Wednesday, 1 April 2009

... me bio

My ancestry is from all over Europe, from Cornwall and Scotland to Denmark to the Carpathian Mountains. It's even rumoured that I had a Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Aunty from Italy, who used to knock about with this bloke called Leo.

Aunty Mona

When I was a wee laddie growing up we didn't have a lot of money. Father ran off with the local Vicar, so me Mum (pronounced 'Moom') packed up and we wandered the streets of Melbourne, living in woodsheds and eating bread and dripping around a 20 watt candle. Ahhh...those were the days.

Me and me Moom, in the 'good ole days'

As my peers were mostly theives and murderers (prounounced 'mudderers') in my teenage years I joined a gang of fierce pirates, and roamed the Carribean Ocean, living in a orgy of alcohol, violence and buxom wenches. This period was even better than the 'good ole days', but unfortunately, I don't remember a minute of it, cause I was too pissed.

Me and the Gang, hanging out at Ye Olde Foggy Shopping Mall,
Jamaica, during the school holidays.



When war broke out, I was one of the first to sign up to the fledging Royal Airforce, after failing the examination for the Women's Auxillary Balloon Corps. I was stationed on a small island in the Mediterranean Sea, flying sorties against Fritz with the 22nd Flying Wombats Squadron, (I'm not sure what happened to the first 21 squadrons) until I was injured in a freak plane malfunction after some unsporting chap decided to fire upon me.

Flt. Lt. Pub, with the 22nd Flying Wombats. Some say war is hell,
but I reckon it was great. I got to fly aeroplanes, and I shot three Germans!


As I freed myself from the wreck, a large elm tree was lopped by a careless wood cutter, pinning me under it's mighty trunk. As a large pack of wolves descended on me, I managed to reach my trusty pocket knife and cut my leg clean off, dipped my foot in paraffin wax and lit it, using the flame to scare away the beasts. Suffering severe bloodloss, I managed to crawl the 1, 342 miles to the Ukraine, where I was nursed back to health by a kindly manure farmer. I soon became deeply engaged in Ukranian life and when my leg had grown back, I joined the local communist party and spearheaded the revolution with my rather serious mates Leon, Vlad and Karl.

I'm still a bit of a ledge in the Russian Federation's corridors of power

When Stalin rose to power, I heard a rumor he didn't like the cut of my beard, so I defected to the USA, where facial hair was largely unregulated. I soon became active in politics, was voted into the US Congress and soon unseated F.D. Roosevelt to become the often forgotten 32nd and a half President of the United States of America. However my tenure was short lived after someone read my CV and it was discovered I wasn't born in the US and had spent the last 15 years working for the communist party of the USSR.

A monument to me from my USA political heyday.

I went underground, where I was sheltered by a bunch of young adults from San Francisco who seemed a bit jaded with the conservative nature of 1960's USA. After eating some mushrooms I found growing in Golden Gate Park, I had a great idea so we stopped washing, started wearing baggy clothes, saying "Groovy Man" a lot and spouting bad poetry. I was soon arrested for not eating meat and became a symbol for 1960's hippy resistance.

My iconic mugshot (note the presence of actual hair)

After I busted out with the aid of a murderous cult, I cut my hair, died it white and bought my way into the New York speaky scene, becoming an artist focused on celebrity and popular culture, which ironically turned me into a celebrity artist of popular culture which I soon named 'Pop-Art', which is the noise your brain makes after viewing too much of it. Despite being a complete pretentious arsewipe, everybody loved me and I spent the next few years snorting cocaine and shagging Hollywood celebrities, before being shot by a rabid feminist, which I completely deserved.

Some works from my 1960's "Pretentious Dickhead" period still hangs about.

After my recovery, I fled the from USA and established myself as a transsexual showgirl in the slums of Rio De Janeiro. I made a great many friends amongst those shunned from society during these years and was never happier. But my facial hair was stubborn (due to a surgical mishap) and required daily attention. One day I shaved, but left a small tuft of hair just below my bottom lip, a style that I called "The Brazilian", in honour of my adopted country.

Moi, "De Freako un Publo", performing at the dodgiest bar in Brazil, 1970s.

After a freak accident involving a large, sweaty Portugese man, a midget and a Llama, my gender had to be re-re-assigned and I moved back to Melbourne, Australia for my own protection. My life had come full circle, though I was now a washup, a wreck, a total has-been. I dabbled in soft drugs and petty crime, such as grafitti and doing 50km/h in school zones. But my life was about to take another fateful twist, when my grafitti self-portraiture was somehow 'discovered' by a trendy gallery owner, and I was again thrust into the spotlight.

Me working on a piece in a Melbourne alley, early 1990's

I was nicknamed 'Pubsy' and I reluctantly became the trendiest artist town, though remained reclusive, not wanting to be chewed up and spat out of the celebrity machine again. But my best intentions were thwarted by the all-consuming power of fashion and once again I found myself the subject of international intrigue.

I was big in London.
I was big in the USA.
I was big in Japan (but who isn't).

But being Australian-born, my talent made so big and successful that people started hating me, so much so that I could not walk the streets without fearing for my life. As a result of being so viciously ostracized, I sat down one day, warmed up the old HP notebook and started a blog.

And so thats where it ends folks. Right here, as I type t-h-e-s-e...w-o-r-d-s...


(HAHAHA April fool. I made the whole lot up and you fell for it! I really grew up in Glen Waverley and have never once done anything remotely interesting and have never been famous, despite telling an audience member joke on Young Talent Time when I was seven years old, but I'll save that gold for another post. Sucker!!!)

PS - You can do your own silly photos here.

5 Comments:

At 2 April 2009 at 13:06 , Blogger Kath Lockett said...

Gee I don't know, MATP - life in Glen Waverley would surely have to at least equal being a gender re-assigned Brazilian trannie, wouldn't it?

 
At 2 April 2009 at 14:14 , Blogger Me said...

Dear Genius,

Your blog now makes up 25% of the Australian blogs that i actually enjoy reading.

Now leave me alone, i have to read the rest of these posts.

 
At 2 April 2009 at 20:01 , Blogger The Blakkat said...

Shantaram be damned. GDR is a lightweight compared to you. But what about your stint in a Bangkok prison? I know you gave us the abridged version, but still.

 
At 4 April 2009 at 23:09 , Blogger the projectivist said...

you look dead sexy in feathers.
just saying.

 
At 5 April 2009 at 11:17 , Blogger eleanor bloom said...

Heh. I wasn't fooled! I eventually figured it out when i noticed you seemed to be really old but weren't even ageing!

 

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