Catching Up With The Voyants Pt 1: Claire Voyant

Many, many shout outs to the thousands of fans that have been reaching out to us. A lot of folks have been asking about our friends, so here’s a bit of an update. 

 

Murray, Claire's bush poet BF, didn’t last long. He discovered Facebook at nearly 60 and fell deeply into its’ vice like grip. He spent months on Messenger talking to a really understanding woman in America, Camille. She’d agree with everything he said and listened to his boring stories about himself.   That was until he got a message from someone close to Camille that said he was being blocked because people like him were enabling the obese. 

For the last few years Claire has been living in Rishikesh, India. Her partner, Brett, has been in India since he burnt his passport in Pushkar back in 1978.  She leaves all the seer stuff at home; it’s not the reason she’s in India. 

 

Rishikesh is the Yoga Capital of the world, so you’ll see lots of westerners, their mats and the spooky nudity of their skintight gear.  Some western seekers spin out, unable to handle their intense responses to the environment, and the magic drinks.  Claire and Brett have become the people you call when this happens. They serve them marsala chai or ginger lemon tea and sit them in a darkened room to worship their favourite western musical Gods.  Brett’s German speakers are seriously loud. All Gods are tolerated, even if it is Michael Jackson, there’s no judgement.  When the seekers have calmed down, they suggest they go home. 

 

Brett's a mechanic.  He works on the river rafting boats so popular with young Indian men who like to take a Holy dip in the Ganga whilst rafting. Claire hangs out.  She gets up early every day and feeds dried grass to the sacred cows and goes to the Aarti fire ceremony every night at The Ashram. She loves sweeping her fingertips through the flames. 

 

 

 

 

 

Next, Grayam Voyant
 

Jaw Dropping

Last night we went to see Claire Voyant, our healer, life coach and friend.  Lately the world has become a scary place, it's a jungle out there and the kids are having a shit childhood. We need clarity from a Crystal Ball.

Claire never reads her Ball publicly because she isn't a sideshow spook.  We have never seen the Ball but we know it's message to be the clearest.  If there was ever a time where we needed to see the Ball it was now.  We took offerings of some retired Pandoras Claire had on her wishlist.  She was thrilled to receive them and said, 'do you wanna see the Ball?'.

Claire's Ball was just your standard carnival issue.  No wonder she'd been self conscious.  Concentrating on our 'topic of focus' we gazed into the Ball balancing on Claire's stretching arms.  A vision appears. It is Wendi Deng and Cherie Blair curled in a mating ball, slithering and flickering in deep space.

Natalie, Sir Elton and The Altyian Child

As we predicted, proximity to Altyian was a piece of cake. Last weekend we were helping our copper mates with a Blue Light Disco. As we were cutting up the oranges, Altyian arrived with Nikki. This was our opportunity to become firm friends with the winner of The X Factor. Nikki, in her somnambulistic way, posed no barrier to a quick friendship with her intended. We went straight up to Altyian and asked him whether people had ever told him he looks just like the late Michael Hutchence. Fifteen minutes later we are helping a weeping Altyian into the car and taking him to the beach where he sits in a lotus position on the sand. He stares silently and intensely out to sea - like Bono thinking about the third world - for a good minute and a half. He turned to us, and with the last vestiges of the day's sun glistening in his glassy eyes said 'You guys...are the best....best friends...I've ever...ever...had.' Nikki remained in the vehicle.

We spent the next few days ferrying Altyian and Nikki from one facebook hook-up to another and engaging in what is perhaps technically considered in the eyes of the law, stalking of his former Altourage. During a boring stake-out of disgraced manager, Steve Gold's new townhouse, we felt Altyian was ready to be briefed on Sir Elton's proposition. Leaving out the bit about the cave, which is really a stupid idea, we tell Altyian Sir Elton wants to meet him. Nikki rested in the passenger seat (we'd let her ride up front).

As you guys know, we have our moments with Sir Elton and we're a little bit mischeivious re his husband, but he is our friend, so we were really disappointed by Altyian's dispassionate response. He said he had trusted the wrong people from The Win onwards. A lot of people were trying to impress him and quite frankly, he said, he was taken for ride. This had caused him to 'shut down'. We go 'Altyian, Sir Elton has seen it all before. He's had his fair share of freeloaders. It might be really good for you to talk to him.' Altyian, who is looking more and more like Rasputin on a dark night, starts pointing his finger at us and says 'The stage is calling out for me, and I really need it. It is my second home and it does things to me that I could never express in words.' We go 'Altyian, Sir Elton is a performer too. He's had a lot of experience.' At this point, Nikki wakes up; she wants to go home.

