Right now I’m watching a film on BBC4 about Scott Walker. You know, that bloke that David Bowie, Radiohead, Pulp et al always namecheck. So far the film is 50% interesting information and 50% random shots of famous musicians nodding with their eyes closed, Scotty crooning in the background.

What I have been wondering for many years is, why do Men of Rock always have such skinny legs? When I think of the Beatles I think of their twig-like pins in those natty grey suits. Mick Jagger, AC/DC, Johnny Rotten, every boofheaded hipster in the NME. All of ‘em!

Which comes first - the body or the rock? Do blokes hit the age of 16 or so and look in the mirror, Right. I’ve got no arse and tiny legs, I’d better join a band! Or do the legs come later; a product of the rock lifestyle - sex, drugs and malnourishment. Are there heaps of really talented bottom-heavy blokes sulking in their bedrooms, not even trying because they know they won’t look good in drainpipe jeans?

If you can think of someone truly rockin’ with chunky thighs let me know!

FAVOURITE GIG:  Rush in Glasgow. I reluctantly tagged along with the prog-loving Doctor G and ended up a convert. Almost. I’d never seen so many mullets assembled under one roof: bleached mullets, permed mullets, bald mullets, lady mullets. It was my first ever gig that included lasers, flames and fifteen minute drum solos. It was bloody fantastic, especially YYZ, aka The Theme from Guitar Hero II.

My favourite moment was seeing Gareth gazing up at the stage with a dopey smile, bathed in the green laser light - clearly he’d been transported back to his bedroom, aged 15 with the headphones on. I’ve never seen him look so happy!

FAVOURITE RECORDS:  White Chalk, PJ Harvey and In Rainbows, Radiohead. Predictable, I know!

FAVOURITE FILLUMS:  I didn’t see much at the cinema but 2007 was the Year of the Clint. Gareth was horrified that I’d never seen any Clint Eastwood westerns so set out to give me an education. We started with A Fistful of Dollars then moved through classics like Pale Rider, Two Mules For Sister Sarah, Unforgiven and The Good The Bad and the Ugly. I had just assumed it would be boring shoot-em-up stuff but they were witty, subtle and stylish. And Clint Eastwood in his prime? SEXAY!

My favourite was The Outlaw Josey Wales because it’s basically Clint Spits On Many Things - he gobs tobacco on dead folk, a dog, a beetle, a scorpion - cinematic gold!

FAVOURITE BLOKE ON THE TELLY:  Bruce Parry of Tribe. I’m a sucker for any thoughtful, articulate bloke with a mellow voice and a wild passion for their chosen subject. Kevin McCloud of Grand Designs is the runner-up, but Bruce gets bonus points for all that shirtless running-around-in-jungles.

FAVOURITE ACCENT:  By a mile… KIWI! I’d never pondered its devastating hotness until I became addicted to the Flight of the Conchords’ HBO series. Their songs were great as always, but I doubt the non-song bits would have been half as funny if not for those accents (and Murray, of course). The dialogue seemed crafted purely to showcase the words that sound the most hilarious in Kiwi. The scene below from the Racism episode was my favourite, for the brilliant pisstaking of Australians and the way Jemaine says “person”.

So I’m all Big Kev excited about the news that Radiohead’s new album is coming out in ten teeny little days. I love their stealth tactics too, bypassing the record companies and avoiding the usual leaked copy hoopla by offering the album for download on their website, with the downloadee deciding how much to pay.

My only worry is what’s going to happen on the big day when everyone is trying to collect their copy? HOW MANY SERVERS HAVE THEY GOT AND ARE THEY MADE OF CAST IRON AND SELLOTAPE because I remember last year I spent seven sad little fangirl hours trying to buy presale concert tickets on their website to no avail. It struggled and stuttered like a herd of constipated cows, as if shocked by the surge in popularity. Already today its been difficult to access, with lovely Jonny posting another message en blog to say, “it’s getting busy in there - busier than they expected.”

Arrgh! Fellas! Will you ever learn? EXPECT A FEW VISITORS! Stock up the fridge! Borrow some spare chairs from your nanna’s house! YOU’RE POPULAR DARNIT!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

In other news, I start a new job tomorrow, doing web stuff. For the first time in 4.5 years my work won’t involve typing letters and making appalling cups of instant coffee. I’m absolutely shitscared, especially considering my recent display of skill and flair with the blog upgrade. Pray for me!

Jeff Buckley died ten years ago today. When I heard the news I was all alone in my wee flat in Bathurst, second year of university. I cried and cried and moped and moped, sitting on the couch with something sugary, probably a jar of Nutella!

For someone who only made one studio album in his lifetime, Jeff Buckley Inc. has been remarkably prolific over the past decade. And now for the anniversary there's yet a-bloody-nother one, So Real: Songs From Jeff Buckley. Some sort of greatest hits thingy. Hmm. All I can say to his estate is, whatever happened to rest in peace?

Ten years ago this week Crowded House had their Farewell To The World concert on the steps of the Sydney Opera House. Last night I watched the new 10th Anniversary DVD and it's still bloody magnificent.

I was so devastated the day after that concert, back in Bathurst and getting ready for my shift at the fish and chip shop. I couldn't bear to listen to the Crowdies for about six months; I was just so overcome by the loss. Woe!

But somehow I managed to struggle on. A decade later I peered at our spot on the stairs, surprised I couldn't pick us out in the massive crowd. I thought I'd be visible even in the moonlight, either from the violently sunburned face or the enormous angst-ridden frown because I'd just finished my first year of university and was worried I wouldn't pass all my subjects. Don't fret petal, I'd say to 1996 Shauna, You end up becoming a secretary so you won't even need that degree!

I wonder if a concert of that scale could happen today? Can you imagine allowing over 100,000 random bodies to just wander on down to the Opera House for free entertainment? A massive public gathering at a major landmark? Holy security alert, Batman. I remember marvelling at how generally well-behaved and civilised the punters were back then, but I don't know if we'd be trusted these days. There'd have to be metal detectors and cavity searches and riot police. I remember a guy climbed up one of the sails of the Opera House and the cops asked him sternly but nicely to please come down. Today they'd have a vicious Alsatian posted on the point of each sail. An Alsatian, brandishing a semi-automatic weapon.

Photo nicked from The Age (Rick Stevens)

Do you remember back in May how I went to Amsterdam to see my beloved Radiohead and when we arrived there was a sign written in the Times New Roman of Doom that said the show was cancelled because Phil The Drummer's mother had passed away suddenly and I plunged into despair which was quickly followed by crushing guilt for being disappointed considering the circumstances? Remember? Remember?

Since then I've felt bad about being too huffy to properly enjoy my time in such a fine city. At the Van Gogh museum the day after the Cancellation, I stared gloomily at one of his paintings, something involving hay or flowers. I read the caption about him chopping off his ear and thought, I hear ya buddy. Then I smacked myself in the head with my camera for being such an obnoxious twit.

So really, I felt duty bound to return to Amsterdam and see it properly! YES! And it had nothing to do with the concert being rescheduled and this being the very last show of their tour and lord knows how long it would be before they toured again. But our tickets were still valid and there were cheap flights from KLM. I'm sure a chap as environmentally worried as Thom Yorke would frown at our frivolous flying, but I couldn't resist!

It was a whirlwind 48 hours in Amsterdam, but we gave it a red hot go. From the canal boats to the cafes to the coffeeshops to the hot chips in the paper cones, we really wolfed it all down. Now I'm deep in the throes of vacation withdrawls, just aching to be back in Super Happy Fun Holidayland. Every time I walk down a street I glare at it with disappointment because it doesn't have a canal running through it. Stupid non-Dutch streets.

Dinner by the canal.

The concert was incredible. Oh baby. Radiohead just get better every time and make me feel glad to be alive. Don't go telling me that they went crap after OK Computer. I am still in my Super Happy Fun Concertland bubble and I'm not coming out yet. La la la!

