How to learn the radios

Because sometimes smart people are listening.

This week it was revealed that vexatious vomitron Alan Jones and his talkback team at 2GB have been directed to attend training in factual accuracy and other basic journalistic concepts, in an effort to improve the way that Jones' show, and 2GB broadcasters overall, blurt out whatever uneducated drivel happens to pop into their cretaceous-era heads present their content.

Will it work? Time will tell. Shall I write a poem about it? Already did.

Heigh-ho! We’re off journalist school, it’s sure to be loads of fun!

We’ll learn about tact, and checking each fact,

And how diligence is done.

What larks! We’ll grasp the digital realm, beyond talkback radio;

We’ll learn that there’s more than flapping one’s jaw;

To airing a breakfast show.

Huzzah! We’re going to learn how the facebook works, and the twitters too;

And how to download our industry code,

And actually read it through.

And lo! We might discover that women can make a valid point!

They might have degrees! And some expertise!

They might not destroy the joint!

At last! When that certificate’s earned and hung on the office wall,

Our plump millionaire will jump back on air,

And nothing will change at all.

Jobs.

Because a little perspective wouldn't go astray.

A good man did his job today. He took a small, sharp knife;

With parents waiting, wracked with pain;

He made a cut inside a vein

Soon bluish skin turned pink again;

He saved a baby’s life.

An actress made a million bucks for playing someone’s wife.

A woman with a comfy chair and tissues close at hand,

Heard broken people talk all day;

She hardly had the strength to say,

She couldn’t take the pain away,

But she could understand.

A model won’t get out of bed for less than twenty grand.

Last night a guy with debts walked into bathroom stalls unseen.

He picked up sodden paper dropped,

Made sure the spew-stained floor was mopped,

The skid-marked, turd-blocked bogs unstopped,

And everything was clean.

An actor did his nut ‘cause someone moved during a scene.

Tomorrow, people in a lab will try to find an answer,

To why a small malignant cell,

Can feed and reproduce so well;

They’re getting close – soon tests will tell,

If they can starve a cancer.

A so-called star makes headlines posing as a ballroom dancer.

A Eulogy for Keith Urban...

...who is not actually dead. Don't write in.

No doubt you've been following the year-long Urban Decay that's been going on over Jo Blogs' way (and if you haven't, do. You'll be entertained. Unless you love Keith, in which case I'll be entertained). Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, I was unable to make it to Keith's final farewell, where the last shards of his most recent musical output were to be ceremonially flushed. But, just like a country singer, I didn't want the occasion to slip by without putting pen to paper and hacking out some poignant, if totally unnecessary, words:

What can I say 'bout a bloke named Keith?
With his foil-streaked hair and his perfect teeth,
With his gin-soaked life
And his skinny useless wife
And a catalogue of whining twangy piffle to bequeath?

Oh, what can I offer such a fellow as our Keith?
For I can't attend his funeral and I can't afford a wreath.
But I can jot this epithet
On a dirty serviette
And say "Adios, you boring twat. I'll see you Underneath".

Another whinge...

Good golly, not Molly.
What good is Molly Meldrum? Now or ever?

Australia's Brainiest um... thingy

Better smart than Sully.
Whoever had the idea of putting Sandra Sully at the helm of a show with the word 'brainiest' in the title has a very good sense of humour.

I love a good quiz show, and this one has the added bonus of watching Sandra struggle to keep up with the intellectual standard of the show's contestants, drawn from the rich intellectual pool of Australia's pop musicians and Big Brother housemates.

Last night was particularly amusing. James Blundell and two members of Human Nature were able to read, consider and answer most questions before poor Sandra had managed to read out the first handful of syllables, and this was all too much for the overwhelmed spokesmodel. Put off by the bizarre turn of events - that contestants were answering questions - she lost her place several times and cost the players valuable seconds.

That's the bit I find entertaining. The bit I find highly irritating - because I am me, is a much smaller detail. It is the phrase that Sandra often utters (with very good diction) when a contestant gets an answer right. For example:

Sandra: "Gaborone is the capital of which country that borders South Africa?"
Contestant: "Botswana"
Sandra: "That would be correct".

One is tempted to ask: under what circumstances would that be correct? During a game show, in response to the question that was just asked? When it exactly matches that strange, polysyllabic word printed next to the word "Answer" on the Autocue? Yes? Well, then! It IS correct!