Right Royal Sneakers

Last year I went on a virtual quest, conducting an extensive search on my journey to find new white sneakers. White sneakers were and remain stylish and très chic but also they just go with all of the things. If you can’t colour match your ball gown or bridesmaid dress to the same shade of white as your sneakers you need some emergency stylin’ counsellin’ and perhaps also some holistic alternative fashun therapy.

So in the absence of a drive through carwash style arrangement for shoes in my city, I turned to Youtube to help me, sure that I was going to have to Do It Yourself, by myself.

During my deep dive, through the internet of shoe things, I noted the Duchess of Cambridge’s whitesneakers, that she wears to ramble through drenched paddocks in Kent in England to provide a social call to Girl Scouts, and on never-ending ramblings in the torrential rain on the hustings on golf courses in St Andrews – if there is even the hint of an involvement of walkies or amblings on her itinerary, she will throw on her white sneakers.

I thought surely they must be comfy little buggers, although probably also retail for as much as a small two bedroom apartment in Bondi. But crucially, they never seem to look tainted with dirt or stains, which is just a big positive in shoes and also in life.

So I googled ‘Kate’s white sneakers’ and was introduced to the idyllic world of Superga. And, as it turned out, Kate’s shoes were available at the shopping centre across the road from where I live, and were on jumbo sale, and only cost as much as a one bedroom apartment in Bondi. Half an hour later, I had Kate’s white Supergas. Life’s opportunities were about to go stratospheric! I tear up a bit every time I tell that beautiful, heart-warming story of when we first met.

Six months down the track, the Supergas have been an outstanding investment, apart from two of the key components of outstanding investments being earning me an income or appreciating in value. Look, they have intrinsic value.

They also recently needed a deep clean, sullied by their hard life on the streets. Like many owners of hardworking 4WD vehicles who live in the city, these sneakers have not seen a paddock in their whole life.

So unwisely overlooking the fact they were leather, I put them in the washing machine, where they astonishingly survived my unintentional attempt to cause them grievous bodily harm. I am out on bail, but am expecting to be charged with attempted murder, punishable by a life sentence of cleaning Supergas with a toothbrush.

As it turns out, I do not recommend putting white leather Supergas in the washing machine. While they had the ride of their life, one they will not forget, it really did not do the trick at all for spruiking them up. They were still scuffed, and the laces were still stained black from the metal eyelets. It turns out my Supergas are not like regal Supergas.

While Youtube can be weird for providing you with maintenance advice, Jiff and a toothbrush is the help I unequivocally decided to go with. As it turned out, I didn’t have any Jiff, so I went in with a multi-purpose cleaner and a suitcase of hope and dreams. And it worked!

But the cleaning process took just about all day, on and off, and then they had to air dry, because I put them in the dryer and that sounded like I had abducted a small person and jammed them in for a quick 30 minute spin cycle. If that ever transpires - just know - all my neighbours think I’m normal and quiet and they would “never have expected that she would put a small person in the dryer, let alone of a pair of leather Supergas”.

I’m now left to ponder whether the Duchess of Cambridge does not have an enviable mass of officers to tend to her every Supergas cleansing whim, punishable by an hour on spin cycle if they refuse the assignment.

 

Escape to the new Yarralumla dogpark

This Saturday, Government House in Canberra is opening it’s doors to visitors, when you peasants can pop along - for free! - and have a stomp (elegantly and quietly please thankyou) around the residence, including the over 100 acres of manicured lawn. 

By Saturday, the garden’s cuticles will be trimmed and it's nails will be shaped and coated with all the shades of the colours of the Union Jack.

During the day, you’ll have the opportunity to chat to the Governor-General, His Excellency General the Honourable Sir Peter Cosgrove AK MC (Retd), and Lady Cosgrove, as they go about their laundry, pre-prepare meals for the week ahead, and watch ‘Escape to the Country’ on Foxtel while they iron shirts and sheets in one of the many stately rooms. It’ll be much like your Saturday afternoon, only in the presence of rich people in splendid surroundings.

