Friday, 4 October 2013


So I made it.
I attended.
And I got out unscathed.
I actually had a really great time.
And the best bit of all, nobody recognised me.
That I was unrecognisable was apparent from the get go.
In case you need reminding, I'm talking about my reunion.
My school reunion.
My 25 year school reunion.
Class of 1988.
Yup, that's right.
I am not the footloose, fancy free young man some of you may have been imagining me to be. 
I am a 42 year old who really needs to stop behaving a like a skank.
Or less like a skank.
And who really did not want to be perceived for what he is at a gathering of approximately 80 of the 200 men with whom I went to school.
I knew that the first thing that had to be right was the outfit.
And it was, lemme tell you.
I was a touch more formal than the other guys.
To be expected.
But I was definitely the best dressed.
Well, duh.
Emporio Armani grey on grey jacket over Vivienne Westwood finely checked black and white button down shirt, with signature three buttoned high collar.
Navy blue Herringbone pocket square.
Scotch & Soda dirty blue chinos.
Zegna belt.
And my favourites, my Dolce & Gabbana loafers.
Now I had selected this outfit the minute I'd received the invitation.
Knowing full well that at that time I could not do up either the shirt or the trousers.
But I made it.
I fitted.
Into both of them.
The chinos are a size 30.
Fucking size 30.
And there was even room for a finger to slide under the waistband.
The whole look was a little more restrained than my usual thing, but you know, I think it's given me a new fashion direction.
I even held back on the pocket square, opting for the traditional fold, rather than my usual flamboyant flourish. 
Which seemed in the context of this ensemble to resemble an origami Sydney Opera House.
the ensemble, however, did seem to garner the exact right response.
"You look very smart".
Which is as much as you can expect from a middle aged straight man.
This of course came after the puzzled look they all gave me, the subsequent glance at the name tag, and then the wave of recognition as they reconciled the current me with the version they remembered.
Which was followed by; "How the hell are you? I didn't recognise you. You look great!"
I could stop there, because basically that's all that I wanted.
But I do feel the need to reiterate what a great time I had.
I was genuinely impressed by what nice men those arseholes had turned into.
The widespread homophobia that I had experienced as a teenager in the 1980s, which was still fairly evident the last time I'd seen them en masse, seemed not only to have dissipated, but indeed had disappeared completely.
Not that there were gays-a-plenty, for I think all poofters who came of age last century would still be exorcising at least some demons.
But there were more of us than last time, and we definitely felt more welcome.
In fact there was one who was quite unexpected, who made me feel very welcome indeed....
But I can't tell you about that now, as I'm about to dash down to the foreshore to try and catch a glimpse of Prince Harry...

