Wil's Articles

Australian Of The Year

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 03:09:00 GMT

It's Australia Day on Wednesday, and the big question on everyone's lips is who will be crowned Australian Of The Year? I was very disappointed to see rower Sally Robbins failed to earn a nomination, because more than any other person I think Lay-Down Sally represents ordinary Australians.

While your Ian Thorpe's of the world are winning medals, almost single-handedly supporting the hair-product industry, and generally just being "fully sick", Sally is a hero we can all relate to.

Let's face it, there's not one Aussie who hasn't at some stage got three-quarters of the way through something hard and gone "bugger it, that'll do!" But barring this gross oversight, the majority opinion seems to be that on the 26th it will come down to either Victoria's Rod Cocks (who I love because it's the only time I can use the words "rod" and "cocks" in the same sentence without my editor getting mad) and some actress chick called Nicole Kidman.

On sheer stats, the two are hard to split. Cocks is a humanitarian who despite being nearly killed by bombs in both Baghdad and Bali still continues to help people, while Kidman is a movie star who despite being in bombs like Far and Away and Cold Mountain still continues to act.

But at the end of the day while I think all the nominees are very deserving, my vote has to be with Nicole because she's the only one on the list I have been on a date with.

Okaaay, you twisted my arm, I'll tell you all about it. About two years ago on Triple J Adam Spencer and I were lucky enough to do a phone interview with the lovely Ms Kidman, and asked her to comment on the rumours about her love-life. (At the time the gossip mags had her dating everyone from Jude Law to her fake nose from The Hours.)

She laughed and said the problem was every time she was seen with a man the media assumed they were having a hot, steamy sex. So I said, "well next time you are in the country, why don't you have a drink with me, that would be awesome for my reputation!"

That was the day Nicole Kidman learned the same lesson Paris Hilton was going to learn a year later- it's all well and good to have fun, but just don't do it on tape- because she replied: "Okay, I'm back at Christmas, let's go for a drink then!"

We must have played that audio grab about 1000 times, to the point where even the guy who programs the Simpsons at Channel 10 thought we were repeating it a bit too much.

A piece of tape hasn't been stretched that thin since Sharon Stone's leg-crossing scene in Basic Instinct came out on VCR, by Christmas it was so warped it was hard to tell if it was Nicole Kidman agreeing to have a drink with me, or Peter Harvey... Canberra.

Sadly though, Christmas came and the promised drink never eventuated, so in the New Year when I spotted a picture of Nicole in the paper visiting sick children at a Sydney hospital I thought I would have some fun.

Launching into my best John Laws I started pounding the table: "How dare you Nicole? How dare you be seen with sick children when you are meant to be having a drink with me? It makes me sick! I don't care if they are make-a-wish kids, how about my wish to pash you?" And that's when the studio phone started to ring.

Now normally if Adam Spencer handed me a phone and said "it's Nicole Kidman on the line" I'd think he was joking, but he said in that voice you reserve to say things like "both your parents are dead".

It was indeed Ms Kidman, who was such a good sport she not only agreed to go for a drink with me, but also let us do a talk-back on where we could go. (My fave was the listener who suggested the Moonlight cinema because that night they were playing Mission Impossible.)

In the end we agreed to meet at my local RSL, and to my absolute surprise- just like my teenage sex life-she came alone. No publicists, no managers, no bodyguards or nipple-tweakers, just a down-to-earth, smart, friendly, and surprisingly funny, Aussie chick having a few 1970s price beers at the local rissole.

(Although I must say for the record we had three rounds and I got all three, they obviously didn't have change for a million dollar note at the RSL.)

But she was right about the gossip media. Our innocent little drink ended up being reported as a "date" everywhere from E! News to US People magazine where they really pushed the limits of truth in journalism by referring to me as "one of Sydney's most eligible batchelors".

Not that my girlfriend Amy was impressed, she just laughed and said: "Dude, be realistic. I love you and even I have to get drunk to find you attractive. As if Nicole Kidman would be interested!"

But for a little country boy like myself, it was one of the best couple of hours of my life, and so that's why on Wednesday Nicole has my vote for Australian Of The Year. Well unless Rodney Cocks takes me out for a drink before then, hey, he might even shout!

Australia The Movie

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 23:56:00 GMT

So have you seen Baz Luhrmann's new movie Australia yet? (Although if it were truly a movie about Australia surely it would have been made by a bloke called Bazza Luhrmann and be called Straya!)

