shoutout to david gallop

February 18th, 2010

DAMN THESE VANCOUVER OLYMPICS. Is there no end to the torment they want to put me through?

First of all we had to endure at least eight weeks of endless Foxtel ads for the Olympics, featuring – for some completely unknown reason – Michael Buble all sweaty and gross and dishevelled, wearing  a hockey shirt, and telling us all to come experience ‘his Canada’ while some godawful one of his pop-swing songs plays in the background.

It actually got to the point where I started hearing Buble crooning ‘I just haven’t met youuuuu …. yet!” in my dreams. Friends, Michael Buble songs are only good for one thing: and that’s for giving to your aunty on CD as a Christmas present. I don’t like him in my tv, or in my brain.


What was my point? Oh, yes.

Not content with sending Buble to interrupt my attempts to lie very still on a Saturday morning and watch 3 hours of Simpsons in peace while I try and recover from a dirty hangover, the Vancouver Olympics have now broken our fearless rugby league leader. We found out yesterday that NRL boss David Gallop went over there on a mini-Olympic break and promptly broke his collarbone. Thanks, Vancouver.

What are we gonna do now? Who’s going to stand outside NRL headquarters when the next scandal happens looking stern and dignified and laying down the law? Cause God knows it’s impossible to look dignified in a sling. It just can’t be done. It’s science.

Meanwhile, according to Phil Rothfield in today’s paper, while DG is the most powerful man in rugby league, the number two most influential person is Jarryd Hayne.

So, um … has anyone seen Jarryd-with-a-Y lately? First of all he’s picked on the bench behind fullback Billy Slater for the All-Stars game, until Billy pulls out with an injured ankle. Now he’s ranked the second most influential man in league … and the number one contender gets involved in a mysterious skiing accident.

Jarryd-with-a-Y poses with a celebratory cigar.


We are a bunch of superstitious bitches, and our answer to that is … yes. Yes, he does. Burn the witch! burn the witch!

So get out your lists and write it down: never call Nick Politis fat, and never finish above Jarryd Hayne on any kind of list. It will only end in broken bones, or being exiled to Far North Queensland like Willie Mason.

And because DG isn’t back in town yet, we can’t send him a giant ridiculous basket of fruit flowers to cheer him up like we did that time Greg Inglis was arrested for allegedly assaulting his girlfriend (they’re festive! Plus they’re easy to eat with one hand). Instead he’ll have to settle for some e-fruit flowers that Intern John-John rustled up.

If you’re wondering, the card says:

‘We’re glad you didn’t do a Sonny Bono. Feel better soon DG! Love and kisses, Errol.’

ps if Shaun White is reading this – Shaun? Herro?

What is it, dude?

Who am I kidding, of course he’s reading. Well don’t worry, Shaun, I still love you! Even though the Olympics have been so mean to me, seeing rangas succeed in snowboarding never gets old. Your gold medal looks lovely with your orange curls. Love, Sassy.


errol newsbreak: surprising and completely unexpected news

September 24th, 2008

I have shocking news for you today, babies.  Absolutely fucking shocking.  In fact, I would suggest that before you read this post, you pull up a chair and move away from all sharp edges.  I don’t want someone losing an eye from fainting while they read Oh Errol.  We totes don’t have enough cash to pay off a lawsuit (unless you’re happy to accept sexual favours).

When I found out this morning I involuntarily spat my Mimosa all over Lachie’s school project.

Wait for it … Sonny Bill is unhappy.  AGAIN.  Are you surprised?  God knows I am!  Sonny Bill!  That little ray of sunshine … UNHAPPY?  My ticker almost can’t take the shock.

The only thing more completely gobsmacking is that Sonny Bill Feelings is injured at the moment and not playing.

Williams’ manager, Khoder Nasser, is travelling to France to check on the welfare of his client.

There are rumours Williams is upset at his treatment by Toulon president Mourad Boudjellal.

One source said: “The guy is a tyrant who is giving Sonny Bill hell.”

Williams is out injured at the moment with a leg problem.

Sonny Bill Feelings, INJURED AND SOOKY? What kind of topsy-turvy world is this?

[Lozzy doesn’t even think he is injured btw. She thinks he had a tanty that he wasn’t getting enough attention and was stuck with another losing side, so he had Mama Williams send over a note saying he had his period to get him out of it. YOU KNOW IT’S LIKELY!]

Word is he may even want to come back to the doggies, and wouldn’t they be glad to have him?

Okay do you know what? I can’t keep up this sarcasm any longer. It’s burning my throat (or is that the Breakfast Margarita I had to get over my faux shock?).  Either way.

Oh, Sonny Bill Feelings.  Sonny, Sonny, Sonny.

He is as steady and predictable as a Pete Murray song.  As repetitive as the Roosters in attack.  As constant as the tides. I’ll say it again: until bitch discovers lithium, he’ll never be happy.

