Sanctum *SPOILERS*

Last weekend I saw Sanctum, the cave-diving suspense thriller drama that goes rather terribly wrong and practically everyone dies. What a surprise. The footage of the caves in Papua New Guinea is amazing, not that I will ever be going anywhere near a cave after seeing this movie. Although, I’ve never really cared to travel to the depths of the earth in a cavernous rabbit warren, as a generally find light and warmth and air and open spaces preferable to darkness, bitter cold, claustrophobia and drowning.

Aussie accents are at our cringe worthy finest when slotted into American movies; and Sanctum is no different.  Aussie Richard Roxburgh is brilliant, coping as best as he can when instructed to bung on a ridiculous Aussie twang. The only people I know who possess this torturous-sounding version of the Aussie accent are Queensland farmers, who spend all of their time liaising with cows, lambs or their fellow bad-accented farm help. And I dare say they are too busy herding cattle to be traversing into caves.

There is a psychological theory about movie-making, script-writing, etc, that states there will always be a happy ending because movie-makers don’t let people walk out of the cinema depressed. Movie-makers know that consumers like a happy ending. Well, that ain’t the case with this little number; it sort of slipped through their happiness verdict net. Despite four years of psychology at uni, I really can’t remember the theory, or what it is called; so that was time and money well spent...

I won a bet with myself in this movie; which in hindsight is quite pointless, but still satisfying.  I predicted that the words "Git owt a theeeeeere!!" would be used, exactly in that order.  Evidently, "get out of there now!", or its sister phrase, "we have to get out of here!" are the most commonly used phrases in movies, as they move a story along.  Fascinating.

Sanctum's not a REALLY bad film, and I’m sure James Cameron is mighty thankful for that, given that he Executively Produced it, and his moniker is plonked at the start of the credits.  Apparently this cheery little flick is based on a true story; and I wonder which part is the true part. I certainly hope it isn’t the cyclonic activity part. What moron in their most idiotic mindset would go into a ridiculously complex cave system two kilometres beneath the surface of the earth when there is a vicious storm heading straight towards them? Who would do this? Crazy arse cavers, that's who.  And golfers.

Golfers are a bit like cavers, in that their hobby is their religion. And if it happens to be raining, with random lighting striking over your tee off, well that’s probably the best time to stand under a tree, or raise your metal umbrella, or take a big swing with your metal golf swinging thing, or go explore unexplored caves. Yeah, I’m sure everything will be fine.

Bonding with James

I have had an affinity with the James Bond genre, as I like to refer to it, since an early age.  Living in India in the very late seventies, I spent a fair bit of time bonding with James, as my mother used to take my sister and I to regular Bond screenings at the American Embassy in New Delhi.

I was always transfixed when the fictional British Secret Intelligence Service agent lit up the big screen. This probably had less to do with the plot, and more to do with the fact that television was a bit of a foreign concept in India back then, apart from the odd black and white episode of I Love Lucy, if you could manage to find the right channel on your telly.


I look tired cos I have been fighting terrorists

 Back in the day, I admired Bond’s strength, wisdom, and heroism, and delighted in watching him kick the crap out of the bad guys, time and again. I suppose I was a bit of a tomboy.

And even back then, I saw the Bond girls as talentless bimbos, and I remember pondering the point of them at all, and then working out they served as annoying distractions for Bond’s roving eye, and to provide a bit of suspense before he inevitably crushed the bad guys.

Bond is the longest running and most financially successful English-language movie franchise in history, having grossed about $12 billion at the box office. The Bond series is the spy genre. To quote a Bond movie power ballad (and the catchcry of the tawdry real estate agent, LJ Hooker); nobody does it better.

Bond knows that the only way to snatch power back from evil men who threaten to destabilise the free world is to kill them, then take their toys.

Bond has shown time and again that you save a country from destruction at the hands of bad actors with poorly Russian / Arab accents by killing them, taking away their nukes, making out with their chief nuclear scientist, who tends to look remarkably like a supermodel, and then explaining yourself to MI6. Situation handled. Sometimes Bond will simply dob in the baddies and then take their toys, but those movies are a little dull. Geez, we are lucky that Barack Obama doesn't get to write a Bond script. It would go like this:

James Bond travels to Iran to track down a psychotic mad man called…. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. (Wow, that name sounds familiar). Bond finds him, and learns that he is trying to sell nukes to (insert another insane Middle Eastern country), again.

