If it's worth doing...

...it's worth doing well. sigh.

I have visitors this weekend and decided to make egg and bacon muffins. Eggs worked fine, muffins, ditto. I cook bacon for about ten minutes in a low oven - comes out delish (especially when marinated in maple syrup, but that's too exotic for the boys - 11 and 10).

In retrieving the bacon, I managed to tip the tray a little too far and... yes, hot bacon fat down my palm, little and ring fingers. Didn't hurt, initially, just a quiet curse word or three at the greasy fat on the floor - and I did save the bacon (hah!).

Now, a few hours later, it feels like a giant papercut. No blisters, but nicely red after a dowsing in cold water. A good stinging and throb.

You never really know how much you put your hands in water until you've collected a burn.

Yeah, if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well. I think I'll tattoo 'eeedeeyot' on my forehead and go pout.

I lived!

So I survived and the speechifying went as expected - not my thing, but the students, yes, all sixteen of them, were interested and asked questions. No stammering or shaking hands from me. I love my history; the students, not so much. Fortunately, my colleague went way over time, but my fifteen minutes went well.

What I found interesting was there were four sessions (we only did one) with various organisations, but the students didn't know which group they'd be placed in. I think that was unfortunate, since they had no opportunity to do any prior research on the company for whom they'd be creating a marketing plan.

None of them had heard of the historic figures I presented, nor the fictional characters I compared them to (Horatio Hornblower, Honor Harrington) who were based on the naval heroes relevant to where I live. It could have been because all but three were Asian students.

The problem with stress is that it's exhausting; I felt like I'd run a marathon and, I suppose, with a constant high heart rate, it's similar.

I earned the glass of merlot... and then promptly went to sleep.

As a reward, today I'm off to see Shrek: Forever After - it appeals to my inner child.

Fear and Loathing

Today is the day.

In a few hours, I shall be standing in front of university students trying to sound intelligent, erudite and entertaining about naval and local history, while a little voice in my head gibbers like a lunatic. I'm sure I'm not alone in this.

I haven't given a presentation in years; standing up in front of people... one of my worst nightmares (others include spiders or very sharp implements or standing on the edge of a cliff - but let's not go there).

It is not a fear of failure - I know my subject - nor is it a fear of stammering - I don't, or at least I didn't. It's something more... indefinable. Outwardly calm, but inwardly shaking.

Phobia? Maybe. I've had this whatever all my life; even went into journalism to try and quell the overwhelming need to RUN!!. The theory being the more I did it, the more comfortable I'd become. Nup. Never happened. All that did was increase my stress levels. And to think: I come from teachers. I missed that part of the gene pool - probably examining the history of it instead.

From experience, I know a coupla shots of bourbon work, quieting the gibbering idiot, but not today. I've got to be professional, speak to the subject, answer questions. The curious thing is that I never remember what I've said, whether I stayed on topic, told a few funnies, spoke clearly, informed the audience.

I'll be fine once I begin, I wallow in history, but after, I think I'll have a Bex and a good lie down - and make the museum promise to never ask this of me again (and I'll be slapping the pikers upside the head should they abandon the project at such a late stage evah again).

So. A few deep breaths, cups of calming tea, and the knowledge Lady Gertrude Denman is watching, and I'll be fine. Really. No big... much. Eager minds waiting to absorb my pearls of wisdom. Oh...

...Crap.

TBR-in-waiting

Woo hoo! I am in Canberra. What's the big deal? Well, really large book stores.

I'd like to support my local businesses, but when they consistently fail to provide a service, well... I'm not going to frequent them. The argument that they only stock what's popular is a load of cobblers. It took a concerted effort and constant requests for them to stock J. D. Robb! I mean... WTF? The staff didn't know La Nora and J.D. were the same person initially, until it was carefully explained.

So. Canberra. Bitterly cold and fabulous. Borders tomorrow and Dymocks on Sunday. I'm there, with list in hand, hunting down what I cannot find in my home town... village, whatever.

Viehl, Andrews, Weber, Gerritsen, Lisle, Kent and anyone else I can lay my little mitts on. It's all a matter of perspective and browsing.

Bring it...

Churchill, Homer and me...

So family turned up from all over the place to celebrate my eldest sister's mumble, mumble birthday. It's not really her birthday, she'll be in Paris on the actual day.

These parties are... exuberant. We don't get together all that often because of distance, but when we do, damn, but we go all out.

I'm lying on the couch, trying to pay attention to the rugby, with an overstuffed belly from too much food and soaked with some rather tasty wine - no thoughts of getting back to fiction tomorrow - I'm feeling nicely pickled.

