Old Glory

I am ashamed. This is not the Australia I grew up in, not the open, tolerant, enthusiastic, outward-looking, well-liked Australia, Paul Keating's Australia. This is Pauline Hanson's Australia, John Howard's Australia, bigotted, jingoistic, mean-spirited and small-minded. Yes, John, I blame YOU. Personally.

Last Saturday, The SMH's Alan Ramsey wrote about the various ways we are all dealing with the changes that have been wrought over the past 10 years, in the name of fashioning "John Howard's Australia":

[Social Researcher Hugh] Mackay thinks he sees "three emerging responses" to ... John Howard's Australia.

"First, there is increasing talk about the need to 'restore balance', to 'get my life under control', to 'live the way I want to live'. This quiet revolution will be led by women, who are increasingly reaching levels of authority and influence in business and the professions and, looking around them, are concluding that 'this is no way to live'.

"The second trend is less attractive.

"It is heard in the growing voice of those who are not saying, 'I want to get my life under control', but 'I want to get your life under control'. This is the voice of regulation.

"These are the religious, social and cultural fundamentalists - the people who want to see tougher sentencing, more censorship, more laws to control everything that moves. That is their answer to the instability and uncertainty of contemporary life - 'if only we had more rules and regulations' to restore our sense of security.

"The third signpost comes from the rising generation of Australians, who are showing us how to make sense of life in an uncertain world. Having never known anything but an accelerating rate of change and an unpredictable future, they have developed three strategies for coping: keep your options open, as a way of incorporating 'realistic uncertainty'; a spiritual framework is leading them to explore post-material values; and they have become our most tribal generation, having realised the most precious resource for coping with an uncertain world is each other."

Mackay concluded: "It is hard to be confident, but the emerging culture may be the best news we've had for a long time. Good for individuals who need the security of the herd, good for nuclear families who will not be under the same pressure to satisfy the herd instinct, good for communities as people move out to find new and creative ways of connecting."

Mr Howard, recognise yourself in the second of these categories? You should. You have nutured them and given them succour—and now we as a nation are reaping as you have sowed.

Give me the honest and honourable Australia of Malcolm Fraser, of Bill Dean, of Gareth Evans any day. The Australia of sunburnt faces and eyes squinting into the sun, of "she'll be right, mate" and "go for your life", of dust and heat and salt on my skin, of the click-click-click of sprinklers, the bang of wire-doors and the 6 pips marking the hour followed by the ABC news theme , of vernadahs and lemon trees and bowls of roses; of dim-sims and souvlakis, of red curry duck and mozzarella di buffala and roast lamb with home-made mint sauce; of beer and wine and gins and tonic; and the smells of lanolin and eucalyptus and sausage fat and freshly cut grass; of people who are interested in difference, who want to see the world, be a part of the world, and accept the world as it is, as different and intriguing and instructive, not mould it into a palimpsest of a picket fence and separationist tea party, some veneer of civility covering a dark, prejudiced, jealous heart. Bah!

There's no other store like...

Has anyone else noticed how strange the woman's voice is on the DJ's ads at the moment? She has this truly weird-arse accent thing going on, kinda half Lillian Frank, half Kath'n'Kim, that someone in the ad agency must reckon reverebates with "class" and "quality" and "cardigans and velvet slippers", but it's just so very wrong. Particularly as Dimmeys and Forges, long the Bastion of the Bargain, seem to have hired the same voice talent...

2046

A film just for looking at.

A Musical Baton

A meme from the ever-lovely Ladycracker.

Total volume of music files on my computer: Not a single note. New job, new desk, new environment, fucking old machine. Until this morning, that is, when a lovely new black box came a-sliding over my desk. Bring it on.

Song playing right now: none, for the above reason. But I can hear Prince's "Little Red Corvette" emanating from the desk across the way.

Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:

Reel Around the Fountain — The Smiths (Hatful of Hollow)
Folk Song — Bongwater (The Power of Pussy)
Strike Me Down — The Reindeer Section (Son of Evil Reindeer)
I Must Be Getting Soft — Tex Don and Charlie (Sad but True)
Where Do You Go To My Lovely? —Peter Sarstedt (every bloody album he's ever released)

A handful of people I'm tossing the baton to: Greta, Riza & J(aded)

Conversations with Taxi Drivers #17

Sitting in the front seat of a taxi. I'm ambivalent about it. Particularly since that beer ad/song thing where he said I'm an Aussie and this is a national trait. That's the downside. The upside is that directions are easily received. And I give good direction. Believe you me. But I usually sit in the front seat when travelling alone in a taxi out of some sort of misplaced social repsonsibility I feel about somehow snubbing the cabbie if I sit in the back. Which is actually pretty fucked up, but, well, at the very least I get my directions followed and offered the odd blowjob. I'm a fairly amiable fellow, and count myself up there with best of conversationalists. No really.

So, taxi's hailed. Oooh, it's a swish one, black leather seats, doesn't smell of stale sweat. The driver is verging on obese though.

We start with a random conversation about routes through North Melbourne, the upshot of which is that Mr Taxi Driver believes, and I mean believes, that Queensberry Street is The Chute, the miracle of inner northwest Melbourne. Hey, I'm cycling, and it's got a nice wide bike lane so I'm happy. I have secret plans for bike lanes fo when I rule the world, but I'll share that at another time.

The radio is on. Bland commercial FM stuff.
An ad comes on for a strip club.
He turns up the volume. I raise an eyebrow.
The strip club is in Campbellfield. Like, Campbellfield? WTF?

"It's a good club that" he tells me.
"Huh?"
"Really good strip club that. But they're having a tough time."
"Oh. How do you know?"
"My mate owns it."
"Ok. So, is it like, more than just a strip bar, you know, can women go along too, like do they have a ladies lounge, or pokies, or a beestro and somewhere to put the kids?"
"Nah, it's a strip club mate. Like Club 20."

In Campbellfield?

Anyway, there was a falling out between two owners, and not-the-taxi-driver's-mate nicked off with half the cash and half the girls. And so taxi-driver's-mate is doing it hard. And we pause for a short silence.

"The girls make good money, you know"
"Really?"
"My girlfriend works there. She's 36. Some people think that's a bit old, but mate, I tell you, if I ever had the cash, I'd open up a strip club with older women. Men love the real women, you know, the full figure, especially older men."
"Do you mean, like, it's something attainable as opposed to, say, pneumatic 19 year olds." Wha...? I actually said pneumatic?
"Yeah mate, those young chicks you know, that's not where the money is. The older girls are much more popular. My girl, she works four nights a week and takes home $1,500 to $2,000 a week."
"Wow. I could do with money like that."
"Pretty good isn't it. And she only has to work 4 nights a week"

So we hit the directions again. Almost there.

"You know mate, she does really well, my girl. Two kids. She loves her kids mate. They're nice boys."
"How does she manage nights at work and the kids then? If you're in a cab?"
"Her mother looks after them."
"Lucky."
"They yours?"
"Nah. Good boys though. They're 13 and 15, so they don't need too much supervision."
"Make their own tea n stuff..."
"Yeah, and they're both in private school." Howard's Battlers, perhaps?
"My she is doing well!" I don't think I actually said 'my'.

We go through the paying motions. He give me my change.

"I really hope she makes her mind up soon."
"Huh?"

I have the cab door open.

"Well, you see, we're kinda having a break at the moment, me and her. And I really love her."
"Sorry mate, I've gotta fly. Thanks for the ride."

Scary Fanboy

At the risk of turning 2characters into a Neighbours spoiler site, I have discovered the following tidbit: 5 permanent characters will be leaving this year, to be replaced by a new family. Word is some are leaving voluntarily, some not so voluntarily. They are:

Marisa Warrington's Sindi Watts
Marcella Russo's Ljilana Bishop
Kev Harrington's Dave Bishop
Blair McDonough's Stuart Chooka Parker
and Marisa Siketa's Summer Hoyland

Oddly enough, my favourite character of that lot would probably be Summer.

