Farmer Wants a Wife who Won't Dump You Like a Bad Habit as the Nationals Did
Farmer Wants a Wife is getting towards its climax, which is a relative term when it comes to this mob.
In the reverse truths of today's television, a climax means things are slowed even further down to wring each bit of drama out of the final.
Gone are the fun farm games like "will the beauty salon owner get killed by the merino stampede" and it's all about words.
But it's no match for Farmer Tom, who hasn't said much all series but like a Bond villain has finished stroking his sheep and sprung into action.
Tom packed off two suitors last episode and has told the producers they'd better wrap this thing up because he's sick of pretending there's anyone else for him.
It's Georgie, it's always been Georgie. Vontae Mack no matter what.
Mady and Emily left rather suddenly, and immediately Georgie and Eliza grabbed their deposed rivals' half-finished wine glasses. Looks like there might be some Wollongong people on this season after all.
Up in Queensland Farmer Corey the Pasher is taking his warring suitors to meet his mates to see - in his words - who fits in best with the group.
We laugh about how this is a bit off, but then Corey doubles down: the mates get to choose which woman gets to go on a date. With the farmer, not the mates. Don't laugh, I'm sure it was spitballed.
These women have watched the object of their affection get it on with their housemates, all while sinking further into "does she like her more than me? Does he like her more than me?", and somehow stayed afloat.
But now these blokes at the pub have been handed power over their chances with Corey, whether they might win his hand, their happily ever after.
And Keely, Chloe and the other one have to keep smiling or the mates might not like you.
To their credit the mates pick Keely - not Chloe, who is clearly a planted villain.
We leave this sickness in Queensland and rejoin farmer Thomas, who is about to have his cojones absolutely rompered by Clarette because his friends picked Rachel instead.
We saw him shitting himself last night when she wanted answers after he was asked what was gtood about their relationship, and was unable to say.
Their life together looks like it has fallen into a nice pattern already. Thomas has seen relationships like this before but thinks this feeling, like they've been together for 50 years, is a good thing.
Back to Tom. He wraps the family visit show and the final announcement show into the one episode, but the show is about to turn this honest man into a liar.
"He's been swept away by two incredible women," lies host Nat Gruzlewski.
Tom's superhero is Captain Obvious. When they went to the ferris wheel he said "there's a ferris wheel", as if anyone standing before a ferris wheel would need to have it pointed out.
But he had stayed honest until this point. Past tense, that is: he's fallen from his high merino and is uttering some nonsense about liking both Georgie and Eliza.
"Either one would make a perfect wife," he says.
"They both have good qualities." He's dead inside.
Georgie is at it too, saying "Geelong is such a beautiful place" quite a few times. "Geelong is beautiful."
For what, Tom, FOR WHAT?? He's burned his dignity in a half-arsed attempt to make half of one episode slightly more unpredictable.
John Proctor, another well-known farmer, died before giving up his good name, but here's Tom just throwing away his integrity like it's sheep dags.
It doesn't work, of course. Anyone who had any doubt Tom and Georgie would end up together was disabused of their silliness in Episode 9. Have a look at the way Tom is tickling Georgie's shoulder while they talk it out in the back of the ute as you do.
That's not something you'd do to a suitor who's only been kept around to aid the pretence this was a live rubber, like some kind of relationship beard to fool the credulous.
Speaking of whom, Eliza finally stops looking like she's about to cry and starts to cry. She gets over it.
Off to another ad break, for one of the lotteries. "Have fun and play responsibly," a sign says. Yes, Channel 7 has managed to find a way to sneak a gambling plug - it's fun! - into the mandatory addiction warning.
Bob Jane says buy three tyres and get one free but I'm not falling for that. Why would I only buy three tyres? Think I'm stupid?
Here we are at the end. Georgie arrives in a Ford because, you know, Geelong. Tom declares his love and they seem like genuine people who are really happy. It's quite lovely.
He's fine with her plan to stay in Geelong for a while, then maybe a place in Wagga Wagga near Tom's farm, as they take it slow.
There's no way she's moving straight back to the farm, the scene of the past month's torture as everyone played a game of "does he like her more than me" and lost their minds.
She's seen enough of the insides of those walls for this decade.
Farmer Wants a Wife screens on Channel 7 at 7.30pm Monday and Tuesday, and streams on 7plus.
Episode 6: Farmer Wants a Wife bombshell leaves us asking: WTF was that?
Episode 7: Farmer and Wife contenders strip off before new flock sets pulses racing
Episode 8: Farmer Wants a Wife to live in a horror movie disguised as a hostage drama
Episode 9: Farmer Wants a Chatbot to Teach Him How to Talk Good to Women
* This is a recap of a TV dating show for entertainment purposes. Some of the assertions are not strictly true. Some are not even close to being true. You should not rely on this piece or its contents for relationship advice, how to vote, or family planning decisions.
