I'm kinda absent at the moment

Apart from the fact I'm spending lots of time with NTWAH and enjoying the freedom allowed by the festive season, I'm also creating a MySpaz site. Yes, yes I know it's a cult and I'm simply aiding and abetting society in this endless global-tribe mentality but just because the rest of the developed world is doing it doesn't make it wrong.
I'm keeping this blog for my personal crap that you, my friends, could possibly find interesting (or not). The MySpaz is much more a professional front. It is still for friends and family, mind, but it won't carry personal bloggy stuff.
My nic is danniboi80 who want to check it out.
I'll resume normal transmission soon.
Time for a gin I think.

Totally shagged

This four day Christmas break has me completely slaughtered.
It's the second day back at work and I'm still so tired I'm thinking of installing perspex eye-lids so I look like I'm awake when I am, in fact, fast asleep.
None of this is helped by the fact the air conditioning is no-longer working in this god-forsaken dogbox in the middle of the industrial south.
When asked yesterday (late in the piece) if he would come and fix it the air con, the bloke suggested he might come today. Might. Maybe this afternoon sometime, he suggested. Inferred. As a possibility.
He's not coming.
This office is like a sauna. It's 34 degrees outside and promises to be humid today.
By yesterday afternoon were all asleep at our desks, as if someone had been pumping carbon monoxide into the building. Biartch-trice in particular promised to attack anything or anyone that might possibly look like at some point getting in her way in any way. Even an accidental over-attentive stare in her direction and she could have cut you off at the knees before you'd even seen her move.
The air con man, therefore, may not be so much lauded as rendered unable to walk when he eventually arrives. (As Bea holds his still beating heart, ripped freshly from his chest, aloft as a warning to other lazy tradesmen).
I would join her in this pursuit were it not for the fact that I am so tired. In fact, I'll probably barely bat an eyelid. (And I won't have to, if they are perspex).

Merry Christmas, schlappers!

Here it is... one of those grand Christmas posts people don't have time to read at this time of year. That's okay, pop it aside and read it in February.

It's been a bit of a watershed year for me with lots of life lessons and personal growth, etc, etc, *vomits*.

Started the year by becoming spectacularly single. As a result I spent much of the first six... seven... eight months of the year enjoying the advantages of that, adjusting to the change and getting ludicriously drunk.

Mostly my partner in crime was McPheedashit, who had also become rather single. Dancing Daniel moved to Sydney for an incredible opportunity at a dance school over there at about the same time. Which was great for him, but left me rather alone. Thank goodness for McPhee!

I've also made a heap of fantastic new friends this year, who I would not be without for quids. They know who they are. Big love.

In March I was invited to attend Mardi Gras in Sydney, so I stayed with DD and Nash then. It was amazing to be in that city during MG and an honour to be on a float called "Outback Mountin'"... which was partially inspired by Brokeback Mountain and partially inspired by Outback House.

In June my protestations to my employer that they didn't pay me enough to do what I do paid-off and they moved me to a branch office in the southern suburbs. I now write the Mel-VILE Times - 40,000 copies, 60,000 readers. And I pretty much write it myself. It's been a challenge getting to know a totally new area (I didn't even know some of these suburbs existed before I started writing about them. Seriously). I also write for the Freo and Cockburn papers and I edit all three when our editor is away (which has been most of the last six months).

I'm still writing lots of arts and in the last year I've met/seen/interviewed (name drop alert) Hugh Jackman, Kylie Minogue, John Waters, Brett Tucker, Betty Churcher (inspiring), Dame Kiri Te Kanawa (b*tch), Verity James, Andreas Scholl (gentleman), Rachelle Durkin, David Hobson, Max Bygraves (he's got two hands), Enda Markey (very attentive), Courtney Act, Simon Gallagher, Irina Baronova, MC Lars, Tim Minchin, Tim
Brooke-Taylor (highlight of the year), Denise Drysdale, Bryn Terfel, Amanda Muggleton, Breakestra... there are more, but this is off the top of my head.

In terms of work, I get the very rare shift at Nova now. That really seems to have dried-up. but then, I did tell them I was leaving for Europe, so they started looking around for new casual/newsreaders.

Europe, by the way, was a serious concern. I was supposed to have left in August and I moved out of my flat and rented it out in preparation for going away. I moved in (supposedly briefly) with Dad at his Bayswater pad. Still living there, still loving it. And, I believe, so is the old man.

We're getting along so well we've decided to sate our appetite for European travel together. In March we have a month together floating around the continent. We fly into the UK (Edinburgh) and work our way down to London before travelling from Paris to Prague... via train and several countries/cities (including Florence and Vienna). Dad stays a month longer in Europe than I do.

In the meantime, New-Thom-With-An-H will be house-sitting for us. NTWAH is the other big bit of news for 2006. He is an amazing boy and I love him. We met at my favourite nightclub in September and have barely been apart since. He's a keeper.

2007 will be my biggest year yet. Not only is there travel afoot, but when I get back (all going well) I should start filming my documentary. An amazing woman called Melanie (my director) has put incredible amounts of work into ensure that my initial idea will be an educational and entertaining product that is far more likely to be sold/aired than anything I could ever have produced. There will also be a book to go along with it... which I have to write. Very excited about the whole thing.

I have also put the flat on the market. I bought it on Christmas Eve three years ago and I can't see myself living there again... after some wise counsel I've decided to sell. It's on the market for 2.5-times what I bought it for, so it will hopefully net me a tidy sum to do everything I want to do.

Anyway, I have crapped on for long enough. I hope you are all wonderfully well and happy and I wish you all the best for the Christmas season and a safe and blissful new year.

(Ah, such fond memories: Me Lara and Phil [not Philbert] at Mcpheedashit's famous cocktail party).

Powerful enemies?

From News.com.au this morning. This story continues to fascinate the crap out of me.
Ex-spy's fatal polonium dose 'cost $12m'
BRITISH detectives believe that the radioactive substance used to kill former Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko cost in excess of $12 million, The Times reported today.
The newspaper said preliminary results from the post-mortem on Litvinenko's body have shown that he was given more than 10 times the lethal dose of polonium-210, large quantities of which were found in his urine.
Litvinenko fell ill on November 1, and died on November 23. Several of his friends have blamed the Kremlin for the murder, but Russia has repeatedly denied that it had any involvement in the ex-spy's death.
"You can't buy this much off the internet or steal it from a laboratory without raising an alarm so the only two plausible explanations for the source are that it was obtained from a nuclear reactor or very well connected black market smugglers," an unidentified British security source was quoted as saying.

A writer or a singer?

It's late and I'm tired but I'm jotting something down because it's been a while since a self-indulgent rambling and I know how you all rely on it so.
Just got home from a 50th birthday party of a friend of family. Not my family, New-Thom-With-An-H's family.
Good fun but passed unremarkably. Did get a question from the man-of-the-hour's neice though. She looked at me and said "are you a writer or a singer?".
"What makes you ask that?", I replied.
"I don't know, I guess it's the indi haircut".
I've been typecast for my inability to get to a barber.

Sweet mother Mary

It is almost 2am on Tuesday morning. I have just got home from Sydney. My plane, bless it, was supposed to land just after 10. A severe electrical storm kept us grounded for a couple of glorious hours at Sydney airport. It was a kind of shabby ending to a truly brilliant weekend - with the double disaster in that it meant I didn't get to see New-Thom-With-An-H today. *sobs*
There were a couple of mini disasters in Sydney, mind you. Firstly we were nearly late for Daniel's performance because of crazy bad traffic. Secondly, I didn't get time to see Enda. And thirdly, the good porn shop was shut til December 13 for stocktake. *sobs*
But the fantastic moments outweighed the bad 100:1.
Firstly I got to see Daniel and Nigel and have some quality time with my darling DD. I spent all Saturday with the Allcorn family and Fiona at Chez Allcorn de Roseville - which was pleasant beyond believe. I feel so adopted by that family.
Daniel bought tickets to the ballet at the Opera House for me for Christmas... with a little help from Juli's protege Craig, one of the coryphees in the Australian Ballet Company.
The ballet was simply equisite. The best I have ever seen. Raymonda is actually a pretty crappy story, but the dancing was so light and effortless it was like they were weaving silk before my eyes. They are so much more gentle and light than the WA Ballet. [insert contempt for Simon Dow here].
Afterwards Daniel and I met Craig at the stage door and then we had a drink at the Opera Bar before heading back to Oxford Street to a place called Slide. It was great to meet Craig and we really really hit it off. I think I have a new friend for life... which is always nice. He's born three days before me, in the same year. Spooky, huh? He's off to Oslo, for six months to some kind of Norwegian ballet.
I left him at about 3am and popped into say hi to Phil at Midnight Shift briefly before heading to bed.
Sunday Daniel and I just hung around and went for a walk out to the Cross and back before watching DVDs over lunch. Good chill time.
That night we (Nigel, Phil and I) went to see Daniel's show. He was only on at the very end, but was a standout. After that I caught up with another Outback House reprobate, sailor boy Adam. Ended up at Arq with him and his mate Chris. Boy do those two know how to have a good time! And generous to a fault.
I stumbled home at 6am, which I justified as being 4am at home - but that didn't stop me from sleeping til 1pm. Whoops. Serious Sydney time wasted.
So I had lunch with Craig again before spending an hour with Daniel and heading to the airport... which takes us back to where this story begins.

And the winner is...

...Sydney.

