Tag Archives: comedy

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…


The marvellous meat pie-zza


I’ve been spending a lot of time with my good mate (and fellow Sri Lankan) Geoff Jansz lately, and me and ‘Colombo’s Coolest Cook’ have been pushing boundaries and changing the world together. Alright, we mainly we just chase each other around the kitchen and gossip about boys, but we’ve also been whipping up some mouth-wateringly unusual meals.

While our urine-infused ice cream and devilled penguin weren’t successful and led to an outbreak of food poisoning amongst our friends, tonight we struck gold. I want to introduce you to the new national meal of Australia – THE MEAT PIE-ZZA.

It combines the meaty deliciousness of a hearty meat pie with the cheesy-yet-healthy beautness of a pizza – and it’s absolutely delectable. Because you probably don’t have a world-class Sri Lankan chef on hand to help you experiment, here’s all the info you need to cook your own meat pie-zza!

Stuff you’ll need

1 family meat pie
Tomato paste
Some garlic
An onion
The tears of a child

How you make it

Chuck the pie in the oven for however long it takes to get all nice and brown and crispy. Don’t just nuke it in the microwave, ‘cos that will leave it soggy, which is shithouse for a pizza base
Mix some garlic into a tub of tomato paste (or use that fancy pizza base sauce if you’ve got money falling out of your arse) and slather it all over the pie
Toss the onions and pepperoni all over it. It doesn’t have to be as beautiful and symmetrical as mine (but enough about my penis!)
Dump the cheese on. Don’t go easy on it – if you wanted something good for your heart, you’d be eating a fuckin’ carrot
Put the whole thing back in the oven, or into a pie oven if you’ve got one. Take it out before it turns black or else it’ll taste like shit
Stand back and marvel at how awesome it looks. Don’t eat it too soon, or you’ll burn your tongue off and have to talk like a retard for the rest of your life
Enjoy it whils looking really sexy!


I went to a meditation evening (and things were far from tranquil)


I’m really good at sitting around and doing absolutely nothing, so when a lady friend asked me to accompany her to a meditation evening, I gave her a thumbs up and told her I’d love to. I mean, I’d just be bludging in a dark room with a bunch of very relaxed oddballs, so what could possibly go wrong?

While I have long hair and can often be found frolicking around fires, I’ve never really been into new-age medicine and spirituality – in fact, the last time I hung out with a bunch of hippies I embarrassed myself. Still, I’m open-minded and always willing to try new things, so there I was, standing outside a vegan restaurant in Newcastle, preparing to head inside and experience something new.

I was ravenous before heading into the restaurant, so I ducked into the kebab shop next door and ordered a massive kebab and a can of Coke. With only a few minutes until the start of the session, I scoffed what I could and the swaggered into the dimly-lit restaurant with garlic sauce dripping down my chin. There was a small collection of nutters sitting in a circle with their eyes closed, so I put my leftovers on a table and joined them.

Most of the hippies were older, sitting cross-legged on cushions. They were mostly wearing shawls and yoga pants, and certainly looked like they were relaxed and at one with the universe. There was only one other bloke there, and he introduced himself as Rudolph and the went back to meditating. I felt a bit silly at first to sit there with my eyes closed while the teacher spoke softly, but I soon realised that there’s not a lot to the whole meditation process and it’s actually pretty tranquil.

There was absolute silence as I sat there on my journey into the mind, and I couldn’t help thinking that I could’ve just as easily done this at home (or, even better, kicked back with a beer while watching the footy). As I sat there with my eyes closed, it soon became apparent that shovelling most of a kebab and all of a can of Coke down my gullet immediately before starting a meditation session wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. There was a rumbling in my guts, and while everyone else was breathing in and out calmly, I was doing my best not to let out a burp. Well, my best wasn’t good enough, and I belched loud enough to wake the dead, drawing angry looks from the group – especially Rudolph.

After burping through the next ten minutes of meditation, the teacher decided to switch things up a bit. She told us that we’d spend the next 15 minutes meditating while walking around the room, which sounded good to me because I was pretty bloody sick of sitting there. I thought we’d be trotting around and working up a sweat, but instead we walked in a circle very slowly with our eyes closed. It was a bit like what goes on in mental hospitals in American movies.

