The senseless census

Every five years the citizens of Australia are asked tofill in an excruciatingly detailed form called the Census.It’s basically a nationwide head count by the shepherdof his sheep.

But ever since the creation of data basesand statisticians the powers that be have discoveredthey have a novel way of making massgeneralisations about an entire nation aswell as targetting untapped holes in theconsumer market.

Those well behavedamongst you would have sat down onTuesday 8 August, census in hand andscribbled obediently. The back seat of thebus types would have had a little fun withit. When asked your ethnicity, it’s yourchance to be anything from Egyptian toCroatian with just a dash of Kiwi. Of course,it’s also a wonderful time to improve yourfinances.

The form actually asks you howmuch money you earnt last week. I wasbrought up never to ask those sorts ofquestions.

According to my census, I pulledin $300,000 last week. I told them I wasstill on the dole, and I could refer to my occupations as‘Drug Dealer’. When it requested birthplace, I just wrote‘vagina’.

One is also asked to recall where they wereliving when the last census occurred, and in an additionto the question, what they were wearing. I remember itwell. A navy pair of trackie bottoms with white piping,flesh coloured knickers, imitation Ugg boots from Bestand Less and a sweater I’d appliqued myself a la ToniaTodman of John Howard in the doggie position takingJanette for a ride.

The damn thing is so personal. It’s like afinancial pap smear. The entire nation on it’s back, legs inthe air with the government collecting our private details.Am I single, am I married, how much do I earn, can I wipemy own bottom? How many sexual partners have I hadin the last five years? What’s my favouriteposition? (On the couch) Have I ever fakedan orgasm, and if so was it with someoneborn in Australia?

I was horrifi ed. Why dothey need to ask so many questions? Theaccompanying booklet provides cheerylittle stats that are sure to bring the averagewoman to her knees.

For example, did youknow that in 2001 there were approximately350,000 more single females aged 18 yearsor over than single males ages 18 years orover? It’s depressing enough when you can’tpull a root, do we really need to know that itprobably won’t ever happen?

They promiseconfidentiality, but then ask for name andaddress. Apparently no personal informationwill be released to any government bodies.Yeah right, and I won’t peek at my Christmas presentsor read my daughter’s diary. Right now all my personalinformation is sitting on my doorstep awaiting collection.

I feel very protected. I’m testing their ‘non release’ ofinformation. It’s a tad seditious, but I’ve listed ‘Osama BinLaden’ as having a sleepover on census night.

Hating Paris Hilton

WHAT EXACTLYIS PARIS HILTON?

Why am I continuallysubjected to photos ofthis vacuous overpaidlegume arriving andleaving various openings,parties and events? Shestands for everythingthat shits me about theway young women aretargeted by pop culture.

Paris is famous becauseshe is rich. She is famousbecause she is skinny.She is famous becauseshe lives a fabulous lifedoing sweet fuckall. ParisHilton is not carbon neutral.She is the glamazon fora generation who won’tstop consuming. In factI’ve often wondered if thatorange glow comes fromdays on the sun bed orthe fact she’s punched asunroof in the ozone withher binge shopping.

She’sthe ultimate Self-InterestBarbie with a constantstream of accessories thatinclude interchangeableheads for best friends anddress up dogs. I mean, ifyou have started lickingthe urine trayof your owndignity, whynot startscrewing withsomeone elses?When you findyourself dressingyour pooch youknow you havea problem.

Thewoman doesnothing. Shesmirks. What’s thepoint of expensiveteeth whitening ifyou never showyour teeth? She doesthat little girl thing whereyou put your head on theside and look down at thecamera with that soft pornexpression of a coquettishvixen in long white socksand mary-jane’s on herway to her next blowjob.

And what’s with thesunglasses? When youhave an empty brain cavityit’s important to keep thesun from drying what’s leftof your cerebral matter intoa raisin. Little girls in bigsunglasses. Giant heads.Tiny bodies. Shopping BagsandMobile Phones. Constant chatter on mobiletelephones about, youguessed it: Nothing.

ParisHilton is the poster childfor Nothing. The generationwho did nothing and fuckedtheir planet. And when theyfucked the planet, theytook a secret video andleaked it onto the internet.

I look at women like thatand wonder if they’ve everhad a thought that didn’tinvolve a credit card. She’sthe kind of bimbo who’d goto Ethiopia and start givingfashion advice. Next timeyou saw the Eurovisionad, all the starving Africanswould be wearing giantsunnies and hanging outwith Nicole Richie. It’s theego out of control.

