RIP Richie

A sad day for the cricketing world...

Less than six months after our hearts broke with the death of Phillip Hughes, the world mourns the loss of the great man Richie Benaud.

A gentleman to the last.

Richie's appeal was universal. He was many things to many people, a cricketer, a captain, a commentator, a colleague and a family man.

He proved gentlemen can survive and thrive! He spoke with a calm, gentle nature and it was his pause as much as his insight which pricked the ears of many an eager viewer.

Some voices blend into the white noise and others, so understated they draw you to the edge of your seat, so you don't miss a beat. Richie was the latter, his sharp eye and dry wit were the cornerstones of his career in the box. He subscribed to the theory less is sometimes more, in a game where opinions are a dime a dozen.

He inspired a generation a cricket players with his exploits on the pitch and nurtured a generation more from his post behind the mic. We grew up with him, we learnt the game from him and we will miss him!

Summer wont be the same...

RIP Rich!

A Day at the Track - "Now they're off and racing"

Melbourne Cup is around the corner and it’s time for all those once a year betting wankers to talk til your ears bleed with their tips for the race that stops a Nation...

Once in a while, you may dust the cobwebs off the 'bag of fruit' and head to the course to take a in some live action.

A day at the races:

8am - Collect suit from the local dry cleaner's, forgetting last time you wore it at Macca's wedding where you spilled half a VAT of scotch over it singing 'bohemian rhapsody' until 3am.

9am - Pop in to the local news agent and grab a paper, chew off any poor bastards ear that’ll listen to your tips despite you not knowing the nose from the arse end of a horse. Carry on this facade until the completion of the race only then remembering you don’t know shit about racing after you’ve blown the monthly mortgage on what old mate down the pub guaranteed you was a 'sure thing'. 

'Put a gorilla on the 4th in the 5th'

10am - If you have a Mrs. etiquette would suggest a 'Champagne Breakfast' but if you're single you can drop the bullshit, crack a frothy and get stuck in. The term 'Breakfast' is used but food is totally optional.

11am - Whack the suit on in front of the mirror and take a collection of selfies... this will be the last time it looks any good all day. Call a cab and finish off the remainder of your beverage while the cabbie struggles to find your apartment block.

Midday - Arrive at the track with a bunch of mates, complement each other on how you well you scrub up for a bloke with a head like a half sucked mango. Stand in a circle spruiking your expertise on the nags and rattle off a couple of stats to back up your theory. Ogle any half decent sort that walks within your vicinity, this would be socially unacceptable in any other scenario but today there is safety in numbers.

12:30 - Join the line of 150 other patrons gagging for a drink.

1pm- Take full advantage on the 6 drink maximum carrying your plastic cups back to the Grandstand, spilling  30% of them down your freshly cleaned suit after bumping into every man and his dog on the way back to your seat. Take seat in stand with the equivalent of 3 beers remaining in your shitty plastic cups. Notice there is at least half a beer in the carry tray – drink when nobody is watching.

2pm - Drink beers at rapid pace to avoid them getting warm in the 35 degree heat, agree to get in a shout to avoid spending half your day in line. What could possibly go wrong!

2:30pm - Make your way to the closest port-a-loo… this is the equivalent of a drunken  steeplechase. I challenge you to find a more difficult task than entering an unstable, hastily cobbled together enclosed space containing urine, vomit and faecal matter wearing your finest clothing after downing seven schooners and come out the other side. If you’re female add in high heels and a dress that needs to pulled up to your ears!

Maybe it's time for a water.

3pm - After some late mail hurdle towards the nearest bookie and throw what remaining cash you have on the Mexican Japanese horse Zalos Karate.

3:30 - Take longer than expected at the bookies and miss the entire race - call Mum to find out the result.

4pm – Follow the brightly coloured dresses and the sound of clunking high heels to the nearest pretentious bar in a last ditch bid to turn around your fortunes for the day.

5pm - Fold in to taxi a broken man, cut a deal with the driver that you will give him your last 20 if he can get you home in one piece!

