I overheard that remark on the bus home, Thursday evening. It was made – twice – by a young bloke sitting up the back of the bus with his mates. Guessing wildly, I figured that they were on their way home from seeing the new Borat film at the Northland Cinema multiplex.
If my guess was right, I can expect to hear that line a lot when I’m out on the public transport system – and perhaps a few others, depending on how well the film does and how many memorable lines and catch-phrases Sacha Baron-Cohen has managed to cram into it.
That will save me a few bucks on seeing film. Even better, it will save me the sort of earnest critical effort Christopher Scanlon wasted on the film in Thursday’s Age. It’s just another film about ignorant foreigners with no grasp of English idiom. Like Carry On Up the Khyber.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
When Genres Collide
Rodney sat at the small table by the parlour window. The small, leather bound book Old Warbeck had lent him lay open on the desk. Spellbound, the boy read eagerly, his eyes straining in the failing evening light. Outside the window, ignored, grey clouds lowered over Murklington, the sun sank lower in the west, casting the shadows of the long rows of terraced manors, across its narrow streets. From the dark eminence of Pit Head Hill, the horn sounded, signalling the change of shift at The Pit – the town’s one enterprise, where Rodney’s dad, and all the other men of Murklington went each day to wrest a living from the unforgiving earth.
Rodney’s mother, Guin, came through from the kitchen, where she was cooking her husband’s tea and boiling the water for his nightly bath. “Come on, Rodney,” she said, “Tha’ Dad’ll be home soon. Gi’ us a hand wi’ ‘is bath love.” She noticed the book on the table.
“What’s that you got, pet?” she asked.
“Just a book, Mam.”
“I can see it’s a book, Rodney, I’ve still got eyes in me ‘ead. What’s it a book about then?”
“Just stuff, Mam.”
With an exasperated sigh, she took the few steps needed to cross the small parlour and grabbed the book from the table. Slamming it shut, she read the front cover. Embossed in the leather there was a goat’s head, in the centre of a pentacle. The title was printed above this device, in faded gold leaf lettering: Gridley’s First Grimoire for Boys.
“Oh bloody hell,” said Rodney’s Mam, in resigned tones, “What you doing fetchin’ a thing like that into t’ manor? Best not let your Dad see it, you know what he’s like about magic. Go on, take it up to your room, then come help us out wi’ this bath.”
She left the room again. Instead of taking the book up to his room, Rodney read on, until their was too little light for even his eager eyes. Then he hid the book under one of the cushions of the settee and went to the kitchen.
“About bloody time,” said Guin, “Look sharp now, your dad’ll be here any minute. Finish fillin’ t’ bath, while I take care o’ tea.”
As Rodney and Guin worked, the street outside filled with the sounds of the day shift coming home – the muttering of tired voices, the weary tramp of tired feet. They heard the front door open in its usual way, slamming hard back against the floral wallpaper of their small vestibule.
“Ah’m ‘ome,” boomed the voice of Rodney’s dad. “Gi’s a hand getting’ out of this kit then, will you.”
“Go help your dad off with his gear, love,” said Rodney’s Mam, “While I finish up in here.”
Rodney rushed from the kitchen back to the parlour. He still wasn’t quick enough to stop his father snapping a peremptory “Get a bloody move on, then” at him.
“Start wi’ boots,” his father ordered. “Bloody things are killing me. Then t’ cuirasse and hauberk.”
Rodney knelt and began to unfasten the buckled straps of his father’s iron boots and greaves. From the kitchen, Guin shouted “You’re not sitting on ‘t good furniture in your mucky armour, I hope, Roland!”
“Course I’m not set on t’ good chair in me mucky armour woman. Bloody hell! I might o’ been daft enow to marry thee, but I’m not a complete bloody idiot.”
This was the way it always was between Rodney’s parents. In the early days of their marriage it had been a joke between them, but over the years the bantering edge had worn down and their good-humoured teasing had turned into something else.
“Still daft enough to tread orc’s blood into carpets!” she retorted from the kitchen.
“Orc’s blood! Get on with you, woman. Haven’t seen an orc down than pit in months. It’s all been soddin’ mummies and zombies since Middlemass. Wouldn’t mind findin’ a decent orc’s lair right now – they might be mucky buggers, but there’s more gold for the takin’ in an orc’s lair than we’ve been collectin’ in all these bloody tombs.”
Rodney finally had his father’s boots off. He stood, and began working on the buckled straps of the cuirass. Guin came into the room from the kitchen.
“Bloody hell, Rodney!” she said, this time with genuine exasperation, “How many times do I have to tell you to put down some newspaper when you’re taking your father’s kit off. Look at my carpet!”
“Leave the lad alone, lass. It’s nobbut a bit of zombie bone and mummy dust. A bit o’ sweepin’ and beatin’ ‘ll soon clean that up.”
“Aye, well it won’t be me doing the sweepin’ a beatin’. Get on wi’ it Rodney, your Dad’s bath’s waitin’. So’s our tea. No, not not yet!” she cried, when she say Roland lifting the unbuckled cuirass over his head, “Wait till I get that newspaper!”
Once Roland’s armour was off and placed with proper tidiness on sheets of old newspaper, he went to the kitchen for his bath. Between them, Rodney and Guin took the armour out to the backyard. By the light of an oil lantern, Rodney examined the armour for bloodstains and rust spots but he found little more than a light coating of mummy dust and a few bone fragments stuck in the rings of the hauberk. It was light work to clean the armour with badger brush and an old rag. Once it was clean, he went inside, laid some newspaper on the floor beside the front door that let in from the street into the vestibule. Then he stacked the armour on the papers, ready for the morning.
By the time he finished, his father had finished his bath. With tin buckets they bailed out the bath – emptying the buckets into the drain outside the kitchen door – until the bath was light enough to be carried outside. Roland carried one end, Rodney and Guin the other. The empty bath was returned to its corner of the kitchen and at last they sit down to tea.
As he sat at the table, Roland laid down his pickings for the day, beside Guin’s plate.
“Sorry lass,” he mumbled, “That’s all there was. Might be a bit o’ a spell on that ring though, and the necklace is a nice bit of craftsmanship.”
“Magic and craftsmanship won’t count for ought wi’ butcher and grocer. Tha knows that.” Guin answered with impatience, “It’s nought but good troy weight wi’ them.”
Roland snapped.
