STOP THE BOATS

Picture says it all, doesn’t it?

In 2007, when the Howard Government handed the reigns of this country over to the ALP, there were four people in detention.  Four.

Now there are several thousand.

In a matter of five years, our Immigration Policy has turned into a humanitarian disaster.

Sure, there are people that will argue about Howard’s Pacific Solution’s humanity and so on, but it’s interesting how those same people will overlook what’s happening today.

People (and the media at large) crucified Howard for the Pacific Solution, as people in detention were starving themselves, stitching their mouths closed, rioting and claiming they were living in inhumane conditions.

Don’t kid yourselves; the same thing is happening now.  However, the media seem to be overlooking that fact, and are praising the Gillard Government for their Malaysia People Swap Policy and their desperate attempts to fix what was not broken in the first place.

Some of the harshest critics of the Pacific Solution have now come out and confessed that the Rudd/Gillard Governments attempt at a more ‘open armed’ policy toward immigration has failed.

Sure, we remember the Pacific Solution as the catalyst for the ‘children overboard’ scandal, which saw people throwing their children into the ocean in an attempt to gain access to this country.  It was horrendous.

However, is it more horrendous that a boat load of people smashing against the rocks at Christmas Island?  Is t more horrendous than the two boats that have sunk just this week, or the hundreds of people that have died in the last five years?

It’s all just a waste.  A desperate waste.

I think most Australian’s don’t really have a problem with refugees and immigrants coming to live here.  We’re a pretty open minded culture, and can appreciate how wonderful this country is to live in. I mean; who wouldn’t want to live here?  We’re awesome!

Though, it would appear that most of us can’t fully appreciate the nightmares that these refugee’s are fleeing from.  We’ve got it too good here (thank the Lord) to really understand what it’s like to live in chaos.

We need to understand the plight of some of these refugees, for us to appreciate their desperation.

Imagine a life in which you are but a simple man of simple needs.  You meet a wonderful woman, and you plan a future together.  You don’t want much; just a home, and a job to provide for your family.

However, you live in a country where you are persecuted for your religious beliefs.  You’re a native of that country, just like the people around you, but because your religious views are different, you are outcast and targeted.  Violently targeted.

The one thing that keeps you safe is the leader of the nation.  Saddam Hussein.  He loves people of your faith.  He protects your clergy and your churches.  He keeps you safe, because during his reign; no one questioned him.

Hussein may have done many, many bad things, but he did keep you safe, and you could quietly build that life with your family you so innocently want.

Then one day, it’s all over.  People from a foreign country attack your lands for reasons you don’t understand, and not only is your future under threat, but now that Hussein has been ‘removed’, your life is now at stake.

Clergymen and bishops are being slaughtered by the new regime.  People of your faith are being gunned down in the street; attacked in their own homes.  Raped and murdered.

All because you are a Christian.

Yes; a Christian. 

Living in your home land; a land dominated by Islamic Muslims.

Everything you had planned; your entire future is lost, and you fear for your lives. 

What would you do?  You are no longer safe… could you even imagine what that would be like?

Take a moment.  Right now. Just stop and think.  The future you have mapped out for yourself; the existence you lead; is gone.  Your home, job, and life are in ruins, and all you have left, is yourself and your partner.  That’s it.  There is nothing here for you anymore.

No matter where you go in this country, you will not be safe.  You can’t hide, you can’t disappear into the outback, you can’t simply move interstate and start again, because they will find you, and they will kill you.

There is no government you can approach about immigrating to America or Australia, because not only will they shoot you for being a Christian, but they will shoot you for treason.  How dare you want to leave this country!

So you flee. 

You take what few possessions you can, and you disappear into the night.  You make your way into a neutral, safer country, and approach the American embassy; the key to your new life.

Some years later, your find yourself living in beautiful Australia; a country that has everything, including people that are although at times quite judgemental, accepting of who you are.

This is the story of two friends of mine.  Two gorgeous people that had to flee their homeland because they were no longer safe.  They have two beautiful children, and lead a simple life running their own cleaning business.  They work hard to support their family, and are ever appreciative of the opportunities afforded them in Australia.

This is only one story; one of thousands. 

Every refugee has a story; maybe we just need to listen?

Instead, we get caught up in the politics of it all.  Caught up in the thought that these people are not entitled to be here.  Caught up in the blame game as yet another boat capsizes on its way to Christmas Island with its precious cargo.

Gillard is blaming Abbott for blocking a policy that does not ‘stop the boats’.  Abbott is saying that he will not send refugees to Malaysia; a country that is renowned for its cruelty to refugees.  Gillard want’s onshore processing.  Abbott wants offshore processing.  The Greens want to hug fucken trees and throw rainbows at everything.

The idea is to welcome refugees, but stop them coming in illegally.  Stop them jumping the queue.

Charlie Pickering got his knickers in a right twist last night on The Project, as he argued with Steve Price about the validity of refugee’s rights.  So caught up in his obvious dislike for Price, his cool, calm exterior was gone as he angrily snapped ‘Where is the actual queue?  Where does it start and end?’

Good point, really.  Where do they start?  In foreign embassy’s? In international detention centres? Where do they start when there is no governmental foundation for them?

What choice is there for some people?

Charlie said to me last night, after watching The Project, that if one man can produce $7000.00 Australian Dollars to board a boat from Indonesia, then he’s not a refugee.

I argued that it’s not a matter of money.  It’s a matter of opportunity.  Who said a refugee had to be poor? 

A refugee is defined as a person who is outside their country of origin or habitual residence because they have suffered persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or because they are a member of a persecuted ‘social group’. 

Nothing here about money.  Good luck to them if they have it, because they’ll be less of a burden on our already stretched government resources when they are finally allowed to enter our society.

So we turn to our elected officials to resolve this problem, but this week has seen yet another stalemate in decision making.  Another wasted week, and I must ask; who is at fault.

Again, Gillard is blaming Abbott, but need I point out that Gillard’s government are the ones that ‘fixed’ what wasn’t broken in the first place.  If they had just left the Pacific Solution in place, I wouldn’t even be writing this blog now.

Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it clearly worked.  No one could argue that it didn’t stop illegal immigration.  I did.  Four people in detention at the handover of government was proof of that.

So why can we not return to it?  Even temporarily?  Restore off shore processing and return temporary visas (temporary meaning that they can live here until the situation that saw them flee their homeland is resolved)?

Whilst our government bangs around the halls of wisdom achieving nothing, the people smugglers are desperately cramming people on to boats to make their money before their business dries up again. 

The boats will be coming thick and fast now.  Or at least until this is properly resolved.  How many more desperate people will die before the government finally accept that their Malaysian Policy is not the answer, and they need to turn back the clocks?

They can point the finger all they like, but the only people they can blame, are themselves.

Turn back the clocks.  Bring back the Pacific Solution, and iron out the flaws in that policy, if need be.

It’s time to stop playing politics, and start acting in the best interests of not only this country, but the people that are killing themselves to be a part of it.

Peace out.

PUDDING-CAKE

When is a cake not a cake?

When it’s a pudding-cake.

Apparently.

So, Julia is turning into the type of character that I find myself wanting to throw things at.  However, again; the $1500 plasma thing stops me from doing so.

Either she’s arrogant, just plain rude, or is seriously missing her husband, and needs a good root, because fuck me; she’s uptight.

Take a chill pill, love.  Relax.

Now, when you show me a cake like the one Julia made last night, I can see it’s clearly sunk in the middle.  George was right to question it, because that looked like a failure.  A failure which Julia tried to convince us all, was meant to be.

She was more snappy than a fucken Chihuahua, and about as useless as one too.  ‘It’s part cake and the middle is like a pudding.  It’s meant to be like that.’

You do realise, Julia, that these judges know their fucken cakes, right?

I’m no longer thinking that Julia is an arrogant, uptight prissy; she’s a fucken genius! Genius!  Why?  Because she has reinvented the wheel!

You see, I would have thought Julia a fool if the exact same thing hadn’t happened to me on the weekend.

You see, I made a ginger and pomegranate cake from CWA.  Came out of the oven; looked absolutely smashing!  Perfect!  However, when I poured the pomegranate syrup over the hot cake, it collapsed in the centre; just like Julia’s did.

The weight of the syrup collapsed the cake.

So, instead of being too embarrassed to take it to CWA (it’s presently in the freezer.  Yes; shock horror! But I can’t cater for an army and work four days a week), I’m going to dust if off, decorate it with pomegranate seeds, and stick a sign on it that says ‘Ginger and Pomegranate Pudding-Cake – as seen on Masterchef’.

Thank you Julia; thank you.  You’ve not only saved me, but every fucken cook out there that’s ever had a cake flop!  We can now tart it up as ‘pudding-cake’, because ‘it’s meant to be like that’!  It’s a winner! Just ask George, Gary and Matt.  Winner!

She would’ve been popular in the house if she’d won that challenge off the back of a flopped cake.  Sorry; pudding-cake.  Forgive me.  It’s meant to be like that.

Julia’s pudding-cake may not have got her across the line, but it did score her the coveted (not) title of ‘team captain’ for the team challenges.

