Posts tagged ‘Pub Stories’

9 Reality TV Show Ideas That Didn’t Make The Cut

Australia’s Got Tinea

Premise: The nation’s favourite show about our nation’s favourite podiatry infection. Across the vast expanse of Australia – North, South, East, West – no stone has been left unturned in a bid to find Australia’s greatest case of tinea, athletes foot and other fungal and bacterial foot infections. Australian viewers will once again determine the winner of a record jackpot $200 to go towards podiatry services. After the local success of last year’s winner Harry the Hobo, the stakes are high.

PaintBall Dragon’s Den

Premise: Series in which budding entrepreneurs have three minutes to pitch their business ideas to five multi-millionaires, all armed with semi-automatic paintball guns. The angel investors shoot the entrepreneur at close range with high-calibre paint balls if they do not like their ideas.

My Kitchen Rules: Halal Edition

Premise: MKR Halal Edition is a competitive Australian cooking show featuring the best Halal chefs from across the nation battle it out to be crowned the Honourable-Halal. State vs state (except Tasmania), the show’s contestants compete in typical challenges faced by Australian Halal chefs including the Cutting Of The Cow Jugular and the difficult Handling of the 3AM Drunk Kebab DickHead.

So You Think You Can Preach

Premise: So You Think You Can Preach will inspire and amaze viewers as Christian preachers ranging in style from Evangelical to Russian Orthodox compete to be named Australia’s favourite preacher. Catch Father Freddy, Paster Petey and Molly the Molester show off their favourite preaching styles. From burn-in-hell old testament fury, to wave-your-hands-in-the-air-and-fall-down-to-jesus evangelical stylings; this show has something for everyone.

The Farmer Wants a Reffo

Premise: One lucky illegal refugee will win the chance of a lifetime to work as a cash-in-hand labourer for an outback Australian farmer. Be captivated as Mohammed, Minh, Aleksy, Abdul, Yousef, Guang and Anh battle it out to win the coveted 15-hour-day-labour potential of Reg, the fair dinkum Aussie farmer from Coonabarrabran.

The Apprentice: Electrican

Premise: The Apprentice: Electrician is a series in which budding electrician wannabes compete for the chance to become a real-life $9.50 an hour apprentice for a local Melbourne firm, Electrocute (as seen on Today Tonight). Contestants are required to successfully complete a series of initiation challenges faced by real life apprentices including The Eating of the Chocolate Log, The Black Nipple and the infamous Two Hundred Volts In The Nutsack Challenge.

My Kitchen Rules: Chinese Edition

Premise: Another spin-off from the MKR franchise. My Kitchen Rules Chinese Edition features budding Chinese chefs competing for the chance to win a scholarship for their child’s high-school tuition. You’ll be captivated as our talented cooks face typical Chinese chef tasks with limited resources. Watch Mr Chen create a hokkien noodle meat stir fry with no chicken, lamb, pork or seafood ingredients at hand.

Being Brian Lara

Premise: Being Brian Lara is an access-all-areas observational documentary that will take us behind-the-scenes of Brian Lara’s private life for the very first time. Viewers will be on the edge of their seats as they watch Brian Lara shop for vegetables at Tesco, drive his Saab to cricket coaching, and live out a safe, enjoyable, non-controversial retirement.

The North Shore

Premise: A reality-based look at the vapid lives of several North Shore Sydney 20-somethings and their respective friends and/or hook-ups. Never before have a group of rich, white wannabes so desperately tried to be perceived as poor and black.

Our country was built on refugees, hard work, fairness and proper grammar.

Our nation was built on hard work, fairness and proper grammar.


March 12, 2013 at 10:22 pm Leave a comment

Why I didn’t vote at the elections

Yesterday I received a letter from the council threatening me with a $70 fine unless I could provide a valid reason for not voting at the recent council elections.

The actual truth is, I chose to ignore the election because…how can I put it….I simply don’t give a flying toss.

However, rather than risk a $70 fine I had to come up with a legitimate reason for not voting.

