Author Archives: angelaalicebennetts

introducing, teddy bear

our bunny rabbit (ok, lucy’s bunny rabbit) thinks he is a cat

when wet, looks like a rat

and if he continues eating everything he touches, will soon be fat


a WHOAHde to mixed metaphors

10 years younger in 10 days … a pictotrip

ten years

It may be quite obvious to everyone who reads this blog, all six hundred million of you (hello Bangladesh!) that we watch a lot of TV. Or rather, the TV we watch becomes like our 4th flatmate – more reliable, less prone to bang on the door at 4am when drunk, constantly amusing, not irritated by the pong from the fridge. And entering our stable of “see it or cry heaps for at least a minute” is the show Ten Years Younger in Ten Days. Find old craggy looking people, preferably with sob stories, inject botox, squeeze into mutton-y clothes and then have Sonia Kruger spin round like a little girl at the end and exclaim, “Oh my Gooooooooo—-ddddd! Is that yooooooo——u? (oh and I think my bony knee just broke.”

It’s on before Lipstick Jungle, OK? And if reality TV bites, it can bite me on the butt. Really. Cos I like it. Anyway this was one of my most favourite episodes.

couple before

Problem number one: wife appears to be midget.


“Beer, jugs of oil and ceramic mugs are all part of a balanced diet. Also, handfuls of air thiiiiiiiis big.”

menin gym

Black shirt dude: “Who’s the midget now!”

Green shirt dude: “Me bro! Don’t hit me with your eyebrows.”

blue teeth

Doctor dude: “Once your teeth are fluro UV rave sticks for the new millennium, no one will notice that you look like Freddy Kruger.”

Make-me-over lady: “Oh, you mean Sonia Kruger? Yes, her face is most unfortunate.”

men in shop

“Stop looking … stop looking … jizzing bejesus who employed me to dress men …”


Recipe for 1 x generic advertising metrosexual. Insert into TV machine, swipe fringe to side, plonk with bronzer. Do not forget embellished hoodie under suit, or all will be lost. Set to dry. Once your little ad-noid is ready, insist he smile cheesily at all times or else, “He will lose the Vodafone account and mini-stapler shaped like an egg!”


Holy gravestone of God, my Grandmother from the past was hidden in there! Exorcism!

couple after

Ok, all that said, I loved this couple.  They both slogged away really hard at their jobs (of which she had THREE), and had cute kids (I think – oh hell all kids are cute), and really seemed to love each other. And now they can smile to prove it.

pump it up


Until recently, it was a rare Monday night that the Duumsters weren’t plonked front right of our local gym for the 6.30pm session of Body Pump.  We could be invited to our own wedding and have to politely decline, as Pump called. “Going to Pump on Monday night,” was equivalent to, “having a drink or ten million on the weekend” – like, duh. Pump was like the Brawn in our Brain Sandwich. Boyfriends came and went, favourite TV shows were picked up (hello, City Homicide), then dumped, as soon as Sophie let us. Our love for Pump never flagged, however – despite having lesbian boobies flashed at us every time in the change rooms, despite having to ferociously murder five other gym-junkies in the race to get a bench, despite us all beginning to resemble the Chinese swimming team in the 70s. Until, for whatever reason, we all decided to “take a beat,” (a la Victory Ford and supposed-to-be-hubba-hubba contractor with child in Lipstick Jungle). Who can say why. Maybe we just preferred being in bed reading trash novels to doing squats that even strippers would find indecent. Did Pump briefly push its face into snot-laden tissues, air its freakum dress, have some rowdy nights out with the girls, during which it breaks its nails, rediscovers late-night New York Slice, and spews sparkling rose onto a boy from Lagoona’s shoes? Doubt it, it’s a gym class, not a person. Still, no doubt it missed us (or at least the $11 our presence assured, apiece).

After some time had passed, we began to realise there was a Pump-shaped hole in our lives (roughly equivalent to 2 x triceps muscles and a butt). We trickled back in, heads held low. “Hi, Pump,” we mumbled, “looking good!”. “Wish I could say the same about you, flabby!” it guffawed. Low blow, but fair. We set up our benches, put on our little gloves, and prepared for some muscle-maxxing action. And then it all came flooding back. Why the love had surged between us the first place.  Where else can you be comfortably clothed in sweats, but still feel like a Gladiator? Where else can you re-visit your rave music childhood, without it being (heaps) lame? In what other class can you beat a muscly beefcake dude, flagging after ten measly repetitions? NOWHERE I TELL YOU! And we’re not alone. After trying to track down the warm-up song that gets our heart-a-fluttering ( some like-minded Pumpalots turned up,, and Sure, Pump is a slut. And it tends to date weirdos with bad haircuts. But whatever. Haus ov Duum HEARTS Body Pump 4evs. Till we get sick of it again.


Our favourite Oaffieupagus gets back next week!

Sure. Sydney ain’t no Europe. But at the Haus ov Duum, we’ll be bonne chance to have her back.

And don’t worry Oafie, we’ll move to Paris one day.

There we will soak ourselves daily, lying down flat, and frolic in fields with buttercups, and sleep in till 3pm, and have ultra cute babies that never grow old and wear tiny stripy scarves round their necks that flag in the wind as they sail sail sail down paved paths throwing small baguettes into the hands of wizened crones leaning out of dusty windows.

This will be our soundtrack.


Our commune will front up a little something like this.


Buttercups like so.


Our daily diet? Melted butter, of course. (or margarine in a pinch) (hell, why not go the whole hog and say condensed milk).


And the piece de resistance? (see how well I’m gonna fit in in France?). Our tiny babies with satorial aplomb. And they can ride bicycles! And throw baguettes! With those kinda mad skillz, surely they can cook, clean, pluck our eyebrows and earn the cash-o-la.


Plus, they come with their own snow domes! (I can just tell Lucy’s gonna wanna steal this one’s outfit).

So, Oafie, hurry back! Cos we’ll go back to our future some day!

xx lalaz

Get a handle on this: BAD ART




How good is bad art? What could possess someone to painstakingly paint 3 takeaway coffee cups, you may ask? Just for the love of (awful) art.

Here’s another pearler I saw on a van in Stanmore.


I mean, for sure, nothing says clean toilet better than a gleeful dolphin defying space and physics (not to mention his dolphin family, who would be frankly disgusted, sure they’ll SLEEP with humans, but they won’t frolic in their fecal matter) – especially one so artfully rendered. The delightful, fizzy spray of water at his tail just makes me want to open my mouth and swallow. And those thunderous tear drops? More moving than The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride. “Wow” says the dolphin. Wow indeed.

You can see more bad art here:

— lalaz

I end this week, disturbed

Apparently I am the doggy door of the viral world.


In case you can’t read that, Backdoor Lala is a Trojan Horse that allows unauthorised access to a compromised computer. In human terms, I am a large wooden implement that is shelved where the sun don’t shine.


So, in the spirit of comraderie, I will give my fellow doomies Viral Names.

Sophie (happy birthday!) is: Spamallam Oafoffikus (BBQ!) Human terms: She is teflon to imaginary big penises, Nigerians, Surrealist poetry and replica watches.

Lucy is: Soft-in-the-head-Ware Fire-Hill (luv U LOL). Human terms: Soft and cuddly up top, raging tornado of fiery spikes elsewhere (that cannot be mounted).

Wow. I think my brain has been compromised by this backdoor business.

— backdoor lalaz