Remember how “homosexual activists” think that gay penguins prove that Teh Gey is natural, while fundamentalist Christians think that a gay penguin dropping his boyfriend to go out with a girl penguin proves that “nature prefers heterosexual relationships”? Well, this poster on the side of a Melbourne bus stop (complete with post-modern reflection of suburban decay and photographer’s shadow) shows that we humans can use examples found in nature to prove that anything is natural or preferred.

Nature also prefers bus timetables that bear even a passing resemblance to the actual running times of buses, but apparently the Melbourne bus companies think that nature can go fuck itself.

A unique verb in Melbourne’s vernacular is “Connexed”. Just say the Queen was in town and you’d been invited to formal tea at her hotel but you’re running terribly late due to an inevitable combination of cancelled and late trains, you’d be able to apologise to a frustrated monarch with the line, “I’m sorry, your Maj, but I was Connexed.” You see, everyone understands how the train system (dis)functions in this city and they’re very understanding when you have been fucked over by the system’s private operator, Connex.

Now the Brumby Government, itself largely responsible for the dog’s breakfast that is the train system, has gone and ruined the entire city’s ability to efficiently and succinctly sum up its frustration with the trains by awarding the contract to a new operator.

The Government, reeling from a public backlash over the rail network’s failings, yesterday dumped the French-owned operator Connex and replaced it with a consortium backed by Hong Kong’s metro operator … But Premier John Brumby insisted commuters would get a better deal from new rail operator Metro Trains Melbourne …

What will it be now? Metro’d? Metro Trainsoed? How will we possible cope? Brumby says we will be compensated appropriately.

More staff on stations, fewer cancelled trains and improved punctuality have been promised by the Brumby Government and the new consortium appointed to operate Melbourne’s train network for the next eight years.

Just after they finish spending millions and millions on new station and train signage, new uniforms, new stationary, new audio recordings, and an advertising blitz to promote the brand to the pissed off and cynical Melbourne population who have see it all before each of the several other times the operator has changed.

Jeebus! I go away for one weekend and there’s a wave of anger on Twitter from GrodsReaders desperate for GrodsAction. Well, one GrodsReader at least.

@grodscorp HELLO? Do you still run a blog? A day without fresh Grods is like a night without cold chicken soup on the bedside table.

Sorry for neglecting youse, though; I done went to Adelaide for Womad and had a grouse time. The festival was excellent, the weather was great, but the public transport system shat me to tears. South Australia promotes itself as the sustainable state with a massive chunk of renewable energy and a pending plastic bag-ban and stuff, yet its capital city’s public transport system is so shithouse that it encourages people to use cars. The trains are slow, infrequent, expensive and stinky diesel-powered. $4.20 for a single ride on a train that crawls along at jogging speed and that leaves only a couple of times an hour wouldn’t make me consider leaving the car at home.

So imagine the snort of derision that issued from my nose when I saw this ridiculous message of whimsy on a column at Adelaide train station, where I sat for 30 minutes waiting for a train.

The 11.13 to Hogwarts has been cancelled due to lack of infrastructure investment.

So, I’m on the train home this evening and I’m sending a text message to someone and I look up across the aisle and there’s this old, shabby-looking guy sitting there with an extinguished half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his left nostril.

The other evening, waiting for my train at Central Railway Station, I happened to glance over my shoulder and saw this woman looking over the bowed, bald head of her partner .

Ouch, I thought, he must’ve scratched his bonce or something. Nice of her to check on it… Oh wait, what’s she doing?

Moving one step sideways for a better look, I realised with sudden horror that she was, in fact, trying to pop a pimple on his pastule ridden cranium.

Ergh.

Attn: weirdo in the ticket booth at Flinders Street Station who treated me to an outrageous display of spinning and sliding between a storage cupboard and the service counter today.

You are not Brian Flanagan and my 10 x 2 Hour Metcard is not a piña colada.

It is well known around these parts that I enjoy a good read. I am a bookworm. Hell, even when I don’t have a book with me, say, on the train to work, I’ll read other people’s books. Or notes, as the case may be. This morning was no exception.

So, I get on the train and sit next to a nice looking, zaftig, middle aged lady (read: safe, normal, not insane looking).

Soon enough, however, I come to regret my choice of seating. Having left my book at home again, my eyes stray over to the book being read by my seat companion. The first thing I always look for is the title and author of the book that commuters are reading.

OK, so the author of this book is Miranda Lee. Nup, never heard of her. What’s the title, dammit? Look again, lean over ever so slightly, tilt my head this way for a better view…

Oh. My. God. That book is seriously not called…

THE MILLIONAIRE’S INEXPERIENCED LOVE-SLAVE 

…is it?! No no no no no no. NO!! WRONG. WRONG. WRONG!

WRONG!

