The Brownlow: Television and Football's Night of Nights: In The Beginning

Television’s night of nights is kicked off by Kate Ceberano flogging a dead horse, trying oh so hard to let me entertain you come on come on come on. Sad. But nobody cares. Hosted by Steve Quarterbrain. Nobody likes this guy. Nobody.

Why does the Armourgard guard have to wear his or her army uniform? Surely the result is leaked just like every other year.

Now Demetrio starts this officially convened AFL meeting we like to call television’s night of nights.

Round 1 Dane Swan gets the medal's first vote. I'm already excited.

Round 2. Demetrio is confused as fuck. He has to do round 2. Nobody knows what the fuck's going on. Hold on. We're doing round 1 again?

I'm confused.

Or did he start with round 2?

My head just exploded. I just gotta get to the kitchen and glue it back together.

Write Only In Red Pen For A Whole Day, Once A Month

For one day in the month write entirely in red pen.

It's so final and it freaks boring bozos well out.

Writing in red is a simple act of insolence and fucked up defiance.

The Marquis de Sade wrote all the unhygenic sex scenes in his 100 Days of Sodom in red.

Miles Davis wrote all the "motherfuckens" in his autobiography in red.

Terrance Trent Darby (formally of INXS), wrote most of his letters to The Guardian in red.

George Lucas filled out the cheques to pay for several hundred traffic fines during the making of Star Wars 2 Electric Boogaloo in red.

Bob Dylan wrote the lyrics to his much adored Infidels record in red.

Go red tomorrow.

You'll love it.

I Is Back

It’s been four months since the last posting. The Nightwatchman speaks to Glenn Peters to find out why.

First question, the obvious. Why? Where have you been all this time?
Good question Nighty. I picked up two gigs and they took all my time. Each day when I got home from work, I shot half a gram of Amway mixed with Jim Beam and battery acid into my eyeballs and went straight to sleep until the next day. Oh, and I played lots of scrabs on Facebook. Lots.

What sort of gigs?
I worked as an Amway salesman.

Yeah, good and all but don’t you think that you leaving regular readers is a bit of a pisstake?
No.

Are you sorry to regular readers?
What, both of them? No.

Rumors are that you are going to do some sort of snazzy Nightwatchman relaunch. And it might take place in a bar or something.
Sounds like one of those SEN sports radio rumors. Have you been talking to Toby Shitbeak?

So, should they sack Alan Didak?
Of course not. Alan Didak is the greatest human ever.

For The Sake Of The Big V

This will never ever happen again.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to drop off my poor old scarf to the dry cleaners.

Awww....

That's Not A Scrabble Board. THIS Is A Scrabble Board.

My love of Scrabble has nothing on the fine people on the tournament Scrabble circuit.

And with all obsessives, tournament scrabs players need to play on their own, homemade or custom-made scrabble boards. A standard cardboard board from the shop without lazy Susan is INCORRECT.

Here's a bunch from last Sunday's Box Hill open tournament.


A standard tournament board setup.


My final game of the day with old school analogue timer.

I lost by over 100 points.


Homemade. Mounted onto red perspex.

Hot.


Old board mounted onto marble with engraved bronze tile distribution guides.


Another old board mounted onto clear perspex with wacky words letrasetted on the side. I forgot what it says.


Wood and dinosaurs!


The masterpiece.


Homemade with tile distribution and bronze badges for every major tournament the player has won.


Pro-made. Notice the name, Wordgame. I think I once saw the boxes these originally came in. No reference to scrabs, just photos of overexcited kids yelling something in Thai, most likely , "Wordgame, Speeling Fun for the whole family!"

Where can you buy some of the pro-made the custom made boards? It's a secret. If I told you, the nice scrabble ladies would gouge my eyes out with a rusted fork.

But I'll give you a clue. Next time you play at a world sanctioned tournament in South East Asia, you might meet someone who's cousin knows someone who could sort you out.

At Last The Tooth Is Out

After six weeks of toothache the angry fucker came out today.

