Rebecca Black

CURRICULUM WORSTAE #5: BOMBAY SAPPHIRE

At the airport I ate lunch with about twenty middle aged ladies – perfume sprayers, booze pushers and jaded checkout assistants with fingernails that could probably cut glass. Every conversation ended with ‘You don’t have to stand for that, you need to make a scene’. One lady would grab my hand and in a thick accent say ‘You go to the union and you say, I have had enough! They will try to take your very blood here’. She was later caught stealing and was fired, and when the police took her away she tossed her magnificent head of rock-solid, hairsprayed hair and spat on the ground.

My favourite game was to take fun customers over to the Bombay Sapphire representatives, who would make cocktails in plastic cups and talk about the aromatics and flirt with the middle aged men or relate really heavily with the women about where they were staying in Fiji or Bali ‘Oh, that sounds beautiful, I would give my lift tit to go with you.’

One day I’d been late to work, as Bridget and I were really sad and drank way too much wine every night, and I really needed coffee but had no way of getting it, so in desperation I drank a bottle of V. I’d never had an energy drink before, and because I was doing it sneakily, I drank it all in one quick go, and suddenly I had the briefest moment of pure euphoria, where all the fluro lights turned into sparkling rays of diamond, where the future was laid out in front of me with easily accomplished goals, where I smiled dreamily at my jittering hands sticking out of my ill-fitting suit cuffs.

This passed, and I was immediately nauseous and confused, and tried to hold on to that feeling of confidence and destiny that I’d briefly held, and while I scrabbled vainly for that I watched one of the Bombay women drop a bottle of gin onto the tiles, and a shard of glass punctured her eye and everyone was screaming except for her.

Uncle Hercules

Like with most families, if you shake the Lenton closet hard enough, you’ll hear the dry rattle of shame skeletons rattling around inside. And as the years have passed, time has unearthed the calcified details of some truly great stories. For example, I could have gone with the tale of Uncle Bob, supposedly the kindest and gentlest of uncles when my mother was growing up. But like all great men, he possessed a fatal flaw, a tiny weakness which in the end would prove his undoing. Such as when he was arrested for shooting at some kids who were trying to steal his marijuana crop. Crazy Uncle Bob was raided by the feds, and discovered to have alongside his extensive collection of firearms and drugs, a house rigged from floor to ceiling with home made traps, like a stoned, psychotic MacGyver was squatting at its centre.

So, yes, I could have written a story about Bob – he is the reason why our family has a collective eye twitch whenever we hear the eponymous saying ‘Bob’s your Uncle’. Yes, he really was.

But the story I’m going to tell is the myth of Uncle Herc, the Mayor of Cobar. For my entire life, we’ve heard stories of Uncle Hercules, who in our tiny family managed to live up to his legendary name. He first reared his ridiculous head when my parents were only newly married, my mother at the tender age of eighteen, my father at a slightly stringier twenty one. My father had been hospitalised with glandular fever, and my grandma decided to calm my distraught mother with the story of how Uncle Herc, who was the Mayor of Cobar, had died young from glandular fever. He even looked remarkably similar to my dad.

ARTISTS RENDITION

ARTISTS RENDITION

Now, it would be wrong for you to consider my grandma malicious, despite what seems to be quite obvious cruelty from that story. She’s just odd. This is the woman who has for years played scrabble against her invisible friend, Anne – and lost. Who spends the majority of her day filling piles of notebooks with the most useless minutiae of information, such as the spelling of football players names long dead or numbers of lottery results long spent. This is the woman who once didn’t come to Christmas because it was too windy. And I know what you’re thinking – we all go a little funny when we’re old. But she’s been like this since she was thirty.

Grandma is known as Shirley the First – my grandfather married another Shirley after her. Shirley the First takes an inordinate amount of pride in her nickname, obviously taking it as a measure of preference, rather than numerical ordering. And at the funeral of my grandfather it became obvious that Shirley the First was living in a fantasy world that only vaguely resembled reality.  She spoke lovingly of all the wonderful years they spent together, and called him the ‘best husband in the world’. She seemed to forget that he’d cast her aside for Shirley the Second.

