The price of quality of life is sometimes death. That should not mean we shrink from it. Every man and woman should be able to choose between a struggle and peace when faced with death. Every patient should have the right not to be in pain, even if that pain relief ends their life.
There is no excuse for withholding pain relief, if it is asked for in the case of a terminally ill patient. The law should be relaxed to allow doctors to treat terminally ill patients in pain when they ask for pain relief, without limit, if they are still in pain.
You bought the best player in the AFL with dirty money from a criminal, and he still got done good by Andrew Welsh. Plus, Matthew Lloyd, the champion of diving made him look soft. David Hille, all 100+ kilos of him, made Judd look slow. Plus, our new number five made mince of your midfield. Serves you right for tanking for two years to get picks.
And you got done by six goals. Even with Chin Man up forward.
Plus, this week you were proven to be Dickless.
Essendon yesterday defeated Carlton.
Best on Ground was hotly contested by Andrew Welsh, Brent Stanton and David Hille. Andrew Welsh again took on a tagging role with distinction, noteably on Carlton high-profile recruit Chris Judd.
Coming back from a 42 point turn-around in the third quarter, Essendon went on to win by 31 points. Even a seven goal haul from Fevola couldn't save Carlton.
Matthew Lloyd had another stellar game, concluding with four goals.
Carlton hadn't had a good week before Sunday, with Club President Richard Pratt stepping down after criminal proceedings against him by the ACCC.
Gordon Ramsey has always been a man who drops the F word frequently. One of his shows is actually called TheF word.
Is anyone not aware of this? No? You all knew? It's clear in the advertisments, the fact that it's discussed at least once a week in most media?
So exactly why would you let your child watch this show if you don't want them exposed to bad language? You don't? But you're afraid they'll watch it anyway? At nine thirty at night? Presumably in your own home?
Um, just a questions, imaginary parent. Just a quick enquiry:
What in the name of all that is holy are you doing whilst your child is watching this show behind your back?
Because you're clearly not being a parent.
First of all, stop expecting the state to do what you should be doing yourself. Don't want your kids exposed to 80 "Fucks" in forty minutes? Don't let them watch it.
Don't want your kids swearing? Discipline them.
And you are aware that they'll pick it up anyway, aren't you? In the playground, at school. On the train. From their friends. The best thing you can do is set your own example, and make it clear you don't like it.
I don't use the "F word" in front of my parents. I very rarely do. It slips very occasionally, but in the main, I don't. Not because Gordon Ramsey wasn't around when I was a kid. Because they taught me that they deserved that respect.
Do yourself a favour and stop expecting everyone else to parent your child and do the job yourself.
I cannot believe in this day and age that a Senate enquiry was convened on this issue, I really can't.
“How do I tell my boyfriend that my parents have fixed me up with someone else?”
There are three ways I can answer this question:
1. Sarcastically 2. With Derision 3. Seriously
I’ll start with number three.
I’m assuming you are young, as I can’t see someone of a mature age letting their parents control their life to some extent. I am also assuming that you’re female. If not, kudos, at least to your parents, for taking an interest in your love life.
I can’t say I’ve ever faced this situation. My mother long ago gave up telling me what to do, and was absent from my life (and the hemisphere) for a good deal of my adolescence up until I was 22. My father, I think, would have different taste in men than I do. And if he doesn’t, I don’t think I’d want to know about it.
My advice would be this: Make up your own mind. Do you want to be set up with this new person? If so, a straight, direct approach will be best. Your boyfriend will probably be pretty pissed off at first, but if he’s got an ounce of sense in his head, he’ll realise he’s had a pretty lucky escape from commitment with someone whose parents make such choices.
If you don’t, and you want to keep seeing you boyfriend, you need to grow a pair. Whilst I’m sure your parents believe they are acting in your best interests, this is the one decision that I would not defer to their judgement. Unless you are giving them a list of desirable attributes in a prospective mate. If that’s the case, good luck to you.
Seriously, what the hell? There is no way I would break up with someone to see someone who my parents had fixed me up with. You know why? Because I have a brain in my head and I like to use it for thinking – FOR MYSELF. By all means, if the relationship isn’t working, end it. But because your parents think they’ve found someone better suited?
