Tuesday, April 29, 2008

News in Briefs


1. My mobile is suddenly and irritatingly incapable of letting me write a text message. I have no idea why, but if I attempt it the bloody thing knocks itself off, then back on again, and absolutely refuses to let me write anything. I can only assume I am the victim of some kind of high-level censorship. Be prepared for phone calls in the place of texts and other irritating deviations from my usual telephonic habits.

2. My brother was trying to recall the name of one of the So You Think You Can Dance top twenty on Sunday night, and thought his name might have been Sheridan.

Turned out it was Hilton.

Clearly my brother has preferences when it comes to luxury hotels I was previously unaware of.

3. I’m currently counting down the days to Stereophonics at the Forum. I haven’t been at the Forum since Cake in 2005, and I’m almost as excited to be going back there as I am at finally, finally seeing Stereophonics live.

That is all.

Another bloody Review: America

When someone hands you a book and says “If you don’t like this it’s all over between us” three things spring to mind:

* “Oh, God. It’s going to be awful and I’m going to have to lie about it”
* “Oh, God. It’s going to be awful and I’m not going to be able to lie about it”
* “Well, maybe it won’t be too awful”

The book in question is America by Joe Queenan. I’d never heard of either the book or the Author before, and didn’t really know what to expect until I was read the index. Any index that includes the words “Michael Bolton, comparison to Ebola Virus” bodes well in my mind.

And the rest of the book is equally good. The basic premise is that Joe Queenan is a man of taste. He has not seen the bad movies we have all seen and regretted. He knows the gap between the badness of Phil Collins and Billy Joel to be gargantuan. He has never seen Cats.

And all that is about to change. Joe decides to immerse himself in the cultural atrocities his fair country has to offer, and this is the result. It may just be me, but some of it made me slightly uncomfortable. For a start, the first album I ever bought was Phil Collins, No Jacket Required. The second probably would have been a Billy Joel album. I still own Billy Joel albums. I have not only seen 42nd Street, I’ve performed songs from it. I have known the delight of performing in, and the inability to ever rid your brain of the lyrics from Pirates of Penzance. I have seen Les. Mis from the second row in a West End production and thought it was one of the greatest shows I have ever seen. AND IT WAS. I will brook no argument on that one.

So although I couldn’t disagree that Andrew Lloyd Webber is to musical theatre what Big Brother is to meaningful social commentary, there were moments where I couldn’t agree with the definition of “cultural atrocity”

But that doesn’t really harm the book in any way. This isn’t about a man whose tastes are exactly like yours. This is a man who is plunging head-first into a world he has nothing but disdain for. And yes, at times it’s a little too clever. But what we consider in good taste differs from person to person. Some people worship at the temple of Celine Dion. Some consider her Canada’s declaration of war on the rest of the world.

But it’s well written. It’s funny, and made me laugh. Inconveniently, I was on a bus at the time, and got a few odd looks. There were moments in the book that were just a joy to read. When he describes a dream in which an organisation controlling the world and trying to dumb it down comes for him, I was enthralled. It’s one of those books that I raced through because I couldn’t put it down, but I spent as long reading the last chapter as I did the rest of the book because I didn’t want it to end.

In short, a great book. Unless you’re a Michael Bolton fan.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Lest We Forget

I meant to write this post earlier, put Fridays date on it and be able to rest assured in the knowledge that for once, I would not be behind the eight-ball.

But of course, I have a memory like a sieve, I’ve been busy this week, and generally, if I can do something today, I generally put it off until tomorrow. So I’m writing this on Thursday, with much less time to edit it if need be than I thought I would.

So, Anzac day. I confess that I tend to think less of those who specifically lost their lives at Anzac Cove on the 25th April, and more of all those who lost their lives, regardless of where they fell. Part of this is personal experience. I’ve been to the shrine on Anzac day for the dawn service, and was touched by it.

But something has touched me more. Given me more of a sense of scale. When I was fourteen or fifteen, I forget which, I spent a month travelling around France. Part or that time we spent in Paris, and the rest we spent travelling around on a kind of “History Holiday”

We visited the American war cemetery. We visited the British War Cemetery, and found the grave of my maternal grandfathers brother, who died at Normandy, I believe. We visited the German war cemetery, the beaches at Normandy, stood in the bunkers along the shore. Ran up and down large craters by the sand and realised only later that they weren’t natural dunes. Ran my fingers along the pock marks left by bullets in concrete walls and stood in fields where cows should be grazing, that instead are adorned by rows upon rows of headstones.

