Yes, it is all over the media.
The Greatest Actor of His Generation turned up at a British school in full pirate regalia after a young fan wrote to him seeking help to stage a “mutiny”.
“Beatrice Delap, nine, wrote to Captain Jack Sparrow — Depp's character in the Pirates Of The Caribbean movies — asking for help with an uprising against teachers at Meridian Primary School in Greenwich, south-east London”, ABC.net.au said.
“We are a bunch of budding young pirates and we were having a bit of trouble mutiny-ing against the teachers,” Delap wrote. “We’d love if you could come and help.”
Recognising that surprise is of the essence in a successful insurrection, Depp gave the school just 10 minutes notice of his visit in response to the call for assistance in the students’ liberation struggle.
Panicked, the school establishment called a hasty assembly, into which Depp strode in full pirate regalia, accompanied by four pirate offsiders. The students, we are told, burst into applause.
No doubt this ovation was also accompanied by many cries of “Long live the revolution!”, “Fourth graders united shall never be defeated!” and “To the wall, teacher scum!”
However, corporate media accounts omit any reference to such chants.
Despite the element of surprise, it turns out there was a turncoat in rebel ranks. Addressing the rebels, Depp was forced to advocate a tactical retreat: “Maybe we shouldn’t mutiny today because there are police outside monitoring me.”
This was a wise tactical move. With the forces of reaction mobilising their repressive apparatus against the rising in advance, the rebels were surrounded. A hasty rising in such circumstances could only lead to a bloodbath.
And a heroic but failed rising is of no use to anyone — unless you’re Irish, perhaps.
Far better to keep the powder dry, regroup, gather the forces, strengthen preparations and prepare to launch a successful insurrection tomorrow.
“So we’ll mutiny, take over the school and eat lots of candy till our teeth fall out.” Depp expounds the rebels’ action program.
Now there is more to Depp than his role as revolutionary leader. He also directed and starred in the clip below for the Shane MacGowan and the Popes song “That Woman Got Me Drinking” — an ode to the noble art of mending a broken heart with huge quantities of booze. (Of course, this features Shane MacGowan before he sold out and got his teeth fixed.)
“She said she’d always love me, she said I’d be the one. Now look at the way she treats me, just like a piece of scum. That woman’s got me drinking, look at the state I’m in. Give me one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten bottles of gin.”
From assisting primary schoolchildren in their bid to throw off their oppressors, to directing a clip celebrating binge drinking as a legitimate response to heart ache, to completely failing to win an Oscar despite being the greatest actor of his generation and despite Tom Fucking Hanks winning two... it seems there is truly nothing Johnny Depp cannot do.
And here, on this very blog, Carlo Sands has been kind enough to provide, in one single post, no less than two clips featuring Mr Depp.
And I do this entirely free of charge, purely out of passion for my work.
And all Carlo Sands asks in return is you have a look at the google ads kindly provided at the top of the page for your shopping pleasure, check them out, and, if you see anything like, give them a good click or two.
You'll find if you refresh the page, google kindly provides an entirely different set of ads — feel free to check them all out!
Showing posts with label Johnny Depp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Johnny Depp. Show all posts
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Thursday, November 19, 2009
At last, an example of sanity in a truly mad world
The world plunges faster and deeper into climate chaos (to such a degree that, today, Sydney feels like Adelaide and that is never a good thing).
The disastrous Afghan war sinks deeper into a bloody mess with the only ideas that seems to have occurred to the occupiers being to send more soldiers they don’t have and spread the war to Pakistan.
The CEOs of the big investment houses have started giving themselves seven, eight and nine figure bonuses once more, while millions of citizens of the world’s richest country go hungry and the United Nations sends in investigator who reports gross abuse of millions of homeless.
Bon Jovi score a number one record in the US.
People are upset because Rove McManus quits TV.
I could go on. It is indisputable. The slide into barbarism is all around us.
But finally, there is a ray of light.
Amid all the insanity, bloodshed and impending apocalypse, something sane happened. Something right. Something that makes perfect sense and is as it should be.
Johnny Depp has been voted the Sexiest Man Alive in the 2009 People magazine poll.
In case you think that would just be automatic, last year the award went to Hugh Jackman. For christ’s sake.
“Finally, something sane in the papers.” For the first time since he won the Sexiest Man Alive award in 2003, Johnny Depp finds something in the news that is neither insane, infuriating nor bloodcurdling.
The disastrous Afghan war sinks deeper into a bloody mess with the only ideas that seems to have occurred to the occupiers being to send more soldiers they don’t have and spread the war to Pakistan.
The CEOs of the big investment houses have started giving themselves seven, eight and nine figure bonuses once more, while millions of citizens of the world’s richest country go hungry and the United Nations sends in investigator who reports gross abuse of millions of homeless.
Bon Jovi score a number one record in the US.
People are upset because Rove McManus quits TV.
I could go on. It is indisputable. The slide into barbarism is all around us.
But finally, there is a ray of light.
Amid all the insanity, bloodshed and impending apocalypse, something sane happened. Something right. Something that makes perfect sense and is as it should be.
Johnny Depp has been voted the Sexiest Man Alive in the 2009 People magazine poll.
In case you think that would just be automatic, last year the award went to Hugh Jackman. For christ’s sake.
“Finally, something sane in the papers.” For the first time since he won the Sexiest Man Alive award in 2003, Johnny Depp finds something in the news that is neither insane, infuriating nor bloodcurdling.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A reply to a reader on Eurovision II
I have taken my time, but I have finally drafted my reply to Ms Emily Boots on the question of Eurovision.
I replied to Ms Boots original comment.
She replied.
Now, I have finally provided my long-awaited answer.
Ms Boots writes:
Dear Mr Sands,
Let me say that I was devastated to hear of your death and was forced to take refuge in a bottle of chilled Stolypin (rum being so 20th Century) and said Stoly being a tribute of sorts to the upcoming you-know-what (which hopefully has not been marred by the Georgian acts of aggression).
I confess to great disappointment in your failure to tell me exactly how to watch the Eurovision contest (assuming it occurs--- we need to watch closely the entrants from the Ukraine, Latvia and Estonia, who are rumoured to be planning to sing 'We don't wanna put in' as part of the CIA-Mossad campaign of disruption).
However, I am prepared to give you a bit of leeway, given your state of health (death being generally considered a bad sign). You can redeem yourself in my (bloodshot) eyes if you can pass on to me some information to which you seem privy: you claim to know where I am (your reference to rum), which is something I have been trying figure out for a while now.
Meanwhile, I will create a google alert for 'The Death of Carlo Sands: the Sequel' so I can be the first in my neighbourhood (wherever that is) to know about upcoming events. Idle gossip (the worst kind) has tapped Johnny Depp for a key role, but we've been disappointed before.
yours,
emily boots (definitely my true name, more or less)
Carlo Sands replies:
Dear Emily More or Less,
Firstly, I wish to offer my sincere thanks at your condolences for my most unfortunate passing. You be surprised at how hard such sympathy has been to come by.
I had always been of the belief that it is the worst possible manners to speak ill of the dead. Alas… it appears little store is placed these days on such common human decencies.
I must, of course, apologise for the sizable time lapse between your comment and my reply.
My only excuse is I have only just, more or less, finished the drinking binge I embarked upon in celebration over the results of Eurovision 2009.
It is not so much the precise winner, which was Norway as it goes. I did, of course, say the Scandinavian countries were a reasonable bet.
No, the real victory lies in the fact that finally decisive action was taken against the absolute disgrace of blocs of nations voting for each other.
A new system of voting was enacted, after concerns about, as the source of all knowledge Wikipedia put it “some broadcasters' continued complaints about politically charged, neighbourly and diaspora voting”.
It was clear the situation was untenable. Esctoday.com explained: “The perception of biased voting has led to a decline in reputation of the Eurovision Song Contest in Western Europe as a fair music competition and led Sir Terry Wogan to resign as the UK commentator after almost four decades of coverage.”
Sir Terry Wogan! What a loss to the Eurovision competition.
In response to this outrage, a new system was introduced for 2009. Under the new arrangement, 50% of the votes in a final round were determined by the popular vote, via the method of televoting. The remaining 50% will be allocated by a properly selected national jury.
Of course, some may raise questions about a weakening of the popular vote. Is this truly democratic?
Let me say this: until the fucking masses learn to use their votes with a bit of responsibility, then such measures shall remain necessary.
That may controversial to some of the more anarchist-minded ultra-radical readers of this blog, but reality bears this out.
