Some Class Clowns never grow old

My glasses kept shaking free of my head with each impact. This. This is what happens when Steve Grimwade, director of the Melbourne Writers Festival, denies your request to pump child-safe dosages of Valium into the air ducts during the Schools Program. The back of my chair was being gleefully kicked by tiny Clarks shoes, and the squeals of over stimulated kids gave me flashbacks to being a barrista in a café.

If you’re unsure whether you want to have children, work in a café for a month. You will give yourself a ghetto vasectomy using a butter knife and a biro after your first shift. Still, I could forgive their hubris. The source of their excitement was seeing one of their favourite authors. I can’t resent any kid loving to read. I was that kid.

So there I was, sitting at the end of a row of babbling children. Looking like a lone spike of activity in a bar graph measuring bitterness by age. I was attending a talk given by an old acquaintance from my early stand-up days in Sydney. Oliver Phommavanh, a teacher by trade, had written two kids books. The covers of both exuded the quirky Asian persona that had made him popular in the comedy rooms of Sydney. Having seen Oliver perform a bunch of times I was ready to see him start with a few self-deprecating quips designed to make a predominantly white audience feel slightly better about any underlying racist thoughts they weren’t ready to acknowledge.

Those quips were still in there, but they were buried in a tirade of chaotic rants punctuated with the word ‘woooo!’. Oliver ran about the small theatre whipping the already agitated youngsters into a state of vibrating exuberance. He didn’t just have verbal diarrhea, he had Mexican tap water verbal diarrhea. One topic frenetically slammed into the next, leaving myself and any one over the age of puberty glancing at each other in amused bewilderment. He barely even acknowledged his books, instead reveling in the howling adoration of his target audience.

Phommavanh is clearly someone who never grew out of being the class clown. Watching him pull care bears from a bag of plush toys that he’d brought along left me feeling the same way I do when I watch video clips on MTV. Old, out of touch, and with no real idea of what on earth I’m looking at.

That being said, Oliver’s insanity isn’t meant for me. It’s for the children, and they bloody loved it. Bouncing in their seats, overjoyed at the unpredictable delivery, and hopefully taking in the subtle message that your imagination is your most valuable asset. I dare say that if I was their age I would have been just as enamoured by Phommavanh’s boisterous mile-an-hour rants.

You’re not on the list

The volunteer at the box office flashed me the usual puzzled expression I receive when I tell people my surname.

“Keck? That can’t be right.”
“So it’s not on the list?”
“No, I mean it doesn’t sound right. Is it a real word?”
“No, it’s a real name.”
“Oh… Is it like your nom de plume?”
“Just the nom really”

Some people have the type of surname that is easily ticked off a list.
Smith? Check.
Jones? Check.
Not me. I have a German surname that roughly translated means cheeky or impudent, a more apt name I could not have hoped for. However, the English definition is “the noise made before vomiting” and in the north of England kecks refer to your underpants. So cheeky vomit knickers is apparently my legacy to any unfortunate children I spawn. Although with me as a parent the surname is the least of their worries.

I watched the volunteer’s pale finger run down the page, her slender nail gliding past the names of frustratingly talented writers, illustrators, and musicians. Not a huge surprise that mine wasn’t there.

There’s a wonderfully awkward moment when you realise you’re not on the guest list of an event. It’s akin to that feeling you get when no one jumps out and yells ‘happy birthday!’ at your surprise party because everyone forgot to turn up, and the only person to greet you is your cat licking his privates while maintaining an unsettling amount of eye contact.

The volunteer gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, you’re just not on the list. Are you a writer?”. I had pondered this very question the week before. “How do you know if you’re a writer?” I asked. The volunteer fidgeted with her lanyard for a moment. “Do you write full time or do you have a job?”. I told her I had a fairly shitty rent paying job. “Ok, so when you meet people at parties do you bring up the shitty job or introduce yourself as a writer?” I stared at my sneakers. My silence was all the answer she needed. “Congratulations” she said as she took my hand in hers, “You belong here now”. She handed me a lanyard with the word ‘industry’ printed on it. My bottom lip quivered.

