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www.giorgethomas.com

I did not know how instantly entangled I'd be in my affection for a creature that is virtually a stranger to me. Somewhere, inside of this little vessel of humanity, there is my blood, or the blood, at least, I share with others. But that connection is so tenuous it shouldn't at all matter. Yet the first moment of meeting, I was slapped by the love and affection I have for this child.

It doesn't know me. Cannot, perhaps, distinguish me yet from his mother, though we are so similar. Yet there is comfort in knowing that when I am holding him, he is calm. And there is comfort in knowing that I am not so different, not so strange that he is anguished by my presence.

It is a love unbeknown to me before now. It is a love I cannot explain. Yet it is a connection so deep that I can not pull away from it, even if I was foolish enough or evil enough to allow it.

It has me rooted to the present. It has me joyous for the future. Each day is a new day for him, but with more discernable changes. The changes in him we can see; the changes in us, we cannot. Yet haven't we all changed? Haven't our hearts grown more, our minds filled with more amazement? I wonder how aware he is of the complete way he has changed us all.

I'm no longer a sister now. No longer a daughter, a cousin, a wife, or sister-in-law. Now I am an aunty. The satisfaction in that fills me with pride, but not ego.

Something borrowed, something blue.

You may have noticed a change. Giorge Thomas. Yes, the name has changed. 

Nothing else has, though. Still writing, still reading. still living. 

But Giorge Thomas is the new Giorgina Angela. Yet is a bit like black being the new black. Nothing has changed. Only the names have changed, as Kelly Jones once said...

Giorge

xx

Scratched skin

Brambles fighting back

Creeping their way

Through the undergrowth

Worse than a snake.

Blood droplets as

Red as the berry juice.

This isn't a device,

It's a fruit

And we relish the sweet, tangy

Popping delights.

Free for any passer-by

Willing to risk

Life and limb.

We risked sticky

Fingers and a clean

White shirt.

It was worth it.

(c) Giorge Thomas

One of the gifts in the Christmas package the in-laws send me every year (apart from last year when we were spending Christmas with them) was an old (published 1927) book of poems by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I love these kinds of gifts, because I would never have stumbled across this particular poet had it not been for this gift. It's what I love poetry - generally unpopular, poets normally find fame thanks to excited readers passing on their favourite books from person to person. It gives poetry a more intimate feel, which I completely adore.

So here is a taste of this lovely old book of poetry which now sits proudly amongst my many other volumes. Hopefully you too will see the joy in sharing the poetry you have discovered, by whatever means...

THE UNFORGOTTEN

By Robert Louis Stevenson

In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand

           As heretofore:

The unremembered tokens in your hand

           Avail no more.

No more the morning glow, no more the grace,

            Enshrines, endears.

Cold beats the light of time upon your face

            And shows your tears.

He came, he went. Perchance you wept a while

            And then forgot.

Ah me! but he that left you with a smile

            Forgets you not.

My folks live in Murray Bridge, a town about an hour up the South Eastern freeway. And yes, that's where I grew up. 

Now that they are in the twilight of their lives (so they say; they're only sixty for goodness sake!) Ma and Pa (not what I call them but hey - they're from the country) decided a few years ago that they could no longer handle the hour drive to and from Adelaide so they built themselves a residence here in my home city.

Christmas was spent in Murray Bridge. G <script type="text/javascript"></script> <script type="text/javascript"></script> iven that this time last year I was in England, I figured my mother wanted to have her family at home. So down we went for an eventful day of gift-opening and discovering the sex of my sister's baby. For those that want to know, it's a boy. Extra pressure for me there. How to get an all-Australian boy to (1) like cricket (because, really, after this Ashes series which Australian kid will be interested in the game anymore?) and (2) support England. Yes, that will be a tough one. But anyway, in the all a good day.

After Mum stuffed us with her assortment of foods, though, admittedly, she did heed to our advice and did not offer us lasagne as well as two types of meat, antipasto, prawns, various vegetables and schnitzel. So we weren't that full. Okay, a little. 

Dad and I reclined on the couch watching a too-loud television (a sign of his old age, I think; the need to blast our ear drums with atom-popping sound) while the rest of the family went on Mum's annual tour of the town. I had already been on the tour, having been down to Murray Bridge the previous month for my father's birthday. You cannot tell me that things would have changed that drastically in a month? According to my mother, yes.

Mr Thomas came back from the tour with tales of fear and excitement. Apparently my mother, in her Mercedes no less, had taken a wrong tour in one of the more questionable parts of town. Apparently these areas are meant to be entered, but never exited, which does explain a lot about welfare-dependent population of the town. For once the wrong turn had been executed, the Angela family were troubled to note that there didn't seem to be a way out. The ghetto, for want of a better word, seemed to envelope them, and from the dilapidated houses came swarms of people, all missing-toothed and singlet dressing. I fear that outsiders rarely stumble upon their hovel and according to Mr Thomas, there was wild astonishment on all their faces at having seen not only a car that had all the same type of tyres, no rust and all its original doors, but to get a glimpse of a carload of humans that had all apparently showered in the last week.

But that wasn't the end of it. The locust plagues that we have watched with mild interest on the news, probably because we city dwellers don't really seem to care about what is happening outside the metro area, had reached Murray Bridge.

First of all; those poor Mallee farmers. First it was drought. Years and years of drought. Then it was the outrage over Melbourne stealing our Murray River water (the greedy bastards) when the farmers in SA did not have access to a drop. Next it was the late-season rain that has threatened to ruin every crop ready to harvest, and now, for those few poor fuckers that even have a crop left, the locusts had come.

Mr Thomas said they were popping about all over the place down by the river. (I got to see how bad it really was for myself when glancing at every car on the freeway during our journey home. Those that had come from the river all had a paste of dead, battered locusts on the front of their cars.) Though Mum and Dad's house is about as far from the Murray you can be whole still sitting in the town limits, I ventured outside to see if any of these pesky biblical hoppers had reached this far. Indeed they had. Flipping about the place like cigarette butts outside the local TAB, the locusts sprung here and there as I walked over my mother's lawn. 

I thought: feck me, this is bad. Not because the locusts could destroy hundreds of crops giving every supermarket in the country an excuse to raise their prices ('yes, carrots have gone up eight dollars a kilo because of the locust plague, don't you know...') but because now my mother's garden would be destroyed. 

See, if you were part of the family, you would understand. But perhaps you, too live with an Italian, and let's face, those that came out to Australia in the 50s and 60s and lived in post-war Italy are a miserable bunch. There's always something to complain about. And my, are they all soooo hard done by. Like my mother, for instance. After a day of incredible heat, and I'm talking, 40 degrees and above, I'll speak to my mother on the phone and complain, as I always do, about the heat. 'Oh, it was hotter here,' she would inevitably say. 'And it's a dry heat.' 

Now please, to get the full impact of that quote you must, and I repeat, must put on an Italian accent. Doesn't matter that my mother has lived in Australia longer than I have, and certainly longer than when she lived in Italy. Also doesn't matter that her Italian accent is almost non-existent. It is my right as a child of an immigrant to make fun of her accent. Whether it be existent or not.

So the locusts have come, and I've realised that now, not only does my mum have the heat to complain about, and how it ruins her garden, as well as the horrible Murray Bridge soil, and how it's a miracle she can grow anything in it, and also the frost, which happens all the time if you believe a word she says and is able to kill off her entire garden every year (though we have no proof of this) but now there are the locusts.

Of course they'll eat all her roses. Doesn't matter that they don't like roses, but they'll take a shine to hers, because her roses (when they're not dead due to drought/heat/frost) are the best. They'll also eat all of her beans, which she plants every year and which provide copious amounts of beans, so much so Mr Angela and I have pondered selling them by the kilo to the local fruit and veg store. They'll also eat her chillies, which are already in danger from the mice (oh - did I mention that they have a mouse plague, oh, every year in Murray Bridge?) and where, may I ask you, would an Italian immigrant mother be without the offerings of food for her children and roses for her neighbours?

