There's a whiff of bitchiness and menthol cigarettes in the air, which can only mean that Series Three of Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag is almost upon us, with the first episode screening on March 27th. I gotta tell you – I'm excited.
So excited, in fact, that I've been to visit the modules at http://www.fox8.tv/antm/, and I have not been disappointed. There are some stupid names coined by no-doubt illiterate and drug-addled parents, other names straight out of unscreened-episodes of Dynasty, vacant stares, bad hair, slutty poses, bizarrely common aversions to feet, and nary a brain cell in the offing. I'm venturing far enough to predict the repeated use of the word "fuck" this season. From them and me.
And now to introduce you to the girls, one of whom will be (if previous series are anything to go by) appearing in mail-order catalogues for frumpy moles mere months after winning:
Anika Salerno, 20.
Lowdown: Country girl who helps manage the "family business" – has country accent (read: speaks like she's just necked a Quaalude)
Quote: "Enjoy today because tomorrow is going to be better"
Reminds Me Of: Girls who used to get shitfaced on bag-wine outside the youth centre dance
Prediction: Will be the sweet, clueless one with a taste for Bundy rum and the IQ of a bowl of chickpeas
Danica Brown, 16.
Lowdown: In year 11, has foot phobia
Quote: "Succeed in whatever it is that makes you happy"
Reminds Me Of: A cross between Lindsay Lohan and a stuck-up whippet
Prediction: Chain-smoker with a speech impediment
Cassandra Hughes, 18.
Lowdown: Apprentice baker, worried about her childhood scars, names Jessica Simpson as herhero.
Quote: "Don't talk about it, do it"
Reminds Me Of: A more irritating Mischa Barton, which is a bit like trying to find a blacker piece of coal
Prediction: Childhood scars = Slutty McSlut from Skankenburg.
Cobi March, 17
Lowdown: Still at school, brother acts on Neighbours, loves Hanson, hates freaky dolls and feet
Quote: "If you're going to do something, do it well"
Reminds Me Of: Charlize Theron, if she ironed her face andnever plucked her eyebrows Prediction: Series Three Psycho Nutjob. Come on – loves Hanson?!
Jordan Lukas, 17
Lowdown: Hates people that are like her, looks like she's secured all her skull-skin with a bulldog-clip at the back of her head
Quote: "Whatever"
Reminds Me Of: Liv Tyler, sprinkled with bits of Jocelyn Wildenstein
Prediction: Bee. Yarch.
Sophie Wittingslow, 19
Lowdown: Stupid, toffee-nosed name, is fond of her lower back.
Quote: "Live in the moment"
Reminds Me Of: Model Carmen Kass
Prediction: Could win the bloody thing, if she learns to pose less like she's trying to get her armpits dry
Alice Burdeu, 18
Lowdown: Training in customer service with Telstra, never had a boyfriend
Quote: "Let's go get coffee and talk about it"
Reminds Me Of: A semi-inflated sex doll
Prediction: Scraaaaaag. All spray-on jeans and infected piercings.
Jaimi Smith, 18
Lowdown: Does up V8 cars, hates brooms and feet
Quote: "Take it easy. It only gets better"
Reminds Me Of: Girls that win wet-t-shirt competitions, but not spelling bees
Prediction: Loveable, stupid westie with a heart of gold
Paloma Rodriguez, 17
Lowdown: Lives with pro soccer player, hates birds
Quote: "I'ts better to be looked over than overlooked"
Reminds Me Of: Mental Spanish women who shriek "Ayayayayayay!!!"
Prediction: Will lord it over the other scrags like a hoity Latin princess
Jane Williamson, 19
Lowdown: Gay, works as a nanny, wants to be criminal psychologist
Quote: "Keep your friends close"
Reminds Me Of: Ella Hooper standing on a couple of phonebooks
Prediction: Smart, gay, articulate, with a normal name – won't make it past episode three
Stephanie Flockhart, 16
Lowdown: Works in retail/waitressing, hates her small boobs
Quote: "Go hard or go home"
Reminds Me Of: A fatter, shorter Olsen twin
Prediction: Cutesy, clueless, and more annoying than a swarm of hornets humming "My Heart Will Go On".
This season is hosted by Jodhi Meares, a fact that strikes me as desperately uninteresting.
The modules, though, look like the scraggiest yet. Bring it on, youse.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Lament
My hair is brown and lifeless,
At the ends it's dead and dull;
And there's something not quite right
About the shaping of my skull.
I frequently get pimples
And my lips are rather thin,
And the phrase "a little patchy"
Is descriptive of my skin.
My boobs aren't nearly big enough,
My shoulders slouch a bit,
My arms are long and gangly
And my fingernails are split.
My waistline's ordinary
And my bottom's big and wobbly;
My thighs are white from lack of light,
My knees are dense and knobbly.