I got lost in my own little world as I strutted around the room. I was busy wondering what the score was in the footy when I headbutted something hard, and looked up to see that I’d bumped into a huge wooden statue of a cat, and had to struggle to keep it from toppling over. When I finally had it under control, I turned around to see Rudolph absolutely steaming as he returned to his cushion.

I was thinking it would be a good idea for me to piss off and leave the hippies to it, but I didn’t want to offend my lady friend, so I sat back in my chair for the next section of the night. We all had to sit down with our eyes closed, while the teacher quietly asked us questions. I was kind of zoning in and out and didn’t really know what was going on, so when the teacher asked me what I thought about this or that, I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on.

I started rambling on about various things I’d been up to lately, such as playing PlayStation and getting a really good deal on cask wine, ending with an incredibly graphic depiction of a sexual encounter I’d had with a girl met on Tinder. I thought I was being deep and getting away with it, but when I looked over at Rudolph he had veins popping out of his forehead and his face was all red, so I cut my story short.

A couple of the hippies started rattling on about nature and butterflies, until Rudolph started chatting about his spiritual journey. His story started millions of years ago with the explosion of some far-off star, and 20 minutes later he finally getting closer to talking about the day he was born. I was bored out of my brain and really hungry, so I had a cracking idea; everyone had their eyes shut, so I snuck over and got the rest of my kebab, and kicked back on my chair to eat it while watching the footy on my phone. I was having a great time while Rudolph prattled on about rainbows and holding hands, and everything was going great until the Sharks scored.

“Oh, fucking hell!” I yelled out, forgetting where I was. Rudolph fell silent, then turned to look at me with eyes that burnt like the embers of hell. His mouth was twitching and his body jerking around as he stood up.
“You fucking arsehole!” he yelled, tipping over a chair for dramatic effect. “You fucking, fucking, fucking arsehole! This is my one time of the week to relax, and you have taken it away from me, you fucking arsehole! You. Fucking. Arsehole!”

Rudolph came at me with his arms outstretched, so I hopped up and raced outside. Fortunately, Rudolph tripped on his oversized yoga pants and sprawled on the floor, allowing me to make it to my car. I looked back at the restaurant and saw that it had descended into chaos, with hippies yelling at each other and throwing cushions around. One woman even bonked the teacher over the head with a ceremonial hammer. My lady friend threw open the passenger door of my car and got in, allowing me to drive off while an enraged Rudolph chased us down the street.

As I drove her away from the pandemonium, I thanked my lucky stars that my lady friend was very in touch with the universe and probably wouldn’t get too upset with me. After a long, silent drive, we got to her place and I dropped her off. I didn’t have high hopes that she’d want to see me again, but was still surprised when she punched me in the face and called me “the world’s biggest cocksucker” before slamming the door and storming off into the night.

Meditation, eh? I don’t see what’s so bloody relaxing about it!

Latvia’s Most Wanted: How I almost got arrested for public intoxication


Riga is a top city and I definitely recommend you check it out sometime, but there is one major problem with it: you can’t sink bulk piss in the street. I found that out the hard way, while downing a can of Mitava beer in front of the Freedom Monument, the most revered and respected statue in the country.

Yes, I know, I’m doing Australia proud. I can’t help it if I’m cool and a bit of a rebel, it’s just who I am.


I was just hanging out, being cool, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Assuming it was some big-titted Latvian sheila looking for a good time, I turned around with a smile, only to see a couple of stern-faced cops. They started barking at me in Latvian and, not knowing what they were banging on about and feeling a little nervous, I took a swig of my can. That was the wrong thing to do.

There go the fun police. Wait, actually, they’re just the police. Please don’t arrest me

One of the cops slapped the can out of my hand and kept shouting at me, so I told him I didn’t have a bloody clue what he was banging on about, and he finally realised I wasn’t a troublemaker, and instead a fun-loving Aussie with a cheeky attitude and a heart of gold. “In Latvia, we drink in bar, not in street like animal,” he told me, and I immediately started wondering if a lot of dogs and cats have problems with alcohol over here. “You put beer can in bin and go away!”

I put the can in the beer and went on my way. I was disappointed to lose almost an entire half-litre can of beer, but relieved that the cops didn’t force me to have sex with them.

“Hey, where are the PS4s?”

