Little Boy Blue

Yesterday a woman had a baby and now it looks as though he's here to stay on the front page of every newspaper and magazine for the rest of my life. Women have babies all the time, in fact as I type this sentence babies are popping out all over the world like this:

Pop, pop, POP! Music.

Everyone is very excited about this particular baby because one day he, he will be King, and you, you will be Queen, and nothing, will drive them away, because in the future we will be able to teleport and turn into flies. Big things around the world have been lit up blue to celebrate the arrival of the babe...

What babe?
The babe with the power to cut ribbons, wave and shake hands with shit loads of people in 54 independent sovereign states.

In my hometown they are lighting up their relatively new flight control tower blue to celebrate the fact the baby boy is a boy with blue blood and he's blue da ba dee da ba di x7. The last time the Christchurch control tower was blue was in September in an effort to make men flying to Hamilton face up to the prospect of prostate cancer. "Go Blue! Face up to prostate cancer". I'm not sure how blue relates to prostate cancer aside from the fact that blue screams BOY and most boys grow up to become MEN and MEN scream when other MEN put their finger up their bums to palpate their prostate.

The high point of New Zealand's celebration though, even higher than the Sky Tower, will be when the blue lights are switched on the giant corrugated iron sheep dog tonight in Tirau. This dog is the dogs bollocks. The only times I ever passed through Tirau were on the way to Rotorua to perform murder mysteries, and this giant dog with his sad giant corrugated eyes felt my pain and made me feel slightly better about spending all night dressed as a woman fending off the unwelcome attentions of drunk business men trying to palpate my prostate. Never been to Tirau? Never fear. Gaze upon this in awe and wonder.

Tonight, this giant dog and 36 other landmarks will be blue. In the background you may just be able to make out another giant corrugated iron figure. It is a sheep. But, I'm not going to post a photo of that because then you'll never have a reason to drive through Tirau, and you must.

Wouldn't it be amazing if Willkat called their blue baby Kong? Then to celebrate his coronation after a 106 year old Charles William (thanks Mum), collapses to death under the weight of the crown, he could put on a gorilla suit and scale The Shard while clutching Pippa Middleton.

Unfortunately what's unfortunate about this blue Monday is other immensely important news events have fallen under the royal radar. New Zealand is busy shaking itself into the ocean and nobody outside of New Zealand gives a rats pyjamas. Dennis Farina just died and nobody knows except Wikipedia. And this!

This is 16093 people from 43 countries breaking the world record for people in a line doing Riverdance! The old record was 652 in Nashville, Tennessee which:
a) Isn't very many.
and
b) Isn't in Ireland.
Look at them all dancing from the groin down. It's incredible. I can't be bothered finding out why dancing like this is called Riverdancing, however on closer inspection all they're really doing is treading water with no water, so I'd say it's how the Irish stopped drowning when they fell pissed in the River Liffey and then Bono said let's put lots of people on stage in a line pretending to tread water quickly and 25 million people will pay to watch.

Oh alright, but don't tell anyone.

A Post On Posters

You'd think having spent three years at the University of Canterbury not doing a double degree in law and economics and doing a degree in business administration, with a good dollop of marketing and sociology, I'd have some of idea of how to sell a theatre show, but I don't.

I know you're meant to make up some posters and flyers. The previous AD of a theatre I worked at insisted all posters, "must be able to be read from a bus." I'm still not certain if he meant the poster must be able to be read from a moving bus, or if the poster itself was on a moving bus and must be able to be read by someone not on the bus, or if the poster should be able to be read by someone on the bus with the poster, but Melbourne has trams so it doesn't matter anyway.

