Shoe-horning a metaphor into a bleeding simile, or something.

I’d rather eat the ubiquitous Mx “newspaper” than read it. But sometimes when I’m on the train, I’ll catch a serve in the face from the person opposite, as I glance up while turning the page of whatever foundational work of world literature I happen to be enjoying at the time. I caught the headline of the article below the other day, and had to bring it home to share.


‘Lost Dogs are no Bass and Flinders as they try to find their station in life’? Wow! This sub-editor just couldn’t let it go, could they? They had an overstuffed bale of puns and come hell or high water they were gunna get ‘em all in, no matter what no-one had to say about it, ya hear?! So, take a second and try to guess what the article's about. Go on.

All done? How'd you go? Here for your edification is the text in full.

Lost Dogs are no Bass and Flinders as they try to find their station in life

Bulldog Scott West’s football skills meant nothing today as he took part in a variation of the popular TV show The Amazing Race. West even tried to bribe a club official to help get his team away from Flinders St station and back on to the quickest path around Melbourne. The Bulldogs were split into groups and had to find clues to their next destination.

Great story, and it’s clever you see because the men in the photo play for the Bulldogs and they’re playing a navigation type game so there’s a chance they could be lost and there’s an organization called the Lost Dogs Home so that ties that together and the Lost Dogs (he, he) are at Flinders St station and there’s a famous Australian explorer called Flinders who would have had to navigate so that ties them together and they’re trying to find something so let’s say it’s a station in life, or something although I’m not sure how that applies and Flinders knocked about with Bass which is a fish so let’s get that in there because... well because he and Flinders always went fishing together and the Lost Dogs (he, he) are no Bass and Flinders because they’re trying to bribe som… wait a minute, there’s no bribe pun in the title… um, 'Here Comes the Bribe'? Yes! Because he’s moving forwards! So, revise; let’s bring it all together: “Here Comes the Bribe as Lost Dogs show they’re no Bass and Flinders as they try to find their station in life and stuff.” Gold! And I get paid by the word! High Five!

My irritation with the article was all the more as it reminded me how bad Season 8 of The Amazing Race has been, and not just because they continue to call ‘clues’, what should clearly be called ‘instructions’. Those boring old sods at Oxford call a ‘clue’: a fact or piece of evidence that helps to clarify a mystery or solve a problem. If there’s no mystery or problem to solve, it’s not a ‘clue’, it’s an ‘instruction’, which is: a direction or order. I’ve only watched the last few seasons, so maybe there was a time when they had to use clues to solve puzzles, but not anymore. Now it’s just “Go to Point A and get directions to Point B”. Boring. Kate called this season “The Amazing Disgrace” and she’s got it right. Hopefully next season’ll improve.

Well I wandered off-topic, but that’s ok. If you hadn’t already read it on the train yourself, I hope you enjoyed catching up on some riveting Doggie news. Woof, woof.

Anti antenatal class.

Well, we had our final antenatal class last week and, I’ll tell you, this is going to be an ordeal. It’s been difficult already, what with Kate being sick for the whole eight months so far, but that’s nothin’ compared to what’s comin’! What with all the things that can swell, crack, bleed, rupture, explode, or just plain drop off, I think it’s a miracle that anyone survives the birthing process. How did we as a species make it this far? How’d they get by circa caveman time?

In the classes I frequently felt like one of the group of horrified drink-drivers from The Simpsons, watching Troy McClure’s driver’s ed films, "Alice's Adventures through the Windshield Glass" and "The Decapitation of Larry Leadfoot”. What comforted me most was knowing that in these classes they have to cover every possible problem so you’re informed, but that there’s no way you’re going to experience the full set. One, two or three, maybe; but not the lot. I keep reminding myself of that. Also that it’s not going to be me on the table, which helps a lot too. Only jokin’. Come on.

So four weeks to go, and everything changes. One big speed hump to get over, and then a lifetime of smaller speed humps after that… with many, many moments in between of intense joy watching your child grow, of course.

Waterlogged.

Australians all, let us rejoice, for we are relatively watermark free. If you think our TV station watermarks are irritating, try watching the UK's 'Sky One' sometime. How’s this for distracting?



I’m finding that I just filter watermarks out nowadays. Like banner ads on websites, I rarely notice them, and (unlike banner ads), they’re actually quite handy when you’re trying to tune a VCR manually, which, you know, I do all the time…

Then I started watching Battlestar Galactica and discovered the Mother of all Watermarks. No matter how dramatic or intense a scene, few things drag you back to reality faster the Sky One (did we mention this is an EXCLUSIVE) logo buzzing around a character's face like some oversize mosquito. Poor old Apollo looks like he's got a band-aid across his nose, and Adama looks like he could be a hologram! At least the DVDs are clean, so we can always take refuge there, but I wonder if it’s just a matter of time before studio watermarks start appearing there as well?

