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Monday, 31 December 2012


The best part about 2013 was enjoying the month of December. Remember back in 2012, we watched the months slip by with dread, believing that it would all go up in a raging Mayan-inspired apocalyptic blaze on 21 December, leaving the world overrun with zombies and nary a Bruce Willis in sight?

But Earth dodged a bullet, and we spent 2013 pretty much drunk on relief and joy. And repaying our Visas because naturally we had maxed them in the foolishness of end of world actions.

The biggest news of the year would have to the twin girls born to Kate and William. Little princesses Diana and Victoria would be nearly six months old now, and enjoying their new digs in Kensington Palace.

And in line with the new succession laws, I can’t wait to see first-born little Diana become Queen Diana The First, Leader of the Commonwealth, Supreme Governor of the Church of England and Defender of the Faith. And it may be sooner than we initially thought what with William becoming king the day his wife gave birth. Loving Queen Liz for saying she’s had enough and wanted the best man for the job.

Interesting that when the Queen announced the she was skipping Charles and handing over the “reigns” to William at the time he became a father, the world simply nodded in agreement. I think Camilla was the only one who was upset, and I hear on good authority that she took up smoking again that same day. And put her crown back in the hat box on top of her wardrobe.

Obama lost no time enacting gun control laws, long overdue as they were. Better late than never. He actually took it a step or two further, banning slingshots, anything that remotely resembles playing Cowboys and Indians including F-Troop re-runs, and online gaming violence. It was blackout curtains for CoD Black Ops, World of Warcraft, Grand Theft Auto and the like.

And miracle of miracles, he also halted the obesity crisis at the same time. Those ignorant pale-faced mutants who lived behind gaming consoles since birth needed something to do. So they picked up a football and went outside. Who’d have thought?

Do you really think it’s true that Tom Cruise is pregnant? I know he wanted to give Suri a little brother or sister, but apparently he couldn’t even get an ex-Playboy Bunny to fill the role as wife and potential mother, regardless of the size of his cheque book. But really, the man has got a smile that can warm the heart of a white pointer shark. But did he have to invent a way to get pregnant? Is that taking things too far? Talk about being a control freak! Who’s the mother?

And speaking of pregnancies, I can’t believe Posh is having baby #5. I know her husband is rather good looking but I get really put off when he starts to speak. It’s Elmo meets Thomas the Tank Engine. Though I guess no one says you have to speak when making love. Either way, she’ll be back to her usual size zero within three hours of giving birth. Like all the other times. I hope it’s a boy. For Harper’s sake.

Russell Crowe wasn’t able to woo back his wife Danielle Spencer so he made a play for Noni Hazlehurst. Seriously? I suppose it’s because Danielle’s father and Noni mucked about with Jemima and Big Ted on Play School back in the day. I suppose he wanted to keep it in the family. I suppose I can see the connection. Mmmm, actually I can’t.

And more on the homefront in Australia, I wept with despair when I found out that Manu Feidel and Pete Evans had been discovered in flagrante at their secret lovers shack beachside at Byron. Not those two! The spunks of television cooking, the jovial blokes – one with the beseeching blue eyes and the other with a fake French accent. Nnnnnoooooooooooo. Mind you, my husband was secretly very pleased and willingly helped me put all their cookbooks up in the attic. Now, do I have to wait for news from Bill Granger? I hope not!

And bloody Home & Away got the bullet. Thank goodness. Perhaps we can get a decent game show in its place, or a re-run of Bellbird. Anything would be better.

Apple finally seems to have fixed the map setting problems on my new iPad9.2.2a, which is a good thing considering it was telling me that I was looking at the Eiffel Tower when I was on a ferry staring point blank at Liberty. At least they have renamed the Executive Building in George Street from “Peter Beattie” to “John Howard”. That’s progress.

Les Mis didn’t get a single Oscar and I’m not miserable about that at all. Musical films needed to stop after Grease. I can’t believe Jennifer Aniston finally got an Oscar, I wasn’t aware of any films she did this year apart from starring in her own wedding. Maybe it’s like when they gave one to Nicole to stick it to Tom. Up yours Brangelina.

