TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25, XMAS DAY

Thank God it’s over. How I hate this season. Why oh why do we always have to have Aberdeen sausage? Nobody likes it but every year it gets dished up because it’s "traditional"! Apparently old Auntie Grace was partial to it and that’s where it stems from. Somebody should have burnt the recipe with her.

Everybody was cordial, but the strain on mum’s face showed by the time the pudding was served — it’s always a mistake to let dad do the brandy sauce. Mind you, gramama wasn’t complaining.

I got some okay presents but it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference if I’d got nothing. I think I’ll stay home next year. Why? I’m an atheist, thank God!

The big subject of the day was my new job as a journalist. Everyone wonders why I wasn’t happier. I didn’t tell them but it’s because I think I’ll get the sack within a week. I’m working for the State’s weekend newspaper, imaginatively titled the Weekend Star. I start on January 2. I just know I’m going to fuck up.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, BOXING DAY

Guess who got breathalysed on the way home from mum’s? Gran managed to blow 0.19 — I would have given anything to see the look on Gramps’ face.

I have a fridge full of cold Aberdeen sausage. What the hell I am supposed to do with that? Maybe my flatmate will eat it when he returns. Perhaps the word should be "hopefully".

Lied around most of the day either reading or shitting myself about my new job. Filled my new briefcase with my meagre journalistic possessions. I still don’t know what a participle is or how you modify a noun or exactly what a split infinitive is (although there is supposedly one in that Star Trek "final frontier" speech). Verbs are doing words, of course. So I’ve got a few basics but I’m no Shakespeare.

11pm. Since when were journos comparable to Shakespeare?

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 27

No sign of George, my flatmate. At least the place has stayed relatively clean without him here. I have never known anyone to spray so much water when they have a shower. It’s like he points the nozzle out on to the floor and soaks the bath mat. And, of course, forgets to hang it up. Whinge, whinge, whinge. I’m sure I do things that piss him right up the wall.

It’s 1pm and I’m already writing in my diary. This is definitely the uneasy calm before the storm, I’m sure. One thing is certain: the future is uncertain. I’ve looked over the previous articles I’ve written… they are so bad. Why do I doubt myself so much? They wouldn’t have hired me if they thought I couldn’t do the job. But then, they don’t really know me, do they?

4pm. A life at last! Am going out pubbing and clubbing with Antony. We’ve got bugger all money (well, there’s one plus from the new job) but we’ll manage.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 28

Around 7.30pm. My memory has started to return (sort of). I met Antony in the city and we went to the Sausage Club… we heard it was a meat market. But lo and behold it was a German pub with guys called Klaus in traditional gear swinging jugs of beer and eating dubious-looking fatty knobs. We tried to get into the swing of things and I was just chatting up a nice Valkyrie-type called Helga (you should have seen her jugs) when Antony made a terrible, terrible faux pas.

He mentioned the war. Both of them. And he had the gall to ask why they didn’t wear the nazi gear if they were going to get into traditional dress.

We both had to piss-bolt and jump the fence in the beer garden. I got a splinter under my thumb and it was after much yelling and pussy-footing around Antony managed to get it out.

So by 9.30pm we’d had some beer but had no place to go. Antony suggested In-U-Endo, a club he sometimes goes to. I thought it was a gay hangout but the sign on the door said it was "for all sexualities". So in we went to In-U-Endo. Luckily, there was no cover charge until 10.

Unfortunately, it was drag queen night and Antony and I looked somewhat out of place in our standard shirt and pants. Ten minutes later and we were on the street again. Some girl with cold sores on her face offered Antony "oral relief" for $2. He declined.

I was getting sick of this piss-farting around so I dragged him off to the over-30s club, Pastzitz. We weren’t that pissed so I thought, fuck it, let’s get a couple of flaming lamborghinis. And yes, this was where things started to get a bit hazy.

The smoke from the drink made my eyes water and some woman thought I was upset about something. She was about 40 and pleasant-looking, although the leopard skin top and stretch pants weren’t exactly right for her. She came over and grabbed my crotch. I squealed and the club stopped dead. Even the music.

Then Antony yelled: "Flaunt the flesh!" which resulted in a resounding cheer and his attempt at half a strip show. The 30+ lapped it up — he has a good physique, I have a slight belly. That was the last I saw of him.

