I miss this

I know I know. I have been extremely slack. Trust me. I’m more disappointed than you are. I’d like to say there are several reasons for my lack of writing this year..  Travel. Adventure. Love. Drug overdose from a 72hour coke binge? Ha. I could be so lucky… But there isn’t. Writer’s block? perhaps. But no. Fear and loathing would be the reasons I associate with the scarcity of entries this year.

When I started up this blog almost 12 months ago, I really had no Idea what to expect. Or what to make of it. I’m pretty sure I only began the stupid fucking thing to impress some chick. Luckily, quickly soon after, I began to realise that it was indeed something I did thoroughly, truly enjoy. And by most accounts, It would seem that others may have too.

Strangely, I fell in love with the entire writing process. The initial Idea. The thought process. The execution of forming words into sentences. Forming those sentences into paragraphs. The opening. The body. The closing statement. All the shit you should have been paying attention to, in Ms. Higgin’s high school English class. I hated it back then. I fucking love it now.. Submitting a draft.  Proofreading said draft. Making a thousand amendments. Before finally, publishing. The moment you publish is still the best part. There’s an adrenalin rush in publishing something for others to read. There’s fear. Anguish. Excitement. Elation. All rolled into one. I cant really liken it to anything else. Kicking a winning goal? Taking a game winning shot? (I’ve done neither).. perhaps.

But even after It’s published, I’ll still re-read the finished product and submit more changes. There hasn’t been a single entry I’ve published so far (bar one), where I haven’t gone back, re-read, re-wrote, and re-submitted.

And that’s half the fun. Publishing for the third, fourth or sixteenth time is just as exciting as publishing on the first try. My record for changes, to an already published post, is sixteen. Searching for dirty thirty. My first post. I swear I’ve changed this one so much from the original, that I don’t even know what I was on about at the time. But the revisions are all part and partial with the process. There has only been one entry that I’ve published and let stand. The walk of shameStill to this day, my favourite one. Short. Sweet. Spot on. Nothing will encapsulate the moment as well as that beautiful piece of literary art. Yeah yeah ok. I wrote about getting laid. So of course it’s going to be my favourite one. Whatevs. But re-read it again. Its nothing short of genius. Nothing I have written has ever flowed so well. All of it written in one go… On a fucking tram no less.. The morning after indeed getting laid… Boom. Favourite.

And that is what I miss. Formulating words that encapsulate moments and events in time. Apparently, a picture tells a thousand words. Well.. I cant fucking draw.

When this whole writing thing started a year ago, someone asked  ‘whats the point of all this?’, ‘I don’t know’ I replied. ‘I just like the thought of leaving something behind’.

Now its just a matter of experiencing shit worth writing about.



Jessie’s Girl

You all know the song. The Aussie classic, that will undoubtedly always get a play at your local watering hole on a Friday night. You also, all undoubtedly know the lyrics. And without hesitation sing along every time. You’re also legless, and dancing like a spastic at this stage.

“Jessie’s Girl! I wish I had Jessie’s Girl!”

You sing the lyrics. With beer in hand, a half-cocked eye, and spit careening through your slur. The lyrics you know by heart, and you never miss a beat.

But, did you ever take the time to listen to the words?

Well 2.0 did.  And let me tell you, Rick Springfield is all kinds of fucked up. (we listen to Goldies at work, it was just after the new year. work was slow).

The song is about Rick Springfield’s crush on his, supposed, good mate’s missus. Stop there. That’s already fucked up. You may admire or find attractive, the respective wags of your crew. But you definitely are not telling anyone. Let alone penning a song and telling the whole world about it.

So I began to ponder the motives Tricky Ricky had when writing this song. And I can only come to one conclusion. Rick Springfield is a jerk.

Let’s pretend that this song was based on actual events. Here’s Rick. Secretly yearning for his mate, Jessie’s missus. Thinking to himself – Hmmmm how? How do I do this? How do I make her mine? Hmmm. Let me think. Well.. I am Rick Springfield. Perhaps I should write a song about her? And then broadcast it to millions around the world. Yes!! That should win her over. I shall title it: Jessie my good friend, I’m about to cut your motherfucking lunch (working title).

