These boots?

Why, they're made for whorin':

Extremely stylish whorin', mind.

It's been years since I've been brave enough to wear boots outside the theatrical sphere. But this year's my year, damnit.

Boots are one of those fabulously evocative items of clothing, aren't they? I remember the first pair of boots I wore belonged to my mother back in the 1970s. They were deep dark navy, almost black. Dad sheared off the sky-high heels so I could totter around in them with a minimum of falls. They didn't fit properly until I was about 14, but that didn't stop me wearing them in virtually every game of dress-up that went on back at "Tara" - my childhood home in Albany Creek. My favourite was teaming them with a skirt, red cape and a sword shoved down the back of my shirt, and getting about the place as She-Ra, Princess of Power.

"For the honour of Grey Skull!"

Everyone's got a story about a beloved pair of boots - even here in sunny Queensland. What's yours?

Clive of Queensland

Clive Palmer is the richest man in Queensland.

He seems a rather jocular fellow; I guess you'd have reason to be if you were a billionaire with a private jet, a Gold Coast football team and a brand new $7bn dollar thermal coal mine about to get underway in Central Queensland's Galilee Basin.

Most of the project's financing is coming from China; and at today's launch, Clive seemed to take some iconographic inspiration from the Good People's Republic:

But I couldn't help noticing the stark contrast between the pictorial representation and his actual visage. Particularly when it comes to his hair. It would seem Clive of Queensland has gone a little alternative - growing his locks out and dying them a fetching shade of emo black. The white regrowth was particularly obvious up a bit closer; and although he was answering questions good-naturedly, I restrained myself from bursting out with "Clive, what on earth is the story with your new 'do?"

It guess it could've been worse - at least he wasn't attempting a comb-over.

Clive may be a champion of free-market capitalism - he is a life member of Queensland's conservative LNP opposition - but it seems to fit perfectly with the current preferred model of the CCP. A question about any ideological differences between the two sparked a discussion about fear of the Chinese within Australia - an argument not without merits. Clive was making a point about China's investment in Australia being nowhere near as extensive as Japan's - but somewhat undermined his point by referring to the origins of a Brisbane suburb.

Trouble is, that's not true. Toowong is an Aboriginal word meaning "place of doves". All my best Googling can find is that Toowong is one of many Brisbane suburbs given indigenous names (my favourite is Indooroopilly - "gully of leeches"). It seems that yes, there once was a Chinese market garden off Vera Street in Toowong, but I cannot find evidence to back up Mr Palmer's claim that it was there in the 1890s. Moreover, Toowong seems to have been named in the 1860s, meaning the Wong Brothers, if they existed, probably had to deal with more jokes about their unfortunate nominal coincidence with their suburb than Clive will have to about his hairstyle.

But it seems to be that Clive in fact has heard of one these jokes and inadvertently remembered it as fact.

It's not unheard of, I guess. Things get twisted and confused in the brain sometimes, and rumours and whispers can become veritable truth. I read a humourous history book in my early teens, and for years believed that the motto of the Order of the Garter was "Once a Knight is Enough".

Anybody else not gotten the joke?

The Tale of Mr Squeaky

A few weeks ago, I heard a rustling.

Then I saw a flash of shadow, darting under the front door.

Then, one night, I saw it long enough to realise what it was.

A mouse.

It's not an easy thing to admit to the wider world that one has a mouse in the house. It's something of a poor reflection on my standard of house-keeping. Now that I know my parents read this blog, I fully expect a judgemental yet slightly confusing email from my Dad's Palm Pilot, stating that if I only went to bed earlier, none of these things would ever happen to me.

Not to mention the fact we're in a second floor apartment - hardly what you'd describe as a typical mouse hang-out. Obviously our mouse was an urbane mover and shaker, one of the hip vermin groovsters normally found snacking on boccocini at a James Street cafe, or catching The Adventures of Despereaux at the Palace Barracks cinemas.

After realising that I was not, in fact, having a lend of him, The Wah named the mouse Mr Squeaky.

A week or so ago, we found him in the back of the fridge:

He'd found a cosy little cubby hole, and was in there nibbling on an errant pasta shell.
The noise was deafening.

