Siblings.

If you are my age and unless your parents were selfish or awful Catholics, you have siblings. Nowadays spree killers, and only-children, are much more common. It is the age of wiggle-room and one child affords you all the shitty judgement of having a child with none of the baggage of letting your dreams die.

But there was a time when fucking only for children was a thing. It is the reason my father is one of seven and my mother is one of six. I too am one of seven; partly of good Catholicism, partly of boredom, partly of a trigger-happy old man and a bunch out of the bottle. Though shit has recently turned murky, I love each of them dearly and for different reasons.

Obviously We Love Some More Than Others.

Take my sister. The only girl in the group, or woman, gendered and identifying as female. This world got itself into a big damn hurry.

Let's call her Cathy, mainly because she would fucking hate it. Also because I didn't consult her on a mention here and there is a good to fair chance she doesn't know this blog exists.

Of course she has her faults. But I don't know too many people who would do everything they could to help you out a jam. I was in danger of being un-enrolled from my school for neglect of payment. Partly because I didn't have the money, mainly because I spent the money on beers. She sent me the money no questions and, I am very proud to say in this world of I-owe-you-you-owe-me, hasn't mentioned it in two years.

Oi Cunt, You Owe Me Dosh.

Or take my brother, the next one in line after me (boy wise, keeping people anonymous is hefty work). Let's call him Slim, because I know he would like it. He is one of the funniest people on the planet, the definition of down to earth. If we should reach such depths as being down to the last beer of a slab, he will gladly share with you. There is always a spot for you, whether you call a week or an hour ahead and he will do his damnedest to make you comfy.

Take Mine Bro, Just Watch It. Can Fold Up When You Roll Over.

And again take the next brother in line. A vegetarian, a kind soul. A cynical fuck like me, sure, but beyond all that he is someone as pure as the driven snow. My cynicism leads to genuine hatred, his leads to mild annoyance. He was cursed with it from the very beginning, genes and shit.

We will call him LeRoy, and LeRoy is one hell of a fucking human being. I know I am biased and bias has no place in science, but scientifically he is one hell of a fun guy.

Meeting new people is a scientific poll, and there is a damn fine and true reason he polls ahead of the pack.

Googled Sexy Vegetarian, Got A Damn Near Lookalike. 

Lest you think this whole blog is nothing but a love-letter to my own siblings, I should say I am merely expressing gratitude. There was a line in that Sunscreen song "the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young"

Who could know you younger? And who are more impossible to get rid of?

I say, good thing. The friends of childhood can leave you in a minute when they find something better like: working the same bullshit kind of job you have now. Your family cannot. And it goes both ways, I am so glad I could never leave them either, much as I would've sometimes liked too. Blood is thick, water is bullshit.

NP.

A Tale Of Two Shitties: Missing The Shitiness.

By hook or by crook I am now a Melburnian, in that I live in this city. In that sense and that sense only I fall under that moniker. Though it is probably worthwhile to add 'Self-Loathing' or 'Reluctant' as a prefix to my new status.

We recently, us Melburnians, held a State of Origin match. For those out of the know it is a Rugby League match, hotly contested between New South Wales and Queensland.

Dead-Set Heroes. 

Biggest Cunts On The Planet. 

It really is our thing. Melbourne does not give a single shit about rugby league. They are pansies, on the scale, more concerned with the cultural revelation that is Aussie Rules. Let me say on the record: I don't get it. It is mayhem and seems mainly a mess with the occasional goal scored. A work-mate of mine who watched the Melbourne origin was baffled by the players continuing to rise despite the big hits.

A Good Spot For Your Next Function.

I digress. Holding a game down here Melbourne was, all of a sudden, League crazy. In the week leading up to the game I heard nothing but how good at hosting events Melbourne was. Nothing of game specifics, there is not a shit to be given, just that Melbourne is a good choice for this event.

