Last night on my radio show we had our annual stripathon, as part of
Triple R's Radiothon celebrations. The premise? One article of clothing taken off for every subscriber. Sounds like bad radio, you say? You're so fucking right. It's two hours of shouty chaos. And it ends with us standing in the studio like nude morons while all our friends and guests leer through the glass, taking photos and touching themselves inappropriately.
Anyway, here are some things that happened:
1) When Mark Wilson from uber-famous 'rock' stars
Jet was on, my co-host Paul chummily encouraged him to subscribe as a band ($66) so Jet could be in the running to win 200 pressed copies of their single. 'That might give you a bit of a kick start in the industry,' he said helpfully, adding: 'Cold Hard Bitch, now that's a bit of a toe-tapper. You might want to think about releasing that one.'
2)
The Spazzys proved themselves to be the biggest perverts in rock, loitering around the studio waiting for people to get naked and occasionally shouting 'GET YA FUCKING GEAR OFF, CUNTS!' etc. Ally Spazzy, with excitable gesticulations, asked to get on the mic briefly. We anticipated she'd talk up Triple R and encourage people to subscribe - not too much to expect from guests on a radiothon show. Instead she said that she'd just smashed her sister's car 'so if any panel beaters are listening and stuff, can you give us a call? Ta.'
Then she took her top off.
3) George and Matty B from
Lucky Magazine did a faux streak through the studio, having written 'I'M WITH STUPID' in texta on their stomachs, with arrows helpfully pointing to their dicks.
4) My beloved
Gabi was just about to get her gear off when Matty B frowned at her. 'Um - what school did you go to?' he asked. Gabi told him, and then the two of them realised with some mounting horror they'd pashed each other way back when. Then they started undressing.
5. A straight-edge Jewish punk from
Yidcore tongue-kissed my dog.
6. When everyone stripped down to their birthday suit and was standing around nekkid, rather lamely shouting 'WOOO',
television's Kynan Barker tapped me on the shoulder and held up a small tube. 'Chapstick?' he offered pleasantly. Bless.
If you want to subscribe to Triple R, you can do so
here . Do it before Radiothon ends and subscribe to Best of the Brat, and you could be in the running to win the photograph of me, Paul, Glenn,
Lucky Magazine ,
Your Wedding Night (hott spunks),
The Town Bikes ,
Ally Spazzy , Kynan Barker and Bobby the phone volunteer stark naked.
And if that's not a dubious honour I don't know what is.
4 comments.
My friend Pedo sent me
this link with the message: "I think you'd look mighty fine in some of these fancy duds!". He is a toolbag and this one is my favourite:
Not to be confused with the lesser known 'BUSH KILLS TERRORISTS - ANNOYED' or 'BUSH KILLS TERRORISTS - SLIGHTLY WOUNDED BUT IN STABLE CONDITION'.
2 comments.
Craig Stevens, Thorpe's
roommate and
friend of seven years , stood in the stands
cheering and waving a flag as Thorpe swam to victory. After the race, an
emotional Thorpe shed
tears of joy and later
dedicated his race to Stevens .
When asked what he had to say to Stevens, Thorpe replied: 'What I have to say to Craig,
I say in private' .
Think about it. Seriously. And while you're thinking about it, look at this incredibly heterosexual picture.
5 comments.
This is an actual, swear-to-Zeus*, utterly un-fake document from my childhood. I was about eight years old and playing 'hospitals' at home in my spoilt only-child bedroom - which, unfathomably and cruelly, came equipped with bunk beds - and no doubt highly amusing myself with my wit.
It's somehow comforting to see my love of smutty toilet humour remains with me.
*note topical Greek reference. Only about another week and a half of mindless patriotism before the walnut people go back to their caves.
4 comments.
Last night I went to a book-signing by my personal god
Bob Ellis at
Readings in Lygon street.
I was incredibly nervous and uptight - seeing your hero in the flesh is truly a terrifying experience. It's like standing in line at a Van Halen concert knowing David Lee Roth will be personally taking your ticket and high-fiving you on the way in. Except kind of way more high-brow and political and po-faced; everyone nodding seriously about what a wanker John Howard is, and aren't we clever for pointing that out?
