#bridgetbythebridge

#goodhuman

 

A few months ago, during one of our weekly video chats, Motherbear and I invented the groundbreaking concept of Good Human versus Bad Human. It is based on tried and tested methodology; deep scientific expertise, repeated experiments proving a pattern and the burden of proof beyond any reasonable doubt.

I lie. Not unlike virtually all politics and much journalism these days, the concept of Good Human is based entirely on gut instinct and a single person’s point of view. You pick anyone you like, you look at their face, and you decide if they are a good human or a bad human. It is that simple. A face, an opinion and boo ya, touchdown!

  

You can start with some really easy ones.

Obama, Good Human, Dubya, Bad Human. Good Human, Jennifer Lawrence, Bad Human, Kim K. Kylie, Good Human, J-Lo, Bad Human. Tom Hanks, Good Human, Tom Cruise, Bad Human. Toni Colette, Cate Blanchett, Meryl Streep, Russell Crowe, Guy Pearce, The Hemsworths, Hugh Jackman, Claudia Karvan, Bill Gates, all fine examples of Good Humans. Simon Cowell, Duchess Kate, Fassbender, Bale, Vin Diesel, Federer, Murray, Seinfeld, Jennifer Aniston, Theresa May, and Pauline Hanson, all…Bad Humans. #youcanstopreadingnow #itsabouttogetworse

No doubt there are names you’ll challenge; Duchess Kate is always contentious. I’d chuck in Diana and Beyoncé too, if I were certain I wouldn’t be lynched. In my humble opinion, Will Smith’s fakery makes him a BH and I still can’t quite make my mind up on the three duplicitous Barons of Boston; Wahlberg, Affleck and Damon. Good Will seems to be on the lighter side, but the other two; I’m not so convinced. It does also change over time. Angelina, Downey Jr and Depp, all once very, very Good, are now très, très Bad. So what is all this hollow conjecture based on? #notmuchscience

 

The Eyes have it. 

There is something about the curve of a person’s eyes and how that portends openness, a generosity of spirit, a kindness and innate warmth. The eyes of a Good Human will always be looking forward, looking into the face of their significant other with unbridled love, with vulnerability, with sincerity. There gaze is more about you than them.

Observe Barack as he cuddles Michelle or Hugh as he leans in to Deborra-Lee. Tom Hanks’s smile when he spies Rita. The eyes show love, show honesty and honour, integrity and intelligence, vigour and vulnerability. People who’s eyes shift constantly, who squint at you, who can’t maintain eye contact, who stare beyond you rather than at you. These people all have something to hide; these people don’t want you to catch out their secrets, these people, like the Vermillion Vulture and his Vacant Vixen are your stereotypical Bad Human.

  

Lips and Arseholes.

The mouth can look remarkably like the anus. When the lips are pursed, pressed and pinched, the resemblance to a human sphincter is astonishing. Look at Trump’s mouth and convince me it isn’t a mirror image of his Chocolate Starfish? Look at Pauline’s cakehole and tell me you don’t see her bumhole?

If you expend so much energy clenching your face, imagine the pressure down below! Ferris Bueller (Good Human) once made a claim that if you shoved a lump of coal in someone’s arse, two weeks later you’d have a diamond. I reckon that Kim and Kanye could start fabricating jewellery to replace the booty the Booty lost in Paris. Smiles that look like bums, like weird aliens in Star Wars, are not to be trusted, hence, Bad Human.

 

Laughter.

Not a mother myself, other people’s babies have generally taken to me. I have a very big face, I have large eyes, and I smile like a goon. Fashioning silly smiling faces at small people who instinctively know how to interpret a very confusing world is hardly a magic trick. Animals will respond more readily to a smile or a laugh than they will to a growl. Laughter, or a smile, demonstrate to your opponent that you are not afraid; think Errol Flynn with a sword, Han Solo with a blaster or think Robin Williams doing just about anything. Laughing eyes, a smiling mouth, Good Human.

Now, reflect over the events of this past weekend.

 

 

A broad face, a toothy smile, a wide grin, open arms and wide gestures versus a vertical snarl, eyes you can barely make out behind a wilting wave of wiry hair and tiny clamped hands. 

Think about a woman whose face is so expressive, she cannot hide her disdain and another woman whose face has not expressed anything since it was medically paralysed a decade ago. 

Think about why we are afraid of hoods, or headscarves or helmets. If you cannot see someone’s face, you cannot conclude his or her intent. Ever noticed that Storm Troopers cover their faces but Rebel Fighters don’t? Death Eaters wear black hoods while the Aurors protect themselves only with a wand?

  

Earlier this week, as I sat on the tube, the girl next to me, somewhat pressed for time, opened her makeup bag and began the ritual putting on of her face. She opened a compressed powder compact, it completely shattered, and she was covered in shards of sparkly powder. #itshappenedtoallofus

Without saying a word, I reached into my handbag, found the little packet of tissues and handed them to her. She was so grateful she nearly kissed me. We sat in relative silence for the 4 stops until I left, and again, she profusely thanked me for my kindness. It was a bloody tissue; it was hardly a gold coin.

But today, in a world where sometimes the Evil appears to be triumphing over the Good, a tissue is a little bit of solidarity among those of us fighting our way through a winter commute. It is a little white flag of surrender as we succumb to a winter cold. It is a tiny gesture of goodness that, when multiplied, will make us all better humans.

 

NB - both photos from the official Whitehouse website

 

 

#bridgetbytheclosedforthreemonthsbridge

 

 

There has been a lot of noise about just how shit 2016 was. Haaaa Chimaamaa the circle of life, it is a path unwinding, etc. Elton speaks the truth of the ancient Gods…and he is the only one 2016 left alive to act as their earthly messenger.

 

In 2016, very sadly, a lot of things departed; Jareth, Snape, His Purpleness, A European Great Britain, the voting intelligence of any human and maybe even the cats not living in an urban UK metropolis, the value of the Sterling, Princess Fucking Leia, George Fucking Michael, Sunshine, New Girl, Australia’s Olympic Gold Medals, Australia’s Eurovision win #wewererobbed The list of leavers goes on!

 

Even more depressingly, a lot of things arrived; Boris Fucking Johnson, Donald Fucking Trump, Zika, The Omnipresent Face of Farage (unfortunately not a cheap chemist cologne), Madonna’s 24 year 4 hour late Sydney show, my third chin and (for those of us dedicated to Sir David A) we were even treated to one of the seven biblical plagues, the South Asian Locusts.

 

Hakuna Ma-fucking-tata.

