Here’s my column this week: I’m writing about my best friend – my wife – and how the first time I met her I well and truly put my bare foot in my mouth….
Two years ago in Los Angeles I had my final fling.
My wife was 32 weeks pregnant at the time, and so she was safely tucked away on the farm in Australia. I’d been saving it up for years and now it was time to break the seal.
For the sake of my marriage let me make it clear that I’m talking about travel, not treachery.
The other week I watched a group of telegenic twenty-somethings absolutely fall to pieces.
Otherwise referred to as ‘Blockheads’, they worked tirelessly for an entire twenty weeks, and yet failed to walk away with hundreds of thousands of dollars in profits (well, actually, two teams did but that’s beside the point – the whole outcome was a ‘tragedy’).
A bloke with a buzz-cut who smells of cheese sandwiches pats my inside leg, then snorts at me to go through the gate.
I’m entering the Melbourne Remand Centre. For those of you who don’t know, that’s the place where people who are waiting to be sentenced are locked up.
There’s a photo somewhere of me stark-naked being dunked into the Murray River. No, it wasn’t part of the Apple iPhone hack — the incriminating picture lays behind the sticky cellophane of a photo album at my parents’ home.
Given it’s the business end of the footy season, today I’m going to walk you through the financial advice I give to AFL players.
It’s a little different from what they normally get. After all, experience has taught me that there’s no point in kissing their Sherrins — god knows they have enough people doing that already.