Sour Grapes Make a Crap Whine

Australia lost, people. Get over it. No amount of crying foul will change it.

As the vomit of Australian supporters’ ire spills onto the streets - reminiscent of many hours spent binge-drinking whilst following another bandwagon – after the controversial Italia win a couple mornings ago, I feel compelled to throw my hat into the ring.

So long as no one throws up in it. But I’m not a hat person. So I guess the analogy is redundant.

Soccer (herein referred to as Football) is a fickle game, a harsh mistress, a cruel dominatrix… and sometimes a fluffy lapdog that brings beer.

I have been trying to search for an independent opinion on the game, but everyone seems to be focused on that tackle. Regardless of whether it was a penalty or not, Australia still lost.

But I give Australian football supporters applause for at least being consistent with their sport as with every other aspect of life.

In the face of a little hardship, we don’t look ahead and search for ways to make the most of a bad situation. No, we have a fucking whinge about it.

Look. Even I’m doing it. Having a whinge at the whiners.

The streets are alive with the harmonious chorus of dozens of Waaaambulances.

However, as we are of a multicultural society, I am personally going to make the most of this situation.

Like many of my fellow Australians, I have a heritage that extends beyond our shores. And, like many of my fellow Australians, I am going to support the country of my family’s origin… even if it was my great-great-grandparents who hopped on a crate lid and paddled for this land.

Go England!!! Yay, Poms! Oi haf a flag ‘anging out th’ winda of me motor, t’ shoo me s’port for me country orf orrig’n.

Oh god… I delusional.

Read the fallout here.

Protect me!!! Er... I mean us!!!

There isn’t a warning label on my office’s toaster which says I shouldn’t stick my tongue in there whilst it’s on! But, I really, really want my toast!!!

There are no warning labels on the knife set in my office that tells me to not poke the sharp things in my eyes. But I NEED to know how sharp they are!

Come to think of it, there’s nothing to stop me from throwing my chair through my 9th storey window and then additionally throwing myself onto the pavement below. Reason I would do this? Just… curious…

What about the chances of me walking along the street and then getting struck on the head by a falling chair and man that had just been lobbed out of a 9th storey window? There are curious people out there. I suggest that everyone in the CBD needs to wear a helmet in the street.

They should erect “helmet zone” signs across town, so that you know you’re in an area that requires a helmet.

Don’t forget “no helmet zone” signs which tell you that you are able to remove your helmet in safety. But there should be a clause on that sign that says that the council is not responsible for any injury possibly sustained while not wearing a helmet in a helmet free zone.

But what if I feel like wearing my helmet on my feet? There’s nothing to tell me WHERE I should wear my helmet. So there should be a “Wear On Head” label for that.

What if I trip and injure another part of my body? Surely a bulky helmet will make my centre of gravity higher (therefore making me more trip-prone)? I suggest protective clothing, from wrists to armpits and ankles to perineum. Or forget that. Maybe a full body suit, complete with cotton wool. While we’re there, lets wrap up everything else in the same stuff. That way we would bounce off everything and not get hurt.

What about possible mental anguish at having to wear these body suits? Fear not, they would all be coloured a nice neutral grey, complete with warning label informing to not remove the body suit under any circumstance.

That way, due to our ultra safe, constant-across-the-board measures and standards, we will finally be safe from ourselves. There will be no need to worry about anything, as nothing will ever threaten us, or in any way require us to change.

Or… we could use our fucking brains.

Patches

I am becoming a paranoid wannabe writer. With all the things going on right now, it is difficult to focus on one single thing.

As I walk down the street after work, the cold wind knifing my face, story ideas pop into my head… seemingly at random.

But nothing fits together. I’m like a kid with a ten thousand piece puzzle. As more and more pieces fall out, the more the picture looks like a Ken Done drawing.

Nothing seems consistent, either. Story arcs form in my head and yet bear little resemblance to the thousands of words I have already etched out on LCD. The whole thing seems to be coming together haphazardly, and I fear that one day it’ll come out looking like one of South Australia’s roads – a coarse, undulating strip that it terribly patched from years of improper maintenance.

I get ideas down pat, I can write about them for ages, but then I get another idea. I want to start the new one as soon as I can for fear that I’ll eventually lose it, but I don’t want to neglect the pages I’ve toiled over for ages.

I don’t want to miss out either. There are just as any people like myself, who are far more talented and driven than I am… surely it’ll be a matter of time before someone gets out a novel that takes my overall message and crafts it into a paperback tapestry well beyond my wordsmithing abilities.

