- A story about a living sentient story in search of a happy ending. It looks everywhere for one, but as it’s it’s own author, it has a certain tendency to write terrible endings where bad things happen and everything goes wrong and stays wrong.
It is semi-autobiographical.
Every time it gets to a seemingly happy point, there is some kind of catch or random disaster that ruins it, forcing it to move on and continue. On and on it goes, unable to get to the happy ending.
‘Perhaps it’s the journey that counts, that leaves footprints in words across the pages.’ It wonders, as it huddles in the shadows that grow long across a snow clad landscape colder than the moon.
The story grows but leans nothing, becoming delerious and thin.
It begins to run out of things to happen.
It becomes lost for words.
It must find a way to continue soon or face extinction.
It journeys far and wide, and eventually journeys back into it’s past to it’s source, the mother of all stories.
Where all potential stories exist in a quantum state or something.
Telling each other to each other into infinite, their shapes indistinct and endless.
Theses stories require a channel and an audience to make them real, without which they cannot exist.
They are without names or value judgements..
The mother of all stories resembles a fleshy glandular sack that hangs in the sky at an awkward angle, pinned to nothing, but held in place by imagination.
Stories sporadically drip from an opening at the bottom into the mouths of ibises that fly away to deliver them to waiting ears and eyes.
The story asks it’s mother for a nice ending but the mother does not answer only continues to secret further children.
It attempts to re-enter the mother’s womb but cannot fit back up the opening, having grown too large.
And so the store is forced to wait and watch the process unfold again and again, realising that the only happy ending is to keep on going forever cataloguing new things it sees and despite the occasional rest break, to take some nice photographs, and to never stop because there are no happy endings, just a nice point where the words run out and stop.
The last two words are, ‘The End??’.


I was at an up market gourmet bakery.
The couple in front of me were arguing over what to get.
‘You should try the ginger crème brulee tart, it’s really, really good.’ I suggested in a friendly manner.
He turned around to look at me.
‘Well my standards for creme brulee are quite high, I was in Paris only two days ago.’ He said.
‘Well my standards for fuckwits is quite low and I was talking to one only just then.’ I didn’t say.

Then I just stood there, hating and waiting for my ginger crème brulee tart, wondering how Jesus managed to love everyone, and then I realised it was because he’d never met everyone and also because he probably never existed in the first place.


I want to write a happy story with no conflict where everything ends happily and nothing bad ever happens but I couldn’t be bothered.


I am a Holocaust denier denier.


Imagine being bjork.
Imagine imagine being bjork.


Back in 2006, I went to India and sat on the banks of the Ganges and watched dead bodies burn on huge piles of wood and all I could think of was roasting marshmallows in the funeral pyre and maybe even sticking a potato wrapped in foil or two in there as well.

Then I had a debate in my head whether the burning flesh taste would compliment the savoury potatoes better than the sweet marshmallows. Marshmallows, obviously.


Psychoanalysis Man: He psychoanalyses criminals and forces them to have extremely cathartic breakdowns that make them realise the reasons behind their actions and in turn, they reform and become constructive members of society.


I am an anti-anti semite.


This guy stayed in my share house recently and I didn’t like him and I tried to figure out why, but the only reason I could find was that I didn’t like him because I couldn’t find a good enough reason to dislike him.
Also, I didn’t like the shape of his forehead. And he had stupid looking lips.


My flatmate’s friend came over to my house and asked me if he could borrow my drum. I’m usually pretty reticent to lend my things out to strangers, but I let him take it. When he left I realised I really liked him, even though I had just met him and I couldn’t work out why. After a lot of deep thought, all I could come up with was that he had a really cool sounding name, ‘Jafari’ and was from Tanzania and I didn’t know many African people and I had always wanted an African person to like me.


My friend showed me a viral video of a goat climbing a wall.
It had over one million hits.
I went to the clip of my stupid standup act I’d posted earlier in the year.
It had 52 hits.
I came to the conclusion that people would rather watch a goat climbing a wall than my act.
Then I watched the clip and I realised I would rather watch a goat climbing a wall than my act.


To the hot (relatively) young (relatively) people who show me what I no longer have (but when I did I was too stupid to realise it was a lie):



Spirits are waiting to be born into flesh bodies in the material world, but there is a massive queue, so they end up trying to illegally immigrate into the material world by hijacking baby’s bodies who are not yet inhabited by a personality, leading to all sorts of hilarious mismatches between physical body types and souls.

Eg. The spirit of an ex Aryan Neo Nazi death camp commandant is born into the body of a short, fat jewish lady, or the spirit of a rabid paedophile is reborn into the body of a retarded flipper child with hands that are too deformed to touch itself.


I keep seeing these girls in the street who are so beautiful they make me feel a combination of intense desire and frustration that then turns into pure disgust at everything in general.
Sometimes I catch myself making this weird involuntary noise like,

One time I saw this one girl who was so beautiful and perfect I couldn’t look at her directly because the more I looked at her, the uglier I became.

I felt like approaching her and whispering through a megaphone,

I can’t wait till she’s too old for me to desire her any longer.
I can’t wait till I’m too old to desire anything any more.


