She Wore a Tutu

Could. Not. Believe.It.

Further to my post yesterday, I headed back into court for "That Guy's Bail Hearing - Part Deux".

I hurried in about two minutes after it started, plonked down next to one of the TV journos, and looked up towards the benches.

There she was, perched in her chair at the defense end of the table, her black heels poking out from under six or seven layers of cascading ivory-white netting.

She was Peach Storm no longer. She was now - The White Tutu Tornado.

I turned, wide-eyed, to Jess next to me. She rolled her eyes, knowing immediately the source of my surprise. "It's even better when she stands up," she whispered.

And she was right. White Tutu Tornado had teamed the tulle with a black shirt that had transparent, mesh-like sleeves, and topped off the ensemble with several strings of pearls. When standing, the skirt puffed out from her hips, and when walking, it bounced and swayed. When she faced the magistrate, you could get a clear view of the cream ribbon that encircled the top of the skirt around her waist, coming to rest in a pretty bow at the back.

It was the kind of get-up I'd expect to see at a modern dance performance, or at one of Pamela Anderson's frequent weddings. Granted, it was Halloween, but I don't think any of us in the Magistrates Court could work out if she was trick- or treat-ing.

Anyway, the hearing took an hour and a half. Bail was refused, but not before I'd made some shabby attempts at drawing White Tutu Tornado herself.

Strange. Oh so strange.

Touched by a Lawyer

It’s an odd thing to find oneself in a Magistrates Court being nudged on the upper thigh by a defence counsel.

But then, I’m not a regular on the court rounds. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time. All I know is that while she may have been a solicitor, she was getting far too close to my briefs for comfort.

I’d been sent to the Roma Street mags to wait for the appearance of one *name omitted for legal reasons*. Let’s just call him “That Guy”.

That Guy had been brought in the night before on 20 child sexual assault allegations. Needless to say, it’s all on the alleged grotty side. Allegedly.

(The media interest in this case was compounded by the fact that That Guy was a one-time suspect in a high-profile unsolved triple murder case. Some news outlets have connected the dots; and I’m sure keen Googlers can let their fingers do the linking.)

We waited around court for two hours before police prosecutors got to That Guy. It was during that time that I identified her – a pint-sized storm in a peach dress, matching jacket, and brunette bob.

That Guy’s solicitor.

She flitted and flurried about the court, in various stages of pique with the goings-on. Obviously she had really taken the family’s emotion surrounding the case to heart. Unfortunately, I had made the mistake of sitting on the left-hand side of the public gallery, on the aisle in the front row. Friends and family of That Guy, including a vocal toddler, decided to fill the seats around me.

The seat directly next to me was reserved for Peach Storm herself.

She was up and down like a well-heeled Energizer Bunny, her half-scrawny, half-sinewy calves pulsating under the tension. I was trying to stay neutral and removed, by facing inwards towards the aisle, and concentrating on scribbling random doodles* in my notepad.

Then I felt it. A soft nudge on my thigh. Then again.

I turned to face Her Peachiness.

“Take my card,” she half-hissed, half-whispered.

I looked down. Curled in the hand that was making such close connection with my upper legs was a business card.

“You’re a journalist, aren’t you?”

“Er...yes,” I stuttered, and took the card.

“I’m acting for That Guy,” she said. Then, with wide eyes and a knowing nod, she said:

“We’ll talk later”.

Fumbling, I shoved the card inside the pages of my notepad, and returned to staring at my lap. Or the clock on the wall. Or the back of the police prosecutor’s head. Anywhere but next to me.

The matter was eventually adjourned after the magistrate decided she needed time to review That Guy’s criminal history. Peach Storm didn’t conduct the representation herself; she’d conscripted a barrister into doing that, but sat beside her making notes, muttering and generally looking unimpressed with police and court staff. On adjournment, she led family and friends on the exit march from court, taking up position next to a handy concrete garden box, dumping her neat little black and red handbag, and whisking out a long cigarette to aid in her breaktime briefing of That Guy’s nearest and dearest.

The cameras began to encroach upon her, on the chance she might have something to say.

Peach Storm wasn’t in a mood to disappoint.