My shins are dry and scabby;
Feet like mine are out of vogue,
But although my name's forgettable,
At least it's not 'Minogue'
At the ends it's dead and dull;
And there's something not quite right
About the shaping of my skull.
I frequently get pimples
And my lips are rather thin,
And the phrase "a little patchy"
Is descriptive of my skin.
My boobs aren't nearly big enough,
My shoulders slouch a bit,
My arms are long and gangly
And my fingernails are split.
My waistline's ordinary
And my bottom's big and wobbly;
My thighs are white from lack of light,
My knees are dense and knobbly.
My shins are dry and scabby;
Feet like mine are out of vogue,
But although my name's forgettable,
At least it's not 'Minogue'
Monday, February 19, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Wacky Stasis
My car doesn't start, and it's all my fault.
I got my car for free, as the result of a de-facto break-up a year ago. I also got a broken heart, an iMac and all the good kitchenware, so things could've been worse.
I'm relatively new to the vehicular arts (a late bloomer in the driving-lesson stakes) so I currently hold only a provisional licence, and a healthy respect for the dangers of driving. As a result, I drive like a nanna on Valium, and as infrequently as possible.
I walk to work and to the shops, so my car battery, having been left to fester in its own foamy acid-discharge, is as useless as antlers on a halibut.
Basically what I have parked out the front of my house is a lump of P-plated metal with doors. And fuzzy 8-balls hanging from the rear-vision mirror. And cobwebs on the tires. Seriously.
I hate to see a perfectly good chassis go to waste, so I've come up with some possible alternative uses for my forsaken, perpetually stationary automobile.
Greenhouse
I know from experience how soupy and jungle-esque the interior of my car can get if it sits out in the sun, so it may be just the perfect agricultural environment for ferns, orchids and the like. I could water it through the window, fertilise it through the hatchback and maybe get a lemur in.
Clown Rehearsal Workshop
I'm happy to hire out my vehicle to let clowns rehearse the old "look-how-many-of-us-get-out-of-this-wacky-car" chestnut. Group discount, of course.
Meetings
Lending a certain Cone-Of-Silence air to important meetings, my car can facilitate up to four delegates comfortably. Refreshments can be inserted into the handy cup-holders, and important documents stored in the glovebox. Overhead projectors may not be logistically feasible.
Haircuts
More salon than saloon, my car has everything. Tilt the chair back for over-the-basin washing, have the hairdresser sit behind you in cushioned comfort, open the window to assist drying, and see the finished product from most angles using a number of mirrors. Mind the blind spot.
Hiding Place
From the innocence of Hide-and-Seek to the comparative gravitas of Osama-style secretions, my car has comfort, locking doors and tinted windows. The radio doesn't work without the battery, so unless you sneeze or step on a loud stick, nothing will give you away.
Chicken Coop
Ironically, without a battery, my car could still be used for battery hens – I envision the eggs being delivered out the exhaust pipe. I couldn't do this, though – I'm strictly a free-range girl, so I suppose I'd have to limit it to a maximum of four hens, and maybe a cock, for breeding purposes. Luckily, my car is guaranteed fox-proof!
Kiddie Jail
When the neighbourhood urchins get at the bikkie-jar and go on Ritalin-proof rampages, I could simply charge parents a small fee to strap them into my car and wind up the windows, leaving them free for cocktail parties and the viewing of non PG-rated television. The aforementioned tinted windows would help guard against paedophiles, but I'd be sure to leave them open a crack. This ain't the casino, y'know.
Place To Put Pens
Or rubber bands.
I got my car for free, as the result of a de-facto break-up a year ago. I also got a broken heart, an iMac and all the good kitchenware, so things could've been worse.
I'm relatively new to the vehicular arts (a late bloomer in the driving-lesson stakes) so I currently hold only a provisional licence, and a healthy respect for the dangers of driving. As a result, I drive like a nanna on Valium, and as infrequently as possible.
I walk to work and to the shops, so my car battery, having been left to fester in its own foamy acid-discharge, is as useless as antlers on a halibut.
Basically what I have parked out the front of my house is a lump of P-plated metal with doors. And fuzzy 8-balls hanging from the rear-vision mirror. And cobwebs on the tires. Seriously.
I hate to see a perfectly good chassis go to waste, so I've come up with some possible alternative uses for my forsaken, perpetually stationary automobile.
Greenhouse
I know from experience how soupy and jungle-esque the interior of my car can get if it sits out in the sun, so it may be just the perfect agricultural environment for ferns, orchids and the like. I could water it through the window, fertilise it through the hatchback and maybe get a lemur in.
Clown Rehearsal Workshop
I'm happy to hire out my vehicle to let clowns rehearse the old "look-how-many-of-us-get-out-of-this-wacky-car" chestnut. Group discount, of course.