Flyers though are crucial. I've had previous experience with flyers. Flyers are horrible. I dislike them intently. The only thing worse than giving a flyer is being given one. Nobody wants a flyer. They are little bits of paper laminated in lies. The flyer giver is pretending to like you, the flyer is riddled with cobbled corrupt quotes from fictitious publications about a completely different show to the one on the flyer, and the flyer recipient says they will definitely come to your show when they have no intention of attending. Sometimes the flyer recipient will reciprocate and perpetuate the lie cycle by giving you a flyer to their show, 'I Had A Nervous Breakdown But I'm Feeling Better About It Now I Can Sing And Smoke And Argue with My Mother And Eleven Other Family Members: **** The Scottish Age Herald Sun Tribune Time Out Someone's Blog Fringe Review', and then you have to gush a fountain of lies about how you'll definitely come along and tell all your friends and tweet and post and vote for them in the online audience Best of the Fringe Award.

I blew all my advertising budget, or what happened to be in my bank account at the time, on 50 posters and 500 flyers for Heroic Faun No. One. 50 posters isn't a lot, but I'm terrified of them after the traumatic experience of watching nine of my A3 posters get wiped out by one giant AFUCKOFF U2 Zooropa poster in Christchurch, minutes after I'd stuck them up with sticky tape, two toilet rolls, one pipe cleaner and a pair of snips. The entire poster run for my show, 'Whoops I've Lost My Pukeko In A Moist Place **** The Christchurch Bugler', was eviscerated by this monstrosity.

BoNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

New Zooland. Hilarious. And Bono's got a fag in his mouth, which is hardly setting a good example for the youth is it. The Edge actually looks like he's celebrating the fact he ruined my season and Adam looks like he's been human centepeded onto the edge of The Edge. The only one who seems the slightest bit remorseful is Larry, and he's always been my favourite B52U2er. Thank you Larry.

I've given five of my posters to the Fringe and they've put them up somewhere. I'm using another 15 of them during the season for Sandro to sketch a picture of a lucky audience member on the back. A few have been given away and the cat chewed up one, so that leaves about 20. Now, in real time, I shall go and conquer my U2 fear, by putting up 8% of my poster run on a bollard on the corner of Stanley Street and Smith Street, and take photos to prove it...talk amongst yourselves, I may be gone for some time.

I'm back. It all went off without a hitch. Here I am buying the naughty tools of my trade at Woolworths. I'm wearing my official 'The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe' cap to hide my identity, and for its symbolic symbolism. I'm a bit blotchy in the face due to nervousness and being allergic to everything.

Elmer's School Glue was on special at $2.49

Here is a photo of the bollard before my heroic assault.

It was a tough choice as to the posters I would have to envelop, but after seconds of deep contemplation I decided Turbonegro and Spiritualized could cope with the marketing hit. I've hyperlinked to their shows as a small token of my remorse, and I think Spiritualized may have already sold out. Now it was time to break out the Elmers and get marketing!

Generations of school children have grown up with this #1 brand of school glue. Elmer’s washable no-run school glue is easy to use and stays where you put it. It is safe, non-toxic and washable, so accidental messes mean easy clean-up!

You may notice I'm wearing sunglasses now as well as my cap. That's because I'm very famous in Melbourne and didn't want anyone to see me pasting up my own posters. A police car drove past slowly...

Bad Greg, bad Greg, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do with your Elmer's Glue?

...but I just kept on gluing. Soon, the first posters were in place.

I kept expecting Bono to turn up with a big poster, but he must have been too busy evading tax. I pressed on pressing on posters and before you could say, "Over me and over you, stuck together with God's glue, it's going to get stickier too', I was done!

Great stuff!

And finally, here's the completed bollard in action, busy generating thousands of dollars worth of ticket sales.

Ooooh, I must get tickets to that!

Wow. I've overcome a phobia that's crippled me emotionally and professionally for 20 years, and I've still got 16 posters and 200 flyers left. What a day! Tickets must be flying out of the internet by now, so go here quick and don't miss out.

One Man. One Goal. One Fringe Season.

