The Races

Anyone who has spruced up for Carnival Day knows that ‘a day at the races’ has more to do with a 1976 Queen album than it does with horse racing. In fact, this article was initially entitled ‘Horse Racing’ until your author realised this alludes to a completely different topic of conversation than the current one. While trainers and jockeys – not to mention the horses – have my complete respect, the names of particular races or horses are none to memorable for the average race-goer.

After two hundred years of racing history, the races are the third most attended sporting event in Australia after the AFL and Rugby League. Although this could be tied to an alcohol-induced equine fetish, a more likely explanation would be the $12.5 billion we spend gambling on the nags annually. Our betting-dependent national economy was born in 1913 when Australian, George Julius, invented the mechanical totalisator or tote – which led to state-based ‘Totalisator Agency Boards’, commonly known as the TAB. 

Australia's Greats Sportsman

For those who have not frequented Randwick or Flemington, there is far more to do than just betting on horses – struggling through the crowd and lining up at the bar helps pass time between races. As for the crowd, one immediately notes the common segregation between the Toffs (Members) on one side of the fence and the Plebs (General Admission) on the other. For the purposes of this discussion, the are two - more distinct - groups spoken of, which are the Regulars and the Riff-Raff.

Regulars: Although there is a lot of Old Money at the races, this category is not reserved specifically for wealthy Members. This group consists mainly of middle-aged, male, practiced gamblers and bookies – whether they don a Savile Row suit or the familiar grey hue of Hanes trackies. While not all are desperate gamblers, there is ever-present concern and concentration on their faces; not even the scantily-clad women distract the Regulars from the tote. Accessories include: leather-bound formbooks, piles of betting tickets, reading glasses/binoculars.

Riff-Raff: The more common category by far, made up of the multitude of over-dressed trashbags in the general area and the lucky trashbags who know/are related to someone in the Members. Mainly consisting of Maxi-Taxis full of Bucks and Hens, the Riff-Raff spend their rapidly-fading youth reliving the Year 10 School Formal; urine-soaked trousers and all. With little interest the actual event, this group single-handedly supports the Australian fake tan industry and Kelly Country Warehouse. Accessories include: terrible shoes (even I can tell), unnecessary waistcoats, inflatable dildos/sex dolls, various venereal diseases.

For the record, your author falls unashamedly in the second category* and is happy to keep the races an occasional outing with an even more occasional win. The races are a gift horse’s orifice not to be fiddled with and this dapper-dressed depraved den might not be everybody’s plastic cup of beer. However, if you want to cover your bets, press against the rails, go both ways and pick a winner, this event is for you – who knows, you might even like the horse racing?

* Although my suit was expertly tailored by cheap Vietnamese labour, thanks.

Coffee

While observing passersby during a procrastinational wander to the local coffee shop, I began to appreciate the power this aromatic commodity has over the lives of millions on a daily basis. The percolating effects of this beverage are well documented; the varieties of coffee seed* are as numerous as the methods of preparation employed throughout the globe. Until experiencing the run of the mill coffee overseas, you can easily overlook how obsessed Australians are with it.

Part security blanket, part legal high, this black beverage has fascinated mankind for centuries. Legend has is that it was discovered by an Ethiopian goat-herder who noticed that the dancing abilities of his usually uninspiring goats improved dramatically after the consumption of coffee berries. Not until coffee, or qahwa, hit the Arab world in the 1450s do we see written evidence about its consumption or effects. Muslim monks from Yemen documented the spread of this sleep-inhibiting, Ethiopian booze alternative from their home town of – you guessed it – Mocha.

Like all things fun, tasty or mind-altering, coffee had a rough time earning respect amongst God-fearing conservatives. Islamic theologians in Mecca forbade its consumption in 1511, only to have the latte-loving Turkish Sultan overturn this judgement, leading to the world’s first coffeehouse in Istanbul in 1555. As this Muslim beverage spread to Europe, Christians of all kinds feared the “bitter drink of Satan” until Pope Clement VIII’s aromatically decreed in 1600: “This devil’s drink is so delicious…we should cheat the devil by baptising it.”

 The grind of daily life? A bitter-sweet world? Bean around the world and I...I...I...I...?

The rest is foamy, chocolate-sprinkled history. The two species of coffee plant, Arabica (better flavour) and Robusta (strong and cheap), are amongst the most devoured commodities on the planet with Brazil, by far, being the biggest producer while - of all places - Finland is the biggest consumer per capita. An estimated 2.25 billion cups of this stimulating tonic are consumed daily, with over 17,000 Starbucks stores worldwide selling a fair chunk of those. Australia can still boast a respectable cafe culture after sixty-one Starbucks locations were shut down in July 2008**.

Coffee is indeed a culture, one based more on habit than passion, especially around the CBD of Sydney. Thousands of baristas all doing the same thing: learning your name; knowing your usual; quipping a joke or two; charmingly irreverent to the suits and heels lining up each day. Like lemmings we cling to our disposable spouted drinking vessels at nine on the dot every morning. Do we really need that coffee or are do we continue to ride the withdrawals of nicotine’s hey-day?

Wonderfully warm, sensually invigorating and addictively snobby, the devil’s drink has come a long way.  Considering gambling and alcohol can do no wrong in our society, it is only a matter of time before coffee becomes the next daily vice to face the chopping block. While we still have some of the best coffee in the world, enjoy as many kinds as you can. Try a Turkish (sedimentary), a Vietnamese (igneous) or, at the very least, a Labourer’s Latte (conglomerate of Milo and Instant). Remember, if you get the shakes, there’s always the Irish.

* Unfortunately for coffee ‘beans’, they are the seeds of coffee berries.
** Did the same thing happen to Sizzler? How could that possibly fail?

Meetings

White-collar serfs can appreciate the assistance a staple or two to the eyelids can provide when meandering through a coma-inducing list of agenda items. For those who have never experienced the corporate world, meetings are the only activity that can make a group of koalas on a 36-hour gumleaf bender look like an energetic and enthusiastic bunch. Meetings are a church service where a congregation of executives gather to worship their own mutual and perpetual uselessness.

The habitat of mindless managers and their hapless retinue, meetings have a lot more to do with modern language – especially American English – than people care to notice. One can scoff at the verbal acrobatics of politicians and their uncanny ability to wriggle out of answers, yet this skill is more akin to the boardroom than any parliament. After providing these indicative observations robust consideration, shall we rigorously enhance our functionality and facilitate a consultative consensus moving forward?

