Randy Feltface – Randy Writes a Novel

Randy Feltface  - Randy Writes a Novel

#Randy #Feltface #Randy #Writes

Hey Randy. Yeah mate. Ready to do this? Yep. “Please without further ado, welcome to the stage…” “The purple one…Randy!” Yeeeeessss! Alright! Thank you. Look at you all, Ehmmm. This is so exciting! This is my favorite bit of the show, this bit… The expectation! You don’t know what to expect, I don’t know what to expect.

I’ve got high hopes for you people. I think you’re gonna be fantastic. Some of you may have never seen me before. It’s probably a couple of you wondering what the fuck is going on right now. A couple of people up the back probably regretting smoking that spliff before they came in.

The fuck is that? It’s all right just relax. Throughout the show I’m probably going to walk from about here… Over to here. Any further than that it’s going to ruin the magic. Alright? And um, this is pretty much what it’s going to look like for the next 56 and a half minutes…

So just adjust your eyeballs to this shit accordingly. It’s pretty good we did my tech rehearsal today and we set this lighting state. And I was like that looks good that looks good. And Stu my lighting guy back there said “Is that it?”

I was like ah no Stu we can turn on the lamp as well like this… Yes. So we did that just to justify Stu’s Certificate Four in fuckin’ Theatre Production. Give it up for Stu! Up the back! Who’s having an alcoholic beverage this evening? Wooooooo!

I don’t drink anymore – I used to slam that shit into my face like a weapon. But I quit…and nothing really changed you know. I didn’t notice too many differences between being sober and being a drinker until…

The first time I got pulled over by a cop and had to do a random breath test sober, Because my physical and emotional reaction was exactly the same as it had always been when I was a drinker. Which was… Oh fuck, I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked.

“Wind down your window please sir.” I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked… “One long breath into the bag please sir.” I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked… “You’re free to go mate.” Oh yeah I am! And the sense of euphoria I felt… was the closest feeling I’d had to being drunk since I quit drinking.

To the point that I now drive around on Friday and Saturday nights looking for cops. And if I get pulled over I pretend I’m drunk just to get an extra rush. Seriously if you ever get pulled over and you’re sober, pretend you’re wasted. Oh the buzz!

It’s like shelving nine pills at once. It’s fuckin’ sick. Seriously next time the cops walking towards the car just be like… Shoosh everyone he’s coming! Act normally, he’s coming! Put it down! Put it down he’s coming! Shhhh he’s comin- He’s here! “Wind down your window please sir.”

Yeah I can do that. I can do that. I’m doing it! Oh, it’s electric. The buttons in the middle because it’s electric. “Have you had anything to drink tonight sir?” No officer, not on a Tuesday. “It’s a Friday.” Not a Friday, is it mate? “One long breath into the bag please sir.”

Yes I will you fuckin’ champion. You know, people say youse are cunts but I don’t reckon youse are. Woooo, ha ha! “Uh… you’re free to go?” Fuck yeah! (car sounds) beep beep I took it so far once I got  taken down the station for a  blood test…ohhhh. Gets addictive when you get to that stage.

I’ve got track marks, it’s out of control. Now ladies and gentlemen… You’re very close aren’t you? Hello! Um. The reason we’re here is because… diddy-diddy-di-di. Did-didi-ditty-di! I wrote a book! Yes! Wooo! Yeah you can clap, but I’m concerned that it might be a bit shit. I don’t know. It’s weird. This is it here.

I’m not sure if it’s any good because I think I’m too close to it. You know I can’t tell anymore. I’m concerned that it might be like an ugly baby… that I’m looking at through the eyes of a loving mother.

And it’s not until I take it out for a walk in its little pram and people start screaming in horror and crossing the street to avoid me… that I’ll realize I’ve made a piece of shit baby. There’s nothing worse than a piece of shit baby is there?

It’s like, ah who’s this little guy? Arrgggh! Your baby’s a piece of shit! God damn it. But do I need to be told it’s good to know that it’s good? You know that’s how it goes with comedy.

If I come up here and I tell a shit joke, you tell me it’s shit by not laughing… and I stop telling that joke. But with a book… I won’t know if it’s shit until it’s out there! Forever! Until I don’t sell a million copies.

Just wake up one morning surrounded by towering boxes of unsold books. Featuring on an episode of Mentally Deranged Hoarders. We need to lay off hoarders by the way. I think there’s one too many television programs exposing the horrors of people that like collecting shit. It’s their house let them do it!

“No we have to fix them!” No you don’t. People are fucked up. If they want to climb over a stack of cat shit stained National Geographic magazines from the 1970s to get to the kettle… Fucking let ’em! They like it. “Oh yeah but it’s a mental illness.”

Yeah well maybe, but I would argue it’s more insane to film them doing it… and then package it like a tacky microwave meal for one so arseholes can sit at home going… “Look how shit that person is!” “They’ve got too many of the same thing!” Who’s more insane in that scenario I ponder?

Anyway – my book… My book is called “Walking To Skye” It’s about a young man who walks from the southernmost borders of Scotland up to the Isle of Skye in the far north. Retracing the footsteps of his great great grandfather and having a massive existential crisis along the way. It’s a real… humdinger!

And now that I’ve written it, I am terrified to let anybody read it. So what I’ve decided to do is I’m going gonna read bits of the book out… You’re going to react… And then at the end we’ll all collectively decide whether or not I should kill myself. Okay? Okay. Here we go.