The pesky and stupid U.S. President (obviously a Democrat, and obviously played by method actor Sean Penn) forces Bond to back off, by telling him we need to “negotiate” with the mad man, and that he isn’t crazy as such, he just wants to be hugged, and mad man was just kidding around when he said he wanted to annihilate the West.

By some incredible coincidence, this movie eerily resembles reality, when negotiations fail with said mad man, and the western world explodes into tiny pieces. The end.  The Bond genre is over, and we are all dead.  Not shaken, not stirred; just dead.  Yeah, thanks a bunch Barack – way to wipe out a franchise / the rational thinking portion of the human race.

How about you just stick to destroying the free world, and leave movie making to movie makers who have balls. Actually, it’s also preferable to have a President with balls, but we can’t have everything. If the international political arena were a Bond movie, the good guys would not be winning right now.

Nine green bins clogging up the street

Recycling is one thing, but sorting rubbish into nine bins? The geniuses running the City Council in Newcastle-under-Lyme, in Great Britain, thought it best to make the locals sort their rubbish into nine bins. That’s right, nine bins. But that's nothing.  The average number of bins into which residents in the UK are required to sort their waste is four.  163 councils force their electorates to sort rubbish into five or more bins!  But why, you may ask.

Well, the eco warriors over at the European Union have devised a ridiculous landfill directive, that has set legally binding targets on member states, one of which is Great Britain, to reduce the amount of waste headed to landfill sites. And you will get fined if you act rationally by not meeting these targets; for example, by failing to enforce people in your electorate to place nine collection bins outside their house on garbage day.



Evidently, it is irrelevant to the EU that the concentration of methane gas has barely increased in the last twenty years. And the fact that many climate scientists know that carbon dioxide generated by human activity has caused little or no global warming must be dismissed by the EU as ‘CLIMATE CHANGE DENIAL’.  You simply cannot let facts get in the way when you have an eco agenda.

Apart from the nauseating platitudes this sycophantic Council must receive from the eco warriors, there seems to be no great point in insisting that these poor people sort rubbish in this way. Going to so much trouble, you’d think for sure the Council would have the garbage guys at the other end ready to tend to the refuse. Well no, that doesn’t seem to be happening in Newcastle-under-Lyme.

There are no coloured teams of workmen at the end of the line ready to sort rubbish for “Team Used Teabags” or “Team Used Shampoo Containers".  Just a steaming pile of mismanaged garbage that is pissing off the locals and emitting a great deal of stench. In fact, the MP for Newcastle-under-Tyme, Paul Farrelly, has invested £1 million to try and stop the “noxious smells” that are emitting from a local landfill site. Something to do with locals residents with young families that have been complaining about the smell for a while now. Ah yes, the environmental consequences of idiotic decisions. The money has gone towards an elaborate system that “controls odours", apparently.

Don't we all


Of course, as usual with hard-core greenie types, recycling to the enth degree is only obligatory if it doesn’t involve personal inconvenience. That is, it is far more gratifying to inconvenience other people than yourself.  Councellor Gary Porter, chairman of the Local Government Association Environment Board in the UK, says the various recycling requirements reflect the different areas of the UK, and "what works in inner-city London won't necessarily work in rural areas."

That’s right. You simply cannot make the inner city, latte-sipping London greenies recycle in this way.  It is, afterall, their job to preach about recycling, and then others have to pay the price for their whinging. That is the way it works. Which is why councils in London are exempt from sorting each bit of their rubbish into four or five or six separate bins.  Fortunately for Mr Porter, he empties his garbage right in the heart of London. 

You see, the whole point of being a greenie eco warrior is to create the most amount of inconvenience for the least amount of effectiveness. That’s how they roll.  For more on this, see any environmental action plan proposed or endorsed by Al Gore.

