I’ve found my UV filters on darlinghurst pavements in my dreams, where sometime in the last year, they spangled from the spastic collapse that has been me. I’ve felt like a kidnap in my cruel coat; kicking, drunken, like a jackhammer in a unitard, but dragged by my camera… whose impressions I used to adore.

Here in Sydney, the Capital of Vapid, where sizable dicks have been surplanted by enormous quiffs and tribal tattoos with big street art. Here in the cunt capitol of this country; I find myself losing all love for local land and man alike.

Some year or two ago, I thought we were in a city broken with the weight of shit and corruption. But we’re actually in the thrift-store New York knock-off… a plastic testament to the second generation bogans who found a big lawn in the prosperity of the eighties.

Our culture is as authentic as our bedrock of back-water Sheryls need it to be… cultured enough for the family photos which will be sent to a Brisbane aunt, lathered with all that Simple Culture thinks is COSMOPOLITAN.

We’ve closed our genuine dive bars (think Bar-Ace); where florescent-lit smoke and beers with a dash of soap cost you a few coins and a few sideways glances. Now we have ‘Dive’ bars, each mimicking a culture far removed from our own, where one can find the same people they tried to talk to last year at Doctor Pong or the year before at OAF.

Outrage is nudity and real cut-throat unrest is unthinkable, even to our children over-bored.
Challenge is drinking yourself to sleep, and smiling in your slumber that our cops didn’t tip your beer out like an anxious mother might ribena.

This city is sinking. And now I’m sinking with her.
Sydney, A city with a tiny dick.

GB

1. Why don’t I attend more free filmings of stuff?
2. Why the fuck did I eat those dumplings?
3. Could I pull off Tommy Dean’s hair-do?

Fifteen minutes later, once the audience’s chuckles turned to real, human laughter; Will Anderson came out and said hello. He began introducing the panelists for the show, and aside from the usual attendees… there was suddenly a rather interesting woman on stage.

She was quite remarkable in the purest sense of the word, in that was by no means archetypically stunning; but there was something utterly curious about her.
Her nose was rather strong and sharp, which sat in the middle of her long, drawn out face. She had a full, mane of blonde’ish hair; and a voice like an ageing drag queen.

She would have been at least six foot four and possessed the imposing frame of either a Netball Goal Shooter, or an Easter Show Axe Man. Perhaps the strangest thing about this sexy, towering female… was the fact that I was CERTAIN that I knew her.

I began fumbling through the mangroves of my mind, trying my best to discover how and why I knew her.
Had I worked with her? Was she an actor? Had I offended her at some cheesy awards evening? Had we played football together?

It was probably about ten minutes or so, before I finally realized… I had placed my tongue in her mouth and groped at her breasts (probably in an awkward, seventeen-year-old-esque manner). Her name was Caro.. or Caroline… or Carrie… possibly Polly? I have no god damn idea – but we had hooked up at a friend’s house warming many years ago.

As soon as I remembered how I had met her – I also recalled a dear friend’s words instantly:
“The funniest part of the evening, was watching you make out with her as you sat on her lap”

At this point, I was considering four things:

1. Do I have a thing for sexy, larger women?
2. Why the fuck did I eat those dumplings?
3. Could I pull off Will Anderson’s hair-do?

The moral to this story is, if you ever find yourself at the lonely corner of Harris Street and Ultimo Road: don’t eat the fucking dumplings.

All my love,
John Wisehammer

EDITORS NOTE: Series 3 of The Gruen Transfer premiers tonight during Origin; a genius programming decision by the ABC.

That’s the rub kids – game! We’ve got all sorts of wild game floating around greater Sydney. Our parks are filled with rabbits, our streets are filled rats and pigeons; and our national parks are littered with delicious native species (the Royal National Park even has deer).

HOWEVER… the legalities of killing native species are a little touch-and-go, and killing deer requires both ownership of a gun AND travel past Cronulla. So, that leaves us with  Rats and Pigeons and Beer as our local produce.

Now, I did some research into catching and cooking rats, I even tried to write up a story about it… but the long and short of it is, there’s no fucking point. From everything I read, rats taste like shit and when you live in a city with free food for the homeless and ALDI stores for everyone else – there’s no real need to fend for yourself.

Still… I felt I had to sample some local produce.

So, with the knowledge that rats don’t taste too good, we did some research and found a marvelous little joint down by market city called The Emperor’s Garden.

It’s a shonky little restaurant, with all kinds of dead, dried-out animal carcasses hanging in the front window. The kind of place where everyone speaks fine enough English, as long as you stick to the menu and don’t ask about cooking preparations (or where they get their pigeons).

We went down with the SINK credit card and ordered two, deep-fried offerings of Sydney’s fattest rats with wings. It took a while (approximately 9 Chinese beer’s worth), but when they arrived, we saw 2, full pigeons; which had been cleaved into five pieces each and when reassembled looked like little, meaty jigsaws.

Not missing a beat, we pounced on the poultry, teething the flesh from the bone like a dog chewing the fleas off a mate. It was delicious, more like duck than chicken, with a texture not too dissimilar from pork. I will note, however, that it was an awful lot of hard work to get the flesh off the bone, because even though pigeons seem like fat fuckers, I can only assume after eating them that most of that bulk is actually feather and filth.

At the end of the meal (about 4.6 minutes later), we were left with a pyramid of tiny bones, and two, deep-fried pigeon heads. Now, I’m not sure if these are meant for eating, but when three men eat at a table together, the tendency is to eat before thinking – lest you miss out and go hungry in a quick flash.

My slow reaction time and booze pickled mind meant that I missed out, while Tom and Cookie plunged their gnashing teeth into some deep-fried, seasoned, pigeon skull. And while not a queazy man on most days, I can safely say that watching two friends hack their way into some bird head, leaving carbon and ash on their teeth and lips, was a hard thing to face at such an hour on such a night.

So there you have it… Sydney’s local poultry, tasted and rated as deliciously worth the $18 we paid for it. With that said though, now that we’ve developed a taste, we’ll need to find out the legality of hunting pigeon in Martin Place.

Does anyone have a lawyer or old .22 in their family?

My head is still throbbing, and my eyes are still red – so point form will have to do.

I hope this helps you all understand the ins and outs of the new Federal Budget.

All my love,
Aunty Elliston

Usually, it’s the same old junk… promises of building my girth and marrying me off to a well behaved Russian girl.

But recently, the spammers have been getting creative, and a few days ago we received a chopped up extract from Appearances Notes of Travel, East and West by Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson.

Whether it’s because I’ve been drinking too much and sleeping too little; or whether it’s purely because submissions are drying out as everyone gets real jobs… either way, I thoroughly enjoyed what this arsehole did to these magnificent words.

His aggressive entering turns the passage into a poem, and reminds me of the nonsensical poetry of Tristan Tzara.

What the fuck am I saying?
It’s just fucking spam… beautiful, poetic, inbox-filling spam.

Ficance. It is we poets who create significance, and for that reason Nature hates
us. She is afraid of us, for she knows that we condemn her. We have standards

before which she shrinks abashed. But she has her revenge; for poets are incarnate.
She owns our bodies; and she hurls us down Niagara with the rest, with

the others that she loves, and that love her, the virile big-jawed men, trampling
and trampled, hustling and hustled, working and

asking no questions, falling as water and dispersing as spray. Nature

is force, loves force, wills force alone. She hates the

intellect, she hates the soul, she hates the spirit. Nietszche understood her
aright, Nietszche the arch-traitor, who spied on the enemy, learned her secrets, and
then went over to her side. Force rules

the world." I must have said something ban  al about progress, for the voice broke
out: "There is no progress! It is always the same river! New waves succeed for ever,
but always in the old forms. History tells, from beginning to end,

the same tale--the victory of the strong over the sensitive, of the active over the
reflective, of intelligence over intellect. Rome conquered Greece, the Germans the
Italians, the English the

French, and now, the Americans the world! What matters the form of

the struggle,

whether it be in arms or commerce, whether the victory go to the sword, or

to shoddy, advertisement, and fraud? History is the perennial conquest of
civilisation by barbarians. The little islands before us, lovely with trees and
flowers, green oases in the rushing river, it is but a few years and they will be

engulfed. So Greece was swallowed up, so Italy, and so

will it be with England. Not, as your moralists maintain, because of her vices, but
because of her virtues. She

is becoming just, scrupulous, humane, and therefore she is doomed. Ignoble though
she be, she is yet too noble to survive; for Germany

and America are baser than she. Hark, Hark to Niagara! Force, at all costs! Do you

hear it? D

That’s right… we’re publishing spam now.
Let they who sent the last articles, cast the first stones.

