Hold Firm!

Sorry about the lack of updates folks. Have been slightly busy getting my story straight as regards my whereabouts in December of 1988 in case they reopen the Lockerbie case.

But fear not, September will see a veritable flood of material running down your screen like Caro's finger on Rebecca's willing, wanton, silky thigh.

Not Bad, Not Bad At All

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The Mantle Is Passed

The Dewosaurus grabbed the flaming torch in one enormous hairy paw and indicated Bunyip should follow him into the gaping maw of the cave high in the mist-ridden canyons of Flinders Ranges.

"WE GO IN!" He boomed, the vibration of his voice causing small clumps of earth to fall from the roof.

The noxious scent of him had already travelled far into the cave complex, causing the small things to flee to their hiding places. They would not be a midnight snack tonight if they could help it.

Bunyip took a confident step forward. He was not afraid, but the South Australian under-18s coach was.

It had been a strange night alright. He'd been sitting at home watching some tapes of a young bloke from Port Augsta and hopping into some rissoles when the radio he kept going in a low hum in the corner had sqwuaked to life.

"Police are issuing a state-wide alert. The footballer formerly known as Stewart Dew, who recently regressed into a pre-human form akin to a yeti or a sasquatch has escaped from his enclosure.

"The creature should not be approached. If it does appear near your house, we recommend throwing any raw meat in the house out the window and immediately informing the emergency services," the announcer said breathlessly.

Barely 20 minutes later and there'd been a giant thud on the coach's front door. He knew immediately what it was.

He looked through the spyhole on his door and saw the matted fur of the Dewosaurus' chest, complete with twigs and leaves caught in its thick knots.

"STEWART NOT HURT!," the beast had roared, "YOU TAKE STEWART THE OTHER ONE!"

The coach had carefully opened the door. The creature gently picked him up and placed him on his back.

"HOLD ON FUR!" the Dewosaurus commanded, "WE RUN NOW!"

And what a run it had been, the mighty abomination bounding through shrubbery in giant bounds, leaving a trail of destruction in its path. Occasionally, the coach whispered 'left' or 'right' in its ear and his mount responded accordingly.

Luckily Bunyip didn't live far away. They arrived in a few minutes and Stweart shook his passenger free from his back.

The Dewosaurus braced his legs, tossed his colossal head and emitted a roar that seemed to shake the very stars that were but distant pin-pricks of light in the
obsidian dark skies.

The front door opened and Bunyip emerged. He too let out a great cry, albeit shriller and with less earth-shaking power than that of his elder, but recognisable as the call of his species all the same.

"IT HIM!" growled the Dewosaurus.

The coach got another helter-skelter ride through the bush on the back of the Dewosaurus before they finally reached the creature's destination.

And now they had reached it, he wanted to go no further. Luckily, the the Dewosaurus had similar ideas.

"HUMAN! YOU GO! SECRET BUSINESS NOW!"

Bunyip had an ancestral memory of what would happen now. His kind were an ancient breed. They had been here well before the puny humans had emerged. Their old ones knew the time of the terrible lizards the size of the tallest tree. Of fires that burned their home for months. Their numbers had slowly dwindled but they would not die out, the Dewosaurus would not let that happen.

"YOUNG ONE! FOLLOW! CEREMONY BEGINS!"

Deep in the heart of the caves, Bunyip saw an enormous cavern loom. He glanced ahead expectantly. He saw a giant yellow beast, like the Dewosaurus, but even larger. It was lounging in a throne composed of human skulls.

"THIS OUR KING!" growled the Dewosaurus, "HE NAME SHANEOSAURUS!"

The two lesser beasts entered deferentially.

"He not play our game. He play other game of eat Englishmans," whispered the Dewosaurus to his apprentice.

"THIS IS THE ONE THEN AY?" the King Of The Fat Bastards asked.

"YES SIRE! IT IS STRONG IN HIM!" the Dewosaurus replied, getting down one to one furry knee.

The Shaneosaurus examined Bunyip, all the time puffing on an enormous cigarette made from a sheet of A3 paper stuffed with bark and gumleaves.

"MM! HE IS GOOD! BEFORE START, TELL KING SHANEOSAURUS WHY DEWOSAURUS DECIDE FINISH? DEWOSAURUS KNOWS LAWS OF OUR KIND! AFTER BRING YOUNG ONE, DIE IN TWO WEEKS YOU WILL!"

