Much Better Places To Be. Seriously.

No.

Hell no.

I want to know, RIGHT NOW, the name and place of residence of the sorry sorry person responsible for canning Torchwood.

I have been hanging, ALL WEEK, to watch Torchwood tonight. And it is not on. Not even a LITTLE BIT.

I simply do not understand. I refuse to believe that it did not rate well. It had all the elements of a cult classic - implausible stories, questionable acting, low budget sets. What's not to love? It was up there with the best of them... South Park, Iron Chef*, Antiques Roadshow.

Yes, it was a little unrealistic - a couple of examples eloquently summarised and quoted from the Aussie Cult Fiction website :


Episode 2 - Day One

An alien entity (personified as a sexy purple mist) wreaks havoc in Cardiff. It finds a human host-body and proceeds to feed itself by bringing other people to orgasm and incinerating them at this point. Deadly shagging ensues.


Episode 4 - Cyberwoman

A Torchwood employee, Lisa, was partially cybernised by the Cybermen in the Battle of Canary Wharf (events depicted in the last two episodes of the 2006 series of Doctor Who). She's been hanging out in the basement of Torchwood 3, and she decides to go apeshit.

NB: And that's not even mentioning that the cunning plan to rid Torchwood of 'Lisa' was to sick the pet pterodactyl on her. Genius.


But the Sydney Morning Herald's The Guide's review got it spot on, saying "The appeal of Torchwood is not so much that it's gloriously implausible sci-fi pulp, but that it knows it's gloriously implausible, sci-fi pulp."

And I ask you, truly, is that not the best type of sci-fi pulp?

Ok, there's no denying that the show's sci-fi budget was a little on the minimalist side, and was always, always, kept for the last 5 minutes. But this was all part of Torchwood's charm. I mean, it's a BBC production set in Cardiff. Yes, Cardiff, WALES, people! We're lucky they speak English.

And let us, just for a moment, consider what the substitute option is tonight - a documentary special on the alleged opening of Jesus Christ's tomb. I don't want to watch that! Why, EVER, would I want to watch that?? Channel 10, seriously. Have you forgotten your target audience? i.e. ME?? I love you Channel 10. I have no VCR, recordable DVD player, little recordy box thing, or Foxtel. I don't even change commercial tv channels!

As I like to say, "If it's not on Channel 10, it's not worth watching."

But this time, you've cut me deep Channel 10.

Torchwood at 12am Wednesdays?

That decision may well be 'separate from the government, outside the police and beyond the United Nations'... But it is also just WRONG.


*Speaking of Iron Chef, a 'please explain' goes out to you too SBS. No Iron Chef for the last two weeks now. Hmm....

Absolute Bollocks

Two weeks ago to the day I attended my first trivia night. And won. (With just a little help from the other geniuses in my team, of course).

Unsurprisingly, following on from this unprecedented high, one week ago to the day I attended my second trivia night. And came third. Still respectable, yes, but slightly disappointing given the previous week's glory. And, in some ways, outright embarrassing as the winning team was a trio of teeny-chicks who had the air of particularly dense numbats about them.

Still, not to be put off, three hours ago to the now I attended my third trivia night. And came, well, somewhere beyond third - I lost count. Fair enough that the questions this week were a degree of difficulty higher than previous weeks, and may have suited some people's particular topics of interest (i.e. Shakespeare & Greek & Roman Mythology)....

But it is ABSOLUTE BOLLOCKS that the triad of devilry won again. Having suffered a second taunting from these children, it became clear in my mind that they must be witches and we should BURN THEM. However, just as I reached for the lighter, a colleague tactfully pointed out that the chickettes appeared to have been using a magical device to assist them throughout the night. A telephone of mobility. Or "mobile phone", they said.



To this minute, it is still unknown whether the chicklets phoned a friend or are, indeed, witches. Either way, I stick to the point that their victory is absolute bollocks and we should, without hesitation, burn them.

Blow This

Enough! Where do those QR kiddies get off blowing their nut-cracking train whistles every time they leave a station? It freaks the begoogles out of me!