Ready? Everybody comfortable? Anyone needs to go to the toilet or get a drink or anything? No? If you do seriously just go for it because fucking… I am not going to notice. Okay. Here we go alright. Here we go, here we go. Okay. Okay Alright here we go… Walking to Skye, Chapter one. Okay

[nervous breathing] [nervous breathing] Read it. Just fucking read it. [Incoherent mumbling] Come on you son of a bitch I’m too scared. *awww* Oh fuck off. It’s weird being scared for this. You know? It’s strange to be scared of something so… intangible as judgment. You know I care what you people think but…

Taste is so subjective, you know? One man’s “To Kill a Mockingbird”… is another man’s “Twilight Saga”. Hello there, what’s your name? Matthew! About there Matty? Tell me Matthew what do you fear? What’s your greatest fear? What are you scared of mate? We’re all friends here open up unpack some shit. What are you…

What’s your biggest fear Matty? * I fear rejection.* Rejection! Same as me. What do you know about my fear of rejection? How old are you man? *I’m 26* 26! The twenties are the time for rejection my friend. It is the best time for rejection. Have you been rejected a few times? *Quite a lot.*

Fucking rack it up Matty! Rack it up mate. You just get, you wear those scars like a fucking warrior mate. And then you get to 36 – my age – and you could not give a fuck my friend. I’m telling you mate rack up the rejection while you can

And then just fucking grab whatever’s left. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to. Let’s hear it from Matthew. Yes! Rejection eh? I think actually Matty, Mattarooni matarectomy… I think for me Matternoonals I think I’m actually more scared of failure in this case.

I fear that I might have written a shit book and as a result I’ll fail you know? But I believe Mattress, I believe it was Ernest Hemingway who put it best when he said… “The first draft of everything is shit.” And I often thought of that while I was writing my book.

It’s a great thing for young readers and young writers sorry, to keep in mind because it kind of lets you off the hook, you know? It makes you feel not too bad when you churn out something akin to Fifty Shades of Gray fan fiction. “Every nerve ending in my body tingled…”

“as he boldly placed his swollen member…” “directly onto my left shoulder.” “…and whisper into my ear.” “Tickets please.” “Suffice to say that won’t be the last time I catch the bus to Broadmeadows.” True story, true story. Okay I’m going to read the book… Broadmeadows good suburb, Broadmeadows good name. *Wooooooooooo* Wooooooooo

Has Broadmeadows ever had that reaction anywhere ever? How good is Broadmeadows? Woo! Woo! Wooing is one of the few things you can do in a crowd. You can’t, you can’t woo when you’re on your own can you? You can’t just be walking down the street like – woooo! What’s wrong with that person?

But if there’s a group of you going “Woooo” it’s like… Naw, they’re having a nice time, aren’t they? Woooing When you’re in an audience one of the few times you can get away with wooing. You can’t fucking, don’t wooo at the butchers, you know?

I’ll just have uh two pounds…ah some sausages and uh some a pound of mince. That’ll be six pounds fifty. Wooooooo! I no longer wish for you to purchase my meat products. What was I talking about? Oh Broady! Yeah Broadmeadows. It’s a good name – broad meadows, like it makes sense.

There was an expanse of just fucking no stuff there was some broad meadows… And they went, “Let’s fucking build it here” and it was an honest name. All these new subdivisions now they’re all fucking just oh… “What are we gonna call this deserted swamp? “Um Spring Valley Mount View Nice Face.” Fuck that!

Name them honestly! You know? “Where are you living now?” “Shitty Water Feature.” “Where are you?” “Stabbyville.” “Oh…how’s that?” “Yeah it’s good it’s close to schools which is great but um…” “We do get stabbed a lot though, but uh…” “…you know, we knew the risks.” “Cause it was in the name?”

“Cause it was in the name! Yeah.” I like an honestly named place. I was in Broken Hill recently, that’s an honestly named place. We had a hill we fucking broke it. Welcome to Broken Hill. Actually Broken Hill have gone one further.

They’ve named all the streets in the centre of town after elements. Because it’s a mining town they went thematic with that shit. So you’re walking down Chloride you hit the corner of Bromide or Oxide. I love that! That makes sense to me.

I live in Collingwood. It’d be much easier to direct people to my house if I could send them to the corner of Soy Latte and Hipster Fuckwit. They’d take out all the guesswork. When you’re heading to Frankston don’t forget to check out the beautiful parklands on the corner of Bucket-Bong and Pregnant Teenager.

They…they are just enchanting. Alright. Gonna read the book, okay? Here we go. You cool Matt? *Yep* Sick I’m going to keep talking to you so you feel included. Therefore – not rejected. Okay Alrighty Okay here we go. Alright. Shut up I’m gonna read it. Okay. Walking to Skye – Chapter One

Fascinating man Ernest Hemingway, um. I didn’t know a lot about him but I kept thinking of that quote, “The first draft of everything is shit”, while I was writing my book and I started to think… Who are you to tell me my first draft is shit Hemingway?

What did you do that was so fucking good? So, I realized I didn’t know anything about him so I decided to do some research on him and it proved to be an excellent means of putting off writing my book.

And now I can tell you everything I know about him as an excellent means of putting off reading you my book. So, swings and roundabouts my friends. Swooms and rimble dimble doodle doodoos as they say in Scotland. They don’t say that. No one has ever said that. Anyway…

What I suggest we do okay, is I’m just going to tell you a little bit a bit about Ernest Hemingway. A bit about Hemmers… and then we’ll just let the segway into reading the book develop organically. Like a runaway fungus at the bottom of a misplaced coffee cup.

Ah guys, how long’s this been behind the couch? Oh, there’s little people in it! “Save us, save us from our porcelain prison.” Waaaaa! “We’re free!” It’s just for me that bit, it’s just for me. Okay. Okay here we go ladies and gentlemen for the very first time I would wager.

In all of your living memories. I now am proud to present to you… The life and times of Ernest Miller Hemingway: in approximately three and a half minutes. Go! Born in Chicago in 1899 son of a physician and a musician. Reasonably uneventful childhood. Decided to study journalism.

Enlisted with the Red Cross during World War I. Got blown up in Milan and spent six months in hospital with severe shrapnel wounds in both legs. Fell in love with the nurse. They decided to get married. He came home to prepare. She stayed there and ditched him for an Italian soldier.

