As an Australian boy I was only exposed to F1 once a year, The Australian Grand Prix. With only a passing fancy, I supported Damon Hill and Williams at the ‘94 GP and saw first hand what the best of the best drivers will do for a victory.

During the ‘94 Australian GP, the final race of the season, Michael Schumacher was in position in front of Hill. With only a one point advantage, Schumacher needed to keep a position in front of Hill to claim his first championship. Making a mistake, Schumacher let Hill into a passing opportunity but rather then concede the place Schumacher drove his car into the side of Hill putting himself out of the race instantly while Hill retired in the pits from damage due to the accident. Waiting for Hill to make another lap, Schumacher learnt of Hill’s retirement from a marshal and the famous Schumacher smirk was seen around the world as he claimed the first of his 7 championships from the corner of Flinders Street. At 14, it was the first time I had ever witnessed what it takes to be a winner and I fell in love with motorsport.

Three years later Schumacher found himself in the same position, this time against Canadian Jacques Villeneuve. Schumacher was leading the Jerez GP in front of Villeneuve when he had trouble keeping pace. Buzzing all around the back of Schumacher’s Ferrari, Villeneuve dove down the inside of a corner to take the lead. Never one to concede a place, Schumacher drove into Villeneuve in the same fashion as he had to win the ‘94 championship but unfortunately for Schumacher his Ferrari only made contact with the side pod of Villeneuve’s car and Villeneuve drove on to become the ‘97 world champion.

Examples just like these are littered throughout Formula 1 history. The glory days of Senna, Mansell and Prost when teams like McLaren and Williams ruled produce endless lists of drivers doing what it takes to win and we remember them. We remember them fondly and wish F1 would be like that today.

Those days were by no means lawless. Drivers were just as heavily punished for rule breaches as they are today. Schumacher was harshly punished for his crash with Villeneuve in ‘97 but we don’t remember that. We don’t remember the grid penalties and fines, we remember the awesome racing. The passing, the crashes and the champions. Drivers threw the dice and accepted the consequences.

These days the drivers race to save money. The dollar (or Euro as it usually is) is more important than the victory. Gone are the passing manoeuvres we remember, replaced by a precession. Don’t go anywhere near another car or fear the reprimand waiting for you in pit lane. Small amounts of greatness are dragged through the media, chastised and spat out.

Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel crashed during the Turkish GP earlier this year which created an endless supply of media attention. All because Vettel wanted to drive like his heros. The race lead was one place in front of him and he wanted it. Vettel moved up the inside of Webber and imitated his hero Schumacher by veering towards Webber in an attempt to scare Webber away from his position. Webber didn’t yield and both drivers crashed, Vettel out of the race and Webber finished a distant third. This is an example of a great racing manoeuvre. Fans should see this several times a race not once followed with 2 weeks of media bashing afterwards! The money loving precession junkies win again.

F1 setteled down till this week when come back kid Schumacher defended his tenth position against former team mate, Barrichello. Defending the middle of the straight, Schumacher drove Barrichello towards the barrier in an attempt to keep his position. The move failed and Barrichello took tenth place. What I thought was true Schumacher brilliance was rewarded with a ten place grid penalty for the next race which will no doubt put him at the back of the field and give him eight or so cars to pass while he makes his way to his rightful position in the middle of the field. The media and team managers threw up their in disgust. How dangerous, how shameful! Shameful is F1 not seeing passing as part of the sport.

F1 no longer has thrilling races when drivers need to apply in triplicate for the right to defend or pass for position. Bring back the glory days and let up on these drivers. Just because we can watch them in slow-motion and  measure every piece of precision doesn’t mean we have to regulate them like a hawk.

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3. NEWSFLASH: Lost cancelled*

Click here to view the embedded video.

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Kept under a giant shroud of secrecy, a few Apple die hards have spent several months searching for and clue to the location and contents of the new store. No one looked harder than computer tech Adam Diminic. Adam spent the last year searching city records for any hint of what the new store may include.

