We’d drunk like Romans (with all due respect to any Romans reading). It was late and time to go and talk to some NRL LEGENDS.

Last Thursday I was at a Hogs For The Homeless fundraiser, run by awesome ex-NRL players like Josh Perry, for Youth Off The Streets. A superb charity.

They don’t come any higher on the “legend” totem pole, than Brad “Freddy” Fittler. Most capped player for the Blues, captain of Australia and newly appointed Blues head coach! My brother and I, and three blokes from our table, went up for a photo.

A true legend.

Possibly second only to Freddy, from a Blues fan’s perspective, is the amazing Danny Buderus. A phenomenal player who looks like he’s been bench-pressing his Harley, not riding it.

Danny walked out to the car park to leave. I went racing after him, but him still being as fit as all hell and me, not so much, by the time I had covered about 5m (and stumbled), he was 30m away. I had to call out.

“DANNY. PHOTO?”

He was a long way away and my brother and I were two drunk lads, so I expected the old SORRY BOYS. GOT TO GO. But he didn’t. Like an absolute legend he ran back to us, we congratulated him on his appointment as assistant coach and thanked him.

You know what he said?

“Anything for Blues fans.”

LEGEND. Perfect selection.

Then back to the bar and who happened to be standing there all on his lonesome? Just Brad “Freddy” Fittler.

My time to shine.

In my memory the conversation went something like this.

Me – “Freddy! Can we have a chat?”

Freddy – “The day people stop wanting to have a chat my friend, is the day I lose my job.”

Me – “Freddy, I think you need help with some Blues selections.”

Freddy – “Oh.” His keenness seemed to wane.

Me – “First of all, Jarryd Hayne is on notice! If he’s playing brilliantly, he’s in. If not, he’s out!”

Freddy – “Gottcha.”

Then I went on to list out a few players who definitely should be in.

Me – “Dylan Walker deserves another chance. Both Jake and Tommy Trbojevic are absolute musts. I think you should probably look at a young, tough player like Curtis Sironen maybe.”

Freddy – “Hang on! THEY’RE ALL MANLY PLAYERS.”

Me – “Ahhh, yes you’re right…. So I suppose my ideas on Darcy Lusic and Frank Winterstein are a bit moot then.”

Then I went on to discuss others and their relative merits. Freddy, was absolutely brilliant and stayed for at least ten minutes, listening intently. He didn’t have to.

Me – “Freddy, shouldn’t you be writing these ideas down?”

Freddy (tapping his head) – “All up here mate.”

Me – “Just like a great coach.”

Freddy – “Thanks mate.”

In all the excitement, I drunkenly spilled a little of my beer.

Me – “Whoa whoa”, I yelled to my beer.

Freddy smiled.

Me – “Freddy it’s funny, with you being an NRL mega-star, I was hesitant to come over and give you my selection theories, because obviously you must have at least 20-25 percent more NRL knowledge than me.”

My brother – “You weren’t hesitant!”

Freddy – “20-25 percent?”

Me – “Yes, but then I thought stuff it, right at this particular moment being the NEWLY appointed coach, you haven’t actually selected any more Blues teams than I have. So from that regard, we are on a par. Currently anyway.”

He was patient.

Freddy – “Ok mate, what are we going to do in the halves?”

I thought it unlikely, but just in case Freddy wasn’t getting as much out of our conversation as I was, I looked for a way to give him a rap.

Me – “Well Mitchell Pearce is a good half-back, but a good half-back, needs a great five-eighth to pass the ball to and let him make most of the decisions. And we haven’t had a great five-eighth since… well since you Freddy.” I slapped him on the chest.

Freddy – “I’m happy to get a mention.”

For another few minutes I espoused my selection ideas and Freddy listened intently. Then…

Brad “Freddy” Fittler, one of my all-time hero’s, put his arm around my shoulders.

Freddy – “How about this mate? Give me your mobile number, then in May, when I’m choosing the team with Danny, I’ll give you a ring and we’ll sit down and talk selections.”

I was speechless.

This was an amazing moment.

Then with a nod and a simple “cheers boys”, Freddy turned, walked out the door, got on his Harley and rode off…

…without my phone number.

With great men like Danny Buderus and Freddy Fittler in charge of the Blues, we cannot lose.

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

At McDonald’s, I get treated like everybody else. I queue up, order, eat, leave.

It’s extraordinarily unfair!

I have been an obsessively staunch supporter of Macca’s my entire life (especially since discovering my KFC-retention problem, so the Dirty Bird is now dead to me). I have pumped infinitely more money in over the years than anybody else I know.

I deserve recognition far and above those normal Hornswood people who only look at Macca’s as a place to have a Mc-piss on a long trip.

Here’s how it should go –

Casually walking into Hornswood Macca’s, ignoring the protests I go straight to the front of the line and raise my hand towards the 19-year-old staff member, Tommy. I show him my thick, “M” emblazoned gold ring. The youngster, thinking I was going for a fist-pump is unimpressed with it.

Me – “Does this ring mean anything to you son?”

Tommy – “Nope.”

Me – “Good. It’s a few steps above your paygrade.”

Tommy – “Most things are.”

Me – “Go get your proprietor son. Say to them… the fat man walks alone. They’ll understand.”

The kid hesitates and then ambles off to the back room. The owner comes racing out after hearing the secret phrase. He looks nervous, is sweating and steals a wide-eyed look at my ring.

Proprietor – “I had no idea you were coming to my restaurant today Sir. I’m Benjamin Sherman. Benny. We don’t get many… McRing wearers in here.”

Me (looking around distainfully) – “I am not surprised to hear that, Sherman. Not surprised at all.” I frowned.

Sherman looked crestfallen.

Me – “Just joking Sherman! You need to maintain a McSense of humour.”

Sherman – “Oh, joking. Right.” He giggled uneasily.

Sherman noticed the large, middle-aged man working the chip fryer. A button around his gut, under more pressure than any button deserved to be, had popped open. The proprietor raced over and spoke into the big man’s ear, who then looked over to me questioningly and did the button up.

Me – “DON’T CHASTISE HIM SHERMAN! THIS MAN IS A SHINING EXAMPLE OF THE McSTANDARDS WE SHOULD ALL ASPIRE TO.”

Me (to the gut-baring fryer-master) – “GOOD WORK. IT’S WONDERFUL TO SEE YOU HAVE BEEN SUPPORTING THE PRODUCT.” I turn my eyes to Sherman. “You could afford to stack on a few kilos yourself Sherman.”

Sherman (to young Tommy) – “Let’s prepare a fresh Big Mac pronto Tommy! One that’s been sitting on the tray is not good enough for a McRinger. And let’s throw a heap of extra salt on the chips, a bit more lard on the meat pattie, a couple of extra pickles, upsize that Coke Zero and while you’re at it… don’t skimp on the Big Mac sauce!”

The proprietor looked to me for approval. I let him hang for a few seconds before commenting.

Me – “I like the cut of your McJib, Sherman.”

The digital board showing the other customer’s order numbers went blank, until my order was ready. Then a big Number 1, flashed up and I collected my food.

As I ate at a table, Tommy, the fryer-master and Sherman stared at me intently from behind the counter. The stout fryer-master asked what was my story and Sherman turned to the two of them.

Sherman – “He a wearer… of the McRing!”

Fryer-master (sucked in air) – “Wow! A what?”

Sherman – “The McRingers are more a part of Macca’s success over the years, than the Happy Meal, our ‘do you want fries with that’ and the highly addictive qualities of salt, sugar and fat, all combined!”

Sherman gave me a little wave. I didn’t notice.

Sherman – “We don’t know from where the McRingers have come, but he’s one of the reasons you have a career boys. The McRingers are personal friends with our founding father… Ronald McDonald himself, Grimace and The Hamburglar. They helped us win the war in the 80’s against that accursed Colonel Sanders.” He waved a fist in the air. “Some men have eaten so much product from our restaurant chain, so often, with no thought to their personal wellbeing, that they become… McLegends.”

Fry-master – “Whoaaa.” He stared at me with admiration. “He’s awesome.“

Sherman – “We proprietors have a saying – McRingers don’t have Junior Burgers, they have Senior Burgers. No McHappy Meals for them, it’s McEcstatic Meals. Their Big Macs, are Colossal Macs. Cheeseburgers are Brieburgers. Chicken McNuggets? Uh uh, Pheasant McNuggets. Their Hash Browns? Real hash!”

Tommy looked shocked.

Sherman – “Just joking on that last one Tommy. No Quarter Pounders for McRingers, One-Third Pounders. McFeasts become McOrgys.”

I stood to leave. Sherman nodded respectfully.

As I walked past them, towards the door, I stopped. They all stiffened.

Me – “Sherman. Tell me about McClub!” I didn’t look at him.

Tommy and fry-man realised the McRing was just the tip of the iceberg and there is so much more they didn’t know.

Sherman – “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never heard of any McClub.”

Me – “I repeat, tell me about McClub!” I turned and looked him in the eye.

Sherman – “I don’t know what you mean.”

Me – “McShermanator, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

He grinned from ear to ear and beamed with pride. Tommy and fry-man, high-fived and then hugged.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “HE’S NOT A WRITER”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

It’s rare somebody does something that makes their whole family, community and every single one of their friends think, gee he’s a fuc#ing tosser!

