"Mr Lane, can anything blow up space??"

Double fault, or just a bad rally?

2008-01-26T09:18:00.000+10:30

Sports commentators were agog last night, as they are this morning. The sky seems to have fallen in. The world has turned upside down. And Roger Federer is out of the Australian Open.

Last night's semi-final at the Rod Laver Arena was a bitter disappointment for us staunch Federer fans, as he bowed out to 20 year old Serbian Novak Djokovic, 7-5 6-3 7-6 (7-5). Djokovic played exceptionally good quality tennis, while Roger looked out of sorts and somewhat slow. After the match, an ecstatic Djokovic said that "it's just amazing, indescribable, to beat the number one player in the world, one of the best players this sport has ever had, in straight sets." Evidently, television and radio commentators and newspaper journalists also thought so, and now believe that Federer's loss portends dark days for the Swiss champion. "If he loses this, he'll start losing a lot of matches, heavily", predicted one correspondent on ABC Radio. Roger Rasheed, speaking on behalf of Channel 7, called it "one of the biggest upsets in Australian Open history", in one of the few moments he could put together a coherent sentence. Today, The Advertiser's Leo Schlink maintains that Federer was "torn apart", and that he has become a "leadfooted liability." The BBC, far more reserved in such matters, nonetheless regarded Djokovic's win as a "shock". Almost to a man, dire futures are seen for the world number one.

Roger Federer, above, and below, Novak Djokovic,
Federer's nemesis at the Australian Open last night.

Well, I say it's all garbage. We are talking about a player who, despite suffering from a stomach virus and without having played any warm-up matches for two months before the Open, managed to make it through to the semi-final, along the way disposing of such esteemed players as James Blake, Janko Tipsarevic, Tomas Berdych and Fabrice Santoro. True, Tipsarevic took him to five sets, but Federer still won. What is more, saying that losing to Djokovic is a "shock" is like saying that Liverpool could never beat Arsenal. Novak is the world number three, and a player touted as the next big thing in men's tennis. He has now played Federer seven times, and won twice; that one of those victories was in the Australian Open semi-final does little to assuage the fact that Federer has a winning percentage of 250% over his erstwhile opponent. Yes, Federer is brilliant, and no, we don't expect him to lose, but if he does, what shame is there losing to the third-best player in the world? Pete Sampras was, during his career, the best player on the tour, yet he occasionally lost to the likes of Stefan Edberg, Jim Courier and Andre Agassi. Did this mean he was washed up, that his career was over? No! He went on and kept winning, and that is why Pistol Pete has the world record of 14 Grand Slam titles to his name. Federer, on the other hand, has 12, and has now been the world number one for a grand total of four years and one week. Isn't it likely that, at some point, he will slip up? Or, to give credit where credit is undoubtedly due, that he will be outplayed on one or two occasions, such as he was last night?

Federer himself is philosophical about Djokovic's win, saying that "there is no doubt I have played better before. It's not easy coming out every week trying to win. You'll always run into fellow top-10 players or other guys who are on a streak or a hot run or surprise you. That's the difficulty about tennis." If anyone knows how difficult it is to win, it should be Federer, having made fifteen consecutive Grand Slam semi-finals, which by definition means he faces off against one of the four best players at that tournament. That he has gone on to win most of them, and in fact win 12 titles as a result, is astonishing. And it is this success that means we are profoundly shocked when he is beaten. As Federer said last night, "I've created a monster that I need to win every tournament." If he doesn't, our commentators see writing on the wall where there is none.

In actual fact, there is no shock to Federer's loss to Djokovic, other than possibly the fact that he lost in straight sets. When Roger Rasheed, himself a mediocre and uninspiring tennis player in his own day, began to sprout all manner of doom-and-gloom predictions for Federer's career, fellow commentator and former world number one Jim Courier was quick to correct him, pointing out that the far more comprehensive straight sets win by Jo-Wilfried Tsonga over second seed Rafael Nadal the night before was certainly more of an upset. Tsonga is unseeded and well down the world rankings, while Nadal had previously had a white-hot Australian Open, and was being touted as a possible champion. By comparison, Federer's defeat by the number three player at the tournament must surely rank as a ripple rather than a wave.

Yet commentators insist on putting the worst spin on the match. Advertiser man Schlink gleefully points out that this is the earliest that Roger has lost in a Grand Slam in years, conveniently playing down the fact that this is the semi final, the second-to-last match in the entire tournament. Radio reporters insist that other players on the tour now know that Federer is not invincible, something they surely knew already, as this is not the first time he's lost to Djokovic, let alone to anyone else. And, while journalists feast over the fact that Federer is unlikely to win three Grand Slams this year like he has for the previous many years, let's not ignore the fact that Djokovic or Tsonga, whoever holds that Rod Laver Trophy aloft tomorrow, will find that Roger's name is already etched into the silver. Three times.

So before we consign Federer to the scrapheap of sporting has-beens, let's reflect on the fact that he lost in the same round as the world number two, and was beaten by the world number three. Let's also reflect on the fact that the 7-5 6-3 7-6 scoreline is comparable to Federer's win over Djokovic in last year's US Open final (7-6 7-6 6-4), and that Federer wins two and a half matches against Djokovic for every one that Djokovic wins. Consider as well that Roger is on the verge of beating Sampras' record in Grand Slams, and I think you'll see why Jim Courier, John Alexander and even Novak Djokovic, in saying that Roger is either one of or else the best player ever, are still correct, and will be for some time to come. After all, as Roger himself said, "still, the semi-finals is not bad."

Tell me how many other players made it that far. Now tell me that any one of them losing at that level will destroy their career. There, now you know how stupid it sounds.

Talent Hour

2008-01-10T16:55:00.000+10:30

It may seem surprising in the age of multi-quadrillionaire celebrities having moons named after them because a film of theirs did quite well, but talent these days is as hard to come across as a dodo. And it's about as rewarded as a dodo, insofar that they are dead as...well, you know the rest.

In this, I am quite certain that evidence bears me out. Jack McDevitt, for instance, is a very talented author, creating excellent worlds out of nothing but his imagination, but who is generally ignored because the literary geeks of the world suddenly act like twelve year-olds because McDevitt writes science-fiction. Then it's a case of "LOL sci-fi isn't really literature LOL." Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, on the other hand, wrote possibly the most boring twaddle known to mankind, because it bills itself as factual-based fiction but is actually a socio-political rant about Stalinism, and yet critics have wet-dreams about Solzhenitsyn's and gleefully expound on its thought-provoking and emotionally-challenging themes. Look, I'm sure the guy had a tough time in the gulag, and I'm equally aware that this was an important issue. But just because Calvin Coolidge had important things to say, does not mean that his Gulag ArchipelagoHave Faith In Massachusetts is a literary oeuvre. I'd much rather read about Alex Benedict, Indiana Jones of the something-bazillionth-century, and his life on Rimway. Certainly more than a political polemic dressed up as fine fiction.

The same goes in music. Elvis Costello is a clever lyricist, but is better known for his dress sense than anything else. Aiming to be in a band and write the Great American/British/Australian Song is a surefire way to land yourself living out of your car, but then there are people like Britney Spears. Britney is rolling in cash, for the reason that her music makes sweaty, pockmarked nerds dream about her frolicking around in a too-tight leather skirt and not much else, and because average early teen girls want to know how they can get the popular boys to imagine them frolicking around in a too-tight leather skirt and not much else. Britney's famous (and fatuous) insistence that she would be a virgin until she got married inspired millions of young girls worldwide, many of whom didn't know what virginity was but liked the sound of the word, to lose it as quickly as they could. Brit could probably be put on trial at the Hague on charges of making Supre popular and knocking it into impressionable heads that the Australian Government's Baby Bonus could be collected at 14. Oops, they did it again. And yet she is rich beyond my wildest imagination.

And what is my point?

...I'm not too sure.
By the way, look up Zero Punctuation. Gold.

Green with envy

2007-11-22T14:19:00.000+10:30

I do not understand the green movement.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that the environment is important. I think minke whales should be protected, and that we should take steps to secure fresh water supplies, before China and India go to war over the glaciers in the Himalayas. I think that watering your prize-winning rhodedendrons is not as important as having enough to drink, and I don't much care for the exceedingly charred tan the hole in the ozone layer will probably give me sometime soon.

But there are some limits to what is common-sense environmentalism, and what is utter crap. And there's quite a lot of the latter going around at the moment. First off, the political party, The Greens. This is a little like Nick Xenophon. They have a party platform, being that they want Australia to be environmentally-friendly. Kyoto sounds like a top idea, carbon emissions should be reduced, and Mike Rann's head should be tapped as a source of geothermic energy. Sounds all very well and good so far. But what about issues other than the environment? If the Greens are primarily, as their name suggests, an environmental party, are they actually qualified to introduce bills regarding social justice, economics, diplomatic initiatives? This is especially difficult when we consider that they have not exactly said much about anything apart from Kyoto, carbon emissions and Mike Rann's head. It's a bit different to, say, the German Bündnis 90/die Grünen, also a "Green" party, but one which, in its campaign literature, also has a specific focus on other areas. As I said, the same problem can be seen with Nick Xenophon, and the Anti-Cruelty to Animals Party; it's all very nice if you don't want Australians to spend six zillion dollars on pokies, or if you think sheep aren't having a fair go, but what about taxes? How about free trade agreements? What are your positions then? Kind of limits the focus a little, don't you think?

But, admittedly, the Greens are not the worst of the green movement. Of course, energy is a primary issue these days, and we've been told lots that fossil fuels are bad. Okay then, I can understand that. But in the same breath, we are told that we should not, ever, have atomic power plants. Coal-fired power stations are bad and should be wiped out, but we can't replace them with a cleaner alternative. Apparently, this is due to the waste byproducts generated, which could be sunk deep into the earth, somewhere no one cares about (like Elizabeth), and left to degrade for a while. Also, though nuclear power stations have very few emissions other than steam, they're a shocking alternative, we are told, because they will explode. It seems that a catastrophic meltdown is a dead certainty, and those who oppose reactors point solemnly to Chernobyl. Because, of course, we would use outdated Soviet technology to build a fundamentally flawed atomic power plant on the intersection of three seismic fault lines. A quadrillion to one chance of an accident is too much for us to stomach. But then, what are the alternatives?

