And Now, Representing Australia...

“He’d been given an assignment to write about teen beauty pageants [...], which he’d accepted because he enjoyed blood sports as much as the next person.”

— David Baldacci, The Christmas Train

I was yabbering to a friend the other day about nothing (as one does) and she mentioned that she had a courtesy car whilst hers was being repaired. It happened to be a Camry. 'Courtesy Camry', I said, 'sounds like a beauty pageant contestant'.

'Representing Kentucky... Courtesy Camry. She likes guns, long walks on the beach, and er, guns.'

We sniggered and moved on. But then, me being me, I started thinking about this more. Imagine car brands as Miss World, or Miss Universe, or Miss Giant Tomato entrants. Who would take out the grand praaaaaaaize? Which bumper bar would be willing to shave off a few centimetres to look best in the automobile equivalent of the bathing suit round? Would Detroit play dirty to beat out the international interlopers? And could Down Under have any hope of winning when we showed up with a ute dressed up in a bizarre combination of ugg boots, eucalyptus leaves and a Sydney Harbour Bridge-shaped scratch and sniff hanging from the rear-view mirror?

Let's see, shall we?

THE IMBECILIC AUTOMOBILIC MISS WORLD PAGEANT. Brought to you by a sense of mounting hysteria, and the remnants of migraine painkillers.

Representing South Korea: Kia Cadenza.

Kia is a lovely girl, shy, self-effacing and well aware that some of the more - shall we say, elitist contestants see her as a waste of space. She's used to this; after all, she lives next door to a lunatic. Unlike her older cousins from the Hyundai dynasty, at least the US contingency are capable of pronouncing her first name. Don't underestimate this contestant. She may not have the label status of the bourgeoisie, but Kia is headed for the top. May be a Final 5 contender, unless said lunatic decides to hack her emails so that the other contestants know what she's been saying behind their backs.

Representing Italy: Maserati Ghibli

Firstly, if you try to say her name as 'jibbly', she may run you over, and quite rightly. Secondly - well, who are we kidding. She's a Maserati, and she's named after a desert wind. Vrrrrooom. Final 5. (NB: Judges may have received a car in the decision making process).

Representing the USA - I mean Italy - I mean - oh who knows, it's Chrysler/FIAT/something: Jeep Cherokee

Using a Native American name doesn't make you Pocahontas. It makes you a really annoying SUV with bad, bad TV ads. She's a Jeep. WELL, OBVIOUSLY. No painting the colours of the wind, Ms Cherokee. I'm afraid there will be tears, and not of the pin the tiara on the bouffant kind.

Representing Germany: Porsche 918 Spyder

She's a hybrid, she is worth more than my house, and she's wunderschön. $900,000 of runway worthy wunderschön-ness. If only Germany hadn't produced Sebastian Vettel, (let alone allowed the unspeakable Austrian in), they might be considered to be a model for the world. (Again, judges may have been influenced slightly by the offer of Porsche shaped packages. Just saying).

Representing Japan: Honda Civic

She's reliable, efficient, and understated. She doesn't do anything wrong, and is nice to the other contestants.

She is also guilty of the most car park misdemeanours, mid-road illegal turns, tailgates and bad driving manoeuvres on the face of the planet.

Sums up a lot of things really.

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Representing the UK: Aston Martin Vanquish

I have a funny feeling in my tummy and have to lie down for a while.

Representing Australia: uh...

We all know it.

And finally... representing humanity: Tesla Model S

She's beautiful. She's functional. She makes perfect sense. She speaks with clarity, and conviction, and for the future. She represents the unselfish spirit of a man who gave away his genius and his ideas for free, because he believed in humankind.

Last I saw, the other contestants were ramming her to bits out in the car park.

I think Maserati may have called in the lads from Ferrari.

She won't be winning Miss Congeniality any time soon.

Tally-Ho, Yippety-Dip & Zing Zang Spillip

“Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe. Four be the things I’d been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne. Three be the things I shall have till I die: Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.”

— Dorothy Parker, The Complete Poems of Dorothy Parker

There will no doubt be a wealth of blog posts, articles and features coming out today and tomorrow on what a fabtastic year 2014 has been and the amazing things we have to look forward to in the year to come, starting with the obligatory resolutions to drink less, eat less and generally behave less atrociously than we have for the past 365 days.

