Category Archives: humor

A junkie, a blood fetishist, an alcoholic nymphomaniac and the overweight wife of an islamic fundamentalist

I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years, and most of them I haven’t been very good at. So when I decided to become a professional photographer, I didn’t let the fact I barely know which direction to point a camera stand in my way.

While working in the porn industry, I soon realised that the snappers were raking in the big bucks, while I was making chump change putting together the words that nobody reads. So I rented a flea-bitten room in the cheapest hotel in Newcastle, put an ad on Gumtree, and headed along with my point-and-shoot camera in my pocket and a smile on my face. Little did I know, I was in for one of the weirdest nights of my life.

Four ladies responded to my ad, which had proudly boasted that it was open to women of all shapes, sizes and ages – and I sure got a mixture. In fact, it was like a freak show was passing through my room that night.


The first lass was barely 18, and had a bit of an emo look about her. Rhonda also had a nice set of tits, which she didn’t hesitate to drag out for me. While I took photos with one hand and pushed my boner down with the other, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to shoot any explicit shots due to having her period. I told her that sucked.

“Not really,” she grinned. “I’m turned on by blood, so when I’ve got my period I get really horny and have to fuck a lot of blokes.”

I found this quite interesting and asked her to explain further. Apparently she’d spent her youth haunting the local hospitals, getting off on seeing poor bastards wander in with massive head wounds, or with their intestines spilling out onto the concrete. She liked that sort of thing so much that she was studying doctoring at university, and would become so turned on while watching medical documentaries that she’d drag fellow students out of the lecture theatre and bonk them senseless. And people say I’m weird for asking girls to dress up as Mal Meninga during sex.


As soon as she left to suck off someone with a paper cut, the next lass rocked up. I’d seen photos of Pixie, and they were awesome. She had model good looks and a cracking body, and I wondered whether I’d be able to do her justice with my limited shooting skills. It turned out the camera from a broken Nokia 3210 would’ve been the best way to do her justice, because it appeared Pixie had been hitting the drugs hard. Her eyes were sunken in her skull, her bones were sticking through her skin, and she looked a mess. Best of all, she wasn’t alone, and I struggled to hide my iPod and wallet as I led Angel and her shaggy, toothless, meth-addicted boyfriend into the room.

It was sad because she had been so beautiful before the drugs got their hooks ino her, and she’d obviously modelled a fair bit in the past, because she knew all the positions (even the one where she put both her ankles behind her head). Once I’d taken all the photos I could handle, Pixie and her handsome hobo fella locked themselves in the toilet for a few minutes to smoke ice in the bathtub, then fucked each other senseless while I sat on the bed listening and wanking wondering where it all went wrong.


If Angel was too skinny, that certainly wasn’t a problem with the next lady, Fran. When talking to Fran on the phone, she’d wanted to clarify two things. “You say any shape and size, but I just want to let you know that I’m 15 stone,” she said hesitantly. I don’t have a clue what a stone is, so I told her it was fine. “I also don’t shave,” she added, and I threw up in my mouth.

When Fran showed up, I learned that 15 stone is actually quite heavy (around 95kg), especially when hanging off a woman who stood about 5’1″. To top it off, Fran was in her 60s, covered in prison tatts, and smoked like a chimney. “I’m really going to earn my money today,” I thought as I led her up to my room.

Things only got worse as I closed the door and Fran took her gear off. Her tits almost hit the floor and her muff was hairier than an Armenian bloke’s back. Right above the smashed orange that passed for Franny’s fanny, was a tattoo explaining that it was the property of a local motorcycle group. I apologised to my camera and started shooting. The stench was so bad that my eyes were watering and, as she spread out on the room’s lounge, I assumed I’d be getting a dry cleaning bill for that in the near future.

“I hope my husband doesn’t find out about this,” Fran told me, while pointing her cheesecake arse at my wincing face. “He’s a hardline Islamic fundamentalist and he doesn’t let me out of the house much. I had to tell him I was going to a job interview, and he’d kill me if he found out the truth. He’d probably kill you, too, if he found out.” With visions of a little brown fella blowing me up with a homemade shoe bomb dancing in my head, I took the rest of the photos and Fran mercifully put her clothes on. After she’d left, I found a slip op paper with, “Call me written” beneath her phone number. I threw it in the bin and briefly considered lighting the bin on fire.


After my brush with death, I settled my nerves with a few glasses of wine while waiting for the next lady to show up. She was late, so I managed to guzzle a fair bit of booze – but not nearly as much as she did. When Sienna turned up she was rolling drunk, her teeth stained red with wine and her eyes spinning in her head. Never one to refuse a girl passage to my room simply because she was as pissed as a porcupine, I led her up the stairs and asked her to strip off.

Sienna was in her mid-30s and not a bad sort, but when she pulled another bottle of wine out of her bag and started smashing it, I knew there was something wrong with her. As I snapped away she never let go of the bottle, and I ended up with dozens of photos of her skolling from the bottle, spilling wine on the bed, and generally acting like a bridge-dwelling wino. When she finished the bottle, she took out another and knocked that off in record time. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or ask her to marry me.

