BATTLE PIG!

I can't remember exactly why the phrase 'Battle Pig' entered my mind, but I know I was mucking about with my mate Dazzler, who I tease relentlessly about his workout schedule.

See, even right then, there was no need for me to mention the fact that Dazzler loves his gym like a drowning alcoholic loves an oxygen cocktail.

But he *is* Dazzler and he *does* like to pump iron, so it must be mentioned.

Dazzler and I were spitballing on some other topic when the phrase 'Battle Pig' arose.

I just loved the mental picture of a really cute, bubblegum pink porker, wearing an army helmet and carrying a gun. It soon progressed from 'Battle Pig' to 'BATTLE PIG' to 'BATTLE PIG!'.

Problem is, I can't draw, so it took a while before I could corner some artists, thrust paper and pencil into their hands, and demand they bring BATTLE PIG! to cartoony life.

But now, here he is, in all his majesty:

Thanks to my friends Paul (drawing) and Dan (colouring) for donating their skills.

Now I think BATTLE PIG! needs to have his own comic. Or a meme. Or at the very least, some high quality puns. Feel free to add your own suggestions, create your own situational artwork for BATTLE PIG!, make tribute films, etc etc. Let's make BATTLE PIG! the new bee's knees.

I hope you all had a great Christmas, and I wish you a happy, BATTLE PIG!-y 2013

Internet, I Need You To Help Me Kidnap a Dog

The other night I pulled my car into the little laneway that our driveway faces onto, when I noticed something small and white hovering in front of the roller door.

As my headlights caught glinting eyes, I realised it was a little animal.

Shifting into neutral and pulling up the handbrake, I opened the door and walked around in front of the Yaris.

And there it was - a sweet little Maltese terrier, looking up at me with brown eyes.

I crouched down and opened my arms, and the little fellow ran up to me straightaway.

It didn't quite leap into my arms, but I knew straightaway there was a bond there.

And it's not just because I have something of a soft spot in my heart for small white dogs.

Sure, Tintin inspired me to become a journalist, and I've always liked the idea of getting a small white Snowy-type dog to be my shadow, my canine companion in travel, adventure, mystery-solving and crime-fighting. I know it's not practical. You can't just take a terrier on as hand luggage in these budget airline times of ours. And while I think a pooch would be an awesome addition to any office, I'm not sure whether my colleagues would be onboard.

But it's a fancy I've never quite lost.

So as I scratched this little Maltese terrier's neck, and realised it wasn't wearing a collar, a sudden future of possibility opened up.

I would take this little dog home, clean him/her up, shop its nervous half-shaking, and train it.

I would call him/her Snowy. We would do journalism, and fight...

"Are you right there?"

It was an older man in a townhouse on the other side of the laneway, a few metres from where I sat with the dog.

"Oh! Are you missing a white dog?"

The elderly man pointed. "The house on the corner," he said. Then he lifted up a small white pug-faced creature.

"I do have a white dog, but he has a black eye," he grinned, gesturing to the markings on the dog's grumpy face.

"Oh," I replied. "I just noticed it didn't have a collar..."

"Yes, it's from the house on the corner."

All right then, Mr Community Service. 

I gathered up the sweet little terrier into my arms, and walked towards the townhouse on the corner. Its curtains were open, and through the screen doors I could seen a woman walk through the living room and towards the front door. 

"Oh, thank you!" she said, unlocking the front door and walking up the short path to the gate. Two young girls followed behind, her daughters, she went on to say.

"She just got out; I heard you talking to the neighbour," she said, reaching to grab the white fluffball from my hands.

'No problem," I said. "I was just worried he'd get hit..."

"She," she said. "Her name's Snow."

I blinked.

Snow.

"She's had fleas unfortunately," the woman continued.

I couldn't believe it, Snow... hang on, what?

"Yeah, we took her for a swim in the sea but that doesn't seem to have worked. We'll take her in and give her the full treatment," she said, passing the dog back to one of her girls.

"Well, uh, if you ever need, you know, a dog-sitter...."

The woman smiled. "Thanks again," she said, as they retreated into the house.

I turned and walked back to my still-running car, my dreams of doggy derrings-do turning into mere doggy-doo.

Now, it may be the case that you think an all-white Maltese terrier being named "Snow" is not that surprising, but I say screw you, this is fate.

That is my dog, people. My Snowy, just across the road.

A lovely little dog with fleas. Fleas! I could take better care of that dog, even though my house is a bit messy. We could have adventures onstage and off.

But how to make it happen? How to deprive a probably-nice-but-let's-assume-they're-horrid family of their probably-treasured-but-let's-say-neglected pooch?

Internet - I need your help to kidnap a dog.

Get Up on the Dancefloor

It is often said that I have terrible taste in music. Usually I say it, as a way of warning those attending any party with me against the impending onslaught of cheesy pop and hammy dance.

