Five Early 90s Female Pop Songs You Didn't Realise You Needed to Hear Again

....or indeed for the first time, for the young (re: uneducated) people out there.

The 1990s was a golden era for solo female pop. The Spice Girls, Girls Aloud and Destiny's Child heralded a new era of pop girl bands from the mid-to-late 90s, before the rise of Britney and Christina once again secured pop music for the solo femmes.

Of course, Madonna was doing her thing throughout all of this, but Madonna's just so far ahead of the pack she should comprise every Top X List of Everything Ever.

Here are five tracks that demonstrate what a young girl might be exposed to musically as her teenage years approached.

5. One of Us by Joan Osborne

OK, so its 1995 release date technically puts it out of the early 90s. But in tone, timbre and intent, it belongs in this list. Most people would probably now know this song as the loving duet Dr Evil and Mini-Me sing in Austin Powers 2, or as the theme for the TV show Joan of Arcadia.

But before that it was a massive hit. It was everywhere, you couldn't escape it. That riff, that yearning voice, that nostril ring she wears in the video clip - it all made Joan Osborne a star. For about five minutes.

Songwriter Eric Bazilian supposedly dashed off the song quickly to impress hit future wife, and offered it to Joan Osborne while working on her album. Her raw vocals turned the "wacky" song about faith and Jesus and the saints and all the prophets into an endearing search for meaning. Despite his hopes, Eric didn't win a Grammy, but he's no doubt made a Bazilian dollars in royalties.

4. Boy in the Moon by Margaret Urlich

You've probably sung along to Margaret Urlich dozens of times and never realised it. The New Zealand-born singer provided the backing vocals in Darryl Braithwaite's 1990 mega hit The Horses. Since then, countless karaoke nights have included some tomfool maxing out the reverb with a "Beeeeeee, little darling!" Sometimes it's not even me.

But Urlich chose not to appear in Dazzer's film clip for The Horses, because she was trying to establish herself as a soloist. 1992's The Boy in the Moon was possibly her biggest hit, a cheerful love ballad supported by an artsy video clip that really highlights the importance of the choker to early 90s fashion. My god, the chokers. They were like an albatross around your neck. 

3. Cry by Lisa Edwards

What did I just tell you about chokers?

I remember getting the CD single of this song from my aunt. I think she'd won it or something and didn't want it. I had that CD for years, just sitting in a rack under Madonna's Erotica and Michael Jackson's Dangerous. I can't remember if I even played it much, just that I felt it boosted my meagre collection.

But who was Lisa Edwards? John Farnham's backing singer, that's who. An experienced session and back-up singer, she somehow managed to score a Top 5 hit with this splendidly dramatic ode to heartbreak, before going back on the road with Whispering Jack about eleventy billion times. 

Researching this post has led me to uncover the fact that this song was actually a cover. English duo Godley and Creme wrote Cry in 1985, and the video shows how New Wave-y it originally was. It also starts out with a pudgy dude crying awkwardly, so I think Edwards deserves points for her theatrical glam black-and-white clip. The tradition of pop stars rolling around on beds was not a new one, but 90s femmes really took it to a new level.

2. Love...Thy Will Be Done by Martika

What did I just tell you about rolling around on beds?

This is the tune that inspired this post. It just randomly popped into my head a few days ago, and I was struck by a deep frission of nostalgic energy. I loved this song in 1991. It was soft, melodic, philosophical and it didn't have a chorus. It was more hymn than song and it always took my breath away 

And it was co-written by Prince! The small, purple-wearing musical genius who's pretty much written everything for everyone. Once you know this fact, you can really hear his guiding hand over the orchestration - the random backing cries ("Satisfied!") and the tumbling, cascading way lyrics would run over each other ("Even when there's no peace outside my window there's peace inside and that's why I can not longer run"). It's magic.

Despite this song doing well in the US and hitting number 1 for ages in Australia, it didn't really help Martika in the long run. After starting so promisingly with the brilliant Toy Soliders back in 1988, dropped out of the limelight after the Martika's Kitchen album was released. Naming an album after a room in your house was probably the reason. Even if I was a brilliant singer, I can't imagine anyone forking out the folding stuff for a copy of Natalie's Bathroom.

1. Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover by Sophie B. Hawkins.

I remember dancing so hard to this song at Tanya Packer's 12th birthday party. That was the party we managed to get a bra off another sleeping girl and hang it off a ceiling light. I know, right? Off the hook. Actually, Tanya Packer was really a bully and the "bad girl" of the school and I'd once gotten in trouble after she wrote me and Melita Grace a letter filled with swear words just because she thought it was cool. My peer-pressure-induced reply (yes, I was weak, I remain weak) was discovered by someone (A teacher? My mother?) and it became an Issue With The Principal. I didn't even have Tanya's original letter to show them because I clearly remember riding my red bike out to the bins (we had a long driveway) to personally dispose of it before anyone could see it. But I tell you, I learned a valuable fucking lesson about language after that whole affair. 