What a jerk.

If this was indeed the case, then there are two likely scenarios to come of this.

1/ The song fucking worked. The catchy tune quckly became a world wide success. And with all of Dick’s new fame, and the subsequent glitz and glamour, Jessie’s Girl has actually left poor old Jessie, and is now Rick’s girl (gold digging whore).

or.. the most likely outcome.. 

B/ Jessie’s Girl has called Rick a creep, proceeded to bitchslap him (granted and deserved), and Jessie has kicked the living shit out of Dicky (again, granted and deserved). The two get married. Have a beautiful family. Grow them up in the outer suburbs of Melbourne. Live happily ever after…  And Rick, after penning such a great track, is still alone. Heart still yearning.. and now, he’s also managed to lose his best mate.

Although..  the song did hit no 1 on the Billboard charts shortly after it was released in 1981, launching a long and illustrous career, where Dick made millions in fortune, travelled the world, and gained millions of fans to satisfy his every whim. 

Whilst Jessie and his girl raise their family in Frankston..

So in the end..  who exactly wins?

2013 Melbourne City2Sea race report

Although I had previously mentioned that I wouldn’t participate in these stupidly long fun runs again.. lo and behold, here we find ourselves. My brother in law, the Jangulator, and I did this 14km fun run last year. He loved it. I hated it. He signed up again. I did not. He called me a pussy. I digressed. Signed up. And joined 14,000 other suckers..

Preparation: Due to a recent challenge set by housemate Dennis, I had been running quite a fair bit in recent months. But it was never more than 6 and a half clicks at a time; that I usually ran about 2 to 3 times a week. I still thought that anything over 10km was just too hard basket and I never had any intention of doing this 14km City2Sea. But Jangulator called me a pussy.. like a child, I was insulted.. So I checked my calendar to make sure I didn’t have anything on (these runs are always scheduled for Sunday mornings, thus wrecking your whole weekend). Fortunately, my schedule was clear… and I signed up. Aint nobody callin me a pussy. Next day, a message from a mate – 30th birthday drinks… The day before the run… Fuck. Oh well. Small hurdle. Press on. The fortnight leading up to the race I decided I wouldn’t drink. It took me all but three days to determine that this was a stupid idea. So I drank anyways. But. I never got proper pissed. Yeah. that should help.

Lead up: Strong. I continued with my challenge of running home sub 35. Smashed it in a controversial 34.43 (Dennis is yet to pay up the free meal). Chucked in a couple of 10k runs in anticipation of the extra distance. Didn’t drink… much. Felt pretty good. Followed a pre-race diet the days leading up to the race. You can find a whole bunch of crap online, regarding dieting before a big race. Carbo loading (eating a shit load of carbs in the days leading up for energy) and all the rest of it. I mostly never adhered to this rubbish. But this year I thought I’d at least give it a crack. Wouldn’t hurt I thought. The day before the race was indeed my mate’s 30th, which I chose to attend. I intended not to drink. But couldn’t help myself and ended up having a few beers anyway. What? Beer is a carb.. and then wisely, phantomed from the party before any real damage was done.

Race morning: Weather forecast was 22 and sunny. Last year, the heat killed me. So when I woke up to find the air crisp. I was quite relieved. We arrived nearly an hour early before the race started. Perfect. Time to get a good stretch in. And then with about 20min before the start.. it hit me. The sudden urge to take a shit. In runner’s circles you may have heard of the term “runner’s trot” – It’s basically a dire and urgent need to take a shit during long periods of strenuous physical activity, because of the amount of prolonged strain on your body. Here is an example:


So in fear of becoming this poor, poor poor bastard. I quickly bolted for the loo. Crisis averted.

