The Pirate Sting or: How Mr Smart Ruined my Pop Dreams

In 1995, I was in my final year of high-school and preparing not only for the dreaded HSC but for my final school musical production. It was a school production that I hoped would launch me in to stand-up comedy and a throng of adoring fans who found me unstoppably hilarious. It would also be my final chance to realise my secondary dream of getting a solo singing part. But this wasn’t to be – and it’s a dream that keeps haunting me.

Once a year, my school held a musical production. The idea of this musical production was to involve the entire school in putting on a production. Kids would be backstage helpers, lighting specialists, singers, dancers, and play in the band. There was also a main-cast that allowed enthusiastic kids to have even bigger on-stage roles. For three damned years I was involved in the main-cast with the idea that one day I would be given my chance to shine. It was my dream to sing my lungs out, and to be like a nerd in one of those crass Hollywood films where I shake my hair free, take off my glasses and suddenly become the most popular kid in school.

My school was connected to a large Catholic Cathedral, and as such the church’s choir was made up from kids at my school.  The annual school production was a thinly veiled excuse for the school to showcase the choir and to prove that they could sing ‘popular’ songs and show tunes. It meant that the choir kids were given first choice in solos, while us supporting cast members were really only there to make up the numbers. 

At this time in my life, I was a skinny glasses wearing kid whom other kids would call Denton, based on a dubious similarity to television personality Andrew Denton. While I aspired to be as funny or as charismatic as Denton, the nickname kind of took its toll on me as I became the honorary main-cast clown. I remember during one of our rehearsals inadvertently making a few of the kids laugh by being unable to correctly enact the technical choreography. Our choreographer, let’s call her Mrs Tankard, swelled to boiling point at this outburst and screamed at me across the room with a rage I have not seen since in a woman of 50+ years. She screamed a simple word that shut me and everyone in a 12km radius up for good: “DENTON!!”. But it is not Mrs Tankard for whom I have a gripe with for she was a simple lady with dreams of one day running the entire AV department.

A few days later we began to prepare for the final piece. Around ten of us would be singing a song called ‘The Pirate King’ from the musical ‘Pirates of Penzance’. For this piece, two of our class’ star choirists would be instantly selected for the solo – Ian and Nathan. (Nothing against these kids, they’re great singers and I am sure they do a lot of great work in the community). They both stepped up to the piano where the portly Mr Smart (head of the music department and something of a robust piano player come voice trainer) asked them both to sing the two solo leads. Once they had finished, he clasped his hands behind his head and smiled as if to say ‘My job here is done. No need to look any further’. Did he not know that I was waiting in the wings, not confident enough to step up and have a crack at singing the solo? Did he not know that there was more to being an encouraging teacher than wearing a brightly coloured tie? 

Mr Smart turned back to the piano, began to pack up the sheet music and mumbled from the side of his mouth “Was there anyone else that wanted to try out for these parts?” and without even waiting for an answer “No? Ok then, see you tomorrow boys”. Another kid, standing to my right, Darren, knew I was keen to have a crack it. “Mason would like to have a go, sir,” he bravely put to the well-padded gent prancing before us in his own smugness.
Mr Smart turned and looked at me, knowing me only as the kid that looked a bit like Andrew Denton. He looked me up and down and through his massive upturned lips asked “Do you Mason?”.
“Yes, sir….if it’s not too much trouble,” I replied.
My nine classmates murmured a little in the huddle we were in. “Can he sing?”, “What’s he playing at?”, “Is this a joke?”. I could hear their murmurs, my nerves turning them into words in my head.
“Alright then,” Mr Smart mumbled, turning back to the piano and reluctantly unfolding the sheet music.
He began to play, a little faster than appropriate if I remember correctly, and I quickly blurted out the first line.
Mr Smart kept up, and I sang a further two lines. I was really struggling to keep up and didn’t feel at my full potential. One kid laughed. I’m not sure who it was though I suspect it was Colin.
Mr Smart stopped playing, collected the sheet music, and turned on his piano stool. “I think we’ve heard enough don’t you?” he asked with those mocking eyes that haunt me even today – particularly if I am looking at the eyes of a conjunctivitis-ridden daschund. 

