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.

The mangler with the plan

Moving house is a strange process - putting things in boxes, then putting those boxes in other boxes, then putting those boxed boxes in still more boxes. I've also been going through my disordered papers, and disordering them in a different disorder while hurling them willy-nilly into my boxing of boxed boxes for later unboxing and re-disordering.

Last night, as I packed away just about the last of my books and papers, I came across an interesting little booklet that I got for Christmas:

Procrastinators SOS 2008 Planner

*Snorts* Well - at least I lived up to the first word of the title...!

Summat summit about nowt

It's been interesting to read the responses of the 2020 summit participants following the event. The general consensus seems to be that the event was confused and disorganised, that certain views weren't heard, that other views were given unfair emphasis, that the agenda was manipulated by politicians and bureaucrats, that many ideas were ignored in favour of bland meaningless political statements, that many ideas weren't new, that too many celebrities were invited and that Kevin Rudd and Labor politicians deliberately tried to ingratiate themselves with the media. But still, respondents and attendants seem determined to be positive. Michael Gow writes: "... everyone subverted the white board tyranny and started having their own conversations." Alison Croggon: "... it was an inspiring invitation to a participatory democracy, and it resulted in some valuable and stimulating discussions and ideas." Andrew Norton: "Outside the sessions, I had some useful conversations."* Most baffling of all was Cate Blanchett's response:

Blanchett set the audience nodding in approval when she stated her belief in 'a long and meaningful relationship between arts and government' and that 'much can simply be done by imagining the arts where they rightly belong - at the very heart of our society.'

I always thought it was a positive virtue of our society that artists typically wanted greater independence of government. Observing this, Tim Blair noted sardonically: " Dissent is so 1996-2007."

And I really don't know why there has been such a positive response to the summit. Sure, conversations were had, but conversations can be had anytime. More than anything else, the optimistic response by Croggon, Blanchett, et al, seems to indicate that they were flattered to be invited to the summit. It reminded me of an observation C S Lewis made about a radical socialist acquaintance of his, 'a young man I once knew':

He had been a strict socialist at Oxford. Everything ought to be run by the state; private enterprise and independent professions for him were the great evil. He then went away and became a schoolmaster. After about ten years of that he came to see me. He said his political views had been wholly reversed. You never heard a fuller recantation. He now saw that State interference was fatal. What had converted him was his experience as a schoolmaster of the Ministry of Education - a set of ignorant meddlers armed with insufferable power to pester, hamper, and interrupt the work of real, practical teachers who knew the subjects they taught, who knew boys, parents, and all the real conditions of their work. It makes no difference to the point of the story whether you agree with his view of the Ministry; the important thing is he held that view. For the real point of the story, and of his visit, when it came, nearly took my breath away. Thinking thus, he had come to see whether I had any influence which might help him to get a job in the Ministry of Education.
Here is the perfect band-wagoner. Immediately on the decision 'This is a revolting tyranny', follows the question, 'How can I as quickly as possible cease to be one of the victims and become one of the tyrants?' If I had been able to introduce the young man to someone in the Ministry, I think we may be sure that his manners to that hated 'Meddler' would have been genial and friendly in the extreme. Thus someone who had heard his previous invective against the meddling and then witnessed his actual behaviour towards the meddler, might possibly (for charity 'believeth all things') have concluded that this young man was full of the purest Christianity and loved one he thought a sinner while hating what he thought his sin.

Just so. It's far easier to seek to be one of the 'elite', to have the ear of those in power, than to seek real independence from the powerful.

PS Please read Jack Marx.

*Though it's true, the tone of his blog post is far more cynical.

In which the author surveys the cutlery, and prophesies doom

Reposting a comment, because I can.

Dies Irae! Dies Illa! This next space is used for filler!
(An ode to the spork)

In rev’rent tones we used to talk
Of ‘Ladle - spoon', of 'knife - and fork’.
Now prophets of all nations hawk
The FOON - the SPLADE - the SPORK.

Lo! In yesteryear, our meals were made
And then in ‘plates and dishes’ laid;
But now I eat in ‘Plish’ and ‘Dates’
With SPORK - and FOON - and SPLADE.

The End of World approaches soon!
Seas run with blood! Red turns the moon!
Plague stalks abroad- no-one's immune! -
Not even simple ‘Knife - fork - spoon!’
For now I eat my greens and meat -
With SPORK - with SPLADE - with FOON!

More pressing questions of intergalactic import

Okay. Right then.

"Bold-faced lie."

"Bare-faced lie."

"Bald-faced lie."