“It’s not my bloody fault all o’ th’orcs lairs is worked out and we’ve found nought below but bloody ancient tombs!” he cried, “Were best bloody Hell Pit in’t Kingdom when me dad moved ‘ere, and weren’t too bad when me and thee were courtin’.”
Rodney began eating faster – a lot faster. Whenever his father mentioned “when me and thee were courtin’” it was best to get away from his parents as quickly as possible. Away to the safety of his own room, where he could dream his dreams of leaving this dreary town where soul-deadened men spent their days fighting downward, ever downward, through the subterranean levels of a worked-out Hell-Pit, ever hoping that the next stairway or shaft downward would lead to mightier hell-spawn and the rich pickings that came with them. “Where there’s brimstone, there’s brass” went the local saying.
That life – the closed, narrow life of the knights, warriors and paladins of Murklington, in their huddled rows of terraced manors – wasn’t for him. With Old Warbeck’s help he’d find his way out into a wider world – a better world…
Rodney’s mother, Guin, came through from the kitchen, where she was cooking her husband’s tea and boiling the water for his nightly bath. “Come on, Rodney,” she said, “Tha’ Dad’ll be home soon. Gi’ us a hand wi’ ‘is bath love.” She noticed the book on the table.
“What’s that you got, pet?” she asked.
“Just a book, Mam.”
“I can see it’s a book, Rodney, I’ve still got eyes in me ‘ead. What’s it a book about then?”
“Just stuff, Mam.”
With an exasperated sigh, she took the few steps needed to cross the small parlour and grabbed the book from the table. Slamming it shut, she read the front cover. Embossed in the leather there was a goat’s head, in the centre of a pentacle. The title was printed above this device, in faded gold leaf lettering: Gridley’s First Grimoire for Boys.
“Oh bloody hell,” said Rodney’s Mam, in resigned tones, “What you doing fetchin’ a thing like that into t’ manor? Best not let your Dad see it, you know what he’s like about magic. Go on, take it up to your room, then come help us out wi’ this bath.”
She left the room again. Instead of taking the book up to his room, Rodney read on, until their was too little light for even his eager eyes. Then he hid the book under one of the cushions of the settee and went to the kitchen.
“About bloody time,” said Guin, “Look sharp now, your dad’ll be here any minute. Finish fillin’ t’ bath, while I take care o’ tea.”
As Rodney and Guin worked, the street outside filled with the sounds of the day shift coming home – the muttering of tired voices, the weary tramp of tired feet. They heard the front door open in its usual way, slamming hard back against the floral wallpaper of their small vestibule.
“Ah’m ‘ome,” boomed the voice of Rodney’s dad. “Gi’s a hand getting’ out of this kit then, will you.”
“Go help your dad off with his gear, love,” said Rodney’s Mam, “While I finish up in here.”
Rodney rushed from the kitchen back to the parlour. He still wasn’t quick enough to stop his father snapping a peremptory “Get a bloody move on, then” at him.
“Start wi’ boots,” his father ordered. “Bloody things are killing me. Then t’ cuirasse and hauberk.”
Rodney knelt and began to unfasten the buckled straps of his father’s iron boots and greaves. From the kitchen, Guin shouted “You’re not sitting on ‘t good furniture in your mucky armour, I hope, Roland!”
“Course I’m not set on t’ good chair in me mucky armour woman. Bloody hell! I might o’ been daft enow to marry thee, but I’m not a complete bloody idiot.”
This was the way it always was between Rodney’s parents. In the early days of their marriage it had been a joke between them, but over the years the bantering edge had worn down and their good-humoured teasing had turned into something else.
“Still daft enough to tread orc’s blood into carpets!” she retorted from the kitchen.
“Orc’s blood! Get on with you, woman. Haven’t seen an orc down than pit in months. It’s all been soddin’ mummies and zombies since Middlemass. Wouldn’t mind findin’ a decent orc’s lair right now – they might be mucky buggers, but there’s more gold for the takin’ in an orc’s lair than we’ve been collectin’ in all these bloody tombs.”
Rodney finally had his father’s boots off. He stood, and began working on the buckled straps of the cuirass. Guin came into the room from the kitchen.
“Bloody hell, Rodney!” she said, this time with genuine exasperation, “How many times do I have to tell you to put down some newspaper when you’re taking your father’s kit off. Look at my carpet!”
“Leave the lad alone, lass. It’s nobbut a bit of zombie bone and mummy dust. A bit o’ sweepin’ and beatin’ ‘ll soon clean that up.”
“Aye, well it won’t be me doing the sweepin’ a beatin’. Get on wi’ it Rodney, your Dad’s bath’s waitin’. So’s our tea. No, not not yet!” she cried, when she say Roland lifting the unbuckled cuirass over his head, “Wait till I get that newspaper!”
Once Roland’s armour was off and placed with proper tidiness on sheets of old newspaper, he went to the kitchen for his bath. Between them, Rodney and Guin took the armour out to the backyard. By the light of an oil lantern, Rodney examined the armour for bloodstains and rust spots but he found little more than a light coating of mummy dust and a few bone fragments stuck in the rings of the hauberk. It was light work to clean the armour with badger brush and an old rag. Once it was clean, he went inside, laid some newspaper on the floor beside the front door that let in from the street into the vestibule. Then he stacked the armour on the papers, ready for the morning.
By the time he finished, his father had finished his bath. With tin buckets they bailed out the bath – emptying the buckets into the drain outside the kitchen door – until the bath was light enough to be carried outside. Roland carried one end, Rodney and Guin the other. The empty bath was returned to its corner of the kitchen and at last they sit down to tea.
As he sat at the table, Roland laid down his pickings for the day, beside Guin’s plate.
“Sorry lass,” he mumbled, “That’s all there was. Might be a bit o’ a spell on that ring though, and the necklace is a nice bit of craftsmanship.”
“Magic and craftsmanship won’t count for ought wi’ butcher and grocer. Tha knows that.” Guin answered with impatience, “It’s nought but good troy weight wi’ them.”
Roland snapped.
“It’s not my bloody fault all o’ th’orcs lairs is worked out and we’ve found nought below but bloody ancient tombs!” he cried, “Were best bloody Hell Pit in’t Kingdom when me dad moved ‘ere, and weren’t too bad when me and thee were courtin’.”
Rodney began eating faster – a lot faster. Whenever his father mentioned “when me and thee were courtin’” it was best to get away from his parents as quickly as possible. Away to the safety of his own room, where he could dream his dreams of leaving this dreary town where soul-deadened men spent their days fighting downward, ever downward, through the subterranean levels of a worked-out Hell-Pit, ever hoping that the next stairway or shaft downward would lead to mightier hell-spawn and the rich pickings that came with them. “Where there’s brimstone, there’s brass” went the local saying.
