Actually that movie IS pretty funny...

"So you're pretty much dead inside, then" I said to a friend the other day.

This is not my usual conversation opener, nor was it the first time I'd used such a insult. It is, to my mind, such a nice one that I have rolled it out on more than one occassion, even if it was particularly appropriate for this particular friend. What surprised me this time around, though, is that the DII (dead inside individual) in question didn't take it as an insult. Indeed he later conceded a certain "serene weltanschauung" (yeah look it up - I had to) at the thought.

And only then did it occur to me that there IS something bleakly comforting at the thought of being dead inside, in a weird way that is vaguely connected to what Johnson says about being a beast ridding one of the pain of being a man (I'm paraphrasing - I think I read that one on the back of a fantale wrapper). And it also occurred to me that there is a reason I have used this insult more than once in that I rather LIKE people of this ilk and have, in recent years, managed to acquire several dear friends who at least partly fit the profile.

You can recognise them thusly:

1. They secretly suspect their mild to severe drinking problem makes them more interesting. They are mostly right.

2. They laugh at the end of Love Story.

3. They tell you not to fall in love with them with a seriousness that suggests they fear you are planning to do just that. Again, they are mostly right.

4. You will go for weeks or months without talking to them only to receive a rambling drunken call at 3am that starts with a two hour rant and ends with them passing out on your couch.

5. They will have no recollection of either the conversation or how they came to be on your couch the next morning.

6. You will forgive them for this behaviour even after you find out what they did to your cat.

7. They use words like "weltanschauung".

8. Just quietly they are actually quite, quite fucked up.

And yes it's a smacked bottom for the first person to suggest there is anything of myself in the above. I've never been so well adjusted in my life.

It's a question of altitude

Why do I think I like flying? I love to fly - that's always been my line. I've heard myself telling people how much I enjoy it and, until recently, I really thought I did. But actually, it occurs to me at the tail end of a 20 hour long haul, it's pretty fucking terrible.

Now, presumably it goes without saying that sitting on my arse for 20 hours reading trashy novels, watching lame movies and having food and booze ferried to my lap is theoretically right up there under my definition of A Good Time. I could write an epic poem about enforced laziness, I love it so much. But there is one thing I always forget about when I'm romanticising the crap out of air travel: The people. My God the detestable fucking people.

Specifically THESE people:

a) My neighbour for the 13-hour leg of the flight, who apparently believed it was acceptable to lay across three seats. THREE. No. No. NO NO NO. Listen fuckface, there were two of us and four seats. That equates to two apiece and somewhere in your cold heart you know that. I am sorry I pretended not to notice your foot when I sort of mashed it into the armrest but I think we can both agree you deserved that and much, much more. Also when I gave you that look that time? Yeah I was kinda hoping you might get AIDS and die. Sorry about that.

b) Anyone who puts his or her seat back as far as it can go. Yes it's ALLOWED and yes it's POSSIBLE but then so is voting conservative: that doesn't make it right.

c) The person responsible for my inflight movie selection. First up: thanks for the inclusion of Peep Show. Lovely. Much appreciated. But can we talk about Nights in Rodanthe? Or The fucking Women? I mean I think it's great that post menopausal women who can only get off thinking about Richard Gere in a billowy white shirt are still out there getting work, I just wish they weren't in charge of my entertainment.

d) The silly twat inexplicably wearing a cocktail dress and heels. Sweetheart, you're flying into Perth airport at 2am - the most action you can reasonably expect is a vigorous frisky from a burly security guard.

e) My dozey cunt of a neighbour for the 5-hour leg who snored on my ear almost the entire way home. Okay maybe that's unfair because she was actually very sweet for the three seconds she was awake and it's not exactly her fault but FUCK that was annoying.

Mice and men

Things I plan to do in London but will almost certainly not do:
1. Visit all the galleries and museums I missed last time. Have deep and profound thoughts while admiring Manet. Um, you know, kind of like that scene in Ferris Bueller.
2. Really Get Down To Some Serious Writing.
3. Go for long walks in Richmond Park, possibly while writing or reading sonnets of, um, some kind.
4. See intelligent plays and talk about them intelligently afterwards. Berets are optional.

Things I do not (necessarily) plan to do in London but almost certainly will:
1. Get hideously drunk and waste days on couch with aching head, eating potato gems and watching Hollyoaks.
2. Spent 'writing time' either reading trashy Twilight books acquired for the sole purpose of delightful plane reading or watching various trashy DVDs acquired as gifts.
3. Blow large wad of cash on delicious Topshop purchases completely unsuitable for the Australian climate.
4. Freeze my tits off.

Fuck you STA Travel

That's THREE FOR THREE now. Three times I have given you my custom and three times you have fucked me in the arse. And not small fucking things either: it's either NO tickets or it's the WRONG ticket or the wrong fucking flight. I say no more and bid you good day, Sir.

UPDATE: Oh and this is what you call the AISLE SEAT I REQUESTED IS IT?? Right, because to me it looks like I'm sandwiched between a weird smelling freak who slurps EVERYTHING HE DRINKS and a comatose woman who may or may not have died somewhere over the Indian ocean. Whatev!

