Trump – a triumph for the male ego.

donald.jpgIn some way, we might all be a little bit responsible for Donald Trump. It could be that he’s just the clown holding up the mirror to the rest of us.

Trump will be the next president of the USA for the same reason that Eddie McGuire is already the president of the Collingwood Football Club, Nathan Tinkler got fat on coal and sporting clubs, Wayne Carey remains on our television screens, Clive Palmer was elected to federal parliament and Shane Warne now looks like a lesbian Thunderbird. Seduced by their overwhelming desire for attention and the startling hollowness of their gigantic egos we continue to empower them.

By we, I mean men, and women too. Mummy’s boys have proven to be almost as historically dangerous to families and societies throughout the world as those men who’ve lacked decent male role models. The fathers of women who voted for Trump have a lot to answer for.

That people are flabbergasted by the rise to power of a prehistorically vacuous and cruel alpha-male is most surprising. Bill Cosby would have liked his chances against Hillary Clinton.

Australians critical of America should remember they only recently elected a nationally acknowledged caveman in Tony Abbott to high office. Also that the deliberate and proud pig Mark Latham once came close too.

Australia’s parliament still contains enough sexists, racists and homophobes for a man like Trump to rub his tiny hands together in glee. Australians are in no position to be hurling rocks across the Pacific Ocean.

America may have great difficulty dealing with its damaged psychology, but so too does Australia. The pile of inhumane and abhorrent policies swept under the carpet of both nations continues to cause many people considerable harm.

Trump’s victory is a win for every man who has ever thought it their right to manhandle a woman. Make no mistake, there are men like him everywhere. Strip clubs and gymnasiums are full of them. As are nightclubs – these dangerous predators trawl dance-floors, often alone (a quick tip for ladies: if you ever meet a man in a nightclub or pub who is by himself, treat him the same way you would if you just caught him doing a shit in your toaster.) Our television screens are filled with men who have repeatedly proven themselves unfit to be in positions of public influence. These power-hungry, controlling cretins reside in offices, building sites and homes throughout the country.

Many of these men are charming and charismatic – two words beginning with the letter ‘C’ that I’m eternally grateful I’ve never been called. I’m yet to personally meet a charming and charismatic man whom I’d trust or believe solely on the basis of his charm or charisma. Almost all who encountered him swear that Ted Bundy was charming and charismatic. I’ll settle for decent.

Decent men don’t crave power. It comes to some of them naturally. The narcissists, sociopaths, badly damaged and grossly insecure are the ones that crave the false validation of power, then the opulence, violence and womanising that often accompanies it. It’s hard to understand let alone defeat a man who wants what you don’t want. It’s even harder to understand or defeat people who hate when you don’t hate.

Trump is what America and the world deserve. He’s not about left and right. People who continue to wholeheartedly align themselves with these so-called ‘teams’ are merely barrackers, as if politics is some sort of sport, though for nerds, albeit with more serious ramifications.

Strangely, no one I’ve spoken to recently has admitted they’d vote for Donald Trump (not even my American friends who were actually allowed to vote). Yet, plenty of people I’ve spoken to in my travels around the country recently are proudly; anti-Muslim, anti-immigration, racist, homophobic, self-interested and sexist. Reconciling that with a an apparent and belligerent disapproval of Trump is difficult. Still, perhaps once you can join those starkly misaligned dots, you’ll understand why the male ego in its most pathetic form has once again prevailed and why Donald Trump is the President-Elect of the United States of America.


RUOK? Of course I’m bloody not.

sjWhat do you reckon? I had to physically restrain myself from scratching every Range Rover I saw on Sunday, I ate dinner with the kids while dressed in a Mankini on Monday, we ran out of money for the tenth time this year on Tuesday and I nearly strangled this dullard who assumed I’d be interested in hearing about the house he won at auction on Wednesday. Mind you, had I known you could win a house at auction I might have gone along too.

How could anyone possibly be okay? The leader of our nation is Pearl Jam’s Nothing Man, the most pathetic and spineless cretin to ever hold this country’s highest office. He’s not even equipped with the intestinal fortitude to decide if he’s a homophobe or a coward. A leader? Malcolm Turnbull couldn’t lead Rolf Harris to a kids’ party.