Dental hospital. I was quite scared. It was like the specialist, a new specialist, not the guy I had booked in, didn't know what was going on to start with. He asked if I had come in as an emergency that day and I wasn't convinced he had a proper look at the x-rays. So I told him exactly what we were there for. He looked impressed at my handle on dental jargon. Sounded Russian but as I left I saw he was reading Arabic.

He's pulling at my tooth like a crazy bastard and calls the nurse by name. She's Russian sounding too. And her name. NATASHA. Yep, Boris and Natasha were clawing away at the back of my jaw with an urgency that would leave The Anthill Mob for dead.

At one point Boris was carving away at the broken tooth and makes the call, “Itz like I'm grating at your head, izn't it.” I mean, earlier in the the extraction I was expecting him to say, “Iz it safe? Iz it safe?” as he reached into my mouth with the biggest fuck off needle I've ever seen. Dustin Hoffman I aint.

Here's the best bit. Because the molar was already broken in a few places, looking more like a castle that even the head of the British National Trust would say, "Cor fuckin blimey, that castle's fucked, build another fucking Sainsburys on the site," at, the dentist had to cut into the gum to get the bastard out.

No, worse.

He had to CUT INTO THE NASAL CAVITY.

And get this. After much cutting and chipping he told Natasha to hold my nose closed. Then he asks me to blow hard. YES, HE WAS LOOKING FOR BUBBLES in case he cut through too much into the nasal cavity. Yes, just like you do when looking for a puncture on a bike tube. When he didn't see bubbles, he sounded relieved. I love a pessimist with a knife.

Was I assured of the absence of bubbles? Only in hindsight because for the whole time I was thinking of everything but my mouth's shoddy excavation.

Some of the many things I thought about while Boris and Natasha worked away at pulling the old and infected tooth from my gob.

Is it about time to bring Simon Prestigiacomo back into Collingwood's backline? We sure do miss James Clement.

Which game/sport has the most rules of etiquette? Golf, scrabble, or poker?

For someone who regards himself closest in politics to that of an anarchist, why am I attracted to games with complex rules of etiquette?

Let's sing Big Star's Number One Record in my mind, starting at track one.

What is it with my mates?

Why is it every week some football pundit wants to make a rule change? Why can't they leave it be?

For future reference, is the excellent, four hour parking spot I got near the Dental Hospital too far from Lygon Street?
At least it's out now.

I'm Back

And nothing, nothing on Youtube is cuter than this.


Well, maybe this.

At Least I Have An S

Bunch of arse.

I Guess That's Why They Call It The Day Before Your Birthday Blues

It's my birthday tomorrow.

I turn 35.

This is what gets me. It's all supposed to happen tomorrow. I get all the nice phone calls from mates, have a nice lunch, the extended family come over and eat lots of chips, the cake gets cut and wahey, lovely day (apparently).

But it's really today that shits me.

The dread of turning another year and fuck all to show for it. I should be getting all the nice calls now because right now it feels like midway through the third quarter and Carlton's up by 11 goals. Mates have left the ground to console themselves into the sagging breasts at the Cricketers' Arms but because I'm a mindless stoic I force myself to stick around to hear that horribly catchy song.

Let's look at my lot and line it up against Deborah Mailman's character from Secret Life Of Us and her happy life trifecta of good job, good house and good lovin' (which, I'm sure, was paraphrased from the thoughts of a dead Greek).


I regret to inform the other applicant was deemed more suited for the advertised position

Good Job
Not even close. Well, wrong. VERY FRICKEN close. I shit you not but in the past six months since the knee reconstruction I have been "down to the last two" in not one, not two or even three interviews but EIGHT, YES EIGHT, THE LAST FUCKING EIGHT great full time jobs I've interviewed for. No really, down to the last fucking two applicants in all of them.

"Down to the last two" shit's wearing me down folks.

If it wasn't for the odd freelance writing gig popping outta nowhere I'd be insane and broke.


Our house in the middle of the street, yesterday.