People always bang on about what a miserable bunch Radiohead are, but I heartily disagree. The show was foxy and fun and the band looked to be having a grand old time. The new songs went down a treat and Thom did his crazy dancing. Jokes were cracked!

I am also happy to report that unlike last time, I stayed conscious for the entire gig!

Most importantly, here is the Ed O'Brien Report. Which I'm sure is only of interest to me, but I like to note these things en blog and track my obsessions through the ages.

So, in the three years that have passed since our last encounter: Ed is still more ridiculously handsome than should be legal. He is still deliciously tall, sings beautifully, plays nice guitar and does lots of fiddling round with various bleeping machines, further proving that he is not just lanky eye candy, dammit.

SHAUNA:  I also noted tonight that in the three years that have passed since our last encounter, Ed is now wearing a wedding band.

GARETH:  And so are you!

SHAUNA:  Oh... yeah.

I took a few photos during the show but they were universally rubbish, as my view was hindered by the rows of tall, strapping Dutchmen in front of me; plus it is hard to focus the camera in a heightened state of arousal poor lighting conditions.

On Wednesday I ate a bagel with cream cheese and chugged down a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. The occasion called for serious carbo loading. We had a Radiohead show to attend!

You may recall the last time I saw my beloved boys, I embarassingly fainted from excitement, and knocked over a few lasses before hitting the floor. This time I was determined to be prepared and get through the gig without medical attention.

There's no way to describe how excited I was without sounding like a really sad bastard. It was so all-consuming, my limbs were tingling and my heart trilled like an idling engine. I just wanted to get there and get my elbows out to jostle for a good spot, to see the lights dip and hear the crowd roar. Oh you know the feeling, it's the same glorious anticipation when it's been too long between shags or you've just undressed a family-size chocolate bar.

Last time I saw Radiohead I'd only been going out with Gareth for a couple of weeks, but now we're old and married I don't have to have to pretend that it's entirely about the music. He is most tolerant and understanding of my undying lust for his royal tallness, Mister Ed O'Brien.

"Where are you going to stand? Edside, I presume?"

"Oh fuck aye!"

"And I s'pose you'll be wanting to get up close since he's cut his hair short again, just the way you like it."

"Wheeeeeeeeeee!"

This gig was all the more interesting because it was in Amsterdam. Radiohead announced their mini European tour a few months ago, playing smaller venues to showcase their new tunes. This sparked a ticketing frenzy, and after seven fruitless hours on their pre-sale website then a panicky encounter with the Ticketmaster general sale a few days later, we decided to go Dutch. Or rather, I decided and then later convinced Gareth to come along and bring the smelling salts and spare undies. Besides, I'd never been to Amsterdam before and it would be our first holiday together in which we didn't have one of our weddings to go to!

So after a day of sightseeing we finally arrived at the Heineken Music Hall, all well nourished and hydrated. We were greeted with the Times New Roman of Doom.

Sadly, due to a sudden and unexpected family bereavement, the show was cancelled.

It's a strange situation, because on one hand you can't help feeling crushed that you came a long way to see your most favourite band and now you won't see them and even though the show has been rescheduled for August you won't be able to come because it was a fiscal stretch to make this sortie to Amsterdam, let alone do it all over again in a few months. But on the other hand, you feel the PIRANHAS OF GUILT gnawing at your stomach for feeling so devastated, because somebody has lost someone, and you know how you'd feel if it happened to you.

We later found out that it was Phil Selway's mum who passed away. He posted a wee message on their blog which makes your heart go out to him.

"Just wanted to say sorry to the people who were due to come to our show in Amsterdam last night, particularly those who made wasted journeys. My mum died suddenly in the early hours of yesterday morning and so I just wanted to be at home with my family. Mum was a big Radiohead fan, and was very proud of all we've done as a band. I love and miss her very much."

Oh you just read that and really hope he is doing okay. And you want to reassure on behalf of all dedicated-but-totally-not-stalkersome fans that it was not a wasted journey because we got to spend a couple of days in a great city. We saw touristy things like Anne Frank's House and the Van Gogh Museum and ladies in glass boxes in the Red Light District. It averaged 23 degrees so I freaked out at the unfamiliar sensation of sunshine on bare arms. But my favourite bit was last night, sitting by the canals near 10pm, eating takeaway sushi and watching all the people cruising past in their boats. Unfortunately every photo I took on this trip is beyond mediocre, so just close your eyes and imagine blue skies and squeaky bicycles.

Dear Radiohead,

I love you and your little blog too. I've lapped up all the photos you have shared while recording the new album. However, I must point out a glaring omission. There's only one (1) picture featuring my delectable fancy man, Ed O'Brien.

ONE!

And unlike the other photos, you can't click on it to get a bigger version. How's that supposed to wallpaper my computer screen, let alone be blown up to poster size and BluTak-ed to the bedroom ceiling?

On behalf of trembling Ed fans worldwide, please heed my gentle request for more visual fodder.

Your humble servant,
Shauna

Image unceremoniously nicked from here.
I hereby solemly swear to finish a proper entry this weekend. I've been temporarily distracted by life. And staring at this picture until it became blurred by drool.

We saw a couple of most rockin bands on Friday night. The smoky little room above the pub was crammed with drinking dancing bodies, and Gareth seemed to know about 90% of them. How can one person have so many bloody acquaintances? Maybe it just seems a lot compared to the measly three or four people I know in Scotland.

The thing about knowing so many people is that you don't always get to catch up that often, so they're not always up to speed on what you've been up to. Like getting married and stuff.

We were just squeezing past the masses on our way out when an old mate of Gareth's appeared and gave a drunken grin of recognition.

"Gareth! You handsome bastard! How the hell are you?"

Slurred pleasantries were exchanged, then he noticed me attached to the end of Gareth's hand. His grin got bigger.

"Wah-hey!" he crowed, "Gaun yersel big man. I'll leave you to it. You have a GOOD NIGHT!" He gave him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

"You take this man home!" he shouted after me as we headed down the stairs, "And you shag him good. He deserves it. Oh yeah. SHAG HIM GOOD!"

One unexpected side effect of getting married seems to be an increased capacity for shouting at the telly and moaning about the state of the world. We watched a bit of Glastonbury this weekend and complained about: bands that plunder Talking Heads but with sharper suits, the honking huge void left by John Peel and of course the mighty suckfulness of Coldplay. Everything was better back in OUR DAY, don't you know; even though our day was only a few years ago. Gareth declared that the last Really Good Glastonbury was 1997; and of course I agreed, having formed this opinion in Australia from an imported copy of Q magazine six months after the event.

I'm hoping this curmudgeonly behaviour simply indicates we're now nicely settled into our state of hitchedness. And the timing is good since we have to get married AGAIN next Saturday, aka The Night of the Hot Ceilidh Action.

SHAUNA:  Did you know that I've previously only been to four weddings in my whole life, but now I have to go to four weddings in one year alone? And they're all our bloody weddings!

GARETH:  Yeah? I'm really getting sick of getting married to you!

S:  Yeah? Well I'm really getting sick of getting married to you, too!

S & G:  Hehe.

Please Note:

The artist has requested that only vegetarian food should be consumed inside the concert hall. Therefore, no food purchased outwith the concert hall will be allowed into the hall.

We were in Glasgow for the Morrissey gig. Who else would get away with such a ridiculous request? Gareth was already a vegetarian, but when I got patted down by security I was forced to surrender a string of sausages, a schnitzel and lamb leg that I'd been saving for snacks. Bastard.

I do like the old Smiths stuff but admittedly I am no Morrissey afficinado. I was mainly there to see PJ Harvey in her supporting role. Despite the dodgy sound in the massive hangar that is the SECC, she was still the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. She has that effect on everyone. The men screamed, PJ have mah babies! and the women screamed, PJ have mah boyfriend's babies!

