A Current Today: Fiddler Fun

Garrick Hopkins-Featherwaite: Good evening and welcome to another edition of A Current Today; the show that’s totally cool with just keeping things platonic, I mean really, why ruin such a beautiful friendship? It’d be crazy. Yeah, I’m totally cool just being mates. That’s that sorted then.


We begin tonight with a story featuring a man using a net to catch predators. A Current Today must stress that this is not a follow-up story about Hoos van Swiessenjoonk, the South African big game poacher who, at the time of filming, had suffered from an hitherto undiagnosed case of bi-polar disorder: Furthermore, we wish to divest ourselves of any responsibility for any figure-four leg locks, Indian burns or sautéing suffered by heavily-sedated Leopards during the aforementioned story.

[GHF shuffles papers at his desk, expecting to have already cut to story.]

GHF: Damned fruity yarpies…

[Story begins – GHF is sitting on a desk next to a computer, trying to act nonchalant. His top button is undone, left leg resting on the desk, right leg planted on the floor. He goes to plant his left hand on the desk but accidentally places it on the mouse, causing it (along with GHF) to violently lurch sideways. He regains his balance, looks at the camera despairingly and begins.]


GHF: The internet; where would we be without it? For millions worldwide, it is an indispensable tool, allowing us to bank, interact, enjoy sporting and cultural events, broadcast…

[Female voice interrupts.]

FV: Don’t forget shop!

[Camera pans across to where middle aged woman is sitting at another computer. GHF smiles sheepishly at the camera.]

GHF: My lovely wife Celeste! That’s right dear, don’t go spending too much on that sequined purse you found on Ebay (pronounces it “ebb-ay”).com!”

C: It’s a handbag, not a purse!

GHF (mumbling): Call it what you like, had my bloody balls in one for years…

C: What was that?

GHF: I said: “Check your emails, I forwarded you a hilarious slideshow of cats in various captioned predicaments!”

[GHF grimaces slightly then turns back to the camera.]


GHF: But although many call the internet the information superhighway, this is not a highway free of blights. Indeed, this highway is littered with seedy truckstops, in the fetid restrooms of which - amidst the caked-in stench of urine and semen - unsavoury lorry drivers and world-weary, ostrich-like prostitutes wash their genitals in hand basins of remorse, trying in vain to rid themselves of the viscous traces of another loveless, mutually-unfulfilling cyber-tryst all the while wondering why their moral compass has been thrown into disarray by the magnetic field of readily-accessible smut. Indeed, there is a dark side of the internet, a side [pause for effect]…that threatens perhaps our most precious commodity…besides nickel or maybe zinc….I mean…our most precious human commodity: our children.

[Camera cuts across to computer next to GHF which is displaying “Fatal Error 404.” Camera zooms in on the word “Fatal”/shot overlaid with a lingering and ominous synth stab.]

[Cut to GHF standing in front of a door.]

GHF: Internet chat rooms are a popular medium for young people to interact and discuss demographic-specific topics such as fashion trends and ribald dance manoeuvres. Secure in the company of their peers, today’s youth use the internet in the way previous generations used the school fete or fishing down the creek with the kids from across the road and congregate on - as they affectionately call it - “the W-W-W.” However, such chat rooms have also given sexual predators the means to prey on unsuspecting children by themselves posing as pre-teens and arranging rendezvous’ away from the watchful gaze of parents. There are, however, forces opposing these opportunistic perverts. Today, I meet with one of the men who fights paedophiles at the front line, on line (said in forceful, authoritative sexily-punny way.]

[Camera cuts to close up of SPAULDING – the word is obviously embroidered on a garment. Camera zooms out and reveals a man in his late 40’s. He is balding and sports a combover, has a chinstrap beard, blue zip-up nylon Spaulding track top, a pair of mustard track pants and a pair of Velcro Dunlop KT-26s. He has his arms crossed and is trying to look stoic and macho but doesn’t realise he has a large framed photo of himself dressed in drag on his coffee table. Camera pans away from man and zooms in on photo instead. He realises what is going on and shuffles sideways to block the shot. Shot ends on his mustardy crotch.]

[Cut to montage of man doing boring household things like watering plants, making a cup of tea, showing GHF photos of cats etc. “Heroes” by David Bowie plays during montage until GHF voiceover.]

GHF Voiceover: This is Warren Spenk; Warren might look like your everyday Aussie bloke, but his laid-back demeanour belies the fact that Warren is one of society’s unsung heroes. From the unlikely command post of this single-room flat in Rivervale, Warren wages war on paedophiles in children’s chat rooms.]

[Cut to Warren sitting down. Shot captures him from waist up, he’s at left of frame.]


W: A lot of people say you can’t combine business and pleasure, you know…but this is my business and it also brings me a great deal of pleasure. (Pauses.)
A great deal.


[Cut to GHF and Warren standing in W’s bedroom. Computer is visible in the background.]

GHF: So, Warren, this is where the magic takes place?

W (chuckles): I suppose you could say so, Garrick…

GHF: It certainly doesn’t look like much, but you’ve done a lot of great work here, haven’t you.

W: Well I’m just an ordinary bloke, Garrick, but I like to…y’know, it feels damn good to make a difference.

GHF: And of course you can always have a nap when you’re tuckered out! Working hard or hardly working, eh Wazza!

[GHF slaps W hard on the back and he noticeably recoils, laughing nervously. GHF looks at one of W’s bedposts.]

GHF: Ah, are those notches I see?

W: Well, umm…

[GHF cuts him off.]

GHF: There’s only two!

W: Well I uh, I lost count at…two.

GHF: Looks like there’s a bit of moss there in them…

[Camera lingers on W as he looks at the ground and rubs his brow, nods slightly and stays staring at the ground. Shot lingers for a few more seconds then cuts away.]

[Cut to GHF standing in front of W’s computer. W is sitting at the PC, back turned to camera, typing.]

GHF: Warren operates by assuming the identity of a young chatter and building rapport with legitimate youngsters by speaking to them in their own colloquialisms.


[Cut to computer screen showing an MSN chat.]


Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

Have u got the new Doctor Dre album? It’s pretty whacked!