As soon as the teams were sorted and standing there in the middle of a road, somewhere in suburban Sydney, I turned to Jade and said ‘I can tell you right now, that the yellow team will fail.’

‘Why?  They’re great cooks?’ she replied, naturally astonished at my amazing ability to predict the future.

‘Great cooks, but with strong personalities.  They’ll all clash, and it’ll turn into a debacle.  Mainly because the Chihuahua has sand in her panties from losing the last challenge with her pudding-cake.’

Sure enough; yellow team = fail.  Julia had no idea what she was doing, because who in their right mind would not have butterflied a piece of lamb and smoked it in a smoker! Omg! Particularly when a chef (the owner of the house) was there to help you! Fuck your stupid brown sugar pudding! Smoke the fucken lamb, you clowns!  Jebus!

Fail.  And deservedly so.  Fucken numpties.

As for the other teams: who puts a fucken crumbled corn flake with a lemon delicious pudding?  I make lemon delicious all the time, and I ain’t puttin’ no fucken cornflakes on it! 

And the blue team: Jules, Jules, Jules.  How can you not cook a lamb chop?  Seriously?  I have failed with butterflied lamb, but I have a microwave to fix that.  However, for someone that’s cooked lamb chops so much, and for a team that produced the best two dishes of the day (I so wanted that baked cheese!!), the blue lamb chops cost you the challenge. 

Stupid, basic mistakes that I do not expect from my Masterchefs.  Sure, we all have fails in the kitchen, but this day was littered with blue lamb, no pudding, unsmoked lamb, pudding-cakes and inappropriately placed corn flakes.

I hope the Gods of Masterchef are kind in tonight’s elimination, and send Julia back home to her husband for a servicing. 

Lord knows she needs it.

Pudding-cake peace out.

TO TORTE OR NOT TO TORTE!

So, last night, Masterchef rolls out a challenge that’s right up my alley.

What cake is that?

I said to Iris (I was at her place watching – usual Thursday night routine) ‘This will be interesting.  Half of these Masterchef-knuckleheads can’t bake.’

‘How do they end up on there if they can’t bake?’ she muttered, completely unaware that I’d blogged that very questions a few weeks ago. 

Iris is a MASSIVE baker.  I grew up with homemade biscuits, cookies and cakes in the pantry.  None of this bought plastic rubbish you get in the supermarkets today.  Real, home-style baking.  Yeah.   

A well rounded cook should be able to bake.  The end.

So, for this elimination challenge, the contestants have to ‘name that cake’, and out roll a plethora of gateaux’s like I’ve never seen.  As the camera rolls over them, Mum and I start rattling off what we thing they are… and considering we couldn’t taste, smell or get a really close look at them, I’m pleased to say we got a few.

However, I’m not too proud to say I didn’t know some of them, and certainly didn’t know what a Sacher Torte was.  Gary described the cake that Ben and Emma (Princess Beanie) both stumbled on as a ‘classic cake’.  Shit, I’ve never heard of it.  Have you?

According to Wikipedia (yeah… I know), it’s a specific type of chocolate cake (or torte) invented by chance by a sixteen year old apprentice chef, Jewish-Austrian Franz Sacher in 1832 for Princes Klemens Wenzel von Matternich in Vienna, Austria.  It is one of the most famous Viennese culinary specialties.  Check the blurb out for yourself.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sachertorte

Sounds like a classic cake to me.  However, I’m not in their mastercheffy league, so what the fuck would I know?

So, they all take their turns at picking the various cakes, slicing a piece and hoeing in.  Carrot cake, Victoria sponge, red velvet cake, orange and poppy seed, flourless orange (wtf?)… just to name a few (I’m friggin hungry now).

My favourite moment of the entire show, as Wade’s declaration that ‘This challenge is right up my alley.  I was a fat kid.  I know my cakes.’  I hear ya, my friend.  Well said.

So, Ben and Princess Beanie stumble on this Viennese culinary classic, and find themselves in the final round of elimination. No surprise considering Ben ‘doesn’t bake’, though Princess Beret does bang on about the thousands of cakes she pumps out at home.  However, big difference between pumping out cakes, and knowing what a ‘classic’ cake looks like, my friend.

Now, for a moment, I thought that Mum had accidentally bumped the remote control, and flicked over to a fucken Days of our Lives re-run, because there were tears and cries of ‘don’t do it!’ and all sorts of shit going on.

When I realised that the remote was actually sitting on the couch beside me, and I was still watching Masterchef, I couldn’t believe what was unfolding.

The two bbfl’s are going to have to fight it out! Oh no!  Someone’s Masterchef dream is going to end!  This is terrible!  Oh the drama! *rolls eyes*

In one corner, we have a girl who cry’s hysterically at everything, but has thankfully stopped wearing those stupid beanies.

