MELLIPOP AND THE NON-SMOKER

Ok, so where do you fucking self-righteous non-smokers get off lecturing me about my lifestyle choices?

So we had after-work drinks at the pub yesterday. Mistaking the informal gathering for an anti-smoking seminar, one of my colleagues took it upon himself to lecture me about my smoking. Guess what I learned? And I want to share this secret cabal of non-smokers wisdom with my fellow puffing pariahs, in the hope that I can save you from certain death too.

SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU.

SMOKING CAN KILL YOU.

SMOKING IS HARMFUL TO OTHERS.

Holy shit, it was all I could do to stop myself getting up and hurtling across the room to hurl my packet of cancer-sticks out the window and into the path of oncoming traffic. So I lit up another one instead.

My colleague then had the audacity to end his uninvited lecture by saying, "After all I've just said, how can you possibly light up another cigarette?".

Umm...let's see.

1. I think you're a pompous jerk and I have absolutely no respect for your otherwise enlightening tutorial
2. I quite enjoy smoking
3. I have a half-full glass of beer in my other hand
4. I am in a legally-sanctioned smoking area of the pub - these are as rare as non-lecturing non-smokers these days
5. I am hoping that if I ceaselessly chain-smoke in your presence, you might just drop dead on the spot from an acute case of saturation passive smoking
6. I feel that it is far more polite to utilise a cigarette to sublimate my otherwise impolite desire to spit in your self-righteous face

I then spent the rest of the evening deliberately segregated at the other end of the room, enaging in a mass-suicide pact with my fellow smokers. Which is otherwise known as having a couple of brews with a fag or two thrown into the mix. But without all the lectures. This is known as "Smoker's Apartheid". We simply don't want to mix with the likes of you, who get off on warning us about the certainty of our impending death. Like you fuckers are really gonna live forever.

I mean, I'm not here to defend smoking. Let me just inform my benevolently concerned non-smoking brothers and sisters that we do already know it's not the most healthy of lifestyle choices. What I am here to defend is the right to make that LEGAL lifestyle choice, without being constantly badgered by these self-appointed guardians of public health.

WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU PEOPLE GET OFF ANYWAY?

What the fuck does someone who has never smoked before, know about the reasons why people smoke? And the reasons why we find it difficult to quit smoking, if the notion ever enters our head to stop. Like their few words of smarmy, unsolicited advice - chosen carefully from the wide pool of anti-smoking propaganda - is going to make me stop all of a sudden and say,

"Hey, YOU'RE RIGHT you know! This IS a rather quite silly thing to do. Let's go jump in a dinghy and save the fucking whales or something. Oh, and please know that you have my undying gratitude for SAVING MY LIFE. You're a fucking HERO mate, that's what you are".

And reformed smokers are THE WORST. They are even more self-righteous than non-smokers. They masquerade their desperate desire to stick a bunger in their gob with this lofty air of moral superiority that pisses me the hell off. Go join your fellow non-smokers for a massive moral circle jerk and leave me to die with my ciggies in peace.

Fucking non-smokers. There should be a law against them.

ANTON MELLIPOPS THE QUESTION

Ok, so it’s official. Mother’s – unlock your sons. Mellipop is off the market.

So as previously posted in the midst of my post-proposal stupor, I am now engaged. That was very Dr Seuss of me, by the way.

Work was crazy yesterday. For people who have known me only a relatively small amount of time, they were all incredibly excited and sweet about the whole thing. I felt the first sensual ticklings of Bridezilla egomania, if I’m to be totally honest with you. There’s nothing like a wedding to get people talking. I felt like Bec Cartwright, when she first got engaged to Lleyton Hewitt. Though Anton and I look more like Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi.

The actual proposal itself was a bit of a comedy of errors, earning me a nomination for the “Numbnuts of the Week” award. And I reckon I’m a shoe-in to take the title this week, just quietly.