I knew the Melbourne Writers Festival volunteers were helpful. I had no idea they were crush your lump of soul until it became a diamond kind of helpful.

How to ask questions without people wishing death upon you (a guide)

The first day of the Melbourne Writers Festival is almost at a close. With the onset of the weekend and more and more crowds pouring into various events, I thought it might be helpful to post a small, yet thoughtful, guide to the art of asking questions. Towards the end of each session the audience is invited to talk directly to the speaker/s they have excitedly come to see. It sounds wonderful, and it is, but it’s not without its pitfalls. So dear reader, read on.

1. Be prepared.
Asking a question is a lot like ordering in a cafe. Don’t wait until the last second to fumble through your handbag to find your purse, you are holding everyone else up. Think of your question as loose change – add it up in your mind before handing it over. People love getting exact change, and they love exact questions even more.

2. It is the size that counts
Keep your question short. If you can’t say what you need in one sentence, then you don’t really understand what it is you’re trying to say. So if you’re not sure what you’re asking, imagine how everyone else will feel. You don’t want your mouth to be ground zero for an explosion of furrowed brows.

3. One question, that’s all folks.
Writers like writing. They love their writing in particular, and they love talking about their writing almost as much as fantasizing about giant golden idols of their likeness erected outside public libraries. So every time you’re wrestling the microphone out of the poor volunteer’s hands to ask a second follow up question, you’re greedily taking the spotlight away from a writer. Big mistake. The moment you move the focus off an author is the moment they invent a character that looks exactly like you who will be killed off horribly in their next book.

4. Don’t open with a joke.
It’s not open mic night. You’re not the best man in a wedding speech. Just ask your question. The volunteers have all been equipped with iPhone apps that play crickets chirping, and they WILL use these ruthlessly.

5. Avoid being too clever
You’ve bought tickets to see some of the great intellectuals of the world engage in heated debate and passionate analysis. You chose mental stimulation over watching television. We get it, you’re clever. You have nothing to prove at this point. Foisting a novella of a question upon a speaker usually makes you seem like a twat, unless you’re trying to stump Jonathan Franzen during his keynote address, that’s actually pretty damned funny.

6. Save it for your fan fiction.
It’s wonderful that you’re so invested in the characters the author has created. It’s just that when you ask about the likelihood of the lead character hooking up with a roving band of sexy space gypsies, you have painted yourself into a creepy, creepy corner.

7. Beware the doubt loop
The doubt loop occurs when you haven’t really planned out your question. As the words tumble out of the lower part of your head, the top part begins to doubt the relevance of those words and tries to overcome this problem by throwing more words at it. It’s like trying to put out a fire by smothering it in petrol. Take a breath, pause for a moment to reflect on what you’re trying to say, and try again. If you’re truly frozen with panic, don’t even finish your question. Just tap your finger on the side of your head with a smirk and say “Never mind, I’ve already figured it out. Jesus I’m awesome”

There you go, a few key things to remember.
Further to this list I would add: If you’re watching an all female panel discuss relationships in fiction. Do not ask why there isn’t a guy on the panel, and if that is symptomatic of the stereotype that men don’t enjoy talking endlessly about relationships. Jane Smiley will freeze you with her mystical ice powers and spit directly into your heart. Especially when the audience is 99% female and you preface your question with “As the only bobbing dot of testosterone in a sea of estrogen”. Lesson learned.

Failing Professionally

While I wait for my solid gold official MWF blogger medallion to arrive in the mail, I have been in a somewhat pensive mood. Staring through rain soaked windowpanes with Richard Marx on repeat will do that to a man. On paper I am a comedian and writer, but I have no novels under my belt to boast of, so can I really claim that latter title? I still have a Clark Kent style day job to pay my bills. You know your day job sucks when people ask, “So what are you studying?” and you can only reply “nothing”. At which point, the person asking usually looks sadder than I feel.

I am a failure. I am such a spectacular failure one could almost say it’s my calling. I would of course love to be a greater success, but where would I find the time? I’m too busy failing to succeed. I suppose I could slot achievement somewhere into my schedule between “not realising my dreams” and “realising my dreams won’t be realised”.

