After Grog Blog

PIPE REALITY?

Remember my wish list?

Fat City

A tunnel that connects the Eastern Freeway at Clifton Hill to the Monash Freeway at Burnley. Heaps of people wanting to go from the south-east to the north and north-east (and vice versa) have to come into town, get off the Monash at Richmond and travel up Punt and Hoddle to the Eastern. Getting 'em off Punt Road and into a quicker tunnel has rock all to do with the fact that I live close to Punt Road, but that's a beneficial side-effect. Yes, I am aware there would be some duplication with a my Outer Link, but this is my pipe dream, so stick your objection up your gonga.

Well, after the mooting, the recommendation, the report, the concept, the proposal, the feasibility study, not to mention the unmentioned environmental impact/effects study, all the other studies, the pros and the cons get through the Department of Premier and Cabinet, the tunnel is, on balance, all go:

Tunnel mooted to fix Hoddle traffic

A FOUR-kilometre road tunnel from the MCG to the Eastern Freeway is among key recommendations in a report into fixing traffic jams on Hoddle Street, commissioned by the Brumby Government.

PLEASE EXCUSE

The correct answer is "None of the below":

301. To which television host did former One Nation Party leader Pauline Hanson utter her famous remark 'Please Explain'?

A. Mike Munro     C. Ray Martin
B. Jana Wendt     D. Richard Carlton

From Toughest Trivia Quiz Questions by Jamie Wagglen, which despite the mistake, has been worth the $1 Boynton paid for it at the Salvos.

The book's answer, in case you were wondering, is Ray Martin.

The real answer, in case you payed no attention to 1996, is Tracey Curro.

AGB Bonus Question!

32. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of what?

A. Large horses  C. Playing Hungry Hippo
B. Long words    D. Water

EXSQUEEZE ME

Merging.

Merging is a doddle.

Theoretically.

In reality, merging is a pain in the arse. Why? Because you've got to rely on the good graces of other drivers to let you in, instead of getting from A to B and occasionally even C, with virtually no interaction with other drivers.

Take today.

There I was turning left from the Eastern Freeway onto Chandler Highway where the Chandler goes from two lanes to one to cross the Yarra at Fairfield. Or is it Alphington?

Same as every morning, I pulled up at the give-way sign and waited and watched as several drivers crawled past, squeezing up as close as mechanically possible to the back of the car in front, pretending they couldn't see me. If they weren't feigning unawareness, they were furiously avoiding eye contact in case, God forbid, they felt obliged to let me in and lose the game they were playing in their head.

It's not as if I don't know what they are up to. I used do play the squeeze, too. But now, as a mature, considerate, altogether sanguine beasty behind the wheel, I pretty much always do the right thing. Just ask Boynton.

Anyway, some bloke eventually let me in, and it was up and over Heidelberg Road and onto the next challenge: Grange Road.

Grange is an aggravating carriageway. It's busy, but not a clear run because cars park on the left. If you're in the left lane you'll soon have to move right; and if you're in the centre lane you'll soon have to let someone in.

Today, I was in the left lane and ended up beside a car in the right with another close behind. Sorry, did I say close behind? I meant, firmly stuck in the boot of the car in front.

I could see the driver in my wing mirror, and I could see she could see me. She could also see the cars parked about 50 metres ahead. Nevertheless, I indicated my intent to move across. But was she going to let me in? Was she fvck. She wedged her car, a pissant Festiva, still further up the other car's arse.

Having enough of her nonsense I pulled right, forcing her to back off, thus making space for myself. In the mirror I could see her shaking her head at me, as if I was some pig ignorant fool who hadn't bothered to look before changing lanes. But I'd called her on it. I smiled, mouthed thank you and gave her a friendly wave. She didn't react. She was too busy squirming inside because she knew she'd lost her little game.

CARIE CELESTE

Friday afternoon we were driving west along Whitehorse Road, Balwyn, when we got stuck behind a very slow, very indecisive, very aggravating driver.

