You love that which you can lose, yourself, a woman, a country, a pair of sandals. Whenever we show pity, we empty our souls. Guibariane did not die of fear, he died out of shame – Shame for his stinking clodhoppers. The salvation of humanity is in its shame! Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris, 1972
This is the sort of subtle worst that I love. It gives the impression that the owner of the manky sandals stepped out of them and floated away after being shamed by the new shoes in the Nedlands window at night. Another gentle reminder that the rapture is still coming. Ellie saw these on Hampton Rd in Nedlands. She also claimed that the area was crawling with cockroaches, which may be the explanation for the giant bite taken out of the sandals. Another subtle worst to delight the historians of the future. Who the fuck was this Mainy they keep talking about? And sandals? Why Perth, why?
The Worst of Perth 
Aren’t there many students living around there? Students and cockroaches? That juxtapostion just won’t fly. It does not compute!
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Haiku 6009:
If the sandal fits
Clap your feet on Hampden Road
And run from the storm.
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Cockroach bait sandal, Sandalis, planet of fear Sucked off on Hampden
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Didn’t Jesus once say, “where’s my other sandal?”
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Haiku 2:
even when barefoot
not all who wander are lost
unlike their sandals
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They belonged to a bearded academic in his late 50’s, who was wearing a faded Ralph lauren polo shirt and carrying a toddler named Tom on his shoulders. He was probably exasperatedly waiting for his young second wife to finish checking out the pretty shoes in the shop so they could get Tom a babycino at the Dome, but I can’t quite visualise why he decided to abandon his.
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Because the cockroach took a chunk out of them.
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That shouldn’t perturb a tenured professor of cultural studies.
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I’ll bet those sandals are quite pricey – looks like pretty good Israeli leather work.
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texture of street brine
twinned with sweat’s grimy pallette
Robert Juniper
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my first thought, before i scrolled down, was that you were talking about the manky sandals on the right of the window cill.
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Those of little faith
Did not count on his return
Barefoot once again
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tantalising filth
toes long for integration
sweet contaminants
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This picture tells me a story. Tim Winton looks in the window. Becomes disgusted by how extravagant and indulgent footwear has become. He abandons his own sandals and retreats to the bush, where he will live among the dugongs in a life of simplicity.
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…only to be found a couple of weeks later down at Trigg! I was windsurfing down there and suddenly there he was! He was so down to earth, y’know, a real bloke. We had a good yarn. It was amazing – not up himself at all. After, we went and got a pie. It was incredible!
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a lentil pie no doubt?
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well it sure wasn’t whalemeat
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Lentils are awesome.
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Off to Melbourne for the Easter weekend?
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“After, we went and got a pie. It was incredible!” Did you mean it was inedible?
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He will pen a story, wistful in its nostalgia for a bygone Perth era.
It will contain a cautionary theme within the story that centres around a large family (who live close to the sea) who frequently remove their shoes.
The title: “Veruca”.
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That’s only a side project though; a bit of a diversion. Tim’s real passion is and always has been the sea – he is quintessentially a writer of the waters. To listen to the lilting lyricism of his prose is likened to lying in the languid lull of the soothing tides. Tim is an icon of the oceans, inasmuch as the water itself is an essential motif to his haunting, evocative work. That’s why Tim’s next novel will absolve all tedious obligation to plot and characterisation (too often forced upon the devil-may-care tranquility of the quintessential Western Australian regional lifestyle) and focus entirely on hydrodynamics. The title: “Flow”.
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‘Shep twisted the tap in his hand. A bit harder. Then, he heard it – the faint rattling of the pipe out back. It was a real clanger. He could hear the water approaching, building in soft increments. It reminded him of Mandurah, of home. It had been so long. Then, with a sudden gurgle, the water emerged from the pipe, a long, flaccid spray. He watched in amazement and awe as the water tumbled out in fat droplets, only to break at the bottom of the basin and swirl away down the drain, to their destiny. Outside, a dog barked. Shep stepped back from the sink, marvelling. “Is this my life?” he breathed.’