I slunk away with my head between my knees. My dreams had been dashed. My last hope then, or since to sing a solo. I knew Mr Smart hadn’t seen my potential, and as I left the gymnasium that afternoon I sang the words “For I am the Pi-hi-rate King….yeah hey…” to the tune of Rick Price’s “Heaven Knows” (hoping my ability to adapt the song to a modern tune would impress anyone listening). I don’t think Mr Smart heard that rendition. But I did. And I’ve heard it every day since.

Hippies are pricks

There are good, peace loving, calm, socially aware hippies, and then there are weekend hippies. These weekend hippies are those that feel they can throw on a tie-dyed hat and make us believe that they live the hippy lifestyle. Well I’m not fooled you hippy wannabee types. Not for a second.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a great Indigenous arts, music, and culture festival. It’s the sort of festival that hippies are drawn to in droves due to the huge selection of music, tofu stalls, and hemp pants. I’ve never spent much time among the hippa-dorium and I figured this would be a good chance to see them in their natural state. Instead what I found was the distinctively different weekend hippy. These are a common breed that attempt to blend in amongst their dreadlocked, bare-footed counterparts except for the fact that they just stand out. It could be the brand-spanking-new, just out of the packet, tie-dyed slacks, or it could be the fact that upon approach, they are simply pricks.

If you’ve seen the film ‘The Big Lebowski’, I imagined all hippy persons to be very much like the character The Dude. He’s an extremely chilled out fellow that isn’t particularly bothered by anything, and is strongly opposed to violence and ill-feelings. This wasn’t what I discovered.
On one of the days during the festival, I was supervising a make-shift art gallery on my wife’s behalf. In walked a middle aged couple both dressed head-to-toe in matching tie-dyed hemp tracksuits. They took no notice of me as they walked straight to the art hanging on three of the walls. I decided I would greet them with a simple “G’day guys how you doing today?” (a standard greeting of mine that I feel has worked quite well in the past). They responded (without even so much as looking away from the walls) with a mere nod of their collective heads.
I was determined to crack these guys. No one could resist the patented Mason Hell-Cat cordiality and I’ll be damned if all I was going to get from them was a simple nod. I decided to ask a leading question, to engage them a little.
“Where are you folk from?” I asked with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. 
“Byron” they responded with a casual, snooty, air of pretention that implied to me they’d only moved there recently because they read about in an airline’s magazine on the way to Zurich. 
“Ahh, cool. How nice!” I said, trying to mock interest, boost their ego a little more than they really deserved, as well as get them to look at me.
“How much are these?” they answered my witty repartee with a coldness I hadn’t expected.
“Fine, enough is enough”, I said to myself. I thought hippies were meant to be nice people. I decided to hit back at them with a little of their own medicine and pronounced “The prices are on the wall,” and walked away.
I watched them leave, along with my empathy for the plight of the hippy. I felt disillusioned, upset and a little angry.

At the time, I couldn’t make the distinction between weekend hippies and real, nature obsessed hippies. So with those angry thoughts towards the hippy fraternity, I headed up to a Jamaican eatery. I ordered from a little window in the side of a caravan from a chatty French lady, who, when asking my name for the order commented “Mason Hell-Cat’s a lovely name”.
“Thankyou,” I replied with a cheeky grin “It’s Slavic”. 
I stepped back to await my order being called.
“That’s a lovely pair of pants,” the French lady commented to a woman beside me.
I turned to my left and noticed a hippy-in-appearance lady wearing an unusual pair of three-quarter length brown leggings. The pants seemed to fan out at the bottom in a ruffled design.
“Oh…gee thanks…” the woman replied to Frenchy, as if she’d just been told she had a booger hanging from her nostril.
“Yes, I saw another lady with those, walking around the festival,” remarked Frenchy, “Where did you get them?”.
Leggings looked disgusted and replied with a real hint of cynicism and arrogance “Oh, probably from some lady walking around with them at the festival”. 
What?? Leggings, as far as I could tell, had just been paid a compliment from a complete stranger and this was her reply? What is wrong with these hippies? Where is the love? Where is the peaceful, stoner chatter? 

This Leggings encounter, combined with the Byron newbies allowed me to instantly see the distinction between real, living the values hippies, and Weekend Hippies. A hippy is not defined by the clothes that they wear, or the music that they like. It’s the values that they hold, the respect that they share, and the unshaven armpits.

