Category Archives: Drunk and Jobless

Mission to Moscow

Most people leave Bali with a couple of Bintang singlets and a suitcase full of pirated DVDs, but I managed to leave The Island of the Gods with a Russian girlfriend and a plane ticket to Moscow. And so, against all my expectations, the next leg of the Drunk & Jobless Word Tour will take place in the frozen tundra of the northern hemisphere. Don’t worry, I won’t get frostbite, because Lena’s assured me that her bed is nice and warm, and that’s where I plan to spend a fair whack of my time. There’ll still be plenty of drunken shenanigans and outrageous adventures, so stick around.

The Russian Federation is an unusual land where vodka encompasses 80% of a balanced diet, bears walk the streets eating anyone they can find, and the most popular form of entertainment involves kicking homeless people. Alright, there’s a chance that none of that is true, so I spent the 22-hour flight from Sydney watching some educational documentaries on Russia, and was pleased to discover that the Russkis aren’t too different from normal people.


This award-winning film documents the epic boxing match between American champion Rocky Balboa and his towering Russian opponent, Ivan Drago. At first, the Russian seemed like a bit of a dickhead – he takes heaps of steroids and punches a blackfella until he dies – but he redeems himself in the end by having sex with Rocky in the middle of the boxing ring. I hope I don’t have to have sex with any giant Russian men, butI will if it helps international relations and brings about world peace.


At some point Rocky stopped being a boxer and instead became an unstoppable killing machine, and that’s what this movie is about. There’s not a lot of story, but Rambo kills about a million evil Russian dudes, which is really cool. Although, if I want to fit into Russian society, I probably should’ve been going for the bad guys while watching this. I also learnt that the entire Russian army can be destroyed by a single shirtless bloke with a headband and a bow-and-arrow.


Russians aren’t know for their sense of humour, so maybe the government banned the filmmakers from putting anything funny in this awful sequel. I think the Russian characters showed admirable restraint by not slaughtering the bumbling fools in the first five minutes, which expanded my respect for them as a people. Honestly, I’d rather slide a pencil up my wee-hole and then let a dribbling retard write an essay with it than watch this crap again.


I misread the title and thought it was called Russian Hour, and so was baffled when the movie was all about a blackfella and a Chinaman. I kept waiting for them to put on those furry hats and start smashing cinderblocks with their bare hands, but it never happened.


This isn’t a movie or a documentary, it’s a song by Pom hippies The Beatles. They basically keep singing, ‘Back in the USSR!’ over and over again, and it gets old pretty quickly, so I’m not surprised that Russians have an intense hatred of westerners. This other song they have about octopuses is fucking ace, though, but I don’t think there are many octopuses in Moscow, so it’s irrelevant.


I figured that, since this movie was named after that big, pointy cathedral building thing in Moscow, it would offer some interesting insights into Russian culture. Nope! It was all about little green monsters and Corey Feldman, which meant that it was very entertaining, but ultimately had had fuck all to do with the gremlin. It wasn’t even set in Russia! False advertising, I’d ask for my money back but The Pirate Bay don’t give refunds.


This was by far the best documentary on Russia that I watched on the plane. If it’s anything to go by, I’ll be getting my dick sucked by half-a-dozen big-titted Slavic goddesses within minutes of stepping foot in the Federation. Then again, I only got to watch it for about 30 seconds before the woman next to me complained about my ‘enthusiastic’ reaction to the hardcore action on my laptop, so I don’t know how it ended up (and on a side note, the Vladimir Putin-lookin’ fella in it was surprisingly accepting of lesbian relationships, so perhaps Russia is becoming a more inclusive place).


Sheikh, Rattle and Roll

Yesterday I took on Dubai’s ancient streets, and today I explored the newer side of things. The symbol of this rapidly-evolving desert metropolis is the Burj Khalifa, an 828m-tall skyscraper that is the tallest structure on the planet. It really is an incredible building, and standing at the bottom and looking up at it left me feeling queasy at its immensity – even though I flew my paraglider at three times that height two weeks ago. Is that the sound of your panties dropping, ladies?