We tried to capture him, but the little bugger was fast. He dashed out of the fridge and shot past our hastily assembled barricade of cushions and laundry baskets. The Wah then turned the lounge room upside down attempting to outflank Mr Squeaky with the kind of military precision General Montgomery would celebrate with a G&T and a fat cigar:

No luck. Mr Squeaky had foiled our attempts at capture - he was the Tom to our Jerry. Or Jerry to our Tom, I can never remember which is which.

We gave up, and considered the mouse trap option. Despite his vegetarianism, The Wah retains the Hard Edge required to embark on homicidal missions against rodents. I, however, am a Complete Coward, and wondered if we could just capture Mr Squeaky and set him free to roam in a park near our house, but far enough away to discourage his return.

Fortune smiled on us a few days ago, when we came into possession of a proper humane mouse trap, and set it up near the fridge with a few sultanas in it. The next morning brought no news; the trap had snapped shut but there was no Mr Squeaky inside. That meant either the trap had been set off by the overnight vibrations of the Westinghouse, or we were facing a very clever adversary indeed.

Last night, I saw the now-familiar flash of grey fur, and called out to The Wah that our Mousey Moriarty had returned. He soon heard a rustling in his beloved Bat Cave, and moved heavy bookshelves and filing cabinets out of the way to try to find Mr Squeaky. Before he knew it, the critter had zoomed out the door, and straight into the spare bedroom.

Curious, The Wah attempted a impromptu capture attempt, throwing pillows in front of the doorway to prevent an escape, as Mr Squeaky buzzed round and round the room. After a few seconds, Mr Squeaky disappeared, leaving The Wah confused and intrigued.

At this point my preparations for bed were interrupted. "Nat, come here - we have more mice!"

You may, at this point, be able to see where this story is headed.

I poked my head around the doorway, still buffered by pillows and doona covers. The Wah had lifted the entire double bed onto its side, revealing a bundle of ruffled white paper, and something else:

That's right. It turns out Mr Squeaky was, in fact, Ms Squeaky. Hard-working single mum of two little baby mice. Despite the two flights of stairs, she had chosen to give birth in our apartment, carefully constructing her nest out of toilet paper. I don't really want to think about where she got it from. I still can't decided if I'm a little heart-warmed by her feeling secure in my home - or revolted by the whole process. I think maybe I'll just try to ignore it all.

People are just never going to talk to me again, are they?

But all of this complicated things. Our simple plan to catch and release Mr - sorry, Ms - Squeaky didn't take into account two babies, still blind and reliant on their mother for survival. We could have picked the babies up there and then, but with Ms Squeaky still in hiding somewhere, we decided to replace the bed, turn out the lights, and hope she might come back, so we could attempt to capture them all together.

This evening we spotted Ms Squeaky again, so we know she's still around. We've reset the trap, and really hope she'll take the bait this time. Because we can't leave two baby mice in the spare bedroom. For one thing, I'd like to get in there to do a massive clean before I lose the last remaining piece of house-keeping respect my mother has for me.

And secondly, their eyes will open soon, and the next thing you know I'll have inner-city trendy mice raiding my cupboard for cous-cous and soy & sesame water crackers, and demanding we watch At The Movies re-runs on ABC2.

Glitch in the Kitchen

There are some days when I feel a little bit talented. Yesterday, for example, I wrote and performed a beat poem for a dear friend's 30th birthday. Alisha seemed to love her lyrical tribute, and the crowd laughed along as well.

But then just when I'm starting to get a little self-confident, events conspire against me. Like today, when I decided... to bake.

We were expecting a bunch of my Impro Mafia cohorts in the evening for a rehearsal. The show, which is  coming up on Sunday 7 June at the Brisbane Arts Theatre, is called Agatha Holmes, and it's a parody of Agatha Christie/Sherlock Holmes style detective stories.

"Pikelets!" I exclaimed to The Wah in the early afternoon. "Pikelets are lovely and English, high tea stuff! I'll make some, and it will help set the tone for the rehearsal!"