Breaking the seal

Breaking the seal is something that has both intrigued and confused me for many years. It is a phenomenon rarely discussed in great detail (or little detail for that matter) and is often sniggered about in bar-room conversations. But just recently I have made a discovery – an answer to our bathroom concerns. And I’d like to share this with you.

Firstly, for the uninitiated I would like to explain what the term ‘breaking the seal’ refers to. For me, the term really only came to light once I reached drinking age (eleven) and was out at some local bars drinking beer and other assorted liquids. I found that after my first trip to the toilet for the evening (or afternoon, or any time after arriving at an establishment) I would come back (feeling ever so relieved) to my dim-witted companions who would remark in a cheery off-handed manner, “Oh! Broken the seal have we?”. As a nervous young fellow I would often just smile and nod politely hoping that breaking the seal didn’t mean they believed I had just robbed a homeless man (this didn’t come till much later in life).

I would then resume the drinking activity I was involved in prior to my sojourn. Previous to my initial bathroom visit I would have had 3-4 drinks. Now, after perhaps one more drink I felt the urge to return to the bathroom and loosen my kidney valves once again. And this, I came to understand was what was meant by ‘breaking the seal’. In other words, once you have had your initial toilet movement, the next releases will come closer together. If I was mathematically inclined I’d probably humour you with an equation that would outline what I am talking about – but since I am more geographically inclined I won’t write any such formulae.

Anyway, let’s get down to the nitty gritty! My remarkable revelation. 

After noticing this seal breaking phenomenon happening most times I would go out drinking I decided to take note of when and why it was happening. I began by looking at the number of drinks I had in the first place compared to what followed. This lead me nowhere – stupid numbers.

Then I began to study the initial urination. This is what lead me to the following conclusion. But before I begin, I wish to stress that this will not be the findings for everyone. It happens to work for me, it happens to be my study, and I am sticking to it. So don’t get all narky next time you’re at the wash closet trying to mimic my findings only to find yourself all damp in the nether regions.

Upon my initial Yellowstone River, I found that I was very excitable (I don’t mean in that sense you sicko) in that I was out having a right ol laugh with companions who presumably had me in high spirits. The drinks (let’s assume they were beers) were flowing very easily, I was having fun, and I was very eager to return from the bathroom to the great social scene I had momentarily left behind. So, in an effort to hurry my ‘downtime’, I would stand at the toilet (being male I am often inclined to stand while ‘releaving’ – at least of the penile kind) and try to hurry the flow. This would be achieved through squeezing a little - contracting and releasing my stomach muscles. I’d get out all that was in the tank, and then go to leave.

What I didn’t realise (for many years at least) was that I would never quite finish off. I would leave a couple of millilitres in the tank in my effort to hurry back to from whence I’d come. (This also can happen if you are interrupted by someone while in the bathroom. You know, the sorts of dudes that like to come in, pat you on the back and garble “Havin’ a good time mate?” (this normally ensures instant flow stoppage)). So I head back, out of the bathroom with an unwitting couple of millilitres sloshing around in the tank. All it wants to do is release like the rest of its pee family but it got left behind and doesn’t yet have the pressure to create a sense of urgency in my bladder. I’ll go back and continue with a few more drinks, and the leftover pee buddies welcome the incoming arrival of new friends into their home and thus the next departure becomes imminent thanks to the original droplets.

I have mentioned this theory of mine to a few friends who have commented “No that’s not true. I stand there till all of my initial droplets exit stage south” or “Nope, nothing left in my can” or “Just get us another!”. But, these fools are not as attuned to their initial emptying as I am to mine. If they really took the time to examine this release pattern they’d see that I am in fact the Pee Master.

9 months with Chuckles

[NB: This was a post I started to write earlier this year and never quite got around to posting it. I feel the post has cursed me like the fate that befell those poor souls who opened Tutankhamen's tomb. So in the face of adversity and a possible cursed death I post the first installment for your consideration...]

Finally I can sleep at night. Finally I can go home at a normal hour instead of staying back at work just to avoid the Chuckles. The Chuckster. The ol Chuck-aroony. The Chuckaruppa. The Chi-Chi-Chuckala.