My good mate John McAndrews, is a hilarious smartass and was a really good Rugby Union player. He’s now a Hornswood man, but he was born and raised in small-town New Zealand and had the honour when he was just twenty, of playing in their club’s first Grand Final in sixteen years. So pretty much everybody McAndrews had ever known, was at the game, in fanatical Rugby mode.

There was only a minute left in the Grand Final, they were two points behind and had the scrum feed on halfway. The big men packed down into the mass of heaving bodies, stinking of sweat, armpits and scrotums. The forwards (the only men on a rugby field worthy of true respect) strained like their very lives depended on winning the ball.

Behind the scrum John McAndrews eye-balled his opposite fullback, Tapana Tangaroa. They’d been best mates for a decade and Tapana had always been a little bit better than McAndrews at… pretty much everything. McAndrews was really fast, Tapana was just a bit faster. They both played representative Rugby, Tapana played a little bit more. Tapana was getting better marks at Uni, had a car, could complete a Rubik’s cube and was one hell of a dancer.

McAndrews was desperate to overcome his best mate that day.

The hard men in the forwards having done all the work, hated giving their fate over to the glory-boy backs to potentially squander, but with a minute left there was little choice. The half back passed the ball to McAndrews, who sprinted at the defensive line as hard as his fatigued body could. To his surprise, he burst through.

No time on the clock, and a sprinting John McAndrews only had one man to beat.

Tapana.

McAndrews feigned left, then right. Tapana rarely fell for his dummy or his sidestep, but it was make or break.

TAPANA FELL FOR IT.

McAndrews was away. He had forty metres to the try line. The open, Grand-Final-winning try line! Thirty metres. Twenty.

John McAndrews, was living his dream, his parent’s dream and the dream of everybody he knew. He glanced back, expecting to see his opposition fullback about to nail him. But Tapana was on the ground, and he was the closest defender! There was nobody between him and the line. Between him and… immortality.

McAndrews (yelling to the crowd) – “McANDREWS SCORES THE WINNING TRY UNDER THE POSTS.” Still looking backwards while sprinting, he poked his tongue out at Tapana.

The game finished.

John McAndrews was lying on a gurney, staring at the roof of an ambulance. His team’s enormous, facially-tattooed Maori prop captain, was sitting next to him. It’s fair to say McAndrews was intrigued as to what had transpired.

Matui (in full Maori accent) – “It’s your first year Andrews eh? I’ve played for this club for twelve straight f#cken seasons bro.”

McAndrews (feeling terribly woozy) – “I know Matui. You’re a club legend. It’s actually McAndrews… but that’s ok.”

Matui – “This was my first ever Grand Final bro. Didn’t think I’d ever play in one. To win one, was just too much to ever f#cken dream of eh.”

Matui nodded to himself and flexed his ham-sized fists.

McAndrews – “Glad I could do my bit Matui.”

Matui – “What the f#ck are you talking bro? After announcing to the crowd you’re about to score the winning try, because you had your head f#cking facing backwards… you ran into the F#CKING POSTS bro! You knocked yourself out f#cking cold, dropped the f#cking ball and we lost the f#cking Grand Final eh.”

The gargantuan prop took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

McAndrews – “Oh.” That explained the neck brace.

His world tumbled in. He couldn’t speak, which was most unlike him. He wanted to vomit.

Matui – “You’re f#cking lucky you started fitting on the ground bro, a number of the lads wanted to beat you and when you get out of hospital I’m sure they will do just that eh.”

”Your father was too angry to get in this f#cking ambulance eh bro, so I had to do it.”

McAndrews felt like crying.

Matui (in a consoling voice) – “It’s not all bad f#cking news though Andrews. I have started a new award for the club eh bro. It’s for the player who makes the most STUPIED F#CKING PLAY of the season eh. We will call it the ‘JOHN ANDREWS IS A REAL F#CKWIT’ award.”

McAndrews – “You mean the ‘John McAndrews is a real f#ckwit’ award?”

Matui didn’t smile.

John McAndrews – “So… who won the award this year?”

Matui didn’t smile.

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

A few months ago we had a brilliant races day. Nine great mates, my awesome old man, all (except one bloke) won big and it ended in drunken Kelly-pool at my place, much to the chagrin of my lovely wife (whose annoyance was fully justified! – in case she decides this will be the first blog of mine she actually reads).

My brother-in-law “Carrot” was the “except one bloke”.

My brother and I come from a long line of gamblers, bookies and horse/greyhound owners. We grew up at the track so we know the races language and tactics better than most and this day my dad had printed his tips for us all. Carrot kept it quiet that he’d never been to the races before, which led to humorous (hopefully for non-punters also) moments.

The day after the races Carrot was complaining to my sister Doc, that I hadn’t looked after him.

Carrot – “Doc the very first race all the boys start cheering for French Bastion, which wins! But I’ve followed the sheet of your dad’s tips, like your brother told me to do and backed Reddish Devil!”

Doc looked at me like a disappointed school teacher.

Me – “Carrot, we were standing in front of the bookies and remember I said to you – Devil’s on the blow, watch if Bastion firms. Reddish Devil blew out from $2.50 to $5.50, French Bastion firmed to $3.00, so we all got on.”

Doc (nodding understandingly) – “Jeez that’s quite a blow. Did it throw a shoe in the stall or something?”

Carrot – “I didn’t know what the hell that meant! Then twenty minutes later they’re all cheering for a winner in Melbourne paying $11.00. Turns out the second page of the tip sheet has an M for Melbourne in the corner, but with my sunnies on I missed it.”

He throws up his hands.

Carrot – “Then I’m queuing to back Romeo’s Lust and as he walks past your brother says, Quinella with five.”

Me – “Exactly! Annnnd, the five won and Romeo’s Lust came in second. All the boys were collecting again.”

Carrot – “I had no idea what a Quinella was!”

He hadn’t had the best day.

Carrot – “And when I finally had my first winner, I queued up, gave him my ticket and the bookmaker says that’s not us, he’s over there. So I went to the right bookie, queued again and he says that’s us, but you collect over there. So I went and queued over there and the lady says we don’t have correct weight yet. Your brother had a good old laugh.”

I chuckled.

Carrot – “And I won a Trifecta, so all the boys said I had to shout. I did, then went to collect and I got back $27. FOR A $20 BET.”

Me – “Yeah, you really stuffed up that one. God knows what you did. Then I got a call from a mate, whose horse’s racing against Winx in the next, saying he can get us all in to the mounting yard.  We raced off, unfortunately without Carrot and Oracle (my real brother’s self-ascribed poker call-sign) who’d gone to the betting-ring. It was amazing, because we also snuck into the owners circle! We’re cheering for Winx Australia’s greatest ever horse, standing right next to the owners! Brilliant moment.”

IN THE MOUNTING YARD WITH WINX. From left to right – John (aka Sparrow), Paul (Guv), Brian (Trebles/dad), Ian (Batman), Greggy (Bundy), Me (Cool Hand), Lee (Neo) and Jase (Bolschy).

Carrot – “However, Oracle and I hadn’t both gone to the betting-ring. I’d gone to the toilet! I came back, everybody was gone. The racetrack is absolutely packed and I had to mind our enormous table. Then Oracle comes back for the race, having backed this other starter, paying $33. As the horses turn the corner, it’s twenty lengths in front of Winx! He starts cheering and yelling his head off and all the lads in the massive buck’s party behind us are getting the shits that he’s bet against Winx, who they’ve all backed. Oracle’s going berserk with his one still ten lengths ahead, bellowing and using his rolled up race form to whip me like he’s a jockey. Shouting to the buck’s blokes, UP YOURS MOTHER FUCKERS, 33 TO 1.”

“They’re hurling abuse at us and of course, Winx starts to wind in the 33 to 1 shot. Oracle’s volume get lower and lower and thankfully the race form whipping lightened up. The lads reach a crescendo of insults as Winx eventually made Oracle’s look like it was standing in mud and flew past to win. Oracle, having become silent, goes for a piss and the lads start giving me crap.”

“One at the back of the bucks threw ice and I had to duck under a flying race form. I was hit with a chicken leg which stuck on my coat. When Oracle returned, I told him I was actually happy that one of the bets I missed, didn’t actually win. Especially a 33 to 1 shot. And he tells me he went Each Way, so he still made a fortune! WHAT THE FUCK IS EACH WAY??”

Me – “We return high-fiving and hugging after such an emotional moment with a champion like Winx.”

Carrot – “The crowd was enormous when we were leaving-”

Me (interjecting) – “In a Jesus-turning-water-to-wine miracle, two empty cabs miraculously pulled up in front of us. All the lads piled in. A cop had forced Carrot to wait for the green walk signal to cross and made the two cabs leave with us crammed inside. He had to wait forty minutes and get one by himself. Once he got to my place, he thought oh shit, where are my sunnies.”

IN THE MOUNTING YARD WITH WINX. And Ian (aka Carrot).

If you haven’t read it before, check out my previous blog about my poor Pommy brother-in-law’s first day in Oz https://writehandman.com.au/2017/02/13/pommy-welcome-to-oz-a-blog-by-jason-gram-write-hand-man/

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

My brother and I played ninety-eight Port Macquarie lads in a wonderful charity poker event a few months ago. The $100 entry fees all went to the trust, so we were playing for nothing more than pride. Good-hearted, piss-taking banter abounded. I’d been lipping-off incessantly about what a sensational player I am and how I’m called Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign) for a reason.

