Cyclone Update

Karratha's back down to Blue Alert but Monty's been upgraded to a Category 4. This is no joke in anyone's terms -- Cyclone Tracey, which destroyed Darwin on Christmas Eve 1974, was a Category 4 cyclone.

Monty's central pressure is still falling and the maximum wind gusts near the centre are 250 km/hr.

Monty is headed straight for Barrow Island and is expected to cross the coast near Onslow tomorrow. Onslow and other towns in the vicinity have been placed on Yellow Alert. Onslow in particular has been warned to expect very dangerous storm tides and flooding.

Here in Karratha it's still blowing a howling gale and absolutely hosing down.

When it all goes to Red Alert there's a slim chance I might be called in to work. We broadcast 24 hours a day when there's Red Alert status anywhere in our coverage area. In the meantime, however, the Dreamboat and I are going to do what any sensible people would do in a situation like this ...

We're going out to a party.

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Meet Severe Tropical Cyclone Monty:



Karratha and the nearby town of Dampier went to Yellow Alert an hour ago. We've had torrential rain for the last three and a half hours and it's blowing a gale.

By 11 o'clock this morning it was pretty much a given that the Dreamboat and I wouldn't be driving to Broome today.



In many ways all this action is a relief, because hanging around waiting for cyclones to get interesting is very boring. We secured the cyclone shutters and stored outdoor furniture etc last night. Once that sort of thing's taken care of there isn't much else to do except drink alcohol, eat junk food, watch DVDs and have Cyclone Sex.

The Karratha Imperial Palace resident who's enjoying the proceedings most of all is Buffy, the cat. A couple of hours ago the wind was hurling the rain from the roof onto the kitchen sliding doors. There was so much water running down the glass that it leaked into the condensation gutters inside and started pooling on the kitchen floor. The cat spent half an hour running up and down with her paws in the gutters, scooping up water and flicking it everywhere. I guess that's the most fun thing you can do if the drinking alcohol/eating junk food/watching TV/having Cyclone Sex options aren't available to you.

More later, if there's anything interesting to report.

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Stormy Weather

So after this morning's show we were supposed to be driving to Broome in order to procure Your Correspondent's engagement ring ... and guess what happened? A fucking cyclone, that's what.

Yes, Severe Tropical Cyclone Monty (category 3) is going to produce gales of up to 120km/hr tonight and Karratha, along with other coastal towns in the vicinity, is on Blue Alert (for a more tongue-in-cheek explanation of the Alert system, go here). A satellite image of Monty can be seen here.

Despite this gloomy outlook the Dreamboat was still happy to attempt the trip anyway, but Your Spoilsport Correspondent wasn't overly thrilled by the prospect of ten hours spent driving into gales, fording flooded roads and doing it all in the dark for the last three hours of the journey while trying to avoid suicidal kangaroos ... especially as we'd both been up since 4:30 this morning. The plan now is to head out tomorrow -- weather permitting.

I'm not sure why cyclones often seem compelled to form on holiday weekends, but they do. It's almost as if they take a perverse pleasure in forcing people to change travel plans so that they can then just fizzle out and leave everyone feeling sheepish.

Outside at the moment it's breezy and very overcast. Clouds from further inland are being sucked out to sea and they're moving rapidly overhead. Your Correspondent's ears and sinuses keep popping as the barometric pressure plummets. It's quite possibly Beer O'Clock.

I guess I shouldn't really be surprised at this latest drama. After all, war with Iraq was declared on my birthday last year (visit the link and view a bonus Ugly Baby shot free of charge), so I guess it just stands to reason that a weak tropical low that no-one expected to do anything very interesting should decide to develop into a severe cyclone in record time on the weekend we'd planned to get the One Ring.

It's the story of my bloody life, Superheroes.

