Glutbusters

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June 30, 2005

Cop That, You Bastards

Or... Classic Dummy Spits Throughout The Ages

Mark Latham - 2005

Nine months or so after crashing to an election defeat at the hands of John Howard, former Opposition Leader Mark Latham's biography arrives, pointing the finger from beyond the political grave at:

State Premiers Carr, Beattie and Gallop: "A-grade arseholes"!
Kim Beazley: "a conservative, stand-for-nothing type of leader"!
The media: "drama queens"!

Ah, youse are all a pack of cunts!

Curiously silent on Mark Latham, though. Classic tanty stuff.

Jeff Tarango - Wimbledon, 1995

Pat Rafter said of Jeff that "he couldn't play tennis very well". Not to worry! The little known American player guaranteed his place in the annals of the game's greatest dummy spitters on the hallowed courts of the All England club. Dissatisfied with a line call, he remonstrated with umpire Bruno Rebeuh, who stood firm. He told courtside spectators jeering him for his petulance to "shut up", called the umpire "the most corrupt official in the game" and when docked a point for a code violation, packed up his bat and ball and went home, leaving his wife to slap Bruno for his troubles.

If you're calling that out my wife is SO gonna bitch-slap yo' ass, motherfucker!

Eric Cantona - Selhurst Park, 1995

A classic straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back story: the day Cantona did his nana. Premier League. 1995. Manchester United v Crystal Palace. Cantona, the gifted Frenchman. Able to do seemingly impossible things with a soccer ball. Famed for punching his own goalkeeper in 1987. Blessed with the ability to hack opposition ankles with an unusual brutality. Red carded after one such hacking, he stalked to the bench, his Gallic temper bubbling. A stray comment (allegedly racial) from "fan" Matthew Simmons was all it took to send Eric flailing into the crowd, studs up, to land a deft kung-fu kick on Simmons. 120 hours of community service (and a fair old knackering on the fence) followed.

Fuck World War 1! You English are all wankers!

Normie Rowe / Ron Casey - Midday with Ray Martin, 1991

Blue-haired ladies around the nation got the shock of their lives in 1991 when a debate on republicanism degenerated into schoolboy violence. Shock jock Ron the republican sneered at muso Normie the monarchist and Vietnam vet, called him a "bloody hero". Normie stalked across the stage, called Ron a "low rat". Ron stood up to take it like a man. Normie pushed him back into his chair. Ron sprung to his feet like a man possessed and landed a cracker on Normie's jaw. Ray shat himself. Security guards intervened. Awesome.

Yeah! That's the bloke! Had a fight with Ron Casey on Ray! Yeah!

Peter from Glutbusters - Peter's House, 1982

My third birthday. Hear that? MY birthday. So all you little pricks sucking down fairy bread and red cordial on my dime, you just get your filthy hands off my new toys. Play with the old shit, I don't care, just don't touch the new stuff. Don't touch it! I don't care if you gave it to me, it's mine! What's that, Mum? You're going to lock me in my room? Fine! See if I care! I'll just fire a parting shot:

"YOU CAN ALL GO AND GET FUCKED!"

Three years old. I'm not proud. I remember watching the kids from my mother-wardened prison, eating ice-cream out of those square cones. Pricks.

Contributions to the Dummy Spitting Hall of Fame welcome. Apply within.

Posted by Peter at 12:56 AM | Comments (36)

June 27, 2005

Coming Soon...

Blogging is a shitload of work. Like, it's not a full-time job or anything (there's no cheap Liptons teabags, for starters), but you have to think and stuff. Me: lots of think, no so much with the stuff.

Brainwave!

What if I made up a post of all the undeveloped posts? Not only would it constitute a post IN ITSELF, it would give me the chance to figure out if they were any good.