Which leads me to my problem. Melbourne isn't even middle of the road, it's hard vanilla. There really is nothing more you could want in a city; cultured, sporting, inhabited by intelligent people and with a sensible road map to navigate.

But something is missing. At least something is missing to me. I miss the bogan looking for a fight, I miss the haphazard nature of things, I miss the schizophrenia of a city on its knees. I miss the unapologetic nature of my home state

I miss being called a 'faggot', a 'cunt' and a 'useless white prick'. I miss the insanity the convict pedigree of Sydney has bred. I miss, too, being asked what I am looking at. I miss the rudeness, the crudeness and the brashness of Sydney-siders.

I have always figured, and maybe its the country in me, that if I wanted to live in a city, I might as well be accosted for it. It is what I am used to.

NP.

What Now?

It's your big day. It is the day you have sweated on. The day you suffered through 'Patriarchy in The Modern Maternal: A Re-Examination of Penises and The Envy They Invoke' for. The day you are stuck with since you missed the census date and realised you were too old to get an apprenticeship. It is your graduation.

Sure, you're not happy about shelling out four-hundred extra bucks to bring your unnaturally large family along. They say it is to cover 'refreshments', you don't know what is so refreshing about a four-hundred dollar curried egg sandwhich, but this shit seems legit. At least you get to wear the hat.

A Symbol of Fuck You AND Fuck Me. 

You sneak a cigarette, knowing full-well that this is not appropriate. You are a pillar of society now, and the Latin/Baroque Poetry double Bachelor you are about to receive puts that shit in writing. You are nervous and don't really know why. You ponder a quick wank but all the toilets are across the quad and there is not much hope of getting there and back without raising eyebrows.

You see your friends parents coming and ditch your cigarette in blind panic. Truth be told Jonathan is not your friend, he is sheltered and weird. But he wanted a pal and hey buddy you were saddled at birth with unconditional pity.

Jonathans dad tells you what a good company man he will make, they are so proud of him. Well done to you too, they say, shaking hands and slapping backs. Where are your parents anyway?

You spot them crouched behind a bronze statue of an Emo man from the 19^th century, covertly smoking in their black jeans and short sleeved white shirts. You want to think 'fuck it, they tried'. But you are an academic now and they are not on your level.

'They are stuck in traffic'

Jonathans dad shakes your hand again and makes hazy promises of dinner. He smiles heartily again, so proud of his son.

Did I Tell You He Doesn't Show Himself To Strangers Any more!

Your moment arrives somewhere in the noise of happy people. The chancellor calls you up to the stage, you shake his hand and grab your piece of paper. You can smell the stale hops, those fragments of liquid bread that caught the wind and found you. You pine so badly to drown this weirdness.

But no, first photos. Your parents have emerged from the traffic and want photo after photo. You with your degree, you with your mother, your father, the brother who is ten years your junior and super into dub-step, one of you on your own so they can cut Aunt Charline in when she 'gets out' and a fun one with faces pulled at the last minute.

Your father shakes your hand and gives you a stern look in the eyes. Meant to say 'you are a man now', instead you get 'my boy is probably a poof'. He unfurls your birth-right from a frayed rag in his hip pocket. You know what it is and you know it is bullshit. But hell, you have played the game til now, might as well plough through it.

A Casio watch. But not just any Casio, this one is the one with the mini-calculator. He got it from his father who found it after the Melbourne Cup in 1984. It's dead and they don't make that size battery any more, but it was worn by great men apparently. You embrace with one eye open and on the bar.

Downing the first you try to reflect on all this and none of this. You try to console yourself at having slugged through the first step in an 'academic career', it is a supposed time of joy, you should be elated you motherfucker. But with each drink one thought crops up and up and up. What now?

What the hell do you do now? Uni was a way to stave off getting a real job and spending three years in a bullshit arts degree hasn't exactly endeared you to employers. You knew your degree was a tough nut to crack, but that was three years ago. Three years ago when you were younger, dumber and had the advantage of not trying a career 'on' for three years.

