A little while ago a friend thought one of my articles was a pointed reference to his own behaviour. It wasn’t….
Read MoreLast week, someone contacted me. The end. Not really. That was a little joke. The person who contacted me…
Read More“So what do you do for a living, Johnson?”
“Uh… it’s Jonathan… I’m a… well, a writer.”
“A writer? You write books? Novels?”
“No, no, no. No. Definitely not.
“No.”
“But I do write a little thing… a little columny thing… in the paper.”
Read MoreI’m all for metaphors. If variety is the spice of life then metaphors are the smoked paprika of language. I…
Read MoreFelicity Montgomery was the daughter of the Establishment. She sometimes rode in a horse-drawn carriage, even though that mode of transport had been obsolete for more than a century and was extravagantly expensive and exceptionally inefficient. She had hair like a flowing waterfall of molten bronze and eyes like two shimmering orbs of cobalt, except with some white (the white) and black (the pupil). Her eyes not only looked like cobalt, they also had a cobalt-like radioactivity, and although they could not cause cancer in a man, they could certainly make him very ill indeed. Ill with love.
Felicity had a fine pair of buttocks.
Read MoreWhile I may be the world’s most promising and precocious literary talent, this doesn’t change the fact that I am as ugly as sin. And I’m not talking about one of the spurious Catholic ones like “original sin” or one of the piss-weak Deadly ones like sloth or gluttony; I’m talking about the absolute shockers like wrath, Avada Kedavra and, by far the worst of all, vanity. (I absolutely abhor arrogance and conceit, and as the owner of a Chapel Street night club, you undoubtedly do too.)
I’m so unattractive, my wife employs a Perseus-style mirror-plated shield when conversing with me. I’m so unattractive, I’m reluctant to have children because I fear that if my son or daughter got my face genes, I’d be dragged to The Hague and charged with crimes against humanity.
Read MoreBrunden’s bed had satin sheets.
Brunden completed a difficult equation and yelled with satisfaction, as he sometimes did while exercising his gift for arithmetic. It must have been loud, because he could hear Dierdre, the thirty-four year old divorcee who lived in the apartment next door wake up and ask herself groggily, “Wh-what’s going on?”
Then suddenly it was on.
Big time.
Dierdre was at the door with all her clothes on and a duffel coat and a prim early 19th century replica bonnet, then she was about halfway between the door and the bed without her duffel coat and only some of her clothes on, but the bonnet still on in a coquettish manner. Then she was straddling Hank Brunden completely naked, her gulf throbbing like a frightened mouse’s heart. It had been like watching a very early, very amateurish attempt at stop motion cinema.
Read MoreSometimes I receive messages in the spiced ham folder of my email that get me so excited I feel like…
Read MoreAt primary school, a boy whose real name I won’t reveal (I’ll call him Mike Lamprill) took our collective seven-year-old…
Read More…all your products are bloody delicious and the fact you remain an Australian-owned company swells my chest with the kind of green and gold pride that makes me want to look in a mirror and tell myself “Stop puffing out your chest – you look like a wanker and you’re bringing attention to yourself”.
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