So, it shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise when the horrible truth was revealed about Uncle Herc on one ignominious day. While grandma hasn’t gotten any weirder with age, she has obviously forgotten about some of the lies and fantasies that she enjoyed in her youth. So, after I proudly told my girlfriend – a one time resident of Cobar- the story of Uncle Hercules, the Mayor of Cobar who tragically died young, grandma nonchalantly corrected me on a few details.

One – while he was distant family, he wasn’t actually related to my dad

Two – he wasn’t the Mayor, he was a civil clerk.

Three – he didn’t look like my dad.

Four- he only died recently, of old age.

Five- Herc is short for Hector.

Then, this woman who had for some reason invented an entire person, questioned our sanity. Like we were the ones who were living in an elaborate fantasy world, where a man named Hercules was the Mayor of Cobar and tragically died young. A different world. A better world.

THE SCORE:

1/5 stars. Big disappointment.

The Dentist

The doctor for the face bones in your head gash.

THE STARS:
Adulthood, for me, tends to come in waves like hot flushes for a menopausal woman or hot flushes for someone who is on currently on fire. In the middle of playing Skyrim or painting my High Elf army, I’ll suddenly find myself doing my taxes or buying a gym membership. It’s a kind of madness, a fever that not only makes me realise my life is stupid and I’m doing it wrong, but that I am strong enough to find solutions to deal with it. This is of course opposite to the regular kind of deep paralysing chill of adultness, when you curl up on the couch watching Buffy with a kind of numbed indifference, desperately ignoring the five hundred dollar phone bill you racked up by using Tumblr on your smartphone.
The other day at work, I suddenly found myself googling dental clinics, and then my phone was in my hand and then I was booking an appointment. It’s like I was possessed by my sensible uncle. All those television ads about ‘sensitive’ teeth had started making sense to me, cold water and ice based cocktails suddenly assailing my talk hole. But my satisfaction with my adult-flush quickly disappeared when I looked down at the mauled remnants of the packet of Oreo’s that I’d just eaten with two hands, and the sudden awful realisation that it has been an entire decade since I last entrusted my teeth to a dental hygiene expert.
LACK OF STARS:
When I entered the dental clinic, there was nobody at the desk. There was however, the shrill whine of a drill, and I shit-you-not, the overwhelming stench of burnt hair or flesh. I waited for a while, until a lady came out of the room, sought to take her mask off, yet was foiled by the blood on her gloves.
I spent the next hour reading Men’s Health, wondering if I truly did seek a V shaped torso, and if not, what letter does my torso currently resemble? Then it was finally time, and I was introduced to the very polite and professional dentist. She subjected me to an extraordinarily involved examination, involving x-rays and photographs and randomly tapping my teeth with a sharp hook. She didn’t even berate me after I told her this was my annual ten-yearly visit. Then again, she had seen my details form, where I had written for my occupation ‘writer’ after first crossing out ‘itinerant shepherd’. She probably, and rightly, assumed it was a financial thing.
To cut a long story short, I have one cavity in one of my molars. I will be getting it filled next week. It is all very costly and is making me very sad. But, one cavity in ten years of neglect is actually fairly awesome. But the far more pressing trouble, and the cause of my tooth sensitivity, is gum degradation. Gum degradation caused by me being TOO vehement with my brushing. My daily attacks on my on mouth, wielding my toothbrush like a bristled club have basically flayed my gums away from the roots. And it’s permanent, too. But this is just so me – I tend to cause my own problems by being far too energetic about trying to do positive things. My mother is the same – she recently gave herself calcium poisoning, taking far too many supplements after getting scared about osteoporosis. It’s making me wonder if some of the manic energy I put into my projects might be the same – if I’m mutilating something while trying to make it better. If there was ever an image of me that encapsulates what I’m all about, it would be me drunkenly cleaning my teeth, a fevered glint in my eye, lips drawn back into a rictus as I scrub until I bleed.
Ladies.
THE SCORE:
1/5 stars

Small Talk

Moving in the cut-throat world of independent theatre as I do, I’ve become an absolute master of the crucial skill known as foyer small talk.
THE STARS:
Here’s a list of things you absolutely must do:
Be Personable and Fun -
No-one likes a fuddy-duddy bowing from the waist and calling you sirrah from atop his theatre horse. Instead, mix it up and show that you are ‘down’ with the youth element that convert warehouse spaces into raves and confronting galleries. If there’s one thing the theatre world wants apart from money, recognition and purpose in life, it’s to feel culturally relevant. Acceptable opening lines when confronting your thespian buds, are phrases like ‘How goes it, my demonlords?’ Or ‘Smashtastic, personally I think there are TOO many women writers’ while slapping yourself about the head.
Forget Everybody’s Name -
It’s really bad form to greet people by their names. All this shows is that the person you are greeting is more important than you are. In fact, one of the best ways to get by when people say hello, is simply to just drool furiously for a few seconds.
It’s been a pleasure.