The Wah took this - wisely - as a cue to sequester himself away in his Bat Cave, while I set about making some fresh pikelet batter. Through a comedy of errors, we'd ended up with six litres of milk in the fridge, and since neither of us drink huge amounts of moo juice, I thought it would be a good way to use up some of it.

Things got off on the wrong foot when I found out I didn't have a recipe. Mistake number two was combining a few recipes off the net to make use of the ingredients I had in the cupboard. It didn't taste too bad, but suffered a sort of structural collapse on entry to the hot pan.

"Never fear," I thought, trying not to let my first disastrous attempt get me down. "There's a pancake shaker mix in the cupboard. I'll forget the milk, just add a little less water, and use that!"

Five minutes later:

Despondent, I wandered through the seven layers of fortification into the Bat Cave to inform The Wah that would we not be having pikelets after all. It had been a double-batter epic failure.

But then, it struck me.

"Scones!" I cried. "Scones are far more British than pikelets! I'll make them instead!"

Now my lack of self-raising flour, a stone-cutter, or any previous experience at making scones failed to deter me from this idea. Nor my already poor record in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I had found a recipe online that used plain flour, and started mixing. Everything looked good - I kneaded the mix into a fine ball, and used a glass to cut out the scones.

The first error was forgetting that my "hot oven" seems to be a lot hotter than most people's hot ovens. Before I knew it, the scones were more like toast:

Still, I let them cool, and proudly told my fellow improvisers when they arrived that although they were a little burned, we would still be enjoying Proper. English. Scones a bit later - with whipped cream and everything.

But when the time came for scones - absolute catastrophic disaster.

I cut a bit off one scone and popped it into my mouth. A bitter, acidic taste filled my senses - what was this? I tasted another part - my tongue sizzled again. I tried a third part with a bit of cream, but it didn't help.

Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

I was forced to declare to the group that we would not be having scones after all, as they were not fit for human consumption. This only piqued the interest of Wade, who nibbled on a piece only to screw his face up in pain and exclaim "Oh God, it just gets worse and worse!" Mike Skillz and Luke grabbed a bit, only to suffer similar reactions. The others kept well away.

I went back online to discover what I'd done wrong. "I'm sure that recipe said four teaspoons of baking soda with the two cups of flour... oh, wait."

It was supposed to be four teaspoons of baking powder.

So not only do I failure - spectacularly - at being any kind of Proper Baking-Type of Woman, but it's apparent my eyesight and language comprension skills are also on the way out.

Sometimes I really do think I exist solely to give comfort to others that there is someone out there far, far more incompetent than they could ever be.

Swearing off Social Networking

I am, in general, a fairly enthusiastic supporter of social networking as a 21st century communication norm. But you know what? It's been bugging me a bit of late.

I mean, Facebook's been a bit s*** since the most recent redesign. I can't work out how to block stuff, so all I get is a random series of quiz results about what Disney f***ing Princess or Type of Alcohol someone is. Then I get a stream of requests asking me to take part in "How Well Do You Know Insert-Name-Here?" surveys. Note to internet: I am a sad, selfish individual. I do not remember s*** about you. I am too busy trying to remember where I left my wallet and whether my mother's having a birthday this year. I admit I am a horrible, uncaring friend. But I promise you, it'll be better for both of us if I don't have to answer whether I think your favourite film star is Harrison Ford or Chuck Norris.

Then there's the Facebook marketing droidbots, who assume that because I'm a female aged between puberty and death I must be desperate for every f***ing bit of baby-related advertising under the sun. I'm sorry Facebook, but I know nothing about pregnancy, childbirth or breastfeeding, and I'M OKAY WITH THAT.

Twitter's been marginally less frustrating, but I fear it may be ruined by a**holes. And not just the a**holes using the service. I'm talking about the type of a**holes who think they're more superior than others using the service.

I think this because I've just discovered Tweeting Too Hard, a website where you can nominate someone's "self-important" tweet, and, ha! let the world world know  - ha! - what a wanker they are! Ha!

