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.