Fuck you all,
George.

So with my tail between my legs and my pride all but gone, I ambled off the train at Olympic Park with the hordes of harsh-sounding housewives to spend my Easter long weekend in a dagwood dog caravan at Sydney’s favourite money-grubbing institution: the Royal Easter Show.

Before I go any further, I should probably let you all know that I fucking loathe the Easter Show. This is because of three powerful factors:

Actually, with six years of intense training under my belt, “Fast Foodery” may be the closest thing I have to a trade (never tell an actual tradie that “writer” is a trade… they tend to rage).

I learned how to make dagwood dogs, which I’m told is a fine art. One worker explained that it took him three years to perfect the batter and he even revealed the secret ingredients to me (a ratio of flour to water).

The Easter Show itself was a fucking weird reality. Trains clogged the Homebush Bay lines as thousands of bogans flooded Olympic Park, with their dream list of showbags and money to burn stashed in assorted bum-bags and two-wheeled trolleys.

The crowd looked like a sea of “Things Bogans Like” (a top blog if you get the chance), a veritable omnibus of missing teeth, beer bellies and poor pronunciation. The rides and food vans charged at rates which should be seen as illegal (or, at the very least, collusion), and showbags were stuffed with 80 cents worth of junk and resold for at 10 bucks a pop.

However, as I mentioned, the first few days were spent enjoying my rediscovered skills, and the constant parade of oddballs to eyeball were a great degree of enjoyment for the hobbyist people watcher. With the backwater folk from the greater west becoming as much a part of my Easter Show experience, as the prize pigs and Robosaurus.

NOTE: It was my first glimpse of this new “fashion”, but apparently it’s all the rage in Orange and Dubbo to have Swarovski crystals stuck to your teeth with dental glue… thank God I was working with such high-brow folk.

By now, I was getting pretty comfortable with being a carnival worker (though not officially a carnie). My black polo shirt had the sleeves rolled up to show my tats (a carnie favourite), my hair was now greasy with chip fat, my hands were scarred with burns from various heating bays and my wallet had more Easter Show tickets than cash.

When I arrived at work that day, I told my crystal-toothed manager about my seafaring fantasy. I said, “Think about it – it’s good money and I could write about it.” She replied, “You can make heaps of money on the rides if you buy your own.”

She went on to detail how a friend of hers was born into the ride business: “He’s done real well for himself. He went to Bali last year.”

I actually started to consider it. “It’s no different to the navy,” I told myself. “Travel from port to port, do it for a couple of years, write about it, get a book published… Why the fuck not?” Truth be told, the more I thought about it the better carnie life sounded. Free travel, cheap food, a chance to see the country and knock up a 19-year-old girl from Kiama called Blaze… or Storm… or Pepsi – just living the dream.

Perhaps this Susan character was merely trying to weed out the weak… Maybe she knew from my posh prosody that I don’t have what it takes to collect tickets and mop up vomit… Perhaps she feared I would know too much, perhaps she knew I would one day rule her entire carnival kingdom with an iron fist… Or maybe I should have just called her back?

By my fourth and final day I began to remember why I hated the Easter Show. And because it was the final day of the long weekend, dropkicks from all over New South Wales poured into the grounds with their arms outstretched and their wallets open.

On the other hand, this was also the day I became addicted to the wood chopping. I am not a sporty guy, but it felt amazing that in these horrible days of liability and work-cover-gone-mad; we are still allowed to have a sport that involves guys climbing trees and swinging big, fucking axes around.

But before I go and suck off a wood chopper, I have to remember that I’m trying to write a bitter, biased report about the Easter Show. So I’ll save this lumberjack-lovery for another day.

Back at the van, my manager asked me what I planned to do with my money. I told her that it was rego time, so the government will take most of my earnings and spend it how they see fit.

I was morbidly confused and stupidly angry. “Why not take them on a holiday?”

“This is their holiday.”

I looked at my manager, who showed no signs of sarcasm or humour of any kind. She was 100 percent serious. That ridiculous, horrible, expensive place was a wonderland to her.

At this point I stopped asking questions, I stopped dreaming of a life on the road and I pointed my focus to the task at hand… I was polite, I smiled, I gave false compliments and acted interested; I gave change, I dunked dagwood dogs in tomato sauce – and I got the fuck home.

God bless the Easter Show.

Simon Hills-Johnes

Yeah, it’s a dick story; but I promise that I’ll spare you the usual laborious and clichéd ‘My massive member’ allusions, as this is a penis story where size really isn’t crucial in the story… despite the tremendous girth of my massive member.

Horrifically, it was my 25th birthday; or rather, the day after my birthday and the morning of my 25th birthday party. The Summer rains had been pissing down all week and suddenly, the weather clicked over to a ‘glad I’m in Australia’ level of warmth and sunshine. It was a good day to be me and I was on a Birthday high. Carrying on from said high, my girlfriend and I decided to engage in some morning sex. Now, I’m a gentleman and the exact details aren’t important here; but certain things are crucial and must be distinctly understood (or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate).

The most crucial of all aspects to this story (other than the fact that I have a penis), is that I’m not circumcised. This is possibly the most integral piece of information, as the foreskin is attached to the head of your penis by a thin strip of skin called the Frenulum. You also have one under your tongue and behind your top lip (where your gums meet your lips). They are odd little membranes indeed, and in younger… male circles; they are refered to lovingly as “The Banjo String.”

You can see where this is going… no?

While enjoying my favourite part of birthday sex, something strange happened during entry. Even if I had the luxury of some sort of sexual 3rd Umpire, I’m sure all parties concerned would be going straight to the video ref for some slow motion, up-close examination.

Let me also explain that being 25 I’m no novice to intercourse; and being with my girlfriend for a long time, we both know the score. Foreplay was over, conditions were perfect; the support band had finished and it’s time for the main show. What I’m trying to say… without being too gutter-worthy, is that I was in no matter rushing the entry point of the proceedings. I had taken my time, done everything right – and now it was my turn to get mine – capiche?

Back to the point of entry…

Something went terribly, inexplicably, horrendously wrong. Like a graceful Russian Prima Ballerina tripping over nothing in mid-air and landing on her face… I felt like screaming for my mum and phoning Mulder and Scully. You see, upon insertion something happened. And my (mighty) foreskin had rolled back too far… way too far. My frenulum went from fine to breaking point in nanoseconds, and like a piece of brittle brie – it ripped.

Yeah, it fucking ripped, and because I was erect as can be imagined – my manhood was extra full of blood. The instant my fucking cock ripped apart I knew something had gone astray because sex is awesome, and my cock was telling my brain that something not so awesome was transpiring. A herd of wild rhinoceros couldn’t have yanked my dick out quicker.

In the time it took to grab my dick to look at it, my hand was already covered in blood… COVERED in blood. It was like a fondue fountain of pinot pain, and it was now overflowing over my hand and was Niagra-falling on my recently purchased mattress.