“How do I tell my boyfriend that my parents have fixed me up with someone else?”
First of all, both players would have won Brownlows if it hadn't been for suspension - in the days before the tribunal had the option of "reprimanding" players without the player missing weeks. I'd say at the very least that makes them more sympathetic to the case of ineligible players*
Secondly, let's look at the two of the three incidents that our attention is called to. Firstly Adam Goodes.
Adam Goodes has been extremely lucky - some would say suspiciously so - not to have been suspended on three separate occasions in recent years. Most people who saw footage of the incident where he made contact would agree that he was blessed to get away with what he did.
And it's not the first occasion he has. Goodes is, in my opinion, a thug. The umpires probably agree, as they've reported him three times in recent years. The Tribunal, in their wisdom, seem to get no further than "Adam Goodes, from Sydney" before going as easy as possible, or dismissing charges altogether. No sympathy from me there.
The second incident was Buddy Franklin's contact on Doughty of Adelaide. Now, had he only made contact, I might be a little more lenient. But just before he made contact, he raised his arm. Given that the contact was side-on from Buddy, it couldn't be said to be defensive, either. The other feature of the incident that garners a mental cross from me was the fact that the contact was to the head.
Sorry, Buddy. That's the one thing in the rule book that you aren't getting away with. Head high contact of that nature is always going to get you a reprimand at the least. This is not a contentious decision. You were always going to be found guilty. Suck it up.
The argument for changing the eligibility system I've heard so far is two-fold. The first is that reprimands should not mean ineligibility for the Brownlow. The second is that if we want the best player to win, they shouldn't be ineligible at all.
Firstly, reprimands were brought in to give repeat offenders penalties more weight, and to be able to take a players good conduct into account when dishing out punishment. It also gives weight to people who cop it sweet and don't try and get off on a technicality. It gives the AFL the chance to publicly disagree with a players conduct, but if the offence is comparatively minor, still means the player doesn't miss any game time. It's a system that probably needs a little tweaking - like all new systems - but it's one that in general I agree with.
Secondly, the Brownlow medal is awarded to the Best and Fairest. Notice the second word? Fairest.
No player who has been suspended or reprimanded should be able to wear a medal around their neck at the end of the year claiming they are the best and fairest.
By all means, introduce an award for the best player. But to award the Brownlow medal to a player who has been reprimanded or suspended goes against the spirit of the award itself. And where would we draw the line? What if Barry Hall polled the most votes this year? Would anyone be arguing he deserves to be titled the Best and Fairest of 2008?
I think not. Bring in an award for the best player regardless of conduct and I won't object. But corrupt the Brownlow, and I'm tipping I won't be the only person who loses all respect for the accolade.
* Before anyone eagle eyed spots a possible spot of hypocrisy in this post, may I just have it noted that in the year that James Hird and Michael Voss won the Brownlow, it was as a result of the suspension of McKernan? Not that I think it colours my reading of the situation, but I just thought in the spirit of honesty I'd pop that in.
I'm talking about the "F" word. Not the "F" word I don't use in front of my parents, but Feminism.
It can be a dirty word these days. Call yourself a “Feminist” and some people conjure up images of a cropped-haired, Doc-Marten wearing, man-hating harridan.
Yet we’re quite willing – well, women are – to reap the benefits of Feminist activists. We can work, vote, and by-and-large women have far more freedom now than at any point in history.
But I certainly don’t feel equal. My parents and brother (understandably) don’t like me catching Public Transport alone late at night. I don’t particularly like it myself. (Though I will have it noted that I’ve seen far more “trouble” during the day than late at night). There are still occupations that are considered “manly” and that women have no place doing. If you play sport as physically as men, derogatory insults follow you off the field.
I used to play pool. I was, at the time, one of only a handful of women who played. Because most of my friends are male anyway, I didn’t think much of it, until you’d come across a man who thought you must be “One of the boys”, a slut, or in some other way deficient. It couldn’t possibly be the case that I just happened to like a sport that more men than women indulged in, there had to be a reason for it. I hate that attitude.
