Miss April Advises: Big G – Tracy Emin and the Clap.

hey Miss A,
You seem to know about this art caper.
Ive been snogin on Tracy Emin for a coupla weeks.
How long b4 I end up on a quilt or somethin?
The dude needs props.

yours
Big G
aka the clap

Tracey Emin, title is self-explanatory,

Tracey Emin, title is self-explanatory.

Dear Big G aka the clap

I am not sure how to express in writing an uncomfortable silence. However, that silence has provided me with the time to process your most peculiar turn of phrase and attempt to translate this into proper English. Thank you for providing me with the exposure to something altogether new and peculiarly ugsome.

I am a lady, and as such am a firm believer in the adage that one must ‘never kiss and tell’. With this in mind, your ability to freely proclaim your love-making attempts with this Miss Emin seems most insincere. This is worrying, for I am a fervent champion of the authentic. This leads me to believe the authentic feeling in your situation is solely to be on a quilt? Is that right? The kissing is not so important, the relationship is not so important, the emotion is not so important, but you are quite fond of quilting? N’est-ce pas? Is it cross-stitching, appliqué, or crochet, that fires your passions?

I actually know very little about ‘art’ bar my exposure to the piety of glistening white flesh and ecstatic rapture that adorned my hometown Cathedral. My competence is to be found in cool observation and rational analysis. That being said, I decided to sashay down to the reference library for a swift education in Emin and quilts. Lo and behold, my respect for the art of Gesamtkunstwerk and all, am I really forced into creating profundity myself given such paltry ingredients? I thought the exalted discipline of the arts was meant to do that illustrious work itself. Lamentably, the public parading of therapy is such a popular 20th century malaise, driven to grotesque proportions in the latter decades and beyond. It feels most uncomfortable to feel both saddened by the desperate celebration of self-loathing, while simultaneously suspecting I am a witness to Narcissus him/herself. The bright lights are certainly blinding.

‘Tis the age of self-indulgence and vanity; art in the name of cause célèbre. So, yes, little clap, you do need props. Best you get them yourself. Best you come up with some ideas and leave damaged millionairesses alone. You have moral turpitude on your side, so celebrity should not be too hard to find. Why I suspect you might already be smeared and appliqued into notoriety. Dignity and artistry though, might have escaped quite a distance along another path.

Don’t go spreading,
Yours,
Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Herr Shute, shorts on men in a warming world

Hi there Miss April,

This week has been terrible. 40plus degress every day. Im not blessed with Air Conditioning in my daily life. Normally I think it a crime, not unlike SUV’s, but this week I began to revise my opinion. I mean if global warmng doesnt exist then, hey, I MUST have aircon and an SUV and a coal mine and……… .
Anyway, i dont have the means to buy or rudley inherit this kind on unneccesary burden.

Sorry for the rant, its hot and i’m fragile.

My question. when and where is the short acceptable on a fellow? Is there a hem length that should not be breached. I’m quite hersuite from the pelvis up so I need other areas to expose for passive cooling. I dont think a kaftan will cut it at the office but in my inner world I see it as almost manditory.

Quickly please before the next wave of “not global” but local warming.

Yours

Herr Shute.

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Dear Herr Shute

I have lived through many stages of body hair fashion and as such am not one to succumb to a pro-, nor anti-hirsute faction. One is but an ape, if one is to believe the ever remarkable Darwin, and the defining method of separating ourselves from our savage cousins is through proper attire.

To that end I am compelled to declare in unequivocal terms: The wearing of shorts has no place within a civilised society. Unless you are a hurdy-gurdy grinding monkey you must not don the short. Consider your pride. Consider your responsibilities to fellow man. The only exception would be at the hour of exercise, the only ,mind you.

There are many and varied fashion choices for the man of prestige and power during these waves of heat. Some are quite jolly and comfortable for sweltering days, particularly if you commit yourself to the steadfast rejection of the reality of your surroundings. Go on, try it, it works a treat.* I categorize it as Denialist Wear, and it suits my brethren and kin to a tee. I present to you a visual gallery of examples:

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However, let us imagine for a moment that science is real and those pesky extreme heatwaves do return so often they are no longer recognised as ‘extreme’ to our next generation but as ‘normal’ and hopefully survivable. Well, therein lies a tragic dilemma – what to wear? The Denialist line of fashion so thrillingly portrayed by the models above will not suffice in such a scenario, and so I look back to the man I trust the most when I have a seemingly insurmountable conundrum – Jesus. Our Lord wore kaftans. Not wanting to play the race card here, Herr Shute, but is your reticence to don the kaftan implying that you think you are better than Jesus, Shute? Bosh tosh, if not outright blasphemy!