So Anton had the day off on Tuesday, and went to buy the ring. Unbeknownst to me, he had been planning this for a little while, and had been researching engagement rings on the internet.

I had no idea it was coming, of course. Though I have to admit, there have been a couple of occasions in the past few months when the issue had been raised. Ok, so it involved certain instances in which I had one more glass of wine than I ought to, and set about in my subtle way systematically shouting Anton down about the fact that he was never going to propose to me. I mean, I never thought it would actually work. I am walking testament to the power of drunkenly, belligerently badgering your partner to propose.

THE ANATOMY OF A BOTCHED PROPOSAL

4 pm – I get home from work. Anton has had the day off. He asks me to go down to the beach with him and the dogs. I’m taking advantage of a break in the shitty Perth weather to go for a run. I say no. Anton says he will meet me down at the beach with the dogs. I tell him not to stop me mid-run.

4:30 pm – Down at the beach. Contrary to my prior warning, Anton tries to stop me mid-run, by standing in front of me with outstretched arms. He asks me to stop for five minutes to hang out with him and the dogs. Completely oblivious to his intentions, I tell him no, push past him and keep running home. My gammy knee is holding up, see, and I want to keep going.

I fail to realise what a complete nob I am being. I am literally running away from a man who is trying to propose to me.

4:45 pm – I’m on the home stretch, running up the street our house is on. Anton is parked by the side of the road with the dogs. He flashes his lights at me. I go over to the car. He tells me to get in. We’re going back to the beach. This irritates me somewhat. I am sweaty and soon to be cold. Anton is prepared for this. In the interim he has gone home to get my jacket and a bottle of cold water.

4:55 pm – Back down at the beach. The sun is starting to set. I’m starting to shiver. And we’re still throwing the ball around for the fucking dogs.

5:25pm – Anton says that we should head off home. I am relieved. While still on the beach, he hands me both dog leashes, tells me to stop, close my eyes and hold out my other hand. I think he has picked up a dead fish, or some other grotesque item he’s found on the beach. I close my eyes and keep my hand out anyway, berating him in advance for whatever nasty trick I suspect he’s about to pull. I open my eyes suspiciously at one point to see him struggling to pull something out of his pocket. I am told to close my eyes again.

5:26 pm – I finally open my eyes and Anton is down on one knee with a ring in his hand. The exchange goes something like this:

Anton: Will you marry me?

Mellipop: Are you for real?

Not exactly the stuff of romantic legend. I mean, I have two excitable Staffies on leashes wrapped around my legs, both trying to run away so they can devour some tiny little fluffy dog further down the beach.

Plus, my first reaction is that I think he’s joking, due to a conversation we had just the the night before regarding a good friend of mine who told me he was going to propose to his girl. I was semi-joking, semi-hounding Anton about the fact that he was never going to bloody propose to me.

It’s all a bit of a blur after that, but I believe that Anton had to prompt me as to what my answer was going to be. I think I said yes. I guess I did.

I then spent the next two hours barely speaking from shock. I couldn’t even call my folks. Though I did have two very vague conversations with a couple of mates – one being the guy I spoke to the night before about his proposal, the other being someone who saw my first post on the blog, and called me within ten minutes of it being up.

I did call my mum the next morning. By that stage I had recovered enough to play a little joke on her. I told her that I had some news for her. Then I told her that I was pregnant.

I’m such a horrible child. And now I'll be a horrible wife, too.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS: THE MELLIPOP WEDDING

Ok, so it turns out that people have a lot of questions for you when they find out you're getting married. Here are the answers to some of the most frequently asked questions I have encountered so far.

1. Are you pregnant?

No.

As far as I can tell, I’ve broken a long-standing family tradition – the shotgun wedding. At least I can be sure that Anton really wants to marry me, and that’s he’s not just "doing the right thing” because he fucked up by knocking me up. Damn fool.

2. So, when’s the big day?

I. DON’T. KNOW.

I’m thinking of having t-shirts made up.