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Mementoes

Tuesday
Eva and Diva, the two black cats we've been looking after for the last four months, finally found a permanent home and left us in order to embark on an exciting new round of household destruction. They appeared quite unconcerned about this. Your Correspondent, however, sniffled unashamedly as they departed ... so much so that the new owner eventually sent me packing with the words, "Go away, Mum. They're my babies now."

I made sure, however, that their favourite toys went with them: two empty beer cartons¹ (for chewing on and playing houses in) and a rather tatty-looking pair of the Dreamboat's novelty chip packet triangles² (for bashing around and knocking under doors, washing machines and fridges). The new owner looked rather nonplussed when I pressed these upon her, particularly after she'd just told me she'd spent $70.00 on cat beds, collars and a large assortment of fancy toys.

Along with all the chewed-through vertical blind cords, paw prints on the insides of windows and a ripped new couch that now looks ten years old, they left me one last parting gift -- the Ray Bans they'd pinched out of my handbag a couple of weeks ago and hidden in one of their other empty beer cartons. Your Correspondent, assuming she'd lost said glasses at a drunken leaving debauch for some of the Dreamboat's colleagues, had been forced over the last fortnight to wear the cheap giveaway sunnies donated by Blockbuster for renting an obscene amount of DVDs in one go, so was overjoyed to get the originals back.

Maybe the little buggers loved me a tiny bit after all.

Wednesday
A national women's magazine (not exactly the most highbrow, but hey ... all publicity's good publicity) recently heard about the animal welfare group I belong to and has decided to do a double-page spread for a future issue. Result: group members were rounded up today for a photo shoot. Your Correspondent hits the stands in three weeks.

The moral of this story is that if you're a media whore and crave disgusting amounts of radio, TV and print coverage, move to Karratha. It certainly worked for me.

Thursday
What do you need most when you're suffering from a colossal hangover -- legacy of yet another farewell party -- and have spent the better part of the morning wondering how the hell you got home last night? That's right ... you need to be called unexpectedly into work and made to sit there for six hours, writing scripts and live-producing a radio show.

And when you've been there a couple of hours and your mind wanders and you remember the very diminutive girl who used to dance at the same studio as you, and you recall the time she wore green lycra leotards and footless tights of an identical shade, and it's just occurred you that she looked exactly like a chive and you spend the next twenty minutes giggling uncontrollably ... that's when you know you're still drunk.

1. The 'carton' is the standard unit of beer sales in West Australia and holds two-dozen stubbies of precious amber fluid. The equivalent unit in South Australia is the 'slab'. I don't know what it's called in New South Wales, Victoria or Queensland because when I was domiciled in these places I led a civilised existence and only drank wine or Kilkenny on tap.

2. The Dreamboat has this obsessive-compulsive thing with empty potato chip packets, where he folds them up somehow, tucks in the edges and ends up with tightly-wrapped little chip packet triangles. I've concluded it's just another one of those inexplicable and vaguely disturbing things that engineers do.

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Ugly Babies

Last evening, the Dreamboat and I betook ourselves -- along with a couple of chairs, some beer and the compulsory two packets of potato chips -- to the nearby town of Dampier for a free twilight music concert. It'd been well-publicised and there was a large crowd, mainly made up of young families.

There was a nice breeze, it was warm, the local musical talent was good and the atmosphere was great. I really love watching little kids boogieing to live music. They're so uninhibited and cool, the way they throw themselves around and push other little kids over without warning. I also love watching big tough dads with beer guts and tattoos who'd never consider getting up to dance at a pub, but jig around at free outdoor concerts because they're carrying a toddler and that somehow makes it OK.

Only two things disturbed last night's well-ordered benevolent world. The first was the Knee of Knowledge which, being cognisant of a low-pressure weather system in the vicinity, was protesting to an agonising degree (oh, how I wish it would just fucking rain, already).

