Dodgy motor

When my TV acting work dried up, I worked at corporate presenting even though I had the wrong wardrobe. 

I landed a presenting gig and thought I was ready to become an expert. I’d been booked to pontificate on a raised platform at a huge car stand at the annual glitzy Sydney motor show. On the hour for 8 hours, I had to deliver a heavily scripted 20-minute talk on a new zippy car aimed at young singles. In the land of the non ironic mullet wearing petrolhead I had to make the car sound attractive to 20 somethings who were buying their first brand-new car. I was 36, my de facto was sending secret late night texts to a younger woman and I’d been up all night breastfeeding my second child. Did I mention I know nothing about cars? And I don’t want to? And I don’t care about engines.

 

My first attempt at the talk was for 30 car dealers from around the country. Experts in their field. I forgot the script, couldn’t remember the key selling points, and didn’t know how to use the wipers. I lacked enthusiasm. I don’t own a car, I couldn’t give a rats about a piece of machinery but I had an unemployed partner with a dope addiction and our kids to support. I needed the money. An entertainment agent was paying me $800 for an eight-hour day. I could inhale fumes for 10 days.

 

On a break, I met a nice dark-haired man in the dressing room. He smiled and said hello.

“What do you do?” he said.

“I’m talking about a new car. What do you do?”

“I drive cars.”

“You race them?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You get paid to drive? That’s cool. I love driving manual cars.” And I prattled on about being a secret rev head while he listened patiently. There was an awkward silence, then he handed me a bottle of water. We walked out together and I heard,

“Ladies and gentlemen the champion of motorsports. Marcus Ambrose.”

There were about 300 people waiting for him in a queue.

 

After six days, a younger guy who knew about cars replaced me on the podium. I’m surprised it took them that long.


Ay Corona

Call me a bloody hippy, but much good will come out of this time of corona madness. A whole new world is waiting to be born

We have stopped buying plastic crap we don’t need that is shipped here from overseas

All children may get access to good schooling and new technology

We will stop working in jobs we hate to buy crap we think we want

People have stopped injecting their bodies with botulism toxin

Maybe we will finally close the gap and have good health outcomes for our first nations people

Kids who aren’t neurotypical and don’t fit into our one size fits all school system will have other options for learning

Neighbours are looking after lonely, elderly folk because they’re not at work all the time

Billionaires and foreign companies who make massive profits may actually have to pay some tax to put money back into society.

People have stopped adding plastic to their fingers and breathing in solvents painted on their toes

Foxtel may go bust with no live sport being played; good riddance Rupert

People will wake up and realise that housing is a human right, not an investment opportunity. We may get rid of over blown rents, negative gearing and have housing that is fair for all

Families will spend quality time together; eating, arguing and singing

The planet will breathe while we’re not stampeding through every river and canal throwing plastic bottles into the sea

We finally appreciate and give thanks to doctors, ambos, nurses, teachers, garbos, shelf stackers, child care workers, aged care lovelies, check out chicks and roosters and start to honour how they keep our society going with their hard work

We will stop buying too many clothes, and not prop up an industry that exploits too many underpaid workers in countries that have no labour laws.

We will grow our own food, share with our neighbours, distribute goods according to need

We will live according to the seasons and honour the ebb and flow of mother nature

We may start to fund our scientists and actually listen when they impart their knowledge

We will swap clothes with our friends, mend and repair broken bits and bobs and remember that compulsive shopping doesn’t fill our hearts

We will crave our connection to nature and appreciate every blade of grass once it is safe to be back in the world

Without organised religious gatherings, people will start to question their beliefs and maybe not hide the paedophiles

We may realise that we don’t need the latest technology to be happy

200,000 poker machines are now sitting idle

We will discover we don’t need to pollute the planet with balloons at gender reveal parties, we can actually live with surprises

We will wake up and stop listening to and voting for greedy mad men who can barely turn up to do their job and finally decide to elect visionary leaders

We can no longer queue and panic buy phones and shoes and other stuff that we really can live without

Huge floating Petri dishes have been stopped from polluting precious cities and oceans across the world

We will have time to dance and sing together (online) and tell our stories and have time with our babies without having to rush off to feed the planet destroying capitalist beast

People will find out the real value of a dollar or a euro and realise that the share market is a house of cards, favouring only the fortunate

And the dolphins and the fish and the worms and the birds will come out of hiding and say ‘what took you so long silly humans?’