The next morning, we weren't surprised when Natalie Biddles rolled up uninvited to breakfast with Altyian. She is exactly as she appears on Channel 7's Today Tonight, a smitten single mother using her daughter, Elle, as a proxy server. As she parked her bottom on the seat next to us we smelt trouble. Omitting introductions, she just started asking private questions about Sir Elton. We indulged her a little bit - yes, he loves flowers. Yes, he is neat - but when she asked us schoolyard questions about the gender dynamics between the couple, her time was up. We dropped a couple of Xanax in her scrambled eggs and waited for her to bid her farewells and go home to bed.

We were now alone with Altyian (Nikki was there but was busy drawing Altyian's tattoos on the tablecloth with the crayons the waiter provided). This time it was Altyian who raised Sir Elton's offer, inquiring as to whether Sir Elton will be providing him with a contract, songs written by him and Bernie, video clip deals, merchandise, a publicist and options on feature films. We were aghast. Altyian is a lazy reality TV star with a shocking sense of entitlement. Thank God for the digital mandala Claire sent us when she heard we'd befriended Caveboy. We held our phones in Altyian's direction and left the building. Nikki focussed on keeping the colour within the lines.


Thank you to the Herald Sun and Today Tonight.

Making Sure No-one Gets Hurt

A lot has happened since our last entry. We ended up taking the spooky poppets with us, wrapping them in aluminium foil so that they wouldn’t reflect any bad energy in the direction of the targets. We stared at them night after night, though we didn’t dare unwrap them, so really we were just staring at our own reflections. The answer was written all over our faces; we needed the relief only an intervention could bring.

Last Thursday, when we knew Claire would be out all day doing readings in the regions, we let ourselves into her house to prepare a comfortable and non-judgemental environment. We started burning some calming oils, strategically scattered some boxes of tissues, pre-chilled her Baileys and set up her foot spa. We didn’t bother getting a support person in for Claire because she’s got her guides.

Claire got home around six and asked us why the TV wasn’t on. We just came right out and told her she was party to an intervention, by us. She sat down, we put the poppets on the table and asked her if there was anything else she’d like us to see. Claire sat there silently for quite some time looking from one poppet to the other, it was hard to guess what she might be thinking. Then she got up and we followed her out the back to the bins. She stuck her hand in the bin (not the one for paper) and untaped a miniature version of Charmaine, Australia’s Most Gifted Psychic. She handed it to us and led us to the bathroom where John Butler’s little plastic legs were jutting out of the toilet covered in dirty rusting pins. She was about to hand it to us but we told her not to worry about that one. We walked back to the loungeroom and Claire seemed hesitant for a moment before she reached into her handbag and pulled out what appeared to be a ball of pins. She whispered, “It’s Nicholas Sarkosy”. We asked her if she thought there were any more. Claire shook her head.

After some extensive workshopping we were all in agreeance that the main problem is Grayam, and in a broader sense, all male models and the male modelling industry. Grayam is the only factor we can control in this dreadful scene so we have arranged through some Masonic contacts for Grayam to be fastracked into the Buttery to get off modelling. We hear he’s been attending songwriting workshops with Rick Grossman and that guy who used to be in Goanna.

Suspect Dolls in the Deep Freeze

Yesterday was 47 degrees. The hottest day ever and Melbourne was like hell. What went down could have been a result of the extreme conditions so at this stage we're prepared to have an open mind, but the evidence is pretty compelling that Claire's disdain for male models is becoming unhealthy.

Anyway, we are cooling off, dangling our feet in Claire's backyard deep freeze and we thought we might dig up some of Claire's homemade Baileys Gelato. Underneath the Patties Party Packs we uncovered three frozen poppets in the likeness of The Saddest Male Models In The World, some of them with pins stuck in them. We do not condone males becoming models but Claire's suburban voodoo practice is out of control and puts her at risk of karmic retribution.

As yet we haven't said anything to Claire because this could just be the tip of the iceberg, she may have poppets of us mocked up and ready to go. We're gonna be quiet on this one for a bit.

Claire, Grayam and the Dark Prince of the Rockocracy

Claire came over the other day in a flap about Grayam. His house burnt down last week when he was watching Make Me A Supermodel. The TV went up in flames just as Jennifer Hawkins opened her mouth. He asked his Granny if he could stay at her place and Claire said he could on the strict proviso he give up modelling. Desperately he swore he would never do it again. Things are already wearing thin. Claire says Grayam lies on the couch all day long with the blinds drawn and reeks of vomit and sunscreen. He's obsessed with making ice cubes and she has found sunflower seeds stuffed under his pillow along with a well worn copy of Karl Lagerfeld's Diet Book. At meal times Clarie watches Grayam eat his food and wonders if she'll see it again later. And the worst thing happened this morning when she was tidying his scrapbooking mess and found this photo, clearly taken by Grayam, of new friend Jethro Lazenby playing dress ups with his Dad's old clothes.

