Pay attention. There's something important you need to know.
Pay attention. There's something important you need to know.
The other day I was talking to a friend who once worked in a brewery. Curious, I asked him if he knew the meaning of all those odd sounding beer keg names. He did.
The following are standard Strayan measures.
Fairway & Firkin, Faith & Firkin, Falcon & Firkin, Fanfare & Firkin, Fantail & Firkin, Faraday & Firkin, Farrier & Firkin, Fatling & Firkin, Faun & Firkin, Felix & Firkin, Ferret & Firkin, Fettler & Firkin, Fewterer & Firkin, Fiddler & Firkin, Fielder & Firkin, Financier & Firkin, Finnock & Firkin, Fitz & Firkin, Flamingo & Firkin, Flautist & Firkin, Flicker & Firkin, Flintlock & Firkin, Flock & Firkin, Flounder & Firkin, Flourmill & Firkin, Flower & Firkin, Flyman & Firkin, Foote & Firkin, Footman & Firkin, Ford & Firkin, Fornax & Firkin, Forster & Firkin, Fox & Firkin, Freedom & Firkin, Friar & Firkin, Friesian & Firkin, Frigate & Firkin, Fringe & Firkin, Fringilla & Firkin, Frog & Firkin, Frog & Firkin, Frothfinders & Firkin, Fulmar & Firkin, Funnel & Firkin, Furze & Firkin, Fusilier & Firkin, Fuzzock & Firkin, Goose & Firkin, Phantom & Firkin, Pharoah & Firkin, Pheasant & Firkin, Philatelist & Firkin, Philomath & Firkin, Phoenix & Firkin, Photographer & Firkin
Firkin hell! That's an Effin' lot of Effs! I don't know about you, but I can't see why we should limit ourselves to Effy alliteration. Surely Firkin goes just as well with other fings? What about Okapi & Firkin? Or Quonset & Firkin? Or Herpes Zoster & Firkin?
A kilderkin is an old English liquid measure, dating from about the 13th century, equal to 16 (old and ill-defined) gallons, or half a barrel. In modern units, this would be roughly 16 to 18 Imperial gallons, or 19 to 22 US gallons. A firkin is half a kilderkin. A pipkin is a small earthenware bowl, and a pannikin is a small metal drinking vessel. A bodkin is a thick, blunt needle. A jerkin is a sleeveless jacket, usually made of leather. A gherkin is a sort of small cucumber. A manikin (from which we have the word mannequin) is a dwarf, or an anatomical model used for teaching art or medicine, and also a tropical bird of the finch family.
What about a bobby pin? The measure of height to which a woman's hair can be set. A bowling pin? A steel shaft which must be inserted in the arm of a cricketer with a suspect bowling action. Or a Roger McGuinn. That'd be the measure of how far The Eagles have fuc ... err ... firked up country-rock music.
Half Hogshead -- 27 Gallons.
See Hogshead. Read half.
Pork barrel is a derogatory term used to describe government spending that is intended to enrich constituents of a politician in return for their political support, either in the form of campaign contributions or votes. Typically it involves funding for government programs whose economic or service benefits are concentrated but whose costs are spread among all taxpayers. Military spending, public works projects and agricultural subsidies are the most commonly cited examples, but do not exhaust the possibilities. Pork barreling is an important explanation for government deficits.
One of the earliest examples of pork barreling was the Bonus Bill of 1817, which was introduced by John Calhoun to construct highways linking the East and South of the United States to its Western frontier using the earnings Bonus from the Second Bank of the United States. Calhoun argued for it using general welfare and post roads clauses of the United States Constitution. Although he approved of the economic development goal, President James Madison vetoed the bill as unconstitutional. Since then however, U.S. presidents have seen the political advantage of pork barreling.
What is there to say about barrels except ...
There's a garden, what a garden,
Only happy faces bloom there,
And there's never any room there,
For a worry or a gloom there
Oh there's music and there's dancing,
And a lot of sweet romancing
When they play the polka
They all get in the swing
Every time they hear that oom-pa-pa,
Everybody feels so tra-la-la
They want to throw their cares away,
They all go lah-de-ah-de-ay
Then they hear a rumble on the floor, the floor,
It's the big surprise they're waiting for
And all the couples form a ring,
For miles around you'll hear them sing...
Roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel, we've got the blues on the run
Zing boom tararrel, ring out a song of good cheer
Now's the time to roll the barrel, for the gang's all here
Ten Green Bottles, anyone?
Nancy Hogshead, an Olympic triple gold medalist, began competive swimming early and was ranked number one in the world at age 14. In high school and college dual meets she was undefeated. After a brief retirement, she came back to steal the show in the 1984 Olympic games. By the age of 22, Nancy had capped eight years as a world class swimmer. She has been inducted into six Halls of Fame, including the International Swimming Hall of Fame.
An unfortunate name. Don't you think so, Misty?