Our trendy green friends tell us that solar is wonderful, but it is actually very inefficient. At the moment, we really don't have the ability to store nearly as much power as we would need, meaning that any solar power plant would have to be supplemented by some other, more conventional means. Wind power is another alternative. This is a problem because:

there has to be wind,
we'd need to build hundreds of the turbines to generate a fraction of what a nuclear reactor could,
the turbines are ugly.

No joking there. It is amazing how many of our rat-milk-latte-sipping environmental activists tell us how lovely wind power is, but then bitterly complain about what eyesores the turbines are. Not trendy enough, it seems.
Hydroelectricity is an excellent alternative, until it actually needs to be built. Then, our unshaven, earthy colleagues whinge about the environmental impact of building a dam. Any time a hydroelectric dam is even mooted, greenies point hysterically at China's Three Gorges Dam, and bitch non-stop about the number or rare mosses and earthworms that will soon be drowned. We can't even buy fifty billion hamsters and put them on treadmills to generate electricity, because then the environmentalists would shoot us for being cruel to animals.

Speaking of which, environmental militancy is on the rise again. Recently, it was suggested that, as Japanese whalers are stopping in our Antarctic Whale Sanctuary to butcher some whales for "research", the Royal Australian Navy could use force to get rid of them. I personally think it's a brilliant idea. Send one of the whaling ships to the bottom with a Harpoon missile or some shells from a Bofors deck gun, and see how many come back to try again. But then, our green friends would complain about the heavy metals that then litter the seabed. Probably because the Japanese are meant to be our friends, Mr Alexander Downer says that we won't blast any whaling ships out of the sea, which is a pity, but probably wouldn't be too politic. Okay, I understand that. But now some group says they'll be taking their small flotilla of boats down to the whale sanctuary, and they'll be ramming the Japanese ships. Given that these are green boats, I imagine they're made of some environmentally-friendly biodegradeable plastic or something, but five will get you ten that, whatever they're made from, a dedicated whaling trawler is going to make very short work of it. The damn things are designed for extensive cruises near icepacks, for christ's sake. The result of a ramming will probably be fifteen greenies manning the lifeboats as their own vessel sinks out from underneath them. And then what? Do they expect the Japanese to rescue them, or is the Royal Australian Navy expected to send a frigate to pick them up?

Just goes to show that it's often a good idea to think things through.

One final thought, and not to do with our v-neck, organic sweater-wearing colleagues. I was visited by two Jehovah's Witnesses today, who tell me that the Kingdom of Heaven will be ruled by God and 144,000 advisers. All, presumably, Jehovah's Witnesses. According to JW-media.org, there are currently 6,700,000 Jehovah's Witnesses. Let's assume, although the figure will be on the low side, that, since foundation of the Bible Students/Jehovah's Witnesses movement in 1876, there have been 10,000,000 Jehovah's Witnesses. This means that only about 1 in every hundred Jehovah's Witnesses will be chosen by God to go to Heaven. If you're a Jehovah's Witness, it must be pretty crappy knowing that you might have the same faith as every other Witness, ever, and yet you're pretty unlikely to be favoured by your god. Why would you bother?

Brand New

2007-11-15T20:42:00.000+10:30

What is new? Or rather, who is new?

Well, here's the answer.

This is the newest member to my family, little Zac Thomas Hazeldine, first son of Stuart and Stacey, and thus my new cousin. But I'll say nephew, as I like the idea of being an uncle.

So, to the (very) young Zac, I can only say, Yo.

Seven Worlds

2007-11-14T01:10:00.000+10:30

Crowded House are the definitive Australasian band. There can be no argument to that, especially after Tuesday night's concert, at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre.

The gig began with special guests, Augie March. These guys come from Melbourne, and when I first heard of them (and saw their lead singer on Spicks & Specks) I thought they'd be something super-duper alternative and weird, a la The Grates or some other experimental band who have difficulty making music. I wasn't expecting much, so it doesn't say much that my expectations were exceeded. What I should say is that they were blasted out of the water. Seriously, they were that good. I was muchly impressed, and fully intend to buy Moo You Bloody Choir in the morning, or whenever the hell I wake up.

But as good as they were, Augie March are not Crowded House, and soon Neil Finn and Co. were up on stage, beginning with a fabulous rendition of my old favourite, Private Universe. This high energy, thumpingly good intro was just a taste of what was to come, though. Neil Finn, Nick Seymour (or is that "Soymir"?), Mark Hart and Matt Sherrod expertly crafted a show of older, universally known hits, lesser-known gems, and the latest offings from their latest studio album, Time on Earth. In the first category, Don't Dream It's Over would, by rights, have stolen the show. However, Weather With You captured the audience's hearts so completely that even the ushers forgot what they were supposed to be doing, while Locked Out, possibly the finest Paul Hester-driven song ever, was so unbelievably energetic that you'd almost have thought the much-missed drummer was still banging away at cymbals and running through laneways, furiously shaking maracas like his life depended on it. Speaking of Hester, no one could ever replace him, but Sherrod, who used to play with Beck, seems to have been both the most logical and perfect choice to take his place.

About midway through the concert, Neil decided that it was time to pull out one of the very old favourites, and with Nick, Matt and Mark offstage, he sat down at the keyboard and belted out a magnificent rendition of the Split Enz classic, Message to my Girl, which made more than a few people in the crowd bleary-eyed with emotion. That's not to say it was only the old, old material that got playtime; in addition to the likes of Fall at Your Feet, little-known songs, such as Hole in the River, got a rousing reception, and Time on Earth fans were rewarded with pitch-perfect performances of Transit Lounge, Say That Again, Pour le Monde and Don't Stop Now. After two encores, the extravaganza closed with Better Be Home Soon, and the audience left, $80 out of pocket but just that little bit richer than when they arrived.

If you haven't yet bought Time on Earth, or are completely uninitiated in the art of Crowded House, buy now. Don't even hesitate for one second. And if they come back, bite the bullet and get yourself a ticket. I guarantee you I'll be there, too.

The death of the Sunday night movie, and other cliches

2007-09-24T00:15:00.000+09:30

Tonight there is a movie on Channel Seven, by the name of Final Approach. No, not destination. Approach. It "stars" Dean Cain, and you can really see why he never became anything after Lois & Clark. He is the duddiest dud in a movie that plumbs the depths of duddiness. Basically, it adheres to a whole heap of film cliches, plus really bad SFX. In short:

Random terrorists hijack a plane. One of the passengers just happens to be the most respected FBI hostage negotiator in the history of the universe.
Said FBI passenger worked, respected and beloved, until one mistake many years ago led to the deaths of several hostages; as a result, his reputation has been forever tarnished.
Hijackers say they have a dirty bomb on board, and will detonate it over Los Angeles.
Somehow, against all odds, the FBI passenger defeats the hijackers.
The good guys take control of the plane just a few seconds before the Air Force would receive orders to shoot it down.
As luck would have it, the pilot has been killed and the copilot knocked unconscious, leaving the plane in the hands of a man who has never flown anything before, but must land the aircraft safely anyway, with the help of air traffic controllers.

Excuse me for being a cynic, but isn't this the plot for just about every hijack movie ever made? In fact, to save time, the pilot should carry a gun on board, so that, the moment there is a whiff of hijacking in the air, he can club the copilot over the head, and shoot himself, thereby saving the terrorists the trouble of doing it themselves. Also, I believe they could simplify the unbelievable bits about the Member of the Public who becomes a pilot, and specifically his communications with Air Traffic Control:
Plane: Um, hi. The pilot of my plane is dead and I have to somehow land this 400 tonne jumbo jet at the nearest high-density airport, without dropping it on to the populous city below. You gotta help me!
Air Traffic Control: Okay pal, take it easy, we'll make this real simple. Now, first thing's first...have you ever played Microsoft Flight Simulator?
This would also make the possibility of crashing much easier to deal with.
Plane: So, what happens if I look like I'm about to hit a building?
ATC: Simple. Just press 'Y', and then hold down 'F4' until you're high enough...

But really, there are a whole heap of cliches in the movie world, and soon, all movies become formulaic. These include:

in the army, all officers are idiots/cowards/nancy boys/all of the above, and it's only because of their second-in-command, a hard-bitten and battle-scarred sergeant who has seen it all, that everyone gets through it alive;
also in the army, there is always a soldier named Kowalski, and any military action ever undertaken was undertaken solely by Americans - even in the ancient Greek wars;
the poor street kids who are more likely to end up in gaol will always come good, thanks to some superfantastic teacher who miraculously appears and somehow wins their respect and gratitude;
any racial tension, riots and massacres in any town or country can be overcome by sporting success;
the protagonist in any romantic comedy always has one or two token gay friends for moments when entertainment is needed;
the guy with the British accent is suave and beloved by all, but is actually the bad guy.

In other news, MOTION CITY SOUNDTRACK! ZOMG!

Back with their third studio album, the boys from Minneapolis have come out with a quality record yet again. Even if it Kills Me is a marvelous fusion of their first two albums, I am the Movie and Commit This to Memory, with some innovative new experiments in melody and lyrics that work perfectly. The moog is back, the guitar is back, Justin Pierre's hair is back. Everything impresses.
Songs of the album: at the moment, Calling All Cops and Hello Helicopter.
Rating: Twenty million. Out of five.

The Star Trek: Mariner site is in production, and the novel, The Omega Paradox, is still being written. Yes, I know my original deadline was for March 2007, then September 2007, but it's looking more and more like May next year, if then. But it's shaping up nicely. As for the site, it is unbelievably excellent, thanks to the web design genius that is Courtney M. Jameson. Thank you so much, CourtneyBerry, and to everyone else, you'll soon see why I'm so excited about this.