The next day:

7am - Wake up with the world’s worst hangover, a lecturing girlfriend and not enough money to buy lunch!

Forgot the SPF!

7:15 - Look in mirror, ‘Should have worn sun screen'.

7:30 - Remember you have a job to go to – ‘Fuck!’

Heading to the Gym - Part II

After a few more years experience at the gym, here is another collection of stereotypes you will have to encounter if you aim to get in to shape:

Grunters - Do these blokes really think screaming the paint off the walls will result in MASSIVE gains!? Carrying on blissfully unaware everybody hopes they drop the bar bell on their throats so we never have to hear their blood curdling screams again. Stop grunting, stop groaning and if, possible stop breathing. No one wants to hear it, so here it is in a tone and pace you can understand... SHUT... THE... FUCK... UP!!




The Zimmer Press

Pensioners - Their most recent trip to the doctor revealed a ticking time bomb, through necessity he-re they are trying to dial back the clock. Wearing gear one can only assume was 'in' back in the day's Olivia Newton John 'Lets get physical' was pumping out the stereo. Easily recognisable in their matching head and wristbands. Here through obligation, shifting minimal weight at minimal reps and could be knocked over by a stiff breeze, you can sense their hearts not really in it... which ironically is the reason they're here in the first place.

Early birds - Typically over achievers, setting up there day at the office with an endorphin rush at the local Fitness First. Up a sparrow's fart with ill fitting, arse creeping spandex, sleep in eyes and protein shake in hand. Ready to be lead by Lance Armstrong in the spin class before getting back into their expensive cars and heading for a productive day at work. Yes, I hate them too!




'Cmon big boy- you can get it up!'

Over encourager's - This species comes in pairs, can be seen comparing biceps, overheard playing one upmanship and discussing their lack of sexual prowess before they hit the gym and got huge. If they are to be believed they are now bonafide studs - despite having heads like smashed crabs. You can hear them throwing out such inspirational clichés as 'Pump it', 'Get it up', 'Smash it out' all at a volume above socially accepted norms - I cant help but wonder if they require this type of encouragement in the bedroom.

Classroom whingers - They make it every class and proceed to make it miserable for everyone involved. Feel it necessary to talk the teacher, fellow students and any poor bastard in earshot through every creak and crack in their aching bodies . No body cares, if its so difficult stay at home and tell it to the bloke who signed up for that shit, no one pays $20 an hour to listen to you whinge!!





Bikram Yoga: The first choice for serial sex pests.

Classroom creepers - Can be seen loitering in  classes targeted for women taking in some of the eye candy. Over dosed on testosterone and believe one look at them sans shirt will be enough to drive any self loathing woman in his direction. Can be seen offering attractive women 'form' tips in the weights room and don't mind encroaching a bit on personal space. Can be spotted sniffing around the back of a bikram yoga class while a bunch of twenty somethings practice their extended locus dressed with a piece of string.

- Part I -

Valentine's Day... a cautionary tale!

Lovers, with Valentines day impending I thought I should remind you that Cupid's arrow doesn't always hit it's target, If you plan on suprising that someone special, just take into account some of these points outlined below...

Attraction;

 You've spotted her at work, at the gym or in the coffee shop... she's the loveliest thing God breathed life into and you'd walk over your own mother just to get to know her. Somehow you manage to pluck up the courage to ask her out or swindle your way into a first date through a mutual friend, or worse yet, Facebook.

The date sequence;

Seinfeld described the first date as the equivalent of a 'job interview, only with sex a possibility at its conclusion. This is a 'for one night only' show and it will be impossible to live up to. Polished shoes, finest cologne and some rehearsed jokes. Reality is you will never try this hard nor present this well again... this is as good as 'you', 'her' and probably 'it' will get. The evening will comprise of promoting your strengths, dancing around your shortcomings and hoping not to put your foot in it. (Note to self: Racist/sexist or generally discriminatory jokes, however funny to you, should be avoided). At this point you're willing to do just about whatever it takes to guarantee sex and to hell with the consequences. You will be eager to find common ground on just about anything, 'Oh Yeah, I agree... Channing Tatum's a brilliant actor!'