Government House is Canberra’s home-away-from-palace for the British Royals when they come to town, and I’ve been keen to see it for years. And this year - our two world’s collide! -  as I’ve finally remember to check ‘what’s on in Canberra at Government House’ ahead of time.

But first, a lesson on the GG home's history (stay awake; I’ll make it fun for everyone. Or jump ahead a few paragraphs, but I’ll forever KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST PARAGRAPH). The original brick building of Government House was built in 1899, and included a substantial wooden shearing shed to house the owner’s numerous flocks of pet sheep. Everyone needs a hobby.

It's beautiful, innit?

In 1913, the owner decided to sell it via an early version of All Homes and, by sheer coincidence, the Commonwealth Government had been scanning All Homes every chance they could get, looking for a former sheep shed to use as a temporary residence for the Governor-General of Australia that'll look good in photos for the 'gram. That's a telegram; not Instagram. 

I guess the GG is still there, so in the last 100 or so years they decided to do a renovation rescue rather than sell. Good decision, because it’s the best-looking spot in Canberra.

If this was ‘Escape to the Country’, Government House would be the mystery house that no-one asked to see because it’s about 18 million quid outside their budget. And that’s pretty much what we’ll be doing on Saturday.

If there is a Suggestion Box at the royal abode, I shall be suggesting that they cordon off an acre or two for a new Yarraluma dogpark because, how pretty is it!

Make Like Christopher Robin

About a year ago I subscribed to Discover Britain, a highly addictive heritage magazine that is best administered in minisculian doses or it will force one to pop over to the other side of The Planet Earth far more times in one year than one can possibly afford, unless you work for the Australian cricket team as Michael Clarke.

I've always had a predisposition to hit up the Mother Country.  I wasn't born there, I don't have one of their fancy schmancy passports bearing the crown jewels on the cover, and any ancestral connection that I have dates back to a bloody long time ago, ol' chap, but I lived there about 15 years ago, and that was enough to win one over.

I'm potentially going to Britain next year for my first time in many years.  I LOVE ENGLAND LOTS.  Can't explain it.  There are only about 22,000 things I want to do over there, so that's good.  You don't want to cram too much in.

Ireland is gonna make an appearance on the itinerary, which will be my first visit, as will lots of old castles, walls and rocks throughout the vacay.  It will be great craic.  Hmm, I suspect the Irish don't use that term at all.

I can't really be bothered writing any more, so I've thoughtfully compiled a list of very serious facts about the Old Blighty.  Some of these facts may not be altogether true and may merely be a product of my imagination.  That's the inherent fun/risk of my blog. 

This:

1. Elizabeth I was the first British monarch to have a fully-fitted flushing toilet.  Anyone with the number 1 after their name likes to be first at everything. So she was presumably the first person to do a number two.  Eww and eww.
2. Next year is Shakespeare's 450th birthday, so if he is still alive, Elvis style, the lucky duck will get four and a half telegrams from the Queen.  
3. Another William, the Conqueror, ordered his peasants to go to bed at eight o'clock every night.  Oh no he didn't!  Oh yes he did.  Presumably that was the time of the evening Eastenders finished in ye old Middle Ages, or whenever it was he ruled the roost.  And this is also presumably why he is often quoted to this day in newspapers like The Guardian as William the Bastard.
4. Another William, Prince William, is currently a little bit pregnant.  It's lucky then that pregnant people in Britain are allowed to relieve themselves anywhere, anytime.
5. Speaking of which, Winston Churchill was born in the ladies toilet during a dance.  Wait a minute... this sounds made-up...

Lawn Bowls



The best part about meeting British HRHness is telling
constitutional republicans about it and watching their heads
spin around and then explode in a fit of rage.  Heh.



The Tart Adventures of Harry & Julian

Oh, Prince Harry.  I imagine one's grandmother is not terribly amused at one's tawdry shenanigans in the skank capital of the entire solar system with a bunch of trashy American hookers or their classy equivalent.  