But, I suppose politics is really only sport for nerds anyway, giving the geeks an opportunity to barrack and experience a full range of human emotions like most of us do when living vicariously through the footy.

So, actually, I guess I’m OK? Every day last week I told my wife and children how much I loved them. I went jogging four times, giggled childishly at a few cyclists and didn’t get drunk once (though by the bejesus I wanted to). No inbred told me that I wasn’t welcome in Australia, or that I couldn’t get married, nor did any dickhead throw a banana at me.

More importantly, on the RUOK front, I haven’t seriously contemplated topping myself for more than eight years now, though the option became suddenly appealing when this lady bored me witless about her Thermomix in June.

No one will ask me, ‘RUOK? today’, because they already know that I am (Mankini, mental medication, crankiness and occasional bouts of comatose drunkenness aside).

Would RUOK Day have made a difference to me eight years ago when I wasn’t OK? No, it wouldn’t have. My personal experiences and consequent understanding of mental health have taught me that the vast majority of people (men in particular) only get help when the pain and suffering becomes unbearable. Maybe we also need a CanU Help Me Day too, where people ask for help rather than offer it.

Sadly, the question RUOK – as important as it is – can be dismissed flippantly. A by-product of having been decidedly unhinged is that it’s given me an insight in to the mental well-being of others. I can think of at least three men (not including Cory Bernardi) who just aren’t right. I also know, if I was to ask them if they were OK today, they’d smile and lie. How do I know this? Because, directly and indirectly I ask them every time I see them. So maybe we need a backup question or statement to follow RUOK? Such as, ‘No, I don’t think you are.’ But, no one likes an intervention, least of all those who need one.

Today, I’m not going to ask anyone if they’re OK. RUOK Day might work for you but it doesn’t work for me.

I won’t attach myself to White Ribbon Day either. I do my bit at home and in my circle. Every honest Australian – man and woman – should acknowledge that there is a greater percentage of men who supposedly support White Ribbon Day and are then guilty of committing acts of family violence than there is a percentage of men who identify as Muslim who then commit acts of terrorism. Yet, it is constantly inferred, if not stated, that Muslims are the problem in Australia? Really? Codswallop. Sonia Kruger, Pauline Hanson and their ilk can go fuck themselves. Angry men are the problem the world over.

In 2009 I wrote about my lack of faith in Movember, the annual moustache growing contest and was widely pilloried. Whilst I don’t now feel the same way about everything I wrote back then as a sad and suicidal cynic, my reluctance to attach myself to popular causes has remained. Movember barely rated a mention last year. It’s pretty much finished, like moustaches should be.

RUOK Day is the flavour of the month now. What a competitive marketplace we live in and how sad, that like musicians, comedians and even bakeries, philanthropic causes can also be subject to the curious science of marketing, popularity, celebrity and trend.

RUOK Day is a terrific thing and must provide an enormous sense of pride to the family that created it. But, make no mistake, it’s only a start. It’s not the be-all and end-all. It’s not enough. The trenches lie beyond the superficial where mental health is concerned.

On the surface, raising awareness is valuable and makes us all feel good about ourselves, but resources are what are really needed. At my lowest ebb I finally sought help only to be told that unless I could afford to pay for one I’d have to wait six months to see a psychiatrist. That can be the reality of the available choices once the rubber wristbands have been put away for the year – money or death.

So, I hope you’re all OK today and that you’ll forgive me for not being an active participant, but I’m off to the pub with my mate Max. You’ll be glad to know that he’s OK too.

How to – defend Sonia Kruger and Eddie McGuire.

cougarUnless you’ve been living under an Aboriginal rock painting or an Islamic prayer rug for the past couple of days you’d know that Eddie McGuire and Sonia Kruger have been the Australian public’s most recent dual targets of hate and outrage.

In a near miracle (a Christian one of course) Mark Latham hadn’t even crawled out of his bile-laden Campbelltown cave and Dawn Fraser was still conducting the daily search for Easter eggs that she hid from herself in March when McGuire and Kruger started copping it.

