Time to iron. Iron. A noun for such a powerful and historically relevant metal. A noun which, when used as a verb, describes a menial task that emphasises our bonds to our capitalist overlords (presuming we want to look sufficiently smart so as to keep our jobs). In the future, the verb “to iron” will mean to brutally defend yourself with a shirt-smartening tool. After the apocalypse, obviously. After the apocalypse I’ll be doing a LOT MORE ironing. Ka-thunk.
EDNA has decided to start to review stuff. She is starting with a recent ladies night. She might review more. She’s not yet sure. We hope she will endure.
In moving recently from a more happening part of inner Melbourne to the (sub-?) urban fringe, I was concerned that this friendly Antipodean‘s social life would be a shortcut to the old folks home.
A notable concern was the local public house. There was no local public house.
Yet I thought there was a reprieve (and my, how excited I was) in the form of a ladies night, as per the flyer above. Thoughts were conjured of my innercity days, a vision of the my abandoned hedonichalcyon.
Oh! What I left behind. Booze, thrilly underwear, dildos.
And then, upon reading the flyer, I admit I was not feeling overly confident in a good night. It was a dubious venue (a kindergarten – yes, a kindergarten!).
However, hopes were lifted by the mysteriously mentioned “Enjo”!
How my mind wondered. Who are you, Enjo? My imagination conjured toned buttocks, tight knees and a wholly inappropriate chest. Such handsome virility for this hungry feminist to devour.
Now, being sheltered and having lived for 9 years in the inner city, I was unaware of what happened in the ‘burbs.
What could I expect from this “Enjo”? I was expecting a gleaming European. He would be a raging, throbbing, oliveskinned hunk of stripping man flesh. Oh Enjo, I thought, turn me on. Make me feel like a woman. Make me viscous and conducive. Leave me breathless, inconclusive.
Heart racing and blood pumping, I donned my favourite stripper underwear and sped to the Fawkner kindergarten…
How utterly disappointed I was to discover that “Enjo” was not my tantalisingly bronzed adonis, but actually a brand name for cleaning products. The ladies night truly was a night of embroidery and tupperware. Is this what counts for fun?
I am wondering if I need create my own fun by dressing up in a burka and staging up a Pythonesque ladies night at the local mosque…
EDNA will be back with more reviews. Your feedback has been amazing and only encourages her, if only to flirt with our readers.
The people we elect, to serve our best interests, are being blackmailed.
The people doing the blackmailing don’t want what is best for US they want what is best for themselves.
What’s good for them is actually bad for us.
Therefore, we no longer live in a democracy where our elected officials are working in our best interests, we’re living in a poisonous oligarchy, one of the main aims of which is to make money for Rupert Murdoch, regardless of who suffers, hurts or dies.
The systems that our forefathers built to protect us are being taken away.
Those with the power are becoming more powerful and less answerable.
Those with the money are becoming richer.
Those with very little are set to suffer more.
I don’t want that for me.
I don’t want that for you.
I don’t want it for my kids, your kids, our friends, our parents, our countrymen.
Maybe the fact that I haven’t found a way of making this funny is evidence that I’m not a very good comedian. I’ll admit I find it waaaaaaay easier to make jokes about things that matter less.
But this stuff really matters. It is no overstatement to say that the future of British democracy is up for grabs here. If we all just stop talking about this, if it goes away, if we, collectively, take our eye off the ball nothing will change. Murdoch will get more powerful and what you want for your life will cease to matter.
So, I’m sorry for being a boring twat, but at least now hopefully, you understand why.
FANS OF SURPRISES are confirming that more surprises than ever are becoming still less surprising.
This latest realisation comes after a slew of reports that UK railway passengers customers are set to pay fares of inflation-busting rates yet again, despite two prior decades of unfair inflation-busting fare increases.
Furthermore this news comes despite the perpetual increase in overcrowding and statistics of ever-reduced reliability, despite these facts’ own inevitability and corresponding unsurprisingness.
One especially frantic commuter commented today as follows:
“I just cannot believe we are getting value for money. Every day I wham myself into that cattle carriage like a bent-up cow, along with several hundred other bovinesque city folk.
I can hardly breath without inhaling the long hair strands of the pretty blond less than an inch from my face. But it works better than viagra. You ask my wife! She still wasn’t surprised though. I was in prison for 4 years for molesting the neighbours’ cats, so she knows the way I am.
And even then the cats knew what I was going to do as I had to protect their health and safety risks – not to mention my own – by showing them an RSPCA DVD and a C90 explaining the risks of Cat Aids before I could proceed.
I tell you, life is no longer full of surprises. This government needs to get it sorted out, but no: they’re too busy stuffing their faces with genetically-recreated dodos at the taxpayers’ expense. What a surprise. I don’t think!”
Even Tom Vek, an occasional songs minstrel and proponent of surprises, remarks:
“Every song I make is containing less surprises as listeners are getting more and more familiar and complacent with the vapid surprises I try and foist upon them. Everything is old and done and unsurprising. I can’t just pump the drums up to 11 anymore.