In heaven. That's where.

See; she delights in the complaint, I am sure. The martyred attitude that seems to have fallen on every single Italian mother I have ever met. I am literally waiting right now for daily updates on how terrible the locusts have been and what they have done. Dad, not wanting to be outdone, already rang me this afternoon to give me an update. Mum's going to be ropeable when she finds out she didn't get in first with the locust news. 

The trouble with my parents having two residences is that my mother has two things to complain about. Two sets of yards to de-weed, two sets of windows to clean (and she will NOT hire a window cleaner. I think you can guess why), four bathrooms to clean, two kitchens etc etc. And this is where things get problematic. 

I have just witnessed a locust in my own backyard here in Adelaide. Martini, my cat, is still trying to catch it, watched keenly by Memo the dog who isn't anywhere near as quick as her.

Tomorrow's Friday. It's the day Mum and Dad come down to Adelaide. And if there's a locust in my yard, there'll certainly be one in theirs, given they're in the next suburb over. I'm not going to hear the end of it.

Happy new year? I don't think so. I'll have to spend the weekend listening to my mother and the plague on both her houses.

photo by: BY-YOUR-&acirc;&OElig;&tilde;

Have had many emails etc from people who used to actually check this page to see if I'd written anything - lack of due to determination to finish manuscript which has gripped me with such feverish control that it is all I think about. Actually find myself stopping just in time before referring to Mr Thomas as David (character in story) or me as Prudence.

Right, Giorge, they are part of your imagination. They're not real. Just because you think about the story, the characters, the places (Oh, England) does not mean it's real. It's not real. It's in your head...

Right. Just realised that the only difference between crazy people and writers is that a writer is actually writes down the imaginary stuff that goes on in their heads. Must, must get this shit published or probably will find myself at Glenside. Oh no, hold up. South Australian government doing away with all mental health facilities, so won't be going there. Because, you know, what city with a million people need mental health facilities? Know there's power in positive thinking but really, sitting there going 'everyone in South Australia will remain sound of mind' over and over again isn't going to stop people from having mental illnesses. Bloody governments... [MORE]

It's been such a long time that I've written anything on here, but a story on the Daily Mail website today has angered me enough to launch into a tirade...

Kate Winslet was photographed looking absolutely fresh-faced and gorgeous while out in London. Quite obviously so. Damn it, I'm sure the "reporters" at the Daily Mail thought, we can't have a go at her about anything!

But, eventually, they found something. Dark night, bright camera flashes. Hey-ho, she's a bi pale, isn't she? Well, according to me (ie; pale person) I think she looked brilliant. Never look at someone myself and go, ooh, she's a bit pale, isn't she? What I do do is look at women who have obviously comitted themselves to heavy stint under the sun and go, ooh, she's a bit old and leathered, isn't she? So here Kate Winslet is, her perfect, without make-up skin looking clear and translucent. Yet the Daily Mail claimed she was pale, pale, pale. Oh, and even paler thanks to black clothing. Pale, pale, pale, pale. Another offense for me to take given I dress pretty much entirely in black. Feck me. Imagine them seeing me on the streets. Imagine me being famous. They'd have a field day!

Now. I live in Australia. Bloody horrible-weathered Australia. Home of the sun. Home of skin cancer. Yes, indeed. Images of bodies sunning themselves on beaches are still shown every summer despite their being clear messages regarding the risk of skin cancer. I wonder why people are determined to maintain their leathered looks, given the risks are so obvious. Oh, that's why. Because almost every celebrity known to man is a tan-o-holic and those who aren't are labelled 'pale'. As if that's a bad thing. Oops! Apparently, it is.

So by continuing to celebrate the bronzed bodies that swan about on the red carpet and in music videos, we are telling the public that tanning is okay. Looking bronzed is okay. Do you know what? It bloody isn't.

First of all, and I'll come to the dangers of sun exposure in a minute, but tanning = old, wrinkly skin. Next time you see pap photos of Britney Spears take a look at her chest. She's not even thirty and her chest is covered in sun spots, it's wrinkled, it's dry-looking and is obviously showing signs of long-term sun damage. At the beginning of her career, when that naval of hers was such hot property, Britney Spears spent every moment she could in the tanning bed she had installed in her tour bus. Not only has she put herself at risk, but she's herself look old.

Elle McPherson - have you seen her skin lately? Terribly wrinkled, covered in sun-spots, and the exact leathery oak colour I want my next Mulberry bag to be. Really, is not a good thing when you compare someone's skin to the next leather look you're after. It's horrible, truly it is. And why? Because Elle McPherson was always there, on the beach, sunning herself to maintain 'The Body' that earned her so much money. I wonder if she has insurance in place for all the hospital bills she'll need in the future. I wonder how many cancerous cells she's already had removed from her skin? The paradox is that Elle McPherson is now the spokesperson for invisible zinc. Too little, too late.

So, a few weeks ago I was at the Adelaide Oval enjoying the cricket, and particularly enjoying watching England beat Australia. Yes, I'm Australian, and yes it's practically treason to support the other team. Oh, well. The great thing about the new stand at The Adelaide Oval is the fact that there's so much shade on offer. Gone are the days where you're stranded in the sun in 40 degree heat. However, given this, we'd unfortunately chosen seating right in the sun on the first day. Ever the practical person, I made sure there was a regular application of sunscreen, that I was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and that I covered all skin in the way of the beating sun with a long-sleeved white shirt. I was fine, me. Yet in front of me there was a girl, younger than me, I'm assuming, which a natural reddish tint to her hair and freckly skin. Obviously, a wranger. That's the term we use for red-heads here in Australia. Probably derogatory, but it's a term I love, thank to the success of Summer Heights High ('they're not a race, Jonah'). I'll admit to being a little envious of this girl for I have always wished to be red-headed. I even died my hair a lovely auburn colour while Mr Angela was in Britain, yet upon his return home it was made clear that the look wasn't appreciated. So back to boring brown I went.

(FYI - hair dye has only become necessary since arrival of thirtieth year. Hair on head got together and decided that they were exhuasted, and collectively turned not grey, but white. This also coincided with two severe bald patches on temples which, admittedly, panicked me to a high degree. Oh God, oh god! My hair's falling out. I'm getting old! It's the end of the world... Who knew that a little hair dye and bangs- to cover the bald spots - would be the answer to my woes?)

So anyway, this bird. Skin was very, very dark colour. Like, brown. Like, if she didn't have the features of an anglo girl you'd definately mistake her for another race. Seriously. She was sitting in front of us with most of her back, most of her chest and all of her shoulders and arms exposed. Not once did I see her apply sunscreen. That wasn't what astounded me, though. What astounded me was the fact that this girl had a scar the size of a five cent piece on her back. Immediately, I jumped to the conclusion that this was a cancerous mole she'd had removed and here she was, still in the sun, still without protection. She was with her father. Wanted to smack him over the head and tell him to take care of his daughter. To tell her to cover up at least. Yet, given she was an adult, there's not really much he could do.

At some point, she and her dad got up from their seats. Praise the Lord, I thought. She's going somewhere with more shade. Yes? No, actually. Like the vast majority of the Members she'd gone out the back to take in the Pimms and carnivale atmosphere. I saw her there - standing in full sunlight, might I add, talking to a friend. Showing him a scar on her knee. This one was the size of a fifty cent piece. Caught a whiff of the conversation. Was right. Cancerous mole. Two. Who knows how many others she couldn't see. And what does she do? Continues to put herself at risk.

For those of you who are a little dull and can't quite understand what point I'm making here - that's like being told you have lung cancer and continuing to smoke. Basically; you're giving yourself a death sentence. And it's something that is preventable. It's insane.

Forget the love of tanned bodies. Please! We should all be celebrating the pale form instead. Like Kate Winslet. Yes, I'll admit, as a pale person I'm looking for our kind to be en vogue again. But really, it's about protecting us all from this killer. And here in Australia, skin cancer IS a killer.

