Once upon a time you rang your phone company and after three rings a sheila with an ocker accent answered and said ‘G’day’, and then she asked ‘What’s the problem darl?’ and you said ‘Look luv’ and you told he,r and within seconds whatever the irritant was, it got fixed, and you told Darlene on the other end of the dog and bone that she was a gem, and that if you weren’t married you’d give her several, and wished her a bloody good night and reminded her that she had your number right in front of her, and told her to be careful not to lose it.

Obviously you weren’t wanting to f*ck the filly, you were just being respectfully polite, and when she put down the receiver Darlene smiled to herself, then turned to her telephonist mate to the right and said ‘the cheek of that c*nt’, and the girls spent the next half hour between calls discussing your lairish lechery down the line.

Halcyon days they were, and a bloke didn’t need a wingman to get his willy wet, not if he had a small slice of dash, half an ounce of front, and a three-quarters of a just-slurped schooner full of wit.


Oh no, back in the day a bloke stood on his own two feet and pulled prospective payday-lenders on his own, and his mates copped slops if they were lucky and he was 27 1/2 double Bundy’s into the night and headed toward the sunrise with the 28 1/2th in his paw.

Wingman my arse.

What do they reckon a bloke is, a poof or something? A bum-bandit, anal-sex loving hetrosexual homophobe? A ‘gee I’m sorry I missed the mark, I dead-set thought that was your minge darling’ style misogynist prick? A ‘sorry sweetheart I slipped’ type sexist suckhole? Or just plain goddamn bloody useless?

Know what sportsfans? The world has changed, and instead of Darlene stretching out her helping hand,  these days all you get is a bloody Optus chat room cheeseburger chomper in Chennai singing from some coke sniffing ‘Sell, Sell,Sell and then Up-sell’ Executive from Sydney’s Sinaloa-inspired sales script that the poor curry-muncher has to parrot if he doesn’t want to cop the sack from his sixty-seven cent an hour call-center sinecure.


Yep, once upon a time if your call to the phone company wasn’t answered in thirty seconds you’d hang up and tell ’em to get f*cked, but nowadays you thank them for not cutting you off after you’ve been on hold for an hour and a half, and let the pricks tell you that they’re you’re Wingman, and piss all over every woman you love and respect in the process.

Unless you’re Archie of course.

I told the c*nts to stick it up their clacker, and I’m with TPG now.

And  do ya know what?

They answer the phone on the third ring.