On reading the below post you shall realise that my upcoming performance of Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen, has seemingly permeated my lexicon with some fortitude. 

Oh My.

Well I am outraged, appalled, aghast and generally quite jolly pissed off with humanity.

Today an injustice was perpetrated against my law-abiding self (OK except for the time I nicked the postcards from the Vatican bookshop, but hell God has enough cash.) and I am totally slutted off.

The day began very pleasantly.

I had a costume fitting for our upcoming Wellington show; "Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen" where I wrangled the G-Cups into an empire line dress, and was pleasantly surprised to not look as pregnant as you would imagine.

I then hit Les Mills for a Body Attack.  Now in case this alarms you, relax.  That wasn't the injustice in the form of a random Lesbian relation of Heather Mills laying into me with a meat cleaver, but rather me going hard out at my local gym.

Then I got home and indulged in a new porridge creation whilst reading the paper.  I have splashed out on some mixed spice, some cinnamon and some caramel essence and can very much recommend the results.

Martha Stewart eat your heart out.  (Or maybe your cellmate anyway as a forced exchange for super tampons.)

Then Esta arrived to watch me assemble a salad to take with us to the Grey Lynn Festival.  We then dawdled down to Grey Lynn Park via a mate's place AND more importantly the bottle store for some well deserved bruskis.  (I am always an advocate for exercising to create space for more calories of the non-nutritional liquid variety.)

Once a spot was selected amidst the THOUSANDS of very funkily dressed, expertly coiffed, organically fed masses of Grey Lynn, my blanky was unleashed.  

SIDEBAR:  My blanky has been with me since before the dawn of time.  To the ignorant the dawn of time is 1974 because as I am the centre of my universe obviously nothing existed before me.  It is decorated with lions and elephants and bears, oh my, and is a fetching shade of orange, black and brown.  

Once ensconced on the Blanky there was much merriment in drinking, eating salad and generally talking shit about some of the drunken bimbos around us.  We waited in vain for the bands and became disappointed to realise there was actually going to be no real entertainment of any nature. Apparently this was to deter drinking, but if the volume of the bimbos was anything to go by they could have put Kevin Costner onstage explaining Waterworld and the girls would have still been doing tequila slammers everytime he said "post-apocalyptic". 

To escape the tittering tits I decided it was time to go for a wander about the craft and food stalls and see if I could find some stereo saturated fats to clog up my arteries.  I got up and went to put on my trusty Havaianas.  Havaianas that took me months to find in the right colour and size.  Havaianas that I spent a stupid amount of money buying for a pair of bloody jandals.  Havaianas that have travelled the world with me.  Havaianas that I love.  

And they were fucking gone.

Some butt munch had stolen my bloody JANDALS!!!  From underneath my nose.  Some twat burger of indeterminate parentage put their festering pustulous dickwad feet into my jandals and waddled off to no doubt soil themselves in a corner crying softly and rocking backwards and forwards like the socio-psychopathic jandal fetishist fuckface they no doubt are.

Angry, me, no, where do you get that idea?

Is funny actually I am REALLY angry about it, which on dissection is a little weird.  I mean it's not like I was forced into a group orgy with Brad Shipton, my 2 million barrels of oil weren't hijacked and I didn't just land the cleaning contract at Guantanamo Bay.  I just had some shoes nicked.

I haven't felt that attached to some rubber since, well, um, never mind.

I have decided the reason for my misplaced mountains of vitriol is that as a Kiwi my jandals are sacrosanct.  To steal them is to turn your back on the All Blacks as they Haka, it is to tell Kate Sheppard to "Shut up and cook me some eggs bitch", it is to punch a Hobbit in the face and it is to draw the Goodnight Kiwi and that cat doing it with a Kangaroo.  

In short it is wrong.

So shame on you Jandal Thief of Grey Lynn.  Shame on you.  I just hope that walking in my shoes will change you.  As you follow my footsteps so too will you follow my path.  The fact that this path leads to excessive consumption of Sauvignon Blanc and inappropriate face-raping of dodgy boys shall be your punishment.  

So there.

(Oh and if you're wondering how I got my delicate tootsies home I just nicked a pair of jandals I saw lying about.)

PS Tune into Dirty Girl with Penny Ashton Spoken word radio extravaganza on December 9th on Fleet FM as I stand in for Dirty Wordz with Shane Hollands!  My very own radio show for the very first time!  Very excited.

Austen Found

I am bored bored bored with politics, (though the Maori Party's alliance with National is somewhat flabbergasting) and so hereby announce this post a politics free zone.

So what shall we speak of instead....

I have it!

Jane Austen.

Why of course you cry, that makes perfect sense you murmur, wtf is she on about, you twitter.

You see 2 weeks hence from this point is the New Zealand Improv Festival at Bats Theatre in Wellington, and I have gathered about me a most handsome group of performers to mince the boards.

We are bringing Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen to the Wellington massive and a jolly good show it should be too.