I’ve craned my neck to see the top name on monuments to those who lost their lives. I’ve been in the mausoleums. I’ve almost wept at the memory of the German War cemetery, which was the saddest of all.

I know Germany were the losers in World War one and two. I know history is written by the victors. I know that they were lead by a crazy man with a weird moustache. I know that the SS and the German war machine committed terrible atrocities, and some people still carry the scars and always will. But the men who went over the top and got a bullet for their trouble were following orders just like Digger Joe or Tommy Smith. They paid the ultimate price for that, as our men did. I think the least we could do is afford them some peace and a respite from politics in death.

And so it was hard to see the cemetery. It was basically just a round wall, with plaques. There was no field with headstones for each man, as with the American and British war cemeteries. No such dignity. From what we learned there, the German War Cemetery was run solely on donations. There was no funding from the German government, who did not want to be seen to be mourning men the world condemns, no funding from the French government and no hope of additional space.

I hope things have changed since then. I sincerely do. But back to my point (See what happens when you rush and can’t edit?)

I can’t put into words – although I’ll try – the scale of what you see in France. I can’t find the right phrase for the thousands upon thousands of headstones. You stand there and you know these were fathers, brother and sons – all the usual things you think when you see a grave. But this is on such a massive, bewildering scale. As far as the eye can see in every direction are headstones. Under each of those headstones lies someone loved. Someone missed. Someone grieved for. Men who did no more than be of certain ages and live in a certain time, condemned to die because politicians could not agree. It’s unimaginable.

I think everyone should visit the war cemeteries and the landing beaches in Normandy once in their lives. To see what is truly meant by the “ultimate sacrifice”. Generations of men cut to ribbons by machine gun fire or bayonet charge because of the actions of a few. We owe it to their memories and the sacrifice they made to prevent such suffering again if we can. To make sure we truly live up to the “Lest we Forget” promise. I can think of no better legacy than to make sure there doesn’t need to be another “War to end all Wars”

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

He'll make your arse numb and leave you wanting more

First things first: A warning. If you go to see Henry Rollins, you will need stamina.

The show I went to see on Friday started not long after 8pm, and we only just made it out of the car park before it closed at twelve. Henry talked without break and barely drawing breath for close to four hours. My poor brother, who accompanied me, thought it went for too long, but he had been driving for seven hours the previous day, and was very tired.

Me, I could happily have stayed there until he lost his voice. And you get the feeling he could have as well. The energy on stage was as high when he left as the moment he came on – with a minimum of fanfare, not even announced.

First he dealt with the inevitable – the election results. And how thrilled he was to see the results, and hoped we now had a government in powers that were afraid of the people and not the other way around. “And if it isn’t, kick them out when you get the chance”

He veered from a number of subjects – spending Christmas in Pakistan – the fallout from Buto’s assassination there, New Years in Tehran, having sex with a horse, fronting the Ruts, travel and how it broadens the mind, why he’ll never have children. He was awesome. Not in the “Hey Dude, that was Awesome” way, but in a “My God. The man has no fear. No limits” kind of way.

And of course, he does. That’s what makes it even more impressive. The man roamed the streets the day after Buto’s assassination. He saw a plume of smoke in the distance and hurried towards it, eager to see a riot in progress, and found only grief-stricken men burning tyres. He’s not fearless, but he refuses to live his life “Under a rock of fear” He’s made it his business to go to any country Bush tells him is evil, to see for himself if it is. He refuses to accept information given to him unless he goes out and verifies it for himself.

And then there’s way he looks – He’s built like the meatiest of gym bunnies, but without the ostentatiousness. His neck is as big as my waist. Even with the greyer hair, he looks nowhere near his age. He’s a force of nature, and you sit back in your seat and wonder at the energy, the contradictions and the life of this man who never, ever stands still.

Even the way he holds the microphone cord wrapped around his hand like boxing tape is defiant. He’s unique. Not so much a breath of fresh air as a Force Twelve gale ricocheting around the theatre, holding you captive and challenging your preconceptions.