Apart from almost getting thrown in the gulag, my first full day in Riga has been ace. I slept in long enough to kick my jetlag to the curb, then set out for the city’s central market. I expected it to be like Sydney’s craptacular Paddy’s Markets, with nothing to buy but mobile phone covers and poorly-fitting shirts with Jimi Hendrix printed on the front, but it was actually really worthwhile. It’s a traditional market aimed at locals, not tourists, with a bunch of outdoor stalls selling clothes and several giant halls selling meat, vegetables, and fish.

More meat than a night at Candy Falzon’s place

I was hungrier than Penny Wong at a gynacology convention, so I found a little cafe selling what looked like omelettes and sausage rolls, so I ordered one of each. Like accidentally taking a Thai ladyboy home, I didn’t get what I wanted, but I ended up with a mouthful of something delicious just the same, because the ‘omelette’ was actually some sort of flattened beef, and the ‘sausage roll’ was jellied chicken. They were both great and, with a tummy full of goodness (that’d make a great porn title) I headed off towards my next adventure.

Nothing’s as delicious as mystery meat!

Riga doesn’t have a long list of world-famous sites. Shit, most people in Australia don’t even know where the city is (I didn’t until about two months ago, to be honest. The allure of the city lies in walking down its cobblestone streets and soaking in the culture and history, but there was one giant monument that I really wanted to see: the Riga Radio and TV Tower.

In this shot, I look almost as big as the tower. I’m 300m tall, come at me, motherfuckers, I’ll eat you!

At 368m tall, the tower certainly stands out against Riga’s diminutive skyline, where few buildings stand more than four storeys high. It’s actually the third-tallest tower in Europe and a very impressive sight, so I knew I had to climb it. The handsome three-legged tower is a couple of kilometres south-east of the city, so I took a strut along the Daugava River. It’s a very baron landscape as soon as you leave the CBD, with withered trees and quiet streets. At times, Riga really does seem to be the end of the world.

It’s a bit like looking up a chick’s skirt

A trip to the tower’s viewing platform, which stands 97 metres above the ground, costs just three-and-a-half Euro Spacebux, and that’s about all it’s worth, to be honest. I’ve been up a lot of the world’s best towers – the Eiffel in Paris, the Oriental Pearl in Shanghai, the fucking Coight Tower on Knob Hill (tee-hee) in San Francisco, and they were all better than this. There are two main problems; the tower is too far from anything to get a view, and it’s enclosed, with dirty windows obstructing most of the view.

Still, the view from the platform accentuated just how weird Riga is. While the city proper clings to one bank of the river, the other is basically empty, save for some strange little shanties scattered around, that look straight out of the third world. It’s such an alien world, worth visiting if only to see and feel how different it is from anywhere else.

Riga’s most exclusive neighbourhood

I spent the rest of the day rolling through Riga’s old town, drinking beer in the streets as if it was legal, trying to get into museums that all seem closed, checking out Latvian women and, finally, accidentally becoming public enemy number one. Yeah, I’m still dirty on it – after all, there are real criminals out there that could be chasing down, starting wih the fucking bongo-playing hare krishna cunts who keep making a racket outside my bloody window. Go get ’em, boys!

Just shoot the cunts!

Beer of the day:
The can of Mitava I was downing before the po-po so rudely interrupted me was smooth and delicious, not too heavy but full of flavour. The can also comes with a bit of gold foil over the top, so it’s the oversized can of choice for the discerning street alcoholic.


Kebab of the day:
I had a falafel wrap from TurKebab, and it was unlike any I’ve ever had before. I asked for it spicy and, unlike yesterday’s disappointment, it was definitely hot. It had a delicious BBQ sauce drizzled over it, but there was too much of it, overpowering the taste of the falafels and the other ingredients. Not perfect, but a good meal.


Did I find the greatest love the world has ever known?
Unfortunately, no, but a very fat woman at the market pinched me on the bottom and then waddled away to buy some dried fish. I guess I’ll take it.


Livin’ La Riga Loca – Live from Latvia!


I encountered my first sex tourist within moments of stepping off the plane in Riga, Latvia. After nearly 35 hours of travelling around the world I was tired and cranky, but the cool weather and barren winter landscape outside the airport perked me up -especially because I was the only one waiting for the bus to the city in a shirt and shorts. It was quieter than expected, welcomingly so, and I really felt like I was as far from home as I could possibly be.

