Tag Archives: Sydney

The Dog on the Tucker Box

The Drunk and Jobless World Tour™ has readers from across the planet, and one thing my fans are always asking me is whether it’s worth flying to Australia just to see the famous Dog on the Tucker Box at Gundagai. I wrote about this legendary roadside attraction a year ago but, in the interest of providing the most in-depth travel blog around, I decided to head back to that spot nine miles from Gundagai… or five miles, as it turns out.
After visiting the Big Banana, the Big Whale and two Big Pineapples across two continents, the Dog on the Tucker Box didn’t impress me with its size. It is, after all, the size of a regular dog, and I see them all over the place. The Dog gets a pass, however, because he was knocked together back in 1932, around three decades before some bright sparks started building gigantic roadside attractions up and down Australia.

You know a Gundagai’s full of life when a dog sitting on a lunchbox is most interesting thing to happen in the last century

The Dog was erected (oi, stop sniggering!) as a tribute to drovers across New South Wales, and inspired by a 19th century poem called Bullocky Bill, which featured the memorably odd lines, ‘And the dog sat on the tucker-box/Five miles from Gundagai’. For my foreign readers, a tucker-box is something you’d keep your lunch in, so it would be understandably upsetting if some rabies-addled canine sat (and supposedly shat) on your sandwiches.

Without television, video games or internet porn, a statue of a dog was pretty much the most interesting thing around back then, and drew admirers from Albury to Armidale. It was so popular that it inspired a further poem called Nine Miles From Gundagai, which ripped off Bullocky Bill in a way that would make any rap singer proud. In this version, however, the dog carked it: ‘The dog ah well he took a bait and reckoned he would die/I buried him in that tucker-box nine miles from Gundagai’. I feel sorry for the bloke who reached into the tucker-box expecting a Vegemite sambo and ended up with a fistful of rotting cattledog.

Big koala, bigger love!

The statue is just off the Hume Highway these days, and is a decent place to stop between Sydney and Melbourne. There’s a pie shop (the owners looked like they’d been slapped when I got out of my car and they discovered I’m not a fatso anymore and so don’t live on pastries), a KFC, and some sort of health food shop where they sell really expensive food that you could just as easily pick from a tree. The truly monumental Kip the Koala looms large about 500 metres down the road, and should satiate anyone’s need for something big (and if not, give me a call, ladies!).
So, should you travel to Australia just to see the Dog on the Tucker Box? No fucking way, but if you’re out here for the beaches, the bizarre animals, the lovely people and the lack of infectious diseases, you might as well stop by as you’re driving around. But if you see a tucker-box lying around, don’t reach into it. They do weird things with them in Gundagai.

My parents were delighted to visit the Dog on the Tucker Box back in 1973. My dad still wears those trousers!

WHERE: Gundagai, around four hours south-west of Sydney

WHAT’S THERE? A statue of a dog. A big statue of a koala. Some wagon wheels. Fat people eating KFC.

IF YOU’RE THIRSTY: There’s nowhere to grab booze at the Dog-stop (boooooh!) but there are a couple of good, traditional pubs in Gundagai (yay!)

AND IF YOU’RE HUNGRY: The shop behind the Dog has awesome pies and sausage rolls

WHAT ARE THE WOMENFOLK LIKE? The ladies in the pie shop are lovely. Give ’em a wink and they might chuck in a sachet of tommo sauce for free

FUN FACT: Gundagai is the only town in the world that rhymes with ‘thunder thighs’

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even more Christmas parties end up with me passed out in the street

After two consecutive years of ending work Christmas parties in a pool of my own piss and puke, I’d earned a reputation for being a bit of a wildman at Bauer Media. Alright, maybe not a wildman, more like a pisshead, but it was a reputation I planned to uphold when 2012 finished and we all celebrated at the Beresford Hotel in the slovenly suburb of Surry Hills.

There was a gangster theme, so I got into the spirit of things by dressing as a Chinaman, because we all know most Chinamen are criminals. Well, at least I was dressed as a Chinaman, until a fat girl stole my hat and walked off with it on her meaty head. I was scared she’d eat me if I went after it, so I just pretended I was one of the very, very rare Chinamen who walk around hatless.

It was a swanky party. The food was delicious, the alcohol did its job and the women were almost wearing expensive designer dresses. We rocked and rolled, and I even told a former Australian Idol finalist to get fucked (I’m sure I broke his heart).

We pub crawled for a few hours until the lovely Tongan gentlemen who guard the doors of Sydney’s pubs stopped letting us in, and I remember getting lost in a dead-end street on my way back to my ritzy hotel.. I must’ve sat at the end of it for half an hour, crying drunkenly to myself as I tried to work out how to get out of this street, before realising that I could simply walk back the way I’d come from.

I eventually made it back to my glamorous accommodation, a rat-infested backpackers lodge in the centre of Sydney called, quite appropriately, The Maze. This place had corridors heading every which way and was set over a number of floors and half-floors, and when I bumbled inside I immediately realised I wouldn’t be able to find my way to my room. I found some sort of lounge room, and lay down on a couch that was surely stained with the semen of a million filthy Pommy backpackers, and passed out (after pissing my pants, of course).

There was a deep, rhythmic throbbing in my head when I opened my bleary eyes the next morning, but it wasn’t just the hangover. There was a skinny, hairy man with a happy face and no shirt, setting a metre from my head and playing a Jack Johnson song on a big set of bongo drums. When he saw I was a wake, he gave me a big smile and played the bongos louder. Ever tap of his stupid hands sent shockwaves through my battered brain.

“I bring to you the music of a new dawn,” the filthy hippie chirped, and started wiggling his head around merrily. I wasn’t feeling too merry, so I waited till the room stopped spinning and got to my feet. I shuffled uneasily over to him and snatched the bongos out of his hand, but the idiot kept looking up at me.

“Please, play me some music from your soul,” he yodelled. What came out of my mouth wasn’t from my soul, it was from my guts, because I flipped the hippie’s bongos over and chundered all inside them, filling the drums to the brim. Then I handed them back to old mate, who looked at me as if I’d just kicked his dog, and sashayed out the door.

With my Big Man and my Token Asian

I obviously didn’t learn my lesson, because the next year I booked into The Maze again.It’s the cheapest accommodation in Sydney, and my desire to save a few bucks beat my desire to have a bedroom I’d actually be able to find and sleep in. The day started early, with my big, burly, ex-bikie boss pouring goon down the gullet of everyone in the office, and the boozing just got harder from then on. After six hours on the piss, I was smashed by the time we actually got to Darling Harbour, and started double-fisting women wines as soon as I stepped inside. I was a fucking grog monster, cracking onto sheilas and telling the higher-ups at the company how to run the place, so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise when I got booted before 8pm for being too ratshit.

I was surprised, though, because I told a few people to go fuck themselves as two Maori gentlemen with heads like bedpans dragged me off into the night and threw me in a puddle. I don’t really know what happened after that, because the next four hours are a complete blank. I’d like to think I had a whirlwind relationship with an attractive French tourist, but it’s more likely that I sat in a gutter and cried to myself. Such is life.

The next thing I knew, I was stripped down to my undies and sobbing in a hallway at The Maze, because I’d somehow left my room and couldn’t find it again. As far as I can tell, I’d gone back to pass out, woken up for a piss (my brother doesn’t have this problem, because he always takes a piss bottle with him when he stays in such establishments. He’s all class), gone to the toilet, and walked back the wrong way. In my confused state I’d been unable to retrace my steps, and so opted to have a sook in public like a child.

Luckily, an Italian man with a large nose and a mop of hair found me, and was kind enough to lead me back to my room. When we got there, I was so happy that I gave him a cuddle, and the Italian held me just a little too tightly.

“You want Antonio to tuck you in?” he said with a wink, and I wiped away a tear and shook my head.

“Antonio say tuck you in, what he mean is make love to you in way only Italian man can.” I floundered to my feet and kicked the door closed, then pushed a cupboard against it so the deranged lothario couldn’t get inside and fuck me in my sleep.

I felt like a half-digested prawn cocktail when I left my room the next day, and embarrassed to see Antonia sitting near the front desk as I checked out. He just gave me a sad, hurt expression as I passed, and then I walked out of his life forever.

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!


Red, White & Bruce

There are many things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Having sex with that chick in the wheelchair, for instance, and getting my penis stuck in a mouse trap. One thing I am proud of, however, is writing a book. It’s called Red, White & Bruce and, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are no sparkly vampires or spectacle-wearing magician poofters in it. There’s a bit of bondage, though, so it should appeal to the Fifty Shades of Grey set.

Red, White & Bruce is about a really cool and sexy young journalist (remind you of anyone?) named Bruce Barton who heads to America to cover a funeral, and finds porn stars, drug smugglers, street fights and shootings. Basically, all the good stuff. There’s even a bit where a fat bloke shits into a bin while children throw firecrackers at him.

With his best mate Pieman along for the ride, Bruce’s adventure takes him from award shows in Los Angeles, to the slums of Tijuana, to the seedy clubs of Las Vegas and the sites of San Francisco. Think of it as a travelogue with more swearing.

There’s even some serious stuff in there, which is every bit as brilliant as the crap in War and Peace. If you enjoy my ramblings on here, don’t mind a laugh, or are a fan of Robert G. Barrett’s series of Les Norton books, you’ll love the Red, White & Bruce. Alright, that’s not a guarantee and you might think it’s shithouse, so don’t hold me to it.

You can purchase it for your Kindle bookmachine right bloody here, for the low price of $3.99. If you’re the sort of person who needs to carefully weigh up all your options before dropping a couple of bucks on a book, I’m just going to slide the first few pages in here. Crack a beer and enjoy. I’m off to get pissed.


I pulled my passport and landing papers out of my backpack and joined an endless line of tired visitors trying to get into the good ol’ US of A. It took me about 45 minutes, but finally some massive black dude stamped my passport and, with a dirty look, sent me on my way. Pieman was 10 or so people behind me, so I waited till he got through immigration so we could grab our bags and fuck off to the hotel.

I was scoping out some perky-arsed redhead when I glanced over to see my pastry-loving buddy take a piece of paper out of his pants, unfold it and hand it over to the same huge fella who’d been eyeballing me a few minutes earlier. The black dude looked at it, and he wasn’t amused.

“What the fuck is this, motherfucker?” he spat. “You think this is some sorta joke, bitch?”

Pieman just looked at him with a dopey-but-confused smile, and I started to feel a bit bad. I also started pissing myself laughing. He’d just handed over the picture I’d told him to draw of Obama injecting himself into a dog.

“Mate, that’s a picture of that Osama fella. Is he related to you? He’s one of them black fellas,” replied Pieman with an innocent look on his face.

“Motherfucker, he ain’t my relation, he’s my President. Now why the fuck did you think handing me this would be a good idea? I should send yo’ ass back to New Zealand.”

“I’m not from New Zealand, mate, I’m from Bathurst.”

