Blogs are like Tequila. They should be taken with a pinch of salt.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Dear Bikies... Shut up.

Dear Bikies,

Don’t kill me for this, but I have something I’d like to say to you.

Please shut the fuck up.

At least a little bit.

The other night, I was finally getting some rest after a really hard day. I had watched FOUR HOURS of Grey’s Anatomy reruns, so believe me – it was a really frigging hard day. As usual, I shuffled to bed at the ripe hour of 9.30 (Nanna needs her sleep, stop tittering), took my tired feet out of their tartan slippers, kissed my husband Jake Gyllenhaal goodnight (from afar. Separate-countries-and-realities-afar) and tucked myself into my warm bed. And I slept. The deep sleep of a 27-year-old nanna with few concerns in the world.

Until you zoomed past and bloody well woke me up at 2a.m... AGAIN.

Imagine it's night time, alright?

Now, I know you’re all fancy kinds of tough with your ankle guns and your do-rags and your skull-and-crossbone tattoos (is that you or Pirates? It’s hard to tell the difference, with all the rum and missing teeth), so I ask that you remember I’m just an innocent woman with grandma-aged habits and child-aged maturity. Don’t come knocking on my door to strangle me with a garden hose or something CSI (oh my Christ, am I giving you ideas?).

I’m just politely requesting that you get some motherloving manners.

Your bikes are really bloody loud. I’m a hardcore deep sleeper, and yet you wake me up several times a week, no matter which suburb I am sleeping in*. It’s usually between one and four a.m, otherwise known as ‘so fucking late, it’s early’. Sometimes there is one of you. Sometimes there is a billion of you. Either way, the epic ‘nnnnnneeeeeeaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh’ resonating from your throttle is enough to shake my windows and scare the living bejeezus out of me. And then I’m so annoyed at the break in my zzz’s, I can’t get back to zzz-ing.

So WHY are you riding so late at night? I highly recommend being tucked up in bed. You will be much happier people if you get your eight hours. Is it because you are off looking for other Bikies to discuss your bitches and hoes with? Or are you flying off to bust a cap in someone’s ass? Or are you simply getting home to your sweed’aaart after a late night at the pub (or under the bridge or wherever Bikies meet), and using the most carelessly loud method of travel at that time of night?

I fucking love tap-dancing. Especially when it’s really loud so I can hear every shuffled beat. But I don’t tap dance down your street at 2 a.m because that would be REALLY DAMN INCONSIDERATE. I also like playing the drums and using jackhammers and mowing the lawn and banging pots and pans together really really loud, but again, my gosh-darn manners stop me from expressing these joys when the whole neighbourhood is sleeping (I also like being alive, so please don’t change that...).

So, my dear butch Bikies, either muffle your motor, go home earlier, or buy a nice quiet bicycle. That’s all this little nanna asks. Please don’t hunt me down and threaten me with a chainsaw. I’m sorry for swearing at you and calling you names. I didn’t mean it, I’m just a bit grumpy.

I haven’t been sleeping well lately.

At least if you do kill me**, I’ll be able to actually Rest In Fucking PEACE.

Love and silence,
Lucy G, of no fixed address (good luck finding me, suckers).

*FYI, that sentence that referred to me sleeping in lots of bed has more to do with house-sitting than promiscuity.

**Can everyone please check on me regularly from now on, just in case? Let’s say if I call you and scream the word ‘Uncle!’ and then hang up, that’s a code word for “Help! A bikie is at my house trying to kill me!”. Unless you are actually my Uncle, in which case I’ll use the code word ‘Eggplant’. Got it? Good plan.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She's probably trying to catch up on sleep in an unknown suburb with locked doors and an alarm system.

The funniest video you will see about Bikies, by my favourite funny friends 'Aunty Donna':

Monday, September 1, 2014

Full-Time Questions.

In one week, I will be starting my first ever full-time job. You heard me. At 27, the closest thing to regular working hours I’ve ever experienced is high school, and even then I used my free periods to watch movies and shirk responsibility. (Side note: let’s make a group effort to say ‘shirk’ more frequently. Shirk.) I had a close encounter with full days of work in a brief stint at a call centre, but that was only two days a week, and largely involved me watching funny goat videos on YouTube for secret hours on end while inventing excuses about my neglected call list (needless to say, I didn’t last long).* But all of a sudden, I’m about to get schooled in how to sit at a desk and type away like a grown-up. The thing is, I know nothing about logistics. I have a myriad of questions about full-time work, some of which I’ve had for years and others that have been waking me up in the middle of the night since I decided to take on this new job. If there are any full-timers out there, anyone who hasn’t described themselves as ‘funemployed’ every day since uni, then please help me. I’m more lost than Nemo.


