Tetherd Cow Ahead

Sister Veronica has some kooky idea that we need to start getting the barn ready for the Christmas Nativity Scene.

I don’t quite know what she has in mind, but the cows seem to be making an awful lot of noise.*

Warning: NSFW (unless maybe you are a vet).

___________________________________________________________________________

*The explanatory notes for Brigitte Niedermair’s ‘Holy Cow’ are here. Personally, the artistic statement sounds to me like a big steaming heap of bullshit.

Thanks (I think) to jedimacfan for sending me to this image that will probably stick in my head all day.

This is the scene of carnage after a guard dog named Barney went berserk at a Somerset Teddy Bear exhibition. Barney was meant to be guarding the bears but seems to have completely lost it when he realized what the cost to his reputation might be. One of the bears that was chomped was worth £40,000 and once belonged to Elvis Presley.

The general manager of the Wookey Hole* Caves, where the bears were on show, said:

“About 100 bears were caught up in this frenzied attack, some were merely little chews, whereas some of them had some quite devastating injuries.”

All together now:

“I just wanna eat,
Your teddy bear…”

Full story of the Wookey Hole Massacre at the BBC News online.

Thanks Pil!
___________________________________________________________________________

*I couldn’t do better if I tried to make it up…

The guys over at Patently Silly have uncovered the work of heretofore unknown beverage genius Kineo Okado. Mr Okado has filed a US patent for ‘Alcoholic beverages derived from animal extract, and methods for the production thereof‘.

Yes, that’s right sports fans, we’re talking meat alcohol. Alcoholic beverages made from meat. And when we’re talking meat, we’re talking chicken and fish as well. The sky is the limit for Mr Okada who is proposing that his concept would be applicable to any animal protein.

(I can just see him enthusiastically explaining the idea to his lab assistant: “Just think Yamada-san – alcohol made from ostriches! Alcohol made from prawns! Alcohol made from water buffalo! Mwahahaha! This will turn the tables on those barbarian gaijin who shunned my Sea Cucumber Custard!)

Examining the patent (it’s a pretty good read, but make sure you’ve some Stemetil handy) we find Okada-san buttressing his pitch with precedents:

Various techniques are well known in the art for the preparation of yeast-fermented beverages such as wine, beer, ale, sake, and the like, which may be applied to the yeast fermentation phases of the production process according to the present invention.

… in Europe and America, various processed meat products, for example fermented sausage, are consumed.

Mmmm. Next time you order the Meat Lover’s Special Pizza, you might consider an accompanying glass of Pepperoni Pinot, Bacon Beaujolais or Cabanossi Cabernet for the Complete Meat Experience.

Of the fermentation process he informs us that:

The resulting product has a distinctive flavor.

Oh, yes, I’m sure he’s right on that aspect.

Skimming through further, one may find some truly nauseating suggestions accompanying the basic concept. Consider:

Carbonated water and flavoring materials such as fruit juice and honey may be added to the resulting fermented beverage according to an aspect of the invention.

Mmmm. Honey flavoured beef schnapps! Lamb & orange vodka! And not just sweet alcoholic meat beverages, but carbonated sweet alcoholic meat beverages as well! Forget Coq au vin: bring on the Coq au Cola!

The alcoholic beverage may also be used in subsequent processes to produce composite beverages (e.g., cocktails)

Here Mr Okado opens up the entire field of mixed drinks and cocktails. What a bonanza. You want to be really careful from now on when you order a Moscow Mule, a Salty Dog or a Fluffy Duck.

The comprehensive patent is wonderfully detailed, colourful and, I’m sure, technically precise, and yet, after all is said and done there still remains one weighty and impatient question on the matter of the Alcoholic Meat Beverage:

Why?

Every year there is a tournament in which countries from Albania to Turkey, from Russia to the United Kingdom, from France to the Ukraine battle for honours of the highest accord. The fight for the prize is seldom pretty. The playoffs last for many months, and supporters display a fanaticism that would test the mettle of fully armed Middle Ages Crusaders.

Countries compete fiecely to have the finals held on their turf, and it is no exaggeration to say that the machinations to secure the prize, including full televisual rights for the subsequent year’s event, would put even Ted Turner to the test.

Yes, I am of course talking about the Eurovision Song Contest.

Every Spring since 1956, countries from all across Europe (including, bizarrely, Israel and Turkey, countries that are by most other international reckoning in the Middle East) have competed in the arena of Song and Extreme Tackiness in order to take home the Eurovision title and the rights for next year’s telecast.

I’ve been a fan of Eurovision for many years since one memorable night at a friend’s house in which I was so overcome by emotion (or was it a fit of hysterical laughter?) that I could not stop the tears that streamed from my eyes. After picking myself up from the floor and pouring my fifteenth glass of Drambuie, the epiphany hit me, and I realised that Eurovision was not an embarrassing parade of badly dressed European pop tragics, but instead, a work of sheer comic genius.

OK. I’m reporting live from the telecast. Norway’s team takes the spotlight. The lead singer, an almost iconic cliché of a Norwegian blonde is supported by a dancing troupe of girls dressed in radioactive white. She warbles away at an instantly forgettable number. What is not forgettable is the dancing violin-wielding chicks who accompany her in the last chorus. Ah yes, once again I am reminded why I watch every year.

Malta is on. The singer is fairly belting it out, relentlessly hanging an exact semitone under the correct pitch. Tell me that someone does that in front of 300 million people by accident!

Germany’s entry Texas Lightning, flanked by illuminated saguerro cacti, delivers an insipid and quite confusingly American piece of country pop that has almost exactly nothing going for it. It even throws up the last resort of the desperate songwriter, a key change in the final verse. I am embarrassed to note that the lead singer (described, surely with irony, as an enchanting virtuoso) was born in Australia.

