
Recent discovery. Jottings of a leaver who chose Allen Park instead of Rotto. (And Allen Park would be better than Dunsborough, which was a toilet BEFORE the toolies arrived). Person X.
Decided to forget Rotto and Dunsborough and party at Allen Park.
7:30am. Set up tent Allen Park.
7:35. Look for drunken sluts. None spied. Not even MLC girls, who frankly could make the 20 minute journey in Dad’s RRover.
8am. Still no sluts. Read Paul Murray’s column from discarded West. Who the fuck is Idi Amin? Possibly connected to Kevin Rudd. Kept copy of column in pocket so I can ask the cunt if I see him.
8:30 am. Slut shortage really starting to bite.
8:32 am. Lumbering slob appears with dog, smelling of old farts, stale chardonnay and BO. Dog’s hygiene even worse. Consider fucking dog and slob. Put off by smell. Ask for cash to buy piss. Get lecture on multanovas.
9am some sluts from St Hildas finally turned up, but I had been put off by Murray and his dog. Still fucked ’em, but you know, was still put off.
TBC.












I usually try to stay away from Kiwi sheep rooting jokes, but sometimes they just make it impossible to avoid. This obviously is the fantasy. The reality likely to be a bit more gumboot based. You’d actually think they like the attention that accusations of sheep rooting brings. I say worst for making me descend to this type of joke. Shame Icebreaker, shame. 