After a few dates there's a chance you have shared stories, anecdotes, made each other laugh and you like the quirky way she tweaks her nose when she doesn't like something. If the dates have gone particularly well the 'ex' discussions may take place about now... you know the delightful conversation where you discuss previous relationships, how many people you've slept with, how many girlfriends you've had etc. These never go well...

Her: I'm not a tart, I only sleep with my boyfriends.
You: Oh that's reassuring... how many boyfriends have you had?
Her: Not sure, lost count after 80...
You: Awesome!!

You cannot win, lets leave it at this... 'we're both adults, Ive had mine you've had yours, let's just change the subject before I hear about the 'Miley Cyrus' years!'

If you successfully navigate this tricky terrain and manage to get a couple more dates you may be ready to transition in to...

The honeymoon period;

So you've negotiated a few dates, been seen out and about by a few mates with your new interest and managed to maintain regular copulation... things are on the up. You may even dare to call her as your 'new girlfriend', which doesn't tell the whole story... she's used, she's just 'new' to you!

She wakes up in your bed in the morning and you wonder where she has been your whole life, you want to spend every waking moment with and can't imagine your life without her. You're convinced her poo is pure white and her farts smell like sweet cinnamon.

Now all you have to do is maintain your 'standards' set in the initial dating period. If you're worried... you should be. She's already been scheduling the 'changes' she'd like to see in you at your best, wait until she see's your standards plummet like the Greek Euro.

This stage generally lasts for 3-6 months depending on your self-discipline before standards start to slide, mum cracks a poorly timed remark about your ex g/f, your grooming standards head south and you've let one slip and blamed the dog at least once. She's dropped a few balls of her own, like pointing out the bloke in the supermarket who she shagged and never returned her calls and you've tailed her into the bathroom only to be confronted with a smell that would wipe out a small nation. She's not necessarily the princess you thought she was, but your no angel either and you're happy to see where things lead. Its definitely better than trying your luck at Moosehead's on a Friday night, which is like trying to hit the piñata at a kids birthday, only with ten schooners down your neck.

By now you've briefly discussed the five year plan, answers along the lines of;

• Move out of my parents
• Get a better job
• Update the 1986 Corolla

Should see you through this one, you're now ready to move on...

Going steady;

Things are starting to get serious... Friday nights out with the boys have been replaced with dinner parties and movie nights, you may feel like a refined version of yourself. Relationship wise you now know each others idiosyncrasies, if not the extent but you're willing to give it a go...

Do you ever just wonder 'HOW, How the fuck do some people end up together!?

You've heard all her stories three times over, gotten used to waking up without the doona and the nose twitching thing has lost some of its charm but she's a 'keeper'. For some who haven't had the best of luck with the ladies, they have been craving this stage. Their philosophy is 'Hey, I mightn't have much to offer but I'm reliable!' The memories of being shot down on just about every night out still burns raw and they are not particularly keen to go back to being put behind just about every man in town, including the homeless bloke outside Macca's in town.

For the rest, power struggles can begin to take place herein. They can range anything from, when's bedtime to what's for dinner...

Moving in;

It's make or break... This is essentially a trial to see how compatible you really are. Whether you can stand each others company EVERY... SINGLE... DAY. You wake up... she's there, you come home from work... she's there, you walk out of the bathroom after snapping off one of your finest... 'Oh, you probably don't want to go in there for a while'.

This is where you start developing hobbies you never had before, 'fishing...since when did you like fishing!?'. Oh yeah 'love fishing, big fisher, my grand dad was a fisher, he won a trophy once, Dad's a fisher from way back... its in the family.'

 There's two ways this can go... buy a 'test baby' and call it Rover... or make a hasty exit, preferably overseas.

