Benicio del Toro treasures his signed copy of David Bowie film The Man Who Fell To Earth
Benicio del Toro says a signed copy of David Bowie's film 'The Man Who Fell To Earth' is one of his most treasured possessions.
The 58-year-old actor is a Bowie super-fan and he was once lucky enough to work with the late rock legend on the 1996 film 'Basquiat', which is about the life of American postmodernist/neo expressionist artist Jean-Michel Basquiat.
Benicio owned the 1976 science-fiction film 'The Man Who Fell To Earth' - which stars Bowie as alien Thomas Jerome Newton who is on a mission to transport water back to his drought-suffering home planet - and had to get his musical hero to add his signature to his copy.
Appearing on the 'Soundtracking with Edith Bowman' podcast, he said: "My introduction to Bowie was 'Let's Dance' and on the other album that had 'Blue Jean', the follow-up, but I've always admired him.
"But I do remember, you know, I had a laser disc of 'The Man Who Fell to Earth', I love that movie. Well, he did sign the laser disc for me. And I, I really treasure that, you know? It was like, I don't know, I had this thing of going, like, 'Hey, you gotta sign this.' And it was just very gentle.
'I just love that album 'Live Santa Monica '72' and 'Station to Station', 'Low'.
"He had a lot of, like, you know crowd rock with Brian Eno. They had a lot of stuff going on."
When working on 'Basquiat' with Bowie - who played pop artist Andy Warhol in the movie - Benicio admits it was a surreal moment being face-to-face with his idol.
In a previous interview with UPROXX, Benicio - who can be seen in Wes Anderson's new film 'The Phoenician Scheme' - said: "I remember walking into the makeup trailer, and there he was. And he just sat right next to me. He was very normal. Very normal, very polite. I was just like beside myself sitting there looking at myself and going like, 'Can you believe it?' Looking at myself in the mirror, I'm sitting right next to David Bowie. But you know, he signed some things for me."
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
West Australian
13 hours ago
- West Australian
Editorial: Be grateful, and enjoy our great State
As West Australians, we have a lot to be thankful for. Not just for our beautiful beaches, or for our breathtaking natural wonders, or for our vast natural resources that make our economy the envy of the world. In celebration of WA Day, we asked some of WA's most recognisable Sandgropers what they loved most about this great State. The common thread? The people. 'We can almost pick each other out of a crowd,' famous Bunbury export Natalie Barr said. 'There's something about West Australians. 'We tell it like it is. We own what we say. And I reckon that's because we know deep down that we come from the best place on Earth.' In fact, Governor Chris Dawson said it was the people of WA that was its 'greatest treasure'. 'It is those people, and the over 3 million like them, which make this State not just a large space on a map. But a place we are all proud to call home,' he said. Premier Roger Cook reckons 'we're a friendly, welcoming bunch'. 'Maybe it's our isolation, or maybe it's just the WA way, but our sense of community is second to none,' he said. Meanwhile, Acting Perth Lord Mayor Bruce Reynolds lauded the West Aussie spirit of 'backing the underdog', 'believing in a fair go' and 'having a crack'. 'This State has a wildness to it, a vastness but also a warmth. A community spirit that's generous, honest, and quietly proud,' he said. Speaking of proud, WA has been home to some of the world's most important medical breakthroughs, famous musicians and actors and athletes that have gone on to win gold at the Olympics. Some, like American actress Kate Walsh, have swapped the lights of Hollywood for the glorious beaches of Perth, which she has made her adopted home. 'I love the diversity of WA, both geographically and culturally,' Walsh tells us. 'I have never seen a place like Margaret River or Denmark or the Kimberley, or the simple beauty of the moonrise over the Perth river, and how the light makes everyone look pink and beautiful when they have a sunset swim in April.' And faced with uncertain times, and turmoil in parts of the globe, we reflect on how lucky we are to live here, to be able to bring our families up safely without the fear of war or violence. Where there is access to world-class health care, education, and jobs, with our resources industry pumping billions of dollars into the country's economy every year. It's in recognition of that role in the nation's economic growth that Prime Minister Anthony Albanese will bring his Cabinet to Perth on Tuesday. Today, thousands of West Australians, from Karratha in the north, to Albany in the south and Geraldton in between, will gather to celebrate our State and recognise its history. Wherever you are, and whatever you choose to do to, Happy WA Day.
Perth Now
a day ago
- Perth Now
Five could release documentary film on reunion tour
Five fans could get a behind-the-scenes documentary film about the reunion. Earlier this year, the group - comprised of Abz Love, Jason 'J' Brown, Ritchie Neville, Scott Robinson and Sean Conlon – announced they were back together as a five-piece for the first time in 25 years and are heading out on the 'Keep On Movin' Tour' in late 2025. Demand for the shows and interest in the reunion has been huge. The guys have been filming everything related to the reunion so far and will be capturing the backstage and on-stage moments when the tour kicks off and that footage could end up as a documentary charting their comeback. Speaking to BANG Showbiz, Scott said: 'Behind the curtain is what people like. 'The people that come to your concerts, yes they want to see your music, they also want to see what goes on backstage. We're filming bits and bobs for our memories as well. It's so nice to look back on these moments and capture these moments because that's what people want to see, the real stuff that goes on.' When asked if the footage could become a documentary film, he added: 'We're open to it. I think it would be amazing to do something like that. 'I think people need to see it.' Jason added: 'The so called off-camera, behind-the-scenes stuff is what we're all about. Capturing that stuff gives people a really good insight into us.' One special moment fans can look forward to on the tour is that at the concerts it will be the first time all five members have performed their 2001 number one single 'Let's Dance' together. Back in 2001, Sean needed to take time out from Five due to a stress induced breakdown and he was replaced in the video with a life-size cardboard cut-out in the video for the song. The track would be their last number one before they split at the end of the year. Sean's mother has told him that she cannot wait to see all five band members perform the song together. Sean said: "My mum actually said this, she said, 'I want to see all five of you perform 'Let's Dance'." Five kick off their 'Keep On Movin' Tour' on Friday, October 31 at the Brighton Centre.
The Advertiser
a day ago
- The Advertiser
Protein all the rage for (Mr) men and women of a certain age
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. 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.