McGuire is the Collingwood Football Club president and a ubiquitous radio and television show host. He is not, as he appears, a physical advertisement for poor health. Nor is he a racist or sexist as others have used flimsy evidence to assert.

Highly intelligent, McGuire even knows the correct answers to all the questions on Millionaire’s Hotseat so is clearly entitled to his enormous ego and the untouchable status he possesses.

Until yesterday, all I knew of Sonia Kruger was that she shared a first name with other females called Sonia and a surname with a South African national park, where coincidentally, none of the wildlife inhabitants are Muslim, which probably explains the lack of camels.

By lunchtime yesterday – thanks to that bastion of intellectual stimulation, commercial breakfast television – I also knew that Ms Kruger wanted to ban Muslims from entering Australia, primarily because she’s a mum who saw a dead baby on television (though it was apparently under a sheet, but we’ll not dwell on semantics and give her the benefit of the doubt.)

I don’t know about you, but if there’s one thing that makes me want to ban entire groups of people from entering Australia, it’s the very notion of a dead child. Kruger’s employers at Channel 9 know a thing or two about children too, having recently tried to kidnap a couple of them.

Kruger claimed she is scared and she has every right to be if the colossally inept NSW Police response to the Lindt Café siege is anything to go by.

I’m no fan of Islam, but I won’t say too much about that less one of the crazy bastards comes and blows me up, as they tend to do.

Nor am I big on any other religion for that matter. In fact, grownups with imaginary friends generally tend to frighten the shit out of me.

But, as sure as all Muslims are terrorists, we can safely assume (once I check with Kruger) that all Catholics are paedophiles, so it would be remiss of us not to ban them too. While we’re at it, Scientologists are dickheads, so we may as well add them to the list.

And why stop there? Americans and their penchant for shooting people would even concern an ISIS mother, so I’ll personally help Kruger and Pauline Hanson build a wall around Australia to keep those gun-toting yanks out.

Get rid of the Italians too, I say. Don’t tell me they’re not after world domination with all their concrete trying to kill off all the world’s trees so they can have all the oxygen for their big noses.

Japanese motorcycles kill more Australian men than terrorists could ever dream of and as a father I’m more terrified of motorbikes than I am of terrorists, so let’s keep them and the evil Japanese who make them out too.

We need to wake up people. It’s almost beyond belief that it’s taken Kruger, someone who we didn’t even know possessed the higher level thinking skills and expertise on such a complex issue to enlighten us. Just consider that for a moment. It took a woman from a reality dancing show on television to point out the bleeding obvious, that our babies are under threat. From Muslims and plenty more. I’m all for banning dingos too, just to be sure.

Collingwood President Eddie McGuire In Racial Row

And, how about poor old Eddie? He can’t pull a trick of late, no wonder he looks so fat and sad. As if he’s a proper racist. Who else in this country can honestly say they haven’t popped a few painkillers and immediately compared an Indigenous man to a fictitious gorilla?

McGuire’s not the problem, drugs are. Look what they do to swimmers. Grant Hackett took Stilnox and threw a grand piano at his wife and kids. What sort of drug makes someone do that? I wouldn’t mind betting Kruger had some aspirin before work on Monday morning .

Even I say silly things that are hugely out of character for me when I take drugs, so I know exactly how McGuire feels. Last time I took ecstasy I told fifteen people I loved them. Unheard of.

Some blame must be laid at the feet of mornings in general. You could be mistaken for thinking it’s the quality of commercial radio and television, but if you look closely you’ll see that McGuire, Kruger, Hanson and Fraser all broadcast their alleged bigotry early in the morning. Clearly it’s not a good time of day for many. I don’t even like getting out of bed when I need a wee before sunrise, which is why I keep a bedpan next to the bed.

They’re gutsier than me are McGuire and Kruger too. Whenever anyone asks me a question I don’t feel equipped to answer I just say, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know,’ like the coward I am.

Just in case you’re still not convinced of the undeniable decency of McGuire and Kruger, remember that between the two of them they are on the record as having Indigenous and Islamic friends.

