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.

Winning... Something. Anything.

Maybe it's all this election business that's been on of late, but for some reason I've got the hankering to win something.

It doesn't have to be a 77-seat majority in the Queensland parliament; I think that might be over-egging the pudding (for everyone, really).

But it's been... I don't know... years since I actually *won* anything. Like a prize, or a trophy, or a certificate.

I know it's trivial, and not necessarily reflective of your general success in life, etc etc, blah blah blah - but who doesn't like to be picked out for something ahead of a bunch of other people? I'm sure scientists work hard on weighty matters concerning the nature of the universe because they're passionate about learning and understanding, but come on. You think they've never once thought about a Nobel Prize? Even just a little?

But This Worries Me

After the triumph of the SLEEVES, Kate Middleton - sorry, the Duchess of Cambridge - changed into this dress for the royal wedding reception at Buckingham Palace.

I guess it could be explained by the angle of the photo, and Kate - sorry, Her Royal Highness - was probably still wearing a tight bodice - but geez. Her waist seems awfully tiny, at least relative to her head. She's reasonably tall too - about my height. Just existing in about 20 kilograms less space.

I know, I know. It's a stupid brain pattern to get into.

All I know is when you look at a photo, and the fact that Camilla is in it worries you the least, something is amiss.

Also, I was a bit disappointed this secondary gown was strapless. At least Kate - sorry, Supreme Leader of the Universe - teamed it with a Fuzzy Bolero. Which, incidentally, is a fantastic name for a character in a blacksploitation film, if anybody happens to be making one.

Fresh Prince

Sunday saw me trek out to the West Moreton Anglican College at Ipswich to cover Prince William's visit.

At various points during the event, I was using one hand to hold a video recorder, one hand to hold an audio recorder, and a mysterious third hand to snap blurry photos and tweet from my mobile phone.

So apologies if this video is rather shaky. But I thought you might appreciate my efforts to try to capture what it was like to try to capture what it was like. Mmm, media meta-humour.

If nothing else, the Prince IS wearing a very nice pair of tan slacks.

Catch a Tiger

It's been almost a week since the story of Tiger Woods' car crash broke, and the fallout continues to be spectacular. Initial claims of a marital spat have spiralled into tales of affairs, liaisons, and today, reported hush money.

If you read the comments sections on news articles or blogs about the story, you'll often see these sorts of reactions:

"Who cares?"
"Leave him alone!"
"Give the man some privacy."
"His personal life is not news!."

Sorry, Tiger Woods. Sorry, fans of Tiger Woods. But right now, his personal life is most definitely news.

World of Douchebags #1

Fresh off the wires this morning - apparently Jennifer "America's Sweetheart" Aniston and John "My Body is a Wonderland" Mayer have ended their relationship. For a second time.

You can practically hear Mary Hart's voice screeching in your head, can't you? Either that, or there's just a long dull flat resounding noise - the sound of where your hope that humanity had a depth of interest in public affairs beyond tabloid guttersniping used to be. You get used to that droning after a while.

But I thought I'd use this opportunity to begin what I'm hoping might become a semi-regular feature of Girl Clumsy Dot Com - World of Douchebags. Cracked.com used to do something similar, but it's defunct now, and frankly ripe for the plagiarising.

Nomination for Douchebag #1: John Mayer.

I mean, look at him. He oozes Eau de Douchebag through his slimy, fake-tanned pores. Look at that smug grin. Look at that greasy, wannabe Pierce Brosnan hair. And as for the faux-velvet suit and "Look, I'm an individual" rose-wine tie... oh, somebody get me a shower. I feel dirty.

But apparently, chicks dig John Mayer. He's sensitive or some other rot. When will girls learn that just because a dude has tattoos and can pluck out some sappy tunes on an acoustic guitar, doesn't mean he needs you to help him get over his hurt and his pain?