Seriously, who knew there were so many cheap and tacky trashbags in the world, prepared to whip their clothes off for the international media due to their incessant need for attention?  Oh wait, we did know that.  These women are everywhere, in many shapes and sizes of Kardashian.

I imagine the latest bunch of promiscuous ladettes are employed in professions involving poles and the ensuing dancing around of or else they wouldn't be too comfortable parading themselves so overwhelmingly underdressed in a global public forum in what appears to be a bit of a honey trap. 

And I think we all know what Harry's Scotland Yard detail were doing during the naked hotel room polo match romp or whatever it was.  I imagine the attention to detail was there, but it probably wasn't focused on handing out fines for unladylike behaviour under The Police Act 1827.  I imagine what those boys want right now is an Invisibility Cloak.

In other media tart-related news, embattled Wikileaker Julian 'Sausaage' Assange is still stuck in the middle of a war-torn nation state that is not a signatory to the Geneva Convention.  Or else he's still glamprisoned in posh war-torn Knightsbridge in Ecuadorian Britain on his blow-up camp bed.  I keep getting those two confused.

Assange's Wikileaks reminds me of the wind-up jewellery box I had as a kid, which opens to the sound of ballerina music - with a magnetised ballerina flippin' around like a drunken lout on the mirrored centre stage.

Although when you pry open the Wiki box, you get a garbled lecture from Assange on blah, blah, blah, I'm going to humiliate the United States of Crazy by exposing their secrets, blah, blah, blah.  But much to the chagrin of the wannabe Bond, the United States weren't humiliated; they were just plainly and understandably rightly pissed off.

I agree that Assange should be able to release anything he wants on his Wikileaks files, but I also think he needs to accept that there are consequences to those actions.  He hasn't got his head around that yet.  Probably never will.

Of course nation states have secrets.  There's nothing wrong with government secrets when you are dealing with sociopathic middle eastern nations.  We wouldn't have the freedoms we do if governments didn't have secrets.  Oh the irony of it all, Julian.  Secrets are how countries negotiate their way through the brutal and bloody minefield that is global politics.
 
Like a game of poker, you keep your game face on, your cards close to your chest and you hedge your bets, hoping the guy on your left who is winning is from the West and not the Middle East.  But you never, ever show your hand, Julian.  It goes a little something like that.

And then along comes the progressive leftwinger windbag who decides to open the damn pandora's jewellery box in the name of open governance.  No such thing as open governance in global political affairs; people couldn't handle the truth anyway, my 'pinion. 

Duchess Kate's Full Plate

I've been a travellin' man for the past month, so I haven't caught much of the London Olympics. I know a lot people whinge that the Games are stupid and contrived and full of cheats that shouldn't rely on Government handouts to do their job, but I generally find that the people who make these claims are just projecting their own life's setbacks through an elite sporting event.

Okay, we get that you weren't picked for your high school basketball team, but get over it already.

I've just arrived back in the country, in time for the final days of competition, so I'm making the most of it, even if I have to make the most of it through the fill-in-the-final-days sports, like BMX biking, sailing and powerwalking through the gardens of Buckinghuge Palace.

Speaking of Her Majesty's digs, I was watching the walking race earlier, where competitors pretend they are elite athletes by engaging in an activity that is often favoured by really old people on zimmer frames to enhance their strength and mobility. 

The race feels like it's going to go for about 28 hours, so I'll check in again tomorrow to see if it's raining yet.  I'm going to take a stab in the dark and guess yes.  I noted the subtle landmark tourism campaign that the organisers have employed on the race course.

It weaves right around the Palace and then up and down The Mall. The only thing they could have done to shove the City of Westminster any further down my throat was have the walkers pace furiously up and down the corridors of the Palace with corgis nipping at their nikes.

I have also noted that British uberbrand, Duchess Kate, is leading the London tourism campaign through her attendence at every single event on the Olympic calendar.

The poor girl even had to attend the boxing finals, where I imagine she was forced to sit amongst a bunch of drunk, tattooed deadbeat commoners and watch fierce chicks beat the daylights out of each other in the name of the Olympic Spirit.  Although they were probably trying not to focus on the bit that says to build a peaceful and better world.  Duchess Kate was charmed, I'm sure.