It’s hard to describe exactly what Henry Rollins does. It’s not really comedy, although there are times when you think you’re going to pop a rib into one of your lungs. It’s not really prose, although some of it feels like it, wreathing around you like a mist. It’s spoken word, but it’s more than that. It’s an exercise in difference. It’s listening to a man who spends only thirty days at home every year, and would probably cut it down to zero if he could. Its hearing how this man can’t sit still, can’t turn down work, won’t stop until he can go know further. A man who describes his mission as “Making life RUN. I want life to celebrate the day I die because it spent all that time keeping up with me”

This is man, without doubt, who should be kept away from the Coffee pot.

I don’t think there are many people who wouldn’t get something, even if it’s something small, out of a Henry Rollins show. Maybe a deep-seated conservative would get nothing out of it. But even if it’s just sitting in a room with a man who will make you struggle to keep hold of your beliefs, it’s worth it.

Go and see him, at least once, if you can. He might not change your life, but it’ll make you think.

And you’ll certainly sleep well that night. Henry Rollins is nothing if not exhausting.

**UPDATE** - Completely forgot to add that the show I attended was filmed for Movie Extra on Foxtel. If you get a chance, I believe it will be airing on the 23rd May. They're also releasing it on DVD. BUY IT.

An open Letter

Dear Triple M,

I know Dakota by the Stereophonics is a good song. Trust me, I know. But have you heard the rest of that album, Language. Sex. Violence, Other? Or for that matter, the album previous – You Gotta Go There To Come Back? Or, what some consider their finest work, Just Enough Education to Perform? There are dozens of tracks just on these three albums, such as Mr. Writer, Have a Nice Day, Maybe Tomorrow that are infinitely better than Dakota. And they’re just as commercial, honestly they are. Especially Have A Nice Day.

And don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that you feel the need to play a Stereophonics song at least twice a day. I think it’s lovely. Especially with the concert at the Forum coming up on the second of May. But for the love of god and all his tiny angels, could you please play a Stereophonics song other than Dakota occasionally? Especially seeing it’s one of their lamer efforts.


Stop-Before-My-Ears-Start-Bleeding, Melbourne

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Learning How To Argue Day 1

I'm on a course at the moment, which one of my freinds has decided to term "Learning How To Argue" It's a "Negotiating Skills" cert IV, and the group of people I'm taking it with are a delightful bunch of people. But some interesting terms and comments have flown around. For example:

  • Someone used a new word - "Compromisation" with a totally straight face
  • Someone used the word pernicious. I nearly fell off my chair
  • "You really are a fan of Capitalism, aren't you?"
  • In response to a discussion on respected and not so respected topics involving nurses and used-car salesman "Well, you don't see many used-car salesman outfits, do you?"
  • On someone being asked whether they made a judgement on their current partner straight away - "Well, I had been drinking"

Two of the above were my work. Try and guess which ones.

Monday, April 14, 2008

The stupdity list

Since this blog will be unattended for most of the week, I thought I'd leave something in my absence, just to make sure you're slaverishly awaiting my return. Either that, or I've got ten minutes left in my lunch break and I can't face getting my hair wet.

Some of the more stupid things I've done in my life, thus far;

  • Getting my head stuck in an ironing board whilst trying to fold it.
  • Catching a tram the wrong way on Smith Street and ending up in Clifton Hill before I realised I was going the wrong way
  • Dropping a straightening iron and catching it by the hot, metal plates
  • Getting the date right - but the day wrong - of a bus I was catching to Heathrow Airport at 5.30 in the morning. From Wales.
  • Mixing up the clutch and brake in a manual car on my first driving lesson
  • Minutes after a break-up, sending a message to my best friend telling them what had happened - but accidentally sending it to my ex.
  • On my birthday, sending my then-boyfriend a message saying the day couldn't have been any better unless he was there in bed with me - but accidentally sending it to my father. Who was in the room next door, laughing his head off.

Feel free to include anything you like in the comments. Bearing in mind I won't be here all week, talk amongst yourselves, folks.

Getting Lost

If I'm not around this week, it's because I'll be on two seperate training courses in opposite directions of this great city of ours.

So if you see a red/blonde headed girl breathlessly searching for street-signs, clutching a map in her fist and mumbling to herself on a street corner, that'd be me.

Please tell me where I'm going, because I'm predicting I'll have no idea.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Before anyone gets in first

I'll out myself.