Cigarette in hand, and doing her best Bette Davis, she looked over her shoulders at the cameras and declared “My client will vigorously defend the charges!”, before turning back to continue her conversation with the barrister.

It was a marvellously dramatic moment.

Later that afternoon, once the bail hearing had been finally adjourned for the day (pending a decision Friday), we waited outside for Peach Storm to make her final exit from the court. She strode out into a pack of twelve or fifteen journalists and cameramen, who immediately bunched in close to her seeking comment.

She said a few things, such as “It’s not over yet” and “The family is devastated” as she marched purposefully away from the court, causing journos to trip and stumble into each other as they tried to keep up. The cameramen had less trouble; walking backwards is a regular activity for them. Peachy stopped for a brief moment to retrieve her hapless barrister from inside the scrum, before declaring she had “No further comment!” and striding away.

We all exchanged glances and shakes of the head. “Weird,” was the general consensus. Peach Storm had obviously loved the drama of it all. I relayed the story of my impromptu thigh touch; holding up the business card as proof. A few of the other journos jotted down her number. No doubt she’ll be getting a few calls on Friday.

As for me, her card remains in my notepad. I’m yet to decide if I’m going to take the plunge and ring. But what do I say?

“Hi, Peachy. Just wanted to say – you really touched me today.”

*No, not THAT kind of doodle.

Daggy 80s movies poll

A couple of posts ago I described several bizarre and ridiculous 80s video clips in all their hairsprayed and neon spandexed glory. I thought I might get some responses from readers praising my witty observations of David Bowie's microphone technique, or my needle-sharp satirical take on Pat Benetar's anthem for women, "Love is a Battlefield".

But no. The overwhelming response from readers was simply:

"You've NEVER seen The Breakfast Club?!?!?!"

Suddenly I became a social pariah, a leper if you will, and my scaberous Achilles heel was revealed - there is, in fact, a whole bunch of so-called "classic" 80s movies that I've NEVER BOTHERED TO WATCH.

Blasphemy and treason, apparently.

So, I'm running a poll for the next few days - you can find it in the right-hand column. I've included six daggy 80s teen cult movies, including The Breakfast Club, that I've never watched. Your mission is to pick which one you think I should see first. I shall then sit down on my day off next week, watch said film, then post my review.

If I don't die from boredom, or a broken abdomen from gut-laughing at the implausible plots and caveman-esque special effects, I shall repeat the experiment with the other films. Maybe add in a few classic 80s sci-fic "classics" - Bladerunner, Aliens - that I've also never gotten around to hiring out.

Happy voting!

Et tu, economy? Then fall, Aussie Dollar!

A Facebook friend recently posted a note declaring his economic ignorance, and pleading for someone to explain how the Aussie Dollar has gone from near-parity with the greenback to South Pacific peso territory.

I am no economics expert, and struggle often with understanding the global financial crisis we find ourselves in. But dealing with the subject every day in the newsroom, I am constantly trying to improve my own knowledge and comprehension.

So I cobbled together an explanation...

The Aussie dollar used to be fixed. In the 1980s, it was "floated", so it became like a share or a stock, able to be bought and sold at varying values.

But if the US dollar, pound or euro are a "blue-chip" shares - ie, less risk, then the Aussie dollar is like an ostrich farm project - ie, riskier, but a good potential earner if the eggs hatch. The economists call it "high-yielding".

Over the last couple of years, the Aussie dollar has been strong against the greenback, because there's been strong growth and high demand for Australian goods from overseas - mostly raw materials that we dig out of the ground, chuck on ships, and shoot off to China. Also, America’s economy has been slowly slowing, but more on that in a minute.

You need to spend cash to grow the economy. But spending too much too quickly can lead to too much growth, meaning higher prices for everything (higher inflation). So the Reserve Bank of Australia put interest rates UP over the past few years, to try to stop people spending as much. Of course the biggest impact that has is making it more expensive to pay your mortgage. But from what I understand, higher interest rates at home, help make the dollar stronger. So basically - it sucks to be a home-owner, but it's a fine time to be a traveller, particularly if you’re heading States-side.

