Tag: www.randomswill.com

Melbourne protests – the neighs have it

Posted on by SW

The ongoing construction worker protests in Melbourne are one of those ever-increasing moments when the lines between satire and reality are blurred.

“WHADDAWEWANT?! Um… dunno… smoko… ivermectin… somethin’ somethin’…” *sets armpit on fire*

For those who came in late, construction workers have been protesting / rioting throughout Melbourne’s CBD against having to prove they are vaccinated against COVID-19 before being allowed to work on building sites. 

Yes, protesting against something that is in their own and their industry’s benefit.

There was also something about not having access to “tea rooms”. The idea of big boofy blokes in de rigueur high-vis vests, quietly sipping on a lovely Earl Grey out of Wedgwood fine bone china in a quaint tea room awash with Laura Ashley décor and doilies is rather amusing.

“BUT WHERE WE GUNNA HAVE FUCKIN SMOKO?”, some bloke screamed as he kicked a police car… I thought the word “smoko” had died a justifiable death in 1953.

What isn’t amusing is the violence…  especially yesterday and today.

Protesters, whipped up by far-right nutjobs have been running rampant in city streets, shutting down the city, vandalising their own union office, kicking a dog and assaulting police and media including throwing urine at them. 

Speaking of taking the piss, there was a “list of demands” which I seriously thought was satirical, but apparently isn’t. Among an amusingly bizarre shopping list of demands including ending lockdowns, ending mask and vaccine mandates… blah blah blah… is the resignation of the Premier Daniel Andrews and mass distribution of Ivermectin. No chance fellas… the neighs have it.

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I was surprised the demands didn’t include compulsory 7 litre bottles of Coke and mandatory display of builder’s crack.

Below are said protestor’s demands. Yes, seriously.

Premier Daniel Andrews to resign? Mass distribution of Ivermectin? No chance fellas… the neighs have it.

Here’s a new set of demands via @TheShovel… they actually make more sense…

While we’re talking horses, the protests took an absolutely farcical turn today when the testy tradies stormed the West Gate Bridge and triumphantly started singing the classic protest song “The Horses” by Daryl Braithwaite. 

The Melbourne protests are yet another milestone for Braithwaite’s powerful call to arms, first sung by the suffragettes in 1914 and at rallies held by Martin Luther King Jr, Nelson Mandela and Vietnam War protests. The rallying chorus makes you want to grab a pitchfork and flaming torch… “That’s the way it’s gonna be, little darlin’ /
You go riding on the horses, yeah.”

Nobody has any (tea and) sympathy for these piss-throwing, dog-kicking morons, considering the good people of Melbourne are clawing their way out of the 102th COVID-19 lockdown and these protests could put them right smack bang back in another one. 

©Steve Williams 2021

Little sons of beaches

Posted on by SW

Dear people of the world. I don’t hate children.

Yes, actually I do, when I’m trying to chill out at an exclusive resort or expensive hotel.

“Hate” is slightly harsh, maybe “vehemently dislike”.

When I’m relaxing by the beach or pool at a sublime, tropical idyll, is it wrong to be searching my phone for the number of the Child Catcher or The Pied Piper to lead little (MUMEEEE DADEEEE WATCH ME!! , WATCH MEEEEEEEE!!) screaming Trevor into very deep, rip-infused water?

In fairness, it is not the kid’s fault, the blame should be laid firmly at the rapidly sunburning feet of the parents. Most kids have the attentive span of a gnat with ADD and become bored quite easily, unless they’re constantly entertained and catered for. What gets me are these selfish parents who take kids to resorts that are obviously “couples retreats” and then proceed to retreat from being a parent. Bored / ignored kid = pissed off other guests.

Hate to break it to you mum and dad, but things do change when you are a parent, you may not think it is très cool to be staying at a resort boasting “Kaptain Krokodile Kidz Clubz” but that is the life you created — literally.
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What also gets me are intimate, boutique resorts, or the “funky” hotels with bars that turn into nightclubs, which say, “we don’t cater for or encourage children”. They may not have the Kidz Klubz, but they often have kids’ menus, kids’ pool toys, happily provide fold-up beds, high chairs etc. Come on, show some intestinal fortitude and simply ban kids, it’s not like your food and beverage profit will take a major hit. How many fish fingers and babyccinos can little Trevor consume? The positive PR you will generate from your real target market will be worth its weight in mini-burgers.

There are an increasing number of “child-free” resorts around the world, even websites nobly dedicated to listing them, though I find it surprising there are not more adults only destinations. I’m not talking about those resorts where you get hit on by sagging, amorous, 75 year old nudists — not that there’s anything wrong with sagging, being 75, amorous, or a nudist, I just find that quadrella somewhat disconcerting.

Interestingly, when I embarked on painstaking, exhaustive research — i.e. Googled “child free resorts”, number four trumpets how “kids stay, eat and play free”.

Oh, the humanity.

Words and image ©Steve Williams

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

Bastard Backpacks

Posted on by SW

Dear the bastard backpack wearing fraternity of the world.

