What is this, Lovers & Lobbers?

Ye gads, I was persusing the interwebs yesterday and came across a rather banal sort of post on Rotto Bloggo from a bloke calling himself Michael Hunt who runs a blog called Lovers and Lobbers.

To be honest, I thought it was the ramblings of some bogan couple without much care for spelling who liked a bit of jiggery poke in the great outdoors, in this case the lovely Rottnest Island. And then I checked the site stats and saw that the blog was attracting over 4,000 hits a day.

On closer inspection I see it's really a site dedicated to capturing Perth's young folk in varying stages of drug and alcohol-fueled madness. Lot's of clenched jaws, weird hand dancing, tongue displays, pashing and back-room groping.

It holds a curious fascintation and I for one would like to see more of the 'on the road stories' as featured on Rotto Bloggo. One to keep an eye on.

*Update - after various discussions, both in the office and via The Worst of Perth, I'm starting to reach the conclusion that Lovers and Lobbers is really just an extension of facebook, where instead of posting images ourselves, we're now allowing others to do it for us... the more compromising, the better... the y-gen brigade is hungry for fame and MySpace and facebook just aren't doing it for them anymore.

Seriously, when a bunch of 20-somethings are out on the town, check out how much time they spend taking digital snaps of themselves, invariably doing the same thing, just with different combinations of people.

Would I have done the same in my 20s if capturing the moment meant pushing a button on my mobile phone? Not that we had mobiles of course... For us to take photos at the same time as we endeavoured to get smashed required some pretty good organisation - you had to buy film for a start. It was an exercise usually carried out by the arty-farty amateur photographer among us... you know, the one with the woolly sideburns and the black horn rimmed glasses.

Carrying a camera around was only a viable option if it gave you some cred - a techy appendage of sorts, before techy stuff was around.

So am I pissing up the wrong tree here in regards to Lovers and Lobbers? Do today's 'yoof' hunger for a level of fame that carries with it the inherent risk that Mrs Brown from English will see them engaged in oral fornication under a grand piano while out of their skulls on MDMA?

Cookster
Follow me on twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/freocookster

Top 10 Perth Twitterers

According to a post in The Bloggers Guide.com I come in at number 8 in the list of Perth's top 10 twitterers - freocookster link here.

I was quite excited and somewhat amused by this online accolade, but my colleagues bought me straight back down to earth by proclaiming that they had always thought of me as the biggest twit in the office.

My, how they love their twitter, titter (hee, hee!) jokes...

Great to see The Worst of Perth also got a guernsey, but even better that it came in at a 'wince-making' number 9... just beneath me...

So if you want to follow me, please do. I'm not sure where I'm going. Sometimes I walk into doors. But I try to have fun along the way.

Daylight saving zombies - part III

I had struggled under the weight of serious octopus induced hallucinations thanks to the workings of Teh 'Rage Cohen, only to find myself standing alone before the thrashing sea on the North Mole in old Fremantle Town.

The smell of sardines and diesel hung heavy in the air.

The weariness had set in and my limbs were savaged by the winds like poorly secured corflute signage at a corporate land sale.

In the distance I could see a vehicle painted in stripes, like a tiger - or was it flames? - but there was no sign of the barge and no sign of The Worst of Perth car and its rummy occupants, The Lazy Aussie, Skink and Frank.

I can't tell you precisely what happened next, except to say that a large hypodermic was thrust into my neck and the last sounds I heard were a cackling laugh carried on a Sambuca breath, breathing out the words, 'Say hello to the She-Ra from us...'

This sordid account of the dream state that followed comes from the foetid pen of none other than The Lazy Aussie, who truly does know The Worst of Perth... (language warning!)

'Picture if you can Cookster', said Rolly, struggling to remove his boot, 'A man driven by blind stupidity. A man whose spiritual blinds hang faded in tattered strips like Bodz Tanning Salon. A man whose cow of the soul has udders distended hideously like an inflated rubber glove...'

Cookster snickered. 'Like, five versions of Tiny Pinders knob?'

Rolly paused a moment in the struggle to remove his boot. 'If you prefer. Now imagine if that glove was expecting to be inflated beyond the physical limits of the structure of the fabric at a particular time?' With a tremendous effort Rolly's boot flies off.

'Im not with you', said Cookster.

'OK, let me put it this way', said Rolly, fishing an imaginary stone from the toe. 'Imagine if those five Pinder knobs were expecting relief at a particular time, say after a Wildcats game, and then they were told they wouldnt get that relief until an hour later?'

'Told? So you'd be talking into Tiny's knob?'

'Tap tap, is this thing working?'

'Just forget Pinder's cock!' snapped Rolly.