Anyone can use it! The Bun & Thigh Roller is as easy to use as a rocking chair. As you rock backwards, the resistance band challenges your muscles, making them stronger, tighter and more toned while minimizing impact to your knees and back. The padded back and head rest provide a comfortable workout that doesn't feel like work. And the Bun & Thigh Roller adjusts to your height, so it fits anybody.
Err, sorry about that.
As soon as I saw this article in the UK's best newspaper, I started hyper-puntilating. GOLD, I thought and couldn't wait to begin gleefully butchering the English language.
Just a question though. $3 Mil seems a fair slug, how do plaintiffs decide on the size of the gouge?
Fingertip 'found in salad'
A WOMAN is reportedly suing a New York restaurant for £1.5 million after allegedly finding a fingertip and nail in her salad.
Marina Andriynannikova claims she bit down on something hard while munching the takeaway dish at her home last week.
In the lawsuit - filed in Manhattan State Supreme Court - she says she purchased the dish from Rue 57 Brasserie in Manhatten on August 19, according to wnbc.com.
In the court papers Andriynannikova says the manager of the eatery went to her home and says staff knew a kitchen worker had cut his finger.
Then, for the sake of it, I googled and arrived at America's best newspaper ...
'FINGER FOOD' FREAKOUT AS DINER BITES HAND THAT FEEDS HER
A Manhattan woman has filed a $3 million suit against a Midtown restaurant after she ordered a salad that was finger-licking bad.
In papers filed in Manhattan Supreme Court, Marina Andriynannikova said she chomped on a human fingertip while eating a beet salad from Rue 57 Brasserie.
The restaurant and its lawyer didn't return calls for comment. Andriynannikova's lawyer, Steven Newman, declined to talk.
The suit says the nail-biting incident happened on Aug. 19 of last year, when Andriynannikova and her fiancé got some takeout from the restaurant, which is on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 57th Street.
Once inside their nearby apartment, her fiancé offered her some of his salad. She enjoyed it — until she said she "bit on something hard."
"At first, I didn't realize what it was. Then I noticed a nail and some flesh," she said.
The couple called the restaurant, and a manager went to the apartment. "He was refusing to accept what it was" — until he discovered a short time later a staffer who'd prepared it "had cut his finger," Andriynannikova said.
The suit charges the restaurant with negligence — and also blames the unidentified employee for failing "to determine the location of his severed fingertip."
Way to go, Post!
Hi. My name's Caroline. I'm a nanny and I'm looking after Tony's two young lounge chairs Tarquin and Tristan. Chair-sitting a full time job, what with all the sitting and the more sitting, so I haven't got time to write much today. Instead I'll dash off some thoughts about a important subject, stealing words.
Stealing words is called plagiarism and it is bad and has happened to me. I have a blog called Inflatable Emu and some bloggers have stolen my posts, so in response I have written this ...
Go on, plagiarise this
So. Very. Angry.
If your name is Caz from TSSH and you are reading this, congratulations, you have pissed off a sociopath. This is a very bad move, you plagiarising, thieving sack of shit. You are a common criminal, and this is one of the dumbest criminal acts since those bogans swiped that gangland baby from a suburban shopping centre. I will find you, and I will fuck you right up. You have messed with the wrong person, bitch.
I don't normally get angry like that, but oooooh boy, cripes, that Caz really got me mad.
So does someone called Yobbo. I think he barracks for those awful Fremantle Dockers. Speaking of plagiarism, The Dockers stole their team song from a Russian.
About him I wrote ...
I've been the target of a rogue blogger who has been using plagiarised material almost exclusively on his page. His post stolen from me is this one about "subservient president". Inflatable Emu has also been plagiarised, and I'm not particularly happy about it at all. Right Wing News is another, and probably many others.
As a fun time-wasting exercise, go and see for yourself how many of his posts you can recognise as originating somewhere else.
Thanks to "grass" for the tip off.
I like grass. It's green and soft.
That's not the end of it, I wrote this about another blogger called Chris ...
Plagiarism Plot Thickens
This is an update to my plagiarism post which is so good I thought it deserved its own post.
I'm happy I got that off my chest. Now I think I will listen to The Superjesus. They are cool.
Looks like we're just about ready to crock.
So without any further ado, many thanks to Bailz and Parker -- "Yes, M'Lady." -- over at the Drivel Warehouse, but as they say 'a change is as good as a change'.
As such, we welcome all our reader to a fresh, sloppy and steaming pile of AGB from which we look forward to a lustrous new era in more of the same old nothing.
You know something? I always thought there were two l's in frolicked. No matter. Whatever way it's spelt -- Spelled? Now there's an irony! -- it's still a great word in a sleaze story. Then again, so are grandad, vicar, pretty schoolgirl, despicable, nightdress -- ooooh, errrr -- sordid and of course, text messages.
Christ! Sorry Rev. This story just writes itself ...
Vicar dumped for girl, 17
A GRANDAD has dumped his vicar wife of 35 years — for a pretty schoolgirl 41 YEARS his junior.
