A White Russian Christmas

I'm on holidays, of sorts. I have four main committments, and I am free of 3 of the 4 for the next few weeks. This is a close to a holiday as it gets for me.

*notices the faint sounds of a tiny violin*

The easiest thing about holidays is sleeping in late, and gorgeing myself on a succession of Christmas/New Year social occasions. The hardest thing has been relaxing, it took about a week for me to withdraw from constantly thinking about work, what I have to do next, when I am working next, what needs to be organised.

One of my work commitments is approaching a part of it's lifecycle that is reasonably strategy intensive, the workload is intangible. I get trapped into thinking about it all too much, outside of work hours, at other jobs, in church... well maybe not in church.

Thankfully that has subsided as Melbourne enjoys a period of unseasonably hot weather.

With Jono's cousin Hunter out from the Shetlands, a Scottish (nee Norwegian) outpost, at the Edge of the World; we set about visiting Trentham for a post Boxing Day short 'oliday.

To encapsulate a hot day and a the following days hangover into one long run on sentense, the 'oliday went like this: golf clubs, story about a post op transexual stripper, dry - looks funny, Powderfinger brush with fame story, golf, shafe, beers, blue bar staff, test cricket, whoops, jerky, former owner character assasination, parma, dessert, good white russians, hottest AAMI chick ever, Jono nap, bad white russians, pool, in ter nash on al poole rools, still no good at pool, two lady geologists, general banter, bad pool, references to intimate apparel, Crownie, closed bar, no geologists, nothing, Jono awake, Joe Pesci movie, illadvised hour long walk in the dark in the name of fitness, random text message, strategic text message, attempt at reading, sleep, 9am knock at the door, seedy, golf, nap, seediness, home.

Ahh, I guess you had to be there.

Reap What You Sow

I've been dying to do this sort of thing all year.

John Howard replies to questions regarding the riots in Cronulla.



PRIME MINISTER: No, I said what I said. I do not believe Australians are racist. I thought the behaviour yesterday was quite unacceptable and I said that attacking anybody on the basis of their race or their colour or their appearance is quite unacceptable.



Unless, they're on a boat, right John?

Dear John

(Does anyone else remember that show Dear John? With the theme song - Dear John, life goes on, by the time, you read these lines, I'll be gone - am I alone? Can I get a fucking aye?)

Anyone who has watched much of (Music) Max on Foxtel would be aware of the nervously painful show Later with Jools Holland. Jools is a diminutive British music addict who hosts a music show which about jamming - or jamin' for the kidz - with the hot music acts of the day. While the older episodes are painfully dated - the more recent episodes aren't bad. The shows gets loads of British local and top notch international groups.

Suffering in comparison is John Foreman's contribution to Friday nights, is The Big Night In with John Foreman.



Okay, firstly, that hair is a fucking disgrace John, a fucking disgrace. Anyway, right down to the flourishing cut offs of his assembled cats as he leads in from a commercial break, piano-side chats, and moving head shakes during a song, John heartily rips off Jools Holland's gig to a T.

The key difference is the caliber of acts that Jools and John get. Jools, quality. John... need I say more?

As an aside, imagine ringing your friends after you'd wound up playing in Russell Crowe's backing band? Could anyone ever take you seriously again after you'd publicly uttered the words 'Yeah, I'm playing gigs Russell Crowe'?

John's The Big Night In is running neck and neck with Hot Dogs' The Uplate Game Show and Ryan Fitzgerald's media career for the title of worst reality TV spin off.

No stars damnit.

So, Sally Can Wait

Summer has begun, as a night at work is replaced with an evening at Melbourne's Festival Hall being treated to a set from the clearly semi-retired Oasis.

While the seats (yes, seats - at Festival Hall - 9 kilometers from the action) were fine - and we were able to stand thankfully, we were surrounded by an acre of poor dentistry and limey accents.

Being afforded the opportunity to hear some songs from my teens played live and with a degree of passion is not without it's benefits, but there is no question that Oasis, no matter where the vantage point, were going through the motions.

On a hot night, following the first boiling day of the new season, the crowd sweated and sung through a fine dining list of their better old stuff - and some acquired tastes in the form of their new stuff. Following a few hours of a trio of short shorts wearing girls to our immediate front and four-beer-at-a-time trips to the bar, Oasis finished with My Generation, which I hate. I hate The Who. I hate My Generation.

A long short walk down into the city for several drinks at a wind down after the show followed, and was then followed with another long walk to where I had parked at the very top of Elizabeth Street. The very top of Elizabeth Street is the central part of the 'Canberra End' of Melbourne.

Sparse and lifeless, littered with parking signs, the Canberra End of Melbourne is the home of nothing.

The trip between the bar and the car was highlighted by a requisite stop for food. In the middle of making our order, the secret-life-of-us-three-episode-cameo-actor-bad-haircut sporting 'assistant' to the chief hamburger maker challenged me and Jono to a 'hit of cricket' while he held up a bat and a rubbery ball to help illustrate his point.

We wondered through the back of the shop to a chichi alleyway where I fielded at silly mid off and Jono rolled his Tony Dodemaide arm over in answer to the burger assistant's facing up.

Two hamburgers, a Coke, a chosen for it's comedic value when eating a double cheese burger Diet Coke and a pile of chips later, we walked to my car thankfully still parked in the Canberra End of Melbourne.

Then it was off to the South Eastern Suburbs, via Richmond.