The Boomtown Rap

You know, don’t you, you mostly taciturn hordes of Boomtown Rap faithfuls, that my default position is to support the little guy in any stoush with management? Oh believe it. My experience of managers is almost entirely negative. They seem to me a loathsome breed in general: small on EQ, big on arrogance and self-regard, prone to blame-shifting, defensiveness and rationalisation while projecting these same flaws on to subordinate adversaries (and, by contrast, licking the arses of their superiors regardless of the shit that comes out of them)… I could go on, but you get the idea. Read the rest…

As readers of this blog will know, I have been a home-baked pizza fanatic for a while now. I’ve done lots of experimenting, tried lots of tweaks. Masochists can trace the evolution of my pizza sojourn from its beginnings via the links at the bottom of this post.

While I’m no fan of Masterchef (rave building…but that’s another post), Gary Mehigan and Georgieboy Calombaris are undoubtedly excellent chefs and I do make sure I catch the Friday night ‘Masterclass’ episodes (he lied, trying to suggest he exercised some degree of discrimination, when in fact he hasn’t missed an episode: blame a long-standing trash TV addiction). Last Friday’s class was particularly interesting for me because it featured Gaz and Georgieboy demonstrating home-baked pizza.

Earlier in the week, there had been an ‘Invention Test’ in which the contestants were given one hour to turn out “the best woodfired pizzas in the known universe” – or some such silly hyperbolic Georgism (can someone pleeease dunk his fucking scriptwriter in the deep fryer?).

That’s one hour including making the dough! Errr, pizza dough has yeast in it – and yeasted dough needs a lot longer proofing time than 1 hour! So WTF? Read the rest…

I was big fan of the first Underbelly series. It was genuinely edgy, tense, confronting. You felt like you were looking through a keyhole into the darker reaches of the underworld.

Series 2 was nowhere near as good. It was still gritty, still had its moments, but was all a bit try-hard. The white-knuckle tension of amphetamine-paced Series 1, that sense of the ever impending threat of explosive violence, had slackened off. Further, where the original series was full of characters that were as compelling as they were shady, Matthew Newton’s portrayal of psycho ‘Mr Big’ Terry Clark was a bit schlocky, and the rest weren’t very interesting. I struggle to remember them apart from George Freeman, Robert Trimbole, and Clark’s girlfriend Alison (who can forget Anna Hutchison’s glorious tits?).

Well, going by the two-hour opening double-episode to Series 3 – The Golden Mile – the quality trend has continued on its downward spiral. Read the rest…

Here they are again. Random, disorganised, informed by personal prejudice…just how you like it. Yes you do. YES, you DO!

Right, now that that’s established, are you all sitting comftybold two square on your botties? Then I’ll begin…

2009 Boomtown Rap Free-to-air TV Awards: The BR Bogeys

Pet Semetary Award: Hey Hey It’s Saturday. Whose idea was it to dig this rotting cadaver up, give it mouth-to-mouth and send it lurching back to TV land? I never could understand the popularity of Hey Hey even back in its halcyon days, but what do I know – exhuming it was a ratings winner. Daryl Somers proved there is plenty to eat in the afterlife. Other than that, what to say except thank God for the blackface ‘Red Faces’ skit – anything that riles Harry Connick Jnr gets my tick of approval.

Family Show of the Year: John Safran’s Race Relations. This is confessional comedy taken to its limits (until the next Safran outing). Read the rest…

During the early elimination rounds of MasterChef Australia, I suggested in my post entitled ‘MasterChef Australia’ – Egos in Aprons, Seeking Celebrity that this was just another ‘reality TV’ show, and therefore all about entertainment and ratings, rather than determining which of the contestants was the best cook. A fake, in other words. I predicted that the final 20 would be selected not solely on cooking prowess, but on other criteria to do with maximising the appeal of the show. My punt, ignoring the cooking ability factor altogether, was that the finalists would fit into the following categories: Read the rest…

As expected, ABC’s Four Corners piece on the gang bang culture of NRL lit the mainstream blogs up with comments from a ranting public. Predictably, they’ve ranged from boofhead defences of Matthew Johns and his mates to indignant condemnations of all males as rapists and calls for mass-castration. (Why do I keep reading this shit? Out of some perverse anthropological investigative urge, or an enduring trash aesthetic, or…nah, it’s something baser, but let’s not waste time on damaging self-reflection here.)

The unfortunate New Zealand “bun’s” description of what went on that night set me pondering. She painted a picture of debauchery that could have inspired Fellini to surpass the decadent reaches of Satyricon: NRL buddies queued up for their turn at her, while others sat around the room naked, watching on and masturbating. A retired ex-coach explained this sordid scene away as a form of “team bonding”.

Amongst all the online banter I have not seen a single post expressing my reaction, though I can’t imagine I am alone in formulating the following question. Slap me down with a sweat-soaked jockstrap if I’m astray here, but for all the blokey posturing, isn’t the notion of a group of buff young male athletes sitting around bicep to bicep, disrobed and wanking over their peers stirring each others porridge, a trifle…erm…gay?

Melbourne’s Pasquale “Nic” Ciampa may have ruled himself out as a contender for MasterChef Australia (see his post-wimpout interview here), but he sure as hell qualifies for a less prestigious award – MasterSook Australia.

This pathetic twat quit the show in a blubbering mess, insisting that he and wifey were “one and the same unit” – or some such shit – and just couldn’t bear to be parted any longer. 2 weeks with the other contestants in a lux Sydney apartment overlooking the harbour was too long for mummy’s boy Nic, and too long for wifey, it seems. Sobbed Nic as he announced his departure from the series: “It just shows how much we love each other.”

Bullshit, mate – it shows nothing of the sort. It shows that you and your wife have major dependency issues. This ain’t love that’s calling you home – it’s need. Read the rest…

A while ago, in one of those bored moods sitting in front of the monitor googling old school peers, ex-lovers, ex-wish-they’d-been-lovers, distant family relations etc, I thought I’d drop in on my old mate Matt from abstractgourmet. Many moons ago, we enjoyed an “exchange” in the Comments thread of my post And the Boomtown Rap Silver Spoon Best Perth Food Critic Award goes to… . I was out of inspiration for further aimless stone-turning on the web, so why not pay ol’ Matt a visit and see what he was up to, I asked myself. Go on, Self urged in glad response. So I did. Read the rest…

The Boomtown Rap Awards for 2008 are as disorganised, ill-conceived and random as the inaugural Awards last year – more so, since it has taken me a few days into the New Year to get this post up. The nominations arrive by way of an increasingly deficient cerebral RAM delivery service and, like the final listings, are merely a reflection of my own prejudices and tastes.

While I may be justly accused of narcissm here, I reject such charges. Why? As with last year’s Awards, I invite reader nominations and suggestions for additional awards not covered below (just post ‘em in the Comments). This is a democratic interactive bitch-fest waiting to happen. Is it MY fault that no bastard took me up last year?

Awright, let’s get down and doity and kick off with the 2008 Boomtown Rap free-to-air TV Awards: The BR Bogeys. Read the rest…

Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm…!

We shoulda known. The intense self-focus, delusions of grandeur, messiah complex, conversation-bogarting…the bloke’s perpetually off his gourd on hooch! Well, I dunno about you, but I found that admission on Q&A inspiring. So much so I was moved to verse.

To the tune of I Love To Have A Beer With Duncan (and with due apologies to Slim Dusty):

I’d Love To Have A Spliff With Malcolm Read the rest…