Beyond the soft palate

Category: BULLYING


First day at school, David, new kid, sits up the back of the classroom.

David. Dave.


Ten minutes in, he slips his hand under his armpit, makes a farting noise, rest of the class laugh, giggle, titter and guffaw, and David – Dave, Davo – thinks, “I’m in. A-hur. A-hur.”

Next day, he slips his hand under his armpit once more, makes a fart noise, the class laugh, giggle, titter and guffaw same as yesterday, and some of them think, “What a character is Davo. What a card”.

He does it again the next day, and the next, and the one after that, same trick, same sound, again the next day, and every day the week after, and the week after that, and the week after that, the month after, every day, and the month after that, and the one after that, every single day, same trick, same sound, only the other kids aren’t really laughing much anymore, not much anyway, so he goes louder, then louder still, every single day, every week, every month, but the attention he craves, it’s not there anymore, he’s not pulling the giggles like he used to is David, Dave, Davo, so he tries some new tricks, he teases the kid with Down’s Syndrome, calls him a “retard”, makes him cry, he calls the black kid a nigger and tells him to fuck off back to the gorillas, he pulls the hair of a girl, hard, kicks the back of her chair in class every day, he calls the two kids who always hang out together faggots, and makes wanking gestures, and he only ever does this, all of it, when he can be seen and heard doing it, and he laughs when he’s done and he expects others to laugh too, but they don’t ‘cause that joke ain’t funny anymore and he’s still pulling the fart prank, everybody else is trying to study, to get on with their business and, frankly, everyone has come to think David, Dave, Davo, Dave The Dickhead, is a right cunt, every time he shows his face, a face which, in time, will come to resemble a condom full of foreskins, all they feel like doing is throwing rocks at it, and telling him to fuck right off.

Which they do.

He don’t pay that no attention, not he, no.

Time goes by, school ends. Some students keep in touch with each other, some of them for years, but no one wants a bar of Dave The Dickhead anymore, not in the adult world, no, not in a world of grown-ups, ‘cause calling people “retards” and “niggers” and “faggots” and pulling the hair of girls, that’s kids stuff, that’s for kids, mutts and punks, Dave The Dickhead can fuck right off, and no one accepts his friend requests on Facebook, and if there’s a reunion of sorts, nobody thinks to invite Dave The Dickhead, no, fuck that, he turns up, I ain’t going, we’ll catch up over a few beers down the pub instead next weekend.

Years pass.

Many years.

You’re having a beer with an old school mate, talking about work and life, whatever comes to mind, and he says, “Did you hear about David? Dave? Davo?”

“Dave The Dickhead?”

“Yeah. That cunt.”

“You know he only passed the HSC ‘cause he cheated?”

“Yeah. We all knew that. Anyway … ”

“Go on.”

“He’s dead.”


“Had a massive fucking heart attack.”

“Shit, eh?”

“Yeah, he’d been dead a week. They found him slumped over a desk in his flat, pants ‘round his ankles, his cock out. Or what was left of it. ‘parrently, he’d been looking at a website, “Barely Legal Teen L*sbian P*rn” and pulled himself into a stroke … So to speak.”

“Shit, eh?”

“He had two cats?”


“They ate his dick.”

Beer spits out your mouths, out your noses, and you both laugh and giggle, titter and guffaw, and then you laugh and giggle and titter some more, and one says, “What a cunt”, and the other says, “No great loss”, and you both laugh and giggle and giggle and laugh, and the night draws to a close, you say your goodbyes and make plans for another, but neither of you, nor anyone else for that matter, will ever, at any time further in life, so much as think a thought, or utter a single word about the life and death of Dave The Dickhead, the Farting Armpit from Ye Olde Schooldays, ever again.




You may very well think this is a post about Senator David Leyonhjelm in response to his remarks about yesterday’s multiple homicides in Melbourne, but I could not possibly comment.



A loser wrote some words today,
Had them published in a paper.
He wrote them ’bout a woman he hates,
And boy, this loser hates her.

This woman he hates, she too writes words,
But in another paper,
She writes words ’bout losing losers,
That make losers say they’ll rape her.

No, she says, I’ll not lie down,
I’ll not suck this shit or swallow,
I’d rather a hedgehog with a bomb on its back
Nestle within my hollows.

Our loser once had cancer,
And what a shame it did not kill him,
So he shoved himself into his wife,
And his wife did bear him children.

“What does your daddy do?”, oft they’re asked,
When they are at their school,
“I’m fucked if I know”, they might reply,
“I’m told he’s a bit of a tool”.

I did not read his words today,
I’d better things to do,
I scanned the page, then flipped it,
Thinking, “What a fucking tool”.

I will not say this losers name.
You can find it at the link,
But if you read his words this day,
You may think, “What a fucking prick”.


Stormfront Comment screenshot

Andrew Bolt, the Herald-Sun’s resident expert on Andrew Bolt and gerbalism germalism burbleism writing shit, has decided to turn his attention to the matter of the firm but gentle mollycoddling and indulgences meted out to those naughty lads incarcerated within the soft machine of the Northern Territory’s Don Dale Juvenile Detention Centre, treatment which was highlighted on the ABC’s “Four Corners” program on Monday 25th July, 2016.

This “treatment” involved footage of one 17-year-old boy being thrown across his cell, kneed and knocked to the ground, repeatedly stripped naked, kept in solitary confinement and strapped into a restraining chair with a bag over his head. Other footage showed six boys being tear-gassed because one boy had escaped his isolation cell, apparently constituting a “riot” of sorts, if you think “riot” means two other boys quietly playing cards in their cells, and the rest just farting about in theirs doing fuck-all, but perhaps gassing them all was a “scale of economy” thing, just in case these other “idiots” and “little fuckers” got some bright ideas.

The report, an exercise in actual “investigative journalism”, resulted in Human Rights lawyers insisting this treatment constituted a gross violation of the United Nations’ Convention against Torture and the 1924 Geneva Declaration of the Rights of the Child (although to be fair, according to former Prime Minister Tony Abbott, Australians are a little “sick of being lectured to” by the UN on such trivial matters like torture) and generally had most people who saw it muttering “What the fucking fuck?” in shock, horror and general disgust.

Almost immediately after the “Four Corners” program went to air, journalists, reporters, commentators and numerous members of the general public did voice their revulsion, rage and sickened astonishment at what had been reported, and a bunch of Northern Territory politicians who’d always been in the know about such carryings-on shuffled their feet, ummed and ahh-ed and went wee-wee-wee-wee-wee all the way home, muttering what a bad fucking “look” it was that this “look” had made it to the telly, revealing the whole lot of them to be a right gammy bunch of nasty hoofwanking thundercunts.