As I have recently watched my cat prove to be a more popular author than myself, I am not precisely filled with the spirit of the New Year's Eve Fairy. As for resolutions... meh. They last approximately a week, the fridge is filled with enough fruit and roughage to kill fifteen elephants, and then the urge to grease me up Lunch Lady Doris kicks in, an emergency run for hot chips is made, and a blackened mass of dead carrots is scraped out of the vegetable container two months later.

Forgive my cynicism. Again, coping with the fact that people are calling for a cat to take over my blog.

2014 has held significant challenges. It hasn't, despite General Melchett's indecipherable excitement, been all Flossy the Rabbit pie and Château Lafite. Dear friends and loved ones have suffered craptacular things. Sadness has been a very big part of the year, and unfortunately 2015 is going to hold some of the same for The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant and myself.

On the other hand, or apparently, as it is soon to be known, paw, there is great joy on the horizon. Osky, The Man, and myself all get to celebrate something pretty spesh early in the new year. Who knows? That pretentious puss may even be a flower cat, simply because I know how much he'd hate it.

I hope you have a wonderful year to come, and to help you along, here are my Anti-Resolutions for 2015. May you live by them, and love, laugh and have fun and make a difference by them. I certainly intend to, and I'll have a lot more time to do so, because I won't have to dedicate time to writing anymore.

See how you go trying to type by yourself, Spy Cat.

The 'Be Resolute In Your Anti-Resolutions' List of 2015:

1. Drink GOOD champagne. All the time. It's beneficial to your health. Promise.

2. Tell the people you love that you love them. Don't hold back.

3. Get a pet. Look after that pet. Hug that pet.

4. Stand up and make a difference, whether it's to your community or your country.

5. Care about grammar!

6. Don't take yourself so seriously. Seriously. 

7. Repeat number 2. It's really, really important. Because they won't always be there, and you should appreciate their worth.

It's not a big list. They aren't stupid resolutions, because you know what? They aren't things that you know in your heart are going to be non-deliverable after a finite period. You can resolve to live in a way that gives you and the people around you joy, and these things definitely do that. Love. Hug. Give your pet a hand on the keyboard as they become a bestseller. Laugh, mainly at yourself. Care about your grammar. Give a damn about the quality of what you throw down your throat.

Happy New Year.

Tally-ho, pip pip and Bernard's quite possibly your uncle.

Here Comes Satan Claws

NB: Please be advised that I had NOTHING to do with this post. It is all the work of a feline with uh... Christmas in his heart? Well, something in his heart. Possibly tapeworm. Anyway, happy holidays! Be safe and well - and look after your pets. This is what happens when you don't...

A pet is for life, not just for Christmas.

Dear Satan Claws

Hi. Osky here. Just letting you know that I have been under the tree, and so far I am not seeing anything on any labels that says 'Oscar', 'spy cat', or for that matter 'mince' or 'treats'. I am sure this is an oversight on your part and will be rectified by Catmas morning, because if it isn't, I am seeing a lot of room for holiday sofa shredding in my future. Just saying.

It's a bit weird around here today. Squishy and the Opposable Thumbs are running around putting things in bags and none of it smells like my food, and every time I try to climb in the bags, they keep taking me out. This is not in the true spirit of Catmas, which is that people should pay attention to me and tell me how cute I look jumping in the bags. And then give me snacks.

They had better not be planning anything surreptish - surreptit - sneaky or there will be trouble.

I like you Satan Claws, but what's with the 'Catmas comes but once a year' hooey? Everyone knows Catmas is everyday, because we're cats. That's the way it is. Maybe you got it a bit wrong, and you decided to throw the stupid dogs a bone (hahaha I made a funny) for the day. In that case you should have called it StupidDogMas, and we could have all just gone to sleep for the day and woken up when it was over and they had stopped peeing themselves with excitement.

Note that down for next year.

Actually, Satan Claws, I need your help. I wanted to get something for Squishy, but I don't know how to get her credit cards out of her bag. The Opposable Thumbs usually leaves his lying around, but I think he's noticed the charges to catnippalace.com and is wondering where they've come from. It only took him six months. Seriously.

Can you bring her a present? Because she's a bit of alright. OK, bring the Thumbs something as well... I suppose he does make sure I don't starve when Squishy is busy. Just don't go crazy on his. Sometimes he doesn't feed me until 5 minutes past the hour, and that's just wrong.

