The Bruising Adventures of Girl Clumsy

Chez Clumsy: The Search for Nazi Gold

2013-05-15T00:36:00.001+10:00

You expect, when you renovate, to make a few little discoveries here and there.

For example, it turns out our kitchen water pipes all run from the ceiling down, not the floor up. This means rejigging a few things, but it's one of those small hurdles that are simply a part of the renovating experience.

What we did not expect to discover, on a sneaky Tuesday evening reconnoissance, was this:

"Is that.... is that a swastika?" I heard The Wah say as I was checking out the space where the kitchen used to be. I spun around and stared at the ground.

"Ah... that's ... that's a swastika!" I confirmed. Then shock. "What is a swastika doing in my house?!?!"

But there was no denying, there was a swastika in the house.

Painted on the concrete, then tiled over.

For six years, The Wah and I - and all of our friends and family members - have been walking upon the world's most infamous insignia.

Our urbane, sophisticated inner-city unit had all over a sudden become an Anti-Semitic hate den, or perhaps a repository for hidden Nazi gold.

Of course it begs the question: WTF? Who PAINTS A SWASTIKA ON A FLOOR?

We know our apartment building used to be an office building before it was converted into flats in the early 2000s. We don't know who did the conversion - but we think they, or their sub-contractors, might have had at best a terrible sense of humour, and at worst, DIY tattoos and a dire need for therapy.

The problem is of course - how do we get rid of it? Sure, we'll be re-tiling, but if we don't destroy the swastika underneath, we will forever know it is there, lurking, like a Gestapo officer in a ghetto. We will be compelled to blurt out to anyone unfortunate enough to walk over that spot "DO YOU KNOW YOU'RE WALKING OVER A GODDAMNED SWASTIKA?" and then people will start questioning whether we're obsessing a bit too much about the swastika, and they might think perhaps that we sympathise or share those views, and the next thing you know A Current Affair will be bringing in a hidden camera and we'll end up on hate crime charges and that Girl Clumsy and The Wah always seemed so nice, but then it's always the nice ones who turn out to be rotten fascists...

NO! Like Churchill, I will not surrender.

We need ideas. I'm not a big believer in negative energies and whatnot, but I am a big believer in not having a f***ing swastika under your tiles. So what image should we paint or scribble over the top?

A Bubbling Source of Inspiration

2013-05-12T23:04:00.000+10:00

Chez Clumsy is being renovated.

Starting within hours, in fact, of me typing this.

It's been months in the planning, and now we're at a point where most of the to-be-renovated space is clear, a metric f*** ton of clutter has been decluttered, and the old bordello is ready for her facelift.

Here's a picture of the kitchen with a slice of the balcony area as it was mid clear-out - you can get a sense of the mess:

If you're my father reading this, you will be currently on a boat somewhere off the west coast of America yelling "What mess? That's how it looks normally!" and feeling very proud of your joke.

If you're my mother reading this, you will be on the same boat, probably rolling your eyes at my father's joke, but secretly agreeing that you're not sure how the daughter of two neat-freak parents managed to turn out a slob.

Well, slob I am, slob I shall probably always remain.

However I have been taking a rather perverse pleasure in the act of decluttering.

Every bag of rubbish taken down to the bins is a small victory in the never-ending war against stuff.

I'm not even being as brutal as I probably should be. Once the renovation is complete, I can see myself ditching more things because they a) don't suit, b) are shabby or c) I just don't need them.

It can be hard to part with certain things - particularly travel mementos or little personal trinkets received as gifts or picked up randomly somewhere.

And it's not to say I don't like stuff. I'm just seeing the attraction of less stuff. I want to be more agile in the spaces where I exist. I think I just want to be less. It ties in a bit with my desire to lose weight (not that anything has happened there; if anything living off mostly take-out and having no time over recent weeks probably means I've stacked on again). Some part of me feels that by being less, I will actually be more - more active, more creative, more capable of managing my time and more of a contributor.

It would also just be nice to not live in a midden.

Another experience that is relatively new for me is the willingness to shell out for more expensive items even though there are cheaper options available.

I realise I've become a bit of an appliance/fitting snob.

It's not that I'm flashing cash around willy-nilly - I'm still wheeling and dealing and buying on discounts and specials. But when The Wah and I visited a big builders' discount-type warehouse recently to look at taps and sinks, all I could really see is how.... cheap... they were.

You start to think - I'm paying out a fair slab of the folding to get a custom-made kitchen. It's not the Rolls Royce of kitchens, sure. Maybe the high-end Hyundai of kitchens. But I still don't want to fit it with Bargain Bob's Retreads 'R' Us tyres, you know?

So all of my appliances are Smeg.

Heh. Smeg.

And I've forked over more to get some swish Swiss fittings.

Look at this baby - my new tap, Eve.

The instruction sheet for Eve refers to her as "a bubbling source of inspiration" for your kitchen.

It's airy promotional material, sure, but you try brushing your fingertips across Eve's stainless steel curves and tell me she isn't one sexy culinary muse.

I look forward to sharing the final results of the renovations with you - a few people have been laughing at my optimistic attitude that it will all run smoothly, but I have no reason to fear at the moment.

We shall see.

Raven Mad

2013-04-23T09:50:00.000+10:00

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.

Fake Disneyland

2013-04-17T01:35:00.002+10:00

My poor blog, how I neglect you.

I'm in a frustrating position where I want to post here more often, but find myself without the time or inspiration for an entry. Or I twist myself in knots trying to think of the wittiest possible take on a subject before abandoning the idea as ultimately fruitless or "done somewhere else, probably better".

Then when I do get some time - such as a few stolen moments on holiday in Beijing last week - the Great Firewall stopped my upload attempts.

Anyway, that's enough self-flagellation - hopefully I will get a chance over the next few days to post a few things that have been sliding their way through my brain meats.

For now, I thought you might enjoy this short film made at the Shijingshan Amusement Park in Beijing's west.

My fellow improviser Amy - who I had travelled with to attend the fourth annual Beijing Improv Festival - was keen to check out the so-called "Fake Disneyland.

And so it was that we arrived on a Monday morning to find one of the strangest places on Earth.

Raven On returns...with a twist

2013-04-03T23:26:00.000+10:00

I was looking forward to Game of Thrones returning, not just because it is the MOST BRILLIANT SHOW EVER TRULY EVER EXCEPT MAYBE XENA: WARRIOR PRINCESS WOAH CAN YOU IMAGINE IF THEY DID A GoT/XENA CROSSOVER SOMEBODY SHOULD WRITE THAT AS FAN FICTION ACTUALLY WAIT THAT'S A TERRIBLE IDEA, but because I really enjoyed writing my Raven On recaps last season.

I was sitting at work early last week pondering how good it would be to have a regular requirement to blog, as I am very aware of how derelict I have been in my recreational writing over the past few months.

Then I remembered I work for a national news organisation that might be interested in recaps. A few emails/calls later, and there it was: Raven On is going national.

I do hope fans of the recaps will keep reading over at Fairfax; I've kept the same format and the same unwieldy length.

Now that I'm an official "reviewer", I've been given previews of future episodes - they are marked and totally traceable so I won't be uploading them to the internet. They're not high def anyway, so it's not like you get the best boob-viewing experience.

I'm off to Beijing on Saturday, so I have to get a couple of recaps done in advance. But I will give you a bit of a random cryptic clue about Episode 2: the cheesy bit is the best.

Stop the Bookshelf Porn

2013-03-18T00:25:00.000+10:00

Everyone on the internet loves bookshelf porn.

You know what I'm talking about.

That constant stream of photos that do the rounds on social media, attracting drooling "likes", adoring retweets, and gushing comments:

OMG IT'S A PACMAN SHELF CAUSE PACMAN
WAS RENOWNED FOR HIS LOVE OF CHERRIES & BOOKS

It's a bookshelf that says READ, because that's insightful
and encouraging, you know?

I'm going to get a pointy house just so I can build this!

ARGHGHGH IT'S A POD A READING POD SO ERGONOMIC

It's an ideas tree, can you FEEL your creativity GROWING?
Also books are made of trees so it's like a life cycle.

I realise I sound like a bitter illiterate (billiterate?) sow, but honestly, have you people never heard of dust?

Sure, these bookshelves are marvellously creative and appeal to our collective sense of whimsy, but let's think of the practicalities.

You show me one of these bookshelves IN REAL LIFE, and I'll show you a warren of so many dust bunnies you could re-enact Watership Down.

Honestly, all these internet people with fancy bookshelves must live in hermetically sealed, climate controlled environments, where no dust can permeate.

Or maybe they clean regularly or something. Whatever.

All I know is that it seems sometimes that these pictures appeal to people because they fancy themselves as "book people".

You know, the kind of people who imagine themselves as thoroughly literate types, with iced tea and organic mini-muffins on hand as they tuck themselves into their bohemian book nook to take in the latest insert 'posh' or 'cred' author here.

Bless you, if you are one of those people. I often wish I could be like you. You probably wash your hair in pure mountain streams and knit your own hemp trousers. All very admirable, until your allergies play up from all the dust collecting on your stack of Frankie magazines.

Me? I'm trying to clear out books from Chez Clumsy. I've got too many. Of course there are a few favourite fictions and cherished non-fictions that I'll always hold onto, but the vast majority have no re-read value. They're just dust collectors.

Before you slam me as having no romance in my soul, please remember that bagging books does not mean I'm bagging reading.

I bought myself an iPad before heading to Burma last year, and I can tell you that the main thing I've used it for is reading eBooks. The damn thing's a bloody marvel. I don't even have to dog-ear a page to remember where I'm up to. THE iPAD REMEMBERS.

And sure, while the first books I read on it were Stieg Larsson's Millenium Trilogy, followed by A Clash of Kings (aka Game of Thrones Series 2), I have just finished Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies, and that's PROPER literary.

Also, you can't get paper cuts from iPads. Paper cuts frighten me on a level only topped by geckos. Just consider this for a moment: getting a paper cut ON YOUR EYEBALL.

Yeah.

I once thought of that, and then almost vomited. The thought has haunted me ever since. I shouldn't even write it here, lest the mere noting of the fear helps it manifest in the form of outraged hemp-knitting, Frankie devotees baying for my blood in between cups of dandelion tea.

Point is - is it OK to not like having books around the place anymore? Have I completely lost my soul because I want less dust in my house?

Clotheshorse #3

2013-03-04T07:59:00.001+10:00

I'm pleased to say that I managed to get through my February "Wear My Wardrobe" challenge - in fact, there are a bunch of clothes left over that I didn't get around to breaking out. They were mostly tops and dresses, and some sadly because they didn't fit.

However, due to general busy-ness and forgetfulness, I missed out on taking pictures of all of them.

So here's a few:

It became necessary to break out the jeans
once I'd exhausted all my skirt options.

You can't really see the black Cue dress I'm
wearing, but who cares? A cute puppy is
the best accessory.

I know this isn't an outfit, but I've become slightly
obsessed with my regrowth. Sure, I've been calling
it "targeted balayage", but it's actually my natural
hair colour. That's the most I've seen it in years.
It's so bland and devoid of personality.
It's like the Miranda Kerr of natural hair colours.

This was the outfit I wore on February 28,
the last day of the wardrobe challenge.

Now I have a confession to make about the final day of the challenge. You'll see I wore a smart green blouse with a fairly regulation black pencil skirt. The skirt was a relatively recent purchase; only worn two or three times before.

At some point during the day, the zip on the back of the skirt broke. Just busted clean apart. I only noticed around 3pm, so I could've been walking around for up to six hours with my underpants hanging out.

Not only that, but they weren't nice underpants. They were flesh-coloured underpants. So it may have appeared as if I was walking around with my bottom on display, like some sort of journalistic baboon.

The busted zip was such a complicated affair, I couldn't get the skirt off myself. I had to get The Wah to physically rip it off my person, and while that sounds a little bit saucy, it turns out it wasn't remotely erotic for anyone involved.

I'd like to lose mass so that the prospect of ripping clothes from my body was appealing, rather than a medical necessity.

So now it's March, I'm trying another challenge. I've put a blanket ban on crisps and lollies, and have ruled out eating any chocolate besides Red Tulip (it's Easter time, and it's just cruel to rule out Red Tulip, when it's not available the rest of the year).

We'll see how we go. I'm sure the exercise and nutrition experts among you will tsk-tsk, believing that a well-rounded holistic approach to mass reduction is the only way for true success.

But for some reason at the moment my only chance is to make a game out of this stuff.

Now I've just got to follow the rules...

Comedy & Tragedy

2013-02-21T00:56:00.001+10:00

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!

Clotheshorse #2

2013-02-17T23:16:00.001+10:00

Midway through the "Wear My Wardrobe" February challenge and it's already getting tougher. I'm dragging things out, trying them on, and finding out my weight gain has made them uncomfortable or even downright unwearable.

At this stage I'll be wearing a burlap sack by the end of the month. Well, I would be, except I don't currently own a burlap sack and I'm under a self-imposed ban on buying new things. My fluffy bathrobe it is, then.

Here's another wrap-up.

I got this skirt in Cambodia. I love its bright waistband
but it's oddly tight in places. The shirt is Cue. The day I wore
this I spilled sweet chilli sauce all over it.

This is a Peter Morrissey dress. Ooh yes, fancy.
Except it's Peter Morrissey for Big W, because I'm classy.
Like all surplice necklines, it gapes on me, so you
can see I've pinned it together using a Game of Thrones
House Stark badge. Because winter is coming.

This dress cost me $25 from Coles' Mix range.
I always wear it with this brown stretch belt.
However, it's a bit tight around the thighs now.

I'm never sure if I can pull off animal-style prints.
But I do love this beige Basque skirt, and wear
it often. It was a lot looser on me when I first got it.

I got this Zara top in Hong Kong airport last September.
I didn't try it on beforehand, I just loved the neckline & owl print.
However it rucks up over my bust a bit.

FASHION! IT'S FRUSTRATING AND CONFRONTING!

Clotheshorse #1

2013-02-09T23:30:00.000+10:00

The February diet/fashion/clothes-wearing/whatever challenge is proving interesting.

There has been no weight loss, and no discernable upping of exercise levels. But we carry on, stiff upper lip, chin chin and all that.

Here are some photographs from the week that was:

A peplum dress. This is about as peplum as
I'll go. The peplum craze has gone too far.

I'm putting this pic up because I forgot to take a solo one. Also because
I'm insecure and I met Mick Foley and I want you to be impressed.

This is a Stella skirt I rescued from a friend.
It has an elasticated waist and is still a bit
tight. Always makes you feel good.

This is just a mess. A mess.

I love this Basque dress. It's actually a size 12, but
I'm not sure I can get away with it anymore. I've helpfully
pointed out the problem areas that show why.

You can see my bust is really too big for this top.
The navy Review skirt is actually quite shiny.
I can't get bigger because it's already too tight at
the waist. And this was the first night I'd worn it. Sigh!
Love the shoes, but again, they cut my heels to pieces.

