Didn't You Kill My Brotha?!

"What're you lookin' at, pansy?"

Apparently, all the swans in England are owned by Liz. I don’t know how the swans feel about this, and I’m not certain if Queeny goes and pats them and talks to them, but I am told they are all technically hers.

This fair isle of ours is still under the aegis of HRH, and I would hazard then, that the swans here are therefore technically answerable to her as well. So now we’ve got a starting place.

Centennial Park offered up its usual brand of light hearted tom-foolery last night, when a swan took a disliking to Emergency Contact, and chased her around the park for a bit. It is hard to buy this sort of entertainment. The often quoted saying has it that, “a swan can break a man’s arm, you know!” EC isn’t a man, so I wasn’t worried.

When things had calmed down a bit, she had to go back to the trainer’s car to fish out a new pair of shoes he’d got for her. As she was lacing them up, the swan peered around the side of the open car door, waiting for her to stand up and move off, and present some juicy part of anatomy for a good pecking. The swan had impeccable timing and comedy instincts. EC wasn’t so impressed.

“Dear Queen,

It is time that you did something about your swans. Swan number 15,072 has a bad attitude and needs to be dealt with.

A light cull apparently is good for the vigour of a group. You should royally look into it.

Yours truly,

She Who Must Be Contacted In Case of Emergency

P.S. After a bit of research, I have discovered that you only own the mute swans. I cannot remember if the swan in question was mute or not, I was moving too quickly to hear anything other than the wind in my ears.”

It Can Be Done. I Am Living Proof

The Proof.









What you see above you represents the pinnacle of human achievement.

Many people ask me, “Nick, what do you consider your greatest moment on this earth is? Was it winning the Nobel Prize for Literature? Was it toppling a corrupt South American government using nothing more than a telephone and your wits? Was it losing you virginity without losing your self respect or the use of a limb?”

And I say, “While all those things are good, nothing beats getting Optus to admit they’re wrong, and then getting the refund out of them.”

The saga involves a number of pieces of genius on their behalf. Here is a tiny selection of highlights:

Getting my name wrong and instead of correcting existing account, squirreling away my payments into that account and letting me go into debt on the corrected account.

Billing me twice and refunding me once, for a service I didn’t receive and then arguing about it.

Blaming the faulty wiring in the street that ensured that when it rained, we went incommunicado, on mythical 'other things'.

Insisting the man who came to fix the wiring in the street would have needed entry to our place.

After a series of excruciating screw-ups, ringing me at work for a customer satisfaction survey.

Not reading my complaint email properly and ringing up to offer exactly the wrong thing as a fix.

And it goes on and on and I won’t make you put up with it… but; up there, you see that I have prevailed, I have my cheque. It is for the grand total of $47.19 Australian (for overseas readers, that’s equal to a small, flat, brown rock at current exchange rates) and represents an hourly payment of approximately 50 cents an aggravation.

I will never, if I have anything to do with it, do business with that lousy bunch of card carrying fuckknuckles ever again. I exhort you, dear reader, to not have anything to do with them if at all possible, too.

Optus. No.

Not Mozart, The Other Guy

Making lists, as a way of writing, is a bit of a cop-out. 

I'll do it if I think I can get a cheap giggle, make a point, get away with it, or whenever I feel like it. Apart from that, I'm dead against it. (Woody Allen knew how to throw together a list, now look at him.) 

It should never be used as a way of writing a song, unless you have just accidentally written Imperfect List, by Big Hard Excellent Fish, and that has already been done by the band, Big Hard Excellent Fish. 

I've linked to McSweeney's Lists over there on the right. They are of varying quality and taste and I won't try and sell you only the ones I like. But the good ones in the huge collection are as good as 30 second fun gets, and you should have a look. 

The enjoyment in a really good list is, of course, filling in the blanks that make the rest of the story. What happened off-stage, to the left of the list, that made the writer arrive at this important, fridge-mounted moment? 

It's not so for everyone.

I know people who actually earn their living by filling in the blanks, checking, validating, verifying, researching and making the story credible. 

Pah.

Thanks and everything, keen eyed observers,  but how much more fun is reading the list I found Emergency Contact had made, without the tiresome rigour of sceptical analysis?

