Showing posts with label Lady GaGa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lady GaGa. Show all posts

Friday, December 31, 2010

Shower leaks, roof leaks and WikiLeaks. Yup. Everything leaks!



From the 24 News Desk, Southbank, Melbourne...
 
 Making headlines...


International news of the year was that Lindsay Lohan, Lady Gaga and Sarah Murdoch all managed to make doofuses of themselves, to a greater or lesser degree. Of the three, I would invariably choose to be Sarah, as I am neither fond of dressing in wagyu beef nor donning my fingernails with the phrase 'f**k u' in order to be witty. I'm sure in some world, LiLo thought she was...And, like Sarah, one day at some function large or small, I am bound to be the one standing in front of a bunch of people embarrassing myself despite my best intentions. Indeed, this is the stuff of poetry and I applaud anyone who does it with flair and grace.

None of this made headlines in north West WA though, except that, by the end of it, there was an awful lot of mopping up to do!

Happy 2011 all! Thanks to the gang at ABC North West and the Pilbara Echo for all your support and may there be more embarrassments, sillinesses and stuff ups for everyone next year so I might continue to find fodder for this happy foolishness!


EverythingLeaks


A beer and a cheer for a Happy New Year!
were the words that were slowly spoke
by the guy near the log with his gumboots and frog,
yes, a flustered and feral young bloke.

His hair was crusty, clothing musty
his eyes drooped with sandbags hung
with stoic aplomb sinking on and on
like the folds of old cow dung.

This Andrew Collins nibbled stale stollen,
pondered on life here.
Taking time out from his soggy plight
to reflect on a whopper of a year.

Lindsay Lohan lost the plot and
finally had to go dry.
But it couldn’t compare to Marble Bar,
which ran out of beer, oh my!

Melbourne Cup ran hot to trot
with silks and ladies in hats,
but Pannawonica’s rodeo iconica
starred a wild OLD chap.

At seventy six, Jack had the tricks
to ride ‘em hard and mighty.
With his big, wide brim, he rode like sin
and the crowds went wild, alrighty.

Lady Gaga dressed in meat from her head
to her teetering toes.
But she’d nothing on those trucks which run
into beasts wand’ring out on the roads.

Sarah Murdoch looked like a right chook
reading the wrong model’s name.
But at Pilbara Girl, we were all in a whirl
when Synarrah Murphy’s came.

And Canberra scored a “strine PM”
with Kevin and Tony piffed,
but Karratha got a regional cabernet
and you should have copped a whiff.

Of plans for Pilbara Cities,
like London, Paris and Roma
or at least a new gate or at any rate
a brand new garden gnome.

And Julia showed us her fancy hair
which never ever seemed to relax,
but we pricked up our ears and jiggled our rears
when she fiddled with the mining tax.

And with Julia red as a blister,
you’d think HER the colour hog,
but WE had the red dirt festival
and in Dampier, the star - Red Dog!

NZ had the Bledisloe
which went pretty fast yo bro’.
But the Newman guys they took the prize
for the Cup that was pretty bloody slow.

And twiddling thumbs for decades
since Joan in ’75,
Hedland, cool, got its hospital,
so now if we’re sick, we’ll thrive.

Just in time for our summer clime
and the rain La Niña was bringing
and it poured and it drowned and it sloshed all around
‘til Carnarvon was hardly singing.

And he thought about the weather,
the craziest thing of all,
with forty degrees and irukandjis,
oh boy, they have a gall.

And Muddle, fuddle, sitting in his puddle,
sun beating down on his brow,
with his umbrella up and his dacks in the mud
Andrew’s brain was frazzled now.

And finding some shade he flicked on the radio
and listened to the news of the day,
with Julian Assange and his radical plan
for dobbing in pollies, but hey,

Andrew thought, well, funny that,
as the rain brewed again in our zone,
forget WikiLeaks, here it’s EverythingLeaks…

and with his year mopped up, went home.



© Elise Batchelor December 31st 2010

Friday, June 18, 2010

Who would you invite to dinner?