Ultimate Dining

Every now and again, I will be kicking about, looking the other way, and generally minding my own business when someone of the most amazing calibre strikes me over the head with a very large stick. Last night, it was our Cate. I was well enough aware of her before, in a kinda patriotic, she-was-robbed, she does interesting films, never seen her interviewed kinda way, but little did I realise how generally brilliant , and fucking down-to-earth and real she is. I mean, it's almost sickening how much of a nice bird she is. And a hottie to boot.

When this sort of epiphany comes along, the object of my admiration and/or desire gets added to the ultimate dinner party list. And yes, dead people can come, although there are only two in this version of the list, as I've decided Che a) too trite and b) most probably interminable on the struggle against American imperialism. And so, at table this week, we have:

• Cate Blanchett
• Sir Peter Ustinov
  
• Julia Davis
• Fidel Castro
• Robert Fisk
  
• Dame Maggie Smith
  
• Gareth Evans
• Sid James
• David Mitchell
• Arundati Roy

Kennedy for PM

To all my devoted pommy fan-base out there:

If you do nothing more today, go out and put a number one (or a cross or whatever it is you do) against your local Liberal Democrat's name.

May they overtake the nasty, mean-spirited and racist Tories to become the true opposition party.

Laying the boot in

First, from the Daily Telegraph, Co-star in a bad Blair day:

THE Chaser boys, who won a little statue for the Most Outstanding Comedy, probably put it best when they said the top comedy act really belonged to Thorpie's hair.
Not that the hair scare himself took that to be funny – the Thorpster was so embarrassed he left the room and didn't come back until the end of the ceremony.
And his excuse for the do?
"My mum wouldn't let me have an undercut when I was little," he said. "That's showing me up for the pretty boy I am, isn't it?"
Ah, yeah....

and then this, by James D Buttler, Crikey's Logies insider, The Logies: where celebrity, booze and politics mix

...
Ten – those open-minded people... The Ten Network likes to let it all hang out, so much so that one well-known senior female Neighbours star brought her girlfriend along and were pashing at the after party, and no-one batted an eyelid. Cleaners busted two young Ten employees, a male and a female, together in the disabled toilets. Let's say they weren't involved in a deep and meaningful political discussion...
What's going on, Thorpedo? Swimming champion Ian Thorpe's behaviour puzzled some in the media room. He seemed to spend most of his time swapping in-jokes with FOX FM Radio man Adam Richards, the warm-up man for the room, and largely ignored everyone else. The Thorpedo's shock new hairstyle was universally given the thumbs down.
...

Now, poor Ian Thorpe has been coming in for a fair bit of criticism, and particularly, today, from Dawei, and not only for his fucked-up hair; however,in my opinion, the best perspective on 'Australia's greatest swimmer' comes from Darp, in "The Pink Thorpedo" third article down on his greatest hits page. Read it.

But, Ian, if you don't want conjecture about your sexuality, don't leave your beard to spend the whole night tittering with a national radio station's breakfast program's token screaming queen. You Idiot.

As far as Our Lady of Erinsborough goes, conjecture away.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 13or The Entertainer

Once more, I nudged that envelop—just a little further—another 15 minutes late. Although this time it is to my chagrin. As I entered the dojo, I noticed the students were sitting, lined up as though going through our beginning-of-training devotional ritual, except lounging—not kneeling with their back straight like a row of buddhist priests—shinai at their side, eyes intent on something unseen.

Before them are a pair of dancing duellists, wielding naginata halberds, these long wooden poles ending in short, curved blades. And as I discard my shoes, bow and enter the dojo, they finish and my captivated comrades thank the demonstrators with a short round of applause. Fuck! I missed it. I know nothing about it. I can't even describe it or explain it, other than it involves a pair of peeps who wave these awful long poles about. And that they are usually women who do it. And they were wearing white gi and hakama.