Fuck no. The reason politicians speak the way they do is because such demonstrable drivel works so effectively in business meetings. Rather than admit fault, fess up to a mistake or ask a straight-forward question, language is devoted to concocting divisive methods to expand simple answers into unintelligible, meaningless rubbish. After falling victim to and being the perpetrator of these techniques, I can only hope to help you, dear reader, to see through the waves of bullshit in business.

"We need to action-plan this issue: chocolate or cinnamon muffins?"

Next time you want to pass the time in a boring meeting, try this game an equally frustrated colleague of mine once suggested. Prepare a list of buzzwords for each contestant (such as collaborative, synergy, traditional silos, stakeholders, implementation, participatory) and keep your pen at the ready. Depending on the verbal habits of the manager in question, the first contestant to complete their list shouts “Bingo!” The aim of the game is to see how many weeks said manager takes to realise the joke is at his/her expense.

There are other means to bring disreputable purveyors of corporate fluff to heel – without risking your job. Meetings create the perfect environment for these simple and effective methods:

• Repeat statements back to the person in plain speech 

“We continue to research supplemental methods for electronic distribution while waiting for industry-wide cohesion on this topic.”
“So, you haven’t done anything yet?”

• Highlight when buzzwords of the day are incorrect

“Can we diarise those dates to further develop of this initiative?”
“Sorry, let me just correctivate my diariser. I biro-ised it incorrectly.”

• Use buzzwords in nonsensical fashion and watch heads nod

“By retroactively going forward, we can align our redundant methods with our future strategic objectives and reduce inactivity in a pro-active fashion.”

Ironically, the bad habits lampooned above are not deplored during meetings, but revered. Bamboozle colleagues as they politely nod with agreement and earn yourself an approving look from your superior.

For the sake of sanity and the English language, take it upon yourself to never say ‘moving/going forward’. I know how tempting it is, but how far we have moved forward as a civilisation without having to say moving forward? Think about what you’re saying: if you’re reconsidering your position moving forward, you’re actually moving backwards; if you think of alternatives moving forward, you’re moving sideways; and if you put me out of my misery and shoot me moving forward, I’m movin’ on up and nothing can stop me.

P.S. If you feel like a laugh, check out Weasel Words for regular updates of ridiculous corporatespeak.

P.P.S. Feel free to submit the best bullshit phrases that plague your own workplace for it would please me well to hear them.

Cricket

With Australia receiving proper spanking in the Ashes thus far, it seemed opportune to discuss this game in the hope of enlightening those who managed to escape the clutches of the British Commonwealth. As a former player (a career spanning ages 9-11) and a devoted fan (radio background noise during barbecues), cricket has a special place in my heart. No other sport can bore and entertain in such equal measure; to the point where, unlike golf, it is often more exciting to watch than it is to play.

Rather than explain the rules and jargon of cricket – a dialect in its own right – let us focus on the operative question: Why bother? More often than not, the key purpose of cricket is to serve as practical, blokey conversation during awkward social silences. Cricket relieves parents for several blissful weeks each summer as their sons and daughters play, while the professional game provides adults with patriotic justification to shirk workplace responsibilities and start drinking at 10am.

Much like football, cricket is as old as Henry VIII’s underpants. Many forms of the game existed, all of which evolved from bored shepherds defending a wicket-gate from a clump of rolled up rags with a sheep crook. Effectively, it was gambling that spurred cricket’s popularity in 17th Century England. The fact that batsmen could bludgeon fielders to death in 1624 may have also played a part. Thenceforth, England donated their national game to the world, providing a major selling point for colonialism. 

Role-model. Athlete. Legend.

The first international cricket match was played in – wait for it – New York, between the USA and Canada in 1844; two years before the first officially recorded baseball game*. By 1882-83, the best known rivalry in cricket was born after England was defeated by ‘mere colonials’ in a thrilling match at The Oval. The Pommy press composed a mocking obituary about the death of English cricket, of which “the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia”. Current circumstances, in all fairness, would make further gloating imprudent.

Cricket is an unusual game, containing unique concepts. Most notable being the Spirit of the Game: an unspoken element which frowns on behaviour which is “just not cricket”. Sportsmanship is highly coveted and, prior to video-umpires, the sport relied heavily on the honesty of players on tight decisions. Reflecting a chivalrous, stoic attitude of yesteryear, cricket resounds of Old Empire – for only a gentleman can consume fifty-two cans of beer on a flight from Sydney to London.

For those who think cricket is boring, all that can be said is…it is. Remember though, that this mind-numbing boredom only adds sparkle to the thrilling highlights that do happen every few hours or so. Cricket produces more than frustrated friends and partners in front of the television; it invigorates our inner sporting legend whenever a tennis ball and K-Mart bat are laid before us and convinces us all that we are doing real exercise.

* Canada won by 22 runs - their first and last international cricket victory.

Shakespeare

For most people, this particular S-word is more offensive than a Justin Bieber Christmas album. Others have successfully repressed this painful phase of their high school education down into the same pit where the hypotenuse and two-point perspective now reside. We are all poised for different vocations, most of which do not involve Shakespeare. Despite this, there is the occasional oddball who believes English is an important subject and tries to force his opinion upon others.

To set the record straight, William Shakespeare was a witty, sarcastic and horny bastard whose real talent lied in taking the piss out of all classes of society measure for measure. For centuries, English professors and ancient academics analysed and deconstructed his plays to the point where – instead of reading them for pleasure – we constantly flick back and forth between explanatory notes trying to figure out what the hell iambic pentameter is.

When Shakespeare started writing in the 1590s, English still played second fiddle to Spanish and French and was not the global language we now all use heaps good. English was always a juicy sponge that absorbed foreign words and the scientific advances of the Renaissance brought with it Latin and Greek terms as well. The ability to employ these new words and create new ones allowed Shakespeare to blossom the creative rose petals of the English language and celebrate the dew-dropped beauty of…

Screw that. Willy’s real talent lied in insulting people and he was adapt at using every word in the dictionary to do so*. After a few moments on a Shakespearian insult generator one can appreciate that ‘Dickhead!’ pales in comparison to ‘Thou whorespun imputent embossed rascal!’ With over fifty different variations, 'Knave' was by far Shakespeare’s most inventive slur, one that could so aptly be applied to The Big Lebowski – oh if only such a play existed. A few examples include:

foul knave; lousy knave; beastly knave; scurvy-railing knave; bacon-fed knave; wrangling knave; base notorious knave; poor cuckolding knave; counterfeit cowardly knave; pestilent complete knave; stubborn ancient knave; rascally scold beggarly knave; or beetle-headed flap-eared knave.

