My Name is Pussy Galore

Continuing on the Bond theme - and really, why wouldn't you? - I'm opening this blog up to the silliness that is Create Your Own Bond Girl Name.

Best entry wins a watermelon jolly rancher, plus the right to be publicly referred to by their chosen Bond Girl appelation.

Licence to Thrill

I'll stand up and admit it: I have A Thing for James Bond. Quite where this leaves my Feminist sensibilities, I'm not entirely sure (of course, if James Bond knocked on my front door, and opened with, Melwuv, you're the only woman who could ever be my emotional, spiritual and intellectual equal - do you fancy some dirty dirty raunch sex?, they'd probably be on the floor, with my knickers, but I digress).

But I'm still trying to figure it out. I'm entirely opposed to any kind of violence being threatened or indeed acted upon any woman, by any stronger man. I really don't think that any work a woman does is somehow worth less in monetary terms. I really think that there's room for a MASSIVE improvement in the way government addresses maternity leave.

And as I thought about this, my opinions started to shift. I actually don't agree with domestic violence full stop. I don't care if he hits her, or she hits him, there has to be a better way to deal with personal inadequacies, frustration and pissed-offness. Belting the living daylights out of someone you profess to feel such positive feelings for that you live under the same roof with them is JUST NOT ON.

Looking at pay inadequacies, I sure as hell don't think that, by being a middle class white male who somehow ended up in a managerial, executive position, you're worth intrinsically more - all those CEOs who enjoy bajillion dollar payouts for not actually summoning Satan on the Boardroom Table, I'm looking at you, pals.

And while maternity leave in Australia is woeful, I'm pretty sure there's room to open it up a little, and listen to what the dads have to say. Call me crazy, but there may just be some fathers out there who'd relish the opportunity to hang out with their little ones, and conduct conversations that make them sound like they've left their brains out in the rain, whilst feeding small ppl a diet that is comprised entirely of coloured... mush.

BUT HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO JAMES BOND? I'm glad you reminded me that that's where we're headed - I was getting a little het up back there. But, it a subtle way, that IS my argument. For all the Feminist Establishment lamenting the perpetuation of the female as victim/sexual plaything/nurturer (while never actually getting be all awesome and kick arse... Unless she's evil, in which case she kick everything until dispatched of by James, usually with some dry witticism), Monsieur Bond is hardly 3 dimensional. Let's face it: he's a ripped pussy magnet who occasionally does some spying. That's. About. It. He has discernible skills, for sure - the ability to drive a manual car, the knowledge of several lethal martial arts, and an almost Zen-like affinity with the cocktail shaker and the wondrous concoctions one can inveigle fm it - but when it comes down to it, would you actually want to try and spend a lifetime with this fella? The dirty dirty raunch sex would be plentiful, dirty and raunchy, but what about when you wanted to lie on the couch in trackpants, and argue the merits of crunchy versus smooth peanut butter? Or just stay in and watch 'The Bill' on a Saturday nite? Or indeed, combine the above two activities?

So to those out there that argue that James is a Cold War relic of outdated misogynistic masculinity, I say, too bloody rite! Congratulations! You've cracked it! Such insight! (These comments may or may not be tinged with sarcasm, depending how generous I feel at the time).

It's a constant refrain that women will never live up to the ideals created for them by media and popular cultural consensus. Again, I agree wholeheartedly. But lads, you'll never be James Bond either (sorry). So can we just watch the films (and read the books, for us purists out there), and enjoy a slightly different reality where trackpants, 'The Bill' and nites in are instead replaced by tailored everything, million dollar cards games and massive gunfights in exotic locations, without needing to think too hard about them?

It's time to get back to Bond basics: the dirty dirty raunch sex, and how to get it. End of.



Stay tuned for Melwuv's insightful analysis as to why Casino Royale was 11 kinds of awesome, and may indeed be her favourite Bond film ever produced. NB: she will not discuss Quantum of Solace. At least, not until the spiritual whimpering in her soul quietens the f*ck down.

I'm Surprised

It IS possible to make an Irishman support the British monarchy: simply tell him that Cromwell's willing to help overthrow it, if he can get the necessary Visa to come visit the Republic.

All Stand For The National Anthem

Ladies and Gentlemen, please sit down. I have an announcement to make, and I'd hate to think that you might hurt yourself if you're overcome by emotion.

Today, I would like to announce the presence of Fakeistan, and Robonia.

These sovereign nations are not new, in a physical sense. However, being two Eastern European countries, they have newly demarcated borders, which may have escaped even the most avid geopolitical scholar.

Thus, I present for you a potted history of these illustrious countries.

Located in the Siberian steppes, Fakeistan and Robonia are former USSR satellite states. As such, they are both nuclear powers, but shhh, don't tell anyone. (No, really, they're trying to keep this on the down-low, so they'd totally appreciate you keeping this under your toup). They obtained this technology at the end of the Cold War, during the collapse of the USSR - their location made them the perfect sites for nuclear silos, and when the USSR withdrew from these satellite states, they didn't have time to pack properly. This was poor forward planning on the part of the USSR - no wonder it collapsed! - as they were dealing with countries whose Foreign Policy was, in a nutshell, Finders Keepers. Because Fakeistan and Robonia now have The Bomb, this Policy has extended to encompass a Shit Us And We Nuke You mentality. This is not an ideal situation, but it does mean that everyone is really, really nice to them (until they go the bathroom, then everyone bitches about them behind their backs). Their First Strike Capability is manned by a manic depressive named Igor. When Igor takes to his bed, overcome by the overwhelming bleakness of the human condition, his shifts are covered by his donkey, Trevor. Should you ever tour the weapons facility, make sure you say hello to Trevor, as he has a persecution complex, and a failure to greet him appropriately, and thus shit him, will lead to you being nuked. This is not an ideal outcome for anyone, so practice a big Hello Trevor! before you visit.