Unhappily Ever Colder and Colder

In a mere few weeks I will blow this popsicle stand and go somewhere considerably warmer, and far more humider.  Canberra is a bit popsiclised at the moment, thanks to that dreary meh season that it likes to melodramatically thrust upon its inhabitants.  A+, Canberra, for your winter skills this season.  You've been practicing over summer, haven't you?

I'm soon to travel to Florida's Disney World, where the men are mice, and the mice are human sized men.  Or something.  It's a wonderful world of make believe, where ridonkulous, impractical fairy tale fantasies are shoved into the minds and down the throats of innocent children, who are oblivious to the fact that they will never, ever be a fairy princess when they grow up.  Princess Fiona maybe.

Unless of course their mother stalks a prince throughout their offspring's teen years and then surreptitiously enrols them in the same university class so the young lass can work her magical social climbing powers of persuasion on the young royal. And then she will be given a fancy schmancy title and live happily ever after with her prince at Kensington Palace and wear Princess Diana's ring until the day she dies. The end.

So, back to me. I'm considering applying for climate asylum, putting in a claim to be sent to warmer climes because, you know,  I'm fucking cold and miserable here.  People from 'stan countries definitely don't know what it's like to freeze their grandes balles off.

Don't get all politically correct and rant about my rudeness and insensitivity in comparing my situation to that of a political refugee. Because only the nations that offer cradle to grave welfare are acceptable to them.

There are a bunch of other countries that they could stop at on the way here.  But, yes, Australia is better than them all.  Not different; better.  Just ask the refugees, because they all want to live in Australia.

I too have a lengthy list of nation states where I don't want to go, which also starts and finishes with every muslim country in the entire universe, due to the political heat and also the actual heat.  No-one in their right mind wants to live in Middle Earth, which is why they all flee to the west.  Middle Earth, Middle East, same thing.

So it seems to me that instead of intervening in Middle Earth affairs, like the west has be doing for ever, we should just raze the darn place, build a new Middle Earth, call it something a bit cooler, like the United States of America No. 2, democratise the shit out of it, build a couple of McDonalds, and then the crisis would be resolved. 

The side effects of this plan are a land of spoilt Kardashianesque morons, but at least no-one would blow your hair extensions off when you walked down the street. On a side note, why and how does Kim Kardashian have 15 million twits following her on social media? I cannot even comprehend how this has happened.  I guess she is quite excellent at giving off the allure of being relevant.  Kudos.

Royals, Ears and Vertigo

It's been a wee week since I blogged about all the trivial, superficial stuff that happens in my life, or the general vicissitudes of being remarkable in a world replete with commonfolk, or the fools that cross my path on a daily basis, exposing me to their veggie garden variety trashbagness.

To be honest, I think the only explanation for the way the interweb blogosphere has been able to cope with my lack of prose is the blanket media coverage given to the Annus Diamondus Jubilius celebratus. Well, no need to fret any longer.

I don't have anything even vaguely fascinating to write about, but that never stopped me creating this blog thing in the first place, in the hopes that it might be mistaken for some type of scholary work.  I just make it up as I go along, as they used to say at NASA's Mission Control Centre.  Speaking of  NASA, I will be visting them very shortly.  Oh wait, the Obama Messiah got rid of it... That is a bloody bummer.

I'm not counting but my anti-winter, pro-summer holiday is possibly a mere 36 days away. I may or may not be going up to the moon on a turbo-charged space jet plane from Cape Canaveral.  It's going to be quite the expaarrience, although it's all a bit to be advised at the moment.

Speaking of jet planes, I very recently took one to sunny, warm Brissie, completely forgetting that the last time I flew a small distance on a jet plane I discovered that I have a Eustachean Tube Dysfunction.  I can't be arsed explaining it again on here, but it's all to do with stupid ears and air pressure and flying and what not. Suffice to say, I now have stupid vertigo. 