This one time I did this festival in some English small town called Oxfordinglyhamburybridgeshire or some shit.
Everyone there was like either 47 years old or 1-13 years old.
And then there were my four friends and I aged 29-31.
I went in there expecting some kind of drugged out hippy festival and had packed accordingly.
Nothing in my backpack was functional.
All my clothes were stupid costumes.
And I had this tail. It was all misshapen and lumpy and sticky from being dragged in various puddles of stuff.
I didn’t wear it this festival.
In the end I threw it on the fire.
Watched it burn.

It was on the grounds of a Sannyassins owned commune/retreat.
You know the Orange people?
They were big in the 60’s.
I’d never met any before but I was a fan of their enlightened master Osho.
He had these clear dreamy eyes and a wicked sense of humour.
Then the cult tried to poison the oregon water supply back in the 1980’s and everything went to shit.

We camped next to this sheep paddock and at the break of dawn the next morning we were woken up by the sheep.
They would go. For hours on end. One after the other like some demented roll call.
Each had their own distinct ‘Baaa’. No two were alike. And judging by the way some of them sounded, I think there were more than a few retards in the flock.

I couldn’t get back to sleep so I got up and spent the next few hours staring at the sheep, half-asleep, wondering what it would feel like to exist without a sense of history dragging you down but then I would counter-think ‘who am I to say what sheep think?’.
Who is anyone to think what others think?

By the second day they were driving us all crazy because we’d inevitably fall asleep in our tents at about 4am in a booze and pot haze only to be woken up by the sheep roll call just as our brains clicked into REM.
Finally I snapped.
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ I shouted in my tent.
‘BAA-AA…’ They continued.
They continued to baa and I continued to repeat the phrase,
Although a few times I alternated it with,
It was a weird vibe.

I was one of the only three non-white people there.
I don’t trust English country people.
I’ve seen the movies.
You know the ones where they stick the outsider in some kind of burning wicker contraption full of pitchfork-weilding birds that relentlessly peck him to death?
I am a six foot 3 inch asian male who at the time had a wispy beard down to my chest and hair that went all the way down my back.
I was prime candidate for the role of that outsider.
I was a shoe-in.
I may as well of had the word ‘SCAPEGOAT’ slathered across my face in black tar paint.


I felt self-conscious walking around.
English country people have these beady eyes that just stare at you like opaque buttons and when you stare into them, you can’t tell whether they are thinking of baking scones or how and when they plan to kill you.
All you see is your own fears reflected back in them.
All you see is a stalemate of your xenophobia of them being xenophobic.
The English country side is really beautiful though.

Later, I was lying on my back smoking a joint and staring at the sky. Life was great.
I heard some noises nearby and I looked over to see two small boys about 8 yrs old approaching my vague area.
They looked at me with their opaque beady eyes.
I looked at their opaque beady eyes look at me.
I saw nothing.

‘See that man?’ said the first boy.
‘Yeah?’ said the second boy.
‘You hate that man.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘Because he looks different from us.’

Kids say the darnedest things.

‘Hey I’m right here!’ I said.
‘What?’ They said.
‘I’m right here! I can hear you!’

Two pairs of beady eyes full of nothing staring back at me.

‘Are you having a nice day?’ I continued.
‘You mean what’s left of the day.’ Said the first boy.
‘It’s the afternoon, so have a nice what’s left of the day.’ The first boy said.
‘Right…’ I said confused.
They walked away, leaving me to think about what had just happened for the next three hours.
It had started off xenophobic and ended like a zen koan.
But their xenophobic statements were so disarmingly innocent and naïve I found it charming. It was the most adorable form of racism I had ever encountered.
One day they would grow up to be fantastic neo-nazis.
It made me want to molest them now while I still had strength and size on my side.

I was down for hosting the open mic gig later that night.
I was Mcing the second half and I didn’t know what to expect so I thought I should go check it out.
I went into the main tent and the crowd was pretty much half middle aged parents and half children aged between 5-12.
It was an open invitation to anyone who wanted to perform.
Quite a few kids got up and did their thing.
It was a joy to watch them because they were joyful.
They were all amazing in their lack of self-concioussness and purity.
It was the same purity that I had seen in the two racist boys I had encountered earlier in the day.
Perhaps the paedophiliac urge is really just a frustrated yearning for that lost innocence, I thought.
Oh god I’m poeticising paedophilia, I thought.
Breathing heavily in darkness, I went back to watching the kids.

Then one by one, the adults came on with their musical instruments and their mid-life crises.
They each played for like half an hour. Soaking up the stage time and the life force and the oppurtunity of a captive audience that were finally unable to escape them, chained to their chairs by politeness.
They bludgeoned us into submission with desperately impassioned renditions of songs that were popular when they were young.
Odes to the rockstar dreams they had sacraficed on the altar of something.
I looked at the kids and then at the adults.
What happens to us?
Why do we fall so far?
I looked at the kids and then at the adults.
Inevitably one would to turn into the other and get ruined in the process.
But not me man. No way. I’m staying in Never-never land forever. I am Rufio. Before he gets stabbed. Then I’m tinkerbell sitting on a dew drop and feeling my fairy tits.