The start: As I never intended to run this year, until Jangulator called me a pussy, I unfortunately  had signed up late. The start is broken up into sections. Seeded and preferred runners go first (The hardcore runners who aim to win the damn thing and run sub 60 minutes). Then the red group next (serious casual runners aiming to run sub 80). Then finally, the general green group (runners/walkers who don’t really give a shit about time and just want to finish). This is the group I wanted to join. Its by far the best perve. Full of fit young females who generally take care of themselves, but aren’t hardcore fitness freaks. Unfortunately, the green start was full when I signed up and I had to join the red group (sub 80). This made me nervous. Although I had been running a fair bit recently. I would hardly call myself serious, and cracking 80 min for 14kms generally isn’t suited for the part time runner – full time smoker/drinker. But what could you do..

St. Kilda road (km 1 – 4): Usually starting from the general pack, the first km is fairly slow as the crowd slowly dissipates and you are able to find open space. Not this year. Starting with the serious red fuckers, we pretty much started running as soon as we crossed the starting line. I have a pretty good steady pace heading down St. Kilda rd. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought and all my pre-race nerves was unwarranted. I quickly notice though that the talent around me is.. terrible. Not a looker in sight. Just some hardcore, middle-aged runners. Nevertheless. I march on. Somewhere around the 3 km mark, I have an urge to take a leak. Not to worry. I’ll just block it out and hope it it goes away… It does not. Fuck.. Thankfully, theres portaloos just after the 4km mark. But I have to wait. And probably lose a minute or two.

Albert Park Lake (km 4 – 10): Last year, this was the section that hit me the hardest. This year was no different. There’s no shade around the lake, and this is when the sun gets to you the most. So you try and look for other distractions to get you through.. Hmmmm there’s a good looking ass. Finally! A girl that doesn’t look like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2. This bunny should get me through the next few km.. Or maybe not. You’re a little too quick for my liking. Why are you going so fast?.. fuck. I struggle to keep up and back off.. No worries babe. I’ll see you at the finish.

Fitzroy st and Beacy pde (km 10 – 14): As you run down Fitzroy st, you know you’re well over halfway and almost home. But this just makes it harder. By this stage, your legs are jelly and you’re basically just running on fumes. This is when your mind starts to turn on you. Each km marker seems ridicuolously far and surely, they’ve made some sort of mistake.. Fuck. where the fuck is the marker??? surely ive ran over a km since the last mark? You guys have fucked up. Why are you fucking with me????..                             Yes! drinks station! I grab 2 cups of water and a cup of gatorade. I completely miss and end up wearing it instead. Fuck. Fuck this. Why the fuck did you sign up for this shit? Because he called you a pussy? You are a pussy. You’re a fucking idiot 2.0. You need to die. I hope you become 3.0. Idiot!.. This inner battle continues for the remainder of the race.

But as you finally hit the 13k marker, you realise you’re home.. Yes! 2.0 you are a fucking legend. Fuck the haters. I never doubted you for a second. After the race, I’m going to get you liquored up. You deserve it. I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You are by far superior to 1.0..

The finish: With about 500m to go, I see 3 girls running together. Naturally.. I speed up and focus on my running technique. I’m absolutely struggling at this stage and this kills me.. you idiot… I cross the line in an official 79.55. I cracked the 80. Better than half the male field in my age bracket. Also beating last year’s time by over 5 minutes. I quickly grab my medal. Grab 2 drinks. Light up a dart. Head to the pub. Drink until I cant feel feelings anymore. And promise myself, that I will never ever do this, ever the fuck again.

Yeah. I’m a pussy. What of it?

They called him Kelly

Today marks my dad’s 62nd birthday. Tonight, the family’s going out to celebrate with some fine food and some exceptional bottle(s) of wine. Because this is how he rolls.

Except, he wont actually be here to partake in the celebration. He suffered a heart attack four and a half years ago and passed away, and sadly wont be joining us. But this is what we do, and this is how he would’ve wanted it. Some fine dining, accompanied with some fine wining. He has always been boss like that. He enjoyed the decadent, finer things in life, no matter what. No matter the consequence. Or repercussions. A good time always took precedence. It’s probably where I get it from. If he went out with a grand. He’s spending 2.

