‘The thing is,’ says Oscar, draining his coffee, ‘is that the British one pound coin is very thick, and around the edge it has something written in Latin.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Or Welsh.’ He orders another latte. ‘One of those two. Which is the one with lots of “w”s?’

Let’s get this straight: Telstra came to me. I did not go to Telstra.

I was simply minding my own business when a cheerful Telstra representative gave me a courtesy call informing me that my mobile phone contract was up for renewal.

“Would you like a new phone? Look! Shiny-shiny!”, he said, trying to lure me into another two year contract.

So, everyone familiar with the Tribune will notice that we are now printing in colour. Doesn’t it look lovely? Notice the colour artwork people, appreciate it, maybe even sniff it a little bit, all that colour is made of blood, tears and cussing.

I have recently come to the conclusion that having too many options can be a bad thing.

As I sit here, a blustery and rainy Melbourne day thrashing about outside, I am pondering the myriad possibilities available to me, and to my nearest and dearest.

Well we survived the Christmas dinner with my appalling in-laws. Just after we’d finished making jokes about how much fun it was going to be doing it next year with my appalling family, we started packing.

Every year we celebrate the proud tradition of stuffing too much shit in the car, then screaming at the kids for two hours so we can enjoy screaming at them for a week in the holiday house, and at the beach, and in the supermarket, and in the take-away places that have new ownership since last Christmas holidays and therefore will let us in.

As I was writing my hastily constructed diatribe on Snowtown on the night of last months deadline, three things occurred to me. Firstly, the best writing you ever do is unlikely to coincide with the shortest amount of time you’ve ever given yourself to finish it.

As a self confessed car enthusiast I try to get my hands on all sorts of car based literature, the better to keep up with recent vehicular releases. As such, amongst other publications, I always buy the Friday Herald-Sun for its Cars Guide. I like the Cars Guide editor, Paul Gover. I’ve never actually met the man, but he writes from his motorist soul and usually makes a great deal of sense. I don’t agree with everything he’s written but I’m sure that doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

Christmas Day, 5am: Thundering feet in the hallway. Whoever coined the phrase “pitter patter of little feet” clearly never met any children. Two huge heavy shapes land on the bed and stomp on stomach and testicles of sleeping husband. Giggles and whispers (whispers??!) “mum, dad, wake up it’s Christmas”.

Huddle down under doona and make fervent atheist prayer that it will all go away. Muffled screaming from husband.

Snowtown

By the time you read this my beautiful wife and I will either have, or be very close to having, our very own small person. So, understanding the possibility that there may be a subsequent reduction in the amount of time available to drop everything and go on holiday, we decided over summer to, well, drop everything and go on holiday.

3:47am: Sit bolt upright in bed groping around for bellows. Stare around darkened bedroom trying to work out why am not using bellows to inflate the bean bag that Hilary Clinton was angrily demanding that I fix for her before the roaring lemurs attack.

3:49: Lie back down and worry slightly about subconscious self. Listen to roaring noise of husband snoring.

4:03: Nudge husband gently. Listen to husband grunt and resume stentorian snoring.

4:10: Kick husband viciously on shins. Rub throbbing foot, listen to husband grunt and resume stentorian snoring.

Assorted Idiocy from court and the street, showing you just how hard our justice system works to protect us from the deeply stupid.

The idea for the idiot issue was, in part, inspired by this story. It is a true story, with almost no poetic licence in the retelling (well, not much anyway).

Most of my friends did the usual flee the country thing in their early 20s. Some were scattered around the world in various exotic locations, but the rest of us joined the Aussie horde in Earls Court, and staunchly did our bit to confirm the long suffering Londoners view of Australians as a bunch of loud, uncouth, but difficult to offend drunkards.

This should actually be Village Idiots, rather than the singular form, as I’m going to make reference to a group of people who have proven themselves to be no more than a collective of Village Idiots.

As I’ve mentioned in the past I currently work in hospitality, and it does mean at times I have to take deep breaths and suck it up when confronted by an acutely moronic customer. I wish I could say that these times are rare.

Can a sane, normal and slightly self-righteous man (well only when I have an opinion or my mouth is open) pass judgment on whether one is a Village Idiot or not?

I would argue an emphatic “yes”, if he has known one or two, or has been one himself once or twice.

I fit both these criteria.

