After Grog Blog

TOP SHELF

"If you build it he will ... ummm ... how the fuck does this bastard thing go the fuck together then?"

-- Field Of Screams

Ikea then. The big Swede cops it's fair share of whacks and not without reason; much of their gear is the tattiest of cheap tatt. But for years I'd been searching out a good set of shelves to store my records (even going so far as to draw up a design for custom building) and yet couldn't find a bloody thing. On the off chance they may have had something, I choofed into IKEA for a squizz at what they had on offer, and as I rounded one of their many, many, many corners, walked straight into those shelves on the left. "Hmmm, promising," I muttered through clenched teeth as I rubbed by knee, and went to ask a shop drone for a ruler to measure the compartments. Whaddaya know! Turned out each box was exactly 13 inches square. Absolutely spot-on for storing 12 inch LPs. They are a good looking affair, too, aren't they. And solid. A very good buy, as it turned out.

Anyhoo, it's about now long-time readers go "What the? He's written about this before!" And it's true, I have, but back then I never mentioned how easy it was to put them together. True, the shelves came in a zillion parts, but assembling those parts was no more difficult than doing a big jig-saw.

So the point is? Well, it's this.

I am good with my hands, not great, mind, just good. This is because I was trained to use them. I did an apprenticeship. I can even weld. Before I did my time, though, I was as daft as the next person, easily gulled by gags about left-handed screwdrivers, black and white paint and long waits. A good apprenticeship sorts that out.

When you start an apprenticeship you must sign your indentures. That's a form of contract binding you to an employer for the term of the apprenticeship. These indentures contain a strict clause which solemnly states "Upon completion of your apprenticeship you will have attained a level of competency commensurate with your training. At any point from this time forward, should you come across any person struggling with a manual task you are legally obliged to laugh at that person." Fair enough, too. Laughing at people is something I take seriously - Ho. Ho. Tee. Hee.

THREE OF THE BUST

Footy speak - what's up with that then? What's with these oafs and their talent for kicking the shit out of the English language?

1. We lost badly today; all-beat with injuries.
2. Our young players have really stepped up; it all-goes well for the future.
3. It wasn't working for us early, so we tried a different tact.

What is your favourite mal-aphorism?

TWO LEGGED FREAKS

Suicide Girls? Hah! Middle-class art school dropouts who have never hacksawed to death an innocent postman in their tiny little lives. If you really want hot sexy killer gothic chicks, then you cannot afford to pass by "Spider Baby".

(1968. B&W. Script: Jack Hill. Direction: Jack Hill. Cinematography: Alfred Taylor. Score: Ronald Stein with Lon Chaney Jr singing the title song.)

T'was actually shot in 1964 by horror and exploitation schlockmeister Jack Hill ("The Big Doll House", "Foxy Brown" and "Coffy" are some of his more notable accomplishments) but not released until 1968 – mainly I suspect because no one knew how the fuck to market the thing. Alternative titles were "Attack of the Liver Eaters" (no livers are actually eaten) and "Cannibal Orgy - or the Maddest Story Ever Told" which is sorta half right.

The fixings for this feast are all tried and true. Weird genetically disordered family in gothic mansion, the loyal old family servant as surrogate wrinkled-browed father, distant grasping rellies who come to a sticky end, creaky cobwebbed corridors, moonlit forest strolls, disgusting dinners and something really foul lurking in the cellar.  Beautifully filmed too.  The best artfully artificial cinematic chiaroscuro since "Night Of The Hunter" – which also shares the same demented noir fairy tale approach.

But "Spider Baby" serves up the old ingredients with a flavour that's like nothing else you've tasted.  It's really a very sweet 'n' sour movie. "Nothing is really bad" as the wrinkled retainer Lon Chaney Jr says at one point. It's not supposed to be a comedy but can't stop quietly cackling to itself be a real horror movie. Someone described it as  "Luis Bunuel meets the Addams Family" but even that doesn't really capture the tone.

And the tone is set by some amazing acting. For starters it's Lon Chaney Jr's last role and he's never been better since. Carol Ohmart is wonderful as the gredy low-rent black widow-in-suspenders cousin, as are Quinn Redecker as her amiable and dopey husband and Karl Schanzer as their fussy pompous lawyer.

And in one way or another, they all meet their end at the cutting-edge hands of the gorgeous murderous Merrye sisters, Elizabeth (a blonde Beverly Washburn) and "Spider Baby" herself, Virginia (the brunette Jill Banner).

Beverly is great (I wouldn't kick her out of my deathbed) but it's really Jill Banner's film. She is fantastic as the title character, a sweet deadly gothic Lolita who can't tell the difference between affection, sex, procreation and death. For those of you down the back, let me repeat myself. JILL BANNER IS FANFUCKINGTASTIC AS "SPIDER BABY"! She can hatch my eggs anytime. Hundreds and hundreds of 'em.

...

OK, I've finished hyperventilating into a brown paper bag from Safeway. If you get a chance to see it, do so. (I meant the movie not the brown paper bag). You'll never look with true lust in your heart at another Suicide Girl again.

Oh yes, I'd also like to say Rock Hudson is excellent in this flick too. But honestly I can't. Mainly 'cos he's not in it. "Spider Baby" is gravid with sly early 60s Mad magazine put-ons like that. And the exteriors are dog-eared postcards of the then remote and dusty LA valleys that later spawned the likes of Charles Manson's homicidal harem.

GrogFlog's verdict: "Just because something isn't good doesn't mean it's bad." 6 out of 10 for the film. And 18 out of 10 for Jill Banner.

Coming soon: "Black leather, black leather, smash, smash, smash", "I'm the Jupiter of Thieves",  "I guess it's just one of those ex-felon, pro-acid kind of non-smoking homes" and "You told me fairy tales... about the President getting shot... and your erect nipples."

SPECTRE GADGET

Donald Yarmy died, the voice of Inspector Gadget. He was in The Love Boat, too, and some old sitcom.

Siegfried: "Shmart, what is our course?"

Shmart: " Errrrr ... "

Siegfried: "Shhhmarrrrt, we don't ERRRRR on The Pacific Princess!"

UPDATE! Barbara Feldon was a quiz show champ on Quiz Show. Her subject was Shakespeare. "Beware the ides of Max."

SWAN DRAFT

Last Wednesday at Treasury Place Kim Beazley was interviewed by a journalist.

Journo: "Being a Dockers fan, aren't you tempted to barrack for the Swans?"

KB: "No, no it doesn't. I'm a born and bred West Australian, mate. It's very hard to shake the sandgroper out of your skin."

What? "No, no it doesn't" doesn't make sense. Never mind. Last Saturday night in Little Bourke Street, Kim Beazley was ... err ... interviewed not by a journalist.

GW: "Beazer? What are you doing with those Swans fans?"

KB: "Oh, you know, I'm living in Sydney now so, you know ... "

SB: "YOU TRAITOR!"

KB: "Huh?"

SB: "FILTHY SELL-OUT!"

KB: " ... "

SB: "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

GW and SB are two West Aussie friends over for the Grand Final. They were less than gruntled Kim Beazley was such a lightweight he would support both The Dockers and The West Coast - AND flirt with The Swans! Affronted, they were. You can see where they are coming from, can't you? I mean, it's not as if politicians usually have a lick each-way.

MISTAKER

You can't have heroes without villains: we give you Brent Staker, scape-goat.

Not that we care what happens to other people's teams, bugger the winners and stiff shit the losers, instead let's talk about sex and fruit.

SIZEMORE DOES MATTER

Tom Sizemore in porn role

AMERICAN actor Tom Sizemore, who rose to fame in Saving Private Ryan and Blackhawk Down, has a new starring role in a home-made porn movie, distributors said today.

The 43-year-old, who is in court-ordered drug rehabilitation after he violated probation handed down for drug possession, will allow an adult movie firm to market his sexual escapades provided he gets a slice of the profits.