I have achieved very little in this life. I’d write an autobiography but I fear it would be little more than a pamphlet. One that would most likely have one of the following titles: “What’s a Keck?” “How to boil Mi-Goreng in your lonely tears” or “My parachute is made of good intentions”. I have lofty hopes this best selling autobiography will soon be found under the bottoms, and to a lesser extent, the chairs of Ellen DeGeneres’ audience.

So while I wait for celebrity endorsements to make my cup-of-soup runneth over, I thought it might be interesting to show you some of my past rejection letters. Over the years I have steadily amassed rejection letters in the same fashion that my friends amassed things like ‘goals’ and ‘savings’.

The first rejection letter is from one of Australia’s largest publishing houses, whose name has been omitted so that they can’t sue me for the tinned baked beans I plan on bequeathing to my grandchildren some day.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Dear Mr. Keck,

Thank you for your submission. While we at ___________ are always keen to receive new manuscripts, we regret to inform you we have chosen not to publish your fantasy political vampire epic “Baritone Fist: The Mark Latham vampire punching chronicles”.

We rejected your submission for a couple of reasons. Firstly, no one in our office has even heard of Mark Latham. Secondly, we have a policy of only accepting manuscripts. Sending a poorly drawn stick figure standing on a pile of money screaming, “Suck it Dan Brown” does not fall within our submission guidelines.

Best of luck with… you.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Perhaps jumping straight into a full book was a tad ambitious. I set my sights a little lower. A lot lower really. I set my sights on writing for a newspaper, that for legal reasons, we’ll call Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Dear Mr. Keck,

I’m not entirely sure how you found my email address, but I’m sorry to tell you that Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth have already filled the position of senior pun headline writer. However, we did enjoy your submissions, particularly “Ike Beats Tina to Death”.

Thanks also for your lovely appraisal of our paper. We pride ourselves on the quality of Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth. The fact that you took the time out to tell us your thoughts really means something. I loved this part of your email – “You can always judge the journalistic integrity of a publication by the cup size of the blonde on the front cover giving away footy cards” . Could not agree with you more Mr. Keck.

Stay golden Pun Boy.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Here is my final rejection letter I’ll share with you. I have a strong love of words, so if a novel wasn’t feasible and there was no room for my elite pun skills, I had only one place to turn that would still make use of my wordsmithery. That’s a word right?

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Dear Mr. Keck,

Thank you for your correspondence. Merriam-Webster have built our entire business on the written word. However, we don’t actually pay people to make up new words.

If we did employ people to make up new words, my colleagues and I would have picked these out of the seventy-three suggestions you sent.

Parlybarge
Par•ly•barge

1      Someone who designs nightclub toilets that are so minimalist, you don’t know what the urinal looks like and end up pissing on a mirror.

SammyWoodrow
Sam•my•Wood•row

1      A man defecating in a busy intersection who refuses to break eye contact with you until he’s finished.

Shaky J Fox
Shak•y•J•Fox

1      A Shaky J Fox refers to someone so pretentious that they wear an iPhone on each finger. If they dial their knuckles whilst sexually gratifying themselves, this is known as a ‘Shaky Pony Fun Town’.

Please continue your ‘art’.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

As you can see, I still have a long way to go. I’ll let you know when I’m scheduled to appear on Ellen. In the meantime, if you’re all too familiar with the gut punch of rejection, you can sign up to be a part of one of the workshops, seminars, and master classes that are part of the Melbourne Writers Festival Professional Development Program and pick up the necessary skills to truly lay claim to the title ‘Writer’ and not just ‘part-time failure’.

Cheating Life

Money was tight this autumn. I had been in a month long tug of war with my immune system and the cost of tissues and amphetamine based flu medication had bled my funds dry. Ordinarily I would have enough money to attempt the Titanic method of curing the flu. All you need is to drink so much alcohol you actually start to die. Once the flu germs realise the vessel they’re on is going down, they abandon ship. By morning your liver will feel slightly sore to the touch, and your urine might be a tad rosier in hue, but your spirits will be particularly buoyant.