Of course, I take personal credit for this development.
I exposed it in my brilliant piece of investigative journalism in the lead up to Eurovision 2008. I exposed, ruthlessly, the shocking abuse of the profound Leninist principle of the right of all nations to self-determination purely in order to secure more Eurovision votes.
This, if I may say so, is exactly the sort of investigative journalism, and commitment to the truth at all cost, that is so sadly lacking from the modern corporate media.
So I take Norway’s victory as a personal vindication of my position. Someone needed the courage to stand up, whatever the cost, and state the truth.
And history will record that that person was Carlo Sands.
So, I hope that you will forgive me a month or two of celebratory drinking, which may have affected the pace of my correspondence.
As to the question of where you are. Let me answer that in a profoundly philosophical sense: in my experience you are you where you want to be. That is why I find myself so often in the pub.
(Though, I may add, not so much the Shannon — readers of the blog should stay tuned for that explosive story.)
yours as ever,
Carlo Sands (deceased)
PS: At to the possibility of Johnny Depp appearing in "The Death of Carlo Sands: The Sequel", I could not comment. Our relationship of late has been somewhat rocky. But I feel consrtained from saying more.
I replied to Ms Boots original comment.
She replied.
Now, I have finally provided my long-awaited answer.
Ms Boots writes:
Dear Mr Sands,
Let me say that I was devastated to hear of your death and was forced to take refuge in a bottle of chilled Stolypin (rum being so 20th Century) and said Stoly being a tribute of sorts to the upcoming you-know-what (which hopefully has not been marred by the Georgian acts of aggression).
I confess to great disappointment in your failure to tell me exactly how to watch the Eurovision contest (assuming it occurs--- we need to watch closely the entrants from the Ukraine, Latvia and Estonia, who are rumoured to be planning to sing 'We don't wanna put in' as part of the CIA-Mossad campaign of disruption).
However, I am prepared to give you a bit of leeway, given your state of health (death being generally considered a bad sign). You can redeem yourself in my (bloodshot) eyes if you can pass on to me some information to which you seem privy: you claim to know where I am (your reference to rum), which is something I have been trying figure out for a while now.
Meanwhile, I will create a google alert for 'The Death of Carlo Sands: the Sequel' so I can be the first in my neighbourhood (wherever that is) to know about upcoming events. Idle gossip (the worst kind) has tapped Johnny Depp for a key role, but we've been disappointed before.
yours,
emily boots (definitely my true name, more or less)
Carlo Sands replies:
Dear Emily More or Less,
Firstly, I wish to offer my sincere thanks at your condolences for my most unfortunate passing. You be surprised at how hard such sympathy has been to come by.
I had always been of the belief that it is the worst possible manners to speak ill of the dead. Alas… it appears little store is placed these days on such common human decencies.
I must, of course, apologise for the sizable time lapse between your comment and my reply.
My only excuse is I have only just, more or less, finished the drinking binge I embarked upon in celebration over the results of Eurovision 2009.
It is not so much the precise winner, which was Norway as it goes. I did, of course, say the Scandinavian countries were a reasonable bet.
No, the real victory lies in the fact that finally decisive action was taken against the absolute disgrace of blocs of nations voting for each other.
A new system of voting was enacted, after concerns about, as the source of all knowledge Wikipedia put it “some broadcasters' continued complaints about politically charged, neighbourly and diaspora voting”.
It was clear the situation was untenable. Esctoday.com explained: “The perception of biased voting has led to a decline in reputation of the Eurovision Song Contest in Western Europe as a fair music competition and led Sir Terry Wogan to resign as the UK commentator after almost four decades of coverage.”
Sir Terry Wogan! What a loss to the Eurovision competition.
In response to this outrage, a new system was introduced for 2009. Under the new arrangement, 50% of the votes in a final round were determined by the popular vote, via the method of televoting. The remaining 50% will be allocated by a properly selected national jury.
Of course, some may raise questions about a weakening of the popular vote. Is this truly democratic?
Let me say this: until the fucking masses learn to use their votes with a bit of responsibility, then such measures shall remain necessary.
That may controversial to some of the more anarchist-minded ultra-radical readers of this blog, but reality bears this out.
Of course, I take personal credit for this development.
I exposed it in my brilliant piece of investigative journalism in the lead up to Eurovision 2008. I exposed, ruthlessly, the shocking abuse of the profound Leninist principle of the right of all nations to self-determination purely in order to secure more Eurovision votes.
This, if I may say so, is exactly the sort of investigative journalism, and commitment to the truth at all cost, that is so sadly lacking from the modern corporate media.
So I take Norway’s victory as a personal vindication of my position. Someone needed the courage to stand up, whatever the cost, and state the truth.
And history will record that that person was Carlo Sands.
So, I hope that you will forgive me a month or two of celebratory drinking, which may have affected the pace of my correspondence.
As to the question of where you are. Let me answer that in a profoundly philosophical sense: in my experience you are you where you want to be. That is why I find myself so often in the pub.
(Though, I may add, not so much the Shannon — readers of the blog should stay tuned for that explosive story.)
yours as ever,
Carlo Sands (deceased)
PS: At to the possibility of Johnny Depp appearing in "The Death of Carlo Sands: The Sequel", I could not comment. Our relationship of late has been somewhat rocky. But I feel consrtained from saying more.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A dystopian nightmare that speaks to our deepest fears
"I'm just gonna go home, lie down, and listen to country music. The music of pain."
So said a wounded Xander Harris.
Country music has always tended towards the sorrowful and downright depressing. The legendary Hank Williams, (the "granddaddy of 'em all" as it might, somewhat unfortunately, be put) is, after all, in the Guinness Book of Records for releasing the single greatest number of songs with the word "lonesome" in the title.
He is also in at least the top five for releasing songs with a title including the term "blues" — not uncommonly paired with "lonesome".
Sometimes the phrase "lovesick" is even thrown in for good effect.
Take, for example, this more or less standard Hank Williams number, entitled "Long Gone Lonesome Blues"
This is a song in which things are going so badly for the protagonist that he cannot even succeed in ending his agony via suicide.
While you need to hear Hank's trademark "yodel of pain" to fully appreciate the suffering implied by the song, the lyrics themselves give a taste.
It all starts innocently enough.
"I went down to the river to watch the fish swim by"
Perfectly natural, and sounds quite pleasant. What could possibly go wrong?
"But I got to the river so lonesome I wanted to die..., oh lord!"
Oh Jesus Christ indeed! How did that happen?
Talk about suffering a depressive episode. What is he, scared of fish? Then why did he go and watch them?
He must have known that would place him in a high-risk situation, in which the chances of suffering an attack of extreme anxiety would be quite heightened.
But it gets worse for our fishophobic depressive narrator.
"And then I jumped in the river, but the doggone river was dry."
When nothing goes right, nothing goes right. Not even suicide attempts to end the pain.
And the cause of all this?
"A man needs a woman that he can lean on"
Indeed, who could disagree? Assuming by woman you mean Johnny Depp.
"But my leanin' post is done left and gone"
Ah.
"Shes long gone, and now I'm lonesome blue"
No doubt.
Not one to be disheartened by a single failed attempt, Hank insists:
"I'm gonna find me a river, one thats cold as ice."
In case you have somehow missed the significance of the search, he adds:
"I'm goin down in it three times, but lord I'm only comin' up twice."
And people say the likes of Morrissey and Leonard Cohen are depressive.
Seriously, Hank Williams makes Ian Curtis and Kurt Cobain look like members of the Wiggles.
Since Hank's premature departure from the world of the living after he passed away in the backseat of a car after a difficult battle with alcohol and drug addiction (if only he gave some hint of that he was in trouble!), he has more or less provide a standardised template for the best of country music.
Pain, pain and more pain.
Mixed with a heavy lashing of heartache.
Nonetheless, no one has ever quite matched the utter despair put to three chords of Hank Williams with about the sole exception of the young and ridiculously angst-ridden Conor Oberst (best known for fronting Bright Eyes).
I give but two examples. "If Winter Ends", which contains the line "And I give myself three days to feel better, or else I swear I am driving off the fucking cliff".
Then there is this little number, entitled "It's Cool That We Can Still Be Friends". (Note, he is employing irony.)
The song does start quite innocently, as he pretends to be okay with the friendship status of the relationship he has with a former lover, only to build into a particularly extreme and disturbing expression of emotional pain.
At the height of this agonising, he sings/screams: "I'm pouring some whiskey, yeah I'm going to get so fucking drunk!"
Whatever the reason, I, of course, can not but approve.