Bolt, on the other hand, maintained a curious silence on the matter from 9.45pm Monday evening (“Four Corners” concluded at 8.30pm) until 10.20am Tuesday 26th, initially proclaiming the behaviour shown by the prison authorities as “totally unacceptable”, then moving on to suggesting the program’s transcript “suggested another side to the story” and then stating he was “unconvinced” by calls for a Royal Commission and that the guard’s behaviour may have been somehow justified in light of the 17-year-old’s history of delinquency and incarceration, a history dating back to when he was 11-years-old.

A “curious” silence simply because, if “Four Corners” had chosen for its topic, black-on-white violence, or Islamic violence, Bolt would’ve been smearing his Outraged White-Trash-Cunt scent all over it in the manner of a cat marking out its territory, yet this story involved grotesque acts of violence and abuse by “legitimate” authority figures against troublemaking uppity niggers, so Bolt needed a little oxygen, a little time, to figure his angle so he could not be seen as giving credence to any story, any, by the ABC he loathes so obsessively.

Bolt, a convicted racist whose monosyllabic prose stylings are often highly commended and endorsed by random misfits from the white supremacist, neo-Nazi “organisation” Stormfront (refer screenshot at top) a man with so many chips upon his shoulders you could open a fucking quarry, and with a persecution complex so monstrously Herculean it would leave Jesus Christ himself gape-mouthed with awe, then went on to insist we “add perspective to better see our way forward” and put the matter into “context”, very possibly the same type of “contextualising” David Irving might apply to the gassing of the Jews during WWII, or the type of “contextualising” a Catholic priest might apply after blowing his load in the mouth of a boy and then arguing it was nothing more than a practical exercise in sex education.

“But”, went the White-Trash-Cunt.

Bolt then went full howler-monkey, turning his attention to the United Nations, and an apparent “plea” from ABC Radio National’s Ellen Fanning to have this type of treatment defined by the UN as “torture”, with Bolt insisting “this appeal to foreigners to police us shows a contempt for Australia’s capacity to manage its own affairs”.

Manage them, perhaps, in the manner suggested by NT Chief Minister Adam Giles back in 2010 …

“I would love to be the Corrections Minister. It is not the portfolio I really aspire to but, if I was the prisons Minister, I would build a big concrete hole and put all the bad criminals in there. ‘Right you are in the hole, you are not coming out, start learning about it’. I might break every United Nations convention on the right of the prisoner, but ‘get in the hole’.”

Giles, the type of cunt only a cunt like Bolt could approve of, went all yammer-stammer, aw-gee-shucks ain’t that a shame, the day after the “Four Corners” report went to air, confessing to an uncomfortable feeling (a little “tight” in his pants?) at the sight of a juvenile in a mechanical restraint chair, even though he and his Cabinet had approved its use for just that purpose four months earlier, and as some wag in the NT News so pointedly asked, “What did he think it was going to be used for? Wheelchair basketball?”

Meanwhile, our White-Trash-Cunt, convicted racist and Stormfront poster boy, has subsequently returned to posting “selected” reports of crimes – a “crimewave” no less, where the fuck is J. Edgar Hoover and Elliot Ness when a white man needs them – committed by blacks, immigrants, refugees, the “usual suspects”, and turning his attention to the ABC’s bukkake-style “sliming” of God’s Banker, Cardinal George Pell, of whom it has been alleged, once used to enjoy hanging out with boys in shower blocks with his cock out.

There may be, perhaps, a case to be argued that the White-Trash-Cunt Bolt is the very model of genteel, rational and considered, fact and logic based reportage and commentary, a civilised man given to deep and complex, carefully thought-out opinions and fine taste, but I suspect it would be an argument only Andrew Bolt would make, perhaps with a little help from his friends Gerard Henderson, who executive-directs a living room in a terrace house and calls it an Institute, or the fluffy-haired twat who edits The Spectator Australia, a newspaper that does not appear to contain any actual “news” in it.

Meanwhile, and in news just to hand, and by sure and begorrah to warm the cockles within the “heart” of the White-Trash-Cunt, the Royal Commission into the abuse of children in detention within the NT justice system that was announced in the wake of the “Four Corners” program, and that Bolt felt was not “necessary”, will be led by “Brian Martin, the former NT Supreme Court Chief Justice, [who] achieved infamy among Aboriginal communities in April 2010 when he described five white youths who bashed an Aboriginal man to death in a racially charged drunken rampage as “of otherwise good character”.

There’s never been a more exciting time in Australia to throw up in your mouth a little.



July 13, 2016, ABC’s “7.30 Report” begins.

An interview with Wyatt Roy, the youngest person ever to be elected to Federal Parliament, and the youngest ever to leave it, having served a brief and undistinguished term doing fuck-only-knows-what, and Roy is asked about the July 2nd Federal election that saw him pissed into political oblivion, and the Coalition of Reactionary Righteousness scrape back into power by a margin thinner than the wispy wisps on his chinny-chin-chin.

Roy responds with a squeak about the other side of politics, the Labor Party, and how its primary vote was the lowest recorded since the cessation of World War II, and how it’s not about him, it’s about them, what about them, not what about me, it isn’t fair, I’ve done my share, what about them? Leigh Sales, the host, has a giggly giggle at this, and it is at this point my mind wanders, my attention is lost, and I begin to muse on whether I should buy the 100cm Laibach belt, or the 110cm just in case I need a little extra breathing room and begin to fatten up some from all the cheap white cask wine I’ve been drinking of late.

Once upon a time, back in the day, there was a news and current affairs program on a Sunday morn where Laurie Oakes, a long-serving veteran of the Parliamentary press gallery and one of the very few, the miniscule few, deserving of a modicum of respect, would interview a political figure of the day, and do so for (wait for it) A WHOLE THIRTY MINUTES.

Oakes, an intelligent man and always well across his brief, was not inclined to suffer glib, facile answers from fools to questions of substance and, if he found himself in receipt of such answers, would oft maintain a bemused and quizzical silence whilst his subject would vainly attempt to fill the silence with all manner of limp verbal fappery and wind up looking a right horse’s arse.

Those were the days.

Now, in this, The Modern World, such programs and interview stylings have been replaced by infotainments hosted by fluffy people with fluffy smiles and fluffy hair who ask fluffy questions of political fluffballs who have no hesitation in revealing themselves to be horses arses, who’ve learned to live by hate and pain and whose lives have always been the same, and who happily don the mantle of horses arse as a badge of their individualism, their maverick spirit, their refusal to kowtow to “political correctness”, their outsider status, just saying what ordinary folk are a-thinkin’, doing what ordinary folk want a-doin’, freedom of speech and the right to have their opinion and force it down your throat until you gag and scream, “No! Stop! Please! Okay! Enough! I’ll suck! I’ll swallow! I’ll give your opinions credence and gravitas in the blessed name of all that is balance!”, and so we do come to a point where the ranks of our body politic and within our media play host to some of the dumbest, most ignorant, arrogant, loud-mouthed fencepost humping fuckwits that have ever been untimely spat from the womb of woman to walk upright on the face of this, our increasingly benighted earth.