Regular readers of this sporadic blog might know that from time to time I like to do a bit of acting. I'm not a trained actor per se, in that I didn't attend such esteemed institutions as RADA, LAMBA, LADA or BADABING, however that hasn't stopped me from tackling such meaty roles as, 'The Big Bad Wolf', 'Gerry Brownlee', 'All three of the three bears in Goldilocks & The Three Bears at once', and 'Godzilla'. Godzilla was particularly tricky as I couldn't see out of his big green foamy head and had to negotiate my way by lifting my green flippers high while feeling for set/actors/children with my green rubber gloves. I only fell over once, but that was due more to a two hour session at the Dux before the final show.

Regular readers will also know that I've done a show called 'Heroic Faun No. One' a couple of times. It's a one-man show about my time as a featured extra on the Disney film, 'The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion The Witch & The Wardrobe.' One-man shows are done for two reasons. The first is so an established and famous actor can show off without fear of being upstaged by some young go-getter just out of LABIA. Jean-Luc Picard handled 43 parts in his one-man adaptation of 'A Christmas Carol', and the baddie from Beverly Hills Cop has done heaps of one-man shows, probably because everyone is too scared to share the stage with him.

"Go on...say your line punk."

A friend of mine, who was a centaur in 'The Lion The Witch & The Wardrobe', waited at stage door to get this man's autograph after his one-man version of 'The Metamorphosis', and he metamorphosised my friend into a blubbering wreck when he couldn't get the cap off his Sharpie fast enough. My friend is 6' 2" and bald, and this Beverly Hills baddie crushed him like the dung beetle he'd just been pretending to be. Scary stuff.

The second reason one-man shows are done is because the actor is not well known, and has no money to pay for things like other actors, set, props, costumes, producers, publicists, designers and a director, but still craves the opportunity to wake up in the middle of the night soaking in stress induced sweat, wondering if they will get 30% for the season to make enough to cover the venue and projector hire, indemnity insurance, festival registration fee, 500 flyers, 50 posters, bottle of spirit gum, crepe hair, wig, green and red fabric and back up rubber sword.

Thankfully I have managed to surround myself with a small group of tremendously talented and generous people who seem happy to give up their time and expertise to help me run around on stage in green tights for 55 minutes playing 12 different people, none of whom are Godzilla. If you happen to be in Melbourne anytime from this Friday until October 13th, you might want to come along by going here first.

If you're not you can still like the Heroic Faun Facebook Page.

I will do my best to post regular updates on how the season is progressing, unless I have to flee the country to Tasmania.

Finally, if like me you like cats, then watch this. Thanks to Gareth for putting it on his FB page

Wham Bam Thank You George Michael

I was still very sleepy while watching the London Olympics Closing Ceremony this morning, but here's a review of the bits I can remember. I turned on the tele a few minutes after it started and saw a woman singing who I thought was Adele, but it wasn't. Then the guy from Auf Wiedersehen Pet popped out of something pretending to be Winston Churchill, while Stomp stomped and banged rubbish bins. It was only then that I noticed that the stage was in the shape of the Union Jack and everything was covered in big newspapers before the kettle whistled, so I missed most of Madness. They were singing 'Our House'. I wished they were doing 'Baggy Trousers', because I quite like that song, but everybody in the Olympics wore incredibly tight trousers so it probably wasn't appropriate. Then the Pet Shop boys came on dressed as black cones and Neil Tennant sang 'West End Girls' while Andrew Ridgely played the keyboard because George Michael didn't want anything to do with him. Actually before that there were some young boys on the back of a truck who I think were a Harry Potter themed boy-band called Wand Erection, although I was waiting for my toast to pop and not concentrating so they may have been the Spice Girls.

Then the Olympics DJ played a bit of a Beatles song because Paul McCartney was disqualified from singing it after fluffing the start to 'Hey Jude' at the Opening Ceremony. Ray Davies sang 'Waterloo Sunset' while everybody else was dressed as ABBA and dancing to 'Waterloo'. Adele sang again but it wasn't Adele. I smeared some of Dick Smith's Magnificent Australian Grown Honey, a "specially prepared premium blend by Dick Smith", on my toast and it was indeed magnificent. I thought Dick Smith only made do-it-yourself crystal sets and flew around the world in his helicopter, but trust me, his honey is to die for.

All the athletes came in with their iPhones and iPads as the official Olympic Worldwide partner Samsung sang the blues. Elbow sang two lovely songs while Eddie McGuire and some woman spouted incessant crap all over them. I really don't like Eddie McGuire. I've never met him but I know if I did I wouldn't take to him at all. He's like a cross between Paul Henry, Mike Hosking and a pooh, and I don't like any of them. For high performance athletes they were all moving very slowly, so the Olympics DJ had to play all the songs we'd already heard and ruined the magic by revealing lots of Milli Vanilli lipsynching had been going on behind our backs.

That's right, a brass beefeater band banged out Blur's 'Parklife' at some point, but Blur were too busy banging out 'Parklife' in Hyde Park to be there. This remined me a lot of hearing Andrew Causer play 'Funky Town' on a clarinet during fourth form music class. Some songs should never be played on wind instruments. 'Parklife' is one of them.

I'd heard a rumour that Kate Bush was going to sing, but alas, it turned out to be just that. The Olympics DJ did play 'Running Up That Hill' and for a second I was terrified the whiny nasal lead singer of Placebo was going to sing it, but thankfully he didn't. Lots of people built a tower out of boxes. Eddie McGuire said each box represented an Olympic event but I didn't believe him. He also kept blethering on about how, 'just one year ago London was on fire from race riots and the race riots were setting London on fire and the Olympics have solved the race riots and put the fire out because there were race riots a year ago and isn't it amazing how just one year later there's no race riots and everyone who could afford the thousand pound ticket to be here was having a fabulous time, no matter what race they were and nobody was rioting and there were no fires, except the Olympic flame, but that's meant to be there and...oooh look, there's an Australian athlete texting.'

Yoko remastered 'Imagine' and let us see some footage of John she'd kept in her closet for years as lots of people made John's face. Then George Michael turned up. Now, I love George Michael. I've got Wham's greatest hits on vinyl and follow him on Twitter and everything. I've even blogged about him. He nearly died in Austria so full credit to him for putting in the hard yards and making a good fist of 'Freedom '90'. The Olympics Audiovisual monitor even projected the word 'FREEDOM' onto the audience so everyone could sing along. I think because George hadn't been on stage for a while the occasion got the better of him and instead of going for a lie down he let rip with his new single 'White Light'. George wrote and sang 'Careless Whisper', one of the best songs ever with one of the best lyrics ever, 'guilty feet have got no rhythm'. Unfortunately 'White Light' is no 'Careless Whisper', and half way through George was obviously feeling guilty and started dancing unrhythmically. Like this.

Then he got all 'Walk Like An Egyptian' on it.

Then I couldn't take anymore and went to the loo.

When I came out there was a young man singing an old song on a Vespa. I was scared Sting might appear 'cos he was in Quadrophenia, but he was too busy making sure his orchestra was bigger than George's. Then the Olympics DJ played some David Bowie, but Bowie was a no-goey, so they got Kate Moss in as a last minute replacement. Kate appears in George's 'White Light' video, but after seeing George's dance moves wisely left him to his own devices. Annie Lennox or Bjork sang a song on a pirate ship and then Prince Harry sang 'Wish You Were Here' while George Michael tried to slip unnoticed out of the stadium on a tight-rope.

By now I was losing interest and stroking the cat. Russell Brand did something odd while some odd old guy pretended to play a Gemini CD Mixer in a big octopus. A woman sang, "It's not about the money money money", while being driven round and round in a Rolls Royce, and The Spice Girls sang, "La La La La La La La La La, La La La La La La La, La La La La La La La La La, La La La La La La La", on the top of some Priscillaed up black cabs. The guy with the really nasal voice from Placebo finally appeared and did a passable Liam Gallagher impersonation, before Eric Idle got everyone singing 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life'. This was so far the musical highlight of the evening, although it was quickly topped by the genius idea of projecting Freddie Mercury having an 80's Wembley sing-star battle with the crowd. This bit was genuinely moving, and proved beyond doubt that even though he's been dead for 20 years, nobody can work a stadium like Farrokh Bulsara. They even slipped in the 'fuck you' at the end I think. Here's the full video if you're interested.

