Archive for May, 2009

10 things Clare Werbeloff should do with her new fame (aka The Chk Chk Boom Bogan)

She’s known as the Chk Chk Boom girl, Clare Werbeloff is the new pretty face of Boganism in Australia.

Werbeloff shot to international media attention with her colourful (i.e. Boganist) account of a shooting in Kings Cross on prime time news. Watch this for the interview:

This week, her quotes have donned mugs and tee-shirts, and have been the subject of water-cooler conversation in every office in the country. She’s even hired a publicist to deal with her new found fame. Perhaps her publicist could advise her to do the following to capitalise on the media attention while it lasts:

1. Release her own brand of perfume called “L’odeur de la Bogan”

2. Open a restaurant specialising in her speciality dish: The Werberloff Stroganoff

3. Be a regular advice-dispensing columnist in the Daily Telegraph. Call the column “The Werbsta Speaks”

4. Sell her toenails on Ebay. Ensure the bid ends soon as her 15 minute of fame is running out.

5. Make a sex tape. Scream “THIS IS FULLY SICK!” as she comes. But, of course we all know she’ll be faking.

6. Be the face of the Australian Firearm’s Association. Tattoos, long hair and westie-English. Just like most of the members.

7. Record a single and accompanying video clip with her wearing nothing but one of her tee shirts. Not the first time someone with a pretty face that can’t sing has made a single.

8. Go on Rove to promote her single. Call Rove a “fat wog” on the show.

9. Go on Celebrity Big Brother to promote her Rove appearance. You don’t have to be that famous to appear on the show. Face it, every celebrity from the fat kid on Hey Dad to the prime minister’s former-florist has made an appearance.

10. Set up Support this with a Twitter page and a Facebook fan site.


    May 27, 2009 at 7:27 pm Leave a comment

    How To Be Emo

    These days, emos are the latest subculture to hit the mainstream. But with so many ‘o’ lifestyles (wino’s, hobo’s, derro’s and weirdo’s to name a few), choosing the right one for you is often a mind-boggling experience. Read the below 10 step emo-guide to help declutter a potentially confusing life-choice and see if being emo is right for you.

    1. Dye your hair black. OK, so this is the obvious one but it goes without saying that you can’t be a blonde emo. You’ll look as out of place in the emo community as a fat redhead in a Korean yoga class.

    2. Never smile. Even if you score that promotion at work, or manage to complete the final level of Dungeons & Dragons with a faulty left-mouse button, you must look as happy as a paraplegic cat in a parrot sanctuary at all times.

    3. Start writing poetry. A limerick or haiku is a good start; emos must be seen to express their emotions. Even better if it rhymes. Here’s a start: “Tears run down our emo faces, so we style our hair like Oasis”

    4. Throw away your deodorant-stick. Emos, like their predecessor goth(o) cousins, are meant to offend at all levels, nasally included.

    5. Don’t cut yourself despite the fact it’s the expected thing to do. Find healthier ways to vent your inner ’emo’ such as bullying the foreign-exchange student at school to draw attention away from yourself.

    6. Flop your dyed-black hair over your forehead and glue it down with emo-glue (emo street talk for hair-gel). It’s even better if you flop it over your eyes too, so you permanently have to flick it back with a jerk of the head like the special kid you remembered from Sunday school.

    7. Pretend you like ’emo’ music. As a general rule; if the band members dress emo then they must be emo. (editor’s note: all emos have since turned their back on Fall Out Boy because the singer started wearing a hat).

    8. Change your name to a monosyllabic word such as ‘Thad’,  ‘Moo’ or “Merv”.

    9. Become a vegan. Milk, cheese and toothpaste have emotions too you know man.

    10. Memorise this checklist, close your browser window and delete your Internet history. Real emos will disown you if they found out you Googled emo how-to instructions.

    Slick black hair and mascara. Was Elvis the first emo?

    Slick black hair and mascara, coupled with whiny emotional lyrics. Was Elvis the first emo?

    May 20, 2009 at 9:22 pm 4 comments

    Australian Tourism – Tits, Beer and Sport

    I’m doing some work at the moment for a large tourism body – the organisation that brought you the ‘Where The Bloody Hell Are You’ campaigns that were banned in the UK.

    I still can’t figure out exactly what element of that campaign the Brits found so offensive. Were the Brits just sick of all the drunk Aussies stumbling around Shepherds Bush at 3am on a Saturday morning in search of the mystic beer-scooter to take them home? Or perhaps they were simply just envious that you can afford to buy a beer at any pub in Australia without the need to remortgage your house.

    Or perhaps the Brits were just plain ticked-off that Australia could produce such a hottie as Lara Bingle. When wondering around London, haven’t you noticed that almost every pretty girl is speaking a foreign language? When God was handing out country qualities, did he say: “right…England….you can specialise in ugly women and substandard reality television”.

    Venture out of the capital and it’s even worse. Be prepared to reach for either the whisky bottle or the Vaseline-coated glasses.