So I sidle up to the end of the row, plonk myself down, and give the bloke next to me that quizzical "WTF?" look coated in a fine veneer of "oops", only to get a reproachful glare and a nod of the head in the direction of the show. Endearing character, me.

So anyway, the two naginata ladies disappear off into the distance, as much as one can do that in a dojo mae from a converted-warehouse with a saw-tooth roof. Man, I dig saw-tooth roofs. And are replaced by a fellow in black gi and hakama. Looking all dark and sinister and, well, completely different from the white-clad naginata ladies or the blue kitted kendo-ists. Actually, it was more the look on his face which made him evil and sinister, because it did not move once throughout his show, he just kept that gallic upside-down smile which conveys a vague air of displeasure, kinda handsome in a sneering sort of way. I remember reading someone describing the raison behind that particularly French facial expression as running along the lines of "in this world, there are problems that are mine, and there are problems that are not mine, and this problem here is definitely not mine", accompanied, of course, by that little shrug of the shoulders.

Back on topic. This fellow's art was jodo, which is not disimilar to kendo, other than is does not involve swords or sword substitutes such as shinai. It's the art of the staff. And it is purely a defensive art, a bit like the way aikido is meant to be a non-aggressive, martial art aimed at pacifying one's opponent rather than injuring them. Although his one is aimed at pacifying one's opponent who is armed with a sword. By using only your staff, or jo.

This one was pretty interesting actually, as our instructor went through the motions of attacking stone-faced-man-in-black-kit. And stone man would just knock the shinai outta the way, and usually end up with the attacker on the ground with the jo to his throat. Nice and pacifying. Except that stone man has a very strange, high-pitched squeal of a kiai which is ridiculously funny and completely inappropriate. Think Forrest Law with his balls in a vice. It was the best I could do to restrain any audible sounds of amusement. After about half a dozen kata, which are set exercises, and the only thing one does in jodo, as far as I could tell, he replaced his jo, and wandered off to the far side of the dojo.

And returned with a fuck-off sexy, sharp and glinting Japanese sword. It was time to cop an eyeful of iaido. Now iaido is a strange and mystical art. Or at least it seems that way to the observer. It is a solitary art, and this is where ol' stoney must have been rehearsing the not moving a single facial muscle thing. Because throughout this demonstration, which went for a good 20 minutes, his expression did not change at all. And iaido is also a silent art, rehearsing and replaying the 4 types of cuts which one could make with a blade as sharp as a razor. After showing us the blade, stone man resheathed the sword and began his demonstration of iaido: beginning from a kneeling position, he would first equip himself with his sheathed sword to his belt on the left-hand side, in that slow, determined way that you see old chinese dudes slicing the air with their palms in the Exhibition Gardens on a summer morning. Moving the sword from one side, the "I'm not going to attack" friendly side, the right, to the "fuck you cunt, you're dead meat" side, tying the cords to the appropriate parts of his belt, then unsheathing the sword, and making a variety of cuts—4 in each series, each accompanied by a short, sharp, high-pitched, howling kiai—some from the kneeling position, some from the standing position, all the moves you really do see in awesome flicks like Throne of Blood, before returning to the kneeling, devotional position. And then commencing a different series of the same 4 cuts, and returning to kneeling, and then repeating the elaborate, though carefully controlled ritual of resheathing and disarming the sword from his waist. It was pretty amazing to watch, I have to admit, all these slow, controlled movements, interspersed with sudden, swift cuts and cries and that whooshing sound you get from waving a blade about.

Demonstration over, off he disappeared, like the naginata ladies did. Somehow. In a not physically possible kinda way. And even our instructor commented on the stony-faced nature of the stony-faced man.