I pondered a leukaemia hospital operation, being overseas helping refugees in Ghana, our mailbox being broken into and the election letter stolen, pulling the racism card and saying they’re targeting me because of my ethnicity, saying that people from my culture do not believe in voting, claiming that I have a rare blood-disorder that prevents me from leaving the house, and finally just admitting that I do not care.

However, I decided to go down the religious-nutter route. Here’s what I wrote.

Why I didn't vote

January 21, 2013 at 3:31 pm Leave a comment

Observations from America

America, fuck yeah.

I noticed quite a few Aussies in New York and they weren’t our finest specimens. One extremely loud Aussie on the subway honestly thought she was from Orange County, not Orange. Every sentence of her winey drawl started with oh my god. E.g. “Oh my god, American guys are like SO cute”…”Oh my god my tits look SO small in this top”… “Oh my god I told him I’m a virgin, do you think he believed me?”

Another Aussie I met in a pub in Harlem was actually wearing an oversized floral sweater because he thought he looked cool. I told him that the only people that wear floral sweaters are those that suffer from a single missing chromosome. He thought that was funny, I actually had intended it as an insult.

There are loads of buskers on the NYC subway. Almost every train features a performer ranging in quality from:




There are even more homeless people. American homeless really put in an effort to be respectful and polite, and will often walk through the trains vocally describing elaborate images of their family’s situation in order to gain a few pennies. Australian homeless rarely go to that much effort and think that masturbating in public will extract enough sympathy from passersby to throw money.

Baltimore is a shithole, don’t go there. In fact the word Baltimore comes from the Latin words Baltius which translates as ‘boring’ and Moricus which means ‘as fuck’. Baltimore has more concrete than a Greek family’s front yard. It is littered in grey factories spewing out more noxious gases than a group of teenage boys after a baked-bean eating competition. Whoever wrote Good Morning Baltimore was either high, taking the piss, working for the tourist board, or all three. Look I know Baltimore is historically and symbolically significant, so I hope I haven’t offended any Ceppos reading this. If I have, please take a semi-automatic into your local school and start shooting, it’ll make you famous.

In Australia, most pubs and bars are more or less of a similar standard, unless of course you are in Campbelltown. In NYC, the range in quality is enormous. A cocktail bar in Soho sells drinks that cost roughly the same price to smuggle a South East Asian sex slave in the country. On the lower end, a dive bar in Bushwick sells beers in styrofoame cups made from recycled-hamburger-packaging-bought-using-welfare-cheques. This beer was called Brooklyn Bitter but really should have been called Watered Down Homeless Man Urine.

Accents in New York are similarly wide in range. Previously I thought all New Yorkers sound the same, probably similar to how people think all Asians look the same.

When Americans come to Australia, all our local girls go gaga over their accents. In fact, the male American accent is single-handedly driving the Australian lubricant industry out of business.

Anyway, accents in NYC range from:

Ghetto Style – “Look at me again and I’ll pop your fuckin knee caps”.

New Jersey Style – “I have a taandancy to over prooonouunce my vowels and um not from Nuuuw Yaawk City”.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn Style – “I found this beret on the ground, so now I’m wearing it”.

Chinatown Style – “How many duck you wan?”

Upper East Side Style – “Waiter please… there’s an Asian man in this restaurant and it is putting me off my entree”.

Southern Girl Trying To Make It On Broadway Style – “I’m auditioning tomorrow for a show and he wants me to take my clothes off so he can see how the colour of my skin will reflect under the theatre lights”.

Newly Arrived Eastern European Immigrant Style – “Im Puland uh im midi cool suuurgin, im Nu York a junnh ita”.

Braindead Aussie Who Thinks She’s From O.C. Style – “Oh my god there’s like so many black people in New York, they’re SO cute…like big vegemite men”.

People seem to be a lot more patriotic in America, and this features heavily in the naming of things. For instance, there’s George Bush Drive, Liberty Fries, Freedom Tower, Independence Day, Democracy Avenue etc. I’m sure there’s a sex shop somewhere in the USA where you can buy a Clinton-Clit-Tickler to complement your Yankee-Beads. You can probably even buy a Michelle Obama Doll. OK, too far?