Well, he might be.  The other possibility, of course, is that Sonny is a normal, healthy, functioning young man, and he is only crying over his croissant right now because it just so happens that everyone he comes across happens to be REALLY REALLY MEAN.

Now we Errol girls are nothing if not Dedicated Journalists, determined to bring you the truth at any cost.  So I nipped down to the shops for an international phone card and called up Toulon this morning to get the 411 from Sonny Bill.

Lucky for you I also speak fluent Kiwi, because the Man in Question – also known as ‘the Fugitive‘ – revealed all, and I have translated it for you.  Turns out those rugby frogs are even meaner than Folkesy.  They won’t even let him shoulder charge.  Heartless Frenchies.  And Umaga didn’t even defend him.  Umaga! 

What heppened to Kiwi solidarity? 

But the last straw was when they put the Dummies’ Guide to Rugby in Sonny’s Dora the Explorer Backpack one training session and asked him to learn all those trucky new rules.  It’s pretty much made his life hell over there.  IT’S CAUSE HE’S POLY, ISN’T IT?

But Sonny, my lad, I asked, surely this is no worse than the hell you endured at the hands of those ruthless Bulldogs?  What with their ‘training’ sessions, and constant refusal to use pages from your BIG BOOK OF IDEAS to revolutionise the club?

Oh no, there is something else, isn’t there, Sonny?  You can tell Dr. Sassy. No judgment. You miss your manlove, don’t you?  Ever since he left, it’s just not the same.  I knew it.  You’ve been dumped for Greg Inglis, and it hurts, doesn’t it?

That’s right, kittens. Without Anthony ‘the Man’ Mundine by his side to remind him that a ruck is a rugby term, and not a person, like Ruck Astley, Sonny Bill Feelings has been wearing his Sonny-Bill-sadface.

… Choc? Where are you Choc?

And if, like me, you are moved by Sonny Bill’s story of trauma and totally sympathise with his plight, you will be pleased to know you can now send him messages of love and support via the Daily Telegraph

And that concludes our news update for today.  You stay classy, San Diego.


men we do not love: michael phelps

August 13th, 2008

Okay so this is officially my first non footy post. It takes Big Emotionz to shake me out of my footy haze. And that emotion is hate. I am in the grip of a hatin feveeer. As I’m sure regular Errol readers have realised, Sassy has many nemeses and enjoys shooting them down with her e-words of poison. I hate just as many people/things as Sassy, but I am far too lazy to write about them. Usually.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

You see, I really love the Olympics. I am all over that shit. I was lucky enough to attend the Opening Ceremony for Sydney in 2000 and …..hold on kids, Kiki is gonna say something with actual sincerity: it was honestly one of the greatest moments of my life. Yes, really. Also one of the most emotional. As soon as those horses galloped out with the Australian flags I burst into tears and didn’t stop for the next 2 hours. Damn tears almost ruined my carefully applied boxing kangaroo face tattoos. Lucky I still had my glittery Aussie flag halter top from Supre to tide me over.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

I’m sure it looked pretty on TV, but actually being there was just absolutely breathtaking. I have never seen or felt beauty like that, and I doubt I ever will again. Oooh Kiki has feelings. Who knew?

I am a tragic patriot and nothing makes me happier than seeing our Aussie babies do well. But I also just love watching athletes achieve their dreams. Dreaaaams….herrooooessss….teaaaaars! I am a disgusting sap, but I just can’t help it. Tonight I cried when the Chinese men won their synchronised diving gold medal. I also just really enjoyed yelling GO WANG GO at the TV. Heheh, his name means penis.

I say this because I want you all to know I am not completely adverse to foreigners winning medals over Australians. I ain’t no jingoist bitches!

Now, for the hate. Oh, Michael Phelps. Where do I begin? If there was ever a person that completely encapsulates the word douchebag – it’s him. He is thisclose to ruining my Olympics experience. Every time his head pops up on my television my skin literally crawls. The vein on my forehead pulsates with anger. My hands form fists and my nails dig into my palms. Oh god oh god oh GOD. I HATE HIM SO MUCH.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Image and video hosting by TinyPic
Image and video hosting by TinyPic
I like to order my thoughts, so lets further explore my hatred in point form. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you :

Reasons I Want To Slap Michael Phelps On The Face

1) The fact he walks out with an iPod shoved in his ears. Every other swimmer in the entire world seems to be able to make it from dressing room to diving block without music, but not Michael Phelps! He even listens to it while his competitors are being announced. Such humility, such respect. And you just know he is listening to Fiddy and thinking he is gangstaaaa. Coz he be AMERICAAAAN yo!

2) The way he celebrates. Yeh, he is an amazing swimmer. No one can take that away from him. But you know what? Being a champion doesn’t mean you have to carry on like an absolute tool.


Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

I don’t even know what to say. It’s just….gross. The whole spectacle is just repugnant. If I was American I would be utterly mortified by him. This sort of behaviour is why the world hates America. Oh you thought it was the invasions and stuff? Nope. It’s the douchebaggery of their athletes.

Phelps, for future reference…. this is what a gracious winner looks like.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Try it sometime.

He says things like this – ‘”I’ve been given so many numbers in the past month. Girls will walk up to me and be like…call me!”.

His mere presence has the disturbing affect of turning our beloved Ryan Lochte into a bit of a fuckwit. DOUCHE GERMS. RUN RYAN RUNNNN!
Image and video hosting by TinyPic


5) And finally, the way Tumblr is spazzing out over him. Granted, at least it’s a change from the constant ‘ ZOMG Obama is the messiah!1!1!1′ hyperbole…but seriously, if one more person tumbl-wanks over him I am going to cut a bitch. The Phelps e-jizz is deadset splattered all over my dashboard and I am Not Happy.Someone today posted that he won gold despite water filling his goggles and ‘blinding him’. And he is totes a hero and omg lets suck his dick now. Bitch please, you don’t need to see to swim. I’ve swum my whole life without ever opening my eyes. And by ‘swum’ I mean floating around on a lilo sipping a cocktail, occasionally dipping underwater when my head gets too hot. But my point still stands.

You now what you do need to swim though? The ability to breathe. And if you want REAL swimming heroics, look no further than Our Grant Hackett. Who won a 15oo metre gold medal in 2004 with a collapsed lung.


Image and video hosting by TinyPic

AH-HAH! Take that Phelps!

*shadow boxes*


going up, going down – ladies with notorious racks

August 6th, 2008
Going Up: Lindsay Lohan

I’m not sure if you were all aware of this, but I am not just the Errol specialist correspondent on Eurovision, de Brito, how tight football uniforms are, and cornrows. I am also proud to say I am tres expert in all matters of celebrities and their racks (Einstein factor, here I come).

And even though she’s a total trainwreck, I have also always been 100% team Linds. And why not? Even Dolly likes her, and Dolly is pretty much Jesus.

I stuck by her through Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, her ridiculous plastic hair extensions, even through her Mischa Barton phase, and that was possibly the most trying time of all. I hate that T-Rex.

But it seems like, lately, one of my favourite misunderstood ample-boobed starlets is coming good. Little LiLo is in love with Samantha Ronson and it’s made us stronger than ever.

I love lesbian Lilo. I think she is by far my favourite Lilo. Lesbian-stereotype, plaid-wearing, leggings-hawking, employable, not-so-faketanned Lilo.

Just look at our girl actually turning up to work (and playing softball! international symbol of solidarity and contentment for lesbians everywhere!)

You know I actually think she looks sober these days too. I mean not completely sober, but like at least she has pupils again now, and not the crazy black burning coal Demerol kind. So maybe she’s just popping high-functioning pills, like Ritalin and Xanax. Just a few uppers and downers, sweetie. The normal kind. Everyone has those in their purse, right? It’s not just me?

There’s a slight chance that this turn-around is because heinous Mama Dinetta Lohan is busy pimping out the prematurely aged Ali on Living Lohan, but I don’t want to talk about that in case mentioning her name summons the mythical rasping harpie herself.

When I read LiLo and SamRo might get hitched I won’t even lie – I squealed. The squeal of a thirteen-year-old who just found out Johnathon Taylor Thomas was coming to town. Also that last sentence had absolutely nothing to do with personal experience.

The 22-year-old star has already bought a white Chanel mini-dress for the ceremony, while Ronson – the sister of super-producer Mark Ronson – is toying with the idea of wearing a black suit and top hat.

Well firstly, of course SamRo wants a top hat. That’s pretty much the first rule in the big Book o Lesbian Weddings: that the Ellen has to wear a top hat. And who can argue with that? Top hats are fucking fierce. I bought an amaaazing one for Kiki for her birthday. (… does that make her the Ellen and me the Portia?)

The only thing even possibly wrong with it is that sometimes, when SamRo dresses nicely and wears grey or black, she looks disturbingly like Mark Ronson and I almost maybe sorta get a tiny ladyboner. DON’T JUDGE ME.

Moving on. *cough*

Even more obviously, OF COURSE SHE HAS A CHANEL DRESS. I can’t wait. Can’t you just imagine Uncle Karl Lagerfeld swanning about the reception in all black and a leather ascot, swinging a cane made of real snakes and announcing lesbians are the soaring swans of fashion! Except for fat ones. They are toads in aspic.

Lindsay, my darling, you are more fabulous than ever.

Going down: Scarlett Johansson

Bet you thought I’d moved past my dislike of ScarJo. Sadly, no. It’s back. After manufacturing a news story by telling a political news website that she was email penpals with Barack Obama, she’s manufactured another one by acting suprised about it.

Scarlett Johansson can laugh about it now, but the actress says she was embarrassed by the media coverage of her so-called “email relationship” with Barack Obama.