Stolen

We are the victims of identity theft. Recently it has come to light that two people are posing as punk & blanket in order to judge a local poetry competition. Apparently, this had been going on for two years. They have even hacked into our site and planted the competition under our 'Gigs' section. They have done something to it that stops us from deleting it. These rumours sent us into a spin so we decided to stalk the imposters. We researched them on myspace and facebook and even went to the poetry competition's grand final to see them in real life. We were unimpressed; they're not our kind of people. Our sartorial integrity was at stake. We didn't know what to do. How could we stop this ongoing theft when no-one knows who we are? In order to stop them we would be forced to reveal our true identities. Then what kind of superheroes would we be?

As always in times of trouble, we sought an audience with Claire. She's been a bit withdrawn lately. Ever since her arch nemesis Charmaine won The One: The Search for Australia's Most Gifted Psychic, Claire has been pale, withdrawn and insecure about her Gift. Luckily, practical advice was all we were after. Claire's had some experience dealing with identity theft when an impersonator was draining Dodi al Fayad's credit card. We explained our predicament and initially Claire looked aprehensive and took a deep look into the fridge door. Then she said "Well, what is identity?" She entered into a full examination of what identity means. A lot of it we didn't understand as it was pretty technical stuff. We drifted off and settled into our listening faces. Our ears pricked up when Bill Henson's name was mentioned in connection with Grayam. According to Claire, Grayam got really messed up with identity issues after posing topless for Bill in the eighties. When the picture's became really expensive, Grayam told everyone that Bill had stolen his identity. Claire said that even to this day, the Henson affair has damaged Grayam as he is supremely narcissistic and unable to differentiate image from reality.

This was all very well for Grayam, but we're under threat here. Our's is a different polemic. It is not imagined identity theft, it's real. Saying all this to Claire, she peered over her magnifiers and wide-eyed sans blinking, and goes "Yeah but, who are punk and blanket anyway?"

Inpatients

Because of Claire and some of our other friends, we've checked ourselves into the Eating Disorder Unit at the Melbourne Clinic. They all suspect our tapeworm is a symptom of some kind of eating disorder, but we've just got a tapeworm so that we can keep eating. Life's too sort to stop eating. We know we got caught up in thinspiration with Karl Lagerfeld, but if anything his food has propelled us in the opposite direction. Food is great. We love food. And so does our 'friend on the inside', Hedi.

We've had our worm for a few months now and we're spending a fortune at the supermarket. It's great! You can eat whatever you want, at anytime and not put on one gram. This is really confusing for the other inmates. The anas and the mias stand there (always standing - it burns more calories) whilst we relax on the couch feasting on sausage rolls and sponge cakes. They follow us to restrooms to see if we throw up, but Hedi never lets that happen. He's an insatiable parasite.

To tell the truth we don't connect with the ED Crowd, they're always telling each other how beautiful and slim they are whilst swapping lollypops. The lollypop thing is really weird, they lick the lolly (strictly one lick, no swallow) and then stick on a cut out picture of their favourite thinspiration girls - pink for Mary-Kate, lemonade for Allegra Beck and orange for Nicole Richie. These skinny girls spook everyone out, every day there are different registered nurses. We've started to hang with the patients from the other wards. One of our bi-polar friends is of Italian heritage (second generation) and his family bring in huge hampers of the best smallgoods.

Letter To All Friends of Punk and Blanket re Their Condition From Claire Voyant

Hello all,

The last time I saw punk and blanket I was in a hypertensive state because I was being forced to eat my lunch with Karl Lagerfeld's compact disc album playing. They were taking this Karl Lagerfeld diet thing a bit far at that stage, I would even say it was borderline hero worship. They showed me what they called an 'installation', but it was clearly an altar (pictured below).






Since that day I've only been communicating via text message with punk und blanket, as they are calling themselves these days. Their messages are random accounts of calorie burning, spinning classes and German style boot camps or invitations to go over for 'bowls' (always plural) of Karl's Lemon Soup. Last night after my evening Baileys and last ciggie, I saw it all as I stared into the fridge door. There they were, out the back of Melbourne's Watergrill restaurant, scavenging through the scraps of Sir Bert Newton's seafood, and I knew then what they were up to. They were angling for a tapeworm. Not only are they deifying a rubber man but they have succumb to the lazy persons idea of weight loss. I have seen their future and it's not nice. They hold a Naming Ceremony for their tapeworm in the park over the road from their house (because of the malnutrition, this is the greatest distance they can travel) and they call it Hedi. Hedi Slim-man.