Between support acts there were two drunk chicks in front of us, one big blonde with blurred red lipstick and one petite with an Amelie haircut. They had only just met and were determined to sing/scream their way through The Smiths entire back catalogue. Between each rendition they'd hug and squeal.

"Oh mah gawd, I never met anyone before who loves Morrissey as much as me!"

"Totally! You are sooo going to come to my party and we are going to BOND! Take me ouuuut tonight..."

A girl in the front row span around and hissed, "We'd prefer to wait and let Morrissey to do the singing, if you don't mind."

"I DO mind!" bellowed Blondie. She turned to another friend who was dressed like he was late for a Franz Ferdinand audition. "That bitch told me to shut up. She's a fockin COW! I never never want to go HOOOME!"

So, Morrissey fans are interesting. There were dozens of men in the crowd who'd clearly gone to considerable effort to cultivate the famous towering quiff and sideburns combo. That's dedication. I mean, I really truly love Radiohead, but you don't see me sticking a pencil in my eye or anything.

Things went truly insane when the Big M finally appeared on stage beneath a galaxy of lightbulbs that spelled out his name. Dressed in priests garb, he kicked off with How Soon Is Now, aka The Theme from 'Charmed'. The ensuing mad push and frenzy of limbs made the T in the Park crush look like a piano recital. By the end of the song Gareth had been elbowed in the eyeball, Amelie's unconscious form had been hauled over the barrier, and my ribs were threatening to snap off my sternum, so violent was the concertina crush of bodies. COOL!

Morrissey was good fun, still suave and entertaining after all these years and not straying into Fat Vegas Elvis territory. His voice was great and there was enough classics to amuse amateurs like me. The dedicated fans maintained their frenzy levels all night, making it near impossible to take photos. The only remotely steady shot I got was when some stranger had their thigh wedged between my legs, forming a human tripod of sorts.

It was only when it was all over and the crowd disentangled that I realised my t-shirt and jeans were dripping wet. I know from my thrashing about at the gym that while I go red-faced, I am not a wet sweater. So on the bus back to Edinburgh all I could do was sit and stew in the sweat of a thousand strangers. In case you were curious, it smelled like wet dogs.

More PJ and Morrissey photos over here...

The cellphone is the cigarette lighter of the new millenium.

I discovered this at an outdoor pop concert in Tallinn back in September. The event was staged by local phone company Tele2. They gathered an army of popular Estonian bands to play all night for thousands of teens who danced and screamed and waved their mobiles in the air. I felt hoplessly out of touch with my ancient Nokia that spontaneously switches itself off. These kids sported latest models with glowing keypads, turning the crowd into a sea of twinkling neon.

The show was compered by a guy with a giant mohawk and outrageous manner. I asked Kristi who he was - she shrugged and said sagely, "It is very easy to be famous in Estonia".

Kristi translated proceedings for us. Mohawk Man was urging everyone to download a certain tune as part of an attempt at the world record for simultaneously playing a ringtone. I'm not sure if the Guinness Book people knew about this record, but Tele2 market executives must have cackled with glee when thousands of kiddies obediently tapped at their keypads. Right before the last act, Mohawk Man did a dramatic countdown. 3 - 2 - 1... doo doo doo doo! The air filled with the tinny, hollow sound of digitised Estonian pop. It was all rather naff and disappointing for a world record, but the kiddies cheered anyway and thrust their phones to the sky.

Of all the things we saw in Estonia, that night most strongly illustrated how rapidly the country has changed. The show was held at the Sound Grounds, where in 1988 over 300,000 Estonians gathered to sing national songs in what is now known as the Singing Revolution. It was a huge outpouring of national identity and solidarity. Fifteen years on, Estonia has its independence and this hoarde of teens were as pimpled and lipsticked and mini-skirted as their Western kin. They would have been babies when everyone sang banned songs and flew national flags in defiance of the Soviets. You couldn't help wondering if they appreciated how different life was just a short time ago.

Having spent our Saturday morning picking wild mushrooms and wandering through country manors, it was surreal to end things with an evening of ROCK. Rhi and I were the only ones in the crowd unable to sing along with every word of Smilers, a "supercharismatic Finnish-Estonian rockband established in 1992" that seemed the local equivalent of Powderfinger. We also got to see the band who almost got to represent Estonia at the last Eurovision Song Contest!

In glaring contrast to the chirpy pop was Led R, the Estonian Led Zeppelin covers band. They were appropriately pompous but looked like crumbly high school maths teachers. The cameraman parked himself right under the lead singers crotch, but the trousers weren't quite tight enough and he looked more hungry for a cup of tea rather than a hot young babe to take backstage. When Robert Plant goes Oh yeah, ah huh in the middle of Black Dog, it's so primal one feels like humping the furniture, but the Estonian version was like the distracted Oh yeah... ah huh.. you mumble to your mother during her marathon phone calls.

It was fun to hear those classic tracks with fireworks blasting in the background. But it disturbed me how the kiddies didn't respond. Except for a dedicated pocket of headbangers to the right of the stage, the crowd went eerily still. The mad mobile twinkle faded to an occassion bleep in the darkness. It's like they didn't know what to make of this rock and roll business. There were no lip-synching divas or no hot-panted dancers. A gaggle of girls in front of us sipped their illegal beverages and stared at the stage with bewildered frowns. Some were furiously texting, probably the Estonian equivalent of either "Mum pls come pick me up now" or "Like what is this shit?" to their friend standing 50 centimetres away.

It's one thing to worry about Estonian teenagers and their understanding of the history of Estonia, but perhaps it's time we started worrying about the teenagers OF THE WORLD and if they're ever going to understand the history OF ROCK? There's a whole generation being raised on Busted and Brittney who will be terrified and confused if ever confronted by the sound of a guitar or a relentless rhythm section. Education is essential. Maybe I will have to lobby the United Nations.

The award for Most Baffling Support Act goes to Minnie Driver, actress turned songstress, who is currently warming up the crowds for The Finn Brothers on their UK tour.

As we have been reminded in every bloody interview of late, Minnie has been singing forever and had a recording contract long before she ever made a movie. So we vowed not to write her off too quickly on Saturday night. She floated onto the stage to hopeful applause, reduced to a cloud of curls and a pair of levitating Hollywood teeth that gleamed like a halloween decoration under the dim blue lights.

Rhi and I squinted to give her the once over. "Wow, she looks just like a person."

"Except for her stomach. I'd buy her album if it came with a FREE stomach as flat as hers."

Her songs were... how can I put this nicely? Dull as dogshit. Her voice was husky sweet, the band was tight, she smiled and shuffled with lovely breasts that didn't move. But the songs had the uninspired "Woe is me, I'll cry into my cup of tea" depths of Dido.

This next one's about the end of a bad relationship. Of course I won't name names!

"Oh go on, Minnie! Name names!"

"MATT! DAMON!"

Now this is the title track from my album, 'Everything I've Got In My Pocket'.

"What has Minnie Driver got in her pocket?"

"A shredded photo of Matt Damon?"

Her set was mercifully brief.

"Well, nice one Minnie. That was pleasant enough."

"Yes. But if she wants fodder for a second album she'll need to shag someone more exciting than Matt Damon."

The Finns, on the other hand, were good value. Whether they're in Split Enz or Crowded House or solo or in their current brotherly incarnation, Neil and Tim in concert are the musical equivalent of coming home to your favourite comfy slippers and a cup of tea. They've never lost their charm or witty banter, and played an elegant mix of classics and new stuff. Neil was youthful as ever, sporting a dodgy vest and bouffy hairdo that harked back to the early Crowdies days. Tim really stole the show for me, he looked a new man. Last time I saw him at the Opera House Farewell he looked truly haggard and struggled to hit the high notes. Eight years later he was all energy and crazy dancing with a floppy mass of silver hair. If he wasn't older than my dad I might say he was rather sexy.