Admittedly, it is the cool type of stupid vertigo, involving the sensation of riding massive ocean swells and roller coasters - like the ones that have screamin' and thunder and death machine in their name, rather than the type of vertigo that gives rise to spinning, nausea and vomiting.  Last time it only lasted a few days, so I will use this time wisely to prep for Disney World, whose rides are more expensive and less fun than my vertigo adventures.  

It's all very exciting, bobbing up and down on a virtual ocean while sitting at your desk at work, gripping anything and everything on the white-knuckle ride into pseudo-LSD weirdness, but it is a tad awkward and embarrassing when one has to hold onto filing cabinets while walking down the corridor, mumbling that the ground is kind of rolling and the walls are sort of bouncing about and so forth.  It was all great fun.

That is all. Good day.

Note to self: Best not go to the gym when you have vertigo. It is a bit of a VBI (Very Bad Idea) 

Long Live The Lizzies

Who's excited about HM the Queen's Diamond Jubilee in London this weekend? I am CAPSLOCK EXCITED. I should be there to rejoice with my people, the Royals; no-one knows how to wear a crown or a union jack or indeed eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and black pudding quite like myself, if I do say so myself. What, you don't know how to wear it? Well that's what I'm talking about.

That's well smart

I can't wear my very arresting (see: not sexy) union jack t-shirt in Australia, because in the past few years British memorabilia has become a fair bit trendy and hip in a kitschy manner of speaking in this country, by way of everything from clothes to toilet paper to bogus British accents.

I have be known to engage in a bit of the latter from time to time.  I think it aggrieves people, which has resulted in its swift elevation to one of my favourite hobbies. I like to think that it makes me sound like the Bond girl that got away, but w'ever. I also do a fairly unconvincing Texan, French and South Australian.

Back in the day, not so long ago, my main purpose for wearing my union jack was to proudly show off my large, voluptuous monarchist credentials. They are very generous. It's okay, I'll give you a few minutes to roll your Republican eyes and whinge into your Twinings tea and plate of scones. *Note to self: totally need to do a whole post on Twinings teabags. Shame on you for not doing so earlier.

HM the Queen has been chief cook and tiara washer of the British monarchy for sixty years.  And apparently she has a cracking memory, and can recall most of the conversations she has held with the eleven Prime Ministers she has seen since the dawn of time, or since the bling bling crown was placed on her head; whichever came first. A meeting every Tuesday, and she remembers, which must be some type of Gingko Biloba memory trick.

I like all the Royals; yes I do. And then there's the commoner turned winner-of-the-bachelor-prince-lotto, Kate, who is so abundantly bestowed with all the various qualities required of a King's consort that one can barely stand her. But, yes, I like her too, although she did wear a red jacket once that irritated me. Oh look, I did a blog post about it. Shocker.

I can't bear the thought of Her Maj passing on to Buckingheaven Palace, and I'm really not sold on the idea of King Charles. King Chuck. Hm, no. I’m quite fond of Charles, but not in the role of Lord of the Royal Things. But I think the Poms have realised that they have a better shot at being Best Monarchy if they have a better King, so there might be a revolution in them there Wills.

Long live the Elizabeths.

Warning: This Post is about Glossy Hair

Let me warn you again - this post is not going to venture into interesting territory at all.  It's about hair.

So, NEWSFLASH, I went into Woden Plaza in Canberra at lunchtime today to pick up some of my fave thermal heating protection hair product thingy stuff which is so genius that you could glide within a kilometre of the sun without your hair even knowing the difference.  I would be slightly singed, or - worst case scenario - completely obliterated, but my hair would be all chill and in tiptop shape.  The product is almost practically that good.

Alas, like any superior spaceflight product that can protect the man who is going to the moon via the sun, sometimes the shop just runs out of titanium, and there is nothing you can really do about it.  And guess what, fascinated readers?  They were all out of my product today.  And then the hair care assistant forced me to engage in banal, insipid hair talk about the importance of thermal sprays. 