My (lovely) girlfriend was shocked to say the least, but I oddly knew exactly what had happened. The same thing happened to an old high school friend of mine, and you don’t forget a ripped dick story… they’re some of the best urban legends around.

I looked at my (lovely) grilfriend, and said as calmy and plainly as possible (in a rushed, panicky soprano) ‘I’ve ripped my dick.’

While running to the shower in an awkward hop and screaming like a six year old. In the shower, the blood just kept on coming, as fast as the water was washing it away. When my boner finally receded – so did the Dante’s Peak torrent of blood. At this point, I started to shake – shock was taking over my body.

I decide I should peel back my foreskin and survey the damage. BAD IDEA! There is a rumble in my stomach and I start to get dizzy. Again, I go for a peel; only this time it’s a half peel. I’m terrified by what may be lying under that hood and assumed that the head of my cock was now a free agent. I could only assume that it would drop right off if given the chance to leap out from under the hood.

I slowly achieved the half peel. Out pops my severed frenulum.

Blackened at it’s stray end as my blood clotted and the repair work was beginning, and man – it stung. I note it’s a clean break and my dick lips aren’t split, which is the new high point of my morning. At this relief I let the shock take over and I crouch down in the shower and feel like puking for a while. My girlfriend comes in to check on me – she also informs me the mattress is ruined. I had to decide on some action. Medical attention. It’s Sunday. Someone needs to assess my bloody (massive) cock, pronto.

I had booked a barefoot lawn bowls session at Warringah Bowls Club for my birthday party and it was due to start in 3 hours. It’s my birthday and I’ll be fucked if I’m canceling it on the count of a perforated penis. I dry myself off, wipe the remaining blood of my shrunken, yet swollen member, and head to Mosman Medical Centre.

I hobble in. Each step making my penis move, rubbing it against my pants, equaling a new degree of pain. If the pain was in your toe you’d rate it 4/10, but because it’s your penis it doubles in your mind to 8/10.

I get inside the medical centre, my girlfriend laughing in sympathy at my hobble. There is only one other person waiting in there – awesome. My girlfriend asks if we can see the next available doctor. I stand back, still slightly aghast that what was supposed to be an amazing morning had ended in a fucking medical centre on the account of my dick. The receptionist tells us, ‘Sure, just take a seat and she’ll be right out.’

She?

I don’t know why, but at the time, we both thought that ‘No, we need a male doctor. Prior penis experience essential.’ We inquired, but the female doctor was the only one on duty. Whatever, I didn’t care… I just wanted to be told I wouldn’t need stitches and my cock will heal itself naturally. That’s what my girlfriend told me, and she has a habit of being right about everything.

So we plonk down in those plastic waiting room chairs and wait. Then my girlfriend nudges me and whispers “Baby, look at your pants.” My dick started bleeding again. Though not at the previous flash flooding level. Perhaps my choice of board shorts wasn’t the best option as, of course, my board shorts have a white stripe at the crouch. It had seeped a little, probably from the waddle in. I sighed “It looks like I’ve got my fucking man period.” With that, my name was called and in I hobbled.

The doctor was great. A woman in her mid-forties with short cropped hair. So, I explain my situation. First thing she assures me that this isn’t rare and it would be the 4th time she’s encountered such a situation. I nervously hop on the bench and get my kit off.

“It hurt last time I peeled it back so do we have to do that again?”

“Yes, but I’ll be gentle.”

So on go the gloves as she slowly peels back my swollen foreskin. Out pops the frenulum like a broken guitar string, or banjo string as it were. The pain wasn’t as bad but blood was all over it, as well as some new flow so she had to dab the blood away. She earned her paycheck that day. My girlfriend chose to look away.

“Wow, that doesn’t look normal.” I said. The doctor started laughing.

“That’s an understatement!” My cock looked like a zombie victim.

“It’ll heal fine. We don’t do stitches for this. The ripped frenulum will shrink down and a new one will grow in its place.”

“Thank fuck for that!” I shout, much to her amusement. So pants on, I sit down and the doc explains that pissing will hurt for a few days. So fill a big bowl with warm water and 2 teaspoons of salt, then piss into the warm brine. This was also the method for cleaning the wound. I have to peel it back and let the warm salt water get in there. It was a painful process for a few days and grizzly as it confronted me with my mangled member.

“So, do that for a week, 10 days, and you’ll be fine. Maybe some scar tissue,” she said, “but nothing major. Also, no sex and no wanking until it’s fully healed. If it rips again, it’d be bad.”

I mentioned that I was thinking of looking up ripped frenulum online, but thought better not to.

“No, no! Lets have a look right now!” The doctor basically leapt over to the keyboard and before I knew it we were perusing articles with titles like ‘I Couldn’t Have Sex For Weeks’ and some truly horrifying photos. “Actually, maybe we shouldn’t look.” as she clicked off Firefox.

I got 4 days worth of painkillers and was sent on my merry way. I down the painkillers, waited for them to take effect, and washed my penis in a oven bowl of warm salty water. It starts bleeding slightly. Then, taking advantage of the painkillers, I started my beer intake for the day, because it was my fucking birthday after all.

I rock up to my party, this time in black shorts, and kept drinking, feeling very merry. I walk gingerly but no one seems to notice. I kept the story to myself as everyone was having such a great time, I didn’t want the day to be remembered for my ripped dick story… I wanted the day to be remembered for something far greater, far more noble and impressive – I want everyone in the world to mark that day as the day my team fucking won the lawn bowl comp thanks to my amazing last bowl.

The lesson to be learned here, is that I may be the greatest lawn bowls player in the world – even with a ripped dick.

Rob Abel

The urge to drink took hold of me, so I dragged myself and my last few bucks into the tacky tides of Charlie Bar.

It was getting late, so the crowds had already packed in and getting a drink was an impossibility. So I bumbled around the place until a group of six loud females caught my eye. I took a quick seat with these females, creating among them much confusion, amazement and outright suspicion.

They played hard-to-get at first, but the numerous empty champagne bottles told me most of the hard work was already done. The six young ladies, as it turned out, made up a hens’ night that had been well underway before I rolled onto the scene. My story shifted directions and I decided that I had arrived precisely where I should be.

At first my queries brought only stagnant answers, until something about their ‘raunchiest times’ cracked the group wide open and the confessions began to flow, along with many an upward inflection, from their champagne-soaked, high frequency, Northern Beaches mouths.

It began slowly, with boring recollections of some bare-arsed run on manly beach, before a burst of laughter and wide eyes betrayed details of Chloe’s sex romp in the disabled toilet at the Ivanhoe Hotel.

‘But come on,’ one gal jumped in, ‘Who hasn’t had sex in the Ivanhoe toilets?’

Whether such an outburst was meant to devalue Chloe’s carnal adventure, I will never really know. But I added my own two cents and declared that I once declined an offer of sex in the Ivanhoe toilets, due to dubious circumstances. This did little for my new-found reputation as the only male of the group, but it did make me all the closer to being one of the girls.

So the conversation flowed as rapidly as the cheap champagne, and the girls produced more and more stories about themselves and each other. They were perfect sculptures of a certain type of woman, a breed only found in Sydney’s Northern Beaches, Eastern Suburbs, and western train lines.

A little prompting revealed that the soon-to-be-married bride and groom actually met after sharing a drunken pash in Establishment, a story that had nothing on the fact the bride-to-be “copped a fingering” on the dance floor at their recent engagement party (held at the Ivanhoe).
“Fingering”, as it would turn out, was a brilliant memory trigger and unleashed recollections of a recent trip to Thailand where a young masseuse tried her very best to give Chloë (the loudest of the girls) the full treatment during a pamper session. While massaging the front of her legs, Chloë recalled, “She just got closer and closer then OHHH! SHE SLIPPED A FINGER IN!”