Sure, it’s not practical to have nine bins outside every London home, but doesn’t this go against the left wing eco ideology that human’s are destroying the world? I think it is likely that Londoners are using more consumerables than their rural neighbours, and the rural residents are likely using more home-grown recyclable products than Londoners, which can be chucked into their backyard compost.

Rather than trust the ‘science’ of acclaimed global eco warrior hypocrites like Al Gore, here are the views of actual scientists on the gases debate. Professor Charles Wax, a Mississippi state climatologist; "there isn't a consensus among scientists." And Richard Lindzen, formerly of the IPCC, and meteorology professor at MIT, who says, "there is no substantive basis for predictions of sizeable global warming due to observed increases in minor greenhouse gases such as carbon dioxide, methane, and chlorofluorocarbons."

Olympic-size pool comebacks

The 2012 London Olympics are fast approaching, with the host city finalising preparations before it welcomes the prestigious international sporting event in July next year. As of December 2010, the seats in the Olympic stadium were being fitted, the flood lights were being tested, and all the other venues were nearing completion, including the venue that will house the sport of....Matrix fighting?  Wait a minute, I think that's the London Olympic Taekwondo mascots!  Cute, one-eyed liquid mercury men, or something.  Bless.    

A couple of London 2012 mascots

So the London preparations seem to be going swimmingly.  They remind me of the preparations for the 2010 New Delhi Commonwealth Games, except that London's are well organised, safe and hygienic. (New Delhi Olympic Committee: Oh, that’s how you prepare stuff for an international sporting event?  We are totally gonna write that down for next time). No, New Delhi. You will not be hosting anything else ever, unless you clean up your garbage dump state of affairs.

Our future Olympians are currently training their little tushes off in a bid to qualify; determined to fulfill a life-long dream of representing their country in a sport that they love, are exceedingly good at, and for many, have been competing in since they were about two weeks old. Although, some late bloomers have been known to start at six months; which I don't see the point of, as they are clearly past their prime.  Okay, I mock, but I LOVE the Olympics.

Australians love an Olympic success story, more so when it involves one of our own. We remember with great fondness when Australian swimming sensation, Ian Thorpe, struck gold, time and again, and we remember his glorious journey to success. We remember because we travelled it with him, every step of the way. So there is no surprise, or doubt, that we want our best athletes to keep going. Because for those moments of glory, we are proud; proud of them, and proud of ourselves.

When Thorpe announced the end of his professional swimming career in 2006 at the age of 24, few could begrudge him his new direction in life. Australia’s most successful Olympian acknowledged he was "tired of swimming lap after lap staring at a black line”. I hear you Thorpie.  That's exactly the reason I gave up my professional swimming career.  So anyway, a few weeks ago, the 28-year-old Thorpedo announced to the world that he was making a comeback, just in time for the London games! 

And this week, another Australian Olympian, Michael Klim, 33, announced he was making a comeback, after retiring in 2007. And Olympians Geoff Huegill, 31, and Libby Trickett, 26, have woken up and smelt the chlorine, also coming out of retirement to put in a bid to contest the London games.

In 2007, another Olympian, U.S. swimmer, Dara Torres, a four-time Olympic gold medalist, was vying for a place on her national team for the Beijing games. In preparation, Torres broke her own American record for the 50m freestyle at the USA National Swimming Championships, seven years after retiring from competitive swimming. A remarkable achievement made more astonishing given Torres was 40, and first won gold 23 years before at the Los Angeles Olympics.

The news that the mother-of-one was challenging the new stable of Olympic hopefuls, some half her age, had sports physiologists and scientists scratching their heads at the unlikelihood of her making a successful comeback. A senior sports physiologist at the Australian Institute of Sport, David Pyne, says extending the careers of elite athletes is “good for the individuals and good for the sport”.

The concept of athletes taking a break before returning to the sport in a bid to extend their career has been gaining currency, as attested by Thorpe, Huegill, Klim and Trickett. While these swimmers are a good deal younger than Torres, they are exceptions to the rule, and pressure to remain in the sport should not be placed on our finest athletes.  Yes, you can’t beat the classics, but there are many other talented athletes coming up through the ranks.