 

On this list, I meet a deadly, funky, sleek adversary. It simply reads.

• laser eyes
  
• hair removal
  
• dance lessons
  

Yeah, Baby!

May The Road Rise Before You, Dickhead

A.J. Mackinnon, a man who confesses that his interests include philosophy, conjuring and fireworks (and with that I would suspect no interests that include chasing girls, being chased by girls, or bumping into girls) has written an interesting, poetic, and at times genuinely amusing book, The Unlikely Voyage of Jack de Crow.

He sets off in dinghy from Wales, and in the spirit of adventure and appalling navigation, pops out at the Black Sea over a year later.

The book is not an unalloyed joy. It suffers from a few too many adverbs at times, and there are passages where, if you were present in the boat, you would’ve beat him over the head with his own oar. The unending self satisfied delight in his own company, the ability to name every blinking type of flora, and the non-stop saccharine optimism, I find deeply suspicious. People like that inevitably end up on the news, with a neighbour saying something like, “Oh, he was always very quiet and polite. He kept to himself mostly. Although he did smell of ether and insect repellent.”

But, on the whole, it is a really lovely little read about a man who tells a good self deprecating story and paints the country side in engaging detail. It also has amusing little sketches thrown in. I quite like a picture every now and then. Except the pictures in my old, old copy of Peter and the Wolf. Frightened the poop out of me, but couldn’t put them down.

What it did infuse me with is the yearning for adventure and getting back on the water. To set off with not much of an idea of home-time, or indeed where home would be. To rely on, and connect with, the kindness and comfort of strangers. To float upon the world and be a leaf on its stream. That impulse lasted until 4.30 pm, 27th Oct.

Last night, five cars in front of me, a guy broke down and he was making a real hash of extricating himself. People were just driving around him on the crest of a hill, on double white lines. It was going to end in tears.

I got past him and backed up. I could smell the petrol from 6 meters away from where he’d flooded it, but first of all I said to him, “Pop your hazards on mate, and we’ll throw your hood up so people can easily see your not going anywhere.”

He was thankful for the help and I was devising a plan for backing him off the narrow road and out of harms way, when a passing motorist, leant out of the window, yelled at me that I was a "complete fuckwit", and threw an empty packet of cigarettes at me.

Being unable to even work out why I was abused, my need to adventure in the world and commune with the people in it, died. I'm just not up to it.

Waiting For Blogo (Future Projects)

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Tera-Byte: Big Memory or Fangs?

Movie Review of Jumper Without Reference To Sequel Cardigan

Things To Do In Iraq When You're Bored - Ba'ath Party!

This Means Nothing To Me. Ahhh, Map Of Vienna

My Word Is My Blond (Refutation of Roger Moore Biography)

Vampires Are So Trashy

Cultural Insensitivity - I'm Doing It Right

(Boy, those lolcats get under your skin don't they?)

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah.

I'm sick of it. I've been a good kid. Well mostly. There was that time that I sang "I'm So Lonely" in a passable Kim Jong Il impersonation when the Korean delegation were muttering amoungst themselves for just a bit too long. That had my boss looking at me in a certain sort of way.

But, in general, I'm genuinely open minded about other cultures in an unconscious way. I'm not so enamored of my own that I think we're the bee's knees, or the ant's pants, or the cat's pajamas, or the wasp's nipples or whatever. Seriously, I took a 'how unknowingly prejudiced are you?' test the other day, and the results were that I was slightly positively biased towards people with darker skin than me. I don't know how that's possible, I can't remember the last time I even met one, but that sort of demonstrated what I'm getting at.

I am genuinely prejudiced about other things. If you're a dickhead, or you're deliberately stupid, I'm not going to like you, no matter what the shape of your face or the hue of your skin or the selection of genitals you are wearing.

With all those things in mind, how on earth am I expected to continually keep a straight face when I am dealing with two of my overseas colleagues, who rejoice in the names of Tan Kat Poo and Porn Tip.

It's not fair.

Park Life

I've had the good fortune over the last few years to spend a bit of time in Centennial Park, and I've seen some truly excellent things.