What now?

Is it too late for that upholsterers apprenticeship?

What now?

Should I study more poetry?

What now?

I don't suppose Woolies is in the market for a noted Oxford Style referencing savant?

Then really.

What now? 

NP.  

3 Challenges MasterChef Should Have.

MasterChef, as I wrote about earlier, is a show that is growing on me. Don't get me wrong, I still hate wankers and I still hate food as a form of self-indulgent wank. MasterChef is certainly that, a big fucking wank! Any enterprise that makes coconut jelly and reconstructs carrot cake to crumbs on icing should be drawn and quartered.

But, yet, I love it. And I love it for the reason so many pathetic people love it: it is enticing. It is not simply bullshit challenges and shots of, as my workmate put it, 'fat bastards eating'.

It is the life and death of the kitchen, the pressure of a deadline, creating something out of nothing. And most are total dead-shits like me who couldn't boil a potato. I like the ordinary people part of it, much more than the extraordinary food part, I suppose.

My poetics teacher would call this apologia. So what if it is? I like the show and still hate wanker's. The two can co-exist.

Though I feel like MasterChef seriously missed a few tricks in appealing to the ordinary people their show is all about, like:

The 20 Minute On-The-Dole Challenge.

The problem I think a lot of us have with MasterChef is its absolute access to the finest ingredients, cooking appliances and expert advise. I cannot find semi-roasted smoked hazelnuts, do not have a blast freezer and have only 'just blacken the top of it' from an ex roommate to go on, in the way of sage advice (also, sage can be hard to find). They have the ordinary people, they need a challenge in the realms of those people.

So I suggest the 20 Minute On-The-Dole Challenge. Here are the rules:

• On Wednesday arvo when the dole comes in, you go shopping. You can only shop in a place the car will get you to on whatever fuel is in it. After you buy smokes, a slab, put a red-back on the footy and another through the pokies and get Belinda her precious fuckin' UDL's you can turn to the ingredients for your dish.
• That leaves you at about a hundy for the next two weeks. Remember Robbo just got in some good bush and you really shouldn't crack 50. Go homebrand on everything. Processed cheese can play any position.
• You have 20 Minutes cook time, stubbie runs and punching cones IS included in this time.
• You can only cook on a pre 1990 stove with a minimum of 3 hotplates out. The one that still works takes 15 minutes to full heat, keep that in mind with your dish.
• You can plate up on plates that are only mildly stained with tomato sauce. Plates caked with bong resin, tobacco ash or spilled grog are grounds for immediate disqualification.
  
  

          The Memory Lane Challenge.

There are many people who, like me, don't have much interest in food. Sure we like good flavour, but that good flavour doesn't need to be MasterChef level. A simple ready made frozen pizza will usually suffice.

                                                                     'Usually'.

But for those of us notable 'non-foodies', it is probably true enough to say that old favourites are born of childhood. Likewise food phobias. I, for instance, have never liked anchovies. It could be because they are putrid little hairy, salty, slimy fish (only one of which I like) that taste like the armpit of a middle-aged man after a 'stayin' alive' panic workout......

                                                         Heaven When You Get Used To It.

Or it could be an aversion I have had since childhood. I had to grow into now awesome things like chicken. I also grew out of some stuff, like breast-milk and the vegetable baby-foods.

But a bite on a Bubble O' Bill or tear into a Wizz Fizz is like the first drunken power-chord of a Motley Crue song....

                                            Herpies and Hepatitis work Beautifully Together

A trip down memory lane. My nostalgia, your nostalgia does not qualify them as good foods. They are just important to us because they nourished us during our youthful years and later our 'I am pretty sure Gemma likes me' years,

Whatever the reason, MasterChef should adopt this challenge as an appeal to the child in all of us. A proposed three course meal:

Course One- A Post-Modern Take on Cheese on Toast.