Will someone tell me when I can go home at the end of the day? I’m assuming there is no bell… but it would be handy so we’re all on the same page.

While we’re on that topic, do I need to sign out at the end of the day?

If I’m good, do I get an early minute?

What if I finish all my work and can’t think of anything to do? Is it okay to play Minesweeper?

I’ve heard sitcoms and grown-ups and comedians talk about things that were discussed around the Water Cooler. How quickly should I locate the Water Cooler? Should I hang out there until someone talks to me? Should I bring a chair and snacks? Do I have to actually fill up a cup to be ‘in’ with the Water Cooler Crowd, or can I just waltz over and nod along? And what the FUCK do I do if my office doesn’t even HAVE a Water Cooler?

Toilet breaks. Is it okay to just go, or should I put my hand up?

If my phone rings, will I get in trouble? One time in science class I got a message, and then a detention. I don’t want a repeat of that disaster.

Should I get a briefcase? Worky people seem to have briefcases. If so, what should I fill it with? Muesli bars? Pens?

What if they ask me to do something and I don’t know how to do it? WorkSafe plays ads that indicate you should always be clear on your task or you might lose a finger. I’m going to be an editor, so do I still have the chance of losing a finger?

Fake Awake Sleeping Tape. Will definitely be investing in this bad boy.

How does time-off work? If I have a dentist appointment, should I get a note from Mum?

What is considered an acceptable excuse for being late? Is ‘sorry I’m late, I was watching Charmed’ considered to be unprofessional?**

In my usual day-to-day life, I spend most of my time auditioning, and sometimes I don’t get to stay because of things like height, or hair colour, or being the wrong age. What are the chances that I will get asked to leave my new job for being too tall?

I was really into co-curricular activities at school. Are there co-curricular activities at work?

I hear normal people talking about ‘Friday Work Drinks’. What if it gets to Friday and no one has mentioned drinks? Does this mean I am unpopular? Should I just start drinking by myself? Would it be uncool to drink chocolate milk?

At school and uni I used to get in trouble for talking all the time. I’d like it if I didn’t get in trouble for talking in my new full-time job. That’s not a question, that’s a wish from the bottom of my heart because no matter how much I try to shut up, I just can’t help it.

In my usual funemployed life, I get to give in to any and every whim. I have a lot of naps. I assume I’m not allowed to nap at the office (or am I? I would like that VERY much). So what do worky people do when they suddenly get really, really sleepy?


Do I bring food? Should I bring a spare roll-up to try and make friends? What happens if I eat the spare roll-up? What if I get hungry because I ate all my lunch at recess? DO WE EVEN HAVE RECESS??

Friends, as you can see, I am nervous. This full-time thing is a mystery to me. It seems like it’s going to put a serious dent in my sleep/eat/nap/repeat cycle. Feel free to leave me any tips. Right now, I gotta go. I’ve got one more week of freedom left, so I have to get through my to-do list. Next task: Get some fro-yo before Nap 3. Sigh.

* In my defense, the reason I’ve never had a full-time 9-5 job is because acting is (and hopefully will always be) my full-time job…. it’s just not very 9-5ish.  Bruce Willis and I always get together and bitch about that. I’m actually currently touring with a kid’s show, and it’s really hard work. Today I have to do a FULL 50 minutes of work. Who’s got time for that?!

** According to my uni professors, yes.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably buying heaps of pens to fill her briefcase.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Get 'Fit' Fast.

This morning, like so many mornings, I woke up when my alarm went off, got out of bed, planned my morning jog in my head, pulled on my gym clothes… and then climbed right back into bed. Sports bra and all. The motivation that I lack could fill oceans. If you have ever felt that you are a bit lazy, here are some things that I have done that will make you feel better.

  • Drove to the gym, couldn’t find a park close enough, couldn’t be bothered parking far away and walking, so drove home.
  • Pulled up to the gym, spotted my novel sitting on the passenger seat, decided to read “just one page” before working out, read four chapters in my car, and decided to drive home where I could continue reading in comfort.
  • Signed up to an expensive gym and ended up using it for the following purposes (and I mean ONLY the following purposes): To spend a good hour in the Nap Zone chairs (that was their fault for even having a Nap Zone), to sit and read my book in the spa and/or sauna, to sit on an exercise bike and watch whole epsiodes of Masterchef whilst NOT pedalling, to fall asleep while stretching on a yoga mat (and on one occasion, on a reformer pilates bed during a class), to sit on a stool and pretend to drink a protein shake whilst watching the male personal trainers, and to use the internet.