Photo: Richard Giles

At 9am all was revealed with the enthusiasm of a product launch. The first 1000 people through the door were able to warm their frozen hands with a special edition Perth Apple store t-shirt while the rest kept their hands under their MacBooks.

The new store is presented with Apples trademark white minimalist look with a full glass frontage and aluminium throughout the store. Apples products are displayed thoughtfully though out the store on heavy wooden desks. Apple’s successful Genius Bar graces the back wall making it easy for everyone, including grandma, to get help on their email settings.

After all the hype had washed away everyone was left with two thought. Why didn’t we organize our 4square better to get a swarm badge and it’s just a store painted white.

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2. Jason’s adventure at Perth Sexpo 09 or How I went from sane adult to crazed pervert in 2.7 seconds.
3. The tirade of stupid celebrity names…

Aldous Snow has finally arrived on stage after keeping the audience waiting for over an hour. His triumphant return to the Greek after 10 longs years sold out through online sales in 10 minutes. The theatre is pumping and this reporter has goose bumps and singed arm hair from the pyrotechnic show.

Reports over the last few days suggest this awesome show of original rock from one of the last of the old school rockers almost didn’t happen with Adlous Snow involved in several seedy events between here and his home in London culminating with the destruction of a hotel room in Vegas and an appearance on The Today Show where Aldous swore on live TV and gyrated to his old school rock anthem ‘The Clap’. Parts of his appearance were edited from the west coast airing of The Today Show. The Today Show are still receiving thousands of complaints more than two days after the episode.

Watching Snow rock The Greek Theatre I feel transported back to that time ten years ago sitting in the nose bleed section of the theatre watching Snow and Infant Sorrow as a 20 year old with a passion for music. Back then I wanted to be Snow and at 30, nothing has changed. Snow’s chest revealing white suit and bandage style arm band ooze rock’n'roll. I can only imagine what sort of life this rocker has led. I can only hope that one day we get to see Snow’s life close up on the big screen. Even the events that brought him to The Greek over the last 72 hours would make a great film.

Aldous Snow and Infant Sorrow’s Live at The Greek Theatre ten year anniversary concert will be one to be remembered for years to come and I hope everyone takes the time to see recordings of one of the best moments in history.

****

Get Him to the Greek in cinemas everywhere staring Russell Brand and Jonah Hill. Make sure you see it at least once in your life.

Click here to view the embedded video.

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I was once vigilant at OCD levels. Checking and rechecking to the annoyance of the people around me. That is no longer the case as I now forget things I’m in the middle of. My day is an adventure of flooding the bathroom from forgetting to turn off the water to misplacing things because I put them in the cupboard when they should be in the fridge or vice versa.

I wish I could be left alone to shorten my life by inhaling chocolate by the hand full and watching sport I don’t care for but those people wont go away. Those three short people and the tall woman who leads them.

I’m going back to work soon. I don’t know how that will go and I’m not very optimistic but I’ve sorted my bus ticket already. Now if I could just find some pants! The worst that could happen is I can’t keep the job but I’m not worried. Nothing ventured etc.

I remind myself of Floyd from the film True Romance. He best represents how I feel.

Click here to view the embedded video.

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I remember staring, her red hair and pale makeup. I remember the smell of VO5. I remember wanting to be near her. I remember that washed out t-shirt she threw on our first night together. I remember laying on the floor checking my watch till I knew for sure I had missed my bus. I remember lying about forgetting to check the time. That is probably the best thing I ever did.

Every Spring when the temperature hovers around the high 20’s I think of her. I think of her every time I see Fanta or a hot dog. I think of her every time I smell musk. I think of her every time I use a computer or listen to Ben Folds. I think of her when I drive through Leederville, Dianella or Victoria Park. I think of her when I start my car.

It’s like a song that sticks in your head. One that returns and returns no matter how hard you try to ignore it. It’s a consuming thought that lies just below the surface. It’s the task that you have to finish, even if it takes all night.

My fingers tense and twinge in excitement. She is like Christmas morning before you unwrap the presents, hunting Easter eggs before your family gets up or checking your parents wardrobe for presents, days before your birthday.

It’s not that I fail to remember our life together and the many awesome changes, it’s that the first meeting is so intense that every sense of the moment is etched in memory forever. I can still touch, taste, smell and see it as if it is happening now. No matter what happens, I can never loose that. I never want to loose that.

I’ve found someone that gets it. All the shit life throws, all the bullshit people spew, all the mundane pointless crap that makes up existence. She gets it. I know when I hate something, she hates it. I know when I feel something, she feels it. I know when she senses something, I sense it. I feel like I know what she is doing at any minute of the day as if I was with her. I can feel her. She is connected to my soul.

I remember the very first moment I saw her. Why I hold back the tears thinking about it is beyond my grasp of feelings. I’m just a man, I don’t understand my feelings. I don’t question them either. I’m not sure if that is a fault but I’m fine with it. I use to be jealous but not anymore. I’m happy for her to be happy. I don’t need her to want me. I would love her to want me but only if she wants it. She will go far in this life. I never want to hold her back.

She is forever connected to me. She is in my kids and my dreams. Where ever she goes I will always have a part of her. I will never give it up.

Happy anniversary Téa.

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My introduction to the world of Kick-Ass came through this Red band trailer introduction to Hit Girl. I don’t think there is a nerd alive that can resist this……

Click here to view the embedded video.

Like many, I was blown away by that trailer. I had one of those fall back into my chair moments that rarely come from a film. This girl swears and kicks butt without a thought of human life. I want more!

Kick-Ass is an adaptation of a comic book series by the same name created by a couple of well known guys with Marvel and DC credits to their bio. Mark Millar, creator of Kick-Ass is also behind Wanted, an earlier comic turned movie staring Angelina Jolie. A very unremarkable film, it relied on a couple of gimmicks and special effects to get it through. A tactic that usually fools the demographic it’s aimed at, I struggled to find a reason to watch to the end. That was the extent of my research before the film. I didn’t watch any subsequent trailers or read the books. I was sold on Kick-Ass from that short video and didn’t need more. Bring it on!

Kick-Ass follows the story of unremarkable teenage nerd Dave Lizewski, invisible to girls and not even the funniest in his small group of nerd friends. Dave comes to the realization, after his weekly mugging, that no one has ever tried to be a super hero. Idealized by the idea of a world full of justice, Dave dons a scuba suit and heads out to right wrongs and put fear into the fearless….. for about 2 minutes.

Bloodied and broken, Dave ends up in hospital and Kick-Ass dishes out the first of many plot points that make me shout shenanigans at the screen, disturbing the many others enjoying their free preview. The movie with power less superheros now has a main character with a superpower! Dave is now full of metal and dead nerve endings giving him an extreme tolerance to pain! To make matters worse, it never helps him! What?!?!?!?!?! OK so he does take a beating or two but he would have done that anyway. SHENANIGANS!

Undeterred from hero work, Dave’s alter ego Kick-Ass becomes an internet hit when he is recorded fighting off 3 guys beating on a stranger. This sends him down a road of crime bosses, violent vigilantes and copycat heros. Dave crosses paths with Big Daddy and Hit Girl, two vigilantes dressed as super heros with vengeance as a motivator. Shenanigans number two! I was brought up on the Superman, Batman type of hero. These hero’s never kill the bad guys and never use a gun. True super heros. Big Daddy and Hit Girl mess up bad guys with an array of guns, swords and knives, never leaving anyone to fight another day. If Hit Girl ever met a Mad agent, Dr Claw would have been dead within 22 minutes and Inspector Gadget could have retired to a life of installing speed cameras in high places.

