Four-titude.

Huh.

While my attention was turned elsewhere, this blog turned four.
In fact, I missed my blog's birthday by exactly a month.

Probably a good thing I don't have kids.

Anyway, even though I've been a neglectful 'parent' of late (honestly, all this blog ever does is whine and piss its pants), thanks for still stopping by!

You know you have to send me presents now, don't you. And not fairy bread, neither. Never really understood the attraction.

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It's Not Technically Stalking If He's Just Being Stubborn, Officer.

Last year, a friend of mine (let’s call him Benny, because I’ve got an Elton John song in my head right now (which I kind of hate (but not as much as I hate using brackets within brackets))) and I had a bit of a misunderstanding.

You see, Benny is a sensitive soul, and I’m always right. As a result, I’m often hurting Benny’s feelings without meaning to, and then just assuming that it’s his fault.

Wow. I’m kind of an arsehole.

Anyway, one day I noticed that Benny had stopped talking to me, and it soon became clear that he was ignoring me altogether. I couldn’t remember anything specific I’d done to offend him, so I decided he was just being petty and that if I irritated him – and I mean really, sincerely annoyed the ever-lovin’ crap out of him – he would snap and respond.

I emailed him something new every day. I put quite a bit of effort into it, and thought I should share the highlights with you. So, on the off chance that you’re ever in exactly the same predicament, I present to you:


Perfecting The Art Of The Relentless Digital Harangue – A User’s Guide


Day One
Subject: New T-Shirt Slogan Idea


Might need some workshopping, but something snappy like:


NOBODY OVERREACTS, TAKES THINGS PERSONALLY AND GETS ON THEIR HIGH HORSE QUITE LIKE JO. AND BENNY. LIKE, EQUALLY. BOTH AS F*CKING BAD AS EACH OTHER.


Maybe with a picture. I'm thinking a table of unicorns playing poker.


-no response-




Day Two


Wow. WOW. Your irritating daily email rhymes today. You really hit the jackpot there.




I love to be ignored;
It stops me getting bored.
And when I’m bored I fall asleep,
Wake up, and find I’ve snored.

And to be overlooked?
My place in therapy is booked!
If my self esteem was toast
It would be well and truly cooked.

And oh! To be forsaken!
Irresistible as bacon.
Whilst I look like a fool,
You’re just a hero in the makin’.

I like being disregarded,
‘Cause it helps me be less guarded;
But sending emails daily
Makes me look a bit retarded.

-no response-

 Day Three


Hi, Benny.
Here's a picture I drew of a sad clown.
He's so sad he doesn't even want to play his ukulele.
So I didn't draw a ukulele.
Jo.

-no response-




Day Four
Hi, Benny.
This is what it would be like if I was dead.

-no response-



Day Five
(inspired by the ‘Posters By Craig’ thing that was the style at the time)

-no response-



Day Six


No, you don't get weekends off, I'm sorry.
It's 'lite' though, as I have better things to do today.
So here are my ten favourite fruits in random order:


Oranges
Strawberries
Kiwi Fruit, or Chinese Gooseberry
Grapes
Delicious Apples
Pineapple
Rockmelon
Peaches
Nashi Pears


-no response-



Day Seven


All the punctuation marks on my computer are below. It would be a totally freaky coincidence if they're the same as the ones on your computer.
`~!#$%^&*()_-++[{]}’}”;:/?.>,<@

-no response-



Day Eight


Hi, Benny.
Here’s me being the letter Q.

My fondest regards,
Jo.


-no response-



On the ninth day, I pretty much just saw Benny at the pub and we said hello to each other, and then we were friends again.


I think it's pretty clear what the moral to this story is:






I need a hobby.

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Emails I May Never Send #20

Dear Lara Bingle,

That's my loofah.

Best,
Jo.

You May Remember Me From Such Episodes As Where The Hell Have You Been.