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are you channelling tim?
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yeah but he’s so down to earth that I’m sure he won’t mind… he’s not just telling a story, he’s telling our story, y’know? Phwoar.
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Phwoar. And you’re just telling the story of our irrational hatred so perfectly.
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perhaps ‘Flow’ could be a story of a quasi-feminist on her monthlies.
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I like it. A story of the struggle to find balance between not getting drawn into the whole ‘long distance relationship’ thing and actually being in the same place as the person you want to be with, while not compromising each other’s fluctuating, ambivalent desire for an open relationship and especially not letting notions of romantic love dictate what you do with your life because you’re your own person, you know? My feet itch.
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I hope DFOC is conductin your session at the Perth Writer’s Festivus Pforts, an the word is leitmotif.
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Or the story of the vain strainings of a man of a certain age at the urinal. Pissing problems constitute a well-mined seam in postmodern literature, but I’m sure Tim would enrich the seam with plenty of highly original water/sea/surfing/plumbing metaphors.
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there is certainly a simile to be struck between trying to get to the end of ‘Dirt Music’ and passing a kidney stone.
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I was referring to prostate problems, but I think we’re in the same groove, as that old hipster LA would say.
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Blowhole Blues by Tim Winton.
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(drops jaw in amazement, swoons).
Pforts, as you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.
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aww shucks :B
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Ljuke flicked through his thesaurus, looking for an adequate way to express his feelings toward Pfortner’s prose. The pages were old and thick, reminding him of his old school in Bunbury, days spent skinning knees and barking shins, his thesaurus never leaving his hands.
The entry for amazed contained several words, but two stuck out as particularly apt: impressed and appalled.
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wonderfully frightening isn’t it?
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Dude, if you get Tim as tutor this semester, you’ll have to come crying back like Cookster asking for all his Patty Chong comments to be erased.
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Well he’ll definitely know who I am now that you’ve mentioned the possibility. He’ll probably be on the look out for me. Oh well. Risk it all for teh lulz.
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Winton scanned the rows of eager pustulated faces. He concentrated on the back row, certain the cunt wouldn’t have the audacity to sit at the front. Or maybe that’s just what he would do. Ljuke. There were six Lukes on the class lists, and a Ludmilla, but no Ljukes. He began scanning the list for those not called Luke certain he wouldn’t choose a nom de plume close to his own name. Or would he? The shame of the dugong jibes turned his face red with shame, but he covered it up by pretending he was stifling a fart. Ljuke. Curse that name…
This faux Wintoning is a little too easy. Nice how a post on manky sandles has moved effortlessly into an anti Winton groove.
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I dunno, mate. Actual Wintoning can’t be that hard…
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Covering something up by pretending to stifle a fart is more Derek & Clive than Tim Winton, no?
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Nuh, full points to LA here for remembering to include some pointlessly uncomfortable bodily functions in his Winton pastiche. Next: awkward sexuality
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Remember it’s Winton ON Winton, so he can’t blame it on the Macedonian family, or the Polish man from down the street who fixed the henhouse…
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Brilliant.
Best post in a while.
Well played Pf/Lj/TLA.
Next Step?
Get Winton on to Defend himself.
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Despite having turned from sandal to Winton, also much praise to first time submitter Ellie.
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Hilarious.
All it took was for LJ to say “Winton” and bang, all those feelings we usually supress came bubbling to the surface.
The Sandals were simply a means to an end.
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It is about the concept of Wintoning itself which transcends the writing that has become important. ie there is no paragraph no matter how well crafted that would sway the mob now.
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Indeed.
Right on the button, Dear Lady.
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Sumthin is askew, methinks, with host site.
This reply is in reference to TLA’s praise for Ellie.
(Sounds like a song title.)
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Gerrupum TLA.
The thing’s all up to shit.