The second was the realisation that the Dreamboat and I were sitting next to the ugliest baby I'd ever seen. I kid you not. His parents obviously adored him; he was bright, inquisitive, sweet-tempered ... and ugly as sin. His face was identical to that of the main character from Finding Nemo. Sure, Nemo was cute as a cartoon fish, but the shock of seeing his exact likeness on a mini-human face with a huge bald head was almost enough to halt me in my beer-swilling tracks.

To strengthen the likeness even more, every time this little guy was placed on his stomach he'd arch his back, make his legs go rigid and throw his arms behind him as if he was riding on the back of one of those surfing turtle dudes from the film.

Don't get me wrong -- even though I decided at age thirteen I'd never have kids, I really like them; especially babies. Babies and I get on really well. I suspect it's because we operate at roughly the same level. But this particular baby set me to thinking: are there more like him out there?

Babies are meant to be cute, aren't they? I thought it was a basic, fundamental law of the universe. Even Your Correspondent -- who's never been a candidate for a chocolate box lid -- was reasonably appealing for the first three or four years of her life. Until everything went horribly wrong, that is. But what about those infants who are aesthetically-challenged from the start? What becomes of ugly babies? Do they grow up to be super-ugly adults, forced to spend their lives working in places like cinemas, where no-one can see them? Or, in true Ugly Duckling fashion, does everything somehow rearrange itself at puberty and transform them into filthy-rich super-models ... the sort who'd look sornfully at très average people like me as if we'd just dropped from someone else's nose into their flute of Bolly?

Here's where you can help. Were you an ugly baby? If so, what became of you? Did you grow to hate the shallow, cruel world of humans and run away to live with benign anteaters instead? Or did you rise above the jibes and ostracism, develop your prodigious mental faculties and discover a cure for an obscure but deadly disease? Are you a super-model? Do you really like films, or is it the darkness of those stuffy theatres that you crave?

Former ugly babies of the world: we want to hear from you. Your time has come. Your story can be told.

Photos are optional.

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Niki's Third Radio Show

People, for the first time we have encouraging results. Not only did Your Correspondent rock up to work on time on Saturday morning, but she also remembered to record the whole show, did her first live interview in the studio and actually managed to say a couple of things that weren't utterly pathetic. And all of this was achieved sans babysitter.

On the other hand, Your Correspondent was so terrified of sleeping in that she woke up at 3:00am and couldn't get back to sleep; her studio interviewee arrived twenty minutes early and sat on the other side of the desk staring at her in a disconcerting fashion until it was his time to speak; and she still talked into the microphone with the volume down twice, but only for five seconds at a time instead of ten minutes.

Then there was the business with the pest-control guy, who arrived just after my break started and greeted me with, "My word, you are a little thing, aren't you, love?" He was a very sweet man and his nickname, he informed me, was 'Ave-A-Chat. After listening to him talk non-stop for half an hour, Your Correspondent was beginning to see why.

By the time I was due back in the studio I'd heard most of his life story, was intimately acquainted with his music tastes and had learned which street corners in Karratha had been wired for traffic lights. He'd also given me his complete assurance that the stuff he was using to bring about the wholesale slaughter of cockroaches, ants and centipedes in the office was totally safe. He was so confident, both about this and the firm footing of our new friendship, that he walked into the studio and proceeded to spray the room while I was on air.

Later, I kept telling myself that the headache was purely psychosomatic. Or maybe due to fatigue. Hunger, even ...

So if I'm found in a couple of days' time, lying on my back with my arms and legs scrunched up against my stomach, twitching slightly, you'll all know why. But at least I'll go out in the knowledge that I had one half-decent show under my belt ...

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How radio announcers spend their spare time:

Dreamboat: (after arriving home from work) Hi, Gorgeous.

Niki: A very good evening to you and welcome to your home at [address]. I'm Niki [surname] and it's really great to have your company on this Thursday evening at 5:30. Coming up, I'll be finishing drying the dishes and probably indulging in a cigarette. But first ... here's a hug.

Note: Follow this up with an announcement that tonight he's going to dine on lamb cutlets au Français with lemon and anchovy sauce and you may very well find yourself quaffing a 1991 Blue Pyrenees Red from his secret stash at the back of the pantry.