Grey-haired Ken Brewster, 58, fell for the 17-year-old blonde when she came to the couple's home for counselling.
The pair frolicked in secret for four months until Ken's wife, the Rev Sue Brewster, caught them red-handed.
Now the dad of three, who has five grandchildren, has dumped his 57-year-old missus for a new life with his lover, named only as Lucy.
And Sue's job as team vicar in Ilford, East London, could be under threat. She faces a grilling from her bishop over the whole sordid episode.
Last night a parishioner told The Sun: "This is despicable behaviour. The girl is young enough to be Ken's grand-daughter.
"The affair began in March. The vicar had no idea until she started getting odd text messages from Lucy.
"She became convinced something was going on when she found Lucy’s nightdress in the house. But when she confronted her husband he denied anything was going on."
Sue's suspicions were confirmed two weeks ago when she went home to Loughton, Essex, to find Ken there with Lucy — and he confessed.
Ken, who works part-time for a van hire firm, has since moved out to nearby Gants Hill.
The parishioner added: "Sue's distraught — her marriage is over." Lucy, who is believed to be living with foster parents, is due to start her final A-level year at a local school next month. She first sought help from the vicar for depression.
A source said Ken had told his children he had "found happiness". The source added: "They are very upset."
The Brewsters both refused to comment.
Testing to see whats wrong here.
... there once was a man from nantucket.
hmmm, more random text here. Nightmare on Elm Street.
ohayo, ogenki desu ka? oo, boku wa totemo genki da ne!! KEKEK ^___^
When it comes to parents deciding on what to call their kids, there's just no end to the stupidity.
Recently TSSH snarked about the latest fad du jour in bogan names. Shit such as Tayissa, Kaitlin and Taylah -- the last sounds good, looks bad -- that adoring, but cretinous parents think sound "cute" whilst forgetting they're not naming their latest pet and that Tay, Kay and Tay have to first go to school to get beaten up -- get in line behind me; no cuts -- then second, grow up with a complex.
Given that no matter how dire the circs, there's always an upside; there's not much chance of another Jaidyn.
Then there are names parents obviously forget to run through the Common-Sense-O-Meter. The prime directive of this essential, but far too often out-of-service home appliance, is to match a christian name with a surname. Some names that immediately set off flashing lights and alarm bells are Dick Head and Dick Face, Tizziana Boobalini (I swear, she's real) and the two infamous Waynes, Kerr and King. Even Ian Brown -- think about it -- should register a low level alarm condition.
Well, let's just add another one that slipped through the filtering system. He's a friend of someone I met the other day and his surname is ...
His christian name is Dwayne.
Can't believe I missed this sad news relayed yesterday by my brother ...
Kinks guitarist has stroke
DAVE Davies, one of the founding members of British rock group The Kinks, has been partially paralysed by a stroke he suffered in June, his spokesman said.
Spokesman Alan Robinson said Davies, 57, would have to spend at least another month in hospital, but doctors were confident that with physiotherapy he would recover.
"He is paralysed on the right-hand side of his body but he retains some feeling and he can still hold a guitar plectrum," Mr Robinson said today. "These small things mean a hell of a lot. They're small but very important."
Davies, who founded The Kinks in the early 1960s with his brother Ray, collapsed on June 30 while promoting his new solo album Bug.
Once again; all the very best, Dave.
For now ...
Rolling Stone battles cancer
ROLLING Stones drummer Charlie Watts is being treated for throat cancer.
Watts, 63, was diagnosed in June and had completed four weeks of a six-week course of radiotherapy at leading cancer facility London's Royal Marsden Hospital, a spokesman said.
"He is expecting to make a full recovery and start work with the rest of the band later in the year," he said.
Watts' treatment had not interfered with any tour or recording plans for the Stones, who had been relaxing after a world tour last year.
All the very best, Charlie.
Enter Tony, solus.
One wonders just how many folks think of Richard III as ...
"That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad!"
Damn tough assessment, that. Harsh, yes. But fair? After all, he was a king. He had a big house, wore nice clothes and chucked the odd banquet or three. Surely someone must have liked him.
Never the less, it's a conclusion easily drawn should you base your assessment solely on the Richard III in Shakespeare's play from which the above description comes.
That opinion would merely be codifed upon watching the sneering, leering, smug and smirking Ian McKellen in Richard Loncraine's 1995 fillum. Although chances are, given McKellen's charismatic all colour, all nazi, all rock 'n' roll Richard, you'll giggle a lot and root for the bad guy.
While I think of it, check out Loncraine's excellent pre World War II film about Winston Churchill called The Gathering Storm.
So it was with some interest that this weekend, I discovered this site ...
There are many arguments against Richard III and history has not been kind to him. However, much of the damage to his reputation was inflicted during the Tudor period by men such as Shakespeare, whose play 'Richard III' depicted Richard as a ruthless hunchback. However, the Tudor house only existed because of Richard III's defeat, and it was keen to play down his hold on the throne, in case any of his heirs or relations threatened the new dynasty. By discrediting Richard's name, they were pushing the merits of the new House of Tudor which then held the English throne.
