Every Day For A Year #9

(If you haven’t been following parts 1-8, find them here. If you have been following parts 1-8, then your reward comes in the form of worlds colliding in a mildly unsettling way here.)



Every so often in preparation for the scattering of words and the like all over this wee, self-indulgent corner of the internet, I actually do some research.


I know, right? Most of the time I’m sure it looks like I’m just blowing my nose with the alphabet, but I do – I actually look crap up.


In other news, our mate Frosty, he of the keen lensy-parts, has totally been in Germany. That’s a whole different country, even.


As a result of his hemispherical hoo-ha, some of his pictures below are of things in Germany. See how that works? Time travel is so. Cool.


But back to the research. I’ve done some.


Erstaunliche. It’s German for awesome.


Sort of.

Look! Photos!

We're On A Road To Mudgee #7

Day Two Part Two

In which tasty things come quaintly, with newspapers



With the digestive capacity of two well-cheesed machines, Charlotte and I somehow found room for lunch amid the quaintly quaint quaintness of Sajo’s Lounge Bar And Restaurant right in Mudgee’s middle. Our own middles expanding with almost alarming speed and enthusiasm, we took a grateful load off and admired our surroundings while pleasant people cooked our meals.


Sajo’s is warm, inviting and dark – like dark chocolate, if you warmed it up and got it to invite you somewhere. Coffee-coloured shelves on one wall, gorgeous oldey-timey apothecary drawers on the other, with stained glass and pressed metal to tie everything together, it’s an unmitigated spunk of a restaurant, with food and staff to match.

 Unbelievably friendly and stylishly aproned Shelly took us through our culinary paces, sloshing it all around with local Chardonnay and Semillon while our buttocks made appreciative dents in the comfy plush chairs. Sigh. If you’re not completely jealous about this road trip yet, you really should get in some envy now before there’s a queue.

Apparently there was some other, less delicious things happening in the world at the time.

Shelly, in one of the rare moments she wasn't topping up our wine glasses.

Let’s let the food do the talking.


We’ll look after the belching. Don't worry - we're professionals.

Grilled Barramundi with chargrilled kipfler potatoes, rocket & lemon aioli. I know, right?

Smoked salmon & asparagus linguini with roasted cherry tomatoes & basil and almond pesto. SHUT UP I DID SO.

Bloody well cheers, lady. And also burp.

Just like at your house, only way, way, way, way better.

Not pictured: the draw labelled 'Awesome'.

We're On A Road To Mudgee #6

Day Two Part One

In which tasty things are made from cheese, as tasty things so often are.

Right. Now that all that frivolous model stuff is over, let’s get back to the truly important, serious things in life. CHEESE.


Leaving Bathurst was difficult, but our sadness was mitigated by the insane beauty of the scenery on the way to Mudgee. This is classic country – corrugated iron sheds, the standard smattering of livestock (I still haven’t grown out of the habit of making animal noises every time I see one), winding roads, and long slow hills that force you to shout “Wheeeee!” during descent.


I started playing a game with road signs, which Charlotte either found highly amusing, or pretended to find highly amusing, knowing she still had three days in the car with me. “Careful”, I would say, spotting a sign with black and white stripes on it. “There are liquorice allsorts up ahead”.


Charlotte herself has a special skill that I’m sure many people don’t know about – that woman can spot roadkill from three kilometres away. We briefly marvelled at the fact that the local wildlife are courteous enough to take themselves off to the side of the road when they meet their early and unfortunate demise, but we were soon distracted by Amelie, our French GPS, who refused to give us any accurate directions once we hit the Mudgee outskirts. I can only guess that, being French, she’s just jealous of any place that makes spectacular wine.


Eventually we had to stop in at the Mudgee tourist information centre to ask for directions to the High Valley Wine & Cheese Co. – we just couldn’t bring ourselves to keep cheese waiting, and my navigation skills leave a lot to be desired. A single clue about navigating, for starters. Charlotte kept the motor running while I popped inside, and I was halfway through the sentence “We’re trying to find High Valley Cheese and Wine, but our stupid GPS...” when Ross, the unbelievably friendly man behind the counter, said “You must be Jo”. Goddamn, I love the country. The stunningly lush green grass is really just a red carpet wherever you go.


That noise you hear is angels singing.