I went bezerk with the camera, and here is a gallery of the least dodgy shots. I still haven't mastered the art of staying still, resulting in some freaky distortions. The happiest accident came during Dirty Creature. Tim danced round the stage being endearingly sinister while Neil strummed in the background - somehow it looks like he's about to rip his brother's head off.

Scotland's Minister for Tourism, Culture and Sport sure is down with the groovy kids. Frank McAveety popped out a press statement after Glasgow's pride and joy Franz Ferdinand won the Mercury Music Prize last week:

"I am delighted that Frank Ferdinand has won the prestigious Mercury Music Prize"

Hehe.

This is the sad and sorry tale of what happens when you take obsession and anticipation much too far.

When I saw Radiohead live in Sydney in early 1998, I was so euphoric I could barely breathe, and declared I'd happily sell my mother to see them again. Finally six months ago I got tickets for their Glasgow show. Since then the anticipation quietly simmered, then hotted up to a mighty boil, until last Sunday morning the day finally arrived. I woke up so wired I only manage a gleeful squeak, 'CONCERT!'

After a hectic day, we were standing at the bus stop waiting for a bus to take us to another bus that would take us to Glasgow. After fifteen minutes of anxious hopping around, I studied the timetable again and realised I'd looked at the wrong route. This left us ten minutes to get to the Glasgow bus. Arrgh!

We ran down the road in search of a taxi, bodies screaming in protest at such unexpected exertion. Finally a bus came by, and an excruciating ten minutes later later we were running down Princes Street, just like Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting, except without heroin to make us speedier.

Then we couldn't find the fucking Glasgow bus. Cue third sprint session and breathless cursing. By the time we found it and left Edinburgh, it was almost 6pm.

I was edgy. The M8 was an endless stretch of roadworks and the traffic shuffled like an arthritic pensioner. The road signs taunted me with their lack of metric-ness.

SHAUNA:  Hey. What's 35 times 1.6?
GARETH:  Hmm...
SHAUNA:  Jane! Ask Rory what's 35 times 1.6?
JANE:  Rory, what's 35 times 1.6?
RORY:  Hold on...
G:  52.
R:  54.
G:  No wait, 56.
R:  Actually it's 56.
S:  56 kilometres to go! That's AGES!

It was 7.30 PM when the bus plodded into Glasgow. I was clawing the armrests in frustration.

"We're going to get a CRAP spot. The doors opened half an hour ago."
"There'll be plenty of spots!"
"The hardcore people camp overnight, you know."
"You're in Scotland now! Everyone will still be at the bar."
"No! You don't understand Radiohead fans!" I shrilled. "They're GEEKY and OBSESSIVE!"
"Yeah?"

Finally inside the SECC, I got my shoving elbows ready and prepared to burrow as close to the stage as possible. And it was true, there were still a lot of people at the bar. When support act Asian Dub Foundation began, we'd scored a reasonably central spot, wriggling closer after every song. ADF were great, but I was distracted a vision of loveliness lurking at the side of the stage. Behold! It was Ed! Ed O'Brien! Ed O'Brien from Radiohead!

Long-term WNP readers will remember the enduring obsession that sparked such cringe-worthy entries as this. It had been almost six years since I'd seen him in the flesh, and he had aged gracefully (except for needing a haircut). He busied himself with various percussion instruments throughout the ADF set, dancing and singing along in his long and luscious way.

What a guy. I noted a faint rumbling in my stomach, a weakness in my limbs. I put it down to the rush of hormones.

Soon ADF were done and the crowd closed in. We pushed forward, our view of the stage increasingly cluttered by tall skinny folk in black t-shirts. Then two tall skinny chicks beside me lit up cigarettes. I felt my stomach backflip as the smoke curled around me.

All at once the over-excitement and lack of food and water hit me. Things were getting woozy. I closed my eyes for a quick nap. Then I remember turning round to ask how much longer until Radiohead would start, but my voice sounded distorted and I couldn't hear properly.

"I think there's a mosquito buzzing round inside my ear," I frowned.

There were great murky blobs across my vision and the crowd melted into a blur of spaghetti limbs. I closed my eyes. I dreamed that I was falling, on a jaunty angle of approximately 45 degrees. Back in the real world, eyewitnesses reported my face drained of colour and my lips turned white, then I stumbled in drunken fashion, smacking into the two smoking chicks.

Next thing I knew Gareth was dragging me out of the crowd.

"What's going on?"
"We're getting you to First Aid!"
"Nooooooooooo! We've got a good spot!"

I turned around to sneak back in, but then realised I couldn't see. I was cranky and confused as a First Aid guy sat me down. It wasn't until I gulped some water that my vision cleared and I realised what had happened. I had fainted at the Radiohead gig. Goddammit!

"Are you on any medication, miss?"
"No!"
"Do you have any medical problems?"
"No!"
"Have you passed out at gigs before?"
"Noooooo! I've been to MILLIONS of gigs!"
"What did you eat and drink today?"
"Vegemite toast and two cups of tea!"
"Ah ha. Dehydration for sure.'

I was just contemplating escape when another First Aid dude approached with a clip board.

"Oh nooooo, you can't write this down."
"It's just for our records."
"Arrgh!"

What a blow to ones credibility! I'd spent all day crowing about what a fucking rock veteran I was; speculating on the setlist, demonstrating shoulder-barge techniques to secure the best spot. In the past I'd sniggered at those skanky chicks being hauled from the mosh pit, their bodies limp and useless. "Amateurs!" I'd scoff, "Can't hack the pace! G'wan, get outta here!". But now here I was, pasty-faced and pathetic, sipping water from a paper cup.

Suddenly the lights went down and crowd screamed. I tried to stand up.

"Come on!"
"Just sit for a minute and relax!"
"You don't understand. It's my favourite band!"
"Just five minutes."
"No!"

The drums were calling me; low and rumbling, signalling the start of 'There There'. The First Aid dude handed me a couple of glucose tablets and I shoved them into my mouth, like Popeye with his can of spinach, crunching and spluttering and getting to my feet.

"I'm going in!"

We'd lost out centre spot, but our new perch on the Ed-board side offered a perfect sweeping view of the stage. Best of all there was room to breathe. By the time the boys barrelled into '2+2=5', I was BACK, baby! Sugar surged through my veins and I jumped and screamed like a madwoman.

The boys were on fire, I tells ya. In 1998 they were intense and spectacular, but the crowd was strangely still, as if overwhelmed. The band in turn seemed overwhelmed and weary, but then again they'd spend the last year with the world humping their collective legs in ecstasy after the release of OK Computer. That'd be tough on anyone. But now they were comfortable in their skin. Thom actually smiled and cracked jokes now. The music was more ferocious and physical than last time, they just plain rocked!

The crowd soaked up their energy. The old hits got the drunks singing and snogging and slopping paper cups of Carling. But it was the new songs that really grabbed you by the guts. Take a song like 'Myxomatosis', so irritating on the album that I wanted to clobber the stereo with a brick. But live it was raw and menacing, you could feel the guitars buzzing right through your chest. Woooooo!

Oh I was doing so well, riding high on life and traces of Hovis Big 'n' Bouncy White Sliced Loaf. But when Thom wobbled his way into 'Idioteque', my stomach started wobbling too. Just five more minutes, I urged my innards, This song is so good live, please hold on. But soon I was clopping around the perimeter of the venue with my hands clutched to my stomach, looking for the loo.

I made it back in time for the encores. 'How To Disappear Completely' was so lush it made your bones ache. 'Karma Police' was marred only by cheesy twats with cigarette lighters.

