In the morning we checkout and head back to our respective much-less-glamorous places of residence.
I check my emails.
The B and B owner has emailed us an online comment card to fill out. I give them 5 stars, mainly for leaving us alone and not questioning us on our activities. I almost comment on the badly cooked bacon in the breakfast buffet but decide against it. I didn’t want to be one of those people I hate. Like the English couple who were complaining about it downstairs. Ugh. There’s something about hearing someone whine about fairly insignificant shit in an English accent that annoys me. Sometimes life doesn’t measure up to the expectations in your head. So what. Boohoo. You are going be dead one day you ant, so get over it. Sometimes you do a poorly thought out tour to a place you dislike for too long for not enough money. Sometimes you make someone cry during your comedy set. Sometimes the one woman who will save you from yourself already has a boyfriend. Sometimes you chokedown four feet of mescaline cactus for not enough of a buzz and watch bad television while thinking the hotel staff are thinking you are committing gay sex acts in their room. Sometimes your bacon isn’t crispy. Sometimes we should all just shut the fuck up.
We should have comment cards for life in general. Just write in complaints about anything and everything. There’s an office where you hand these complaints in. After a few weeks, your complaint gets processed and a group of people dressed exactly like you are sent to your place of residence in the middle of the night to deliver the decided punishment upon you. They abduct you and tie you blindfolded in a basement at an unknown location. They beat you with soft toys filled with razor blades while shouting, ‘HERE’S SOMETHING REAL YOU CAN COMPLAIN ABOUT YOU WHINING PUSSY!’ and then afterwards you can fill out a complaint card about the way they beat you so they can improve their service the next time around.

At the bottom of the online comment card is a stupid question that I cannot help but give a stupid answer to:


(Ed: I was later informed my review got accepted onto the website, but when i went on to check, it was without this comment)

I shut down my laptop and lie on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Seven hours to the next gig. The only ephemeral anchor in an otherwise aimless drift of an existence. What to do? Perhaps I should try and get my life together I think, but instead i continue to lie on the mattress, stare at the ceiling and think about other things i should probably do that i won’t. Eventually my mind goes into screensaver mode. Suddenly i notice the ceiling begin to pulsate and darken to black. The edges give way and the middle sinks both inwardly and upwardly.
There is a swirling black vortex above me.
I go on tinder. I need someone to shield me from this thing above me. I swipe right for every girl who shows up. I want to see what kind of people are into me here in this city.
Eventually, i reach the bottom of the tinder pile.
No one is into me.
The tinder women here in Perth are all the same kind of pretty. Not the unique, exotic beauty of my soul mirage, but same generic brand of pretty like they’ve been mass produced at the same factory, complete the same fashion accessories, make up, poses, facial expressions.
Boy i wish one would fuck me right now.
We’d have terrible sex while I stared at the vortex above me and when we reached our respective anti-climaxes I would push her up into the hole while screaming, ‘Take her! Not me!’
I begin to recognise the 8 basic types of Tinder girl:
1. Party girl – Making some kind of hand insignia and a pouty lip face.
2. Travel girl- Photo taken in an exotic locale.
3. Group girl- With three or four other girls. Usually one has to assume they are the generically least attractive one OR the generically most attractive one, who’s attractiveness is increased by surrounding herself with her less attractive friends.
4. Animal girl- With a dog or cat.
4a. Baby girl- With a baby/young child or two in the photo almost like a warning. I never understand why they would put that on Tinder. No guy goes on tinder specifically to find a single mother and child to complete a family with.
5. Rebel girl- Tatoos, black leather, brightly dyed hair. These are the ‘different’ girls, but they actually all look as similar to each other as the generic pretty girls. they just make up a smaller percentage, approx 10%.
6. Asian girl.
7. Older woman with time running out.
8. Fat/unattractive love-starved girl- This brutal description is by the standards of consensus society, not my own personal standards (obviously there is some overlap at times). In fact, I swiped right for all of them and they didn’t swipe right for me at all so to hell with them too.

I become depressed at the lack of variation. We were brought up in a individualistic culture that encouraged you to be yourself, but the sad fact is that a lot of people’s public display selves are just generic clones of clones.

I stare at the black hole in the ceiling but it’s no longer a hole. It’s a mouth. Globs of black goo fall from a pair of scarred lips that pout and pooch open, and in a low grumbling ullulation, it mouths the words:
I’m going to eat you.


I have a day off. I don’t know what to do. Free time is not free, it costs you your sanity. The thought snake has eaten it’s tail and shat itself inside-out many times over already and i’ve haven’t even gotten out of bed/my friend’s couch. What to do? I go out for some air and spot a San Pedro mescaline cactus in the communal garden of my friend’s apartment block where i’m staying. ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’ I think. I head back upstairs and make some inquiries. Turns out the cactus belongs to a neighbour who has since moved out. ‘It’s a sign from the universe telling me to eat psychedelic cactus.’ I think. Whenever i want to do something which involves me taking something that isn’t mine, the universe always seems very supportive of my actions. Just like me, it seems the universe is a selfish kleptomaniac.
I head back down and chop about four feet down.

I skin and despine it,

freeze it, thaw it then juice it. After many hours and a lot of effort I’m left with 2 litres of godawful green goop.

That liquid ain’t flowing by the way, that shit is like hanging like glue.