Great stuff! On the home stretch now. I think I've forgotten Muse but who cares. Brian May had gone very Grey and wore a jacket with badgers and corgis on it. There were some speeches, Boris waved a flag, some guy who looked like a vampire said 'well done', the Brazilians danced and swept and then a Robbie-less Take That sang the Olympic flame into submission. The Real Who sang 'My Generation' and 'Baba O'Riley', which was great. I wished they'd done this one though. What a tune.

And then, with a billion quids worth of fireworks it was all over. Well done London. Well done Dick Smith. Well done everyone.

I Flu Jetstar

My body is a wonderland the harborer of a governmentally approved chronic illness, so I'm entitled to a complimentary flu vaccination every year. I always feel a little smug when I go to get my steroids to inhale, snort and smear, and end up getting injected with a nearly dead pathogen for free. It's not as good as being a member of the Koru Club, but pretty close. The doctor always tells me to wait for 15 minutes just in case I turn into a fly, however I usually loiter longer to parade my free wee white plaster on my shoulder to those poor unfortunates who aren't blessed with a chronic illness.

My free flu jab has kept me flu free for as long as I can remember. Until this year. This year I may as well have been injected with the tears of a honeybee for all the good it did. I didn't help myself by flying Jetstar return to Sydney either. Jetstar didn't help me, or the honeybee, by cancelling the flight and rescheduling me onto an international flight...to Sydney...from Melbourne, without telling me that I'd have to go through customs and would require a passport. To go from Melbourne. To Sydney. The orange Jetstar lady in the orange Jetstar uniform laughed at my New Zealand drivers license, and in desperation I began yanking out any Australian card I had in my wallet; my Commonwealth Bank Debit Card, my Myki, my Yarra Libraries Your Library Membership card, my Woolworths Everyday Rewards card, my Ikea Family card entitling me to free coffee and meatballs without needing to make a purchase, and finally my Medicare card. The orange lady stopped cackling, snatched my Medicare card, and scuttled off for what seemed like an eternity. A Jetstar eternity equals seven human eternities so it was a really long eternity. She returned and said, "Yeah, well, ya might make it thru love, I dunno really, give it a crack, it works for kids sometimes." The man at passport control looked very dubious about the whole sordid affair. His hand hovered over his stamp while I pretended to be a seven year old boy and wet myself. "Fair enough," he finally said, and stamped me through. I celebrated by doing a Jetstar jump when I got to Sydney in my Australian bikini.

What a palava. New Zealand invented the pavlova. I couldn't even buy any duty free. The plane was like one of those scenes near the end of a contagion film like Contagion, where everyone is miserable and coughing and wishing they were dead and not flying Jetstar. The coughs of a million budget airline passengers recirculated through the fetid air into my chronically ill lungs, and within days my free vaccination waved a white blood cell and gave up the fight.

My big mistake was getting the jab in New Zealand. This protected me from the NZ flu, but in hindsight didn't stand a chance against the infinitely more confident, aggressive and larakinish Australian strain. The NZ flu is an understated, self-deprecatory one that has a good crack at you, but doesn't want to cause too much puss. The Aussie strain screams 'Oi, Oi Oi!', smashes you in the head, drinks all your fluids and shits itself in your lungs. Its speed and tenacity were terrifying. I was in bed for a day and a half and spent the rest of the week trying to evacuate snot and phlegm on the minute every minute. I've been coughing like a Jetstar passenger for weeks, although I can now scull a whole bottle of Robitussen while suppositing Neurofen Zavance, so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

It also gave me a good excuse to watch some Olympics. None of my opening ceremony predictions were correct, however I was very pleased to see some Chinese, Korean and Indonesian women had a good crack at BADminton before they all got kicked out. It's been interesting living in a different country while the games are on to monitor the mood of the populous as their athletes get second. This picture sums up the difference between here and the homeland rather well.