Here’s what happened.

In Texas Hold ‘Em (the Cadillac of poker), you end up with five communal cards on the table and your two cards (called “hole” cards). You then make the best hand, with any combination of the seven.

The communal cards were K 9 K Q Q. When those last two cards came out the Port Macquarie lads immediately yelled “TWO SYDNEY BOYS.”

My two hole cards were Jacks, which were great at the start of the hand, but by the end, being lower than the KKQQ communal cards, were not going to win.

Matty the doctor, had committed a big chunk of his chips. Johnny the plumber, Phillip the lawyer and myself, had already gone “all-in”, meaning we had bet every chip we had. The pot was MASSIVE.

The doctor turned over his hole cards. Ace, 4.

Damn. His Ace, plus the KKQQ, was the winner, assuming nobody had another K or Q in their hands. I readied myself to chuck in my losing cards and head to the bar.

The plumber flipped his pair of 7’s with a loud cheer, incorrectly thinking he had beaten the doctor’s Ace.

Lawyer (yelling loudly) – “READ ‘EM AND WEEP JOHNNY.” He proudly flips a pair of 8’s, thinking he had just pipped the plumber’s 7’s, out of this enormous pot.

I was ready to say “sorry lads, but Matty has knocked us all out.”

It didn’t come out that way.

Me – “YOU CAN BE THE BEST PLAYER IN ALL OF PORT MACQUARIE, AND THAT WON’T EVEN MAKE YOU THE BEST PLAYER AT THIS TABLE BOYS! DOCTOR’S ACE, PLUMBER’S SEVENS OR LAWYER’S EIGHTS, NOT ENOUGH AROUND HERE. THERE’S A HORNSWOOD MAN AT THE TABLE!” I flipped my (losing) Jacks.

I held my breath.

They all groaned.

Me – “Bar’s over there boys! You put up a much better show than I was expecting. You play just like we do in Sydney… but less hard… with not as much skill… or insight… with a slightly feminine twist”.

They hurled all sorts of light-hearted abuse at me and left the table.

About an hour later, I had been knocked out and we were standing around having beers.

Lawyer – “F#ck Cool Hand, you knocked me and Johnny out in one hand.”

Me – (with a smile) “Don’t feel bad Phil… I cheated.”

Doctor – “Wait… What?”

Plumber – “Cheated???”

Even my brother had a look of astonishment.

Me – “Had no choice. I was looking at an early exit.”

Oracle (my brother’s self-ascribed poker call-sign) – “And the next hand you used those ill-gotten chips to knock me out mother-f#cker.”

Me – “It’s the age old question fellas. If somebody cheated in a charity poker event, and nobody caught him, did he actually cheat?” I gave a nonchalant, what can you do shrug.

Oracle – “YES YOU CHEATED!”

Me – “Hang about, let’s not use the word cheat, let’s go with… bamboozle. Oracle, some of these boys are fairly new to the game, but by you not catching me on the bamboozle, you’re an enabler! On some level, I’m the real victim here, my reputation could have been sullied.”

They stared at me, dumbfounded.

Me – “I just saw an opportunity you guys were offering, to bamboozle, and took it. You were all so excited about 7’s being beaten by 8’s, that I knew you’d be totally thrown by my Jacks. I expected Oracle to loudly out me as a cheat, but he was chatting and missed it.”

I sipped my beer.

Me – “The bamboozlement was not premeditated, but once done, I had to cover my tracks. You must be brazen when collecting chips you haven’t won, or people may intercede. You put your illicit booty just to the side of your proper chip stack, so if you get caught bamboozling you just act embarrassed and slide them back into the centre. Once you’ve bamboozled, you quickly rake in all the cards, so even if somebody is unsure, the moment’s passed.”

Plumber – “Are all North-Shore blokes dodgy?”

Me – “Aaaah, you know… it feels good to come clean. It was getting me down, being a charity event and all. Like a pasta-engorged Mafia boss confessing to a donation-loving priest, it’s like it never happened. Let’s not forget lads, we’re all here for a common cause! We’re all here for the right reason! We’re all here to make a difference! We’re all here raising money for bowel cancer! AM I RIGHT BOYS?”

Plumber – “Prostate cancer.”

Me – “Oh, whatever. Whose shout?”

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

Every third person on the Upper and Lower North Shore, has a law degree. They’re my people, so I’m not anti-lawyer. However…

After a thousand beers, I was busting at a Hornswood Christmas party. There were four people in the toilet cue, so I discreetly headed to the backyard (I know, I know, it’s uncivilised, but my wife had already left, so I had no etiquette compass).

On my way I heard two cigar-smoking guys on chairs in the backyard, mention NRL, so I got sidetracked. I shook the hand of the first guy, Jack Townsend. I went to do the same with the big guy. He put his hand forward, patronisingly limply.

Me – (with a friendly smile) “Jeez mate, your hand’s so flaccid I thought you wanted me to kiss it!”

Jack laughed. Old limp-hand, not so much.

Old limp-hand – “Oh how terribly droll. I am Thomas Davies the third, SC.”

Me – “SC?” I pondered. “You’re not… Santa Claus?” I jokingly pointed at his large gut. “I’m Jase Gram… TCEB.”

Old limp-hand/Thomas Davies III – “SC… Senior Council.”

I realised Thomas Davies III wasn’t taking the piss. That’s actually the way he introduced himself.

Thomas Davies III – “To what does TCEB refer?”

I felt a little inadequate.

Me – “Oh… I thought we were just mucking around. It stands for The… The Clint Eastwood of Bloggers.”

That made him laugh. At me!

Me – “Thomas Davies the third. I know that name.”

Thomas Davies III – “A lot of people do.”

Me – “Weren’t you the rich old guy on Gilligan’s Island?”

Got him.

No laughter.

Me – “Is that a Pommy accent I hear Thommo? You-”

Thomas Davies III (interjecting) – “No, I am just educated. It’s Thomas, in point of fact!”

Me – “Did I hear you lads mention NRL?” The hostility was getting me down.

Thomas Davies III – “I would only mention the NRL if I was in court defending one of their players.” He looked at my drink. “Why am I not surprised you put Coca Cola in your whiskey?” They smiled at each other rudely.

Me – “It’s rum, in point of fact!”

Got him again.

Thomas Davies III – “Do not take this the wrong way, however I have little desire to talk with you.”

Me – “Hmmm, how many ways can I take that?”

Thomas Davies III – “I just don’t think either of us will gain anything, from us having a colloquy.”

Me – “A what?”

Thomas Davies III – “A conversation.” Damn, he was smart.

I was desperate to urinate and he wanted me to leave, but I did not want to give him the satisfaction.

Thomas Davies III – “You simply will not be able to contribute on our topic?”

Me – “Oh yeah? Upon what topic are you palavering?”

Got him a third time. I’ll see your colloquy and raise you one palaver!

Thomas Davies III – “The law.”

Bummer

Me – “The law it is then, Thomas Davies…” I deliberately left off “the third”.

Thomas Davies III – “Unless you are a lawyer… you… wont… understand. Are you?”

Me – “Well… no I’m not, but you didn’t know that.”

Thomas Davies III – “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

Me – “I’ll take that as a compliment!”

Thomas Davies III – “It wasn’t meant as one.”

Me – “Too late! I have taken it.”

Got him once again.

My bladder was about to explode, but I wasn’t budging.

Thomas Davies III – “You’re a blogger. How cute. To the housewives about cooking or makeup? Obviously not clothes.” He sure knew how to hurt.

He pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time.

Me – “So bloggers can’t be intellectual hey? Tell that to Richard Van Der Sande.” Fake name.

Thomas Davies III – “Who?”

Me (to Jack Townsend, I pointed my thumb sideways at Thomas and said dismissively) – “This guy.”

Got him. It had become easy.

Me – “It’s been wonderful Law Dogs, but I have to urinate.”

Thomas Davies III – “Charming.”

Me (as I walked towards the back fence) – “You the urine police? WHO WEARS A THREE-PIECE SUIT TO A PARTY ANYWAY?” I gave him the bird over my shoulder.

Thomas Davies III – “IN A SUIT IS HOW I AM MOST COMFORTABLE.” Man, he had an answer for everything.

I had never been in my mate’s yard before. In the darkness I didn’t notice it dropped away at a 45 degree angle. I stepped out and in a shower of rum and Coke plummeted into the abyss. I tore all the muscles on the top of my left foot (which was to take about a year to repair) and was rolling around in absolute agony. I couldn’t walk.

Me – “FELLAS! HELP!” Silence.

Me – “JACK! THOMMO? BE THE FIRST TO HELP A POTENTIAL LITIGANT?” Further silence.

I was hobbled. I had to swallow my pride.

Me – “THOMAS DAVIES THE THIRD?”

Thomas Davies III – “Yeeees?”

Finally they came down and helped carry me back towards the house.

Me – “Either of you know a GOOD lawyer?”

I was in intense pain and had drink all over my shirt.

Me – “Lads… I still have to piss.”