“It seemed to me to be like a product of extreme sexism, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘God, if this was just, like, Kal Penn or George Clooney or any of the other (Obama) surrogates or supporters … there wouldn’t be (any) question about it. Nobody would even talk about it,”‘ she said.

Oh honey, no. No you didn’t. You didn’t just say that the reason people talked about this was because you’re a woman. Kill me now. They wouldn’t have published the same articles about George Clooney because George Clooney wouldn’t hop on the phone with the internets and say something tragic and attention-seeking and untrue.

Bitch is GEORGE CLOONEY. Bitch doesn’t need to court attention to promote a Woody Allen film that is certain to do as poorly as the last two Woody Allen efforts.

Obviously at some point some poor confused English teacher taught ScarJo that “sexism” is a euphemism for “the results of famewhoring”. Sigh. That gosh-darned American education system.

And while we’re at it, she thought she’d whip up another non-story too, about how people JUST WON’T STOP CALLING HER NEW MOVIE SEXY. Those bastards!

“It’s just silly because … the way people are talking about it you’d think it was … a Bertolucci movie or something,” Johansson said, laughing. “People are saying, ‘It’s Woody Allen’s steamiest movie.’ I’m thinking, ‘Woody Allen’s steamiest WHAT?”‘

Okay, let me explain. They said MOVIE, darlin. You know when you prance about and it’s like people are taking photos of you, but there’s no shutter-sound? That’s called making MOVIES.

Anyone with eyes can see Scarlett has an amazing rack. People always talk about it and how hot it is. Woody Allen has told the press she’s a sex beast. Surely at some point, after 23 years of being Scarlett Johansson, she would have realised she has em and people like them. Am I right?

When people comment on my boobs* I’m not surprised. Because I know I have them. I’ve seen them at least several times. I know all about them, you know? It’s not news to me. So why is it that every mention of Scar Jo’s body or her sexiness surprises her?

If she is enough of a battler that she can’t remember what’s sitting in her bra, then I have no time for her. Conveniently, if she’s that much of a battler she’ll probably knock herself off soon enough in a tragic plant-watering accident.

* which they do because they’re boys, not because I look like ScarJo. Obvs.


isn't it romantic?

August 5th, 2008

This post should actually probably be called ‘more stuff about all men are liars‘ or something, but … there just isn’t a song called that, okay? Also it’s my blog post I can call it whatever I want.

You only have to click on the ‘wouldn’t cry if they died’ tag on this blog to see that I Do Not have a ladyboner for Sam de Brito’s column on www.smh.com.au, but I only realised today that BITCH DOESN’T LIKE US EITHER.

I feel … oddly validated. Kind of like the time I walked past a girl in chenille hotpants and she made a face at my outfit.

In response to his blog on men being more romantic than women, our girl Jessica left a comment stating what I can only describe as the blindingly obvious, especially when the topic was romance outside of long-term relationships.

Men don’t want us to be romantic. They interpret that kind of behaviour as clingy, needy, suffocating. It freaks them out.

Tell me boys, do you really wish that a random girl would:

“… send some footy tickets to the cute boy in marketing or ask that tasty tradie does he have dinner plans? Terrifying, huh?”

And no, you can’t lie when you answer this question. It would be terrifying. Only not just for the lady risking her heart. More like terrifying for the poor bastard getting the tickets and feeling that inevitable lurch in the guts as he has nightmarish visions of family station wagons and mothers-in-law and thinks (as most men would in this situation) that she’s trying to get her talons into him. Because women who pursue men are either man eaters or desperately looking to trap a husband, right?

I’m not saying that thought is accurate. It could well be alarmist and ridiculous (it is in my case at least). But I know you’d be thinking it.

And in fairness, I should also post the reply to her comment:

Jessica, relax. It’s just a blog post, which was just a column. I know sometimes my writing can be taken as fractious, but it all springs from a desire for greater understanding and communication between the sexes. Do I achieve that all the time? No, but this is the 357th post I’ve written in two years, so forgive me if my tone wanders outside those parameters at times. – Sam

Wow. Perhaps we have found a worthy adversary, ladies. Look at how he uses her first name (even though she didn’t leave a full name in her comment) to imply a sense of omniscience and control. Observe the brilliant use of “it’s just a blog column”, which I believe can also be translated as “being patronising”, or even “calm down you hysterical woman”.

But best of all, I enjoy “this is the 357th post I’ve written in two years”. DING-DING-DING we have a winner! It’s such a compact and efficient way to say to a commenter I HAVE A REAL COLUMN ON A NEWSPAPER WEBSITE AND YOU DON’T. Aaaah dear. Amazing.


But this blog isn’t going to be about That Other Column and why I mock it so often (let’s just say everyone needs a hobby and leave it at that).

I want to talk about romance. That Other Column asked women “when was the last time you did something spontaneously romantic?” What I would like to know is when has anyone done anything spontaneously romantic?