I called up Travis, a tall black American who dressed like a jazz bassist and perpetually smelt of weed. I had met Travis at a friend’s art exhibition launch. He walked around the gallery with a small roll of red spot stickers and stuck them next to each painting he hated. When I quizzed him on whether he was buying all that art, he simply replied, “If people think they’re already sold, no one will make the mistake of buying this rubbish”.  We later bonded outside the gallery over our mutual hatred for Oprah and a Turkish cigarette that gave me my first head spin in over a decade.

Every phone conversation with Travis started with him saying “Hold up” and then a series of cavernous coughs. Each heave mined up the sludge of innumerable joints, a practice that occasionally went on for several minutes. When the bark of his lungs eased into an ebbing wheeze, Travis uttered, “Make it quick”. I explained that I was poor, sick, and in need of cheap flu medication. Travis often dealt in a small black market trade of whatever prescription drugs washed up on his dubious shore.

He had a small amount of antiretroviral AIDS medication, but one box of pills would cost more than I make in two months. Plus, it seemed a little extreme for my situation. Travis mentioned an old Milo tin full of night-time flu tablets he’d bought from a bargain bin at a Tasmanian pharmacy in the early two thousands.  He sold the lot to me for ten dollars and an old copy of The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More.

As I left his surprisingly normal suburban house Travis said, “You know you could kill two birds with one stone. You’re broke and ill, why not just down a handful of those, and shave the end off the week? Living is expensive, but death is fairly cheap”

A tram ride later and I started to see the logic behind Travis’ suggestion. If I put myself in a thrifty little coma for a weekend, I might actually be able to afford the cost of living in Melbourne. I peeled back the lid on the Milo tin, grabbed a handful of the small neon pebbles and chewed the bitter chemical chalk of the tablets. I felt fairly smug in my plan to cheat life.

A few stops rumbled by and my phone screamed loudly from my breast pocket. The chirpy voice on the other end told me it was Juliette Kringas, the marketing manager for the Melbourne Writers Festival. She asked if I’d be keen on being an official blogger for the festival again. It was to be a paid position. The word paid made my shoulders taut in the same way the word pregnant does. I could afford brand name flu medication with that money, the kind that doesn’t come in a rusty tin.

Juliette asked if I could pop by the Wheeler Centre tomorrow to chat about ideas for the blog. I told her it would be impossible as I would be, quite literally, out for the next few days. You could hear her frown over the phone. “It’s quite urgent. Are you busy today?” My mind raced. I told her I was free right this very minute. After a few moments of hearing her muffled conversation with someone at her office, she agreed and I stumbled off the tram.

I figured I had no more than 30 minutes before I fell into a thrift coma. With a five-minute walk ahead of me and a 20 minute train ride home, I’d have roughly four minutes of conversation before I had to leave, perhaps five if I didn’t mind passing out in my stairwell, which I didn’t. I carved out the most direct route in my mind and with the determined swagger of a man trying to push back the tide of medicated slumber I willed my feet to keep moving forward.

I hadn’t walked more than fifty paces before I noticed the world had turned quite reggae. The shop windows bounced along nonchalantly to the dull gush of my pulse. I could hear my blood flowing all around my head. With every swing of my foot I could feel my leg bones sliding across the cartilage in my kneecaps. I pursed my lips to whistle an accompanying melody to the rhythm of my gait, and promptly urinated in my jeans. My vision started to flicker out just as I let gravity clutch my soft face to her asphalt bosom.

A bright light startled me, and I jerked my head back into consciousness. I squinted through sleep-slicked eyes at a small crowd of elderly Japanese men and women that seemed to be applauding my return to the land of the living. One by one they took turns posing beside me for photographs while I tried to blink some sense into the world. The flash of their cameras caused stains of colours behind my eyes, but I did my best to keep them open. There was a cold wind burning my skin and each breath formed a momentary cloud that slid neatly away from my head.