Dubai has a far more impressive skyline than Wyong

I would’ve liked to go to the top of the tower, but it costs 50 bucks to go halfway and I’m too povvo to pay that. I’ll just get some photos off Google and show them to people if they ask. That’s what I do with dick pics. The Dubai Fountain sits in Khalifa’s shadow, and I watched on, entranced, as the monumental water jets danced in time to some beautiful music. Dubai often feels fake, but it really is astonishing that they’ve been able to turn desert into an aquatic oasis.

Go go dancing fountain!

The Dubai Mall is next to that, and it’s the biggest in the world. Inside the mall are heaps of shops, so if you’re after a new hat or some a whoopee cushion then it’s the place for you. I brushed all that crap, though, and headed to SEGA Republic. With the disappointment of Nagasaki SEGA World fresh in my mind (it totally bombed), I was hoping for the best. It was as disappointing as that crap all-fat-chicks Ghostbusters movie, though, because all the rides were closed and the bloke in the Sonic outfit got shirty when I tried to take a photo of me humping him.

He’s behind you!

I thought it was strange that a massive shopping centre full of sheikhs didn’t have a single shop selling those funny white sheets and towels they wear. What happens if they run out of clean sheets and have a big date to go out on? Do they just grab a doona cover, wrap it atound themselves, and head out for a nice night of dancing?

“We can’t both wear white, it makes us look like we’re part of a softball team”

As someone who hates shopping centres, the Dubai Mall really started to get on my nerves after a while. It’s loud, there are people everywhere, and it takes an hour to walk from one side to the other. Making things a bit more tolerable is the gigantic fish tank in the middle of the place. Sharks, stingrays and octopuses swim past exclusive clothes shops and fast food restaurants, giving some idea what the world will look like when climate change causes the oceans to rise 500 metres and we all drown. It’s really impressive, but I’d hate to be the person who has to clean it. Shit, my tank at home is only a metre long and it’s filthier than a Kings Cross hooker.

Other Arab countries prefer showing off slightly less relaxing tanks

I’m a poor bastard and so I’m staying in a cheap hotel where running water isn’t seen as a necessity, but all the rich picks who come to Dubai stay out at the famous Palm Jumeirah, where rooms run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars a night. I was curious to see what my life would’ve been like had I decided to become a corrupt politician, so I rolled on over there and took the monorail out to the man-made island, which is indeed in the shape of a huge palm. It’s an interesting ride, with luxurious houses, apartments and hotels growing from each of the palm’s gargantuan fronds. I felt poorer the further I went.

Want your palm read?

The Atlantis Resort at the end of the palm is really lovely, but all the beaches are private and there’s not a whole lot for a poor ol’ backpacker to do. I was standing beside a pie truck, looking sadly at a menu full of food I couldn’t afford, when one of those blokes in a sheet beckoned me over to his table. I was a little reluctant to join him, but took a seat next to the fella anyway.

“You look hungry,” he said in a kind voice. “Please, allow me to buy you a pie.”
I was going to put up a facade of arguing, but figured he was rich as shit and so ordered the most expensive roast chicken pie on the menu.
“My name is Sheikh Abdul el Waleed Aly,” he told me as the food arrived. He then went on to tell me how rich he is, how many cars he owns, how beautiful his wife is. I was torn between sucking up to the Sheikh in the hope he’d buy me a car, and telling him to shut the fuck up because he was boring me. I got stuck into the food, and as I was finishing it, Abdul gave me a slimy smile.

Enjoying my complimentary dog’s eye

“It is so easy to buy the time and affection of the poor,” he told me. “I just have to wave a free meal in front of your stupid face, and you sit there like an obediant dog. And what is the price of a meal to a man of wealth such as myself? Nothing. Nothing!”
I let him carry on like that for a few minutes because I was too busy stuffing my face with the pie he’d bought me, and eventually he stood up and swept himself away across the street, laughing. Just then, a truck sped by and splashed mud all over his stunning robes, causing the Sheikh to scream at the heavens. I just swaggered ver to him, licking tomato sauce from my fingers, and said, “Thanks for the food. You can find some clean sheets at the nearest Spotlight, dickhead.” And with that, I made my way back into the city.

The Drunk and Jobless World Tour hits Africa

This story starts the way all epic adventures do, in the midst of a four-day cask wine and prostitute bender. I was guzzling a schooner glass of Berri Estates’ finest and checking to make sure my PlayStation hadn’t been pinched when I received an email from none other than Prince Imotep Bobongi of Nigeria. I’m sure he’s in all the womens mags.

It turns out poor ol’ Imotep has been in a bit of trouble for rooting baboons, and needs to get out of Nigeria until things cool down a bit. For some convoluted reason that I could only vaguely understand whilst having a blood alcohol level of .4, he needs me to help him smuggle $100 million out of the country, and for my assistance he’s happy to give me 20 per cent. That’s $40 million!

Prince Imotep (seated) seems like a stand up guy

I was going to email Imotep back with an emphatic YES, but then I had a sit and a think and decided that would be doing him a disservice. Imotep is placing a lot of faith in me, a stranger, to help him with his family’s fortune. I could do better than to simply email him back, so I decided on the spot to fly over to Nigeria and work out the details with Imotep in person. I jumped straight on the interwebs and booked the first flight I could to Africa. It’s not a big place, so I reckon I can just rock up and ask around for Imotep.

I’ve always wanted to visit Africa, anyway. I’ve long been fascinated by the local African people and their ancient customs and culture.

Kids accuse you of the darndest things

Anyone who’s met me knows I’m an animal lover, and Africa is home to some of the strangest critters to ever roam the planet. Monkeys, elephants, bears and chickens are just some of the bizarre beasts I’m hoping to see, and I’m excited that I’ll finally fulfil my dream of cuddling a hippopotamus.

When searching for a photo of a hippo, I put ‘big fat piece of shit’ into the search engine and this is what came up

As a lifeong admirer of beautiful architecture, Africa is the place to be, and offers countless examples of exquisite and inspired design. I’m looking forward to checking out some of the most beautifully and painstakingly-built structures on the planet – some of the structures are sure to put Rome’s Parthenon to shame.

These shacks would be worth $2 million if they were in Sydney

So here I am, 30,000ft in the air with a beer in my hand, on my way to the Dark Continent for two months of fun, sun, and military coups. I don’t know where I’m going to go or who what I’m going to do, but I won’t be alone because you’ll be along for the ride every step of the way. I’m sure I’ll see fascinating landscapes, encounter terrifying animals, meet intriguing people and have outrageous adventures. The plane’s going to land soon, and I can’t wait to explore the African savannah. Oh shit, I probably should’ve gotten an anti-AIDS vaccination before leaving…

That’s a shitload of crosses!


I’ve been to a lot of weird places in my life – shit, I’ve been to Wyong – but few have been stranger than the Hill of Crosses, just outside of the Lithuanian city of Siaulia. It’s a bizarre and incredible place that shouldn’t exist… but does.

In case the name doesn’t give it away, the Hill of Crosses is just that, a hill packed with hundreds of thousands of crosses. Big ones, little ones, shiny ones and wooden ones are jammed all over what would otherwise be a nondescript hill in the middle of nowhere. No one really knows how many crosses are there, with thousands more added every year by Christian pilgrims..

One, two, three… shit, I lost count

What makes the Hill of Crosses especially bizarre is that there seems to be no real reason for it being where it is. It’s located about 12 kilometres north of Siaulia – a drab town with not much going for it – by the side of a busy road, surrounded by numerous other small hills. In my opinion, they should’ve built it closer to my hostel in Vilnius, so I didn’t have to spend three hours getting out there.

They’re all mine!

The hill is definitely worth checking out, because there really is nothing like it in the world. It has a long and twisted history, having originally been built as a sort of fuck you to the Russian Empire, before being pulled down by the Soviets (and even covered in sewage) numerous times over the years, leading to it becoming a symbol of national pride for the Lithuanians. Of course, I showed the place the respect it deserves by crab dancing amongst the crosses.


