"The question is not, "Can they reason?" nor, "Can they talk?" but rather, "Can they suffer?" (Jeremy Bentham)

So our government has decided to continue to keep breeding pigs in stalls so small they can’t turn or take more than a step in any direction for another ten years.

Awesome, well done guys.

Other western countries around the world are phasing them out or at least making sure the pigs spend less time in these crates but pigs can’t technically vote in this country so apparently there’s really no need to keep them happy.

This is really, really fucked.I know bacon tastes is really delicious but it really doesn’t taste good enough for this.

How can something so wrong feel so right?

I feel that I should hate this website because reading a really great book on a computer screen is not the same as reading a lovely real copy of the book and I should be against anything that might stop people from buying books on principle... but I must confess I keep going back there for a wee snippet of some old favourites. Gah, I"m no longer going to be welcome in the library when this gets out...

Quotable Quotes: Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

(Siegfried Sassoon)

Only when she looks down?

Some days are worse than others. And some days are worse than those days. Then some days take a giant dump on all the aforementioned days and reach heights that can’t be topped.

Today is not quite one of those days but somehow I have gone from being super chipper this morning to being one step away from going up the road for another bag of Nando’s chips and using my diet coke can to bash myself to death.

On top of naffed-up photos, The fucking Voice, an irate deputy lord Mayor and a headache you might think that another visit from The Man Who Calls Up and Cries might be the final straw.

You’d be surprised.

Regular readers may remember him from a few weeks ago, when he memorably wept over the future of OBE while playing incredibly loud in the background in a slightly mental fashion.

Today we reunited when he talked me to talk about a particular ABC newsreader. A rather attractive newsreader, he was at pains to reassure me, not “the one that looks like a Klingon when she looks down”.

This newsreader had, he said, been wearing a lot of turquoise-coloured clothes lately. Not that this was a bad thing - he liked turquoise, his daughter (he’s breeding?) likes turquoise… everyone’s happy. But lately said newsreader has started to vary her wardrobe a little, including wearing rings on her right hand… her right hand you see, not her left, so that her loyal viewers don’t know if she’s married or not.

The little minx.

Part of being a journalist in my particular organisation is dealing with wackos and there are absolutely no shortage of them. But this guy… well I kind of like him. Despite (or perhaps because of) being completely mental he’s actually pretty funny. He knows that he’s nuts which is more than a lot of people can say and that he’s often only a drink away from fall-down drunk which, again, is at least some kind of self awareness.

More than that he knows he’s being a pain in the arse and apologises constantly for wasting my time or talking shite. Somehow this makes me feel like I’m doing a community service by talking to him because he seems to appreciate the human contact. At least he keeps coming back for more.

It also makes me realise that however crappy my Friday is going things could be a looot worse for me. This guy could know where I live, for a start.

And yep the crazy vaguely operatic music is indeed still playing in the background.

Honestly it’s no wonder they were caught.

All references to “homosexual perverts” aside this court case involving two men kidnapping and raping a 14-year-old boy is obviously pretty disturbing.

Now the jury has ruled the men planned to murder the kid to stop him from going to the police.

Horrible stuff.But like any good gory court case there is an element of the incredibly bizarre in this one.

Because, according to today’s news reports, part of the evidence against Robbie Sebastian Wheeler and Victor Leslie Urquhart was an envelope full of “damning notes”. Including the following:

“We have to get rid of him soon”

and:

“Won't acid take care of the body so it's just bones?”

Now really... Is this really the kind of matter that can be discussed via notes?

Asking someone to pick up dishwashing liquid or a carton of milk = perfectly reasonable to leave a note.

Discussing how you really do need to remember to get rid of the body of the 14-year-old you haven’t yet killed in the other room, or musing on whether to dissolve his body in acid?

Not note material.

What kind of lives do these men lead that this kind of thing is worth of a post-it and nothing more? I'd love to hear the subject matter when they really sit down for a serious talk.

