Dear Catriona Rowntree,
GET YOUR EVER-PRESENT NORKS OFF MY TELLY.
And while you're at it, put those massive teeth away.
You're so excited about your boobs, aren't you? It's like "Here's the sweeping vista of the Greek Islands, as seen from my expensive balcony. But more importantly - here's a great big look at my fun-bags! Woo!".
We want to see the pretty scenery, not the mammary glands of the hyperactive bimbo sent on a plane to present it. The producers put you on a plane because they couldn't stand you hanging around the office anymore.
Put a skivvy on and get on with it.
Yours with a comparatively uninterrupted view of my feet,
Jo.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Love Poem
Your neck glistens brightly with crystal-like drops
Your beauty brings tears I can't blink through
You're made from good things like malt, barley and hops
So I think now my dear, I must drink you.
Your beauty brings tears I can't blink through
You're made from good things like malt, barley and hops
So I think now my dear, I must drink you.
Road Trip to Quandialla #1
I had lots of mates at uni, but time being what it is, and the fickle nature of art school being what it is, I’ve lost contact with most of them.
Two of my favourites, though, are Sarah (‘Cuzza’) and Milly, and I think our (mostly email-based) friendship has endured, despite the tyranny of distance, because of our mutual intense love of art, music, and topical social commentary. And like, beer. And making up words for stuff.
Milly lives in the Blue Mountains (I’d call her ‘Mountain Milly’, but I’ve started sniggering already), and Sarah lives in Quandialla, in south-western New South Wales. If I was my Dad, I could say “Quandialla is X number of kilometres East of West Wyalong, and equidistant from thingo and whatsit”. But I’m not, so I’ll just say it’s half an album away from Grenfell by car.
Sarah is married to the very worthy Trev, and they live on a merino stud. About seven months ago, Trev was kind enough to knock our mate Sarah up, so Milly and I kind of invited ourselves to an old fashioned country baby shower last weekend. I hadn’t seen Milly in over a year, and neither of us had seen Sarah for the better part of a decade, so, in Milly’s words, we were a bit Big Dead Kev about the whole trip.
I buggered off from work early on Friday and jumped on a train to Valley Heights, or as Milly calls it, Australia’s Most Oxymoronic Suburb. Milly picked me up from the station and we began the first leg of the trip to Bathurst, where we were expected at a glass-blower’s exhibition opening at Bathurst Regional Gallery.
Along the way, Milly, who’s a journalist, was kind enough to explain split infinitives to me. Milly used to work at The Picture magazine, and is a perfect example of a cocktail made up of equal parts highbrow and lowbrow. Very carefully and articulately, Milly explained that “She pulled her pants down” is a split infinitive, whereas “She pulled down her pants” isn’t.
We pulled into Bathurst (a spunk of a town, even in the dark) at around 8pm, and found our digs, the Knickerbocker Hotel, without too much trouble. I’d never stayed in a pub before, but I was an instant convert. Cheap, available, and they give you the key to the front door of the pub. Milly and I have decided that we should go on road trips more often, and, inspired by the Knickerbocker, we’re currently planning a tour of Australia’s Pubs Which Are Named After Pants.
Bathurst Regional Gallery is a lovely gallery. Or so I hear. It was closed. In my day (whenever that was – right, Mum?), exhibition openings stayed open until the last pissed art student had drained their final plastic cup of cheap wine, and the last slice of cabanossi had been scavenged and digested. Milly called the glass-blower, and it turned out that most of the gallery-attendees, including our old uni mate Spencer, were only two blocks away at The Family Hotel. I had a crush on Spencer in first year. And now I remember why. Phwoar.
The Family Hotel is a friendly place. Matt the Glassblower and Spencer the Attractive Person introduced us around, and we were given a very un-Sydney-esque welcome. Even the demented ramblings of Peter the Fruitcake were warm and endearing. Sort of. Milly and I gratefully welcomed our first cold beer, and remembered our old uni custom. After chanting "One for me, and one for me mate", we kissed the first beer.