Boarding a plane to the great city in just a couple of short hours. Very excited. Cannot wait.
On the face of it, I'm going to see Dancing Daniel for a Christmas catch-up and to see him perform in his end of year production at the Brent Street School for Specially Gifted Super Talented Kids Who Don't Mind Wearing Leotards Or In Fact Embrace It.
But it is also giving me a great opportunity to catch-up with the Allcorns (who I spent a very special three months in the desert with on national TV), and possibly Adzy Carter and Fiona 'Schoobs' Schubert (both also of that Little House on the Prairie experiment).
Daniel is taking me to the ballet (at the Opera House, if you don't mind) and afterwards we're hanging out with Craig - one of the dancers (a former Allcorn student) who I've heard a lot about but never met.
Philbert83 is (to quote him) "presenting as my bitch" to go Daniel's doo.
Let's not forget staying with Daniel means staying with Nigel, who I love and adore because he is an Australian TV tragic in exactly the way I'm a British TV tragic.
Aaand I get to see Enda into the bargain.

Talk to you Tuesday!

A Royale visit

Many of my acquaintance know of the character quirk that is my obsession with Bond, James Bond.
I have long harboured a desire, neigh ambition, to own all 20 movies on DVD.
Last night New-Thom-With-An-H and I went to see Casino Royale - the 21st instalment of the franchise, loosely based on Ian Fleming's original novel.
As everyone knows, it focuses on how Bond becomes a double-0 and his first mission. It was also Daniel Craig's first outing as 007.
It was brilliant.
This would have been a brilliant film on it's own merits, even if it hadn't been a part of the Bond series. But the fact that it is a part of that cinematic history, and carried with it all the baggage and expectation, made it all the more wonderful and delicious.
There are things that you wouldn't find believable in a normal film, but we suspend our disbelief because this is BOND.
Characters like Jaw and Oddjob, even Blofeld and Goldfinger with their ludicrous obsessions, aren't literally believable, but they're bloody great Bond villains.
And Casino Royale carried on with that legacy.
I think Cubby Broccoli would have been proud of this film, and of Craig's characterisation. The film is still high action, but there are long slow sequences - like the older Connery films. It is shot in the traditional Bond style we have come to know and love. It's not as kitsch as Brosnan's last outing (Die Another Day), which was essentially and homage to the franchise (enjoyable nonetheless).
They've also continued to play with the tried and true. You have to mix-it-up a bit, I think, to keep things fresh. Especially in a franchise where even the opening credits and music, receive so much attention and criticism.
This is traditional Bond fair of the Connery variety. Craig is excellent (and fking hot... witness the nude/chair/torture sequence and two shameless Ursula Andress-style emergences from the ocean in tiny trunks), as is Eva Green.
Look I could clearly bang on about this for ages. I won't. Go and see it.

This article, from today's Daily Telegraph, provides an interesting look at how some of the Muslim community view social mores. It makes me wonder whether homosexuality will ever be accepted, when a sip of champagne and a woman declining to wear the hijab causes an uproar on a webchat for Islamic youth. The next generation appears to subscribe to these archane believes as vehemently as the last, in some instances. I know they are religious convictions (albeit fundamentalist ones) but it still surprises me.
But good on Iktimal Hage-Ali. I think she's great.


Vilified over sip of bubbly
THE state's most promising young Muslim leader has become the victim of a hate campaign because she celebrated with a glass of champagne after being named NSW Young Australian of the Year.
Iktimal Hage-Ali, 22, has been targeted on Muslim websites for drinking alcohol and declining to wear the traditional hijab. Her anonymous attackers condemned her after she drank the champagne to toast her award at the NSW Art Gallery last Thursday.
"It's true, I was celebrating. Bloody hell, I had a glass of champagne in my hand – so what?" Ms Hage-Ali told The Daily Telegraph yesterday.
The Islamic youth website Muslim Village posted dozens of messages berating Ms Hage-Ali.
"A person who drinks champagne, especially unabashedly, cannot represent the Muslim community," one member wrote.
Another added: "She knows we don't appreciate her representing us – but it's the power that drives her. Drinking champagne, that is sick."
The cowardly accusers also berated Ms Hage-Ali for wearing "revealing" clothes, nail polish and make-up.
"Her matching nails, eye shadow and top . . . were not . . . how Islam would like to portray a Muslim female to the wider community," one said.
Yet while the majority criticised her, a few did come to her defence.
"It wonderful that a young Muslim woman has won the award and that is a cause for celebration, not denigration," one chatroom member wrote.
Ms Hage-Ali, who is a finalist for the national Young Australian of the Year to be named next month, said she was shocked by the tirade, but refused to tone her comments down.
"I'm proud of what I have done, my family is proud, my friends are proud, my colleagues are proud," the State Government public servant and tireless community worker said.
"They're not looking at the fact that a young Muslim person has won a prestigious award – they are looking for the negatives."

The Ultimate Showgirl

I need to get this off my chest.
Last night I saw Kylie's Homecoming Showgirl effort at the Burswood Dome.
Kylie was brilliant. I'm told she was on stage, I don't remember. I was sitting so close to the stage all I could see was the incredible bodies of the back-up dancers.
I think that is the most homoerotic show I have ever seen - far beyond the Mardi Gras or Pride after parties.
There was a point where a locker-room shower ascended from below the stage with four of the hottest boys you ever seen in tiny speedos showering. I thought that was reasonably un-toppable until shortly afterwards one buff boy started doing sit-ups resting on the thigh of another buff boy, with his legs wrapped around the guy's back for support.
Kylie herself was resplendent. Brilliant. A consumate showgirl. It was a truly great show.


I stole those pics off the net. They're from the original show. The costumes for Homecoming are much much hotter. (In the sense that they hardly exist at all).
Oh yeah, and apparently there was some singing in this show... but I don't remember that. LOL.
Nah, it was great.

I'm so damned excited: Rudd for PM

I've been backing this particular horse for years and now my political dream - Kevin Rudd for PM - might be about to become a reality.
I first fell in love with the man when I was working for a Federal Labor MP. I had the chance to sit in on a party committee meeting (Defence and Foreign Affairs) as my Member's proxy. He was brilliant. Measured, calm, intelligent, considered, enthusiastic, sensible, passionate, committed, informed. I decided then and there that he was the best choice for party leader and, of course, Prime Minister.
Even through the Latham Year (The Year of Living Dangerously) I backed Rudd to the hilt (my friend Radio Daniel is witness to this) and I could not be happier with the result of today's caucus meeting and leadership vote.
So let it begin. Let Rudd and Gillard - The Dream Team - take it up to Howard. We now have the best chance ever of wrestling power from that jumped-up diminutive tyrant.
GO TEAM!

From Russia with drugs

Okay, the Russian spy saga just got a lot more interesting.

Former Russian PM in hospital with mystery illness
From AFP
Former Russian prime minister Yegor Gaidar is recovering in a Moscow hospital from a mystery illness, triggering speculation of a poisoning case that might be linked to the deaths of a Russian ex-spy and a top journalist.
Mr Gaidar's daughter Maria told NTV television he was in satisfactory condition but "there was a serious threat to his life" after he fell ill on November 24 in Ireland, where he had been attending a conference.
Mr Gaidar's illness came one day after the death in London of former Russian secret services agent Alexander Litvinenko, who was poisoned by a rare radioactive substance in an apparent murder that Mr Litvinenko himself blamed on Russian President Vladimir Putin.
The Kremlin has rejected the charges.

It's fun to stay at the...

This image was blatantly lifted from a joke email. None of these people are me. Particularly the guy in the painting. I'm definitely not him. Please don't doubt me, Thomas.
Although, the guy in the painting does have a similar figure to me.
Actually, does Jesus (in this picture) remind anyone else of some of those shirtless drug-f*cked gay-boys one often sees dancing at Connections, Pride or Mardi Gras? It's the stance.
Obviously the drug-bunnies aren't nailed to a cross. (I think that's the problem).

Up there, Cazaly

Most people, including my father, have significant amounts of trouble when it comes to imagining me playing football. My ball skills aren't what you might think they would be.
However, last weekend Community Newspaper's held a friendly match between the north and south offices and I took to the field with my southern colleagues.
Not only did we win, but I looked fetching in my beautiful black and red jersey (which , with a Bernina and half an hour could have looked fantastic).


This is me tackling Michael T for mark. I did actually manage to take a mark at one point - earning me Mark of The Match. I got a little trophy and everything (it was totally Schick). The fact that I marked the ball by accident in order to stop it smacking into my pretty little face is neither here nor there.


That now-famous mark meant I got to kick the ball - which I did brilliantly (straight to the opposition, who then kicked it straight back for a goal). But being as I had to ask what they wanted me to do with the ball in the first place, I still considered this quite an achievement.


At other points I simply danced past the ball with the kind of grace Nureyev would have been proud of.


So the only answer was to get boozed with award-winning reporter-to-the-stars Bea.
Now that I am an award-winning footballer, with a lovely arse, I feel equal to other award-winners (of whom I am apparently so jealous... depending on who you ask) like Bea. ["in-joke" alert]

Daylight robbery

Does anyone else find it mildly ironic that last week two politicians who would probably rather turn back time (Disgraced former minister John D'Orazio and dumped former Liberal leader Matt Birney) successfully co-sponsored a Bill to turn the clocks FORWARD an hour?

Daylight Saving or no Daylight Saving, their desperate bid to write themselves into the history books for something other than their dishonourable/disgraceful falls from grace is reasonably sad. Sorry boys, it won't work.

