These photos of James McAvoy and Chris Pine turned up in my tumblr feed and I always thought it looked like they were staring in a live-action version of some 70s Japanese animation I used to absolutely adore as a kid.
Ah, if wishes were 60s sports cars, eh?
So, nothing else happening, except for me trying to find an ensemble that I can wear on a protest march, to a gallery, to sit in a park with, and then diner and a concert at the Opera House. Because I cannae be arsed travelling the old 51km there and back again to change. Oh, and I’ve got my period, too. So, yep, extreme wardrobe challenge. Dammit, I have this amazingly stupid red dress I’d bought to wear to an Amanda Palmer show, what, jeez, years and years ago now, when I had money, and every fucking time, no, you’re wearing the black, darling. Every. Fucking. Time. I’m gonna have to give it away, as new. Maybe Amanda would like it? Or could find it a worthy home. I should ask.
So I mentioned family history before. Mine contains much that is inaccurate and apocryphal, mainly because none of them could tell the truth to save their lives. Professionally, even. And I’m not just talking about the convicts. There’s the dude who allegedly wrote for travel magazines but only ever had one article published and always seem to be in places just before it kicked off. Hmmm. And the cold war pair whose files are sealed and who died, allegedly, in a locked room.
Then there’s the notorious Reverend Hay, and that’s the appellation that accompanies him around the globe (there’s a HBO series in his biography, if only I could get Russell Crowe interested in playing a boozy, brawling whore-running preacher who was pretty much run out of towns from Scotland to New Zealand with flaming torches).
I also love it when historical personages make guest cameos, like the time one of the family was hauled up for renting premises to the notorious Kate Kelly, and the general rowdiness that ensued. It sounds like Kate was basically running a Ned Kelly fan con, with the usual fake artefacts and peripherally involved speakers (the main players all being dead, natch), re-enatcments and the like.
Not that she’s the only alleged bushranger to cross the family tree, but then Oz was so small then, so there were always the crossing paths with Ben Hall and the various Captains, the whole Robbery Under Arms thang. Hell, my folks were cattle duffers running up and down the old track from Queensland to Victoria, all very Shelby-like dodgy, including my grandfather, who was a very dodgy boy indeed. Which is why, though I’m related to the squattocracy by many no doubt regretted marriages, I’m not part of it. Too much dodgy blood, shall we say.
Still, it would have been fun, had I had to move out west (always still a possibly) to reveal that I might be scum, but I’m still a lesser sept of these familes. You may kneel, and fetch me some tea, milk, no sugar.
At least I like to imagine the look on a certain snobs face who wanted to belong to the squattocracy when they found out I was one. Yes, you pillock, these towns and rivers, we named them.
Mind you, a millennia ago my ancestors owned most of south-eastern England, until some Cnut took it away from them. Damn and blast. Don’t suppose I could make a land rights appeal? I have a spiritual connection, I watch Grantchester. No, didn’t think so.
Sorry, felling put upon, having a ‘just you wait, Henry Higgins’ moment, again. Sadly, even my best behaviour isn’t up to the standards of certain snobs who went to better schools than I.
But blood is blood, and I can’t help it if Aunt Polly sometimes peeks out. I am, after all, the girl who got up and walked off after being sent flying by a 4WD.
Dad used to call her Boudica (and, turns out, he was right). I mean, I’ll take a hell of a lot of shit, and then I won’t. And it’s a thing. My grandmother and Aunt both broke doors in fits of pique, and I finally did the same, the day I was retrenched. (You’d think, then, that the menfolk were bad carpenters, as well as being especially annoying, and my grandfather was slapdash at best, but on the other side, they ran a big furniture shop in Aberdeen, they made furniture for that little shack called Balmoral, for fek’s sake).
And then there’s the story my Uncle told me of the time my grandmother just threw my grandfather’s old coat in the kitchen stove fire because it was tatty and she was tired of it, without checking the pockets, which were full of shotgun shells. So there’s the family, face down on the grass outside the house, counting off the shots exploding in the kitchen.
So, reckless, crazy and mercurial and not to be crossed on all sides of my family. Sorry if that offends, but, you know, born that way.
But also smart, and not book learning smart, but cunning smart (though it skipped my maternal uncle and brother who couldn’t find their way out of a wet paper bag if you showed them the hole).
Back to bushrangers, if you remember the Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith, well, loosely based on events and there’s an old family story that one of my great or great-great grandmothers (not so many as you’d expect because we’re late marriers and breeders) answered the door to, well, we’ll call him Jimmy because I can’t remember his real name or tribal name. Calmly as you please she invites him in and gives him the whole tea and cake on china service, as though it were the local vicar, and Jimmy is so pleased and grateful he bids her goodbye and goes on to massacre the next farmstead along instead.
I tried looking it up when I was at uni and the story and history matched enough to rate it plausible. Anyway, the moral of the story is always use best china for serial killers, they appreciate the finer touches.
And that’s the sort of manners that are important.
Articles of interest from the Interwebs: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218/posts