LIKE A PRAYER

So, I hear last week that they’re going to install ‘prayer rooms’ at all football venues, so that Muslims can pray whilst they’re at the footy.

Now, my initial reaction to this announcement by the AFL was simple astonishment.

Why on earth are we dragging religion into this game? 

For the love of Pete, why can’t people just come to the footy and watch?  Why do we have to accommodate people that need to pray at certain times of the day?  If their necessity to pray impacts upon their ability to involve themselves in social activities, then they need to sort their priorities. 

If they can’t cope a few hours without prostrating themselves, then don’t come to the footy.  The rest of us shouldn’t have to accommodate them.

And what about the other faiths?  What about Christians? Wiccans? Evangelists? Mormons?  Jehovah’s Witnesses? Buddhists? Hindu’s? Hare Krishnas?  Where’s they prayer rooms?

By singling out one faith, is the AFL discriminating against all of the others?  Is that even possible? 

I’m confused…

That was my first reaction.

Then, I was astounded to learn that the MCG have had prayer rooms for seven years.

Seven years. 

AND, these spaces are available to people of all faiths, not just Muslims.  The term ‘prayer room’ implies that they are for Muslims, but it’s a generic term designed to accommodate everyone.

They have also been recently introduced to Etihad Stadium, and will soon appear at ANZ Stadium as well.  Other grounds will follow suit.

At this point, I feel sorry for the AFL, because their attempt at getting some PR mileage out of this…. open-minded accommodation… would appear to have backfired.

Jeff Kennett, the human bucket mouth, was the first one up on his pedestal screaming about Australia’s Christian social fabric being torn apart because we’re constantly accommodating minorities. 

QUOTE: ‘How dare the AFL take the game MY forefathers have played for generations and turn it into a religious political football for a minority.’

‘With due respect, the culture of Australia is a Christian society of many faiths and many community backgrounds… when you come to a community, the community can be gracious and it can be generous, but it doesn’t have to change its very fibre.’

Good point.

And one I would have strongly agreed with if the AFL hadn’t pointed out that these ‘prayer rooms’ were for ALL denominations.

Then I have to ask myself this: is this even a problem at all?  So what if people drop into the prayer rooms, and have a quiet moment to themselves without bothering anyone?

The stadiums offer male and female toilets, snack bars and public bars for our convenience, why not prayer rooms?  What’s the difference?

I’d get more pissed off at drunken Collingwood ferals at the footy than I would a Muslim who quietly slips away at 2.00pm and sends one up to Allah, let me tell you.

At least the Muslims have a little more respect.

Eddie McGuire once famously said ‘It’s not as if we’re going to have falafel stuffed in our face.  This is irrational fear that has no place in the game.’

Australia is a multicultural society, whether you like it or not.  We are made up of many different people with many different cultures, traditions and faiths.  It’s our nature to embrace all of these cultures, and welcome them into our community.

It is also our nature to condemn something that is different. 

So, where do we find the balance?  Is a prayer room really accommodating everyone, or is it singling out and drawing attention to the unassuming?

Is it necessary, or is it a ‘politically correct’ overreaction?

Our society is united by our enjoyment of sport; particularly footy.  All of those that love the game should welcome people with open arms, and not turn them away because they have different points of view.

If that was the case, there would be no Collingwood supporters at all :D

So, next time you’re at the footy, drop into the nearest prayer room and send one up to whatever God you believe in, for your team.

It may make a difference.

Peace out.

UNROMANTIC WEEKEND

So, it was Charlie’s and my wedding anniversary last week.

We’ve been together for eleven years; married for four of them.  Just bliss *rolls eyes*.

So, in typical fashion, we organised a night in the city to celebrate.

Now, here’s the deal; I organise the accommodation, and Charlie organises the entertainment.

Entertainment does not involve special cuddles.  Well, not just special cuddles.  I need more ‘stimulation’ than that.

So, I kept my part of the bargain, and organised a night in a hotel we’ve stayed in before, called the Hotel Charsfield, on St Kilda Road.

It’s a beautiful old hotel that’s been magnificently restored, and is nestled amongst all of the modern, angular monstrosities that is modern architecture.  It’s quite a visual surprise amongst the concrete jungle that is St Kilda Road.

What did Charlie organise, I hear you ask?

Fucken nothing.

His plan was to take a tram ride up St Kilda Road to China Town.  On our wedding night (we got married in the afternoon), we had a meal in Chinatown, and it was beautiful, so he wanted to go back there.  Lovely sentiment on his part.

However, that would require planning and booking; something completely foreign to him.

Then after dinner, we would catch a movie and go back to the hotel for some lovin’.  (The ‘lovin’ bit was the important part of his plan, me thinks).

So, we get into the city about 7pm (because Charlie had fucken golf in the afternoon), check in, dump our stuff, and head out to catch a tram.

Now, I’ve only been on a tram twice before.  Once on the City Circle Tram with my bestie peeps, and once on the Tram Car Restaurant that hoons around the city.  Now that was an awesome night out.

