As Sam was plotting her bloodthirsty revenge, Liam was reading Caro’s story with an equal measure of disgust and disdain.
So THIS was what she’d bumped his Richmond footy department story for. This? This crap? This patently fed from the league agenda-driving crap?
He marched into Caroline’s office without knocking. From beneath hooded eyes, she looked up at him.
“Yeth, Wiam,” she asked in wary tone.
“Are we going to run my Richmond story tomorrow,” he asked, not caring for the niceties of the editor/reporter relationship.
“No,” said Caroline, “I’m doing a fowwow up on this Wetht Wombath thtuff.”
“A follow up,” Liam asked incredulously, “But there wasn’t anything in it to begin with.”
As soon as the words had escaped his lips, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Caroline’s reptilian eyes narrowed to a killing focus.
“Wiam,” she began slowly, “Tell me about this Wichmond thtory of yourth.”
OK thought Liam, I’ve put my cock in the pencil sharpener on this one, time to produce.
So he told her what his two day investigation of the running of the Richmond footy department had produced. That simple skills drills had been replaced with ‘colouring in hour’. That the club doctor gave players red cordial before the game in the belief it was a performance enhancer. Of the games of kiss chasey played by the midfield group in order to enhance evasive ability.
“They’ve even got a talking horse as the forward line coach. And I’m pretty sure it’s a real horse. That can talk. I had a good look at it and there’s no seams or stiching or anything,” he said.
Caroline let a beat pass.
“Wiam. I have thome advithe for you. If you want to make it at this newsthpaper, there are two thingth you need to rewemember. One, never cwiticise the bottheth sthtowieth, and two, there’th never anything wong with Wichmond. Do I make mythelf clear?”
"Ummm, didn't we just run all this stuff about Sheedy trying to rape a dingo that was proven to be bullshit just a few weeks ago?" asked Liam.
"THTHTHTAT! WATH! DIFFEWENT!," screeched Caro, "THTHTHTHTAT! WATH! SAM'TH STHTOWY!"
Liam nodded. And decided to leave it there.
He went back to his desk to chase up a lead Caroline had given him about a report that Mark LeCras was spending too much time ‘getting close to quokkas’ on Rottnest Island.
But he wouldn’t be put off so easily. No, he’d see real journalism return to The Era. Even if it meant taking down the boss to get it.
Tuesday 30 June 2009
Monday 29 June 2009
Soon, Mein Liebling, Soon
Once she was sure she was not being watched by any of the other inmates, Sam clutched Caro's article to her chest, rubbed the news print on her grim prison issue smock.
It was the Caroline she knew and loved. She savoured every unsourced claim, allowed the opinion dressed up as fact to drop from the page and roll gently down her waiting tongue. Ooooooh, she thought to herself, this will make a brilliant deposit in the Wank Bank.
Sam considered frigging one off right there and then, illuminated only by the watery morning twilight of Deer Park.
But she knew she couldn't. If the other girls caught her, she'd lose face. And that could be deadly here in the Roberta Moran Centre For Female Corrections.
She'd known they'd try it on with her on her first few days inside, and had prepared herself accordingly.
It had come swift, on her second night. They'd been watching Rove in the recreation room when a tough little thing with a sharpie haircut and a tattoo of a magpie on her cheek confronted her.
"You're that dumb moll journalist what made up all that bullshit about the dingos getting rooted that meant my cousin Alan got eaten by that fat prick from Hawthron aren't ya?"
Sam knew what she had to do. She'd been pissing on the floor of her cell and scraping her prison issue toothbrush into the puddle to create a sharp edge since she'd arrived. Now she used it.
"So what if I am?" Sam snarled back, before raining blows upon the unfortunate woman.
By the time they heard the screws moving, the sharpie lay broken and bloodied at Sam's feet.
Sam sat down and looked around the room. Nobody had seen anything, she knew that for sure. And she hadn't had any trouble since.