Where was I? Oh yes, Tanya Packer. We parted ways at the end of primary school. I assume she hit adulthood, got knocked up several times by different fellas and now lives a flea-bitten existence somewhere on Brisbane's northside with more children than teeth. I realise that's cruel, but let's face it, she was going that way. You don't know what a head job is at age 10 without certain paths drawing you towards them. Yes, that was how I learned what a head job was. I've never recovered.

I'll admit something though - for a good part of the 1990s, I thought Sophie B. Hawkins and Sarah Jessica Parker were the same person. I'm sure you can understand the confusion - big blonde curly hair, pointy faces, unnecessary middle names/initials. It was only really after Sex and the City began that it dawned on me that SJP probably wouldn't be seen dead in grungy flannel, even in the early 90s.

Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover was a proper rock ballad by a bonafide good singer. SBH had a pleasant raspy richness to her voice, which no doubt inspired the dingy basement setting of the video clip. While this song is no doubt entirely of the early 90s, it retains a certain sense of timelessness. Perhaps it's that deep two-note signature riff, or the way Sophie's soft verses build into the explosive "Damn!" of the chorus. Watch the clip, and I'm fairly certain it will get into your head. But unlike so many other earworms, it's not a wholly unpleasant experience.

Lost in Translation, or, Chinese Whispers

I have thousands of pictures in my iPhone's camera roll. Occasionally I try to go through and delete batches of them, but still they mount up.

During one such attempted clean-out while standing in a queue this weekend, I found shots from my trip to China earlier this year, which I had always intended to form into a hopefully-interesting-sort-of-post.

One of my favourite things about visiting China is seeking out odd products, and even better, the mistranslation of product descriptions into English. I think it's because Chinese is a very visual, descriptive language, and the transplanting of those concepts into English is either innately pretty or hilariously off-putting.

For example: These wax strips are described as "Depilate Sacrificial Paper", and when you think about, that kind of makes sense. You are, after all, offering up your unwanted body hair to the temple of beauty. Note: these strips work best on human body limbs, so forget about waxing your ... cat.

Here's a helpful product to stop the waste plastic bags create. My favourite is the pleading catchphrase at the bottom of the pack.

This one was for some sort of music festival. I've got no idea what's going on.

A still picture doesn't really do justice to the "Shrilling Chicken". When you squeezed this toy, it let off a sound that can only be described as a busty soprano being steamrolled by a boiling kettle.

I'm pretty certain the "There are no ugly women only lazy women" line is credited to Coco Chanel. But who came up with "Clothes is women's face job", Buffalo Bill?

If memory serves, these didn't taste half bad.

And then there was this one. Again, no idea.  I almost bought this one, because I wanted to try to work out exactly what it was. My best guess was an ice-block mould in the shape of the dog turd. But I chickened out of forking over my hard-earned yuan for it because of the SWASTIKA EYEBALLS. I just didn't want to answer odd questions at Customs on the way back into Australia.

These next ones were my favourite. We took a day trip out to the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, and our driver decided the best way to entertain us on the hour-long commute would be to whack on his pirated copy of noted singer Sarah Brightman's 2008 opus A Winter Symphony.

I can say that it was pirated because - beyond the obvious joke - the English lyrics to the songs were fantastically wrong. As in, I could sit here for days and not come up with a funnier match of song title and actual lyrics.

That's the lyrics of Jumpin' Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, NOT Ave Maria. And it's followed by I Believe in Father Christmas, which bears a striking resemblance to Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves. As I said, comic fricking genius.

But the best was this one - and sadly I don't know the name of the song, but Canto Della Terra sure got a lot fruitier than Ms Brightman probably intended.

Have you got any good examples of strange products and crazy translations?

Queensland Police Pay Lip(ton) Service to Equality

The Queensland Police Service has denied allegations of sexism in its ranks, describing its female officers as a vitally important and attractive part of the force.

A review of the state’s emergency services by former AFP commissioner Mick Keelty highlighted examples of senior policewomen being asked to make tea at meetings.

“We don’t believe sexism is rampant in the QPS,” said Deputy Commissioner Russ McSweeney, sipping on a Twinings Earl Grey.

“Our female officers are treated with respect and dignity, nothing to do with cuppas or cup sizes,” he said. 

Deputy Commissioner McSweeney cited a recent case in which 29-year-old Constable Sheryl Jones was celebrated for her efforts in arresting a suspected shoplifter in the Queen Street Mall.

“She held the bloke down during a struggle, during which time buttons were ripped off her uniform issue shirtfront, exposing her lace bra,” he said.

“The boys made sure they took photographic evidence on their smartphones so Constable Jones could be appropriately honoured that Friday night at the pub.”

Deputy Commissioner McSweeney said the incident proved that highly skilled female officers were part of a well-rounded police service.

“Some of them are very well-rounded indeed,” he said.

Detective Inspector Maureen Srakowski said the service was a more positive place for women officers than when she first joined up.

“It was common in the early 1990s to receive a lot of abuse on call outs,” she said.

“It made sense - we were invading someone’s space and forcing them to improve their behaviour to a standard acceptable to the community.

Constable Mavis Duncan was poached by
the Academy while working at Starbucks.

“But still, it made it hard to actually get out of the paddywagon and arrest some bad guys.”

