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”.
It used to be that you ran away to Sydney. Now people run away from it - and if we're not careful, Brisbane will suffer the same fate.
I spent my best worst ever Christmas here in Brisbane, with my brother, in a share house up on Stuartholme Road. The house was OK and my brother was cool. None of the other flatmates were criminally insane. It should have been a reasonable time.
His show was a monster, so Nine loved him. Producers at the network, not so much.
Of course we went through this whole rotten campaign because Malcolm Turnbull was too weak to stand up to the bigoted weirdos in his own party.
The grotesque and abysmal scenes playing out in our abandoned concentration camp on Manus Island would seem to meet many of the criteria for a successful prosecution at the International Criminal Court.
Call a waaaaaambulance. Somebody's feels have suffered a terrible hurty-boo-boo.
Juding by some of the early anti-SSM propaganda, things are going to get fugly. Abbott is totally the man for the job.
He loves the people of the land, even as he seems to struggle with the idea that anybody who has not stepped out of a Steele Rudd novel could even be Australian.
As on pretty much everything, Tony Abbott would be wrong on same-sex marriage, but he would be wrong with sincere conviction.
It seems odd that the story of the undocumented grant to Foxtel is going to recede into the fog of winter.
By the time you read this I will have manflu.
If giant manbabies are crying for the waaaaamblance then all is good with the world. And yesterday they cried a river.
I'm guessing the workers at the brewery no longer get a freebie six-pack at the end of a shift.
I've inhaled the double cheeseburger at Miss Kay's, gotta Getta Burger, breakfasted on Ben's, and been to 5 Boroughs in both boroughs.
He was born to the working class in a time when that meant knowing your place and never rising above it. He rose above it.
So, I made a mistake. You could even say I was wr… wro… less right than usual.
He speaks, or rather walks and carefully minds what's left of his beer, for all of us who are pretty much over this.
This is what failure looks like. Men coughing their lungs out in dark, viscous blots of toxic meat rot.
The last time I watched a new series of Twin Peaks I lived in a share house in Darlinghurst.