Which initiated a lifelong pattern of him rejecting women before they had a chance to reject him. Take note Matty. Got a job as a foreign correspondent. Fell in love with his roommate’s sister. Married her and moved to Paris. They hung out with Gertrude Stein. They kicked it with Pablo Picasso.

He started writing in earnest (no pun intended). Moved to Toronto. Had a kid. Moved back to Paris. Published a couple of books. Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman. Converted to Catholicism. Cut his head open after pulling on a cord thinking he was flushing a toilet and instead

Ripped a skylight from the roof and smashed it onto his face! Moved to Kansas city. Had another kid. His dad committed suicide. He shot a lot of bears for some reason. Had a car accident. Had another kid. Went to Africa to kill some wild animals and got dysentery. Karma!

Published another book. Moved to Cuba. Shot himself in the leg whilst aiming at a shark! Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman. Published For Whom The Bell Tolls. Sold half a million copies in a couple of months and got nominated for a Pulitzer prize.

Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman. Became the self-appointed leader of a band of village militia outside of Paris and was subsequently brought up on charges for contravening the Geneva convention and got away with it like a fucking champion! Got pneumonia.

Moved back to Cuba and spent most of his spare time on his boat Tracking nazi u-boats with a machine gun and a pile of hand grenades! I am not making this shit up! Had a few more car accidents. Three more concussions. Got clawed while playing with a lion.

Got depressed. Drank. Got fat. Published a couple more books. Went back to Africa to shoot some more wild animals and barely survived two separate plane crashes in the space of 24 hours! Winding up with a fractured skull, internal bleeding, cracked spine ruptured liver, first-degree burns… and a paralyzed sphincter muscle. Karma!

Won a Nobel prize. Had a file opened on him by J Edgar Hoover. Left a bunch of shit in a safe in Cuba and moved to Idaho paranoid that the feds were following him. Which they were because he spent most of the 1940’s working for the KGB! Again! Not making this shit up!

Suffered from hepatitis nephritis hypertension hemochromatosis anemia and impotence. Karma! Got committed. Received way too much elector-convulsive therapy and came out all fucked up. Started hinting at suicide so immediately got recommitted. Received another couple of months worth of elector-convulsive therapy.

Got released. Put both barrels of his favorite 12-gauge shotgun into his mouth and blew his fucking head off. What a guy! Argh. That is all true! What a fucking unit! Hemingway is the quintessential anti-hero. The talented charismatic belligerent suicidal alcoholic genius that can’t keep his dick in his trousers.

And he still found time to write about fifteen books! I’ve written one! And it took me ages because I procrastinate like a motherfucker. I only got this written by doing most of the work in my local public library. Because it’s very difficult to masturbate in the reference section, without getting caught.

It’s, it’s almost impossible in fact. Almost. I don’t even enjoy masturbating anymore. I just do it to avoid other tasks. And if it’s something I really don’t want to do I can seriously just go back to back wanks. Just “ahhhh!” just till it’s painful. Like “nahhhh!” Like hurty cum, like “nahwwwhrrrmmmm!” wrrmmmmmmmmmmm

Mmmmmmmnnnm mnmmnnnmmm mrnnnmmnnnh…hhhmmnnn… Ok fine I’ll do the fucking dishes. And you know the weird thing about books is that you only really need to write one to be considered to be a great writer. Until last year To Kill a Mockingbird was the only book that Harper Lee ever published.

One book in 89 years. To be fair that book did win the Pulitzer prize and sold over 40 million copies. So she didn’t really need to do another one did she? Hey Harper, you’re gonna write another book? Nah, did you read the first one? Fucking nailed it! Fucking nailed it!

I’m just doing the one! Just doing the one. Imagine if I did that. Came up here told one joke and then stared at you for 58 minutes. You’re gonna tell another joke? No did you hear the first one? Fucking nailed it! I’m just doing the one.

There’s not many jobs where you can just do the one is there? Just… writers and… Suicide bombers. It’s hard to do two of those. Or maybe UFC fighters that get punched in the head so hard in their first bout that cerebral fluid trickles out of their eye sockets. Ah that’s fucked Randy.

It happens! It’s pretty much the perfect example of why we’re sort of… festering in this evolutionary cul-de-sac isn’t it? Welcome to Planet Earth. Ah, there’s approximately seven billion of us. As you can see there’s quite a few of us that don’t have any clean drinking water.

Oh! here’s a large group of us that get paid millions of dollars to knee each other in the face, so… Obviously still ironing out a few of the kinks. Martial arts, mixed or otherwise, should not be the domain of fat-necked ruffians trying to stomp on each other’s ball sacks.

Just as yoga should not be taught by 22 year old gym instructors.. that did a one week yoga retreat in Bali… And now get around in low slung fisherman pants with a bindi and a plait… Talking about mindfulness like they’ve ever had any fucking life experience at all.

I’m sorry you can tell me to relax and center myself when you.. spend maybe 10 or 15 years considering what that actually means. Until then, go back to taking photos of the froth on your coffee and shut the fuck up. And I’m torn! I’m torn because I do yoga.

I buy organic vegetables. I’d blindly sign internet petitions without reading the fine print. Give myself a good old pat on the back and return to downloading hardcore pornography. I’m trying to be a good Buddhist, I’m trying.

But it’s even difficult to identify as Buddhist in the current climate without coming across as some sort of… New Age pompous twat just dipping his toe into the “what does it all mean” kiddie pool, while holding a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other…

And staring lecherously across the backyard at your cousin’s tits. Geez Tamara’s grown up since last Christmas hasn’t she? And I mean Buddha was just a dude who found enlightenment sometime around the 5th century. And he decided to stick around and talk about it you know?

But he made it clear that everything’s optional, I guess you know? Here’s the thing I’ve discovered. I think it’s pretty nifty but you can find your own way through it. He was kind of like a benevolent woodwork teacher. Just overseeing the workshop but allowing his students to discover for themselves…

Which machine is most likely to cut their fucking head off. It was that one Gareth, well done. A+ matey, A+ for you. And there’s been loads of other Buddhas since right? But they haven’t necessarily felt the calling to stick around and talk about it, I guess?

