English expletives

David Astle, SMH crossword compiler extraordinaire, on the problem of English being ubiquitous when it comes to expleting:

Even without the study leave, most people know English basics: hello, thank you, how much and f—- off. Our tongue’s the lingua franca of movies, business and football tournaments. Whenever we cuss, the message is pretty evident and the mud can only stick. In tonight’s game, the Socceroos may be likened to warthog pizzles in any of Ghana’s 47 languages, but unless the ref is multilingual, then the sledge will be missed and the yellow card stay idle.




Gil Scott-Heron - I’m New Here

Of course, he’s not, as the deep earthy tones of his gravelling voice attests. He sounds so…experienced. Like he’s lived life, and can’t help oozing poetic sub-hip-hop wisdom. It’s only a short album, but leaves an impression. Standout track New York Is Killing Me is still fresh months after release. Even the CD liner notes flow like water:

There is a proper procedure for taking advantage of any investment.

Music, for example. Buying a CD is an investment.

To get the maximum you must

LISTEN TO IT FOR THE FIRST TIME UNDER OPTIMUM CONDITIONS.

Not in your car or on a portable player through a headset.

Take it home.

Get rid of all distractions, (even her or him).

Turn off your cell phone.

Turn off everything that rings or beeps or rattles or whistles.

Make yourself comfortable.

Play your CD.

LISTEN all the way through.

Think about what you got.

Think about who would appreciate this investment.

Decide if there is someone to share this with.

Turn it on again.

Enjoy Yourself.




9 move Monopoly game

9 moves to win - assuming no-one upends the board first. As one commentor put it:

I’d always thought the real purpose of Monopoly was not so much to be a proper board game but rather to serve as a focus for sibling conflict.

Tears weren’t uncommon in our household.




‘I come not to slag off Coldplay, but to bury them’

A ‘lost' column from the late Steven Wells destroys Coldplay, and at the same time his own too-cool-for-school pretentions:

Flashback: I’m on a packed train from London to Manchester, engaged in a slightly stilted conversation with my suit-and-tie wearing travelling companions, all of whom are strangers. When the conversation wanes, one of the suits reaches into his briefcase and pulls out the latest Jeffrey Archer.

“Are you reading that for a bet?” I quip. He stares at me. His companions stare at me. The whole carriage stares at me. Middle England - sick to the bloody back teeth of being mocked and caricatured by coke-snorting, sexually promiscuous, strangely trousered Private Eye and NME-reading Soho sophisticates - turns and stares at me.