Thanks, Satan Claws. You're the best. I have to go now. I need to do another round of the tree. I am sure there's a big Osky shaped present under there by now, and besides, those lights are REALLY BUGGING ME. They just keep flashing... and twinkling... and waving around... and I need to -

Carpe Jugulum

“Opportunities multiply as they are seized.”

— Sun Tzu

I wrote something on Facebook yesterday that I firmly believe in - and it definitely seemed to resonate with a lot of people. I didn't write it for any reason other than the need to express what a 'Don't Stop Believing' kind of day I was having, but it was interesting to see the response. Below is what I had to say:

Good things may come to those who wait. They also come to those who seize life by the throat and say 'I'm grabbing this while the opportunity exists'.

I know the importance of patience and forbearance, and realising that not everything can magically occur at once; but I also know from experience that usually the only way things happen for us is if we get off our backsides and make them happen.

Opportunities are just that - opportunities. They are not a gift, nor are they a right. They are a privilege, and they don't come around every day. Sitting back and expecting to have things handed to one on a silver platter, with added lollipops and rainbows, is not just unrealistic, it's lazy in body and mind.

There have been a lot of times over the past decade when my body hasn't wanted to co-operate with my mind in terms of taking up chances. For someone with a busy brain and a lot of ambition, this is possibly the ultimate frustration. So for me, at present, despite a few challenges to face in the short-term, I am determined to throttle the bejeebers out of every chance that comes my way.

And to be enormously grateful for what I am grabbing with both hands and holding onto tightly.

If you are lucky enough to be sound in body and spirit, and there is something out there you want, take a chance. You may well get knocked back. I have been. But you may also succeed beyond your wildest dreams; and if you're anything like me, said dreams will be pretty wild.

Carpe jugulum. Seize the throat. Grab your life and give it a massive shake up. Rattle that brain pan and find out what adventure ride in life you really want to be on - and then hop on board.

And be grateful that you have the energy, strength and ability to purchase a ticket to ride.

Hitting Home

“In simple terms, violence against women is violence ‘directed against a woman because she is a woman or that affects a woman, disproportionately’.”

— Amnesty International 2004

Every week in Australia, a woman is killed by a current or former partner.

Every week.

52 women a year die because they did something 'wrong' in the eyes of their husband, or ex-husband, or boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, or whatever relationship label was worn. Maybe they were unfaithful, or perceived to be unfaithful. Maybe they didn't pay him enough attention when he was drunk and explaining his no doubt brilliant theory of why all foreigners should go back to where they came from. Maybe they didn't find his funny stories appropriately hilarious, or maybe they thought his best mate's funny stories were a little bit too funny. Maybe they just got a bit lippy.

Maybe they didn't have dinner on the table at the dot of six o'clock.

Or maybe they were stopping him hurting their kids.

It's irrelevant. Violence is violence.

These are the facts on violence against women in Australia.

• Close to half of all women (40%) have experienced violence since the age of 15;
• Just under one third of women (29%) have experienced physical assault;
• Nearly one in five women (17%) have experienced sexual assault;
•  Nearly one in six women (16%) have experienced violence by a current or previous partner in their lifetime.

I am not saying anything new. These figures are available to anyone who looks at White Ribbon's website, and tomorrow I hope a lot of people will be looking at them, because it's White Ribbon Day. I can't actually think of a man I know personally who hasn't signed the Oath, and I know that they mean it and that they uphold it.

But there is a culture of violence out there. It is real and it is present. It is also not immediately apparent in most of Australian society, and this is where the disconnect happens and not only do we see why the statistics are so high, but why women stay quiet and men get away with it.

I call it the 'But My Friends Wouldn't Do That' reasoning.

I fit into all four of those bullet pointed statistical categories above. This is not something I say to be sensationalist, or dramatic, and it makes me intensely uncomfortable. But it proves a point. I am a 42 year old, educated professional. I have, in the past, been hurt very badly. I kept my mouth shut, as did (and do) many others I know, because the men we know don't do that sort of thing. Nice, middle class guys in white collar jobs don't hit women. They don't rape women. They don't kill women. Women (or girls) like me don't get hurt.

This is bullshit.

The statistics prove it. Conversations prove it. Lost months, years, opportunities. Bruises, broken bones, hospital visits... they all prove it. A lot of what we have seen in the past twelve months in the media proves it.

52 deaths a year prove it.

I am proud of the men I know and call friends. I see in them, and their relationships with their wives, their children - especially their daughters - so much hope and generosity and love. I see them teaching their sons respect and friendship for women. I trust that they would not tolerate behaviour like this from their friends.