JohnSingleton has just paid her$5 mill to launch his stupidbeer. They’ve given herthe key to Bondi. Maybethey should have givenher something unusualand unique that she hasnever had before: likea book, or an originalthought or perhaps theycould have simulated afeeling like: compassion.

Paris Hilton is evil. Shemust be destroyed.

I urgefledgling feminist terroriststo seriously consider flyinga plane into her. The giantglittering Hilton, falling toearth like a broken mirrorball, in a soundless slump.

She’s not actually real.She’s CGI. And sadly, yourattempt to destroy herwould fail, because like thethousands that have comebefore you, you’re not thefirst to try and blow up aHilton.

Global Terror Alert : Happy people don't shop

OVER THIRTY years ago thetiny province of Bhutan decidedto use Happiness as its measurefor progress separate to theglobally accepted GDP.

GrossDomestic Product it’s not as itsname would suggest a ratherunattractive substance foundoozing from your home. It is infact the economic ruler usedto decide which countries areflourishing and which are doingpoorly by looking at a gross tallyof products and services boughtand sold, a kind of MYOB tally ofingoing and outgoing expensesfor the whole nation.

It assumesthat every monetary transactionwill add to the general wellbeing,including gambling addictions, oilspills and crime waves. Becausehey in our glorious capitalistsystem, one person’s misfortunecould be another person’sfortune. ‘Wanna buy a banana?Cheap for you, only $200 a kilo.’

Just as accurate a measuremight be a GMP or gross musicalproduct, where one’s socialdecline is measured by themarked increase in boy bands.I think we’d note that Americawould be doing pretty poorly.

Being Buddhists, the Bhutaneseare committed to subjugatingthe wants of the individual forthe good of the society, somethingthat fills our botox injectingCoca Cola consuming culturewith horror. The closest thingBuddhists have to a boy band isthe Gyuto Monks, and they’recertainly not crooning selfabsorbed tunes like ‘What aboutMe?’ or gyrating around abouttheir lovely monk like Humps.

Bhutan has become the world’sfirst non-smoking country. Theborders are going to becomelike the outside of public servicebuildings, with people loiteringin the shadows, drawing in afew puffs and then rushing backthrough customs. Will theresuddenly be a black market inHorizon 50’s? Apparently not.The average Bhutanese smokerhas taken the cheaper optionof using ‘the greater good’rather than a nicotine patch.

Sohow do you measure nationalhappiness? Is there a suddendecrease in the sale of Self HelpBooks? Do people stop gettingsick? Do people eat less? Dothey suffer less from depressionand other related anxieties? Dowe see a marked drop in theconsumption of anti-depressantsand mood enhancing drugs?

If we are happy do we stay athome more, drink less alcohol,buy our kids less compensatory‘I love you, sorry I never seeyou’ toys? And, more frighteningly,do we stop shopping?

Happy people don’t shop. Whenthat metaphysical hole is full ofglee, there’s no need to cramclothes, and shoes, and couches,cars and McDonalds burgersin it.

My god. Happiness coulddestroy the entire capitalist system.Marx thought we neededa violent revolution, but perhapswe just need to cheer up.

Night and Day

I often find myself drivingback from gigs at 2 in themorning. I’ll search for anABC talk back to keep meawake and I am amazed bythe number of callers, still upand pottering around in thewee hours.

These are peoplestill up for a quiz or a chat -many of them elderly, as alertand awake as a 21 year oldon crystal meth. According toa recent study, night peopleare more creative thanmorning people.

I used to bea night person. I’d be up till3 in the morning wanderingaround with a paintbrush,labouring over my journal’ssecret scribblings, listeningto Nirvana... But I was 26and I was probably stoned. Sure, I was creative, butthe work was shit.

Havingonce been a night stalker, Iknow the attraction. Thereis an incredible quiet, auniversal ambience, that justseeps through your pores– a desire to connect andcommunicate. To translatethat euphoric melancholythat exists in the darksilences into somethingtangible.

I reckon Vincent VanGogh was a night guy. AndBasquiat. And Whiteley. Allthe great dead and talenteddepressives wanderedround their studios at 3am intheir undies, contemplatingtheir next major work ofgenius. Sadly I never woketo genius.

Every morningI’d be faced with a reminderof my own mediocrity. Oh Iwent to bed trembling withexcitement, certain that Ihad written the next opus orpainted my Mona Lisa, onlyto awake to a cross-eyed selfportrait fashioned in lipstickand mascara on the carpetof my rented room.