In the other corner, we have a big dufus who is stumbling along with his arsenal of Mexican dishes, and by his own confessions, is simply there to ‘learn’ and not ‘win’.

What the fuck are you doing there man if you don’t want to win? 

I bet Filippo would have something to say about that.

As I watched Princess Beanie bawl her eyes out (just for something different), Ben romantically threw himself on his sword (or attempted to anyway), by declaring that he wasn’t going to cook against his bffl, and if it meant Emma went through, he would pull out.

FAIL.

Then, when Bo threw his hat in the ring by saying that he’ll take Princess Beanie’s place, I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck is going on in that Masterchef house?

What magical hold has Princess Beanie got over the boys in this competition? What potions is she whipping up in the kitchen that makes them all want to take a bullet for her?

Or is the kitchen not the place where magic happens? Hey? Hey?

Both Bo and Ben (the flowerpot men) declared that they would be able to ‘survive’ in the real world, where Emma wouldn’t, just because they were older.

Ageists.

Forget the fact that she was young enough to go and get a fucken apprenticeship.  Forget that you entered this competition to win, not take a hit for another contestant (which everyone watching cannot stand).

Their declarations of undying love set the rest of the contestants off like fucken fire crackers!  ‘Don’t do it Ben!’ ‘Bo… what are you thinking?’ ‘Boys, come on… you have a dream too..’

FFS.  Actually, come to think of it, it was only the women that carried on.  Though, they were possibly jealous that the boys hadn’t stood up for them in earlier eliminations like they were standing up for Princess Beanie now.

Why is she so special?

Wade was suitably quiet.  He was possibly thinking, like anyone in a competition would be, that if one of these two went, that’s one less good cook I have to worry about.  The fat kid may get his cake and eat it too.

Though, he did have tears in his eyes.  Possibly tears of ‘whatever happens here, it’s going to be awesomer for me!’

Thankfully, the voice of reason (and God) intervened.  Gary calmly pointed out that Bo couldn’t take Princess Beanie’s place.  The rules of the competition said that if she guessed wrong, she went through to elimination.  No one could take her place.

He also said that even if Ben pulled out, Princess Beanie would still have to cook, so realistically, she still had to pass the elimination test.

So Ben said ‘Well, I may as well cook then.’ 

Indeed.  Why throw in the towel when there’s no benefit to it.  But don’t stress Ben; you tried, and your shining armour is still firmly in place.

His later declaration of ‘I’ll just cook the best cake I can’ was an ironic one, considering he didn’t want to knock his bffl out of the competition.

You know Ben, you could have accidentally burnt your cake, curdled the cream, not finished in time, produce something that tasted like shit… whatever.

But no.  He produced the best cake he could, and for someone that ‘doesn’t do cakes’, he did exceptionally well; succeeding in knocking Princess Beanie out of the competition, and completely shattering her Masterchef dream.

Damn.  So much for bffl’s.

Oh well.  Princess Beanie will now have to endure her ‘dream job’ as an apprentice chef at a patisserie, until her dreams of world domination (a dessert bar in Adelaide) come true.

As for Ben, he will now switch gears and endeavour to win this competition, instead of stumbling along like a Mexican that’s had too much tequila.  After all, he owes it to Princess Beanie.  Or… that’s his excuse anyway.

Yeah.  Right. The armour’s starting to look a little tarnished now, my friend.

Maybe he’ll get to have his cake and eat it too now?  All in the name of Princess Beanie.  Well… at her expense, anyway.

The upside of all of this?  I won’t have to tolerate Princess Beanie’s high volume declarations of anything, her constant tears and her stupid fucken beanies.

Peace out *rushes off to buy some Sacher Torte online*

CAR CRASH

You would imagine that with a name that alludes to an accident, that you’re in store for an interesting life.

Shame your ‘reality show’ highlights the exact opposite.

When I first saw the previews for Being Lara Bingle, I assumed two things.  Firstly, Channel 10 must be getting desperate for ratings (clearly Masterchef is not enough), and secondly, Channel 10 must think we’re all fucken idiots to be interested in this crap.

When I got over the initial shock of seeing a promotional ad for BLB, I seriously wondered who would watch this shit.  Who fucken cares?

The world’s fascination with this halfwit with terrible hair is lost on me.  However, as the debut of this desperate attempt at attention-seeking drew closer, I found myself intrigued.  If nothing else, I would get good fodder for my blog.

I was right.