Admittedly the site's meant as a kiddies guide to English royalty, but it provides a comprehensive outline of the English monarchy. And no doubt they mean the smart kiddies, not the one's who sat at the back reading cricket magazines, football stats and war comics.
OK, that's it, I've had enough. I'm seeing red. If you can't see this, chances are YOU are too. Of course, if you are, you're probably not reading this either. On the other hand, if you CAN read this you ... weeellll .. you can.
Quote Hudson: "How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?"
Anyone know a good ISP?
Moooove aside blondie ...
Cougar barmaid ditched
TIME to wave goodbye to big-busted Brenda, the five Cougars drinks girl.
Today, the Cougar people wheel out their new sex symbol, Glenda B, and she's even, errh, bigger than Brenda.
Glenda's a holstein, and she has the starring role in the best of three new Cougar ads being launched today.
They stick with the bunch of mates having five Cougars, but instead of busty Brenda being the centrepiece the storyline is "it never happened until you tell your mates".
In Glenda's case, she's having a snooze on top of a steep hill when this bloke comes along and gives her a gentle shove.
Glenda rolls a-over-udder 100m down the hill and demolishes a hayshed before getting up and wandering off.
But it may as well have never happened until the bloke is round the campfire that night sharing a bourbon and telling his mates.
The other two ads in the series are OK, but Glenda B is the likely award winner.
The real test though will be when Glenda B starts popping up at drive-through bottle shops.
If she gets cow-napped as often as Brenda was, Cougar knows it's on to another winner.
Let's face it, after missing a drug test, there's no way Costas Kenteris and Katerina Thanou can be allowed to run in the Olympics.
We await the excuses ...
Greek champ Kenteris misses drug test
By Ossian Shine in Athens
Greece's Olympic 200 metres champion Costas Kenteris missed a scheduled dope test on the eve of the Athens Games, Olympics and Greek officials said.
The hosts' best medal prospect and national sporting hero was a "fool" and "deserved" to be barred from the Games if he had failed to turn up for the test, a senior Olympic official told Reuters on Thursday.
A Greek team spokesman confirmed that Kenteris and Katerina Thanou, the 100 metres silver medallist at Sydney, had both missed drugs tests because team managers had allowed them to leave the Olympic Village on Thursday evening.
Ossian Shine? Surely an Aussie called Shane.
Except perhaps for the occasional Turkmenistanian goat drover, most everyone knows a BUCK is a dollar ...
Buck, the slang term for a dollar, is a clipped form of buckskin. On the American frontier, buckskins were often used as units of commerce. The term buck, meaning a unit of value, dates to at least 1748.
Surprisingly though -- to me anyway -- the BUCK inhabiting the customary space within THE, STOPS and HERE is not a dollar, it's a knife ...
The Buck Stops Here
It would seem that combining a competitive game of poker with sharp, pointy objects would not be a good idea, but this strange juxtaposition just might have instigated the origin of the expression, "the buck stops here." According to Mitford M. Mathews, editor of the book A Dictionary of Americanisms on Historical Principles, "the buck stops here" as well as "passing the buck" came into vogue during the frontier days when poker was the game of choice.
It seems that after partaking of a few alcoholic beverages remembering whose turn it was to deal became a monumental task. A simple solution was to create a marker or counter that passed from person to person. Frequently, this marker was a knife with a buck-horn handle. According to Charles Earle Funk in Curious Word Origins, Sayings and Expressions, the marker could also have been a buckshot or a buck tail. The person who held the buck, as the counter came to be called, was the next dealer. If the player did not wish to deal he could pass the buck to the next player.
Enter Mr. Truman. While visiting a federal reformatory at El Reno, Oklahoma, President Truman spotted a sign that read, "The buck stops here." At his request, a similar sign was made for his use. Mounted on walnut, the sign sat proudly on his desk for most of his administration. The expression also made its way into several of Truman's presidential addresses.
I didn't know that.
Last year I bounced along to Melbourne's Rod Laver Arena to see The Rolling Stones.
One song in I experienced a slight shudder of trepidation as I watched Mick and the boys ponce around like a bunch of tits playing Start Me Up, a song I've hated ever since it came out in 1981. Then, by the end, after countless guitar, shirt, coat, singer and cigarette changes, six or seven bouts of generous self-congratulation and two hours of watching them go comprehensively through the motions, I'd been thoroughly let down.
Let's not forget the appalling sound mix, and the fact it was, afterall, that most atrocious of musical experiences -- pause for vicious sneeeeeer -- a stadium concert.
It spoke volumes when the crowd went crackers over Ron Wood's plunking, pedestrian guitar solo during Can You Hear Me Knocking. I know it's an old moan, but I miss Mick Taylor.