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it was a beautiful, poignant worst.
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Tim?
Is that you?
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Ljuke: I can forsee some big problems for you in class with “Mr Winton”
Whenever I see Barra or Basil, and when I was photographing that sea shepherd guy, I cant help but giggle and my face goes burning red.
So there you go Tim.
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I’m hoping he will be recreating this from Animal House.
Yes Mr Winton, cough cough blowjob.
[audio src="http://www.moviesounds.com/animal/blowjob.wav" /]
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Worse.
The very moment “Mr Winton” opens his mouth, and that soft, slow and nauseatingly sincere voice comes out, our Ljuke is going to be in trouble.
I forsee him falling of his seat, doubled over with manaical laughter.
Even if it’s a Tarkovsky quote.
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Should we be thankful for small mercies?
“Author Tim Winton admits he had to radically condense Cloudstreet to turn it into a script for a TV series.
“Filming for the six-part screen adaptation of the 400-page Australian classic novel wrapped up in Perth in June.
“Some parts of the book, which chronicles the lives of working class families the Pickles and the Lambs, had to be dropped, Winton said.”
http://www.watoday.com.au/entertainment/tv-and-radio/the-challenges-of-making-cloud-street-20100716-10dr3.html
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Cookster has almost mastered the art of the opinion column, ala Maushart, Adams – dare I say even Michele Philips – to what I find disgusting effect. Sorry John, but I deplore these half-arsed “well isn’t life a bit funny after all”, i.e. “after I’m a well established capitalist family man/woman etc.” diatribes not only irrelevant but more than vaguely offensive. Maintain the rage, man, if there was any there in the first place.
Look, I’m 37 myself now, and doing almost the same thing myself…
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I’ve rendered myself completely irrelevant (drunk) by posting this in the wrong place, lol. To atone, will now cut and paste into the Wankle comment board, haha.
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Ummm … it’s a sign. Two, actually.
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I just read a news story that had the magnificent line:
“all registered monkeys have been accounted for.”
better than any haiku
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And the lawns ?
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Registered as always…
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it always comes back to the monkeys, doesn’t it?
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Yep.
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Pfortner etc.,
Through his writing, Tim speaks to the hearts and minds of thousands of people in WA alone, and in doing so helps to foster a common sense of place and identity.
Perhaps you could not be expected to understand this. After all, forty years of postmodernism have taught us to distrust such a sense.
To not enjoy Tim’s writing is not so much to miss the point, as to have completely missed some important developmental component of growing up in WA, such as swimming lessons, eating a meat pie, or going to the football.
Perhaps you are not from here, as your name suggests.
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Wow.
Do you really think Winton speaks for ALL of us and ALL of our experiences?
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GOLD!
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Seriously, I think reading Winton would be better as an outsider. Being brought up here, Cloudstreet reads like fake nostalgia. Left a nasty taste of indulgent fakery. i don;t think you’d get that as an outsider.
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I am an outsider ‘not from here’, and it read like indulgent fake nostalgia to me, too.
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“as your name suggests”, cherry on the cake.
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without doubt the finest piece of piss poor petty parochialism ever to grace these pages.
sometimes you have to sift through a mountain of waste to find a single diamond, and this is it.
someone, somewhere, should write a thesis on the importance of eating a pie to emotional and cultural development.
septic? as in tank? not from round here?
are you local?
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I knew the attack dogs would come out to play….
Bento….BenTO….BENTO!
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Bento is in Port Hedland.
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I hope he gets some pics from WA’s shittiest town. Shame he’s not here. He’s up tomorrow.
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I imagine it’s a fly-in-fly-out bizzo, so he’s probably back tomorrow eve.
And we all know he will be scouring for photo ops.
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Port Hedland is not the shittiest town
that honour goes to South Hedland
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My mistake.