I haven’t eaten mescaline cactus for 7 years because it takes that long for you to forget how bad it fucking tastes. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I call up another comic and ask him if he wants to join me. He agrees. I go on last and find a discounted beach side b and b. Hundreds buck each for the night. Fuck it. We check in. I have my backstory ready to tell the guy at the desk, like he would care. I wonder if he thinks we are an interracial gay couple. I wonder why i wonder that and what it matters. The room is fucking awesome. Jacuzzi, beach views, huge couch, huge TV… It’s gonna be great. We get to work choking it down. It’s fucking disgusting. The taste is a cross between the apple, cucumber, dishwashing detergent and pool cleaning chemicals. The texture is of cold chunky snot. It takes us to two hours to gag it all down, amid loud dry wretching. I wonder what the staff think. All they would of heard was two solid hours of sporadic dry-wretching puntuated by the recurring comment, ‘Oh god this is so digusting.’ and ‘I feel sick.’. I wonder what they think we are doing. I wonder if they think we are choking on each other’s dicks in shame like some kind of inter-racial brokeback mountain romance, only with comedians instead of cowboys. I wonder why i wonder that this is the first thing i think they think. I guess this is what Perth makes you do, drink 5 glasses of Shrek cum in a hotel room while getting paranoid that the staff think that you are chowing down on some man pole so hard it triggers your gag reflex.
I watch the brokeback comedians movie unfold in my mind further: Two comedians meeting in various regional towns over the course of their careers, exploring their forbidden sexuality in cheap motel rooms only to go onstage every night to do their aggressively homophobic acts to appreciative rural audiences.
Soon the cactus will take over and i won’t have to think things like this.
We lie down, belly bloated with foetid cactus goop and wait for it to kick in. One hour nothing. 2 hours something. 3 hours still something. After four hours we get a mild buzz, level +2 trip. Mild visuals. Mild euphoria. Very mild. Too mild.
This wasn’t worth the effort.

But we are in a kickass hotel room and we make the most of it.


Didn’t mean to make it a bubble bath. I put three squirts of shower gel into the water, turned on the jacuzzi and all these bubbles happened. Wheeee!


I found it immensely relaxing to lie foetal while the bath drained.
If only i had a large tit to suck kahlua and milk from.


Gotta utilise every space in the hotel room.


After a long day, finally to bed I go.

Perth ain’t that bad.


I wake up at around 11am to my housemate knocking on my door.
‘There’s some kind of terror attack happening in Martin Place!’ She says. I detect a hint of glee in her tone. I don’t judge her. There is a certain glee to be had in delivering bad news that has happened to people you don’t personally know that i can identify with. Knowing that something terrible and out of the ordinary is happening in your local area puts a certain sheen on one’s day, makes everything new again, delivers you from the boring day-to-day mundane activities that afflict the majority of your life, and if you are the one to bring feeling to someone, you may as well put on a santa claus hat and shove half a pill up their asshole.
I turn on the news.
I quickly turn it off.
Sometimes when i watch western media i feel compelled to become a terrorist, not for Allah, but just out of spite. As they say, my enemy’s enemy is my friend. I think that’s my main problem with Islam. It’s very cliquey. Why do i have to believe in Allah to go on a Jihad? Why can’t i go on a secular jihad just because I want to? To me that’s a form of discrimination and an issue i will need to take up with my local ombudsman, whatever an ombudsman is.
I go on facebook. It’s even worse. Comments commenting about comments in the information supervoid. I am about to add to this void, but it feels futile and I quickly close facebook. If facebook was an actual book, i would burn it.
I close my eyes and sigh as tears roll down my cheeks.
First Hughsie, now this.
I think about what’s going on and about the people inside. I feel… Nothing really. It just seems like some kind of scene happening in a movie that i don’t want to watch. I seem to have a block when it comes to feeling things for strangers. I used to think it was because I was a sociopath, but then one day, i realised it was because 1) i don’t know them 2) I’m not a fan of people on the whole. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of certain people, friends and family, but in general, people on the whole I just don’t know… I just can’t bring myself to care for them, not without at least an interview for even a basic multiple choice personality questionnaire. I trace this coldness back to the victimisation i encountered during my childhood years mostly for being a fat dork, though this is understandable. Looking back on old photos of myself, even i feel compelled to go back in time and victimise myself for being a fat dork, which i still do on some level in my private moments, it’s kind of what keeps me going. The constant teasing by the other children planted the basic belief in me that a lot of people out there are terrible. And while not all of us are terrible, most of us are nothing to write home about. We are not an endangered species, and the vast majority of us, myself included, will contribute nothing to humanity’s insignificant legacy other than a few metric tons of faeces and a trail of litter leading from the womb to the grave.
While i have trouble caring for humanity, I do care a lot about non-human animals. I can watch news story upon new story of terrible things happening to people somewhere else in the world and feel nothing, but as soon as i see some news story about a man mistreating a kitten, i turn livid with rage and start throwing things about the room. Having said that, i’m a lapsed vegetarian who enjoys eating meat from time to time, but that’s mostly for physical reasons: meat is the only source of protein that my body can use to neutralise my moral hypocrisy.

But enough about me. This isn’t about me. This is about what’s happening on the media right now. Something bad is happening live, and the media is telling us that they will keep us up-to-date, minute-to-minute with everything bad that is happening right that minute. They have no idea what is happening and they tell me this in a variety of ways, live, minute to minute.
‘We don’t really know what’s happening.’ says the newsman.
‘Let’s cross over live to another reporter.’
‘Yep, we still don’t really know what’s happening.’ says another reporter.
All they know is basically four details:
1) Shit’s going down in a chocolate shop.
2) There’s a guy making the shit go down.
3) There are hostages.
4) Theres a black flag with squiggly writing on it hanging in the window.

‘Sydneysiders are advised to avoid the city.’ the reporter says.
Suddenly i feel something. I stand up, and stagger woozily as the full extent of the situation hits me.
‘Damn, i gotta go through the city today to get to a gig tonight. This is highly inconvenient for me.’ I think, annoyed. Just my luck. Then i realise with all this stuff going on, there’s a good chance there won’t be any ticket inspectors on public transport. Maybe potential terrorist situations have their upside. I go on the trip planner website and look up how to get to my gig. It says there are only minor delays and i won’t have to leave any earlier than normal.
Phew. I will still have time for an afternoon nap.