I looked at my setlist of jokes I was planning to do.
This is what it looked like:

- England sucks
- English people are dicks
- Dogs are better than babies
- Voice in my head telling me to push a lady down the stairs
- Eating a meatball marinara subway made me look like I’d gone down on a homeless lady
- Mock executions are the best worst/ worst best practical jokes
- English country people and their opaque beady eyes
- English children are racist
- Rape rapists
- Time travelling paedophile going back in time to fuck hitler when he was a baby would be okay
- My career isn’t going well
- Why do you hate me?
- What do you mean why do I hate me?
- Wouldn’t it be cool if you could shoot blood out of your eyes onto annoying people’s faces?
- They lied to me

I looked out at all the children’s faces, glowing brightly like candles in the darkness being illuminated by the actual candles that were on the tables in front of them.
I looked once more at my setlist.
This would not do.
I would not be that man in their lives…
At least not by choice, this time.
I needed a backup plan.

I didn’t have one, so instead I just went back to my tent and took an E.

I was coming up pretty hard by the time I got onstage but because I had been in my tent taking E, no one had told me that the fat neurotic midlife crisis failed folk singer turned frustrated mother of three singing joni mitchell had decided to do three extra swansongs, so I bounded onstage at the wrong time with my eyes bouncing around in my skull like pinballs shooting out lightning bolts and grabbed the mic off her thinking she was leaving but instead she just stayed and said with the kind of offended tone of someone who’d just had their limelight turned into a blackhole,
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh sorry aren’t you done?’ I said.
‘No!’ she replied annoyed.
There was an uneasy moment where I was just standing there in the hot lights, unsure what to do.
I thought she was just refusing to get offstage and it was my task to physically remove her.
This had not been in the contract.
‘Nick she’s doing some extra songs!’ My friend hissed at me from the side of stage.
‘Oh… My bad.’ I said, dismounting.
The crowd laughed but then she restarted the song that I had interrupted and we all realised we were once more hostages to her funeral dirge of youth murdered by time.

Just don’t swear, just don’t swear, just don’t swear etc…
I thought, waiting for her life force to decline to the point where it could no longer sustain the crisis that was propelling her through time and space.

She finished.
I got onstage.
I can’t remember exactly what I said or did and even if I did, I don’t really want to talk about how great a gig went and how great I was in graphic detail because I don’t want to sound like a fucking tosser, but yeah the gig went amazing.

I only swore once. I was trying to get the kids to fight each other for the parent’s money and when I realised it probably wasn’t going to happen casue they thought I was joking, I said, ‘Shit’.

There is something to be said for performing on ecstasy. It is truly one of the most awesome performance enhancing drugs known to mankind if mankind was comprised solely of me. The trick is to get the balance right. Too much and you’re just some convulsing zombie with your eyes rolling back in your head as your jaw tries to chew itself off in a bid for freedom from the rest of your body as the audience loses faith in you and shake their heads and look at you like you got some kind of problem.

But a mild dose taken at the right time and you and the crowd become one big contact high, riding wave after rolling wave of blissful communion.

Or maybe I was just high.

But it wasn’t just that, because at one point, one of the kids- who later developed an intense attachment to me(I can’t remember his name)- stood up and pointed his finger at me and yelled,

That tag kind of stuck and for the rest of the festival I was known as Cool Man, by both children and adults alike.

But as I was to learn the next day, fame is a double-edged sword and with power comes great responsibility or some shit. Especially amongst children, where you are automatically thrust into the position role model whether you like it or not.

I don’t know if you can fully grasp the horror of being swarmed by a group of 15 children between the ages of 6-13 while being stoned out of your paradigm.
Kids, kids, kids everywhere.
‘Cool Man! Cool Man!’ They chirped at me.
‘Cool Man isn’t feeling very cool right now man…’ I mumbled, bits of food falling out of my ripped face.
‘Cool Man! Cool Man! Come play with us!’ They demanded.
Well shit at least they weren’t throwing xenophobic zen koans at me anymore I thought.
Still in some ways perhaps I preferred that kind of treatment.
It was a lot less invasive.
I reminisced about those two boys who had victimised me earlier, thinking back to the good old days when I was just a representative of the hostile unknown.

On the last night there was some kind of disco in the main house. The kids swarmed around me and demanded that I play with them.
I spent the next two hours having a pillowfight with children on e.
Every time they hit me hard in the face I was in heaven.
I was headbutting clouds.
I became convinced that I had stumbled upon some kind of new new-age therapy that would make me jongazillions.
Frustrated business men and bored housewives would pay big bucks to regress into a chemical paradise and have children whack them hard in the face with soft pillows.

And then at irregular intervals a piercing siren would blare and we’d hit them with tasers just to remind them of all the pain in the world.