Check again. Yep, it’s definitely called that. What’s the dialogue like?

‘”Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, you are.” Something in her steady and resolute voice calmed him down.’

OK, enough, don’t want to read anymore! Quick, look out the window, it’s a beautiful morning!

After sending a text message to a friend about the title of this book, said friend texted back and asked, ‘Does it include the words manhood, throbbing and quim?’

So, at work, I use up some valuable working time to Google The Millionaire’s Inexperienced Love-Slave and find out that it’s actually a novel published by Harlequin. Well, that explains it. But it gets worse. The blurb for the novel:

One wicked night with the Sydney millionaire…

Adrian Palmer, a millionaire architect, always had a beautiful woman in his bed. When he met Sharni Johnson, a pretty young widow, she seemed perfect for his wicked brand of seduction. And wicked it was; he was blown away by the intensity of their lovemaking.

But Sharni was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. Adrian was prepared to do anything to have her–but there was one problem: he was the spitting image of Sharni’s late husband….

Oh noes! Disaster!

I can tell you, however, they do get together in the end and have a baby boy and live happily ever after. Yeah, I took another glance at the final two pages that the lady was reading. Hope I didn’t ruin the ending too much for you. 

The Editor, John Surname, Ant Rogenous, The Happy Revolutionary, Andy Blume and Craig discuss:

* Costello’s cocktease
* Ramos-Horta loves Vanstone for evah
* Come on, Sam Newman
* Myki: fuck you
* Beheading is the new black
* TardWatch (formerly known as Funniest Things On The Intertubes)

** Because Jeremy is desperately downloading this episode from Heathrow Airport Seaport, use only the “Play in popup” link or the “Download” link. **

[display_podcast]

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Look, I’ve been a bit distracted these past two weeks, okay? I know I’m the first GrodsTeam member among equal GrodsTeam members and I have a responsibility to keep posting and commenting on this website, but sometimes real life walks into the blogging room wearing a ticking vest of shit-to-fuck-your-life-up bombs and martyrs itself. So shut up. Here are a few GrodsNibbles I’ve jotted down recently.

1) Iguanagate
I’ve been very much out of the news loop this past week or so and the whole “Iguanagate” “scandal” bemuses me. Ken L at Road To Surfdom summed it up beautifully when he wrote this.

It’s remarkable how being out of Australia for even 10 days, liberated from daily exposure to the news, can provide fresh perspectives on life.

On arriving home I found that the story du jour was about something called ‘iguanagate’ – the very name reeked so much of triviality and childishness that I couldn’t be bothered trying to find out what it was all about.

I mean, seriously. Is this the most important political issue in this country? Even in the top 100? If someone was visiting this country and picked up a paper to see what’s going down politicially they’d be within their rights to consider our nation to be a total joke. As my kids at school say in these instances: What. Evah. Maaaaaan.

2) Nelson Iguanagate doorstop gold
Of course Bren-doc Nelson has jumped on this total non-issue faster than a customs official on a heroin-filled condom that fell out of a smuggler’s arse. In a doorstop yesterday he gave four long answers to hard-hitting journalist questions, crapping on about how Belinda Neal and the Labor Party are destroying democracy, but did a brilliant u-turn and quickly aborted the interview when a journalist changed the course of the questioning and addressed a much more important issue.

QUESTION: A Labor official claims that the racist pamphlets handed out during the election campaign in the seat of Lindsay were created in a Liberal MPs office. What do you think about these claims and should there be some sort of investigation?

DR NELSON: Well, as we know from the Iguana Joe incident, Labor people will say and do anything.

Thanks.

P to the W to the N to the E to the D.

3) Rolling stock belongs to laughing stock
Australia’s most useless public transport minister, Lynne Kosky, has claimed that she didn’t release tender documents to the public (leaked recently by the Liberal opposition) because the uneducated plebs might find them “confusing”. Of course the public would find them confusing; after reading them I’m at a loss to work out how the government could possibly screw the system even more. In an effort to attract bids for running a system that is already at 100% capacity with no prospect of real investment in infrastructure, the Labor government is offering to reimburse most of the costs of tendering and restrict fines for bad service.

Disgraceful. Just disgraceful.

4) JB Hi-Fi is, like, so gnarly, dude
It’s official: JB Hi-Fi’s catalogues are written by 11 year olds.

I certainly felt the sickness when I read this

To the couple on my train this morning on the way to work, GET A FUGGIN ROOM!

No one wants to see tongue-action more icky than that of Axl Rose and Stephanie Seymour snogging, hand under the jumper (I saw you, boy, touch her nipple), blowing gently into each other’s neck, pretending to almost kiss then turning mouth away in a coquettish way (oh you’re such a flirt, aren’t you, girl?),  smiling seductively at each other (you think! It reminded me more of a chimp on speed) and staring into each other’s eyes in a deep, meaningful way.