As you can see, I’m not really future-personal-trainer material, and I largely (NPI) couldn’t care less. But every now and then, I get a big kick of motivation to get all healthy and shiny and protein-y. It usually lasts between five minutes and two hours. So I spend it wisely. Let me share with you eight simple tricks I have mastered - the things we can all do when feeling motivated to get fit… sort of.
Lucy's Tips to Get ‘Fit’ Fast
(Not endorsed by any fitness institution, personal trainers, or really by Lucy herself.)

1.       Buy some expensive work out gear.

When I’m feeling like I've got a bit too much memory foam, a quick trip to LuLu Lemon or Adidas (oh alright… the gym clothes section of Kmart) to drop a bit of pocket money on some lightweight lycra spandex three-quarter length shelf-bra racerback running clothes. Matching, preferably. A stripe down the side of my leg, a fluro Michelle Bridges-esque top and a new sports bra that costs more than my rent, and I’m READY. To go home, put on my new workout clothes…. And then clean the kitchen.

2.       Get a new gym membership.

Obviously, the reason I haven’t been working out is because my gym membership isn’t expensive enough! That’s why I lay on the couch too much! I’m not SPENDING enough on workouts! Easily fixed. Cancel the cheap ol’ YMCA membership, find the flashiest gym possible with GHD straighteners in the bathroom and TV screens in the treadmill, sign up for twelve easy payments of my annual salary, and BOOM. I’m fitter already. Virgin Active (one of my favourite oxymorons) and I got along really well for two years, until the only thing looking thinner was my bank account. My fault, not theirs. I got caught up in the flashiness of a gym with a rock-climbing wall and enough treadmills for a small country…. And then limited my workouts to the sauna, spa and nap zone.

3.       Go to the supermarket and/or health food shop. Shopping list:

  • Water bottle
  • Water (soda)
  • Water (coconut)
  • Oil (coconut)
  • Butter (coconut)
  • Ivegottalovelybunchof (coconuts)
  • Activated almonds (because I HATE it when my almonds are lazy)
  • Quinoa and brown rice (so they can stay in the pantry for the next year… seriously, I just turned some rice into juggling balls just for the sake of using it)
  • Kale (which I do not like the taste of, and invariably just wilts and dies)
  • Lemons (detoxifying)
  • Dark chocolate (intoxifying)
  • Avocado (botoxifying)
  • Anything with the words ‘organic’, ‘natural’, ‘light’, ‘brown’ and ‘fun-free’. Don’t need to use or eat any of these things, just having them will make you look skinnier.
4.  Hang out in the vitamins section of the supermarket.

I don’t buy anything because I largely think vitamins are pharmaceutical company bullshit, but it’s fun to read the labels and see what I could shop for. Do I want “Healthy Hair and Nails” or “Brain Power”? “Glowing Skin” or “Rejuvenated Joints”? If there was a vitamin that said “Motivation To Choose Running On A Treadmill Over Sitting On The Couch Eating Nutella While Watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S” then I might consider it… or not.
5.      Download an App.

Type ‘fitness’ into the Apple Store, browse through the top ten, choose the cheapest one, download it and play with it for five minutes, and you’ll feel fitter already. No need to ever use the App again.* That’ll do, Piggy.

6.       Choose a fitness buddy.

Be careful not to choose one who will actually force you to work out. I like to select my fitness buddies while we are both sitting on the couch eating dessert together. We’ll make plans to meet three times a week and ‘train’ each other and bounce through the parklands and run the ‘tan**, whilst fighting over the last piece of Lindt and knowing it will never happen.

7.       Go to Bikram Yoga.

I do this approximately once every year and a half. Someone talks me into re-experiencing the benefits of doing backbends in Saudi-Arabian-style heat, but I always end up a) gagging from the smell of a room full of evaporated sweat or b) fainting, and then taking eighteen months to forget the horror.

8.       Buy a piece of gym equipment.

Depending on your bank account, this can be elaborate or modest, from Nautilus pulley-weight-ab-swing-skywalker fancies to little hand weights or stretching bands. I once bought a secondhand treadmill that became an excellent towel rack.
So there you go, eight steps to becoming a fitter you. Unless you want to… you know… actually go to the gym and work out or something crazy. Hey, that’s your call. If you do, you might even see me there. I’m the one in the corner in brand new workout gear, sleeping on the yoga mat.

*My favourite of the Apps I have downloaded during fitness spurts is a sleep hypnosis App, with an Irish lady encouraging me in soothing tones to crave capsicum instead of chocolate and things like that. It has never really worked, because I get too distracted by her crazy talk to fall asleep, but I’ll keep trying because I reallllly like the idea of getting fitter while I nap.