It bothered me so much that these new heros were killing everyone in the bad guy workers union I started wondering, who are the bad guys? Are these two leather clad heros doing the work of evil. In my mind, the short answer is yes. I can’t, even though I tried, accept these two as heros. No amount of back story, hurt feeling or lost loved ones could justify their violence to me. Don’t misunderstand me, I love the violence. It’s the only good thing about Kick-Ass. What it brings to the film in awesome it destroys in plot and empathy. “Screw Big Daddy!” I shouted to the gasps of shadows in the theatre. “Screw your killing ways and bad parenting!”

I’m not sure what this movie is trying to be. A teen comedy, an action comedy, an action American Pie? Very early on we are subjected to an onslaught from the Porkeys list of comedy, masturbation and boobs. Oh and you can’t forget the teen boys need to insert himself into something, preferably female, for a few seconds of sticky goodness. Done well, as in American Pie, this is awesomely funny. Kick-Ass is not done well, in fact it’s done so badly I’m wondering how director Matthew Vaughn ever got his camera license.

Matthew Vaughn had his break a few years ago with Layer Cake (or L4yer Cake to be nerdly accurate) and has struggled to make anything since. His followup film, Stardust, did well to impress the public though I have never seen it. It’s brimming with a star studded cast that only the awesome directors of the future have handed down to them from the studios and an advertising budget bigger then all the money I will ever earn in my life. What happened to Matthew here? Did he shag a producers wife? Surly that isn’t even a punishable offense in Hollywood anymore.

The direction on Kick-Ass has been pissed at the screen with all the talent of a young Kevin Smith. Wide open shots of nothing in particular, boring sets poorly lit, plain angles that look to have been shot from grandma’s wheel chair. Eh. A full rewrite and the eye of Chris Nolan could make Kick-Ass awesome. Hopefully they will do that when they undoubtedly make a sequel.

The one place Kick-Ass may do well is with the oversensitive bible brigade looking for a chance to burn down a theatre to two. A 12 year old who says cunt, slaughters on mass and plays to her sexuality isn’t going to go down well with anyone with sensitivities. We live in a world where you can’t make fun of a 12 year old girl on television. Hit Girl will really push buttons! I have already heard from audience members last night that Kick-Ass is under rated at MA15+. An R would certainly kill this movies chance of making money.

Hit Girl is by far the stand out attraction in Kick-Ass but it comes in relatively short burst and not enough to carry the film. The plot is weak bordering on boring. At a few points I felt the need to see if anyone had actually fallen asleep.

If you like superhero comedy it pains me to write this but see Superhero Movie. If you like teen comedy see American Pie. If you like gory action watch any one of Tarintino’s films. Better yet head out to your local DVD store and get a copy of Serial Mom. Watch the Hit Girl fights on Youtube and save the other hour and a half for other things. I’m sure the lawns need a water.

Click here to view the embedded video.

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Well this is insight, I thought. General Doc doesn’t believe my pain. Maybe he is right?

“It’s not that I think you don’t feel pain. You obviously do. Sometimes pain just gets into a feed back loop….”

Feedback loop? Sounds technical.

“…and the pain adds to the pain making you feel, pain.”

At this point in my injury I was quite out of it like a morphine addict with an itch. Comprehension was less then an 8 year old (I measured it) and my vocabulary wasn’t far beihind.

“So these pills should help?”

“Yes.”

“K.”

He is a doctor. These guys know. I must be a head case!

******

“Faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrk you!”

“Does that hurt?”

Mr Physio was a smart guy.

“You’re lucky you are still standing! Anyone else hurts me like that would have them on the floor by now!”

I’m lying on my back with my shirt off. Mr Physio has his balls pressed firmly into my head and my arm bent out in an awkward backwards move. The only thing protecting the waiting patients from my overactive mouth is a thin 2 thread blue curtain.

“I start back at work today. Not driving, just standing on the street checking buses as they go past.”