Finally, if anyone needs to buy a computer or other home office things from David Jones around Christmas, come visit me, eh?

21

2007-09-01T00:00:00.000+09:30

Right now, family members are plotting to give me presents. Parents could be planning an embarrassing photo opportunity, and people I work with will be getting drunk in the afternoon. I'm Special Agent Bodie Ashton, and the next 24 hours will be the most awesome twenty-first birthday I've ever had...

...hey, wait a second...

PREVIOUSLY ON 21
*Lauren* "Wait, was I meant to actually be at my own 21st party? How rad is that??"

*Jenkins* "Pool. Scotch. Hell, I'm cooler than cool."

*Raf* "Yaaaaargh!" *runs into pole, breaks leg*

*Stevo* "Oh my God, my 21st was sooo bad! I'm gonna kill myself cos I'm so shit...wait, no I can't! DRAGONFORCE!!"

...and a sneak peak of this week's episode:
Setting: Belgian Beer Cafe. Bodie is sitting, drinking Belle-Vue. Mobile rings.
Bodie: "Hello?"
Voice: "Bodie."
Bodie, instantly sober: "Good afternoon, Mr President."
President: "Bodie, I understand this is your birthday. But you must understand that my duty is to the people of this country first. I cannot let my own personal feelings get in the way, and that includes the fact that you've saved my life on seventy-two occasions."
Bodie: "Yes, I understand, sir." *Turns to camera, dramatically* "This will be my last assignment..."

*beep-BEEP-beep-BEEP...*

Stay tuned...

The art of the sandwich

2007-08-01T23:09:00.000+09:30

I had a commercially-made submarine sandwich on Monday. And I know what you're expecting.
You're expecting me to say how dreadfully awful it was. The bread was dry, the cheese had the taste and texture of what I carry my groceries home in, and the only time the vegetables were fresh was when some snotty-nosed kid in a country much poorer than ours packaged it in the same plastic that ultimately became the cheese, seven years ago.
Well, guess what? That's not what I'm going to say at all.

My sub was a triumph of that oft-repeated but hardly ever correct statement that fast food does not mean bad food. The bacon, the cheese, the surprisingly juicy salads, slices of ham and turkey, the maybe-not-gourmet-but-still-quite-tasty-really bread, and even the salt and pepper on top...all of it was done to as close to perfection as some bored older-than-teen earning less in a year than a Japanese underwear vending machine earns in an hour can possibly make it. By the end of it, I was very very glad that I had chosen to lunch on this sandwich.

This, however, begs a question. How can it be, in this modern day and age, that the same product, made using the same instructions, from the same company, can go so horribly, horribly wrong? I'm sure I'm not the only one who has noticed the step-by-step instructions for everything ranging from subs to coffees to giving change, all plastered under the sneeze-guards or the cash register at your local McSub Jacks, or wherever it is you go. Surely, then, it is not so difficult for employees to follow the directions they are given. If you are making a sandwich for a customer, and they ask for tomato, carrot and beetroot, you do not put lettuce and onion on instead, do you? If they ask for extra cheese, I'm positive you can, at worst, follow the manager's guide to reaching into the cheese section and pulling out twice the number of slices as usual; staring blankly at a customer, and then ignoring their request, is not a valid response. And if I ask for bacon, you cannot expect me to eat it raw. Salmonella and E Coli might sound like legitimate ingredients for a Sicilian pizza, but I would not like them trading jokes with the turkey in my baguette, thank you very much. You see, I can read. And I can see quite clearly on those instructions stuck on the rangehood that the management expects you to microwave the bacon first. Maybe I'm being overly paranoid, but when something is meant to be cooked but is not, that is usually bad. With one 'd', not two, for those of you whose spelling is as poor as your reading comprehension. And what is the reason for this? Laziness, certainly. But a lot has to do with cultural background.

Now, hang on a moment before the politically correct police drag me, kicking and screaming, off into the dark, cold night. I am about to make some generalisations, and my argument is that one's cultural background, and specifically food norms in one culture, may not be compatible with others. This is not to say that one race is better than another. If you are able to understand the written word, you will appreciate this. So if anyone jumps on their high horse and gets offended, sucks to be you.

Now, it's common knowledge that some nationalities are more gifted in certain areas than others. Get Bill Jones from down the street to play table tennis against Zhang Li from down the street in Guangzhou, China, and chances are that Li will serve Billy Boy up on a platter, despite the fact that Bill Jones might be the Australian pingpong champ, and Li might be 12 years old. On the other hand, if Bill challenges Li to say "thank you", Bill will win this contest of obvious, eminent importance. In the table tennis example, the result is probably due to Li having been in training since he was two, while Bill competes every six months against people who play at the local RSL. By comparison, Li will say "sank queue", because he is unused to pronouncing English words, and his tongue just can't get around it. It's the same for food. Challenge three Indian sisters to make a kofta curry, and they will give you a mouthwatering feast. Challenge them to make a roasted chicken sub with five salad ingredients and mayonnaise, and they go to pieces. They will ignore your vegetable requests, they will ignore the need to microwave the chicken, and you will end up with a sandwich that resembles Chernobyl. Why is this? The answer, I believe, is that, generally speaking, not many people in India make American-style baguettes on a daily basis. It may, to me, seem like the most obvious thing in the world that meat should not be eaten raw or half-cooked, but is it so self-evident to someone whose only experience with western-style fast food options is the hectic lunch hour at the local food court? Maybe Red Subporto or other such companies should realise that their new recruits (not necessarily immigrants) are not actually aware of safe food practices over here, and provide more training. The manager at my local looked at me like I was lying when I told her that other "sandwich artists" had added raw bacon to my baguette, but no, I most definitely wasn't making it up, because the day before, in the same store, it had happened. So maybe management needs to stop taking it as given that all employees know what we routinely see as common sense, and start realising that maybe the new guy doesn't understand that the egg needs to be cooked all the way through, and that the meatballs should not be left stewing in tepid water for fourteen hours.

Then, perhaps, I can forget about safeguarding against food poisoning, and just enjoy my lunch.

Celluloid cellulite, or unwelcome movie things

2007-07-27T16:17:00.000+09:30

Apologies for not posting the happier side of Melbourne. I promise that this is coming soon!

Having seen a recent movie advertisement, I have come to the conclusion that films are going down the proverbial gurgler. Yes, it's the new Bruce Willis flick, Die Hard 4.0, which is pronounced "Die Hard Four-Point-Oh"; meaning that there should be a better version released in cinemas next year, called 4.1. Or, if it's anything like Mozilla Firefox, 4.0.0.102.
In his old age, Bruce Willis seems to be suffering from some pretty nasty complaints.
Doctor: What seems to be the problem, Mr Willis?
Willis: Doc, these hemorrhoids are killing me!
Doctor: Well, let's take a look...aaaah, I see the problem. Terrorists have taken your family hostage again, and are using them as pawns in another overly extravagant plot with little chance of success, aren't they?
Willis: Yeah, and it's a real pain in the...whoa, why didn't I think of that before? You're a genius, Doc!
It is different for Kiefer Sutherland. He is, after all, Jack Bauer, working for the Counter Terrorist Unit. And Jack is very cool. As is the rest of 24. Bruce Willis, on the other hand, is like that annoying, mature-age student in your uni course, who probably knows that whatever they say is completely incorrect and jarring, but will say it anyway, loudly and often. Or does that only happen in my courses?

Anyway...

One of the most troubling things about the movies today is that there's nothing much new going around, nothing ground-breakingly good. There are, occasionally, some diamonds in the rough. I'm thinking of Million-Dollar Baby, The Quiet American, and films of that ilk. But when the latest blockbusters include:

Transformers, which sparked a fan furore because there were flames painted on the side of Optimus Prime, which was derided by nerds globally;
I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, combining one disastrously unfunny actor (Adam Sandler) with another disastrously unfunny actor (Kevin James), producing a disastrously unfunny movie loaded with limp innuendo and tired jokes that would be more at home on the Channel 9 "comedy" The Nation, which is also (surprise, surprise) disastrously unfunny;
Blades of Glory, the latest in a string of progressively worsening Will Ferrell films;
and the aforementioned Die Hard 4.0;

it's not all that hard to see why I don't often go to the cinema anymore. There is, quite literally, nothing worth watching. And all the ones that are worth watching are foreign (such as das Leben der Anderen), and thus only shown at Palace Nova, meaning that you have to somehow work your schedule around an expensive trip to the East End. When the most innovative premise for a mainstream film in the last couple of years was Snakes on a Plane, it's time to get worried. But what would be the worst ideas for films? Please suggest some, but here are some of my own ideas:

Morse on a Horse: From the producers of Snakes on a Plane comes this year's western blockbuster! A resurrected John Thaw plays Inspector Morse, also resurrected from the dead, but finding himself (somehow) in 1852 Texas. The roving Morse, along with his trusty thoroughbred, must solve crimes all over the Wild West, while at the same time searching for a decent pint of lager.
Little Dicky: This docudrama of the life and times of Richard Nixon, before he became president of the USA, shows him to be a light-hearted, well-meaning individual, who, in spite of being crude and ridiculous, just wanted the best for everyone around him. Starring Adam Sandler as a thoroughly unconvincing Nixon, and Nathan Lane as the over-the-top token gay friend Nixon never had.
Slightly-Less-Water-World: The long-unawaited sequel of the film no-one liked! Kevin Costner reprises his underwhelming role as "the Mariner" (of no relation to the marvelous starship), as he (again) searches for land. Some action happens, probably involving pirates or sharks, or pirate sharks. Watch for the scene where the Mariner pees in a cup and then drinks it...again!
Die Hard 4.0

Go.

The hotel with no name...

2007-07-13T18:08:00.000+09:30

...we can only hope. Courtney and I just got back from a week-long holiday in Melbourne, which was quite excellent; we went on Puffing Billy, visited the Melbourne Zoo and the RAAF Williams Point Cook Museum, and shopped lots. Of course. Our accommodation, however, was sucky. In a major way. I cannot begin to do it justice in a short post. Instead, I will recreate, here at Blowing Up Space, my letter to Darling Towers. And a bit of advice for anyone planning on a Melbourne trip...for Christ's sake don't stay at 32 Darling Street...