I need to remember one thing about Milly. She is a Champion of the Beer. An Accomplished Drinker. A Journalist. In other words, one should not try to match Milly beer for beer. This is why I ended up handing my black pen to Milly and Spencer and inviting them to give me a couple of tattoos. And I did magic tricks.
Don’t go to nightclubs in Batho. They’re not fun. When you’re a drunk, sleepy tattooed lady, nightclubs in Batho are bad. Milly and I said our goodnights and stumbled up the road to the Knickerbocker to our rooms.
Two of my favourites, though, are Sarah (‘Cuzza’) and Milly, and I think our (mostly email-based) friendship has endured, despite the tyranny of distance, because of our mutual intense love of art, music, and topical social commentary. And like, beer. And making up words for stuff.
Milly lives in the Blue Mountains (I’d call her ‘Mountain Milly’, but I’ve started sniggering already), and Sarah lives in Quandialla, in south-western New South Wales. If I was my Dad, I could say “Quandialla is X number of kilometres East of West Wyalong, and equidistant from thingo and whatsit”. But I’m not, so I’ll just say it’s half an album away from Grenfell by car.
Sarah is married to the very worthy Trev, and they live on a merino stud. About seven months ago, Trev was kind enough to knock our mate Sarah up, so Milly and I kind of invited ourselves to an old fashioned country baby shower last weekend. I hadn’t seen Milly in over a year, and neither of us had seen Sarah for the better part of a decade, so, in Milly’s words, we were a bit Big Dead Kev about the whole trip.
I buggered off from work early on Friday and jumped on a train to Valley Heights, or as Milly calls it, Australia’s Most Oxymoronic Suburb. Milly picked me up from the station and we began the first leg of the trip to Bathurst, where we were expected at a glass-blower’s exhibition opening at Bathurst Regional Gallery.
Along the way, Milly, who’s a journalist, was kind enough to explain split infinitives to me. Milly used to work at The Picture magazine, and is a perfect example of a cocktail made up of equal parts highbrow and lowbrow. Very carefully and articulately, Milly explained that “She pulled her pants down” is a split infinitive, whereas “She pulled down her pants” isn’t.
We pulled into Bathurst (a spunk of a town, even in the dark) at around 8pm, and found our digs, the Knickerbocker Hotel, without too much trouble. I’d never stayed in a pub before, but I was an instant convert. Cheap, available, and they give you the key to the front door of the pub. Milly and I have decided that we should go on road trips more often, and, inspired by the Knickerbocker, we’re currently planning a tour of Australia’s Pubs Which Are Named After Pants.
Bathurst Regional Gallery is a lovely gallery. Or so I hear. It was closed. In my day (whenever that was – right, Mum?), exhibition openings stayed open until the last pissed art student had drained their final plastic cup of cheap wine, and the last slice of cabanossi had been scavenged and digested. Milly called the glass-blower, and it turned out that most of the gallery-attendees, including our old uni mate Spencer, were only two blocks away at The Family Hotel. I had a crush on Spencer in first year. And now I remember why. Phwoar.
The Family Hotel is a friendly place. Matt the Glassblower and Spencer the Attractive Person introduced us around, and we were given a very un-Sydney-esque welcome. Even the demented ramblings of Peter the Fruitcake were warm and endearing. Sort of. Milly and I gratefully welcomed our first cold beer, and remembered our old uni custom. After chanting "One for me, and one for me mate", we kissed the first beer.
I need to remember one thing about Milly. She is a Champion of the Beer. An Accomplished Drinker. A Journalist. In other words, one should not try to match Milly beer for beer. This is why I ended up handing my black pen to Milly and Spencer and inviting them to give me a couple of tattoos. And I did magic tricks.
