The social pages: official opening ceremony held to great acclaim

THE OFFICIAL OPENING CEREMONY of the Timothy Train door, in Thornbury, Melbourne, was held today to great acclaim, with officials from all over the world attending. Speeches were read, bands played, and there was widespread jubilation as the dignitaries attending the event actually opened the door then proceeded inside.

Following the merriment and jubilation at the official opening of the Timothy Train door, universal mourning and sorrow was held at the OFFICIAL CLOSING CEREMONY. There was much talk of the good times had during the Official Opening of the Door, the going through the door, the thoughtful contemplation of the opening of the door and the contemplative thinking of the going through the door, all leading up to the sorrowful and melanchloy event that was the closing of the door. Following this, the door was actually closed.

The following is a selective list of some of the attendees at the official opening and closing ceremonies, including, but not limited to, all of them. They will be read out in alphabetical order:

Train, Tim

***

An OFFICIAL OPENING CEREMONY for the Timothy Train cupboard door was to be held today in Thornbury, but the Official Opening Ceremony was closed before opening, due to the fact that the Timothy Train cupboard door that was due to be opened was in fact already open, and therefore there wasn't any need for an opening ceremony before the opening of the cupboard door to be opened.

Train briefly considered holding an OFFICIAL CLOSING CEREMONY and then closing the cupboard door, but he would have had to have held an OFFICIAL OPENING CEREMONY first of all. Otherwise the official closing ceremony would have been the opening ceremony, which seemed more than a little contradictory. He retired to consult the matter over with his public servants, of whom an all-inclusive, but by no means comprehensive, list follows:

Train, Tim

That is all.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Damn!

This is about as belated a review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull as you're likely to get. Belated not because it's two weeks too late, belated because it's about twenty years to late (or maybe even two hundred years.) Biographical details follow (and maybe a SPOILER! SPOILER! or two...)

I remember first seeing Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark in my aunt's house, on her old video player. After that I experienced a short-lived infatuation with archeology, but it never went anywhere. I later saw the first four-fifths of Temple of Doom at home before being sent off to bed by Mum with all my brothers. Actually, this happened several times - whenever it appeared on the telly, we'd sit through the first four-fifths and then be sent off to bed. It was pure torture, and we didn't get to see the end of Temple of Doom for a while. Perhaps that's why the film is my favourite, although I doubt it - I always thrilled to the implied 'voyage to hell and back' theme. But I think this childhood upbringing definitely has something to do with my dislike now of long movie chases; I think Indy spends about half an hour getting out of that damned temple of doom.

The Last Crusade passed me by a bit; but about six years ago, when I was in Raymond Terrace with my parents, unemployed and bored as hell, I betook myself off one Sunday afternoon to the local picture theatres where they had a one-off performance of Raiders. I may have been the only one there. I thrilled to it all over again - only this time noticing a lot more of the production details, the acting, and the scripting. It was the perfect film to end a week with; I walked away with that quiet feeling of satisfaction that good films give you.

So Professor Jones and I go back a fair way. That's not a boast, so much, but I guess it helps to explain why I just don't feel as cranky about the latest film as some reviewers. Sure, the film was derivative, but then, Indy films always were. The trick Spielberg and Lucas have settled on - and a good one it is, too - is to contrive a plot around a few themes that may or may not be true, but which we are deeply familiar with. Indy was always chasing after mythical objects like the Ark of the Covenant, or the Holy Grail, or (in the latest film) the mythical city of Eldorado. They're the sort of plot devices that an audience is at the same time deeply familiar with, but are so removed from that there's almost infinite room for fantasy and make-believe. (Then again, there are also bits like the diamond/crystal theft scene in the opening of Raiders of the Lost Ark - I've still got no idea what the fuck that's about. Though it did make for an awesome send up in The Simpsons.)

In Crystal Skull, then, there's a quick voyage to the Nevada Desert and Area 51; an interlude at Harvard, or Yale, or whatever American college it is that Indy teaches at; a flight to South America to find the grave of a lost conquistador, the recovery of a crystal skull (and it's a nice touch, basing the plot around these, considering their history), followed by a journey to Eldorada. There's also some Soviet 1950s-style hypnotism and mind games going on, and the plot has a science-fiction style ending, referencing, amongst others, Velikovsky (the Nazca lines make an appearance). It sounds confused, but it's not; the plot has a clear arc and doesn't feel contrived. There are endless literary and cinema references, but they don't feel excessive. (The entire series begins with a literary reference, after all - to the Ark of the Covenant.)