To Whom It May Concern:

Recently my girlfriend and I stayed at your establishment at 32 Darling Street, South Yarra. As a result of this stay, between 4-9 July 2007, we would like to raise several serious concerns and complaints as to the running and condition of Darling Towers.

We had stayed with your company before, during the summer of 2006. At that time, we found our room to be adequate, and we decided to book again for Darling Street, due to its convenient location close to Chapel Street and the South Yarra train station. On this occasion, however, our lodgings were less than satisfactory. In fact, in certain respects, they were a threat to our health, and that of subsequent guests.

Upon arriving on the evening of 4 July, we soon discovered that our room was on the second floor. This in itself was not a problem, however we became concerned when we discovered that the front door to our room was jammed, and required considerable strength on my part to force it open. This jamming door was a major worry for us, as it would limit our chances of escape in the event of a fire. As I have already stated, we were lodged on the second floor; short of jumping out of the window (for obvious reasons, not the option of choice), the front door was our only way out of our apartment. Given that the kitchenettes of the apartments are equipped with gas stoves, it is completely intolerable that our only escape in the possibility of a fire would be so difficult to open. This fear was compounded when, on returning to our apartment the next day, we discovered that, even though smoking is prohibited in the building, the corridor reeked of cigarette smoke.

Later that night, we also discovered insects crawling over the microwave and bench in our kitchenette. When we had stayed at Darling Towers in 2006, our room had suffered an infestation of these same bugs, though we, probably being far more tolerant than the company deserved, ascribed this to the humid Melbourne summer, something out of the control of Darling Towers. Yet now, we find insects in our room in the dead of winter as well! It was not difficult to trace the source of these pests, though. Our room (Seventeen) had been fitted with a wall-mounted air-conditioner, which had, at some point in time, been removed and replaced by a smaller unit. Whoever had installed this unit, however, had not even attempted to seal the gaping hole that now opened the apartment to the outside world, subjecting us not only to every icy draught that blew outside the building, but also allowed our not-so-sanitary six-legged friends into the room. As you can imagine, by this stage we were completely unimpressed. But worse was to come.

In the morning, we decided that we would like a hot shower to start our first full day in Melbourne. This, I am sure, does not seem like anything unusual. What was unusual, however, was when our hot water suddenly cut out completely after only a few minutes, and did not at any point within the next half-hour reheat to anything resembling hot. Thus, we instead began our day with a frigid shower, and to make matters worse, when my girlfriend plugged in her hairdryer in the bedroom, we found that the power points did not work. Incidentally, we both fell ill that day. I am not suggesting that Darling Towers is responsible for every cold or flu bug in Victoria, but beginning a winter’s day with a freezing shower and the inability to dry one’s hair certainly would not have helped matters.

More than a little perturbed, I went downstairs to the reception desk to register a complaint. The man at reception, whose name I do not know, seemed to treat it as some vaguely amusing joke, before promising me that your “maintenance technician” would be up to fix everything shortly. It seems that your “maintenance technician” was a man with a can of bug spray, who told me that he was “expecting cockroaches”, and who proceeded to open the cupboards and, to my utter astonishment, shock and outrage, spray insecticide on, in, and over the provided kitchen utensils and crockery. He seemed not to be aware of our hot water issues, but after running the tap for a moment, he said it was “getting warm” (to my senses it was still far too cold to shower in). When I mentioned the door he said he might plane it later. This debacle was the very last straw. We stormed down to reception with a list of the problems in our room, including the fact that our crockery had now been poisoned. The same man as before was manning the desk, as well as another woman whose name also escapes me. The lady was far more sympathetic, and seemed to realise the severity of our predicament, even muttering “oh my God” when we related the tale of the bug spray-wielding maintenance man. On the other hand, the male receptionist regarded us with a somewhat smug and amused smirk, until the point when we made it very clear that, unless our living arrangements had improved by the time we returned from the city that afternoon, we would find alternative accommodation and would expect a full refund. At this point, we were assured that Darling Towers would “take care of it.” Indeed, by that evening we had been moved to apartment two, 8 Alexandra Street. Though I can in all honesty say that this room was exponentially superior to the one we had left behind, we discovered that evening that, again, the hot water did not seem to work properly. After some experimentation, we realised that the water would remain hot for approximately seven minutes at a time. From this, we theorised that the Darling Towers hot water systems are set on a timer. If this is the case, we were never informed of the fact. If this is not the case, then the hot water systems at Darling Street and Alexandra Street are simply atrocious, possibly due to the fact that they cannot be repaired by a tin of Baygon. We became so fed up with our treatment at the hands of Darling Towers that we did, indeed, seek alternative accommodation for the weekend.

I have not written this letter with the intention of soliciting some empty letter of apology from Darling Towers. Instead, I am insisting that some action be taken to improve the living conditions at your establishments, which are at present deplorable. With regards the hot water, it is outrageous that the usage be timed. We paid for our room; that includes usage of electricity and water. We planned many long day trips in and around Melbourne; it is natural that we might have wanted a somewhat more relaxing start to the day than a mad rush to wash before the water turned freezing. Moreover, it is no exaggeration to say that our very lives were put in the gravest danger by the malfunctioning front door, especially with the presence of gas lines and cookers in most of the Darling Street apartments. I am not a small man, and I found that, with a considerable effort, I could force our door open. What chance, I wonder, would less powerfully built guests, perhaps even children, have if there were a fire and they were trapped in a room similar to the death-trap that was number seventeen? How many other rooms at Darling Street have defective and dangerous doors? I do not accept the explanation offered to me that the company was “not aware” of the problem. I was under the impression that the term “serviced apartment” means that staff gain access to the apartments in order to, as the name suggests, service them. The staff must therefore have been fully aware that the door jammed, just as they would have been well aware of the large hole in the wall, through which cold blasts of air and unwelcome insects poured. That these flaws existed in the first place is an indicator of the substandard level of maintenance at the facility. That there had been no measures taken to correct them, even though they must have been well-known to the staff of Darling Towers, is likewise an indicator of the disturbingly cavalier and dismissive attitude that the company has towards customers who pay in good faith. When we booked, we were not expecting a room akin to a Ritz penthouse, but we did at least expect a room with reliable hot water and sanitary conditions, free from fire hazards and bug infestations. We certainly did not pay for a man to spray insecticide on crockery that we are expected to eat from. Granted, we did not intend to use the kitchen utensils anyway, but what about other guests in other rooms, or even those who later booked our room? What guarantee is there that the same thing hasn’t happened hundreds of times? How would Darling Towers explain to its guests that its maintenance personnel have knowingly and willingly poisoned the very table- and kitchenware that they are using to prepare dinner? How can any of the appalling service and conditions that we were forced to suffer during our stay be explained at all?

As I am certain you will have determined from the content of this letter, during our stay at Darling Towers we experienced events and practices that cannot be dismissed as annoyances or inconveniences, but rather grossly negligent behaviour and conditions that surely contravene a great many of Victoria’s health and safety regulations. As such, we are seriously considering contacting the authorities, in the hope that they might take action to ensure that no one else has to put up with the same outrages that we did. Whatever the outcome, I can assure you that we will never again stay at any of your company’s facilities, and we will actively dissuade friends, relatives and colleagues from doing so as well. Your company very nearly ruined our holiday. We believe that this is the least we can do in return.

Yours sincerely,

Bodie A. Ashton.-

Even basic thought doesn't come naturally after two and a half hours of sleep...

2007-06-29T08:51:00.000+09:30

Well, it's finally happened. After years of speculation, and not all that long after announcing his intentions, Tony Blair has resigned as British Prime Minister. This leaves Gordon Brown as PM. Some may rejoice in Blair's departure. I, for one, do not. And here's why.

It's easy to blame Tony Blair for many things, especially the Iraq War. But let's put things in perspective here. Blair was in power for ten years. That is a phenomenal achievement for any leader of a country with a democratic voting system. Just ask Mr Howard in Canberra. It is easy for people to look back and say that Blair, like Howard, was not the perfect Prime Minister. But then, like John Howard, when the elections came around he was voted back in with monotonous regularity. Does the population suffer from amnesia come the ballots, or was Blair an intensely popular politician? I believe the latter is the case. Certainly, unlike in America, where any man and his dog can be president (as long as they're filthy rich and have brothers in high places), the United Kingdom works on a majority rules system. Quite simply, you cannot become Prime Minister unless you garner the majority of the votes. Obviously, Blair did this. More than once. So while our English friends can whinge in retrospect about the Bad Things (TM) that Blair might have done, they cannot deny that, for ten years, he not only served them, but served them in a way that pleased and impressed them enough to gain millions upon millions of votes in the General Elections.

Blair has also been instrumental in pushing for African poverty relief. Bob Geldof might, with his lecturing tone and accusing glare, complain that Blair did not do enough for the impoverished masses of the continent, but the fact remains that Blair, like so many others, has been bashing his head against the US establishment, trying to commit them to humanitarianism that they don't want. At various G8 summits, for instance, he has pushed for African debt to be cancelled, and for an increase in funds to various African states. George W. Bush, on behalf of the United States, has scuttled this hope at every turn, but at least it was a positive sign from one of the most important countries in the world.

Then, let's look at Iraq. Sure, we can point to Iraq and complain about what a right royal cock-up it has been; I should know, as I do this all the time. But, again like John Howard, Tony Blair is not to blame for this. When Bush declared that "either you're with us, or you're with the terrorists", it hardly gave much scope for compromise. Especially if, like Blair, you're the leader of a country whose major trading and defence ally is the United States. While the Iraq War has been a disgrace, the UK did not have much of a choice. When France refused to back the Iraq War, it took a pummelling in the US, and France does not have so much of a vested interest in that country. So while we may despair over the fate of the Iraqi population, when it all boiled down to it, Blair did what he had to do to keep Britain's head above water.