"This is the maraschino cherry on the banana split of bad luck I have been having,"

FOOTBAWL

Wet Toast vs The Pinks and the people have spoken: Vox populi? Vox fuck you boo hoo!

"I'm thinking of boycotting the GF," writes my friend Aytee. "Couldn't care less who wins." Ambivalence is popular here, but it's not the prevailing sentiment. "After the game - one of the teams will be shattered. Players in tears etc," writes another friend, B.A.Twisted from Collingwood. "This will be worth the wait." That's the ticket.

Two years ago I was in Perth when Brizroy pantsed Piewood. "Gee, Tone, I'm sooo sooorrry," came a patronising taunt. "It must be hard watching yet another interstate side win the flag." Hard? Balls! "You're missing the point, gloatboy, you just don't get it," was my haughty retort. And he didn't get it.

There is a delusion interstate that Victorians are troubled by so-called invaders winning premierships. Sure, it's easy to see where this misconception arises, the media is full of meatheads and politicians trying desperately to drive a Vics v The Rest agenda. It is rubbish, of course. What Victorians -- hardcore footy heads, anyway -- hate more than anything is the idea Collingwood, Richmond, Essendon, etc might win the flag. Port winning the flag didn't faze me, not in the slightest, it merely made me wonder if any Port fans have jobs. I would far prefer Freo to win the flag than Essendon. Adelaide beating St Kilda and a choking North put me in a good mood for weeks. You see, the idea Richmond might win a flag, shit, might even make the eight, fills me with dread. Christ, I went to school with those mutants. I don't want to see them happy; when they smile you can see their black, rotting teeth. St Kilda fans? Most eat with their mouths open, for fuck sake. Animals, the lot of them. What's the bet they have the highest percentage of fans with painstakingly sculpted facial hair.

That doesn't mean I don't also despise Wet Toast. I lived in WA for many years and when The Toast entered the competition had to endure deluded friends and their bizarre obsession with Victorians "Meet Tony, he's a Victorian." You what? So what? Fuck off! And then there was the blanket coverage from their furiously parochial media. And Chris Mainwairing did the weather! And the lotto numbers. And the lucerne report. But I've been back in Victoria for 16 years now and that horror is a distant memory. What's more, Toast, with their massive infrastructure advantages and guaranteed future is always going to be strong. It's a given. They should have won more flags and the fact they haven't proves them to be a bunch of underachieving, soft-on chardy sippers. Those blow-up thumping sticks scream lightweight!

The Pinks? Can take 'em or leave 'em. I barely know a Sydney Swans supporter and the ones I do know don't know footy. "That was forward!" when a hand-punch is given to a player who looks suspiciously offside. Their mysterious habit of clapping rabidly when the ball goes out of touch boundary means they have no credibility. And, of course, they are the AFL love-child. La-dee-da, dot-com, latté with nutmeg and cinnamon, Mardi Gras blousers. They do the Mexican Wave. The Waaave!

But nor do I know many Melbourne Swans supporters. So couple that with their 72 year flag drought and they are definitely the lesser of two evils. I don't live in Sydney, though, so I can only guess at what it would be like to be a Victorian living up there, gloated at by a bunch of bandwagon know-nothings.

In short, I am happy when my team wins, and unhappy when any one of the other 15 teams win. Fuck them! There is no point following a team if you are happy when other teams win. That's crazy talk. We win - Yay! They win - Boo! That's the way of these things. (Gambling aside.) I will not be happy if Sydney wins, and I will be even more not-happy if Toast win. So there is really only one satisfactory outcome - tears. Someone has to lose. A goal after the siren from a dodgy freekick would be the optimum result. Crowd violence a bonus.

Another friend, Deebee, is a keen footy fan but he will instead be "out all day visiting display homes in Melbourne's salubrious northern suburbs." And me? Well, I'm going to a barbeque where I will ignore the game, talk cricket and do the crossword. But the barby is right across from the MCG, so prior to the match I will sit in the front yard and heckle those poor slobs hunting for scalpers. "Look, I am not using my ticket," I'll call. Then just as they think they've struck it lucky; "And neither are you. I hope you can see my empty seat on the television."