 Once more unto the pub dear friends!

Thankfully for the drunken peasants who packed theatres back in the day, Shakespeare always threw in a lecherous, sex-obsessed medieval scoundrel to break the monotony between main characters spouting romantic drivel. One favourite is the wasted Porter from Macbeth, who highlights the problems combining booze with sex: “it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to” Remember, until you see Shakespeare performed on a stage, you often miss the funny bits. You get it? Bits?

At the end of the day we are stuck with Shakespeare. The guy was just too good. What grammar Fascists and upstart correctionists like your Author need to understand, is that Shakespeare was free and loose with the English language. He showed that words can be made up, pulled apart and put back together to suit your purpose. Therefore, let this be a vow not to be such an autocrat when it comes to budging on which words are correct and which ones are uncorrect.

Shakespeare’s countless, multitudinous and generous contributions to English have not dwindled under exposure. He accommodated the obscene, the majestic, the pious and the suspicious – let his amazement not be misplaced and let his monumental legacy be not gloomy and lonely, but frugal with radiance.

* Despite the fact that the first complete English dictionary wasn't available until Samuel Johnson had nothing better to do in 1755.

Germany

With an ambition to dispel and/or exploit stereotypes the world over, today’s instalment of DDW’s Complete Generalisations About Other Cultures fattens its sarcastic sausage in honour of the forest nation of Deutschland. After half a century of providing the world with an endless supply of Hollywood cannon-fodder, the 2006 World Cup in Germany saw the Jerries waving their flag with pride once again, showing the world they are still the prudish know-it-alls we all love.

Contemporary Germans are generally modest and polite, albeit straight-forward compared to the English manners Australians have (somewhat) inherited. Efficiency is one quality all Krauts like to boast and after looking at the cars, the trains, the autobahn, the recycling, the education and the economy it seems to add up. However, after witnessing twelve Germans look at a map for 40min only to open it up again at the next intersection, the validity of this efficiency comes into question.

Up until Napoleon force fed escargot to Europe, the Holy Roman Empire was a chessboard of independent principalities for the better part of a thousand years. In practical terms, it would be easier to name the thirteen hundred German breweries than to discuss German history. Simply speaking, German kings and princes fought each other over religion, land and sauerkraut until the Prussian Movember Champion, Otto von Bismarck, united the Germany in 1871. Now, the closest thing you’ll find to a German monarch is Queen Elizabeth II*.

Movember 19th Century Style: 'The Teutonic'

If factories and well maintained roads are not your thing, German food should be enough to get your knees slapping. Start the day with a leisurely two-hour breakfast including processed meats, four kinds of butter and bread heavy enough to build a house with. Mix things up a bit for lunch with bratwurst, mustard and bread heavy enough to build a house with. Come dinner time, remember that nothing washes down a light and healthy 850g slab of pork like a litre of Bavarian wheat beer.

Beer is one of the most important facets of German nationhood. The Reinheitsgebot, or beer purity law, was enforced until its repeal in 1988 which prescribed barley, hops and water as the only three ingredients allowed in German brew. Such simplicity pales in comparison to the other German cultural icon – extremely long compound words. While ‘Preliminary World Cup Qualifying Match’ is a single word, the hands-down winner is the 1999 Wörter des Jahres which is (deep breath):

Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz**

Considering that most Germans speak better English than the average Australian, it is worth seeing more than just Oktoberfest. Whether you’re being chased out of town for asking for the Dusseldorf variety of beer in Cologne or trying to pretend a bunch of frigid Berliners getting naked in the lake doesn’t make you uncomfortable, Germany is the place for you. Although if you think trying a Basil Fawlty impression through the streets of Berlin is really original – chances are you will be severely reprimanded by the Techno Viking.

* Her grandfather, George V, changed the family name to Windsor in 1917 after he and his German cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm II, had an argument on a ski holiday.

** Although only a legal term, this word does exist and can be translated as the “beef labelling regulation and delegation of supervision law”.

Bicycles

As the ever-waging war on our roads rolls on, your humble cycling author thought it appropriate to untangle the chain of ignorance about bikes. Before unleashing a predictable rant upon the velocipedally challenged, let me state for the record that I enjoy riding on busy footpaths, running red lights, cutting across three-lane roads and riding down stairs. That said, I do wear a helmet, equip my bike with lights and need not don a pink fluorescent vest due to the protective chip on my shoulder.

Being Australian, it is difficult to imagine a city in which walkers, riders and drivers all get along. We are a nation of people married to our cars, with long distances to travel and few public transport options to take on as a mistress. While cycling itself is an uphill battle in Sydney, bike-riders have more than topological difficulties grinding their gears. Although Sydney will never be Amsterdam, drivers would benefit from a Dutch bike education – or could at least roll a doob and calm the fuck down behind the wheel.

One can appreciate the irony that the petrol-heads of today would have been the pedal-heads of the late nineteenth century. With early models earning names like the ‘bone-shaker’ due to their iron-banded wheels and cast iron frames, cycling was an activity for blokes with a death wish*. Come the penny-farthing in the 1870s, bike-riding was hardcore. The uneven roads and great speeds resulted in most young men “taking a header” and breaking both wrists in the process.

Thanks a lot Clover Moore.

The varieties of velocipede are as varied and perplexing as the types of idiots that ride them. There is the Arts student BMX rider clinging to his skate-bowl youth while pretending he owns a legitimate mode of transport. There is the middle aged man with freshly shaven legs as repugnant as his lycra bodysuit trying to peddle his way through mid-life crisis on a brand new $12,000 racer. Then of course, you have the wannabe Parkour mountain bike riders who treat the city as their private playground, making enemies of motorists and pedestrians alike. *AHEM*

On the positive side, things are slowly improving for cyclists, much to the distaste of respected and even-handed radio hosts. If Sydney were to have extended cycleways it is doubtful they would be much better than our roads, but after riding to work over the past six months it is noticeable that cycling is growing. Apart from the sporadic Mercedes badging resulting from bike-rage and a general fear for your life during peak hour, cycling gives you a decent dose of liberty in the gridlocked city.

At the risk of alienating readers and being a target on the road, please give bikes a chance. If we take up your lane, consider if that seven seconds of your day is worth running us off the road. If we ring our bell on the footpath, it does not mean “Get out of the way!” it means “I’m a happy Dutchman that will not hit you even though you have your headphones in and have no idea about your surroundings.” Can we try to get along? Bike riders will not hurt you – they might even give you a tulip.