I need focus, I think.

Or some booze.

I have the fever

Is it just me, or does regular, vanilla-grade Aussie Rules Football seem pedestrian and ho hum these days?

However, our beloved game of legalized assault and glorified bogan sleazebags doesn’t seem so great when compared with the biggest festival in the world, the Football World Cup.

Now that Australia is on the world’s stage, it is a chance for us to wake up and realize that the game isn’t played by fancy-footed poofs. Admittedly, I never cared much for soccer (football) until recently, however by the same token my interest in Australian Rules Football has been waning since I gave it up in 1997, citing knee injury and the fact that I wasn’t going any further with it.

Soccer is a much more streamlined game than our convoluted sport. In Australian Rules, players are penalized for a matter based on subjectivity and the perspective of the umpire. Did he have his hand in his back? Or was it more in his side? Was the ball hit out of bounds deliberately, or was it unavoidable? Did he have a chance to get rid of the ball before he was tackled?

It’s a frustrating game to watch. And all these rules seem to frustrate supporters and lends an air of aggression to any game I witness… either at the stadium or at the pub.

Soccer, on the other hand, is very definite. It is quite obvious when a foul is committed. If the ball goes out of play, the other team gets the ball. If the ball is in the net, it (more often than not) is a goal, and the dry rooting can commence.

But at least now Australians can actually see what it is like to support a team PROPERLY!

The Poms have their Barmy Army, a ragtag group of boisterous yet high-spririted louts, whose off-the-cuff songs and drum beating are infectious and awe-inspiring. The Brazilians have supporters in their capoeira dancers, drum beaters, singers and theatre performers. The Argentineans have confetti. Lots and lots of confetti.

What do we have? Drunk people who want to fight and the insipid “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie… Oi, Oi, Oi…”

Firstly, I hated that chant back in high school, in where it was pronounced “zigga, zagga, zigga, zagga,… oi, oi, oi.”. Secondly… it means fucking nothing.

Not only do we have the identity crisis that requires us to shout our nationality verbally (instead of being able to tell who we are by looking at us like the Americans, the Brazilians and… well… every-fucking-one else), but we then need to draw attention to ourselves by shouting “Oi” not once or twice… but three times.

I think this chant was invented by an Australian at soccer game where he was trying to get some attention and be taken seriously.

“I’m an Aussie… aussie… Ausss-sssie… hey, pay attention to me… oi!... Oi! Hey you! Oi!”

However, I was heartened to initially hear bugger all of this chant at the Australia-Japan match, but I did hear it emanate part way through the second half.

My little heart sank. I have never experienced a high and then have it taken away so quick, excepting the time I saw a girl checking me out only to have her friend come up to her and say, “You know, your problem is that you choose the good-looking, but stupid ones…”. In one sentence she both brought my esteem up and then shot it down…

Again, I was hopeful with this morning’s Brazil-Australia game. News reported that Australians were well behaved and actually took the gentle ribbing from the Brazilian fans with good humour. I was hoping that Australians would stop taking themselves so seriously and realize the true meaning of good-sportmanship (we are an embittered lot).

And then Sam Newman gets spat on... by Australian fans.

Sure, it couldn’t have happened to a better ignoramus, but honestly… how pathetic is that?

But Football seems to be taking off here. People are genuinely getting into the game. We are realizing that these old excuses of “Oh they don’t score any goals” and “Oh it’s boring” are stupid and not actually relevant to the appeal of the game. I don’t think we actually “got it” until we actually had a team we cared about.

Soccer is about the drama. The tension. The build up… the edge-of-the-seat, nail-chomping knowledge that the game can change at any moment… and then the huge rush of euphoria when a goal is scored… or the incredible low in the face of defeat. We never knew this… Admittedly, I never knew this, until I actually, genuinely cared about the result.

Johnny Warren was right. He told us so.

(I do apologise for calling Football “Soccer”… I’m only trying to differentiate it from Australian Rules “football”, which actually and ironically involves a lot of fists… but let’s not get me started on calling Rugby “football”, as it’s a sport in where the feet are mostly used for stomping on other players’ heads – and you can only stomp on their heads, because none of those players have necks.)

The Other Beautiful Game

Whilst this may sound like I’m full of my own ego, I must say that I’m an inspirational person. I change people. I make them take courses of action that would normally scare them. I make them take huge leaps.