For further information on tapeworms, go to: http://www.parasitecleanse.com/fishtapeworms.htm

Our Karl Lagerfeld Diet Luncheon

Our luncheon was a huge success. It was a glorious autumnal day in Melbourne and our guests were delighted with the recipes, particularly the lemon soup, the pizza and the creamed cucumber. The eggplant and pink grapefruit dish was left untouched as it was inedible. Only one hiccup arose during the course of the day and it happened when we put on Karl's new CD release, Karl Lagerfeld Les Musiques Que J’aime. This had an extremely adverse effect on the atmosphere. The industrially inspired tunes, a sound favored by many people of German extraction, resulted in our guests showing signs of acute acoustic trauma and some of our older guests like Claire began to experience rising blood pressure. When some of them threatened to leave the premises we knew we had to push the stop button. Later that evening we decided to sell the CD on ebay as we too have difficulty with Karl's musical choices, especially as it was daring us to defy Karl's strict two glasses of red wine policy. We're very surprised as we had been lead to believe that Karl has a vast music collection and that he owns 10 ipods with 80 gigabytes each. Our hearts go out to Karl as he is obviously trying very hard to appreciate music but unfortunately we feel he will never get it because from the evidence available it seems Karl has no sense of rhythm or beauty when it comes to music. One of our guests remarked that maybe Karl should smoke marijuana as it could assist him to tune in.

CLAIRE VOYANT FOUND!!!

Our apologies to the the late Peter Brock for implicating him in the kidnapping (and bondage) of Claire Voyant. Our suspicions were not entirely unfounded; what would you think if your spiritual guide was communicating online with notorious womaniser and King Of The Mountain, Peter Brock? Looking at their exchanges it was evident Peter was after Claire's famous crystals to charge his Energy Polarizer, they'd even moved to instant messenger and were arranging to meet. Further investigations revealed Peter had passed away before his meeting with Claire. Sorry Peter. Sorry Bev. Sorry Holden.

The truth of Claire's disappearance is closer to home, and way more sinister. Her grandson Grayam has been cosying up to Big Brother winner, Jamie Brooksby, in an effort to further his male modelling career. Grayam, being the suck that he is, was trying to impress Jamie with his knowledge of eastern mysticism, gloating that his Gran had special powers, especially where any kind of fame was involved or probable. Jamie, as we all know from Big Brother, fancies himself as a New Age kinda guy, started fishing for an audience. Grayam couldn't resist that voice and took him over to Claire's straight away.

We know we dont really need to mention this again but Claire really, really hates male models. She recognised Jamie immediately and blocked the threshold with her strong arms. Jamie, trying to appease Claire, offers her a signed headband he wore in 'the house'. It doesn't work. Claire unleashes a crippling tirade, from which she cannot stop; Jamie has deceived a whole nation of teenage girls, 1,576,321 of them to be exact. They all believed him when he mouthed 'I love you' to Katie, but she was just a porn (sic) in his cruel game. Australian television hit an all time low when he paraded his arousal. His poetry stinks real bad and he clearly has an unnatural relationship with his mother who gushed that she'd watched all of 'his' shows. Claire then calls him Lamie and tells him he will one day fall into the festering pond of his own image and die.

We don't know what happened in between, but our Claire was found gagged and bound with several familiar headbands in the boot of the car Jamie Brooksby won on Big Brother.



Jamie and Katie recognise punk and blanket in the crowd.

Person Of Interest In The Claire Voyant Matter

CLAIRE VOYANT MISSING!!!

We are very very worried; our sage, our seer, our guru, our lifestyle coach and dear friend Claire Voyant is not returning our text messages. That may not seem strange to some but Claire is a chronic texter. Normally her reponses are virtually instantaneous, so much so that we actually suspect she communicates with her phone telepathically, controlling the keys with her mind, never even resorting to the use of numbers or symbols. We didnt really expect her to say anything about the pictures of our new shoes we'd mms'd through, but the fact that she didn't comment on Steve Irwin's passing has raised the alarm. Claire loved Steve but more importantly she's the president of Rays of Light: Australian Stingray Enlightenment Society so we are incredulous. We've tried her landline and knocked on her door where we sensed an eerie stillness. Yesterday we kept an all night vigil outside her place, huddled in our car with blankets around us and a thermos of tea. There were no signs of life or anything out of the ordinary. Today we contacted all of those people who regularly see Claire, Marc from The Crystal Shop, Trevor and Gary from Health Food for "U" and Bruce from Prahran Meats. No one had seen her. We tried to contact her gentleman friend, Murray but he had already left for Queensland to recite his bush poetry in memorandum of Steve Irwin. In absolute desperation we decided to use our key and enter Claire's house so that we could hack into her computer, which was pretty easy as the password was Claire. A cursory glance at her History revealed Claire had been participating in V8 Supercar Forums. Strange. Weird. Slightly disturbing. Claire doesnt even own a car and she's against motorsport of any kind because of the damage it does to our environment and she really hates Michael Schumacher. Yes, Claire is still a water skier, but she became addicted to barefoot skiing way before we knew the environmental consequences of churning through petrol, and at least it keeps her active, weight always having been an issue for Claire. We'll be keeping you all posted on our quest to find her as we doubt we'll be getting much sleep.

First Visible Manifestation Online?