Queensland didn’t take too long to throw out Campbell, despite the excitement his appointment heralded. We are all very confident that Kevin Rudd v2 will take us through 2014 without a sulky aside or a swear word. I hear he’s already priming his granddaughter to take over the spot. Aspirations much?

Anyway my loves, that’s my wrap of 2013. For a year that ended in such a suspicious number it turned out to be a bewdy! Happy 2014 to you all.

Love Bron x

PS I pulled this lark last year too - read here what I had to say about 2012 xx

Friday, 28 December 2012


Every now and then, I topple over and twist my ankle. Sometimes it’s because I’ve had too much to drink and my heels are too high and my husband is too far away for me to balance against him.

Sometimes it’s because I’m making like Elle Macpherson and jogging on the beach in a bikini and go A over T in a hole in the sand.

Sometimes I am just walking down the street minding my own business and over I go. My husband always tells me not to walk and text at the same time.

The result of this constant clumsiness is that my ankle invariably ends up tightly bandaged in this stretchy crepe material for a few days.

And on Christmas Day, at the buffet lunch at the Gold Coast casino, I found out that the same stretchy stuff is now being used for dresses.

Or so it appeared.

And, in my humble opinion, that stretchy crepe stuff looks better wrapped around my bung foot than around their tiny bums.

Christmas lunch was for 1000 people and at least 100 of them were young women, aged 18 to 22, wearing these so-called bandage dresses that really didn’t cover their bum cheeks, and heels that were about 6-7 inches high (that’s a bit more than 15 centimetres for Gen Y) with 1-2 inch platforms. All had peep-toes, all had the requisite French pedicure (a look I personally despise) and all were spray-tanned to within an inch of their orange lives.

My husband and I were sitting quite close to the buffet table so we were able to witness their movements first-hand.

I don’t think there was a g-string in the place. From some of the glimpses these girls were giving, I actually thought there’d be a lot more gynaecologists. But maybe I’m showing my age.

They walked up to the buffet in those impossible heels, knees bent, lurching forward – classic pose for anyone who can’t walk effectively in heels. Watch any movie with Julia Roberts and you’ll understand what I mean.

They pulled their skirt down, picked up a plate, pulled their skirt down with their free hand, swapped the plate into their other hand, pulled the other side of their skirt down.

The leaned over to get a prawn, pulled their skirt down, got some potato salad, pulled their skirt down, shifted their weight from one foot to the other to gain that millisecond of relief from the aching pressure of their shoes, and pulled down their skirt.

It’s a good thing the drinks were table service so we didn’t have to watch them trying to carry their blue Vodka Cruisers and Skinny Bitches while pulling their skirt down.

As 3pm approached, and lunch was nearly over, we watched a scene reminiscent of every Melbourne Cup, Schoolies, New Year’s Eve and hens night. Pissy girls in skirts too short clutching their ridiculous shoes in their hand and hanging onto their girlfriends for support.

Here’s the thing. These girls don’t know how truly beautiful they are. What they need to do is ditch the fake tan, take out the hair extensions, put down the bottle of foundation and cover their butt. They have figures to die for, a glow of youth, and a freshness we womenfolk approaching 50 didn’t realise we once had until we started approaching 50.

I didn’t see any of the boys suffering these problems. They were trying to skull Crown Lagers, eat 5kg of prawns and remember to put their thongs on before they went back to the buffet table for thirds. They wore board shorts, over-sized t-shirts with a random offensive message and hairstyles that would make even Justin Bieber baulk.

Girls, you’re beautiful, and if the boys don’t think you are, they lose, not you. There’s plenty of time when you’re older and more mature to wear the sexy gear and the high heels and pull it off with class.

Don’t hurry things up. You’ll be a woman soon. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Monday, 24 December 2012


I’ve never thought I would make a good restaurant reviewer, despite the fact that I eat out quite a bit. That’s because I’m too busy eating. And reading or playing with my iPad if I’m on my own, or drinking and acting like a bit of a noisy dickhead when I’m with my friends.