Winston Churchill made some his most famous speeches following the consumption of significant amounts of brandy - I think it also contributed to his slow, measured tones when delivering the words that boosted a nation.

I'm no Churchill, hell, I have ambitions to be as erudite as Homer. Simpson, that is, not the ancient Greek.

It does, however, make me wonder how many authors out there settle down with a nice glass of red or white and set fingers to keyboard to compose - and whether the result is worth reading.

Churchill proved brilliant; for me - if tasting the fruit of the vine - the hits usually outweigh the misses. That is, the hits of 'wow, that's awful' are more prevalent than the 'wow, that's exciting'.

I need a nap now.

Back up, back up, back up...

Since my computer went on the fritz some time ago, I've been near obsessive about backing up my work. The loss of seventeen or so manuscripts is the stuff of nightmares, so I back it all up - at every stage of development on different media.

I shall never be in danger of losing the work again. Except for one, annoying problem.

I've been happily editing away, when it struck me that I was editing the wrong version. Yep. The hard copy didn't match the on-screen text. Cue the hair yanking. I checked the file date and it seemed accurate, but obviously it didn't match.

So I had to hunt down the correct version: four thumb drives, a few disks and a check of the desktop (I've been working with the laptop), I finally found it. I had no idea I had so many copies of the work, not just in one folder in each location, but two, under different names.

I'll have to do something about that. It's fine to have one or two back ups, but a dozen seems just a wee bit too obsessive. I'll fix it after Nano.

For now, it's back to the work. Ten days until Nano, nine days for the book. But no pressure...

On hold

Dear Sir/Madam,

I know I must be important to you because you've called me twice: once during dinner and once while I was caring for my mother. Do you know how hard it was to track down every damn pea that got tossed in the air because the ringing startled me? As for Mother, well, she never lets a call go unanswered no matter what... predicament she might be in.

The only reason I dashed to the telephone to answer was that maybe, just maybe, I'd won Lotto and someone was calling to let me know. Oh, the visions of what I could do with 25 million dollars.

So I answered your urgent call, "Hello?" There was a click, as if I was being put through to someone equally as important and I cleared my throat, ready to squeal like a fan-girl. Only... I heard muzak. YOU PUT ME ON F***ING HOLD!!!

How many ways can I put this? Um... No. YOU called ME; YOU do NOT put me on HOLD! YOU explain what the hell you want, or I'm hanging up!

Now, I understand you're probably busy people, with numerous calls going through at the same time, but please understand: my time is valuable, to me and I'll not be hanging around watching my dinner cool or my mother... um, let's not go there and say we did... for an important person such as yourself to get back to me. I don't give a rat's bladder that you're busy, you do not treat me - or anyone - with such contempt and expect a pleasant conversation.

And if you ringing to say I've won another damn free mobile phone, let me reiterate: I DON'T NEED ONE! Especially if it's a part of a special package of only $50 a month for a two year contract. That's not free.

I'm just sayin'. Now, if you'd like to leave me your number... I'll get back to you.

regards,

JP.

Overturned and underwhelmed

Finally, common sense has overcome elitism in that the recent 'annoyance' law has been overturned in the Federal Court.

Two university activists took the NSW Government to court over the law, claiming it was unconstitutional to infringe on a person's right to peace protest.

Of course, in a smug rebuttal, NSW Premier, Morris Iemma said: "Two words have been struck out - the words 'and annoyance'".

And while all this bullshit is going on, a vandal has written Ratzinger Rules on one of our war memorials. The Pope belonged to a paramilitary organisation in Germany during the Second World War.

There's nothing like a religious circus to piss off the natives: Sydney CBD is currently experiencing gridlock as thousands of pilgrims head to Darling Harbour for the opening ceremony. As for ordinary commuters on their way home from work, well, tough shit. It's not as if your every day lives are anywhere near as important as the Bible-thumping, hallelujahing, devoutly-religious, god-botherers good time.

And let's remember, peeps, not to cause any inconvenience to the speshul pilgrims. Gee, only another week of this to go...

I'm rich! Look...

From: Mr.HASSAN BELLO
Manager,Audit/Account Section
African Development Bank
Ouagadougou Burkina-Faso

(If you’re from Burkina Faso, how come your e-mail address is in France?)

Dear Comrade,

(Ah, togetherness, makes me feel all warm an’ fuzzy.)

How are you today? Hope all is well.

(Pretty good, thanks for asking and yeah, everything’s fine.)