 

My Little Real Life Pony

 

The slightly warmer world is still turning, the slightly dumber Bieber still has phenomenal abs, the more than slightly destroyed Aleppo looks like it might make it through the end of the month, the slightly millionaire-er Adele is still reigning supreme and Her slightly fluey Majesty is still kicking on strong. #noneofusreallylikechurch

 

And me, not-so-little old Bridget by her closed-for-three-months-of-this-year Bridge. Well I didn’t chuck it all in either. Albeit, there were some pretty close shaves!

 

Would you believe that turning 40 was actually the best thing that happened to me this year?

 

Surrounded by my favourite people, surrendering my little Thamesside flat to family from afar we feasted on fish, we frolicked in matching T-shirts and we Frenched. As in, we went to France.

 

We risked an Air Traffic Control Strike to visit my French Exchange Family and a closed-for-the-holidays museum. The Smartarse saw the birthplace of the A380, Squeal got her Elsa on for the first time in snow, The Art-sist-ologer and I shared a bed for 4 weeks without killing each other. But most importantly, like Madonna in Lucky Star, I was accompanied by my omnipresent duo of back up dancers. Over my right shoulder was my Motherbear, over my left, my lover Bear*. I was safe, I was loved, I was happy. #intakesavillage

 

Unbeknownst to me, “she’s behind you!” that same week, a series of events would unfold that would bring to bear one of the most confidence shattering slaps-to-the-face of my adult life. I am well past it now, and far better off as a result. Looking back at a shitstorm is easy when your plane is jet propelled with pride, with love, with integrity, and with a sense of humour seasoned in more countries, more adventures and more glasses of Pinot Grigio than any little mean girl.

 

And we did so much!

 

Not one but TWO mud obstacle races. I can Clean & Press 40kg, Deadlift 110kg and Single Arm 24kg. That might mean nothing to you, to some it will seem pitiful; but for a woman who has licked, sipped and sucked her way from one end of the globe to the other, it is no insignificant feat. #strongasanox

 

I have a phenomenally satisfying new job. I get to parlay fransay all day. I get to hang out with people who enjoy me; I am teaching and learning again. And I get to do all that on a Mac and iOS. #openingdoorsnotwindows #winkwinknudgenudge

Hairy Coo

 

I spent another year finding firsts.

 

Here at home, I saw The White Cliffs of Dover that are unexpectedly surrounded by the White Council Housing of Dover. At Twickenham I watched Australia founder as the Empire re-conquered her. I ran the Cotswalds, with an actual Princess (Zara, not the clothing kind). I sailed a ferry across the Mersey, I pedalled Penny Lane and discovered the Chav in its native Liverpudlian habitat. I saw a big red Hairy Coo, I ate Haggis, I spied wild seals in the Ness and all that while squired by the ultra-rare Wild Bear in a Kilt. #nopants

 

Further afield… I had a first in Nevada, a city that made me never want to be home harder. In Tokyo, I spied Mt Fuji, scoffed native Sushi and drank enough sake to spew free. In Boston, I wandered around a closed Fenway, ate sickeningly rich Chowder by the Bay and heard that weird accent in their native parlay. In Prague, I ate too much pickled smoked pork, drank so much I couldn’t talk and danced with the Kaiser till we could not walk. #rhyminglang

 

But then, to fill my already overflowing cup, The Body had a baby! He came, he saw, he went to sleep; a lengthy bundle of joy filling my Saturday afternoons with smiles. The Critique and I saw more stars tread the boards. I watched Glenda Jackson make her return to the stage after 25 years. I still can’t drive but I have a license. Adele filled my ears and reduced me to tears. And AG became a Gramma. #goodwillhunting

 

And as if that wasn’t enough to fill a year with joy, there was a third Bridget movie!! She got her Mark Darcy again, she made her family laugh, she drank too much at a party, she wore big pants.

 

And you wonder why this diary is titled #bridgetbythebridge?

 

Happy 2017 everyone.

 

 

Grammie, Lucy & Me

 

 

*I have made it clear in a previous post that similarity in name for Mum and G is completely coincidental; she has called herself that name for many years while I named him after Bear Grylls for their shared passion for drinking water from elephant shit

 

#jumpinmycar

2016 has almost come to an end. I, like many of you, am glad to see the rear end of the year that rear-ended us all. Almost everyone died, almost everyone else voted as if they were dead, and those of us who remain (yes, I did that on purpose), were thankful for a portly, perpetually cheerful English man singing in his car. We made it through 2016 buoyed by the monthly missives from the dimpled grin of James Corden and his passenger seat of Superstars.

For no other reason than fluffy puppy-like distraction in a week of death and darkness and despair, here is the ranked and rated list of 2016’s Carpool Karaoke’s sorted by the highly qualified brain of me. #wellwhythehellnot

17. Britney

I f**king love Britney. Way back when she was being commandeered and subjugated by every one she loved, mother, father, lover, JT, she bleated out choon after red latexy choon. I lamented her demise. I sympathise for the poor poppet who hasn’t known a minute of peace since she first flounced her pink pompoms. But here’s the thing BS; if you want to sit in a car and flog your latest album, you have only one job, you have to sing. You can’t sit there in your pseudo-soft-porn lace bodysuit expecting us to go out and buy your latest glottal-stop-punctuated pop confection if you aren’t going to be real.

16. Demi Lovato & Nick Jonas

Disney kids have been performing since before they could breathe. They lost the art of un-choreographed spontaneity before they lost their milk teeth. They can sing, oh yes they can. But can they be unfettered, genuine human beings? No they can’t. Also, the weird awkwardness of Nick talking about parting with his purity ring was kind of like watching your little brother talk about what he does in his tube sock. #jonasty

15. Selena Gomez

As above, one extra point for being a semi-real human who has had her lips on Bieber. The Rollercoaster was not funny. The Macca’s Drive Thru was not funny. In fact nothing was funny.

14. J-Lo

She was OK, she was actually pretty funny, but when did her music get so shit? What ever happened to Jenny from the Block? Why do all her songs sound like they were rejects written for Rihanna with an iPhone Mambo Ringtone running through the backing track? Why has she been married more times than Liz Taylor? Why does she always have that fringe only over her temples, not in the middle? #thebigquestions

13. Gwen Stefani

There is no doubt that I love her! The original L.A.M.B, my matte red lippie inspiration, she of the Harajuku homage has a superabundance of hits to draw from and can she sing! But, but, but. Why did she have to rely on Dr Doug Ross and Princess Vivian to keep us watching? After dumping Bush for Blake, she has more than enough drama to keep us fixated. All points awarded for singing Queen.