I suppose I should be a little clearer on who I’m talking about right? Well, it all began last April (2007) when I was interviewing for housemates. I was looking for someone to fill the second bedroom of my apartment, and having run out of all other options I advertised online.

I received a huge number of emails from people of all walks of life. Perhaps the most interesting of them all was this little man of about 40 years of age (I had requested applicants be no older than 27 just because I felt conversations would flow easier with someone younger rather than trying to strike up a conversation with someone that wanted to discuss their Superannuation options. Not that you have to be over 27 to discuss your superannuation options it’s just that this is a topic the over 40s are more attuned to. I think. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to live with an oldie). Anyway, this particular fellow (and for the sake of this story we’ll call him Bigglesworth) seemed to me to be quite eccentric – dressed in a button up shirt, short shorts, and knee-high socks….sounds like the way my Pop dresses - but he’s allowed to because he’s in his 80s and not eccentric as this fella presented him to be him.

Bigglesworth asked me “Would this room hold a double bed? I don’t need anything bigger as I don’t get any action anyway” he announced, nudging me slightly in the ribs. I replied with a nervous giggle and said that it would hold a double bed. Anyway, Bigglesworth left that morning with me sure he wasn’t going to be moving in. I never let the guy know he wasn’t successful because I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I kind of felt sorry for him. And while you may say “He doesn’t need your pity” (that is you right say that if you are one of those do-gooder, self righteous people that feel they need to dish out opinions to everyone. Not that I’m saying you are, good reader, I’m just saying there are people like that out there. They know who they are), I feel that in this case he probably welcomed pity. I just wasn’t about to give it to him.

Anyway, the interviews were carried out over some weeks and I never quite found the person I was looking for. I stopped and thought to myself that maybe I was being too picky. Maybe I was looking for a housemate that didn’t even exist aside from in my mind.

My criteria for a housemate was pretty simple:

• someone that could hold a conversation
• someone that didn’t seem too dorky if I was to be out in public with them
• someone that was neat and tidy
• someone that had lived out of home prior
• someone that didn’t mind combing my back hair occasionally (ok this one is made up. Sort of.)

It was a mid-April morning when I met a chap that I have come to nickname Chuckles. From all appearances he seemed normal enough. A little older than most of my applicants (turns out he was 34) and sported a slightly untidy haircut but normal enough.

As I showed him around the apartment he appeared to quite like the place and I seemed to get along ok with him.
“Have you lived out of home before?” I asked (attempting to tick off one of my housemate KPIs).
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…..I lived overseas for a while so I’m cool with living out of home,” he replied.

We chatted for a while and he left with me telling him I’d get back to him in a couple of days. In the end, I truly was quite desperate (as I had been paying full-rent for sometime and felt I had to make a decision ASAP) so phoned Chuckles up and advised him that he was cool to move in. He asked if he could come back again for another look around as he wasn’t sure if the traffic on the street below was too noisy for him. So back he came. Secretly I now hoped that he would find it too noisy as my gut instinct seemed to be telling me there would be a problem. But, he said he’d be keen move in so three days later he was living with me. And thus began my 9 months with Chuckles.

TO BE CONTINUED… (I still get goosebumps when I think of these words appearing at the end of the 1985 classic ‘Back to the Future’. I remember thinking “WOW! There’s more? Oh man I can’t wait for this!”. Four years later I was not dissapointed).

Toothbrush golf

Toothbrush golf is a game I play every single day – often twice a day. It’s not something easy to explain and it’s not something I expect anyone else to understand or appreciate as much as me. It is what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.

To begin to understand this fascinating preoccupation, I firstly have to describe my toothbrush and its functions. It’s an electric toothbrush. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re sitting there thinking “Yeah, doesn’t surprise me. I always pictured this bloke as an electric toothbrush user”. Well please don’t judge me negatively (positive judging of me is acceptable) as I have only been an electric toothbrush user for about 2 years. I was given it as a present, and once I caught on to the electronic revolution I never looked back (well, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes I felt a little sorry for my regular toothbrush and I’d occasionally use it. Not so much any more, but it knows I still think about it from time to time).