And now he's gone, replaced by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who is essentially a glorified accountant with flabby cheeks and an I-want-to-eat-you smile. But in leaving, Tony Blair will be remembered by history as one of the greatest statemen of the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries.

Knowledge

2007-06-21T17:18:00.000+09:30

Did you know that the word scumbag was originally a euphemism for a used condom?

...actually, there was going to be a point to this post. But I forgot it.

Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Experts Say

2007-06-14T18:22:00.000+09:30

In the past few weeks, our lovable newspaper, The Advertiser, has treated us to some glorious headlines. So let's look at the three best nominations for MOST OBVIOUS HEADLINE OF THE YEAR AWARD, and yes, you can vote. I might see with Pat if I can get a voting engine up and running, but otherwise, tag and let me know what you think is the best:

Harder to fill jobs that nobody wants.
Presumably it is a great shock to everyone that no one is willing to take on a job that they don't want...

Playing football causes brain damage.
You could probably tell that by the permanent expression on Fraser Gehrig's face. I am also expecting the related headline soon: "Watching football causes brain damage."

Wet roads "more dangerous": RAA.
Yes, after years of research costing millions of dollars, the RAA comes up with this amazing fact. Also, that cars without wheels are harder to drive.

Go.

One night in a Big house, where it's extra newsworthy and somewhat boring

2007-06-12T17:49:00.000+09:30

Some thoroughly crazy things have been happening to the world recently. So let's categorise these things:

PARIS HILTON
You can't get much crazier--or stupider--than the Hilton clan. After Paris was charged with driving while disqualified from doing so, she defended herself by insisting that "my people" handled those affairs, and therefore she didn't realise she wasn't allowed to drive. Despite her licence being revoked earlier. Surely even Paris, thick as she is, would've realised that a disqualified licence means that you are disqualified from driving, and that if you get caught driving without a valid licence...well, then you're in trouble. But the best was yet to come...

Convicted by the court, Paris has her sentence cut in half. Presumably because she has boobs and a lot of money. And a really weird and permanent facial expression.
Paris' fans start an online petition to free her, saying that she "enriches our ordinary, mundane lives" by being "fabulous", and as a result, any breach of the law should be ignored, given what she does for the community. Obviously, the creator of this poll is a paedophile, as Paris' major legacy is making 12 year old girls feel like it's okay to shop at Supre and put out at any given opportunity. Paris replies, imploring people to "Sihn the petition." Presumably, "her people" usually handle all matters regarding spelling.
Having served four days of her sentence, Paris is released to home detention, citing unspecified "medical reasons." The sheriff insists that he was doing the right thing. The judge insists that the sheriff is an idiot. Paris insists that she wants her mum. It all ends in tears, especially for the public, who are absolutely confounded about whatever the hell is going on.
Reports from prison indicate that Paris has "stopped eating." This, I believe, is not a new development. I doubt she's eaten in years.
And finally, and somewhat inevitably, Paris Hilton says that "God has given me another chance." Any shred of a chance that I might believe in a benevolent god has now been completely smashed.

If Paris writes a book about her "traumatic" experiences behind bars, I swear I will ram it down the throat of the nearest skank I find.

BIG BROTHER
It's on TV. This is all we need to know to be afraid and disgusted.

TOOHEYS EXTRA DRY

Okay, so beer ads are often quite odd and, as a result, cool. Who could forget the Big Ad, Flashbeer, or the West End Draught one with the faux "Come to South Australia" infomercial? But Tooheys have gone a bit far with this ad, which makes no sense whatsoever. I mean, what is the message behind it? "If you drink Extra Dry and have a really bad haircut, you too can breed an entirely new subspecies of humanity, complete with their own set of hideously poor hair styles!" Now, I'm sorry. I believe I can think laterally and logically, and I'm pretty sure that metaphors and symbolic representations are not beyond me. But as for this ad, I just...don't get it. It only makes me want to murder hillbillies, not drink Extra Dry...

THE ADVERTISER
"The State Government's 2007 Budget indicates that we have a brave government, willing to go into debt..."
Hang on...didn't we spend the best part of a decade dragging ourselves out of the debt-ridden hole that the SA Labor Party had plonked us in with the State Bank debacle et al? And how come the Howard Government is lambasted for not going far enough, when it is attempting to instigate nation-wide water reforms, while the Rann Government is applauded, even though the 2007 Budget makes no allowances for water conservation? Does someone on North Terrace think that the rain we've had recently will continue permanently? If so, may I get the same model of crystal ball they have?

AFL
What is it with AFL players having godawful names these days? But more to the point, what is it with commentators making sly jokes about them?
"That pass by Goldsack was rather hairy..."
"Cocks long to Dick, but Dick just wasn't big enough there..."
"Johnson was taken by the head there."
But in general, commentators' jokes are pretty longwinded and somewhat not funny:
"Essendon will play it around the back lines here, it's their tactic called 'Bore and Score'."
*two mins later*
"Not much happening with the 'score' aspect, maybe it should be called 'Bore and Bore'."
"Actually, I think it's a spelling error. It should be 'Bore and Snore'."
"Haha. There's a lot of boring happening down there at the moment...and I imagine a lot of snoring too!"
"Yes, but not much scoring."
"No, despite the fact that score and snore sound similar, they're not much alike in this case."
"Or in any case, Den."
"Quite right. But it's hard to see how the Bombers can score from here. They may just continue to bore..."

And with that, I've had enough of looking at silliness. Fare thee well, eyebrows, and I shall return.

...and I'm back

2007-05-30T16:53:00.000+09:30

Apologies for my almost month-long absence from my blog. Recently my family suffered a bit of a crisis, resulting in my uncle passing away last Tuesday, after a short struggle with brain cancer. So yes...sorry. And I will have a post of some description sometime soon.

Headlines of the Future

2007-05-03T20:30:00.001+09:30

Remember this? Well, I got to thinking that, perhaps in 2026, we'll somehow all make the newspaper headlines. So here's an index from our favourite newspaper, The Oddvertiser, dated 3 May, 2026...

THE ODDVERTISER
Index, 03-05-2026
Published by News Limited, Adelaide, South Australia

DOMESTIC NEWS

Biological Impulses--Survey shows schoolboys lead the way in Biology.
"It's all about the reproductive system", says Kadina teacher Jamie Illman.

Top Honour for Sports Star--Former rugby, soccer and tennis superstar Andrew Stevenson awarded Order of Australia Medal for contribution to world sport.
"I really do suck", he claims.

American Offer for State's Top Solicitor.
Foden contemplates future as Australian King's Counsel or New York District Attorney.

J.D. Aerospace Set to Open Port Willunga Factory--More jobs for SA seafront.
"Means I can go fishing and design planes at the same time", CEO Jacob Davey says in exclusive Oddvertiser interview.

WORLD NEWS

Tortured Journey--African Union withdraws complaints of possible covert US torture camps on their soil, after key Counter-Terrorist Unit official visits Kinshasa.
"I only messed with their heads a little", bloodstained Thuc Le Tat insists.

Dual Honours for Australian Artists--Photographer and painter wow crowds in New York City.
Woodward and Birve offered extended exhibitions, with demand for their work increasing across America.

World International Scottish-Polish Association Formed--Chances for success "promising", according to Chairman Angus McNab Main.
WISPA name "silly", critics charge.

New sql_lall v.3.0 Operating System Launched--CEO Coleman destroys Microsoft's former dominance.
Conservative estimates claim that MortalPuddle will recoup "bazillions" of dollars from sale of software.

President Juan-Paolo Legaspi Enters Space Race--Philippines becomes latest world power in orbit.
"This is just one small step", Caitlin Hadrill-Legaspi, driving force behind islands' modernisation, exclusively tells News Limited.

Stadium Record--190,000 fans turn up to Greek soccer game.
90% of spectators "family" of Sports Minister Kadis.

BUSINESS NEWS

"Keynes Can Blow It Out His..."
Bihari explains why his model of economic development reigns supreme.

The IT Crowd--How Courtney Jameson found the secret to IT consultancy success.
Perseverance, human touch, sponsorship from Tatty Teddy company sees CJ Consulting stock rocket to the top of the market.

MEDICAL SUPPLEMENT

Beans There, Done That--Adelaide surgeon explains why he's developed the world's first testicular transplant.
"Doctor Beat inspired me": Gieroba.

Decaffeinating = Destroying?
Simon Mitchell explains new research, proving that twenty-six cans of V is the ideal daily caffeine intake.

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

Historical Inaccuracy--Australian historian sparks controversy by attacking esteemed scholar Richard Pipes.
"He should shove his proto-fascism and accept that without Stalin, the Second World War would've ended in our defeat", Ashton argues.

SPORT

Prime Motivator--van Ryswyk explains why he was regarded as the "angriest man in world football".
"I'd just think of third-year group assignments. Then I'd smash someone's head in."

Luck of the Irish.
Tate O'Connor wins sixth Australian lawn bowls title, writes poem to celebrate.

Everything I know about life, I learned from 24...

2007-05-03T00:20:00.000+09:30

No matter where he is in the world, what his physical and mental condition is, how long it's been since he's eaten, or whether he's been ruthlessly tortured for a thousand days, Jack Bauer will succeed in twenty-four hours where thousands of the most highly-trained, technology-savvy counter-terrorist experts will fail.
The day that terrorists get their hands on working nuclear weapons is the same day that other terrorists plan a biological strike, a war begins, the President of the United States is shot or blown up, the cabinet attempts a coup, and every single member of America's counter-terrorist units suffers some irremediable personal crisis.
Nothing worth worrying about will ever happen until you're within ten minutes of a new hour. You might as well take the other 50 minutes to sit down, drink some coffee and snack on some nachos. When it gets to about quarter to, then you can start panicking.
If something will take longer than a day to occur, it won't occur at all.
The good guys always pretend to switch to the other side, so they can undermine the enemy. No one has yet worked this out.
If you thought someone was dead...they're not. And they'll pop up at the least opportune time.
Atomic attacks inevitably lead to workplace relationships. Never fail.
If your daughter sneaks out of the house, chances are she's unwittingly embroiled in an attempt to undermine your country.
It doesn't matter what hell you've been through -- you can be punched, kicked, shot, forcibly castrated, even kneecapped -- you will still manage to get through a whole day without ever looking tired. As long as your last name is Bauer, or something suitably terrorist-sounding.
If your name is Palmer, never go outside. Ever.
Behind every great man is a close friend who will kill him at the first opportunity.
It isn't necessary to refer to a nation by name. People will instinctively know where you're talking about.