It's perks like these that make the whole shitty job worthwhile ...

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How to Have Fun in Karratha #15

As related to me this morning by a writer friend (female):

1. Visit the small local library (where you're very well-known) with a girlfriend.
2. Ask a staff-member to help you locate books on tantric sex.
3. When staff-member returns after a few minutes and informs you that the library has none, ask her to place an order.
4. Give girlfriend a lingering hug in front of the doors before you leave.

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Being Semi-Employed is So Stressful ...

... as today's events will attest:

6:30am
Awake in scented bower to the sound of pouring rain and three cats shrieking outside the bedroom door. Arise with grace and aplomb. Feed cats. Remove fragrant solids from cats' litter tray. Re-heat the cup of tea thoughtfully left by the Dreamboat before he went to work. Resolve to cook him a wonderful dinner when he gets home. Make mental list of everything to do today. Then go back to bed with good book. Snooze cutely.

8:30am
Arise and cook sumptuous breakfast of poached eggs. Eat breakfast off lap while surfing Internet. Exude an impressive air of absorption that's completely wasted, given that there's no-one around to admire it. Consider having a shower and getting dressed. Real soon.

9:00am
Über neighbour Janet knocks on the door. She has just returned from a holiday in Broome and, in the knowledge that the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent are heading up that way in ten days' time to search for the One Ring, she's carrying an armful of menus and information leaflets. Greet her wrapped in a bath towel. Note she is showered, perfumed and emanating minty freshness. Dash into bedroom and hastily don bikini top and crumpled sarong.

12:00pm
Janet leaves. Ring the Dowager Empress (mother) in NZ. Take the phone outside and engage in an hour-long conversation while flexing biceps and admiring reflection in glass doors. Hitch up sarong for the usual thigh-size inspection. Reel in horror from the realisation that there is no longer a gap above knees when legs are together. End phone call when beeps sound over line to indicate cheap call rates are over.

1:00pm
Cheap call rates in NZ kick in at this time, so Dowager Empress calls back. Talk for another hour.

2:00pm
Hang out first load of washing.

2:30pm
Drive to public swimming pool. Don ugly lavender swimming cap and 'hey, look at me -- I'm retarded' goggles. Accessorise this ensemble with blue-and-yellow flippers and dark blue kick-board. Commence doing laps. Lose count after twelve, get annoyed because of this, hoist self out of water and smoke a cigarette to calm down.

3:15pm
Hang out second load of washing.

3:30pm
Have a shower. Admire self in mirror while combing wet hair. Check for new wrinkles.

4:00pm
Start washing dishes while cats frolic around feet.

4:03pm
Extricate claws and teeth from ankles with the gentle admonition, "Fuck off, you fucking little shits".

4:05pm
Look for suitable music to wash dishes to. Decide on the Hunters and Collectors album generously provided by the Dreamboat on Valentine's Day. Pretend to self that the whole album is interesting but know in heart of hearts that it's really the wonderful third track with the vaguely obscene lyrics that holds the appeal. Play third track nine times. Dance around kitchen in primal fashion. Note with satisfaction that the cats have fled to another room.

4:30pm
Hang out third load of washing. Bring in loads one and two. Throw them onto the bed in the spare room and shut the door. Mop sweat of exertion off brow.

5:00pm
Select fish recipe from funky little cookbook. Commence dinner preparations.

5:45pm
Dreamboat arrives home. Forget about dinner and sit outside with him, drinking beer instead. This is called 'Quality Time'.

7:00pm
Dreamboat offers to cook fish. Graciously permit him to do so.

7:30pm
Eat dinner in front of television. Remain there for the next three hours. Drink more beer.

10:45pm
Fall into bed, exhausted. Sleep the sleep of one who has used the day wisely and well.