Created by clever Jonathan Louis Fox.

I'm just hoping New Zealand wins a second gold before Australia does to put us ahead on the medals table. It will probably mean they shut their borders and deport us all, but it'll be worth it.

Rings Can Only Get Better

The Five Rings of the Apocalypse are almost upon us and London is in a frenzy of painting rings on ring roads and installing missiles to shoot down anyone eating fries that haven't passed through the happy anus of Ronald McDonald. The ring road rings designate Olympic Lanes, allowing athletes to get to their places of running, tossing and leaping faster by forcing locals to drive their cars on two wheels like the Dukes of Hazzard. On the footpath.

Picture nicked from @theJeremyVine

I love the Olympics. Once when I was young and the Earth was 1984, I drew a beautiful poster for the Los Angeles Olympics instead of a poster about Jesus. It was during Scripture Class at Northcote Primary School, and the religious man who turned up once a week to fill us with red wine and the body of Christ thought it was quite good, although he was very old and may have thought my picture of the guy who flew into the opening ceremony on a jet pack was actually Jesus.

Not Jesus.

Jesus.

A guy on a Jet Pack! London will have a tough time topping that. Danny Boyle's directing it so hopefully it will be lots of Scottish people pretending to inject heroin, and lots of British people pretending to die of a mysterious virus, and lots of Indians pretending to become millionaires, and lots of Americans pretending to cut their own arms off, and then they all work together to re-ignite a giant dying sun disguised as the Olympic flame. Then Gary Barlow shoots the tax money he's avoided paying out of a huge cannon, and the Spice Girls shoot Posh Spice out of a cannon, and Daniel Craig catches her unless a gust of wind blows her away. Finally Underworld play their hit 'Born Slippy', cunningly changed to 'Born Zippy', and Zippy from Rainbow flies in on a Jet Pack and joins Sir Paul McCartney in a rousing sing-a-long of Mull of Kintyre, with every audience member playing complementary McDonalds bagpipes for the final chorus. I can't wait.

I'd love to compete in the Olympics, but unfortunately I'm rubbish at all the things you need to be really good at to compete in the Olympics. This is obviously discriminatory and I'm surprised nothing has been done about it. It's all running and rowing and cycling and swimming and jumping and throwing and lifting and shooting and beach volleyball. The only remotely athletic things I've ever done are punching myself in the face with a hand-weight during a boxing class, and nearly shitting myself during a yoga class.

So, I have made a list of five new events I think I'd be quite good at that should be included in the 2016 Olympics in...somewhere

Synchronised Sinking. I'm an OK swimmer, a terrible diver but I'm great at sinking. After bombing off a high board, both competitors must sink in perfect unison, ideally hitting the bottom at exactly the same time. Extra points for a big splash and if your togs fall off on impact.

Horse Whispering. I've ridden a horse once in my life and that is enough. I am very good at flapping my lips like a horse and dressing up like one though. This event involves two people dressed as a pantomime horse. Real Equestrian athletes are blindfolded and competitors must try to fool them into thinking they are a real horse by making horse noises and eating sugarcubes. The most realistic horse wins gold and the chance to compete in the Dressage.

Gymnastics: The Rommel Horse. Scheduled after the previous event to put the rear half of the horse through their paces. Two competitors dressed as an equine version of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel must perform an interpretative dance encapsulating his achievements in the North African campaign, while male gymnasts perform circles, scissors and kehrswings on their back.

BADminton. The winners of this event are the most inept at playing badminton. I'm guaranteed a medal.

100m Walk. I'm good at walking but I'm buggered if I'm going to do it for 50 km.