The science-fiction element in this film seems strange, but not out of place. Although previously Indy was usually chasing after something more fantastic than scientific, there was always a science-fiction element to the films (he was an archeologist, after all). And anyway, one of the nice things about Crystal Skull is how it breaks free of some of the conventions of the fantasy/sci-fi film trilogy. (The little interlude in the Nevada desert really is probably quite pointless, but it does set up some of the incidental plot themes, and has an extraordinary on-the-spot scene inside an atom-bomb blast. (Indy escapes it by climbing into a lead-lined fridge and being blown to freedom. If you can believe that. After which he climbs a small hill and observes the mushroom cloud gathering above the desert.) There's a few moments like that, where Indy or others are more like the chosen spectators to wonderful or bizarre moments, rather than characters willing their own destiny.

To my mind, the Indiana Jones films are one of the few - the very few - really successful long-running fantasy films. I detest Star Wars; and I was comatose during the whole of the Matrix trilogy. One reason is that Spielberg is a real talent, one of the best cinematic storytellers, while you get the feeling that Lucas and the Wachowski brothers are more interested in making bizarre, pseudo-philosophical conclusions about 'life' and 'nature' and 'perception' and other Big Things. Also, you get the feeling that Indy could just go on forever, to different parts of the world, having new adventures, and discovering new things. That's because the world he's in is our world, and it's bigger than all the other pale imitations of worlds that you get in Star Wars or the Matrix.

When it comes to films, some folks go there for the explosions, some for the romance, some for the physical adventure or violence. I'm there for the mystery and the fantasy, the exploration of the unknown, and the encounters with strange events or things. Indiana Jones films have that in spades; and I can't wait for the next.

Perfect in his cromulence

All right, then. I admit it. I've been reading Bolt's blog. He does some very good posts, though his spelling often leaves something to be desired. This morning, he quoted Sydney Morning Herald writer Amanda Devine, leading me to wonder if he'd unearthed another member of the Devine clan. I commented on it at the time, and he subsequently amended the post (though my comment remains unpublished; I think I may have wounded his pride!)

Then again, maybe Amanda Devine really does exist. Maybe she's living in Austria, malapropriate land of the kangaroo and drop bear, along with celebrated Australian actor Kate Blanchett, artist Bill Hansen, and maybe politician Pauline Henson as well. Of course, all is not well in Austria: they are known to practice mortarboarding, and there are concerns about bomb communities. Nevertheless, noted writers Imre Salusinsinsinsinsinsinsinzky and Angela Shanahanrahan, amongst others, keep a firm eye on the values of the community. And of course, every week, they gather around the flag and sing the Austrian Notional Anthem, "Austrians, all let us ring Joyce..."

Makes sense!

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Late is the new black

I first heard the phrase 'fashionably late' in university. People kept on using it when they didn't turn up to lectures or other appointments on time. As far as I could tell, it meant that you could be late in a fashionable way, just as you could be tall in a fashionable way, or broad-shouldered in a fashionable way, or wear green in a fashionable way. But what the difference was between being fashionably late and late late, no-one could tell me. Presumably, if you wanted to turn up to an appointment fashionably late, and ended up there even later than that, you could be fashionably late at being fashionably late. Did that just make you extra fashionably late, or just late?

Also, you have to wonder, if people could be fashionably late for appointments, could trains be fashionably late? Could buses? Could kids stay up after bedtime, claiming 'fashionable lateness'? Why not 'fashionably punctual', or 'fashionably early' for appointments instead? (It somehow seems more possible to be punctual at being fashionably late than being fashionably late at being punctual. Though I could be wrong.)

What happened to this phrase, 'fashionably late'. Is it fashionable, lately? Or is it just, well, late?

Goin' nowhere man

I am the King of telling pointless anecdotes! You know the sort: stories that sound as if they might be amusing, but aren't - tales that seem like they might go somewhere, but don't - descriptions that sound as if they could be interesting, if told about something else, by someone else; but won't be, because they're not, and aren't. For instance, did you know I bumped into a woman on the train the other day wearing stripy socks? So there! Once, I also had an encounter with a man on the train talking loudly into a mobile phone behind me. Then, I got off the train. Also, on Saturday, when I was walking to the newspaper store, I noticed there was a tree standing outside my house: it was also there when I got back! But I wonder if it will be there next time? And where did it come from?