But I could never ever possibly understand how he was wired. The man was cut from the old school. He was a philanderer. A wheeler and dealer. A playboy. A schmoozer. Hard as nails. Smart as a whip. Charismatic as fuck. Think Don Draper mixed with Tony Montana. Throw in a bit of Michael Corleone, a little Jake the Muss.. And you’re probably not even close. He could be at Crown being wined and dined by Lloyd Williams one night. And be kicking it ghetto with a bunch of mates the next. People loved him. People hated him. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Loved life. Loved his family. And really, didn’t care for much else.

He was by no means a model citizen. I’m fairly certain he was never in contention for father of the year.. sure, he had a couple of nods for father of the week. Maybe even throw in a couple of father of the months.. but he loved his family dearly, and did everything (and I do mean everything) to show us the best things in life and give us what we wanted.

Case in point, our family trip to America in 1990.. it wasn’t so much the trip. I mean plenty of families have taken trips overseas. But on that trip there was one moment that showed me, at what lengths dad would go to, to give us what we wanted, and exactly what type of man he was. Being seven, I definitely didn’t appreciate it at the time. It was only recently that I fully understand the magnitude of the moment.

Growing up, I was obsessed with Michael Jordan. And I do mean obsessed. T-shirts. Jumpers. Trackies. Jackets. Hats. Shoes. Socks. Posters. Bed linen. You name it. If it was red, white and black, and had the number 23?… then I was rocking the fuck out of it. So you would’ve imagined the joy of a 7 year old boy, going to Chicago to watch his idol play basketball. This isn’t even the insightful thing. I recently re-read one of my many books (12 in total) on Michael Jordan. The author wrote of how, at the time, Jordan was coming into the peak of his fame. And how the old Chicago Bulls stadium had become a fortress of security to protect its main star attraction. First, you needed tickets to get into the stadium. Then needed passes to get to the court. Another pass to get to the basement. Another to get through the media area.. And finally, a pass to get to the area outside the locker room, where only family and team officials were allowed.

And yet that’s exactly where we found ourselves after the game. The locker room area.. Players. Coaches. Team officials. Cheerleaders. Refs. Beat reporters. Wags.. and… an Asian family from Melbourne?? I still recall telling Jordan’s dad that I flew all the way from Australia to watch his son play. I didn’t get to meet the man himself. But this was good enough. And something I will never forget.. be it, how many stairs I fall down.. Which begs the question. How was dad able to get us into this area? Who fucking knows? But this is what he does. This is what he did. Network. Shit talk. Meet the right people. Grease the right palms. Take names. Cash cheques. Basically, get shit done.. I can barely get into most clubs in Melbourne. He’s overseas, sneaking his family into high security, restricted access areas.

I’ve always wanted to ask him how he did it. How he got us in there. Ever since I had read about it, it always intrigued me how he was able to get his family into that highly secured area. But It was too late. He was gone. And I will never know. I didn’t appreciate the moment until many many years after the fact, much like him.. I didn’t really appreciate dad and the things he did, until after he was gone. Most of the time, growing up and especially in my teens, I just found him over bearing, high maintenance, overly strict, and at times, just straight out annoying. It’s probably the time he’s been gone, the last half of my twenties, when I should’ve appreciated him the most.. and heeded his advice on things like, taking names and cashing cheques.

Even at the time of his passing, I can’t recall a real sadness. He was overseas at the time, and when I got the phone call, my reaction, can only be described as.. artificial. A asinine hollywood reaction. It took time to really sink in, and Its in the last few years, that I have felt a deep seeded sadness for him not being around anymore. Sadness knowing, that he will never get to meet my wife (whoever the fuck she may be). Know my family. Hold his grandchildren. Watch them grow. A deep seeded sadness that he will never ever be able to tell me… how the fuck he got us into the locker rooms of Chicago Stadium! So yeah, I miss him heaps.

