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

Monday, March 31, 2014


Some of the #NoMakeUpSelfies are starting to shit me.

Before you think I’m pro-cancer or anti-feminist or something, let me be clear. I appreciate the campaign and its’ results in all its’ splendour. Many of my friends have done it, and I like to assume that most of them remembered to donate, either privately or publicly. Either way, good on them, and you all look gorgeous regardless.  

Kim Kardashian's #nomakeupselfie

If you don’t know what a #NoMakeUpSelfie is, it’s the current trend of au naturel photos that many people are taking of themselves (mainly women, and including celebrities, some of whom I suspect are wearing make-up...) and sharing on social media, in a bid to raise awareness and money for cancer. It’s not that I don’t understand the cause, I do. I appreciate a good cancer campaign for the money and awareness it raises (though is anyone actually unaware of cancer?!), not to mention that from a marketing point of view, it’s bloody impressive to watch them spread like wildfire. I have learned that the original ‘no make-up thing’ was started by in the UK (not actually by a cancer foundation, though fortunately they are reaping benefits*), to encourage women to get sponsored to show up to work or social events with no make-up on, and as an ode to the cancer-sufferers who have ever felt as if cancer has stripped them of their vanity by taking away their breasts, their hair, their eyebrows, or their energy/desire to put make up on. That’s cool.

But the photos endlessly popping up in my NewsFeed are starting to shit me, because I think it has become such a craze, that a few people are missing the point. 

Firstly, if you are trying to strip yourself of vanity in an ode to cancer-sufferers (and actually, some cancer survivors are finding it incredibly offensive and painful, like this cancer-survivor), then don’t spend twenty minutes taking a bunch of photos from good angles in perfect lighting, and then fiddling with filters and composition on the best pic until it’s flawless, before sharing it with the world. Ain’t nothing humble about that. You aren’t fooling anyone – I can tell an airbrushed selfie from a mile away. Thankfully, not all the #NoMakeUpSelfies are that narcissistic. Some of them are just crappy, vanity-free photos of the self-snapper. But this is the thing: unless you are donating money with that, or actually bringing my attention to something other than the fact that cancer exists, then you are helping absolutely diddly-squat.

Rosie Huntington Whitley: We get it. You always look good. #shutup
Most of us have personal connections with cancer – sufferers, survivors, losses, likelihoods. It never stops being sad, it never stops being present. I like reading inspiring stories of cancer survivors, I sympathise with those who have lost loved ones. I like seeing the incredible activity that goes on in cancer’s name – marathons, moustaches, shaved heads, sobriety, unicycle rides... I’m endlessly proud of my friends and of strangers who donate so much time, energy and money. That’s why it kinda pisses me off when I see the odd #NoMakeUpSelfie that is pretending to do good, and is actually doing a whole lot of nothing. Personally, I think donating money to charities or fundraisers or friends’ marathons is a private matter, and publicising to the world how much money you have donated is a bit of a cry for being patted on the back. Yes, it may shame someone else into doing the same thing, which is a win, and charity money is charity money. But I am much more impressed by altruistic acts that have slipped by on the downlow, because it seems to me it was done for the most selfless purposes (though, to be fair, no charity donation can be called selfish). However, subtlety is not the point of a Facebook craze like #NoMakeUpSelfies.

Love Your Sister's 'Support' Campaign, #wegive2bucks

Luckily, for those ones who are posting the selfies and forgetting the donation, thanks to the wonderful people at Love Your Sister (Samuel Johnson and terminally ill sister Connie), a company called Money Now Official is offering to donate $2 for various ‘supportive’ selfies, where someone has to hold (i.e. “support”) their partners breasts (clothed, usually. It’s not a soft-porn shoot). The photos are more entertaining than seeing girls with no mascara, and if you can only manage the selfie part, the donation is done for you. Check it out here

The real 'selfie': Some clever kids are sharing these instead, excellent for 'awareness'.

To clarify, I’m not having a go at people partaking in #NoMakeUpSelfies. Good on you – there are few people in my life who I allow to see me without my face on**. Some people are nailing it by agreeing to donate $1 for every 'like', or showing receipts of their generous donations, or sharing links and information that might actually raise awareness. The whole trend has resulted in millions of dollars for research worldwide. Hopefully, like me, it has lead to some women feeling themselves up in the shower, because they were reminded how to do a self-exam (a useful selfie!). So it's a great thing. Please, just remember, if you are going to jam my NewsFeed with selfies, at least make it count. And don’t use a filter.