Tuesday, 24 September 2013


In case you're worried, that was not me you saw on Border Patrol.
And consequently, no that wasn't me being photographed leaving the courts with a jumper over my head.
That drug haul we saw on the news had nothing to do with me.
Although, as an aside, I do always experience some slight panic when I see those stories.
Especially in the weeks leading up to any major event.
Hope it's not someone I know.
How are we gonna have fun at that party?
The drugs will be extra expensive.
And probably shit.
But I digress.
Pills arrived.
Bringing no conviction with them.
Other than that they would make me thin.
It was 4 weeks out when they did.
So despite my anxiety that they'd never get here, once they did I had confidence in their powers.
Although not quite enough confidence to stick to the recommended dosage.
During the first week I didn't sleep for three days.
And I couldn't be very far from a lavatory for more than an hour at a time.
I had the shits and the shakes so badly one Tuesday that I had to take day off work.
But it seemed to be doing the trick.
Combined, of course, with the gruelling whip-cracking of @hot_trainer.
And my favourite signature exercise - a cycle class.
I love that I can go into a darkened room first thing in the morning and basically dance for 45 minutes.
Sure I'm on peddles.
But if the music is right it takes me back to Arq at 5am.
About 10 years ago.
Although I'm not worried about what I'm wearing.
Or trying to pick up.
Or running the risk of a possible overdose.
And I don't have to talk to anybody.
Or buy a drink.
Although I do maintain two memberships in order to indulge this reminiscence.
For the zhuzzhi P.E. Dept of which I am so fond does not offer the spin classes I thrive on.
And Fitness First does not offer me the wanker-free zone I need to work out confidently.
So I pay $98 per month for this indulgence.
And of late I've clearly been getting my money's worth.
At least 3 days a week to both of them.
If I pro-rata it, it's a little over $4 per visit.
It's how I rationalise my fashion purchases.
That $600 cashmere sweater was worn at least 3 times a week for the whole of winter.
(Even if only for a few hours at a time).
If I reduce that to what I call Dollar Per Wear, it's $15.22 a pop.
Practically free.
Same with my gym membership. 
Although it has all dropped off a little.
Since The Big Event.
Remember, that thing that inspired it all.
The. School. Reunion.
It's been.
The date has passed.
And I attended.
Although not without reservation.
For, as I think I may have suggested, I did have to steel myself.
But I attended.
And do you think this all paid off?
Do you think I was unrecognisable?
Was I Victoria Beckham?
Did I invent Post-Its?
And what's that pic about?
It's just there because he's beautiful, and I couldn't think of anything else.

Saturday, 21 September 2013


Despite the great efforts and quite considerable talents of @hot_trainer I felt I was too far gone to rely on the age old remedy of reduced food intake and increased exercise.
If I was going to fulfil my ambition of being completely unrecognisable I was gonna have to pull out the big guns. 
No, not steroids.
Not that I am completely opposed to steroid use per se.
I mean, sometimes, it's all about whatever it takes.
But I am resistant to the idea of being all veiny and purplish.
I am also not too keen to test the theory that they shrink your penis.
Nor that they accelerate the ageing process.
I'm doing that perfectly well on my own, thank you.
Accelerating the aging process, that is.
Penis is fine.
Not ideal.
But more than adequate.
No I am talking about 'supplements'.
Discovered through targeted Facebook marketing.
And purchased online.
Apparently it's the secret to Hugh Jackman's physique.
I'd been wondering about that.
And all those before and after shots can't be faked.
I mean, they're definitely the same person... right?
They couldn't get away with that, surely?
Surely these marketeers wouldn't be so shameless as to prey on the vulnerability of consumers with a lifelong struggle with weight and self-image?
How this is discernible through my online life and social media I have no idea, but  given that they pop up on my feed all the time, alongside banners asking me if I want to meet singles in my area, then either Athena Starwoman is running the internet from beyond the grave, or else I need to track my history and look at what that says about me and my life.
It's a bit like your credit card bill and bank statement isn't it?
So often in crime fiction or police tele-dramas, investigators seem to glean so much from the bank accounts of the dead person.
What the fuck would they think of mine if I was suddenly found murdered?
What does my consuming say about me?

Potts Point Liquor
Soleil Tanning
Becker Minty
P.E. Dept
Potts Point Liquor
Soleil Tanning
David Jones Food Hall
Potts Point Liquor
Face of Man Grooming Salon
Hugo Boss
Fitness First
Soleil Tanning
Potts Point Liquor

And of course now recent statement includes 2 transactions from CleanHealthNutrition.
One for $144.37.
The other for $144.53.
So when you see similar ads pop up on your own feed and think 'does anybody really buy from ads like this?' the answer is yes.
Yes, they do.
Well, I do anyway.
I purchased both at the same time.
One for stripping fat.
The other for building lean muscle mass.
Both promising that I would not need to do adjust my diet, exercise regime or lifestyle.
And I have taken them at their word.
Which I possibly shouldn't have, considering the muscle building pills arrived well before the fat strippers.
Based on a testimonial I was relying on losing 9 kg in 30 days.
And that all important deadline was drawing near.
And I was becoming fearful that somehow the fat stripping tablets were held up at Customs.
Their ingredients, despite, being available without prescription, were a banned substance in Australia.
According to the tracking number the package was in Australia.
I emailed the supplier requesting an update.
No response.
Guaranteed to undermine the confidence of any online shopper.
I researched the ingredients.
Sketchy information.
Was I gonna end up on Border Patrol?
Am I Schapelle Corby?