Pointless anecdotes are perfect for all sorts of social situations, especially the wrong ones. They can be used to fill in the time between one time and another time that most of us experience; for remarking on an event that would go otherwise unremarked; for communicating ideas to other people about things that you have ideas about; or for those times when you want to start a conversation at one random point and end it at another random point while putting a number of relatively ambiguous words in between. In other words, pointless anecdotes are a perfect expressive vehicle for expressing stuff that would otherwise go unexpressed, and can be developed into an art form of great potency.

When telling pointless anecdotes, it is always best to use half-remembered quotes - so long as the half you remember is the wrong half. These are very useful for demonstrating how knowledgeable you are in meaningless data about important people. Half-remembered quotes can be padded out by all manner of phrases: "Like, you know, sort of, and such and such." For instance:

Did you know, once at a talk given by T S Eliot, he was asked, "What do you mean by "Lady, three white leopards sat under some sort of a tree, I can't remember know, what was it?"And T S Eliot replied, "I meant three white leopards sat under the tree, whatever it was." Or at least, he was supposed to. I don't know why he said that. Whatever sort of tree it was now, I, you know, forget that detail, sorry about that.

Thus, by injudicious use of unimportant phrases, a half-remembered quote can be prolonged for however long one wants. Of course, it helps if you do some research, and be sure to read all the titles of the books by the great authors, and possibly the front-page blurbs as well. This gives you a great insight into the names of these authors, and access to all manner of not-very-important quotes. Imagine meeting a person at a party and saying: "I have read all the titles by the Great Authors!" How impressed they would be!

In conclusion, did I tell you about the thing that I did the other day in between doing something else, and another thing altogether? Well, we'd better leave it at that, hadn't we!

Destroying the world: public good, or private responsibility?

Well, apparently the Government is cutting funding to the CSIRO. As we all know from documentaries, realistic dramas on the television, and informative and educational works of fiction, scientists at the CSIRO spend all their time figuring out ways to expode the world, travelling forwards in time to the end of the universe, travelling backwards in time to the age of the dinosaurs, reanimating the rotting corpses of dead people, switching the brains of humans with apes (and vice versa), creating armies of robots to dominate the world, setting up lines of telepathic communication with evil spiders halfway across the universe, and engineering vast black holes to destroy the universe. But apart from that, what else have they done for the betterment of Australia?

Supporters of the CSIRO often claim that without government funding, they would not be able to effectively work out new ways of destroying the world, or setting up robot armies to dominate us all, and so on, and so on. On the other hand, maybe private initiative would be able to step in and help out? Although the philanthropic organisation SPECTRE, devoted to the charitable goals of annihilating democracy and bending the rest of the world to its will, has fallen by the wayside of late, it is true that there remain hundreds of other private interests and charitable societies with similar goals in mind. Pokemon, for instance. Perhaps they would be able to fund the activities of Australian scientists instead?

Also, this may seem controversial, but I'll say it anyway: why should the Government be relied upon to dominate the world, and conquer the universe? Shouldn't this be the responsibility, equally, of private world-domination companies, who can do it, off the public dollar?

Destroying the world: is it a public good, or a private responsibility? It's a dilemma we must all face up to from time to time.

(Riffing on the idea suggested in Jeremy's title)

So you say you're an accountant? Then account for yourself!

This piece, which recently ran on Sixty Minutes, says that DNA evidence indicates that all people living on the earth today are descended from a tribe of bushmen living in the Kalahari Desert. All very interesting, but quite out of date. More recent genetic, linguistic and cultural evidence all point to the one undeniable truth - that people all over the world today are related to an ancient firm of Box Hill accountants who over the millenia have peopled the world.

A typical specimen of the accountant race. Note the cranial size and the protuberant lips.

Until recent times, there have been many objections to the 'Accountancy' theory of human development. For instance, some biologists have argued that money didn't exist until several thousand years ago, which would have meant that the original accountants from which we have all descended would have been effectively out of a job before that. Well, yes. And you can imagine how depressed they all were. Why do you think there were so many wars?

Members of the accountancy tribe engaged in cultural activities. The one to the right is singing a folk song, that has been passed down from generation to generation of accountants, in invocation to one of the many powerful Gods of his tribe.