The final song was 'Everything In Its Right Place'. I could have made it, but everything in my stomach was in its wrong place. I bolted out again, hand clamped over mouth. I spent the last moments of the show perched over the loo, alternately swearing and gagging. I'd missed my boys leaving the stage. I could have cried!

But what a way to make a gig memorable! On the way back to Edinburgh we pondered where it all went wrong. There is the scientific view that one cannot live on tea and toast and adrenaline alone. Even when said toast is slathered in the nutritional goodness of Vegemite. But let's not rule out that Ed O'Brien was possibly so saucy that he could cause me to squeal and swoon like a boufantted Beatlemaniac.

photo: rory associated press.
author's lifeless body: not pictured.

So the cops have raided Michael Jackson's house, but they're not yet saying why. My guess is he's getting busted for the misleading the public on the cover of his latest album. Look at that strain on his face, the intense concentration. It's clearly a number two.

Sweet relief...

More T in the Park photos here!

It was bound to be a great day, you could just sniff it in the air. The beer, the sweat, the sun, the music, and that was just on the bus ride. The guy behind us slurped and burped his way through another bottle, chanting "T in the Park! T in the Park! T in the Park!". Another one cheerfully 'sang' the entire catalogue of Nokia ring tones as he blew smoke in his girlfriend's face. Halfway the bus stopped and a dozen people stumbled outside for relief, dropping pants or lifting kilts or squatting in the heather.

After 90 minutes queuing under a cloudless sky, we were in. We wandered around the various tents and stages, watching a few bands that we were clueless about. Soon we were at the top of the hill overlooking the Main Stage, eating ice creams and giggling at The Proclaimers. The familiar dorky haircuts and dorky glasses were accompanied by radioactive red faces from the afternoon sun. It was bit breezy and everyone was complaining about the poor sound, but it was still fantastic hearing thousands of drunken Scots belting out 500 Miles in those sexy accents.

We shuffled down the hill to snooze through The Cardigans, pondering our next move. By the end of their set we were quite close to the front of the stage, and the crowd was building behind us. It was time to make the big decision -- do we move and get to the Super Furries and The Datsuns and so forth, or do we settle in for the night?

It was over three hours until REM were on, I wasn't sure if my notoriously thimble-sized bladder would hold out that long. But being from Australia, I reasoned this could be my only chance to see REM ever, let alone so bloody close-up. As I said to Rhi, "REM could die tomorrow. We must stay!"

Moments later Idlewild were on. I admit I know nothing about them, and didn't hear a note, because the crazy crowd sang every word, loudly and drunkenly. It was fantastic. And violent and insane. I felt so very old, everyone around me surely needed a note from their mum to attend. With sprays of acne on their chins and beer on their breath, they jumped and jumped and jumped, so I jumped and jumped and jumped too, having the time of my life, but all the while waiting to be plucked out of the crowd and carted back to the nursing home. One guy who couldn't have been more than 17 kept putting his arm around me and singing in my ear, then sneaked his hand down the back of my jeans.

"Oh! I'm so sorry lady," he said to my bewildered expression, "I'm just a wee bit sloshed."

"No worries," I replied, before muttering to myself, "It's okay! REM could die tomorrow!"

Next up was The Flaming Lips. A last minute call-up to the Main Stage after Jack White broke his finger last week, they instantly charmed the crowd. The usual array of dancing furry animals were clad in red and white garb a la The White Stripes. Then in swooped Wayne Coyne in a red cape, launching into a nice and dirty cover of Seven Nation Army, growling into a megaphone with giant balloons and confetti flying all over the shop. It was an hilarious start to an unforgettable set. There were yetis and nun puppets and fake blood and Peter Buck and robots and a song called Thank You Jack White For The Fibre-Optic Jesus That You Gave Me.

By now it was 8.30 PM, another two-and-a-half hours until it would all be over. We were pushed even further forward, so tight you had to stand on tiptoes to get a gulp of the breeze. But we decided it would be better to dehydrate rather than to drink up and be forced to give up this spot for a trip to a skanky Port-a-loo. Onward brave little bladders!

I naively thought that the REM crowd would be more sedate than Idlewild, but as soon as Michael Stipe skipped onto the stage, the shoving and kicking and mad crush started. Oh he was amazing, charisma dripping from every pore, it was impossible to take your eyes from him. I don't know how it sounded way up the back, but down there it was wild and beautiful. My shoelaces got shredded, a bottle of Fanta exploded over my hair, a topless woman almost fell on Rhi's head. During The One I Love Stipey jumped off the stage to press the flesh and of course there was another frenzied surge forward. I turned into a pathetic squealy fan-girly mess and came yay-close to touching his hand, but instead grabbed the pointy ear of the guy in the front row wearing a Batman suit. "Hey! Doooon't touch the earrrrrs!" he shouted back.

REM played a delicious 100 minute blend of old and new tunes. The long arm of the TV camera swept over us periodically, everyone jumped and flung their hands with even more vigour. On the screen it just looked like one big swirl of deleriously happy faces, no hint at all of the insane stomping and vomiting and groping and passing-out going on below the surface.

The day ended at 2AM with a frenzied dash for the bathrooms when we finally got home. And then, sleep, followed by counting of bruises.

Bloody brilliant :-)

Eavesdroppings from the past few days.

Random Aunt #1:

We were cleaning out his house when somebody said, "Hey, has anyone seen Fluffy?". It had really been months since anyone had seen that cat. But it didn't take long. We looked under the couch and there he was curled up, the poor bugger. He'd been dead so long that when we dragged him out, his tail fell off.

Random Aunt #2:

So first he was running three hours late, then he took three phone calls during my session. I asked myself, why am I paying $700 for a sex therapist? All he did was tell me about some gels we could use and suggest I buy a vibrator. Ripped off.

Random Teeny Bimbo at the Massive Attack concert:

TEENY BIMBO:  Hey, have you guys heard of Kraftwerk?
SHAUNY:  Here we go...
RACHAEL:  [whisper] "I like, saw them at Big Day Out"
TB:  I like, saw them at Big Day Out
S & R:  [snigger]
TB:  They were so cool. They're like this American band? They're were like the original electronica act!

One of the best things about Canberra is the late-night drive home from Monkey and Mattay's house. It's twenty minutes of quiet road, winking stars and blaring stereo. I drive too fast and sing loudly and badly. When I get back into town, I detour up random streets, just to squeeze in a few more numbers.

Whenever I get the coveted M&M invite I take great care to select some rockin' CDs for drive home. On the weekend it was Bee Gees One Night Only (still in mourning) and some iTunes mixes: the original Rockin' Car Songs, Rhi Rocks Out Volume II and Xmas Rockin' Goodness.

The other night I was fumbling with the controls of our six stacker and searching for the best songs to belt out. The mood called for something robust. Layer upon layer of delicious harmonies, the stuff of sing-songs round a campfire. Don't you just love harmonies? They are perfect for those not blessed with talent. You can start with the high bit then abruptly drop down when your shithouse chords start to die. Or you can start low in the verse then soar for the chorus. Or you can chop and change from one word to the next. Whatever you choose, you can always blend in somewhere over the din of the engine and think to yourself, "DAMN! I coulda been a Supreme!"

During And Your Bird Can Sing, I decided I would ask WNP visitors to tell me their favourite harmony-drenched tunes then use this precious information to create the ultimate mix CD and call it Let's Go 2003 -- Harmonic Highway Hitz! or something equally inane.

But my plans were interrupted when an obnoxious white BMW swooped up to overtake me. I had just finished swearing and pounding the steering wheel when a kangaroo appeared out of the dark and streaked across the road in front of them.

BANG!

It was rather a spectacular sight. The 'roo shot up into the air, you could almost see the moment when its whole body shattered. The head snapped back, legs and tail jerking, then the whole thing went limp and lifeless like someone had tossed some bagpipes across the highway. There was a little puff of dust when it sailed over the railing and hit the scrub.

