Home Life Versus Reality

The funny thing is that I could quite easily not leave the house... For weeks on end. If there is one thing this back thing has done, it has shown me that I don't really need to go anywhere or see anyone.

Company, I have the Squeeze who parades in and out of the bedroom, usually to some song in his head. He does this little weirdo dance which isn't a dance at all, but some sort of epilepsy thing that he believes looks cool. And the really weird part is that he makes it cool.

I have Sharpie, my little rescue dog who is as faithful as can be and has been for eleven years. Always ready for a cuddle, or licking my hand or stealing food; which I feed him while I'm feeding. It's one for me, a bit for him and so on. I look at his grey face and think bloody hell; he was a puppy what seems like yesterday. Then I look in the mirror and think, Fuck! I was young once too.

Shadow, the Queen. She is always at my side. I feel like I want to say sitting there, protecting me. I imagine she would scratch anyone's eyes out if they dared come towards me. But in reality, she thinks she is the queen so looks down on everyone, me included.

Shupac and Sherbert - well suffice to say they could be the wait staff, they are a couple of long-haired Persians; one black, one white.

And Sherif, the ginger Main Coone; well suffice to say he doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything. He looks at me when I touch him and I can almost see his shudder, his skin crawling... Unless I'm feeding him. Then he is very loveable.

This motley crew of people and animals I love and wouldn't want to be anywhere else!

# NEWS FLASH, YOU ARROGANT FUCKWITS: FAME IS NOT A GET-OUT-OF-JAIL-FREE CARD

Well, well, well. Russell Brand.

The long-haired, fast-talking, self-important celebrity who apparently thought being famous meant the normal rules of human decency didn’t apply to him.

Ten years and six months in prison.

Convicted of rape and three sexual assaults.

And about bloody time someone reminded these overinflated celebrity egos that the world doesn’t revolve around their dicks.

What the hell is wrong with these people Seriously. 

At what point does a man become so intoxicated by fame, money and his own reflection that he starts believing women are simply there for his entertainment?

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Some celebrities become so accustomed to people laughing at their jokes, applauding their performances and kissing their arses that they develop the extraordinary belief that nobody is ever allowed to tell them NO.

NEWS FLASH, YOU IDIOTS. THEY CAN.

And here’s another revolutionary concept. Being famous doesn’t make you irresistible. Being rich doesn’t make you entitled. And having millions of followers doesn’t mean you get to do whatever the fuck you want with another human being.

Brand spent years cultivating an image as some sort of eccentric, enlightened intellectual. All that philosophical rambling, spiritual awakening and self-improvement rubbish.

Apparently, somewhere between discovering the meaning of life and admiring his own brilliance, he missed the chapter on consent. Or consequence!

It’s not particularly complicated, Russell.

NO MEANS NO.

Not maybe.

Not persuade me.

Not I’m famous, so you’ll get over it.

NO.

And what really pisses me off is the arrogance.

The belief that celebrity somehow places these people above the rest of us. That consequences are for ordinary mortals who don’t have publicists, lawyers and adoring fans ready to defend every disgusting thing they do.

Meanwhile, the women are left carrying the consequences for years.

Their lives don’t magically return to normal when the cameras disappear. They have to live with what happened while the famous bastard gets on with his career.

Until, occasionally, justice finally catches up.

And in this case, it has.

Brand is in prison. His victims have been heard. And the celebrity bubble has burst spectacularly.

Perhaps there’s a lesson here for every other powerful, entitled prick who thinks money and fame provide immunity from basic human decency.

You are not special. You are not untouchable. And you are certainly not above the law.

Ten years and six months.

Enjoy the enlightenment, Russell. You’ve finally got plenty of time to reflect on yourself.

And for once, nobody has to listen to you.

The Dictator of Our Household

In the grand castle of domesticity, there sits a feline monarch named Queen Shadow. Her coat is midnight, her stare is deadly, and her tolerance for stupidity is approximately zero.

