Why so Cirrus?

Local cloud, Gary Smith

A cloud has responded to reports that he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he forms and dissipates all day.

Local cloud, Gary Smith, says the public try and predict his behaviour all the time and whinge, sometimes even to his face, when he comes into view. But he says he is just misunderstood.

“We arrive, we rain on you, we disappear; that’s just we do. When I was growing up I wanted to be a thunderstorm, or I could have been a hurricane if I applied myself, but sometimes you just need to stick to a solid, steady income to make ends meet”, he said, as he struggled to stay in one spot without the wind blowing him away.

Cloud Gary reads reports and forecasts about his behaviour but says it’s mostly fake news, “I read an online weather report this morning that gave me a 95% chance of clouding over the sky, but I’m unpredictable, man. The weatherpeople on the media rarely know what they're talking about”, Gary said, before waving two fingers in front of his mouth to summons a pink fluffy cloud to prove his point, just like Monkey in the 1980s TV series Monkey.

He also questions the validity of people who make a living talking about weather all day. “I mean, I know I’m part of the natural phenomenon process, but don’t you think a weatherperson is a job created by media to give boring people something to talk about on camera”. 

Human Dick Jones doesn’t like clouds, saying “when they finally eff off, it’s a very nice day!” 

Cloud Gary agrees, saying “the feeling is mutual; this is something humans and clouds have in common”, adding that he’s not the biggest fan of humans either. “I always hear they want me to make them a silver lining or something, like I’ve nothing better to do all day than create some sort of positive aspect over their shitful existence”.

Sharknado hits Bruce Stadium

Last night a freak storm hit Bruce Stadium in Canberra. It was so stormy that it caused a football team amount of sharks to be scooped up in water spouts and flood the place with shark-infested water, as often happens when sharks infest waters. We in the movie industry call that a sharknado.

Like all great cinematic disaster films, only the shit people drowned. Unfortunately, as has been the case with all the sharknados I have survived, it's nearly always the vulnerable and the people I push into the eye of the storm that are the first to go. It's very sad, but you can't fight nature.

While most people survived the flood, you'll be very pleased to know that many of them got eaten by sharks in a dramatic, cinematic fashion. I suppose that was sad in a way, for them. But worse was to come. 

Tragically, my team, the home team, the team that didn't cause the sharknado, lost the game in a deeply traumatic way and now I have all the sad feelings. I shall seek therapy to cope with it all.

I went onto the Sharknado's website to see where in the world they are from. Turns out it's somewhere in South Africa. I would do better research if I cared. 

Their cheerleaders, as is often the way with the cheerleaders, are dressed in blah fashioned into blah blah blah with their deep neckline fashioned into a sharkbite. It's technically really hard to explain, but I could probably do it justice by describing it as Skanknado chic.   

Whether the Weather be Cold

I've been regularly monitoring the BOM (Australian Bureau of Meteorology) website for weather updates for the past half hour, because apparently I have nothing better to do on this frickin' freezing winter's night.  Evidently Canberra has not received the memo stating that it will be spring in one and a half hours.  But I suppose there is never really a good reason to monitor a weather website.  Oh well, you'll just have to find a way to deal with it all.

In the past half hour Canberra was -2.6, then -3.5, then -2.3, then -1.9, with no discernible abnormal wind gusts.  Does anyone on planet earth understand meteorology? Can anyone say meteorology 10 times really fast? It's probably to do with boring air pressure or isobars or whatever.  I'm going to create my own weather website that's less confusing, where the temperature doesn't go up and down every five damn seconds.

Debby does Orlando

I do believe that this post is just another in a long line of hurricane-related blitherings on my part, or a conga line of suck holes, as Australian politician Mark Latham so eloquently put it. I’m pretty sure Latham was referring to the temperament of major storm cells during hurricane season. I suppose I have been a little preoccupied with the almighty weather surges of late.

I guess it might have something to do with the fact that my travel agent told me months ago that "Orlando doesn't get hurricanes", and I recklessly believed her, and now Hurricane Debby is having her way with Florida, and heading towards Orlando, just weeks before I fly over there.  As long as the tempestuous little minx doesn't start doing Disney.

