Tuesday, 22 April 2008


Being roused from slumber at 4.00am in the morning by the cacophonous farking about from a murder of crows does not bode well for one’s prospects of facing the day with good grace and humour.

No doubt disturbed by the snuffling of a possum or a cat about their roosts, these stupid fucking birds kept it up for the better part of an hour, and, try as I might, I could not so much as manage even a few brief snatches of light dozing, my mind constantly jerked back to thoughts of air rifles and poison at every squawk that farked out of their fucking ugly black beaks.

Thus gripped by a mood that progressively grew fouler than a prawn cocktail left out in the sun for a week, my mind turned to the topic of “People Who I’d Like To See Bashed To Death With A Hammer*”, not an inclination of actual intent by any means, but simply a reflection of mindset at the time. A flurry of names popped into and out of my fark-addled brain ...

How about the entire Executive Management and Programmers of Channel 9, a gaggle of witlessly stupid fuck-knuckled creeps, thugs and dipshit halfwits if ever there was one?

With attention spans shorter than the denuded dick of a leper, and possessed of the collective intelligence of algae on the waters of an outdoor toilet, surely the stupid cunts who came up with the idea of
“My Kid’s A Star”, “Ladette To Lady”, “The Footy Show” and “Balls of Steel”, not to mention turning “60 Minutes” into “Jerry Springer Lite” are well deserving of a thorough thumping. Especially when programs to which they have the rights and are actually worthy of an hour of one’s time, such as “The West Wing”, “The Sopranos”, “Six Feet Under” and the recently disappeared “Sarah Connor Chronicles” are relegated to the graveyard shift as bookends for infomercials and fearsomely stupid sermons from rapturously rabid bible-bashing boofheads.

Yes, the whole lot of them would surely qualify as prime candidates for the inaugural presentation of “People Who I’d Like To See Bashed To Death With A Hammer*”.

Yet there was one name that kept rattling about my head like the proverbial marble in a tin can ...

It was the voice that did it. The first time I heard that hysterically high-pitched, squealing stream of put-on and put-upon protestation, I wanted to king-hit the kitchen wall. The second time I heard it, a shiver of loathing ratcheted its way up my spine in such a violent spasm it threatened to blow my arms from their sockets and send them soaring into the next-door neighbours weed bed, there to land with a sickeningly meaty thud. The third time I heard it, I changed the channel.

Here is a person, I thought to myself at the time, who I’d like to see bashed to death with a hammer*.

Heather Mills.

This is not because I have any great fondness for Paul McCartney, or even an interest in his life or works. Certainly, there is nothing among McCartney’s oeuvre post-Beatles that could even remotely be considered essential or influential in any way imaginable, his collaborations with Michael Jackson being so hideously dire that, by comparison, the collected works of Ringo Starr would appear to resemble the output of a man gripped by the creative twin spirits of Johann Sebastian Bach and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

But Heather Mills really gives me the dribbling shits something fierce.

I really can’t explain it any further than that.

I’m very, very tired.

Fucking crows.

*Not a statement of intent. Not meant to be taken as an injunction to any form of action whatsoever. Get a fucking grip.

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