* Cancer Council Australia is one of many Aussie companies who have benefitted from the selfies:

** The actual subject of 'women and makeup', societal pressures, and the fact that we are called 'brave' for going makeup-free is a whooooole different kettle of blogs, that I'm probably not smart or brave enough to talk about yet.

Love Your Sister/Money Now ‘We Give 2 Bucks’:
National Breast Cancer Foundation:

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably wearing make-up.

Melbourne friends, exercise your laughing muscles this Comedy Festival at this hilarious show. 
As the 'Australian Stage' review says, "chances are you'll laugh til you wet yourself". How can you resist??

Monday, March 24, 2014

How To Write An Andrew Bolt Column (By Kevin Harrington).

There are few men in the world who I rely on for advice. There's Dad. There's the Bondi Vet. There's Santa. And there's my mentor, friend and favourite Aussie actor, Kev Harrington. I don't know much about politics. I don't know much about columnists who write explosive articles. But I do know Kev. And for my first ever 'guest blog', I couldn't think of a better man to start. Except the Bondi Vet... but I'm not allowed to contact him anymore. This is a subject that has been popping up in my Facebook NewsFeed a lot recently. Over to you, Kev.

Kevin Harrington - Cliffy, Underbelly, SeaChange, Neighbours, The Dish.... and now, a blog.

How to write an Andrew Bolt column - Nine simple rules. 
By Kevin Harrington.

A lot of my friends complain about Andrew Bolt. I don't know why. He found a gap in the media market place and filled it. But why should he have it all to himself? Given his deification of the free market, I'm sure he'd welcome the competition. To that end I have deduced from Andrew's articles, the following characteristics, to enable us all to join in the fun.  

1. Create an inflammatory headline. 

The aim is to capture attention using the most confrontational, combative words you can muster. Good examples of this are "Greens out for the count", "Global warming, Dud Predictions", or my personal favourite, "Greens - Hitler Guru." *

2. Use inflammatory descriptive words. 

Never mention a union official, rather use CORRUPT union boss. Don't just call someone a welfare recipient when welfare CHEAT is so much more provocative. Similarly helpful Bolt mainstays are words like alarmist, bloody minded, leftist, blasphemous, scare mongering,barbaric and militant. 

3. Put quotation marks around words you don't like.

This will make unarguable facts seem, at least contentious. E.g.  global "warming", "stolen" generation, "artist", and "climate change". 

4. The list of FACTS.

I must say Andrew hasn't used this tactic recently, perhaps because its easier these days for readers to check whether facts are, in fact, facts - but it used to be very common. It creates the impression that whilst his opponents are emotional and opinionated, he is logical and objective. The very clever element of this is that by putting the word, fact, in front of a sentence, you can then proceed to just write something emotional and opinionated and it will seem like a fact. 

E.g. FACT Julia Gillard is ugly. FACT I don't like her. 
A useful component of the fact list is the statistic. And as long as you mention a very big number at the start and then hurtle headlong into abuse, the sentence doesn't actually have to make sense. The point will already have been made. 
E.g FACT Over 5.9 BILLION dollars of hard earned tax payer dollars have been irresponsibly BLOWN on leftist, welfare cheating, latte sipping, alarmist, "Aboriginal", "artist" guru dollar goldfish what'sit mumble full stop... See? 

5.  Enlist an expert. 

It doesn't really matter if the person is an expert in the field you are dealing with or indeed whether they are an expert at all. The important thing is to make them sound like an expert.
E.g. No less of an expert than Charles Edward (middle names add gravitas) Bumbottom stated in his University ( essay (blog)... And I quote "the globe is not warming. Look how cold winter still is..." Indeed. Professor. Indeed. 

6. Cite a crackpot. 

In the same way that the word of One expert in Boltworld can invalidate the arguments of the entire opposition, so One crackpot in the opposition can invalidate the arguments of the rest of the opposition. And if he's not actually a crackpot use Rules 2 and 3. 
E.g. Loony leftist, "Professor"  Joe Bloggs in his barely literate, bile ridden "PHD" simpers, "ninety seven per cent of 'climate scientists' agree that climate 'warming' trends over the last century are 'very likely' due to human activities". Well, not according to the esteemed Mr Charles Edward Bumbottom, Joe! 

7. Don't worry about contradictions especially with what you've written in the past. 

We don't have a Jon Stewart here. So attacking The Left is fair, but being attacked by the ABC is bullying. A tax on carbon is bad because it raises too much money, a tax on mining profits is bad because it doesn't raise enough money. Religion is divisive if it involves wearing a burqa, religion is fine if it involves wearing a habit. 