• Is it to alert the station master in case he's not looking out the window?
• Is it to notify mice and assorted losers to get off the tracks??
• Or is it just to hurt me???

Honestly. It's not like we're all standing there after the gong going, "Ooh. Will you look at at that. A train. Here. At a train station. Fancy."

Week of the Devil

It is a bad week. A bad bad week. And I have had enough of it.

As a chaser to the coffee debacle that was Tuesday, and in an extremely unsurprising (or should I say 'unORIGINal') turn of events, a not-to-be-named gas company has destroyed my front garden.

The short version is that, under the laughable guise of moving our gas meter to the front of the house, an unruly mob of bumbling, Neolithic, putrid-orange-clad (and you know how I detest orange) bastards crash-tackled my garden. Not just any garden, mind you. My special newly-established garden which I have painstakingly watered with a crappy little watering can every day for the last 3 months.

Now although flipping completely off the hinge is not a common pastime for me, this wee shenanigan pulled the trigger. I had the phone at the ready and I wasn't afraid to use it. If only the damn complaints line was open beyond business hours. (Ha! Like 'business' hours even apply. 'Scum-sucking monopoly' hours perhaps, but I digress...)

The point is, I am now an angry angry little munchkin, with no garden and no meaningful avenue for revenge. In fact, my only solace comes in knowing that this is, without doubt, the Week of the Devil (oooooohhh); and if I can just make it through one more day, peace will return, balance will be restored, and those repugnant bastards will get hit by a tractor-trailer.

Just Throwing It Out There

That last post was disgustingly serious, wasn't it? Really. Who am I to tell you where you should and shouldn't breakfast over your weekend? It is your truckin' weekend after all, isn't it??

Well, perhaps. But I'm not quite done with the cafe scene yet...

My concern now rests with the latest trend of people rating themselves on the strength of their coffee of choice. You know what I'm talking about. How many times have you heard someone comment on how strong their coffee is? All the time! (Though these people only whisper their comments quietly to their fellow sippers, and it goes no further than the table.)

Now, consider those people who actually complain to the wait staff about their coffee. Those special special people who should really just spare everyone the drama and inject their caffeine in the privacy of their own home. No coffee is too strong, too tough, nay, too packed with manly bitterness, for these kids. Milk is a soft option and sugar (cubes or otherwise) is for pussy-boys.

And so it goes that, because these junkies are so outspoken and such a hassle for cafe staff to deal with, I cop a super-concentrated cup of ruddy tar every time I order a skinny cap (weak with extra milk and sugar).

Well, I'm not whispering about how strong my coffee is any more! People! I'll give it to you straight! STOP MAKING REALLY REALLY RIDICULOUSLY STRONG COFFEE!!

And as for those jumped-up coffee Nazis out there who'd rather lose an eye than admit that their extra-caffeinated cuppa tastes like c**p, just take a second to put your fat head aside and think about the rest of us the next time you're about to go loco.

I will say no more than that. You know who you are.

Serendipity Baby

Woohooo! It's Saturday. Even though this particular Saturday also heralds state election day and blood test day in my books (double youch), the sun is shining, the birds are singing and it's a snappy damn day.

Partial credit for my enthusiasm today must go to a cute little spot Jesse and I hit for brekkie this morning - 'Serendipity' - tucked away in a wee corner of Kedron Brook Road. You could be forgiven for not noticing this quaint coffee bar. Between the big pizza joints, Coffee Club and assorted retail outlets, it sits quietly; biding its time until some unsuspecting customer stumbles upon one of its sunny spots and pulls up a pew. Which is precisely what happened to Jesse and I.

With an unpretentious breakfast menu which won't hurt the wallet, I was immediately hooked. Lovely genuine salt and pepper grinders adorned the little tables, together with white bowls filled with, (hurrah!), the now seemingly endangered sugar cubes.

