Written in 2017 and republished with minor edits in 2024. The charming sentence that titles this piece first came to my attention in the sunny year of ’06, when satirical comedy group The Chaser took to the streets of Texas and convinced far too many people that ABC comedian Julian Morrow was the Prime Minister…
This is why.
When Barnaby Joyce got up on his pixellated pulpit last week and started preaching about how social media is about to get its long-overdue day of reckoning, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by a steely bolt of rage.
“My daughter is but one victim of malicious online lies: it’s time the…
Where to look when things feel dire
When my grandfather was a punky British 14-year-old in 1944, he would stand at his bedroom window watching the bombs fall on London from a (reasonable) distance while his mother and little sisters huddled beneath their kitchen table. When I talk to him on the rusty landline 70…
Jason*, our Hugh-Grant-lookalike Airbnb host, was prone to wild sporadic fits of weeping. It was the kind of animal uncontrollable wailing that you often hear in new wave Indie films or in a final year art student’s all-immersive video installation piece.
Raw, carnal and generally pretty distressing.
We would find out later why. And the…
I am sobbing as surreptitiously as I can in a scungy Indonesian bathroom, clutching two strawberry daiquiris bigger than my head. My cleavage is blistering beneath someone else’s Bintang and outside, Rihanna is shrieking at some fleshy Western youths to “WOOOOORK!” as they jump frantically under orange strobes.
I want to stab myself in the…