That sentence has 203 words in it.

Count them.

No, not the words in the sentence silly bugger, the fuckwits.

There’s Eric Abetz, Stormfront’s favourite Nazi nephew, who, having maintained a strange and curious silence the eight-week election campaign (what is he doing in there, the neighbours wonder), has goose-stepped his way back into public view to talk about himself and Tony Abbott again and Tony Abbott and himself and will no doubt shortly progress to his favourite topics on how uppity niggers and faggots and women who fuck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby are screwing up the planet for all the normal people, which is to say, the ones who hate uppity niggers and faggots and women who fuck like rabbits but won’t make a man a baby and have multiple accounts on Facebook under a variety of aliases so they can say as much all incognito like, a-hur-hur-hur.


Words, not fuckwits. Silly buggers.

There’s Peter Dutton who scraped back into his position as Federal Minister for the Institutionalisation of Child Abuse by about a thousand something votes and subsequently blamed his close-call on “union thugs” and bikies ringin’ grandmas in the dead of night to scare the shit out of them about possible changes to Medicare, because bikies don’t bike no more, they just want to scare the shit out of yo’ granmama and pa and threaten to break their dentures and stab their pets if they don’t vote right.

There’s Kevin Andrews.

I don’t even want to go there, I’m tired.

Cory Bernardi.

The cream of the crop though, the pick of the box, and, like Peter Dutton, Barnaby Joyce and some silly cunt whose name I couldn’t be bothered reminding myself of, all of them hailing from Queensland, Australia’s baby-rape-and-torture-p0rn white-trash-dick-pulling-pervert capital of the nation comes Pauline Hanson (again), a-screechin’ and a-screamin and a-hollerin’ ‘bout Muslims in her Vegemite, scientists who make shit up about the weather, uppity niggers and chinks, immigrants and refugees and fucking faggots with their gay marriage thing that will send us all hurtling into Hell, and any other topic that may suddenly pop into her addled, empty head whenever a microphone or television camera is poked at her so she can wallow in the sound of her own strangulated voice for a bit. Again.

All of these individuals, these political outliers on the ragged edges of reality, are aided and abetted almost daily by their shouty-sulky-sooky-squealy counterparts in contemporary news media, print (what’s left of it) and electronic, who insist we engage, talk with, and not at, rather than immediately dismiss their rabidly unhinged, ignorant and uninformed fantasies and conspiracy theories with slurs, sneers, or, Heaven forfend, actual facts, reason, logic and other so-called “elitist”, “over-educated” intelligence-based nonsense.


In the scant couple weeks following the Australian federal election on July 2nd, Australian media and current affairs, and the mealy-mouthed clacking trash who inhabit same, have largely ignored issues of policy in favour of getting down and jiggy with alleged O!U!T!R!A!G!E!O!U!S offences against their own poor, oh-so-soft-and delicate souls, column after column after column and commentary expressing shock-horror at the crimes committed against their gentle good names whenever they invoke the “right” to an “opinion” or their right to “freedom of speech” to talk shit about uppity niggers, bitches, faggots and rag-heads and get called on it.

Starting with Steve Price, a walking, talking shrunken ball-sack with eyes like two pissholes in the snow, who makes his living sitting on a high-chair in a studio barking at people down a microphone, got his spoilt brat baby-elf self all wetly weepin’ when Guardian columnist Van Badham proffered the controversial suggestion to him on ABC’s “Q&A” that perhaps men, grown men, should not make “jokes” on air about drowning women they don’t like, women who have the audacity to speak, resulting in Price thundering that he would not have his diminutive person be “bullied” and pushed around by some “hysterical” cunting bitch-whore like Badham while he was trying to interrupt her every second word on a subject and she most unreasonably refused to let him. The bitch.

Price, who has no talent or qualifications in life for anything other than barking at people down microphones on the radio, saw all this as most terribly, terribly unfair, and squealed like a miniature stuck-pig about it for the best part of a week after.

Van Badham, for her sins against middle-aged patriarchy, was subsequently inundated with all manner of abuse suggesting she be bashed, smashed, fucked in the arse and carried about like a bowling ball, apparently perfectly reasonable suggestions according to those men, bastions of civility all, who comprise Price’s audience.

Almost immediately after this not-so-private tête-à-tête, like Musketeers to the rescue, and to defend the unassailable integrity of their poor little bruised and bullied pocket monkey, came a few other middle-aged white males (mostly) from Rupert’s Media Comic Kingdom, men who no doubt also pine fondly for the days when a man could slap a woman and tell her to stay slapped and like it, and you could have a schoolboy snigger about “grubby poofters” without the sky falling in, M*A*N*L*Y-M*E*N-O*F-T*H*E-W*O*R*L*D like Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt and Fluffy Rowan of Dean, the latter being someone who’s never let a fact go by without making it a fiction and vice-versa, and this shit did continue to constitute  “news” for a further few days, until some other shit took its place.

This other shit came in the shape and form of the aforementioned Pauline Hanson, triumphant, resurgent, and back in Federal politics for God-only-knows how many years to scowl at us all again with that horribly familiar demented demeanour of a constipated lizard with a rusty pot-scourer on top.

Hanson’s shit did also fly on ABC’s “Q&A” on Monday, in all its trembly, tremulous, pent-up and pig-ignorant glory, and it’s been flying ever since, and shall no doubt keep flying for quite some time, column after column after column and commentary yet to come, all of it focused on (a) should the media engage with and consider Hanson’s views as “legitimate” concerns, or (b) should the media take pains to refute, argue with, and dismiss her concerns using reason, fact and logic, where (b) automatically defaults to (a) anyway, and everyone still winds up talking about the silly cunt regardless.

Hanson, who proved on “Q&A” she wouldn’t know a Muslim if one was seated next to her, was joined and supported in denseness a day or two later by Sonia Kruger, another ageing Caucasian who co-hosts a “morning” program on a commercial television station which serves primarily as a vehicle for “infotainment” advertisements for weight-loss belts and Made-In-China plastic gadgets that will help you cook an egg and, quite frankly, if you need a fucking gadget beyond a saucepan or frypan to help you cook a fucking egg, could you kindly do the world and everyone in it a huge favour and throw yourself off the nearest fucking cliff.