Don’t go to nightclubs in Batho. They’re not fun. When you’re a drunk, sleepy tattooed lady, nightclubs in Batho are bad. Milly and I said our goodnights and stumbled up the road to the Knickerbocker to our rooms.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Warm Up The Rocker and Pour Me A Sherry #1
I think, sometime soon, that I'll have to accept that I am no longer in the 'spring chicken' section of the supermarket.
Am I ancient, or is it reasonable to expect that if you call yourself a 'band', then at least one of you should play a freakin' instrument? Nobody will ever fill in a tax return by entering "guitarist in Westlife" in the 'main source of income' bit. Not without smirking, anyway.
Should I be inserted into an incontinence ensemble just because I think, when a twelve year old routinely tells their parents to 'f*ck off', eats with their hands, and expects hundreds of dollars in pocket money for sitting on their spotty arse in front of an XBox, that they need a swift smack in the head? Punish the buggers - don't just buy them another computer.
I hesitate to mention the 'good old days', because in some cases they were just last week. But I don't want to live in an age where Paris Hilton releases an album.
Am I ancient, or is it reasonable to expect that if you call yourself a 'band', then at least one of you should play a freakin' instrument? Nobody will ever fill in a tax return by entering "guitarist in Westlife" in the 'main source of income' bit. Not without smirking, anyway.
Should I be inserted into an incontinence ensemble just because I think, when a twelve year old routinely tells their parents to 'f*ck off', eats with their hands, and expects hundreds of dollars in pocket money for sitting on their spotty arse in front of an XBox, that they need a swift smack in the head? Punish the buggers - don't just buy them another computer.
I hesitate to mention the 'good old days', because in some cases they were just last week. But I don't want to live in an age where Paris Hilton releases an album.
Is It Just Me, Or... #2
...should the whole boy-band thing have finished like, seven years ago, at the same time it became irrelevant and tedious?
Is It Just Me, Or.....#1
...will the world be okay if we never see another film version of Pride and Prejudice?
Monday, March 20, 2006
Emails I May Never Send #6
Dear Deni Hines,
You've had your turn, sweetheart. And you stuffed it. Now go away.
There's just no place in the world for vibrato that sounds like Tiny Tim singing through a fan.
Whilst your star turn on that television juggernaut Skating On Thin Ice obviously shows you to be a stack-hatted force in the entertainment industry, there's barely enough of us left who give a rat's about your mother, much less her sproggy, annoying little offspring.
You're not sexy, hilarious and wacky. It's just transparently obvious that you'd like to be.
Put a bra on, have a wash, and shut the f*ck up.
Sincerelyish,
Jo.
You've had your turn, sweetheart. And you stuffed it. Now go away.
There's just no place in the world for vibrato that sounds like Tiny Tim singing through a fan.
Whilst your star turn on that television juggernaut Skating On Thin Ice obviously shows you to be a stack-hatted force in the entertainment industry, there's barely enough of us left who give a rat's about your mother, much less her sproggy, annoying little offspring.
You're not sexy, hilarious and wacky. It's just transparently obvious that you'd like to be.
Put a bra on, have a wash, and shut the f*ck up.
Sincerelyish,
Jo.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Emails I May Never Send #5
Dear Jessica Rowe,
Oh, you inane, bony little pixie.
I can't listen to your forced vacuous giggle any more, or tolerate your cheesy fairy-tale grin, without wanting to take to my television with a hacksaw.
I know by rights I should also send an email to Karl Stefanovic, your meatheaded boof of an offsider, but I suspect that he can't actually read big words. Like 'Stefanovic'.
Even Sharyn Ghidella looks at you like she wants to snap you like a brittle, elfin twig.
Please take your alarming jutting collarbones and your pointy, pointy, face elsewhere, quick-sticks. Don't make me get the hose.
Yours with a comparatively well-concealed skeleton,
Jo.
x
Oh, you inane, bony little pixie.
I can't listen to your forced vacuous giggle any more, or tolerate your cheesy fairy-tale grin, without wanting to take to my television with a hacksaw.
