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Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Thank You, Aerogard. I Will.

Or: Ten Reasons My Weekend Was Awesome, by Jo.

1. It included the Friend In Hand pub in Glebe.
The Friend In Hand is the only pub I’ve never wanted to steal anything from*, because it’s already groaning to capacity with all manner of glorious crap that’s already been stolen from somewhere else. We had to move a lawnmower to fit another chair at our table. Moving a lawnmower = my kind of pub.

2. It included ordering food via touch-screen.
My new favourite restaurant has all the usual boxes ticked - swish décor, polite staff, delicious food, drinks menu of fractal endlessness – and one feature that I want to apply to every corner of my life, starting now. Everything is ordered via a touch-screen menu at your table. With pictures. And sakē. And Japanese pizza. And sushi roulette, where one person gets a hidden eye-watering wodge of wasabi if they pick the wrong piece. I’m not telling you where this place is, because then you’ll be the reason I can’t get a table, but you’ll be able to find me there every night for the rest of my life.

3. It included temperatures in the low forties (that’s Celsius, to all my thousands of American readers).
Dunno. Just like sweating, I guess.

4. One of my mates got married on a clifftop by the ocean.
It was simply one of those wedgings where everything’s relaxed and gorgeous, with incredible food, great speeches, brilliant music and really, really good champagne. The only drawback: the hot trombone player was married. Seriously, ladies – when you’re planning a wedding, PLEASE ENSURE THE MUSICIANS ARE SINGLE. I think that’s pretty obvious.

5. I saw a bag full of cane toads.
I spent some of my weekend in Queensland, and observed my first mini cane toad cull. They’re pests and ugly and therefore must die, but the humane way to do it is to stick them a bag and then in the freezer, so they ‘go to sleep’. Cane Toad Freezer Of Death = best band name ever.

6. I played my first game of Goon Of Fortune.
Apparently this game is reasonably well-known, but it was new to me. A bag of goon (that’s ‘inner bladder from a cask of relatively inferior wine’ for the highbrow amongst you) is pegged to a Hills Hoist, with the nozzle pointing downward. The Hills Hoist is spun slowly, whilst participants chant “Goon of Fortune! Goon of Fortune!”. Whoever the bag is closest to when (ironically) the spinning stops may treat themselves to a sizeable gobful of goon.
Also, I like opera.

7. I got called a mole. Like, heaps.
It's been a while.

8. I threw a Frisbee without squealing.
You don’t understand. With the exception of my sister, I am the worst at throwing a Frisbee in the known cosmos. Amputees, foetuses and quadriplegics throw Frisbees better than me. It’s like the laws of physics cease to exist the moment I hold a disc of plastic in my hand. Friends stare at me in disbelief when they watch me trying to throw a Frisbee anywhere but backwards or straight onto the ground. On the weekend, someone told me to throw it from behind my arse, and it worked. It went where I wanted it to. It went straight. It went high. It went far. It begs the question once again: is there anything my arse can’t do?

9. The concept of Hypno-Shorts was invented.
If you see a guy wearing boardshorts covered in black and yellow concentric circles, DO NOT STARE DIRECTLY AT HIS CROTCH. You’ll find yourself under their power, and suddenly unable to say anything funny or interesting. It’s not your fault, though. It’s the shorts.

10. Beer.
Thank you, beer. I love you.

* Just coasters and the occasional billiard ball, Mum. And a really, really nice glass for gin and tonics. And a barman, but just the once.


Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Urban Decay 5

Part 5: Cooking With Keith.

(This might be a little confusing if you haven’t yet wandered around the articulate background stylings of parts one through four. Go on. I’ll wait.)

You know what Keith Urban likes more than songs about denim and tall ginger women?
Cake. Keith likes cake.

Now, because I’m such a diabolical diva in the kitchen department, I thought I’d make a cake especially for Keith.
He told me I could give you the recipe:

1. Recipe reference: Martha Stewart’s Baking Handbook – Chapter Two: Tarts, Turnovers, and Rectangular-Chinned Country Singers

Keith, meet Martha. Martha: Keith.

2. Ingredients: Eggs, Flour, Milk, Baking Powder, Butter, Sugar, Keith Urban’s Greatest Hits.

Don’t get your eggs too close to Keith, ladies. You’ll end up with a child with a stupid name.

3. Whisk sugar and butter together until light, fluffy, and rocketing up the charts in Nashville.

See, Keith? Some women can cook and act.

4. Crack in two eggs. If yolks break, write a song about it.

Preferably in the key of shut the f*ck up.

5. Whisk all remaining ingredients together, making sure to blend the ballads thoroughly with the country/rock fusion.

That silhouette ain’t getting any less impressive, Keith.

6. Pour mixture into a well greased 20cm cake tin, ensuring every shiny, gleaming corner gets a good dose of your soft, creamy butter. Yes. Yes. Right there.

I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

7. Shove into a moderate oven for 35 minutes. Suppress urge to cackle with maniacal glee.

Ironically, still not hot, Keith.

8. Wait. When housemate arrives home and asks what smells good, change subject.

Mmmmmm. Burning hair.

9. Remove from oven and cool on a wire rack. The strings of a steel guitar soaked with a poor man’s tears will also do.

Full of carbs I’m afraid, Nicole. Have a carrot or some air or something.

10. Enjoy with a cuppa.

Mind the belt buckle doesn’t get stuck in your throat.

We’re not finished with you yet, Keith. You’re still essentially intact. I just have to figure out the best way to attach you to my car.

Stay tuned, y’all.