“I don’t give a fuck where you’re from. Shit, if I hadn’t been caught smoking crack on the job yesterday I’d jump over there and kick your head in, you honky asshole.”

I stopped laughing long enough to walk over and explain to the huge negro that my friend was a ‘special person’ and didn’t mean any harm. He called me an asshole too, let Pieman through, and we gave him a big thumbs-up as we walked off. Shit, we almost didn’t make it into the country!

We walked past a bunch of guards wielding fuck-off huge guns, grabbed our suitcases from the baggage collection area, then walked out a set of automatic doors and into a brave new world. After the sterility of the plane and airport, my introduction to Los Angeles was a true sensory overload – the brilliant sun dug deep into my skin, while taxis honked and growled like angry animals and the stench of smog clawed its way into my nostrils.

I found the closest taxi rank, and we wandered up to the first one and the hairy, nervous-looking fella behind the wheel jumped out and helped us load our bags into the boot. Pieman went for the front seat – and got a confused look for doing it – and I hopped in the back. I pulled out a printed-out piece of paper that detailed where we were staying, handed it over to Akmal, and we were off, driving through the City of Angels.

The City of Arseholes would be a more appropriate name.

The first person I saw as we eased out of the airport was a skeletal junkie with a sign around his neck that said, “Will suck cock for drugs.” At the next servo were two whores – one black, one white, who had about three teeth between them. If I had to choose between sticking my dick in one of them, and sticking it in a woodchipper, I’d go for the woodchipper in a heartbeat. The further we went, the more hobos and hookers and junkies I saw, and it took me about two-and-a-half minutes to realise that LA wasn’t exactly as glamorous as it looked on TV. In fact, it was a bigger shithole than The Block in Redfern. Sure, there were nice cars all over the place, plenty of palm trees and the odd spunk, but overall it was filthier than a pig’s cock.

Akmal eased us out onto a freeway that was four lanes wide going each way, and Pieman and I both stared out the windows at the unbelievable amount of traffic buzzing around us. It was 11am on a Thursday, and the traffic was still backed up north and south, as bad as it was on the Western Distributor on a Friday afternoon. And every car was either black, white, silver or dark red – spotting a car of any other colour was as hard as spotting a white bloke in Cabramatta.

I was tired and hungover, so I can’t really remember where we turned off, but at some point we did and then we were driving past streets with names like Rodeo Drive and Sunset Boulevard. They weren’t anything special; in fact they just looked like the streets I was used to driving down in Sydney. Maybe a few more junkies, a few more plonkers with silly haircuts, but not exactly the exotic streets they promise in all those Yank movies.

The taxi – sorry, when in Septopolis, it’s a cab – pulled up out the front of a nondescript hotel in a nondescript street. It was a generic Crowne Plaza, exactly like every other one in every major city around the world. Exactly like the one down the road from my work. I paid Akmal from a wad of bills that all looked the same, tipped him a few bucks, and we took our stuff into the hotel. Shit, by this point I’d been awake for damn near a full day, and all I wanted to do was have a nap before meeting up with my porn star… and our room wasn’t ready. Wouldn’t be ready for an hour or two, in fact. Fuck, fuck, cunt, fuckity, shit, cunt!

“What do you wanna do while we wait?” I asked Pieman. He was already headed for the hotel bar. There was my answer.

We had two beers at the bar – a dark, wooden joint that was a few degrees too cold and as busy as Nathan Tinkler’s treadmill – then headed outside and walked through the sunshine. We had a beer at every pub we saw, which wasn’t a lot, while trying to spot celebrities. Pieman saw a fella who looked like Jack Nicholson, but who turned out to be a homeless bloke, and that was the closest we came to seeing anyone famous. Dunno, maybe they were all at a Scientology meeting or something that day. After hitting maybe five ‘pubs’, and I use that term loosely, we had to get back to the hotel to change and meet up with Loosey Lawless.

On the way back, Pieman headed into some pizza joint that served beer and, despite being on a tight schedule, I thought it sounded like a bloody good idea to grab another jar. From experience, porno stars, strippers and prossies are almost never on time, so I thought I might as well spend 20 minutes sipping on a watery beer rather than hanging out in a coffee shop down the road waiting for some well-fucked bint to rock up.

Pieman paid for the beers and a large pepperoni pizza (I almost fell off my stool when he offered!) and we took them out to the little fenced-off area by the street and started chucking them back while checking out the local talent. While there were enough hobos staggering around to make me think the zombie apocalypse had hit, the amount of good-looking babes on display was extraordinary! One chick with big, fake tits and a tight arse walked past, then two chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past, then a whole group of chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past. Then a Latino-looking homeless fella walked past pushing a trolley full of cans. Then three more chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past. Fuck me sideways, I pretty much walked out of the little pizza shop on three legs.

Across the road was a shop called Alfredo’s Pies, and Pieman basically danced over to it despite having just polished off three-quarters of a pizza. I swaggered across the road and got in there just in time to hear the big fella order “Two meat pies and a chicken and veggie pie, thanks.” The place was singing with the sweet scent of blueberry and and strawberry, and the cross-eyed bloke behind the counter almost fainted.

“Is this some kind of the joke?” he said in a heavy accent that could’ve from anywhere this side of Transylvania. “We do not have the meat pie.”

“Bacon and egg pie?”


“Veal pie?”


“Steak and kidney?”






“Seafood pie?”


“What about crocodile?”


“Fuck me drunk, it says pies out the front, and I want a pie – I’m fucken starvin’! Now what type of pies have you got?”

