Sssanctimonia

Oh yes, Sydney, the hustle, the bustle, the diabolical pluravit multivitaminess of its busy, busy world-class-sur-penury buzz and bile. How can one survive it all? By keeping schtum and observing. For the mistress not only creates her own language but, like the late Arkie Whitely, is a self-proclaimed people person – can watch 'em all day every day in a most non-judgemental but amused fashion, natch. Oh, am always lurking in the background, me.

Lawks what curious things these glauque pools have witnessed the past few days.

8.00 a.m. Monday in the foyeh of the bureau. Two of the lifts were sick and quite a crowd had gathered, one couldn’t ascend via the fire stairs until after 8.30.

After some time, crowd increasing at a furious simulated time lapse rate, a lift arrived. As I was first in the queue I boarded the old elevator along with quite a few young guns from the financial sectors. Then a man with an enormous box of fruit (not a euphemism) entered causing one young gun to comment how tight it was in the lift. To which another young gun who had entered just after fruit man replied “Yeahm well FUCK YOU! You’re alright jumping the queue and getting a space in the lift, you stupid fuck”. Young Gun 1 retorted with “FUCK OFF, you fuck”. I didn’t know where to look so surveyed that fruit box (and let me tell you there was not much variety, loads of bananas and a few large spotted red apples, which were no doubt floury). I’d just finished wincing in disgust when Young Gun 2 shouted “No, YOU FUCK OFF!!" and alighted at level 2.

Lift Rage.

Not only do I blame the parents but a little bit of the Ida Jessup/Mrs Mangle in me cannot help but attribute it to the Sopranos - Young Guns 1 and 2 were no doubt spawned by Pauly Walnuts and the delightful Janice Soprano. Now before I die please somebody make sure i get a stonesy tongue tattooed on my bosom - hottt and chic!

On the bus this morning I was standing next to this woman who prickled with efficiency and bossiness. What a powerful VIBE she had.I don’t know whether it was the curious black satin epaulets of bows that adorned her sundress, her barking at everyone to move down the aisle or her appraising me from head to toe – I don’t think my appearance pleased her. Hanyways, a seat became vacant, and the mistress was closest, so V I C T O R Y. However, it was short lived for I shifted uncomfortably imagining Sgt Major looking down on my crown wincing at the grey regrowth, I like to think of it as silver tinsel – so festive and fey, valiantly resisting an urge to pluck the hairs out. I protectively placed hand to head to smooth the fuzz that is my hair all the while noticing that the label of the shirt of the woman seated in front of me was poking out. It said she was "medium". Hmm, funny I thought, I would have classed her as "small" – oh what my eyes do not see, nsrs, what my eyes do not see.

The place next to label lady became free and Sgt Major took her place with great alacrity and force. As she parked her arse on the seat, she reached over and firmly tucked the label lady’s exposed label into her shirt!!!

She did not know la belle in question. Bold as brass is that Sgt Major and her proprietorial paws. She probably lifts adorable looking toddlers, who she does not know from Adam, from strollers and plants sloppy wet kisses on the poor lambs' cheeks. The height of impertinence in Snooter Pooter's handbook.

Bluster burst petering out...

Mrs D Hayden to the counter, please

I breezily waltzed out the Dymocks’ stationery store, holding a Dymocks' plastic bag in one hand and gazing with pleasure at some birthday cards in the other. Admiration turning into castigation upon realisation that i'd acquired yet another plastic bag when

Clunk, clunk, clunk

That plastic bag accompanied the book I had earlier purchased in the main section and in fact the cards were sans bag because I had actually not bought them, I’d lifted them!!!

Thus explaining why in-the-Winona-Ryder the Dymocks’ security alarms were ringing.

O M G

I quickly spun around and raced back into the shop, not quite shouting “oh, it’s me! Sorry, turn off the alarms" but if anyone had looked at me they would have read that thought, and if not at least paused to admire the handsome moustache that I’ve grown for the month – it’s faintly ginger and narrow with its ends waxed and twisted upwards, and no doubt not dissimilar from Cold Mountain’s ....I have heard that she was taunted with Ranga at school; wonder if that was alternated with Fanta Pants?

Oh enough of the japes from the old schoolyard. Don’t say vjayjay or I will have to stuff a handkerchief in my mouth to prevent my collapsing into giggles... (ugh what a solution, so Blytonian and unhygienic; St Clare's was the first school to have an outbreak of meningiccocal, not many people know that!!)

So yeah where was I?

Oh, yes, back at the counter paying for the birthday cards. I confessed to the staff that I had walked out without paying and set off the sirens. All they did was smile, with me, of course.

Baby J Day Payola

Hello nsrs, was the above matter a hot topic last week or the week before? I’ve been too preoccupied with myself and wondering about my kids. Lord love'em.

I've been pondering all the big questions that greatly concern us parents about our kiddies. You know, which language to teach them next? How are they? Where are they? What gender and colour are they? Do I in fact have any? Which I’ve heard also happens to be the same thought pattern for many of your celeb moms most mornings upon waking. So you know I’m really blessed and up there with the best.

As a frazzled and fictitious parent could you please indulge and permit me to post the next ground-breaking thought, even if it is coming to you live but delayed via satellite. And, yes, I am aware that there’s some service called “twitter” for that type of caper but no, I am not interested. Frankly, there’s only so much of the superficial information highway I can take on. So, without further ado and a hearty clunk, clunk, clunk…

BABY J DAY PAYOLA

What’s wrong with a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, a couple of pieces of fruit, some nuts and perhaps a candy cane stuffed in a lovely Hessian stocking or pillowslip as a nice Christmas present? (dangling from mantle shelf optional) In my day..., you see, I, too, was once somebody’s child.

Actually I still am!!

Imagine all those Lions Club Xmas cakes and Big Sister plasma plum puds (wonder if possible to make some of them self-saucing) that Marmee will be able to buy me now. Hope she gets some of those Darrelleacious sugared peanuts. Yum scrum! Chocolate money! Oooh somebody's getting peckish. Oh, and an Allen’s stocking too please, Kruddy. And anything you've got in aspic will be much appreciated.

Greed is back

Announced the newspaper headline accompanied by a picture of Michael Douglas, in character, mind. The sight of such nonsense on the newspaper stand caused my dawdling to the bus stop to be enlivened with a head shake, neck rick and eye twitch. Oh Kruddy. Oh Fairfux. Oh Gordon Gekko. Oh originality! Where has she gone? (channelling Helen Reddy but who is she channelling - note to budding blog bores being obscure means never having to be genuinely funny).

“Nevertheless, greed is really bad. Fortunately there’s never ever been anyone as greedy as Gordon Gekko on the stockmarket or anywhere else in real life ", the inner child reassured the on-the-outer adult, and together we heaved ourselves onto the bus and inserted my yearly pass into the green ticket machine.

The green machine did not return my ticket, with one slurp it had denied my right to board any bus, ferry or train in zones 1 and 2.

"Greed IS back!" I cried and asked the driver of bus no 3813 to assist me.

Bus driver couldn’t retrieve the ticket, despite some expert jabbing with a straightened bobby pin. He instructed me to sit down and give my contact details when disembarking so he could forward the ticket to me. I thanked him and obediently moved to the back and found a seat.

Bus continued its path and I wrote out my details on a few spare yellow post-its that I found in my purse. Every now and then the bus would stop at the lights and driver would stop and start the bus to get the machine to regurgitate the pass. The process proved to be successful and i was called to the front of the bus. I weaved my way to the green ticket machine only to be told by another passenger, stood by the machine, that “it came up for a bit but then it went down again.” Curiously it did not strike her to take it out, what a slow-witted blob.

Driver then told me I had to stand by the machine as the ticket could pop out any minute, like Michael Douglas’s penis I guess. Pop goes the weasel... So I spent most of the trip waiting to play grab, eeewe...