Now pardon me, but who the f*** is getting away with this s***?!?!? Who is judge, juror and exe-f***ing-cutioner here? Some random interwebz freakazoid, hands calloused from too many hours thrusting in the general direction of his limited edition Buffy DVD collection, who accidentally found my stream of random tweets and decided I had it coming?

Let's face it, everything about social networking is self-indulgent. We're sitting in our house, or our office, or - thanks to 3G phones - in a car, on a boat, in a pub or theatre, on a beach, in the middle of the f***ing rainforest or on top of the Eiffel Tower - sharing our minute, random, inconsequential thoughts with people.

If that's not the definition of self-importance than I'll go eat my hat.

I'm not saying be ashamed of it, I'm just saying get some f***ing perspective and look at your own damn shadow.

Once all is said and done, I probably won't swear off social networking. But hot-darn-it if I ain't gonna break my asterisk key swearing about it.

A Lesson in Chants

The rain tumbled onto my hair and shoulders as I hurried into the Annexe for another week of state parliament, encouraged by the fragant scent of ozone giving an extra hint of promise to the morning air.

Sadly, parliament itself turned out to be rather dull. A rather procedural series of ministerial statements, followed by an uninspiring Question Time, punctuated only by Deputy Premier Paul Lucas calling Opposition Leader John-Paul Langbroek a "goose".

So it was with great eagerness that I welcomed the lunchtime arrival of around 4000 striking state school teachers.

See if you can spot my erstwhile colleague, Disco Stu. Hint: he does not have a placard.

I dashed out onto the balcony outside the Red Chamber to catch my favourite part of any protest: the chants.

Now teachers - with their skills in language and numbers - seem to love getting inventive with their chants. I'd heard some great ones during the Labor Day march a few weeks' back, and some of those got trotted out again ("2,4,6,8, Anna just negotiate! 3,5,7, 9 - Pay the teachers more, it's time!").

They'd gone further this time, lining up some arrows at Education Minister Geoff Wilson. Unfortunately, their group diction was not as strong as it might be, so when they yelled "Lying Wilson!" it came across like "Brian Wilson". They sounded like they were all raging against the former lead singer of the Beach Boys.

"California surfer rock.... really really ticks us off!"

Incidentally, I cracked this joke back inside the Chamber, and later heard an ABC journo using it on the phone. Not I'm not saying there can't be covergent joke-telling. (In fact, I myself cracked wise about another slogan "Fair Go Anna", which I claimed was a tribute to an even-handed lace monitor. This photo snapped by the Brisbane Times shows I wasn't the lonesome ranger on that one). But darn it, I've got to start being more confident in getting the zinging one-liners out there.

I also enjoyed my confusion about the chant "Not happy, Anna!", which when said quickly by several thousand people, sounded more like they were refusing the offer of a musical instrument. "Not a piano! Not a piano!". It's all in the delivery.

It's hard not to be noticed up there on the balcony outside parliament, and unbeknownst to me, a teacher friend of mine - who also happens to be a talented photographer - had aimed her zoom lens on me:

I should stand on large stone balconies more often.
Perhaps wearing a jewel-encrusted corseted gown.
Maybe invest in a crown. Oh, f*** it, why can't I just be Elizabeth I?

The rally ended after the QTU delegation met with the Minister, failed to get him to throw in a few extra dollars, and wandered back out to issue a new chant, the most ominous so far:

"Queensland teachers are not slack, Anna we promise we'll be back!"

Well, except for the music teachers, I thought.

They'll just be Bach.

Zing!

Yellow Flower

The Wah and I spent Sunday afternoon at the Planetarium and Botanical Gardens at Mt Coot-tha. It really was quite lovely, wandering around under the gathering grey clouds.

A few weeks ago, after a protracted process that was about as fun as a no-tubes-allowed colonscopy, I finally got a replacement lens for my Nikon D80. So enjoy some yellow flowers:

 

 I find that shade of yellow to be very pleasing to me at the moment.

In the Country with Kev

Yesterday I spent the best part of two hours driving north to Federal, a small community just outside of Gympie. With the sun shining, the talkback cranked up in the station car, and The Wah's polaroid sunglasses adding a particularly warming sheen to the countryside, it was a very pleasant journey to a lovely part of the world.

