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The Bachelor Season 5: A Matt(ch) made in heaven

28 Jul

I really do not know how I’m going to get through this season.

It dawned on me that the drive and burning passion I have had behind me in all previous seasons was largely due to the fact that I secretly/not-so-secretly hated the actual Bachelor. I certainly made an idiot of myself last year when I was all Go Richie! You and your ropes don’t need Sam Frost, you’re adorable I hope you find much love and bananas! But then was rudely made the fool of when it turned out Richie was the dude equivalent of a pack of Sun Rice Long Grain.

So obviously I am extremely nervous about this whole Matty J sitch. I really like him. And I’ve christened him Matchie already and I’m really proud of that. Plus I am highly vain and desperate to please everybody, so the fact that a handful of people asked if I would keep doing these recaps was enough to spur me into action because being accepted by every single person I ever meet is important to me. IT’S A NEVER-ENDING ROLLER COASTER OF EMOTION!

Am I getting on your nerves yet? Buckle in, y’all.

On with the der-rama!

So of course the powers that be at Channel 10 HAD to show us that awful replay of Georgia ripping out Matchie’s heart and stomping a big, fat “LEE 4EVA” in the remains with her Love boots. Again. Honestly, I cannot bear to watch that another damn time.

But I guess that was an important reminder because, cut to the J Household (no srzly, what is his last name? Jones? J-Man? Johannesburg?) and Matchie’s entire family are basically running the We Hate Georgia Love Club. So I guess it was relevant.

Lots of shots of their white and blue-themed boat house mansion and Matty’s biceps playing in the pool with his definitely-not-for-sympathy-or-fertility-mongering nephew George.

Let’s go tingle some ovaries, Uncle Matt!

Blah blah, Matty is still super hot and super sweet and doesn’t wear shirts often which I am fine with and is looking for true love on a reality show but now I’ve lost trust in this program and am basically waiting for him to turn into a big fat dud.

I’ll show you my Cool Bananas? 

LET’S BEGIN!

Before we know it, Matchie is all dressed up in his suit and arrives at the Mansion That Spotlight Built, wondering if the “MJ luvs GL” he scratched into the walls is still there.

What is definitely still there, and as reliable as ever, is Osher. Obviously it’s premiere night and Osh can’t break out the organic hemp shirt just yet which is a shame, but he looks v v dapper in his black tie.

However, that doesn’t stop Matchie from telling Osher that he doesn’t actually believe in love at first sight, which is suuuuuper inconvenient for this show. Osher just nods and says, “interesting” or something and does a really good job of masking all the disappointed yelling coming through his earpiece.

Alix is the first one to step out of the limo of dreams. No, that’s not a typo; it is Alix, not Alex. Am I the only one bothered by dumb spelling of names? Probably. But it makes it sound like a cough syrup, yo.

Anyway, Alix explains she is a professional body painter, and yes she felt the need to say professional and yes, apparently that can be a real full time job. She even body painted her own wrist, so basically she is Peeta from The Hunger Games. I would ask if she bakes bread too, but she doesn’t look like she’s eaten a carb for a solid decade, so…

I really hope it comes to this 

Next up is Tara who they do a whole back story piece on so obviously she will be staying for at least a couple of weeks. Tara is a nanny and I’ve already decided she’ll be the Cool Girl of the season because she says “stoked” a lot and has the balls to call Matchie “mate”. Obviously she can’t win now, but I dig her enough.

Some chick called Laura shows up and talks about the rumors being true, but Matty doesn’t know what rumors she’s referring to so he just laughs. But she also mentioned bringing a Cobb loaf so I got distracted because aforementioned Cobb loaf does not appear.

Next is Cobie who we know will be super zany because she’s brought helium balloons with her to suck at. I would usually insert some sort of judgmental/suggestive joke here about sucking things, but sucking on helium balloons and singing war cries at the school swimming carnival was basically how I hooked my first boyfriend in 1996. I feel so connected to this woman.

Next is a short parade of white chicks in white dresses who all look the same.

But then to prove to us that they do cater to ethnic diversity, the producers throw us Laura Anne, who is, so far, the least white girl we’ve seen. Her ovaries are also tingling which suggests some sort of ethnic voodoo witchery, obviously.

Speaking of ovaries, there appears Natalie, who spends her days buried to the elbows in vaginas and placentas and who I’ve decided is this season’s Luna Lovegood. Obviously I am all about her immediately because she admits to being a crazy Instagram stalker and uses swear words – HOW CAN ONE WOMAN BE SO CRAZY AMIRIGHT?! Well, it gets better because she ends up getting a terrible case of Moist Tourettes where she just keeps saying “moist” a lot and Matchie isn’t sure whether he is being Punk’d by one of the interns. I really hope she wins.

 

Love you, bae.

More women arrive in cut out dresses and boob tape and Matty continues to comment on how stunning they are.