You reveal allure toward the comfort of the holy robe and I am here to assuage your fears and become the wind beneath your wings (so to speak). Go forth Shute, be a man of culture, respect, and comfortable nethers – be that man who makes dresses manly. Stride down the footpath of life as a man of confidence. Don’t worry, they will soon follow (your peers I mean, not those of ill-repute). Why even limit yourself to kaftans? Experiment with the kurta with the array of sumptuous fabrics and colours available from the East. The very sexy sherwani resplendent with silks and gold is excellent for more formal balls and gatherings. Whereby the kilt, aahh, the kilt; well as a single lady from the Empire needless to say I insist my suitors to wear the finest plaid and sporran available to mankind. And yes, they come in summer-weight. As an aside, Herr Shute, just between you and me, if ever I were to surrender my much valued spinsterhood believe me, Mr April-to-be will be donning the glorious kilt of the Highlands.

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I feel it Herr Shute, we are at the dawning of a fashion revolution.

Yours in skirts,
Miss April

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Resolutely Resolved Resolutions to All, and a Happy New Year!

Thank you for another year of visiting us and glancing upon our humble words. In suitable tradition our annual list appears courtesy of the MOLAM contributors. Let us know if any are added to yours!

1. Gesamtkunstwerk.
2. Dedicate more time to personal grooming, adhering to the ‘not a hair out of place’ rule.
3. Do not rush; ladies never rush.
4. Become more vocally less tolerant of intolerance.
5. Carry a folding hand fan within one’s purse at all times during the warmer months.
6. Commit to said hand fan for personal cooling incorporating a dancer’s-like grace to the flick, open and flutter as a public performance.
7. Louis Vuitton products post-1936 will no longer burn one’s eyes; they are deemed invisible from this day henceforth.
8. Balance one’s library realistically between the aspirational book acquisition proudly displayed and the well-read secret pleasures that win no favours at dinner parties but genuinely satisfy one’s heart and mind.
9. Lovingly finish the beautiful hand-knitted scarf dedicated to the vulnerable neck of one’s new born baby; for God’s sake they’re 7 years old now.
10. Cucumber sandwiches.

VictorianNewYear

We wish you a most satisfying 2014 whereby your desires for a safe and prosperous future for yourselves and loved ones articulates itself into valiant and meaningful action for the future of all. Bottoms Up!

Miss April Advises: Con Stipation & the Case of the Missing PM

Dear Miss April,

I was wondering if you could put your super sleuth skills or powers of divination to use. The Prime Minister seems to be missing.
Not that I want to find him, unless it was under Joe Hockey in a shallow/ not so shallow grave. [just kidding CIA guys].

What concerns me is that at a time like this that he couldnt crawl out from under his rock [aka Joe hockey] to say something , even something consoling or affirming , about the terrible plight of the people of the Phillipines after the “off the scale” typhoon.

I mean its in Asia [right?] and we rely on them terribly. So does the government.

The government relies on China buying Gina’s minerals. They really want Indonesia to hide the thing that shames Australians so. I dont mean refugees, no, I mean generousity or even that icky area, compassion. The country is awash with live livestock that need to be shipped off. Dont forget cheap holidays either.

After the beach bogans all spent a quid for the other less radio-active tsnumami, surely the head bogan could speak up on behalf of the holiday-ready masses and offer assistance to another nation girthed by surf beaches. The base and gritty commonality surely should get Tones into a speedo to announce that some peoples Xmas plans will be interupted by this awful natural disaster. By natural we obviously mean made by god [not science or global warming or brown coal or dredging the barrier reef to exploit toxic fracking income]. Lets get the public announcement back in public service.

Please, do you know where he is? I’m dying to hear what hes got to say.

Regards

Con Stipation.

tonyandgina

Tony and Gina – do they eat enough fibre?