Now, just a few days short of her release date, Sam felt an inner confidence.
Yes, she'd see Caroline.
But there were also a few other people she needed to visit. Some other issues to sort out.
Starting with that slag Rebecca.
It was the Caroline she knew and loved. She savoured every unsourced claim, allowed the opinion dressed up as fact to drop from the page and roll gently down her waiting tongue. Ooooooh, she thought to herself, this will make a brilliant deposit in the Wank Bank.
Sam considered frigging one off right there and then, illuminated only by the watery morning twilight of Deer Park.
But she knew she couldn't. If the other girls caught her, she'd lose face. And that could be deadly here in the Roberta Moran Centre For Female Corrections.
She'd known they'd try it on with her on her first few days inside, and had prepared herself accordingly.
It had come swift, on her second night. They'd been watching Rove in the recreation room when a tough little thing with a sharpie haircut and a tattoo of a magpie on her cheek confronted her.
"You're that dumb moll journalist what made up all that bullshit about the dingos getting rooted that meant my cousin Alan got eaten by that fat prick from Hawthron aren't ya?"
Sam knew what she had to do. She'd been pissing on the floor of her cell and scraping her prison issue toothbrush into the puddle to create a sharp edge since she'd arrived. Now she used it.
"So what if I am?" Sam snarled back, before raining blows upon the unfortunate woman.
By the time they heard the screws moving, the sharpie lay broken and bloodied at Sam's feet.
Sam sat down and looked around the room. Nobody had seen anything, she knew that for sure. And she hadn't had any trouble since.
Now, just a few days short of her release date, Sam felt an inner confidence.
Yes, she'd see Caroline.
But there were also a few other people she needed to visit. Some other issues to sort out.
Starting with that slag Rebecca.
Friday 26 June 2009
Project Sauvignon Blanc Begins
Deal Done? Done Deal
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
Wednesday 24 June 2009
Watching My Waithtwine
Andrew eyed his guest as mongoose does a snake while Gillon laboured under the weight of an enormous tray of pastries.
“I’m sorry about … this,” he hissed, impatient at his underling’s slow service of the executive éclair ensemble.
“Don’t wowwy about it,” his guest replied, “I won’t be having any anywayth. I’m watching my waithtwine.”
Andrew looked at Caroline coldy.
“Yes, I heard you’d gone onto fish of late.”
A silence hung between them. The mood was like during the Molotov-Ribbentrop negotiations, two vile entities united in mutual distrust and a suspicion one could gain an advantage over the other.
“Tho why have you invited me here anyway, Andwew?” Caroline finally asked.
Andrew swallowed the last of the éclair he’d jammed into his mouth as soon as Gillon had put them down. He felt is work its way into his bloodstream, the shakes gently easing, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying off. Once this metal-mouthed bitch was gone, he’d have three or four at once, get a decent glow on that would last him through until lunchtime at least.
“Would you be willing to abandon all your journalistic principles if you had a good story? A lot of good stories?” Andrew asked.
Caroline paused for breath.
“How good? How many?”
Andrew rose from the his dragon shaped throne made of human thigh bones and leant closer in to her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that Rebecca had the right idea after all.
“At least a month’s worth of front pages, maybe more. And guaranteed inside running. Nothing for anyone else. Yours alone.”
With great theatre, Caroline drew her reporter’s notebook from her koala-skin handbag.
She opened it and wrote on the first page in large letters the words JOURNALISTIC PRINCIPLES.
Then, with a flourish, she rose and strode over to a window, her heels clacking on the marble floor.
As Andrew watched in awe, a spine tingling awe, she tore the piece of paper up and threw the scraps out into the fluttering breeze.
“Doeth that ansthwer your questhtion?”
Andrew smiled. This one, he could work with her. They could get stuff done. They could be a beautiful team.
“Caroline my dear, let me tell you about where the West Melbourne Wombats will be playing next year,” he began, his voice slicker than the Persian Gulf after a particularly bad oil spill.