But back to Ms 40. She was still holding on to my crotch and something was growing in her hand. By this stage the flaming lamborghini had smacked my head at 100kmh and the room was spinning. Lights, dance beats, people. Vague, vague, vague.

Time passed. And then I found myself naked in a pool of (my own?) vomit in a strange house. I recognised some German sausage. A girl, about five, ran past and yelled "Yuck" then "My mummy loves you". I blacked out.

Several hours later I woke up and the girl had gone. I had no idea where my clothes were so I found a towel and went out into the street. I had no idea where I was. I found a public telephone, made a reverse charge call home, praying George was back.

He came to pick me up and chortled all the way home. His constant talk of bacon caused several stop offs for pavement pizzas on the journey.

So at 10am today I crawled into bed, feeling rather sorry for myself. What the hell did I do with that woman?

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29

No new recollections. Antony called, reckoned he bonked three women in the same bed, one after the other. I said "Bullshit" but he is the sort of guy where you always wonder. He didn’t know what else I had done, either.

My sleep pattern is completely out of whack. I am going to be stuffed for work. I am so grumpy when I am tired and incoherent at the best of times — Weekend Star, watch out.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30

George shat me off again today. He left bolognaise sauce in a saucepan and about 10 million ants decided to invade it. I almost tossed the whole lot in his bedroom. But no, I cleaned it up. Why?

It’s taken me two days to notice but my wallet was with the clothes I lost. Ms 40 will know where to find me. I’m going to have to get everything replaced, I suppose.

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. I have got nowhere to go. But I always have a crap New Year, anyway, and can I face another big night? If I stay home, won’t I worry about trying to be a hard-hitting journo in the next few days? Oh, my indecision! Why must I wemble so? (Is wemble a word?)

George says he is going to spend the New Year at his parents. On ya George! Party on, dude! Ten bucks says he is in bed before 10pm.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 31

6pm. Still no plans for this evening. George said I could come with him but I refused. The TV news is full of the usual reports about police cracking down if people get out of hand. I’ve even looked at the TV guide. Oh dear, no, not an evening of bad New Year specials. I keep looking at the phone, hoping it will ring. I’ve tried ringing some people myself but they’ve already gone out.

12.30am. Technically, this should be under January 1 but it probably looks better here. I have eaten far too much pizza. At 9pm I realised I was in for the night and ordered two large pizzas, a garlic bread, 2 litres of Pepsi and a chocolate mousse for $20. The meat lovers with barbecue sauce was good but why couldn’t I have saved some for breakfast tomorrow? I didn’t have to eat it all. No one made me. I’d make a New Year’s resolution but I made a resolution years ago never to make another New Year’s resolution. I have two options: sleep or read. Neither will be easy with this stomach ache.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 1

After finally getting to sleep at 3am — the neighbours partied on all night — the phone rang at 7.30am. George wanted to know if I wanted to join him for a barbie at his parents’ place. I grunted at him, the thoughts of the pizza lingering in my bowels still. He said I was free to come if I wanted to.

Had an almighty crap… almost joyous… and the pizza was but a memory. Dozed until 11am. Decided to go George’s parents, otherwise I’d fret about starting work tomorrow. I set my alarm but tried to put it out of my mind.

Barbecue was pleasant — George’s mum is very sweet — but his big sister couldn’t help but comment on my purple T-shirt. "Sexually frustrated, are we?"

I felt like saying: "Well, do you want to help me do something about it, honey?" but I didn’t, of course. I’m sure she’d have me for breakfast.

George’s old man spoiled the day by saying "Well, looking forward to work tomorrow?" I mumbled some rubbish about first days always being a bit of a strain.

Tried to get an early night but the fear in my heart was too great for a peaceful rest. Restless tossing and turning was the best I could do.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 2

The alarm went off at 6.30am and although my mind knew it had to get out of bed, my body screamed "Why the fuck are you doing this to me?" Somehow I managed to haul arse through the shower etc. but I can’t get over the fact I’m wearing a shirt and tie. I can’t tie a normal one so I’ve got one of those ones on elastic.

Went in through the main entrance of the Weekend Star, tried opening the door and it wouldn’t budge. Some snide secretary asked what I was doing and I told her I was trying to start work. Apparently, there was a magic button I should have pressed, some sort of security measure.

Odd, coming in on a Wednesday but it’s because we work across the weekend, updating editions from midday Friday to Sunday lunch. Or so I was told.