“Sound’s, um. Good.”

Mr Physio was just as excited about it as I was. Money being what it is, I had to go back. Everybody has to get paid.

******

“Can I get you anything else?”

It was obvious from her demeanor Ms Café Waitress has a problem with me. The Café is almost empty but there is an eire of importance about the staff, almost like they should be selling perfume at Myer. I chose a seat so far out of the way I was almost waiting for a haircut in the barber shop next door.

“No, that’s fine.”

Ms Café Waitress turns with the vigor of a soldier on the front line, avoiding the enemy fire. I’ve done the right thing. I bought a cup of Tea. A cup of Tea is all I can afford at this point. It’s hard to find a reason to buy anything when money is tight. I’ve nursed this cup for almost 2 hours now and the last of it is long since cold. $5 is enough to rent a chair for 4 hours isn’t it?

A bus rumbles past my chair and I casually look down at my notes.

‘12.23. 67F. 8 minutes late’ I scribble down. I’m quite sure no one will ever look at my scrawl. It’s just busy work, designed to keep me off the records as injured. Everytime I look over my shoulder towards the bus stop my head gets heaver. The wind whips past, cold. Heads turn to the screech of tires and abusive drivers. The pain puts me in that place where everyone is the enemy.

“Don’t you hate people who do that?”

If it wasn’t awkward enough already, Ms Café Waitress is bitching inside the café to the boss about me. He is hardly worried about a guy sitting in front of the barber shop. I excuse myself from my chair and pay the rent. I make sure to share a look with Ms Café Waitress that lets her know I’m on to her. She instead is on to the biscotti.

I take up residence across the street amongst the school kids who forgot where school is. I’m relieved it’s warmer on this side of the street but now, in the direct sun, I feel too hot. Clearly I can’t win. I’m in uniform but I’m unsure wether the complaints of a late bus between friends isn’t directed at me. I’m sure it is. This side of the road is just as awkward as the other just for different reasons.

A bus rumples into the stop to take the kids away. The driver throws me a knowing look before shutting the doors. ‘13.15. 21T. 11 minutes late’. When will the hurting end?

My pocket buzzes in an unfamiliar way. I don’t often get calls. I’m not the sort of person people want to talk too unless they want something.

“Hello?”

“Jase….”

The Work Controller has called. Sometimes calls are just uncomfortable, this is one of those times.

“You are gonna have to make your own way home!”

“But…urrr.”

I don’t think I am wrong in believing this is asking too much. I have never been a supporter of forced over time. You know, over time you can’t refuse. Could be my union upbringing but I have always valued my right to go home at a time agreed upon before I start working. Volunteering for extra work is completely different.

“That is going to take me over time.”

“Yeah, well it’s not like you are working anyway so it’s OK.”

I’m floored! Not working?  I hurt in 12 different ways doing what I have been instructed by my boss and yet this jerk successfully made me feel like shit in 2.1 seconds.

“Catch the bus home. Beep. Beep. Beep.”

“Bye.”

I don’t think those beeps were him.

******

The bus is full to the door. This is not what I need. Balancing awkwardly I hold my bag in my left hand and try to steady myself with my right. Failing. The worst part is not the surroundings but the company. Every time I catch a bus I am forced to recount the story that led me to being on the bus with that driver. Since I was relying on buses to travel everywhere this was about he 23 time I had told the story.

Telling my story to other drivers is painful. The upside is that most of the people I told are now terrified of what would happen to them should they get hurt driving. I dispelled many myths about the employer that takes care of you when you are down. It doesn’t exist in any form yet everyone think it does. Always reminds me of the saying, shit in one hand, wish in the other and see which one fills up first! Am I the only one who doesn’t believe in Santa too?

Come back soon for part 3 in this series.

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“Can I have something to eat???”

I peer out through my eyelids into a hazy world and look at the 4 year old standing in front of me.

“Something to eat? Umm yeah. Grab a banana or something.”