~/{MyFlAmeBuRnS4U]\~ says:

na I dun like him

Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

Word!

[Cut back to GHF]


GHF: Once Warren has spent sufficient time chatting to another user, he will arrange a meeting with them in a secluded park on the outskirts of the metropolitan area. Upon meeting the child, he then reveals his true identity and drives them home in his panel van. No paedophiles are caught, but the process provides young chatters with a sobering lesson in the perils of trusting unknown internet contacts.

[GHF goes over to W at computer and squats down beside him.]

GHF: How are we going there, Warren?

W: Yeah, good mate…making a bit of progress with this one.

[Cut to computer screen again.]

Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

Argh! It’s a damned repeat of Degrassi this arvo! I’m sooo devo! Like srsly!

Me n’ stef are the la la sisters n’ u ALL no it! says
lol yer I gess


Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

I hate my dad.

Me n’ stef are the la la sisters an u ALL no it! says

lmao ur random ey do u goto st patrikss.?


[Cut back to GHF and W sitting at computer.]

GHF: There really are a lot of risks involved for children who use the internet, aren’t there Warren?

W (nodding): Oh yeah, Garrick…there’s all kinds of nasties out there.

GHF: Can you tell us about a few of them.

W (befuddled): Well there’s, um…there’s pedos. obviously; blokes who would take the kids to a park and take their beep and maybe do a bit of beep beep beep, twirl it around a bit and –y’know- beep them basically….there’s um…poofs…dykes…ahhh…viruses…Hindus…

GHF: Sounds like a bit of a minefield, Warren.

W (regaining confidence): Oh, it certainly is! It makes me really thuyen bak!

GHF: Come again?

W: Oh, I’m sorry…I drift in and out of Cambodian sometimes. I meant hopping mad.

GHF: Man of many talents! Where did you learn to speak Cambodian? And why?

W (curtly): Business trip. Business trips. Long time ago, I’m getting rusty…a-heh. Anyway, I think I’ve got one here!

GHF Voiceover: Warren has managed a breakthrough with a thirteen year-old girl who goes by the user name “Percentage sign, RITA, percentage sign, exclamation mark, LOL.” He’s going to attempt to take the conversation up a notch and lure her into what those in the industry refer to as “cyber sex.”

% RITA % ! LOL says

sooooo…u skate?


Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

You bet your arse I do! Toni Hawk 4ever!!

% RITA % ! LOL says

ye ma xbf use 2 but he got hit in da hed pritty hard n coodnt do it ne more.

Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

Oh, Snap!

% RITA % ! LOL says

ye. U got a pic I wana c if ur cute hehe

% RITA % ! LOL says

ima flirt if u dint notice!! ;)

Sk8boiKevinSheedy666 says:

I’m going unload my sac on you.

[Cut back to GHF and W at computer.]

GHF: So from here you’ll consolidate the relationship and arrange a meeting?

[W is distracted and doesn’t here the question properly.]

W: Hm? Oh…yep, that’s the one. Yep. Will do that.

[W’s wall phone rings.]

W: I’ll get it.

[W gets up abruptly and turns sideways, knocking over a pencil pot on the desk with his prominent erection. Camera once again lingers as GHF and W look awkwardly at each other.]

[Cut to GHF and W walking next to each other down a suburban street.]


GHF voiceover: Warren is a diligent servant of the community, and doesen’t confine his vigilance to the online environment. He frequently spends his time scoping out other real-world paedophile hotspots such as public swimming pools, playgrounds, neighbours’ backyards and primary schools like this one.

[GHF motions with his hand and camera pans across to show local primary school.]


W: Well they could be anywhere, really Garrick. That bush over there, for example…you could quite easily hide in there with a camera…maybe one of the boys would come over there because he’d been drinking a lot of cordial and needed to do a widdle but didn’t want to run to the toilet…maybe he’d get his willy out and just do a wee on the bush, and god knows you could get one, maybe two cameras in there and no one would be the wiser…no one at all…

GHF: Frightening, isn’t it?

W: Hrm? Oh…yeah, terrifying. Very, um…scary. And I mean, there’s safety houses around but the sign is what, a yellow triangle and a smiling house? You could forge one of those easily. All you need is some plastic from Bunnings…can get it for about five bucks…use a mounted saw to cut it down nice and evenly, maybe buff the edges once you’re done… then you’d just need one of those thick Artline markers…not hard at all. And the kids, well, they’re none the wiser.

GHF: Certainly an alarming thought for upstanding citizens like yourself.

W: You betcha.

GHF: Anyway Warren, let’s go in and speak to some of the teachers.

[GHF tries to usher W through the schools front gate.]

W: I’m not sure that’s such a good…

[A piercing alarm sounds from around W’s feet.]

GHF: What was that?!

[Camera pans down. W is wearing shorts and his legs are visible. Around one ankle is a bright silver band.]

W: Oh…it’s me umm…heart rate monitor. Plays up a bit when it gets near…grass.

GHF: The price we pay for good health, eh! Maybe next time then.

[W exhales loudly and wipes his brow as he and GHF walk away from school.]

[Cut to GHF standing with his back to the crest of an embankment at a local reserve. Children can be seen playing football in the background.]


GHF: Warren’s passion for community wellbeing isn’t all about preventative measures, either; he’s also concerned with nurturing young people and helping them engage in more positive aspects of childhood. It is for this reason that he revels in his volunteer work at the Thornlie Junior Football Club.


[Camera cuts to man in a cap with whistle around his neck.]


Coach: Yeah, Warren certainly makes a...unique contribution around the place. We didn’t actually need any volunteer orange-cutters, but he seems to enjoy the work…

[Cut to W, dressed in tight shorts with a tucked in tracktop, a foam tennis visor and thigh-high socks breaking out a Tupperware container full of orange halves. A boy approaches him.]

W: Oh, G’day Tim! Get a few touches out there?

T: I spose.

W: Well watch out, ya might get leather poisoning! Hahah!

[T reaches for an orange slice.]

W: Whoa! Your hands are all grubby there matey, you’ll get the shits if you eat it with them! I’d better feed it to you…

[T looks uncomfortable.]