Lisa is another tall blonde in red who will most likely win because her arrival music was The Bachelor equivalent of when Belle appears at the top of the staircase in Beauty and the Beast. 

Belinda is a professional “Love Coach” who has decided it wise to enter into a national husband competition to find true love, so I’m not 100% sold on her credentials at this point. She’s brought an egg timer with her that she switches on, demanding Matty stare into her eyes, while the timer literally counts down the seconds until her fertility runs out. It’s riveting.

An amazing woman called Akoulina “presents herself as a present” and asks if Matty accepts her because feminism has really come leaps and bounds in Russia. And continuing on with my Harry Potter comparisons, her arrival is basically on par with when Fleur Delacour fronted up at Hogwarts doing her ridiculous gymnastics routine. She also claims she is going to “wrap Matty up in my love and in my ribbons,” which means sex. Or STI’s. I’m not sure yet.

Finally, Leah is obviously the big, nasty villain this season, because as soon as her Lipstik heel hits the pavement, the sweet, whimsical music switches to the opening credits of The Walking Dead. She dares to mess Matchie’s hair up which does not impress him one iota so she is clearly evil. She tries to recover by throwing a heap of sexual innuendo at Matty, hoping to get innhisendo. Also she is dressed in black. Because villain.

Something something I’m talking about sex. 

That’s all I recall from the driveway round up. Maybe chuck in a couple more awkward white girls with little personality, plus a police officer, a foreigner and some girl who wears a terrible sash she got from Lombards that has been slightly blurred out and now all I can focus on is figuring out what terribly offensive text Channel 10 felt the need to shield us from.

COCKTAIL PARTY!

Straight away everyone hates Leah because she is the villain wearing a black “naked” dress which is actually the same dress that Jen is wearing in white, but no one says anything about that because villains wear black and we hate them.

Tara tries to say hello to Villain Leah but Villain Leah doesn’t see her because there are probably a hundred cameras in front of her and she is most likely drunk already. But that doesn’t stop the other bitches bitching about how awful Leah was to Tara and then someone makes a comment about how they’ve met nicer people at Aldi and HOW DARE YOU I SHOP AT ALDI AND I’M LOVELY!

WHAT DID ALDI EVER DO TO YOU?!

Once Matchie arrives though, everyone is suddenly less drunk and less bitchy until Osher reveals to them that there is a new twist to this season, and unfortunately it doesn’t involve the White Sex Rose. Sigh. Maybe I’ll start a Pozible campaign or something for that one.

Anyway, this year, some genius at Channel 10 has created The Secret Garden which SOUNDS like a sex den (squeeee!) but is actually just a cordoned off area in the regular garden with some extra fairy lights. But obviously this is all anyone can think about now.

DER-RAMA! The lights go off and everyone thinks Matchie is already pashing one of the bitches, but then, from the depths of the Secret Garden, a glowing figure emerges. Is it the entertainment? Is it Osher performing some sort of sacrifice ritual? Or has someone just straight up set themselves alight?

None of the above are correct. It’s *gasp* ANOTHER CONTESTANT!

Her name is Ellora and yeah…she twirls fire sticks and now Matty definitely wants to bone her.

Do they sell these sexy fire sticks at Bunnings?

But before the bitches can shove Ellora’s fire sticks somewhere I can’t mention on here, fresh drama develops when someone calls Jennifer’s dress “putrid”. Which is pretty funny considering Leah is wearing the same dress in black, but I guess she is the villain so we have more important things to hate her for.

Jennifer is, unsurprisingly, beyond devastated, even though one of the wardrobe assistants picked the bloody thing out for her and the comment was made by a drunk woman trying to compete for her potential boyfriend. Grain of salt, babe, grain of salt. This judge of dresses is apparently called Elizabeth or Liz and now Jennifer and her dress can think of nothing else but ejecting her from the room and from the competition.

All of the dresses on this show are terrible.

Oh yeah, and Natalie farts. Everyone is disgusted or extremely shocked which seems a little bizarre considering Natalie is a human with a functioning digestive system.

Is it just me, or does this seasons’ bevy of bitches seem SAVAGE?

ROSE CEREMONY

Literally nothing exciting happens except the girl with the weird sash doesn’t get a rose.

Obviously Joan Rivers aka Liz gets a rose because Jennifer hates her and Jennifer is super surprised that the super moral and empathetic producers would allow this to happen.

I’m really looking forward to her choices of outfits in the coming days.

Jennifer did not do her research on this show.

 

 

The Bachelor Season 4: Bring home the Banana

16 Sep

As Kim Craig nee Day once said, “I’m feeling a lot of feelings.” And I am. Along with just about everyone else in Australia. You can literally sense the collective annoyance, yet relief that this awkward Bachie journey has stumbled across the finish line.

 

kim-day

Thin ice, Richie.

