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: 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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Miss April Advises: Iva Badd-Phelan, voting day & candied dates

Dear Miss April,

I’m wondering if you have a recipe for Candied Dates. I cant seem to find a sure fire one. Maybe you could ask about for me.

It’s a good time to refresh the larder. I hear there is an election coming between now and eternity, so what better rations than a good stock of fresh Candied Dates. I find they give the day more energy than the usual nuts and when they are dished out no one can stop talking about them.

I could head out to the long queues on polling day and hand them out to the weary public, assuming they havent been consumed already or gone rancid in the mean time. Some find them cloying, some report they go “right through you”, others like the lingering mouth feel, but everyone loves to give them a go.

Whats not to like about a sweet, well preserved fruit?

Regards
Ms. Iva Badd-Phelan

Dear Ms Iva Badd-Phelan

Haven’t we all?

Well, Election Day welcomes us with wet grimaces and vice-grip embraces this Spring Saturday, and I do hope you proceed with your exquisite plan for sweet preserves. I would like nothing more than to be greeted by you at the local booth. I could do with an injection of joie de vivre and open jar on that particular morn.

In terms of a recipe, I direct you toward the interweb device and search for a traditional Middle-Eastern recipe with an exotic cardamom for a pleasing authenticity. Word of warning, I do suspect you might be inadvertently challenging the Australian core identity by dispensing gay ethnic sweet treats that ignites the nation’s spine chilling fear of boats. Be prepared, don’t let the Queen’s supporters interpret you in the style of Murdoch re-telling. I hear they definitely prefer nuts.

I am of the opinion that a well preserved fruit could be just the ticket and potentially the saving of us all. It makes me green with envy just thinking of all those voters savouring your delicious morsels. So go forth fine lady. Show your face. Spread your candied dates. But do not forget to cast your vote!

Yours in suffrage,
Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Name-Calling Post Gay Wedding.

Dear Miss April,

With all the shouting and hyperbole coming from magazines like Whatever, Whoever Weekly and other titular aberrations, that seem to invoke popular truncations like Bradjelina and Benjen and the like.

I was hoping you could provide some clarity on an issue that also has the whiff of currency about it.
I was penning invitation cards to a casual yet highly choreographed cocktail party and it occurred to my that I was unsure how to conjoin the names of two chaps that have tied the knot. Whats it to be a hyphenated named? Where they to keep there own surnames? It seems to me that if your going to the trouble of getting married you may as well have the trouble of having married people troubles, like messing about with your name for a start. You know like regular folk.

So as there’s no patriarchal hierarchy to insist on a name order, how does one decide? If it were based on status surely that would change so often that stationers would be run off their feet. This would be come impractical and costly very quickly. Wat about enforcing a straight [ no pun intended] swap. You’d end up with people called Jeff Singer and Garry Smith. that’s just the tip of the ice-cream cone. Perhaps it should be just done by alliterative excitement or jolly good rhythms. then the delights of Vladimir Putin John would make lovely things to write in ones impeccable penmanship.

Is there a rule for nomenclature in the new unions?

I do hope you can help

Fondley

George Michael

Dear George Michael

Why greetings, Sir. I hear on the grapevine you’re mightily more than a little fondl(e)y, love. Should I refer to you as Mr Goss? Or Mr Goss-Michael, or maybe just the Messrs Panagiotou. One must be in tune with the pressing concerns of the day, and if we decline to obsess over new social constructions without a sense of timeless brevity we might find ourselves at the sore end of a scathing cold shoulder.

It’s a real bother when a couple does not have the patriarchal tradition to fall back on in times such as these. Truly, who bought who and for how many goats? Those were simpler times indeed. But let us not be so glib. This is a matter that must be addressed, as there are numerous profiting opportunities for wedding planners and social etiquette authors at stake.

We, as a community, have evolved. We find ourselves in the very flux of evolution. Unfortunately, we can’t quite free ourselves of those contradictory traditions such as dominant identifiers. For myself, I imagine if I were to ever succumb to the betrothal tradition I would insist on a new name altogether. Scrap both surnames and go for something exotic, perhaps with the flair of the Spaniards – six names long, the fire of Flamenco, exhausting, confusing and aggressively fallacious.

Enough prevaricating around the bush, what you should do in this situation is address them by the names you know them as. It is the newly conjoined pair’s responsibility to address their social circle as to which naming custom they choose to adopt. A friendly word of advice though, don’t let cynicism get the better of you. After all, to come together as a family and desiring to identify as a family is a most lovely dream no matter the contradictory traditions which make up the path – and a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Yours most sincerely, Mrs April dos Santos Velasquez Morillo Guillermo Cabrerra y Morales de Wagga Wagga.

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