What is the correct expression? For some reason I thought it was 'bald-faced lie' at first, but that doesn't make any sense. Heads can be bald, but faces aren't ever really described as bald. I thought maybe it was 'bare-faced lie', which the Urban Dictionary describes as

A bearded lie that remembered to shave this morning.

Then again, there's a website here that defines a 'bald-faced lie' as an erroneous version of 'bold-faced lie'. As far as I can make out, 'bold' refers to the typeface. And I suppose 'bold-faced' could also refer to the lack of fear on the face of the person who is delivering the lie. Then again, it would also seem to iimply that the lie has a bold face, which makes you wonder what the rest of the lie's body is like.

And yet again, I wonder if I really am living in a parallel universe. Maybe the phrase really is something like -

"Bald-headed lie."

"Bare-bodied lie."

"Bolt-faced lie."

"Lye-faced bell."

"Fast-belled loo."

Heck, it could be anything, really!

Fully-grown bunny likes to look at pictures of other fully-grown bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits

"So it's true," says Daffodil Bunny. "I like to look at pictures of other fully-grown bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits. And what of it?"


Daffodil Bunny: confesses to looking at pictures of other bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits.

The fully-grown white bunny with brown spots has sparked controversy when admitting to his habit of watching other fully-grown bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits.

"Sometimes I like to look at videos," continues Daffodil. "I like to look at videos of fully-grown bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits hopping around, eating grass, going into burroughs, or twitching their cute little noses. In Hugh Hefner suits. But sometimes, just pictures will do."

Amid widespread political outrage, Daffodil Bunny has agreed to show us his collection of pictures of other bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits. His collection ranges from "Playbunny" magazines, which feature a wide range of bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits; videos of bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits; framed pictures of bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits; and even trading cards of fully-grown bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits.

However, there are concerns that Daffodil Bunny's habit could eventually lead him to a life of crime.

POLL: Do you think bunnies looking at other bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits could lead them to a life of crime? Yes No Not sure Free polls from Pollhost.com

Daffodil Bunny rejects all claims that he is objectifying Hugh Hefner. "I am not ashamed about my habit, not at all," he claims. "I do it because I really, really respect Hugh Hefner. Really. My habit of looking at pictures of other bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits is my way of expressing that respect. Also, I think he's cute."

The controversy caused by the confession of Daffodil Bunny and other users of "Playbunny" magazine looks set to continue. However, as Patch Bunny, professor of Sociology at the Bunny University, says, "Live and let live. Some bunnies like to nibble carrots, or hop around a bit, or be scratched behind the ears. Others like to look at pictures of their fellow bunnies in Hugh Hefner suits. And surely the world is big enough for both of us?"

Woof! Woof!

The beast next door,
He pounds the floor
With savage paw;
Tears at the door
With fearsome claw.
He dines at four
On bones and gore
And sweet ichor
Of visitors,
The beast next door.

A country town is like picking your nose: discuss

Fun times in Western Australian country town of Geraldton recently, when members of their local tourism association read an article in a West Australian newspaper publication. The article compares staying in the town to picking your nose, 'something you just don't admit to in public'. Horror! Members of tourism association suggest a boycott of WAN products; a Geraldton local and publicist goes on air for an interview and suggests inviting the offending WAN journalist to the town for a weekend - and then we'll see how she feels about it!*

Comparisons may be odious, but not everything that is odious may be a comparison. The way the ABC presenter described it - 'comparing Geraldton to picking your nose' - certainly was odd, if not odious. I'm tempted to draw up a table in order to determine once and for all if Geraldton is like picking your nose. And why? What do the experts have to say on this comparison? Perhaps this is a question the Australian tourism hasn't considered before, something that could be causing the drop in tourist numbers across the board. "Nine out of ten international experts agree: Australian country towns are like picking your nose."

I'm also tempted to write into the WAN with the following letter:

Sir/Madame,

It has come to my attention that in a recent story you compared the country town of Geraldton to nose picking, as something 'you just don't admit to in public'.

Speaking as an out and proud member of the National Proboscis Probers Association, I am absolutely shocked and horrified by this comparison. At the NPPA, we are united in the belief that picking your nose is not only of hygienic and medical benefit, but that it is a pleasurable and enjoyable activity that can be enjoyed by all members of the family. I have never been to Geraldton and bear the town no grudge - (it is, in all probability, a lovely place to live); but I have picked my nose: and I would like to say, for once and for all, that there is no shame in it. (Picking your nose, that is.) Everyone does it!

Isn't it time that these archaic and outdated stereotypes about nose picking were thrown out the window? I mean, you don't publish articles in support of creationism, do you? Well, then, why do you persist in perpetuating preposterous prejudice against personalised probosci probing? Hmmm?

As we always say in the NPPA,
"Over and snout!"