And really nobody, whatever he's into, wants to come home from a hard day at the office to find a whiteboard full of messages like “which of us has to dismember him, do you think?” or “Shall you hold him down while I rape him this time?”

Victor, Robbie, if you ever do get out of jail: put down the pen and paper and get some goddamn face time.

Oh you mean THAT guy…

I’m sure I’ve emailed this to a few people before but it still makes me laugh and is worth the read if you’ve got the time. On my own front I’d also like to formally add The Guy Who Has to Out-Obscure-Band You When Talking About Music Even Though You Suspect He Listens To Linkin Park along with The Guy Who Stares Into Your Eyes During Sex Because He Thinks Its Romantic And Not In Fact Incredibly Creepy.

Hero Schmero, just take your shirt off again.

Sometimes I think the television world is run by a bunch of horny middle-aged men. Often I think I’m completely correct in this assumption, based on the number of improbably “hot” women and girls who inhabit the TV universe, frequently slumming it with guys who are nothing much to look at themselves and provide the average female viewer with nothing but a vague sense of unease.

Seems like there are a lot more unattractive men on TV than unattractive women is all I’m saying.

But I would like to take it all back and kneel at the feet of the creator of Heroes who have lovingly packed more man candy into a weekly hour of television than I would ever have thought possible. Honestly if the hot older brother isn’t planting moist Bro-Yay-laden kisses on his even hotter younger brother then the long-haired heroin addict hottie is taking his shirt off for no good reason at all and constantly wandering around looking like he’s just about to, already has or is in the process of taking a shower.

Meanwhile the memory-removing black one and the black Dad are competing for the title of Hot Black Bald Man (both doing an admirable job by the way) and even the scruffy-but-possibly-gay schoolkid looks like a is-he-legal-I’m-not-sure-that-could-be-chest-hair one to watch.

Phew. Believe it or not this was going to be a blog about the translation of comics to the big and small screen. Really it was. I was going to talk about why Sin City and 300 are more interesting than Spiderman and Batman and how they got it so right with the first two X-men movies and so very it-blows-very-hard wrong with the third one.I was even going to throw in some references to Ghost World and that other one with Paul Giamatti that I could never get into.

But now is not the time for my personal theories on superheros on the big/small screen. Now is the time for daydreaming about shirtless junkies and uber hot male nurses and politicians. Oh yes and for looong cold showers - now is definitely the time for that.

Next target: the disabled.

I was going to write something about this but then I thought why bother? The day John Howard stops being a cunt is the day I start wearing white hot pants and spraying myself with a hose. His latest proposal to stop HIV positive people from migrating to Australia is offensive in so many ways I can't quite bear to even go into it for fear I will have an aneurism. And if there's one fucker I don't want to be responsible for my death it's our hopefully s00n-to-be-gone PM.

I only care about the cute and fluffy ones, though, obviously…

When this slightly sooky looking cavalier-cross was found he had an elastic band wrapped around his neck, was undernourished and riddled with fleas biting his skin.

The elastic band was on so tightly that it had dug into his skin and caused an infection.

His owner admitted that she’d known he was sick but hadn’t taken him to the vet. Because she was a fuckstick, presumably.

Without the RSPCA Toby would suffered in pain for weeks until his owner took him to the vet or let him die. With the RSPCA he was taken away from his owner, who was fined and given major skin graft surgery and placed into a new home.

I’m only writing about this on here because I can’t actually write about the RSPCA Million Paws walk fundraiser for the paper I work for. Heaven forbid we encourage people to go to this walk and actually raise money and awareness for a fantastic cause if the event is sponsored by another media outlet. What a fucking tragedy that would be.

For anyone who does care about this kind of thing the Million Paws walk is on May 20th, kicking off from Sir James Mitchell Park in South Perth and it’s a fantastic cause.

And if anyone needs an almost three legged, half blind and almost certainly senile poodle to drag around after them… well you know who to call.

Hmm er cut me off a er piece of uh... that...

Okay MJ *sniff* Pete Doherty's weeping facial sores are still going strong. You just had to go and ruin it for me, didn't you...