Disclaimer: I do know ONE South (not Sydney) fan and it would be nice for her and her family should they win the flag. I know, I know, I am soft. But only slightly. The Pinks will get none of my support; Wet Toast will get even less.

SICK JOKE?

I used to be a hypochondriac, but I got better.

ACCENTIMETER PERFECT

In today's Hun TV liftout, Darren Devlyn and Robert Pidgeon pick their ideal commentator packages for the Grand Final. Devlyn's first.

• Dennis Cometti - In recent times has worked too hard to coin phrases (Cometti-isms), but remains the standout caller.
• Tim Lane - His ability to analyse on the run and read play make him invaluable.
• Malcolm Blight - One of the games most entertaining and lateral thinkers.
• Wayne Schwass - The boundary rider is renowned for his honest opinions.

Pretty bloody reasonable. In fact, give or take Blight, it would be the best team going around. Dennis has indeed lately overcooked the one-liners, but is still the best footy caller in the land. (He's a bloody good cricket commentator, by the way.) Tim Lane's participation is a given. Blight says some interesting things, but his so-called lateral talk is more often gratuitous nonsense. He adheres to that old maxim - "throw enough stuff and some will shtick." Tighten it up, man. Schwass stated out shaky and a little biased. Now, though, he's across all teams and does excellent work. Well spoken, good sense of humour, knows his layered bulbs. He's wasted on the boundary; that role is an irritating gimmick, anyway. Get him up where he deserves to be; in the box doing proper special comments.

Apart from the reasons mentioned above, Tim Lane and Dennis Cometti have one other important thing in common; something central to all sports commentary. Strangely, though, it's a reason most punters and pundits neglect to mention when they tell you who they like. They both have excellent accents; smooth, clear delivery combined with excellent timbre. Others, Anthony Hudson, Steve Quarterbrain, and the rest of the Sesame Street hypsters generally get the game across, but they tend to be shrill and excitable. (Hudson is a shocking offender, there are times I want to slap him. He is a weed, too, so he wouldn't hit me back.) On the other hand, both Tim and Den are crystal clear when the heat is on and they don't unnecessarily send the excito-meter into the red when a game is dragging. Cometti does have a tendency to overdo the Americanisms, but you can't have everything; and it's not as if many others (especially the younger ones) don't do it, too.

Pidgeon's list is:

• Dennis Cometti - Simply the best in the business.
• Clinton Grybas - Accurate, fast and brings plenty of colour to his call.
• Garry Lyon - Hard to split with Robert Walls for special comments.
• Wayne Schwass - Has become our top boundary rider.

Robert Walls? Pidge obviously appreciates the finer points; what a ball, kick or handpass are. Walls is just the man; he'll say it with conviction, too. Despite becoming a media machine-man, Garry Lyon is a more-than able pundit. Grybas is a nightmare, having modelled himself fastidiously on American presenters. His delivery (especially his tempo) is plastic and contrived. Try listening to Joe Buck, then listen to Clumpton. "A fine mark by .... Mateerrra .... Teeerrrrrrific .... play .... right here on .... Fox Footy."

Mentioned elsewhere is Jason Dunstall. (Under the stupid-wrong heading The Brownlow Medallist.) His show on Saturday arvo is passable, but hardly unmissable. Side-kick Wayne Carey is an excellent footy-head and Dunstall keeps it moving along. But quite obviously Jason is a hipster fuckwit in love with himself. He has growth under his bottom lip, afterall. But worse, he has the fakest of fake laughs. The. Fakest. No thank you.

PS: Not mentioned anywhere. 3AW, despite having Caroline Wilson and Rohan Connolly who are excellent, is becoming increasingly unlistenable. What's up with their chronic self-promotion? Is it really necessary for them to repeatedly tell us how good they are? Will a round ever go by without Gerard Healy sucking up to Rex? "Last weeks call was your best ever, big fella." The unctuous tongue-browning makes me seethe. Christ, give us a break. And as for Hunt and his luminous past "That's not how I was brought up to play!" Well, fuck me, he was a shy-boy carried by a team of tough champions at Tigerland and as soon as he had to play with duds (St Kilda and Gee-Long) he ended up looking like the front-runner he always was. A cunting blowhard!