Farmer Wants a Wife is getting towards its climax, which is a relative term when it comes to this mob.
In the reverse truths of today's television, a climax means things are slowed even further down to wring each bit of drama out of the final.
Gone are the fun farm games like "will the beauty salon owner get killed by the merino stampede" and it's all about words.
But it's no match for Farmer Tom, who hasn't said much all series but like a Bond villain has finished stroking his sheep and sprung into action.
Tom packed off two suitors last episode and has told the producers they'd better wrap this thing up because he's sick of pretending there's anyone else for him.
It's Georgie, it's always been Georgie. Vontae Mack no matter what.
Mady and Emily left rather suddenly, and immediately Georgie and Eliza grabbed their deposed rivals' half-finished wine glasses. Looks like there might be some Wollongong people on this season after all.
Up in Queensland Farmer Corey the Pasher is taking his warring suitors to meet his mates to see - in his words - who fits in best with the group.
We laugh about how this is a bit off, but then Corey doubles down: the mates get to choose which woman gets to go on a date. With the farmer, not the mates. Don't laugh, I'm sure it was spitballed.
These women have watched the object of their affection get it on with their housemates, all while sinking further into "does she like her more than me? Does he like her more than me?", and somehow stayed afloat.
But now these blokes at the pub have been handed power over their chances with Corey, whether they might win his hand, their happily ever after.
And Keely, Chloe and the other one have to keep smiling or the mates might not like you.
To their credit the mates pick Keely - not Chloe, who is clearly a planted villain.
We leave this sickness in Queensland and rejoin farmer Thomas, who is about to have his cojones absolutely rompered by Clarette because his friends picked Rachel instead.
We saw him shitting himself last night when she wanted answers after he was asked what was gtood about their relationship, and was unable to say.
Their life together looks like it has fallen into a nice pattern already. Thomas has seen relationships like this before but thinks this feeling, like they've been together for 50 years, is a good thing.
Back to Tom. He wraps the family visit show and the final announcement show into the one episode, but the show is about to turn this honest man into a liar.
"He's been swept away by two incredible women," lies host Nat Gruzlewski.
Tom's superhero is Captain Obvious. When they went to the ferris wheel he said "there's a ferris wheel", as if anyone standing before a ferris wheel would need to have it pointed out.
But he had stayed honest until this point. Past tense, that is: he's fallen from his high merino and is uttering some nonsense about liking both Georgie and Eliza.
"Either one would make a perfect wife," he says.
"They both have good qualities." He's dead inside.
Georgie is at it too, saying "Geelong is such a beautiful place" quite a few times. "Geelong is beautiful."
For what, Tom, FOR WHAT?? He's burned his dignity in a half-arsed attempt to make half of one episode slightly more unpredictable.
John Proctor, another well-known farmer, died before giving up his good name, but here's Tom just throwing away his integrity like it's sheep dags.
It doesn't work, of course. Anyone who had any doubt Tom and Georgie would end up together was disabused of their silliness in Episode 9. Have a look at the way Tom is tickling Georgie's shoulder while they talk it out in the back of the ute as you do.
That's not something you'd do to a suitor who's only been kept around to aid the pretence this was a live rubber, like some kind of relationship beard to fool the credulous.
Speaking of whom, Eliza finally stops looking like she's about to cry and starts to cry. She gets over it.
Off to another ad break, for one of the lotteries. "Have fun and play responsibly," a sign says. Yes, Channel 7 has managed to find a way to sneak a gambling plug - it's fun! - into the mandatory addiction warning.
Bob Jane says buy three tyres and get one free but I'm not falling for that. Why would I only buy three tyres? Think I'm stupid?
Here we are at the end. Georgie arrives in a Ford because, you know, Geelong. Tom declares his love and they seem like genuine people who are really happy. It's quite lovely.
He's fine with her plan to stay in Geelong for a while, then maybe a place in Wagga Wagga near Tom's farm, as they take it slow.
There's no way she's moving straight back to the farm, the scene of the past month's torture as everyone played a game of "does he like her more than me" and lost their minds.
She's seen enough of the insides of those walls for this decade.
Farmer Wants a Wife screens on Channel 7 at 7.30pm Monday and Tuesday, and streams on 7plus.
Episode 6: Farmer Wants a Wife bombshell leaves us asking: WTF was that?
Episode 7: Farmer and Wife contenders strip off before new flock sets pulses racing
Episode 8: Farmer Wants a Wife to live in a horror movie disguised as a hostage drama
Episode 9: Farmer Wants a Chatbot to Teach Him How to Talk Good to Women
* This is a recap of a TV dating show for entertainment purposes. Some of the assertions are not strictly true. Some are not even close to being true. You should not rely on this piece or its contents for relationship advice, how to vote, or family planning decisions.