Now this year has seen a collapse on the share markets, primarily because a bunch of US banks lent money to people to buy houses who really shouldn't have gotten loans. It was OK while the economy was still growing. But then the economy slowed. I don't really know why, but it meant a bunch of people suddenly couldn't afford all their repayments. All of a sudden the big banks that had all this invisible money found themselves like Wiley E. Coyote standing in mid-air after the cliff has fallen out from under them. Whooosh, smash, meep meep, that's all folks.

The likely result of all this is a recession - meaning people lose jobs and consequently have less cash. So they need less stuff. Turns out the stuff they don't need is the stuff Australia has. So they sell off their Aussie dollars, heading back to the "blue-chip" US dollar.

A whole bunch of people getting the hell out of Dodge generally means prices go down. It's like if you found out your house was on a radiation dump. You'd want to sell out, and you'd eventually take a price, even if it was way lower than what you paid.

On the home front, the Reserve Bank has started cutting our interest rates, to help people start spending again. If overseas people aren't buying our stuff, we'd better get more people at home spending up. But essentially we're left in the opposite position, which is that it's much better to be a home-owner (pay less on your mortgage), but sucks ass to be a traveller, because all of a sudden nobody wants your currency and a milkshake in London costs the equivalent of a day's salary.

The bottom line is in tumultuous times people aren't going to branch out into buying Aussie dollars, making them less in demand and therefore worth less.

The upside is our exporters might catch a break once the dollar stablises, and we might get more tourists here exchanging their sweet pounds and euros. But if you want to go overses, or buy fancy TVs or posh European cars, then it's going to suck the big one for the next year or so.

Am I in the ballpark? I'd welcome any feedback or corrections!

On Rage

You know, I get the feeling video clip directors back in the 70s and 80s were on a lot of drugs.

I've just been watching some late-night Rage, ABC's perennially popular visual radio show. Today's videos may be uber-slick, CGI-ed up, and full of hot babes with perfect thighs, but they lack the daggy charm or outright bizarre-ness of the original MTV years. I present the following as evidence:

Pat Benetar with "Love is a Battlefield". First of all, the woman is a sparrow, and no amount of baggy, ripped and multi-coloured early-80s outfits can hide that fact. Although it was good that the 80s was a time when a woman called "Pat" could become a pop star. You have to have a normal name spelled weirdly now - think Britney, Rihanna or Jordin. In this vid, Pat seems to be standing up for young women, and getting kicked out of home and forced to dance in a seedy club for her trouble. There's lots of shots of her looking broody in the back of a bus. However, she does get all up-in-the-grill of a dodgy-looking gangster (dodgy as in really, really pissweak), then breaks into an awesome dance routine with her fellow clubbers. It's all about the sisterhood, y'all, and the clip ends with them on the street at dawn, hugging each other. Aw, bless.

Robert Palmer "Johnny and Mary". I didn't even know this song was by Robert Palmer. I thought he was all schmicko suits and hot babes in tight black dresses and red lipstick, a'la "Addicted to Love". This video is an extended mime. As in, a guy and a girl (I assume the eponymous Johnny and Mary), flailing about an empty office space looking confused and/or sad. Palmer himself speaks into a microphone of sorts at a desk, while crumpling up ever more bits of paper. It's freaky. And I'm pretty sure the chick playing Mary is a dude.

Simple Minds and "Don't You (Forget About Me)". I've never seen The Breakfast Club, the film that made this song famous. But if lead singer Jim Kerr is anything to go by, it involves some fairly disastrous hairdos. The rolled-up sleeves of his beige suit prompted the Wah to remark: "The 80s was the only time when geeks could become rock gods". Scottish geeks too - Simple Minds hailed from Glasgow. The film clip involves the band sitting around a big old house full of old furniture and assorted junk. I assume to represent the whole "Not forgetting (about you)" thing. And why the brackets? What was so wrong with "Don't You Forget About Me" as a title? Perhaps they thought it was too threatening for American teenagers.