Or: How I came to be locked in a room with four dead credit cards, a shivering bank manager, a supercilious Sandra Sullyesque bitchcow, a terror inducing telephone and a lot of shouting.

I get paid monthly, which means I have one fabulous week each month, and then I live off my credit card for the next three weeks. Which is fine, as long as the bill gets paid (which it does) and the bank doesn’t decide to fuck me over, just for fun (which they did).

Sometimes, and I do mean sometimes, I work pretty hard. In fact, there have been weeks where I reckon I’ve nearly earned some of my paycheck. So it is with much dismay that I note each week the substantial portion of my yieldings that have been withdrawn by the Government.

I know there is an argument that certain things need to be provided by the Government. Real important things too, like 2020 summits, VIP jets and Julia Gillard’s hair stylist, and that these important things need to be paid for out of revenue the Government makes.

In the short year that the Tribune has been in publication it has, as is well known, risen to become a beacon of informed debate and social comment. In this vein our beloved editors have thrown down the gauntlet to write on the subject of drinking. How does one respond? As a budding writer who has only really recently discovered the joy of the craft through this publication, I feel the weight of expectation to analyse such a multi-faceted issue in a way that both captivates and challenges the reader. In doing so, I hope to catalyse a higher level of thinking on such an important issue within the community.

I’m writing here to prove to you just how much fun you can have without alcohol.

First up: Coke

It was a sunny Friday lunch-time, I’m all the way in Torquay without my parents, at my last day of my school camp, “borrowing” Coke cans for the 2-hour trip back home.

Does this mean that public servants validate my very existence? God. Time for another drink.

Several years ago, when lovelyhusband and I leapt gaily into cohabitation we managed to kick it off, very cleverly, on the last day of the financial year. So I rang Centrelink to say I was finally off their books (15 minutes on hold, then “Ok, that’s grand but could you please fill in the 300 page form that says you don’t want us to give you money anymore and get it in to us before yesterday or we will continue to give you money no matter how often you tell us not to and then, after six months, we will be horrified to learn that you were extorting money out of us when you deserve NOTHING and promptly fine you a squillion and 3 dollars at 15% interest and report you to Today Tonight. OkThanksBye”).

Learn from your mistakes. We all do it, from a very young age. This is why young humans are so short; they can fall over a lot without hurting themselves too badly, and eventually learn not to fall over at all.

Don’t eat the yellow snow. Don’t lick frost on ski-lifts. Be polite to the crazy man with the gun (well maybe that one doesn’t really afford you the opportunity to learn, but you get the point by now, surely).

Pretty early on in my career, I learnt that it’s not a good idea to leave yourself logged onto a computer in a common area of the office. I learnt this when a particularly grumpy, in fact downright fucking scary, manager called me into his office.

I used to drive all the time. I would take the car to work even when I lived only five minutes’ walk from the office using the ‘I might need the car during the day’ justification, regardless of the fact that I had use of the company car.

Regardless of my previous driving history I am also a lazy driver. I own an automatic car. No need for pesky gear changes in heavy traffic when the engine is programmed to do it for you.

In keeping with the Digital Age, we lifted Luke’s article for this month off his honeymoon/travel blog, where we can all see the photos of him and his lovely bride, read about their travels, reassure ourselves that they are safe and send them messages.

The internet is a wonderful thing. Not just when you need to find out how to remove the smell of cat pee from your favourite Italian shoes, or the best way to tell the world how much you hate the incontinent beast your husband insists on keeping as a pet, but also when you have discovered an new psychological disorder and need to find a name for it.

"Parcopresis can be described as: An inability to defecate when other people are perceived or likely to be around (e.g. in the same public toilet, the same house or the same building).”

3am. Our house. A few weeks ago.

Me: Justin! Stop bloody snoring! {insert viciously sharpened elbow into ribs of lovelyhusband}

Justin: Huh? That’s really funny. The police-shaped miniature Chrysler ashtray I bought at the shopping centre isn’t working anymore.

The children were screaming. The girls were hysterical with laughter, the boy was letting out howls of horror that came from the depths of his soul. This is not right, we thought, it’s usually maniacal laughing from the boy and heart-rending sobs from at least one of the girls…

As regular readers of this epistle may know, we have several pets. Sadly, the suicidal fish finally managed to put an end to its existence last month and was buried in the garden - for a while anyway. Until the dogs dugs it up and left it by the back door in case someone wanted a tasty treat during the night.