After every photograph the Japanese pensioners bent over and placed something by my feet. That’s when it occurred to me that I had somehow been standing erect while I was passed out. Somebody must have propped me up while I was out cold. I peered down past my paunch and noticed the dark patch where I had soiled myself was frozen solid. My lower half was encased in an icy scaffold of denim and my hat had fallen off of my head and was filled with small change. “Oh Christ” I thought, “They think I’m busking”.

I tried to move. The ice in my jeans creaked, but my legs wouldn’t budge.  I pleaded with the crowd of Japanese tourists to throw their coffees at my groin. They thought it was part of the performance and put more money into my hat. There was no way my body would thaw unless I heated my crotch up. I would have to pee my way out, but my bladder was dry. You would think it’d be difficult to get a bunch of strangers to pee on you, but when they think you’re a failed arts student who earns money as a living statue, they seem all too happy to oblige.

I never made it to the Wheeler Centre. I had been a living statue for three whole days. Still, I hadn’t spent a cent and I made some decent coin from my accidental busking. On the long cold walk back to my apartment I found the missing Milo tin. Four unconscious junkies were all in a pile on Swanston Street. Each had one hand wedged firmly in the tin. To the casual passer by it looked as though someone had bought one of those novelty can of peanuts that shoot out toy snakes, only someone had gone the extra mile and put some gaunt junkies in instead.

Buyer beware I guess.

Censor and Sensibility

I pulled the program guide out of my bag and checked the time. I had arrived on schedule, just not at the right place. I had forgotten that while Federation Dodecahedron is the headquarters of the Writers Fest, not all the events are held there. I shook my cuff back and looked at my watch. It looked remarkably like a hairy wrist. That’s right, I’m a child of the eighties, and as such, my timepiece is found on my emailing pocket clock that doubles as a phone. I had ten minutes to make it up to the Wheeler Centre.

Fortunately for me there was a bank of share bikes ready for rental. I paid the fee and unclipped the bike from its holder. I adjusted the seat to ‘lanky’ and swung my leg over the frame and started to pedal. A police officer curtly stepped in front of my velocipede, halting my momentum with a bulky frame of his own. I assumed he was going to ask about my helmet. Instead his gloved hands began to fondle my curly hair, which he referred to as nature’s helmet. Once satisfied with the density of my ringlets, the officer slapped an approval sticker on to the side of my head and ushered me into the traffic.

I slotted my bike into another bank of bicycle holders and jogged the rest of the way to the Wheeler Centre. I had a whole minute to spare and dedicated it to not passing out from my recent exertion. I was sitting in on a forum called Cheek: The Getting and Losing Of Jobs Online. I was interested in the first half of the title. The latter part was something I already have down pat.

While the audience waited for the guest speakers, we were treated to a quartet of people singing the news stories of the day. I was amazed at how bad news doesn’t sound as harsh when sung in a falsetto. If I ever experience an ugly break up, I think a song might be a lot nicer than the SMS my last girlfriend deemed fit to send me – twice.

The singers lapped up the applause and placed themselves in the front row of the room. The other members of the audience indulged in nervous small talk while we waited for the session to begin. The conversations were interrupted by a loud beeping noise and someone called out asking for all mobile emailing pocket clock phones to be switched off. The beeping continued. Every head in the crowd swiveled to see the source of the incessant beeping. It wasn’t a phone, but a truck reversing up to the stage. A volunteer asked if we could step back a bit to allow Catherine Deveny’s ego to make it through.

After several sweaty minutes, a group of volunteers managed to push her ego on stage and prop it up with some wooden buttresses. Everyone settled back down to enjoy the talk and the speaker rattled off the credentials of the panel. There was one guy whose only reason for being there was he had actually found an online job. This did not bode well for the rest of us hopeful job seekers.

Jonathan Green talked about his experiences moving from a quite papery medium like The Age to digital media like Crikey and The Drum. Although the conversation continued to be hijacked by Deveny, who insisted her now famous tweets weren’t the reason she was fired, rather, it was the fact that she was a woman who fought the good fight against the dead old white men that run mainstream newspapers.