Kruger admitted she had a problem with Muslims too because mother children scary shit trucks planes trains and automobiles boom everybody dies close borders please whites only.

The Project’s Waleed Aly then hopped into the so-called “debate” saying Kruger wasn’t evil, she was just scared, scared of scary people with trucks and plains and trains and automobiles and scared for the future of “her” country, as opposed to my country or your country or the country of that bloke up the shops, and we should all show restraint and exercise forgiveness and be patient and strong and start engaging with all these prominent, white and wealthy outspoken racists who have multiple opportunities across all form of media to espouse their intolerant and dishonest views and invite them in for a cup of tea and some lamingtons, maybe even friandes, because some racists can be really nice people when you get to know them, and how we should start nodding our heads politely when they start bunging on about fucking ragheads and uppity niggers and chinks and migrants and fucking faggots rather than telling them to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of the fucking house before justifiable homicide becomes a really attractive option.

178 words.

Kruger’s comments (said she) were motivated by some creative typing from Andrew “Angry Pants” Bolt she’d read, or glanced at, or had read to her, and if ever one needed proof that contemporary mainstream Australian media is an infinitely self-referential zombie-snake chewing on its own bleached and distended rectum, that’s it right there.

These people and their Vaudevillian Theatres of Cruelty, fuck them, they are cunts and they are shit.

The likes of Price, Hanson and Bolt have now come to regard themselves as their own religious faiths, and to dare criticise, challenge, or confront their myopic stupidity is, in their minds, somewhat akin to fisting the Christ child, pissing in the holy water, throwing pigs’ heads at mosques, or insisting Auschwitz was nothing more than a holiday camp for wayward Jewish delinquents.

So enamoured are they of their own selves that, when the shit they dish out is dished back at them in any form, no matter how vicious, no matter how mild, they’re off like a bag of ha’penny bungers, like a fourteen year old boy fumbling its first sexual experience only to end up with nothing other than an embarrassing stain on his pants, and then saying, “Gee, maybe next time, eh?”, to which the girl (or boy) responds “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m out of here, you should stick to masturbation, I think it’s more your style”, and they do stick to masturbation because it is their style, one hand fits all sizes, fapping, fapping, fapping …


Bolt, who now seems to consider himself Australia’s leading expert on race relations has even begun to lend his expertise to analysing the roots and causes of the current racial unrest and violence within the United States of Murder and what better person to clarify that for us all than a middle-aged White Australian Dutch immigrant who lives in Melbourne, works for a tabloid, writes books that few people want to buy, and whose idea of “research” is sitting on his arse doing internet, and who has now disappeared so far up himself he’s taken to posting photographs his “readers” send him of his book on deckchairs by the sea.

What. A. Fucking. Tosser.

A curious thing about the so-called “silent majority” on whose behalf Bolt and Hanson et al have so graciously anointed themselves spokespeople, is they are rarely silent as can be seen by the reaction Sydney’s Lord Gladstone hotel received when it announced its plans to host a “Fuck Pauline Hanson Day” on July 17th whose aim, shockingly, subversively, and in a let’s fly planes into buildings terrorist kind of fashion,  was to “share some laughs in an all-inclusive, friendly environment for like-minded people who openly can’t stand the ridiculousness that is Pauline Hanson and her agenda”, eat chips and drink cocktails …


Freedom of Speech is all very well and good when it comes to illiterate and inarticulate backwoods white trash bumpkins from BumFuck out Back of Nowhere, as long as the “speech” you wish to be “free” with accords with their own, otherwise they start in with the rape-you-with-a-stick and kill-your-children death threats.

The “restraint” and “patience” we are urged to display toward these squawking racist shit-stains would appear to be, not just a one-way-street, but a dead-end, and you are most likely to be the one who winds up dead at the end of it if you so much as dare take the piss, confront or legitimately criticise their inviolable Idols of Truth, Justice and Popular Fascism.

Speaking for myself, as I can speak for no other and have no desire to, I would rather engage my head with a brick wall than give these purling, tatchy, gurt chonnting, zower-sapped yerring trash the time of day, and if I were inclined to give them the time of day, I’d make damn sure it was the wrong time, just for the fucking fun of it.

The type of ur-Fascism espoused by these racist numpties and the glumping thundercunts of mainstream tabloid media does not, to paraphrase Michael Rosen, drape itself in fancy dress, it does not speak of militias, mass imprisonments, torture, persecution, it wants to be your friend and give you a house and a job and clean up the neighbourhood, it wants to Make Australia Great Again and shake your hand, and talk about the necessity of “tough measures” and “difficult” but necessary decisions in the name of stability, peace, prosperity, and protection from the blue-skinned, lizard-scaled, parrot-beaked half-breed mutants from beyond, the dark forces deviously plotting to soil the pure bloodline and seed of the Great Australian Aryan, so exemplified and amplified by the flunting jawbations of yawping hoofwankers like Price and Bolt and Hanson and other over-baked media cum-muffins for whom too much hysteria is never enough.

147 words.

As one former editor of a major daily recently remarked, “Ten years ago, even five years ago, no-one would have reported the Sonia Kruger story. Not because we’d be trying to silence her; just because no-one thought that the random thoughts of TV celebrities could be considered news. It would be like making a headline from something an opinion columnist had written in your own, or another, newspaper “Opinion columnist has opinion””.

There are very few voices of considered sanity and opinion remaining within the ranks of our current body politic, within the fourth estate, their ranks thinning even as we speak, their replacements a tawdry gaggle of buzznacking grunts who, in lieu of reporting items of fact, now simply make shit up to fill the minds of fools whose morbid fear of intelligence, of the other, has now become a monster of appetites insatiable.

There’s Laura Tingle from the Australian Financial Review. Ross Gittins from Fairfax. Greg Jericho from The Guardian Australia. The occasional rare-as-hens-teeth appearance from George Megalogenis.

There’s Laurie Oakes, still going, still plugging away, and sometimes I do imagine him flipping through the “news” of the day, of the moment, and wondering to himself, gently pondering in quiet contemplation, perhaps even a manner of stupefied awe …

“What the fuck ever happened to actual journalism?”

Certain words in this post which may be unfamiliar to you are in fact words, and are taken from David Crystal‘s “The Disappearing Dictionary – A Treasury of Lost English Dialect Words”, a book I would encourage you to purchase.


It is the mid-1980’s and I am working for a company in Sydney’s Pyrmont, a record company. There is the pressing plant, warehouse and recording studios downstairs, and two floors of offices above. On the ground floor is a canteen.

The canteen is managed by a young man named Gary, an affable, softly spoken and gentle man of good humour, and he is happy in his work, he is content. He is responsible for most of the food prep each day, the hot meals, and makes the sandwiches during lunch hours, along with two others who assist.