Thus, I present:

1. An Ode To Caroline Wilson

This one is going to be a bit of a tribute to one of the gutsiest journos around, The Age's Chief Football Writer. It'll laud her for being a woman in a man's world, and for not sinking to the level of Footy Show types like Sam Newman who hate her because she refuses to be a part of the self-congratulatory wank that is commercial football coverage. And she's a great journalist who keeps breaking big stories. You're a legend, Caro.

POST IT? Yep.

2. I Hate Big Companies

This one comes from the bile-spitting rage that Apple worked me into when I had to spend twenty minutes on the phone to them THREE TIMES just to get them to acknowledge that they're received my fax. It was borne of hate, thus it is probably best it didn't find it's way on, because it would have been a furious rant. And I like Apple. And though pretty much all multinationals are arseholes... to be honest, when I'm heading down the coast and I hear the siren song of KFC's Popcorn Chicken, well, who among us can resist?

POST IT: Nope.

3. Dolly Parton And Powderfinger

A foray into music criticism. I've just got to get a piece of software that can crop MP3s so I can blog them. Then when you listen to the intros of Dolly Parton's "Joleen" and Powderfinger's "JC" you'll see that they're EXACTLY THE SAME. Seriously. It'll freak you out. I can see the headlines now: "Oz Rock Gods Pinch Riff From Big-Titted Country Singer". It'll be huge.

POST IT? Shit yeah. Dolly Parton rocks.

4. "Amsterdam Bomb Sirens"

That title is a scribbled note on my desk. I can see now that it doesn't have the legs to be a post, so I'll clear it up here and cross it off the list.

In Amsterdam, they have air raid sirens. They test them on the first Monday of every month. They're really loud.

Yeah, that was never going to make it. Unless I worked it into some clever little cultural differences / travel diary thing. But there's a billion of those just about old pricks driving round Italy on scooters, so the last thing the world needs is me rabbiting on about it. We'll let that lie.

POST IT? Ah, no.

5. Footballers / Sportsmen And Their Shit Attitude To Women

Probably going to take the form of a Lonely Hearts Club. Photos of happy-looking footy /cricket players. Likes: partner-swapping, text messaging, speed, gang rape. Dislikes: small tits, accountability, women. I won't give too much away cause I'm pretty keen on this one. Could also be artfully woven in with 1 as part of a broad comment on gender in sport. Or could be a vicious diatribe. Wait and see!

POST IT? Yeah! Go social commentary man!

6. My Nanna

Cause she's awesome. Could go one of two ways: funny anecdotal stuff about how she worked like a trojan at our tomato bottling day, despite being in her mid-80s. Or serious, triumph-over-adversity kind of stuff about fleeing Italy in the 50s with nothing and coming to Australia to start a new life. Either way, rad lady.

What a woman. (Sorry about the cropping - had to remove someone).

POST IT? Yes. But follow with post about other grandma in interests of family unity.

7. Experience Boggle

In which I coin a new phrase for the new millenium.

Experience Boggle: the social game in which middle-class twenty-somethings try to outdo each other in terms of who has the most unique life-shaping experiences. Speak Portuguese? Well, it doesn't mean shit if one of your mates does as well. I'll have to be in a fairly cynical mood for this one.

POST IT? Yep. Note to self: change names of friends.

8. Pastels: A Field Guide

A while back, I dropped the word pastel into a post about the silly tarts who pose for Mik Grigg in her heinous Spy2 (now Exposé) column in The Sunday Age. I call them pastels. This will be the amateur pastel-spotter's field guide. In all good bookstores.

POST IT? Subject to research plan at Spring Carnival.

9. Degrassi Junior High

Damn it, that show is just so AWESOME that there has to be material there somewhere. Could incorporate the other cinematic turning-point of my youth: North Shore ("On a small stretch of coastline as powerful as a man's will, Rick Kane came to surf the big waves. He found a woman who would show him how to survive, and a challenge unlike any other." TELL me you're not PUMPED!)

POST IT? Yes, but first buy entire Degrassi DVD collection for "research".

I'll get to them. Just sit tight.