When we were finished, Sienna asked me out to dinner. Never one to knock back a free meal, I said yes and, ridiculously, got in the passenger seat of her car as we headed off to Hungry Jack’s. Smart idea, right? We only had to head a couple of hundred metres down the road, but she cleaned up a letter box, a stop sign and a wheelie bin during the journey, before finally crashing into the wall of the fast food shop and passing out in the entrance. When I woke her up, she ate a Whopper she found on the ground and drove me back to my hotel (leaving a trail of distruction in her wake). When she asked if I wanted to go back to my room to finish off my cask, I had to seriously think about it; on one hand she was pretty hot, and was mad as a meataxe, so she’d be a cracker in the sack. One the other, there was a high chance that she had AIDS and would probably try to steal things from me, and being crazy meant she would probably try to shove things up my arse. I made the call to send her packing at which point she staggered into the closest pub, stole a bottle of wine from behind the bar, and sped off in her car, almost running over a dog.

As for whether I rooted any of the others, I’ll leave that up to you. But if ISIS asks, tell them it wasn’t the wife of the Islamic fundamentalist.

Confessions of a goat fucker


I’ve met a lot of weird and wonderful characters during my travels, but even I was shocked when I was contacted by Dean* recently. He’s 20 years old, works a respectable job, has an attractive girlfriend, and enjoys surfing and riding his motorbike. But Dean has a dark secret.

He likes to have sex with goats.

When I met up with him to hear his story, I expected to find a depraved, twisted individual with hairy palms, a hunched back and a persistent boner. Instead I found a charming young man with a cheeky smile and a vibrant outlook on life.

“Some people like to play video games, some people like to go fishing, and I like to fuck goats. What’s wrong with that?” he says emphatically. “I wish everyone would stop making such a big deal about it.”

A knockabout kid with piercing blue eyes and a mop of sandy hair, he looks like any other young fella on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Growing up, he usually had scraped knees from skateboarding accidents and enjoyed collecting Pokemon memorabilia, but his life changed forever one fateful Spring day.

“It was the day after my 15th birthday, and I was camping out at a mate’s farm. There was this goat – Fruity was her name, I’ll never forget it – and she kept giving me the eye. I was young and horny, so I was wanking five or six times a day, and I found it impossible to resist Fruity’s charms. So when my mates went to the river for a swim, I pretended I had diarrhea, and spent a romantic afternoon with Fruity.”

Dean made love to Fruity three times over the next hour, and was relaxing under a tree with his hairy lover when his chums returned from their swim.

“Unfortunately, there was some amount of rectal bleeding on Fruity’s part, which threatened to expose our afternoon of passion. I’m a quick thinker, though, and told my friend that Fruity had accidentally sat on a barbed wire fence. I promised to see Fruity again but, sadly, she was put down shortly afterwards. I actually ate part of her, and she tasted wonderful with mint sauce.”

But Dean’s appetite for billy goat love would not be abated, and as he grew up, he had experiences with a number of hirsute hunks.

“I live in a suburban area, so there aren’t a lot of goats wandering around just ready to be porked, so I was stoked when a petting zoo opened up a few kilometres away. They had six goats in there and I violated every single one of them, but one really captured my heart – a little black fella called Carl. He had an arse that could make a jellyfish hard, but it was his personality that made me fall in love with him. He was so playful.

“And honestly, Carl’s race didn’t come into it at all. I don’t see colour, I just see goats.”

Dean and Carl, shortly after meeting

Dean entered into a three-year relationship with Carl, where they frolicked by moonlight, binge-watched crime drama Breaking Bad, and even went on a romantic cruise through the Pacific. But Dean’s heart was soon to be broken in the most crushing way possible.

“I snuck into the zoo one night and saw the owner fucking Carl, and Carl seemed to be enjoying it. I turned around and walked home in tears, and spent the next week locked in my bedroom, eating chocolate ice cream and watching old episodes of Gilmore Girls. I was a wreck, and vowed to never let another goat break my heart.”

From there, Dean’s sexual experiences with goats took on a more casual nature, as he sought out anonymous sex to help heal his broken heart. He would spend weeks at a time driving through rural areas, stopping only to have sex with goats he didn’t know and didn’t intend on seeing again.

“I was a wreck, and I’m not proud of how I acted. I must’ve had sex with 300-400 goats during that period, but none of them could replace Carl. I even tried bonking a few sheep and cows, just to help blank out the pain, but it didn’t work. I never thought having sex with farm animals would lose its luster, but it did.”

Dean gave up on goats and, in a move he never thought possible, entered into a relationship with a human woman. To outsiders he was just a happy-go-lucky young man with a bright future, but his passion for goats still burned.

“My girlfriend walked in on me masturbating over an episode of Landline. She was a bit freaked out and called me a sicko, and I broke down and told her everything. She was really understanding and cradled me in her arms while I told her about Fruity and Carl and the farmer, and afterwards she gave me a big kiss, as well as her blessing to have sex with goats. I think that moment really strengthened our relationship.”

Dean’s girlfriend took him to her car, and drove him back to the petting zoo where he’d spent so many nights. There, in a back corner, was Carl.

“He looked great, yeah. He was a little bit older, and not a kid anymore, but he still looked good. My missus waited by the gate and I sort of awkwardly shuffled over to him, and my heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. The feelings were obviously still there, and we made love next to a small patch of turnips. It was like we’d never been apart, and it’s so good to have Carl as part of my life again. Even my girlfriend loves him.”

When I decided to meet with Dean, I was expecting a pervert and a social outcast; someone to write a funny story about. Instead I met a sensitive, intelligent gentleman who isn’t so different from the rest of us – he simply chooses to express his love and lost with animals. In fact, it’s had me wondering if Dean has the right idea, and it’s the rest of us who are the misfits, depriving ourselves of meaningful relationships with critters merely because of societal conventions.

It’s a happy ending to an unusual story, and Dean has a message for any other young men who are battling with their passion for farm animals.

