Stuart McCullough

There’s no other way of saying it: everything has changed. It’s not a case of a few cushions here or a stick of furniture there; life has altered in a manner that is far more fundamental. Instead of our old life where we did what we wanted when we wanted, we are now in a perpetual state of readiness, in which are spring-loaded to leap to attention in an instant. For the ranks of our household have swollen from two to three after the arrival of our dog. Already I have been asked what having a puppy has been like. I answer that it’s a lot like having a demanding houseguest, albeit one who’s spectacularly incontinent.
Continue reading “Fozzie, Fozzie, Fozzie; Oi, Oi, Oi”

You have some nerve, mister. When I first heard you’d said Australia ‘has no freedom’, my first instinct was to call emergency services; that’s how convinced I was that your pants were on fire. What possessed you! (I’d like to think is was the ghost of Ethel Merman, in which case it wouldn’t have been something you said so much as sang whilst wearing a pair of fishnets. That’s just a personal preference, of course.) I understand you made this somewhat astonishing claim whilst debating gun control. Maybe it something you said in the heat of the moment – if your trousers were ablaze, the heat of the moment would have been pretty intense.
Continue reading “An Open Letter to Tucker Carlson of ‘Fox and Friends’”

How could I possibly refuse? My brother went right to the point – was I interested in seeing ‘Straight Outta Compton’ with he, his wife and one of my nephews on Friday night? But of course I was. Whilst my appearance may suggest otherwise, at heart I remain a gangsta rapper, ready to bring the rhyme in a microphone fight at nary a moment’s notice. Granted, there are very few gangsta rappers who would use a word like ‘nary’ but there’s no harm in trying. Unless, of course, the term ‘nary’ might result in a rap-feud in which case I will steer well clear of ‘nary’ and find a less controversial way of putting it.

Rap music is not everyone’s cup of tea. In fact, rap music is rarely associated with tea at all. Whilst rap songs are known to reference a startling array of beverages, a soothing mug of Early Grey is never among them. I’d like to say that I understood rap music right from the outset, but that would be untrue. I really only began to appreciate it because my brothers did. The lyrics were offensive but it was authentic and vital at a time when so much music seemed to be part of a five-year corporate plan and wore spandex. Yuck.

N.W.A.’s album ‘Straight Outta Compton’ begins with the following spoken-word declaration: ‘You are about to witness the strength of street knowledge’. It’s something Pink Floyd could never have said without everyone bursting into hysterics. It was a statement of intent on which the songs duly delivered. Granted, there were contradictions. As someone in Tyabb, it was hard to reconcile the central conflict of gangsta rap – complaints of police harassment coupled with unfettered boasting as to lawlessness. What could not be denied, however, was its underlying fury and passion. Now, twenty-five years later, it’s a movie.

As I readied myself to sit through a two-hour biopic about the birth of gangsta rap, I prepared a mix tape to play in the Volkswagen – it’s a fair old drive to Fountain Gate. As I travelled, I could not help but rue the fact that whilst the car had a demister and air conditioning, it lacked the hydraulic suspension system so beloved by rappers that makes the vehicle bounce up and down. I then wondered if, given the size of the vehicle, I threw myself up and down with sufficient vigour, I could achieve much the same effect.

As I pulled into the rooftop car park at Fountain Gate shopping centre, I slowed, pulled the windows down and pushed the jams way, way up. The music was so loud that all the loose change I use for parking meters rattled. I could tell by the way shoppers shielded their children’s eyes and ears, people were impressed. As I turned to convey this indisputable fact to my sixteen year-old nephew, I found that he had accidentally slipped down to the floor below the dashboard where no one could see him. Perhaps he was concerned about a possible drive-by. Nevertheless, it seemed to be a matter of extraordinarily bad luck that this should occur just as my rap-driving skills were on display.

Once inside, we met up with my brother and sister in law. Like me, my brother is a repressed gangsta rapper. We greeted each other as we always do; with elaborate hip hop hand gestures before deciding to line up for food. Given that it was a Friday night, I was immediately anxious as to whether we might be able to secure a table. Granted, it’s hard to imagine Dr. Dre or Ice Cube ever worrying about such things, but that doesn’t detract from my broader commitment to bringing the rhyme.