The BMW barely flinched, but I slowed down and felt so bad for the poor bugger.

Anyway, be sure to tell me your favourite songs of harmonised goodness.

Dead 'roo haiku:

broken kangaroo
shall no longer hop hop hop
in the morning dew

One of the Bee Gees died! Maurice, he of the funny hat. Poor bugger.

As a loving tribute, here is a stunning piece of writing from the vault entitled In Defence of the Brothers Gibb.

Super Dave, Australian Air Guitar Champion and star of KFC commericals, "played" at the Holy Grail on Saturday night. My mate Peita, of the Paddlepop Chicken Adventure, sheepishly asked me and Rhi would we like to go. We accepted with great enthusiasm, for what else is there to do for entertainment in Canberra? Catch a session of parliament? Buy porn? Go to an Oasis concert?

Like any pub in September, The Grail was packed with sporty types, flushed with beer and victory from grand final matches. We had to wait until the AFL Semi-Final was over before Super Dave finally appeared.

He had the perfect build for the job - wiry like a greyhound, the long limp mullet, no arse to speak of. He'd slithered into a pair of leather pants that were very classily held together with a series of bulldog clips. He had an enormous silver codpiece zipped onto the front of his pants, it kept slumping to one side as he thrashed about the stage.

Super Dave was flanked by a swarm of Rock Sluts. They were officially called Rock Chicks, but Rock Sluts just seemed to fit better. They had lovely slender bodies but they were teamed with trashy outfits and pinched, rat-like faces like those scraggy girls in your high school class (the ones with the eyeliner and the Wodd'yoo farrrrkin starin' at?! screechy voices).

He only "played" one song the whole night. Ripped off! It was a very vigorous Song 2 with plenty of jumping and hip thrusting and windmills. But after that it was all audience participation, meaning the Rock Sluts trawled the crowd, dragging the drunkest souls up onto the stage.

I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. And I was completely sober! It was just so ridiculous. The barmaid showed real talent, as did the token ADFA boy and Peita's fiancee Leigh. Things started getting a little out of control when a mild-mannered accountant type came up, completely plastered after winning his soccer grand final that afternoon. He was finding it difficult to stand up. When the music started he played a few limp chords then grabbed the nearest Rock Slut and started madly thrusting his hips.

"Ya guitar mate! Where's ya guitar!?!" Super Dave yelped and tried to drag him away. Accountant Guy looked blank, stumbled a little, then resumed his vigorous humping of the Rock Slut. It was all so very embarrassing to watch. As a former employee, I wondered if Colonel Sanders would approve of his company endorsing such shenannigans. Wasn't KFC a family resteraunt? But at least the guy was in time with the music.

In the end all the contestants jammed drunkenly on the stage, with Super Dave going wild, jumping and writhing and giving us a generous eyeful of arse crack.

It was then we were reminded what a promotions machine the whole operation was. As soon as Super Dave played his last note, the Rock Sluts were bustling round the room, pulling down posters, gathering up remaining Free Zinger vouchers with great speed and precision.

Leigh, still buzzing from his moment of fame (and a few drinks), decided to buy Super Dave a drink. It really was a bittersweet moment. He handed Dave the beer and Dave looked quite taken aback and said, "You like Zingers? You want some Zingers?". Leigh insisted that he just wanted to buy him a drink, he didn't want anything in return. But Super Dave shoved Leigh's pocket with vouchers.

Ahh, the price of fame! Already he's become so jaded that he can't believe someone could buy him a beer without wanting a piece of him! But at least he was still approachable. Leigh boldy asked him where did he get those high heeled boots from? "I picked them up on sale from a place in the Cross", Super Dave replied. He hasn't become so consumed by fame that he can't buy his own high heeled boots.

Outside the Super Dave tour bus was park on the street. It features a giant picture of his mulleted head and bazillions of KFC slogans. The tour was going all over Australia. I wondered how he spent those long hours on the road? Perhaps there was a giant purple velvet bed in the back where he and the Rock Sluts had big Rock Orgies all night long (or maybe they just pretended to - Air Orgies).

But to me it seemed more likely he'd be sitting there with his feet up, quietly strumming his invisible instrument and thinking about how simple life was before he hit the big time; or crying in the cramped toilet after making himself throw up the two dozen Zingers he'd eaten that day.

Oasis have gone from packing out Wembley to playing the bloody Canberra Theatre. Next stop: Noel and Liam rock the Cowra Bowling Club.

Last night I hosted my first ever slumber party. Oooh, pillow fights and talking about boys. I never had one as a kiddie because our household was rather insane and I didn't want my friends seeing that. Besides, you had to open three different sets of gates, cross a trickle of a creek and wade through sheep shit to actually get there.

Quite often, I am a really crap friend. I go into little black episodes in which I withdraw from everyone. While I do this because I feel wimpy and unworthy of their company, they interpret it as me being a big old snobbypants who doesn't care about them.

But this week I was on a mission. I caught up with my brilliant best mate from uni after three years, dinnered with a highschool pal, slumber partied with some lovely bloggy girls, and coffeed with two other great mates (who I hadn't seen in six months even though they live five minutes down the road). It was all good.

So yes, I am a moody little brat sometimes, and to anyone that considers me to be friend or accquaintance, online or off, just know that you all rock my socks, and if I ever made you feel like I didn't care, I apologise.

I have this thing where I convince myself that if I don't maintain a certain level of entertaining anecodotes, stupid jokes, dirty comments and good cooking that my friends will decide they don't like me. So in an attempt to be dazzling, I cooked this huge leg of lamb last night with all sorts of fancy things stuffed in it.

What I have learned: If you want to impress your friends by serving a hunk of dead sheep, try to remember that some are vegetarian and some don't like meat. Then don't bleat at their boyfriend, "Please. Please stay and help eat the sheep." Because you just look like an idiot and you should know that your friends like you anyway.

In other news, I have LOST my Gomez tickets. I went on a cleaning frenzy (another attempt to look impressive) and now the tickets that were on the kitchen bench have disappeared. I've spent all evening ferreting around the house and even braved the stanky depths of the dumpster to paw through the rubbish I took out yesterday. No luck. And I have a feeling Ticketek won't be helpful. There's $130 worth of Gomez floating around there somewhere. Bah.

I just bought two tickets to see Gomez at the Hordern in July. WOOHOO! Last time was wonderful as I'm sure it will be this time around. Ahhh. Life is sweeter than a family block of Cadbury's.

P.S. It seems noone will agree that the Spiderman movie is a steaming pile of turds. What's wrong with me?

P.P.S. We had a mini-holiday this weekend that I wanted to tell you about but now I am really, really sick and can't talk without sounding like some trashy call now, big boy phone line and I feel brokenhearted and lonely and grumpy and I've lost any ability to write decently and I am photocopying in my sleep.

Just a quick trip into the supermarket for orange juice, that's all. I'm standing in the aisle debating the merits of pulp-free versus pulp-clogged when a sweet, cheery voice floats over the speakers.

I thought love was only true in fairy tales...

I choose some juice and know I really should head straight for the checkout, but it's such a lovely tune.

Love was out to get me
That's the way it seemed...

Only Neil Diamond could pen a song so jaunty. And it's the Monkees singing it, not that recent inferior cover version. And I'm a dork so I know all the words. So I swagger down another aisle and sing. I feel like Elvis in a dodgy musical, where he's walking down a beach and hawaiian-shirted back-up singers suddenly appear from behind sand dunes, armed with ukuleles.

There's a short rolly lady and her pricing gun is loaded with REDUCED stickers. She's grinning as she attacks some blocks of cheese, because she's a dork and knows all the words too!

Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

I look around and notice that the other shoppers seem to be enjoying the song too. There's a few absent smiles and drumming of fingers on shopping trolleys, we're all gearing up for the big chorus.