We should acknowledge that even gifted athletes have a desire to experience life after their sporting achievements, and we should let them go when they are ready, so we can follow the new breed as they pursue their dreams. While some, like Thorpe, have unfinished business, our future Olympians are not buoyed by their own past triumphs or losses, although they may soon realise their one moment to shine may promise little more than exquisite glory or excruciating defeat.  And emboldened by our past successes, they will strive to make us just as proud.

Random Breathe Testing

There is a special niche group of people in Australia who are more than happy to go on national television after being sprung for drink / drug-induced / low intelligence driving. For argument’s sake, I shall refer to these folk as idiots.

‘RBT’, that is random breath testing, is a reality television show on Channel Nine. It’s about making fun of stupid people, right? I hope so, because I sure as heck am doing just that. It almost feels cruel. Alas, if you agree to be one of the stars of ‘RBT’, then you fully deserve any ridicule that comes your way. It’s one of life’s great tragedies that these morons think it’s fun to have their 30 minutes (minus commercials) of fame on this reality show.

In the episode I caught tonight on my new favourite bogan entertainment channel the police caught up with Rhiannon, who was driving 'one of the dodgiest cars police have ever seen'. Rhiannon was actually driving a car that was illegally borrowed from the wreckers.  As you do. Sheesh, if you have the skills Rhiannon, head for your local BMW dealership. The world is your cheeseburger, so think big girlfriend.

Rhiannon’s sweet ride contained cannabis and methamphetamines and “drug equipment”, but apparently Rhiannon knew nothing about of any of this. I couldn’t lie convincingly to a horse, let alone a mob of police officers and a Channel Nine camera crew. Perhaps I am underestimating these people.

Maybe these idiots are actually destined for the bright lights of Home and Away. Rhiannon finally admitted that she had taken some marijuana that morning. Good call Rhiannon; the best thing to do before driving across Australia is to spend the morning smoking weed.

Ed, who after 22 or so schooners, argued with a poker-faced policeman.  Note to Ed: it’s probably best to shut up if you are too pissed to tell if the cop is saying your 'life' or your 'licence' is in jeopardy. Brain-dead Ed pulled out the old “I lose my licence, I lose my job” nugget a couple of times.  Damn it, it's almost like actions have consequences or something.

I have zero tolerance for drink drivers, and they should get everything the law can throw at them.  I just wish the NSW Police Commissioner would give the forces some power to throw these idiots into prison.  But then they'd probably create a show following them through the justice system.

The naming of natural disasters

Apart from a pressing need for an amendment to its ‘beautiful one day, perfect the next’ self-styled motto, Queensland needs to go buy itself a state-wide lotto ticket, because it has, for the most part, narrowly avoided being completely scuttled by TC Yasi.  Yasi, or the Banana Crop Murderer as I like to call her, is one of the manliest sounding cyclone names we have come across in a long time. Which isn’t difficult when you are comparing it to Larry or Tracy.

I know the people who name natural disasters are just trying their best, and are probably more concerned with the meteorological side of weather things that blow up a fierce gale, but who the heck thought Larry, Katrina, Bianca and Anthony were appropriate names for these monsters created out of mother nature's fury?

I suppose the really important point to remember is that celebrities don’t get the opportunity to name them. Or else we would have ‘Hurricane Pomegranate’ by Gwyneth Paltrow, 'Tornado Bluebelle Sweet Nectarin' by Bob Geldof, and ‘Tropical Cyclone Princess Plush Pillow’ by Michael Jackson.

Apart from the obvious similarities in personality traits and disposition, natural disasters resemble children in other ways too; that is, someone has to name them and someone has to pay for the damage they inflict on society and the environment.  Hmm, who has to pay for natural disasters in Australia? Oh wait, that’s us taxpayers.  Which we are more than happy to do.  But just when you thought those bucks would be covered through your annual taxes...

Our fearless and rather stupid Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, has whipped up a whole tornado of bullshit by deciding that Australians need to fork out for a ‘flood levy’, to pay for the wet and wild ride that devastated Queensland a few weeks ago. 