By the time we got to Town Hall it’d been decided that the ticket would have to be removed at the depot. I sat down and began deleting messages from my mobe, its memory was full, so I could phone work . The bus passed Wynyard when the machine started “barfing” and up popped my ticket. I leapt from my seat and slid down the aisle yelping “oh shit”. Charm and athleticism had become one. I reached the machine in time to snatch the ticket.

A stupendous victory.

Don't worry it's OK

Theresa Rein, the ever-turning-Bull, Baz, Rusty, Cold Mountain and Cmug Blanchett are gonna bail-out Aussie.

"Aussie's gonna be A L R I G H T (and that's what counts.)"

A single of celebration, titled as above, will be released at Xmas. Smith, Julia and Lindsay sing opening verse, followed by Albo, Penny and Nicola,with a bipartisan chorus featuring Kruddy, Swan, Plibersek, Brown, E-T-Bull, Pine, Xenophon and Bish. Yartz types singing back-up as the Tough Week Choir; Choirmaster: P. Garrett. 30 Foot of Grunt insist on being back-up band. S T O P

Proceeds from sale will go to Iceland and NSW STOP

Terror in the dunoir

Happy Rocktober, happy Gothstock, happy labour day long weekend and, best of all, happy three days away from the office communal toilets.

It's really only this year that the social activity, general chit chat and carping in the workplace latrine has become a ridiculous but major source of vexation and fatigue. Just thinking of it now causes tetchiness to prickle my blood and a moue of distaste upon my face, Generation Jones members can picture Dr Zachary Smith being forced to do some work on the chariot or lift a spade for HD visualisation of facial expression, but a-bog-blogging I must go.

You’re at the basin and someone enters the bathroom. Instead of a nod of acknowledgement, toiley timer transforms into have-a-chat, consumed with a desire to converse, and proceeds to continue prattling after entering the cubicle, sitting (i assume) on the honka and attending to other matters. Multi-tasker extraordinaire but please not in the dunoir.

Unfortunately there is no hand drying machine to thump and drown out the whole sorry business. I scoot out, with a clearing of throat and an awkward “I’m going, bye…” . It is worse when you scuttle into the bathroom and chatters is at the basin and continues to natter when you become otherwise engaged. It’s all so ter-rrribly inhibiting, and somehow unhygienic...

Yeah, I’m uptight. Yes, I am an embarrassment of a prude but as Marcia Hines would say "you know who you are; you are what you are. I give you props." Right on. Platitudes are indeed a tremendous source of comfort but a line must be drawn somewhere.

Last week I was in my favourite cubicle, the one at the end of the row, when I heard someone arrive and enter another (mercifully). I became tense, “must … get … , out … before other user does...” but in my haste fell off the seat and twisted my left buttock and hammy. As I attempted to get up from the floor I heard a mobile phone ring. It rang repeatedly. The person in the other cubicle muttered grumblings, annoyed that the mobile was ringing in the bathroom, she was annoyed?!, finally answering with an aggrieved “I’m on the toilet” – clearly the new "I'm on the bus/train."

Oh live and breathe, nsrs, as I live and breathe.

Then on Friday a curious thing happened. Confined to my cubicle, I heard one user enter as another departed. There was no chatter. No-one else entered. As I heard the last person leave and shut the door, the lights were switched off, punishment for previous hostill monosyllabic behaviour?

I was surrounded in an eerie darkness and silence. Overwhelmed with terror the imagination spun out, conjuring a Bruno Anthony like-villain, who whistled a hauntingly menacing tune while sliding his hands into a handsome pair of leather gloves, snapping the elastic at the wrists, in preparation for a nice bit of strangulation bathroom-style, or worse, head down dunny flushing, as he approached my cubicle. My mind's eye saw him kicking open the cubicle door when I heard a real person come into the bathroom, “Hello...? Please...Turn on the lights .", I whimpered. I don’t know whether she voted Liberal or was Renee Geyer (Tim Freedman lyric or 1975 Aust fed election campaign joke-ish – it’s lame and it's your choice) but she obliged.

Despite this punishment, I'm still on the side of Aesop, who once observed, “ we don’t piss down the telephone so please don’t talk on the toilet.” Sagacious dude, which is also the name of the fifth ninja turtle.

The Head Boy

So hard up

In poppa’s rented flat

Battlin' on

In Sydney Grammar crested flannel


Chompin' happy snax and fruit tingles

Enormous head nutting out future Singo jingles

All while swotting over prep and the Fin Review

Man of many metiers from Struggle St Vaucluse


So a-lone

In poppa’s rented flat

Vaunting ambition

Volcanic in Sydney Grammar flannel

SCOOP

Forget snake, leopard and cow skin prints you vacuous fashionistas, foxy baristas and twisted, scissory, Shakespeare's sisters for giraffe skin print is it and totally in the NOW.

It’s true.

There must be a fever in the fashion houses like you would not believe. Well it has impressed me.

At lunch time I passed a woman wearing a magnificent giraffe print ensemble. Curiously she was also petite, about 5”3 in high heels. Inspired by such boldness, or was it 'tude?, I stooped down to cup her chin with my enormous gloved hand and cooed “we can all have our dreams, can’t we, sweetness."

Schlemiel Schemozzel NSW Incorporated

And, sweetheart, we sure as hell are doing it our way. The disarray of the NSW Government has penetrated my sub-conscious (won’t bore you about the dreams at this point) and worse, spilled over to ecclesiastical administration.

The other night en route to the Tupper Parish Hall to deposit some of my treasures, on loan to Rev Philpott for his spring gala fete, which he insists on calling the Vesta Festa Primavera Situazione (Dante Alighieri classes for seniors Tuesday nights alert), I experienced a most unsettling awakening. As I veered left at the Rectory, my stride, general sense of self-importance, abundant community spirit and gaze were arrested by this:

"Tony Martin IS Reverend Bob!", I cried, dropping clipboard and upturning granny smith cardboard box causing the enormous pastel coloured ribbons to float on the breeze (soiling and entangling themselves with plastic bags that were having Alan Ball moments - oh the profondite!) as the K-Tel merry month of Maypole parts clanged to the ground.

Oh the disarray.

In truth, had the Rev behind this caper been Motorcycle Bob there would have been some allusion to Rocktober not this verily, verily wickede Gothickeria.

Rev Philpott has not gone doo-lally but his career has gone belly-up.

In fact, last weekend Tupper Parish Council was stormed! The Bishop booted out the Rector, leaf blowers, fluoro vests, grey power, Collins pocket Italian dictionary et al.

New Rev is commencing celebrations for Gothstock, which has usurped the Rocktober labour day long weekend. So no spring fete, maypole dancing or mud baths an' topless dames atop their men's shoulders; shame.

THE MOST

and I do not mean Donny Fanta Pants.

Hooray!

Another instalment in this magnificent series.

Actoring master class with Stefan Dennis

Yesterday afternoon I attended a get-to-know-you session with the Master and his ensemble before commencing on ten master class sessions.

It generally went well. I cruised (no, i do not mean hamming it up and continuously pulling a "disarmingly sexy grin") through the vocal exercises, improv and did a magnificent tree - a dying Murray river red gum. Stefan's insistence that we sport black leggings and black skivvies in 30 degree heat had initially annoyed me but do you know what, i think it may have facilitated what Stefan called emotional recall or perhaps it was my being-in-the moment. No matter i am sure i'll eventually get a grip on the techniques, well their names at least.

I do believe that there is indeed a method to the Master...

Hand across your stateline

The NSW Government has usurped the NRL in the scandale stakes.

As Blogger.com is my witness i am not voting for Labour in NSW while Tripodi and Obeid remain. Dirty filthy alp right machine number-crunching self-serving powerbroking toads.

From last weekend's Sun Herald Junior

When you're seeing double

That's a sign of vision trouble

You need glasses

When you can't read stuff on a jar

or road signs while driving a car

You need glasses

When you close one eye as you text

get headaches and long for Bex

You need glasses

No matter what your old man or lady say

It's come to the day

to get glasses

I, too, cried the day Queen Victoria died

I wonder if the helicopter that Damian Hirst sent to fly Ronnie Wood from Ireland to rehab in England was platinum and diamond encrusted.