That life – the closed, narrow life of the knights, warriors and paladins of Murklington, in their huddled rows of terraced manors – wasn’t for him. With Old Warbeck’s help he’d find his way out into a wider world – a better world…
Monday, November 13, 2006
Ain’t Never Gonna Be Assimilated Blues
Here’s a little item I missed last week thanks to the Melbourne Cup (did my dough) and getting carried away with the US mid-term elections. At least I wasn’t alone on that second one – there wasn’t anyone in the entire Legion of Brain-Sucking Leftist Zombie Sheep who didn’t get carried away with the happy thought that with the Republicans rooted routed in the polls over there, the political climate might start to look a little brighter over here.
But while we were all distracted with that, it was business as usual when it came to this Government’s increasingly weird program of social re-engineering. Sorry, that’s not a program of social re-engineering, it’s a perfectly proper political agenda, all about restoring basic Australian values.
I really will have to reign in this tendency to slip into BrainSuckingLeftistZombieSheepSpeak if I’m ever going to stand any chance of being re-assimilated into the Collective – oops, I mean of course, Mainstream Australian Society.
Last week the High Court of Australia delivered its judgement on whether it’s alright for Amanda Vanstone to deport one Stefan Nystrom, a Swedish born career criminal.
According to The World Today, he’s actually a reformed criminal, but their report relies way too heavily on interviews with his mum and his lawyer – neither of them the sort of objective sources that ABC reporters would be talking to if they were doing their jobs properly.
The Nystrom story – for those who came in late – is that Stefan was born in Sweden, in 1974, while his mother was over there on a family visit. A month after the birth, Ms Nystrom returned to Australia, bringing young Stefan with her. Stefan has lived here ever since, and it’s here, not in Sweden, that he went to the bad and took to a life of crime. All the same, as far as this Government is concerned, he’s forfeited any right to remain in the country:
That’s if they can find him of course – at the time of the World Today report (last Thursday), Nystrom was “fruit picking somewhere in New South Wales and yet to be told about the decision.” It wouldn’t be at all surprising if he’s done a bunk over the weekend, to avoid being "removed" from Australia.
At the end of the World Today report, Kathryn Roberts inadvertently provides a demonstration of how much work remains to be done if the ABC is to be redeemed as a source of objective reporting, and not a government subsidised propaganda channel for BrainSuckingLeftistZombieSheepSpeak, giving the last soundbite to Nystrom’s mother:
Ah, who am I trying to fool anyway? This story disgusts me. The fact that this post is going to attract a lot of comments saying “Nystrom must go” or “For crying out loud, he’s a bloody criminal who’s currently resting between engagements as an itinerant labour – this guy just doesn’t matter” disgusts me. So …
It’s time to take a break from this topic until I’ve read through the High Court judgement. But first, I might dig out some of those candles made from the fat of dead, barely legal, teen virgin mud-wrestlers so I can perform obeisance to Ovis Magnus, Dark High Lord Commander of the Legion of Brain-Sucking Leftist Zombie Sheep.
Muahaahaahaahaahaa! His dark reign cometh!
(Cross-posted at Larvatus Prodeo)
But while we were all distracted with that, it was business as usual when it came to this Government’s increasingly weird program of social re-engineering. Sorry, that’s not a program of social re-engineering, it’s a perfectly proper political agenda, all about restoring basic Australian values.
I really will have to reign in this tendency to slip into BrainSuckingLeftistZombieSheepSpeak if I’m ever going to stand any chance of being re-assimilated into the Collective – oops, I mean of course, Mainstream Australian Society.
Last week the High Court of Australia delivered its judgement on whether it’s alright for Amanda Vanstone to deport one Stefan Nystrom, a Swedish born career criminal.
According to The World Today, he’s actually a reformed criminal, but their report relies way too heavily on interviews with his mum and his lawyer – neither of them the sort of objective sources that ABC reporters would be talking to if they were doing their jobs properly.
The Nystrom story – for those who came in late – is that Stefan was born in Sweden, in 1974, while his mother was over there on a family visit. A month after the birth, Ms Nystrom returned to Australia, bringing young Stefan with her. Stefan has lived here ever since, and it’s here, not in Sweden, that he went to the bad and took to a life of crime. All the same, as far as this Government is concerned, he’s forfeited any right to remain in the country:
KATHRYN ROBERTS: Yesterday's High Court decision will affect at least nine other people in similar situations. They were released from immigration detention pending the outcome of Mr Nystrom's case. Now the Immigration Department is likely to review their cases.
The Immigration Minister Amanda Vanstone was unavailable for an interview, but in a statement she welcomed the decision and said Mr Nystrom would be removed from Australia.
That’s if they can find him of course – at the time of the World Today report (last Thursday), Nystrom was “fruit picking somewhere in New South Wales and yet to be told about the decision.” It wouldn’t be at all surprising if he’s done a bunk over the weekend, to avoid being "removed" from Australia.
At the end of the World Today report, Kathryn Roberts inadvertently provides a demonstration of how much work remains to be done if the ABC is to be redeemed as a source of objective reporting, and not a government subsidised propaganda channel for BrainSuckingLeftistZombieSheepSpeak, giving the last soundbite to Nystrom’s mother:
BRITT NYSTROM: I would say to her, just think about it. I don't even know if she has got kids or whatever. But, for God's sake, he's been living here all his life, apart from 25 days. He was a bit of a larrikin when he was younger, a teenager, but he's stopped it all and just give us a break. He's proved it now. He's not going to do any more crimes.I admit, I’m only just getting the hang of this myself, but I think the general idea is that once the proper authorities – in this case Amanda Vanstone – have had their say, debate stops. You don’t give the last word to people who disagree with the government for crying out loud.
Ah, who am I trying to fool anyway? This story disgusts me. The fact that this post is going to attract a lot of comments saying “Nystrom must go” or “For crying out loud, he’s a bloody criminal who’s currently resting between engagements as an itinerant labour – this guy just doesn’t matter” disgusts me. So …
It’s time to take a break from this topic until I’ve read through the High Court judgement. But first, I might dig out some of those candles made from the fat of dead, barely legal, teen virgin mud-wrestlers so I can perform obeisance to Ovis Magnus, Dark High Lord Commander of the Legion of Brain-Sucking Leftist Zombie Sheep.