More hypotheticals? You bet!

2007-05-02T17:14:00.000+09:30

In light of my recent post about the gun lobby in America, I decided that one figurative story is never enough...

Imagine a shipyard. The company that operates it is a big contractor to governments from around the world; it builds submarines for many navies, and develops computer systems, combat systems and so on. Anyhow, the company, which, for the sake of this story, we shall call United Labor Systems, is in competition with another company, known as National Liberal Seapower Pty. Ltd., for a multi-billion dollar contract for the Royal Australian Navy--National Liberal is proposing that the Navy continue with its tried and tested but updated John Winston-class submarine which, though nearing the end of its expected lifetime in service, offers stability, flexibility, and familiarity to the submariners of the RAN. In the meantime, United Labor has designed a brand new, radical Kevin Michael-class vessel which, according to United Labor's design brief, will revolutionise naval warfare, likely at the cost of more traditional methods. The radical differences between the traditional John Winston and the more modern Kevin Michael will be hard for submariners to get used to, but United Labor believe that their boat is best for the country.
Two days before the head of the RAN was to visit United Labor, in order to hear their marketing spiel for the Kevin Michael, United Labor's Accounting (Southern) Division received a phone call. The Southern division's chief accountant, Kevin O'Foley, answered.
"Kevin, it's Keith", came the voice on the other end of the line. O'Foley immediately realised the honour he was being given, for the man on the phone was none other than Keith Rodd, CEO of United Labor Systems.
"Sir, what can I do for you?", asked the gob-smacked but somewhat smarmy O'Foley.
There was a click.
"We have a problem", Rodd told him. "You know that the entire admiralty will be coming on Sunday so that we can give them our sales pitch for the Kevin Michael?"
O'Foley knew that indeed. Rodd continued.
"Our problem is that we have no one who can do the presentation."
O'Foley frowned.
"What about Julie?", he asked. Julie Gizzard was the Vice-President of the corporation.
"She can't do it, Kev. She made a hash of a press conference recently. Besides, between you and me, her voice really pisses me off."
"Mike?" Mike Renn was the head of the entire Southern division of United Labor, a man with an almost perfect track record, a purported love of football and an ego the size of Alpha Centauri.
"No, Mike's on the outer for this. He's under fire for allowing that new tramline to be built between our factories. People in the south are complaining, and the admiralty don't really know him. You should understand that, Kev."
"Sorry." O'Foley thought for a moment. Then a smile slowly crept across his lips.
"I've got just the person!"
"Who? One of our top engineers? Our press secretary?"
"Nope", said O'Foley. "But don't worry. She'll be perfect."

When the various admirals from the Navy arrived at the United Labor shipyards, they were met by a woman with a vacuous smile and head to match, who insisted that, once she had spoken to them, they would definitely be buying the Kevin Michael.
"My name is Nancy Korns", she told the men from the Navy. "And I can guarantee you that the Kevin Michael is the best submarine since...um...that one from that book. You know..."
"Nautilus?", Admiral Mayo suggested. He came from the hills around Adelaide, and as the new submarines were to be based in South Australia, the majority of the men at the conference were naval men from that state. "Jules Verne's creation?"
Korns grinned.
"Nooo", she said slowly, as if lecturing a schoolboy. "The Kevin Michael is built by Mr Rodd, who is a wonderful, wonderful man."
"No, I meant the book", Mayo told her.
"What book?"
A sigh. "Never mind."
"The Kevin Michael is a great boat", Korns continued. "United Labor is very proud of what we've created."
"You were involved in the design?", Vice-Admiral Hindmarsh supposed.
"Er...no."
"The construction, then?"
"No."
"What was your involvement, Mrs Korns?"
A sheepish smile.
"I'm the wife of the factory's football team's coach."
Mumbling from the congregation, but Commodore Boothby raised his hand.
"Please, chaps, let's allow Mrs Korns to answer some questions", he suggested. "Just because she wasn't directly involved, doesn't mean to say that she knows nothing about the submarine."
Korns nodded.
"As long as they're not hard questions."
Commodore Boothby continued.
"Mrs Korns, what type of drive does the Kevin Michael have?"
"Oh, we're all very motivated here."
Boothby shook his head.
"No, I mean, the power behind the submarine. What sort of power plant? What power does it generate?"
Korns frowned.
"I don't know much about that", she admitted.
"How about sensor equipment?", Admiral Mayo asked. "Communications? Computer systems?"
"I haven't read anything about that."
"Weaponry and defensive systems?", Hindmarsh pressed on.
"I asked you not to ask any difficult questions", Korns blubbered, close to tears.

As the naval men left United Labor that day, Commodore Boothby turned back to a wet-cheeked Nancy Korns.
"Mrs Korns, what qualifications do you have to try and sell us a submarine?", he inquired.
At this, Korns smiled.
"Why, I'm a mother, and I'm at university. I've almost finished my degree!"

It's like Billy Connolly once said. If you wanted to build an ocean liner, you wouldn't ask a marshmallow-maker. Why on Earth did Labor think it was a good idea to recruit Nicole Cornes to contest Boothby against the ascendant Christopher Pyne at the Federal election? As she proved conclusively, she knows next to naught about politics, has not even bothered to look at Labor's manifesto. This is another reason why Kevin Rudd will lose the election. The first reason is Kevin Rudd.

Logic and the American Dream

2007-04-23T16:40:00.001+09:30

Once upon a time, a small village was terrorised by an outcast named Amadeus H. who, at night, would release a wild bear that he had captured out into the streets. So many people were attacked by the bear that, one day, the village council met in the main square. One of the wise elders, a man who, for our sake, we shall call Didimus Q., stood among his peers.
"My friends", he said in his unflinching, rumbling baritone. "For too long we have become slaves to our fears. We have been prisoners in our own homes, because of a dangerous animal that has the ability to dismember and slay us. To this I say, this long, but no longer! We shall no longer be fearful of our own streets! Today, I urge us to pass a new law that states that the possession of wild animals must be restricted. When the bear threat has passed, we will again feel safe and free in our own town."
"Didimus, you are full of it", replied the cantankerous Quintus D., who bore a striking resemblance to Charlton Heston. "Don't you see? If you ban bears from our streets, how can we protect ourselves from bears in our streets?"
Didimus Q. made to answer, but Quintus D. had brought his entire family to the meeting, most of whom were inbred, and they shouted for the statesman to take his seat and remain silent. Quintus continued.
"No, what we need is the ability to have whatever animals we like, for our own protection! And not just at night time. When our sick and frail must visit the apothecary, they should bring a rabid wolf with them. When our children attend their lessons, they must also be protected. Would you not feel better, Didimus, in the knowledge that your son Pontus was learning grammar, while protected by a wild boar with tusks sharpened like lances?"
Didimus said no. Quintus scoffed.
"Did you hear that, my friends?", he yelled vicariously. "Didimus Q., a self-proclaimed leader of our community, does not even have the fortitude to protect his own child, let alone yours, or mine! To this I say, for shame!"
Didimus shook his head sadly, as the other townsfolk glared at him. By the time of the ballot, he knew he had lost. The very next day, Quintus D. trapped a black bear, a wild pig, and a snarling, mangy mountain lion, and kept them tied in his house. The other people of the town followed suit.
A few months later, an expedition from the closest village arrived to determine why they had not heard from their neighbours for quite some time. All they found were some tumbledown houses in a state of ramshackle disrepair, and animals roaming freely around what was left of the village. Of Quintus D., Didimus Q. and their fellow townsfolk, nothing was ever found...

To the pro-gun lobby of the United States of America: the massacre at Virginia Tech was a profound tragedy, a terrible and gut-wrenching event. But the answer is not to arm everyone with weapons, in the belief that, if the bad guy pulls out a piece, the good guys can gun him down first. The better option is to restrict any opportunity the bad guy has of getting a weapon in the first place. That, my friends, is called restriction. It worked in Australia. It can work in the States. And that, my friends, is called common sense. Something the lot of you seem to need an injection of.

Spot the difference, AFL style

2007-04-20T20:27:00.001+09:30

I want you to look at two pictures very closely. And I want you to tell me which is which:

One is your standard six year-old girl. The other is (or is commonly mistaken for) a prostitute.

Time's up, hand up your answers, please. And if your name is Adam Selwood, then you answered that the top one is the hooker.

Once again, the AFL astounds me. And not in a good way. Last weekend, West Coast Eagles player Adam Selwood got into a bit of a biff with Fremantle Docker Des Headland. The reason for this on-field brawl was pretty understandable, really. According to Headland, Selwood called the Docker's daughter, Madisan, a "slut", and told Headland that he "fucked her last night." This becomes even worse when you realise that Madisan Headland is six years old.

Both players ended up before the AFL tribunal, Selwood on the charge of using indecent and offensive language, Headland for striking and wrestling with Selwood. Selwood argued that he had seen the face of a girl tattooed on Headland's arm, and had made the comment that he "fucked a slut like her last night". Headland then turned around and told him "That's my daughter. No one talks about my family like that", before belting the tosh out of the Eagle. Headland, on the other hand, argued that Selwood had said that, Headland warned him that he was talking about his six year-old daughter, and Selwood replied "Yeah, she's a slut and I fucked her." Then Headland belted the tosh out of him. The AFL decided that it was a case of he said-he said, and found Selwood not guilty. Then they found Headland guilty of striking, but with mitigating circumstances.