The following day media music whores (Nui Te Koa and the other industry shills) in the daily blabs, no doubt concerned about being denied future access, rubbed the salt in when they raved about the show.
It was as if it was enough for the Stones just to grace us with their royal presence. Any actual musical contibution, or worse, effort, was an incidental bonus and we should just be thankful for the chance to shell out $350 for a chance to prostrate ourselves in their lustrous presence.
It was with the same sense of apprehension I approached The Who's concert at Vodaphone Arena last Saturday night. I needn't have worried. After a bit of early doors fine-tuning, the band, Roger Daltrey, long time personal hero, Pete Townshend, Zac Starkey, Simon Townshend (minus Woodrow), Pino Palladino and long time Townshend collaborator, Rabbit Bundrick mightn't have imbued every track with studio like precision, but, unlike the Stones, they couldn't be faulted for the effort and energy they injected into the show which started with ...
I Can't Explain requires a crisp staccato rhythm which is always going to prove problematic within the dubious acoustics of a giant basketball court / velodrome / Seventh Day Bike Riders stadium. And that proved to be the case here. They gave it their best shot but had the bass turned up so loud -- at this point resisting the painfully overworked "Turned up to 11" -- the floor was vibrating. The overall effect was a trifle cacophonous.
The Who have been around far too long not to recognise a misjudgement and made the appropriate correction for the next song, Substitute. Unfortunately, they overcorrected so that the song came across as uncharacteristically lightweight. Certainly there was none of the Live At Leeds impact live in Melbourne. I also detected a hint of motions being gone through.
The next song, Anyhow, Anyway, Anywhere has often suffered via negative comparisons with I Can't Explain. This time round the roles were reversed. By now the band/production crew had their act together, maybe even "warmed up" and they ripped into AAA with a tangible zest. Augmenting the elevated energy levels, they also stretched it out to about three times the normal length to signify that, far from phoning in the concert, they were here to play.
Another song that relies on it's studio precision in Baba O'Riley. The Who's Next opener is also one of the standout cuts on the double live soundtrack, The Kids Are Alright. So that I suspect the audience, few of who can have ever seen The Who live, would be expecting a similar (if not identical) delivery. Whilst the band certainly invested the song with 5000 odd foot of grunt, the reproduction was lacking and, for me at least, suffered as a result.
Behind Blue Eyes, also off of Who's Next, is a fairly straightforward slow-burner and should be fairly easy to reproduce in a concert environment. And it was. A fine, if slightly perfunctory effort.
Next came a recent release I didn't actually know. Real Good Looking Boy was an OK song, but in light of some of the songs they didn't play (see below), I would have preferred a (nother) substitute.
Who Are You followed. To be frank, I can't actually remember my impressions of it from the night. That's possibly a bad thing, I'm sure I'd remember if on the one hand, it was terrible, or on the other, fabulous. Guess it was somewhere in between.
The magic Quadrophenia bracket came next. I've covered it here, but in a words ... it rocked.
One album that rarely gains positive attention is 1982's It's Hard. For good reason. Mostly it's a by-the-numbers disappointment following Townshend's brilliant Empty Glass and the Who's grossly under-rated Face Dances, and contains a bare minimum number of good songs. One of those good ones though, the pumping, swirling, throbbing Eminence Front was next. And a terrific rendition it was too. Considering I've been humming it on and off ever since it must have been a highlight. Either that, or I'm going mad.
You Better You Bet has always been a favourite among the MMM rockey jockey types on commercial radio. That doesn't necessarily discount it from being a good song, just over-played. No problems here though ... I think. Like Who Are You I can't seem to put my finger on whether it rocked or not.
The Kids Are Alright was drawn out from it's tight, punchy original form into a longer version with a flaccid, preachy, new-agey refrain about how good the kiddies really are. Leastwise, that was my initial impression. The more I think about it, the more I find myself of the opinion that, in the tradition of some of Townshends more self-indulgent excellence ** through the late seventies and early eighties, it probably wasn't all that bad.
** On the surface that might seem like a contradiction, but it's not intended as such. Long term Pete devotees will know what I mean. Hey! Don't snigger. This is my blog, I can be self-indulgent too.
On live at Leeds it's introduced as a "Long drawn out version", but here in Crimewave, Braxtoria My Generation underwent no such musical extrusion. While not as compact as the Smothers Brothers TV version from The Kids Are Alright, it was kept to a standard-ish length, but rocked all the same.
Probably the song most anticipated was always going to be Won't Get Fooled Again. Once again, like Baba O'Riley, it's another highlight from The Kids Are Alright. On Sunday morning I watched the movie again on the new DVD release and still ... STILL! ... after 25 years and way more than 25 viewings, get goosebumps when I see the unbridled ecstasy on the faces in the crowd at the Kilburn State Theatre as the song crashes to it's massive conclusion. On Saturday night they didn't let us down either. The original extended format -- as opposed to the criminally misconceived abridged version -- of the song delivered in all it's pomp was the show's closer which meant there was no way in the wide world rock the stomping, screaming, chanting crowd weren't going to wreck the Vodaphone Arena if the band didn't come back for an encore.