My identity has been a closely kept secret since I started this Blog. But I fear the time has come when I'll be outed, and I'd rather fall on my own sword.

My name isn't really Keri James.

I'm really Kerri-Ann Kennerly.

I hope you'll all forgive me for the deception.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Worst. Book. Ever.

I bought a copy of The Madness of A Seduced Woman by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer whilst on a jaunt to the north of the state over Easter, and it effected me so much that I thought I’d do a review.

And when I say effected, I mean it was one of the worst, most inconsistently written books I have ever read in my entire life.

I bought it at a Newsagent, which was my first mistake, but it was either that or One Nation, and I didn’t have anything on me to read. It didn’t look too bad on the blurb, it looked like the kind of fluff that is perfect for holiday reading, and given that I was going to be either basking by a river or huddled around a fire, it seemed perfect.

Stupidity, thy name is Keri. First of all, someone else started reading it first, and was struck by the first line – it was essentially about killing a cow. It didn’t get much better from there.

Basically, the novel revolves around the main character, Agnes. She comes from a family where the females seem to be very unstable but beautiful, and when her Grandmother, who had basically raised her, dies when she is sixteen, she leaves for the nearest City. She lodges at a boarding house, and meets a stonecutter with a bad reputation. She falls violently in love with him, gets engaged, falls pregnant, and they agree to have an abortion. This she does, and the wheels fall off an already shaky relationship. He seems to have been engaged to someone else throughout his relationship with Agnes, and when he breaks it off with Agnes, she sets about planning her own suicide. Instead of killing herself though, she kills her ex-fiancee's current fiancee.

The reason why this book is so bad rests in how long it takes us to get to this stage. Half the book. Half a book of more than 500 pages for a year of action to take place. And every, single, tiny thought that goes through the protagonists mind to be dredged out and spewed forth onto the pages in what I can only describe as bilge.

And then, for some unaccountable reason, the novel gets good. I think because it isn’t written from the point of view of the main character any more. We don’t have to hear her every thought, from the mundane to the completely frickin’ insane. There’s a bit more action going on, and its actually written well.

Which is why I’m suspicious that someone else has written the middle section of the book. It’s of a completely different caliber to the rest of the book. The writing style isn’t all that different, but the way in which it’s applied to the subject matter is.

And another thing, before I forget; the start of the book is memories from childhood. Then we have a “Letter to a friend” which doesn’t end. Seriously – that loose end is never tied up.

I don’t necessarily think that this is just a poorly written book. This, to me, is a manuscript that never got properly turned into a novel. The idea was good - subject matter that could appeal to any man or woman (More likely woman)

But whoever edited this thing was an idiot. And idiot with a short attention span. Who didn’t realize that even though the second chapter opens with a letter, that letter is never finished. The book just runs on, reverting back and forth between first and second person and not really giving you an accurate sense of time.

And indication of how much I enjoy a book is usually how long it takes me to read. I’m towards the end of a 500-page book right now, and it’ll have taken me less than three days of just reading on trains to get that far. This book – this book was hard work. I gave myself coffee breaks from this book. I don’t drink coffee, but I felt the need to put the book down every now and then, because it was hard to keep reading it.

The ending of the book was confusing as well. Agnes is older now, and starts feeling suicidal. So she checks herself into the asylum, and dies about three or four years later. And that’s it. That’s then ending I’ve spent 500 odd pages getting towards? She dies of old age? (No, really. She dies of old age)

If I had to pick one word to describe this novel, it would be inconsistent. This book was basically a pain in the arse. It was hard to read, patchy and took a subject that should have made for an excellent novel and turned it into poorly edited rubbish.

Oh, and the word pernicious featured. Which did at least make me laugh.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Is there anything better?

Than watching the Bombers beat Carlton on a balmy Saturday night at the G?

Apart from the debacle with our memberships that saw us miss most of the first half, it was a great night.

Oh, but word of warning. There are two things you shouldn't do if you've just had something hacked out of your arm and have stitches in place; Go to the city during the Comedy Festival, and go to a packed MCG with a friend who keeps forgetting you've only got one functioning arm and grabs the non-functioning one and shakes it.

