind-numbingly ignorant.
As far as I can see, both are crimes, and quite frankly, I'm not sure I want that kind of person representing Australia on a world stage.
Monday, June 28, 2004
It stirs. Even as I slumber, it twists and turns like a live butterfly pinned to a board, struggling as the glass case it resides in is locked. It looks for release, craves it, and finding none, ceases it’s contortions briefly. But the ever-present anger that I feel with every fibre of my being, remains. No, it is not anger, but defiance, a rebellion almost, though that sounds almost childish, against its capture, its imprisonment in what it must find the crudest of lodgings.
It hums, a tuneless yet lilting melody, has for what feels like centuries now, designed to drive me to the brink of madness and keep me there long enough for it to find the path to freedom. With this knowledge, I keep my wits about me and drift back into what I know will be a restless and disturbed sleep. It lets me rest for as long as it takes me to fall into the deepest of dreams, and then it will make some violent movement, some agitated contortion to wake me. Another of it’s games, all the more to disconcert me, letting me sleep just long enough so when I am woken that moment of disorientation is prolonged, I know it does not mean to make it’s escape at this time, but it plants the idea like a fledgling seed, dwelling to water it every so often, fanning the flames of panic it hopes will be my destruction, and it’s retribution.
I have sworn, sworn not on all that is holy, not that which I hold dear, not on the lives of my loved ones, who are tortured by my plight, but on all the values that hold my very soul together. All those knotted ropes of content and idealism, all those notions of peace and clarity, all that has ever kept me whole and in possession of some ounce of sanity in this torched and fevered world. In short, not my physical life, but that which keeps me alive and living through each confounding day, that keeps my broken and much-abused body on the path which I have set my feet upon. I have sworn that not torture, no punishment, no malady or vision will break me from my purpose, from my bond to it, and it is my intention to keep it in my control until such a time as to mould its warped and hopeless soul into something harmless and broken. There is no hope of redemption; the point has been passed that it could be saved or some worthwhile purpose found for the wretched being whose sole purpose has become to escape the confines of the prison that has me as it’s jailor.