Surely the very idea is a contradiction in terms. What could be less immediate or spontaneous than what we call romance? Love can be unexpected and sudden when it appears. And when you look at a person the rush of love that you feel in your guts can make you do unexpected things on sudden whims, like pressing the top of your forehead under their jaw just to feel how warm their skin is, flinging your arms around them so the whole length of you is touching, or offering them the last party pie.

(Greg Bird suggested that last one. He’s so sweet)

But romance? Spontaneous? Never.

Romance is the product of thought, planning, and – possibly most of all – cultural conditioning. Everything that we brand as romance has an air of calculation about it, including picking the right restaurant in advance, or planning a trip to Paris. It’s not fresh in the sense of being spontaneous, just as it’s not fresh in the sense that these are learned behaviours, the same gestures that thousands of men have made before because That’s What You Have To Do.

Surely romance is nothing if not the descendent of that most artificial and mannered expression of love in western culture, Courtly Love, where love was made a pursuit or a discipline. Men sought to win a woman, so they created forms of writing and speaking and addressing a woman to flatter her, and deeds to demonstrate their worthiness. It was inevitable then that the ideals of Chivalry (that most Masculine of codes) became bound up with Courtly Love and proving yourself as a Knight became yet another way to win a woman.

Only now, Courtly Love has been renamed Romance, and times have changed the words and the deeds the way they change everything. Rather than deeds on horseback to show bravery, or addressing sonnets to a noblewoman, the rules of romance have men writing notes to send with flowers to demonstrate devotion, or booking French restaurants to show their prosperity and savoir faire. Rather than being taught Chivalric tenets, men are raised to know that they should open doors, or at the very least that they must never hit a woman.

I think CS Lewis was more insightful than anyone when he called it “love of a highly specialized sort, whose characteristics may be enumerated as Humility, Courtesy, Adultery, and the Religion of Love”.

Romance is a religion, of sorts, with its own particular acts of penance and devotion. We are born alone – solitude our original sin – but with effort and with ritual (a christening, or three expensive dates) we can be washed clean of it.

We are taught to honour the sacred days: St Valentine’s Day, the name days of our Patron Saints, our anniversaries. We learn that the right kind of penance(ten hail marys, twelve long-stemmed roses) is sufficient to atone for misdeeds.

And even though women fall in love every day, this isn’t love we’re talking about. This is romance. If women were called fools when they first dreamed they could be priests in the Catholic Church, they are greater fools if they think they have any role to play in romance.

Just as women did not write sonnets of courtly love, they do not perform the rites of romance. They are not its subjects, but its objects.

And if women making romantic gestures troubles men or makes them uncomfortable, should we be surprised? For straight men and straight women at least, the roles of romance have developed over hundreds of years with man as actor and woman as prize.

Reversing those roles as a woman, sending tickets, buying romantic gifts, planning expensive trips, is still culturally shocking.

And if women like me already find romance cloying and confining, is it really likely that we’ll start buying disgusting stuffed toys and empowering ourselves through romance anytime soon? There’s no incentive to turn the tables and participate in something you’d rather didn’t exist at all.

I’ll ask again. When is the last time you did something spontaneously romantic?

When was the last time romance was spontaneous at all?

Would you like the last party pie Greg Bird?


single girls: find out why your apartment smells like arse

August 3rd, 2008

Oh my GOD. I actually don’t even know where to start with this one. My head is spinning. And no that is not a result of booze – I stayed home last night thank you very much. Unfortunately this article has taken vodka’s place and caused me to vomit uncontrollably of a Sunday morn.

Right, let’s get into it:

That’s the truth about being single; it can be horrendous, only I’m not allowed to admit it. For a few months I have been leading what most anthropologists would describe as a highly unusual existence in my one-person flat, and yet prevailing 21st-century thought – the publishing industry, marketing bods keen to get their grubby paws on what’s left of my disposable income – are trying to convince me that being single is the best thing in the world that can happen to a person.

Well she got one thing right. Being single CAN be horrendous. You know what else CAN be horrendous? BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP. Surely if someone’s going to write about single life being a myth and not in fact ‘the best thing in the world that can happen to a person’, they’d try to avoid romanticising the alternative? Am I asking too much? Good grief.

Let’s move on:

Likewise, there’s a myth being perpetuated that being single is great! The loneliness, the effort, that musty smell in your flat because you spend far too much time in it, the fact that children think you’re weird – that’s all in your mind. A fabrication. You’re not bored, you just think you’re bored because being single is fabulous! There are more than 3 million single people living in Britain today – everyone’s at it, why not join in the fun? You can drink cocktails like they did in Sex and the City! You can play Nintendo into the dead of night! Absolutely nobody in the world gives a toss about you, but, never mind, you’ve won the lottery of life.