On this particular brand of toothbrush there is a timer on the side. It’s a little LCD display that counts upwards. At 30 seconds it shakes a little harder than the normal buzzing. This is so that you can change to another side of your mouth. According to the instructions that came with this toothbrush, dentists recommend that you spend 2 minutes brushing, and that you should spend 30 seconds on your lower left, 30 seconds on your upper right, etcetera. At the end of the 2 minute cycle the toothbrush shakes again to let you know your cleaning session is over (if you want it to be over. You don’t have to stop at 2 minutes but since it’s the recommend period you sort of feel obliged to end there).

And this is where my little toothbrush golf game comes in to play. You see, after using this toothbrush every day for a long period of time you start to lose track of when the last 30 second buzz was and it’s always a pleasant surprise when another hits you just as you’re rounding your third from the back molar. My aim, whenever I clean my teeth is to hit stop (this is possible via a small button on the side of the toothbrush) at the 1 minute 59 second mark. This, I call a hole in one. I can’t hit stop at the 2 minute mark because I would have been tipped off to it. So 1:59 is exactly the moment to score a hole in one. Makes sense. From there, I earn points based on how close I get to 1:59. If I stop it at 1:58, that’s an eagle (being 2 under par), if I stop it at 1:57 that’s a birdie (being 1 under par), and if I stop it at 1:56 it’s par.

It’s not an especially complicated game but it has driven me to OCD lengths. I simply must play toothbrush golf every time I brush. I always have to check the LCD display and I have to compare my results. I’ve gone to the extreme lengths now of putting up a small notepad beside the bathroom mirror, and noting every single ‘hole’ played. I have records for the past 6 months and I’m even considering starting a competition where I can take on other players from across the world.

The one thing that could ruin this game for me and for anyone playing is the fact that you could simply keep count once you hit 1 minute 30 seconds, and count the extra 29 seconds. Yes, but then there are people that like to cheat in anything aren’t there? Steroid pushers, card counters, old people.  

When one sight leads to another…

Lately, I seem to have had an unusual string of visual coincidences. I cannot explain how or why this is happening to me but it has now occurred at least three times in the past week.

Allow me, if you will, to explain!

Today I was sitting on the train, travelling to work. There is nothing remarkable to explain about the train apart from the fact it was rather crowded and noisy. As we pulled in to the station before mine, a whole blather of people (yes, that is the correct collective term for noisy commuters on a train) got up from their seats to exit. As one man stood up, I glanced at his face. He looked sort of familiar. I looked back again and I saw it. Walt Disney! He was the spitting image of Walt Disney (c.1980). I quickly scanned every detail of his face, taking in the darkish-ish combed hair, and the sproutly moustache. Spitting image. I continued to stare at him in the hope he would look over, and in a big (yet politely spoken) American accent say “Hello there little boy. You know, I know a boy that was once made of wood. His legs were made of wood, his arms were made of wood, even his internal organs including his liver was made of wood. But he grew up to be so much more. You too will become something less wood-like in texture if you just believe in yourself…..believe in yourself….”.
But no, Walt just turned the other way and hopped off the train.

Anyway, I sat there pondering this interesting encounter for another few minutes, trying to think if Walt was German, or what in fact his background was. Then I started thinking of some snippets of some old Disney cartoons I have seen that have involved Nazis (possibly. I don’t know if I have made this up in my mind. I certainly don’t think the Disney corporation would purposefully associate themselves with the work of the third Reich. If they could help it. I mean, the world was a very different place back during the march of Hitler and his crew. People were stealing each others sandwiches and shoes. It was crazy).

Then, my eyes glanced forward to the seat in front of me. There was a girl sitting there with her back to me, reading a book. Just as my eyes flicked to the book she turned the page. And what should appear, but a photo of some castle in Germany that the Disney castle was modelled from. I’ve heard about this castle before and now here it was, right before my eyes, immediately after me spotting someone that looked exactly like Walt Disney! What? How does this happen?

The remainder of my journey felt really strange. Like I was in some kind of Truman Show. I cannot explain this weird coincidence or why this happened today.

My other experiences through the week weren’t as blatant as this but still quite shocking. I could say, they were AMAZING!

The watch-maker

Last week I visited a watch-maker. Well, a watch and clock repairer. Well, not so much that as more of a watch and clock spare parts supplier. Mostly clock spare parts but occasionally they will order in a watch spare part. For me, they ordered in a new band for my wrist watch – regular watch places don’t seem to be able to stock them.

For me, this was a return visit to this particular store. I had been there two years prior to buy the same band, for the same watch. The store was once listed on the Casio website as the only supplier for Casio spare parts. And while it may have been two years since I visited this store, nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing. The shelves were stacked the same, the walls had the same beige paint job, the door had the same awkward handle that prevented fast getaways, and the little man that worked behind the counter was the same. Darren. Darren is a really nice chap. He seems to know his stuff, appears to be in a continually friendly mood, and always polite. Though despite this outward appearance, he’s the sort of man I imagine would be quite nervous, or quiet in large social groups. A bit of a recluse perhaps…though that sounds negative so I won’t include that description.

 

As I stood there waiting for Darren to replace my watch band (a service he included at no cost) I got the impression he was happy to keep me there as long as possible. Being on the second floor of a very narrow, old, city building, I don’t imagine it gets much passing trade. I tried to make small talk about my watch and how it seems his store is the only known supplier of bands but there was only so much for me to go on. I mentioned to Darren that I had been in the store a few years prior. He just knowingly smiled as if he remembers all three people that have ever stepped foot inside, and continued working on replacing my band.

 

I took the opportunity to look about the store. The place is massive. Simply huge. There are low shelves everywhere with little plastic bags containing spare parts. There are windows on two sides that look as if they have never been cleaned. Some huge glass counters stand in an L shape, standing before a huge behind the counter store area. Back there, boxes line the shelves that look as if they have never been moved. To one side sits a simple desk that Darren must do his work at. On the wall above, a simple clock stands, silently ticking away. In fact the simplicity of this clock really astounds me. Surely with all the spare parts at his disposal Darren could fashion some major clock monstrosity? No, that’s probably not his style. He’s in to more the simple, plain clock that does its job and nothing more.

 

Darren finished the replacement and I paid up. I had ordered two watch bands to ensure I’d have a replacement if Casio stopped making this particular model. Smart in one way I suppose, but kind of disappointing in another. It meant I wouldn’t be back to the store for at least 4 years. 2012! Ouch! By then we’ll probably have permanent time pieces implanted in our forearms. Getting a battery change will mean going under the surgeon’s knife as opposed to going to a quaint clock and watch spare part supplies shop run by a little man named Darren.

 

For a moment, I considered the irony of this store. Here is a store set to facilitate the accurate measure of time. To ensure all who enter can keep track of time. And yet, here stood a store that existed outside of time as if it were exempt. Nothing had changed, nothing indicated time had passed. Time in this store stands still.

 

As we said our farewells, I shook Darren’s hand and reached for the door handle. The door handle that more closely resembled a hole. A hole that you have to put your finger in and pull the door towards you. I glanced back, and Darren was already back at his desk. And the clock above him continued to tick.

I always thought I was in the land of Happy Birthdays till I realised I lived opposite a teppanyaki joint

I’ve often been at home and heard the long, loud, celebratory cries of happy revellers. And considered them to be wishing someone a happy birthday. I’ve never really questioned the fact that there seems to be a birthday every three or four days – I just figured I lived in a neighbourhood where a lot of people were born in quick succession. I never really questioned that there may exist a neighbourhood where a lot of people were born in quick succession. I’ve never really questioned the fact I hadn’t questioned the fact that I live in a neighbourhood where a lot of people were born in quick succession. I’ve never really given time to the notion that people don’t have to live in my neighbourhood to visit my neighbourhood and celebrate a birthday.

 

And that’s where I startled myself with an unusual realisation today.

 

You see, I heard a couple of shouts and cheers this evening in the same manner that I hear them on many nights. That is, I didn’t pay much attention to them. But then my mind started to question them. My mind instantly linked that question to a story I heard last week from a girl at work whose mum had been at a teppanyaki restaurant and had rice thrown all over her. I’m not sure why my mind made that connection tonight, but it also connected to me that there is a teppanyaki restaurant across the road from me. A teppanyaki restaurant I have never visited. (Not to say that I have never wanted to go to the restaurant, it’s just that I consider myself a little unco (‘uncoordinated’ for the pre/post 1986 kids) and I would probably end up leaving there doused in hoysin sauce and smothered in rice).