**For those not from Melbourne, “running the ‘tan” means using the running track that stretches around the BoTANical Gardens. It’s the fit and trendy thing to do for fit and trendy people. I don’t like it because the track is dusty gravel, and it makes my black sneakers really dirty. I wouldn’t buy Nike Running Shoes to ruin them with a silly thing like running now, would I?!

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably eating some inactive almonds... those lazy bastards. 


Monday, July 28, 2014

Mediocre Modelling

There is a model who keeps popping up in my NewsFeed. An insanely beautiful, ridiculously hot model. You know how they say ‘she has legs for days’? Her legs reach until about August 2017. You know how they say ‘glowing skin’? Her skin is the surface of the sun. She’s so smoking hot she makes me leer, wishfully, wistfully, blissfully, kissfully… and I’m a heterosexual female. But the thing is, I will never, ever buy the clothes that she is modelling, because I’m fully aware that I will try that blue lace skirt with her six-foot brown pins in mind, and then be bitterly disappointed with the reality.
Before you bang on about me fishing for compliments, I’m not getting out the hook’n’reel. This skin suits me just fine, I’m quite happy in it. It’s just a little problem I have with models, especially the online-fashion variety. They are all so damn good-looking that I don’t trust that the clothes are actually flattering.  
The girl I've been weirdly perving on, and some outfits I will never buy lest she be wearing them at the same time.
Stop it.

The other Hello Molly model. Also ridiculously hot. Also putting me off the clothes.

Now, modelling is hard bloody work and requires a lot more skill than some would think. I know this because I had an 0.25 second appearance in a Target ad in a group of ‘models’ (I only use the quotation marks for myself, the others girls were actually experienced models) showing the ‘boyfriend’ look. I learned two things in the two wonderful days of shooting – firstly, I am what is considered to be ‘plus-size’. Good to know. I thought I was size 12, but I guess not. (Is there a minus-size? Or is it a score, like A+?? It’s stoopid.) Secondly, modelling is not a matter of being good-looking. At one point, it was my turn to just playfully model the clothes on film. I had two cameras, thirty crew members, a bunch of professional models and Gok Wan staring at me. I’d had hours of hair and make-up and spray tans and manicures, so I had reached my absolute peak and was looking as good as I ever will. I’d practiced my Miranda Kerr in my bedroom mirror. My inner model was ready. The director called ‘Action!”…. and I turned into Jan Brady, awkwardly swinging my hips and pouting, and occasionally stumbling and getting hair stuck in my lip gloss. The other models had their turns and absolutely nailed it, looking effortlessly sexy and interesting. Needless to say, my shots were not chosen for the final edit.
 (In case below YouTube link doesn't come up...

Anyway, my point is – modelling is definitely a skill (that I DO NOT have). Anyone who works as a model deserves respect, and their flawless skin must be thick as hell with all the criticism they’d have to put up with. The top models demonstrate what clothing brands look like at their absolute maximum, and that’s important for consumerism and marketing and all kinds of things.

But I’d like to request a new, sub-brand of modelling. Mediocre Modelling. Someone with no experience, with a less-than-perfect face and a body that’s seen better days, to chuck on the clothes that I’m thinking of ordering and take a shit mirror selfie. Then I’ll be provided with some information I can actually use – I can see how the clothes would look at their maximum potential on a super hot model, and I can see how they’d look on an Average Josephine. Because if the dress STILL looks alright, still covers her cellulite and doesn’t give her a muffin top or bring out the grey bags under her eyes, then I’ll buy it. I’ll buy it with confidence, knowing that I might even look better than the Mediocre Model. It’ll be like admiring the outfit on Marcia Brady, and then seeing how it looks on ol’ Jan. If Jan looks hot too, you’re safe.
Classic case of misleading modelling (and poor needlework...).
I could start an agency and get specific. Someone can email me saying “I want to see how this dress looks on someone with short legs, or wide hips, or with reallllly pale skin”, and BOOM*. I will call one of my many mediocre models and toss them into the questionable outfit, revealing to the client the real potential of the clothing, underwhelming as it may be. I myself would’ve been saved $60 on a green silk wrap dress that looked phenomenal on the slim, olive-brown Italian goddess ASOS model, but makes me look malnourished in complexion, yet overfed in silhouette.
I don’t want to put models out of business. And I appreciate that ‘plus-size’ (there’s that stupid word again) models are getting more utilized. I just think it’d be a smart move if they chucked in someone a bit average to make more women (and by ‘more women’… I mean ME) feel confident that they could also wear those clothes. How ’bout you, Victoria’s Secret? Love your parade, but usually I’m too busy admiring the models abs and tans to actually notice your fancy designs. Chuck in just one woman with cankles or man-ish shoulders or a wee bit of post-baby flab, and if SHE looks and feels good, then we know Victoria has a Secret that is actually worth paying for.
What's missing from this leggy line-up? A Mediocre Model.