DI Srakowski, now a widely recognised expert in organised crime and drug trafficking, said anti-discrimination and workplace safety training had come along in leaps and bounds.

“Now I can go days without hearing a single ‘Remember your gun, sugartits?’”

Deputy Commissioner McSweeney said the key to building confidence and respect for female recruits lay in providing a variety of challenging opportunities.

“For example, C.I.B just purchased a new Nespresso machine, so we’ll have a range of coffee options for upcoming meetings as well,” he said.

“If they can make that cream frothing thing work, I say go the femmos.”

Felafel on Film

Today marks three weeks - three weeks! - until the curtains come up on He Died With a Felafel in His Hand at the Brisbane Powerhouse.

Of course we're in the Visy Theatre, which is a thrust stage, so there are no curtains, but you get the general idea.

I must admit this date makes the situation quite stark - while I'm happy with our progress so far there is a metric truckload of work still to be done.

In the meantime, please enjoy this wonderful Felafel taster film, courtesy of the very talented and very generous Ben Tantari.

You can book tickets to He Died With a Felafel in His Hand online now, or check out the backstory of how it all came about.

He Died With a Felafel in His Hand.... again

Because there's nothing tastier than a reheated kebab...

That's right, we're bringing Felafel back, in much the same way Justin Timberlake brought sexy back in 2006.

Author and generous supporter John Birmingham made the official announcement via his blog last week, but I thought it might be prudent to give a bit of background on how it all came about.

Raven Mad

My Raven On Game of Thrones episode recaps are still going on over at the mighty Brisbane Times and affiliates - supposedly they're doing quite well in terms of audience response.

Read them, or I'll smite you with infinite prejudice

The S3E4 recap is up today, and I was greeted first thing this morning by my inaugural complaint email.

Leaving aside the gentleman's name, I reproduce his words here, because they are glorious:

Why oh why do you insist on spamming us with your articles on Game of Thrones. FFS it's just a TV show and no other TV show gets weekly episode reviews.... give it a rest !!!!

I can't tell you how thrilled I am to receive my first "Why oh why" email. It's an even better feeling than I had imagined.

I really want to reply to this gentleman's email. It's taking me a great deal of effort to stick by the philosophy that you shouldn't poke the angry bear.

But in case he happens to journey around the interwebs, and perhaps come across this blog, I just want to make a few points that perhaps he didn't stop to consider:

• It is actually impossible to be "spammed" by a news website that you yourself choose to visit.
• There is no requirement for you to actually click on the recap and read it.
• In fact, many TV shows are recapped weekly on Fairfax sites, including Mad Men, My Kitchen Rules and The Voice.

For the most part though, I've been absolutely delighted with the response of commenters on the recaps, so do join in the fun if you're willing and able.

Comedy & Tragedy

I did another stand up comedy spot last night.

It was another ill-advised, hasty decision, the kind I like to make when I'm full of bravura and confident a bit of make-up and a "she'll be right" attitude will see me through.

Yeah, not so much.

It's been two years since I tried to make the funny in a five minute open-mic slot, and I wasn't very good.

Now I mean that in a positive way. I've been developing a habit of looking at creative things I'm doing through a more objective, constructive filter, rather than bursting into tears every time I'm not instantly perfect.

If only I could apply the same rationale to eating and exercising. First things first, I guess.

I'll be writing more about the experience for Brisbane Times, as part of a fairly epic upcoming month of the Brisbane Comedy Festival.

But the key point is that five minute stand-up spots require tight writing.

My preference, in writing as well as speaking, is to go off on long, rambling tangents that are generally reasonably whimsical and hopefully end with a point or a laugh.

"So then I said..."

That does not suit five minute open mic-ing - you've got to deliver, and fast. I flubbed this time around, and pondered whether I was in fact cut out for stand-up. Perhaps I'm not, but I won't really know until I can get a better grip on the actual format. Which means I will have to try it a few more times before I can truly say I "failed". And that's a nice sentiment to take away from the evening!

Something I'm quite excited about however, is the opportunity to perform in White Rabbit, Red Rabbit at the Brisbane Powerhouse this Saturday 23 February.

I will admit I somewhat bullied my way into the festival programmers' vision as a potential candidate for this. At the launch last November, my attention was grabbed by the idea of a cold-read script, in which there is no set, no director, no rehearsal - just one performer handed the script and reading, discovering the words as the audience does.

It's important to recognise one's skills as well as one's failings, and just as I have acknowledged my poor attempts at the comedy craft above, I will here admit to being reasonably proud of my ability to cold read - to pick up a document and read from it with relatively few errors, and with relatively appropriate emotion.

I once inspired an English teacher to break into applause after giving a monologue from a play about Lachlan Macquarie as part of a verbal presentation. I really put my back into that one; I even looked up what the word "chicanery" meant.

Also - I'm an improviser, damnit. I love exploring things without having all the information. So when someone pulled out and they asked if I was still interested, I responded with a resounding yes.

All I know about this play is that it was written by a young Iranian man when he was restricted from leaving the country because the government wouldn't grant him a passport.