Some fools grimace and label him absurdly self-pitying. I say Hank would be so fucking proud.
Young Conor himself notes the influence, singing in one song about a comment by his muse of sorts: "She said the best country singers die in the back of classic cars."
As to whether Oberst, already building a solid reputation as one fond of often extreme levels of alcohol abuse, intends to follow Williams through to that conclusion remains, at this point, unclear.
Now all of this is well and good, but I did actually have a point to this post. And now, somewhat belatedly, I seek to make it.
And it is simply this.
Country music is renowned for being depressing. However, at times it can be much, much more.
Sometimes, it can be down right frightening.
The song below depicts nothing less than a dystopian nightmare. One that speaks to the very heart of our deepest held fears.
It is one of the very few songs that sends a genuine chill right up my spine.
I am speaking of that truly terrifying horror-story-put-to music by ol' Merle Haggard, entitled "Tonight, The Bottle Let Me Down". (the best version, which for some reason has embedding disabled, can be found here)
"The one true friend I thought I had found ... tonight, the bottle, it let me down."
What a tale of treachery and betrayal. I tell you, if I ever find that bottle...
The song is just so, so goddamn sad.
So said a wounded Xander Harris.
Country music has always tended towards the sorrowful and downright depressing. The legendary Hank Williams, (the "granddaddy of 'em all" as it might, somewhat unfortunately, be put) is, after all, in the Guinness Book of Records for releasing the single greatest number of songs with the word "lonesome" in the title.
He is also in at least the top five for releasing songs with a title including the term "blues" — not uncommonly paired with "lonesome".
Sometimes the phrase "lovesick" is even thrown in for good effect.
Take, for example, this more or less standard Hank Williams number, entitled "Long Gone Lonesome Blues"
This is a song in which things are going so badly for the protagonist that he cannot even succeed in ending his agony via suicide.
While you need to hear Hank's trademark "yodel of pain" to fully appreciate the suffering implied by the song, the lyrics themselves give a taste.
It all starts innocently enough.
"I went down to the river to watch the fish swim by"
Perfectly natural, and sounds quite pleasant. What could possibly go wrong?
"But I got to the river so lonesome I wanted to die..., oh lord!"
Oh Jesus Christ indeed! How did that happen?
Talk about suffering a depressive episode. What is he, scared of fish? Then why did he go and watch them?
He must have known that would place him in a high-risk situation, in which the chances of suffering an attack of extreme anxiety would be quite heightened.
But it gets worse for our fishophobic depressive narrator.
"And then I jumped in the river, but the doggone river was dry."
When nothing goes right, nothing goes right. Not even suicide attempts to end the pain.
And the cause of all this?
"A man needs a woman that he can lean on"
Indeed, who could disagree? Assuming by woman you mean Johnny Depp.
"But my leanin' post is done left and gone"
Ah.
"Shes long gone, and now I'm lonesome blue"
No doubt.
Not one to be disheartened by a single failed attempt, Hank insists:
"I'm gonna find me a river, one thats cold as ice."
In case you have somehow missed the significance of the search, he adds:
"I'm goin down in it three times, but lord I'm only comin' up twice."
And people say the likes of Morrissey and Leonard Cohen are depressive.
Seriously, Hank Williams makes Ian Curtis and Kurt Cobain look like members of the Wiggles.
Since Hank's premature departure from the world of the living after he passed away in the backseat of a car after a difficult battle with alcohol and drug addiction (if only he gave some hint of that he was in trouble!), he has more or less provide a standardised template for the best of country music.
Pain, pain and more pain.
Mixed with a heavy lashing of heartache.
Nonetheless, no one has ever quite matched the utter despair put to three chords of Hank Williams with about the sole exception of the young and ridiculously angst-ridden Conor Oberst (best known for fronting Bright Eyes).
I give but two examples. "If Winter Ends", which contains the line "And I give myself three days to feel better, or else I swear I am driving off the fucking cliff".
Then there is this little number, entitled "It's Cool That We Can Still Be Friends". (Note, he is employing irony.)
The song does start quite innocently, as he pretends to be okay with the friendship status of the relationship he has with a former lover, only to build into a particularly extreme and disturbing expression of emotional pain.
At the height of this agonising, he sings/screams: "I'm pouring some whiskey, yeah I'm going to get so fucking drunk!"
Whatever the reason, I, of course, can not but approve.
Some fools grimace and label him absurdly self-pitying. I say Hank would be so fucking proud.
Young Conor himself notes the influence, singing in one song about a comment by his muse of sorts: "She said the best country singers die in the back of classic cars."
As to whether Oberst, already building a solid reputation as one fond of often extreme levels of alcohol abuse, intends to follow Williams through to that conclusion remains, at this point, unclear.
Now all of this is well and good, but I did actually have a point to this post. And now, somewhat belatedly, I seek to make it.
And it is simply this.
Country music is renowned for being depressing. However, at times it can be much, much more.
Sometimes, it can be down right frightening.
The song below depicts nothing less than a dystopian nightmare. One that speaks to the very heart of our deepest held fears.
It is one of the very few songs that sends a genuine chill right up my spine.
I am speaking of that truly terrifying horror-story-put-to music by ol' Merle Haggard, entitled "Tonight, The Bottle Let Me Down". (the best version, which for some reason has embedding disabled, can be found here)
"The one true friend I thought I had found ... tonight, the bottle, it let me down."
What a tale of treachery and betrayal. I tell you, if I ever find that bottle...
The song is just so, so goddamn sad.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Who is Carlo Sands? 25 things you never knew about the man behind the pint
There so many myths out there about the life of Carlo Sands.
His shady past, personal habits, love affairs, these things are speculated wildly about in the tabloids, online chat forums and scientific journals all over the world. Is he Rasputin's love child? Did he really go on a 25-year-long pear cider binge? And, is it true he has dumped Johnny Depp for Lily Allen?
The time has come to separate out fact from fiction. Based on one of those horrible Facebook "list" things that people insist on infecting their friends with, here are "25 things you never knew about the man behind the pint".
Tell your friends.
* * *
1. Carlo Sands is an alcoholic.
2. Carlo Sands likes to refer to himself in the third person. It makes him feel important.
3. Carlo Sands is not on speaking terms with his liver. He suspects the "generation gap" is to blame. His liver will enjoy its 90th birthday next weekend.
4. Carlo Sands was given two phone numbers for AA from a friend just the other day. He appreciates thought, but cannot attend the meetings as, worst luck, they clash with happy hour.
5. Carlo Sands does not have a drinking problem, 'cept when he can't get a drink.
6. He also likes to steal lyrics from Tom Waits and pass them off as his own original thoughts.
7. Carlo Sands believes strongly that work is the curse of the drinking class.
8. He also likes to take epigrams uttered by Oscar Wilde, and claim them as his own.
9. Carlo Sands beer consumption is such that he is the stimulus package. Kevin called him personally to discuss a bail-out of his budget to stave off the total meltdown of the Australian economy. In fact once, when he briefly threatened to stop drinking, the head of the Reserve Bank, the treasury department and a representative of the Chamber of Commerce staged an intervention to convince him the nation needed him at the pub.
10. Carlo Sands goes on regular health kicks, during which he goes out of his way to kick his health as hard as possible.
11. Carlo Sands' idea of looking after his health is to only smoke other people's cigarettes.
12. Carlo Sands' idea of looking after his finances is to only smoke other people's cigarettes.
13. Other people get pissed off when Carlo Sands smokes all their cigarettes.
14. Carlo Sands joined the Facebook group "Who is Carlo Sands?", even though he knows the answer.
15. Carlo Sands was once the subject of intense debate on a North American-based left-wing e-list. This is the highlight of his otherwise quite uneventful life, with the exception of his key role during the French Revolution.
16. Carlo Sands misses the guillotine. He thinks that, in the absence of the guillotine, it is hard to go past the garrotte.
17. Carlo Sands has been informed he is being seriously considered for this year's Nobel Peace Prize.
18. Carlo Sands has his own personal arch enemy, whom he believes to be the "anti-Carlo". His name is Ben Warren, he lives in Canberra and Carlo knows where he works. He runs a blog called "Get fit with Ben!".
19. Carlo Sands has currently two duels to the death on his agenda. The first of these is with a cad who chose aging as his weapon. Carlo looks forward to attending the cad's funeral but worries whether it will be bad taste to wear a triumphant grin. He has a second duel to be carried out after the first has been completed.*
20. Carlo Sands likes duels.
21. Carlo Sands supports the Essendon Football Club, the Mighty Bombers. He finds the question posed by TISM in "Whatareya", of "Who is your favourite genius, James Hird or James Joyce?" strange. It is obviously James Hird.
