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Posts Tagged ‘Johnny Farnham’

This blog post started off  with the title ‘An Open Letter To My Cold Sore’ but honestly, that fucker doesn’t deserve its own open letter.

It’s been the Worst House Guest Ever. It arrived unannounced, trashed my face (and my reputation as a Great Beauty – yeah, yeah, don’t laugh) and it then proceeded to overstay its welcome by, like, FOREVER.

For a while there, my only hope was that it would eventually grow so large it would become the size of a small African nation and proclaim its independence from me.

As it was, it quite possibly became the first human lesion visible from outer space. Most certainly, it arrived in a room a good thirty seconds before the rest of my body did. Small children would burst into tears when I – or rather ‘it’ – approached them. Some adults thought I was an extra from the film ‘Alien’ being attacked by a face-hugger. And I thoroughly expected Wes Craven to contact me in the hope my cold sore could be the New Face of Freddy Kruger.

I found myself having to warn friends in advance of meeting them.

“I have a cold sore,” I told them. “Do not talk about the cold sore, do not look at the cold sore and, most certainly, do not address the cold sore directly.”

I was worried that if they gave the cold sore too much attention, it would develop a human-like personality and end up with its own reality TV show by the end of the week. Like the Kardashians.

And every time it looked like it was on the mend, it would make a sudden comeback. Like Aussie Rocker Legend™ Johnny Farnham (although nowhere near as embarrassing).

And when it finally DID  start to go away, it felt like the boyfriend that nobody ever liked but never told you they didn’t like him until after you’d broken up. Everyone who’d said things like ‘Oh, you can hardly see it!’ or “What cold sore?” at the height of my cold sore’s power, finally admitted, once it had slowly diminished into the west like some Elvin Queen on a boat, “Yeah, that was a big one” or “Man, that shit was like Cold Sore-zilla!”.

Listen, there is one good thing you can say about my cold sore and that is this:   it made me come in from the cold and write this blog post. Even if it was kinda hard to see past the cold sore while I wrote it.

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Pass me the Zovirax, please.

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My glamourous friend GT is thinking on having a sit down dinner for 40 guests to celebrate her 40th. This is nicely in line with my own “seven friends for your seventh birthday party” rule for Mr Justice last year. Hopefully, however, GT won’t end up like me, scrounging through the cupboards to make up last minute party bags for the extra guests that I myself invited because I couldn’t follow my own goddamn rule. Because there will be party-bags, right, GT? I mean, how will anyone ever leave the party if there aren’t party bags? 

And yes, you can tell that I don’t go to many parties for the Over-Seven Set. 

Anyway, the most exciting thing about GT’s birthday party plans – which she shared with me during a recent telephone conversation – was that she seemed to be implying that I might actually be invited. 

The implication was enough to make me punch the air and shout “I made the Top 40!” the minute I got off the phone to her. I then rushed to book my airline tickets to fly to the event before she could set me straight. 

The Friendship Gods were poised to punish me, however. Moments after I’d booked my flight, I received a text message from the Mild-Mannered Lawyer asking for her house key back, which had been in my possession since I’d fed her cat over the New Year. 

I was gutted. The MML seemed to be implying, with the withdrawal of her key, that I was no longer in her Top 40. It was like she was giving me a clear message that said “You are now dead to me” –  although it also could be read as “Can I please have my key back?”.

Anyway, after a few more text exchanges, it turned out she wanted the key back so she could leave it for her cleaner.

I was still outraged. What had her cleaner ever done for her, huh? (Other than clean her house). Would she ever be able to ring her cleaner at 1 o’clock in the morning because she was drunk and had locked herself out and (maybe, just maybe) had thrown up on her own shoes? Unlikely.

Not that I’d ever done that for the MML, mind you. But I had always considered myself On Call. I took my job as a Key Holder very seriously and had even been considering putting it on my CV – something along the lines of:

December 29th, 2009 – present
Position: Key holder
Responsibilities: Holding the key. Not losing the key. Being able to retrieve the key when asked for the key. Occasionally feeding the cat, using the key, but taking care not to feed the cat the key. 

But now, thanks to the untimely end of my key-holding duties,  I’d have to put an end date on the job and “December 29th, 2009 – January 12th, 2010” doesn’t look quite so impressive. Because it really did look impressive before that amendment. No, really. I mean, consider the other options: few employers are going to be blown away by the fact I can change the crap-filled nappy of a standing child with only two baby wipes in record time. And really, it’d help to have something in the EXPERIENCE section of my CV that didn’t pre-date Aussie Legend™  Johnny Farnham’s first Farewell Tour (and for the record, Johnny: having a comeback tour only four years after your last tour is a little like saying goodbye to someone you’ve run into at the supermarket only to see them three aisles later standing in front of the condom section. It’s awkward for everyone.)

ANYWAY, a few days after I returned the MML’s key, I found myself a whopping twenty minutes late meeting the MML for a coffee. My reason? I couldn’t find my carkeys. Turns out they were in the deep freezer.

Of course they were. Because in summer, a set of ice-cold keys is an asset, right?

Yes, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it, just in case anyone else is considering me for the role of Key Holder. Which I hope someone is, because I honestly need the gig. In fact, I’m becoming increasingly convinced that my inclusion in GT’s Top 40 depends on it and nobody wants to see me fly interstate only to stand stand outside her party, pathetically holding my own keys, do they? Sheesh.

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