Sometimes my Mum says “She’s so pretty, she’d look good in a brown paper bag”. (I’d actually quite enjoy testing that theory… ) My idea for Mediocre Modelling is sort of the opposite. “That brown paper bag is so pretty, it’d make anyone look good”. So, Hello Molly, Victoria's Secret and other brands, keep up the great work with the stunning models, they deserve their careers. But if you want me or anyone from my potential agency to come and do some mediocre, Jan Brady-inspired, tan-free and cellulite-full modelling, you might get more customers buying clothes, and less customers just stopping to stare at the models’ legs.

…And if you see that Hello Molly babe of a model, give her my number. No one will love her like I do.


*Please note that I am NOT saying that anyone with short legs, wide hips or realllly pale skin is, in any way, mediocre. My warm and friendly modelling company** is more about representing a cross-section of women (perhaps I should call it ‘Median Modelling’ instead?) than distinguishing between what is/isn’t attractive. Hugs for all.

**I do not have a modelling company, and probably never will. I’m far too lazy to actually implement this momentous idea. But if anyone is interested, feel free to use this idea and send me a Mars Bar and a size 12 blue lace skirt as payment.
By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably staring at some legs.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014


It’s officially been a year since I have been a-bloggin’. I never considered writing as a future profession, I don’t do much research or fancy myself as a hard-hitting journalist, I just try to have a laugh. If I can make one person giggle while reading an article of mine, then mission accomplished. And yet, over this past year, I’ve noticed that the more experience I gain trying to be funny on a little piece of internet, the more scared I am of writing. Why?
It’s almost impossible to be inoffensive.

I wrote a piece defending Adelaide, and suffered the scariest week of my life in which I got angry responses from some of the 100,000+ people that read it (my head is still spinning from that number). One guy even went as far as to abuse me on several forms of social media, purchase a ticket to my Adelaide Fringe show four months later, and leave a creepy t-shirt for me with a mildly threatening message on it*. BECAUSE I SAID I LIKE ADELAIDE. I got in trouble for being a ‘skinny-basher’ and a ‘chubby-chaser’ when I had a whinge about the small sizing scheme at Kookai – one chick threatened to punch me in my “fat face” (cheers, babe!). I wrote an article against shark-culling and got criticised for swearing too much (fair call… so fuckin’ sorry about that one, ma’am), and showed my support for gay marriage and was called a bigot (which didn’t offend me because I’m pretty sure that guy was missing the point like a blunt pencil). Someone complained about my Tinder article, because they think Tinder is gross (so don’t bloody read an article about Tinder, der-brain). And perhaps most rudely of all, someone once commented that my opinion doesn’t count, because I am ‘just an actor and therefore uninformed’.

This guy likes me SO much, he paid me $23 and gave me a free t-shirt.

No one tell this girl that I'm a fat-faced certified kickboxing instructor.

Although I was having 99% positive responses (and 100% from the VIP’s in my life), it was the 1% that was keeping me awake at night. I wanted a break from worrying about offending people, so I tried to think of a completely neutral, inoffensive topic. It took me a month to think of something, but finally I had a harmless topic in mind; I wrote a love letter to Prince Harry… and offended hundreds of women by pointing out that Princess Diana’s life didn’t end well. Tasteless joke? Maybe. Grounds for readers being outraged? Not really. But instead of cowering under my blankets like I normally do when I accidentally upset a bunch of strangers, the outrage kinda pissed me off. Sadly, Princess Di died. It’s a horrible fact. However, I didn’t realise that audiences are so sensitive these days, that mentioning a death that happened 17 years ago is ‘too soon’ (and may I point out that I also mentioned Grace Kelly in the same sentence, but I guess 32 years ago is not too soon).

I was raised to arm myself with humour. There is not a single aspect of myself that I won’t joke about, because it makes me feel fearless. Even the topics I feel passionate about – feminism, domestic violence, equal marriage, environmentalism – anyone can joke about them without me blinking an eye, because I know the difference between someone taking the piss, and someone pissing me off. Granted, “I was just joking” is a cowardly and bullshit defense when speaking to an offended party. It’s a defense evoked by bullies, and it doesn’t excuse the behaviour. But we need to separate the bullies and the bigots from the larrikins, because there is liberation in comedy. While I was in first year of university, we tragically lost a dear friend in our class. We were absolutely devastated. The first joke about her absence in class was made within 24 hours. Not because we weren’t racked with grief – because it was our human nature to use comedy to help us cope. Comedians make jokes about cancer, about racism, about wars, about crimes, about every sensitive issue under the sun. Why? Not because they aren’t sympathetic to the issue, not because they are the devil incarnate – because they are fighting fire with funny.