Once we’d finally located the place that shall be henceforth known as Thank You Sir, May I Have Another, we were warmly greeted by owner and passionate cheese guy Grosvenor, who seemed to instantly develop a minor crush on Ms Dawson, as so many people who are alive do. He noted the deep love in our own eyes once we’d spotted the cheese cabinet, and became an instant enabler, offering us generous samples of Persian-style marinated feta, brie, Caerphilly (a farmhouse white mold cheese that has to be devoured to be believed), aged cheddar and a truly spectacular blue.


That noise you hear is angels salivating.

Grosvenor then offered us a tour of the cheese making plant, which was very attractive to us, and regulation white gumboots and hairnets, which, well, not so much.


That noise you hear is angels pointing and giggling.

We were shown shiny vats, friendly cheesemakers, cool vaults where delectable discs matured and teased with their sexy lactose wiles, and the table at which we would be served our first wine of the day and a complimentary cheese platter. If I’m ever on death row and have to decide what my last meal would be, this exact same deal would make up courses one through eight.


Too cool for drool. Almost.

While we sipped and supped, Grosvenor told us a bit about Mudgee and the unofficial policy amongst locals to keep the town as it is – with locals producing incredible food and wine and resisting any kind of influx of big business or touristy cheapisms, and it was easy to see why this is so important. Mudgee feels like a properly-established regional settlement without being besmirched by logos, corner-cutting or gaudy materialism, and as a result everywhere seems friendly, relaxed and delicious. Oh. So delicious. We souvenired ourselves some jars and bottles of delicious from the well-stocked shop on our way out.


Finally, a tip – if you like life hilarious and a little bit mean, don’t tell your travelling companion that she’s forgotten to remove her hairnet until you’ve walked through a busy room, across a carpark, and driven well across town.

Unless, of course, you want to be called a mole.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Six - THE FINALE

Of course, the real winner is live television.
I mean fashion.
I mean Amanda.

First of all - like, before we get to the tap dancing and scandal - some housekeeping:

Three ReasonsThis Recap Will Be Five Different Kinds Of Crap.
1. I haven't seen the finale episode on television, so I was just scribbling notes in the audience. I was also sitting next to the judges' table (I know, right?), so the reflected glare from Charlotte Dawson's frock, Shiny Alex Perry's head and Chest Smith's astounding man-mounds was very distracting.
2. It's all a bit of a blur - I got caught up in the excitement of the night, and had to spend a fair amount of time avoiding Kathryn, who wanted to throw a drink in my face.
3. They make gin now. This isn't a hangover. This is a herd of rhino.

There you go. I'm not making excuses, it's just that I... I'm totally making excuses.

RIGHT!
Let's start at the beginning.
I was very, very excited to be in the Swarovski-crystal-infested room, but I tried to not let it show on my face.

Tahnee seemed pretty excited to be sitting behind me, too.

And now, the runners-up for best shit ever are...

Dancing.
Any show which makes the following sentence possible deserves to be tattooed onto my temporal lobe: Shirtless men came out of the floor.
Shirtless.
Men.
Out of the floor.
Woah.
And although there were many moments during the finale that made me clutch at my imaginary pearls and risk severe delight-related coronary arrest, seeing Josh Flinn tap-dance again was truly the moment that made the unicons of my soul vomit rainbows. I'm throwing out my alarm clock - from now on I wish to be woken each morning by the sounds of Josh tapping next to my bed. I'll pay. He needs a job now, right?

Tampon References As A Matter Of Contractual Obligation.
When a sponsor helps fund a show, they want to be all over it like a fat kid on pancakes. Hence, not only were there tampons in my goodie-bag, one of the aforementioned dance routines featured an acrobat dressed in white hanging from a white string from the ceiling. Oh, U.

The Word "Journey".
Saint Sarah, I'm cutting you off. When we're born, we're given a set quota of words, and we can say each one a finite number of times. With the word "journey", you have now exceeded your quota by eight thousand, six hundred and two.

Claudia Navone's Accent.
Claudia speaks = I cry. I had actual tears. She uses the same syllables as everyone else, but packages each one in a clipped little box tied up with awesome. When the host of a show imitates your own accent whilst actually speaking to you, I'm pretty sure that qualifies you as a god.

Fleshmouth.
Oh, Sssophie. Face it - you were never going to win. You have boobs. Boobs have no place in high fashion (or, regrettably, in my bra). I'll always remember you for your constantly-open mouth, your pale, corpse-like lips and the soft toys stapled to your head in Japan. And I'll always imagine that you went backstage after being eliminated, rang your boyfriend and said "It's because of my fucking hair, isn't it?!?".