Muahaahaahaahaahaa! His dark reign cometh!
(Cross-posted at Larvatus Prodeo)
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Furphy Watch
Remember how, thanks to the long march of Maoist educators through the institutions, our education system is so debased that here in Victoria, schools have dropped teaching kids real English in favour of pop-culture and SMS messaging?
In case you’d forgotten, Saturday's Hun published a timely reminder from Neil Mitchell, under the headline “Dumb and Dumber”.
Mitchell is the nearest equivalent to Alan Jones we have here in Melbourne. So you might expect Melburnians to regard Mitchell as the thinking man’s Alan Jones. We don't, for two reasons: firstly, the phrase “thinking man’s Alan Jones” is an obvious oxymoron and secondly, on the evidence of today’s article, Mitchell doesn’t put enough thought of his own into his work to qualify as the thinking man’s anything. He begins:
The one fact that Mitchell’s article – one of only two or three in the whole piece, the rest comprising a lot of supposition and speculation (like the last two quoted paragraphs above) – is that there is indeed, an English unit available for use in schools that want to teach students a short, 4 activity course on SMS messaging.
Most of the other facts about the unit – such as that at most, it would involve 4 to 8 class sessions over one or two weeks of English for students in Years 8 to 10 – Mitchell happily ignores in favour of innuendo about the general stupidity and ignorance of teachers and education bureaucrats. It’s not until halfway through his piece that he gets over the his fit of brain-farting for long enough to try his hand at examining the question in a balanced way. By then the damage is already done.
In that later, balanced section, Mitchell takes up the problem of conflict between schools and parents, caused by their mutually antagonistic perceptions:
I wonder where those parents are getting that idea about teachers – it couldn’t be articles like this one, could it?
Mitchell’s article reminds me of those famous words at the end of John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance: “When the facts don’t fit the legend print the legend.”
Even if the legend is just a grubby, politically inspired urban legend.
In case you’d forgotten, Saturday's Hun published a timely reminder from Neil Mitchell, under the headline “Dumb and Dumber”.
Mitchell is the nearest equivalent to Alan Jones we have here in Melbourne. So you might expect Melburnians to regard Mitchell as the thinking man’s Alan Jones. We don't, for two reasons: firstly, the phrase “thinking man’s Alan Jones” is an obvious oxymoron and secondly, on the evidence of today’s article, Mitchell doesn’t put enough thought of his own into his work to qualify as the thinking man’s anything. He begins:
IF it is horror stories you want from Australia's education system, it is horror stories you will get.
Teachers and bureaucrats are creating them faster than you can throw a duster across a classroom.
Such as the course we are running here in Victoria to study text messages.
…
Why waste time learning SMS shorthand when there is a perfectly acceptable language called English.
If the teacher must teach gibberish, is it unreasonable to suggest they teach the real language first?
Perhaps they don't know how. The written advice to teachers from the Victorian Curriculum and Assessment Authority seems to use words that have not been invented.
The one fact that Mitchell’s article – one of only two or three in the whole piece, the rest comprising a lot of supposition and speculation (like the last two quoted paragraphs above) – is that there is indeed, an English unit available for use in schools that want to teach students a short, 4 activity course on SMS messaging.
Most of the other facts about the unit – such as that at most, it would involve 4 to 8 class sessions over one or two weeks of English for students in Years 8 to 10 – Mitchell happily ignores in favour of innuendo about the general stupidity and ignorance of teachers and education bureaucrats. It’s not until halfway through his piece that he gets over the his fit of brain-farting for long enough to try his hand at examining the question in a balanced way. By then the damage is already done.
In that later, balanced section, Mitchell takes up the problem of conflict between schools and parents, caused by their mutually antagonistic perceptions:
Many schools still believe a good parent is an ignorant parent, tolerated rather than encouraged.
Many parents still see teachers as lazy, with long holidays, short hours and the singular ambition of turning their children into clones of Martin Kingham.
I wonder where those parents are getting that idea about teachers – it couldn’t be articles like this one, could it?
Mitchell’s article reminds me of those famous words at the end of John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance: “When the facts don’t fit the legend print the legend.”
Even if the legend is just a grubby, politically inspired urban legend.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Slag Off the Green Guide Thursday (a Day Late)
It’s been a while since I slagged off the Age Green Guide. It hasn’t been necessary, over most of the past couple of months, because the free-to-air schedules have been crap anyway. Under the circumstances it would have been a little mean-spirited to pay out on Debi Enker, today’s slaggee, for writing crap reviews. If the programs are crap anyway, who cares about the reviewing?
Paying out on reviewers is best saved for when you read a crap review of one of the few good programs that’s getting commercial prime-time air at the moment. I’m talking about The Closer, on Channel Nine, more or less reliably, at 9.35pm on Tuesdays.
Taking up the theme of a review written by Kenneth Nguyen a couple of weeks ago, Debi begins her piece on next Tuesday’s episode with some bitching about the show’s protagonist:
It’s possible that next week’s episode is every bit as bad as Debi makes out. That, thanks to exceptionally bad scripting, acting and comic timing, all next Tuesday’s episode has on offer is the irritating spectacle of Kyra Sedgewick, as Brenda Lee, bumping into furniture and tossing down the comfort foods. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.
Be a bugger of a thing if Debi’s right and all the things I like about the show – including the strong ensemble acting and the witty moments of character-based comedy – have already been tossed, in favour of a much more by-the-numbers “scatty Southern belle solves murder by the numbers while bumping into furniture and binge-eating” formula. Because the major alternatives to The Closer on the commercial channels are:
So what if every episode of The Closer follows pretty much the same formula? So do all the alternatives on offer. Unlike the producers of the alternatives, the producers, writers and cast of The Closer don’t leave it up to the formula to do all the work.
Next time you’re looking for a Tuesday night television program to pay out on Debi, save it for Dancing with the Stars or 20 to 01. And that goes for your colleague Kenneth Nguyen too.
Paying out on reviewers is best saved for when you read a crap review of one of the few good programs that’s getting commercial prime-time air at the moment. I’m talking about The Closer, on Channel Nine, more or less reliably, at 9.35pm on Tuesdays.