I wonder what R. Hughes thinks of Ronnie's art...

I wonder why i have Rubber Bullets and not Art for Art's Sake on my brain.

NSW – The Parlous State #2000

Maaaaaaaate. Premier Iemma has been dumped and replaced by Nathan Rees. Rees was once Milton young boys and mary-jane are my weakness Uh-Oh Orkopolous's Chief of Staff.

Lordamumsamercy me. What will Hetty Johnson make of it!

Nathan Rees reminds me a bit of a Thomas Haden Church as 70's Parramatta Eel player with a sprinkling of the Kyle Sandilands – fine for a judge on Idol ...

What is particularly satisfying about the new regime is that all those vile Channel 9 toadies who were hired to boost Iemma's media profile will be gone, gorne, I tell you, G O R N E .

However my jameschadenfreude has been shortlived. New Premier is YOUNGER than me.

This no doubt explains why I always hang out for Stateline of a Friday night and the Insiders first thing Sunday morning.

Tonight's Stateline is going to be TOPS!

It’s official* I am a middle-aged poop. It won't be long till i quit my job to spend more time with the faaaaaaaaaaaaamily. I don't know whose family but if you've got a spouse and a set of kiddies you'd better watch out for Mistress Bel will be coming to a hard working Australian family's hoame soon. Beaut.


*Dear NSR, i know it's rather queer that i should genuinely use such an expression when i am so amused by more bang for your buck, heads up, so and not plus adjective/present continuous, at the end of the day, whatever, no brainer and then some, aux armes etc. Just put it down to my being a mysterious and complicated cove, a puzzle like the meaning of life. Have a good weekend and ponder on!

Feeling poopy

Not in a white polo neck sportin' Roger Moore/Jimmy Hannon fashion or the comfortin hot milk drink before sleepy bo-bo's ilk.

My zing has gone.

I think i need a nice sausage roll with quite a bit of tomato sauce.

scooters, vacation, fall

No i'm not talking about that crazy summer holiday past where i merrily vespa-ed along the narrow Amalfi Coast roads with Rock and Gina and Gore and Howard until i fell off the scooter and realised that the joke was on me. References to 60's Bee Gees are so hip these days if only that'd been the case in 75. O one's woe is practically Janisian. Nevertheless that summer in the early 60's was marvellous and i promise to share it with you another day.

Ectually the post's title features words that are blogger.com's suggested labels for this post but i thought i'd go one better and make it a heading. Do you like that Blogsy? Does that make you happy? Approbation PLEASE.

I really don't want to share much more or moan, so it's a toodes dudes, which is what all the olds say to the young these days, to you, and telly time for me. Ta Ta.

A Blyt on the landscape

It certainly looks like my magic faraway tree has snippety-snoo land on its tippety top this week. I'm constantly being sprayed with vinegar by administrative types across the ceebeedee. I am in soupe centrale. The rude articles need their gall bladders checked as they're clearly producing too much bile.

Things that matter - the Final

I guess I’ll have to stop using that heading now that Little Lexie’s left and gorne abroad. So sad. At least I’ve got the LNP to buoy my spirits. Now that is one progressive move for those conservatives, and possibly a boon for the descendant of Captain Bligh.

Anyway I don’t really need the LNP to buoy my spirits as I’ve been feeling rather chipper this past week, despite the return to work, i guess it's because of the recent visit by that Pope Star.

If only Pope were still JP2 as I could have given him the witty title of His Polishness or His Squeakiness. I have to say I was rather fascinated by Benedetto's red shoes,il papa and SJBarker - unfathomable phenomenons who are crazy about shoes, and the religious fervour - happy and mad as all-get-out are those pilgrims. The sight of those young gels jumping up and down on the steps of the Cathedral, where that medieval Cardinal plots and proselytises, chanting “Benedetto, Benedetto” “Where is the Pope? Where is the Pope? We want him now” was bamboozling. It also led to fond thoughts of Mickey J at 33 and then as Stella Street shopkeeper ordering supplies of Lemsip. Unfortunately there was no slowmo waving of banners or Mick at 33 leering and astride an inflatable cock. oh where have those good times gone! Mickey...

Autumn/Winter collection for the Holy See.

Toussaints

Baby J Day

Epiphany

Word on the street

I was stretching my limbs down the main drag yesterday afternoon, en route to the hardware, when a poster on a telegraph pole shouted, "SHAM 69 Fri Gaelic Club", and before I could groan, "Gordon" , the next telegraph pole's poster snickered and boomed, "DEVO Aug Hordern Pav". I really don't know which would be worse - i'm talking about the bands not the venues. What do you think, Dot?

It's after your time, Ena, but feel free to opine. Hmmm " they're no better than they ought be..." per chance?

You've got to work hard for the fun ones

well that's what Jerry Hall said. I have always found that quote amusing but cannot for the life of me understand why it floated forth this morning. I am not working hard and as for these so-called "fun ones" - who the fuck are they? I don't think i've found a rake amusing for at least a decade, and well , I couldn't find anyone more entertaining than myself and my scintillating set of imaginary friends.

The manifestation of so silly an utterance is particularly perplexing after having completed the 2nd instalment of Gore Vidal's memoirs, which features the most magnificently entertaining lectures, anecdotes and quotes delivered in the patrician, witty, biting, erudite, vituperious, superior and didactic glory that is GV. So refreshing.

I guess i was thinking of Jerry because i had discovered that my favourite lipstick was discontinued and just didn't know what to do. Oh lordamumsamercy me I cried. Fortunately this triggered a flashback to me, natch, in the late 70's, sitting on a green footstool, chez paternal grandparents, flipping through the enormous Womens Weekly to read an interview with Jerry Hall in which she lamented about a similar lipstick dilemma and recommended that you just scrape the lipstick's remains with a lip brush. She also disclosed that she kept her hairs long for her man. It was an enlightening read, and the advice has clearly proved indispensible.

I have practically recovered from the physical sickness. Once i got over the nasty 'flu business and being annoyed that it coincided with my holiday (for the first four days of the malady (oh for some reason I hear Parker addressing Lady Penelope) i attempted to cure myself by imbibing one glass of champagne daily but that seemed to make me sicker, so i bathed in the remainder, it was only Grandin, my dears) i found recuperation rather lovely.

I had the Gore book and A single man and a series by Simon Raven to read; I was in a state of same-sexualiste author bliss, furthermore no Womens Weekly, no telly - teev's even got too tawdry for me, and eggflips galore!!

Now that i'm better all i want to do is tell my friends the Gore anecdotes and quotes; they are brilliant and so applicable to one's quotidian. Please note that i don't let trip from my ever lingua franca quotations of the Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Parker variety; hmm just those of J. Hall - oh brother... Merely something will remind me of an amusing Gore anecdote that i am compelled to divulge... It's never boring and i don't palm it off as my own; the latter is a most vexatious trait.

Have you ever had your anecdotes or observations recounted back to you? It's queer ain't it. You feel like you're being gaslighted. Oh sorry that was you who rebuked me for doing that the other day... whoopsy.

Why it's a dilemma of Keith and Danny Partridge proportions; perhaps worthy of a two parter in Degrassi Junior High.

Yeah, cocking major.

Signing off now for there is beetling about to be done and holidays to be had.

Controversial corner #90210

Do you think Kruddy and Hetty and Morrie and Barry, and all the other moralising fools, have heard of the Led Zeppelin rock group? I think i have. Apparently, the ledbellies, as those in the know called 'em, made terrible honky cock rock music but their lp covers were like total art Oh and there is one other piece of vital information i know about that band of minstrels - their lead guitartiste washed his locks in Pantene.

I'm pretty certain that Kruddy and Hetty have heard of blind faith, well probably not the band whose lp cover David raised to my Houses of the Holy reference at the time of the Henson "scandale" .