I ordered at the counter before being shown to my seat. My brother, however, was less successful. When asked whether he wanted a drink by a sixteen-year-old malcontent who had declared that she was supposed to be on a break just as my brother approached the counter, he felt pressured to compensate for this by ordering a drink he didn’t really want. It’s something of a family trait. For some reason, we feel compelled to make waiters and cashiers happy with our order. It is possible, I think, to be too polite. It’s this same tendency that once resulted in my circling the IKEA car park for days until my wife eventually made me get out so she could take over. As my brother sat down, bottle of pink citrus blend mineral water called ‘Agrum’ by his side, we both knew exactly what had just happened. Instantly, we both resolved to write a comprehensive ‘diss’ track that would teach both the cashier and the makers ‘Agrum’ a lesson.

There is no better version of history than the one you write yourself. That former members of the group were involved in producing the movie was evident. It was also a reminder of how fleeting moments of artistic triumph can be. N.W.A.’s debut album was a groundbreaking classic, but it was all down hill from there after Ice Cube departed. Presumably he was aggrieved when he found pink mineral water on the band’s rider. But some of the music remains potent and powerful and still makes me happy. Once a rapper, always a rapper. Word.

Imagine this: aliens land and take you hostage. Spirited away to their spacecraft, you are then dragged to meet their leader; a vile green beast with a glistening fang and one gigantic blinking eye, and are told that you must sum up all the achievements of Western Civilization in a single word or you will either be vapourised by their laser or, worse, forced to become a contestant on Family Feud. Under these heightened circumstances, what word do you choose to try and save your skin? Something naff like ‘hope’ or stomach-churningly turgid as ‘love’? There’s no way an alien leader is going to swallow that. The answer is simple. The word that best describes all of Western Civilization is as follows: Awopbopaloobopalopbamboom.
Continue reading “Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti”

I’m sorry. Truly. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I’d be the source of such heart-felt angst and misery. It was not my intention. The mere knowledge that I have caused such gut-churning anguish is something over which I am truly remorseful and more than a little embarrassed. It was never meant to turn out this way. I was simply driving along the river towards work. Then I saw you, helmet on, pedalling your heart out. You were doing such a wonderful job. Who could have known that soon you would be shaking your fist at the heavens because of me?
Continue reading “Apology to one angry dude (wherever he may be)”

‘Plan your journey’. This advice flashed at me as I set off for work on Friday. In big urgent letters, the sign warned of the impending train strike whilst also offering sage counsel as how to best respond to the imminent crisis. But of course! Plainly, my preferred approach of not planning my journey would no longer suffice. Stepping outside my front door and letting anarchy ensue simple does not cut the mustard in these strike-plagued times. A different approach is called for.
Continue reading “Tips for Surviving a Public Transport Strike”

I felt sorry for him. As he stood in the doorway for the 7.34 limited express from Frankston to Flinders Street, the young man was acutely aware of the gargantuan error he had made. Although it was next to freezing, he chose to hold his jacket rather than wear it. The reason was simple: in the early morning haste to get ready, he had taken a jacket (blue) that did not match his trousers (black). Had he worn them together, he would have looked like a dimly lit Neenish tart. It’s one of the hazards of getting dressed in the dark.
Continue reading “Great Wardrobe Malfunctions of History”

It’s hard to be ‘the one’. Fate can play some pretty nasty pranks from time to time and, without really meaning to, you might find yourself being held responsible for an absolute disaster. No one wants to be the person who undoes a good idea. There’s not a soul on this earth who deliberately sets out to be the one that sinks the ship whilst simultaneously slaying the golden goose. It was a decade before they could make another Batman after George Clooney was done with him. Poor George. It wasn’t his fault the whole thing stunk like a week-old trout in the sun. He was simply in the wrong place in the wrong time.
Continue reading “The Ties That Bind”

Clearly, anything is now possible. News that Jimmy Barnes has been awarded his own ice cream flavour has completely knocked me sideways and caused me to question everything I once believed. The decision to give Jimmy his own variety is, of course, highly inappropriate for a number of reasons, not least of which the fact that the ice cream in question is a Peters’ ‘Drumstick’ and, to the very best of my knowledge, Jimmy couldn’t do a para-diddle if his life depended on it. Don’t get me wrong; Jimmy is great and deserves to be honoured. I’m just not sure that an ice cream – as tasty and delicious as it may be – is quite the way to do it.
Continue reading “The Art of Selling Things”

There’s no doubt that if Michelangelo were alive today, he wouldn’t be flushing his time down the artistic lavatory by perching on a rickety ladder that would give the folks at WorkCover a conniption and splashing a tub of Taubman’s satin gloss on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. No way. If Michelangelo were alive now he’d be a barista. Worse still, he’d be dressed head to toe in black, have his hair in a man bun with a pencil wedged as tightly as William Tell’s arrow in the apple and would be expressing himself through coffee foam.
Continue reading “The Sorry Tale of an Arty Latte”