Taking up the theme of a review written by Kenneth Nguyen a couple of weeks ago, Debi begins her piece on next Tuesday’s episode with some bitching about the show’s protagonist:
The supposedly endearing scattiness is getting a bit annoying. From the start, the creators of The Close have tried to soften the image of deputy police chief Brenda Lee Johnson (Kyra Sedgewick). She’s intended to be seen as a peerless investigator, but just to keep her human, even womanly, they’ve given her a honey-coated southern drawl and what’s supposed to be a winsome scattiness.
It’s possible that next week’s episode is every bit as bad as Debi makes out. That, thanks to exceptionally bad scripting, acting and comic timing, all next Tuesday’s episode has on offer is the irritating spectacle of Kyra Sedgewick, as Brenda Lee, bumping into furniture and tossing down the comfort foods. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.
Be a bugger of a thing if Debi’s right and all the things I like about the show – including the strong ensemble acting and the witty moments of character-based comedy – have already been tossed, in favour of a much more by-the-numbers “scatty Southern belle solves murder by the numbers while bumping into furniture and binge-eating” formula. Because the major alternatives to The Closer on the commercial channels are:
- Taciturn, resolute, scientifically object cool dude (dark sunglasses optional) who knows science leads team of geek investigators who solve crimes with impossible science and CGI animation.
- Gung-ho military investigators and lawyers poke their noses into any criminal investigation with even the most remote connection to the US Navy or the US Marines, breezily ignoring any real-world problems of jurisdiction.
- Staff of the worst-managed coroner’s department in the entire continental USA use their work hours to pursue personal crusades arising from traumatic incidents in their past personal lives, then use their personal time to put in a lot of unpaid overtime on the cases they’re actually supposed to work on. This wouldn’t be necessary if they weren’t all completely dysfunctional morons with lousy time-management skills.
So what if every episode of The Closer follows pretty much the same formula? So do all the alternatives on offer. Unlike the producers of the alternatives, the producers, writers and cast of The Closer don’t leave it up to the formula to do all the work.
Next time you’re looking for a Tuesday night television program to pay out on Debi, save it for Dancing with the Stars or 20 to 01. And that goes for your colleague Kenneth Nguyen too.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Henry Ford and the Great American Horseshit Crisis
According to The Age, John Howard told a meeting of government MPs not to be “mesmerised” by the Stern report. The warning wasn't needed in the case of Nationals MP De-Anne Kelly – she’s obviously immune to mesmeric influences.
De-Anne has found it easy to stay on the PM's message – more or less – on the Stern report, telling reporters that Australia should look to technology, not economics, for solutions to the problems of global warming. And she backs up her position with a well known historical precedent:
De-Anne has found it easy to stay on the PM's message – more or less – on the Stern report, telling reporters that Australia should look to technology, not economics, for solutions to the problems of global warming. And she backs up her position with a well known historical precedent:
"It's technology that provides an answer for the future, not an economic answer that taxes, slices, dices and removes opportunities for young people."
At the turn of the century, economists in the United States predicted horse drawn carriages would lead to the country being covered in horse "you-know-what", she said.
"This was a topic of great debate. They were going to tax horses; they were going to remove horses from the city and, of course, along came Henry Ford," Ms Kelly said.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Low Society
Local identities the Supplieds have been busy over the past couple of weeks, writing letters to the Moreland Leader. Name, and partner Address, are very upset at the way they have been abused and defamed in the letters pages of the paper.
In a jointly signed letter, Name writes:
In a jointly signed letter, Name writes:
MY objection to the development of Munro Manor is not “ill-informed or judgemental” (Christopher Anderson letter, Moreland Leader, October 23).I’ll leave off there, if you don’t mind. The Supplieds have a bit of a reputation for being touchy buggers and sometimes they get a bit writ-happy.
It is based on evidence that this sort of accomodation does not have successful outcomes for many tenants, especially at this size.
I refer to a report commissioned by Yarra Community Housing, the group who will be responsible for management of the facility. Its 2002 report, No Place Like Home, is very clear in its concerns about this sort of housing.
…
“Rooming houses, particularly the larger communal style properties, were not felt to represent a viable long-term option in their current format for increasing numbers of people,” it says…
Here We Go Again
Today’s big kerfuffle in Ozblogistan is the Stainless Steel Weasel’s announcement of $90 million in Federal funding for a school chaplaincy program. It has Zeppo Bakunin wondering what High Court judges think when they read their morning papers – do they think, oh bloody hell no, this is the last thing we want coming before the Court or well, here’s an interesting challenge to look forward to in a couple of years’ time?
Our Their ABC, taking a scrupulously non-partisan line, reports:
Reassuring, in these troubled times when the antediluvian views of the chronically stupid are seen as a threat to all that we cherish about this great nation of ours. And a challenge for the Australian Parliament’s legislative and regulatory draftsmen too – how are they going to weasel federal government selection of school chaplains past section 116 of the Australian Constitution? You know, this one:
Well, I suppose they could hand the money over to the States, who aren’t bound by this section of the constitution, and leave the religious discrimination to them. The one problem I see with that approach is that I can’t imagine too many of our current State Premiers or Treasurers queuing up for program grants that are offered on the condition that the State governments do Prime Minister Evil’s dirty work for him.
And where does the ALP stand on this issue? There hasn’t been any word from Fat Bastard yet, but:
So at the Federal level, the broad church of the Liberal Party and the true believers of the ALP are united in a spirit of ecumenism. Warms your cockles, doesn't it?
Mr Howard has told Macquarie Radio that the Government would ensure the chaplains are not extremists, but he denies that the plan blurs the line between church and state.
"I don't think it is," he said.
"I think it is just reserving the right in extreme circumstances - the Government, because taxpayers' money is being used - to say we don't think this person is appropriate.
Reassuring, in these troubled times when the antediluvian views of the chronically stupid are seen as a threat to all that we cherish about this great nation of ours. And a challenge for the Australian Parliament’s legislative and regulatory draftsmen too – how are they going to weasel federal government selection of school chaplains past section 116 of the Australian Constitution? You know, this one:
116. The Commonwealth shall not make any law for establishing any religion, or for imposing any religious observance, or for prohibiting the free exercise of any religion, and no religious test shall be required as a qualification for any office or public trust under the Commonwealth. (emphasis added)
Well, I suppose they could hand the money over to the States, who aren’t bound by this section of the constitution, and leave the religious discrimination to them. The one problem I see with that approach is that I can’t imagine too many of our current State Premiers or Treasurers queuing up for program grants that are offered on the condition that the State governments do Prime Minister Evil’s dirty work for him.