I feel like I’m in one of those old text based games from the beginning of computers. ‘You are sitting in a recliner. In your hand is an iPhone. Next to you is a drink of Pepsi Max. In front of you is a complaining child. What would you like to do?’

I look around and find myself in a house that isn’t mine. Most of the stuff is but, where am I?

I remember only a few things. I remember my heart pounding, almost jumping from my chest when that car pulled out in front of me. I remember the pain in my wrist. I remember being scared when I woke the next day to find my arm aching so bad that removing it seemed like a great solution. I remember the Doctors and the Physios and the drugs.

******

It was over before 9. Most things are, when you are a bus driver. You get up so early that 9am feels like the middle of the day. Traffic was bad on Alexander drive. The last few kilometres had been bumper to bumper. I started squirming in my seat. Checking out the other drivers. Thinking about lunch. A lot of a person’s life is out on display on the passenger seat of a car. Drivers feel safe thinking no one can see into their private world but the bus driver can. I couldn’t guess how many wandering hands I have seen while looking down into passing cars from my advantage point in the drivers seat. For a private, repressed city, they sure like to whip it out and have their girl play with it. Or their guy.

Nearing the traffic lights I slip into the bus lane. Finally I can make up a bit of ground. This lane is just for me and the other 2 are full of cars parking in the street. I give my long articulated bus a injection of acceleration and it responds by complaining about being up too early. Together with 60 people we lumber up the street.

******

Confused girl gets in her car, adjusting her skirt for comfort. Fixing the mirror, she complains about her husband to no one in particular before reversing on to the street. Only a minute down road she comes to her first obstacle. Peak hour traffic. Confused girl is too tired for this. She only woke 20 minutes ago and it’s way too soon in her journey to make decisions. The cars aren’t moving. Easy. She can push her way in. Confused girl breathes out and pulls into the lane of stopped cars.

“FUCK!”

Confused girl only gets a metre or two before jamming on her break as hard as she can. A spray of green and white fills her windshield. She feels the car shake and thinks for a moment her life is over. Her car is filled with such a noise that she thinks an airliner is landing on her. Her car stalls and it’s over. She is alive but filled with more endorphins then she has ever felt. Scared and unsure she continues pulling out into the lane of stopped cars.

******

My heart is racing. I look into the mirror. Where is that car? I barely saw it. I didn’t think about it, instinct and years of experience guided me and my bus full of people around that car. I pull down the park break, hard! Why wont my security cage open? I’m so pepped I can’t work a simple latch. With one step I’m out on the street, waking with all the determination of a lion making the final grab at it’s prey.

Where is it? The other car isn’t behind me. We should at least be exchanging details. I want to scream at this person. I want to call them an idiot. I want to remind them about the fragile nature of their life. I want to make this person feel so bad for scaring me that they never drive again!

I see the car hiding in the street, very slowly making it’s getaway. I point at the driver. Gesture her to come over but she shakes her head. I ponder, how you can leave the scene of an accident so slowly everybody can note your registration.

Back in the bus I note the car on a scrap of paper. Admiration flows from the passengers but no injuries. A man is quick to point out where the car went but it’s too late. “Something for the police to do” I suggest to him.

Together we trundle into town on time. Transperth can’t always be late.

Come back soon for part 2

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I love good middle-brow American writing almost as much as I love attentive ass play. In a minute I’m going to bed with Frank Rich. Why aren’t you? Who would elect to spend an afternoon in the company of, say, Australian Marie Claire over Christopher Hitchens? Apparently, thousands of bitches.

This is odd.

Let it be clearly said: I have never actually read the local iteration of Marie Claire. I looked at it once to learn about its editor; a woman named Jackie Frank. I took down her email address and didn’t really bother reading about Christina Amanpour’s struggle to find a store that sells Kiehl’s pore-minimizer in Ramallah. Because I don’t fucking care. I just wanted the commission. I just wanted to pay my tax bill so the ATO will finally let me leave the country and live in Brooklyn so I can be closer to the real writers I hope one day to imitate.