Sunglasses As A Dietary Option
Shiny Alex Perry, when he wasn't bickering with Dawson or being virtually indistinguishable from the spherical lightbulbs adorning the set, commented that if Kelsey becomes a top international module, he'll eat his sunglasses. Kelsey. Babe. You know what to do.

The Oh My God Montage
One final, tearful note to the editors of this fine, ridiculous, fine, life-changing, fine show: I love you with all of my heart and a considerable chunk of my colon. Your montages make my heart sing, and not just Nikki Webster songs. Close contenders were the Amanda-saying-wet-fish and Amanda-talking-about-faeces packages, but stringing together every instance of anyone saying "oh my god" over the last eight years was televisual platinum. Thank you. Please form an orderly queue at my soul.

Now, I suppose we have to talk about... you know... IT. The fact that Saint Sarah announced the wrong winner. The cock-up to end all cock-ups. I'm sure that whatever can be said about it has been said about it, so I'll keep this brief:

WASN'T.

THAT.

AWESOME.

I have a handful of theories about how and why it happened:
1. Producers decided that they wanted Top Model stories to be bumped forward three pages in today's newspapers;
2. Foxtel were going for the world record for Most People With High Ponytails Saying 'Fuck' All At The Same Time;
3. Jodhi Meares controls the media and wanted Saint Sarah to truly understand why live television is generally to be avoided; or
4. God loves me and this is his way of kissing me right on the lips.

And a final word on the Hotter-Than-Tabasco Fiasco: Anyone who thinks that it was on purpose and rigged is a goddamn fool.

Second-lastly, I'd like to do a minor expose about what happened behind the scenes. I take my status as an unrelenting attention slut very, very seriously, so I squeezed my way into both after-parties in order to bring you some highly underwhelming morsels from the bits you didn't get to see on telly:

• Everyone at Luna Park got a goodie bag chock full of pressies, including a Ford Fiesta keyring shaped like a fortune cookie. A little tip for merchandising managers everywhere: When you shape a silver keyring like a fortune cookie, you end up with fifteen hundred bits of metal that really look quite a lot like vaginas.
• I got to rub Chest Smith's pectorals more than once. At one point, he flexed his magnificent lumps just as my hand was between them, and one of my fingers got trapped. MY FINGER WAS TRAPPED BETWEEN JEZ SMITH'S BOOBS. I am dead.
• Early-eliminatee Sally asked me to blog about the fact that she can "totally shake it". And she totally can.
• Slightly-later-eliminatee Ashton challenged me to a dance-off. At first the numbers were on her side, as her full entourage joined in the booty-shakin' shakedown, but I had some secret weapons up my sleeve. Charlotte Dawson, Chest Smith and Saint Sarah Murdoch. Thank you, my bump-and-grind compadres. I believe I won that round, Ms Flutey.
• Martinis are awesome. You heard it here fifth.

Finally, I'd like to thank everyone associated with the show for making it the pinnacle of awesome (and for giving me a ticket, but seriously, I'm still waiting for a frock), and to youse grouse blokes and sheilas for reading.
It's been a hoot, and I've loved every second of it.
But now - and I mean this quite sincerely - if I don't get some Panadol and bacon, I will cut a bitch.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Six #10

I can’t figure out if three is a good number or a bad number.
Apparently bad things come in threes. That’s bad.

Then there’s the Three Amigos. That’s good.

On the other hand, there’s the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse. That’s bad.

Then there’s the Three Blind Mice. That should be bad, but for some reason it’s awesome, especially if you picture them wearing Ray Charles’ sunglasses and rocking little canes.


Whether good or bad, that’s what we have. A trinity of divinity. A triangle of high spangle. A triptych of lipstick. Buckle up your... something you have three of, it’s the ‘Three, It’s The Scragic Number’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. Trippendicular, fer shurrrr.


Skin-Tight Budget

There were two things in this episode that the production budget couldn’t afford. A white plank that stands up by itself, and a production assistant capable of saying “Excuse me, sir, but would you mind maybe sweeping your jetty at some other time?”. Me Talky Proper And That


Hi, Career Board-Holder and Background Sweeping Dude. What up.


• Upon Jessica’s departure, Amanda says “When Jess left, it was really sad, ‘cause her presence was quite large, and it’s a big hole that isn’t gonna be filled”. Now, at times I’ve been known to misinterpret The Language Of The Kids, but Jess? I’m pretty sure Amanda just called you a fat virgin.