Enjoy the view. Eventually, a lot of this is going to be the Traveston Crossing Dam.

The sharp-eyed among you might spot some news vans in the gully below. Yes, I was there for a media conference, with the Right Honourable Kevin Rudd, MP & PM, himself. Queensland government flunkies in 4WDs ferried us up to the top of the hill, but K.Rudd & Co decided to stretch their legs.

Here's a challenge - spot the PM's minders.

They were there to announce a $613 million upgrade to a 12km stretch of the Bruce Highway, one of the most notorious blackspots in the state. There was a plan of the project up on a blue board, and we all did our usual trick of swarming the PM as Main Roads officials explained the route to him.

 

Where's Kevin?

Turns out the reason we were on the hill in the first place was because the upgrade will actually be cut into it. So we were standing about 30 metres above where the road will eventually go (completion scheduled by 2012).

Best part about the day was getting another Brisbane Times byline out of it. It's a good reason to keep taking my Nikon D80 out on jobs in case photographs are a possibility. Mind you, I really must do some sort of course to actually work out how to use my complicated new lens.

The Snuggie

I have always maintained a curious interest in goings-on in the TV direct marketing business. Some of the finest, yet most ridiculous products in history have gained notoriety and popularity through this medium. The Topsy-Tail, the Ginzu Knives, the ThighMaster, the Power Duster - and of course all of those ab-trimming machines.

But I feel the artform of paid promotional advertising has reached its apex. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce: The Snuggie.

The Snuggie is the latest in high-tech, polyester-fleece urban loungewear. Or, as the website triumphantly exclaims:

It's the blanket with sleeves!

It goes on:

Blankets are OK, but they can slip and slide. And when you need to reach for something, your hands are trapped inside.

I'm not sure if the good people at Global Shop Direct intended their product description to begin with such delicious poetry, but it's working for me. I had never realised the innate impracticality of blankets until it was outlined to me by means of a rhyming couplet. They slide off you! And they TRAP YOUR HANDS IN THEIR FILTHY, DOWN-FILLED PRISON!

The Snuggie keeps you totally warm and gives you the freedom to use your hands.

FINALLY, FREEDOM! TERRIFYING FREEDOM!

So now, you can work the remote, or read a book in total warmth and comfort, use your laptop without being cold, or enjoy a snack while staying snuggly warm.

I could NEVER have done those things before without massive, sliding-blanket induced inconvenience. Followed by death.

No more cold feet.

See, if only someone had been clever enough to invent woolly or fleecy all-over foot coverings and given them names like "socks" and "slippers", we wouldn't have had to wait this long for toasty toes.

And with Snuggie, you can get up and still stay warm.

We all know physical activity is inherently anti-warming. I may just cry tears of joy and blood.

By now you should be entirely convinced of the desirability of an all-over machine-washable blanket robe. But the TV advertisement doesn't restrain The Snuggie to indoor use only - which you would think would be its purview. Oh no. The Snuggie is an all-weather device, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice in chilly outdoor conditions.

And when you take into account that The Snuggie is currently only available in two colours - "Religious Cult Burgundy" and "Harry Potter Goes Mardi Gras Royal Blue" - you realise just how much your kids will love you when you turn up to cheer them on at Little Athletics decked out like the albino monk from The DaVinci Code.

It's time to suit up, people. Let's embrace The Snuggie. Thanks to Global Shop Direct - now everybody can get fleeced!

Thoughts on the Code of Silence

There are many things I'd like to say about the current group sex scandal sweeping the National Rugby League. The biggest WTF? is of course the idea that standing around with a bunch of your teammates while you take turns with a young lady or enjoy your own "ballwork" is some sort of heterosexual bonding exercise, and not a thinly-veiled excuse for a lot of latent homoerotic navel-gazing.

But I've decided instead to help NRL footballers as they grapple with the tricky issue of navigating women in a social setting. I've done this by constructing an easy-to-read flowchart.

I'm happy for David Gallop & Co to use that as much as they'd like.

