After 5 days with the worst flu I have had in years, I realised that NO ONE HAS NOTICED I AM ILL. I have just got out of bed for longer than an hour or two for the frist time since Tuesday night, and NO ONE NOTICED. To tell the truth, I feel slightly miffed at that. On the plus side...no, I can't think of a plus side to a vacuum of concern, muscle wastage and the death of a small forest to keep me in tissues. Unless the coughing fits have increased my core strength? Who knows! All I can say is I hope you don't get it. It's a bastard. Maybe I should go to people's Fringe shows and cough all the way through. They'd notice then. Geraldine, who believes she has very right to be sick and huffy.

HAAALLOOOOOOO!!!!

Yeah, yeah, I've not written a blog for many moons. News? Well, I've been in Sydney doing some gigs in some great places, I've been brilliant and horrid and boring and thoroughly engaging and all sorts of things. But mostly I've been knitting.

Yep. Knitting. I am 4 feet into my first Doctor Who scarf. Season 12, of course. If I get the energy (unlikely) I may upload photos of its progress.

Paul Weller's coming out - BAM! Hooray for that!!

I cook a mean tandoori chicken - SMASH!! Let's eat it!

I'm re-watching the delightful Peter O'Toole in The Ruling Class - POW!!! It's interesting, worth it at least for one line during the wedding scene where O'Toole's character, the 14th Earl of Gurney, expresses how much he loves his Camille.

There's really not much more to report than that. Tell me something interesting.

gmq

Adelaide has taught me something else about myself which I knew not before.

A trucker's hat becomes me.  In this case, if also emblazoned with the words "Mountains of Meat" (see Hannah Gadsby & Amelia Jane Hunter's 'Meat The Musical' production) and with my pink ear tips poking out of my ginger mane.  Like a carniverous hobbit lady.

Adelaide.  A land of sartorial awakenings.

I know a disproportionate number of people (yes the sentence could have ended there, but no there's more) named Hannah who are very nice.  Hannah Gadsby.  The Hannah who manages Minchin's My Space in the UK – in fact, a brace of lovely Hannahs I met over there.

 

Similarly I know a lot of redheaded Geraldines.  I think that might be because fundamentally people don't like redheads very much, except to shag once so they can say "I've done it with a ginger" in pubs, and now that they can't burn us at the stake any more, they feel the need to keep us in check by persecuting us through high school or, if we're girl-gingers, by giving us thinly-veiled male names with a clumsy tag on the end which are only in fashion once every 20 years.  Geraldine.  The slightly-more-frequent-than Halley's Comet of Christian names.  Although Geraldine Hickey isn't a sauce-head.  YET.

 

On the other hand, most Joannes who I've met have been cuntish.  Of course, I'm sure there are exceptions, so if you are a Joanne who I have met at a gig, or, more importantly, a Joanne who can give me a gig, obviously you're one of those exceptions.  Maybe it's a cats and dogs thing between Geraldines and Joannes.  Ah!  Both male names with a bit tagged on the end to make it vaguely feminine – like a large German woman on steroids in leather shorts with a bow in her hair sort of feminine.

 

I have a terrific run with Daves.  Gorgeous Dave who used to DJ at Weekender and Supermarket with Steve Wide, the finest Indie Clubs in Melbourne, he's in the top five for sure.  Dave Bushell, Dave Thornton, Dave Quirk, Dave Grant, Dave O'Doherty, Dave Callan, these are just some of the fine Daves in the comedy industry.  And, of course, Dave Bowie.  He's done all right for himself.  As has Dave Attenborough.

 

Timothys have always treated me well. In fact, you'd have be a nine-sided bastard to be called Timothy and not have me like you even a little.

 

Andrews I've had more trouble with.  Some Andrews I know have been luminously golden beacons of fineness.  Other have been complete granny twadges.  So if you are an Andrew and I call you by your last name, you probably belong to the former category and I am trying to obliterate the latter category.

 

I've been lucky so far, as all my brothers and sisters have come up with pretty good names for their kids.  Sure, they've thrown in a few yorkers, but by and large they've been tight on the birth certificate front.  So here are a few names which I think you should really avoid calling your children.  It's by no means comprehensive.

 

1.  Adolf or Jesus.  Anywhere either end of that spectrum is pretty dodgy.  Same with Lucifer, Satan, Yahweh, Mephistopheles, Beelzebub, Stalin – no one else is going to get the joke.  And if you're not joking, you shouldn't be breeding.

 

2.  States, countries or cities – India or Indiana might sound sweet in the maternity ward, but the former did just beat us in the tri-nation cricket series, and the latter is only famous for that song which an eight year old and mightily ginger Ron Howard sang in The Music Man.  When we're a hop, skip and a jump away from little girls called Utah, it's time to call a halt.