We’re nowhere near as patriotic in Australia, because frankly we don’t give a shit. If we named things after what we cared about we’d drive down Ben Cousins Avenue to go to work in Gallipolli Tower. For lunch we’d eat Chuck a Sickie Burgers washed down with a pint of Kevin 07 Brew at the Cold Chisel Beer Garden. In the evenings we’d take our special someone out for a drink at the Fuck Off Boat People Cocktail Bar followed by a concert at the Spent 2 Years Completely Pissed In England And Now I Have An STD Opera House and finished off with a late night stroll along the sand at the We Blindly Followed Britain Into A War We Didn’t Know Anything About And Lost Thousands Of Men In Our Worst Military Disaster And We’re Commemorating Not Celebrating This As A National Holiday Beach.

Everything is bigger in America

Everything is bigger in America

January 11, 2013 at 2:34 am Leave a comment

Why I Hate Facebook Ads

Maybe I get irked too easily.

You know those ads that you see when you’re using Facebook? They always seem to be so tailored; it often feels like Mr Facebook himself is looking over your shoulder.

I’m especially bothered by the ads that start delving into your personal life and exploiting your insecurities.

Why am I being offered penis-extension services? I’ve now developed a complex. Did Facebook examine my beach holiday photos and decided that my bulge just didn’t make the cut?

Two days ago Facebook displayed an ad saying “Jeffro, are you tired of having so few friends?”. Thanks guys.

Yesterday I was greeted with a Facebook ad that said “Finally, it’s time to lose that beer gut”.

Today the first Facebook ad I saw said “Find out if you were adopted – the easy way”.

What’s next, ads that say: “You ugly, lonely, fat excuse of a man. Buy the Ab-Man 4000 for rock hard abs today. We know you can afford it because you listed your job title and company.”

I think the creator of Facebook was bullied at school… I guess this is his way of hitting back and cyber-bullying every person in the western world.

Advertising 101 teaches building trust and rapport with your target demographic.

Facebook’s advertising policy is simple: Abuse the hell out of your subscribers, shatter their self esteem and hope they buy your advertisers products before they have a bath and plug the hair-dryer in.

And it’s not just Facebook; even my emails  intelligently invade my personal space somehow.

I sent an email to a good mate of mine, complaining about my over-bearing mother. Gmail (the cheeky-buggers) kindly displayed an ad next to my sent email entitled “Professional hit-man for hire. Great rates, 100% effective.”

August 22, 2009 at 2:36 am 1 comment

5 Things I Miss About London

OK, so I’m getting sentimental here, but I really do miss living in London.

The Brits have it good, although though they do love a good moan about the weather, the tube, their cricket team, the price of mince meat, newspapers with ink that rubs off in your hands, the fact that a weird-looking Australian tried to encourage fellow passengers on the 214 bus to get involved in a GreenDay sing-a-long at 7pm on a Friday evening on the way home from Sainsburys.

In fact, I frequently tell all my Brit mates that the UK is so great, that I consider it the second-best country in the world. For some reason, they’ve never appreciated this compliment. Ungrateful bastards.

So, in no particular order, here’s my list of the 5 things I miss the most about London.

1. Dunnyman. A uniquely British creation, Dunnyman (or the female equivalent – Dunnymole) is the lovable ‘attendent’ that dispenses handroll, after-shave, condoms, women-advice and philosphical mantras in the pub toilet. He is well dressed, welcomes everyone with the stock-standard  ‘Freshen up boss!’ greeting, and is almost always from a war-torn or famine-afflicted nation. Despite working in barely-tolerable, unhygienic conditions and copping daily abuse from drunk arrogant punters, Dunnyman is always smiling. I thought Sydney taxi-drivers copped a handful taking my mates home on a Saturday night….I’ve finally found someone with a thicker skin – Dunnyman.