Anyway, we jump on the ridiculously crowded tram, and she, who suffers from motion sickness, is standing on the turntable part of the tram; you know those long trams with the accordion bit in the middle? Well, they have a ‘turntable’ inside so the accordion bit can flex.  So yeah; that were I’m standing.

Having never really travelled much on a tram, I was unfamiliar with how they are driven.  When they take off, it’s like a fucken rocket.  The tram is then driven like it’s stolen, before the anchors are thrown out and we come to a screeching halt at the next stop. 

I spent most of the trip being thrown around like a fucken ragdoll, and I’m sure at one point, I was flying at a ninety degree angle to the floor, clinging desperately to the rail.

I lasted ten stops (quite proud of that) before I grabbed Charlie and declared that we need to get off this fucken roller coaster before I throw up the packet of Twisties I had on the way down here.

Not a good start to the night.

So, we jump out (for our lives) at Flinders Street, and are greeted with the comforting smells, sights and sounds of a city alive at night.

There were people everywhere!  I couldn’t believe it!  We’re supposed to be heading into a recession!  Why the fuck weren’t these people at home watching telly or something?  Unbelievable!

So we beat our way through the throng, toward Chinatown.  I will say this: pink hair, short dresses and thongs seem to be the fashion for young ladies in the city at the mo.  As for the men; don’t even get me started.

We finally get to Chinatown, and I’m ready to eat my arm I’m so fucken hungry.  Of course, the smell of the region doesn’t help my case, because that familiar, common ‘Chinese food’ smell was everywhere. 

We wandered along the strip, checking out a few restaurants, and realised that at 8.30pm at night, there really weren’t a lot of places to eat.  They were either full, had long queues waiting to get in, or were too expensive.

This is the point where I wanted to kill my husband for not booking or organising anything for us.  I fucken knew this would happen!

My distress was relieved when I stumbled into an Asian gift shop that was full of Hello Kitty stuff.  I walked out with a new phone cover, and that pacified my mood for…. Ooohhh… a good thirty seconds, then I was back into ‘kill’ mode.

Fuck I was hungry.  Not a good position to be in if you’re diabetic.  Something I made very clear to Charlie on one occasion.

There was a ‘beat boxer’ on one of the street corners, with quite a crowd around him.  He was pretty awesome, actually.  I think Charlie was new to the ‘beat box’ thing *rolls eyes* (this is what I live with) and stood there for a good five minutes listening before I physically dragged him away. 

By the time we reached the top of Chinatown, I was tired, cranky, bruised from bashing through the crowd, and way past hungry.  It was 9.15pm.

I turned to my poor husband and declared ‘I’m done.  Take me back to the Hotel, and we’ll get room service.  I’m fucken done.’

Poor Charlie’s head dropped; he had failed, and his beloved wife was not happy.  Dog. House.

So we trudged back down Chinatown and turned toward Burke Street, where I knew we would find a taxi rank.  That’s when we stumbled across a little Asian café that was busy, but had a couple of people leave as we walked past.

We were in.

We had a lovely, simple meal of wontons for the starter, and Beef Satay and Sweet and Sour Pork (old skool) with rice for mains.  We even lashed out and took advantage of the dinner special; $1 cokes with every meal!  Oh yeah!  We were livin’ large!!

Charlie then took me to a fine establishment (7 Eleven) for an ice cream (no expense spared), before we took a cab back to the hotel.

At 10.00pm, I slipped into my jimmies, watched the end of the footy with my beloved, and promptly fell asleep on his shoulder.  I was nudged awake, told to put my cpap mask on (cos I was snoring), and did not wake until my bladder interrupted my sleep at some ungodly hour of the morning.  My eyes didn’t open again until 8.30am.

Breakfast was enjoyed in the hotel dining room, with a massive selection of breads, condiments, cereals, fruits, juices, yoghurts, croissants, muffins, teas and coffee.  It was awesome. 

After checkout, Charlie and I risked another tram ride into the city, which fortunately for him, I was able to get a seat on. 

We wandered around the Arts Centre market, where I marvelled at the talents that some people display.  The crafts and handmade items were just beautiful.

We wandered around Federation Square, which I think is an amazing place.  Sure; it looks like someone dropped a ceramic tile and glued it back together again, but I love it.  Charlie had never been there before (OMFG), and when I took the man that fabricates steel for a living into the atrium, he was lost. 

I swear he stood there staring at the steel work for about ten minutes, muttering some incoherent babbled about steel, mazes and jigsaw puzzles.  I dragged him to tables and chairs nearby and made him sit down so he could look at the structure without concerning security and embarrassing me.

After more tram rides, getting lost in Crown (they’ve changed the food court/movie entrance around a bit) and walking past shops that we could never afford to shop in, the Buttlers called it a day, and headed home.

Yep.  One of the most romantic weekends I’ve ever had.

Romantic peace out.

POLICE SPRAY

So, I’m heading through Kilmore the other morning, thinking to myself ‘I’m having a good run today’, when I hear on the radio that there’s been an accident.

Wallan never makes the news unless it’s for something bad (usually the case for most suburbs, really) and apparently there was a nasty accident down there somewhere.

Great.

So as I’m head through Wallan, I can see that the police are at one of the intersections ahead of me, re-directing traffic. 

