A FEW hours after watching the shattered body of his girlfriend retrieved from The Gap in Sydney, Gordon Wood went to a morgue and asked to see her breasts, a court heard. In a statement to police, former Glebe Morgue attendant Kenneth Nichols said he was alone on the afternoon of June 8, 1995, when Wood walked in, identified himself as Caroline Byrne's boyfriend, and asked to see her body because "I want to see her titties".
Did you know "boyo" is now Oirish. I didn't, but it must be because Crusty said so on The Simpsons. What a load of tosh. Everyone knows Boyo is Welsh; you've only got to watch Zulu. Work-experience sub-editors can kiss my sharries.
Don't the Oirish have enough nicknames without stealing Welsh ones. What's the bet the subby's first choice was Look out, paddies. Now that would have put a pat among the pigeons.
It's tempting to laugh out loud - guffaw, even - at the recent footy ratings disaster at 3AW, so I will. After years boasting about how magnificent they are, despite several years of serving up self-indulgent, egotistical rubbish, AW have been pantsed in the latest survey.
Not that I mind they've scaped some goats. Hutchy's rude and abrasive persona is better suited to the kiddies at MMM - if they'll have him back. Ralphy Horowitz was probably a key player in AW's latest vaudeville broadcasts. Scott Cummings seems like a nice bloke, but on air he's a colourless wood duck, offering next to rock all in the way of insight. And Saturday morning's Glossing Over has been leaving any remaining elements of entertainment in a glass beside the bed for yonks now.
Hutchy could be right that its a bit of a knee jerk, given it's their first bad rating in ages. But reading between the lines it sounds like Graham Mott has been biding his time, waiting for a chance to kick arse.
Now all they need to do is get rid of Rex Hunt, Tony Shaw and Clunt Grybus.
Michael Horan pre-empted AW's reaction with a good piece on 3AW's recent form in yesterday's Hun. "In short, the AW format that has worked for so long is suddenly going to the scheissenhausen and things are looking as black as a dog's guts."
For the record, this season I've been listening mainly to ABC. I'd prefer someone with a little more zest and a little less dag than Drew Morphett, Mark McLure borders on boring and Stan Alves is too old school, but Gerard Whately is excellent and manages to maintain a cheery chemistry of entertainment balanced with footy insight.
Elsewhere, MMM could well be great to listen to, but I never listen. And SEN have their moments, most notably with Liam Pickering and Grant Thomas, but I can never stick with them for more than half an hour or so, and their match calling is lifeless.
Which all points at footy broadcasting's obvious flaw: lack of depth. Every station (bar the unheard MMM) have their moments, but there are too many boring interviews, mistakes in the call, egos, slanging matches, fake sincerity, cliches, boofheadedness and outright stupidity.
Were it up to me - out with footballers, in with journalists.
But lap it up while you can. They might be swine, but 3AW are possibly the most professional radio station in the country. Anyone who thinks they'll stay third for long is kidding themselves. They'll be popular again, probably as soon as this weekend.
Here's one for you. My mate The Green Man took that there photograph of Roger Federer at the Aussie Open back in January.
The snap was not taken during a match, it was taken at one of those sessions in which the press scream at a celebrity, hoping s/he will either strike a pose, or will be provoked into a snap-worthy reaction. You know the sort of thing...
Australian Tennis Magazine "How about a backhand, Roger."
Fila: "Put on the red shirt, Roger."
The Age: "Have you heard of David Hicks, Roger?"
The Herald Sun: "How do you like Melbourne, Roger?"
Last night to celebrate Forty Years Ago Today, Derek Guille had two hours of Beatles competitions, quizzes, memorabilia and music.
As per the Guille style, it was a genial if tepid affair with one glaring exception - instead of playing authentic Beatles tracks, Derek had a local act live in the studio, the Rubber Soul Beatles Show.
RSBS aren't, as their initials might suggest, a rat shit bull shit cover band - "The arrangements have been painstakingly reproduced. Every note and harmony is faithful to the original. This is not a cover band playing Beatles songs. It is the music of The Beatles sung and played like The Beatles played them, 100 per cent and full of energy." - they just played like one. In fact, they were absolutely bloody dreadful.