12. Chris Martin

I love him, he sang it all as perfectly as you’d expect. And doesn’t everyone sing to Coldplay in his or her car? BUT! Why didn’t they throw coloured paint at each other? Why no sequin confetti? Why no coloured light wristbands? Why no dad dancing? Why no Beyoncé? Why no Rihanna? Why no rest of Coldplay? #chrisyouarentthatinteresting 

11. Red Hot Chilli Peppers

They could have saved on scriptwriters and spent the entire 15 minutes singing one song after another, or just sung through the track list of Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Their banter with James served only to interrupt the superstar recreation of what so many of us do in a car; sing classic rock songs louder than our vocal chords can tolerate.* Bonus points for Flea bouncing around in the middle seat like a petulant toddler.

 

10. Sia

Would be higher up the list if she didn’t have that warped weird accent. Is she Australian anymore? All other points awarded for having one of the most compelling singing voices in the business. So much so that she can gad about with her face covered and not get arrested by Trump’s anti-face-covering Gestapo. And the songs! One incomprehensible banger after another. Britney, you should watch this.

9. Bieber

Last year’s was better, and longer. I would have given it a firm number 1 (and I’d give him something altogether different). This year Bieb’s has disappeared up his own bum...but he is still a perfect little cherub of male. Boy can move! Boy can sing! Boy should be banned from speaking in public! Boy should take heed of Britney’s cautionary tale!

8. Bruno Mars

Look, I love him too, but is he the most boring human alive? Does he actually have a personality behind all that bling? He would be right down with the Disney kids if it weren’t for the pure unadulterated joy I get from Uptown Funk. Also, does he have eyes? Does he ever take of his shades? Ans, he is 5 foot 5, which means I could look down into his bald spot.

7. Christmas

I don’t like the song. I can’t bear Mariah. Her boobs were so distracting; like two shiny alien heads desperately trying to make their way out of her chest. The only reason this rates as high as it does is because of the other Famouses who mercifully saved us from La Carey Carnage. Adele was there, Gaga too...and even RHCP piped up. Bonus points for the surprise factor.

6. Gaga

The old songs are sooo good…and the new ones sooo aren’t. But god can she sing! And the old songs really are that good. #rahrahromahah 

5. Broadway

Lin-Manuel Miranda is one of the best humans in the universe. Talented, handsome, politically a decent man, and hysterically funny! The back seat was a bit meh, but LMM, wow, what a magnetic human being. One Day More from Les Miserables is the Bohemian Rhapsody of Broadway and I actually cried the first time I saw this one.

4. Elton John

You haven’t lived until you have sung Tiny Dancer at the top of your lungs with the windows rolled down. Reginald Dwight has played a starring role in the soundtrack of my life. Everything else about him is odd, but hey, Tiny Dancer. #holdmecloser 

3. Madonna

You would be betting on me giving her the top spot. And I would. But If I had to rank her entire earthly back catalogue, “Bitch I’m Madonna” would be subterranean, somewhere below all the music ever recorded since forever. I despise that song...and she forgot the words to Argentina. #madgeyoubreakmyheart

2. Adele

Because Adele.

1. Michelle Obama

Missy Elliott popping up in the back of that car was one of the most joyous moments of my 2016. Also, Michelle Obama is a weakening light in the sewer of piss and shizzle that we’ve created for our tiny future adult humans. She can sing, she can dance, and she can combine verbs and nouns in a fashion that makes sense, seemingly all qualities no longer requisite for a first rate FLOTUS.

 

Before I go, a shout out for James himself who is 50% of the reason why this little video that could has become our favourite viral video of every month. Not only has he learned all the words to some really shit songs, he manages a harmony here and there.

 

*Shout out to The Smartarse, Sapphire and Smack back in Sydney who do a pretty mean Depeche Mode behind the wheel.

#alt-literate

 

Alt-boring

I’ve been quiet these past few weeks; I’ve been busy, I’ve been clocking up intercontinental Avios’s, but mostly I’ve been depressed and defeated. I had nothing to say that someone cleverer or wittier than me hadn’t already said/tweeted/snapped or sung. My Facebook feed was a spiralling toilet roll of complaints and curses and pleas for mercy from the relentless media shitstorm that has spewed a bright orange flatus onto the collective consciousness. #hisnamemeansfart

Faced with a daily barrage of disappointment in my fellow humans, I’ve become a hermit of hygge. I’ve retreated into the handful of activities that bring me joy during the four hours of weakening sunlight we are lucky to enjoy in a London midwinter. Rich Buttery Food, Danish building blocks, knitting, Disney Movies, Disney Animation, Disney Songs and reliable, relatable TV. David Attenborough had me cheering for baby iguanas, the former Shadow Chancellor Gangnam Style’d his way onto the nations hearts* and Graham Norton’s sofa is the only Bright Orange object I want to see on any screen of any device that whizzes through my line of sight. #tangerinestings  

This week Graham’s sofa was an allegory for our utopian future state; my alt-reality.

 

A married gay woman of Danish origin, a heterosexual cross-dressing Englishman, an intergalactic female American of (by her own admission) dubious mental health and a Muslim woman of Bangladeshi heritage. All of them were corralled into telling their story, or selling their latest oeuvre, by a Gay Irish man. #favouritetimeoftheweek

When the Baked Sweet Potato-Elect has absolute power, the only member of the couch to whom he’d grant an oval audience is Princess Leia, and only if she was wearing her bronze bikini. #nocostumeforhimtobejabba

Each of the Famouses told their unique story. Sometimes they agreed; Grayson had amazing shoes. Other times they didn’t; Nadiya’s arranged marriage. But despite Graham’s best efforts to bait them with his own special kind of humiliation, often an embarrassing photo dredged from the bowels of Internet; at no point did anyone stand up and chuck a hissy fit. No one threw a punch, no one verbally insulted anyone else, no one threatened to sue, build a wall, banish a race or snatch a snatch.

 

In my alt-reality, my curls don’t flatten while I sleep, cheese has no calories, crying in th office is the ultimate sign of corporate strength, I’m a universally adored writer, I’m a proud mother to a Collie that doesn’t poo and I own a country pile with an outdoor pool. My alt-reality is not alternative; it is not real. It is a euphemism for dream, imaginary, immature and escapist.

Which is why I have no time for anyone or anything or any non-descript-abstract-notion that describes itself as “alt-right”. #drevilairquotes

 

 

Alternative to right is left. I have two arms, a right one and a left one. The only alternative to my right arm is my left arm. There is no right-er arm. My right leg is not my alt-right arm. Right and left, like hot and cold, like yin and yang, like cheese and all-other-food is a binary notion. You are one or t’other.