GHF Voiceover: Whether it be slicing oranges, teaching the lads the secret behind his legendary torpedo punt [shot of W holding the ball sideways and kicking it straight up in the air in front of a group of disinterested kids and a fuming coach], providing moral support from the sidelines [W doing the Macarena and yelling “GO THORNLIE”] or affectionately dousing the team in canola oil [kids running out onto the field, W grabs one by the arm and sprays him with aerosol can of cooking oil, kid is wriggling, W: “Get ya nice and slippery there mate, don’t watch the tackles sticking!”], Warren does it all for the kids.

[Cut to GHF and W standing in front of the team, who are stretching.]

GHF (patronisingly enthusiastic): Cor, they look like a pretty well drilled unit Waz!

W: Oh, too right! They keep me on my toes, don’t you fellas!

[Kids all look blankly at W]

W: Yep, my little terrors! Stretch your groins, there lads, don’t want to pull a groin! Have to be a bit older before you start pulling down there!

GHF (confused): Heh…

W: You boys’ll be right into that one day…

GHF: Oh, wanking! I bet!

W (getting more excited): You’ll be at it all the bloody time!

GHF: All the time!

W (more excited): Telling mum you’ve been eating sprouts in your room again! Four times a day!

GHF: Ah, hormones eh!

W (yelling): OH NO MUM, I’VE GONE AND BLOODY SPROGGED EVERYWHERE!

[W laughs wildly as GHF chuckles, still oblivious to W’s depravedness. The kids look alarmed. W settles eventually.]

W: Right kids, stretch it out nice and hard for ten more seconds and we’ll finish up.

GHF: All in a day’s work, eh Warren?

[W turns to face GHF. There is a trolley with waterbottles on it between them. In profile, we see that W again has a prominent erection, which knocks over the bottles when he turns to face GHF.]

W: Ah…yep.

[Cut to GHF and W standing back at W’s front porch.]

GHF: Well mate, it’s been a pleasure and I think I speak for all of us when I say: Keep up the good work, cobber!

W: Thanks Garrick…I do it for the kids. All about the kids.
[As GHF is about to leave a girl scout selling biscuits arrives at Warren’s doorstep.]

GS: Would you like to buy biscuits to support…

[Girl steps onto porch and the shrieking sound from before is heard.]

GHF: Heart rate monitor?

W (hurriedly): Yep.

[“My Hero” by Foo Fighters plays as we see W scurry back into his house, leaving a bewildered girl scout and GHF on the front verge. Ten seconds pass, then we see one of W’s blinds move slightly and W peers out at the two from behind it before moving away from the window.]

[Cut to GHF back in studio.]

GHF: Warren Spenk; truly a paragon of selflessness. That’s about all we have time for tonight, but before we go I’d like to thank Primrose Orchards for their donation of a crate of navel oranges for tonight’s story; with any luck, men like Warren will be around our children’s navels for some time yet. Thanks for being with us, and, until next time, I’m Garrick Hopkins-Featherwaite for A Current Today.

A Current Today T-Shirt Troubles

GHF: Hello and welcome to another edition of A Current Today; the show that really, really, really wants to zig-azig-AHH. I’m Garrick Hopkins-Featherwaite and I’m [GHF squints as though looking at autocue, hesitates for a moment and continues slowly and sternly, though obviously perplexed] not…wearing any panties.

GHF: Tonight we bring you a story featuring two young Australians who have fallen afoul of the draconian laws of another country in a bizarre case of mistaken identity. Dominic Andericci and Tony Voulos now find themselves on death row in Bahrain, with Australian authorities seemingly unable to assist them.

[Cut to GHF standing at a desk with a globe on it. He spins the globe and places his index finger on what he thinks is a country.]

GHF: Bah…

[Camera zooms in on globe; his finger is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Camera zooms out as GHF frantically rotates and places his finger on Bahrain (Marked with a bright red X)]

GHF: Bahrain; most of us couldn’t even spell it, let alone locate on a map. But this small country, with it’s population of just over a million and it’s inconsiderately difficult to spell name is at the centre of a diplomatic maelstrom that looks set to result in the executions of two Australian teenagers.

[GHF standing outside Challenge Stadium]

GHF: Earlier this year, a Shotokan Karate competition was held here in Perth, attended by representatives from over fifty countries, including Bahrain. Bahrain, a martial arts-mad nation where statues depicting scenes from Jean-Claude Van Damme’s “Bloodsport” are commonplace in schools and outside of mosques, sent two competitors to the meet. The men, Courtney Hussein-Hussein and Tariq Akbal Nasser al-Bundy went missing upon touching down in Perth and are currently believed to be in hiding, hoping to be granted permanent residency. Under Bahraini law, the duo’s actions constitute treason; a crime punishable by death.

[Cut to GHF standing outside a JayJay’s holding a shirt.]

GHF: This [GHF holds shirt up, revealing that it says “Bahrain Karate Team est. 1979”.]
is the shirt responsible for the wrongful arrest of Dominic Andericci and Tony Voulous. Purchased by Dominic here at JayJays Morley along with shirts reading: “Wet Beavers: We Bring Logs to Your Dam” and “MILF AND COOKIES”, this shirt was mistaken as legitimate by Bahraini officials sent to Australia to apprehend the two athletes; a terrible case of mistaken identity that has seen Dom and Tony placed in Bahraini custody. Officials in Bahrain have refused to comment other than to say the pair were arrested largely because they were “kind of brown” and Bahrain “gotta execute some motherfucker.”
[Cut to GHF outside a building in the city.]

GHF: As there is no Bahraini embassy here in Australia, A Current Today has thus far been unable to contact any of their diplomats to discuss the case. We have emailed the office of this man, Bahrain’s Minister for Justice and Vending Machines, Taqir Omar Gawd [stock photo of Brad in condom helmet] but have as yet received no response. Amateur video has been released of the boys’ trial, where they were represented by the only English-speakers they were able to find in the country; a misdirected shipment of speaking Pierce Brosnan greeting cards.