Drink to Excess –
That way, your opinion of whatever travesty you just saw in the theatre, effectively becomes nullified. If you liked it, you’ll back it up with all the enthusiasm of a thousand house reds. And if you didn’t like it, people will just assume you’re drunk. Because you are.
LACK OF STARS:
Here’s a list of things you absolutely must not do:
Talk About Theatre -
We get it. You’re in a theatre. It means you must be involved in theatre in some way. Therefore you have logically seen other theatre. Boring! Mix it up a little bit. Talk about that time you threw a ferret at someone. Emphasise your point by throwing a ferret at someone.
Ask Polite Questions -
This is a sign of weakness in the turgid swamp of foyer small talk. If you must seek out information, do this in the manner of a Nazi inquisitor or perhaps a drill sergeant. Keep your victim off guard by slamming your fist on the table repeatedly. Consider water torture.
HAVE YOU BEEN WORKING ON ANYTHING NEW, MOTHERFUCKER?
WELL, HAVE YOU?
Ride in on a Motorbike wearing a Whoopi Goldberg Mask While Reciting Aussie Hip-Hop Lyrics in a Dull Monotone -
You can do better than that, man.
THE SCORE:
1/5 stars.
Spontaneighers, if you are part of either the Facebook or Twitter cults, every month I do a call out for what YOU want to see reviewed. You can find me at @patricklenton for Twitter. Or join the fanpage on Facebook! There are no noticeable rewards for either, except more access to my ranting and constant updates of my day to day activities.