I would, however, like to make some brief remarks about a certain idea/phrase/excuse that's been cropping up a lot in regards to the Christchurch girl at the centre of a group sex incident involving Cronulla players. It runs along these lines:

"Why is she bringing this up after seven years?" - "Everyone's moved on, why bring up the past?" - "She may have done more harm than good dredging up old memories."

Can you imagine suffering a serious trauma and having someone say that to you? Since when was there a statute of limitations on emotions, or personal experience?

Would people say to Denise and Bruce Morcombe - "Guys, come on? Daniel's been inexplicably missing for nearly six years! Move on!"

Would people say to the victims of the Bali bombings - "People! Over seven years already! Build the bridge!"

Would people say to children who suffered abuse at the hands of priests or Christian Brothers - "Guys, long time ago. Don't ruin a top bloke's career over this."

I find myself incredulous that some people cannot make this simple connection in their brains. That just because one party involved in a sordid/ regretful/ hurtful/ controversial event has "moved on", doesn't mean everyone else can, or has to. Experiences stay with people. Time may eventually heal the wound; sometimes all it can do is fade the scar.

The concept of "moving on" is sound; and it's only appropriate that people try - through counselling, medication and other methods - to overcome experiences of trauma through acceptance, in order to live a productive, or at least bearable, life. But there is no stopwatch. There is no final bell or siren you must give, before locking the door forever on that corner of your brain.

Of course, the double standard in this case is clear - it's an incident involving sex, women and the grimy, blurry line of consent. I'm passing no judgement on that event in particular; merely to condemn those who would in turn condemn a young woman for daring to remember what happened to her.

The Budget Day Song

Lock up your wallets, hide them away
Government's coming to harvest your pay
It's a recession, but it's OK
IT'S BUDGET DAY TODAY!

"We've got to be tough," Wayne Swan will say
It's on his mind, and boy does it weigh
Parly tonight, he'll start a melee
IT'S BUDGET DAY TODAY!

Pensions will go up, that's a hooray
Parental leave rocks, we've got to say
Build infrastructure, yes that's the way
IT'S BUDGET DAY TODAY!

Mining boom's over, China says nay
They're back to making soldiers from clay
But we'll retain jobs, come now what may
IT'S BUDGET DAY TODAY!

Deficit's growing, it's here to stay
There's no more handouts with which to play
Bet Howard's happy he's out of the fray
'CAUSE IT'S BUDGET DAY TODAY!

Everybody!

YES, IT'S BUD....GET... DAY....

You try finding a rhyme for "200-billion-dollar revenue writedown", folks!

TO....DAAAAAYYYYY!

Hot Stuff in Sydney

The strangest and yet most wonderfully bizarre and flattering moment of my weekend in Sydney came after the 2009 Theatresports National Championships, when we were having post-show celebratory ales in the small wine bar attached to the Enmore Theatre.

I was stopped in my tracks by David Collins, the curly-haired half of the Umbilical Brothers. He'd been one of the three judges, and while I'd seen him backstage, I'd been having a minor attack of major nerves and was too busy trying to re-curl my hair to attempt to introduce myself. So his pulling me to one side to say "Great show, congratulations, I enjoyed it," really was quite a thrill.

"Thank you!" I beamed at him.

"Yeah, it's funny," he said. "I was sitting next to Andrew Denton and his son, who at one point turned and said something like 'That Queensland girl - she's pretty sexy'. Or something like that. It was hilarious."

Que?

I looked at him.

"Are you pulling my leg?" I asked, somewhat astonished.

"No, true story!" he laughed. Then he tried to remember how old Andrew Denton's son actually was, but couldn't. All the while I'm wide-eyed and blushing somewhat, trying to discern whether he was in fact having me on - but he stuck to his story.

So apparently - Andrew Denton's son Connor (who as it turns out is about 14) thinks Yours Truly And Clumsily is Hot. Stuff.

Oh yeah. Beat THAT, other girl bloggers with fabulous lives!