PPS: A non-footy friend has asked me for a list of AFL related blogs AND sites (any sites); any suggestions? I've given the two Demons ones (Demonland and Demonology), A Cork In The Ocean, Everyday Is Like Sunday and Big Footy. What others are there? Is Uber off the footy? She is going to look at your comments and pick a selection.

FUCK THAT SHIT THEN!

Later.

GUT REACTION

Barry Hall punches Matt McGuire in the guts, McGuire hits the deck, and Robert Walls calls McGuire a squibb and/or a cheat. Robert Walls is a tool. When is someone going to call this oaf out? All he ever offers up is the bleedin' obvious or the plain wrong.

These days, though, that is every pundit's first thought when someone hits the deck. But it doesn't mean everyone who falls over when thumped is trying to con the umpire. As anyone knows, you cop a swift one when you're not ready and you go down like a sack of spuds. It doesn't have to be in the noggin, either, it's just as effective in the guts. All you need is for the punch to hit the sweet spot.

Barry Hall was a boxer and would know how to drop an opponent. He's a big bugger, too, so he no doubt packs a punch. Another (better) boxer Barry Michael often says that although head-shots are the punches that get all the notoriety, it's the body-shots that ultimately contribute most to weakening the opponent. Michael even knows of several fighters who, upon being smacked in the guts, automatically shat themselves. Be mighty ... err ... "interesting" had THAT happened on Friday night.

Update: Hall has been cited: Reckless, low impact, behind the play and body contact - two weeks. The Pinks will take that to the tribunal and argue the incident was not behind play. If that passes, the charge tally will amount to a week. The Pinks would then take a guilty plea which would allow Hall to play on Saturday.

WE BAD

Rugby League then. Yes, really.

I like Peter Stirling, and in small doses I can even handle Rabbs Warren; in a let's-take-it-back-to-the-fifties way, that is. But just who the hell was that commentating with them at yesterday's Tigers Broncos match? What a cock! Besides talking ladle-loads of general tripe, late in the game the Tigers were awarded a penalty for backchat. This caused the cock to explode with indignation:

Cock: "Blah! Rant! Rave! More blah! That was a disgraceful penalty!"

Sterlo: "Hang on. We don't know what was said."

Cock: "Exactly! Neither do WE!"

A sequitur? I think not, you absurd blowhard. It was a pity Sterlo didn't reach over and jam his pen in Cock's ear.

PRICE CHECK

Matt Price often delves into his anecdotal past when cobbling together an article. "Bob Dylan once told me he roots for Fremantle." It's not verbatim, you understand, but I'm sure you get the picture. For Pricey it's all about resonant memories from the good old days. Occasionally, though, he gets tangled up in purple.

Two can play at that game.

I cannot believe it has been 12 years since the most exciting day's cricket I have ever watched. (Recent events notwithstanding) It was - technically still is - the biggest match played in the east. A day so huge that every single detail is firmly etched in my memory. It seems like only yesterday Australia lost by one run to the West Indies at the MCG.

I'm ready to do Eagle rock

I CAN'T believe it's 11 years since the Eagles played in a preliminary final. Seems like yesterday, tagging along with dad, a West Coast member, to watch the Eagles play Melbourne at Subiaco Oval.

It was - technically still is - the biggest match played in the west. When the Eagles won the flag in 1992 they played the penultimate game at the MCG. Nowadays western derbies evoke greater local fervour, but since Fremantle is hardly ever in the eight, these are played for bragging rights, not passage to the grand final.

So 1994 was huge and there I was, perched in the stand surrounded by Eagles, a lone voice screeching with joy when the Demons kicked the opener. It looked like the good guys might get up; Melbourne went to the main break a couple of goals down.

Alas, West Coast romped home.