Oh My God! We've just logged on after a few days training for our volunteer jobs for the Commonwealth Games, and we can't believe what's happened! The picture we posted last Saturday has developed stigmata! We're contacting the Vatican re the manifestation, but at this stage we're pretty sure this is the first of it's kind online.

Father crowe

As we think it's clear that sooner or later New Zealand's russell crowe will move into politics, we have been entertaining ourselves lately with a game we call 'Pre-emptive crowe Job'. Basically the rules are you have to predict russell's political career path to the tune of one of the songs from My Hand My Heart (anyone using 30 Odd Foot of Grunts' songs is disqualified). So far some of our winning ideas have seen russell as a member of the Liberal Party (flexi L liberal), where he will assume the role of either Minister for Family and Community Services, Minister for Health, where he will work tirelessly to increase the size of the humidicrib in all Australian hospitals and birthing centres, Minister for Veteran Affairs (cos russell always wanted to be a Vietnam Vet), Prime Minister, for obvious reasons, or Governor General, because he, as a man of the people, could get away with sacking the Prime Minister if he didn't like him/her. But the other night, we were having a few Mini Baileys with our lifestyle coach, Claire Voyant and when we asked her if she wanted to play she said the game is completely on the wrong track as russell has bigger ideas, way bigger than Australia and New Zealand. He will found his own religion, The Church of the Rusty Nail. Claire reckons the signs are everywhere and that we've tapped into some of them already - crowe Impersonates Christ, the obvious allusions to stigmata in the titile My Hand My Heart and his new single Testify - so she was flabbergasted we'd wasted our time with politics. Even the band he plays with now are called Ordinary Fear of God (apparently 30 Odd Foot of Grunts referred to the size of Christ's cross, but it was too subtle, with most people believing it was some reference to the combined height of the band members). His constant vocalisation of his persecution (crucifixion) via 'the media', his strange obsession with 'His Son' AND his claims of friendship with the overt religophile, Nick Cave also illustrate his burgeoning messiah complex. When Claire laid all this out on the table we felt really, really stupid. Of course!

A Footballer's Anguish

Footballer (no name) came round to see us this afternoon. He wanted to talk about Pip, and Claire had referred him to us. He was unshaven and looked emotionally dehydrated so we offered him a refreshing cup of Rooibos tea with lemon and ginger. He said it wasn't his kind of thing and asked us if there was anything he could put his single serve sachet of protein powder in, so we whipped up a double egg banana soy smoothie. He poured the drink down his throat and looked expectantly towards us with his empty glass, so we made him a second one, throwing in an extra egg because he didn't have another sachet. Whilst he was digesting he sat quietly on the couch patting our Staffordshire Terrier with calm, long strokes. When he finally spoke he did so without stopping.

His affair with Phillipa began with a chance meeting at an opening at Collins 234 (The Place Where It's At!). He didn't really want to go because he's not interested in shopping but he was contractually obliged to attend. He didn't like the way the creative team who wrote the slogan "The Place Where It's At' were so full of themselves, cos anyone could have written that. He also thought the tram ads with the raven on the model's arm were both uninspired and misleading. We strongly agreed with Footballer (no name) as we too had been fooled by the false promises of that advertising campaign. He got talking to Phillipa and she invited him back to her gallery. She asked him to drive her Jeep as she was over the limit. Phillippa wasted no time seducing Footballer (no name) by disrobing in front of the Brett Whiteley's and pouring her glass of Chardonnay down her bosom, begging him to 'take' her. Intrigued by her mature sexuality Footballer (no name) gave in to his urges.

It's been going on now for a month, at first he thought she was really classy and he enjoyed her dirty sms's, even joining in her fairytale role playing, but now he's a bit grossed out. Sometimes he used to catch her staring at him and think it was lovely but then he started waking in the night to find her sitting on the bed looking down upon him, like he was in a manger, and that made things uncomfortable. Lately he's been feeling that Pip is more into Footballer (no name), the sport star, than Footballer (no name), the person. She always introduces him as a footballer and he's starting to think he could be any footballer or soccer player, or at least a tennis player. His Mum had warned him about women like this when he first got famous. The coach has had a word with him about that woman in robes who keeps hanging round the training sessions, and his manager has pressured him to keep his affairs quiet as he is a more bankable star when the ladies think he's single.

Footballer (no name) asked our advice on gently letting Pip go. For a moment we wondered if we should be circumspect but we couldn't be bothered, we hate Pip. We told him not to worry about being gentle, she was two-timing him with the raven wielding boy from the tram. Footballer (no name) was shocked as he'd met Grayam at the Collins 234 opening and had assumed he was Pip's son. No, we told him, handing him another vanilla slice, he's her lover, her toy boy, her Ashton.