Posted by Peter at 12:26 AM | Comments (50)

June 21, 2005

How Happy Am I?

Answer: Pretty fucken stoked.

I lived in a hole for 47 days with a bag on my head thinking that I was only moments away from being shot / tortured / beheaded by those arseholes. I seriously thought I was going to die there. Honest. I thought that I would never see my family and friends ever again. Check me out. If I'm not the most miserable motherfucker you've very seen, then you must have seen the Tom Cruise Oprah special.

Yeah, you got it. Live with THAT for 47 days and see how hunky-dory you're feeling.

And now look at me! I'm back, baby! I am almost certainly mentally unstable, but damn it, all I want to do is knock back a glass of red or two, stick it to the wife...

(hot bird, eh?) ...then get down and see the Catters!

Up the pussies!

Yeeaaaaahh! How good is this! I'd like to thank everyone in the Australian government. Mr Howard, you're a brick. AD, man, you're my home-boy. All of you, you army dudes, wherever you're from, you did a bang-up job. I love you, Australia. For you guys to work so hard to get me home... wow! And all for a little guy who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But this is the Australia I love, you know? The Australia that stands up for what's right and'll bend over backwards to help a fellow digger.

You guys rock!

Confused about what you're doing for this guy, though.

Cheers,
Doug

Posted by Peter at 08:38 PM | Comments (9)

June 19, 2005

Attention: Kim Beazley et al

See, principles can be a good thing.

Don't let this slip, comrades. You're our only hope.

Posted by Peter at 11:41 PM | Comments (9)

Like The Dees? Check out

Like The Dees? Check out my match report at Every Day is Like Sunday

Posted by Peter at 03:09 AM | Comments (5)

June 16, 2005

200,000kms Of Good Times

My car died a while ago. A burly man came with a big truck, took it away, and turned it into a cube. It was a 1982 Sigma. Sky blue. Metallic. Heaps sexy. Check it out.

Ain't she a beauty?

My late Sigma is a rare concrete example of personal nostalgia. Because it was a piece of shit. It leaked, and thus stank when the rainwater festered in the centre section for a week after a shower. It was only occasionally reliable, and thus not strictly reliable at all. It did 0-100 in about a week. The front indicator was held on by hundred-mile-an-hour tape. It had a one-speaker stereo with a broken tape deck and a radio that forgot presets if the engine wasn't on. The front bumper was falling off. The rear bumper was falling off. It shook violently at 50, 70, 90, and later 60 and 80 Ks an hour. Its indicators frequently broke / flashed double time / didn't flash at all / glowed dimly. It had no heater, no airconditioning, no rear demister, a front demister that only demisted about a magazine-sized area just adjacent to where the driver most needed visibility, and it made a SHITLOAD of noise. And guzzled petrol. Leaded. And oil. Which it dribbled onto the ground.

Get the idea?

But damn, now that it's gone, that car has assumed an almost mythical romanticism. Remember those drives down the coast? (My redheaded friend: it overheated). Those luxurious sheepskin seat covers? (Redhead: they stank of festering rainwater). The capacious boot? (Your mother spilt milk in it in the early 90s and the odour remained). "Bah!" I reply. "The Sigma is the enduring symbol of my lost youth! You have a heart of stone, redheaded one!"

Interestingly, since getting rid of it, I have learned that in the parlance of the suburban drug dealer, "Sigma" is code for cocaine.

PERSON A: Yeah, g'day. I'm calling about the blue Sigma in the Trading Post.
PERSON B: Righto.
PERSON A: I was just wondering, is it a Chrysler?
PERSON B: No, mate. It's a Mitsubishi. (The marque of the Sigma designates different types of cocaine - Ed.)
PERSON A: Sweet. How much again?
PERSON B: Two hundred.
PERSON A: Sweet. Might come round and have a look. I'm after five if that's alright? (Grams of Sigma (cocaine) - Ed.)
PERSON B: Yep.
PERSON A: Sweet.