And comeback for an encore they did. Hun concert reviewer James Wigney suggests "Drowned from the Tommy concept album was the highlight of the show". If, and here I extrapolate from Wigger's willy polishing, he means Tommy's Pinball Wizard/See Me, Feel Me/Sparks medley was the highlight then I almost agree. If, on the other hand, he means the Quadrophenia medley was the highlight, I also almost agree. No matter how ... ahem ... conclusively I depict it, the encore was a belter. I've often thought that strange considering the three Tommy tracks come from such a poorly produced and shallow album, and yet have long been a highlight of Who concerts whereas the Quadrophenia tracks, which come from a far superior, or should I say, "justifiably famed and acclaimed song cycle", are much less often played live. But that's just me.
All in all a fine show given it was conducted in an impact diluting fuckin' sports arena. I would have liked it to go a little longer and add one or two ... or ten ... songs.
Certainly they didn't play my two favourite tracks. Pure & Easy, as I've mentioned before, is their BEST song. Well, my favourite anyway. A Quick One, done as done at the Rock n Roll Circus where they bitch-slapped The Stones, would have been simply marvellous. Chuck in However Much I Booze from The Who By Numbers which has long been a huge favourite.
Why stop there? Love Ain't For Keeping from Who's Next. Guitar And Pen from Who Are You. For bull moose concert karaoke you can't go past Long Live Rock. And as a bonus, let's chuck in some of Pete's solo stuff. The rip-roaring White City Fighting from White City (A Novel). Street In The City, Keep Me Turning and My Baba Gives It Away from Rough Mix. Keep On Working and Gonna Get Ya from Empty Glass. Bugger it! How about the whole second side. Now I'm being greedy.
And the greediousness doesn't stop there. Not that it's ever likely to eventuate, but for the priviledge of hearing The Who play live and with extra precision, I'm prepared to shell $5,000 for them to play all the above mention songs in the intimacy a Melbourne pub/club of my choosing, say The Corner Hotel. I'm sure 200 people of the same mind would agree. It also might mean Pete and Roger can cut down on the generic cockney stadium patter and genuinely interact with the audience. At least at Phone Dome, Pete -- as has always been his wont -- was capable of taking the piss out of it / himself.
Long Live Rock!
Down at the Astoria the scene was changing,
Bingo and rock were pushing out X-rating,
We were the first band to vomit in the bar,
And find the distance to the stage too far,
Meanwhile it's getting late at ten o'clock,
Rock is dead they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
People walk in sideways pretending that they're leaving,
We put on our makeup and work out all the lead-ins,
Jack is in the alley selling tickets made in Hong Kong,
Promoter's in the pay box wondering where the band's gone,
Back in the pub the governor stops the clock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
Landslide, rocks are falling,
Falling down 'round our very heads,
We tried but you were yawning,
Look again, rock is dead, rock is dead, rock is dead.
The place is really jumping to the high-watt amps,
'Til a 20-inch cymbal fell and cut the lamps,
In the blackout they dance right into the aisle,
And as the doors fly open even the promoter smiles,
Someone takes his pants off and the rafters knock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
PS: Wise cracks about Pete's recent problems will not be appreciated.
The other night, Hugh, an old friend of mine, ordered a pizza. Already you can tell this is going to be a massive post. Anyhoo, the pizza duly arrived and Hugh took it into his playroom to scoff in front of the telly.
Anticipating the standard vision of steaming, cheesy, circular goodness, it's fair to say Hugh was just a tiny bit surprised to discover that when he opened up the box, a piece was missing.
Turns out a hungry delivery boy had snaffled a slice.
Deeming immediate corrective action necessary, Hugh zoomed off to the pizza parlour to show the owner the offending wog-wheel and to discuss appropriate restitution. And ... err ... get his money back.
The owner's response? "Whatsa the problem? You've still gotta six pieces."
Early in my teens I'd read Willard Price, The Hardy Boys (Chet Morton fan), Spin Me A Spinner, Six and Out, lashings of numerical Blyton affairs, The Wooden Horse, The Great Escape, Reach For The Sky, loads of Footy Records and was just starting on Agatha Christie.
John Buchan would have started them during double Latin, and finished them all by morning recess. Just in time for tea and toast ...
John Buchan conjectured that his "boyhood must have been one of the idlest on record," yet he managed to get through one or two books.
"Early in my teens I had read Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and a host of other story tellers; all Shakespeare; a good deal of history, and many works of travel; essayists like Bacon and Addison, Hazlitt and Lamb, and a vast assortment of poetry including Milton, Pope, Dante (in a translation), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Tennyson. Matthew Arnold I knew almost by heart; Browning I still found too difficult except in patches."
I think I knew who some of those authors were. Can't be sure though.
They're certainly playing the Pittman saga out for all it's worth. As an accidental (but unavoidable) result, morons are now ringing up radio stations saying they're glad she's injured. There really are a lot of fools around.