Oh where oh where do we draw the line between art and pornography?

Oh and while you're there, ponder "frrreeedom fighter or terrorist". And by all means discuss among yourselves, hold press conferences and perhaps even film yourselves on your mobes and digicams while giving the press conference.

Don't let that basket fall!

On Tuesday i had a rather crackpot day at work. Well in truth it was probably one who was crackpot. First i attributed it to feeling seedy; I'd had 4 glasses of vino to celebrate Alice's birthday the night before . This really shouldn't have made one hung but i thought that the old bod was adjusting to the new government guidelines for what constitutes binge drinking. It transpired i was coming down with a cold, actually some 'fluish thing as i am still running a temperature...

Anyway it was a day of finishing stuff before hols while also having to attend a few meetings. Meetings are generally tiresome because they are bang-on sessions that resolve nothing and just encourage self-aggrandisement and inane prattle - yes, i know you'd be in your element.

The first one attended was at lunch break and was meant to be an information session about superannuation. Ten minutes into the meeting this ridiculously garrulous presenter cautioned attendees that he couldn't provide any financial advice. I returned to my beautiful cubicle to endure a most vexatious Yes Minister style discussion with an 81 year old assistant; it's like i'm supervising my father...

30 minutes later I bailed from the discussion, which was verging on a dispute of most absurd proportions, to attend a work meeting.

The Chair of the meeting was not very commanding. We had to comment on the final draft of some internal policy. We duly commented and approved it subject to a couple of amendments... We then waited for the next directive from Chair, i.e. dis-missed or some additional information. We waited. Oh how we waited. We looked around the room. We scratched our ears. We looked to the ceiling. We shifted in our seats. Silence prevailed. We looked sideways. We looked downwards. We looked across the table. I caught a colleague's eye and pulled puzzled lunatic expression. We cleared our throats. Still nothing happened. It was as gripping as those ten minutes in Romper Room when the cameras filmed the kiddies drinking their milk and all you could hear was the children's breathy guzzling of their milky snorts.

Then I heard my voice say, "so, we will just ah submit this to the Executive and ah..." (vague waving and rolling of hands to convey some important active step). The majority of attendees then scrooched back their seats and bolted, leaving Chair behind looking at us benignly from the table, where to this day she no doubt remains.

A-vauntin' she will go

Today is

1/7/08.

It's pure arithmetic, don't ye know.

Yesterday was Madame's birthday. Well may she be French but man is she OLD. Old I tell you. Old and vieille as yesterday. I feel rather guilty being so young and jeune and sans souci but what can you do. At least she'll always have my friendship.

I chided a jetsetter acquaintance, let's just call her Sputnik, for forgetting Madam's birthday. I received a curiously unapologetic text:

given the life I've been leading it is amazing that I can remember my name.

Oh nsrs, what happened to courtesy, guilt and self-restraint?

A fortnight ago I saw Richard Neville, then last week i saw Jeannie Little. Hazard a guess which baby-boomer star from the Mike Walsh Show this week will bring. I was also fortunate to happen upon Geoffrey Robertson. He has a wonderful face, kind of like that of a nice crocodile. Both he and Dicky have marvellously luxuriant heads of hair.

Are people still down on the baby-boomers? I can't get enough of them.

Marbles lost and seediness set-in, a situation that is utterly win-win.

No flying ashtrays but

Murray from Flight of the Conchords looks like a youngish Gareth Evans.

The end of the affair

For the first time in my existence I am without a daily serial, nothing on wireless, television or the world wide web. Poor, feckless Bel.

I stopped watching Neighbours a while ago. It had become so dull without the Timmins family, there was not enough carry-on with Lou and Harold and too much of: ruddy Carmella and her tedious nervy b's, Paul being "he's- a-good-boy-now" and that vile Jane Hall. It had lost its high campery and mental melodrama. I guess they are saving their best storylines for Pantos in Blighty. Recently I was told that Neighbours had improved but when I attempted to watch some of it before the 7 o'clock news my interest was not piqued. Well apart from seeing Paul attempt to rekindle romance with the character played by Jane Hall;he pretended to fall over and hurt himself. That was sheer Actoring master class with Stefan Dennis.

Despite that one glorious moment, it could be all over between Neighbs and me. Actually it could also be the end of Neighbours; ratings are bad.

Despite the lack of daily serial, there are programs that I watch and listen to on a weekly basis. My favourites are generally panelish shows where people humorously and dismissively opine and compete, such as Top Gear and the Insiders. Top Gear initially drew me in as it looked like Top of the Pops for cars - the sight of those presenters standing beside a car, raving and joking while surrounded by a studio audience was very appealing. Am not sure about Australian series, could be like Torque but I will be in the market for a motor (plus i always watched Countdown). I rather enjoyed watching Never Mind the Buzzocks on You Tube for a while. Some episodes from last year and the year before that were entertaining. And I'm partial to that news quiz on radio 4 (?). That can be very funny unlike the Australian Good News Week.

I cannot believe that show is on television again!! Why do stations keep giving Paul McDermott air time to recycle shows from his “heyday”. What does he have on them? And why do they allow him to sing the shows' signature tunes? And how could he do that? I guess he hasn’t twigged to the parallels between him and the Little Britain Dennis Waterman skit. Dennis has a much better voice anyway, and he was tops in the Sweeney, well I like him in everything from Up the Junction to New Tricks, well sort of. Did Rula get him a spot on the Rock Follies? That would have been some showstopping tune. Unfortunately I have never seen Waterman's portrayal of William Brown.

There is a hastiness of cooks on the television but I haven’t really been into those programs, there will only ever be one King’s Kitchen after all. Admittedly the 21st century cookery show is a whole new genre. I generally prefer reading cookery books and recipes. However, I quite like watching the cook and the chef. Maggie Beer’s manner reminds me a bit of that woman Megan who sang for the Fifth Corruption (not the fifth column that’s what the Duke of Edinburgh called Lady Di). Oh and Flight of the Conchords makes me laugh aloud oh and I ….

Set me free

On Tuesday I was treated to a night at the theatre - opening of Altarboyz.

JQ got tickets and, being a notorious sponge, I was invited. Musical had been described to us as a comedy so we assumed it was going to be a biting satire about boy bands and religious fervour. We sat there listening to the lyrics, waiting to squeal with mirth. There were people in the left stalls, laughing, must have been relatives, or perhaps it was too sophisticated for me. The lyrics were terrible, not really borne of any great theological knowledge (you know like Nick the Prick’s prose) just a mixture of Good News and sap. The parody was so feeble that the lyrics seemed to be promoting the faith.

Comedy consisted of the boy band members, a Jew (too funeee), a Hispanic, who seemed to be playing Fez from that 70's show, a closeted homosexual, a homeboy (Oh like I’d know... is that term still au courant? no doubt as ac as ac...) and some Doogie Howser type 'cept he wasn't a genius young docteur just looked like him, frequently grabbing their crotches, which is of course as heeeeeeeelarious as cancer, yours J. Blank, saying y'all and doing something else, um, recounting how they came to be together and …?

It was truly appalling.

Then there was a song sung by the camp altar boy and it was implied that his solo was to be a confession of his homosexuality but no it was a clever parody, and he announced that he was Catholic. The audience proudly cheered, some standing up and waving their arms and clapping. It all seemed strangely and sincerely evangelical. It gave us the creeps. We left and went to the bar.

I have since been told that the musical could be performed for the Pope when he comes to Sydney. That can't be true or have I been caught up in World Youth Day propaganda? Divine justice has struck. Gordon Benedict and jeepin' Jensens.

cinematic insight # 25

Last night I watched the first disc of Warren Beatty’s Reds. I’m enjoying it, particularly the eyewitness accounts by Dora Russell and Rebecca West, and Henry Miller. Really great. I’d like to watch an entire interview with Dora Russell and Rebecca West – such interesting, forthright and entertaining personalities.