8. Feel free to meander through an argument. 

A logical through line isn't necessary if the article is colourful. The point is to incite emotional response not thought. Therefore if a personal anecdote, some statistics with big numbers at the start, a quote from a militant union boss or "professor",  a barb at "artists", The Left or ABC are all permissible during an exposé of say, a Green parliamentarian's travel expenses. Fire at the target with a machine gun and, odds are you'll hit a bulls eye. In fact fire a cannon at a rifle range hoping to obliterate multiple targets. 

9. Finish where you started.

As long as you return to the first point you made in the last line of your column, the reader will believe your argument has been a coherent one, allaying any problems arising from Rule 9. Appearances are very important. One need only look at the thoughtful pose Andrew does with his hand poised under his chin, to see the value in this. It appears very... thoughtful. To assume this pose whilst standing would look very unnatural if attempted by a bad actor. And if there's one thing I admire about Andrew Bolt, its his ability to act his role. 

Bolt: Full of "thoughts".

So now you're equipped. I look forward to reading and being offended by your "Bolts"of outrage. Thank you, Kev. 

*The headlines in Rule 1 are actually from Andrew Bolt articles. The examples cited in subsequent rules are fiction. They are Bolt-like exaggerations written for comic purposes. 

Monday, March 17, 2014

Ladies. Get Real.

Recently, a guy looked me up and down and asked “do you have fake boobs?”. Somewhat thrown by the random question (I was wearing a t-shirt with a pizza stain), I told him that I did not. Later, he praised my tan, and then asked if it was “that fake tan shit”. Again, thrown by the question, I told him that it was real. Later still, he complimented me on my eyelashes. I blinked coyly and waited. Sure enough... “are they those fake ones?”. “Ahem... why do you keep asking if everything complimentary about my appearance is fake?” I asked, faking a smile. He shrugged, unabashed. “It’s usually the way with chicks”.

Boy, did that open up a fake can of worms.

What followed was an extremely enlightening conversation in which I became privy to a whole new point of view. The male point of view. I have since carried this conversation on with many of my dude friends, and heard a lot of similar frustrations. All the tricks that our gender pulls to fix our flaws and lengthen our eyelashes and tan our skin and pump up our boobs.... all just lead to disappointment and confusion. I don’t think any of my man-friends are being chauvinistic. They are not saying that us girls are unattractive once you wipe all the shit off. They are just tired of having to work out what is real, and what falls off before bed time. Here was the basic message from my penis’d pals:

Ladies. Get real. When it comes to your appearance, false advertising is unnecessary and annoying.

I have to admit, I love being a girly girl. I like to spend a good couple of hours painting on, wiping off, sticking down, teasing up, pulling in, plucking out and plumping up before a good night out. And I’m always feeling much more confident after a few hours of ‘getting ready’ then if I had just followed a dude’s four-and-a-half minute beauty regime – shower, shave, spray and suit up. But since I have been enlightened into how annoying the ‘fake shit’ is, I’ve started to notice how much of it is unnecessary when the intentional subjects are either a) not noticing it or b) rolling their eyes and assuming I’m one of ‘those fake chicks’. I may not use any of the super-fake stuff on a regular occasion, but I have dabbled in the trends. Until now.

The dude opinion: Bronzer on legs. Annoying and messy. False eyelashes. Annoying and weird. Clip-in hair extensions: Annoying and misleading. Long fake nails. Annoying and high maintenance. And the biggest one of all – push-up or padded bras and ‘chicken fillet’ inserts. Annoying and unnecessary. Boys love boobs. Whatever size they are, chances are, a boy would happily stare at them for hours on end. Because they are boobs. And they get really annoyed and confused when part of the boob falls off at night-time. So don’t use chicken fillets or stupid bras, because however small you might think they are, a boy thinks your boobs are beautiful just the way they are... THEY ARE BOOBS.

All of the female-false-advertising conversations lead to another point, too. Social media. Or more specifically, girls editing their pictures on social media so finely, that they look like a completely different person than they do in real life. Not a crime, not even an interesting  story, until you consider how many couples are starting to form through Instagram and Tinder and the likes (no pun intended). One male friend of mine has a hilarious story of how he met a girl through Instagram and things went awry because she was misrepresenting herself so outrageously*. Don’t de-tag all the bad photos of yourself (well, some, but not all...). Don’t only post photos where you look Covergirl perfect. Nobody’s buying it. If you are looking to do some flirting over social media, keep it real. Throw in a few shit photos, because at least you look honest. And someone might just like you for everything you are.