Anyway, the show itself was just wonderful. I was nervous, because it was a 2000-SEAT VENUE THAT WAS COMPLETELY SOLD OUT. The players from Victoria, New South Wales and Western Australia were all so amazing, such brilliantly talented people - I was worried about being "the one who sucked". Thankfully, I happened to have two fairly awesome dudes on my team:

 Tom, Dave and I formed "When Pigs Fly" to represent Queensland.
And I'm going to wear a tie more often.

We had some great scenes together - chiefly for me a family "drama" in which my little girl character was forced by her Mum (Dave in a feather boa)  to write a song that would bring the Dad (Tom) back to the family. It was funny and sweet, and I managed to SING A SONG AND RHYME. That's a skill I've been having trouble with recently, so to pull off a rhyming verse and have the audience respond with loud applause was just brilliant.

(Also - I now love big theatres and must find a way to make money out of standing in a spotlight making people laugh.)

The best part about the night was the incredible amount of co-operation and support amongst the players. Technically we were four separate teams battling it out for glory, but really it was an ensemble show of 12 players. Everybody got up and played characters or props in other teams' scenes; I played an alien moon-dancer in a WA scene; a Girl Scout in a NSW scene; and part of the "aisle" in a wedding scene played out by Victoria.

After my nerves calmed a bit and I got more accustomed to the stage, it became more fun than a barrel of Ebola monkeys. It was like having the best seat in the house to watch the best improvisers in the country; with the added bonus of stage time. We placed fourth out of four teams - but what the hey. The crowd got a great show, we all had a blast, and it's whet my appetite for more. My thanks to everyone at Impro Australia for having us, all the other players for rocking so hard, and Dave and Tom for being fantastically talented and supportive team-mates.

I managed to grab about 5 hours' sleep after cast party shenanigans, before heading out to meet with some of Dave's Sydney-based friends (who all do marvellous things like work on Underbelly and The Chaser), and my good buddy Casey, who'd been at the show the night before, and told me my rapier sharp Sir Joh and oil spill gags that somewhat confused the Sydney audience were, in fact, dead set hilarious. We ate a great pub lunch, before Casey gave me a lift out to the airport. In his 1972 MG:

 

Look, Mum! I'm in a Grace Kelly movie!

What a great way to end the weekend - driving past old terrace houses on streets adorned by shades of trees and leaves in autumnal reds and golds, with the wind whipping through my hair - and my bag safely stored in the boot.

Post-Felafel Post

Why yes, I am beginning to have withdrawals from Felafel. To that end, enjoy some video:

Thanks as always to Squire Bedak for giving us the thumbs up to whack this little chunk up on YouTube. And I certainly hope the Rhino is satisfied with his onstage representation.

We had a fairly awesomely rockingly great cast party last Saturday night; or rather Sunday morning, as it was 1:30am by the time we finished bump-out and could high-tail it back to Chez Clumsy for port and cigars. I was also rather proud that we managed to attract our first ever noise complaint at the apartment (that's despite a fairly large number of improvisor-heavy Guitar Hero shindigs).

You can read a much funnier account than I ever could provide over at my cast member Jamie's blog. He and another young cast member Tom got bailed up on the street by two of Queensland's finest, while another pair toddled upstairs in order to get us to turn down the music. It was ironic because we'd been performing scenes of that nature for the past six weeks. We'd also just been singing (He'll Never Be An) Ol' Man River by TISM, which was the play's theme song. Of course, we'd followed that up with F**k Her Gently by Tenacious D, and America - F**k Yeah! from "Team America: World Police", so the police really arrived at the optimum moment.

I've been flat out since the show ended; and could really do with sleeping until my name turns to Rip Van Clumsy. But tomorrow I'm off to Sydney with fellow improvisers Dave and Tom, to represent Queensland in the Theatresports National Championships on Saturday night. Wish me luck!

Love 'til Structural Failure

Today I purchased The Wah a new belt. His old one really had outlived its ability to perform its basic task of holding up pants:

It's not so obvious in the photo, but the belt is actually only half a belt, having lost its backing some months back. It's as flimsy as Lindsay Lohan's lesbianism. The rip you can see near the tightest hole is not only a fairly unfortunately phrased piece of innuendo - it's also more than half the belt's width. The damn thing is virtually useless, and it looks terrible. It's like Lindsay Lohan after seven lines at the Viper Room.