If you're out in the sun with a mate, and you see your mate not being sun-smart, it's your responsibility as a friend to make sure they are. Like not letting a friend drive home drunk. The consequences may take longer, but there are still consequences. Like when we had to educate our English friend at the cricket that his bottle of British-bought factor 6 (cannot believe they're still making that) does not cut the mustard in the Australian sun. If you have a bbq for New Years, or even Australia Day, which isn't far away - make sure that there is pleanty of shade for your guests, and that suncreen is available as well.

Be sun-smart. This means sunscreen, wide-brimmed hats (caps are pretty much ineffective when it comes to the power of the sun). Sunglasses. Shade. You know, it's common sense, but seriously, some people still don't get it.

Like certain popular newspapers in England. Fine, so your summers aren't as harsh as ours. So the sun doesn't shine as often as it does here in Australia. Yet the majority of your readers will visit a sun-fuelled destination at least once a year on holidays. And, basically, you're telling those readers that paleness is unattractive, and being tanned is not. You, Daily Mail, were so quick to have a go at the Queen for wearing fur on your site today, yet so willing to celebrate the tanned form. On your site today you said the Queen should be ashamed at herself for wearing fur. Perhaps you should be ashamed, too.

www.skincancer.gov.au

My gosh, am like a proud mother. But instead am a proud sister.

Elle Whyatt, yes, my sister, has been running this brilliant company, Running in Heels, for almost a year now. Basically, her job is to provide a service for time-poor people. Anything from running errands, gift buying, help moving house... she really does it all. And that's what being a personal concierge is all about.

Today, Adelaide's newspaper, The Advertiser, has printed a piece on her new business venture. I've included the link below. You don't need to live in Adelaide to use the services of Running in Heels. It's a brilliant concept executed to perfection by Elle Whyatt.

If you want to know more about her business, head to www.runninginheels.com.au.

Otherwise, check out the link below to view The Advertiser article:

http://www.adelaidenow.com.au/business/business-owner/elles-new-venture-is-up-and-running/story-e6fredeu-1225894573970

The Mozzie is a literary magazine showcasing emerging and established poets from Australia and the rest of the world. The magazine is published in Queensland and is edited by Ron Heard, who has always treated me with the upmost respect, which I'm grateful for.

If you would like to contribute to The Mozzie, or would like to subscribe to the magazine, please contact Ron Heard by email: r.heard@acenet.net.au

In the meantime, here's my most recent contribution to The Mozzie, published in Issue 4 of Volume 18 (May/June edition).

Light White

Graze beyond the

Snow I see

As you drift down

Into my subconscious.

Little flakes

Of white

Gathering

Swirling

Turning my mood

- Until I am biter white.

And the trees are less green

For it

And the grasses, too

And everywhere I look:

There I see you.

You swirl

And you curse

And you breeze past my ears

Whispering

Waiting

Hungry for me to implode.

And I do, I do

In this bitter white

Yet as you fall

I know I do not hate you.

Not hate, but love.

Love, love, love.

It fills me

Swirls around me

Breathes past me

Just like the white

No longer bitter,

But light.

(c) Giorgina Angela

Giorgina Angela has been writing poetry for many years, and has had her work published in literary journals throughout Australia, New Zealand and the United Kingdom.

Now Giorgina wants to share her love of poetry with all of her Giorge.tv readers. If you are a poet, or know of a good poet, or have recently read a great poem, please let us here at Giorge.tv know, so we can share it with our readers. 

There are no restrictions on style, or length. No restrictions on age. Basically no restrictions. We'd just love to share good poetry with the world. 

We love poems that make us think about who we are as people. We love poems that tell a story. We love poems that make us feel something. Anything. Whether it be hate, sorrow, love, happiness. We love to feel through words.

So please, be on the look out, and let us know by emailing giorgetv@yahoo.com

Let's start a poetry revolution!

Cats are so amazing. If you have a cat, you'll know the endless amusement they provide. 

Here, a couple have added to their own amusement by introducing their cat to an iPad. Makes me just want to buy one for this very purpose!

I keep a vase of sage on my desk, in hope that the ancient herb will somehow install wisdom, clarity and creativity into my brain.

It's not really a vase, it's just an old glass; I couldn't find a vase to fit.

And, well, I've only placed the sage there because it's the only thing growing in my slowly-dying garden. 

I don't have flowers any more. I haven't had for a long while.

The Optus ONE80PROJECT is a fantastic concept giving those who wish to work in TV or film in Australia a 'leg up'. Optus, MTV, Blackberry and Event Cinemas have joined forces to give aspiring film/TV makers the chance to show their stuff.

Please click on the link below to see a video from one of the contestants. If you love what you see, like we did, please let your friends know, as it will ultimately help the creator's chances in the competition

http://www.one80project.com.au/view_entry.php?id=455

Galway Kinnell is an American poet described by some as one of the most influential poets of the latter 20th century. The following poem, Turkeys, was included in the January edition of the New Yorker. 

Turkey

Sometimes we saw shadows of gods

in the trees; silenced, we went on.

Sometimes the dog would bound off

over the snow, into the forest.

Sometimes a tree had twenty

or more black turkeys in it, each

seeming the size of a small black bear.

We remember them for their care

for their kind ever since we watched the big hen

in the very top of the tree shaking

load after load of apples down to the flock.

Sometimes I felt I would never

come out of the woods, I thought

its deeper darkness might absorb me

or feed me to the black turkeys

and I would cry out for the dog

and the dog would not answer.

-- Galway Kinell

I was seventeen, I think. I'd recently just left a rather embarrassing childhood of being dreadfully obsessed with boy-band Take That. Yes, I had all their cassettes (at the time did not have the extravagance of a CD player, thank you very much) and all of their posters. My room was plastered with them. Well, the walls that weren't actually plastered. Mum wouldn't let stick anything on the plastered walls for fear the paint would peel off. So this left me with the one and only brick wall, my laminated wardrobe, and the back of my door. And yes, they were all completely covered. Totally.

Friends from school knew of my Take That obsession and would give me the posters and interviews from magazines such as Dolly, Video Hits and Smash Hits. As my pocket money was dismal at best I simply couldn't purchase every magazine every month, so I needed desperately the generosity of my friends. It did work both ways, however. They'd give me the Take That stuff and I'd give them the River Phoenix posters or Johnny Depp or whoever else was famous with young teens at the time.

Yet in 1995 I was in Germany and the news spread to me in a very convoluted way that Robbie Williams had left Take That. Convoluted because the story broke on the radio, to which I heard the words 'Take That' and demanded to know what they were talking about. So my aunty, who was Italian but living in Germany translated the german from the radio to italian for my mother (my aunt couldn't speak english) then my mother translated it to me.

I was more devastated than you could ever imagine. I didn't like to admit it, but Robbie Williams was my favourite. Of course, I told everyone it was Gary Barlow because he wasn't the good-looking one, and even back then I had set my standards very low, thinking that, seeing as though I was not pretty, I should get used to the fact that the good-looking guys would never in a million years fancy me. (Important note: Mr Angela; very good-looking. Not sure how I managed that one, but there you go. Now I set my standards high, positive thinking and all that, and I got myself a winner). So yes, was quite sad that Robbie Williams had left and was emotionally distressed over the whole thing. Almost ruined my holiday.

Six months after returning to Australia Take That toured and it was shit. Don't even think they were on stage for an hour. Bitterly disappointed. Then they broke up, and I found that I was over them. Kind of like when you're dating this fantastic bloke and some way along the line you realise it's the idea of him that you like and not actually the person himself. You find you're annoyed about various little things. His clothes, his voice, the way he bounces up and down when he walks&hellip; and when it fizzles out like all teenage relationships do you find that you're not sad and upset like you should be but actually&hellip; relieved. That's what I was like when Take That ended. Relieved enough to poke fun out of 'How Deep is Your Love' and Gary Barlow's ridiculous straightened hair.