“We have the apple pie, the blueberry pie, the strawberry pie, the plum pie and the cinnamon pie. You want pie? You order, or else you leave Mr Strange Pie Eater Man.” Pieman looked like someone had slapped him in the face.

“So, no meat pies then?” he asked, and slowly lurched out of the shop, mumbling something about apples and pooftahs and what a shitty, weird country America was.

“Don’t worry, my brother, they might not have meat pies, but there’s something better around here,” I said with a wink. “Poontang pie.” And then we gave each other a jumping high-five and continued on our way. If there’s one thing Pieman likes more than a dog’s eye, it’s a nice, juicy vagina to munch on. What can I say, the man has taste!

We headed back to the hotel and I was over the moon when they handed me the keys. We left our bags with some dude who didn’t speak English, then took the lift up to the fifth floor to find the bag-dude waiting for us at the door. We went in, bag-dude took our suitcases in, then stood there with a huge smile on his face and his hand out. I reached for my wallet, but before I could tip the bloke, Pieman walked over and slapped him a low-five. Bag-dude looked like he wanted to run out and bring his homies back to shoot Pieman in the face, so I chucked him $2 for his two minutes of service and stood by the door while he fucked off.

“Bloody hell, mate, what did you give that bloke money for?” asked Pieman.

“You’ve gotta tip in America. It’s customary.”

“And it’s customary for me to tell pricks to piss off if they want more of my hard-earned than they deserve.”

“Ah, Pieman, you’ll do Australia proud while you’re over here.”

The room wasn’t much – plain white decor with an 82cm LCD screen pushed against one wall and two single beds against the other. There was a small bathroom, a small desk, and a small window that looked out onto a very large brick wall across a laneway. Well, at least we wouldn’t be distracted by the view.

I took a dump and had a quick shower, then pulled out my phone and called Pieman over to check out the screen. “Mate, check this out,” I grinned, showing him a video of a petite brunette with massive jugs and a large dragon tattoo on her back. Two goofy-looking dudes with cocks like gums trees were having the time of their lives, with one taking care of her droopy smoo while the other jabbed away at her black-lipsticked mouth. “That’s the chick we’re going to see this arvo. Loosey Lawless.”

“Reckon that could be me and you?” he asked, pointing at the fellas with the massive wangs. I chucked up a little at the thought of splitting a sheila with the big oaf.

“I’d rather share a girl with a pit bull,” I replied, putting my phone away. “OK dude, let’s get some shut-eye, then we’ve gotta get up to the café to meet this charming sheila.”

“Cool, and then we’re going back to her place to take some photos, right?”

“Yeah, so bring your camera and a bottle of disinfectant.”

I jumped into the bed nearest the window for a quick nap… and ended up sleeping 20 minutes past my alarm. When I finally got up I swore my head off, then woke Pieman from his equally deep slumber, then slipped myself into a plain black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. My hair looked rubbish, so I grabbed a cap out of my suitcase and chucked it on, stuck some shoes on my feet and the two of us raced to the front of the building to grab a cab.

The bloke who pulled up was another ethnic fella, with an accent somewhere between Borat and the Count from Sesame Street and no teeth. I got in the front and copped another weird look, Pieman got in the back, I showed the cabbie a slip of paper with an address on it and we started winding our way up and down congested street after congested street.

The coffee shop – a place called Patrick’s – was only a few blocks up the road, but with LA’s traffic it took us a good 15 minutes to get there. It seemed longer than that though, with the driver’s choice in music sounding like a recording of a bloke who’d caught his nuts in a toaster. It was all wailing and squealing and bongo drums, and I didn’t understand a word the bloke was spitting out. For once, the big fella in the back was quiet, his brain too busy taking in the sights and sounds of this strange new land.

The taxi stopped, I paid the driver, he coughed, I tipped him more, he muttered ‘Cheapskate Englishman’ and sped off, then we walked into the coffee shop. It was about half-full, smelled of exotic beans, and every single person in there looked like an extra from Desperate Housewives – fake tits, too much make-up, the whole deal. They were also the gloomiest bunch of motherfuckers you’ve ever seen – deadset, they were that sour I wouldn’t be surprised if every single one of them had a lemon up their arse.

Despite the booming sunshine outside, the coffee shop was gloomy inside with tiny candles at every table and dark purple walls, so it was hard to find Loosey, but when I saw the biggest set of jugs ever and knew I’d found my girl. The fact that she was sucking on a pen like it was a rigid penis kinda gave it away, too.

“Loosey Lawless, I presume,” I said, and shook her hand when she stood up. Beneath her massive norks was a tiny waist and cute little arse, and the whole package was wrapped in a skin-tight boob tube/spandex pants combo that made my knob want to break free from my pants and run around the room like a headless chook. Tattoos walked up and down her arms and when Loosey sat down, her black hair cascaded down around her face. With her dark make-up she looked barely 18, which made her perfect for a Terry Todger movie.

“You must be Bruce Barton. From New Zealand, right? I think I fucked a New Zealander once.”

“Close. Australia.”

“Oh right, where Schwarzenegger comes from.”

I let it slide. I mean, did it really matter if this buxom babe knew where I came from? It wasn’t like I was going to take her home to meet my parents. For one thing, she’d probably try to screw my dad. Actually, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad present for the old pervert…

“You look like my brother,” she said to Pieman, then coughed a smoker’s cough and spat a green gob of phlegm onto the floor. “I wonder if your dick is as big as his? If we fuck, I’m calling you Paul, alright?”

