Tag Archives: humour

Weed on High

Weed on High

You’d think that telling chicks you write music for movies and live in a terrace in Darlinghurst would be a winner. It’s when they find out more that everything turns to custard.

Yeah, I really do write music for movies. Soft porn, since you ask. You know, girls lying on the bonnet of a Ferrari and slooooowly taking their kit off, licking their lips, then their fingers, and putting those fingers places where the camera goes on full zoom to follow. Nothing violent, sometimes a couple of lezzies, sometimes a girl with a guy, often a girl on her own.

This bloke in America makes the movies and pays me to do the music. Every time some horny bugger with his tongue hanging out downloads one of the movies it’s royalties for me too. It’s a nice little earner that bulks up the money I make being a sparky. Until the bloody ATO discovers me Paypal account.

Women I date don’t like it that I have to watch the porn to write the music but I can’t write without seeing what I’m writing for, can I?

When I was a kid I wanted to be a rock star. The only sensible thing Dad ever done for me was force me to become an apprentice electrician instead. Get a trade first, he said, so’s if the music shit doesn’t work out you got a day job. It didn’t work out but a few years back I taught myself how to compose music on a synth and computer, doof doof stuff that sells well on the internet for those dance and rave places where nobody gives a shit about the music but wants the beat.

One contact led to another and for the last year it’s been the porn music, regular stuff, one soundtrack every two or three weeks.  Bland sort of music, and I bet nobody notices if one soundtrack isn’t very different to another when they’re watching the action. I wonder if most of the blokes who watch this stuff notice the music at all really. Continue reading



Filed under Fiction, Short(ish) Stories

By Any Other Name

Imagine your Mum’s handwriting was so appalling that you were registered with the wrong name. An embarrassing one. And to get around it you create a whole fantasy existence …

By Any Other Name

by Caroline Sully

By Any Other Name

I was born at the same time we were moving house: from our crowded rented terrace in Glebe to a Federation pile on the lower north shore my Dad’s childless, widowed aunt had left to her only nephew.

From the confines of the Crown Street Women’s Hospital in Surry Hills Mum dazedly gave instructions about the move as Dad and my three older sisters thundered into the ward to congratulate a weary Mum and get their first peek at me.

I was, apparently, a red-faced squawking scrap of a thing with a mop of dark hair. My sisters, expecting a pink and white angelic infant who slept with a Mona Lisa smile on her perfect face, were disappointed and said so while Mum and Dad filled out the paperwork.

I was to be named Denise after the said departed aunt. After a heated discussion about my middle name, which made me howl even louder and brought a starchy nurse to the bedside, Mum scrawled the name Elinor down and sent the family away.

She gave the nurse the completed form for my birth certificate, and went to sleep. Job done.

Nobody thought to question Mum’s writing, which was appalling at the best of times and even worse after a long labour and a good dose of painkillers.

It wasn’t until I was five years old and starting school that we all realised the name on my birth certificate had actually been recorded as Penise.

*    *   * Continue reading


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Review: A Coach Load of Chaos by Rob Sissons

A coach load of chaosWhen I was in my early 20s I booked myself on an 18-35s coach tour of Europe. For a shy soul it was a brave move; I went by myself and knew nobody when I boarded the coach. After a day or so friendships and alliances began, and the back seat, six across, was staked out by the Booze Brothers, a bunch of young Aussies and Kiwis who could drink for their country – and frequently did. Because of them our group became notorious in the hotbed of 18-35s Euro tours. We were thrown out of restaurants across the continent; the BB and some of the rowdier girls trashed a 15th century villa in Florence; the BB’s pirate flag, draped over the rear window, almost had the entire coach load arrested in Eastern Europe. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

It was a tour leader’s nightmare, and our capable and affable 30-something Aussie tour leader rose to the challenge, but even he was exhausted by the end of the two month tour, trying to keep the BB in line, trying to keep his job, trying to guide our first-time coach driver through foreign cities, trying to keep the peace on the tour itself as by then the only people talking to each other were the Booze Brothers.  I felt for the guy. If you’ve ever thought being a tour leader is a cushy job and a great way to see beautiful parts of the world, think again. It’s seriously hard work.

Which brings me to A Coach Load of Chaos, whose likeable, mild-mannered, unassuming but rather devious hero is William, a tour leader on coach trips to Europe (luckily for him of the general variety, not the 18-35s).

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and William has had many years to contemplate the nasty treatment dished out to him by other boys and a teacher at boarding school. He’s reinvented himself; he’s not recognisable as the same bespectacled lad. He’s a respectable tour leader in his tenth season on the job. And when his boss begs him to fill ten places left by a sudden cancellation on a French coach tour, William has a brainwave.  He’ll tell his worst torturers they have won a free place (or two) on the trip.

As William plots a delicious revenge on each of them as they travel through France – and there are some wonderful laugh out loud moments when the baddies get their just desserts, especially the one dished out to his French teacher – he also finds himself in the beginnings of a romance with the most unlikely girl from head office. It seems the coolly efficient Helena lets her hair down literally and figuratively away from the office; but can William compete with her passion for the exquisite beauty of superbly restored vintage buses?