I was, however, disappointed not to see the following crosses on the hill:

* Crap former footy player Ryan Cross

* Backwards-clothes-wearing rap dorks Kriss Kross

* Popular cartoon character Kross-ty the Clown

* Crime-drame-with-a-hot-lead-actress Cross-ing Jordan

* Integral component of pedestrian transport the zebra cross-ing

* Delicious Easter treat the hot cross bun

* Notorious Sydney suburb and home of many fine prostitutes, Kings Cross


Of course, I couldn’t go a whole day without embarrassing myself, and I certainly did that on the train ride home. I was thirsty after a long day of culturin’, so I picked up a couple of can of beer for the two-and-a-half-hour trip back to Vilnius. Now the Lithuanians are great little blokes, but not exactly known as Europe’s party boys, so the quaffing of alcohol on public transport is strictly forbidden. But that wasn’t going to stop me.

Doing Australia proud

I cleverly hid my first beer inside a brown paper wrapper that had held my lunch, and started cheekily sipping my lager while the Lits around me stared blankly into space, unaware of my genius plan. All was going well until I accidentally knocked the can over, spilling half a litres of golden loveliness into my crotch, which then cascaded down my leg before forming a huge puddle on the floor.

It was like Year Nine maths class all over again

Once the other passengers started screaming and jumping around as what certainly looked like urine spread through the carriage, a couple of stern-faced guards burst through the days and started yelling at me, as I just sat there, drenched and embarrassed. People were yelling and laughing and taking photos of me as I tried to hold back the tears, knowing that the only was to end the humiliation was to reveal my hidden beer can – which could’ve led to a night in a Lithuanian jail cell.

Instead, I just pointed at my doodle, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Oopsy!” while the carriage exploded in jeers. It was not my finest moment.

Welcome to Tallinn, where nothing’s open on a Monday!


If you’re thinking of coming to Tallinn, Estonia, drop everything (except if you’re holing a baby) and do it. Just don’t come on a Monday, because most of the attractions will be closed and you’ll have to do what I did – get drunk and make your own fun.

Actually, I’d recommend doing that no matter what day you’re here. There’s no better way to explore a strange city than with a cold beer in your hand.


I had my heart set on seeing the Seaplane Harbour maritime museum in the east of the city, so set off in that direction with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. On the way I passed the St Olaf’s Church (dunno who the fuck Olaf is, but I bet he’s got a beard), which promised a delightful view for the bargain-basement price of two Euro Spacebux, so I trotted inside and looked around for the elevator.

“You must walk up,” said an older lady with a smile. And then, under her breath, “You look like you could do with the exercise.” I don’t know why she would say that in English, rather than Estonian, but it’s my story so it’s what she said.


The viewing platform is apparently at the 62 metre mark, but let me tell you, it seems higher than that. The staircase is steep and dark and winding, and I was huffing and puffing like Chrissie Swan on a treadmill by the time I reached the summit. It was all worth it, though, because the view is outstanding. While the walkway around the edge of the steeple is as narrow as David Gallop’s penis, which makes it difficult to relax up there, you won’t find a better view over the rooftops of this ancient city.

I made it out to the maritime museum but, unlike my ex-girlfriend’s legs the second some cunt who isn’t me walks by, it was closed. Apparently all the museums in town shut up shop on Mondays, for some reason that surely only makes sense to Estonians, so I was left with two options – get on the turps, or sit around with a frown on my face and my pecker in my hand. I found a supermarket that sold beer, and I was on my way, skipping through Tallinn on a spectacular day.


On my travels I stumbled upon some weird-as-fuck concrete behemoth called the Patareisadama piiripunkt. I don’t know what that means, and I don’t know anything about the building other than the fact it looks like something out of a Soviet nightmare. It might’ve been ferry terminal at some point, but with its criss-crossing concrete bridges and stern concrete walls covered with graffiti (and probably wee), it stands as a reminder of darker times.