Now, there were police, flashing lights and traffic everywhere, so I naturally assumed that this is where the accident was.  However, I was too busy trying not to cause another accident to really see any gory action stuff, so I didn’t really take a lot of notice.

So, I turn right (as directed), and head through the back of Wallan, and come back onto the Northern about half a click past the accident.

Yay! Back on track! I think to myself, as I hoon off past the footy club and toward the Hume.

That’s when I see it. 

The accident wasn’t at the set of lights after all; it was over the rise and about a kilometre away from the Hume. 

And it was big.

So I join the relatively short queue, which appeared to be moving, in the patient hope that I will get through eventually.

There’s traffic dripping through from the other direction, and my lane was moving slowly, so we had to be getting through.  Right?

Wrong.

Twenty-five minutes later, my impatience has gotten the best of me, and I realise now that it’s not traffic coming the other way, but vehicles turning around.  That’s why my lane was moving. 

Standing on the side of the road, just a little head of me, was a couple of coppers, having a good old yap. 

When I get close enough to them, I wind down my window, and catch the eye of one of them.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask politely.

‘There’s been an accident.’ He said matter-of-factly.

No shit, I thought.  ‘Really? I would never have guessed.’ I sighed.  ‘Can we get through?’

‘No.’ he laughed.  ‘The roads completely blocked.  You’ll have to turn around and go back through Kilmore’

‘What?’ I gasped.  ‘When the fuck were you going to tell me that?’ I snapped.  He just looked at me like he’d been slapped.  ‘I’ve been sitting in this queue for twenty-five minutes, and you didn’t think to come along and tell people that they can’t get through?  Are you kidding me?’

‘Um…. We have a diversion at the intersection….’ He pointed in the direction from whence I’d come.

‘Well clearly that’s working well!’ I barked.  ‘I was redirected this way!  And what about all the poor bastards coming out of the estate between here and the intersection?  No one’s redirecting them?’

He looked back down the line of traffic toward the estate entrance, a little lost.

‘It’s clear you traffic management skills are somewhat questionable, champ.’ I barked again, and he turned to me with eyes of steel.  ‘I can’t believe that you’re not walking along this line of traffic and telling people to turn around!  I can’t believe you don’t have someone posted at the estate entrance? What the hell do you expect all of these people to do?’

‘Well… we’re doing the best we can…’

‘Um… no you’re not.’ I snapped again.  I could have reached out of my fucken window and throttled him.  ‘I’ve wasted twenty-five minutes of my life in this queue.! Twenty-five minutes I’ll never get back again, and to top it all off, I’m now fucken late for work!  And that’s happened whilst you’ve been standing on the side of the road yapping to your friggin mate there!’ I said, pointing to the other female copper, who was watching the scene with a great deal of interest.

‘Like I said, we’re doing the best we can.’ He said a little stiffly.

‘And like I said, no you’re not.  You two should be walking along this queue and turning everyone around instead of just standing there.  That’s traffic management.  Then you should have someone’s arse standing at that estate entrance turning people around.  Surely you can see that what you’re doing now is not working?’

He looked up the queue of cars again, his mind clearly ticking over.

‘Jesus mate; common sense is free.  You’ve robbed me of twenty-five minutes; the least you could do is save the poor bastards behind me.’ And with that, I put my car in gear, drove ahead a little bit and turned around.

As I drove back past the coppers again, they were starting to approach the other waiting drivers.  Amazing *rolls eyes*

Took some numptie office manager to point out the bleeding fucking obvious.

I have an immense amount of respect for the Victorian Police Force, but these two must have been the dumbarses of their graduating class, with a FAIL in traffic management for sure.

Clowns.

Peace out.

BIG ROCKS FIRST

Stephen Covey is a well published author and professor at a business school in America.  His book ‘7 Habits of Highly Effective People’ has sold millions of copies world wide.

He’s created many business methods and time management tools to help people become more successful, but is also known for a famous talk once given about big rocks and small rocks.

I’ve found it, albeit in summary, on the interwebs, and wanted to share it with you.

In the middle of a lecture, a presenter pulled out a wide-mouth jar and placed it on the table, aside to some fist-sized rocks.

After filling the jar to the top with rocks he asked, “Is the jar full?”

People could see that no more rocks would fit, so they replied, “Yes!”

“Not so fast,” he cautioned. He then got some gravel from under the table and added it to the jar, filling the spaces between the rocks. Again, he asked, “Is the jar full?”

This time the students replied “Probably not.”

The presenter then reached a bucket of sand below the table, and dumped it on the jar, filling the spaces between the rocks and the gravel. Once again he asked “Is the jar full?”

“No!”, the students shouted.

Finally, he grabbed a pitcher of water and filled the jar completely, asking to the public what they could learn from that illustration.

One of the participants answered, “If you work at it, you can always fit more into your life.”

“No,” said the presenter. “The point is, if you don’t put the big rocks in first. . . would you ever have gotten any of them in?”

It is suggested that you can apply this theory to every aspect of your life, from work to home life. 

Focus on the big things first, for they’re what gives your life structure and joy.  The rest is just filler.

Peace out.