Anyway while I’m really appreciating the film, rather engaged with a pretty amazing story, I keep getting sidetracked by Warren Beatty, there’s something about his face, or should that be his character's face, that reminds me of Jerry Seinfeld.

It's Queenie's long weekend

Hooray!

No bungers, Tom Thumbs or Catherine Wheels in NSW but i can cope; i guess i could get some sparklers (goodness a few indywindy bands named themselves after firecrackers - ooh crackle and pop!)

Firecrackers were always a bit too terrifying really, so full of ire, and almost as worrying as the possibility of being blinded by that annular solar eclipse in 1971.

There has been rain in Sydney and along the NSW north coast for a total of 5 days and 5 nights!!This has caused reporter types to bleat about the very long spell of bad weather in poor old Syd. Oh get with the strength! They earnestly drone about the much needed rain then cluck about the farmers but as soon as there is a mammoth downpour that lasts FIVE DAYS there's grumbling and grief during the wireless and television weather forecasts.

This Queenie's I have loads of activities in store, have gumboots and puddles will rage, and visitors a- plenty. What more could you want? A republic... with Quentin "Lovey Howell" Bryce as President ...?

Happy Queenie's to you!

Marty, Mick and me

Oh nsrs, have you seen that Shine a Light? I have not. I don't really want to but I guess i will. Surely, tt'd be less of a wank and more divertin' than one plus one - one great band on the threshold of superbrilliance (no Mick Taylor yet) and one Frenchie over analysing and boring us boeuf big-time.

The French and rocknroll, somebody please keep'em apart.

But, permission to rant, suh, what i really want to say is:

Why when talking about Marty and the Stones, does everyone, well Mickey J, go on about Marty using Gimme Shelter in his fillums. I didn't think it was that common on a Scorsese soundtrack (oh sorry for that interjection from foot not dissimilar from bottom corner...)

Marty's best use of stonesy music was in Mean Streets, which is of course a top little fillum. I loved it so much i tried to spread the word as i do with most things i 'm keen on.

So one year i got a friend a copy, direct from the Amazon, for her birthday. Unfortunately she was sent a dud. And when i found out, it was too late for me to sort it for she was too polite to tell me, Shane did. I guess Shane broke it; shredding the tape with his gnashers in some drunken crazed out jiggy moment at an anarchic punkywunky new wave retrospective atop some oh&s nightmare of a rooftop bar in Mel Bourne

Yeah Mean Streets is tops. i was stoked from the moment Charlie (? played by Harvey Keitel) enters this smokey dank bar and tell me is playin'. Then when crazy Mickey(? -it's been a while since i seen it, oh JOhnny Boy, thanks Shanks played by Bobby de N) arrives, jukebox plays jumpin' jack flash.

Thus providing like a total insight to the characters of the key protaganists....Ooh yeah mind-blowingly deep as Tim and Debbie would say (can you believe there are still people who talk like that?! Hi Astrid. Of course you can, they host programs on RRR and JJJ and are now infiltrating RN, and pop goes the weasel you're listening to newsradio of a morning to avoid right-on central).

Oh like i'd know anything about music and fillum. Those two songs were chosen just because Marty loved 'em. (Marty released a great Stones compilation lp called Just because, Marty; lp has copious liner notes).

I love tell me. It might have been a bigger hit in the States than in the UK - perhaps it was on that US December's Children. It might also be on high tide green grass. I encountered it in God's Own of course, 12 years later.

It was on this Decca compilation that was heavily advertised on the television one summer when i was in primary school. The lp was called Stones. Its cover featured a black and white photo of a prancing barechested Mick with his pout coloured crimson. It was a pretty good compilation and introduction to 60's stones for an Orstralian tween, yours David Dalton.

It was a really long summer and i spent most of it waiting to be invited to swim at the neighbours' pool or watching mother riley films on the television after being banned from the neighbours' pool for being too noisy - Oh my life's been spent in Coventry....

In the evening I did impressions of mother riley and others from my extensive repertoire, as part of variety hour, well just younger sister and I performing - oh such simple times. On the evenings I no longer had a willing audience, i'd chuck a spaz (not really, well occasionally, oh a couple of times per week) and then go and listen to that Stonesy LP, which had been finally bought after seeing all the ads in between mother riley and mac and myer. I endured mockery of stones by considerably older new waver of a sorella. I am still younger.

Languid,louche and filled with inertia?

NSW - The Parlous State

I’ve lost the keys to my letterbox and been quoted a sizeable sum to have them cut from the lock. Surely the federal government can do something about reducing the cost of key cutting; it controls housing prices, interest rates and the cost of petrol . People shuldnthaffta pay so much to access their mail. Snot fair. You’ve got to do something about it Kruddy, goddamit.

OH speaking of sanctimonious drawers, god not krudd (in this instance), its earthly representative, well the one after god's son so selflessly sacrificed himself to enable the wannabeeffluent to whinge eternal, is coming to Sydney.

Oh yes it’s World Pope Day in Sydney this July - proudly supported by the NSW Government.

Gordon Benedict.

The Parlous State’s government is issuing media releases advising workers in the ceebeedee or near any of the other areas where his holiness goes during that period to take leave. This was its solution for the Olympics, APEC, the beautiful big love boats docking in the Harbour, and now World Youth Day. NSW the state where planning is world-arse.

How much room does a popemobile require?

They’ll need the workers out and about frankly. How much pulling power does Pope Benedict have? Do the Catholic youth of today have something to say apart from pass the Eucharist on the left hand side. Perhaps the Catholic Church will borrow some young Crusader groovers from Hillsong? Padres and bonnes soeurs are currently scouting Gloria Jean’s for some additional pilgrims.

Oh I mustn’t be so negative. Each to her/his own beliefs and freedom to worship and whatnot. To have religious faith must be extraordinary and the new testament is a top read, yours Pollyanna. It's the government's city lockout solution that gets my goat. Surely the whole thing could have been staged at Olympic Park.

World Pope Day will be a gala week with the stations of the cross scattered about the city and Randwick, there'll be that spunky young man playing Jesus (Yes, Trevor White's grandson), a Saint’s corpse being paraded, and text messages from Pope Benedict to all World Youth Day pilgrims - HILSR (He is like so risen), HCB (hot cross buns), UFM (you flay me).

So really it’s all utterly moderne and progressive; could never be likened to some medieval pageant.

Thank goodness for the separation of Church and state.

Now if we could just separate the Vice Squad from the Yartz.

Oh the furore and scandale surrounding those photos of adolescents. It's the moral outrage expressed by state and fed pollies, media columnists and certain activists that has been revolting. What an utter downer, well more of a Howard actually but no, it was a Krudd.

This is the dawning of the age of Victoria , the age of Victoria…

OK yah

Oh hello there pet and lambs and members of Generations Jones, X, Whine and Zzzz. I hope you are well. I am having a bit of a May's almost over posting in cyberspace frenzy - two posts in 20 minutes you wouldn't credit it.

Johnson lent me Tina Brown’s the Diana Chronicles. It’s a top read about all them hons and vons.

At the mo Charles and D are still married, and, in between Deeeahna hurling (down the honker or herself down the stairs - yeah that’s a direct quote from Princess Michael of Kent to moi, confidente de luxe to SS offspring, me), Di’s suffering the interminable August hols at Sandringham with not much stoicism, some nights feature Princess Margaret entertaining the fam playing show tunes on the piahno until 2 a.m. - The thought of ma’am darling on the ivories singing songs from Camelot and High Society entertains me no end but i guess it'd be particularly rum and stuffy if you were teetotal and only into Dire Straits or Wham! - Di's childhood was indeed deprived; if only there had been Bill Collins' Golden Years of Hollywood in Blighty she and Margo would have fit like hand and glove; or annoying all the fam by usurping their limelight and being adored by press and plebs globally.

I’ve also learnt that Pris Cholls likes to be called Arthur (his second middle name) at the height of sessuale satisfaction. However what I found curious about this was how the request would be conveyed to the lover, via equerry or the Prince?