Gary is a gay man, which is no secret among the staff, and appears to be of no concern.

Then, suddenly. …

There is change.


The “gay cancer”, they began to call it. The wrath of a vengeful God. Punishment for our transgressions, our sins. It is predicted that cities will crumble and towers fall, Satan and his vile and corrupted clutch of sordid cacodemons shall stalk the earth, leaving naught in their wake but barren and fruitless wastelands, the flesh of babes in arms shall be ripped asunder, devoured, men and women raped in the streets, and we shall see darkness and we shall feel pain.

Gary’s in the canteen making sandwiches. He’s in the canteen handling foodstuffs.

A contingent of staff approach management to raise their concerns.

How they expressed them, I do not know, but I suspect it went a little something like this …

“What if he sneezes, or coughs? On our food? Food we are expected to eat?”

“What if he breathes on us?”

“What if he cuts himself and bleeds all over my devon and tomato sauce sandwich? How would I know?”

And so on.

The management acquiesce to these “concerns”.

Gary is transferred from the canteen to the warehouse.

One day, I return to work from lunch at the pub, and I see Gary sitting on a rafter in the warehouse, lost in a reverie, and from the expression on his face, faraway eyes, it is a sad reverie indeed.

I wave to him.

“How are you, Ross?”, he asks.

“Not bad. Yourself?”

“Oh. You know”, and he shrugs.

After a moment, I say to him, “I think it’s fucking shit what’s happened. It’s shit.”

He shrugs again, says nothing, nods, and I return to my desk seething with rage.

I am not a gay man.

None of my best friends are gay, nor have they ever been.

Yet. In the course of my life, the living of it in this world, I have met many gay men and women, through work, socialising, friends of friends, friends of flatmates, and the only thing I can or ever could say about these gay men and gay women is this …

They are men and women.

If there is a “gay agenda”, they’re either taking a bloody long time to implement it, or I’m too thick to have noticed.

During my adolescence, my emergent sexuality, a sexuality I didn’t, at age 13, know was even sexual in nature, was not and never has been the subject of debate. It was not a “lifestyle choice”. It was not a choice.

My eye turned, with no prompting, no lessons in “decency” or “morality” toward women.

There was Peggy Lipton from “The Mod Squad”. Susan Dey from “The Partridge Family” (the only reason I watched that ghastly show). A little later on, there was Suzi Quatro. In leather. Oh. My. GOD. And, when Countdown (in error) first played Blondie’s “In The Flesh”, and I clapped eyes on Deborah Harry, my jaw dropped so hard, I almost tipped off the couch.

I wanted to play with the girls, although at that age, if the opportunity had arisen, I doubt I would’ve known what the game was, let alone how to play it.

That all came a little later. So to speak.

Decades after the A.I.D.S. epidemic, a residue, a sticky, mucky, thick and filthy residue of the gay fear and loathing of that time still persists in the minds of many; small minds, tiny minds, minds uncomplicated and untroubled by fact, truth, reason or logic.

Here is one example, a one star review of the film “Spotlight” from

“Just too @&(%^ PC. They let their wish to sell homosexuality as normal get in the way of the truth. The truth is, first, that heterosexual rape and abuse of children is at least as common in public schools and non-Catholic religious institutions as it ever was in Catholic ones. Second, the rape and abuse going on in the Catholic Church was unusually homosexual and committed by homosexuals, period. The data is overwhelming that homosexual men are far more likely than heterosexual to be rapist or abusers. Even though homosexuals are at most 4% of the population, they commit at least of third of the sex offenses against children. And, the Catholic Church was one of those institutions targeted for exploitation by gays and by child rapists (or people who were both). Check out the data from the Family Research Council and in Michael Rose’s Goodbye Good Men. This weird, childish film tries to vilify all religion, tries to sell a “traumatized” gay victim as otherwise normal, tries to separate the rapists’ homosexuality from their crimes, and bascially is peddling dangerous myths and mind games.”

Peadophiles. Polygamy. Bestiality. Perversion. Diseased. Disgusting. Queer.

Filthy fucking faggots.

To be gay is to be less than human, they say. It’s abnormal. It’s sick. It is an affront to God, to civil society, a self-indulgent depravity, a disease of the mind and a corruption of the body and of the soul.

So some say.

I say this. To those “men”, those “women”, so fearful, so full of hatred, of ignorance, guided as they are by ancient superstitions in a nonsensical fiction written by men in frocks, “Go fuck yourselves with forty sticks and die of fucking cancer”.

These men in frocks.

They’re at it again

“Australia’s most senior Catholic bishops have intervened in the federal election, warning Malcolm Turnbull and Bill Shorten not to undermine traditional marriage.

Marriage and family are at the heart of a healthy social environment, the ACBC states, but “political decisions can end up undermining marriage and providing less and less support for families despite a rhetoric that claims otherwise”

“The fact is that economic decisions have been less and less favourable to families in recent years; and it may be that political decisions in the future will undermine further the dignity and uniqueness of marriage as a lifelong union of man and woman,” the bishops say.”

“A lifelong union of man and woman”, it has never been and never will.

I wonder what they think of Rupert Murdoch or James Packer, these bishops?

These defenders of truth, these moral bastions, so pure, so righteous, so convinced of their own infallible judgements, their Holy institution so transparent, so accountable, so just, devoted as they are to peace among men (not so much the women, especially women, or – gaspgirls in trousers).

I have no quarrel with religion or those of faith who find comfort and solace in their beliefs in times of trouble or turmoil, those whose faith is a bedrock, a foundation upon which they build their lives.

I have quarrel only with those who use their faith as a hammer with which to beat those of no faith, or those whose lives they deem to be … “wrong”, especially when it comes to matters of sexuality, consensual acts between adults, gay, straight or transgender, or the issue of women’s reproductive rights, of choice.

How dare these bishops lecture government, lecture us on how we should live, how and who we should love.

These bishops.

Are these the very same men, who for decade upon decade, cloaked the sins of their own ilk in silence and obfuscation? Are these bishops the very same men who protected the fiddlers on the altar within their ranks, the ones with children always on their minds, the ones who leave stains upon their garments and stains upon the souls and bodies and in the mouths of innocents, and who remain unrepentant, without conscience, empty, soiled, damned?

Would they had but one neck, I would HACK. IT. THROUGH.

I ask these bishops.

Your God. Why did It give us desire, just so you may use it to prove we are the ones depraved?

Go to Hell.

You bishops.

Go to Hell.