For millions of aeons, members of this Aboriginal accountancy tribe roamed the vast plains of Box Hill, hunting their natural prey of baked beans and cappucino, developing rudimentary tools specific to their needs, such as the 'pen', the 'laptop', and the 'microwave'. Although it's hard for us to understand, removed as we are from these accountants' way of life, their life must have been incredibly rich and varied, and there must have always been some sum to add up or set of books to complete. Tragically, it seems that members of this original Accountancy firm may be dying out, with no-one to replace them. The temptations of modern life, it seems, are too much.

However, when told that all people, all colours and creeds and ways of life, come from his firm of Accountants, the chief of the tribe nods his head humbly. "It makes sense," he says, in an obscure language that can only be understood by the people who speak it, known as 'English'. "People had to come from somewhere. Now. Can you please stand up? You're sitting on my calculator."

Such timeless wisdom!

The blurst of all possible worlds

AROUND MELBOURNE

- Two hooded assailants yesterday stopped a man in the street and held him captive at daisy-point while they patted his dog. This has been only one in a series of pat-and-run incidents recently. Police are appealing for witnesses to the crime to come forward.

- A notorious grandmother was spotted by witnesses this morning viciously watering her Azaleas in Coburg. Those nearby report her shouting softly to the victims, "There there! That's all right! Isn't that lovely?"
"It was terrible!" reports a neighbour. "She waters her Azaleas every day. Not too much, and not too little. It's the most savage thing I've ever seen anyone do!"
The Azaleas are currently assisting police with their inquiries. When questioned by this paper, they bloomed uncontrollably at mention of the crime.

- Juvenile undelinquency is on the rise, with reports from all over the city of unsupervised gangs of youths going on good-deed-doing rampages - raking footpaths, cleaning windows, and helping little old ladies across the street. Amidst widespread outbreaks of law and order, the police have called for calm.
The Premier, John Brumby, has stated that it is time for parents to do more to combat the shocking rise in juvenile undelinquency statistics. "Give them more M rated videos to watch, for instance. Violent video games are also good. Oh, and why not help them find websites that are unsuitable for their age? And maybe a spray can on their birthday - that should work." Mr Brumby says that it just calls for "a little creative parenting", and that it is the responsibility of "mums and dads all around the state" to assist children on the path to juvenile delinquency.
However, for those people with their windows freshly cleaned, their paths newly raked, and their dogs recently walked, it's already too late.

Bill O'Reilly's beautiful soul

Here's a clip of famous American presenter Bill O'Reilly struggling to read from a teleprompter. I got it from Club Troppo.



Of especial interest is the way he snorts through his nose when he gets angry, his apparent difficulty with the name 'Sting' and the phrase 'to play us out', and the rapid change from angry shouty Bill O'Reilly to benevolently beaming Bill O'Reilly.

But I don't know what everybody's laughing at. O'Reilly is merely doing what he does best here. He's performed the nose-snorting successfully in many hard-hitting political interviews, and later on, the angry shouty act was actually scripted into his teleprompt. In fact, this impromptu act merely sets the scene for later renowned performances.

Bill O'Reilly is a devoted husband and loving father, and is said to practice for his shows by reading books to his children at home.

Puffing on his pipe in a nostalgic manner....

Growing up in Balranald, I didn't have many television stations to watch, just ABC and Southern Cross. The ABC, with a nightly episode of Doctor Who, was enough for me. I like to think that I saw through the Daleks straight away, as the inverted trash-cans on wheels that they were, but the Cybermen - well, they scared the hell out of me. Shiny silver men with hollow eyes? Creepy. No wonder I gravitated towards Dad's lap when they came on. Scary as they were, I kind of liked the Cybermats - slug-like silver metallic creatures made by the Cybermen that slunk around on the floor and jumped for your throat. Why? I guess it's because I thought they were Cyberman pets. Evil, homicidal pets that could turn you into a cyberman, true, but still pets. It seemed natural, really: humans had dogs and cats, cybermen had cybermats.

Why do I mention this now, you ask? Only because I have found the twenty-first century answer to the Cybermat...

Behold the horror that is the Cyberbunny!