Old grey banana-groping guy in the produce section: Then I saw her face!

Rather handsome lad selecting tomatoes: Now I'm a believer!

Everyone's right into it. It was magic. Except for the babies and grotty toddlers, they're too stupid to know a good tune. The Wiggles, pah!

I'm in love...

The checkout chick with violent red lips (scanning large box of Rice Bubbles) harmonises with the Eagled-Eyed Customer (making sure she gets the Bubbles at the sale price, dammit):

Ooooooooooooooooooohhhhh...

It's interesting to watch other people to see if they fancy themselves as a lead singer or if they wait for a harmony or just pipe up occassionally in the background; whether they audibly sing or just move their lips; whether they scrunch up their forehead with feeling or nod their head.

Miss Permed and Peroxided in queue reading Who Weekly and discreetly picking undies out of arse: I'm a believer, I couldn't leave her if I tried.

Baldy man with air guitar action: Durn da durn durn durrrrn!

I wander down the baking aisle during the second verse, humming and wondering if there's anything else I need to buy. I pick up a box of Green's 97% Fat Free Chocolate Mud Cake Mix. I think that a 97% Fat Free Cake couldn't contain enough mud to be tasty, would be more like dirty water really. But I want it anyway.

Soon we've belted out the second chorus and it all goes crazy. I am swearing and shoving my ageing credit card in and out of the machine in time with the fade out, thinking vaguely that I'd have had enough cash if I'd stopped at the juice, but now I needed Mr Visa for all this unnecessary shit I'd accumulated.

The next song is an Eagles chestnut and somewhere there is a crack team of behavioural marketing gurus watching us on surveillance tapes and cackling with glee.

Well I am all funked out, kiddies. I went to see Jamiroquai last night and I danced like a loon.

Jamiroquai's debut album was the 2nd album I ever bought. The first was Lenny Kravitz Are You Gonna Go My Way. Hey, I was 15 and clearly going through my Artists Who Bastardise Old School Stuff phase.

Anyway, I never got into their other albums quite like I did that funky first one, it all got so samey. But I bought the concert tickets when drunk and thought why the hell not, how often do we get a decent show in Canberra, and I'll get to hear a couple of tunes from that first album.

They didn't play a single bloody song from it.

Nevertheless, it's impossible not to get into a show when you're three rows from the front. That Jay Kay with all his stupid hats and crazy moves is a cute little monkey close up. I would like to know what drugs he was taking, such was his endless energy throughout. He'd belt out a song pitch-perfect then just dance madly for a good ten minutes, scampering on top of the speakers, swishing across the stage.

It didn't really feel like a concert, it just felt like a big party. We were crammed in like sardines in the front rows, it was ridiculously sweaty and crazy. I continue to be amazed by the energy of Canberrans at concerts. When I make the trek to Sydney the crowds seem more subdued, a little cynical and harder to impress. But here in Canberra it seems everyone is so grateful that somebody actually bothered to show up here, that we go insane. It was the same with the Powderfinger show last year. Completely different from Jamiroquai but the same manic energy and roaring cheers.

One thing that bugged me though. Short people. Now don't bloody fire me angry emails if you're short, calling me a Short-ist, a smug tall bitch, whatever. This is purely in the context of a mosh-pit type situation. This snippy shortarse behind me last night who arrived late, very rudely poked me in the back and asked could my mate Jenny (5'10") and I let her through because we were tall and she was short and wanted to get closer to the front. We refused. Why? Because I got there early and bloody waited for the doors to open then I raced over to get a good spot, as did the people in front of me. I don't care if you're Michael Jordan or a goddamn midget, if you want to be up the front you bloody get there early and FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT for the front, orright?

Thank you.

Still hot. Still and hot. No sleep, t-shirt, undies. Toss on the bed, all melodramatic and cranky. Wait for the sky to split open. Thunder grumbles, lightning spits. Bursts of light and shadow on the walls, like the glow from a television set. Think about work. Think about an overdrawn bank account. Think about fresh raspberries. Think about the Grammy nominations. Same bloody formula every year. Crusty old rockers on comeback trail; latest songbird fresh from her teens; inoffensive radio friendly band with soaring ballad; token gangsta rapper type in attempt to show awards still relevant; and Bob Dylan. Finally, rain hammers on the roof, sleep, wake up, better mood.

Amusing stuff on Smokehammer:

The Prime Minister Tony Blair today broadcast the following statement on the death of George Harrison.

"George Harrison was a lovely lovely Beatle.

"He hated any kind of war but I know that if he were alive this afternoon he would have unreservedly backed military strikes against the Taliban followed up by further action led by British special forces against Al Qaeda terrorists hiding in fifty other countries."

[via grim]

An online quiz told me that Thom Yorke (illustrated below right) is my rockstar boyfriend, but everyone knows that Ed O'Brien (left) is my man. Note the long lean endless body, the entirely run-your-fingers-through-able hair, kissable lips, the jaunty angle of his hip, his general air of shaggability. All in good time he will realise his life is incomplete without me.

There was a Radiohead show on cable the other night, and I sat there about 4 inches from the screen, covering it in drool and snapping pictures of Mr Ed. Then they got downloaded to the computer, all 77 of them, and placed into a directory with an innocuous sounding name like documents or working files when we all know it's your Secret Porn Directory. Because that's what that Ed fellow is like for me, PORN, baby!

During the watching of television last night I noticed there's a new album out by The Eagles and it's called The Very Best Of The Eagles. This is distinct from The Very Best Of The Eagles that was released a few years back, because this particular Very Best Of The Eagles has a cactus with a GREEN background on the cover whereas The Very Best from a few years back had a BROWN motif. While the one of a few years back was Digitally Remastered, the new one is NEW and Digitally Remastered. Which means they must have added another 27 harmonies to Desperado or some such flabbergasting technological advancement. Or perhaps there's some bonus dance remixes from Don Henley's solo career.

I am getting itchy concert feet. It's been so long since I've seen a show. Not much coming up though, except Destiny's Child! I'm thinking of driving up a mini-bus to Sydney. Who's in?

TOSSER OF THE DAY: Gorillaboy Damon Albarn sayz, "With cap and stupid jacket, you too can become gangsta rapper type"

Went and saw the Australian Chamber Orchestra last night. Being the ignorant clod I am, I had never heard that kind of music live before so it was just amazing. They played bits of the Farenheit 451 score and I was gobsmacked. I've heard Bernard Herrmann's wonderful scores in dozens of movies: Taxi Driver, Psycho, Vertigo, Citizen Kane, blah blah blah, but it's so familiar that you forget there's people sawing away at violins and cellos and things to make it all happen. Fantastic stuff, though I wished they could thrown in the screechy shower scene bit from Psycho, just for a laugh.

The second half of the performance was called Parables, Lullabies and Secrets, a strange little collaboration between the ACO, the national children's choir Gondwana Voices, Neil Finn and Michael Leunig. Parts of it were baffling and bloody annoying really, but you can't go wrong with Neil's amazing voice and Leunig's odd, bittersweet words.

I ignored the glares of the well-coiffed grannies around us to take the photo below. We were sitting eleven miles from the stage, my zoom is crap and no flash of course, so you get this shaky old thing. Lovely.

There was a lady walking in front of me today who produced a perfect disco beat. As she pounded the footpath most rhythmically with her Nikes, her thighs smashed together, making her polyester pants swoosh deliciously, back and forth like hi-hats, chh chh chh chh. Initially it was a slow, sauntering Stayin' Alive pace but then she built up a good, swift tempo and I found myself humming You Should Be Dancin' and shaking my booty until I tripped over a magpie.

Those little bastards are everywhere in the city. They strut around making that trademark arrrrrrrrrrrrrk that sounds like a cow being strangled. They fluff up their feathers in the cold so they look like black and white pompoms with legs and insist on scrounging around for food right beneath my feet.They're Canberra's answer to pigeons. Although we have those too. Hmm.