The action and the giggles rock along with the energy of an air-conditioned Mercedes coach speeding down the Route Nationale. Many of the locations visited by William and his hapless tourists are real; some of the accommodation they stay in… well, seasoned travellers will have experienced much the same! Except maybe without the stunningly bad coffee one guest is given. Heh heh.

British author Rob Sissons writes from experience; he works in the travel industry and conducts tours in the UK and Europe. This is his first novel and I hope it won’t be his last. I started reading this book one afternoon and couldn’t put it down until I finished it late that night, my sides sore from laughing.

A Coach Load of Chaos is printed by Trafford and you can buy it from Trafford’s site or Amazon, including a Kindle version.

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The Adulterer’s Dog

Hugh wasn’t going to argue with his forceful vet when she told him his dog needed more exercise. However, the vet’s instructions didn’t include meeting someone and falling in love

It was, on reflection, rather amusing that a visit to the local vet could lead to such a passionate affair. Not with the vet. Hugh had no desire to enfold the plain-faced, squat Clarissa in his arms.  And not with his dog, either. Although he was fond of Todger, and, if pushed, would admit that he loved the dog as much as he loved his two children, but in an owner/pet kind of way.
No, Clarissa had prodded Todger’s amply-covered ribs and chided Hugh about letting young Golden Retrievers run to fat. “You’ll have horrible hip problems with him later. How often does he get a walk?”
“Um,” Hugh said, flailing. He was trying hard to remember the last time any of the family had taken Todger outside the garden. Probably six months ago, and he’d been so excited he’d pulled Claire off her feet and now she and her brother were afraid to walk him.
“Every day, Hugh. He needs a walk every day. For heavens sake, you live on the edge of the village, you’ve got the most wonderful woods and moorland just a hop away.” Clarissa glared at him through her thick glasses; obviously he was now on the list of Bad Pet Owners. “Cut his feed in half. No snacks, unless they’re carrot sticks. And walk him. Train him, take him to obedience lessons and keep his mind active too. Let him have FUN.” Continue reading

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The Fourth Guy Upstairs

When Layla, trapped under a fallen bookcase, calls for divine help, the last person she expects to answer her call is the Fuck Up Fairy….. Warning: Bad Language, religious irreverence. 18+

It had NOT been Layla’s day. The hot water system had died a natural death during her shower, she’d been overcharged at Sainsbury’s for some very indifferent Bulgarian red, a trolley had added a new feature in the way of a creative dent in the rear panel of her car when she finally found it in the carpark (after almost dropping the two bottles she’d fought over), a traffic snarl made her fifteen minute journey home take 35, and that was all before 10am. Since then she’d learned the water system wouldn’t be fixed for at least three days, her boyfriend had left an ominous message on the answering machine that simply said, “We have to talk,” in a way that said he was about to dump her, the secretary of the CEO she was supposed to interview that afternoon (deadline for major business article: tomorrow) rang to say she’d got the dates mixed up and the CEO was currently en route to Rio de Janeiro and couldn’t be contacted, and a letter from the bank informed her politely she was overdrawn.
Layla fought the impulse to scream at the secretary, but instead persisted like a bulldog until she got the Rio hotel details out of the stammering woman. She had a feeling the telephone on the other end had turned, of its own accord, to ice. Great, now she could add a nice international phone call to the overdraft. Continue reading

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The Million Dollar Cat

Georgina’s generous and rather loopy Aunt Hermione left her a house in her will. The only snag is Georgie has to share it with a feline monster with a penchant for belting up people he doesn’t like.   Dedicated to my lovely huge silver tabby Hamish McFlea, 1999- 2008, the inspiration for Glasgow Ned (but much nicer). Warning: Bad language.

Where there’s a will there’s a greedy relation. An old joke, but, like a lot of old jokes, based on truth. In this case there wasn’t one greedy relation, there were two of them, shouting at me at once.
“How DARE Gran leave you her house! You’re only her NIECE!”
“She was out of her mind! I’m contesting the will!”
Trent and Sebastian, my two furious and already well-off cousins, drew breath at the same time, ready for the next tirade. I took advantage of the microsecond’s pause to have my say.
“Firstly, Great-Aunt Hermione was entitled to leave her house to whomever she chooses -”
“Whomever she chooses,” mimicked Trent, who’d failed English in High School but mysteriously made his living as a newspaper editor.
I glared at him. “Secondly, she wasn’t out of her mind. She was a cunning old lady with a terrific sense of humour.” Continue reading

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The Weatherman

Working for the local radio station, stuttering Cathy found herself thrown into the microphonic deep end when the weatherman called in sick…and found out more about meteorology than she’d bargained for!

There’s a novel in all of us, so they say. In my case, it’s only a story, not a novel. And it doesn’t begin on a dark and stormy night, but a bright and sunny afternoon.
There’s something almost disturbing about days which are perennially bright and sunny, and where it only rains at night, like in “Camelot” – “The rain may never fall till after sundown….” – week after week, month after month, season after season.
And in Jameson Heads, that’s what the weather was like.
You can scoff and say it’s just the geography of the land, the proximity to mountains, the sea breeze. Whatever you want.  Continue reading

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