“All I can say is, if your heart’s telling you to fuck a goat, then fuck a goat,” Dean tells me as I leave. “Don’t worry about what other people say or think, because all that matters is shooting your bolt deep into a goat. It’s the best feeling ever – trust me, I’d know.”
* name changed by request of the goat fucker

Have you fallen in love with Dean and his heartwarming story? His journey through animal lust continues:

“I cooked and ate my animal lover!”

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

More of the world’s worst advice

Bro, what’s cracking? I’m going well, thanks for asking. You write about all these cool places you’re always visiting, and most of them sound fucking fantastic. I’m unemployed and have a severe drug addiction, so I won’t be travelling anywhere for a while (I’m also out on parole, so the cunts at the cop shop don’t want me to), so reading about your adventures is about as close as I’m gunna get to going on a holiday. Anyway, I’d like to know, what’s the shittiest place you’ve ever been to? Thanks, and keep up the good work.
G’day Tinks, it’s great to hear from you. Too bad about the financial situation, but I’m sure you could knock off a servo or a primary school tuck shop if you want to head off on the trip of a lifetime.
As for your question, until recently I would’ve said Huddersfield, UK. It’s a cold, wet, grim shithole in the north of England, where dreams don’t die because they never exist in the first place. The footy team’s shit (sorry, Eorl Crabtree), the shops are run by surly Poles, and gangs of unpleasant youths roam the streets. Also, everyone’s ugly and look like they’ve just come from fucking their sister.
But that all changed when I went to Jaipur, India. What can I say about this nightmare of a city? It’s overrun with criminals (how I wasn’t robbed, I don’t know), the air is so polluted that just breathing is akin to smoking three packs of cigarettes, and the city’s historical sites have been left to rot. Animals shit in the streets, the drivers are fucking idiots, it’s noisy and smelly, and the locals (I only saw men, so maybe they’ve found a way to reproduce through frantic bum sex) look like they’ve had their faces set on fire with a blowtorch and trampled out by a Clydesdale. To make it worse, cunts who were eating pigeons tried to stab me. It’s impossible to feel safe there, and that shithole promises an awful travelling experience.
So, yeah, stay the fuck away from Jaipur. And Tinkerbell, feel free to steel a new TV for me.

Hey mate, it’s me Cameron Rodrigo. You don’t know me, but I’m a fun-loving 20-year-old with a few tattoos. Everyone loves them, and they go with my quirky, upbeat personality. Unfortunately, I was a bit high on red cordial and Snickers bars on the weekend, and I got a smiley face inked on my knob. Right there on the end, so when I take off my pants it looks like the bloody Bookworm has come out to play. When the sugar worse off and I settled down, I realised I’d made a mistake because 1) it looks really stupid and 2) my girlfriend will probably never come near me again. I’ve tried rubbing it off but, while it was a lot of fun, it didn’t work. What can I do?
RODRIGO (NOT CAMERON), NORAVILLE, NSW. WAIT, ACTUALLY, CAN YOU SAY I COME FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE?ROW-ROW: Hi Cam! Uh, I mean, Rodrigo. Is that a Brazilian name? You’ve really only got two options. You can cut the silly thing off; just grab a pair of scissors and go to town, then kick it into the sea and forget all about it. Your missus might wonder where your cock went, but you can simply tell her that you’ve been getting in touch with your feminine side, and have decided to become a woman. She’ll respect your courage and, if anything, it will strengthen your relationship. She’ll dump you, of course, and you’ll have a hell of a time getting another girlfriend without a willy, but it’s worth a shot.
The other is to convince her that your penis has become sentient, developed a face and is now capable of initiating meaningful conversations. This will involve learning ventriloquism, and developing a caring, sensitive personality for your little friend. Of course, this plan runs the risk of your girlfriend falling in love with your talking doodle, chating on you with it, and eventually running away with him. So you’ll be left broken-hearted, while your knob swans around on a tropical cruise with the love of your life. Again, being penis-less will leave you deeply depressed and unable to attract other women, probably leading to a life of heavy drug abuse and prostitution.
So, up to you. We’ll talk about it at work tomorrow never talk about it in person because I don’t know you.

What’s up, dude? I’ve been smashing this good sort for a while, and I’ve decided to take her on holidays for a week. After reading your blog (on the toilet, usually) I’ve decided to whisk her away to Samoa. Now, I’m planning to spend most of the time pounding her senseless, but I guess we’ll have to get out and see a few things, so can your list your three top recommendations for this place. That’s if the little lady can even walk after what I’ll do to her!
ROW-ROW: First up, you might want to have a look at the way you talk, because I can’t be 100 per cent sure whether you are having regular sex with this young lady, or enjoy beating the shit out of her. Use a more sensual phrase for sex like ‘driving the beef bus into tuna town.’ Right, on to your question, homie.
I can highly recommend the To Sua Ocean Trench, simply because you’ll never see anything else like it. You’ll descend beneath the earth into a tropical paradise, where you can chase fish in crystal clear water. It’s incredible.
You’ve gotta dive off Safotu, with Dive Savai’i. I’ve dived and snorkelled all over the world, and this place is better than anywhere else. There are so many fish and other forms of ocean life, and awe-inspiring wrecks to paddle around.
I’d also suggest spending a couple of nights at Lalomanu Beach, sleeping in a rustic fale on the sand. It’s a peaceful, perfect spot, with not much to do but relax and swim and fuck your missus. Be quiet when you do it, though, because those fales don’t have walls.
Most importantly, make sure you send me some nude photos of your lady, because she sounds like she’s a real goer.