All of these clothes have now been hung up at the back of my wardrobe rack, with everything else being shunted forward. The experiment continues!

Take that as a Comment

2013-02-06T10:30:00.000+10:00

It should be no surprise to hear that I love getting comments on my blog posts.

I'm terrible at replying at comments, which another reason why I'll never make it as a pro-blogger (the other reason being I have no theme here beyond brittle dignity and a Game of Thrones obsession).

Sadly the majority of blog comments that I get at the moment are spam. I seem to be on the receiving end of a big upswing in faux-complimentary spam, in which the content and style of various posts are praised to high heaven in fairly generic terms, before a subtle mention of their own spammy website is dropped in.

But tonight while doing a semi-regular deletion of spam comments, I came across my first spam insult.

This spammer obviously read The Game and decided "negging" was the ideal way to provoke me into action. My goodness! I've been insulted! Who does this guy think he is? Oh, he facilitates same-day loans? Wow... I was going to get angry but then I remembered I really need $300 in fast cash at 55% interest to get me through to my next pay day...

It's like those spruikers for gyms who stand on street corners and hand you coupons that excitedly describe in thick coloured fonts the discounts you will get if you sign up RIGHT NOW to their high-tech . And for a brief moment you think "Oh cool, maybe that's a good deal", before thinking "Hey, why they hand it specifically to me?"

The point of all this is that I'm considering turning comment spam detection on which sucks because I hate that word recognition bollocks. You'd think a key factor in a word recognition program would be the ability to recognise words. My eyesight is pretty damn good, but it takes me seconds to untangle the swirled-about-and-jammed-together letters and most times I get it wrong.

I realise that throwing hurdles up for commenters generally discourages commenters, so I won't turn it on straightaway. If anybody has other advice or suggestions, I'm happy to hear them - just leave a comment about comments in the comments.

Mass Effect

2013-02-03T22:56:00.001+10:00

Let's talk about mass. Because quite frankly, it's weighing on me.

It's been years, if at all, since I publicly griped about my size on this site. One, because it's generally boring. Two, because I've never really been, for want of a more PC phrase "fat enough". And three, because I've never wanted to make slimming pledges I knew in my heart of hearts I probably couldn't keep.

But I feel I need to write about it now, because it's become an issue that I no longer feel I have any control over. I need to take some control back, and perhaps clearly elucidating my thoughts can be a small step in that direction.

I have reached - for me, it is important to note - the "fat enough" stage.

I can't even bear to tell you what my mass is. I can't bear it. I'm ashamed, and embarrassed.

But I will tell you these facts.

I am 20 kilograms over my "ideal" mass.

I am 15 kilograms over my "goal" mass.

And I am 10 kilograms over my "that's really the upper limit" mass.

Much of this mass gain has been in the past 7 months, after I badly injured my left ankle the start of July, then spent the rest of winter hibernating in a den of carbohydrates.

It was only in September that I got the diagnosis of a torn tibia-fibular ligament, and with travel and starting a new job, then Christmas, now floods, I've yet to get the physio I really need for it.

But that doesn't really matter anymore. The ankle is well enough to move. I just haven't been moving it.

And so I'm comfortable writing here now because I realise this isn't about me, as good-opinion-seeking Natalie, wanting to hear platitudes of "You're not fat".

I'm writing because I am carrying too much mass on my frame. Yes, I'm tall, and I'm still in relative proportion, and they are the only reasons it doesn't "show" as much. What you don't see is the pain in my knees and ankles, which surely would be helped by having to haul less mass around. You don't see the increasing tightness of my bras, as my bust inflates. You don't feel the weight of excess flesh on your thighs, feeling like you're wearing sacks of flour strapped just above the knee.

Exercise - I've got to get back into it. I bought a FitBit late last year and have been wearing it religiously to monitor my steps every day. My target is the baseline 10,000 steps a day, but often I fall short, around the 8000 mark. But if I keep at it, and finally get into a daily walking routine, I might start seeing... I don't know. Something. Anything.

Diet-wise - I don't know what I'm going to do. I have all the knowledge for a healthy diet - lots of vegetables, lean protein, small amounts of carbs and sugar. And yet, I get bored cooking. I don't know how to make enough exciting healthy dishes. I don't have time, for God's sake.

My biggest problem has been junk food. I'm constantly snacking, constantly looking for something to put in my mouth. It's must be the same motor memory as smokers. I'd say I self-medicate with food, but that wouldn't be altogether true - mostly I'm just eating things because I can't stop eating things.

However, in July 2012 I made a promise to myself to cut out McDonald's and KFC for a month. I had the habit of dropping in and grabbing things off their $2 menus. It was a bad habit, so I stopped. For a month. I did it. I did have KFC later in 2012, but have stopped again as of January 1. And apart from the odd ice-cream or drink, I have not had any McDonald's food since July.

Good habits can be formed.

So I'm going to try something this month that could be tangentially beneficial.

I've placed a self-imposed ban on buying any new clothing, footwear or make-up.

This might not seem like much to those of you averse to shopping, but wandering through the Queen Street Mall is one of my key ways of relaxing.