I know by rights I should also send an email to Karl Stefanovic, your meatheaded boof of an offsider, but I suspect that he can't actually read big words. Like 'Stefanovic'.
Even Sharyn Ghidella looks at you like she wants to snap you like a brittle, elfin twig.
Please take your alarming jutting collarbones and your pointy, pointy, face elsewhere, quick-sticks. Don't make me get the hose.
Yours with a comparatively well-concealed skeleton,
Jo.
x
Emails I May Never Send #4
Dear David Caruso,
Okay, so part of my beef might be with the writers, producers and directors of CSI Miami, but when it comes down to it, I don't want to take a hot iron to their faces like I do with you, David.
Point one: You Are Not Sexy. Just come to terms with it, honey. It's partly because you've had the same hair for two decades, you have the physical presence of a marionette, and your eyes are like two beady little licorice bullets. But it's mostly because you're Ginger.
Point two: CSI MIAMI is fictional. They make all those women talk to you, because it's in the script. They make those children look up to you like a father-figure, because they're paying them. And sweetheart - in real life, Ginger people don't drive Hummers.
Point three: Leaving big spaces in between each of your scripted words isn't enigmatic, charismatic, or dramatic. It's f*cking annoying.
Point four: The costume department didn't give you those sunglasses for dramatic effect, so stop fiddling with them. They gave them to you because you're ugly. And Ginger.
Thanks, mate. Sort it.
Jo.
Okay, so part of my beef might be with the writers, producers and directors of CSI Miami, but when it comes down to it, I don't want to take a hot iron to their faces like I do with you, David.
Point one: You Are Not Sexy. Just come to terms with it, honey. It's partly because you've had the same hair for two decades, you have the physical presence of a marionette, and your eyes are like two beady little licorice bullets. But it's mostly because you're Ginger.
Point two: CSI MIAMI is fictional. They make all those women talk to you, because it's in the script. They make those children look up to you like a father-figure, because they're paying them. And sweetheart - in real life, Ginger people don't drive Hummers.
Point three: Leaving big spaces in between each of your scripted words isn't enigmatic, charismatic, or dramatic. It's f*cking annoying.
Point four: The costume department didn't give you those sunglasses for dramatic effect, so stop fiddling with them. They gave them to you because you're ugly. And Ginger.
Thanks, mate. Sort it.
Jo.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Emails I May Never Send #2
Dear Kylie Kwong,
I don't give a rat's arse what you were like as a little girl, so I'm certainly not interested in watching you pay a little pig-tailed actress to impersonate you in foggy-focus flashbacks in your TV cooking show. So your uncle made noodles? Big freakin' deal. My uncle ate prawn heads, but you don't see me crowing about it.
I also don't need to waste valuable retinal cells watching you thumb through magazines or paint primary-school quality swirls on paper while you're waiting for your scallops to marinate. You think you're creative and artsy. We GET it. We just don't have a pathological desire to prove it to anyone.
Despite the fact that I haven't been to a professional culinary academy, I know which end of a lobster is the head, and from a very simple subsequent deduction, which end is the tail. Stop condescending to me, and just cook the bastard.
Most of your dwindling numbers of viewers also know that you're of Chinese parentage, specialising in cooking Chinese food. You can probably drop the constant and tedious habit of prefixing every ingredient with the word 'Chinese', then. If you say "rice wine", we're going to assume you don't mean "Yugoslavian rice wine". If you say "Chinese pickles", we're going to assume you don't mean Branston pickle, or the oft-flicked serrated gelatinous things plucked from a Quarter Pounder. And if you say "Chinese shallots", we're just going to use shallots.
And don't pretend I didn't see you in Macro, moving your own cookbooks to the front of the shelf.
I just know you were that annoying slap-magnet kid at school who almost gave yourself a hernia rocketing your hand up to answer every question.
We don't care about you, honey. Get on with it and make my dinner.
Best Chinese regards,
Jo.