It’s been a week or so since I’ve been to the beach, and Tallinn’s by the water, so I decided to stop by one of Estonia’s most beautiful beaches to pull a few rays. It was a sunny day, so I couldn’t work out why no-one else was splashing about by the water. Well, the fact it was about eight degrees probably had something to do with it, but that didn’t stop me stretching out for a relaxing afternoon in (what passes for) the sun.


Things went tragically wrong when, full of grog, I decided to do some handstands. The booze flowing through my veins obvious affected my balance, and I fell onto an elderly lady’s dog. Fortunately the dog wasn’t injured, but it bit me on the leg, and then the lady started hitting me on the head with her bag and shouting. I can only assume she was yelling, “Rape! Rape!” because a number of tough-looking guys ran out of nowhere and started snarling at me in some weird language. I figured they weren’t asking me my shoe size, so I did the only thing I could think of – I threw sand at them and ran away into a park, where I hid under a pile of leaves until the stopped looking for me.


When I emerged, I found myself out the front of the world famous Kadriorg Palace, which is definitely very pink. After my ordeal, I simply sat in the sun, on a bench between an old Estonian woman with a scarf wrapped around her head and a duck (I mean the duck was on the other side of me – the old woman didn’t have a fucking duck wrapped around her head) and enjoyed the pinkness of this special place. And then, when the banality of life beat me into submission, I decided to indulge my massive love of pot.


Beer of the day:
I found AC/DC beer! I wasn’t able to buy any because they didn’t have any coldies, but this one gets the gong by virtue of having something to do with Acca Dacca. To those about to drink until they pass out in an Estonian back alley we salute you!


Kebab of the day:
I was starving as I waltzed into Istanbul Kebab, so I was very upset that it took them about 45 minutes to prepare my Adana kebab. Their hot chip machine was on the fritz, but they made up for it with a free beer and a cracking meal. An Adana kebab is apparently a few sausages, a bunch of chips, and a heap of salad, so I can only throw my hands in the air and admit I don’t have a fucking clue what the definition of a kebab is anymore. It was delicious, though, so who gives a shit?


Statue-tory Rape


Last time I was in Europe, I had sex with a lot of statues. It’s not something I’m proud of, because I know they couldn’t say no or try to stop me, but it happened. I was drunk, and I took advantage of them.

Symbols of culture and history and national pride all succumbed to my wicked willy. I just wandered up, had my way with their stone boobies and fannies, took a photo, and went on my way. Sick, I know, but I can’t change the past.

I’ve bonked statues in other countries, too. Indonesia, Malaysia, even here in Australia – nothing’s safe. And you know what? I enjoyed it. Every time I simulated sex with a stone beauty, I was having the time of my life.

It’s not all fun and games, though. Do you know how much it hurts to have sex with a sandstone vagina? It’s rougher in there than in my ex-girlfriend’s vagina, and she had more diseases than a Chinese hospital, so it was like rooting a sheet of sandpaper.

I’ll do it again, too, because in less than three weeks I’ll be back in Europe, and back in the statues. I won’t just be having sex with statues, though, because that would be weird. I’ll be exploring cities from Riga to Athens, seeing the sights, getting drunk, trying to pick up women and probably getting naked once or twice.

I’m going to visit concentration camps and ancient cities, nightclubs and national parks. I’ll be hiking up mountains, catching cable cars, sitting in beer gardens and talking to pretty girls.  Catching trains and making a fool of myself as I travel through 15 countries in 62 days, all so that you don’t have to.

There’ll be laughs, tears, shenanigans and adventures, all here in the best bloody travel blog on the interweb. No women in floaty dresses talking about enlightening experiences, no endless details cribbed from other sites – just genuine stories of life on the road. Oh, and daily kebab and beer reviews.

It’s going to be my longest overseas trip ever, I’ll be doing it along, and it’s certainly going to have its ups and downs, good times and maybe even a few emotional breakdowns. Who knows, I might even meet that girl I’ve been looking for.

Click on the subscribe button and get ready for a ride. Or don’t, I’m a bit pissed so I don’t really care either way.