For instance:

My ex-girlfriend who found out that I was building a house with my then-wife: She insisted that she buy her own house by herself to prove to me that she was a better person than I.

The members of the club I am in: they have looked upon my trip to Japan with disdain, as they believe that someone who hasn’t trained as long as them shouldn’t go to Japan before them. So now, they’re going to Japan.

Boyfriends of my former sister-in-laws: They insisted that my getting a higher paid job than them was a result of effective schmoozing. Last time I checked, they were inspired and had applied for higher paying jobs.

My fellow classmates who discovered that I had been selected to try out for a state squad in a particular sport: They were inspired to take up the said sport so that they could get a higher state ranking than I.

Yes. I am an inspiration.

But note that these people weren’t inspired by my actions, per se. They were inspired by the fact that, as a result of my achieving something, that they had to do something that would make them better than me.

So, I’m not exactly an inspiration because people want to be like me. I’m an inspiration because people simply must be better than me.

They cannot simply watch me get something on my own… they have to surpass my effort. Because they’re better than me. It’s not that they’re aspiring to be better people… it’s spite: to show me just how mediocre and middle-of-the-road I truly am.

These kinds of people have been in my life for a very long time. Yes, they are nice to my face, and they thoroughly enjoy regaling me with their knowledge of such-n-such. However, it is once I begin getting proactive and doing things on my own that these people change.

Their attitude towards me changes. I hear them bitching behind my back. I hear them speaking of untold “rules” which should have prevented me from doing what I have done…

“You have to work for three years before getting that position”

“You must have trained for four years before studying in Japan”

“You have to be seven foot tall to try out for the state squad”

“You need to study to have articles published”

It is these unspoken rules that serve to remind me that life isn’t about doing what you want, however you want. It’s a game, played against other competitors, with an indeterminate finish and a tragic halftime show (normally involving convertibles and blonde girlfriends).

Those who do not follow the rules should be benched, and made an example of, emasculated, surpassed and then removed altogether.

The beautiful irony is… those who I’m inspiring… they don’t even realise I’m doing it. They probably wouldn’t believe it, either.

Sojourn Part Deux

I am not back in this country for three months and I am already planning the next trip away.

Nope, not heading back to Japan just yet. That’s a bit later.

Andy is goin’ on Safari.

Yep, I am off to Africa to gallivant around with lions and tigers and murderous creatures (oh my!).

Of course, it is pending on whether there is a spot free for me… but I’m ready to go.

So yeah, September 2007 is the date for when I go bush.

Stories I have heard so far:

Building a campfire at night time and watching the elephants gather around you to have a look.

A buffalo running through the campsite, tailed closely by a couple lions.

One man sleeping soundly in his (big) tent, only to be rudely awakened by the giant leopard that had been sleeping in the tree above him… by falling on his tent.

Naturally, I don’t know if people are having a lend of me when they’re telling me these stories… but it sounds exciting nonetheless.

There will be other activities involved, like tracking, which will come in handy when I return home to do my stalk… oh… wait… I’ve said too much.

There will be elephant dung tea!!!!! Um… Yay!

So, basically I will be spending an obscene amount of money to go to a country far away, to hang about with large animals with sharp protrusions that could kill me without batting an eyelid and sit around drinking elephant shit.

All this fun, and more… just to learn to be a better stalker.

Man, it is going to be so much fun.

5 songs

Okay Steph. I’ll do your meme. :)

But, how do I go about this? Do I live up to my music snobbery and find some relatively obscure music references to simply outline how fucking al-ter-nah-teev I am? Also, do I apply some kind of hoity-toity sounding interpretation to make it fit me?

1. In Love – Ben Folds feat. William Shatner
2. Any Day Now – Elbow
3. Purple Haze – Kronos Quartet version
4. Sweet Charity – Mr Bungle
5. Fear of Pop – Ben Folds

Descriptions
1. Not a love song, but rather a dialogue of Shatner’s mind as he spins the tale of his latest conquest.... a cynical inner dialogue, mocking the previous conversations and events with his last woman.
2. A cold, haunting track with tones of longing. Looking to the future and hoping it would hurry the fuck up.
3. A disturbing interpretation. Like me. Disturbing.
4. A song constantly changing pace. Lacing interludes of calm with spats of aggressive vocal work.
5. I am afraid… of pop. So it’s apt. Really.

Or do I take well known song titles and apply them to me?

1. Everything About You – Ugly Kid Joe
2. One – U2 (or Metallica, depending on what floats your boat)
3. Betterman – Pearl Jam (Or John Butler Trio… depending again on floatability)
4. Midlife Crisis – Faith No More
5. Bring Me To Life – Evanescence

Descriptions:
1. Lyrics: I hate everything about you… writes itself, really
2. I am one. One person. One world. One me.
3. I strive to be one… a better man…
4. Well, there was a time when I did wonder about my mortality. Funnily enough, it was during a time when I was married. Pity I don’t have a convertible out of my crisis though.
5. A song about someone bringing someone to life... metaphorically… Well… I’m still waiting.

Or maybe I just go with songs that generally speak to me…

1. Nightswimming – REM
2. Throw Your Arms Around Me – Doug Anthony All Stars version
3. Her Small Mouth – Big Heavy Stuff
4. Stockholm Syndrome – Muse
5. Feeling Good – Nina Simone… or Muse again…

I’m not providing descriptions for these. If you’ve heard the songs, and if you know me in any way, you’ll understand.

Mysicians

I am a self-confessed music snob. It has to be said.

I am also of the worst ilk; the one that is self-righteous, self-promoting and automatically hates the stuff that is popular.

The words spill out my mouth like water gushing through open floodgates, “Oh, it must be crap, because EVERYONE likes it.”

However, I am nothing compared to this other form of musical appreciator, hereby referred to as the mysic – pr. My-sick.

They are the kind of people who will take any song, and then apply it to themselves, somehow believing that the musician is “singing about them”.

And the truth be told, the song has nothing to do with them, or their situation. However, record shows that their interpretation might be about their future...

Some years ago, my (then) sister-in-law forced me to sit through the single by Linkin Park: Numb. She claimed the song was about an abusive relationship between a man and woman, in where the partner excessively and aggressively controls the other.

But… as far as I could gather, it was an insipid and shallow song about a child not wanting to be forced by their parents into a life they didn’t want.

However, she applied it to her life… drew her own conclusions… but, as testament to her idiocy, she has now vomited out the cursed-child of her abusive boyfriend, and is probably living in eternal servitude.

Another example of this is the wedding couple who insist on having their bridal waltz to Alex Lloyd’s Amazing. This won’t mean much to overseas readers, but the lyrics go along the lines of:

“You were amazing

“We did amazing things…”

and so forth.

However, it doesn’t take a literary genius to realize that this song is in fact about breaking up. Having the bridal waltz to such a song could either be beautifully ironic, or disturbingly ominous.

But, you see… anyone can do this. Like me, for instance.

But I will not limit myself to pop songs, one hit wonders and the other pieces of noise that grace my ears whenever I walk past Sanity music. My life revolves around that classic, unofficial national anthem of Australia, Waltzing Matilda.

And I quote the chorus:

Andy sang as he watched

Andy waited til his billy boiled

“Who’ll come a Waltzing Matilda with me?”

I don’t own a billy, and I don’t know Matilda, but I am assuming that when Banjo was writing about me, he was being VERY symbolic.

Well, this is my interpretation of these lyrics. Okay… the lyrics aren’t 100% correct, either. But hey, isn’t music always about how the song speaks to you anyway?

PS, I never claimed to not be a hypocrite.

The Grim Maw

Oh dear.

Oh… fucking… dear.

I think I am about to vomit.

Channel 9… seemingly not so content to wring the last drop of dignity from Heckle and Jeckle (AKA Those Beaconsfield Miners) after plonking down two mill for a chat about Rocks… seem to think that the personal anguish of one of their own “journalists” is something worth hoisting on us.

Tracy Grimshaw… I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but no one fucking cares about your “anguish” at seeing a pair of starving miners wandering out of an elevator, probably looking for the straightest – and therefore shortest – beeline to the can.

Speaking to The Women’s Weekly, Tracy will regale us with how the Beaconsfield Affair was “shattering and life-changing”

What I want to know: is she talking about the heart-wrenching tale of two men surviving a cave in?

Or is she referring to that horrible botch-job of a face pull she had done by Bob’s Backyard Plastic Surgeons?

I mean, come on Tracy. No one cares how the Beaconsfield Brouhaha fucked you up in the head, so that topic is redundant. In fact, no one cared how you looked either, so you having plastic surgery was redundant too.

I am more concerned about those people watching Channel 9 who’re horrified by the way your cheeks don’t move when you talk, and you look like the stunt double for Mrs Doubtfire.

That’s causing me anguish.