Riga’s wonderful Rolph Harris Monument

“You must be chilly,” came an American accent from behind me, and I turned to see a portly chap with a huge set of fake teeth. He circled me as Latvians trundled in and out of the terminal, dressed in jackets and beanies. “Of course, a good looking guy like you won’t have any trouble finding a woman to keep you warm. My name’s Kirk, and I come here every year to spend time with the most beautiful women God ever breathed life into.”

Go for a swim, the water’s lovely!

And then, as if I didn’t know what his game was, he pulled out a five-Euro note and waved it at a fat woman who was walking past and said, “I pay them to fuck me.” Thankfully, the bus rocked up before Kirk could tell me anything more about his putrid life, and I was on my way to Riga, baby!

“Dat bitch’s arse was diiiiiiis big!”

The bus trip from the airport to the centre of Riga is brief but incredibly interesting
(I  caught Minibus 222, by the way, after waiting ages for the big, lime green Airport Express to show up. It only cost me two Eurobux and made only two stops before hitting the city), passing through historic buildings, Soviet-era units and slums, all scattered amongst parks and gardens. It’s truly unlike any place I’ve ever been to, and things only got more interesting when I made it into the city proper.

If you can’t find somewhere to drink, you probably don’t have a mouth

After stashing my bags, I did what any adventurous young tourist does when confronted with a strange and fascinating new city – I grabbed my camera and then ran, giggling, to the nearest park and took a photo of myself fucking a statue of a horse.

She left me a fake phone number afterwards

After a brief yet informative encounter with the police, I took off to explore the city, trying to beat back my heartbreaking jetlag with as many cheap beers as I could swallow. The old town, where most of the hotels and sites are located, is absolutely gorgeous, with tiny alleyways opening up to wide squares lined with cafes, restaurants and pubs. There are churches and towers and all sorts of interesting things to check out, and it was fun to just wander aimlessly, confused as much from the haphazard layout as from the fact I hadn’t slept in two days.

Make sure you book in advance

While the world would probably be a better place if Kirk was locked up for the rest of his life, he wasn’t wrong about the lasses. I don’t know the local language, so I can only assume there are signs banning fat chicks, because they all have cracking bodies and faces that you’d love to kiss. It’s one of life’s great ironies that all these gorgeous women live in a country where they have to wear 18 layers of clothing to keep from freezing.

Just some random Latvian chick I saw while wandering around

There are plenty of public transport options, with trams and buses rolling over the place, but it’s a small enough city to just walk around. While I haven’t had a chance to check it out properly, I can already tell it’s the sort of place I want to spend time in. A year ago I hung out in Indonesia and India, and they were both such difficult places to check out that it put me of travelling for a while. Especially in India, I couldn’t go anywhere without being hassled (or having people try to rob, or even eat me), and the public transport is fucked in both places, so it’s awesome to be in Latvia, a relaxed place that has oodles (great word, especially when rhymed with doodles) of stuff to see, and no roadblocks to seeing it.

Reflections on you, reflections on me, reflections on that drunken night we had together in Forster…

Being a classy chap, I soon found myself on the waterfront, overlooking a glorious sunset above the Daugava river, scoffing fast food and beers out of a plastic bag while chatting to pretty ladies on Tinder. I ended up getting pretty drunk and tripped over a statue on my way back to my hostel. Looks like those bastards are getting their revenge!

Beer of the day:
I’m going to have to give it to Apintis Sencu. It’s a cheeky little ale that weighs in at 5.3% ABV and cost only 69 cents for a 568ml tin, so there’s a good chance it could be used as lawnmower fuel at a pinch, but it did it’s job. I’d like to say it had floral touches or something, but it doesn’t – it’s just a good beer for the working man at the end of a long day (or a non-working man at the end of two days travelling).


Kebab of the day:
A large kebab and large fries cost 6.10 Euros from Balli Kebabs and was a welcome, if unmemorable, meal. The ‘bab was a little thin, without too much filling, but what there was of it was lovely. I asked for spicy, but there was no zip to be found.