 

But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

REMEMBER WE’RE IN BALI GUYS! Rice paddies, nature, Buddhas, more rice paddies, water, temples, CULTURE!

Straight up we know it can’t be an overly eventful finale because we’re taken on a lengthy trip down memory lane to fill time. You gotta hand it to Osher Gunsberg – he knows how to work it when the chips are down. He regales everyone on Bachie Bananas’ “unforgettable” journey…but…was it though? Strange, yes. Repetitive, yes. Unforgettable? Nussomuch.

 

cool-bananas

#unforgettable

 

But as we all know, there can only be one victor in the race for the Banana, so we gotta keep this train moving.

Cut to Richie doing some VERY serious sunset thinking. He says a lot of words like adventure, journey, Bali, sunset, love, and decisions. Poor guy must have worked extra hard at memorizing those cue cards last night.

And speaking of which, there’s an assistant producer on this show who should probably lose their job for not reminding Bachie that he doesn’t have read off his cue cards when he’s around his own family. I’m not even joking, he spoke to his mum and sister like he was trying to get them to sign up for a gym membership.

Although, Memorable Moment #1 goes to Mummy Bananas with her sassy response to Richie telling her where Northam is. She’s from WA…she knows.

Bachie excitedly tells his mum about all the cool and humiliating things he’s been forcing his harem of girlfriends to do over the last few weeks. And obviously before either of the remaining girls can bring home the Banana, they’ve gotta get past their final, slightly less humiliating obstacle – meeting Mummy and Sister Bananas.

Umm…can I just say something? Don’t get mad, but I don’t think I like Mummy Bananas all that much. Yes, it’s her job to come on here and grill the two women competing for her precious son. Buuuuuuut, I think the penny dropped for a lot of viewers last night; THIS is why Richie is such an awkward manchild – his mum. I mean, you cannot judge a girl for being a single mother when your own son has LITERALLY just dated 22 women at once.

She also demands to know if Alex has explained to 31 year-old Richie that children change your routine? Err…call me crazy…but shouldn’t he just know that? The Dark Knight Rises theme song plays in the background as Alex tries her best to defend her life choices to her communal boyfriend’s mother. This is bullshit.

Nikki has it no better though. She’s accused of being on the rebound and having the nerve to play games with Richie. Honestly, these two women made flipping fools of themselves for your son. THEY WRESTLED IN KANGAROO SUITS WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?!

 

mummy-banana

It’s all making sense now…

 

I know I throw a lot of shade at this show and can sometimes get a little carried away with my talk on the women who compete in this, but all of a sudden I feel myself getting very protective of both Alex and Nikki. This has never happened before. I’m a bit scared.

Basically though, once she’s finished with the two of them, Richie’s mum says the exact same shit Olena said to him yesterday but this time he actually takes it seriously without cracking the sads. I miss Olena.

This episode is starting to make me mad.

Time for the final dates!

 

NIKKI

Transport: Helicopter.

Memorable Moment #2:  “Omigod is that a volcayyynoo?”

Richie says he has this super “unique” experience planned for Nikki for their final date. What will it be?? Bintangs on Kuta beach? No. He takes her to go look at a temple and have her shit stolen by monkeys. Paint it however you want, but those monkeys are terrifying and likely to be carrying some kind of tropical disease – I’ve seen Outbreak. 

 

monkey-crazy

ROMANCE!

 

A girlfriend and I went to Bali earlier this year and I legit feel like our trip down a river rapid in plastic helmets was more romantic than this.

I just cannot take her telling him he’s the most incredible man she’s ever met anymore. Girlfriend, please stahp it, you’re too good for this! Gawd if he doesn’t choose her I’mma be bloody devastated.

 

ALEX

Transport: Yacht.

Memorable Moment #3: “I wanted to read you my poem I wrote for you…again.”

Just when I thought you’d won me over, Alex, you’ve lost me again. Having said that, at least there aren’t any rabid monkeys to contend with, so I guess that’s a win.

They go swimming. And I think that’s all I have to say about that.

 

FINAL ROSE CEREMONY

Final poolside thinking. Nature, Bali, water, pool, thinking. Much Bali. Richie just isn’t sure which blonde is the right blonde for him…or does he. All of a sudden he’s saying all this stuff about having to follow his heart, so maybe between the monkeys and the poems he realised which girl has proven herself worthy of the Banana.

The two girls do the usual thing of thoughtfully putting on their makeup and perfume and looking in the mirror and telling themselves the man who made them care for robot babies and eat animal innards is going to choose them.

And that’s where my Bachie Dress Theory comes in. It isn’t Nikki, the clear favorite, who is going to win. It’s Alex who’s in the more pure, more virginal gold dress. They ALWAYS put the winner in the virginal dress. Anna, Sam, Snezana and now Alex. It’s a thing, guys, look into it. Nikki can no longer win because she is wearing red and only harlots wear red apparently.