IF …

… I were in the audience of ABC’s “Q&A” program, and there was one federal Liberal MP and one Labor on the panel, this is the question I would ask …

“The last company I worked for a decade and a half until February this year, embarked upon a “restructure” about four or five years ago, “restructure” essentially meaning sacking a few busloads of people and outsourcing and offshoring the work to India. These were men and women who had given that company ten to thirty years of their life, men and women in their late fifties and early sixties, suddenly sent packing, none of whom could afford to retire as they did not have enough in savings or superannuation, none of whom were yet eligible for the aged pension.

We know, from evidence, from fact, that men and women of this age often struggle to find employment, and so, may be compelled to apply for unemployment benefits, and we know, from evidence, from fact, that if they do, they shall no doubt be referred to by the maggots of the Murdoch tabloid media mafia, “bludgers” or “rorters”, a stain upon the face of our society and an embarrassment to our kind.

My question is this … When one of your mob decide to call it quits so you may “spend more time with the family” or you were kicked from your electorate because you were crap at your job, and other such rubbish, and then proceed to write another dreary bloody memoir in dead, dull, self-serving prose that makes the average reader want to stab themselves in the eyeballs with a pencil, why do you feel you are entitled to receive one or two hundred thousand bucks a year for the rest of your miserable, useless lives, and why do you believe we, us “little people” out here have to damn well pay for it?

Could you kindly justify that entitlement for me please, and why you feel you deserve it?

Can you defend that?

Can you? Do you dare?

It’s certainly got me buggered, that’s for sure. So, here’s a suggestion …

When you call it quits, when you are thrown from your electoral train a failure, why don’t you all just piss off out of it, and GET ANOTHER GODDAMN FUCKING JOB LIKE THE REST OF US ARE EXPECTED TO, YOU SACK OF BLUDGING FUCKING SUCKHOLES?!”

Question posed, I would no doubt be frog-marched post-haste from the studio, and, in the aftermath, the wash-up from it all, the trash, the bottom-feeding filth, the commentators, the shock-jocks, stuffed to the gills with their own sense of self-righteous, self-importance would do doubt begin to dig into my life, my private life, my past.

They would contact former employers, partners, they would hack my phone and my Facebook page, they would trawl through every comment posted, every blog I had written, and there would be painted a picture most unflattering, a portrait, no doubt, of emergent evil and psychopathy.

Headlines would read “Not So Sharp”, or perhaps, “Foul-Mouthed Pot Smoker Too Blunt In The Head To Make Sense”, Miranda Devine, Andrew Bolt, or the Herald-Sun’s most odious Damon Johnston who would no doubt tweet with impish glee “FRONT PAGE TONIGHT!”.

Satirised. Demonised. Crucified.

Yet, the question would remain unanswered.

It has no defence. It cannot be justified.

And nothing, nothing at all would be done, or would ever be done to correct this most foul of inequities.

Class War?

Count me in, and BRING IT ON.

Together, we will break us free.

Together, let us storm the gates of Vaucluse. With pitchforks and flaming torches shall we march, to throw the demons and monsters from their gaudy towers of conspicuous consumption, of wankery and greed, eviscerate their corpses, their entrails to crows to feed upon, and we, Night’s Black Angels of Righteous Vengeance shall scatter their remains, beaten and abused, into the seas.

Viva la revolución!


Tony Jones Q&A


Mark Latham used to be a politician. Of sorts.

He briefly served as leader of a political party. For 13 months. The shortest tenure of any federal Labor leader since 1916, and left politics in January 2005, having never held ministerial office.

Having achieved nothing in his career for the benefit of anyone other than himself, the point of Mark Latham has never been particularly clear, although he did succeed in garnering some attention in media at the time and from the public by calling all manner of people a variety of names including “arseholes”, “roosters” and other colourful epithets, and described himself as a “hater” which he has since gone on to prove himself to be with spectacular success.

Mark Latham appears to be a man who has never met a person he hasn’t taken an instant dislike to, mostly, it seems, because they’re not Mark Latham, proving without doubt that his head is stuck so far up his own arse with an inflated sense of self-importance that it is a miracle his navel does not flap whenever he draws breath.

Mark Latham once suffered from testicular cancer, and survived to go on to breed some children with his partner, which some may consider to be quite unfortunate, for, if his children turn out anything like their father, beating them to death with a hammer may become the only means of ridding the planet of his bloodline.

In recent years, Mark Latham has drawn attention to himself by criticising women he does not like (which seems to be all of them), including journalists Anne Summers, Leigh Sales, Lisa Pryor, Mia Freedman and Annabel Crabb.

He has been particularly vitriolic toward 2015’s Australian of the Year, Rosie Batty, whose son was violently murdered by her former husband in a public place, and who has ever since worked tirelessly to highlight the scourge of domestic violence and violence against women in general across Australia, to the acclaim and appreciation of pretty much everyone except Mark Latham, who has recently dubbed Ms. Batty “part of a feminist group using domestic violence for political gain and a campaign “against all Australian men”, and that “domestic violence is a tool of the feminist left”.

Mark Latham seems to be under the impression that Australian women (all of them) would like nothing better than to bite the cocks off Australian men (all of them) with steel dentures, and feed them to the family pet, because … well, patriarchy and feminism and matriarchy and Mark Latham.

Mark Latham thinks “political correctness” has gone “mad” in Australia, and would like the freedom to use words like “nigger”, and “whore”, and “kike” and “spic” in everyday conversation without criticism, because … well, Mark Latham.

Mark Latham is a cunt.

A 54 year old, pudding-faced, man-boobed, addle-brained, leg-humping, staggeringly unsuccessful ex-politician who will be sucking on the public teat for the rest of his miserable life.

At our expense.

Mark Latham has now been afforded his very own radio program on a commercial network where, for a period of time, he can earn some extra money by planting his sagging arse on a stool and barking into a microphone at people, telling them how and what they should think on things.

They should think like Mark Latham.

Which is not much.

For these, and many other reasons too numerous to list here, this is why I believe Mark Latham should be beaten to death with a hammer*.

After which, we can invite all the people he has offended and aggravated over the last few years to piss on his twitching corpse.

Also, it would be fun.

I hereby pronounce this day from hereon in to be national “MARK LATHAM IS AN IRRELEVANT FAT CUNT DAY”.

Please celebrate as you see fit.


*Not to be taken literally. It’s illegal.


From the homepage of the site, February 12, 2014 …

News Ltd

“Watch”, it says.

No. Go fuck yourselves.


From The Age, January 15, 2014

Navy personnel carrying out border protection were quietly stripped of some workplace safety protections and obligations last month in an apparent preparation for dangerous operations such as turning back boats.

The Chief of the Defence Force, General David Hurley, used his powers under workplace safety laws shortly before Christmas to exempt Navy sailors from their obligation to take ”reasonable care” to ensure their own safety and that of other sailors and asylum-seekers.