Euro-Fluoro-Neurovision

At work today someone decided that there was going to be a Eurovision Sweepstakes, and everyone at the transcription desk bought into the competition. People got the Ukraine, Malta, Lithuania, Latvia; I got Ireland (with this strobarific song - I've got no hope.) Boss Man himself went nuts and attempted to create a one-man hegemony of the competition, buying five separate entries. Apparently, he reckons Albania's going to blitz the competition.

So, will it be Albania's day? Will they triumph over feisty little Malta? Who knows? Who cares? Certainly not me. I might have bought into the competition, but I'm not crazy enough to actually watch the thing, man.

Borisology

FACT: Boris Johnson has grommets in his ears.

The Non-sequitur Weekly

"Read by intelligent people, and oxymorons, all over the world!"

Well, hello and welcome to another issue of Non-Sequitur Weekly - and we hope you come back soon! Not only do we hope that you have an enjoyable read in store, but it always was that way.

In this issue of Non-Sequitur Weekly, we ask some hard questions, and good for him, too. The topics we will be covering today include:

- One sentence book reviews!

- Cat-lovers dog of the week!

- Hard-hitting coverage of international affairs, and knitting!

- Concerning issues of concern!

- Grammatical oddity of the week!

(This list is comprehensive, but not all inclusive.)

So sit back, relax, and enjoy your latest copy of the Non-Sequitur Weekly, and did you see the telly last night? There were some really great shows on...
- THE EDITOR

***

NON-SEQUITUR WEEKLY: ONE-SENTENCE BOOK REVIEWS

The Poet Who Forgot, Catherine Cole
Readers of A D Hope's poems will find themselves fascinated by this account of his life, which certainly proves Einstein's theory of relativity for once and for all.

Helen Garner and the Meaning of Everything, Alex Jones
Many people consider lamingtons delicious, and cows are not closely related to goats, so why not give this novel a go?

The Spare Room, Helen Garner
Our reviewer certainly enjoyed this heartfelt semi-autobiographical novel, so you probably won't either.

Breath, Tim Winton
A gripping read which grabbed our attention from the first page, and didn't let us go until we took her dog to the vet.

***

CAT-LOVERS DOG OF THE WEEK Woof Woof! Meow! Rover is our dog of the week, the finest tabby you have ever seen! ENJOYS: Chasing cats, rubbing himself against your leg. VERY FRIENDLY with most children, though usually on bad terms with all of them. EATS: CHUM dog food, whiskas cat food.

***

THE INTERNATIONAL SCENE

Well, fellow non-sequiturians, to great controversy, it seems that Boris Johnson has triumphed over Ken Livingstone to become Mayor of London: but what does this mean for knitters?

It is immediately obvious that Johnson is a man of great ability: however, the number of Londoners drinking tea lately is in terminal decline. To find out, all we need to do is ask knitters, as a mere glance at an Albanian television guide two weeks previously will show.

Faced with such insuperable difficulties in his first term as Mayor, Johnson should clearly adopt a dog. We suggest a beagle for a start. Weimeraners are also good. In addition, it should be observed that knitters are rarely wrong on these matters.

However, there is another point which we should also consider: pillows. The Tory economic policies don't seem to take this matter fully into consideration. The Non-Sequitur Weekly has also identified several other key areas of concern for Johnson and the Tories: bees, fedoras, the difference between American and English spelling, Charles Dickens, yellow handkerchiefs, and dahlias. Nevertheless, Labour is faced with severe difficulties of their own: pockets, top hats, the importance of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in the development of classical and romantic music, teddybears, floppy-eared creatures, and gollywogs.

It is also apparent that harpsichord will be a difficulty for both sides.

Mr Johnson nevertheless brings considerable intelligence and vigour to the job, and we can be sure he will meet the task with enthusiasm. Let's hope we can say the same for knitting.

***

CONCERNING ISSUES OF CONCERN

- Some people prefer their gingerbread with raisins, and some without. This clearly has concerning ramifications for the Western Australian economy.

- A reader from Melbourne writes: "I am worried about the disposal of rubbish in our area, and he is, too." But what on earth does this have to do with the international space race?

- What do Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Nicholas Cage, and Kevin Rudd have in common? We certainly think not.

- BOOTS are in this season! But are spotty dogs better than plain dogs, or does it depend on the time of day?

***

GRAMMATICAL ODDITY OF THE WEEK

The Sequitur

A sequitur, something that logically follows. For instance:

"Grass is green. My lawn is made from grass. Therefore, my lawn is green."

