The manner of speaking

Eloquence enthusiasts take heed. You are close to annihilation! Come out, come out and defend your turf wherever you are!

After watching yesterday's episode of Insiders on the ABC, it finally all falls into place:

Just like Thom said it would. Maynard he too knows that the pieces fit.

Invisible question marks; parenthetical 'you knows' and 'do you know what I means' have been attaching themselves to sentences for the last few years.

Why has this disturbing phenomenon swept through society like a ravaging vaginal rash? Is the hoy poloy now only capable of speculation and contemplation? Has the human race been overrun with a sense of 'meh' and 'whatever'? Is gross inarticulation the order of the day, year and century?

ARGH!

And it is not confined to the people who were never taught proper grammar at school either. It's everywhere, albeit under slightly different guises.

'Sort of' and 'almost' are the grown up versions of 'like' and 'do you know what I mean'.

For example, demi-god Barrie Cassidy has said:

But it's not just raking over history though because for a while there seemed to be this almost obsession with your preselections that you went for the average Joe rather than the sort of party professional. I suppose Jackie Kelly was the best demonstration of that.

And Malcolm gee-you-really-stuffed-up-with-that-whole-fake-email-thing-but-hey-give-me-some-of-your-money-and-I'll-forgive-you Turnbull has dished out:

If you have a sort of black gallows sense of humour you may recall on Thursday, Julie Bishop the shadow treasurer asked Wayne Swan whether the Government guarantee on wholesale funding, the fee charged for that, would be higher for a BBB rated bank than for a AA rated bank.

And even our beloved leader, K-Rudd:

You know, people ask, you know, what's all this about. Let me just say a few basic things. Personally, I am a huge believer in local government. For me, it's just normal and natural, there's no great sort of trick in this. It's an important, fundamental elementary part of Australia's national life, what you do.

I get the feeling that declarative statements were, sort of, you know, early naughties. Do you, like, know what I mean?

Am I the only living practitioner of the English language that desperately tries to not fall victim to this strange yet addictive affliction? Is there anyone else out there that feels my pain? Articulate your thoughts if you would be so kind.

Yours,
No 1 sufferer of DIS (Diction Irrelevance Syndrome).

Follow your dreams.

Alternatively, buy a panflute. Don't ask yourself if you need one or you won't buy one... and then you would be left with NOTHING.

What am I talking about? I ask myself sometimes too. I think there was a time when my brain lacked oxygen...

More than you are.

Warning! Warning! Aliens approaching! This blog post is highly auto-biographical and should only be read by ridiculously keen readers.

The people: How is that any different to the other tripe you post on this thing?

Kid A: Good point.

So read on...

This morning I was listening to triple j and they played Grinspoon's magical music creation:

Were you neurotic as a child?



Did they come around and watch your style?



Did you have plans to be a star?


Did you have plans to become more than you are?


I know I can answer a resounding YES to all those questions.

Not only that, I have fond memories of uni o-week when I indeed partied like it was 1999, because, well, it was. This song used to blast out of the speakers every day to wake up the poor little freshers, which I was one, that resided in a certain castle-like college. Then, of course, we would continually 'reminisce' about that first week every month or so for the next 3 years at college turns.

This got me a touch misty eyed and I thought I would compile a list of things that I missed about 1999:

• My first car - a 1997 Ford Laser Sedan with manual transmission (oh how I miss you, Mr Gear Stick).
  
• My laptop with a Windows 95 operating system, while it took about 5 minutes of whirring fan noises to turn on, it had my Freecell record -- a streak of 32o wins or so.
• "Working" as a promoter at Silvers which was the biggest rort ever. You got $1 and $1 worth of drinkcards for each person you got in on your doorlist (averaged about 30 each Thursday), but that equated to being a LOT OF ALCOHOL. Not only that, it helped to have a tech-savvy friend who scanned the drink card and printed off 20 or so meaning that a few of us would drink Coronas and other expensive drinks instead of $1 pots. Ooh yeah.
• On that note, also busted into several college balls - I seem to have a hazy recollection of White Russian at Whitley/Ridley.
  
• The Lemontree and annoying Alex JESAAAAAULLLLLLLEEEEEEENNNNNNKKKKOOO two doors down upon leaving.
  