I've been a naughty, bad blogger. If I was a puppy, you'd have every right to rub my nose in it.
I'm still spastically in love with you, I've just been busier than a one-armed grandmother at a knitting bee.
Wait. That's not as rock n' roll an analogy as I'd actually like.
Busier than a one-armed ukulele player at a Tiptoe Through The Tu... forget it. Never mind. Busy, okay?
I have been slutting around a teensy bit, blogospherically, typo-fingerly and writey-writingly speaking, and some misguided fools have even been paying me to write stuff.*
But I promise I'll be back shortly, and I thank you both for being so patient.

In the meantime, I've decided I need a new excuse to drink and have opinions, because the other thirty or so excuses were getting a bit tired. Read about it here, and bring pretzels.

You're awesome and you smell amazing,
Jo.

*That was supposed to come across as humble. It felt weird, especially when what I meant to say was ABOUT TIME YOU REPAID MY CRANKY GENIUS WITH SOME COIN, BITCHES. Also, mama needs a new pair of shoes.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 6 - Audition Me, Baby.

On Saturday January 16th, auditions for Series 6 of Australia’s Next Top Model started at Westfield Parramatta.

This was excruciatingly exciting for me for two reasons:

1. Unless this is your first visit here, or you’ve been living under a rock made out of much, much more important and relevant things, I am spastically in lust with the entire Top Model franchise, and hope one day to marry it. Our babies will be tall and stupid and punch walls and get nose-bleeds. It will be excellent. Excellent and sexy.

2. For the first time, the Sydney cattle-call fell on a weekend rather than a weekday, so I was able to attend.

And attend, it’s fair to say, I did. In fact, I auditioned. I hauled my size ten-to-twelve, late-thirties, mildly-pleasant-looking-but-nothing-special arse out to Parramatta and lined up with hundreds of tiny wee gazelle-y things straight from either school or outer space.

The experience was very, very educational. Here’s what I learned:

· That Top Model auditions contain lots and lots of shoes I want, worn by people who don’t deserve them as much as I do.

· That if being looked up-and-down with judgement and disdain was chocolate, Westfield Parramatta is the Wonka family crypt.

· That the hilarity of desperate stage mothers never, ever gets old, unlike the stage mothers themselves.

· That given the right motivation, I can keep a straight face under any circumstances.

· That if my red boots and my moonwalk were both in a competition for The Best Thing Western Sydney Has Ever Seen Ever, it would be a tie.


Don’t take my word for it. TAKE A CURRENT AFFAIR’S WORD FOR IT. Because everybody knows that everything you see on A Current Affair is true. Except for that deluded bitch at the end of the clip. What a wanker.

Clippy Clip Clip Here.

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The Punchy Punchy Chronicles - THE FINALE

Okay, so this final recap of The Contender will be a little different to my previous efforts. And by that, I mean it will be unmitigated rubbish.

See, normally I sit down with a nutritious meal, a helpful beverage, my laptop and a number of leisurely, quiet hours in front of me. I eat, I drink, I tap, I think, I take sneaky screen grabs.
But last night, I actually went to the Sydney Entertainment Centre to see the fight (thank you, oh benevolent TV types). Let’s see the difference:

Nutritious Meal: FAIL. The mini meat pies in the secret room where drinks were free (I will always find the secret room where the drinks are free) were delicious, and I will be saving the streak of gravy I spilled on my top as a souvenir, but nutritious? No.

Helpful Beverage: WIN. Win plural. Win myself a couple of new kidneys.

Laptop: FAIL. I started scribbling notes on a highly technological piece of paper, but that made it impossible to concentrate on proceedings, and given that I only have two hands - one of which was holding a beer and the other of which was clamped over my mouth with amazement – I figured I should get my manual priorities in order. Just like life.

Leisurely Quiet Hours: Are you f*cking serious?

So. Y’know. Don’t expect much.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That

I managed an in-depth interview with all of the Contender boxers who weren’t fighting that night. Well, I spoke to a number of them briefly, including the hosts. Oh, okay, I mumbled a couple of things under my breath and may or may not have been overheard.
Exclusive boxer soundbytes below.

Daniel & Israel: “G’day”.

Josh: “Anyone know where the gents is?”.