But I digress, what did you think of the ending? There has been a lot of rumors flying about- although I must say denied by Baz- that he was forced to change the movie to a happy ending after a test audience didn't like the original.

(Apparently in the original downer ending it was revealed that Hugh Jackman had been dead the whole time and was just a ghost being seen by the Aboriginal kid, and then Nicole Kidman took off her clothes and she was really a man.)

I have to confess at first I was offended by the idea that the fabulous Mr Luhrmann, an internationally renowned and successful artist might have been forced to change his vision just because a bunch of people who have nothing better to do with their day than go and see a moofie in exchange for a piece of free pizza and some cask wine said he should.

In fact I was more than offended, I was outraged. He is an artist. Who has the right to tell him what his vision should be? I mean did someone lean over Leonardo Da Vinci's shoulder when he was painting the Mona Lisa and say: "Look it's pretty good Leo, but couldn't you have got her to smile? Seriously dude, just before you did the mouth you should have shouted 'say cheese'."

Did someone say to Ken Done: "Hey Ken, how about you try painting something other than koalas, the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge?" (Ok, maybe that's a bad example.)

Surely a storyteller should be left to tell the story the way they want to, but the more I thought about it, the more I started to think the test monkeys were right.

I mean who really wants to go to the movies to be moved, challenged and have their thoughts provoked? Not me. If I want that I will go down to the local art-house cinema and watch something from I have to read about an Uzbekistani farmer and his existential relationship with a goat.

When I go to the movies I want some escapism, to eat some over-priced popcorn, not have to read any subtitles and watch some stuff blow up and then see the heroes live happily ever after.

But why stop at giving Australia a happy ending. I mean everyone loves a happy ending. (Although occasionally it does cost a little extra). Why not re-edit some other so-called hit movies to give them the happy ending they deserve too.

Let's just take a look at one of Baz's other movies, Romeo and Juliet. Now that was a great movie, Leo and Claire, guns and violence and music, but what a bummer ending. I mean I know it was based on a play by some old dude like William Shakespeare or David Williamson something, but did they really have to die in the end?

Surely Juliet could have discovered Romeo had poisoned himself, and given him CPR while ringing the poison advisory hotline for some information. The paramedics could have pumped his stomach and they could have lived happily ever after pumping out really cute kids. At the very least it would have meant there could have been a sequel.

But we're just getting started. What about Titanic? I mean I know it's the highest grossing film of all-time, but what a sucky ending. Surely Kate Winslet could have scooted over a little on that wardrobe door and let Leo on as well? Or was she worried about having leg room to do her exercises so she didn't get deep-vein thrombosis?

In fact, why did the boat even have to hit the iceberg at all? It could have narrowly missed the iceberg thanks to some great stunt driving by the captain (who in the remastered version would be played by Sandra Bullock) and Leo and Kate could have bonked the whole way. It would have been like a big-budget Love Boat.

There are so many movies that would be better with a happy ending.

Don't tell me Bambi wouldn't be a better movie if Bambi's mum just got a flesh wound? Or in Weekend At Bernies at the end it turned out that Bernie was just a really heavy sleeper? Or if Patrick Swayze had stayed in Whoopi at the end of Ghost and got it on with Demi Moore? Or if in Gallipoli the Aussies had won? Or if in Thelma and Louise they had just done an awesome donut on the cliff and that cops had let them drive to Mexico?

Million Dollar Baby would be a much better movie if it finished with her becoming champion of the world! Brokeback Mountain would have won more awards if Heath and Jake had opened a B and B together. Trainspotting would be better if they got rid of the drugs and made it a movie about people who really like trains. And I wouldn't be scarred for life if at the end of The Crying Game she took off her clothes and she was just a really hot naked chick.

And don't even get me started on Jaws. That movie scared the crap out of me. I couldn't go near the beach for ages. Instead of a scary shark, why couldn't Jaws have been a friendly dolphin who solved crimes like Flipper?

But it's not just modern movies that need a re-edit, there are some so-called "classics" that have rubbish endings too.

Like Casablanca. I mean that is a great movie, amazing actors, memorable lines, but you can't tell me it would be remembered even more fondly if at the end if Ingrid Bergman had stayed with Humphrey Bogart and they had teamed up with Sam to turn Ric's Cafe into Ric's Karaoke Bar.