3. Where will you get married?

Just to dispel any rumours to the contrary, it WILL be in Sydney, at an as yet to be determined location. Otherwise if it were a WA wedding it would just be me, Anton and the dogs present. Tonka would have to give me away and Manche would have to stand-in as the beaming mother-of-the-bride. Rest assured that I’m not going to be one of those Bridezillas who expect everyone to pack up and travel interstate for the festivities.

4. Will it be a big wedding?

God I hope not. Anton and I both have large families – his Greek, mine white trash.

Though it might have to be a big wedding, for purely financial reasons. I mean, you've seen how much of our shit the dogs have destroyed. A new bed and a new couch will definitely be on the registry list, for any interested parties with the disposable income to spare. Those of you on a more modest income can chip in for a new pair of slippers.

5. Will you change your name?

Hell no. I really like my surname – it’s unique and somewhat poetic. There are only about 11 of us in the whole country - just my family. If I were a “Smith” or a “Jones” I might have considered it. And there will be no hyphenating for this Little Miss Mellipop either.

Having just spoken to my horrified mother, the fraught question of baby names has been raised. When I have children, I want them to maintain my surname (and yes, I realise that this will be subject to some debate). The reason for this is that my family name will die out in this country if I don’t, as my only sibling has two female children and a vasectomy.

A long-standing joke between Anton and I is the names I have chosen for my firstborn girl. I really like the name Serena. His mum’s name is “Reni” (pronounced “Reenie”), which I would choose for a middle name (for the hilarity factor rather than the tribute factor). If I were to have a girl, it would thus be be Serena Reni S*****. Folks that know me may find that hysterically funny. Apologies for the in-joke to those who don’t know my surname – I’m not going to reveal it here as it will make it far too easy for internet stalkers and other assorted weirdos to track me down if they happen to feel that way inclined.

6. Who will be in the bridal party?

I noticed that this topic has generated some interest in the previous comments field. For the record, I’ve had my “bridesmaids” picked out for years. They are all blokes who I have been best mates with for longer than is sensible (kudos to you, boys!). And I’m pretty sure that I have already had drunken conversations with all of them, with words to that effect. Well guys, whaddaya know, I was serious.

BRIDESMAIDS

(in alpha order) Barry, Nick, Pete and Tarun.

Depending on the size of the wedding of course, if they are not my bridesmaids in the traditional sense, they will be in the spiritual and symbolic sense. Though I’m thinking that I’d like to see them all in apricot satin and tulle gowns, with big puffy sleeves.

FLOWERGIRLS

Busty and Graham

I’ve pencilled my two favourite warehouse bitches in for this job. But be warned fellas, you might need to fight my two nieces for this plum job. Respective ages 5 and 2. But they are both absolutely terrified of Comanche and Tonka, so you might just be in luck.

RINGBEARERS

Tonka and Comanche – this is Anton’s idea, not mine. And I believe he is serious….

7. Are you going to embark on a wedding day crash diet so that you can shed half your body weight to fit into an expensive white dress you will only ever wear once?

Yes.

8. Who will be looking after the dogs when you go on your honeymoon?

That’s yet to be decided. My greatest fear is that Anton will insist that they both come along. He really loves those dogs. It could be our first official marital spat.

9. Can I look after your dogs while you go on your honeymoon?

We’re expecting to be flooded with offers. Interested parties should submit their CV’s and the names of three references to Anton’s email address – no phone calls, please. You will be duly informed if you have been selected for the shortlist, at which point you will then be invited to interview for the position.

Proposal post and picture of my ring to follow (cue tacky joke...). Apologies for boring you all shitless. Mellipop will resume as normal very shortly. Don't think that this marriage caper is going to mellow me out.

MRS MELLIPOP

Ok, so am a little bit spun out right now.

Anton proposed today. I said yes.

Will fill you in on all the details when I have regained my faculties.

I will soon be Mrs Mellipop. Though I'm already used to that. Due to some arbitrary mis-administration of my personal details, my weekly payslips have me down as Mrs Mellipop already.