And so on. Pretty cool, huh?

But I didn't always think that. I used to agree with the Redhead. I can remember cold, rainy days, when I closed my eyes and BEGGED for a little asian car with a demister, a heater, a CD player. No personality? Who cares? I'm freezing my nuts off on the threadbare sheepskin in this old piece of crap! And it smells of piss! Give me something reliable. Something so cheap that I can buy spare parts of the shelf at K-Mart. God help me, I wanted a Daewoo.

Sorry. The point. Personal nostalgia. Yeah, the point is that the Sigma was a piece of shit. I knew it then, I know it now. But it was MY piece of shit. I was Cameron to the Ferris of my friends. I had a piece of shit. And they envied it. So now I remember it fondly. Like an old friend with whom I shared wild continental adventures before she succumbed to consumption or some other suitably romantic affliction. And, in the Sigma's honour, I have procured another old, noisy, unreliable piece of crap. A Kombi. At least it's got a bed in the back.

PS And I cranked the Sigma past 200,000. Sweet.

Posted by Peter at 04:07 AM | Comments (3482)

All singin', all dancin'. That's

All singin', all dancin'. That's Just Pretending for you.

Posted by Peter at 02:09 AM | Comments (4)

June 13, 2005

Everybody's In The House

At the pub the other night, the fearless captain of my hard-as-nails indoor soccer team raised a very pertinent question: "did all those families in those 80s American sitcoms have two-storey houses?"

Damn it, I was intrigued, so I did a little research and discovered that his suspicions were only too well-founded. Indeed, all those families in those 80s sitcoms had two-storey houses.

wtf? Was there some imperative of early 80s American urban planning that I missed? A government directive that all houses should be built large enough to accommodate a hilarious mix of uncles, aunts, grandmothers and irritating neighbours, yet require only one or two sets to be adequately represented dramatically? Apparently so.

Think about it. Full House (with the theme that goes: everywhere you look (backing vocals: everywhere you look), there's a heart (there's a heart), a hand to hold on to). Huge house. Ground floor: enormous lounge, big open plan kitchen. First floor: bedrooms for the girls (two - from what I remember, DJ and Stephanie shared, and Michelle had her nursery), and obviously one for good-old Danny Tanner. Attic: enough room for Uncle Jesse (last seen playing bongos in the Beach Boys' "Kokomo" video) his hot wife Becky, and a rad blue neon kind of wall decoration. And basement: Uncle Joey's teenage-boy's-wet-dream room, with comic posters and maybe even a pinball machine (but free! You don't have to put coins in it or anything!) (Out of interest, did you know that Dave Coulier, who played Uncle Joey, is reportedly the target of Alanis Morissette's number one smash "You Oughta Know"?)

Growing Pains (Show me that smile again (oh, show me that smile), don't waste another minute on your crying): house big enough to accommodate the kids, Dr Seaver's obviously extremely lucrative psychiatry practice (yet not so successful that it required him to actually WORK during the day), and that room over the garage that Mike moved into in later series.

Perfect Strangers (Standing tall, on the wings of my dreams). For a burgeoning photojournalist, Cousin Larry sure had a sweet pad.

Family Ties (What would we do, baby, without us? Sha-la-la-laaaaa. And that theme seriously cooks along - check the funky guitar line). Cavernous interior. Dozens of rooms. (And well and good, because judging by the glint in Elyse's eye in that second photo, Steve had his work cut out for him in the bedroom).

Family Matters (It's a rare condition, in this day and age, to read any good news, on the newspaper page): huge family, huge Dad, huge house. Interesting that Jaleel White didn't go onto bigger and better things.

Charles in Charge (Charles in charge, of our days, and our nights): didn't it have like a mezzanine arrangement? Some sort of raised walkway over the living room?

The Golden Girls (Thankyou for being a friend): I hope to GOD they had a bedroom each. (Except Blanche. She was kind of sexy. I could see her hooking up from time to time with one of the other ladies. Just when they were lonely and a bit drunk and she needed a back rub and gee, is it hot in here?)