I don’t wear make-up every day. I wear heels to work, but switch to sneakers when I clock off, and on the way in, mainly because I do a fair bit of walking to get to and from work. I don’t take as much care of my appearance as some women, and I have few female friends. I firmly believe that within the obvious physical constraints of the sexes, I am as capable as the next man.
Does this make me a freak? Sometimes it feels like it. There’s still a huge belief, especially amongst the older generations, that women are just different. And I agree. Biologically and physically there are differences. But when they use the word “different” it feels like they’re saying “inferior”
I hate the fact that I can’t walk the streets like a man because I’m seen as easy prey – That’s not equality.
I hate that if I’m not wearing make-up every day I’m “not making the most of myself”, yet all a man has to do is brush his hair – That’s not equality.
I hate the fact that women who try and do something about it are told they”should be men” or aspersions are cast on their sexuality – That’s not equality.
I don’t want much, really. I’d like to be able to get a late train home without being concerned that people are worrying about me. I’d like to be able to be myself without people looking at me like I’m letting myself down. I’d like to be able to have the same options that my brother does – but I don’t.
Have we stalled? Are we at the limit of freedom in terms of being a woman? Will the glass ceiling get any easier to shatter? I hope it will.
I don’t want to be treated like a man; I’d like to be treated as an equal. I’d like to live in a world where my contribution is seen as every bit as valuable as men’s – regardless of whether I wear high heels or make up.
I don’t think we’re there yet.
But how do we get there when our one option – activism, has become a dirty word?
*My blog at number one. *A bebo profile for someone who isn’t me (What in the name of arse is Bebo?) *A guest book for a pre-op Male to Female Trans-Lesbian. ** *A Facebook profile that is possibly mine, as I have two (Lost the password and don’t have the e-mail anymore) *A New Zealand water polo player. *A music video, possibly for a French musician?
Hat-tip to A, who was looking for my blog and found the above.
Does this mean transvestite lesbian or something else? Anyone?
Sydney-siders, I'm just giving you fair warning that I'll be visiting your fair city for a week next month. Dates to follow, but I will be getting some kind of parade and the keys to the city for gracing you with my presence, right?
Either that or you've got 29 days to clear off before I descend on your hometown.
In the meantime, sound the everything is okay alarm.
**Edited to add - I've just noticed I've used the word fair three times, no, four, in a post of 70-off words. I hereby declare it word of the day**
I’m not terribly superstitious, not by family standards anyway. My Grandmother would not have paintings of birds in the house. My mother still says “Morning Major” to lone magpies, won’t have new shoes on the table, puts coins in new purses given as gifts, and the list goes on.
But Friday the 13th does send a tiny thrill through my soul. Twice (Three times, technically, but I’m not counting the third), I’ve had relationships of varying lengths end on Friday the 13th. It’s not a good day for me, traditionally, but the same could be said of other days as well.
But I have superstitions. Before I ask for everyone else’s, here are some of mine. I’m not sure which are superstitions, and which are just weird things, but anyway:
* I like to eat food in even number. Like pasta. I like to eat it in bits of two’s or fours. Same with, say, Maltesers, or Biscuits.
* I don’t trust people with very thin lips. They look like they’re hiding something, to me. I take irrational dislikes to people if they have a name that I associate with someone unpleasant.
* I hate walking with someone on my right side. It makes me feel uncomfortable, and I have no idea why. I will walk single file behind someone if there’s no room on my left, which has led at least one person to say, “OCD” every time I swap sides. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know when it started, but it’s just there. All I can think about when I’m walking on the “wrong” side of someone is getting on the “right” side. I don’t say anything, but people usually notice after a while.
* I have some kind of psychological block/mild allergy with eggs. I can eat them in things – like cake, or dough – if there’s not a lot of it, but if I can see it I try and remove it. Special Fried Rice I’ll filter for all the big bits I can get at. I don’t know how purely “in my head” the egg thing is, because I’ve reacted mildly to things I didn’t know had egg in it.
Bah. Superstitions, people. Help me feel less strange.