Apologies Mum & Dad if you read this before I call you tomorrow. I'm still speechless.

Oh, and my holidays were denied for July, even though booked well in advance with work (damn publishing schedule). So no Sydney trip, at least until September. It's been a strange day. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. My Beyonce is almost finished cooking dinner. Oops, I mean fiancee. Gotta get used to saying that.

MELLIPOP COMES HOME?

Ok, so I'm in the midst of a quandary.

I have some holidays coming up in July. I think.

The plan was to embark on a whirlwind tour of Sydney, to catch up with all of you fine folk back home. This plan is somewhat in question now that Demon Dog Number 2 has decided to undertake a few unauthorised home renovations.

Here is my quandary. Do I come back home for a short trip and whack the fucker on the plastic?

If I come back to Sydney I can (in no order of importance):

1. Buy Busty that Carlton Draught I owe him and catch up on all his bachelor-boy stories
2. Do Nick's tarot reading we missed out on last time and badger him to start writing again
3. Meet Pete's lovely new squeeze IG (oh, and hang out with you too, DB!)
4. Catch up with Baz, who has seemingly disappeared into the abyss
5. Disgust Graham with my accumulated dog poo anecdotes
6. Sponge off my parents for a place to stay and see my Pop
7. Have a few drinks with Aimz so I can hear that priceless manic laughter again
8. Catch up with all the New World crew in general
9. Get to see my brother, sister and my two nieces (who no doubt have forgotten who I am)

I think I have answered my own question. Nostalgia will always win out over slightly increased debt.

Ok, so I'll confirm the dates tomorrow. You buggers better all make yourselves available. Stay posted.

MELLIPOP, MORMONS AND NIRVANA

Ok, so in lieu of blowing more of "The Sydney Fund" at my local JB Hi Fi Store today, I decided to turn to a cheaper source of stroking my musical mojo. Ok, so weird obsessive habit number one: I like to go on-line at Amazon.com to read the CD reviews posted by my fellow wacky music-nuts. Please don't let that make you think I'm odd.

I found a good'un today. A review of Nirvana's Nevermind. With the intriguing title of "Suicide is a One-Way Ticket To Hell", the following one-star review was posted by one James H. Richardson "Good James" (his non-ironic pseudonym, not mine) of Utah.

Nirvana is known by most as a revolutionary band which changed the music scene single handedly with their monster major-label debut "Nevermind" on David Geffen. I had just finished my Mormon mission when these guys came out, and I can remember nothing but madness coming from Cobain's mouth.

With dire interest into Cobain's life, I picked up a book about him. I was shocked and horrified at what he thought his life was like. He was a political aristocrat? A feminist? A God-hating fool with no direction? Stunned at what I had read, I felt compelled to write something about these guys.

Feminism and related God-hating practices are not the way to go about life. Family Values and Righteous Church-going is what keeps today's society alive, not crazy Liberal messages of hate and disgust. On top of all this, he committed suicide on April 5 of 1994, as most Nirvana fans recall. This is how to go to hell the quickest, commit suicide.

To help prevent this, I suggest you attend the church of latter-day saints to help you get a grip on life and find out more about God and his plans for you.

P.S. In no way am I affiliated with "Prophet Gordon". I assume this man is a fake and trying to give the Mormon church a bad name. I wrote this review in hopes that you will change your mind about Mormons and that we are not a bunch of abusive weirdos.

Yes but James, more importantly - did you mosh to it? I mean, you at least gave the album ONE star. What was that one star for? There's no mention of at all of Nirvana's music or lyrics here. I mean, you DID listen to the album, didn't you? God won't send you to hell for that, you know. Or do you think that the second quickest way to go to hell (after suicide, as you mentioned) is to listen to grunge rock. Feminist, liberal, hate-mongering, anti-family values grunge rock. I'm sure God wouldn't send you to hell if you claimed it under the guise of "research". I mean, he's pretty fair, God is.