I was told that this time of the year is called "Hurricane Season". It turns out that "Hurricane Season" means a season of big arse hurricanes. I really wish they would be clearer about these things and not provide me with wishy-washy jargon like "Hurricane Season". I'm sure this climatic mumbo jumbo will catch a lot of other people out too. I guess they are up to D, so only another 822 hurricanes to go.

I am always excited about travelling abroad - 16 SLEEPS! - but equally as thrilled about skipping a month of the hostile, glacial season in Canberra.  I despise the cold, more and more every year.  "The weather's not that bad. It'll get better", someone said to me today.  Okay, great. Well right now it sucks. So unless you can make it better now, keep your irritating optimism to yourself.

I'm heading into a violent hurricane season just so I can avoid the arse-end of Canberra's big freeze, where I might get sucked into a spirally whirly thing made of precipitation and cows and suffer some catastrophic injury to my lumbar area when I’m tossed carelessly into a rural farmhouse and then develop some rare, untreatable type of staph infection, so don't tell me it's not that bad.

WHAM! to The Cold

I've long been convinced the weather was invented to give boring people something to talk about.  If my theory is correct, and let's be frank, they usually are except when they're often not, that makes me quite the bore, because I spend a bit of time harping on about tropical depressions and cloud patterns and so forth.

I bought a book about clouds a few years ago after my mum bought the same book and wouldn't give me hers.  It's a little pocket-sized dynamo on cloud formations.  Don't judge me - you're probably not smart enough to understand it anyway.  Which is your own fault. I leaf through the book from time to time when a peculiar cloud catches my eye.

I write of clouds because they go hand in hand with the most horrid season of them all. Winter.  I completely despise the cold, mainly because I'm not a polar bear.  

The only thing more annoying than the cold is people who like the cold.  Every single time someone defends the indefensible - winter - I pout and pretend they are being thumped in the mouth with the Zok! or Kapow! sound effects a la the original Batman television series.     

Winter is also a challenge issued by nature to see how sexy you can look when covered in layers. Challenge accepted, winter. Fortunately I will miss a portion of the winter brouhaha in Canberra this year as I venture to la la land of Hollywood, DISNEYLAND!!!!, and Hawaii, which is completely perfect in every darn way.

'Anti-summer' is the new winter

It's fast approaching my most despised season of the year - the dreaded winter of my discontent.  I've never liked that misguided season.  I remember once when it snowed in Canberra when I was a young thang; I stood inside glaring defiantly out at the weather conditions with my arms crossed and a pouty expression on my face, while all the street urchins played in the sloppy white/dirty grey goo.

I’ve since mastered the art of looking fierce when I'm uber pissed off; one of life’s most important yet undervalued skills. Winter’s arrogant and persistent nature dismays - DISMAYS! - me.

I don't mind snow so much as an adult, but it gets too cold to snow in Canberra most of the time, apparently, which sounds to me like one of the climate's pathetic little excuses as to why it just can't be bothered to convert coldness into some type of weather condition that is worthwhile and interesting.

The only thing more frustrating than the actual season of winter is people who profess to liking it. No-one cares if you like to freeze your arse off like some psychologically damaged polar bear, okay?  No-one cares. Just keep your dubious opinions to yourself.

These people are just like the ones who feel a need to bestow on the world a list of fun anecdotes and observations that apparently one can only experience if one gets up at 5am.  Everyday. Well, I don't care that you arise before the worms and the birds can even be bothered. I think you are an idiot; for getting up early and for thinking that I care about your crackwhore schedule.

I often berate my work colleagues for incessantly using the W-word, which is formerly known as winter. I think winter's key problem is that it's image is tainted by its crude nature. Once a loser season, always a loser season.

It's image could probably do with a bit of a makeover and the best way to do that is to rebrand the little sucker as some type of anti-summer. Well the anti-anti-summer, because we didn't really have a summer this year. But I can work on the naming - I'm just in the brainstorming stage. So the use of the word winter is now contraband, but anti-summer is okay. It's going to be fairly complicated for some, but the drones will get the hang of the new rules in time.