I go about my day, checking once in a while to see if there have been any developments. Nothing except speculation and unconfirmed reports. Apparently they say that the chocolate shop is just a decoy to draw attention away so the real terrorist attack can happen. Apparently they say there are some bombs in undisclosed locations around the city. Apparently they say that the coffee at the Lindt cafe is pretty good. Apparently they say nothing verifiable in different combinations of words repeatedly.
I can’t help but get cynical. What amazing timing for Abbott and his cronies. What an amazing political oppurtunity to seize in the wake of his rapidly declining popularity, budget cuts and general idiocy. What an amazing oppurtunity to pass more restrictive laws under the guise of national security, What an amazing oppurtunity to spread more islamophobia and anti-refugee fear. I wonder if he is behind this. This attack has all the hallmarks of incompetence that the Abbott administration has become known for. I mean this is definitely the work of a rank amateur. Taking over a chocolate shop. No confirmed bombs. And his 2 demands- an ISIS flag and a phonecall to Tony Abbott. Firstly the flag- he brought the wrong flag. This guy is not a terrorist, he is an errorist. Besides, you dont need to hold up a chocolate shop to get an ISIS flag, just go on Ebay and make a bid like everyone else you moron. This is the kind of moronic incompetence that would make him fail the ISIS entry exams if they have any. Secondly a phonecall to Tony Abbott? If you could call anyone in the world why would you pick a stuttering conversationally challenged faecal gollum like Abbott? Why wouldn’t you call Scarlett Johannssen or Stephen Hawking or even your own mother? I wonder what would he say to Abbott during said phonecall.
‘Hey Tony, okay well i’ve done everything you have asked for so you can get away with more terrible shit, what’s the next step boss?’
Ok maybe it wasn’t a set up. Maybe they just knew about it and let it happen. But while there’s many things we can’t be sure of, there’s one thing we can absolutely be sure of, and that’s that Abbott most definitely creamed his longjohns when he heard the news. He would of felt like he’d woken up in a wet dream where he was being ass-fucked with a real beheading sword and come turbans all over himself.

I get ready to go to the gig and walk to the station. Secretly thanking the suspect, I don’t bother buying a ticket. I have to head to circular quay by train to catch a ferry across the harbour. This means i will be passing right underneath where all the action is happening. This means i will be passing right through an area where there might be bombs. But i will not be cowed by one man’s actions. The thought of cancelling the gig never crossed my mind once. I’m no hero, but like all heros, I’m just a man, and like me, all heros are just men. Men like me. If the suspect is a terrorist, I will not give in to the terror he hopes to spread. If i do that, they will of won. There is a room full of people across the harbour who want -nay need – me to make them laugh. In return for sweet money. I must do it. For the money. I really need the money. I will not let that $100 fee escape me for any reason. No as-of-yet unconfirmed terrorist attack will stand between me and that sweet $100. Drugs don’t pay for themselves, and i get very irritable when i’m forced to go through withdrawal.

I’m on the train, listening to music. Really digging the tunes. Then suddenly i remember Oh yeah that’s right, i’m meant to feel terror. But there aren’t any ticket inspectors on the trains today so it’s difficult. It just seems like a regular day and no one else seems to really give a shit. We approach the dangerzone. Still no terror. Damn this inborn courage i seem to of been cursed with. If only i could feel the fear that controls the laymen, then maybe then i could become more effective at selling them things they don’t need for maximum profit. Suddenly i feel something. I feel cold and start to shiver. Is this the terror they speak of? I put on my jumper and stop shivering. False alarm. I was just cold. Suddenly i spot a man with brown skin and i wonder ‘Am i a racist to look at him longer then i normally would?’ I don’t have an answer. I wonder if he is a terrorist and what i would do if he did suddenly stand up and detonate himself. The answer seems very clear. I would die. That’s what i would do. Suddenly i realise there are quite a few brown skinned people in my carriage. They are everywhere. What are we living in a multicultural city now? What the fuck. I wouldn’t say that i feel terror. It’s more like low-level-momentary-anxiety-quickly-dispelled-by-reason, but i feel that would not make for a very catchy job description for any would-be politically motivated miscreants. ‘Oh no! It’s an extremist low-level-momentary-anxiety-quickly-dispelled-by-reasonists.’ It just doesn’t work.
As i stare at the other brown skinned people in the carriage I suddenly realise how error prone racial profiling is. I mean once you get to certain shade of brown, who the fuck knows where you’re from? You could be any number of races. Mexican, Nepalese, Spanish, Middle Eastern, Fake tan. But whatever race these people in my carriage are, I pray to Allah one of them is a terrorist, just to at least justify my growing racism. There is one in particular who definitely could be a candidate. He’s got everything you need to be a convincing terrorist suspect: brown skin, beard, that’s about it really. But it’s enough. I wonder what is going through his sick jihad infected head as we speak. I wonder what kind of sick plans of terror he is concocting to strike fear into regular people like me next. He blows his whistle to signal to the train driver to close the doors and gets back into the guard compartment. It’s the perfect cover. I stare at him and wonder why he has to be so different from me, why he had to choose to be that way. It seems unreasonable and alien why anyone would choose to be born as a different person other than me, and this thought drives me to the point where i want to cut this terrorist’s head off with a plastic souvenir sword. Suddenly a really hot girl walks by me with her ass swishing back and forth like a hypnotist’s pendulum and i forget about what I’m thinking about. I don’t mean to objectify women but i am a male with a heterosexual male sex drive i.e. I am a genetic scumbag and unlike the terrorist train guard, at least I’m willing to emptily apologise for something i cannot help being. But like it was the most perfect ass i’d seen for ages. Like not even from a gross sexual point of view, i mean this posterior belonged in the louvre like it had been carved out of marble by a gay italian dude or something. It was the kind of ass you’d want to fly a plane into. It was the kind of ass that put an end to my racist line of thought. But no, suddenly I realise i’ve been had. This is no regular ass, this ass is clearly a terrorist sent to hijack my dick. I shake my head and look away, disgusted at how an ass could develop free will and go on a cock-hijacking jihad while it’s owner remained blissfully unaware. That ass needs to wear a burkha.
We pass under the danger zone. Nothing happens. I call up the media.
‘Yo media wassup? Nothing happened yo.’ I tell them. They quickly incorporate this into their newsfeed just in a more lengthy and different combination of words.