Oh no. John Mayer looks exactly like the kind of guy who'd smooth-talk you at a shopping centre when you're having a particularly bad hair day, then weasel his way into your house, subject you to some slimy groping up against the fridge, then steal your ATM card to buy flowers for his Mum. Everyone else will think he's lovely, but you know the lonely, frizzy, chilly-arsed truth.

You may look somewhat horsey, Jennifer Aniston, but you can do better than John Mayer.

Do I have any seconds for the notion: John Mayer = Douchebag?

Girl Clumsy Knows Nothing About Fashion...

...but dagnabbit if I ain't gonna judge 'em all harshly anyway.

The best-dressed at the Golden Globe awards:


Evan Rachel Wood - Marilyn Manson's ex shows exactly how to wear black. Just perfect. I wish I was thin so I could pull off a dress like this.

Drew Barrymore - Speaking of Marilyns, hello Monroe. At first I thought the hair was too big. Now I'm just in awe. Drew is mainlining glamour. She's stuffed to the gills with gorgeousness. If she were anymore feminine, her ovaries would explode.

Samantha Harris - I have no idea who this chick is. All I know is the dress, the colour, the neckline - HAWT.

January Jones - This dress is divine. And her name's January Jones. She's in Mad Men, but dammit, she should be a private investigator, luring philandering billionaire husbands into honey traps, then clamping them to the bed with a set of handcuffs before telling their satisfied wives to start divorce proceedings. Sorry, where was I?

Honourable mentions: Kate Winslet (sigh - so elegant), Cameron Diaz (just rocks anything she wears), Mary-Louise Parker (drool, drool, please let me look like this one day).

Worst-dressed at the Golden Globes:

Renee Zellweger - OMG WTF?!?! At what point do you put a flesh-coloured bra under a sheer black top? Either get the girls out, Renee, or pop 'em in something black and lacy. Then there's fish-tail skirt, and the hair... it's wrong. It's all wrong.

Angelina Jolie - Yeah, I know. I'm going there. I'm saying it. BLAND, Angelina. BLAND. You are not a bland woman. Don't give me "meh" fashion. Extra points for the Brad Pitt accessory though.

Olivia Wilde - the House actor has been put on the best-dressed lists, but not with me. I think she needs to start putting herself on a hamburger diet. She looks positively gaunt. And her dress, while not quite Gwyneth Paltrow-pink, is still fairly high-school formal frou-frou.

Jennifer Lopez - for some reason J-Lo's decided to dispense with haute couture, and just wrap some velvety gold curtains from a local strip club around her jugs.

Dishonourable mentions: Lisa Rinna (go away, trout pout & fake tan), Demi Moore (Demi! The 80s are over!), Glenn Close (no, no, no Glenn! Check out Susan Sarandon for advice on how to pick a suit), and Mickey Rourke (kill it! Somebody kill it! It's... oh wait, that is Mickey Rourke. Ouch).

Farewell, Mr Blackwell

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

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

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

Comedy freakin' gold.

Uh oh, Ringo

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

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

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

...Sorry, couldn't resist.

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

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

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

Wouldn't it be frickin' loverly

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

Gah!

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

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

I've got a frickin' reputation to uphold.

Somebody book me some flights to Sydney, stat.

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

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

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

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

I despair, I really do.

Gee, that Amy Winehouse

I know I'm probably the seven-billionth person to write a blog post about Amy Winehouse, but woah. She's not a well puppy, is she?

If you click through to this link, you'll be able to see more eyebrow-and-hair-raising images of the scrawny chanteuse having a "tired and emotional" night out in London. I give you the option of clicking the link because a) it is the Daily Mail online, b) you may not want to lower yourself to looking at paparazzi shots and c) you may want to keep your dinner down.

The most disturbing shots are those of Amy's ravaged face. I remember disagreeing with a friend - Disco Stu, in fact - some time back over whether the scars, scabs and sores were the result of chronic drug use. I understood Amy to have acne, and defended her by saying it was probably unfortunate skin problems, and we should try to be a bit more understanding.