 Making up and Breaking up;

'I need a break', 'things are just happening to quickly', 'I just need some space'. When you say it, chances are its been on your mind for a while but when you hear it, it can be a shock to the system and a dent to the ego. Its the equivalent of relationship purgatory...making and breaking up might breath excitement back into the relationship. The uncertainty of it all can make you feel like your starting afresh but caution, its built on a rocky foundation.

The final break;

You've tried again and again and the same troubles keep cropping up and the only time she twitches her nose these days is after you've made a poorly timed joke, its time to call it quits this time for good. Lock yourself in the brace position for the five stages of grief:

Denial - Out to town you go, best threads on... the only thing wreaking more than your cheap cologne is your desperation, women can smell it like a German Shepard senses fear... and they wont have a bar of it. All your go to moves are outdated... like your wardrobe. Finally you submit and roll into a cab at 3am only then remembering most of your single nights out finished in a Kleenex not a durex!'

Anger - 'This is Bullshit', all those girls that showed interest in you when you where taken have evaporated like a mirage in the desert sky and you have turned into a shadow of your former self. You were a bona fide stud when you had a Mrs... or at least that's just how she made you feel!!

Bargaining - You've come to the realisation that you took your lady friend for granted and wish you could have her back, you may find yourself making deals with the Almighty despite not being to church since the 5th grade...

Depression - By now its a good idea to turn off the radio, or at least refrain from listening to Richard Mercer Love song dedications. This could see you a) sucking your thumb in the foetal position b) knocking back three of Penfold's finest before getting on the drunk dial or c) throwing the toaster in with the bathwater.

Acceptance - The girls moved on and she's not coming back... she's found a guy whose better looking, earns more money and in all probability better in the cot than you. Time to move on... hit the gym, update the wardrobe and attend to your declining hygiene.

Starting over;

After 6 months of a lifestyle comprising of beer, pizza and the odd one night stand, you decide there must be more to life then waking up every Sunday with a hangover. You may be ready for new love my friend and what better time than Valentine's day to either bask in blissful glory or get shot down in smoking flames!!

So remember, if youre thinking about dusting the cobwebs out of the wallet to buy roses for some pretty girl on the bus tomorrow, be careful what you wish for...

Happy Valentines day!!

Dear NRL...

Dear NRL,

Please sort your shit out...

Here is a six point plan:

1. Dump these incompetent batch of referees, in a professional age they are a fucken disgrace, they can't even count to six, I wasn't allowed past the first grade until this task was mastered. Let me see if I have this algorithm correct. Two on field refs, two touchies and one man in the box, all with two eyes each, therefore;
(2 + 2) + 1 x 2 = useless Twats!!

2. Sort out the ruck; if I wanted to watch a bunch of grown men wrestling on the ground grabbing each other by the balls on the weekends I'd line up at cube... If they wanna try it on send them to the pine for 10, they'll soon stop.

3. Sort out the salary cap debacle, teams shouldn't be punished because they develop talent. How the roosters can go from premiere ship contenders in 2010 to contenders again after a 'rebuild' in 2013 is farcical... Where is the incentive to develop players when you can just throw wads of cash around.

4. Please provide incentive for attacking league: hit up, hit up, hit up, hit up, dummy half and kick on the fifth is not my idea of a good time.

5. Give the Raiders a chance, they develop all this talent only for them to piss off once they out grow moose heads...make hem accountable FFS!!

6. Please reinvent the footy show, I have to see that old red headed prick on my tele on a Thursday evening I'm going to be sick. 'Crack a fatty' may have been funny in 1996 but not now. The two best presenters you had buggered off to Fox Sports (Sterlo and johns) and instead we have this geriatric old fart pedalling out jokes two decades past their prime.

The Revered Rev

The revered Reverend; Pete Nelson

My first encounter with the man affectionately known in Canberra cricketing circles as ‘The Rev’, was as part of the opposition, a young upstart trying to forge my way up the grades, playing on a dodgy wicket in the leafy suburb of Aranda. Plodding to the wicket with his team precariously placed at 5-30 was an elderly gentleman shoulders hunched, dragging his bat behind him like a man who’d lost his dog off its leash.