Yrs, & co. & co.,
Colonel Charles Forthwilliams-Snudge, Littlebottom, Victoria

*No links to any of these stories, sorry. They're all off line. Don't ask me how I came across them. It's a mystery of space time, man! (And something to do with who I work for).

Efficient time-management skills

I logged on to my computer. My computer takes quite a while to log on, so I went into the kitchen and spilled half a carton of milk. By the time I had cleaned it all up, my computer had logged on.

I have no idea what this means

Said a quoo to a quaigh
"Is it harder to quee,
Or to quaggle two quiddlies to quab?"

Said the quaigh to the quoo,
"Not at all, my dear sir,
It's just like a door and a knob!"

"But what if your quiddlies don't quabble?"
Continued the querulous quoo.
"Or even - Great Quidnunc! - they quaggle?"

"Your quibbles are welcome, dear quoo,"
Orated the orgulous quaigh.
"'Twould be like tails teaching doggies to waggle!"

Said the quaigh to the quoo
As they went on their way
"And why must we query the quist?"

"Because," quoth the quoo, with an elegant mew
"It concerns me and you,
As a vale concerns mist,
As a mill concerns grist,
And exactly as Franz concerns Lizst."

***

(It kept me entertained at lunch, at least. )

Our parapraxis will make you send for the paramedic

Strange day at work today. First, the spell check decided to throw a fit at the anagram 'FaHCIA', and I have no idea why. It kept on throwing up suggestions like 'Fuchsia' or 'Facial'. Then it tried to change 'Aboriginal activist Murrando Yanner' into 'Aboriginal activist Murrando Yawner.'

I didn't even want to run it past 'Oompa-Loompa', which is a word that R. uncovered in a transcript of hers. What word is this, she asked in the tone of someone who has somehow missed out on seeing a movie that traumatised generations of children. What does it mean? How do you even spell it?

Ever being the one to pursue tiny matters such as this with a ferocious pedanticism (the stakes are so low!), I leapt onto the computer to pursue this matter. Just how do you spell 'Oompa-Loompa'?

Wikipedia gives 'Oompa-Loompa', a hyphenated word. It explains that 'They come from Loompaland, which is a region of Loompa, a small isolated island situated in the Pacific Ocean.' (Wikipedia sources this information, presumably, from Roald Dahl's books Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, or Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.)

The website Roald Dahl Fans uses the spelling 'Oompa-Loompa' consistently. However, one source linked on the Wikipedia page (on Oompa-Loompa economics) omits the hyphen from the name. It also says -

Wonka answers... the Oompa Loompas, he explains, come from a far off place called “Lumpaland”, where, because of their diminutive size, they were in constant danger of being gobbled up by assorted “fierce creatures.” And so, in what he would have us believe was an altruistic gesture, he “freed” them from their native land and had them brought to his factory in the “greatest of secrecy,” where they could live in “peace and safety”...and become his new source of labor.

Most other websites seem to conform to the spelling 'Oompa-Loompa', including the IMDB page for the latest film. But I still wonder... considering their origin in 'Loompaland' or 'Lumpaland', why are they not simply called 'Loompalanders', 'Loompalians', or 'Loompans'? Where did the 'Oompa' come from? Is the whole a native Loompaland name or pronoun? The hyphen implies that they are two unrelated words that have been brought into relationship with one another, and while the origin of 'Loompa' is fairly clear, the beginnings of 'Oompa' are less so. If the Oompa-Loompas are indeed non-English speaking, then they certainly have adapted marvellously to the English language.)

Also: should Oompa-Loompa be capitalised? I think this depends on whether the Oompa-Loompas are a nationality or simply a community, a race of men, or a separate species altogether. In all but the last example the name would be capitalised (ie, we capitalise 'Welsh', 'British', or 'Anglo-Saxon', but don't always capitalise 'human' or 'dog').

I suppose I should just open a copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but I don't have it handy - and I don't think Mum would take kindly to me calling her on the abstruse matter of the correct spelling of fictional creatures' names. The Roald Dahl website, also, seems to be no help. Besides, it's not clear why we should trust Roald Dahl anyway: he made the Oompa-Loompas up, true, but why does this mean that he got the spelling right? Their history and geography and origins of the Oompa-Loompas may have been entirely fictional, but that's no excuse. The spelling of made up words about fictional characters is a problem that is so specific precisely because it is so abstract, and so abstract precisely because it is so specific. Or, to put it another way: maybe Dahl made a mistake when he first wrote the name down, and just consistently followed the mistake thereafter. You don't have any way of telling!

NEXT WEEK: "Just what the hell should my being a fictional creation have anything to do with my entry into politics?" An exclusive interview with the Jabberwock on his joining the Socialist Alliance.

(Cross-posted here.)

Plumbing the depths

Three poems for The Baron, who is currently dealing with the dicey problem of buying a toilet...

On the difficulties in buying a non-white toilet
A loo with a lavender livery
Makes some squirm while others go shivery.
Whilst the market condones
A white porcelain throne,
Does it really aid one in delivery?

On piping
The piping in your water closet
A small but vital detail is.
It directs your small deposit,
The piping in your water closet.
When you go to toilet retailers,
A small but vital detail is
The piping in your water closet.

When purchasing your toilet, the direction of the drainage can be an important factor in your decision
Left or right or high or low -
Whither goes the plumb?
Hither! Thither! It doth go!

Hear the visitor cry - 'Oh!'
Hear the farting of the bum!
Left and high or right and low?

Thro' mazelike plumbing it doth flow -
Hear its rumble - grumble - hum!
Whither, whither, doth it go?

Where will it end? What man can know?
The body and the mind grow numb,
Thinking, fearing - 'high or low?'

Will the package sink below,
Sink into the sewerage scum?
Who can tell where it will go?

Is the toilet friend or foe?
Sellers, buyers, both cry - 'UM!'
Right or high or left or low!
Hither! Thither! It doth go!

Arghhhh! I'm dying, man! I'm dying!

I have an irritating cold, and it struck me as I had coffee up the street this morning with my flatmate that it's almost exactly like having a hangover. I mean, there I was, having coffee, tired, slightly nauseous, unable to function properly - what's the difference? If you subtract all the laughter and joy and sometimes vomit that you get along with the alcohol, that is.

Anyone for a cough cocktail seasoned with sore throat, a dash of snot, and a serving of insomnia? On the house.

Et in Nostalgia ego

Nostalgia for the thing that happened fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago

Well, now I'm nearing the end of the hour, and as the gloom draws in, I've finally got time to set my feet up, relax, and cast my thoughts back over the long, golden vista of seconds, minutes, and quarter hours. So many seconds! It hardly seems likely that I have lived through them all. My mind moves with tenderness over those delightful seconds that passed some half-an-hour ago now. There was the time when ... and then the time when we... and then the time when I... oh, MERCY!

My mind affixes upon one moment, one golden instance, those long minutes ago. I see myself, now, sitting in the work kitchen with my coffee, laughing and chatting... well, it wasn't so much golden as black - that's how I like my coffee. And it actually wasn't that pleasant: full of gossip and bitching. But still: I was so much more carefree and innocent then! Well, forty-seven minutes and thirty-three point two seconds more carefree and innocent. But!

Oh, to have the idle joy of those lost microseconds back! Life is not so simple now: I am caught, here, at work. Verily, life is a vale of tears! Never more will I experience the like of that lost coffee again. Well, not until lunch, of course, if I survive for another two hours and thirty-nine seconds. That's seven thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine long seconds, leaden seconds heavy, despair-laden seconds. What? Yes. I'm counting.

But life is filled with these precious seconds, I remind myself. Even now, I long for that time, thirty-two seconds ago now, when I shifted my posterior from a slightly less comfortable position to a slightly more comfortable position. Oh, to return to those simple, happy times of yestersecond! Even that time, some five and a bit seconds ago, when I was growing slightly less comfortable but still a bit of the old comfort remained, seems sanctified now in the roseate glow of memory. But oh, life is a passing thing! Doubtless, in another few seconds I will be longing for the longing I experience now for the seconds that passed only a few seconds ago, but will then be the seconds that passed a few seconds before the seconds that are now passing me by!

To be as young as I then was! Why are the first things so precious to us? The first time I tasted coffee (for the day); the first time I sat down in my relatively comfortable but not-too-comfortable work-chair (for the hour); the first time I logged onto Facebook (to distract myself) and threw a cow at a friend! However, soon the innocence passes to experience and memories become stained. The second coffee (for the day); the second time I sat in my relatively comfortable but growing-more-uncomfortable work-chair (for the half-hour); the second time I logged on to Facebook and threw two more cows at friends... Granted, they were still fun. But no longer - oh, never! - done with the happiness and childish glee they once had for me! Well, okay. They were still pretty good.

All in all, when I consider my life (for the day) so far, I can not help but long after things as they were some fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago. Fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds later, I am burdened down with woe and travails and tears. It hardly seems like that I am to live another fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds, does it? I am an old man now: well, a slightly older man, anyway. And I guess I will live that long. But for another day? Really? Oh, I suppose I will. But still...

I mourn for the world as it was fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago! I weep for the person I was fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago! Nevermore will they come again! It was a lost Neverland, a Utopia of dreams! Oh, mercy!