The key here is grace and restraint. Cheese on toast has been a stable of many cuisines, many Western and late night.

This is a slant on the traditional idea. We are allowed to use the grill when mum is not around, she said it is OK so long as we watch.

We take a Helga's loaf, usually some bullshit like pumpkin seed, and toast one side to perfection. Then we flip it covering the raw side with a slice of celo-wrapped cheese. If the cheese does not come out intact some of the toast will burn a little.

Jason calls and says his mum said it was cool to come by, he just got a PS4.

The toast burns more than we would like, the cheese is kinda black and has that bubble thing like a babies head.

Serve with a side of cordial, or flat lemonade in the bottle.

Course Two- The De-Constructed Dunk-A-Roo, the '-A-'

We all love Dunk-A-Roos, it's pretty much science. What don't we love though, passive masses? I'll tell you what, the maddening algorithm that comes with opening one. Make no mistake, the Dunk-A-Roo is a calculated animal, a perfect storm, an inevitable mess. Sadists say too many biscuits, you and me say too little sauce. This aims to address everything that is wrong with the Dunk-A-Roo, eliminating the Dunk and the Roo.

First we smear the usual dunking paste onto a plastic Dora the Explorer plate with a pallet knife. Next we roast the Roos' over a low heat to crumbling point. Then we toss them into the mulder and pestle for 5 minutes of grinding until they reach the consistency of icing sugar.

After sprinkling atop the Roo sauce, we deliver the meal hot and fresh to your table.

You complain, we all know the risky dunking equation is better than whatever the fuck this is, but you ordered it.

Course 3- The Flame Grilled Roll-Up.

We take a roll-up, not peach obviously, and our expert chefs cook it to perfection. Whether you like rare, medium rare, medium or well-done our chefs cater to any taste. This roll-up will melt in your mouth, like it very nearly melts on our hot-plates.

We plate your roll-up with a side of red gummy bears, sour orange jubes and a grape Fanta gravy. It is this dish that keeps our chefs going through depression, hangovers and marriage breakdowns. Time for you to try...

You Kill It, You Cook It Challenge.

MasterChef is fond of waste when it comes to meat. In a recent challenge my home-girl Rose grabbed a huge fish to take just a small fillet from it's side.

Despite starving millions, I cannot in reason assume the rest of that fish went to anything but the bin. I think MasterChef tunes the brains of it's contestants to be almost immune to waste and the source material of an animal.

Which leads me to the kill it, cook it challenge. The rules of which are fairly simple, and follow:

• Contestants must line up with a gun, blind-folded at a doorway to a contained concrete room and fire the gun three times.
• Inside the room are the bouquet of meats routinely used on the show; duck, chicken, pig, cow, lamb and pheasant.
• Also in the room, however, are the contestant's pets. Their dogs and cats, if they shoot them they must prepare them. If they own fish or other sea-life, piercing the tank will mean cooking their scaled friend. If they own no pets their family, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, will be placed in the room, gagged and unable to speak.

With such a challenge I would bet ingredients are used more efficiently, also probably a lot more cry-cooking would go on.

I like the concept of MasterChef, but it still needs tweaking. Short of fucking all the pretentious judges off, these three challenges would open the appeal to the every man. Not to mention seeing Jackie serve Brandon to the judges, I’ll bet he is chewy.

NP.  

80.

80.

I read the stats of this here blog fairly regularly to keep the mouth-hole of my self-worth above the oceans rocky surface. Looking at them today I realised this blog is 80 posts old. I know its mainly ramshackle and haphazard ramblings. But for me it serves an important purpose, being able to write fairly freely (that is, outside of syllabus demands like 'write yourself as a foetus with foetal alcohol syndrome in a strawberry patch that is your neglegent mother', such is the whirlwind life of the poet).

Anyway, as this is this barely-legible blogs 80^th, I thought I would cast a net toward my own 80^th birthday and hazard an educated guess at what that might be like. Now keep in mind I am rather morally invested in medical science making the necessary breakthroughs to save me from myself. But let's say they do, what does my eighty year old version of this look like?