I will learn the rest on the night.

If you are interested, please consider coming along. I don't know what it will be like, but I can promise you I'm eager to make this a brilliant experience and will work my heart out as soon as that script is placed in my hands.

And because it is written, you know you won't be risking some of my long and rambling stories with no point!

Fiscal Cliff

It's probably far too soon to introduce another cartoon character so soon after BATTLE PIG!, but when you're inspired you're inspired.

For the past week Americans have been panicking about their impending financial doom. Finally Congress was able to pass measures to stop the United States from experiencing a sharp decrease in the budget deficit that would have led to a mild recession this year.

Every time I’ve read or heard the descriptive phrase regarding this crisis I’ve had the same picture flash into my head. The picture of a man – smooth, cashed-up, with an eagle on his head...

He's Fiscal Cliff.

Once again, Paul displays mad drawing skills
while Dan colours beautifully within the line.

Fiscal Cliff doesn't like puns (well, apart from his name).

Fiscal Cliff likes attitudes, ideas, self-promotion and making money.

He’s Patrick Bateman without the serial killer aspect, and with a dirty great rock holding him up.

Fiscal Cliff refers to himself in the third person as he gives you advice. For example:

Fiscal Cliff thinks you should invest in his new scheme to give the homeless business loans at grossly inflated interest rates.

Fiscal Cliff thinks you'd be better off with a high-risk share portfolio.

Fiscal Cliff is launching a Kickstarter scheme to raise capital for a new financial advice app. Pledge and Fiscall Cliff will reward you with a signed picture of Fiscal Cliff.

I got quite excited by Fiscal Cliff, and mentioned the idea to another artist, the superb Saltmarsh, who come up with his own version.

Once again, Dan does some mad colouring.

So now there are two brilliant caricatures of Fiscal Cliff. Feel free to suggest more sleazy lines for everybody's favourite smooth operator.

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.

House Inspection

SPOILER WARNING - SPOILER WARNING - SPOILER WARNING

Please do not read this post unless you have seen the new James Bond film Skyfall.

Tom: It wasn't like this before.

Deborah: Definitely not like this before.

Tom: Oh, here's the agent.

Mr Forster: Tom, Deborah! Great to see you! Welcome to your new home.

Deborah: Yes...

Tom: ...about that...

Mr Forster: I've got the keys right here for the final inspection and handover.

Tom: I'm not sure you'll need those.

Mr Forster: Ahhh... I see the cleaners have been through. Must've forgotten to lock the front door.

Deborah: The front door's in the front yard.

Tom: On fire.

Mr Forster: And doesn't that oak burn well? Quality hardwood there.

Deborah: And the Aston Martin?

Mr Forster: I'm sorry?

Deborah: The Aston Martin. Strafed with bullets.

Mr Forster: A classic British car.

Tom: Also on fire.

Mr Forster: It's post-modern artwork. Possibly a Banksy.

Deborah: It just seems there's a few differences since we first inspected.

Mr Forster: Nothing unusual, just a customary going-over by the departing family.

Tom: I thought the owner was dead?

Mr Forster: Yes, yes, that's what we understand, terrible thing. Not sure what he did. Something for the government. Inherited the estate from his parents, but hasn't been here for years.

Deborah: Are you sure?

Mr Forster: Why?

Deborah: It just seems there's a few things missing.

Mr Forster: Like what?

Deborah: Like the roof.

Mr Forster: Ohhh... no, no, that's just a trick of the light. It's these Scottish glens, you know, all misty. Let's head inside. Just mind the smoke... that is, the mist.

Tom: It's awfully drafty.

Mr Forster: It is well ventilated for such an old manor house, isn't it?

Deborah: There's a lot of nails on the floor.

Mr Forster: Perfect for DIY fixups.

Tom: And these bodies, stacked like cordwood over here?

Mr Forster: Poachers.

Tom: Right.

Mr Forster: Let's head into the drawing room. Just mind the blood.

Deborah: Now see, this is new.

Mr Forster: What's that?

Deborah: The helicopter.

Tom: I don't remember that before either.

Mr Forster: It's not a new feature, it's just been cleaned and restored.

Deborah: It's a smouldering wreck.

Mr Forster: So what you're saying is that it's not "Apache" on what you thought you were buying?

...

...

Mr Forster: I'll cancel the deposit.

James Bond Does Not Drink Beer

My friends, I write to you distressed, distraught and dismayed by a revelation that I cannot believe I had not heard until now.

Heineken has spent a reported $45 million dollars to sponsor the latest James Bond film, Skyfall.

James Bond. Drinking beer.

Beer. 

The utter blasphemy of this decision should be obvious to anyone who's ever flicked on the teev and found themselves watching Goldfinger for the seventeenth time, because the bit with the ejector seat and the bit with the laser and Oddjob and Pussy Galore are so. freaking. cool.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against beer. Many people I respect and admire drink beer. 

But James Bond does not drink beer.

James Bond drinks vodka martinis. Occasionally he drinks a mint julep, or Bollinger or Dom Perignon champagne. Sometimes port or sherry.

But never, ever, EVER beer.