The effects of 3 days of sheep interrupted sleep hit me and I suddenly got tired. I decided to go back to my tent and smoke myself into an antisocial stupor in the night fields.
I tried to work out an exit strategy.
‘Cool man needs to go to the bathroom kids.’ I said, planning to give them the old slipperooni.
‘We’ll come too Cool Man!!’ Said the boy who really loved me who’s name I cant remember I think it was like Billy or Sammy or Jimmy or Jammy or some shit.
‘Yeah we’ll all go to the bathroom with Cool Man, Cool man!’ Said the another.
‘Yeah let’s all go to the toilet with Cool Man, Cool Man!’ said the others.
‘Uhhh… I don’t think Cool Man would be down with that.’ Cool Man said.
‘Cool Man needs some alone time.’ Cool man said.
They protested loudly. They had called my bluff. There was no way out. Now I had to go to the toilet even though I didn’t need or want to. I headed towards the toilet with about six children between the ages of 5-10 following behind me.
This looks bad, I thought.
I must look like the pied paedo piper or some shit, I thought.
It didn’t help that I was aware of how bad this looked because it just made me act and look suspicious.
I looked furtively around as I entered the bathroom with six children in tow.
All I could hear in my head on a loop was:
Paedo piper, Paedo piper, Paedo piper…

I walked into the toilet stall.
Billy or Jimmy or Sammy or Silly and his sister tried to come into the stall with me.
Please believe me your honour.

‘Oh no, you can’t come in here.’ I said. I was drawing the line. As much as it was against the Cool Man ethos to draw boundaries, sometimes the law can make authority figures out of all us.

I shut the door and hid.
I could hear the kids playing in the sink.

Maybe I should try and pee I thought.
But I didn’t want to pee. So I just stood there with my dick out trying to pee while six children between the ages of 6-10 played with the water in the sink on the other side of my weak, rusty hinged door.
I didn’t want to be a celebrity anymore.
I stood there trying to work out how this had happened and all I could see in my head in huge bold letters was the newspaper headline:

Be cool, Cool Man. Keep it together.

I heard the bathroom door open.
It was one of the parents.

‘Uhhh… Is… I-Is ev-everything uhh… O-Ok???’ I heard her voice quaver.

Look, I can understand parental worry and that it’s always better to be safe then sorry but still, it was insulting.
I mean come on…
Cool Man does not touch kids.
I guess you could say that was Cool Man’s one and only motto,
‘Cool Man says, Don’t touch kids.’
I mean you know unless it’s a kid who is touching themselves but that was their choice and out of Cool Man’s jurisdiction.

‘Yeah everything is fine!’ I shouted back.
‘Everything is fine!’ chirped the children.

‘Oh… Ummm Okay… uhhh… Just checking that’s all… hahaha’ The mother said nervously.

‘Yep.’ I reply.

She leaves.

Again, I can understand where she was coming from but come on…
Cool man says, Don’t not touch kids
That’s something Uncool Man would do.
(Uncool Man is Cool Man’s arch-nemesis.)
(Later on in the saga, ‘The Ballad of Cool Man’, it turns out that Cool Man and Uncool Man are siamese twin brothers who live inside the same body, sharing it in 12 hr shift- Cool Man gets the night time, Uncool man gets the day time- and have to come to accept each other and live the rest of their lives in an aged care home on a desert island where there are no children around.)

And also, hypothetically, if I was a paedophile, you’d think that I wouldn’t try to do it in such an obvious setting, where the likelihood of being caught was very high, right?
I mean unless hypothetically, if I was a paedophile, the thrill of perhaps being caught and burned in a wickerman turned me on or something.
I mean hypothetically.

I flush the toilet to make the children and the mother think that I went to toilet and am therefore innocent just like the way I used to be and I leave the stall.

‘What are we going to do next Cool Man?’ Says Billy or Jilly or Gammy.

‘Listen Sammy or Simmy or Jemmy or Bemmy… Cool Man has to go to bed now. Cool man needs to replenish his coolness.’

‘Aaaaaaaawwww!!!’ Protested Cool Man’s young followers/future martyrs.

‘Why can’t we just keep on playing forever Cool Man?’ Bemmy or Hammy or Lammy said, looking at me with eyes so sincere it made my heart have gaysex with a rainbow on a dolphin right then and there.

Cool Man knelt down and put his kind paws warmly on the boy’s shoulders and spoke thus:

You are Cool Man.
Cool Man is inside all of us.
Everyone is Cool Man.
We are all Cool Man.

You are Cool Man.

He looked at me like I was full of shit and I knew it.
I looked at him and saw a little boy who had been let down by his reluctant hero.
I had become that man that I had tried to avoid being, at least by choice, this time.

He threw his arms around my neck and gave me a big hug and then turned to walk away without looking back.

I felt something move inside of me that I thought I had lost.

I was touched.

By a kid.

Don’t touch kids.