But yeah, probs not as much as my mum. Recently, I came out of a relationship that barely lasted a month. But I was devastated. I couldn’t sleep. Coudn’t eat. Couldn’t function. Had the Xx on repeat. Yeah, I know how stupid that sounds. And looking back now, in context is absolutely absurd. I’m fairly certain, if my dad was still here, and had heard about this ridiculousness, he would’ve bitchslapped the stupid out of me. But it happened. I was devo. And that was only a month. Now imagine losing someone after 30 plus years?? I certainly fucking can’t. I cant begin to fathom what mum has been through. I honestly don’t even want to think about it…

However, it has been over 4 years now since he passed. And I’d like to think we’ve all moved on.. So this is what we do. We eat. We drink. We share stories. We celebrate. My brother’s favourite story of dad? The time dad replied “fuck you” to the kid at the maccas drive thru, after the kid gave him his meal and asked him if there was anything else he wanted… Baller.

So happy birthday old boy. This one is for you. Tonight we wine and dine and celebrate your life. Tonight I pour a bottle of top shelf cab sav on the ground for you (when I say top shelf, I mean 20buck chuck. And when I say on the ground, I mean down my throat). I look forward to the time we meet again in the next life, and you can finally impart with me how you got us into Michael Jordan’s locker room. But for now, that can wait..

Right now, I’m going to go give mum a hug. Im sure she is needing it.

And why was he affectionately known by a blonde, white girl’s name? Well… Michael – Mi-Kel (filo accent) – Kelly. Yep. Yeah you’re as bemused as I am. It’s a filo thing. And could not be explained even I tried it. I also have a cousin named Wowee and an uncle named Bong. Go figure…


08.11.51 – 15.02.09

Update 2.0

The latest update on thirty-five minutes. And an update, on the update, PB. (which, by the way, stood for personal best… not potential blowout)

Yeah I still haven’t broken it. But, I have come excruciatingly close… How close? This close in fact..


Yep. Six seconds.Six fucking seconds. Wait. no. 7 seconds to be exact. I’m pretty sure if I’m bang on 35 minutes, Dennis will get me on some sort of technicality – “Oh I said break 35 minutes”. Yeah, hes actually a dick like that..

This was tonight. And included a toilet stop, 2 sets of lights that wouldn’t fucking turn green, and a dick riding his pushie on the sidewalk, that wouldn’t get the fuck out of the way.. Why didn’t I go to the toilet before the run? Who fuckin knows? It just all adds to the frustration of being six seconds off. Oh wait. Seven seconds.

And I realize I said, that I wouldn’t post another entry until I’ve broken this stupid 35 minute mark. I haven’t published anything In over a month, and I’m fairly certain that my legion of readers are becoming dreary. But thankfully, I actually don’t care anymore. This was close enough. Meal or no meal at my beloved Village Belle/Doulton, I’ve decided the pointless dribble shall continue..

Speaking of my beloved Village Belle/Doulton, I hadn’t been there in a while. Probably not since I wrote my last entry. Mainly because the footy is over, and now its just creepy if I go there on my own. However, I did go there on Saturday night, and lo and behold, a new bevy of barmaids are now working behind the bar.. Granted, there’s no more wifey. But there is a fresh batch of British girls to fall in love with. I was certain that the girls from last summer would return after they went on their fruit picking hiatus. But hey, new is good..

Hmmm.. Perhaps I do need to break 35 minutes, so I can claim my all expense paid meal from Dennis. He actually tried to weasel out of this tonight. Probably after seeing how close I am, he claimed that he said, he would shout me nachos. nachos?? nah uh Dennis. ALL expense paid meal. Its published and is now written in lore. Surely you can’t lie to my legion of followers.. (12 followers to be exact. And I’m pretty sure one of them is my mum).



An update on one of my previous posts, thirty-five minutes.

You may remember a couple of weeks back, a challenge set by Dennis, my incorrigible housemate. If I run home from work in sub 35 minutes, I will be treated to an all expense paid meal at my beloved Dirty Doulton/Village Belle; where all the lovely lasses of the UK come to work, whilst they backpack in Melbourne. Although the talent working there has recently dwindled (I’m assuming this is because they had to go fruit picking to stay in the country, and will be back for the summer), this is a challenge I am determined to break.