Or is that high flyer beware? From the Sunday Age gossip section:
It seemed a good idea at the time. It was a Melbourne Grammar fund raising dinner, the prize was a week in the Hamptons (the millionaire retreat in New York state) and bidding was brisk. So estate agent Robert Vickers-Willis bid up big for his table, starting at $10,000 and rising up to $20,000. But winners were not grinners when they found out the deal did not include airfares. Caveat emptor, indeed. (They're going anyway. It's only money.)
Imagine blowing twenty grand on a holiday. Where's their public spirit? Getting stung for extra serves them right, the bunch of flash spendoids. Clearly, the right thing to do would be to give the money to Tafe college teachers.
How do you like my new runners? Pretty flash, no. The black and white laces work especially well; Boynton says they look
gay, but she is wrong. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.) In toto, the laces, black uppers and white soles provide a really quite fetching ensemble.
Good to see Adidas haven't vanished, swamped by the buzz brands, Nike, Asics, New Balance, Saucony and Dunlop Volleys. Some of us out here in consumerland still want to wear plain runners instead of footwear that looks like it needs a support team of mechanics.
If you've ever found yourself trying to fish your mobile out of the toilet, you're not alone. A staggering 855,000 handsets are flushed away every year in the UK - that's roughly £342 million we're 'loo'sing. Research by SimplySwitch, the price comparison and switching service, found 4.5m handsets are lost or damaged every year.
Common catastrophes include leaving mobiles in the pub (810,000 handsets) in a taxi (315,000) or on a bus (225,000). More bizarrely, dogs chewed their way through 58,500 handsets last year and 116,000 went through a spin cycle with the dirty laundry.
When AFL teams run onto the ground at the start of each match they run through a "run through", or what we here in the civilized state call a "banner".
These crepe paper constructions call the boys to conflict with warlike slogans and rousing imagery. For instance, those of my team, the Melbourne Demons, commonly contain a biting Dee-pun beside a picture of a demon brandishing a trident. What right-thinking footballer wouldn't be elevated to a competitive frenzy by Dee-monic Destroyers Decimate Diabolical Dons? I mean - RAAAAAH!
Anyone had trouble commenting lately? The TypePad comment facility has been all over the place. Mad womans' and all that. Sometimes you get the preview page, sometimes you press Post and the blog stalls, sometimes you get the verification page with its barely legible magic letters. Mind you, it seems to get there in the end, despite taking the scenic route.
Or does it? If you haven't been able to comment, please leave a comment.
Yeah, the Prang in Kerang was shouse for all concerned, as are most* major accidents, but don't the Herald Sun give these things the treatment, with pages one through eleven going, err, full throttle on the story.
The front page is the picture above: Torn Apart. Page three covers the scale: Worst train crash in half a century. Pages four & five talk up a local bumpkin: Hero could see it unfolding. Page seven has the survivors: We walked away. Page nine has the emergency services: Race to the rescue. Page ten has the government: State pays respects. Page eleven has the diagram: Anatomy of a tragedy. Only page two has another story - in this case Fat Tony Mokbel - while pages six and eight have full page ads for booze (appropriately?) and kitchenware (shelves can-opener joke).
How much coverage is enough when we already know what's happened? We've heard the radio, seen the telly, picked up this-and-that off the internet. Doubtless the papers would say it's in the public interest, or some such spin that could just as easily be applied to Paris Hilton; and to be fair, the Hun prides itself on being a big seller, so they probably know what they're on about. So who, exactly, is reading all this stuff? Not me. When it comes to stories like this, I automatically flick to the opinion pages, the sport and the crossword, barely acknowledging the existence of the hot issues-du-jour. Well, except today when I'm obviously making a point, of sorts.
* Most? Offhand I can't think of any "major accidents" that aren't shouse, but I'm sure there's at least one.
Where have I been? Well, in a word - electricity. I spent last week working with one of the state's power companies, researching how better to mesh formalized training with on-the-job testing and design procedures.
My intention was to put together a frightfully informative post on difference relays, distance protection and the wonders of current summing, you know, the good stuff. But in the end I didn't think you'd be able to handle the excitement.
Instead I've got a question: is it possible to have a proper job and blog? I don't mean teaching, studying, "working" for the government or being a journalist. I mean, actually getting out there and getting things done. How many electricians blog, for instance? Or blacksmiths? Is blogging merely the preserve of opinionated fatheads with too much time on their hands? Like me.
As the bank robber says in Dirty Harry: "I gots to know."
Oh, and if you lost power last week it wasn't the wobbly weather, it was me playing Eenie-Meenie in the Thomastown terminal station. Sorry.