She doesn’t own the house. She IS the house.

The rest of us merely occupy space in it, subject to her approval.

Queen Shadow rules over four unfortunate male subjects, all of whom have accepted their places in the royal hierarchy.

First, there’s Sharpie, the dog. Poor bastard. He probably started life believing dogs were supposed to be in charge. Chase cats, bark at strangers, protect the family. All that heroic canine bullshit.

Then he met Shadow.

Now he’s essentially a four-legged servant with a wagging tail. One disapproving look from Her Majesty and he remembers exactly who’s running the show.

Then we have the three male cats: Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff.

You’d think three male cats might stage a rebellion. Form a union. Demand equal rights. Perhaps negotiate better sleeping arrangements.

Not a bloody chance.

Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff know the rules. Shadow gets the best spot, the right of way, and whatever else she bloody well wants.

Sheriff might have a name suggesting authority, but let’s be clear. He’s not the sheriff of anything. At best, he’s an unpaid security guard who reports directly to the Queen.

And Sherbet? Well, with a name like Sherbet, he was never going to lead a revolution. He is the largest, a black ball of fluff; but shy  

Shupack could perhaps organise an uprising, but he’d probably have to ask Shadow’s permission first.

The extraordinary thing is that Shadow doesn’t actually have to do much.

She doesn’t need to shout, bark, chase or throw a tantrum. She simply looks.

And the boys scatter.

It’s a dictatorship maintained entirely through psychological warfare and the occasional strategically placed paw.

Even the human males in the household know their place. The Squeeze might think he has some authority, but Shadow has never acknowledged his leadership, and I doubt she’s about to start.

As for me, I provide food, accommodation, cleaning services and the occasional royal massage. Apparently, this makes me staff rather than family.

I don’t remember applying for the position.

There’s no salary, no annual leave and certainly no bloody superannuation.

But watching one little female cat maintain absolute control over three male cats, a dog and the human occupants of an entire house is rather impressive.

No elections. No opposition. No parliamentary debates.

Just Queen Shadow, reigning supreme.

And frankly, she’s doing a better job than most politicians.

The Squeeze Watches MMA...

I’ve made peace with it in much the same way he’s made peace with me yelling at the television when Geelong gives away a free. We both bring something to the relationship.

But if a Geelong player rubbed his balls on someone’s head, I’d want a fucking explanation.

In a fight in South Africa, Slade Shadowshot got Kevin Nsiona down on the mat and started thrusting his groin into his head. When the round ended, he laughed and gave him the finger. The camera cut to the ring girls cracking up. Shadowshot went on to win by submission in the third round.

I understand the appeal of a good fight. I also understand that a bloke who’s already pinned his opponent has several options available to him, and that every single one of them could involve keeping his dick to himself.

The bit that gets me is the finger. He’s gone to all that trouble to express himself through his underpants and still feels the need to clarify.

And now people online are debating whether it was legal. I can just picture the Squeeze leaning forward on the couch, giving this the same serious consideration he’d give a mechanic telling him the transmission’s gone.

“Well, technically…”

Technically, sweetheart, if you do that at the pub, your mates spend the rest of the night pretending they came separately.

Shadowshot put the clip-on Instagram and asked, “Are you not entertained?”

Oh, I am. But mostly by the thought of the Squeeze trying to explain to me why this is different from the time I caught the dog doing it to a cushion.

Oh My God...

The pain I am in at the moment. 

My spine has severe narrowing in a spot and is trapping my nerves at L4/L5.

Basically, I've got a mac truck running over my left leg every 3 minutes; just enough time for a break when someone comes along and sets me on fire... 

I have top hospital cover; and this seems the best they can do?

I've had this for a month now and I'm going to have to last until the 19/11 before they can give me an MRI (probably because I have to go upstairs afterwards to get my neuro to check on the shunts!)

All I can say is I must have been truly horrible person in another life...