David Bowie and "Sorrow". Dear God that man must have snorted half of Columbia's gross national product, surely? Wearing a ridiculous red fright wig (knowing Bowie, his own hair), lip gloss, and a crisp white double breasted suit, Bowie creepily moves around a bunch of skinny blokes wearing full-body black-and-white spandex suits, who've been handed instruments but been told to stay perfectly still, lest their genitals burst free from their lycra prison and fall victim to Bowie's infamous androgynous insatiability. The only black guy is given a sax and a jazzy orange hat, and throws in a bit of junk-thrusting for good measure. What does that say about race relations? Meanwhile, a woman wearing only slightly less eye make-up than the Thin White Duke himself sits atop what looks like a converted tennis umpire's stand, attempting to poke the spandex dummies with a large silvery pole. She has the "long blonde hair" that Bowie sings about, and the director cleverly gets her to twirl it whenever that lyric in the song gets a mention. See, that's the kind of ground-breaking work that lead Rihanna to actually have an umbrella in the song "Umbrella", because metaphor is just not enough on its own. This clip must also pre-date the era where people realised how pointless it was to hold a microphone - particularly one with a crappy cord - in a video set on a soundstage. Really, it only makes sense if you're pretending to be in the studio recording, or performing a "live" gig in front of an audience. Otherwise, we all know you're miming. Find something else to do with your hands, Bowie.

But wait a second.

Rage is being guest-programmed, and the band that's rostered on (of whom I've never heard) has picked a song called "Disco Science", which has no lyrics, but instead, lots of shots of imitation Japanese kabuki performance, except with light sabers and a woman who shoots lasers from her nipples.

So yeah. Maybe modern day video clips are just as messed up. Enjoy, children of the 2030s!

The Great White Fish

The Wah very kindly gave me the latest John Birmingham book Without Warning for my birthday.

I've been enjoying it, but haven't been as speedy with my reading as I would like. The Wah, however, picked it up one night when he couldn't sleep (I of course was dead to the world), and got through about 100 pages.

This morning we were comparing notes on plot points encountered so far. "Have you got to the point where they discover the big yacht, the Aussie Rules?" I said.

"Oh yeah, the one owned by what's his face. The Fishy Fish. The Mighty Fish."

"Uh... the Great White Shark?"

"Yeah, that's the one!"

Only the Wah could describe golfer Greg Norman as "The Fishy Fish"!

Farewell, Mr Blackwell

The biting tongue of Mr Blackwell has been silenced for good. The renowned fashion critic - famous for his Hollywood best and worst dressed lists - has passed away aged 86.

Now I can't draw, so you'll have to forgive my dodgy artwork.

But I present to you: Mr Blackwell goes to Heaven - A Cartoon.

Comedy freakin' gold.

Women: Can we stop being our own worst enemies now? Please?

Working in radio, you'll often hear this phrase: "Women don't like listening to other women on air".

For years I've thought it was bull. For many women, it will come as a surprise. They might be avid listeners to the ABC, where gender equality is a given, and female on-air presenters as normal as hot days in summer.

But take the ABC out of it. Ratings, while certainly very important, are not everything for the national broadcaster. It is not ruled by market forces in the way the commercial stations are. Their guidelines will ensure a mixed bag of presenters no matter how bad the ratings get. Blessed be the public service.

In commercial, the attitude of women towards other women weighs heavily on the hearts and minds of program directors, station managers and other bigwigs. I've never seen any cold, hard proof that "women don't like listening to other women" - but the anecdotal evidence seems to be overwhelming. Women actively dislike hearing other women on the radio. The problem is even worse with older women, a key demographic of the station I work for. They just turn off.

What are the reasons? I can't give you definite answers. I would like to think women don't like listening to women because the way they're generally portrayed on-air is as a "token" chick on an otherwise male-dominated program, who talks about shopping for shoes, babies, and celebrity gossip. Certainly that's the kind of on-air female presence I personally find distasteful.

But what about sensible, articulate, educated, entertaining women who are capable of conducting strong interviews and interacting well with callers? Why is when they're trialled, there's a ratings drop-off, and the female on-air presenter is pinpointed as the reason?

Turns out, from my best investigative work, it's the disapproving green-eyed monster. Women, it seems, don't like other women in a position of authority. Talking to them. Telling them what to think. Expressing their own opinion. Women (I can only guess due to hundreds of years of social conditioning) will listen to a man talk about an issue, and give him the time of day... but will turn up their noses when a woman does the same. "What does she know?" they seem to be saying. "Why should she tell me what to do, say or think?" they cry. And most of all "Who does she think she is?!?!"