Sandwich

The lunch at The Botanical™ really shook us up. Our thoughts were in a whirl. Ever since Pip came along there's been this tension between her and us and now she is coming between us and Claire, helped along by that little poser Grayam. We can handle being around dicks like Pip but when it threatens our relationship with our medium we lose our cool, hence the inbox incident. Claire is everything to us, she's the reason we are so successful, she's our Paul Burrell, our rock! We love her and feel confident that when we die she won't write books about us. What made us really mad was the fact that somehow we were being made to feel that we should have informed Claire about something that was Pip and Grayam's business. We were the meat in the sandwich.

We didn't have any Xanax left as we have been handing them out to our friends in stock broking who are afraid of psychiatrists. In situations like these we find active meditation is the only way to relax, dolphin sounds and breathing do nothing for this type of pathology, so we started to arrange our CD's into the Dewey Decimal Classification System. We kept getting distracted by playing various sad tracks from Claire's favourite and least favourite acts, like Sinead O'Connor and The Smiths respectively. Tears streamed down our cheeks two lines into Nothing Compares 2 U, by the second verse we were down on bended knees before Claire's photograph on our altar. Shaking from the uncontrollable sobs we embraced in an attempt to earth ourselves. Delirious with sorrow we found ourselves in the bathroom, razors in hand, about to shave our heads when something (probably an unseen force) brought us out of it and suddenly that unopened letter from Sir Elton possessed us. We dropped our razors and with shaving cream in our hair we raced to the studio to open it.

We had assumed it was the wedding invitation but seeing the secret address still shocked us. We shared a herbal cigarette and discussed our issues with Sir Elton. It was only this week we'd seen the pictures of Sir Elton's White Tie and Tiara Ball, which showed his impropriety. In the climate of Live 8, David and Elton curiously chose an African theme, which involved the use of wildlife (zebra, gorilla's, giraffes etc) and desserts of chocolate huts with coconut roofs. Apart from the immorality of the celebrities eating the homes of African villagers, it is outrageously wasteful as most of the party goers were thinner than the folk living in the huts - Liz Hurley wouldn't have touched it and Eva Herzigova gave hers to the giraffes - although Linda Evangelista and Diana Ross did share a coconut roof. As Australians we're wondering what it is with these affluent Britons and their African themes? This sort or thing really stirs our inner-communist and we'll need to decide if we will forgive Sir Elton his trespasses.

Sustaining and juggling friendships in this day and age is difficult and sometimes it can become overwhelming. We just want harmony with others but we felt broken, the shattered pieces of our confidence floating weightless around the room. Fatigue began to set in and we slept fitfully, waking each other up with our screams, finding ourselves still on the couch bathed in our own sweat. If Claire hadn't texted us then and there we don't know what would have become of us. Her message was simple - my anger this afternoon was misdirected sorry love you claire x. The relief was amazing, we were new people, and we were free.

CHOCO SHOCKO



DAVID AND SIR ELTON'S PARTY SAFARI




COCONUT ISN'T FATTENING




VICKY BECKHAM WITH APE

No Future For Grayam

As Pip has been on our backs about wanting to say sorry to Claire we arranged a reconciliation lunch at The Botanical Hotel™ in South Yarra. We've been quite apprehensive as Claire still doesn't know that Grayam and Pip are an item, nor is she aware of Grayam's burgeoning modeling career and she's going through one of her really intense anti-male-model cycles. Going out with Claire in winter is usually a pain because she smokes and we have to sit outside, but global warming has it's benefits as today was another summer's day in July.

Pip was only five minutes late but very apologetic and tried to reassure us that her and Steve Vizard were only acquaintances and that her shares in those businesses were a gift from her grandparents. We didn't know Pip knew the disgraced Steve Vizard, and we don't know him either so it was all a bit weird. We have little to no interest in finance. Whatever Pip!

The lunch went well with Pip impressing Claire with her direct apology, looking Claire straight in the eye. They were friends again by entree (Six freshly shucked Tasmanian oysters, properly garnished) and we all had a cheery conversation about the controversial contestants on Big Brother. It was the first time we were able to partake in the subject without having flashbacks so we were pretty jolly too. We overlooked the constant message alert beep of Pip's mobile phone and her frequent trips to the Botanical Wine Wall™ because she kept bringing back killer bottles of New Zealand white, and she was paying the bill. It started to get nerve-racking when the name Grayam fell from Pip's lips, like every few sentences. By the time we'd had our main course (Miso caramelised Patagonian toothfish with fried oysters, crab & seaweed salad) it became apparent that Pip had been seeing Grayam for sometime and we hadn't told Claire. Our paranoia was unfounded as Claire seemed okay with it, she's progressive in that old school way. Just as we started to relax Pip screeched "The Tram!, The Tram!" as Grayam's stupid pouting face one and a half metres high on the side of the Number 8 passed by. Claire stiffened in her chair whilst Pip who seemed oblivious skipped off to the Wine Wall™ again. Her face redden and as tight lipped as Arki Busson with tears welling in her eyes Claire looked at us and said, "My grandson is a model and you didn't think it important enough to tell me. Grayam has no future". Sobbing, she got up and left taking one of the Botanical™'s linen napkins with her. We were shaken but clear headed enough to tell the waiter to charge the napkin to Pip's account because stealing is wrong. While we were waiting for our dessert (24crt gold leaf Valhrona chocolate nemesis with wood roasted, caramelised figs) Pip's phone beeped yet again. We know it is unethical to invade someone's privacy but curiousity and resentment got the better of us. The message read, "dear little red riding hood I want to eat your basket of goodies love the big bad wolf", and it was from 'footballer'.