Meetings
Lending a certain Cone-Of-Silence air to important meetings, my car can facilitate up to four delegates comfortably. Refreshments can be inserted into the handy cup-holders, and important documents stored in the glovebox. Overhead projectors may not be logistically feasible.
Haircuts
More salon than saloon, my car has everything. Tilt the chair back for over-the-basin washing, have the hairdresser sit behind you in cushioned comfort, open the window to assist drying, and see the finished product from most angles using a number of mirrors. Mind the blind spot.
Hiding Place
From the innocence of Hide-and-Seek to the comparative gravitas of Osama-style secretions, my car has comfort, locking doors and tinted windows. The radio doesn't work without the battery, so unless you sneeze or step on a loud stick, nothing will give you away.
Chicken Coop
Ironically, without a battery, my car could still be used for battery hens – I envision the eggs being delivered out the exhaust pipe. I couldn't do this, though – I'm strictly a free-range girl, so I suppose I'd have to limit it to a maximum of four hens, and maybe a cock, for breeding purposes. Luckily, my car is guaranteed fox-proof!
Kiddie Jail
When the neighbourhood urchins get at the bikkie-jar and go on Ritalin-proof rampages, I could simply charge parents a small fee to strap them into my car and wind up the windows, leaving them free for cocktail parties and the viewing of non PG-rated television. The aforementioned tinted windows would help guard against paedophiles, but I'd be sure to leave them open a crack. This ain't the casino, y'know.
Place To Put Pens
Or rubber bands.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
What, This? I Always Keep It There.
I'm a bit self-conscious, and also quite punctual.
As a result of the punctuality, I'm always waiting for friends (who aren't quite as punctual) by myself in designated meeting places. If you've met me or any of my friends, you'll know this means I spend a lot of time waiting by myself in bars.
As a result of the self-consciousness, I usually spend this time looking through old text messages, scrawling bad drawings on the back of coasters, reading anything with words on it within arm's reach, or any other activity which I believe keeps me from looking like a no-friends loser twat.
One such time, I had planned to meet friends at a swanky bar in Paddington, and they were an hour late. There were no spare tables or seats available, and the clientele were especially cooler-than-thou (read: Eastern Suburbs Toss-Monkeys), so I ordered a gin & tonic and stood winsomely by the pool table, observing the game in progress. Not ideal, but I know a lot about pool, so I attempted to adopt the stand-alone stylings of Cool Chick Who Knows.
I relaxed a little, and truly believed that I even started to look a bit windswept and interesting.
Then I took a long, slow, sophisticated sip of my drink, whilst being artfully distracted by a guy attempting a backspin double off the cushion into the corner pocket.
The straw went directly up my left nostril.
Shocked, embarrassed, and a little bit in pain, I quickly pulled my drink away, hoping nobody had seen my minor nasal faux-pas.
The drink made it back onto the ledge it had been resting on.
The straw stayed lodged up my nose.
Way cool.
As a result of the punctuality, I'm always waiting for friends (who aren't quite as punctual) by myself in designated meeting places. If you've met me or any of my friends, you'll know this means I spend a lot of time waiting by myself in bars.
As a result of the self-consciousness, I usually spend this time looking through old text messages, scrawling bad drawings on the back of coasters, reading anything with words on it within arm's reach, or any other activity which I believe keeps me from looking like a no-friends loser twat.
One such time, I had planned to meet friends at a swanky bar in Paddington, and they were an hour late. There were no spare tables or seats available, and the clientele were especially cooler-than-thou (read: Eastern Suburbs Toss-Monkeys), so I ordered a gin & tonic and stood winsomely by the pool table, observing the game in progress. Not ideal, but I know a lot about pool, so I attempted to adopt the stand-alone stylings of Cool Chick Who Knows.
I relaxed a little, and truly believed that I even started to look a bit windswept and interesting.
Then I took a long, slow, sophisticated sip of my drink, whilst being artfully distracted by a guy attempting a backspin double off the cushion into the corner pocket.
The straw went directly up my left nostril.
Shocked, embarrassed, and a little bit in pain, I quickly pulled my drink away, hoping nobody had seen my minor nasal faux-pas.
The drink made it back onto the ledge it had been resting on.
The straw stayed lodged up my nose.
Way cool.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Investigative Journalism In The Curly Zone
Okay – the beginning of this might sound like it's about periods, but I promise it's not. It's about the fact that a well-known manufacturer of feminine hygiene products is lying to me by way of my… um… well, my girly parts.
This manufacturer, at some point, decided that a clever marketing ploy would be to print interesting trivial "facts", whimsically illustrated, on the underside of some of their products, on the peel-away bit. I won't go into detail, so as not to scare off any squeamish male readers, although I will tell anyone who's already grimacing to grow the hell up. This is all for a good cause – the uncovering of a LITANY OF LIES.