Some critics have called Citizen Kane the greatest film of all-time, but what the hell do critics know? All that stuff about Rosebud being his sled, that was rubbish. It should have been revealed that Rosebud was where his family had their holiday house when he was a kid.

And finally I know people seem to have some sort of enduring affection for the movie Gone With The Wind, but you can't tell me that wouldn't have been a much better movie if at the end Clark Gable had said: "Frankly my dear I do give a damn... in fact you had me at hello!"

Bumper Stickers

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

If there is one thing guaranteed to give me road rage, it is "Baby On Board" bumper stickers. Who cares if there's a bloody baby on board? It's not like I'm going to spot that stupid sticker and think: "Well I was going to run that car off the road resulting in the fiery deaths of everyone involved... but now that I know there is a baby on board."

Seriously folks, unless the Baby On Board answers to the name Spice or John Burgess, do us all a favour and keep it to yourself. Other motorists don't feel the need to point out who is "on board". You never see a sticker saying "Annoying Old Tool In Hat Going 80 In The Right Hand Lane On Board", although admittedly it's easy to identify those drivers because on the back of their car it says "Volvo".

Okay, I admit a $2 strip of paper and contact might seem like a minor thing to get so fired up about, but lately I've noticed a direct correlation between the type of bumper sticker someone has on their car, and the quality of driver they are. Leading the charge are the "Honk If You're A Hoon" brigade, groups of boof-head blokes in their hotted up cars, who are not only sharing a ride, but a brain.

You can usually identify these idiots by the "No Fear" emblem on their back windscreen, which if truth in advertising applied to bumper stickers would more accurately read "No Idea What The Road Rules Are"; "No Way Any Of The Girls I Yell At Out The Window Will Ever Sleep With Me"; or "No Fear That My Penis Is Anywhere Near As Big As The Muffler On This Car."

They're closely followed by what I like to term the "Shoot, Root and Drive a Ute" mob who have their 4Wds wall-papered with slogans like "I Hunt And I Vote" or "Guns Don't Kill People."

Personally I've never really understood those stickers in Australia. I know in the US they are a tool of lobbyists to create pressure for special interest groups, but here voting is compulsory. Everybody votes.

You may as well have a bumper sticker on the back of your car that says "I poo and I vote" or "I read Dr Seuss and I vote, on a boat, with a goat!"

And yes, I guess you are technically correct Darren, Sharon (and your kids Karen and Aaron) when you say guns don't kill people- they don't. Bullets do. But guns help. Bullets aren't much good if you just chuck them at someone. You rarely hear a news report from a schoolyard in the US say "the carnage was terrible, the suspect had a handful of bullets- and a tennis racquet!"

Next up, proving the Highway To Heaven will be grid-locked come peak hour at the Apocalypse, are Christian drivers.

Now before the complaint letters from Matthew, Mark, Luke and John start flooding in, I should point out I have nothing but respect for God-botherers, and Christian bumper stickers are some of the wittiest on the road: "I considered atheism but there weren't enough holidays"; "Answer my prayer, steal this car"; "God is dead - Nietzche... Nietzche is dead. - God"; and my personal fave- "Jesus had a mullet". But just because you know you're going to Heaven doesn't mean you should drive like you have an urgent appointment.

If I get cut off by one more car with "Jesus Loves Me"on the back, I'm going to get one printed that says: "Jesus Doesn't Love Me, He's Just Using Me For Sex."

And I'm certainly praying the Lord has a special parking space reserved in hell for motorists who use their mobile while driving. I've heard of people answering God's call, but if you're going to do it while in traffic at least go hands free.

The bible-bloke who cut me off last week (he had obviously read the part of the Bible where it says indicating is a sin) had a sticker on the back of his car proudly proclaiming "God Made The Earth In 6 Days." I was so mad, when we stopped at the next traffic lights I got out of my car and shouted "that's pretty impressive, but Backyard Blitz would have done it in 48 hours and they would have sent Adam and Eve to Tahiti for the weekend!"

But without a doubt, the worst drivers in the world can be easily identified by the simple slogan affixed to their rear windshield- Magic Happens. Yes, magic happens, you got your license. If I get stuck behind one more of these meandering morons in peak hour traffic I'm going to get out of my car, cut them in half, and say: "Let's see if magic happens now... "

But just when I was convinced these bastard bumper-stickers were sending me barmy, I found out I was not alone in my rage. Stuck in traffic I noticed the car in front of me, which if there was a crap bumper sticker Olympics would have won gold, silver and bronze.