So last night I ran home in a personal best. 37min 41sec. A PB. yeah sure. Sub 35min. not quite. But I’m getting close. So close that it hurts. Both physically and mentally. I’m pretty sure Dennis has some deep seeded sadistic traits, in order to set a challenge like this. Like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. But in this case, the carrot is a free steak and frites… with a side order of british titties. And the donkey is me. I’m pretty sure il Divo, my other housemate, is quite enjoying seeing the torture.

Last night’s run actually hurt. Dennis may be trying to break my spirit. The pace to break 35 minutes is gut wrenching. I almost vomited. Twice. But I’m not giving up. My couple of years of running, has taught me a few tricks to breaking the pain barrier… Take longer breaths. I don’t know the scientific reason as to why this helps. It just does… Think about the coma incident. If this hurts now, think about the time you were stuck in hospital, weighed 15 kilos less, looked like an 80 year old chinaman, and couldn’t walk 5 meters without falling over… Think about every bitch that broke your heart. There’s nothing like getting over someone than self improvement. And nothing that breaks the pain barrier more than knowing that this pain will subsequently cause them pain when they see what they missed out on (This is all in my head. It just helps with running)..

So although last night I was, in the words of Dennis “close.. but not close enough” (asshole), it did tell me a couple of things. In order for me to beat 35 min, I will need:

1/ For the weather to still be cold. Yesterday evening was fresh, and quite enjoyable to run in. It just makes it so much easier to breathe whilst running, when its cool. Or perhaps I should just quit smoking?…. no no. That’s a terrible idea. cold. It needs to be cold. Which also means I have only a few more weeks to get this done.

2/  Ditch the backpack. There is no way I’m running sub 35, whilst carrying a backpack with my work clothes in it. It weighs, easily, about 5 kilos. Ditching this, should surely make up a couple of minutes. In addition to ditching the extra 5 kilos, I will also be ditching looking like a douchebag. Surely, no longer looking like a douchebag running with a backpack, would account for another minute.

C) A quiet weekend. I just had a look at my times over the last couple of months. There is a definite correlation between how big my weekend has been, and how fast I run. This is also another reason why this challenge will need to be accomplished in the upcoming couple of weeks. It has just turned spring. Spring in Melbourne provokes too many reasons to go on a weekend bender. Warm weather. Footy Finals. Spring Racing. Skirts. Dresses. Skin. The list goes on. So I pretty much have a two week window to get this done.

And with this window closing fairly quickly, I have decided I will not be writing another blog entry until this task has been completed. For the next 2 weeks I will be dedicating myself to breaking 35 minutes. Am I not going to drink? Or party? Or give up smoking darts?… yeah nah I probably still will. But I cant write about anything else till this is done. I suffer from adult ADD. All my attention and energy needs to be focused on accomplishing set task. (I say this, but in reality its just an excuse not to write.. I’ve figured recently I have shit all to write about).

NB: Ha. Will you look at that. I just wrote 700 words without swearing…

Oh wait. Fuck you Dennis.

The walk of shame

They call it the walk of shame. But if that was actually the case, then why is it.. do we actually always strut?  Granted, some walks are indeed pretty shameful. But if it was actually pretty good. Then the walk of shame, really, is the polar opposite from the truth.

It should really be called “the gait of honour”. Sure. You look terrible.  You’re seedy. Your breath stinks. You smell of sin. But there is a sense of pride that goes hand in hand with a walk of shame. It’s an accomplishment. Similar to say.. climbing Everest. Or finishing a marathon. You went out. Had a goal. Proverbially and figuratively, smashed that goal. And this is your lap of honour. Take a bow son. Take a bow.

There’s also that feeling. That every passer by you come across, knows what you’ve done. They all have the same look on their face “Oh. Look at you. Crinkly clothes. Messy hair. What have you been doing mister? Someone’s been a bad boy ;)”

Or maybe.. You really just look like a seedy fuck. With an air of disillusioned entitlement, because you were able to con some drunken girl to actually take your drunk ass home with her. And in reality, no one knows what the fuck you’ve done. Youre just the stinky guy in the corner of the tram.

And this is why it’s shameful. It’s not because you got lucky the previous evening. Its because you’re a seedy smelly fuck trying to get home. You may as well be a junkie. Shameful. Bow your head son. Bow your head.