* Although the bicycle was also nicknamed the ‘dandy horse’ as only reckless, foppish twits could afford them.

Apple

Fuck Apple.

Rather than leave it there and create the first two word article in history, prudence and clarification demand that such a material-rich topic be described with more than a lazy, multi-purpose obscenity*. Not even war, religion, politics or abortion create a bigger divide amongst the technological populace than which side of this proverbial orchard that you chose to dedicate your every waking keystroke to.

As an almost experienced and somewhat literate PC user/computer gamer, I grew up with a cassette-powered Commodore 64, through the dir/w days of MS-DOS to the happy day I installed Windows 3.1 in 1992. Combined with a CD-Rom and a Wingman Extreme joystick, that was a hard combination to top. Sadly, each new version of Windows brings a “simplified” approach, hampering the usability of a flawed but effective product. The reason? The rotten fruit from the tree of excrement we now call Apple.


“Why fight the strudel of our society Dan?” I hear you say, “I love Apple products because they are so easy to use and do everything I need them to do!” Absolute balls. The attitude of the average Apple user says it all – that understanding a machine is secondary to ease of use and the ego hand job of owning the latest device**. A PC is a tool of freedom – you can open it up, tinker with it and change the components to suite your lifestyle. Apple, on the other hand, is a philosophy – it opens you up, tinkers with you and changes your lifestyle to suit its usage.

Error 404: Common Sense not Found

Not convinced? Try taking a broken iPod to your local Apple store. My iPod was clever enough to display a sad face when switched on, so I knew it needed fixing. Some research indicated that either the battery was dead or the hard disk corrupted. The friendly girl at the counter agreed with this diagnosis and I asked if it could be fixed. No, because I need to make an appointment with the ‘Genius Bar’ who will sit with me one on one so we can “identify out the problem and find a solution”. 

Naturally, there were no such appointments available for several days and I was not permitted to leave my broken device to be repaired without a diagnosis session for a problem that has been already diagnosed. This secrecy and smothering personal service is the backbone of the whole Apple experience – like an illiterate peasant relying on bible interpretation of the medieval church. Control the device – control the customer. Although it seems ill-fitting to compare Apple to religion, they seem very concerned with dictating our lives – their attitude to smoking is a good example.

A brand gone mad, Apple has taken on Woolworths for having a "similar" looking logo, forced Ellen DeGeneres to apologise for even criticising the iPhone and burnt any heretic who shows an understanding of their technology (or should that be gospel?). Combine that with voiding warranties for even taking apart an Apple device, you have a captive market that would rather smile and synchronise than think for themselves. Keep your usability – give me the blue screen of death any day.

* A subject that will be tackled at a later effing date.

** Although, I pretty sure they’re good for designing and stuff.

Disclaimer: To the Thought Police at Apple - this is not an attempt to undermine your products, merely your intention to dominate the world.

Queensland

To all loyal followers of DDW, please accept my apologies for the break in transmission over the past week. During that time, I delved into the chasm of skin cancer that is our sunny northern neighbour of Queensland. A wondrous combination of natural splendour and unnatural breeding, this Australian state is home to the Big Pineapple, the Brisbane Broncos and almost as many bad tattoos as there are creatures that want to sting, bite or eat you.

For the Sydney urbanite, it is easy to understand why those in the Sunshine State live where they do. The fine sands and warm water are most addictive, while the birds, marine life and mammals of Fraser Island are almost as impressive as HD David Attenborough on a 42” plasma. After encountering the locals of small seaside towns, the stress of the city seems far behind, along with the need for computers, fuel-efficient vehicles, correct spelling or tasteful hats.

Once a rotten-egg basket for escaping convicts, the penal colony at Moreton Bay has developed into Australia’s third biggest metropolis. Brisbane is unique amongst Australian capital cities, managing to ignore the 7000km of sandy coastline in its home state, preferring to colonise a sweltering swamp 23km from the beach. By 1859, Queensland separated from New South Wales, formed its own colony and thankfully took their beer with them back to Brisbane.

If it don't fit on me ute, it ain't worth floggin'

If there is one thing Queensland has, it is space. So much, in fact, that once you reach the suburbs of the Gold Coast you will scarcely see huge multi-storey shopping centres or car-parks blemishing the rich environment. Instead, countless identical single-level shopping centres, each with their own 12 hectare car-park protect as much of the environment as possible with pure asphalt. Three generations of women walk hand-in-hand from the hairdresser, with as few stylistic differences as there are years between them.

The Gold Coast is unique among stereotyping – nowhere else on earth is typecasting so accurate. The processed tourism of Surfers Paradise is the finest example, with enough plastic boobs to raise the Titanic, enough bronzed retirees to support Australia’s leather industry and enough frustrated families arguing to turn anyone off holidays ever again. Although Queensland Police are short of manpower when faced with drunken violence after dark, one can always crawl across the New South Wales border to Tweed Heads to find a station open past afternoon tea.

Despite the minor rift, cultural difference in Australia really is little more than imagination based on a few varying factors. All states have their merits,* but when it comes to theme parks, sunshine and Steve Irwin, Queensland pips us at the post. The beer might be weak, the drivers insanely impatient and the insects plentiful enough to inflict thirty-seven sand fly bites in less than ten minutes, yet Queensland opens her heart to tolerance, compassion, multiculturalism and sexual freedom.

* Except that Melbourne is full of self-righteous toffs, Adelaide is full of stoners and I have not been to Perth yet.

Porn

If there ever was a cost-effective, mass-market literary and film genre with a limitless talent pool, it is pornography. An industry that breaks down the chauvinistic employment inequality, porn does for women what the industrial revolution did for child labour. With the potential to express oneself in creative and experimental ways, thousands of would-be smut artists are bending over backwards to lend a hand to an ever exploding market, often in the face of stiff competition.

Depicting nudity or sexual acts is nothing new. One look at a Greek and Roman art is enough to confirm they were a wang-out bunch who could handle some marble skin and layers of sultry drapery. The Greeks celebrated gods and goddesses involved directly with sex who were both raunchy and promiscuous. As for the Romans, who could be bothered engaging in demeaning acts with naked statues after a long day at the gladiators with a belly full of olives and wine?

Actually, that may not be completely accurate. Although most Romans did not participate in rampant grape-feeding orgies, they were definitely not prudes. The reality is that sex was not shameful or secretly consumed in front of the computer until Victorian England became utterly petrified about boobs. The word pornography was not even invented until a treasure trove of statues depicting multiple naughty position positions was discovered in – you guessed it – Pompeii.