Now I think I should probably eat my words, as it seems obvious there's something else going on there well above and beyond the trauma of cystic acne. Of course as we all know Disco Stu mainlines "Mother" energy drinks, so he's really not in a position to judge anyone about their addiction.

Perhaps I have to accept a certain fondness for the crackpipe on Amy's part - if only because she's persisting with that ridiculous black eye make-up. Surely a sober person would think twice about applying more kohl than Robert Smith? Mind you, there's an uncanny resemblance with the enormous backcomb as well - perhaps Amy Winehouse wants to BE Robert Smith? Or Trent Resnor, or Billy Corgan, or some other hard-rocking twat who thinks outrageous hair & make-up = hardcore?

The upside of Amy Winehouse's sad addiction (that is, for everybody else bar Amy) is that it makes for some easy laughs. I mentioned in an earlier post that I took part in a Griffith Uni Debating Society comedy showcase last week - one of the biggest responses I got was when I said the stockmarkets had collapsed "harder than Amy Winehouse at a nightclub". That really cut through to the 19-year-old law students in the audience. It's good to know despite her prodigous musical talent, she's become a punchline. Maybe a punch-drunk-line.

Why Kate shouldn't get a job

This is Kate Middleton, rumoured intended betrothed of one William Windsor, heir to the British throne.

Kate's famous for... errr...well, basically for being William's on-again, off-again girlfriend, which is reason enough for her to be followed by a drooling pack of paparazzi everywhere she goes. The women's mags have been in a state of barely concealed orgasmic excitement at the prospect of the first royal wedding involving royals we actually know about since Prince Edward married his PR chick Sophie Rhys-Jones (And really, that was kinda boring. Sophie was a savvy 30-something businesswoman who knew how to keep even a royal wedding simple and low-key; and Edward - well, he's not what you instantly picture when you hear "Prince Charming", is he?).

But not everyone's overjoyed by the publicity. Faced with endless shots of Kate wandering down high streets wearing oversized sunglasses, or leaving trendy London nightspots, Queen Elizabeth II has reportedly taken a leaf out of Paul Keating's book. No, she hasn't lovingly fondled Kate's back - she's told her to get a job.

It's believed that before any engagement is made official, Her Maj thinks Kate should hook up with a charity, and be seen to be hard-working and proactive. According to the article, aides want the 26-year-old to
"work with a children's or animal charity to help counter perceptions she only wants to party and shop until William pops the question".

Now I know what you're thinking. "Geez, Nat, way to go - another boring bland feminist rant about dumbed down female role models who are teaching young girls that it's OK to consider marrying a footballer or a royal the pinnacle of achievement in one's life".

Au contraire, my friends.

I for one am in complete support of Kate Middleton, and quite frankly welcome her attempts to restore some god-damn showiness and foolhardiness to the British monarchy.

Something happened during the 20th century - no doubt due in part to those interminable World Wars and dreary post-war rebuilding and Thatcherite years. The Royal Family lost its sense of outrageous superiority, and became all about understanding, and awareness, and sympathy with the common man. Sure, all the money kept rolling in, but the Kings and Queens of the 20th century went out and met their subjects like never before. They figured since nobody else was wearing new clothes or driving fancy cars, they'd better scale down their public display of wealth, so as not to anger the great unwashed.

The 80s and 90s even brought about the do-gooder Royal: Princess Di's AIDS and anti-landmine work, Fergie doing ads for WeightWatchers (hey, obesity's a problem) - Prince Charles even has organic farms and carbon offsets, for f***'s sake. I mean, what kind of Prince talks to plants?

Now in comes Kate Middleton. She and William went to university together, and she's since worked as an "accessories buyer" for a fashion chain, and then as a photographer of sorts. Now they're not real jobs. You just know she'd turn up once or twice a week, pick out some pretty bracelets or polish a lens, then head back out to Knightsbridge for some more shopping and short macciatos.