Dear Con Stipation

I do beg your pardon, I’m rather harried you see. Since I received your correspondence I have been actively seeking our Prime Minister in every logical location with no success. I have returned to my secretaire to respond to you and confess my failings. Here I sit, my ankle boots soiled beyond repair, my petticoats disgracefully muddied, my hair has fallen and caught twigs in its slovenly web. I am a disorderly disgrace.

I started merrily enough, scoffing at your histrionics. I reached for the closest broadsheet smug in my knowledge that my fearless leader will be outspoken in his empathy and active aid, putting you naysayer to shame. He is a Christian after all. After much ruffling I felt a slight unease – where was his stoic face??

I wasted no time. I knew exactly what would drag him away from his glorious duties. I flew in a modern air bus to Warsaw. Rest assured Mr Stipation, my Tony knows the importance of representing our country on the world stage; especially when our neighbours need us so much. At one point I thought I saw him from behind – ‘my lord, my lord!’ I cried. I reached for him, his tightly wound up, fraught body only inches away. Quelle horreur! It was not the hero that has won the hearts of Australians. I found myself holding hands with an extraordinarily well recompensed chap sent here to do the good work of the new minority – vilified multinational fossil fuel corporations. God speed heroes. God speed.

Panic had started to set in by this stage. Good God, the thought of letting one of my readers down was too much for my poor shoulders to bear. I even went along to the Treasury Gardens the other morn, expecting my master of men to be there teaching those Greenies a thing or two, and explaining calmly the sound science of his advisor Andrew Bolt, so we can all stop worrying and start spending!  Alas, Con, I was perplexed. Look, I don’t approve of hippies. What with their sensual drumming and middle-class fire-twirling. So I was shocked to find that all of these lefty-hippy types who are so rightly condemned within impartial Murdoch media networks looked altogether rather average. By golly, I think I saw Myrtle from church! There were twinsets (?!) ; quite a number of grey-haired retirees, and a large smattering of smartly dressed families. Their messages  all seemed so sensible and necessary.  This was becoming a true mystery.

I am not one to surrender Con Stipation. I march on! I decided to write to my good friend and neighbour President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono to enlist his assistance to track down Tony. Well, I never. When I finally received his return correspondence the profanity was so shocking I had to immediately reach for the Tip Ex to whitewash the offending words. What on earth has happened there! Our fine leader, the good, hard-working Tony, the man who can make a smile look like a murder attempt, is unpopular? It’s been less than 3 sodding months!

It is only just now, Con, that I have finally solved the mystery for you. He is cheating on us – with Gina. My favourite Maitre D’ discretely informed me of his current whereabouts. An exclusive rendezvous. Just friends. No ramifications, no consequences. Just lusty lipped kisses, bulging wallets and handshakes. Oh Con, I think I really got the wrong end of the stick with this lot. He’s missing you say? I only pray they all disappear, all that glitters is not gold Con Stipation, and knowing what’s on this menu we might need a bit more roughage before we can expel this lot out.

My dear Tony is absent, he leads me not.

Yours,
Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Winny Sayer – Racing day shoe dilemma.

Dear Miss April,

Before i head out the gate for Melbourne Cup , I have a small problem regarding foot wear, on which I’d like to consult you.
A flat is obviously sensible on the turf but does nothing for the accentuation of ones calves. I have lovely fetlocks and am keen to show them off . A lovely heel would of course limit ones access to terrain and if the track is wet one may end up a bit further into it turf than expected. Nothing fascinating about that!

All that said , I’m considering a brown shoe. Are brown shoes confusing?

Not long now ’til the train departs to Flemmington [ or Barfington as its sometimes known afterwards] so your timely advice would be appreciated.

Fond Regards

Winny Sayer.

Horseshoe

Winny – yay.

horseheels

Winny – neigh.

Dear Winny Sayer

It was a most typically Melbourne Spring day. The winds were confident, the rain was temporarily resting and the sun had jumped us rather bullishly. My listless stroll was excited by an unusual scene. A young lady and her handsomely attired escort were walking ahead. Her fine lace dress, certainly cut too high and the colour rather too on the electric side of blue to be respectable, was nonetheless an appealing attempt. Things were awry though. Her dress shoes were in her hand. Her feet? Naked. Her elegant hat did not exist except within the realm of my expectations – a plucked feather was her only head attire. Her carefully painted face had been smudged by running tears, her beauty villified by a grimace of despair encouraged by an excess of imbibing. Her hapless chap, loyal but confused. Was this a dream? No Winny, ’tis racing season.