Which is why I find this so amusing:

That was recorded at the wedding reception of my dear friends Wade and Susan, by the best man, Steve, who very kindly let me repost it here. The disapproving friend is Dave, a lover of Iron Maiden, The Darkness and Manchester band James. Carly Rae Jepsen is obviously not his thing.

It was a rather big weekend of fun, as the previous night I had been out at my work Christmas party, which began in the office, but then progressed to a piano bar for much carousing.

Between the two events, I boogied so hard I was convinced I'd shed a few kilos.

(My fancy new scales, purchased to try to keep me on the straight and narrow when it comes to my eating habits, unfortunately confirmed that was not the case).

On both occasions, the soundtrack of choice was pop - chiefly from the '80s, '90s and now, as various commercial FM radio stations might have it. 

A lot of people like to hate on popular music, but I honestly don't think you can deny its power to unify people in social situations.

Sure, your indie bands and folk hybrids and breathy singer-songwriters may have more "credibility", but they're not going to get people on the dancefloor.

But throw on Love Shack by the B-52s and damn, you've got yourself a shimmy-fest. 

Spin the dial to American Pie, and you've got yourself an almighty sing-a-long. 

And press play on Africa by Toto, and watch as the planets align, enemies become friends, and puppies vomit rainbows and diamonds into your shoes.

It can't just be me. The power of pop must reach far and wide, into all functions, parties, engagements and mixers.

What's your surefire dancefloor hit?

A Review of the Movie "Death Race", by Someone Receiving a Chinese Foot Massage in Xi'an

Death Race is a 2008 action film starring Jason Statham. It received limited release in Australia, and yet was chosen as the video of choice to accompany my foot massage in Xian, China, in September 2012.

Why? One of our masseuses seemed excited by the flatscreen TV and surround sound set-up in the spa treatment room. Granted, it was a surprise to see a fully-decked out home theatre in kind of place I was expecting dim lights and Deep Forest music, but the language barrier prevented me from clearly explaining that I didn't need to select from the multitudes of English-language options; rather, it seemed to cement to the masseuse that what I really wanted was a high-octane no-brainer of an action movie to accompany my relaxing foot rub.

The procedure began with my feet being soaked in a timber bucket, lined with cling film, and seasoned with tea. Death Race began with explanatory titles to inform you that in the future, a discontent populace is kept at peace by watching prisoners regularly compete in a drive-to-the-death race imaginatively titled "Death Race". It's like The Hunger Games but with more stupid.

A significant problem encountered early on with Death Race was the volume level the masseuse had set it on. Loud enough to hear the (admittedly frequent) explosions and hooning sounds, but too quiet to properly make out the dialogue, it meant I was left to fill in the plot for myself.

Luckily, this was managed as easily as my masseuse managed to surprise me by beginning my massage with a neck and shoulder rub. Apparently that is the tradition, in much the same way Jason Statham seems to be following spiritual predecessor Steven Seagal's tradition of appearing in a series of moronic revenge fantasies cut from the same unintelligible cookie dough.

Jason Statham acting concerned.

Jason Statham's character  - for easy reference, let's call him "Jason Statham" - is framed for his wife's murder, a stabbing almost as brutal as my massueuse's fingers as they dug into knots above my shoulder blades. Their baby daughter is taken from him, and he's slammed into jail.

This futuristic Alcatraz is manned by sadistic guards, including one who, on Jason Statham’s arrival, strips him nude and hoses him down. It gives Statham a chance to do the two things he does best: look pissed off and flex.

My potentially sadistic masseuse was also flexing - my biceps, against my will. Back and forth they went, much like jolting camera angles and rapid editing techniques employed during the action sequences.

Jason Statham is given a place on a racing team, replacing the Frankenstein-masked driver who had been killed in the pre-credits sequence. A stony-faced Joan Allen plays the prison boss, who seems to be offering the place to Jason Statham as a quick way out of his predicament. By contrast, my massage had reached only the halfway mark, and there was no easy way out for me.

Jason Statham acting perturbed.

They started scraping my feet with a straight blade just as Jason Statham and his crew of unlikely cohorts suited up for their first "Death Race". They consisted, predictably, of an older-experienced-father-figure guy (always lovely to see Ian McShane, even in this piece), a socially-defunct-but-mechanically-brilliant young white guy, and a wise-cracking-strategy-expert black guy.

I sighed at their cliched presence, but it was the next turn of events that saw the film's credibility - much like the skin falling from my heels - crumble.

Each "Death Race" driver required a navigator; and this service was provided by a consignment of women, presumedly bussed in from a female prison. Perhaps I should say "bust" in, as these ladies were not dressed to the specifications I would have thought necessary for high-speed futuristic racing. While the male drivers had racing suits and helmets, the female navigators had crop tops, low-slung jeans or cut-off shorts, and long hair suited more for slow-motion montages than shaky cam mise-en-scène.