Victor: “Blog? What is ‘blog’?”

Les: “Blaaaaaaaah! Chantelle Dawson! Blaaaaaaaah!”

Charlotte Dawson: Something about boob tape.

Sonni: “My man! My woman! I just shake hands with you, man. I have a piece of paper say I not go near the woman. BOOYAKA!! BOO! BOO! BOO! BOOYAKA!”.


Challenged

The challenge was keeping my eye on the boxing ring instead of just checking out everyone in the audience. For a while there it looked like hairdressing would come out in front (the variety!), with multicoloured fingernails coming up the rear (Oh. I see how that sounds now. Ouch), threatening the mastery of That’s Really Quite A Lot Of Tattoos, Sir, but it was seriously too close to call.

Of course, the real winner was Ed Hardy.

“Winner”.


Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion

Oh, Nader. You’re a Knight In White Satin with a waxed chest. It may not necessarily be noble, but it totally works.

Oh, Junior. You so sparkly.

Oh, Garth. Nice haircut. Good to see you get some new eye-work, as well.

Aaaaah, Kariz. It will only be a shame if you get modelling work out of this if they insist on putting clothes on you.

OH SONNI. If someone had just told me you’d worn a leopard-skin suit that looked like it had actually been mauled by leopards AND a wooden mask WITH DREADLOCKS, I would have assumed it was a dream. An incredible, jungle-esque, batshit-crazy dream. BUT NO! I have proof. Fuzzy, black-and-white, didn’t-get-the-mask-in-shot, why-are-my-eyes-glowing proof.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight. On Sonni's jacket.

KOs and OKs

Did I blink, or did Nader and Junior’s grudge match only last as long as Bindi Irwin’s Greatest Hits album? See, apparently if there’s a head clash within the first three rounds of the fight, and there’s a crescent moon, a light westerly wind, enough polyester-cotton in the room and the blood drops from one of the boxer’s faces makes a pattern that looks ike a monkey riding a bicycle on the floor of the ring, it’s a technical draw and they stop the fight.

It’s true. I looked it up.

Punchy Punchy

It might have been the contact high from all the (awesome) testosterone in the room, it might have been the culmination of eleven weeks of build-up, or it might have been the way the stadium lighting glittered elegantly off Kariz’s abdominal muscles, but hot damn, I loved this fight. Garth got low and close to counteract Kariz’s reach, Kariz kept up with relentless body-shots in the clinch, and eventu – OH MY GOD, THERE’S TAHNEE FROM AUSTRALIA’S NEXT TOP MODEL. Girl just cannot keep away from blood at a Foxtel finale.

Despite being the underdog (or underbunny, more correctly), Garth emerged victorious, said something about starring in a feature film and winning an Oscar, accepted his gigantic novelty cheque from Charlotte Dawson, and no doubt went out to get irreversibly stonkered.

Nice one, Garfus.


So that’s it! I must say that between the incredible personalities, buff gods and questionable eating habits on the screen, the criminally heated and riotous goings-on on the Contender facebook page, the outstandingly generous and hilarious people I’ve met from the show and those little mini-pizzas with feta and olives on them, it’s been a hell of a ride.
Thanks for reading!

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model - THE FINALE

I can’t believe this is the last episode.

Look at where we’ve been! (Oh. New Zealand. Exotic. I guess).

Look at what we’ve worn! (But maybe sort of overlook the dead pheasant head-dress, the inflated laundry bag, the Michael Hill watches, the purple bra, the jean-printed leggings, the recycled sequined dre... okay, forget everything except maybe the mascara and the socks).

Look at what we’ve learned!
a) How to pronounce every word in the New Zealand language;
b) How to dress like Jackie Onassis and my grandmother;
c) That Colin Hyphenated-Surname can be both the best thing on the planet and the main killer of my eyes and life all at once. That’s multi-tasking television royalty, that is.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Oh, Sara. At various times in this episode, you were wearing some kind of purple manchester item, a doily, and a prim, almost cartoon-esque number. I can’t pinpoint exactly who the cartoon frock reminds me of, but I’ve got a great suggestion for a guy you might want to start hanging out with...

