The story of Eve: thank goodness for warm generosity in the cold world of work

I’ve been writing this blog for six and a half years. Over that time, I hope it’s become clear that it’s not actually written by an obnoxiously self-admiring fuckwit who receives hundreds of thousands of fan letters every day and truly believes the open letter is a practical and original way of shaming large corporations and effecting social change. (The clue has always been in the name. )

A fuckwit, maybe, but not that fuckwit. 

That person – that character – might have told you that he, and he alone, was responsible for his own success (no matter how small). He might have, on a particularly haughty day, asked you to believe that a person gets to where they are as part of the natural order of things.

He would be deluding himself and lying to you.

My email to The Goodnight Society

goodnight card

For Mother’s Day I decided to get my wife some pyjamas. I did my online research, found a company by the name of The Goodnight Society and, with plenty of time to spare before the 10th of May, I bought some sleepwear.

It never arrived.

Australia Post told me they’d delivered it weeks before Mother’s Day so I got in contact with The Goodnight Society by email. A woman by the name of Kathryn Tyrrell, whom I later found out is the founder of the company, confirmed that they had delivered the clothes to the correct address shortly after I’d ordered them.

Minutes later she followed up with this:

Hi again!

I’m worried about leaving you in the lurch for Mother’s Day if the parcel has gone missing! Do you want me to get another set in tonight’s express post while we see if the other one can be tracked down?


What a lovely offer, I thought. And how entirely unfair that a small business should have to make up for the mistakes of another, much larger organisation. So I thanked Kathryn, declined and pursued Australia Post.… Read the rest

The Haught guide to grunting

The 2015 Australian Open begins this week and if the tennis season teaches us anything, it’s that making very loud noises while plying your trade is an excellent way of improving performance.

During one of the lead-up tournaments last year, a player was reportedly told by her coach that she hadn’t vocalised enough during a distinctly lacklustre victory.

Ridiculous advice? Not at all. Here’s why I’m a huge advocate of grunting, screaming, yipping, moaning and howling your way to supremacy in your professional sphere.

Dumb Ways to Die (the Demons version)

Money BinAs some of you reading this will know, my alter ego is a mild-mannered Melbourne Demons supporter by the name of Jonathan.

As some of you reading this will know, the Melbourne Demons may be the second most ineptly run organisation in the history of civilisation.

As some of you reading this will know, last year Metro Trains (the most ineptly run organisation in the history of civilisation) released a hilarious public safety video called Dumb Ways to Die.

The Demons have now fallen so far that the possibility of extinction is once again shrouding the club like a foul stench.

So, with apologies to Julian Frost and John Mescall…


Bucket HeadDuring the Boxing Day test Channel 9 showed twice as many KFC ads as they showed moments of decent cricket.

The ads revolved around two blokes who I’d never seen before (I now know they played for the Charlotte Bobcats).

In an effort to sell fried chicken to Australians, they filmed these bespectacled and tattooed Americans participating in activities with no relevance to anything and asked them to look as awkward as possible while doing it. They employed former Australian cricketer Michael Slater and a crack team of extras to laugh loudly in the background at their profoundly un-humorous antics.

I wrote an email to KFC offering my thoughts on the ads and asking for a job. KFC have responded with nearly as many words as secret herbs and spices in their batter:

Haught starter

Do blogs need introductory posts or do you just wade straight in and start floundering around, not like a flounder (possibly the stillest creature in the marine kingdom) at all, but like a juvenile okapi, thrashing helplessly in a particularly deep section of the Congo with your preposterously inadequate Bambi legs and a look of desperation on your face that quickly turns to a look of resignation before sinking, with the rest of your head, below the cool sheet of water which only moments ago you were lapping at contentedly?

That’s not a rhetorical question; I really really want an answer.

Speaking of a sheet of water – narcissism: that’s the only reason you’d start a blog, surely. Last week I said this to a friend who had suggested I begin putting my thoughts down for public (digital) consumption.

He said, “So – why not?”

I said: “Because it’s for narcissistic clowns.”

He said, “Then what’s stopping you?”

And he had made a good point. Nobody likes the sound of their own keystrokes more than me. Narcissus, of course, was around in a time long before it became possible for people  to self- publish earnest, illiterate and vomit-inducing poetry and make it available to every single person in the world who owns a computer and access to the internet.… Read the rest