Don't get me wrong though. I've got no problem with Jana Pittman, she's a terrific athlete and probably a nice kid.
However, given her (at best) erratic preparation, I DO have a problem with the false hopes being generated in light of the fact she's got absolutely no chance of winning gold in Athens. Injured or not ...
Athens, here I come, says Jana after surgery
Jana Pittman's chances of competing in the Athens Olympics have increased dramatically after the champion hurdler underwent emergency surgery in London yesterday.
Pittman, 21, was overjoyed and newly confident after doctors said she now had a 60 per cent chance of pulling on her spikes.
"I'm going to Athens and that is a much better situation than it was yesterday. They did the operation and basically they cut the bad bit out and found the rest of it was stable enough for me to run. I can't believe it. It's a miracle."
Meanwhile, back with proper sport. Sport with a ball. Balls even. Rod Pampling has swamped Alex Cejka -- pronounced "Check-Ah" -- Aussie, Aussie, Aussie ...
Pampling earns first US victory
ROD Pampling continued a spectacular year for Australian golf when he won the US Tour's International tournament in Colorado today.
Pampling set up his victory with a timely six-metre eagle at the par-five 17th, picking up five points to vault to the front in the modified Stableford format at Castle Pines.
He then made a solid tap-in par at the last to beat German Alex Cejka by two points, becoming the fifth Australian to win on the US Tour this year, joining Adam Scott, who has won twice, Stuart Appleby, Craig Parry and Mark Hensby.
"It's a fantastic feeling," said Pampling, 34, who collects $US900,000 ($A1.28 million) for his first victory on the American Tour.
He started the day with a one-point lead, but surrendered his advantage with four bogeys in an eight-hole stretch mid-round.
Cejka poked his nose in front but a double-bogey at the par-three 16th proved his demise as he lost three points.
Well, that proved to be an uncannily accurate prediction. For the wrong reasons.
Sorry, Australia, I've let you down
Jana Pittman last night apologised to a nation for injuring her knee, which has almost certainly killed off her Olympic dream.
The 21-year-old 400 metres hurdles world champion said: "I want to say sorry to all of Australia because I think I have let them down."
I'll say she has. I wanted to be the first to go on the record with the fact that after all the hype combined with her recent poor form and subsequent histrionics, she was a lead-pipe cinch to lose her race. Now she's out via injury and I'm deprived a long and satisfying gloat.
When I saw the following headline in today's Australian, my initial reaction was one of "Here we go again, Our Dawn's got the hump." Almost jumped straight into a juicy half-volley OUR YAWN headline.
Olympic snub for our Dawn
SHE is an Olympic icon who was honoured in Sydney and feted in Atlanta, but when the Athens Games open next Friday, Dawn Fraser will be watching from her sofa.
The four-time Olympic gold medallist and former liaison officer to the athletes said yesterday she was not invited to Greece because she was too outspoken on drugs in sport.
Then I read on ...
[John] Coates last night denied Fraser had been snubbed and insisted the decision not to re-appoint her as an athletes liaison officer had been made in her best interests.
"Dawn was keen to be an athletes liaison but that would have meant working very long hours in the heat and the AOC felt that August is the hottest month in Athens," Coates said. "We thought we were doing her a favour, but apparently not."
Strikes me as the closest thing to an official "fuck you" I've seen in a long time.
From the files of "If it ain't got a ball, it ain't a sport"; hands up anyone sick of hearing about Jana Pittman ...
Johnson the biggest hurdle for Pittman
Sheena Johnson is the young and talented American who may thwart Australian Jana Pittman's ambition to win the gold medal in the Olympic 400 metres hurdles in Athens.
I'm prepared to bet London to a brick she won't win "Gold! Gold! Gold! Australia!" in Athens.
Sometimes I dwell on the oddest things. Perhaps I've been watching too much CSI.
Humour me then. Call me Gil, and take the item below.
It's not too difficult to imagine an errant chainsaw blade hitting precisely the right spot with precisely the right angle with which to sever.
However, given chainsaw's need a bit of force behind them, and also a bit of time with which to cut through, it's a struggle to visualize just how the blade developed the necessary momentum to cut clean through the lady's neck at one fell swoop.
Then there's the dead-man trigger ...
Fall man decapitated wife
A MAN pruning trees with a chainsaw fell from his ladder, and sliced his wife's head off.
He was cutting branches in his back garden when he lost his footing. His wife, who was working below, was hit in the neck by the machine's whirring teeth.
Police said the woman, in her fifties, was decapitated by the force of the blow.
Paramedics discovered the scene of horror after racing to the house in Eltham, South East London, on Monday.
Last night the woman's husband was in hospital suffering from deep shock.
A police spokesman said: "It appears the husband slipped and fell.
"His wife was gardening below him and was hit by the chainsaw and killed instantly. We are treating this as a terrible, tragic accident."
A police source added: "It was a horrendous and gory scene."