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I saw the twin jewels of Port *and* South Hedland. And they were everything I’d hoped for. Was on the lookout for Worsts, but couldn’t find a way to shake my client for any photo ops. The best thing I saw was the Qantas Club ‘bar’, which was a mini-fridge with 4 cans of VB Gold and an orange juice. Sadly, no chance for a pic.
I have failed you, I know.
That’s some golden Wintoning, I’m sorry I missed it.
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I say kudos for braving the scorn of TWOP commenters.
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as someone ‘not from here’, I always found this fierce local patriotism with regard to Winton to be rather odd
the continuing theme in his writing, especially when writing about Angelus or White Point, is how narrow minded, ignorant and unaccepting provincial Western Australians are of anyone who might differ from them.
your basic FIFO.
Didn’t he have to leave his home up there after his portrayal of the lobster fisherman?
and yet the mere fact that he adds some local landmarks seems to blind his locals readers to how critical he is of them.
or do they all feel his same sense of alienation among all the rednecks?
if so, why don’t they just read some fucking Russians?
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steady on folks, I’m sure Septic is talking about Minchin rather than Winton… or could they be the same person? both witty, ascerbic, challenging and slim
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I have a crush on Minchin. Surely not Mez.
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to be honest I would rather Winton whispering sweet nothings, Minchin could be a little scary
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I beg to differ Septo. Pforts is every bit as talented as “Our Tim”, the ledge. . Jus look at his plotting for starters.WA is just about big enough for two of them.An Watching you forget to mention ” For all time”. Alas , I am from here.
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After twenty years in Perth I can still say that I’ve successfully avoided reading Tim Winton. I did read one Elizabeth Jolley novel, but it reminded me too much of Patrick White.
As for the sandals, their owner just evaporated with shame.
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Jeezus Patrick White. did that cunt really win a nobel prize? Turgid.
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‘Turgid’ is a combination of ‘turd’ and ‘rigid’. As in, ‘Christ, why am I reading Patrick White? This shit is boring me stiff.’
Well chosen word.
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This is a real gem of a thread.
To start with a cast off pair of well worn sandals and to end up with a critique of one of WA’s literary “giants”, ( I quote, but not necessarily agree), with only one outstanding contra voce, resonating with tones of total misconception, is decidedly a ‘best’ “worst”.
Well done, gentle people.
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That last post of mine has been “Sin Binned” it seems.
Dig it out TLA, it’s complimentary.
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OOps. Too fast on the keyboard.
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But the chronology is buggered.
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You and Snuff, TWOP elites are frequently spammed. don’t know why. This one is ok though.
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Look at you all, chortling away at your own heartless, self-congratulatory cynicism.
At least Tim has DONE something.
The rest of you, in the words of the great Asomvel, are
Spineless haters, sat at their screens
Masturbators by all manner of means
Stab in the back from enemies unseen
Lower form of life there’s never been….
(‘Internet Commando’)
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You are obviously a fan of my blog ;)
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Yours and monkeypants’. By all manner of means is pretty accurate.
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If there are some I haven’t yet employed could you email me a list please?
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Sorry I’m strictly vanilla
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Do you mean use a tub of vanilla ice cream – wouldn’t that be too cold?
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I had to look up that reference. Gold.
http://www.metal-archives.com/band.php?id=18449
and some pure spinal tap
“Additional notes
Del Nichol left Asomvel between 2005 and 2006 and then again in 2008”
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Oh, that really is gold,
from their ‘official website’:
“These guys calmly walk on,
bludgeon your senses with a baseball bat
and then retire to the bar
leaving you with what’s left of your mind
in a pool in your pants.
rehearsals began in an old barn on a pig farm…
the band suffered a short spell with some other retard on drums before ousting him and his dubious beliefs…”
turn it up to eleven.
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wait, there’s more…
LITTLE KNOW FACTS ABOUT THE BASS PLAYER:
Lemmy once told me I had the loudest voice he’d ever heard. I have a 28 inch waist. I have a tattoo of an arse on my arse. I’m rather partial to whiskey
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Of course, the only way to appreciate heavy metal (or anything else of worth, including Tim) is through the twisted prism of ironic hipster-ism.