 

3.  Any normal name spelled in a crazy way.  There are thousands and thousands of baby name books out there, if you have to stick a wad of vowels and 'h's in a perfectly good name to make it more individual, then chances are your child is going to be, well, ordinary.  They'll spend the rest of their school years spelling their name to their classmates who, because they probably all attend the same state school in Carrum Downs, will also be spelling their names to everyone else leaving precious little time for learning.  Read more.

 

4.  Naming your sprog after a product or brand name, like Omo, Spam or Honda Civic.  The company isn't going to give you one and all you're gonna end up with is a kid with an inflated sense of ego every time he or she walks into a supermarket or a Geelong car yard.  Notable exception:  Harley Breen.  GOD in BOY FORM.

 

5.  Most flowers or plants.  Rose or Violet or Acacia or Daisy are fine – although the last one is usually reserved for livestock.  But if you're heading for the Red Hot Pokers and the Sturt's Desert Pea and the Stink Blossom, it's getting close to child abuse.

 

6.  I'm sick of this last name as a first name thing.  No more children named Quinn, for fuck's sake.  I'll let off Mackenzie Crook, but if you insist on this ridiculous trend, go the whole hog and call your child Sidebottom or Farquar or Wanke (pronounced 'wanky').  Wanke is a real name, I met an old man called Mister Wanke when I was doing the Australian Census who either had a terrific sense of humour or a fucking hard life.

 

On the other hand, I do like it when people name their kids something old school like Agnes or Dolores or Dorothy.  Good strong names – a challenge, but a worthy one.   Lesley is fraught with danger – is it a boy or a girl?  Similarly with Evelyn (pronounced EE-velyn if a boy, EV-elyn if a girl, as far as I understand) or Beverley (makes me think of Jeremy Irons in Dead Ringers) or Hillary (yep, it's a boy's name too).  Jeremy, Maximillion, Christopher, Alexander are all good long names that can be shortened.  Tread carefully around Richard, though.  And Virginia could be given a rest, for obvious reasons.  Corey is horrendous, and Courtney (boy or girl) isn't much better.  But if your name is Brooke, you are the Anti-Christ.  Every Brooke I've ever met has been like David Warner (another great Dave) in Time Bandits – really nasty and smoking with sulphur.

 

My name is Geraldine.  I got it from my dad.  For the love of God, practise safe sex.

Adelaide has taught me something about myself that I didn't know before.

I look good in a terry-towelling headband.  Particularly if it's brightly coloured and has "So You Think You Can Dance" emblazoned on the front.

Here's an article written for one of the lovely Street Press rags in Melbourne, Beat, which came out today. Enjoy. Just don't throw things at me. Like bongs or glow-in-the-dark fuzzy fur raver pants. You'll see what I mean in a moment.

Beat Article – Comics in the Doghouse (9/1/08)

OK, cats and kittens, what'd you do yesterday? Sleep? Scrub the bathtub? Spend a lazy day anticipating Adam Gilchrist's lop-eared grace in the cricket coverage? Maybe that last one's only for me…

As well as these noble pursuits, maybe you raised a glass to old grinning soul David Bowie, who turned 61 when his contemporaries are either dead or gibbering idiots. He has pissed on the opposition from on high for 40-odd years. So, as I blow out the candles for an artist who sticks his bits in almost every musical pie, I want to make a confession (deep breath).

I don't like reggae. No, that's not a cue for a 10CC chorus, I mean I don't like the style. The closest Dave got was Don't Look Down in 1984 and that was so embarrassing he never did it live. I can cope with ska, but reggae? It's the same song sped up and slowed down. I can do that by sticking my finger in a tape deck. Or in Shannon Noll, which might be more fun. Some think reggae equals an alternative lifestyle. I'm afraid cranking up your rasta collection doesn't make you Bob Marley. Dying of cancer at 36 is closer, but I suspect that's taking fandom a little too far.

And dance music is dead. It's for Chapel Street scourges with tiny knobs or electro-hippies twirling naked in the bush. You know, the sort of suburban faux-gypsy who thinks living in a caravan in his parents' front yard in Mont Albert makes him an artist. God forbid you listen to dance music at a reasonable volume during the day. That's an indicator of mental illness.

Phew! What a relief. No offence, but I'm a voice and guitar girl. The raw emotion of the human voice can't be replaced by machines or caged in ad nauseum off-beat strumming. When performers let loose, voices produce extraordinary sounds. So here are my favourite vocal tanties:

1. David Bowie – It's No Game
David maintains credibility singing the last syllable of "situation" as if his knackers are clamped in a griddle iron. Hilarious and classy.