Bad 'Air Days

I don't blog about the weather very much; primarily because it is not interesting enough in Canberra.  Perhaps if we had a hurricane I could fill up a blog post.  To be honest, the weather is just a natural phenomenum created by God to give boring people something to talk about.  But something weatherish needs to be addressed.  It's all about my hair, really.

Bob Brown couldn't care less about my hair. I know he doesn't care because he's not ranting and raving in the Senate about the radical increases in wavy, unruly hair caused by dangerously high levels of humidity that threaten the very fabric of our society. Threaten our democratic values; our whole way of life.  The whole structure of our hairstyles. 

If left unchecked, this humidity has the power to make us look like dweebs for days on end.  Someone needs to do something!  Where the hell are the idealistic youth when you need them?  Oh, they're all on Facebook?  Maybe we'll need to get them to stop poking each other and start up a ban humidity page; that should do it.

We need to stop pouring money into this so-called man-made global warming (sorry, climate change), and start trying to eradicate the scourge of humidity or we are all doomed - DOOMED!  My stupid anti-humidity spray doesn't work when it has to deal with real humidity, of the type that Canberra is currently being exposed to.  I used to have useful anti-humidity hair goo, but the product was DISCONTINUED. 

I hate when you get to know a product, and you rely on it, and trust that it’ll always be there for you, and then the stupid company discontinues the product. And you are left bereft, with no hope to maintain humdity-free hair without resorting to a strange product whose effectiveness is a mystery to you.

I really can't tolerate any more bad hair days.  What we really need to do is find is patient zero in this unfolding crisis, so we can put them into a nuclear bunker type environment, or bus interchange locker if we're pushed for choice, so they stop spreading the scourge of humidity. 

And now - the wind!  Usually the wind stays in the naughty corner, that being South-East Australia; or Melbourne, more precisely.  But it's here.  The fucking wind.  I wish the weather would pull itself into line.  Sheesh.

It's cold. Seriously.

Somehow through the blah blah blah of the opening news stories on Sydney's outrageously self-absorbed national-ish nightly news, I heard that the precious residents of Bondi, Coogee and the North Shore froze last night when they bottomed out at 8 degrees.  Seriously, is that all they got? 

Right now, I am simultaneously too warm AND too cold; but my built-in thermostat has been on the blink for years.  Canberra has real actual cold weather at the moment, Sydney.  Winter is an impatient mistress, and I do not like cold weather one little bit.  Oh, the expletives!  But I chose to live in Canberra because the housing market in Antarctica is through the roof.  If this keeps up, I'm going to have to order an ice throne from Narnia like Tilda Swinton's. 


I did not order this weather and I would like to know who I can return it to.  No-one forecasted it accurately, and it feels a lot like false advertising, because, if I remember correctly, we were promised at least 9 degrees. 

Do these meteroweatherologist crystal ball readers just pop any old number into their comp-a-tar before they head off for their morning brew - secure in the knowledge they have foiled us yet again?  Forecast collusion anybody?  And what happens if they accidently put in a figure that is grossly inaccurate?  Like 40 degrees instead of -10?  These things need to be addressed forthwith.  But you know what they say about the internet. Not wrong for long.    

I, on the other hand, can forecast the weather like nobody's business.  Lets see; tomorrow is going to be friggin' cold.  Consider your weather forecasted.  The scope of my forecasting brilliance knows no bounds. 

Anywho, it's far too cold here, and I would like to send this coldness back to the cold land in which it came from; which is likely to be Antarctica or Iceland or perhaps it popped over from Norway.  Is there some sort of cold weather convention going on at EPIC in Canberra?  Just another thing no-one told us about.  And remember, tomorrow is going to be friggin' COLD.  I'm a forecasting fountain - drink from me.  Or throw coins of silver and bronze.  I also accept Visa and American Express.

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.