Farmer Wants a Wife is getting towards its climax, which is a relative term when it comes to this mob.
In the reverse truths of today's television, a climax means things are slowed even further down to wring each bit of drama out of the final.
Gone are the fun farm games like "will the beauty salon owner get killed by the merino stampede" and it's all about words.
But it's no match for Farmer Tom, who hasn't said much all series but like a Bond villain has finished stroking his sheep and sprung into action.
Tom packed off two suitors last episode and has told the producers they'd better wrap this thing up because he's sick of pretending there's anyone else for him.
It's Georgie, it's always been Georgie. Vontae Mack no matter what.
Mady and Emily left rather suddenly, and immediately Georgie and Eliza grabbed their deposed rivals' half-finished wine glasses. Looks like there might be some Wollongong people on this season after all.
Up in Queensland Farmer Corey the Pasher is taking his warring suitors to meet his mates to see - in his words - who fits in best with the group.
We laugh about how this is a bit off, but then Corey doubles down: the mates get to choose which woman gets to go on a date. With the farmer, not the mates. Don't laugh, I'm sure it was spitballed.
These women have watched the object of their affection get it on with their housemates, all while sinking further into "does she like her more than me? Does he like her more than me?", and somehow stayed afloat.
But now these blokes at the pub have been handed power over their chances with Corey, whether they might win his hand, their happily ever after.
And Keely, Chloe and the other one have to keep smiling or the mates might not like you.
To their credit the mates pick Keely - not Chloe, who is clearly a planted villain.
We leave this sickness in Queensland and rejoin farmer Thomas, who is about to have his cojones absolutely rompered by Clarette because his friends picked Rachel instead.
We saw him shitting himself last night when she wanted answers after he was asked what was gtood about their relationship, and was unable to say.
Their life together looks like it has fallen into a nice pattern already. Thomas has seen relationships like this before but thinks this feeling, like they've been together for 50 years, is a good thing.
Back to Tom. He wraps the family visit show and the final announcement show into the one episode, but the show is about to turn this honest man into a liar.
"He's been swept away by two incredible women," lies host Nat Gruzlewski.
Tom's superhero is Captain Obvious. When they went to the ferris wheel he said "there's a ferris wheel", as if anyone standing before a ferris wheel would need to have it pointed out.
But he had stayed honest until this point. Past tense, that is: he's fallen from his high merino and is uttering some nonsense about liking both Georgie and Eliza.
"Either one would make a perfect wife," he says.
"They both have good qualities." He's dead inside.
Georgie is at it too, saying "Geelong is such a beautiful place" quite a few times. "Geelong is beautiful."
For what, Tom, FOR WHAT?? He's burned his dignity in a half-arsed attempt to make half of one episode slightly more unpredictable.
John Proctor, another well-known farmer, died before giving up his good name, but here's Tom just throwing away his integrity like it's sheep dags.
It doesn't work, of course. Anyone who had any doubt Tom and Georgie would end up together was disabused of their silliness in Episode 9. Have a look at the way Tom is tickling Georgie's shoulder while they talk it out in the back of the ute as you do.
That's not something you'd do to a suitor who's only been kept around to aid the pretence this was a live rubber, like some kind of relationship beard to fool the credulous.
Speaking of whom, Eliza finally stops looking like she's about to cry and starts to cry. She gets over it.
Off to another ad break, for one of the lotteries. "Have fun and play responsibly," a sign says. Yes, Channel 7 has managed to find a way to sneak a gambling plug - it's fun! - into the mandatory addiction warning.
Bob Jane says buy three tyres and get one free but I'm not falling for that. Why would I only buy three tyres? Think I'm stupid?
Here we are at the end. Georgie arrives in a Ford because, you know, Geelong. Tom declares his love and they seem like genuine people who are really happy. It's quite lovely.
He's fine with her plan to stay in Geelong for a while, then maybe a place in Wagga Wagga near Tom's farm, as they take it slow.
There's no way she's moving straight back to the farm, the scene of the past month's torture as everyone played a game of "does he like her more than me" and lost their minds.
She's seen enough of the insides of those walls for this decade.
Farmer Wants a Wife screens on Channel 7 at 7.30pm Monday and Tuesday, and streams on 7plus.
Episode 6: Farmer Wants a Wife bombshell leaves us asking: WTF was that?
Episode 7: Farmer and Wife contenders strip off before new flock sets pulses racing
Episode 8: Farmer Wants a Wife to live in a horror movie disguised as a hostage drama
Episode 9: Farmer Wants a Chatbot to Teach Him How to Talk Good to Women
* This is a recap of a TV dating show for entertainment purposes. Some of the assertions are not strictly true. Some are not even close to being true. You should not rely on this piece or its contents for relationship advice, how to vote, or family planning decisions.
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One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. 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It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs.