Royals of the past never worried about looking socially conscious. Nobody liked George IV, but that didn't stop him spending thousands on gold-plated lounge suites and beach palaces at Brighton. He just didn't give a crap.

Kate is bringing "Royal" back. She's saying "f*** it, I'm gonna be a Princess. I don't have to do shit". She's single-handedly bringing over-the-top excess back into the stuffy halls of Buck Palace and Clarence House. She's going to shop, wear pretty clothes, go to the gym, be seen at premieres and nightclubs, turn up to wave William off on his latest Navy tour or Army awards ceremony - and stuff you if you can't deal with it. You're just jealous, fool.

Now all this may have upset me if I personally fancied Prince William. But I realised many years ago that I'm firmly in the Prince Harry camp now. A royal who thinks "Hitler costume? Marijuana? Boozy nights with buddies? Shooting up the Taliban? Bring it on!" - now that's a royal I can respect.

Poor Pammy

I've been having somewhat of a maudlin day. Various things have conspired to leave my ego a little tender, a little bruised.

But all that pales in comparison to the tragic end to one of the great romances of our time: Pamela Anderson and Rick Saloman.

The couple wed in October last year, separated in December, and now, despite all my hopes for a reconciliation, have officially annulled their union.

You may not know Rick Salomon by face or name, but you'd certainly know him by arse - he was the gentlemen fawned over lovingly by then-girlfriend Paris Hilton in a very tasteful and classy night-vision movie called "One Night in Paris".

Pamela herself is no stranger to au naturel on-screen performances: indeed, her cinematic exploits with first husband Tommy Lee really blazed the trail of homemade celebrity sex tapes.

I'm sorry, but if you can't believe in the romance between these two pioneers of celebrity porn, what can you believe in? Posh & Becks? I think not.

Excuse me, I just have something in my eye... *eep*.

Tragic telemovies I have known

I flicked on the tube today to be confronted by the very worst of daytime TV - the dramatised biopic.

Ugh.

I really struggle to find any kind of redeeming qualities in these types of "films". The acting is generally poor, the scripting stereotypical and melodramatic, and the endings - whether uplifting or tragic - nauseating.

Today's offering was the 2003 flick "America's Prince: The JFK Jnr Story".

Now I might be going out on the controversy branch here, but I really hate this whole "Kennedy legacy" thing. Sure, there were a couple of big-time major suckfests - the assassinations of JFK and RFK. I'm sorry, but that's where it ends. Ted's Chappaquidick adventures were just sordid, Jackie died of natural causes, and the ones done for that murder of that chick back in the 70s were just idiotic psychos. "Oh my God! Every generation, someone in this family dies! Every so often, it's in traumatic circumstances!" By those standards of "cursed", every bloody family is cursed.

And, as far as "John-John" goes, I really find it hard to feel any kind of tragedy-tinged nostalgia for him. Fine, he died too young, and that's sad. But as far as I can make out, his life up until the unfortunate ditching off Martha's vineyard was a smorgasbord of money, hot chicks, powerful family connections and a half-hearted attempt at magazine publishing. I'm sorry, but dealing with a slightly controlling Mom, a slightly controlling wife, and the paparazzi does not make you Hamlet.

Not that I wasn't impressed with the dude they roped in to play JFK Jnr. He appeared to have made the decision to let his outrageously over-inflated and pomaded hair do the acting for him. Honestly, the fringe stood a full three inches above the hairline. A hairdresser would require scaffolding and planning permission from the council to give it a trim. And they got the icy cool Portia de Rossi to play the ice cool Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, John-John's wife. Now she's a chick who's got dagger-eyes down pat. But Jacqueline Bisset as Jackie Onassis? Oooh. No.