That certainly trumps me. For I don’t have Indigenous friends, Islamic friends, gay friends or even Jewish friends for that matter, I only have friends.

How to – be mentally ill

grimaceNot everyone who suffers from depression shags their best mate’s wife, shoots an elephant, king-hits a stranger, drink drives or gropes women in night clubs, despite how mental illness is still portrayed.

Nor are all current or former footballers outstanding human beings. In fact, some you wouldn’t trust with your poodle, partner or pay cheque.

Anyone following the recent saga of former AFL stars and best mates, Garry Lyon and Billy Brownless could be mistaken for thinking that there is a new mental illness to be added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, that of – being caught. Often, only when a misdemeanour of one form or another is exposed is the spectre of mental illness raised.

Sadly, or perhaps conveniently, this phenomenon seems to occur commonly among celebrities. Whether responsibility for this falls at the feet of spin doctors, journalists or sufferers, I don’t know. What I do know is that it gives the rest of us who do, or have suffered from mental illnesses a bad name. Depression isn’t a prerequisite for horizontally folk dancing with your best mate’s wife, notwithstanding that being caught might trigger it.

The sensational approach to coverage of mental illness reinforces outdated prejudices and encourages consumers of media to automatically associate mental illness with being a dickhead, crime and/or immorality. We’ve already been successfully schooled in playing a variation of this word association game over the past fifteen years with ‘Muslim’ and ‘terrorism’ now often viewed as being one and the same thing.

No matter how eagerly professional sporting organisations attach themselves to worthy causes, time and time again this year already we’ve seen that they are not fit to educate anyone about mental illness, sexism, alcohol abuse, racism, drugs, homophobia or anything much else, beyond throwing, catching and kicking. They excel at providing politically correct lip service and a ‘do as I say, not as I did’ behavioural model.

The reason we so often hear, ‘He was the last person I would have expected to do that,’ when told that someone, who was not Superman, has leapt from a tall building is because the vast majority of people who suffer from a mental illness, do so either in silence or very quietly.

If I were to tell people that throughout the course of my life I’ve suffered from major depression, a bipolar disorder, panic attacks, trichotillomania, bulimia, self-harming tendendies, suicidal thoughts, encopresis and anxiety, many wouldn’t even know what most of them were let alone that I’d experienced them.

Why would anyone volunteer such information when the perception of mental illness, whilst improving, often remains as that of a shoeless whacko talking gibberish to a rubbish bin (an audible version of Twitter)?

People were suspicious about AFL player Lance Franklin’s admittance of a mental illness last year. Would they have been so unkind about a cancer diagnosis or a nose transplant? He wasn’t caught destroying a grand piano, so the veracity of his mental illness was questioned. Just because something is invisible, it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Garry Lyon lives in a bubble. I can’t imagine anything less real than television. I met Ita Buttrose on New Year’s Even while walking the dog and even she called it, ‘The Idiot Box.’ My actual experience of the medium – outside of watching it – is a three second appearance on the ABC program Country Wide while picking up acorns on a Canberra nature strip in 1978, so I’m not qualified to comment on the inner workings of the industry. But, unfortunately I have seen reality television so know that some spectacularly talentless and unhinged egomaniacs are given a platform to preach from. I’ve also seen egos run amok, remaining unchecked in football clubs, workplaces and comedy clubs, the stars surrounded by sycophants. Normal societal behavioural standards don’t apply to the talented. They think they can do anything. Often they try to.

Mental illness is separate to and different from that. It can afflict a television star, a stay-at-home parent, a war veteran or a public servant. It doesn’t discriminate.

In some ways you’re lucky if you have a mental illness as it can usually be treated. As yet, there is no known treatment for being an arsehole.

I’ve always thought that the more homophobes who have gay children the better. Now, I also believe that the more people who have a bout of mental illness the better. Nothing too serious – mental illness-lite perhaps – but enough for people to appreciate how terrifyingly awful and debilitating it is. And benefits usually come from treated mental illness. If nothing else, you’ll learn humility and empathy for others. I’m a better person having recovered from a lifelong battle only seven years ago.