When I told one of my friends (I have several, no truly, ohwuh I do so, get) that i was reading the book, she confessed to having a soft spot for Lady Di for alleged friend was in London at the time of engagement and the same age as the Liedee. Well not any more sweetheart, you’re older than she’ll ever be, as am I. In fact said friend was born the day before Lady Di. And the spooky similarities well they just never began from there.

I mean to say, how many people do you know enter potato sack races willy nilly, well apart from the family Brady.

Music is my life my life is music

Why you know that ain’t the truth, sugar but I tell you what the past week and a half my dreams have featured music blaring. Big time.

Most mornings I’ve been waking with Psmith’s Rocknroll nigger in my head, and can you spare a thought for the disturbance felt when I just woke up with the so-called Babelogue (oh brother that's some kool term) of said song going round and round my poor old noggin.

Then last night I had this dream which was meant to be set in friends’ house in Mel but their house had turned into this extraordinary Laurel Canyon mansion complete with sweeping driveway, conversation pits, sandstone fireplaces and decoratively balustraded staircase, no I was not sliding down its banisters and honking horns Harpo Marx style that was the week before.

It was a swinging party, almost as good as the real one I went to last week, alas sans vision in pink tutu, frou frou and grey tights but that's for another post. Oh and everyone I didn’t know was at dream party. Unfortunately no Warren Beatty but there was Jamie C begging to put his hand in people’s pockets.

Anyway, that dream featured two songs blaring: Brand new Key and ruddy Congratulations (boom boom boom) and has left me somewhat distrait.

Things that matter #2020

Don't panic, Jonesy, am not about to launch into another twenny twenny summit monodrone. No, am instead going to treat you and nsrs 1 and 2 to thoughts that have been revolving, like a fancy rest-o-ront, in my brain for the past five days- a thought a day keeps intellectual rigour away.

On Monday Wayne Swan was sounding like a cranky primary school deputy principal at assembly. Yes, Malcolm Turnbull is smug, smart and very self-assured, and to put it mildly, annoying but Wayne get a grip. I am expecting WS to don shorts, long socks, slick back his hair and call MT a rude article then bark at him to leave the line and go to the Office - or is that just a flashback to April 1975 - oh the living and loving and learning that was my primary hedgucation - Brian Cadd how did you know.

Ant Music. Since Tuesday night when strolling back from King Street wharf after a delicious dinner and fun evening out I've had that dicky song on my brain. Not because i was dining with Marco or Garry Tibbs but because while walking back to St James, kept hearing pedestrians tip tapping across the streets' metal manhole covers, thus replicating the intro to Ant Music. By the by, Fool's Gold has a similar beginning to Ant Music, well vaguely similar it features metallic sounding percussion but is a lot shorter...Nevertheless the mind's soundtrack has been alternating between Ant Music and Fool's Gold.

New womantic one day; mad aceeed smiley raver the next. Rollercoaster of milestones in pop music this week, nsrs.

Working family. Cockadoodleboohoo. There's no-one out there doing it tougher, is it a crime to aspirate... Get your working fam on board bumper stickers from NSR now. They're tastefully designed; the slogan is flanked by a delightful Anne Geddes portrait of byebee in flower pot and a McMansion in the background.

As for the now. Like i would know but am surprised by the 2 glasses of booze per day cancer link - surely peanut butter is more harmful?

Oh dear this post is beginning to sound bileous and ridiculous I must be channelling Lexie Downer. Oh my. I'm sure your French is sensational, pet, just not that pratique in Asia.

Have a good weekend, nsrs. I will for I'm exploring the harbour foreshore where gold ingots and fountains of ginger pop abound.

More bang for your buck

I must say, nsrs, that when I heard PM K make the above pronouncement about some policy, can’t remember what - for it’s always the superficial that resonates with me, I was somewhat surprised. No sooner had my inner Victorian returned to her lovely cameo locket or was it the handsome gold watch chain around my neck, did my delicate ear hear the expression again at a rather important meeting, admittedly not a bang on of 2020 summit proportions, nevertheless a significant one in the belosphere. I did pull a wee face and at the next meeting person said "value for money." Oh rrresult . Now for a seamless segue into the 2020 summit...oh can't find one so (carriage return please Blogger.Com)

2020 Summit

Twenty 20 Cricket

20/20 vision

2020 Mascot NSW

Oh where will it end……..

I watched the final summaries of the big ideas from the different groups at the 2020 Summit -the big bang on for no bucks (oh there you are segue, now if i could just cut and paste you , uh - no am too unco). How chaotic the Summit must have been. The presentation of big ideas from some streams was very smug (i'll be jiggered) and rather annoying (jig jig), and the content, predominantly motherhood statements and nothing new, most certainly didn’t warrant such gloating. However, the big ideas from other streams were at times encouraging and it would be grand if they could somehow be implemented. I don't think they could have been as vague as what i just wrote surely...

Oh well you’ve got to throw the stone to get the pool to ripple as The Squeeze once sang.

See you at The Summit ... OH everyone was there, well not Andrew Bolt and he certainly was swilling the old Vinegar Bay on the Insiders; compared the forum to a cabaret show, I thought the bit with Rhys Muldoon and Hugh Jackman was more Midday show, and vented about the PM’s ingratiatin’ ways with celebrities.

The twenny twenny camera operators were frenzied, panning in on the faces of celebs, pollies, media and community identities. I imagined A. Bolt in a state of high apoplexy when the cameras honed in on the current Media It Girl (Emma Tom's successor? – still I doubt Marieke Hardy would ever write a bio on Mary Donaldson and call it Something about Mary) seated next to the drummer from Spiderbait (no surprise for last week's GoodWeekend did describe It Girl as “having a weakness for musicians” - possibly a more irritating phrase than more bang for your buck owing to its simpering i'm a chockywockyholic quality).

Following “the streams” feedback, Kevin Rudd got a standing ovation, or was that meant for Cate Kidman and the new bairn.

Greetings from Costa del Crotchety

Dental mental

The enamel on my teeth is wearing thin, not as thin as my patience, but nevertheless thin and I have another wisdom tooth growing where one had been previously removed.

But it doesn’t matter for I love teeth, all teeth. The white, the gold and the yella, the stained, old deadie with the wiggly brown line, the snaky milk ones, the malty, the rotten, the bucked, the inward, the straight, the crooked, the chipped, the broken, the gappy, the Miss American Beauty gnashers and let’s not forget a sweet set of master baked beans.

I often gaze at other people's teeth.

Not because I judge a being by her/his dentalia or that they give insight into owner’s psyche (I know people after all) but just because

love is... teeth?
Had to increase NSR's cute factor.

Keef claims that after all the smack'n'jack had rotten his teith they grew a third time.

A brother and sister I know, not Donny and Marie nor Brandon and Brenda, have decay-resistant teeth that are brilliantly white.

The majority of Generation Whine and Zzzz are/will be super dental specimens with jawlines like US daytime soap stars.

When a relative got dentures she requested that they be bucked as she’d always wanted them so. She was so worth it.

I don’t have dreams about teeth falling out because when I suffer from anxiety I panickedly imagine my underpants have fallen down or dream of lost children crying for their mothers, for yes, I am Peter Pan.

Navsatsnthat

Well you know those Sat Navs i was telling you about yesterday, the ones where Michael Caine's voice has been skinned to give directions, well, i think you can only get them in the UK. They cost about 300 pounds, sorry, pound, and instead of Sylvania, you could end up in Cricklewood or Streatham.

Why is it that people, sorry, persons, everywhere, in Erinsborough, at the bureau, in the cafe, and no doubt, right now, in some ridiculously overpriced share accom. hse an HM, who claims to have a good sense of humour and love comedy - yes, Brian the autodidact, ask/say

"Do you want a tea?"

Excuse me, nsrs

"No, I don't want a fucking tea, Brian but I would love a cup of tea, a cuppa, perhaps even a pot of tea or a potta, if you don't mind. Ta muchly and thanking you!"