Other possibles include the MC Hammer Throw, where competitors hurl a copy of 'Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em' at MC Hammer until someone hurts him, and the Pole Vault, where competitors must use a very stiff Polish person to propel themselves high into the air.

I hope you all enjoy the Olympics as much as I will. It sounds like the competitors will be having a fantastic time as well, with unlimited free McDonalds, and 100,000 free flavoured condoms that taste exactly like a Quarter Pounder with extra cheese.

50 Shades of Chicken

I've blogged about KFC before and now it's happening again. A lot has changed since my last KFC inspired post in July 2009. Michael Jackson died, TomKat divorced and a bunch of people discovered a particle of God hiding inside a giant ring underneath Switzerland. I tried to feel clever by watching the live announcement of this discovery but ended up feeling annoyed by the lackluster state of their PowerPoint slides.

Some pedantic font-Nazis pooh poohed the physicists for using the Collingwood of fonts Comic Sans, but people who get foamy and fisty about a typeface need to take a good hard look at themselves in a glasshouse with a black kettle. The font isn't the issue, it's the text. The physicist reads the text aloud so it doesn't need to be in the slide. The slide should have an exciting image to support what is being read. I'll whip something up now.

  

But back to the chicken. Today I came across this article detailing the details of KFC's intention to introduce self-service kiosks to their house of chicken emporiums. Here's a picture of some lucky French people ordering their deux poulets pièce et paquet trimestre puces using nothing but pokey digits and a greasy screen.

I'm no French speaker but those words above their heads look suspiciously like speed and attitude and ici. By using Google Translate I can tell you they translate to speed and attitude and here. Having ordered a metric-tonne of KFC in my lifetime, I can honestly say the last thing I want when ordering my guilt-gobble is attitude, and the first thing I want is speed. Here. Ordering KFC is like buying condoms, the less human interaction the better. They also taste quite similar...apparently. The French have had these Automatic Poulet Machines (APM) for years, lucky bâtards. I've studied this picture for a while and the slots don't look big enough for a breast or thigh, possibly a wing might make it through, chips should be fine although they'd have to come out all nicely lined up.

Restaurant Brands CEO Russell Creedy is a big fan. 'Yes indeedy', said Russell Creedy, 'there's a real needy for speedy feedy for the greedy and the weedy...oooh, there's Shahid Afridi!"

Mr Creedy also explains how the APM enhances customer's in-store experience by, "allowing people to spend more time considering what food items they wanted to buy." I'm sorry Mr Creedy, but surely this defeats the purpose of the speedy? I know what I want. I want a two piece quarter pack if I want to loathe myself for an afternoon, or a three piece quarter pack if I want to hate myself for a day. What I don't want is some arse standing ahead of me pondering the merits of a Giant Feast versus a Super Variety Bucket.

Mr Creedy goes on to say, "They can browse instead of being at a counter face-to-face with somebody who's looking at them saying, 'What would you like?'" I know where you're coming from there Mr Creedy. I fucking hate having to look at someone who's looking at me and rudely asking what I would like. Who do they think they are? Don't look at me. Don't look at me! Don't talk to me! I would like a two piece quarter pack please. DON'T LOOK AT ME! Do you sell condoms?

KFC have spent $2.7 billion dollars with Itchy & Saatchi to come up with the name 'Project Fusion' for this little escapade. Nuclear fusion is the process by which two or more atomic nuclei join together to form a single heavier nucleus, Project Fusion is the process by which you get your fried chicken faster. Auckland's North Shore will be the first lucky suburb to get this incredible technology and then it will be rolled out to other stores once they figure out how to fuse the kiosks with four wheels. Heaven knows when they will reach Australia. Still, in Australia KFC give you those dinky wee moist wipey finger sanitary napkins that are but a distant memory back in NZ. So there.

Exciting times. God particles. Self service chicken dispensers. Fifty shades of grey. What will they come up with next?