In our rehearsals it has become very evident that for a girl who hasn't read any Austen since 1987, I am very versant with her works due to my enduring love of bodice rippers and chick flicks involving teacups.  I have seen nearly all cinematic adaptations of her novels and the movie Becoming Jane, and I have read a book called Mr Darcy's Daughters which poses as a sequel to Pride and Prejudice.  (I have avoided the 1940's adaptation of the movie as their costumes are so not period its positively menopausal.)

Therefore I seem particularly able to mainline Elizabeth Bennett and indeed the Facebook Application "Which Jane Austen Heroine are You?" proclaimed me thus.

Now if there are even any men left reading this posting let me assure you, you will like it too. We merrily, rip the piss of bodice rippers so you will have something to laugh about, and of course 6 breasts to oggle at too.  The Regency Period was decidedly more racy than the following Victorian Period, though any beach sex a la Dubai is highly unlikely.  

Here's a poem I wrote a number of years ago which serves as inspiration...

Durex and Durability

With much ruminating

On the possibility of a suitable mating

I have decided to abandon all internet dating

And all maternal advice

Instead leaving the remainder of my life

To be written by Jane Austen

Then I can abandon all thoughts of what’s in

Store for my nuptial match

And place all faith in the fact that

Although I’m penniless with a meddlesome mother

And all the family fortunes have gone to my half-brother

I’m charming and actually quite bright for a girl,

Skin radiant like a lustrous pearl

Though compared to my sister I’m somewhat plain

I can discuss Ovid, Shakespeare, Madame Bovary

I can cross-stitch and play the pianoforte

And I’ll be one and twenty years again

I’ll not hold a man’s hand unless we are engaged

Je parle un petit peu de Francais

I’ll speak my mind and wear an Empire Line dress

Which will look fine as I’ll have much smaller breasts

And then I’ll spy you at a Regiment Dance

All strapping and breeches, an aspiring Lance

Corporal, who at first sight I am certain is AWFUL,

Stuffy and rigid with a sword in your sphincter

I’d die rather than rely on you to end my spinster-hood

So to clear my head I take a brisk walk in the woods

Where in a manner entirely feminine

I fall and twist my ankle much to my chagrin

Which is a word I’ll use quite often

And just when the F word comes to my lips

Which as we all know is fiddledee fiddlesticks

You’ll swoop me up onto your trusty steed named Triton

On which I’ll perch side-saddle so as not to rupture my hymen

And I’ll suddenly realise you are the one

And that you’re a distant cousin of Richard Branson

With a staggering two squillion a year trust fund

And a gorgeous brother for my sister, two for the price of one

SO we’ll have a combined wedding garlanded in flowers

Dance Cotillions, Reels and the Macarena for hours

And then start on our new no doubt blissful life

You as my husband and me as your wife

A beautiful English Country Scene

But with one marked difference…..

Better oral hygiene

AND here are the details for the show:

Auckland based Improv troupe ConArtists are delighted to announce the world premiere of Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen for the New Zealand International Improv Festival. They are equally delighted to be invited to this inaugural festival at Bats Theatre and thinks it’s a simply super idea. 

Come November 28 the cream of Auckland’s Improv talent will be swooning, romping, weeping and cross-stitching their way through Regency Shenanigans in an entirely unscripted and never before seen, or again seen, hour of Austen excitement. Suitors, meddlesome mothers, breeches, lower classes and surprisingly well educated girls will all paint a vivid picture in song, accompanied of course by the charming pianoforte.

 Daintily treading the Bats boards will be veteran performer Lori Dungey, one of the founding players of Theatresports in New Zealand. Lori has performed all over the World and has represented both New Zealand and Canada in international tournaments including the World Cup of Theatresports in Germany in 2006 and was victorious in the Improvaganza Masters of the Universe Tournament in Edmonton in 2003. She has also just returned from yet another stint at OneRing.Net in Germany where she represents for the Hobbits. 

Greg Cooper has been improvising from the tender age of 13 and was a member of the Court Jesters in Christchurch before moving to Auckland and Conartists. He is a veteran of hundreds of improv and dramatic performances and has also represented New Zealand overseas most memorably as a member of the World Cup winning team in Los Angeles in 1994. He can also be seen in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe representing for the Fauns.

Penny Ashton also began improvising at 13 when Greg’s team regularly beat hers. She is a comedienne and actor and has performed both Improv and her solo comedy shows in Australia, the UK, USA, Canada, Singapore and Germany. She too represented NZ at the World Cup in 2006 and at the Improvaganza in 2003. She can also be seen in three Shortland St episodes in 2000 representing for the Gynaecologists.

Stayci Taylor is a graduate of the John Bolton Theatre School in Melbourne and has trained with Phillipe Gaulier in London and Paris.  She has travelled extensively throughout NZ and the world with improv and also with her comedy troupe The Rhonda Movement.  She was a founding member of an all female group in Vancouver called Those Chicks Who Do Improv and is a senior writer for Maori Programming in NZ, recently receiving a complaint that her writing is too saucy, of which she is proud.  She represents for the Lesbian Marathoners.