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Jobbies

One reason why Your Correspondent hasn't posted much lately is that she recently worked twelve out of thirteen days, and many of those were nine or ten-hour stints.

That, however, has all changed.

I produced my last afternoon show on Friday. From now on, I'll present and produce the Saturday morning show and that's it: a grand weekly total of eight hours. At that rate, I should be able to pay off my wedding dress in just under four years.

It's no-one's fault; just the usual budgetary constraints. Your Correspondent has decided to be philosophical about it all. At least I had six good months doing something I'd dreamed of for a very long time. And, if nothing else, it means I'll have more time to flounder around at the local pool and shed some of the post-festive season lard that's accumulated in various locations about my person.

As for last Saturday's show ... if I had to summarise it in four words or less, it would be "worse than the first". Here's a comparison:

1. Getting out of bed at 4:30am
First show: managed it, albeit grumpily.
Second show: overslept by one hour. No shower, no breakfast ... just threw on the nearest clothes and drove like a maniac down to the studios.
Assessment: bad, bad, bad.

2. Burglar alarm
First show: tripped it.
Second show: didn't.
Assessment: yay! Improvement!

3. Immediately before the show
First show: fought hard not to cry.
Second show: fought very hard not to cry and vomit.
Assessment: one step closer to complete nervous collapse.

4. First phone interview - the weather man
First show: cut him off once.
Second show: cut him off three times.
Assessment: he thinks I've got it in for him.

5. Playlist
First show: played the wrong song.
Second show: played the wrong song (a different one).
Assessment: work needed. This week's babysitter gave me a great way out, though: she told me to back-announce it as a 'jukebox surprise'.

6. Delivery
First show: waffled and spoke rubbish.
Second show: spent ten minutes talking into the microphone with the fader (ie volume control) mistakenly down, so listeners heard songs and promos interspersed with total silence.
Assessment: definitely worse.

7. Logging
First show: forgot to record, but remembered forty minutes before it ended.
Second show: forgot to record, but remembered forty-five minutes before it ended.
Assessment: slight improvement. I should have it down pat in six months' time.

8. Bowels
First show: let fly three hours after show finished.
Second show: let fly immediately after show finished.
Assessment: I'll refrain from commenting until I see what next week brings.

9. Saturday night post-apocalyptic wind-down
First show: regaled the Dreamboat with a blow-by-blow account, then got squiffy.
Second show: cried on the Dreamboat's shoulder, then got shit-faced.
Assessment: no trouble scoring highly on this front, at least.

On the up-side, at least I was only called 'Vicki' once and the speaker corrected himself immediately afterwards ...

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Everything in and around the Karratha Imperial Palace is in a state of flux at present. My job's changing; the weather's changing; people are leaving town in droves as the huge construction project they (and we) came here for starts to demobilise; the Dreamboat is being approached about other projects in other godforsaken places ... and Your Correspondent is too knackered to elaborate.

More tomorrow, hopefully.

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Niki's First Radio Show -- A Primer for Beginner Readers

4:30am
Here is Niki. She is dragging herself out of bed. She doesn't look very happy, does she? She doesn't look very attractive, either.

5:00am
Here is the Dreamboat. He is telling Niki not to worry about making him a coffee. He is saying Niki should get into the shower instead.

5:01am
Oooh, look! Funny Dreamboat! He doesn't have a head any more. What happened to it? Yes, that's right; Niki has just bitten it off.

5:30am
See Niki unlocking the door of the radio station. Clever Niki! Now she is walking around inside.

My goodness, that's a very loud noise. Can you guess where loud noises like that come from? It's called a 'burglar alarm'. Turn it off, Niki! What's that ... you don't know how? Hmmm. Maybe Niki isn't very clever after all.

5:45am
Here is Niki. She is ringing someone. It's the colleague who'll be babysitting her for her first show. The babysitter is saying, "Oh fuck, the alarm's ringing. I'll be there as soon as I can." What a kind babysitter!