Cate Blanchett and I go way back. In fact, our lives bear so many parallels it's beyond the beyond to believe. First, she went to high school in Melbourne, as did I. It so happened we attended the same bottle green clad girls' school, albeit, at different campuses and in different years. We both did drama, although she was Drama Captain and I was just full of drama. Or full of it in general. I'm sure you'll also appreciate the confluence of my first and her middle name. She has a sister - I have a sister. We are both non-natural blondes of the thin and frustrating Australian variety and I'd go to her stylist if I could afford it. Cate too, like me, contemplated performing on 'Red Faces' for Hey Hey it's Saturday during uni. The only difference there was that she did appear in an act on 'Red Faces' and I didn't. Finally, I love her work. And I'm sure she worships mine. Who doesn't love a poet whose pen leaks with odes to failure and stuff ups and who lives in a desert mining town in the remote and forgotten (yet financially fricking freaky) north west of Australia?

Should I go on? Oh...I already have.

Suffice to say, were I to select a select selection of much admired thespians and humbly invite them to a party, Cate would be among them. Funny I should mention this idea. For, in fact, I did do this recently, in honour of Johnny Depp's birthday. Some came, most were happy to remain for the duration, all left in one piece and no one died. Or so I believe.

Who would you invite to a celebrity dinner?

Here's my take on a night with some favourite stars. So, pull out your maracas and your Happy Boy harmonicas (just as Andrew Collins and Rachel Fountain did as we performed this on air at the ABC) and sing it loud, ok!


Guess who's coming to dinner?

Didn’t we have a lovely time
the night they came to di-nner
sitting a-round my table grand
and all because they agreed, you know that
as we sat, I pondered that
I’m surprised they came at a-all -
little old me at a dinner par-tee as they
had their feed.

There he sat in his party hat,
a patch upon his e-eye.
Nothing was wrong, he was jollied along
because he liked the look, you know his
makeup too my ba-a-lance threw
but such is the way with thes-pians.
Tried not to blush or talk in a rush as we
had our feed.

Mu-ust now mention he spoke French and
none of us had a clue-hoo.
It was his night and to my delight
it didn’t matter whatever his patter so
we chatted on, and smiled along,
pretending we understood-ood, he
ate like a sparrow but sucked out the ma-rrow
of his feed.

Cate to my left was beautifully dressed
in a little bit of lame.
She, you see‘d gone to school with me
(or not exactly but down the road).
Beside me she sat, I told her that
we had a lot in co-mmon.
She winced a tad but oh I was glad as she
had her feed.

After the goose, before the moose,
I asked if Hugh might si-ing.
Maybe a dance, or shirtless prance
beside my ‘lectric keyboard and he
stuttered a bit, called me a twit ‘n
I smiled and sipped my cham-pers,
wishing I’d had maracas to share as he
had his feed.

GaGa was there, enjoying her fare,
dressed up as choc dipped duck-ling.
Into the mood, her look matched her food
and though she wasn’t invited I had
little choice but to hear her voice
when Hugh declined to si-ing.
Banging on with some mo-nster song when she’d
had her feed.

Clive to my right, was quite a delight,
all rugged British ac-cent.
So not behavin’, a little un-shaven,
winking at me constantly,
until he grabbed a hanky, dabbed his
eye a little swo-llen:
an allergy to my goosey ragout when he’d
had his feed.

But I didn’t mind, he’d found the time
to come and that was lo-vely.
If and when I’d poi-soned him,
I checked my medicine box in case and
offered him anti-hystamine
and found him rather grateful,
cursing away at my dinner par-tay as we
had our feed.

Then as we dined, was candles time
and out I turned the li-ights.
Brought out a cake, make no mistake,
a pirate ship with treasure on it.
Cla-apped and banged, to Jo-o-hnny sang and he
blew the candles fierce-ly,
blu-ushed and laughed, curling up his moustache and we
had our feed.

The night as you’d guess, a fine success,
a birthday party per-fect
and when I unchained them,
unre-strained them from their chairs,
‘twas all forgiven.
Possibly, maybe, looks a bit shady,
taking off their handcuffs,
but wow, and phew, they’d
loved my stew and farewelled
their feed.

Cate trotted out, a goddess with clout,
followed by the o-thers.
Mr O-owen’s eye was growing.
Off to the doc, but you know that my
Johnny, sweet chap, with his party hat,
sailed off holding his trea-sure:
lo-o-lly bag to add to his swag,
au revoir indeed.

Didn’t we have a lovely time when we
had…our…feed!


Elise Batchelor June 2010
Photo: Katharine Whitehead