Okay, here is my problem. If Headland's story is right, then Selwood is a bastard. Who the hell talks about a six year-old girl being a sex object, other than sick weirdos and paedophiles? And maybe men who work at Supre, but they come under those categories. Besides, if I were in Headland's shoes, and someone said that about my daughter, then I'd flatten them too. Ergo, Selwood is guilty, and Headland, though bashing him, was provoked into doing so. Of course, it doesn't look great to the kids watching football that one of their role models decided to give his opponent a bunch of fives because he got some lip, but come on. It's his daughter he's talking about. Cut the guy some slack.
If, however, Selwood is right in his recollection, then...well, Selwood is still a bastard, and Headland is guilty only of delivering a line that sounds like it's from a bad Steven Seagal film. Let's think through this logically:

Headland has a girl's face tattooed on his arm.
You don't usually tattoo someone's face on your arm in detail unless they're close to you, or you're a stalker.
Therefore, the person tattooed on Des Headland's arm is probably someone close to him.
Additionally, she looks young.
Des Headland has a daughter.
Therefore, the girl is probably Des Headland's daughter.

As our little thought experiment earlier in this post shows, six year-olds look very different from prostitutes (or at least from media whores). So it's pretty unlikely that Selwood could look at a child's face and immediately think slut, unless he is a pervert. Selwood argues that he didn't realise the girl was Headland's daughter. Okay, so we'll assume that he's a complete moron and cannot tell that a six year-old is under the age of consent. The fact remains that Des Headland tattooed someone on to his arm, and that Adam Selwood called that person a slut and said he'd had sex with her the night before. Let's accept for one moment that Selwood didn't realise it was Headland's daughter. Then who else would be tattooed on his arm? His wife or girlfriend? (Not following footballers has the disadvantage that I don't know if this guy is married) Perhaps even his sister or mother if they are/were close? Either way, Selwood would then have called Headland's wife/girlfriend/sibling/mother an offensive name. And saying that he fucked her wouldn't have helped. How is this any better? What sort of defence is this? "Sorry mate, I didn't realise it was your daughter or I wouldn't have said I fucked her. I thought it was your wife." Isn't this also offensive and inappropriate language to be using? So how in the name of buggery (which Selwood may also be guilty of) did he get off scot-free at the tribunal? But it gets better! Now he's pursuing legal action, because he says he's been "defamed". I'm sorry, but if anyone has defamed Adam Selwood, it's Adam Selwood. And if he can't tell the difference between a six year-old and a girl of consenting age, I'd be right next to Des Headland Snr. when he goes on national radio and calls Selwood a "paedophile." A word of advice to the Eagle: the best thing you can do right now is shut the hell up.

As an aside, if the AFL thinks that Selwood's words weren't enough to warrant a suspension, why was Headland's striking charge dismissed for "mitigating circumstances"? If Selwood didn't say anything offensive, then nothing mitigated anything, did it?

Yet more proof of inverse darwinism, I believe. Especially when you consider the many hundreds of thousands of dollars that Adam Selwood gets payed to act like a dickhead.

Hey Adam, spot the difference:

Some random facts for consideration

2007-04-17T16:42:00.000+09:30

The longest war in history was the Three Hundred and Thirty-Five Years' War, between the Scilly Isles (off the coast of Britain) and the Netherlands. War was declared on the English Royallist naval forces in Scilly by Admiral Maarten Tromp of the Netherlands during the English Civil War, when the Netherlands sought an alliance with Cromwell's Parliamentarians, and the Royal Navy turned to piracy against the Dutch. War was declared in April 1650, but soon after, the Dutch forgot about their declaration of war. A peace treaty was only signed in April 1986.

The shortest war in history was the Anglo-Zanzibar War. The war was fought between the troops of Sultan Khalid bin Bargash, and a flotilla of Royal Navy vessels. War was effectively declared when the Royal Navy opened fire at 09.00 on 27 August 1896, and was concluded in victory for the British forty-five minutes later, at 09.45.

No one can divide by zero. Except Chuck Norris.

Karaoke means "empty orchestra" in Japanese.

In the United States, it is estimated that 45% of all dollar notes have, at some point or other, been stuffed into a stripper's g-string.

You are far more likely to be attacked by a cow than a shark.

The dot on top of the lowercase letter i is known as a "tittle".

After an interview in Los Angeles one day, Arnold Schwarzenegger was escorted to his limo by a security guard, who casually mentioned that he was studying business. Schwarzenegger, a millionaire (and minor real estate mogul) by his early twenties, offered the young man a word of advice: "You should sell dildos," he suggested. "People buy them for presents - they like to be funny at parties. They really sell."

Chuck Norris was originally cast as the main character in 24, but was replaced by the producers when he managed to kill all the terrorists and in twelve and a half minutes.

The only ship ever sunk by a nuclear-powered submarine was the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano, sunk by HM Submarine Conqueror during the Falklands War. At the time, the Belgrano was sailing away from the Falklands. Moreover, in delicious irony, the Belgrano was formerly the American cruiser USS Phoenix, which had survived the Japanese air strike on Pearl Harbor in the Second World War. The Conqueror did not fire modern Mark 24 torpedoes, but rather the much older, but more reliable, Mark 8 weapons -- surplus from the Second World War.

The last America's Cup sailing trophy was won by the yacht Alinghi, from Switzerland. This gave Switzerland the right to host the next America's Cup competition. Switzerland does not have a coastline. Instead, the Swiss chose the waters off Valencia, Spain, for the venue of the Louis Vuitton Cup, the qualifiers for the America's Cup, due to the extremely reliable wind conditions. The first race of the Louis Vuitton Cup was cancelled on 17 April 2007, due to lack of wind.

Chuck Norris once visited the Virgin Islands. They are now called the Islands.

"If there is an exception to every rule, then every rule must have at least one exception, excepting this one"

2007-04-16T21:27:00.001+09:30

Last night, the revamped Blue Devils, now the White Ninjas, took on our old arch-nemeses, the QCs, in our first round match on Court 3, Unley. It was a thrilling match, with good, powerful play, and much better teamwork than we've shown before (well, I think so anyway). The final score was 12-8 in our favour, with Pat and I both scoring four goals, making up for separate defensive blunders that resulted in the opposition scoring. Raf scored 2 in a blistering game, Khang was impressive in the middle and up front, coming away with one for his troubles, and Denley scored one that really should've been TomG's...except Den decided to slide in and get a boot on the ball right on the line. Nice. Otherwise, Thuc and Simon were both excellent in their keeping, Jacob was everywhere (as usual), and Tom played a good solid game. For the other team, kudos to Sarah for her hat-trick. Let's hope this is what the rest of the season will be like...

Here's some problems for you to mull over:

In Seville, there is only one barber, and everyone in the town is clean-shaven. The barber shaves every man who does not shave himself. Does the barber shave himself?

Sir Francis Drake's ship Golden Hind is in a museum, but, being made of wood, it is prone to rot. If we remove one rotten plank and replace it with a new plank, the ship is still the original. If we remove two planks and replace them, the ship is still the original. Now, if we remove all the planks, one at a time, because all of them have rotted, is the ship in the museum the Golden Hind? Now, if we take all of the planks of wood that had rotted, and used them to construct a ship with exactly the same specifications and dimensions as the Golden Hind, are there now two Golden Hinds? Or is there one, and one replica? Which is the replica?

Many books contain pages with no content other than the appellation THIS PAGE IS INTENTIONALLY BLANK. However, this negates the blankness of the page. Thus, if the page was intended to be blank, did the author fail in their intentions?

Let us assume that all ravens are black. Alternatively, we could use the equivalent statement and say that all non-black things are non-ravens. Look at a flock of ten ravens. If they are all black, the it significantly bolsters our theory that all ravens are black. Now look at ten red apples. Since red is not black, the apples are non-black things. Therefore, because the statements are equivalent, we are even more sure that all ravens are black.

A student of law (Angus? Emilie? Someone else perhaps?) cannot pay their tutor for their lessons, but promises that when they win their first case, they will pay the tutor. A while after the student's graduation, it becomes clear that they have had no clients, and therefore have not won a case. The tutor's patience wears thin, and they sue the former student. The tutor claims that if the student wins, then by their agreement the student will have to pay. If the student loses, then they will still have to pay. The student argues that if he wins, then the court will have voided the original agreement, and thus he does not have to pay. If, however, he loses, he will still not have to pay, as he has not yet won a case. Who is right?

If truth does not exist, and I were to say "truth does not exist", then that statement is the truth, and therefore, false, because then truth does exist.

If an irresistible force meets an immovable object, is the force resisted, or does the object move?

What was the tallest mountain in the world before Mount Everest was discovered? Of course, it was Mount Everest. Therefore, it would have been perfectly true, at a time when Mount Everest was unknown, to say that an undiscovered mountain was the tallest mountain in the world. While this was true, it was not knowable. Therefore, can we know truth?

An argument is valid if and only if there is no situation in which the premises are true but the conclusion is false. For example, I could say that, if it is raining, water exists. It is raining. Water exists. This is valid. However, I could also say:
It is night.
It is day.
Eddie McGuire's head is a banana.
Surely, this is valid, because there is no situation where the premises (that it is night and day at the same time) are true, and thus no situation when both premises are true but the conclusion is false.

And if that hasn't messed with your head enough yet, watch 24. Damn it's good.

All about Wednesday

2007-03-28T16:07:00.000+09:30

Wednesday...a day of pedagogy and stupidity.

The day started with a drive up to Flinders University, to drop off Courtney so she could set up an Apache server and thus continue with her Database assignment. Having turned off Sturt Road and on to University Drive, we discovered that the Flinders University road system had been designed by Jackson Pollock in his heyday. Here is a roadmap of the Flinders campus:

It was lucky that I have an innate sense of direction, else it would've become very easy to get lost...

Gladly I soon returned to civilisation.

