Highlights of this year’s Royal Melbourne Show: a sign at the dog show which simply read ‘BITCH’; a man being set on fire; a sheep with enormous bollocks.
There’s something charming about spam email prefixed with ‘Re:’. It’s as though the sender is being particularly sincere in responding to my queries about ‘raw power’ and ‘massive rods’.
Things I wish I’d known before disrobing for the shower: that the shower door was broken, and that it would take an extended period of grunting, swearing and bending over to get it back on its rollers again.
My daughter is having trouble getting to sleep. “I want prince,” she sobs.
Halfway through my acapella version of ‘Sexy MF’ I realised she was referring to the prince in Sleeping Beauty.
Our neighbours have had ‘Beat It’ on repeat for a number of hours. I am concerned they may have died in a spectacularly ill-engineered moonwalking attempt.
Our shitty printer is a Brother MFC-425CN. I have just come up with some imaginative explanations of what ‘MFC’ and ‘CN’ stand for.
Was alarmed by our daughter asking if we like ‘big bum fun’.
It turns out there is a children’s TV program called Big Barn Farm.
Our TV reception only works if I unplug the antenna and thump the set-top box. Could Logie Baird have dared imagine such a wonderful future?
At the park. A couple of old guys are chatting, in Greek, on the seat behind me. Occasionally I hear one of them say the words ‘George Negus’.
The name ‘Paul’ doesn’t quite seem right for a psychic octopus. I’ve never known a Paul with psychic abilities, or more than two arms.
I have reached that awesome carnivalesque, hall-of-mirrors, ‘nothing in the world can stop me now’ part of having been awake too long.
Someone’s child just lobbed a handful of breadcrumbs at my feet, summoning a flock of seagulls to harass me, then promptly buggered off.
A pair of ladies just came to the door to talk to me about Jesus. They were very nicely dressed. I, however, was not.
As in, not dressed.
An enormous homegrown zucchini, excess quantities of cherry tomato and a chance bocconcini acquisition have collided in pancake excellence.
Today I unwittingly took both glass and alcohol to a glass– and alcohol-free event.
Singing ‘Poulet poulet poulet pour moi’ to the tune of ‘Lady Marmalade’. In my defence I am actually preparing chicken for dinner.
To some questions there are no easy answers. For instance, I have no idea why an octopus — let’s call him Henry — would need to wear a hat.
“Hi, I am sad and dreary one.”
Least enticing opening line of a spam email ever.
Apparently the optimum number of times for a melody-playing child’s potty to repeat the tune ‘It’s A Small World’ is forty-nine.
According to Google Analytics, someone visited my website immediately after typing the search phrase “where to buy flatulence underwear melbourne australia”.
There’s nowhere I can go from there.