    7pm on a Saturday evening, I’m catching a train into central Cardiff from the suburbs. Surrounding me are 2 parties of intoxicated, overweight 20-something year old women, all clothed in a particular theme. The group on my right are dressed as tubby school teachers. Imagine that on Wendy’s text message to her lasses earlier that evening: “let’s all dress up as fat, minging teachers, that’ll get the lads blood pumping!”.

    The group in front of me, with their bare breasts pressed up against the train windows, are dressed as playboy bunnies complete with size 18 mini-skirts. They are yelling something at each other in a strange guttural language that sounds vaguely like English. In fact, I think it is English….a dialect that was spoken in 1950’s suburban Brisbane.

    The two groups are going down on their cans of luke-warm Stella faster than a ten pound hooker.

    The Brits just love their beer don’t they, probably even more so than Aussies. Britain is the only place I know where you can buy a can of beer at every newsagent, petrol station, fish and chips store or Sunday School. I even bought a beer at the KFC at Tower Hill.

    But I guess like Aussies, Brits love a beer simply to lighten up and relax whilst watching the football, hoping to high heaven that with a few more lagers the overweight group of Welsh birds dressed as Playboy bunnies will somehow appear more attractive.

    The current campaign for this particular tourism body feature rather sophisticated and romantic messaging. Emotional themes hint that Australia will be a place to enlighten yourself, remove the angst and pressures of your normal life.

    In order to better target the British public, I think the core campaign message could have been simplified to: “Come to Australia. We have Tits, Beer and Sport.”


    Australian holiday tip: avoid drinking in the sun without a hat

    May 19, 2009 at 9:21 pm 2 comments

    A Typical Gig in Sydney – Three Wise Monkeys Bar

    We recently played a gig at Three Wise Monkeys Bar in central Sydney. For those that don’t know, 3 Wise Monkeys is a questionable bar. Why? The patrons (mostly young European backpackers) have questionable hygiene and questionable substances in their blood, there are questionable stains on the toilet walls, questionable odours permeating the corners and questionable amounts of change are handed back after each round of drinks bought.

    Several highlights of the night:

    • A fat British man in a suit had consumed a questionable pill and entertained the crowd near the stage with his dancing stylings. This consisted of  running stationary on the spot with a big grin on his sweaty, shiny face. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion it was Peter Kay. The funny thing was that even between songs he continued running stationary on the spot with no music to back him up.
    • Free beer for the band. That’s always a highlight for me. Would be slightly better however if we didn’t have to redeem them with rather large, tacky pink paper vouchers that we hand over to the bar. Hardly a cool look.
    • A wannabe hip hop dancer (see the 6 types of drunk dancer) who had recently used up her 20 hour gift-voucher at the solarium last week. Well, that’s my only explanation….or she might have decided that painting every inch of her skin with orange crayon would have the same effect. Anyway, she had her hands in the air for every song, akin to a born-again christian raising her arms to God in a church service. Unlike a church service however, she had a see-through white top on purchased from the toddler section at K-Mart, and 2 inches of muffin-top oozing down all sides of her jeans. She looked like an Oompa Loompa auditioning for a Christian Hip Hop music video.
    • The DJ. I’ve always been amused by the type of people large establishments employ. Their bouncers are always power-hungry meat-heads who failed the police-recruits drug test. They decided that bouncing (is that what you call the profession?) would be a similar legitimate way to spend time punching unfortunate souls in the head. Their DJ’s are unintelligent wannabe musicians who don’t understand a thing about music and think semi-quavers are the side effects of a bad coke session, syncopation is the Italian word for the job that you go to during the day, and Beethoven is a sub-breed of St Bernard dog. On this particular night, the DJ insisted on screaming out “G’DAY SYDNEY HOW YA’S GOING!! FUCKING WHOA!!!” at the start of every song. I think this particular DJ learnt English from the Russian botox-blonde Eurovision presenter.
    I'm a DJ. I get all the girls

    I'm a DJ. I get all the girls

    Now for the sad part of the night. After the gig, my band members and I were standing outside a nearby kebab store, and witnessed two Asian males in a heated argument. One had a rather large head, one had glasses. To my horror, Glasses punched BigHead rather hard in the mouth with a left jab. As BigHead was stumbling backward, Glasses executed a perfectly formed right roundhouse kick to the head that would have made Mr Miyagi proud. BigHead was out cold before he even reached the ground, a victim of a drunken violent ‘friend’. Robbo and I grabbed Glasses and shoved him backward as he prepared to finish the job with a soccer-ball kick to the head.

    The police arrived very soon after and threw Glasses on the ground, arrested him and took him away. We all made individual statements to the police following the incident.

    In an effort to give Glasses a taste of being physically assaulted and violated, I added in my statement “I heard what they were arguing about. Glasses was trying to convince BigHead to insert a condom laden with cocaine deep inside his anus. Glasses had previously done this an hour before and it wasn’t noticeable at all unless you shove a finger deep inside there.”

    I hope he suffers.

    May 16, 2009 at 12:45 pm 5 comments

    Eurovision 2009

    Following on from my rant on the sad nature of Australian television, I’m finding myself sitting on the couch watching Eurovision Moskva 2009.