2. Iggy Pop – Funtime
The final "wooooaaaaaaaAAAAH!" suggests serious goosing took place in the studio. Well, if you will let Bowie in the booth with you…

3. XTC – Complicated Game
Andy Partridge combines hyperventilation and diabolical screaming until fade out – eerily similar to a kid in my Grade 4 class when he tried to do a hard maths sum. The teachers used to restrain him until he calmed down. Nice.

4. Kate Bush – Get Out of My House
A woman stands up to her abusive lover…then turns into a donkey.

5. Elvis Costello – Playboy to a Man
Sticking with the farmyard, Declan starts off all Ian Curtis/Dean Martin and ends with his imitation of a pig in a felching accident.

6. Ella Fitzgerald – How High the Moon/Ornithology
In her eight minute version of this standard, Ella scats Charlie Parker's solo then starts rumbling and growling like Sigourney Weaver possessed in Ghostbusters. Now you has jazz. Or a hernia. Hey, it won a Grammy.

Of course, the reggae/dance lovers will cry "it's only your opinion" and that's fine, listen to whatever you like. All I'm saying is this: if I'm around when you select "No Woman No Cry" on SingStar and you're not my five-year-old niece, please don't be offended if I brain you with the console. At least it's preferable to a malignant tumour. There you go, I found a positive. Reggae – it's better than cancer.

I know. I don't bring you flowers anymore. But for the 3 people who read my blogs, I'm sorry, I've been busy. Recently, however, I had the great pleasure of palming off a begging junkie (careful now) onto Peter Costello (the Treasurer of Australia up until November 24th, at least, election pending) who, coincidentally, I had just passed in the street before she tried to get money out of me.

That felt great.

Every size of up to Andy McClelland and his sis for managing to get me into a corporate box at Rod Laver Arena to see Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds live last night. It was worth it mainly, I think, for the entertainment my fellow corp box viewers got from watching me go COMPLETELY FUCKING MENTAL while watching it. You see, growing up in Tolland, my siblings and I listened to this double LP over and over and over to the point where we could recite every word, mime every air-guitar lick and beat every bit of percussion in perfect time AND pitch. I still can, as those close to me will witness after 3 Coopers reds and a bowl of BBQ crisps.

For a moment....Imagine the vocal cast of 1978 alone!!

Justin Hayward - a voice like silk even today, from the man who sang Nights in White Satin (or, as I thought it was as a child, Knights in White Satin - there's an inexplicable cross-dressing middle ages theme to my youth which I am still at pains to explain).

Julie Covington - pure pop voice, with an emotional throb yet enough cred to vocalise with the required amount of truth while staying within the rock - mistressful performance indeed...

Phil Lynott - It's phucking Phil! There's no sound on this earth like that gravelly Irish-Brazilian growl, capable of such power and delicacy! Vale and all that bollocks.

Jo Partridge - OK, if you don't know him, he's the guy who did the magnificent ULLAs of the heatray. Also a guitarist of note. They didn't bother replacing him, they just used the 1978 ULLAs.

Chris Thompson - So, he only had one song, but he did it well, did Chris. He turned up onstage last night and my fellow audients were confused about the bald middle-aged guy and why he was there. Yes, he always sang with a voice that rough. And the guy sang 'Blinded By the Light' peeps! He performed with gusto, bless.

David Essex - my love for David Essex, too, knows no bounds, as my circle knows so well. This album is, in my opinion, the finest his voice has performed within. Dave's got a good ballsy edge to his voice, which is tres rock. It's a full vibrato, a rich timbre...not bad for a guy who started out on the drums. If I owned a telly, I'd be watching my video of Silver Dream Racer right now.

Apart from the band/orchestra, which was truly phenom, let's look at the cast today...because there were some pretty animated gestures from this ginger last night. OK, they had a FREAKIN' FIGHTING MACHINE which descended from the ceiling - VERY COOL - and Herbie Flowers amongst so many other stomping original recording musos, and Jeff was there jiving away - BUT...

1. The chap who was the artilleryman. Ahem. David Essex, people, even when he appeared in ANDREW LLOYD WEBER could not have musical-ed it up more than this boy. When I was in my twenties, oh so long ago, and yet so near it seems, I had dreams of WOTW being staged, with Jeremy Irons taking over from Richie Burton, and then updating it and I could play David Essex's Artilleryman - gender equality in the military and all - and I would have performed it with more balls than this guy. Ptcha!

