On Friday 9 September 2016, at approximately 23:40, officers of the Queensland Flying Peleton Brigade boarded the train to Cleveland which had been held at Lota station and removed Bill Quinn.
Mr Quinn is current head of logistics for the Overheard Group, including Benevolent Ethical Entertainment Presenter (BEEP!) of Overheard Productions and Tawp Dawg at Bill The Housesitter.
Mr Quinn was spotted later that night in the comfy chair at #36. He’s chill. And there’s a perfect extra resource with some of these bit players.
[I’m leaving that sentence there because in time, the meaning of whatever the hairy heck it was that I meant may reveal itself. Picture a man, barely alive, lying in bed at about 3am, trying to stay awake long enough to post a brief update, but whose face kept falling asleep and slamming into the phone.]
Ask Bill if you’re looking for some promotional exposure.
But right now he’s talking Braille, so please check back at 11pm on Sunday 11 September (London time), 8am Monday 12 September (Brisbane time) or call +61-555-000-000 (for a good time).
Capalaba, Redlands Council District, Queensland, Australia
Based in Lexington, Kentucky and the brain child of Michael Johnathon, singer-songwriter and 36 other titles, it’s spreading its tendrils across the USA and the world.
I’ll not steal any WFPA thunder by block copying and pasting here – yet, but please follow the links, and your rewards shall be many and bountiful.
The Cliff Notes, as MJ would say: it’s a cheap-as-chips member association which opens everyone up to a world of information, resources and networking, and opens its arms and invites the world of art and artists in to share, share, share. Stop, collaborate and listen!
On Friday 23 and Saturday 24 September 2016, the WFPA is holding its second annual Gathering in Shaker Village, Pleasant Hill, Kentucky – see main picture for all the salient details of the wheres and whens.
It’s the how much that’s the real news story here. And it’s a good, good news story at a time when good news stories are pretty gosh-darned thin on the ground.
Choose your preference: click on a hyperlink or click on the audio file link below, and listen in as Michael explains WFPA and the Gathering in his signature succinct, clear, resonantly-voiced vocal stylings (even over the tech equivalent of two cans and a 9063 mile piece of string!)
ENDS (for now, but really it’s just the beginning!)
Welcome to Episode 2 of Cooking At #36 with Billgella Lawsoote.
Our legal people have been combing through our initial agreement with M/s Lawsoote and it does indeed appear that a clerical error DID spin the series out from the original 3.6 episodes to an eye-watering 36 episodes.
With the caveat of ‘ne’er the same kitchen twice’.
We present to you, the uninformed swill at the bottom of a glass of a really gritty Bordeaux, the sort you want to finish off with a knife and fork, the second in our (slap me now for using this hackneyed term) journey — pronounced with four Js: jjjjourney around the kitchens of Australia.
Today for your information, edification and inebriation, we have ‘White Whine Fillet Surprise’.
Short on the whine, long on the wine.
Warning: Billgella works a little blue in this edition beamed live (and by live, we mean recorded three weeks ago) from Paddington, NSW.
Here’s what some food pundits are saying about Episode 2.
‘I kept falling off my chair’. – Matt from Basildon, Essex.
Surely faulty office furniture is an office services issue, not the kitchen’s.
“Where’s the bacon?” – Johnny RT from Sydney via Liverpool UK.
Have you ever crossed a Basa with a pig, JRT? We tried once, and the pig thrashed around in the shallows for half an hour. It took us twice that long just to get the smile off his face.
DISCLAIMER: Again, please note this edition is not safe for work (NSFW). We did road-test it on a pre-school group at the Sorbonne School For The Gifted Culinary Toddler and the feedback was unanimous: “We’re including you in our mandatory reporting to the relevant authorities.”
Billgella Lawsoote returns in the new year with a multicultural melting pot Episode 3 from the heart of Kebabland, Sydney.
Dashing up Oxford Street tonight to get to the BWS bottle shop by 9.55pm, because NSW liquor licensing: thou shalt not serve takeaway alcohol one second after 10pm.
Google Maps said I had 3.2kms to cover in 45mins. Yeah, try roughly a kilometre. I stopped and asked a Security dude outside The Paddington Inn at about 9.27pm how far it was, and he said, about 100 metres!
And it was at Paddo BWS that I met Denis, serving behind the counter, and he told me about his band, Limited Head Space.
And he wrote the band name down on the back of a docket.
Right now, Denis and his mate, also in the band, have just shut up shop. It’s 10pm and the grille went down at 9.55pm. NSW Liquor Licensing laws: thou shalt not vend takeaway alcohol after 9.55pm. I may have mentioned that before.