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

A few weeks ago, thanks to the generosity of some great friends, we were staying in a fancy ski lodge. I had a run-in with six 100% vegetarians in the café underneath.

My wife had already had dinner, so she went upstairs, while I waited for mine.  On the next table sat three ridiculously good-looking couples with perfect clothes, skin, hair and teeth (it was like a table full of Osmonds). They all ordered gluten-free.

Not them, but you get the idea.

The vegetarians had been drinking, were laughing loudly and yelling. I suspected they were wealthy Eastern Suburbs preppies, they weren’t down-to-earth like Upper and Lower North Shore folks.

Me (walking over to their table) – “Howdy Chad’ster (I’d met Chad in the lobby). It’s good to meet fellow vegetarians! You’re ALL gluten intolerant?”

Chad’s wife (I didn’t get any of their names) – “The six choose no gluten.”

I burst out laughing. I stifled it immediately upon realising she wasn’t joking.

Chad’s wife – “You’re a vegetarian?” She seemed surprised.

Me – “Hells to the yeah! I must admit, though it seems a lifetime ago now, I only came into the light fairly recently.”

Chad’s little mate – “I can’t even look at killers of innocent animals, eating carcinogenic meat. The smell makes me want to puke. Don’t let me get started on the ecological footprint! They’ll all die early, and rightly so.”

Me (not quite knowing what to say) – “I had a vegetarian frittata for lunch.” I smiled proudly.

Chad’s wife – “If it had a face, or if it had a mummy, it won’t end up…”

All the vegetarians answered loudly – “IN OUR TUMMY.”

I was taken by surprise and reeled back slightly.

Me – “Vegetarianism purges my body of past dietary sins. And God knows I’ve committed more than most!” I patted Chad on the back.

My food arrived, so I returned to my table.

Ten minutes later I could hear hushed voices coming from the vegetarians. I flashed a look at them and they were all giving me the old stink eye!

Waiting a few moments, pretending I was reaching for the salt, I snuck another look and there were six great-looking, Eastern Suburbs vegetarians, glaring daggers at me! What had I done?

I heard Chad’s wife’s raised voice, “WELL I’M GOING TO SAY SOMETHING IF YOU WON’T.”

After a few minutes I got a tap on the shoulder. It was Chad with a weird look on his face.

Chad – “Jase, you told us how wonderful it is to be a vegetarian.” He slurred his words a little.

Me – “Yeah mate. Wonderful.”

Chad (pointing at my dinner) – “You’re eating a meat pie.”

I heard Chad’s wife call out “It’s disgusting… HE’S disgusting”.

Me – “What? Oh.” With a friendly chuckle. “I am a vegetarian Chad’ster, but not in the traditional sense. I do eat meat every day.”

I sipped my beer.

Me – “But Chad’ster, I’ve had meat for lunch and dinner, every day of my life. But, now I only have meant ONCE a day. It’s literally a 50% drop in my meat intake. In fact if you include my breakfast of vegemite toast, I’m actually 70/30 vegetarian.” I smiled.

Chad – “Meat every day?”

Me – “ONCE a day only Chad’ster. 70/30, so I’m just rounding up.” I smiled warmly.

Chad – “You cannot call yourself a vegetarian! The six are vegetarians. YOU’RE NOT.”

Me – “You call yourselves the six? Chad’ster I’m… predominantly vegetarian, so surely I should be able to use the cool title.”

Chad – “You’re having meat every day for crying out loud.”

Me – “Of course it’s hard for me to be considered a vegetarian when compared to you purists, you hundred percenters, but surely there are different levels. Anyway, it’s your vegetarians fault, for not having a term that describes somebody who is… pretty much, vegetarian.”

Chad – “YOU’D BETTER STOP.”

I was taken aback by his aggression. I cut off a huge piece of pie, mouthed to Chad “I’m a vegetarian” and defensively shoved it in my mouth. It was really hot.

Me – “Looook Chad’ster, I’m on holiday with my family. I don’t want any trouble. I’ve become 70% since Sunday, but what if, in the spirit of compromise, I don’t call myself vegetarian until I’m say… 80/20?” Chad shook his head.

Me – “How about this, what if I call myself… a Meagan? A meat eating vegetarian.”

Chad – “YOU’VE BEEN OFF MEAT SINCE SUNDAY??? TODAY’S ONLY THURSDAY!!! WHAT SORT OF MAN ARE YOU?”

Me (sensing Chad’s dissatisfaction I quickly racked my brain) – “How about a vegemeatagain?”

Chad gave me a look that said, God I hope the bottom falls out of your share portfolio. All the vegetarians stood up to leave, just as my lovely wife arrived.

Chad’s wife (she stopped and staggered a little at my table) – “We all think what you’re doing is a HORRIBLE… loser.” On they walked.

Me – (speaking to my wife, loudly so the vegetarians could still hear from the door) – “I SHOULD HAVE GONE VEGETARIAN AGES AGO DARLING! IT’S BLOODY EASY!! I MAY NOT BE A HUNDRED PERCENTER, BUT THE COW IN THIS PIE CERTAINLY WAS!!” I rammed some more pie in my mouth.

My wife looked incredulous.

Me – “Not my fault! The six are vegetarians who won’t let me call myself one!”

My wife – “I was gone ten minutes!”

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

I’m sure he wont have any problems with me putting it out there into the public domain, but when we were in primary school, my little brother Linc had behavioral issues. They were convinced he was hyperactive, so being the 70s he received more than his share of Phenergan. But looking back now, maybe it wasn’t completely his fault.

I am three years older. I don’t remember ever bashing or physically bullying him, however I pranked and took the piss out him, mercilessly.

One Wednesday during the school holidays our grandparents took us, along with my sister and mum, to the David Jones Dining Room in the city. We were born and raised at Bilgola and back then, DJ’s was about the flashest place we ever went. We knew we had to be on our absolute best behavior. We had to have showers, comb our hair, wear collared shirts and no sandals! I even had to wear my special Rockie Racoon dress sloppy-joe.

So we were sitting there, all dressed up, us kids bored out of our minds in the restaurant. Mum kept giving us “don’t you dare embarrass me” looks from the other end of the table with the adults, so we just sat.

I thought of something to do to keep us entertained. I unscrewed the cap from the pepper shaker and poured all the pepper and the mysterious bits of rice into my hand.

Me (ten years old, to my seven year old brother) – “Look Linc!”

When my brother, who was sitting next to me turned around, I blew the entire contents of the pepper shaker into his face.

He screamed and started gouging at his eyes. He sneezed, yelled, coughed, tried to breathe, his eyes and nose ran. He squirmed around in his chair.

Mum spun to us. I gave her a shrug, as if to say I don’t know what the hell he’s doing now.

She did one of those yells at him, which are not big on volume, but big on fear factor.

Mum – “LINCOLN! DON’T YOU RUIN THIS DAY. SIT UP. NOW!”

My brother managed to do a heavy-breathing, stagger to the bathroom.

I gave mum a thumbs up, to signify that my sister and I would keep him under control. It’d all be ok.

After a long time Linc made his way back to our table. He was wobbling a little, he kept rubbing his eyes that were as red as the number 3 pool ball, he was breathing with a wheeze and when he sneezed a small cloud of pepper flew up from his hair. However, he was fine and the old “condiment in the face” gag had certainly broken the monotony.

Mum continued to give him the old stink eye from the other end of the table.

When Linc sat down, he looked around for his glass of Coke. He knew he’d finished it, but was desperate for there to be that one final skerrick left in the bottom. Anything to ease some of the pepper burn. His mood lifted dramatically when he spotted his glass on the other side of the table, noticed the bottom ¾ of his bright green straw, was Coke-dark. He still had a sip left!

I handed him his glass without any shenanigans. I knew he needed it. I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for his pepperisation.

My brother then sucked in ¾ of a green straw full of Worcestershire Sauce!

Apparently, his drink had been interfered with, when he was in the bathroom.

He collapsed to the DJ’s Dining Room fancy carpeted floor, gasping for air, retching and thrashing around. Making quite the scene.

I hooked a thumb in his direction and gave Mum a look that said, this guy! What are we going to do? It’s getting harder and harder to control him. Phenergan time?

Linc continued to writhe around on the floor and looked like he was possibly about to die.

Mum – “LINCOLN. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU.”

Later that night, Linc (who still cannot eat oysters Kilpatrick to this day) was still wheezing and his eyes were still red, so I thought I’d make it up to him.

Me – “You’re always complaining you can’t beat me at anything because I’m older, well let’s have a comp to see who can last the entire night in the shoe cupboard.”

Linc – “That’s stupid!”

Me – “Well, the shoe cupboard’s tiny. You’d have a big chance of winning.”

My brother was interested. So we spent the next half hour working out the rules.

(1) You obviously cannot remove the shoes. So we had to sleep in a tiny, cramped box, wedged on top of Dunlop Volleys, brown school shoes, Ugh boots, thongs, gum boots, sandals and dress Desert Boots.

(2) You can’t leave the cupboard except to go to the dunny.

(3) The cupboard door had to be closed the whole time.

(4) We tossed a coin, my brother won and took the first go.