Being a naive and chirpy teenager I piped up from the slips cordon ‘let’s see how he goes upstairs’ (a signal to the bowler to rip the ball in short at the ribs or head of the batsmen) I thought to myself ‘let’s see how the old bloke handles the quick stuff’ as our tear away steamed in. I felt a sense of guilt as the quickie dropped the ball in short and it seared towards his sternum, guilt that soon turned astonishment as the old fella swivelled onto the back foot and uncoiled a pull shot a young Ricky Ponting would have been proud of, the ball rushing to the mid-wicket boundary. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief my skipper at gully quipped ‘don’t bowl short to the Rev’. Between overs I said ‘why didn’t you mention something earlier?’ he replied ‘I thought you young punks needed to learn a lesson.’

It was the first of many lessons I would learn from the ‘Reverend’ Peter Nelson.

Pete Nelson was aged 55 that day in Canberra and had been playing in the Nation’s capital for nearly eleven years. He made his Canberra cricketing 1st grade debut at the tender age of 46. At time of publication, he is the leading run scorer for the North Canberra-Gunghalin Cricket Club (NCGCC), amassing 6530 runs at a tick under 30 in 274 games, with no danger of being overtaken anytime soon.

Before his debut in Canberra, he started his cricketing career, like many others, tagging around Launceston with his uncles, shadow batting in the dressing rooms of country cricket games emulating fellow left handed heroes Arthur Morris and Neil Harvey. At the age of eight he began playing for the Glenn Dhu State School in Launceston before going onto represent Riverside and Northern Tasmania.

He regards his finest cricketing hour as also his greatest disappointment, when as a young man, he was selected to play in the Tasmanian XI against the great West Indies side of the late 60’s. This team included the likes of Wes Hall, Charlie Griffith and Sir Garfield Sobers. Just days before the match he made a trip to the countryside on business. Arranging with his family before he left, ‘If Bob Ingermell’s calls tell him I’ll be back Friday evening and ready to play the following day‘. As anticipated ‘Bob’ called on Thursday eve only for a member of the family forget the previous conversation; claiming ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry Pete’s away in the country’. Come Saturday when he arrived to the game as a spectator, he bumped into Vice Captain Neil Hawke who stared daggers at him ‘WHY ARE YOU NOT PLAYING TODAY?’ With disappointment sprawled across his face Pete explained the situation.

His proudest innings came for Northern Tasmania against a quality seam bowling attack, where he grafted 47 on a sticky pitch, he and Barry Harman putting on 65 for the first wicket guiding his team through a difficult morning session, where he banked on all his concentration and reserves. Not a score that would have people reaching for the record books, but a contribution that he said ‘helped his team to victory’ a common theme during his career of putting the team before himself.

He played with and against many fine cricketers during those developmental days on the Apple Isle: John Hampshire, Len Maddocks, Neil Hawke, Dougie Walters and idiosyncratic English keeper Allan Knott. The latter left the greatest impression with his attention to detail and professionalism, particularly when after suffering an Achilles tendon strain, he refused to drive a stick shift vehicle preferring instead to be driven around town to avoid further damage.

Being part of the winning premiership team in 1981 while playing for the Malvern Sub-District cricket side in Melbourne was a highlight. Here his team was the best of 28 sides and took out both the two day and one day competitions. It wasn’t until the following pre-season he became aware his team mates where being paid to play, Pete simply played for the love of the game… and the following year top the averages for the side.
That season he played against former Adelaide Crows coach Malcolm Blight who was representing Doncaster, Malcolm got wind of Pete’s occupation. Coming up against a raging turner and a mouthy Blight who whenever Pete was beaten past the outside edge would exclaim ’HALLELUJAH!!’ from 1st slip. In the Rev’s words ‘there were more Hallelujah’s than runs that day’.

1st row, 2nd from the left; with the ACT over 60's national premieres.