Age is an issue. Young women in particular apparently know nothing. "Get some life experience and get back to us". A friend who works in radio even suggests it could be as simple as the sound of female voices. Too high, too feminine - a contrast to the slow, measured, deep, instructive, authoritative tones of the all-mighty male announcers. Men know what they're talking about, and sound like it too. Women hit a different tone, harmful to the eardrums. They know nothing. Why should they be given airtime to talk about nothing?

Radio is a man's domain. And it's women helping it stay that way.

I say this because radio is my chosen career. A career that I don't want to be obstructed by immovable social "facts" that govern the way those in charge of radio stations pick and choose who goes on-air. I don't want it to be case of "I'm a woman - ergo, I'm pre-destined never to succeed". I believe my hard work and intellect should count for something.

Sure, I could quit. But then it just goes on. It continues. And radio will forever and ever be a man's game, a man's domain, with 50 per cent of the population left without representation.

Let me be honest. I have been jealous of other women. Many times, in fact. I understand what it's like, which is why I'm so emphatic about changing it. Why are we being our own worst enemy? Why are we slagging each other off? Why are we critical of a women's success, or joyful at her failure? Why don't we support each other?

I would like to be able to tell my stories to the women who will follow me in years to come, and have them react in horror. "Women did that to each other?" they'll cry. "Women didn't give each other a chance?" And most of all "Women let men do all the talking?!?!"

So women of Australia, I urge you. Please give other women a go. Please DEMAND variety and depth from your local media. Sure, there'll be women you don't like. That's fine. But disagree with them on their opinions, or expression - not just because of their gender. Don't buy into this myth that women aren't entertaining or knowledgeble. Don't let the media owners perpetuate the cycle.

Men - you can do your bit too. Treat women with respect. Insist they look after their minds, rather than just their looks. Give creedance to sensible, smart and funny ideas or opinions when women express them, and take umbridge with dumb or ill-researched ones. Let's start evaluating all humans on their individual record.

Uh oh, Ringo

I'm no expert, but something tells me Ringo Starr is back on the gear.

Now you may think that's a stupid statement given the fact the bloke's spent the best part of the last 20 years voicing a bug-eyed blue train, but really, something's up.

Ringo's released a bizarre video message, outlining his strict new "No Fan Mail" policy. Apparently the drummer is sick and tired of signing records/tickets/posters/breasts for Beatles fans. It seems the volume is so great, he couldn't even get by with a little help from his friends.

...Sorry, couldn't resist.

Ringo begins his video by wishing all of his fans "peace and love, peace and love". He then goes on to tell them in no uncertain terms to f*** off out of his mailbox. It's a shame, because I had a parcel of old Beatles memorabilia just about ready to go out for autograph. Just lucky I hadn't spent the cold hard cash on stamps, I guess. Now I can buy that Chupa Chup I always wanted.

But seriously, who does that? Fair enough, he gets a lot of mail. Can't he employ someone? A forger, to copy his signature? Or get a stamp made up?

I think it's a sign that Ringo might be back on the Yellow Submarine, if you know what I mean.

Me & Paddington Bear

Google's famous simple search engine screen today featured the winsome form of Paddington Bear - making up the "l" in Google, as it were. It turns out the spectacled bear from Darkest Peru first appeared in print exactly 50 years ago today.

I share my birthday with Paddington Bear!

This was lovely news, as I've always been a bit disappointed with the selection of famous people who share my birthday. Ian Thorpe - I don't have particularly big feet and I'm quite confident in my sexuality. Margaret Thatcher - I've got big hair but I also have something else the Iron Lady didn't... um, what was it again... oh yes! Compassion.

But Paddington Bear is sweet, and certainly has an appetite similar to mine (although I'm not really a fan of marmalade sandwiches).

Anyway, I thought I'd do a search for people born on my birthday, and it turns out there are in fact some cool names that pop up. For starters, Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England for nine days way back in 1553. Sure, she was an unfortunate puppet in a struggle over succession, but at least she was smart. Then there's Lillie Langtry, the Victorian vaudevillian actor and renowned beauty who had an affair with the future Edward VIII.
Born on the same day in 1925 as the aforementioned Maggie Thatcher, but destined for a very, very different life, is the American comedian Lenny Bruce.