The Victorian establishment decided to house-up these saucy artworks in an Italian museum, allowing only senior (male) academics access to them. Prudish restrictions of social interaction in order to rub out the unwholesome elements of the working classes, combined with the anonymity of city living lead to, ironically, an epidemic of prostitution in London. The argument that “neo-classical” art in the 1850s was indeed soft porn starts to sound less like feminist tripe when viewed in that perspective*.

Show me those earlobes you nasty slut.

Let us be plain. Porn is objectification to the extreme, rarely portraying pleasure or reality. That bulging forearm muscles indicate the onset of male pubescence is no surprise, yet pornographic images are not a good educational tool to combat youthful inexperience. When, by some act of Venus, a young man finds himself lucky enough to be in such a position, his first attempts at seduction will most likely be met with laughter after fidgeting with the feminine regions as if they were a Playstation controller.

Is there a horrid twist to this superficial obsession? Sex seems so bottled up that we have processed it into ultra-hardcore, three minute chunks like a bad chicken nugget. Has the male sexual association with photo-shopped Barbie dolls lead to labiaplasty and boob jobs? Or does the superficial image of women in the media reflect a horrid failure of female rebirth from the stereotypes of old? One thing is clear, the less sex is openly discussed and celebrated, the more it becomes deviance and smut in the infantile imaginations of the repressed.

* She was indeed the antithesis of all things graceful about women.

Camping

Getting in tune with nature and embracing the bush is a rite of passage for any Australian and the only conceivable explanation for the success of Stagg Chilli. Pitching a tent, pumping up the air mattress and claiming the last folding chair are the only three chores between urban slavery and ultimate freedom. Just like KFC, camping is long craved for beforehand, is both appetising and enjoyable throughout, and leaves you feeling dirty and bloated in the end.

For heathens who deny the Book of Scrub and choose not to sip goon from the Divine Dinky-Drinky, a lifetime of spiritual barrenness awaits you. One cannot appreciate all the layers of life without experiencing the mystical whistle of a leaking gas cylinder, the delicate crunch of dirty toast, the olfactory offerings of morning mildew, the sensual touch of an exposed tent-peg or the sudden darkness of the impending storm clouds that you complained about adamantly earlier.

The real reason people camp is to leave the technology-driven maelstrom of life behind by acquiring as many outdoor/foldable/disposable/storable/wearable versions of everyday comforts as possible. From the Mongols cooking on the backs of their shields in-between killing sprees across Europe to Bear Grylls inventing the Camel Gut Four Man, mankind has sought ways to improve camping to the point where even the fussiest people can enjoy a mobile shower or biodegradable tampon.

The rewards of camping come from the bare essentials.

Everything has such an exciting edge when it comes to camping. Instead of putting the kettle on, you get to risk scalding trying to balance a boiling billy with a wet stick. Instead of washing up, you can create wonderful new dishes with the remnants of previous meals. Instead of using the loo, you explore nature from an angle never seen before. Instead of toilet paper, you embrace pleasure unimaginable from a slice of multigrain or a kamikaze hiking sock.

Field biologists have recently identified a phenomenon known as ‘Absolute Wasted’ – the point in which a camper has reached the maximum concentration of dirtiness, drunkenness and urine-saturation. Symptoms include half-full beers starting to taste like old cigarettes and chairs, which were once upright, lying flat without the occupant changing position. The moment at which Absolute Wasted is reached is often reflected in the UDI count come sunrise*.

All things considered, camping is an activity that goes beyond responsible consumption and reckless self-restraint. It echoes the way in which all Australians have a connection to the land equipped with water and pit-dunnies and wildlife that does not result in helicopter evacuation. So let eucalyptus run through our veins like a goanna through an esky and forever let our identity be propped up with the rusty tent poles of our sunburnt natural splendour.

*More commonly known as Unidentified Drinking Injuries

Buses

With Sydney’s transport infrastructure clogged like the arteries of a Texan hotdog eating champion, few options remain to relieve the high cholesterol of our roads other than taking the bus. Having never lived near a train station and now without a car, bus travel is my preferred method of getting to work after cycling (a story for another day). In fact, I have travelled to work on buses for the better part of eight years.

The first buses were around in mid-17th Century France when, strangely enough, they were reserved for the well-to-do. While not a new thing, buses certainly have a large place in modern history. Take, for example, Rosa Parks politely telling an Alabama bus driver to get stuffed in 1955 after being told to vacate her seat for a white passenger, all the way to Harry Potter hailing the Knight Bus after telling the Dursleys to shove it during his pre-apparative days.

Buses are natural selection at work, with various species all vying for methods to secure the next generation or, more specifically, a vomit free seat*. The crafty, the determined and the strong find their seat in history while the weak, the feeble and the stagnant all remain standing. Longer bus trips require higher levels of commitment – when fifty people queue up for a 45min bus route from Sydney’s trainless north-west into the city, you need to be at the top of your game.

Future plans for rail-bus integration.

Anyone reliant on public transport conforms, consciously or not, to an unspoken code of behaviour which, during my time on buses, I have observed closely in the hope of educating the travelling masses. The general rule is to avoid human contact whatsoever and make sure nobody can sit next to you, a remarkable challenge considering the close proximity of passengers on busy mornings. The proliferation and use of audio devices in recent years has aided passengers in sending a clear message that social interaction will not be tolerated.

Occasionally events transpire that manage to penetrate the audio force field such as someone asking for directions who then force their way into weather-related conversation before headphones can be reinserted. Conversely, for those who escape into books, there is often a nearby Emo with his bottom lip pinned to his left nostril compelling you to imbed an emergency glass-smashing hammer through the fringeless section of his skull with every plagiarising pulse of his Wolfmother-blaring, Twilight-stickered headphones.

Everybody gets on really well on the bus when they can ignore each other in peace. Even if accidental conversation is initiated with a person regularly at the same bus stop each morning, rest assured that neither party wants to continue this charade and will sit as far apart from one another as possible upon arrival of the bus. Like men at a urinal, passengers are drawn towards empty space the moment seats are vacated and they expect you to do the same. Here are a few final tips to secure a comfortable ride on any bus system:

1. Feign an injury – Do not underestimate the power of a slight limp on a busy bus. Hobble past the driver and see how quickly seats are offered to you.

2. Reverse psychology – If an elderly person or pregnant woman complains about not being offered a seat, simply say: “Make the assumption that you cannot support your own weight? I would never be so rude.”

3. Try not to shower – Body odour is a sure fire way to secure a seat on a crowded bus and is has excellent anti-conversational effects.