Lord love a duck because he's never going to love Brian.

Curiously a tea is more palatable if it's profferred with a nice sandwich.

Have a good one (god knows what but please let it be good )

Yours

Snooter Pooter

Did you know

That you can purchase a satellite navigation thingy , sorry, Sat Nav, with Michael Caine’s voice providing the directions. Well you do now, so do yourself a favour.

Michael Caine is a big fan of Chill music and last year impressed Elton John with his knowledge of the genre. If you want to know more information like that and about his 2006 cruise on the Amalfi Coast, go here

Puff of smoke

Skeeter, Andrew Harwood and now Smoky Dawson.

So many of one's babysitting buddies from the formative years of telly viewing are departing this life.

Farewell and thank you stars of that black and white television set, against whose corners i twice cracked open my forehead, and from which I watched some glorious shows and saw man walk on the moon - although I couldn't understand the fuss, thought anyone with a rocketship could go there, and so began a lifelong difficulty distinguishing fiction from reality - yours Jeremy Irons as Charles Ryder.

The silver white dot that appeared on the screen's centre after the television was turned off was troubling.

The other evening i was at the hairdresser and sat opposite the actor who, many moons ago, played Alvin Purple. I was tickled.

On my way home i thought about Alvin Purple, Alvin Rides Again and then Son of Alvin Purple, which starred Gerry Sont. As the taxi turned from Victoria Road into the Crescent, i caught a glimpse of Glebe Island Bridge and thoughtfully stroked my chin while puzzling over the fate of Gerry Sont. Mercifully the taxi driver turned on PM, temporarily ending those vapid thought waves.

However, they readily returned tonight (as they do every night, on a fine Arab charger, no less) for while I was watching telly I was delighted to see Gerry Sont promoting a retirement fund.

Puzzle solved.

Rrrresult.

Cockadoodledoo.

What's the smudge tell me what'sahappenin'

Hey, all day i've passed people scuttling about with dusty grey smudges on the centre of their foreheads.

At first i was puzzled and thought it was perhaps an attempt at homepathically curing a cold but why would you look so smug, then i realised:

Ash Wednesday

Isn't that marking meant to be in the shape of a cross? What's with all the good padri being afflicted with the lazy digit?

Worse I realised that i'd missed fricking Shrove Tuesday - pancake Tuesday.

At the second state primary school i attended we used to sing this song:

Pancakes Lissela , Pancakes Lissela,
now's the time to fry'em
for today is Tuesday
and ....

I cannot remember the rest. Teacher's father was the minister of the church down the road. Teach used to make us sing The Lord of the dance too. We sang "they whipped and they stripped and they hung him high" with great fervour.

So much for 1901*and whatnot.

Anyway I guess it's 40 days until Easter and I'm not Lending a thing.

OH Easter is my favourite Christian festival. I just love it. Why? Because it's a great story: the cross bunny fighting three times with that mendacious rooster, running away to sulk behind a rock but fortunately laying a trail of chocolate eggs so Judy and the search party of soldiers managed to find him.

I just love that Easter break and the opportunity to have my annual Passiona film festival featuring the works of Zeffarelli, Rice & Lloyd Webber and Scorsese. It's superdooper Friday-Monday.

*4 years before France separated Church and State. The separation of pollie and supermodel edict is imminent there. It was decreed in Australia in the early 70's following Billy, Sonia and theslit-up-thigh gown going to Washington.

Hey Moana*

Some say carpe diem while others carp and demean.

(Now that would be a top little quote for the 2009 Women's Wit calendar – I’d like the quote in Times New Roman 12 pt but Mistress Bel written in hot pink 16 pt Monotype Corsiva or Lucida Calligraphy, probably the latter as it is nice and subtle.) It also has the potential to be an up little ditty to be sung by Racey, yours B. Bacharach.

While the mistress can be the cow with the crumpled horn, she generally restricts her whinging and funk attacks to herself, the select few sounding boards called friends, or cyberspace. Very noble and discreet.

One's railing and wailing sessions are generally short. The mistress having the maturity of a five year old can be easily cajoled into a good mood with a few soothing enquiries about herself, a pat on the head , and a dark blue cellophane bag of mixed sweets works a treat.

However, I am never the whinging raaag in the workplace, or on the mobe on the bus for that matter. That is just too disgraceful. Particularly when the whinging is expressed with a bubble gum accent meets Gilmore Girl banter. UGH. I mean to say, I didn’t go through the Blitz to suffer that. Indeed I did NOT.

Lady Grump, Lady Grump, it’s not alright, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.


*Bo Diddley or Craig Mclachlan song - it's always your choice on NSR

Lady Grump

From the bus window I espied a red 1989 Ford Laser with the number plate FUN 180. Its driver was a twonnysomething blonde, sporting a black shirt with Fitness First embroidered in blue above her pert right brrreast.

Driver was scowling into space puffing on a fag.

Spew glorious spew

This morning i had the delight of catching the ferry to Circular Quay to go to work. It was wonderful and the sea was slightly choppy which was exciting.

As i walked from the Quay to my office in Wynyard, i counted several piles of vomit. I didn't think that Wednesday was a notoriously boozy night even for the Rocks area. Perhaps the piles were left over from the nation's weekend celebrations but they really did look too fresh. Seasick ferry travellers?

Anyway i didn't give it a second thought until 10 minutes ago when returning home from the bottleshop after having had a somewhat fraught and dispiriting driving lesson - thunderstorm, lightning, mental traffic and my steering is spaz and erratic, I passed the old post office and noticed a scrawl on its wall that read "Cass spewed here" with an arrow pointed towards the ground.

Like a circle within a spiral

A tall man, looking like a cross between Alastair Campbell and Stephen Fry, wearing a camel hair coat over a suit, pushes his way agitatedly through a revolving door and enters an impressive and enormous corridor. Mr Important Business strides and strides, the sound of his shoes resonant against the marble floor - similar to the sound Aqua boy made when he walked on land, brushing the fringe away from his brow, pushing his way extravagantly through some swing doors, his pace becoming more urgent and impatient.

Finally he bursts into an office, where a young woman (played by Kelly MacDonald) is seated busily shuffling paper, looking harried, and he cries:

"We can't let this happen!

We've got to get rid of him!

We can't let Adam Ant overthrow the government!"

Unfortunately I then woke and desperately tried to return to the dream but could not - to be continued January 2009 non-ratings season.

Now where did I put that opinion?

The non-ratings season has had some top little shows hasn’t it. I have enthused about the non-ratings season to you before but as if you’d remember, sweet nsrs. You've minds of sieves and remember sweet fanny adams about things past, present and lost and need me to act as prompt and diarist of your dreary lives, which I’m happy to do while advantageously spreading lies about good times, feuds and birthdays. Haven’t been sprung yet and you’ll forget in one, two...

Yes that’s right, we were talking about non-ratings season. Yes, I said hasn’t it been good, mother. Yes. Very good. Lovely. We’ve been enjoying all those interesting dramatisations of English lives, haven’t we, mother. Adored Wallis and Noblet (about he who would never be crowned and his abdication in 1936) – would have liked to have seen more about those greedy toads lives in exile but have since read the Viceroy's daughters by Anne de Courcey and the thirst for historical information about Anglo/German aristos has beeen well and truly slaked. Rivetted by Elizabeth David portrayed by a Charlotte Rampling look-a-like and with Hot Ploddy Phil Hunter’s wife Cindy playing Elizabeth’s sister. It was a boozy, racy, adventurous and kind of volatile tale. Ooh we’ve also been enjoying that adaptation of The Line of Beauty, haven’t we. Oh the sex scenes have been a bit too much for some, haven't they, mother, but I for one find it absurd that people comment on that rather than the absolutely vile characters.