They just become enlightened and fuck off. I think that’s fantastic. But… Are you only enlightened if you’re able to share it with people, you know? If i write a book and nobody reads it… is it still art? Seriously does anybody know what it is?

I was trying to think of it all day, anybody? What? Gang? Gang of monkeys. Come and join my gang of monkeys. We’re a little gang monkeys. It’s not gang, anybody else? If you come up with something stupid I’ll sing a dumb song about it. What else? What is it?

Oh you people are fucked. Does anybody know what it is? It’s not barrel by the way. It’s troop. What what did you say? Uh uh gang. What’s your name? Who said gang? Where are you? Victoria! How are you Victoria? Thanks for coming to my show.

Hey Victoria. Riddle me this my sister. Have you read Go Set a Watchman? Harper Lee’s new book? No. Has anybody read it? *Yeah I read half* Just half? That is the best book review ever. I read half. Has anybody read To Kill a Mockingbird? *yes*

“Yes, we read it at school fuck off.” For those of you who haven’t, if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Go Set a Watchman was the Harper Lee book that came out last year right. And if you don’t know the backstory alright, I’ll just fill you in. Victoria, listen up.

Um uh basically uh… Harper Lee right…so Harper Lee. She had a stroke in 2007 and until she died earlier this year she was in like assisted care. And she was in a wheelchair. She was deaf and she was blind. And her sister Alice had been taking care of all of her affairs.

Until Alice died in 2014 at the age of 103, like a fucking boss. Anyway, before Alice died she was pretty much the last line of defense between Harper and this lawyer that had just sort of been loitering in the wings, right?

And when Alice died this lawyer just happened to discover the manuscript for Go Set a Watchman in the locked safety deposit box in an obscure vault in a random bank where it had been busy minding its own business for the last 56 and a half years. And according to the lawyer…

Harper was delighted that the manuscript was discovered and suddenly reversed her lifelong vow to never ever ever publish another book ever ever again. Particularly not Go Set a Watchman which she actually wrote before To Kill a Mockingbird and didn’t think was very good.

Other people think that maybe the lawyer was attempting to get filthy rich by brutally fist fucking an 89 year old stroke victim. But the question is… The question is if To Kill a Mockingbird had have stayed in that vault alongside this newly

Discovered manuscript would it still technically be a work of literary genius? Or is it only once something’s been evaluated by the world and possibly someone’s made some cash off it that it’s considered to be valid artistic expression? Is art only art once it’s been witnessed? Acknowledged?

If I don’t take a bow at the end of this show does it devalue the performance? Will you feel… unsatisfied or rejected? I recently read that book The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work by Alain de Botton.

And in it he says “We might consider art as anything which pushes our thoughts in important yet neglected directions.” Now I’d like to consider what I do artistic expression, but that sort of poses the question… Do people really need their thoughts pushed in the direction of old ladies being brutally fistfucked?

Is that my artistic legacy? Is that what I’m going to leave behind? Oh Randy, he was the uh he was the old lady fisting guy wasn’t he, yeah? Yeah, very droll, very droll yeah. Because Ernest Hemingway is remembered more for his literary talents

Than for being an insufferable cunt with a penchant for killing shit and cheating on his multiple wives. Does his artistic legacy outshine his tactless and unfortunate personal life? Is it better to be a mindful human, that leaves no palpable remnants of artistry behind?

Or a violently unlikable sexual deviant that shits handfuls of heartbreakingly beautiful sonnets and sonatas out of his arsehole before brunch? Because it’s the image of the tortured self-destructive artist that prevails nine times out of ten. Amy Winehouse was just a girl that wanted to sing some songs. Do you know what I mean?

So… Should I just keep my fucking mouth shut? And try to navigate towards enlightenment? Leaving behind an intangible trail of good deeds? Or do I dive deeper and deeper into the inky black ocean of self-destruction and self-indulgence until I nail my chosen art form?

Leaving an echo for the eternal wonderment of countless future generations that will just breeze over my arsehole personality? It’s what’s keeping me up in the night times. You know from the moment we’re born…we become less than human? You know that?

All the bacteria from our mother is passed on to us on the way out of the womb… and from then on we just continue to collect shit, on the inside and the outside until the day we expire. Occasionally you get to choose what that shit is but most of the time you have

Very little say in where it comes from or when. You just have to try to duck and weave your way through the shit for as long as you can until the chunk of shit with your name on it finally… Ahhhhhhh! Cleans you up.

Look I know this was billed as a comedy but haha! Let’s talk about death! Wooooo! There are some pretty fucking ridiculous ways to die though… Oh! like that guy… that scuba diver they found when they put out the bushfire. Oh my god! Have you heard this fucking story!

They put out like a bushfire and they found a dude in full scuba gear… And they figured out that the water bomber plane or helicopter that scoops up the water to put out the fire accidentally picked up a diver and dumped him into the flames! What a fucked up way to go!

It’s pretty much the polar opposite of… “He died peacefully in his sleep”, isn’t it? Just dumped out of a plane into a blazing inferno! With a highly flammable gas tank instead of a parachute strapped to your back! Noooooo! Oh I just wanted to look at the fish!

What do you say to his family? Ahhhh Least he died doing what he loved. Well he was a firefighter that enjoyed skydiving and water sports but I’m not sure he ever wanted to combine the three. That’s better isn’t it, tell more jokes you little purple fucker.

I heard a good joke the other day. How do you know if a hippie has been to your house? They’re still there. How do you know if someone’s vegan? They’ll tell you, yes. Ha ha ha! He he he he… I’m vegan… um. I initially became vegan for environmental and ethical reasons.

And now i just do it to give people the shits at dinner parties. Get it away, I can’t eat that. Meat smell. Stop having fun everyone! It’s a funny conversation the vegan one you bring it up and people just go “Shut up fuck head”.