This year at the Over 60’s National Masters Tournament, representing the ACT, the old boys took out the trophy. Pete had taken part in the past seven tournaments and was overjoyed to finally bring home the Silverware from this year’s tournament.

From an early age Pete had to make a choice between faith and cricket; when in the 1970 pre-season he was selected in the Tasmanian squad but because training clashed with his religious commitments, Pete had to make a tough decision for any young man, he chose faith.
He claims it to be central point in his life and has always taken priority over his sport. Often required at funerals and weddings, he has always given others priority. One day during a match, he was called away by an emergency phone call from a member of his Parish who was suicidal; he left immediately to support them.

These days there are three things he enjoys most about the game: the exercise it provides in his 70th year, ‘some people go to gyms, some run kilometres along the roadside, I go to cricket practice.’ he professed. Secondly he enjoys learning more about the game, ‘You never know all there is to know about the game, there are always ways you can learn and improve in this game’. Finally he loves the challenge of adapting the skills of the game to his waning reflexes and eye sight. More recently and reluctantly he has put away the pull and hook shots he was famous for in his younger days.

He sees the role in community sport pivotal in promoting understanding between cultures and playing part in the lives of young people who participate. This is especially true for those who may come from difficult families or circumstances or with no father figure around. It highlights the role club mates and mentors can play in supporting these youngsters.

During his time in Mildura, he coached an Aboriginal team at a time when there was racial tension in Australia, he saw the value sport played in creating respect and understanding between cultures. Aboriginal’s who played against white teams in the area, were recognized and greeted at the markets or the grocery store, an unusual occurrence in that day. ’Sport was the one medium, especially in that area, that was able to break down barriers’. He saw the structure it was able to provide Indigenous people in their day to day lives. In modern day cricket he sees the value it has in starting a dialogue between cultures.

Retired from official Pastoral duties, the Rev now plays the role of a spiritual advisor at the Australian Institute of Sport for athletes who have moved away from home. Providing counsel when they suffer injuries, the loss of a loved one or generally feel they have hit a road block.
Off the field, the Rev has recently received awards for volunteering his services for his beloved NCGCC, he has also been awarded for 50 years’ service to the game an award he claims ‘you only need to stick around for’, both of which he greatly appreciates.

Asked if there is anything he would have done differently ‘Oh yes‘ he proclaims, I would have listened more, practiced harder, believed myself more and not been intimidated by the opposition from the mainland in my younger days’. ‘It wasn’t really until David Boon and Ricky Ponting came along that people in Tassie started to believe they could be good enough to go to the next level’.

Receiving one of many award

Rev though, is not of the numbers and figures he has accumulated or the achievements he has collected along the way.....His is the story of a man who puts everyone before himself. His team mates, his family and God.

In many ways he is like the thousands of volunteers who turn up, unpaid, to co-ordinate, organise and score at sporting grounds across the country every weekend. But for the Rev, it is his humility, selflessness and uncanny ability to make others feel better by his mere presence that makes this man someone special.

My enduring memories of him, is as a 70 year at a local College oval for preseason fitness training, running shuttle runs with clubs mates a quarter his age and co-ordinating net sessions making sure each player has the chance to bat and bowl and then, time permitting, he straps on the pads in the fading light of the Nation’s Capital sky, ready to take on the new ball, once again, putting everyone before himself.

 Thank God for the Rev!!





No doze, a no go!!

Caffeine and I have long had a tenuous relationship, a single cup of coffee enough to send me dashing for the bathroom quicker than Usain Bolt out of the starters blocks. So much so that I completely avoid the roasted bean.

So it was with great naivety that I dared take something stronger.... After a long weekend of camping, fishing and drinking in no particular order, at the beautiful coastal town Narooma, I thought to purchase some no doze for the trip home in case fatigue set in.

Caution: May cause rapid bowel movement

After a night of slumber that would make sleeping beauty envious, the caffeine tablets became surplus to requirements, making my way back up the Clyde with relative ease.