Today I had my second History tute. Yes, I am well aware that this is Week Five. But this is evidently how History is planned:
WEEK ONE: No tute (sleep in)
WEEK TWO: Admin tute (sleep during tute)
WEEK THREE: Lecturer in New York City; no tute (sleep in)
WEEK FOUR: Library tute (sleep)
WEEK FIVE: Actual tute (sleeping time is over)
During this tute, half of our class was away. Also, we had to explain to one girl for about five minutes that not being educated does not mean that someone is inherently unintelligent. We were looking into the question of why the Russian proletariat were not so fast to rally behind the banner of Marxism, and the conclusion was drawn that, as the Russian proletariat was, for the most part, uneducated, Marxist ideology was somewhat inaccessible to them. Which led this girl to believe that the Russian proletariat had smaller brains, and therefore were incapable of understanding Marx at all. Apparently, she also believes that children are unable to speak before they learn how to read.
It has astonished me how mindnumbingly daft some uni students are. In German History, someone tried desperately to convince us that the car was the most important mode of transport in 1800. Never mind that it hadn't yet been invented...
Furthermore, this charming argument occurred:
Lecturer: So, was Otto von Bismarck a monarchist or an anti-monarchist?
Us: Monarchist.
Girl: Anti-monarchist!
Lecturer: No, he was a monarchist.
Girl: No he wasn't! He hated the monarchy.
Lecturer: No...Bismarck was a conservative and was devoted to the imperial court of Prussia, and then Germany.
Girl: But he was a Kanzelthingy....
Lecturer: Yes, he was the Reichskanzler (Imperial Chancellor)
Girl: So he did all the stuff and was better than them and everything!
At this point, someone turned around and strangled her. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking...

After uni, mum asked me to go to town to pick up the new Simply Red album for her. Our good old friend Mick Hucknall is on the cover, contemplatively gazing out into empty blueness...again. It's a wonder he doesn't get bored, but with more bags under his eyes than a drunk who's fallen on to the luggage carousel at Tullamarine, maybe he can't tell. Evidently he hasn't been able to hold back the years as well as he'd hoped.

Apparently, Glendi and the Pan-Hellenic Games are being merged into one enormous Greekfest, which will most likely star Kadds and his entire family of six hundred. Lord Mayor Michael Harbison says that it will be a "Super-Event", but his advisers should have told him that "Fully Sick" was the appropriate adjective.

Marten and Dora finally got it on! OMG OMG OMG. (Damn you Tom, you've turned me into a Questionable Content addict! Bahahaha, Pintsize...)

Adelaide is again the quietest place on Earth. Bye, all you super law-giving crimefighters, as you return from whence you came. From India to Indiana, Russia to Rostok, and Queensland's Zidane wannabe...bye! And so the Adelaide crime figures skyrocket again.

Speaking of crime, I enjoyed reading about an Aboriginal youth who is allegedly part of the so-called "Gang of 49"--that is, forty-nine Aboriginal teens, men and women who are running amok in Adelaide. Our friendly neighbourhood criminal insists that the state government has invented the story about the gang, and that they've done nothing wrong. He then goes on to say that, yes, he has committed crimes (which contradicts the "done nothing wrong" claim), but only against property, not people. This idea intrigues me.
Cop: Bob Jones, give me one good reason why I shouldn't arrest you for stealing that geriatric old lady's handbag, before setting Mr Wallace's brush fence alight.
Jones: Because all those crimes are against objects, not people! The only victims are the handbag and the fence.
Cop: ...well, you've got me there. You're free to go.
What idiocy is this?! Surely, if you pinch something from someone, then that person becomes a victim. If you vandalise someone's car, house or anything else, then you have perpetrated a crime against them. If my dog peed on Joe Cool's Florsheim shoes, I am going to apologise to Joe Cool, not his shoes. This leads me to the conclusion that the only reason the youth says there is no such thing as a Gang of 49 is because he can't count, and therefore thinks there's only 42 of them.

Here, for all of you card-playing fans, is the abridged rules for the latest gambling craze to his Monte Carlo. Yes, it's KRAUKSPORT!

THE BLOWING UP SPACE GUIDE TO KRAUKSPORT

The game begins with four (4) players, each dealt with thirteen (13) cards, face down, their values and suits unseen by any player.
The first hand is played, with each player playing one (1) card, face up, on the table.
Ace is high, however, King begins with K, which also begins the word "Kraukus", therefore anyone who lays a King on the table automatically wins that hand. If anyone lays a Jack, which begins with J for "Jacob", then that player automatically loses. Otherwise, the win or loss is decided based upon the highest and lowest cards played; the player who lays the lowest card loses, and therefore collects all of the cards. The winner declares who will be designated the chier (pronounced "shee-ay", literally "shit"; if playing in an English-speaking venue, the term "shithead" is used). Then, the next hand is played.
After the first hand, if any hand played contains a card of a prime number, the chier collects the cards. Otherwise, the player with the lowest valued card collects the cards.
Additionally, if there is the case of double cards on the table, then the loser or the chier (depending on whether a prime has been played) is dealt another three (3) cards from each player's hand.
Whichever player finishes with the least amount of cards is declared the winner, or "cul" (unless in an English venue, in which eventuality the word "arse" or "ass" will suffice.)
Exception to rules:

if anyone named Jacob is playing KraukSport, that player loses the first hand and is automatically designated chier, regardless of the cards played in the first hand.
if anyone from the band Kraukus is playing KraukSport, that player is automatically designated "arse", though in this sense the designation does not necessarily denote that said player has won or will win the game.

Examples of KraukSport hands:

In this opening KraukSport hand, Denley clearly has the lowest card, and this would usually mean that he loses the hand. Edward Bear, however, has a Jack, and therefore loses the hand. Lord Scotland, with the highest card, can thus designate who will be the chier for the game; in this instance, Lord Scotland will choose Denley.

However, in the first hand of an earlier match, when Denley, Edward Bear and Lord Scotland played against Jacob, Edward Bear played the lowest card and thus should have lost the hand. However, as Jacob is playing, he loses the first hand instead, regardless of the fact that his card is the second highest played. Lord Scotland wins the first hand, but as Jacob is playing, he is automatically designated chier.

But back to the other game. In this hand, Lord Scotland has the lowest card, and as no primes have been played, he collects all four cards. However, Denley and Edward Bear both played sixes, and therefore, Edward Bear, Denley and Tate each deal a further three cards from their hand into the pile collected by Lord Scotland.

In this hand, Denley appears to have won with an ace. However, Edward Bear has a King, which denotes Kraukus, and therefore wins the hand. Tate has the lowest card, however it is a seven, which is a prime number. As Lord Scotland designated Denley as the chier for this game, by a quirk of fate, Denley has lost the hand and thus collects all four cards.

So endeth the lesson.

Before I forget, happy two month anniversary to Kel and Will (hasn't time absolutely flown?), one year (soon, or already gone?) to JAmes and Ali (many happy returns), and most importantly, happy 18 month anniversary to the lovely Courtney! How has she put up with me for so long? That will remain one of life's great mysteries...

Aiden returns

2007-03-19T17:23:00.000+10:30

My car is back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

VROOOM.

...but it's better if you don't (open your mouth)

2007-03-17T22:29:00.000+10:30

Remember a little while back when Pat posted about two Vicky Pollards on his bus? Today, I can probably say quite certainly that that has been bested. For today, sitting behind Courtney and I on the 172, was a 17 year old Quagmire, whose name was actually Pierce, and two 14 year olds who will likely soon be teen pregnancy statistics, and who, for anonymity's sake, I shall call "Mary-Kate" and "Ashley".
This is how the conversation began:
Pierce: So...can I have your phone numbers?
Mary-Kate: Yeah, sure! [gives phone number]
Ashley: Me too! Me too! [gives phone number]
Pierce: Cool...so what's your names?
Mary-Kate: I'm Mary-Kate, and she's Ashley. *giggle*
Pierce: Nice...do you girls still go to school?
Ashley: I go to Golden Grove, and Mary-Kate goes to MacKillop.
Pierce: Awesome...how old are you?
Mary-Kate: Fourteen.
Ashley: Yeah, we're in Year 9. How old are you?
Pierce: I'm 17...yeah. What are you up to tonight?
Mary-Kate: Um...I'll be home. Alone.
Pierce: Want me to text you?

And it went downhill from there. Pierce relentlessly hit on the clueless Year 9s, while the clueless Year 9s tried desperately to seem cool. Some gems picked up were...

Ashley: So, you're turning 18 this year?
Pierce: Yeah, in three months.
Ashley: Wow, four months! You'll have your ID and everything!
Pierce: Nah, then I'll be able to drink legally...takes the fun out of it, you know?
Mary-Kate: Yeah...

Mary-Kate: So you're at uni?
Pierce: Yeah, I'm doing a shitty course so I can get into a good one next year.
Mary-Kate: What's that?
Pierce: Bachelor of Science and Environmental Management. Do you know what that is?
Ashley: *giggle* Nah!
Mary-Kate: Do you love trees??
Pierce: Yeah, it's saving the environment.
Mary-Kate: Wow, that's heaps cool. So, like, are you, like, really smart?
Pierce: Oh yeah, I just went to the wrong school.

Pierce: So where are you from?
Ashley: I'm Australian.
Mary-Kate: Yeah, me too. Except I'm a bit from Wales.
Ashley: What's that?
Mary-Kate: ...the country.
Ashley: ...oh. So you're Welshian?

Ashley: That means you're mum's from Wales too!
Mary-Kate: I'm only half-Welsh!
Pierce: So where's your dad from?
Mary-Kate: Australia.

Pierce: You want stop 7, right? This is stop 6. You want the next one.
Ashley: Oh yeah.
...
...
Pierce: You have to press the button.
Mary-Kate: Oh yeah! *giggle*

Also, for those who didn't know, the World Police and Fire Games are on in Adelaide at the moment. And it is for this reason that dumb crims are out in force. Last night, an Aboriginal man knocked another man off his bike in Victoria Square, and stole his wallet, in full view of two SA Police officers. They yelled for him to stop, so the thief took off around the corner...running slap bang into the Indianapolis PD team. I guess it just wasn't his night...