Not only did they have a Jesus Fish and a "Magic Happens, but underneath them a smarmy sticker which simply asked "What If Everybody Started Telling The Truth?" However I obviously wasn't the first person to have been bothered by this driving billboard, because down the bottom of the sticker in black texta, right under the "What If Everybody Started Telling The Truth?" somebody had scrawled "They'd tell you, you can't drive, you prick!"

Ah, maybe magic does happen after all.

Counselling

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 00:05:00 GMT

Is it okay for blokes to cry? I don’t mean at the normal stuff like when your footy team loses, Gilly retires, or when they call last drinks at the pub, but actually have a good old-fashioned bawl?

The reason I ask is I’ve not been having the best trot in my personal life of late, and recently found myself having a streak where I cried at least once-a-day for almost six weeks.

Put it this way, you know something is going a bit pear-shaped when even the cats start staring at you like: “Crap, we’re going to have to start building an ark!”

It got to the point where every time a pizza delivery boy arrived at the house I had to pretend I had just been cutting onions, or watching the end of the English Patient.

So I finally decided I need to talk to somebody. Sadly most of the people I wanted to talk to charged $4.95 per minute, so I started thinking if you have a problem, and no-one else can help… who do you call?

Then I realised that was the theme from the A-Team, and probably wasn’t that helpful, so instead I decided to go and visit a counsellor.

Now as an Aussie bloke, I have to confess, that is a pretty tough thing to do. To walk through a stranger’s door and say: “I need some help!”

(Particularly as the first time I tried it I had the wrong address and startled an elderly couple in their living room.)

But my counsellor is really lovely, and really helpful, and for the past few months I have been popping in once a week for an hour to spills the beans on everything from life to love to work.

Although my radio partner Lehmo still teases me that if I talk about him, then he should get to book in the session straight after and get the right of reply.

And despite the fact that the sessions are sometimes very hard work, there are still a bunch of little things that bring a smile to my face about my weekly appointment.

Like the fact that for the first few weeks I couldn’t get the nagging feeling out of my head that my counsellor reminded me of someone. Then as I sat there one week I realised who it was: Jessica Fletcher from the TV series Murder She Wrote.

Now I can’t get the image out of my head that she is some sort of super-counsellor, who solves people’s emotional problems by day, and then solves mysteries by night.

The second thing is the office where I go for my sessions has no couch.

Now if Hollywood movies have taught me anything it’s that a) any nerdy girl at school can become the Prom Queen by taking off her glasses and shaking out her hair, and b) that when you go to the shrink you lay on a couch.

Forget the pub with no beer, I go to the counsellor with no couch.

Well technically that’s no exactly true, she has a little two-seater but when I try and lay on that my legs fall over the end like I am a backpacker dossing on a sofa in Earl’s Court.

Then there’s the notes. You see while I talk my counsellor takes notes, which I assume is pretty standard psychiatric shtick.

But lately I have noticed I have become completely obsessed by what stuff she chooses to make notes about and what she doesn’t.

I’m trying to talk honestly about my emotional issues, but all I am thinking in my head is: “Why did she not write anything down when I told her the story about my PE teacher who used to pull his pants down to his ankles when he used the urinal… but couldn’t stop writing when I told her I found the Brand Power lady a bit hot?”

But despite the heavy material we cover, the thing I love the most about my counsellor is her wicked sense of humour.

After all they do say laughter is the best medicine- although I have to be honest with you I prefer drugs.

(I have lost count of the amount of times I have lay around in a park hoping someone would plant drugs on me.)

But I digress. It might seem weird for someone who does what I do for a gig, but there were times of late where I forgot how wonderful it was to laugh out loud.

That all ended when one day after I had spilled a particularly emotional story, and was feeling very sorry for myself, my counsellor just looked at me and said: “Isn’t this funny?”

I was taken aback for a moment, looked up, wiped the tears from my eyes (I hadn’t been crying, I had been watching the English Patient while cutting onions) and asked softly: “What? What is funny about this?”

She just smiled and said: “Well normally people pay to listen to you talk… but you have to pay me!”

And then I cried again. But this time they were tears of laughter. And it felt good.

Best Man

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 23:58:00 GMT

I had something quite exciting happen to me recently. My brother asked me to be best man at his wedding.