I've seen a woman, stark bollocking naked, being photographed draped around the roots of a tree. The thing that intrigued me about that, was where they chose to do it. The park is large enough for the local thug-class to dispose of bodies in privacy, so I wonder why these two decided to make their 'art' on the main drag, leading up to the main gate, near one of the main picnic areas. I'm not complaining. Just interested.

I've heard what sounded like a large water fowl of some description being stuffed unceremoniously into a bag. When I've looked up to see what on earth was going on, I've seen a homeless guy stuffing a large bird into a bag. Dude! It's supposed to be a jolly-jumbuck!

There's a pine foresty bit sort of thingy, up near the north east side of the park (I think it's there anyway). I've seen a guy with a full, five piece drum-kit, in the middle of the wood, doing his practice. Sort of sensible, but how the hell did he get it in there?

I've been able to turn around to my trainer and say, "Look out, you're about to step in dog."

To which he's anwered, "Don't you mean dog poo?"

To which I was able to say, "No... just dog."

It was the leg of someone's not so beloved terrier.

Last night was an appalling night in the park. It was about 11 degrees C, minus a windchill factor of approximately a thousand. The rain was sideways and the first couple of minutes standing around in your shorts and t-shirt make you wonder why more people don't die exercising - whatever the number, it should be more.

Anyway, this woman had all the answers. She's walking home in the diabolical conditions. She's got her suit on, but swapped the heels for a sensible pair of walking shoes, the rain's a comin' down in fits and starts, what else better to protect herself with than... a shower cap.

Centennial Park. Full of nutty goodness.

Organising Atheists is Like Herding Cats - Pity Really

In a positive move in a world of woe, this little story comes from Ol' Blighty. 'No God' slogans for public buses.

In synopsis, the British Humanist Association (BHA) has paid for ads on the side of bendy-buses which say, "There's probably no God, now stop worrying and enjoy your life."

To pay for them, the BHA thought they would need to raise about £5,500, and Professor Richard Dawkins said he'd match them pound for pound, if need be. The BHA has now managed to accidentally raise £36,000 all on its own.

I like it. This is an indication of real sentiment. You can measure it and literally take it to the bank (if it's still there).

It means they have wandered into the street with a hat and said, "Hi, we're raising money for an anti-religion campaign, and we were just wond... oh, thank you very much!"

I suspect there are a lot of people who are alarmed at the re-emergence of dark-age thinking (travelling under the ill-deserved protection of 'belief' and 'conservatism') and are sick of being beaten over the head by people who think they know better.

But, by nature, they are a quiet voice. It's hard to organise those people into mobs - that's exactly the sort of thing they're suspicious of. You certainly can't get them up early on a Sunday morning to go and mumble at an invisible sky fairy.

Of course there's been backlash from all those 'right-minded' religious types (or, as we in the business call them, "People who lack the imagination to really think it through").

Stephen Green of Christian Voice said:

"Bendy buses, like atheism, are a danger to the public at large."

You can't argue with that. Actually, you can barely find a line of logic in it. When was the last time you saw an Atheist, or a bus, nail someone to a plank of wood or go on a crusade? I like his healthy self esteem though, thinking that somehow he contributed. He is someone who is never going to wake up in the dead of night worrying about the consequences of his actions or his contribution to the forum of human endeavour.

Rev Jenny Ellis helped out god with: "This campaign will be a good thing if it gets people to engage with the deepest questions of life." But Rev, your religion does the opposite. You obviously haven't been listening to your own brand of bullshit. You guys are saying that the answers are right here in this rather old, hard to understand book. Stop thinking and have faith. Don't engage, questioning might lead to apostasy.

The Anglicans (Methodists to be precise) have my favourite response. They thanked Dawkins for encouraging a "continued interest in God".

I snorted my Weet-bix back out my nose at that one (they were really soggy so I'm okay). It's so pathetic it's kind of endearing. They've taken the 'no such thing as bad press' maxim and applied it to their supposedly omnipotent being. If it was required, you'd think god would be able to raise interest in himself .

Do you ever get the feeling that, any day now, the C of E is going to throw their collective hands up and go, "Yep, awright, you got us. It's a crock. But can we keep the pretty clothes and buildings?"