Good House
You often read about people in their 30s living with their parents. I'm one of them. Great. No amount of Foxtel, cable internet or daily walks in one of Melbourne's leafier suburbs can make up the constant fear that lazy journalists are writing tired articles about you.


!?

Good Lovin'
Yeah, right. As if.

So when I should be getting ready to hum You Say It's Your Birthday, It's My Birthday Too, Yeah for the next twenty four hours, I can only really hear one song....

Bup badup badup,
Bup badup badup badup badup badup,
Here come the navy blues,
The old dark navy blues.

And it's awful.

More Reasons To Be Cheerful: Melbourne Suburbs Edition

Meddling kids run amok in Oakleigh.


My record smallest recorded flathead catch on lure at my secret rock fishing spot in Carrum.


Beth Ditto's favorite nut shop, again in Oakleigh.


A kitten named Billie watching The Bill in Alphington.


An older lady preparing for a family lunch at the Dandenong Market.


Richmond's most generously stocked video emporium.

London's Burning: An Exclusive Report

Camden Market burns, yesterday

The Nightwatchman's UK correspondent, Matty Boy Gregory reports:

London is under attack. As a pal, it felt only fair I let you know; if for nothing else just so you can make Melbourne aware.

We both know that sometimes hyperbole can seep out as a necessary by-product of factual reporting. Well thankfully on this occasion this hasn't been a problem. Most of London is currently in flames, consumed by what can only be described as an urban forest fire.

For national security it is just being reported as a fire in a predominantly empty market area: unfortunately the market area is Camden. This is the favoured living and sociallising area of the Media, so we do not know how long we can keep up this necessary rouse.

All I ask is that you monitor any live feed you can, and if by some miracle, such as living 300 miles away, we manage to make it through the night, you let them know I cared.

Which reminds me of my favorite old insurance jokes...

Hung: So sorry hear your restaurant burn down last night.

Wang: No, Hung! That tomorrow night!

Stuff You America And Your Exciting Super Bowl Finish, Australia Does Sporting Drama Best

You won't see a more gripping ending to this one at the inaugural World Handball Championships.


Just as Allan Jeans, Tom Hafey and Peter MacKenna are about to stage an all out barney over Barney's hit on Neville Bruns behind play, Jack Dyer puts all grudges into perspective with a well timed Bertocchi Hams presentation.


You won't catch Laurence O'Toole!

Celebrate World Of Sport here.

Peter Russell Clarke's Underappreciated Genius

One of the original celebrity chefs from the 1980's and the only person I can accurately impersonate.

So much to love about this bloopers reel. I especially love it when he looks down at his spag bog describing it as "a bit shithouse".

Something weird is happening in Youtubeland. Click here to see the video.


Bonus! Here's The Cartoon Connection's Agro's infamous blooper reel.

For Those Who Thought They've Seen Everything

At least it didn't surprise me.

I Suck AND Blow At Ding Dong Tomorrow

This text message conversation took place late last night.

Jack: How's the mouth organ practice going?

Me: To avoid confusion with activities popular with members of your community I prefer to call it a harmonica.

Yes, here's your chance to see me suck and blow on harmonica on stage with the wonderful power popsters, Ben Birchall & The Corrections at Ding Dong tomorrow night.

Note: The Nightwatchman playing at The Tote on January 29 is an impostor.

Built To Spill: Gig O' The Year So Far, That Is Until Rufus Plays Next Month

Can't believe I was there to see this at a half full East Brunswick Club.

Way up the front.

The most perfect sound imaginable.

And after the show, me and a mate ate kebabs with the band.


I had as much fun as these kids had.

Come to think of it the guy in the aqua coloured shirt is pulling off dance moves reminiscent of the new ones I have in development.

We Wish You A Very Hairy Christmas!

You've Got To Work It Hard To Be A Solo Man

This new Solo ad is an admission that...


this,


this,


this,


and especially this,


is nowhere near as manly as this.

Why Has My Rat Become So Popular?

Please tell me why in the past couple days I've got over 300 people visit The Nightwatchman to have a look at this picture.

The popular little bugger was originally featured here.