So remember, not everyone who has a mental illness acts like a weirdo or does something stupid. If they did, Shane Warne would have all the excuses in the world.

How to – like Shane Warne



The physical transformation of Shane Warne, from a pudgy lookalike of golfer John Daly, to something that resembles a lesbian Thunderbird has been as astonishing to observe as it has no doubt been expensive for the Sheik of Tweak to achieve. Personally, I like it. Not the fact that Warne can be so horrifically insecure that he feels compelled to artificially alter his body, hair and face, but that he can do so and still expect to be taken seriously.


If there’s been a more likable sporting sight than that of a fat, peroxide-blonde, Australian bogan singlehandedly dismantling the entire self-esteem of England or South Africa, armed with only a cricket ball, I’m yet to see it. But, that’s where it ends for Shane Keith Warne. There’s not much else to like. There’s nothing else at all really, apart from an incomparable vacuousness, petty childishness and a stupidity so sublime it’s almost as mesmerising as his bowling once was.


“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.”

– Attributed to both Charles Bukowski and Bertrand Russell. As a boastful non-reader Shane Warne wouldn’t know who either literary giant was. Yet, clearly they knew him.

Warne’s most recent foray into public life as a contestant on I’m a Celebrity…. Get Me Out of Here has already sparked controversy. Firstly, because his entry to the African jungle happened to coincide with The Shane Warne Foundation withdrawing its short arms from its very long pockets, just as it was being investigated by the consumer watchdog and serious questions were being asked about the financial governance of the charity. Exquisite timing. The next show we see Warne on could well be, ‘I’ve Got a Sore Bottom…. Get Me Out of Here.’ That I would watch.

Bizarrely, Warne’s charity website explains its mission as, ‘Teaming up – to help Aussie kids.’

It appears to have done as good a job of helping Aussie kids as Cardinal George Pell.

warne_shaveSecondly, sitting, cross-legged in the African jungle, legs beautifully shaved or waxed (not sure which as I’m not a cyclist, or wanker), this red-blooded Australian male sledges Steve Waugh, describing the former Australian captain as the most selfish cricketer he ever played with. That’s right, a convicted drug cheat calling a universally admired, hard working, charitable, family man, selfish. This must be the most extreme case of the armpit calling the arsehole hairy in history. Steve Waugh did in 1999 what Shane Warne’s mum should have done in 1979, 1989 and every other year in between – he taught the self-obsessed twat that the world didn’t revolve around him.

Not that self-awareness has ever been a strong point of Warne’s, unless staring into the mirror installed above his bed constitutes self-awareness.

Apart from entering the jungle to avoid being questioned about his glitzy, red-carpet celebrity events, pardon me, I mean charitable foundation – questions he is clearly unencumbered with the decency and mental apparatus to answer – Warne is reported to have joined the mind-numbing program for $2 million. Further, he receives special treatment clauses entitling him to be, well, selfish. And we, the voyeurs are left to shake our heads in wonderment and ponder how fortunate Warne is not to be working beneath Dave Warner at Woolworth’s.

Warne is now little more than a caricature of his former self. As the memories of his extraordinary playing career fade, they are replaced by acts of colossal idiocy. He is entirely defined by things that don’t matter. Wealth, possessions, gambling, celebrity, womanising and a really funny face. He stands for nothing, other than himself. Selfishness personified.

‘He’s a good bloke, a larrikin,’ they say of Warne, overlooking that in Australia the word ‘larrikin’ is merely subterfuge for labelling someone a ‘dickhead’.

‘He’s a shallow, self-serving clown,’ say others.

The two aren’t mutually exclusive. It depends on who you talk to. People have possibly said both about me, as they may have of Warne’s narcissistic mates, Eddie McGuire, Kevin Pieterson and Piers Morgan, men who consequences for their behaviour mean nothing.

In making up your own mind consider whether a good bloke and father of three could be so traumatised by his own company that he continually feels it necessary to take photos of himself in bed, pouting with duckface before posting them to Twitter, Facebook and Instagram?