“I’m sorry about … this,” he hissed, impatient at his underling’s slow service of the executive éclair ensemble.
“Don’t wowwy about it,” his guest replied, “I won’t be having any anywayth. I’m watching my waithtwine.”
Andrew looked at Caroline coldy.
“Yes, I heard you’d gone onto fish of late.”
A silence hung between them. The mood was like during the Molotov-Ribbentrop negotiations, two vile entities united in mutual distrust and a suspicion one could gain an advantage over the other.
“Tho why have you invited me here anyway, Andwew?” Caroline finally asked.
Andrew swallowed the last of the éclair he’d jammed into his mouth as soon as Gillon had put them down. He felt is work its way into his bloodstream, the shakes gently easing, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying off. Once this metal-mouthed bitch was gone, he’d have three or four at once, get a decent glow on that would last him through until lunchtime at least.
“Would you be willing to abandon all your journalistic principles if you had a good story? A lot of good stories?” Andrew asked.
Caroline paused for breath.
“How good? How many?”
Andrew rose from the his dragon shaped throne made of human thigh bones and leant closer in to her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that Rebecca had the right idea after all.
“At least a month’s worth of front pages, maybe more. And guaranteed inside running. Nothing for anyone else. Yours alone.”
With great theatre, Caroline drew her reporter’s notebook from her koala-skin handbag.
She opened it and wrote on the first page in large letters the words JOURNALISTIC PRINCIPLES.
Then, with a flourish, she rose and strode over to a window, her heels clacking on the marble floor.
As Andrew watched in awe, a spine tingling awe, she tore the piece of paper up and threw the scraps out into the fluttering breeze.
“Doeth that ansthwer your questhtion?”
Andrew smiled. This one, he could work with her. They could get stuff done. They could be a beautiful team.
“Caroline my dear, let me tell you about where the West Melbourne Wombats will be playing next year,” he began, his voice slicker than the Persian Gulf after a particularly bad oil spill.
Tuesday 23 June 2009
Good Advice
The boys were on their last warm down lap at the Visy Memorial To Creative Accounting Stadium when Brendan decided to approach Chris.
The prematurely balding captain was flanked by his pageboys, Bryce and Marc.
“That’s a lovely scent you are wearing today, Chris,” trilled Marc.
“Oh yes, oh yes, isn’t it fine, isn’t it smashing, isn’t it fabdabudocious,” squeaked Bryce in reply.
Brendan growled at them.
“Youse, Hi-5, piss off before I break your faces.”
The two boys scattered at Brendan’s approach, like rabbits in the shadow of an eagle.
“Gidday Brendan, how are you mate,” Chris said cheerfully, as the main group passed the sickening sight of Setanta beating a rookie-listed kid to death with a tree branch.
“You read books and shit don’t you?” Brendan asked.
“Oh yeah!” Chris replied enthusiastically. “My favourite one is the back of my An Inconvenient Truth DVD!”
“Then you might be able to help me with this problem I’ve got.”
“What is it mate,” asked Chris.
Brendan hesitated. He didn’t want to announce it too loudly, because the boys would lay into him if he did. It was like that time Nick Stevens did a shit in the clubrooms toilet so for a laugh, Brendan had done a shit in Stevens’ locker. Every day for a month. It had been a hoot.
So instead he leant down and whispered his secret into his captain’s ear. Chris’ faces grew visibly concerned as he digested what Brendan was saying. A frown spread across the enormous expanse of his forehead, a wasteland where the border between face and giant balding desert was never clear.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this mate, but I reckon you should go and talk to my missus. She’s a had a few issues with … ummm, confusion … in that sort of department lately. She might be able to help,” he said finally.
The prematurely balding captain was flanked by his pageboys, Bryce and Marc.
“That’s a lovely scent you are wearing today, Chris,” trilled Marc.