I loved Sex and the City. I’ve got all the DVD’s (bar Season Four), and I watch them a fair bit. I loved the edge, the fact that the women were not house-wifey types and presented women in a positive light nonetheless.
So I was looking forward to the movie, I really was. I was surprised at the reviews, but was also surprised that most of the negative reviews were written by people who had not been fans of the show in the first place, so I was hoping it was going to be one of those frequent situations where I disagreed with the reviewers.
Not so, I’m afraid. I went and saw it over the weekend, and may I just preface this by saying I wasn’t in the best of moods when I saw this movie. For a start, we had to wait two hours to see it, as the venue of choice had sold out and I didn’t have the foresight to book ahead. Then, in the line on the way in to the cinema, the people behind me were standing so close they were standing on my shoes and jostling me.
I don’t do well in crowds, so that pissed me off to start with. Then, when we were seated in the cinema, the (predominantly female) audience was talking so loudly (and through the trailers, I might add) that I was somewhat put off before it began. My tolerance level was low.
The movie itself contained many moments that made me laugh. There was definitely some good stuff in there. But that was pretty much outweighed by the moments that made me cringe, or at one point, actually hit myself in the forehead.
*SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!*
I thought it was fantastic that Samantha didn’t end up staying with Smith when she was clearly unhappy. I thought that was the only appropriate ending for her, given that it was consistent with her character throughout the show. It felt right.
I wasn’t pleased with Charlotte’s pregnancy story arc. For the love of god and all his tiny angels, she’s at least forty, supposedly infertile, she's gone through multiple IVF treatments, a misacarriage and she’s adopted a child. Sex and the City has never been a show that pandered to the “miracles do happen” shtick. Why start now? And it added nothing to the movie. It felt like a story arc created purely to give Charlotte something to do. There was so much more that could have been done with her character. Charlotte overcame her fear of running whilst pregnant. Kirstin Davis has always acquited herself well in the past, why push her to the side now? Charlotte was never one-dimensional in the show, but that’s how she came across in the movie (Apart from when she screamed at Mr. Big on the wedding day. Finest bit of acting in the movie. I know that scream. I’ve been that scream)
Miranda’s story arc. So much more could have been done with this, given that so many of us confront the infidelity of a partner. We’ve all been there, or will at some stage. It just felt like more time could have been devoted to it. And whilst I like the fact that they went through counselling to resolve the issue rather than just have everything magically heal, having them meet on the Brooklyn Bridge and run towards each other? I believe the word I used was hackneyed. And I’m standing by that.
And Carrie. Oh, Carrie. I can understand why you’d want the big dress. Hell, after seeing it, I wanted the big dress (In a different colour, without the bird on my head and without the wedding). I like the fact that Carrie didn’t just snap out of it, because you don’t when someone hurts you. Especially when you’ve given them that many chances. And I can understand the anger, I can. And you do tend to cling to people when you’re that down. But the bit where you give your assistant a – frankly vomitus - Louis Vuitton bag for Christmas? I believe that was when I checked out of this movie and just waited for it to end. You do not need swelling music when someone gets a handbag. A squeal - I'm fine with. I've done it myself. But that was not a monumental moment in cinema.
I know that it isn’t easy to transplant a show from television to the big screen. I know it must have been hard for Michael Patrick King to come up with enough story arcs to sustain a two-hour plus movie, but getting sucked into the trap of focusing on the fashion did the movie no favours at all. I love shoes and dresses as much as the next girl, but come on! The attraction of Sex and the City has always been that it combines the fashion with the realistic, edgy story-line. It wasn’t one or the other, it was both. I can’t think of a single story-line in this movie that was edgy, that was new. It just wasn’t there.
I mean, let’s take a quick example. The fabulous brown Prada dress Carrie buys when she takes Berger to Prada for the first time. Yes, there was the fashion. Her dress, his shirt. Both gorgeous, and worth showcasing. But there was also the story-line about a man who can’t accept his partner earning more money or being more successful than her, as much as he wants to. The fashion took a back seat, and it meshed well.
This movie didn’t mesh. The story-lines, for me, just weren’t there.
And now, I’m going back to Red Dwarf and thanking my lucky stars that the Red Dwarf movie project never got off the ground.