This revolution will be televised


Izzy go fund yourself

For all the times that you put down my gay friends
And all the clubs you used to fund your own ends
You think rugby will be lost without you, oh Iz for goodness sake
You think we’re crying ’cause you stopped playin’ well we ain’t
And I didn’t wanna write these words ’cause I didn’t want you thinking we still care about you ’cause we don’t but, you still hit our socials up
And Izzy we’ve moved along and I think you should too
I don’t wanna hold back, maybe you should know that,
Aussies don’t like you and we like everyone
And you for-profit-Christians won’t admit when you are wrong
You get so caught up in your hate, you can’t see what’s going on
But now we know, you’re better playing on your own
‘Cause if you like the way you play that much,
Well Izzy you should go and fund yourself
And if you think that we’re still holding on to you
Well you should go and fund yourself
And if you think hate speech has a place right now
Well Izzy you should go and fund yourself
And if you think you bigots deserve a voice
Well you should go and fund yourselves
Well haters you should take a long hard look in the mirror because Jesus wouldn’t be paying lawyers, he’d be funding homeless people and women who have suffered DV and sick kids and people who need a hand
So Israel Folau run away with your bigoted god bothering pack of fundamentalist and go and play with yourselves

Crikey

On Friday, the Stephen Bradbury of the Liberal party Scott no friends Morrison made the worst International Women’s Day speech in the history of forever.

Simple Scotty said that men should not have to make way for women’s empowerment.

On International Women’s Day.

“We’re not about setting Australians against each other, trying to push some down to lift others up,” Morrison told a function organised by Australia’s mining industry.

“We want to see women rise. But we don’t want to see women rise only on the basis of others doing worse.”

On International Women’s Day.

What I love most about Scott no friends’ latest idiot utterance is that Labor don’t really need to do anything during this election campaign. Scott has placed his feet in concrete boots and the LNP ship is sinking faster than the rats can run. And it’s all his own doing.

As a rugby league man, Scotty the super fit sporty PM may not understand the concept, so here is the dictionary definition of ‘own goal’:

noun

1. a goal scored when a player inadvertently strikes the ball into their own team’s goal.

• INFORMAL•BRITISH
an act that unintentionally harms one’s own interests.

Ex liberal MP Julia Banks told a gathering at a separate IWD event that Morrison’s leadership style was akin to “Mad Men crossed with House of Cards.”

Just when the Australian people thought that Tone deaf Abbott defending a paedophile was beyond, along comes good old boy Scotty to make sure they’ll be in opposition for a long time. As we say in the land of Oz, “hold my beer.”

Now that you’ve stopped the votes, where the bloody hell are you retiring to Scotty? Time to book your place at the Hillsong happy clapper home for bewildered dinosaurs 🦖🦕

#AusPol


Sweaty

Summer in Straya – a few of my favourite things:

Flying cockroaches

Lasting New Years resolutions like eating more sugar and drinking more fruity wine

Teenagers asked to empty dishwasher kindly putting 3 forks away

Sweaty humid walk home from beach to end up stinkier than before ocean swim

Adults moaning about kids singing too loud while playing music at the park

Watermelon stains on white clothing

Photos of depressed northern hemisphere mates clad in grey overcoats

Burnt veggies on the barbie

Drunken laughter drifting from pub beer gardens

Politicians releasing details of dodgy deals on public holidays

Cat bringing dead lizards and mangled mice inside for shared family dinner

Oldies bitching about toddlers having public meltdowns. Who doesn’t love a good tantrum?

Mango dribbling down your chin

Appointments with melanoma specialists

Work experience radio hosts describing daily weather. “Hot then bucketing down. Tomorrow balmy, then a summery, tropical weekend scorcher.”

Warm drinks laced with flies

Happy sweaty Southern Hemisphere summer


Politicians have a lot to be modest about

This week I woke up dressed in a diabolical fashion, with unflattering lighting overhead and inedible food by my bed. No, it wasn’t Mother’s Day. When I walked into the main hospital building that morning, the first thing I noticed was the drab decor; so hideous that the caring lovelies working there had tried to patch up the dullness with bright paintings, but I could feel the bacteria and sadness in the walls.