I get off the train at Circular Quay to catch the ferry. For once it’s less crowded and easy to navigate. ‘Praise Allah!’ I exclaim loudly, glad that for once the foot traffic is free and easy. I see a few heads turn. All the train guards are definitely on heightened watch. I see them look me over in detail. To them, i could possibly be a suspect. But to me they could all be suspects. About four or five of these train guards have brown skin. That would be the perfect cover for some would-be terrorists. It’s always the least suspicious looking people who are the suspects right? I look around. No one really seems to give a shit. Everyone’s pretty lowkey and relaxed. Suddenly i realise that the only reason why they would be so relaxed would be if they were terrorists. I am surrounded on all sides by terrorists, there’s no doubt about it. I see a five year old kid. Definitely a terrorist. I see a guy walking a dog. Definitely a terrorist. I see the Schnauzer he is walking. It has a beard. Definitely a terrorist. It looks a bit like Osama Bin laden. Maybe he is alive and well and pretending to be a Schnauzer. I wouldn’t be shocked.
‘I KNOW YOU’RE NOT DEAD OSAMA!!!” i scream at it. It barks at me defensively.
Nice method acting Osama, but you don’t fool me. The jihadist dogwalker pulls Osama Bin laden away from me.

I go into a convenience store to buy a drink. There’s some really great un-reality TV show on the convenience store TV. It looks like it’s being filmed right here in Sydney. Something about a survivor style gameshow in a chocolate shop. It looks very low-budget. I quickly get bored of it’s constant unwavering pitch of hysteria. Some pundit comes on the screen.
‘The goal of these people is to bring horror into everyday life.’ he says. I don’t need terrorists for that. That happens without any help from any outside source. All i need is this head i was born with and a state of constant horror will be generated in any given place at any given time with or without some deranged teetoller with a hardon for Mohammed waving a gun in people’s faces. I stare at the news anchor and i note the same glee in his face as i saw in my housemate. This is a great story, this great for my career i read in the invisible news feed sliding across his forehead. I am filled with horror. The news cuts to an adbreak and a commercial for X factor comes on. A wave of intense horror washes over me like a hot curtain of liquid shit. An ad for a lifestyle TV show follows. The horror increases exponentially. The news comes back on and I watch the way the media covers the event like flies with cameras for eyes buzzing over a turd that they all hope might explode. I feel the horror and it makes me feel horrible. I look at the front page of the Daily telegraph on the shelf. The horror is bottomless. To distract myself, I go on my facebook feed. Someone has posted video of their kid playing with a garden hose.
There’s no doubt about it, the terrorists have won.

I get on the ferry and depart, watching the sun set over a city in chaos, consumed with fear and terror. Back on land, terrorists are taking over every square micro metre of physical space. The whole city is just a giant terror bomb chockas full of jihads about to explode. It’s pure terrifying pandemonium. The end is near. Then i realise just cause i’m on a ferry, doesnt mean I’m safe. There are people with brown skin on this boat too. It’s more to do with their tans then their race, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t a terrorist and that doesnt mean that there isn’t a bomb on this boat. I contemplate on throwing myself overboard into the sea, but then realise that there is no escape in the sea either. There could be bombs in the ocean. There could be some Islamic extremist fish down there who want to blow me up and convert me to an Islamic fish in the underwater afterlife. I don’t want to live underwater up in the clouds. It would be terribly confusing and there might be Islamic extremist flying fish up there and probably no internet connection. Suddenly, I catch sight of my reflection in the ferry window. Am i terrorist? I wonder. I have a beard and my skin is kind of brown after spending a lot of time in the sun. It all becomes very clear. Yes, I am a terrorist. I have hijacked myself and been a terrorist all along without knowing it. I feel disgusted at myself. It’s a classic example of misdirection. The terrorist was right in front of me, inside of me all along. How could i of betrayed myself like this? How could i of let Allah into my heart without noticing it? I resolve to commit a jihad on my own life and blow myself up in a public area as penance.
I look at my backpack. Perhaps I planted a bomb in there earlier. I’m too afraid to look. I reach the end point of thought and surrender myself to fate. If i go, I go. Heroically, I do nothing. But nothing is not enough, so with great heroic effort, I jut my chin forward in defiance and stay where i am on the prow of the boat. Where’s Leonardo Dicaprio to hold my waist when i need him? I must remain brave. I must go do the gig on the slim chance that i’m not a terrorist. Despite these desperate circumstances, i courageously journey on towards the gig. There are people there waiting for me, who will pay me to make them laugh. I must not let them down. I need that money. I need that money to buy drugs, because if i don’t do that, then the terrorists will have won.


A city in chaos, consumed with fear and terror


Terrorists blowing up the sun


I’m about to go onstage at the other gig run by the booker who told me that he wasn’t telling me what to do by telling me what not do. The gig is at a upmarket craft beer brewery. $40 a ticket. I’m staring at the audience through the slim gap in the curtains. All I see is an insurmountable gulf between us. Who the fuck are these people? I wonder. They look like they have financial security, keep regular hours and pay taxes. They look like they work out at the gym, are adept at making small talk and have private medical cover. They look like they contribute to society. They look like the kind of people I would never hang out with, but now I’m being paid not enough money to make them like me and laugh at me.
What kind of life is this?
The exact opposite of theirs.
They must be hiding something. No one is ever as normal as they look. There’s no such thing as normal people, only closet freaks too afraid to experiment. Maybe they suffocate black market dolphins in Chinatown for sexual pleasure. Maybe they worship the dark gods in groves full of trees fertilised with children’s blood. Maybe they dress up as giant rats in SS uniforms and run around mazes they’ve constructed in their basements for fun. Maybe they spend hours arguing with their reflection in the toilet bowl over who is more handsome. I have to stop doing that. It’s unhealthy. Unhealthy as how much dirt these freaks are hiding from the world. I narrow my gaze and uncross my eyes to facilitate spirit vision. The thin skin masks slowly drop away and the layer beneath the world of appearances reveals itself. I find myself staring at a room full of gigantic, human-sized germs, infected with themselves. They have no idea they are sick and there is no nice way to tell them this. There is no nice way to inform the malady that they are the malady and that the malady is the cure and the cure, the malady. There is no nice way to tell them that to be cured would mean total annihilation.
‘Man, i’m busting for a turd.’ The act before me says as he comes offstage and makes a direct beeline for the toilet.
I’m on next. I stare at my setlist. Is this all i have to show for myself after 11 years of comedy? Really? Is this all I got? A small worm eaten bag of cheap masturbation jokes and white hate. God, i thought i would of been better than i am by now, but i guess sometimes life doesnt work out the way you think it will when you are 18 and on ecstasy. The booker sidles up to me from out of nowhere like a pervert in the night. I look into his eyes and see dollar signs and when he looks back at me, i see these dollar signs crossed out.
‘Don’t forget…’ He tells me.
‘Right. Don’t make people cry.’ I say.
He nods. I look at my setlist of shitty jokes I’m bored of saying and shake my head. I cross them all out one-by-one, and beneath I write just one thing:

The gig goes great. I get a couple of applause breaks and everything. And no one cries. Even better. Even better than that, the gig is at a brewery and we get free booze. For once i can afford to leave myself in Perth.

PERTH ‘TOUR’ DIARY – 27/11/14

I wake up wondering whose fault it is. About everything. Eight hours pass and no conclusions are reached. It’s time for the second gig. We accidentally call two taxis from the same company and when we get into the first cab, another one pulls up alongside it and they begin to argue.
Perth has to be one of the last cities in Australia that still have white Macdonald’s employees and white cab drivers, much like the one driving the cab we are in. The second cab is being driven by a middle eastern man. They begin to argue and it culminates with our white cab driver shouting at the other driver,
‘GO HOME! GO HOME!’ Before turning around to ask us quite politely, ‘So, where can i take you guys?’
‘Anywhere but here with you.’ I wanted to say.
My set that night goes okay. Afterwards my friend tells me, ‘There was a woman in the front row who was crying during your Tony Abbott bit.’ – This bit involved me getting everyone in the room to hold hands and to use the power of ‘The Secret’ to ask the universe to manifest brain cancer in Tony Abbott’s head through guided visual meditation.
I genuinely feel bad for making someone cry because that means i have achieved ultimate failure as a comedian. Tears of sadness are the exact opposite of the desired reaction comedy hopes to create and i am forced to think about the consequences of my actions. I reach three possible explanations.

1. The lady really loved Tony Abbott (in which case it’s okay to make her cry)
2. The lady had had someone she knew die of brain cancer who reminded her a lot of Tony Abbott (in which case it’s questionable to make her cry)
3. She was Asian and was so embarassed to share the same race as me that she burst into tears (in which case it’s understandable to cry)

After the show, the organiser asks to have a word with me.
‘Nick, never ever do that Tony Abbott cancer bit at any of my rooms again. ‘ He said.
‘Ummm ok.’ I replied.
‘Now, I’m not telling you what to do…’
‘Well you are telling me what to do…’ I interjected.
‘Well I don’t want to tell you what to do…’
‘Well you are, telling me what not to do is still telling me what to do-‘
‘Well… What? Look just focus on the lighter pallette of your act, can you do that for me?’
‘I will try.’
‘Also i don’t want to tell you what to do…’
‘You already have.’
‘You said, ‘cunt’ too much. Less ‘cunts’ please.’
‘Less cunts. Got it.’

When I leave the backstage area to get a glass of water, a girl comes up to talk to me. She liked my act. I like anyone who likes my act. I don’t like my act. She is Pakistani and very beautiful. So beautiful it’s beyond physical. It’s mythical. No make-up. Lithe as a cheetah. Eyes with no bottom you could happily plunge to your death down. She was the one. I was sure of it. Only she alone could save me. Only she alone could heal the cracks in my soul. She was the kind of rare beauty that made you inadvertantly watch an entire fantasy life you’d share together unfurl before you mind’s eye while you casually chatted to her about mundane matters. While she talked to me about her job in retail, in my mind’s eye, we were under a pecan tree on our first date. Fragrant blossoms floated in the breeze, softly lit by the golden afternoon sun. ‘Don’t worry, i don’t want children either.’ She whispers as she leans in close. Her soft lips give into mine and everything dissappears. While she told me how many cocktails she’d already had, in my mind’s eye I was holding her waist tightly as she rode a jetski with her feet out of an exploding, low-flying blimp with an uzi in each hand, shooting at the many hang gliding terrorists all around us trying to hijack our love, hitting the ocean at an angle that did not muss our impeccably styled hair. While she told me about her boyfriend, in my mind’s eye i was slowly raising a scimitar above her boyfriend’s head while she, in a flowery summer mini-burkha, whispers into my ear, ‘Do it. I just want to be with the comedian who makes asian women cry.’ As i am about to plunge the sword into her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s supple neck, he throws the blackhood off and turns to look up at me. I find myself staring back at myself.
‘Don’t do it! I am you! She’s a mirage that will dissappate on the horizon. She will always remain the same distance away from you!’
‘SHUT UP AND DIE FOR LOVE!!’ I scream, cleaving my head from my neck. I feel my head hit the ground and see the sky rolling around above me. Laughing, she turns to heatwaves and is gone.
‘Who the fuck is this?’ Her boyfriend asks, returning from the bathroom.
‘A mirage who think’s he’s solid.’ I say.
‘Oh… He’s the comedian.’ She replies.
‘Oh yeah… They guy who made that woman next to us cry… Nice stuff…’
He turns to the myth in flesh standing beside him,
‘Ok, let’s go.’
They both turn to heat waves and are gone.