Horses

This is a story I wrote for Story Club, which in this particular instance was on at the Old Fitz Theatre as part of The Horses Mouth Festival. It’s a swank event which is going all the way to December 17, so you should pound your walking leg into submission.
THE STARS:
I rode a horse once. My sisters 11th birthday involved riding ponies around Stanwell Tops. It was practically a long, boring episode of The Saddle Club, except my sister’s bitchy friend Melissa didn’t learn her lesson in the end. I have a fundamental distrust of riding large animals – this may stem from this time I saw a camel chomp down on an American tourists face. So, when selecting our steeds, I asked for the oldest, placid, gentlest my little pony. They gave me Patch, a cloudy eyed old gelding who didn’t really react when I sat on him. His enormous face seemed to perpetually be trying to remember where he had put something.
As we rode along the winding trails, I swiftly realised that Patch was in his own senile horse world, completely oblivious to whatever I was doing with my reins or my spurs or whatever horse apparel I was wearing. This wasn’t a problem, until halfway through the ride, he separated himself from the rest of the group, and instead of continuing the climb up towards the sunshine and grassy meadows covered in butterflies and singing birds and equal rights, he took me down a side path shrouded in cold shadows, wreathed by spiderwebs and overhung by various kinds of stinging plants. While a part of me may have embraced my maverick, lone wolf status, exploring Shelobs lair like Frodo riding on the back of an aging, senile Sam – about half of my sisters friends horses followed me down the path towards the temple of doom. We saw brown snakes. We were covered in spiders. I was entirely unsuccessful at leading everybody in a Saddle Club theme song, sing-along.
But much like that ancient nag, I’m going to ignore the obvious trail in front of me, and say to hell with finishing that story. Instead I’m going to lead you down the shadowy side trail of this new anecdote. Is this because I have no more stories about literal horses? Yes. Is it because the end of the former story ends with us despondently eating sausage rolls? Yes. And is it because this other story is better? Let’s find out.
LACK OF STARS:
I used to work at a pub named Boyles Hotel, truly a shimmering carbuncle on the forgotten scranus that is the Sutherland Shire. Apparently in the eighties, Boyles was a dangerous bikie joint, famed for it’s violence and motorcycles and dedication to Khe Sahn. These days the place is patronised by whatever fading remnants of the bikie scene still remain, a bitter, curmudgeonly crowd of about fifteen geriatrics. Our rush hour was at 8am in the morning when the council workers would finish their night shifts. After optimistically doing a two week cocktail making course, the most exotic drink I got to make in my entire time there was a bourbon and coke. It was for a Sheila.
But if I made the venue sound boring, I am doing it an injustice, which I didn’t think was possible frankly. Much like a gangrenous leg that your stupid hiking buddy is just too cowardly to cut off, Boyles seemed to attract the local wildlife. This being Sutherland, instead of arctic wolves or bears, this meant lunatics and Rugby Union fans. The footy fans didn’t seem to ever drink inside the bar – instead on Friday nights they would gather outside and have long sprawling brawls that would eventually involve the police.
The most persistent of our resident eccentrics had one very particular goal in life. Like a disgusting salmon swimming upstream to disgust the other salmon, this man’s modus operandi was to shuffle into the pokie room, sit on a chair and shit himself. After doing this, he would simply leave.
But not everyone was as fun and harmless as old Stoolio – one night while working in the bottle shop section, I was absorbed in bagging my longnecks of VB when a kerfuffle breaks loose. Suddenly I see my coworker leaping the bench and roaring down the street. Turns out someone had just thrown a knife at us.
But after a few months, my shifts suddenly dried up, until I was getting something along the lines of 1 hour per week. This forced me to move on to an exciting job at the Miranda Target loading dock, which I was equally suited for and lasted a similar amount of time. Obviously I wasn’t heartbroken about losing my job at Boyles, and considering I wasn’t bosom buddies with any of the racist thugs that worked in that place, it wasn’t exactly mysterious. Or was it?
I didn’t hear the real reason behind my pseudo-firing from Boyles until it was delivered to me straight from the horses mouth. And by horse I mean incredibly high ex-coworker and by mouth I probably mean ecstasy-hole. Sitting on the train one late night with my girlfriend, this guy suddenly explodes through the door, making an upsettingly determined bee line towards me. When I worked with this fellow, I’d probably never exchanged more than two words with him. Those words were VB and panda. Now he was very excited to see me, and had a rather interesting story to tell.
Turns out that one of the owners of the bar who I had worked with a bunch of times decided that I was a homosexual, which he didn’t like. He then implemented a system where I would be rostered on to do all the most distasteful shifts, such as chasing Stoolio out of the pokies with a broom, so I would hopefully leave. Then when that didn’t work, he simply reduced all my shifts. So, while I was sitting there absorbing that not so surprising piece of homophobia, my new tripping friend added ‘Oh, and everyone thought you were really shit at counting.’ Which is true.
But once at my shitty retail job at the international airport, I got in a lot of trouble and was called in to the store managers office, which just happened to be located in the confectionary store room. My heart in my mouth, I stared at this woman who sat like a malevolent Willy Wonka, haloed by a diabetics hoard of candy, and tried to figure out my crime. There were any number of reasons why I deserved to be fired from this job, the only question being what I’d been caught doing.
My crime was pointing out to my co-workers the mystery shopper that had been staking out our store over the past few days. And part of the reason she was so annoyed, was that she was convinced someone in senior management must have blabbed to me about the secret shoppers identity. Slightly baffled, I told her that I’d heard it straight from the horses mouth, meaning I’d approached this suspicious woman and had a very interesting chat about what it takes to be a mystery shopper. Turns out it requires no qualifications.
The store manager tensed on her chocolate throne and asked me exactly what I meant by ‘the horses mouth’. She had obviously never heard the phrase before, and thought I was insulting her in some kind of new-fangled way that gang members insult people over Twitter.
And as a wrap up, the way that I sussed out the ultra secret identify of the mystery shopper was brain drippingly simple. As we worked in the departures terminal, anyone who is in our shop is flying on a plane to another country. They have gone through security and after they finish shopping, will get on a plane and go far away. There is no street traffic, and definitely no return customers. So when I saw the same woman in the shop for five days in a row, I knew she was either a mystery shopper or the ghost of a passenger who died, probably from all the incredible savings she was making in our store.
MYSTERY: SOLVED
THE SCORE:
1/5