2. Fried Chicken Joints. On every street corner in London, there is a fried chicken joint selling £1 fried chicken pieces, deep-fried in month-old vegetable oil. They’re a cornerstone of the British diet, and have been around for centuries. During the Victorian era, London town-planners laid out the city in such a way that every pub would be no more than a 50m stagger from a FCJ. However, the typical modern-British male is ashamed to frequent a FCJ, often waiting until his friends are on their way home in a cab before checking over his shoulder. In fact they’re sometimes so discreet, a casual observer would believe he’s entering an adult shop.

3. The Church. Every Sunday afternoon between 12-4pm, a “nightclub” in Kentish Town holds a massive piss-up called The Church. Completely dominated by Aussies and Kiwis, it’s a perfect excuse to end the weekend much the same way it started – drinking beer, being loud and obnoxious, eating 5 chicken pieces and a kilo of fries from a FCJ, then passing out in a cab.

4. English Accents. Don’t get me started here, I love English accents. OK, let me distinguish for a minute – I’m not talking about the chav accents from South Ruislip that sound rather like down-syndrome strawberry farmers. “O’ight geezer, giv’us one of ya fags love… innit”. Instead, I’m referring to the educated public-school London accents that you hear everywhere. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit (and please don’t tell my mum) – posh female English accents give me the horn. Often I’d re-check my voice-messages just to hear the lovely Buckinghamshire Vodafone lady tell me that I have no new messages.

5. Apathy Towards Terrorism. While the rest of the world is cowering in fear at the thought of mass-murder on their public transport systems, the Brits simply don’t care. During my first week in London in mid-2005, bombs went off on buses and trains all around central London. The locals simply carried on their day-to-day business without even blinking. I thought what a crazy place to live, no one seems to mind!

Vehicles manufactured in Korea are often inferior in quality.

Vehicles manufactured in Korea are often of inferior quality.

Me: How was your day mate?

English Friend: Yeah was fine old chap, but the tube was delayed because a bomb went off on the Piccadilly Line…I wish the London Underground would just get their act together and stop making excuses.

Me: So you honestly don’t mind all these bombs going off. What would you do if a suicide bomber sat opposite you on the tube?

English Friend: I wouldn’t care. Well, as long as he doesn’t try and start a conversation with me.

July 23, 2009 at 10:34 pm 2 comments

The 6 Pint Trigger Mark

I’ve always thought that I can hold my alcohol as well as my mates. This is quite a feat considering the majority of my friends are athletic alpha-male types that started growing chest hair when they were 10 and had a deeper voice than Stallone when they were 11. Me on the other hand, am still waiting for that chest-hair growth spurt (I currently have less than 7) and have always been considerably leaner than my mates. Kenno can pick me up with one hand and sling me over his shoulder whilst tickling my chin with his other hand – that’s his favourite pub trick.

My mates and I have a common trait whenever we’re out drinking. At the start of an evening, conversation will be rather normal, even intellectual at times. We’d typically discuss our travel exploits, who’d win in an arm wrestle between Gordon and Barack, the impact climate change will have on beer-prices and if black leather jackets on men would ever be considered heterosexual.

However, we all seem to have a trigger point around the 6 pint mark, at which our behaviour almost certainly changes with predictable results.

Kenno – after the 6 pint trigger point will generally substitute the word ‘cunt’ for any pronoun or name. Additionally, the word ‘fucking’ would be inserted in his sentence structure, usually immediately before any noun.

  • One pint Kenno: “Jeffrey, can I enquire as to whether you would like me to purchase another beer for you”.
  • Six pint Kenno: “Oi Jeffro cunt, do you want another fucking beer you cunt?”

Within our circle of friends, this is completely fine and expected. However, Kenno and I often visit different countries, where ‘cunt’ may be somewhat more offensive than in Australia. For instance, in Poland ‘cunt’ is a well known brand of shoe polish. Kenno often makes matters worse by calling complete strangers ‘cunts’, including barmen, nearby punters, cab drivers, over-weight prostitutes and midnight kebab-store vendors.