Drive me carzy (yes, carzy, not crazy)

I was filling my car with fuel this afternoon and I came up with a list of pet hates:
1) Petrol bowsers that take ages to kick in because the attendant is too busy scratching his cock to press the release button.
2) The bastard who snapped my fucking aerial off, leaving me with a rusty coathanger as a means of AM/FM reception.
3) The wanker who designed my car and made it impossible to replace the aerial easily, knowing full well fucktards regard snapping them off as sport.
4) The cockspank who parked in my spot, resulting in me angrily reversing up the laneway and scraping the side of my car on a pole.
5) The rust that has set in because I am too lazy/cheap to fix the damage the pole did.
6) The fact that my car is always so dirty
7) Trying to get the dollars on the bowser to an exact .00c amount. It'll never let you do it. You'll always pay .02c extra.
8) Getting to the counter and arguing the price with the attendant, then him pointing out you got the litres to .00c, not the price... and you actually bought $50 of fuel, not $40 like you thought.
9) Driving past the next petrol station and discovering it is 1c cheaper there.

The KG-used-to-B

There is a man lying in a London hospital.
He is bald, terrifyingly thin, and could possibly need a bone marrow transplant.
Just a few weeks ago, 43-year-old Alexander Litvinenko was insanely fit man who ran 8km a day.
What has bought about the incredibly and sudden change in his condition? Well THAT is a story straight of the Cold War.
I have always been a little Cold War obsessed. I think it's a result of two things:
a) having lived through the last years of the Cold War and being old enough to remember Gorbachev, Thatcher, Reagan and the fall of The Wall.
b) too much Ian Fleming as an adolescent (ashamed to say I own a couple of first edition James Bond novels).
So to discover a few weeks ago that Russian journalist and long-time Kremlin/Putin critic Anna Politkovskaya had been gunned-down - assassinated - and the FSB (the "New KGB") had been implicated was a delicious remnant of Cold War-style problem-solving I couldn't resist learning more about.
Politkovskaya was only days away from publishing a massive story about the killings and beatings of civilian Chechens by Russian servicemen - obviously embarrassing to the Kremlin - when she was murdered. As a journalist, her death also raised some interesting professional questions for myself (Is there anything I've written that might have pissed-off the City of Mel-VILE sufficiently that they might want to kill me? How unforgiving they can be simply for fucking-up the details of the annual Jacaranda Festival!).
In a bizarre way I was positively excited the other morning to learn Litvinenko - himself a former top KGB agent and therefore colleague of Mr Putin's - was now in hospital with suspected thallium poisoning. At the time of his suspected poisoning he had been investigating the assassination of Ms Politkovskaya.
FYI, thallium is one of those delicious Cold War drugs that doesn't taste or smell and can be easily slipped into a drink or onto food... rendering the person who consumes it reasonably dead remarkably efficiently.
In 2004, Politkovskaya herself fell seriously ill with symptoms of food poisoning on a flight to southern Russia for the Beslan school hostage crisis. The tactic which involved two gun wounds delivered to her head and body whilst alighting from her apartment elevator was far less subtle. Though personally, I wish they'd used the Bulgarian method - poisoned umbrella tips.
Anyway, do you see how delicious and intriguing this all is? I'm not wishing these people ill, can I just say. No I'm on Politkovskaya's side and I do want Litvinenko to pull through... it's just that I really can't wait for the next instalment. It's better than anything Ian Fleming could have written! (Actually, if you've ever actually READ a Bond novel you'd know that's not hard. They're shocking. The movies are a million times better).

EDIT
From news.com this morning, November 24,
Poisoned ex-Russian spy dies
FORMER Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko, who had been fighting for his life in recent days after an apparent poisoning, has died, the hospital where he was being treated said today.
"We are sorry to announce that Alexander Litvinenko died at University College Hospital (UCH) at 9:21pm (8.21am AEDT this morning) on the 23rd of November 2006," the spokesman for the hospital said.
"He was seriously ill when he was admitted to UCH on Friday November 17, and the medical team at the hospital did everything possible to save his life."
The condition of the 43-year-old had worsened on Thursday, doctors and friends said, as mystery deepened over what caused his condition.

Sexy texty games

David in our office is a cute confirmed straight-boy. He's lovely, and so is his girlfriend.
Only today, he receives a random text message from an unknown number: Are you there yet?
To which he replies: Am I where yet?
I would have probably asked who it was, at this point. Not David. But the random was onto it...
Random: Sorry who is this?
David: I was going to ask the same question... You messaged me first asking if i was there yet...
A conversation ensued.
Random: Hey sorry. that was an accident. meant to send it to my girlfriend.
David: :) all good have a nice day...
Random: So... like whats your name?
By this time David has the whole office totally intrigued. He doesn't know who it is and now he is engaged in a conversation with this guy. He didn't know how to respond to this message so he didn't reply straight away, then the random messaged again saying "So do you have a girlfriend?"
David: My name is david... and yes i have a girlfriend... What's your name?
Random: Chris. I like the name David. It's a strong name. but cute...
The office staff are now rolling around on the floor laughing.
David: Haha so really, who is this? Someone I know taking the piss?
Random Chris: I'm sorry? I don't understand... my name's and you seem nice. what do you do?
David: I'm a journalist. You?
Random Chris: Oh that's really hot. i love journalists. I'm a pilot. do you like to fly?
David: I do in fact. We're debating here in the office whether you're a guy or a girl. Where do u work?
Random Chris: On a plane. It's great fun. plus all the air hostesses. sigh. you're all talking about me? that's hot... what do you look like david? i bet you're hot ;)
David: You could find out... Call me at my desk - 6**0 9**7
The genius of the last bit is, that's MY office number. I've volunteered to intrepidly discover what Random Chris has to offer. LOL.
Although Random Chris seems to have shut up all of a sudden...
I can't wait to hear how this ends!

EDIT
Okay, this yarn has just got sooo much better. David has worked out who it is. It is a (gay) friend of his girlfriend's who he gave his number to and foolishly said "no, don't give me your number, surprise me later in the week by randomly sending me a message". To a gay-boy this is something of a red-rag to a bull.
Only now David has the power and he's decided to string him along. This is the latest message from Random Chris:
Hey sorry I didn't call. Just having lunch with my girlfriend, obviously couldn't call... say just wondering if you and your girlfriend would be open to a night with me and my girlfriend. it's her birthday coming up soon... I know it's a bit forward...
Brilliant! I'll let you know how it ends!

Admit it, you google yourself.
Unlike blogging, which is a very public and open instant ego gratification, a quick google search of one's own name is a secret delight. It has much the same effect though.
Well this afternoon instead of googling myself, I googled my alter-ego, "Bolton Gray". In doing so, I discovered something remarkable: My blog has a value.
Or it could have.
There is a website called blogshares.com which says my blog is worth somewhere between $550 and $1000 ("B$" to be specific. If anyone can explain what that is I'd be everso grateful).
Apparently my blog is listed because I've linked to Tottyworld - a nicely pervy website innocently providing links to tasteful photos of handsome gentlemen. Anyway, Tottyworld has a very high value and because I've linked to it, my little blog has a value too, based on numbers of visitors, etc.
I can't imagine this blog has any value to anyone except my ego (which now, clearly, I'm refering to as an entity in its own right).

Best film in human history - Borat

I so desperately want to discuss this film, but I don't want to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen it - which is most of my friends.
I'm going to see it again on Sunday.
Every time I thought he'd gone as far as he possibly could, he went further. I love that shit. My favourite bits were:
a) a one-liner to end all dinner parties
b) a very special hotel room wrestle.
Of course, the real stars were the unwitting Americans. Man they take themselves seriously.
So glad I saw this with Eeeeemma, Linds and Lars. A perfect crew for this insane adventure.

You'll want to vomit by the end of this

Life is good. Life is the best it could possibly be right now.
Truly, I feel like for the first time in a long time the planets are all in alignment, God is smiling on me, the Sun has got his hat on, etc, etc, insert appropriate cliché here.
Perhaps to understand this we need to remember I’m looking at everything through the prism of New-Thom-With-An-H being in my life.
I do not get sick of this boy. At the moment he’s house-sitting a place about 50m from Dad’s door, so I’m spending all my time around there and we’re spending every spare minute together. And I could STILL spend more time with him. The gist is, I guess, that being with him makes me happy.
But then there are the other planets in the line-up.
In a few weeks I head to Sydney for the weekend, and that is something I am exceptionally excited about. I miss Daniel desperately and I am thrilled to be able to see his performance. I desperately need some Dan-on-Dan time. It has been a long, long year without him. I also really want to hang out with Nigel and the Allcorns and all my other Sydney gang.
And now for the biggest planet of all: Europe. (Okay, taken literally, that is the most ridiculous sentence ever written).
I have taken all of March off work and Dad and I are heading to Europe. It’ll be so cool to hang out and travel together. Fortunately we both had the same wish list: London, Paris, Prague.
We’ve nutted it out a bit more and I’m very excited about the last leg of my trip, which I shall do by train: Prague, Vienna, Salzburg, Venice, Florence, Rome. It’s funny that my whole life I’ve wanted nothing more than to go to London and now I’m finally doing it the bit that I’m most excited about is something I’ve barely ever contemplated.
Dad wants to really go to town on Germany because he loved Frankfurt so much. I also want to go to a couple of operas while I’m there. He’s staying on for another month after I head home, so he’ll have to do much of Germany, the French Riviera, Spain and Portugal on his own. I’m putting them down for the next trip!
The idea of the trip is to basically get a bit of traveling out of my system so I can come home and concentrate on the film. We should be filming any time after April and then there is the book to write and goodness knows what else will be required of me.
All in all, I have a very, very good feeling about 2007. This could be my biggest year yet. And I’ve never been quite so excited!