Monday, 2 September 2013


Time to call @hot_trainer
Although I had to steel myself even for that.
I felt somewhat ashamed that I'd let myself go so badly.
He and I had worked so damn hard last year to get me #thinforbali.
And I'd thrown it all away!
And for what? I ask you.
Who the fuck would know. 
I shared with him that things had gotten pretty bad.
"How bad?"
"So bad that you're not allowed to take my measurements or any 'before' shots".
"That bad, huh?"
"Are we working towards a specific event?"
He knows me so well.
I explained what it was.
And how long we had.
He emitted a long low whistle.
Which I said I found discouraging.
"I am not completely beyond hope, you know!!"
"So what do you want to achieve by then?"
"I want to be so thin that when I walk in they'll all gasp and say: Oh my God, is that Victoria Beckham?' "

He roared.
"I'm not joking".
"You're a bit too hairy for that", he joked.
"Well, if that's the only obstacle you see then it shouldn't be too difficult."

Sunday, 1 September 2013


So that was the last time I'd seen any of them.
Skulking away from my alma mater, having been busted doing coke in the toilets.
And now I was three months away from seeing them all again.
And I was the size of a house.
Yo-yo dieting.
Am I the Elvis Presley of my year?
The Christina Onassis?
If only I was that rich and glamorous.
I'm just a fat fuck who used to have a drug problem.
I'd be happy with being the Lindsay Lohan.
At least she's thin.