22. Carlo Sands thinks that Lily Allen was easily "Person of 2008" for her very public champagne swilling drunkeness while hosting an awards ceremony and for telling Elton John to "fuck off" when he made a snide remark about it on stage with her. Unlike Lily, that man has no class.
22. Carlo Sands is engaged to be married to Lily Allen. However, this is top secret. And everyone knows that Lily Allen is good at keeping engagements secret. This is so that Johnny Depp, with whom Carlo Sands has had a complicated, off-and on again long-term relationship with, does not find out.
24. Carlo Sands is plotting to kill you all.
25. Carlo Sands' lawyer has advised him to make no further comment at this time.
* * *
POSTSCRIPT
* It is with a heavy heart I must inform my loyal readers that, since the above quiz was completed, calamity has struck!
YES! Due to an unforeseen circumstance and, frankly (though I do not wish to appear a bad sport), SHOCKING bad luck, I regret to inform my multitude of fans that Carlo Sands lost the duel referred to in this post.
Also, I am dead.
I mean, that should be obvious, logically, as I had already explained it was a duel to the death, but sometimes you need to spell these things out to avoid misunderstandings.
I shall attempt as best I can to explain how this catastrophe occurred. And I assume it will shock few if I point out that, at bottom, this is all Facebook's fault.
Yes, among it's many crimes, including selling users' private information to corporations and censoring supporters of Palestine, Facebook is pretty much responsible for killing Carlo Sands.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
The facts are these. As I was the challenger in the duel, the challengee -- a cad whose murderous name is not even worth mentioning on such a civilised blog -- reserved the right to choose the weapon.
As I explained, the cad chose aging -- claiming he had seen the state of my liver and it was only a matter of time.
But it was not liver failure that did me in. It was a Facebook quiz.
Foolishly, without a thought to the consequences, I took the quiz "When will you die?"
And I received the answer: October 21, 2008.
I took the quiz sometime in 2009 and, as we all know Facebook never lies, the cad promptly declared a victory I had no legal, technical nor moral grounds to deny.
It is always disturbing to discover you have dead for many months. It is much worse when it involves losing a duel to the death to a cad.
I won't deny it was a shock, but I am coping as best I can. Still, if you wish to assist with my grief, you can donate consoling booze via the paypal donate button near the top of the right hand column.
His shady past, personal habits, love affairs, these things are speculated wildly about in the tabloids, online chat forums and scientific journals all over the world. Is he Rasputin's love child? Did he really go on a 25-year-long pear cider binge? And, is it true he has dumped Johnny Depp for Lily Allen?
The time has come to separate out fact from fiction. Based on one of those horrible Facebook "list" things that people insist on infecting their friends with, here are "25 things you never knew about the man behind the pint".
Tell your friends.
* * *
1. Carlo Sands is an alcoholic.
2. Carlo Sands likes to refer to himself in the third person. It makes him feel important.
3. Carlo Sands is not on speaking terms with his liver. He suspects the "generation gap" is to blame. His liver will enjoy its 90th birthday next weekend.
4. Carlo Sands was given two phone numbers for AA from a friend just the other day. He appreciates thought, but cannot attend the meetings as, worst luck, they clash with happy hour.
5. Carlo Sands does not have a drinking problem, 'cept when he can't get a drink.
6. He also likes to steal lyrics from Tom Waits and pass them off as his own original thoughts.
7. Carlo Sands believes strongly that work is the curse of the drinking class.
8. He also likes to take epigrams uttered by Oscar Wilde, and claim them as his own.
9. Carlo Sands beer consumption is such that he is the stimulus package. Kevin called him personally to discuss a bail-out of his budget to stave off the total meltdown of the Australian economy. In fact once, when he briefly threatened to stop drinking, the head of the Reserve Bank, the treasury department and a representative of the Chamber of Commerce staged an intervention to convince him the nation needed him at the pub.
10. Carlo Sands goes on regular health kicks, during which he goes out of his way to kick his health as hard as possible.
11. Carlo Sands' idea of looking after his health is to only smoke other people's cigarettes.
12. Carlo Sands' idea of looking after his finances is to only smoke other people's cigarettes.
13. Other people get pissed off when Carlo Sands smokes all their cigarettes.
14. Carlo Sands joined the Facebook group "Who is Carlo Sands?", even though he knows the answer.
15. Carlo Sands was once the subject of intense debate on a North American-based left-wing e-list. This is the highlight of his otherwise quite uneventful life, with the exception of his key role during the French Revolution.
16. Carlo Sands misses the guillotine. He thinks that, in the absence of the guillotine, it is hard to go past the garrotte.
17. Carlo Sands has been informed he is being seriously considered for this year's Nobel Peace Prize.
18. Carlo Sands has his own personal arch enemy, whom he believes to be the "anti-Carlo". His name is Ben Warren, he lives in Canberra and Carlo knows where he works. He runs a blog called "Get fit with Ben!".
19. Carlo Sands has currently two duels to the death on his agenda. The first of these is with a cad who chose aging as his weapon. Carlo looks forward to attending the cad's funeral but worries whether it will be bad taste to wear a triumphant grin. He has a second duel to be carried out after the first has been completed.*
20. Carlo Sands likes duels.
21. Carlo Sands supports the Essendon Football Club, the Mighty Bombers. He finds the question posed by TISM in "Whatareya", of "Who is your favourite genius, James Hird or James Joyce?" strange. It is obviously James Hird.
22. Carlo Sands thinks that Lily Allen was easily "Person of 2008" for her very public champagne swilling drunkeness while hosting an awards ceremony and for telling Elton John to "fuck off" when he made a snide remark about it on stage with her. Unlike Lily, that man has no class.
22. Carlo Sands is engaged to be married to Lily Allen. However, this is top secret. And everyone knows that Lily Allen is good at keeping engagements secret. This is so that Johnny Depp, with whom Carlo Sands has had a complicated, off-and on again long-term relationship with, does not find out.
24. Carlo Sands is plotting to kill you all.
25. Carlo Sands' lawyer has advised him to make no further comment at this time.
* * *
POSTSCRIPT
* It is with a heavy heart I must inform my loyal readers that, since the above quiz was completed, calamity has struck!
YES! Due to an unforeseen circumstance and, frankly (though I do not wish to appear a bad sport), SHOCKING bad luck, I regret to inform my multitude of fans that Carlo Sands lost the duel referred to in this post.
Also, I am dead.
I mean, that should be obvious, logically, as I had already explained it was a duel to the death, but sometimes you need to spell these things out to avoid misunderstandings.
I shall attempt as best I can to explain how this catastrophe occurred. And I assume it will shock few if I point out that, at bottom, this is all Facebook's fault.
Yes, among it's many crimes, including selling users' private information to corporations and censoring supporters of Palestine, Facebook is pretty much responsible for killing Carlo Sands.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
The facts are these. As I was the challenger in the duel, the challengee -- a cad whose murderous name is not even worth mentioning on such a civilised blog -- reserved the right to choose the weapon.
As I explained, the cad chose aging -- claiming he had seen the state of my liver and it was only a matter of time.
But it was not liver failure that did me in. It was a Facebook quiz.
Foolishly, without a thought to the consequences, I took the quiz "When will you die?"
And I received the answer: October 21, 2008.
I took the quiz sometime in 2009 and, as we all know Facebook never lies, the cad promptly declared a victory I had no legal, technical nor moral grounds to deny.
It is always disturbing to discover you have dead for many months. It is much worse when it involves losing a duel to the death to a cad.
I won't deny it was a shock, but I am coping as best I can. Still, if you wish to assist with my grief, you can donate consoling booze via the paypal donate button near the top of the right hand column.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
No, I don't think Bobby Sands would like a chicken supper, actually
November 2 and Spring is in the air! Flowers and thoughts of a wide variety of situations involving Johnny Depp and a bottle of absinthe are abundant!
At least in our hemisphere.
In the Northern hemisphere, it is deep into autumn and winter is gathering momentum for its miserable assault. And few places ever seem as miserable as Belfast.
Which has always posed the question in my ever inquiring mind: what the fuck do the British want with that place anyway?
Sure, it is up there in the global stakes of quality wall mural art, but at least half of them are not exactly flattering to the British crown.
"Sure it says 'British scum fuck off' but check out the quality strokework involved."
