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.
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