'But you said...'

'Never mind what I said. You're in PR right?'

'Yes. A house is not a home.'

'In that case, let me put it into words you can understand. C#@t kini.'

'Ahh. OK. Right.'

'With daylight saving, the c#@t kinis hanging in Stripper's World window would fade much faster," Rolly explained.

'Dont you think you're moving too fast to the punch line in this dialogue?' said Cookster. 'Shouldn't there be more Pinder cock talk?'

'No', said Rolly. 'I have to go to the toilet. Wine exhausted.'

To be continued...

Daylight saving zombies - part II

The story continues, as told by the Herring affected, but often brilliant scribe David 'Teh Rage' Cohen, author of Rottobloggo: To make sense of the many non-sensical references - of the non literary variety that is - you'll need to visit The Worst of Perth... for herein doth the secret lie...

It was a dark and stormy evening; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Fremantle that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the scented candles that struggled against the darkness.

Through one of the obscurest quarters of the beautiful port city, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen and women of the police, a man, evidently from the distant suburb of Floreat, was wending his solitary way. He stopped twice or thrice at different bong shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated,--and tended inquiry for some article or another which did not seem easily to be met with. All the answers he received were couched in the negative ("F#@k off", were the plain'tive cries); and as he turned from each door he muttered to himself, in no very elegant phraseology, his disappointment and discontent: "C#*ts".

At length, at one house, the landlord, a sturdy sniper, after rendering the same reply the inquirer had hitherto received, added,--"But if this vill do as vell, Cookie, it is quite at your sarvice!" Pausing reflectively for a moment, Cookie responded, that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and thrusting it into his ample pocket he strode away with as rapid a motion as the wind and rain would allow. He soon came to a nest of low and dingy buildings, at the entrance to which, in half-effaced characters was written "Fremantle Markets." Having at the most conspicuous of these buildings, a boutique brewery or fusion-food restaurant through the half-closed windows of which blazed out in ruddy comfort the beams of the hospitable hearth, he knocked hastily at the door. He was admitted by a lady of a certain age, and endowed with a comely rotundity of face and person.

"Hast got it, Cookie?" said she quickly, as she closed the door on the guest.

"Noa, noa! not exactly--but as I thinks as ow . . ."

"Pish off, you fool!" cried the woman interrupting him, peevishly. "Vy, it is no use desaving me. You knows you has only stepped from my boosing ken to another, and you has not been arter the book at all. So there's the poor cretur a-raving and a-dying, and you . . ."

"Let I speak!" interrupted Cookie in his turn. "I tells you I vent first to Poor Lisa’s, who, I knows, chops the whiners morning and evening to the young ladies, and I axes there for a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and she says, says she, 'I 'as only nunchuks but you'll get a RPG, I thinks, as Bedford Crackpot’s,--the deranged, as we knows.' So I goes to Bedford’s, and he says, says he, 'I 'as no call for weapons--'cause vy?--I 'as a call vithout; but mayhap you'll be a-getting it at the bong shop hover the vay,--'cause vy?--the bong seller’ll be damned!" So I goes hover the vay, and the bong retailer says, says he, 'I 'as not a RPG: but I 'as a dirty bomb laced with canola, and mayhap the poor creturs mayn't see the difference.' So I takes the dirty bomb, Mrs. Poor Lisa, and here they be surely!--and how's poor Lazy Aussie?"

"Fearsomo! Men are beasts! He'll not be over the night, I'm a-athinking."

"Vell, I'll track up the ammo!"

So saying, Cookie ascended a doorless staircase, across the entrance of which a chunk of corflute, stretched angularly from the wall to the chimney, afforded a kind of screen; and presently he stood within a chamber, which the dark and painful genius of the bloke who painted the pic of the kneeling woman and the Alsation might have delighted to portray. The walls were white-washed, and at sundry places strange figures and grotesque characters had been traced in burnt orange by some mirthful inmate, in such sable outline as the end of a smoked herring stick or the edge of a piece of charcoal is wont to produce. The wan and flickering light afforded by a farting candle gave a sort of grimness and menace to these achievements of pictorial art, especially as they more than once received embellishment from portraits of Brendon Grylls, such as he is accustomed to be drawn. A low fire burned gloomily in a sooty grate; and on the hob hissed "the still small voice" of a kick-arse pan of mandrax. On a round deal-table were two vials, a cracked cup, a broken spoon of some dull metal, and upon two or three mutilated chairs were scattered various articles of female attire. On another table, placed below a high, narrow, shutterless casement (athwart which, instead of a curtain, bloodied mayoral chains had been loosely hung, and now waved fitfully to and fro in the gusts of wind that made easy ingress through many a chink and cranny), were a looking glass, sundry appliances of the toilet, a box of cricketers’ boxes, a few ornaments of more show than value; and a watch, the regular and calm click of which produced that indescribably painful feeling which, we fear, many of our readers who have heard the ravings of the Daylight Savings Murder Posse can easily recall.

To be continued...

Daylight saving zombies attack!

It happened on Sunday morning. The world as we knew it was gone and a dark pall had fallen over suburbia like a blanket over a bird cage.

I stumbled outside to find out where the sun had gone. Yes it was morning, but the harsh glare that would normally prise my lids asunder and prod the sleeping baby until he screamed for his bottle was curiously missing. It had shrunk away and was hiding in the shadows like a dog licking its wounds.

But I had been tricked before. The cunning beast which is the coming of day in Western Australia does not suffer fools gladly. It will tear the eyes from your very sockets and sear your flesh before you have time to mutter, 'where is the 30+?'

I donned my glasses and faux-quokka baseball cap, put the poodle on a leash and ventured into the street. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Sensing danger I grabbed a five iron from the garage and wrapped the dog's leash tighter around my wrist. I was like Will Smith in that awful armageddon movie set in New York, except instead of an alsation and a pump action shotgun, I had a yappy poodle and a golf club.

The cause of my paranoia became evident immediately. It was pre-empted by a wailing sound, followed by large groups of people floundering about and clawing at their eyes, shouting, 'I can't see', 'Who turned out the lights?' 'Oh my Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?'

They appeared to be blinded, unable to see where they were going... staggering on hands and knees, or scuttling along crab-like, bouncing off trees, tripping on gutters. Joggers, dog walkers, retirees and empty nesters with nothing better to do. Individuals, some gathered in groups, others dragged by pets.

I grabbed a flannel-hatted senior by the collar of his cardigan and demanded he tell me what had caused this nightmare vision before me. 'Tell me old man or you shall feel the blunt end of my Ping!'

He cowered in fear, his eyeballs rolling back into his emaciated skull. His lips trembled. 'Don't you know? Don't you see what they have done? They have taken away our light... our shining beacon. Without it we are doomed. Doomed to wander the early morning streets as the daylight saving damned - wretched, sightless, aimless beasts.'

I threw him into the undergrowth in disgust. 'Get a grip man! The day is here - look around you... is this not light enough for you?'

But it was too late, he had stumbled into the path of oncoming traffic and disappeared in a puff of brown woollen fibres.

'You've had it too good for too long!' I screamed at them. 'You must adjust to the light and learn that you don't need to eat dinner at 5.00pm and be in bed before the final sirens sound on the closing credits of The Bill!

'There is life after Parkinson. It's okay to stay in bed until 6.00am! There is NOTHING to fear...'

But again, too late. Blind eyes and deaf ears. Rather than embrace the change they gathered in even tighter groups, huddled around radios sharing mobile phones to call talkback radio and wail down the line to Hutchison and Beaumont - whoever was willing to listen.

And in time the savagery began. Within days these rabid packs would begin wandering the early morning streets in search of the 'Savers', chanting 'Death to the Twilight' and offering up sacrafices to the 'God of Early Morning Walks'.

Meanwhile, on Rottnest Island, David 'Teh Outrage' Cohen was mobilising forces to take out these vast zombie hoards, but there was much planning to be done. He rolled his first herring spliff of the day, kicked off his deck shoes and leaned back to look out across Thompson Bay to the mainland beyond.

'You f*#kers shall rue the day...'

As the blue smoke curled languidly across the room to join the sea breeze snaking across the salt lakes, making music in the pines, he eyed the cream bun in the pantry and punched 1300-COOKSTER into the Nokia.

'Teh Rage here Cookster. The barge will meet you at the North Mole at 6.30pm once the zombies are safely in bed. You bring the golf clubs and I'll supply the octopus. Tell The Lazy Aussie to pick up Skink and Frank in The Worst of Perth Combi on the way - I have a plan.'

...to be continued.

Wake up Geoff, Richie's mine!

It's funny how teh interwebs seem to render time irrelevant, or so you'd think according to one of the latest additions to Geoff McClure's Sporting Life column in The AGE:

Cheers for Richie, girls — he's 78

THE international 2008-09 cricket season may be just around the corner (22 days to go, in fact: just kidding), so what have the "stars" been up to in the lead-up? Well, in the case of Mr 22 himself, Channel Nine's veteran Richie Benaud, life hasn't been too bad at all. This snap of Richie was taken a few days ago in Positano, Italy, where the maestro was seen enjoying a glass of vino in the company of some of the locals' finest young ladies. Not sure of the reason for all the jubilation but maybe they knew of his coming celebrations. Yep. many happy returns to the ol' fella — he was 78 yesterday.