Bunyip could have sworn he saw a tear form in the red eyes of his mentor. He saw the Great One was old now, that life had taken its measure from him in strains and tensions in his mighty left leg. The Dewosaurus wanted to end his time as he had been, feared and terrible, not a sad old slow thing, goaded by fleet-footed youngsters with their pointed sticks and flashing lights.

"Dewosaurus have one more job in life, then to Great Bainmarie In Sky, My Lord," he said softly.

The Shaneosaurus considered this, taking a great draw on his baseball bat sized ciggie.

"THE DEWOSAURUS HAS SERVED WELL! FINISH YOUR CALLING! TWO WEEKS YOU HAVE! MAY YOUR QUEST FIND EVERY SUCCESS! he pronounced.

The Dewosaurus nodded his thanks.

"RISE O BRAVE DEWOSAURUS," continued the Shaneosaurus, "NOW YOU MUST LEAVE! THE YOUNG ONE MUST PASS THESE TESTS THREE!"

The Dewosaurus looked down at his protege and gave him a reassuring look.

"Young one has the strength and the way. Do as stomach tells, not as head lies," he said, passing on the advice his own mentor, the Lockettasaurus, had given him all those years ago.

As he turned and trudged up the path toward the muted light visible at the end of the cave passage, he was happy. He had completed the most important task one of his kind ever faced - he had passed his mantle. Now he could use his the remainder of his alloted time to savour revenge. To make the circle complete. The circle of blood.

"FIRST!", he heard the Shaneosaurus roar as the ceremony began, "IT IS THE ORDEAL OF THE THOUSAND PIES!"

The Dewosaurus allowed himself a small smile. Bunyip would have no problems with that one, not even with the most diabolical of the feats he would be required to perform, The Draining Of The Lake Of Bundy.

The cool night air was an elixir. He knew where he was going, followed the Hunt Star due east. There'd be a swim involved, but he'd just use that as an opportunity to pick up a few nice shark snacks on the way. Nothing would divert him from his mission now.

Hundreds of kilometres to the east, lost in that lovely dream about Arantxa Sanchez Vicario she sometimes had, Sam had no idea that vengeance in great bloodthirsty form was heading inexorably toward her.

The Hairbrush Again

Shaun Jones was understandably wary of meeting the young Era journalist but something told him told him to trust his instincts on this one. The battle for the future of the Wombats had only just begun and the forces of good would need all assistance they could get.

And Shaun's instincts were usually right. Sure, he hadn't been the greatest tennis player, hadn't won any Grand Slams, but he'd certainly got the most out of his ability. And now he had a healthy career as a TV presenter. Yep, again, look, it wasn't Lateline, but the most recent series of Australia's Funniest Videos Of Animals Attacking People Having A Root had managed to outrate a Sydney game broadcast into Sydney. That was something at least.

The bloke came over. They were meeting in the carpark of the Wombat's dilapidated home ground Denar Street. There'd been plans to redevelop the joint for years but nothing had ever been done. And now, the collections of tards running the joint were doing everything possible to make sure it didn't happen. But it would happen. Shaun would make it happen.

They shook hands.

"Look, thanks for meeting me Shaun," the young bloke said.

"I'm going to be straight up with you mate. Is this a set up? Are you recording this?"

The young bloke suddenly turned green and leant over and vomited profusely. Geez, certainly not cut out to be a war correspondent this one.

"Sorry," Liam said weakly, as the last tendrils left his mouth. "It's just that last thing before I left the office, I went into the toilet and Sam was in there with the hairbrush again. It's bloody awful."

Shaun understood. He produced a a handkerchief and passed it to Liam, who wiped his face.

Then Liam told him in minute detail of the plot hatched between Andrew and Caro to use The Era as the league's mouthpiece in the effort to shit West north.

Why Don't They Get Their Own Place Names?

Rebecca sighed with ill-disguised contempt as Chris came at her with another one of his mind-bendingly inane observations.

"You know one thing I've never understood babes? Why are so many towns and cities in England named after places in Australia and America and stuff? They should get their own place names," he said, sipping on his latte.