But he was useful for getting in and out of coats.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Stephen K. Amos Review

Let me first say that I saw Stephen K. Amos last year, and I thought he was great. He has an infectious energy, a captivating stage presence and he is a genuinely a talented comedian. He’s slick, confident and funny. His jokes are, by turn, sharp, edgy and confronting. Yet it’s a comfortable place to be, his audience is. (Anyone who picks me up on that sentence, try it in a Yorkshire or Welsh accent and it makes sense, trust me)

The highlight of the night came towards the end of the show. He got the single men and the single women of the audience to stand up, and got two of the young ‘uns up on stage and offered them $150 worth of dinner and drinks at a swanky eatery if they agreed to go together.

It’s one of those times when a pack mentality prevails. We all, to a man, wanted them to agree, or at least disagree in a memorable way. And the cheer that went up when they agreed was by far the biggest cheer of the night.

Bar one. My personal favourite moment of the show was when Stephen glanced into the wings and collapsed into laughter. He turned to the audience and explained that Ross Noble was standing in the wings tapping his watch. He implored Ross to come out, and Ross comes out, embraces Stephen and launches into a rant about Stephen "saying "See this, see that, there's people waiting outside. And does he turn the lights down for earth hour? Does he fuck!"

Also, Ross had a funky hat on. I love a good hat.

Now for the downside. Even thought I’m glad I went, and did enjoy the show, I wouldn’t go and see Stephen K. Amos again, at least not for a while.

There are two reasons for this. The first is that some of the jokes he told were so well used - by him and others (The wheels turning but the hamsters dead? I’VE used that one) – that I found myself mouthing along to them. For example, if I had to come up with a catch-cry for him, it would be “Find the Funny”. He used it liberally throughout his show this year, as he did last year. In fact, there were quite a few not exactly recycled, but certainly rehashed jokes and themes from last years show. The parody of the Australian accent, for example, was one theme leant on heavily in both this and last years shows.

Don’t get me wrong. I laughed. I was not unhappy to have gone, but honestly, it could have been last year’s show for half the time.

My recommendation is this; if you haven’t seen him before, it’s well worth the effort.

If you have, do like I will, and give him a miss for a few years.

First Impressions

Forgive me if this is a little disjointed (Or just plain bad) but it was written whilst on hold, and the music was distractingly bad.

It's a bit stream-of-consiousness-y, but I just don't have the time for an edit.

I arrived in Australia in the early nineties. I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it was the day wearing a bike helmet became compulsory.

I don’t remember the plane trip much, or landing in Sydney, although I do remember being airsick and mortified on the plane.

My first really distinct memory of Australia was being absolutely stunned – just completely floored – by the greeny-blue of the trees. It was almost an assault on the eyes. I couldn’t have conceived of a colour so utterly vivid in my wildest dreams.

It was early morning when we arrived, and there was an “important” soccer match on, so my then – teenage cousins were up to welcome us. It was incredibly comforting to this young girl that they were there – familiar, family – when we arrived at their home in the Blue Mountains.

I went to bed and awoke to a brightness of day that physically jarred me. My first thought? “Why has my mother put curtains on the door?” – My bed faced the door at home, and I was so unprepared for the change, my mind groped for the only thing that seemed logical. I hadn’t been asleep long, it turned out, and my father was already awake and making tea – some things, they don’t change – when my uncle called me out into the backyard. He’d found a lizard. A tiny skink – the kind of thing you see every day here, was, well, novelty is too small a word. I t was alien to me. I thought it was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen.

It remained so until my next huge discovery. This was when we had moved to Blaxland, the next suburb, into our “own” house (It was rented, of course) which was set on a cliff that dropped straight into the bush, And in that bush, clinging to the bark of a tree, I found the discarded shell of a Cicada larvae.

If I didn’t believe in aliens before, I did now. I prised the shell from the bark and tore p the steps, through the garden and into the kitchen. No one had a clue what it was. My parents suggested I take it into school to find out, and the other kids informed me of its origins. I was no less impressed. THIS was the thing that made the constant droning noise I’d just about gotten used to? It was the strangest looking thing I had ever seen.

Cicadas were everywhere; the green “Grocers” were plentiful, and not much cache was attached to finding them. The black type (Butchers is coming to mind?), were, however, much more scarce, and if you found one you were temporarily a hero.

I don’t think you can appreciate just how different life in, and Australia itself, is unless you’ve come here with fresh eyes. The animals here are not just different, they are floridly bizarre. And Australians are so used to them they barely give them a second thought.

Not so this little Taff girl.