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or pissed or stoned
the closer you get to sobriety, the less the appeal
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Tim’s writing, like that of all great writers, is best approached in a state of sobriety.
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Oh that’s a shame. I thought you were a serious wintophile. You were pulling our chains after all.
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septic I was with you til you pulled out the “At least Winton has DONE something’ card.
You have to admit credit is due because these commenters have read some Winton. That’s something they’ve DONE.
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shazza ‘doing’ a line of Winton is akin to ‘doing’ a shit, but in reverse.
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I once did a line off Tim’s belly at Chickies place.
He looked up at me and said “You know, if you change one letter in my name it’s the same as yours”.
Cunt.
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However, I don’t see Tim venting misplaced spleen on websites such as this.
Besides, reading is contemplating, and contemplating is far from DOING.
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Septic there is the fundamental problem with your line of argument. How would you know if Tim does? Most people blog under a non de plume. How do you know Tim isn’t skink?
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Tim clearly isn’t an internet commando, nor a skink, and so wouldn’t hide behind some lousy pseudonym.
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You obviously know Tim very well. Why don’t you suggest he come here to defend himself?
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I want to see Tim call Ljuke out in front of the rest of the class. Apparently they have to refer to the Tim Winton Lecture Theatre as the “Mr. Winton Lecture theatre,” when he is teaching.
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Oh come on now, I might not even have him as a lecturer. And even if I did I’ve got plenty of pairs of Groucho Marx disguises. Unfortunately all my t-shirts say “Ljuke” in 150 pt Braggadocio.
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You will have him as lecturerer…
I know it.
and then the fun begins
see here.
on February 10, 2010 at 5:24 pm
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File 1 not exists.
How do you link to a comment?
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The link to the specific comment is the date and time top right in each comment. next to reply.
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This is WordPress.com support testing comment replies. Pay us no mind. :)
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Thanks Ryan, threading not happening properly on this one it seems.
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Don’t let him see your Datsun keyring.
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File 1 not exists. Reply could not be sent.
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Wot?
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so ‘septic’ isn’t some lousy pseudonym?
is it your surname or christian name?
your christening must have been a very touching ceremony
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I prefer to think of it as a nom de guerre.
As yes, of course I was touched by the priest at my baptism, if that’s what you mean.
And who would call their child “septic”?
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Another Catholic casualty
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are you american?
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Death to all butt metal, skink.
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That’s the spirit. I wonder why people always assume I/We’ve done nothing of value. Read the haikus at least.
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it shits me that people assme I have done nothing of value.
I am a member of the House of Lords, have invented a cure for AIDS, and have won a Nobel Prize.
I am also Western Australia’s leading practitioner of the Kadir-Buxton handclap method
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you forgot the Stefan-Boltzmann constant.
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I was born a Planck Constant man and…
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Guys, guys calm down. Let’s all take a breath. Now, may I take this opportunity to share with you a quote from that master wordsmith, the great Steve Harris:
Riding through dust clouds and barren wastes
Galloping hard on the plains
Chasing the redskins back to their holes
fighting them at their own game
Murder for freedom the stab in the back
Women and children, a coward’s attack
Run to the hills, run for your life
Run to the hills.
Run for your life.
(Harris, 1982)
I think we can all see the pertinence of this, and hopefully learn something about ourselves.
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At least those redskin killers DID something. Even though it was redskin killing.
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A rather sad attempt to discredit Iron Maiden through out of context quotation.
The first two stanzas of the song, clearly sung from the Native American point of view, run:
White man came across the sea
He brought us pain and misery
He killed our tribes, he killed our creed
He took our game for his own need
We fought him hard we fought him well
Out on the plains we gave him hell
But many came too much for Cree
Oh will we ever be set free?