And last but certainly not least, The Cosby Show (no lyrics, just a seriously funky calypso/latin theme with wacky Bill and the gang dancing in garishly-coloured knit sweaters). A monster of a house, where you actually went DOWNSTAIRS upon entering the front door.

So yeah. In conclusion: big houses. More interesting conclusion: if you want to be a successful actor, don't star in an 80s sitcom. But a heaps more interesting conclusion than both of those: cool theme songs. Someone kicking around LA in the 80s had a gift for catchy melodies and memorable yet wholesome lyrics. Check 'em out.

Posted by Peter at 09:33 PM | Comments (3551)

June 07, 2005

Stick It Right Up 'Em!*

Dear Labor Party,

I know that being in opposition is a shit job. You rock up every day, you try to poke holes in government policy, but in the end, you lose. Every time. Tough gig. The good thing is, though, opposition is like government without accountability. Not in an African dictatorship kind of way, but in a ten-goals-down-in-the-last-quarter-nothing-to-lose kind of way. It's your chance to articulate an alternative vision for the country, to give weight to the things that tend to get overlooked in government. Like compassion. Like social justice. Like pride.

Have a look at Petro Georgiou, for example. At the moment, by putting his politcal balls on the line and publicly criticising the government's hardline policy on mandatory detention, he's giving you a lesson in opposition. Not that it's going to do anything, let's be honest. By proposing a private members bill to reform our immigration laws, he is probably guaranteeing himself a backbench seat for the rest of his political life, despite Johnny, like the public opinion whore that he is, magnanimously "allowing Georgiou's bills to be debated". Johnny sent attack-dog Amanda in to maul Petro in the hope of discouraging him, but Petro fought back, and his crusade is gaining momentum. He's doing his best.

This is what you guys should be doing. This is what we wanted you to do during the last Election campaign. We wanted you to stand up against the human rights violations committed in our name. We wanted you to give us a genuine opportunity to vote for a better Australia, but you left us choosing the lesser of two evils. You got so scared of losing that you couldn't do what you had to do to win.

But don't be discouraged. Because Petro, as well as showing you what it means to be in Opposition, has helped you on your way. By making public internal division within the government party room, he's revealed a policy schism that up to now was in-house. We all knew it was there - I mean, it's not as if Costello and Howard actually get on - but those Libs are just so disciplined, aren't they? No public shitfights amongst their own members (they're great when you're in government, those conferences, but in opposition...). As far as we know, the tories are all best mates.

So here's your chance Labor. You missed the opportunity to display any genuine leadership on this issue, but we'll let that slide. Because, let's face it, you're our only hope. But don't let this one go. Don't miss the opportunity to portray Howard's government as an inhumane, disintegrating rabble (God knows, the Libs wouldn't). Don't let us continue to live in a country that sees fit to imprison children indefinitely. And don't shirk your responsibility to lead. Please.

Your comrade,
Peter

*With apologies to EJ Whitten

Posted by Peter at 09:39 AM | Comments (7)

June 04, 2005

Naomi Klein

I think Naomi Klein is almost unspeakably rad. Here she writes on torture.

Posted by Peter at 11:12 PM | Comments (0)

Ways To Lose Your Job: #1

When I see stuff like this, it makes me wish I was 14 again.

That's Jessica Biel from TV's 7th Heaven. And if we just ignore the fact that she's SITTING IN A BASIN, we can appreciate the seriously twisted sense of logic that dictated to Jessica that getting her tits out in a men's magazine was sufficiently aberrant to 7th Heaven's super-nice image that the show would release her from her contract, freeing her up to pursue a glittering film career with BFI Top 100 films like Summer Catch with Freddie Prinze Jr. Character name: Tenley Parrish. Make of that what you will.