SO THAT’S WHAT THAT SMELL IS. The musty aroma of my failure as a human being. Honey, if it’s true that nobody in the world gives a toss about you (I sure hope her family don’t read her column. Talk about a slap in the face), perhaps it’s because YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE? Also why does she care that children think she’s weird? Damn those 5 year olds and their opinions! They really know how to put tears on my pillow.

Connected to this syndrome is another unacknowledged truth: that a lot of single people are mad. Some of them are single because they are mad. They tack uplifting quotes to their bedroom walls; they try to lure the attached away from their beloved with promises of a fabulous new life in which no one ever need share a tube of toothpaste again. They begin to excel in those activities that are traditionally dominated by the singleton culture, stalking and conspiracy theorising. But most of them are mad because they’re being driven insane by the pressure to be ecstatic about being single. Under the cover of normality they’re sectionable, trying to justify why they want to be alone so much. To this end they forensically inspect the relationships of their friends. “A lot of people are with the wrong people for the wrong reasons,” is their mantra and sincere hope. They gullibly fall for the claims of their friends with children who tell them how lucky they are to have nothing to do at the weekends. “How I envy you!” new mothers will tell their single friends. It’s an exercise in self-pity, of course. If in doubt, ask them to swap your life with theirs and watch them clutch their children.


Thank god for Intern Brownie and his smelling salts. At ease dear Brownie, I’m fine now.

Oh those silly single girls (because not once does she mention single men. Being a single woman is pathetic but apparently being a single man doesn’t even warrant discussion, it’s THAT AWESOME) and their inspirational quotes! Once I’m mazzed up with grubby offspring pulling at my skirt I’ll have no use for any of that nonsense. I’ll look back on my Tumblr and oh how I’ll laaaarf.

The entire article is just another way of putting all women in neat little boxes where we all want the same thing, feel the same way, are stupid and gullible and constantly lying to ourselves. I’m sure the writer’s feelings are genuine and I don’t at all think it’s wrong or weak to long for a relationship, but why does saying that have to mean that being single is inherently shit? Anyone who is seriously sitting at home wallowing in self-pity, belittling and shaking their head at single women who choose to oh you know, have FUN, might just have some issues that won’t be solved by finding The One.

I know if she were to stumble across this post she’d be all “zomg see, we’re not allowed to say anything bad about being single! brainwashed!”. No. Being single is awful and lonely sometimes, that’s true. My problem is with not acknowledging that it can also be great and insinuating that it’s impossible to genuinely enjoy life without a partner, and if you are you’re just kidding yourself. It’s all such a limited and negative way of thinking about women (and as I said earlier, her arguments revolve solely around women and the various cliches attached to having a vagina) and relationships, and only reinforces those ideas that we’re all just crazy potential stalkers until we’re rescued by The One. Bitch please.

Edit: I think Sassy’s thoughtz from the comments deserve to be included here:

all those nights I went out and MET boys, when the single rules say I should have been sitting home wallowing in my own stink and making creepy cross-stitch love letters to send to the guy who lives in the flat opposite.



do white knights really drink pure blonde?

July 30th, 2008

[Note: Obviously if anyone from Fairfax or any of its regional and international affiliates comes across this blog I would point out that I LOVE de Brito’s fine work for your upstanding online and print publications and could think of nothing more satisfying than a job in the same publishing institution for which he crafts his insightful and informative prose. Feel free to bear than in mind. Love and kisses, Sassy]

Lozzy reminded me a little while ago that there has been a sad lack of feminist ranting on this blog lately. And it’s true. I have completely dropped the ball.  It’s pretty much a tragedy.

Also, I like to look after the mysterious person who found our site by googling “Sam de Brito wanker”. Because that was AMAZING.

So today I give you a little vintage Sam de Brito. On one of his favourite topics too: women being delusional and demanding. Women! They’re crazy!

But I’m feeling nice today, so let’s start with the most amazing part of the whole column.  The part I agree with: 

Several Tasmanian forests have been pulped to produce the newsprint expended on Australia’s so-called “man-drought” …

The use of the word “drought” suggests there is an alarming absence of men on our shores, but to dispel that myth you need only visit a pub, TAB or the line-up in the surf at Narrabeen and you’ll find there’s plenty of us about.

What seems the essence of this complaint is that there is a “suitable” man-drought: a dearth of blokes who fail to fit some new set of criteria born of women’s magazines, Sex and the City and Diet Coke commercials.

It’s true! It’s not necessarily a general lack of mans that worries us.

(Although it is statistically true *cough*doyourrsearchdebrito*cough*)

It’s whether a lot of the mans out there are … kinda shit, to be frank. But here’s where we differ, and not just in the sense that I say stuff that is funny and he says stuff like:

So let me ask you this: if you were to order a pizza with 15 exotic toppings (extra couscous, please) and was told by the waiter, “sorry, we just have ham, pineapple, olives, pepperoni and capsicum” does the pizza fail to exist? …

Oh god.*

From experience I can tell you most single men just want a woman they can be themselves around, who doesn’t nag them to death and enjoys oral sex and ballsports as much as they do.