PERTH ‘TOUR’ DIARY – 26/11/14

It’s time to head to my first gig. I have my setlist ready but i’m undecided about one of my main bits about several racist incidents that happened last time i was here in Perth. This was the main reason why i grew to hate Perth last time i was around. To be fair, I never had any problems here up until Abbott got into power and i grew my hair and beard out again so who knows who’s to blame, but it’s definitely not my fault. I wonder if the crowd here will appreciate me telling them that they live in a racist fuckhole. But what i do know is that a lot of racist people don’t think they are racist and take it as an insult when you inform them that they are. Calling someone ‘racist’ is at times almost as bad as calling an ethnic minority a racial slur. I pray for the day here when racist becomes the new black and the term ‘bigot’ becomes as loaded as the term, ‘faggot’ and Ku Klux Klansmen begin to replace the black girls with big badonkadonk booties in hiphop videos.
On my last visit here, i’d have some weird racist encounter happen every other day both in the street or at a gig. By the end of my stay, i was so conditioned into expecting some form of racism that I became noticeably upset when none manifested. I’d become addicted to being discriminated against. I craved the sweet hit of self-righteous euphoria at being wronged and when it didn’t happen i’d scratch the skin off my forearms from withdrawal.
Two incidents from the last visit are quickly detailed below:

1. A woman booed me as soon as i got onstage and informed the crowd that i didn’t have any asian jokes. At that point in the ‘tour’ this had become my opening line, before i launched into an act that by that point revolved mostly around white hate which i didn’t even get to because a shouting match erupted between herself and I, ending with her throwing a glass of drink at me. The joke i wrote about this incident ended in a tagline detailing how we hatefuck in a ditch outside.
Months later, I did this bit at a left-wing fundraiser gig and afterwards I was informed by the organiser that i had made women in the crowd relive rape. I was a bit weirded out because:
1. It was a consented hatefuck in the joke- not a rape.
2. It was a joke and it never actually happened- I never hatefucked anyone in a ditch- I had just made it up.
3. The fictional act in the fictional joke happened to a real and extremely racist woman that these other women seemed to of identified with.
But, while I don’t like someone telling me what to do, i also don’t want to be a comedian who makes people relive sexual assault during his act, so i changed the woman in the joke to a man, and this actually made the bit get bigger laughs.
I learned an important lesson that day:
Man hatefucking racist woman = Not funny.
Man hatefucking racist man = Funny.

2. I was in a pub restaurant before a gig eating a steak dinner. The only people there were me and a table of three middle-aged caucasian Australians, two women and a man. As i tucked into my steak i suddenly overheard them saying in a bad generic asian accent ‘He velly hungly! he velly hungly man! So hungly that hungly man.’
My first instinct was to shoot back, ‘Speak fucking English you immigrant scum.’ but instead i held my tongue and enjoyed the hot, intoxicating waves of racial discrimination flood my pleasure receptors while i ate. The bad accent comments about my eating habits continued and eventually i decided to confront them.
‘Hi guys like… What the fuck?’
They seemed a bit surprised that i spoke English in an accent that didn’t resemble their terrible accent.
‘Where you from?’ One of the women asked.
‘No… Where are you really from.’
Sighing, i reeled off my standard rollerdeck answer:
‘Grandmother’s Tibetan Grandfather’s Chinese parent’s grew up in a part of Nepal thats now India I was born in Australia wasn’t taught my parent’s language I don’t believe in countries i dont identify with any particular place.’
They just stared me and i could hear them say in their heads,
‘What kind of chink is that? ‘ But maybe that was just in my head.
‘Well… Then you’re Australian aren’t you?’ One of the ladies said.
‘No. God no.’ I replied.
‘What do you mean? You were born here. You’re Australian.’
‘Sure, I was born here but i don’t feel Australian and I don’t want to be Australian.’
‘Why not?’ the man asked visibly offended.
‘Because i don’t want to be a part of a country where half the people hate me cause of the way i look.’ I replied. I also wanted to add, ‘And where people make weird racists accents at you while you try and eat a steak.’ but with the incident where the woman threw the glass at me still fresh in my mind, i decided to hold back until further provocation.
They stopped talking to me and i finished my meal in silence.
Victory was mine.

To be fair, these are all minor quibbles.
At least i don’t get shot by cops for having an energy drink.

Long story short, I tell the crowd that night they live in a racist fuckhole.
Half of them laugh, half of them are racist fuckholes.

PERTH ‘TOUR’ DIARY – 25/11/14

Dear Diary, I don’t hate Perth, but after six hours of flying you just expect something more. If you flew for six hours from anywhere else in the world, you’d step off the plane in a different land with different people of a different culture, but when you step off the plane in Perth everything looks the same as everywhere else in Australia, only more dilute and spread out.
I promised never to return last time i was here, but against better judgement and short term memory loss i organised a short ‘tour’ for one reason: Money. I came back for the sweet, sweet mining money robbed from the raped earth and filtered through the many successive pockets and eventually into mine. Unfortunately in Perth my pockets have huge holes in them, as i’d neglected to remember exactly how expensive it is. As soon as i arrive, i embark on a rapid weight loss diet- otherwise known as paying for food in Perth and a rapid detox plan- otherwise known as paying for drinks in Perth. The average price for a 375ml bottle of beer here is $10 – How am i supposed to forget that I’m me for the next 16 days? How am i supposed to forget that this me is in Perth for the next 16 days?
After purchasing a gourmet takeaway meal of hoummous and bread from a fancy restaurant otherwise known as the supermarket, I dine alfresco in the dirt of a local park. I take out a napkin and with the blood from my eyes as ink, do some quick math.
Total gig money: $2200
Costs: $450(return flight) + $400 (rent while im away) + $500 (living costs) + $50 (pot).
Profit: $800.00
I’m on $400 a week, slightly less than what i made at the call centre i worked in last year.
I wish i had done these sums before i booked these gigs.
Fuck this.
Fuck Perth.