Probably Just As Miserable, Maybe Half as Good A Bare-Knuckle Boxer.

Marital Status.

There are options here, I guess. It is not like the days of my grandparents when shackin' up (the accepted nomenclature, it was a different time people) was all important. Especially for women, being a spinster was like being a gangrenous foot. Now you can take your time, wait for 'the one' or until you happen on someone who likes you even though they are a grade or two ahead in the looks department, and try to make it work.

           So what is my prediction?

What I Would Like To Think.

Probably happily married. But like a cool marriage where I can still do whatever and she does whatever. I guess my wife is a Jane Fonda type, obsessed with tennis, I write and eat bacon for every meal. We have friends but most of them are fair-weather friends which is fine and dandy with us because we are anti-social sex addicts. 

               We have no children and have lived a hell of a journey-filled life without them. Maybe we have one. He is not a loser per se, he just never quite lived up to the the epic yard-stick of his parents. Nonetheless he is well-rounded, never calls us for bitcoin and comes by regularly to fix our 4D printer- never raising his voice.

What Is Probably True.

Been single for thirty years and, it's probably too late to get back in the game, don't you think? Eyes a can of sardines for breakfast each day and wonder if this is it, the day I will die alone? 

               Had thought about the swinging bachelor thing in my 50s when my last wife left me, but the wound was too raw and it never really got any easier. I have no money anyway and nothing to offer young chicks (who are ,by now, probably something like 'sows', it's an irony thing an an old ass geriatric like me wouldn't get it).

               At the urging of friends (the guy at the tech re-charge station sometimes smiles at me, is it pity, is it friendship?) I hit a couple of elderly speed-dating nights. I don't have much to talk about, no grand kids, no LAN party night. I talk about my kettle, I think it is on the fritz, though it's supposed to be the most reliable appliance. Plus my fingers are too big for the I.D boil function. The neighbors kid, Rafeel set it up for me, it took all day but we got it just how I like it, bathwater warm.  It bothers me, I get animated. The cougars (who are, by now, probably something like 'Tabbys') move on. 

              Only because they got grand-kids to defrag their I.D boil, Rafeel moved out last year to e-read English at Harbridgeoxton. 

Career.

I don't think there is much secret behind my wanting to be a writer. I really always have. Any other venture was always a different angle into my run to put words on paper. Let's see how I go?

What I Would Like To Think.

I have a respectable career behind me. A number of books, or audiobooks straight into the ear-holes via Wi-Fi. Not so many I have cheapened myself. I am no Tom Clancy or James Patterson. I put real work into each piece of writing, created by farting at an iPad.

               I am a statesman of writing, always willing to help youngsters out with advice on their craft. I tell them beans and cheap meat are essential to creating genius farts. Devon works particularly well. If you want to reach the level of Twain, Dickens and Hemingway, dog food is best. Dog food gets your name in the history blogs.

               A number of my e-books have been turned into big-budget cult movies. Those movies have been turned into holographic dream implants which I didn't sign off and complain about incessantly.

What Is Probably True.

I end up writing for an e-vite company. I have been there thirty years and get made redundant one week before I am due my platinuim smart-watch. I fuckin' headed the 'data night' range, the 'Streaming, McSteaming' campaign and the 'One Hot Gigabyte, Let's Save It For Tonight' service. I championed this company when they were well and truly on their knees and they arse me now, by FaceText no less. Weak as dial-up.

Hobbies.

Shit, what are my hobbies now? Old people enjoy, and need, hobbies. They are, and this is no exaggeration, what keeps them alive. So what will mine be? I hope there is no crazy twist!

What I Would Like To Think.

I am a gardener. Probably of e-fruit, watered in my network garden. I share it around with the neighbors, I am a keen gardener and an even better local friend, and they love it. Electric has recently been added to the flavours, it is the one that give you a little jolt. It falls under zest in the MasterChef kitchen, but they are having real trouble keeping subscribers.        