Kids today!

Conversation at work today

R.B. : I'm going to a friend's wedding on the weekend. The first wedding I've been to in 10 years. And before that, I don't think I'd been to a wedding for 30 years.

Tim: Kids today! Always in such a hurry to get married!

Should homosexuality be compulsory for Anglican clergy? An open letter

An open letter to the Reverend Richard Lane

Dear Reverend Richard Lane,

Should homosexuality be compulsory for all Anglican clergy? It's a difficult question. What do you think? There is of course the matter of personally-expressed sexual preference. However, as you must know, personally-expressed sexual preference has very little to do with the choice to become a member of the clergy.

I myself am a moderate. I think you should listen to your own heart. Conscience must be your guide, as it is the guide for thousands of other members of the Anglican clergy around the world. I trust you will come to the right decision. However, if you find yourself wavering, there are several groups which may help you with the difficulties you are personally experiencing. With a little help, I am sure the healing process can begin within the church.

May the all-encompassing love of God be with you always - not to mention the hot-and-sweaty love of man,

Yours,
Tim

Some recent Freudian slippers

I churn out thousands of words a day as part of my job, so it's only natural that I should make a few slip ups. It's amazing how easy it is to slip into saying something quite different by the addition of one or two letters - note how 'appealing', if you change two letters, becomes 'appalling'. Even the most innocuous of words is prone to disaster. Thus yesterday, while typing -

quite

I repeatedly made an accidental slip, omitting the e, causing me to type

quit

Because the transcripts I work with are often about slightly dull but worthwhile subjects like plumbing and roads, I wasn't too surprised to be finding myself working away on a transcript about dams. Or, in the uncommon parlance,

weirs

Here, I continually slipped up and started typing

weirds

I think I weeded out all the 'weirds' in the end, but you can't be sure; these are the sort of thing a spell check will not weed out, and the human eye may just glance over them. But then, maybe there is just something infernal about the whole subject of human-made bodies of water, anyway. Add one letter to 'dam', and you get 'damn'. Coincidence? I think not! (Oh, all right then, it probably is.)

And then, there was a transcript with a former Army member who kept on using the word

jointery

Jointery, I should explain, is an innovation in defence circles. It doesn't appear to have made it into the dictionaries yet, but it means something like 'Joint operations', but there's a formal definition here, and a slightly less formal definition here. The spell check at work didn't recognise it either. It kept on thinking the word was

joinery

Which probably wouldn't have made a lot of sense in that transcript.

Of course, it's not too often that you come across a real zinger, a blooper that you'd love to have made. I'm not sure whether I've mentioned it before, but it was a modern transcript of an old ABC news reel about the flooding of the inimitable Adaminaby. (The whole population of the town was effectively moved so they didn't go down with the houses.) Where the original newsreader said,

And these are the men who are drowning Adaminaby...

The final transcript reads

And these are the men who are drowning admirably...

I guess it's just another case of those damned dams. So maybe I should just quit? Quite.

I am absolutely thrilled, 26 hours from now!

There was an interesting bit on Media Watch about Fairfax's coverage of Earth hour.

And now to Saturday March the 29th, at 8pm…the beginning of Earth Hour.

No, on second thoughts, let's go back a day further - to Friday, March the 28th, at 6.09 pm - when this article popped up on Fairfax Media's online paper, the Brisbane Times.

Lights Go Out Over Bris Vegas For Earth Hour
Andrew Wight

Brisbane made history this evening with the city’s first official Earth Hour going off without a hitch.

Kellie Caught, of Earth Hour organiser World Wildlife Fund (WWF), said she was thrilled with the response.

You've been caught out, Kellie - being thrilled 26 hours in advance.

I for one am absolutely thrilled by the ability of activists to be thrilled about the outcome of an event, over a day before the event has actually eventuated! It certainly bespeaks great thrift and economy on their part, to offer their thoughts and emotions on unhappened happenings as if they had already happened: by the time these happenings have actually happened, they'll have moved on to something else entirely!

However, I can't help but feel that, 26 hours before this hasty Earth Hour story was published, they must have been feeling anxious and humiliated at the outcome of their forthcoming publishing mistake. And who knows what they must have been feeling, 26 hours before the exposure of their humiliating mistake on Media Watch? That must have been an absolutely horrible thing to have not occurred yet - really terrible!

Vote the bastards back!

(A retroreactionary hymn for the times)

We voted the bastards out!
We gave Little Johnny the sack!
But now that he's gone with our spite and our scorn -
We feel a definite lack!
(So vote - vote - vote the bastards,
Vote the bastards back!)