So now we had seen the entirety of the arts offered a by our dojo: kendo, naginata, iaido and jodo. The four main Japanese fighting arts involving weapons. Something I dig about the Japanese I remember reading in Jarred Diamond's history of the world in 450 pages, Germs Guns and Steel: it was that they renounced the gun. The Portuguese had sold them into Japan through their toehold in Nagasaki, and the Japs had taken them up. But then decided they were a little crass and maybe too hard to keep up or something, so they reverted to the arrow and the sword, not to mention the naginata and the jo, and shunned guns. That's foresight for ya. Or not.

It gets sadder and sadder

Because I have been very slack with my posting lately, and because I am desperate to move that picture of Mark Raffety down the page, and because I'm a freak, and because it's easy, and most of all because you all want to know, I give you the list of confirmed returnees for Neighbours 2005 season as of today's date:

• Lesley Baker as Angie Rebecchi
• Melissa Bell as Lucy Robinson #3
• Andrew Bibby as Lance Wilkinson
• Rachel Blakely as Gaby Willis
• Brett Blewitt as Brett Stark
• Joy Chambers as Rosemary Daniels
• David Clencie as Danny Ramsay
• Fiona Corke as Gail Lewis-Robinson
• Bernard Curry as Luke Handley
• Kimberley Davies as Annalise Hartman
• Terence Donovan as Doug Willis
• Delta Goodrem as Nina Tucker
• Richard Grieve as Sam Kratz
• Stephen Hunt as Matt Hancock
• Annie Jones as Jane Harris
• Mark Little as Joe Mangel
• Daniel MacPherson as Joel Samuels
• Todd McDonald as Darren Stark
• Craig McLachlan as Henry Mitchell
• Benji McNair as Mal Kennedy
• Shauna O'Grady as Dr Beverly Marshall #2
  
• Moya O'Sullivan as Marlene Kratz
• Ann Scott-Pendlebury as Hilary Robinson
• Ailsa Piper as Ruth Wilkinson
• Mark Raffety as Darcy Tyler
• Ian Rawlings as Phil Martin
• Marnie Reece-Wilmore as Debbie Martin
• Rebecca Ritters as Hannah Martin
• Jansen Spencer as Paul McClain
• Jesse Spencer as Billy Kennedy
• Jacinta Stapleton as Amy Greenwood
• Eliza Szonert as Danni Stark
• Holly Valance as Felicity Scully
• Kym Valentine as Libby Kennedy

Back at the coal face

New job. Fun. Deep end. Scary. Income. Saviour.

In reference to the below

I came across this pox picture of the Darstardly Doctor on the Taylor and Khoo website. It's all in a good cause, I spose (that cause being local, sustainable economic development in Siem Reap, Cambo).

Domestic God

This is how dull my life is right now. I have completed the following in the last 24 hours:

• defrosted fridge and freezer
  and found 7 varieties of gluten-free soy n linseed loaf, while storing the salvageable frozen goods somewhere else freezy
  
• mopped kitchen floor
• and laundry floor
  after desposing of the previous (utterly useless) mop and visiting my favourite old-skool hardware store to buy another one, you know, proper mop head n handle, none of this sponge-on-a-stick shite, and a nice new philips-head screwdriver
• assembled said mop with said screwdriver
  
• 3 loads of washing
  (Surf Ocean Breeze)
  
• 2 sets of washing up
  (Blast, the Aussie-made/owned one in red-apple (huh?) flavour)
  
• jiffed the stove
  
• tidied loungeroom
• polished surfaces
• dusted
  
• watered garden
  
• acted as chauffeur for various members of my family
  
• sorted my finances
• paid parking fine
  and energy bills
  and received on of those nasty insidious speed-camera tickets
• and did the house shop at the South Melby Market (gotta love 3 grapefruit for $2)
  
  Add in 2 hours of kendo, and that's my life.
  

Is it any wonder I look forward to Neighbours of an evening.

And gin. I forgot gin. My little helper.

Coma Karma

Oh yes, the news we've all been waiting for has been announced: Darstardly Doctor Darcy Tyler, he of the purple muscle shirt, of that oh so nasty green jacket, has awoken from his (when last we heard, irreversible Terri Schiavo-esque) coma, and descended on Erinsborough to wreak vengeance on you-know-who.