Did I find the greatest love the world has ever known?
No. The closest I went was talking to the pretty German girl who was sitting next to me on the plane, who gave me a two-word reply and then put her headphones on and watched an episode of The Big Bang Theory.

Remember, I’ll be putting up a new blog every single day as I make my way from Latvia to Greece over the next few months. It’s all new stuff, coming to you as it happens – so subscribe, or don’t subscribe, or do whatever you want. Honestly, I’m having fun no matter what you do.

Today I lost my pants at the beach


I enjoyed my last paragliding visit to Port Macquarie so much that I’ve come back – but the locals are wishing I’d stayed where I bloody well come from. But hear me out, it wasn’t my fault!

There’s less wind than on the moon today, so I decided to head to the Rainbow Beach to have a dip. It’s a top spot (although it could do with a few less dogs. The four-legged kind, I mean, not ugly women. Although, truth be told, it could do with a few less of them, too) and I had a great time reading a book and listening to some music. And then it all went wrong.

I decided to go for a swim, and chose to go in only my underpants, so my board shorts will be nice and dry when I went to the shops afterwards to buy a Curly Wurly. Bad choice, bro, bad choice. After paddling around in the vibrant water for 10 or 15 minutes, I was hit by a monster wave, and when I resurfaced, things felt a bit different downstairs. A bit lighter, a bit roomier, a bit more like my undies had been knocked off and were floating away.

I looked around frantically, and saw them being picked up by a wave. I swam in that direction, desperately trying to grab them before they disappeared forever. I reached out, stretching my arm further than it’s ever been stretched before, and finally grasped them. And that’s when I realised I’d been chasing a chunk of seaweed. My underpants were gone, and I was naked in public.

Luckily, Rainbow Beach isn’t very crowded, and I figured that, if I was quick, I could get back to my towel without being seen. I waded back to shore, carefully looking for a chance to get out. And that’s when a family of five decided to sit down to eat their lunch about five metres from where my stuff was. Mum, tide two little kiddies, and even Nana was there. Shit.

I swam around in the shallow water, terrified a fish would mistake my doodle for a worm,and hoping the family would finish their lunch and fuck off. But they had a lot of lunch and they were slow at eating it, and when they finally finished they all lay back in the sun, obviously with no intention of leaving. I was pruning up and getting tired from fighting the tide, but I couldn’t exactly barge up the sand with my water noodle flapping about.

I needed a plan. I thought about wearing the seaweed as a kind of cock cover, but decided the family would simply thought I had a lot of pubic hair and would start screaming. There are a lot of trees at the back of the bush, so I figured that if I could get to them, I could circle behind the Addams Family, reach my bag, and get my boardies back on. Well, it was worth a shot!

I swam up the beach and darted out of the water, then raced across the sand like some sort of demented crab. I dived into the bushes just as a fisherman turned my way, and barely missed being impaled on a stick. Then, like a naked Rambo, I made my way through the trees as the family started singing a song about bananas. I know, I thought it was weird, too.

I waited until they were in mid-singing, then burst out of the bushes and made a bee-line for my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the log lying in my way. I smacked my shin on it and flipped like a gymnast, then rolled along the sand before ending up five metres from the family, with my sandy Willy flapping in the gentle breeze.

It was not my finest hour.

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?”

“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.”

Ask Row-Row: The world’s worst advice column


I get thousands of fan emails every day, and a large number of them are from down-on-their-luck champions looking for advice. And why wouldn’t they look to me for help? I’m living the dream.

So here’s my advice column.

If you have any burning questions about life, love, and the art of drinking wine from a Fanta can at 10am, send them through to the comments section, and I’ll answer them as soon as this hangover wears off.