A wonderfully sarcastic ninety-nine percenter.

It has become apparent to me that some people like to sit at their computer, with their fingers quivering over their keyboards, just waiting for something to be outraged over.** In these days of social media, we’re less likely to feel feelings, and more likely to post them. The perpetually pissed-off post-ers are ready to jump down anyone’s throat. Kochie says something dumb on morning television, and thousands of people (half of whom probably didn’t even watch it) make a status, ‘feeling furious’. Surely it must be exhausting to be so easily infuriated? Some women who identify themselves by their ‘feminism’ are so constantly outraged, they must have the deepest forehead wrinkles on the planet (not that they’d care, as they will point out emphatically). I believe in equality for both genders so that makes me a feminist. But I have trouble identifying with the raging 'feminists' on social media when I hardly hear about the most vital gender-biased issues – unequal pay, glass ceilings, sexism, sexual harassment, violence, and so on – and only about body image, who said what on the internet, and whether wearing make-up makes me liberated or conformed.  

Corinne Grant wrote an abso-fucking-lutely brilliant article on Hoopla, begging Australians to go back to the good ol’ us and start taking the piss. Laughing it off. Poking fun. “Take the piss, Australia. Enough with the hand-wringing and sniping, it isn’t getting us anywhere.” We are so busy pointing our fingers and tattle-telling at the slightest annoyance that we have forgotten how to let things run off our back, like water to the proverbial duck. Thanks to social media, everyone has a platform to instantly express their irritations, rather than deal with it or let it go.  Let’s try using our status updates to celebrate the things we love, or make each other laugh – not whinge about every frigging teeny-tiny thing that pissed us off today (unless you make a joke out of it). Focus on the ointment, not the fly.

If anything is actually offensive, by all means, we should put a stop to it. Anything that is racist, sexist, anti-gay, ageist, or insulting/discriminatory in any way should not be tolerated. But rather than trawling light-hearted blogs or trying to read between the tweets of a public personality, we should be focussing our indignation on offensive people with destructive intentions, people of great power and influence, and not attacking well-meaning people trying to fight the same fight. Tasteless jokes are not going to run the world, nor are they going to ruin it. Choose happiness, choose indifference, save your fists for the real fights. Be like Elsa. Let it go.

I’ve been called a lot of names this year (‘Humourless, glass-eyed, slack-jawed, wine-pickled yokel’ is my favourite) because some people seem to think that just because I have posted something on the internet, I either don’t have feelings, or I have permissibly opened myself up to being attacked. In a way, I guess I have (the latter, not the former… I do have feelings). I am posting my opinions on the internet for anyone to read, share, or criticise. That gives me some power, and I honestly try my best to be as careful as possible with it, to the point of paranoia. The readers who disagree with me coherently, politely and with their full name are fine – everyone is entitled to an opinion, and they have done so in a humanised manner. The readers who call me names and threaten me with violence/defamation/pokemon (well, maybe not pokemon) are almost always anonymous, making it very hard for me to track them down and argue with them in person. I would never joke about a minority, or defend myself to someone I have offended by saying ‘it was just a joke’. I feel terrible when I upset someone. My first grade teacher frowned at me for speaking out of turn, and I cried for a week. When a reader finds my blog insulting, I feel awful, ashamed, apologetic, awkward – all the ‘a’ feelings. Sometimes I can even see their point, and I’ll make a change to the offending word or phrase to appease them. However, it’s hard for me to not be annoyed that they are annoyed. Mine is a small, insignificant blog, with no racist, sexist, bigoted undertones, with no insults to humankind or animals, with no agenda except to raise the corners of the mouth, and I still manage to outrage readers on a regular basis. I’m so grateful for the 99% of people who are willing to have a laugh with me. I’ve finally realised what I need to do about the 1%. I don’t need to tread more carefully, or stop telling knock-knock jokes for fear of upsetting a door-enthusiast.

I need to throw a lamp at them. So they can lighten. The fuck. Up.

Thank you 99% for a wonderful year.

Love Lucy / Uninformed actor / Fat-face / Humourless, glass-eyed, slack-jawed, wine-pickled yokel / Proverbial water-shedding duck.