I’ll never complain about Australian network television again. He, he. As if.

Snitter crisis deepens.

SNITTER (n.) One of the rather unfunny newspaper clippings pinned to an office wall, the humour of which is supposed to derive from the fact that the headline contains a name similar to that of one of the occupants to the office.

-Douglas Adams & John Lloyd, The Meaning of Liff, 1983.

I feel sorry for AWB. No, not the Australian Wheat Board, my friend Andrew Wallace-Barnett, of course! Since this ‘Wheat Sales to Iraq’ kickbacks scandal exploded, the newspapers have been crammed with headline after headline for story after story on the dirty deeds of AWB.


Talk about denigration by association. Talk about ruining a reputation. Where once those three letters would conjure up only the best and most noble of thoughts, now they also evoke ones of sordid, duplicitous behaviour and moral standards in decay.

Take this selection of headlines from The Age newspaper.

First came a stunning revelation (as seen above):
    'AWB 'a disaster waiting to happen'’

I’m not sure what he said to start it all, but it couldn’t have been good:
    'Doubts raised over AWB’s statements'

Powerful forces weighed into the situation:
    'US, Canada viewed AWB with suspicion'

in what eventually became the:
    'Shameful AWB saga'

John Howard eventually stepped in to support AWB:
    'PM demands US apologise over AWB comments'

but he only made things worse:
    'US farmers want AWB prosecuted'

and ended up on the back foot defending himself:
    'PM denies turning blind eye over AWB'

And if things weren’t bad enough, there was the most damaging guilt by association revelation of all:
    'Saddam helped to fix AWB delays'
It’s no wonder AWB takes so long to reply to his emails if he’s got Saddam there “helping” him.

And finally, just when you thought things couldn’t get any muckier:
    'AWB, abortion to dominate parliament'

Glory be. What a mess.

The great escape.

An expression of exertion is rarely an attractive thing. Like yawning, it usually makes you look like a moron. Especially with footballers in mid-kick, although there might be other contributing factors there as well. Who’s to say?

Anyway, here’s mine. Taken on my way out from under the house after a couple of hours running cables.


I needed a second phone port and a couple of network points around the house, so I enlisted cable guru, Davet (who’s mad for it), to make it happen. Somehow I ended up on mole duty under the house. I guess that's Davet's experience showing.

Wouldn’t have been too bad actually, except for the central heating pipe things that crisscross the area like a giant blue anaconda stuffed under the floorboards. In the confined space it becomes quite an obstacle, and like some life-sized game of Snake, you need to think ahead or you end up trapped.

With shouted guidance from Davet, I weaved my way in the heat through the dirt, dust, bricks, rocks, and even around a dead bird, until after a couple of hours of hyper-extensions and painful contortions, I struggled out: mission successful. You don’t realise how far you can bend and how small a space you can fit into until you have to.

“Alpha”, aged 33 weeks.

Well, the unflattering comparisons continue. When first seeing the most recent ultrasound of my well-nigh offspring, a series of images flashed through my consciousness.


The first image was of the ‘Bad Boy Club’ logo. I’m not sure why, as I only have a vague awareness of it, and couldn’t actually tell you what the Bad Boy Club is. Another attempt to exploit teenage disaffection for profit, no doubt.


The second image was of Arnie in full pose. It’s that arm that does it. Is it just a trick of the light, or does my child have arms like 'a condom stuffed with walnuts' (to use Clive James’ famous description of The Governator)? I mean, look at that arm! Alpha’s doin’ The Pump!


My third thought was of Ralph Fiennes’ Voldemort from Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire, (I think it's the nostrils), but I didn’t dwell on its significance, and flashed straight to the other end of the scale with a perhaps more common response to the look of an ultrasound:


Although I’m hoping my child isn’t going to be very naughty or the Messiah.


The second ultrasound image we got elicited only the appropriate and desirable “Awwww” reaction from me. A tiny little left foot.

See here for 19 weeks, and here for 9 weeks.

Whale of a sale.

An amusing snippet from the deadtree edition of The Age earlier this week.

Whale of a sale
February 3, 2006.

LONDON. It used to be a practice confined to pacts with the devil, but now an anonymous US vendor is attempting to sell the soul of the whale that died two weeks ago after swimming up the River Thames. Internet auction site eBay has said it can’t sell things that people don’t own and will take the item off its site. But the vendor is undeterred. “I was accompanying the poor whale in his last journey, and he handed his soul to me. He asked me to sell it, so I could invest the money raised in other bottlenosed whales,” he said. The whale was actually female.