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Dog-dating dork declares, “I’ve got fleas!”


Since I first broke the story a few weeks ago, Australians have fallen in love with Dean*, the brave 20-year-old who freely admits to having sex with animals. Sadly, this inspirational tale has taken a depressing turn.

Dean recently ended a long-term inter-species relationship with a spirited kid named Carl, and has since been enjoying the single life with a number of different animals, including cows, budgerigars, and even a slutty goanna he met while on the pull at notorious Gosford nightspot Pulse.

But Dean’s debaucherous lifestyle has finally caught up with him, with the beastie bonker admitting that he’s come down with fleas after enjoying a number of wild sexual experiences with some local dogs.

Dean reacted poorly to news that he had fleas. Wait, actually, he’d just stepped in some dog shit when this photo was taken

“There are a few strays around my house and I’ve fucked them all,” Dean admit, after retrieving a tennis ball I had thrown. “I’ve always stayed away from dogs because rooting them’s a bit of a cliche, isn’t it? If someone decides to fuck an animal, they usually start with a dog, and I don’t want to be a part of the pack – I’m a trailblazer.”

But temptation got the better of Dean. “I was walking back from the beach one day and saw a couple of dogs sniffing each others’ arses and I’ve thought to myself, ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.’ Next thing you know, I was just one of the bitches.”

Dean smiles as he remembers his time as part of the pack. It was more than a sexual relationship – together they urinated on trees, chased cars and barked at children. “I even bit a postman once,” laughs Dean. “You should’ve seen the cunt run!”

In a tragic turn of events reminiscent of Charlie Sheen’s recent declaration that he has the AIDS, Dean’s carefree lifestyle has come at a heavy price. “I woke up one morning and I was feeling a bit itchy, so I gave myself a good scratch and all these little bugs came out of my hair. I was barking mad, because the dogs had told me they were clean and it was obviously a load of shit.

“My name’s Dean, and I have fleas.”

Dashing Dean’s treatment involves shampooing twice a day. He’s also not allowed on the furniture until he is rid of the fleas

After making the heartbreaking discovery, Dean first fell into denial. He partied heavier than ever before, binging on tins of Chum and engaging in depraved orgies, often with multiple species at the same time. “It was raining cats and dogs there for a while, but all the sex in the world can’t make the itching go away. I spread the fleas, but I couldn’t shed any of my pain, I was a wreck.”

It was after waking up in a cell at the pound at the end of a wild night that Dean knew something had to change. “They were going to put me down because I was covered in fleas and kept humping the other dogs. I was a mess but, luckily, I was picked up an Asian family who took me home with them. The Wangs sat me down and made me admit that I had a problem, and from there I started to treat the fleas. It’s going to be a long, rocky road, but I know I have the strength to win this war.”

With the love and support of his new family, the Wangs, Dean can see light at the end of the doggy door, and he’s determined to beat his affliction.

“The vet says I’ve also got worms, but he reckons it’ll clear up as long as I stop eating my own shit.”

“Can I nibble on your shoe and then curl up at the end of your bed?”

Any Port in a Storm


I’ve had a rough couple of days (don’t worry, you can read all about that in an upcoming blogsmic extravaganza – trust me, it’s a story of love and loss that’s so bizarre and deranged that you won’t want to miss it), so yesterday I chucked my paraglider in the car and headed up to Lake Innes to go flying with my homies Mark and Chris. It seemed like a good enough idea, and the weather was lovely on the way up.

I swear I was driving sensibly

The weather wasn’t any better today, so I had two options. 1) Sit inside all day and wank myself into a corner, or 2) Hop in my car and go exploring. After dabbling in the decadent delights of option numero uno (sorry, Mark, I swear I’ll pay for new sheets… and a new toilet brush), I decided to get out there and see what was on offer.

It’s a lovely beach… when the weather’s not as foul as a Kim Beazley bowel movement!