So tomorrow, on White Ribbon Day, please take the time, if you are a bloke, to think about that culture of silent violence. If you have a female friend you are worried about, then find help for her. If you have a mate you think might be in deep, find help for them.

Don't let them hit home again.

All statistics courtesy of whiteribbon.org.au from the ABS, Amnesty International, and The United Nations

The Worst Friend And Enemy Is But Death

“In the Somme valley, the back of language broke. It could no longer carry its former meanings. World War I changed the life of words and images in art, radically and forever. It brought our culture into the age of mass-produced, industrialised death. This, at first, was indescribable.”

— Robert Hughes, The Shock Of The New

Late yesterday, I was asked to write a post about Remembrance Day for a fairly popular website (starts with m and ends with 'ia'). I hesitated because the last time I wrote for them, they put up my article... well, let's just say it was after the fact, and leave it at that.

But then I thought 'stuff it', because it was a couple of years ago, and also because otherwise the chances were, they might get my arch nemesis MoriLambie in and then the world would go to hell, as opposed to the really cool, Nirvana-like place we're in right now.

So. I wrote the post. I struggled a bit, because there were a lot of old feelings churned up. But I got it down eventually, and as per SOP (that's Standard Operating Procedure - I'm in military speak, as befits the day) I ran it past The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant.

I got a fairly 'meh' response, which didn't thrill me. Hey, I don't expect unqualified praise, but this was a real... yeah, 'meh'.

Why, I enquired somewhat frostily, was he less than enamoured by my article? Was it not articulate when it came to armistices and artillery? (I may have been somewhat sarcastic. And alliterative).

'It was absolutely brilliant', he said.

'I just don't like war. And maybe it's because I don't have the same connections to Defence that you do... but I just see Remembrance Day differently'.

This set me back on my heels, because honestly? How could I say that's wrong - it's not.

I see Remembrance Day as a way to respect and honour my friends and loved ones in the Australian Defence Force. For me, it is not a glorification of conflict, or a 'booyah' to killing, or let's go and get 'em, or any of the above - and I doubt it is to most of those who will be standing there for that minute's silence at eleven o'clock, particularly those who are actively serving their country. By the same token, there's no doubt that there are plenty of numbskulls out there who will use this as an excuse to start - or escalate - their own private crusades.

World War One was a dirty, stinking cesspit of mud, blood, sweat, tears and death. It went on for four long years. It led to another six years of hell on earth for untold millions and repercussions which echo today.

And yet we still strive for the best ways to kill each other.

This however is why I disagree with TMWVRDT on his view of November 11.  I get where he is coming from. I don't like war either. But I also know that it ain't gonna stop anytime soon, because humanity is a nasty piece of work and as long as we lurk around, we are going to try to hate each other as much as possible, because we are stupid that way.

So for one minute, I am going to stand still, close my eyes, and stay silent. I am going to say a thank you in my head to all of those people who have gone before me in the fight against the dark side (in whatever form it may take), who stand for me now - and whom I know personally, and love and respect - and are willing to be the thin Kevlar line. They aren't superheroes. They aren't martyrs. They aren't necessarily good people, or morally righteous. But what they are is brave, and courageous, and they are, despite personal misgivings about leadership and legislation, prepared to defend any member of this nation from invasion. They are also prepared to do the same for others who cannot defend themselves.

Is this simplistic? Perhaps. Am I biased? Also perhaps.

But I will remember them. And I know that despite his misgivings, and because he knows a couple of them now too...

So will The Man.

We Will Remember Them.

“This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.”

— Wilfred Owen, The Poems Of Wilfred Owen

Face Off

“You want to remember that while you’re judging the book, the book is also judging you.”

— Stephen King, Night Shift

I woke up yesterday morning after a rather large night on the champagne with Miss A, during what can only be termed the 'C'mon Let's Vogue/What Happens in Seminyak Stays In Seminyak Tour of 14' with a very dry mouth and an interwebs full of a strange face which Google assured me was, in fact, Renée Zellweger's.

After looking at several pages of said face, I did believe that yes, it was in fact that of Bridget Jones, former spinster of the parish, and Roxie Hart, merry murderess of Chicago, amongst other personas. Did it remotely resemble her? Nope. Did I buy into the whole 'stop criticising her because she's fighting the Hollywood anti-ageing syndrome/she's not Jennifer Lawrence and we are evil for saying so/oh my God leave her alone, she's not had cosmetic surgery BECAUSE SHE SAYS SO AND STARS DON'T LIE' shebang?