Richie waits for the first limo to pull up so he can tell the poor woman in it that she is not worthy of his Cool Bananas.

AND WHAT DID I TELL YOU?

 

taylor-i-told-you

Oooh it’s bad. It’s so bad. But Nikki, you’re a class act; I couldn’t f*cking watch. Even she knows she’s too good for this.

 

nikki-losing

You still look bangin in that red dress, babe.

Look, there’s nothing I love more than being proven right, but I dunno if that was worth it.

THE COLOUR OF THE DRESS MEANS EVERYTHING!

So now we know – Alex is about to take home the Banana. I mean, as if he wasn’t going to pick the single mum. You don’t take the single mum all the way to the finale then dump her, otherwise that means you are the biggest douche canoe ever in the whole world. We really should have seen this coming, guys.

Obviously she is stoked and the two of them collapse into an awkward fit of laugh-crying. And while we’re on this super close up shot, what the hell is that thing they have put around Alex’s neck? What what what is it? Now this is over, someone get rid of it and put her in a pair of denim shorts and Havianas like everyone else is Bali!

 

alex-and-richie

We’re just so…LUCKY. Ha ha!

 

Guys, Australia is MAD. Like, really mad. This could go Blake Garvey level.

 

At least it’s over. Even this guy cannot wait to get the funk outta here…

 

osher-going-home

Where’s my AIR ASIA flight, suckers?

Okay Georgia Love…it’s all on you now, babe. I’m ready for some table-flipping…

Let me tacho bout my Mexcellent adventure…

19 Jul

Along with most of the breathing, tax-paying humans of the world, one of my dreams in life has always been to be upgraded to Business Class on an airplane. I have legit fantasized about smugly watching all the Economy plebs shuffle by into a vortex of thin blankets and leg cramps while I recline into a horizontal position on my Egyptian sheets while my personal butler brings me French champagne served in unicorn glass and a shirtless Henry Cavill sings me to sleep. (That is what happens in Business Class, yeah?)

Unfortunately, this is not a story about Business Class. I will have to continue to simply dream about this heaven in the sky for now.

The story I DO have to tell though, if you’ll believe me, is even more impressive.

See, I got a lifestyle upgrade. For nearly 36 hours, I got to live the life of a very important, rich person; a VIRP. Here’s how it happened.

I’d just spent the last week in Los Angeles with a couple of girlfriends; the last two days specifically we had stayed in a very retro hostel in West Hollywood that had linoleum floors and a heavy steel security gate out front to subtly deter the gangs and junkies. Don’t get me wrong, it was actually super fun and the free peanut butter on toast and coffee each morning was a godsend. On Friday night, two of the girls were leaving to fly home to Melbourne in plush, exit-row, Qantas comfort, while myself and my friend Teagan (whose name Americans just cannot cope with, so, for fun, we’re going to call her Tess) would fly to Mexico on an overnight United flight because of course we thought we were super clever and savvy booking an overnighter to save money on accommodation and of course it was a good idea to do it on a budget airline. Because life choices.

I’m obviously not American, but from what I’ve now learnt, United is kind of like Jetstar – you have to pay to have luggage, pick a seat, buy water, use the toilet… all the things, basically.

Anyway, long story short, don’t ever book an overnight flight to Mexico. Like, if you’re keen on self-inflicted torture and you’re thinking of auditioning for Survivor, yeah, maybe consider it.

But seriously, don’t, yo.

Tess and I arrived at our hotel at 9 in the morning looking like the kind of things you might pull out of the drain.

It was then that the woman checking us in mentioned that they had a special “favour” to ask some of their guests. Tbh, she had a very thick Spanish accent, but what I mainly recall is something about small groups of 2 with no children and being willing to go and stay at their “big brother” resort for a night.

We were the kind of tired where you’re not even sure what dimension you’re in anymore; as in, were we catching Pokemon or were we the Pokemon? (Lol, jks, I don’t play Pokemon Go). So we kind of just stared at her blank and slack-jawed for a solid minute or so. Pretty sure some drool came out too. But when she said we’d get complimentary wifi and a massage, I don’t think the phrase, “Where do I sign, ma’am?” had ever been uttered so quickly.

We were promptly put into a private car and driven a couple of hundred metres up the road to what I can only describe as the actual gates of heaven. Also known as Royal Hideaway, Playacar. 

 

mexcellent

I just really appreciate this pun.

 

The fancy marble gates swung open, and so began our weekend of living like Kimye. I knew this place was nekk level when I noticed the American VIRPs checking in next to us casually order a bottle of Bollinger to toast their holiday. The guy who brought it over to them was wearing white gloves and a three-piece suit. In summer.