The more I heard about my new friend Chloë, the more I realised she was some kind of sexual ringleader, although another hen felt forced to explain: “Chloë’s not a slut, she just likes sex… a lot!” Hear! Hear!

By this stage, Chloe was perfectly drunk and stories of her sexual superiority continued. During an exotic Whitsunday’s holiday Chloe burst into the room one morning, stripped nude, turned to her room mate and announced in a posh voice: “Well, I just had a ménage à trois!” She went on to say explain how she “got fucked every which way but loose”.

Threesome hopes had been dashed earlier in her career, when Chloe went home with two “eligible” young men who turned out to be gay. Yet what Chloe lost in penetrated orifices she made up for in cinematography experience, by taking out her handycam and filming the no-holds-barred man sex that followed.

All the while strange, pink shots were made readily available, all seeming a little too refreshing and a little too free. As Chloë drank more and more, her eyes became a little sad. After throwing down yet another pink shot she turned to me and said, “Everyone keeps saying congratulations… but I don’t want to seem unavailable.”

Then her sad eyes became angry. She offloaded her “Bride To Be” sash onto her unreceptive friends, hiked up her skirt, and shook her junk to the dance floor.

The sash was last seen on a table, a discarded afterthought covered in pink booze. In the background, the bride-to-be let it all hang out to the repetitive beats on the top floor of the Ivanhoe Hotel.

Chloe and Justin are due to be married this Easter. Everyone at SINK would like to wish Justin many happy returns and we hope Chloe enjoys her retirement.

M. Radcliffe

OK, I thought, I’m going to die in this place.

My night began normally enough, with a quiet few in Surry Hills before meeting a friend for an art exhibition.

I sat, sipping my beer and watching seasoned artfags nod their approval as a woman gave an earnest, hand-wringing explanation of her hopes to explore the dynamics of a modern relationship using the artistic forms of fighting and dancing.

I wondered why nobody was smiling, at the same time as I tried to figure out what kind of haircut I’d need to be taken seriously by this spacey elite.

Most of all, though, I wondered why my hipster friend Stuey had arrived with this 50-something man with darting marsupial eyes; this man who appeared to have decided the night’s attire was to be a sartorial ode to “Midnight Cowboy” and pirates everywhere.

We’d spotted him a few weeks before at a street party, mainly bec uase of how eye-catching his outfit was. Crocs’n'socks, floral board shorts, Hawaiian shirt, hoop earrings, a mask and rabbit ears were just the beginning. What really got our attention was the Dorothy the Dinosaur tail. He was pushing an old shopping trolley, in a particularly offensive shade of orange with a pattern that looked like rejected ‘70s wallpaper, and from the very first moment we knew we had to meet him.

Once upon a time we would have approached him on the spot but, this being the age of technological intrusiveness, Stuey tracked him down on Facebook.

In fact, they’d become such good friends that Stuey had left his bag at the man’s house and we found ourselves walking back to his house.

As we walked through Darlinghurst’s black streets, I couldn’t help but feel my spidey sense tingling, a sense I’ve learned to trust over my years of seeking entertainment at the expense of willing weirdos, one that I wish I’d trusted the night I found myself bolting from a motel with two morbidly obese Scotsmen chasing me, one of whom had expressed, straightfaced, a burning desire to murder me. Ah, the lengths we’ll go to for free weed…

This time, as I end up doing every time, I over-ruled my sense by deciding the people I usually hang around with are too vanilla-flavoured and that I should be more open-minded.

Stopping quizzically at the fascade of what appeared to be reformed horse stables, the man fumbled with keys to firmly lock the warehouse door behind us, I began to worry the night would end with me in a pit, applying lotion.

I didn’t feel any better as we walked through his workshop, which was full of mannequins, roll after roll of garish fabric and the torsos of prostrate Barbie dolls with pins stuck through them.

I imagined the adrenaline coursing through my veins might be visible, like the red dot that wanders around the body in the Nurofen ads.

The blood pounding in my ears seemed audible, especially in the cavernous gaps in conversation that now reigned supreme.

Maybe we should have gone to Ching-a-lings, after all.

It was only because my bladder was about to breach its banks that I left Stuey alone with him.

The bathroom was full of kewpie dolls, their sinister little faces peering at me from every surface, sill and rail.

Rather graphic wire sculptures hung from the ceiling, like gnarled sexual dreamcatchers.

I was pretty tired, twice drunk, and almost resigned to the fact that if I ever woke up again, it would be in a bath of ice.

I emerged wielding my high heels, should the absence of talking be relieving? Or had Stuey’s throat been slit, with a similar fate awaiting myself.

The coast was clear.

I followed the sound of murmuring down the corridor to find Stuey on the floor looking at a David Bowie box set while our new friend waxed lyrical about Human League and showed us his favourite outfits.

He showed us around his room with the fervor of a child introducing you to their toys.

There were books, DVDs and dolls, including one that lay spattered in algae at the bottom of a fish tank.

He turned out to be a man who follows his whims, who once travelled to the States to see if the kind of people he saw on Jerry Springer really existed. He saw that they did and came back home, that particular curiosity satisfied.

When the time came for us to leave, we did so uneventfully.

He invited us to a dinner party he would be having soon, at which his friend and her 86-year-old mother would be present. Naturally, we accepted.

And so instead of being the terrifying experience I had imagined, the night became a monument to my own raging paranoia and a living testament to the fact that we should all be a little more open-minded in who we choose as our new friends.

Maple Hinkley

For me it means getting away from the garish grinder of Sydney, and spending a beautiful weekend appreciating great bands, great art and having a marvelous time with good friends.

Evidently, the organisers of Future Music Festival have a different idea, and that’s to cram as many cashed up kids into one fenced off park, make a shitload of money, and give zero thought to, well… anything.

‘Fuck the kids, they’ll just get high and have a good time anyway won’t they?’

Well yeah, I suppose we will (I definitely tried my hardest), but that doesn’t make it cool.

So ignoring the clusterfuck that waqs getting transport to Randwick, and after being herded in to Randwick racecourse’s inner paddock through a tunnel usually occupied by livestock and excrement; we were greeted by a scorching sun, and 35 thousand cunts.

A sea of drunk, high, shirtless, angry Bogans stretched out before us as far as the eye could see. All trying to get as drunk, high, shirtless and angry as possible in the hope of being crowned “The Future of Cunt.” Oh deary me, this wasn’t good.

‘What the hell is this?’ I stammered to my photographer in stunned disbelief.
‘Bless this public space’ he cried with glee at the seeming mass of photogenic boganism in front of him, and scurried off into the crowd, firing off a few shots of some idiot in a blue lycra bodysuit on his way.

We wandered aimlessly through the tight throng of seedy individuals, and after queuing for booze for an era; Franz Ferdinand were due at the main stage so we headed that way. Though it wasn’t long before the sets rolled in and we were swept along by a torrent of drunk, shirtless Bogans – the air reeking of BO, Bourbon and Davindorf. However, impeding this undercurrent of human traffic was a D-barrier.

I once read a quote that said: “why bother with a solution when there’s money to be made prolonging the problem”
Enter litigious festival promotion and their champion of safety; D-barriers. These fucking things have been a plague on Australian festivals since Jessica Michalik died at the Big Day Out in 2001. At first, this knee jerk reaction seemed to be a sensible one, and I’ll be the first to admit that thanks to the D-Barrier, the front of the stage was comfortably spaced and relatively safe. However, just outside the D, where we were being pressure cooked, was something similar to a scene from the Nanking Massacre.

Thousands of sunburned, South-Western stupids were pushing, cramming, surging and fighting their way in. Security were pulling little girls out as they were being crushed, and men were hurling abuse as the sea of bodies locked together like it was a game of flesh Tetris. I’ve queued for a D-barrier before, but this was otherworldly awful…with lashings of extra hate.