Igor (when he's well enough) and Trevor answer to the respective governments of their nations, which are located in the capital cities. Madeupograd, the political heart of Fakeistan, is a triumph of Soviet architecture. Seldom have so many different shades of gray been used in a single city - truly, it is a sight to behold. However, Pravda, the capital of Robonia, can make no such claim. The less said, the better.

The GDP of both nations involves two sets of books. The actual set of books - the ones we're not allowed to disclose - seem to enter a fair few shipments of opium. The money from the provision of such goods to the world is funnelled back into the nuclear program. But we're not talking about that! The set of books that the accountants get to play with state that the main export of Robonia is mercury. This is handy, as this product is readily bought by Fakeistan. Fakeistan uses the mercury to create a dye compound, which is used in the production of dye. Again, handy, because Fakeistan is the world's leading exporter of fuzzy felt shapes. Because of the mercury compound, it is highly recommended that you do not lick these fuzzy pieces. Indeed, if they can be kept away from naked flame or living tissue, so much the better!

The people of these nations are triumphantly living the Communist dream. As such, they can not afford jam, and so are forced merely to lick pictures of jam. They claim this as a crowning achievement in their histories, as previously, they couldn't even afford pictures of jam. In the future, they're looking forward to obtaining radiators.

The easiest way of getting around Madeupograd or Pravda is by Segue. While these bicycle wannabes are the gayest mode of transportation on Earth, the punishment for pointing this out is severe - transgressors are arrested, and forced to watch Star Trek re-runs until they agree that there are gayer things out there. Further, we're talking about of nation of people suffering from mercury poisoning, with access to nuclear weapons. This is a combination that doesn't need right on its side to take the kind of actions that will ruin your day.

But don't let this stop you from visiting this beautiful area of Eastern Europe! Visas can easily be obtained - if the office is closed, simply write 'TREVOR WILL GET BACK TO ME, ASAP' in your Passport with a red pen. All Customs officials will recognise this, as Trevor is a donkey of his word. Happy travelling!

Me Talk Pretty One Day, pt. V*

TLD (that's The Lovely Dave for those of you who haven't been keeping up, and taking note of the developments of this blog), recently opened the Box of Controversy with words he's not a fan of (the entire episode is snap frozen for extra freshness here). While you can take your "moist panties" (oh Christ, excuse me momentarily, while I vomit so hard my eyes fall out), I thought it was time to balance the presentation with a few words that I love so much I want to take them away for a really dirty weekend in BrisVegas.

• Shameful: as in, My God girlfriend, that haircut was shameful! (This usage of the term is most useful when squawking over old photographs. However, much in this world is shameful - just remember that it sounds best when delivered with a tone of embarrassed amusement).
• Minx: it does exactly what it says on the tin, without being overtly sexual and sleazy.
• Surreal: while I use this term for situations that involve absolutely NO melting clocks - thus begging the question, can you really use the term surreal to describe it? - I enjoy its evocation of spiritual and emotional dislocation. Most commonly, God, I saw my ex just then - they look exactly the same, and I'm all like, God, I actually do miss you, until I remembered that they made me listen to Bananarama/vacuumed my dwarf rabbit out existence/slept with someone who decidedly wasn't me, and I'm thinking, You hide the bastard thing so well - you actually look nice, and now I need a little lie down... God, it was just SURREAL. (Who says you need the melting clocks to create a rift from reality, eh?)
• the terms of affection Babes, Sweets and Bella: only the last term is specifically for the pretty ladies; the rest I use indiscriminately, even when I can remember the name of the individual in question. Personally, I like the plural. However, it drives others to distraction. All part of the rich tapestry, I guess.

Are we all in love, or am I once again on the outer? If I've got it wrong (an event with a 98.7% possibility of occurring every damn day), what should I be loving? Come on, fess up - what words get you going?



* A nod to David Sedaris - he comes up with the genius, I merely steal and degrade it.

The Writing's On Your Chest, And It's 4 Inches High - the Obama Girls

Awww, are these girls not incredibly cute? Totally set up for a delinquent teenagerhood - how much would you pay to hear the answer to that therapy witch hunt, Tell me about your family? - but adorable! I still don't know what kind of puppy Dad finally coughed up for, but I do know that the White House garden now boasts outdoor play equipment. And, buried underneath it, a nuclear weapons silo, but I digress.

These girls now have a park experience outside their door - a slippery-dip, swings, and, if they forked out for the deluxe package, monkey bars. Oh yeah, they're biggin' it up. Thus, today's t-shirt: LIVING KENNEDY'S DREAM - SWINGING IN THE WHITE HOUSE.

Too much?

The Writing's On Your Chest, And It's 4 Inches High - Brad Pitt

Apparently, Brad Pitt has recently grown a spine, and started behaving in a way that is driving the Mistress of Darkness, Angelina Jolie, more insane than current opinion holds her at. This follows a good three years of Brad's only exercise being nodding in agreement.

Imagine that, a father of 6 who occasionally sneaks a Nite Out with the boys. Next thing you'll be telling me politicians have a tendency towards expounding untruths.

Still, I'm totally getting Brad a new t-shirt: NO LONGER JOLIE'S BITCH. I'd wear it.