Shortly before this period of the Take That break-up I had watched the Brit Awards. It was 1995 and the awards were televised on free-to-air TV in Australia for the one and only time. I had taped it and tuned in for Take That, mostly because I felt obligated to (yes, was very much in the awkward-this-relationship-is-ending phase). Yet it wasn't Take That that caught my eye that night. It was two fresh, completely different bands from the whole boy-band thing that caught me. Blur, who performed wearing adidas track suits and falling-in-the-eye fringes, and Oasis, who seemed to have lost every award that night to their prettier counterparts. 

A seed was planted. By the time Take That had broken up I had matured and found another obsession. Blur and Oasis. The obsession with Oasis still stands today, and though I don't pay nearly as much attention to them as they probably deserve, I still quite fancy listening to Blur every now and again.

By 1997, I was in my final year of high school, and taking on my role as the "different" girl in my grade. Not because I was goth (emo's had yet to be invented in 1997)  - goth's and emo's think they're being different and not conforming when in fact they are conforming to a 'group' that is reinvented every generation for teens who want to be 'different' but need to do so in large groups as who really wants to be singled out? No, I was different because I liked The Beatles and Oasis and Blur, not Nirvana or Pearl Jam or other such hard-rock American groups. It was all about America, see. Only a loser would look upon England as an amazing creative place. Let me just point out that these same people were the ones who were all getting off to the UK after two years of university because, well, that's what you do when you're a twenty-something Australian.

So you might say I had a role to play. I had to champion my cause. I had to support Brit Pop and the wonderful world that it had created. I couldn't be into girly bands, or anything that didn't involve band-members throwing televisions out of hotel windows. I had to at least pretend I was cool, after all.

But then on a rare Saturday morning when I wasn't working I was watching Video Hits and saw this ridiculous video clip showing these ridiculous girls running about the place, dancing pathetically and being stupid. Five girls it was, dressed ridiculously except for the posh one who didn't seem to sing at all. Yes, like everyone during that year I had discovered the Spice Girls.

Pathetic, they were. Found out that this song was number one. How could it be so? Oasis were much better than this lot! At least they had proper songs with proper music - you know, drums, guitars etc, etc. What did these girls do? They couldn't even sing properly and they certainly couldn't play instruments.

Then, if it couldn't get much worse, another song was released. I had thought they were one-hit wonders. This new Say You'll Be There will be crap, that's for certain. No one will like it at all. But then&hellip; well. The video clip was quite good, actually. And well, it was, ah, fun&hellip;

I remember that year being a brilliant year because I was in Year 12, which meant final year of high school, which meant being able to get food from the canteen even when it wasn't lunch or recess, and for being able to boss around Year 8 students. Me and a girl called Melanie, who also despised the Spice Girls as much as I did would walk to class, come across some poor, unsuspecting Year 8 student and high-kick the air in front of their face and scream 'girl power!' in a really sarcastic way. This went on for a few weeks before after accosting some poor child who I think may have cried, we turned to each other and announced, in shock and embarrassed tones, 'well, actually, I kind of like the Spice Girls.'

And for that walk down memory lane my friends, check out the video below and remember what was happening in your life when you first saw it. 

Mountainous

splurges

dismantle me

ships wreck

me

life becomes

me

and battles

me.

This mountain goat

cannot climb

me

My tenacious aura

has left me.

My love

has embattled

me.

Yet my God

has forgiven

Me.

&copy; Giorgina Angela

It has been a long time since I appeared on Giorge.tv. Those of you who have been following my Tweets would know that for the past few months I've been lucky enough to be on holiday. First; a cruise up the Queensland coast. Then, five weeks in the UK. The UK trip was very much inspiring It was where I felt most at home in the world. Like I trully belonged there. And inspiring. So, so inspiring. Words seemed to vomit out of me over there. Pages and pages and notebooks and notebooks full.

So I thought: what is really the most important thing to me? Celebrities? No. Am completely interested in them, of course. The psychological profiling that can be done on these people whose lives are so open to us is completely incredible. But has writing not been the most important thing to me? Always. Writing is my life. It is put before everything else. Long into the night I am closed into what is called 'my room' the spareroom where my computer and desk live. Late nights, lack of sleep, every single hour that can be devoted to it is devoted to it. The pets that I missed so dearly whilst away barely get a look in anymore. And for Mr Angela; well, if it wasn't for the fact that we spent five weeks spending almost every second in each others company, he might well have left me by now.

So why would I want to spend all of my precious time writing about celebrities any way? Yes, I love that lifestyle they live (while not wanting to live that life myself) and I love their accessories (would love the Birkin myself; thank you very much) but I don't want to waste my time one them!

You'd be surprised, I'm sure, to know that I have not purchased a celebrity mag in weeks. I probably would not know exactly everything that's going on out there like I normally do. Because it's sapping my energy. And at the moment I have bigger fish to fry.

I have written dozens of poems since returning from overseas. As well as starting on a new project. My manuscript has had a complete poetetic overhaul, which is amazing. So that's what I'm spending most of my time doing at the moment. So I look forward to finishing that, and sharing it with you all.

So far my new year has got off to an amazing start, and I hope the same for all of you, too.

Yes, we're back from our cruise up Australia's coast. Wonderful to see part of this wonderful country.  Not back home for long. Will soon again be away - this time to the UK.  Be sure to add us to your Twitter - search for Giorgetv - to follow our journey.

Otherwise, check out the new poem; Barrier Reef by going to our poetry page pr clicking here.

I know this is weird to say this considering it's October and it hardly ever rains here this time of year. Wait... it hardly ever rains at any time of year. Anyway, I just want to say this because after today I'm sure people really do not understand one of the major things you need to take into account when using an umbrella.

People (deep, calming breath)... if you own one of those mega-big umbrellas with the metal point that's so dangerous they wouldn't let you get on a plane with it, be careful how you carry it!

Was almost impailed by a completely inconsiderate woman today, who was carrying her 'weapon' tucked under her arm so the spike almost stabbed everyone who was in a one metre radius of her.

I mean, for feck's sake.

Another wonderful tale from my very own home state; South Australia. Just like the old logo, it's SA... Great?

So. About a fortnight ago, our premier, Mr Mike Rann, was at the National Wine Centre to attend the Labor Pary SA Progressive Business function. Mr Rann was, I assume, enjoying his dinner - you would hope so, @ $600 per head - when all of a sudden a man came up behind him and started attacking him from behind. The attacker used a rolled-up magazine, and apparently thrust it consecutively into Mr Rann's face.

Kudos to Mr Rann, though. He brazenly appeared on the streets of Adelaide the next morning with unmistakable red bruising on one of his cheeks. When everyone got over the shock that our premier had been attacked, the questions soon began. What caused the seemingly unprovoked attack? Or was there something more sinister happening?

It didn't take long before the media had learnt what caused the assault.

The attacker's name is Rick Phillips. On the night in question he was at a wine tasting upstairs at the National Wine Centre. Apparently, or should i say, allegedly (even though there are witnesses to the attack and the man himself admits to it) when Mr Phillips discovered that Rann was at a function in the centre he 'rushed downstairs and allegedly struck Mr Rann repeatedly in the face'.

Allegedly, allegedly. Fucking bullshit; that If someone murdered another on live television do we still need to say allegedly? Did two planes allegedly fly into the Twin Towers causing them to "allegedly" fall down? Allegedly is a crack of shit.

But, Giorge.tv has already been threatened with legal action so must make sure I allegedly do the right thing...

So Mr Phillips, why did you - allegedly - attack our premier, Mike Rann?

Well, well, well. As it turns out, Mr Phillips is - allegedly - a jealous man and is angry at our premier after it was revealed the premier had a "friendship" with Mr Phillips' then wife.

First of all - this guy is no longer with her wife and if he is still caught up on something that actually happened or only happened in his head. Perhaps he should be seeing a therapist rather than beating up the premier...

