My much-love hotter than Hades but mad as a snake missus the Bead-Twirler has always been an obsessive type, and for seemingly eons the crazy coconut has enjoyed an eclectic assortment of various obsessions – wood carving, knitting, Christ, Cook Island quilting, growing hedges, protesting against dredges, ten pin bowling, JK Rowling, ukulele, shots of Baileys, nude folk hula and West Coast Cooler just to name a few – but has latterly developed a single-focused 22 hour a day interest in online retail presumed bargain buying therapy, using the funds previously allocated to my punting bank, of course.

The mad bodacious-bootied bint will buy almost bloody anything – as the first page of her AliExpress account statement for the past hour (below) clearly attests – but geez I wish to buggery that she’d keep off bloody Gumtree, because web-based bargain hunting and obsessions with extraordinarily average 80’s music are just bad medicine, even to the healthiest of wide-eyed and willing to have a crack at anything adventurous Geebung born and bred punters.


Let me tell you about yesterday, if I can without throwing up on the front lawn at the thought of the fantasy-filled sexy-blonde lead-singer from Transvision Vamp channeling a Teenage Mutant Turtle vision turned bad waking dream.

There I was flat on my back like a lizard drinking, snoring my bloody head off when after a hard night punting on the Welsh hurdles and trying to chase my losses on the early-morning American trots I had lowered my Lothario-like scone to 90 degrees on the Sleepmaker, and drifted off to never-never land dreaming of Wendy the Vamp getting it on with Eva Longoria – darkness and light, and trans-Atlantic love: I’m an international peace loving and understanding maker as I’m sure you understand – only to be rudely awaken at the ungodly hour of 5pm by a screaming non-naked Samoan waving a couple of tickets in front of my dial and demanding that I decamp from the soft King-sized wet dream inspire, snap to attention, shower, shit and shave, and then chuck on my ancient genie pants with the slit up the side and the presumed-retired lace-up white boots, ready for a big 80’s inspired night out on a revolving dance floor just like the one they used to have at Images on the top floor of ye old Suncorp Tower all those long decades ago.

‘WTF are you on about you weirdo?’ I was thinking while my aged meat pies slowly came into post-slumber focus, but I wasn’t surprised, because after god-knows how many years of tropical mango madness you learn to expect any bloody thing.

Any bloody thing but this, that is, because when I opened the saucers wide and looked inside at the pieces of pulp paper in her palm I wished I’d bloody stayed in the twilight zone. For lo and behold what was my big-boobed bonk-bunny holding but a pair of tickets to the 97.3FM High School Reunion that she’d picked up for a tenth of the face price on Gumtree, which even in my sleep-deprived and befuddled state I realised was a tenth too much to pay for the privilege of being waterboarded by one-hit wonder wankers with blonde-streaked tousled tresses, and another quarter of a point over the odds again.

For the love of pepperoni pizza, clowns like the Kids in the Kitchen were never quite a cool cat like me’s cup of tea, and Pseudo Echo were just a gang of poncy prancing poofs with plastic keyboards they pretended were guitars as they lip-synced to seriously over-produced cover versions of sh*t original songs.

Old Angry Anderson and his rabble of riffing tattooed roses were always to the right of the National Front – and thus ideological anathema to the Arch – and the Carly-Simon covering Chocolate Starfish simply took it in the eponymous opening according to this thrice a day rooter’s reckoning, not that I wasn’t on occasions partial to the odd starfish the fifth round around,just to keep it interesting.

Boom Crash Opera were awful even in their prime back when Hawkey ran the Aussie show, and Daddy Cool ceased being cool about the same time that the mad assassin Mark Chapman put a couple of bullets through John Lennon, although this Bunger boy’s always been partial to a bit of coming, so I figured that perhaps I could grin and bear that mode of faux Ross Wilson written and performed Mond0-rock rooting music for one song at least.

Overall though the prospect of getting up before the sun came down so I could do the bus stop with stonewashed permed grandmas thrilled me with neither joy nor exultation, so in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable pain ahead I tried to full a swifty on the spouse and pretended that I couldn’t see without my specs and had gone deaf in my sleep.

It worked a treat for all of two seconds until the ebullient other half accurately observed that I actually had the looking glasses wrapped around my head and craftily coerced me into acknowledging that I remained in possession of the gift of sound by asking me whether she wanted me to slip a couple hundred in my Ubet account for a next punt on the gees running around Doomben.

Of course I stupidly said yes before I realised the trap the Twirler had trickily laid, so in the instant that the error of my ways became apparent to me I pretended to collapse into a coma. But that only lasted as long as it took for her to snatch up a framed and signed Wa Wa Nee platinum selling single and whack me in the head – gee they’re heavy those decorative stimulated sales discs – and after I regained consciousness and  realised the gig was up I had no option other than to put on a sour face and grudgingly accept my fate.

Half an hour and a pair of black jeans, karate slippers, a well-worn Culture Club t-shirt later and a twenty five-buck taxi ride later I found myself standing at the bar in the auditorium of the suburban beer barn the Eatons Hill Hotel, paying 12 bucks every ten minutes for 300ml pre-mixed bottles of sickeningly sweet Midori and Lemonades poured into plastic cups to quench the blushing bride’s demon thirst.

After she’d downed the first couple and started bopping to Pseudo’s Funkytown I pretended that I had dysentery and had to run off every five minutes to the dunny, but after about the third dive past the gents and up to the stairs to sneak a peek at the Broncos slapping the Storm on the big screen I felt five familiar fingers clamp on my left shoulder and a much-feared coconut-sized fist smack me hard in the gut, and even before I beat the 10 count and got up off the ladies lounge bar canvas the realisation had  dawned that the gig was up.

So instead of a feverish Friday night full of the real-man’s code of rugby league footy, with a dash of 18 man around the AFL aerial ping-pong thrown in as icing on the Steeden decorated cake, I was instead doomed to spend the evening with 3 thousand faded and blind drunk one-time mutton dressed as lamb faux-beauties turned just mutton trying not to look like chops and their goatee-sporting tattooed and even more pissed twice divorced but third-time-lucky spouses.


The best-dressed couple at the High School Reunion, bar none.

‘Oh well’ I thought to myself, trying to look on the bright side of a very dark few hours ahead, there’s always Steve Kilbey from the Church to put a gilt-edge on this shit sandwich and make it at least half-palatable.

But just as I was processing the thought and almost starting to feel better, the once-great internationally famous front man and gun guitarist crawled on to the stage, and whene he went arse over tit over the amp the third time before he’s taken three steps I suddenly realised exactly how Winnie the Poo Churchill must have felt 101 years ago when the Turks started hurling down bombs and machine-gunning bullets at the diggers snaking their supposedly easy as way down through the Dardanelles.

Gee it’s fun being caught on the wrong foot in an unguarded moment isn’t it sportsfans?