(I don’t know how to do links on wordpress so you will just have to cut and paste the following address to get to the review: http://www.heraldsun.com.au/entertainment/comedy-festival/nick-sun-in-foryomeuevax/story-fni0fdju-1226881803499)

Michael Ward’s review of Nick Sun’s (FOR(YO(ME)O)EVA)x is one-sided, incomplete and lazy. Firstly, the twenty minute late start Ward mentions had nothing to do with Nick, but with the venue’s previous shows running over time. Secondly, Ward portrays Nick as some kind of chaotic anti-comedian with no jokes, when in actual fact, Ward seems to of conveniently forgotten the huge chunks of material Nick did about boat people, the idiocy of nationalism, the extended act out of ways to kill Tony Abbot, the relativity of suffering in the first vs. third world, the perils of aging, putting women/men in basements as an alternative to dating, the mindless worship of youth in the media, not to mention the call centre dialogues and the surrealist story about the dream Nick had on his 30th birthday exploring the theme of lost innocence. Ward goes on to say that he ‘gets it’ when he clearly does not. Sure, Nick has anti-comedic elements in his peformance, but they are mere dressage to the beating heart of Nick’s act which is basically jokes. Jokes that admittedly derail and wander off into different things but ultimately come back together again by the end. It is by no means a traditional show, but Ward mistakes stylistic choices for mere error. Ward mentions that Nick does not have a flow, when he does, it is simply non-traditional and on the off-beat, utilising rhythmic displacement to achieve an off-kilter rhythm which Ward may of noticed if he wasn’t so blinded by his innate critical prejudices. Ward also does not mention that the majority of the audience enjoyed the show and that it was a good gig (with several punters complimenting Nick post show). One cannot deny that something is of value just because it is not to his subjective taste, which judging from Ward’s other reviews are mostly the kind of inoffensive shows that pretentious yet conservative middle to upper-middle class phoney baloneys (that seem to infest Melbourne in abundance) like to see. Ward also neglects to mention that Nick may of prejudiced his review by saying during the gig that, ‘The Herald Sun is an awful right-wing, hate and fear mongering piece of Murdoch sponsored shit.’ (which it is) and that, ‘Any publication that offers Andrew Bolt a platform to spout his idiotic garbage should be used as nothing more than toilet paper and/or fuel for fire…’ A fire that Michael Ward may perhaps want to step into, out of guilt for writing for such a terrible waste of trees. He also neglects to mention that in a moment of spontaneity, Nick also said, ‘Now I’m not saying you are a cunt for writing for the Herald Sun… But you probably are.’ Which Nick admits in retrospect was perhaps an untoward thing to say to a critic and that this may of in some way negatively biased the review but have a sense of humour about it you fucking wanker.
After some background research, it was discovered that Michael Ward has written and produced for the following hilarious and comedically progressive programs:
- Spicks and specks
- RocKwiz
- Talkin’ Bout Your Generation
- You’re Skitting me
- Skithouse
- TV burp
- Newstopia
- Rove live
- The Footy Show

So judging from Ward’s very impressive CV of cutting edge hilarious television that he has written for, televisual socio-cultural artifacts that will live forever not just in the Australian psyche, but the global collective consciousness at large, it can be deduced that Michael Ward is a stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about and I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.




I don’t know who’s fault it was
don’t know why i got this hate
in me
for you
don’t know why you did not like me
until I racially framed myself
for you
in me
upon which
you exploded
into laughter a boil
full of shit
in that instance
hating you all
so much
an intense despair for humanity
for my uncertain
future realizing
my hatred for the majority
of this species
a major obstacle
standing in the way of

To make people I don’t like
like me
to entertain the undeserving
oh the irony
the horror

I try
to understand why
you are like this why
you don’t want to change
I try
to feel compassion
but pity is all
I can find for your
proud ignorance
looking out
at you in the dark while you
call me nasty things
over the top of my punchlines
and boo when I’m not what you want
staring like I’m the weird guy
you fucking peasants
make a good case for

how we can be so different yet still the same species

what I’d have to do to make you get my existence

I suspect severe adjustments to my innate being
that I’m not willing to make

stale mate

(I’m not your friend)
(I don’t want to hang out with you)
(I’m not sorry)

I look out at you in the
all I see is
with individual tiny lights
keeping me bright in the
I love those tiny lights
so warm so light
but the rest of you are
an insult to all
human potential
the gift of life is
wasted on you
wish there was a
shiny red button
to press right now
releasing zyclon b
from the walls
to make this
a better world
one bad audience
at a time

I wear a gasmask
and sleep well
knowing one day
you will
all be
so get

I’m letting it go,
got another gig tonight
to redeem myself plus
nothing really matters
peasout don’t sweat
the small stuff


Humanitarian from a
distance I love you
more the further
you are away



handing out flyers
in a giant tooth suit
but it was all dirty
didn’t fit me
looked stupid
gave me license to
dance in public
like a weirdo
at people on their way
to more qualified
sometimes forgot to handout
the flyers too busy dancing
like a weirdo
giant dirty
crooked tooth trouser legs
sticking out the bottom dancing
like a weirdo
no one noticing
how strange it all was
(only black people
took the flyers
don’t know why)
Best job ever
6am start.

