“Jesus babes!” said Chris as he picked up the Sunday paper and saw what Caro had written.
Rebecca rolled over in bed and saw her Chris standing there, his usually vacant face wrinkled into a mask of confusion and despair.
“What is it Chris,” she asked?
It was Chris’ habit to run downstairs as soon as he heard the papers hit the front door and rear through them looking for mentions of himself in the paper. It always broke her heart to see him start at the front and then go through the business section before ending up at the sport pages.
“I can’t believe it babes,” he moan, “I sent that press release about my idea for a wave powered perpetual motion machine to ALL the journos and not one of them picked it up, I can’t believe it.”
But today it was the back page he was holding, and pointing at frantically.
“Look,” he said, tears welling up in his big dog like eyes, “It’s that bloody Caro! She’s turned on me!”
Rebecca took the pages from his hands and read:
This journalitht ith known and wethpected for her integwity and wefuthal to be influenthed by otherth.
Tho it ith in thith light that I wite the fowwowing.
Carlton’th captain is a big thtinking pile of monkey thit and I’ve alwayth said it and anyone who thayth I haven’t is a sexistht wathist.
Hith behaviour of wate hath been nothing thort of diswaceful and I for one think that he thould be kicked out of footy forever and made to work in a thalt mine to waise money for the orphanth of Haiti.
Jesus though Rebecca to herself, the old bag has really gone on one here. Could it be any coincidence that she’d suddenly turned on Chris since he’d popped the question and put a ring on her finger? Or was that reading too much into it?
Surely a journalist of Caro’s standing wouldn’t conduct a hate filled vendetta against and individual or club simply because of something that had happened in her personal life? That would be unprofessional to the point of actionable by the Press Complaints Commission.
But then, Rebecca sighed to herself, this was Caro.
She got up and went into the bathroom where Chris was sobbing in front of the mirror.
“Why,” he cried “WHY? WHY DO BAD THINGS ONLY EVER HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?”
“Come on babes” she said, “It’ll be alright, I’ve got a PR strategy that will put this old hag back in her box.”
Given her extensive media career presenting the weather on a regional TV station and having her photo taken at the races, Rebecca fancied herself as an arch media manipulator.
“You know that Wombats benefit gig that’s on tonight? We’re going, and you’re donating some money!”
Monday 15 February 2010
Tuesday 2 February 2010
Footycore
“Dinner’s nearly ready, Kyle, come out please!” shouted his Mum.
“Shut uuuup MUM!” Kyle screeched back.
He almost had the riff down on this tune and he wasn’t going to let that old bag distract him from it.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young man! You get out here and eat your dinner right now!”
Kyle trailed out and sullenly pushed his steamed chicken breast around his plate. God he hated steamed chicken but Matty said the boys had to eat as much as possible of it. Marinated in coconut juice. Said it would ward off the damaging effects of the sun’s rays. Very concerned about the sun is Matty.
Kyle began running the song over in his head.
I’m always leading into space
But you never find me
I’m always bursting on the lead
But you never honour them
He hated when people called his music emo. Emo was so like 2006. No, what Kyle and his mates in The Reckoning played was nothing other than footycore. And tonight was there first gig – playing at a pub in Fitzroy as part of a benefit bash to raise money for the West Melbourne Wombats.
He’d known Jimmy Goodfellow from way back, playing juniours and when Jimmy had rung to see if The Reckoning would be interested in playing, he’d jumped at the chance.
Only mistake he’d made was telling the boys at training. Most of them were supportive. They knew what his music meant to him. But the bloke they’d taken with their first rounder, Jarkyn, predictably he’d been a knob about it.
Lockheed seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Kyle. Ever since he’d arrived, things had started going missing from Kyle’s locker. And in recent weeks, more ominously, things had started appearing.
Just the other day he’d gone in and opened it only to be confronted by a vile stench and a perfectly coil of faeces. He’d looked around but there was nobody in the grin save for Jarkyn, grinning like a Japanese soldier wanking onto a nurse’s uniform.
Kyle cleared his mind of the thought. He didn’t want anything distracting him from his performance tonight.
He wanted to put in a good one. This could be his break. Even Sam from The Era had texted to say she was coming.
He hadn’t expected that.
“Shut uuuup MUM!” Kyle screeched back.
He almost had the riff down on this tune and he wasn’t going to let that old bag distract him from it.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young man! You get out here and eat your dinner right now!”
Kyle trailed out and sullenly pushed his steamed chicken breast around his plate. God he hated steamed chicken but Matty said the boys had to eat as much as possible of it. Marinated in coconut juice. Said it would ward off the damaging effects of the sun’s rays. Very concerned about the sun is Matty.
Kyle began running the song over in his head.
I’m always leading into space
But you never find me
I’m always bursting on the lead
But you never honour them
He hated when people called his music emo. Emo was so like 2006. No, what Kyle and his mates in The Reckoning played was nothing other than footycore. And tonight was there first gig – playing at a pub in Fitzroy as part of a benefit bash to raise money for the West Melbourne Wombats.
He’d known Jimmy Goodfellow from way back, playing juniours and when Jimmy had rung to see if The Reckoning would be interested in playing, he’d jumped at the chance.
Only mistake he’d made was telling the boys at training. Most of them were supportive. They knew what his music meant to him. But the bloke they’d taken with their first rounder, Jarkyn, predictably he’d been a knob about it.
Lockheed seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Kyle. Ever since he’d arrived, things had started going missing from Kyle’s locker. And in recent weeks, more ominously, things had started appearing.
Just the other day he’d gone in and opened it only to be confronted by a vile stench and a perfectly coil of faeces. He’d looked around but there was nobody in the grin save for Jarkyn, grinning like a Japanese soldier wanking onto a nurse’s uniform.
Kyle cleared his mind of the thought. He didn’t want anything distracting him from his performance tonight.
He wanted to put in a good one. This could be his break. Even Sam from The Era had texted to say she was coming.
He hadn’t expected that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