More than once I've read one of these trivial "facts" and raised a skeptical eyebrow in doubt of its authenticity. "Pigs might fly", I thought,"if they had wings like this thing". I see no reason why, just because these "facts" are designed to be read in a toilet cubicle, they should be just printed off with little regard for the truth. We might have just been cranky for the last week, but we're not stupid. I've decided, therefore, to put some of these potentially spurious claims to the test.
Claim #1:
Longest recorded female legs are 126cm – as tall as an average 10-year-old.
Assessment: Generalise much?
This might be true, but I think I have a problem with wording and generalisation. What about a female giraffe? And as tall as an average 10-year-old what? Bottle of Scotch?
Claim #2:
A cat has 32 muscles in each ear.
Assessment: Define "ear".
A quick spot of research on this one revealed a range of different claims about the number of muscles in a cat's ear – from "about 20" to "sixty-two individual muscles". There seems to be around 30-ish muscles which actually make the ear move, but possibly more are involved with other catty hearing stuff. My old mate Sharon's cat had the flappy-skinny part of her ears removed after they became cancerous, and we used to make noises behind her on purpose so we could watch her head-craters swivel. Feels relevant here.
Claim #3:
Vintage port takes 40 years to reach maturity
Assessment: Bollocks.
After bottling, which happens within three years of grape-harvest, vintage port is aged for anything between ten to fifty years before it's ready to drink, although most are considered adequately mature after twenty years. Do not lie to me about fermented liquids. I'll know.
Claim #4:
On average, people fear spiders more than death
Assessment: Let's take the next logical step, professor…
Why do you reckon people are afraid of spiders, then? Is it because they're tangible representatives of the otherwise intangible concept of death? Or is it all them legs?
Claim #5:
The bloodhound is the only animal whose evidence is admissible in an American court
Assessment: Let's just call a tomato a vegetable too, then.
Er… human beings?
Claim #6:
Only female ducks can quack
Assessment: Out-and-out bullshit
Male and female duck quacks are different, and the male's quack is usually much quieter than the female's, but they still quack. Basically if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a fucking duck.
I'm not finished with this mess of hygienic half-truths.
More updates to come.
Probably monthly.
This manufacturer, at some point, decided that a clever marketing ploy would be to print interesting trivial "facts", whimsically illustrated, on the underside of some of their products, on the peel-away bit. I won't go into detail, so as not to scare off any squeamish male readers, although I will tell anyone who's already grimacing to grow the hell up. This is all for a good cause – the uncovering of a LITANY OF LIES.
More than once I've read one of these trivial "facts" and raised a skeptical eyebrow in doubt of its authenticity. "Pigs might fly", I thought,"if they had wings like this thing". I see no reason why, just because these "facts" are designed to be read in a toilet cubicle, they should be just printed off with little regard for the truth. We might have just been cranky for the last week, but we're not stupid. I've decided, therefore, to put some of these potentially spurious claims to the test.
Claim #1:
Longest recorded female legs are 126cm – as tall as an average 10-year-old.
Assessment: Generalise much?
This might be true, but I think I have a problem with wording and generalisation. What about a female giraffe? And as tall as an average 10-year-old what? Bottle of Scotch?
Claim #2:
A cat has 32 muscles in each ear.
Assessment: Define "ear".
A quick spot of research on this one revealed a range of different claims about the number of muscles in a cat's ear – from "about 20" to "sixty-two individual muscles". There seems to be around 30-ish muscles which actually make the ear move, but possibly more are involved with other catty hearing stuff. My old mate Sharon's cat had the flappy-skinny part of her ears removed after they became cancerous, and we used to make noises behind her on purpose so we could watch her head-craters swivel. Feels relevant here.
Claim #3:
Vintage port takes 40 years to reach maturity
Assessment: Bollocks.
After bottling, which happens within three years of grape-harvest, vintage port is aged for anything between ten to fifty years before it's ready to drink, although most are considered adequately mature after twenty years. Do not lie to me about fermented liquids. I'll know.
Claim #4:
On average, people fear spiders more than death
Assessment: Let's take the next logical step, professor…
Why do you reckon people are afraid of spiders, then? Is it because they're tangible representatives of the otherwise intangible concept of death? Or is it all them legs?
Claim #5:
The bloodhound is the only animal whose evidence is admissible in an American court
Assessment: Let's just call a tomato a vegetable too, then.
Er… human beings?
Claim #6:
Only female ducks can quack
Assessment: Out-and-out bullshit
Male and female duck quacks are different, and the male's quack is usually much quieter than the female's, but they still quack. Basically if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a fucking duck.
I'm not finished with this mess of hygienic half-truths.
More updates to come.
Probably monthly.
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