But The Wah tends to be like this. He will own things to the point of physical destruction. When we first started dating, he always carried with him a black canvas knapsack. He carried that damn thing around for at least four years, despite the buckles buckling and holes growing ever holier. He'd owned it for at least three years before we'd met - eventually it got "lost" somewhere. I may have had something to do with that; I can't honestly remember (Your Honour). Eventually we had to buy new backpacks for an overseas trip, and he began using the attachable daypack instead. It turned out to be more useful in the "holding things I own" department.

I'm always slightly wary of just throwing The Wah's things away. He gets very sensitive and starts mumbling things like "Bloody woman, getting rid of my stuff, leaving me with nothing, tearing it all away, take my life why don't you". So I do tend to make grave and sad-eyed requests before I chuck the damn things in the bin.

And I must admit to having my own "keep until reduced to atoms" items over the years - there was that bright red Max Factor lipstick that my mother gave me to use during ballet concerts when I was about eight, and that I only threw away after high school; there are all those branded pens I buy from various castles, museums or other tourist attractions that I stash in a bag in my study despite the fact half of them don't work; and then of course there's my blue Crocs, which really are over-worn, but remain in my wardrobe because goddamnit I walked the Great Wall of China in those suckers and I may need to enter them as evidence to prove as much one day.

So what about you? Are there clothes, toys, bits of electronics, pieces of furniture, bathroom flotsam or general jetsam that you just can't bring yourself to throw away?

M'aidez

It may have cost me a small fortune in SMS fees, but I "tweeted" today's Labour Day march through Brisbane. I also took my camera. Here, I've tried to match up some of the tweets with relevant photos/videos.

Just spoke to Anna Bligh. May Day march about to begin!

And we're off! Yet again I find myself up the front of the march.
Up the revolution, I say!

 Teachers up front: "2, 4, 6, 8, Anna don't just stimulate!"
and we're into "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport".

Good to see staff at Brunswick St adult shop watching march.
Up the workers, indeed.

My fave placard: "Unions. The people who brought you the weekend."
(On the reverse: "Kickin' Ass for the Working Class".)

The Premier is remarkably good at smiling at bagpipers going 'you're the voice' at full tilt.
(Note: the bagpipers were just behind this lot.)

Now to find the union tent and get a sausage in bread. Mmm, sausage.

OMG. Someone here is playing "Africa" by Toto. It calls me like siren song.
My day just became 50 per cent better.

In an ironic twist, the MEAA's Grim Reaper failed to show due to illness. Swine flu?

And that's me done. Back out to studio to file me lil' heart out.

The Final Felafel Countdown

Tonight is the penultimate performance of He Died with a Felafel in His Hand at the Brisbane Arts Theatre.

Both tonight and closing night tomorrow look set to be sold-out. I'm delighted by this; I'm excited that the marvellous work by the cast & crew has paid off so well. They have all been brilliant - talented and dedicated - and they are seeing well-deserved rewards for their efforts.

This was the day Mr Birmingham came to visit. He's drinking a "prop". It's filled with "water".

As the run approaches its finale, I am both saddened by the impending end of one of the most fun and creatively fulfilling times in my life; and chuffed to bits about its success, and the help the cash boost will give the theatre.

Above all, I'm thrilled about one of the most wonderful gifts I've ever received.

Simon Bedak (with the backing of fellow playwrights Steve Le Marquand and Michael Neaylon, as well as, I assume, the blessing of John Birmingham himself) has appointed me Official Felafel Bitch of the Universe. This uber-cool title means I will be the go-to guy for people interested in staging Felafel in the next few years.

This is quite an incredible honour, and a tremendous investment of faith in me from the guys. I have promised Squire Bedak that I will do my best to uphold the reputation of Felafel. In this spirit, I intend to start growing mary-jane under lamps in my bathroom, going to strip clubs, moon-tanning - and using my occasional close proximity to politicians to get some really good whip-cracking in. Nice.