And tell me James, why have you chosen this unlikely forum in which to spout your Family Values and Righteous Church-going anyway? Are you trying to get to "the kids"? And more importantly, why have you chosen to incorrectly capitalise those which are not proper nouns? Not a good example to set "the kids". Did you receive an education James? One that did not involve being sodomised by some mountain-bike riding doorknocker with the prefix "Elder". I think maybe you need to give your God a miss for while so you can bone up on your Grammar instead.

Here's a thought. Did you maybe think that people reading this review are more interested in Kurt Cobain than this "Prophet Gordon", whoever the fuck he is. Was he in a band too? Did he have a flannelette shirt and a cult following in the Seattle area? Or was he from the underground rock scene in Utah? Did he hate himself and want to die? Did he marry a junkie ex-stripper and blow his head off with a shotgun? Did he change the face of rock n' roll forever? You said he's a fake, right. Is he just another major-label sell-out? Holy shit, he's not the lead singer from Bush is he? You know, the one who's married to Gwen Stefani. Man I hate that talentless fuck. You're right, he IS a fucking fake.

I mean, and what could ever make YOU think that WE think you guys are just a bunch of religious freak "weirdos"? C'mon! You're Mormons - you rock! We love it when you guys come knocking. Especially now that I know that YOU know what God's plans are for me. Be seeing you in the mosh pit buddy. Be sure to catch my soul while I'm crowd surfing. And keep your fucking hands away from my crotch.

MELLIPOP RUNNING OUT OF IDEAS

Ok, so the Wooden Barricade Version 2.0 has now been made redundant and we need to upgrade again. The little fuckers just pummelled straight through it today.

This is God's revenge for my prior blasphemy.

MELLIPOP GETS COLD FEET

Ok, so the little fucker tore my slippers up today, after busting through the barricade. We now have tiny little pieces of sheepskin strewn all over the house.

And my feet are cold.

FUCK YOU, GOD... THE SEQUEL

Ok, so I've just logged onto my best mate's blog, only to reveal that I have forgotten his birthday.

Here I was thinking that it was June 21 (and proud of myself for actually "remembering").

Nuh uh. June 12. Yesterday.

I'm going to fucking bed now.

Happy Birthday Nick xo

FUCK YOU, GOD...

Ok, so we just opened today's mail.

Guess who has a rental inspection coming up on June 23?

And I'll say it again. Fuck you, God.....

P.S. Current quote to replace lino floor.

$570.00

MELLIPOP AND THE BARRICADE

Ok, so Anton and I have recently tried various methods to keep the demon dogs from completely destroying the house. The key has been to keep them restricted to the tiled living room area, which is a stategic compromise between my hardline willingness to leave them locked outside all day (oh, the horror!) and soft-cock Anton’s desire to allow them interior access to escape the elements.

1. THE ELECTRIC FENCE

So we rigged up an electric fence inside the house last weekend. Poor little Tonka got mega-zapped, the inevitable and unfortunate result of his juvenile curiosity. His slightly more intelligent older sister was more than happy to avoid the fence at all costs having simply witnessed the painful result of her younger siblings’ encounter with the electrified barrier.

Unfortunately the electric fence did not even stay up long enough for me to get a picture. Little Tonka, in his stupid stubborn persistence, decided that he would try to get AROUND the barricade rather than THROUGH it, as he did on his first unsuccessful attempt.

So as Tonka was trying to get around the fence, the wires touched and started sparking. Now I’m no electrician, but the thought of leaving a sparking electric fence unsupervised inside the house with two Staffies for 10 hours every day did not leave me with any great feeling of reassurance. I finally convinced Anton that in attempting to “save” the house, it was probably best not to risk burning it down. Lino we can feasibly replace without getting busted - or incurring inordinate expense. Rebuilding the house, not so feasible. And somewhat more expensive.

So that was a costly $300 failure, the components of the electric fence being entirely non-refundable.