GAME ON!

Someone strap Stone Henge down... alert the Palace... it's happening - FINALLY!
Who: Me
Where: London
When: March 2007.
And I'm as symbolically phallic as Nelson's Column with the excitement.

Don't mez with the fez from Kez

This is truly great weekend being peppered with old friends.
Firstly, Kerry came back from Egypt and brought unto me a Fez, which I absolutely love and could only have been made better if it came attached with a little monkey grinding an organ. Still, I have Thom for that.
Paulie from Melbourne and Robbie Goodwin (also now of Melbourne but late of Community Newspapers) are both in town, so I'm hoping to see both of them.
Had a surprise phone call from Adam "Sailorboy" Carter yesterday - the HMAS Ballarat is in port at Fremantle so hopefully I'll be catching up with him.
And speaking of Outback House people... I'm heading to Sydney December 8 to 11 (to see my beautiful Daniel dancing his heart out in at least two productions) and so I hope to see the Allcorns and Miss Schubert.
(Att: Phil. The Miss Schubert I refer to is Fiona Schubert, late of Outback House. You might rather famously be the gayest person I know, but I would never refer to you as Miss. No, you are Mr Schubert, most definitely. But if you happen to be making it down to Sydney it'd be great to see you. I think I'll need dates for the two shows I'm going to see, so that could be fun).
Anyway... there is no real point to this post except to let you know I am alive.

By the way, I went to the Bryn Terfel recital at the Concert Hall on Thursday night. I was in total absolute heaven. Total ABSOLUTE heaven. Such an amazing voice. Amazing like I have never heard. I understand why he is one of the world's greatest, most famous and widely loved voices.

Media ball... evidence of life

Tame by last year's standard, there is still some evidence a good night was had by all at this year's Media Ball.

Tamara, Lindsay, Sez and Sarah

Sez, Stu and his usual "I'm trashed" pose, Matt, award-winning Bea and Kate

My darlings, Emma and Lindsay

Valenti and Hatchi

(with thanks to Will Russell, who not only contributed his wife to one of these photos but gave permission to post them... not that he's claiming responsibility for the photography, mind you).

An unusual weekend

It has been an odd sort of weekend during which I once again failed in my only true obligation, visiting my Grandmother. I'm going to drive up to the farm one night this week - the guilt is killing me.

But I have had ample distraction. Firstly I should tell you I am not well. It happens to have coincided with the week I went into hospital but I have been in excrutiating pain. I first started getting incredible stomach pains when I was 13 and they have returned intermittantly ever since just to fuck me over when I least expect it. It started out as every couple of years I'd get a bout of it, but now it's quite frequent.
I had them quite badly when I was in Outback House and I've had them more and more often since. The pain is very sharp and intense and just underneath the sturnam. It's like indigestion x child-birth (I know the DOA and others are scoffing at that... but let me tell you it is painful).
In fact, it is bent-double cripplingly painful. When these pains are in full swing I cannot get comfortable at all - whether I sit, stand, curl-up or stretch-out. I find it hard to breath comfortably. It becomes hard to talk - if only because all I want to do is concentrate on lessening the pain.
I've tried various remedies and courses of tablets over time and there are certain foods I have to do without if I'm in pain because they seem to exacerbate the problem - but ultimately, so far, the doctors are a bit mystified. Hence my hospital visit on Thursday. Hopefully I'll know more soon - especially as my new tablets aren't stopping the pain.

Unfortunately the pain got to me so badly that I was in bed for most of last week. Other symptoms include an inability to eat (a total lack of appetite) and a desperate desire to sleep (probably through lack of nutrition). Actually, my eyes suddenly get heavy and I can doze off on the spot. It's a little scary. Net result: I left work at like 11.30 on Friday, was in bed by 12.30, slept til 6.30, watched tv for a few hours, went to bed at 9.30 and slept through til morning. Now THAT's a nanna-ish Friday night.
Saturday night was the Media Ball and I was still in a lot of pain, though I was better than I had been. I spent some of the afternoon with the truly brilliant DJ Lara H and that was the day's highlight. Though it was great to see everyone frocked-up for the ball. The women looked stunning: Linds with her Oscar hair, Sez in her party frock, McLigman, 'mara... all the girls! (Especially Bea, who if her being totally freakin hot was not enough to get her poached by the teeves, then surely winning the Suburban journo award is?).

I left early. I was gone by 11 or so. I did a glorious side-exit while no one was watching. I came home and sat in bed watching DVD's with New-Thom-With-An-H for a while afore nodding-off. So then, naturally, I spent most of today (Sunday) with him. We went for brekkie at lunchtime and then veged on the couch for the afternoon... watching... get this... Barbarella! What a FANTASTIC film! Who wouldn't want a shagpile-lined space-ship if they had the choice? The opening sequence is a 19-year-old Jane Fonda getting gratuitously nude. I'm freakin in love with this film. N-T-W-A-H and I were cacking ourselves. (Of course, he has seen it many times before). Later this week we shall watch the genius of Russ Meyer's Faster Pussycat Kill Kill.

And as I'm rambling and as I'm on the topic of N-T-W-A-H... I would never have imagined I could meet someone so like me, so perfect for me. He's so fucking incredible. Not only is he gorgeous but he has this AMAZING brain that I just LOVE and we are interested in all the same things and have the same obscure slant on life. We can disagree on things but we don't argue. I'm learning SO much from him. Although he's impatient and intolerant in the same ways I am, which is a concern! But he's brilliant. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I love this boy. This last couple of months (remembering this is despite enormous pain) have been truly incredible. I just can't get enough of him.

Right... now that I've jinxed my relationship, I'm going to bed....

Vale Mr Foreman

Okay I'm the first to admit that I'm not a sports fan of any description, but I wanted to register my grief at the very untimely passing of a master broadcaster, Wally Foreman.
Listening to ABC Radio these past few days has been incredibly hard and as I pulled in the driveway just then I had to listen to afternoon announcer Bernadette Young choking back tears. (How's she's going to get through a three hour shift is beyond me).
Wally was a brilliant professional and to me the sound of his voice IS the sound of sport, the sound of summer, the sound of football, the sound of weekends, the sound of Grand Stand, the sound of the ABC.
It's totally impossible to imagine the airwaves without his distinctive voice.
I expect a State funeral to be announced at some point in the next couple of days.
Everyone I speak to is very sad about this. Very sad.

Just moments away

Very shortly I shall be out cold. This will be done clinically and medically and not in my usual "Saturday night special" kind of way.
I haven't been allowed to eat except for a "very light breakfast" which consisted of yogurt, which has long since been and gone. My stomach is busy eating itself now... which is pretty much the problem I'm going into hospital for in the first place.
The procedure is called an endoscopy (several of you know I've had one of these before, though it was performed neither clinically nor medically).
I can't tell if I'm nervous and have butterflies in my stomach or whether I'm just hungry or whether in fact it's because I didn't take my medication this morning that I feel all jippy in the tum-tum.
The plan is that I am to drive to the hospital myself and Dad will get a lift and come pick me up later this afternoon, driving home in my car. The plan is then for me to try to post a coherent blog about the experience as soon as possible - in the hope that it might not actually be coherent at all.
Anyway, wish me luck ladies and gentlemen... I'm going in!

Anthropamorphyschological

I won't let the dog see me naked.
I suppose in the back of my mind I've always known this is a completely irrational fear based around my anthropamorphising of the cute little bitch, but I've never let myself dwell on it.
Only when I mentioned it in passing to New-Thom-With-An-H the other day he laughed at me hysterically.
"Why?" was his only response... delivered big-eyed with the corners of his mouth suggesting he was willing to burst into more hysterical laughter before I even finished my reply.
"I don't know, I guess it's just cos she's a little girl dog and she's innocent and sweet and I don't want her looking at me like that."
Needless to say, more laughter ensued.
I had totally never thought about this closely, but as I said, I knew it wasn't rational. If anyone can explain the psychology of this I'd greatly appreciate it. I'd also like to think I'm not alone in this.
Oh, except I KNOW I'm not alone in this. I got a phone call from New-Thom-With-An-H later that day to inform me he could no longer be naked in front of his cats.
To which I responded with hysterical laughter.
(Please note I didn't make a pussy joke: I nearly bit my tongue off to achieve that).

PS: At last, an entry that means anyone who googles "Dan Hatch naked" will have something to look at!

A week of anaesthetic

The pain must be dulled one way or another. It's that kind of week.

1. On Friday I had a very important meeting with some very important people about the documentary. A best-case scenario sees us filming in April. I needed a stiff drink after learning that. So bloody far away! By then this project will have been on my plate for two years... and it won't have even made it to air yet. It astounds me that everyone says this project is going so fast and having such a smooth run. I am soooo impatient!

2. This coming Thursday I shall be going under the surgeon's knife. Well, not quite. They're going to knock me out and shove something down my throat (hardly virgin territory there, I realise) and go in search of what it is that has given me chronic bent-double-omigod-I-can't-breathe pain for the past 13 years. Apparently I shall be well woosy afterwards, so I'm trying to work out the best way to enjoy coming down from the anaesthetic - I don't want to waste it (I'm thinking driving home from Osborne Park to Baysie could provide hours of fun).