Darling Winny, not only are brown shoes confusing, to even consider donning them on your fetlocks is a travesty and a disgrace. You may gaily wear umber, burnt sienna, cacao, puce and possibly even ecru to be audaciously challenging. But not brown, never brown.

In response to your dilemma between flats and heels, can you please clarify – will you be observing the race, or will you be in it? Winny, are you a horse?

I’m sure your fetlocks are amazing, and heels do accentuate them (not to mention tightening up those haunches you cheeky equid!). But if you are actually IN the race…you know, galloping down the track, than heels are a resounding no-no. Imagine if you’re stiletto got stuck in the mud! Quelle horreur!

Vanity is one thing, pride another. Flats for you on racing day my dear!

Give my best to Rainbow Dash, yours in equine bliss,
Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Cy Lently sealed lips.

Dear Miss April,

I havent seen your informative epistles in some time. In fact there been nothing since the election.
Has there been a gag order put on you too?
Have you been outspoken on climate change, refugees, anti corruption or cosmetic ear surgery in some other forum?
It is the fashion to crack down on common sense, but , I hope you can repsond if even in code or in the the inscrutible emotion transmitting medium of poetry.

Our lips are sealed.

Cy Lently

Dear Cy Lently

I receive your words of concern with bashful pleasure. My musings have been solitary and internal, and while I fancy myself to be achieving most distinguished logical conclusions I now realise I have been neglecting my Christian duties to my faithful readers.

Nary a day passes that one may not find me layed upon my Chinoiserie chaise longue. My furrowed brow betrays my inner turmoil. Alas, there is before us the perfect storm. From every direction falderal and intimidation pursue us. We, the humanists, the logicians, the empaths, scientists, artists, advice columnists, the wise, the dumb and the living; are at the mercy of the walking dead. Common sense you say? What need have we of common sense Sir Lently when we have diamonds? Well, perhaps not all of us, I mean some of us have to toil the earth. We all have our roles you know. And certainly those imperious diamond keepers won’t live forever, and most assuredly neither will we, but isn’t it worth it? Just for one man, for one day, to say “notice me and marvel at my importance, I have a massive diamond”, while the rest of our kingdoms collapses into the void. Alas or no, he too shall inevitably slide after us into the maelstrom.

Ugh. How utterly dreary. I owe you a wealth of gratitude Cy Lently. You have awakened me from my somnambulism. Silence, although powerful, essential and undoubtedly elegant, can at times be the Sword of Damocles to the thinkers among us. Time to find our voices methinks. Would you care to join me?

Clawing my way back up the slide, yours,
Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Tony Christine Rudd, stop the bloat.

Dear Miss April,

I have been having terrible reflux and the occasional tourettes-like turn. I’m beginning to think I may be allergic to politics.

Apart from avoiding all forms of media and humming loudly to the tunes of Gershwin while in public social spaces, is there anything else I should do to alleviate my discomfort?

Alas, I also think the problem might be airborne as all the pamphlets being fanned at me at every intersection these days are exacerbating my weeping eyes, probably due to the stinging electoral dust being kicked up It’s playing having havoc with my psynuses. Strange though, as the dialogue is void of air or content. Can one be allergic to a vacuum?

Do you think if I took a postal vote and saw you in October, that it would be an effective remedy?

I do hope you can assist.

Tony Christine Rudd

Dear Tony Christine Rudd

I beseech you to stay! A postal vote and month long absence will be as curative as a consumptive convalescing in Bath for the Winter. Do not abandon your kin and kindred at a time when you need them and they need you.

One can be allergic to life, my fine fellow (lady?), so a political vacuum is no doubt most definitely the cause of your malaise. Do not succumb to this treacherous vacuum. It will extract the very essence of you and then abandon you as if you were a syphilitic 19th century mistress. Fill your hole. In fact, fill it with candied dates! I can direct you toward a lady who will be dispensing these sweet treats on voting day to raise the spirits of those such as you. With your candied dates and hole filled, solider on through Saturday with the steely reserve of a true voting Australian; content in the knowledge that they will at the same time cleanse your system and cure your terrible symptoms.

Steadfast and sure we shall go toward, through and beyond,
Miss April

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