Yes, ittook me places. Usually tonew accommodation. I amno longer a night person.

With three children it’spretty hard to keep yourcreative channels open until4am and still be up for the7am breakfast call. Havingkids opened my eyes tothings I never knew existed:like morning.

I couldn’tbelieve that nestled on thecorners of my dark nightwas this wonderful pearllike awakening. Wow. Itwas truly mind blowing towitness the soft smudgybeginnings of the day, themorning dog walkers, thejoggers, the birds, the wetgrass. I had no idea.

I amnow very much a morningperson. In fact, I haven’tslept past 6.30am for over 10years. And I would argue thatmorning people are in factvery creative. We just don’thave the time.

You see, weare too busy cleaning up, orholding down jobs to supportall you frigging self indulgentnight freaks.

Killer Crocs

THEY’RE EVERYWHERE.

Every time I catch a glimpse of afoot these days it’s covered in alarge plastic resin repository.

It’sCroc season. And they are out tokill. These rubbery predators don’tjust take your life, no that wouldbe far too simple. Instead, they attackthe fashion sense, and withina period of weeks any chance ofrehabilitation is hopeless.

Twelvemonths down the track and you’relikely to find the victim deeply embeddedin a pair of polyester trackpants pushing a cart in K-mart, ordancing in Uggies outside the localbottleshop.

Those caught wearingCrocs suffer instant delusion.As soon as the shoe hits the footall rational and analytical thinkingstops. Independent studies haveshown that Crocs affect the frontallobe, which in time, will take onthe same colour and consistencyof the aforementioned footwear.

Who needs reason, when you’vegot resin? Fashion impaired, Crocvertsstart to think they look good. And then they start to think theycan team the Crocs with any outfit. This devilish infiltration by the evilfootwear sees victims turning up ingorgeous designer frocks and giantorange flippers.

Like smokers, theCrocs addict feels driven to justifythe unattractiveness of the shoewith a mildly aggressive outburst:‘But they are so comfortable!’ Yes,and so are flannelette pyjamas, butI wouldn’t be wearing them out.

My mother finds extreme comfortwithout her teeth and I’d prefer togrow a moustache than be waxed.Comfort doesn’t always equatewith a pleasant aesthetic.

SadlyI’ve seen many of my once fashionconscious friends fall prey to theCrocs. Their tender little tootsies,cruelly malformed by the propagandaof the technicolour paddle.

Middle aged adults suddenlydonning the footwear of a toddler. It’s obscene. They are Crocsof shit. Crocs are expensive, uglyand comfortable. As were Birkenstocks.(The rye bread of the shoemarket).

I wonder whether it’s thecomfort that sees them so marketfriendly or the simple fact that theyseem to have become a fashionfad. I predict that in two years,the proliferation of the paddle willdwindle, and not because it is anyless comfortable, but simply becauseit’s no longer Crocs season.

There is sure to be an even uglier,even more expensive comfy shoeready to hit the market. Until then,my friends, it seems the Crocswon’t be happy until there’s a pairon every Byron prayer mat.

Forgod’s sake people, you look likegiant ducks. The Crocs not just ashoe, it’s a cry for help.

Driving Miss Lazy

In the eighties a self-helpbook for women came out.It was titled "Women wholove too much" and targetedthe growing generation offemale love addicts whosought approval and devotionin dysfunctional relationships.

What woman at some timehasn’t fallen to her knees inthe driveway and crawledthrough the gravel chafedand sobbing after her man:‘Why don’t you love me?’

These women have nowmatured, they finally settledon a partner and popped outa few kids.

Where they oncesought love and approval fromtheir alcoholic/junkie/work/sexaddict boyfriends, they nowfind themselves grovellingfor loving acknowledgementfrom their kids.

I call thesewomen: ‘Women whodrive too much.’

You cansee us out there every dayafter 3pm. We’re drivingour swimming champs, ourdancing divas, our karate kidsto their afternoon activities.

We’re the idiots sitting inthe car outside a church hallsomewhere staring vacantlyinto the middle distance,trying to fill those 15 minutesbefore you pick up Preciousfrom guitar, drop Snot Noseup to the pool, pop intoWoolies, pick up the sequinsfor the ballet costume forSurly while slipping in one ofthose Mumsy chats with awoman you have known for4 years but whose name youstill don’t know.