Winter and her colleagues

I have known Winter and Summer for a very long time, but we have never really been close; more like acquaintances that pass with the seasons.  As a child, I never actually noticed either of them; their overbearing dispositions were of no relevance to my day. But these days, their annual visits leave me wanting the other to arrive, for no other reason than to get rid of the current one. I don’t dislike Winter and Summer per se, I just prefer life when they are not around, as they make me uncomfortable, often cause me to lose sleep, and they hang around for so long that they sap my energy.

My first memory of Summer’s power was a steaming hot day in July of ’79, when I sat in an Indian doctor’s office in Delhi with my mother, while the sikh tried to convince her that he needed to burn a rather unpleasant wart disease off my hand. The last thing I remember was keeling over in the 50 degree heat as we ran from the crazy man’s office after he pulled out a blow torch.

Most days I admire Summer’s brilliance from afar, as I generally can’t bear to be around her for long when she is in her prime. She is very bright and dazzling, but also very schemey, and will not hesitate to burn you when you least expect it. Deep down she’s not a bad season; she just needs to be handled with great care and caution.

Winter at her most intense ain’t no cup of tea either. A lot of people know how to handle her adverse outbursts, but I have always found her to be most untrustworthy and downright frosty for the most part. Every time she rolls into town I find myself despondent and depressed for months on end.  I do everything I can to limit my exposure to her, and if that means travelling to the other side of the world for a while, then so be it. 

I think my key issue with Winter is that I always underestimate her influence, and then when I least expect it she kicks me when I’m down and without layers. Although, when properly equipped, I can neutralise her strategy with a warm fireplace and a cup of hot chocolate.  As with Summer, I often admire Winter’s beauty from afar, but we will never, ever be friends.

Winter and Summer don’t tend to spend much time together; probably because they have conflicting views on important matters like climate and weather, and hibernation and migration. While one of the few similarities between the two is a fondness for the sun, they still disagree over how much power it should wield. The overbearing nature of both Winter and Summer means they both need to be dominant, and will never be able to share the limelight.

In contrast, I adore their playful comrade, Spring. She is warm, dynamic, colourful and cheery; sometimes I think she is so loved by all because she always comes just after Winter departs, so it’s not hard to greet her wholeheartedly. But she blitzes into town, unannounced for the most part, and never stays long enough for me to fully appreciate her.

London

Cold one day, foggy the next, grey the next, and the next and the next and the next. And then summer is over and winter is on its way. Winter in London is not for the faint-hearted. It can be tough going, unless you are one of those odd people who prefer a climate with no sun or light for months on end; like Swedes or Norwegians or zombies.

The only people who spend the (really) cold months in the English capital are hard-core tourists, international backpackers who want to experience a London winter, Queen Elizabeth, locals who don't know any better, and homeless people who can’t afford to move the hell out of there.

The tube is the only way to get from one side of London to the other in one hit and it is very easy to understand. Even people from Tasmania could understand it. For comparative purposes, it’s much better than the Paris underground system, because it makes sense, it runs like clockwork, it’s not full of French people and the station names are not in French. Other than those obstacles, the transport system in the French capital is tops as well.

I used to live in Kingsbury, near Wembley Stadium, which is an area that you would mistake for Macquarie Fields whenever Manchester City is in town to play, well, any team in the Premier League. Kingsbury is located in Greater London, which is on the outskirts of cool, inner city London.

In the spirit of the British, who love to segregate everything into class, Greater London is to cheap Indian restaurants, fear, hooligans, random knife attacks and tube station creeps as Inner London is to Chelsea.

Westminster Abbey is a homely little church in the middle of town that you may simply walk past if it wasn’t for the fact that it is about the size of a Westfield Shopping Centre.  It is GORGEOUS. The Abbey was founded in 960, which is mighty impressive, yes?

The Abbey is totally self-supporting, so I imagine its Investment Committee are extremely busy right now organising scone drives to cover the costs of Willy and Kate's shindig in April this year.

And then we have the Houses of Parliament, where a conga line of successive Labor Prime Ministers has spent alot of their time ruining the lives of ordinary British folk. This is my favourite landmark in London, with its beautiful limestone exterior that took 14 hits during the Blitz and still came off better than the other guy. Don’t even try to mess with it.