[ ... ]

Thinking back to that 1994 final, I like to imagine Ben somewhere else at Subi, engaging in futile cheering for the Demons. Perhaps we shared a knowing glance barracking against West Coast at other games.

Bonus Correction: Penultimate means next to last. The next to last game of 1992 was the Preliminary Final between Geelong and Footscray. West Coast beat Geelong the previous week in a Semi Final. The Penultimate Preliminary Final, if you like.

Gratuitous Correction: In that 1994 Preliminary Final Price was not "a lone voice screeching with joy when the Demons kicked the opener". He could not be further from the truth. Miles out, in fact. There were at the very least 20 other ... err ...  lone voices; one of which was mine.

BOOK NAKED

With the Victorian government stripping back reading in school (Vic Lit?) there has been an accidental corollary - a surge of interest in the naked lady business.

TALK IS SHEEP

"Let's take calls," are three words that fill me with loathing.

Talkback radio is rubbish, but it couldn't exist without the drooling flock of senseless morons waiting to get through to their favourite station. "Dags on the arse of progress" is how my father refers to these arrested simpletons. He is astounded anyone would hang on the line for hours waiting to talk to a c**t.

I agree. Talk radio is a fiasco run by swine and listened to by fools. This is what I heard the other day.

Host: "How old is Billy Slater?"

First Caller: "22."

Host: "No, sorry. Next caller - how old is Billy Slater?"

Second Caller: "22."

Host: "The first caller said 22."

SC: "Oh, righto then ... 22."

Host: "No. No. It's not 22. 22 has already been said. Try again."

SC: "I'll stick with 22."

Host: "You'll stick with 22?"

SC: "Yep - I reckon he's 22."

Host: "Is that your final answer then?"

SC: "Yep - 22"

Host: "You are wrong then. Next caller please."

Third Caller: "Well, he's not 22."

KICK ME, HARDY!

Trafalgar Square. Nelson would be rolling in his column; peering down from his perch in horror. "Mrs Hamilton, gouge out my lone eye; it has never seen such a bandwagoning mob of hangers-on. Finish that hand-job first." The Admiral is right. No sane person attends these events. It is ironic, then, is it not? The only people who go to victory parades are losers*.

Three bad things.

1. Fell off motorbike wearing shorts, tee-shirt and bare feet.
2. Beaten pulpy by a mob of angry aborigines.
3. Seven years incarcerated at boarding school.

One much worse thing.

1. New Years Eve at Trafalgar Square.

* Excludes winners.

LUCK OFF!

"It's unfair when it goes against your team and just one of those things if it helps them along," writes Norm. Among all the internets Norm is a voice of reason. But that sounds suspiciously like your "rub of the green" bollocks. His reason is the reason he is wrong.

A case in point: Sunday at The Kennington Arena.

Paul Allott: "England have had the better luck this morning."

Nasser Hussain: "They've probably had the better luck all series."

Paul Allott: "I don't think that is true ... AT ALL."

At all? Paul? England winning the Ashes was due almost entirely to luck. No doubt you all agree.

GUMBO JUMBO

I have had it with New Orleans. "Black people stole my corn-flakes," moaned Pierre Petanque from Taylor Playground. Boo hoo. Over in Slidell - "An alligator ate my grandmother," sobbed little Timmy Thiboudaux. Well, guess what, Tim, she was, like, 99. And she was already dead. Get a grip, sook.

You think you have problems. Cereal crime and gators? A mere bagatelle. It's in Melbourne that New Orleans is presenting a REAL problem. You see, over here people are suddenly speaking different. It's no longer New Orleeeens, all of a sudden it's Noooo Orrr-leeee-aannes. I beg your pardon? Noooo Orrr-leeee-aannes? Who do you think you're fooling?

People putting on affectations; that is what I call a problem. Top THAT with your dead relatives, New Orleans. And here? Just shut it, King Gee'ole!

[Any similarity to persons living or eaten is strictly intended.]

RAIN MEN

"It was heavy and relentless." Mark Nicholas on Tony Grieg's commentary*.

* On Saturday night's rain, actually, but why quibble?