Hey, babby, it Rara. You still want make fuck? You still want big tit ladyboy? I suck you dick like vacuum cleaner. Look like real woman, big tit, long hair.
ROW-ROW: Fuck yes. But if you get a boner, I’m gunna flick your cock with a rubber band.

I bought a mobility scooter and now everyone’s really nice to me because they think I’m disabled


I’m often too drunk to drive, which presents me with a real problem every time I finish another cask of wine; how do I get up to the bottle shop? Sure, I could walk, but that’s stupid, so I recently invested in a mobility scooter.

Yes, a mobility scooter, like the ones old people hoon around in. Well, they don’t really hoon, because these things max out at about 6km/h, but the one I’ve got provides a comfortable ride that is also very safe, due to the big fuck-off orange visibility flag on the back.

So I’ve been riding this thing around a lot lately, taking it to the bottle-o, taking it to the supermarket, doing doughies in car parks, that sorta stuff. And the biggest thing I’ve noticed is that when I’m seated in my mobility scooter, everyone’s really, really nice to me, because they all think I’m either physically or mentally handicapped. Sure, some people assumed that beforehand, but the scooter really sells it.

Normally I’ll walk along the street and people won’t even look at me (I give off a bit of a bad-arse, devil-may-care vibe, so they’re just doing the safe thing), but when I’m in the scooter everyone wants to say hello. They say it slowly because they assume I’ll have a hard time understanding a word with two syllables, but they’re lovely to me all the same. Strangers wave at me for no reason and I wave back with a big, cheesy smile spread across my face.

Yesterday I was tootling along past a family who were enjoying a picnic, and they called me over to have a couple of sausages, with a side of pumpkin salad and homemade quince chutney. I was pretty drunk at the time, so I was slurring my words and wobbling around like some sort of demented fish, which added to the image of me being differently-abled. They kept telling me how brave I am and I just nodded goofily, helping myself to another slice of garlic bread and pinching one of Dad’s craft beers. When I left they slipped a $20 note in my pocket, which I used to buy some wine.

While cruising down the chip aisle of Coles in my scooter, I nearly had an accident with a very fat lady who was also astride a fancy ride. She looked me and my scooter up down, coughed until she hocked up a golf ball-sized chunk of phlegm, then gave me her sexiest wink, which wasn’t too sexy at all. “I’ve got space for two scooters in front of my unit,” she said in a husky voice, and I backed out of there so fast I knocked over a standing display of Arnott’s Shapes.

I’ve even made friends with some of the fogies from the old-people’s home down the street. Most mornings we do laps of the local park in our scooters in what must look like the world’s slowest grand prix, and talk about lost love and why the young people of today are such fucking idiots. We’re like a car club, only our chariots cruise at the speed of a sausage dog and struggle to make it over cracks in the concrete.

I live an idyllic life of free sausages, sexual innuendo and heartfelt conversations Alzheimer’s sufferers, and it’s all because of my mobility scooter. Maybe I should get a colostomy bag next, everyone would love that…

Dildo Warfare: A tale of strippers, sickos and unwanted hand shandies


A few years ago I headed up to the Gold Coast for two weeks on the piss with a good mate of mine called Dion. Alright, that’s not really his name; I’ve changed it for reasons that will soon become clear, and have gone with a name that suggests I have a big, black, bald-headed friend.

After an all-day drinking session that ended with us having watermelons thrown at us by angry locals, me and Dion staggered up to Orchid Avenue and rolled into a scummy nightclub called The Sugar Shack. It was ladies’ night, so there was wall-to-wall poontang. Unfortunately, there was also a massive Maori gentleman dancing around on stage with most of his gear off, and when he de-pantsed and started waving his sizable wang around, I felt very uncomfortable. Still, there was something familiar about him… about his face, I mean, not his wang.

Luckily, the dark-skinned sicko left the stage and me and Dion were able to get on with the important task of failing to pick up women. I was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a sailor hat, which probably didn’t help my cause. Well, it didn’t help me get the women, but it was like a red rag to a bull for champion homos, because while I was sipping my beer a door opened and I saw the Maori stripper standing buck-naked in a change room, a huge smile on his face and his doodle as hard as an ex-wife’s heart. He gave me a wink, pulled his dick a bit, and beckoned me inside. I looked around, sure he was after one of the lovely ladies that were paying me no attention, but he was certainly after me.

And then it hit me. No, not his dick, I mean it hit me where I recognised him from. He was on a dating show called Playing it Straight, where one chick has to decide which of 12 bozos she wants to make bang-bang with – with the twist being that half of them were gaybos. Anyway, this stripper, Chad, was a finalist, and the show only had a week left to run. He was a famous telly start and he wanted me. Me! Unfortunately, I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if he caught me, so me and Dion hid in a dark corner while Chad gyrated around the place, looking for us.

I’ve gotta say, though, it hurt my feelings that he didn’t look harder for me. I was wearing a fucking sailor hat, after all, and he was big and buff enough that if he’d really wanted me he could’ve picked me up and carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes. Funnily enough, a few days later, Chad won Playing it Straight – and revealed himself to be heterosexual. Just goes to show that you can’t trust reality TV… or gay dancing Maoris.

While hiding from Chad, I started chatting to this attractive blonde chick with a cracking set of watermelons, named Casey. I can’t remember what bullshit I was telling her, but it must’ve worked because we started pashing under a fake palm tree. She had three friends with her – another attractive blonde, a fat chick who just sat there eating meat pies and farting, her fat rolls drooling onto the floor like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and some nonce of a bloke who appeared to be wearing a picnic blanket for a shirt. Dion homed in on the blonde and did his best to ignore the two freaks, and I did my best to feel my chick’s tits. Romance certainly ain’t dead.