I guarantee you, I will continue to use make-up and fiddle with my hair and do all the things I like to do to feel fancy. But it is actually a relief to know how much of it is not needed. The boys I know like their women natural and honest. A bit of primping is okay, but no need for fake crap. It only makes you look like a different person than who you are, and what’s the point in that? Just like Judy Garland said, be a first-rate version of yourself, not a second-rate version of a fake-tanned, false-eyelashed bimbo**. Just like Kesha said, We R Who We R. Just like Tupac said, keep it real, homies.

Less fake stuff. For real.

*The story of Love on Instagram: It began with a mutual love of the Kelvin filter (sorry oldies, that was an Instagram-specific joke), and lead to late-night facebooking and SMS-ing. Her pictures were of an adorable girl, smiling shyly at the camera from cute angles, filtered to look old-fashioned and hipster. My friend stepped off the train to meet her... and was faced with an entirely different looking girl. The same girl, definitely, but much less... airbrushed. Not one to be shallow, he went ahead with the date... only to find that she was a pathological liar and recently released from a mental hospital. No, really.

**Pretty sure Judy’s quote was a little different to that, but she knows what I mean. Love ya Judes.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably returning that bronzer she just bought.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Sex Sells... But Give Me A Break.

I was driving in my non-sexual car, listening to a non-sexual radio station. An advert between songs began. The woman in the ad said excitedly, “I bought a Jeep”. Her excitement at her own statement grew. “I bought a JEEP”. Once again, her excitement grew, and began to take on a sexual tone. “Oh... Oh... I bought... a JEEP!”. You get the picture. She was orgasmically excited. Something about the purchase of a 4 wheel drive just reallllly pressed her button. Revved her engine. Pumped her petrol tank. And I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

Sex sells.... but give me a break. Does this actually work on anyone?

Jeeps are a good-looking car, I guess. In a Rich Soccer Mum type way (PS, I know nothing about cars – to me, they are either shiny, or not shiny). But I don’t think there was any need for this lady to be climaxing over my radio. Or is there? Maybe I didn’t grasp the selling point. Does the Jeep have vibrating seats, perhaps? Does it come with a sexual partner with all the right moves? A blow-up doll that bursts out with the airbag, maybe?  Probs not. I think it is highly unlikely that she was actually turned on by something physically sensual. Perhaps the idea of spending a lot of money turns her on. I just paid my insurance bill. I think a need a post-coital cigarette.*

Because boobs.

The thing is, unlike the funny or clever ads, the sexy ads just don’t make me any more interested in the product. Possibly even less so. They just make me giggle and scratch my head. For example, the Budget insurance ads with the French chick singing in the shower while her older husband shaves in the sink and corrects her pronunciation of the word “budget”.... I don’t know why she is naked, or what brought the two of them together (I like to invent a ‘rich’ back story in which he is a widowed millionaire and she was found on a Mail Order Bride website), but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with insurance. And then, during an ad break one cosy night in, I noticed the mismatched couple had been replaced with aliens. I thought someone had spiked my brownie. Evidently not. At least Budget was trying a new tactic to sell insurance other than a sexy dumb French chick...but I can’t say martians were a better choice.

Speaking of insurance ads (and it’s bloody rare to see a good one...), what is with the one where the dude is talking about retirement, whilst changing into various uniforms to turn on his wife? He tries on a tradie costume and a chef costume, while she lays on the bed suggestively. Right-o. Can’t remember the number for the insurance company, but if I ever need it, I’ll just try 1800-HORNYRETIREES.

Calvin Klein. Nothing beats a denim orgy.

Nespresso ads with George Clooney and hot chicks, clinking their coffee cups like Martinis in some private exclusive coffee club, flirting over their Ristretto-Arpeggio-Espresso (wanker) Brews and undressing each other with their eyes. These ads probably have more to do with celebrity endorsement than over-sexualisation, and I actually find the ads quite amusing, but once again, it seems to have very little to do with the actual product. Unless they are telling me that if I buy a Nespresso machine and start popping pods, I’m suddenly going to be much more appealing to sex-god status celebrities (actually I think I better buy one... just in case...). There’s an ad for cat food with Eva Longoria purring along the carpet in a short dress. She’s hot, yeah. But it’s cat food. Cat. Food. Not. Sexy. And gentlemen, if you believe what you see, use Lynx. You’ll be banging supermodels in no time.

