Great Wardrobe Malfunctions of History

I felt sorry for him. As he stood in the doorway for the 7.34 limited express from Frankston to Flinders Street, the young man was acutely aware of the gargantuan error he had made. Although it was next to freezing, he chose to hold his jacket rather than wear it. The reason was simple: in the early morning haste to get ready, he had taken a jacket (blue) that did not match his trousers (black). Had he worn them together, he would have looked like a dimly lit Neenish tart. It’s one of the hazards of getting dressed in the dark.
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The Ties That Bind

It’s hard to be ‘the one’. Fate can play some pretty nasty pranks from time to time and, without really meaning to, you might find yourself being held responsible for an absolute disaster. No one wants to be the person who undoes a good idea. There’s not a soul on this earth who deliberately sets out to be the one that sinks the ship whilst simultaneously slaying the golden goose. It was a decade before they could make another Batman after George Clooney was done with him. Poor George. It wasn’t his fault the whole thing stunk like a week-old trout in the sun. He was simply in the wrong place in the wrong time.
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The Art of Selling Things

Clearly, anything is now possible. News that Jimmy Barnes has been awarded his own ice cream flavour has completely knocked me sideways and caused me to question everything I once believed. The decision to give Jimmy his own variety is, of course, highly inappropriate for a number of reasons, not least of which the fact that the ice cream in question is a Peters’ ‘Drumstick’ and, to the very best of my knowledge, Jimmy couldn’t do a para-diddle if his life depended on it. Don’t get me wrong; Jimmy is great and deserves to be honoured. I’m just not sure that an ice cream – as tasty and delicious as it may be – is quite the way to do it.
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The Sorry Tale of an Arty Latte

There’s no doubt that if Michelangelo were alive today, he wouldn’t be flushing his time down the artistic lavatory by perching on a rickety ladder that would give the folks at WorkCover a conniption and splashing a tub of Taubman’s satin gloss on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. No way. If Michelangelo were alive now he’d be a barista. Worse still, he’d be dressed head to toe in black, have his hair in a man bun with a pencil wedged as tightly as William Tell’s arrow in the apple and would be expressing himself through coffee foam.
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