But it’s funny… because you know you don’t actually need to eat meat? You don’t need it. Nobody actually needs it unless you’re on hemodialysis and you have to inhale a rare porterhouse steak every three hours to stop your kidneys packing in. You don’t actually need it. That makes it a choice.

And it’s your choice…as long as you understand that that choice is born from belief and that particular belief is called carnism. It’s an inherited belief system that sort of conditions us to eat meat and the notion is so…

Pervasive I guess, it’s viewed as a given rather than a choice. But it’s totally a choice. “Where do you get your protein from then your little poofter?” Peas. It’s crazy. And I know it’s easy to just lump veganism in with all the other food allergies

And just go “They’re the annoying fuck head that don’t eat the good stuff!” Which I get, I totally get. We’re having Christmas at my house this year right. Three months out, my cousin calls me to discuss her son. My cousin’s son. Which makes him… someone I couldn’t give fuck about…Anyway.

She calls me up, the first thing she says, she doesn’t say hello. The first thing she says is “Brayden can’t have blue” What the fuck? “Brayden can’t eat blue foods.” Apparently this kid if he eats anything with a blue food preservative in it he just…just taps out. That is bullshit!

Firstly…don’t call your kid Brayden. Secondly… Secondly blue is not even a natural color for food stuffs. It occurs very rarely in nature. Name me one blue food? *Blueberries* Blueberries are fucking purple! I’m talking about mentos blue, like 7-eleven slushy blue. What flavor is that? Fucking highlighter? “Ah no Randy blue means mint.”

Mint is green. If you planted mint and it came up blue you would set that shit on fire. “Ah that’s cool, it’s cool it’s like it’s like ice. It’s it’s like water.”

Water is clear. The only time water is blue is when there’s billions of tons of it and it’s all in the one spot. And then it’s got all sorts of shit in it. Like salt… And sharks! Blue means sharks in it! Don’t eat it it’s got sharks in it!

You know when sharks eat people it’s fucked but it shits me how they immediately go Go out and kill the shark the gone rogue like “Oh it’s gone rogue.” No it hasn’t it’s just doing what millions of years of evolution have programmed it to do. Fucking swim around eating shit.

“Yeah, but…” “It came into our bit. ” “This bits our bit of the ocean.” What? Nup. See that bit there? That big fucking wet bit? That’s it’s bit. This bit here all of this dry bit here… that you’re standing on with your legs.

Your legs that have evolved to stand on the dry bit. That’s your bit. You going to it’s bit you’re going to get bit, that’s the lesson. Testify. Paddle out next to a seal colony and wiggle your ass around like a slutty little hors d’oeuvre. Complain when you get munched!

It’s that weird disconnect, you know. It’s the same thing as carnism. It’s like if I imagine a pig is just a pig and all pigs are the same… Then I can detach what is on my plate from how it got there. It’s just how most of us are brought up, you know?

But if you saw someone slick the throat of a Labrador and then string it upside down to die an excruciating death just squirming and bleeding out at the end of a steel hook… You’d think it was a bit fucked. How is a pig any different? It’s not. It’s actually not.

I said that on stage in Rockhampton in Queensland about four, four months ago I was like… How is it pig any different? And a man in the audience yelled out… “Bacon” Touché sir. You win this round.

He actually came up to me after the show. I was standing at the merch desk not selling anything… and he, I saw him coming from the other side of the room He’s this massive dude he’s like…. Ah, you’re a large man. He said… “I was the one that said bacon”

I was like…Fucking don’t kill me. He goes “No you’re alright mate, you’re alright mate, you’re…” It’s the most passive aggressive Aussie male thing you can say to another dude. “Nah you’re alright mate.” It basically means “I want to punch your fucking head in but I don’t want to upset me misses.”

“You’re alright mate.” Anyway he goes to me “Mate you’re not going to make any friends in Rockhampton being vegan.” “Did you know that Rocky is actually the beef capital of Australia?” Oh fuck I didn’t know that.

“With over 2 and a half million a head of cattle within a 2.5 km radius of the town centre.” Fuck, I didn’t know that either. “And that is a fair whack of the 13 million head of cattle in Queensland alone.” “70 percent of which is bred purely for export.”

“Few fun facts for you matey, few fun facts for you.” I said…Thank you sir I did not know any of that. Did you know that globally cows produce 38% more greenhouse gas… than every single car, truck, bus, boat, train and plane combined each year?

That breeding animals for food uses up one third of the planet’s fresh water… Takes up 45 percent of the earth’s surface… And is responsible for a whopping 91 percent of Amazon destruction… making it the number one leading cause of species extinction,

Resource consumption and environmental degradation destroying the planet on a daily basis. Few fun facts for you matey, few fun facts for ya! Now… I’m aware this is in danger of becoming a Ted Talk at this point. Geez that’s a lot of statistics. Is there gonna be a test? It’s alright, it’s fine.

So I’ll read the book alright I’ll read the book. I’m not forcing my opinions on you, I’m merely saying them with a microphone. You’re paying for it. Lock the doors! No seriously okay here we go alright I’m gonna read the book. You know we’ve got McDonald’s home delivery now?

Does anyone do that? *Yeah to work* You do? You get it delivered to your… You know you can already get it in your car? You can get it without getting out of your car! But what McDonald’s have now done is they’ve removed the grueling

Walk from the front door to the car so you no longer have to do that humiliating… berrrrrrrrrrr! wrrrrrrrrrrah! arrrrrrreeeh arrrrrrrrgghh urrrgghh Now I have to open my car door! Oh god damn you, god damn you. Click. Mmmmmmmmmmmggghh Mmmmmmmmmmmggghh! Mmmmmmmmmmmggguuuuh

Oh why cannot they just bring it to my house? Well now they can! I think it’s a good thing. Keep the fatties off the streets. Stop them hogging up the footpaths. They all wanna eat shit, let them do it in their own home. Who’s with me? Who’s with me?