I don't give a rat's arse what you were like as a little girl, so I'm certainly not interested in watching you pay a little pig-tailed actress to impersonate you in foggy-focus flashbacks in your TV cooking show. So your uncle made noodles? Big freakin' deal. My uncle ate prawn heads, but you don't see me crowing about it.
I also don't need to waste valuable retinal cells watching you thumb through magazines or paint primary-school quality swirls on paper while you're waiting for your scallops to marinate. You think you're creative and artsy. We GET it. We just don't have a pathological desire to prove it to anyone.
Despite the fact that I haven't been to a professional culinary academy, I know which end of a lobster is the head, and from a very simple subsequent deduction, which end is the tail. Stop condescending to me, and just cook the bastard.
Most of your dwindling numbers of viewers also know that you're of Chinese parentage, specialising in cooking Chinese food. You can probably drop the constant and tedious habit of prefixing every ingredient with the word 'Chinese', then. If you say "rice wine", we're going to assume you don't mean "Yugoslavian rice wine". If you say "Chinese pickles", we're going to assume you don't mean Branston pickle, or the oft-flicked serrated gelatinous things plucked from a Quarter Pounder. And if you say "Chinese shallots", we're just going to use shallots.
And don't pretend I didn't see you in Macro, moving your own cookbooks to the front of the shelf.
I just know you were that annoying slap-magnet kid at school who almost gave yourself a hernia rocketing your hand up to answer every question.
We don't care about you, honey. Get on with it and make my dinner.
Best Chinese regards,
Jo.
Emails I May Never Send #1
Dear Britney,
Thanks once again for letting me watch your slow and agonising descent into Celebrity Insanity. The fact that you're accompanying your psychic crumbling with weight gain, acne, laughable parenting, a hilarious marriage, an intense dependence on ready-made coffee drinks and a devotion to clothing made famous by various freeway hookers only endears you to me more.
I like that you can drive with one hand on the wheel, one hand around a mocha latte crush, and your child on your lap. I like that your chins now outnumber your hit singles. I like that your husband is a weaselly slut who may or may not have scattered his demon seed across the continent, giving rise to cut-price bastard offspring throughout your fine country. I like that, instead of a tedious old bridal waltz, you chose to celebrate your marriage with a quick drunken pole-dance in a tracksuit.
Of all the celebrities currently tumbling down the slippery slope of public kookiness, you're my fifth favourite.
Don't ever change, Britney.
Oh - except maybe keep your boosies out of sight. Enough already.
Yours in anticipation of more New Idea photos of you shopping in a t-shirt,
Jo.
x x x
Thanks once again for letting me watch your slow and agonising descent into Celebrity Insanity. The fact that you're accompanying your psychic crumbling with weight gain, acne, laughable parenting, a hilarious marriage, an intense dependence on ready-made coffee drinks and a devotion to clothing made famous by various freeway hookers only endears you to me more.
I like that you can drive with one hand on the wheel, one hand around a mocha latte crush, and your child on your lap. I like that your chins now outnumber your hit singles. I like that your husband is a weaselly slut who may or may not have scattered his demon seed across the continent, giving rise to cut-price bastard offspring throughout your fine country. I like that, instead of a tedious old bridal waltz, you chose to celebrate your marriage with a quick drunken pole-dance in a tracksuit.
Of all the celebrities currently tumbling down the slippery slope of public kookiness, you're my fifth favourite.
Don't ever change, Britney.
Oh - except maybe keep your boosies out of sight. Enough already.
Yours in anticipation of more New Idea photos of you shopping in a t-shirt,
Jo.
x x x
Monday, March 13, 2006
Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag
Hmmmm.... I'm a bit deflated. Anti-climax was always going to be on the cards, but this was a little bit like watching a box full of puppies yapping at a ball. Some significant moments re-visited, though, and some comment-worthy discussion:
Dear ANTM technical staff. When one person is talking, please TURN OFF everybody else's microphone. It's hard enough making sense out of this vacuous drivel without having the self-indulgent squeakings of morons filtering through from the background.