James Bond does not pop to the off-licence for a six-pack. James Bond does not crack open a tallie on return from a hard day's work shooting bad guys on Her Majesty's pleasure. James Bond does not pick up a slab ahead of an evening's baccarat.

Now you may think I'm over-reacting. Fine. Here's an experiment. 

Imagine James Bond eating a hotdog.

Go on, imagine it. Picture, in your mind, the suave secret agent, sidling up to a mobile van on a street corner, while on stake out. See 007 hand over a fiver in return for a soft bun and a lukewarm pink tube of almost-meat; watch as he squeezes first ketchup, then mustard over his late-night snack. Conjure up the image of Britain's sharpest spy shoving sugary bread into his mouth, fluffy specks breaking off on the corners of his lips and fluttering down to land the lapels of his Italian tuxedo, followed by a plop of errant mustard, leaving a yellow stain across his previously crisp white shirt. Imagine Bond chewing on rubbery sausage, he face contorting around the foodstuff, twisting and gobbing until the last of the desperately sad hotdog hits the back of his tonsils and he burps, quietly at first, then louder, the taste of over-cooked sausage returning for one final visit, like the Blofeld of processed meats.

YOU CAN'T IMAGINE IT WITHOUT BREAKING YOUR HEAD BECAUSE JAMES BOND DOES NOT EAT HOTDOGS SO NOW YOU UNDERSTAND WHY I'M MAD BECAUSE JAMES BOND DOES NOT DRINK BEER.

Here is my visual response:

I guess what I'm saying here is that JAMES BOND DOES NOT DRINK BEER.

Oo-er, Mr Bean

My father spotted them first.

"What's this? Mr Bean?" he said, pointing a row of square tin boxes behind a glass partition in the cigarette vendor's small stall.

"Oh yeah," I replied, recognising the gormless face of Rowan Atkinson's popular character peering out towards the busy Prome street.

"Are they cigarettes?" said Dad.

"Don't know," I said, leaning in to see if there was any English among the Burmese script on the front of the box.

"They're pills," I said, after seeing the word CAPSULES, followed in smaller print by "12 Pills".

"What are these for?" I quizzed the street vendor, a young bloke in a navy t-shirt, perched on a wooden slat of a seat behind his merchandise.

He grasped my question and made a body builder gesture, flexing his biceps, raising his fists to the ceiling, not four inches above his head.

"Big and strong!" he said enthusiastically.

His physical and verbal clues led me to think it must've been a supplement, such as a herbal steroid, something like that. It didn't explain the picture of Mr Bean, but then neither, it would turn out, did the actual contents.

"How much?" I asked. "One thousand five hundred kyets," he replied. I nodded, and look down to pluck the necessary notes from my little purse, a relic of another market encounter. When my gaze returned to the vendor, he was using scissors to cut one capsule free from its brothers in a blister pack of six.

"One thousand five hundred for one," he explained, seeing my confusion.

"Oh, no, no!" I laughed. "I want the box."

He held out the larger blister pack.

"No, the box, just the container! How much for the container?"

"I give to you, as present for friend," he smiled, taking my proffered kyets but waving my hand away when I went for more.

He opened up one of the Mr Bean branded tin boxes and placed the one cut-out pill inside. He snapped it shut, and handed it over to me.

"Desube," I smiled in thanks. He nodded, still smiling.

I walked a few metres away from the stall to rejoin my father, who had watched the exchange through a slight flu haze. We had come out for a brief late afternoon stroll to enjoy the dappled sunshine and stretch our legs along Prome's busy shopping streets.

Now, I turned the box over in my hand to discover another picture of Mr Bean, this time looking alluring at the camera while tracing a bare foot in the sand.

Superimposed on top of the image was some English text. I began reading aloud:

This product is the excellent eastem life vitality formula by Biomedical Research Center which constituted by famous medical experts. By applying the-high-fech means, we've successfully researched and developed this health product...

... at this point I began laughing, and put my hand on my Dad's shoulder to steady myself.

... which can make the male genitalia increasing the length and hardness of erection quickly in 20 minutes, it can reach the perfect hardness, length, excitati on degress, and prolonging the sexual intercourse time.

By this time Dad had joined in the laughter.

We'd bought Burmese Viagra.

We took the box back to the RV Pandaw, our floating home, where I charged into the cabin I was sharing with my grandmother and roused her from a nap.

"Bought you a present, Gran," I belted out. "It's going to change your life."

"Huh?" she murmured, still groggy from her own bout of the flu and confused by the sudden noise.  I started reading the same text I'd read to my father a few minutes before.

Gran started laughing. "How does that help me?" she cried. 'Well, you like Mr Bean," I said. "Not that much," she replied.

The tin box did the rounds on the Pandaw that night, resulting in guffaws only slightly exaggerated by pre-dinner cocktails and during-dinner wine.

What nobody could understand was - why Mr Bean?

Rowan Atkinson's awkward, gangly, accident-prone character is hardly the first thing that comes to mind when you think 'virility' - or as the vendor had put it, "big and strong". And yet, there he was, the face, or perhaps, the phallic-ly symbolic leg, of a local stiffy pill.