It's all good.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 12or 8 Seconds

Sunday practice is a tough ask. Easter Sunday practice is an even tougher ask. You mean you want me to forego the second longest public holiday break of the year? How does get fucked sound?

So instead I hit the Buchan rodeo. Originally it was meant to tbe the Omeo Rodeo, but things didn't go quite to plan—we didn't make it over Hotham until round 4, and a measly 45 minutes or so didn't quite cut the mustard. But we did miss out on the spectacle of a horse jumping the railings and careering through the crowd. Fun n games eh?

Nothing quite so eventful happened at Buchan. But I did buy myself a new stubbie holder, proudly emblazoned with "Buchan Rodeo" and a buckin' bronc, and got myself a wretched dose of horse-allergy hayfever. Hadn't ever had that trouble before up at Omeo or at Flemington, but well, maybe it has something to do with the venue.

You see, whereas the Omeo Rodeo is situated behind the Omeo football oval—the very same football oval which was the designated safe haven during the Australia Day fires of 2003, the very same football oval that caught fire while under the watchful eye of the DSE on Australia Day 2003, right up the top of town—a good 1500 metres above sea-level and open to the raging, firebringing northerlies and biting snow-laden southerlies, the Buchan Rodeo is in a damp gultch of the mighty East Gippsland forests. With no breeze, no air movement, and a hell of a lot of horse hair and dust hanging in ther air, so thick you could see it. And me sneezing like a trooper. Great fun.

Still, only three blokes in the open bareback bull comp were able to stay on for the required 8 secs, à la Luke Perry, so there wasn't a heap of actual competition in what we saw, or, seen from a different angle, the bulls were winning.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 10 or Death of 100 Cuts

Number 10. Nice round decimal number. As is 100.

Everything goes along swimmingly today, jogeburi here, single-time men-saburi there. Yeah, give us something to challenge ourselves fellas!

And so they do: first they ask us to do one-handed men. With right fist on hip and our shinai in our left, away we swing. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. My god that's tough! For an unfamiliar left arm like mine, it really is hard (and now, it actually is hard as stone, as a result of doing this repeatedly). My arm was aching after 10 of these unfamiliar swings. Pounding aching. "Do it again". I aint no skinny, freckled, chicken-chested nerd person who doesn't see the sunlight, despite having a blog. Oh no! And yet my (now rippling) bicep was totally thrown by having to swing this shinai back and forth, from 45° behind the head to our imaginary opponent's now nicely sliced open forehead, held only by my left hand.

Now the tricky thing was not actually the strength needed in the arm to raise the shinai, but the strength required to stop it at the right point. Not letting it swing too far forward so it is lodged deep within my victim's brain and takes two hands and a leg to wrench it out and move on to the next screaming psychopath. And to stop it, we use tenuchi. Tenuchi describes the squeezing of the shinai handle to give you more control of your implement. You see, if I was to just swing a sword at you and your beady eyes staring at me, and didn't use tenuchi, my blade would probably bounce off your skull after cutting ever-so-slightly into it. Just a wee cut. But if I use tenuchi, that is, a tightening of the grip at the end of my stroke to take control of it, I would be able to pass through the barrier that is your skin and skull and hairline with absolute surety, and, well, there'd be a lot of blood and those beady eyes would be kinda dulled.

The other thing that single-handed men help with is getting the line right. Each stroke is mean to come straight down the centre of the body, not waving the shinai around like a proud Pole in Rome with his red-and-white flag. The left hand is the driver, the right hand steers. So the left hand is really like a brain-numbed Pole on a kielbasa production line 20 years ago, eternally repeating the same tasks, day in, day out. Raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae. While it's the right hand which gets to lark about, decide this cut should hit the do, the stomach armour, this one should hit from the right at a 45° angle, this one should take out my opponent's wrist, decide which stroke to play. All the while my poor old solid, reliable southpaw just keeps on truckin', raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae... And one-handed men sure makes you know what your left and right arms are doing, and how!

