It’s Sunday. Why are you even up?

If you haven’t heard of Ian Dury by now, you’ve managed to get to today years old without experiencing one of the most unique, magnetic, and brilliant wordsmiths to ever rise from the world of popular music.

I envy you. Oh, the things you’re going to discover as you lie about today, flicking from youtube video to youtube video, exclaiming “How the fuck did I not know about this?”.

Yes, the world is gloom. Yes, it’s doom. Yes, we still have to look at the smug, Dunning-Kruger, punch-here arsefaces of Scum, the Orange Humgruffin, and Boris the Bastard.

But it’s Sunday. Time to relax, just for a day. Time to think of reasons to be cheerful.

Why don’t you get back into bed?



If you’ve missed the party so far, because you’re not allowed out unless you’re somebody society is willing to sacrifice or this is a potential booty call, here’s what you could have been listening to instead of saving lives or bonking in the name of exercise:


And so we reach the end of the teaching term. Such as it was.

For Luscious and myself, (and, you know, the 1600-odd other people who come to the school on a daily-or-less basis), it’s been a term interrupted by cyclone, injury, and family drama as well as Covid.

There aren’t many terms where you get to experience natural disaster and plague. I’m vaguely disappointed war hasn’t broken out. We’d have a hell of a bingo card filled out…

But now, thanks to the State Government eveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeentuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllllly realising that we’re not ancient Aztecs, and that perhaps teachers are actual people and not sacrificial subjects, the school term is officially over a week early. The few remaining students are officially kicked out, and the rest of us will be isolated in our various classrooms from Monday morning, desperately trying to work just just what the frigging frig “prepare for alternative teaching environments” is supposed to mean.

So, what better way to celebrate the response to this pandemic by all levels of Government, as well as the policies and general mindset of Scum the Crime Minister and his Lieberal colleagues, than to indulge in my favourite hip-hop band: a collection of exactly the type of people they’d love to marginalise, with an anthem to the year they wish we were living in.



If you’ve missed the party so far, because you’re not allowed out unless you’re somebody society is willing to sacrifice or this is a potential booty call, here’s what you could have been listening to instead of saving lives or bonking in the name of exercise:


Here we are at the seventh day of our isolation watch. And it’s time to bring to the attention of the world– or at least the three of you reading this who haven’t witnessed a single Australian fireworks show since 1984 — one of my favourite underrated Aussie bands, GANGgajang.

Most famed for a nationalistic slice of 1980s pop perfection everyone thinks is called This is Australia, but which is actually called Sounds of Then, because Australians don’t actually listen to lyrics if the hear the world Austrayyyaaaa and they’re outside during a National Holiday (TLDR: pissed), their self-titled debut album inspired such lust in me that I begged my poor, long suffering mother for it for several months. Subsequently, she bought me a receipt…… and The Best of RamJam, because that was as close as she could remember when she hit the shop.

That receipt brought me a lot of joy over the years, as well as the album it enabled me to finally get my hands on.

Keen-eyed readers will have noted that I’m basically using these posts to comment on the world around me as the Days of Covid-19 (c) (IT’S MY MOVIE, DAMN IT! MINE!) continue.

So I leaned very strongly towards the classic House of Cards as an obvious metaphor for the way simple things are turning to shit around us. Seriously: today was food shopping day, and despite visiting both major supermarkets this town has, there was literally not one bar of soap or bag of flour of any type between them. Not even the ones made out of things soap and flour shouldn’t be made from, like toddler’s toenails, or charcoal, remained.

Instead, I’ve gone with the song that made me first fall in love with Buzz Bidstrup’s answer to getting shafted from some decent The Angels wages. Gimme Some Lovin’ might not be the obvious choice of title for our Apocalypsalooza, but given there’s some confusion as to whether you can Level 3 travel restrictions as long as you’re on a booty call, (I mean, I’m good, but even I might draw the line at classifying it as ‘exercise’) and with lyrics like

Well it’s happening again, like I always thought it would.

Mad men dancing in the streets and fire drains.

And it’s a strange infatuation, taking off across the nation.

Crazy darling combination. Since it’s one last move and it’s all over

perhaps it’s not so out of left field as all that.