Please be informed that I have decided to contact you for a fund transfer transaction (I feel so special…) worth the sum of US$10,500,000.00 (well, roll me in the mud and call me a pig!) into your reliable bank account (you obviously don’t know my bank) as the sole NEXT-OF-KIN (that can’t be right – I have one older sister and two older brothers, shouldn’t you be talking to one of them?) to the foreign deceased customer of our bank (an International Billionaire French Businessman) who was killed with his entire family by PLANE-CRASH in Central England atmost 3 years ago. (I’m sorry to hear that, but if he's a billionaire, how come the estate's only worth ten and a half mill?) Since his death occured, no body have show up as his next of kin for the claim because the account is untraceable. (But you just said I was his next of kin! I should talk to my mother about that. And your grammar, sheesh. But, go on…)

Upon the investigation I carried out from his records, I found out that his foreign business consultant who would have trace the account died earlier before the deceased. (Well, that was careless of him.) Therefore, this is a confidential and sealed deal. (If it’s confidential, how do you know about it, especially if it’s sealed? Say… are you setting me up?)

For the success of this transaction, you should apply and act as the only existing NEXT-OF-KIN to the deceased which our bank will replace the deceased account information through proper documentation in position of your own account. (Wait… you’re going to replace legitimate documents with forged ones? And you’ve neglected to tell me the name of the businessman, so how can I submit documentation? You’re not asking me to… lie are you?)

This transaction is risk-free, (uh huh) it will never harm your good reputation (aw, you do know me.) in your society because no one can trace the account, and on the instant of the transfer of the fund into your account, the chapter of this transaction will be closed entirely. (I’m not sure that’s legal, big guy, but you’d send me confirmation documents… wouldn’t you? Just to prove what you're saying is true, of course.)

Note that in a business of this nature, the bank dont want to know your difference between the deceased country, religion or believe because our bank inheritance law is against that. (Er… what? The country died? OMG, that’s awful, where do I send flowers?) So, it is a preference for us achieve this success without any problem. (Since the country died, I guess so.)

Please note down that once the fund get transferred into your account, you will take 39% of the total sum (I get $4,095,000 of my next of kin’s money? That’s not very…) while the rest will be for me (Why, you greedy bastard! You said it was my money, you schmuck!) as I will arrange myself down to your country to take my share. (Arrange yourself on a cactus, pal, you ain’t getting’ nuthin’!)

I need your urgent response (middle digit, straight up, how’s that for a response!) and include your private telephone/mobile numbers for easy communication. (Here it is: 1800 0 AS IF) Please reply if you can be trusted in this deal. (That isn’t a deal, it’s highway robbery!)

Thanks, (So polite, you thief.)

Mr.HASSAN BELLO. (Did you know your name also makes the words: HELLO NAB ASS? Or, ONE ASS BLLAH?)

Do you think this letter is too good to be true?

Without Ruth

As in 'ruthless'.

I had the misfortune to have a BCC removed from under my left eye today. If you're gonna get skin cancer, this is the most benign. It's a Basal Cell Carcinoma and just that last word scared the tripe out of me.

You see, I come from the generation of Aussie kids who just about spent every day over Summer down the beach without a hat, without a t-shirt, without sunscreen. We got toasted regularly and looked healthy because of it.

From the age of about sixteen, though, I got sunburned once too often and haven't, deliberately, gone out to sunbathe since. I'm always covered up and if I played sport, out came the factor 15+.

Alas, it's too late. Just over a decade ago, my father - who loved the sun - had the same carcinoma removed from his lower lip. My mother had one removed a couple of years ago.

Today, was my turn. And I can tell you, right at this particular juncture in time, it hurts like a mother. I feel like I've been punched, really hard. I don't know how many stitches were put in, but it felt like a lot. Credit to the doctor though, he explained he would do everything to reduce the scarring, but it would scar. Luckily - he said with a straight face - the cut would be aligned with a wrinkle I already had (so much for moisturising every day with an expensive cream.)

The local he gave me felt like spikes; I didn't watch, oh no, indeedy not! And I'll tell you this for nothing: if that's what it's like to get Botox injections, I'll be happy to wrinkle up as nature intended (all that jab, jab, jab!).

I'm not a vain person. Never have been. The scarring doesn't bother me. And, once I found my happy place and ignored all the tugging, it occured to me that going through this, I can use the experience in my writing.

Not too soon though: I have the Story-a-day-marathon on over at Forward Motion. I'll start tomorrow. I'll feel better then. For now, I'm taking the painkillers; no point in suffering when I don't have to.

PBW Stories

Sometimes, I'm little slow on the uptake.