TEMPUS WHATSIT

What do you think? Was this my best ever first post? I say yes. The competition was not all that flash, mind you, what with a rather slim field to choose from. But, on reflection, yes, I really do believe this was the one. If you weigh up the contenders, no doubt you will agree.

Three years, hey? Has it really been that long? It seems like only 1096 days.

Bonus Fact: In 1096 Oxford University opened for knowledge. Subjects offered by a state of the art curriculum included Flat World Theory, Alchemy and many a travelling knight took Arabic as a Second Language. Dom mina inus tio illu mea is their motto - "Get me my torch, Lord." Just like that, the Dark Ages were over.

BLUE PIETER

With his dominant bottom hand, Kevin Pietersen has a hole in his technique you could drive a truck through. Shane Warne doesn't need a hole that big. His ball that bowled Pietersen last night was good enough to beat the big Yarpie, but a better batsman would not have fallen over himself to plonk it through the leg side. Mind you, Doyen Benaud was moved to compare the ball to the Gatting ball. Richie must be pining for the south of France; even the replay showed that to be a stupid comparison.

Batsmen with obvious flaws in their armoury are quickly found out in test cricket. Many burst onto the scene but are forced back to the drawing board by accurate bowling aimed at the weakness. Look no further than Steve Waugh.

Pietersen has been touted as the next big thing but at the moment is struggling. No matter any form slump, though, he will probably keep his place. There are just that many more cheap runs to be had now than there were when Waugh started out. That is one of Australia's problems this series - suddenly coming up against a good attack. But KP's right-hand pulling across the line is a doozy of a glitch and requires plenty of work. (And then there's his catching) So much work, in fact, that he runs the risk of wearing the dreaded three letter acronym.

HELLS BELLES!

Hell kath no fury and all that jazz. Blitzed on me own blog, by Jove.

I used to have a nerdy crush and want your virtual babies until you posted this sad excuse for a penis extension. A fucking cunting Ford Terrifying for fucks sakes. How could you.

But then to add insult to injury, Harry bloody Hutton has used you as an example of what a greedy pack of greenhouse gobblers we all are.

Maybe you should go back to drinking.

I don't know. You accept someone into your blog, offer them the wrong variety of herbal tea, and they storm about the place breaking all the cups. "No licorice root?" SMASH!

Sadly, though, Kath is right. I am a low, dickless dog. I revel in my new car experience. Tooling along at 100 kph in air-conditioned, arm-chair comfort belting out the Magic Flute in appalling German.

As for HBH. Well, you just can't take that beast seriously, can you? Sauntering around South America like some character from a Graham Greene novel. (Or is it Charles Ryder?) He is a teacher for fuck sake.

Super Bonus News Extra

Ted Nugent's cat:

Backing Out: Word has reached the AGB via friends of the other guy in the photo, that Eddie McGuire "Other than getting shitfaced, he behaved himself and was a good bloke. No women in sight." Christ, how these rumours get out of hand. The internets are vile things.

Grumpy Old Men: Out - Harvey.N, In - Chappell.I

GOT THE HUMP

I dislike hump day. No. I really dislike hump day. When people ask "Tone, how much do you hate hump day?" I furiously respond "A. Lot."

Wednesdays are fine, though.

It's not Wednesdays I dislike, it is the term hump day. It is stupid. Those who use hump day instead of Wednesday need thrashing. These animals include radio traffic reporters, TV weathermen and "friendly" people in shops.

 "Say this; 'Fair sir, you spit on me on hump day last';"

-- Shylock, MOV

See, patently absurd! Even with that fetching staccato cadence. I blame Americans. Stop it, is what I'm saying.

TT: IN HIS OWN WHITE

The word album derives from the Latin albus for white.

The Beatles White then. The record should probably be referred to as "The Beatles, you know, that double record with the white cover and Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey on side three." But that hardly rolls off the tongue, does it? Instead, most punters refer to it as The Beatles White. Everybody knows which Beatles album you mean, and while not strictly correct, it is acceptible nomenclature; it does indeed have a white cover. You should avoid calling it The Beatles White album. This, as you would no doubt agree, is a rank tautology.

