About to lose yourself to a novel idea? I am familiar with the life-sucking horror of committing to write a book which then takes over your life and your body.
I so enjoyed the experience of skiving off out of what felt like a mandated imposition that I vowed never to watch another one again.
In this mystery of Scooby-Doo proportions, the least likely suspect had thrown me off the scent.
This isn’t to write in defence of some numpty who thought buggering up London’s mass transit system was the first step to ecological salvation.
You never hear about greedy landlords gouging start-up businesses for everything they can get.
Time has run out for that ominous butler voice at the end of the phone.
Leena van Deventer’s Twitter thread on Australian cities as house party guests you never want to meet is both perfect, and begging to be stolen.
By the afternoon I had that giddy, head-spinning pleasure, and would shortly regret it.
Not changing your underpants happens to all sorts of fellows. Astronauts. Polar explorers. The bloke who doesn't feel like walking to the cupboard.
There are young people now, probably on my lawn, who have grown to their majority never knowing the joy of a real chip.
When politicians such as Queensland Opposition Leader Deb Frecklington say they will 'consider' something, this is what they really mean.
Last week I bought 50 kilos of dried dog food instead of real groceries because the frequent flyer points on the dog food were, like, three times better than on human food.
I left my AirPods behind. Two days of book signings in Melbourne and nothing but my own thoughts as I walked from one store to the next. It was Hell, until it wasn't.
You knew nothing, Jon Snow. We did, however, but we did nothing.
A retort to the writer of American Psycho.
Yesterday, I received a scarifying voice mail generated by computers. It began: “This is the Australian Taxation Department.”
Will Connolly is an unlikely hero. Armed only with a phone cam, a googy egg and unfathomable depths of innocent courage, he may have saved us from ourselves.
BREAKING NEWS: Muffin Broke has filed for bankruptcy following the failure of a radical scheme to give away all of its muffins, prompting a furious backlash.
No, not that sort of bucket. This other bucket came later, after marriage and children and the decline in my readily available funds.
Heaven forfend that we should ever find ourselves thronged and overrun by some emboldened harpy with pocket room to spare.
You didn’t just read Andrew's debut novel, Praise. It read you. Opened you up and turned you inside out, spilling all your secrets.
You're not about to wake up working for an orange horror clown in America. I’m thinking more about the disappearance of reliable, full-time jobs and careers.
I look at the rapidly diminishing number of days before Christmas and I know it’s a mathematical impossibility to get it all done.
She is an old dog, this labrador of mine, cloudy of eye and infirm of gait but her glorious explosion of ill-advised energy was magnificent.
The electric-scooter backlash has started but I look forward to a new Golden Age of YouTube videos of old ladies being skittled like bowling pins.
The PM hadn’t officially launched his bus tour of Queensland when my old treadmill disappeared. But then a grey-haired, slightly portly bloke pulled up.
I admit, I'd forgotten how it felt to be hooked on a page-turner - as in, turning paper pages of an actual book.
Put yourself in a woman’s place. In a car park at night. An elevator alone. On a dark street. In a bar.
Old-fashioned phone calls have been so weaponised — not just by scammers but also by slightly less dodgy operators cold-calling for charities, businesses and survey companies — that it feels like answering any unknown number is an invitation to a shakedown.
The angry hamburger dude from Grill’d is threatening to unleash the hounds on obesity researchers who lumped him in “with a bunch of fast-food outlets”.