Royal Hideaway is, similar to many Mexican resorts, an “all-inclusive”. This means that you are free to eat, drink and be merry whenever you wish as everything is included in your room price. However, it differs from other places because EVERYONE is on all-inclusive here; whereas, at more standard resorts for standard people (i.e. us) it’s only an option. An option we had obviously chosen at our original resort and thus been given very attractive fluoro-green wristbands.  (I’m pretty sure the concierge laughed in my face when I asked if we had to wear a different colour wristband while at Royal Hideaway. Hashtag common.

It was after I had made my embarrassing faux pas, that I noticed my friend gawking at something on the desk; the room rates. Look, I’m a lady, so I’m not going to just give it all away, but essentially, this shit ain’t cheap. When the most basic room they have still costs more than a month of rent, you definitely regret showing up in your Kmart shorts. I don’t even think Tess was wearing a bra by this point. (Sorry, babe.)

I’ll never forget the moment we walked out of reception and into the resort itself. The best way I can describe it would be that it was kind of like being at Captain Von Trapp’s place. If Captain Von Trapp was an exotic businessman with a thing for plush white furniture and monogrammed towels.

We were told that check-in wasn’t until 2pm, but we were completely free to enjoy ourselves and relax by the pool.

After a night of failed attempts at sleep atop our economy food trays and refusing to pay money for indigestion, both Tess and I were beyond hungry. So our first stop was the poolside restaurant for breakfast. Otherwise known as: the best goddamn meal I have ever eaten. When the waiter simply brought over a round of mimosas without being prompted I nearly asked him to marry me.

 

IMG_7378

Yes, that’s a breakfast tasting plate there, NBD.

 

To be honest, the next 8 hours are still a bit of a blur; but here are some thoughts I definitely had:

OMG! These deck chairs have PILLOWS!

Is that a double bed over on the beach?

I never want to drink anything but this strawberry margarita ever again.

You mean, they just bring it to us here?

Zzzzzz…..

That woman’s ring is bigger than my eyeball.

Should I have another taco? Yep.

Dammit, I forgot my body wash…oh wait, I’ll just use this L’Occitane stuff.

EVERYTHING IN THIS BATHROOM IS L’OCCITANE!!

Must remember to steal everything from bathroom.

If I could touch the hand of God, I bet it would feel like this pillow.

Zzzzzz…..

 

Needless to say, we kind of stuck out like sore thumbs. I mean, I figured out that there are two main types of people who go to these resorts: rich, overweight, retired Americans who wear visors and polo shirts; and rich, overly-tanned European businessmen and their mistresses who don’t wear shirts much at all.

At first I thought maybe they’d all assume we were off-duty escorts or something, but I’m pretty sure even high class hookers don’t wear Havianas and carry backpacks. And the fact that we slunk about looking like stowaways on the Titanic probably didn’t help either. But whatevs, suckers, because we did it for free, ya’ll!

 

IMG_7375

I promise that’s mine or Tess’ leg.

 

You might be waiting for me to get to the part where I explain that, despite all its’ finery and fanciness, living like the VIRPs of the world is not so great after all and that going back home to live a more humble, normal life is actually way better.

Well, I’m sorry, but that part isn’t coming because it was the best 36 hours of my funking life and I plan to move to Mexico and sell a kidney to live there forever.

Seriously though, if you do EVER find yourself with the cash to try something like this out, I cannot recommend this place enough*. It has Royal in the title for a reason; the staff are beyond attentive and helpful, and the surroundings are legit out of some sort of romance novel**. One that involves Henry Cavill, I hope…

 

Now, who do I know who’s good at organ removal?

 

 

 

*This is not an endorsed post. Royal Hideaway did not pay me to write this. Actually, wait… if you count endless margaritas and gourmet nachos as payment, then yeah, maybe they did technically pay me. I’m cool with it.

 

**Also, if you’re wondering where all the photos are of the rest of the place, there are none. I didn’t take any. I was too busy napping, drinking and stealing stuff.

Why can’t dating be more like ‘Perfect Match’?

30 Mar

Is it just me, or has the concept of new age dating and romance just about blown up to Death Star-size proportions of late?

If it wasn’t already clear through the endless wheeling out of new apps and websites promising true love with the click of a button, the significant increase in popularity (and in my case, obsession) with reality TV dating shows has pretty much cemented our collective addiction to dating. We love doing it, we love talking about it and we really love watching it. It is legit surprising anyone manages to get anything bloody done anymore.

But it seems we have taken a bit of a wrong turn of late and things are going rapidly south ifyouknowwhaddamean?

Australia’s rekindled romance with our home-grown version of The Bachelor in the last couple of years appeared to trigger an influx of new trashy programs, each with their own spin on both the dating game and relationships in general. There was Dating Naked; the more politically polarizing Married at First Sight; Dating in the Dark and now, more recently, First Dates and The Seven Year Switch. (Unfortunately, this post is NOT about The Seven Year Switch and it’s thinly veiled premise of straight-up adultery. But if it was, I would have all the opinions on it, don’t even worry.)