But we do have incredible care. When I came to after my anaesthetic, I had the most lovely pregnant nurse and I couldn’t get over how grateful I felt that we have great health care in Australia. Everyone was so caring I shed a few tears, I felt blessed that this was my first thought. I looked around and noticed that the hospital staff represented every corner of the universe, Africa, Asia, alien, Australia, America, Pacific Islands, Europe and bogan. Despite the racial hatred pollies who’ve received very few votes are trying to stir up, Australians are a mixed bag of nationalities who want to work and live together in harmony without politicians telling us we can’t.

I had a general anaesthetic so I could have Botox injected into my bum muscle (I speak fluent doctor yeah) to try to repair nerve damage from an operation I had in April. I did ask but the doctor wouldn’t do a 2 for the price of 1 Botox deal on my arse and my face. Bloody Medicare. Before I went under, my colorectal surgeon told me to eat soft foods, when I awoke I was served beef so tough it could have been used by our defence forces. And the doctor wouldn’t let me go until my blood pressure and pulse rate went up so I sat in a chair scoffing non-hospital food until I was allowed to leave. I’m happy to be home. On my return, there was a two-stage political coup erupting to change our Prime Minister. Here comes the revolution: We’ve changed to a conservative god bothering white male from a mega-rich white male. Plus ca change. And now that the weekend is here, and our right-wing politicians have finished throwing tantrums and travelled away from the Canberra bubble, I’d like to help those boorish pale males think about something other than themselves, perhaps the nation’s healthcare, education, domestic violence, babies dying in detention centres or even a treaty with the people who were here first.

Politicians, I can’t believe I have to spell it out for you, but most of you are ego driven and need Commcar drivers to help you get to work at Parliament House because you couldn’t find the place by yourself. You are public servants, we voted for you to serve us, not to watch you cower before opinion polls, you spineless idiots. Walk into the hospital, STFU, listen and watch how a diverse group of people co-operate, learn how they carry on their jobs without petty squabbles, working as a team to achieve incredible outcomes for the good of all humanity. This may help as most of you couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. If you still don’t get it, be careful the door doesn’t hit your unBotoxed bums on the way out.


The game of life

This week the NRL, AFL, rugby and soccer boys are wearing a new strip on the field. It’s magenta polka dots, lightning bolts and zebra stripes, with olive and puce armbands, which stands for raising awareness week and making sure caring and giving back is in the headlines with a few high profile footy boofheads adorned in the right colours.

In a profound press release, Lina Tell-All White a publicist with a certificate in marketing and an educational background that includes being expelled from most upmarket Sydney schools revealed,
“We’re raising awareness of raising awareness. There may be a fun run. We had seven different marketing committees choosing the palette and pairing it with matching wines and food served in gumboots at an overpriced invitation-only dinner at an exclusive inner city hotel. What it means is that we stand for making instant Instagram stars of the people wearing the well-chosen outfits and hoping their media profiles will raise awareness of a thoughtful charity drive that will make money so we can show that we’re thinking of lots of issues on right-wing radio, commercial television and all the socials. It’s really important for politicians, influencers and even ordinary punters to know what we stand for. Even if we don’t.”

“We are also running another timely campaign, we desperately need funding to buy more açai smoothie bowls for girls who went to overpriced schools who now can’t afford to buy homes within 20 kilometres of the expensive suburb they grew up in. It’s a national tragedy and we need to fix it,” said another spokeswoman from a massive yacht on Sydney Harbour. “They may not be homeless but their needs are great.  Raising Awareness, reality TV ‘stars’ wearing exorbitantly priced clothing and building fame, that’s really all we want from a charity appeal, Australia just doesn’t have enough of it. Our thoughts and prayers are with all the celebrities with less than 100K followers on Instagram.”