What a self-centred, ignorant dumbarse Lara Bingle (The Human Car Crash) is.  I bet, when her bffl and manager Hermione, came up with the concept of a reality show, she realised two things.  One, it would launch her career (by dragging her into the spotlight as well), and two; people may fall in love with ‘the real Lara’.

Fail on both counts, love.

No wonder Pup gave her the flick; she’s a fucken oxygen thief.  You would seriously get sick of not only having to talk to her, not only having to continually explaining everything to her, but trying to keep up with her constant need for reflective surfaces.  I seriously doubt she is capable of an intelligent conversation on any level.  It would be enough to drive you mental.  Pup did well lasting as long as he did, I think.

As I’m sitting through this half hour of torture (the things I do for a blog), all I wanted to do was attack her hair with a straightener or curling iron, to give it some fucken style.  Being the ontrapanoooor that you are, Lara, I thought you would at least make an effort with your hair.

Every opportunity you get, your gawking at yourself in some kind of reflective surface, and faffing around with your hair.  Darling, here’s a news flash: your hair is horrendous! Do something else with it!

All this show had done so far is highlight not only how stupid she is, but how selfish, rude and immature.

Firstly, what kind of numbnut doesn’t know that her licence has been suspended; for the third time?  The third time!  I mean, I can understand letting the registration slip (I’ve done that myself, as you know), but your licence?

‘Do I have a licence? I’m pretty sure I have a licence?  I have one, don’t I? I think I do?’

You’re fucken kidding me, right?  If this is the standard of Australian entrepreneur, this country is in serious trouble.

Then you bring the mother into the mix.  Last night (yes, I was one of the 782,000 viewers that tuned in for a second round of horror), Lara and her mother were trying to ‘communicate’, and all Lara does is walk away, or call one of her peeps about her car being impounded whilst part way through the conversation!  Either she has ADD (no disrespect to anyone that suffers this horrendous condition), or she’s just plain rude!  I’m tipping it’s the latter of the two.

There she is, attacking her mother saying ‘you should support your child in these situations…’, when her mother is trying to explain to the halfwit that most famous people have half a brain, and don’t stand in their open windows fully naked!  It’s not about support!  It’s about not being a fucken dumbarse!

Clearly this concept was lost on The Human Car Crash, because she’s just too busy staring at her reflection and calling people hands free on her smashed up iphone to understand what’s happening in the real world.

Then mummy dearest attacks her about her friend being fined for driving Lara’s unregistered car.  ‘I’m sure if you were in the spotlight all the time, you’d slip up too…’ was Lara’s moaning defence.

Yeah.  But you seem to slip up a lot…. And when you’re naked… and when you’re about to launch or promote something…. yeah…

Then, her mother declares that her little Human Car Crash can be ‘frustrating’ at times.  No shit.  I’ve wasted a total of forty-five minutes of my life on her, and I still want to slap her.  Hard.  Repeatedly. 

However, one needs to keep in mind that children are a product of their parents, so no sympathy for mummy dearest from me.

I seriously wonder how The Human Car Crash functions on a daily basis.  I’m totally stupefied by her stupidity.  Is that even possible?

Plus, for someone that is supposed to be so attractive (I’m at a loss on that one too, cos I think she’s extraordinarily plain), what the hell was she wearing?  She looked horrendous!  A friggin pilots hat and a puffy jacket from the 1980’s? Gaaa…..

And that awful hair!!! With all that entrepreneurial fortune you have, surely you could do something with it!  Someone tell her it’s terrible!  You look cheap and common.

Oh…hang on….

Then there’s the hunky brother (or so he’s been labelled).  I see a brother (flying along on someone’s coattails, like the bffl Hermione), but no hunk.  Apparently, he’s now quit his ‘real’ job, because he’s so confident of Being Lara’s Bingle’s success.

Maybe he should have waited a few weeks, because the ratings plummeted from 1.036 million views for the first ep, to 782,000 for last nights. 

Back to crane driving for you, Josh.

So, after all of this car drama, falling out with family, being kicked out of her mother’s house, upsetting her Nana, laughing over nude photos and having drama with her make up for fashion week, she’s declared to the world that she has a boyfriend.

That’s good darl.  We’d hate to think that you were lonely now Pup’s gone and got himself married.

Who is he? Or more importantly, what sport does he play?  Are we going to be teased for the rest of the season about this mystery man? Will he make an appearance, or is it just another link in the chain of publicity stunts?

*sigh*.  I’m bored already.

However, I think I will keep watching, simply because I need to be reminded of how ‘normal’ my life is, how complete and balanced it is, and how unselfish and realistic I am. 

And because I do need a reminder not to stand in my open window fully naked.  And that pilot hats are fashionable.  Apparently.