The Bermuda Triangle

A large ‘triangle’ of water near ‘Bermuda’. Ships and planes routinely go missing in its vicinity.
THE STARS:
If there are two things that people are scared of, it’s sharks and maths tests. In the mysterious geographical location known as ‘The Bermuda Triangle’ both these fears are combined into one terrifying enigma. Don’t be too literal: I’m not talking about a finned nightmare that pulls you deep into it’s ocean lair in order to grade your algebra skills – not this time. Rather, instead of getting sidetracked like an old one-eyed hen, pecking vainly at its own feet, we have to consider the cold hard facts. The two incontrovertible truths about the Bermuda Triangle is that it’s mostly water and that it’s a triangle. Now,  lots of things are water, so I’m going to remove it from my list of suspects. Go home, water. Go home and think about how lucky you are. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, a loving family of Hydrogen and Oxygen waiting anxiously for you. I don’t want to see you hanging around this kind of bad crowd anymore. That’s right – a bad crowd like triangles.
Triangles have always been the most sinister of the shapes. Three points, three sides, yet not always equally defined. It’s often thought that the triangle is the only shape that doesn’t occur naturally – which is only partially correct. Sometimes snakes will band together with three of their brethren, and form triangles to lay traps for curious birds. 
This is what happened to Happy Feet.
What’s my point, you say, stroking your autographed photo of the pyramids. My point is that triangles are unnatural and evil mathematical constructs.
For anyone who has ever suffered the pain and horror of biting a corn chip the wrong way, this comes as no surprise. 
YUM!
But there’s no point in simply declaring a pogrom against anything triangular in your house, frantically burning your old admiral hats and wedges of cheese. We have to track the problem to its source and discover the people who impose triangles upon us – namely, mathematicians. These foul logic-wizards are like a plague upon society. They’re in our schools and neighbourhoods. That middle aged woman with the iron-gray bob and functional shoes buying artichokes from the super market? She doesn’t look like it, but she’s a mathematician. If you stare deep into her eyes, you can see the swirling chaos of geometrical patterns looking right back at you. Nobody really knows how long the mathematicians have been amongst us, but it’s happening. And they have their triangle pushing agenda in full swing.
LACK OF STARS:
Well, I’m not advocating an international purge of mathematicians. For better or worse they’ve fully integrated themselves into society. Nor, at least in this lifetime, will we ever successfully ban the triangle. It’s an insidious shape, able to coax a solid square or a weak dodecahedron into relaxing its guard and making the change into geometric evil. But we should at least be able to deal with the gaping symmetrical maw that is the Bermuda Triangle.
My theory is that the pilots of the ships and aircraft that are lost in the Triangle, are simple folk whose minds are simply unable to grasp the unnatural complexity of a mathematical construct. Think about it – probably in day-to-day lives their handicap goes unnoticed. Maybe they’re aware they have a violent aversion to Toblerone, but put it down to their enormous hatred of Swiss produce, rather than triangles. But the Bermuda Triangle – is there any triangle so large and all encompassing? Even the pyramids are tiny three dimensional cousins to its majesty. So, it’s no wonder that upon entering it’s awful influence, these people would go insane or perhaps explode in a cloud of logic.
“Chhhk – This is FlavourHawk to Base, I seem to have noticed some kind of geometric construct beneath me,
 it looks suspiciously like a… OH, GOD NO! *SPLARKACHUNK*
How do we stop this travesty, you scream, your teeth loose with outrage. Simple. I declare we rename ‘The Bermuda Triangle’ to ‘The Bermuda Amorphous Blob’.  
THE SCORE:
1/5 Mmm. Doritos.

Bob Katter

The snarling, atavistic voice of the Australian people: provided those people live on farms in Queensland and don’t enjoy sodomy, immigration or a lack of greenhouse gases.

THE STARS:

After the political upheaval that was the hung parliament of Australian politics, the balance of power somehow got passed to the hands of an eccentric band of misfits known as the Independents. Bound together only by their inability to agree with anyone else about anything, their presence in mainstream politics has been like a breath of weird air.

And that’s where Bob Katter comes in.

There’s a chance I don’t believe in you.

There’s a big part of me that really enjoys the sheer batshit insanity that his presence entails. The other part of me is a traumatised and whimpering ball that is sad for my country of origin. The fact that we have to seriously listen to a man who threw eggs at the Beatles and who flat out refuses the existence of homosexuals in north Queensland is a tier of absurdity rarely scaled. However the most absurd part of the Katter phenomenon is that I trust him more than Tony Abbott. I mean, he’s the kind of crazy where you can predict to an extent what he is going to be crazy about. Abbott is just a snake.