Dear Malcolm

You are asleep at the wheel. Banker lawyers aren’t renowned for their innovation or empathy, but you have turned out to be our Clayton’s* Prime Minister, the one we have when we don’t really have a leader. You are surrounded by pseudo human career politicians and you have proved to be as much of a jerk as Abbott, just dressed in a better suit. Malcolm, you seemed to have potential, years ago you talked with great passion about Australia becoming a republic, the Australian people thought that you could have been a man of vision but instead, you bow to people whose ideas belong in the Dark Ages. 30 women have been murdered this year alone and the only thing that makes you angry is the company tax rate not being cut. You truly are our most disappointing Prime Minister.

You spoke of Australia’s success with resettling refugees using sportsman Allir Allir as an example. You forgot to mention the refugee children languishing in mouldy tents on Manus and Nauru and the dying man whose supporters had to fight in court for him to receive proper palliative care in a hospital. Allir Allir coming here from a refugee camp in Kenya had nothing to do with you. You cold fart unholy man.

You have no inspiring strategies on:

Climate change

The arts

Health

Education

Refugees

or Science

And Malcolm, you feel the need to constantly bash Bill Shorten, but you’re short on common sense, short on intelligent policies and short on compassion. What you need is a bunch of single mums in your cabinet; you’d get some great decisions made in record time (and under budget) and our country would perhaps be more inclined to give people in need a fair go (does this concept sound familiar?).

Your grandchildren won’t be proud of how your party decided to destroy what’s left of the Great Barrier Reef, how about you stand up and become a statesman? Because right now you look like you really don’t want the job. Malcolm, it is time to step up or crawl off to your dodgy tax haven in the Cayman Islands like the scaly, shifty old caiman you resemble.

 

*If you’re not familiar with this term, in the 1970s and 80s Clayton’s was advertised as ‘the drink you have when you’re not having a drink.’

 


Privacy update

Dear Mr Joyce,
As you don’t seem to have the necessary skills or desire to spare the people of our great country, I’ve updated your privacy policy. Let’s clarify a few items:

Your new money-making model, the Vicki-made-me-do-it-defense belongs in the bin with Adam’s “Eve made me bite the apple”, and poor white trash dude shot up the school because his girlfriend dumped him excuses.

We, the people of Australia, don’t have any questions about the personal information you have chosen to share with us. We don’t want the media to inform us how your baby was conceived, how many times you cheated on your wife or how you fell for Vicki. We would like you to review your Terms of Use and really want you to prioritise transparency about when you’re going to pay back the money you owe the Australian people and the deals you were a part of when you were not eligible to be the Deputy Prime Minister.

As a politician Barnaby, you have obviously signed the Hypocrite Oath, compulsory for anyone willing to join a party that locks up children in detention indefinitely and lies about it. For the sake of your four daughters, we would like to unsubscribe from the tacky details of your personal life immediately, please feel free not to get in touch, not to update any television station journalists, and have a long think about resigning immediately.

And Vicki, please feel free to shut the fuck up at any time via the link below.

These changes reflect the new TMI privacy regulations that will shortly come into effect, as we the over-subscribed, over-stimulated, over it Australian population have demanded of all politicians.

Stop showing us your privates Barnaby.

Thank you


It’s Just Not Cricket

Happy Easter, Passover, festival of chocolate scoffing frenzy, four days off work.

I spent a large chunk of my childhood being forced to go to church and listen to sermons by elderly white male ministers. On Easter Sunday I thought I’d write my own Easter sermon.

The Urban dictionary definition of It’s Just Not Cricket is:

Australian Slang – Having something that is unjust or just plain wrong done to someone or something. This comes from the game of cricket which is regarded as a gentlemen’s game where fair play was paramount.

NOT CRICKET:

The Australian government is locking up children in detention centres for years but our country is crying about cricket. What have we become? I don’t believe it is our government’s right to tamper with the lives of refugees, to make them wait for years to be processed, for Dutton to refuse to send some of them to New Zealand. Economically, it doesn’t make sense. We could bring all the refugees here and save millions of dollars every year.

 

Passover commemorates the liberation of the Israelites, why can’t we as Australians band together and liberate some refugees?

NOT CRICKET:

Women dying of domestic violence at a rate of 1-2 per week

Uluru Statement ignored

An abuser is still in the White House

Genocide in Myanmar

 

But a bit of sandpaper on a ball is what makes us enraged.

This Easter, I think Jesus would be worried more about feeding homeless people than the 12th man.