The Inside Seam, And How I Sometimes Forget To Be Up Myself.

I can't believe I haven't properly plugged this here yet, what with my penchant for self-promotion tantamount to listening to an opera singer warming up (me me me me me), but check it out!

While we're waiting for Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag to grace our hungry screens, I've been scribbling and voicing episode recap clip show thingies for Project Runway.

Like, they ASKED me to. Because they WANTED me to. So if you'll excuse me, I have to call a couple of high school teachers who told me I'd never get anywhere by being a sarcastic bitch.

It's the best fun a girl could have with her clothes on without martinis or cheese! I write it and put the time codes and stuff on a piece of paper, record a voice-over, and then hand it all to a clever bloke who actually knows what every single button on his computer keyboard does. Even that squiggle thing. I know. It's amazing.

Right. I think I've made up for forgetting to blow my own trumpet now. As you were.

New episodes up every week. Yay.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven - Fly The Scraggy Skies

I can hear a distant sound. It’s like... like two hundred feet tapping, with undertones of swishing polyester and the tortured raising of eyebrows.

That, coupled with the unmistakable odour of hot smoking stupid (the good kind), can only mean one thing.


Series 7 of Australia’s Next Top Model is nigh.


Either that or I’m having a stroke. But that’s the smell of toast, isn’t it? No, it’s probably the model thing. Pretty sure.

It’s a time when pure poetry (like of course “Don’t stop, too hot”) can be found in the opening credits, and pure self-obsessed, bony joy can be found thereafter.


Usually at this time, I log on to the ol’ ANTM website and pass knee-jerky judgement on the modelling hopefuls based on nothing bar a photograph and a sparsely punctuated bio.


But this year the geniuses at Model HQ (I’m sure that’s what they call it when they’re telling the helicopters where to land) are starting with ONE. HUNDRED. MODULES.


That is a lot of menthol cigarettes.


Instead, I’ve been perusing the plethora of profiles and have categorised the girls into different groups. I know. Scientific. It’s like the goddamn Ponds Institute all up in here.

 Girls Who Will Win

Traditionally, any girl I think has winning potential pretty much leaves in the first three minutes. I have better luck predicting the longevity of soap bubbles.




Yolanda. Exotic and that.



Elizabeth - my big tip to win, so she'll be gone before the opening credits roll.



Amelia has no boobs and can tell time. That's pretty much a supermodel.

 

Girls Who Need Some Sleep

I’m not saying these girls are actual zombies. I’m just saying that they look like they’ve been up all night. And might really want some brains.

Rosie - Either needs sleep or just woke up.

Taylah wants your braaaiiiiinnns. And also your sandwich.

Madeline's pretty. PRETTY HUNGRY FOR BRAINS.

 



Girls Who Lean Awkwardly

There’s your classic Awkward Lean, favoured by girls who take their facebook profile pictures and manicures very seriously, and then there’s this kind of thing. This kind of I-have-a-vertebra-missing, look-I-can-tie-my-right-shoelace-from-here, anybody-want-a-spare-kidney lean.

Alissandra is doing the world's most lack-lustre Hokey Pokey.



Bianca's hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of her other two sides.



Jessica would like to have a word with you about your posture.

Girls Who Have Pink Hair.

Huh. Just one this year.

Isabelle. Had a little trouble in tinting class.

Girls Whose Kittens Just Died.

Charlotte is sad, but not so sad that she won't wear her kitten-grave-digging boots.

Cheer up, loves.

Madeline isn't so much sad that her kitten died as terrified it's about to.

Don't worry, Tayah. Sooty's in a much better place now.

Girls Who Smelt It And/Or Dealt It.
You say ‘posing’. I say ‘smelt a fart’.


Ashley is just standing very, very still until the smell goes away.



Amy knows someone farted. Amy knows it was you.



Damn, Jessica. It smells like a leopard died in here.

 I could not be more excited if somebody told me James Franco was waiting in my room dressed in a bacon onesie. It starts on August 8th. Anything between now and then is just white noise, except for my recap clip show thing for Project Runway. I KNOW, RIGHT?

Every Day For A Year #19 or: A-Yibbida-Yibbida

A little over a year ago at the pub, my mate Frosty told me that he was going to take a photo every day for a year, to hone his mad rectangular picture-making skillz.



I asked him if I could post the photos in this neck of the woods, thinking it would be an interesting project to invite myself to be involved in.


WHAT.


IN THE NAME OF STINKY BLUE CHEESE.


WAS I THINKING.


I was thinking it would be awesome and, for me at least (because I love you all, but seriously, find your own fun), I was right.


Usually over the space of twelve months, you just learn a random melange of facts about your friends. For example, over the same period, I discovered that Frosty accrues massive dental bills, likes hats with knitted beards attached, looks decent in a suit, and can apparently fart up a festival tent like a champion.


Things I wasn’t expecting to learn about him though, but have done so through the regularly-deposited images in my inbox, are things like the fact that Frosty can make a busy city street seem suddenly quiet and gently autumnal. That he has a sensitivity for texture that most of us don’t. That he can twist your visual expectations in surprising ways just by tilting his camera a little to the left. And that he barely gives away a single emotion or secret in person, but can gush like a hormonal schoolgirl via shapes, angles and light.


I’ve also learned that if you compliment him too much, his ego expands faster than a Wettex in a swimming pool, so I should probably just shut up and get on with it.


Frosty, thanks for sending me all these pictures. They take forever to upload, you bastard. And worth every second.


In closing: That last one’s a pearler, my friend. Gluckwunsche!