As soon as I left the house it started bucketing down, so I meandered over to the resort town of Port Macquarie, where I spent many joyous days as a child. Seriously, the days I spent camping there with my family were some of the best of my life, and I still look back on them fondly.

I remember camping at Port Macquarie for a few days with my grandparents when I was 10 years old. It was a weird time because the holidays were coming to a close, the rest of my family had already headed home, and most of the friends I’d made in the camp grounds had left. I enjoyed it, though, and one memory stands out above all others.

The man no woman can tame

There’s a breakwall right near the camp site, and many of the rocks that made it up had names written on them. My grandfather went up the street one day and bought me a small pot of green paint and a brush, and I wrote my name on one of the rocks, a permanent reminder that I’d been there. I went back to the breakwall, and of course my name isn’t still there. It’s been 22 years and there’s almost nothing left of the boy who wrote it, so there’s no chance his scribbling would be. Instead, i found that the rocks are now beautifully decorated with intricate designs. It’s a really incredible walk, even if a bit of fright shite came out when I saw a shark.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back near the water…

With the weather making a day at the beach as appealing as a Penny Wong anal sandwich, I checked out the town. There’s not heaps to see, but I did find something that I thought was extinct. No, not a woman with pubic pair, an honest-to-goodness CD shop! I haven’t seen a Sanity for nearly a decade, but here it was, complete with bored teenagers and people looking to buy physical copies of music instead of illegally downloading it. I was so excited that I took a photo of myself in front of it and a local wag called me a tosser for doing so.

New Tinder profile?

I’ve come here under less than stellar conditions, but Port mac is still an awesome place to visit – or live, as I’ve been threatening to do for the last year! Now, if only somebody could fix the bloody weather so I can go for a fly, the world would be in unison…


“I cooked and ate my animal lover!”

A few weeks ago I brought you the touching story of Dean*, a charming young man desperately in love with a handsome goat named Carl. Well, it turns out he still loves Carl – with a side of mint sauce!

In a disturbing twist to an astonishing tale of cross-species love, Dean has stopped fucking Carl, and has instead chopped him into a selection of meats, which he intends to eat over the next couple of days. And you thought your last break-up was bad!

The meat-mad maniac mashed his former lover into cutlets, chops and a string of delicious-looking sausages that wouldn’t look out of place in an Oktoberfest beer hall.

Deranged Dean holds what’s left of his former lover, Carl

While Dean has been enjoying his prime cuts, he’s obviously upset about the downfall of his groundbreaking relationship with the four-year-old goat – a modern-day love story that has inspired thousands of young men around Australia to come out of the wool shed and pursue intimate encounters with farm animals.

When I met with Dean, he’d obviously gained weight, his eyes were red from crying, and his bedroom was littered with empty ice cream containers and used tissues.

“Things haven’t been going well for a while,” Dean confesses, while tucking into a juicy chop. “Carl’s been hanging out with a bad herd, eating shirts off clothes lines and doing hard drugs. Don’t get me wrong, the sex was still grouse, but there needs to be more to it than that. He just didn’t understand me, so I ate him.”

According to Dean, there had been cracks in the relationship for a while: “Me and Carl were enjoying a romantic dinner to celebrate our anniversary, and when I ordered the roast, he just lost the plot, and kept bleating about me eating his mum. He was really out of line, so I walked out of him and ended up spending the night with a horse I know. We slept together, and I didn’t think of Carl once.”

Dean (right) and Carl in happier times

From that point, the relationship was unsalvageable. While Dean slept with a growing number of farm animals, Carl moved out of their shared apartment, and quietly deleted Dean from Facebook. But this break-up was never meant to have a happy ending. When Dean invited Carl around to sort through their CDs and maybe have a bite to eat, he brutally murdered the goat and spent the next six hours carefully slicing him into yummy pieces.

“Yeah, maybe I over-reacted, but I’ve never been good at break-ups. I guess I feel bad about it, but Car’s so tender and he really fills me up – something I couldn’t say about him when he was alive!” Dean chuckles, while wriggling his pinky finger in the air.