Bloody hell, we had a live one here. Loosey finished the rest of what looked like a glass of straight bourbon in one shot as I took out my tape recorder and switched it on, then plonked it down on the table. Pieman pulled out his camera and snapped away a few photos, then we settled down to business.

“Alright Loosey,” I said, while trying and failing to grab the attention of a passing waitress, “we’ve got two things to talk about today. First, I wanna ask you a bunch of questions about your sex life and your career in the porno industry. Y’know, so we’ve got some words for the readers to ignore while they’re jacking off to photos of you with your wig-wams out.”

“Sure, I’ve fucked more guys than colon cancer, so I can tell you a story or two” snorted Loosey, bored. I assumed that she’d done this a million times before. I knew I had. I asked her a bunch of questions about how she got into the porno biz, who her favourite co-stars were and what was the most extreme thing she’d done on camera (“Drugs aren’t cheap”, “The UCLA college wrestling team” and “Getting fisted by a dwarf while two blokes dressed as robots jazzed on my face”, respectively), and when I had enough material to run alongside a simple glamour shoot I decided to ask her a few questions about Todger.

“He’s a cunt,” she spat, before I could even ask her anything. “I don’t think you’ll find a person in the country who’s sad he’s dead.”

“Fairy nuff,” I replied, a bit taken aback by her frankness. “So how’d you get involved with him?”

“It was about a year and a half ago and I would’ve been 19. Back then I was really new to the business, and I’d only done two scenes – one was girl-girl and the other was a nice, normal scene with some random dude who I barely remember. His dick bent to the left, like a banana, hit all the right spots. Then that old fuckwit got in touch with my agent and said he wanted me to do a scene with him. Some of the other girls in the industry warned me not to but I was naïve, and the money was good, so I went along.”

“Let me guess, Todger wasn’t exactly a gentleman?”

“He was barely human. He was, like, 100 years old and he stank like he’d peed himself. The first thing he made me do was lick his ass – gross! I’d never even done that to a cute guy, but he yelled at me and said my career would be over if I didn’t do it, and I got scared and went along with it.”

For a second – and only a second – Loosey looked into the distance with half a smile on her face, as if she hadn’t hated it nearly as much as she was making out. Then she screwed up her face again and kept going.

“Then he fucked me rougher than any guy had ever fucked me before – pulling my hair, slapping me, spitting on me. I usually like that sort of thing but he was just gross and weird. He even fucked me up the arse without asking, and laughed when I screamed. It was fucken horrible.”

I looked around again for a waitress, finally caught the attention of an outrageously skinny brunette, and ordered a plain coffee for myself, a beer for Pieman and a pint of wine for Loosey. Not a glass, a fucken pint. No wonder she stunk like a wino. “So was it just the girls who hated him?” I said.

“Fuck no! The cameramen hated him, the lighting guys hated him, the other male actors hated him. As well as being a complete asshole on set, he was a complete cunt away from the camera. Always putting people down, always bragging about how much money he had and just acting like a dickhead. He was about as popular as Chlamydia at a gang bang. Everybody was saying they wanted to kill him, and someone even punched him out a few months back.”

“Really?” I asked, and already I was getting the feeling there was more to this story than most people believed. I saw headlines, I saw awards… I saw myself getting laid for getting headlines and awards. “Who knocked him out?”

“Some Asian slag’s boyfriend. Yeah, Todger kept going up to this guy at a party and telling him he’d fucked his girlfriend up the ass and made her cry. That was typical Todger; he wasn’t just cruel during scenes. I genuinely think he hated women. Shit, after what he did to me, things changed…”

Our drinks arrived and I took a sip of my coffee, which felt like velvet as is rolled across my tongue, and then asked Loosey to elaborate. “After he broke me down and did all that to me, I got into drinking pretty hard to forget about it. Drugs, too. Todger said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, that he was going to make a star out of me. Before that I’d had a bit of interest from the major porn studios, too, but that dried up after they saw the depraved shit I did with Todger. There was nothing left for me but gang bangs and fucking midgets. It’s pretty demeaning to cop a bukkake from a bunch of blokes who have to shop in the kiddie aisle at Wal-Mart.”

I spat out my coffee and laughed, then felt like shit when I saw how hurt Loosey was. Pieman, who’d been playing Angry Birds on his phone, suddenly looked up and said, “Our boss is a midget. Perhaps you could fuck him? He needs to relieve some tension, he’s an angry bastard.” I apologised for the both of us.

“So there’s your story,” continued Loosey. “Todger was a tosser to everybody, so everybody hated Todger. Now everybody’s happy ’cos the old bastard’s worm food.”

“Do you…” I started, then paused, then started again. “Do you think there’s more to his death?”

“Do I think someone killed him? Yeah, I do, but I don’t have a clue who.” Loosey finished her drink a little too quickly, like she had something to hide.

“Did you ever see Todger after the scene you shot with him?” I asked.

“Sure, but just at parties and industry nights and that, with some stuck-up bitch. I never hung out with him or anything. Never.” She took another swig of her wine. Again, it was just a little too quickly. She was lying, I could tell that, but I couldn’t work out why. Porn stars, hey, I wouldn’t trust ’em as far as I could throw ’em, and with tits that size I probably couldn’t toss Loosey too far. I was about to push on when she licked her lips and reached under the table to grab first my dick, then Pieman’s.

“I’m shitfaced,” she slurred. “Let’s go back to my joint and get these photos out of the way. Afterwards, I just might let you boys fuck me up the ass. Reckon I might be a bit yeasty up front, y’know. I gotta take a dump first, but.”

“How charming,” I laughed.

“And remember, boys, I want my cash before I do a thing.”


Thought it was great and just have to find out what happens next? Then pick up your copy right fucking now, my dude

Tales From Pornland: Why I’ll never be Prime Minister

[1301] 4 stories[1301] 4 stories

When lovely ladies find out that I worked for a gentlemen’s masturbation manual for seven-and-a-half years, their first question is always, “Why?” Their second is usually, “Can you please get the fuck away from me, you chauvinistic pervert?”

My answer is usually along the lines of the fact that, for the first five or so years at least, writing for The Picture gave me more freedom than pretty much any magazine in the country. I was given the opportunity to write genuinely funny and clever articles, even if they weren’t always the most intelligent or important stories in the country. In my time there I wrote many, many stories that I’m still incredibly proud of and, when it comes down to it, that’s why I stayed.

Of course, the lovely ladies focus on the fact that I also interviewed not-so-lovely ladies, the sort who earn money by allowing sickos to either perv on their vaginas, or insert their horribly deformed penises into them. I heard some wild stories (one chick fucked a dog. I’m not making that up – she fucked a dog while a small group of people watched), but after interviewing more than 1000 women, there was no titillation or excitement there. I just called them up, got a couple of quotes, then threw together a few words for blokes to ignore while wanking over the photos.

I suppose I could lie, and tell the lovely ladies that I actually wrote for Model Train Monthly (Australia’s second-biggest-selling quarterly publication dedicated to scale locomotives and associated miniatures), but I’m an honest fella, so I’ll probably always have that shadow over me.

I’ve also come to realise that my past career have robbed me of any chance of ever becoming Prime Minister of Australia. Alright, so the fact I’ve never tried to become a politician and am not an absolute fuckwit also count against me, but if I ever ran for the top job, there are a lot of photos that could be used against me.

A lot of photos. And, because I’d rather get laughs than have the opportunity to lead my country, here are some of them, preserved on the internet forever, ready for greenie lesbians with unshaved vaginas to uncover just as I’m ready to waltz it in at election time. Waltz it into the Prime Ministership, that is, not waltz into an unshaved vagina.

Of course, Julia Gillard fucked a bunch of married men, is a criminal, and has an arse wider than the Simpson Desert and a head that looks like it fell out of the wrong end of a dog, so I guess anyone can be the Prime Minister. Vote for me!

This was for a story about some doofus who got arrested for doing 80km/h over the speed limit, with a bag of weed on the passenger seat, while filming himself masturbating. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
I came up with an idea for a story about a very Australian superhero, whose powers extended to shouting beers and wearing spandex. The blokes in the background were a couple of homeless dudes, who were paid for their time with a glass of cheap wine each. I didn’t get to fuck the model (or the homeless dudes).
The Picture might be a grot mag full of fannies and boobies (tee hee!), but at times we’d have some in-depth literary analysis… or something like that. Here I was playing the role of Little Jack Horny who, in our version, didn’t stick his thumb into a pie, but instead stuck his hand into his shorts and pulled off his cock. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
[1151] as per Kristi
For a few years, I had my own character who appeared in most issues, and his name was Barry the Bullshit Artist. Like me, Barry was intensely attractive and possessed a large penis and a razor wit. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
This is Darren. He’s a lovely English chap who was scarred for life when, on his first day at the mag, he was sent along to the studios for a photo shoot with Dirty Gertie, a fat, mulleted sex pest with many horrible diseases. This time, I did get to fuck the model!

Tales from Pornland: Barber shops and Brothels

It’s good to be king

Back when I was drunk and gainfully employed as a writer for porn rag The Picture, it wasn’t uncommon for me to appear in many of the magazine’s photo shoots. No, I didn’t get my dick out or anything (it wouldn’t really make sense, unless they gave away magnifying glasses with every copy), but I did get to stand around and have my picture taken with spunky nude sheilas.

I was good at looking like an unshaven pervert, so when a topless hair cutting place opened up just down the road from the office, I was sent along to check it out. It was probably a good idea, too, because I looked like I belonged on a sex offenders register before I got there.

Alright, maybe I’m retarded

When I arrived, I was handed a beer and told to sit down in a big chair, and then a great-looking sort with a clear aversion to clothes came over and asked me how I wanted my hair.

“I reckon it’d look great between your legs,” I cheered, and she was so impressed that she was unable to reply, and just sort of acted like she wasn’t at all impressed. Ladies always play hard to get around me.

“A little off the top, ladies!”

Thankfully, she covered me in some sort of smock, which hid the fact that I was smuggling a boner harder than an Asian kid’s homework. I was able to keep myself from shaking and panting too hard, and the little babe gave me a haircut that made me look like slightly less of a cunt.

Just as she was finishing up, an old bloke in one of the other chairs let out a moan loud enough to shake the windows, and when he stood up he had an unusual white stain on the front of his slacks.

“Erm, it’s shaving cream,” he mumbled, and shuffled out of the shop.

That journalism degree was certainly worth it

Not long after that escapade, I visited a Kings Cross brothel. No, it wasn’t so I could pay for sex, but for another photo shoot. Local nightspot/cockroach hotel/knock shop Porky’s had recently banned NRL players from entering the premises (and entering the prostitutes), and I decided to roll up dressed as a footy player to see what would happen. And because I didn’t want to die alone, I took my friend Goggles along.

Were we meant to be footy players, or mega homos?

When we got there, a very large, very angry man was at the door, and he found my prank to be somewhat less humorous than I did. In fact, he was laughing as much as a militant lesbian at a Rodney Rude concert.