The change aims to give sailors legal protection, meaning they would ”not face individual criminal sanctions under the Act for giving effect to Government policy”, an explanatory statement issued by General Hurley states.

General Hurley acted in consultation with Employment Minister Eric Abetz to make the change, which effectively puts the sailors on a similar footing to military personnel fighting in battle …

A leading industrial law expert, Professor Ron McCallum of the University of Sydney, blasted the workplace change, saying it seemed squarely aimed at carrying out the government’s turnback policy.

”Navy personnel work very hard and I mean no criticism of them … but this is not a war situation,” he said. ”I think it’s a pity to alter those laws and any turnback policy should be ensuring refugees and sailors are safe.”


From The Sydney Morning Herald, January 8, 2014

Most Australians think asylum seekers who arrive by boat are not genuine refugees and there is strong support for the Abbott government to treat boat arrivals more harshly.

A nationwide opinion poll by UMR Research shows that 59 per cent of people think most boat arrivals are not genuine refugees.

The poll, based on a nationally representative sample of 1000 online interviews, shows only 30 per cent of Australians believe that most asylum seekers are genuine refugees while 12 per cent are unsure.

A strong majority of Australians, 60 per cent, also want the Abbott government to “increase the severity of the treatment of asylum seekers.””

The Prime Minister has listened to the people.

Sailors can now beat the shit out of refugees with iron bars and cattle prods if they so choose.

Or shoot them.

Vive liberté!


It speaks for itself …


The most viewed video on The Guardian today is that of various lumps of Aussie bogan trash – abortions their mothers forgot to have – abusing a French woman for singing a French song in French rather than a few verses of “Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again” or “Working Class Man” in the manner of Pauline Hanson.

Media coverage of this sickening incident has been extensive over the last few days, both locally and internationally, condemnation of the behaviour being, (from what I’ve read and heard) unanimous …

These are the sort of irrational goons police have to deal with on a daily basis. Talk to coppers who investigate and charge the men who attack women and they will say that away from the pack most are pretty weak individuals.

On Tuesday, members of the Special Operations Group arrested Steven James Hunter over the murder of Sarah Cafferkey.

When they surrounded the Hawthorn flat and ordered him to surrender he immediately ran out and lay on the ground.

Then he wet himself.”

Yet strangely, and for a fellow who never misses an opportunity to do a few dog-whistling dance-steps on matters of other people’s race and racism, from Andrew Bolt, there’s been nary a peep on the matter so far.

Because in the wide, right white world of Whistler’s Motherfucker, Australian racism is a fable, and maybe these douchecanoes are just exercising their right to freedom of speech.

Yes. Yes, of course.

Shhhhh …


I am not on Twitter, as I’ve never felt it would have, or would add, much relevance to my life.

I feel no need to “update” that status anytime soon

What I have trouble understanding is why so many people are so willing and eager to open their lives on so many levels to so many other people they don’t know and know nothing about, and then act surprised when one of them takes a dump on the rug.

Why not go up the local locksmith and have a thousand copies of your front door key made and leave them lying around at railway stations and bus stops with your address on them and see if you get burgled.

“Hi there. You don’t know me from a bar of soap and I don’t know you, but you’re a slightly famous person and I’d like to be your friend and follow you around, aren’t you lucky? I’ll pop over Saturday morning and you can make me a coffee and feed me a Danish, maybe later we’ll catch a movie, and I’ll take your kids to the park and show them tricks with my penis.”

It’s the internet.

It’s full of crazy people.

You’re reading a blog called “Smelly Tongues” , what’s halitosis got to do with it?

That’s not the name of a song, but it should be.


Crazy people on the internet.

You can’t expect to go about rabidly hoovering up anonymous “followers” on your Twitter account and tweeting at them all ten times a day about everything you’re doing, and then turnaround and start shouting at them to leave you alone when they give you the willies.

You should’ve just left them to sit in the corner undisturbed in the first place, where they could make strange bird noises and quietly fiddle with themselves and fashion snowmen from their stools and eat a bug or some dirt occasionally. Back in their natural habitat, so to speak.

They’ve all got stains on their pants anyway, and they wear polyester shirts and they don’t brush their teeth, they double dip, and they never bring any fucking beer to the party, so why anyone in their right mind would want to be friends with fuckers like these for any reason at all in any forum is a complete mystery to me.


(A slightly different version of this post first appeared on Groupthink in May 2011. This version appeared in the October edition of The King’s Tribune) …


You’re eight or nine years old, slight and small of stature, asthmatic and allergic to a whole raft of things. Shy.

You have a friend, your best friend, a bullet-headed, nuggetty little scrapper named Fitz. They leave you alone when he’s around, but when he’s not, you’re a red rag.

The worst of them, once he picked you up and threw you from one end of the classroom to the other when the teacher was out of the room for a few minutes one day. You hit the floor with a thud and mostly just slid across the floor to the wall. It hurt.

It was like that.

Years later, someone tells you that this same guy wound up getting pinched for stealing cars and spent time inside for it. You think, “I hope he got the living shit beat out of him while he was there”.

You’d forgotten his name, and you’ll forget it again in an instant. You certainly can’t remember it now.

You wonder whatever became of Fitz.

You used to tell him stories that you made up during lunchtime. He liked those.


Tumbleweeds, an imitation of life, everything recedes, fits and starts and flitting shadows and distant murmurs and this world does not seem real anymore and your mind turns in on itself and you are a Sebastiao Salgado pixel of shadow, indistinguishable from any other, and all the bad things keep coming back, night’s black agents caress you on the brightest of days with cruel cloaks of roughly hewn and battered cloth, on every day, and you are walking to work, your head down, every step a slow-motion trudge through molasses, there’s barely anything but body memory to keep you moving, and you think to yourself, “This is not normal behaviour”.

If you are always looking at the ground, how can you see where it is you are supposed to be going?


High school.

They’re kicking your chair again from behind. Over and over. Every day, something.

Twenty minutes of it, if you had a gun, you’d turn around in your chair and shoot them both point blank in the face, thinking of nothing, no consequence other than “it would be quiet”.

You stand up and leave the room.

Yes, there is the teacher. You don’t care. You need to go and you do, and she begins, “What … ?”, but you’re out before she can finish.

Your refuge is the school library. You run. It’s quiet there.

Last time you picked out a book, “Welcome to the Monkeyhouse” by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., an author you’d not read or even heard of before. You liked the title. It seemed apt.

This time, you pick out “Advertisements for Myself” by Norman Mailer, another thing that is new to you, and you lose yourself.

You will be in this place for another three years. One thousand and ninety five days.

You do not want to be in this place.