3.Saturday night is the Media Ball: THE night of my year. I am so excited I can hardly wait. Linds, Lars, Sez, Emma Gant, Wattsy, Disco Stu, McSore-eye, McLigman, Valenti (and the Italian office, I pressume)... all my fantastic boooooozy mates all together for a ripper night of being booooozy and booooozing with other boooooze hags. Oh yeah, and there are some awards handed out too. I never win awards - I've been second-rate my whole life. But then, coming first isn't what's important, is it? Which brings me to...

4. I may have to anaesthetize someone - or at least silence them with enough chloroform to bring down King Kong.

The graffiti on the wall...

...said "you'll take this theatrical ass fucking...".
Well that had me sold already. *Bursts into a Julie Andrews-style chorus: "These are a few of my faaaaavourite things"*.
Can I just highly recommend this particular theatrical ass fucking to you? There is I think another week or two to run for Tomas Ford Versus The Audience at The Blue Room in Northbridge and it is well-worth going along and having yourself violated.
Tomas is a freaking talented young man. Anyone who can attract an audience that knows they are going to be offended and abused as well as entertained is worth his weight in gold. (I wouldn't let my own grandmother stick her thumb in my mouth, so to have a random stranger with eye make-up and a micropho... oh no, hang on, I probably have done that before: Connections is a world of opportunity).
Tomas' act isn't commercial - I don't know how you'd sell it to a mainstream audience. His music is technically fantastic and his act as a whole is brilliantly funny and entertaining. He deserves to have his art and his talent recognised more widely than it is at the moment, or than this particular version of his act will allow. That said - and this is what I'm leading to - I reckon he'll be huge and it will be interesting to see how his act evolves between now and when that happens.
Anyway, I'm going to stop banging on in case Tomas does something completely vain like google himself in order to sate his artistic appetite for adoration and acceptance.
The main thing is, get along to see this show. It'll do you good to be challenged by live theatre for a change.
And everyone can do with an ass fucking every now and again.

(Apologies to the DOA and Dad... I couldn't help it. I had to go there).

Here it is, the famous roo yarn

You've asked for it, so here it is... straight from the Melville Times (24 Oct 06... also Fremantle Gazette, Cockburn Gazette and Canning Times), to you!

Probe into kangaroo’s death
By Dan Hatch
A KANGAROO is dead after being towed behind a City of Melville rangers’ vehicle for several kilometres last weekend.
An official Melville incident report said rangers were called to Farrington Road in Leeming at 3.30pm on Saturday, October 14, to deal with the Western Grey kangaroo that was trapped in the suburban area.
A ranger managed to lasso the animal around the neck and then tried to haul it behind the car back to the Melville Glades Golf Course, where it was believed to have come from.
The report stated the ranger travelled about 5kmh under police escort and stopped regularly “to check the health of the kangaroo”.
However, upon arrival at the golf course, he “discovers the kangaroo has stopped breathing” and unsuccessfully attempted “to perform CPR to revive the kangaroo”.
The Melville Times could not confirm exactly how the kangaroo died, but both the RSPCA and the Department of Environment and Conservation have begun investigations.
About 100 people, including children, are believed to have gathered to watch the ranger catch the roo.
The report indicated the ranger was forced to catch the kangaroo because the animal had become agitated by the crowd and presented a safety risk.
City rangers are not licensed to used tranquilliser guns and no DEC or RSPCA officers or veterinarians were available.
DEC wildlife officer Luke Bentley said people who harmed protected wildlife could expect a $4000 fine if found guilty under the Wildlife Conservation Act.
“Where kangaroos are about in suburban areas, people should try to avoid them,” he said.
“They go out at dusk and dawn to forage and sometimes they don’t make it back in time and become trapped by traffic flows and so on.”
“Stay clear of them and let them go when it gets dark again.”
Melville chief executive officer Eric Lumsden has moved to ensure incidents such as this did not happen again.
He said the city had contacted the RSPCA and DEC to how “policies and responses can be improved to deal with distressing situations such as (this one)”.
“The City of Melville sincerely regrets any distress to the onlookers and the kangaroo,” he said.
Mr Lumsden declined to comment further while the incident was being investigated.

Something you might like to get along to...

Got an email the other day from my brilliant friends the Tourles.
The Tourles are a part of my very special second family. They own Oxley Downs, the place where Outback House was filmed. Two years ago exactly we were all in there experiencing life as crazy pioneers.
For all of us one of the most special days in there was the Melbourne Cup, which - it has to be said - was an impromptu event organised by the cast, not the producers. But by gum it was fun!
Last year, on the first Tuesday of November, they re-ran it. This year, they will do the same.
Here's the details... in case you're travelling around near Dubbo at the time!



The “Oxley Downs Cup of 1863” will be run on Saturday, 11th November, 2006 at 5.30pm and we would like you with us for the weekend.

This is an Open Weekend and when the gates close at 5.00 o’clock we will be able to run the “Oxley Downs Cup" as a private event. The 1862 Oxley Downs Cup was great - won by Bernie riding “Malibu” beating Pete by a nose!

We can offer you accommodation at our Shearers Quarters and “The Springs”. We are looking forward to seeing you all and we can also celebrate Pete and Lui’s second wedding anniversary!!

(I'm not sure EXACTLY where "The Springs" is... but if you ask in Dubbo for the Tourles place, they'll point you on the road).

At the risk of seeming like a smug twat...

Can I just point out that the front page article I wrote for yesterday's Melville Times has, as a result, become news nationwide today.
ABC, Triple J, Ten News, Nova 937, 6PR and goodness knows who else, all ran my Kangaroo death story today.
And the bloody West journo had the cheek to ring me direct and ask for a copy of the report that had been released to me and only me by the City of Mel-VILE. I told him to ring the council himself, but I know they won't give it to him.
The council gave me the full incident report (the whole account of how the City ranger lassoed the roo around the neck, tied it to his car bumper and towed it to the local golf course and then tried to give it CPR after - to his surprise - he discovered on arrival at the golf course that it had died). There were only 100 or so witnesses to this.
As a result of my report (can you believe in the 10 days from the incident to my paper coming out NO ONE went to the media with this?) both the RSPCA and the Department of Environment are investigating.
I'm a little proud. (Okay, I'm quite proud).

Maxine? Hello?

Oh my sweet Jesus.
It took me years to like Maxine McKew, but now I'm really sad she's leaving the ABC and possibly journalism, for good.
Good journos who are willing to take w*nkers like Howard to task are hard to come by.
My journalistic heroes include David Marr and Chris Masters, Kerry O'Brien and Tony Jones... all for different reasons.
Maxine was genuinely worthy of being included in that fold - a terrifying mealy-mouthed dragon lady... a vinegar-titted ice queen - but definitely worthy of being included in that fold.
What an enormous gap she will leave.

Reservoir Dags

This, believe it or not, is my editor and I.
At this point, we are about to launch an attack on the City of Mel-VILE.
We must have looked so intimidating walking up the steps to Council House.
Pity no one was there to see it.
Pity we didn't end up launching an attack.
At least we looked hot.

Nothing is forever

Nothing is forever and I'm having trouble being philosophical about it.
Isn't it funny that our family farm should have been sold five years ago and I didn't shed a tear. I didn't mind that the place my family had owned for 30 years was no longer going to be in my family's hands. I didn't care that the place I spent my entire childhood until I left home at 19 was owned by someone else.
But this afternoon when I got home Dad explained to me that our old family farm was being subdivided and developed into 19 blocks of various sizes - I imagine mostly 5 to 10 acre blocks.
And I was devastated.
That our beautiful - and I mean insanely and breath-takingly beautiful - valley should be peppered with 19 houses is a criminal act. It is a crying shame and I cannot bear to think of it. I've had a lump in my throat all afternoon. I can't believe it. I can't believe they would allow it. I don't understand why THE BEST FARMING LAND in Gidgegannup needs to be turned into a housing estate. It is a criminal criminal criminal waste. I am gutted.
Now I know how the English landed gentry feel when they can no longer afford to keep the roof on. I understand how real farmers feel when drought drives them to the city. I understand how refugees feel.
(Okay, so that is going a little far, but in several respects, it is the same feeling. I feel homeless. Something that was once mine is not only no longer mine, but it no longer exists. I can NEVER return. And that actually fucking hurts).
The hardest thing I've had to learn about getting older is that nothing ever stays the same. It's not something you think about when you're a kid - but the friends you used to have, the fields you used to play in, even the family members you held most dear - are not yours to have and to hold forever.
I understand why old people get sentimental. I understand why they gripe and groan and lament the loss of the old ways and values. I totally get why they become set in their ways.
I love progress, I love change, I love the dynamism of culture and society. Or so I thought. Perhaps, in truth, I'm as protectionist and conservative as everyone else.
Or perhaps I just appreciate great beauty. And a beautiful thing is about to be dissected with a scapel by people who have only ever seen it on paper. Maybe I'm just reacting to the philistines. But there's no point educating them: I'd only be standing in between them and the millions of dollars they are going to make. I can't change anything.
But that's how society is now. My only hope is that the power of the dollar, too, will not be forever. And perhaps one day things of great beauty will be regarded as important as things of great value.
Fuck the fucking capitalists. Fuck you all. Fuck you, fuck you,FUCK YOU!