No. People were shocked. She's a public figure, she has not been out and about for a while, and suddenly she turns up with a brand new face. If she and John Travolta had been running around as arch-nemeses in a real-life scenario where they throw each other's visages on, I for one wouldn't have blinked an eyelid. The woman is Castor Pollux, Mark II.

But as far as I am concerned, she has simply stopped looking like Renée Zellweger; and for me, this debate isn't about ageing and becoming a has-been in Hollywood; it isn't even about cosmetic surgery. I don't particularly care if she wants to look like Fantastic Mr Fox. The point is, she looks like a different person, and if you want to say 'wow, she looks different' - because she DOES look different, and it's a bloody big shock - then fair play to you. It isn't being a troll, or a bad person, to say 'holy utility belts, Batman, I think the Joker's been playing at DJs makeup counter again'.

What it comes down to is this.

Everyone knows what it is to be judged. Now that the virtual world has virtually become our reality, and the power of the like has taken over as our arbiter of taste, we all understand the sting of self-exposure. It is something that has come home to me more than ever this week, as I remember what it is to be a five foot ten, pale, pale, pale red head in a country which is inundated with people seeking the sun - or people seeking to nullify the effects of the sun.

Judgement is constant and acute. Stares are obvious and plentiful. This is not ego speaking; quite the opposite. But I understand, to a very, very small extent, what it's like to be gawked at for having a different look.

Mind you -

(And this is why Jerry Maguire and associates, including Dorothy, can talk to my hand) -

My face is, as far as I know...

My own.

Judge THAT.

Do You See What I See?

We are our choices.Jean-Paul Sartre

Everyone who writes, whether it be a blog, a book - fictional or biographical - a newspaper column, you name it - fictionalises, factionalises, removes, remotes, rationalises. It's all a part of the creative process, the privacy process and yes, a part of maintaining sanity.

I was thinking of this tonight whilst myself, The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant and my dear, dear friend Miss A were sitting around the dinner table, collectively sipping on a rather yum bottle of vino.

How many of our memories are a form of fictionalised - let's say, what we believe to be the truth?

Think about the best stories of your life. Think about retelling them five, ten, twenty years later. Every time you tell them, you are guaranteed a huge collective laugh, or a gasp of horror, or a nod of agreement with an 'oh my God, that's JUST what happened to me! How hilarious!'

Then imagine this. You agree to participate in a sociological study. You are led into a room, and told only that you will be blindfolded and sitting with four other people.

You will not be introduced to each other, nor will you speak prior to the commencement of the study.

What will the study consist of?

You will retell the biggest experience of your life.

As you tell, and as you listen, certain points in a few of the narratives sound... well, somewhat familiar, but none of it is exactly the same. You think 'wow, some of these guys had a really similar experience to mine!' - but then again, from their stories, a couple of these people were on a different planet, and you wonder why the hell you were put in the same room. As far as you're concerned, you'd quite happily never be put on the same continent with them, let alone within the same four walls.

At the end of everyone's recitatives, a beeper goes off. A disembodied voice crackles through the room, thanking you, and asking you all to take your blindfolds off.

Blinking, you emerge slowly into the light.

And there are the other four people who were a part of the biggest thing that ever happened to you.

The story you have built your dinner party life on. The one that makes the people in your life now react to you as an individual, as a presence, as something a little bit - special.

What happens now?

Because let's face it; exactly the same thing has happened to them.

I haven't made this scenario up. It's called conversational remembering. It's something we do every time we retell a story; and in consequence, it's a conscious choice we make every time we 'tell' a story.

'I remember when I was bitten by a Great White Shark diving off the coast. I was absolutely petrified, but I managed to fight it off and swim to safety. It was a really rough day... yeah, I suppose I did save my mates. I'll never forget how it happened; it's burned into my brain.'

'I remember when my best mate was diving and there was a dead shark on the sea bed and he freaked out and he nearly swallowed his regulator.'

'I remember when my mate saw a shark while we were diving and he had to punch it on the snout.'

'I remember when my mate was diving and a shark bit his dive line'.

'I remember when a bunch of us were diving and something weird happened and we didn't talk much after that. It's a shame, because we were really good friends until then. I miss those guys.'

Do you remember?