While my photographer snapped photos and laughed himself stupid, the gigantic man grabbed me and Goggles in a headlock, banged our noggins together, and tossed us into the street like human trash we are. Well, at least he didn’t toss us off in the street, although that would’ve been less painful.

This is why you should always be nice to blokes who can kill you

With no story and plenty of bruises, me and Goggles retreated to a dark staircase where, for some strange reason, we decided to masturbate to photos of naked sheilas and go to sleep on the piss-stained carpet. What can I say, I’ve had worse nights, and Goggles looks like he enjoyed himself, too.

He must’ve been reading one of my articles

Tales from Pornland: When Row-Row met Jesse Jane

It’s amazing I survived this horrible ordeal

Some people get into journalism to meet world-famous people. Politicians, war heroes, Big Brother winners, that sorta thing. The most famous people I met in my writing career at porn rag The Picture were Mr T, who is a black man, and Jesse Jane, who has had many black men inside her.

Mr T was a prick and wouldn’t let me wear his chains, so I’ll focus on the star of Cuckold Creampie 7 and Average Joe Shoots His Load, Jesse Jane.

Most people assume that working for a porn mag means dodging stray fannies and funbags from nine to five, but that’s as far from the truth as the average Billy Shorten speech, so I was excited hear that the world’s most famous bongo star was coming into the office to strip naked and wobble around for us. And, thank fuck, it wasn’t Ron Jeremy.

You really don’t wanna see his power mushroom

When Jesse rocked up, two things were immediately obvious; 1) She’s the size of a small cat, which must be flattering to her male co-stars and 2) She’s got a mouth wide enough to take six cocks at once and still allow room for her to chew on a Big Mac.

Despite allowing strangers to ejaculate on her face for money, the pole-riding pocket rocket was truly charming, and I had a great perve on her big tits and not-tight-at-all poontang. It was all going gangbusters until she decided to start smacking me with a baseball bat. Shit, some fellas would pay a week’s wages to be treated like that!

Jesse’s got form with a bat

We finished off with a game of indoor cricket, which must’ve been a familiar situation for Jesse, who has experience with many men waving bats at her. She actually smacked me in the head with the willow, marking the first time Jesse Jane has been the one to give the facial.

As the porn goddess was packing up her puppies and climbing back into her clobber, I realised that this would probably be best chance to score with the most masturbated-over woman on the planet (sorry, Queen Elizabeth). So I sidled up to Jesse, flashed her my best smile and hit her with the funniest, wittiest, most thought-provoking pick-up line of all time.

Unfortunately, Jesse didn’t hear it because she was too busy laughing at the fact that I had ejaculated in my pants. I was crushed, and had to spend the rest of the day with a jumper wrapped around my waist, giving the impression that I may have pooed myself.

You can’t imagine how hard it is to find a photo of Jesse Jane with her clothes on and no penises in her mouth

That night, while reminiscing over lost loves and missed opportunities, I stumbled upon a video of Jesse Jane entertaining a number of porno blokes dressed as footballers, who looked as if they could stand on the halfway line and piss in the in-goals, and realised that she probably wasn’t the girl for me.

The first thing I did when I got into work the next morning was disinfect my fucking desk.

I didn’t break into Old Sydney Town, but a very handsome friend of mine did


When I was a kid, I spent many memorable days (and a few boring ones) at Old Sydney Town. For those who aren’t familiar with it, Old Sydney Town was a theme park that accurately recreated the early settlement of Sydney, with historically-correct buildings, dudes dressed as convicts and more angry cannons than a Sasha Grey film.

Unlike most theme parks, there weren’t any rollercoasters, waterslides, whizzy things, whirly things, or other fun stuff, so it was a bit shit. But it was the closest thing Gosford had to a fun park, so we were proud of it.

The gaol looks pretty much the same as it always has… and it’s where Mustafa will end up if the cops catch him!

Oh, and the public whippings were fucking aces. I still think of them every time I pay Madame Mayhem from the local knock shop to flog me.

Good sheila, that Madame Mayhem. Built like a truck with a broken axel, but she sure knows how to please a fella. This one time… right, sorry, I was talking about Old Sydney Town.

This cottage has aged as well as Cameron Diaz’s face

The lack of rides and the community’s general apathy towards Australian history led to it shutting down in 2003, after which it was basically left to rot. No-one’s been there for more than 12 years, and I’ve long wondered what it looks like. I’ve often considered going in there to see what it’s like, but I’m a law-abiding citizen, so I haven’t.

It’s lucky, then, that a very good friend of mine recently busted into Old Sydney Town and went exploring. He even sent me the photos. His name’s Mustafa Chen-Wilkins and, while he’s a brave dude and takes great photos, he can’t write for shit, so I’ve translated his words so they read exactly the same as my own stuff. In fact, it will be just like it was actually me who went there, but we all know that’s definitely not the case.

Over to you, Mustafa!

They built this in honour of Michael Hutchence

G’day, I’m Mustafa. You might’ve heard rumours about my large, oddly-shaped penis and adoration for donkeys, and I’m happy to say that it’s all true. Especially the bit about donkeys. I’m a real bad-arse with a cavalier attitude to breaking the law, so when I saw a sign saying people weren’t allowed into the former site of Old Sydney Town, i took it as a challenge.

And this was put up in memory of former Family Feud host Rob Brough

I’m not going to tell you how I got in, but it involved climbing over a few fences, crawling through heaps of bushes, and basically being cool and secretive, like Kurt Russel. Once I was in, I found myself on the banks of the park’s lake, which once represented Sydney Harbour. In the distance, the buildings looked the same as they always had, but one thing broke the illusion that time had stopped – the giant ship that once stood guard over the harbour had fallen onto its side and was rotting in the murky water.

