While I’m posting here and no longer under any obligation to rep the company, I might as well share this incredibly funny story from behind the scenes that I don’t think ever got out:
Due to the constant problems we had around “The Chaser” being also a name of a sex thing online (you would not BELIEVE the kind of confused fan mail I had to sort through), in 2019 we had very seriously planned to rebrand our online channels.
After a laborious process whittling down hundreds of potential names we settled on another alcohol related term, a popular Australian slang term for wine, as we thought that was in the spirit of “The Chaser” but also uniquely Australian.
Literally the only reason we didn’t end up rebranding was the whole company fell into an omnishambles in 2020, and we were all too busy both figuratively and literally putting out fires to even think about doing a full company rebrand.
And that, my friends, is how The Chaser through sheer dumb luck, managed to avoid what would have gone down as possibly one of the worst company rebrands in the history of everything, when that same name came to mean something else VERY different a few years later:
Search is turning up nothing, but that’s Tumblr even if there is something, so:
Have I told you guys about my many adventures with the brothel massage parlour around the corner from my house yet?
Looks like I haven’t. Okay, well, let’s see. I’ll just give highlights, but it’ll be long, so let’s do a readmore.
So, in mid-2022, I dared to age past about 35 and therefore started withering bodily. Of course, this is partly my fault, because I do not get enough exercise, but also (shakes fist at uncaring universe, pulls muscle in fist) Life Hates Me
So, I started getting muscle pain between the shoulder blades. In my case, this is actually one of those annoying to-avoid-one-disability-you-created-another things, because I’ve had problems with my lower back since I was in my mid-20s thanks to never using proper lumbar support. Therefore, my standard spot to be in my living room became the sofa that stretches away from the TV, because then I could lie on the sofa and prop my head up on the arm to watch, but that means I spent several years as a recreational candy cane and NOW HERE WE ARE. I remember desperately trying to find a massage therapist that could see me that day before I went away to Edinburgh in August that year, and there was nowhere at all available. I had to get one in Edinburgh when I arrived, which was lovely, but also about £20 more expensive, because Edinburgh.
And then! In November! Of 2022!
I must have wished really hard. Because around the corner from my house - so close I could forward roll that distance, if it weren’t for, you know (gestures at body, pulls muscle in arm)… a massage parlour opened.
Except. Here’s the thing.
It had a name like “Swansea Oriental Massage” or “Thai Lotus Massage” or what have you (real name not given for privacy reasons.) The kind of name that makes you go “Ah. An independent business, likely staffed by workers fresh from abroad, with a name that implies exotic women to a certain type of client. This may be entirely what it claims, but it definitely Fits a Profile.”
And to be clear, I have no issues at all with it being a brothel! I truly, genuinely don’t. But for obvious reasons, I do want to know if I’m booking a session with a masseuse or a sex worker, because those are very different types of happy endings.
By the way the Cantonese restaurant is No. 12, on Dillwyn Street near the Grand Theatre. But the best Mandarin one is Gigi Gao’s in the Marina. I’ve tried both and can confirm.
Update: the alternate place I went to was run by a good old fashioned middle-aged working class Swansea woman with an accent you could form planets around and rampant undiagnosed ADHD. She had magical hands, found the knots, and the only drawback (depending on your point of view) was that there was no point to the relaxing massage music in the background because she did not. Shut. Up. The whole time I was there. I learned all about her problems with her knees, her problems with her mother, how she prefers her new offices because the old ones were overlooking a nursery which was too loud for relaxing, her problems with her knees, her relief that two people have left the business next door because they kept day drinking, her latest fight with her brother, and her problems with her knees.
She only stopped when she found a new knot, and needed to chase it. My back was varyingly described as “dreadful”, “terrible”, “bugger me I’ve found another one”, “my god there’s tight you are”, and “your back is knackered. No wait, I shouldn’t say that, sorry. Ruined, it’s ruined it is.”
It was cheaper than the brothel and she gave me a loyalty card. So I think it’s my new regular. Also I feel much better than this morning, so shout out to her. 10 out of 10.
imagine you’re a mechanic in the Transformers universe and you have a car come in with engine trouble so you open it up and the engine is just full of some kind of weird fast-spreading rust. never seen anything like it before
so you’re like. hmmm. and you call the Autobots like ‘hi I know this number is supposed to be for reporting possible Decepticon activity but I’ve got some kind of alien bullshit going on and I don’t know who to ask’. they hand you over to Ratchet and Rachet is like 'hm I think I know what that is but let me come run some tests’
SO Ratchet comes over and has a look at the engine and is like yeah as I thought. its crotch rust. and you’re like 'crotch rust??’ and he’s like yeah its crotch rust. its a. well I think humans call them STIs? its like that.
so you’re like ’……….are you telling me a Transformer fucked this car’ and he’s like yeah. looks that way. and you’re like 'what in the world’ and he’s like I don’t know. people are freaks. anyway we don’t want this stuff spreading so I’ll be back tomorrow with the right nanites. keep it away from the other cars.
he comes back the next day like okay so I have good news and I have bad news. you’re like 'well what’s the good news’ and he’s like WELL I spent last night testing all the autobots for crotch rust and they’re all clean. so you’re like 'does that mean the car wasn’t fucked’ and he’s like oh no the car was definitely fucked there’s no other way this could have happened.
so you’re like 'wait. are you saying a Decepticon fucked this car?’ and he’s like yes. we have a Decepticon fucking cars. and they are giving the cars STIs. thank you for bringing this to our attention here are the nanites goodbye.
Префикс пере- действительно значит “too much, over the limit”, поэтому ваш одноклассник добавил этот префикс к глаголу “спать”.
Но у префикса пере- есть другое значение - with/to each other, mutually. И с глаголом “спать” работает именно это значение, т.е. переспать - to have sex with.
Поэтому учительница правильно посоветовала слово “проспать”. Префикс про- имеет разные значения, и одно из них - to miss out; проспать - to miss out while sleeping.
I am watching a mouse make a series of what I can only describe as Fuck Around Choices, and the Find Out is VERY excited to continue this little experiment.
I’m watching my parent’s dog Arwen up at their house.
Arwen (Kelpie, 60lbs) is 15(ish?) now and while she has a high prey drive and history of successful hunts, she’s also 15 and doesn’t give many fucks. I also have my dogs. Charleston (Sighthound/pointer mix, 50lbs) is 10 and another proactive carnivore, but he’s also JUST finished making his Perfect Couch Nest and doesn’t want to get up.
…Herschel (Corgi, 40lbs and extremely tube-shaped) is 5 and has no Prey Drive, but he does have a PLAY Drive, which i found out last time I was up here and found him, having cornered a baby bunny, play-bowing and shaking his ass at it because he just had a Great Time chasing it, now it was the bunny’s turn to chase HIM! Even though all three of these assholes spent all day dragging me hither and yon through the rockies, he still has the endurance of an athenian messenger and still looking for a reason to careen around the house at Mach Fuck.
The reason I am allowing this to happen is that The Mouse is unlikely to come to any harm beyond some environmentally-adaptive trauma, and I am Hoping it hauls ass back to the compost bin where most of them live and tells the colony that there’s a very large fucked up little man in the house, fuck that shit, let’s stay out here.
I don’t know if Psyops work on mice but I feel like it’s worth a shot.
After a few minutes of waiting for the mouse to come out, Herschel was getting concerned (bored) and stood up all the way, little paw raised, ready to smack the fun back into this poor creature.
“Ah!” I told him.
As much crime Herschel commits, he’s actually quite biddable, and stopped, little paw raised, staring at me before slowly lowering it.
“Good job!” I tell him, and he wiggles with joy. “Figure it out!”
Herschel returns his attention to the wobble, circling and sniffing it with small boofs of excitement, looking bac at me for approval eery so often, before giving the bottom of Wobble the smallest, gentlest push with his nose, which doesn’t make it rock, but does scoot it along the carpet.
“Okay!” I tell him, and for the last few minutes he has been slowly scooting the mouse inside the wobble across the living room floor an inch at a time.
This has, however, made charlie actually sit up and watch, so I may need to intervene soon.
Arwen is still snore-farting.
Ok so I may have a broken ankle but not because of this, updates when I get back from the urgent care.
FUNNY STORY-
I mean my whole life is a funny story but in this particular case, it’s funny because while I do not have a broken ankle, I do have a pretty severe sprain, and a new appreciation for the horrors of Wordle.
I’ll get there.
Anyway, when we last left off, Herschel was doing the Canine equivalent of Playing Cars with the wobble, scooting it around the living room with his nose, which was enough to wake up both Charlie and Arwen, who were squinting at him with matching expressions of “What is the Ginger Idiot up to now?”
So I had to go back and get the Wobble so Herschel could have breakfast, and while poking around in the grass, my sister texted me.
Sister: So I saw the mouse story???
Me: oh god don’t tell mom.
Sister: oh no, they’d worry too much.
Sister: ok but if I tell you something you can’t tell them, okay?
Me: now what
Sister: were you up at North Shields Pond? The one with the turtle sign?
Me: yeah?
Sister: okay that’s just spooky.
Sister: so you know that huge dent in the back of Beyond? (my car, formerly her car)
Me: Yes, it’s how I find it in parking lots?
Sister: never tell mom but I didn’t back into a Ballard.
Me: oh my God.
Sister: I think it was like 2019, but Arwen had cornered a mouse that climbed into her old puzzle ball so I took it out to the meadow there to release it, and it was suuuuper late at night so I didn’t see the moose either…
Me: what the fuck
Sister: I mean I didn’t eat shit and fuck up my ankle but that thing hit the car harder than that time I got hit by that pickup.
Me: what the fuck kind of Bethesda-ass glitchy specific trigger videogame cutscene bullshit is this?
Sister: I DON’T KNOW???? MAYBE THE MICE ALL HAVE A TELEPATHIC LINK TO THAT MOOSE SPECIFICALLY??
Ok, forget all that fandom nonsense, I was sent the most ridiculous image I’ve seen in m entire life to the point I couldn’t even breathe from how hard I was laughing and my brain has been reset.
mags // 35 // существо среднего рода // 404 preferred pronouns not found (current frontrunner: *throws up hands in frustration and mumbles vaguely about how singular they will do I guess*) // "better than a lot of people (and some cats) (at being a cat)" - @someofthemusic //