Not wanting to waste the product I decided on taking them to work and having them instead of a can of coke for the three o'clock lulls. Day 1: I took one following my lunchbreak to get me through the afternoon before taking a second on the way to cricket training to see if they aided with reaction time and reflex.

With limited affect I thought I would persist with usage, the following day and approximately 24 hours after my initial dose, I had returned from my break about to set out for my afternoon courier duties. As I collected my gear I had a sudden and urgent call of nature in the backdoor department. Making it in a knick of time I was grateful this sudden urge hadn't hit me ten minutes later in the drivers seat.

Brushing of the dilemma as an aberration I continued with my daily pick me up.. Taking one tablet daily, with no major side effect.

When Saturday came round, cricket was again on the schedule and in the final session of play eccentric batting all rounder Tim Coggan dared his teammates to a glass of
Pre-trainer to give them a buzz in the afternoon session. Declining the invite I compromised by saying I would down a couple of no doze so Coggs wasn't on his lonesome.

I was without any obvious side affects, meanwhile Coggin was dropping faster than the Irish pound, I carried on business as usual.

Following the largish weekend I'd had camping, I opted for the mature option of abstaining for the weekend.  I rose as fresh as a daisy on the Sunday morning feeling so upbeat I offered housemate/teammate/human bean pole George Mccaffrey a lift to work in hope of a free breaky at Urban Foodstore.

On completion of downing a delicious combination of scrambled eggs, bacon and advacado I decided on a spot of retail therapy in the city centre. 300 meters into a 1.5 km walk to town I cocked a leg as I passed the Civic police station in an attempt to clear some excess air from the system!!

'HE GAMBLES, HE LOSES!!'

Like a shot of lightning through the midnight sky I realized that the air was filling with something much more sinister.

Instinct took over and I clenched tighter than a Jewish businessman... Once I gained control of the situation I scanned the horizon for potential 'unloading zones'. Being 10am on a Sunday morning my options were severely limited, I saw Uni Pub across the road in the distance and made a bee line towards it. I made it only as far as across the road to the bus stop before surge mark II attacked. There I was standing to attention legs crossed buns squeezing tighter than a boa constricter to keep this thing at bay with my arm rested upon the bus stop to keep the impression I was a regular public transport user awaiting my lift for the morning.

Eventually I made it to Uni Pub only to be hit with the devastating realization that it was outside of opening hours. Option two was a hundred meter journey to the local IGA to use the staff facilities. Given the state I was in 100 meters may as well of been the size of the Simpson dessert. With all my might I managed to waddle my way across the intersection and into the front doors in urgent search of relief..

I approached the counter:
Wheats 'Hi there, terribly sorry to interrupt and I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't an emergency but may I use your bothroom!?'
Store Attendant: 'sorry sir but it's staff only'
Wheats: 'listen'... I continued. 'I AM a DESPERATE man, I'm begging you!!'
S.A: 'Im sorry sir company policy, but there Is a cafe across the road that has a bathroom'

'You've got to be fucking kidding me' I murmured before walking penguin style across the road to the cafe.

' I hear you have a bathroom, can I please use it!?' I pleaded. 'sure sir' I breathed a sigh of relief and the tension in my body eased somewhat. ' there is just a gentleman using it at the moment so if you wait in line you can go after him'.

The word 'FUUUUCKKK' crossed my mind, there I stood outside the public cubicle, searching for potential hidey holes I could empty this tidal wave trying to escape my anus. Without putting to fine a point on it, it was like trying to stop a volcano with a couple of slices of bread.

After what seemed like a fucking eternity, old mate eventuated from the gents and handed the key over. I made my way a shell of a man down the hallway to the restrooms.

Pulling down the strides looking for relief, it was clear most of the damage had been absorbed between the cheeks. As I sat there huddled over the Royal Doulton like a dog rooting a cricket ball, I thought to myself 'I am a 31 year old man, what the FUCK is going on!?'

The remainder of the afternoon, I ventured no further than 15 meters from the closest dunny.

Suffice to say, I have ceased my course of no doze....