Don’t clap that, it’s a horrible thing to say! You monsters. Okay. You all good Matty? Sweet! Okay here we go. Okay… alright here we go, here we go. Okay. Stop it. Okay Do you like my typewriter by the way? Isn’t it beautiful?

It’s basically here just as a prop but occasionally I just I’m always tempted to just go over and go… Dadadadada-datdada-dada Dadadahdatdadatdahdadada A few “Murder She Wrote” fans in the house. Thank you. Everybody else is going… “What? What is that? It sounds like an old person’s joke.”

It is! It is. Totally is. Alright… here we go okay – fuck- okay. Here we go okay. Okay. Walking to Skye – Chapter One I bought a bookshelf on Gumtree recently, um. It was an amazing experience. I’ll quickly tell you about it and then I’ll read the book.

But I found it strange because it… It made me start to think about the way like our methods of communication have sort of changed over the years. You know, in the old days if you wanted a bookshelf you’d just go see Gareth the bookshelf guy

Because he was the dude in your tribe that made the bookshelves. He had a little bookshelf cave. He was reputable! Now any mad bastard can sell their shit on Gumtree! You know what I mean? As a species we’re sort of able to cope with knowing and gossiping

About around like 100 or 150 people. That’s like the limit of our tribe. Any more than that it starts to get confusing. Which is why we created abstract constructs like territories and deities to unite larger groups of people under an imaginary common factor.

And it works a treat because we only really gather en masse on special occasions. But I think like social media and it’s… fucking all that up you know? I don’t think we’re, we’re able to deal with the thousands of people we’re connected to on a daily basis

And as a result we neglect our immediate 150, you know? That’s why I never get invited to parties anymore. It’s not because I ramble on about veganism and fisting old ladies. It’s because I’m not on Facebook and everybody just assumes you are!

I am so behind on the births, deaths and marriages of my friends… That I feel like the time traveler’s wife every time I go to a party. I’m like…this is ah Tim, he’s our son, he’s 6 now. Fucking… didn’t even know you were pregnant.

Anyway and you know smartphones aren’t that great? You know that right? They’re not they’re not that great. You don’t need the internet in your pocket. You work at Coles okay? You’re not working for the President. You don’t need it. You don’t need that much information.

And also what was the point of developing opposable thumbs for you to take a photo of your head… post it on the internet and then just stand by for validation. No one gives a fuck about your head! They’ll only validate it in order to gain permission to post a photo of their

Own head on the internet and stand by for validation. The people who give a fuck about your head, will at some point see it in real life. Fuck your head and the neck it rode in on. Your vanity is sucking up my bandwidth.

Anyway this is what’s going through my head as I’m on Gumtree looking for a bookshelf because… Oh you know when you put something in, on the, on the…in like in the search in booktree, in booktree? What the fuck?

When you put something in the search on Gumtree. I’m having a stroke up here. Um…yeah. When you put something in the search right? And, and like there’s always a couple of things that come up in the list that are like the polar opposite of what you search for.

I’m like get out of my head Gumtree algorithms. Conspiracy! No but seriously you type, you type it’s like “bookshelf” and it’s like… Bookshelf, bookshelf bookshelf, gramophone…uh? Bookshelf, bookshelf, bookshelf… Combine harvester? What the fuck? That’s actually a pretty good price? Anyway on this particular day I found two bookshelves that worked for me

In terms of cost and more importantly: geographical convenience. Because I’d be fucked if I’m driving to Broadmeadows to pick up a bookshelf right? So I type in “bookshelf” and I see the two things and I’m like okay… One seller is Kathy, the other is Morgan.

I send them both the same text message… “Hello, I saw your bookshelf on Gumtree is it still available? Kathy texts back straight away saying… “Sorry! It went this morning!” That’s cool Kathy. I’m sorry I gave you an annoying voice in the retelling of this story.

Morgan’s response came through a couple of minutes later and simply read… “it was my wife’s bookshelf” How do you respond to that?! Aside from the fact that it doesn’t answer my fucking question… his use of past tense in that sentence unnerved me slightly. I’m like, oh I should probably just find another bookshelf…

And then I noticed he lived in the suburb next to me so I replied: Is it still available? He responded with the letter Y. Just a Y. Is he asking me why I want to know if it’s still available?

Or is it a Y for yes and he’s so in the throes of grief that he can’t manage he E and the S? I assume it’s a Y for yes so I respond… Cool I’ll take it. When’s a good time to come and pick it up?

No reply for like 15 minutes. I’m like, oh he’s forgotten about me. Fuck it, I’ll find another bookshelf. And then when his reply actually does come through I realized he spent those 15 minutes crafting his response… because it’s a fucking thesis.

He must have felt so bad about only using a single consonant in his previous text that he just massively overcompensated with this one. Also for some reason felt that the use of punctuation… Entirely unnecessary. So it’s just one obscenely long sentence which reads…

“you must come and pick up now i only have short time here at house and also it wide” “so bring van or trailer and there stair but i can help you carry downstair if you come”

“park out front walk up past ring bell and i will help you carry it to trailer or van” “i only accept cash and if you do not come now i will sell it someone else” Again I’m thinking…oh I should just find another bookshelf at this point…

But now I am fascinated by Morgan and I simply must meet the man. So… I drive over to his house… Oh before I left… I sent him a message saying… Cool, I’ll be there in ten minutes. He replied ok, but spelt it o-k-a-y which just fascinated me more

That he’ll use four letters to spell a two-letter word but only one letter to spell a three-letter word. Morgan is off the fucking chain! And as I’m driving over to his house I’m trying to picture what he’s going to be like, you know?

His pigeon English might suggest ethnicity of some sort but I don’t want to racially profile him. Maybe he’s an old man who recently lost his wife and he’s not that very good at texting. Or maybe, and I’m really hoping this is the case… Morgan is just batshit crazy. So…

I get to his house and I go up to the… I park out front walk up path ring bell And I… I brace myself for the door to be opened by like an old man in a smoking jacket wearing fishnet stockings and suspenders.