So with aching left arm, we launch stright ito something else to test us: that's one hundred double-time men-saburi. It doesn't sound so hard. All we have to do is step foward and swing ourselves a nice, centred men cut, and then step back while doing another. Fifty times. With our left arms pounding. And it's not so easy. Making sure every part of every stroke is as good as it can be, that your footwork is correct, your kiai is strong enough and you have a vague idea of where you are in the 100 cuts. And so we struggle through this, breath coming shorter. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi... and make it to the end! Hurrah! "How was that?" wer're asked, "hard?". Our response, in unison: "Hai!". "Excellent", he says, "One hundred more". Groan.

Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi... Jeez this is getting tough. I'm losing concentration, my strokes are all over the shop like a mad woman's custard, I'm starting to think I might not be able to make it to 100 again. Exhausted. And then the kiai kicks in. "Kiai louder" he says, and as I do, like a revelation from the Lord, the clouds open, a shaft of light catches my eye and the Virgin Mary is there, smiling softly, just like at Fatima. Well, nothing like that at all really, no light, no madonna, and especially no revelations to pox-ridden children, but the louder I kiai, the easier it is to execute the stroke. And the better I seem to be doing it. Real mind-over-matter stuff.

So there are two things at work here, in the death of 100 cuts: the zen of repeating the same motion over and over again, focussing on it in the most minute detail, refining it, again and again; and the mind propelling the body forward, like those slight mothers who can lift the car their children are stuck beneath.

La Mala Educaçion

Go to see Pedro Almodovar's Bad Education.

Best, smartest, most rewarding flick I've seen in a while

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 9or WTF?

The one where nobody seems to recall what we did the week before. Except me. Cunts.

I push the envelope a little again this week, rocking up 15 minutes late. Yeah, I can get into insolence when I want to. But I haven't missed a jot this time. They've only just started the warm-up, the old laps of the dojo thing, and I can see why: there are only 15 of us initiates here. After last weekend's massive crew of more than 50, it's v strange to have a grand total of 20 people forming the initial warmup circle.

So through the warm-up we go: ankle rotations, hip rotations, neck rotations, star jumps, calf rises, and then into the hemisphere things, first the left side and then the right side. The place looks so empty. Strange. Then the saburi, which are the practice cuts we do, 30 men, 30 side men, you should know the drill by now. But today, instructor Vu throws in a new one: the anchor-shaped saburi. Just in case anyone thought we may have been getting somewhere with this bloody art, he throws this in to make us all feel like a bunch of right dickheads. The idea is basically to get us back to practicing our footwork. I know my left heel likes to edge its way back in towards the centre of my being, so we must look a terrible bunch, because, of course, I am one of the best. Suck. This anchor movement, which I'm sure has a Japanese name that I'm unaware of, or unwilling to recall, involves us making men cuts as we move in, surprise, surprise, the shape of an anchor. Well, a half-curve shape anyway. So we move to the right, right foot sliding first and left foor following, with its toes, as ever, two fists out from the heel of the right foot. The difference here is that we are now facing a 30° angle inward. So our second movement is to the left, and here is where it gets confusing: we have to lead with our left foot, and follow with our right, and reverse our stance so our feet are in the inverse position to what we've been told for, like, ever, all while executing the stroke . WTF? We have been taught to always lead with the right and follow with the left, so this is basically turning our newly-constructed origami world upside-down, or at least folding it inside out, if I want to keep my metaphor alive.

30 of these then. And another 30. And oh, shit, I've fucked up a bit there, my feet are all over the place and I'm having a bit o' trouble with my balance when I'm not thinking about it. There we go. Another 30. Now 50. Okay, we get the idea. Moving from left to right and bacl again, always cutting to the same point in the middle, where we began. Which is quite a change, as we've only been cutting straight in front on previous occassions.