For the time being, Dean is enjoying his newly-single status: “I’ve been seeing a guinea pig, and I’ve been on a few dates with a feisty little dingo, but nothing serious. I’m not ready to enter into a long-term relationship at the moment – either with a human, or with an animal.”

“All relationships have to come to an end, and at least this way I’ll always have Carl with me,” Dean says with a sniff. “Well, at least until I take a dump.”

The day I found out my girlfriend was a drug addicted prostitute


I joke around a lot here at Drunk and Jobless, but I’ve had my fair share of sad and fucked up events. One that stands out is the day I found out a pretty lady I was seeing fucked dudes for money… and was apparently very good at it.

The first time we talked was on a Friday afternoon, three or so years ago, when I was working through lunch interviewing girls for a classy magazine called 100% Home Girls. Her photos showed she was hot as hell, and when we talked on the phone she was funny and smart. In eight years of working for porn magazines, I only once got in touch with a girl after calling here, and this was that time.

I sent her a message on Facebook a day later, and she got back to me while I was getting epically drunk at some shit nightclub I don’t remember the name of. I ended up calling her at about 4am, we talked for a few hours, and agreed to meet up in Sydney the next night. I couldn’t believe my luck.

This girl was everything I wanted, physically – I like small girls with long dark hair, and it’s up for debate whether that’s a throwback to a girl I once promised to marry, or something to do with my mother, which is a possibility due to all the weird issues I have with women. She was as beautiful as anyone you would ever hope to meet in a lifetime, the sort of girl who could make your day by just walking by, and she was with me.

We only saw each other a few times, but I fell like a tonne of bricks. She was sometimes hard to get a hold of, but when I was able to spend time with her, I was fucking stoked. I thought it was weird that she always had two phones on her, took Xanax, didn’t really have a place to live.

One afternoon she told me she wanted to go to the zoo, so I organised it for the next day. I organised food and meeting times, went to bed early, even if it was a little hard to sleep. I woke up before me alarm hit, and headed down to Sydney, then fronted up outside her place. I rung the bell, and waited.

And waited, and waited. I called her phone, but nothing. I sat in the street with my little bag full of sandwiches and drinks, and after an hour or so, I went back to the train station and headed home. I ate my sandwich while the world passed by, and that was that.

I spent the afternoon at the pub, and after 10 or so beers, the girl sent me a message. She apologised for standing me up, and said she had something to tell me that might change the way I felt about her. I might be stupid, and completely naive when it comes to women, but I knew what she was going to say.

She told me she was a prostitute, and was working to pay for a methamphetamine habit. The night before we’d agreed to go to th zoo, she was fucking some dude all night, fucked off her head on drugs, unable to sleep because she had some married man’s mongrel inide her. She’d fallen asleep around the time I was rocking up at her place. I went out that night, got drunk enough that I passed out in a bush.

It was hard times after that. I was embarrassed, I felt fucking stupid for not noticing the obvious signs. A while ago I wrote a book called Red, White and Bruce that nobody bothered to read, and it was about a handsome journalist (who could possibly be the inspiration for that?) who fell in love girl with a girl who turned out to be a hooker. Read it, it’s good. And then this came along, with almost the same narrative.

I cut off contact immediately. I was so sad that this girl, who I saw as smart and talented and funny, only saw herself as a pussy that could make money. I was sad that old men fucked her and only saw someone who wasn’t their wife. I saw a lot in her and valued what she believed in, thought it was the best thing in the world that she wanted to spend time with me. I went on a website where dickheads review the prostitutes they’ve fucked and read stories about old men coming on her face. She cost $650 an hour. It was fucked.

Thankfully, I never fucked her, or I would have had to cut off my penis and throw it in a fire. So, basically, I was one of the few dudes who wasn’t banging the girl I was seeing. That makes me feel like a fucking man.

As some consolation, I was seeing a former gymnast at the same time, and she also rates as one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever been with. Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I look them both up on Facebook and reminisce on the time I was seeing two women so hot I almost had to wear gloves to hold them. And then I think about how they’re both living happy lives without me, so I go and play some PlayStation.