Most times however it’s just my husband and me. We tend to frequent the same places, not because we lack any sense of adventure, but because we know we are guaranteed good food and excellent service.

After all, we’re paying for this.

So yesterday, on day one of our Christmas holidays at Broadbeach on the Gold Coast, we ventured out to the mall. Perhaps that was our first mistake.

Now I love the mall in Broadbeach. Mainly because it’s where John Farnham filmed his “Two Strong Hearts” film clip, circa 1988, at the height of his mullet. Regular readers know that I would give up my second born for John Farnham. Mercifully I only have one child. And in 2012 it is no longer a requirement to sacrifice your child, no matter what you owe.

Feeling festive and full of the excitement that is a Gold Coast Christmas, we knew seafood was on the cards.

Before I go any further, let me set the scene. We had just arrived at the coast for a week’s holiday. The reality being that we wanted to have a relaxed Christmas sans rels.

I had put my cat into her “holiday home for cats” (there’s an oxymoron for you), triple checked I’d locked every window and door, whittled my shoes down to seven pairs, and packed both bikinis (for when I frolic solo) and 1920s style head-to-toe bathers (for when I frolic en masse).

We drove to the coast, checked into our room, got the white wine into the fridge and jumped around on our bed, only because it’s something I don’t allow at home.

In need of lunch, we set out to play our own version of the hunger games. This entails stopping outside every eatery and reading their menu and looking at each other. If one of us sneers ever so slightly, we move on. If one of us shrugs imperceptibly, we re-read the menu.

Eventually this process leads us to a place where we would be happy to pay money for food.

The place that scored the most shrugs was Max’s Seafood. Ever been there? Don’t waste your time. The place was half-full, drinks were still being handed around but as we approached the head waiter, we were told that the restaurant was closed.

It was 1.45pm on the Gold Coast on the Sunday before Christmas.

No, we couldn’t believe it either.

Not to be discouraged, we crossed the mall to another establishment boasting seafood, called Bugzie’s. That was our second mistake.

After standing around like shags on a rock for what seemed like forever but was probably three minutes, a condescending waitress of Aryan appearance, with an incredibly thick Polish accent and English as a 6th language, showed us to a table.

Failing to understand “pinot gris” we pointed to the wording on the menu and were rewarded with two glasses of buttery Chardonnay. Regardless, it was alcohol and I needed a drink.

Picked the glass up by the stem – because that’s how I drink white wine because I’m dead posh – and nearly dropped it because it was searingly hot. Miss World Aryan 2012 had no doubt ripped the glasses out of the 2000 degree dishwasher and merrily poured. Needless to say, the wine was warm, but again, it was alcohol and I needed a drink.

My husband took the uncomplicated and undoubtedly smart route of ordering fish and chips. He had sussed the place out and figured the path of least resistance was the best path.

I’m not as cluey. The seafood mornay harking back to 1978 was shrieking at me and I had to oblige. I asked the waitress what seafood was in it, not because I am allergic to anything, it was more to test the possibility of getting excited.

She said she would check. Twenty minutes later she came back and said that it contained – wait for it  - seafood and mornay.

No shit Sherlock.

I asked if I could get some rice with it and, after miming ancient Chinese women in large hats bent over double, she understood what I meant.

When our food eventually arrived, my meal was sans the side-salad of rocket and sun-dried tomato the menu had promised. The chef, being the genius he clearly is, had assumed that I would have rice in lieu of salad.

And that’s why he cooks at a mediocre Broadbeach mall cafĂ©, I would assume.

To be fair, it tasted pretty good. There was nothing wrong with that cheese sauce and the seafood was poached inside beautifully. And my second glass of wine, again after much miming, turned out to be both cold and pinot gris.

My husband, being the wiser one in this marriage, again opted for the smarter route and had a beer. In a bottle.

We stayed in that night. Grilled cheese on toast looking at the surf. And not a Chardonnay in sight.