For credibility's sake, the "filmmakers" also decided to include some historical footage, such as the iconic reel of "John-John" saluting his father as his funeral procession went past, or sitting on JFK's lap on a plane, just to really shove the whole "he needed to fly to be free" message down your already refluxing throat. Unfortunately, that kind of stuff in a telemovie reminds you just how fake everything about the production is, and how the subject's life could never have been as perfectly scripted as it is in a made-for-tv docu/drama.

I didn't catch the end of the film, but I assumed it concluded with a fateful light plane journey: perhaps with John and Carolyn looking wistfully into each other's eyes and promising to make their marriage stronger in future; perhaps with John discussing new ideas to get his magazine out of the poo, or expressing a longing to enter the political arena and continue his father's dream of banging movie starlets (or civil rights, who knows). We don't know what their final conversations were, but thanks to the magic of Hollywood, we can leave the film reassured that their deaths were an untimely tragedy, to be remembered and honoured with downcast eyes, perhaps even with a Celine Dion soundtrack.

I remember once seeing parts of a truly appallling Diana telemovie, one filmed not long after her death. That followed an earlier mini-series based on the Andrew Moreton books. I've seen a telemovie about Jackie Onassis, in which she was played by Joanne Whalley-Kilmer. There's been a few about Marilyn Monroe, including that one with the Aussie chick from "Without a Trace". As far as I can make out, no A-grade celebrity is immune from portrayal by a B-grade actor in a C-grade dramatised biopic.

Anyone else seen some dodgy telemovies? And am I being too harsh on the Kennedys?

Lindsay "does" Marilyn

I have been a huge fan of Marilyn Monroe for about 15 years. I just adore the woman, and it's a adoration that extends beyond those iconic images - images that continue to be aped to this day, to convey glamour and beauty, or perhaps even a tragic sense of wasted talent, or early death.

So it's with some trepidation that I viewed Lindsay "Firecrotch" Lohan's re-creation of Marilyn's last official photo shoot - the Bert Stern series. It was with some amazement that I realised Bert Stern himself was the photographer, and personally approved the choice of Lindsay "DUI" Lohan.

The thing is, I can see that Lindsay "Charlie" Lohan does have a touch of the vulnerability that made the public so warm to Monroe. But in my opinion, she doesn't quite get there. Don't get me wrong, they're good photos (they're by Stern, after all), but when you compare... well, you just can't compare, can you? After all, Marilyn had the wide-eyed innocence and enthusiasm of youth, wrapped up in the sensual body of a Greek goddess. But one of the most important things about the Stern series is that it portrayed the reality of the 36-year-old Marilyn. She had a gallbladder surgery scar, and breasts starting to head south. Her body was still firm, but her face was beginning to show lines - not unflattering, not career-destroying, but natural, and normal, and beautiful. The Stern series shows a woman, still youthful, but not young. A woman on the cusp of a new era, personally and professionally. Sadly, Marilyn's accidental death on August 5 1962 cut the promise of the Stern photo series short.

To me, what the Stern series of Lindsay "Rehab" Lohan shows is a 21-year-old former child star seeking to ally herself with the "good" Hollywood qualities of beauty, on screen presence and star power - handy after a series of Golden Razzie-worthy film appearances and no end of off-screen tabloid dramas. Sure, Marilyn took (prescription) drugs and drank too much champagne, but she had the good sense not to drive home. Sure, Marilyn enjoyed the company of some shady characters, but at least she didn't hang out with the Hiltons.

However, there is one thing this Lindsay "Rehab" Lohan photoshoot really brought home to me - the size of Lindsay's norks. Man. They're huge! Who would've thought that? She's always so stick-thin, wandering about the place. Gives the impression she'd be a bit of a Keira Knightley in the top-bollocks department. But no. The girl's stacked. And as a fellow member of the Jumbo Jugs club, I salute her, and recommend underwiring.

Heath Ledger

I've been very saddened to learn of the death of Heath Ledger.

