All my friends are getting iPhones

Seasons Gruntings. In keeping with various fitness-related resolutions, we begin the New Year with exercises. In particular grubby cross-promotional exercises:

Your Correspondent @ Mother Focaccia talking farmers' markets and fresh produce

And the triumphant return of Flange Gasket, In The Worst Possible Taste of course. Remember, in hell, it's always Schoolies Week.


There. That was nice and gratuitous. Hoping for a job on Nine's cricket coverage scripting the seamless integration of Betfair odds updates into the commentary.

And speaking of cricket, I went on a drunken roadtrip mission (not driving thxverymuch) and a cricket game broke out. Rain and Victorian cheating (fuck you Miscellaneous Nannes) put paid to any hopes of a legitimate result, but a good time was had by all. 'Twas fucking awsm and no mistake. Except for one, lingering, malingering resentment.

We missioned up (and back) to Brisvegas from the glorious north coast of NSW in AJ's old warhorse of an AU Falcon wagon. Five blokes, one driving, four offering constructive advice on said driving, complaining about the music and agitating for bottle-o stops, visits to the slashers and pub lunches. And every bastard among them - apart from Your Correspondent - had an iPhone. Even my old mate Craigos who's in the final year of his PhD (which is usually year four of three, as demonstrated by Your Correspondent) and who, you might reasonably expect, be by this stage in proceedings less solvent than an Icelandic bank. Nope. iPenises for all. And they're fucking BRILLIANT. They're shiny, they do stuff, they work well, they play music, have lots of cool apps and, in a novel development, you can talk in one end and people will talk back to you at the other. WTF next people?? Web 2.0 FTW!!!1!

In short, they're cool, and they do everything it says on the tin, and I WANTS IT.

At least, I did. But now...

Now, as it is, I talk a lot of bollocks. An oar in four blogs, Arsebook, Twunter, email, whatever. My opinions do not suffer from lack of exposure to oxygen. But, God's bollocks, can you imagine how unutterly clusterfuckingly exponentially worser (yes, WORSER) it'd be if I had an iPhone?

Yeah, about that. Maybe more.

Anyway, I've had an epiphone (or even an ep-iPhone. Hur hur. I made a funny.) I don't actually NEED an iPhone, that I knew. But I don't actually WANT an iPhone either. Because the truth is, I'd never get anything fucking done.

That, and the words 'cellphone service' in the deep south are an oxymoron.


The Doctor is OUT.