 Austen Found – The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen

Bats Theatre, November 28^th, 7pm

Bookings: book@bats.co.nz

Short Sighted Change

Hurrruummmph.

Hurrummpph harruummpph harruummpphh

Poos and wees.

Hurumph.

I have a bone to pick with Mr Barack Obama.  With his banging on and on about change some people in NZ took it all a little seriously and "changed" our government too.  As my friend said on her status update "Change is the new "c" word".

I can understand wanting change when your president is a war mongering liar who reads children's books upside down and says things like: ""Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we".  BUT when your leader is a top chick who just happens to have a deep voice and bad teeth everyone wants to "Kill that bitch." 

I simply do not understand the level of hatred hurled in Helen Clark's direction.  You would think she was going around the country digging up people's grannies and defiling them with crucifixes the way some people bang on about her.  She was always lovely kind and sweet, oh OK so maybe not BUT whenever she wasn't I'm sure it was just coz of her period.  Yes well.

BUT whatever the reason for the vitriol we are stuck with National again, along with their mincing chihuahua, the paso doble patrician, Rodney Hide, and their unfeasibly quiffed Jesus Fish Flip-Flop Artist, Peter Dunne.  AARRRGGGHHH.  Pack of twits the lot of them.

I think I might move to Ohio, now that's a place known for its progressive leftist governance.

Nah I'll stay in Auckland Central, a national electorate for the FIRST TIME EVER (thanks Electorate Vote Green) and be a horn in their side.  

I even got a little teary when Helen Clark resigned!  OK who am I kidding I out and out cried.  Man I even surprised myself with that one, maybe she is a lesbian after-all and I fancy her.  EEEwwwwwwww OK OK, now even as much as I love Helen Clark that's a mental image I'm grappling with.  Let's just say I think she did a top job.  I bet her hubby is rapt.  He can get on with his clandestine homo escapades unencumbered and will never have to answer the question; "Do you like sex" from the Right Wing News Elite, oh sorry I meant The NZ Herald.

In fact I reckon there were a few sighs of relief.  Judith Tizard mentioned her garden needed doing, Derek Fox has a Maori Media empire to rule over and Winston Peters needs to fuck off and die.

Sorry...did I write that out loud.  Ooops. 

Still his somewhat drunken speech mentioning the wonders of "democwashy" was priceless and when he pretended to forget Simon Bridges' name there was much hilarity at my Potluck Dinner.  The new National MP for Tauranga is only 31, he was still pooing his pants and growing teeth when Winston fought his way into parliament in 1978, and he STILL trounced Winnie by 10 000 votes.  Oh he knew his name alright.

ANYWAYS the die has been cast, the people have spoken and unfortunately lots of them were dickheads.  BUT people often are.  Some of you reading might even think I am a dickhead, but then you're a dickhead so who cares.

I look forward to this brave new wonderful world of fulfilled promises, higher wages, increased literacy, less crime and more Tangos.  Hey maybe Rodney can be the Foreign Minister and solve peace in Israel....

Dancing with the Hezbollah's. 

We will see.

Proposition Hate

Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, fuck.

I am starting to think I need to stop reading the news of the world online as it's getting my intestines in a twist.  Just when we think we can rejoice in hope and optimism with Obama's inspirational win in the USA, along comes the passing of Proposition 8 to fuck me right off again.

So yet again gay marriage in California is banned, by a slim majority of 52% to 48%.  The total cost of campaigning is now estimated at something like $70 Million US and it won't stop there. Opponents of the Proposition have immediately filed a law suit to contest this hollow victory so the financial hemorrhaging will continue to gush like Oprah Winfrey interviewing Tom Cruise.  The wording of Prop 8 specifically stated that if passed it would "remove the rights" of gays to marry, and as it is anti-constitutional to deny American citizens rights, this is grounds for a law suit.

And in fact I don't doubt that if denied the pro-8's would have probably filed suit too, and so the only people to win in this contest currently are likely to be lawyers, printers, T-Shirt makers and button pressers.

And so hooray, America's goats can rest easy and the term marriage remains defined as man and woman because as we all know the foundation of the family is rooted in one man and one woman bringing up their own kids.

What total poppycock.

Anyone clinging to the nuclear family as the status quo in the western world are as deluded as Sarah Palin expecting love in a condom factory.

Babies come from all over the bloody place, even delivered on your doorstep in Austria.  Marriage means diddlysquat to many in the world when it comes to procreation so stop clinging to semantics.

Also the meanings of words change.  Gay no longer means happy, a faggot is no longer a group of sticks and that word that rhymes with wigger now means friend or brother to those who can use it.  Semantics evolves, get over it.

OK I'm even bored with it all now.

The end.