I find it ironic that, for someone that constantly complains about the media following her and being so totally invasive in her life, she’s resolving that with a reality show.

Well done Lara!! *thumbs up*

You have succeeded in confirming what the majority of the population believed: you’re a self-indulgent, spoilt, unrealistic little brat that’s desperately clinging to the fame you think you have.

Talent?  Where the bloody hell are ya?

Cudo’s to Pup: you dodged a bullet with this one, love.

Peace out.

JUSTICE?

I was just 10 years old when I saw the story on the news for the first time.

At the ripe old age of 10, I had no fucken idea about the world.  No real understanding that people were unkind to one another.  That tragic things can happen to good people.  That the media sensationalised stories, and that sometimes, the truth got lost in the process. 

I was never really exposed to anything negative like that.

So, when Lindy Chamberlain tried to convince the world that a dingo took her baby, I was willing to believe.

Though, as time progressed, and a little impressionable 10 year old grew wiser, watched the news and read the newspaper stories, she slowly changed her mind.

The television and the newspaper didn’t lie, did they?  Noooo.  They wouldn’t present a distorted version of the truth, would they? Nooo.

I watched the telly as a serious, emotionless Lindy Chamberlain was lead in and out of court, with her dark, bowl cut; eyes angry at the world.  Hmmmpphh… and why wouldn’t she be? She’d spent the better part of a couple of years trying to get us to believe the truth. 

A dingo took her baby.

Thirty-two years later, as she holds up Azaria’s legally altered death certificate (which no longer states she was murdered), I can’t help but reflect upon the price Lindy Chamberlain has paid.

She lost her daughter, she lost her marriage, she lost her reputation, anonymity, privacy and freedom.  All because a jury of her peers didn’t believe her.  All because the media crucified her.

Did you know that the Northern Territory Police always believed Lindy’s version of the story? 

Did you know that Michael Chamberlain (her now ex-husband) and their son never changed their stories.  Neither did the Whittakers; the family that travelled with the Chamberlains on that fateful camping trip, and were present when Azaria went missing?

A liar’s story can bend and flex with need and want, but the truth always stands firm.

Thirty-two years.  A lifetime ago.  The life a little girl never got to live.

And still, after four royal commissions and enquiries into the death of Azaria Chamberlain, after years and collated evidence and witness testimony, after years of the light being shone on the truth as we now know it; how many of you will still wonder if she did it?

Be honest.  How many of you still wonder if Lindy Chamberlain killed her baby?

The media of the day did their job well on us.  Brainwashed us into thinking she did it.  Or thinking she didn’t.  Who knows?

This nation will always be divided on the issue, irrespective of the truth. 

We will believe the stories of religion and cult killings.  We will believe that the red stain in found in the Chamberlain’s family car (a yellow Torona, by memory) was actually blood, and not red paint as it was later discovered.  We will believe that the son killed his sister, and the parents covered it up. We will overlook that the son was so traumatised and frightened because he thought the dingo would come back for him.

We will believe the wildlife experts that swore a dingo was not capable of such a thing, and forget the multitudes of complaints that the police and park rangers had received in the past about dingo’s attacking people and going into camper’s tents looking for food.

We’ll cling to whatever supports our beliefs.

And we’ll continue discussing it at dinner parties and barbecues for decades to come, not giving a second thought to the price that the Chamberlain family have paid.

What a hell it must have been to live through, knowing all that time you were innocent, yet no one would believe you.  To be judged, ridiculed and imprisoned.  To be robbed of your own life, as well as the life you should have shared with your child.

And ohhh… how they loved to hate you.  The media devoured you like a pack of vicious, starving wolves.  They sensed your fear, encircled you, and pounced; tearing you to shreds.

All because you didn’t behave like a stereotypical grieving mother should.  You weren’t hysterical and constantly crying; you indulged that weakness privately.

No; you were angry.  Seething at the injustice.  Fury overtook the devastation of your loss, and turned this tragedy into a nightmare.

By the time the wolves had finished with you, there was nothing left but tatters of a life once lived. Memories of a time before that fateful day.

I wonder what those wolves would be thinking now?  The people that punished you and celebrated when you were imprisoned for a crime you didn’t commit?

Thirty-two years is a long time to wait for justice. 

Maybe now the Chamberlains can attain some peace through vindication.

Maybe now Azaria can finally rest.

Peace out.

THE WOLF YOU FEED

This little story was posted up on Facebook by my cousin Frog, and I it really struck a chord with me, so I thought I would share it with you.

One evening, and old Cherokee Indian told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said: ‘My son; the battle is between two ‘wolves’ inside us all.

One is evil.  It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

The other is good.  It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.’