Just… puffing on an opium pipe, while a butler just creepily polishes a goldfish in the background. And then a tiny pug dog wearing a fez hat just trots up the hallway sits on the mat looks up at me and says ” Relcome to our rovely room!”

And then the door opens and I am thoroughly disappointed. Before me stands an average Caucasian male in his mid-30s. Dressed casually, hipster chic: stubble glasses with designer frames, expensive watch. I immediately think architect? But the house is too cheesy for that it’s

Like a double story doll’s house with bay windows but definitely a designer of some kind? Maybe a graphic designer? He’s too skinny for manual labor. He’s too hip for the public sector. But this can’t be Morgan. Because Morgan’s text messages would suggest that he’s not that technically savvy.

And then the man standing in front of me says “Hello, my name’s Morgan.” And the plot thickens! He invites me in and shakes my hand, closes the door…and 20 minutes later I will be witnessing Morgan perform some of the most aggressive acts of violence I’ve ever seen in my life.

And I will be speeding away in my car… bleeding from the face Here’s how this shit went down. I go into the house and I noticed two things immediately. One: this is a house in the throes of renovation. Nothing too extreme but there’s like, drop sheets on all the furniture.

There’s freshly painted walls. There’s a bathtub wrapped in plastic in the hallway awaiting installation. Someone’s doing some work on this house. The second thing I notice, on the way up the stairs to the second floor on the first floor landing is a wedding photograph.

Featuring a very cleanly shaven Morgan with a very beautiful bride. Very much in love. The photograph is very much on the floor… and the glass in the frame is very much smashed. She’s not dead she’s left him. And the plot thickens a bit more for Morgan!

And as Morgan unceremoniously like kicked the photo frame to one side on the way up the stairs… I really wanted to pry into Morgan’s life and ask heaps of inappropriate questions. But he was clearly a broken man. He had this terrible air of sadness around him, so I didn’t want to intrude.

Luckily for me though I didn’t have to because Morgan immediately began over sharing and told me the whole fucking story Oh! Thank you Morgan. I shall hang off your every word and then retell your tale to 200 strangers and record it for a fucking dvd. He is a graphic designer. Yes!

And he’s really good at it. He does like massive rebranding campaigns for large corporations. He gets flown all over the world doing this shit right. About four years ago a woman hired Morgan to rebrand her florist business and he did such a great job she married him.

And he thought everything was just fine… until about three months ago. Morgan had to do a presentation in Sydney right, but he was on his way home from overseas and he got stuck in Dubai due to a flight cancellation. So rather than cancel

The meeting Morgan suggested to these businessmen in Sydney that they do a Skype chat because he’s so technologically savvy despite his fucking baffling text message stuff. So Morgan checks into a hotel, cracks open his laptop and starts Skyping with this room full of businessmen in Sydney

Who are all watching Morgan on a massive screen on their boardroom wall, right. And everything’s going great Morgan is totally nailing it until about halfway through. He realizes that a file he wants to show these dudes is on the desktop of his home computer back in his home office in Melbourne.

And he decides to live share the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. He knows how to do that. He can control his computer remotely from anywhere in the world. It’s not particularly new technology, but Morgan makes it sound so impressive.

So this room full of businessmen are all watching keenly like… “Ah, Margaret bring in some biscuits, there’s some newfangled shit going on in here!” As Morgan clicks a few buttons and brings up the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. Now

What Morgan doesn’t realize, is that his wife has been using the photo booth app on that particular computer to take pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself doing some pretty fucked up shit. It’s embarrassing to say the least.

Just as Margaret came back in with the biscuits “I’ve got you the waaaaaaaa!” Now Those of you who are familiar with the photo booth app will know that how it works is it accesses the built-in camera in your computer and with a click of a button takes

A photo of you when you’re standing in front of the screen. And if you know that… you’ll also know that if you leave that application open, the camera also stays open. Witnessing whatever may be happening in front of the computer in real time. Such as your wife… in your home office…

Fucking your best mate. Oooooohhhhh, noooooooo Morgan noooooooooo. Morgan then goes on to tell me she’s keeping the house his former best mate is moving in and while they’re out for the day happily shopping for fittings

Morgan must suffer the indignity of moving his shit out and selling the stuff they don’t want on gumtree… To this guy. Ooohhhh, ooooohhhhh! It’s at this point of the story that Morgan starts crying. He breaks down and I do not blame the man.

It’s fucking horrible and I just want to give him a big hug and say everything’s going to be all right Morgan. But I am holding the full weight of a bookshelf halfway down a set of stairs! And Morgan is the only thing stopping that bookshelf from caving my face in.

I was like… Morgan! Morgan! And Morgan managed to pull himself together… for about 8 seconds… and then just went “baaaaa” and let the bookshelf go! I fell backwards. It literally rolled over me and took out the light hanging above the staircase. I’m now lying on my back getting showered in broken glass

As the bookshelf turned end-over-end and just went “funk” right through a freshly painted wall at the bottom of the stairs. I’m like…aaaarrgghh ahhhhhh arghhhh arrrhhhhhhh I’ve got a tiny cut on my forehead which is just pissing blood for some reason. Apart from that…I’m fine. Morgan however… he’s not fine.

Morgan is the opposite of fine. Something happened when the bookshelf lodged itself in the wall and his sadness just… Went away in a second and he started pissing himself laughing. And he had the creepiest laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m standing there going on this is weird…

And he’s going “Raaaaaaaaa, raaaaaaaaaaeeeeh, raaa…” Like some sort of demonically possessed baritone kookaburra. He’s like “Raaaaaaaaaaeeehhhhh…ooookkaaayyyyyaaa kooooooookkaaaaaaaayyaaaaa…” Ah, ahha. “Raaaaaeeehhh Can I still have the bookshelf? He’s like “Yeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh” We extracted from the wall the bookshelf incidentally showing no sign of having just rolled down

A staircase and smashed through a wall. We carried it out to my car. We had to stop about six times because Morgan was like… “Hang on a minute….raaaaaaaarraaaaaa” We got it to my car, put it on the trailer and Morgan was in such a great mood…

He let me have the bookshelf for free. And that’s where the story should end. But there was something about the bookshelf going through the wall that flipped a fucking switch in Morgan’s head And he is now…hungry for more destruction.