There's still a lot of speculation about exactly how he died - with his family apparently rejecting initial reports of a drug overdose; and fresh claims that he was suffering from pneumonia and was found with sleeping pills near his body. Accidental death makes it all the more tragic - as Ledger really was moving into the "superstar" phase of his movie career.

However, he has left behind some marvellous films and great performances - notably, his role as Ennis in Brokeback Mountain, which I thought was just terrific. He had also finished filming on The Dark Knight, and going by the trailers, his interpretation of the Joker looks incredible.

I'll always remember the first time I saw Ledger though: in the Celtic swords-and-braids series Roar, which was filmed out in the Gold Coast hinterland around 1997. RIP Heath Ledger.

The Second Coming

So, is everyone excited about the impending arrival of Jesus, Mark II?

I mean, going by the news frenzy and furore surrounding Nicole Kidman's just-announced pregnancy, I assume she must be carrying the Son of God.

Sure left my athiest-leaning face red, I can tell you. I repent, Baby Kurban!

A Beat Poem for Britney

Taken from your house on a stretcher -
Have you crossed the line?

You betcha.

Thinking your life is a whirlwind of thrills
The reality? A mire of drugs, booze and pills

Shaving your head and getting in fights
Being the focus of gossip websites

Oh Britney! What has it come to
When K. Fed's considered a better parent than you?

Stop bleeding dry for the paparazzi
Stop living life like a kamikaze

It's your prerogative

But don't you know that it's toxic?

Your pain is eating at you like cancer
A wig and a smoke just isn't the answer

But oops, you did it again

The judge has taken the boys away
But stop the rot and they'll be back someday

Oh Britney! One day you'll dance again!
Oh Britney! One day you'll wear pants again!

Oops

Just when you thought Britney Spears and family couldn't get any crazier:

Jamie-Lynn Spears, 16, is up the duff.

Now, Irony #1 is the fact that Britney and Jamie-Lynn's mother - Lynne Spears - has now delayed publication of her parenting guide. Which is just plain disappointing, as I wanted to purchase it for my mother as a Christmas gift, so she could see where she went wrong with me. Particularly when you consider Irony #2 - which came through on AAP wires this morning:

US researchers say teenagers who have formal sex education are far more likely to put off having sex.

They've found teenage boys who had sex education in school were 71 per cent less likely to have intercourse before they turn 15, and girls were 59 per cent less likely to have sex before that age.

When it came to black teenage girls though, 91 per cent were less likely to have sex before they're 15.

The study also found boys who had sex education were nearly three times more likely to use contraceptives for their first time, but it didn't make a difference for girls using birth control.

The study was conducted by researchers at the US Centres for Disease Control and Prevention, and will be published in the Journal of Adolescent Health.

I'm just saying, I can't wait to see what Lynne Spears' parenting "memoir" has to say about sex.

Meanwhile, things aren't looking any calmer for Britney herself. That crazy, impulsive gal!

The thing is, I still really like Britney in spite of (and probably because of) her foibles, and Jamie-Lynn seems like she's got her head on relatively straight, even if she's yet to master Condoms 101. It's all too easy to slag them off as white trash, even if it's somewhat justifiable. It's something of a shock and a shame to see the paths they've taken.

And no, I'm not trying to say pregnancy and childbirth at a young age ruins your life, and you'll never do anything again. I'm just worried these girls - and others less famous - have a screwed-up view of sex and motherhood, which could potentially damage them AND their children.

As my parents will attest as they refuse my latest request for cash - children are for life, not just for Christmas.

Workers! United! Will Never Be Defeated!

Prepare yourself for another Clumsy Tale of misadventure!

I actually had a one-on-one interview with Kevin Rudd this morning, as part of the Labour Day march through Brisbane. That's right - me and Kev, arm-in-arm, fighting The Man.