But that's probably about as cool as it gets. Marie Osmond. Ari Fleischer. Rob Schneider. Kelly Preston. To be frank, it's all a bit second-rate.

So hats off to Paddington Bear, the coolest character to ever share a birthday with. I'd have a Knickerbocker Glory, but after the soy lime chicken breast with coconut risotto at the Continental Cafe, and the delicious strawberry & cream sponge cake that my friend Jazzman brought over for dessert, I'm a bit full.

A Sunday Afternoon

There had been some sort of mistake.

I was supposed to be doing some phone crosses for the radio station as part of its outside broadcast at the "Courier-Mail Home and Design Expo" at the Convention Centre. But it had been cancelled that morning due to technical difficulties, and the afternoon show producer (the delightful NatV) hadn't been told anything about my presence there.

I hung around for an hour - checking out the orthodics display, taking a brochure for an LED lights company, and falling in love with the whole body vibrating "Health Station" exercise machine (a great temptation even at $1500; only convinced otherwise by a phone call to my fitness freak brother. "If you buy that, I'll bash you" was his succinct assessment).

I also had a "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" moment:  rubbing my eyes after seeing a giant termite wandering around. Taking a moment to remember I've never actually taken LSD, so couldn't possibly be in the middle of some sort of acid trip, I grabbed the camera phone and stalked Mr Termite around four or five stalls in an effort to photograph him from the front. Sneaky bastard kept getting away. I believe he was a promotional termite for a pest control businesss - but surely you want your pest control people to be able to get RID of termites - not parade them around as friendly mascots? "Here, meet Cocky, our friendly Cockroach! He's exactly the type of sticky critter you WON'T be seeing after using our top-notch service!" I guess the alternative is a dead termite, or perhaps nothing at all. Maybe that's just not as effective as a big grinning insect. Maybe that's why I'm not in marketing.

After eventually deciding my phone cross work was a bust, I said sayonara to the Convention Centre, and ola to GreenFest at Southbank. A public debate in the Suncorp Piazza, bands playing on two stages, people sitting and chilling on the grass, organic ice-cream, Hare Krishna blessed vegetarian balls, the Greens, environmental and animal protection groups, Sea Shepherd. Having a whale of a time, in fact, and successfully avoiding blow-up Japanese whalers with inflatable harpoons.


But theirs wasn't the only inflatable fun toy. There was a bouncy castle, and better yet, this:

Some sort of inflatable fun-worm, with the kids entering through the mouth, then working their way through the Hungry Caterpillar's digestive system before exiting from.... ah... well, you get the idea from the picture.

I wonder if the parents of the kids being rectally discharged from a would-be butterfly appreciated the full horror of this seemingly cute playtime adventure. Much as I would have enjoyed attempting my own fantastic voyage, I surmised my size might see me tear the caterpillar a new one, and I couldn't risk committing an act of animal cruelty surrounded by avid nature lovers.

The afternoon concluded with me stopping in at Myer and purchasing two pairs of shoes as an early birthday present to myself. Coincidentally, it cost around the same amount of cash that I would have earned had the promo work gone ahead. Oh well, easy come easy go.

Scorsese Movie in a Hat

Thanks to everyone who came along to "How to Get Almost Anyone To Want to Sleep With You" last night.

It was a rocking show, and the audience had a great time. Deb had a lot of fun, and was really pleased the crowd enjoyed themselves.

Damien from the StageDoor Dinner Theatre has invited Deborah back, so fingers crossed we might get another chance to see her (likely in a new show) next year!

One Night Only!

Brisbane readers! I have solved your problem with what you're going to do with your Friday night tonight.

You're going to get yourself to the StageDoor Dinner Theatre at Bowen Hills, to watch the fabulous Deborah Frances-White perform her one-woman show "How to Get Almost Anyone to Want to Sleep With You".

This is the show that Deborah's sold out with at the Edinburgh Fringe for the past two years, as well as this year's Melbourne Comedy Festival.

