ALL MY FRIENDS ARE GETTING BURIED…
yep, they’re all growing old
Four-time Walkley Award winning political commentator and Churchill Fellow, has returned to the fray over concern that the integrity of news dissemination is continually being threatened by a partisan media.
Yes, things change and quickly. Suddenly there’s one old mate a week falling off the perch and you still believe you’re bullet proof despite being older than your fallen parrot mates.
Then it gets you…. even after coughing up blood for two years I figured I would always get better, but I didn't and this time friends kidnapped me and found me a doctor. I’ve never had a doctor… I never saw the need for one. Last time I saw a doctor I was being born.
Then reality sets in: One bung lung with a hole in it the size of a tennis ball and the other in an inoperable condition.
So after two operations and a loss of almost 30 kilo I’m due for a prognosis. Too many big words from the oncologists, so I demand to know how long I’ve got.
“A ten per cent chance you will last until Christmas if you’re lucky” they said, “and that’s if the chemo goes well.” Crumbs that’s only a few weeks. WTF do I do now? “But there’ll be no chemo”, I said. “Of the seven people I have known to contract cancer all died within two weeks’ of chemo, including my wife of 40 years."
So I had a bit to do… I had a practice swing with my seven iron and had to sit down for an hour. So no final game of golf. I had to sell everything off that was important to me like my road bike and favourite furniture. I organised an “alive” wake to say goodbye to everyone.
Singo arrived here with his son (top bloke) Jack who is now 40 something (I had spent time with him when he was a top kid and he was always going to be a top bloke) and shouted me the best lunch ever, washed down with nine bottles of expensive red. This time there was no fight but I fell over and busted my face up.
But in five days the nasty injury had healed without a mark. I looked in the mirror and said to myself, “there’s nothing wrong with you, you bastard, your blood must be good and people live okay with one lung. No need to worry about giving up smoking or shortness of breath until they remove the other lung”.
So now Singo’s got the shits ‘cos I haven’t died. So he reckons I have to shout him a nine-wine bottle lunch while he is still on the perch. That’s okay.
All I ever wanted to do was to play in an AFL grand final, train my own horse to win the Melbourne Cup and ride a 100/1 winner in town... I only achieved one of them, bugger it.
But I’m so seriously depleted, I try a round of golf and only make it to the 12th hole. I try again the next week and I’m 22 over and take two weeks to recover. I’ll never get my handicap down to 5 again, and I’ll never drop kick another footy 60 metres. But I'll know in two weeks after the tests, if I'll be okay to try.
Everything’s different now. Sheilas only want to shag me once, but now I’m much older I’ve also become a lot more sexually fussy: They must be under 76 and female.
Another kilo and I’ll be back to my normal weight, so screw all you bastards on the net who want me to, “hurry up and die”! I think I’m okay, it must have been the hemp oil and my home-grown green tobacco… and some super friends.
I’ve still got that list of people to shoot when I’m sure I’ve only got three days left.
Which reminds me… Soupspoon’s offsider is still trying to get me into court … Ha. So I’ll make it easier for him: “Go fuck yourself you grubby little Laotian maggot”, …. Is that racially discriminating enough for you, you obese little foreign shit?
...oh, and Bill Leak sends his regards to you and Triggs.