I asked around on Facebook if anyone found other ads unnecessarily sexy. The brands that my buddies assosciated with having random sexy ads, either occasionally or consistenly, goes on and on**. AAMI, Absolut, Bonds, Calvin Klein, Carls Jr (an American burger joint), Equinox, Libra, Lynx, McDonalds, Soda Stream, Sprite. But did anyone actually buy the products based on the sexed-up ads? Clever ads, happy ads and funny ads have made me jump to buy the products. Ads that move me or excite me (hellllooooo Cadbury Marvellous Creations). But I’m talking about exciting my tastebuds or my intellect... because try as they might, the 30 second slots rarely rev my engine.

If the whole point of ‘sex sells’ is to get people talking about the product, then I guess some advertising execs are nailing it . The ads certainly stick in my mind. And some of the time, I even remember what the product is they are selling. But even so, I prefer my ad breaks to have a little more brain, and a little less bang.

Now excuse me, I have to go and have an orgasm in my Jeep.

*Come to think of it, Jeep ads in general are pissing me off a bit lately. I guess it’s working, because the ‘I bought a Jeep’ line is coming up in conversation every now and then, so it is seeping its’ way into our brains no matter how infuriatingly it got there. The one that I hate the most is the earliest one – a lady is cleaning up the living room and tells her husband that she bought  a Jeep. “You bought a Jeep?” says Michael, incredulously. “Yes Michael... I bought a Jeep” says wifey. This goes on for some time, until Michael smirks proudly. What is this implying? That it is surprising a woman bought a good car without supervision? Is Michael shocked that wifey didn’t just buy shoes and tampons like she normally does? Maybe I’m reading into it too much, and maybe I’m just a bit of a grump... but every time I hear “I bought a Jeep”, I want to scream “SO FUCKING WHAT??”. The ads certainly don’t want to make me jump on the bandwagon.

**See links below to the most overt ones. Granted, some of these are tongue-in-cheek (mind the pun) sexuality, poking fun at the fact that they are selling an unsexy product with sex. Existentialism has never looked hotter.

Nina Agdal starring in Carl's jr Sexy Commercial TV Ad:

Scarlett Johansson SodaStream ad:

Miranda Kerr's Bizarre Japanese Advert for Lipton Limon Iced Tea:

Budget shower ad:

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably buying Cadbury Marvellous Creations, because she likes that ad.

You are welcome to disagree with me, or post more links, or tell me about your orgasmic Jeep experience below.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Hear, hear.

Recently, I went to a new bar to meet some friends on a Saturday night. I hunted for them across three levels of dancefloors and eventually found them on a balcony. By that point, I was in a rip-roaring bad mood – not because I couldn’t find my mates, not because I’d pushed through three levels of dry-humping youths grinding to the beat, but because after TEN MINUTES of walking through the bar, my ears were hurting so badly that I felt like I was underwater. Which brings me to my point.

Youth of today: Be careful with your hearing. Like your virginity, you can only lose it once.

For many reasons, I fear that the youth of today will experience hearing problems later in life. Generation Y will become Generation ‘What?’. I’m not the only one with this fear. New legislations in Europe mean that all personal devices and music players must have their maximum sound output capped at 85 decibels (experts reckon hearing damage can begin at anything above 80 dB – some of our music players can go up to 100-110 dB, which is louder than a pneumatic drill). How often do you see a teenage boy in a hoodie on the tram, blasting music through his headphones so loud that you can hear it from five metres away? Best that he listens to it now – because he sure as shit won’t be able to hear anything when he’s older. And thanks to some of the bars and nightclubs that blast their music - past the 'LOUD' level, past the 'DANGER' level, all the way up to 'PAINFUL-AS-FLIPPITY-F*CK' - the rest of us are in danger of damaging our ears for good.

I am particularly sensitive when it comes to this issue because of my Dad. My Dad, who wears two hearing aids and jokingly responded “what did you say?” when I rang him to discuss this topic. My Dad, who not only taught me to arm myself with humour, but also to guard my hearing as intently as my wallet. As a teenager, I would wake up on a Sunday morning (well... afternoon) and Dad would ask me how the party/gathering/pathering (which was halfway between a party and a gathering or something) was the night before. I would give him the usual descriptive, imagination-filled summary a teenager gives of a momentous event... “good”. But one time, I told Dad that my ears were still ringing. He was pissed. He told me that was an indication of noise damage. He explained to me that we have little hairs in our ears that pick up sound, and when they get damaged/flatten/break, you can never repair the loss. (DISCLAIMER: Dad is not an audiologist, and neither am I, so the accuracy of the previous explanation is probably questionable.)

