Posts Tagged ‘Hey Hey It’s Saturday’

Paul McCartney and Wings in Australia 1975.

Sunday, November 20th, 2022


Ever since I can remember, even before I had hair I could sit on, I used to wander around record fairs and shops with my ‘Wants list’. A sheet of paper where I had listed in order of desirability, all the things I most wanted to enhance, or complete my Beatle collection.

At Number Two was film footage from the Double Fantasy recording sessions, which, a few years ago I finally got a copy of. Sitting at Number One on my list was a poster from Wings 1975 tour of Australia.

Being ten years old at the time I never got to see this tour. I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s too funny not to relive.

I have a vivid memory of sitting in my brothers bedroom, pleading with him to get me a ticket and take me. He declined. In an act ‘VERY’ out of character for me, I became dramatic and borderline hysterical. I told my brother if he didn’t take me, I would suffocate myself with a pillow, THEN tell mum and dad it was HIS fault.

His response was a firm ‘I don’t think so’, so I grabbed a pillow, and in front of him held it up to my face.

After about thirty seconds I thought, ‘Ewww, this is very hot and uncomfortable’.

Pulling the pillow away slowly for an even more dramatic effect, so my brother could see I was serious, what I heard was the front door closing as he left to go to soccer. ?

Fast forward forty six years, and thanks to Greg and especially Richard, I now have the poster, and it came back from the frame shop yesterday. It looks amazing.

The moral of the story is, ‘Patience (if not pillows) is a virtue’.
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‘Horse gone absolutely fucking mental’. Sons and Daughters, fine art Lithographic Prints.

Friday, November 11th, 2022








Long to rain.

Wednesday, November 9th, 2022


Do I like the Royals?

No (mostly).

Am I utterly fascinated by the ferocious, stubborn, violent power and pearl clutching drama and hysteria?


What is playing out right now as the rein transitions to King Charles III is a real insight in to human nature. The roar of opposition to the new season of The Crown is being driven by the mysterious ‘men in grey’. They are wresting and forcing the narrative to change.

It’s the ultimate gaslighting.

We were ALL there through this period of history, we ALL remember what happened and how it played out, yet they are insisting this is all fantasy. It’s classic behavior and has been seen to work before. Corrupt officials telling a witness what they saw didn’t really happen how they think it did. Once the witness cracks and thinks ‘maybe I didn’t see what I thought I did’ bingo!, that’s all they need, a seed of doubt.

What’s happening now with the press is gaslighting on a MASSIVE scale.

The public (to a very large extent) has shown over and over again that they’re too lazy, too greedy, too weak to confront reality and engage in critical thinking. It’s really too much bother to independently think, and they’ll just go along with what they’re told.

They will then vehemently defend that position, because to do otherwise would mean they were wrong, and again, that’s too much bother and distraction. The men in grey win again. When John Major and Tony Blair are your character witnesses, I know who I’ll be believing.

Of course The Crown has to approximate and recreate dialog, which gives the men in grey the hook to SQUEAL ‘Fiction!’, but, I’m still willing to bet at least 80% of what is portrayed is very, VERY accurate.

It’s SO much easier to go along with what you’re told, than to pause the conversation and say, ‘Hang on a sec, have a look at this mob and what happens, and what is STILL happening’.

If I had kids, the one piece of advice I would drill in to them is, ‘Question EVERYTHING’.

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Hey Hey It’s Saturday.

Monday, October 10th, 2022


Happy fiftieth anniversary to the pioneering kids TV show Hey Hey It’s Saturday.
In 1970’s staid, backwards, bogan, conservative Australia, this was just the show the kids of Australia needed to wake them up to thinking outside the square. In it’s golden years, this show was unmissable.

What happens when a network needs to fill three hours on Saturday morning, the hosts are hungover, our parents were doing the washing or mowing, and the tv station boss is asleep? absolute anarchy is what happens, genuine tv anarchy.

In the early days no one was paying attention, the parents were happy if the kids were sat quiet in front of the telly. For three hours on a Saturday morning the kids of Australia got to taste and experience the thrill of knowing what we were watching was radical, outside the normal cartoons and entertainment being rammed down our throats from the UK and America. This was OUR show, and we knew it was genuine mischief, unlike contrived anarchy like The Gong Show.

Our parents would pass through the lounge room, catching a glimpse of a character, but not lingering long enough to realize what was being said and insinuated. It’s not inaccurate to say that a lot of what was going on was borderline surrealist and absurdist. Talking microphones, camp unseen voiceovers, parody’s of soap operas and the celebration of the mundane. It truly was a show where you just had to be there, trying to explain it does not make sense.

I remember as a little kid sitting in front of the telly, eating my ‘Grainous’ semolina porridge, watching Gavin Wood read out his ‘Pop report’. This day as Gavin spoke the sound of chickens could be heard, then a shotgun blast. Dropping on Gavin from high above was a chicken egg, which would explode when it landed on his desk, or on him. The blasts and dropping eggs continued all through the segment, until at the end there was one final loud blast. With that, a large plucked dead chicken crashed down onto the desk, it’s neck and head flopped over the front. Nonchalantly the voice over said, ‘That was Gavin Woods pop report’, and then cut to a cartoon. The kids of Australia looked on, and continued to eat their Weetbix, because this was the norm.

I was so lucky as a fourteen year old to be taken to a rare live audience broadcast in Sydney. By this stage all the cool hip young adults, basket cases and stoners had cottoned on to what was happening on Saturday mornings. No matter how hungover you were, you always got up by 8.00am to watch Hey Hey. Being in the audience was incredible, at least 80% were adults, all in outrageous fancy dress. Dangling above us for no reason at all were parrots strung up by string with arrows through their heads. I recoiled when I saw Jackie McDonald smoking, and during the ad breaks John Blackman would come down and told the most foul jokes to keep us primed. It was also interesting to see during the same breaks, floor crew would go and discuss things with Ozzie Ostrich, not Ernie Carol, they spoke to Ossie.

I bailed on the show about 1985. It was so popular they shifted it to prime time Saturday nights, for me, and many others, it lost its spark. A big part of the attraction was it was like a secret club. As a kid I ‘never’ fit in (I still don’t). I have a vivid memory from second class of a girl saying to me in the playground, ‘You’re weird!’. My mind and thought processes were always abstract, strange, outside the square. Hey Hey It’s Saturday lit a spark in me that helped me see the world a little less constrained than was being presented to me everywhere else.
This celebration of the obtuse later allowed an appreciation of the absurd to blossom under the guidance of people like John Waters.
Thank you Hey Hey It’s Saturday for helping make my formative years tolerable.