And where does the ALP stand on this issue? There hasn’t been any word from Fat Bastard yet, but:
The Opposition education spokeswoman, Jenny Macklin, said Labor supported the chaplaincy program, but said: "Any new chaplaincy program must be flexible enough to take into account the diversity of religious beliefs in our school systems."
So at the Federal level, the broad church of the Liberal Party and the true believers of the ALP are united in a spirit of ecumenism. Warms your cockles, doesn't it?
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Enough with the Stupidity, Already
… And who is someone wise? The one who prescribes the right medicine for the right illness, we call him wise. And the one who says the right word at the right time, we call him wise. And the one who acts appropriately on issues, wise.My personal prize for the worst headline in today’s news – and I admit that I haven’t looked very far – is this headline in The Age:
(Sheik Hilali in that sermon)
Prove it and I will stand down, says the sheikhReading on, it’s clear that the headline should be something like “If my mates can prove to me that I meant to say what you think I said then I’ll stand down”:
… Sheikh Hilali said yesterday: "I will stand down and leave all work related to the Muslim community if they can prove what I said was meant to be offensive. I won't be saying anything to them (the clerics) but will listen to what they have to say." He said he was confident he would have their support.
In other words, the Sheikh has no intention of stepping down. A less disingenuous position would be for the Sheikh to declare that he will stand down if the invited clerics can prove that, by his own standards, he’s far from wise and actually pretty stupid:
And the one who says the right word at the right time, we call him wise.So, did his rambling sermon – which declared that atheists and trinitarian Chrisitans will be damned to hell, that the grasping materialism of wives is responsible for drug dealing and organised crime, that the “immodesty” of women is responsible for the crime of rape and that women are Satan’s best weapon – show that the Sheikh is wise?
First, none of this guff was meant to be offensive, as the Sheikh has said today. We can also see this from the Sheikh’s quick qualification of his remarks on grasping women who incite their husbands to become career criminals:
… Not our women in Australia, the women of Canada. The hall up there is full. They are the women of Canada and Mexico, the ones who encourage their men - to do what? Go! Get me! And no matter how much he brings her, she wants more.
Well, that’s alright then – no Australian woman, particularly a member of Sheikh Hilali’s congregation – would push her husband into crime to satisfy her greed, but those Canadian and Mexican women, they’re different – stay well away from those.
But do we call the man who realises that he has just said something highly offensive to his audience and has to improvise a rapid qualification of his opinion a wise man?
Sheikh Hilali said he was upset that his sermon, which was meant to "protect the modesty of Muslim and non-Muslim women", had been so misunderstood.Do we call the man who chooses the wrong example to use during a sermon, a wise man? Or do we call him something else?
In hindsight he would have used a different example during his Ramadan sermon, he said.
(The Age)
“My sermon did not discuss or mention rape. The message of my sermon was intended to protect oneself from sexual predators and indecent attacks.”
(The Age)
… The Al-Rafihi scholar says in one of his literary works, he says: If I come across a crime of rape - kidnap and violation of honour - I would discipline the man and teach him a lesson in morals, and I would order the woman be arrested and jailed for life.Do we call a man who can’t even remember what he said, or attempts to unsay it a wise man? Or do we have better names for this kind of a man?
(The sermon)
So, enough already. Sheikh Hilali is just plain stupid. And the loyal followers who have rallied to his defence – well, they’d have to be pretty bloody stupid too, wouldn’t they? And all those people who’re prepared to big noise this numbnut as a threat to the Australian way of life – on this subject, they’re the biggest bloody idiots of all, regardless of where you find them.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
What’s My …
Even an old hand with a long established blog might find himself with a thing or two to learn from a relative newcomer. Especially if his blog has limited appeal outside a small circle of readers.
One thing I’ve picked up, while surfing other blogs, is that you’re more likely to appeal to a wide audience with a short, snappy, writing style, long on hyperbole and invective and short on analysis and argument. And short on sentences too. In fact. The. Shorter. The. Better.
Another useful trick, it seems, is to finish every post with a pithy, irritating sentence that doesn’t mean anything at all. No more than two words, three syllables at most. Something like
Catch phrase!
One thing I’ve picked up, while surfing other blogs, is that you’re more likely to appeal to a wide audience with a short, snappy, writing style, long on hyperbole and invective and short on analysis and argument. And short on sentences too. In fact. The. Shorter. The. Better.
Another useful trick, it seems, is to finish every post with a pithy, irritating sentence that doesn’t mean anything at all. No more than two words, three syllables at most. Something like
Catch phrase!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
And Now We Are Four
I had a bit of a panic on Friday. For some reason I got it into my head that it was my bloggiversary, so I cranked out a quick, celebratory post. Once it was published, I realised that I was three days early so I quickly deleted it before anyone had a chance to notice and link to it.
Yesterday, I was out in Melbourne’s inner Eastern suburbs, sitting on a boathouse balcony beside the Yarra – soon to be cleaned up so that it’s finally safe to capsize your hired rowboat so that your belusted’s t-shirt clings to those voluptuous but firm breasts with the mild chill of the water teasing her nipples into pert erection, clearly visible through the clinging semi-transparent wet knitted cotton. Unless she’s wearing a black Sepultura t-shirt, of course. While I was musing on the potential benefits of cleaning up the Yarra, my companion for lunch and and a few drinks asked when my bloggiversary was coming up – and I remembered that we were celebrating it. After a fashion.
After a couple of hours of conversation, we parted. By the time I got home the four glasses of red and the heat of the day were starting to do their soporific work and I took myself to bed. I woke again around 8:30pm – bugger getting up again there’s sod all on the telly tonight – and at 1:00am this morning – bugger sitting at the computer to get anything written now; I’ve already missed the date it can wait until tomorrow.
So, once again, I’ve missed the opportunity for some nostalgic confabulation about the good old days, when the majority of bloggers were people who could actually write, and do it well, while these days blogging has become the preserve of failed fame whores who couldn’t even get through a Neighbours audition, score a gig on Australia’s Biggest Loser lack even the modicum of musical talent and good looks you need to get through the Australian Idol auditions and are too socially dysfunctional for even the producers of Survivor to put on screen. The main reason I sometimes get that impression is that I spend too much time visiting the wrong blogs.