I was walking past the local fish and chip shop the other day when the lady called out to me. She told me there was a blackout and all the shit in the freezer was melting and getting fucked up, so she said I could take as many ice creams home with me as I could carry. Well, I’ve got big arms, so I cleaned the joint out! I got back to my place and got stuck into the frozen treats, then decided it would be nice to share them, and sent my mate Gary a message asking him if he wanted to come around for a Gaytime. Imagine my surprise when he turned up 20 minutes later with a dildo in one hand and a jar of KY jelly in the other! To save embarrassment, we had an evening of aggressive bum sex, and I didn’t tell Gary about the ice creams. Thing is, now he’s always coming over and asking for bum sex and I don’t want that, I just want my mate back. I keep making up excuses about having diarrhea or something, but I’m afraid that if I tell him the truth, it’ll be the end of our friendship. What can I do?
Row-Row: Macca, mate, relax – we’ve all been in a similar situation to the one you’re in. I remember asking my mate if he wanted a Paddle Pop, only for him to misunderstand the situation and accept what he thought was a gay marriage proposal. Of course, so as not to offend him, I went along to a whole bunch of equal rights marches and other bullshit like that, but my heart wasn’t really into it. Eventually, he walked in on me getting sucked off by the single mother next door, after which his stormed out of my life forever. Well, until I saw him at the pub next week and we watched the footy. So, I guess, receive mouth love off someone’s mum, then get drunk.

Hello, Mr LeRock, how are you?  I’m fine, thanks for asking. I’m a keen fan of the film The Human Centipede, and I’m planning to create my own centipede. Obviously, I’d like you to be part of my ‘pet’, so my question is, whose arse would you like your mouth to be stitched to, and who would you like stitched to your arse?
Row-Row: I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I’ve decided that I’d like my mouth to be sewn to Jennifer Hawkins’ blurter, for the simple fact that she’s far too lovely to ever actually shit, so I’d be sweet. You can sew my arse to one of the idiots who votes for the Greens, because they’d be used to swallowing shit. Honestly, though, it would be brilliant if you could decide against kidnapping me to include me in your centipede. Perhaps you could take up a different hobby, like salsa dancing, model railways, or wanking in traffic? All the best!

Yo dawg, it me, MC Tuff Grill$. I the illest hip hop casanova on the scene today, so smooth you think I peanut butter, aiight. The smooth peanut butter, I mean, not da crunchy stuff. I spit dope rhymes, all y’all bitches start lining up, you know it! I fuck five, maybe six bitches a night, sometimes in da pussy, sometimes in da arse. I don’t even know they names, but they know mine – MC Tuff Grill$, don’t forget it, bitch, ‘cos your pussy won’t! Anyway, I got a launch party for my phat new tune Big Tit Bitch (“Yo bitch, you got big fucking cans/like two big juicy fucking hams/wanna shoot my love chutney all over dem honkers/fuck you in da mouth and cum on dem melons till you go bonkers) and I need a date, dawg! No, ya’ll ain’t trippin’, I’m having trouble getting a bitch, probably ‘cos I already fuck every hot slut in Australia, y’know what I say? I know you use that Tinder thing, so you got any advice for me? I want big titties, a jiggly arse, a face just beggin’ for a load of my precious jizz. I need my dick sucked pronto, motherfucker, I’m counting on you.
ROW-ROW: Using Tinder is simple, Grill$y. Firstly, you’ll need a good profile picture, so try to find one where you’re not flashing you silly golden teeth or flashing gang signs that make you look like an epileptic. Then you have to try to match with some girls, and I think you’ll have to cast as wide a net as possible, so make sure you say yes to midgets, fat girls, transvestites and other assorted losers. If you ever find someone who is intelligent enough to use a phone, but stupid enough to think you look like a good sort, it’s time to impress her with your conversation skills, so you might want to get a homeless bloke or someone from the local sheltered workshop to do that for you, because your email looks like the rantings of a maniac. If all that fails, just send her a dick pic. Shit, send her the keys to a brand new Lamborghini, I doubt it’ll do a knob cheese like you any good.

Hi, Arjay. You’ve been around the world and have seen so many wonderful things. The Great Wall of China, Rome’s Coliseum, the waterfalls of Samoa. You’ve parasailed in Malaysia and fought street thugs in San Diego. You’ve met people and experienced things that most of us can only dream of, and have had adventures that have thrilled readers all over the world. You must get asked this all the time, but where’s the best place you’ve ever been?
ROW-ROW: Your mum’s bed.

My mate Pieman and his all-pie diet


I’ve got this mate called Pieman, and he’s a really good bloke and is always the life of the party – at least, he used to be, before a bizarre and tragic decision changed his life forever.

Growing up, he didn’t mind a pie, hence his nickname. But he played footy, enjoyed breakdancing (he even appeared on an episode of Hey Hey it’s Saturday, where his head-spinning routine gave Molly Meldrum a boner that lasted for days) and even broke a unicycling world record. But all that ended a few years ago, when he made a drastic and dangerous choice. We were drinking heavily at Erina’s Woodport Inn when he told me of his plan.