Towards the end of the talk the audience was invited to ask questions. I wanted to ask if it might be a good idea to put a breathalyser on mobile emailing pocket clock camera phones that won’t allow us to activate our twitter accounts if we’re over the .05 alcohol limit at any awards nights. I decided it was best not to, after all, I don’t want the dead old white men to fire me from my job as well.

Ever the troublemaker

I presented my pass to the awkward looking volunteer manning the door of the BMW Edge Theatre. He seemed puzzled that I should want to go inside to watch the next event and asked me if I was really sure if I wanted to. I told him I did. He shrugged, scanned my pass, and I walked through the door and into a wave of kid stink.

It was a year since I had been around so many children and I forgot just how much they smell. In small packs they’re fine, but en masse, they reek, offending nostrils with a sour playdough odour. I decided to move to the front of the theatre in the hope I could avoid the worst of it. I found a gap about mid-way through the first row. It’s an odd sensation sitting in on the Schools’ Program. I’m not used to being around that many people who still have hope and joy in their lives.

The teachers continued feeding their children into each row of the theatre, until they reached the first row. They seemed hesitant to let their young wards sit next to me. I was glad I had shaved my moustache off a few weeks prior to the festival, as it would only amplify the creepiness of the one adult male sitting next to a group of kids. After all, there are only ever three responses to a moustache:

Your mum – “Shave it”
Your girlfriend – “Shave it”
Everyone else – “You look like a sex offender”

One teacher conceded and ushered some kids in next to me. A small Indian boy sat down, sizing me up with the blunt perspective of the young. He asked if I was a teacher and I told him I wasn’t. Then he asked what I did for a living. I explained that I was a writer. He sat on this thought for a moment before asking what type of books I wrote. I informed him that I haven’t written any books, only articles, columns, and comedy. Without missing a beat he said “Oh… so you’re not a real writer. Just an unemployable guy with a keyboard”

My grandmother’s words falling out of the mouth of an 8-year-old.

I did the only mature thing I could think of and crossed my eyes while poking my tongue out at him. My vision uncrossed to a teacher with crossed arms and a crosser face. She sent me to the ‘sin bin’, a space up the back of the theatre where I found myself grouped with a chubby kid who habitually crammed his fingers into his ears, taking far too much joy from licking the tangy wax off his finger tips. He proffered a stubby finger tipped with his head excretion that I politely declined. He seemed pleased that I said no and contentedly sucked at his own goo. I can’t believe after all these years I’m still sitting at the back of the classroom, ever the troublemaker.

On the stage, Andy Griffiths and Ursula Dubosarsky delighted their audience by discussing the international language of comedy – farts. All the kids were terribly excited at the prospect of reading more books about bottom burps. Perhaps this was a sign. Maybe I could find work writing about bums and the noises they make. While I sat there thinking of a title for my first big book about bums, I failed to notice the event had finished and the school children had mostly left. The Indian kid walked past me grinning. “Say hi to Centrelink for me”

I wanted to exact revenge against his smug remark, instead I smiled, knowing that in a few years the horror of puberty would be punishment enough.

Whedon out the weak

I was standing in a crowd of people making mist from the chilled air with each breath taken. To stave off the cold I invaded the personal space of a giant woman in a long leather coat, nuzzling against her back as nonchalantly as I could. Her head whipped around, revealing a long neckbeard and a man’s face that shunned sunlight in favour of the glow of a computer screen.

The neckbeard told me his name was Obsidian Blackdarknightblack and introduced me to his afterlife partner Amanda. Amanda, wearing slightly less make up than her beau, asked if I was here to see Joss, placing both hands over her heart as she spoke the name Joss. I told her that I was supposed to be here to write about Joss. This time she placed her hands over her heart when I said Joss’ name. Amanda told me that she too was writing about Joss, and in fact, wrote about him in her dream journal on a daily basis. Obsidian explained they were there to sacrifice Amanda’ to Joss, so that she could bear his precious seed. I didn’t think goths could get pregnant and told them it was my theory that goths are asexual. You only ever see fat or skinny goths, so obviously when a skinny goth gets fat enough, the chunky goth splits itself into two skinny goths, and so the circle of goth continues. Obsidian said that if he wasn’t sure his make up would get smudged, he would kick the living shit out of me, and the pair spun around to face the front of the queue once more.

At most MWF events you’ll find people nodding intently at the speaker, politely bearing the appropriate amount of teeth to smile at a T.S. Elliot quote, and the occasional champagne fizz of laughter rippling through the audience. What you won’t normally see is a few hundred high-pitched Beatle-mania squeals as a writer walks on stage, and that was just from the fanboys in the crowd, the fangirls were too busy updating their twitter feeds and clawing at their multicoloured hair when Joss was introduced by Steve Grimwade and his ulcer Stephanie.

Joss Whedon walked out on stage in the robes of a standard nerd, faded jeans, a jumper, and sneakers. Someone screamed Joss and I witnessed hundreds of people place both hands over their hearts simultaneously. Joss silenced his church with a gesture. He paused for a moment before saying “I have faith…” He was cut off by a number of guys who stood up screaming “Where is she? Is she wearing the red leather pants? Please say she’s wearing the red leather pants”

The main conversation of the evening seemed to revolve around a number of Joss’ television shows being cancelled suddenly. This caused howls of rage to erupt from the audience, and people started passing around effigies of Fox executives and lighting torches. I instantly regretted wearing a suit and tie and began mentally noting where my nearest exit was in case they demanded some form of human sacrifice.

A group of the MWF volunteers began setting up microphones within the crowd, and the audience was invited to ask questions of their lord and saviour. Of those questions, five were asking if Joss would impregnate them, there were actually six asked, but I didn’t count the 40-year-old man. There was one girl who asked what every fan had been dying to know “So is there anything about your shows that, like, you like, like?” I erupted in laughter and a security guard told me I would have to leave. I told him that I didn’t think my laughter was that disruptive. He pointed out it was for my own safety and pointed to a thousand people staring at me like I was a skid mark on a hotel towel.

Surly to rise

The scraping metallic whistle signaled the approach of a train that was already apologising for any inconvenience that it’s tardiness had caused. It’s been a long time since I have caught a peak hour train, I must have put on some weight in the last six months, as this one seemed a lot tighter than I recalled. Hemmed in on all sides by commuters, I did my best to ignore the restrictive journey, but I couldn’t ignore the chirpy female voice emanating from the speakers in the carriage “Myki can now be used on all Metropolitan trains!” Yes, well, my key opens the front door of my house but it didn’t cost me $850 million.

I was supposed to meet my fellow bloggers for a caffeine baptism to start the festival off with a jitter, but no one was at the café. I bumped into a man that resembled an extremely Irish Yul Brynner. He introduced himself as Chris Flynn and asked if I’d like to see his Torpedo. I recalled the time I had dialled a number I found on a public toilet wall, despite it’s claim, there was definitely no good time had, not by me at any rate. I politely declined his offer. Chris shrugged and told me he was off for his Morning Fix. My bowels gave off a Pavlovian gurgle and I followed him into a large café called Feddish.

The café was warm to the point of stifling and the air seemed thick with pungent chemical fumes. I sat down next to a well-stubbled man and asked if there was a gas leak in the room. He gestured towards a group of pallid people seated around a table. The air above them rippled with last night’s alcohol. Two were propping their heads up with their hands while the third was grimly clutching the table like the steering wheel of an out of control big rig. I watched as the waitress placed three croissants in front of them. The table-driving lady reached into her purse, producing a large pack of Berocca that she emptied into the pastry. She caught my eye while crunching down on her Beroccroissant and apologetically mumbled “Text Publishing party last night”.

Through the wobbling booze air I listened to four authors whom all seemed worlds apart. Despite hailing from different countries, with vastly different upbringings, they all serendipitously read passages from their work that focused on recapturing and reinventing childhood memories. Their words gripped the crowd, bringing forth laughter, smiles, even tears. Although that could have been the fumes coming from table 9.

10 Facts About Books You Won’t Read In A Book About Books

In the lead up to the Writers Festival, I think it’s time to pop on our learning bonnets and discover 10 incredible actual factual facts about books