Who says the ABC is humorless
Reporting on a shooting at a tanning salon following earlier shots fired at a tattoo parlor, the ABC said that police were not ruling out the possibility that it could be a tit for tat reprisal.
BabbelOn wishes he had said that.
Aptonyms #2
The man at the centre of allegations of email leaks over the release of flood waters from the Wivenhoe Dam spillway that may or may not have exacerbated the Brisbane floods is the head of SE Queensland Water Grid Manager, Director of Operations, ladies and gentlemen BabbelOn presents …
Mr Dan Spiller
Gawk like an Egyptian?
There have been a number of terrible stories out of Egypt of female journalists being molested by crowds of men.
Cultural factors must be at play here, and obviously questions to be asked as to risk taking in the name of news.
The impact on the women concerned must be awful; it is hard to imagine the shock and fear of being overwhelmed and man-handled.
The latest report involved Mona Eltahawy, an Egyptian-American journalist, who was:
sexually assaulted by police during hours under detention after taking part in protests on the sprawling square that has become a landmark of the Arab Spring.
“Besides beating me, the dogs of [central security forces] subjected me to the worst sexual assault ever,” Eltahawy said on her Twitter account.
Her story came with a photo of Mona with her broken arms in casts.
Unfortunately her t-shirt carried a slogan that, to BabbelOn’s eyes, somewhat undermined her position.
Mona's mixed message?
The Case for a Republic #1
Seriously. OK, so she is an 85 year old English woman who lives in England and supports Queen’s Park Rangers (or possibly Queen of the South).
On the other hand, she is the Queen of Australia (which is what the A in AFL stands for) and our Head of State (don’t let the monarchists fool you with any arguments about the Governor General).
Surely it’s not too much to ask for her to have a working knowledge of Australia’s indigenous game?
Based on cultural congruity, a better case for the Presidency of Australia can be made by this woman:
The one on the left obviously. Not politically obviously.
Carn Julia
As a long-suffering Australian, BabbelOn has become used to our PM’s drawl.
She can stretch a phrase like an old inner tube until the vowels are flattened (or, rather, fladdened) beyond recognition. Juuulia can take three little words (for instance ”moving Australia forward”) and make them sound like a Gregorian chant, without the melody.
The result on the listener is the sonic equivalent of a blowfly banging against a window.
However, a new low was reached, in BabbelOn’s opinion, when the PM announced recently that she would be giving the Europeans some strong economic advice at the upcoming G20 meeting in Carns. Yes, Carns. As in Carns, Frans. Where they hold the film festival? You know, CARNS.
To be fair, Cannes is one of those places with a somewhat elastic pronunciation. BabbelOn has heard it called “Cans” (ironically by a tour guide when explaining how the locals pronounced “Cairns”), ”Can” and “Carn” (the latter is probably correct). But ”Carns” was a new one.
Surely she has never heard anyone else call it that? Surely even “Aussie” Doug Cameron would have a crack at getting it right?
It was almost like the PM saw it coming on the teleprompter and decided on the spot; “I can’t say Cannes, it sounds too posh and educated and un-working class. I’ll just add the “s” on the end so no-one can accuse me of being a snob. I mean how many Australians can speak French? Not even Greg Combet I’ll bet.”
BabbelOn can imagine the impact on the waiting EU Finance Ministers. What an impressive woman this Gillard is. We’ll certainly be taking seriously anything she has to say to us next week in … CARNS!!! (Insert muttering and guffawing in various languages.)
Julia’s stocks subsequently rose, however, when her words (or, rather, werds) were followed by vision of our Foreign Minister greeting some dignitaries. His claw-like yet wet handshake, clasping his victim’s fingers, a couple of jocular pats with the other hand, reminded BabbelOn what a prissy, unpleasant fellow he (Rudd) is.
The PM’s shake by comparison is top-drawer, straight into the palm, non-nonsense couple of up and down pumps, no ancillary patting or Bob Hawke arm-grabbing. It makes BabbelOn think that between them, Gillard and Rudd nearly add up to one complete politician.
A Visit to the Apple Store
One’s first impression on approaching the Apple store is one of scale. It is an enormous glass cube projecting into the street, like a giant aquarium or a jewellery box. The plate-glass panels are an inch thick and three storeys high.