I did try to read the book two years ago but couldn’t. The characters were just too ghastly. On the telly the characters’ hideousness is slightly diluted in that you only see them for an hour whereas when you read those characters penetrate your mind and haunt you. I am looking forward to tomorrow night’s finale of LoB.

The Line of Beauty being set in Blighty in the 80’s and whatnot caused my mind to wander to one day in 1988, I think the Poll Tax (?) had just been passed. I was walking down the Cromwell Road or was it Gloucester Road, oh as if you’d remember, I was on a pilgrimmage to Froxbury Mansions, and this woman in her 50’s wearing one of those enormous and hideous Liberty scarves/shawls (which were in fashion for her set at the time) around her shoulders bowled up to me for I was kitted as a Sloane Ranger, sporting Fergie bow and diaphanous skirt, peppering my speech with OK Yah in between scoffing profiteroles and throwing bread rolls all the while bopping to Bros on the Sony Walkman.

Anyway for some reason this woman, probably a Mrs Towers-Smythe or Miss Dodo Macintosh, came up to me and boomed in my face “oh isn’t it marvellous SHE got it through”. I sought clarification with a “sorry, what?” and expressed my opinion to which she replied through her nasal passage:

“Oh you’re from Orstralia are you? Happy Bicentenary!”

Friday morning nightmare

While reading this morning’s paper my gimlet eyes, well alright they’re more like those of Arnold the pig from Greenacres – 2008 is the year when I will be keepin' it real, caught sight of a little review of last night’s concert by the punk pop travesty known as the Police.

Can you imagine the smirk that spread across my lips as I bit into my toasted half bagel, smeared with Mum’s garlic spread (used to be produced in Enmore), and read:

“Sting implored the audience to clap*- an instruction that even the celebs down the front - such as Nicole Kidman, Keith Urban, Hugh Jackman and Deborra-Lee Furness - didn't care to ignore.”

Here a sham, there a sham, everywhere a sham-sham. A veritable sham-a-rama.

Now while I’ve got your attention may I please table this:

Has Cate Blanchett hired Clan Kidman's PR agent? Can’t flick through a paper or magazine or channel surf without seeing CB and that fixed pained smile on her face as she trots down the red carpet, advises of her $10M environmentally sound mansion or freshly laid log (oh the crudite as Mark Latham used to say).

The media overload was happening well before the two Oscar nominations. Yes, she is a gifted and talented actress/impressionist and went to the opportunity school for actors, but really she’s become such a publicity hound that the mistress recommends that she lie low for a while and work on a new "photo look", ie facial expression for the poor snap happy paparazzi.

*says it all

Honey, honey, call me on the telephone

For some reason i have that line from Star Star on my brain. I do wonder where fun city is -Bulli, Bendi or Mel?

Since i lasted posted i have been up to much important business.

F'instance, i was searching for information about pink flowering dwarf gums on the gardening Australia website and look what came up at
number 11.

Where membership’s a smiling face

Well may people ask “what are you listening to at the moment?” (MySpacien in origin?) but would enquirer care to know about lyrics and toons that randomly emerge from your memory banks to become that day’s, week’s soundtrack.

This week I’ve been staring at my work schedule for 2008 trying to work out the very latest I can submit stuff so I can focus on personal emails, facebook and reading blogs when the sound of cicadas vibrate in my right ear (too high a frequency for my partially deaf left ear), a mesmerising Calypso or Cuban beat starts tapping in my mind, my shoulders sway (moving in the disconcerting fashion that the shoulders of Nightmoves host Lee Simon did when he spoke) and I mouth “all that’s missing is the sea” to holler “But don’t worry, you can suntan!”, with great gusto, then a "woah woah wooaaaaaaaah" descending to a bit of "cool, coooooooooool" and ending with a pathetic cough to conceal my folly.

Nevertheless a hauntingly satiric lyric such as this should be sung out loud with exuberant abandon.

Keep your crystal visions to yourself

Following the trail of some friends, whose opinion I hold in high regard, I went and saw no country for old men. What did I think of it? I really do not know. I don't think i even understood it. I didn’t hate it but it left me feeling like I’ve got mad cow’s disease, or perhaps that’s just returning to work after the Xmas break. I’m dazed and almost without an opinion.

I rather liked the actors, the scenery and feeling freaked out by the violence'n'gore and watching those bits through the parted fingers covering my face while yelping. However, I just feel that the film went in my mind and straight out. And although I had been warned that Tommy Lee Jones’ monologue was the last part of the film and not to zone out I did. I believe this is because he was recounting a dream. I mean really who listens to anybody's recount of a dream. Furthermore it didn't sound as though there was one celeb in it!

Hanyways I'd much rather have seen that film than the one about the Bobster. Still I am left worrying that perhaps, like Lady Di once lamented, "i have the brain of a pea" - still that "devious moron" had one over me - i'm so ignorant i didn't know that peas had brains.

I will leave you the following to ponder in 2008 (please read it with the voice of Ronald Coleman or Maxwell Smart as that Prince)

Is it a far, far better thing to be a devious moron or a Best Party Eva Corey, or are they the same thing?

self-obsessed and unawares

Fiii-nally i've got your attention.

On new year's eve i saw the fireworks which were exciting, particularly the ones at midnight. I wasn't so keen on the accompanying music that was booming around the harbour but FJG, Sputnik for short these days, don't ye know, and i did sing along to that latest silverchair hit. I met some very nice people, encountered some rude articles and witnessed Maria Venuti's girlfriends attempting to make a burst for freedom from the bare constraints of Maria's frock. Hardly a scoop, I know, but my eyes are still bruised.

Now that's some beginning for 2008 and no doubt augurs a bountiful year ahead. Well not for the majority of carry-on stars, so whichever one of you is loitering feeding me those titty boom-boom jokes naff orf back to bishop and actress heaven.

I have made about 5 resolutions. Unfortunately my resolve has dissolved, like Calgon but the bath tub ring that was my life in 2007 remains. (i lifted that from stanza 4 of Macarthur Park).

One thing i must no longer be culpable or part of in 2008 is the see-saw Marjory bore conversation. You know, the conversations where an anecdote or something topical, well anything really, is being recounted and the interlocutor doesn't roll with the conversation, let the see-saw evenly teeter and totter if you will, or allow speaker to come to a conclusion, but cuts in and attempts to top it with some tenuously linked tale (about her/himself natch), thus springing her/himself high into the air causing the other to thump down to the ground smacking the coccyx. And yes, we're back on course, hearing about you, glorious, tediously lacking self-deprecation, blissfully bouncing a-top a fluffy wad of self-satisfaction, you! It will however be open slather in 2009. I wonder if Mrs Christmas or Chrisco sell muzzles with those appealing hampers?

I certainly won't be dabbling with Limewire any more. Lawks what a freaky time i had with it recently. I'd been thinking about Lucky Jim and the 1957 film adaptation starring Ian Carmichael and Terry-Thomas (Tel played either Prof or Bertrand Welch). I'd taped it from the television in the early 90's; it wasn't that great but i thought it would be interesting to see again, in light of my enjoyment of I.C. playing, sorry, playin', Lord Peter Wimsey. Unfortunately tape of Lucky Jim has completely faded (?). I thought i could purchase it from Amazon but my tightness led me to Limewire. I began my search for Lucky Jim and some really nauseating pornographic titles came up. A total freak out, ugh, and before you could say Dolly Dunn i'd stopped that search and removed Limewire. The treacherous pervy waters of the internet. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh and quadruple Ugh.

The quote for today from Women's Wit calendar is by Maryanne Fahey:

How many ughs does it take to make an ugg boot?

Happy newie

That was inspired wasn't it?

I guess i could have written a pome but I prefer subjects such as people and biscuits, being the people person foodie that i am .

Speaking of inspiration, the quote for 2 January of the Women's Wit 2008 calendar, one of the exciting gifts from my Christmas treasure, is by that legendary wit and humorist Nicole Kidman:

"Life has got all those twists and turns. You've just got to hold on tight and off you go."

Ooh i feel a poetic tribute coming on.