Thank god that's over. Now we line up for kiri-kaeshi, the 15 of us and 5 seniors, and I notice that I'm opposite the the oldest bloke in the beginners' course. Ands I notice that he wasn't for installment number 8 on our road to kendo enlightenment. Which was the essential lesson where we learnt how to receive the kiri-kaeshi. Which isn't that hard, but if you don't know what you're doing, it's godawful. For me, that is, godawful for the guy who does know what he doing when the other bloke has not got the faintest fucking idea. Anyway, "hanashimasu" is called and we begin. And this bloke has seriously no idea. He's waving his shinai around and looking like a right dickhead, and there's no time, and less inclination on my behalf to actually show the fucker what he should be doing. A pointed "You weren't here last session, were you?" and one or two tips sufficed, and "kotai" was called, meaning we all move round one place ('and the little one said "roll over" and they all rolled over and one fell out.' But I digress).

So I'm up against my next partner, and she was here last session. I sigh "Thank god you were here last time, that bloke has no idea what to do". Famous last words? She seems to have left her brain at home as well, and gets the whole motodachi thing wrong too. "But you were here last time!" my exasperated mind cries silently. Yeah, I know, I sound like a whinger. Well, I am having a bloody whinge, because it shat me half to tears.

At this stage I'm casting my eye around, and realise I am the last in line to get any practice with the seniors, who might actually be able to help my technique, and that won't be for a good, ooh, 8 more kiri-kaeshis. And that my next few partners weren't here last time either and have no idea and it's all gone very very pear-shaped as far as I'm concerned, and I'm all "What the Fuck is going on with you cunts? Can't you get this right? It's not that hard at all". The instructor notices the crappiness of what so many are doing, and so guess what? We have stop and go right back to basics. Infuriated, I am.

Now my issue with all these guys and their motodachi (I've decided receiving sounds a bit ner-na-ner) is not that they're getting their footwork wrong, or holding their shinai a little limp-wristedly, or any of the other things that the seniors are picking up. Being the tallest of this bunch, I naturally have a longer reach. But a lot of these people, and I won't single them out, but they're a specific group—you know who you are—simply don't fucking move backwards far enough during the exercise to maintain the proper distance between the two parties. Which leaves me trying to get my technique right with my target being three feet in from of me instead of almost 3 metres, and doing these funny wee men cuts which are a) wrong, b) exceptionally bad in terms of helping me perfect my technique and c) effeminate and pansy. It drives me crazy. And led to me using my right arm more than I should (this whole kendo thing is left-hand drive—and left foot for that matter) which in effect drags my strokes down, rather than out—ie my right hand has taken over in the strength department when it's meant only to steer the shinai, because the the targets I am hitting are simply way too close. It's like trying to swing a cat in a phone box. I am still feeing the effects of this now—I still get feedback from seniors telling me to stretch out further, a problem which has its genesis in these bastards' misjudgement of space.

They're better now, much better, but that night, I coulda killed a handful of my colleagues. Lucky there aren't proper swords in the dojo. As far as I know.

Today is my last day in my current job. It's only been a three-monther, but it's been one of the more enjoyable projects I've undertaken over the last coupla years. And so has the view out over Williamstown, watching the big red ships move slowly into the Yarra, which was an awesome way to zone right out when the stupid cow with the English accent was (in fact, IS) whinging that, yet again, it's not HER fault she hasn't done her work. SHUT UP. But her aside, the gang here have been a welcoming bunch–which isn't always the case with gun-for-hire project work.

Anyway, I don't have anything lined up, so I'm looking forward to some quality time with the playstation and my CV until after Easter. And I have some plans for the house too–like getting a phoneline put in.

On days like this, you know, turning points, I tend to get overly sentimental. Or so I'm told. As I type this, I've taken to riffing on my employment history. Which is really just an excuse to mention that I once worked for this crazed German who dresses like Indiana Jones and exhibits real human bodies. That still creeps me out.