But surely this is all ancient history, Comrade Sands? Wasn't there some kind of piece of paper signed about a decade ago that committed everyone to put down their guns and dance around in a giant circle of love chanting "oooommmm" while Gerry Adams and Ian Paisley handed out daisies to school kids?
Well, the lovefest hasn't been going to well of late, for the simple reason: The British ruling class are fucking bastards.
And, if there is one thing worse than the fucking British, it is a fucking wannabe Brit.
Ie: Ulster unionists.
The sharpest political analysis of this bizarre situation of a bunch of Irish people desperate to be British was provided by Ali G.
Ali G: Is you Irish?
Unionist politician: No, I'm British.
Ali G: So is you here on holiday?
I mean, who the fuck actually wants to be British?
At best, the Scottish and the Welsh sort of reluctantly tolerate the situation. The English really don't have much choice in the matter — and have you seen how miserable they look?
Why don't these loyalists in Northern Ireland want to be part of some cool nationality, like Jamaican?
Or, come to think of it, what about just being Irish, seeing as that is where they actually live.
Who the fuck doesn't want to be Irish?
Everyone loves the Irish — they drink all the time, sing rowdy songs and write great plays.
The Irish gave the world Guinness and St Patrick's Day parties. The English have given us cricket.
The Irish gave us The Pogues, the English presented us with James Blunt.
Even the best English musicians, like The Beatles or The Smiths, all have Irish heritage.
The Irish have produced brilliant writers and personalities, like Oscar Wilde, James Joyce and Bernard Black.
True, the Irish also gave the world Bono, but there is always a wanker in any crowd.
I just don't fucking get it.
And the thing is, each to their own. Who am I to judge these people's weird English fetish?
But there is no need to impose being British on a fair chunk of a completely different nation. That is really just cruel.
Now, I know what you are thinking. That is all well and good comrade, but it is what a majority in Northern Ireland want.
Bullshit it is. It's called a gerrymander, or just plain fucking cheating.
You try to win a pool game with a trick like this one, you end up with a fucking cue in the face.
“No, that's right. You're on bigs so you start with seven balls, I am on smalls so I have three balls to sink. What do you mean, it's totally fair!”
Supposedly “majority loyalist” Ulster in the north has nine counties. To manufacture a majority of people who like to pretend to be British, the Northern Ireland statelet only took six Ulster counties. And even then, the British-freaks only have an outright majority in two of them.
To quote the ultimate source, John Lennon: "Well you claim to be a majority/you know that that's a lie/you're really a minority/in this sweet emerald isle.
(And while we are on the topic, how much fucking better is John Lennon's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" compared to U2's song of the same name?
"How loooong, hoooowwww looonnng must we sing this song?" I don't know, Bono, how about you shut the fuck up right now, you pointless, whining, arrogant piece of shit?)
The end of armed conflict was a good thing, but all the rhetoric aside, the Good Friday Agreement that involved getting together to chant oom and/or share power between unionists and Sinn Fein in the six counties that Britain seems so reluctant to just admit are actually in Ireland, could only have been a pretty basic compromise at best.
Why? The British ruling class, as I believe I mentioned earlier, are fucking bastards.
Which, after a long digression, brings me back to November 2.
The British government thought it would be just a wonderful idea to have a military parade through the streets of Belfast on this no doubt already quite miserable day.
You see, the Royal Irish Regiment had just returned from occupying Afghanistan and Iraq, and holding down the natives just like in the good ol' days - before all the savages got funny ideas about governing themselves. Hooray!
A good ol' military parade to celebrate a bit of "keeping the savages in their place"? Who could possibly complain?
Well, maybe the entire fucking nationalist community that suffered close to four decades of brutal military occupation by the British Army, including by the very regiment that was to hold a party on their streets.
The death toll of of the Nationalist and Catholic community at the hands of the occupying troops tops 400 people.
Bear in mind, this occurs after the formal end of British military occupation of the six counties.
My source in Belfast inform me there was no less than four separate protests on the day. (I can't reveal my source, but her code name is "Clancy-pants". And I can't recall having seen her sober.)
The largest protest was organised by Sinn Fein near the military parade. A peaceful demonstration, it was headed by family members of those murdered by British troops.
So, how did the loyalists respond?
Bottles, brioks and bigotted chants, while the police stand by.
And what is it with tough-guy bigots and baldness? What are they, scared of nits?
It isn't in the footage, but the loyalist mob also took to chanting the delightful ditty, "Would you like a chicken supper, Bobby Sands"?
Bobby Sands (no relation) was the first of ten republican prisoners in the concentration camp of Long Kesh to die on hunger strike in 1981.
Now my first thought was, naturally enough, "what a bunch of disgusting bigots".
But then I thought about it a bit more, and thought "no, give these people a chance. Don't just jump to the worst conclusion."
So I figured, well, I mean they are clearly not altogether bright, perhaps they simply haven't followed the news over the last 27-odd years. Perhaps they never heard Bobby Sands had died, or even about the hunger strike.
Maybe they thought he was still on the blanket protest in H-block and, in the interests of healing the wounds of the past, figured the offer of a decent feed would be seen as a token of good faith and a willingness to move forward, together.
Then I saw the bottles flying towards those whose family members were murdered.
No, just fucking bigots.
So below is my response. It is also for the Iraqi and Afghan people, who, last century, both drove the British Army out, only to see the fucking scum return, tagging along after the new Empire.
“go on home, British soldiers, go on home. Have you got no fucking homes of your own?”
***
POSTSCRIPT:
It appears I have been badly misguided.
This article from the British Daily Mail, that's the paper that supported fascism in the '30s, reveals the truth of the situation, headlined "Riot police called in as protestors led by Gerry Adams mob British soldiers during Ulster homecoming parade".
It is obvious what has happened. That video on Youtube of the march I naively posted is just some sort of fenian trick.
As always, the Daily Mail have it right, never trust the Irish.
At least in our hemisphere.
In the Northern hemisphere, it is deep into autumn and winter is gathering momentum for its miserable assault. And few places ever seem as miserable as Belfast.
Which has always posed the question in my ever inquiring mind: what the fuck do the British want with that place anyway?
Sure, it is up there in the global stakes of quality wall mural art, but at least half of them are not exactly flattering to the British crown.
"Sure it says 'British scum fuck off' but check out the quality strokework involved."
But surely this is all ancient history, Comrade Sands? Wasn't there some kind of piece of paper signed about a decade ago that committed everyone to put down their guns and dance around in a giant circle of love chanting "oooommmm" while Gerry Adams and Ian Paisley handed out daisies to school kids?
Well, the lovefest hasn't been going to well of late, for the simple reason: The British ruling class are fucking bastards.
And, if there is one thing worse than the fucking British, it is a fucking wannabe Brit.
Ie: Ulster unionists.
The sharpest political analysis of this bizarre situation of a bunch of Irish people desperate to be British was provided by Ali G.
Ali G: Is you Irish?
Unionist politician: No, I'm British.
Ali G: So is you here on holiday?
I mean, who the fuck actually wants to be British?
At best, the Scottish and the Welsh sort of reluctantly tolerate the situation. The English really don't have much choice in the matter — and have you seen how miserable they look?
Why don't these loyalists in Northern Ireland want to be part of some cool nationality, like Jamaican?
Or, come to think of it, what about just being Irish, seeing as that is where they actually live.
Who the fuck doesn't want to be Irish?
Everyone loves the Irish — they drink all the time, sing rowdy songs and write great plays.
The Irish gave the world Guinness and St Patrick's Day parties. The English have given us cricket.
The Irish gave us The Pogues, the English presented us with James Blunt.
Even the best English musicians, like The Beatles or The Smiths, all have Irish heritage.
The Irish have produced brilliant writers and personalities, like Oscar Wilde, James Joyce and Bernard Black.
True, the Irish also gave the world Bono, but there is always a wanker in any crowd.
I just don't fucking get it.
And the thing is, each to their own. Who am I to judge these people's weird English fetish?
But there is no need to impose being British on a fair chunk of a completely different nation. That is really just cruel.
Now, I know what you are thinking. That is all well and good comrade, but it is what a majority in Northern Ireland want.
Bullshit it is. It's called a gerrymander, or just plain fucking cheating.
You try to win a pool game with a trick like this one, you end up with a fucking cue in the face.
“No, that's right. You're on bigs so you start with seven balls, I am on smalls so I have three balls to sink. What do you mean, it's totally fair!”
Supposedly “majority loyalist” Ulster in the north has nine counties. To manufacture a majority of people who like to pretend to be British, the Northern Ireland statelet only took six Ulster counties. And even then, the British-freaks only have an outright majority in two of them.
To quote the ultimate source, John Lennon: "Well you claim to be a majority/you know that that's a lie/you're really a minority/in this sweet emerald isle.
(And while we are on the topic, how much fucking better is John Lennon's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" compared to U2's song of the same name?
"How loooong, hoooowwww looonnng must we sing this song?" I don't know, Bono, how about you shut the fuck up right now, you pointless, whining, arrogant piece of shit?)
The end of armed conflict was a good thing, but all the rhetoric aside, the Good Friday Agreement that involved getting together to chant oom and/or share power between unionists and Sinn Fein in the six counties that Britain seems so reluctant to just admit are actually in Ireland, could only have been a pretty basic compromise at best.
Why? The British ruling class, as I believe I mentioned earlier, are fucking bastards.
Which, after a long digression, brings me back to November 2.
The British government thought it would be just a wonderful idea to have a military parade through the streets of Belfast on this no doubt already quite miserable day.
You see, the Royal Irish Regiment had just returned from occupying Afghanistan and Iraq, and holding down the natives just like in the good ol' days - before all the savages got funny ideas about governing themselves. Hooray!
A good ol' military parade to celebrate a bit of "keeping the savages in their place"? Who could possibly complain?
Well, maybe the entire fucking nationalist community that suffered close to four decades of brutal military occupation by the British Army, including by the very regiment that was to hold a party on their streets.
The death toll of of the Nationalist and Catholic community at the hands of the occupying troops tops 400 people.
Bear in mind, this occurs after the formal end of British military occupation of the six counties.
My source in Belfast inform me there was no less than four separate protests on the day. (I can't reveal my source, but her code name is "Clancy-pants". And I can't recall having seen her sober.)
The largest protest was organised by Sinn Fein near the military parade. A peaceful demonstration, it was headed by family members of those murdered by British troops.
So, how did the loyalists respond?
Bottles, brioks and bigotted chants, while the police stand by.
And what is it with tough-guy bigots and baldness? What are they, scared of nits?
It isn't in the footage, but the loyalist mob also took to chanting the delightful ditty, "Would you like a chicken supper, Bobby Sands"?
Bobby Sands (no relation) was the first of ten republican prisoners in the concentration camp of Long Kesh to die on hunger strike in 1981.
Now my first thought was, naturally enough, "what a bunch of disgusting bigots".
But then I thought about it a bit more, and thought "no, give these people a chance. Don't just jump to the worst conclusion."
So I figured, well, I mean they are clearly not altogether bright, perhaps they simply haven't followed the news over the last 27-odd years. Perhaps they never heard Bobby Sands had died, or even about the hunger strike.
Maybe they thought he was still on the blanket protest in H-block and, in the interests of healing the wounds of the past, figured the offer of a decent feed would be seen as a token of good faith and a willingness to move forward, together.
Then I saw the bottles flying towards those whose family members were murdered.
No, just fucking bigots.
So below is my response. It is also for the Iraqi and Afghan people, who, last century, both drove the British Army out, only to see the fucking scum return, tagging along after the new Empire.
“go on home, British soldiers, go on home. Have you got no fucking homes of your own?”
***
POSTSCRIPT:
It appears I have been badly misguided.
This article from the British Daily Mail, that's the paper that supported fascism in the '30s, reveals the truth of the situation, headlined "Riot police called in as protestors led by Gerry Adams mob British soldiers during Ulster homecoming parade".
It is obvious what has happened. That video on Youtube of the march I naively posted is just some sort of fenian trick.
As always, the Daily Mail have it right, never trust the Irish.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Therapists help rich through crisis: In the good old days, they fucking jumped!
Where have I been all this time since my last post, people have been begging to know.
Well, you can stop the letters, emails, petition campaigns, video blogs and late night windowsill serenading. Especially the last one. Yes, I am talking to you, Johnny Depp.
Discretion dictates I cannot say. I will simply note I have been off performing an invaluable service to humanity.
Or so I had hoped.
Let's just say that it involved calling in all my wide-ranging contacts in the high world of finance and whispering advice (they all consider me their personal guru in financial matters as, like everyone else, they don't have a fucking clue how it works) in the ears of each one, "It's all fucked! Sell! Sell! Sell"
Standing back to watch the stunning effect as mammon crashed and burned, I waited patiently for the right moment.
Then, one by one, I did the rounds: "It's all fucked! Jump! Jump! Jump!"
It appears my plan to exterminate the parasitic greed-driven scum of a global ruling class in one fell swoop has been foiled.
By therapists.
I should have fucking known.
If there is one form of life that is lower than the vultures that prey on the carrion of bad debt, having bloated themselves to bursting feasting on what was once the economies of the Third World, while shamelessly eying our superannuation as a nice dessert, for whom the world's economies are nothing but a giant casino in which to drunkenly shout "double on black!", well that life form is the little leeches who are paid to make these vampires feel a little better about an existence whose only justification could be some kind of twisted historic mission to make Hitler seem like a misunderstood hippy.
Therapists.
Or "wealth counsellors" as it seems they prefer to be known.
Fucking scum.
Loses drive titans of finance to therapy
My personal favourite bit is when one of these "wealth counsellors" makes the startling observation that these stock brokers "don't get a lot of sympathy from people right now".
Really?
Cannot imagine why.
It is not that we hate them. Hate involves emotional involvement. More like cold-hearted disppasionately despise the useless pricks.
And want to see them do the decent thing for the first time in their selfish lives, take the lift to the executive suite of their skyscrapers and, looking down carefully to make sure they don't take out an innocent pedestrian with their tumbling-to-doom sack of shit body, JUMP!
Humanity has a new enemy. Take a good look people. Below is "wealth counselor" Mr Jim Grubman.
You have beaten me this time, Mr Jim Grubman, if that really is your name. Next time, Jimbo, next time...
You wont even hear me coming.
Carlo Sands will win.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Fuck you, pilgrim
Yeah well here in Sydney we were overjoyed recently to play host to a wonderful sounding event by the name of World Youth Day.
Sounds lovely, we have hundreds of thousands of young people marauding around the streets of Sydney. Sounds fucking great.
By which I mean, "Jesus christ, I wish I could afford a plane ticket out of this god forsaken overrun hole, no way I am flying Qantas".
But it gets worse. Who would have thought, in this day and age, something getting worse?
They were all fucking Christians.
Yes here is an event organised by and for the ultra-conservative right wing of the Catholic Church, headed by former Nazi, former head of the modern day inquisition, former collaborator with Central American death squads — the infallible Pope Benedict XVI.
The clergyman formerly known as Ratzinger, which sounds like a "truth in advertising" KFC burger.
World Youth Day was a giant tax-payer funded propaganda and recruitment fiesta for the far-right wing of the Holy Church. Headed, as it is in Sydney by a bloke called George Pell who has declared himself, and you can't make this stuff up, a climate change sceptic.
This guy, Sydney's cardinal, believes that this invisible bloke called God created the world in six days. And there was this woman about 2000 years ago called Mary, who was a virgin, but after being impregnated by God, gave birth to God's son, Jesus.
Jesus could walk on water and turn water into wine. He died, but rose from the dead and ascended to Heaven, which is a magical paradise where those who believe this tale get to spend eternity.
What is more, in order to show your devotion to the immortal miracle worker, followers eat his flesh and drink his blood via magically transformed wafers and wine.
Now, Pell is fine with all of that. No problem whatsover.
But, he informs us, he is sceptical of climate change.
About which there is a growing mountain of hard concrete evidence, dating back two decades.
For climate change doubters, I suggest you try going ice skating at the North Pole this Northern summer. Hint: take floaties.
So, basically hundreds of thousands of young people were going to descend on my god damn city for World Youth Day.
Well, okay I can't say I was altogether pleased. But, I mean, you know, at least it is just one day, right?
The fucking no good lying scum bastards!
World Youth "Day", it seems *actually* goes for six whole days, July 15-20. God is supposed to have created the entire planet in that time. Don't these people have anything better to do? Like praying to God to get working on creating us a new planet pronto?
It is really hard for those not in Sydney for this period to actually grasp what it meant to have the city literally taken over by the pilgrims. Because this was arranged by the state government and paid for too, hundreds of millions of taxpayers dollars handed over for the visit.
Some misguided sinners wanted to protest the pope's stance that condom use, which could save millions in Africa from contracting HIV, was immoral, that homosexuality was a sin and abortion even more so.