There’s an art to the spitball. It must be aerodynamic, and shaped to suit your particular pen tube. It must be firm enough to fly true, but moist and squishy enough to induce disgust when it finds its target. Entire geography lessons went unheeded as we unleashed volley after volley at each other, and the floor was thick with the disgusting things.

Very very annoying morning. Husband, children, self and dogs all pounding around house, anxiously searching for shoes.

Finally piled everyone in car and clanked off to start day.

Angry yelling from back seat distracts self from soothing redecorating fantasies.

Men who changed the World.

Not as might first be perceived, a piece on Saturday night, under lights, equine sulky pulling, but a deeper more primeval delving into the workings and history of sanitation devices.

The John, its origins and uses.

I suppose over the years I have had the full range of Yah Yahs ( that curious Oriental institution which in Western cultures has been called variously, Char Woman, Lady Wot Does, or just Mrs Mop, but is a person of much greater charm and influence than the title conjures).

Many moons ago I heard the call to serve my country. As it turns out, at that time, the country needed someone to lug heavy shit around the bush and stand around in the sun. So I joined the Army.

I went away for a few months recently, working in South Australia.

Where, on my one day off per week, I missed terribly my weekly fix of Charcoaled Chook, (leg portion with stuffing chucked in), small serve of crispy golden brown chips, small creamy potato salad, small tub of taboulie and a small tub of mayonnaise laden coleslaw…if Jesus had been real, I’m sure he would have had the Family Combo with his groupies at the Last supper…

Or, more appropriately, how to live with a woman who is living with PMS

On the fourth Thursday of every month there is a good chance you will see Justin sitting at the King, looking alone and scared. If you see him thusly, stop, buy him a beer and maybe give him a hug. He needs it. His wife has just turned into a homicidal/suicidal harridan and chased him out of his own house.

T’was the night before co-habitation and all through the house not a creature was stirring…except for the crazy lady trying to run in circles around the lounge room but unable to do so because of the falling over all the boxes on the floor.

Due to the vagaries of divorce and shared care of children, we have ended up with a regular child-free Monday night.

While this is all very nice, it’s not always terribly convenient if you need some time to recover from an overly convivial evening.

Some Tuesdays we may be a little tired but vastly cheered after a calm and romantic evening alone.

Other Tuesdays are not so good…

As many of the loyal drinkers around Elwood’s finest ‘Booze and Talk Crappery’ (aka The King of Tonga) will know, my lovely and I are betrothed to be married in a few short months.

Yeah, I know thanks. So I thought I’d share a bit of a strange happening that we passed recently on the road to wedded bliss.

First, let me make a confession.

I have not, before now, written for a newspaper. As you read on, this will become clear and it will highlight one of the significant shortcomings in my abilities, that until now, has precluded me from doing so. That being the ability to write well.

When lovelywife and I met, we were in our mid-thirties with a fair bit of living behind us and three kids between us already messing up the lounge room and our social lives.

Once we decided to stake our claim on each other, we had to look at options.

A child of our own has been relegated to that store of “what ifs” that lurk in everybody’s mind.

How do you get my husband, my mother and pornography in the one story? More easily than you might think.....

Creatively Doing Nothing With Flair and Aplomb (with credit to Miranda V and Darryn S)

I had an email conversation with a friend of mine the other day (when both of us should probably have been doing something else, like say, work) about pom poms.

Thou Shalt Burp on a Dairy Farm Instead

My temporary Australian visa has just turned one. I have learnt many things in this year, such as, do not go into a shop named Dotti, Neighbours is the worst show on TV, definitely go to see independent Aussie bands, jogging on the beach isn’t what it looks like on Baywatch, and thou shalt not drink soy milk.

Federal Election Day 2007 was an exciting time for me as it felt like the first real opportunity to remove the little weasel that had been a bane of my existence for over a decade from government.

As most parents of sons will know, it is often only during the drive to and from school that you can get any decent conversation out of pre-adolescent boys.

Most other conversations revolve around the provision of food and managing the complaints department (WHY can’t we have chocolate biscuits for breakfast, WHY are girls so stupid, WHY can’t I drive the car, WHY do I have to go to bed, WHY can’t the puppies sleep in my room, WHY do I have to have sisters anyway, etc etc…).

I used to make fun of people with little dogs. It was a sport of mine, to pick on those members of society who were clearly unable to choose a socially acceptable pet.