4. Role-reversal – As many seasoned bus-travellers are well aware of these techniques, continually forcing people to remove their headphones out with idiotic questions boils their blood in minutes.

5. Leg spreads and sleeping – Encroaching on someone’s personal space with a leg spread is useful for the longshanked. Sleeping on someone’s shoulder is an exceptional method to get rid of a seat-sharer.

Happy travels!


* If you can handle your own vomit – a tactical spew should not be ruled out as a seat-securing measure.

America

In this first rendition of DDW’s Complete Generalisations About Other Cultures series, let us sharpen our stabbing pencils for everyone’s favourite scapegoat, the United States of America. Firstly America, on behalf of the rest of the world, let me thank you for the mutually beneficial arrangement in which your own indefatigable self-assurance provides not only your reason for being, but infinite entertainment for the rest of us on a daily basis.

Any traveller would have met one of those open-minded, well-read hippies who are interested in other cultures and want to ruin every perception of Yanks held dear. This kind of American ungraciously refuses to make use of the McDonald’s restaurants and Starbucks provided for them throughout every continent, preferring instead to explore new places and learn local customs (and in some cases father Australian whingers with a big mouth). Apart from these stubborn exceptions, one cannot help but wonder how the nation we know today evolved.

When a group of Separatist Puritans* landed in Cape Cod in 1620, they sought to win over the native pagans with the bible or, at the very least, with guns, booze and smallpox infested blankets. Enlightenment, however, seemed to be on the side of the locals when, after half of the settlers died in their first New World winter, they met their first native tribesman who strolled calmly into their camp and - in perfect English – asked them for a cold beer. 

Thirteen colonies sprung up across the east coast like Subway franchises and, within 150 years, a population of 2.5 million decided the English had to move their holiday homes to Australia. Being American was to be self-sufficient, self-governed and fervently religious, free from the Popish traditions of old with a God-given task to settle the North American continent. Territory expanded, a Bill of Rights was written and wealth grew along with freedom...to own as many slaves as you liked.

Do you think they'll have Freedom Fries in France?

Wonderful writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman echo the self-reliance of Americans that survived a bloody Civil War and capture the frontier-expanding spirit that defines the USA even today. This evangelising mission spread from the Great Plains to every corner of the earth – with the bible in one hand and an ICBM in the other. Now, as an Empire in decline, America is in the unique position to stop taking itself so seriously and allow citizens to develop a sense of humour like their British cousins before them (or the makers of Arrested Development).

Apart from more acronym-based detective shows, what does the future hold for our quarter-pounder cousins? Every American I have ever known has been an informed humanist who is aware of their place in the world, yet all we see is the herd chewing the ignorant cud of opinion disguised as news, becoming exponentially insular and fearful. The words of Ben Franklin, the great Revolutionary torchbearer of the Age of Reason, seem only a memory today: “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

* That is, the Protestants too extreme to be considered puritanical

Saints

Considering that our own quite contrary Mary is about to secure her own entry in next season’s Super Saints and Martyrs collector cards, it’s important for all teeth-gnashing Protestant heathens to get a handle on the whole saint concept. Like Jimi Hendrix and Big Kev before her, Mary MacKillop has gone through a stringent series of evaluations to get her name on the Canon scoresheet.

Gone are the days when the Catholic Church handed out sainthoods like smiley stickers at a hippy festival – the criteria have grown tougher over the centuries. The general rule of thumb (apart from being dead) is that you must be martyred for God and a miracle needs to occur when people pray to you. If you happen to die while moving a heavy fridge up some stairs, two miracles are needed to get you past the line. With a recovering cancer patient, a few devout witnesses and an infallible papal investigation you’ll be negotiating a book deal and ABC documentary series in no time.

The one thing that maintained my interest through a Catholic upbringing was the stories of the saints. Collecting their medallions – much like footy cards at church – taught me about the patron saint of this, that and whatever*. Most importantly, it helped me learn that, unlike polytheistic religions like Hinduism, Christianity instead has three major gods with tens of thousands of minor gods dedicated to each little aspect of life. What really won me over as a boy were the inventive torture methods that the saints of old endured in order to secure their halos.

Unlike sex and independent thought, violence and beer are the two staples of an apostolic diet. You might have heard about the Romans crucifying St Peter upside down after requesting not to die like Jesus (whoops), or recognise St Sebastian tied to a tree echidnafied with arrows, but other stories make Genghis Khan look like a pussy. My personal favourite is St Lawrence – patron saint of comedians. The Romans thought it’d be a laugh to grill the poor sod on a barbecue. In a rare moment of genius, he said halfway through, “This side’s done, turn me over and have a bite.”

 

Stick around.

If being sawn in two from head to crotch doesn’t make much sense, many saints make simply no sense at all. Take one of the favourite thugs of the church, Sir Thomas More, advisor to Henry VIII, author of Utopia and fierce defender of the Catholic Church. More was made saint in 1935 by Pope Pius XI, despite the fact he orchestrated the execution of William Tyndale, a scholar who translated the bible into English, then tortured and executed any heretic who owned a copy. Funnily enough, Tyndale’s translation of the bible has been the basis for all English bibles ever since – including Catholic.

Like Kylie Minogue, the marketing powerhouse of the Catholic Church knows how to adapt with the times and be all things to all people. Just like martyrs and saints were made with the stretch of the rack and blistering of flame, so heretics and Protestants who denied their existence were given the same blessings hundred of years later. While the archaic, patriarchal system and Canon Law of the church is under threat by common sense, what better way to rebrand the church than getting behind a progressive nun who hated child-abuse?

Let Mary MacKillop be remembered for being a good person and an inspiring woman, not transform her into a poster-girl for cardinals with guilty consciences and fodder for Woman’s Day features.

*Despite this, I am still unable to find the patron saint of sarcastic diabetics.

Art

The Art Gallery of New South Wales would usually remind me of high school days where once a year we enjoyed a day of freedom wandering from picture to picture, completing excursion-justifying activity sheets. This time, however, things were different. At the invitation of my stencil-swinging friend, Paul Shanta, I found myself in my first art sale. The Entrance Court of the gallery had transformed into an auction house for the eagre minions of would-be artists and art dealers.

A room full of chardonnay-sipping freeloaders ogling scarcely covered canvases portraying the ambiguity of society’s conflict with single-ply toilet paper can be a bit intimidating at first. For the schoolboy used to seeing little more than sensible landscapes from sensible Englishmen in the state’s biggest gallery, attempting to understand the cacophony of artworks with no common theme, medium or price range was enough to cause complete cranial collapse.