Clearly, you should avoid falling into this trap as much as possible, for the sake of icecream.

NEXT WEEK IN THE NON-SEQUITUR WEEKLY: Non-sequitur quiz! Interviews with politicians! News! Opinions! That's a nice dress you're wearing, where did you buy it? Oh, and MORE! In Non-Sequitur Weekly - the magazine that does not follow!

Monoculturalmultiglot

Walking along Murray Road to Preston Markets yesterday, I was pulled up by a furious donging bell. It was, as it turned out, a Chinese lady cycling lackadaisically on her bike towards the markets. I moved out of her way and she sailed lackadaisically into the markets on her bike, probably donging the bell all the way. (I'm not sure if she planned to stay on her bike all through the markets. I wouldn't put it past her.)

The Preston Markets are an impossible place, a contradiction in terms. I remain unconvinced that anyone buys anything there, since the main capital they stock are nick-nacks that make you go 'oh' in surprise, but don't convince you that you'd want to buy them. There are cooking pots without handles, and handles without cooking pots, and egg flips that are made out of plastic (would you like your egg sunny-side up, or polystyrenised?)

Also, they only open on Saturday. But walking past the various cafes in the markets, I noticed fat Italian gentlemen sitting around drinking coffee and opening out their newspapers. Do they get their papers home delivered the rest of the week and then saunter into the markets? My theory is that the chubby Monsignors come with the place; that, along with the rest of the cafe, they are locked up early on Saturday afternoon and, folding up their copies of Il Monde, lie down to hibernate. Last week, I noticed an ancient Chinese grandmother waddle out of the supermarkets pushing her wheel-bag along the ground. A little kid was standing up in this wheel bag, looking up in faint surprise at the world. Did the Chinese grandmother get him from the markets? Or was it the other way around? (I can remember thinking at the time, "I hope he's remembered to validate his ticket.")

In various forays into the market, I have also run into gangly Vietnamese lads hawking shonky coffee pots, bepimpled teenage Lebanese selling greasy German sausages, portly Greek grocers with almost all their teeth missing grocing away, and a group of Sudanese either carrying a bag of bones, thinly covered with raw meat, into the train station out of the markets, or out of the train station and out of the markets. I might have made a few of those up, it's impossible to tell as far as Preston Markets are concerned.

Faced with such a varied concourse of humanity, what can I do but retreat hysterically into my own individuality? Everytime I enter into the markets, a wave of panic sets over me, and I am beset with unitary personality disorder; I have a 'reverse epiphany' and encounter 'the opposite of enlightenment.' In my crazed non-schizoid state, I suffer from hallucinations about the Preston Markets three hundred years ago, a place known amongst the Indigenous people as one that was haunted by spirits, fat white creatures that shook weird rectangular objects and drank steaming cups of hot black liquid...

As a great man didn't say: if the Preston Markets did not exist, it would be necessary for them to exist. Or, to put it another way: you can't take the Preston out of the Preston Markets, and you can't take the Markets out of the Preston Markets either. Or, to put it another way: neither the chicken nor the egg came first. You can buy both from the Preston Markets. Probably on a stick, and with a side serving of grease.

Thought for the day

If we really only had one thought for the day, then we'd be in trouble all right.


Rodin's thinker struggles to produce his quota of one thought for the day.

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Blogging as a conceptual art

Imitation of a blog post written by a person who is sitting in a tub full of live eels

Hello! This is a blog post being written by me, Tim T, who is currently sitting in a tub full of ... ah! Oooh! Ewwwww! ... as I say, this is a blog post, written by me, currently... ooooh! Hahahahaha! OUCH! I didn't know these things had tee... er, anyway. Blog post. I wrote it. I'm currently sitting in this tu... YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! How did that get in...BUZZ! Hey, who was the joker that slipped an electric... Yuck! Ooh! ooh! hey! hey! Wha... OW! HA! UNGGGGGH! Get out get out get out! Engh! Ooof! Right! So, as I was saying. I'm sitting amongst these live eels, and would just like to say this important thing about politi... OHHHHHH NOOOOO! How did that thing get in my p... no! no! don't go the... out! out! out! out! I don't understand, I had it all zipped up and the belt was... AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

This has been an imitation of a blog post written by a person who is sitting in a tub full of live eels

UPDATE! - Squelch!