After battling against the grain of angry, coastal types telling my battling companions and I to “caaaarm dowwwn braaa,” we stumbled out and onto clearer ground. We were soaked, exhausted and pissed off for all the wrong reasons; there were just way, way too many people at that fucking festival.

About this time, the sun was going down and my snapper materialised out of the crowd with a handful of cats and a wry grin.
In an effort to cheer ourselves up from a thus far horrific day, we took the cats and went out to a satellite stage to check out bag-raiders. They were just what we needed, and the crowd at the outer stages was a far less congested mess – a much cooler place to be.

Luke Steel’s retirement plan, aka Empire Of the sun, graced the not-quite-main stage & put on a not-quite-headline-worthy show.
A little too reliant on pre-recorded backing tracks, flashing lights, silly head wear and scantily clad dancers for distraction, but it could have been worse – as least there was no D-barrier. Plus the crowd was getting very high at this point, particularly the attention-seeking faux-lesbians nearby who were pashing like long lost lovers, much to the delight of our dear friends the bogans, who were cheering them on and taking photos (I’m assuming these were for RALPH or PICTURE submissions). Thankfully, the Rage wasn’t present in this crowd.

Then prodigy started.
Then all the lights broke and the prodigy went off stage.
Then the crowd got angry(er).
Then the organizers, sensing a Woodstock ‘99 rape riot, did the only sensible thing all day & sent the prodigy back out on stage sans lights.

They finished their set, I was left feeling a little empty, and in a poetic summary of the festival; a guy next to me vomited, splashing the ankles of those around him with Smirnoff double black and half digested pizza.

The resulting exit strategy and public transport fiasco isn’t worth going into, as I’m currently in legal talks with the festival organizers and the STA for 7 hours of my life that I would like back. No substance available could quell the repulsive failure stamped on this one.

The word “Future” means different things to different people – but I hope to god that this isn’t it.

Jack

EDITORS NOTE: You can check out the photos here.

However when you get an email offering the chance to be part of a landmark international art work and get naked with thousands of other like-minded freaks at the same time, there’s no way to say no.

So, tired beyond belief and shaking with excitement, we faffed our way to Circular Quay and were met by a line that stretched from the Opera House, all the way to the Ferry Wharfs. We were sandwiched between a group of young German girls, and some heavyset bear-types from the States.

We had no idea how many people were going to be there, as the only information I had received was “Be there by 4AM.” However we were both horrifically excited about the whole ordeal and we jittered our way down the line like school girls at a Shortstack gig. The anticipation of getting nude is always a favourite feeling of mine, though I rarely get to indulge in it (while Cookie, my companion on this mission, spends most of his weekends on Oxford Street in various states of undress).

I haven’t always enjoyed getting my gear off, even though I came from a fairly nude house (I’m uncertain if dad ever wore pants before 8:00am). As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until University that my nude side really blossomed. Whether it was the ballooning confidence [Cookie says: ego] that grew uncontrollably due to a sudden injection of sexual encounters, or if it was simply a series of spumante induced nudie runs… either way, I grew very fond of getting nude.

If you ask my girlfriend, she’ll tell you that she unleashed the nude within me – as I once tried to sleep next to her with jeans on. I tried to explain that I’m just a really edgy guy who liked to sleep with his jeans on (she saw through my ruse and demanded I get my kit off).

Whatever unlocked the exhibitionist inside me, I’m thankful for it; as some of my favourite (foggy) memories consist of either being nude, or partially clothed. Suffice to say that this morning’s event will stick out like winter nipples in the unclothed annals of my memory bank.

After signing up (and receiving an ego injection as we signed the ‘model’s release form’), the crowd was herded like sleepy cattle into different nooks of the Opera House forecourt. Volunteers informed us that we were now waiting for the sun to come up, so we found a spot to flop and tried to get comfortable, surveying what portion of the audience we could see from our spot by the water.

It was an amazingly mixed crowd, with dreadlocked Newtownians, unshaven creative looking types, pearl wearing mum and dad types… and a man who looked like Ahab from Moby Dick, who calmly puffed on a pipe and said nothing.

We did our best to meet and greet the folks around us, but it was 5 in the morning after Mardi Gras weekend; so conversational skills were fairly limited. We were introduced to our production manager, a heavy-set bearded biker with a megaphone, and instructed that we should probably use the bathrooms before the shoot begins.

I’ll skip the next hour or so, as most of it consisted of me waiting to use a toilet.

Come 7 or so, the sun lifted and Spencer gave the signal for the first group to start taking their kit off. There were thousands of people in the Botanic Gardens, who I did not see earlier due to the dark, and the crowd went insane as these pink figures in the distance stripped in a nude flurry and began to march in double file through the cheering masses.

It was absolutely amazing, the line of nudes resembled a naked army marching in unison, waving to a welcoming crowd… at this stage, my smile dominated the majority of my face.

Then it was our turn.

We didn’t hear any signal, but all of a sudden, people around us were ditching their threads and screaming in a happy cacophony of exhilaration. We followed suit and stuffed our belongings in the provided plastic bags. Getting my shoes off was a struggle as I battled with my excited hands.

This was my first time being nude around so many (as I assume was standard for most), and I found it hard to tell where I was supposed to look. It was similar to the urinal, or a change room at the gym; in that you just focused on keeping your eyes at eye level… and used your peripheral for looking at everyone’s naked bodies.

Suddenly, there were thousands of screaming nudes ascending the steps of the Opera house, clapping frantically and slapping their buttocks (which gives an amazing sound – like a wet clap). The whole thing was very tribal and I couldn’t decide where to look – or what to do – as the Opera House steps were painted with flesh.

It was an amazing display of all humans great and small, a veritable tableau vivant of naked race, exposed sexuality and stripped religion – not to mention every shape of Sydneysider. There were fat guys with thin penises, short women with long breasts, wide women with thin breasts and tiny men with massive cocks. As a matter of fact, I got so used to people looking at my penis that I inturn felt comfortable doing the same. It was equal parts odd and liberating.

I was not the biggest man in the crowd by neither belly nor ballsack, nor was I the smallest; which had me feeling quite comfortable in my chubby flesh suit. However, the large gay cohort present meant that there was an abnormal amount of prefectly sculpted men about; which was somewhat harrowing as I stood there with my shaky hands on my jiggly love handles.

There was also an abundance of strikingly designed middle aged women, who stuck out like beautiful beacons of hope in the mess of man meat. However, their amazing breasts and teetering legs lost all sexual prowess when thrown in the context of 5,200 naked people on the Opera House steps.

I really thought that I would feel awkward or self conscious, as my adolescent years were spent comparing my penis to the big dick supremacy of my well-hung-heroes such as Macho Vidal, Ron Jeremy and Lexington Steele.

I’m also uncircumcised, which gives you very little for comparison in mainstream pornography (though I should mention that Michaelangelo’s David was a childhood hero of mine). Though as the models marched out and my peripheral was consumed by nude, any qualms I had were lost in the overwhelming emotion of thousands of people getting together, smiling and laughing for shits and giggles; art and equality (and the fact that worrying about it made as much sense as obsessing about the comparative size of my eyebrows).

The shoot was a peaceful and playful experience, with Spencer taking us through several poses, including one lying down (where my position on the steps became a back-breaking issue). We laughed with the guys and girls next to us (one of which had flown from Melbourne just for the shoot), we all giggled at Spencer’s gags and shuddered at the icy winds as they blew from the ocean. We could hear the wind coming as it brushed against the people further up and caused gasps and squeals along the way; creating a Mexican wave of buttock-clenching and genital-flapping.

Once Spencer was happy with his shots, we all clapped, laughed and moved on to shoot number 2 – deep inside the sails, in the grand concert hall. Some 2000 of us had been given tickets to the next shoot, so we grabbed our clothes and walked through the Opera House. After a few hours in the cold, we were too chilly to keep our shirts off… but also too proud to put all of our clothes back on. This was a once in a lifetime chance to shuffle through the Opera House naked and I wasn’t going to miss out. So I made sure to keep my pants off and let my dick dance in the Opera House air.