Moose – after the 6th pint will be completely nude by the 7th, guaranteed. It’s almost worth preparing your phone for ‘video-mode’ around the 6th pint for blackmail potential if Moose ever becomes a prominent figure in society. We filmed this when we were drinking in a hotel bar in the mountains of Slovakia. A group of Polish tourists had just arrived at the hotel and were assembling in the foyer to listen to their tour-guide explain how to cope with potential situations in the woods, in particular amorous male bears that mistake backpack-toting Polish tourists for prime female bears. At this particular moment, a loud “WHOOOAA WHOOOAA” could be heard from the direction of the hotel bar. A moment later, a completely naked Moose was running straight for the crowd, who quickly separated for him faster than the Red-Sea did for Moses. Moose ran completely outside and back in again back through the path of people to the hotel bar. We were politely asked to leave.

The tendency to nude-up after 6 pints could possibly be genetically linked. I went out drinking once with his brother, and ended up in a strip club in Kings Cross. It was the type of club that served $27 beers and expected to keep the change from a $100 note. In the cab back to Bondi, I passed out in the backseat in a drunken slumber. I remember waking up only a few minutes later when Moose’s brother said to the cabbie “pull over just here, I really need to do something”. When the cabbie pulled over, he jumped out of the car, pulled his pants completely off and ran about 20m down the middle of the street yelling at the top of his voice “I’M FREE!! I’M FREE!!”. He then jumped back into the car and explained “It was something I had to do, drive on cabbie.”

There’s still Midget, Ceps, Ranga and Damage to go – I’ll expand on their trigger point traits later.

June 2, 2009 at 10:09 pm 7 comments

Australian Tourism – Tits, Beer and Sport

I’m doing some work at the moment for a large tourism body – the organisation that brought you the ‘Where The Bloody Hell Are You’ campaigns that were banned in the UK.

I still can’t figure out exactly what element of that campaign the Brits found so offensive. Were the Brits just sick of all the drunk Aussies stumbling around Shepherds Bush at 3am on a Saturday morning in search of the mystic beer-scooter to take them home? Or perhaps they were simply just envious that you can afford to buy a beer at any pub in Australia without the need to remortgage your house.

Or perhaps the Brits were just plain ticked-off that Australia could produce such a hottie as Lara Bingle. When wondering around London, haven’t you noticed that almost every pretty girl is speaking a foreign language? When God was handing out country qualities, did he say: “right…England….you can specialise in ugly women and substandard reality television”.

Venture out of the capital and it’s even worse. Be prepared to reach for either the whisky bottle or the Vaseline-coated glasses.

7pm on a Saturday evening, I’m catching a train into central Cardiff from the suburbs. Surrounding me are 2 parties of intoxicated, overweight 20-something year old women, all clothed in a particular theme. The group on my right are dressed as tubby school teachers. Imagine that on Wendy’s text message to her lasses earlier that evening: “let’s all dress up as fat, minging teachers, that’ll get the lads blood pumping!”.

The group in front of me, with their bare breasts pressed up against the train windows, are dressed as playboy bunnies complete with size 18 mini-skirts. They are yelling something at each other in a strange guttural language that sounds vaguely like English. In fact, I think it is English….a dialect that was spoken in 1950’s suburban Brisbane.

The two groups are going down on their cans of luke-warm Stella faster than a ten pound hooker.

The Brits just love their beer don’t they, probably even more so than Aussies. Britain is the only place I know where you can buy a can of beer at every newsagent, petrol station, fish and chips store or Sunday School. I even bought a beer at the KFC at Tower Hill.

But I guess like Aussies, Brits love a beer simply to lighten up and relax whilst watching the football, hoping to high heaven that with a few more lagers the overweight group of Welsh birds dressed as Playboy bunnies will somehow appear more attractive.

The current campaign for this particular tourism body feature rather sophisticated and romantic messaging. Emotional themes hint that Australia will be a place to enlighten yourself, remove the angst and pressures of your normal life.

In order to better target the British public, I think the core campaign message could have been simplified to: “Come to Australia. We have Tits, Beer and Sport.”


Australian holiday tip: avoid drinking in the sun without a hat

May 19, 2009 at 9:21 pm 2 comments

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