The grandson thought about this for a minute and then asked his grandfather: ‘Which one wins?’

The old Cherokee simply replied:  ‘The one you feed.’

WEEK 23 & 24 SYL CHALLENGE: DECLUTTER YOUR ROBE & CLUTTER PREVENTION

So, I’m combining these two challenges this week, because I am already incorporating these things into my life.

The Week 23 ‘de-clutter your wardrobe’ challenge is pretty self-explanatory, and something that I’ve been doing for a long time.

I think I’ve touched on it before in a previous blog; if it’s over twelve months old and I haven’t used it, it’s gone.

Deb’s challenge for week 23 suggests going through things more thoroughly, and really organising yourself.  Here are the five steps she suggests:

Sort ‘like with like’ so you can clearly see what you own. 

What she means, is keep similar things together.  Keep the singles with singles, tee’s with tee’s, jeans with jeans and so on.  Now, to some people, this would sound anal, but to me (who is anal), it makes perfect sense.  Not only can you see what you actually own, but you can fucken find things. 

Get rid of items that belong in the trash.  

Things that you would simply be embarrassed to wear, for whatever reason.  Like, if it’s ‘out of fashion’, or doesn’t fit, or threadbare, or too crappy for ‘play clothes’.  Get rid of it. 

Just a side note: I have play clothes at home.  Play clothes are clothes that are still serviceable, but too crappy to wear out in public.  Stuff that I don’t mind being trashed in the garden, or when I’m chasing cows around, or in the kitchen, or when I’m doing housework.  Old tops, trackie pants, jeans, jumpers; play clothes.

Assess what you have left to see what you have too much of or not enough of. 

I recently did a cull of my wardrobe, and got rid of the things that I don’t wear anymore, but sadly, that’s left me with some serious holes to fill.

At the moment, I find that I don’t have sufficient winter clothing.  I’m wearing like the same four tops that I’ve been wearing for months, simply because I don’t have enough warm clothing.

Sure; I can go out and buy more, but it’s easier said than done.  I don’t always have time to go shopping for clothing, and when I do have time, sometimes I don’t have the money.  Then, when I do have the time and the money, I can’t fucken find anything I like.  Isn’t that always the way?

I figure, if I was skinny, I would be able to shop anywhere and buy anything.  Even though I’m sure skinny people have difficulty finding appropriate, flattering clothing; they have much more choice.  Fucken skinny people.

Ask yourself hard questions.

Do I really need this when I don’t wear it anymore?  Even though it’s pretty? Even though it holds such good memories? Do these items belong to another life? Another part of me?  Am I just hanging on to this for sentimental reasons?  Is it time to let go?

Fill in the gaps to intentionally create your new wardrobe that you will use and love.

This I’ve been doing for a while.  I don’t by anything unless it will go with what I already have in my wardrobe, or unless I’m likely to get a lot of wear out of it.  I like to mix and match, where I can, to get the most mileage out of my clothing.  However, I can be boring with my selections at times.  I rarely do patterns or florals.  Very rarely.  Boring block colours for me, people.  Zzzzz….

So, Week 23’s challenge was about sorting out your threads, including accessories.  Yes; I’ve even culled some handbags and shoes.  OMG.  That nearly fucken killed me, but someone out there at an Op Shop will be enjoying them.

So, this brings us to the Week 24 Challenge: Clutter Prevention.

I don’t know about you, but I find over a period of time, that the ‘clutter’ comes back.  You do a massive clean-up or a massive cull, and six months later, you find yourself doing it again.

Charlie and I don’t buy a lot of ‘stuff’.  We’re not materialistic in that sense.  Yes, I love cook books and dvd’s, so I tend to see these collections grow.  However, I couldn’t tell you the last time I bought an ornament or decoration for my house.  I couldn’t tell you the last time I bought something for my kitchen, because I believe I have everything I need anyway.

However, I still need to cull, and most of the culling is done in the fucken shed.  That’s Charlie’s domain, and again, I’ve touched on this before.

However, sitting here typing this makes me think of the boxes full of old cook books that I have in the top of the wardrobe.  It may be time to cull some of them too.

I think the key to preventing clutter is being content with what you have.  Some people just buy shit for the sake of buying it.  They see something, and they simply must have it, whether it’s realistic or not. 

Sometimes you’ve got to step back and ask yourself whether you really need something.  Too many of us buy stuff on impulse, from a new set of pretty towels for the guest bathroom (when the ones you have a perfectly fine) to the latest whizz-bang tv (when the one you have works perfectly).

We just consume too much shit, and it’s not just the clutter factor involved, it’s the cost.  Sure, something may only cost you $10, but if you impulse buy ten times, suddenly, you’ve spent a $100 on shit you don’t really need. 