On the way to our assigned seating, worried looking Opera House staff handed us plastic sheets to cover the velour seats, and we sat around in the concert hall admiring the naked audience in front of us – as we chatted with the strangers next to us. This part felt a little less tribal than the experience on the steps, with the rigid seats forcing conversation beyond our control. That said – it was beyond words… the feeling of sitting there, nude and happy, as though that’s the way people have always sat in that art deco hall.

Despite the tired subject matter, the shoot was a lot of fun. Spencer covered the stage in nude bodies, asked us to stand on the seats and drape ourselves across arm rests. However, as the saying goes; all good things must come to an end.

The pack up was a little disheartening, with the majority of the models racing to re-clothe and avoiding the talk that had been so prevalent only hours beforehand. However it’s worth noting that the time was now 9:15, and the crowd looked ridiculously ravaged from the previous 6 hours.

We went to a cafe afterward, and I saw the woman who sat next to me in the concert hall. She was now looking dull in an olive green polo, but I couldn’t stop looking at her – imagining her naked. I couldn’t help but feel a close connection to her, as if we’d shared some kind of intimacy as we went about proving – both to ourselves and the world at large – that we really are all exactly the same beneath our clothes.

Fuck I love this city.

Simon Hills-Johnes

I’m here crouched in front of my Macbook, with Neighbours feigning entertainment to my right… the poor performances and slice of life approach mock my own impoverished thoughts. However, I force the fake tears out of my computation and write my first submission to a magazine that (thankfully) inflicts a ravaging sliver of hope upon the weighing condition that is my “blessed” banishment.

I’m away from the torturous 6am walk home through King Cross, away from the scathing eyes of rental junkies offering me head at a discount price and dealers offering me the time of my life. Though the sickeningly sad truth is; after years away from Sydney, I long for the soft embrace of a looming dealer, or the jittery temptations of a terrified junkie.

I solemnly smile, my girlfriend/wife is sitting 78 centimeters away from me; completely content in her blinded vision of our perfect happiness… she must not know. My bastard son, which I might add I love more than myself, is sleeping silently… ignorant of how his father really feels, blissfully unaware of what life can really do to a man.

How did this happen? Well… bluntly – I didn’t wear a condom. Esoterically? Well that’s a concoction best saved for a fearful Freudian.
I’m sorry, but I won’t be dealing with this scenario right now, that requires me to dive in deeper than a Tuesday night of cheap wine will allow. I’m simply not prepared to pull out of this swirling abyss just yet… four more years anybody? Eighteen perhaps?

TV ads blaze in my left ear and raze my ambition, telling me to try a better dandruff solution, and my frantic fingers slow to a halt… I am hitting the end of a word purge. Like a Hemingway guppy swimming in a bowl-full of it’s own dissolution.

I look at my kid… my girlfriendbosswife and the dipping palm trees outside and I start to beg inside my head… Praying that I will one day be granted access back into the city of Sydney, hopefully with my kid in tow.

So while I figure out the next step, I’ll leave you Sydney readers with a piece of advice… Wear a condom – not matter what she says, wear a condom.

In Exile,
Maddox Heatley

However, the cock in question was far more proverbial than the usual phallus, and it came in the form of a competition.

The comp asked kids to explain “The gnarliest thing you’ve ever done on a treadmill.” Noticing a void of any word limit, this is how I saw OK GO for free:

On 16/02/10 1:33 PM, “Simon Hills-Johnes” wrote:

From: Simon Hills-Johnes
Date: 16 February 2010 13:33
Subject: OK GO
To: winstuff@oxfordartfactory.com

Hello There,

The gnarliest thing I’ve ever done a treadmill, is also the gnarliest thing I’ve ever done.
You see, between the Summer of ’73 and the Winter of ’84, I actually traveled around the world on a customised treadmill.

The treadmill in question was a ’73 model Sole, which I’m sure you’ll remember was not only the best treadmill on the market at the time, but it was also easy to customise and was therefore a huge success in the treadmill travel market. The brand was quite new to the market in the early 70′s, so the big wigs at Sole were keen to make a splash in the travel treadmill market by offering plenty of incredible additional parts for treadmill travel enthusiasts like myself.

My particular machine, was equipped not only with off road tyres and aircraft suspension (similar to a design used by Boeing in the late 60s), but I equipped my ‘Tread-rig’ (a term we enthusiasts coined to refer to severely customised treadmills) with a flotation system that allowed me to use my tread-rig for aquatic adventuring. On top of all this, I attached a series of self-defense options for traversing the more ‘rough-neck’ sections on the globe, where my safety would be an issue.

The route I took was the standard Americas, Europe, Africa route chosen by many treadmill travelers, only mine incorporated more sea travel (and may I say, you’ll never know true fear until you’ve navigated Cape Horn on a treadmill). Along the way I met several interesting characters, including (but not limited to) Fidel Castro, The Queen of England, The King of Malta and my wife. Yes, I met my wife on a treadmill somewhere around the Republic of Chile… she was working with the local Basques at the time, trying to sort out some of the self-determination issues that still resided in the Spanish Constitution of 1978.

All of this seems quite amazing in written form, but I assure you that I’m just your average guy. I have lived a wonderfully full life, filled with extreme highs and lows. Although I must say that since moving to Sydney in 2000 (I was originally here to compete in the Olympics – I’m an amazing wrestler), I have come across a great deal of problems when trying to find other travel treadmill enthusiasts.

So, if you could please assist me with some tickets to see the OK GO Treadmill show, I’m certain I could meet with some other, treadmill travel enthusiasts (I’d also love to hear about the band’s own travels on treadmills).

–
Kind Regards,
Simon Hills-Johnes

PS.
I planned to attach a photo of my rig, but most of my belongings were lost along with my wife and 9 children in a freak fire while we were working on the Gullfaks C offshore oil platform in the North Sea some time around the late 90′s. I can draw a rough sketch, though I assure you my skills are strictly limited to treadmill customisation and wrestling.

From: Zoh McEnally
Date: 17 February 2010 15:56
Subject: Re: OK GO
To: Simon Hills-Johnes

Hey Simon.
Obviously you’re the winner.
Your name will be on our guest list tomorrow night with a +1.

Cheers : )

———————————————————————————————-

A fabulous stranger, Sheree89, has informed me that tickets were only $40 each… this is still the most I’ve ever been paid for words (on a per word basis).

I offered to buy Zoh some organic fish head soup… but I’m yet to get a reply.

The band themselves were actually great, although I usually prefer my culturally significant pop culture references with a little less personality. I’d love to tell you all about it, but I’d much prefer to finish off the vinegary white wine that I found stewing away in the bottom drawer of my desk.

Ridiculously,
Simon Hills-Johnes

In the wake of what was another, amazing Sydney Festival; I have a special message for every Gen-Y Sydney Sider that crossed my path over the proceedings: “Fuck – you.”

You pretentious, arrogant, cultureless, uneducated bag of backward bogans! You are all responsible for fucking up just about every gig, film, show and sun-ray I attempted to enjoy over this year’s festival – and I have something special to say to each of you.

To the people who were swing dancing at Big Bad Voodoo Daddy,
For making my date give me that look like “Why don’t you dance like that?” – fuck you.

To the people who talked through Grizzly Bear,
You bandwagon hopping, scene swimming, Triple J stalking cum-stains. If you’re not into the band enough to shut the fuck up while they’re playing, then don’t come to the gig. Period. If you must be seen doing something cool, then grab your short-brimmed fedora, don your purple Cheap Mondays, then ride your fixed-gear-Deuce down to Side Plate and slit your wrists while downing your double ristretto.

