Pussy Cat Pussy Cat Where Have You Been?

Big adventures in the past week have kept me away from The Nightwatchman.

Hell started Tuesday.

After a particularly tough day of dealing with a difficult laptop computer, even more difficult friends and writing about sustainability (who isn't writing about sustainability these days?), I was super duper excited to get a table with a less difficult mate at my fave-ever counter meal establishment, The Robert Burns.

The Robert Burns seafood paella is the best in Melbourne but not Tuesday's.

Nope, on Tuesday I copped a bad arse hit of food poisoning, losing 3 kilograms in 24 hours.

Which brings me to the ANZAC spirit. When walking the Kokoda our diggers often suffered from bad cases of the trots like mine. With hand under their trousers, they would march through the mud and up the hill.

Uppiddy up up and downiddy down down.

It was this kind o' spirit that got me through the ANZAC game. In the pub before the game I was a wreck. No beers and I could barely concentrate on me footy mates' conversation. Whether Chris Egan was to play or not, I didn't care.

More compelling- what if I have to rush to the Gary Glitter during the game? Not even the hardiest of soldiers would dare use a MCG cubicle. Visiting the London Tavern's was scary enough but the MCG my frickin' sheesh.

After advice from mates to get in the car and get the hell away to a bogue house with a TV in the toilet I decided to drag my leakin' behind to the game.

Only had to visit the MCG khazis twice.

First visit and I queued behind a 19 year-old bloke who urinated into the toilet WITH THE SEAT DOWN.

As my fave Catherine Tate Show character, Nan Taylor would say, THE FUCKING LIBERTY!!

And what a surprise, the kid was no Elvis Costello, his aim being nowhere close to being true. If I wasn't so rushed to wipe the seat and get down to business I would have beat up the little freak.

For all of us.

Second visit no problem. Didn't miss anything. Only a few ball ups apparently.

Top game too.

Tears came to my eyes when Heath Shaw won the ANZAC Medal.

It wasn't the first time for tears that day and neither was it the last.

My arse was on fire.

The Greatest Ever Footy Parking Spot

Directly outside front door of the London Tavern one hour before the Collingwood and Port Adelaide game last Saturday.

2P, 9-12.30pm, Saturdays.

Doesn't really matter it rained all day and we lost the game.

Look at that spot for frigsakes!

Fighting Dire With Fire

On Friday the 13th my lovely big ibook went blank. Rang all Melbourne's official and authorised Apple fixeruppers and they agreed on the one thing.

The logic board was stuffed and the fix will cost about the same as buying a new computer. Oh, we have a few second hand ibooks in stock for about $700 if you're interested.

Dire.

Checked the internets and it turns out the fixeruppers weren't bullshitting. This happens regularly to G3 ibooks and because a new logic board costs upwards of seven million dollars, disgruntled ibook owners happily start again and buy a new one.

However, there are a few dissenters.

Some geeks found a fix to the faulty logic board.

It involved fire.

Apparently the fault is that the solder used to stick the logic board (which does all the graphics) to the main board comes unstuck a little after a couple of years.

Their solution was to SET FIRE TO THE LOGIC BOARD which melts and revitalizes the solder underneath.

So I call my tech enthusiast cousin.

"Wanna set fire to my ibook? I heard it fixes it."

"Sure. Sounds fun."

So we opened the ibook up and set fire to the logic board with the blowtorch my mum uses to make creme brulee.

Closed the computer up (Which took ages. Fricken screws!) and pressed the button.

THE IBOOK WORKS!

This is the finest piece of computer geekery I've ever been involved in.

73 Things Or People I've Decided I Don't Like Anymore

One day cricket, William Burroughs, Cherry Bar, music magazines, record fairs, record shops, the advertising game, blogs, my inbred mates, fishing with soft plastics, the TV news (all channels), music on the radio, the psychedelic west coast, hippies, The Doors, Terry Wallace, shuffle, tennis, sleeping in the afternoon, Loaded Magazine, Yumbo’s, thongs, marshmallows, chicko rolls, The Nightwatchman, The Labor Party, Oasis, dates, gossip, loneliness, card games, Agatha Christie, Commonwealth Games, Olympic Games, Roy & HG on the radio, Beat & Inpress, talking about music, Big Brother, using two pillows, Steve Gutenberg, dancing, central heating, Bagatelles, this list, Seek, A2 section in the Saturday Age, chess, egg flip Big M, complaining, Led Zeppelin, unrequited love, Peter Carey, students, most Rolling Stones t-shirts, Monopoly, freelancing, Tony Blair, sustainability, Eminem, The Comedy Festival, 3RRR and 3PBS, pro golf, avid recyclers, Ikea, my clock radio, 64, stir frying, superlatives, 774 drive slot, writing in pencil, environmentalism, MTV, Channel V and writing this list.

Cockhead Footy Sexism Must Stop

Cockheads, not cokeheads ruining our game


Spent the weekend listening to a lot of footy on the radio and just sat through the new train crash Channel 9 show, Footy Classified and sheesh, I'm angry.

LAY THE FUCK OFF CAROLINE WILSON.

The fuckwit and gutter journo pictured, Craig Hutchison is the worse. The way he belittled her during Footy Classified was bullying at its most puerile. He was almost as bad on 3AW.

And it's quite obvious most of the bullying from Hutchison and many other footy blokes comes from the SAD IN THEIR SAD LITTLE MINDS' FACT, that Caroline Wilson is female.

Wilson is a great journalist- The Age's chief footy writer for the past eight years for frick's sake. She writes well and breaks stories. Has been for years, covering her first Commonwealth Games for The Age when Hutchison was in primary school.

Face it fellas.

Anyone notice that half of all match reports in both Melbourne newspapers are written by women?

Women watch, know, write and speak about footy.....well.

Now deal with it and start treating Caro with the respect she more than deserves.

And if anyone wants to comment on her braces and lippy, fuck.... look at "Hutchie's" dodgy lookin' scone.

My mum got it right tonight when she said he looks like "a snake".

If You So Much As Touch My Bike, I'll Kill You

Darryl Somers' bicycle locked to a Carlton primary school yesterday.

No, Trust Me. It Really Works.

John Billings, the founder of the natural contraception system, The Billings Method or to some, the Vatican Roulette, has died at the age of 89.

He was survived by his wife and EIGHT OF THEIR NINE CHILDREN.