Last night neighbours of the couple spoke of their shock.
One said: "They were such a lovely couple who were often out in their garden.
"It is an appalling thing to happen. I just feel so sorry for the husband. There was nothing he could do."
Police are not treating the death as suspicious.
An inquest will be opened within days.
Tigger may have beaten the rap, but let's face it, who out there doesn't think that, on the whole, people dressed up for the kiddies aren't a bit suss to start with?
'English gentleman' at Disneyworld is cleared in sex case
A British-born entertainer at Disneyworld in Florida has been acquitted of fondling a 13-year-old girl while wearing a Tigger suit.
Michael Chartrand, 36, apologised to the Florida jury which cleared him. He was "sorry they had to waste their own time", he said.
"I was brought up to be a gentleman and a scholar the English, old-fashioned way and so I have no animosity to anybody," he said at the end of the three-day trial, at which a Tigger costume took centre stage.
In his closing argument his lawyer strapped on the character's tail and then donned its orange and black-striped head and paws to show how the costume restricted vision and movement.
Members of the jury were also offered the chance to put on the costume in the jury room. Disney had tried to prevent the suit being paraded in court to preserve Tigger's "magic".
Mr Chartrand, who faced up to 15 years in jail if convicted, admitted possibly touching the girl's breast by accident but insisted that he had not done so intentionally.
Shown pictures of Tigger and other Disney characters hugging female visitors to the Orlando theme park, he described the part of the body being touched as "the breast area but not exactly on the breast".
Asked by a prosecutor what the difference was, he replied: "I don't know, I'm not a doctor."
His mother, Linda, who flew to Florida from London to support her son in court, expressed relief at the verdict. "There's no way on this earth he would have done such a thing," she said.
Dirk Benedict did not portray Templeton "Faceman" Peck in the two-part pilot episode.
Tim Dunigan was fired after the pilot for both being too tall (he towers over Mr. T) and for not being Stephen J. Cannell's first choice for the role (Benedict was). Dunigan maintains, though, that he was replaced because Brandon Tartikoff thought he looked too young for the part. Go figure.
I didn't know that.
Ever been so angry you could ... ohhhh ... I dunno ... cut your own dick off?
Rebuffed Thai cuts off his own penis
A migrant worker from Myanmar cut off his penis on Friday after drinking himself into a rage when his wife refused him sex, Thai police said.
Po Dong, 29, a dock worker at the Thai port of Samut Prakan, attempted intercourse with his wife, Kate, on Thursday night.
When she refused he stayed up all night drinking whiskey and made another attempt on Friday, Samut Prakan Police Major Narong Simsawat said.
When this attempt at intimacy also was rebuffed, Po Dong flew into a rage and severed his penis with a pair of scissors. He then cut the severed member into several pieces and stabbed himself in the stomach while screaming abuse at his wife.
He was reported in serious but stable condition on Friday afternoon.
Not too far off the money ...
NORWOOD will sound out discarded Western Buldogs boss Peter Rohde about coaching again at The Parade next year.
The Redlegs' 1997 premiership architect, who coached Norwood from 1996-99, Rohde has been targeted along with former Carlton coach Wayne Brittain as a possible replacement for Garry McIntosh. They are part of a long list of prospective coaches Norwood wants to talk to.
Rohde left Adelaide to be an assistant to Terry Wallace, who he replaced as head coach midway through the 2002 season.
With two children at school it is a long shot Rohde would be willing to uproot his family to return to Adelaide but Norwood had to investigate all options, football club chairman Ian Stasinowski said. "We wouldn't be responsible if we didn't," Stasinowski said. "I've told (general manager) David Wark to contact Peter at his (Rohde's) own time and convenience. We understand the kind of pressure Peter will be under at the moment."
Former Sturt and Norwood defender Bruce Winter - part of the SANFL junior development program and state under-16 coach - has told Norwood he would not coach at The Parade.
For no reason at all. For no reason whatsoever. Just because I feel like typing random words ... Billy Schwab Snedden Alan ...
Millionaire dies in romp
TYCOON Reg Penny died after having sex with a call girl, an inquest heard yesterday.
The 65-year-old grandad was found naked on his living room floor.
A bottle of sex stimulant alkyl nitrate was found beside him. Lithuanian hooker Zivile Sasnauskiene had fled in panic after he had a heart attack.
Cops traced her after neighbours reported a scantily-clad woman running from the £750,000 house in Cardiff's posh St Mellons area late at night.
The 30-year-old, who speaks no English, said she had used nail clippers to keep his airways open, then put him in the recovery position.
She did not call an ambulance because she did not know how to dial 999.
Pathologist Dr Andrew Davison told Cardiff coroner's court: "Mr Penny had sufficient heart disease that he could have dropped dead at any time."
Divorcee Mr Penny — father of two grown-up daughters — was director of Blackwood Business Services in South Wales.
Verdict: natural causes.
Verdict: St Mellons. Naturally funny.