Census for October

Reading: I'm reading David Marr's The High Price of Heaven - a brilliantly executed politically cutting expose of some of the great human injustices in Australia. David Marr is one of my heroes: the importance of this fact will become clear at some point during the documentary-making process.
Watching: Alas Dr Who has ended, so the only thing on my radar at all is MediaWatch. I only watch 15 minutes of tele a week!
Listening: Lamb, actually. I know most people consider that I might be off lamb, but this is Lamb with a capital L.
Downloading: Not a lot at the moment. Except I did download some Lamb.
Website du jour: I compulsively check my friends' blogs. (See at side).
Café: Big-it-up for the Aroma Cafe in Maylands where I get my coffee every morning and where Jess ALWAYS offers me a smile!
Pub: Really only the Scotsman at the moment. It's nice to go somewhere where the bar staff know your name. (And chuck you the occasional jug).
Club: I think Geisha is back on the radar... mainly to see Lara's sets.
Eating: I have nothing I'm addicted to at the moment. Food is so functional for me right now. Though I do rather neck the tablets the doctor is making me take.
Drinking: Water. Desperately drinking water like it's going out of fashion.
Wearing: My Nobody jeans ripped and I am in desperate need of a new wardrobe generally: May be about to hit Dad up for cash.
Last show: WAAPA's Opera Double Bill. Unbelievably I took me and three ladies on the night when the marvellous Daniel Sinfield (watch this space) was NOT on stage. I was devastated. It's the first thing I've missed him in all year!
Next show: Tomas Ford Versus The Audience.
Can’t wait ‘til: The Media Ball. November 4. Look out world, Linds and I are coming!
Lately I have been: Hanging out a lot with the tremendous wonderful fantastic beautiful gorgeous New Thom-With-an-H.
Most recent scoop: I'm sitting on a great one for Tuesday. It's going to cost a man his job though, which I'd feel guilty about, except he's an evil animal killer.
Most recent purchase: A beer. I can afford nothing else.
Want but can’t afford: New digital Dictaphone is still on the list. Classic 100 Opera box set is now off the list, as some just left one in my meterbox. A long story... and I'm not sure how it ends.
Need but can’t afford: A heap of new clothes, especially underwear.
Last nice act: I bought New Thom-With-an-H an unsolicited gift. (Or two, but he doesn't know about the second one).
Last bad act: I don't know that I was awfully nice to the meterbox present dropper. (Which he's been more than happy to point out. Which makes me feel less bad about it).
Bad news: It would take too long to explain.
Good news: I really have met someone nice. Well, I say nice - I mean amazing.
Goal: Complete the film, write the book, head off travelling.
How to achieve it: All starts with a couple of important meetings next week, including with big-wigs from the ABC.
Yesterday I: Worked like mad, visited Thom, waited for Dad to come home.
Right now I should be: Getting ready for dinner.
Later today I’m: Sleeping.
Tomorrow I’m: On deadline. Then I'm spending the afternoon in with Thom. Read into that what you will.
General mood: Tired. A bit boozed. Generally happy though. Perhaps slightly ecstatic, on my day.
It would be better if: Thom weren't working. (I'm quite sure that's exactly what he's thinking too).

McPhee and Datch on the schmooze

Linds and I did the rounds of season launches and festival openings last week. And someone was kind enough to take a happy snap. I think Linds looks hot. How freakin gorgeous do you reckon our children will be?!

Life as we know it, Jim

It's coming to a dramatic end.
For the last month I have been able to live in my house like a total slut and not worry a jot about it. But now... Dad is coming home.
He returns from Singapore tomorrow night - arriving at midnight, conveniently.
I cannot wait to see him. God bless him, I have missed him (and the dog, too, who has been exiled to the DOAs for the duration).
But I have assumed this slatternly lifestyle that is somewhere between Boheme and batchelor. The Hatchelor pad has well-and-truly become my territory... and now Dad is coming home and he is going to want it back.
So I've had to do a significant number of dishes. I've dealt with a lot of laundry (Until a week ago stuff Dad'd left on the line was still on the line... but I figured three weeks was long enough to make sure those sheets were aired). I've swept. I've aired the house out (I had just got the stench to the cut-the-air-with-a-knife density I like). I've watered the garden (although the philosophy "better late than never" does not seem to apply to plants: Go figure!). Hell, at some point tomorrow I will even collect the month's worth of mail (which I had promised him faithfully I would collect twice a week).
Yes, things have to change. I have to become human again.
I've missed Dad. I've become one of those 26-year-old's who lives at home with his parents and needs them to pick-up after him. Oh God - how pathetic.

Anniversaries and exs

Linds and I were separated at birth. It's true. Ripped apart and kept apart by several oceans and continents. Oh yeah, and about two years.
Nevertheless, her every success is my success, her every failure is my failure.

But at the moment her star is in the ascendance. This is The Golden Age of McPhee. She is resplendent and glorious.

Not only does she have a career and a catbox of her own, she has also passed a significant anniversary. She has been free for a year. (Interestingly, it comes the day after the two year anniversary of my voluntary caging for tele-entertainment purposes).

Go have a look at her fabulous regalling of her story here.

LATE NEWSFLASH
Linds is now even more fabulous for fending off an attack by an old people's home. The residents were a bit upset she put the Gay and Lesbian Pride Parade on the front page of the newspaper. She was even more resplendent than ever in explaining that the event was worthy of the front page because:
a) the pic was awesome
b) the event attracts 50,000 people to Perth and Northbridge.
I believe she also used to words, "we all know what this is really about, don't we?", or similar.
For these reasons and many more, I love her most of all.

What isn't there to look forward to in life?

Before you judge a blog by its headline I don't want you thinking I'm in a good mood.
Actually I've been up since four for Nova and I have to go back to bed so I can do it all again tomorrow. I've been left in charge of three newspapers for a week, which everyone knows i hate. I'm tired. I'm broke. My car has exploded and needs expensive TLC and I had an accident and have to find $350 for an excess to boot and my council rates are due. So I'm actually not in a good mood.

Except I am. I am in a good mood for several reasons.
Firstly, the impending weekend brings with it a night of Shakespeare, a night of opera, and a visit by the wonderful Miss Kerry, who is off to Egypt again.
Secondly, in the coming weeks I have the Pride Parade, Tomas Ford Versus The Audience and the Media Ball to look forward to.
Thirdly, I'm ever so slightly fucking in love. It's this New Thom-With-an-H. Can't get him out of my head. Can't stop seeing him. Can't get enough of him. May be becoming slightly obsessed. Bit odd really... didn't really plan to have a boyfriend again: Dad practically forbade it. Oops. Nevermind.
Actually Dad met him briefly before he left. Dad won't remember, he was too busy not making eye contact. :-/ So he hasn't passed the Dad test but on the bright side he's passed the Lindsay Test (as in, not only does she adore him but he can understand her when she's completely mashed, smoking a cigarette and lapsing into quaint Gaelic phrasing in a thick Inverness brogue).

At the moment I am focusing on the second lot of things, so I don't shoot myself because of the first lot of things. I'm sure you'll agree this is a sensible policy for a happier Britain.

Being a ZZZ-grade Perthonality...

I know I'm not as famous and powerful as Bree Maddox or one of her dildos, but there are certain honours that come with being a zed-list identity in little old Perth.
It's coming up to that time of year where people are booking even the most remotely recognisable faces for functions. In the last couple of weeks I've had some of these calls. Admittedly in each case, it is a friend who has come begging - pimping their particular organisation's esteemed event.
The darling Joc came a knocking a few weeks ago wondering whether I'd be delighted to host the City of Alannah MacTiernan Territory Carols By Candlelight. It was such a kind offer. However, if hosting an event I refer to annually as "death by public singing" wasn't enough to turn me off, then the fact my car would probably at least be on blocks if not gutted by fire by the end of the night probably was (it's a rough area). That said, I felt very guilty turning the offer down.
The next offer came from the Mt Barker Wine Producers Association, of which my uncle is some kind of committee member. They asked me to host their wine festival. Now this is the kind of invite I really don't mind. I did it earlier this year and had a blast. I was quite touched to be asked to return and do it again. (It was written up in the Albany Advertiser, which I found hilarious given that I wrote for their opposition paper for three years).
The problem I have with accepting the offer is that it is the same night as New Thom-with-an-H's planned 21st birthday celebrations (the much-vaunted two-week-long Festival of Thom). So I'm a bit stuck on this one. I have some hard choices to make. And I don't have long before I have to let them know.
While we're on the topic of ceremonies and events: The paper is FINALLY going to announce the winners of last year's editorial awards. Hurrah and hozannah! Now that half the journos have left the company I might be in with a chance of being named CNG's journalist of the year. I doubt it, but hey, miracles happen!
I might even drive through the City of Alannah MacTiernan Territory on my way to Mt Barker without being carjacked!

Interesting times

Friday was one of those days you sometimes get as a journalist.
In the morning I interviewed Denise Drysdale. She was hilarious - but not really because she was funny. I asked her to describe her new show and she said: "I don't know I've never seen it, hang on, I'll put you onto Vanessa, she was just in the audience". And I spend three minutes talking to a totally random stranger.
In the afternoon I interviewed Bryn Terfel - world-renowned as the planet's best bass-baritone. I've interviewed many great singers before (Kiri Te Kanawa - bitch. Andreas Scholl - enthusiastic scholar of the counter-tenor voice) but Bryn thoroughly impressed me. He was gentle, passionate, enthusiastic (despite me being a-not-very-important journalist) and engaging. He's very much a "father of small children" and not "internationally acclaimed opera star" when you're talking to him. The only difficulty is going to be making that warmth come across in the article.