During the night I knew he hadn’t shoe-cupboard-suffocated because every hour or so, I’d hear a relieving Worcestershire Sauce and pepper cough. He did indeed last the whole night with the door closed, except when I had to open it once to throw in a sandal, which I found under our double bunks.

When he slowly extricated himself from the shoe cupboard the next morning, it looked like one of those bizarre contortionists we used to see on “That’s Incredible”. First one leg popped out, then an arm flopped out.

He looked like a skinny Quasimodo, but he was so excited that he’d made it through the entire night.

Linc – “I DID IT. I DID IT. THERE’S NO WAY YOU’LL BE ABLE TO LAST THE WHOLE NIGHT. IM GOING TO WIN THIS THING. IM GOING TO BEAT YOU.”

Me – “It’s ok,” I said with to him with a pat on the back. “I don’t have to spend the night in the cupboard.”

Linc – “Why not?” He looked concerned.

Me – “You win.”

I walked off.

Linc – “What?”

It’d be REALLY awesome if you left a comment on my blog, Share via the Facebook button below, or just give the Facebook post a thumbs up. Check out my new writing business, which allows me to now claim I am in fact, a professional writer (www.hornswoodexpress.com.au). Cheers.

My brother Oracle (his self-ascribed poker call-sign) twenty or so years ago was living in Wimbledon with our sister “Doc”, directly opposite KFC! It’s the dream location as he shares my addiction to the dirty bird but does not suffer from my KFC retention problem.

Oracle one day was hungover and desperately hanging-out for a 2-Piece Feed so he headed across the road.

Oracle (to the KFC worker) – “Hi, could I please have a 2-Piece Feed and swap the drink and the roll, for a piece of corn?”

KFC worker Lenny – “I’m very sorry, no.”

Oracle (quickly doing the maths) – “But you’re 70 pence better off.”

Lenny – “Swap the drink and roll for a buttery-golden-corn?”

Oracle (with a smile) – “You got it.”

Lenny – “I’m very sorry, no.”

Oracle – “I feel we’re getting nowhere here Lenny. Could you ask your manager?”

Lenny – “I know what she’ll say.”

Oracle – “What?”

Lenny – “I’m very sorry, no.”

Oracle tried a new approach. He hunkered in closely to speak man-to-man.

Oracle – “Leeenny, we’re reasonable men. You’re just doing your job, and doing it damn well by the way. Can you make this happen for me? Nobody needs to know but us Lenny, if you know what I mean.”

Lenny – “I’m very sorry, no.”

Oracle (now feeling just a tad angry) – “I’m feeling just a tad angry here Lenny. You’re potentially ruining my finger-licking-good experience.”

Lenny – “What if everybody wanted to do it?”

Oracle – “What if word of your customer-pleasing attitude gets out, there is a ground-swell and you’re suddenly awash with customers trying to get some of the buttery-golden-corn swap action that results in you making an extra 70 pence each time?”

Lenny – “Yeah. We may run out of corn.”

Oracle – “Here’s an idea, (my brother beckoned for Lenny to lean closer and cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled). ORDER MORE FREAKIN’ CORN!!”

As a result the Shift-Manager came around the counter.

Shift-Manager – “What’s going on here?”

Now I am not passing judgement in any way (being 114.4kg I am in no position to), however the Shift-Manager was… obese.

Oracle – “The discussion seems a bit out of the jurisdiction of young Lenny here. With just a tiny bit of flexibility, you have the opportunity to make an extra 70 pence profit for the owner of this fine establishment and keep one of your most regular customers, extremely happy by just swapping the drink and roll for a corn. A win/win if I ever heard it.”

Shift-Manager – “I’m very sorry, no.”

My brother thought he should use her name. He dropped his gaze to the name tag, pinned near her highly-stressed buttons.

Fatima.

Now this next part sounds made up, but I kid you not, this is how it happened.

Oracle, flustered, accidentally got tongue-tied on the name.

Oracle – “Listen here, Fat… Fatima.”

Oh no, he thought, did I just stutter and call this obese Shift-Manager, FAT Fatima? Maybe she missed it.

By the time he raised his eyes, she was fuming. Fit to burst!

Shift-Manager Fatima (she pointed right into Oracle’s face) – “LIFETIME BAN!”

Oracle – “Oh God no! I’ve got a two-year lease.”

Shift-Manager Fatima (yelling out) – “STAFF, IF THIS MAN EVER SETS FOOT IN HERE AGAIN, RING THE POLICE.” She waddled back to the office.

My brother left, distraught.

He sat at home for two days, going cold turkey (excuse the pun) and feeling like his world had come to an end. Living directly opposite KFC and not being able to walk in for a fix, is a situation akin to torture for either my brother or myself.

That was until he thought of… sending Doc!

So the charade went on for about three weeks. Doc would buy the stuff he needed and sneak it back to their unit (via the unit’s back door so Shift-Manager Fatima would not see).

Until…

One day Doc’s in the KFC queue. She feels a chubby little Shift-Manager-Fatima-finger, poke her on the shoulder.

Doc froze.

Shift-Manager Fatima – “You’re in here a lot, with your Australian accent ordering buttery-golden-corn with your 2-Piece Feed.”

My sister was totally freaked out, but she stood mute.

Shift-Manager Fatima – “Reminds me of another Australian, who received a… lifetime… ban! You wouldn’t know anything about that would you??”

Silence.

Shift-Manager Fatima – “KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU BUY FOR SOMEBODY WHO’S ON A LIFETIME BAN??”

Doc – “OF COURSE I KNOW!”

My sister in reality had no idea what happens if you buy KFC for a lifer.

Shift-Manager Fatima – “I’m watching you.”

So Doc sheepishly bought KFC for Oracle, herself and their friend James who was due to arrive at their place any minute and snuck her way back into their unit.

Later, their doorbell rang and Doc got up to let James in. When she let out a squeal Oracle, buttery-golden-corn in hand, rushed to the door.

He saw my sister, ashen. In front of her stood Shift-Manager Fatima, puffing from having crossed the road.

Shift-Manager Fatima – “LIFETIME BAN FOR YOU MISSY!”

So there are now TWO lifers from Wimbledon KFC. Both my siblings.

True story.

And by the way, it’s not the first time my brother’s done something stupied, check it out (https://writehandman.com.au/2016/03/20/how-to-offend-at-a-mothers-gathering-a-blog-by-jase-gram/)

Check out my new writing business, which allows me to claim at parties that I am in fact, a professional writer (www.hornswoodexpress.com.au). It’d be REALLY awesome if you left a comment on my blog, Share via the Facebook button below, or just give the Facebook post a thumbs up. Cheers.

Gladiator – “AT MY SIGNAL… UNLEASH HELL!”

One of the great movie lines, by none other than the amazing Russell Crowe. It’s memorable, it’s powerful, but when you’ve been drinking with the boys all day and you deliver it to Rusty himself… not so much.

I was with five mates on Geoff’s old, mid-sized yacht, anchored at Woolloomooloo. We were staying the night on the boat, so the six of us had been drinking irresponsibly all day.

My buddy Tony and I are MASSIVE Rusty fans. We’ve watched Gladiator many times, quoted it often and regularly dreamed of being the Gladiator. You can imagine our excitement upon learning on social media that Rusty himself had been sighted partying on an enormous cruiser, just off Woolloomooloo Bay Hotel, 200m away!

We could see his cruiser! Rusty!

Geoff – “Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign) we’ve been drinking heavily since midday, it’s now 11:00pm. We’re all maggotted! It would be insane for me to drive anywhere, especially through that throng of mega-boats. It’s pitch black!”

Me – “But it’s Rusty! You know how many Gladiator quotes Tony and I know. He’ll love us. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Geoff – “Ok I’m in!”

There we were, motoring slowly through all the multi-million dollar boats, with a legless captain, drunk crew, on our way to pull up next to the Gladiator. Ooh yeah!

We weren’t crazy. We positioned two blokes at the front, to signal if there was anything coming up Geoff had to avoid. I stood on the side of the yacht and waited until we were close enough to possibly spot Rusty.

I was getting nervous. I could actually see my idol standing with a group of beautiful people at the back of the enormous cruiser (our yacht was not huge, so we lacked a bit of nautical cred).

As we neared, Tone and I had already planned which line I would throw first.

MY NAME IS MAXIMUS DECIMUS MERIDIUS, COMMANDER OF THE ARMIES OF THE NORTH.

I could see Rusty clearly, when our two spotters started to get a little agitated.

Mike (at the front of our boat) – “GEOFF, THERE’S A MOORED DINGHY STRAIGHT AHEAD. VEER TO PORT.”

Geoff, driving from the back of the yacht, did not react.

Col – “GEOFF! YOU’RE GOING TO HIT A DINGHY IF YOU DON’T GO TO PORT SIDE!!” They were waving their hands around frantically. Geoff plowed on ahead, unmoved.

Being in the middle of the boat, I could hear Captain Geoff was saying something. Inebriated as I was, I knew this was probably spotter-essential information.

Me – “QUIET SPOTTERS! GEOFF’S SAYING SOMETHING.”

I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES AND I... Oh no, he was singing.

We were so close to Rusty now, he was staring straight at us.

Me (dropping my voice a couple of octaves) – “MY NAME IS MAXIMUS DE-”

CRUUUNCH.