Although I know nothing of Jackie Frank’s character and oeuvre I can only presume she is a shit-head and that her magazine is total pigfuck. Viz. I sent her an excellent pitch that demanded my fully funded attendance at a Queensland swinger’s weekend. She never fucking wrote me back.

She may of course otherwise be a very decent person who quotes Auden, recycles and appreciates the gradations that separate the good rimming from the merely adequate. I don’t know. As forestated I don’t fucking care so long as someone somewhere writes me a cheque. But I do know that Frank, shit-head that she may be, has today been unfairly criticised.

If like, your correspondent, you have your News Alert compass always pointing to Miss Universe you will have seen today’s news. Apparently, the convincingly lifelike Jennifer Hawkins appears NUDE in this month’s Marie Claire.

You’d think such a move would be applauded. I think it far better that Our Jen is being viewed on high stock paper rather than the changeroom of the Newcastle Knights. What’s the big deal? At least no one is spoodging on her breasts without a by-your-leave and it’s nice that she’s pretty and it’s great that she has such a colossal rack.

If you’d ever met Jen, which I did briefly during Melbourne’s Spring Racing Carnival, you would only be happy that the dear lamb has something so extraordinary to offer. The woman seems unable to make a sentence. Seriously. This is not sour grapes but the truth. Her grasp on object and verb was so poor that my producer that day, an habitual sycophant when it came to celebrities, said “Fuck me. What the cunt did she say? We can’t put her on the radio. People will cry.”

So it’s nice that Jen has something. And who cares if Marie Claire posit Hawkins ostensibly untouched photos as inspiring? I fucking don’t. Jackie “Couldn’t-Recognize-A-Great-Fucking-Pitch-From-A-Sassy-Writer-Named-Helen-If-It-Rimmed-Her” Frank Couldn’t. But some woman even less famous than me does.

I shouldn’t be nasty about Bianca Dye , a person largely unknown to me, as I dimly recall she once sent me a supportive email during one of my lavishly published sackings. I suppose that she sent these words of support in the spirit of sisterhood. And, no doubt it was the same “feminist” spirit that led her and other “feminist” women to sound off to press about the Hawkins nude.

The impulse to embrace womanhood-in-its-multiple-lumpiness might be nice. But it’s confused sometimes disingenuous and Oh FUCK ME I am SICK to my rarely-rimmed quarters of this whining.

Positive body image blah blah blah. Beauty Queens compromises all the positive moves feminism has made blah blah blah.

What? Crap. Dye whose own nude posturing is apparently “positive” because she’s a bit tubby, is one of many convenience feminists. i.e. They don’t give a flying fuck about feminism unless the matter is intimately related to the fucking cottage cheese on their own thighs. They register discontent with the boot rule of patriarchy only when they see something in a magazine edited by a shit-head who won’t employ me.

“Body Image” seems the only realm in which it remains acceptable to express anything resembling a feminist standpoint. It strikes me as odd, and not a little self serving, that Fashion Shows and glossy mags are seen as the primary locus for “feminist” debate as it is uttered by people like Dye.

Talk of equal pay, domestic violence and the arsenal of issues that once occupied feminism has disappeared and is replaced by the moaning of middle brow motherfuckers who feel the emergence of a size 14 model will, somehow, transform the world.

Of course, someone always hoists the spectral image of a 14 year old girl with an eating disorder into play for this dull-as-dishwater debate; but it remains doubtful that there is any necessary connection between skinny models and imitative starving.

Why has feminism become so toothless? Why is its purview limited to raging about how Muslim women are oppressed and magazines don’t have pictures of fatties? And why, more to the point, is Bianca Dye working in radio when I can’t even get anyone to listen to my cocking podcasts?

Perhaps I should show people my tits.

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