Friday evening I hung out with Old Thom-with-an-H. It was a much needed catch-up and chat. Old Thom-with-an-H and I have been friends for a decade and it's nice to feel as close to him again now as I did for so many years (even if he still won't sleep with me). I have good fatherly advice for people on this point: True friends will always be true friends.
Saturday was time to say goodbye to a new friend, Phil, who I have absolutely loved having here in Perth. The awesome news is he has been asked to come back here for a few months by the Department... so he could be here for summer. In which case, PARTY ON!
I spent most of the rest of the weekend with New Thom-with-an-H - who is fabulous beyond words. Although he did get me too boozed at Saturday lunchtime to be able to get up to a family thing at my Aunt's house. I regret that a bit as my family were up from Albany and I don't get to see them that often these days. Not since I left the place and my old paper myself. This Saturday I'm taking New Thom-with-an-H's mum and her friends on a date to the Opera. What an odd thing to do.

Uncle Barry - looking after the nation

My father and I share many heroes. We know who they are because whenever one of us bumps into one of them, we tend to ring the other and brag like f**k.
They're mostly great Labor or union movement figureheads. People from the history books. These people do not include Charles Court (Who refuses to die - happy birthday Charlie, by the way). These people do include Barry Jones.
Last night Barry was interviewed by one of my profession's best, Maxine McKew, on the 7.30 Report.
What he had to say is extremely worth listening to (or, indeed, reading). The transcript is here.

An important woman

There are some very important female figures in my life - my grandmother, some aunts, Lindsay and her tattoo - and each of them is very precious to me in their own way and for their own reasons.
But tonight I went to the 50th birthday party of a woman who is truly remarkable. She is truly remarkable to me for one particular reason: her consistent and unwavering life-long belief in me.
Glenys is married to my father's cousin. We're not even particularly close relations, in that sense. But when I was a child we spent a lot of time with Alex and Glenys and their boys. Even as a very young child she used to pay me extra attention. I mean this is a woman who loved me and I felt that love very strongly.
By the time I was probably in my early teens things had gone the way they so often did with my mother. They were suddenly and inexplicably out of favour. We didn't see them any more. As a child you just sort of accept it. It goes to the back of your mind. Such a long time ago now. Such a chequered family history. So much time lost and so many regrets.
A good five years ago now, though, things changed. Suddenly we were free to see whomsoever we wanted - and Alex and Glenys became a part of my life again. Not regularly. Not anywhere near often enough - but just enough to keep ourselves relatively up-to-date.
Every greeting has been warm, every question and enquiry has been genuine, every gesture has been kind and heart-felt. I get warm hugs off this woman. The hugs a mother gives a son. It's that kind of warmth. At every turn she tells me how proud she is of me, begs me to see her more often, and lets me know how special she believes I am.
After a gap in the middle of my life of perhaps a decade she picked right back up where she left off and said 'welcome home Dan, I love you, I've missed you'.
Maybe it's because she looks like my mother or is around the same age as her or reminds me of happier times when I was young (yes, I'm feel wistful, can't you tell?), but to have a woman of that age feel so maternal towards me, feel so unerringly proud of me... well it makes me choke up. I want to cry a little. Her belief in me seems absolute. And it makes me feel like I can actually go out and do the things she thinks I can.
But before you think it's all just good for the ego, can I say I nearly died tonight when she asked me to sign Outback House merchandise in front of a dozen of her guests.

Glamourfest

So last night I went to see the Boy From Oz, starring that fantastic creature Hugh Jackman.
I cannot help but feel he perhaps gave something extra to the performance because he was back in beautiful Perth - the place where he trained at the WA Academy of Performing Arts.
It was, without a doubt, the best thing I have ever seen. I laughed, I cried, I sang along, and along with several thousand other people I gave a standing ovation.
Hugh was shamelessly having as good a time as the audience. He was feeding off our energy and the crowd were collectively begging for more. His segues between songs moved between those required by the script and Hugh-being-Peter-Allen-being-fabulous-and-Hugh-being-just-a-little-bit-Hugh. He was the consumate entertainer - singing brilliantly, dancing, acting, tap dancing.
I know a few mates are seeing it later this weekend so I won't give it all away but my favourite part was the very sensitively handled duet between Peter and Greg (not the Brady Bunch characters, you understand). The DOA was in tears beside me. I was so f**king touched that she would cry at a gay love story. Makes me realise how cool she is. (I mean I knew she was, but it's comforting to know someone you love so much can see love as love is... and not get caught up in it needing to be between a man and a woman).
I thought the whole thing was well-handled in any case.
Big-it-up for Chrissie Amphlett by the way, who was just insanely good as Judy Garland. God THAT VOICE! And whoever the girl was who played Liza Minelli... OMIGOD it was like Liza was really there on stage. Well, that's assuming Liza is exactly like her character in Cabaret. LOL.
The big numbers were every bit as brilliant as you would expect: I Still Call Australia Home, Tenterfield Saddler, I Go To Rio - all exceptional. It was great to see Colleen Hewitt on stage (Nigel you popped into my head as I watched another Australian great on stage).
I know tickets to this are stupidly expensive... but for crying out loud if there is anyway you can afford it for fucksake GO AND SEE THIS SHOW.

Sometimes...

...The powers that be make the right decision. That's all I'm saying. I love you Lindsay and I'm so bloody freakin proud of you. (Despite the tattoo). Take good care of it babe - you know how precious it is to me. x

Also, Sarah there is evidence of our disgraceful wigger bling-bling efforts from Saturday night on the Base homepage (photo duly stolen/credited). There is also (clearly) evidence of the nephew of your colleague... who's mother knows my father very well... and who's own father is not wholy unconnected with the media... or the union movement. (And those are only a few of the spooky spooky connections).

Things I've learned this week...

1) ...The Perth media and political/union scene is incredibly small. Like, incredibly. Someone I've just met has ludicrous two-degree separations from me and several people in my life. Unnerving.

2) ...Tattoos are about the ugliest possible thing you can do to human flesh outside of a burns unit and not involving industrial strength acid. They make me want to vomit up my own stomach. (Not the contents of my stomach, I mean the actual stomach).

There are back stories to both. Best I tell you over beer.

3) ...Dad is doing great in Singapore. He managed to watch the Eagles trounce whoever it was in the thing that isn't quite the grand final but next week will be. I called him after the game. He was watching it in some Aussie bar along with some other Quarantine-types and half the HMAS Darwin. I'm not sure if revealing that much information has endangered all their lives. I'm sure ASIO will let me know. (F**k their file on me must be decent by now). Anyway, he's loving the work... and I'm loving having the house to myself.

4) ...It's possible to get quite excited about meeting someone you've never met before... and quite possible to enjoy lacing them with booze and party tickets for a long weekend in a city that is foreign to them. Bring it on Phil! This could be a truely deadly weekend.

Sensational... and it's not over til the fat lady sings!

So the opera was sensational. Fantastic. Brilliant. Amazing.
There aren't really enough epithets to drag out to describe such an occasion.
I loved it. Desperately.
Emma Fraser played Manon, the lead in the Massenet opera of the same name, which was being performed this weekend at the Australian Opera Studio in Midland. Fraser is going to be a star. I have no doubt in my mind. I should have hung around to get her autograph because mark these words it is going to be worth something some day. Her voice is rich, powerful, well-developed and smooth. It was like creamy liquor to the gullet. It was like a gentle siren-song to a sailor at sea. It was like a thousand nightingales had lent the sweetest voices to one beautiful songbird. I was in love with her. I could have listened to her for hours (actually, I did, come to think of it).
It was also great to see some familiar faces from the WAAPA classical voice class among the chorus, including the very talented young tenor Stuart Laing and bass-baritone Duncan Rock.
Anyway, Manon has me all excited about Tristan and Isolde which the WA Opera will be doing in a couple of months. Manon was like a three hour performance. I didn't think my passion for opera was developed enough to bite off an entire five-hour Wagnerian extravaganza like T&I, but now I'm sure I'm ready. I could have easily sat in that auditorium for another couple of hours. (Admittedly, Massenet isn't quite as brusk and violent as Wagner... that's the way the French tackle love as opposed to the Germans).
Also, around the same time as the WAAPA show the Opera Studio is doing it's season of recitals (and then The Magic Flute starring Emma Pearson after that!). So plenty more to see this year!

Red letter week

What a freakin amazing week. So much cool stuff is going on.
A couple of things happened that I can't talk about publically, but I can allude to.
Firstly, this little project I'm working on with Aunty... well I had some talent confirmed this week and let's just say I'm going to get to meet/interview one of my idols.
Secondly, this little day job I have... well there was an opportunity this week for a little, shall we say, upgrade?
Other things that I can talk about more openly:
Dad left for his month's secondment in Singapore this morning. I fell asleep at a mate's house and missed him leaving, which I feel very guilty about... but I doubt Dad was too worried as he shuffled out the door, diplomatic passport in hand. How fkn cool is that?!
His absence also means the dog has been seconded to my DOA's house (Dear Old Aunty, for the uninitiated). So I am rattling around in this enormous house all by myself. I've closed-off his wing of the chateau - I just have to remember to open it up for an airing once a week.
Also excited about my Big-Arts Weekend. Off to the opera in a couple of hours.
AND... very excited to mention... according to the silly counter map thing, in the last 24 hours I've clocked over the 1000 visitors mark for the blog. The map counter has me fascinated. I have no idea who the random Americans, Europeans and Asians are who have from time-to-time popped by for a read. What confounds me even more is the number of hits I get from Alice Springs. That has me stumped.
I'm also excited about getting my tickets to the media ball (THE social event of the year) and the Elton John concert (when I leave for the UK, I think I'll play his song "Daniel" at volume in the departure lounge. Of course, the lyrics would work better if my sister would actually talk to me... let alone wave goodbye to me. Although it has been a mercifully drama/stress-free 18 months and I'm happy enough to remain freezed-out. I'm rambling).
Also have tickets to see John Waters in a non-Playschool-non-costarring-with-Sigrid-Thornton role this coming week. Oh yeah, and some chick from a record label has given me tickets to see Evermore next weekend because I told her I've been a fan of the supporting act (The Hampdens) since day dot.