The best our theories got was an association with the word 'bean'. Bean Stalk or Bean Pole could indicate desirable "length and hardness", as the description put it, while the expression "full of beans" could account for the claims of "longer intercourse time". But do those terms adequately translate? Or do the Burmese simply think Mr Bean's a hornbag?

Chances are I'll never really know. I guess we'll just have to trust that the famous medical experts pulling overtime at the BioTechnical Research Centre know what they're doing.

Have you ever come across an awesomely unexpected celebrity product "endorsement"?

Champions

I made this little video of the Smart Enough to Know Better ExpoSE event - aka, the giant zombie Nerf battle. I'm pretty impressed with my movie editing skills, but more impressive really is the performance of the little camera on the iphone 4S.

It was a super fun day out. Running around with big Nerf guns, I felt just like a proper hardcore, super-cool, zombie-fighting ninja gun-slinger. The photographic evidence, however, suggests otherwise:

Forget planking. The new craze is Flailing.
Thanks to @vonmuz for the picture.

It was a great way to recover after ImproMafia's big Theatresports Grand Championships the night before. Victoria was the eventual winning state, but it was a sensational night all round, and the New South Wales, ACT and of course Queensland teams also shone.

Photo thanks to Images by Anderson.

I love a bit of audience banter as an MC, and for some reason I developed this habit of being a bit sexually inappropriate with audience members. Normally I proffer clumsy compliments and feeble attempts at pick-up lines. Normally it's received with a tolerant giggle or two; but on Saturday night, two blokes in the very front vanished at interval! Granted, I had described one of them as a Karl Stefanovic lookalike in a tablecloth shirt, but surely he saw that for the high praise it really was? Apparently not. Anyway, at the very least it provided a good laugh for the crowd as my ego took a battering.

Thanks to everyone involved in both events for all their hard work and enthusiasm!

Commune Savours the Bold

Devastating news emerged from Hollywood over the weekend: Ronn Moss, beloved star of long-running soap The Bold and the Beautiful, will leave the series after 25 years.

Ronn Moss, for those of you living under a ridge, played Rock.

No, wait. For those of you living under a rock, he played Ridge, the most wonderfully foolishly named character in a show full of wonderfully foolishly named characters (Thorne, Storm, Whip, Bill).

In reacting to this bombshell, I certainly went through the five stages of grief. And I did it in true soap opera style:

It may surprise, nay, horrify you, dear readers, to discover that I am in fact a secret Bold fan.

But before you judge me, sit down and hear the tale of how this program can entrance even the most cynical of hearts.

In Australia, Bold screens at 4:30pm on Channel Ten, just before the 5pm Ten News.

For us journalist types - and for other news groupies - an evening of news-watching begins with the 5pm Ten bulletin. It means TVs start being flicked over to Channel 10 around the 4:55pm mark - just in time to see the last few moments of The Bold and the Beautiful.

For me, this means around ten years of casually dropping in on the glamourous world of fashion, around which Bold revolves. The brilliant thing about the soap format is that the last five minutes is more than enough to give you comprehensive character and plot information. A few of these every week sees you starting to learn characters' names. A few months of this, and you might start working out the incredibly complex and close-to-incestuous nature of the relationships. Brooke, for example, has married Ridge at least 14 times; and also had children with his father; and with her daughter's husband.

Oh yes, my friends, when Shakespeare coined the term "tangled web", he was foreseeing a Bold future.

Of course, I kept this habit under wraps, not even admitting to myself that I might be flicking over earlier and earlier. Soap opera magazines in the supermarket may have indicated that Bold had a very popular following; but I was a sensible, clever media type. I didn't watch soap operas, I'd tell myself as the square-jaw of Ridge Forrester started flashing up onto my screen at 4:45; 4:35pm. "It's just important to be ready to watch the Proper News."

Very few people can pull off a turtleneck.
Ronn Moss is not one of them.

However, over the past year, and thanks mainly to Twitter, I've discovered I'm not alone in my habit. The hashtag #5minutesbeforethenews brought a whole bunch of secret Bold fans out of the designer closet. And for the more hard core, #ohbrookeohtaylorohbrooke is a feed of fans live-tweeting each episode as it airs in Australia.

And now I know why there are so many of us out there - intelligent, hard-working people - who revel in the hot goings-on at Forrester Creations.

Did you ever hear the reason why the jokes in Christmas crackers are so appalling? It's because while everyone's idea of a good joke is different, everyone's understanding of a bad joke is immediate and shared. At a time like Christmas, it's far better to engender a spirit of goodwill and fraternity by uniting against the bad jokes; rather than dividing opinion because Auntie Gina didn't think it was funny.

The Bold and the Beautiful is the daytime soap opera version of this.

We all KNOW it's bad. The plots are unbelievable, the dialogue corny, the timelines wobbly, the love triangles maddening, and the use of extended close-ups egregious. But when we all share in its ridiculousness, we bond as a community, a family. Our gentle mocking of lame facial hair and botoxed leading ladies (Oh Taylor, why did you do it?), and our delight in over-the-top displays of emotion allow us to feel superior together. The affection that springs from our negativity turns the whole experience into a positive one.