Written on hearing that Boris Johnson has become Mayor of London

The Blue City Blues

Boris has won London
An' I don't know what to do
Yeah, Boris has won London,
An' I don't know what to do
My tea's gone cold, I'm feelin' old,
I got the Blue City Blues.

[Guitar refrain]

Red Ken's dead, my baby,
Red's dead, baby, ooh -
Red Ken's dead, my baby,
Red's dead, baby, ooh -
My elbow aches, I'm outta cakes -
I got the Blue City Blues.

[Guitar refrain]

They're all singin' 'Tory, Tory
Halle-LUJAH!' at the news;
Yeah, they're singin' 'Tory Tory
Halle-LUJAH!' at the news -
I'm feelin' down, O Mr Brown
I got the Blue City Blues.

[Guitar refrain]

Boris has won London
An' I don't know what to do
Yeah, Boris has won London,
An' I don't know what to do
My tea's gone cold, I'm feelin' old,
I got the Blue City Blues.

[Guitar refrain]

World's oldest 48-year man about to break a new record!

It's just another amazing day of records broken for Jeremiah Grimble, the world's oldest 48-year man!

Mr Grimble, who is the only man to have leaped the longest metre in Australia, the tallest man under the height of 1.82 metres to wear a deerstalker hat, and owner of the shortest six-syllable name (counting by syllable) for the Thursday/Friday period, is currently in training for the regional BLCAA championships.

The BLCAA - or Ballarat Lounge Chair Audio Awards - is a bimonthly event held every year* in the Ballarat town centre.
Contestants gather together, and compete to see who can most convincingly imitate the mating cry of the domestic Lounge Chair in its native habitat. Results will be judged by a series of experts, some of whom have over 20 years experience of sitting in lounge chairs in pursuit of their studies.
However, competition will be fierce, with several of Mr Grimble's contestants previously gaining plaudits in sports of skill and endurance. These include:

- Ms Janice Elia Plubbs, acclaimed owner and breeder of Australia's most convergent set of parallel lines, and driver in the famous Mobius Strip car race of two years ago;

- Ms Ellen Fitzwilliam-Iggs, possessor of the vertically highest passage of printed words in existence;

- Arthur Chubb, aka 'The Great Smerg', who has won previous acclaim for his amazing endurance feat of having lived through the slowest two hours in history without drinking more than one cup of water.

Mr Grimble says he is taking nothing for granted, but enters the BLAA after having gained second place in the recent Box Hill Musical Eisteddfod, for which he gave a successful performance of air guitar for a judging panel consisting mostly of street mimes.

*Bimonthly but held every year: that way, it saves money.

The internet is working! Sort of...

Finally got some form of internet connection up at home.

If you're reading this blog and it suddenly explodes, don't worry. It's probably just my internet connection experiencing a few technical difficulties.

For the good of society

Free the chemicals now!

And now to a serious subject

Drugs! Not only are they the scourge of society, the pernicious cause of crime, but they're also illegal! But apart from that, what else is wrong with them?

Rock stars use drugs. This is in itself bad enough: imagine if instead of taking drugs, Robby Coltrane and Britney Spears concentrated on bringing joy and happiness to the hearts of millions through their music!

Worse than that, though. Australia's Olympic athletes may be taking drugs. Drugs enable athletes to be faster, stronger, more aware, tire less easily, and have more endurance than they had before. This is horrifying! If something is not done about the scourge of drugs amongst modern athletes, then nothing will be done!

And it's not only the brightest and best who may be taking drugs. Losers could be taking them as well. For instance, consider, in the 2002 Olympics, when Australian Olympic athlete Stephen Bradbury through an amazing stroke of luck became our first ever Winter Olympics gold medallist:

What if he won the gold medal in the Winter Olympics through an amazing stroke of luck - while under the influence of illegal drugs?

Horribly, no-one could be immune from the deadly influence of these dreadful chemicals. In the 2000 Summer Olympics, Eric the Eel became unofficial champion of all our hearts when competing in the 100 metre freestyle swimming.

But the question must be asked: did he become unofficial champion of all our hearts through the horrendous, all-pervasive influence of drugs?

This has been a WTFF Investigative Report.

UPDATE! - Some words which rhyme with drugs:

- BUGS!
- MUGS!
- THUGS!

I think this just proves my point.