To the members of Middle East who got sick,
Thank fuck you were too unwell to play that night. If you hadn’t pulled out; we all would have missed out on seeing Patrick Watson.

To the girls who got angry at me for pushing in during Patrick Watson,
I’m down with equality (so… fucking… down), but the next time you feel the urge to lecture me on proper crowd etiquette, understand that chivalry does not exist within 100 meters of a live band. And before you waggle your finger and squeal in my ear – know that I’ve back-handed men for less.

To the loud laughter at Six Characters Looking for an Author,
Yes, we all understand – you find stuff funny and you want us all to know it. However, have you ever stopped to think that the bits you’re laughing in, aren’t fucking funny? No one thinks you’re fucking intelligent just because you let out a 98db laugh at some minor witticism about existence. Secretly, we’re all thinking about how it would feel to grab you by the giggly neck and choke you ’til our knuckles cramp.

To the gossipers at the Spiegel Tent,
If I had things my way, each and every one of you would be water-boarded, slapped, fucked and burned; then posted on stakes along Hyde Park as a warning to other, potential gossip queens. I get to enjoy this ridiculous tent only a few days a year,  and my idea of good entertainment isn’t listening to the gaggle of you compete to see who was the biggest trash bag last night. I honestly hope you all get breast, cervix and tongue cancer.

To the boyfriend of the question asker who sat behind me at Oedipus Loves You,
Mate, instead of taking your girlfriend to another play, please consider taking her to community college.

To the short bloke at Breakestra who complained he couldn’t see,
I’m assuming that you didn’t get short over night, which means you’ve have quite some fucking time to come to grips with the fact that you are a short cunt. So please plan your evening so that you get a prime position. Ideally, somewhere the fuck away from me.

To the newbies on drugs at Becks Bar,
Every time I go drinking these days, I feel like an old sheepdog surrounded by tiny, tiny, terrier puppies. Just as I expect to be able to down a nice glass of red without being pestered by a sweaty eighteen year old wanting to play ‘Goon of Fortune’ I would love to be able to get high without being bugged and hugged by these newborn fuckwits who still have all their serotonin receptors left.

To the people who whinged about ‘Unprofessional Themes’ at Rogues Gallery,
You fucking retards. It was a pirate show featuring ex-drug addicts, sex-fiends and dried-out alcoholics; and you were expecting Andrew Lloyd Webber?

To the rest of Sydney (and the organisers),
What a brilliant year. See you at Tropfest.

All the best,
George Bannister

Cannibalism and Autocannabalism.
It was initially suggested to me by my esteemed editor that I could suggest a few techniques for isolating and consuming tasty parts of the self. Autocannabalism may be slightly more ethical than murdering acquaintances to make a roast dinner, even if the other person consents (like that guy in Germany). However, unless you are the world’s best and most limber vascular surgeon, I doubt it is possible to remove an organ, limb, muscle or even large section of one’s own skin without bleeding to death. Besides if Morrissey has taught us anything at all (besides how to be a hip miserable bastard) it’s that all meat is murder, so I say go crazy!

If the idea of autocannabalism (eating parts of yourself, not to be confused with endocannabalism, eating people from your community) appeals to you I would suggest going as fresh as possible. Take a few bites out of your forearms or small pieces of flesh from your thighs. If your immune system is ok you should be able to get a few grams of meat out of small wounds (not much bigger than a 20c piece and not delving into the muscle) and still be able to recover adequately. I should also specify that if the idea of autocannabliasm does appeal, you should probably seek psychiatric help.

Classic Cannibalism
What to Eat

Muscle, eat muscle! What we think of as ‘meat’, such as steak, is the larger muscles of animals. A well cooked piece of human muscle is no more likely to be contaminated with bacteria than a nice T-Bone. I’ve heard human tastes like pork.

As for cooking, following the traditional methods of preparation for any particular organ is probably a safe way to hop the train to flavour town. I.e. pate is made from the liver of a duck or goose and there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to do that with a human liver, as long as the subject of your salivatory intentions has a lot of fat in their liver (most Westerners do).

The same goes for ‘sweetbreads’ which is actually the thymus and pancreas. There’s no reason human endocrine glands could not be eaten the same way as that of a pig, although, eating organs that secrete gastric enzymes and immune cells (human or pig) strikes me as particularly disgusting.

What Not to Eat
Brains, Nervous Tissue and Spines.

Children, stay away from the nervous system. I cannot stress this enough. Firstly, I think these might be the three least appetising tissue types in the body, brains, nerves and spines being respectively gelatinous or tough and stringy like a cross between over cooked chicken and spaghetti. Secondly, eating the nervous system will kill you by making your own brain melt. That might sound a tad dramatic even for an article on eating your fellow humans but it is essentially true. Eating brains is a quick and simple way to become infected with a disease called Kuru (a cute name for a horribly debilitating neurological ailment also known as transmissible spongiform encephalopathy). We know this from studying cultures in which cannibalism was de rigueur;
take for example the Fore tribe of Eastern Papua New Guinea.

Mid twentieth century these guys were found to still be regularly indulging in delicacies of the homo sapien derivation, some try and clean this story up by claiming the Fore were would eat their own relatives after death (yeah right, murderous bastards).
The Kuru disease seemed mostly restricted to women and young people. This is because whilst the men took the delicious muscle tissue and fatty organs women and children were left to fend for themselves with nothing but the brain and spine for dinner. Hence, we can deduce that brain and spine were the mode of transmission.
Even more interesting is that the pathogen that causes Kuru has been found to be more than your average germ. Spongiform encephalopathy is actually a prion; a tiny protein molecule that (theoretically) gets into your brain and causes all the protein molecules that are already there to refold so they’re shaped like the prion (a.k.a Mad Cow Disease).
Basically, eat a brain and you’re gonna lose your shit. You’ll be a zombie, except with less motor skills than an actual zombie. No thanks. If somebody offers you a brain sandwich at a party kids just say no. Even if all your friends are doing it.

Hearts
If you’re going to eat hearts I wholeheartedly suggest you stick to children as your victims. There’d be no tougher dish than the cold black hearts of fat Western capitalist bastards. This works well as a metaphor but it’s true too! With the rates of heart disease in western society the cardiac muscle is likely to be hypertrophied (overdeveloped) and over pumping its way to a ticking infarct timebomb. Even athletes get this hypertrophic muscle tissue in their hearts. Go elsewhere.

To prepare heart I’d recommend a quick removal be severing the nearby vessels, Once you’ve removed the heart from the body you should be able to see slight ridges where the heart is divided in to its four chambers. Make sharp cuts along these ridges, divide the four chambers into small fillets and scrape out the endothelium (inner lining) before frying with some fat to tenderise. Make sure you cut out the valves too as these are likely to have an unpleasant texture.

Teeth, Eyes, Bones, Hair. Fingernails.
What are you, an idiot? I need to tell you not to eat these things?

I hope this introductory guide has been illuminating. However, if you’d like more detailed information about a specific delicacy please don’t hesitate to contact me. No Hannibal impersonators need apply.

Eliza Milliken

I am currently sick as a dog, my face is a leaking faucet of various fluids and my coughs feel as though my body is wrenching out my organs like kitchen hands do to dirty dish rags. I’ve spent this week suffering the late night mood swings of our dear friend El Nino, pissing down rain and baking my skin all day like a menopausal minotaur.

This swift change in climate, along with the constant, Monday to Friday hunt for a story, customarily ends with me, wrapped in a doona, sipping medicine vials of dessert wine and balancing my alcohol intake with coffee and crushed Demazin.

It’s currently a gorgeous day outside and I’ll probably take a bottle of wine and a canvas into the park, or top up the oil and take the Harley up the coast, perhaps both… but for now, I’m sitting on our floral couch, with a stained Shearer’s Singlet cutting into my arm pits, coughing like a dickhead and burning my naked thighs with my overworked apple mac.