I did not need to see all this at 8am on a Monday morning. Kthxbai.

Once a week for GroupthinkFC indoor soccer matches I strap on my money belt, put a can of mace and a rape alarm in my pocket, and leave the safe and familiar surrounds of Brunswick in Melbourne’s inner north for the unfamiliar badlands of the eastern suburbs. Before this season I’ve never bought a zone two public transport ticket and now I know why zone two residents have the king shits with trains (when they arrive) and drive their cars instead (even though most have no choice.) If I choose to leave Brunswick before 6pm for a return trip to the soccer venue it costs me a whopping $10.10 for a daily ticket, and if I leave after 6pm it drops to a slightly more acceptable $5.50 for a two hour ticket that is valid all night. Highway freakin’ robbery, I tells ya.

Last night I deliberately planned my journey so that I was catching the 6.02pm train from Brunswick and I dutifully pumped $5.50 into a ticket machine. I sat on the (late) train into the city listening to my iPod and thinking about the awesome service I was receiving in exchange for my money. At Southern Cross I alighted in order to catch a second train out to the badlands and standing on the platform I was horrified to discover that my ticket had gone missing from the pocket it was sharing with my iPod.

I swore loudly and profusely.

Fuming, I approached the ticket barriers where two bored ticket Nazis were waiting to arrest people for making eye contact. I explained that I had lost my ticket and would need to be let out of the barriers to purchase a new one to complete my journey. Of course they looked at me skepticly and prepared to fine me in triplicate, but I think the “if you fucking dare try to fine me or even reach for your ticket book I will go Martin Bryant on your arse” look on my face dissuaded them and they reluctantly let me through.

So I ended up paying $11.00 to make a return journey from one part of Melbourne to another. I should just buy a car.

Everybody, give a loud cheer to that fantastic newspaper called mX. HOORAY!

Why?

Well, as some of you may remember, a couple of weeks ago I sat next to Gordon Gekko one morning on the train to work, and since I’d left my book at home, I was fascinated by the writing in his notepad, open on his lap, instead. Those notes kept me wildly entertained for the whole journey, even if it did cause some heartbreak in the end.

In the comments that followed, I was urged to track him down again and “read his notebook”, which would have been a very difficult thing to do (I can barely remember what he looks like, except for the hair slicked back). Then I (who else but wonderful me?) hit on the excellent idea of leaving a message in the “Here’s looking at you” letters section in that free rag distributed in the afternoons to commuters, mX.

Ant immediately followed my suggestion with his suggestion with what to submit. I duly agreed and submitted it to mX, with slight modifications.

Then waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Every single day, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until TODAY! Thanks to Wah, who used his contacts and got the bloody letter published. I was so excited to see the letter published in the rag, that I nearly waltzed all the way down the tunnel to the train.

Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on this:

OH SHAT! Wrong photo. That’s The Editor’s missing Gravatar.

This, look, this:

How good is that?! On the train home, I watched every person reading mX like a hawk, waiting to see the funny expressions on their faces that would no doubt surely follow. My lips were dry, my left leg kept shaking, my right hand twitching, my left ear squeaking.

Nothing. Blank faces. They didn’t care. They just did not care. I wanted to lean over and helpfully point to my letter and say, “Hey, look at that crazy letter. Crazy, innit?” But I didn’t. It felt weird to be able to see my name and Grods’ name and see the schmucks reading the letters and not even reacting. Of course, there’s a very strong probability that the letter meant nothing to them.

So, once again, dear readers, I regret to come to the conclusion that GrodsCorp has failed to set the world alight and hearts a-flutter.

Of course, I had nothing to do with it.

Not only did I weep on the train this morning on my way to work, I also wept on the train on my way home.

MX, that highly regarded and informative, hard-hitting free newspaper distributed to commuters every afternoon from about 3.30pm onwards (in Sydney, at least), was thrust into my unwilling hands as I rushed into the train station. After a bitch fight pushing heavily pregnant women and geriatric men with Zimmer frames out of the way to grab the last seat, I settled back for a good read.

One of my favourite parts — or not so favourite, I can’t really decide — is the letters page, especially the little section called “Here’s looking at you”, where people leave messages for other people they’ve seen on a train or bus that they fancy, or simply want to root.

For example,

The stunner with the purple bag and black-rim glasses who gets on at Sutherland at 7.29am, you brighten my day.

– James, Wollongong.

While that’s a little sappy, it’s reflective of the usual shout-outs that get printed. However, every once in a while, a really, really, really terrible one gets printed, and so it was today when I read the following and wept because of its sheer awfulness:

The girl in the brown leather jacket on the 6.30 Waterfall train. If you were a McDonald’s burger, you’d be a McGorgeous.

– Tristan, Cronulla.