• The modules talk about how they regard each other as competition, and that they’re going to have to step it up if they’ll ever have a chance at winning. It’s really quite a unique and novel set of statements if you disregard everything that’s ever been said in the last couple of weeks of a televised reality show ever. Sophie in particular steels her resolve, saying “I’m definitely gonna have to bring my game”. My big guess is that ‘her game’ is Hungry Hungry Hippo. Because. You know.

Learnmenty Challengeness Mash-Up
• The penultimate Sarah-Mail of the series arrives, featuring a wordy quote from Coco Chanel and a reference to schoolgirls. Sophie responds to it by saying “We’re all a bit like, oh my god this must be really serious”. It’s a television show about modelling, and last week you had soft toys stapled to your head, Sophie. Of course it’s serious.


• The girls are sent to the Blue Hotel at Woolloomooloo wharf, where the silhouette of a shiny man with sunglasses on his head meets them. He explains that tonight they’ll be helping launch a special event for the Sony Foundation called ‘Fashion 4Ward’ to raise money for children with cancer. Cancer isn’t funny. New paragraph.


• Shiny Alex tells the modules that they’ll be dressing in couture frocks designed by Collette Dinnigan, J’aton and himself and walking with professional models to live music. He says “And along with a very powerful message, it comes with some very serious fashion”. There seems to come a time in every series of this show when the fashion gets really, really serious.

Right, Caris-in-dress-with-poodle-face-boob-eyes? Right.

• Every single frock the girls try on makes me cry tears of pure joy. They have been sewn by angels who had to beat out other angels for the job in like, the Angel Competitive Sewing Olympics. Unicorns stop barfing rainbows just so they can stare lovingly at the fine beading and delicate drapery. Master couturiers from ages past look down from the heavens at these dresses, shuffle their feet with shame, and whisper “shit” under their breaths, so embarrassed about their relatively clumsy skills are they. Now, and I mean this with sincerity and mild desperation, it being the second last episode of the series: GIVE. ME. A. FRIGGING. FROCK. Seriously. Somebody. I’ve been doing this shit for four years. Make with the freebies, bitches.


• Josh appears to help style the scrags, give them some advice, and remind Kelsey that she’s short. Time is also short, so the runway show begins – the other judges are all there watching, as are some very, very special and exclusive guests.

• Kelsey rocks it without looking too short, Sophie does well despite having her hands glued to her hips, and Amanda stabs my eyes repeatedly with awesome. Everybody within earshot of anywhere says the word “expensive” five times each, I mention the Rogue Traders and Amy Meredith just to squeeze a couple more Google hits out of the universe, and Josh gushes at the girls, telling them how proud he is of them and how much they’ve learned. In fact, he says that they’ve learned so much that his job as mentor is done. He calls for a group hug, and then sa... IS JOSH CRYING?!? JOSH IS CRYING! Dawwwww.

If you get your jacket wet, the waiter you borrowed it from will be pissed.

He’s right, too. These girls have learned every single thing they need to learn to be models. And as I’ve mentioned before, this equates to one skill, and one skill only. It’s the SCT, friends. The Solitary Crystalline Tear.



Consider yourself graduated.

 Phoy-toys
Day One - Fitting

This week’s photo shoot takes one day to fit and two days to shoot, because it’s VERY IMPORTANT. It will end up being the eight-page spread and cover image for Harper’s Bazaar, featuring the winner of the entire competition. Which, it’s just struck me, is nearly over. Which makes me sad. You guys are going to miss me so much! The only thing that could possibly, possibly cheer me up is at the other end of these:

It's not just the boots that have adroable accents.

YES. It’s Harper’s Fashion Director Claudia Navone, teensy clothes horse and my favourite vowel-mangler in all the land. If the voice in my head spoke like Claudia, I would just sit around and think all day. She greets the girls at the Harper’s offices with:


Wal-com. To the wode of Harper’s Bazaar.


Sigh.

She continues with:


Now, I don wahnt to intimeedate you atall, ba you-shoo-wally, the carvers of Harper’s Bazaar are ownly reserve to de moss beauteeful and fay-moose women in dee wode.


I love you, Claudia.


So eef up to now, you av been geeving juan-harndert pussent, dis is not enough naow. Ees going to be about two harndert pussent.


Dead. Dead from amazing. Dead and underground.Tombstone, worms, the lot. Dead.


Our modules are led into everybody’s dream room – the fashion magazine wardrobe - and introduced to editor Edwina McCann, photographer Simon Lekias, whose surname should totally be said out loud, and fashion editor Christine Centenera, who enjoys dream-crushing, disdain and eyeliner. The girls learn that they’ll be modelling a summer cruisewear collection. You know. Cruisewear. That’s that stuff in the back of your wardrobe that you bring out between polo and fox-hunting seasons.

• The usual flap about height is dragged out when Kelsey does her fitting – she looks okay in a yellow Miu Miu number, stunning in a Balenciaga crocheted thing, and incredible in a sixties-styled Celine mini-dress that I personally would willingly cut out organs to wear. Christine The Crusher encouragingly comments “There is no way that I would cast her in a fashion shoot”. Oh, nice.


• All three experts go nuts over Amanda, saying that they already see a model, and that she’s gazelle-like and amazing. They have eyes and stuff.


• Of Sophie, Simon says that she “brings something very different to the table”. Yep. The ability to swallow plates. Edwina notes that she’s “got a lot of determination”. Ruh-roh. That’s like being told you have a “great personality”, or “interesting taste in shoes”. Sophie is confident, though, and says “When that magazine comes out, I will be on the cover. Because this runs through my blood. This runs through my body”. Ew. Where does it come out?


• Edwina tells us that to be a successful module, “you gotta be hungry”. A kindergarten choir on a boat off the shore of Portugal looks up, clear their throats, and in perfect six-part harmony sing the single word “Duuuuuh”.


• Now, I know that watching a bunch of competitive girls get changed into outfit after outfit after outfit after outfit after outfit after outfit sounds interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by watercress. Let’s get shooting already.

Day Two - Shooting

The next chilly morning before sunrise, our darling scrags take a single, lonely Fashion Fiesta to a mansion on the water’s edge for their two-day shoot. Hey, mansion? Thanks, but we won’t be needing you. We have a big white board.

• Amanda is a little rigid during her first shots, causing the ever-supportive and encouraging Christine The Destroyer to offer endearing little snippets like “She doesn’t actually do very much”, and “She’s not a good model”.


• Sophie, shooting in the same dress, does a little better, which frustrates Amanda. “Just have a bad face for once, Sophie”, she says. Um…

Once. Right. Yep.

• Christine The Dream-Squisher says that initially she was excited about shooting Sssophie, but that “today, unfortunately she didn’t really translate”. Dude. Sssophie can barely speak English, and you want her to translate?! Also, DO YOU LIKE ANYTHING EVER?


• It turns out she does, and it’s Kelsey. The diminutive diva poses like a frikkin’ champion, blowing everyone away with her natural ability to model and throw shapes. For the first time, I have absolutely no idea who’s going to win. Except it’s Amanda, isn’t it.


Day Two – Still More F*cking Shooting

• Sophie, in a swimming costume, is subject to a request to restrict excessive contorting, as it tends to give her poses a suggestive air rather than one of restrained elegance. Or, in Sophie’s words, “I had to be careful, because out of the girls I’m the most bustiest”. Indeed. She even has her stellar puppies bandaged down to fit into the Celine dress-that-must-be-mine, and busts out her edgiest series of shots to date. Get it? BUSTS out. No, because it’s about boobs, see, and it’s… because… synonym… shut up.


• Amanda, putting it nicely, has no boob issues whatsoever for her cozzie shot. She does, however, have stiffness issues. Wait. That came out wrong. Christine the Insult Ninja calls her a plank of wood, and gets her to watch Kelsey’s next session for inspiration. Thankfully, it works.


• Kelsey kicks arse. Well, the arse she can reach from down there.


Besties
• They just don’t make shoes like they used to. Apparently, the materials they used to make shoes out of have all run out. Now, to make shoes, all you do is just empty out the fourth kitchen drawer down and glue all that shit together.

Especially if you have Lego in the fourth drawer down.

Or if you've just vomited robot flowers. You have, haven't you. You vomited robot flowers.

• During the swimwear section of the Harper’s shoot, Kelsey shows us what pretty much the dictionary definition of ‘side-boob’ looks like.

Mick, he's got a knife.

Until Sophie completely gazumps her efforts with her uncanny ability to turn her own boobs UPSIDE-DOWN.

That's not a knife. That's a knife.

Eliminationosity
Marathon shoot over, our strangely endearing scrags traipse into the Eliminarium for the last time. I… I’m not crying, I’ve just got a rare eye disease that causes eye-watering and desperate racking sobs, is all.