Well, maybe not. Anna Bligh, Sharan Burrow, Grace Grace, Wayne Swan, Paul Lucas, Clem Jones (in a van) and several tens of thousands of others were along for the stroll. On a fairly muggy day too, I might add.

I figured - in the wake of my disastrous and nerve-wracked attempt to talk to the Prime Minister - that if I could talk to Rudd before he becomes the Prime Minister (when, if, whatever you like), then I won't be nervous to talk to him if/when he is the Prime Minister. That's my theory anyway - we'll have to wait and see if it actually works.

The march kicked off halfway down Wharf Street just after 10am, with Kev & Co. up front, following the band as they turned onto Turbot Street and headed off through the Valley towards the final destination - the RNA Showgrounds.

After watching several TV journos shove microphones and cameras in Kev's ruddy face, I did a test run by grabbing Anna Bligh for a quick chat about tomorrow night's federal budget: "What do you want for Queensland? Do you think Peter Costello will throw money at us, given we're a crucial federal election battleground?" etc etc. That went well, so around the turn into Brunswick Street I spotted a camera-free Rudd and switched my mic on to record.

"Hi, Mr Rudd, Natalie from 4BC..."

"Hi Natalie from 4BC."

"Just wondering if I could ask you about..." and so on.

Got a few questions in, and didn't sound too much like a complete nonce, which was really the object of the exercise. Kev mostly wheeled out "responses prepared earlier", so I was never going to get a big bombshell statement, but he was still very pleasant. After saying thank you and moving to one side, I got stopped myself by one of his media people, who was friendly enough, but seemed to be a bit nervous that she was unable to monitor every word Kev was uttering. Fair enough too, I suppose. Everything out of the big federal pollies' mouths these days is recorded; they can't burp without it being included in a transcript.

I lost track of Kev & Co. on the way into the RNA Showgrounds - I was busy doing a cross and trying to find some chanting for background effect. It seems the chanting was less enthusiastic this year; more sporadic. It was at this point a friend of mine named Steve popped out of the Rail, Tram & Bus Union group, and came over to see what I was up too. I may have misheard him due to the Highland bagpipers who passed by at that very moment, but I could have sworn he said they were here mostly for the free alcohol.

Hmmm.

I headed into the showgrounds and parked my behind in one of the covered grandstands for a while, which unfortunately meant I was on the other side of the stadium to where Rudd got up to have a yak around 11:30am. Cue your humble Girl Clumsy running to the nearest speaker and standing on a concrete barrier in an effort to get the mic closer to the sound. Dangerous territory indeed. I couldn't help but notice that the bloke standing in front of the barrier, slightly below my elevated position, was indigenous activist Sam Watson (he has a very recognisible hat). I figured I'd better not fall, or I risked causing An Incident. There's just too much irony in a pasty white chick squashing a black man for me NOT to be completely embarrassed.

My computer predictably cacked itself as I was trying to file a story for midday, so after some re-jigging and a file by phone, I headed back out to the stage area to see if I could find ACTU President Sharan Burrow, whose speech I missed. I was lucky on that count for two reasons: one, I found her; and two, I found her quite suddenly, yet managed to avoid physically knocking into her. After that I headed into the maze of white tents to find the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance stall. I promptly relieved them of a sausage-in-a-bun and a Diet Coke, which was very welcome after spending an hour surrounded by the whiff of frying onions.

After a brief reunion with the aforementioned Steve (opened can of XXXX in one hand, yet-to-be-opened can of XXXX in the other), as well as a catch-up with a more long-lost friend (known to the ages simply as "Doof") - I headed back into the grandstand for a cross with programs. That short and sweet task done, I decided to head back along Wickham Terrace to the flat, so I could pick up my car and head out to the studio.

And so I find myself reminiscing over my day of action. Keep in mind - my overly large backside may have intruded into camera shots at several points along the marching route, so keep an eye on the TV news tonight. There's a chocolate bar in it for anyone who spots me!