I was doing this shitty gig in the nineteenth circle of hell and afterwards another comedian offered me a lift back into town. I agreed and got into the car but it soon became clear that he was smashed.
‘Say have you been drinking?’ I asked him.
‘I’ve only had five… eight beers… I’m fine.’ He said.
‘Hmmm I don’t know about this.’
‘Well you can catch the train if you want.’
‘Yeah I think i might do that.’ I said, opening the car door.
‘Station’s about a 10 minute walk that way.’ he said.
I closed the car door and put my seatbelt on. He pulled out a bong stashed in the side of his car door, lit the first of the pre-loaded six-shooter conepiece and inhaled deeply.
‘Say, are you smoking bongs as well now?’ I asked him.
He shook his head while holding his breath, before exhaling a plume of weed smoke directly into my face.
‘No.’ He said.
‘You want one?’ he offered.
‘I don’t know, I think I want to experience death straight.’ I said.
‘You sure?’ He asked, coughing and waving the bong at me. I stared at it. It would be safer if he didn’t have them all. Soon all 6 cone pieces were empty.
He turned on the engine.
‘Right, let’s do… Uhh what?’ He slurred.
‘Death… Let’s do death you mean.’ I said, but as we pulled out of the carpark, Dire Straits came on the radio and I knew everything was going to be alright.
‘Yeah baby!’ He said, turning it up.
‘Yeah baby!’ I said.

The car ride was the greatest car ride of my life. We were so close to death several times it reminded me of what it meant to be alive.
As we accidentally ran a second red light with my head out the window, I stared at the stars swerving above me.
‘WOOHOO!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs.
‘HAHAHA!’ My friend hooted, beeping the horn.

One false move we would be a part of history too unimportant to even be recorded. Suffice to say, there would be no books written about us. There wouldn’t even be anywhere they would keep the books that weren’t written about us that one could go to not read about the very little we had done. As the stars streaked across the black, it occurred to me that the vast majority of history was made up of things far too insignificant to remember, let alone qualify a mention in the records. Like how on Wednesday August 4th, 1728, at 10:28am in the morning, in Surrey, England, Martha Wodensley hung her washing on the piece of rope strung between two hazel trees in the yard and then took it in 43 minutes later on due to sudden rainstorm, pausing to shake her head at the grey skies and falling rain with her arm around her washing basket before disappearing inside her stone house. Or how on December the 16th 349 AD, in what is now known as Equatorial Guinea, Fenrath Floozilligon accidentally cut himself on the palm while picking some wild blackberries on his way to the slavemarkets, and swore under his breath everytime he unclenched his cut fist. Or how on August 3rd, 40030299983 BC in what is now known as Gondwanaland, Mike Steeden got some bug dung on his white tennis shoes after a lying again to his wife about the number of affairs he’d had in his secret houseboat. And what about all those good times people had over the thousands of years of human civilisation, across all continents? What about them? Whatever happened to all the good times man? Did they just disappear and evaporate? Every day was a totally unique event, never to be repeated again, and eventually there would be no one around left to give a shit.

We stopped for Mcdonald’s drive thru. I was trying to be vegetarian again, but after the exhilaration of driving shotgun under the influence, I needed to eat some death.
My comedian friend was convinced that you could get a double-double-quarter pounder and was confusing the person taking the orders through the speaker box.
‘I want a Pounder.’ He kept saying.
‘What?’ She kept saying back.
‘A pounder, a one pounder.’ He’d reply.
‘A double double quarter pounder. A double double quarter pounder!’ He’d say exasperated.
‘You want two double quarter pounders?’ she kept replying.
‘No a double-double quarter pounder- a pounder!’ He said.
It went on.
A line of cars had accumulated behind us. Eventually we settled for a large double quarter pounder meal each. I got a vanilla thickshake instead of water. Diets seemed redundant when ordering your last meal.
We were back on the road, over the speed limit, chewing on our fat burgers in silence. It was the first meat that had touched my lips in a year. It was easily in the top five best meals of my life.
My friend ran another red light while trying to grab some chips.
‘Watch it man… You’re gonna get us killed.’ I said.
‘You worry about death too much. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Just enjoy how great this burger is right now.’
‘Well don’t forget there are other people on the roads who aren’t us you know, we could be putting them in danger too.’
‘Fuckem.’ He said.
‘Fuckem? That’s it? That’s your argument?’
‘Yeah. Fuckem. Maybe they’re assholes. Maybe killing them would be a good thing. Maybe they hit their wives or something or are racist.‘
‘Maybe they’re good people.’
‘Maybe they are. So what? I’d rather not think about it. Besides, who cares? good or bad, they gotta die too. We all gotta die. Either now or later. Fuckem. Fuckit.’
So what.
Fuckem. Fuckit.

I sat in the car seat totally still, yet moving at an incredible velocity through the night, eating my burger and watching the lights streak the wet streets, feeling for the first time in a long time, totally serene.


A collection of short pieces that are the final visions at point of death of a man who shoots himself in the head with anti-aircraft missile launcher.

The world’s clumsiest hitman is sent on a mission to kill the president of the world on a houseboat during a storm at sea.

A popular new designer drug floods the streets. Synthesised from the spontaneously defecated faeces of celebrity suicides, Di-foxy-Beiber-nicknolte hydrate – known by it’s street name ‘Fame’ – makes it’s users feel rich, famous and powerful for eight hours. The comedowns however are particularly harsh, creating extreme feelings of anonymity and worthlessness within the user upon withdrawal which can only be ameliorated through suicide by shopping oneself to death and/or shooting oneself in the head with an anti-aircraft missile launcher.

A new style of child rearing become popular involving purposefully traumatising children so that they become immune to the horror in the world.

A new style of child rearing becomes popular involving purposefully traumatising children in highly specific ways to make them predisposed towards certain paths in life. Eg. A successful musician is created by leaving the baby in an electrified room with a small hatch that leads to a non-electrified room full of musical instruments.

A man asks a woman out on a date and she refuses, so he goes on a hunger strike until she gives in. She does not give in. Eventually he realises he doesnt love her that much, gives up and ends the hunger strike only to die of food poisoning after eating a slightly expired tuna roll- his first meal in two months.