But I gotta say, none of these shows really measure up to the glory of Perfect Match. A stalwart of late 80’s television, Perfect Match was what gave my life meaning. Back when staying home on a Friday night with your parents was not only acceptable, but preferable; at my place that meant fish & chips and a can of Coke. When you’re seven, that is the equivalent of a bottle of red in your underwear.

Perfect Match was and is by far the best dating show ever created and anyone who disagrees is kidding themselves. Obviously I am going to explain exactly why that is. But first, please enjoy this nine minutes of 80’s heaven:

Five Reasons Why Perfect Match is Everything

Greg funking Evans

The host of the show and quintessential Stone. Cold. Fox. Evans kept the ball rolling and the jokes flowing. He was kind of like a hotter version of Andrew O’Keefe. When unsuspecting and nervous contestants would put their awkward foot in it, Evans had the kind of suave charisma and quick wit to smooth over any potential law suits or inappropriate sexual innuendos. Most of the female contestants secretly hoped to bone him and I do not blame them one bit.

greg

Would swipe right

 

Dexter

I mean, who DOESN’T want to have their romance score with a potential Romeo calculated by a sassy robot? Srzly, it would make life a hell of a lot easier. Forget swiping right, or even sending endless kisses/winks/charms, Dexter did all that dirty work for you and delivered the results in a bowler hat and give-a-f*** attitude. (For the record though, what even is a “charm”? It just makes me think of Hogwarts. Not sexy. Unless we’re talking about the Weasley twins…damn those hot gingers…but I digress…)

Dexter

#sass

 

The format

Essentially, Perfect Match operated on a process of elimination. Contestants started out with three possible matches who they were separated from by a v festive, pastel-coloured partition. They asked them each a question or two about dream dates and so on, then they picked one person from the line-up whose mullet they thought they could take home for a family BBQ. Basically, there was no reliance on physical appearance or abundance/lack of gym selfies. The contestants actually based their decisions on personality alone. If I really think about it, I can barely imagine a functioning world where this is a thing anymore.

 

seats

So…no chance of sending nudes, then?

 

The holidays

Forget a badly disguised d*** pic; once contestants had chosen their “perfect match” for the evening, they were gifted with a flipping holiday! Newly matched pairs were flown to the Gold Coast or the Whitsundays with a TV crew who would capture every awkward moment in their budget motel rooms. The following week, their post-holiday interview would be screened, where one half of the couple would reveal their true love, while the other had to admit they just went on the holiday for the complimentary biscuits and ironing service.

 

choosing

Can I still choose Best Western?

 

The time slot

Guys, do I have to say it again? Perfect Match screened on a Friday night! It was like Date Night when you didn’t have a date. These days, the best thing you can hope for on TV should you find yourself alone on a Friday is Better Homes & Gardens or a smart repeat of The Shawshank Redemption. It’s like Reg Grundy and his production company KNEW that if you were gonna be flying solo, a chandy or two just wasn’t going to cut it.

 

logo

Television, if you’re listening, THIS is how you do romance! Actually, I take that back. I don’t just mean television, I mean the world. For realz. I’ve had jack of all the apps and the swiping and the messaging. Put me in a wicker love seat and let me ask three dudes in pastel suits who they’d like to have dinner with dead or alive.  I guarantee the results will speak for themselves. Because…

Like Peaches and Cream
And a Coach and her Team
Like Sand and the Seas
And the Birds and the Bees
Lie an Oyster and a Pearl
And a Guy and a Girl
What Have You Got?
You Got a Perfect…
Perfect…
Perfect Match!
It’s a Perfect Match!

greg debbie

Life goals AF

 

Selfies are Literally Death Now

20 Feb

Yesterday I heard some news that made me want to cut my own ears off and hurl the bloody mess at people’s faces. It’s taken me a solid 24 hours to pull myself back from the ledge and put my feelings into words.

Why?

Because apparently selfies are now responsible for murder.

I am sure you’ve seen by now the reports of a poor, defenceless Franciscana dolphin manhandled to death by a group of dumbass tourists, desperate for a “cute animal selfie” they could post and gloat about on their facebook pages.

This innocent creature was just plucked out of the ocean like a set of keys from a bowl and passed around a large group of smiling beach goers in Buenos Aires. Because of this, it died. As in, that innocent little dolphin is DEAD.

Now, I’m no marine biologist, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s common knowledge that, despite being mammals, dolphins kind of need water to live. They’re not puppies who can swim. They are water-dwelling creatures who require said water to keep their bodies hydrated, lest their thick, greasy skin essentially over heat and suffocate them.

But apparently, this fact was tossed out the window in place of a desperate need to fulfil vanity and validation.

Most people who know me know I am not a big fan of the selfie. I even wrote a thing about it a couple of years back. (Seriously, you should read it; it’s in my Archives. No, I’m not above self-promotion.)

