The Haught guide to snake oil salesmen


Remember those holographic wrist bands that claimed to improve balance and sporting performance by ‘‘aligning key energy symmetries’’? They still exist, but that (along with the About Us section of is just a gloriously absurd aside. The fact that they ever existed, full stop, is all that really matters.

As long as you understand that rubber bracelets imbedded with a small holographic image once took the sporting (and then wider) world by storm, you need never become depressed by your career stagnation again.… Read the rest


Benign to Five on networking

Networking image (funeral)
I wrote the following column while at a networking event.

I find the idea of wandering up to a small gathering of strangers and nodding earnestly as one member of the group acts as an industry trends soothsayer or as a 1990s-style spruiker outside the front of a shop that sells his or her own professional acumen about as desirable as warm tomato juice.

I don’t like it mainly because I can’t do it. I avoid networking at all costs. And when I’m forced to partake, I attend the venue, but rarely if ever engage in the expected mingling. Instead, I look at my phone. Sometimes I read Twitter. Sometimes I make amusing updates to the Haught Facebook page.  In this instance, I fired up Google Docs and managed to type out an entire 280 words of hilarity over the space of what would have been an excruciating hour and a half of pretending not to be a social misfit.

Do try it.… Read the rest


How to write a mission statement

How to write a mission statement


Although I’m best known as perhaps the best blogger in the southern hemisphere, a columnist, raconteur, literary master, social justice crusader, sartorial paragon, steamboat captain, pen-and-ink artist,  consumer advocate, curmudgeon, letter writer, copywriter, sex symbol, myki sceptic, long-suffering Melbourne Football Club supporter, linguist, Weis’ lover, wit, social media megastar, alpine strawberry farmer, custard doughnut aficionado, corporate communications observer, botanist, northern Melburnian, former blimp manufacturer and poet, my true passion is teaching.

I love to pass on my expertise to those who possess less experience, genius and general brilliance than I do. If that sounds like you (if it doesn’t, you’re probably being a bit arrogant), I invite you to delight in my wisdom on writing mission statements:… Read the rest


The Haught guide to change managers



Every single word I write on these pages and in the pages of The Age and the Sydney Morning Herald is true. If my stories and accounts sound far-fetched, it is because I have lived a rich, kaleidoscopic life, replete with encounters that stretch the outer membrane of believability to near-breaking point and acquaintances living astride the boundary dividing Real Life and Cartoons.

But the margin dwellers – the loaf bowlers, the fishpond sippers, the  scatalogically obsessed – always seem to die on their run in the Sublime Idiocy Stakes, passed in the last 200 metres by fast-finishing members of the nominal mainstream.

(Corporate) truth, it seems, is stranger than (what looks like, but isn’t) fiction:


The Haught guide to “moving forward”


Picture 6Moved to tears

While working in an office job, I once lost my bearings and blundered into the wrong meeting room.

The abhorrence I observed taking place inside filled me with a liquid disgust (not unlike the stuff that gets wrung out of the sponge in that famous anti-smoking ad).

It was a “moving forward” orgy: men and women, old and young, executives and dogsbodies – all going at it hammer and tongs – “moving forward” like it was going out of fashion. Which, it turns out, it wasn’t.… Read the rest


Benign to Five on “When I grow up…”

Image courtesy of 'Gwernol'

Image courtesy of ‘Gwernol’

What do you reckon Alan Jones wanted to be when he was growing up? What about Kyle Sandilands? Or Pat Raw? These aren’t rhetorical questions, and I’m going to attempt to answer them in order:

Pantomime horse.

Condom vending machine maintenance person.

Chicken sexer.

It’s fun to look back at your preferred career at the age of 5. Fun, and also absolutely devastating. Our parents have a lot to answer for:


The Haught guide to “journeys”

I don’t ask much from you, dear reader, so when I tell you today that I have a task for you, I’d appreciate it if you take it seriously, complete it assiduously and then report back in detail on your findings.

Here’s the task. After reading this article, keep in mind the word “journey” and take note of every time someone uses it in the non-going-for-a-long-walk-holding-a-crooked-piece-of-wood sense.

My hypothesis is that you’ll hear it around three thousand times every four hours.


Resuming normal transmission

Haught hasn’t been running at full capacity recently.

I first knew there was a problem when my daily visitor stats dropped radically. Where once I was getting 3.45 billion visits a day, now I was getting a measly 1.98 billion.

I then started getting emails – up to 9000 a day – asking me whether I’d stopped Haughting. That was ironic, because the whole problem, apparently came from the fact that people weren’t receiving emails from me.

Turns out anyone who’s subscribed to Haught by email (in the “STAY HAUGHTED’ section on the right hand side of the blog) almost certainly hasn’t received a notification email in more than a month.

I have it on good authority that the problem has been fixed, or “solutioned” as some fuckwits say these days.

So this is a little post to say I’m still alive, I’m still riotously funny and here’s what you might have missed:


The Haught guide to work farewells


While in Barcelona, I once hid in a lavatory to avoid dancing.

The Contiki Tour I was on took us to a Flamenco bar and it became clear that, after dinner, each member of the tour would have to get up and dance with a proper Spanish Flamenco master (or mistress). The members of the group with natural rhythm fared OK, but then a bloke who went by the name of The Dazzler got up and made a complete fool of himself, approaching his partner as if she was covered head to toe in bedsores and dancing like he was covered head to toe in the sort of sunburn I thought only existed in the 1980s.

I watched for 90 seconds, realised that despite looking like a malfunctioning robot in a 1960s science fiction show – one whose flailing arms are made from corrugated tubing – he was a far more accomplished dancer than me, and fled to the toilets.

What’s that got to do with work goodbyes?