    Next to me, my girlfriend is rapt at the ‘live’ history being written in front of our eyes. She cannot understand why I am currently laughing harder than Dr Hibbert in a pot-smoking session. As a European she takes this very seriously, Eurovision being such an integral part of their culture and all. Nowadays, mainland European toddlers can sing last years Eurovision winning song “Your Love Is All Over My Face” before they can walk.

    Isn’t it amusing how all Russian Eurovision TV presenters (well, at least these two anyway) insist on shouting at the absolute top of their voices.

    They must believe we will be a bit more forgiving of their rudimentary English if they imagine they’re communicating with down-syndrome deaf pensioners.

    10 minutes earlier, the barbie-doll blonde and gay-sailor Fabio lookalike male presenter (I’ll call them Botox-Mole and Popeye as I can’t spell their names) introduced “Eurovision – 2009’s Most-Anticipated Event” (according to the tv ad…I’m confused here because the man at the train station said the second coming of Jesus is this year) with the following dialogue:

    Popeye: “HELLO!!!!”

    Botox-Mole: “HELLO!!!!”

    “HELLO EUROPE!!!!”






    ….and with that, the first act went on.

    Eurovision is for original music only. In 2008, the Czech Republic was disqualified for performing a cover version of 'YMCA'

    Eurovision rules stipulate original music only. Czech Republic was disqualified for performing a cover version of 'YMCA'

    Andorra sang “Gimme gimme your time, Show me show me your mind”. The entire song consisted of those same lyrics. Pretty thought provoking.

    Belarus was quite good if you fancy 50 year old long-haired blonde men in skin-tight white suits with pierced ears and waxed chests.

    Armenia’s singer got his costume inspiration from the second installment of Lord of the Rings. His dancers were inspired by the second installment of Harry Potter.

    Macedonia looked like a cross between Meatloaf and Buddha, sounded like it too. Okay, admittedly I’ve personally never heard Buddha sing (although my mate Davo fervently insists that he has) but you get the point.  Imagine if they did pair up to do a song, their comeback song could be called “Reincarnated Bat Out Of Hell”.

    Finland wore a bandanna in an attempt to emulate Kid Rock. He actually resembled (visually and audibly) a throat-cancer patient.

    Portugal attempted the virginal Sound-Of-Music look with frilly dresses. However, this was contrasted by over-enthusiastic musicians with exaggerated hand-movements strumming inappropriately sized instruments (is it really necessary to swing your arm Elvis-like in a circular motion when playing a 20cm ukulele made from bone?).

    Malta made the bold decision to front their best vocalist in the country, regardless of looks, bust or hamstring-flexibility. The result was a grossly over-weight redhead squeezed into a size 10 sparkly dress who reminded me of Miss-Piggy doing karaoke.

    Boznia Herzegovina (try telling that to the ladies next time you’re asked where you’re from) basically just sang their national anthem over-zealously in reggae. Shivers down the spine.

    …oh wait Botox-Mole and Popeye are back on:



    “WE VOTE NOW!!!!”





    “HELLO VOTE!!!!”



    I can’t wait for the box-set DVD.

    May 15, 2009 at 10:02 pm 1 comment

    Australian TV

    It’s been a while since last wrote – I’d love to say it’s because I’ve been busy searching for the cure for cancer, or learning German so I can speak to the in-laws, or finding a way to convert cane-toad flesh into a sustainable alternative energy source.

    The truth is, I’ve been busy drinking, working, and watching the Australian Biggest Loser on tv.

    I’ts not that I love The Biggest Loser – in fact I loathe the show. Who really wants to see a bunch of overweight, whiny, sweaty people in tight shorts? Just wonder down to Bondi Beach and look at any Brit baking in the sun and you can have your share of that.

    Thanks to the Biggest Loser, I can now take my shirt off in public without getting arrested

    Thanks to the Biggest Loser, I can now take my shirt off in public without getting arrested

    It’s just that there is simply nothing else on Australian tv. The tv-powers that be have decided that the Australian public aren’t the most durable condoms in the packet and thrust brain-dead ‘reality-tv’ upon us every day (‘condoms’, ‘thrust’ – there must be something on my mind).

    Watch ‘current affair’ programs on tv these days (especially Today Tonight) and you’d assume that we’re all about to die from swine-flu passed on to us from the Asian refugees that are arriving by the boatload every minute to take our jobs and lower our property values, the hospitals won’t be able to accommodate us because they are so full that pregnant women are having their babies in the waiting room, and the child that grows up anyway won’t be able to go to school because the conservatives under the previous evil regime had reserved all the good schools for the rich…and the Asians. But never mind, with fuel prices up 1100% in the last 45 years, you won’t be able to afford to drive them anyway.

    But alas, never-mind because on tonight’s exclusive episode we uncover a real estate scam happening in your neighbourhood. Rich landlords refusing to re-paint tenant’s letterboxes. We reveal the hidden shocking truth and speak to real victims that are just like you.

    May 13, 2009 at 12:56 pm Leave a comment