The pumice used to slough more dead skin from my heels was rough, but not nearly as rough as the "Death Race" proved to be for Jason Statham and his felonious friends. The competition appeared to be held on some sort of desiccated aircraft carrier, complete with only-to-be-expected obstacles like low-hanging iron bars and land mines.

A word now about the violence. While a certain degree of brutality was always to be expected, the force with which my calves were assaulted came as a real shock.

The same cannot be said for Death Race.  I had taken a punt that each blunt stunt and shunt would be more front than grunt. And I was right. The manner in which Jason Statham outwitted, outdrove and outlived his toothless rivals was, by visual assessment alone, a routine dismemberment of narrative convention and the laws of physics, but, unlike my exposed thighs, lacking in meaty substance.

Jason Statham acting determined.

Eventually, the whole experience climaxed in an orgy of writhing and screaming. But that was not the conclusion of Death Race – for the film, somewhat unadvisedly, insisted on being longer than my personal torturer required to see me finished off. If it hadn’t already been a highly unusual choice as massage accompaniment, that really sealed the deal.

And so I must conclude my review without being able to offer a satisfactory summary of the culmination of Death Race. One must surmise that Jason Statham wins the competition and makes it out of jail alive, probably losing at least one of his inmate buddies along the way (being Hollywood, I would hazard a guess at the wise-cracking black guy), breaks the cycle of voyeuristic violence, gets his daughter back, and hooks up with the navigator babe faster than you could say “Turn right”.

But what was right was the spirit of experimentation both the salon and my masseuse had, in both the nature of the treatment, and the treatment of the client. When you travel, you choose to open yourself up to new experiences, and my hour with mindless action and aggressive bodily manipulation is not a combination I’ll soon forget.

Four stars.

DEAR LORD SAVE US KATE MIDDLETON IS PREGNANT

It's 2:15am, Brisbane time, and I've just watched a flurry of ten tweets pour into my stream breathlessly announcing the news that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are expecting their first child.

Love all, if you get my drift.

Doubtless by the time I check back in with Twitter in a few seconds' time, there will be tens of thousands more, as the part of the world not sleeping currently loses its collective shit about a nice young couple doing what many nice young couples do and sprog on.

Now of course, I wish the happy royal couple all the happiness and royalness they could possibly want. Despite my gruff exterior, I actually don't wish harm on any child. Except the brats, of course.

But I seriously don't know how I'm going to cope with the impending bombardment of smug women's magazines spawning week after week of nauseating updates about Kate's health, and well-being, and emotions, and bowel movements, like she's the first person to ever get knocked up by a balding man.

So because I'm up at this silly time writing up a concert review, I decided to take a brief break to write the next six months' worth of headlines for the women's magazines.

Simply read through this list, then gouge your own eyes out with a teaspoon and hide in a cupboard for the next half-year. Then you can resume your life, albeit sightless and agoraphobic, safe in the knowledge you escaped the madness that will engulf you if you even pass by a newsagent's before about August 2013.


KATE'S BABY BLISS!
Finally, she's fulfilling the one thing she MUST do as a princess!

KATE'S MORNING SICKNESS CRISIS!
Poor Kate throwing up every time Prince Andrew visits!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY
Day 103 - "I've reached an almost-normal weight!"

KATE'S LEGACY TO HEIR
Diana would've loved all this if she weren't, you know, still dead!

KATE'S BABY WORKOUT!
Yoga, walks, muay thai kickboxing!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY
Day 145 - It's still f***ing in there!

KATE'S EXIT STRATEGY
Natural like her beautiful hair, or too posh to push? Either way let's judge her!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIET
Sugar-free quail, eggs Arabica, decoupage of rocket salad - why Kate is eating herself healthy while you pig out on chips you fat non-royal pregnant slag!

KATE NAME DILEMMA
Elizabeth? George? Jayden? Shenneiqua? LeShawn? Hashtag?

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY

Day 178 - "I never thought I'd experience the sensation of getting headbutted in the vagina from the inside!"*

KATE'S BABY JOY!

The damn thing came out with all fingers and toes and holy crap it's the future King/Queen of England so let's shove f***ing cameras in its still-raw tiny f***ing face.

KATE'S STRUGGLE TO LOSE BABY WEIGHT

Lose the chub, Your Highness!

KATE'S AMAZING BODY TRANSFORMATION

Just 17 days after giving birth, Kate models for Chanel because she's better than you'll ever be.

KATE WANTS ANOTHER ONE

Too soon? Hell no! Pump out more kids so we cover stories for ever and ever amen.

*Credit that one to an actual, real-life friend of mine who recently gave birth.