It seems that the publicity that has risen after the impromptu attack on Mike Rann is exactly what Mr Phillips wanted. He stated to the media that he is looking forward to his December court date for then people will know of the reasons for it.

Ah... but we all ready know. You - allegedly - saw to that, didn't you, Mr Phillips? All those letters you sent to the premier wanting to know the exact nature of his relationship with your wife. Well, they've found their way into the Sunday Mail. Now, isn't that convenient. Now we can all see for ourselves what a jealous, possessive, insecure control freak you really are!

Michelle Chantelois, Mr Phillips' former wife used to work in the dining room at parliament house. It is believed that this is where she met Mr Rann, whom she soon began a friendship with. A friendship that Rann's then partner and now wife, Sasha Carruozzo, was aware of. During the week, Mr Rann has also spoken about Ms Chantelois, describing her as a 'terrific person, great mother and she became a good friend.'

I think Mr Phillips has forgot that men and women can actually be friends. Does not mean that any affairs are happening. Does not mean that you need to flush your pride down the toilet and start accusing people of affairs.

Admittedly, according to Mr Phillips, his wife seemed to have an extraordinary amount of contact with the premier. Yet it is understandable that Ms Chantelois was simply turning to a supportive friend to help get her through what seems like a horrible marriage.

Sometimes, when you are dealing with an obsessive, aggressive, jealous, possessive partner, you have no one to turn to. Too embarrassed to tell your friends. And yes, you do yearn for the company of men, sometimes simply to see what decent men are supposed to be like.

Yet Mr Phillips did not see it this way. He believed that something untoward was happening between his wife and the premier. To get to the bottom of it, he wrote to the premier several times asking that he and his wife sit down with him and his wife to try and work out what actually went on in their 'friendship'.

Oh yeah, that would make for a comfortable conversation.

When that didn't work, Mr Phillips then sent further letters, telling the premier he felt he was not being responsible in his friendship with Ms Chantelois. He told the premier that he had a 'duty of care to a young mother who seems a little naive and a little lost, and comes to you for some support and friendship?'.

And when that didn't work, Mr Phillips then wrote to the premier's partner, Sasha Carruozzo, telling her that Rann was 'constantly text messaging and phoning my wife for over 15 months.'

What the feck are you doing checking your wife's phone for, you idiot? Talk about breaking trust. Talk about jealousy.

Yes, Mr Rann did believe he had a duty of care to her. He offered her friendship and support, obviously something you (allegedly) never gave her. And really; how right is it to put in writing that you believe your wife to be naive and lost? Perhaps because she's always been told what to do by yourself, Mr Phillips (allegedly)? Perhaps she is naive because you like to  - allegedly - keep her that way?

Of course, Mr Rann has not come out of this smelling like roses, but thankfully, neither has Mr Phillips. I'm sure that he thought releasing these letters would show Adelaide a different side to Mr Rann, or to show how he himself has been so hard-done by. Actually, Mr Phillips; it doesn't. As stated above, we see a jealous, controlling man who obviously has no shame and is quite happy to air his dirty laundry in public.

As for his wife, Michelle Chantelois, this poor woman now has to deal with this going in public. She didn't ask for this. All she wanted was friendship, and perhaps to have a man in her life who cared for her, rather than controlled her. If Mr Rann was that man, so what?

As for Mike Rann... well; I'm sure this story will be hanging around for a lot longer than his bruises.

Any of you have cats? If you do, you'd agree with me that these fury friends not only enlighten your life, but provide you with hours of entertainment.

I have two: Penelope and Martini. Martini is a Siamese cross and Penelope a Burmese cross. Those of you who know your cat breeds would know that this means that they are very loud. Basically, they never shut up.

Now. First stop after waking in the morning (or occasionally the afternoon) for me involves going to the toilet. Yes, yes, why am I telling you such things about my human habits? Is necessary for the story. Really.

Have to walk through the dining room to get to the loo in my house. Yesterday I was greeted by a pair of wings laying neatly on my newly-vacuumed floor. A fallen angel! A sign from God! No, wait... is just a dead bird.

When I say dead, though, it's only an assumption. Not sure how long birds would live without wings, mind. Yet couldn't say for certain what had happened to the bird as there was no bird. No body to be seen. Is like a crime scene without a body.

Immediately (after shrieking) I went back in the bedroom to check the bed, having recalled that earlier that morning Penelope had been walking over me and meowing loudly. Perhaps I would find a dead, wingless bird on the bed. Left there as a present to me, as cats do. This has happened before, when I was presented with the 'present' of a dead mouse. There was also a time before that, during the period when I lived in the Adelaide Hills, when one of the cats had left me a little baby Thumper. Try not to think of that though, as quite distressing. Poor little thing.

No bird. My attention then turned to the two cats. Which of them looked the most guilty? Which of them perhaps had a feather stuck in their teeth? Yes, did check. NO evidence. Concern was that one of my cats had actually eaten a bird. Was a part of me that felt encouraged by this; they had not forgot their primal instincts. If anything happened to me or Mr Angela - both of us dying our sleep, for example - is good to know the cats could fend for themselves. Although... there is probably more of a chance that they'd eat us then some bird they'd have to hunt down in the garden. Will remind myself to keep them well fed from now on.

A Crime Scene Investigation was conducted on the area the wings were found; Dustbuster in hand. Combed the carpet with - admittedly - casualness; trying to detect if there was any cat furs mixed with the feathers. Not one. No way of knowing which of them was responsible. Following this investigation we deduced that the cats were probably trying not to leave any incriminating evidence at the scene, and therefore probably used gloves or an all-body hair net.

I still do not know which one did it. I do love them very much, just like I love animals in general. The difficult thing about this situation (as well as finding out that I'd be crap as a CSI detective) is knowing that it is the instinct of the animals I love to kill other animals.

I once tried to go vegetarian, as it distressed me too greatly to think of the beautiful animals that had to die to satisfy my appetite. Admittedly, every time I see a cute cow or sheep in a field somewhere I can't bring myself to eat meat. Yet I couldn't continue as a vego as I realised every pair of shoes I wore were leather, I wore leather jackets, have a leather lounge, and even have a friggin leather steering wheel. Did that not come from a cow also? Of course. So it was hypocritical for me not to eat meat.

The incident with my cats made me thing of those vegetarians and vegans. A lot of them choose that lifestyle due to their love of animals. They may even have pets themselves. But what happens when it's an animals nature to kill other animals? How can they stop their cats trying to hunt down every mice or every bird. And yes, know what you are saying - that cats should have bells on to prevent them from chasing birds. Well; they do.

Animals will be animals. They'll eat other animals, it's in their blood to do so. Maybe it's the same for us. Maybe we can love animals, yet still be able to eat animals? For me, there's a difference between animals that were bread for the specific purpose of eating, rather than animals who are caught in the wild to eat. I cannot bring myself to eat the latter. Those animals are free, and aren't marked as soon as they're born.

As for the bird? I at least hope the death was a quick one, and that it didn't suffer. I also hope that none of my cats cough up a big feather ball. Do not look forward to cleaning that mess up!

After finishing off my box of Junior Mints, I tossed it carelessly to the floor. Then my cat Penelope came along, and started attacking it. She came back again and again. At one point she'd run out of the room, just to come back minutes later and pounce on the packet. I filmed part of her onslaught on my iPhone for your viewing pleasure.

Ever have something happen that confirms it is time to quit something/start something/do something? Had that moment myself recenty with iPhone. Not iPhone as sucj, as could not live without it. Yet had to quit certain aspects of phone when realised it was getting in the way of normal day to day living. Mr Angela claims that the only words I've spoken to him since getting iPhone is 'Mmm?' But personlly have known it is time to give up game playing on iPhone as it has prevented me from doing such things as writing, updating Giorge.tv and, well, living. Know what I mean? Here are some other examples of when I have known it is time...

Know it is time to stop using iPhone while doing dishes when dropped first iPhone in sink.