The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia fronts up with a gorgeous woman with the most beautiful breasts who atonally tells us that “I wanna be with ya, I wanna give it to ya!” She is so energetic that I am very nearly convinced. She wants to give it to me! So what if she can’t hold a tune?

Lithuania scrapes to a new low with a lyric that says “We are the winners, we are the winners, of Eurovision, vote, vote, vote for the winners…” Guess what guys? Bzzzzzz.

Greece’s solo female performer has a lot of hair, and boy does she know how to use it.

The United Kingdom offers up some barely talented Cockney rapper supported by a half a dozen young women dressed as schoolgirls. Oh dear. Did I mention desperation a few sentences back? This bunch obviously remember the former Eurovision success of Russia’s pre-pubescent Tatu. I marvel that this time there is no lesbian tongue-kissing. (Yeah, see what you’ve been missing? Didn’t I tell you?)

Finland’s entry takes the stage. The… er… ‘hard’ rock band Lordi. Oh my oh my. What can I say? Remember the orcs in Lord of the Rings? Imagine them with guitars under a flashing disco lighting rig. Got that? I think the song is called ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah”. The lead singer is wearing demonic red contact lenses (unless that’s his real eyes) and… oh wait… he has an enormous pair of unfurling bat wings. Now there’s something you don’t see every day!

Oh my goodness. The Ukraine’s singer looks like Goldilocks all growed up. She keeps gesturing at her breasts. I have no idea what this means, because, unusually for the entries so far, she appears to be singing in her native tongue. She’s blowing kisses to the audience and her skirt is very short. Wow, if Ms Macedonia doesn’t deliver, I hope Ms Ukraine is up for a drink after the show.

France. Edith Piaf she ain’t. Don’t give up yer day job love.

The final entry swoops in from Armenia. Eeek! More hair action and some B&D Lite sets up an excruciatingly dull pop number that poses no threat to European political stability.

Oh, the thrills, the spills and the big hair!

But there has to be a winner and after the interminable Eurovision voting process, where many millions of viewers phone in their votes to be tallied live in what is a pretty formidable feat of technology, the numbers are stacking up. I had my money on Romania, but what’s this…? It appears that the ersatz Minions of Darkness, the prosthetically virtuosic Lordi seem to have romped in with the big prize.

It’s a shock result for Eurovision. The beautiful girls with the big hair, the short skirts and the amazing breasts have been left in the dust by a bunch of ugly trolls with bad teeth, bloodshot eyes and unintelligible lyrics (and they were singing in English).

More power to ya guys! That’s gonna look really impressive on a Heavy Metal resumé: Lordi: Satanic thrash metal rockers, worshippers of The Dark One, biters of the heads off chickens and winners of the 50th Eurovision Song Contest.

Talk about cred.

Pass me another Drambuie.

Today, a rather sad coda to the story of feuding bikers Rodney ‘Hooks’ Monks and Russell Merrick Oldham.

As you will recall, Oldham, a man with ‘a passion for astronomy and a history of violence’ shot Monks dead in a dispute involving a romantic liaison between Monks and his parole officer. Oldham, packing heat in his handbag*, fired three shots at Monks at close range, and escaped in a taxi (I’m not making any of this up).

Oldham has been at large ever since, until last night where he waded into the ocean and, in keeping with his history of violence, shot himself. I like to speculate that he was looking at the stars.

Even this last recounting of the story has elements of the bizarre. Witnesses to the incident record that they heard two shots, before they discovered the lifeless body of Oldham. This either means Oldham was a really lousy shot, or that he was one mean and determined bastard.

RIP Russell. I hope you and Hooks make it up in the Big Club in the Sky. Or in the Other Place.

___________________________________________________________________________

*It was in the news report. Handbag. Read it for yourself.

This morning’s Sydney Morning Herald ran a front page story on a murder that appears to be the result of a dispute between two Sydney biker gangs. Police believe that Russell Merrick Oldham fired three shots at Rodney ‘Hooks’ Monk at close range, and then fled the scene.

The paragraph that caught my eye, though, came further down in the article where Russell Merrick Oldham is described:

“Oldham is the Bandidos’ former sergeant-at-arms (he lost the post when he went to jail for five years for the manslaughter of two men at Bankstown in 1998)… He has a passion for astronomy and a history of violence.”*

Ha! My coffee went through my nose and all over the crossword. I wish I’d been scanning police radio last night…

“All cars are advised to be on the lookout for Russell Merrick Oldham, wanted in connection with a fatal shooting in Central Sydney. When approached, suspect may attempt to engage in debate over the existence of zero-point radiation at black hole event-horizons and whether NASA should spend money on repairing the Hubble telescope’s failing gyroscopes. He is believed to be armed, violent and highly philosophical. Advise extreme caution.”

The history behind the nickname of Rodney ‘Hooks’ Monk is unfortunately not covered in the article.†

___________________________________________________________________________

*Not that I’m supposing that a biker, or anyone, shouldn’t have a variety of hobbies and interests. It’s just the juxtoposition with his other hobby…

† I wish it had’ve been spelt ‘Hookes’ and then we might have speculated that Rodney’s hobby was microbiology. That would give us the unparalleled opportunity to suppose that the disagreement between Rodney and Russell was over some point of scientific procedure. Oh, the joy!

I am a little disappointed to see that Russell Merrick Oldham doesn’t have a nickname.‡ If ever there was a bike gang member that deserves one, it has to be Russell. Maybe I’ll run a competition and we can send it to him in the slammer.

‡Unless he is named after Joseph Merrick, the ‘Elephant Man‘, and I really don’t want to think too deeply about that…