I chose what I was going to wear in advance. What a tool. I showed a bit of boob but not too much as ol' Bob has a reputation for sometimes forgetting not to get young ladies pregnant. Then when I got there I thought I was showing too much boob and had to safety pin my jacket together so as not to offend the milling elderly folk in berets*. Wow! Can you believe that kind of far-out shit?
Safety pins you say, Fits? Wild! Anything could have happened at that stage!
Bob was eloquent, moving, brave, cantankerous and perfect. Please - if you know me and loathe me as I cheekily suspect you do by now - try and guess what I said to him after breathlessly queueing up and waiting for him to sign my copy of his
new book (which you must buy at once):
Was it a) 'I see you've been drinking red wine.' (Adding, off his curious look, with helpful point) 'You've got some crusting in the crevices of your mouth. Would you like a tissue?'
b) '
My Bob Ellis is outside in the car! She's not you! She's a dog, HAHAHA!'
c) 'Hi, Mr. Ellis. Could you please sign my gook?'
or d) 'I write. I'm a writer.' (long pause) 'I wrote for Neighbours for seven years! Remember when Madge got hit by a car? THAT WAS ONE OF MINE!'
Can
you pick which one? I bet you can!
*I'm not fucking kidding. They turned up to a
book signing in
Carlton wearing
berets . No, be more like someone parodying you in a bad comedy sketch show. More. Please. Oversized glasses and 'ethnic' jewellery? Oh, thank-you!
9 comments.
While I know that bloggers writing about dreams is about as scintillating as an unlubricated colonoscopy, I must share my shameful secret.
I dream about famous people. A lot. And when they appear in my subconscious, they are either desperately in love with me or wanting to be my friend more than anything in the world. Whether this says more about my frightening absorption of trash culture or my cheerily unabashed narcissism I don't know.
Last night I grabbed iconic Australian singer-songwriter
Paul Kelly by the balls and whispered sexily into his ear: 'You make the
best coffee.' Then I shared a bed with comedy hyuckster Steven Gates from
Tripod - he was obsessed with me and wouldn't let me be, dear thing. Then I chewed the fat with
Chopper Read , who was utterly charmed by me, in a hotel room at Crown Casino. It was quite a busy evening.
Other celebs who have pestered me in my sleep include Tom Cruise (in love with me), Drew Barrymore (trying to be my best pal), Sadie Frost (wanting to kiss my vagina) and various Beastie Boys.
Naturally I awaken from these dreams presuming that I am somehow 'connected' to these people, as I am quite the psychopathic hose beast. When I was nineteen I posted a paragraph on the World Wide Web (as we quaintly referred to it back then) about me and B-Boy Adam 'MCA' Yauch that was so intimate one of his girlfriends emailed me to find out if he and I were romantically involved. After that, she and I became penpals, which resulted in a few outings with the man himself, including a day trip to Sydney Aquarium and a theatre outing to 'Miss Saigon' the musical. But more of that another time.
Which leads me to my ill thought-out point. I was reading my beloved
Q Magazine in the bath last night and stumbled across a story about
Jennifer Love-Hewitt obsessing over Snow Patrol . Apparently she emailed the band to request their contribution to a movie soundtrack. It made me wonder how she gets people to take her emails seriously. I get about eighteen emails a day from JESSICA SIMPSON promising me SEXUALLY EXPLICIT content, and adding for effect: 'She said she was hungry, but damn!!!' AVIRL LAVIGNE has emailed a couple of times, although I'm a bit suss on her considering she appears to be having trouble spelling her own name. BRITNEY SPEARS is 'just looking 4 a freind and nothing eles badly', while WENDY O WILLIAMS not only seems to have returned from beyond the grave, but also to have taken an interest in finance, urging me to 'take advantage of low interest rates!'.
Poor Jennifer Love Hewitt, and her 'subject: hey Snow Patrol, I really want your music for my movie, seriously it's me Jennifer I can prove it if you just call me'. Unavailable to her are the jokey subject headings we all utilise in our email existence. No 'fuck you, Gabi' or 're: important document'.
I'd almost feel sorry for her if she wasn't such a vapid mongoloid.
4 comments.
Peter is a friend 
Peter's got himself a girl 