         I also play Words with Friends 60th Anniversary Edition every second Thursday. I mainly have to set it as anonymous, but sometimes the tech recharge guy plays. He is better than I am. I can't help but wonder how, such a coding and data savy boy is still without a Sow. He sheepishly smiles when I tell him, but he knows what he has to offer. He is a catch, and it doesn't take a 40G connection to see that.

What Is Probably True.

I am a big fan of the latest minesweeper update. My stratosphereband drops out a bunch, but it's the 2060s, good stuff is coming. And I cannot wait to play. The old version of Angry Birds is way better, kids do not know what they missed with that one. 

           I still can't get the last one on four pics one word, I ran out of clues 15 years ago. I don't see how a cat, a chocolate bar, a money box and a picture of veteran songstress Katy Perry work into one clue. It frustrates me.

          I spend time at the park. The ducks died in the flu of '36, so I have taken to feeding the stray dogs small bones from the butcher. There are plenty of dogs after spanner crabs became the 'hot pet of '26. I have two myself'; Ryan and Dakota.

How is my aim? We won't know for 56 years. But comment and have an aim at your own doomed destiny.

NP. 

David Koch and Four Other Irredeemable Pieces of Television Shit.

It is fair to say I live a willing sedentary lifestyle. I do not do much in the way of out and about, never properly have. I wouldn't call myself lazy, my job is pretty physical work. More just, I am kind of a defeatist. I guess Homer (Simpson, not the poet guy) said it best when he said “What's the point of going out, we are just gonna wind up back here anyway”.

And with this attitude, and like Homer, I have gotten pretty cosy with television. A sort of constant companion to the disinclined, if you will.

The way you feel about your various television personalities has been termed a 'parasocial' relationship. It's behind why we all hate Willem Dafoe, even though he is a vegetarian. He just looks like a bad guy, plays a bad guy, feels like a bad guy. Though some of that must surely be on the writers.

                                          Write your way outta this one, shithead.

This effect is, of course, more pronounced when it comes to non-scripted personalities. In this case, however, there is less to hide behind. As a morning host, game show guy, reality television star, weatherman or dude who does weird in-show info-mercials; you are playing a version of yourself.

This is not the same as Matt LeBlanc playing a version of himself in Episodes or Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon playing versions of themselves in The Trip and it's sequel. If anything, the non-scripted personality is playing the best possible version of themselves. The arse-hole without all the shit. Here is five to think on;

David Koch.

Where do I start with this guy? Basically he is the worst. I will start with the nickname, 'Kochie', I have it on good authority that is a nickname he gave himself. Something he perpetuated into being, something to make him feel like an ordinary bloke, which he certainly is.

But to the deeper stuff, the stuff that really matters. He wore channel 7 plugging shirts after the walk on the Kokoda, arrogantly jumped in the back of the ambulance after the rescue of the Beaconsfield miners, connected the bombing of the Boston Marathon to the “Irish” and wrote this horse-shit article after shitting on new mothers: http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/opinion/kochie-breastfeed-anywhere-anytime-discreetly/story-e6frezz0-1226558512202 Who has a problem with a bare tit in the gob of a baby

                                                                          This Dude!

But really beyond and above that, he is very annoying. I wrote earlier of non-scripted personalities, though maybe I should have written of non-personalities. Especially when considering this waste of a good load....

James O'Loghlin

Did someone say, the most annoying prick of all time? A host, by their nature, should draw you in to the show, make something potentially boring all the more appealing. People like Letterman ran more than thirty years on this very ethos. People didn't tune in to see the guests, they had no clue who they might be, they tuned in because they liked Dave, he was the draw.