This is not financially disruptive - I never buy ridiculously expensive stuff, and almost always buy on sale - but it is a way of hiding my increasing mass. "Nobody need know the size", I think, or "This brand always runs small", as I reach for a looser garment.

Well, bollocks to that. Time to face facts. I've got a shitload of clothes. I recently gave five bags of no-longer-worn gear to a charity shop, and I've still got a wardrobe full.

I'm going to try to wear all them across the month of February. That's 28 days of outfits. Once an outfit has been worn, it can't be repeated. I *may* have to reuse some bottoms as I don't have as many skirts and pants as I do tops, but I'm going to limit it to twice for each garment.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be as hellish as all get-out, and require a fair bit more planning than I probably realise. But I'm going to give it a go.

If nothing else, it should confirm to me exactly what doesn't fit/what I don't like wearing anymore, and I can reduce my wardrobe down even further. Then, come March, I can re-examine what it is I actually want to wear, and what I need to do diet/exercise wise to make it happen without the heartache.

I started on Friday 1 February with this Maiocchi cherry dress:

It's a lovely frock, but already getting tight across the bust. And while I was wearing it, the cherry pin at the front of the belt just popped off as I was walking. Just popped off! That's not a good sign.

Then on Saturday night I dressed down to attend Cliff Richard in concert:

It's nothing fancy, because I had the realisation that I probably shouldn't burn the nice stuff too early. On the plus side, this outfit plus accompanying multi-coloured Converse sneakers meant I got asked for ID at the casino as my Mum and I went in to have pre-Cliff dinner. Why yes, I could be under 18, thank you for asking.

Every few days I'll post more photographs - mostly so I can keep track of what I've worn.

Milking my opinions

2013-01-24T00:34:00.000+10:00

I've found it rather hard to have opinions of late.

This dearth of loud-mouthed brashy-ness is due in part to a renewed focus on my work, as an arts/entertainment writer for brisbanetimes.com.au

It's a truly brilliant job. Truly. I burn a goat in sacrifice everyday just to thank the elder gods for this gift.

May Shub-Niggurath bless my journalistic endeavours
with his terrible, terrible wrath.

There's been a lot to learn, technicalities-wise, as I've made the switch from radio to online journalism. But the basic tenet of writing interesting stories that are factually correct remains the same, and so I've been focusing extra hard on doing that stuff well.

The one area of opinion-giving in my new role is review and criticism - and so far I've been mostly pleasant and positive. Mostly that's because the performances and concerts that I've seen have been enjoyable, and haven't justified an acidic, rapier-like dissection. But it's also because I want to make sure my rapier has been properly sharpened and acid-coated and I'm confident enough with my surgical skills before I go in for the cut.

You've got to be able to stand by your opinions.

But also, perhaps more importantly, you've got to be qualified to have them.

Let me give you a potentially controversial example.

The issue of mothers breastfeeding their babies in public jumped into the spotlight when a Bribie Island woman was asked to move while feeding her baby, and then blew into a full-on "storm in a D-cup" (ahh, that old chestnut. Or should that be chest nuts?) when Sunrise presenter David Koch threw in his two cents that you had to be "classy" about it.

Now Kochie really didn't help things, because frankly the "Hey, I'm just a regular Aussie bloke with an opinion!" card doesn't play well.

Moreover this issue is really a non-issue, because breastfeeding in public is absolutely protected by law, and I have absolutely no problem with mothers breastfeeding wherever and whenever they need to.

But I've got to confess ... I kinda don't like it.

Let me rephrase. I find it a bit intimidating. It's a bit... weird. Some may say I've just been brainwashed by Big Porn and only see breasts as sexual. But I know they have a biological role to play in the ongoing successful evolutionary experiment that is "the human race". I know it's natural, and beneficial, and healthy, and all those things. I'm a feminist, and I don't believe women should have to hide away for any reason.

But I've got to confess... breastfeeding still kinda freaks me out.

Now of course, this is entirely my problem. I realise that. This is entirely Natalie's squeamishness and ye olde prudishness.

I couldn't join in the social media barrage about how it's normal and beautiful because it's not how I feel. While, yes, I wanted to avoid the wrath of social media, I also felt as a person who has not had a child that it would be inappropriate for me to chime in. But most of all, breastfeeding is protected under the law. So really, what was the point of having an opinion? It's not like my opinion about breastfeeding counts in any way. It simply doesn't.

So I stayed quiet.

However, what often makes people interesting are their opinions, their particular take on things. Perhaps indeed some of you come here to examine my opinions (sorry about the breastfeeding thing).

So it worries me that I'm not really having a lot of opinions at the moment.

I seem to be deciding that if I'm not qualified to make a comment, or if my opinion has already been repeated often, then there's really no need to express what I think.

But it's becoming harder to sustain a wannabe-pseudo-philosophical blog with only simple opinions like "Africa" by Toto is the best song ever written (it is), or Joss Whedon is all that (he isn't).

In 2012 I had a friend accuse me of bias, before cutting me out of their life. I realise now how much that accusation affected me - I was always so proud and so careful about the responsibility of being a journalist and weighing up all angles of a story. Maybe it made me cautious, too cautious. Maybe it made me timid.