As I made my way into the remnants of the town, I was overcome by the eeriness of the place. It’s well-kept and tidy, and the buildings are largely the same as they were before the closure, but it’s quiet and empty. It feels more like a ghost town than an abandoned amusement park.

What’s a bloke gotta do to get a beer around here?

I checked out the local pub, the King’s Head Tavern, which was once used for weddings and random piss-ups. Apart from some warped floorboards, it looked like it had been abandoned yesterday – plates and microwaves were still spread around, as were signs reminding employees to wash their hands and lock the doors. There was even a piano in the corner, which I couldn’t play because 1) it was completely waterlogged and rotten and 2) trying to teach me the piano would be as successful as trying to teach and aardvark to shit gold nuggets.

They don’t serve beers anymore… but what about spirits?

As I was looking through some decomposing cottages, I heard a motorbike blatting towards me, and quickly hid behind a broken wagon. With my heart racing and visions of being raped by a buck-toothed security guard racing through my mind, I grabbed my stuff and started heading back to my car. But as I passed the lake again, I was overcome by the beauty of the sunset and, telling myself I’d imagined the bike, sat down to watch the sky transform.

And then I heard another motorbike cutting through the silence, and this time there was no mistaking what it was, because I could see the bloody thing coming around the water. I jumped up and raced into a gloomy wool shed, and that’s when I heard a vicious guard dog barking. Fucking hell, I wasn’t just going to get arrested and raped, I was going to get eaten!

I hid in here like a small, frightened girl. My… erm, Mustafa’s ex-girlfriends will tell you that the similarities don’t end there

The motorbike roared closer and the dog barked harder and my heart did its best to jump out of my chest, and I crept around the side of the shed while the two hunters stalked past me. As soon as they were past, I turned and piss bolted back around the lake, hoping they wouldn’t see me.

That boat won’t float

They did, and I heard a yell come from a couple of hundred metres behind me. The motorbike screamed and came back at me, with the rabies-afflicted hound not far behind, foam pouring from its mouth. A little bit of wee came out of my doodle, but I just put my head down and kept going, then dived into the bushes and started blindly bashing my way through the gloom in the vague direction of my car.

I heard the bike stop, but the dog kept coming, screeching in the darkness as it closed in on my. I hit fence topped with barbed wire, climbed it in record time, and slipped my foot over just as the rabid mongrel snapped at my ankle.

I dropped over the other side and spent the next hour battling through the darkness, and by the time I made it back to my car, I was torn apart, bleeding and sore, but very happy with my trip back in time.

Now, can someone hand me a donkey?


And thus the saga ends…


I’m 10,000 metres about the earth, with endless darkness outside my window and an overweight Malaysian dude drooling onto the lapel of his Hawaiian shirt next to me. My holiday is over, and it’s time to head home and face the real world.

Fortunately, my last day in Asia provided all the drama and excitement that I could hope for, which is why I’m currently so tired I can barely lift my can of beer to my lips. With a boat taking me back the Malaysian mainland at midday, I headed out for one final snorkel in the delightful ocean. All I wanted to see was a turtle. Just one. They’re all over the place in the Perhentian Islands, but in three days I hadn’t seen one. I splashed around, chasing fish and savouring every minute of my time in that underwater kingdom, but there were no turtles. Finally, reluctantly, it was time to head back to shore and pack my bags.

And there it was.


Centimetres from me was a giant sea turtle, elegantly soaring through the water while I stared in amazement. I just stopped, treading water while I soaked in the beauty of this incredible creature. As the turtle swam further out into the blue, I paddled alongside her, diving deeper into the ocean, not wanting to lose her. I finally had to let her go, and she disappeared into the deep while I reluctantly returned to shore.


I dragged my bags out into the sun and waited for my ride back to reality. And waited. Turns out they forgot all about me, and a special water taxi had to be called so that I could actually start my journey back to Australia.  When it finally arrived, there was a pretty Japanese girl in it. Her name was Anri, and she’d also been forgotten by the ferry, so we travelled back to the mainland together, struggling with the language barrier as we both tried to come to terms with our holidays ending. We shared a taxi back to the airport, then caught the same plane back to Kuala Lumpur, where we both faced a few hours of waiting around for planes in opposite directions.

We had time to get to know each other. We shared photos of our families, talked about what we’d seen and what we had to go back to. She was off to teach scuba diving courses in Thailand, which I thought sounded a lot better than writing about tits in a cold office in Sydney. We held hands, an innocent act that meant so much. Anri couldn’t even pronounce my name, but when it came time for her to catch her plane, I farewelled her with sadness. I wish I’d kissed her as she left for her flight, but I didn’t.


In six or so hours, we had a complete relationship – from meeting each other, to being introduced to the family, to breaking up. In some ways, it was the best relationship I’ve had, one without the inevitable fighting and sadness. And it was the perfect ending to a great holiday.

And now here I am, fighting the need to sleep and cradling a warm can of Heineken. The Great Wall of China and the Petronas Towers are behind me. Cled and the Chinese bloke who liked Norm Peterson from Cheers and the dude in Guilin who rooted the dog are nothing but memories. It’s been an incredible experience, one full of wonder and excitement and adventure. It’s been my first solo trip overseas and I’ve grown so much. I grew up thinking I could barely go to the shops by myself, and here I am, coming home from a month in Asia on my Pat Malone.

And thus the saga ends…