For those in the know, the event was nowhere near as confusing. Basically, if you didn’t understand why someone wants to spend $1500 on a used tissue, it is best to occupy yourself with bread and dip, praying for the penguin with the drinks tray to walk past again. Although indebted aristocrats have been pawning Daddy’s collection of Rembrandts in this manner for centuries, one fundamental remains consistent - art is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

 I may not understand the Empire, but I know what I like.

Art is defined and redefined to the point of pure lunacy. At its best, art can define a generation and capture moments of spiritual transcendence. At its worst, art celebrates self-serving nihilism, reducing even the idea of expression to loathing indulgence. Expensive on the mind as well as the wallet, art is the suffering of a skilled painter who spends two years on the perfect landscape while the mere name of a known painter can eclipse his entire life’s income by selling a blank canvas. Art costs.

To those clinging to Gothic architecture or the Renaissance as the standard of artistic achievement (such as your author), contemporary art is not kind. Is it the name that takes precedence over the image? The cash over the comment? As Salvador Dali once said, “When the creations of a genius collide with the mind of a layman, and produce an empty sound, there is little doubt as to which is at fault.” Forgive the pun, but there must be a happy medium when it comes to art, rather than just those who get it and those who like the footy.

With the fine art trade grossing $3 billion worldwide in 2004, there seems little danger in this phenomenon ending any time soon and that it pays to be recognised. An investment for some, a passion for others, art can open doorways to thinking as effectively as it does wallets. At the end of the day, know what you like, because by the time you finish scratching your head while trying to figure out the sneeze-pattern where a picture used to be, you will have just bid $2000 for it.

Call Centres

In order to destabilise and dishevel the machinations of the Corporate Technocracy in which we dwell, Danny’s Daily Wisdom hereby vows: to rid our lives of the inane, answer-driven nature of customer service in all its forms; to highlight the rice-paper foundation of brand loyalty and the way in which our ability to be heard is quashed by mindless placation; and to educate you how to deal with the trained monkeys poked into diffusing your every concern to the point of futility and self-doubt.

If you hadn’t already guessed, a lovely experience with a call centre today has inspired this disregard of my characteristic professional conduct. Put simply, we are all the victim of a scam – the scam of customer service. The fundamentals of a call centre are simple: resolve customer queries as quickly as possible in order to take as many calls as you can throughout the day. This formula leaves little room for things such as customer satisfaction, common sense or compassion – generally any human quality whatsoever.

"Little does he know, I forward those dirty emails to his wife."

Some years back, I was an inbound call centre representative for Coca-Cola Amatil. Six months working in Equipment Service gave me a sound knowledge of machinery and basic over-the-phone repairs. I remember assisting a country pub-worker on a Sunday afternoon to isolate a ruptured valve that was filling his basement with soda water. With no hope of getting a technician until Monday, the crisis was averted, the company saved $300 and the publican was eternally grateful.

Despite this apparent success in customer service, I actually failed the call because I “did not refer to the customer by name two times” and “exceeded my call time limit”. I must disclose that my employment was eventually terminated from Coca-Cola for various reasons, mainly due to the fact that I “over-serviced the customers”*. What’s that you say? Over-serviced? The fact is, if I had just booked a technician for the country barman, left his pub to flood and asked “Is there anything else I can do for you?” at the end of the call, I would have received a perfect score.

This is what contact centres describe as “call flow”, the wonderful formula in which questions are asked, customers are dealt with and process is followed to the letter. There are various techniques that are designed to transform your warranted frustration with company X into a reflective self-criticism that leaves you in exactly the same position you were in before your call. My favourite was LAER (pronounced layer) which stands for: “Listen. Acknowledge. Explore. Resolve.”

Next time you ring to complain about your phone bill or internet connection, listen to the subtle language devices adopted. A common practice among call centre workers is to never use negative words or agree to criticism. Instead of “no”, they will say “what I can do for you is…” and instead of “you’re right about our shitty service” they will say “I understand where you’re coming from…” To be fair, they are not trying to be arseholes, but their job is a lot easier if you forget why you were so pissed off in the first place and feel like you’re being unreasonable.

Do not be fooled. Call centres managers/team-leaders are measured on their ability to process as many calls as possible, not, I repeat, not their ability to provide customer service. Call centre workers are rewarded on their ability to log service calls, fill in forms and most importantly, their speed. If you hang up the phone wondering if you had just been swindled by the smooth-talking girl who empathised with your problem, most likely you probably have and your problem still remains. Here are a few tips to make the customer service experience reflect the words for which it’s named, or if you just want to stir shit:

1. Refer to the person by name – Call centre workers are encouraged to refer to you by name so you feel accountable for what you say. Returning the favour works well when you think you’re being fed bullshit.

2. Write down everything – Never underestimate the power of recording names, dates, times and every word spoken. Remember, they will record yours!

3. Do not get angry – Granted, I’m not good at this one, but the one and only way a call centre is allowed to hang up on you is in the event of: “Threatening or obscene language.”

4.  Ask for the team leader – Call centres love a thing called “first person resolution”. If you ask for the manager from the start, they start to squirm and it reflects poorly on the manager when their staff cannot fulfil their duty.

5. Complain, Complain, Complain – The only sure thing about horrible customers who are never happy is that they always, always get what they want.

Fly my pretties!


* Other reasons included: “emailing sarcastic responses to management”; “running through the office” and; “jumping over desks” (True story)

Ironing

Never has a more daunting task besmirched the fabric of society than this diabolical chore. The scourge of young men separated from their mothers, ironing is a hex upon all those shackled to business-shirts worldwide. The hissing serpent of vanity, the steaming sole of an electric iron reminds us with its every mocking breath how this thankless task is truly Satan’s own creation.

Like throwing an annoying cat into a wheelie-bin, ironing is something best gotten out of the way quickly. Trying to outsmart the iron by stockpiling business shirts and trousers only leads to trauma and misery once the cupboard is empty. All this time the iron sits in the cupboard…waiting…knowing that soon its time will come. Before you know it, the rusty creaking of the folding ironing board is grinding against your auditory canal like Justin Bieber singing Guy Sebastian covers.

Invented in 1882, the electric iron was supposed to be a labour-saving device. Little did the creator know that he was unleashing the Kraken upon vast swathes of the populace who saw ironed clothes as unnecessary. Male business clothes were the target market for this suffering and, because men were so bad at it, mothers and wives were forced to iron for the next hundred years. Now, men are not only stuck with more ironing than women, we also have no idea what we’re doing.