“Oh yes, oh yes, isn’t it fine, isn’t it smashing, isn’t it fabdabudocious,” squeaked Bryce in reply.
Brendan growled at them.
“Youse, Hi-5, piss off before I break your faces.”
The two boys scattered at Brendan’s approach, like rabbits in the shadow of an eagle.
“Gidday Brendan, how are you mate,” Chris said cheerfully, as the main group passed the sickening sight of Setanta beating a rookie-listed kid to death with a tree branch.
“You read books and shit don’t you?” Brendan asked.
“Oh yeah!” Chris replied enthusiastically. “My favourite one is the back of my An Inconvenient Truth DVD!”
“Then you might be able to help me with this problem I’ve got.”
“What is it mate,” asked Chris.
Brendan hesitated. He didn’t want to announce it too loudly, because the boys would lay into him if he did. It was like that time Nick Stevens did a shit in the clubrooms toilet so for a laugh, Brendan had done a shit in Stevens’ locker. Every day for a month. It had been a hoot.
So instead he leant down and whispered his secret into his captain’s ear. Chris’ faces grew visibly concerned as he digested what Brendan was saying. A frown spread across the enormous expanse of his forehead, a wasteland where the border between face and giant balding desert was never clear.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this mate, but I reckon you should go and talk to my missus. She’s a had a few issues with … ummm, confusion … in that sort of department lately. She might be able to help,” he said finally.
Saturday 20 June 2009
I Could Do That Gillon, I Could
Andrew paced his office pensively. Project Sauvignon Blanc was already meeting hurdles.
How could he shift a team which for legal reasons we’ll call the West Melbourne Wombat up into the thriving and allegedly footy mad Hunter Valley region without awakening the usual crowd of Luddites and Nimbies that this kind of situation always brought out of the woodwork?
Why couldn’t they see the bigger picture? Why were they always droning on about ‘history’ and ‘tradition’? Didn’t they know Andrew had KPIs to meet? Bonuses to earn? A thousand chocolate éclair a week habit didn’t pay for itself.
The move would have to be made. But he knew minute the first announcements were made, there’d a be a crowd of slack-jawed begrudgers holding public meetings and conducting campaigns to keep the club in Melbourne and all that other boring, dreary stuff people did.
Why couldn’t he just have all of them killed?
“What will I do, Gillon,” he asked his minion, who stood nervously before him. “What will I do with these West Melbourne bludgers?”
“Ummm, you could let them try and stay in Melbourne and survive like they say they can,” the younger man offered, immediately regretting his words as they left his lips.
Andrew’s eyes narrowed to a repitilian slit.
“I could do that, Gillon, I could. I could also shoot myself in the face with a cumgun couldn’t I? But that wouldn't be very smart now, would it Gillon?”
Andrew slammed his fist down on his desk so violently that Gillon jumped a foot in the air.
“If you ever say something as stupid as that in my office again, Gillon, I will tear off your leg, dig out the shinbone, snap it in two, and stab you in the eyes with the resulting shards,” Andrew, who had been to see the amusing British movie In The Loop the night before, said.
“Do I make myself understood?”
Gillon swallowed hard and nodded. Perhaps now was not the right time to ask his boss why there were bottles of urine lining the walls of the office.
How could he shift a team which for legal reasons we’ll call the West Melbourne Wombat up into the thriving and allegedly footy mad Hunter Valley region without awakening the usual crowd of Luddites and Nimbies that this kind of situation always brought out of the woodwork?
Why couldn’t they see the bigger picture? Why were they always droning on about ‘history’ and ‘tradition’? Didn’t they know Andrew had KPIs to meet? Bonuses to earn? A thousand chocolate éclair a week habit didn’t pay for itself.
The move would have to be made. But he knew minute the first announcements were made, there’d a be a crowd of slack-jawed begrudgers holding public meetings and conducting campaigns to keep the club in Melbourne and all that other boring, dreary stuff people did.
Why couldn’t he just have all of them killed?