Or so we thought.

After several minutes wondering what the hell he or she was trying to do, creeping along, sort-of turning right, sort-of going straight ahead, sort-of not knowing what the fvck he or she was doing, we finally got a chance to duck into the left lane and give them a mouthful... I mean, politely pass by.

At about this time, though, the car took another swerve to the right and was all set to plough into an oncoming tram.

Coincidentally, it was also about the same time we realised there was not, in fact, anyone in the car.

Some clown must have left the handbrake off and the car had rolled down Whitehorse Road looking for an accident.

I made a half-hearted move to pull over and try and stop the car, but the cars behind started tooting me. So I had to continue on my way and never found out what happened. I've since kept an eye on the news, but there's been nothing.

Anyone heard anything?

GIMME SOME NECK

Once upon a salad day, weekend TV was full of bio-pics about the likes of Knute Rockne - of Ronny Reagan's "Win one for the Gipper" fame - Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Monte Stratton, Lou Gehrig, George Gershwin, Bonzo the Chimp. None would be considered cinematic masterpieces. Well, Bedtime for Bonzo goes very nicely. Most were formula fluff: concerned mums... sorry, moms, grumpy/quirky dods, apple-pie love interests, challenges met, success achieved, an early death.

That's not to say the silver screen eulogy is a thing of the past, or more correctly, a thing of the passed-on. There are still a bazillion heart-string tugging true-death stories to be told. Prefontaine, The Life and Death of Anna Nicole, The Positively True Adventures of the Alleged Texas Cheerleader-Murdering Mom... you know, the classics. There are also high brow affairs like American Splendor, and high detail affairs like John Adams. Both of which I liked, both of which starred Paul Giamatti, although Adams was a bit boring.

Shows like John Adams have a side benefit. My best friend is a history teacher. Since starting in the caper he has sought out videos and now DVDs about historical characters to show in class. This obviously fills time in what can be a pretty dry topic, to most kids anyway, but it is also a solid buttress on which to hang a class. What student isn't keen to watch a movie, or sit in the back playing games on his/her phone undisturbed. Afterwards the teacher can follow up with a discussion about the bona fides of said movie. And who knows! There may even be the odd inquiring mind that discovers a hitherto untapped interest in history. Would that my oafs had even a rudimentary awareness of anything historical. Then I might be spared the stupidest riposte known to ape-kind: "I wasn't even born then."

My main problem with bio-pics, though, is that you know what's about to happen.

This wasn't the case - eventually I'm at the point - with Pierrepoint, as it was known on Foxtel on Tuesday.

Pierrepoint is about the life of Albert Pierrepoint, the bloke what strung up 608 (allegedly) British and German scrotes, tow-rags, nonces, war criminals and at least one innocent John Hurt (think about it), from 1933 to 1955.

That I didn't know anything about Pierrepoint was undoubtedly an advantage. Call me churlish for dinner, but when I watch a new film I don't want to know the story. (If you are like me perhaps you should have stopped reading this post somewhere in the first paragraph.) The other key advantage was the three main actors: Timothy Spall as Pierrepoint, Juliet Stevenson as his wife Annie, and Eddie Marsan as his pal Tish. All were uniformly excellent. The tone, as you might expect of a film set mainly in British jails, is grey and sombre, but it is never a reflection of the content. In fact, what, on the surface, could have been bleak and depressing, is anything but. That's not to say it is a riotous laugh fest, a black comedy, Carry on Holloway. Nor is it in-your-face: Oz, Stir, McVicar, Short Eyes. It's just an engrossing and thought-provoking film about a hangman. It works.

Naturally, given the difficulty in translating fact to film, there are the usual inconsistencies. But I won't reveal them here for reasons spoiler.

If you happen to spot Pierrepoint in your Foxtel guide or down the local Video Blockbuster, check it out.

COUNTRY MATTERS

The Sunday Age Giant Crossword can be a right bastard, since around half the clues range from obscure to fvck off: