Mansplaining the manspread

Now I know you will have all been thinking, "Just what does Tim think about the manspreading problem"? Manspreading, the scourge that is sweeping our civilisation from one side of the train seat to the other! Well, it's certainly keeping me up at night. Just what can we do about it? What does it even mean? Why can't we just do away with the manspread and replace it with something nicer, like a tablespread (jam, anyone? Spot of marmalade?) MANSPREAD MANSPREAD MANSPREAD!

The whole phenomena (phenomenon? I don't even know anymore) is full of mysteries. Are we able to call women manspreaders? What if a manspreader manspreads and takes a picture of himself while doing his manspreading; is it really a manspread, then, or a selfie? If a manspreader manspreads in a train and a social justice warrior is not there to photograph the man in full, er, spread,  does it really happen? What if the carriage is empty? What if the train isn't going anywhere and the manspreader is dead and anyway we were all having dinner at the time? Does that absolve him of his responsibilities?

I don't know! I just don't know! Personally I'm more a 'leaving the bags on the seat next to me' kind of guy, but who knows, if a social justice warrior appeared with their iPhone, I might just feel compelled to manspread in order to give them material for a tweet.

Let us consider this ad. Ostensibly a powerful statement about racism in our society, is it not actually a subtle drama about a man who is nobly abstaining from manspreading, and a social justice warrior who is clearly afraid he will manspread on her at the last moment?



Perhaps it is time to start a campaign. #I'llmanspreadwithyou? Come on, people! If we don't do it Twitter will explode!

WELCOME TO FUTUROPOLIS. START DRIVING.

WE NOW TAKE YOU FORWARD TO THE YEAR 2020 WITH AN IMPORTANT POLITICAL STATEMENT BY EVERY POLITICAL PARTY EVERYWHERE

....by joining the West-East Road with the North-South Line, commuters can then hop off at the Northern Interchange before merging seamlessly with the Cross-City Light Rail. This will allow commuters to arrive in a timely manner at the majestic Southern Car Park, from thence smoothly joining via on-ramp the Southern-East Outer ring, taking them swiftly to their connexion to the West-East Road again. Thus, by travelling around the city in one elegant loop, the circle of perfection will be attained: commuters will be able to travel around and around and around the city without ever getting off, and without ever getting anywhere: the tyranny of destinations will be abolished.

Politics is about connections: connections of on-ramps to highways, adjoining highways to interchanges, interlinking interchanges into inner-city bypasses bypassing bypasses, building bridges over subways over other bridges over tunnels that flow into further networks of fly overs under more bypasses that loop into and out of circuits and under and over courts to form a perfect reef knot. And we couldn't form these connections without our partners, Connexus, Transmate, Urbex, Citiport, Exurb, Roadlink, and Ajointus.

It's through the Connexus hub that we are able to reach the Exurb interchange, whereon the Ajointus bus will swiftly link us via the Roadlink link road to the thriving Transmate central, whence the Urbex will speed us ever onwards, ever onwards. Thanks to these exciting new developments in public-private-public-public-public-private-public-private-private-private-private infrastructure, all jobs will now be conducted on the road while we are speeding at thousands of miles per hour from one form of transport to another. Thus, commuting times will be slashed, and the journey between home and work places will be made even easier with the efficient abolishment of all places of home or work. This will in turn leave plenty more room for houses to be paved over with roads, hubs, links, rails, interchanges, interlinks, carparks, tram stops, bus stations, internodal networks, internetworked nodes, bridges, tunnels, and off ramps.

This is a journey we are going on. We have to move forward to move sideways, up, around, downwards, slight left....

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY-SCHEDULED PROGRAM

In praise of grump

Today, I found myself speaking to an overly-cheery attendant at the shop full of overly-cheery attendants. She was the same overly-cheery attendant I found myself talking to some weeks ago about how much I liked to be grumpy, and as I found today, she seemed rather offended with my previous grumpiness. I'm still not sure why. Grumpiness, I find, is a perfectly acceptable position at my local Coles or Woolies - I scowl at the apathetic attendants and they sneer back at me, and we all get along swimmingly. It all seems to me rather suspicious when an overly-cheery attendant strikes up an overly-cheery pose and attempts to be friendly with their customer in an overly-cheery way. Why can't I be allowed to make my emotionless mechanical transaction in the inhuman system of economic rationalism with the downtrodden wage slave and be on my way, I ask?

Anyway, it was all very awkward and embarrassing. She asked me in a stilted and purse-lipped fashion about things, and I found myself having to engage in polite conversation and meaningless chit chat. Though I may like to scowl and growl and harrumph occasionally, I wouldn't actually want people to be offended by it. But then, most people generally are misguided about the whole being grumpy thing, and act as if they had to be happy around other people all the time, and as if they truly thought that acting happy was actually the best way to stay happy. It really is strange.

Because being grumpy really can be quite wonderful. For starters, you get labelled with elegant and felicitious expressions like 'cantankerous', or 'irascible', or 'choleric', or just plain old 'surly'. If you keep it up for long enough, you become a 'grumpy old man', which for grumpy women is especially impressive*. And then there is a rich range of facial and verbal expressions; not just a uniform downturning of the face, but a veritable diapason of scowls and growls and glowers and lours and leers and sneers and harrumphs and flounces. I like to try several of these every day just to keep my grumpiness well exercised.

A few days ago I happened to be reading an article on a website that talked about Important World Affairs in a solemn and sombre voice.  The argument the article took was this: things are bad. The conclusion it came to was this: things are going to get worse. The tone the article took was this: there's nothing we can do about it. Once I finished reading this article, I clicked around on the website and started reading some of the other articles: their argument, conclusion and tone were exactly the same. About this point, I realised I had been reading for quite a while, and I was really rather enjoying it all.  The sense of gloom and grim resignation was quite heartening, and the pithy summation of world affairs one drew from the website - things are bad, things are going to get worse, and there's nothing we can do about it - had a pellucid beauty to it all. On the whole, I think this aphorism sums up the whole of Conservative and right-wing politics. And the whole of Progressive and left-wing politics as well, though the left does seem rather more fond of shouting and rioting and smashing the occasional window. It really is a cheering way to look at the world, if you are sensible and honest enough to give yourself over to grumpiness once in a while.

Besides, who really has the energy to even attempt to be happy all the time? Who settled on the competitive smile as the only acceptable expression in polite society? Being happy seems to be almost as exhausting and self-defeating as having fun, and we all know how bad that is. Sometimes, being grumpy really is nicer.

All this I should have said to the overly-cheery attendant in the shop full of overly-cheery attendants, but of course I did not, settling instead for pleasant banter about nothing of consequence, before slouching off with my goods into the street and harrumphing discontentedly to myself.

It was raining, at least. I suppose that was something.

*Viewers of the ABC or BBC may recall, a few years back, the twin series Grumpy Old Men and Grumpy Old Women. The latter, especially, apparently had difficulties garnering suitable quantities of guests, since they all objected to being called 'Old'. This seems to me to be a superb example of grumpiness at its best, and sets an example we can all emulate. 

Question for the entire internet

If you had a room full of alpha males, with a smattering of beta males, the odd omega man and perhaps even one or two epsilon males and thetans, and you organised them all up in the right groups, do you think you'd be able to spell out the complete works of Aristophanes?

The sage of suburbia

The grace of Sydney Road: an 11 pm kebab.

What is the point of trains running on time? You can't rely on a service that is too reliable.

The wealth of Sydney Road: a 12 am baklava.

Never trust a brand name that has too many or too few capital letters. 

The spices of suburbia: a 10 am Freddo.

Normal: making friends with people you have never met before. Harder: making friends with people you never will meet.

Remember to throw out mobile recharge voucher only AFTER you have used it.

Prunes: the gourmand's laxative.

Shy

Do you know a shy Tory? Are you so shy about your own Tory leanings that you haven’t outed yourself yet? Mysteriously invisible to polls, this is a species that the left needs to learn to identify.

Rupert Myers, The Guardian: Think you’ve never kissed a shy Tory? You’re almost certainly wrong 

Shy Tory Song

Are they blushing in the bedroom?

Do they hide behind the door?

Do they harbour an opinion

On the undeserving poor?

What colour are their stockings?

Have they ever worn a boater?

Those unassuming non-presuming

Shy Tory voters.

Has a husband or a wife

Ever awkwardly confessed

That Mrs Thatcher's policies,

Though harsh, were for the best?

Does their bedroom conversation

Touch on economic quotas?

Those flirtatiously salaciously

Shy Tory voters.

Do they dream of Union Jacks? 

Is it on their underwear? 

Do they groan about the Whigs

In tones of deep despair? 

Do they Telegraph their news,

Get their views from the Spectator?

Those tantalising self-disguising

Shy Tory voters.

Dream literature

Apparently I have an occasional habit of writing literature in my dreams. As it happens, I had two dreams last night, and in the first, I wrote a play: Here it is, in full:

PERKINS: I say, Jenkins!

JENKINS: Well, what is it, Perkins?

PERKINS: I want some words with you, Jenkins!

JENKINS: Well, what is it, Perkins?

PERKINS: Those were the words!

JENKINS: Right then, Perkins!

PERKINS: Good day to you, sir!

FIN

In the second, I got told that a drama company wanted a one act play to put on tonight, and I got all excited because I remembered I had one lying around somewhere. At first I tried to write another one but couldn't, then I started searching through my papers for the play. And do you know what happened when I was just about to find it? As they say in the classics:

AND THEN I WOKE UP AND IT WAS ALL A DREAM.

Mother's day haiku one day too late

This poem is late.

But then, so is your present! 

At least I called you.

Brew problems (™) forum

Welcome to the Brew problems (™) forum. Where we tackle the great Brew problems (™) of our day to help you get a better brew!

Today's problem comes from Agnes, of outer Woop Woop. She writes:

"I was going to do a brew today but the cat is on my lap.

I have no idea how I will overcome this seemingly insuperable difficulty.

I suppose I could put the cat off my lap, but if I did that, the terrorists will win."

Anyone else got a solution for Agnes here?

UPDATE! - Doris from Clonbinane writes: 

"I know how Agnes is feeling. Once I'd put on a 100 L pot of Heavy Scot's Ale on the stove for a final boil and then the cat hopped on my lap! Well, it boiled right down and then evaporated and still the cat didn't hop off. Eventually the house caught on fire, but kitty was purring so what could I do but scratch her behind the ears? Then she got angry at me and jumped off and coughed up a furball in the ashes of the kitchen, and you can imagine it was terrible to sweep up." 

Thanks for that helpful tip, Doris. Keep writing in, brewers!

Smokey the presenter

Years and years ago (said the old man) I used to listen to Jazztrack on ABC Classic FM. Back then it was presented by an old codger with a smokey and laidback voice, kind of like a hippy 40 years after his time. His name, suitably, was Jim McLeod. I guess he got his voice that way by hanging around in the sort of nicotine-fragrant dives you heard jazz in, and presumably smoking a few himself. Voice may be a true mark of character, but cigarettes sure help.

Anyway, now I'm listening to the 3MBS jazz program. It's called The Colours of Jazz and it's presented by a young dude whose name escapes me at the moment. He has a voice that is laidback and kind of.... smokey. What? Is it Jim McLeod all over again?

They're not the only ones, because apparently the conspiracy is wider than that. Years ago I'd also occasionally listen to Adventures in Good Music, presented by a fellow with a voice like an old American uncle, Karl Haas. It was on ABC Classic FM, right in that time slot before Margaret Throsby and Clive Robertson were due to come on and start arguing with one another, if memory serves me correctly. Well, I think I've found this Karl Haas's doppleganger, too - an old American dude. Last name McLaughlin, first name Bill. Kind of sounds like someone's uncle. He presents a show on 3MBS called Exploring Music.  But of course; the titles Discovering Music and Music for Pleasure and so on were all used up, I suppose.

Huh? Is there some requirement that radio presenters of certain types of programs all have the same accents and characteristics? Does every jazz program have to be presented by laidback cool types with smokey voices? Do educational programs in classical music need to be fronted by avuncular American sorts who seem like they'd be just as happy delivering this talk at a piano lesson? Inquiring minds need to know. (Actually they don't).

PS the show's almost ended now and he says his name is something something Groves. Huh? That's not a very smokey name at all.

A real estatement

A poem in real estate, four blocks, with all mod cons

I Love, I Love, I Love

But Jellis Craig's obsessed -

How shall I end this tale? 

L J Hooker, you're the best.

Dumblephwoar

JK Rowling has been hailed an “inspiration” after she was asked by a young Harry Potter fan why Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore was gay. 

Rowling, 49, revealed Dumbledore's sexuality almost a decade ago in 2007, after the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was published...

 JK Rowling responds to fan tweeting she 'can't see' Dumbledore being gay 

Dumblephwoar

Dumbledore is quietly gay
In a non-flamboyant way.
No use asking for a list
Of all the men that he has kissed -
Of who and what and when was it -
Dumbledore is in the closet.

Maybe J. K. Rowling knows
If he has a string of beaux -
All we have are empty pages,
A mystery throughout the ages.
No answer to our every query -
Dumbledore is gender theory.

The modes of Bell Railway Station

Bell, couchant - a slightly-too-warm late morning in summer. A hot breeze blows from the north. Scattered over the bare concrete of the train station, waiting for the trains, are two or three passengers, here, there. No trains are in sight.

Bell, rampant - a winter afternoon. The city platform is overloaded with Collingwood supporters. The South Morang platform has a solitary Italian grandmother with her wheelie bag. She picks her nose, thoughtfully.

Bell, avec impressionism - Sombre autumn evening sighted through the windows of a slow-moving train. Fluorescent lighting through a patch of drizzle. An atmosphere both magical and squalid.

Bell, avec gritty realism - Near midnight. Temperature around 4 degrees celsius. City platform empty. South Morang platform containing three ticket officers, all with a similar glum expression on their faces. No trains coming.

Bell, avec futurism - midsummer, midday, 40 degrees celsius. Both concrete platforms completely bare. A train, not taking any passengers, rushes past the South Morang platform. On the City platform, a voice over the intercom announces to no-one that the following train will be 15 minutes late. The announcement redounds from the bare black concrete of the platforms onto the bare black concrete of the surrounding car park.

Ess Ee Ex

Sex! I wanted to talk about the party, not the act, though it hardly matters, because you know that old rule about how any sentence that with sex will get your attention? Sex! See, it works! We all know the old classic: "SEX! Now that I've got your attention...." Except, okay, it's not that old, and it's not particularly classic either. But anyway, throw in FREE into the same sentence, it doesn't particularly matter where and in another non-specific SEX location if you throw the word SEX in as well then FREE it SEX doesn't SEX matter FREE what happens, those are the SEX FREE only words people will SEX see after.

In fact even when you're doing something specifically anti-sex, so long as the word is in the sentence that's all that people will notice. Once a few years ago I had written an anti-sex poem for a poetry slam, to inspire raging indifference, apathy, and chastity in my listeners. One of the judges marked me down so much that they knocked me out of the running, with their stated reason being: "I like sex." Fair enough, then.

But anyway, back to the point, the point being SEX, the point in addition being PARTY, and the point not in any way at all being FREE, because haven't you heard? The Sex Party is running for politics. And - such is the motivating force of their name alone - that, no matter who else is on the ballot, a large proportion of the electorate will only be able to see the word SEX followed afterwards by the word PARTY, presumably causing visions of Bacchanalian delights to swim before their eyes, causing their pen to descend as if automatically to the box beside this name....

In short, it doesn't really matter what their policies are or who represents them, I suspect by simply having the name they do, the Sex Party have got the vote of a certain proportion of the electorate - lecherous, unchaste, impure souls that they are - stitched up. Some people would probably even vote for Adolf Hitler if he ran for the Sex Party. It is a genius name, a name so simple that only a simpleton like an advertiser could come up with it.

Being something of a simpleton myself, I feel that this theory could be applied successfully to the other main parties in the election. Sex may be one of the primary motivators of people, but it is not the only one. There's also Greed, and Fear, and many others too. And they do say it's a time for renewal in politics, and renewal starts with the name. Behold my suggested brand changes to the major parties:

Australian Labor Party - Malice, Spite and Vengeance Party

Australian Liberals and Australian Nationals - The Coalition of Greed and Fear

Australian Greens - National Envy Party

Between them I believe the major parties could also sew up most, if not all, of the Seven Deadly Sins. At any rate, that's about all I wanted to say, apart from the obvious: sex.

Multitasking

There's nothing like you spending quality time with the cat, and the cat spending quality time with you, on the couch, listening to music, sipping on a drink, possibly nibbling on a biscuit, all while curled up in a lap. You can't do all of these things yourself, of course, and nor can the cat. Even if you wanted to curl up in your cat's lap, you'd have trouble finding it. (Do cats even have laps? If they do they must be slightly more rare than a giraffe's honk, and a tad less so than the proverbial hen's teeth.) So, this is clearly a collaborative effort between you and the cat, and the radio and the cup of something and the biscuit of something, etc. Possibly, if the cat has disported herself across your lapular environs before you have had time to fetch a drink for yourself, you may have to ask someone else to help you fetch it. But that just shows what a complex, interconnected, social world we live in. Multitasking, it's all about multitasking.

Perhaps you may object you do not have a cat, or you are a cat and do not have a lap, or you do not drink, or you are living on the other side of the world. Well, don't worry. Beatrice the cat and I are here to do it all on your behalf.

Multitasking, my friend. Multitasking.

The stunning new literary movement that's sweeping the room

"What the hell's so good about six word fictions?" I found myself thinking the other day. "Now.... five and a half word fictions... there's a REAL challenge...."

And so I set to work on this bold new literary venture. Which I did by putting my notebook away, hopping on the train, and not writing any for the next week.

Finally I did come up with one, on Bell Station the other night (why are train stations and trains so good for this stuff?) Here it is; hold your breath, ladies and gentlemen...

THE FIRST FIVE AND A HALF WORD FICTION EVER IN THE WORLD PROBABLY

Help! Stuck in cupboard! Pen run

I didn't stop there either. The following is my favourite:

"Who needs man?" cried the wo.

 Interestingly, it works just as well (stop laughing!) if you substitute the word "men" for "man". Some pernickety-snitch critics might of course interpret this as a careless slackness of my prose style, but I like to think it demonstrates my admirable versatility.

Speaking of admirable versatility, I kept plugging away at my literary inventing for another three or four lines. Some are too execrable to repeat, but then some were too terrible to have even been begun. So I'll show you the former:

Cat meow broken. Just says "ow". 

And

"Darling!" he cried. "Want a cho"...

And with that impulsive rush for the chocolate bar, I finish this list of five and a half word fictions. THE FIRST EVER IN THE WORLD PROBABLY. It's right up there with the time I invented haiku or singlehandedly engineered the limerick with thin air and a spare rubber band. 

Chook 1, Chook 2

In just the sort of deplorable story twist that you have come to expect from me and the Baron, we have recently come in possession of two chickens. (Make that two MORE chickens - that's on top of the seven currently wandering around the backyard looking for plants to devastate and vegetation to wreak their terrible fury on). Aforementioned two chickens are destined for the possession of my mother in law; before they came into our possession they were in possession of two friends of ours, after passing out of the possession of other equally mysterious persons who, presumably, found them in a handbag at Victoria Station.

Anyway! I feel we're getting off track here, because the important points to remember are Two + Chickens. They're easy to tell apart, because one of the chooks is sort of brown and the other is sort of black. By common assent, we have decided their names are... their names are.... well, that's just the thing - I still can't quite work out what their names are:

Alison, Caroline
Alice and Caroline
Carol and Alison
Caroline, Alice

Which brings me to the real point of my post: names that sound similar are confusing.

Now aren't you glad you read to this point?

Care scare

Zap! Again there's screaming in the street,

Then sirens. Cops, too late - and all they find's

The tiny pitter-pat of teddy feet;

Another victim of a Care Bear crime. 

 There was a time when love hearts seemed so cool,

And rainbow diamond lasers were in vogue - 

But no-one thinks that anymore at school,

Not since that ghastly day the Bears went rogue. 

Seems each day now someone we know breaks down,

Statistics of the growing Care Bear scare - 

A mounting paranoia grips our town,

As rainbows sizzle through the panicked air. 

So kids! Say no to fluffy toys and other thrills,

And twinkle stars and all those Care Bear lies - 

They may seem nice and pretty, right until

A Care Bear love heart frizzles out your eyes.

I googled 'Care Bear Mug Shot' and would you believe this is the sort of thing that came up. Shudder!

Basically the entire internet, so you can switch your computers off and go home now

A poem that is basically the entire internet

A puppy that sleeps on a cat that is cleaning its kitten!
A turtle that eats while a piglet is wearing a bonnet!
A MOUSE AND A CRAB AND A HAMSTER TAKE TURNS IN A MITTEN!
A dog with a sign with a crudely-spelled message upon it!

A turtle that eats while a piglet is wearing a bonnet!
A lolcat lol cats are so funny so funny so funny!
A DOG WITH A SIGN WITH A CRUDELY-SPELLED MESSAGE UPON IT!
An African princess is asking to send me some money!

A lolcat lol cats are so funny so funny so funny!
A guy who is cute with a duckling that eats from a beanie!
AN AFRICAN PRINCESS IS ASKING TO SEND ME SOME MONEY!
A one-year-old badger! It's wearing a tiny bikini!

A guy who is cute with a duckling that eats from a beanie!
A boy three years old wearing pink BOYS LIKE PINK!
A ONE-YEAR-OLD BADGER! IT'S WEARING A TINY BIKINI!
(This mindblowing cat gif will really make you stop and think!)

A boy three years old wearing pink BOYS LIKE PINK!
A mouse and a crab and a hamster take turns in a mitten!
(THIS MINDBLOWING CAT GIF WILL REALLY MAKE YOU STOP AND THINK!)
A puppy that sleeps on a cat that is cleaning its kitten!

Hello! This is Tim on the homophone speaking, can you take the call?

Unspoken rule - something that is not allowed, but not aloud. 


(Complaints to the usual address, & co. & co.)

UPDATE! - And while we're on the subject,  I suppose you could call a homophone something that is aloud, and usually allowed also. Now aren't you glad I told you that?