Aussie breakfast television at its sensitive best. Sigh.
Archive for the ‘fail’ Category
Had a bit of arseclownery float my way a couple of days ago.
Some genius anonymous blogger who thinks of himself (or herself, come to think of it) as a bit of a crusader for freedom of speech, or the press, or bloggers, or something, in the city I used to call home, managed to mistake me for someone who was apparently giving him (or her) some grief over some gibberish he (or she) had written.
Proceeded to slag me off on their ever-so brave anonymous blog. Knew what I used to do for a living, knew where I work now. Called me the Fat Controller. Oh, that’s so smart and clever.
Hilarious. Anyway, I was tipped off by a friend who had stumbled across this rant and I contacted the arseclown involved and pointed out that (a) I’d never known he (or she) existed, (b) never read their blog, and (c) didn’t care enough about the doings in my former city to write a response, so what was his (or her) game?
I also pointed out that he (or she) had been stupid enough not only to mistake me for someone who gave a rip but had managed to defame me and my totally unconnected current employer as well, and perhaps he (or she) might want to have a rethink of their ever-so brave strategy.
Funnily enough, this morning the anti-me rant had completely disappeared of his (or her) ever-so brave anonymous blog. It was as if it had never happened.
Good thing I kept a screenshot of it, eh? You know, just in case … *winks*
So, it’s been a bit of a day. Had some surgery this morning, courtesy of a touch of gynaecological chicanery which has been on the go for a few months or more.
I’ll spare you the gory details, suffice to say I was home by 1pm and i’m now reclining, Cleopatra-like on a pile of pillows, with cat on my foot and my mother in the kitchen, cooking m’dinner.
It wasn’t an entirely smooth medical journey, however. On Monday I rang the hospital cashier in order to pay my $150 private insurance excess. There was a bit of trouble retrieving my file so the cashier said she would pull up all the details and call me back with the receipt number.
An hour or so later she did indeed ring me, and told me they’d had some trouble finding me but had finally retrieved my file by some roundabout method.
Jokingly, because y’know, that’s how i deal with terror, i suggested that i hoped that wasn’t going to be indicative of their ability to match me with the right surgeon on Friday.
“I hope not,” said the cashier. “Wouldn’t want to leave without a bit you really needed.”
Harmless enough banter. But then she asked me who my surgeon was. I told her.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that wouldn’t be my choice.”
I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.
It was at that moment that i considered telling her that I was a journalist with the Medical Journal of Australia and thanks for the great story idea. But in the end i decided to let it all come as a glorious surprise for her.
Now, my gynaecologist happens to be of Indian extraction. So maybe the cashier is just a racist.
Whatevs. At best it’s unprofessional. At worst it’s revolting AND unprofessional.
Good yarn material, though.
As you know, I am an ex-tabloid journalist, 22 years playing the game. And it is a game, believe me. It’s a game of dollars and cents, readership v circulation, truth versus what’s sellable.
I’ve never been happier to be out of the business than since the announcement of the election date and the complete and utter bullshit that followed the retirement announcements of Nicole Roxon and Chris Evans.
I have never seen such utter shit talked as the press gallery and major newspapers have churned out since. ‘Chaos’, ‘shambles’, ‘turmoil’. And that’s just what they think is happening to the ALP.
Any journalist who truly thinks the Prime Minister doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing or chooses to believe some chump backbencher with an agenda of their own should hand in their press card now.
The trouble is, i don’t think the journalists themselves are the problem. The editors are the problem, and the system that means they do as they’re told and not what they believe to be the truth.
I tried to have a conversation with an editor on Twitter today. I was objecting to their big political expose of the day … how Margie Abbott is the first lady in waiting. All i got back from the editor in question was some schoolboy giggling and a picture of his comics page as an indication of all the good things i’d missed.
Now, perhaps he thought that because we’re former colleagues and that we’ve shared a laugh or two, that maybe i was joking. Or perhaps he forgot that we weren’t just talking in a room by ourselves but were in fact out in a public forum.
I just want fair, balanced, accurate reporting of the issues. And that includes nailing Tony Abbott down with some substantive policy questions that he has to answer. It includes calling knobs like Abbott and Campbell Newman for using the Bundaberg floods as a call for ‘stable government’ … that includes calling out Chrissy Pyne for comparing the ‘chaos’ in the ALP with the downfall of Adolph Hitler.
Do some real reporting, for fuck’s sake.
Watch as a totally clueless young male reporter gets schooled on the gentle art of gender politics.
Why doesn’t Mitch McConnell ever get asked that question?
Why do we try and play Test cricket in Brisbane in November and December?
I’d be pretty shat off if I could only get to the Gabba today and I’d shelled out a small mortgage for tickets only for it to rain. Quelle surprise!