So as I started tying the bookshelf down to my trailer, Morgan just strolls over to like an upright mailbox on front lawn… and just starts trying to wrench it out of the ground just really putting his back into it. I’m like…Are you okay buddy? He’s like “Yep.”

He pulls it out of the ground whereupon he wields it like a fucking battle axe, and just starts smashing up the front garden. Just beheading the daisies. Fucking up the lavender. I’m like…Oh hey Morgan, maybe you want to stop and think about that.

And he wheeled around and looked at me like Jack Nicholson chasing Shelley Duval up the stairs in The Shining… and said “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business!” Yep, yep cool man, yep yep.

Now I like tying knots. I’m quite good at tying knots. If I tie something down I take my time because I want it to stay there. But as Morgan nonchalantly strolled up the driveway… Rolled up the garage door and put the mailbox through the windscreen of an Audi!

I must admit, I kind of rushed my knot tying job. I got in the car. I’m about to drive off. I’m like, looking at the house going uh…I’m sure he’ll be fine. And then an armchair smashed out of an upstairs window and just went doink doink doing down the front lawn.

I was like… What’s my duty of care in this situation? I didn’t want to call the cops on him. I didn’t want him to trash the house. I’m like…Da, fuck I’m gonna have to talk to Morgan. So I got out. I walked up the driveway, shitting myself.

You know when someone does something really violent you’re just like…da fuck we’re not supposed to do shit like that. Yucky. Just yucky feeling in my tum tum and I’m standing there… Standing there in the garage and there’s like an adjoining door in the garage that leads into the house.

I can see in through, through the door into the house, up the staircase. It’s like a wooden staircase and I’m standing in the garage just going… ah fuck…. Mor-gaaaan. Mor-gaaaaan! Like I was calling a cat for its dinner. Like…Morgan! Morgie Moorgie Moorgie Morgaaaaan.

And then I notice…a small trickle of water start to come from the top step. And then a little bit more water and then so and then quite a lot of water. Just pissing down the stairs like a shitty water feature. I’m like… Ah that can’t be right.

And then Morgan appeared on the top step holding a hammer like this… “Baaaaaa!” I was like…Wow! He like “Beeeeaaaaa” He starts running at me wielding the hammer going “Beeeeaaa” I’m like…oh no I just wanted to buy a bookshelf. He’s like “Eeerrrrrrrrr” Runs straight past me. I’m like…Where are you going?

He’s like “Baaaaahhhhh” Made a beeline for my car, I’m like…No man stop! He’s like “Eerrrrrrrrrrrrrr” Stop it! Just stop! He spins around and goes… “I just checked my phone. She texted me 15 minutes ago saying she’ll be here in 15 minutes… we gotta go!” And gets into my car. Oh Jesus, fuck me.

Irun down the lawn get in the driver’s seat. I’m like what was with the water? He goes “Oh, I put plugs in all of the sinks and turned all the taps on.” I’m like…Oh that’s fucked. He’s like “Just drive!” I was like…ahhhhh!

I took off so quick, rounded the corner at the end of his street and the bookshelf just went…raaaaa booosh! And exploded against the guard rail. Just exploded in a shower of badly tied knots and broken dreams.

So me and Morgan just fucking left it there, like a little breadcrumb for his ex-wife to find… on the way home to her destroyed gingerbread house. I dropped Morgan at a train station. I have never seen him again. And that my friends, is why I no longer shop on Gumtree.

Thank you very much, thank you very much. Ah fuck. You know my favorite bit of that story? I just made it up. Yeah, it’s not true. There is no Morgan. It’s very unsatisfying isn’t it? “But I saw him in my head.” “I saw Morgan in my head.”

Why is it we can feel so robbed when someone tells us a story we just heard isn’t true… and yet so satisfied at the end of the fictional novel? Hmm? I don’t know? I don’t know. You know the other great thing about that story? First draft. Fuck you Hemingway!

I can’t end on that, can I? “Those lies! We did not come here to be hoodwinked sir.” The truth ey? The truth is I’m… I’m not an exceptional person, you know. Nothing interesting really ever happens to me.

I, I’m, I’m, I’m massively flawed and I think I’m quite forgettable if I’m being 100% honest. And this isn’t the shit bit at the end of the show where I get on the cross I’m like…Love me on the way out the door.

It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t think like…On a scale of one to memorable, I’m not that memorable. I’m not like the Morgan sort of scale, or not on the Ernest Hemingway scale certainly, you know? But if I tell a great story, maybe people will remember that instead.

Remember the card trick and just pretend that they don’t know how it’s done, you know? But must we leave a legacy? Must we make an impact? Do we have to leave a footprint? Is it okay to just settle? Seek safety? Nest, you know? Or must we constantly shake our lives up?

Or suffer the indiscriminate cruelty of having it shaken against our will? Must we try to carve a path through the tall grass? Feeling as though no one has ever felt how we feel? Terrified at what may be lurking low in the grass on either side of us but

Just pressing ever onwards with that paleolithic instinct deep within our chromosomes that the only way is forward. That you have to keep going. That eventually you’ll stumble upon the edge of the field, hitch a ride from a passing car…

And meet up with the rest of the gang for tea and sandwiches at the old town hall. Do we feel like the path that we are carving through the grass is all our own? Only to finally float above the field with the sweet relief of expiration and realize…

That the field is insignificantly minuscule in size. And that there’s only one path through the grass. The exact same one that every human has tried before us and will ever after. Just stumbling blindly along a tiny hyphen between the words: birth and death. And when reduced to that level of crisp simplicity…

Fear cannot exist. So Walking to Skye Chapter 1

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