Who wants to round up a posse and take out this annoying little whippersnapper?

Kermit once asked, why are there so many songs about rainbows? Well Rainbow Connection is the only bloody song about rainbows I know. Oh, then there's Somewhere Over The Rainbow. That's two. But two does not make many if you ask me. You're full of shit, Kermit!

The Glory of the Human Voice: all day the designers here at work have been playing the "wonderful" voice of Florence Foster Jenkins. If you've never heard her, think Miss Piggy meets a bagful of cats being run over by a semi-trailer. It's nothing short of appalling but it's very very very very bloody funny. Especially when four people play the songs simultaneously on their computers for truly abysmal surround sound. You must go here (or here at Amazon) and have a listen to the samples (Real Audio format) and read her bizarre story. Hee hee. I'm still laughing after 23 listens.

Last night, between the Mango Dream and the Dream Where The Car Has No Brakes, I dreamed that I ran over the Manic Street Preachers with a bulldozer. All of em. Even that one that went missing. He came back, just so I could mow him down. Ooh I hope I dream it again tonight. Only this time I hope I will also run over their shithouse new album cover, the one that has the vaguely Primal Scream-ish font without the clever absence of vowels. To sleep, perhance to bulldoze.

I was slumped on the couch contemplating the meaning of life and wondering what colour to paint my toenails when on the telly appeared unto me a "song" bleated out by that annoying little tramp Vitamin C. Vitamin C? How can you just lay claim to a generic name like that? She even has a website with the just dazzling title of vitamincisgood4u.com. Sure, her hair is a revolting array of poorly-dyed citrus colours, but what next? Will all the teenies be grooving on down to the likes of Steak Diane? Stapler? Tube O' Toothpaste?

If this little hussy thinks she personifies the most refreshing of vitamins, I suggest we put her to the test! Let's dismember her unnaturally perky body and feed her to a bunch of crusty old sailors and see if she wards off scurvy! Ahoy matey!

Look what James sent me! An authentic Radiohead bear sticker! Woo! :)

You know when you get someone who's really hopeless at playing the piano but insists having a go? They stab randomly at the keys then stop and swear and say, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Lemme start again!"


And it's always some cliche of a tune that they're trying to play, like The Entertainer or Heart and Soul. They plink out a few bars before pausing again and pleading, "Hang on! This time, for sure!" It's a most irritating proccess.

A similar thing took place yesterday afternoon and almost drove me to insanity. Except it wasn't a little piano. It was bells. Big fat booming bells in the church tower across the street. I don't know who they let loose up there but they were bloody hopeless. It sounded like they'd dragged out the Old Standard Xmas Carols book and were determined to stay there until they could tug those bells to life.

BING BONG BING BONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG... Noel, Noel!... followed by a very long pause... I could just imagine someone shouting above the reverb, "Hang on! I'll get it right this time!"

I lay in bed with a pillow over my head trying to block out the discordant drone of Come All Ye Faithful and Silent Night. I'd never heard anything so dreadful and so bloody loud. At least with a talentless flautist you can jump and down on their flute until it shatters most delightfully. But there was no end to this din. I looked at the calendar and realised with a grumble that it's only the fourth of freaking December so there's a good many days left of amateur ding-donging Christmas carol action left. Urgh!

As DJ Bellringer really got down and funky with a bellowing interpretation of Rudolph The Rednose Reindeer, I thought about Hitchcock's Vertigo movie and the scene where Kim Novak goes sailing over the edge of the bell tower to her gruesome death. I bet she was a really crappy bell ringer and someone was trying to get some sleep.

I was driving along past Parliament House last night with the crappy radio trilling away when the most ridiculous song I've ever heard came on. It was a rap song. By an Aussie guy. About Canberra.

I try to be respectful of peoples forays into music making but when I hear a rap song in a barely-disguised Aussie accent, mate, I just cringe. And when it starts going on about Parliament House, Lake Burley Griffin, High Court, The National Liiiii-bra-ry, Canberra Raiders, yo! it was just toooo much.

Somebody call the UN! We have a case of Crimes Against Humanity. Someone has allowed Jimmy Barnes back into the studio to record the imaginatively titled Soul Deeper.

In the early nineties he churned out the musical abomination Soul Deep, in which he slaughtered a number of classic hits like River Deep, Mountain High and Many Rivers To Cross and now he's done it again. Among the tunes to be desecrated this time around are Chain of Fools and I Put A Spell On You. Good lord!

For those not in the know about Mr Barnes, imagine the sound of a dozen wailing stray cats thrown into a cement mixer on full power. That's about the delightful quality of his "voice". Urgh. Somebody snuff him out before it's too late.

Hello lovelies! I am just back from the Dandy Warhols concert. It was quite indeedy good. Some might even go so far to say they were quite dandy. Bwahaha! Don't mind me, I just have Post Concert Stupidity. And I may have to add the pretentiously titled lead singer, Courtney Taylor-Taylor, to my prestigious Lust List. Oooh la. Nothing quite like a nice and sweaty singing man.

I barged my way to the very front row in the manner of some barge-like object. I perched against the security rail and had a lovely view of proceedings. Of course, I was there to capture the moment on film. I took some brilliant shots! Oh how brilliant they were. But what do you BLOODY KNOW? I get home to find the freaking batteries had died. WAH! Now you people won't be bombarded with my amateurish attempts! Boo to the hoo!

So I am quite deaf right now and my ears are all ring-a-ding, because I stupidly stationed myself in front of the big arse speakers in order to shoot aforementioned photos. And I am losing my voice for singing along to the song known to the general public as the Never Were You So Passe Song. I sound all husky and 0055, so for a good time call now, more purr per minute guarranteed from the ol' pussycat. Mwahahhaa! Oh man. I'm spent.

I'm listening to that incredible Radiohead song How To Disappear Completely over and over and over again and I can't stop and no matter how hard I scrunch up my eyes and wish... I'm still at work. Hmmm.

Lust object du jour: the tasty Ed from Radiohead. Hovering on the list for about 5 years now, Mr O'Brien is one of my longest running infatuations, maintaining his appeal despite a few dodgy haircut choices over the years.

It amazes me that there are almost 500 reviews of that new Radiohead album at amazon.com, barely a week after its release. I spend many an hour chortling at the reviews, for it is a veritable haven for NME wannabes.

"if ok.computer was satellites, police scanners, and train tunnels, then kid.a is air ducts, water pipes, and fiber optic cables. this album is a shivering child huddled in in a dark room. this child listens closely to the world outside, taking in every stimuli and intimating it to us its own trembling tones."

With comments like these it won't matter if every music journalist in the world is struck down by some deadly disease, for there are legions of wankers waiting in the wings.

What was #1 the day you were born? This is fun, and I can see it spreading like wildfire. On November 1st 1977 - "Yes Sir, I Can Boogie". Groooooovy! [via pearl]

I died and went to musical heaven last night, kiddies. But being the annoying little bugger that I am, I have drifted back down on a #9 cloud to tell you all about it.

IT WAS BLOODY FANTASTIC!!!!

I think the Gomez show may have surpassed Radiohead as my favourite gig of all time. It was just so damn special. But I know there is nothing so quite annoying as someone prattling on about a show that you did not attend so I'll restrain my over-excitable self.

I can't believe I made it to Sydney and back without either myself or my car falling apart. Woohoo. It was nice to hang out in the big city for awhile, although I always feel so grotty afterwards. It's like this thin layer of grime settles over me, and no amount of scrubbing in Sydney water can rid me of the feeling. I've decided the city is just a place I want to visit, as opposed to live in.

So while I go bathe in the crystal clear goodness of Canberra water, you can all go have a looky at my superb photos that I took at the show. Despite knocking down a bunch of kidd