I’m already pretty shat off and I’m sitting on the couch at home, watching a bloody awful Gary Cooper movie (Springfield Rifle, 1952 — Major Lex Kearny becomes the North’s first counterespionage agent as he tries to discover who’s behind the theft of Union cavalry horses in Colorado during the Civil War) that Nine has plonked on while the rain comes down in Brisbane.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that Nine, with all its experience broadcasting cricket over the decades, would have thought to themselves: ‘Hmmm, November in Brisbane — we’d better have a decent Plan B for the three days of the Test it’s going to rain’.
Maybe they did and Springfield Rifle was the Plan B they came up with. Scary.
Meanwhile, I have a chest infection. It’s miserable. I am miserable. But tomorrow it will be a little better, and a little bit better again on Monday.
And who knows? By Tuesday we may even get some cricket.
All hotel rooms are not created equal, ladies and gentlemen. Even when they cost the same, and are described the same.
My King room at the Novotel on Collins in Melbourne promised a couch and an ottoman. And floor to ceiling glass.
Neither of those things have eventuated, however. It is in fact one of those bizarre corner rooms wedged between the rest of the floor and the pool/spa. A weird space, too big for a broom closet and too oddly shaped to be what a King room should be.
But I can forgive all because of the most bizarre lampshade in the history of the world. What is that about??
As you know, gentle readers, I am fully engaged in the magical process of applying for employment.
Today, in the process of applying for another seven positions, I came across the following piece of linguistic arseclownery:
To be successful in your application you will be a maze-bright person.
Apparently, being maze-bright means being politically savvy, sensitive to the way people and organisations operate.
We all know that applying for jobs is a gentle, peaceful walk through the garden of self-enhancement, but seriously?
I’m maze-bright. I’m also calorie-magnetic, wanker-averse and sarcasm-adept. HIRE ME!
Shame, pole vaulters, shame.
What a bloody farce. For those of you avoiding the Olympic dramafest, let me fill you in. The qualifying rounds of the men’s pole vault were on tonight, including defending Olympic champion, our own Steve Hooker.
The automatic qualifying height was 5.70m, but they never got there, because despite the conditions being that only 12 were to progress to the final, with 17 competitors left and nobody yet over 5.60m, the competitors, led by Hooker, decided to tell the officials that they didn’t want to continue and that everyone left should go through to the final.
The officials resisted the first time and made some clear 5.60m until there were 14 left, but then Hooker et al did it again, packed up their spikes and poles and called it a day.
Hooker, who has been in notoriously jittery form the past year or so, only made one vault, clearing 5.50m and therefore made the final without having to risk embarrassment.
I call bullshit on the whole deal.
If this isn’t tanking, what the hell is, ladies and gents??
If you’re Joe Bloggs, forking out a small fortune for tickets to the athletics and could only afford one session and particularly wanted to see the pole vault, you’d be well jacked off about now, and rightly so.
And where the hell are the officials? Out the back trying to grow a spine, I suspect. How do a group of spoiled, entitled athletes get to dictate the rules of the game?
Jane Fleming was blatting on in commentary, wondering why on earth they would want to stop vaulting.
It’s obvious, Jane. The less they have to risk failing, the happier they are, clearly.
Never mind your higher, faster, stronger bullshit. Never mind entertaining the paying public. Never mind giving the nation’s taxpayers their money’s worth. Never mind your bloody stupid Olympic ideals.
No, no. If they can get through to the Olympic final by talking their way into it instead earning it with their athletic ability, then hell, yeah, they’re going to do it.
Pathetic, guys. Just pathetic.
Like most of us in Clan Procrastinate, I learned and perfected the gentle art of putting shit off in my later high school and university years. Apparently I would rather risk No Doz poisoning than do anything in advance.
Living a target-driven journalistic life taught me that if there is one thing I’m good at it’s hitting a deadline no matter how squeaky the margin.
And so last-minutitis has become a way of life.
Trouble is, here I am in the life of redundancy-induced leisure, and my ailment has become a little paralysing. If, by little, I mean bucketloads.
For the last five days I’ve been attempting to have a new television and home theatre system delivered and installed. This involves, on my part, cleaning and rearranging my living room to accommodate a bigger TV and more equipment.
Can I get this done? No, apparently I cannot.
I won a reprieve last Friday when the delivery company double-booked themselves and had to postpone until this morning. Bonus, I thought, as I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Today, after sitting up most of the night supposedly doing what needed to be done, but actually blogging and listening to Lucinda Green winning the gold medal for Talking Underwater in London, I was the one doing the postponing.
‘So sorry, really sick, can I reschedule?’
So now I have a new deadline … Can I actually get it done? Or will I be writing the same shit come Thursday afternoon? Only time and my own sense of embarrassed humiliation will tell, I suspect.
I mean, it’s shiny gadgety stuff. Motivation enough, surely?
Such a sad, first-world-problems, overprivileged life I lead.