And the best part is, it's a community that demands nothing of you. I'll be travelling overseas in September and October, and will happily go about my business without a Bold vision, safe in the knowledge that a flashback or a few tweets on my return will be more than enough to fill me in. So much TV these days demands your undivided attention, lest you become lost in intricately-laid plots and machinations. I love that kind of TV - but sometimes it's nice to know you don't have to follow obsessively; because the show will keep you in the loop.

So goodbye and God bless, Ronn Moss. I don't know how the clan Forrester will fare without you. But at least for now, the social media commune will savour the Bold.

Post-Olympic Reality TV Alternatives

I haven't been watching the London Olympics. It's not that I don't thrill to the thought of sports that I fondly remember failing at school carnivals (how is triple jump even a thing?), it's more that I'm just a really unpatriotic Australian.

What I have been keeping a watchful eye on is the sheer volume of promotional advertising for post-Olympic reality TV programming. It's an important time for the networks - there's going to be a huge hole in people's viewing schedules, and it's important they pack it full of tasty yet unfulfilling dross faster than Usain Bolt can pole-vault his way into the diving record books.

I've been studying the form guide, and feel a few of these shows aren't quite hitting the hot button as firmly as they could. So please, read on, as I present some alternatives. I fully expect the TV networks to be breaking down my door when they feast their eyes on my smorgasbord of sizzling suggestions.

Show Based on a Song Title With "Dance" In It

Everybody Dance Now is some sort of replacement/supplantation of So You Think You Can Dance?, which I can never watch because it makes me feel depressed about not being a lithe 20-year-old breakdancer. So-called "Dance Masters" Kelly Rowlands and Jason Derulo are going to pit dance acts against each other to win the popular vote, and ultimately the competition. Model Sarah Murdoch will host, no doubt showing off a series of increasingly urban hairstyles.

To go a two-step further, Dancing on the Ceiling, inspired by Lionel Ritchie's 1983 pop epic, will see teams of dancers strapped into harnesses, strung upside down, and forced to perform complex choreography while fighting the blood rushing to their head. If they faint, they're automatically eliminated.

Its sequel series will be based on Bruce Springsteen's 1984 hit Dancing in the Dark, in which crack teams of dancers will perform in a pitch black lighting state. The audience basically takes a guess at which ones they liked the most/which ones got injured the least. It's hosted by Australia's favourite model Miranda Kerr, which is great because she'll just be in the dark the whole time which means WE WON'T HAVE TO LOOK AT HER RELENTLESSLY BLAND EVERYTHING.

The thrilling finale.

Show Based on An Old Show That We All Hated

Channel Nine is the Olympic broadcast partner, so it has the most audience to lose come the close of the Closing Ceremony. Its great big daring idea? Rehashing Big Brother, the original new-millenium reality show that Channel Ten mercifully put a bullet into back in 2007. It's a stunning coup.

In my programming schedule, we will see dynamic new take on the surveillance reality genre, with contestants forced to interact despite strong differences on key issues....  ...ah f*** it, it's just Order in the House with some fancier graphics and montage highlights of politicians sitting around talking about nothing. But the audience voting out contestants component could prove controversial.

Show Based On Australian Movie

Channel Ten is set to give us I Will Survive, a competition featuring 12 rugged blokes retracing the steps of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, all for the chance of a Broadway gig. The presence of buff dudes in short shorts aside, I fail to see how the competitive angle of this will work.

Frankly, if you want to explore the Australian Outback with a true reality bent, then you should plump instead for my delightfully terrifying alternative: Head On A Stick: The Real Wolf Creek. Hosted by - you guessed it - John Jarratt, Head On A Stick will pitch 12 British backpackers against each other in a battle of survival supremacy.

Initially drugged for their arrival on "set" (read: a large expanse of country somewhere outside Coober Pedy), our victims contestants will be forced to fan out, find supplies and shelter, and avoid a knife-happy psychopath intent on adding them to his "Wall of Corpses". With his penchant for cutting the spinal cord in a time-honoured Vietnam War tradition, the winner will literally be the last one left standing.

The thrilling finale.

Show Based On a Significant Letter

Channel Seven is busting out The X Factor again, and their saccharine promos have really leaned heavily on the singing portion of what is actually a broader talent competition. They're trying to cash in on the success of The Voice, but what they should be doing is creating a point of difference.

The Y Factor, however, will be a crossover phenomenon. Crossover in the sense that all competitors will be made-up to look as androgynous and sexless as possible. It will be up to viewers to try to determine who has that elusive "Y Factor"; that is, which of the competitors are in fact blokes. Imagine the fun you'll have at home trying to work out which of the contestants are just in poor lighting, versus which ones are actually maintaining a tuck manoeuvre.