We went straight over the dinghy and the mooring and our yacht slammed to a sudden, noisy halt. With a yell, my bourbon and I went flying. I landed on my side with a thud, nearly went overboard and was only saved by that annoying knee-high wire that runs around the boat.

We all picked ourselves up. I gave Rusty a thumbs-up to signify I was ok and we all made our way to the back of the boat.

Col – “WHAT THE F#CK GEOFF??”

Geoff – “Sorry (with a chuckle), too drunk to react.”

We realised Rusty was still standing there watching us.

Tony – “AND I WILL HAVE MY VENGEANCE IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT!”

I gave Tony a nicely-selected-and-presented-quote, nod.

Geoff picked up the closest knife from the table and dived overboard.

Keep in mind, it was the middle of the night, the current was strong, we were in Sydney Harbour and he’s as full as a Hornswood train. I assumed Geoff was going to be taken by some sea-predator (who would have thought himself pretty lucky with a beer-infused late-night meal), drown or be run over by Rusty’s cruiser which had its engine running.

Tony – “MY NAME IS GLADIATOR.” Rusty was still standing there watching us. He did not react.

Me – “Tone, you have to drop a couple of octaves.”

Matt – “Geoff took the cheese knife.”

I hurriedly leaned over the side.

Me – “WHAT WE DO IN LIFE, ECHOES AN ETERNITY.” I put a concerted effort into that line, it was one of the biggies. Despite my drinking, I was pretty sure I sounded Gladiatorial.

After a while we started to get a little concerned for Geoff. The water was black as pitch and we could not see him.

Tony – “AT MY SIGNAL, UNLEASH HELL!” Still no reaction from Rusty, but he kept on looking at us.

Me – “Nice tone… Tone.” Tony and I high-fived.

With a loud TWANG sound and a jerking motion, we knew Geoff had cut us free. It was a relief for about thirty seconds, until we realised we were drifting rapidly towards Rusty’s cruiser. Geoff was still somewhere in the water. We started to panic a little. We didn’t know how to drop the motorized anchor chain, nor start the engine.

Tony – “WHATEVER COMES OUT OF THESE GATES, WE’VE GOT A BETTER CHANCE OF SURVIVAL IF WE WORK TOGETHER.” Due to our panic, he didn’t deliver that line with anywhere near the passion it deserved.

Suddenly Geoff materialized, sopping wet with our cheese knife between his teeth. We cheered, he started the engine and slammed the boat into reverse. We eventually came to a halt, about three metres from making the front page of the Daily Telegraph.

I knew I only had one final chance to impress Rusty, in hope of him leaning over the side and saying, hey lads, you’re pretty passionate with those quotes. Why don’t I join you?

Me – “STRENGTH AND HONOUR.” I put my fist over my heart.

Rusty leaned over the side. We all rushed to hear him.

Rusty – “You guys are f#cking idiots.” He walked off. His voice sounded different.

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NRL (aka League) and Rugby Union, have very different fan bases, at least they do amongst my friends.

I have great mates who live in the Western suburbs of Sydney and they absolutely love their NRL. A few years ago I watched the NRL Grand Final with them, in Campbelltown (a long way from Hornswood). I also have great mates who live in Hornswood and they absolutely adore their Rugby Union. I watched the Bledisloe Cup with them, in Roseville (Rugby Union heartland).

THEY DRINK DIFFERENT GROG.

Me to my NRL mate, Grand Final night – “Howdy Crotch-Rot, where do I shove my Coronas?”

NRL mate – “You don’t want me to answer that, because the answer involves your arse! Coronas? Oooh la-di-da… very fancy! Chuck ‘em in the f#cking esky! Just near the bottle of Bundy that the fat prick brought.”

Me – “I tried, but the esky’s full of VB and Reschs!”

Me to my Rugby Union mate, Bledisloe night – “Hello James, where do I place my Coronas?”

Rugby Union mate – “Coronas?? Cheap cat’s excrement! Put them in the glass-faced fridge. Just near the bottle of Pinot Gris Andrew brought.”

Me – “I tried, but the fridge’s full of Asahi and Grolsch!”

THEY WEAR DIFFERENT CLOTHES.

Me to my NRL mate – “Hey Scumbag, nice aqua coloured flannel. Too good for you. Where’d you get it?”

NRL mate – “F#ck knows. The missus bought it. Lowes in Macarthur Square I think. It’s not aqua!”

Me – “Does your sister know you’re wearing her shirt? Nice handlebar moustache too… not as good as your sister’s.”

Me to my Rugby Union mate – “Hey Andrew, nice pink shirt. Where’d you get it?”

Rugby Union mate – “Thanks you Jase. Egyptian cotton mixed with Belgian linen. I got it from my London tailor. It’s not pink though, it’s fuchsia.”

Me – “Huh, it looks local.”

THEY EAT DIFFERENT FOODS.

Me to my NRL mate – “Jeez that barbie smells great dick head. What are you burning the crap out of for us?”

NRL mate – “Shit head, we got T-bones and we got snags!”

Me – “I’m so hungry I could eat Kym Beazley stuffed with bacon.

Me to my Rugby Union mate – “Gee whiz that barbecue smells great Walter. What are we having?”

Rugby Union mate – “Jase we have Wagyu scotch fillet and we have pheasant-camembert-pistachio sausages.”

Me – “I’m so hungry I could eat Joe Hockey stuffed with quinoa.”

THEY GAMBLE DIFFERENTLY.

Me to my NRL mate – “I got a Bradman on this game Dirty Phil, you got any bets on?”

NRL mate – “Yeah. I won fiddy on the pokies, so I put it on the Doggies at minus five and half.”

Me – “Good bet.”

Me to my Rugby Union mate – “I have a hundred dollars wagered on this game Cameron, have you got any on?”

Rugby Union mate – “No way! You’re a compulsive gambler Jase. I can’t believe how much you bet on a football match”

Me – “Huh? You just put $30,000 into Billabong options based on one article you read in the Financial Review!”

THEY HOLIDAY DIFFERENTLY.

Me to my NRL mate – “You going away for the holidays Swineherder?”

NRL mate – “Ooh shit yeah. Taking the caravan to the Central Coast. Fishing, surfing, snorkeling, sunbaking, kayaking, beers and barbies.”

Me – “You could have just said going to the Central Coast, wanker.”

Me to my Rugby Union mate – “You going away for the holidays Robert?”

Rugby Union mate – “Ooh yeah. Going heli-skiing in Normandy.”

Me – “You could have just said going to France or skiing, tosser.”

THEY THINK DIFFERENTLY, OF THE OTHER GAME.

Me to my NRL mate – “What do you think of Rugby Union, root-master? I’ll be watching the Bledisloe with a whole bunch of Roseville mates.”

NRL mate – “I F#CKING HATE THAT GAME. Too many stoppages, feigning of injuries, the number of fat-boy players, the ref’s interpretations can screw the game and it’s just sooooo bloody complicated. It’s designed for your silver-spoon, SBS-watching, BMW-driving, private-school, trust fund, lobster-nibbling, tax-evading, suit-wearing, white-collar snob mates.”

Me – “It’s the thinking man’s game root-master, and you’re obviously just not a thinker.”

Me to my Rugby Union mate – “What do you think of NRL, Xavier? I’ll be watching the Grand Final with a whole bunch of Campbelltown mates.

Rugby Union mate – “I REALLY HATE THAT GAME. It’s so predictable, bash it up the centre five times and then kick. Their scrums are a joke and the players all take turns being arrested! It’s played by thugs and morons, for the viewing pleasure of your wage-earning, Pauline Hanson-voting, tree-removing, TAB-visiting, KFC-eating, Home And Away-watching, Commodore driving mates.

Me – “You are such a freaken snob, the simplicity is what’s so great about it.”

I don’t know if my mates represent the wider community or not, but just like Judas Iscariot, Sonny Bill Williams and Benedict Arnold, I am happy having a foot in both warring camps.

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I came home the other night and I was… really, really drunk. No other way to describe it. Maggotted! Which I don’t do very often.

I struggled up my hallway, trying my best to make no noise, without turning on any lights. I didn’t want to bring any family attention to my… condition. I eventually made my way to the kitchen. I flicked on the light, revealing to my horror, sitting upon one of the apples in our fruit bowl, an enormous cockroach!

We both looked intently at one another. I felt myself swaying due to my intoxication, so I grabbed the bench to steady my wobbling body.

Me – (to the cockie) COCKIE! Where’s my spray?

I was in no condition to be in control of toxic gas but I looked around for the can.

Cockroach (to me) – My name’s Lenny, and I f#cking hate humans! You see this apple I’m sitting on?

This was not a situation I was expecting, to say the very least.

Me – Um… yeah.

I didn’t really look at the apple. I looked around the kitchen. I was indeed alone, just me… and the cockie.

Cockroach – I had wild sex with my wife on that apple, two nights ago. And this red one next to it, I shat on that, just last night. And that yellow nectarine there next to the apple, my wife and I had sex on that one about an hour ago! So, UP YOURS human! I hope you enjoy the taste.

The cockie looked at me smugly.

Now I knew I was pissed, however I just stared at the talking cockie, absolutely incredulous. Stunned.

Me – HOW much sex, are you getting???