The lyric then shifts to the above quoted passage, “Riding through dust clouds…”, now sung from the colonialist point of view. Crude perhaps, but an indictment of colonialism nonetheless.
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Bland skuggor rider en odjur.
Som en svarta träd.
Griper hård på en mäktig hammar.
Ut för svaga kristna blod.
TROLLHAMMAREN!
TROLLHAMMAREN!
Trollhammaren sveper igen!
Hugga ned, broder igen!
Hör det sista ropet –
Trollhammaren är här!
TROLLHAMMAREN!
Han är inte en människa.
Inte bräcklig och svag som dig.
Du ska vara maktlös.
Inga ögon ser din änd.
TROLLHAMMAREN!
TROLLHAMMAREN!
Finntroll, ‘Trollhammaren’
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writing a textual analysis of Iron Maiden in response to a clearly facetious post by Ljuke rather torpedoes anything serious you might have to say about Tim Winton.
perhaps, like Tony Abbott, you have a warped sense of ironing
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Every one of us has heard the call
Brothers of true metal proud and standing tall
We know the power within us has brought us to this hall
There’s magic in the metal there’s magic is us all
Heavy metal or no metal at all wimps and posers leave the hall
Now the world must listen to our decree
We don’t turn down for anyone we do just what we please
Got to make it louder, all men play on ten
If you’re not into metal, you are not my friend
Heavy metal or no metal at all whimps and posers leave the hall
Manowar, ‘Metal Warriors’
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‘all men play on ten’?
real men turn it up to eleven
get a haircut
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To make this a really epic post, we need at least one more wintophile, preferably two, who then disagree amongst themselves about whether Cloudstreet needed more rooting.
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it’s not just about the rooting
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I can’t remember any rooting in Clodstreet.
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Happy to help out – loved Cloudstreet though I am not a wintophile. I am trying to find my review of Dirt Music so I can remember how much I hated it but can’t open it on this computer
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I reviewed Dirt Music.
If memory serves, the intro was:
“Water, woe and Western Australia – welcome to another Tim Winton tale.”
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Quite often also music.
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I see deep, deep, Jesper’s twittering is as tantalising as his blogging. That Charlie Chaplin fellow also has a lot of depth.
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How about some Infected lyrics septic?
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That’s actually a whole lot funnier than I intended. My brother was the drummer in Perth metal band iNFeCTeD.
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Did he have the licence plate ImPact3d?
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Tarkovsky also said:
“Juxtaposing a person with an environment that is boundless, collating him with a countless number of people passing by close to him and far away, relating a person to the whole world, that is the meaning of cinema.”
Perhaps he should have said:
“Juxtaposing a pair of sandals with an environment full of boundaries (Nedlands), collating it with countless pairs of footware passing by close and far away, relating those sandals to the whole world, that is the meaning of Perth.”
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i had a sort of orgasm reading this.
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Purrrrr, quantum physics AND footwear!
Trying to think of a lewd play-on-words for the title of a fetish website based on the two – surprisingly difficult!
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You’ve missed the point of living in Perth if you don’t discard your (poorly repaired) sandals.
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This: https://theworstofperth.com/2010/02/09/sandalis/#comment-35103
Was posted as a reply to Ljuke, but ended up floating in the ether, and is now context-free nonsense (more so than usual).
Or maybe it’s the beer, gin, and Calabrese Fortified Firewater I’ve consumed.
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And this https://theworstofperth.com/2010/02/09/sandalis/#comment-35108
was posted as a reply to TLA’s “Wot?”, again without success.
File 1 not exists, I tells ya.
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There seems to be some wordpress reply problem. Will look on the forums. The sex forums I mean.
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I missed out on this one. Sandals, Winton & metal quotes!
Iron Maiden though? I was born a Bolt Thrower man….
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Just so you know, Cloudstreet is being reviewed on First Tuesday Book Club, ABC2 March 2.
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Yeah, This look something out of Cloudsreet or a crime show.
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