When Pip came back to the table she asked us where Claire was and we told her she had left because of the male model business. Breathing Malborough Sauvignon Blanc Pip starts yelling at us for not informing Claire of Grayam's rising star. We retaliated by asking her who 'footballer' aka Big Bad Wolf was. Silence engulfed the table as Pip gathered her luggage style handbag and cheese cutter hat. With nostrils flared and bulging eyes she spat, "Going through someone's inbox is the lowest of low. You two are nothing but self-righteous know-it-alls who live vicariously through your friends". She then left, leaving us the bill.



Grayam (centre, with raven) on the trouble causing tram

Click here to see the exciting Botanical™ Movie!

Cleansing Rituals For Anyone Who Has Been Exposed To My Hand My Heart By russell crowe

My Grandson Grayam recently returned from a weekend in Coffs Harbour. russell crowe invited him to his farm called Nana Glen; it seems russell wants him to play the 'young russell' in a film clip for his next single. Grayam just can't stop talking about russell, who gave him a swag (literally) of his latest album, My Hand My Heart. I got a special signed copy, Grayam said russell was quite insistent that I listen to it. To be honest I wasn't really interested but I played it as all things should be received with grace. Unfortunately, I had a negative and violent reaction, and I have only just come to. I was half way through the song called Worst In The World when I had to run to the bathroom where I vomited black wool for approximately 23 hours. In between bouts I lay on the cool tiles, sucking the moisture from a soggy towel. If you have any adverse side effects from this music I suggest you perform the following cleansing rituals to rid yourself of russell's woolly demons.


Smudging

Smudging can be used to eliminate negative energy fields from any technology involved, this includes computers, car stereos, ipods etc. (when cleansing your ipod it is imperative to run the battery down completely first). I like to use sage as it is good for banishing dark forces. I usually use Ceremonial White Sage, but garden sage works equally well. Work in one direction, spiraling to the centre using the classic Counter Clockwise Banishing Manoeuvre.



You can use a smudge stick. I prefer a small wad of the leaves. Carry a heatproof container (ashtray) in your left hand; the smudge in your right. If you use leaves or a smudge stick, knock the ashes off often, so you won't catch anything on fire (avoid nylon garments). It's a good idea to keep a container of water close by, just in case.

For severe contamination bury your technology under a pile of your favourite CD's (original, not pirates) on the eve of a full moon night. Retrieve on the following half moon.


Self Purification Ritual

Using a bowl you have an everyday relationship with, fill with spring water (not evian) and three pinches of salt. When you are ready breathe russell's woolly demons into the salt water where they will dissolve away. Repeat until all images (aural or visual) of russell crowe have passed out of your body. Carry the bowl to the sink and flush water down with cold running water. Smudge yourself with jasmine or lavender.



Smudging outdoors (photo courtesy of Coffs Harbour Smudging Society).




Getting Rid Of Nasty Astral Slime


Sit in nature at sunset holding a stone (any stone will do). Project all the nasty slimy and inky feeling you picked up from this ordeal into the stone and then say:

I release this astral slime
And all darkness which is not mine
I let go of all that may have harmed
My aura is bright, all russ released
And I am charmed

Now throw the rock into a body of water preferably as the sun drops below the horizon and be conscious of its fading light taking away any astral slime in your energy field.




I hope these will help those whose lives have been polluted. To those remaining untouched, remember - prevention is better than cure.

CV x

Crystal Dig Goes Horribly Wrong

We've had enough of Claire's new bestie Pippa from New Zealand. We are not covetous and we are not paranoid, our disquiet is shod by a long history of witnessing the sideshow of unsteady people who misconstrue Claire's purity as weakness and attempt to manipulate her, only to be shocked into suspended animation when she exposes them by letting them know she really can see their souls. We've seen them come and go, so the other day when we went round to Claire's for her half yearly crystal dig on a waning moon we were in for another spectacle. Pip was there, sitting on Murray's Jason Recliner, next to Claire in her's, watching The Bold And The Beautiful on the huge TV (Claire has the biggest and best tele of anyone we know, including our former friend Sir Elton). The arm rests of Claire's recliners are so greasy from wear that your arms can slide off, so it was hilarious to see Pip top to toe in Trelise Cooper looking like a kooky fairy caught in a grease trap. We had to be nice to her because the crystal digs are sacred events. Things got a touch hairy when we mentioned that the tattoos the Maoris had in Once Were Warriors were really cool because Pip tried to belittle us by starting on about the 'bourgeois gaze'. We didn't snap, we didn't send bad vibes; we took it on the chin because we knew Pip was feeling empowered by this intellectual nonsense and we generally find it's best to let these kinds of people think they have the final say.