And then she went all parallel universe on me and made me feel like a superficial loser by asking me if I would like her to call another store to get it sent over urgently or something.  Um, no I'm good.  I told her my hair will somehow, someway have to go on without it for a few weeks.  I think she was mocking me as I was mocking her.  It was one of those terribly awkward, uncomfortable moments you have with someone who is taking the topic of conversation far more seriously than you are. 

And then I felt like I would offend her sensibilities if I just chose a cheap inferior product instead, as a bridging capability for my hair until my product is restocked, so I went out empty handed, and feeling slightly empty-headed.  Plus I think I already have a cheap, inferior backup somewhere.  Fascinating day, I know. 

Anyway, I talk of hair because I have been wondering how Miss Katie, the Duchess of Cambridge and winner of the royal bachelor lotto (left), gets her hair so wonderfully glossy like a horse's mane.  Horse wig glossy.  I don't mean to sound cold - I very much like Kate - but her hair is abnormally sheeny. 

A few years ago my hair was abnormally sheeny too, as I was using a product that contained specks of gold or unicorn dust or silkworms or something.  I don't know what was in that shit, but my hair glowed like Chernobyl.  And doesn't every girl want her hair to glow like a nuclear explosion? 

On a brighter note for us girls, Kate's hair doesn't always glisten.  Sometimes it just looks like normal hair (right). The horror. 

The Duchess and The Red Jacket

I am defying all my blogging rules writing on this hot topic. I don't write about dresses, cosmetics, fashion accessories or shoes for several reasons. The main reason is that I'm rather indifferent to writing about the world of dresses, cosmetics, fashion accessories and shoes. 

Sure, I've been known to wear clothes from time to time, but I really wouldn't know how to fill up a blog post with all the nitty, gritty details, and would likely plummet into unconsciousness within minutes of writing about haute couture.

Plus I don’t speak fashion lingo, and don’t care to venture into that cultural cocoon anytime soon.  I've always thought that fashion was one of those things that a total of six people actually have time to follow.

I could possibly end up in fashion fail jail for offences relating to misrepresenting celebrity couture and indeed fashion bloggers by penning this post. But like Julian Assange before me, I will hole myself up in a London super-mansion and bravely soldier on in the face of adversity.

I personally don't think a red jacket, like this one (right) worn by the royal clotheshorse (calm down; I like her), the Duchess of Cambridge, needs to be deconstructed in fashion columns and never-ending commentary by vacuous fashionistas. A red jacket just is. Let it be and move on.

The way fashion types carry on, it’s as if the fashion predilections of celebrities call into question their reasoning powers and integrity. As if one erroneous fashion decision means they are clearly unable to make any serious judgment in the real world. Which may well be the case.

Here it is again!

But it’s more than likely the Duchess just felt like wearing a red jacket.  Or if you are into conspiracy theories, perhaps this clothing decision was guided by the cool Danish climate at this time of year. Ah, there’s that excitement, intrigue and mystery for which celebrity fashion is renowned; why did she really wear the red jacket?

I don't have a problem with those who write of fashion; in fact, I marvel at the way they can write hundreds of words on popular skirt lengths and espadrilles.  The thing that irks me about fashion bloggers is that they are clueless about royal roles and duties and don't particularly care either.  Which is fair enough.

They accuse the royals of rampant freeloading, yet get distracted by red jackets and become completely disinterested in anything to do with whatever charitable cause the royal is associated with.  Because that's not interesting enough for them.  But a red piece of clothing is.  Superficial much?  

On this occasion, Kate and Wills were in Copenhagen putting the global spotlight back onto the humanitarian crisis in East Africa.  Or putting the spotlight on red jackets.  One of those. 

Anyway, I write today about the Duchess' red jacket because I do not like it at all.  While Kate has the good fortune of being one of those people who actually looks good in a long red coat, it is possibly the most uncomfortable looking jacket I have ever seen. 

It's long, which is annoying. It's buttonless, which is annoying. It's red, which is annoying. It has a belt, which is annoying. It has a chin-grazing collar, which is annoying.  Kate, stop annoying me through your fashion choices.