She measured him cooly. They were sat outside at a cafe in Carlton - "I was doing this way before that bastard Murphy," Chris would insist, overlooking the fact that he'd been in WA for five years - reading the papers and drinking coffee.

She saw his prematurely balding pate, his affected metrosexual outfit that never seemed to hang right, heard the way he managed to mispronounce the fancy coffees he'd order, the way he just tried so hard but never quite managed to pull it off.

And it wasn't just in his personal life. Rebecca had been watching his games more intently and noticed that the commentators glossed over a lot of his mistakes. If you weren't watching closely, you'd think Chris could do no wrong.

If another player was tackled and dropped the ball, the commentators would pillory him. When Chris did it, they make some excuse about how 'strong Judd is through the core to stand up in that tackle'. It was embarassing.

Now he was droning on and on about the foreign news. Rebecca wasn't a bloody idiot. In fact, with her speech pathology degree, she'd demonstrated she had far more education than him. What precisely had Chris ever done? He got into a posh school on a footy scholarship and while he'd got a good score on his ENTER, well, these days, if you could tie your shoelaces right they pretty much gave you 90 and over.

Sure, he was doing his MBA but then George bloody Bush had an MBA. And this MBA hadn't kept them from him losing a ton on his 'investments' in the financial crisis had it? And this bullshit 'environmenmtal ambassorship' at Visy. The fuckwit still thought it actually meant something, even as people would openly snigger whenever he brought it up.

She tried to block out his voice as he went on and on about the refugee crisis in Sri Lanka, obviously just discovering the news for the first time. Listen dipshit, she wanted to shout, I've spent the last six weeks doing some pro bono work with Tamil kids suffering speech impediments brought on by shell shock.

Trying to bury herself in her own copy of the paper was no better. Gategategate. What the fuck was that all about? Who was this bloody Sam harpy anyway? What gave her the right to swan through life making up bullshit about people anyway? So Brendan wanted a sex change? WHAT the hell was so wrong with that? It wasn't even a full sex change. Just a boob job. Thousands of people got it done every day. Yet when brendan does it, its suddenly front page news.

Deep breaths Becks, deep breaths. She looked up and saw Chris lost in the article about the Sri Lankan bloodbath, his huge forehead furrowed with creases as he struggled to digest some of the bigger words, his lips moving as he silently sounded them out, index finger under each and every sentence of newsprint.

Cars went by on Rathdowne Street with honks and grey plumes of exhaust,. The trees were sparse and bereft of leaves. At the kerb, a large crow pecked savagley at a rubbish bag.

Jesus fucken Christ, thought Rebecca. I'm young, I'm smart, I'm gorgeous and its come to this. The only thing she had to look forward to was a particularly savege clitty fiddle later on once Chris has gone to bed, the stench of his aromatherapy candles making the bedroom virtually uninhabitable for hours afterwards.

It was no life for a lady.

Blitzkreig Looms

Andrew sat back and admired the way he had ordered the jars of his urine into a perfect matrix of age versus tang. There were over 100 now, lined up in fierce symmetry, like the terracotta warriors of Xi'an, as if those wonders of the Qin She era were in fact old Vegemite jars filled with pastry-scented piss.

He heard Gillon's trembling knock at his door.

"Enter imbecile," Andrew said.

Gillon grovelled into the room wearing the homosexual hobbit fancy dress outfit Andrew had ordered him to don for the next fortnight after the fool had put headed paper in the normal A4 draw of the photocopier.

"Speak"

Most people would find it difficult to maintain the tone and sentence structure of a tiny hairy-footed bummer from Middle Earth, but it came almost naturally to Gillon.

"Mr Andrew! Oh Mr Andrew! The French victualler Sir Gabriel of the Twice Rising Souffle speaks on Sauron's enchanted talking box!"

Lazily extending a stubby finger, Andrew indicated Gillon should turn the radio from Classic FM to the sqwuaking commercial channel.

The dulcet Gallic tones of Gate pleased Andrew enormously. He was a man of European tastes also, a civilised being, unlike these sunburned beer-swilling dolts he was surrounded by.

Gategategate was a godsend for the power crazed football administrator. He had already carefully leaked a line to a tame journalist expressing limited support for the Frenchman's stand in support of the right for footballers to undergo sex-change operations. That would keep the story going for a few days yet.