“What will I do, Gillon,” he asked his minion, who stood nervously before him. “What will I do with these West Melbourne bludgers?”
“Ummm, you could let them try and stay in Melbourne and survive like they say they can,” the younger man offered, immediately regretting his words as they left his lips.
Andrew’s eyes narrowed to a repitilian slit.
“I could do that, Gillon, I could. I could also shoot myself in the face with a cumgun couldn’t I? But that wouldn't be very smart now, would it Gillon?”
Andrew slammed his fist down on his desk so violently that Gillon jumped a foot in the air.
“If you ever say something as stupid as that in my office again, Gillon, I will tear off your leg, dig out the shinbone, snap it in two, and stab you in the eyes with the resulting shards,” Andrew, who had been to see the amusing British movie In The Loop the night before, said.
“Do I make myself understood?”
Gillon swallowed hard and nodded. Perhaps now was not the right time to ask his boss why there were bottles of urine lining the walls of the office.
Sunday 14 June 2009
Personal best
That morning, as Brendan was wondering why his chest looked so empty, yet so fertile, Chris and Rebecca were busy making the beast with two backs.
Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.
“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.
As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.
“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”
Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.
It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.
But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.
She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.
“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”
Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.
Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.
“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.
As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.
“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”
Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.
It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.
But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.
She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.
“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”
Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.
Friday 12 June 2009
A midget teaching penguins to dance the fandango
Liam left the office with Caro on the phone, cackling like a pantomime villain.
“He didn’t, he didn’t? That man ith thuch an animal,” she croaked to some other crone at the other end of the line.
Bugger this for a game of soldiers thought Liam. She might only want stories with a distinctly Freudian air, but he was better than that. He was going to get a proper story, one so good that she’d be forced to acknowledge it and hopefully stop harassing him to try and find photos of Nick Riewoldt with his pants down at Seaworld.
There’s one true indicator of a good journalist. Send them out into a city the size of Melbourne at 10AM and by 5PM, they’ll be back with something.
For Liam, as he sat in his car scrolling through his phone contacts, that something was a someone – Mopsy, his old mate from school who now worked in the Richmond press office.
“Mopsy, mate, its Liam,” he said.
Five minutes later, after reminding Mopsy that he could email those pics from last seasons footy trip to the soon to be Mrs Mopsy any time he wanted, Liam had secured a guided tour of Punt Road.
Mopsy met him at the front administration office. They shook hands.
“Let’s get this over and done with. I’ve got a surprise for you though,” he said.
The initial part of the tour was normal. Men and women sat in offices and cubicles and did office and cubicle things.
They passed down a long corridor. At the end , walls on three sides of them, they stopped.
“What are we doing?” asked Liam.
Mopsy gave him a ‘I can’t believe I’m about to do this’ look and pushed hard on the right hand wall.
A huge creak announced the opening of a secret passage. As the wall retracted fully, Liam poked his head through to be greeted with the most amazing sight.
A vast space opened before him, the size of an aircraft hangar. Strange birds flew close to the roof, emitting comical cries as they wobbled in ever shortening drunken circles.
The walls swirled with everchanging day glo patterns, green daisies and purple roses and smiling sunflowers mixing as one. In a corner, a midget in a tuxedo was teaching penguins to dance the fandango. A monkey driving a miniature fire engine buzzed by their feet, clanging his bell maniacally.
Then Liam spotted the players. They were dressed in the style of 30’s silent movie strongmen, complete with striped one-piece costumes and slicked down hair. They were lined up in front of a large hoop which had been set alight.
One by one they ran toward the hoop, launched off a springboard hidden in the floor and vaulted through the hoop, the more agile of the squad performing graceful somersaults. As each played landed with aplomb, a large seal that was perched on a candy striped barrel behind the hoop clapped its enormous flippers and barked joyously.
“Welcome,” Mopsy said sadly, “To the Richmond football department.”
“He didn’t, he didn’t? That man ith thuch an animal,” she croaked to some other crone at the other end of the line.