Know it is time to stop supporting Australia in cricket after Ricky (ah, sorry Rick) Ponting continues to spit in hands and be over all bad sportsman.

Know it is time to put air in tyres when power steering no longer feels so powerful.

Know it is time to stop smoking when can no longer have one cigarette by itself and fingers have begun to stain (uh. Actually hate smoking).

Know it is time to take dog for a walk when he's finally managed to grow wider than he is taller.

Know it is time to stop dying hair when can no longer run hands through it. (Note: this is lesson learned many years ago. Went through crazy stage of home bleaching, with the worst moment resulting in pink hair. Don't ask. Then decided that black hair would be more my style and used at-home permanent dye. Kept dying as some lady I didn't even know said how lovely my hair looked. As black couldn't just dye over it and had to have expensive streaking technique done to light colour. Hair was so dead and ruined from constant dying that sat down in salon barely two weeks after another expensive streaking trip and demanded she shaved it off. She didn't believe me, yet was what I wanted. So there, Britney. I did it first).

Know it is time to buy new dresser when, after the first time in what seems like forever, had finally washed all clothes I own only to discover actually have no room to put them. Nice, gratifying feeling when know the excuse for over-flowing laundry basket was lack of space not laziness (that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Know it is time to stop watching The Hills when actually wanted to throw viewing device out of window after feeling mad anger at Speidi. Heidi for marrying Spencer and Spencer for being Spencer. Hope against hope that Hills really is a hoax and not 'reality' because if Heidi has married Spencer after he's done, she's a fucking idiot.

Know it is time to throw away favourite pair of jeans when five years later you still cannot fit into them. Yet have held onto them just in case develop ice addict or get terminal illness and get really, really skinny. Would hate myself for throwing them away if that is the case.

Know it is time to stop listening to/reading Harry Potter books when can memorise it word for word.

Know it is time to feed my cats when Penelope (or Penelophant as we like to call her) has sat on back of chair and meowed into ear for solid half an hour.

Ever have a time in your life when you Know it is time? Share it!

Normally am quite frightened of the mail. Brings things such as bills and licence renewals telling me how very very old I'm getting. Also brings me rejection letters but sometimes also brings acceptance letters. But there's that anticipation before you open something from the mail that is always present. You know right off when it's a bill; but the anticipation comes when you try and guess how bad the bill might actually be. Hoping against hope it's not as huge as the last one, and in hindsight hating yourself for running the heating/cooling 24/7.

But today was different day. Today received something very exciting. Something that I knew instantly what it was. Today received my Day-Timer cataloge.

Instant gratification. Rip off plastic wrap and flick through pages and pages of binders, diary inserts, notepads and To Do Lists pads. Oh, my gosh, some kind of heaven, this is. I know what a lot of you would say; why don't you use an electronic diary? Palm Pilot or Blackberry? Well, have tried having electronic diary. Had Palm phone and thing was utterly useless. Who wants to spend a full minute trying to write in someone's birthday? Or sitting there with that ridiculous little pen flicking your way through the calender? No; I like seeing what's coming up in my week on paper. Like making To Do lists on the actual date and being able to strike through it with a pen, which gives it a satisfying finality.

Have put together my list of what I need (and what I want). Next years diary; thinking of Serenity or Garden Path. Wide-ruled note pads (because have large writing). Also like the look of the Self-Stick Hot List notes and Moveable Action Lists. Not that I need it, but am looking longingly at new binders. Mine is perfectly fine, and in perectly in good order. Yet am quite liking the look of the Southwest range; nice tan-coloured full-grain leather with embossed trim on the binder. Mmm. Lovely. Also like the Outback range; leather that looks better with age. Lovely again.

Can you tell am incredibly obsessed, no? But is my guilty pleasure. A pleasant surprise in the mail box, that makes me happy.

Do you have a guilty pleasure that others may find boring or a little stupid?

Loved Sex and the City. Watched it religiously on Monday nights, and then a few years back Mr Angela bought me the entire serious for my birthday. Very good gift, Mr Angela, which am still enjoying today.

Loved how the serious finished off. Was the perfect ending to a perfect series. When it was revealed that there was to be a movie come out; I was outraged. Yes, yes, it would be very good to get back into the Sex story. To see that great apartment. To see the great clothes and shoes. But didn't want to have to see another Carrie and Big break down. How many times have that pair seperated? Thought it was overkill running over that story line again.

In the end, was very impressed at how it ended between Big and Carrie. Storyline was brilliant and fitting. Another good ending to a good story.

But now, they're doing it all again! They are currently filming Sex and the City number two, and I'll tell you, am once again annoyed.

What other story lines will their be? Carrie and Big cannot break up again, just to get back together. That would make the past six series and one movie a complete waste of time. Should have just started off with the 'I could only help but wonder.... he's a fuck-head and we don't end up together. There goes ten fucking years of my life.'

Apparently, as the rumour goes, Carrie and Big have a baby in the new film. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage. Love that the writers don't seem to care about the fact that getting pregnant in your forties - despite common belief - is still a difficult thing to do. They've already had one character in her forties get pregnant. Do they need another?

Another rumour is that Big loses all his money in economic crisis and Carrie leaves him once he's poor. Now that's ridiculous. For their sake, I hope it isn't so.

Yes, will probably go and see new Sex movie when it comes out, but if I'm disappointed, there will be a firmly written blog appearing on Giorge.tv.

Feck, am terribly tired. But happy! As those of you who have been following me on Twitter can tell from my constant tweeting on the matter; England and Australia have faced each other in the fifth and final test to see who gets to take home the Ashes.

And England won! Certainly didn't look like it would happen; not only did their middle order fail (again) but their bowlers couldn't catch a break for many an over.

Yet it was the run-out of Australian captain Ricky (Rick) Ponting that started it all for England. Andrew Flintoff, unable to be a part of the game with his bowling due to constant injuries, shot the ball out the stumps, catching Ponting short. That, as captain Strauss declared, was what gave England their confidence back, and re-injected their fighting spirit. Soon afterwards Michael Clarke was run out, and it all began from there.

Will try to forget the fact that Collywobbles dropped a number of catches at slip. Yes, yes, is still good-looking and is also perhaps the best fielder on the England team. He had a bad day. Heck, he had a bad test.

Stuart Broad got man of the match for his outstanding bowling spell and Strauss man of the season.

An now Ponting gets to go home as the captain who failed to win the Ashes in England twice in a row.

Derick John Sands, 40, lost a defamation case against television networks Seven and ABC after they named him in 2004 as a suspect in the murder of Corinna Marr.

Sands, a former photographer for the Messenger newspaper, stated that his career, personal life and reputation was ruing by the broadcasts.

In their defence, Seven and ABC put together a case as to why they named Sands as a suspect, stating that substantial information relating Sands to the case meant that his ties to Marr could not be ignored, justifying them in naming him as the main suspect for the still un-solved murder.

On July 4th, 1997, a twenty-five year old woman by the name of Corinna Marr was murdered in the Collinswood unit she shared with her husband, Robert. According to police, she was shot at close range with a small calibre, semi-automatic pistol.

The murder has remained un-solved for the last twelve years, all though the police have stated they have a clear suspect in the murder.

To try and understand what happened to Marr on that day, the police have interviewed all those who knew the former real estate agent and part-time model. Soon afterwards, Corinna's husband Robert, and several other friends and relatives were cleared as suspects.

On the day in question, Corinna finished work early to go home and prepare for a modelling job she had that evening at the Woodville hotel. It has been revealed that only a handful of people knew she had left work early, which means either she was murdered by someone she knew, or her murder was a case of mistaken identity, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, evidence gained from the unit, has stated that this is not likely, and that Corinna knew her attacker.

Police have stated that at 3pm Corinna had a shower and at 3.15pm neighbours heard the sound of a hairdryer coming from the unit. At 3.45pm, Corinna's husband Robert, returned home to find her on the floor in their bedroom. He tried to resuscitate her and phoned the ambulance. They arrived at 4pm and declared her to be dead.