5:55am
See the phone. The phone is ringing. A lady from the security company is on the other end. She is telling Niki that alarms are still going off in Sectors One and Four. Niki doesn't seem very interested. She is too busy looking at the weather report and trying to pronounce a place called 'Wallal'.

6:00am
Here is Niki in the studio. She has a funny look on her face. It's the sort of look people get when they realise their show starts in ten minutes and there isn't enough time to start crying. Funny Niki! Haven't you got anything better to do than pull faces?

6:30am
See Niki talking into the microphone. Do you know what she is doing? Yes, that's right. She is getting cut off in mid-sentence by a news bulletin. Look, her phone is ringing. A man is on the other end. He is from an important place called 'Master Control'. He is asking Niki if she'd forgotten about the news. That funny noise Niki's making is called 'stammering'.

6:40am
Look at Niki ringing the man from the weather office. He is going to talk on the radio. Niki has put him on hold. Now she is opening his microphone. He's not there! Where has the weather man gone? Ah, we see. Niki has cut him off. She has to babble a whole lot of bullshit on air while her babysitter tries to get him back. Go, Niki! Bullshit away!

7:00am
It's time for the news again. Niki is talking to herself very softly. This is called 'muttering'. She keeps saying the same thing over and over again. Can you guess what that is? If you thought it was, "I can't fucking do this, I just can't", you're right and you'll probably grow up to be someone who's always right and has no friends.

7:10am
See Niki talking to another man on air. She is pleased with herself because she didn't cut him off. If he'd only stop calling her 'Vicki', she would probably be very happy.

7:20am
Look at Niki choosing two songs from the playlist. Now she is telling her listeners that she is playing a song by The Waifs. Wait a minute! That doesn't sound like The Waifs ... it sounds like Sheryl Crow.

Look at Niki being honest. She is saying sorry to her listeners for playing Sheryl Crow instead of The Waifs. Now she is playing the second song. It's Sheryl Crow. See Niki's babysitter running into the studio. She is saying, "That was The Waifs before." See Niki muttering again. She is saying 'fuck' many, many times. She certainly swears a lot, doesn't she? She'll probably get cancer and die and go to hell for all those bad words she uses.

7:45am
Now we are looking at how clever Niki is: she can say one thing, but think something completely different at the same time.

This is what she's saying: "That was Canadian singer/songwriter Bruce Cockburn, 'Wondering Where the Lions Are'. And fair enough; I'm wondering where they are too."

This is what she's thinking: You IDIOT. What the FUCK are you on about?

There's that naughty swearing again. Bad Niki. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

8:20am
Here is Niki on her break. She has smoked four cigarettes in the last twenty minutes. That must be a record. Congratulations, Niki! You're a champion! No wonder you present a radio programme about sport!

8:25am
See Niki in the editing booth. She is checking that her show's being recorded, in case people in the Wallal area want to sue her for mispronunciation.

What's that? She didn't turn on the recorder? Oops. Poor dumbshit Niki. She's certainly stuffing up on all levels today, isn't she?

9:00am
See Niki finishing the show. See Niki slumped in her chair. She is shaking all over. She is also wondering if it's alright to cry now.

Midday
Look at Niki's hands. They are still shaking. Silly hands! There's no need to shake any more!

12.15pm
See Niki running. She is running to the toilet for the second time in thirty minutes. Stop that, Niki's bowels! Behave yourselves! If you don't settle down, how will Niki be able to get drunk tonight?

Because she certainly plans to.

Trust me.

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Niki's First Radio Show

It was one of the most harrowing experiences of my life. The show went from 6:15am to 9:00am and Your Correspondent was still shaking uncontrollably at midday.

Anyone who believes radio presenting is a cushy job should be impaled on a blunt object. At least twice.

More later.