After squandering sufficient time sunning ourselves and reading the papers, I couldn't help but wonder why more people don't frequent small privately operated cafes over the large chain brands cropping up everywhere. I mean, I appreciate that if you visit a chain store, you're probably going to find something you like and something consistent. But, to my mind, the consistency of such places is usually in the mediocre level of their service, quality and atmosphere.

So come on Brisbaninianses! Take a page out of Melbourne's book and, next weekend, instead of rushing to your local American styled coffee joint, seek out a hidden gem of charm and authenticity, and post a comment letting everyone else know just how good the little independent guys can be!

Please Explain

As a general rule, I hate awards shows. I hate the glitz. I detest the glamour. And I boo the less than witty banter of the hosts.

But when I stumbled upon this photo from the recent MTV video music awards, I began to wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, I was missing something.

The women squashed like so many shameless hussies into the bottom of the above picture constitute the all-singing all-dancing "Pussy Cat Dolls," who in this shot had just won an award for doing the best bump-n-grind in a music video this year.

Now ordinarily, I would be somewhat perturbed by this whole situation, and would launch into some aimless rant about music these days, and why is it such rubbish, and what do the 17 other Pussy Cat Dolls do anyway. But instead, I found myself drawn to the blinding message MTV was sending to the world. A single word. The word which, so I hear, has been voted funniest common English word for three years running. PANTS!

Odd. Because I'd put money on the bet that the Pussy Cat Dolls were not wearing pants. They did not talk about pants. They didn't even thank "pants" for making this award possible. In fact, I bet they only infrequently think of pants in any meaningful way, if at all.

Yet there it was. Pants. Deep.

Big Tease

Has anyone checked out Lux's new "Luminous Touch" body wash? Whilst dawdling down the bathroom aisle at Coles the other day (home of NAS tomato sauce, remember), I couldn't resist the beautifully tantalising new Lux body wash bottles. This particular "Luminous Touch" bottle was a lovely golden hue with little sparkly things on it, and it couldn't help but make you feel glad to be grubby.

Aaanyway, having purchased said bottle, I rushed home and jumped in the shower, ready to give it a red hot rumble. Well, it smelled fantastic and it looked gorgeous - all shiny and full of glittery bits. I couldn't help but drift off into images of the new bronzed Aussie Al that was sure to emerge from this cleansing extravaganza. After all, this luxurious goop was packed with 'shea cream' and 'skin illuminators', or so the bottle told me. (NB: I'm not sure what skin illuminators are exactly, but I imagine that they must be bubbly little critters with great personalities. Like this.)

In fact, the bottle went so far as to say that this body wash "...wraps your skin in a light reflective veil of shea cream and delicate skin brighteners, leaving your skin with a beautiful glow you can see."

I ask you, with descriptors like that, it is any wonder that I am saddened to say that, since using Luminous Touch yesterday, not one person has commented on how much I look like Jennifer Hawkins. In fact, nobody appears to have noticed my newly-acquired veil of luminosity at all.

Still, don't get me wrong. I don't mean to be defamatory in any way. Indeed, it may just be my particular bottle that doesn't quite hit the mark. But I can't help but think that there seems to be an inherent conflict of interest between something that will enveil my skin despite being 'rinsed well'. In fact, it gives me pause to consider, where oh where is an over-zealous disclosure regime when you really need it?

"Sneakers" Pah!

An interesting observation.

A work buddy of mine, Shev, ventured into the mall today (lunchtime no less), to pick out a new pair of runners. Her old pair of runners were white with hot pink highlights. Her new pair of runners are sort of egg-shell blue with white and maroon details. This got me thinking.

Why do sneakers only come in zany colours?? All those brazen pinks and yellows. Not to mention spawn-of-the-devil orange. And even those white shoes that went easy on the colours can peel paint of cars.

I just want reserved runners. Softly-spoken sneakers that won't take your eye out. Must my comfy shoes always look so wretchedly horrid with a suit and stockings that I am compelled to walk in heels to work??

I am sick and tired of trying to buy gym clothes that match the wacky sneaker colours I despairingly committed to earlier. Is it any wonder that, in stark contrast to runners, gym clothes only seem to come in white, black and grey.