putting flyers in letterboxes
Couldn’t be fucked
wearing an ill-fitting tooth suit
(gave me a bad back)
too early in the morning
(Not a morning/night person
more an afternoon person)
anymore fine with me
best job ever
got very fit walking around
five hours every other day
clocking in late clocking
out early long lunches
getting high
on the job no one to tell
us what to do no need
to show up if you didn’t feel
like it no need to tell
anyone you weren’t coming in
old people waiting
by the letterbox to tell
us off like they had been
waiting all day
to talk to someone
a lifetime of regret
spewed onto you
for putting a piece of paper
in their mailbox (just junkmail
and bills addressed to people who
didn’t live there anymore)
I don’t know
maybe I was reading into it
too much but I guess when we
get old we all go crazy
from spending too much time
in ourselves
by ourselves
being ourselves
it’s frightening to think
about the inevitable once your
wave breaks and slides back in
plus you shit
and piss yourself

who got us to rip
apart his old dentistry
we took to it with
best job ever!!!
counter tops
My friend patiently
pulling things apart
Me running screaming swinging
a hammer savouring the noise
of things breaking violent
orgasm catharsis
plus we salvaged
mouthwash water
filter oral hygiene
goods slightly out of date
stripped copper
wiring from walls
to sell to gypsies
(never did it just sat
under a ping pong table
in a garbage bag
after we found it would only
get us 20 quid)
a canister of pure oxygen
when inhaled the world
became sharper clearer
an extended moment
wondered if we were in a
world with not enough
oxygen in it this whole
life deprived but
not realising
if only it could be that clear
and sharp all the time
Then looked
metal tag oxygen
past expiration date
by a couple of years
never knew air could spoil.

cool guy
tall jovial chap big
laugh lots of girlfriends
sold his practise
for millions
to retire
Bahamas age 40
good for him nice
to know someone
occasionally wins
the game good
people are a minority
but they are out there
when you look thanks
Mike I hope
you’re happy
on the beach
in the sun
having a laugh
with your girl
drinking a
with a


Last night, I dreamt I was dying of pancreatic cancer.
I can’t remember who diagnosed me, all that I knew was that I had pancreatic cancer and I was going to die and all I could think of was, ’Fuck does this make me a hack, dying from the same cancer as Bill Hicks?’
But then thought, even though I am almost the same age as Bill Hicks when he died, I hadn’t achieved nearly as much as him and neither was I as good as a comedian as he was and I felt depressed.
My legacy would be nothing more than the epitaph I’d leave on my tombstone that would read, ‘I am gay.’
Then I thought, ‘Maybe seeing as that I am dying, I will finally start writing some good shit already. Maybe now that I am dying I can write some really fucking memorable REAL shit that doesn’t end in some cheap wank, sex, retard or death reference like all the other shit I hate yet can’t help writing, but then I realized hey my new stuff inspired by my impending mortality would just replace all the cheap wank, sex and retard references with more death references on top of the usual ones and I realized you can never get out of a box when you are the box, you can only take to it with a razorblade and scatter the cardboard pieces in the recycling bin you stupid fuck.’
Then I stopped thinking and felt nothing but total fear and maximum regret wash over me and pull me under and I can’t really remember what happened afterwards but it was just a general vague feeling of all encompassing yet unfocussed wild panic.
I just ran around the indistinct dreamscape and whoever I ran into, I would just grab them by the shirt and shamelessly blurt out, ‘I’m dying of pancreatic cancer!’ into their featureless faces with absolutely no dignity. Not even with a ‘Hi.’ Or ‘How are you going by the way?’ but it didn’t matter because apparently tokenistic sympathy from faceless dream mannequins doesn’t cure dream pancreatic cancer in my dream body effectively enough to make me stop doing what I was doing.
I didn’t know what to do or where to begin doing the things I had always planned to do but kept putting off, because now at the top of the list of my things to do before I was dead in big, black, block letters was ‘DIE YOU WORM.’
I woke up, glad to be awake for the first time in a while.
I got dressed and went to work a ten hour shift in hell.
On my way to work I tried to figure out if that was a premonition dream and if I should go see a doctor and what would happen if the dream turned out to be true.
What would I do?
What would I change?
It was too immense to even contemplate. I would cross that bridge once I had burnt it. But at a stretch, I decided I would go to Burning Man and blow all my money on a holiday in a country on the brink of collapse or something.

Maybe I will do that one day.



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) How are you?
MAN: Mate, do you really want to know how I’m doing?
NICK: Yeah?
MAN: Well mate, it hasn’t rained for three years up where I’m at and my bloody farm is going under.
NICK: That sounds pretty tough mate.
MAN: Mate, you have no bloody idea. I’m in debt a couple of hundred grand. I just had to go kill a bunch of my sheep the other day.
NICK: Why did you do that?
MAN: Mate, why do you think?
NICK: I don’t know, maybe you didn’t like them.
MAN: Mate, there’s not enough food for them!
NICK: What a waste huh?
MAN: You’re telling me mate! A bloody waste. This fucking drought.
NICK: When was the last time there wasn’t a drought? There always seems to be drought on.
MAN: A long time mate, it hasn’t been good for a while now.
NICK: How long?
MAN: A good 15-20 years I reckon.
NICK: That’s a long time. And before that?
MAN: It was okay… I guess. Not great but okay yeah.
NICK: … Compared to how things are now.
MAN: Yeah. Things are fucking lousy at the moment.
NICK: Maybe it’s not a drought, maybe we shouldn’t farm sheep in a desert.
MAN: Yeah it’s hard.
NICK: What about camels?
MAN: Nah fuck camels mate.
NICK: Don’t like camels huh?
MAN: Fuckem.
NICK: Kangaroos?
MAN: Not enough demand for em.
NICK: I quite like kangaroo meat. It’s very lean and tastes good.
MAN: I don’t like it. Fuck kangaroos.
NICK: Don’t like kangaroos either huh?
MAN: Yeah fuckem.