Now I've been a fan of Geoff's for many years, often scanning his column over the day's first coffee hit during a 10 year stint in Melbourne town. But he's taking a bit of 'license' in claiming the image above was taken "just a few days ago".

I actually received this photo via email from a mate in Perth on 24 July who had in turn received it from a friend - the person who took the photo - while on holiday in Europe.

Indeed, it was posted right here in The Perth Files on 30 July... Indeed, I flicked it across to my comedic buddy The Lazy Aussie who also posted it on The Worst of Perth.

But what the hell... it's a great pic and it fits too damn well with Richie's Birthday for me to concern myself with exact dates - what's eight weeks or so between friends? Hell, it may even extend Richie's longevity, which can only be a good thing, right?!

Geoff, if you read this, I'm the bloke who sent you the pic of Jess Sinclair looking like an extra from the set of Hair the Musical on the day he got drafted to Freo. Now that he's retired it might be time to give that one another outing?

Update: Good to see some loyal blogging support from Sunili at Because I Said So.

Bowling for North Fremantle

I spent this Father’s Day at the North Fremantle Bowling Club having a roll and a barbie with Cookster Snr who runs the club and pours a top Guinness. It was a pleasant way to 'come down' after election night disappointment and I'm sure Kerry O'Brien would have agreed wholeheartedly.

I've shared the above pics with The Lazy Aussie at The Worst of Perth, so feel free to drop by once you've had your fix of The Perth Files.

The ‘Ladie’s Lounge’ is a veritable treasure chest of memorabilia from a time when Lumpers caught herring off the North Mole during their lunch break.

I was going to rifle through the LPs and position ‘the best one’ on top, but I took one look at a wistful Leo and knew that was the shot.

The men’s locker room is quite a sad affair - lockers ajar, displaying crisp whites on their hangers (seams ironed perfectly), bowling hats, shoes, jars of brylcream and combs that no longer have an owner.

Cases of bowls bear their former owners’ names - Jack, Bill, Fred, Tommy… all now gone, or just too old to bowl.

Good news is that the club committee want to preserve the sense of tradition, while at the same time starting a new page in the history book.

The club turns 50 this year and the old boy has plans to start a jam night, calling in a few favours from local musos who got a leg up in the industry during his time at the Seaview. We can also expect DJs by the green, comedy nights and the odd ball.

If I get enough interest I might organise a TPF Day on the Green - post a comment if you're interested in joining me for a roll.

Storming the election booths

As election day snuck up on me like a lingering fart in a supermarket aisle, all I could think about was the insidious pain that continues to gather strength in my arthritic wrist.

Could I be feeling sympathy pains for Carps in my carpal region? Do I have a wrist that predicts political changes, just like some people can tell when rain is on the way?

I'm an outcast here in leafy Floreat. A battered man clinging to the bloated corpse of Brian Burke, desperately trying to stay afloat in a cruel sea of neo conservatism. The sharks are circling, taking sly snaps at mein host's greying flesh, waiting for me to lose my grip and sink below...

The local ALP candidate is hopelessly outgunned. There's no champagne on ice. In fact he's too young to drink - we hear he'll be showing his face at the local polling station once the soccer final is over. Another 10 years and the boy might be ready to step into the fray in a seat like Kingsley, where grinning ex-Brits are gathered around sausage sizzles, whinging about daylight saving and calling for graffiti vandals to be whipped in public.

Another handful of Voltarin and what the hell, let's wash it down with a slug of the Black Douglas the wife saves for Irish Coffee nights. It's going to be a long day and as I heard Shaun McManus say at a breakfast yesterday, 'that light at the end of the tunnel could well be the 7.35 to Fremantle.'

Time to head back to The Worst of Perth live election coverage...

The Worst of Perth - Richie Benaud

A shout out to the peeps at The Worst of Perth and that very funny man The Lazy Aussie (TLA), who is responsible for driving at least half of the 5-6 people who visit this site every day... okay, maybe there are more, but it's not like there's any danger of The Perth Files melting down from a traffic overload.

Anyway,Teh Cookster has become quite the fan of TWOP and very happy to supply the odd pic or video where I feel they may have TWOP potential, ie, the current Richie Benaud image and the Subi Oval poo vid that is causing the boy so much angst.

So, once you've finished here --- and please stay as long as you like --- get over to The Worst of Perth and join the merry gang in a bit of banter on the very best of the worst things our fine city has to offer.

Oh and be sure and tell your friends to visit. And please be my friend on facebook... Needy? Clingy? Just plain creepy? You betcha!