I yam what I yam, Frumsky! A-gig-gig-gig-gig-gig-gig.

Chris Sisarich
Chris, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for maintaining an unprecedented level of moist over the last three months. In fact, I have a prize for you. It will be ready as soon as I have it mounted. By you, preferably.

Colin Mathura-Jefree
Oh, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. I hope you know how much you’ve meant to me during this series. I could never get rid of my weekly build-up of phlegm if it were not for the opportunity to shout “NO! WHAT ARE YOU... HOW DID YOU... IM BLIND! BLIND, I SAY!” at my television screen.

And this week is no different. Not only do you front up at The Wharf dressed first as Mary-Ann then as Thurston Howell from Glligan’s Island, at the first elimination you reek magnificence and mothballs as Ali Gaga And The Forty Divas.

Wait, I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

Trelise Cooper
I know, I know, I don’t usually mention the guest judges, but I’ve finally figured out where I’ve seen Trelise Cooper before.

It’s Glenda, Good Witch Of The North Island.

The Icksint

Are you guys going to be okay? Like, without me letting you know how to translate New Zealandish? Or has my persistence in banging out basically the same vowel-based jokes every week become predictable and lame? Wait. Don’t answer that.

Feshion Spictekular – A cetwalk parade in a two-level waterfront silo.

Cettiness – see: “Buchiness”.

Buchiness – see: “Cetiness”

Near-vuss – What modules feel before their final cetwalk show.

Banana Splut – A dish that is planned for dessert right before the best thing in the world happens.

Lemungton - Bakery item that is thrown with considerable force in order to become an integral part of the best thing in the world.

Peer-spix - a real bugger to walk on without slupping.



Budgetirry Lumutations

• All the monetary stops are pulled out for the deciding catwalk show, and high-end models are sourced from all over the world to help Christobelle and Laura strut their final stuff. Well, middle-level models from the Antipodes. Well, girls with a couple of years' experience from Wellington. Oh, okay, all the eliminated models from previous episodes before their contract options run out. Paying people is for losers.

• That’s it. We’re completely out of money. There is nothing left in the budget to pay for back-combing, hairspray or new clothing for the final Eliminarium, therefore Sara will look borderline human, and Colin will be dressed in his pyjamas. Wait – Sara, we just found a lace doily under a vase in the foyer of the hotel – go nuts.

Bist Buts.

• The photographs from the Cleo shoot are universally amazing, however the actual outfits are a bit hut end muss. All the major soap operas are represented – Dallas, Dynasty, and Debbie Does Dallas. It’s thorough, is what it is. As is Laura’s “I’m in a fringed dress and these veins on my legs are the road map to my undies” pose. It’s heaps editorial, ay. Alternatively, on the commercial side of life, we have Ho(sanna), who waves the top of her body around like a flag on the back of the town bike.

• Ho(sanna), can you guess what happens to people who borrow their blouse and cardigan from a librarian for an elimination? That’s right. Bye.

• When the two finalists sit down to eat their last supper, Colin arrives unexpectedly with a tray full of lamingtons, which he then proceeds to peg at the girls in a frenzied flurry of coconut and my-life-is-now-complete. He chases them. CHASES THEM. Christobelle complains that “They hurt. They were like, hard lamingtons”. Anyone whose soul isn’t buoyed by the sight of a man throwing cake at models can go stand in the corner.

Then, almost entirely without fanfare or minimum-level production values, we find out who the winner is. It’s the most predictable thing since the discovery of any other piece of information that’s been freely available on Wikipedia since early June.

It’s Christobelle. Der.

So, well, I guess it’s E haere ra everybody. It’s been one hell of a ride, and I can’t say that my life isn’t better for it. Like, I know that compared to say, the number of starving people in the world, this show isn’t that important, but if you figure that about two percent of those people are actually models, it makes sense.

Life. Changing. Television.

And a mad bitch in a turban.

Thanks for reading!