Cockroach – As much as I want man. I’m a fucking cockroach! We don’t have fancy cars, fancy holidays, nice clothes, all we do is eat, drink and have sex!

I nodded, impressed.

Me – Quality? Maybe his world wasn’t so perfect after all!

Cockroach – Superb! So FUCK YOU MAN. I HATE ALL YOU HUMANS.

I was getting a bit annoyed by his aggression.

Me – Just wind it back a bit mate. Maybe we don’t like you and your type either.

Cockroach – UP YOURS! ALL HUMANS ARE LOSERS!

Me – Well… at least we don’t have the word “cock” in our name.

I wish I had somebody there I could high-five. I smiled at him. That one put him back in his place.

Cockroach – A few times a week, me and my cousin Shane, try to wipe our arses across your mouth without waking you up.

Me – WHAT??? YOU MOTHER F#CKERS! He’d crossed the line.

Cockroach – And old Shano scratches his balls on your toothbrush most nights. It’s the blue one right? He says it makes his nether regions smell nice and minty, for the ladies, if you know what I mean. He chuckled.

Me – BASTARDS!

I reached for the can of Pea Beau on top of the fridge, and then had to hold onto the fridge to steady myself again.

Cockroach – What are you going to fucking do man? Spray the whole fucking bowl of fruit?

He had a point.

Me – MAYBE I SHOULD JUST SQUASH THE WHITE CUSTARD OUT OF YOU. Get out of my house Lenny! This is not going to end well.

Cockroach – Your house??? Yours? My ancestors have lived here for 39 years mate, so fuck you!

I thought it was time to take a bit of the heat out of the confrontation.

Me – How many kids you got?

Cockroach – Fourteen thousand, seven hundred and four, spread all over Hornswood. He clicked his fingers.

Cockroach – Actually, fourteen thousand, seven hundred and two, due to an issue with some baits under a fridge in St Ives on the weekend.

Me – I’m sorry to hear that Lenny.

I’m not completely heartless.

Cockroach – No… you’re… NOT!

Me – True, I’m not. Now, I’m going to have to kill you… Lenny.

Cockroach – GO FUCK YOURSELF. SHANE AND I’LL BE SEEING YOU IN ABOUT TWO HOURS. ENJOY THE FUCKED-ON FRUIT MATE. I CERTAINLY DID. Remember, we can survive a nuclear blast. WE MAKE YOUR WOMEN SCREAM!

Me – Hey, that’s gender stereotyping Lenny!

I raised the Pea Beau and Lenny raced off the apple and ran down the side of the bowl. Can in hand I circled the bowl, but he wasn’t there!

I lifted it up, but like magic he was gone. He had disappeared. I thought, how do they do that?

The next morning I was hung-over like a dog and my wife asked me why the fruit bowl and my toothbrush were sitting in the fridge. I didn’t know what to tell her.

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Sometimes I get in trouble for occasionally saying inappropriate things. However, if you knew my siblings, you’d understand that it’s not my fault. It’s genetic.

My brother Linc, managed to completely offend a gathering of Hornswood mothers, a few years ago.

His wife was working, they’d only moved to the area a few weeks earlier and he found himself the only bloke invited to a Lindfield Public School mother’s luncheon.

He lacks no confidence, at all, but Linc was a bit nervous about having lunch with ten women he’d never met. He’s a bit unsure what he’s going to add to the conversations of the ex accountants, lawyers, marketers and executives that often make up the Hornswood mother’s groups.

So there he was sitting, not saying much, with ten mums around a living room table. They were all talking up a storm, but he was content with a beer in front of him, a tiny but very tasty chicken sandwich in one hand and a brown-rice sushi roll on his plate just awaiting his pleasure.

This was a much better sandwich than he was used to.

One of the mums spoke loudly to the hostess, who was seated at the other end of the table next to Linc.

Caroline – “How’d your sphincter-tightening operation go Suzy?”

Linc’s ears immediately pricked up. What the?? Sphincter-tightening? That’s a thing?

Hostess Suzy – “Painful, but all good Caroline. Thanks for asking.”

My brother was unsure what to say to such a public airing of such a private matter. But it made him think what the hell was I nervous about? These Hornswood mums clearly aren’t uptight at all. On the contrary! That Suzy looks like she’s snobby, but looks are obviously deceptive.

He was immediately reminded of a personal story he could recount, now that Suzy had made it permissible to tell any medical, below-the-waist stories.

Linc – “I never knew you could get that done, but I suppose we’re all getting older Suzy.”

Suzy looked at him, a little blankly.

Linc – “That makes me think ladies, of when I was going for my scuba diving license.”

He felt very sure everybody was going to enjoy his story, it always got laughs. All had gone silent to listen to the new guy.

Centre stage.

Linc – “To get your scuba license you have to give a urine sample. To make a long story short, they found blood in my urine, which turned out to be nothing, but I had to go in and have a camera put up the eye of my penis.”

My brother doesn’t mess around for long when he’s on the Centre State. He gets straight into it.

Linc – “So I’m fully bombed out right, having the procedure when suddenly I wake up! Now I was expecting the camera operator of course, doing his thing down there, but holy-crap, it looked like there was not just the cameraman, but a director, actors, two or three extras, a claperboard guy and the catering lady. It was a full house! People everywhere!”

Still nobody spoked. Linc thought, they’re intrigued. 

“There was a cast of thousands all standing around watching as a doctor pushed a camera into the eye of my (he searched for the right word)… schlong.” Damn he thought, that wasn’t it, but keep going. “Then all of them immediately looked at me as they realised I’d woken up mid-procedure. Being drugged, I panicked and started to writhe around. And writhing around is not something you want to do when somebody has placed a camera into… my old-fella.” A much better word.

A big team.

This was going well.

“Anyway, they bombed me out again and…”

Linc noticed that all the women were sitting in stony silence. A few of them were looking a bit ashen faced and a couple had their mouths slightly ajar.

Hostess Suzy – “Oh… my… God. We’ve only just met you Lincoln. Do you think it’s appropriate to tell a disgusting story like that in my house??”

Now my brother instantly felt highly embarrassed, confused and more than a bit defensive. How had he so misread the acceptability or otherwise, of his break-the-ice-story? He put his legs down on the ground, he had propped them up on his seat adding a bit of a demonstration to his words.

Linc – “What?? You were the one who told everybody you’d had your…” He thought for a second. “Anus tightened!!”

All the Hornswood mums sat still. Silent. My brother learned an important lesson that day.

Apparently we all have a sphincter in our stomach.

He left the gathering shortly after.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs, oftentimes simply to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

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Cheers. Jase. 

Nothing screams “CHRISTMAS” in our Hornswood home more, than having eight bottles of Hahn Super Dry (low carb) and challenging your brother-in-law to a push-ups competition. Nothing! Santa, nativity scenes, carols, tinsel, coloured lights, presents, Christmas trees, Hahn Super Dry and push-ups. It all goes together.

I was explaining to my brother-in-law Toby, how after a period of about 20 years of inactivity and fatness, I now have the world’s greatest personal trainer (Wayne Nicholls PT – he deserves a plug) and push-ups have become my area of expertise. With proper technique I had recently set my record at an enormous 25 (keeping in mind I weigh 112.4 kg, so when I push-up, I’m pushing up a fair bit).

Me – “Come on Tobe. Don’t be soft. WE GONNA GET IT ON, ‘CAUSE WE DON’T GET ALONG.” I did a little Ali shuffle, raised my hands in a pre-emptive victory celebration, dropped and assumed the push-up position.

1…2…3…4…5…

I was feeling pretty good after the first five. My shoulders knew what was coming, they were surprised it was happening on Christmas day mind you, but they were sort of ready.

6…7…8…9…10…11…12…13…

STAY FOCUSED! My Shoulders and biceps weren’t quite screaming yet, but there were certainly getting rowdy. KEEP GOING.

14…15…16…17…18…19…20…

PAIN AND SUFFERING! I was really hurting. The arms were shaking, my face was red like Clive Palmer in a sauna.

21…22…23…24…25…

I HAD EQUALED MY RECORD, but it wasn’t enough for me. Not this day. Not on this stage. In front of the family, under my own roof, in my domain! I wanted… no, more than that, I NEEDED, to smash my record. I needed to set an un-beatable total, which I could laud over Toby until probably the next Christmas.

26…

My arms wobbled like a gelatin dessert. PUSH! The last one was going to be slooow.

27… YES!!!!

I’D SMASHED MY RECORD!!!!

I collapsed onto the floor, then I jumped to my feet. I was sucking in the big ones, my face burned and veins bulged, I was sweating, I couldn’t move my arms and wanted to vomit up my 8 Christmas Super Drys. But I’d done it. 27!!

Me – “IN YOUR FACE TOBE! YEAH!! TWENTY SEVEN BIG ONES. HIGH SOCIETY! WHOA MOMMA.”

Toby didn’t say anything but I could tell he was concerned. He’s seven years older than me, well past his prime at 54. I was rushing around the room, obviously trying to get a crowd chant of “TWENTY-SEVEN” going, while high-fiving my brother and his wife, my elderly Spanish mother-in-law (who thought I wanted the remote control), my son and my wife (who actually refused to return my high-five and just left me hanging).

Toby dropped to the ground and started his push-ups painfully slowly.