Turned out the bloke in the picnic blanket was called Nathan, and wasn’t a huge fan of having sex with women. I managed to con an invitation back to Casey’s place, but she said she couldn’t leave until Nathan had found a fella to spend the night with. I’m a problem solver, so I pointed at Dion and said, “He’s gay. He’ll fuck Nathan.” Twenty seconds later we were out the door, with Dion none the wiser that he had been targeted for spermination by a very horny Nathan, who kept licking his lips in anticipation. He soon got an idea, though, because the pervert kept rubbing his leg and winking at him. I dunno, maybe Dion thought Nathan just had cerebral palsy or something.

We got back to their house and it was a dump. Not only was there rubbish and broken furniture all over the place, but they had a dog that liked to shit in the house, and instead of cleaning up after it they just chucked some newspaper down over it. It was as disgusting as seeing Iain Hewitson naked. Anyway, I was young, dumb and full of cum (my own, not Chad’s) so I headed off to a bedroom with this Casey bird. Much to Dion’s disappointed, the attractive friend pissed off, leaving him alone in the living room while I got on with the task of disappointing Casey.

I was a few minutes into a performance that would make a fur seal ashamed when I heard a scream from the living room, followed by crashing sounds. I pulled on my novelty boxer shorts and raced out to see a very angry Dion throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down at a terrified Nathan. “He tried to wank me off in my sleep!” screeched Dion, then threw a dying pot plant at his molester.

Nathan picked up a handful of dog turds and threw them back at Dion, who dodged them before they splattered all over the wall. If anything, it added to the ambiance of the place. I stood back, enjoying the bizarre spectacle, until Nathan took aim at me with a broken toaster. I ducked the deadly appliance and fired back with the leg of a chair. We were tearing the place apart and backing Nathan into a corner, when I spied a bag full of sex toys under a dirty table. I reach down and picked up a huge purple dildo and hurled it at Nathan, conking him on the head. Dion pulled out a butt plug and chucked it, and Nathan must’ve liked that because he tried to catch it in his mouth but ended up sprawled on the floor in a puddle of dog urine instead.

Dion plucked out a set of anal beads, and the last thing I saw before returning to bed (well, it wasn’t really a bed, it was more like a pile of towels in the corner of a room) with Casey was Dion choking out Nathan with the beads. Three minutes later I was finished, the bird was unsatisfied and I was dreaming the dreams of kings.

I woke up a few hours later and snuck out of the room, and went to find Dion. He wasn’t in the living room, or the brasco, so I rang his phone. I heard it blaring away in one of the rooms, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely naked and porking the fat bird from behind while she munched on a sausage roll. It looked like an ant on a scoop of ice cream, and her fat rolls were hypnotic as they jiggled back and forth in time with Dion’s thrusts. I left him to it, and a few minutes later he swaggered out the door, proud as punch, and we got the fuck out of that hell hole. I had to step over an unconscious Nathan on my way out.

It was a long walk home, so we picked up a case of beer and got back into it. When I got back to our unit, I poured Dettol all over my old fella. You can never be too careful.

A few nights later, we saw the big bird pull up in her rustbucket car outside of the Sugar Shack and get out with Casey. I told Dion to shove a banana up her tailpipe. “Why not?” he chuckled. “I’ve already done it once!”

Nofo a, Tonga!

All good things have to come to an end. Bros broke up, Ship 2 Shore ended, and now my travels through the Pacific Islands are done and dusted. I woke up early to watch the sun rise over the waters of Vava’u, Tonga, then packed my bags and got out of there.

During the short taxi drive through the palm trees, I had time to think back on the weird and wonderful people I’ve met on this trip. Sleeping Beauty, who kept me up all night (for all the wrong reasons) in Apia. The Italian sheila in Lalomanu, who I would’ve liked to have kept me up all night. Ross and Maria, who took me into their home and fed me. Henry, the heavily-tattooed homo, who’s also one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met. Jojo and the other boys in Fiji, who shared their kava with e and gave me a glimpse of what it’s like to live in extreme poverty. Captain Frabiatore, who invited me to his home and was hurt when I turned him down to spend the night in a roach-infested hell-hole (sorry, mate). Papiloa the renegade newspaper editor. The ladies from the Chinese restaurant, who took me on the town and got me so drunk I woke up on the floor. And the boys from last night, who welcomed me into their home and allowed me to watch the football with them.

Sure, the Pacific Islands are about beaches and snorkelling and sun and all that, but the true appeal is in the people, who are warm and wonderful, simple and quirky, honest and strong. If you’re going to come to Samoa or Tonga (or Fiji, really) and stay in a resort, you’re doing it wrong. There are so many lovely families here who would love to have you stay, and all for such a low price. It’s the hospitality that sets the Islands apart from anywhere else I’ve been.

As it turns out, Real Tonga did let me on the plane, and when I got back to Fuaʻamotu International Airport, I found that it was strangely empty. They only get about 15 flights in and out a week, and I was bit early, so I sat in the vacant airport, reading and listening to music. Eventually some other people rolled in, and before I knew it I was on the plane, ready to leave. I wish I had longer out here.

I was looking out the window at the swaying palm trees, preparing for takeoff, when the plane started to shake. I looked up to see a mountain of a man crashing down the aisle. He was at least 160kg, with rolls of fat slinging from side to side as he moved, and I closed my eyes and prayed that he wasn’t sitting next to me. God must’ve been in the toilet or something, because the big fella stopped next to me, checked his ticket, then gave me a huge smile. “Guess we’re plane buddies,” he chuckled, then squeezed in next to me.