On the other hand, I am definitely in favour of self-love and I realise selfies can sometimes play a part in this movement. So don’t worry, I get it.

But I am, however, desperately opposed to what is becoming a vapid and, frankly, disgusting obsession with validating our own image  and, therefore, our lives. This need for acceptance and one-upping each other through posting on social media is a slippery slope that, until now, people liked to assure me was harmless because, “it’s not as if it’s killing anyone.”

WELL YOU ARE MISTAKEN MY FRIENDS!

A living thing has literally paid the ultimate price of gaining likes on Instagram.

Doesn’t that sound a little messed up to you?

I know my animal rights supporting-friends are already all over this like a rash; but for those who need a bit more convincing, think about this:

Dolphins are often placed third among animals in terms of intelligence (behind humans and chimpanzees) however, many new studies suggest that they may actually be closer to second place. Some biologists even refer to them as ‘non-human persons’. And lesbihonest, don’t you know a couple of human people who don’t even meet that criteria?

What I’m saying is that this animal had an intelligent brain. And feelings. And most likely felt a real sense of panic and terror at being tossed around like a beach ball. It makes me want to cry. And even though it happened in Argentina, I can’t say I didn’t think about the high likelihood of it happening right here in Oz.

Guys, can we maybe just put a lid on it?

In the spirit of Dry July and other such sacrificial movements, I’d like to propose an idea:

A day of no selfies.

One full day where no matter how damn good we look, or how on fleek our eyebrows are, we abstain from taking a picture of ourselves (and any other unsuspecting parties – animal or not) and instead, focus on simply enjoying the moment as it exists.

Walk out into the ocean and enjoy the salty water. If you happen to see an adorable sea creature minding its own business nearby, don’t hold it up next to your face, snap a picture and post it alongside fifteen hashtags. Observe and appreciate it before it swims home and store the memory away somewhere other than your camera roll. (In case you don’t know where that is, it’s your brain.)

You may be surprised at how much better it feels to keep the moment all for yourself.

Please, for the sake of the dolphins, could we just give it a try?

 

 

Tina Arena is ashamed of something she shouldn’t be…

27 Nov

Oh Tina. You glorious, perky-breasted goddess, you. You captivated us from the moment you donned your pink, polyester onesie and belted Volare to the adoring live audience of Young Talent Time. And you did it again last night when you majestically appeared at the top of the ARIA stairs amidst some serious dry ice to belt the shit out of Chains. (Again in a onesie, but this one had a funking cape.)

Fellow babe Kylie Minogue then inducted you into the Hall of Fame before you gave a rousing, if not lengthy (I’ve got the attention span of a three year-old after downing a litre of cordial), speech about the music industry and the role women have to play in it. You even referenced your amazing cans. Bravo.

But I have one little problem with that speech, Tina.

Amongst the praise and positive memories of Johnny Young and his bowl cut, you delivered a small dagger to the heart that I’m not sure everyone watching at home felt as much as I did.

Not to take away from your well-deserved moment, but you implied that your 1990 single, I Need Your Body was not your greatest work. At first I thought maybe it was a joke and you were just trying to be funny. But upon further research, I discovered that this glistening gem of early-90’s electro-pop has been making you “cringe” for years.

And to this I call bullshit.

I Need Your Body IS ONE OF THE BEST GODDAMN POP SONGS OF OUR TIME!

(And if you have yet to experience the song for yourself, I demand you stop what you’re doing right now and watch this immediately:)

 

Here are the reasons why:

1. It was your break-out song.

All through the 80’s you were labelled Tiny Tina. Every Australian with a working television wanted to take you home and cook you pineapple fritters. But you had to grow up some time.  Britney did it when she donned leather bumsters and danced up on a lot of sweaty people in I’ m a Slave For You. And the song isn’t even that good, just quietly. I Need Your Body was your Britney moment. And you did it BEFORE her! AND you were all of 20 years old. At 20, my biggest achievement was buying my own jaffle-maker and managing to shave my legs once a week. While you were busy paving the way for many a sexually frustrated child star to come. Don’t be ashamed of that, Tina.

2. Half-naked dancing men.

While the trend for music videos, today and in the past, has been to parade dancing women around in vagina shorts and bikini tops, you bucked that trend in the INYB video clip. Because Tina don’t give no f***s. Your film clip featured a small chorus of shirtless, muscly dudes dancing on patio chairs in the Phantom of the Opera’s house. I was just shy of six at the time, but even I could appreciate it. Because #girlpower.

3. It reached #3 on the ARIA charts.

And that is nothing to sneeze at. Let’s put this into perspective:

Chains, your stunning anthem of white-girl angst that no one else can sing, no matter how many Pinots they’ve had, (definitely not me…I’m talking about a friend) only ever got to #4. NUMBER FOUR! I mean, that is a travesty of justice in itself, but now is not the time. The point is, I Need Your Body beat that. That is a BIG. FLIPPING. DEAL.