Though we've won what we wanted to win,
We all feel oddly bereft:
Though some hate to love John, we all love to hate John -
What else has the Left-wing got left?
(Yes, vote - vote - vote the bastards,
Vote the bastards back!)

O Johnny! All is forgiven!
We forgive you the tears and the pain!
With love and affection, we'll vote JOHN next election -
So we can hate you all over again!
(Let's vote - vote - vote the bastards,
Vote the bastards back!)

We look forward with hope to a future
That will be just as it was in the past:
We'll vote to ensure things are just as before -
And we can finally hate you at last!
(So we'll vote - vote - vote the bastards,
Vote the bastards back!)

It's freaking me out, man!

Nuns come from nunneries and cats frequently come from catteries; hats made by hatters can be found in a hattery. Simple, right? However: bats don't come from batteries, flatmates almost never come from a flattery, and you don't get a knack from a knackery, no matter how hard you might try. And when was the last time you tried to get a mat from a mattery? Do you know how hard it is?

Also: a pimp can be a pimper, but never a pimple; a wimp may whimper, but usually not in a wimple; a simple may simper, but not all simperers are simples.

It gets more complicated. Kipling may have eaten kippers, but what did kippers think about Kipling? You may coddle someone by feeding them cods, but not all who eat cods may feel coddled. Paradoxically, the cods may often not feel coddled at all about the whole affair. And while some adults commit adultery, not all heiresses commit heresy.

This whole post may seem to you to be a minor quibble. But did it, or did it not, come from a quibbly? Think about that, before you're so quick to dismiss!

Or, as Hillaire Belloc might say:

O! Let no-one ever, ever doubt
What nobody is sure about!

UPDATE! - People who earn interest are often uninteresting. I think we may be onto something here...

Mere earthly dogs

The Commissioners arrived at Woodstock on 13 October 1649, determined to wipe away the memory of all that connected itself with the recollection of monarchy in England. But in the course of their progress they were encountered by obstacles which apparently came from the next world. Their bedchambers were infested with visits of a thing resembling a dog, but which came and passed as mere earthly dogs cannot do...

- Walter Scott, Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft

An encounter with a disorganisation

As you might know, I've been looking for an apartment, which basically means I've been logging on to Domain late at night (if I'm not too tired after work), turning up at apartment inspections (if they're not too far away, and if I can make it), and lodging my application for those apartments that I did turn up to (if I can remember, in my disorganised fashion.) After a month and a half of this on-again off-again process of looking I finally found a place. A real estate agent would describe it as 'cosy', 'cost effective', and 'close to train, tram, and bus'. Of course, if you translate this into convention English, you get 'shabby, tiny, and noisy from early morning through to late at night'.

I attribute my success in this whole process to finding a real estate agent who is even more disorganised than I am. Let me tell you about it: at the inspection for the apartment, the real estate agent didn't turn up until half-an-hour after he was supposed to. (He was apparently 'caught in a traffic jam'). That thinned the numbers at the inspection a bit. The day after, I tried to fax my application through, and the receptionist on the other end kept on picking up the phone and breaking the connection (the postal worker eventually had to call them and tell them to not pick up the phone). The day after this, my boss got a call at work from an agent, and somehow the agent walked away with the impression that I only earned two hundred dollars a week (even though I'd faxed through a copy of my weekly pay slip that showed I worked full time. I had to explain it to them on the phone when they called me later).

And the list of mistakes doesn't stop there, either. The reactions of others when told about this real estate agency? "Worrying". And this from my mother: "That's good news, I suppose. Thanks for telling me that, I think." (I replied to this: "I am sort of reassured by your half-hearted congratulations.")

I looked forward to telling you further tales of mismanagement and bungling by my soon-to-be real estate disorganisation! It is, indeed, a good flat that will suit my needs very well.

The Kingsley and I

The Kingsley and I, at the Windsor Castle, today: chips, beer, and good company. Kind of reminds me of the old rhyme:

I'm the Kingsley of the Castle
And you're the dirty rascal.

The out of context game!

Well, you could have floored me with a feather, decapitated me with a daisy, skewered me with a seaweed, and walloped me with a scallop. Some politician in the good old UK had these wise words to say about rape:

"To suggest that rape, when conducted without violence, is a serious crime is like suggesting that force feeding a woman chocolate cake is a heinous offence."