On PBW's old site, every month there was a new story to indulge in. Due to people nicking off with some of those stories, Sheila stopped posting them - and rightly so - though honest fans were disappointed.

Now the stories, excerpts and handy templates are back. Go over to PBW Stories for some goodies. It's not a large site, but has some useful templates for the emerging author to use.

* * *

In the headlines here in Australia is the shocking physical altercation between the Ukrainian swimming coach and his daughter that was caught on camera yesterday.

The World Swimming Championships are currently being held in Melbourne and this tosser was caught getting physical with his kid. We all saw the footage on the television this morning and Victorian police took out an intervention order as a result.

What is up with some parents? Why must it be done their way or not at all? Why can't they behave and be proud of their children's successes? It occasionally happens in tennis, codes of football, hockey, just about any sport on the weekends and parents are chastised for such behaviour; you don't expect it at a professional level, nor with such venom.

I thought we'd gone past that, but I guess I was wrong.

Mikhail Zubkov, you may now leave our country; don't return, we don't need, nor want your type of assholeness.

Hands Off Our Colours \,,/(-_-)\,,/

Is there no end to the touchy-touchy, feely-feely apologists?

One of the biggest events during January is the Big Day Out, where top Aussie bands perform in a day-long smorgasbord of music. It is held on or near Australia Day when we are filled with pride for this great nation of ours; when we welcome new citizens, get down to the beach, have barbeques with friends and family. It's our day of celebration.

Yet, as a result of racial and nationalistic unrest, the organisers want to ban the flag from the event! I'm sorry, but WHAT? Worse, Andrew Robb, Parliamentary Secretary for Immigration wants to cancel the whole event and the Returned Services League supports that suggestions.

NSW Premier Morris Iemma (pronounced: Yemma) disagrees: "Our flag ought not to be used to be making political points like this. It is a still an outrageous decision and one that needs to be reversed and reversed immediately."

NSW Opposition Leader, Peter Debnam, is equally pissed off: "The message to the organisers has got to be straightforward: Embrace the Australian flag or move your event off State Government property."

All this came about by a comment by one of the organisers, Ken West, who said that fans' behaviour last year in the wake of the Cronulla riots and the recent ethnic confrontation at the Australian Open tennis tournament had forced his hand. "The Australian flag was being used as gang colours. It was racism disguised as patriotism and I'm not going to tolerate it."

The Australian flag? Used as a symbol of tribalism? Used to identify national pride? Waved about as if to say, "Hey, look at moyee, look at moyee, I'm an Aussie. Like any other nation?

Well. I am shocked. Truly, deeply, shocked that Australians would want to wallow in the nationalistic pride of being an Aussie. That the identifyer everyone uses, be they American, French, British, Hezbollah, Russian, Chilean, North Korean, South African, or whatever, should be described as 'gang colours' and be condemned as being unworthy of unfurling.

Every nation has a gang colour - some are similar, for example, British, America, France, New Zealand, Australia, Russia are red, white and blue. Austria, Canada, Denmark, Switzerland, Japan, Turkey are red and white.

We all stand beneath our own 'colour' and are proud of it; will fight and die under our banner. These people who are spouting apologist rhetoric or merely using this for their political agenda (State election in two months) should get over themselves and stop being so bloody sensitive.

The solution to the drama is simply to have the Big Day Out in a different week, or month even. Not cancel it to stop people bringing gang colours, not banning the National Flag, but postponing the event to another time where it cannot influenced by the celebrations of Australia Day.

Why can't these idiots see that? Must it always be a media beat-up when the flag is at issue? Move on, children, the gang colours are here to stay.

Don't bother...

...coming back to Australia if that's what you think!

Sheik Taj el-Din Al-Hilaly, the stupid, ignorant, bigot who likened 'immodestly' dressed Australian women to uncovered meat, is at it again, the hateful little man.

On Egyptian television, he suggested that "Anglo-Saxons came to Australia in chains, while we paid our way and came in freedom."

He also said the English people were the most unjust and dishonest, that thieves were forced to commit crimes by greedy women, that women deceived men and that scantily clad women were responsible for rape.

Taj felt free to express his opinion because he's not in Australia and felt safe amongst those with similar opinions, but the program is seen here via satellite. Appearing smug and at ease with the questions, Al-Halaly condemned the media for his troubles back in Australia and repeated his aversion to how western women dressed.

al-Hilaly apologised for his initial 'meat'remarks back in October, but obviously felt no regret. Obviously, Taj paid lip-service to apology because under the Qu'ran, a lie told to a non-believer doesn't matter and a believer would have to agree with him, so where's this fuss coming from? (Actually, when he publically apologised, he looked supremely pissed at having to do so, rather than apologetic. A political move, no doubt, to save his miserable ass.)