Now, I would have thought the eternal damnation that no doubt awaits those who participated in this event would have been punishment enough.
The Church was apparently not willing to wait for divine retribution and got the state to introduce laws that made it a crime punishable by a $5500 fine to annoy a pilgrim.
For fuck's sake, what doesn't annoy these people? Some protesters wanted to go up to pilgrims and hand them condoms. That, apparently, was going to annoy them.
Their repsonse wasn't a rational one of, "Are you serious? For free? You mean I don't have to go the fucking chemist and find other things to buy to make it less embarrassing? Do you have any more?"
No, they found it annoying. Seriously, you just can't please some people.
This situation, unsurprisingly, caused something of a rebellion among Sydney people. The "annoyance" law, which could have conceivably extended to t-shirts people wear that might be offensive to a pilgrim, was widely condemned. The fact that it was introduced by a decrepit, despised, utterly corrupt state government hated for turning Sydney into a police state to host a major war criminal at APEC last year did not help.
It was even struck out by the federal court after activists, from the NoToPope coalition, contested it, as a violation of freedom of speech.
And the irony! It only truly hit home once the pilgrims started arriving.
Annoying? Jesus christ, there were pilgrims absolutely everywhere — they took over whole suburbs and packed out trains.
They constantly sung Christian hymns and songs extremely loudly, while clapping.
They also drove around in gangs hanging out of cars shouting "Jesus loves you!" at people.
Resistance took different forms. Most notable was the 1500-strong protest against the reactionary anti-gay, anti-women, anti-safe-sex policies of the pope.
However, there were plenty of other, less publicised acts. In one suburb, the local community had a brawl to prevent pilgrims destroying their local park by turning it into a campsite.
A friend tells of coming across a tale of a couple of women who, once they heard the annoyance laws had been defeated, spent the day following pilgrims around singing Christian hymns but with obscene lyrics.
Same friend swears he saw a woman get on a train packed full of pilgrims wearing a t-shirt saying "Suck cock for Satan".
I saw two guys at Redfern Station having an intelligent conversation until a train came up with pilgrims. When the doors open they went up and yelled "Piglrims! Where are you from"
"America"
"Wow! I've seen the OC!!!"
"Yah!, Wow!"
"Yeah... The OC!!!!! Marissa Cooper!!!!"
"Yah! Yah!"
Then the train doors closed and they went back to their intelligent conversation without the US pilgrims realising that a game had been played with them.
Some of these people bring their fucked up politics with them too.
Another friend came across some of their propaganda lying in the street.
It was from a right-wing Catholic US group about need of support for young people who suffer from Same Sex Attraction (SSA).
SSA is a big problem, and those who suffer from it need love and moral support. Above all, they need our prayers. Oh, and as sign of love, they should be tortured, via "aversion therapy", to cure them of their affliction.
Some of the signs that your child might be at risk of SSA include not fitting into to well established gender stereotypes. A girl who doesn't like dolls, a boy who does, for example. For such messed up youngsters, love, prayers, and in some cases, torture are most certainly called for.
One sign, the pamphlet informs us, that your son is at risk of suffering from the curse of SSA, is not enjoying sports and/or having poor hand-eye coordination.
Boys, the pamphlet adds, who don't like "rough and tumble" play with other boys are also high risk SSA cases.
Which seems ironic, because common sense suggests the exact opposite.
Going by this logic, if I was to say, "I would really love to have a couple of rounds of some good 'ol rough and tumble with Johnny Depp" that is presumably good healthy sign of good, old fashioned hot blooded heterosexuality.
However, if I add the clarifier "...if only I didn't suffer from such poor hand-eye coordination. I mean, I wouldn't want anyone to suffer an unfortunate and unpleasant injury", only then would I be considered a little suspect and a potential sufferer of SSA.
It is to the particular pilgrims who came to spread this line that I dedicate the title of this post.
Now, it should be pointed out, in the interests of balance, that not all Sydney-siders considered WYD to be such a bad thing.
Brothel owners, for one, seem extremely pleased, reporting a 20% increase in traffic over WYD's duration. They hadn't experienced anything like it since the 2000 Olympics.
“Look inside, look inside your tiny mind, no look a bit harder. Coz we're uninspired, so sick of tired of all the hatred you habour.”
Sounds lovely, we have hundreds of thousands of young people marauding around the streets of Sydney. Sounds fucking great.
By which I mean, "Jesus christ, I wish I could afford a plane ticket out of this god forsaken overrun hole, no way I am flying Qantas".
But it gets worse. Who would have thought, in this day and age, something getting worse?
They were all fucking Christians.
Yes here is an event organised by and for the ultra-conservative right wing of the Catholic Church, headed by former Nazi, former head of the modern day inquisition, former collaborator with Central American death squads — the infallible Pope Benedict XVI.
The clergyman formerly known as Ratzinger, which sounds like a "truth in advertising" KFC burger.
World Youth Day was a giant tax-payer funded propaganda and recruitment fiesta for the far-right wing of the Holy Church. Headed, as it is in Sydney by a bloke called George Pell who has declared himself, and you can't make this stuff up, a climate change sceptic.
This guy, Sydney's cardinal, believes that this invisible bloke called God created the world in six days. And there was this woman about 2000 years ago called Mary, who was a virgin, but after being impregnated by God, gave birth to God's son, Jesus.
Jesus could walk on water and turn water into wine. He died, but rose from the dead and ascended to Heaven, which is a magical paradise where those who believe this tale get to spend eternity.
What is more, in order to show your devotion to the immortal miracle worker, followers eat his flesh and drink his blood via magically transformed wafers and wine.
Now, Pell is fine with all of that. No problem whatsover.
But, he informs us, he is sceptical of climate change.
About which there is a growing mountain of hard concrete evidence, dating back two decades.
For climate change doubters, I suggest you try going ice skating at the North Pole this Northern summer. Hint: take floaties.
So, basically hundreds of thousands of young people were going to descend on my god damn city for World Youth Day.
Well, okay I can't say I was altogether pleased. But, I mean, you know, at least it is just one day, right?
The fucking no good lying scum bastards!
World Youth "Day", it seems *actually* goes for six whole days, July 15-20. God is supposed to have created the entire planet in that time. Don't these people have anything better to do? Like praying to God to get working on creating us a new planet pronto?
It is really hard for those not in Sydney for this period to actually grasp what it meant to have the city literally taken over by the pilgrims. Because this was arranged by the state government and paid for too, hundreds of millions of taxpayers dollars handed over for the visit.
Some misguided sinners wanted to protest the pope's stance that condom use, which could save millions in Africa from contracting HIV, was immoral, that homosexuality was a sin and abortion even more so.
Now, I would have thought the eternal damnation that no doubt awaits those who participated in this event would have been punishment enough.
The Church was apparently not willing to wait for divine retribution and got the state to introduce laws that made it a crime punishable by a $5500 fine to annoy a pilgrim.
For fuck's sake, what doesn't annoy these people? Some protesters wanted to go up to pilgrims and hand them condoms. That, apparently, was going to annoy them.
Their repsonse wasn't a rational one of, "Are you serious? For free? You mean I don't have to go the fucking chemist and find other things to buy to make it less embarrassing? Do you have any more?"
No, they found it annoying. Seriously, you just can't please some people.
This situation, unsurprisingly, caused something of a rebellion among Sydney people. The "annoyance" law, which could have conceivably extended to t-shirts people wear that might be offensive to a pilgrim, was widely condemned. The fact that it was introduced by a decrepit, despised, utterly corrupt state government hated for turning Sydney into a police state to host a major war criminal at APEC last year did not help.
It was even struck out by the federal court after activists, from the NoToPope coalition, contested it, as a violation of freedom of speech.
And the irony! It only truly hit home once the pilgrims started arriving.
Annoying? Jesus christ, there were pilgrims absolutely everywhere — they took over whole suburbs and packed out trains.
They constantly sung Christian hymns and songs extremely loudly, while clapping.
They also drove around in gangs hanging out of cars shouting "Jesus loves you!" at people.
Resistance took different forms. Most notable was the 1500-strong protest against the reactionary anti-gay, anti-women, anti-safe-sex policies of the pope.
However, there were plenty of other, less publicised acts. In one suburb, the local community had a brawl to prevent pilgrims destroying their local park by turning it into a campsite.
A friend tells of coming across a tale of a couple of women who, once they heard the annoyance laws had been defeated, spent the day following pilgrims around singing Christian hymns but with obscene lyrics.
Same friend swears he saw a woman get on a train packed full of pilgrims wearing a t-shirt saying "Suck cock for Satan".