The first time we saw a Funnel Web spider in the hairy, terrifying flesh, I will never forget. My mother wouldn’t go back into the house, and I remained firmly convinced that stepping on it wouldn’t kill it. They looked so terribly threatening I honestly thought that shooting it was the only way to go.

The first time a bushfire cam close was an eye-opener as well. I was used to cold, snow, hail, and sleet. Used to winds that feel like they’d tear the flesh from your bones. Any of the wintery type of extreme weather I can deal with. But this was something else. Five kilometres seemed so far away, but if I needed proof that they came through our area, I had only to look to the trees, still black in parts from the last assault. The air was heavy with smoke, and the bush – which had filled my ears with it’s never-ending sound for months – was strangely quiet.

My parents tell me we were flat broke then – budgeting to the cent what we had to live on and sitting on second-hand furniture – but they must have done an excellent job of it, because I don’t remember feeling disadvantaged because of money. If anything, I probably thought the opposite. I mean, we were living in a one-storey house! In Wales, living in a one-storey house, or Bungalow, as they’re known there, marked you out as someone with money.

We had a pool in our backyard, which in the Blue Mountains is the done thing, and I have a picture of myself in bright green goggles, clashing terribly with my bright pink swimming costume, grinning like a loon with my brother whilst playing in it. A pool in my backyard! – A Backyard, for that matter! I mean, wow!

I don’t remember consciously choosing to lose my accent, but I do remember thinking – and being told – that I was going to have to slow down my speech. Even into High School debating at 17, I was told to slow it down to make it easier to be understood. Most people now don’t twig that I’m anything but a true-blue Aussie, but apparently I do talk too fast to be understood at times, generally when I’m excited.

Certain things still allude me – sometimes I have trouble distinguishing between the number eight and “o” on the phone, I hate vegemite, fairy bread, creaming/y soda, Cold Chisel (Although Jimmy’s a Scot) and consider VB in a can to be urine from the last leper in hell (100 points if you can tell me what comedy that’s from) and I don’t think I’ll ever get to a point where I actively welcome a hot day, but for the main part, I love this home of mine.

As a youngster, you’re a lot more adaptable, and I can only imagine what it was like for my parents, and my Aunt and Uncle who emigrated a few years before us. Every day for my brother and I was a new adventure. For them, every day must have been hard slog to get a foothold.

Whatever the case may be, I’m glad they chose to make that colossal move. From a town where we had family within yelling distance to a place so seemingly uninhabited that crying “Cooee” was unlikely to illicite a response (and didn’t my brother and I try. Until it drove everyone for miles around to distraction)

I go back to Merthyr – my hometown – now and I’m struck by the greyness as much as I was first struck by the green here.

And I hope I never forget just how lucky I am.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Tickety Goodness

Oh, and in other (better) news, I got tickets for the Stereophonics! Squeeeee!

And it’s at the Forum. Seriously, this is some excellent, excellent news.

That and the fact that I’m seeing Ross Noble this Friday, Hopefully David O’Dougherty next week, Henry Rollins the week after – what more could I ask for?

Oh, right. David Tennant and a spoon. Yes.

The horror, oh, the Horror.

Sunday’s game can only be described as a drubbing. Unless you prefer the word massacre, in which case, I’ll grant you that.

My dear boys, my Essendon men. Please. Don’t put me through another year of this. I don’t think I can stand the strain. Especially since we’re once again having problems with our membership, and had to buy tickets to Sundays game. Which, because of time constraints, meant climbing up to the last row. Yes, the last row. The last bloody row when we have away seats on the wing three rows back.

A few words for some individuals. Laycock – Wear Velcro on your hands, keep your eye on the ball and invest in some super-glue. Something. Keep your frickin’ hands on the ball, would you? Stop dropping it, or you will become the new Bolton. And that isn’t a place you want to be, now is it?

Spike. I love you, you know that, don’t you? But honestly, Sunday just wasn’t up to your usual standard.

Dyson – whatever you’ve been doing over pre-season, keep doing it. Something or someone has put a rocket under you, and it shows.

Oh Lloydy. It isn’t enough that our premier full forward is the butt of so many jokes. No, you have to take it one further and kick like a gumby when we need you most. Pull your finger out, my friend.

And to the Essendon administration – give me my bloody membership, will you? This is getting beyond a joke.