If, whilst gardening (I'm so rock & roll it hurts), you twinge your neck slightly pulling down a tree thing, a word of advice;
Ditch the physio, and pick up the Wii controller. I've been playing the last two nights on my brothers girlfriends Wii (Which has been kindly deposited at our house for all our geeky needs), and felt something slide into place last night on a particularly swingy backhand.
I've also noticed that my tennis game on the Wii is exactly like my game in real life. Serve - Erratic but teriffying. Backhand - a thing to behold. Forehand - Get out of the way, spectators, because it's coming straight for your head.
My softball skills of old seem to have been retained, however. I'm yet to have a run scored against me.
Getting off the train yesterday, I noticed an older lady struggling with a large bag/suitcase thing. There was a fair gap between the train and the platform, so I made a move to help her and said “Would you like a hand?”
She backed up, clutched it closer to her and said in an angry voice “Don’t try and steal my bag!”
People sniggered around me; I got off and just shook my head.
Am I the only person left in the world with any faith in humanity?
A one-eyed, red-and-black blooded, lose my voice, cry when my team wins a Grand Final Essendon tragic.
Obsessive might be too strong a word, but what else would you call someone who booked a hotel room and time off work the day the fixture came out and we realised James Hird would be playing his last game in Perth? We knew we probably wouldn’t get tickets to the game, but we held out a slim hope we’d get a ticket off a scalper at the game, so West-ward we headed.
(For the record, we got in. The last three standing room tickets available for sale, on the day of the game. My mate and I nearly wept with relief. His girlfriend looked as though she was torn between relief that the trip wasn’t wasted, and sorrow that we wouldn’t be watching the game from the bar we’d seen on the walk from the station)
We’ve spent many a night wet through at the G because our excellent MCG seats are not undercover. We’ve spent three hours getting lost on the way to Windy Hill for the family day every year on the off-chance we could get our favourite players signatures on our jumpers. We spent a very chilly day at Casey Fields in Cranbourne watching a practice match against ourselves. I couldn’t tell you how much I’ve spent watching my team play or buying associated memorabilia for myself, for A or having it bought for us.
Which is why the state of play at the moment is so hard to take. We love to go and watch our team, and we’re always ready to cheer. And to take on the “supporters” who do nothing but whinge when things aren’t going our way. But it does get hard to stomach when you’ve put up with terribly results for this long.
And two weeks ago, I think I hit my lowest ebb. The last match I’d attended I’d watched us getting creamed by the Bulldogs in one the worst games of football I’ve ever seen. But nothing could compare to the feeling, at the MCG against Richmond in that first half. I honestly feared, for the best part of a half of football that I would be leaving the MCG without witnessing a single Essendon goal.
It didn’t help that I was attending with someone who was hoping that would be the result. Who smirked every time the opposition scored a goal.
And I did something that night that I’ve never done before. This takes a lot for me to admit, because god knows the amount of time and energy I’ve spent deriding the people who do this.
I left the game with fifteen minutes still left in the last quarter.
In my defence, I was freezing. I’d been up and out since eight in the morning (attending a certain pro-choiceevent) in some very cold weather. I was tired, and I knew there was no possibly way we could win that game. Plus, I didn’t want to get stuck on the Jolimont platform until the wee hours of the morn.
But that isn’t really an excuse. I’ve sat at plenty of games and watched my team go down by more, or play worse than we did in that last quarter. Truth is, I couldn’t stand another last quarter than ended in standing there trying not to look bitter as the other team’s supporters sang their team song. Another train ride home listening to the other teams supporters prattle on about Essendon being nothing without Hird (As if I need a reminder that he was the heart and soul of that team!).
So, please, Essendon, give me something to cheer for this week. Let me hold my head high when we walk out of the Dome this Saturday. Do me, and yourselves, proud. I don’t want this to be a repeat of waiting 14 weeks for a win.
Born in Wales, exported to Australia, lived here for fifteen years. Not good at talking about myself except on a blog. Making it my goal to reach the 1200 character limit, but failing miserably, because I keep getting distracted by the fake tan I'm experimenting with on the back of my hands.