Would a good bloke and man so blatantly incapable of higher-level thinking pretend to know what it’s like to be indigenous by criticising Adam Goodes? Maybe he would, or maybe there’s something in the peroxide, as other artificially blonde simpletons Dermott Brereton, Jason Akermanis and Karl Langdon eagerly joined the chorus of feeble-minded bigots.

warne_paintingWould a good bloke seriously commission a painting of himself, such as the one Warne did? To be hung in his own home. A painting including several, more famous people, some of them decent human beings, like Muhammed Ali, a man with an equally massive ego but who unquestionably would have sided with Adam Goodes. The gap in meaningful contributions to humanity between Ali and Warne is as wide as the chasm between the latter’s ears. And Bruce Springsteen, a man who it would be fair to say wouldn’t cross the street to talk to Shane Warne? And a bare-breasted Angelina Jolie lounging beside the pool. A woman who had her breasts removed courtesy of a double mastectomy. Does this imbecile’s injudiciousness know no bounds? Why he did this, when a painting of him and Kanye West together, gazing wantonly into a mirror with their hands on their dicks would have captured the sensibilities of Warne perfectly.

Would a good bloke blame his mum when caught taking a banned substance? And when that banned substance, a diuretic was found to be commonly used to mask steroids would he claim that he took it for a double chin? Would he make these preposterous claims just after completing a truly remarkable recovery from a serious shoulder injury? These synchronies always seem to occur just when Warne needs them, protecting him from accountability. A good bloke would take his medicine, just as he should have when dropped by Steve Waugh in 1999.

What sort of good bloke would do these things? He wouldn’t. A mummy’s boy would though. Clearly, that’s what Warne is. And, the problem with mummy’s boys is that they often end up egocentrically deluded. So, mums (dads too), if I may, let me tell you something. If you don’t tell your son he’s a dickhead every now and then, he’ll never know or be able to accept when he is one. Look no further than self-proclaimed mummy’s boys Kevin Rudd, James Hird and Tony Abbott. Look at the havoc they’ve wreaked. What they and Warne possess is not necessarily a strong sense of self, but a thick-skinned inability to morally calibrate, or acknowledge wrongdoing. So yes, you can give your son too many hugs. And, no Steve Waugh shouldn’t be doing your job for you.

Warnie, I know you won’t read this because you don’t and possibly can’t, even though you somehow find a way to write a syndicated newspaper column. And I know you don’t care what other people think, as that would require reflection (no mate, not the mirror type). But seriously, if statistics in possession of Consumer Affairs Victoria indicated that only 16 cents in the dollar of me was credible, I’d have a good, long, hard look at myself. No, Warnie, not in the mirror. Oh Jesus, why do I bother?

Note: Sadly, this piece was written before Shane Warne shared his theories on evolution, aliens and pyramids, proving in the process that it is indeed possible to be as dumb as you look.

How to – defend Mitchell Pearce

pittiesA mate of mine overheard a conversation at a café in Mascot this morning. It went something like this. ‘I read this thing on Facebook about Mitchell Pearce. Some comedian called Woody wrote it. He’s a fucking cock.’

Now, even though I’ve probably been called worse by better people, I was gobsmacked. Here I was, writing away these past couple of months thinking that only my wife, immediate family and a few close mates were reading my blog when there was a tradie in Mascot, too. So, welcome aboard mate. Unfortunately, there’s no prize for being my 4th email subscriber.

Another mate of mine stated that I was outraged by Mitchell Pearce and that the entire shemozzle was actually the fault of the bloke with the camera. Plus, he’d seen a lot worse behaviour in his time.

In my pitiful defence, I thought the emphasis in my insignificant blurb (read by about the same number of people as are assaulted by NRL players every year) had been more about NRL tokenism, player entitlement, arrogance, accountability and the treatment of women than it had been about Mitchell Pearce. Still, the criticisms got me to thinking and after careful evaluation it’s become evident that I’m the one at fault. So, I’m sorry. I’d like to unequivocally apologise to every bloke out there who drinks then chooses to treat women or men as his playthings, with a flagrant disregard for their humanity. How dare I impinge on Pearce’s god given right to exercise his patriarchal privilege?