2. Rachel Beck, or whoever she is. Hey Dad!, the ghastly Australian sit com which has produced nothing but pain, was mentioned when she came on and the ache was compounded. Can we get a bit more throb in that voice, love? One of the beautiful things about the piece is that the Jeffster transformed an H.G. Wells novel into a truly pop/rock experience, without attempting to compromise the chronology of the music in order to fit the period, and he wrote for POPULAR MUSIC voices, not cunting musicals!!!! Ergh....I like musicals, but the last 30 years have produced the most hideous Broadway belt culture in music theatre which makes me CRINGE. Beck, or whatever her name is because I couldn't afford a $25 program, obv subscribed to this. No offence but GAH. Bring on Casey Bennetto, he's the king of the non-OTT musical. Check out Drowsy Drivers right now. Maybe Casey's next project should be Casey Bennetto's musical verson of For The Term Of His Natural Life (you heard it here first, copyright office). Gerry would have done it better...maybe I should just do Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds - The One Woman Show. And thus my MICF production is decided!

3. Shannon Noll. The man has "no" in his name - TWICE. Clearly he listened to the album - Phil Lynott's intonation on every spoken line...BUT - the funniest thing of the night was...oh my...you see, the only downer (apart from my purist nature being raped) was that the vocalists were having trouble with their radio mikes cutting out. My live version would have been a bit less pomp, normal cabled mikes, people walking up and singing, live backing vox - less room for technical fuck ups because, after all, it's about the music. This production/version, albeit astonishing, don't get me wrong, used not only Richard Burton's original narration (good move) but a lot of the original recording's backing vox rather than recreate them live. So Justin was singing to himself 30 years ago, as was Chris. Well, there's only one line in Parson Nathaniel's song Spirit of Man where Phil harmonised with himself. And that, my furry friends, was the one line where Shazza'a mike cut out. So the long deceased Lynott's voice echoes out across the crowd, untainted from 1978, while Shannon Gnome mimes noiselessly over a 60-strong band/orchestra. It was kismet. Almost as if Phil was singing out from beyond the grave to say "Don't fuck up my song man".

I don't consider myself a fatalistic person, but that moment...

Overall - it was SO fun. Don't get me wrong, part of the fun is the bitching. As for the band - gasp - to see Jeff Wayne and Justin Hayward particularly - gasp. And so many thanks to Andy and co for making it possible. As the Muddle-headed Wombat would say, Treely Ruly.

Go buy the original recording. NOW.

I'm off to wear as many David Essex badges as I can make. When I find a Thin Lizzy t-shirt, I'll be wearing that too.

Sitting in London listening to Crowded House is lonely. I had to write a biography of myself for something and I liked it so much I thought I'd put it up. It's whimsical at best, but at the moment I am finding any excuse not to leave the house. Halfway across the world to stay in the loungeroom. That's what Ed Fringe does to you.

I was born in Wagga Wagga, New South Wales in the mid-1970s, the 6th of my parents' eventual 7 children. All my sisters have french names except me - I seem to have been named after my dad. Given that my hair was always cut short and I had a clumsily feminised boy's name, I presumed mum and dad would have preferred a ginger lad. I did ask mum about that once. Still not convinced by her answer. My parents are from Casterton and Yarrawonga, so we spent a lot of time driving to dusty towns visiting many relatives. My childhood was New South Welsh, then we moved to Melbourne when I was 9 years old, a vastly better scene for teenage years to be squandered. I got into whatever the hell I'm doing through a combination of precociousness, alleged talent, brilliant failure, resourcefulness and stubborness. Great stars have been made on less. My family are all hard working, staggeringly attractive and clever. A great many are also talented in music, graphic and visual arts and certainly at piss-taking. My main skill is typing 70 wpm. I type like I live - quite fast and hard with a low degree of accuracy.

I like it.

Today I managed, after a good 15 years of avoiding sunburn in Australia, to get sunburnt on a beach in Wales. I was distracted by the hunting of puffins, but all I ended up doing was catching too many rays on my ginger face, not seeing a single puffling and losing one of my camera's memory cards. If a Welshy finds it on a beach, let me know, or just wipe it. There's nothing interesting on there, nothing I don't have on my computer anyway. If a fish finds it, I'll probably eat you later one and find it in your crop. Or is it just birds that have crops...birds, lesbians and farmers. I like it here.

Silky and I were in the Pembroke Town Hall and saw a nice man with a lovely big mayoral chain around his neck. We asked him if he was the mayor and, without skipping a beat, he replied all Welsh "No, I'm the only gay in the village and this is my bling". His name is Keith. He really is the mayor. We laughed like drains. Then we went to burn me and puffin-stalk at a beach with a very funny name, and on the way back up the cliff we raced a middle-aged couple. I'm nimble as a goat, dammit, after all those Edinburgh cobbles.