Another man pressed into service

Of course, you can choose to say that you don’t believe in ironing, that ironing is a social expectation that we’re bound by and, just like pâté, a luxury based on inhumane suffering*. Well, go ahead! See how far you make it with a crumpled business shirt in this day and age. Unless you’re a system administrator bound to an office dungeon, don’t be surprised when your crooked collar results in awkward greetings from colleagues and half-hearted handshakes from prospective clients.

There must be a way to avoid ironing, right? Tell that to my old friend Mark during our brief days (day) as catering waiters. Naturally, a white business shirt and black trousers were expected for such an occasion, but Mark had a trick up his sleeve to avoid ironing – just buy a new shirt. Little did he realise that new shirts in that those neat plastic packets will double-cross you like a pirate browsing in an eye-patch store. For the remainder of the evening, guests were bemused by a chessboard-like pattern that grew all the more perplexing with each refill of champagne and orange juice.

Everyone loves the feel of a $200 Vietnamese suit and the pronounced professionalism of a polka-dot tie offset upon a Lowes business shirt, but does it really matter that much? Are your abilities as an employee cancelled out by wrinkled workpants? Loosening the bonds between long-chain polymer molecules through heat in order to press fabric fibres into an eye-pleasing shape may seem harmless, but until we have the courage to show up to work or a wedding with crinkled cuffs, evil will always conquer.

* No goose livers were harmed in the production of this article.

Football

For many, the arrival of spring brings little sunshine as the yearly footy frenzy draws to a close – for others, it’s blooming fantastic. Come September, the ballet of brutality reaches its pinnacle as two teams of equal worth carry the expectations of a nation upon their shoulders as they face each other for the final brewery-sponsored mêlée. Even if you want nothing to do with it, the obligation of every Australian to shout inanely at the television for one Sunday afternoon is thrust upon them on Grand Final Day.

Whatever code of you choose*, football has had quite a history and can help explain the national obsession for pigskin. Played since classical times, the ancient Greeks, Romans and Chinese all had their own version of football. In England, the sport was essentially a “mob” game with few rules, often involving the entire populace of rival villages. Even then, the game resulted in controversy, with King Edward II banning people from “hustling over large balls” in 1314. Ironically, Edward II met a painful end via the end of a hot poker after being outed as a homosexual.

By the time Australia was off the ground, rugby had developed from various English public schools starting their own game after losing their best players to child-friendly factory work. The Victorian gold rush and the dominion of rugby by the upper/middle classes spawned an all-Australian code, leading to the development of Aussie Rules in the 1860s. After the NSW Rugby Club refused to pay working class amateurs compensation for injuries, the NSW Rugby Football League was born in 1908 with the best player of the day, Herbert “Dally” Messenger, their star recruit.

With over one hundred years of history, thousands of followers and millions of novelty stubby-holders, it’s easy to see how footy clubs are such an important facet for the mob. As hungry Romans, we receive our weekly gladiatorial squabble to the delight of some and the misery of others. Come Grand Final Day (or Days depending on the code), the flags of the dedicated wave higher and their colours beam brighter – whereas, for many, the pleasure lies simply in watching the Roosters lose.
   
Is it a sense of community and identity that brings people together? Or is football a useful method to dissipate testosterone’s desire for war and glory? Medieval English monarchs banned football as it distracted men from much needed archery practice – something centuries of war with France created a demand for. However, after five minutes as an Eels fan within the belly of Cronulla’s aptly named “Yob’s Hill”, I daresay one would hear more vulgarity and loathing from the home fans than any Englishman would’ve been exposed to on a French battlefield**.

Bringing us closer while inciting us to tear each other into little bits, footy has a unique place in the Australian landscape. Football allows us to impartially hate any group in multiple ways, regardless of size, with complete justification. For instance, we can hate Victorians because they don’t play our game and then hate Queenslanders precisely because they do. Even after Grand Final Day, the time-tested clichés of sports interviews will help us dig deep, put in one hundred and ten percent and give it our best shot next year.

* Danny’s Daily Wisdom does not recognise American Football as a sport.
** Naturally, a Parramatta fan would adopt no such language or racial stereotypes.

Procrastination

A fitting topic to usher in this new era of productivity, procrastination is a personal nemesis of mine and a valiant foe by any standard. Even while looking at this screen, the temptation to be distracted by another cup of ulcer-inducing instant coffee looms ever present. Although part confession, part psychological hurdle, turning this cranial cactus on its head is a step I must take lest this blogging segment becomes Danny’s Occasional Whinge*.

Procrastination is a beast that burdens us all – one that can only be slain by activity. The best part is that this activity can take any shape or form in order to reassure the mind of its hard work. Whether in the home or the workplace, validating the importance of meaningless actions is the number one priority for the procrastinator. Sure, I have two reports due tomorrow and still haven’t edited that manuscript, but if I just keep going I will have won fifteen games of Hearts in a row! Ben, Pauline and Michelle are about to enter a world of pain.

Our symbiotic friend, social media, provides many time-justifying opportunities for the procrastinator. Just when you’re about to knuckle down and get some work done, you are suddenly embroiled in an online debate about the thickness of pizza bases. Not only do you find yourself fervently defending thin bases with simpler toppings, you gather YouTube clips and Wikipedia entries to support your argument as you wait, hammer cocked, for that next email notification or message alert. Before you know it half the day is gone, but you stand proud by your achievement, knowing that your two bob’s worth made a difference.

Another practical tip for the would-be procrastinator is to start many as many jobs as you can at once while finishing none. Exceptionally useful around the home, a simple task such as doing laundry can open endless opportunities. You find a lone sock that leads on a house-wide search for its pair, only to discover that long-lost Toto CD under the lounge, only to find the electricity has cut out when you try to play it, then deciding to clean out under the house while attempting to access the fuse-box, only to find an old batch of homebrew amidst the debris. Before you know it, your housemate walks in to discover you covered in cobwebs, surrounded by beer bottles and dirty laundry air-guitaring to Hold the Line with a single dirty sock.

Can procrastination be conquered? The obvious thing to say is give me a few days and I will give you an answer, but the problem goes deeper than that. From the greatest anti-procrastination movie of all time, Dead Poets Society: “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” (Henry David Thoreau) Too deep for the dereliction of household duties? Most likely, but the temptation to do nothing is all too delicious. Keep a sharp lookout for procrastination for, before you know it, you could be writing a rant about time-wasting while hiding from your boss.

* For the record, weekends are not incorporated under the Daily umbrella.