Our Opposition leader, Tony Abbott, in opposing the PM, decided to fight the levy, and called for donations to set this in motion. Yes, the former is in charge of running the country and the latter is supposed to be holding the other to account, but that's no fun when there is a cyclone to exploit and much natural disaster politicking to oversee.  As usual, I had the lowest of expectations and I'm still disappointed.

Maybe there is another solution.  I have noticed that big whopper companies love to show their philanthropic streak when times are tough for Aussies. So what if we allow these companies to sponsor natural disasters (eg. Tropical Cyclone McDonald's Angus Burger), and the trade off is that they pick up the dry-cleaning bill?

Then we wouldn’t have to pay the stupid levy. It’s a two-pronged effect – they raise awareness of their company whilst looking like they care about the public and the environment. In my defence, I haven’t thought this idea through at all.  But that excuse seems good enough for our PM and Peter Garrett and the other hillbillies who are supposedly governing the country, so it's good enough for me.

Also in my defence, I haven’t been elected by the people to stop the country running into bankruptcy, and it’s also not my responsibility to prevent a situation where the electorate are needing to take on second jobs to pay for natural disasters, which we rather ignorantly assume are covered by our normal taxes.

Zoo versus the wild

Today’s blog is pondering the pros and cons of the welfare of animals in captivity, compared to those that are born into the wild wilds of African countries and the like. I’ve always adored animals. All of them; indiscriminately. Even the ones that hiss in my face, smell bad, or have a less than benevolent personality. If I was going to get all finicky, then a lot of people I’ve met in my lifetime would meet this criteria as well; and I would preferably give them the flick out of my life than an animal.

When it comes to our feathered and furry friends, my concern is for their welfare, and I think that their welfare is pretty darn good living in the local city zoo, at least in Western countries.  While some are confined within a space that they wouldn’t be subjected to out in the wild, and they have to deal with the high-pitched screams of excited kids, they don’t have to hunt for their food, fight for their survival or spend every waking minute protecting their young so the big bad wolf doesn’t eat their babies during the night. And their future is clear in captivity - they will live their lives and breed and lie around all day watching Fox News.

Life in captivity means the survival of a species can be prolonged, as they are often involved in breeding programs run by experts who are steadfast on ensuring their continued existence. But let’s be honest; endangered animals will become extinct no matter what we do. Apart from the fact that humans couldn’t survive for the most part without eating certain species, I don’t see that we have any right to kill any animal for fun, profit, pride, culture, status or tradition, or any other idiotic reason, as occurs in many regions around the world.

I don’t agree with, and am sickened by, the way individuals in many countries mistreat, abuse and disrespect animals. But are we empowered to do anything about it? There isn’t a not-for-profit in the world that has the balls to fight this fight; not on any level.  I, at least, like to fight on the individual level.  If I ever see someone abusing an animal in Australia, where we have (weak and pathetic) animal cruelty laws in place, I would likely implement my eye-for-an-eye policy and go to jail for a long time on a charge that I would view as a community service.  To avoid possible long-term detention, I have often thought about heading into politics just so I can strengthen Australia’s minimalist animal cruelty penalties, but I don’t think Australia would ever be ready for the justice measures I would like to introduce; what with our ridiculous anti-capital punishment law.

One of my favourite animals is the tiger. I simply adore them. I have visited them many times at the zoo, and I feel that I have always had a special bond with each and every one of them. Perhaps it may also be due to the fact that I stare at them for so long they are really longing to rip my head off, and serve me up as a tasty afternoon snack served with a side of grass and goat meat. Hmm, I prefer my more romantic Born Free-esque, tiger whisperer fantasy.

This is the last post in my A – Z Writing Challenge, which is a little sad. The end has come so soon and I have very much enjoyed this creative process each day and feel immeasurably satisfied that it is complete. Rediscovering my passion for creative writing has been more of a stimulating journey than a challenge, and I’ll never stop writing again.  For the past 25 days, I have written 25 blogs (today being the 26th), on 25 topics that start with the letters of the alphabet. Ultimately, my purpose was to get back into the habit of writing on a daily basis, which I lost when I began uni seven years ago amongst endless politics essays and psychology presentations. And I have found that I have began to really enjoy writing again, and my writer’s block has put itself on hold. At least for the time being.