Yesterday, I was out in Melbourne’s inner Eastern suburbs, sitting on a boathouse balcony beside the Yarra – soon to be cleaned up so that it’s finally safe to capsize your hired rowboat so that your belusted’s t-shirt clings to those voluptuous but firm breasts with the mild chill of the water teasing her nipples into pert erection, clearly visible through the clinging semi-transparent wet knitted cotton. Unless she’s wearing a black Sepultura t-shirt, of course. While I was musing on the potential benefits of cleaning up the Yarra, my companion for lunch and and a few drinks asked when my bloggiversary was coming up – and I remembered that we were celebrating it. After a fashion.
After a couple of hours of conversation, we parted. By the time I got home the four glasses of red and the heat of the day were starting to do their soporific work and I took myself to bed. I woke again around 8:30pm – bugger getting up again there’s sod all on the telly tonight – and at 1:00am this morning – bugger sitting at the computer to get anything written now; I’ve already missed the date it can wait until tomorrow.
So, once again, I’ve missed the opportunity for some nostalgic confabulation about the good old days, when the majority of bloggers were people who could actually write, and do it well, while these days blogging has become the preserve of failed fame whores who couldn’t even get through a Neighbours audition, score a gig on Australia’s Biggest Loser lack even the modicum of musical talent and good looks you need to get through the Australian Idol auditions and are too socially dysfunctional for even the producers of Survivor to put on screen. The main reason I sometimes get that impression is that I spend too much time visiting the wrong blogs.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
A True Tale of Local Wonder
I was browsing through on-line versions of a few Leader Community Newspapers this afternoon, seeking material for an off-blog writing project and I came across another one of those reports in the local papers that could teach the big boys a thing or two. In the Sunbury Leader of 16 October, Natalie Schenken reports:
Marvellous stuff to be sure – but now I want to know more about the unnamed whiz-kid who came up with the idea of creating an artificial funeral director that dreamed of becoming a real inventor. Compared to this tale, the story of Pinnocchio is a mere kitchen sink drama.
SUNBURY inventor Arthur O'Connor is the brainchild behind the first Australian-developed noiseless wind turbine.
Hume Council has agreed to a 12-month trial of an O'Connor Hush Energy micro wind turbine at the Sunbury Works Depot.
…
The former funeral director has taken a quantum leap in his career from organising funerals to selling wind power.
Mr O'Connor said the turbine had been 24 years in the making and he had had it patented in 62 countries.
Mr O'Connor decided last year to sell his funeral business and concentrate full-time on his goal of revolutionising wind power worldwide.
…
The micro wind turbine will create clean, green power from wind energy connected to the electricity grid.
The one-metre turbine looks similar to a small jet engine and could potentially halve residential electricity bills. The turbines are expected to cost about $6000 each.
Mr O'Connor plans to produce models with diameters of one to five metres.
The Sunbury Works Depot office was chosen as the location for the trial because it is similar to a house.
The trial will involve monitoring of the electricity grid's connection performance, visual impact and noise.
Marvellous stuff to be sure – but now I want to know more about the unnamed whiz-kid who came up with the idea of creating an artificial funeral director that dreamed of becoming a real inventor. Compared to this tale, the story of Pinnocchio is a mere kitchen sink drama.
World’s Best Practice
If you’re looking for edifying, dramatic or amusing stories – the sort of stories that Elite Quadre George Thomas wants to see our major dailies run more often – it’s not just your local paper that you should be looking at. Your local Neighbourhood Watch newsletter can be a good source too. Here’s an item from the police statistics in our most recent newsletter:
Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!
As a result of the introduction of the Code of Best Practice for Family Violence, the number of family incident assaults has increased by 7.2%
Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Quadre Watch
WHY do the lackeys of Leftist counter-revolution in the media devote so much space to non-stories? At times in the Australian media it seems that if we were to subtract the latest leadership speculation, opinion poll results, windbag commentary, public relations beat-ups and celebrity gossip, little would remain but the weather forecast.
…
Journalists in the larger media organs tend to treat with disdain and avoid what are usually called human interest stories, yet these are a great potential source of edification, drama and amusement.
Most journalists could learn a lesson from local newspapers, urban and rural, which are widely underrated yet employ many reporters with genuine enthusiasm and curiosity for news.
…
A heroic council road maintenance employee, seeing a pothole in the road at a level crossing, filled it in a few minutes, in accordance with the precepts of our beloved Prime Minister and Leader and went on with his work in true revolutionary spirit. He did not know that this pothole had been the subject of a demarcation dispute between his Leftist reactionary dominated council and the Leftist reactionary bureaucrats of the rail authority, and was unfairly reprimanded by his Socialist bosses.
Elite Quadre George Thomas in the National People’s Daily.
Hat Tip: to Phil Gomes at Larvatus Prodeo.
Postscript: Here's an example of the kind of story that many journalists could learn a lesson from: a tale of heroic resistance to Left wing social engineering from the front page of one of my local letter box stuffers.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Quadre Watch
RECENT speeches by our Great Prime Minister John Howard and the running dog deviationist Petro Georgiou have led many revisionist reactionary hyenas to lament the decline of small-l liberals in our great Liberal Party and the betrayal of the Menzies tradition of liberalism. But stand back and look at the true history of our great nation and today's great Cultural Revolution and you will find a different story.A member of the elite Quadre (Quadre Member X) in Wednesday’s Oz. Later in the article, Quadre Member X reveals the heinous influence of the running dogs of deviationism in the Western Australian education system:
To take one example: the reading list recommended for students of Year 12 English in West Australian state schools is scandalously unbalanced towards the Left, including Noam Chomsky, John Pilger and Henry Reynolds. I have not seen equivalent lists for other states but I think it safe to say Edmund Burke, Friedrich Hayek and Keith Windschuttle are probably not stars on any of them…
I couldn’t find a recommended reading list for Year 12 English in WA Schools – the closest I got was a list of suggested texts which includes two works by John Pilger and two by Henry Reynolds. Quadre Member X is quite right in saying there’s nothing by Edmund Burke, Friedrich Hayek or Keith Windschuttle. There’s nothing by Chomsky either, unless he was writing under one of the pen-names Germaine Greer, Kaz Cooke or Naomi Klein.
Update: a hat tip to commenter deej who found Ayn Rand's novel The Fountainhead listed in the Year 11 novels, right above Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Orwell's Animal Farm is in there too.
More Update: Today's Oz includes a scandalously revisionist attack on the Elite Quadre by lickspittle lackey of leftist reaction, Dennis Glover.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
A Jolly Bunch of Kants and Bustards
So I gets to me computer this morning to write an account of Friday night and I finds that FX Holden has done the honours already and a right fine job he’s done of it too, him being there from near the start and all. Me, I didn’t get there until around seven, what with being forgot about at the doctor’s and all so when I arrived there was already a room full of people to be worked but first there was a bar full of tipple to be started on first, wasn’t there?