LACK OF STARS:

If the eighties taught me anything, it’s that the people dressed like cowboys are usually minor characters with bad accents and a lack of anything resembling character development.

I love the episode where Helicopter Pilot confronts his fear of lakes
and also goes in search of  his alcoholic mother.

During the eighties, Katter was one of the cronies of Joh Bjelke-Petersen, the Undying Lich Lord of Queensland. Their dread government helped inflict conservative politics on the state for decades. Some say Bjelke-Petersen will rise again. Some say he never died. Others believe he lives on in Pauline Hanson’s womb.
But the fact is, that the Mad Katter was clearly one of those situations where a minor character outlives the main villain, and then is quickly forced to develop into a real human being. Clearly this meant seven layers of insanity.
And now that he is rising to fill the dread throne of Petersen, he has begun gathering his own sinister force, under the banner of ‘Katter’s Australian Party’. Villains from around Australia are slowly pledging their support.
And the question on everybody’s lips: where is Batman in our time of need?

THE SCORE:
1/5 stars. He may be crazy and evil, but maybe rural Australia needs a crazy evil voice to stand up for them in their time of need. They are suffering many, many plagues. I may be a latte sipping inner-city vest wearing phoney, but I’ve seen Landline.

Deer

I herd they’re fairly scary. I find it stag-gering that there isn’t more information available to the public.

THE STARS:

Bleeding heart leftist media and pinky communist propaganda left over from behind the Iron Curtain would have you believe that deer are the VICTIMS. Just peruse your VHS collection for the tale of Bambi, an innocent orphan whose mother is shot by evil hunters. What they’re not telling you is that Bambi’s mother was taking local jobs and was a drain on state welfare.

LACK OF STARS:

In reality, deer are iron legged hoof monsters that plague our shores like large majestic rats. Like other pests, they must have stowed away in the cargo bays of large wooden galleons when the convicts came over, which is both a testament to the incredible creepy sneak of the deer and their indomitable persistence.

In Australia, deer are an enormous pest that ruin the fun for all the other animals. Their sharp hooves destroy foliage and top soil and their merciless teeth strip the bark from trees and make them sad enough to die.

But the sinister threat of deer are not limited to the animal kingdom – nay, while it may be hard to conceive of while living amongst the bright lights and flaming meth addicts of the city, in the dark forests and urban fringes of Australia, the deer lurk and are terrifying.

When I lived in a tiny place called Maianbar, in the middle of the Royal National Park, it was an unspoken rule that when night fell, we would retreat to our cottages and shanties, as the deer would roam. In strangely silent processions they would ghost through our streets and along the beaches, lurking under the dark eaves of the gum trees. Strange, but it’s not like they need human blood to stay young, right?

To illustrate, I once brought a group of my friends to stay in my house, for some light singing and heavy beverage consumption. In the middle of the night, two of my friends decided they would take a wander through the cold bushlands that ringed my house. Filled with the false bravado of the schnapps, they were heedless of my warnings, and decided to go anyway. Scarcely were they gone more than fifteen minutes, before one returned, wild eyed and crazed, babbling about a sound, a sound they heard in the woods. When I asked about his companion, he admitted that they had bolted in separate directions when they had heard the unearthly cry. Later our friend arrived, pale and silent, as if he had discovered an unholy truth, a harsh mystery.

Having grown in the area, I was knew exactly what they had heard. It was the sound a deer makes, half bark, half sad baby, half banshee wail. Truly, it is impossible to describe the blood clenching horror of it. At night you can hear it echoing across the bay, and widows tighten the bolts on their windows and bearded men polish their shotguns silently.
But during their walk, they had unwittingly blundered right into the midst of a herd – even I can scarcely imagine the shock of hearing that sound only a few metres away, coming from the pitch black of a moonless night. Lesser men would have lost their sanity. Luckily they had very little to lose in the first place.

Was actually a bunch of crows duct taped together.

If that’s not enough to convince you of the deer threat, here’s a story directly from my ‘Top 5 Near Death Experiences’ folder, of which only one has been previously mentioned in this blog.
In this same house in Maianbar, I soon outgrew my tiny cupboard room (I’m talking literally, I could not physically lie lengthwise in that room) and was moved to a caravan in the backyard. This caravan was awesome, and had the added benefit of being set up right next to an outdoor bathroom.