4. ALL THE VELVET!

Again, I’m referencing the music video here, but who can seriously forget that velvet bolero?! Most people get a bit caught up in the memory of your boobs dancing around in the matching velvet dress, but honestly, it was all about that bolero for me. At times you even got so into the whole running-away-from-Fabio’s-brother thing, it fell off your shoulders but you just kept going. Very devil may care, very Tara Reid nip-slip without the nip. That entire velvet outfit was my life and I will continue to spend my waking hours hunting it down so I can wear it to every social occasion ever.

Seriously, can someone bring velvet back?

5. It’s a great bloody song.

For realz. It’s a song about being so damn into a guy that you constantly feel burning things inside you, and not in the medical/STD way. Who can forget lyrics like:

And the wind cries out

Out your name to me

And I feel no shame

Feeling this way…

Gawd I love a smart wind reference. It taught us girls that it was totally okay to feel all the feelings about a boy and even encouraged us to own it in the hope he might show up at our own abandoned mansion and dance about in the shadows.

The song also contains a siiick electro beat. The kind of frenetic, blood-pumping disco/pop track that made Belinda Carlisle a household name. Honestly, if it wasn’t for I Need Your Body, dance concerts across Australia would have had nothing to do with all their lycra bodysuits and jazz sneakers.

 

I need your body

Even her perm on the single cover is #onfleek.

 

Anyway Tina, my point here is that, while you are polishing off your Hall of Fame trophy and looking back on what has been a pretty illustrious career, please don’t view I Need Your Body as that ugly, stumble-block that you try to laugh about now but secretly kills you inside. Because it shouldn’t.

I have and will continue to defend I Need Your Body until the cows come home, as well as continue to play it on repeat at erry flipping house party I go to.

So, on behalf of the children and teens of the 90’s, I would just like to say thank you, Tina. Thank you for one of the best velvet-clad, shadow-dancing disco pop tracks of our generation.

Merci beaucoup.*

 

 

*Because Tina speaks French. She’ll know what it means.

An Open Letter to Rosie Waterland

23 Jun

Dear Rosie,

 

I’ve wanted to write you a letter for some time, however, I don’t know where you buy pen and paper from anymore. So then I thought I’d make use of the world wide interwebs and send you a smart email. But again I was thwarted when I was told that the only acceptable way of communication these days is via open letters. I figured if it was good enough for Beyoncé, it was good enough for me.

My name is Lauren and I am a Melbourne woman with a slight obsession with ‘The Bachelor’. And by ‘slight’ I mean major.

I am also a major fan of yours. I sometimes creep on your twitter account when I need a laugh and believe the term “Oh my Glob” should be documented in urbandictionary.com. (It may already be there… I don’t check websites often. I can’t internet well.)

Anyway, here’s the thing. Two years ago, fuelled by a night of incessant bitching and Savvy B, I began writing about ‘The Bachelor’. Blame Tim Robards and his greasy man-curls. I would watch episodes and then commentate them on my blog. My friends started to read them and told me they were pretty good. So I kept doing it. It was cathartic and a perfectly acceptable reason to cancel social plans to go home and watch reality TV.

It didn’t take long, however, for me to be alerted to the fact that you were also writing about Bachie’s journey and Osher’s glorious weave. I would often be tagged in your posts by lovely, albeit unknowing, readers/friends who thought your work was mine. Incorrect, but a compliment nonetheless.

Because you are better than me. You’re a real writer, for a start. People pay you to write words. I, on the other hand, am a lowly educator/actor with a measly 197 twitter followers. I’m not a big deal. But I do want to keep writing about Bachie 2015 and beyond (I mean, Sam as Bachelorette? SQUEEEE!). It’s become a bit of an outlet for me and something I have channeled into a one-woman musical show (yes, you read that correctly).

So what’s the point of this whole open letter?

To whine about how you are taking all the Bachie goodness away from me? Absolutely not.

To get you to notice me so that we can be best friends? Maybe.

To assure you that I have not, nor do not wish to copy you or use your work for my own gain? Yes.

*Please note: I still read your recaps after I write my own and often suffer from a serious case of WDITOT (Why Didn’t I Think of That?)

** Actually, I’d better come clean and admit I too used the term “Curly-Haired Girl #1 and #2” because THERE WAS NO OTHER LOGICAL NAME FOR THEM!

I guess the real reason I want you to read this letter is to consider it an application. An application to be your understudy. The Robin/NightWing to your Batman. The Louise to your Sam. The loyal pleb who could maybe be there for you should you ever find yourself indisposed with Dirty Street Pie poisoning or stuck in Africa with no reception and no Bunda rings.

I am so ready.

 

Until then, I will be sitting by my phone eagerly awaiting your call. And even if you turn me down, maybe one day we could get together and forehead touch?

forehead touching 2

Too much?

Much love, many journeys.

Lauren