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.