1………2………3………

I knew he had no chance. One of my push-up record-attaining secrets, is to start fast, so when you hit the wall, you’ve got a decent number on the board.

Me – “Watch that left shoulder mate.” His technique was actually flawless and there was nothing wrong with his left shoulder, but I had to start the piss-taking somewhere.

4………5………6………

Me – “Need a breather mate? Jeez twenty-seven must seem so freaken unattainable just about now.”

7……..8………9………

I’d never seen slower push-ups. All that cannelloni and beer had had a bigger impact on him than I’d anticipated.

Me – “Is it too late to get a bet on? Tobe, you know, LOTS of ladies have difficulty getting over twenty.”

10………11………12………

Me – “Do you want your sister to take over mate?”

13………14…….…

Me – “It’s not your fault… It’s not your fault… It’s not your fault.”

15………16………17………

Me – “Don’t worry Tobe. It’s not that you’re weak … it’s just that you’re very fat.” He actually isn’t fat like me, but a good sledge, is a good sledge.

18………19………

Me – “Maybe, to be fair, I should do push-ups and you should do… Jenga.”

20………21………

Damn, now I was getting a little nervous. He was getting close to my magical number and his pace was still exactly the same. I needed a really hard-hitting sledge to put him off his game.

Me – “YOU GIRL’S BLOUSE.” Damn, that one was much more effective in the 80’s.

22………23………24………25………26………27………28………29………

I won’t bore you with the details, but once he had beaten my record by twenty, he stood up. Forty seven.

He wasn’t puffing, wasn’t red in the face, wasn’t sweating, his arms weren’t shaking and he could walk properly. His sister (my loving wife), gave him a quick, loud high-five and handed him back his Super Dry. He sat down, sipped the beer and they continued their conversation. It was like he’d just left his seat to change the channel.

My brother – “Another beer Tobe?” My brother high-fived Toby.

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A mate told me he didn’t love my last blog, because the punch-line wasn’t very funny.

Punch-line?? I explained that I’m not Rodney Dangerfield telling a “did somebody step on a duck” gag. My blog is my musings on things that strike me, as I drag myself through life as a Hornswood dad.

Case in point.

My wife and I were in San Francisco a few years ago, at a carnival, when I spied an “I’ll Guess Your Weight” stand (very American).

Now I am, fairly… broad. Broad in the shoulders, broad in the legs and broad in the gut. The thing with broadness, is that people ALWAYS severely underestimate my weight. They say “you carry it well,” which of course means “you’re fat, you carry it well.”

I look about 12kg (26lbs) less than I really am. I know this because whenever the subject of weight comes up and I tell people I’m 112kg, they inevitably say, “wow, you don’t look any more than a 100“.

Anyway, I’m thinking, a guess your weight competition is tailor-made for me. My KFC Retention Problem, is finally going to do some good.

So you pay $5 and if they guess within 3lbs, they win. If they are wrong, but are within 6lbs, you get to pick a prize from the first two (dodgy) shelves. However, if they are outside 6lbs, you get to pick from the entire stand! It was a big stand.

It was my turn. They handed me a microphone. There were about fifty people standing around watching the entertainment and the carnie had picked the last eleven players correctly, so the crowd was right into it.

I knew he wasn’t going to get within 20lbs of mine and I’ve always had a chronic, un-abating distrust of carnies, so I was playing it up a little.

Cigar-smoking carnie – “I’m Calvin. Where you hail from son?“

Me – “I’m from SYDNEY, CALVIN. AND YOU AREN’T GUESSING ANYWHERE NEAR MY WEIGHT MATE.”

The crowd cheered loudly. I got the sense they were keen to see somebody knock Calvin off his high-horse. I was just the man to do it. Calvin chewed on his stogie.

Carnie Calvin – “We take a disliking to loud Aussies here son.“

Me – “That’s all right Calvin. I’VE ALWAYS HAD A CHRONIC, UN-ABATING DISTRUST OF CARNIES.” The crowd cheered again.

Calvin was getting angry. He’d lost the crowd, despite having won the last eleven weighs. He walked around me three times, mentally calculating my height, my clothing and (I assumed mis-calculating) my broadness.

I tried to put him off a bit. It was a battle of wits, for the ultimate prize – a five-foot tall, foam-filled, Spongebob Squarepants.

Me – “Calvin… that’s a funny name for a carnie. Just so you know mate, I’ll be taking that big Spongebob.“

The crowd oooh’d. They all admired the massive Spongebob sitting pride of place, atop the stand.

Me – “Hey Calvin, maybe you’re just not used to guessing Aussie weights. Maybe there’s just more to us than meets the eye Calvin. If you know what I mean.” The crowd laughed at Calvin. He was fuming.

Me – “Factor in Aussie girth Calvin.” A bit rude, but I was on a roll!

My wife – “JASE.” She was not enjoying my battle with Calvin.

Me – “Shoulder girth I meant, darling.“

Calvin was ready to guess.

Me – “Do you want a hand getting Spongebob down Calvin?” Everybody laughed, I was loving having a microphone.

Carnie Calvin – “YOU’RE TWO HUNDERED AND TWENTY THREE POUNDS SON, OR ONE HUNDRED AND ONE KILOGRAMS.” He smiled a wily old smile at me. He was confident.

I threw my arms into the air in a victory salute as I stepped onto the scales. 246 LBS, 112 KG!! I HAD WON! YES!!

The crowd roared. I pointed at Calvin and his face reddened. His run had been put to an end by the loud Aussie. I had secured a hard-fought win.

My wife walked off when I started “AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE.”

A few hours later when we were leaving, a Japanese tourist was trying to console his youngster who’d just dropped his fairy floss onto the ground only to have it rolled over by guy moving a keg of beer.

Because we were stepping on to a plane that night, I gave the kid Calvin’s massive Spongebob. The father was very grateful and became excited when he recognised me from my earlier triumph.

Japanese dad (in a thick accent) – “Hoh, you Australee fat man!“

I had no way of informing him that I had in fact won the competition for being deceptively fat, not just for being fat.

My wife just shook her head.

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Some people in our street about ten years back, threw a get to know the neighbours party. They seemed nice.

By about midnight, I’d committed a couple of the common, wife-annoying, social faux pas we all make from time to time – dropping a wafer-thin slice of pavlova onto the snooker table and not managing to stifle my laughter when Benny (the host) revealed to us all that he plays his ukulele and sings by himself every night.

Suddenly the front door opened and two young lads walk in, looking a bit… out of sorts. I saw one subtly slip a shiny, black, leather-bound hip flask into his back pocket.

Shiny, black, leather-bound hip flask.

Host Benny – “RICHARD, COME AND MEET EVERYBODY.”

It was pretty obvious Richard the son and his mate had been out on the drink and the last thing they felt like doing was chatting to oldies they’d never met.

Me – “Been out for a few cleansing ales hey boys?” Just being friendly.

Richard – “Bible study.”

That was a witty retort from Richard, but he delivered it in an arrogant, dismissive, twenty’ish-year-old way and smiled to his mate.

It annoyed me. I knew they’d been out drinking, I wasn’t going to judge them in front of all those people I didn’t know (I was in no position to), but why did he have to answer as if to say you’re all too old to understand having a good time, so we’ll just call it bible study.

Me – “Seriously boys, where have you been?” I was trying to be polite, but was not prepared to play the old fool role.

Richard – “Bible study.” He winked at his mate!

That was too much. He’d been out drinking. I knew it. He knew I knew it, but nobody else seemed to know it!

Me – “Rich, you and your mate have been out on the piss. No twenty something-year-old lads go to bible study at midnight on a Saturday. So don’t come in here with your bull. The boozer? A mate’s house? Out with some ladies?”

Richard – “Bible study.”

Me (in my best mocking tone) – “Oh riiiiight, biiiible study. Well why didn’t you say so Rich?? That’s what we’ve been doing tonight too!” I pointed to my beer. “Yep, had about five hours of intense bible study so far. I’m as studied up as a newt! If I do any more bible study, I’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow. I’m actually backing up because last night I went out with a half a dozen mates, I think we had about ten schooners each of bible study.”

This went on for a little while. Unfortunately, it turned out that Richard and his friend, had indeed been at bible study that night.

Damn.

My wife – “Time to go Jase.”

Me – “THAT’S NOT MY FAULT! What twenty two-year-olds study bible ON A SATURDAY NIGHT??”

The two young lads started up the stairs and then, even through my foggy mind I remembered… the hip flask!

It was my smoking gun. My one-armed man.

Me – “BEFORE YOU GO RICHARD.” I had to speak loudly, as they were halfway up the stairs and truth be told I wanted everybody to hear my vindication.

Richard – “Yeees?”

Me – “NOTHING REALLY. I JUST THOUGHT I’D ASK… WHAT’S IN YOUR BACK POCKET?”

Little Richard looked stunned.

Host Benny – “Richard?”

Me – “WHAT YOU GOT BACK THERE RICH? SOMETHING FROM BIBLE STUDY??” Squirm son, squirm!

He reached into his back pocket, very hesitantly.

I felt like throwing up my hands in victory. However, the moral high ground beckoned. I wasn’t going to gloat. I was better than that.

Richard, slowly, pulled out a shiny, black, leather-bound… bible.

We weren’t invited back to their house.

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