Birthday with a bang

So it was a fantastic week for parenting. Seriously. One notable example showed that children are not only our future, but are in very good hands. Ok, one of those hands might be holding a semi-automatic pistol, or a pump-action shotgun, but that’s of little consequence.

“Pass the parcel” 2012 style

The story of eight-year-old kids having parties at a shooting range copped more of a barrage than a nude guy chomping on a face in Miami. Where’s the problem? It should be encouraged. What else are you going to do for a kid’s party? Bouncy castle in the backyard? BORING! Stretch limousine to a session with a beautician? PLEASE, SO 2003. McDonald’s party? WHAT? You’re going to let your kids eat that stuff? Haven’t you read those alarming reports on childhood obesity? Paintball? Nah, that’s just pretend for pussies. No, kids these days want to shoot stuff with real high-powered weapons. Not so much “pin the tail on the donkey” but “blow the f*ck out of the donkey”. Maybe that’s next, hunting birthday parties — preferably not limited to garden-variety Equus africanus asinus, but endangered species like Black Rhinos, or tigers (any brand will do). That would also get the children out and get them some fresh air.

The gentleman at the shooting range sounds as responsible as the parents, his only condition for would-be Dirty Harrys and Harriets — “You have to be tall enough to get above the shooting table”. See? Where’s the drama with that? Caring Mr Smith-Wesson doesn’t want little Tiaaanna coming home with a gaping hole where her left nostril used to be.
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A word of advice — just make sure little Trevor takes a really, really good present to the party. You don’t want to be around a disappointed, tearful eight-year-old wielding a Glock pistol…

©Steve Williams 2012

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au

Going (Slightly) Gaga

So I became an honorary “Little Monster” for a few hours last night. Lady Gaga brought The Born This Way Ball to Singapore and without going into what is apparently called “paws up” mode (ask a hardcore Gaga fan, they’ll tell you), I have to say it was a brilliant show. This was one of the very early stops of the massive world tour before she heads to New Zealand, then Australia and the rest of the cosmos.

*This may not be an actual part of Gaga’s meat lounge

Love her or hate her, whether you think she’s some weird meat-dress wearing psycho Madonna wannabe who seems to constantly forget her bra, or the much revered “Mother Monster”, you have to admire her talent. Seriously.

Without getting into major spoiler territory, expect to see a unicorn, an elaborate medieval castle set that opens and closes revealing numerous scenes and characters kind of like Gothic Barbie on acid, a meat lounge, a Gaga / Max Headroom lovechild, a rather unique way of riding a motorbike, spectacular costumes (loved the manic bee-keeper outfit) with a mesmerising number of über-quick changes, exceptional choreography from Gaga and her sickeningly buff and talented troupe of dancers, an interesting flavour of sausages emerging from a meat grinder, a machine gun bra and… more. That is possibly selling the rather involved storyline a fraction short, but personally, I was there for the music, not so much the theatrics, but Gaga delivered that and then some.

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Then there’s that voice… her power and range is quite incredible, all while riding a unicorn, a motorbike, scaling the battlements of her castle, performing outrageously intricate and I-desperately-need-to-lie-down inducing dance moves — all a total lip-synching free zone — in her chats between songs she is literally trying to catch her breath. Speaking of songs, all her hits are there — Born This Way, Poker Face, Paparazzi, Judas, Hair, You and I, Edge of Glory, Marry The Night, Bad Romance, Alejandro (I’ve probably left out a couple) and all faithful to the originals — no bullshit Gregorian chant meets John Williamson weird-arse reworking because “I’m an artiste” here.

If you get a chance, buy a ticket to the Ball. You don’t see or hear talent like this every day (or a unicorn or meat lounge).

©Steve Williams 2012

Is there a nicotine patch strong enough for this?

Ok. I am not a leading expert in world’s best practice on prisoner rehabilitation — my experience with the prison system is limited to the weekly goings-on of “Vinegar Tits” and “The Freak”, endless taunts of “Ya fat dyke bitch”, and inmates having various parts of their anatomy rendered wrinkle-free in the laundry steam presses in Prisoner.

So when I read that the good guardians of Lithgow jail, sorry, “Correctional Centre” are living up to their name by correcting the habits of their house guests by trialling a ban on smoking in cells and prison buildings, I wondered how the “Top Dog” Queen Bea, Franky, Doreen, Karen, Lynn, et al would have reacted. Um, not well. Especially that chain-smoking Lizzie.

The story in the Daily Tele reveals how the ban will allow smoking only in “designated outdoor areas”. That has to be taking the piss doesn’t it? “Sure Trevor, you can still smoke outside. Oh that’s right, you’re locked up for sixteen hours a day”.

I fired up in The Punch recently about banning smoking, but I was actually meaning to be able to sit outside at a restaurant enjoying a pleasant sea view, not somewhere where I will hopefully never set foot. They may as well ban smoking in a Catholic church confessional, or the 63rd moon of Jupiter. They have? Really?

So to be brutally honest, I kind of couldn’t care less. I understand how they are trying to protect prison staff and non-smoking prisoners from the delights of passive smoking, which is obviously a good thing, but you would think those prisoners may have one or two other things to worry about.
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This is going to spark furious debate. I’m sure the average Joe or Josephine on the street will be ecstatic about the ban — “leave ‘em to rot in there”, “they shouldn’t have any rights”, “why should my tax payer’s money go to them lot buying fags” etc, etc.

The other side of the pack is from prisoners’ rights activist Brett Collins, who not surprisingly calls the ban an “outrage and a provocation”. I agree with him that this could create a potentially dangerous situation for the prison guards, when the place is a “tinder-box” already. Can’t be the cushiest job in the world at the best of times.

Apparently next up is a ban on tattoos, lifting weights and the f word. Time to call in The Freak and Vinegar Tits.

Words ©Steve Williams 2012

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au

The Poms are a weird mob

If they were handing out gold medals for the most bizarre Olympic mascots, the characters for the London 2012 games would wins hands down.

Sadly, this isn’t one of the mascots

That is, if they had hands. Wenlock and Mandeville (catchy names) were apparently “created from “the last two drops of British steel used for the London 2012 Olympic Stadium.” More like an alcohol and substance fuelled creativeworkshopthinktank.

To me they look like the result of a frenzied sexual encounter between a secondhand Logie (a fugly Australian TV award) and a Teletubbie. And the blue one looks like it has an incontinence problem.

I’m no mascot designer, a job where you’re on a hiding to nothing (apart from the pay cheque), but at least previous Olympic mascots had some connection, however random, to their country and didn’t need a website to explain just what the hell they’re supposed to be.

These explanations usually contain the words “magical” and / or “mystical”.

Wenlock and Mandeville arrived to howls of protest in the UK, so it’s probably a good thing they only have one eye.

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Then you’ve had some other mascots that were very left of stadium – Izzy the something from the 1996 Atlanta games, and the rather phallic looking Phevos and Athena from Athens in 2004. Design is obviously in the (one) eye of the beholder.

Then again, maybe my design sense is flawed from being slightly traumatised by a mascot years ago. Actually it was a rather famous, rotund animal character from a popular TV kids show. I was in far north Queensland in Australia and they happened to be shooting a scene for the show as I wandered past. They had a break and the character took his head off, and the bloke inside exclaimed “How f*****n’ hot is it?!” and lit up a cigarette. Well it was rather warm.

Wenlock and Mandeville are getting plenty of media coverage, which is probably the idea, but will they become as loved as Sydney’s very own Fatso the wombat?

Wonder what he’s up to? Maybe we could lend him to them…

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au