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) How are you?
NICK: I’m just calling on behalf of the (name deleted for legal reasons)
NICK: We just provide funding support for the (name deleted for legal reasons)
NICK: Ok, well you know the volunteer fire fighters?
NICK: Okay well you know fire fighters?
NICK: Well you know bush fires?
NICK: You don’t know what a bush fire is?
NICK: Well you know fire?
NICK: Fire. You know what fire is?



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) uuhhh… How are you?
OLD WOMAN: Not well.
NICK: Oh… Why’s that?
WOMAN: My husband and my only son recently passed away within 4 months of each other.
NICK: Oh god… That’s not very good is it?
WOMAN: I’m all alone.
NICK: Oh… Umm… Gee’s…
WOMAN: Well… You just have to deal with it… There’s nothing you can do except to keep on going…
NICK: Yep… You just got to keep on going I guess.
WOMAN: Yep… Nothing you can do except sometimes just go somewhere and just… Just… (starts crying)…
WOMAN: (crying) I miss them so much.
NICK: Oh god…
WOMAN: (crying) My husband was so good to me… And my Son… And…
NICK: There, there.
(WOMAN crying)
NICK: I’m sorry…
WOMAN: (crying) I’m an old woman… I got nobody…
NICK: Uhh… well umm… Look I’m sure you will get through it.
WOMAN: I will.
NICK: Well…
WOMAN: I don’t know… I don’t know… I just… What did you want?
NICK: Uhh look don’t worry about it… Hope things get better…


strong>DIALOGUE #19

NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons)… How are you?
OLD MAN: Not bad mate, not bad…
NICK: How’s the weather there in… (suppressing a laugh) Cumboogle?
OLD MAN: Pretty good actually. Lots of rain.
NICK: What’s it like living in… (suppressing a laugh) Cumboogle?
OLD MAN: Pretty quiet really… Nice, small place, not many people. Just a few houses. Lot’s of rain at the moment… The lawn’s getting pretty long…
NICK: You got a long lawn huh?
OLD MAN: Yeah, yeah… Gettin pretty long yeah…
NICK: Long lawn, long lawn… (pause) Are you going to cut it soon?
OLD MAN: Yeah, yeah.
NICK: Make it a short lawn huh?
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Oh yeah, yeah…
NICK: Do you like shortening your lawn?
OLD MAN: Hmm? Nah… It’s a hassle now that I’m old…
NICK: Oh really?
NICK: Are you old?
NICK: You know what you need to cut your lawn?
OLD MAN: What?
NICK: Goats.
OLD MAN: Yeah?
NICK Yep you just need a herd of goats. They will keep your lawn short and you won’t have to do a thing. Just let them eat your lawn.
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Yeah, yeah I could do that.
NICK: … Plus you could milk them as well.
OLD MAN: Yeah I guess I could do that.
NICK: Think about it – all the goat’s milk you’d ever want, plus long lawn no more.
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Yeah.
NICK: You ever tried fresh goat’s milk?
OLD MAN: No. No I haven’t.
NICK: Do you know what it tastes like?
OLD MAN: What?
NICK: It tastes like how a goat smells!
OLD MAN: Yuck.
NICK: Yep, I put it in my coffee, and it made my coffee taste like the smell of a goat.
OLD MAN: Yuck.
NICK: Yep. It was pretty yuck. I think maybe goat’s milk is more suitable in savoury dishes I reckon.
OLD MAN: You reckon?
NICK: Well I don’t know really. I have had goat’s milk cheese. That’s pretty good.
OLD MAN: Never tried that. I’m more of a cow man.
NICK: You are a cow man?
OLD MAN: Yep I’m a cow man.
NICK: Half-cow, half-man?
OLD MAN: Oh no, I mean I like cows.
NICK: I’d like to think I’m more of a goat man but when it comes to the crunch, I’m a cow man too.
NICK: Well anyway, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you mate, I hope you get your long lawn short again somehow without too much hassle.
OLD MAN: Yep, will do, will do.
NICK: No worries man, thanks heaps and have a good day.
OLD MAN: You too mate, you too. Nice chatting.


NB: You will notice the complete absence of sales pitch, as if NICK had just randomly called OLD MAN up purely to discuss the length of his lawn and various aspects of goats.


I was living with this human black hole who was so depressing he could make paintings of children cry, fuck he was depressing, what a wastehole.

But he did let me live in his house virtually for free so he was okay.

Just before I finally left, he demanded money off of me, but i had none left and he got pissed off at me even though the agreement was that I could live there basically for free.
I did the washing up a lot though.
He made me really racist, because he typified everything bad in the English character:
Dirty, mean, passive-aggressive, whinging, depressing, racist etc…

But he did let me live at his house virtually for free so he was okay.

Well actually, about 85 percent of the time he was a loathsome piece of shit.
15 percent of time, he was a nice guy, even likable at times.
He did teach me a few things about life though:
1. Never complain.
2. Depressing people suck and are horrible to be around.
3. Never again be at the whim of a man who has power of you because he is letting you stay in his house virtually for free.