So: thanks for helping to facilitate a lifelong love, Mum, and for the rest of you, enjoy.



If you’ve missed the party so far, because you’re not allowed out unless you’re somebody society is willing to sacrifice or this is a potential booty call, here’s what you could have been listening to instead of saving lives or bonking in the name of exercise:













As we slide towards the end of the first week of our album in isolation, thoughts turn towards our own mortality. The death toll worldwide continues to rise as the incompetent criminals such as Drumpf and our own Scum openly put their own interests above the safety of their countrymen. For all the jokes and sarcasm I throw about on this website, times are genuinely scary: nobody has any experience of this, and the more inaction and overt greed are the open directions taken by our leaders, the more the general populace is forced to act for itself.

No bad thing, perhaps: when faced with a Crime Minister whose policy seems to be to shut down Parliament, award himself oligarchical powers, and turn the actual administration of the country over to a select crew of mining cronies while he holes himself up and proselytises his inane happy handclapper zealotry like some sort of inbred bush league Adam Susan.

So, while Nero fiddles with himself and commits the country to his lunatic faith, it’s time to send a message of our own. You have your faith, Scum? We have Faith No More. And a song that may be in poor taste, but sadly, is timely as all buggery.



If you’re late to the party, here’s where we’ve ben so far:




We reach the fifth day of our album today, and as we approach the end of the first week alone with only our thoughts, Pornhub, and that quarter bottle of Kahlua with an expiry date in the late 90s we discovered at the back of the cupboard on a nibblies expedition for company, our imagination turn towards the problem of what sort of world will be left after the plaguepocalypse. Will we still have the same political structures? Will we turn our backs on the toxic stench of capitalism and replace it with something warmer, fuzzier, market gardenier? Will we finally legalise the hunting of Kardashians?

Today’s musical choice has been a staple of my playlist from the moment the first bars of Heroin Girl elbowed the shit hiphop off the Triple J airwaves for a few blessed minutes. Snarling, sneering, commercialised safety punk pop they may be, but Everclear are fucking good snarling, sneering, commercialised safety punk pop. A string of wry, bittersweet slices of Generation Angst have kept me firmly in the fanbase ever since, from So Much for the Afterglow, through Local God, to the always brilliant Santa Monica and more.

Today’s offering is a little glimmer of hope as we look towards our future of S&M leatherware and spiky cars foever ploughing through desert sands in pursuit of one-armed women and water. If Scum the Crime Minister continues his magic trick of simultaneously sitting on his hands, twiddling his fingers, and shoving his thumbs up his arse, more than a few of us will come to know the joy of a welfare Christmas.



If you’ve missed the party so far, this is where our musical wanderings have led us:



Every day for 26 days, I’m picking a band from my playlist to help you cope with being locked up in your living room with only your family, pets, 86000 TV channels, your DVD and CD collections, books, magazines, porn, the internet, your liquor cabinet, and your fridge for company.

Today is the fourth day of your existential nightmare, so what better band to accompany thoughts of death and the destruction of all you thought society stood for than the apotheosis of alternative punk social commentary thoughtmongering, the Dead Kennedys? My choice for today: a song as relevant today as it was when it appeared on my favourite DK album, Frankenchrist way back in 1985. This is Stars and Stripes of Corruption.

Consider the landscape created by the Orange Humgruffin, and the Australia you’ve let Scum the Crime Minister build for himself and his mining company friends, and try to enjoy.


If you’ve missed the party so far, here’s what you can catch up on:

A is for the Angels

B is for the Butthole Surfers

C is for The Cat Empire




For 26 days, I’m posting 26 bands to help you pass the dull necessity of spending time with your loved ones.

Today, we arrive at ‘C’. Given you’ve been in lockdown for at least three days, it’s appropriate to highlight a band almost designed for getting drunk to.

The Cat Empire are part party band, part 80s slacker band, and part party band. They’re infectious, raucous, hilarious, and just bloody well fun. The Wine Song is best listened to live, drunk, and joining the hell in. It’s 7.45 in the morning, you’ve got nothing better to do.

Let’s get pissed.

Get the kids smashed, line them up in front of the TV, and join in.




If you’re late to the party, here’s the rest of the playlist so far:

A is for The Angels.

B is for The Butthole Surfers.