This politician, one Nick Eriksen, predictably represents the BNP. Presumably he and his colleagues are force-fed chocolate cake on a regular basis as part of the insensitivity training under taken by all BNP politicians. Anyway, the BNP claims, with gleeful abandon, that Eriksen is taken out of context. Taken out of context? It makes you wonder in what context the sentence DID appear originally...

a) Hello! How are you? I'm well, thanks! Rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake!

b) I am very concerned about the increasing gap between rich and poor. Rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake!

c) Speaking of chocolate, and speaking of cake, don't you think rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake?

d) Aren't puppies nice? Rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake!

e) Hey, look behind you! Rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake!

f) Purple monkey dishwasher! Rape is like being force-fed chocolate cake!

If you answered a, b, c, d, e, or f, nope. They're all wrong. If, however, you thought the answer would something more like the following -

Rape is simply sex (I am talking about 'husband-rape' here, for those who deliberately seek to misunderstand me). Women enjoy sex, so this type of 'rape' cannot be such a terrible physical ordeal. To suggest that rape, when conducted without violence, is a serious crime is like suggesting that force feeding a woman chocolate cake is a heinous offence. A woman would be more inconvenienced by having her handbag snatched ... Again, for those who are seeking to cause trouble by deliberately misunderstanding me: yes, violent rape by a stranger in the street is a terrible crime, but I am not talking about that -- I am talking about 'husband-rape'.

You'd be right.

Freudian traumas about wimples

A brief review of the film 'The Other Boleyn Girl'.

Sex. Violence. Extra-marital affairs with the king of England. Exile. Treason. Rape. Power lust. Incest. Decapitation. Also, wimples, people having sex in wimples, people having sex while committing violence in wimples, people having incest in wimples, people having Freudian traumas about wimples, and horses.

Add these things together, and you've pretty much got The Other Boleyn Girl in a nutshell. Or a wimple, as the case may be.

Possible names for future fables

The tale of the three matchsticks and the improvident beagle

The wily little shamrock artisan and the case of the missing bodily organ

When the seven graces met up with the twelve virtues, and not to discuss the merits of the Biblical injunctions, either

The loquacious canary and the gobsmacked wallaby

The problem with beards

When the voracious piano player, the whimsical kitten and the two-headed demigorgon went for a holiday

How the turkey, elephant, wombat, viral infection, oligopololist, and cat lost their gobble, nose, ability to burrow, host, will to live, and bowl of milk, and how they got them back again

Why oligopolists shouldn't live in burrows

The horse that could clip and clap, but couldn't clop

The audience member that could clop and clip, but couldn't clap

The staple that felt vaguely sad

The case of the honest politician

Town anarcho-syndicalist, country anarcho-syndicalist

The tale of the lackadaisical goblin and the statistical improbability

Driving, it's a hit and hit affair

Maria has a perfectly fine post up about driving lessons with her mother. She chose wisely; I remember driving lessons with my father, mostly consisting of him saying to me "Go. Good. Now stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stoooop!" (Somehow, I usually contrived to follow his instructions without being assisted by an outside object, like a tree. I can't imagine why I don't do much driving anymore.)

Anyway, it's not people who have the worst of driving lessons, it's crash test dummies. By chance, I happen to have recently been in correspondence with a family of crash test dummies about their driving experiences, and I present to you now the results of this correspondence. I have made some minor amendments to make it more readable. I hope you like it.

NICE DRIVING, DUMMY!

The sun was shining brightly as Julia Dummy made her way from her house to the car where her father was waiting in the driver's seat. Julia had just taken her Crash Test Dummy Driver's Licence Learner's test the other day, with only one answer wrong. But as her father drove off, she couldn't help but feel a little nervous.

Finally, they reached a wide an empty block, where her father pulled up and stopped. He got out and walked to the other side of the vehicle while Julia Dummy slid over to the driver's seat. Her hands gripped tightly on the wheel and trembled slightly as she turned the engine on, just as her father had shown her. The engine revved with frightening force.

"Now," said her father, hopping in the other side, "For starters, drive into that wall over there."
Julia Dummy placed the car in first gear, and began to drive forward, staring determinedly at the wall. The car crept forward for a few steps, then suddenly -

"Wait! WAIT! Stop!" cried her father. "What are you doing?"
"Driving into the wall," said Julia, puzzled.
"At that speed? You might hit the wall, but even if you do, you won't do any damage at all!"
Her father banged his plastic hand on the dashboard to make a point. "You're not a HOON, Julia Dummy!"

Julia thought immediately of those hoon crash test dummies who drove late at night in the parking lots. She saw them sometimes when she helped her parents out with late-night shopping. They would drive at incredibly slow speeds, shouting and hollering like maniacs, exhilarated by the lack of danger. Sometimes they would even drive their cars away from one another for distances, like humans, only to turn aside at the last moment so as to make the smallest of crashes. She bit her plastic lips together as she thought about it. No. She didn't want to be like that. She didn't ever want to be like them.