My dear Dad has a few theories as to how his hearing deteriorated. He lived in the Middle East (as in Jordan, not the mid-eastern suburbs of Adelaide) for a couple of years as a young engineer. One day, he was sitting cross-legged next to an Arabian man, drinking Chai tea decades before it was fashionably hipster. The man suddenly fired his handgun right between Dad’s feet. Because FUN. Dad, who had performed an accidental somersault and ended up in an irrigation ditch in surprise, had a ringing in his ears for days from the gunfire. Dad also recalls dive-bombing into a waterhole in his many years of being a big kid, and feeling the water clap over his ears, which was enough to leave them hurting for sometime afterwards. And most awesomely of all, Dad remembers one balmy night in February 1973, at the Rolling Stones concert in Memorial Drive. He was 20 metres from the front (so could have touched Mick’s pouty lips), and remembers watching a girl closer to the stage on the shoulders of her boyfriend. She was near the speaker, and suddenly she reached up and grabbed the side of her head, as blood started pouring out of her ear. Her eardrum had exploded – with awesomeness, granted, but nonetheless problematic and painful. Dad’s eardrum didn’t explode, but he was still close enough to be damaging his hearing for life. Any one of these experiences probably wasn’t enough for Dad to end up with his present hearing disabilities, but combine them all, toss in a lack of knowledge about the dangers of loud music, and you end up with a dear old Dad who has been missing every third word of conversations for years.

The bit that gets me is picturing Dad at his first appointment with an audiologist. The audiologist put his hand in front of his mouth, and said “cat, pat, mat, that”, and asked Dad to distinguish between the words. Dad could only hear “” because he had already lost the ability to distinguish between consonants. We are generally unaware of how much we subconsciously lip-read during a conversation. For Dad, it is much more important. The hipster fashion of beards and moustaches creates a problem for him, because anything that hides the mouth is hindering his lip-reading abilities. Mumblers are a problem for him too, and I will often warn my friends to speak clearly and a little louder than usual around Dad so that he can hear them*. Animals that talk in movies don't help either... Babe was a struggle for him, because that little pig just does not enunciate.

At the risk of exposing my wealth of uncoolness, Dad's difficulties has made me so precious about my hearing that I stuff tissues in my ears when the music is too loud on the d-floor. No, really. I will tear off little bits of tissue, roll them up, and use them as earplugs, just to take the painful edge of the noise. Or I will leave the bar**. At that volume, absolutely no good song is worth sacrificing my ear hairs (to be clear... my ears aren’t hairy.... I mean the inner ear hairs that pick up sound... ew...). 

So, kids, even if they stick out like taxi doors or make you look like an elf, love your ears. Because the scariest thing I read (at said this: If the exposure to loud sound continues, the damage to the hearing system that results is permanent, irreversible and will not respond to any medical or surgical treatment. Holy shit balls. Be careful with headphones. Don’t stand near speakers. Stuff tissues in your ears if the music is too loud, or better yet, get the hell away from it.

Go ahead. You can call me a Nanna if you want.

At least I’ll be able to hear you.

*Fortunately, Dad has a brilliant sense of humour, and his hearing has often provided us with big laughs. A housemate of his used to say “John, telephone!”, and watch as Dad would go and pick up the phone and say “Hello? Hello?? Speak up!”... when there actually was no one on the other end. My sister and I used to love going through drive-thru’s with him, because he could never understand the voice coming from the speaker. The speaker would ask “would you like anything else with that?”, and Dad would think she had asked about sauce, so he’d say “tomato” and drive on to find a confused-looking girl at the next window, wondering if he would like a whole tomato. And then there is the countless times he misinterpreted what someone said to him, and gave a completely random response. Dad’s rule: He can only politely ask “I beg your pardon?” twice, and if he doesn’t catch the comment on the third try (because the person is still mumbling!), he will just take a random stab at an appropriate response. He reckons he has a 50/50 chance of pleasing them, or having them walk away questioning his mental health.

** A report I was reading from VicDeaf was very interesting, and suggested regularly resting your ears. So if you are on the dance-floor, wander outside or even to the ladies’ for ten minutes and give you ears a break (unless Spice Girls comes on, in which case, run back inside, dance, and then start the break again....).

 By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably listening to the Spice Girls at 60dB.

BOOK NOW for Lucy's show Dorothy Parker's Sweet Release of Death in Barossa Valley THIS WEEK ONLY.
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