You want to die.

It would be quiet then.


They dangled you over a second storey school balcony once, about three of them, holding you by the wrists.

You looked down. That fear of heights thing you’ve had all these years, you think?

Afterward, you wished they had let you go.

There would be the fall. Yes.

But then there would be the peace.


Wandering through a bookshop, shelf upon shelf of “self-help” books, “Conquer This”, “Unlock Something”, “Embrace this Blah!”, they make you grimace, these stinking, stupid things.

“Because it’s all about you now, isn’t it?”, you think, “We are all, each and every one of us, the centre of the universe now, that is how we are encouraged to regard ourselves in this brave new world  where we are all potential reality television stars. Me, me, me. Mine, mine, mine. I, I, I.”

Just. Fuck. Off.

Anything but that. That it be about you.

You are not here anymore.

You have not been here for years. That thing in the mirror is not you. Your eyes dart around the edge of your reflection, not long enough to see who or what it is you have become, just long enough to shave, to maintain the appearance of a person living in the world, to carry on with the charade.

You turn your back on the mirror to brush your teeth.

“This is not normal behaviour”, you think.

But that is all you have.


Thirteen or fourteen years ago, in another galaxy far, far away, a young woman walks into my office and begins to tell me things.

She tells me about the way they speak to her. She tells me about the snide remarks, the comments, the subtle and not-so-subtle putdowns and slights. She tells me about the abuse, every day, something, the way she looks, the way she dresses, her life, her boyfriend, her taste in this thing and in that, it’s constant, it never lets up, and as she speaks, her face flushes and her lips tremble and her eyes dart about frantically, and then there is a sound, a hacking inhalation of a sob, and then it comes.

She crumples to the floor in a crouching position, tears pouring from her eyes, she holds herself and she cries out, “BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”, and I sit, stunned into silence, not moving, not knowing what to do, clueless for what seems long, long minutes, but is surely only seconds.

She’s done nothing. I know that.

Another young woman passes the office. She’s had this, too. She comes in, puts her arm around the shoulder of this girl and says, “I know. I know. Shhh … Shhhhhhh … Come on, now”, and they both leave the office together, they leave the building, they go outside. Where there is quiet.

This other young woman, she has recently made the grievous misjudgement of telling one of her so-called “workmates” that she had been raped by her cousin some years back, a thing you would hope to tell a person in confidence, a thing that, were you to tell a person, you would think that they would listen and that they would care.

Not here.

They just laughed at her. Sniggers and whispers.

“I’ve really got to get out of this fucking place”, I think.

I do. Eventually. I had to wait about 18 months. I wanted the long service payout.

It wasn’t worth it.


Let me tell you something …

These are not my words. I have paraphrased those of another man


Was that what you wanted?


That’s all you get.




This is for you.

You are an emotionally underdeveloped, intellectually lightweight lump of barely human filth who should’ve been scraped, bagged and flushed into the toilet the moment the sperm met the egg in the womb of whatever five buck cum-soaked whore spat you out and dragged you up.

May your first born never draw a breath.

I no more want to understand why you are the person you are or how you became that person than I would want to know why a child pornographer does what it does.


I want nothing from you.

But to see you dead in a



Was that what you wanted?

That’s all you get.


Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the toxicity of the environment you found yourself in begins to seep into your psyche, gradually tearing strips of self-worth and regard, and your sense of self begins to shatter like a burst water balloon in slow-motion. “What the fuck have I done?”, you ask yourself and there is no answer to that. This is how it works here.

“Can’t you see what this job is doing to you?”, a friend asks you one night as, yet again, you’ve managed to fly into another incoherent, half-drunk rant about some thing or another, and you just sit on the floor staring at nothing and saying nothing because yes, you know what it’s doing, you know full well, but it’s not long away now, just another short year before you can grab what money is owed to you and run.

They keep dishing it out and you begin dishing it back, every word a bullet, lashing out at everything and everyone in such a manner that you shock yourself with the ferocity of your own bile and how base you can become when pushed to it, but to no end as they appear to enjoy this, that you have finally buckled under and begun to play this game, this stupid, stupid game and you begin to loathe yourself for it.

“I am not this person”, you think. “This is not me.”

You begin to push all the people away from you, everyone is a threat now, friend and foe alike, you need to push them all out, and you do.

Until there is nobody left.


It took years. The persistent, constant stream of verbal abuse, intimidation, veiled threats and derogatory slights, all of it designed to break you down and tear you apart and keep you in a place from which you would never be allowed to escape. You recall how, when you finally got your ten years and you told them to shove their miserable job and their miserable selves and their miserable industry up their collective miserable arses, you were finished with it all, that the General Manager wandered into your office half-tanked after a liquid lunch and plopped himself into the chair opposite yours and said to you, “So you think you’re fucking leaving do you? I’ll tell you one thing, you bald-headed cunt, if you go through with this, you’ll never work again, I’ll make fucking sure of that mate, I’ll make fucking sure life will be difficult for you, mark my fucking words”, and you flew off the deep end, the top of your voice, using language that would melt the head of a sailor.

The hundreds and hundreds of hours of unpaid overtime over all those years, the work you took on that was never supposed to be your work in the first place that one person who knew about such things told you would’ve been worth about one hundred and twenty thousand dollars and for which you were barely even acknowledged, and after all this and all this time, the best you get is a threat to fuck up the rest of your working life, and when you do get out, it’s with a long service payout and a one hundred and fifty dollar gift voucher.

You bought yourself a new clothes iron and a portable CD player.

One thing begins to crowd in upon another, all of this and more, that thing you wanted so badly that slipped away, and that other thing you wanted so badly for so long and wound up getting, and then it all fell apart, and then you fell apart and then you simply stopped caring.

You lose yourself in drugs and alcohol.

Time passes.

And then the drugs and alcohol lose you.

And time passes.

You see your reflection in a mirror and it puzzles you, because this is not a person you recognise.

You’ve finally disappeared.


You’re coughing, hacking and dry-retching into a towel on your lap because you drank yourself into a coma again and forgot to eat third night in a row. Sweat streams down your face, tears, you shake and sputter and sink back into the couch exhausted, bent so far out of shape you can barely lift a glass of water.

An hour passes. Two.

“This is not normal behaviour,” you think.

You just sit, your mind a blank, struggling to find a thought to hang onto, and time just slips away.

You go to the bathroom to rinse your mouth and catch yourself in the mirror and think, “You worthless sack of shit”, and you turn around and go back to the living room and another hour passes and you realise that all this must now come to an end.

You pick up your phone, select a number and press “call”.

“****** Medical Centre”, is the reply.

“Yes. My name is Ross Sharp. I need to sort some things. I need to make an appointment.”