A writer builds his perfect girlfriend completely out of words but she turns out to be illiterate and they dont have too much in common. The relationship lasts about three days before she deletes him in his sleep.

A quantum physicist wins the gold medal at the World Small talk Championships by discussing at great length sub atomic particles and string theory. After a brief feeling of triumph he goes home and sits alone in his room in the dark and weeps for reasons he cannot understand.

Spontaneous human combustion becomes a fashionable past time for the rich and famous. What starts out as a networking technique and party trick becomes a highly effective way of leaving bad conversations. Fire extinguishers become all the rage.

A human is born with a shiny, red self-destruct button installed on his head. He is raised with strict instructions not to press it. When asking for a reason he is told that he will explode. Eventually on his 21st birthday, he cannot but help press the button. Nothing happens. On his deathbed, he realises the explosion was actually just the very mediocre life he ended up living, just in slow motion and dies crying, only to be reborn as a deep sea octopus.

A man tries to murder his inner critic by behaving in such a reprehensibly unstylish way that his inner critic’s critical faculty is overwhelmed and he explodes in a rain of blood and tiny flesh particles. The man no longer knows what is good or bad anymore but it doesn’t really matter and carries on living not necessarily happier than before, just different.

A romantic comedy between two intensely ugly people who meet at the World’s Ugliest Person Award’s ceremony. They are so ugly their ugliness kills any living thing within a five mile radius and they must be kept heat sealed in titanium isolation tanks. They accidentally meet while having their water changed by blind androids and they fall in love and end up having a baby who is so ugly its ugliness destroys the world. Eventually it finds someone who can love it for what it is and they live happily ever after in the eternal void of space.

It is discovered by a water shrimp that the point is to live as full of a life as possible, filled with as many varied experiences as possible so you have the longest, most interesting movie to watch back when you die. The water shrimp then becomes a successful businessman and turns out to be wrong.

A genius physicist and convicted narcissistic paedophile builds a time machine so he can go back in time to molest himself so as to keep his shameful problem a self contained matter. He is given an award for both physics and another one for his service to the community.

A man downloads himself onto the internet via a webcam taped to a toaster with the intent to kill his facebook self and then start again somewhere else as someone new. After poking his facebook self to death, he winds up in the cyber-afterlife which turns out to be an infinite social media site where you exist as a non-physical status update/tweet/instagram/meme generator, who has to generate said updates to continuing existing. Everyone tweets happily ever after.

A man trapped inside a different man riddled with anxiety and depression has his amygdala and tear ducts removed so he can’t be afraid or sad anymore. He becomes a hero but ends up getting very dry eyes that irritate him constantly and then gets eaten by a lion, forgetting that fear serves an important survival function. His remains are defecated out onto the serengeti plains and in turn, become nutrients for other organisms lower down on the foodchain.

Gay white muslim terrorists create a new kind of highly addictive drug that turns people gay for a few hours and begins spiking the water supply of major cities. Average respectable civilians wake up in the seedy basements of gay fuck clubs in compromising positions. The terrorists then spike a UN convention turning it into a massive bukake squirt fuck party. After the drug wears off, everyone realises they would rather be gay and the drug becomes widely available and the world turns into one big neverending gay bukake squirt fuck party.

People begin to suffer PTSD from an absence of any trauma. The only way to treat it is to play trust games at gunpoint on a merry go round. The success rate however is only 22% and the sole research team investigating treatment methods loses it’s government funding. They are forced to abandon their investigations and most ending up pursuing different careers altogether, learning to live with the many arrows life hurls at them with aplomb.

Human civilization is brought to its knees by biological warfare. The only survivors are third world ghetto dwellers and plumbers, who have both strong immune systems from their poor hygene and constant contact with faeces. A new world dawns, dominated by shanty towns that stretch endlessly into the distance that all have pretty good plumbing, especially in the houses where the plumbers live.


I ran a gig recently that was a weed comedy night. By ‘ran’ i mean i just sent a group facebook message around saying, ‘Hey lets get high together in this warehouse and do a show.’ It sounded good in theory, but the main problem was that all the performers were too high to perform. Duh. The last thing you want when you are really high is a raised stage, a microphone and a bunch of really high people staring at you with expectations of being entertained. The show quickly degenerated into a cavalcade of panic attacks on an elevated stage that formed an obstacle to everyone’s good time. When we finally ended the night, a collective sigh of relief emanated through the room and the session continued.

By the time we got kicked out of the venue, i was ripped out of my senses. I decided to ride home on my bike. By ride, i mean walking the bike up the hills and then riding down them while singing improvised songs to myself. I was close to home when i passed a half open pizza box sitting on a bench. I dont know why i stopped, i guess old dumpster diving habits die hard. I looked in the pizza box. Amongst the half eaten crusts was four slices of cold pizza. I heard some people approaching and hurriedly half-crushed the box into my bag just as they entered my view and rode away like a pervert fleeing a crime scene. I got home. My housemates lights were on. I couldn’t stand the idea of having to explain myself to her, so i rode down an alleyway and decided to eat the pizza there. I put the box on a garbage bin and opened it up. The pizza was cold and of poor quality. It was just cheap cheese, a soggy bread base and bad quality tomato sauce. I ate it anyway. It tasted the way it looked. It tasted like shit. I kept eating. I wasn’t even hungry but I finished it. I threw the box into the bin it was on and went home. As i lay on my bed ashamed of myself, trying to forget about what i just did, i got paranoid that maybe some rats had found the pizza before i had and had nibbled on the pizza and spread their filthy black plague rat germs all over it and i freaked out and brushed my teeth three times. Then i lay back in bed, got paranoid again, got out of my bed and brushed my teeth another three times, rinsing my mouth out with scotch whisky, which was the closest thing i had to mouthwash in the house. Due to my panic-induced multiple brushings, i’d succeeded in scraping the layer of enamel off of my teeth and as i lay in a bed of shame with an throbbing, aching, whisky burn mouth, I promised to myself never to risk eating another half eaten pizza I’d found on the street unless it was at least of a somewhat higher quality.