The evil prick has been inciting hatred in Australia for twenty years, ever since he overstayed his tourist visa and was allowed to stay by the Hawke Government.


I can't even say that the majority of other muslims in this country do not feel the same because he was named "Muslim Man of the Year" for 2005 at the first Australian Moslem Achievement Awards by Mission of Hope (Muslim Community Solutions for Health and Well-being) on Friday 8th July, 2005.

Next month, the Council of Imams decides his fate, and I can hope that not only does Taj get stripped of his Muftiness, the fucker gets kicked out of a country he should never have been allowed to stay in, let alone be granted citizenship of.

Anyone interested in how this creature got here should read this expose. I'd like to know the justifications behind allowing this miserable wretch to stay.

One more immigration Disaster the fuckwit Hawke is responsible for.

Beating

Litha and Christmas are over for the year, and like a lot of other people, I've eating too much, drunk too much and suffered the side effects; all in the name of a good time.

Blech. Had to have a Nana nap on Christmas afternoon because she kept filling my glass. Ah, yes: blame someone else. I didn't have to drink it all (yes, I did).

I didn't have to eat all that I did; left overs are fine (yeah, right). Or stayed up late watching LOTR EE (uh huh - you're on holidays aren't you?).

Needless to say, I've taken a bit of a beating - but, I slept well, unlike the weeks leading up to these festivities.

The espresso machine has also taken a bit of a beating as I work out how to use it. It makes fabulous coffee and I'm eager to go on the coffee course offered by a local business. It doesn't start until February, but I'll be off contract and free to indulge.

Then came post-Christmas. The Sales. (Breath, now, come on, you can do it.) And gave my cards an absolute flogging. Good thing tomorrow's payday. But for now, I have a couple of sets of new sheets, some software for the computer, a new one gig thumb-drive, a cast iron griddle pan and other stuff. This is the first year in a long time I've actually had not only the money, but the time and inclination to fight the screaming hordes searching for a bargain.

Actually, it was all quite civilised, until tired, grumpy people started to go home. Damn. There are some truly obnoxious drivers out there; oh, and stupid, too. Just watching them zip into narrow spaces between cars without looking, made me shake my head.

Tis the season though. Now, I'm off to play with the new camera. Oh. I didn't mention that? Um, well, I gotta work out how it functions, and if it doesn't do what I mean it to do (as opposed to what I've told it to do), then..... I'll read the instructions!

Vilification or over sensitive?

The social, cultural and sporting battles between England and Australia are legendary.

From the moment the first convict set foot on this land, sent here by a British penal system overloaded with prisoners, the rivalry between the two nations began.

Australia was the dumping ground for all sorts of convicts, from those who stole bread in an effort to feed the family of Industrial England to prostitutes, con men/women, fraudsters, minor criminals. A good number of them were ex-soldiers, convicted of mutiny, desertion and insubordination. A lot of the Irish, however, were political prisoners.

Needless to say, a lot of Australians are descended from these people, and are proud of it; kind of like Mayflower descendents - though for different reasons.

A lot of piss and vinegar has been thrown backwards and forwards, most of it name calling. We call them 'Poms, bloody Poms and whinging Poms'; they call us 'convicts, sheep-shaggers and skips (short for Skippy the Bush Kangaroo). It's usually good natured, in the same way we call the French 'frogs', Americans 'yanks', Japanese 'nips' and New Zealanders 'kiwis' just to name a few.

It's an Australian thing to find a nickname appropriate to culture, social status, sporting team or person.

Now, though, there is the BPARD; the British People Against Racial Discrimination who are trying to get a beer ad banned because it views the phrase 'cold enough to scare a Pom' as a racial slur.

The story quotes BPARD spokesman David Thomason as saying: "The Oxford Dictionary classes Pom as being derogatory just like wog, wop, dink, dago, coon and abo, it's every bit as bad as the term nigger."

Say... what?

As far as I know, the term ‘nigger’ was representative of a culture of slavery and oppression that the British have never suffered at the hands of Australians, quite the reverse given the origins of Australians.

But comparing being called a 'pom' - a term of affection - to something as repulsive as 'nigger'?

BPARD should suck it up and move on. The word ain't going away as longs as there is an Aussie who knows this country's history and why we call 'em 'whinging Poms'. Perhaps we'll now call the stuffed shirts of BPARD 'Girls' Blouse Poms'.