Saint Sarah is there to greet them, only just making it in time after racing from a Let’s Get An Attention-Seeking Blogger Mole A Free Frock fundraiser. She glamours through the prizes, which I think this year include a ream of A4 paper and a canoe, and then introduces the judges. Christine The Kohl-Lined Career Killer is guest judge, Shiny Alex Perry has had his black shirt and tie permanently tattooed on, Charlotte Dawson has flowers on her boobs and Essence Of Twelve-Year-Old in her forehead, and Chest Smith still doesn’t have enough buttons undone. You owe me, Chest. If you don’t turn up to finale naked, I’ll sue.


Each of the modules are asked to step forward and explain their existence on the planet, with Amanda the only one not shedding a tear. She has one Solitary Crystalline Tear per week, and she’s used it up already. Sophie wants to be “one of the world’s top modoos”, Amanda thinks she’ll be better at modelling than at school or sport, and Kelsey rightfully argues that if her height was really that big of an issue, then she wouldn’t have beaten so many tall girls in the competition to make it to the top three. Logic has no place in fashion, Kelsey. Fail.


The almost unspeakably amazing photos are pored over, and the judges deliberate, with a smattering of respectful pearlers:


• Shiny Alex Perry calls himself the ‘height Nazi’. I shout “Zeig HEIGHT!” at my television, because I am clearly hilarious.


• Of Amanda’s shot, Dawson impersonates Claudia Navone, simply saying “two harndred pussent”. Loving Claudia is like a contagious virus. The symptoms are silk, vowels, and awesome.


• Shiny Alex is clearly not a fan of Kelsey’s missing altitude, commenting that “when they were giving out height, she was standing behind the door” (which doesn’t really work as a visual metaphor), “well spank me, because somewhere in some alternate universe, I thought that models were meant to be tall” (which is essentially true, but with an unnecessarily disturbing mental image), and “Do you know what? Two inches makes all the difference” (which is I HEAR THAT, SISTER).


The girls file back in, holding hands, and I lean forward, holding my breath. We’re about to find out the final two, unless there’s some freaky, unforeseen twist out of left field. But that would never happen. Pffft.

Amanda is called first because being my new imaginary best friend clearly makes good things happen.

It’s down to just Sophie and Kelsey – Sophie is told that she’s embraced the professional model within and let go of Barbie, but may be too commercial-looking. Kelsey learns that she’s a natural-born model with great instincts, but that she’s still a short-arse.


Eight thousand, billion-ka-zillion years pass, and…


THEY’RE BOTH IN, MAMA! Unforeseen! Freaky! An unprecedented top three!


The best part? It’s totally up to us to vote for the winner. We have the power. We have the suffrage. We have the massive, fifteen-page phone bills. And I would never, ever try to influence that vote, because I know you’re perfectly capable of making up your own minds, and my omnipotence is clearly just a figure of my imagination. I would never try to subliminally influence you.

Next week, FINALE FINALE FINALE!!!! I am equal parts excited, sad, and going.


The wonderful, generous people at Foxtel have again been nice enough to throw me a ticket, which can only mean:

• That they’d better stock the bar and stock it good, because I’ll need something to drink and Kathryn will need something to throw in my face for relentlessly mentioning her pimples;
• That I don’t even really need to worry about what to wear, because I’ll be in a room full of gorgeous girls and gay men; and
• That I won’t have next week’s recap up until well into the following afternoon, and it will be a steaming pile of hung-over horse poop. Seriously. I’m not even sure it’ll be in English.

Every Day For A Year #8

(If this would make more sense with a bit of background, catch up here. If you're not too fussy about things making sense and you like death metal and snacks, perhaps this might be more up your alley).

One of the things I'm enjoying about my mate Frosty's daily photographic snappery is that it makes questions like this possible:

What do letterboxes, business shirts, Eastern mysticism and Norman Bates have in common?

If you answered "They're all matured in oak barrels", then you'd be wrong, but we should definitely party sometime.

If, on the other hand, you answered "They're all in some way related to things Frosty's seen over the last couple of weeks", then you've fully grasped the completely obvious premise I've been steering you towards since you started reading. Whaddaya want, a prize?!

I should probably also mention that Frosty's in an ace band called Sierra Fin, and they're on the verge of releasing their first single, "Lost Man's Lie". Pretty sure they're doing that because it's my favourite of all their choons. The world revolves around me, right? Do your ears a favour here.

When you're done, feel free to drink in the compositionally-sublime rectangles below. And then maybe buy me a drink.