Many single women, however, have a laundry list of virtues that cover everything from how much their ideal partner should earn, to how they look, dress, dance and the correct apportioning of body hair.

They might say “I just want a nice normal guy who makes me laugh” but when said specimen approaches clutching a schooner of VB, he’ll be dismissed because of his Holden Dealer Racing Team t-shirt and she’ll continue to moon over the property developer in the Calibre suit sipping Pure Blonde.

This is what I call the “player conundrum” – because if a guy has got it going on, is in shape, well-presented, earns a respectable salary and has a cool job, he’s not looking to settle down ladies, he’s shagging for Australia with gals ten years his junior.

Not only did he manage to remind us in this paragraph one more time that men are relaxed, lovable and reasonable creatures tortured by the ridiculous demands of hysterical women, he also made me a bit nauseous.

Are we serious? Is the ideal man now a property developer in a Calibre suit sipping Pure Blonde? Low-carb beer, awful suits and a mercenary job? Kill me now if it is.

I would like to counter that perhaps these men are shagging women ten years younger because they are the only women wide-eyed and optimistic enough to find them attractive. Maybe women who’ve been alive for more than 19 years can see that they have no souls?  Because these are exactly the kind of horrific examples of manhood who make me worry about whether the men of Australia might be completely undateable.

More importantly – has it occurred to anyone that this “player conundrum” is massively one-sided and inherently sexist? If you are the kind of man whom De Brito seems to think is a ‘good catch’ – and excuse me if I gag a little when I say that – it’s completely acceptable for you to set specific guidelines for the women you are going to be involved with. You are completely justified in saying that from now on you will ONLY fuck women who are a decade younger than you.  And you’ll be applauded for it.

(Also cheers for reminding me De Brito that the only attractive quality for a woman is youth. Back on the shelf you old boilers!)

But if you are a woman, no matter how attractive or clever or hilarious or successful you may be, you better take what you can get, bitches. You certainly won’t be getting any attention from men with money because their ‘laundry list’ is a woman a decade younger with no interest in a relationship.  It’s nice that De Brito thinks men with BO problems deserve a chance from a hot woman, and maybe even love too, but women over 25 don’t deserve the equivalent from a man.

On the other hand I am alllll over the idea of the man with the schooner of VB. Truthfully, my favourite is a hot man with a schooner in each hand who comes up to me in a pub. Coordinated and a drunk. Sweeet. Thankfully that also happens more than you would expect. If there are any reading right now, comment me, bitches. Let’s go out for exotic pizza.

* I say that in the sense of ‘oh god what kind of joke is this?’ as well as ‘oh god, what kind of budget shithole pizza place is this?’


my name is justin, and I have ocd

June 27th, 2008

Despite being the vessel for some of God’s great gifts to his children – namely Sexyback, and Like I love You – it’s no secret that Justin Timberlake is a massive douche. From his heinous famewhore girlfriend to his sad attempts to be cool by wearing shoes like Brad Pitt’s, to his Britney sellout Cry me a River video: douche. I can’t say it enough – douche.

Saddest of all, he’s not even a diverting douche, like Kanye West, he’s just … sad. Sad, and beige.

This may be why he announced to the media:

“I have OCD mixed with ADD. You try living with that. It’s complicated.”

As someone who feels pretty knowledgeable about, and sympathetic towards, most psychological and psychiatric disorders … I CALL BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT, JT! I know what you’re doing you superior twat, and it won’t work. Not even an anxiety disorder can make you anything but beige. YOU WILL NEVER BE INTERESTING.

People pull this fake-dark or odd-and-interesting thing all the time, and it makes me wanna cut a bitch. They turn up to dinner and announce in the restaurant they’re allergic to wheat, order a salad, then when the bruschetta comes they’re all “well I’m not a coeliac or anything, I’m just a little bit allergic”. HANDS OFF MY HERB BREAD BITCH.

Or they meet you at someone’s party, compliment you on your shoes, then confide that they are totally manic-depressive.

It’s also what Ashlee Simpson did:

When she was 11 and taking ballet classes, the 21-year-old Simpson tells Cosmopolitan magazine, she had a brush with anorexia.“I was around a lot of girls with eating disorders, and I actually had a minor one myself,” says Simpson, who at one point stood 5’2″ but only weighed 70 lbs.

“My parents stepped in and made me eat,” she goes on to say, adding that it was “about six months of not eating too much at all.” The family support, she says, “really helped a lot.”

… and Mandy Moore:

“A few months ago I felt really low, really sad. Depressed for no reason. I’m a very positive person, and I’ve always been glass-half-full, so it was like someone flipped a switch in me. I wanted to figure out why.”

Yep, they were totally sick. But just for a few months, you know. Long enough to have some ‘dark secrets’ to talk about, not long or badly enough to need any kind of medical intervention or feel any emotion or reluctance in talking about it.