I'm going to try to cultivate some more opinions. I'm happy for you to suggest some topics, but don't be leading. It's got to be my opinion, and I've got to be confident to put it out there, like some sort of milk-laden breast. And maybe by using those kinds of metaphors, I might grow a little less freaked out by breastfeeding mothers.

The Most Amazing Shop

2013-01-07T09:46:00.000+10:00

It wasn't always The Most Amazing Shop.

"Originally it was Carol's Shop," says Carol, owner and manager, cutting plastic-covered sea shells from protective foam wrapping and placing them onto the counter in front of her.

"But people kept coming in and saying 'This is the most amazing shop!', so eventually I changed the name.

"People come in here for something odd. Something different."

The Most Amazing Shop delivers.

North Stradbroke Island is a 20 minute water taxi ride (or 45 minutes by vehicle ferry) from Cleveland. It's renowned for its beautiful beaches, great surf, fishing, untamed bushland and sand-mining operations.

The Most Amazing Shop lies on the outskirts of Dunwich, along the main road drivers take to the island's other main settlements of Amity Point and Point Lookout.

It's impossible not to notice. Red vertical flags crying "Open" sit on the kerbside, and the sloping front yard of the shop is crammed with terracotta garden pots and other strange adornments, including life-size hooded Death figures, Chinese guardian lions, large garden gnomes, gargoyles, a torso of a male mannequin and even dinosaurs of various sizes and species.

A whiteboard lays out the rules of entry:

Children must be accompanied by an adult at all times
Bring your money!
Buy nothing? Gold Coin Donation Required -> Karla's New Wheelchair

The ante-chamber - what looks like a garage as once was - contains racks of clothing. Most looks pre-worn; there's a formal dress area, a kiddies' clothes rack, one for swimsuits, another for Eastern-inspired embroidered gowns like saris and chongsams.

There are loose barricades at the back of the space, but they too are stacked with things - I find a hooded devil's cape sitting under a pair of novelty buttocks at the end of one row, and wonder how those two came to be piled together.

A few steps to the left of the clothing room lies the entrance to the shop proper. The strains of the Chicken Dance ring out as I near, and truly it's the most appropriate music for the strange circus of inanimate objects that I subsequently encounter.

Every conceivable space is crammed full of disparate offerings.

On the floor, a stack of VHS tapes topped by Shanghai Noon.

Nearby, some heavy vintage irons.

In a corner, dozens of colourful fantasy figurines such as fairies, dragons and wizards.

A set of shelves packed to the edges with coloured glass, mismatching plates and gaudy jewellery. Prefer the shelf? That's for sale too.

A large stuffed polar bear sits atop a loose pyramid of other stuffed animals, but its hat adorned with eucalyptus leaves detracts somewhat from the Arctic King of Plush impression.

Racks full of shoes, but no shoeboxes in sight.

At the back of an aisle, propped up against a mattress, a nude porcelain female figurine.

It’s wondrous.

It’s marvelous.

It’s…. junk.

It's the kind of shop I used to create as a child in my parents' rumpus room - all leftovers and old toys and shoes my mother no longer wore. I'd price them using little dot stickers purchased at a newsagent for a few dollars for several hundred; we would barter and pay for goods using a large pile of otherwise useless Polish Zlotys.

Perhaps my assessment is harsh. One person’s trash is another’s treasure and all that. You could say it’s the philosophy of Kitsche - there are no terrible surfaces without a beautiful depth.

“I get things from lots of different places,” says Carol. “I have different suppliers, I go to auctions, and I visit Bundaberg and the Darling Downs a lot. I always stop off at places when I travel.”

So it’s as much about Carol’s love of collecting as it is about customer’s love of shopping?

“Yes, that’s right!” she nods.

“The kids are always angry at me because I’m forever stopping to look at shops. Sometimes places are going out of business so I can buy things up.”

Those kids include Karla, who was just 12 years old when she became a quadriplegic after a swimming pool accident.

“We still don’t know what happened exactly,” she says.

“But whatever she did, it shattered her C5 vertebrae. But that’s good, you know. She’s got some feeling, if no movement. You work with what you’ve got.”

Karla’s now 27, and is embarking on her Masters in counter-terrorism, after finishing a degree in political science.

“She can’t do any more than two subjects at a time. But she’s always leaving things until the last minute!” says Carol, shaking her head and half-grinning.

“She’s still got a brain on her, as long as she sticks to her brain food.”

Her ‘brain food’ is a special drug from the United States that seems to keep Karla focused and productive where others have failed.

Donation bowls scattered around The Most Amazing Shop appeal for contributions towards a new wheelchair, particularly if the patron doesn’t buy anything. I threw a few dollars in before striking up my conversation with Carol.

She reveals Karla has finally received that new wheelchair recently, and donations now will be used to buy a $1000 attachment for her iPhone and iPad, so they stay propped up and charged throughout the day.

“If she drops them, or they slip off her lap, she can’t get them, she has to wait for someone to pick them up for her.”

Carol has short sandy-blonde hair, with blue-eyes behind slight glasses. She wears a long loose green sleeveless blouse over white pants.

She reveals she doesn’t live full time on North Stradbroke Island, that in fact the family is based at Sunnybank on Brisbane’s southside.

“I started the shop basically as respite from Karla,” she admits. “It’s not good for you, to be a mother and a full-time carer.”

Carol, a former truck driver before Karla’s accident, says it was the best way to force disability service providers to get her daughter carers.

“Thank goodness now she’s fully-funded. But we had to fight for it.”

She names a service provider well-respected for its education campaigns about spinal injury, and fumes about what she perceives are their shortcomings in the area of care.

"They don't do anything," she says, shaking her head as she shovels novelty plastic penises into a box under counter.

“Well, they’re very good at giving prevention talks, but they forget that sometimes accidents happen, and they’re accidents. You can be as well-informed about not diving headfirst into shallow water as you like, but that’s not going to help if you have a tyre blow-out and roll your car. You can’t prevent accidents – they’re accidents.”

She hopes the National Disability Insurance Scheme will help future accident victims, even if it’s not much use now to Karla.

“If it will make it easier for them to choose their care providers, it’ll be good. We had such a fight.”

Some more customers enter the shop and I use the opportunity to poke my head around corners I hadn’t yet ventured into.

The shop is full of motion-sensitive toys, including a rude garden gnome, a talking skeleton, and a plush koala that laughs more maniacally than Vincent Price’s Thriller voiceover. They’re both strangely delightful and charmingly off-putting.

Eventually, I find a gold statuette labeled “Beer Drinking Champion”. It has no top on the packaging, and, like many things in The Most Amazing Shop, is covered in a thin film of dust.

At our office Christmas party, I won a traditional award given out to the staff member responsible for the most impressive stuff-up. Missing my very first week on the job due to influenza secured the gong for me – but I subsequently lost the trophy during our night out, which rather puts me ahead of the pack for next year’s biggest stuff-up award.

This statuette features a beer-bellied man with his head tilted back, throat open to receive the goodness from a stein he’s holding. When you press a button, it plays a song about how much he loves beer.
I decide this is a good replacement option, and go back to the counter.

As she rings up my statue for $12.50, Carol tells me she had an unusually busy run in the lead-up to Christmas, and is picking up again in the early New Year.

“I get the passing traffic between Dunwich and Point Lookout,” she says. “The buses stop too.”
“But some people just thinking I do garden pots, because of what’s out the front.

“They don’t realize you can’t put other things out there, because they’ll get stolen, or the sun fades them. There’s a whole lot more if they come inside.”

You can like The Most Amazing Shop on Facebook.

Fiscal Cliff

2013-01-03T14:44:00.001+10:00

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.

BATTLE PIG!

2012-12-27T10:59:00.001+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Internet, I Need You To Help Me Kidnap a Dog

2012-12-20T00:08:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you right there?"

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

"Oh! Are you missing a white dog?"

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

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

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

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

All right then, Mr Community Service.

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

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

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

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

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

I blinked.

Snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Internet - I need your help to kidnap a dog.

Get Up on the Dancefloor

2012-12-16T23:34:00.001+10:00

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

2012-12-12T00:46:00.001+10:00

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

2012-12-04T02:46:00.000+10:00

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

2012-11-28T06:35:00.001+10:00

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.

Remember November: Cane Toads

2012-11-20T11:33:00.001+10:00

It was less than a second after I spotted the cane toad that I realised I was about to watch it die.

It was just last night. I had pulled up at the Albion five-ways, waiting for a light to go green, allowing me to make a right hook turn.

Then I noticed something small flop on the bitumen about 10 metres in front of my car.

The toad was halfway across the opposite side of the road, jumping limply towards the median strip. Goodness knows how it had even got that far alive. Cane toads are not the fastest of movers, and this one seemed particularly sluggish.

A red car zoomed towards the toad, but missed it by a few centimetres.

The toad flopped itself forward again, enough to be directly underneath the body of a silver car that just then whizzed over it.

By now I was watching with a tightness in my throat, the sense of inevitability almost oppressive, despite only three or four seconds having passed.

The toad made a final leap towards the strip. It was about a metre away, but it may as well have been a different planet. The toad was doomed.

A white van tore down the slight decline at the other end of the fiveways, and within a second was upon the toad.

Its front wheel perfectly aligned with the cane toad, and with a crunch, and a sharp flip onto its back, the toad was dead. The van carried on.

I let out a breath I didn't realise I'd been holding. Then, with a gape in the traffic and my light green, I made my right turn.

The toad was belly up, pale in the light of the street lamps. I steered my Yaris around the corpse and left it in the rear view.

Not the actual cane toad. This cane toad is an actor,
taking part in a re-enactment.

I'm not sure why I felt for the cane toad. They're horrible things, an introduced pest that's caused untold damage to the state's biodiversity. I've run over my fair share during the height of summer, when they swarm across roads in suburban areas. The popping sound as tyres roll over them would be familiar to most Queenslanders.