VavaIMG_9735I was pushed up against the window as his blubber oozed into my seat, and I was about to hotfoot it over to the emergency door and escape back to paradise. How could I possibly sit next to this walking heart attack for the next five hours? I was getting crushed, like an abandoned baby in a garbage truck! And then the plane rattled and hummed, and we took to the air, and Tonga was nothing but a fading blotch in a big, blue sea.

And then everything got better.

“Hey, want some chicken?” asked the big fella, waving a delicious-looking drumstick in my face. “I’ve got plenty.” He opened up a bag and there was about 10kg of chicken in there, along with a variety of beautiful Tongan foods. I took a bite of the chicken and danced on my tongue, and we got stuck into it while guzzling beer and talking about football. Turns out Feleti is a great bloke and after a few hours, when the beer and chicken had worked its magic, I nestled into his fat rolls and went to sleep.

And that, my friends, is the story of my trip to Samoa, Fiji and Tonga.

Big Trouble in Little Tonga

My journey to the tropical island of Vava’u was supposed to be a quiet, relaxing end to my trip through Tonga – a few days on the beach, some beers, that sort of thing. Instead it became a nightmarish fight for survival that pushed me past my limits and almost cost me my life.

I’d flown out to the Pacific Islands two weeks earlier to escape another broken relationship and the depressing emptiness of my studio apartment. Hopping from Samoa to Fiji to Tonga, I’d slept on beaches, climbed trees and been attacked by wild dogs, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come.

I took a taxi through the blistering Nuku’alofa heat to a cottage made of sticks that the locals call the airport, and the heavy-set girl behind the counter gave me a smile and told me that I was too late for my flight. My watch didn’t agree with her – it said I was an hour early.

As I argued the point, her story kept changing. The flight was overbooked, I had the wrong day – I’m surprised they didn’t try blaming space aliens. My ranting and raving continued until, in the distance, I heard the whomping of a propeller starting up. My three days in Vava’u had become two.

Perfect ambiance, with just a hint of cockroach turds and urine

The same taxi I’d taken to the airport took me back through the handful of faded cottages that make up Nuku’alofa and dumped me in a scabby guest house with rat droppings decorating the floor. The smell of Dettol almost covered the stink of urine.

“Well, I’m going to get drunk,” I muttered, before storming out in a foul mood. I was hungry and thirsty and pissed off, and Nuku’alofa was as quiet as a tongueless monk in a library. Turns out it was a public holiday, and almost everything was closed.

Some of the friendlier locals

I finally tracked down a rickety wooden pub that might’ve been nice once and the first bottle of Popao barely touched the sides, so I knocked back another, determined to drink away my anger. Happy Hour rolled around, and the drinks went down quicker. Sleazy 80s disco songs blared from speakers as the sun went down and neon lights flickered to life around me. As seven o’clock crept up I was wobbling around like a jellyfish at a rave party, and started chatting to a huge Tongan bloke called Terry. He told me he was a high-ranking cop and into cage fighting, and looked like he could snap me in half. He seemed nice enough and we shared a few beers, until I noticed he was creeping closer and kept making comments about what a good-looking bloke I was and how the girls must love me. I don’t hear that a lot, so it made me uncomfortable.

Then Terry introduced me to his mates, a couple of freaky-looking transvestites who were giggling away in the corner. Terry put an arm the size of a tree trunk around my shoulder, crushing me like a boa constrictor, and when I tried to move away he just pulled me in closer. His body odour made my stomach churn and I was no longer simply uncomfortable, I was scared.

“You’ll come back with us tonight,” he said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

The toilet provided brief sanctuary, but when I returned Terry had another beer for me. It tasted sour as I downed it, and the big man told me about his work with the police, especially how he can track anyone down – including me. Things were turning bad. I was in big trouble in a foreign country, and very much alone.

I’ve met a lot of freaks over the years, but this was the first time I’ve genuinely felt in real danger, and I had to do something about it. Something brave and masculine and – forget about that, I just ran away like a little girl. Terry was blocking the door, but when he turned to talk to one of his friends I raced past his hulking frame and into the muggy night, then down the street to another bar. I slugged down a beer to settle my nerves, then the door slammed open and Terry was standing there with bad intentions written all over his face. I dived behind a fake palm tree, pulling the fronds closer as the monster looked around, then let out a sigh of relief when he trudged back outside. As soon as he was gone I darted outside and ran in the opposite direction, ending up in a deserted Chinese restaurant, being blasted by the freezing breeze of the air conditioner.


Post almost-raped blues

I’m not too proud to admit that I almost broke down when I made it to safety and the enormity of the situation hit me. As my sweet and sour pork was served I had to hold back tears as I did my best to slow down my racing heart. I distracted myself by eating and drinking and chatting up the pretty waitresses, and my memory from that point is a bit hazy. The girls led me to a rundown bar, where I got as drunk as a politician and danced like an octopus at a Wiggles concert. I must’ve had a good time, because I spent all my pa’anga.


Doing Australia proud

The next thing someone was kicking me in the ribs and saying, “Get up, get up, why you on the floor?”

I wiped a rancid rivulet of regurgitated rice from my mouth and sat up. I was on the floor of my room and my answer, for some reason, was “I’m an Australian,” as if we all regularly sleep on piles of cockroach turds.