I always wondered about that show, anyway. I could never quite put my finger on it, but they were all so freakin' kind and religious that I figured some seriously sordid shit must have gone on behind closed doors. Like maybe the Mum liked getting it up the arse from the Rev, or those nasty-looking brothers had a penchant for swapsies a la the St Kilda Football club.

The point is, though, as a young lad you spend your life panting at hot chicks on the telly, hoping that one day, you know, if you play your cards right, and you're both stuck in a lift, and it's REALLY hot in there, and you shoot her that killer look, you might get to see her boobs. Well, don't lose faith kids, cause dreams really do come true.

Posted by Peter at 08:58 PM | Comments (10)

June 02, 2005

Pride and Prejudices

There's been a bit of talk about of late regarding Judge Leo Hart's, well, filthy treatment of a girl trying to explain why she didn't want to give evidence and be cross-examined in the presence of her father who had allegedly sexually abused her and her brother. It's nasty. The sad thing is, it is by no means a one-off case of hideous behaviour in our criminal law system (not including the criminals). It gets worse.

Remember the Ramage case? For those not up to reading legal judgments (and I suspect that would be everyone on earth) here's a long summary, and here's a quick precis:

1. Husband was controlling and violent.
2. Wife had the (unfortunately, very rare) courage to actually leave controlling and violent husband.
3. Wife found new man.
4. Husband was not happy about new man.
5. Wife told husband she was glad to be rid of him, and that sex with him would repulse her. (This is the provocation on which his defence relied).
6. Husband strangles wife to death, dumps body in a shallow grave, then has dinner with son and meets with lawyers before surrendering to police.
7. Husband pleads provocation, has murder downgraded to manslaughter, gets 11 years.

I'll leave aside the arguments for and against the retention of a partial defence to murder based on provocation, which have been pretty much played out (Phil Cleary is pretty sharp on it). The Victorian government has now abolished that defence. Hurrah.

But I'd like to highlight an incident from the trial that demonstrates the serious shortcomings of the entire criminal process.

In his closing, defence barrister Phil Dunn QC warned the jury that they may not approve of what he was about to suggest, then reminded them to remember that there were "tampons in her [Mrs Ramage's] handbag, and Dr Lynch (who performed the autopsy) will say that at the time she was menstruating … Men tend to think women get a bit scratchy around that time".

Let's stop for a moment and unpack that. "A bit scratchy". What Dunn is obliquely suggesting to the jury (7 men, 5 women) is that Mrs Ramage's pre-menstrual tension rendered her behaviour so nasty that, well, it all added up for Mr Ramage and murder is probably too strong a word for it. It's a staggering appeal to prejudice, to chauvinism, and to the nudge-nudge-wink-wink boys' club attitude that remains not only in the law, but pretty much everywhere.

And, even more tragically, it's not even factually correct. Pre-menstrual tension. PRE-menstrual. That's right, lads, once the tampon's in, it's clear sailing! That a barrister is able to so openly and bluntly play on ignorance and prejudices is staggering. And terrifying.

Certainly Dunn's suggestion is ethically suspect. However, and this is where it gets murky, he is bound to do everything he can within the law to get his client the best result possible. And what he suggested is, unfortunately, within the law. Whether playing deliberately on prejudice is within the spirit of the law is another question, but Dunn, when it comes down to it, didn't actually do anything legally wrong.

The problem is that juries are made up of random punters who carry with them all the prejudices that punters may have. And when they make their decision - and the decisions can be pretty huge ones - that's it. They don't have to explain it, or justify it, or even show that they made it based on the evidence. For all we know, they could just flip a coin and head on home. So when things like this happen, it makes me wonder if judge-only trials wouldn't be fairer. Not that judges don't carry prejudices, but at least when they behave terribly, like Judge Leo Hart, we know about it.

Posted by Peter at 11:34 PM | Comments (6)

June 01, 2005

Superheroes

I'm giving a paper at Melbourne Uni's Superheroes Conference. Come along.

Posted by Peter at 08:24 PM | Comments (6)