Why I think the Liberals stink.

I've mentioned this on another page but really, I wanted to write it as many times as I could:

Poor fucking form from the Liberals last night. When Gillard spoke to the crowd and acknowledged Abbott, her Labor audience clapped. When Abbott mentioned Gillard, his Liberal audience booed.

Poor. Fucking. Form.

Boys Keep Swingin'

I was in the war... but I didn't see you there...

Need some inspiration?

http://www.whatthefuckshouldimakefordinner.com/

Heh.

Farrrrrque

I don't want to write down my passwords, but I am *always* forgetting the password to get into this blog. WTF?

To Autumn

I had an English teacher in senior high school called Mrs Anderson. She was short with steel-grey hair, glasses, and a ferocious attitude with a capital A.T.T.I.T.U.D.E. Yes, she got called Angry behind her back. Yes, she was loved and feared in equal measure. She also had a real passion for reading aloud,* which was a bit different to the usual mixture of enthusiasm, sarcasm and droll humour from the rest of the English/History staff. I will never forget her reading of Keats' poems. One of our friends still knows most of this off by heart (smartypants) and will recite en mode if pressed. Firm, ripe and fruity.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

* Believe me when I say that reading Equus with her was traumatic for more than one in our class.

I spy

with my little eye -

• fake plaits in a shade I'll never be (way too light)
• two pairs of barely worn happy shoes
• my old school Mary Janes (yay)
  
• another pair of sewing shears (yay again)
• excessive quantities of useless white socks (puzzling)
  
• a table mirror I had forgotten about
• a couple of djellaba, which I find quite lovely but no-one else in our group seems to think so
  
• two old camping frocks which are going to be pulled apart to make new ones at some point in the next decade

There's light at the bottom of the Wall O'Doomy Boxes. Actually, there's an old camping trunk with all this crud in it, but it's nearly the end of the slog I thought would go on forever. I wish I'd taken photos. Victory is just over there! It's having a nice cup of tea. Better reach it before the pot gets cold.

Episode VII: Return of the Nerd

So, you know, Wedge Antilles





or Boba Fett?




Depends on what kind of Star Wars dag you are, really.

Boba used to be my main street-cred minor character hero until Episodes I, II and III came out. You get to see what's behind the armour, and it's not disappointing (far from it, Temuera Morrison, yes please), but then the revelation - Boba is a Clone!? Damn. I could never love a clone. Unless he was a real spunk and brought his brother over and we all got drunk and... ahem. No, I could never love a clone.

Wedge is slightly nerdy-looking (although clean cut and fresh, and that ain't bad) but he's an ace X-wing pilot, and apparently the ladies love a pilot. Perhaps that's what pilots looked like in the 70's, I was too young to notice. He's such an ace that he knows how to negotiate very tight spaces, which you're allowed to misconstrue as a single entendre if you so desire. He also saves Lukes life once or twice in the mighty Death Star battles... but we won't hold that against him.

So, edgy bounty hunter Bob or clean-cut X-wing pilot Wedgie?



Edit: Wedgie was played by Denis Lawson, who's not only Scottish (bonus points), and the uncle of Ewan McGregor (bonus bonus points) but much spunkier when out from under the helmet and easily recognisable from UK telly. How did I not piece it together earlier? Mostly because I was presuming he was a Seppo. Ladies... we have a winner. Sorry Bob.