“I’ve made a major life change,” Pieman explained, before taking a huge gulp of beer. I edged away from him, in case the ‘major life change’ involved a burning desire to root me up the blurter. But the truth was far more shocking than that.

“I’ve decided to go on an all-pie diet.”

I let that sink in for a second, took a sip of my beer, then shook my head. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“I’m on an all-pie diet. It means that all I eat are pies. Meat pies, chicken pies, egg and bacon pies…”

“But… why?”

“Well, I just really like pies, and whenever I’m eating something that isn’t a pie, I wish it was a pie. So, yeah, I’m not gonna bother with other shit anymore.”

I finished off my beer and headed to the bar, returning to the table with ice-cold two drinks and a packet of cheese and onion chips. I opened the bag and Pieman politely declined, before looking longingly at a week-old pie sitting sullenly in a warmer.

“But you can’t live on pies alone!” I reasoned, while Pieman sat there licking his lips. “You’ve gotta have vegetables or you’ll die.”

“Fuck mate,” he responded, swigging his beer, “what do you think tomato sauce is?”

I left it at that, and went off to pick up (and have disappointing sex with) a blonde spunk with a Yosemite Sam tattoo. Three weeks later, I was back at the Woodport, when a massive hand dropped on my shoulder. I looked up to see a fat bloke with a pallid complexion, sunken eyes and a slight twitch. I only vaguely recognised him.

“The all-pie diet’s doing wonders for you, Pieman,” I squeaked.

“Thanks mate,” he replied, then let out a rancid fart that would kill a Chinaman from 20 paces. “I’ve never been happier. I’ve just bought myself an industrial-sized pie oven, and the local pie shop delivers a fresh batch of pies every morning. I’m living the dream, brother.”

“What about work?”

“We had to part ways,” he nodded, fishing a party pie out of his pocket and guzzling it. “They didn’t understand my philosophies, and I’ve also been a bit short of breath lately. Must have a cold or something.”

“Must be that. Certainly isn’t the 30,000 calorie-a-day diet.”

A few weeks after that, I was at the shops buying Bryan Brown’s autobiography, The Lyfe of Bryan (it’s brilliant), when one of those mobility scooters almost ran over me, and I looked up to see that the fella behind the wheel was the size of a bus. It was Pieman, his fat rolls oozing over the sides of the scooter like a melting birthday cake. It smelled like he was sweating gravy. With him was a woman old enough to be his mother, who possessed a face that looked like Dave Warner had been using it for batting practice.

“This is my lover, Darla,” he explained, before tossing a chicken and garlic pie into his mouth. The thing next to him reached into her handbag and pulled out another pie, which she placed in Pieman’s blob of a hand. Seconds later, it was gone. “As I like to say, crusts get the busts.”

“I like a real man,” the thing said, then licked her lips in a way reminiscent of a lizard. “Skinny men can go to fucking hell, I need a proper man with some meat on his bones.”

The old lady was a fucking feeder! She’d latched onto Pieman, and was stuffing him full of pies so as to make him as fat as possible! I had to do something!

But then I got drunk and forgot about it, so I didn’t hear from Pieman for another couple of months. When I did, it was via a phone call on a wet and windy August evening.

“I’ve been in hospital,” he heaved. I barely recognised the voice on the other end. It was pained and troubled. “I had a bit of a heart attack and they had to take me away so I didn’t die. They had to carry me out on a stretcher made of bed sheets because the normal one wasn’t big enough. I guess I’ve put on a bit of weight since going on the all-pie diet.”

“Yeah, you could say that. So what did the doctor say?”

“He told me that if I stay on the all-pie diet, I’ll be dead within a year.”

“Sounds about right. So you’ve gone off it?”

“Yeah. It was magical while it lasted, but I have to put my health first. So I don’t eat pies for every meal, and I feel better already.”

“Good on you, mate! You’ll be back in shape in no time. So what does the new diet involve?”

“Well, it’s easy, two days a week, I don’t eat any pies,” he said, before pausing to catch his breath. “So on those days, I eat sausage rolls instead.”