[Grainy footage of the two boys sitting in cheap plastic chairs at a table. The judiciary panel consists of three men in robes sitting cross-legged on the ground holding assault rifles. They are accompanied by a small dog in a cowboy hat. One of the men aggressively addresses the boys in a foreign language (gibberish) and then glares at them. One of the boys stands up after the other elbows him under the table and opens a card.]

Card [Brosnan voice]: May this Christmas leave you shaken, not stirred.

[Judiciary begin screaming and firing their guns in the air.]

Seated boy: Nice one, pooftah!

[Cut back to GHF in studio]

GHF: As far as we can ascertain, the two boys have been sentenced to death. In accordance with Bahraini law, they will be doused in molasses and then brutally beaten with a donkey’s shinbone. As Australian representatives try desperately to extract the boys from this horrific situation, A Current Today has managed to secure the first ever interview with the boys. Tonight, we are joined via satellite link-up with Dominic Andericci.


GHF: Dominic, thank you for sharing your time during what must be a most trying period for you.

[Dominic is shown in stock photo in background. He is standing next to a plaster lion doing an “archer” pose in a pair of Adidas trackies and a backwards Juventus FC hat.]

Dominic: Yeah bro.

GHF: Now like everyone else, I’m curious as to just how Bahraini authorities managed to confuse two Australian teenagers for a pair of AWOL martial artists. Can you tell the viewers exactly how events unfolded on the day of your arrest.

Dominic: I dunno mate, I was going to pick up my nonna when she got in from Tripoli and I was like, wearing some bullshit shirt Jacynda bought for me but I had to cause she was coming with me and I had to pretend I liked it so I could get a wristie later but these lebbo blokes grabbed me and started yelling and shit and then they put me and Tony in handcuffs.

GHF: And no airport security came to your aid?

Dominic: Nah man, they had it in for us cause I wouldn’t take out my nipple rings when I went through the metal detector and some fat skippie poof had a go at me.

GHF: I see…and are you being treated well in custody?

Dominic: It’s a bit shit mate…like, it’s a co-ed prison but I don’t like asian chicks. If Jacynda is watching tell her that, I could have rooted heaps in here but I haven’t.

GHF: I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear the news. From what I’m told, Bahraini prisons are notoriously brutal places; have you and Tony been subjected to or witnessed any acts of brutality?

Dominic: Well like, sometimes I do this thing where I yell “Guards, guards…oi, come quick mate, someone has guns in the cell!” and then they come running and its just me and Tony flexing and they like taser us and shit.

GHF: That sounds horrific…

Dominic: Yeah all the electricity fucks up our hair bro, it’s fucked.

GHF: We’re almost out of time, but do you have any messages to pass on to loved…

[Dominic interrupts]

Dominic: Oi, fuck off faggot!

GHF: Excuse me?

Dominic: Fucking Tony is making a face at me like he’s licking a pussy.

GHF: I…

[Dominic interrupts again, his voice more distant now as he moves away from the phone.]

Dominic: FUCK OFF! You’ve never even seen a mut!

Dominic [back on the phone, voice clearer]: Oi, I just want all of Australia to know that Tony has never eaten a pussy and the one time he hooked up with some dirty chick he sprogged his pants. [Distant again] Hahaahah! Sucked in, pooftah!

GHF: Dominic, this is a serious…

Dominic: Mate, you should see how red he’s going! He’s fucking crying mate!

GHF: You’re going to be beaten to death with a donkey bone!

Dominic: I have a donkey bone right here, Mr Reporter.

[Sounds of a struggle]

Dominic: Fuck off! Fuck off! Don’t touch my dick!

[Phone cuts out]

[Cut back to GHF in studio looking bewildered]

GHF: Tony Voulos and Dominic Andericci…two very brave young Australians. Now to the results of last week’s phone poll topic: “Is the road to Stalinism paved with low-rider jeans?”

[Cuts again to a photo of Brad in condom helmet]

GHF: Um…I think…

[Credits begin abruptly]

A Current Today

This one did actually get finished, but the file is floating around somewhere on an old computer. It's a tragic loss for the literary world.

A Current Today


Garrick Hopkins-Featherwaite: Good evening Australia, and welcome to another evening of A Current Today; the show that saved Christmas.

Before we begin tonight, I’d like to make a retraction on behalf of A Current Today, the network and myself. In our April 19th story on the programming director of Channel 5, we claimed that the aforementioned individual dabbled in the black arts, and was responsible for plague and pestilence. Regrettably, this information turned out to be false, and we have been forced to pay Mr. Williams a sizeable figure in damages. Whilst we cannot disclose the exact sum, he will doubtless squander all of it on indulging his ravenous cocaine addiction. We apologise for any confusion this report may have caused.

We embark on tonight’s instalment of A Current Today with the story of Neville Smythe, a World War Two Hero who has been prohibited from the pastime he loves by hard-hearted bureaucrats with no appreciation of the concept men like Neville fought for; a fair go for all.

[Dramatic music plays as we zoom out from an old black and white photo of a WW2 digger. The digger has crossed eyes and a blank stare]

Voiceover (Neville Smythe): When they told me…I just couldn’t believe it. I just could not believe it. How…how can they? It’s just plain wrong…they’ve taken the joy from an old man’s life!

[Cut to GHF standing next to a war memorial at dawn. He is smoking and doesn’t realise the cameras are running; upon noticing that they are, he stubs out his cigarette on the memorial, runs a hand through his hair, and begins to speak]

GHF: (Coughs) The man you (coughs again)…pardon me…the man you just heard from is Neville Smythe, a digger who serves with courage for Australia at El Alamein in 1942. Originally from Mukinbudin, Western Australia, 18-year-old Neville decided to enlist in 1940, after his dairy farmer father had deemed it a liability to leave young Nev alone with farm animals. Honourably discharged after two weeks of service as a result of accidentally shooting his commanding officer in the testicles, Neville returned to “Mucko” as a hero, and still holds the record for growing the region’s largest ever sweet potato. Currently living in an RSL home in Perth, Neville enjoys playing bridge, following his beloved West Coast Eagles, and spending time with his grandchildren.

Neville, however, also has another habit, and one that leads us to tonight’s story. Neville Smythe, war hero and defender of the ANZAC traditions, has been cruelly prohibited from his favourite hobby by a callous city council. Yes, Neville Smythe will no longer find fulfilment from his passion in life; arson.

[Cut to GHF sitting in RSL home common room with NS.]
GHF: Now Neville, I understand that the Perth City Council has opted to ban you from arson after you attempted to burn down a local primary school. Why would these heartless suits see fit to stop an old man, a war hero, from doing what he loves most?

Neville: Oh Garrick, I just don’t know. It makes me so angry, it does. How can they? All I done was burn down the school canteen! It’s not like kids need more food. I’ve got grand kids you know, and they’re plump little buggers.

GHF: It’s an outrage Nev, a downright outrage. You’ve been practicing arson for years without complaint, so why the uproar now? It stinks of foul play.

Neville: Too bloody right it does! Back in my day, arson was commonplace! Prime Minister Chifley and I used to burn down wheat silos all the time! I’ll tell you what it is, it’s these bloody bleeding heart, loony left Muslim-huggers in government now, telling me that I can’t singe a few kids…it’s…oh my goodness…

[Neville breaks down in tears]

[GHF reaches over the table and clasps Neville’s hands]

GHF (Softly): It’s alright Nev, old cobber, it’s alright…

[Cut to GHF standing on the sidewalk outside an office building]

GHF: It appears that whilst the government was prepared to turn a blind eye to Neville’s harmless incineration of forests, animal sanctuaries and relatives’ homes, primary schools are taboo in the eyes of these callous pen-pushers. The man responsible for this sickening vilification of an old ANZAC is Perth City Councillor Greg McIntosh. I’m standing now outside of Mr. McIntosh’s office, hoping to confront him about his appalling edict to ban Digger Nev from his beloved arson.

[Camera crew follows GHF inside the building. He approaches a startled receptionist]

GHF: Garrick Hopkins-Featherwaite, A Current Today. I’d like to speak with Mr. McIntosh.

Receptionist: Mr. McIntosh is in a meeting at the moment, but if you’d care to wait for fifteen minutes, he’ll be free to see you.

GHF: Oh…alright, then.

[Cut to GHF and two cameramen sitting in reception area. GHF is reading a New Idea]

GHF: How about that Angelina Jolie stealing Brad from Jen.

Cameraman: Whore.

GHF: Oh, I know!

Construction

Another creative writing assignment. It got 49% from memory, and I still hold a grudge.

I had met her on Friday. It was of those group settings where mutual friends had none too subtly attempted to subvert the courting process and shove us begrudgingly into each other’s calculations. I hadn’t, though, reckoned with how attracted to her I would be. Nor had I taken into consideration exactly how long it had been since I’d attempted to talk to a woman as a single man.

It had been awful. Speaking to her, I seemed to lose all use of vowels. My words came out in clusters, inarticulate and grating. I attempted to adopt a softer, flirty intonation and instead sounded like I’d been anaesthetised. Our chemistry hadn’t been so much Shakespearean as the kind that allows manure and petrol to form a potent explosive. Our conversation had adopted a bizarre staccato rhythm wherein we interrupted, spoke over, blushed, excused ourselves and insisted the other continue with such regularity that we would have completed perhaps only a dozen sentences between us. Any predatory instincts I may once of possessed had been blunted by a nine month relationship. My ability to discuss anything even remotely engaging with a woman I was attracted to had been usurped by an encyclopaedic knowledge of Sex and the City. I had seen a documentary recently where a lioness had taught her young to hunt by letting them hone their skills on a decrepit wildebeest. In another of those instances where human behaviour mirrors that displayed in nature, I could see the parallels as I broke her resistance with several hundred cub-sized bites. I would have called the whole thing off if not for the fact that she was the most alluring decrepit wildebeest in the pub. It was seduction by attrition and it was not pleasant.

Remarkably, she had agreed to have dinner with me the following Monday. I’m still yet to ascertain exactly what she found attractive about me. Perhaps my stuttered attempts at conversation had a certain befuddled charm. Perhaps she took pity on what she assumed were my severe personality impairments. In any case, it is now an hour until she arrives and I am busy at work constructing myself.

Let me elaborate on this. I like to think we’re all multifaceted people with a broad spectrum of interests, personality quirks and predispositions. However, not all of our idiosyncrasies are fit for exposure in any social setting. People need to be judicious in what they divulge about themselves, and must always take into consideration the context in which they do so, even if they deem a certain aspect of their personality to be an impressive trait. For example, when applying for a job an applicant wouldn’t list “Ability to surreptitiously siphon company funds into personal account with minimal chance of detection” as one of their strengths, despite the high degree of competence required to do so. Similarly, one would be best advised not to mention their keen interest in snuff films at a wake, or, to apply an example from my own personal experience, allow a Bob Seger album to remain on my shelf in full view of a woman I have every intention of bedding.

I bear this in mind as I sift through my CD stack, removing potentially embarrassing items and replacing them with albums that serve to highlight my musical acumen. Dark Side of the Moon replaces BacDaFucUp, Al Green replaces Robert Palmer and Wendy Matthews in unceremoniously flung out the window. I’ve decided to construct myself as someone whose taste is hip, yet not so esoteric as to be threatening. I settle on Portishead as the music to accompany dinner, a mature yet suitably cool selection which could prompt further discussion, which could lead to my playing an Andy Smith Document album, which in turn could lead to me vicariously taking credit for the music taste of someone immeasurably more credentialed than myself. I decide to plant one kitsch album in amongst the collection – Hall and Oates’ Gold – so that she might find it and tease me while I feign shock that she hasn’t a copy of her own and smile sheepishly. She’ll then realise that despite my suave exterior, I’m not above laughing at myself and we’ll dance in the living room to “Out of Touch,” fall into each other’s arms and make adroit, middle-class love on the couch.

A common fallacy propagated by both sexes is that in order to impress people, you need just ‘show the real you’ and ‘be yourself.’ I vehemently disagree with this. The ‘real me’ can quote, verbatim, the entire Days of Thunder script. The ‘real me’ is known on occasion to watch children’s game shows to hurl derision at contestants who can’t identify former Prime Ministers. I’m pretty sure Pol Pot was just ‘being himself.’ There must always be a degree of poetic license applied when constructing yourself, and cultivating an image is of greater importance than the illusory concept of ‘the real you.’ Once someone is suitably comfortable in your presence, less desirable traits such as condescension towards children and a penchant for genocide can be revealed. It is because of my eagerness to present a desirable representation of myself that I am panicked in deciding on an outfit for the evening.

My initial thought was to dress as casually as possible and present an image of detached cool and in turn make her more receptive to being open with me. I’m unsure why, but it seems to be the style of the times to wear vintage t-shirts with the name of fictitious Japanese sports teams emblazoned on them. In accordance with this, I lay out my “Abashiri Fishing Village All-Stars est. 1973” shirt next to a pair of jeans. However, I’m worried that she may wear something more sophisticated, and I run the risk of alienating her and making her feel overdressed. I reconsider my choice of outfit and prepare an alternative with a black dress shirt replacing the vintage tee. I read once that a woman can tell all she needs to know about a man by a cursory glance at his shoes. I search my wardrobe for a pair that radiate “sensitive yet virile male who will fulfil your every carnal desire and then write a sonnet on the subject afterwards.” I cannot find any, so settle instead for brown moccasins. I decide to defer on making a judgement on the shirt and opt to remain topless until five minutes before she arrives.


I set the table and tidy away any fast food containers or Segal movies that might betray my slovenly bachelor lifestyle. Apparently warm environments are more conducive to feelings of wellbeing and openness, so I opt not to turn the air conditioning on, despite the fact that it’s twenty four degrees outside.

Having prepared the dining area, I go to my room and make the bed. Should the evening be a success, I’ve got a packet of condoms stashed in my top drawer. Selecting the right variety and texture had been a challenge in itself. I had to negotiate the difficult task of buying a model that was neither too explicitly kinky nor unimaginatively dull. I had flirted with the idea of buying the extra large variety, but such puerile bravado would come undone should I be required to use them, and images of parking a Fiat in an aircraft hangar plagued me. Ultimately, I decided that in case oral sex were to enter the equation, it would be remiss of me not to get the flavoured assortment: nothing but the tastiest latex for my baby. However, this led to another dilemma as I questioned whether or not the kind of woman who would dispense oral pleasure so early in the piece would be the kind of partner I’d want for a committed relationship. What if we were to end up together and, upon our break-up, she was to completely disregard the roughly month-long fellatio armistice expected of exes? Fuck her! Although I guess that was the object of the exercise.

I stop speculating about such frankly insane sexual folly and realise that the condom packet is still in pristine condition. Herein lies a problem; I need to remove enough condoms to display that yes, I have had sexual relationships with a woman or women before her, but not so many as to make her think me a womaniser. From the packet of twenty- four, I decide nine is an acceptable number to remove after having deliberated on taking an even half, then erring on the side of caution. To give the box a more weathered look, I crush the corners and put it in the clothes dryer for ten minutes.

I’m in no way prepared when the doorbell rings, and, shirtless and trying to figure out how long cardboard can safely be left to tumble dry, I race to my room and throw on the first thing that comes to hand. My attempt at debonair cool has been compromised and I’m going to have to think on my feet.

As it transpires, the dinner goes near seamlessly. I’m able to converse at a level above that of a gibbon and even voluntarily show her the Hall and Oates CD. We don’t make love on the couch, but we do discuss how the advent of hairspray in the eighties doubtless brought global warming forward several centuries. I manage to make her laugh, usually intentionally, and she seems to genuinely enjoy my company. At the end of the night I get a kiss goodnight and she tells me to call her. I feel a sudden giddiness and a hot flush goes across my brow, which is quite possibly the result of heatstroke, but which I believe to be symptomatic of something more profound. I’m currently debating whether or not to call her tomorrow and invite her over to watch It’s Academic.

Avocado

This is a story I wrote for a unit at Curtin a couple of years back. It's been described variously as "gritty," "austere" and "fucking lame."

The alarm wakes me, my clock radio informing me that it is 7 am, though I find it preferable to measure time based on absence. It is, for example, fifteen years since I had hair. It is five seconds since I last slept. It is an inestimable amount of time since I had a conscience, or for that matter, a satisfying breakfast. The latter, in keeping with my unique form of chronology, is commensurate with the five years since I had a wife. I read once that human remains are the most effective fertiliser known to man. Whilst I have no particular affinity for botany, there is a stretch of roses in my garden, roughly five feet long, wherein the flowers are of much greater stature than those surrounding them.

I get out of bed and prepare for work in the same autonomous fashion that I always do, guided by routine. Upon consumption of my sloppy eggs, I feel fleeting regret at the demise of my wife, before recalling her similarly sloppy lovemaking skills. My regret is assuaged.

I lay out five ties on my bed. Today is Monday - lime green tie day. As with every day, I flirt with the notion of bucking routine and wearing the fuchsia one instead, but to entertain such madness would doubtless plunge the universe as I know it into utter pandemonium. I feel slightly giddy as I fashion the lime green tie into a crisp windsor knot, staring pleadingly at the fuchsia alternative that is reserved for Thursday, lest chaos ensue.

I arrive at work at precisely 8:30. I once arrived at 8:41 and was disconsolate for the rest of the day. I attributed my behaviour to having recently lost a loved one. Very recently, in fact. I vowed that day never to let such trifling matters disrupt routine again.

I walk to my cubicle and sit down in my perpetually uncomfortable swivel chair. There is a screw that protrudes from the seat that leads to immeasurable discomfort throughout the day. Pablo, the office maintenance man, has neglected to remove it despite my ongoing protestations. Pablo is my nemesis, and will be dealt with as soon as I acquire the gelignite that I am currently bidding for on E-bay.

Although I cannot see her, I know that Louise is in the cubicle to my right. I am in love with Louise, who is a widow. Her erstwhile husband was involved in a minor car accident. Upon learning of her bereavement, I made her a photo frame out of his brake cables, in which there now unfortunately resides a picture of him. He mocks me posthumously and I can no longer walk past Louise’s cubicle.

I cannot tell you what I do for a living, because I myself have forgotten. I know that I enter numbers into spreadsheets, categorise orders according to client, sharpen my pencils every hour and receive sexually explicit emails from my colleagues. I am not sure what results my labours yield, although I find a certain measure of gratification in forwarding the emails to Louise, who I think is attracted to me.

I receive a phone call at my desk, distracting me from an engaging game of minesweeper. It is Richard, my boss. He is calling to congratulate me on my work. Apparently I am a stalwart of the company and my contribution to team success is irreplaceable. Richard is a homosexual, and his call makes me uncomfortable. I thank him and hang up.


Sooner than expected, lunch time arrives. Today is international food day. Marie has provided hummus. Thomas, who is exceedingly dim, comments that he likes most foreign food, but can’t stand ‘hamas.’ I quip that as awful as Marie’s cooking may be, it is hardly likely to incinerate any Israeli school buses. Thomas says he isn’t interested in politics, whilst the rest of my colleagues stare blankly at me. They are not intelligent people.

The rest of the day passes without incident, as every day preceding it has, and sure as every subsequent day will. I put on my favourite cd in the car, Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’. My favourite track is the effervescent “You Can Call Me Al,” in which Simon poses the question “Why am I soft in the middle?” before lamenting “The rest of my life is so hard.” I feel that these lyrics, when inverted, aptly summarise the world and my place within it. For were these lyrics to be mine, they would read “Why am I hard in the middle? The rest of my life is so soft.”

I occupy a world mired in the inane. A world of talkback radio, pet psychiatrists and personalised license plates. A world where ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ are deemed more newsworthy than mudslides. Amidst all of this, my inscrutable callousness is of marked contrast with the dispositions of those around me. I am unsure whether it is deliberate recalcitrance or merely an inherent component of my personality that affords me such coldness. I am a razor blade through styrofoam. I am total darkness where there should be incandescence. I am also aware of the futility of self-analysis. I eject the cd and turn on the radio, arriving home to the strains of A-Ha’s “Take on Me.”

After I arrive home, I settle down to watch the evening news with a cup of tea. There is a muffled yelping from under the floorboards where I keep my neighbor’s corgi. Despite my vociferous complaints, Muffin’s owner refused to stop her nocturnal barking frenzies. Her sub-floorboard cacophony is much more tolerable: however, I think I will put a rug over the flooring just for peace of mind.

I retire to my study to pen another love letter to Louise. It has been twenty-four hours since I last wrote her one. As always, I am unable to find the appropriate words to use and veer off on a tangent about my hatred of the asymmetrical part in her hair. The letter is filed, along with the fifteen hundred other aborted attempts.

I am irritated by my inability to capture the essence of my feelings for Louise. I notice that upon the filing of the most recent letter, the cabinet has been filled to its full capacity. Although I am not normally one for such trite sentiment, I feel a strange discomfort at the thought that this may be closure.

I sleep.


I arrive at work at 8.30. I walk to my cubicle, undeterred by the idle chatter of my co-workers. I am faintly aware of Thomas saying good morning, to which I nod to no one in particular.

There is an envelope on my desk. My name is written in immaculate cursive, the flourishes at the end of each letter betraying the enthusiasm of the writer. Next to the letter is a single rose.

I open the envelope slowly, cautious and enthralled in equal measure. Within the envelope is a neatly folded slip of paper and a polaroid photo.

I read the letter first, and it’s succinct yet glorious content renders me delirious.

‘With love, Louise.’

I look down slowly at the photo. In it, Louise is holding Pablo’s severed head whilst blowing a kiss to the camera. She is resplendent.

It is three-hundredths of a second since I realised that the outside is not as soft as I first believed. I am in love.

Alasdair Beer Loves the Third Person, Hates Cup Day

George Orwell famously wrote in his iconic novel "1984": If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - forever.

If you want an accurate representation of working in Leederville on Melbourne Cup day, imagine a piece of toilet paper sticking to a pair of cheap stilettos purchased from Betts and Betts Mirrabooka and being unwittingly dragged into Alasdair Beer's work - forever.


Australia is a curious place. This seems to be the only country in which public drunkenness is a crime, but which seems intent on finding reasons to very publicly write itself off. Grand Final Day, Australia Day, New Years, Melbourne Cup Day, Spring in the Valley, Kwanzaa, Arbor Day; any excuse will do. It’s a unifying experience, too; cabinet makers and property developers alike rejoice in the egalitarian experience that is walking up and down Oxford Street on your phone yelling:

"CHAPPO! CHAPPO! NAH, FUCKING…CHAPPO YA CUNT! WE'RE GOIN TO NICHE! NICHE! HAHA OI I CAN'T EVEN HEAR YOU, BRING THE GIRLS! NICHE!"

I'd like to think it'd be a kind of poetically just demise if I got to slit their throats with their own MotoRazrs but alas their simian chattering echoed throughout the street, leaving my soul barren like so many deserted Human Movement lectures nationwide.

The fashion of the corporate jock is something that intrigues me. Ostensibly, the Leedy was offering some kind of "Dress like Jay Kay from Jamoroquai and receive free watermelon breezer" promotion, and the amount of hats and pinstripes was truly staggering. I didn't see any "Press" cards protruding from them, but I suppose Men's Health and FHM only have so many contributors: Perhaps they were filming another Godfather movie where the Corleones try to muscle in on Cosmos Kebabs. Regardless, the corporate Mohawk is a difficult style to manoeuvre into a hat, and I respect the ingenuity of all who succeeded in doing so. Also, judging from the broad cross-section of people I saw sporting their sunglasses, "D&G" stands for "Dullards & Guidos."

It rained hard today and human flotsam was bobbing up all around me; I saw one guy with some pretty impressive deltoids being swept away in the deluge. Referencing the colour of his dress shirt, I quipped (to no-one at all): "I thought salmon usually went upstream."


A party bus pulled up and some discerning gent leaned out the window and tried to yell to a girl on the corner of Oxford and Newcastle: "The subtle Auburn of your hair reminds me of the golden fields of my youth, and were you to be mine the sheer volume of my love would prove overwhelming to this earthly vessel; verily, my affections would rupture, tear at the seams of my being, now rendered wretched and inglorious against your splendour and I would shatter - willingly - into a thousand fragments that would festoon the skies with so many celestial monuments to the scope of my infatuation."


Instead, he got tongue-tied and what came out was: "VIEWED! YIIIIIII-EWWWWWW!"

He did have the Japanese symbol for "bold" tattooed on his forearm, and I respect a man who stands by his principles. That the rest of his tattoo, loosely translated, meant "baseball/ Gamera /baseball" seemed not to matter. His shell necklace indicated he was a man of the world.

The rain persisted, arks were cobbled together from Asahi bottles and the women performed their ethnic sea shanties

"I'm here with all of my people/WAAAA--AHH-AHH!"

and I was deeply moved by these creatures and their near-human behaviours.

Horse racing is not a sport. Drinking should be done in front of a typewriter on your own in the 1940s. The Warwick train line should be napalmed. Fuck hats.

The End

Breaking the Cycle

“I don't have pet peeves; I have major psychotic fucking hatreds, okay. And it makes the world a lot easier to sort out.” – George Carlin

I fucking hate cyclists. I don’t want to be misconstrued here; I don’t hate people who ride bikes. There’s surely no more glorious a sight than a guy in his fifties on a woman’s mountain bike with two warm bottles of Kirk’s Kole Beer in a plastic bag slung over the handlebars, wearing a shirt advertising a 1997 fun run he didn’t participate in lurching wildly across the road as he tries to adjust his Ill-fitting construction helmet. My ire is reserved for those most loathsome of hobbyists; for each individual member of the phalanx of sexually confused nonsense enthusiasts known as cyclists.

Cyclists are universally reviled largely for their retardation of motorists. My disdain is far more personal. Working in a café has allowed me the opportunity to observe the cyclist at far closer proximity than from the relative safety of a car and to learn more of what makes them tick (unfortunately not a timer connected to blasting caps.)

Behaviour

Cyclists are early risers. Judging by how sweaty all these hairless fucks are by the time they get to my work, they ride for a good couple of hours before stopping off for skinny decaffeinated short macchiattos. Their thimbleful of milk needs to be as weak as possible so as not to temper the buzz they don’t get from their coffee-flavoured dishwater. Having ordered, they then spend the duration of their café visit talking about cycling. After they’re done, they cycle off again for a few more hours.

The only people who get up before sunrise to do something for hours, cease participating in said activity for a couple hours (whilst still discussing it) then resume are meth addicts and cyclists. Cycling is better for your skin, but only half as likely to give you rock-hard abs.

In my experience, women are far less likely to behave in socially inappropriate ways than men. This explains why the fairer sex accounts for roughly 5% of cyclists. The rest are a bizarre kind of alpha male who all have weird monosyllabic names like “Clint”, “Clay” and “Quint” and who don’t believe in social niceties like “please,” “thankyou,” or blinking from time to time. Despite this, they’re uniformly lame and hold themselves in a way unlike your usual football playing jock. This is largely because they’ve waxed all the hair on their bodies and are usually clad in a zipped-down fluorescent one-piece. In zoological terms, cyclists are the lion who tries to usurp the leader of the pride (football jock) only to get a loving spoonful of clawface. The lion then waxes itself and goes to a café to ask if their sponge cake is made of almond meal.

Despite their austere, borderline Asperger’s behaviour, there are strangely homoerotic undercurrents to cycling.

”But how, Alasdair? I mean sure, I’m surrounded on all sides by men with visible moose knuckles, there’s a constant dull ache in my buttocks, I’ve got a hard pole in each hand and all the while a chain is going round and round directly below me but…oh.”

As previously mentioned, the cyclist will also refuse to broach any topic of conversation besides cycling itself. Walking past their tables, one is likely to hear phrases such as:

”Well, I shaved about twelve seconds off my personal best, and about two centimetres off my chest…”

”I didn’t think they were quite tight enough, so I put them in the dryer.”

Cyclist 1: “…and that was that day’s ride. Anyway, that night we stayed in this little village on the Hungarian border and I met the most beautiful…”

Cyclist 2 [interrupting]: “Hey! Enough of that! Tell us more about how chapped your lips got riding into that headwind in Anderlecht!”

Whilst riding, cyclists are never allowed to smile. Grimaces are acceptable, but if the cyclist’s visage projects even the slightest trace of satisfaction, they are compelled to commit cyclist hara-kiri and squirt themselves in the crotch with their impractically small water bottles, making it look to the other cyclists as though they are incontinent. It is imperative that the cyclist is always perilously straddling the thin line between maximum physical exertion and instant death. Allow me to paint a picture of the cyclist in action:


”Quint felt each individual rivulet of sweat as they raced down the sprawling, frictionless expanse of his freshly-waxed chest. The bloodied flecks of enamel that had once been his teeth -long ground away as every fibre in his being fought to buck the axioms of time and space – gritted against the void. What would Lance Armstrong do? Quint decided to find out, and skipped to track 11 of his autobiography Podcast: “Chapter 37: I Felt a Lump in My Sac…So I Just Pedalled Harder.” An acrid stench hung in the air, and Quint cursed that he had opted to ride downwind of Brant, who had eaten chilli mussels the previous evening. His heart pumping nought but lactic acid, his eyes misted over with perspiration, his author fresh out of clichéd expressions, Quint willed himself onwards to the café, knowing that first sip of soy decaffeinated skim weak chai latte would soothe the veritable machete hacks of cramp he was experiencing up and down the length of his quads. With his destination so agonizingly near, Quint mustered the zeal to increase his speed, riding high on the saddle like a gunslinger of old; exhausted; defiant, but never defeated. It was then that an elderly Macedonian man in a 1987 Ford Fairlane drew up alongside Quint; casually – almost contemptuously – he put it into third and began to pull away. As the Garfield plush toy suction-cupped to the rear windshield became progressively smaller, Quint realised that for all his labours, he was, at the crux of his being, now and forevermore – a prat.”


I actually have far more material than I thought I would when I started this rant, so pending my laziness I will post part two some time in the next couple of days.