You know what I could do with $100?  Buy a couple of new fucken tops for winter, is what.

I like to ask myself if my life will go on if I don’t have such and such a thing.  Sure, it sounds tight-arsy, but let’s be real here: I have a fucken mortgage to pay and a car to run.  It’s a matter of priority.

Plus, I would rather spend my money on things I know I would enjoy, like books (for my Kobo), cook books, plants for the garden, and new fucken clothes for winter.

Your money only goes so far; don’t waste it on a heap of shit you can really do without.

I think the fact that I’ve got other priorities in my life (like a fucken mortgage) has forced me to understand that sometimes, you just can’t have all this shit you want. 

It’s taught me to be content with what I have.  It’s taught me to live in the present and enjoy the things around me, and set limits on what I can afford.  It’s taught me to not stress over the material, and shift my focus on to more worthwhile things, like time with family and friends.

It’s simplified my life, I suppose you would say, and isn’t that the entire purpose of this challenge?

Peace out.

WHY CAN'T PEOPLE ON MASTERCHEF BAKE?

You know what?

If I was going to enter a competition like Masterchef, (kill me if I ever suggest the idea), I would ensure one thing: I was packing a fully loaded arsenal of knowledge. 

In my view, you can’t go into a competition like this with limited knowledge.  You’re supposed to be a Masterchef, after all, and your knowledge should be broad, if not thorough.

So, here are the top five things that I would ensure before I entered Masterchef:

One:                Learn to fillet a fish.

Two:                Get a grasp of as many different cuisines as I possibly could.

Three:             Be able to make pasta and bread.

Four:               Be able to make sauces and dressings.

Five:                Learn to fucken bake.

It’s funny how people write off baking.  Just because you can spew up some magnificently pretty, Asian inspired masterpiece with pretty purple flowers on it and perfectly balanced flavours, doesn’t mean you can fucken cook.

What kind of cook can’t bake?

Baking is like a foundation of all cooking.  Understanding balances of flavours is one thing, but understanding the chemistry of a fucken cake is another.

People forget that baking is not just about pumping out beautifully decorated comfort food that you throw in the kids lunch box or take to an afternoon tea.  It’s about really understanding the way that ingredients work with one another in an oven.

It’s not like you’re cooking on the stove top, and can shift gears part way through the process.  Once that bun’s in the oven, there’s no turning back.

I am absolutely astonished at how many competitors on Masterchef are not competent bakers.

When they’re given a challenge that requires baking, like last nights ‘Afternoon Tea’ challenge, the majority of them outwardly groan.

This really pisses me off.

Harden the fuck up.  You’re supposed to be the top 24 amateur cooks in the country; you should not only be able to bake, but fucken love it.  Don’t complain when you’re given a challenge; that’s the whole concept of the show, you lunatics.

Of course, we have our stars that love to shine, and there are a couple of clear front runners in the baking department.

My buddy Filippo, who’s intensity still freaks me out, and Julia, who’s arrogance makes me want to throw the remote at the telly.  The only thing that stops me is that it’s a $1500 telly that’s not worth sacrificing for her.

So, when they’re told to create an afternoon tea for like 100 people, I’m astonished at what they produce.  Sure, they have to forage around for their ingredients; that’s not the problem.

The problem is that they looked pretty ordinary.  I would expect that cooks of their standards would produce things that looked perfect.  Tarts and éclairs that were uniform.  Jam filled biscuits that were not the size of saucers with jam running everywhere.  How fucken amateur.  And little mini muffiny things that didn’t look like something that a five year old had produced (apologies to all five year olds that can actually cook).

The only thing that looked decent were the melting moments, and I swear; if I heard anyone bang on any more about Julia handing over her precious recipe to Mario with strict instructions to not destroy it, I would again throw the remote at the telly.

For fucks sake: it’s a melting moment.  Get over yourselves *rolls eyes*

So both teams think that they’re going to win and one get’s absolutely annihilated.  Gee, what a surprise.

Again, I’m sitting on the couch feeling insulted because these ‘best amateur cooks in Australia’ can’t bake, and I can.  Sure, I can’t fillet a fucken fish, but at least my cupcakes are uniform and my jam biccies wouldn’t look like murdered Frisbees.

Maybe the name of the show should be Masterbake, because subjecting these numpties to a baking competition would sort the men from the boys.

Watching them freak out because they can’t continually spew out Mexican, Asian, Indian or weird shit would be entertaining; possibly more entertaining than the snore-fest we’re getting now.

However, apparently Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein are coming in soon, so at least we’ll finally get to see some people that can really fucken cook (and bake!).

Peace out.