So, one night I wake up in the middle of the night to a strange noise, like a tree branch scratching along the outside of the caravan, right near my head. It’s vastly annoying, so I decide to kill two birds with one stone, and get rid of the branch and pee.
So, as I walk out of my caravan (naked. I’m… just always naked.) I look in the small gap between the caravan and the bathroon, thinking to see a branch caught between the gap from one of the overhanging trees. Instead what I see is an enormous stag, wedged between them by his spreading rack of antlers.

I had weird hair at this point in time. 

Seeing me must have given him the fear (or perhaps the hate) to spring free, and so suddenly, in the middle of the night, bleary eyed and sleepy, I am diving away from the full force of a charging stag. It missed, but I know that deer have long memories and even longer antlers.

THE SCORE:

1/5 stars. (It was pretty funny seeing people so scared actually)

The Economy

This is an anecdote. Suck on it.

THE STARS:

The other day I was on the packed morning train to work, listening to my headphones and minding my own groggy, sad business. Packed in next to me in the standing section of the train, were two men, one carrying a large video camera on a tripod and the other a bunch of audio equipment. Their jackets clearly said something to the effect of ‘Fashion Hair TV’. Keep in mind that only the day before i’d gotten my hair cut, so it looked neat even if I’d done nothing special with it.

So, at Redfern most people got out, and then these two skeletal junkies loped on board, all crazy eyes and furtive mutters. The first thing they saw were the hair fashion guys, which they were clearly taken with. One even reached out and traced the embossed words, much to the cameraman’s dismay. Then they saw me.

With an intuitive leap that I can only put down to the sheer amount of fairy dust screaming through their bulbous veins, one of them starts jabbing me in the stomach with a rolled up newspaper, saying “How dare you be a hair model in this economy? Huh? Huh?”

LACK OF STARS:

I mean sure, everyone goes out in the morning looking for those rare compliments about their newly cut hair from addictive drug users – but that doesn’t stop it hurting when you are accused of… well whatever it was I was accused of.

And as it was pointed out to me, while my supposed career of hair modelling might be a little vainglorious and useless to greater society, at least I’m not a parasitic drain and fountain of crime. I somehow don’t think the black market drug trade is what Obama should be focusing on to reinvigorate the USA’s wilting economic rod.

THE SCORE:

1/5 stars. 1 because I got a compliment.

THE COMMENT:

I had to use the old uploader because things were going crazy on this, and the other picture I had just wouldn’t load. It was shitty anyway. It was an unrecognisable Uncle Sam with what looked like a pile of snow, but was meant to be cocaine.

Rebecca Black

My friend Geoff Lemon commissioned me to review viral sensation, Rebecca Black. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here you go. Enjoy.

THE STARS:

Yes, yes, yes. The lyrics are the most deplorable word salad that’s ever been heard this side of a dictionary having an epileptic fit. I know. But I have a theory that will revolutionise the world of pop music. For generations, pop has skated the thin line of banality and catchiness, abominably fitting words into simple melodies.

What Rebecca Black has done is simplify the pop song into a stream of consciousness monologue. It still means absolutely nothing, like the pop songs of old, but reduces the entire process to her simply noticing things around her. In her debut single, she literally wakes up on a Friday and then expresses her basic thoughts as she listlessly ghosts through the day, thinking of the weekend.
As she says, ‘we, we, we so excited’.

Personally, I think this is a bold and welcome change. I like my drivel knowing that it is drivel.

LACK OF STARS:

The Spontaneity Review presents:

TUESDAY: (Official Video)

# 11.45 waking up in the morning, gotta find out where I am, gotta get going I am cold.
Gotta move my legs, remember how to breathe, where are my pants?
It’s Tuesday, Tuesday, gotta find my pants on Tuesday.
Vaguely dreading the weekend, weekend.
Tuesday, Tuesday, ridiculously hungover on Tuesday,
 scared of this strange bearded mannnnn.
Partying, partying. Yeah! Partying, partying. Yeah!
Fun, fun, fun, fun,
Gotta make my mind up, I see my pants!
Tuesday, Tuesday, really hate Tuesday.
Kick my pants down on Tuesday.
We, we, we, so awkward.

THE SCORE: 1/5 stars.