I could get on my high-horse about mental illnesses not being accessories, but that’s not even the point.

The lesson, children, is this: If you need to manufacture illness to have something noteworthy to say … just give it up bitches.

Illness is not “interesting”. Personality disorder is not a substitute for personality. And Justin Timberlake will never be anything but beige.


Women we do not love; Magazines we DO NOT LOVE.

May 9th, 2008

I was in the mood for some outrage this afternoon, and Jezebel led me right to it. Thanks, gals.

Scarlett Johansson was interviewed by Paste Magazine on “her five dads”. Apparently, “this is a story about dads and daughters who share something more profoundly connective than blood”.

Ooh, profound. A bold claim! Let’s dive in.

On Bill Murray:

Even though the actors’ personal relationship didn’t stretch far beyond the word “cut” (“I don’t even remember what I did off screen, I was so jetlagged,” Johansson sighs), sometimes your coworkers can teach you about life simply by example. Johansson learned the importance of vulnerability in the acting process, and about finding the nerve to pour something intimate into each character.

AMAZING! They hardly saw each other except for during filming, and she doesn’t even really remember the time they spent together that wasn’t captured on film for her to watch again later. That is profound, indeed. I’m kind of holding back a tear, to be honest. I wish only for that sort of deep and enriching emotional bond in my own life.

On Woody Allen:

“I don’t know why relationships between men and women are always pigeon-holed into being some kind of push-and-pull for sexual power. I’m always kind of weirded out when I’m interviewed by people who say, ‘Gosh! Woody must be in love with you.’ It’s like, ‘fucking expand your mind.’ We have a great friendship between us and I have such a fondness for him as a person. I can appreciate his quirks.”

Well it is insane, isn’t it, how the public have to turn all male-female relationships into smut? Those sex-crazed plebs. I’m sure all you and Woody do together is play chess and quote Kafka. Which is why he comes out with quotes like this:

Allen, 71, in turn describes Johansson as “criminally sexy,” telling the magazine: “While she is a much stronger actress in every way, there is a tiny bit of Marilyn Monroe in her zaftig humidity.”

Humid? Sorry, I just retched a little.

Word to the wise: It may also help people to stop sexualising you if you don’t participate in stunts like this, posing for five months in a series of shots where your head is obscured and all that is visible is your almost-undressed body.

To be truthful, this whole “five dads” schtick is just a really poor excuse to get someone young and big-boobed and lusted-after to talk about older men for the space of a whole article. It means that men of baby-boomer age and older can read it and imagine that Scarlett joneses for older men and might in a million years fuck them while at the same time pretending they don’t actually lust after a woman young enough to be their daughter. It’s pathetic, the moreso because Scarlett has made herself complicit in it to futher her career. But whatevs. Back to the snark.

More on Woody:

“He’s not precious about stuff, which I think is important, especially when you’re working with such a large group of people, and actors that are going to come in with their own ideas. You can’t be too nit-picky precious about phrasing. You’ll tell him, ‘This phrasing isn’t coming out the right way,’ and he’ll be like, ‘As long as you have the same idea, just put it into your own words.’ I think it’s important to give an actor that kind of flexibility.

“For instance, in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, there’s this line where I say, ‘You went through my suitcase,’ but the original line was ‘You went through my valise.’ Nobody would say ‘You went through my valise,” but Woody would say that! I told him, ‘You can’t say “valise” because nobody knows what that means.’ And Woody was like, ‘Really? What do you call it?’ And I was like, ‘It’s a suitcase!’”

Did you hear that, guys? Scarlett changed the word VALISE to SUITCASE. Bitch is an artist. I’m almost as impressed as when I found out Christina Aguilera added the ‘… come, come, come on and let me out’ to ‘Genie in a Bottle’ all by herself.

On Tom Waits:

Her new record isn’t the vanity project of someone who feels entitled to a record deal after achieving widespread notoriety. God gave her a wonderfully unexpected voice, and—emboldened by Mr. Waits’ example—she intends to have some fun with it.

EMBOLDENED BY MR. WAITS’ EXAMPLE? You’re telling me listening to a guy’s albums makes him your surrogate dad? In that case, Waits is also my dad. As are Elton, Neil, Marc, Gram, John, Paul, Michael, Jimmy, Johnny and Iva. Kthanks.

on Bob Dylan:

“I’ve been fortunate enough to never be the biggest media sensation,” she says. “I’ll do anything to avoid it. It’s so gross—that whole tabloid shit is disgusting and awful.”

Disgusting enough for you to appear in Entourage as yourself?
There is nothing I hate more than a deluded celebrity, except maybe transparent pandering and pointless nonjournalism like this article. Paste Magazine, you fail at life. Scar Jo, you lose at self-awareness.

And now, just because it’s worth a repeat:


– Scarlett Johansson.