BWS are all over this like a cheap suit. I have been that guy who stormed away at 9.56pm, stormed back at 9.57pm, then fumed off into the night before the sweep hand had time for another full revolution.
BWS St Leonard’s, April 2014. Ah yes, I remember it well.
The original text above cut out because in the 36mins I was sat there, outside Astton Shoes and some indie Bed, Bath and Table shop, my browser had fallen over nine times.
Ten times. I’m going to embed their video then make this thing pretty later.
Cooking At #36 is a new series launched today from kitchens around Australia, eventually the world.
This innovative, jerky-handed phone camera series takes you, the poor, ignorant, unclassy, unclassified, joke of a wretched wastrel, awash in a sea of processed mediocre food, TV dinners, and fast food that’s slowly filling you up with salt and plastic — we take your sorry arse pics…
I’m sorry, I’ll read that again.
We take your sorry aspic, and sauce a better way to cook.
Episode One (Shredded Wheat/Blowing Mayo aka Resilience Is Useful).
The pilot was produced in a secret Holsworthy kitchen. Another pilot was picked up in a Moorebank Sports Club – she was either Randy or Chastity; such a fine line betwixt and between, I find.
Road-tested on six selected Overheard Productions friends and strangers who all were unanimous in their reviews:
Greek Fetta Chorus: “We’re calling the Critical Assessment Team. Put down the phone and step away from the maple syrup.”
Actually, they said lovely things, but I’ll add the reviews later.
There’s time for one. “Alison from Athenry” says, ‘Show us your chips, Billgella!”
And another: “Axminster Al from Barking in Essex” says, ‘What’s with the fruity 80s English accent?’
Many festival survival guides exist on the world wide weird, and sparticularly in the blogosphere.
So I don’t intend to replicate, duplicate, spiflicate or update those, but I do want to share a few insights into preventative healthification.
Have you ever gone to a festival or been on the road and woken up one morning feeling like a rather large, furry toad has crawled into your larynx and is now doing early morning Zumba?
Or started heading into that long night when you want to sit around the campfire singing 36-verse ye olde Englishe folke songse, and find you’ve started the coughing fit that might wake the dead? Whom you envisage joining in the not too distant future? 💀☠👻
The dirty little secret is something that one of my many, many former employers (a medical Not For Profit/Public Beneficial Institution) will tell you about in great depth and detail under the banner of ‘antibiotic resistance’:
Some lurgies exist that you just can’t duck because they’re viral, and the best you can do is pump up your general healthiness and look after that immune system.
The bad news on that score for folkies is that to best keep your system in good health, you should:
* avoid coffee
* avoid or limit alcohol intake
* avoid fatty, salty, sugary foods
* get lots of sleep
* don’t stay out at night in the cool air ingesting campfire ash
* don’t strain your vocal folds
* don’t sleep on uncomfortable, unsupportive mattresses or straight onto the ground
* and other stuff your mum told you, and
* always wear clean underwear.
Recently I’ve stepped out from behind the radio microphone and have been doing videos, increasingly turning the camera on myself. Not in a selfie, me me me way, but more of a semiotic, body language, non-verbal communication way.
I hate text-based inter-personal communication — ironic for a writer, yes/no? But if you can see the wrinkle of my forehead or the rising of my eyebrows, or my scratching my face (one of my tells that says I should never play tournament poker), then you’ll get a sense of what drives this cultural communicator: communication.
Call me old-fashioned.
Last night, Monday 15 December 2014, after I’d finally found out nine hours after it started, what was transpiring in Martin Place in Sydney, I called a halt to my work day at 14.5….12.5 hours. No, 14.5 hours.
(I could never be in the military. Apart from anything else, I suck at 25….that was an actual typo….I suck at 24 hour clock.)
Bega Valley musician Jay McMahon was despairing with his friends of trolls and racists and xenophobes and such coming out to play in the duration and wake of the siege and eventual death of the lone gunman. I repeat, lone gunman acting alone.
If I shot up a cafe, took hostages and killed two, took myself off the planet in the process, and at one point held up my Arsenal scarf (pictured), would you burn down Ashburton Grove, set fire to the Islington train station? Or go to Arsene Wenger’s home town in France and start spraying footballist slogans over churches and patisseries?
Son of a bitch. I’d been avoiding this score for two and a half days, hoping to catch it on replay. Damn you, Google and your helpful summaries on search pages!
So last night I tried five times to record a coherent response after Jay asked me: What can be done?
After four hours of deep, replenishing, refreshing slumber, this:
Check back here soon for video. Currently loading aaaaaand…. here’s Billy!