James O'Loghlin has reversed this concept. He was the host of The New Inventors, a show I would have definitely and religiously watched if not for him. I watched sometimes anyway, in spite of him, and found the concept to be sound. But the ABC oddly missed a trick. They are usually so sound in their...'casting'.

                                  Annoying People Out Of Good Things From Way Back.

I love Tony Jones on QandA, likewise Kerry O'Brien on 730 and more recently 4 Corners and once more Jonathan Holmes and Paul Barry on Media Watch. All these personalities enhance the program they helm, James O'Loghlin undercut this, the way Judas undercut Jesus.

Andrew O'Keefe

How far can the apple fall from the tree? You figure with bounces its going to end up a few meters away. Shit even with hurricane winds it is going to be mashed against the fence of the same field.

Apparently not. If you don't know what I am talking about, Andrew O'Keefe is the nephew of Johnny O'Keefe, The Wild One, Australias first rock star. JO'K brought the cool the same way winter brings the shitiness.

 But his nephew? Not so much. Be it the constant 'Boo Yahs' (a concept I am sure he made up), the improvised and terrible jokes or his annoying way of calculating the costs of things; make no mistake, this is a turd of a human being.

Again, this is a show I would watch. Probably wouldn't love, but would watch,. There is just one gigantic and obnoxious anus in my way.

                                                                  And Here He Is.

Grant Denyer.

Another game show host. Family Feud. Part of my issue could be that this show is simulcast on all three of Tens channels (that is One, Eleven and Ten). He is the face of the show and so, yeah, I blame him

                                                                And what a face.

But it is more than that. He is a weasel. He is a slimy kind of a person; he hoots and hollers, brings bad impressions and jokes to the table and when all else fails, goes to that loud register that everyone seems to love.

My mother, who used to also hate this kind of thing, now has a fondness for him. Apparently because he treats the contestants with respect and kindness. I think fondly on the days when we would jointly call him a short-arse, a sad little man with something to compensate for.

George Calombaris 

I am growing to like MasterChef. I find it an innovative show with an interesting concept, good challenges, a solid structure and always with contestants to go for. Again I am being hypocritical on my hatred of wankers.

Though importantly I learned this year that the portions are so piss-weak because the idea is to eat like ten of them. I still don't give a good god-damned about presentation, but thease novice chefs have genuinely good ideas for recipes of seemingly left-field ingredients.

The other thing I am warming to is the judges, whom I thought all wankers for sure. What I have been enlightened to is that Matt Preston, the wankiest looking of all three, is actually a meat and potatoes kind of guy, And that the British guy with the dark hair is a fair judge and cuts more slack than he probably should given it is all gourmet bullshit.

Which just leaves one, George. Yes his face annoys me, but so did the other two before I started watching. There really is nothing less appealing than watching others eat. A wank, as my English tutor pointed out, is a self-indulgence and eating the kind of food on MasterChef is nothing if not a self-indulgence.

But what really bothers me is the way he sucks-up. Our version of MasterChef is known for getting high-end chefs in to issue challenges. They issue, the contestants freak out, deliver something and then comes the tasting table.

                                                   That Pretentiousness was a Little Overdone.

Matt and Gary comment on the sauce or some other bullshit and then George will comment on how it is slightly too salty. Then comes the hero chef. We recently went through Marco-Week, which was three-time Michelin star winner Marco Pierre White week. George commented on the consistency of the sauce, Marco commented on the lack of prunes in the dish and George jumps in with the benefit of prunes to the dish.

He is licking the anus clean. Well. And truly.

But perhaps most fucked up of all is that all of the above are popular, or were, and are still on television. If this is our A-Game, we sincerely need to look at ourselves. Not only that such awful people are allowed the wrong side of the camera, but that we lap it up like the last skerrick of milk in a cats bowl.

NP.  

5 Things You Learn As A Sociophobic Student Journalist.

For as long as I can remember, which usually means forever, I have been sociophobic. I know in the old talk that is shy, and that me using anything else is utter hypocrisy given my loathing of wankers. But this one feels more medical and so less like I have a choice in the matter, as passing-the-buck on all of my shortcomings is a consuming priority of mine.

