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!
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.
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.
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.
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…
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
Pepperoni The tears of a child
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
“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.”
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Go fuck yourself, Manu Feildel, and choke on a bucket of cocks, Jamie Oliver, because I’m the best chef in the world now. That’s because I recently cooked the greatest meal of all time, by putting a whole bunch of bite-sized mini meat pies into a full-sized meat pie and cooking the whole thing.
I was sitting around, hungover and hungry, wanting some excitement in my life, when I decided to do something different. After ruling out hitting my cock with a hammer, I decided to create a monstrous meal, the likes of which has never been seen before.
I have a pie cooker, and I love making dog’s eyes full of spaghetti, curry, pizza and other wacky stuff. I was digging through the fridge for something to chuck in there when I came across a long-forgotten packet of Pie Bites, tiny little pies that are a favourite of midgets. The packet had been in there for nearly 18 months and the use-by date was long gone, but nothing was going to stop me from creating history.
I fired up the cooker, lay in the pastry, and then stuffed in as many Pie Bites as possible. I topped it up with gravy, popped another layer of pastry on top and then, laughing maniacally, closed the lid. I sat, barely able to contain my excitement, until the crust was golden brown and the meal of the god’s was ready.
I took it outside, took a deep breath, and prepared to break boundaries and change the way the world works forever. I sliced into the flaky pastry with a sharp knife grasped by an unsteady hand, and the delightful aroma of the pies-in-a-pie enveloped me. I pierced a chunk of the meal with my fork, lifted it to my mouth and popped it in.
The taste was unbelievable – like a pie, but multiplied a thousand fold. It was like eating a pregnant pie full of pie babies, and it gave me a high more intense than any I’d had before (yes, even that time I shot heroin into my doodle in a Bangkok brothel can’t compare). When I finished, I felt as satisfied as a Chinaman with a bellyful of rice, and sat back to contemplate how wonderful the world is.
I highly recommend making your own pies-in-a-pie, but would suggest that you use mini pies that are still within their use-by date, because I ended up shitting myself not long after finishing the meal. Still, it was a small price to pay for immortality.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
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 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: