Items to be baked are assigned to avoid double-ups.
Donna - chocolate crackles
Michael - lemon bars
Lola - carrot cake
Trudy - EXEMPT DUE TO HORSE HANDS
Jenn - toffee pops
Duncan - the cupcakes with the little edible paper pictures of beloved Disney characters on them
Nancy - toast
This is a line-up filled with brilliant editors, and fabulous event organisers, and writers who have created works of beauty and intellect and a...third thing. Me? The last piece of writing I had completed was a eulogy I performed at a comedy night called Dirt that ended with me cramming seven hot dogs in my mouth while writhing around to a dance remix of Danny Boy.
I regret to inform you that my daughter, Turf, is coming to your house. Perhaps you have a misguided child who considers Turf a friend. Perhaps she has somehow wheedled her dark arts upon your good self and insisted herself into your home. Whatever the catalyst, the decision has been made and my daughter, Turf, is now coming to your house.
Dear Scientific Community,
I know that you have a lot of science to do and very little money to do it with, but I humbly request that you grant me great honking robot legs so that I may stomp about the neighbourhood and inspire others with my might.
Raw Comedy is the biggest open mic competition in the country. Over 1,000 acts competed over the last few months in heats in every state, and here it’s down to the final 12. Each comic performs a five minute set and at the end of the show, the judges confer to find a winner. This year’s judges were Susan Provan, Chortle’s Steve Bennett, Neal Downward from SBS, Sarah Dodd and UK comedian Steve Bugeja.
Game show host and comedic sidekick Tom Gleeson returns to MICF this year with Cheer Up, a show presumably titled as a reminder to Gleeson once he wanders off-stage, because it certainly had nothing to do with the show’s content. It’s a meandering hour of twaddle, generously padded with audience banter that probably appeals to Gleeson’s fans, whoever they are.
Last month, my cousin stopped moving. My aunt Josie called me, out of the blue, and told me this.
I said, ‘What are you calling me for? You ought to be calling an ambulance!’
She said that it wasn’t the sort of thing to call an ambulance about. That Alex wasn’t ‘sick’. He was just refusing to move. She wanted me to come over. Try to talk some sense into him. I said I’d be there straight away, but I had no idea what I could do to help. I hadn’t seen Alex in years.
I was commissioned to build a statue in the park. Some girl from the city council called me up and there were meetings and negotiations and the like. It would have been three years ago, now. Three and a half? Something like that.
There was the usual fuss when the announcement was made. The local papers had my picture in there with some guy from the council – who can remember? – and we were standing in the middle of the park. The ‘site’, as he kept calling it. We are very pleased with this site. Don’t you agree that this is a most wonderful site for a statue?
On Tuesday, the house began to fall apart. It started with the roof. A steady noise. The rhythmic scraping of terracotta, followed by silence and a dull thud. We were in the living room at the time. It must have been a little after six, because we were watching the main stories on the news. Tony was in his chair. I was sprawled on the couch. We didn’t say anything to each other. We just looked up, furrowed our brows and padded outside in our bare feet. The roof tiles were shifting out of place and sliding to the ground, quietly landing on the damp grass. We circled the house with the wheelbarrow. At first, we rushed beneath the tiles to try to catch them. They would land heavily and shatter. The terracotta clashed unbearably against the metal of the wheelbarrow, broken shards flying too close to our faces.