It is evening, and the shop is lit like a magic cave, its huge Apple logo glowing like a holy grail, calling out to the believers.
Inside, the Italian stone floor is the colour of latte flavoured gelato. The table tops glisten an icy white. The objects of desire (the apples) are arrayed around this virtual Eden in their cute little boxes.
The overall picture is one of quality and functional indulgence. In advertising terms, it sets a very clear tone, one that is adopted by designer brands the world over. Similar examples can be seen wherever the newest European stores are unveiling their own retail edifices. Opulence, expense, lugzury.
In crass commercial terms, it is a simple formula. Heighten the perceived value of the goods for sale, raise the implicit price at which they will be acquired. It’s basic human psychology, fully realised by the Apple marketing honchos.
The store is peopled by young, stylish acolytes. Radical individuals all dressed in identically hued t-shirts and wielding their portable devices as badges of honour. I have what you want. You can buy one, but you will never be me.
They are all singing from the Book of Jobs. It’s like a Mormon convention except for the blue t-shirts and the unkempt hair.
BabbelOn joins the shuffling queue of the unworthy and is eventually attended to. The acolyte is gentle, and does not make too much of megabytes and wi-finery. The object is acquired with a swipe of a card across a hand-held reader (cash transactions are conducted literally under the table, nothing so vulgar as a cash register exists in Apple world).
After the transaction is complete, BabbelOn rejoins the yearning masses, leans against an alley wall and smokes a metaphorical cigarette. From his hand hangs an Apple bag. Inside it, a shiny white box full of infinite promises. It is strangely exhilarating, becoming a member of the tribe. This must be what a New York secretary feels like post-Tiffany or Chanel. But it is more than that, it is like joining a cult.
As BabbelOn discovers when he turns on the iPad and can’t activate it without an iTunes account.
Damn you Jobs. Damn you to bakelite hell.
Urban myth
Mummy, where did I come from?
Darling, you know your story.
Tell me again.
Well, your tummy mummy gave birth to you.
Where abouts?
In the hospital in Nashville. You had the whole top floor!
Why didn’t you have me?
You know that. Mummy was working.
On a film?
Yes dear.
What was it called?
Rabbit Hole.
Did it win any awards?
You should go to sleep now.
No Mummy. Tell me what Rabbit Hole was about?
It was about a lady whose baby died.
Was it sad?
Yes, very.
Why did you make a sad movie?
Mummy thought it would be an enriching experience.
You mean money?
No dear. Well, partly. Mummy wanted to play the role of a caring mother.
Why?
Because Mummy wanted to show the critics that she could be a good mother.
We hate the critics don’t we Mummy?
Hate is too strong a word darling. And only some of them.
The ones who say you can’t move your face?
Yes dear.
Who is my tummy mummy?
A very nice lady.
Where does she live?
We don’t talk about that dear. We want to protect her privacy.
Is that in the contract?
Yes.
Can I meet her?
No dear. Maybe when you’re older.
Is Daddy my father?
Of course he is. Don’t be silly.
Sunday says Daddy’s tadpoles are too drunk to swim and you had to buy some from another man to put into my tummy mummy with a bicycle pump.
Just ignore Sunday dear. She has a vivid imagination.
Sunday says you bought me cos you and Daddy don’t love me like you love her.
You know that’s not true. We love you and Sunday just as much.
Sunday says Connor and Isabella are adopted because Uncle Tom’s tadpoles were too scared to go into your tomb.
It’s called a womb dear. And I think she means sacred. And that’s not true either.
Sunday says that every movie you have made since you had her has been a flop.
Sunday Rose is a lying bitch dear.
Swearing Mummy.
Sorry dear. OK lights out.
Can I have a lullaby?
Of course sweetie. Shall I send Daddy in?
No, it’s OK, I’ll just go to sleep.
Alright love. Goodnight.
Rex Does Porridge
It’s not Changi but Rex Crane finally gets to live his boyhood dream by doing time. Fortunately for Rex, the low security Queensland facility is not expected to offer the beatings and torture favoured by the Japanese.