Lucy Gransbury. Serial offender.
*FYI, Mum called the cops for advice on this guy who passionately dislikes me, but they couldn't do much. If anyone sees a dude giving out creepy t-shirts at my show... give him my number so we can talk this out.
**I'm aware of the irony; although my blog is comedy-based, it is still just me having a public whinge, and now I'm whinging about people whinging about my whinging. But thanks for reading anyway.
By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably blogging in her pyjamas, with a book of knock-knock jokes in one hand, and a baked potato in the other.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Dear Prince Harry.

Dear Prince Harry (or, as you shall soon be known, hubby),

In just a couple of months, you’re turning thirty. It’s time, babe. You’ve had your fun messing around with girls like Chelsy and Cressida, but it’s time for you to find some princess-wife material. And it just so happens, I am of such quality princess-wife material, that I’m practically vicuña wool*.

For starters, dear Hubbykins, I’m up to date on my research. You’re an Apache pilot (I’m pretty sure Apache is a type of helicopter, or a French baked good), and given that you need a wife with an understanding of your passionate career, I have watched and re-watched a documentary on Apache pilots. Okay, it is an interview with you talking about being an Apache pilot. Okay, I watched some of it and then found a bit where you accidentally lifted your shirt and showed a bit of midriff then ran off to be a hero, so then I just focused on watching that bit over and over again. But still, I’m up to date on my research. Of your abs.

Fast forward to about thirty seconds, and thank me later. 
(If the video skips, it may because I wore a hole in it... )

Obviously, you have been looking at the wrong girls. If you want a good wife, you have to look at the obvious traits. Kate Middleton. Mary Donaldson. Jasmine. Belle. What do they have in common? Brown hair. I’m not being a hairist, I’m just sayin’. Harry, you need a girl with luscious brunette locks. Me. (Obviously, some princesses have blonde hair, like Princess Di and Grace Kelly and Cinderella. But only one of those ended well….)

Brunettes are naturally classy. It was meant to be.

Speaking of Princess Mary, us Aussie lasses make good princesses. It’s because we are made of good stuff - strong moral fibre, salt water, gumnuts and wine. That may not sound like a winning combination, but trust me, it works. An Aussie chick will keep you grounded by calling you a whinging pom when you get a bit stuffy. You are probably surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear – but what you need is a woman who will call you a dickhead when you’re being… well, a dickhead. I will proudly call you a dickhead, darling.

What else does a prince need in a missus? Someone who is good with direction. Why? Buckingham Palace is frigging huge. I may be missing the needle on my internal compass, but I am ready to live in a castle. Siri will help me out. I bet she knows her way to the ballroom from the stables.

Siri is being a polite smart arse, but pretty sure she's Buckingham ready.
(And yes, she calls me Lover Chops... it just feels right)

It must be hard being a prince and trying to weed out the girls with the wrong intentions. Rest assured, dear Hubba Bubba, I am not after your fortune. Although, I did read today that you're getting $18million on your thirtieth birthday in two months. I am turning 27 in September (we can have joint birthday parties when we are married), and I will probably get $20 in a floral card from my grandma. So I fully understand wanting to protect your assets. But don’t worry, I will be very good when we combine our bank accounts. Yesterday I bought boots that were on sale from $250 to $120, so technically I made $130. 

Unlike the ridiculous contestants, I never for a second believed that you were the prince in that stupid TV show, I Want To Marry Harry**. I know you. I’ve always been on your side, Future Hubby Harry. I’ve always argued that you were the hotter brother. More hair, more tan, more muscles. And you’re just a little bit wicked. A bit cheeky, a bit of a larrikin. Like the time you dressed as a Nazi for Halloween. Not the sharpest pencil in the box that day, but I sympathised – one time, when I was ten, I dressed as Cruella DeVil, and everyone accused me of identifying with puppy-killers. Well… they didn’t… but I’m sure if I was famous someone would’ve made a fuss.

My future hubby, keeping the tabloids in business. (Times like this, I would call him a dickhead)

Those girls that you have dated with long double-barrelled names and posh upbringings look kind of boring. I can flip two beers coasters at once and catch them on the first flip. I can whistle with my fingers and I have a lethal right cross. I can swear in Romanian, Spanish, Italian, French, and very colourfully in English, and I love potatoes more than an Irishman. I'm learning to juggle, because it would make for much more interesting footage of royal occasions if one of the princesses were juggling. I’ve thought this through.

Harry. Haz. HRH. Hubby-to-be. You need me. You can stop looking, I'm right here. Who knows how to be your perfect wife? I do. Henry Albert Charles David Windsor… I do.