With my head pounding and my vision blurred, I somehow made it back out to the airport, where I was told once again that I wouldn’t be flying. With enough alcohol in my system to keep Matthew Newton going for a month, I wasn’t going to take that and caused a scene – which obviously worked because they eventually let me get on.


Little did I know, my insurance was voided the moment I stepped onto this shitheap

The plane was tiny, old and held together by bits of tape, but I was so drunk that it didn’t bother me. My brain could barely register that I was off the ground and zooming over tiny tropical islands that looked like teardrops below me. Despite the rattling of the wings, I managed to pass out, and when I woke up we were landing on the delightful island of Vava’u.


Tonga is stunning from the air… even with a hangover!

I was still blotto as I picked up my bag and stumbled into a banged-up taxi with a cute sheila from Norway. I did alright with her, too, despite looking and smelling like I’d just crawled out of a toilet. By that I mean she didn’t run off screaming.

The driver dropped her off in town (alright, Neiafu is more like a whisper of a village), but my place was a few kilometres out. And he’d never heard of it, which wasn’t a good sign in a place that has maybe a dozen guest houses. The driver dumped me in the middle of nowhere. It was scorchingly hot and I was dripping with sweat, and I staggered blindly down a dirt road through the jungle, with an old bloke who had a massive machete trundling behind me. Things were getting bad.


I was pretty much ready to die at this point

After a few kilometres, the tracked ended. My phone had no reception, the locals didn’t speak English, and I was dangerously dehydrated. The steady hum of insects in the thick bush was maddening. I had no option but to walk back along the track, through the sweltering bush, with my heavy pack on my back. Nightmare creatures lurked at the edge of my vision, and weird thoughts crawled through my brain. I felt as if my body was shutting down, but I had no option but to keep walking – if I stopped, I wouldn’t get back up, and there was nobody to help me out.

As I was stumbling along, I heard a rumble behind me. It was a truck, and I flagged it down and begged to get in the back. A smiling Tongan pulled me into the tray and I sat on a big pile of bananas, then guzzled greedily from a bottle of water, slowly feeling life return to my body.

Bangin’ round on a banana truck

My saviours dropped me off in downtown Neiafu, and I checked into the first place I saw – a rundown backpackers overlooking the water. Hungover, dehydrated, hot, tired, pissed off, stuffed around and shaking, I collapsed onto a thin mattress and contemplated crying myself to sleep. It had all been too much.


Stunning Neiafu

When I awoke, the sun was threatening to call it a day, so I grabbed my towel and headed out amongst the palm trees, not really sure of what I’d find. It took me a minute of two to reach the outskirts of Neiafu, which is a beautiful and peaceful village that clings to the cliffs above a sparkling harbour. I found an abandoned resort, climbed a fence into it, and found myself on the edge of the water. I lay out my towel and relaxed, enjoying the sunshine and happy to be alive.


Sometimes I’m happy just to be alive

I like living on the edge, but this was stupid. In 24 hours I’d gone close to being raped, almost drunk myself to death, and come far too close to dying by the side of a lonely road in the middle of a remote island. So much for a few days bludging by the water.


The knob-head at 20,000 feet

DSC08008My final morning in Tasmania started with a world of hurt and a trip to the toilet to spew up last night’s menu of German beer and pizza. Alright, mainly it was German beer. And then, after a quick goodbye to Mick and Katri, I was in a taxi and on my way home.

Okay, so the driver had to stop twice so I could make a sick by the side of the road, but that’s fine.

Actually, bye-bye from Hobart

I barely made it onto the plane, and was relieved to find I had a window seat up the back, and that no-one was sat next to me. With a bit of space and a smooth trip, I might be able to make it back to Sydney without spewing all over the place like some sort of oversized baby.


Someone get the chunder bag

Everyone was seated and I was just starting to stretch out and relax, my eyes closed and the world spinning slower, when I heard a commotion up the front.

“He ate my bloody Mars bar!” screamed one bloke.

“I hungry, I hungry!” came another voice. An Eastern European voice. It couldn’t be…

“If I have to sit next to this Mars bar-stealing prick, I’ll smash him!” came the first voice.

“You give me pillow, I tired,” came the other voice. Bloody hell, it was…

There was a bit of a scuffle, then one of the men stood up… and fuck me dead if it wasn’t Stavros! STAVROS!


One of the flight chicks started leading him towards the back of the plane while the other fella carried on like a pork chop, and I picked up my backpack and put it on the seats next to me, hoping the hostie wouldn’t sit Stav the Slav there. You can see where this is going, right?

“Sir, can you please move your bag?” asked the hostie, her massive tits almost falling out of her top. “This gentleman needs to sit here.”

“Hi, friend!” chirped Stavros, sitting down. Then he reached over, grabbed my bag of Twisties and started chomping into them. “I hungry, I hungry! You give me computer, I watch Simpsons show.”

The world started spinning and my head started pounding and my stomach started churning. I leant over, opened my gob and showered Stavros with what was left of the beer and pizza, till he was sitting there looking like a pile of vomit with eyes.

“If you’re so hungry, mate, chew on that!” I said, and the whole plane broke out in applause as we climbed into the skies and away from Tasmania.

And, just because it’s my story, I’m gunna say the hostie took me out the back and rooted me. Don’t believe me? Go fuck yaself!


Beer, berks and bruises: A trip to the Cascade Brewery


Waking up with an immense hangover after another night of drinking meant there was only one option for the day – a tour of the Cascade Brewery, in South Hobart, for some hair of the dog. After stopping off in the centre of town so Ben could grab himself another Dagwood Dog, we wandered through the cold and the wet towards our destination.