I’m sure some of you are very nice people who enjoy tickling kittens under their chin, love unicorns, and liking everyone of your Facebook friend’s posts, but some of you are absolute bastards. Seriously.

When I refer to “bastard backpacks”, I’m not talking about the noble types who trudge around Kathmandu et al taking-an-undisclosed-period-of-time-off-to-travel-the-world type of backpacker, or kid-wrangling parents on a trip to the zoo lugging little Trevor’s favourite toys and his organic quinoa treats, or school kids struggling with their textbooks. That is, if kids still have textbooks. I remember having to wield the “Web of Life” biology textbook in my schoolbag – heavy as an absolute mofo.

But I digress, I’m taking aim at the commuting corporate warriors — I’m sure you know the type — the women, but mainly men (who most likely work in the financial industry) who infect trains, buses, ferries and planes with their massive cancerous growths on their backs, not giving a tinker’s cuss for you and me, as they take out innocent and unsuspecting citizens with every entitled swivel of their shoulders.

Credit: the very amusing @WeFixYourAdvert
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A question for you bastard backpack expletives, so when you put your backpacks on, does your spatial awareness suddenly evaporate along with what was remaining of your fashion sense?

Don’t you realise that when you have your laptop and other geeky apparatus strapped to your back like a dork baby koala, you may, just may, be slightly inconveniencing the rest of the world? No? Didn’t think so.

A friend of mine was catching a bus the other day and had a bloke resting his backpack on his head. As one does. As my friend said, “Words were exchanged”.

A friendly suggestion – take the f*cking thing off before you get on the train / bus / ferries / plane. There. That wasn’t hard was it? It’s called “consideration”.

The next one of your kind who almost dislocates my shoulder as you bump your way down the aisle of a plane with your backpack because you’re too much of a tightarse to check in your luggage… (but that’s for another serve of randomswill).

Words ©Steve Williams 2018

Rugby League — Greatest Memories of All

Posted on by SW

Australian rugby league fans have a passion that can’t be dismissed.

It’s a game we played, grew up with, watched on the telly and listened to on the radio.
We still do. It’s our game.

Here are a few random memories from when I was a kid growing up in Sydney.

The greatest team in the history of sport

*Getting splinters in your arse from those wooden seats at Cumberland Oval.
The exuberant Eels fans that torched it after the 1981 premiership win did us all a favour.

*Running onto the ground as the fulltime siren sounded to try and grab the black and white striped cardboard corner post. I was successful a few times.

*Listening to the great Frank Hyde on 2SM. When people still listened to 2SM.

*The halftime entertainment malfunctions that have plagued Grand Finals — the busted TV allegedly to promote Optus Vision (which was actually quite prophetic), John Williamson serenading an inflatable rubber tree with “Rip Rip Woodchip” after loggers had threatened a blockade of the SCG, the cast of “42nd Street” standing forlornly in the centre of the ground waiting in vain for their music to start, and more recently, Billy Idol’s hovercraft cutting the power, which was a good thing.

*The sensational prizes bestowed on guests of TV’s “Controversy Corner” — including a Pelaco shirt, vouchers for a Viking Sauna and Kevin Junee’s Run For Your Life sports store and the piece of resistance — a bottle of Patra orange juice.

*“The Theme From Shaft” used over the closing credits of Channel Seven’s Sunday night footy coverage with Rex Mossop. Not sure what a “blaxploitation” film had to do with footy, but there’s probably a parallel. “Chips and eggs” was the standard Sunday night fare in the Williams household.
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*The Chook Army (diehard supporters of Eastern Suburbs) singing “We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / we are the Ray Price haters”. One actually threw a grapefruit at him while he was in his petrified praying mantis pose — he didn’t budge.

*The “sand boy” running on with a small bucket of sand to for the ball to sit on before conversions and penalty shots at goal.

*Scanlen’s footy cards — that sweet smell of the thin pink strip of bubble gum lingering on the cards… and still lingers with me. Some bastard kid knocking the cards out of another kids’ hands in the school playground yelling “Scramble!!!” which meant a mad free-for-all.

*Having a birthday party with a few mates when I was about ten at Lidcombe Oval for the Chooks v the Magpies, we were sitting behind the try line and were captured in mid-try celebration mode in a photo on the back page of the next day’s Daily Mirror.

*The arse falling out of your meat pie at a brass monkey-inducing Sydney Sports Ground.

*The trainer scurrying on to the field with his “magic sponge” dunked in a bucket of water, mopping up a horrific head gash, then redunking it in the same bucket, primed for the next injury.

*One of my most prized possessions — the autographs of the entire victorious Roosters 1975 side (on an Easts Leagues Club wine list — thanks Uncle Pete).

For all its faults — and there are a few, it’s a bloody good game. It’s our game.

©Steve Williams 2018

*This piece also appeared in The Huffington Post Australia:
The Good Old Days When Rugby Was In A League Of Its Own