I wish this were a joke

I don't know if anyone else has been following THIS but it's a story that's been getting me increasingly steamed up. For those just tuning in, "Joe the Plumber" - the douchebag Republican voter hailed by the McCain campaign as a symbol of middle class America during the Presidential campaign after he questioned Obama on tax policy - has been sent to the Middle East by a conservative website as their correspondent on the Gaze conflict.

No, really.

While his qualifications, other than being a loud-mouth cunt, remain unclear so far Joe's correspondence work seems to involve going on tours with the Israeli forces (though he's not allowed inside Gaza strip, heavens no) and offering profound insights such as that it's actually the Israeli's who are the real victims here and that's it's their homes - their HOMES damnit - that are being threatened by Hamas.

He's also got some great things to say on that damn left-wing bias in the damn liberal media, damnit.

Stunning insights Joe, just stunning.

And in case you were hoping there might at least be an odds-on chance this sham could be put to a quick end with a stray rocket? Sorry guys, Joe's covered by the Almighy:

"Being a Christian I'm pretty well protected by God I believe. That's not saying he's going to stop a mortar for me, but you gotta take the chance.”

Fingers crossed, Joe, fingers crossed.

What women want

Fucking women, eh? Contrary bints: I don’t know how boys stand us sometimes, with our bloody contradictions.

Take me: sitting here right now, vaguely insulted that a man in whom I (obviously) have absolutely no interest in dating has not called to ask me out.

Allow me to explain.

Last week. One of those really, really boiling days and I was at the WACA. Not, like a cricket loving freak, to watch some organised loafing but to attend a shareholder meeting. (For work, obviously. I’m too poor to own shares even these days when you can pick up a junior miner with the spare change down the back of the couch). Having obtained directions (which I swear involved an improbable four left turns) to the meeting room I was hopelessly lost when I stumbled across a man whose face bore the unmistakable impression of someone exactly as lost as I was. In a crisis, the brief stint as a Brownie sixer has taught me, it is important to stick together. That applies to situations that aren’t getting lost on a field trip at John Forrest National Park. And so I asked him if he was looking for the same meeting as me and when he said he was we thought we would look together.

I’d like to make it clear that it was his idea to cut across the WACA. Honest it was. Though I went along with it: the heels of my beautiful red heels sinking into the grass as I did so. And only when we got to the other side did we notice the perimeter fence on the other side.

“So shall we jump it?” the shareholder asked me.

When my hysterical laughter had subsided I told him what I thought of that idea, even had I not been wearing an uber tight black dress and said heels.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he insisted.

When the second wave of hysterical laughter had passed I think he realised I was serious.

It was about then that a man on a grass… mower?... cutter?.... um, flattener? … thing, came along and told us politely to get off the grass. Whether or not this was related to the trail of heel-induced holes I’d left behind me in the grass was, shall we say, unclear. The grass, um… cleaner?... man wasn’t all Fuck You though – he also pointed out that there was a place a little further along where the fence was lower and we could probably get out a bit easier.

Well yes and no. Because while he was correct in that the fence was lower, he had neglected to mention several key points: a)It was still fucking high, b)It was less of a low fence and more of a high fence with a hole in it, meaning you had to sort of launch yourself upwards as you crouched down to avoid smacking your head open on the top bit, c)the place where you came down on the other side was not solid floor but a platform thing ON FUCKING WHEELS.

I got over the fence eventually. Let’s not go into details about who did what and who saw what. Let’s just bury that thought, and those memories, waaaay waaay down where my future psychologist can find them. Importantly the shareholder saw nothing. At least that’s what he told me.

And so we went to the meeting and chatted and blah blah blah the meeting was dull. Afterwards I killed time chatting to the shareholder before he asked if he could see me again. Maybe it’s the effect of having been saddled with both glasses and braces for many of my formative high school years but I pretty much never assume anyone is asking me out. Unless they are actually saying “I fancy you” I also never really assume they fancy me either. This shareholder, who happened to be in financial services, probably just wanted to talk business, I figured. Just in case though I thought I’d give him my business card, as though to underscore how business-related this all was. Unfortuantely I didn’t have any cards left and was reduced to scrawling mymobile number on a scrap of paper he had with him. Not quite what I was going for.

And when he called me later that day to ask if I was free that night it seemed I may have to revealtuate my thoughts about his intentions. Being too much of a pussy to brush him off properly I went for the time-honoured tactic of delaying him, insisting I was just SWAMPED at the moment but er maybe next week… possibly. We parted on good terms but for the next few days my stomach churned as I wondered how I could nicely dispatch him without hurting his feelings.

But clearly I NEEDN’T HAVE BOTHERED. Because that little WACA incident was a week ago and has he called?? No he has not. Fucker. Suddenly I feel like I know what those glossy magazines are talking about when they bitch about boys who take your number and don’t call. And while I am overwhelmingly relieved I don’t have to deal with letting him down gently, I still find myself a little… peeved. Did he not think I was cute enough? Was my banter not witty enough? It was my hair wasn't it? I KNEW I should have brushed the hair. Superficial fucker.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Oliver Matzelle

Just 15 years, 11 months to go and he's legal, girls.

Well played, 2009

I don't really go in for New Year's Resolutions. The reason being, clearly, that I simply have no flaws: no rough edges that need sanding down, no character deficiencies and certainly, gosh, no bad habits. How, I ask you, can one improve on perfection?

The real reason is even more simple: I have never yet kept a New Year's resolution and it seems, therefore, slightly disingenuous to even play the role of a reformeer. To suggest that I might actually be able to, this year, drink a bit less, run a bit more and generally be a bit nicer to everyone is not only a blatant attempt to fool others but a shameless bid to fool myself.

Even so, despite a distinctly cool attitude towards the resolutions bit, I must concede there is something quite nice and hopeful about starting on a fresh calendar. Maybe it’s as simple as ‘2009: It Doesn’t Suck Yet’ but to me it feels like coming back from the hairdresser with a shiny new hairdo. And for about a day I decide I am going to Get On Top Of The Hair Situation. You know what I mean: I will have it trimmed every 6-8 weeks like the hairdresser tells me, I will make an faint effort towards establishing some sort of style instead of just leaving the car window open to ‘blow dry’ it en route to work. I will apply fancy leave-in conditioners I don’t yet own and – yes – as I’ve vowed before, I will learn to deliver an up-do that will make me look like the hot (SPOILER!) android in Bladerunner.

So it is disappointing to find that the new year only took a day to let me down. Like the split ends I should have had trimmed away two months ago 2009 is looking a little bit ragged. A little, dare I say it, like 2008.

At least that's what I thought at first.

New Years Day. Early evening. I was tired and cranky and in need of something from the shop. Having forsaken such trifles as, say, a shower, or the use of a hairbrush I decided, naturally, to walk down to the shops myself. It'll be fine, I told myself, slipping unshaven legs into thongs and studiously avoiding looking at my mane of not-even-messily-sexy-bedhead hair in the mirror. Don’t even both changing out of that weird floral housedress once mistaken for a nightie - nobody goes to the shitty local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day, right?

Well yes and no. Because, as it happens, not that many people do go to the local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day. It's just that I happen to know everyone who does.

I recognised Him from a distance: a guy I know through work who I seem to run into at every boozy industry bash and who has only even seen me in heels, nice clothes and with hair that doesn't look like I'd spent 40 to 48 hours becoming acquainted with a wind tunnel. Oh and he apparently lives about three houses away from me. Who knew?. Sadly the fucker also had good face recognition for, despite my yeti-like appearance, he not only recognised me but decided it would be a fun idea to stop and chat on the street corner while I tried to simultaneously pull down the hem of my dress - fluttering dangerously high in the unwelcomly hot wind – control my hair and shake hands with said guy’s smoking hot and perfectly coiffed girlfriend, who was standing beside him looking like she'd stepped out of one of those Ralph Lauren ads where everybody wears cashmere and fucks on yachts.

Having said my goodbyes and still red hot with embarassment I lurched into IGA, negotiating the aisles at great speed and making my way to the checkout to dump 12 months worth of change onto the counter, removing from my pockets as I did so a twisted bobby pin, the receipt for petrol I don't recall buying and various bits of what I guess was lint (?) but was too afraid to investigate.

And because 2009 is the new 2008, the first person to walk in through the shop doors while the poor dear behind the checkout is counting up my 5 cent pieces is an old friend of my brothers who I haven’t seen in ages who now presumably believes I look exactly that shitty every day of my life. I tried to get away with a quick "hey" and walk out the door but no, no, he'd been meaning to get in touch about a book he wanted to borrow but he didn’t have my number. Did I still have that book and could he borrow it? The real answer - that I had no idea where the book was and wasn’t incredibly sure I’d ever owned it at all - would have necessitated further conversation and so I sort-of-lied and suggested it was on my bookcase as we spoke. And of COURSE he could borrow it. Any time. I made it out of there before he mustered the courage to ask if those were couch pillow creases on my face.

Bloody 2009, I thought, as I fled into the street: clearly it's just going to be more of the same.

Or was it? Because then something surprising happened: I decided to take the long way home, necessitating an additional ten minutes of walking. Ten minutes! Ten minutes I could have spent on a variety of much more exciting tasks but chose, instead,to dedicate to pounding the streets of Shenton Park. Oh SURE cynics will say I only did it to try to avoid running into the ex-boyfriends I was by now convinced were loitering nearby, waiting to emerge with their own shiny new girlfriends just as my shoes broke and I face-planted into the footpath, but I still did it.

And, hoofing it through the back streets, my head rotating on my neck like a car burglar who has just heard the distant strains of a siren, it occurred to me that if 'get more exercise' didn't belong on any hypothetical new year's list then I don't know what did. January 1 and I was already turning over a bloody new leaf. Oh 2009, you cunning little beast: you're going to be brilliant after all. Phew. But, please, while I could go on I’ll have to ask you to excuse me: have just got to go blowdry my hair and don some formalwear for a quick trip to the servo.