This pathetic imbroglio would provide the perfect cover for the decisive stage of Operation Sauvingnon Blanc.

"Gillon," he said as his underling brushed the hair on his fet, "Call that fat lobster-addicted retard running the Wombats. Ein blitzkreig looms."

Worse zan a bad 'andjob from ze mistress

Liam felt the will to live draining from his very being as Caro rushed into the newsroom and turned up the office wireless.

"Tttttthhhhhh, tttttthhhhhhhh, everyone thut up. Tham'th about to be on wadio talking about Gategate," she squealed, semi-orgasmic with excitement, her giant K-Mart Buy One Get One Free underpants already wetter than an otter's pocket.

The rest of The Era's footy team obliging turned around, Rohan having to minimise the window where he was buying another North membership.

As the ads hawked their tawdry wares aimed at the gullible types who listen to mid-morning commercial talkback radio - SOLWAY! The Fat Cunt's Store! - Liam skimmed the Gategate piece which Sam had got onto the front page that morning.

Bashed By The Very Devil Himself read the headline.

Confused possibly emo tit-wanting Carlton forward Brendan Fevola is today on the run after beating an entirely innocent and in no way story manipulating Era journalist almost to death with his front gate.

The goal-kicking madman, who The Era believes was Ivan Milat's accomplice during the most horrible of the Backpacker Murders, is now understood to be contemplating a sex change operation.

Such a move, violating the very laws of nature themselves, would be, in this paper's view, further proof that Fevola is a desperately unhinged maniac who should be put down for his own good.

Commenting on the vicious attack that left this reporter bearing a 3cm long scar on her foot that may take up to two days to heal, anti-violence spokesman Mr Ren T'Aquote said:

"Despite not knowing the details of this case and taking a publicity-hungry and duplicitous 'journalist's' word at face value, I feel fully qualified to leap into this bullshit so-called debate and smear the reputation of a man I have never met.

"It is highly probable that the Pol Pot-like Fevola has struck before and will strike again. He is probably responsible for most of Australia's most perplexing unsolved crimes. It is my professional opinion, as a graduate of the Northern Southwestern Eastern Kentucky University School Of TV Friendly Criminology And Centre For The Study Of Bad-Ass Motherfuckers, that if we were to dig up Fevola's backyard, we would almost certainly find the mummified remains of Harold Holt and the Beaumont Children."

Following emergency surgery that involved the use of an experimental new form of Band-Aid that doesn't come off in the shower, this reporter is making a steady recovery from the attempted murder.

It went on and on. Now Sam was on the radio beating the dead horse like it was her own little fun button. Liam had caught her doing that in the toilet just yeterday. She'd met his horrified stare as he opened the unlocked door and instead of pulling her pants up like a normal person, she continued frantically rubbing the hairbrush between her legs and had hissed:

"I'm thinking of you while I do this, Liam."

It couldn't go on. It just couldn't. Liam resolved there and then to contact the blokes down the West Melbourne Wombats and let them know what he'd overhead in the office over the last few weeks. Of the plan between The Era's chief football bullshit artists and the league to stich them up and send to the Hunter Valley. He'd do it. He'd change something.

But he wasn't the only one disgusted by the big manufactured pile of steaming rhinoceros shit that Sam and Caro were attempting to pass off as an actual worthwhile news story.

Celebrity chef Gabriel Gate was in his kitchen plucking the feathers from live lyrebirds - his Lyrebird Surprise was truly a thing of culinary beauty - and listening to the hideous witch deal out her poison to the willing mob of retards that rang up to egg her on.

"Mon Dieu! Zeez Australiens, zay are, 'ow you say, so sexually incompetent! Iz only a man oo wants a set of la boobies to amuse 'imself when 'e is not playing la football magnifique! Ah will call zis statione radiofonique and give zem a piece of mah mind! Zis madness must hend! It worse zan Verdun and a non-fluffy croissant and a bad 'andjob from ze mistress all combined in un experience terrible!" he thought to himself.

Gabriel picked up his gleaming stainless Alessi mobile phone and dialled the station. The producer, coked out of his tits but still aware of the ratings goldmine that was about to happen, gladly put him straight on the air.

And thus, Gategategate was born.