So that brings me to the conclusion of the great land of the never-ending birthday. Another mystery solved. Another job well done. I will sleep tonight without the burden of living in a birthday ‘hood. I live in a normal non-particularly-celebratory-‘hood. And I am glad.

Umbrellas are the modern day cave-man club

Umbrellas are the modern day cave-man club.
There. I’ve said it. It’s what we’ve all been thinking isn’t it?

Everytime I carry my umbrella, I think of a new way to carry it. Like, on my shoulder, or at my side, or even pointing out in front. When it’s by my side, I think of it as King Arthur’s sword, ready to be swung in to action as soon as Merlin once again opens his damned too-cool-for-school mouth. When it’s pointing out in front I like to think of it as a blind man’s cane, ready to hit damned school kids across the knees simply for the fact that they smell of a mixture of bad perfume and sweat.

But when it’s across my shoulder, well…..it becomes my caveman club. It’s ready to swing in to action and knock out a T-rex or a Pterosaur or a Syciologas (ok so I made that one up). I think of it as though it’s my right to just swing it in to action.

Sure gives you something to think about doesn’t it? Yep. It suuure does. I SAID yes. It sure does. 

Cut it, lady!

I don’t ordinarily pay a great deal of attention to the hairstyles of females. I mean, hair is hair right? Well to a large extent that’s true but there is a particular female hairstyle delusion that really angers me. Nay, infuriates me. (Infuriates is worse than anger right? I’m intending it to be in this instance).

 I’m talking about women’s hair that hangs to the waist, or below. Oh how disgusting to be sitting there at a classy eatery, tucking in to a large bowl of corn and fetta soup (that is a new combination I have just made up so if you are some kind of food snob reading this, laughing at my attempt to sound ‘foody’, enjoy your little snigger while it lasts for it will be me having the final chuckle as I begin the corn and fetta soup revolution), to look across the restaurant and notice a woman with hair down to her waist. And not only that, her hair has a slight wave in it. (I’m not sure of the correct hair term for this wave I’m talking about. I want to say braid, but I know that’s not it and I want to say perm but I think that refers to curls so I don’t think that’s it either. But it’s a sort of wave. A wave after wave, after wave). Whatever its hair-term, it looks damned disgusting and only accentuates the massive length of something that should not be that long.

The only possible exception to hair being that long is on a mermaid. A cartoon mermaid. A cartoon mermaid that uses her hair to lassoo boats struggling to survive on a perilous sea voyage. At least then, the hair would serve a purpose. (If it was successful in the lassoing attempts that is. If it wasn’t successful, a whole boat load of screaming people could be lost at sea and the ol Mistress of the deep would have to slink back to her underground cavern, always wondering if things might have been different if her hair had been that little bit longer, or that little bit less brittle or whatever it was that lost that ship that day. After all those years of growing her hair would she look back on regret that it was all for nothing? Would she look at the little girl, fallen from the ship and now heading towards a watery grave and wonder ever so slightly what it would be like if she too had legs?).

If you are a long-haired female reading this (or even if you are a long haired male reading this – it really doesn’t matter, what I am about to say really does apply to you both), what is it that is making you keep those locks? Do you comb that hair and look at it with pride? Do you think it really accentuates your face, or takes the focus away from your bad features? Well stop right now. You are deluding yourself. You have probably been deluding yourself for many years. It does not look good. Long hair past your waist does not make you more attractive to the opposite sex (or even the same sex I’m willing to bet). Long hair to your waist will not give you super-powers, save you from a speeding bullet, give you the ability to tame unicorns, or give you strength.

Cut it, ladies. Cut it. You look really rotten, ok? Ok?

Turn to the nearest mirror, or reflective surface, and read these words aloud: “My long hair, although I have grown it for nigh on 10 years now is not what makes me happy. I would not be less happy if I was to cut my hair. People will not look at me with disgust if I cut my hair. It is time to start afresh. It is time to cut my damned hair. My hair that has held all of my insecurities all these years. My hair that has deluded me in to thinking it’s that alone that makes me beautiful. It is time to say goodbye to my hair”. And then snip.