But then,identities aren’t importantwhen you’re a driver. We’relike chauffeurs talking shop.Mums of teenagers drivetheir kids to the movies onlyto drag themselves backfor the pick up a few hourslater, a bleary eyed blimpin a tracksuit.

She wanderspast a shop window, glancesto catch her reflection, onlyto realise, where therewas once a vibrant glossyhaired girl, there’s now ashapeless smudge.

This iswhat labour pain preparesyou for: the endless hoursof thankless driving. There’sweekend ferrying betweentowns so young Miss Suprecan socialise with her bigsunglass wearing buddies, orSurfie boy can compete in hischampionships.

Here I am,an intelligent, talented, warmand compassionate womanworking the streets as anunpaid cabbie. This generationof parents is possessed withthe need to fill every wakingsecond of their child’s timewith recreational and skillbuilding activities.

A freeafternoon where the Mumleisurely waters her gardenfills her with guilt: I should beenriching the potential of mychildren!

My Mum sufferedno such condition. Her ideaof afterschool activities wasemptying the chook bucket,getting the clothes off theline, peeling the potatoesfor dinner and doing myhomework.

I never attendeda single ballet class. I couldhave been a great dancer.(Sure, a 6ft 85 kilo woman isgonna be hard to lift, but theyhave cranes for that kind ofstuff.)

It’s not a coincidencethat ‘driving’ is the metaphorused when describing thefeeling one experiences whenteetering on one’s emotionalprecipice.

‘You’re driving mecrazy! Stop driving me up thewall! And my fave: You’ll driveme to an early grave!’

Wedon’t do it because we lovedriving. We do it because welove them. All that’s required,is the very very occasional:‘thanks.’

Creature Discomforts

We have become far too comfortable.

Flopping onto our L-shaped suede couch in our silk leisure suits, we sip our chardonnay and reach for the remote. Summer snakes under the door, and as the rest of the country burns, we adjust the aircon to a very pleasant 23. We screen our calls, shop on the internet, and a cleaner scrubs our s-bend. It's a passionless life of effortless luxury.

Just this morning I stumbled into the economic matrix: more money equals less discomfort. I had this epiphany as I walked to work in my 4 inch wedges. From years of wearing badly made but fashionable shoes I have developed foot pain. (I imagine it's karmic for all the nasty things I have said about Croc wearers.) In fact, there are some shoes in my wardrobe that require 2 Neurofens before an outing. So there I was hobbling down Dalley St, 6 ft 3 in a black dress on a hot morning. It was excruciating. But as the stabbing pain shot through my calf I thought: I am in the moment. Comfortable people don't get that. They are somewhere else projecting into their even more comfortable frigging future (usually at the cost of more discomfort to others.)

It's important to maintain daily discomfort. I believe it keeps you humble - for centuries the Catholic church has attested to the significant spiritual benefits of suffering. I'd like to share a few tips from my personal spiritual practice.

Wear your underwear a size too small. If you can't feel your bra cutting into your back than it's not tight enough. Undies should make a cracking sound as you pull them on. The same goes with clothing. The smaller the better. The feeling of constriction keeps us in touch with our own limitations and intensely self aware. There is enlightenment in the sudden exposure one experiences when the seams give way and one's frock is suddenly torn asunder. Always wear polyester on a hot day. Mow your own lawn. At midday. Throw away your mobile and start using a public phone. If you've had your Hep injections you should be OK.

Don't pay your bills on time. Wait for the disconnection notice. Better still, wait for disconnection. Take cold showers in Winter and hand sew the kids' school uniforms. While a dishwasher may feel like liberation, it's actually whitegood enslavement. Standing at a sink full of suds will bring you face to face with your issues. It's an instant rage locator. Trade in that leather lounge for a vinyl one. If your legs ain't stickin then you ain't thinkin! Put on weight. Not a huge amount, just enough to make you ungainly and breathe heavily while performing mundane tasks like turning on the light.

Remove the aircon from your car. While you're at it, remove the seat belts and replace them with the old EH Holden hand straps. Invite people you don't like over for dinner and charm them with your witty repartee. Have 10 children. Live in a house with 2 rooms and only 4 beds. Marry someone who hates you. Go to church. Ignore toothache until ulcers appear, and tumour like lumps can generally be disguised with a band aid.

Refuse drugs in labour. When anyone asks for volunteers, volunteer. Are you feeling it? That pinching sensation at the base of your being that says: I'm fucking uncomfortable, irritated, angry... and alive! Who needs bungee jumping for a fear based adrenalin surge - a family Christmas dinner should bring that on. It's the Desiderata of discomfort. I hope you get something you hate.

xxxMandy

Confessions of an Ecky Eater

It's been a devastating week in Australian sport. Andrew 'Joey' Johns had to fess up to being a rampaging Ecky addict, the racing industry is in shutdown with horse flu forcing gambling addicts back home to their families and it's the end of my first season as the under 10s netball coach. Crikey, I'm surprised it hasn't been declared a State of Emergency.

There's a wonderful irony in the fact that our most brilliant sporting heroes are drug-fucked party boys.

King of Cricket, Shane Warne was renowned for his penchant for the love drug and free-balled his way around the globe taking out wickets and women at lightning speed. He'd barely left the pitch and his dick was out. He was Lord Spin. So why did the media get all moralistic about his off the field behaviour? It's not like Warney was receiving blow jobs between overs. As long as he was on his game who cares about Simone? Frankly, if I was married to Simone Warne I think I'd root around as well.

I hate sport. I particularly hate cricket. Yobbos like Shane Warne make it mildly entertaining. If a fella can bonk himself silly and still take wickets then great.

The latest victim of media moralising is poor old Johnsy. I think the fact that anyone who can smoke, drink, snort coke, drop ecky and the occasional tab of acid and still manage to play football is remarkable. Actually it's more than remarkable, it's frigging Australian. Jesus, it's not like it's performance enhancing. Sure Ecky might make you a bit of a love machine in the bedroom (well at least in your own mind) but when it comes to violent physical sport like footy poor Joey Johns has been at a significant disadvantage.

Anyone who's ever popped a party pill knows the chemical fry that sets in days later. Ecky Tuesday is not a pretty sight when you are being pursued by twelve 100 kilo men. Neither is professing your love in the changeroom and asking for a cuddle. The Telegraph even carried a story of a Newcastle mother of 3 who thought that Johns should be punished more severely for the possession of one measly ecstasy tablet. (Fuck, isn't being born in Newcastle punishment enough?) She claimed that he had failed the kiddies as a role model.

Bullshit, teenagers all around the country might suddenly start attending football if they think it's going to turn into a rave party at half time. Role models are people too. They are not two dimensional Sunday liftouts. They're blokes sitting at home in their undies pulling a bong in front of MTV, weeping into a blank form guide wondering why success is suddenly so meaningless... but they never print posters of that.

As for the horse flu. I think it's all a sinister coverup. It's not just footballers, horses are using drugs too people. Makybe Diva was seen with Johnsy at the London nightclub. In fact, it's been alleged that the mare was the one who planted the tab in his trouser pocket.

xxxMandy

The Secret is Out

After months of smug sideways glances from those who have seen the 'Secret' I am finally in the know.

Today I watched the 'film' and it confirmed something I only previously suspected. People are a lot stupider than we give them credit for. The content was as nauseating as a weekend with Oprah, and if I was a bulimic, I would suggest that 2 minutes of The Secret is more effective than fingers down throat.

It should come with a viewer warning: 'This film contains extreme self indulgence and rampant individualism. May require bucket.'

How could so many people be so influenced by something so spiritually corrupt? And these so called experts her purport to be guardians of the sacred knowledge...what a bunch of disingenuous, arrogant tossers. I wouldn't want to share a sandwich with them, let alone a Secret.

The Secret is a spiritual manifesto on how to acquire 'stuff'. It asks people to visualise the car they want to drive, and then feel the feelings. What about the planet you'd like to live on? The Universe has become a ride for one, so unless you're prepared to push in and jostle your way to the front, you might as well forget it. It reminded me of the ironic saying: 'He who dies with the most stuff wins.' How have we arrived at a point in our emotional and psychological development that we measure a life well lived by possessions?

I instantly felt one of those emotions The Secret refers to as a 'bad' feeling. It was called sadness. How have we become so disconnected from the human condition that the most we can use this so called wonderful gift of personal manifestation is for expensive cars, young wives and 8 bedroom mansions. (The more empty rooms in your house the richer you are. In third world countries, everyone sleeps in one room and a visualisation of a bowl of rice is generally called a meal.)

And by the way, if you suffer from depression, it's your fault, and you jolly should change your thinking. Instead of focusing on the negative, concentrate on something that makes you feel good like: a kitten with a Twistie packet on it's head. Finally, a cure for mental illness.

Why don't the exponents of The Secret talk about focusing on peace or compassion or a sustainable future for our kids? The key indicator for measuring the success of those who use The Secret is money. If you have more money you are more aligned with positive thinking practice. One dude even asserts that it's no accident 1% of the population hold 96% of the world's wealth. They use the Secret. It's no Secret, it's called DNA. The same wealth has been with the same families for a long time. And I'd be hazarding a guess that just because they are loaded doesn't guarantee that they are (a) happy or a (b) very nice. Apparently that doesn't even matter.

One fat little bald bug eyed monster even blurts: everything you experience in your life you have created. I'm like, why don't you go home and create some hair buddy. I don't believe a bald man telling me you can create what you want in life. Are you telling me, that somewhere deep down you didn't desire hair? Go manifest that rug Kojak and then maybe I'll believe you.

The Secret has the same pop culture pitch as The Da Vinci Code. It even uses parchment maps for background to create some visual link with real historical authenticity. The Secret makes Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code look like a work of genius. So what is the lost Secret?

The Law of Attraction. That comes right after the Law of Shopping. Hello, is someone making up universal laws here? They even compare it to the Law of Gravity. Excuse me. But you can't just go around making up 'laws' by dropping esoteric apples and asserting they have some scientific basis. According to this dodgy law, you can attract anything in your life. Great news for stalkers, who spend half their life visualising intimacy with their victim. Not so good for the victim. 'Your honour, the victim actually created the attack...with her thoughts'.

The Secret is dangerous. It's like capitalist brainwashing. One 'expert' tells the viewer not to align themselves with causes or groups that are against anything, as just the thought of the thing will create it. Great. So now we no longer oppose poverty or war or cruelty. Well buy me some jodphurs and Heil Hitler! And while you sit there manifesting your frigging ozone destroying carbon munching Mazerati let me remind you of one thing. Contrary to popular belief, earth's resources are finite and the Universe is not a frigging catalogue.

Here's The Secret I am marketing. It's called Thinking. Sadly, it's just not catching on fast enough.

xxxMandy

10,000 words for Beige

Eskimos are regaled for their understanding of the nuances of white. In fact, it has been rumoured that they have 1000 words for snow. Although strictly speaking these tend to be lexemes. Oh what's a lexeme you might squeal, desperate to enter another bit of google friendly information into that grey matter that powers the flesh-bot.

A single lexeme for instance is a word like 'speak' which gives rise to inflected forms like speaks, spoke and spoken. Now the English lesson is over, let me propose that whilst an Eskimo has 1,000 words for snow, on reading a Home Beautiful mag in the doctor's surgery the other day, I have come to the conclusion that stylists have developed 10 000 words for beige. It's Lexeme Sport.

To me, beige is middle of the road. It's the 'please don't notice me', the shy conservative wallflower of the palette. It's the colour without a conscience. Beige would have no problem in locking up David Hicks or scheduling a pre-election release. Beige always fills in tax returns. Beige sponsors a World Vision child, but secretly fears the aboriginal family who moved down the road will affect property values.

Beige is polite. Beige is efficient. Beige is quietly powerful. And while you are at work, Beige sneaks into your bedroom and screws your wife. Beige is evil. We must rid ourselves of the pale evil in all it's inoffensive, mild mannered incarnations. There's Gnu Tan, Fiji Sands, Beige Royale, and for the public servant who's about to jump from the 16th floor, there's Self-destruct.

Oyster Linen has been very popular, as has Chick Pea for vegetarians, and the cops have been choosing Hog Bristle (it's piggy friendly). Puddle was a sensible choice for the incontinent, Jodhpurs for the horsey type, Bird Seed for Chicken Flu sufferers in Quarantine and the perenially popular: Camel Train. I got a little confused on my latest reno and had my lounge painted in Camel Toe. It's confronting and exciting at the same time and leaves one with an unsettling desire to adjust oneself.

The list goes on. There's Pale Parchment, Curd, Grand Piano, Magnolia. It's all still fucking beige. 10,000 words for boring.

What about a little truth in advertising and naming these varying degrees of beige for what they really are. I have emailed my suggestions through to Dulux and am awaiting a reply. There's 'Fence Sitting Beige': ideal for people-pleasers, 'Villawood': perfect for people who like to keep to themselves and 'Apocalypse Now': for those who plan to sit out the end of the world in air conditioned comfort. Beige is the colour of our first world obesity, the giant fat roll that threatens to envelope and suffocate the globe.

Ban the Beige. Have the courage to be coloured.

xxxMandy