Unless of course you are a Fascist. In which case you are at best an alt-human, but more specifically, you are a Fascist. You are not alt-right. Your political beliefs are not an alternative to conservatism; you are simply a misanthropic cunt (sorry mum) who believes that your race/nationality/viewpoint/ideology/book/existence is more important than someone else’s. 

I hear you; my obscene rant is demonstrative of my own intolerance of someone else’s viewpoint. Therefore, I must be Fascist too!

I’m not a Fascist. 

I am intolerant of electoral ignorance and jingoistic politics stemming from a midnight tweet rather than debated written policy. I am intolerant of British people with Greek parents or English people with Indian parents or Americans with German grandfathers eschewing immigration. I am intolerant of men and boys who thoughtlessly insert bits of themselves into vaginas, conveniently forgetting there is a uterus at the other end. Promiscuous, repressed, men and boys who invoke divinity when they legislate what happens inside that same organ. I’m intolerant of a twice-divorced practising catholic protesting gay marriage on the basis of her Roman religion. I’m intolerant of votes, elections and referenda based on bullshit and blustering and buses. I’m intolerant of Piers Fucking Morgan simulating vomiting into a bucket at the sight of Madonna twerking.

All this makes me a latte drinking leftie. Intolerant, no. Exasperated, yes. I pay more than my fair share of taxes with no claim for a discount. I am an immigrant, albeit a blue-eyed one and so was my father. I have very strong arms, but no guns. I’m big on self-harm, but I’m not out in the streets harming my fellow man. Although I sometimes stand too close to the door in the tube, I’m not restricting the free movement of others. I’m terrified of spiders, but I’m not peddling fear. I’m just bitterly angry that the alt-smart’s are winning.

I wouldn’t mind them winning if the fight were fair.

I wouldn’t mind them winning if they were going to be alive long enough to see the catastrophic outcome of their Geriatric Exodus. I wouldn’t mind them winning if there were coherence between their Christian-coloured words and their rapist-actions. I wouldn’t mind them winning if they were anyone on earth but Nigel Farage.

 

In the face of ignominious ignorance, I can’t beat them, but I can use their misleading misnomers against them.

 

I’m no longer a liberal latte drinking leftie, I’m alt-Farage.

I’m not a woman, I’m an alt-man.

I’m not angry, I’m alt-happy.

I’m not clever, I’m alt-idiot.

I’m not making up words to justify my own selfish means, I’m alt-literate.

 

 

*Such a shame that the last election didn’t require mastery of the Argentine Tango; the world might be a very different place

 

#imwithher

Obama says Yes She Can #imwithher

 

Taking a short break from being the busiest, most stressed person in Christendom; I’ve spent a considerable number of hours reading the news. I’ve read the Blue version, I’ve read the Red version and I’ve even read the Green version. I’ve read the Star Spangled version, I’ve read the Southern Cross version and I’ve read the dieu et mon droit^ version. I’ve had time to reflect on what’s going on, I’ve had time to think about what I would do if called to vote in November. I’ve thought about the horrific consequences if my person doesn’t win.

She on a wrecked train and she's with her

 

The world is already a vicious, volatile, violent and vulnerable place, the last thing we need is an unmitigated, unmeasured, unstoppable buffoon in the top job. But, rather than giving any further credence to pig swill, I’m going to focus on the positive. #holidayhasturnedmeintoahippie 

I know that many Americans don’t like her; they don’t like her voice or her hairdo. Dearest American Pies, the good news is that a hairdo cannot run a country, and even when one has the most irritating voice on earth, one can still be a decent leader (I’m pointing the finger at you New Zealand). #muddleearth

 

Meryl "Iron Lady' Streep is with her

 

In case you live in Pennsylvania and you need a little push in the right (or, as the case may be, left) direction, here are my top nine first-rate things about Hillary.

 

Tootsie, Babs, The Rocket Man & Dory are with her.

 

1. She has a vagina. I am well aware that it takes more than unmutated X chromosomes to run all 50 states, but given the litany of Lotharios who have stewarded the Star Spangled Spanner, let’s just see if some Lady Love can give them a push in the direction of limiting access to automatic weapons, arresting the death toll from ‘shoot to kill’ policing and sorting out that mind boggling obsession with green juice. If a few less people die #imwithher
2. She’s a democrat. If you have read more than one paragraph of anything I’ve ever written, you’ll know that I am a latte-drinking-leftie, a literary luvvie and a conscious capitalist. I’m one of those who thinks that the wealthier must endeavour to look after the poorer, who thinks that paying taxes is the responsibility for every wage-earning human outside of North Korea, one who thinks that abortion is not a topic for political debate (NOT EVER, POLAND) and that the gays can marry who ever the fuck they choose. So it stands to reason that #imwithher
3. She’s a feminist. Which in and of itself is not interesting, but considering her opponent is a misogynist, xenophobic misanthrope; having a POTUS who is ‘pro’ anything seems like a wiser choice than someone who is so very ‘anti’ everything. Anti everything except their own self-aggrandisement and self -tan. If she’s with girls then #imwithher
4. She was the woman scorned. We’ve had a phalange of philandering presidents; Jefferson (D), Harding (R), FDR (R), Eisenhower (R), JFK (D), LBJ (D)* and even her own husband (D). The great irony of this adulterous archive being that the USA purports to be the Christian Moral Compass we must all be striving to chase. Surely it is now time for us to try out a radically different model. How about someone who has not been the cheatER on the throne. Let’s give the top job to the cheatEE. She knows what it takes to lipstick-smile a day through the heinous hours so #imwithher
5. She is articulate. You may not like the voice, you may not like the Powersuit or the hefty hand gestures, but HRC can argue, squabble and skirmish her way out of just about anything. Private email abuse, SNL skits and direct questions about her husband’s dodgy dalliances. She doesn’t resort to personal attacks and incessant interruption and she doesn’t make shit up so #imwithher
6. She supports creation rather than eradication. Creating jobs, creating housing, creating opportunity, creating equality. Funny how all that shit seems to ring truer and carry more weight than demolishing, decimating, refusing and/or building-a-walling. I love Lego, I love to build so #imwithher
7. She has stamina. I am 18 years younger than HRC. A big day for me starts with an early morning workout, followed by a working day slaving over emails and corporate political intrigue, a night on the fermented grape juice and a quiz show. I am not keeping a dawn-until-well-after-dusk schedule of interviews, briefings, meet and greets, being a Grandmum, managing a team of 35 campaign staffers and god knows what else she does in 24 hours. She really is a superhero so #imwithher
8. She has experience. Call me crazy, but I am in the business of hiring people to do a job. Call me even crazier, but when I am interviewing for what is required, I usually look for relevant skills and experience. I reckon if you want to be POTUS, having experience as SecState or Senator is that relevant experience I would be interviewing for. I wouldn’t be looking for a golf club developer, a reality TV star or a serial model marrier. She has the experience to do the job so #imwithher
9. She wore a red suit. #dropsthemic

 

She Kissed a Girl, and she's with her

 

 

As I said at the start, you don’t have to love her, love her voice or her hairdo; you just have to understand the consequences of not voting for her.

 

Lena is the voice of a generation and she's with her

 

^That’s not the French one…

*US President’s prefer to go by three letter acronyms than actual names; it is easier to spell for their Southern Constituents. Leaning Left or Right is no harbinger for fidelity

The Queen is with her

 

#mersey-able

Where you get to once the Ferry crosses the Mersey

 

“I’m sick of the smell of this fucking shite!”

Every member of my immediate family knows this phrase all too well. There is another, slightly less PG-rated one that I’ll refrain from repeating here for fear of offending Motherbear. The aforementioned smell is that of Sydney. The young female who utters it is a recent child immigrant from Liverpool and had the leading role in a programme I once watched called The Leaving of Liverpool.

That programme informed much of my understanding of the city of Liverpool. It was a place so dire, so murky, so dark and dank that people escaped to a desert on the other side of the world. Liverpool for me was one of those industrial cities that Dickens and Eliot described in their novels; a city where the fortunate children worked in factories and the unfortunate ones were sent to workhouses. Well it was that and a few boys in grey suits that sang a few songs.

 

Lancastrian Architecture does a mean vent.

 

 

My pilgrimage to Liverpool was planned quickly, on a bit of a whim, to fill a few lonely days on a long weekend. It was so very whimsical that I didn’t research my trip at all. I just bought a train ticket and a couple of nights in a hotel. 

I arrived, with half the population of Northern England, on the same weekend as the International Beatles Convention and the Liverpool Folk Festival. Every hippie from here to Hull and back again was in town. With their tie-died t-shirts and scraggly beards, biker vests and slicked hair they are a generation lamenting their music and the lifestyle we youngsters quashed with wifi. There were Baby Booming Brexit Voters to spare…and the omnipresent gaggle of American tourists, loudly enquiring after restrooms and washrooms instead of toilets and loos.

 

Three Big Buildings or The Three Graces - they have a knack for naming things

 

Liverpool, the city centre, surprised me. It was much, much larger than I expected. Very wide streets filled with empiric buildings; a mismatch of bulky, bold architecture reflecting centuries as the leading trade port in the UK and the mouth from which Europe’s immigrants were spat into the Atlantic. Over the course of a little less than a hundred years, forty million beggared their way to the New World and the colonies beyond.

Poking above it all is the oddest looking Church I have ever seen. The architect, a protestant, must have been taking the piss with the Catholics who would worship there when he designed a giant concrete wicker basket that points to the heavens. It is no doubt iconic in it’s own 1960’s kind of way, but very difficult to digest when surrounded on all sides by the red bricks of Liverpool University.

 

I guess you really do have to BELIEVE to get this

 

There is a slightly taller structure, also built in the mid-twentieth century, a radio tower that must have been designed by George Jetson. That was the whole of Liverpool really, very ancient buildings sandwiched next to very new ones. Like in many British cities, a legacy of a Blitz that gutted anything of interest in a city that couldn’t immediately afford to rebuild.

George Jetson's Helipad

 

As in any ancient working port, there has been a regeneration of the old docks. The stolid brick megaliths have been gutted, refitted and are now filled with museums, flats, restaurants, a Pizza Express… and on this particular weekend, families.

Living in London, I do see children, but never in the multitudes I’ve seen them up here. Rarely just one at a time, often in multiples of three, accompanied by the requisite strollers, forging a path up and down the docks with their loud orange mothers, their perfectly groomed tattooed fathers and at least one white Capri-panted grandparent. Hearing the kids call for their mooms in their little mini scouse accents shocked me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m always surprised when I hear tiny cherubic kids with accents I only associate with middle-aged men like John Bishop. 

 

Sir Peter Blake's Dazzle Ship

 

Inspired by Gerry and the Pacemakers and a visceral desire not to be within earshot of quite so many other humans, I took a ferry across the Mersey. Trained as I was on the largest natural harbour on earth, I always think you get a better feel for a city from a boat than on dry land.

They played the song, we had a recorded tour guide pointing out all of the important landmarks and if you ever find yourself in Liverpool, it is a must-do. The banks of the river Mersey play out the history of the city and the many lives it has lived. Centre for emigration, slave port, shipwrights, containers, oil, war, tobacco and tourism. You see it all as the Be-Dazzled* ferry makes it’s way up and down the port.

Finally, after two days wandering, watching and weeping, I did what I came here to do.

Living is easy with eyes closed

 

 

Roll Up, Roll up for the Mystery Tour!

I was bitterly disappointed that I didn’t get an actual Mystery Tour Bus, she was in for repairs, but I did get a guide with an accent who knew someone who knew someone who once walked past Ringo and he had all the stories the eager tourists could stomach. I was the only one alone; there was a family of Brazilians, two young Asian girls and the requisite Americans. One regaled us all with her tale of being the great-granddaughter of Irish immigrants who sailed from Liverpool. She was none too impressed when I let her know that Irish immigrants who sailed from Liverpool populated most of her country and even less impressed when I explained that mine was too.

The music went on and off we went.

The tour takes you well outside of the city, to the houses where Ringo, George, Paul and John lived as children. You immediately understand that their houses belie a childhood spent in relative comfort unlike the image John described in Working Class Hero. You see the church, in front of Eleanor Rigby’s grave, where John met Paul and became the Beatles and then you drive down Penny Lane and stop at Strawberry Fields. That’s where I cried.

The song Strawberry Fields starts with a flute refrain that always reminds me of the Mr Men theme. After the flute burst it becomes a lament for childhood and would be among my top ten favourites. As the bus turned down towards the city and our final destination, the Cavern Club, they played In My Life. Then I really lost it.

My Dad loved the Beatles and his final journey was played out to In My Life. The words and music of the Fab Four were the soundtrack to my childhood. I’d wanted to visit and see where they were from, I wanted to experience a little bit of what they had, the city that inspired so many songs that live on today. I’m glad I came; I don’t think I’ll need to again.

 

And in the end.

 

*The Mersey Ferry is currently a floating artwork, a Dazzle Ship, designed by Sir Peter Blake who famously designed the cover for Sergeant Peppers

 

#scarlettwoman

 

 

I like the colour red. Actually I love the colour red. I love red things, crimson things, scarlet things (even letters) and I really, really love to wear red. Red makes me happy, it is a flaming reflection of me, bright, angry, passionate, in your fucking face and hot. #ofcourseimeantemperaturehot

But what never ceases to dazzle me is the number of people who comment on it. It happens almost every day. FFS I’m wearing red; I’m not naked, I’m not wearing a latex unitard, I’m not daubed in tangerine tan, I am most definitely not wearing anything with the shoulders cut out of it, I’m not wearing religious attire, I am not wearing my underwear outdoors, I just choose to wear red.

Wearing red in London, or previously in Paris, is so conspicuously unique as to be remarkable, as in, people vocally, loudly remark upon it. In the lift at work, in the dentist waiting room, as I leave my apartment to go to work and most remarkably, two weeks ago, on the tube.

I’ll come back to the tube incident, but the lift comments always amaze me.

 

The First time I saw this I was a teenager...

I've wanted one ever since.

 

 

“Wow, look at you! Always so colour coordinated!”

“It is so funny the way your shoes and your phone match your outfit”

“Here she is, the lady in red”* 

It isn’t funny that everything matches; it is not a fortunate accident, nor is it a coincidence. I do it on purpose!

 

You may have read an article about Obama’s suits, or about Steve Jobs’ polo neck t-shirts, or about Diane Keaton’s pantsuits. It is not by chance that these people wear the same 5 items of clothing every day. They do it so they don’t have to think about what they are going to wear, one less decision to fret about in an increasingly busy life, saving all too precious time in an all too busy day. And lets be frank, unless you are a fashion model, or an extra in The Devil Wears Prada, when you dress for work, who is giving an actual f**k about the minutiae of your outfit?

Bred as I was in an Anglican Private Day School for Boys and Girls^, I wore the same thing every single day for 8 years; a navy wool skirt, a navy wool jacket, a navy silk tie and a lemon cotton blouse. A uniform provides safety, security and reliability and it saves about 8 hours a week otherwise spent deciding whether to wear the brown one or the coffee one or the fawn one or the chestnut one or… I would also contend that the majority of men waste but a nanosecond of their early mornings determining the combination of armour with which they intend to cover themselves before attacking another day behind a desk. I am sat down, I’m on a mobile phone or I’m typing emails; no actually gives a toss what I am wearing…oh but they do!

There is another reason the Famouses wear the same thing every day, it’s their brand, it’s their marker, it’s their calling card. They do it so they are easily recognisable; they do it to be unique. They do it because their bob and big sunglasses (Anna Wintour), their gloves and stiff white collars (Karl Lagerfeld) or their tan and just-a-little-bit-too-undone shirt (Simon Cowell) are harbingers of their specific personal avatar. Like the Spice Girls, or Voltron, or the characters in Cluedo; everyone has their colour, everyone has their specific toon and everyone shoulders their unique carapace.

In my case, in the grand tradition of the most fashionable of fashion designers, Valentino, I chose red.

 

 

Signor Valentino

 

I chose red because it goes with my skin. I wasn’t permitted to wear pink when I was a small person. Motherbear wasn’t hot on dressing her little red-faced girl in a cloud of pink flounces; she said it clashed. I was always the blue while the Art-sist-ologer and her olive-er skin got the pink. I have blotchy red skin that coordinates perfectly with my red tops, my red dresses and my red jeans. I chose red because it matched.  

I chose red because it’s the proverbial “red rag”. When I approach, flaming, spitting and stalking, the bulls (read the bullIES) scarper. It’s less of an effort to argue with someone who’s running away. It’s easier to blindside someone who is blind. It’s easier to win if they are already on their back foot.

I chose red because I live in Europe. When the sun is so bright it burns away your retinas, colour is not so much a choice as requisite. Neon rashies, white hats, white clothes in general, all of it protects against the harsh light of a Sydney day. Here in Europe, everyone wears grey. Their coats are woven from grey wool to protect against the grey rain that falls from a grey sky upon their grey souls. Motherbear did once comment as I left the house wearing a Fuchsia wool coat and red Dr Marten boots; you must really stand out in London, looking the way you do, compared to the rest of them. She’s right, I do. 

As the minions march across London Bridge, their grey coats wafting in the wind, me and my brights are bouncing. As the pointy-shoed, tight-trousered dudes saunter into their offices, ready to make a mockery of one and t’other, I stomp in sneakers with purpose and punch. As the little ladies twitter in Topshop, and totter on tiptoe, I revel in rouge, ready to rage for another day, another day at war, but at war in comfort.

So about that girl in the tube.

The sparkle that started it all.. #rubyredslippers

 

She was about 20, she had mermaid multicoloured hair. She was wearing ironic acid-wash jeans and an ironic rock T-shirt of a band she wouldn’t have been old enough to have ever seen live. She looked cool AF and if I noticed her during the 4 stops we shared a pole, it was because she really did look that awesome. I wanted to look like she did’ footloose and fancy-free. I wished I didn’t have to wear boring work clothes so I could look like her, like myself.

And then...as I jumped the stairs two at a time, earning a few extra heartbeats in a heartlessly boring day, she popped up beside me and said, “is red your favourite colour?” Somewhat taken aback that an actual human being with all their sandwiches in their proverbial picnic had spoken to me in London’s Underground Labyrinth, I wavered, “Yeah, yeah it is”. “Well you look so cool, you really do!” she burst out.

She proffered no clichéd reference to an 80’s song by Chris de Burgh, no sly giggle, no malice, no mirth, just genuine appreciation of another someone dancing to their own tune.

And that, dear reader is why I always wear red. I wear red because it’s me; it isn’t you, it isn’t them, its me… and there’s no syrupy 80’s ballad for it.

 

 

 

*I do love that people always offer Lady in Red, never Scarlett O’Hara, Ruby Tuesday or Red Red Wine, or anything else really

^That is what the website says #rollsoffthetongue

#hangry

 

Hunger, while I’ve never experienced it on the same level as many of the least fortunate citizens of our planet, would have to be one of my least favourite sensations. It’s up there with the sphincter clenching terror when first spying a bloody great spider on the cornice, or the fist clenching annoyance of a salesperson who refuses to step out of the boundaries of ‘store policy’ to sort you out with a refund for the neon pink hotpants you didn’t try on or worst still, the gut wrenching nausea when your eyes first open after a night out that ended you-don’t-know-where, with you-don’t-know-who after you-can’t-remember-how-many large Pinot G’s.

I love food, I love to eat, and I take pleasure in preparing meals for myself and for others. I hate missing meals and get ragey when I’ve missed a meal.

So when Bear proposed that I go on a 7 day cleansing diet (which is Bear-ese for acute digestive trauma) I shuddered with fear and loathing.* How could I ever love a man who would ask, nay, recommend, I deprive myself of my two favourite things on earth; food, specifically of the rennet-fermented lactic variety and water, specifically of the grape infused alcoholic variety.

If you want the details of what I ate, look no further than the seven photos below. Everything I ate for a week is there. The only thing you don’t see is black coffee and water and the last night’s dinner. That meal, in a nearby restaurant gastronomique, coincided with the arrival of Louis XIV, and that meal coincided with an even acuter case of digestive trauma as my insides pulsated in horror at the fat, the lactose, the butter, the wheat and the wine they’d forgotten over 7 long days of famine. 

But I did it. Others watched me woof down a plate of mango while they inhaled kebabs. The Critique and I went to see a play; she sipped Sauvignon, I gulped a bottle of lukewarm water. There was never a moment when I wasn’t thinking about what I’d eaten, or more specifically what I was going to eat next. I was hungry for a week; except when I ate the fruit and my stomach swelled in glee…until it broke down the fibre, and then, well I wasn’t hungry, but I did need to open the windows.

 

If you are planning to do it anytime soon, here is what I learned.

Pay attention to presentation. Don’t snack straight from the fridge; dice it, arrange it on a plate and sit at a table to eat it. Anything makes a difference when there is no cheddar on your plate. Place a picture of Colin Firth in front of you while you eat; it might trick your brain into thinking the grapefruit is goat’s cheese. #probablynot I also found that colour was important; rabbit food feels more like rabbit food when it is vehemently verdant. I made sure that everything was so multicoloured, all it lacked was jazz hands. If I couldn’t get drunk enough to imagine I was Kylie, my plate would.

Salt, Pepper, Balsamic and Fresh Herbs are the new fat, except that have no fat, and you can’t fry things in them. Fat makes food taste better, that is why the good people of Scotland have been frying everything they can get their hands on for these past two decades. #deepfriedkebabanyone So if you can’t have fat, and you can’t have chips (I know, cruel world we live in) then you may as well tip a bag of fresh basil into your salad, coat your steak in black pepper and drizzle the rest with vinegar. If it tastes good, you eat it with joy and fill your brain as much as your belly.

Get ready for a revolution; water is life. #iknowright I carry bottles with me at all times anyway, I’ve got a bobble at work, a bobble for the gym and a bobble beside my bed. I reckon I filled each of them four times a day. My shrinking stomach couldn’t fill with food, so I fooled it with water…and then spent half a day peeing. Which was still better than, actually, no, I won’t…TMI. But when you look at what I ate, you can do the maths. But that was pretty full on too.

 

So what did I get out of it? 

• 5 nights sleep; the best sleep I’ve had in months, moreover, I was genuinely tired (not wiped, knackered, wasted or wrecked) when I fell asleep
• Radiant skin; Bear hasn’t shutup about my clear eyes and smooth face all week, like he is the one that ate 5 grapefruits in 5 days!
• 4 kilos lighter, which motivated me, but was not the goal

 

I also proved to myself that I could.

 

 

Saturday - "Melon tastes like cardboard in England"

 

Sunday - "what happens inside when you combine an egg and grapefruit?"

 

Monday - "Mango tastes like Granny Smith in England" 

 

Tuesday - "Dry Toast; manna from heaven"

 

Wednesday - "shit, I'm so eager, I bit before I clicked"

 

Thursday - "I'm eating a sandwich for dinner. I passed out on the way home. All I had was juice for breakfast"

 

Friday - "F**k this S**T..WINE!!!"

 

*Just in case you suspect he tells me what to eat or how to look or any of that, don’t. I’d been moaning about feeling crap for weeks and he was being his always helpful self

#joyful

 

Every single day.

It feels like every single day we wake up expecting to wipe the sleep from our eyes, scrub off the cobwebs and wander out into the abyss, earn our daily bread and crawl back to bed to recover the spirits then rise up and do it all over again. That is what we expect, but these past few weeks it seems our Gods have other plans.

Perhaps unhappy with how much time we are spending staring into our phones catching Pikachus, the Gods, they became angry. Enraged with our disregard for our own race, they reminded us of the power of our own arrogance. They flung upon us horror, they showered us in sadness, stalled our progress with protest, they divided us in segregation and they burned us in conflagration. There was even a f*cking coup (ostensibly it’s 1962) and worst of all, the Gods punished us with the all too sudden return of BOJO.

I am not going to waste energy trying to explain how this all made me feel. I’m exhausted, I’ve spent too many nights awake late into the night picking through the dramatic exclamations of BBC News. I’m tired. I’m weathered. I’m confused.

I’m also joyful.

When I find myself in times of trouble, I don’t look for Mother Mary*; I think that her and her ilk are half of the bloody problem these days. When I find myself in times of trouble, I try to think about all the things that bring me joy. Not just happiness, not contentment, but pure unadulterated joy. The only way I can rationalise the hate and the anger is to fire back in retaliation with a rainbow unicorn fart powered jet of joy. So here we go.

This Little Piggy Went into my Mouth

 

My nieces went to see Disney on Ice in Sydney last week. Motherbear texted a photo of two very small people, coated in neon snowflakes and pink crystals and silver balloons. Two little people who have no idea of what happened this past week, or the extent of their elders’ arrogance and ignorance. They saw Elsa and Anna skating, and they were joyful.

Marks & Spencer’s Dinky Pork Pies; not just a pork pie, but a very, very small Pork Pie, so small that it is in fact Dinky. It is filled with meat and unlike its full sized brethren can be consumed in a single mouthful. I’ve got Bear addicted them. I’ve got the Concierge examining the contents of my shopping in anticipation of a porky present. We all eat Dinky Pork Pies and we are joyful.

 

I saw Ghostbusters. If you haven’t seen the new Ghostbusters, you must, it is more fun than a bubble dance rainbow party. It is fun because it turns all your boring action tropes on their head. It is fun because every ten minutes or so, Kirsten Wiig gets covered in slime. It is fun because some of the old favourites show up in surprising cameos. It is mostly fun, and you cannot underestimate just how much joy this will bring you; it is mostly fun to see Chris Hemsworth dance. Chris shakes his money-maker, thrusts his hips and grins. I laughed out loud on my own in a crowded cinema and I was joyful.

When one Chris just isn't enough

 

 

My peeps are all getting happy. New Girl lives in San Francisco with her Butcher husband. The Body will imminently spring forth a tiny Baby Body. The Kaiser of Kool is married because in the Greatest of Britains he legally can. Sunshine, starved of his namesake for two long years, is returning to the south. My peeps are realising their dreams and they are joyful.

I went to the ballet. Odette leapt and twirled and her spindly quivering fingers expressed more with each flicker than the filibustering of all those whooping wigs on the news. The music filled my empty spaces, the sound of wooden shoes hammering against the stage matched my racing heart (yes that sounds trite, but you know what I mean) as they pliéd, as they pirouetted and as they pas de deux’d. It was the Australian Ballet choreographed by Graeme Murphy and aside from the odious odour of Murdoch (they have to get their money from someone) it was perfect. I wept and I was joyful.

 

Cygnine perfection on a Platter.

 

 

It may seem like escapism, you may posit that I’m ignoring what is happening around us. I am not; I read the news with more diligence and attention than many of my entourage, an entourage more concerned with HiddleSwiftWestadashian. I watch, I read both sides, I do my best to make head or tail of our Topsy Turvy world. I have no answers and I am sad. But I will no longer use these pages to glorify the dickheads. The more airtime we give them, the more power the dickheads claim over the public consciousness. So I watch Michelle Obama and James Corden and Waleed Aly and I am joyful. 

And finally, after months in the dark, in the rain, in the clouds and storms, finally the sun has come out…de de de doo. And I say, it’s alright. **

 

 

 

 

*In case you are 12, that is a reference to The Beatles

** In case you are still 12, that is also a reference to The Beatles

#shitstorm

 

According to the world’s most erudite source of reference, the Urban Dictionary, a shitstorm is “a course of action that would appear to lead to a good outcome, but when undertaken, leads to a situation that is utterly out of control beyond human comprehension.”

…Beyond human comprehension…as in, if actual faecal matter started raining from the celestial heavens above, it would likely make more sense than what is happening in real life.

  

For the past two weeks I have spent my downtime collecting and clarifying my thoughts about #Brexit, the EU referendum result, the impending sense of gloom and doom, the idiots, the believers, the readers and of course Rupert the Revolting. I’ve been reflecting on what it means to me, a British Citizen living Great Britain but still very much a foreigner, an immigrant, an imposter. I’ve wondered why globalisation and the freedom of movement and democratisation of knowledge has led to us being obsessed with labels and the search for our own little tribe to belong to at the exclusion of all others. Why do we care so much what our neighbour does when so many of us are barely looking after ourselves and our own?

 

  

My father and his family left Great Britain in the 60’s in search of a better life. The Great Britain that raised him was plunged in poverty, suffocating under smoggy air and very, very small. He and his siblings went in search of something greater…and found themselves in Australia. (Ok so maybe they weren’t that well researched). But still, they left a Great Britain that predated the European Union by a whole 7 years and the stories he told us of his idyllic isle sounded dark and Dickensian.

We came back to Britain in 1986 to learn about the land he loved and left. He hadn’t set foot on the Motherland in almost twenty years and delighted to rediscover ye olde British traditions and share them with his Aussie wife and eldest child. We explored culinary delights from Gretna to Land’s End and all the bits in between. We gobbled on the greasiest Fish & Chips in Christendom (he didn’t finish it), we were blessed with food poisoning from the tinned carrots we were fed in the tradition of all the best English pubs of the day and we revelled in the requisite trip to M&S for a real Pork Pie. I’ll admit, that bit was good, but the tiny pie cost him a week’s wages when converted to GBP. Not wanting to go bankrupt for decent bacon, we spent the majority of the holiday eating in the ever reliable and economical Little Chefs and Wimpy Bars. #greatbritishbuggeroff

The roads were better; he never shut up about that. But Australia is 32 times larger than the UK so laying bitumen is a marginally more arduous task. Equally the intense heat causes road surfaces to buckle and crack. Then, in Selfridges, he purchased the first pair of trousers he’d owned in 20 years that didn’t need to be taken up four inches to fit him. He said it was because England had more choice; we said it because he was a shortarse and Australia catered for the national average not Oompa Loompas.

In short (all puns intended), the Great Britain of the fifties and sixties, post-rations and pre-EU-avocadoes was pretty dire and the POMs didn’t even win the cricket back then. #yesitwasthatbad

So with all due respect, and based only upon my very specific personal example, I’d like to know what exactly Farage, Johnson and their ilk are predicting for our Britannic future. We’ve taken the country back, but back to what exactly, 1949?

 

#Brexit is happening; there is nothing we can do now. The only positive, if it can even be considered a positive, is that they are all quitting, running from the inferno faster than the cockroaches. Our Television screens are a little less polluted by rhetoric, lies and promises written on the sides of buses. I know I usually look to the sides of buses for political insight. But I suspect that when your most prevalent source of information is Rupert the Revolting’s Sun, the side of a Double Decker Bus is positively Stephen Fucking Hawking.

Good thing then that the rest of the world are trundling on so well to balance out the crazies.

…Or Not.

 

 

It’s taken a week to call the election result in the Great Southern Land. A week to figure out that the dude who was in, is still in, only now with added Far Right Foolery in the Upper House to add an extra dose of Bigot to the governing of the country. At least they can vote her out in 4 years. Which will be at least how long it takes for gay people to be allowed to marry in Australia. 

Australians too are obsessed with the pre-globalisation-and–Internet fifties. The Baby Boomers of Brisbane dream of the times when kids played in the front garden, breathing in the asbestos and the leaded-fuel vapours of their Dad’s FJ Holden. Mum went to work to be sexually harassed by her male supervisor while the Italians down the street were victimised for their suspiciously oily skin and the offensive smell of garlic that permeated Sydney’s western suburbs for a decade. Back when the DDT added a little extra spice to the potatoes, when your grandmother was popping pills to see off the tremors and you sent your sons to school to be slapped with a 3-foot bamboo rod while your daughters were date-raped in the back of a ute. Ah yes, those were the days…

Well then God Bless America. The Americans are keeping it real for us all. #facepalmemoji

 

I won’t go off on one (again) about guns. I won’t go off on one (again) about Trump. I won’t go off on one (again) about America in general. Only to say that they have done such an excellent job of setting the global tone since 1950; we’ve all been excellent students and can only hope that the aliens in Roswell are in fact real and will come to save us from ourselves.