Show Based on Gender Stereotypes

You've obviously heard the news that men as a gender lack any sense of style or decorum, particularly when it comes to the important moments in one's life. Channel Ten's Don't Tell The Bride seeks to capitalise on this, by offering couples $25,000 to fund their wedding - but only if all the key decisions are made by the groom. Hilarious! We all know that we just can't trust the menfolk with anything important, like a f***ing wedding, can we ladies? God forbid you ask them to choose bonbonniere or pick out a colour theme for the reception. You might as well just cut off your head and die right now than have your special day ruined by your pig-ignorant, clueless, untidy git of a husband-to-be, whom you're marrying because you.... um... respect them?

Whatever. Let's bring the sexism circle to a full close with my alternative show: Don't Tell the Underpaid Female Employee! Bosses are given $25,000 to distribute in pay rises for staff - but have to figure out a way of paying their male workers more than their equally-qualified female colleagues - without those power-suited femmo-Nazis finding out! Ruh-roh - is that an official complaint to HR? You lose, boss. Except you don't because your fed-up female staffer will probably leave while you get to keep your job. But you've, like, learned a lesson and stuff.

The thrilling finale.

I honestly am an ideas factory, people. How am I not earning my riches from all this creative gold?

Will the real Clive Palmer please Stand Up?

Billionaire mining magnate Clive Palmer treated us all to another one of his trademark media conferences yesterday.

I've attended a few of these in my time, and they're always interesting affairs. The good Professor (Mr Palmer likes to be known by his honorary title) loves nothing more than holding court, throwing out crazy schemes and eccentric fancies like running for political office or setting up an online newspaper for all soon-to-be-retrenched Fairfax journalists.

Listening to the audio of yesterday's 20 minute long debriefing on blueprints for his Titanic replica (aptly named Titanic II), a realisation hit me like an iceberg.

Clive Palmer is a thwarted stand-up comedian.

I put it to you, gentle readers, that Queensland's richest man built up his a multi-billion dollar business empire as well as significant political sway - in order to get an audience for his jokes.

"I'm on a boat."

There is some physical evidence to back up this idea. Clive's Brisbane CBD headquarters, Mineralogy House, is equipped with a large media briefing room, as well as a smaller secondary one. Both can be customised with backing banners to suit whatever happens to be the Professor's message of the day. Both have ample seating for media hordes. He has been known to use both for different media conferences within minutes of each other; indeed, I attended the most famous recent instance of this in late April (the Titanic announcement, followed quickly by his now-abandoned plan to run in the federal seat of Lilley).

It's a staging set-up that as a sometime theatre director I can only admire. But it's not a necessity; if there is signage at a media conference, it's usually a pull-up standee. Then again, Clive Palmer is no ordinary subject. He's a comedian. Comedians need a stage. And comedians need an audience.

The evidence on tape and in print adds weight to this (pardon the pun, Professor).

Clive - I should probably use the honorific Mr Palmer, but Clive just seems to suit him better - can't resist cracking wise. Even a fiery media conferences will still contain jokes, even if it's the one about how he's giving the press a headline (he loves that one).

Yesterday's blueprint debrief attracted attention because the 58-year-old Palmer declared pensioners would be banned from the first-class casino on Titanic II. This was not, Clive said, because they were lesser beings, but rather because Clive doesn't want them to lose money.

I mean, the very concept of that is hilarious. Someone who's forked out the thousands of dollars it will cost, even for a third-class berth on Clive's unsinkable ship, is surely not beyond dropping a couple of hundred bucks on roulette? It's not like he's setting up a leagues club up on the Sun Deck, ready to lure in tracksuit clad OAPs in oversize sunglasses and plastic visors for a few hours trying to win a free game feature on the pokies.

During this beneficent declaration, Clive dropped some pithy one-liners. If you don't believe me, click open this instant rimshot sound effect in a separate tab, and hit that big red button at the end of every sentence.


On who should be allowed to gamble: "If you can afford a first-class ticket … you can probably afford to go to the casino."

On how casinos aren't that great anyway: "Go third class, that's where I'll be - that's where the fun will be."

On possibly causing offence: "I love pensioners. My closest relations are pensioners."

Every one of them, with the addition of a post-statement rimshot, works as a dodgy stand-up routine zinger.

I came to Tahiti to get lei'd. Get it? Lei'd?

Clive was born in 1954, placing him as a youth in the mid-1970s, when stand-up comedy as an entertainment form didn't really exist - in Queensland at any rate. I imagine young Clive, whose early career as a journalist segued into real estate, then National Party politics and state government (he worked for Sir Joh Bjelke-Peterson), wouldn't have had the time or outlet to develop his comedic skills professionally, before the lure of coal mining drew him away.

Now, he's a gajillonaire (I believe that's a billionaire several times over). He's got money, he's got a venue, and he's realised he can get an audience any time he wants, for new material as well as the old favourites. We, the media, are the conduits for his performance fantasy; allowing you to share them on social media like you would a good clip of Louis C.K. or Patton Oswalt.

Clive - I beg you. Accept your inner desire to be a stand up. Put together a tight five and hit the comedy clubs. You will let off some of that steam that's built up from not being able to express yourself the way you really want to. You've already got a backlog of jokes ready to go; plus there's that killer bit from earlier this year about the Greens being tools of the CIA.  And don't worry - from my experience in the world of amateur stand-up, you wouldn't be half-bad.