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How to Talk to Boys

Your Correspondent is well aware that there are a lot of OPUs (Oestrogen-Powered Units) out there who have no idea how to communicate with the opposite sex. This may be due to any number of reasons, including (but not limited to):

1. They're innocent young girls, trembling delicately on that wonderful and mysterious brink of womanhood etc. etc.;
2. They spent a few years being lesbians and have since gone back to being straight (hey, it happens);
3. They had overly-protective parents who sent them to single-sex schools and never let them play contact sports or attend Youth Camps for Jesus.

Your Correspondent, who never brags unless she absolutely has to, has spent a lot of time around blokes. Not only has she shared her favours with them and occasionally even married them, but she's also talked to them, got drunk with them and cheered them on in fights. Ergo, she's more than qualified to share her knowledge on how to communicate with them. It's all about respect, you see. Respect and just the right amount of emphasis. Here are a few recent real-life examples to illustrate what I mean (a name has been changed to protect the innocent):

Example One
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: 'Night, gorgeous ... don't stay up too late.
Niki: No.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: Have a good sleep.
Niki: No.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: See you in the morning.
Niki: No.

Example Two
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: Hi, gorgeous ... how was your day?
Niki: No.

It's a useful and undemanding way to verbalise but there are times when simply saying 'No' at every opportunity just won't suffice ... like when you want the bloke you're communicating with to do something. I can't guarantee this one will always work, but it's worth it just to see the look on his face. Example Three illustrates:

Example Three
Niki: Thanks for that amazing breakfast ... I really needed that.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: I'm glad.
Niki: In fact it was so totally yummy I think you should make me another.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: What? You want another breakfast?
Niki: Yeah. Now. Some avocado on toast would do.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: You've got to be joking.
Niki: Excuse me ... what are you still doing here? Isn't there something you're supposed to be seeing to? Hop to it. Pronto.

Which isn't to say that you should just be lolling around having your grapes peeled and your avocadoes mashed and liberally spread over your toast. Of course you shouldn't. Relationships, like communication, are a matter of give and take and it's very important that you contribute your share. Then you can use it against him, like this:

Example Four
Niki: I've decided I really need some potato chips right now. I want them. I have to have them. Chippies! Chippies! (very pointed look)
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: Considering I've got them the last eight times, I think it's your turn to go to the shop.
Niki: Is that right? What about all those trips to the supermarket I make every week, lugging around dozens of bags full of groceries on my own? That never gets mentioned. But fine. I'll go. Don't worry about it.
Some Bloke With His Name Changed: (sighs in exasperation and reaches for the car keys)

This one doesn't always work either. I wouldn't suggest trying it more than, say, twice a day. It also helps if the bloke concerned has reserves of patience bordering on the saintly and likes you rather a lot. If you only met him the night before and dragged him home for a one-night stand, you have absolutely no right to demand double breakfasts or potato chips.

You are well within your rights, however, to demand an orgasm. Pronto.

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Huge congrats to Jonas and Miss Jenjen for doing so well in the 2004 Australian Blog Awards. Try not to forget the rest of us little people, you two. And kudos to Vlado for organising it all.

If anyone happened to smile whimsically and vote for this site while thinking perfumed thoughts, thank you very much. Not that it did any good. I didn't win anything. My fame isn't going to stretch far and wide across the internet. My site statistics aren't going to leap to proportions hitherto only reached by my credit card bill. I'm not going to have to fork out obscene amounts of money for more bandwidth.

I console myself with the thought that all those people who beat me probably aren't going to start presenting a radio show this Saturday. Their dulcet tones won't be broadcast to an area half the size of Europe. They're not going to be detested and reviled by a target audience of 30,000 people. They're not going to start getting hate mail. So there. Take that. Nyaah.

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Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Your Favourite God But Were Afraid to Ask #417:

Niki: So, if you could be anything other than a god, what would you choose?
Big Cheese: I'd be an unknown and rather boring Country and Western performer with minimal talent.
Niki: Why?
Big Cheese: Because I'd be guaranteed to end up on the playlist of your radio show.
Niki: Dude ... that's twisted.

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