Bugger this for a game of soldiers thought Liam. She might only want stories with a distinctly Freudian air, but he was better than that. He was going to get a proper story, one so good that she’d be forced to acknowledge it and hopefully stop harassing him to try and find photos of Nick Riewoldt with his pants down at Seaworld.
There’s one true indicator of a good journalist. Send them out into a city the size of Melbourne at 10AM and by 5PM, they’ll be back with something.
For Liam, as he sat in his car scrolling through his phone contacts, that something was a someone – Mopsy, his old mate from school who now worked in the Richmond press office.
“Mopsy, mate, its Liam,” he said.
Five minutes later, after reminding Mopsy that he could email those pics from last seasons footy trip to the soon to be Mrs Mopsy any time he wanted, Liam had secured a guided tour of Punt Road.
Mopsy met him at the front administration office. They shook hands.
“Let’s get this over and done with. I’ve got a surprise for you though,” he said.
The initial part of the tour was normal. Men and women sat in offices and cubicles and did office and cubicle things.
They passed down a long corridor. At the end , walls on three sides of them, they stopped.
“What are we doing?” asked Liam.
Mopsy gave him a ‘I can’t believe I’m about to do this’ look and pushed hard on the right hand wall.
A huge creak announced the opening of a secret passage. As the wall retracted fully, Liam poked his head through to be greeted with the most amazing sight.
A vast space opened before him, the size of an aircraft hangar. Strange birds flew close to the roof, emitting comical cries as they wobbled in ever shortening drunken circles.
The walls swirled with everchanging day glo patterns, green daisies and purple roses and smiling sunflowers mixing as one. In a corner, a midget in a tuxedo was teaching penguins to dance the fandango. A monkey driving a miniature fire engine buzzed by their feet, clanging his bell maniacally.
Then Liam spotted the players. They were dressed in the style of 30’s silent movie strongmen, complete with striped one-piece costumes and slicked down hair. They were lined up in front of a large hoop which had been set alight.
One by one they ran toward the hoop, launched off a springboard hidden in the floor and vaulted through the hoop, the more agile of the squad performing graceful somersaults. As each played landed with aplomb, a large seal that was perched on a candy striped barrel behind the hoop clapped its enormous flippers and barked joyously.
“Welcome,” Mopsy said sadly, “To the Richmond football department.”
Weal people, weal storieth
Caro stared at the day’s paper with thinly disguised contempt. They’d had to lead with some old crap about Leigh Montanga suffering a season ending knee injury that threatened his career just as it hovered on the cusp of greatness.
Borwing, borwing, borwing.
“Liam,” she called across the newsroom, “Can you come over here pweath?”
The new reporter strolled confidently across the office. He’d gotten the inside goss about the severity of Montanga’s injury from a contact inside the Sainters inner sanctum that he’d been cultivating for weeks. It had been worth it – he’d got the story.
“What’th thith sthit?” Caroline demanded, waving the sport section of the paper like a drunken bag lady trying to flag down an invisible taxi.
“Ummmm,” what asked Liam, genuinely perplexed.
“Thith cwap about Weigh bwoody Wasagane or whoever he ith. Who giveth a sthit about hith knee? Go and find me weal storieth! What are you working on now?” she shouted.
“Umm, well, I’m getting word out of Arden Street that Daniel Wells injury is worse than they are letting on it, that it might be OP. And I’ve got a profile piece with that kid Lockheed who they reckon will go number one in the draft,” he said.
Caroline dismissed these ideas with a wave of her scaly claw.
“Who wanth to wead that thtuff? What about thome human interesth thtuff? Weal people, weal storieth?”
Liam thought for a second. The old witch was hard to please.
“Here’s one. You know that koala that got burned in the bushfires, the one with the picture where the firefighter is giving it water? It seems that Paddy Ryder has been funding its recovery – actually a whole koala hospital worth – so that might work.”