Julia Dummy ignited the engine and the car started rolling forward. She turned the car up to first, second and then third gear, coasting along towards the wall now at a rapid pace. Then, kicking the engine into fourth, she sped along, and was about to change into fifth gear, when -

CRASH!

- the car crunched to a halt and parts of the window screen fell about the Dummies as the car slammed with extraordinary force into the wall. Mr Dummy was thrown right out of his seat, and Julia flopped forwards and back and forwards again before remembering to turn the engine off.

"Hmm," said her father after a few moments, picking up his head from the floor, dusting a few shards of glass off, and screwing it back on, "Nice hit. Almost dead on centre!"
"I was so afraid I'd miss!" said Julia, trying not to sound a little triumphant.
"Now," said her father, turning his head this way and that to make sure it was in place, "How about backing up and to the right and into that tree behind us?"
Julia craned her head out the window and looked in the rear view mirror, and then looked back to see where the tree was. Reverse gear was complicated, but she knew she had to try to get this right. She put the car into reverse, began to turn to the right, and accelerated, keeping her eye on the mirror. A wave of fear hit her and she thought, "Oh, my God! I've missed the tree, I've missed the tree!" But -

THUD!

There was a sudden grinding of gears, and the engine roared terribly. The car suddenly wasn't going anywhere any more. Julia shut off the engine as her father got out. In a moment, she walked around to the back of the car, too.
She had hit the tree, but not in the centre. It grazed the far left of the car, denting it slightly, and once branch just managing to take out a light. But if she had turned any further, she might have missed it!

"I think you probably need a bit more practice in driving into things in reverse," said her father. "But that's okay. We can do some more later."

As they walked back to the car, Julia Dummy wondered fearfully what might have happened if she had missed the tree. It was horrible; maybe she would have gone on and on and not hit anything! She wished she didn't get so worried about driving.

"There are some big rocks and a public toilet over there," said her father. "Let's practice hitting them for a bit! This time we'll try a few turns - but not at slow speeds, you're not experienced enough for that. Fifth gear!"

Over the next half-hour, Julia Dummy and her father turned at high speeds into rocks and trees, sped into public monuments and facilities, slammed into walls and houses, and collided with horrifying force into hills. Then they decided to wind things up with a bit of parking, and for the next ten minutes, Julia Dummy worked on her skills in bumping into cars behind her and in front of her. ("It's a bit tricky, but you'll learn soon enough," said Mr Dummy consolingly.) Then, just when it looked like things were done, they saw in the distance Mr and Mrs Jones - a family of crash test dummies who were neighbours, obviously out for a little morning smash.

"Hmm," said Mr Dummy. "Why don't we drive into them and say hello?"

Feeling that she could handle this quite easily, Julia Dummy kicked the car into fifth gear, and accelerated at two hundred kilometres an hour towards the Joneses! Her confidence was growing now. She thought she was getting the hang of this driving business. After all, there was always something to run into, wasn't there?
As they drew nearer, the Joneses car continued to putt putt along at the same pace. Julia was puzzled. It was almost as if they didn't want a collision to happen, and were just out for a Sunday drive. Closer they came, and a small anxiety grew in Julia's mind. She had been counting on them swerving towards her. She had driven in a wide arc to allow this sort of thing to happen.

"OH MY GOD!" shouted Julia Dummy, the truth dawning on her. "THEY'RE LOOKING THE OTHER WAY! THEY'RE GOING TO MISS US, DAD!"
"TURN, TURN!" shouted her father, frightened now. "YOU CAN STILL HIT THEM!"

They weren't far away now. Julia saw that old Mr Jones - he had been a crash test dummy for the army at one time, so he could be forgiven for being a little forgetful now - turn his head and spy the Dummies speeding towards him. He joyfully kicked his car into high gear, and sped towards them and an inevitable -

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

It was certainly one of the best crashes Julia Dummy had been in for a long time. Not only did her father fly out of his seat, allowing him to shout, "Fancy bumping into YOU!" at old Mr and Mrs Jones, but both cars immediately exploded nicely. The four of them - Mr and Mrs Jones, Mr Dummy and Julia - looked at the smouldering wrecks of the cars in satisfaction.
"Wonderful hit, Julia!" shouted Mr Dummy. "You've written our cars both off! You're a natural driver!"
"Come on, dears," said Mrs Jones. "There's a train leaving soon that's due to be derailed at our street. Let's catch that..."

***

That night, Mr Dummy brought ice-cream for the whole family to celebrate Julia Dummy's wonderful crash. Driving was a funny business, thought Julia as she ate her ice cream. But not that hard, once you learned how to hit things. Not that hard at all...

Move along here, nothing to see

ET's home phone.