"Molly Meldrum gave away ALL his albums ... err ... records except the Beatles White album." He did? That is quite a stutter you have, mate.

Update! Speaking of Molly. The old boy lives round the corner and is getting his fence painted.

FORD TERRITONY

I have a new car; the dark black tar-hoover on the left. Sexy, no? Brrm. Brrm.

Buying a car is no doddle, you know. You can't just sashay into a dealer looking well-heeled. "I have money for a car. That black one there will do." No, even though I'd pretty much settled on the Territory from the off, it has been around a year weighing up the options. What clinched it for me, though, was the price of petrol.

The price of petrol? Yes, as you can imagine, buying a new car often comes up in conversation. "A Territory?" people would gasp. "But what about the price of petrol?" What about the price of petrol? The price of petrol, be fucked! I laugh at the price of petrol.

On Saturday I filled up for the first time. It cost me $86.

I laugh at $86. Still am. Positively chortling, in fact - "$86? Ha Ha Ho Ho." Meanwhile I am saving hard. By next month I should have enough money tucked away to buy food.

PIE EYED

The Big Night OUT?

Eddie McGuire enjoys a fine old time in the "ladies" bar at the The Prince Of Wales Hotel.

And no, before you all jump to confusions, Eddie is not the subject of that earlier post. Eddie, in fact, became infatuated with one of the girls at The Prince. Even delving into a grab-bag of assorted cheesey pick-up lines: "I can't wait to kiss you later on" and "Come with me ... I have apartments all over Melbourne ... we can just go back to one of them ... no-one will ever know".

THIS EXCEPTED ISLE

Is England a country? Of course it is ... except.

Look at the scan from my Philip's World Atlas and you will notice there is NO England, just a United Kingdom on another page. Not sure whether the PWA is the creme de la creme of map books, but on face value let us accept they probably know their onions. Countries, too.

Wikipedia elaborates. England is, in fact, a Constituent Country. A term which describes England, Scotland and Wales; three of the four principal parts of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Dunno why NI fails to get a guernsey. Guernsey: get it?

"What's the rumpus, then," you ask.

Well, for instance, you may -- I stress maayyyy, you never can tell -- be asked "Who won the men's hockey gold at the 1988 Olympic Games?" Were you to confidently answer "England" you may be un-gruntled to know that you'd be wrong. Great Britain won the gold at those Olympics, not Eng-Ger-Land.

But try telling that to punters at trivia nights. As you might imagine, questions involving GB/UK/England come up on a regular basis. The trivia host tells me he does it just to bait the punters, but fuck me if the argument doesn't drag on ad nauseum.

That is all.

UTTER FINGERED

"The thing -one of the things- that makes my life so wretched is that as well as teaching these appalling cretins, I have to teach everyone else's cretins too, because my colleagues are snivelling tossers who pretend to be sick all the time," writes my good fiend Harry.

Snivelling tossers, sure (my colleagues take a sickie at the drop of a rat); snivelling cowards, more like.

Remember Utter Fuckwit? Yes, I'm sure you do. Well, Utter has gone and got himself in a spot of bother. Called up before the head of department, he was. He'd been up to no good. Not sure of the exact details, there may be legal implications which I won't guess at here (feel free to do your own guessing), but he was due an extreme telling-off. It wouldn't be pulling any punches to suggest he was in for IT.

Instead of facing the music, though, you know what the snivelling coward did? He took two bastard weeks off. Scarpered, he did.

Yesterday we All received this email from the boss.

Hi All.

Utter won't be in for two weeks, so if No.2 asks you to cover, please help out, we're a bit tight for numbers at the mo.

Thanx
No.1

Mo? Thanx? Shit and derision! But I digress... do you know the best part? When Utter is teaching, so am I, which means that not only can I sneer at him until his cows* come home, I can also jeer my colleagues who must pick up his load. I remain unaffected.

Cave Laborem. That is MY motto. "Deep holes thy work"