Despite the miserable weather, the walk wasn’t miserable at all. Hobart retains much of its beauty in even the poorest of conditions, and the stroll to the brewery is truly lovely. The Hobart Rivulet Track meanders along a creek for around 3km, passing historic buildings and delightful parks. It was very pleasant, even if I did feel a bit like passing out in a bin.

What a handsome creek

The walk took me past something called the Female Factory, so I strolled in and asked them to make me a blonde one with big tits. The old lady behind the desk didn’t think it was funny at all.

The Cascade Brewery is a grand old building that rises from the surrounding greenery like a giant tombstone. We were looking forward to taking a tour, but when we got inside we found out it was booked out for the day. The receptionist said she’d see if the tour leader could fit two more in his group, but he seemed appalled by the idea.

“That simply won’t do,” he sniffed. “I pride myself on delivering a more intimate, personalised experienced, and greater numbers simply won’t allow that to happen.”

This is what it looks like from the outside. I’m not one of the privileged few allowed to see the inside

What a knob. Instead of touring the brewery, we took a walk around the grounds (really pretty) and drank some beer (really good, but after last night, it was like drinking petrol). After a while the tour group returned, and they didn’t look nearly as happy as I thought they would. No jumping high-fives or anything. As one bloke passed me, he whispered, “The tour guide is the BIGGEST IDIOT I’ve ever met, he knows nothing about beer and he’s told the same joke THREE times.”

“Okay, team,” the guide said, and his ‘teammates’ groaned. It’s time for you to taste some of the scrumptious beverages produced by Cascade. I have this first one when I’m feeling a bit cheeky on a Friday afternoon. It’s 6.3 per cent alcohol, so you know why we leave the tastings until after the tour!” Crickets.

“Kill me,” said the loudmouth I’d talked to earlier.

Really enjoying my schooner of Cascade

“And these beers aren’t available on the mainland,” smirked the guide, “but don’t worry, you won’t be arrested if you take them back with you!”

“Mate, you need to spend less time making stupid jokes and more time shutting the fuck up,” snarled the loudmouth. After a short scuffle that me and Ben were forced to break up, the loudmouth was thrown into the street, and as a thank you I was allowed to drink the three tasting beers he was given as part of his tour.

From there we headed back to Hobart, where we checked out the Hobart Cenotaph, which was pretty sweet, and an abandoned zoo, which was just kinda there. We then headed to the Botanical Gardens, which were closed. We just weren’t having any luck at all.

“I’ve got something MONUMENTAL to show you. It’s in my pants!”

Ben headed straight back to the house, while I decided to quickly explore a cricket ground at the top of town. It was really pretty and I really enjoyed the view it gave, but when I went to leave I realised that someone had locked the gate. I was locked in and, to make it worse, a psychotic plover started divebombing me! With no other option, I climbed up the three-metre fence, somehow cleared the barbed wire on the top, and managed to land on the other side without breaking my leg. As I walked off, I realised there was an unlocked door about 10 metres away.

Why can I never get locked in somewhere nice, like a brothel?

For dinner, we went to Mexican, but it was closed. It really, really, really really hasn’t been my day.

Hey MONA, ooh MONA!

I’m well known to be a lover of culture, so today I hung around inside MONA. No, I don’t mean the chick from last night, I’m talking about Hobart’s Museum of Old and Modern Art. Yeah, I know, there’s a few extra letters in there, but who gives a shit? Let’s get into it.

They make the Bort number plates here

The ferry up to the museum is wonderful, and provides a great view over the city. It’s a $20 return trip and worth every cent, as the boast trundles through the outskirts of the city, past mountains and factories, under bridges and along beautiful waterways. I thought I was on the drugs when I discovered that there aren’t any seats on the boat, and we had to sit on sheep. Our New Zealand friends would have a field day.

Don’t be sheepish!

Once inside, I was treated to a range of exhibits stranger than a drug addict’s daydream. Forget boring paintings and crap sculptures, MONA has some truly wacky stuff on display. A television woman did a lot of screaming:

Shut up!

Another woman had an amount of fun with a sex toy:

You’d fuck her

There was a wall of Asians:

That’s the way we all became the Nguyan Bunch!

There was a car that needs to lay off the fucking pies:

Ben will never be the same

Some chick conversed with a donkey (but didn’t bang it, sadly):

“Greg, you’re such an ass.” “Sally, you’re such a fucking slut.”

I had mouth sex with a giant head:


And a strange range machine mentioned my high school maths teacher:


I’m not a huge fan of museums. I’ve walked past some of the best ones in the world, but MONA is a lot of fun and definitely worth checking out. The boat ride there is breathtaking, the exhibits are weird and wonderful, and it makes for a really good and different day out.

From there we me up with Mick and Katri, who took us on a walking tour of historic Battery Point… with a few stops at the local watering holes. After a few drinks at Hobart’s world famous casino, it was off to the New Sydney Hotel for dinner. The food there is delicious, but it’s also pretty wanky. There’s a lot of pulled pork and quince past and stuff like that on the menu, but Ben was happy because he got to have another couple of Dagwood Dogs. He loves the bloody things. I reckon he would live on them if he got the chance.

At this point, he’s more dog than man

The beers were going down so well (alright, the chorizo and plum beer tasted like shit, but the rest were beaut), se we ended up heading back home and drinking until 3:30am. Which is why this blog post is a day late, and I still feel like a pile of warmed-up dog turds. At this rate, I’ll have to carry my liver back to the mainland in a bloody shopping trolley.