Giving evidence at the defamation case, Ms Carr's former boss, Colin Todd, told the court how on that day in question, he was due to accompany Corinna to the Woodville hotel as her husband would be working and couldn't go with her.

Todd was supposed to pick up Ms Carr between 3.30pm and 3.45pm. At 4pm, he called the unit to notify her he was running, obviously, late. He told the court he was 'shocked' when her husband Robert answered the phone.

'Robert said "Corinna's dead, what the fuck have you done?"' Todd revealed.

Mr Todd told the court that he was one of the first people interviewed at the murder scene, and police immediately performed a test on his clothing for gunshot residue.

He was cleared as a suspect.

Mr Todd was asked to give evidence in the defamation case as he had evidence concurring with police information that Derick Sands knew Corinna Marr, and that she had allegedly been having a relationship with him.

According to Mr Todd, Ms Marr told him on the day she was murdered that she had spoken to Sands on the phone, and that she was having an affair with him.

In December 1997 Todd rang Mr Sands and they agreed to meet for lunch at the Tea Tree Gully hotel. Mr Todd told the court he asked Sands straight-out if he had killed Corinna, to which Sands replied 'no'. Mr Todd then stated that he had told Sands to tell the police the truth about his relationship with Corinna. Sands had stated that yes, he and Corinna had ended up naked in bed together but that 'nothing happened.' Mr Todd stated that he did not believe this to be the case.

As for Derick Sands, he has given three versions of his whereabouts on the day of Corinna's murder.

He first stated that on the afternoon of the 4th of July 1997 he was in the dark room all afternoon at the Salisbury office. When aasked to explain, therefore, why his boss had not been able to contact him on the afternoon in question, Sands replied that he must have left the office 'to buy a drink'.

Then, in 2004, Sands produced job sheets that proved he was working in areas no where near Collinswood on the afternoon.

However, it was revealed that Sands had lied on these job sheets, as work he claimed to have carried out himself, were carried out by another.

Justice Bleby, presiding over the defamation case, said: 'One of them (the job sheets) related to a job carried out by him (Sands) during the afternoon, which as the plaintiff well knew, was not carried out by him.

'Yet it was presented, along with other job sheets of the day, as evidence which might suggest that he was engaged on that assignment at the time of the murder.'

During cross-examination at the trial, Sands then stated he was actually in Elizabeth during that afternoon, and had visited a bank and took his girlfriend's computer for repair before having lunch and returning to the office. However, Sands' former girlfriend told the court that at the time she did not own a computer, and would use Sands' instead.

Said Justice Bleby: 'The plaintiff's evidence as to these events smacks of recent invention with further attempts to buttress it in rebuttal when it did not quite fit in with other evidence given after his initial cross-examination... the fact of the matter is that (Sands) has given, or has suggested, three different accounts of his movements on the afternoon of 4th of July, 1997.'

Justice Bleby also stated that as early as August 1997, Sands knew the police where interested in his whereabouts on the afternoon of the 4th of July 1997, and that: 'if there was somethign exculpatory in his diary for that day he would have noted that and would have mentioned it to police.'

Collegues were called to the stand during the trial to give evidence against Sands. One stated that Sands had allegedly told her during a conversation that he (Sands) had spoken to Marr on the day she was murdered. Another stated that Sands had written the following words on a farewell card: 'Good luck for the future - keep out of trouble - Ra Ra Ra, and I didn't do it."

Sands stated to the court that he could not remember what his message 'refers to exactly.'

Around the same time as Sands was named by Seven as a suspect in the Marr murder, it was also revealed on the Today Tonight show that he had been in a relationship with politician Trish Draper. Draper, the liberals so-called 'Golden Girl' had landed in hot water after she named Sands as her spouse and took him on a tax-payer funded trip overseas. Sands had been involved in a relationship with another woman at this point, and on hearing the story, the woman left him.

Draper, meanwhile, told Federal Parliment in 2004 that she 'was not awre when she was in a relationship with her former partner that he had been involved in a police investigation into a matter that occured eight years ago.' Draper revealed at the time that she had only learnt of 'certain matters' relating to her ex partner 'in the last few months.'

Though Sands claims in his defamation case that his career was ruined by the allegations made by seven and ABC, his bosses revealed that he (Sands) lost his job after being given repeated warnings about his conduct.

In his findings Justice Bleby stated: 'It is not for me to say why the plaintiff has lied. Although they may not be evidence of guilt, his lies may properly be included as grounds on which to be base a reasonable suspicion.

In my opinion all the circumstances I have described constitute reasonable grouns on which the plaintiff, as at May, 2004, could properly have been suspected of the murder of Corinna Marr.

I stress that these findings are made on the balance of probabilities and that they are not findings that, even on the balance of probabilities, the plaintiff in fact murdered Corinna Marr.'

Having lost the case, it is expected that Sands will be called to pay the legal costs of Channel 7 and the ABC, which could very well could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars.

G-Opinion

How foolish of Mr Sands. Back in 2004 only two networks (7 and ABC) named him as a suspect, and we as the public were not fully aware of the circumstances surrounding his involvment with Ms Marr. Yet thanks to the defamation case, the detailed reasoning as to why 7 and ABC named him as a suspect have been given, which, I must admit, does not plant Mr Sands in a good light.

There are obvious questions that need to be asked, including: What was the true nature of your relationship with Corinna Marr, and also, why did you change your story three times as to your whereabouts on the 4th of July 1997?

Granted; if someone asked me what I was doing on that date I couldn't tell you after twelve long years. I know I was in my final year of high school, but that is about it.

Yet had I been asked a month after the 4th of July what I had been doing I would have been able to tell you. If not from memory, if consulting my diary, which I have always been good at doing.

Had Mr Sands not been able to remember his movements a month on from the 4th of July 1997 (which is extremely plausible) than why did he not tell them he simply could not remember, instead of changing his story to three completely different scenarios?

Now, it seems, Mrs Sands has been painted in a far worse light than when the defamation case began. Not because it has been ruled that 7 and ABC had every right to name him as a suspect, but because it seems now that Sands is not a truthful person.

And, because he lost the defamation case, we all now know his name. It has also meant that many media outlets, previously unable to mention Sands' name in connection to the murder of Corinna Marr, are now able to.

Mark Croft has asked wife Kerry Katona for a divorce.

Apparently, he doesn't like that she has gotten fat again, and he can't bear to go to bed with 'that'.

Funny, though. That Croft decides to divorce Katona now, when her bankruptcy has finally been lifted. The timing seems, appropriate. If Croft wanted to make sure he got at least some money from the relationship.

It was the only way. Kerry wasn't strong enough to end it herself. She had tried once before and then simply too Mark back four days later. Yes, Kerry, he's the reason for most of your money going missing. Yes, Kerry, you'll be better off without him. Yes, Kerry, it's going to be bloody tough. But you've got to do it. Don't you see that your popularity has gone down since you married him? And what has he contributed to the marriage? Besides being paid to drive you around when, in fact, a normal husband would drive their wife FOR FREE?

It was never an equal marriage. He emotionally abused you. He was clever at it like all abusers are. Everyone in your life that you were close to were taken away from you. You had fights with your mother, with your friends. You cut ties with your agent Max who had been the one steady force in your life for many, many years. The only person you had to turn to was your husband Mark, and he made it that way. It's easier to control people when they have no one else to turn to. Easier to convince you that they are the only one that cares.

Not that you are completely faultless, Kerry, yet we understand what you're going through. It is a tough rode ahead, but you yourself are tough, and you'll get through it.

Peter Andre has just admitted that living his married life with Katie Price was a mistake.

Okay, okay. He said 'it can be a mistake.' Oviously it was one in his case, no? Reason you split perhaps?

Peter Andre gave his first television interview since his split with Price.

Unlike Katie, however, Andre was not at all candid, and seemed quite uncomfortable and nervous while appearing on This Morning.