Indeed, most Queenslanders would gleefully admit to having the blood of dozens of cane toads on their hands - or more likely, on an old cricket bat or golf club.

We weren't big golfers in my family, but still we had an old bronze-coloured nine-iron, kept specifically for use smashing toads from the edges of our property back into the scrub bush from whence they had come.

I seem to have a fuzzy memory of someone in the neighbourhood putting a bunch of toads in an empty petrol can, then setting them on fire. Crackle, crackle.

Nowadays, such relish in destruction is frowned upon - the sanctioned disposal method is placing collected cane toads in a plastic bag, then placing said bag in the freezer. It's the most humane way - although forgive me if I've never been very keen on having toad eyes stare at me when I reach into the freezer to retrieve some chicken nuggets.

But for a moment, I felt for that cane toad, or at least, I felt the responsibility of bearing witness to the extinction of a life.

I got over it within seconds. It was, after all, a cane toad.

What creative methods of death have you seen visited upon the cane toad?

James Bond Does Not Drink Beer

2012-11-13T00:26:00.000+10:00

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.

Trishaw

2012-11-12T00:39:00.000+10:00

A mooring stop in Magwe, along Burma's great Irrawaddy River, brought with it my first encounter with a trishaw.

The trishaw is a rickshaw crossed with a sidecar. A seat of sorts is mounted on a third wheel that sits out from the right side of the bicycle. A small metal crossbeam allows your foot purchase from whence to lever into the wooden seat. It's generally padded with a cushion, but if you're well-padded yourself, you might find your rear end squeezed a tad. That's nothing compared to the driver/rider/torture victim, whose job it is to press themselves into the slim gap between sidecar and bike proper, and sink down onto the right peddle in the vain hope his tiny frame can start the thing moving.

You sit, oddly next to your driver, the road in full view in front of you, his legs madly thrusting up and down to attain a speed of 6 to 10 kilometres per hour. Gravity is both a sweet friend and a bitter enemy. Even a small rise in the road will force the rider to dismount and push the trishaw forward. But once over the crest - yippee!

My Gran. She is very, very British.

It's the local transportation mode of choice, perfect for Burma's narrow roads, even putting trams and buses out of business in some quarters. But the country's increasing partiality to Western tourists could have an effect on the popularity of trishaw driving as a job. The fat dollars may not be adequate recompense for the fat asses.

And I include my own ass in that.

As pleasantly colonial as riding the trishaw was, I felt heart-wrenchingly awful doing it. The poor bloke giving the job of hauling me around was skinnier than a bulimic on laxatives, and, in this devoutly Buddhist nation, must have done something terrible in a past life to be reincarnated as my beast of burden.

I said as much to Myu, the boat's purser, after I'd clambered down and made my way once more for the RV Orient Pandaw. "I felt so sorry for him, having to drag me around," I laughed, making the "Wide Load" gesture about my person.

"Ah, yes, because you are so fat!" he laughed back.

Well, yes, Myu, that was the reason, but you didn't have to go and agree. Where I come from, it's customary for people to feed me sweet lies about how no, I'm not actually fat. But I looked around, and realised that yes, I've got at least 20 kilograms on the average local, so Myu was being technically correct. The most heart-breaking kind of correct.

Having said that, I did have another five or six locals point at me and utter the word "Beautiful" during my trishaw journey, so unless they wanted me to burst into a Christina Aguilera number, I must have still been a bit exotic 'round those parts.

Or maybe they were just complimenting the trishaw driver on his hauling power.

Sunset over the Irrawaddy River at Magwe.

Remember November: Don't Do Stuff

2012-11-09T21:30:00.000+10:00

I'm heading to mega geek-fest Supanova this weekend, on assignment for Brisbane Times.

I *may* be going dressed as She-Ra, Princess of Power. You know, for work.

Anyway, I've been doing some research, which happily means watching old 80s cartoons. Which also happily means coming across sensational 80s anti-drug messages tacked onto the end of old 80s cartoons.

Check out the end of this particular episode of She-Ra (in which the intrepid heroine was forced to work with arch-enemy Hordak to escape the Dark Dimension, in case you were interested). You're going to have to skip ahead to the six minute mark, but you'll be rewarded with a small furry creature emerging from behind a rock to warn young kiddies against using non-specified - but no doubt highly dangerous - drugs:

I have only vague memories of these incessantly cheery "Hey kids! Don't do drugs!" messages. Possibly because I was in my late 20s before I could actually name three different types of "drugs". (Does Nurofen count?!?)

But it sent me off on a stroll down "Don't Do Stuff" memory lane, courtesy of all those brilliant people over recent years who've dug out their old Beta videos and uploaded shows, ads and more, allowing us to remember the televisual delights of our past in all their cringeworthy glory.

Here's a fun example, from right here in Queensland. Make sure you watch until the very end...

DO THE LIGHT TING! DO THE LIGHT TING!

I don't know about you, but when I come across videos like that I just want to reach back in time, ruffle the 80s' hair and mumble "Whosa-woosa-widdle-wacist-then-hmmm? You are! You are!"

Anybody else have any examples of helpful public awareness advertising? Throw your links in the comments.