2. THE CHICKEN WIRE BARRICADE

This was the next step. Anton created a barricade using chicken wire. We stepped out of the house for two hours, only to come back and find that the dogs had eaten through the wire barricade. They both looked fairly pleased with themselves.

Back to the drawing board.

3. THE WOODEN BARRICADE – VERSION 1.0

So Anton then used the frame from the chicken wire barricade to construct a wooden barricade.
Not so successful either. Comanche somehow managed to jump through the gap at the top, where we ran out of wood. She then helped her little brother Tonka escape by pushing the barricade forward so he could get into the kitchen. He then ripped up another huge section of vinyl just to say “Fuck you”.

4. THE WOODEN BARRICADE – VERSION 2.0

So Anton and I then hit Bunnings to get more wood, so we could shore up the barricade and increase its height. This worked. Sort of. The dogs are not able to jump it anymore - and are hence unable to rip up the lino on the kitchen floor - but instead, now spend their days systematically ripping up the couch just to say “Fuck you”.

Note that the couch cushions have already been removed during the day, to stop the dogs eating them too.

You might also like to note that Tonka seems quite keen to pose defiantly with the various results of his daily destruction. That little fucker.

MELLIPOP AND THE MEANING OF MISOGYNIST

Ok, so another intriguing train incident for Little Miss Mellipop today.

As mentioned in a previous post, I can't ever resist the temptation to scope out the preferred reading material of my fellow commuters. So the guy next to me today was reading the dictionary. He looked like Che Guevara (even down to the facial hair and beret), and was writing Spanish in a pocket notebook, so I naturally assumed that he must have been studying English.

When I noticed the blue highlighter in his hand, it instantly piqued my interest. So he's scanning the page, seemingly looking for a particular word. He then highlighted the word "misogynist". I inwardly giggled, wondering whether some ex-girl friend had only recently levelled that accusation at him. Or whether he had he just come from a campus meeting of anarcho-commie-feminist activists. He then put his dictionary back in his bag as I continued to mentally conjure up any number of unlikely scenarios in which he may have been exposed to the word "misogynist".

Anyway, my interest piqued once more, when he again took his dictionary from out of his bag, and started flicking through it for another word. This time it was the word "deceived", though this particular word was already highlighted in yellow. He wrote the word down in his notebook, and again put his dictionary back in his bag.

And again, five minutes later, the dictionary comes out again. By now, I'm hooked. What word was he going to highlight next? And what the fuck did it all mean?

The third word he highlighted was "delirium". Delirium? Now I was really confused. And subsequently disappointed, as he then got off the train.

So, thinking that I was never going to crack the code, I glanced across the newly emptied seat to see what another fellow traveller was reading on the way home.

It was an African guy. And he was reading the seminal self-help text "Men Who Hate Women, and the Women Who Love Them".

Ker-ching! It was all I could do to stop laughing out loud! Here I am reading over Che Guevara's shoulder, and here he is reading over the African guy's shoulder. And looking up the words he didn't understand!

Misogynist. Deceived. Delirium.

"Men Who Hate Women, and the Women Who Love Them". It all made perfect fucking sense!

It made a lot more sense than this African dude reading that book. It's a fucking chick's book. A book us gals read to discover the reasons why we always date men who treat us like shit.

I mean, what was the African dude reading that particular book for? To better refine his skills as a self-professed misogynist? Or was he simply a nice guy boning up on that current male fad, "I'm going to become a woman-hating asshole so that I can get laid"?

Men are weird.

MELLIPOP, ON BEHALF OF ALL BLOGGERDOM

OK, so in addition to harrassing tradesmen for business cards so I can design adverts for them, I also work on a new lifestyle magazine, just launched in WA. The editor, yours truly and another colleague were recently tossing around ideas for a "What's Hot" section to go in the next issue.