Good for Pete, though. He did admit that he and Katie had no one to blame but themselves regarding their split, because they lived their lives so publically.

Yet Peter Andre was completely dignified through the interview, and he explained why he would not divulge in reasons for the split: for his children. Peter Andre kept his stance, and for that he must be commended.

Not that there was anything wrong with Katie Price giving her tell-all interview; that's simply how she works, and there is nothing wrong with being honest.

Though Andre was visibly nervous throughout the first part of the interview, his demeanor changed significantly when the discussion moved to his music.

Check out Andre's appearence on This Morning below.

Thought it would be brilliant idea to capture footage of delightful Memo to share with all of you.

Yet, just like when I try and put clothing on him, Memo stood as still as he possibly can, perhaps knowing I wanted him to dance for the camera.

In other words; he's a spiteful bastard.

So this is my Memo (pronounced Mee-moe). He's usually a lot more entertaining than this, but suspect he got stage fright...

Before I share my thoughts on Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, let me first tell you all how I became such a huge Harry Potter fan....

I met Mr Angela. Of course, he was not Mr Angela back then, but his name to you all will continue to remain a mystery.

Mr Angela was 27 years old when I met him. In other words; a grown man. Shortly after we began dating Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince came out. Mr Angela, like many other (mainly children) reserved his copy at local bookstore.

Ridiculous, I thought. Grown man is reading Harry Potter; children's book. What was more even disturbing was fact that friends of Mr Angela were also reading Harry Potter.

Vowed never to pick up any of the books.

Here's the problem, though. Me; avid reader. Me; loves books. Mr Angela very aware of this. So happened, that found self at Mr Angela's house without book to read having finished current book. Could have driven home, got another book to occupy mind. Yet was in middle of silly 'I love you,' 'no, I love you!' stage with Mr Angela and felt any moment away from him was a moment lost.

Mr Angela - quite cunning man he is - put first HP book in front of me. Tells me to read it, give it a go, is short book and would finish i in couple of days. Then see if I can't pick up next book.

Bastard, bastard, bastard! Book tremendous! Could not put down. Was reading, reading, reading. Nose in books at any given moment. Whizzed through books one to five whilst Mr Angela still reading Half Blood Prince. Became devoted fan, making many visits to J.K Rowling's website. Which, to all of you do not know, is brilliant! www.jkrowling.co.uk.

So, live had changed dramatically because of Harry Potter. Read and re-read all books. Got all of the audio downloads to hear Stephen Fry read books in his wonderful character-driven voice.

Took week off work when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows came out. Cried blubbering mess at the end. Happy tears though, people; happy tears.

Have waited incredible amount of time for Half Blood Prince to come out at cinemas. Last night, finally got to see it. Details of which will be provided in next post... [MORE]

If there's one thing I hate in life, it's those brainless idiots who drive around late at night street racing, dragging or doing 'burn outs'. It is almost always the work of young drivers, those primarily on p-plates (nineteen years and less). It is the stupidity of these select few that makes all others in their age class pay enormous insurance premiums. So don't complain to the insurance company that you're premiums are too high; complain to these idiots using our streets as a playground.

What I want to know is where these kids are working. Because they must be earning a huge amount of money to not care in the slightest that they are using up the rubber on their tyers or petrol in their tanks. I guess things are different now than when I was that age...

Time and time again the nightly news shows us accident scenes resulting in teenage or young adult deaths, caused by erratic or dangerous driving.

Now, the South Australian government is doing something about it.

New laws are being introduced to help put a stop to so-called 'hoon' driving.

Street drag racing, which incredibly up until now has only been a traffic offence is now being increased to a criminal offence.

Vehicle that have been confiscated under the new 'hoon' laws will now be immediately crushed under another ammendment to the law.

Since the government brought in the new hoon laws in 2005, 6150 vehicles have been impounded by the police.

Well done, Premier Mike Rann. Finally, you have something right. In my opinion, those who participate in street dragging, burn-outs or street racing are nothing but the most evil dregs of society that should be removed from the road at once. I am more than glad that the government are finally taking steps to do so.

Giorge.tv now includes a page for Giorgina Angela's poetry, as well as an on-line journal for you all to enjoy.

Check it out by clicking on the links on the top left hand side of the page!

Giorgina Angela's home-town of Adelaide will soon be visited by radical US preacher who has some very interesting things to say about kissing and homosexuality.

Sy Rogers claims he is a former prostitute, transsexual and gay man, but has been 'cured' with prayer, and claims that all gay people can be cured of, well, gayness.

Am seriously considering attending conference at Enfield Baptist Church next month to see what preacher has to say. May pretend am lesbian and ask to be cured...

But get this; preacher is now saying that couples should not kiss before marriage, as kissing can lead to sex and sex before marriage is wrong.

'So when is it time to stir up sexual desire?' he asked in a preview released yesterday for the 'Lifewell Conference 2009'. 'When you can afford to: in marriage.'

To use an example for what is and isn't appropriate between boyfriend and girlfriend, he has said: 'Here's a good motto: If you can't do it in front of your parents, then you shouldn't be doing it at all!'

Ew.

To check out what Sy has to say on the subject in full, check out this article on his website: http://www.syrogers.com/media/pash.php

It isn't Sy's stance against sex before marriage that offends me. It is his statement that homosexuality can be 'cured' by prayer that does.

Is he stating that being homosexuality is a bad thing? That we should pray to get rid of it from our system? It just really upsets me; as he's basically saying that people who are gay are not good people, which is a complete load of rubbish.

Yet what is weird about Sy, is that when he speaks at conferences, he talks in a very camp manner to his crowd; almost as if he's playing up that character. Does he mean to do this? Or is it just habit. Because if he's using this character to preach, this camp, show-pony character; isn't he being hypocritical? That's just the G-Opinion... Check it out yourself to see if you agree.

Had to find out a bit about Sy Rogers. went to his website. Apparently, is 'regarded as a gifted international communicator, award-winning talk show host, recording artist and pastor.

On the website, there is also Sy's movie recommendations. Yes, really. What does he tell us to watch?

Deep Impact, which he says isn't about a disaster... it's about re-evaluation what really matters in light of mortality.

Terminator 2 (yes, really!) 'isn't just about time-travelling robot killers... it's about the human need for Divine intervention against evil and a boy's need for a father and mother.'

WTF? I thought it was about the machines fighting back and John Connor sending a Terminator back in time to save his life? Huh; who knew...

An interesting quote from Sy Rogers about film: 'Never be afraid to walk out of a movie. Better to waste your money than your time, your brain and to slime your soul.'

Was Take That fan in my youth. Won't deny it; not at all. Now, my sister has taken over my place. In fact; she's quite fanatical about the boy band.

And do you know what? I don't really blame her. Since their come-back, the four-piece has just got bigger an better. They're all singing, they're all dancing (yes, even Gazza) and they're all writing the songs.

And... they're selling out concerts! Back when they were first popular, Take That were lucky to get twelve thousand to a gig. Now, 75,000 squeezed into Wembly to watch the mature boy-band.

They didn't disappoint. Touring for their album Circus (yes, yes, thought it bad idea to name album Circus when Britney was also about to do it, even though they technically got in first. But looked like paid off) the boys arrived parade-style into the stadium... on an elephant!

Not a real elephant. A mechanical one. Large with sparkly bits and all. Amazing!

Well done, boys. Hey; we know it's a recession blah blah blah, but please come to Australia! Don't need big sets! Can stand under Gawler Place canopy in Rundle Mall; will be enough for us, we promise!!

By Giorgina Angela

Those of you who, like me, take a keen interest in celebrities and their lives, would have noticed by now the increase of celebrity kids having bleached or dyed hair.

Kingston Stefani whoops, I mean Rossdale and Pax and Maddox Jolie-Pitt have all sported bleached do's.

Maddox Jolie-Pitt was once of the first. As a toddler his mohawk style had a blonde trim. He soon then had that dyed blue.