I was taken into the editor’s office and given a welcome and a speech about making the most of this opportunity. My body was still in bed and I hadn’t had any coffee so I tuned out for most of it.

Then I was handed over to the chief-of-staff, Noah, and he introduced me around the office as the new cadet. Lots of people stared at me intently and then he asked me if I had any story ideas.

What?

The best I could come up with was "It’s a bit hard, you know" and so he told me to read the daily paper, aptly titled The Daily Chronicle, to see if I could get any ideas. By the time he came back I was still at a loss.

Then it was a meeting with the general manager and human resources manager. Boring videos, boring speeches. Everything seemed so anachronistic as if no technology or office workings had changed since the 60s. Finally, I was given a desk next to the industrial relations reporter.

As soon as Noah was out of earshot, Tate (for that was his name) started giving me an ear bashing about joining the union. I told him I was already a member of the AJA. "So we can count on you to strike, then" he said with a nod, before I had a chance to protest.

After twiddling my thumbs for an hour, Noah gave me something to do. Apparently, some guy had built a gigantic walrus in his backyard out of concrete. The pictures had already been taken so I had to ring him up and get some words to go with them.

Mr Adelphiolous was a little difficult to understand. Every time I asked a question he’d say "Yeah mate", even when I said "Have you thought of making a giant cockroach?" After this little disaster, I told Noah and he said I’d probably have to go and see him.

It was 4pm by this stage, so I was told to take a van and pay him a visit the next day.

I am so annoyed at myself for not thinking of having a story to chase. But I can’t think of one now, either.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 3

Body screamed at me again. It’s going to take a while to get the hang of these early starts.

The snide secretary from yesterday scowled at me but I showed her my new prowess with the door button. Noah gave me the keys to the van and I was off to see Mr Adelphiolous. I’m not used to driving a van but all I had to do was take it a bit easier around corners. Bloody things only have AM radio. The drive took about an hour, it was reasonably pleasant.

Then the fun started. Mr A showed me his giant walrus and from what I could understand, he built it because he had a fascination for The Beatles and possibly was a victim of a bad LSD trip in the late 60s (seems someone drugged his grappar). He works with cranes and concrete so it wasn’t like he didn’t know what was he doing in that department.

But for some unknown reason, he wanted me to see all his paintings — Pablo Picasso, he wasn’t — and his home-brewed wine. I have a feeling he has a still in his cellar but he insisted it was an urn.

When I left I couldn’t back out of his driveway. It was a steep gravel hill. Mr A told me to floor it. The wheels spun, gravel flew everywhere and the car shot straight back into his letterbox.

He came screaming at me, some sort of abuse in Greek and/or Italian. I sped off down the road, wondering what I was going to tell Noah.

After I had collected my thoughts on the way back, I decided not to tell anyone. Maybe they wouldn’t notice the dent or someone else would get the blame.

Didn’t get a chance to start on the story, got lumbered with some bullshit cadet jobs, like inputting the TV programs and getting the weather pages organised.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 4

Discovered my weekend shifts were 10am to 10pm on Saturday and then 7am to 1pm Sun. Goodbye normal life. Apparently we are compensated with penalties and rostered days off.

Tackled the giant walrus story:

By RICK HUGHES

WHEN it’s time to break from his grappar, Mr Adelphiolous gets to work.

After tripping out to The Beatles’ I Am The Walrus he was inspired to make a giant statue, tusks and all.

So he grabs "extra" concrete from his building sites around town and moulds and folds again, layer upon layer upon layer.

Mr Adelphiolous said it was a lot of hard work but it got him away from his wife most of the time.

"My wife, he nags and nags and wants me to do bull… girlie work like the dishes," he said.

"I said ‘No way, woman’ and Isa get to work with the concrete and make my walrus — even when she need me to lift washing machine.

"Ha Ha Ha Ha!"

While he’s got his walrus, what about the egg man? Or will Mr Adelphiolous now forever make strawberry fields?

"Eh?" he said. "Nah, I just make my home-made grappar and paint nude ladies from the high school."

He encouraged Weekend Star readers to drop by and buy some of his grappar.

It took me most of the day to write the story because I couldn’t read my notes. I told this to Noah and he said I’d start having to learn shorthand soon. Oh dear.

Nothing was said about the damaged van. Have I got away with it?