For starters, I didn’t know all the facts.

The coach

The coach was reportedly furious at Mitchell Pearce and could be heard shouting, ‘The backline, I said, the backline, inject yourself into the backline, not a fucking a canine.’

The dog

You and I don’t know how the dog was behaving, or what it was wearing prior to the sexual simulation. Everyone knows female dogs, particularly poodles are always gagging for it. A bitch on heat at a dog park is not dissimilar to a woman in a fluorescent yellow dress at a nightclub, hard to keep your hands off. Temptresses, all of them.

Casual racism

As for the claim of casual racism, that’s laughable. If an Anglo-Saxon male can’t have a bit of fun at the expense of Aboriginal people on Australia Day of all days – a day commemorating the commencement of genocide and oppression – when can he?


Pearce was merely ensuring that he wasn’t only remembered as a really shit State of Origin player. Mission accomplished.

Good bloke

Pearce is popular with his teammates so he can’t possibly be a tool. Oh, his friends like him, do they? What a coincidence, my friends like me too, unlike the bloke in Mascot.

Just as Tony Abbott’s friends like him. People say the former PM’s a really good bloke. I don’t mix with too many but there must be plenty of good blokes out there who are uncomfortable around gays, prefer coal to fresh air, condemn a woman’s choice to have an abortion and speak at rally’s arguing against gay marriage, all while bowing before an imaginary friend. Fucking champions, all of them. Clearly, it’s me with the problem.

Wayne Carey is another good bloke. They all loved him, his womanising was legendary, well until he got caught sleeping with a mate’s wife and bashed another one.

Shane Warne’s a top bloke too, at least 16 cents in the dollar of him is, anyway.

Plenty of fellas are willing to attest to Ricky Nixon’s good bloke status. And Alan Jones and Matt Newton and John Hopoate and Bernard Tomic…………………………….

Watch a documentary on Ted Bundy and hear his former workmates say what a sweetheart he was.

Get it? Basically, every single male on earth is a good bloke, so if you don’t agree, it’s you with the problem. And here’s silly me who’s always thought it’s how you treat and affect the lives of people who you don’t know as being equally as important as how you treat those in your inner sanctum.

Not only is he a good bloke, but he can’t have a problem with women either, his mum and sister turned up to his press conference.

Son of a gun

It’s tough growing up the son of a legend. $750k a year he earns. I haven’t totalled that amount and I’ve been working fulltime since 1989. I’m hearing you though, expectations and all that, just not sure how to break it to the blokes who never had dads, or the fellas in prison who suffered as children and can’t afford a six-week stint in a celebrity rehab centre overseas.


It was only a harmless kiss. Couldn’t agree more. And no, doubt it’s the first woman he’s ever done it too. Nothing surer than Mitchell Pearce would be entirely comfortable if every time he went to a house party, a gay guy grabbed him and forcefully stuck his tongue down his throat.


It’s the bloke with the camera’s fault. How dare he film what is uncomfortably close to a sexual offence? Like those pricks who film the cops shooting black guys in the States. Nothing but troublemakers.

Dickhead or not, the bloke has saved Pearce’s career, mental health, poodles and potentially another woman from a worse experience.

The truth is, it’s not really about Mitchell Pearce. He’s lucky, he’s hopefully getting some help. The dickheads who go out tonight and act like he did toward women are who it’s about. It’s not even about drink. I’ve been a lot drunker than Pearce was in that video a thousand times. It’s not about the dog either. Mitchell is welcome to come over and pretend to fuck my pit-bull all he likes. I’m not judging him on that. He can eat a shit sandwich for all I care. I played football till I was 30, I’ve seen it all. I’ve been at a party and a mate has walked out with a budgie perched on his dick. I laughed harder than anyone. I would have laughed at Todd Carney’s ‘bubbling’ incident too. I can’t think of a mate who hasn’t pissed himself on the drink. Nor is it about ‘liney lineys’ of cocaine. If the NRL think it’s about drugs, then as usual they’re dotting the wrong ‘I’s and crossing the wrong ‘T’s.

A drunk being a fool can’t offend me, but a drunk who can’t treat women, or any other human being with respect can. Good bloke or not. I’m sorry for writing a few words that upset a bloke in Mascot, but I reckon probably not as sorry as Mitchell Pearce is.


How to – be Mitchell Pearce


Just when everyone thought that his performances in State of Origin were the greatest embarrassments Mitchell Pearce would ever suffer……..

Rugby league does a lot of good for the community. Keeping the prison population down for one.

The game was built on controversy. To this day it is what feeds it. Bringing the game into disrepute is nigh on impossible. What happens off the field is often more exciting than what happens on it. Rugby league is the Woman’s Weekly of sport. But, it tries hard. The NRL (Neanderthals Running Loose) provides courses for players on how to treat women. I would have thought that if you need a course on how to treat a woman, when you go to bed at night, it should be in an orange jumpsuit and your door should be bolted from the outside.

The NRL is an advocate for White Ribbon Day which is a bit like Ivan Milat promoting safe hitchhiking.

Past players and beacons of morality Mark Geyer and Matty Johns are employed to guide the public through the societal issues of the day on radio. Whether it be multiculturalism, homophobia or politics. Anything but how to beat the shit out of strangers or gangbang the emotionally vulnerable.

Mal Meninga pours himself a beer, Greg Bird pisses on a cop car and who knows how many of them beat their wives. Entitled men with the IQ’s of zucchini are being deified by our children.

The only reason I’d ever encourage my kids to get an NRL players signature is to collect a DNA sample. Maybe I’m jealous. I could never have been a professional rugby league player as I’ve no idea how to shave my legs or operate an X-Box.

The media is awash with Mitchell Pearce simulating a sex act with a dog and pissing himself. Should he be sacked for either? Probably not. The non-consensual slobbering on a woman’s face, however, has barely rated a mention. Does this menace have a mum or sister?

But, it’s not all their fault. It’s ours too. We are the sychophants. We put them on a pedestal of which they are undeserving. Because they’re good at something. A staggeringly brutal sport.

You think the sponsors care? The sponsors product is what got Pearce in the state he was in. Footballers are simply mobile, advertising sandwich boards for them.

Just as there’s probably a very good reason Mitchell’s dad, Wayne Pearce doesn’t drink, there’s also a good reason the Romans used to kill or keep captive the gladiators once their entertainment obligations had been fulfilled.

Testosterone-fuelled men are fucking idiots, especially when they’re young and in groups. I know, I was one. I still love getting as full as a caterpillar’s sock drawer on the drink, but I know to leave women, children, other people and poodles alone when I do. I always did. Famous footballers are not held to the same standards of accountability as everyone else, so disaster is always, merely pending.

It is the parents’ fault, too. Excited, blinded even by the joy of having a family member excel at something. They enable, albeit usually unintentionally.

It is the fault of the people who run the game and conducted themselves in the same way twenty years before. Do as I say, not as I did. Let’s tick all the politically correct boxes and go on our merry way.

It is the fault of uncoordinated, white-collar parasites who, unstatisfied with having climbed a less masculine path to success in the business sector surround themselves with these modern day gladiators, feeding off their fame like filthy leeches. Russell Crowe as a role model?

And, it’s Pearce’s fault, and Blake Ferguson’s, and Andrew Johns’, and Craig Field’s, and all the other knuckle dragging, slow learners for being massive fucking dickheads.

How on earth anyone with a level of respect for Indigenous Australians can celebrate Australia Day is entirely beyond me anyway, but that’s another matter. Mitchell Pearce trending above Noel Pearson on Twitter. There’s our problem, right there.

musclesWho knows if Mitchell Pearce is a good bloke or not. I certainly don’t. He obviously shouldn’t drink, and anyone who poses in a photo with other men like the one attached has serious ego problems. What I do know is, he’s a performer, a circus act, who allows me to live vicariously through a television screen, while surreptitiously encouraging me to buy sponsors products, such as beer.


A role model is not someone who is really good at something, but is someone who is really good at doing good things.

The only thing that surprises me about the whole sorry saga is that Pearce wasn’t wearing an Australian flag as a cape.