Now obviously that’s exciting because I love him and I’m honoured to be a part of such an important day of his life.

But I’m mostly excited because I love the title “best man”.

You see it’s not often in the 35 years of my life that I have ever been referred to as the “best” at anything.

And let’s be honest, as the sort of bloke who when something breaks at my house needs to dial Hire-A-Hubby to tell me the number for Hire-A-Hubby, I’m just happy to be officially referred to as a “man”.

Although the title of “best man” at a wedding is a little overstated.

I mean for starters, your presence there is certainly less important than say, the groom, which immediately relegates you to “second best man.”

Then of course, in most cases the priest is also male (and if you believe in that sort of thing, has a direct line to God) so that knocks you down the order again.

And that’s without even considering more often than not, there is the Father of The Bride, which means you are now not even on the podium coming in as the “fourth best man”.

(And don’t even get me started on a gay wedding where there are two grooms, two fathers of the bride, and I guess probably two best men too.)

In fact, now that I think about it, the only way the title “best man” could be appropriate at a wedding is if two lesbians, who had also been raised by two lesbians each, were getting married and had a female celebrant.

But I digress.

I was excited, but also nervous. I only have one brother, even if I’m really only the “fourth best man” I still want to make sure I do a good job.

Now the speech bit I think I can handle, but the rest I have no idea. Do I get a stripper? (For the buck’s party obviously, even I know that would be bad taste at the church)

You see I’ve never been a massive fan of strip clubs. To me it’s like taking a starving man to a restaurant, letting him look at the food, smell the food, but then making him go home hungry.

But I also don’t want to be the boring bucks bloke. I decided I needed some help, so I called a recently married mate and asked what my responsibilities were as best man.

He said: “Don’t worry mate, it’s a piece of piss. You just get a nice black suit, a cool car, say a few profound words and fight crime.”

It was at this point I realised that due to the bad reception in my house he thought I had asked him what my responsibilities were as Batman.

I decided instead to go to the internet.

After spending a few minutes looking at sites that seemed to skip the wedding, and just concentrate on what happens on the wedding night, I finally found what I was looking for: “The Comprehensive Guide To Being A Best Man.”

“Step One” I read: “Above all else be organised and offer constant moral support.”

My shoulders slumped in despair. Organisation and moral support, my two Achilles heels.

(I know you are only meant to have one Achilles heel, but bugger it, you have two heals, so I think it is only fair.)

You see, above all else, I am really badly organised. For a moment I actually thought: “Would it be inappropriate to get my manager to organise my brother’s bucks party?”

And when it comes to moral support, well, let’s just say I don’t have a foolproof barometer when it comes to knowing where to draw the line.

The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear, and then I wait for the angel to say something before realising the devil spiked his drink with rohypnol.

I guess the best I can do is make sure I keep reassuring my bro that he is doing the right thing, and if he changes his mind at the last moment have a car full of petrol, with a glove box full of plane tickets, false passports and Tony Mockbell’s old wigs.

I read on. “Step Two: Organise measurements for suits, and pick up groom’s outfit on the day!”

What? Organise measurements? Am I really meant to do that? What is this, Queer Eye For The Engaged Guy?

And what if their measurements change before the big day? Am I meant to keep ringing the rest of the bridal party and say: “So dude, you still making it to the gym? I’m sending you a couple of vouchers for Bikram yoga!”

As it turns out my bro is going to pick up his own suit, which is probably a good idea, as I would probably leave it to the last moment and then just take whatever was left and it would be weird when the priest said: “Do you Kelly take… um, er… well it seems to be Spongebob Squarepants.”

Luckily the next few steps seemed a little easier.

I was happy to dance with the bridesmaids (as long as they knew the Macerena, YMCA, Time Warp or Nutbush); I was happy to organise the tossing of the garter (although I wondered if I couldn’t find enough single men, could I invite men whose relationships were a bit rocky?) and I was even happy to sign the marriage license (although I’ll have to be careful not to go with my usual: “Thanks for watching, all the best, Wil.”)

And then my palms started to sweat as we came to the Big One. “Final Step: Look after the ring!”

You see your main job above all else is to take care of, and guard with your life the ring, until the vital moment when it can be taken out of your palm and flung into the fires of Mordor.

Oh, sorry, I got distracted for a minute by Lord of The Rings on Foxtel. Don’t worry I’m sure it will all be alright on the day, after all I’m the fourth best man.