With love and limited patience,
Lucy G. (HRH2B)

*Vicuña wool comes from the vicuña, which is like a fancy-looking llama with wool so damn fine (literally), it’s the most expensive material in the world. I assume that I will have slippers and car seat covers made of it when I’m Harry’s princess.

**Seriously, did those chicks actually believe that a Prince of England would go on a reality show in a foreign country to find a wife to share the Windsor fortune with? Did someone spike their coconut waters with stupid pills?!

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably outside Buckingham Palace, with a pair of binoculars and a wedding dress.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Man Up And Lie To Me.

I was dating a guy for a while, and it seemed to be clicking along nicely. He talked about long-term stuff, he told his friends about me, he even introduced me to his sister. And then he got abducted by aliens. Or fell off a cliff. Or died in frozen aisle of the supermarket. I’m not sure what happened, but he completely disappeared. As I like to call it, he did a Ghosty. One minute he was inviting me over for the weekend, the next minute, poof! He’d turned into a ghost. No more calls, no more messages. No responses to the voicemails I left (just to be clear, I was extremely far from stalker territory. I was very restrained, considering I wanted to beat his door down just to kick him in the shin and run away). Our plans for the weekend were left hanging in mid-air. I still don’t know if he actually died. We weren’t connected on any social media, so I was left typing his name into Google to see if any obituaries came up. For an extremely mild-headed girl, I was absolutely livid. Any excuse under the sun would have made me a lot happier than a Ghosty. So, to all the dudes who have/will pull a Ghosty and disappear just as I had cleared you from the ‘potential asshole’ list, here's what I want you to do.

Man up and lie to me.

I’d prefer to hear a bullshit excuse then nothing at all. I’d even find the bullshit excuse enjoyable – at least I can laugh at your tenacity, admire your creativity or roll my eyes and call you an asshole. It sure as hell beats silence. When it comes to getting dumped, silence is not golden. Silence is fucking infuritating. Silence makes me question everything I ever did/said/ate/messaged/cuddled/wore/watched/joked about with you. One tiny message would remind me that your disappearance is largely because of your own issues, and not because of something that I did (unless it IS something that I did, in which case sorry for eating all of your chips or whatever the problem was).

Like real poltergeist, Ghosties come in all shapes and sizes. There are Ghosties that pop up so fast, you’re not sure they were ever a real person in the first place. Maybe after just one date or one night. One time, a guy even turned into a ghost halfway through our disco dance-floor pash. One second he was there, the next I was kissing a cloud of mist as he floated on to the next life (or chick).  Some guys don’t even realise they are doing a Ghosty. They are just slowly fading away, like Victoria Beckham. Others are like ghosts from movies*:

Casper the Friendly Ghost.

The guy who pulls the 'friendly ghost' likes to act like he’s a good guy who might be a real boy one day (and hopefully dreamy  like 12-year-old Devon Sawa). He constantly texts that you will ‘catch up soon’, but really, he’s totally vapour.

Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense.

This guy has yet to realise he is a ghost. He keeps up appearances in your life that imply he is a real-life boyfriend, but he’s emotionally hazy and not quite all-there. Soon enough... you both see right through him.

Patrick Swayze in Ghost.

 He is sexy. He wants to touch you, and he doesn’t like other guys being near you. But ask him to stay, and he disappears for good.

Most ghosts from Ghostbusters.

These guys are just here to mess with you. Who you gonna call? Not them. Don’t waste your time.
The thing is, I get it. After a short fling, it’s way easier to just fade away than be brave enough to end it. But it’s better for everyone if the band-aid just gets ripped right off. You could go with an old classic, "I need to focus on myself right now" or "I'm not ready for a relationship" blah blah blah. OR, you could rip that band-aid off with a little pizzazz. To help you lame fellas out so that you don’t have to pull any more Ghosties, I have come up with a bunch of band-aid rippers. Here is some texts I would rather receive than silence.

Sweet lies.

  Obscure lies.

Harsh lies (or truths, potentially).

Film-inspired lies.

Freddie Mercury-inspired lies.

The lie that all girls tell their friends about what the Ghosty was probs feeling about you, babes.**

Possible relevant truths that still aren't addressing the actual reason for the Ghostie.


The most likely actual truth.

The truth hurts, but silence hurts more. Man up and lie to me. At the very least, it will stop me from bothering all the funeral homes, asking if they've seen the guy I was dating.

*Nothing against the ghosts in these movies, none of them wanted to die or be vaporous assholes. Except the ghosts from Ghostbusters, they were pricks.

**Girls are as good at justifying a boy's shitty actions as we are at justifying blocks of chocolate. It's a skill.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably on the phone to the Ghostbusters, asking for help.