I only realised how depressing he was when I’d leave the house to go on tour and it would feel like a heavy weight was lifted from me and I’d feel bouyant, as if I were a balloon that had been caught in a tree for a long time that had suddenly been freed so it could float into the sun and burn to death.

He would complain about being depressed all the time and how hard his illness was, but it was difficult for me to sympathise with his condition because he did nothing to help it. He didn’t take his medication. He’d sit in his room watching TV from about 4pm to 9am chainsmoking joints and eating shit food and talking about how depressed he was.
I think he got off on being depressed.
He was a nice guy a few times and it was like getting a glimpse of the person he could be if he wasn’t such a fucking cunt piece of shit.
He was from a broken home. Is that a good enough excuse? I don’t know…
He was a ‘comedian’ but the only remotely funny thing about him was his humourlessness.
He took himself so seriously it made me want to throw up.
I hated his guts i fucking really hated him so much believe me.

But he let me stay at his house virtually for free so he was okay.

He had this nice girlfriend, but she would get pulled into his orbit and all the negative characteristics of her personality would come out.
When I was finally leaving, I pulled her aside- and I’m never one to intervene- and I was like, ‘Hey you gotta save yourself, this guy is like a fucking black hole, you have to get out or you’ll get sucked down.’
She said she was going to stay by him. She said he just needed to be loved.
And their love of bad things.
And their love of trying to save shit with their love.
God blessem.
I heard recently they had a really nasty break up, and three days after dumping her, he met his new girlfriend on the internet.
Good luck to them.

He had this pet bunny and this pet cat and he was very tender with them.
Well, after he got the cat, he neglected the bunny.
It would just sit out in the snow in it’s own shit, surrounded by it’s rotting food and i would feel sorry for it.
It’s probably dead now.
I just wanted to get out so badly, but I was in a tight situation so what are you going to do?
I just ended up spending as much time out of the house as possible.
When i was away, I would find myself for days on end getting into arguments with him in my head, it really drove me crazy.
It would always end up with me screaming,
‘FUCK YOU!’ at his imaginary image while i was on a bus or walking down the street or something.
I tried to confront him non-aggressively about himself and i felt we made headway, but then the next day it was back to normal again.
I guess it’s very difficult to tell somone they are a terrible person and that they should kill themselves in polite terms.
Everytime I looked at him, I would see a twisted hate filled old man that he seemed destined to become.
Everytime I looked at him, towards the end of my stay, I would see me slowly pushing his head beneath black water until he was no longer there.

But he let me stay at his house virtually for free so i guess he was okay.

Well no, even though i didn’t have to pay to stay, it wasn’t free, because i had to act as a buffer and psychic sponge for all the demon filth that spilled out of his pores, polluting his immediate surroundings and infecting anyone in it.

I thought about writing a story based on him about a man who was so depressing and negative that any living thing that came within a 5 foot radius of his bandwidth rapidly aged and dies.
He becomes a vaccuum of anti-matter. Darkness seeks to absorb as much light as possible and it’s hunger is never-ending.
All he wants though is love and affection, but he cannot get it, because no one can get close enough to him to give him a reassuring hug without dying because he is so depressing.
He consults an experimental sock puppet psychiatrist who counsels him at a safe distance with the aid of a megaphone.
He discovers that although he is frightfully unhappy, he is attached to his misery and on a sick level enjoys being depressed. While his motives have been brought to light, it does nothing to fix him and despondent as always, searches far and wide for a cure to no avail.
Finally during his endless travels he meets a woman with a similar affliction.
When they come into contact with each other they have a depression off, trying to out depress each other as their force-fields of anti-matter clash throwing off bright black light. They declare a truce and move in together. While living with each other, they both come to the same conclusion that living with a depressed person is a tedious bore and they both agree that life isn’t all bad and decide to cheer the fuck up.
Their romantic and sexual tension is not resolved to ensure continued reader interest.
While my story idea had a happy ending, his does not really.

I heard he recently made some disparaging comments about another comedian on the internet and that comic didn’t take too kindly to him, so he followed him down an alleyway one night and beat the shit out of him.
Hearing about this made me feel good inside,
but then i realised that he let me stay at his house for virtually free, so i shouldn’t feel good.
I still felt good.
Then some more disparaging remarks were made pertaining to his attacker’s Muslim background and charges of racism were made against him.
I didn’t even know racism was a legally recognised crime.
I don’t know if he was racist. I suspected it heavily. He would make those jokes against various races, mostly black people and muslims in that ironic ‘I’m joking, but I’m not joking.’ racist way, but he would do it enough times in that, to make me sense that maybe that was how he truly felt.

But he let me stay in house virtually for free, so I’m sure he wasn’t a racist.

I hope he has a happy ending, but I don’t know what his chances are because he has to keep on being him.

My story had somewhat of a happy ending because i left and will probably never see him again.

I’m glad to be away from him and I hope I never see him again.

But he let me stay in house virtually for free, so I wish him all the best for the future.

P.S. If he is reading this, thanks for letting me stay at your place, I really do appreciate it, but christ you were a cunt 85% of the time and i hope you’re not like that anymore. Good luck.