I have real, paying work to do, but I find myself in a reflective puddle, foggy from the mixture of booze, flu pills and porn (I’m still a huge campaigner for excessive masturbation as the world’s greatest cure all), and this reflective mood has me wondering about the last twelve months of SINKing.

This fucking ‘magazine’ is already beginning to take it’s toll on my (and my business partners’) sweaty organs. We’ve had some great times, but I’m 25, overweight, unwell, stupidly in debt and I owe most of it to SINK.

It’s been almost a year since a few, young lads set about to print a magazine about underground Sydney, a year of mid-week booze houndery and failed, drug-drenched adventures – all in the name of stories that barely get written, as we rarely remember them.

We’ve collected roughly $1000 in fines; a giggle-worthy rap sheet of charges for speeding, parking, drinking and public urinating (as well as having one photographer arrested and hospitalised) – while losing roughly the same amount of money on web design, printing, booze, hookers, drugs and the constant repair costs of SINK headquarters (where the carpet is now a papier-mâché cocktail of broken glass, ash, powder and pinot).

Each of us has fallen behind in our current mode of professional purgatory, often spending countless company hours working on this speedball side-project. Personal relationships have also started to slide with dinners replaced with drinks, gifts exchanged for gigs and dates missed for deadlines. And as I sit here, overweight, overworked, unpaid and unwell – I have to ponder; what have we accomplished?

Our web stats have slowed, our advertisers have all run away (after requests from their lawyers, owners and investors) and our contributors seem to be avoiding us (after request from their doctors, bosses and spouses). On paper, it seems a tremendous failure, and only an idiot give us their money… no magazine, no image, no hope.

However, whether from the coffee or Demazin, I’m on the up… I know that regardless of the paper trail failure that this magazine has been so far, what we have now can’t be measured in dollars or stats. We have grown from three, drunken dreamers; to an odd-ball team of 12, magnificent strangers. All working for free, writing for the thrill of it and behaving like the arseholes we were designed to be.

SINK is now a small, tactical team of crack, creative militia; storming the streets of Sydney for no reason other than the desire to do immoral, impractical, illegal things – and write about them in wonderful ways. So I remain optimistic for 2010, if we live to see the end of next year who knows where we’ll be? Hopefully in tangible form, sitting on your laps, bookshelves and toilet floors; crumpled from over reading, pages missing from joint rolling and arse wiping.

We’ll start the newsletter in the coming months (you can sign up HERE), to keep you all in the know, and we’ve got a bank of stupid ideas stumbling through the pebble-crete corridors of our collective, hive mind to keep the stories coming… but what we need of you, dearest freaks, is for you to send us your stories.

Chasing insanity has left our wallets dry, our livers pickled and our personal lives in ruin… don’t worry though, we’ve still got a desire to damage, but we need your help.

We’ve given up giving out briefs, as we find them tantamount to receiving stories; we no longer talk about ‘assignments’ as we find them to be a content killer… but what we do want, is your adventures from deep inside the pockmarked guts of this sunny, summer city.

We don’t care what you did, we don’t care who you are; but if you had yourself a good night – we want to hear about it.

All my unwell,
George Bannister

…

Being told to ‘Keep walking champ.’ after trying to enter through the wrong gate, confirmed my excited suspicions we were to be seated firmly in the SCG yob section. And while it’s reputation stems from a cricket ground south of the border, the SCG’s very own Bay 13 was not to disappoint.

Situated behind deep backward square leg, the yob section was to mirror the on-field action before lunch. Steady but still warming up on the VB mid-strengths. Lunch set the scene for the afternoon as a bunch of young schoolgirls were subjected to the harsh (but fair) running commentaries from the best Bay 13 had to offer; during what was intended as a cute demonstration of young girls playing cricket.

The Yellow Shirts, in a desperate attempt at improving public perceptions, had dropped the ‘Security’ title and re-branded themselves as ‘Crowd Safety.’ Yet in a world where SCG management are rivaled only by the Taliban in compiling lists of things to prohibit, touchy/feely name changes were destined to do little to turn yob sympathies in the Yellow Shirts favour.

Such prohibited items include (but are not limited to):

No Mexican waves.
No Beach balls.
No throwing anything.
No Cup-snakes
No racial vilification or abuse of any kind, on the basis of race, religion, ethnicity, or skin colour.

ED: Cupsnakes are a tradition whereby yobs pile-up all of their empty cups and connect them. Story has it that he with the biggest snake is the biggest yob; and may take the wife of his choosing… or something like that.

The rules could fill a leather bound book with paragraphs and bi-laws. Constantly updated and exponentially expanding. My QC assures me however, that at the time of writing abusive critiques regarding players’ or punters’ haircuts, fashion, demeanor, mothers, girlfriends or political persuasions should not be grounds for incurring management’s disdain. Despite my excited inquiries, the current advice from my QC holds that the throwing of tantrums is ‘inadvisable.’

Several Mexican waves emanated from behind our 4th row seats, shooting out in both directions to the delight of yobs and snobs alike, before the Yellow Shirts singled out a scapegoat for removal. Unhappy with his situation, the scapegoat counted down a final wave as one last hurrah while being escorted away.

Yellow Shirts walked the beat attempting to confiscate cup-snakes in their infancy. Escorting from the yob section many a near complete snake, and somewhat bizarrely; a drinks-tray-stack (Ed: cheeky and inspired) that held massive potential. Knowing they had to some extent beaten the system, yobs held cup-snakes up with pride, resulting in acclaim and a shower of additional cups.

Beach balls bounced over the yob section as we got to know a bunch of yobs in front of us, not through a boring Q&A session, but through the unsung art of eavesdropping and blatant listening-in. Little time was required to suss their crew:

Karley had sometime previously banged Matt and was the one-time girlfriend of Bryce who she was “still rooting.” Against this backdrop, Karly had resolved to go to the cricket with Bryce and his yobbo mates. Lack of foresight having Karly and her tag-along friend seated somewhere removed from her yob crew. At one stage Karly offered 20 bucks, then a possible 50 to swap seats with my sister and I.

My sister was at first inclined to take up the offer. But Karly was a mole, acting high class in demeanor and style, squeezing an educated accent through her Dubbo mouth – and we were comfortable where we were.
Karly did herself few favours, getting drunker, more annoying and paying out on the boys in their own environment. To which the inevitable followed:

‘If we’re all so shit Karly why did you fuck half the boys? You even did me twice!’ – Matt

‘No! I Slept with you once and gave you head once!’ – Karly
‘Ok, put your hand up if you’ve had your cum in Karly’s mouth. She ain‘t aging well either.’ – Matt
‘I might be getting older but your dick ain’t getting any bigger Matt’ – Karly

Feeling slightly dejected and in need of validation, Karly staggered down to chat up Constable Klein sitting down the front:

‘So where are you from?’ – Karly
‘Oh shit Karly that’s original!’ – Johnno
‘Karly! What’s takin ya so long? Just get on ya back and wet up!’ – Matt

After protracted heckling Karly abandoned her police pursuit and was then ordered to the bar. Upon being asked to pass her wallet, Bryce threw her fancy Oroton purse over the rail in Klein’s general direction.
‘Constable Klein! Karly threw that there cos she wants ya cock!’ – Johnno
Unfortunately for Bryce The fancy purse landed on Senior Constable Care who jumped the fence to demand answers from Karly, amid shouts from the punters to press charges.

Things lost clarity sometime after tea, but I’ll leave the last word to my little sister…

Following the departure of Bryce’s crew, we wished Karly good luck as she scurried after the boys in a ditzy, drunken stupor… flailing her arms about as my sister regally remarked: ‘Well she’s getting plenty of cock tonight.’

There was also a cricket match.

M. Radcliffe