Quoteable Quotes: Catch 22

"As always occurred when he quarreled over principles in which he believed passionately, he would end up gasping furiously for air and blinking back bitter tears of conviction. There were many principles in which Clevinger believed passionately. He was crazy." (Catch 22)

Pussycat Dolls, Pussycat Dolls, where have you been all my life?

After only one week living in coupled-up semi-bliss I have uncovered the major flaw in the whole living-with-the-boyfriend plan. The major reason why living with a girl or girls is awesome.

It came to me at 9.30pm last night as I watched Channel 10's the Pussy Cat Dolls Present: Search for the New Doll (or whatever).

This show personifies everything I love about reality TV. It's incredibly trashy, everyone bitches about everyone else, it's graced by/hosted by/judged by C-grade celebrities and it features girls trying to out-skank each other. Obviously it's completely awesome. And yet...

When I watch this kind of thing with girls it's a top-shelf bitch fest. I get to make fun of the boring girl who looks like a pre-nose job Ashley Simpson or the girl who cried because (apparently) she's blown away at how good her voice sounds. I can talk about how much I hate that little growling noise singers make and snigger at the classic reality TV show 'reaction shots' and the dodgy cuts where some production editor has clearly mish-mashed some random shots together to get the storyline or conflict that he or she wants.

But watching trashorific TV with Andy... well, for a start, Andy can't stand it and disappears into the other room. So I'm watching it by myself and... who am I supposed to make sarcastic remarks to?

I have to get right up against the wall and shout if I expect my neighbours to hear my one liners and re-hashing the show the next day tends to take the spontaneity out of comparing some poor unfortuante soul's weave to roadkill. Instead I end up sitting on the couch and worrying that if someone walked into the room they'd think I was enjoying it in a, you know, non ironic way.

They might even think I coveted the hideous panty-baring minidresses sported by four girls last night instead of day-dreaming about how many sequins it takes to look that tacky and how the girls were probably all furiously sewing by torchlight to take the hems up half a freaking foot. Okay those dresses were sort of fantastic in a crotch-displaying tranny way but still...

New policy? I'm keeping Ali and Ruth on speed dial so I can call them up and bellow "Is she supposed to be fellating that pole?" down the phone at them at only a seconds notice. Actually I could probably have a text message ready to go with "Is she supposed to be fellating that..." and fill in the blanks as I go. Yes, folks: it's that awesome - why aren't you watching it?

Sometimes it’s good to preserve a little bit of mystery

There is a store down the road from my new abode that never fails to fire my imagination every time I walk past it purely based on the fact that it is called The Resistance.

I’ve never seen inside the shop because I’m usually walking the other way and just catch a glimpse of it over my shoulder.I think this is a good thing because, really, there’s no way the actual shop can live up to the shop in my mind.

In my head it’s a coffee house/safe haven for hot men with stubble and berets.

There’s a one coffee and five cigarette minimum and if the inhabitants of The Resistance aren’t planning ways to overthrow the government they’re teaching me how to play poker “Eastern European style” or look dashing while wearing braces and a stained white wifebeater.

To gain entry to The Resistance you have to either know the secret knock, know the secret password or bring your own spirits.

Everybody has well-thumbed copies of intellectual books which everybody assumes you’ve read but nobody ever asks you to prove it.

Nobody seems to have any money but everyone has awesome, if shabby, clothes, and an endless supply of booze.

At night someone drags out a gramophone and plays old records while everyone gets rat arsed.

In reality it's another Vietnamese restaurant or a cruddy second hand store flogging smelly jumpers and books without their covers but in my mind it’s a pretty awesome place.

Luke: call me.

Lindsay will tell you that I am a pussy when it comes to skinny boys who have just come into a man's body and one certain Perth actor in particular but I swear I am unbiased in suggesting that anyone interested in that sort of thing or in interesting theatre generally to catch Phaedra's Love at PICA until April 22.

Drinking half a bottle of wine before going is, however, not recommended, unless you want to find yourself giggling like a school girl when an underwear clad man winks at you from a metre away.

And just so I can say I did I'm putting the lovely Luke Ryan on my watch-list or, as if you prefer, keeping him in a holding pattern, right now. The boy is talented.

He can zing his arrow into my buttocks any time (hey, it's an AD reference you dirty so and sos)

I’m such a predictable bastard but I’m pathetically excited about the start of the BBC Robin Hood series this Sunday night. I’m really not spruiking for the ABC but I’ve been hanging out for this one ever since I saw the first promo shots and realised it was likely to be stuffed full of skinny boys, bows and arrow, horses… honestly, I’m practically panting over here.

It might turn out to be lame but, really, considering I've seen Prince of Thieves about 10 bloody times and love, love it how picky do you think I am?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

New colour scheme, updated profile, new pic, multiple posts... all point to the fact that I've got too much time on hands.

I'll take what milestones I can get...

... Yay! 800 visitors since I put the counter on here. In my mind, instead of having, like, 10 people drop past 80 times over the months I have 800 readers just hanging on my every dribble... Can you say delusional? I'm ready for my close-up...

Night time pursuits enjoyed by my neighbours, judging on what I hear from them:

• Dancing.
• Turning the taps on and off and on and off and then on again just for shits and giggles.
• Rollingsomething heavy and spherical down the hallway.
• Listening to Anthony Call-whatshisname. You know, the gay one. And I don't mean gay as in lame, but he qualifies on both fronts.

You know what really grinds my gears?

You know what really grinds my gears?

The apparent media conspiracy that is going on as to what constitutes a “healthy,” and “curvy” woman’s body.

My long-simmering rage on this has reached boiling point thanks to The West Australian’s coverage, today, of Glamour magazine’s list of sexiest female bodies.

This annual list has, this year, been topped by the lovely Scarlett Johannson which… fair call. She’s hot and I like the fact that a she can wear her giant knockers pretty well. But what really grinds my gears is that the paper goes on to make a big deal of the fact that the top women on the list were “curvier” kind of women. And sure, Boobs McScarlett qualifies. But who comes next?

Jessica Alba. Uh huh. I think she’s hot but… you know. Giselle Buchanan, who looks like a boy with tits if you ask me… Jennifer Aniston (a boy without the tits) and so on. And the paper make such a big deal of “skinny supermodel” Kate Moss being down at number 20. As though half the women above her on the list aren’t exactly as teeny tiny skinny.

The fact is that every one of the women on the list are tiny by comparison to the average woman. And that’s fair enough because it’s the business they’re in and it’s what they have to look like to succeed. I think some of them are uber hot and probably perfectly healthy too. I don’t give a toss about the list or these women’s bodies per se - I just give a toss about that media coverage that tries to make women think people like Jessica Alba and Jennifer Aniston are “curvy” and normal-sized women.

They’re not. They’re tiny, toned and put about ten times as much work into their bodies as the average woman. And again: that’s fine but don’t act like this is normal.

I hate the fucking media conspiracy to arbitrarily hail someone or other as the new saviour of “curvy” women just because you can’t see their ribs through their clothes or because their tits haven’t completely wasted away to pecs. It’s as fake and as transparently false as fucking Cameron Diaz’s outrageous claims about eating ten hamburgers before an awards ceremony. What. Ever.

So go ahead and covet these hot bodied wenches, and feel free to think some or all of them look fantastic. Just don’t pretend that this is normal or that the rise of Jessica Fucking Aniston is going to make wide-hipped, rolly-polly-stomached women everywhere suddenly believe that they have got it going on. Fucking ridiculous.

Items found in a cardboard box while unpacking my stuff in my new home...

• A short black electrical cord, presumably belonging to a device I neither recall buying nor ever owning.
• A plaser cast of my teeth.
• A VHS tape with episodes from series 3 Buffy. Hey, it's still good.
• The prologue (torn from a book) of Heart of Darkness.