Pip was constantly referring to her much younger boyfriend back in Auckland, and the more Baileys she downed the more explicit her talk became. Claire was too gripped on the Greyhound Races on Foxtel so Pip zoned in on us. It turns out the young man has spent time in ashrams in Bali where he learnt the fine art of Tantrism, and he has taken her to raves where she has had ecstasy. Another Baileys and she's telling us (with graphic detail) of the pleasures she derives from his tongue piercing. It's been some months now since our hospitalisation for post traumatic stress disorder induced by the Gretel Killeen/Saxon Small coupling but we are still vulnerable and need to avoid certain situations that can trigger re-experiencing phenomena such as dreams and flashbacks so Pip was really playing with our nerves. Claire sensed the emergency and took her eyes off the dogs to ask Pip to go smudge the backyard with sage in preparation for the crystal dig.

When the doorbell rang Pip ran to answer it as we were still vaporising on the carpet. It was Grayam, Claire's grandson who'd come down for his Gran's dig from Byron Bay because his moon is in Virgo and it was a Virgo moon on the wane. We've heard a lot about Grayam from Claire as she has been concerned by his lack of spiritual depth, suspicious that his interest in mysticism is merely to find out when he will be famous. He hangs around with a superficial boy called Oscar Humphries, a child of an Australian icon who, in an autobiographical piece for a major broadsheet wrote:“Celebrities have groupies and fans and adoration and love on tap and gushing praise and requests for autographs…I want that. If I were famous girls would want a piece of me and I’d give it to them.” Last year Claire spent a lot of time absent healing Grayam when he became lost in cyberspace. He was constantly posting on the forum at vogue.com.au Apart from chatting up the Voguettes he found a place where he could freely discuss his right wing views. As he walked into the room he seemed like any other brand of awkward youth in floppy jeans with holes and paint spots. Pip rolled a joint and passed it to Grayam who sucked on it so hard we thought the dust buster had turned itself on. We didn't partake as we know Claire feels it interferes with the energy of the crystals so Pip kept rolling and Grayam kept sucking. They engaged in a flirtateous discourse about joint rolling techniques with Pip quick to point out that she preferred the Hawaiian Method. Grayam asked Pip if she had been to Hawaii and Pip said "no", she learnt it in Berlin. Then Pip told Grayam that he had a unique look and asked him if he'd ever modelled.

Just at the point where we'd had enough of Pip's red-eyed pawing at Grayam the alarm on Claire's stove went off; it had been exactly six months since the crystals were buried and it was time to dig them up. Claire was particularly excited because these were the crystals she had used for extensive healing sessions with a footballer (no name). The crystals' energy had become dangerously depleted. They were cloudy, and had begun to repel Claire's attentions, hence the six month cleansing period. We instinctively marched behind Claire into the backyard, assuming Pip and Grayam would be following. We shovelled for about an hour without stopping. We did not notice the absence of Grayam and Pip, such was our focus, even though their presence would have lightened our load considerably.

After our excavation was complete with the re-energized crystals home in Claire's Healing Box we went back inside. The scene we observed there was, in short, vulgar. Grayam was pouting into Pip's camera phone, with Pip slurring about 'the new Travis' and mms'ing his image to her friends at Chadwicks and Mercedes Fashion Week. Now, Claire is a tolerant person but there is one thing that boils her blood and that is male models. It really is the worst thing that could happen to Claire. When we saw that look in Claire's eyes and heard that throaty hum we knew to stand back. With hands splayed by her sides she began to sing as she approached the couch whilst singing;

There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a papercup

Pip starts to sway her shoulders in time with the beat. Deadpan, Claire inches towards her continuing her song.

There's a battle ahead
Many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're travelling with me

Pip openly grieves for the late Paul Hester.

Hey now, hey now
Don't Dream It's Over
Hey now, hey now

Pip trys to start a debate as to whether Crowded House were an Australian or a New Zealand band. She clearly wasn't getting it, it was time to put her out of her misery. We said, "Philippa, this ain't no party, this ain't no disco, it's a crystal dig, you are being sung*, we suggest you go". We called Murray to come and sit with Claire as she was extremely shaken. We bundled Grayam and Pip into the car and drove them home. We're choosing not to tell Claire that Grayam got out at Pip's house.



* Ancient Australian Aboriginal justice ritual in which the victim is literally "sung" to death.