• The Downunder (hang on, no wait, I don't miss that, that was f*n horrible with that crazy banana tasting Geelong Bitter).
• The excessively large pool of people to pash at uni because let's face it, you had already been with everyone decent in your small country town and were looking down the barrel of round two.
• My patent Airwalks - they were so hot right then. And my Royal Elastics. They were sooo beautiful.
• $1.50 sushi handrolls at uni.
• Thinking glitter was an acceptable form of eye make up.
• Jack-Jack-Jackie. Jackie when you're touching my soul in the candlelight.
  
• My triangle pillow. Those were good times.
• My waterbed. You may think - what was I thinking? - but I liked it. Even after seeing that scene in Nightmare on Elm Street 4, where a girl gets trapped in her water bed. (I'm sorry - that was the worst of the Nightmare series! The tone is set at the start when Freddy comes back to life through dog's pi$$!)
• Carlton actually being a solid AFL side. Ol' reliable Carlton. And while they lost the Grand Final that year to Wayne Carey North, they were the shiz. Andrew McKay, Fraser Brown, Matthew Lappin... the list of stars is as long as Dirk Diggler's Doodle.
  
• The excitement when Brett Lee burst on to the cricket scene as the 'next big thing'.
• Fitting into size 8 pants.
• Being able to sleep anywhere, anytime.

Memories like the corner of my mind.

Indeed Nana.

Keep the dream alive.

Do it, do it, do it!

Mmmm... oh yeah.... oh baby.

So it was pointed out to me that my last blog post was particularly nasty. I'm sorry about that. I'll endeavour to keep things above the belt (which of course resides on the floor).

Peace out.

Hey now, hey now, the dream is over.

Questions are always out there. Like the truth.

Question 1: Do you lay awake at night wondering whether Lleyton will un-impale himself out of his quasi-retirement to retake the title of, ooh, any tennis tournament?

C'mmoooon!

Neither do I.

How un-Australian of me. That's not true. I'm just a tortured little soul. After being left completely bereft upon hearing of the death of the late Mr Michael Jackson and not to mention Ms Farah Fawcett (who?), I just have nothing more to give for little Lleyton.

Question 2: Did anyone out there stay glued to the couch to watch last night's epic 5 set titanic struggle between our man Hewy and Andy eyes-so-close-together-they-are-almost-side-by-side-and-what-the-hell-is-with-that-weird-serving-technique Roddick?

That's Hewy, not spewy.

Neither did I.

But when I found out the result - well, the tears flowed! My chest was beaten in rage against this extremely unfair turn that the universe has taken! Emotional words of wisdom abound (he was injured etc)! Ermmm... or not.

So anyway, I am loving Sydney in all its sunny glory. What is there not to love about it? Actually one thing - do not buy 3 rice paper rolls for $3.50 at the Hunter Connection. Why? Well the prawns come with free poopy in their digestive tract. Ewwwwwww. And it's some serious black stuff. Fingers crossed I don't end up looking like that blonde chick in the photo in circa 40 minutes.

Mwa to you and see you on the flipside (or maybe not, considering I don't anticipate catching a Yemenia Airlines flight at any time in this lifetime).

Jordan does Ibiza (and anything with a pulse).

Katie Price - you dirty, dirty girl.

After giving Peter Andre some kind of sign that their relationship had gone down the proverbial toilet, Jordan starting auctioning her anatomy off to the lowest bidder.

The mythical powers of the anagram reveal that its in her name --- Tackier Pie. It is clear that she can't help but spread 'em for all and sundry.

To the photographic evidence!

Jordan - Queen of Sluts

Lightly stroking her big V.

Looking to burrow further down the rabbit warren

Donning a tablecloth. Don't be fooled, it's probably edible material.

Tactically placed strips of material.

Look girls - I can fit two in at once. It's my most awesome party trick.

Xena on steroids.

Pressing pause.

In the best ever movie scene to grace small, large, sun/shower/fly screens, Robert DeNiro says to Al Pacino in Heat: "Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner."


A+.

Tell me can you feel it? Tell me can you feel it? Tell me can you feeeeeeel it? The heat is on. (Cue 80s Saxophone)

And while I am not really finding myself in a position where the “heat” is on, I do find myself in a position where I cannot blog for at least a week and a half - I am going on holiday AND I have the flu. Potentially porcine strand.

H1N1 and me

I find this all a bit shit. But I guess that's the way it crumbles, cookie-wise.

See you in a bit

xx