My big-arts weekend

This weekend is my "big-arts" weekend: Ballet AND opera.
It started last night with the WA Ballet's production of Red Shoes.
Another offering of clumsy tripe from artistic director Simon Dow. He fills the stage with distraction and buffoonery and steers away from the grace and elegance that is meant to characterise this particular form of dance. I'm not a boring traditionalist when it comes to performing arts but for crying out loud I want to see grace, skill and poise, not boys acting drunk on stage.
That said there were some beautiful pas de deux - especially the blatantly homoerotic sequences during the "opening night" scene.
I am sure I am not the only person sighing heavy with relief that this was Dow's last production for the company. This was as disappointing as his Dangerous Liaisons, only with better costuming. I think his lack of ability/originality was betrayed most clearly by the Don Quixote/Midsummer Night's Dream double bill of a few months ago. His effort with Quixote was staid and dull. Chrissie Parrott's choreography for Midsummer, however, is still being raved about. For that production, as with this, the set by Joseph Mecurio and the costuming by Leon Krasenstein were spectacular and original.
Dow has also just hired a miss-match of seven new dancers, which helped greatly to make last night's show appear more like a high school production than a performance by our state's premier/only ballet company. No one seemed truly comfortable on stage together, let alone dancing together.
Still, Red Shoes offers Jacinta Ross a nice and deservedly juicy role for her last show before retirement. (Even if her pregnancy means the choreography is necessarily tame compared to Helpmann's famously spectacular sequences from the old film).
Red Shoes had about three dozen short segues between dance routines that involved clumsy acting and miming, rather than interpretation through dance. The clumsy acting I can handle (hey, I am an opera fan, remember), but the miming just looked ridiculous. Either give the words voice or don't attempt them at all. There is nothing more ridiculous than a boy in a lycra bodysuit pretending to shout at another boy in a lycra bodysuit and the only noise is the percussion section getting sweaty down in the pit.
The WA Symphony played brilliantly, by-the-by. I hate that I can't see them down in the pit when they play His Majesty's. Afterwards my friend Rachel actually asked me what I thought of the production and I pretty much said the above.
"But you're really only here to hear the orchestra anyway," she said. So insightful. At least with the ballet if the dancing leaves something to be desired, there is always the music. (And legs in tights, too. We can't under-sell that).
Tomorrow I am off to see Manon (Massenet's, not Puccini's) at the Australian Opera Studio. It's a fully staged opera with some great young singers but it's three hours with a piano filling-in for an entire orchestra. I'm not sure how that sits with me. I'll let you know.

How am I Who?

Bless them. I have two darling friends who I have held on to from my years in Albany.
One is Kerry - she of the green eyes and burnt incense who (quite rightly) once didn't talk to me for a month because I said she was high maintenance.
The other is Karen - she of the bagpipes and dancer's legs who's former hubby (quite wrongly) came to my place of work and punched me out for having an affair with his wife.
Apart from the fact they are dear friends of mine who I love absolutely and pay nowhere near enough attention, and the fact they live in Albany, they have one other thing in common: Dr Who.
Not just Dr Who, but their opinion of the new Dr Who, David Tennant, in relation to me.
A month or so back Kerry sent me a text message one Saturday night. "The new Dr Who reminds me of you xx", it said.
I figured that was okay. I probably do look a bit like him.


I thought not much more of it until Karen came to stay the weekend before last. We were mooching around an ABC Shop and there was a stand of Daleks and Doctors, etc.
"That new Dr Who reminds me a lot of you," she said?
"Now that's funny, Kerry said the same thing. What is it about him then? Do you think I look like him."
"No he's a wanker."
Dead set. That's what she said.
"The way he treats people and the things he says and the way he says them - he's you!"
I was dumbfounded, but I rang Kerry immediately.
"Darling, that text you sent which said the new Dr Who reminded you of me... why is that? Is it because I look like him?"
"No, not really. It's more his mannerisms and the way he speaks to people," she replied
"You mean he's a wanker. You think I'm a wanker."
"Oh well I wouldn't say it quite like that."
"But I'm a wanker?"
"Well sort of, yes."
(She never forgave me for that high maintenance comment - quite rightly).
My ego requires an occasional character assassination. I like to share them widely in the interests of humility (anyone who read a copy of the Bulletin from about 15 months ago knows what I mean) and it is in this spirit that I share the above.
Well, that and the vain hope that someone cute out there might think the new Dr Who is hot/intelligent/witty and might like to go out with me on the basis that I may actually BE David Tennant's incarnation of the Doctor.

They'll make good on this

I want to tell you about an incestuous little shire hamlet with a dull and colourless history.
Hugging a stretch of bitumen ribbon that ploughs its way through, across and around the Darling Range, are an oddment of service stations and rammed-earth buildings that serve as general stores, stock feeders and nurseries. This is the place I grew up. Or rather, it's the nearest bit of something that resembled civilisation when I was a child. The "village" was about five kilometres from the farm that was my world for the first 19 years of my life.
The only evidence I was ever there (apart from the long memories of the aged among the other long-established district families) is a bit of gold gilt on a primary school honourboard.
The place is Gidgegannup: A hitherto unremarkable centre of almost no interest set deep in the Perth hills on a goat-track of a road between the city and... (is there a name for the bit that isn't city?).
They no longer live on the farm (which sold last year for $1.5million or something site unseen from a buyer on the internet from the Eastern States and is nothing like the amount the olds got for it) but my grandparents are still up there. They're one of the rusted-on set up there. If it weren't for them I would never go to the place.
Gidgegannup is the sort of place where if people failed to get out before the trainline closed down, then they just stayed in-situ and began a breeding program.
Until now Gidgegannup has been fleetingly famous as:
a) the place Dan Hatch left
b) somewhere people drive through
c) somewhere to search for escaped prisoners from Wooroloo Prison
d) somewhere where the main tourist attraction is a slight (three foot) waterfall
e) being the only town in Australia where the local pub is located exactly 5km out of town (it's at the waterfall).
But today everything changed.
Today Australia's most famous touring car driver, Peter Brock, came to his untimely demise on one of the roads in the district.
This may sound callous, but the town will make good on this. And I'm not just talking feeding the media crews and mourners for the next few weeks.
They're just as likely to change the postcode to include an "05" and erect a bloody big sign saying "Brockie died here". They'd be tasteless enough to plant a tree in memoriam. Gidgegannup people are the kind of people to capitalise on this experience.
I know the road in question. I know the place where the rally was happening. So does everyone in the district. I can just here them down at the CWA.
"It's always been a dangerous corner, that one. It'd never happen to a local boy."
"I'd certainly never take that corner at speed. Trap for young players."
"That's nine we've lost on that stretch I can recall."
"Silly man, the camber or the road is out just there... tree roots as well. Honkynuts."
Me personally? This effects me on two levels. Firstly, Brockie was my Dad's absolute hero. He loved him. Idolised him for as long as I can remember. So that's very sad.
Secondly, it's great way to introduce my hometown into the documentary. At least people will think they've heard of the place. (See, I told you Gidge people were the kind to capitalise on it).

I have a problem

And I know you're blowing three note trumps and having coronaries waiting to find out what my problem is, so I'll tell you.
I don't care any more.
It's my day job, you see. I just can't get passionate about it. I thought moving offices would inject a bit of spark into my life, and to some extent it did for a few months. But now I just don't care. I don't care about the people of Melville. I don't care about their bloody railway line and their bloody freeway sound-proofing. I don't care about their university or their foreshore or their amazingly talented children. I just don't care.
Today I did almost nothing. Anything I actually did do, I did under duress.
Melville is a huge paper and I pretty much write and hang it on my own. Even that doesn't test me any more. I leave all the work for the last two days and cram it in so I get that deadline rush. Our opposition paper almost doesn't exist, so there is no spirit of competition - which I really need. (How boring it must be to work for the West?).
All I care about is this film and this book. It consumes all the spare time I have. It's all I think about. (Well, that and the blog). I just don't want to write for the paper any more. I don't want to research for them, I don't want to break news for them. I feel like all that effort is effort I could be channeling into the book, and then the film, when the time comes. I LOVE my six hours at night tapping away at my keyboard. I hate the nearly eight hours a day i spend chained to the Melville Times phone-answering-and-typesetting-service.
I'm also now completely gagging to get to the UK and have a look around and chance my arm over there. But also those plans are as frozen as a snowman's balls while the film and the book happen.
How is it that I can have the paper, the film, the book, occasional casual days at Nova and my other little gigs the powers-that-be don't know about and STILL not feel satisfied?
I honestly wish I could quit work and spend all my time working on the book and the film.
The good news is, at least I know what direction my career now needs to head in. In fact, I've already put my head towards considering what my next project with Aunty might be. I'm also thrilled to finally realise I actually do have the dedication to sit down and write a book. I'm at 12,000 words at the moment. Which isn't a bookload, but it's a fair bit. I'm busy refining it because there are important people (in grey suits, I imagine) who are waiting to see a couple of good solid chapters.
In the meantime... everything moves too slowly for me. Everything.