It's part stand-up, part self-help, and all hilarious. It will help you become the most desirable person on the planet!

Check out Deborah's website - www.almostanyone.co.uk - for more info and multimedia.

StageDoor Dinner Theatre
4 Cintra Road Bowen Hills
Doors open 7pm; show starts at 8pm.
Cost $22
Book on 3216 1115 
Drinks and snacks are available at the (licensed) venue!

No one's that holy

Spotted today at state parliament:

Brisbane's Catholic Archbishop John Bathersby walking up to the annex entry on Alice Street, then going through security like any other ordinary pleb.

'Cause in this day and age, we don't trust NO ONE.

Wouldn't it be frickin' loverly

Richard E. Grant is playing Professor Henry Higgins in the Sydney run of "My Fair Lady" - starting this week!

Gah!

I just saw this production in Brisbane last month, with Reg Livermore as the grumpy phonetics expert. He did a serviceable job, but he's not frickin' Richard E. frickin' Grant!

Now I don't mean to sound snobbish here, but I've seen David Tennant play Hamlet. I've seen Patrick Stewart play Claudius. I've seen Tim Curry play King Arthur in Spamalot.

I've got a frickin' reputation to uphold.

Somebody book me some flights to Sydney, stat.

To make matters worse, there are rumours that a new film version of "My Fair Lady" is reportedly in the works starring Daniel Day-Lewis and - dear-God-please-don't-let-it-be-so - Keira frickin' Knightley as Eliza Doolitte.

Why? Why? What is so wrong with the 1964 classic starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn?

She's already played Elizabeth Bennett in "Pride and Prejudice". Do we have to remake every frickin' period film in existence just to give Keira Knightley more time in a corset? I mean, surely that's not the only way she could fake a cleavage. Chicken fillets for a start. Tissues at a pinch.

Can you imagine, Keira Knightley, with a dob of dirt on her perfect little nose, pushing that overstuffed pout out as far as the Puff-U-Like collagen can stretch, gazing up at Daniel Day-Lewis with his crazy eyes, fluttering her inch-long eyelashes and saying "I'm a good girl, I am". Gah!

I despair, I really do.

Pencil me in for some fun

I have, for various nefarious purposes (mostly impro-related), come into possession of quite a treasure.

Now what could one possibly do with 57 brand-new "Spencils"?

They're a highly sought-after prize on 612 ABC breakfast, hosted by Spencer Howson, whose name provides the extra "s" in "spencil", and whose blog is full of quirky thoughts and wacky photos (not to mention a strange obsession with reverse-stripe ties). I could conceivably run some sort of eBay racket. Get your genuine Spencil! Only $60 plus postage and handling!

But there are so many other things one could try:

• Build a small Spencil hut.
• Use them to train chihuahuas to fetch.
• Sharpen them, blu-tac the eraser ends onto my tiles, and create a deadly, pointy HB trap inside the door to impale the Wah when he next unsuspectingly arrives home (Random ambush maiming is just one of those little things we like to do to keep the relationship fresh, you know?)
• Attempt to get into the Guinness Book of Records by shoving them all in my mouth and taking a photo.
• Spencil ninja.
  

Any other ideas for my Spencil stash?

Special thanks to Rose Tyler!

Experiments in Beer

A friend of mine, Damien, has an interesting job. He works for a company that produces liquid thickener for people who have a hard time swallowing fluids.

During some drinkies at Chez Clumsy this evening, he revealed that a key ingredient was xantham gum. I piped up, saying I had a bag of xantham gum in the cupboard - a relic of a short-term fling with gluten-free cooking. With several Cascade lights on hand, Dan demanded we try some experiments. For Science.

We added about three teaspoons of the fluffy white powder to about 100mls of beer. The initial reaction was just a bigger head, and a bit of a rank odour emanating from my Ikea tumbler. We declared it a failure and went back to general chit-chatting.

About an hour later we discovered this:












I know! Gross right? Then check out this close-up shot of The Blob:

Ick! That is lumpy, gummy, beer-flavoured blob. Despite Science, no one was brave enough to taste it.

It's amazing what horrid things you can concoct in the privacy of your own kitchen. And let's not mention that mushroom risotto I made that time.