I told the editor that she HAD to include "blogs", or more precisely "Perth Bloggers" (it had to have a WA angle, of course). Now she doesn't know what blogs are, and when I launched into a gabbled description (including a mini-rant about how they are rendering traditional forms of commercial media redundant), she then asked me to come up with a 200 word intro piece for the next issue.

I have two dilemmas:

1) How I can distill the "why, how and wonder" of blogs in a meagre 200 words, for the unitiated

2) How I can blag the Mellipop blog in there somehow in a cynical bid to up my "circulation"

I'm feeling the pressure....

I mean, how the heck can you describe a blog to someone who has no idea what a blog is? In 200 words. And - in my case - how to do it without using the word "fuck" at least once?

BORING MELLIPOP POST ABOUT MUSIC

Ok, so I'm not going to post tonight, even though a "Numbnuts of the Week" award is well overdue.

I'm in new music heaven. I have just come home with new albums from the White Stripes and Coldplay (plus a ten year old album by Wilco, but it's new to me...). Plus I am still in love with recent purchases by Martha Wainright, Antony and the Johnsons, Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes, The Bravery, Kings of Leon and The National. Add to that some back catalogue Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Queens of the Stone Age and Liz Phair and you've got yourself one heck of a problem.

(Plus I'm also eyeing off new releases by Belle & Sebastian and Brendan Benson).

The road to Sydney is littered with the relics of my CD substance abuse habit.

Sigh.... At this rate I might never make it back.....

P.S. New albums that really suck, even if the music press tell you otherwise : Architecture in Helsinki, The Dears. Avoid at all costs. "JJJ Album of the Week" my ass. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't listen to JJJ anymore.... Plus their shitty new JMag magazine are holding a competition to find new music writers. And I don't fall into their 18-25 year old criteria. Ageist fuckers. Like once you hit 28 is you're just sooooo fucking past it. Wankers.

MELLIPOP LOVES NETBANK

Ok, so I must commend the Commonwealth Bank on their “new and improved” NetBanking website.

It seems as though I’ll now have time to post lengthy erudite blog entries in between waiting for each and every transaction to load, as it now takes three times longer to actually do anything. Brilliant.

So far I’ve clocked about forty minutes (and counting) to pay three bills.

I’m quite thrilled, really. It also allows me to take time out from my hectic schedule to stare intently into a hand mirror and witness the evolution of my crows feet, in real time. Or I could squat over the darn thing and spend some quality time getting to know my snatch. Either way, it gives new meaning to the phrase “a wrinkle in time saves ninety minutes waiting on Netbank”.

Alternatively, if I’m feeing particularly Zen-like, it gives me the option of simply staring blankly into the tantalising white space that promises me that my bill payments are “loading”, but without reassuring me that anything is actually taking place.

Oh, wait a second. Maybe things aren’t what they seem.

I’ve just received this curt message – having been ruthlessly hurled out of my own account - which promises me that at least some level of mysterious intelligence is at work.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Hey! No fair! I’ve been very active. I’ve managed to do the dishes, write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, plant a vegie patch and paint the back fence. And all this whilst squatting over a hand mirror! The only thing I haven't done is pay these fucking bills.

So what have YOU been doing, Netbank?

You’re looking out for me, right? I’m being protected. So why don’t I feel secure in this relationship?

So I’ve logged on again like you asked me to, and am staring at this fucking white space again. “Loading”. Right. “Freeloading”, more like. You’re just messing with me now. Don’t think I don’t know it.

Didn’t you make record profits last year? Have you invested it all in internet porn? Did you blow it all on cheap hookers and cocaine?

I’m still waiting, by the way.

I’m not a girl who copes well with rejection. I trusted you, man. I logged back on, just like you asked me to.

Why are you doing this to me?

Are my accounts too small? Is my credit card debt too big? Are you seeing someone else? Is this all just a game to you?

You’re really important to me – I really want this to work. Talk to me. Why do you have to be so darn unresponsive? Look, I just don’t know if I can trust you. Relationships like this just can’t work without mutual trust. Just give me a fucking sign, man.