No wonder Tricky got so depressed after Maxinquaye. He did it all on that album back in 1995. Perhaps he killed the surprise. Wouldn’t surprise me. No wonder he kicked a pigeon into a shop window. The pigeon saw it coming as its guts splattered across the front of Superdrug. No surprises there.
This comes despite the 11 year gap I’ve left in between this album and the album before it; my so-called fans weren’t surprised I’d faded into profound obscurity. Unsurprisingly forgotten, just like all humans before me and yet to come (and then die).
Yet still my so-called fans weren’t surprised when I made a comeback after surprising them by taking a job at Blockbuster Video – in the Adult section, as a customer fluffer – for the best part of 2 decades to fund my return to indie microfame.”
The Association of Chief Police Officers were warning citizens today that as a result of the dramatic reduction of surprises, that they ought not to be too blasé to criminal acts. Chief PC Plod stated:
“Citizens must at least act surprised so as to emphasise how awful everything is these days, as opposed to acting cynically unsurprised.
I mean, yes, sure, this country has become humdrum, pointless and a waste of landfill opportunity. Nevertheless there are-”
…unfortunately at this point Chief PC Plod broke off his sentence and bit into a cyanide capsule. Unsurprisingly he couldn’t see the f*cking point any more.
Existentially, Chief PC Plod bit off more than he could chew. Surprising. Not.
Roland: “I’m quite smug too, but I can’t top you, VOX. It seems apt that I lie, thus, perpendicular to the ground, whilst you are appropriately upright. I hate you VOX.”
VOX: “I can see all the grit and muck on your wheels. Have you no shame, Roland?”
Roland: “What does it matter when you’re in the room, VOX? I can never be as good as you. I can never carry the warm glorious tones and even if I could, all the kids love your coolness almost as much as Orange. All I’ve got is this old skool logo.”
Roland crawls off, still side-ended, for a little cry.
Blue Chair: “Oh right. Just ignore me then. I mean, I AM actually the only one in this room that contributes anything properly productive in this messed up society by helping with the parking of bums whilst they contribute actual work and thus partake is true wealth creation in this glorious socio-capitalist economy. Whilst you two – YOU TWO! – just ponce it along with the cooler-than-thou indie kids.”
Piano: “Just calm down. You’re all pathetically short-term. What use is a chair or a valve amp or even YOU, Bicycle, when the transhumans take their rightful place as the simians’ overlords. Really, when you think about it, this really IS a very petty argument. Of course, having said that, Piano shall always prevail, just as it always has. I am CLASSICAL for a reason you losers. Ha!”
Bicycle sulks silently. He’s heard it all before and recognises the futility of partaking in Kilroy politics. “No wonder Kilroy lost his mind“, thinks Bicycle.
However, it is often too easy to neglect our roots, and it is with this in mind that the latest image-riffery is a nod to (some of) our origins: a glorious bicentennial settlement on the south coast of England; a town where seasides, ice creams, students and the elderly nestle together in a sticky mess of foal abuse.
Yes, we’re speaking about none other than Bournemouth. Wish you were here?
The Main Protagonist of Oh Cheers is disturbed by a recent public uprising…
I always wondered what was to become of the summer of rage. It seems the best the Ook can do is a slightly lame water battle organised on Facebook. However, even that is quashed by a dozen carefully orchestrated police-persons.
Might it be nothing more than an overheated mildly-but-deeply ENRAGED Mail-reading English overreaction to some Ook cops?
Either way, something kicked off at Hyde Park last Friday. A little nasty.
OK, some prick was looking to start a bit of a fight, and he got thrashed down to the ground like he ought to have been in a proper GTA smackdown. There was no need for his idiocy.
Kudos to the originator of the video. In the future he is exactly the sort of human who might find himself constrained when other water fights occur and the “executive” are involved.
See for yourself what happens when someone organises a big waterfight on Facebook (note: literal “March of the Pigs” of the title commences circa 3:08 into the video)…
Our friend Edna has some lavatorial concerns to express from the southern hemisphere…
As an inhabitant of a multicultural metropolis, I can appreciate and enjoy the differences that makes this a fantastic place to live. But one cultural difference that I cannot come to terms with is the inability or unwillingness of some to use a pedestal toilet (properly).
Puddles of yellow around my corporate toilets and indeed even up the walls have been frequently encounturd (thankfully not yet) .
Surely regardless of your origins, a certain sense of “when in Rome” (Melbourne), applies to habits of a personal nature as well, especially in the office? I would have thought performing a “gut grunt” in the squat position would indeed be difficult, and dangerous, without a specifically designed device (as well as apparently messy)?
Now that “use the toilet properly” signs have been put up, the culprit seems to have spread out to the urinals. Perhaps working for a bank, this is a dirty protest against the GFC?