So it’s up to the bar for a glass of red and then a word or two with Tiley and Helen and then here’s Nabakov with a martini in his hand and me discovering I’m not really up to the hobnobbery so I takes myself off to an armchair once I’ve slipped up to the bar to get another tipple of course, only this time out of one of the bottles with a proper label and a name on it on account of the house red fair stripping the lining off me cheeks.
And what did Gummo think about while he was sitting in that armchair?
Sure and he thought about striking an elegant relaxed pose where he could shut his eyes and nobody would catch him napping and he let the hubbub of conversation just go by and thought it was pleasant to spend a few minutes quietly by himself with a crowd of happy people on hand if the fancy to talk to anyone should strike him later.
So he was a bit sleepy drunk then?
So he was.
But then he got a couple more drinks in him and he was obtuse and opinionated drunk and he was ready to start spouting off to FX and Tony T about books they should read and films they should see and forgetting the names of the books they were telling him were worth a look and then he got romantic drunk and had to profess undying love to every woman in the room, except before he could get to Lucy Tartan, he got distracted when Tiley pointed out Mark Bahnisch had arrived and Nabakov was pointing out Gummo to Bahnisch so he had to go over and introduce himself and then buggered off to talk to someone else but by now he was swapping-personal-secrets drunk, so he decided to take himself outside for a smoke. And some making excuses about not being able to go up to the theatre upstairs because he’d probably fall asleep, and snore and not getting off the hook until he’d said he’d probably start talking in his sleep too.
Then up the lane a little to the Szechuan restaurant, where he got a bit bossy and obnoxious drunk at Boynton on his way to the jakes coming back to find himself sitting across from FX and Tony, with Boynton to his right and Nabakov at the end of the table. And looking around every second table had a plate on it with a great pile of chillies and the young couples were pulling out prawns by the tails.
Then back to the bar, but FX Holden has already told that part of the story.
So it’s up to the bar for a glass of red and then a word or two with Tiley and Helen and then here’s Nabakov with a martini in his hand and me discovering I’m not really up to the hobnobbery so I takes myself off to an armchair once I’ve slipped up to the bar to get another tipple of course, only this time out of one of the bottles with a proper label and a name on it on account of the house red fair stripping the lining off me cheeks.
And what did Gummo think about while he was sitting in that armchair?
Sure and he thought about striking an elegant relaxed pose where he could shut his eyes and nobody would catch him napping and he let the hubbub of conversation just go by and thought it was pleasant to spend a few minutes quietly by himself with a crowd of happy people on hand if the fancy to talk to anyone should strike him later.
So he was a bit sleepy drunk then?
So he was.
But then he got a couple more drinks in him and he was obtuse and opinionated drunk and he was ready to start spouting off to FX and Tony T about books they should read and films they should see and forgetting the names of the books they were telling him were worth a look and then he got romantic drunk and had to profess undying love to every woman in the room, except before he could get to Lucy Tartan, he got distracted when Tiley pointed out Mark Bahnisch had arrived and Nabakov was pointing out Gummo to Bahnisch so he had to go over and introduce himself and then buggered off to talk to someone else but by now he was swapping-personal-secrets drunk, so he decided to take himself outside for a smoke. And some making excuses about not being able to go up to the theatre upstairs because he’d probably fall asleep, and snore and not getting off the hook until he’d said he’d probably start talking in his sleep too.
Then up the lane a little to the Szechuan restaurant, where he got a bit bossy and obnoxious drunk at Boynton on his way to the jakes coming back to find himself sitting across from FX and Tony, with Boynton to his right and Nabakov at the end of the table. And looking around every second table had a plate on it with a great pile of chillies and the young couples were pulling out prawns by the tails.
Then back to the bar, but FX Holden has already told that part of the story.
Qu(ot)e?
Let it be known that Anglican churches basically are empty today. And those who show are female or men who are female wannabes. Many of the clergy are the latter. Therefore, there are not that many robust wife-beating potential males attending the Anglican sanctuaries any more.
The prolific Grant Swank (I kid you not) at Conservative Voice.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Big Question
sPlaying the race card for ratings - has reality telivision finally gone too far?
You can find out tomorrow night at 6:30, when Channel Nine's A Current Affair does a searing expose on Survivor: Cook Islands, also showing on Nine, at 9:30. I won't be watching either program. Since they pulled the hour long feast of gratuitous nudity, sex and violence that was Rome in favour of this turkey, I've lost all interest in watching Nine on Wednesday nights.
You can find out tomorrow night at 6:30, when Channel Nine's A Current Affair does a searing expose on Survivor: Cook Islands, also showing on Nine, at 9:30. I won't be watching either program. Since they pulled the hour long feast of gratuitous nudity, sex and violence that was Rome in favour of this turkey, I've lost all interest in watching Nine on Wednesday nights.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Shite Watch
The Melbourne Fringe Festival is on at the moment – it actually started last Wednesday.
Geelong journalist and blogger, Bernard Slattery has looked into what’s on at the Festival – like this event – and found that it’s all a load of publicly-funded shite.
If you’re fool enough to disregard Bernie’s authoritative opinion – on the entirely spurious basis that it’s based on one selected quotation from an Age article and maybe Bernie should get up to Melbourne to see the show before he dismisses it out of hand – here’s the Festival program. And here’s a page listing all the Festival's partners and sponsors. The Fringe Festival is on for another two weeks, so there’ll be plenty of other shite events you can waste your money on.
Incidentally, nowhere in that Age report do I find any mention of who funded the (alleged) artists who devised the event Bernie doesn't like the sound of.
Geelong journalist and blogger, Bernard Slattery has looked into what’s on at the Festival – like this event – and found that it’s all a load of publicly-funded shite.
If you’re fool enough to disregard Bernie’s authoritative opinion – on the entirely spurious basis that it’s based on one selected quotation from an Age article and maybe Bernie should get up to Melbourne to see the show before he dismisses it out of hand – here’s the Festival program. And here’s a page listing all the Festival's partners and sponsors. The Fringe Festival is on for another two weeks, so there’ll be plenty of other shite events you can waste your money on.
Incidentally, nowhere in that Age report do I find any mention of who funded the (alleged) artists who devised the event Bernie doesn't like the sound of.
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