Update On The Twat Of The Year Award

I decided not to go with the arrogant approach with the new mag. I called and was very polite (obviously) and the ed was very nice and it appears that I will get the column as well as commissioned arts writing, reviews, interviews etc. Yay me! Yay them! Yay being nice! It's all still got to happen, of course, but this is very good news.

And the new new editor of the mag in Queensland I write a column for wrote this morning to say they really like my Grumpy column and can I send a few extras to cover while I'm away. And this guy has asked me to write a story for the mag he works for. Fuck, man, I just feel so loved.

All positive vibes, much needed too. Below is my most recent column for the mag I'm about to leave. I've not been overly confident of late.


Well gang – in a few short weeks I’ll be traipsing (vaguely) down the 3D stairwell for the last time. For a job I scored by accident, it’s been three and a half years of more fun than I thought I could have at a desk. Funny thing is, when I tell people I’m leaving the first thing they invariably ask is “Why?” I don’t know, I tell them, it’s just time; life is bendy and I have to check out what’s around the corner. The second thing they ask is, “What are you going to do?” I’m going to pray that the god of freelance writing smiles favourably upon me. The third thing they say – without fail – is, “Don’t worry – something will turn up.” Really? Really? How do they know this? I really wanna know where this unshakable optimism comes from, because I want some of it. I want a lot of it now. Being the sorry sack of neuroses that I am at the moment, I’m not at all sure something will turn up. I’m wracked with self-doubt because I don’t know what it is that I do. Do you know how lame that sounds? Flash bar, spunky chick: “So what is it you do, Grumpy?” “Erm, I’m not really sure.” Right now I’m so apprehensive about the future I feel like Woody Allen trapped in the body of, I dunno, Hugh Jackman? Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration... I’m not quite as neurotic as Woody Allen. Nevertheless. I gaze into my crystal ball and I see windscreen washer guy. I’ve replaced lying in bed at night clutching the sheets with white knuckles, staring wide-eyed into the darkness and thinking, “Oh God we’re all going to die” with lying in bed at night clutching the sheets with white knuckles, staring wide-eyed into the darkness and thinking “I don’t know what I do.” Right now, that great Ozzie sentiment, “She’ll be right” never sounded more ridiculous. Will she? How do they know she’ll be right? What if she’s not right? What if they’re wrong? What if I relax my grip on my sheets and stop being so bug-eyed because I think she’ll be right, and she just isn’t?

Still, I’ve never really done the blind optimism thing before. Maybe I should kick my inner Woody Allen in the arse and tell him to fuck off. Maybe, after all, she will be right. Maybe something actually will turn up.

And if not, maybe I’ll see you at the local intersection. “Need your window cleaned?”

Grumpy