Caroline considered the idea for a moment.
“Ith he rooting the koalath?”
Liam shook his head in disgust. This wasn’t what he’d gotten into journalism for. He’d done the hard yards. He’d gone to training sessions, kept stats at VFL games, worked hard at uni.
Now, once he’d finally achieved his dream of working on the footy desk at a major broadsheet, all they wanted him to do was beat up tenuous stories with animal sex links.
“No boss, he’s not rooting the koalas,” he finally replied.
Caro looked genuinely disappointed. Sam would have been able to get the koala rooting angle, she knew that. How she missed Sam.
She glanced at her watch. It had only been a week since Sam had been jailed. But under Victoria’s tough new sentencing laws, a sentence of eight years meant you would serve at least three weeks.
Not long to ago now, thought Caro, not long at all.
Borwing, borwing, borwing.
“Liam,” she called across the newsroom, “Can you come over here pweath?”
The new reporter strolled confidently across the office. He’d gotten the inside goss about the severity of Montanga’s injury from a contact inside the Sainters inner sanctum that he’d been cultivating for weeks. It had been worth it – he’d got the story.
“What’th thith sthit?” Caroline demanded, waving the sport section of the paper like a drunken bag lady trying to flag down an invisible taxi.
“Ummmm,” what asked Liam, genuinely perplexed.
“Thith cwap about Weigh bwoody Wasagane or whoever he ith. Who giveth a sthit about hith knee? Go and find me weal storieth! What are you working on now?” she shouted.
“Umm, well, I’m getting word out of Arden Street that Daniel Wells injury is worse than they are letting on it, that it might be OP. And I’ve got a profile piece with that kid Lockheed who they reckon will go number one in the draft,” he said.
Caroline dismissed these ideas with a wave of her scaly claw.
“Who wanth to wead that thtuff? What about thome human interesth thtuff? Weal people, weal storieth?”
Liam thought for a second. The old witch was hard to please.
“Here’s one. You know that koala that got burned in the bushfires, the one with the picture where the firefighter is giving it water? It seems that Paddy Ryder has been funding its recovery – actually a whole koala hospital worth – so that might work.”
Caroline considered the idea for a moment.
“Ith he rooting the koalath?”
Liam shook his head in disgust. This wasn’t what he’d gotten into journalism for. He’d done the hard yards. He’d gone to training sessions, kept stats at VFL games, worked hard at uni.
Now, once he’d finally achieved his dream of working on the footy desk at a major broadsheet, all they wanted him to do was beat up tenuous stories with animal sex links.
“No boss, he’s not rooting the koalas,” he finally replied.
Caro looked genuinely disappointed. Sam would have been able to get the koala rooting angle, she knew that. How she missed Sam.
She glanced at her watch. It had only been a week since Sam had been jailed. But under Victoria’s tough new sentencing laws, a sentence of eight years meant you would serve at least three weeks.
Not long to ago now, thought Caro, not long at all.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Funbags
It was new day in the football firmament and Brendan had finally managed to get rid of the chick he’d been doing that evening/morning.
Why did they always want to hang around and stuff? Sure, if they could kick he’d take them out in the park and they could boot balls back to him as he practiced his set shots but every time he suggested that, they just put a finger to their lips and said something like:
“Why don’t we stay inside and have some fun, baby?”
Nah, he’d think to himself, I’ve already rooted you. And I’m gunna root a different chick tonight. Why would I want to root you again? What I want to do is practice my set shots and that. So normally he called them a cab and promised them he’d meet them at a café on Lygon Street in an hour for coffee and cakes.
Then, when they got there, the owner of the café, who was good mates with a few famous Carlton supporters who worked in the nightclub security industry, would tell the young lady that it would be in her best interest to not make contact with Brendan and to most certainly not go to any media or newspaper.
The newspapers. They were sitting on the grass outside his house as he watched the cab carrying Narelle or Chantelle or whatever her name was drive safely away. He picked them up and brought them inside.
He sat down with a glass of milk and a few slices of white bread. Dieticians be fucked. If one of them could come round and teach him how to work the toaster, then he’d the toasted brown bread they recommended.
Then to the papers. He was glad all that Dingogate stuff was off the front pages. It was just some bullshit about some country called Israel (what a stupid name for a country!) dropping a nuclear bomb on some other country. Boring.
Brendan hadn’t understood what the fuss about the Rebecca/Caroline video was about anyway. He’d seen it. It was two chicks getting it on. He alone possessed hundreds of videos where girls did that and more. Loads more. Things you wouldn’t believe. And not just with each other. With blokes, sometimes loads of blokes. And carrots and ice cream and chairs and he even had one with a spiny ant-eater in it. Two chicks just going for it for 15 minutes was nothing.
He turned the pages of the paper. A few pages in there was a picture of a touring African American chanteuse wearing a remarkably tight fitting top of sorts.
Christ, thought Brendan to himself, would you look at the funbags on her?
Funbags. Dirty pillows. God’s gift. He loved them. Geez, if he had a set of his own like that, he’d never get into trouble in a club or with sheilas again.
He’d just sit at home and play with him. Might even make it easier to take chest marks.
He chomped down on another slice of white bread, softening it up with milk until it formed a viscous liquid that slowly dripped down the back of his throat.
This is what is must feel like for chicks when they swallow, he thought, running his hands across his worringly flat chest as he did.
Now why was he doing that? Why did it feel so, so, flat?
Why did they always want to hang around and stuff? Sure, if they could kick he’d take them out in the park and they could boot balls back to him as he practiced his set shots but every time he suggested that, they just put a finger to their lips and said something like:
“Why don’t we stay inside and have some fun, baby?”
Nah, he’d think to himself, I’ve already rooted you. And I’m gunna root a different chick tonight. Why would I want to root you again? What I want to do is practice my set shots and that. So normally he called them a cab and promised them he’d meet them at a café on Lygon Street in an hour for coffee and cakes.
Then, when they got there, the owner of the café, who was good mates with a few famous Carlton supporters who worked in the nightclub security industry, would tell the young lady that it would be in her best interest to not make contact with Brendan and to most certainly not go to any media or newspaper.
The newspapers. They were sitting on the grass outside his house as he watched the cab carrying Narelle or Chantelle or whatever her name was drive safely away. He picked them up and brought them inside.
He sat down with a glass of milk and a few slices of white bread. Dieticians be fucked. If one of them could come round and teach him how to work the toaster, then he’d the toasted brown bread they recommended.
Then to the papers. He was glad all that Dingogate stuff was off the front pages. It was just some bullshit about some country called Israel (what a stupid name for a country!) dropping a nuclear bomb on some other country. Boring.
Brendan hadn’t understood what the fuss about the Rebecca/Caroline video was about anyway. He’d seen it. It was two chicks getting it on. He alone possessed hundreds of videos where girls did that and more. Loads more. Things you wouldn’t believe. And not just with each other. With blokes, sometimes loads of blokes. And carrots and ice cream and chairs and he even had one with a spiny ant-eater in it. Two chicks just going for it for 15 minutes was nothing.
He turned the pages of the paper. A few pages in there was a picture of a touring African American chanteuse wearing a remarkably tight fitting top of sorts.
Christ, thought Brendan to himself, would you look at the funbags on her?
Funbags. Dirty pillows. God’s gift. He loved them. Geez, if he had a set of his own like that, he’d never get into trouble in a club or with sheilas again.
He’d just sit at home and play with him. Might even make it easier to take chest marks.
He chomped down on another slice of white bread, softening it up with milk until it formed a viscous liquid that slowly dripped down the back of his throat.
This is what is must feel like for chicks when they swallow, he thought, running his hands across his worringly flat chest as he did.
Now why was he doing that? Why did it feel so, so, flat?
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