Look, I’m going to try one more time. Please don’t kick me out again.

Ten minutes later…..

Fuck. I just got rejected again.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Don’t do this to me, man. Do you want me to beg, is that it? Or are you just playing hard-to-get? If you want me to fuck off, just tell me man. Fuck all this game-playing shit.

Look, I can’t do it. I just can’t cope with another rejection. Surely there are others out there. Ones who will treat me with the respect I deserve. I mean, what have I done to deserve this level of contempt? Please Netbank, don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you. I promise I won’t get mad.

You promised me “over 20 new improvements”. Do you think that you’re too good for me now, is that it? I’m trying, man. I’m trying to be a better person. I’m doing it for you, man. I’m fucking doing it for you…

God, I hope you’re not cheating on me, Netbank. Those transactions happened, didn’t they? Please tell me they did. I need to know.

Fuck – you’ve just kicked me out again. I guess this is the end, then. Is it? Look, just tell me. I want the truth. I have dignity, you know. I won’t be crawling back to you again - not today, anyway. Ok look, let me know when things are cool with you, and we can talk. Yeah? We’ve really got to talk about this.

I need you, man…. I really do…. Don’t let it end like this….

“NUMBNUTS OF THE WEEK” AWARD : THE UNKNOWN ASSHOLE

Ok, so I would like to formally introduce the inaugural recipient of Mellipop’s “Numbnuts of the Week” award.

Much like the Unknown Soldier, the identity of this week’s inauspicious winner is a mystery that has plagued Mellipop-kind for some time now, nigh on four weeks.

AND THIS WEEK'S WINNER IS……

The Unknown Asshole who keeps stealing my daily newspaper.

(wild applause, wolf-whistles and steely-eyed glares from the other nominees)

“I, Mellipop, will be accepting this award on behalf of the Unknown Asshole, who couldn’t be with us tonight due to other devious commitments. I would just like to say a few words on his or her behalf. Firstly, I would like to thank the numbnuts who broke the lock on the front gate, the real estate agent who failed to have it fixed and the paper delivery guy - without whom none of this would be possible. And it would be remiss of me if I didn’t thank myself – Mellipop - whose complete and utter contempt for the newspaper my employers produce daily ensures that it is always still there for him or her to steal each and every day of the week. Oh, and I’d also like to thank God. FREE THE REFUGEES! Thank you and good night.”

And so concludes this week’s ceremony. Nominations are now open for next week’s winner, So if you hear me saying – as I often do – “That’s going on the blog!”, you too could be in the running!

"NUMBNUTS OF THE WEEK" : AN INTRODUCTION

The "Numbnuts of the Week" Awards are inspired by a trailblazing colleague of mine, who recently caused a stir at work by actually telling a client over the phone that he was a "numbnuts". Because he was. And haven't we all dreamed about doing that at some point? So it is from this awe-inspiring spirit of "telling it like it is", that the "Numbnuts" Awards are inaugurated.

The weekly candidate will be freely chosen from a wide pool of friends, family members, public figures and random strangers. This means that none of you are safe from winning the “Numbnuts of the Week” mantle. Nor am I myself immune from nomination. Indeed, I can well see myself parading in the winners circle on many occasions in the future. I am hard but fair.

The judgement criteria are simple. Numbnuts is as Numbnuts does.

Each weekly winner will receive the honour of being publicly humiliated by me.

The judge’s decision is final. No correspondence will be entered into.

MELLIPOP FINDS NEW VICTIMS

Ok, so I'm pretty stoked tonight.

I've got three fabulous new blog links from folks who were foolish enough to post comments on the last bit of dribble I posted.

Heh heh heh... I got you now. Suckers!

Blondie's Blog

I Love the Theatre Process

Under a Rock

I don't have anything interesting to contribute tonight. But these crazy kids have got the good stuff.

And two of the buggers are from WA. Props!!!

Three cheers for the internet. It's not just porn!