Again, I would call for reform. But having failed in my rally to convince middle-aged men not to order their Ferraris in corn-puss yellow, I fear I shall have to just let this one go.

1337

According to the most serene of intelligences, the Wikipedia:

"Leet is a slang term used primarily on the Internet, particularly in online games. It is derived from the word "Elite" and generally has the same meaning when referring to the skills of another person. The term is often written with numbers replacing letters, such as 1337, l33t, l33+, as well as many other variations."

I am anger. What the truckin' rucker is going on these days? Ok, so perhaps Generation Y (or whatever the heck they are these days) are a tad too cool for this wrinkly bumpkin. But please! Enuf is enough! At first, I thought a likely culprit for this epidemic was mobile phones. I then considered that liability may rest on email's shoulders. But no. I've sorted it. It's Nite Owl. Or maybe Pick 'n' Pay. Definitely one of those. And we all know what happened to them... The great wizened Owl is all but off its perch. And old Pickster... well, contrary to popular belief about snot on the carpet, it is now a financial tumbleweed due to the sheer unadulterated tackiness of its title.

So perhaps the current hip-hoppy, props-monkey coolios were too young to remember the scar Pick 'n' Pay left. But not this rabbit. Oh no. The slobbish slang of the moment will lose its l33tness all too soon, and in a few short years the leaders of this linguistic rat-pack will look back and realise with astonishment that they were, in truth, a complete mob of 7001s.

Outrage.com

Big day today. Big big day. In a side-step from the usual, I had a schedule of training today, focusing on 'Coaching Skills'. (Or as I would have said as a tot, 'choking skills'). On top of the usual chatter about top coaching qualities and situational leadership styles, I was overjoyed to find that the day included a hands-on component. In fact, as a result of this practical application opportunity, I can now somewhat confidently start a whipper-snipper (no more scissors!), I am the proud owner of a paper 'chatterbox' (and will marry Orlando Bloom!!), and I have semi-successfully trained two colleagues in conversational French. Not a bad day's work, non?

In addition to the mammoth creativity expenditure made in training today, it is with great eagerness that Jesse and I have spent the last 48 hours brainstorming catchy company/venture names. We've even gone so far as to check their availability as dot-coms.

Well holy guacamole! Tip for young players - do not bother thinking about registering a domain name. Ever. Not even after pulling out a dictionary. It is a little known fact that all identifiable English words are already domain names. Even the dorky ones. And it doesn't stop there. The dot-com company is clean out of phonetic derivations too. They went out with all the trendy 'x' and 'z' words - sparx, sparkz, sparkxez. Indeed, out of our many trials (and there were many, many, bordering on the ridiculous), the only magic one left was sparkypants.com. True. You don't even have to use a 'z'! So despite my narkiness (which is also available), I guess there is hope after all - just not as a domain name.

Children Are Our Future

What's the deal with jelly babies these days?

We have a lolly jar at work, and it has recently been topped up with all variety of gummy surprises and sugary delights. But somebody needs to send me the memo on jelly babies.

I remember jelly babies being cute little tubby people with clearly distinguishable limbs and facial features. In the last couple of weeks I have seen the following throwbacks to the babies-o-jell of the past:

• 'The lego baby' - that most basic of creature that seems to have accidentally stapled its arms to its pants.
• 'The freakshow' - the poor mutated jelly obliterated by craters of such magnitude that its correct orientation remains a mystery.
• 'The Swedish chef' - 'the freakshow' with an additional mutation - I giant puffy glob at the top.
• (And my personal favourite) 'The coy baby' - to my absolute mirth and astonishment, this bub has strategically placed hands covering its privates. I thought perhaps it was a once-off mistake, but, brilliantly, no...

And while I'm throwing the entire gummy industry into question, someone needs to tell all those confectioners to take the white stuff off the strawberries and cream. Nobody can seriously like that stuff. I'm advised by my better half that the white goo 'tastes like milkbottles'. Milkbottles shmilkbottles. All it does is dilute the zesty fruit goodness packed into those suckers. Begone white goo!! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!