I saw two guys at Redfern Station having an intelligent conversation until a train came up with pilgrims. When the doors open they went up and yelled "Piglrims! Where are you from"
"America"
"Wow! I've seen the OC!!!"
"Yah!, Wow!"
"Yeah... The OC!!!!! Marissa Cooper!!!!"
"Yah! Yah!"
Then the train doors closed and they went back to their intelligent conversation without the US pilgrims realising that a game had been played with them.
Some of these people bring their fucked up politics with them too.
Another friend came across some of their propaganda lying in the street.
It was from a right-wing Catholic US group about need of support for young people who suffer from Same Sex Attraction (SSA).
SSA is a big problem, and those who suffer from it need love and moral support. Above all, they need our prayers. Oh, and as sign of love, they should be tortured, via "aversion therapy", to cure them of their affliction.
Some of the signs that your child might be at risk of SSA include not fitting into to well established gender stereotypes. A girl who doesn't like dolls, a boy who does, for example. For such messed up youngsters, love, prayers, and in some cases, torture are most certainly called for.
One sign, the pamphlet informs us, that your son is at risk of suffering from the curse of SSA, is not enjoying sports and/or having poor hand-eye coordination.
Boys, the pamphlet adds, who don't like "rough and tumble" play with other boys are also high risk SSA cases.
Which seems ironic, because common sense suggests the exact opposite.
Going by this logic, if I was to say, "I would really love to have a couple of rounds of some good 'ol rough and tumble with Johnny Depp" that is presumably good healthy sign of good, old fashioned hot blooded heterosexuality.
However, if I add the clarifier "...if only I didn't suffer from such poor hand-eye coordination. I mean, I wouldn't want anyone to suffer an unfortunate and unpleasant injury", only then would I be considered a little suspect and a potential sufferer of SSA.
It is to the particular pilgrims who came to spread this line that I dedicate the title of this post.
Now, it should be pointed out, in the interests of balance, that not all Sydney-siders considered WYD to be such a bad thing.
Brothel owners, for one, seem extremely pleased, reporting a 20% increase in traffic over WYD's duration. They hadn't experienced anything like it since the 2000 Olympics.
“Look inside, look inside your tiny mind, no look a bit harder. Coz we're uninspired, so sick of tired of all the hatred you habour.”
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Carlo Sands has returned from exile
I am sorry to the legions of Carlo Sands fans out there for the delay since my last post.
Yes I got all of you desperate emails begging for me to return.
No it is probably best if I don't send any of you my underwear, please don't ask again, it is a little weird.
Forget all the media rumours and speculation (to set the record straight I have only met Amy Winehouse once or twice and she seemed a wonderful young woman).
The real story is I have only just got out of rehab with Ben Cousins.
And talk about media bullshit. Can they get anything right?
How wrong could they be about Cousin's infamous stay in LA at the end of last year? For a start, I am neither blonde nor a woman.
The real story of Benny's LA lost weekend remains untold, and it is a story I will take with me to the grave. Depending on the size of ACA's cheque book.
So anyway, I managed to get my passport returned and I am back in action.
So what has been happening while I was otherwise preoccupied?
There is a God!
Definitive proof has been found of the existence of a higher being.
It has come in the form of Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
As soon as I heard the full details of this film, I converted the nearest religious institution, which happened to be Jainist.
(Don't ask me what that is, I left as soon as I read their wiki page and saw them described as "the most literate religious community" — I mean who the fuck still reads things, don't they have DVD players?)
This is the film I have waited my entire life for.
Yes, that right, my entire life.
When I was born, my first words were: “When is Johnny Depp going to star alongside Helena Bonham Carter in a Tim Burton gothic horror musical set in 19th Century London about a serial killing barber based on one of the most famous penny dreadfuls — with Alan Rickman playing the evil judge? Coz That would be fucking cool!”
And it is.
My whole life, just waiting for a film with Johnny Depp and Helena Bohnam Carter playing both leads (Corpses Bride not withstanding — it was animated).
Add to it all the other factors and it was simply impossible this film could have failed. It was destined from its inception to be brilliant.
And it is.
Utterly brilliant.
There ain't no Devil there's just God when he's drunk
... as the Great Man once said.
In this world, nothing good happens that isn't followed by something horrific.
Love is followed by heartache. Drunkenness by hangovers.
And brilliant films and acting performances by NO FUCKING OSCARS!!!
That is right, at the 80th Academy Awards, Johnny Depp was robbed yet again!
What has this guy got to do? Greatest fucking actor of his generation and not one Oscar. For god's sake, Tom Hanks has won two!!!
Does anyone else spot the completely fucked thing in this picture?
What sort of world are we living in? Knowledge like this makes it truly hard to go on.
Even worse, Helena Bohnam Carter was not even nominated for best supporting actress. Did the judges even watch the film?
There is something very very wrong here.
The Academy should all be ashamed of themselves.
Carlo Sands does not approve.
Yes I got all of you desperate emails begging for me to return.
No it is probably best if I don't send any of you my underwear, please don't ask again, it is a little weird.
Forget all the media rumours and speculation (to set the record straight I have only met Amy Winehouse once or twice and she seemed a wonderful young woman).
The real story is I have only just got out of rehab with Ben Cousins.
And talk about media bullshit. Can they get anything right?
How wrong could they be about Cousin's infamous stay in LA at the end of last year? For a start, I am neither blonde nor a woman.
The real story of Benny's LA lost weekend remains untold, and it is a story I will take with me to the grave. Depending on the size of ACA's cheque book.
So anyway, I managed to get my passport returned and I am back in action.
So what has been happening while I was otherwise preoccupied?
There is a God!
Definitive proof has been found of the existence of a higher being.
It has come in the form of Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
As soon as I heard the full details of this film, I converted the nearest religious institution, which happened to be Jainist.
(Don't ask me what that is, I left as soon as I read their wiki page and saw them described as "the most literate religious community" — I mean who the fuck still reads things, don't they have DVD players?)
This is the film I have waited my entire life for.
Yes, that right, my entire life.
When I was born, my first words were: “When is Johnny Depp going to star alongside Helena Bonham Carter in a Tim Burton gothic horror musical set in 19th Century London about a serial killing barber based on one of the most famous penny dreadfuls — with Alan Rickman playing the evil judge? Coz That would be fucking cool!”
And it is.
My whole life, just waiting for a film with Johnny Depp and Helena Bohnam Carter playing both leads (Corpses Bride not withstanding — it was animated).
Add to it all the other factors and it was simply impossible this film could have failed. It was destined from its inception to be brilliant.
And it is.
Utterly brilliant.
There ain't no Devil there's just God when he's drunk
... as the Great Man once said.
In this world, nothing good happens that isn't followed by something horrific.
Love is followed by heartache. Drunkenness by hangovers.
And brilliant films and acting performances by NO FUCKING OSCARS!!!
That is right, at the 80th Academy Awards, Johnny Depp was robbed yet again!
What has this guy got to do? Greatest fucking actor of his generation and not one Oscar. For god's sake, Tom Hanks has won two!!!
Does anyone else spot the completely fucked thing in this picture?
What sort of world are we living in? Knowledge like this makes it truly hard to go on.
Even worse, Helena Bohnam Carter was not even nominated for best supporting actress. Did the judges even watch the film?
There is something very very wrong here.
The Academy should all be ashamed of themselves.
Carlo Sands does not approve.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Rum, sodomy and Johnny Depp
Since Johnny Depp, for no good reason as this interview points out, decided to star in a Disney film that everyone (including Disney) had written off as bound to fail, and stole an entire film (most merely good actors are content with stealing a scene) everyone is beginning to recognise how great he is.
Not surprising, seeing as he took what was clearly meant to be a side character to provide a bit of comic relief, with a clichéd love story the main game, and created one of the most dominant and brilliant performances in a long time. So brilliant he managed, in a Disney film, to make the love story secondary and a side attraction at best. And the main character a sexually ambiguous drunkard.
Anyhow this is my favourite bit from the interview:
When people talk about your portrayal of Jack Sparrow, they generally mention Keith [Richards] but also point out a certain gay undercurrent
Well there was a great book I read [to prepare]… What was is called? Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition. A very interesting book. I like the idea of being ambiguous. of taking this character and making everything a little bit... questionable. Because women were thought to be bad luck on ships. And these pirates would go out for years at a time. S0 you know, there is the possibility that one thing might lead to another.
Could happen.
You’re lonely. You have an extra ration of rum. [shrugs] “Cabin boy!”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)