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Saturday, 31 August 2013


So the school reunion is drawing near.
In fact it's next weekend.
The night of Election Day.
Oh Joy.
A bunch of 40+, presumably overweight, presumably successful men who haven't seen each other for 25 years, all talking politics.
I predict there will be the usual mix of what @mother_dearest calls 'armchair socialists', the odd green, and a very capital L liberal sprinkling of successful business types, with overprivileged backgrounds and a sense of entitlement.
My political conversation topics will be limited to Marriage Equality and how elegant are both Marie Bashir and Quentin Bryce.
Of course some of them have seen each other since leaving school.
There have been numerous reunions, and many of the Old Boys, as they so quaintly call themselves, have retained solid friendships, even marrying each other's sisters and now sending their children to the same schools, and sitting on various Foundation Committees.
I have maintained, and regained, good friendships with about half a dozen old school mates, and am in fact extremely close with two of them.
@little_jewish_boy who I have known since the age of four.
I was best man at his wedding.
He now owns a very successful software company and lives in wedded bliss in the inner west with @alternative_jewish_wife, and @three_little_princesses.
He is coming with me.
Partners and wives not invited.
Thank God.
I'd have had to invite @cute_cousin along to pretend.  
The other is @trust_fund_kid, aka @denoodle, who is somewhat of an Instagram celebrity.
Needless to say, he is not coming.
I expressed my disappointment at this to @little_jewish_boy, who quite rightly declared: "If he did come he would be the only 43 year old Bondi hipster in the room, and I don't think he'd have much in common with the other guys".
At least I would have some moral support.
I had, though, seen a large group of my alumni 15 years ago.
At the ten year reunion.
I had been a complete nervous wreck in the lead-up but I'd been determined to attend.
So I fortified myself.
With two stiff drinks before arriving.
A full packet of Silk Cut in hand.
A new Armani suit.
And a gram of coke in the inside jacket pocket of said suit.
It was a sit down dinner in the foyer of the school auditorium.
About 120 of the 200 ex-students present.
I had arrived early to give myself some control over who I sat with.
The coke made me loquacious and entertaining.
And also suppressed my appetite quite considerably.
I barely touched my food.
Fuelling rumours that my quite substantial weight loss since school days somehow had something do with an eating disorder.
I was OK with that.
Between main course and dessert I felt the coke wearing off, and with it my confidence, and much of my interest in anything anybody else had to say.
So I excused myself and headed to the loo, the door to which was in full view of the entire party.
I took myself to a vacant cubicle, and cut myself a line the size of a tampon.
I rolled up a fifty and with one almighty hoovering gesture, shoved the lot up one nostril.
Until I heard from a neighbouring cubicle: "Oh yeah, snort that cocaine."
Followed by a snigger.
And I am sure a disapproving shake of the head.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What do I do?
Do I race out really quickly, risking a possible face to face encounter with the witness, thereby eradicating all hope of not being identified as the phantom snorter.
Or do I stay here for a few minutes longer, and hope that there will be enough to-ing and fro-ing from the loos, that I will be able to slip out incognito, the puzzle going unsolved.
I went for option B.
Stood there for what seemed an eternity.
Apart from the sound of the door as my accuser left, not a single other soul used the loo.
I was then worried that if it was noted that I'd been in there for such a long time that perhaps somebody would think I'd been in there for ages doing a massive shit.
I think the shame of that would have been even worse. 
So i decided that so much time had passed that my cubicle-neighbour would have gone back to his table and forgotten all about it.
And that it was therefore safe to exit.
I was very sadly mistaken.
As soon as I made my re-entry to the party, a round of applause erupted, many of the diners wiping their noses in exaggerated gestures, and making very loud sniffing noises.
There were chortles, there were disapproving shakes of the heads and a few bemused guys who had the decency to cast their eyes downwards as I passed.
Luckily for me, the geeks at the table at which I was seated, were looking around in bewilderment, genuinely not knowing what had transpired.
This brought me some relief, however, did little to lessen the extreme redness of face that I could feel.
So on the pretence of having a cigarette, I left the table, and exited to the playground, with drink in hand as a sign that I would return.
But as soon as I'd reached a dark corner, I gently put down the glass and quietly slipped away.

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Monday, 19 August 2013


I'm sure I've used this title before.
It's a recurring hashtag in my life.
But this time it carries a lot more weight.
Things have taken on mammoth proportions.
It's the reason you haven't heard from me for such a long time.
I've been busy.
Like never before.
But now something has to change.
Or I'll be making a public appearance of a very different kind.
On midnight television.
One of those chilling exposes on fat people.
Too obese to leave the house.
So they knock down the walls.
Airlifting them out of their apartment.
Taking them to hospital.
In one of those giant slings they use to transport killer whales to Sea World.
Not the kind of sling I'd be generally used to.
And the killer whales aren't fused to a sofa.
Covered in pizza boxes.
The remote controls lost in the folds of fat.
Who's bringing me the food I hear you ask?
The guys from Doughboy.
It's conveniently located right downstairs.
They don't even need to get out their scooters.
They've got keys to my apartment.
But no more.
Things are going to change.
Or return to how they were.
I was thin once.
So now I'm looking to the past for inspiration.
As my even further past comes back to haunt me.
I've recently received notice of a school reunion.
25 years.
Terrifying I know.
If you think it's surprising to read, imagine how surprising it is to me to experience.
25 years out of school and I've only just worked out what I want to do when I grow up.
25 years out of private school.
One of those all male bastions of tradition guaranteed to generate feelings of exclusion in the gay kids.
As well as in the fat kids.
I was the gay fat kid in one of these institutions.
Sydney Grammar no less.
From whence all students are catapulted to success within about 3 minutes of completing school.
It took me two decades.
So I'm determined to face my tormentors.
No longer fat.
Still definitely gay.
And with at least a facade of success.