Crane supplied the department with a letter from a doctor which said Japanese soldiers had beaten the soles of his feet “to pulps” with bamboo, had his stomach filled with uncooked rice and then with water and had been crucified with four-inch-long nails through his hands.
Needless to say, his dignity has been well and truly hung out to dry. Rex was sentenced to four years but can be released on a good behaviour bond after six months.
Howes the Animagus
BabbelOn salutes Paul Howes, heroic defender of workers’ rights and rising star of the labour movement. He was, until quite recently, one of the faceless men* who took time out of their busy lives (do faceless men Facebook?) to remove the ex-Prime Minister.
Not that BabbelOn judges them too harshly for this. In BabbelOn’s eyes, it was more an act of mercy, akin to what Geena Davis did to the moose hit by her car in The Long Kiss Goodnight. Grab it by the antlers and give it a quick twist. Problem solved.
Howes became faced (is that the antonym for faceless?) during the subsequent election. Most notably he appeared on election night on the Sky News coverage, confidently (arrogantly?) putting the Labor case as though he was its architect. BabbelOn preferred the old days, when the union bosses* kept a low profile and the Party pretended that it was running the show. With the rise of the NSW Right*, the pretence is gone, the gloves are off and the factional heavyweights* have no qualms about being seen to run the farm.
But BabbelOn digresses. What intrigues about Howes is his uncanny likeness to a magical creature, a Harry Potter shape-shifting wizard. An animagus.
One Peter Pettigrew to be precise.
According to the official guide:
Animagi can only take on the form of one specific animal. This animal form is not chosen by the wizard, but determined by their personality and inner traits. Thus, one’s Animagus form is a reflection of one’s inner nature.
Peter Pettigrew’s animagus form is, of course, a rat.
Fortunately, Howes is able to take on human form long enough to appear on television.
Although occasionally, when under pressure, his rodent form can be seen slipping through. On election night, on hearing that Maxine McKew had lost her seat and had taken a shot at the party machine*, he said acidly:
She has lost and done exactly what I knew she would
Turns out that Maxine hadn’t taken kindly to Paul’s offers of campaigning assistance.
In the week following the dumping of Mr Rudd — whose support among Bennelong’s Asian community had helped her get elected in 2007 — Ms McKew made no secret of her disgust at the actions of “brutish” faction chiefs and union bosses — including Australian Workers Union boss Paul Howes, who announced Mr Rudd’s demise on ABC TV before caucus considered the leadership.
Her anger boiled over after the election was announced, when a volunteer turned up in Bennelong wearing an AWU T-shirt.
Maxine’s animagus form would be a boar.
Graham Richardson, that eminence gris of the Labor Party, would surely be a phoenix. Five years ago his reputation was in ashes, a bit like the Alpine Offset factory. Investigated by ASIC (including for perjury) over his Swiss bank accounts (what accounts?) an audit by the ATO (they always get their man) and the tawdry demise of his one-time business partner Rene Rifkin had made the ex-Mayor of the Olympic village look more like the village outcast.
Now he appears, without an ankle bracelet, on Q&A. With Paul Howes.
Howes most recent pronouncement was to support Kristina Keneally’s push for a special deal with the unions over the Barangaroo development.
“Keneally is right . . . to defend her state’s laws because her state has the best OH&S standards.”
Best that is if:
in the case of workplace accidents employers are presumed guilty of negligence unless they can prove otherwise and third parties such as unions can launch legal action against employers and retain half of the damages.
Keneally needs to get any deal done quickly because in March 2011 she will be reverting to her animagus. Cute. Furry. Sweet-natured. Roadkill.
* Phrases that BabbelOn does not want to type, read or hear ever again.
Newsflash
BabbelOn interrupts normal programming for the latest headlines:
DJ’S HIT BY MIRANDA KERR SEXUAL HARASSMENT CASE – “I WAS ONLY EMPLOYED FOR MY LOOKS”
CLIVE PEETERS ACCOUNTANT EMBEZZLES $20M – CLAIMS IT WAS E-E-EASY
“REAL” JULIA GILLARD STANDS UP – KNOCKS OVER MAKEUP ARTIST AND THREE SPIN DOCTORS
1400 DROWN IN PAKISTAN FLOODS – TALIBAN CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY
