E.B. White’s Newsbreaks in The New Yorker magazine were curated media gaffes.
In April this year The Times “posthumorously” provided White his best:
Correction: An earlier version of this article misidentified the number of years E.B. White wrote for The New Yorker. It was five decades, not centuries.”
Throsby loves stuff like that and searches usually in vain for the slightest weakest wackiness in the ceaseless footy news and endless ministerial announcements and interminable opposition beratings flowing into his tedium-steeped inbox.
This online world is too easily and quickly sanitised of bloopers that are corrected within milliseconds by sharp-eyed newsroom young-uns. In the ink-slinger days your stuff-up was immortal.
Live in hope.
Clive Palmer – another in a line of Aussie mining billionaire eccentrics. Is there no end to them?
Clive cunningly, it seems, planted the outlandish tale in a small Gold Coast rag that he is “going Jurassic with DNA” at his Coolum Resort.
Mr Palmer, apparently, has, apparently, been, apparently (you get the idea) in “deep discussion” with the people who successfully cloned Dolly the sheep.
Scientist are at pains to explain 101 ways that aint gonna happen. There is no dinosaur DNA, it lasts only a million years, maybe. And then not enough for a full genome. No living cells to birth it, no egg to incubate, no …
But soon into such news Throsby’s mind drifts to visions of misclonings – a menagerie of bizarre T-Rexish sheep. Recall the delightful scene from Alien Resurrection when Ripley discovers her many failed clones? And that she too was one. Wait, the theatre in my head shows a giant carnivorous Dolly snatch and eat a mini-me T-Rex chained to a post …
Clive is building – simpler to say what he’s not – a replica of the Titanic. He says it’s almost identical except a few safety mods, like being a metre wider for stability. But I think that’s for the side impact airbags.
Titanic 2 is a casino of course, where people with too much time and money go to lose both.
But not pensioners, he says. OAP-free zone. No antediluvian doddering fossilised dotards, no shrivelled fogy space-wasters ..
.. third-class ticket holders could be screened before being allowed into the casino, and pensioners would be barred entirely.” – Clive Palmer
At which Throsby’s theatrette kicked in, reprising the barkeep on Tatooine gruffing “we don’t serve their kind here.”
Lifelong losers, note, circumvention ideas:
- slap on the Grecian and lose the pension card, slippers and trackies
- swap partners with a young couple at the entrance.
- aim low – third class is lookin’ good.
So if you book on third class you can share a bathroom, sit down at a long table for dinner every night, have some Irish stew and a jig in the night,” said Mr Palmer.
Sounds totally pensioner to me.