Eboni didn't even make it to the studio, due to being in horse-piddle again. Dentist, I could understand, but will somebody please fix up the Bogan Barbie once and for all? Her brain seems to have functioned well enough in the past without being too inconvenienced by a lack of blood supply.
Hiranthi still looks like a Pakistani Nanny Fine. Madeline looks like an emaciated Andy Warhol. Natalie resembles some kind of bitchy South American ruminant. Jessica still reminds me of an asymmetrical vampire. Sasha still has indigenous bags under her indigenous eyes.
Lordy, but Hiranthi's thick. In a sea of unfinished sentences, she left by far the most observations hanging in the air with a "like... you know....", or a "Kind of.... sort of....". SOMEBODY make a point. If you cut out all instances of the phrases 'Like', 'Sort of', 'Kind of', 'I mean', 'Yeah', and 'I guess', you'd be left with a five-minute info-mercial for Stupid.
Caroline's intense brand-name obsession and compulsive lying is given a re-visit, which is quite interesting, and she reminds everyone that "just because I've been spoiled and privileged in my life, doesn't make me a bad person, and I still know the value of money". You're gonna have to, honey. Word on the street is that she didn't get the HSC marks to go into law, so it's either the retail industry or the 'artistic' film industry for you, my sweet. Just don't mention Hello Kitty in the middle of the money-shot.
I was struck more than once by how average-looking these girls are. Are they really 12 of the prettiest girls in Australia? Or are the producers' oral sex needs just completely and recently satisfied?
Madeline's sexual exploits - bi-curious and otherwise, are explored again, as we all guessed they might be, but WITHOUT any night-vision shots of her and Carl-the-fugly-hairdresser playing each other's pink pianos. Perhaps the footage has been sold to www.uglypeoplefilthingeachother.com. If you've just clicked on the link and got an error message, that's because I made it up. Gotcha. Madeline reckons that, with her, people tend to confuse the word 'wild' with the word 'confidence'. Oddly she didn't mention the words 'slut', 'scrubber', 'indiscriminate', or 'perhaps I'd better go and get tested'.
The now brunette Lara's practical jokes are explored, including one we didn't see - her tying a tampon to Madeline's handbag strap. Perhaps she was trying to send some kind of 'For God's Sake, Plug It With Something' message?
The whole show seems to be an exercise in guarded cattiness. I might write an essay on how many times each scrag raised an eyebrow or made a "yeah, right" face. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in the green room.
Jessica's reign as queen-of-the-emotionally-crippled realm is re-explored, with more shots of Her Sweaty Paleness trying to drink water whilst chanelling a shaky drama junkie. She comments that she's feeling better now, and she's had a lot of support, but I can't help feeling she's just one insult away from the foetal position.
Pretty much everyone except Madeline thought that Eboni was going to win. Madeline thought Madeline was going to win. A little bit of Eboni-bashing ensues, and Hiranthi drops a scandalous bomb - she couldn't relate to Eboni! Imagine the headlines - Silver Spooned Idiot Princess Hates Lanky Inarticulate Tamanian Shock! Yawn. Jess mentions that she won't say anything bad about Eboni because she knows she's in a lot of pain. Once Eboni has recovered, though, I'm sure Jess would like to stab her in her sleep.
Simone kind of rocks. She finishes several sentences of her own making, and even makes some sapient points (albeit about trivial modelly things), and despite hours and hours of verbal biffo to her boyfriend, is still engaged to him. The video montage of her dancing around the house with teased hair and a string vest remains a mystery.
Eboni is given a pre-recorded section at the end to answer all the tedious questions the other scrags covered in the studio. Fairly humdrum except for her final profound words - she's a model now. So "no more f*cking swearing".
For God's sake, don't give any of these girls a job in radio.
Bring on America's Next Top Fundamentalist Christian, I say...
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