What does this mean? Well, probably close enough to what you think. I avoid making phone calls, I dread a knock at the door, my small talk is more small than talk, I dodge friends I have dodged for too long as they are now strangers and I hope for long lines at the supermarket so I can think of something clever to say to the checkout chick or chap.

                                                             My Dog Has Diarrhoea.

I am also a student-journalist and, as it turns out, that involves talking to a lot of strangers. While I have done various journalism subjects over my degree, none of them involved as much stranger-contact as this one. I actually bailed out of this same class a year ago for my fear of contacting people.

Though this year I am a little older and a little more afraid of falling into that class of irrecoverable weak-sauce. I really like writing feature articles and would consider this a real career prospect, like Gladwell or Ronson. Plus I am within pissing distance of my bachelors. Nothing for it but to sack up and bite the bullet.

Through the process I learned some convenient truths, some of which are:

What Is The Worst They Can Do?

In preparation for some of these big interviews I would continually ask myself this question. It turned out, probably because I was a student-journalist rather than a real one, that most were very accommodating and worked around all my nonsense.

But then, what was the worst? I suppose in philosophical extremes they could have killed me. But realistically they could have said no or told me to leave. Not so bad. Not worth ageing over, though probably a devastating shot to the esteem. Lucky I am a student and don't have to face the real world until I am in my thirties.

Even An Apparently Boring Subject Can Yield Good Stories.

As part of this class all the stories have to be community based. When I went to film school our first semester we edited on Steenbeck's and worked the audio on magnetic tape, totally redundant technologies in the real world but the idea was to gain an appreciation for the craft. I can only assume this was the same idea, to learn from the bare bones, though probably also to set an achievable goal for a bunch of 20something fuck-wits.

                             I Think These Two Have A Story, Way Better Than Your Dumb Story.

At first I thought it too limiting, not in line with my grandiose aspirations. I tried to work myself in and make it a participatory type of journalism. Though through the interviews I realised how stupid I had been. Subjects will give you everything if you let them speak and realise you are not god's gift to the world of the word.

You Want More.

Going into these interviews I had a magic number in mind, one hour. That is conventional wisdom on how long you need to get enough out of a subject. That is also how long I would have to ignore my itchy nut-sack, wonder whether the microphone on my phone was getting everything and chewing my lip, literally chomping at the bit, to get out of there.

What I found was, most of the time, I was genuinely interested and wanting to talk for more time. Most of the interviews lasted longer than an hour and I only ended it because I felt like a nuisance on my subjects.

                                               For the Love Of God! Please Continue. 

You Realise Your Worth.

Yes, it is probably because I am a student these people agreed to sit down with me. But they, nonetheless, sat down with me. What I expected was party-lines, the default answer, the easy way out. But they were open and honest. I know I am not covering a sex-scandal, political wrongdoing or case of bigotry. Still, it is nice to know if you put it on front street, they will too.

It is, essentially, nice to know they will put their words and story in your hands. It is a huge boost to the ego, mine is already bulging, and a nice vote of confidence. Basically, you realise you can do it; the interview, the thing that seems so conceptually impossible. And you feel like a million bucks walking our of there.

                                                   And What A Great Feeling. 

You Aren't As Good As You Think You Are.

Yes, it felt good climbing that mountain. I know, if I do what I want to do, I will have to do it many times more. But I know after each one, I could have done better. There were moments of lull that I could have filled with a good question, I could have redirected the conversation away from the repetitive, I should've asked about about everything that would make my story a well rounded piece.

For me it is enough climbing the mountain, I will be able to have a cigar there with time.

Journalism is, in the words of the Irish, a tough crack. Questioning strangers is, to me, the horror of all horrors. But I am getting better at both, and both are my future. There is a weird amount to learn outside your comfort zone.

NP.