I had quite an exciting time on the train this morning, on my way to work. It was also God-sent, because I’d left my book at home.

When I squeezed in next to the natty looking gent on the train, I accidentally sat on the corner of his suit jacket, and he got a little huffy about that. I mumbled something that I wished sounded like “You’re a fucking idiot, you know?”, but it sounded more like “sorry”.

As you can tell, I’m a wonderful person to be with in the mornings.

So, there I am, sitting on the train, wondering why my book wasn’t in my bag, when the dude next to me caught my attention again by looking like he was rehearsing for a speech. He had a notepad on his lap, his mouth was moving silently, and his hands making little movements as if he was talking to an audience. Aha! I thought. What’s he rehearsing for? Is he nervous? I hope he is, I thought meanly, because he didn’t move the corner of his jacket off the seat before I sat down.

I should point out that I am by nature a curious (some might say nosey) person about other people. Particularly if I don’t have anything to read on the train. I like to wonder about people around me – who are they, where are they going, how do they feel, do they make more money than me, did they get lucky last night? That sort of thing.

So, with my curiosity piqued, I had to take a quick surreptitious look at his notepad to see what he was obviously memorising and practising. First point went something like this:

1. If we have to do it, we have to do it.

Cor blimey, I thought, that’s deep. And easy enough to remember. But do what? I sneak another look.

2. Compliance/asic – asic have axe to grind. Give them an inch and they will take a mile.

Oooh, he’s clearly talking about ASIC – Australian Securities and Investments Commission, the body responsible for “ensuring that Australia’s financial markets are fair and transparent, supported by confident and informed investors and consumers.”

And with whom does ASIC have an axe to grind? Oh! This is better than the book that’s not in my bag! Am I sitting next to a white-collar crim?! I glance oh-so-casually out the window past his profile, pretending to figure out where we are, and EEEK! It’s Gordon Gekko! Corporate raider! Slicked back hair, smooth freshly shaven skin… well, actually, that’s as far as the similarities go. Oh, and natty suit, which, I remind you, I partially sat on.

3. Telephone bugging – sound “different” – monitoring.

By now, I’m mentally writing a TV script that will rival Underbelly. Spies skulking around the corridors of power, money and high-fliers. Bugs inserted into board room meetings full of white men in natty suits wearing expensive gold, monogrammed cufflinks. Richly decorated offices with expansive harbour views being fumigated by smells from Boss, Drakkar Noir and Old Spice. Golden-haired secretaries wearing crisp white shirts and sharp black skirts and long tanned legs, complete with peek-a-boo red lingerie underneath.

Settle, boys. Girls, too.

4. Not all markets are doing this. Golden opportunity…

What? What was that? Not doing what? Why is it underlined? I twist my head blatantly to read it but I didn’t get a chance — Mr Gekko had flipped his notepad shut and we were rolling into Martin Place Station, and he pushed past me, even though I was also getting off at the same station. I just hadn’t budged yet because I was so engrossed with trying to read his small but legible writing, and there were another 5 or 6 points to still read.

I nearly cried. I nearly followed him, but he moved way too fast, fast like a man on a mission to steal millions of dollars.

I turned up to work, feeling robbed, not of millions of dollars, but of having my spying skills cut short.

It’s your turn, dear GrodsReaders. What do you think his notes were about? What and who was he memorising his notes for? What were they going to do? Is it legal? Why is ASIC attempting to take a mile off them?

Also, may I remind you to be careful if you’re on public transport; you never know, I could be sitting next to you.

The Victorian government has a problem. 18 people have died in non-boom gated level crossing accidents across the state in the last ten months — with 25 deaths in the past four years — and the recent introduction of rumble strips, driver education campaigns, and other non-boom gate measures have done nothing to stop the carnage. It’s looking more and more likely as time goes on that Premier John Brumby and transport minister Lynne Kosky are going to have to bite the bullet and — gasp! — spend some serious money on boom gates to save some lives.

But that’s not how Brumby and Kosky roll.

The Victorian Government will slash speed limits at more than 70 level crossings across the state after a spate of fatal smashes.

Speed limits will be cut from 100km/h to 80km/h at 72 level crossings across Victoria by the end of the year, Public Transport Minister Lynne Kosky said today.

I’m tellin’ ya, this government brings new meaning to the phrase “tinkering around the edges”. Firstly, cutting speeds by 20kph around rural level crossings is going to do nothing to stop drivers taking the risks that often contribute to these accidents. Secondly, cutting speeds by 20kph around rural level crossings is going to do nothing to stop drivers’ concentration lapsing as it often has in these accidents. Thirdly, how is the government planning to enforce these speed limits at 72 remote sites across the state?

As much as I hate to say it, it seems that the Victorian Labor Party has put a price on human life and they’re not prepared to pay it.